Sensei's Notebook

Teachers

Sara Gerhart Snell

I’ve had many teachers in my life. Some have led me through the dynamics of playing the piano, doing cartwheels in gymnastics and the breaststroke in swimming. Others brought to life the mysteries of French, horticulture, chamber music, and ethnomusicology. And I’ve been blessed with remarkable Aikido, tai chi and gyrotonics instructors. In essence, at the core of my life is my love of learning and at times it turns out I am studying something else altogether. Teaching itself is one of the many things I have never specifically studied

As a music student I had nine different viola teachers and of all those, Mr. Tursi touched an unexpected and unique chord in me. I attended the Eastman School of Music to study with someone else. Her class was full so she encouraged me to study with her colleague and then transfer to her the following year. Mr. Tursi was not only at the end of his playing career, but also his teaching career. Nerve damage was beginning to affect the tips of his fingers and he couldn’t nimbly move them over the fingerboard. That didn’t stop him from being a highly regarded violist and teacher. The sound he produced on his viola was deep and full, and the extension of his compassionate heart was equally profound. His reputation came from his work in the 1950s and 60s. This was 1982 and I was looking for a contemporary teacher and knew my future lay somewhere else. So after 10 months of lessons I moved to the studio of the teacher I had planned to study with originally. Even though my time with him was very short there was something unusual in his teaching that has stuck with me for many years.

Entering Mr. Tursi’s studio was like stepping into a different world. The Eastman school was built in the 1920s with lots of grand marble hallways and large studios for the teachers. Even with 12-foot ceilings and proportionally tall windows, Mr. Tursi’s studio didn’t seem overwhelming. Instead of the overhead lights glaring down he used regular floor lamps with shades that softened the walls and lowered the ceilings. There was a mobile hanging near the window, each branch balancing precariously but perfectly, moving gently with the air currents of the room. On the wall was a picture of many circles dancing around and through each other with a saying underneath to the effect of “be the calm center in the midst of whirling circles." It was an inviting, comfortable space, almost a refuge from the rest of the school

Personally Mr. Tursi was one of the gentlest people I have ever met. He had a broad smile and many laugh lines marked his face. His blue eyes crinkled with wellworn crow’s feet at the corners, evidence of an internal joy he seemed to carry with him. At the year’s end I had to gather my courage and contain my sadness to tell him I was moving to another teacher’s studio for the remainder of my time at Eastman. He sighed deeply and accepted my news without rancor or frustration. He had enjoyed working with me but noted that he would soon be ending his teaching career so my move to a different instructor was the best thing after all.

His training methods were unusual for an instrumental teacher. There were the expected scales, etudes, and viola sonatas to be played for him in my weekly lessons, but there were remarkable moments too. Once he went to the piano, put his foot on the pedal and plucked a string on the inside with his finger. The sound was strong at first but slowly diminished on its own. “Now,” he said, “when I pluck the string again, move your arm along with the sound until it dies out.” Listening very intently, I realized my arm had to move slowly but continuously as the vibrations of the note continued for much longer than I expected. Was he asking me to draw a line of sound with the notes I played?

Another time Mr. Tursi stopped me mid-lesson and positioned two chairs in the center of the room. With quiet intent he set them back to back but several feet apart, tipping them backwards towards each other until they met at a single point at the top of their backs. It took a few seconds but when he removed his hands the chairs stayed there perfectly balanced. Then he looked at me. Was he asking for this kind of balance in my playing?

Several lessons later he stopped me again. “Put down your instrument and mime the movements instead. Can you feel where that motion starts?” he said.

I dutifully put down my instrument, and feeling somewhat silly I raised my arm and started moving it through the air.. “Well, my whole arm is moving.” I responded. “Yes, yes but go a little further. Does it start in your fingers, or your elbow? Does it start in your shoulder?” he said in a leading tone.

I closed my eyes and slowly I began to feel how I moved my arm and how it was connected to my body. I traced the movements from the very quick ones in my fingers, to the larger muscles of my arm and then through my shoulder blade and finally to the center of my low back where the muscles of the shoulder are anchored. Finally, I realized my lower abdomen and lower back were all connected and involved in the motion of my fingers and wrist. With one hand on my abdomen and the other waving through the air I opened my eyes and saw that he was smiling. He understood that I had a new realization. Now it was my turn to figure out how I could use that information to connect my body and draw a fuller sound out of the instrument.

His teaching methods were different and he knew it. Many students felt that the application of his examples were too esoteric or time consuming. Once I asked what I thought was a simple question about how to connect some notes. I was stunned when he pulled out a big set of papers showing six different editions comparing the different markings in each version. I had never seen someone go to those lengths to study a musical question like that. Some students concluded that they couldn’t apply this sort of response to the orchestra audition or the solo recital they had to play the following week. I on the other hand was moved by the details and what he didn’t tell me but allowed to discover. At this point in his career he wasn’t focusing on teaching technique. Instead he was interested in what learning skills a student might use in the future; what they might need in 25 years.

A common saying among students at the music school was “Those who can, do, those who can’t, teach.” It’s a cynical comment full of judgment and self-centeredness. Unfortunately it was enough of an undercurrent in my thought to keep me from teaching the viola to anyone. I was consumed with “being” a performer. It was finally through Aikido that I found my way to teaching and here I am, 25 years later, using the lessons learned in the viola studio and on the mat to teach children and teenagers how to maintain their balance in the midst of chaos. I lead them through motions that begin with their centers and how to blend with their partners just as Mr. Tursi did when he would ask me to move my arm along with the sound of that plucked string. In the end I strive to lead them through the skills of being a life long learner just as he was in his studies.

I’m teaching children and teens because even in the midst of the chaos of modern life, I believe in, and have hope for the future. Whether a student trains for a month, a year, or 10,, I hope that many years later they will be able to reach back to a lesson learned on the mat to help someone else find center, and blend with their experience in a masterful way. I spent less than 10 months studying with Mr. Tursi. As I return to his lessons in my mind I now realize he was showing me that I was not separate from the music. I needed to find my balance and play from my center. In essence the music, the instrument and myself were one and the same thing. They only existed if they were acting together, just as we all must exist together. We are not separate, but part of a web of life. It’s a wonderful gift in my life that these powerful lessons have come back with the full force of their meaning after distilling in my heart and mind for 28 years.