The Boring Work of Art
My great-grandmother had a few frequent sayings that worked their way into and persist in our family’s vernacular several generations down: intelligent people are never bored. I always took that as a kind of challenge, maybe because I’d typically hear it after uttering those dangerous words, “I’m bored.” (Amazing how quickly and easily parents can write an impromptu to-do list on the spot when they hear their child say that!) But more than that, her statement was a way of indicating that a certain perspective–irrelevant of intelligence–keeps a person engaged, interested, invested, or simply present. Whether lost in thought, actively pursuing a problem’s solution, involved in an activity, or practicing mindfulness, those kinds of activities and everything in between can stave off the doldrums, sidestep boredom, and, I assume, lead to a more satisfying, significant existence.
The times where I remember my great-grandma’s words most often are when I’m stuck waiting for something or someone else… Getting the oil changed, waiting for my number to come up at the DMV, sitting in the driveway at a kid’s friend’s house where it apparently takes 15 minutes to find and put on shoes, that sort of thing. Where I don’t think of it quite so often–and probably should–is when the task I’m doing is tedious but necessary. Doing dishes, mowing the lawn, driving, grading papers… All important things that have to be done, and the things I’m most likely to procrastinate because they’re boring.
An intelligent person, to use my great-grandma’s expression, might recognize the connection between the tedious activity and the result, and invest in the work because they’re committed to the payoff. Likewise, we have all sorts of devices that help distract us from the tedium. For me, it usually involves listening to something–music, audiobooks, podcasts, etc. And sometimes, when I’m in the right mood, the more repetitive acts can occasionally become meditative, which is a pleasant if rare treat. As I’ve aged, I’m also finding that the simplicity and instant gratification of most of those tasks are different enough from my more complex and abstract daily routine that getting an hour to myself with an audiobook I’ve been trying to finish is almost a vacation. Hey, getting older has some advantages, and I’ll take what I can get.
But another thing that I find myself avoiding, again and again, is practicing. When I started learning piano as a child, my teacher asked me to keep a practice log, which increasingly became a work of fiction as I grew. I loved playing, but I hated practicing. I like to think I had enough aptitude that I was able to fool my teacher, but know a teacher myself, there’s no way she didn’t know I wasn’t practicing as I should, no matter what my log said. (An interesting aside: this did have a positive effect on my ear training and ability to play what I hear, but trying to remember and recreate a song by ear and from memory is pretty darn stressful in a piano lesson, compared to actually learning to read music and play what’s sitting on the page in front of you.)
When I picked up the guitar as a preteen, this method of “fake it ‘til you make it” seemed to work well enough to get by, so I approached the guitar the same way. Don’t misunderstand, I spent hours upon hours playing guitar, learning chords, learning songs, studying guitar parts on my favorite albums and playing along as best I could. My background on piano, the basics I knew about music theory, and my limited ability to read musical notation took me pretty far–once I knew what I was supposed to play, it didn’t take long to move it into muscle memory. In other words, I was clearly practicing something. Unlike the piano, however, I was mostly self-taught on the guitar, relying on friends and other players to show me something here and there. I still remember who showed me how to make a barre chord, who showed me how to bend harmonics, who taught me how to play a pentatonic scale, and even who showed me a better way to change my strings. Learning the guitar was a very social process for me, but it was unscripted. It oriented around what I wanted to play, not whatever a teacher charted out for me. Simply, it was about fun.
I remember performing a song in college with several other musicians for some one-off thing, an open mic night or something like that. There were maybe 8 or 9 of us, a full rock band with two guitarists, two keyboardists, and a few backing vocalists, lead singer, bass, drums, and percussion. Big group. The song was really straightforward, nothing fancy, with easy parts we picked up immediately. I was a freshman, and a senior (the one who taught me a better way to restring my guitar) played acoustic, and I was on electric. The song began with a simple two-chord pattern on the electric, and then the band came in for the first verse, and that pattern on the electric continued but backed off a bit to give space to the other instruments and the singer. When we got to that part, I played lighter and used the edge of my picking hand to mute the strings a bit, emulating the sound on the recording we’d used independently to learn our respective parts.
At that moment, the other guitarist (who was also serving the role of band leader) waved off the band, and we stopped. He pointed at me and raised his left hand. “Two fingers,” he said, demonstrating where they go on the neck–halfway up, not where I’d had mine down at the headstock (and where they belonged for the intro). Then he raised his right hand. “Two fingers,” he repeated, showing that I should pluck two strings with my fingertips instead of with a pick, and sure enough, there was the sound that matched the record. We started again, and when I did it his way, he simply nodded, and the band played on.
I have a few thoughts about that anecdote, but one thing that struck me was a significant difference between the two of us: I knew his practice regimen. He was diligent and persistent, and his playing proved it. He spent hours alone working on things he would make appear effortless on stage. He’s now a highly regarded producer and session player in Nashville, and I’m… not.
A common lament I share with people when it comes up that I’ve been playing guitar for over 30 years is that I should be better than I am. Obviously, there’s no “should” in terms of a standard measure for talent and ability, and similarly, “better” is a pretty squishy term as well. While I try not to compare myself to anyone else–comparison breeds discontent, as they say–it’s easy to be jealous when someone who has only been playing a few years can play circles around me. And of course, there are also plenty of people who have reached a certain level of ability that suits them, and I’m often jealous of them, too. But really, I can’t ever remember a time when I didn’t want to be significantly better at guitar than I was–than I am.
If I’m going to continue unpacking my current creative struggles by digging into my past, I have to acknowledge that there wasn’t a lot I needed to work very hard for growing up. I enjoyed a great childhood by most standards with loving and supportive parents and a secure, stable home life. My needs were met, and many of my wants were, too. I got an allowance but had no expense, and it was easy to save up for items that weren’t already provided. I wouldn’t say I was spoiled, though some might, but my needs were unquestionably met and then some. In school, my grades weren’t great (you remember my avoidance of tedium, right?), but I could think on my feet and had a terrific memory, and that served me well enough to get through. Maybe a succinct way of saying all this is that I always seemed to be able to do what I wanted to do without much resistance.
After the personal exploration involved in working through the last episode’s prewriting and conversation, I’ve continued thinking a lot about practice and my avoidance of it. If I enjoy playing the guitar, am I not able to focus on the result of practice (which literally involves playing the guitar, the thing I enjoy)? I think there’s more here than just getting bored with practice. An idea emerged in the last episode about my wanting to hide the labor-intensive parts of making music, and my feelings about “deserving” to have a place at the music table. If I could do a thing well, if I could pick it up quickly and easily, then surely I must have the right stuff. And if I can’t, well, then maybe I don’t.
Practice is incredibly reliable, because practice requires repetition. Do a thing over and over, and that thing gets easier. (Obviously, this doesn’t take into account good versus bad practice, which is an equally vast subject.) If I were to practice, I’d get better. It’s a little embarrassing to be complaining about this thing that is fully in my control, but this is this kind of frustration that led us to create this podcast in the first place, so here we are. I’m often caught in a self-defeating cycle of negative self talk about my work ethic, laziness, and my apparent affection for the path of least resistance. This new perspective–that my hunger for validation is linked to the necessity of practice–is giving me some breathing room right now. It’s helping me see my avoidance of tedious, mundane, repetitive work as it relates to my growth as an artist (and really, as a human being) as not simply a character flaw but instead, potentially, a habit borne of repetition. Ironically, tragicomically, it might be argued that I practiced not practicing so much that I’ve become an expert at it.
And, finally, I think there’s a very functional piece to this puzzle. When I shared my “I should be better than I am by now” with a friend who is a practice beast, he suggested a simple idea I’d never previously considered: “Maybe you just don’t know how to practice?” That made a lot of sense to me. When I began playing guitar, I took to it very quickly–I think in part because I’d already had that piano foundation and developing ear. There was so much to learn, so much to choose from, and so many people who had things they could show me. When it came easy to me, I’d incorporate it into my playing. If it didn’t, I’d work around it and leave that as a hole in my abilities. That didn’t bother me, really, because there was still so much to learn, and I could just play to my strengths. Thirty years later, I still can’t really play a solid fingerstyle pattern (think James Taylor, Paul Simon). I stink at guitar solos. I make up for these things by avoiding them, or by hiding my labor through countless recording takes and even using digital means to edit my playing to sound better than I could perform it. I’m really tired of doing these things. Thirty years later, I’m realizing that I want these abilities for ME, and that means I’m going to have to practice. And THAT means I’m going to have to learn how to practice. That potentially also means I’m going to need to find a teacher, probably one who suggests I keep a practice log, and one who would also know if I were fudging it. But as I can already feel myself leaning toward the dangerous place of “I can’t start yet because the planets aren’t in line,” I know I can instantly find numerous resources online that would put me on the path. What I really need is to just choose something I want to be able to do but can’t, and start practicing it.
Contributed by Harley Ferris
