Building a Sandcastle

Learning music is a deeply multifaceted process. There are, of course, the obvious mechanics and techniques. But beyond that lies the understanding of the music itself: What are you actually trying to convey with your technique? Are you merely reiterating a flat, 2D score in sound, or are you transforming it into a living, 3D reality? Then there is the profound skill of listening. True listening must expand far beyond the contextual—like checking for wrong notes or tuning. It is a somewhat intangible skill, one that easily slips away if not consistently cultivated. Sensitivity, in any form, requires continual upkeep.

The following videos illustrate the multitude of factors—both broad and deep—involved in learning how to play, even with a piece this simple. There is the cognitive work required to help a six-year-old understand what they are doing and learn discernment (which I believe is a huge milestone). There is the very demanding, and often entirely tedious, intonation work. And crucially, there must be an element of play in the process. The student needs the freedom to be expressive, and the teacher must be observant enough to recognize exactly what the student needs from that expression.

For example, we were working on foot movement recently when my student started to play-sway, going completely against my instructions. I stopped him at first, but immediately realized his instinct was a great idea—in fact, it was probably exactly what he needed. We incorporated his movement into what we were doing, and it made the exercise ten times more effective! (As you can see in the first video, this slight, natural sway perfectly matches the music and the physical motion of playing.)

All of this work must be done while helping students develop the intrinsic motivation to learn. For that to happen, the process must feel like play; it must be fun. But I’ve always struggled with the word “fun” in music because we so frequently treat it as the antithesis of being serious. Too often, "having fun" is used as an excuse to lower our standards—implying that without formality, we don't need to be fully invested. I don’t mean we should be fiercely perfectionistic at all times; I love a casual chamber music reading party as much as anyone. But we make a fundamental mistake when we assume that joy and rigor are mutually exclusive.

Some people have a handful of defining memories upon which their entire value system rests. For me, the perfect illustration of this union between joy and rigor happened on a day trip to a lake many years ago with my friend Jennifer and her son, Camillo. He was building a sandcastle by himself when a boy he didn’t know came over to join him. It was fascinating to watch the unspoken contract form between them: there were no grand introductions, just an implicit agreement that they were now playing together. They worked mostly in silence, speaking only to discuss the task at hand. I was struck by their intensity; they looked like two people embarking on the most crucial project of their lives.

Watching them, I realized these boys were exemplifying everything I believe work and play should be: total immersion, intrinsic motivation, and a deep reward found purely in the doing, entirely free from judgment about the final outcome. (That last part is admittedly difficult for those of us whose "play" is also our profession, but it remains true.) What stood out most was their utter seriousness in the pursuit of fun. If someone had told them to take it down a notch—to just "relax" and not be so serious—they would have looked at that person like an alien. What would have been the point? For a child engrossed in a game, the seriousness is the fun. Whether the outward expression is deadpan focus or vivacious energy, true fun lies in total, uncompromised engagement.

Every action they took was geared toward a shared goal: building the exact sandcastle they envisioned. It was a beautiful, clear illustration of serving the greater good. In that process, the self doesn't vanish—it retains its distinctness and unique contribution—but it is no longer the center of gravity. We talk endlessly in our field about “serving the music.” That afternoon in the sand showed me exactly what that means at its heart. The purity of their collaboration stands in stark contrast to the ego and hypocrisy that often hide behind lofty ideals in the arts and academia. This is why I value working with kids so much. If you choose to learn from them, they will keep you honest.

I normally have the memory of a goldfish; my brain is practically designed to let things slip away. Yet this vignette has remained forever etched in my mind as the absolute essence of work, play, partnership, and teaching. It is the definition of presence. That scene serves as my anchor whenever I get overwhelmed by the clutter and complication of adult life.

No one taught Camillo or his playmate how to improve their sandcastle-building skills that day, but the spirit of their collaboration can guide how we teach, learn, and create. Cultivating a love for music—and a love for learning itself—requires us to embrace the reality that serious isn't just furrowed brows and a daily grind, and fun isn't just mindless amusement. Serious can be fun, and fun can be serious. True work is play, and true play is work.