I'll preface this by saying that right now I'm listening to a recording of Philippe Bernold playing the Saint-Saens (which is still insanely gorgeous, though it seems I may have been taking it a little too slowly), and that is the closest I've come to practicing since the day of my last post (Thursday?). Today, while reading along in the score of The Rite of Spring, I was pleased to be feeling a little wistful, wishing I had time to practice today--I had to read three novellas, plus grapple with an ever-mounting pile of laundry. I'm glad to be having some feelings of practice withdrawal, however slight; it's probably more in my favor to be a workaholic right now.
But then I re-read "Fertile Sloth" by Michel Debost, which recommends work detox:
"The gaps in practicing caused by travel, vacation, family events or small injuries [!] are...quite necessary...[S]tore events and places in your imagination for future reference. A pristine lake, a great painting, a new friend, an enchanted party, beautiful love affairs (or failed ones), all will be part of you forever. Memories and thoughts are just as important as your...daily practice. Don't let the great American guilt machine ruin your free time."
Sigh. It makes me want to make a daisy chain or something.
When assigning this essay, my teacher pre-warned me that it was the total opposite of the American/Asian practice ethics in classical music, and of course she's right. Frankly, while I'm still feeling guilty about not having practiced in four days, the article is still a relief to read, and I have to give a little fist pump for it. As a person pursuing degrees in both flute and writing, I'm always excited whenever anyone says "Dummies! You can't make great art if you're always isolated." In fact, in so many words, that's what my degree-plan mission statement says down at the dean's office.
Yes, technicality is important if you're going to be a virtuoso (as Tromlitz told us all too well in last week's assignment...aaaaaaaagh!), but if you don't leave time in your life for love or sex or good food or calling your parents or partying or doing shit that makes you laugh, my hypothesis is that your art will be boring. Corny example: if the Mona Lisa didn't have that mystery smile, would we still love her so much?
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