On Saturday I took a lesson with a wonderful flutist in Boston. She was kind enough to invite me into her home on a weekend, and the lesson ran over an hour. I tried to soak up all the information as best as I could, since I left the memory for the recording device lodged in my computer (fail). I played the Faure as awesomely as I could, because I figure if I play as well as I can in a lesson, I free up the teacher to tell me what I really need to work on. In this case, it was embochure.
I'm no stranger to changing my embochure. I did it over the summer in 2005ish, and it was awful, and here I am, 2012, heading back into it.
How to explain changing your embochure? It's not quite like speaking a new language- maybe like changing your accent to one that feels totally unknown. It affects every area of your playing. No note can be un-scrutinized, and passages that you were playing faster and faster with the metronome have to be slowed back down to the speed of a geriatric snail until you can play them in the right way. Then the fingers get confused because you're not focusing on them (for once). The face feels weird, you question whether you're doing it the right way. You question whether you should do it at all. This time around, the voice is much quieter than the first time I changed my embochure (I was younger and full of pride about my flute playing), but there's still a voice that says "maybe you are just supposed to play the way you did. Who cares if you're doing gymnastics with your face? You like your sharp upper register. What about the edgy lower notes? You're just going to let those go? What if your mouth isn't meant to play that way?"
So then it's a huge leap of faith even to start the process. Fifteen minutes here, then five more. Stop when you feel yourself slipping back into old habits. Only practice the right way, and don't give any more lip service (pun intended) to the old way.
In some ways, it's a giant allegory for practicing in general, or, you know, life. Every time I practice, in some way I'm walking out on a limb, having faith that I am doing the right thing by playing what I'm playing, by pursuing music in general. It's exhausting, and I think that's why I didn't practice for a year and a half after grad school: I ran out of faith. I could always be practicing a bad habit and not know it, or pursuing the wrong thing, only to find out about it later. Anyone could, in any aspect of life. We just don't know all the time. I think about this a lot.
So I'm walking out on three limbs this fall. I'm music-ing. I'm running in minimalist shoes. I'm changing my embochure.
I'm no stranger to changing my embochure. I did it over the summer in 2005ish, and it was awful, and here I am, 2012, heading back into it.
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| Paul Taffanel: great embochure, or just correctly shaped facial hair? |
So then it's a huge leap of faith even to start the process. Fifteen minutes here, then five more. Stop when you feel yourself slipping back into old habits. Only practice the right way, and don't give any more lip service (pun intended) to the old way.
In some ways, it's a giant allegory for practicing in general, or, you know, life. Every time I practice, in some way I'm walking out on a limb, having faith that I am doing the right thing by playing what I'm playing, by pursuing music in general. It's exhausting, and I think that's why I didn't practice for a year and a half after grad school: I ran out of faith. I could always be practicing a bad habit and not know it, or pursuing the wrong thing, only to find out about it later. Anyone could, in any aspect of life. We just don't know all the time. I think about this a lot.
So I'm walking out on three limbs this fall. I'm music-ing. I'm running in minimalist shoes. I'm changing my embochure.
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