This semester, especially in this class, and especially after reading the chapter in From the Stage to the Studio on Groups, Ensembles, Classrooms and Other Teaching Situations, I realize how important the skill of writing is. It has become obvious that honing the skill of writing is not only an advantage, but also a necessity to a professional career as a teacher and musician. The lesson plans, syllabi, grant and scholarship applications, recommendations, studies, articles, and books you mentioned in chapter 12 are the direct results of skillful, articulate writing.

As an undergraduate music major, I feel that the power of this skill set has not been communicated effectively, and isn’t reflected in our degree requirements. Up to this point I have written only one academic research paper in the 7 semesters spent at UT. In many classes quizzes, short answer exams, and attendance make up a grade for the entire semester, without even the mention or encouragement of writing as a tool for learning or assessment. The irony is that it is often in these classes that I am reading a textbook, course packet, and slides written by the professor.

A professional goal of mine is to have something to contribute to the field of music education. Whether I teach orchestra in schools, as an academic professor, or as in private studio, I want to have something significant to communicate to those who are also teaching. Though I don’t know what that significant something is, I am realizing that regular writing practice now in order to one day communicate clearly is imperative.

String Pedagogy this semester has helped to get the cursor moving. By tackling substantial subjects such as sequencing, practice, and musicianship, I feel confident in breaking down each topic into practical, actionable, specific short essays. On my personal website I post regularly to a blog which shows my transition from student teacher (or perhaps more accurately, my lifelong embrace of both). However, I want to dedicate more time to daily practice, seek out opportunities for feedback on my writing, and pursue the path to publication. No matter where my career takes me, I know the sharpened skill of writing will be a powerful tool to have at my command.

In Unit 3 Suzuki training Ed Kreitman enumerated the pillars of masterful teaching: effective communication with students, effective communication with parents, mastery of the instrument being taught, and a masterful ownership of a logical sequence from the beginning of study to professional playing. Over the summer I found myself frustrated that I wouldn’t be able to work day to day on my own sequence (let along mastering it) because my oldest student is in Book 4, I have only done teacher training up through Unit 4, and I had a relatively fast track experience in advanced repertoire (leaping from Kreisler’s Preludium and Allegro to Lalo Symphonie Espagnole). I felt that my effort would be best spent continuing to work on my own playing, streamlining the way I convey information to students and parents, and tinkering with my studio rituals.

Pedagogy this semester has taught me that putting off sequential planning and practicing is not only a waste of time, but counterproductive. After creating my vibrato and sight reading task analyses at the beginning of the semester, I find myself constantly reflecting on these skill ladders while in my lessons. Even though I am only officially working on my vibrato sequence with Jenny Thomas, I now wonder in lessons with Book 3 and 4 students if they mastered every vibrato step before they came to me. When working with my orchestra aged students I constantly scan for hints of reading deficiencies that might have been ignored years ago. I worry now that the uncharted arenas of skill development I have ignored have perhaps kept me from starting the foundation for a skill that is necessary to make a student a professional.

Seeing how integral in teaching my first attempt at building complete sequences has become, I plan to develop complete sequences for the following skills by the end of the semester: posture, shifting, hand frame/scales, tonalization, musicality, trills, and use of the whole bow. With each of the target skills I will define an artistic/professional measure of mastery and build a bridge of small skills that can be achieved in 1-3 attempts. In general I plan to build sequences from big motions to refined small motions, hypothesizing that coordination of big movements will encourage more relaxation and ease than the finite control of small movements. For example I will use harmonic shifting before shifting from one position to the next, thumb on the outside of the bow before inside, preparing the body for proper position of the violin before the chin, and moving the body in a musical way before moving the bow. Most importantly, I need to define how I will know if a student has accomplished each level of skill before moving to the next.

After listing the entire sequence, but before using it with my students, I want to employ some of the practicing techniques we discussed in the previous chapter. I will test myself on the ability to mentally move through each consecutive sequence accurately, I will practice (literally in a practice room) the way I explain and demonstrate each step, and practice “performing” the step with a friend or older student first before jumping into the entire sequence in real time.

It has become clear that sequencing is a way of thinking, rather than a static, one time process. Just as I will now look for rehearsal frames when I observe and prick my ears when I hear examples of deep work in other fields, I will now think in sequential units. As my teaching matures I expect that my sequence will become more efficient and elegant, but more importantly that I will be able to hold a vision of the path to excellence in my mind’s eye while also maintaining awareness of every discrete step taken to get there. That will not happen if I delay for future students, further experience, or extensive training. It will only happen if I take the first small step towards my own use of sequencing right now.

Reflecting on the third chapter of From the Stage to the Studio, I found the technique most intriguing to be the one that stumps me the most in an effort to teach. Relaxation is an issue that plagues my teaching, and I see its grip on every one of my students. From beautiful but nonfunctional bow holds, to locked knees, to unnecessary effort in behaving appropriately, to clutching left hands, an inability to relax is keeping my students from progressing into masterful artists.

In conducting an informal interview with Bei Bei Sheng, a doctoral violin performance candidate, on the way back from TMEA, he emphasized over and over again that musicianship must come from a state of peace. Tension will lead to tension he said, but relaxation will lead to artistry.

Familiar with this trend in my own studio, I am now left wondering how to cultivate relaxation. Much like the command “focus,” rarely inspires a student to direct attention to my intended goal, saying “relax” rarely causes a student to release a specific set of muscles. As you pointed out in “Physical Components of Technical Stability,” even well trained musicians are not always aware of tension in their playing. In an effort to play more accurately, more musically, and more soulfully, we employ entire muscle groups that are impeding rather than enabling our ability to play well. My theory is that first my young students must learn how to execute relaxation of small muscle groups independently of other technical skills. Then, as skills are introduced on the instruments, they are only mastered if a student is able to perform them in a completely relaxed state. Some skills (incidentally the ones I choses for my task analyses: vibrato and sight reading) require a state of relaxation without which the skill cannot be developed or performed in the first place.

I think the first step toward testing my theory of cultivating relaxation will be personally learning more about relaxed movement and flow. I have never taken an anatomy class and wasn’t involved in coordinated movement activities (other than playing violin) while growing up, so I feel this is an area in which I have much room to explore. I look forward to attending the Dalcroze workshop at UT next weeks, have put De Alcantar’s book on the Alexander technique on hold, and have been actively searching for opportunities to take a class on or join a club devoted to the art of Tai Chi.

The latter action stems from the wisdom I encountered in Josh Waitzkin’s fantastic book, The Art of Learning: An Inner Journey to Optimal Performance. In this book he outlines the path he took to become the youngest grandmaster chess champion, and then devote himself to Tai Chi and subsequently become a world champion in the Tai Chi push-hands competition. Waitzkin’s success is due to his attention to the repetition of a very small movement (chess or Tai Chi) until it becomes a part of him. He continues the repetition until he can perform the function with absolutely minimal physical effort or cognitive burden. Ultimately, by merely sensing the threat of an upcoming blow, his body automatically responds with an effortless and relaxed block. By engaging with this method away from the violin, I hope to unlock the potential of applying it to my students’ work. I hope to develop the difficult technique of relaxation in each of my students in order to facilitate the development of all other skills required to play masterfully.