Practice, Practice, Practice

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?

Parents love to perpetuate the myth that if you practice often enough, you'll become a classical music superstar by the time you're nineteen. I maintain that no amount of practice would have vaulted me or my cello to even the least prestigious orchestra. Despite my musicianship, decent sound, and ability to memorize, my fingers never quite got everything right. I doubt that added practice would have solved that: talent does seem to count for something.

Still, practice also counts for something.

This weekend, I was waiting to cross a wide avenue when I looked for the "walk" sign. After a few seconds of searching around with my eyes, I spotted it -- or, at least, I thought I did. I saw an orange spot that was, from what I could tell, the "stop" signal. But I wasn't sure, and it took another second for me to figure out: Was that really an orange hand, or was it my imagination?

As it turns out, itwas real, and I waited for it to change, but it got me thinking. I use my imagination a lot. Just walking around the city or even looking around a room, my mind fills in all kinds of details that may or may not exist. This can be frustrating, especially when I turn out to be wrong -- You mean, that wasn't the toaster oven? -- but it does give me plenty of practice.

This may (partly) explain why, unlike many adults, I have no problem jumping from reality to imagination and back. I do it all the time. Like every other writer, I go through good and bad streaks and sometimes can't settle on what to write, but I rarely have trouble entering the world of my play. Where other people get stuck in the real, I slide back and forth pretty easily. I might have made a great Bush official... if only I wasn't so darn liberal.

Typically, people think of artists as daydreamers, people who have their heads in the clouds. There are plenty of us who are generally grounded and sane, but there's nothing wrong with a little daydreaming, or even a split-second nap from reality, right? A blind spot, a deaf ear, or a bit of dyslexia can be a handy thing, even for someone whose profession has nothing to do with art. It's good practice for the imagination.

By the way, to answer the question posed at the top of this page: Take the N, R, Q, or W trains to 57 Street. Alternatively, you can walk from several other subway stations, such as the F, 1, A, B, C, or D trains. No worries; you'll get there. Just don't ask to walk on stage.

I Am Backwards

I just might defy science.

Dr. Oliver Sacks is one of my favorite all-around thinkers. I've been reading his latest book, Musicophilia, which describes a bunch of neurological oddities he's come across that have to do with music. Even if you know a bunch of these stories (as I did before starting it), it's still an interesting read.

Anyway, I just finished a section on people who lose their vision and, consequently, gain musical talents. I've never been a musical genius by any standard -- maybe I'm not blind enough for that -- but I do have a good ear and can make a pretty good sound on the cello. It's not the blindness, though.

Here's the thing: everyone in my family is a musician, and I'm the only blind-ish one. In fact, I probably have the least interest in music of anyone in my family. My musical tastes are broader: I like and know a lot more about rock and jazz, and my grasp of contemporary classical music (nice oxymoron) probably outdoes my mother and sister. But when it comes to the actual attraction to and practice of music, I lag far behind.

My parents were both born into non-musical families. My father was a conductor, a cellist, a pianist, an accordion player, and a music educator. He could look at a page of a score and immediately say what piece it was from. He would sit on subways and read orchestral scores the way most people read novels. My mother trained as an opera singer, studied music teaching at Harvard, taught choruses, and currently plays the flute as an experienced amateur. My sister majored in violin at one of the top conservatories in the world, and now plays with orchestras and chamber groups.

Me? I did take cello lessons for sixteen years, many of those by choice., but never even considered a career. I scraped by to get through recitals. In orchestras, I faked my way through rehearsals, memorizing the tough parts but guessing at the rest. No one confused me for a professional, and if anything, I got away with more because people knew I couldn't read the sheet music.

Long story short, losing vision did not make me a better musician. I do have the ability to recognize music pretty quickly, but I blame that on my family upbringing and my genetics, not on the eyes.

Dr. Sacks would be so disappointed. But, on the bright side, I just found out that we live in the same ZIP code. I might see him around the neighborhood. Or, at least, I might bump into him.

Trapped in the Music

A fully blind man once told me that it's hard for him to be in a room with bad music . It's considerably harder to plug up your ears than to close your eyes.

My big problem is wrong notes. When I was a kid playing cello in orchestras, I had the awful habit of laughing out loud whenever a brass player let out a solid "squawk." People understandably did not like that. I learned to hold it in, but I still cringe at concerts when I hear a funny sound.

It's hard for me to tell whether it's the musical training or the low vision that gets me to pay so much attention to music. When a movie starts, the first thing I ask myself is who composed the score. (Most people are busy reading the opening credits.) I'm pretty good at guessing; that's either because of all those music classes and lessons over the years, or because no one else cares. Probably both. Whatever the case, I end up with strong reactions; and, like my blind acquaintance, it's pretty unpleasant for me to hear music I don't like. As a result, I've done my best to like as much music as possible.

It works the other way, too. I was working with a director once who made a negative comment about Miles Davis. After that, I knew we'd never see eye to eye... so to speak.