We are, so it is often said, the combination of the stories we tell ourselves. The greater the emphasis and the more often the story is told, the more it shapes our being, especially throughout our early years. Permit me then to tell you a brief and personal story about how natural talent played a role in shaping my occasionally chaotic mind.
I’m the child of two musicians, both naturally, beautifully gifted. For the sake of this story though, we’ll focus on my father since his journey is more widely celebrated. At the age of 13, his school offered him the chance to take up a new instrument. They offered a choice of three. His initial choice, the violin, was swiftly rejected in no uncertain terms; “we’ll ‘ave none o’ that squeaking and scratching in this ‘ouse lad!” Then the french horn - also a no. Finally, there were two bassoons available. One shiny, one battered. There is, it has to be said, something about a shiny new instrument that attracts all ill-informed newbies. So it was then that he proudly walked home, with undeniably the worse of the two instruments in hand, excited to get to grips with a whole new sound.
Seven years later, he was playing principal with the BBC Symphony orchestra.
Please forgive me then for the lack of detail here, since his life story is ultimately irrelevant for the purposes of this piece I’m afraid. Feel free to dig if it intrigues you (the above image was kindly borrowed and adapted from an article in the excellent British Double Reed Society News a few years back), but the key point here, as most will agree, is that he has an innate natural talent, and some are also aware that his natural talent comes from a love for numbers; an almost savant appreciation for mental arithmetic that, when applied to the maths of music, enables him to play absolutely anything exactly as written, almost without thinking, leaving him then free to interpret musically on the fly, in the moment and in accordance with the demands of the immediate environment. It is truly a beautiful thing and I sincerely hope I haven’t done him an injustice by offering such a brief rational explanation here.
Beyond his very early years, dad never really practised. Indeed, it became a running family joke. For some of the biggest performances of his life, he might, if he felt so inclined, get the bassoon out beforehand at home and have a ‘fifteen minute blow’ (most of which was consumed with choosing a reed), but that’s it. I know! Sickening, isn’t it.
But this story isn’t actually about him, but about me. Although I’ve learned to apply a host of tools over the past twenty plus years to structure my days (and to a reasonable effect I might boldly add), there remains an unfathomable pull in me towards winging it in the moment. Unfathomable, that is, until recently.
My dad’s a humble man. I don’t think I can ever recall him singing his own praises. He never needed to. My mum did this all for him. She would tell stories of his ability to leave the audience mesmerised, without so much as a minute’s practice. She would glorify these moments, and like all good stories, accentuate aspects over time; the extent to which he left people spellbound, having gone from one moment fixing the plumbing at home, to jumping on a train, getting on stage just in time, and then nailing it, time and time again. These stories were shared and celebrated as a family, and of course as most young boys do, I held my father and his achievements in high esteem.
No, I didn’t become a virtuosic Tuba player, or a world renowned soloist of any form. Instead, I went into music tech and marketing (there’s another story to be told here of the sadness of being dissuaded away from the musician’s life, but perhaps that’s for another time). Nevertheless, my fathers’ gift shaped the way I behave in an intriguing way. One I wouldn’t have expected, and that’s, at least in part, the point here. Our parents shape us in ways we often fail to appreciate until time has passed by and one has had time to reflect. So fortunate am I then to have been given this time.
With every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Where there is glorification on one side, there is a denigration of the opposite. It doesn’t need to be consciously stated. Indeed, more often, the opposite is only subconsciously understood. In the case of natural talent, if you glorify those who have it, there is a chance you automatically deride those who don’t. If performing without practice is the utopia, then those who have to work for it consequently fall short. They’re not held in as high regard. At least, that’s how I perceived this in my family.
In the case of natural talent, if you glorify those who have it, there is a chance you automatically deride those who don’t.
As I write these words, I realise the absurdity of that statement. Consciously, I hold immense respect for the individuals who graft with grit; who persevere through practice, and through sheer hard work and determination, achieve truly wondrous things. Yet subconsciously, there is a visceral, emotional draw within me towards those who wing it. With that comes a degree of scoffing at the individuals who actually have to work to achieve something approaching, though ultimately falling short of, the same thing. So it is then that the natural talent of my humble father has led to a decreased appreciation in my mind for planning and practising and preparing, even in the face of consciously accepting and admiring those who achieve great things through sheer hard work.
But that’s the wonderful thing about stories, isn’t it. Once you see them for what they are, you can start to edit them. You can choose to change them. Through reflection, repetition and emphasis, you gradually rewrite them. Now I can more plainly see, hopefully both consciously and subconsciously, that yes, there is magic in natural talent, but there is also resplendence in practice and preparation. We may be the stories we choose to tell ourselves, but we can also choose to tell ourselves a different stories. That choice is ours, and ours alone.
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