UPDATE:

I just returned from another music competition. In Nottingham, England. Solo jazz piano.  Didn’t win.  Again.  I guess I’m not built for these things.

THOUGHTS!

I don’t have a problem with competitions.  They’re the same as winning a Juno, landing a jazz festival gig or getting a positive review. It’s a clash of culture bubbles.

As long as everybody’s winking at the same time, these things are win-win-win for everybody involved (except for the losers of course).  It’s just that competitions are blunter and bolder. So there’s a lot more winking, which can be tiring, make your face hurt and challenge your conscience.

But all of these things – winning a Juno, winning a competition etc. – are designed to accomplish the same thing: To formally recognize an individual’s contribution to a domain.  It’s a rite of passage, a tribe’s acceptance, and a tribe’s renewal.

(Side note: I highly recommend Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s book Creativity, where he discusses, among other things, fields and domains: “Creativity must… be seen not as something that happens within a person but in the relationships within a system.”)

To make things complicated, some domains are more difficult to define than others.  The Nottingham competition defines the domain like this (note that there’s no mention of the piano, solo piano, solo-jazz-piano and acknowledging those traditions):

“4f. Performances. The design of the 20 and 30 minute ‘short programmes’ is largely left to the competitors, and the range and contrast of music performed will, ideally, be quite wide. Obviously, the inclusion of a large improvised component is implicit in the term jazz. However, the committee makes no attempt to define the term ‘jazz’ in a more formal sense, thereby tacitly acknowledging that ‘jazz’ denotes a wide spectrum of diverse musical practices and styles which is continually enlarging and evolving. Indeed, as Darius Brubeck, André Hodeir and others have argued, jazz is perhaps best defined as a process where by musicians conceptualize and re-adapt pre-existing music rather than as a musical genre per se. Thus, original compositions, arrangements, performances of ‘standards’ or even free improvisation in musical styles which draw on any aspects of the musical rhetoric associated with the musical styles normally described as blues, stride, swing, be-bop, hard bop, cool and modal jazz, freejazz, jazz-rock fusion and even ethnic crossover will all be admissible under the umbrella of this competition. However, although jazz is often a forum for improvisation, innovation and experimentation, it is widely considered to be an ‘inter-textual’ genre which builds on ‘traditional’ elements and practices and acknowledges these through performance. Accordingly, the committee requires that each competitor acknowledges this ‘traditional’ aspect of jazz to some extent through the design of the short programmes…”

Nebulous!  Compare this to math and science, where there’s much less wiggle room. The structures that make up this “jazz domain” are so broadly defined and loosely organized, it’s no wonder that individuals within the field are never in agreement.  This is when everyone starts winking.

Despite all the winking, it’s still important to accept judgment. More from Csikszentmihalyi:

“Because of the scarcity of attention, we must be selective: We remember and recognize only a few of the works of art produced, we read only a few of the new books written, we buy only a few of the new appliances busily being invented.  Usually it is the various fields that act as filters to help us select among the flood of new information those memes worth paying attention to.  A field is made up of experts in a given domain whose job involves passing judgment on performance in that domain. Members of the field choose from among the novelties those that deserve to be included in the canon.”

How does a field help us select among the flood of new information?  They create competitions, awards, jazz blogs, newspaper reviews, music schools and they tell friends that Keith Jarrett is a genius.  Keith Jarrett 1, Chris Donnelly 0.

Anytime a judgment is made known to others, you have hosted a competition and announced the winner/finalists.  It may not be in a blunt and bold fashion like the Nottingham, Montreux or Monk competitions, but you’re still contributing to this system of filtering through endless memes.

Critics of music competitions aren’t really criticizing competitions per se.  They’re simply in disagreement with the definitions of their domain – how it structures knowledge, its inclusiveness, how it demands/stimulates novelty etc.  There’s nothing wrong with music competitions, just as there’s nothing wrong with the World Series or with choosing which shirt to purchase.  They’re just as important and necessary as any other form of judgment.

I digress. Read the Csikszentmihalyi.

On a personal note, despite all this, I still have to admit my disappointment. I’ve spent 10 years practicing, crafting, studying, writing, memorizing, transcribing and performing loads of solo piano music only to be beaten by a 14-year old reading a lead sheet, among others.

That’s the price you pay for being part of a broadly defined and loosely organized domain.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’m sorry and relieved to say that Nottingham 2012 was my last piano competition – I’ve passed the age limit restrictions, and my face hurts

Moving on!

James Hale recently wrote an article for the CBC titled “Is it Time for the Death of the Jazz Standard?” The standard repertoire for jazz musicians hasn’t changed much since the 70s.  This is leading some critics to claim that jazz is becoming less relevant, and disconnected from contemporary society.

I squirm in my seat when we refer to ideas, styles or forms as “dead, alive or dying.”  These comparisons tell nice stories, but distort the realities of performance, creativity and experience.

I’m also uncomfortable with the classification and dichotomy between “standards” and “originals.” Such a dichotomy is helpful for reference and classification, but in the performance arts, the issue’s more complicated.

Experience lies on a wide, complex, micro, macro, multi-layered, multi-dimensional spectrum.  For example, imagine Dave Matthews performing a solo concert.  Just Dave and his guitar.  He may be writing and performing original music on one level, but at the same time, there are many non-original aspects to his music.

The guitar, for example, is a familiar instrument.  Dave Matthews’ tunes are written in recognizable rock, bluesy and folk styles.  Most people attending his concert would be familiar with the English language.  Many of the chord structures and combinations he uses have been used millions of times before.

Dave’s performances, and his music are actually very non-original.  But they ARE original – his audiences have never experienced them before.

Conflict.

This conflict is at the heart of any discussion about the health of jazz or of any kind of style or art form.  Here’s how I address it:

First, you can’t separate the music from the performance.  They are one and the same.  The circumstances surrounding a performance are just as important as the music notation on the manuscript. Likewise, the music notation on the manuscript is just as important as the upholstery on the furniture.  It’s all connected.

Nor can you classify a performance as simply original or non-original. Lately I haven’t been differentiating between original compositions and non-original compositions. Rather, performances are best perceived as being the establishment and exploration of “common ground.”  Common ground is the foundation on which any relationship rests.  Without common ground, any relationship or ritual would fall apart.

Here are some examples (assuming you’re familiar with Scott Joplin’s The Entertainer):

• I perform the published version of The Entertainer, note for note.
• I perform The Entertainer with slight note variations and inflections.
• I perform The Entertainer, with a rewritten B section.
• I perform The Entertainer in 3/4.
• I perform The Entertainer as a bossa nova.
• I perform The Entertainer very, very slowly.
• I compose and perform a tune based on the Entertainer.
• I improvise a tune in the ragtime style.
• I improvise a 12-tone tune in the ragtime style.

Hopefully these examples demonstrate some kind of spectrum, and various explorations of common ground in music. But these examples only take into account the music – common ground is experienced in all aspects of a performance. Consider these examples:

• I perform the published version of The Entertainer on the guitar.
• I perform The Entertainer on the spoons.
• I sing The Entertainer in English.
• I sing The Entertainer in Gibberish.
• I perform the published vision of The Entertainer in the dark.
• I perform the published version of The Entertainer with a gorilla on stage.
• The person next to you isn’t wearing pants.
• The concert is scheduled to begin at 4:30am.
• The concert features the local symphony at the local pub.

Common ground is explored in all these instances – interacting, playing and feeding off one another. They’re all part of a complex system that forms our routines and rituals.  The music, whether “original” or “non-original,” is a small piece of a large puzzle.  I mention “ritual” because these ideas of originality, non-originality, familiarity and common ground apply to activities other than music and performances.  Going to a restaurant for example…but I digress.

As long as jazz standards can set common ground between two people, it’s relevant.  In fact, if you create something, it’s relevant.  It’s relevant to you, your audience and your circumstances.  Art is connection.  It’s impossible to create something that’s not relevant, or not connected to our circumstances.

The use, performance and meaning of jazz standards are so deeply connected and woven into the fabric of our culture, we mostly take it for granted.  These connections may not manifest themselves in record sales or popularity, but they’re present nonetheless.  Calling for their death is senseless.

All things considered though, calling for their death is relevant too!  Such suggestions are themselves, part of the same complex system of establishing and exploring common ground and cultivating relationships.

So don’t take these ideas too seriously.  Embrace the irrationality and move on!

If you want to play jazz standards, play them. If you don’t want to play jazz standards, don’t. If you want to mix it up, mix it up. All options are excellent, exciting, relevant and full of creative potential.

“The details of any art form—how to play the violin, how to improvise a raga, how to write English prose, how to make movies, how to teach are of course particular; each instrument or medium comes with its own language and lore.  But there is a kind of metalearning, a metadoing that transfers across styles and forms…While there are certain principles that apply to a particular field, others apply across the board to all fields of creative activity.  Any action can be practiced as an art, as a craft, or as drudgery.”

- Free Play: Improvisation in Life and Art, Stephen Nachmanovitch

On May 6th, I sat down with Josh Grossman, artistic director of the TD Toronto Jazz Festival. It was part of a series of live interviews Josh is hosting called The Artistic Director’s Guide to Jazz.  We had a great discussion about four artists performing solo shows at the festival:

• Kurt Rosenwinkel – June 22nd
• Matt Andersen – June 30th
• Benny Green – June 28th
• Nellie McKay – June 30th

The interview was video recorded, but I’d like to clarify, develop and embellish some of my answers (as well as promote these shows!).

- – - -

Original vs. Non-Original Music

One of Josh’s questions was about performing original compositions:

JOSH: What is your take on performing original compositions vs. performing standards or cover tunes?

For some reason, this reminds me of that funny saying: “There are two types of people in this world, those who divide the world into two types and those who do not.” (Jeremy Bentham, I believe)

The dichotomy between original compositions and non-original compositions is helpful for reference and classification. But in the performance arts, things are more complicated.

Matt Anderson may be writing original music on one level, but at the same time, there are aspects of his performance that are very non-original.

The guitar, for example, is a familiar instrument.  The blues is a recognizable feeling, or style. Most people attending Matt’s concert will be familiar with the English language.  Many of the chord structures and combinations Matt uses in his music have been used millions of times before.

Matt’s performances, and his music are actually very non-original.

But they ARE original – his audiences have never experienced them before.

Conflict.

The nature of this conflict may rest in a language paradox, better observed here. Nevertheless, this is how I address it:

One cannot separate the music from the performance.  They are one of the same.  Nor can you classify a performance simply as being original or non-original. Experience lies on a wide, complex, micro, macro, multi-layered, multi-dimensional spectrum.

So, lately I haven’t been differentiating  between original compositions and non-original compositions.  Every performance, at its core, is original.  Every INSTANCE is original on some level or another.

The best way to classify a performance, experience, and associated variables is in “common ground.”  Common ground is the foundation on which any relationship rests.  Without common ground, any relationship or ritual would fall apart.

(It may seem that I’ve played a trick on myself. I replaced the term “non-original music” with the term “common ground” in which case the conflict described above still applies and I’ve committed some kind of fallacy. But I don’t think this is the case. The term “non-original music” classifies a noun, or a thing. “Common ground” refers to a relationship. It’s the difference between a sheet of music and performing that music.  It’s the difference between what music is and what music does.)

Common Ground in Music

Here are some examples (assuming you’re familiar with Scott Joplin’s The Entertainer):

• I perform the published version of The Entertainer, note for note.
• I perform The Entertainer with slight note variations and inflections.
• I perform The Entertainer, with a rewritten B section.
• I perform The Entertainer in 3/4.
• I perform The Entertainer as a bossa nova.
• I perform The Entertainer very, very slowly.
• I compose and perform a tune based on the Entertainer.
• I improvise a tune in the ragtime style.
• I improvise a 12-tone tune in the ragtime style.

Hopefully these examples demonstrate some kind of spectrum, and various explorations of common ground in music. But these examples only consider the music – common ground is experienced in all aspects of a performance. Consider these examples:

• I perform the published version of The Entertainer on the guitar.
• I perform The Entertainer on the spoons.
• I sing The Entertainer in English.
• I sing The Entertainer in Gibberish.
• I perform the published vision of The Entertainer in the dark.
• I perform the published version of The Entertainer with a gorilla on stage.
• The person next to you isn’t wearing pants.
• The concert is scheduled to begin at 4:30am.
• The concert features the local symphony at the local pub.

Some of these examples make no mention of the music.  That’s because circumstances and environment are equally important to the overall experience of a performance or ritual.

Common Ground in Society

I say “ritual” because these ideas of originality, non-originality, familiarity and common ground apply to activities other than music, concerts and performances.

Consider the ritual of going to a restaurant.  All restaurants follow similar patterns – host greets you, host seats you, waiter takes drinks order, waiter brings drinks, waiter takes food orders, waiter brings food, waiter asks “how’s everything?” etc.

This isn’t just robotic behavior, it’s maintaining common ground.  Going out for dinner would be impossible without it.  Events and circumstances need to unfold in some familiar fashion in order for everything to function.

Of course, every restaurant has variations, which could be considered a creative exploration of common ground. Think about what happens when you order bacon & eggs. No two restaurants make bacon & eggs the same. But reading “bacon & eggs” on the menu will give you an idea of what to expect.  That’s common ground.  Hopefully they’ll meet or exceed your expectations!

Now think about what happens when you order the chef’s signature dish.  Even the most unfamiliar dishes are probably derived from ingredients that you’re familiar with. To establish common ground, a restaurant may list those ingredients in the menu.  If they’re NOT listed in the menu, then common ground may be established through the chef’s reputation. Or perhaps common ground is inherent in government food & safety regulations.

Common ground is inherent in all these things – interacting, playing and feed backing off one another. They’re all part of a complex system that forms our routines and rituals.  The dichotomy between original and non-original music is too simple and inconsistent to explain such a system.

Of course, the irony in this discussion occurs every time I introduce my music: “Next, I’d like to perform an original composition I wrote…..”

I suppose this dichotomy has its uses…  ;)

(Can’t see the video? Click here)

I recently returned from a month long winter residency in Bamfield, BC. This was the result of a collaboration between Bamfield residents Nancy Hendry and Steve Clarke, and Music By the Sea. In case you haven’t heard of this place, Bamfield is one of the most beautiful places I’ve visited in Canada. Developed by Chris Donison, Music By the Sea is an exciting project which includes a summer festival, artist residencies, music education and community outreach.

My next few posts will be a reflection on creative residencies and my experience in Bamfield.

The Purpose of Residencies

Artists take advantage of creative residencies for many reasons – to practice, compose, rehearse, network, or a combination of all these. The main reason though, relates to my favourite dichotomy – to explore structure and freedom.

Residencies offer artists a clean slate, an opportunity to discover (or rediscover) what variables optimize their creative capacities and overall well being. Artists can free themselves of the habits that define their circumstances at home. They can start over. Rebuild. Redefine.

Exploring Structure and Freedom

Artists are offered a brand new equilibrium between structure and freedom. Ideally, they also have the power to manipulate these variables at will. For example, suppose circumstances at home restrict an artist to practicing between 11am and 4pm. An ideal residence could support practicing at any and all hours. Through this process of discovery, the artist may realize that her best work is done first thing in the morning, after drinking some pulp-free orange juice, while hearing birds sing and experiencing the smell of low tide.

This seems trivial, but these are the factors that could be crucial to an artist’s work and well being. It’s not just the orange juice that she discovers, it’s the ritual of drinking the orange juice at a certain time of day, before carrying out a certain activity. Further, when she returns home, hopefully she has learned that it isn’t necessarily orange juice that she needs, (maybe orange juice isn’t even available at home!), but some kind of ritual to start her day and prepare her creative faculties.

I say “well being” because work and art are only part of the picture. Residencies are also opportunities to explore lifestyle, not just the creative process. Working and living are intimately linked. An ideal residence, then, can support a diverse range of lifestyles and give artists the freedom to explore them.

For example, we often hear people complain about being connected to the Internet. Our lives are structured such that email, social networking and StumbleUpon result in many wasted hours that could be more beneficially dedicated to our work. During an ideal residency, artists have the option to disconnect, or at least explore their relationship with the Internet. Being totally disconnected may cause anxiety. However, restricting herself to only checking email in the morning may be a perfect ritual to starting her day and doing good work.

The point is that during a residency, the artist has the freedom to figure this out. The same can be said for health, nutrition, social activities, hobbies, and other things that contribute to a lifestyle.

The Ideal Residence vs. The Ideal Artist

I’ve made reference to an “ideal residency,” where artists have the ultimate freedom to explore and manipulate their circumstances. Of course, this doesn’t exist. There will always be variables outside an artist’s control.

Further, an artist will face unique variables depending on local circumstances. A residency in Banff would be much different than a residency in Bamfield. Not necessarily better, just different.

But this is part of the novelty of being an artist-in-residence. Each locale provides unique circumstances and challenges to the artist who wants to live and work there. This can be exciting for the artist, who may discover new structures once taken for granted. It can also be exciting for the local hosts, who get to witness creative solutions to structures they take for granted.

If artists are searching for the “ideal residence,” residencies should be searching for the “ideal artist” – someone who can adapt and restructure to any circumstances. Of course, this doesn’t exist either. The point is that these endeavors are partnerships. Successful residencies require trust, understanding and patience between artists and their hosts.

Returning Home

Residencies aren’t permanent and can last anywhere from a few weeks to several months. Depending on the purpose of the residency, an artist may return home with a new composition, or new repertoire. These things are more tangible than some of the deeper benefits that can be gained.

Hopefully, the artist can also return home with some principles to guide her life and work. This can be difficult because routines and rituals established in Bamfield, may not translate when living in Toronto.

But as I mentioned earlier, it may not be the orange juice that’s important to her creative endeavors, but having some kind of morning ritual. Realizing this can mean the difference between a residency lasting two months, and a residency lasting a lifetime.

Suppose your raison d’être is to perform Oscar Peterson solos note for note. The potential for creativity and innovation here is endless. First of all, nobody’s doing this. Even if there was, he/she wouldn’t be able to mimic Oscar exactly; there would always be room for “improvement.” Improvement would require creative, innovative thinking.

Innovation is simply “the introduction of something new”.  It could be a new idea, method, product or perspective. The best copycats need to be creative, disciplined thinkers. They require new, innovative ideas in order to be better than other copycats. The person who figures out how to best mimic Oscar Peterson is no different than the person who invents the best photocopier. They’re both innovators.

The person who mimics Oscar Peterson is no less innovative than Miles Davis. Yet, the jazz community doesn’t encourage copycats. Why?

Innovation can be subtle; it can also slap you in the face. It depends on what you already know, and what turns you on. A copycat will slap you in the face if you don’t realize he’s copying. Even if you know he’s copying, his methods may still impress you, if that’s what turns you on. Then again, if copycats don’t interest you, no matter how innovative his methods are, you won’t care.

The jazz community isn’t interested in copycats. Fine. But that doesn’t make them any less innovative or expressive. When the community encourages “innovation,” they’re really referring to innovation within a narrower field – a field dictated by taste and tradition.

I recently wrote about my friend and collaborator, Kornel Wolak. I claimed that he’s the most spontaneous classical musician I know.

I’m sure this statement raises some eyebrows; spontaneity and classical music are often considered diametrical.

But it’s possible!

Classical music is notoriously structured and rigorous. This is evident just by examining its notation, where everything from notes, dynamics, phrasings, articulations and tempos are marked. But despite its rigor, musical notation cannot capture every possible variable.

Also, there are multiple ways to interpret classical notation, even within a certain style. A musician could play the same passage with two different interpretations – both could be acceptable within the style.

Also consider what happens when a classical musician or ensemble “makes a mistake”. Where the mistake occurs, and how the musician(s) correct themselves, add variances to a performance of classical music.

Though small, narrow, and perhaps undetectable to the untrained ear, these variances allow the artist a certain amount of freedom and adds “unknown” factors to a performance. This is where the potential for spontaneity lies. I say “potential” because not all artists will have the ability or desire to take advantage.

Spontaneity, or perceived spontaneity, lends a kind of magic to a performance; it’s in every artist’s best interest to at least consider its advantages. They include an enhanced connection between the performer and the music, as well as the performer and the audience.

Nevertheless, as I wrote in my previous post, spontaneity in classical music requires three things: 1) Artists with extremely high levels of discipline, 2) Artists willing to rehearse rigorously/obsessively and 3) Artists who are willing to take risks.

Artists with Discipline

The best classical musicians are already extremely disciplined. But spontaneous performers require an even deeper understanding of themselves and the music they play.

Improvisers often liken improvisation to the regurgitation of a vocabulary. Improvising within a classical framework is no different; performers can build their vocabulary on all of the possible variances I discussed earlier. For example, if there are multiple ways to interpret and perform a particular passage, a spontaneous musician should be familiar with them. Eventually, all of the possibilities will amalgamate in the moment during a performance.

But really, the process can be deeper and more organic than this. Suppose, when interpreting a particular passage, you liken it to “falling in love.” Of course, there are many different ways to fall in love, and the notation may have the flexibility to communicate those differences. The spontaneous classical musician needs to be aware of the notation’s flexibility, as well as how it relates to “falling in love” (so it would help if he/she has experience with love!).

In the moment, the musician can say: “how am I falling in love today?” and have the ability to capture that through music. That’s one example of spontaneity in classical music. It not only requires extreme discipline, but also an intimacy with life and living.

Obsessive Rehearsing

Apply the idea of vocabulary development to ensemble music. If a soloist is spontaneous in how he/she interprets a particular passage, the accompanist needs to know how to react (and vise versa). There’s only one way to achieve this: with obsessive, rigorous rehearsal.

What do I mean by obsessive?

I mean the willingness to rehearse one page, or one passage of music for hours on end. There is no limit to the potential variances in classical music (as discussed above), so there should be no limit to how members of an ensemble can communicate, interact and play off one another. This takes many, many hours of dedicated, disciplined rehearsal.

When Kornel and I rehearse, we start by fitting the notes together – that’s easy. Next, we explore and bounce ideas off one another. For example, Kornel may play a certain passage one way, I’ll follow, and we’ll rehearse it a million times. “Until it works” as Kornel says. Then he or I may recommend playing it differently. We’ll rehearse that a million times too. In the moment, we’ll know a multitude of ways we could perform this passage, and we’ll be able to react accordingly.

In a sense, we’re striving to unlock our personality from the music. Personality can be attributed to spontaneity. Classical musicians are often more rigid in how they perform music so the potential for showing their personality is lost

Taking Risks

Of course, all this discipline and rehearsing is useless unless the performer is willing to take risks in front of an audience.

Spontaneity is risky because it exposes your personality, and it’s impossible to vibe with everybody!

It’s also risky because spontaneous performers are explorers. When you’re exploring, you’re bound to make “mistakes,” or play something inconsistent with what people are familiar with (i.e. the written music). This may be intentional or not, but either way, you’re exposing yourself on a deep level. For one thing, it’s easier for audiences to hear what you know and what you don’t know.

You’re also more likely to “lose” your audience with spontaneity. When performers and listeners meet, it’s around a figurative common-ground. In jazz music, the common-ground is in familiar tunes (among many other things). In classical music, the common-ground is in well-known pieces composed by well-known composers. But unlike jazz musicians, classical performers don’t take liberties and make drastic departures from the common-ground, nor does the audience expect them to do so.

Making departures from the common-ground is always risky because not all listeners will have the skill or desire to keep up. It’s especially risky in classical music because it’s not common practice.

A skilled improviser however, knows how to balance between establishing common-ground, exploring, developing and building trust without excluding too many people (more on this later!). The point here is that there’s more at stake with spontaneity; improvisers put it all on the line. But the risk has great potential for reward.

It’s often suggested that classical music doesn’t support improvising or spontaneity. I think this represents a narrow view of spontaneity. This topic warrants deeper reflection and I plan to explore it in greater depth in the next few weeks.

In the meantime, I’ll say that classical musicians have much to learn from jazz improvisers!

(and vise-versa!)

This is one of my favourites.  From Everything Happens to Me:

Download the Mp3 here: Everything Happens to Me #5

Listen to it here:

The notes here aren’t wrong, but the phrasing is!

From Everything Happens to Me:

Download the Mp3 here: Everything Happens to Me #4

Listen to it here:

How do you travel to the grocery store?

Consider your mode of transportation, route, pace, time of day, choice of clothes and anything else related to getting from point A to point B.

Consider which of these variables remain fixed for each trip, and which are flexible. For example, you may always walk to the grocery store but take different routes. Or maybe you always take the shortest, quickest route but always travel at different times of day. And do you always travel to the same grocery store?

If you observe say, the last 10 times you traveled to the grocery store, you’ll probably notice some general patterns. Those patterns make up a framework or structure. Further, you’ll also notice factors that are generally inconsistent, without pattern and structure. I think of these things as being free and spontaneous.

This is what interests me: Structure and Freedom!

‎”The choosiness of human beings in picking their mates has driven the human mind into a history of frenzied expansion for no reason except that wit, virtuosity, inventiveness, and individuality turn other people on. It is a somewhat less uplifting perspective on the purpose of humanity than the religious one, but it is also rather liberating. Be different” – Matt Ridley, The Red Queen

I’m becoming more convinced that finding the right balance between structure and freedom is an individual’s key to leading a fulfilling, creative life. As Matt Ridley suggests, it may even be the meaning of life!

The grocery store illustrates the concept of structure and freedom. As you can imagine though, structure can be observed everywhere and in everything.

Consider the layout of a grocery store, its location, and the organization required to mange it. Consider jazz music: spontaneity is a much-celebrated characteristic in jazz, but at the core of jazz tunes, jazz bands and jazz venues are common patterns, frameworks and structures. Consider the practice habits of a jazz pianist: how she practices, what she practices, and every minuscule movement of her fingers.

All of these things are governed by a balance between structure and freedom. Further, changes to any of these things can be interpreted simply as a realignment of structure and freedom.

Suppose the jazz pianist wants to improve her finger technique. She’ll have to impose more structure on her fingers and practice routine. Suppose the grocery store is suffering from poor worker morale. The manager will have to introduce new policies to motivate workers. Maybe this means imposing new rules and loosening old rules. Maybe this means replacing the manager with someone who balances the workplace differently.

Having an optimal balance between structure and freedom is extremely important and may be responsible for learning, inspiration and creativity. Here’s one of my favourite quotes from Stravinsky’s Poetics of Music:

“I experience a sort of terror when, at the moment of setting to work and finding myself before the infinitude of possibilities that present themselves, I have the feeling that everything is permissible to me. If everything is permissible to me, the best and the worst; if nothing offers me any resistance, then any effort is inconceivable, and I cannot use anything as a basis, and consequently every undertaking becomes futile.”

This idea fascinates me because it’s one of those universal, all encompassing, foundational, concepts. It applies to running a business and dating as much as it applies to learning and music making.

My reflections here are only scratching the surface, and you can expect the relationship between structure and freedom to be a major theme in my writing over the next while!