On Practicing
Sometimes there is so much there, in the real world, standing between us and the act of doing, that we become overwhelmed by the possibilities. In free improvisation, these possibilities are limited only by our own imagination, by the limits of our material universe, by our chosen sound-producing object(s), or, possibly, by our training. What does it mean to practice free improvisation? How do we improve in a domain that lacks a clear distinction between success and failure, where failure in the conventional sense can itself become a method of expression, and where imperfections offer glimpses into the fragility of the human condition, glimpses that are to be cherished and celebrated?
To begin understanding the notion of practicing, I attempted—perhaps somewhat naively—to break the practice down into a few loosely defined constituents. My aim was not to create a definitive taxonomy, but rather to sketch out a provisional system that might help me grasp the various directions from which one might begin to approach it. This tentative framework was a way of sidestepping a common pitfall: the paralysis that can come from facing an overly abstract or distant goal, one so ill-defined that it quickly becomes overwhelming.
1. Instrument/Technique
Both traditional and extended approaches to the instrument, the totality of sounds, including self-made instruments, come into play. The question of virtuosity arises again and again. The term is a burden, but at least it forces us to consider how we might define it in this context. Should we strive for a more personalized conception of virtuosity?
In this domain, we can draw on innumerable pre-existing approaches to the formal practice of our instrument, ranging from method books to etudes and everything in between. Beyond that, we can deduce some general principles of healthy practice and skill acquisition and apply them to whatever needs we might have at the moment. An idyllic goal would be to construct daily routines of practice that allow for maximum development of instrumental potential while maintaining the highest level of individuality.
2. Theoretical Knowledge
To what extent is it necessary? And how do we define theory?
One perspective emphasizes our understanding of harmony, melody, and rhythm, elements through which we engage deeply with the long traditions of Western classical music and various non-Western art musics such as Gamelan, Carnatic music, Gagaku, and Persian classical music, to name a few. These traditions, while highly distinct, share complex systems of organization that have shaped both compositional and listening practices over centuries.
Alongside this, rather than in opposition to it, we can consider another perspective that highlights a more foundational attention to the act of perceiving sound itself. Resources such as the writings of Pierre Schaeffer and R. Murray Schafer (Schaeffer 2017; Schafer 1993), as well as Pauline Oliveros’s Deep Listening practices (Oliveros 2005), propose frameworks that focus on the phenomenological, embodied, and environmental dimensions of listening. These approaches are not separate from traditional musical systems; rather, they invite us to reexamine how we attend to sound, offering tools that are particularly resonant in improvisational and experimental contexts.
The vast field of critical improvisation studies—an emergent domain that combines a broad array of epistemologies to produce deep insight into the act of improvisation—covers another element of theoretical knowledge (Lewis & Piekut 2016).
Finally, there are practical resources specific to different improvisational traditions, such as jazz method books (Baker 1988; Bergonzi 1994; Russell 2001), manuals on historical improvisation (Mariani 2017; Overduin 1998), or guides to free improvisation (Mäder 2019; Stevens 2007), which provide concrete tools and techniques developed within those practices.
3. Personal Knowledge
The beauty of improvisation lies in its individuality. Each of us carries a wealth of personal knowledge that influences our artistic practice. One crucial aspect is tacit knowledge (Polanyi 2009), which is related to our body, our memories, and our experience.
Do we need to systematize knowledge to such an extent? Does breaking things down into their constituents always lead to the greatest benefit? Our universe is limited not only in its materiality but also in its temporality. Gradually, I came to realize that the point is not to determine whether improvisation can be successfully taught—or self-taught—but rather to offer a glimpse into a methodology: its non-linear, rhizomatic nature and the multiple perspectives and processes necessary for developing improvisational skills. Through this process, I did not seek to reduce this practice to a list of steps that lead to successful improvising (as if such a thing can be defined), but to showcase its complexity and multidimensionality.
This complexity highlights another concept discussed by Pressing: redundancy. This term refers to the multiple ways a piece of information is stored or understood. For example, the note E2 on a double bass can be located at various positions on the fingerboard. It can be perceived as the first note of an E major scale, the third of a C major triad, or as a specific physical sensation when tuned relative to the open strings. It functions in different contexts as a sonic event, a response to other musicians, or a signal for new development. In short, a skilled improviser understands how a sound event feels on the instrument, how it is produced, its stylistic relevance, and its parametric relationship to the given context. This level of redundancy points to the fact that “control of event production is heterarchical, and may potentially shift rapidly from one cognitive control area to another” (Pressing 1988, p. 161). Pressing posits that “experientially it very probably corresponds to ‘letting go’, or ‘going with the flow’.”
In an attempt to get better at "letting go," I needed to further explore the specifics of practicing in the context of free improvisation. The initial step in acquiring an overview of the field was a review of pedagogical models. Many pedagogues and musicians have contributed to this field by sharing their knowledge and documenting their approaches. Some of the most important books and articles that influenced my thinking include: (Mäder 2019; Heble & Laver 2016; Heble & Stewart 2023 ; Stevens 2007; Lewis 2000; Hickey 2009; MacGlone & MacDonald 2018). What became apparent was that most pedagogical methods adopted a direct approach to practice, or, as George Lewis puts it in response to David Borgo’s question about teaching free improvisation: “throw them in the deep end and work with what naturally happens.” (quoted in Borgo 2022, p.10)
The section on Personal Virtuosity describes a preliminary attempt at learning how to "swim"—ways of systematizing sounds and their methods of production to create new redundancies. This process was driven by an intrinsic need to break things down to their constituents, both to understand the semantic meanings these sounds carry and to become more aware of the technical particularities involved in producing them on the instrument.
Throughout my working process and analysis of existing resources, it became clear that a common thread ran through all approaches: reducing the practice to certain constituents and deliberately directing my awareness toward these elements in order to improve them. Creating exercises, first for myself and later for larger ensembles, involved deconstructing and then reconstructing these elements into a cohesive whole, ultimately refined through performances and recordings.
My initial attempts at practicing were influenced by the thinking I developed during my work with preparations. If all playing on the instrument can be reduced to a simple equation, can we break this process down to an atomic level—something irreducible, where removing one more element results in silence? And how do we build from there? How many elements can we add before becoming overwhelmed? Inspired by these questions, I began experimenting with adding sounds and textures—a kind of sonic juggling.
This exercise carries several benefits, some more obvious than others. On a purely technical level, I try to continuously add elements until reaching the point of physical exhaustion. Through this, I consciously put myself in a state of overload, unable to keep track of every individual element, allowing me to observe which parts of my technique are redundant and which demand significant cognitive attention. Another insight concerns the compatibility of techniques. Certain additions become impossible by their very nature. For example, if one hand controls the bow and the other fingers or plucks the string, I cannot use a third hand to detune strings, at least not until bio-hacking advances to meet the needs of the improviser. I refine this practice by asking whether all sounds must be held throughout. If sound events can be more sporadic, many more options become available. Through this process, I became aware of the physical demands of certain sound events and their connections to others. I began considering the nature of sound itself and its musical elements. What constitutes an addition to my original sound? What makes the new different from the old? What does it mean to repeat something?
Another exercise was concerned with the notion of repetition. How long could I play without repeating myself? What constitutes a repetition? The finer my observation, the more I realized that true repetition does not exist. This exercise is useful for training musical memory and for recognizing the finer details of the sounds I produce. What defines a sound? Is it a whole phrase or just a single impulse? Which parameters of sound exist? Which have I already played? Which parameter combinations are possible? Which are impossible on my instrument?
I complicate this further by fixing one parameter; for example, attempting to avoid repetition within the confines of a fixed pitch.
This line of inquiry introduces another important term: parameters. In Pressing’s model (1988), they appear as features; in Mäder et al. (2019) as parameters. They can be understood as the building blocks of music: pitch, rhythm, harmony, timbre, dynamics, density, attack, and decay. All our playing can be reduced to some combination of these parameters. The value of these exercises lay in reinforcing parametric thinking. Through reduction, I forced myself to observe every event closely, focusing on each specific element it contained. By using the structure of parametric thinking, I gave myself a blueprint for analyzing and understanding each sound—a way to translate it into a structure that could be modified and transferred into different contexts as needed. This process of classification allowed me to think about sound categories through which I could compare, contrast, and eventually refine my perception (for an overview of the ways in which one can classify sound, see also Schafer 1993, chapter 9).