I’ve long suspected that teaching is generally a thankless profession. In most cases, those of us who have benefitted from a teacher’s knowledge, wisdom, and concern don’t go back and thank them personally. But it’s never too late to try.
When I recall my most memorable teachers, a long list comes to mind. There’s Boss, my high school band teacher, and Professor P who both nurtured my passion for opera and influenced my first steps as a director. There was Professor R who oversaw my master’s program, Dr. G whose “Methods” course was grueling but taught me to write, and Dr. B’s amazing seminar on the Mahler Symphonies. My sincerest thanks, however, are reserved for the five teachers who taught me the following transformative lessons. A couple of them were painful, so buckle up.
Mr. S
Mr. S was my high school orchestra teacher. I played the French Horn in addition to my piano studies and participated in both band and orchestra. Mr. S wasn’t a gifted teacher. Adequate at teaching strings, his grasp of wind instruments and percussion was minimal. He was a subpar conductor and his ability to relate to high school students non-existent. He lived completely in the shadow of Boss, the band director. Rehearsals were disasters, concerts even worse. Mr. S wanted to perform real works, like Boss, but orchestra literature is different. Unlike in band repertoire, brass players must be able to transpose on sight. This was a skill at which most of us stank, and which Mr. S couldn’t teach us. High school kids resent incompetent authority and we made Mr. S’s life a misery.
Late in my senior year, he assembled a gala concert combining the orchestras from the two city high schools to be led by a guest conductor. If our orchestra was bad, the other one was worse, and the dress rehearsal was a train wreck. I chose not to attend the Friday evening performance. I didn’t even call in sick. On Monday I faced the music. Mr. S didn’t say much. “The horns kept coming in late and then I realized my most dependable player wasn’t there.” That’s all he said but his disappointment in me was palpable. I didn’t get the “most dependable player” part. I was third chair. I muttered a fib about having gotten sick.
That summer, between high school and college, I attended National Music Camp at Interlochen. I didn’t like to practice either piano or the horn, and when I did it was lazy practice. My piano teacher took me aside one day and chided me on my lack of effort. “You have all the talent you need, but you aren’t doing the work. You were borderline for acceptance into this program and the only reason you got in was the glowing recommendation from your teacher Mr. S. He thinks the world of you, you know.” I never wish to have that feeling again, of my stomach turning into a hollow pit full of hammers. That was my first and last life lesson in integrity. I entered the university that September vowing to excel and set things straight with Mr. S., but it was not to be. Two months into that first quarter, Mr. S. passed away suddenly from a heart attack.
Professor S
Professor S was my college freshman music theory teacher, one of two professors teaching 100-level theory. If you wanted to sail through with A’s, you took theory from Professor T. If you wanted to master the subject, you chose Professor S. Coming off my experience at Interlochen, I chose her. Professor S had a method called the “Blanket Order.” This meant that no matter the assignment, we had to approach it from all possible ways. We began class every day singing diatonic and chromatic scales in syllables (Do-Re-Mi) and numbers. Sight singing exams were brutal and involved drawing from hats to see what we were to sing and how (e.g., moveable versus fixed Do, syllables versus numbers). We mastered this material and I still have it at my command fifty years later. The “Blanket Order,” though, was more than just a teaching method for music theory. It’s a life hack for solving problems, mastering new skills, and executing work. It’s been instrumental to me throughout my life. I had the chance to thank Professor S before she passed away and will reprint that homage in these pages someday soon.
Doctor. H
Doctor H. was my piano teacher for the first four years of my undergraduate studies. He was a sweet fellow, thoroughly absent-minded (he forgot as many lessons as he remembered), and always looked as if he were trying to squint through foggy glasses. He was a terrific teacher for most of the students in his studio, but not for me. For years I’d struggled with three challenges. I learned music slowly. Memorization was even more laborious. Most important, when I played any sort of large or fast passagework, my hands and arms would seize up into knots. Over the years, we were unable to solve these problems and began to get on each other’s nerves. It didn’t help that despite my post Interlochen resolutions, I remained a petulant and whiney piece of work. One day in Master Class I held forth in my regal fashion about something or other that “the administration should have handled differently.” Dr. H shifted in his seat in an irritated manner and the room fell starkly silent. He blinked through his glasses for several seconds then said quietly, “You know, I have long ceased to live in the subjunctive mood.” At that moment, in front of my peers, it was a riding crop across my nose. I left his studio at the end of the year, but to this day I have never forgotten (but long forgiven) that valuable lesson.
Mrs. D
I landed in the studio of Mrs. D., a Russian refugee who escaped the Nazi death camps during the war. She had managed despite those tribulations to have something of a career both as a performer and a teacher. If my relationship with Doctor H had turned sour over time, my relationship with Mrs. D was rancid from the start. She was an abusive personality and took an immediate dislike to me. She disapproved of the fact that I worked a job to pay my tuition. She disliked my dress, my shoes were a disgrace, and my hair a disaster. She even disliked the way I knocked on the door. I could do nothing to please her. Nevertheless, in our very first lesson, she zeroed in on the source of my tension when I played and bleated at me in her Russian accent, “Dear, look at what you are doing!! Your hands aren’t shaped that way! Nobody’s hands are. No wonder you can’t play!” She then proceeded to introduce an entirely different approach to technique than I had ever been taught. It was worth all the psychological abuse I was to endure at her hands that year just to be able to play for real. I prepared and performed my senior recital under her “guidance.” Her enmity was severe enough that she forbade all her other students from attending my recital. After it was over, she pronounced, “I don’t know who you put that show on for, your parents, your friends, or what. You certainly didn’t do it for you. There was no you in it.” To this day, that stands as the pettiest thing I’ve ever heard a teacher say to a student. But here’s the thing. I suddenly saw myself in the mirror and recognized the bitter and vituperative person I was in danger of turning into. I left Mrs. D’s studio with two precious gifts: a solid and dependable piano technique and a clear vision for who I did not wish to be in the world.
Maestro S
Maestro S was the conductor at the university where I earned my master’s degree in stage direction and opera production. He was fabulous and came from a family of distinguished musicians. Nobody could wring the truth from a score the way he could. During my second year in the program, I directed a scene from Verdi’s “Falstaff.” I was particularly proud of my innovations. After the performance, Maestro S tracked me down. “Whatever possessed you to do that?” “Sir?” I responded. “Why did you make Meg’s character angry?” “Well,” I answered, “it was suggested by her words where…” Maestro S exploded, “You went by the English words in that hideous translation? Her character is written into the very fiber of the music, and there is no anger anywhere. If you haven’t assimilated every iota of the music, every phrase, every marking and not asked yourself ‘why did the composer do that?’ you haven’t done your job as a director. You’ve managed to take one of the most brilliant masterworks in the repertory and reduce it to…to…to Lehar!” With that, he stormed off. The disgust with which he sputtered “Lehar” set the lesson in cold steel and has been my salvation many times now as a director and music director. I am pleased to say that in recent years, I have had a chance to thank Maestro S. directly.
The point of all this catharsis and personal revelation is that the best teachers in our lives aren’t necessarily the ones that taught us the most interesting or lucrative things, but those who taught us the things we needed to know. These five teachers I’ve singled out did just that. Three imparted key tools: the blanket order as a learning and execution method, my breakthrough piano technique, and the essential requirement for good music and stage direction. The other lessons were about personal integrity, humility, and perspective. My gratitude to each of these teachers is profound. Some I have thanked, some I will never be able to thank, and one I still hope to have that conversation with. In the meantime, I think the best way to express my gratitude is to pay these lessons forward in the world.
Tell me about your transformative teachers. Have you regretted missing the opportunity to thank them?
Erica and Friends 