Virtuosity

Allegro ma non tanto

I just got back from a performance of Rachmaninoff's* notorious Piano Concerto No. 3, with soloist Stephen Hough supported by the Malaysian Philharmonic Orchestra. Notorious, because "The Rach 3", as it is known with shuddering affection by those in the know, is considered among the most  demanding piano concertos in the classical realm. Watching Hough soothe, coax and attack the instrument in turns this evening with this fearsome reputation of the piece at the back of my mind, I couldn't help but think that he made it look so easy. And that is why this post is devoted to the subject of virtuosity. 

(If you haven't yet, open a new tab to hear Sergei Rachmaninoff himself play the concerto). 

Intermezzo

Sergei Rachmaninoff proofing
 Concerto No. 3
(Image :Public Domain)

But first an intermezzo, if you will, because this concerto teems with the most delicate little stories surrounding it, which make the music tingle with intertextuality. First composed on Rachmaninoff's family estate in Russia, Ivanovka, the piece "simply wrote itself," as he would later state. Apart from the technical and musical demands, the score for piano is actually physically demanding, with its call for swift and powerful finger work and dual octaves that continue to ring in your ears long after the last notes have faded in objective reality. The story here is that the composer himself may have had an unfair advantage playing his own work: his physiognomy suggests numerous symptoms of a genetic condition that, despite certain drawbacks, results in long, slender limbs and digits - ideal for those intimidating double octaves. What is more, his imminent move to the United States meant that after composition he had no time to actually practice the piece. At least not until he boarded the vessel to America, where he mastered it - on a dummy piano. The concerto became his "calling card" in the States, establishing him as an esteemed pianist as well as composer. 

Finale

Virtuosity is readily defined as great skill or style, but both Rachmaninoff's composition and Hough's interpretation are more than that. In the Intermezzo above, we saw the composer's suggestion that the piece "simply wrote itself". The performance was similar in that it seemed to simply play itself: in the greatest moments the soloist, orchestra and audience disappeared and the music took over, with a will unto itself. This harks back to another trait of Rachmaninoff: he often seemed to be improvising when in fact he was taking deep ownership of the work being played. The music took over. 

Are you hearing the strains of a leitmotif here? The virtuoso composer gets out of the way so the music can write itself; the virtuoso pianist eats, sleeps and hammers out the Rach 3 until it is effortless enough to play itself. In previous posts I have looked into the rousing duet between talent and expertise, as well as the overlap of "Flow" and the right hemishpere of the brain. One common theme is that vast amounts of practice are the bedrock of mastery. In the words of Michelangelo, "If people knew how long it took to gain my mastery, it wouldn't seem wonderful at all." The other is that once the skills are mastered to the point where they become automatic, that left-brain concentration can surrender to right-brain bliss. The is when the art creates itself. 

Conclusion? I would disagree with the definition of virtuosity as great skill or style. More than that: I would say that skill and style miss the point completely. Virtuosity, by my definition, is when skill and style have been polished to shine so brightly that the performer disappears and the performance takes centre stage. 

Codetta

Contemplating virtuosity a little question started to gnaw at me. It's all very well for concert pianists and composers and bearded Renaissance men with bad tempers to be virtuosos. But what about the rest of us? Somebody has to play at the very back of the second violins. Somebody has to print the sheet music. Somebody has to quarry for marble, usher patrons to the plush pink seats in which they will go numb before the third movement, serve overpriced beverages in intermission and vacuum the concert hall carpets. It certainly does take all kinds. But how many of us are encouraged to develop our virtuosity? How is virtuosity nurtuted in society?  How often do we express our virtuosity in our many realms of life constructively? There is grace and beauty in the virtuosity of so many mundane actions from very ordinary people. Even without applause, it is virtuosity nonetheless, and it is worthy of appreciation. Whether it is the trancelike glide of the seasoned barista, the reality-defying deftness of the urban taxi driver or the everyday martial artistry of the modern mother, there is a point where the performer yields the limelight to the performance. This is where the magic happens. This is the dewdrop of the spiritual realm on the earth. And it is exactly what learning is about. 

*Also Rachmaninov in certain versions

Studio 404: The Chronicles

Studio 404:
the inhabitant you are looking for
cannot be found
Image: mtcleroux

For those of us who live on the Web the three little digits 404 carry profound meaning. Profound and not so good. 404, for the information of those who still wander the material world, indicates an error message saying that basically, what you are looking for can not be found*. To boot, slang usage of the term has evolved to include the meaning "clueless". Hence, 404 is an apt theme (and alibi) for this post, which promotes Le Roux's Law of 404:

Cluelessness is a catalyst for learning. 

In a grand gesture of cosmic humour my humble home in Kuala Lumpur is none other than Studio 404. The name has turned out to be quite prophetic: since arriving in Malaysia seven weeks ago I have been virtually impossible to find, dashing from one place to the next in a perpetual motion pursuit of the imponderable. What's more, the transition to a new living and working environment, and the most exciting assignment of my life so far, have been the least of my concern against the backdrop of Life at large. My family's ongoing challenges continue to stir up questions that are too daunting even to try and formulate. Throw in notoriously unreliable telecommunications to Africa, explosive legacy issues in the workplace, my natural intolerance to urbanization and the local predilection for culinary neurotoxins, and things get edgy. Garnish with an attempted mugging where my sheer adrenaline-fuelled rage saved my laptop and perhaps my life last Monday night, and I feel almost justified in going 404. Cluelessness just may be okay. An optimist I may be, but to say this has been easy would be an outright lie.

So how is my cluelessness a launchpad for learning? Well, the tension between being '404' and wanting to get things right is a dynamic one. Few of us are contented with being clueless, and we want something better. Here is how I'm putting my tenure at Studio 404 to use:

Equanimity: A major learning curve has been maintaining equanimity against the backdrop of my personal life, which for all the faith and hope and love in the world is laced with a beautiful pain I have no words for. Where my usual inclination is to see the greatness and power of the individual, I have come also to see the infinitesimal, involuntary smallness of our kind. To cry my eyes out all night for someone I cannot relieve of suffering, and then get up, go to work and focus. Perhaps not optimally, but nevertheless, to go on. Life is for the living.

Common Sense Overrides the Senses: In my humble opinion one of the greatest experiences of being human is the feast of the senses. And a sense to which I am particularly partial is taste. I am almost ashamed to admit the importance I assigned to laksa when deciding to live in Malaysia: it weighed almost as heavily as the opportunity to do what I consider to be my life's work. Food - a 360 degree variety of it, served up 24 hours a day - is indeed one of Malaysia's attractions, and one I arrived committed to explore. Unfortunately most commercial foodstuffs in Malaysia are laced with monosodium glutamate (MSG), a neurotoxic flavour enhancer that reduces (or increases?) me almost instantly to a psychotic, immobile monstrosity of twice my normal size. And that's just the immediate effect: while locals do not suffer these immediate side effects, the long-term effects are clear even among younger people. I am content to consider the early warning signs a blessing and crusade for MSG-free food - woe betide the poor local chefs!

The Real Battle: My greatest teachers of the past week were two young men: motorcycle muggers who tried to steal my laptop, attacked me when I wouldn't concede and eventually fled from my unrelenting kicks and screams. These two lads ignited a controlled rage that I am learning to direct towards purposes that serve my needs. They reminded me that I can be brave and strong. And they gave me a stern reminder that rising before the sun to put your body through its paces not only makes you stronger physically and mentally, it feels incredibly good as well. But most of all, they made me ask the very important question, whether I am in the right place at all. How can I possibly thank them for doing me such a great favour?

404? That's me. But I am learning.

*One explanation why geek existentialism is a tautology that can more or less be taken for granted.