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This morning I was looking at some videos I’d found on YouTube after searching “good posture.” What I found was a mix of ideas and demonstrations, some helpful, many not so helpful. One of the things that many of the “not so helpful” videos had in common was in presenting posture as static. Something to be held.
Here were some of the most frequently given directions about holding this good posture:
As an experiment, I took out my saxophone and followed these directions. Besides not being able to produce my sound in any reasonably pleasing way, I also noticed I couldn’t move. I couldn’t express myself. I couldn’t really breathe very well. I was not free. I was planted. I would get tired very quickly if I had to maintain such holding in my body.
As an Alexander Technique teacher, I wasn’t too surprised by this experiment. I see time and again musicians who get some kind of a notion about good posture, then make a mess of themselves (and the music!) as they try to maintain it.
Now in all fairness, if you were to look at snapshot of somebody maintaining this kind of holding, it would probably look like good posture. You’d likely be able to see the symmetrical alignment in the body. But if you were to put your hands on this same person’s body, you’d fell nothing but tension and rigidity.
According to the Alexander principles, good posture is a result of a good use of yourself. And this good use involves releasing yourself into balance.
Contrast the above directions above with the Alexander Technique primary directions:
Notice the word release is used in each direction. This is a matter of un-doing as opposed to doing, and involves much less effort. In truth, we are designed to release upwards into good balance, posture and alignment. It’s what we naturally default to (as long as we don’t interfere with it!) Just look at a small child sit, stand, and otherwise move and you’ll see this to be evident.
If you were to see somebody carrying out the above Alexander directions, they too would look like they were maintaining good posture (nicely aligned, etc.) But the difference is that they would be able to move easily, breathe easily and express themselves easily through these directions. Just like a small child. Balance instead of bracing.
So if you find yourself struggling to maintain the correct posture, think of balance and fluidity instead. This is where a good Alexander Technique teacher can help tremendously. In an Alexander lesson you’ll learn how you are creating habitual patterns of tension that are interfering with your natural, easy, upright balance and coordination.
Take a look at this video of the great pianist Artur Rubinstein performing Chopin. Notice how beautifully upright he is as he plays. If you were to take a snapshot of him in mid-flight, you would see what appears to be good posture. But as you can also see, he is free and flowing, expressing himself effortlessly and gracefully. Releasing into balance.
I had a wonderful moment of revelation this morning as I practiced my saxophone. It was one of those experiences that helps me to better see how interconnected thought is to result when it comes to playing music (or doing anything else, for that matter). I was working on my intonation by playing long tones with a tuning CD (recorded tracks of drones consisting of fourths and fifths).
It is very challenging to play the saxophone in tune with this recording because of the nature of the saxophone overtone series. I have to play each note with a very particular internal embouchure (i.e., how I shape the inside of my mouth and throat) to stay in tune. It’s like walking on a razor’s edge. For that reason it’s great practice. It really improves my ears, and makes staying in tune with other musicians (who possess reasonable intonation capabilities) a snap.
But what I noticed today is that I would typically attack each note ever so out of tune, then within a millisecond I’d correct it. It was almost indiscernible, but it made me realize something: I’m not really imagining the pitch before I’m playing, so much as I’m reacting to the pitch I’m hearing, then correcting it.
Now, I thought I was imagining the pitch. But if I was, why was I slightly off in that first part of my attack? I thought it was time to investigate this question.
What I started doing was observing my thinking as I was playing. As I readied myself to play along with the drone, I asked myself if I was really hearing the pitch. I was sure I was, so I played. Same thing, slightly off (sharp), going immediately into tune.
How could this be? I explored this a few more times and found out something interesting about myself: I was imagining the pitch, to be sure, but I was not at all paying attention to what I was doing with myself as I did so.
So I gave it another go with the only intention being to notice what I was doing with myself as I prepared to play. What I discovered was that I was sort of “holding” my embouchure in a habitual way that wasn’t allowing me to attack the note with the kind of intonation that I was imagining. It dawned on me that I was dividing what I was imagining (the pitch) from what was going on inside my body (my embouchure as well as my head/neck/back relationship).
As I continued with this exploration, I realized that my “habitual” embouchure preparation involved tensing my neck ever so slightly, usually making me a bit sharp (flat on certain notes). I also noticed that I released this tension the moment I came in tune. (Actually, better to say the opposite: I came back in tune when I released this tension.)
In short I was reacting as opposed to directing myself with a clear intention.
Once I became aware of this, I simply gave myself a chance to integrate the two things into one whole: My imagination and my direction could be one inseparable thing. Immediately I found that I could make my attack with beautiful intonation. Consistently and easily. I was actually embodying my imagination.
I’m always so thankful for these experiences. Such great lessons that I seem to learn over and over again.