Scores as Journal Entries

When I began sketching out ideas for this blog post a few weeks ago, I had a rough idea of the approach I wanted to take: very process-based, a look into studying a dear piece more than once, and how to negotiate marking a score up when you’re a different musician and person from the last time you studied the piece. I wanted to explore how the markings we put in scores are personal, powerful, and essentially turn our scores into mixed media journal entries. They’re snapshots into a specific period of life. I reference journal entries because I’ve habitually journaled for about 15 years so it’s become another outlet for me. As I’ve matured, I’ve maintained this written record (it’s pretty cringe-y much of the time, especially in high school…) and learned how to use this powerful tool to process the world around me. While I still intend to discuss that a bit, I’d also like to share how the two creative outlets I engage with can support and enhance each other.

Since my early undergraduate days, I’ve more actively explored how having two outlets, violin playing and journaling, support and enable the other toward greater clarity. When searching for words is more of a hindrance than help, I play my violin and work through the emotions and events I need to process without them. I recall during a rough semester during my undergrad being told by my professor to “tell your violin all about it.” That advice rings in my mind quite often in times of stress or sorrow. Conversely, sometimes I feel too much to be able to play because the different emotions feel like a ball of wire that’s in a giant knot. Differentiating between them all seems impossible! I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to put down my violin recently and write before I could approach it again. Picking up the instrument again, then, I usually have an idea of what emotion or idea I want to put where in the music and can work toward making that clear.

​I seem to have this habit about referencing the solo Bach literature whenever I write about some of my processes, but honestly it’s such intimate music that it makes an amazing canvas for blending music and journaling. This year, I have the opportunity to re-visit a dear old friend in the solo Bach literature: The Chaconne from the d minor Partita. I previously studied this piece during my undergrad and have been longing to re-visit it since I completed my first study of the complete solo Bach literature back in the spring of 2017. My score is a time capsule of who I was as a musician and human when I last studied it (Summer and Fall of 2011). One of the challenges of returning to it, then, is keeping what still resonates with you and making room for new inspiration. Not only has my musicianship changed, but my process has evolved as my playing has matured, and I’m in a completely different phase of life.

Ever since I first learned it, this has been the piece of music I turn to in times of uncertainty, emotional turmoil, and when I need to process something emotionally and searching for words is that hindrance I mentioned in the introduction. I’d never had a concise term for it, but one day, I couldn’t decide which solo Bach movement I needed to play to deal with something and my husband looked at me and said “Play the Chaconne. It’s your processing music” so I’ve been calling it that ever since. Because this piece is of such personal significance to me, everything about it has meaning that I connect with very deeply. Every word or phrase I add to the score means something for my musical interpretation which, in turn, guides every technical choice I make. I’m probably more attached than I should be to the phrasing choices inspired by how those phrases interact with score.

When I began re-visiting the Chaconne, I had an intense inner debate about whether or not I wanted to play it from the same copy as I previously used. For one, I was concerned about finding room for new markings, but I also didn’t want to be swayed by the strong opinions I’d held previously. Thus far, I’ve decided to work from my old score because I want to see the difference between “2011 me” and current “2018 me.” A surprising challenge, then, has been deciding what to do with the markings I know longer wish to use. Simple slashes to delineate sections, bowings, or fingerings I don’t mind changing. I don’t even mind erasing my way of marking which passages I had memorized or not. I’ve chosen to leave character words or emotionally laden phrases in the part because I want to acknowledge where I was when I wrote them. Just because I choose not to work with what’s on my “time capsule” doesn’t mean that it’s not important to me. Practically speaking, though, I have crossed a few things out (they’re still legible) so they’re not distracting as I play.

Many of my notes from my previous study in 2011 are shown here though you can see that I did cross out the words “despair” and “agony.” Maybe when I return to the piece in the future, I’ll want to play with those concepts again.

Yes, I related Miracle Gro to a passage of Bach. Sometimes the brain thinks what the brain thinks!

Very few of the words I listed in 2011 are actually guiding my interpretation this time. If anything, there are some passing ideas that I absolutely love still, but need to explore something else because I’m a different person. Instead, a soul-searching journal entry (spent 3 hours writing it, turned out to be roughly 10 pages long type of entry) I wrote over the summer as I was re-approaching the Chaconne helped me re-frame the piece. The structure, character, and sonority of the Chaconne resonated with the entry so much that I chose to pull out passages from the entry and write them in the margins around sections that seemed to reflect that particular sentiment. In this way, I’ve blended two deeply personal things in a way that encourages vulnerability and allows me to ask myself questions about musicality in a refreshing way that leads to a deeper understanding of the exact character I want to convey. In some places, the things I write indicate great pain and emotional suffering. In others, there’s a wry-ness to my observations that, with the little distance I have from then to now, I find almost humorous. In the photo to the left, I quoted an idea of mine that mentioned “trying to dump Miracle Gro on myself without first being pruned.” As if that image isn’t ridiculous enough, I found a passage in the Chaconne that made me think of it! Other thoughts that have come to mind (which the Miracle Gro illustration sums up brilliantly to my mind) are compensating for being unable to cope with something by being entirely too energetic and busy. (I also just thought of the idea of stress cleaning, but since my house actually does need to be cleaned, I’m going to ignore that thought!) Though these thoughts might not work for anyone else, I love that I finally have an idea of what to do with this section musically because I found words to describe what it feels like to me.

What I love most, though, is how I’ve gone in an incredibly literal direction with this idea. I hadn’t thought of doing that before this fall, but I’ve found I needed more than a word here or there to focus my musical intentions. In the midst of many possible musical inflections and having previously studied the Chaconne, this method has been really helpful as I seek to authentically convey where I am and who I am right now (not 7 years ago!) through this piece.
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Do you have any scores that are so marked with musical and personal indications that they’re practically a journal entry unto themselves? (Or a time capsule, if you prefer.) Have you actually lifted passages from your journal to place into your music to help remind you of your musical ideas? Leave a note about it in the comments!