Recently I spent a day judging a piano competition in Los Alamos.  This was the kind of contest where the students aren't actually pitted against each other; instead they play for a rating and comments from a judge.  In this particular event, there are some guidelines:  students must play three contrasting pieces from three different styles or periods, and must prepare technique work (i.e. scales, chord progressions, arpeggios) in the key of each piece.  It was a long day, but a good one.  Matt and I spent the previous night in Santa Fe--ate a couple of good meals, hung out in the hotel room, generally wound down from another long week.  Saturday morning I was up early, had breakfast in the French cafe on the plaza, and then drove up through the mountains to White Rock, where my judging site was located. 

The organizer of the event had done a good job with the scheduling:  the students weren't so closely packed together that I didn't have time to write thorough comments, and she had scheduled 15-minute breaks every few hours.  Enough time for me to stretch my legs and take a walk around the block, or go to the bathroom.  When judging, I never lack for things to say or comment on.  Indeed the only challenge is not writing a full page just about the first scale I hear.   I don't want to make a career out of judging, but I want these kinds of opportunities available to my students, so I am happy to take my turn when the time comes.  Aside from an aching hand from writing so much, I was a pretty contented judge. 

But as I watched the parade of students marching in to play for me, I was struck by several things.  First of all, as someone who take a very holistic approach to teaching theory and technique, I was alarmed by the students I saw who seemed to have only learned scales and chords for this particular contest.  The technique work was sometimes in the wrong key.  This was not out of any attempt to be sneaky, I think, but rather simply that the student might have been confused about which scale went with which piece, so unrelated the two things seemed to be in their minds.  The technique work was sometimes at a very different level than the pieces.  Maybe the student was playing mid-elementary level pieces but trying to get through--unsuccessfully I might add--two-octave hands-together harmonic minor scales.  This was unsettling, indeed, and a pretty good indication that these scales must have been learned just for this particular event.  "Teaching to the test" is what I would call it. 

Oh, I do it too sometimes, when faced with requirements that don't necessarily match up with how I teach on a weekly basis.  I think technique requirements are a good thing generally, but wonder if there isn't a way to make it both more specific and less constricted at the same time.  Wouldn't it be possible to set the general requirements for technique at every level in very specific ways-- for example: level one, hands alone five-finger patterns; level eight: four-octave scales hands together--but leave open how the technique had to be played.  I would have loved to see some interesting new ways to practice and play scales and arpeggios; after all, I assign these things in a million various ways every week.  As a teacher, I would love to be able to send my students to such events with a more natural example of how they were currently practicing their scales, instead of having the method dictated to us.  Requiring the technique work and the literature to be at the same level would solve the problem I saw of students playing technique work that was too hard (or too easy).  Students in early literature should be playing a ton of five-finger positions, and later, full octave scales with hands together.   Forcing that the level of the technique and the literature be the same would be better for the students and the teachers.  Allowing the technique to be played in any number of ways (staccato, legato, crescendo-decrescendo, eighth-notes, triplets, one octave, three octaves, or whatever ever creative approach used in the studio), would make things more interesting for the judge.

In spite of my speed and ease in writing lots of comments, it struck me that three pieces and all of the corresponding technique work was a lot to deal with when crammed into eight minutes.  I stopped making comments when I ran out of room on the judging sheet (sometimes even after I had  only heard half of what was prepared), and I am sure it was plenty for the students and their teachers to think about and wrestle with.  Some kids raced through their playing:  writing furiously, I often had no idea what piece they were  doing or what was coming next. My confusion wasn't a problem in terms of having something to say, but did make the whole thing rather frantic.  I know as a teacher that these kinds of competitions are culminating events, and the the real growth is in the preparation, not in the eight minutes with the judge.  However, I wondered if there wasn't a way of making the whole thing a little more engaging for everyone.  Because I knew I had 35 kids to listen to that day and because I didn't want to make the students (and teachers!) nervous with my questions, I hesitated to go much beyond the cheerful pleasantries of conversation, but I would have loved to have been able to freely ask students about their pieces, the styles they represent, the key signatures of the technique work.  In other words, to check in and make sure the learning was really thorough and more than just notes and rhythms.  As a teacher, I am always aiming for my students to be able to converse comfortably about anything prepared for a performance; I would be thrilled to have my students given the chance to have these conversations with an interested judge. Of course, this requires more in terms of preparation, but if we are already going to this level of effort, it is only a good thing if students can explain the structure and style of their music, and give their opinions (and even their struggles and triumphs!) about their process.  This would also take more time, something always in short supply, but I believe it would result in a more thorough, organic experience for the students.  It would also require the teachers to work differently, and perhaps more holistically.  A good judge would be able to balance the need to have students play their entire prepared work, with the time reserved to talk specifically about one or two things.  I can imagine it might go something like  this:

"Hi Susan.  What do you have to play for me today?"

"I am going to play 'Minuet' by Bach, 'Sonatina' by Clementi, and 'Rhythm Roulette' by Dennis Alexander."

"Wonderful.  What key is the Sonatina in and which movement are you playing?" 

"I am playing the third movement in the key of G major."

"Could I hear a G major scale then?"

....

"'Rhythm Roulette' is one of my favorite pieces.  Do you know Dennis Alexander lives in Albuquerque?" 


...and so on.  This wouldn't have to take a great deal of time, but ideally would make students more learned and more engaged in every part of their work. 

Finally, I know that I participate in these kinds of events because they make me better as a teacher.  I always learn things from thoughtful judges' comments.  I am sometimes taken aback by the same comment on multiple judging sheets, realizing that this must be something I need to work on as a teacher, as it is showing up repeatedly in my students' work.  Requiring multiple styles and music from different musical periods means that I have to work more carefully, making sure my students don't fall into easy ruts of playing all 20th century music, or all sonatinas.  But this very point has got me thinking.  I wonder if we haven't fallen unexpectedly into a new period of piano pedagogy.  In the last 20 years, there has been such an explosion of pedagogical literature (and good music, that kids love and respond to) that I think we have a new category to work with:  modern/contemporary pedagogical pieces.  These would be the Martha Mier, Dennis Alexander, Robert Vandall standards that we all teach and that our students want to play.  Of course, these are in a variety of styles:  neo-classical, neo-romantic, etc. but nevertheless seems to fall into a specific general category of their own.  I wouldn't want to send an intermediate level student into a contest with three of these kinds of pieces, any more than I would want to send them in with three Schumann or Kabalevsky pieces, but teaching this good literature is not only practical, it is  important.  It supports living, working composers, and counters the popular notion that "classical" music training is all about dead white guys.  After all, the history of pedagogical composition is a long one, and there is a good chance that some of this current music on our teaching shelves will make its way into the standard literature in time.  But until then, let's acknowledge and celebrate it by giving it a category of its own, and not lumping it into 20th-century literature.  I don't want to be penalized for teaching Bartok and Alexander, that seems insane and certainly misses the point of using this engaging music.  But under our current system, even though the 20th century has been over for seven years, we classify both Bartok and Alexander as simply "20th century" or "Modern".  I think this group of pedagogical music is different, refreshingly so.  Some of it may make it into standard piano literature, some won't, but for now, I'd like to see it given its own specific and recognized category. 

As always, there is little doubt that I learned more than any of the students I heard.  As I prepare my students over the next few weeks for the same event in our local chapter, I think I'll be braver about not following the rules, about not teaching to the test, about using less familiar, but charming, literature instead of the old war-horses.  I'm still a young teacher, quick to want to obey the system, especially in a new place with unfamiliar rules.  However, events that make us more thorough teachers help all of us, and I know it has to begin in my own studio in the next month.  Just today I told a student that I had decided he could play his favorite Dennis Alexander piece and the Persichetti piece for our upcoming contest next month. "Yeah!"  he told me, eyes glowing, "You know, I love them both!!"  

That's the point, isn't it?