An amazing benefit to studying music is growth in the ability to focus. At our music school in Midland, Texas, we help our students grow in their capacity to do this.
When I begin to think about what the concept of focusing is, two prevailing thoughts come to my imagination: 1) A magnifying glass, and 2) Scissors.
A magnifying glass is a fun toy for a young boy and, although I am not proud that I did this, I used it to burn ants. I learned early on that when the sun’s rays become focused intensely, it creates power. The same is true of our lives. When we focus with intensity on a project, a conversation, a performance, it increases its power to project and makes a difference people’s lives.
The opposite is true. When we become involved in too many things, diverting our energies, we become weak. Throughout history, empires have fallen into the trap of believing that they can wage multi-front wars, only to end up fractured and overtaken, due to their weakness.
In life, we lose intensity (and therefore power) when we confuse choice with decision. A lot of people in our current American culture love choices. It reminds me of the cafeteria lines we had growing up. Many choices were laid out before you, as you walked through the line looking at everything. Some people were temperate in their selections while others ran out of room on their trays for all the things they piled on. As people we always want more, and I remember the common complaint after a dinner, “Oh, my eyes were bigger than my stomach!”
The word decision, however, means ‘to cut away,’ like scissors being wielded on paper or cardboard. We cut away what we choose not to have. The word decision carries with it the idea of sacrifice: giving up something, in order to get something better.
We encourage students in our music school in Midland, Texas to value the sacrifice of practicing.
As a young man, I started practicing regularly about three hours a day, in order to make the progress I wanted to make. My friends would come to the door and ask if I wanted to join them for some fun. I declined nine times out of ten because I had a goal.
You see, I told my parents (when I was still in seventh grade) that I wanted to go to Juilliard as a violinist. It seemed like a far away goal, but they agreed with me and encouraged me. I was never forced to practice, I just had a vision and a goal.
A vision and goal are another set of ideas that are distinct. The vision I had was formed within me by attending so many of my father’s symphony orchestra concerts. I had heard great soloists and symphonic repertoire as a very young child. I had been thrilled by the opening of Strauss’ “Also Sprach Zarathustra” at the age of five, as my father was preparing and practicing by listening through the house’s booming stereo system. Later, as he was studying another score, he showed me how he marked entrances, using a colored pencil. I may have been six or seven years old at that point.
The vision of what could be was formed within me by being around so many great musicians and experiences. I had no problem imagining it.
We believe students at our music school in Midland, Texas are encouraged to grow, as they observe their teachers playing and demonstrating in lessons, giving them an observable pattern to follow.
A goal, however, began to form when I started asking myself the question, “How am I going to get there?” The goal is what focused me. I knew that if I was going to achieve something great, I would need to attain the same level of skill I heard playing on the LP phonograph recordings, as scratchy as they were. The more I listened to Heifetz’ Sibelius Violin Concerto, the more I wanted to play those beautiful phrases myself. The more I fell short, the more I knew I needed to practice. The closer I got to my goal, the more I felt that I could achieve it, so I would practice a bit more. I needed more time, so I got up early before breakfast and school, and practiced an hour in our laundry room, so I wouldn’t disturb the rest of the family.
After some time, students at our music school in Midland, Texas may find that they enjoy practicing, as I did.
By the time I was thirteen, I had been invited to participate in the Meadowmount Summer Camp, which was Ivan Galamian’s creation. Galamian was one of the driving forces behind Curtis and Juilliard. At the eight-week camp, each student was expected to practice from eight ‘o clock in the morning until noon. Then, in the afternoon, play chamber music with others, then one more hour of private practice before dinner. After dinner, there were concerts of the students. It was all day, every day. Very intense. That’s why notable artists such as Joshua Bell and Itzhak Perlman had attended.
By the time I was fifteen, I was living away from home in my violin teacher’s house, practicing a minimum of five hours a day, and many times up to eight.
While each student will have their own level of time commitment to practicing, they will be benefitted by the results of their time in doing so.
I remember the feeling of loneliness, having left my comfortable surroundings in Texas with my family. New York got darker earlier, smelled like exhaust fumes from all of the traffic, and seemed much cloudier and busier, less peaceful. Since I did correspondence for my high-school courses, I had only the friends I saw at the Juilliard Pre-College Division on Saturdays.
When I first arrived at the house I was staying in, being in the room by myself, staring out the windows at a cold cloudy night sky, I felt very alone. I was where I said I wanted to be, where I had sacrificed to be, and alone. I realized that the decision of cutting away was still ongoing. I was in the process of cutting away all that was familiar, all that was comfortable and, in a larger way, it reminded me of the little bit of pain I felt telling my friends at the door that I needed to practice more.
I learned the lessons of being alone in those high-school years. My teacher was off every day to Manhattan to teach at the Juilliard School. Her husband, around seventy-five years old, was my only friend during the day, and he spent most of his time in the basement, painting modern portraits or making woodcuts of Homer’s Odyssey.
The lessons of focus and the loneliness of making hard decisions has stayed with me many decades later. I have learned that focus and power are generated by sacrifice and the willingness, many times, to stand against the crowd.
You see, there can be no power without sacrifice and there can be no success without a commitment that defies the common.
At our music school in Midland, Texas students will learn many life-lessons that will impact their decision-making in ways that will shape their future.