ABSTRACT:
In educational psychology, the term “state-dependent learning” describes
learning that is dependent upon a certain situation or environment in order to be
successfully retrieved from one’s long-term memory. Forgetting Mary: The
perils of state-dependent learning looks at the pitfalls of state-dependent
learning for musicians and how we can practice and teach in such a way that
undermines this danger.
Forgetting Mary:
The perils of state-dependent learning
I had heard this at least a hundred times before.
“I played this much better at home,” Leah cried, her blue eyes filling with tears.
Leah was eight, a precocious and lively child. But she could have easily been 18,
or 28, or 38, and the sentiment would have been the same. I played this much
better at home.
Educational psychologists have a term for I played this much better at home, it’s
called “state-dependent learning.” State-dependent learning is learning that is
dependent upon a particular state or situation in order to be successfully
retrieved from our long-term memories. State-dependent learning theory proves
that context matters: we remember information better in the place (in the
classroom, in the studio, on the piano) where we originally learned it. Statedependent learning is the principle at work when we blank out on Mary’s name
from Tuesday morning yoga class when we run into her on a Friday afternoon in
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the grocery store. We know Mary, we really do, but out of the context of yoga
mats and sweaty bodies, we can’t activate the schema in our brain where her
name lives. That’s the power of state-dependent learning.
Turns out the implications for state-dependent learning theory go far beyond
recalling the names of our yoga classmates. In fact, the applications of statedependent learning theory may be quite relevant to how we think about
preparing for musical performances. Cognitive psychologists tell us that the
richer and more varied information is encoded (musicians would call this
“practicing”) the easier it will be to retrieve later, because more elaborate and
creative repetitions give us more roads of access into our long-term memories.
This rich, colorful encoding is really the opposite of that “Perfect Practice Makes
Perfect” axiom we have all be subjected to, which suggests that there is a single
right way we should be practicing, or encoding, our work. Musicians can’t afford
to become state dependent. We don’t want to only be able to play our music in the
so-called “correct” way, because to do so implies that our performance situations
will mimic our practice ones and we know this isn’t the way it works. Pianists
perform on unfamiliar instruments. All musicians have to make adjustments of
balance and dynamics to compensate for concert halls and performing situations.
Sometimes we have to change articulations, tempos and musical characters at a
moment’s notice. We don’t, in fact, want a single well-worn groove to our
knowledge about our music that we practice ad nauseam, but which is dependent
upon the wind never knocking us off course. Unless you are always going to
perform on your own piano in your own living room exactly like you practice
every day--and I like house concerts just fine, don’t get me wrong—statedependent learning is not really our friend.
But, ironically, this isn’t the sentiment often breathed in the hallowed halls of our
pedagogy. Instead, we preach this idea that there is a perfect way to practice, and
unless we are adhering to every marking on the page at every moment we are
committing a crime. Or at the very least, our students will be scarred forever. I
don’t buy this. Cognitive research doesn’t buy this. Our brains are more flexible
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than that. And the dangers of state-dependent learning suggest that we ought to
teach in a way that encourages our brains to be as flexible as possible.
True, we have to be attentive here, because to unlearn certain musical aspects
learned carelessly is trouble for sure. I’m not a fan of learning incorrect notes or
suspect rhythms. I like fingering learned thoughtfully. (Maybe you recognize the
student that says, “I like to add the F-sharps after I learn it.” Or the kid who tells
you that he’ll just “put in the fingerings later.”) But other musical elements are
less black and white. Dynamics occupy a grey area for sure. My idea of piano
may not be the same as yours. How we handle articulations are part of how we
create character and interpretation, which is subject to opinion. Even tempo
choices are hardly set in stone.
Thinking cognitively for a moment, to practice in different ways—adding first this
musical element, then subtracting that one—creates different connections in the
brain, which encodes the material more deeply and undermines state-dependent
learning. We don’t want to just know the music one single way; we want to know
it upside down, and inside out, backwards, and forwards (in a box, with a fox, on
a train, in a plane….).
There is no end to creative ways to rehearse our music. Pianists can practice
hands alone (What are our hands really doing independent of one another? Do
we even know?). We can displace octaves between our hands, messing with our
ears and our sense of space. Musicians of all stripes can study the score away
from our instruments, reinforcing our knowledge of a piece’s form and structure,
harmony and tonal relationships. We can employ exaggerated rubato upon our
phrases or impose a strict metronomic straightjacket upon our playing. From
time to time, we can even experiment with the opposite dynamics or articulations
(a mind twister to be sure!) or phrase with the opposite musical gesture as would
be appropriate just to see what new insights this might offer. In spite of
conventional wisdom to the contrary, these practice strategies do not teach our
bodies the “wrong” way to perform our pieces, they just teach us. They teach us
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not to become too complacent or reliant upon any one approach. They teach us
flexibility and technique, and, in the end, make us better musicians. Plain and
simple.
It has always struck me as odd that we have no problem with dialing back tempo
or practicing sections out of order when learning a new piece, but to remove or
change the dynamics is blasphemy. However, just as our brains can understand
that new music is being practiced under tempo without being confused as to what
the final tempo eventually will be, we can also learn the mechanics of new music
without the added complications of dynamics or balance or shaping and then add
these layers later. Our brains recognize the difference between a cake that is
frosted and one that isn’t. And by intentionally practicing differently—first
maybe without any nuance, then later with dynamics and phrasing--we are
building more complex pathways in the brain. Educational theorists agree this is
a good thing.
The key, perhaps, is being intentional. If I am intentional about what I am or am
not including musically in my work at the piano, then the deliberate simplifying
of my practicing and focus is lovely. Cognitively, it builds strong connections in
the brain; spiritually, it is like the meditative work of following my breath, which
centers my wild thoughts, and grounds my attention and direction.
Of course, without this intention, ignoring dynamics, balance, shaping, or
articulations, is just sloppy. No more helpful than all the hours of the day that I
spend ignoring my breath, and flailing reactively from task to task. And even
with every good intention, any talk of creative, varied practice strategies
ultimately begs the question: don’t we want to polish a particular interpretation?
“Repetitions are a good thing,” my yoga teacher reminds me, when I resist the
discipline of multiple sun salutations in my practice. Repetitions build form and
stability and teach my body to find the familiar grooves of correct alignment in
my downward-facing dog or my triangle poses. Too often in our musical practice,
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however, we have relied on our worship of mindless, identical repetitions, at the
expense of trusting the flexibility of both our brains and our artistry. But
ultimately, we want both: the strength and security that is built by multiple
repetitions done over time and the flexibility provided by creative, intentional
exploration in our practice.
Perhaps we should, each one of us, sit down a make a list of musical elements
that are OK to play with in practicing and those that are not. On my play-around
list would be dynamics, articulations, and tempo, just for starters. The character
and mood of the piece are fair game as far as I’m concerned, which reminds me of
a favorite exercise we often play in my performance classes where students get to
suggest random and outrageous characters for each other’s pieces. The wackier,
the better. If it leads to lots of laughter and some new musical ideas to boot then
we all win.
It isn’t perfect practice by the old professional definition to be sure, but
cognitively, it is much safer. After all, if we really know Mary, we know her: not
just in yoga class, but also in the grocery store, or at the park, or when we run
into her at the coffee shop. If we really know our music, then we know it: on this
piano under these lights, on that piano in the dark. We know it played mezzoforte and staccato. We know it played piano and legato. We know it when we
play it scary or sad, happy or triumphant. We know it, not just in the comforting
familiarity of home, but when we face it, knees knocking, fingers trembling,
under glaring stage lights and in front of an audience. It is, in fact, really ours.
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