A guest post.
A couple of years ago, I wrote a piece about being a parent with
nystagmus of a child without. That child is now old enough to tell me if an
approaching bus is a three-and-a-four-and-a-one or a two-and-a-nine, and I
consider myself to be winning at life. My second child appears to have decent
vision, too. In that article I made mention of my life as an amateur musician.
And it turns out there is much to say about being an amateur musician with
nystagmus. Some background, then. I’ve got mild nystagmus, bad myopia and
astigmatism resulting in vision that’s poorly corrected by glasses or contact
lenses. I sing in choirs, play the flute very occasionally in orchestras and
took up the violin as an adult.
As a member of a choir, my music-making has tended to take
place in churches. For space and facilities, churches are great, for lighting,
not so much. As the evenings darken, the torch on my smartphone comes into its
own as I struggle to read my music. At least in that I am not alone. The young
people are fine, but the, ahem, less young are with me on that, and I thank
technological evolution for making my life easier. Rumour has it that
music publishing has gone a little bit digital. I’ve yet to see it in use in
the real world, but perhaps I’ll benefit one day much, though I am loath to say
it, as I have with my electronic reader with its new-fangled enlarged text and
lighting options.
I have problems changing my focal length from page to conductor.
The better you know your music, the less you have to look at it. It follows
that the harder you work, the less your disability is a problem. Here, again,
though, I join forces with my long sight/short sight colleagues.
But for someone with nystagmus, there are those times in choir
when the conductor looks at you and says, “Would you have a go at that
solo?” In an instant, your heart swells, the adrenalin kicks in, and
you’re just about to agree, trying to put a humble spin on it, when the person
next to you pipes up and you realise the conductor was looking at her, not you.
If you have done a solo, the conductor will usually signal for
you to take applause for it at the end of the piece. It’s a thrilling feeling
when the noise swells in appreciation. But there have been times when, from my
flute-playing seat at the back of the orchestra, I have wondered if the
conductor was looking at me, dithered and failed to get up. Well, that’s ok.
But there has been at least one occasion when the conductor was signalling the
clarinet player directly behind me, and I stood up with her — I stole her
applause and failed to get my own.
One of the reasons I play the flute is because you hold it
sideways and therefore can get as close to the music as you like. I usually
have my music stand higher up and closer to me than “normal”. This
works fine for me, but orchestra conductors don’t like it because it ruins the
sight-lines and therefore interferes with communication between conductor and
player. The classical music world is rife with jokes about conductors and their
egos that would sit happily here, but I know a few conductors who will be
reading this and I don’t want to ruin my chances of working with them again. I
digress. I’ve been asked by a conductor to lower my music stand and felt the
tears spring into my eyes, just like when I was at school, as I tried to
explain, in front of the whole orchestra, that I couldn’t because then I
wouldn’t be able to see the music. I wonder if I’ll ever grow out of that
tear-springing feeling.
Another problem in orchestra rehearsals is when the conductor
says that we’ll start playing from 15 bars before figure B. Challenge number
one: find figure B. Eyes darting across the page — there’s A, there’s C, where
on earth is B? Ah, got it (but I thought that was an eight). Challenge two:
count back fifteen bars. That’s a rest bar with a number in it. Is it a 1 or is
it a 4? (There’s no accounting for the vagaries of type-setting in music
publishing.) Right, it’s a 4, count back another eleven bars. Ok, I’m there, I
think. Right, so is everyone else. They’re waiting for me. Oh dear. (Thank
goodness I’m not a professional, because time is money.) Or they’ve ploughed on
regardless and I’m even more lost than I was before.
The flute section being at the back of the orchestra means the
conductor is quite a long way away, far enough for me not to be able to see
facial expressions. This certainly has advantages, when those of unfriendly
temperament (rare as they are) offer glowering looks at offending players and I
carry on, oblivious to their displeasure. Again, winning at life.
I took up the violin a few years ago, with the hope of one day
joining the fiddle section of a bad orchestra. If I ever become good enough,
I’ll have to work really hard between rehearsals to learn the music so that I’m
not hampered by the music being too far away to see. I’ll have to work harder
than my peers, which is annoying, since I am naturally lazy, but I might be a
better musician for it.
The better you know your music, the more you look at the
conductor. The conductor is there to drive the music, to shape it and to help
the performers deliver their best for the audience. The conductor wants to know
that the performers are watching; it helps them do their job. I watch the
conductor when I can but, because of my null point, perhaps the conductor
thinks that I’m looking into the audience at my parents, just off to the right.
No conductor has ever mentioned that to me but I wonder if, consciously or
unconsciously, any has thought me a worse musician because of it.
As I have reflected on this topic, I have concluded that I need to work that little bit harder in certain areas than my colleagues in order to achieve the same result. The child of the ‘80s in me says, “never mind, it’s ok, I can manage.” I think this approach is fine in this instance, because what use is a singer who can’t sing the notes? Perhaps I’m seeking acknowledgement for the extra effort. The arts sector tends not to handle disability well, and while I’m grateful that society is more open to conversations in this area than formerly, there is clearly work to be done.
