The Perfectionist and the Improvisor
There have been some beautiful days at the park of late. There are new mothers, fathers and sitters, some of the regulars and a few of the ones I have known the best have stopped coming, their children now in school or the parent has gone back to work.
There are different kinds of mothers. Some let their children discover the world including its ability to inflict hurt, and give their children every indication that is the way of the world, while others interject themselves into every aspect of the child's play as though the kid couldn't figure out how it's done without them (a fear on the mother's part more than a reality on the part of the child). I am not sure but I suspect these mother's are seeking some perfection that can not be had, but their purpose in life is in the seeking.
They will sit and talk with me. The conversation with the mother who let's their child be can range across every possible subject while the conversation of the perfectionist is constrained by the object of that search for perfection: their child. I like to avoid generalization unless it smacks me both sides of the head, which it does in this case: education level is at the heart of the difference.
It would seem counter intuitive, but education seems to give you a faith in the notion of a right answer to things mundane while at the same time open you up to limitless vistas when it comes to the unordinary, where as less education seems to view the ordinary as a fluid thing while the exceptional must be nailed down as a singular rigid truth. These are the thoughts that were going through my head when the boy showed up today.
He told me he read my entry concerning the wall and wanted to know the particulars about the bully I mentioned in it. So I told him all about it and he laughed to think it had nothing to do with some wondrous intuitive wisdom on my part and instead was a very explainable business transaction, to which I assured him that most things are, but of course not everything. You see, the boy is going through that trying time that all real musicians go through at some point, concerning finding the right note. He has spent that raw energy of desire that can afford you endless hours of enjoyment just on the wonder that anything comes of it. He has hit that improviser's Achiles heel when you know there has to be a note out there that will get you where you want to go with the tune and no matter how many combinations are tried you just can't get there. I tell him he is lucky. He is fourteen and will come to terms with the note that can't be had soon enough, whereas the perfectionist mother will get her head smacked in a few years with what can't be had and will spend the rest of her life trying to shake the sensation of dizzyness out.
So I tell the boy that the note he is looking for is not one of the twelve that can be had. It is the difference between nature and music, the difference between white light and color, the difference between white noise and pitch. One is made of all the possibilities, the other of a choice. With each choice we move ever closer to an illusion of perfection; put another way, perfection will forever be the enemy of options, and options are the improvisor's bread and butter, and you must make a choice between being the perfectionist and being the improvisor. He asks me how one decides between the two. I tell him that I have always found the face of the perfectionist unreadable. I ask him if he can tell me what is on the face of all the great improvisors. He gives me the answer almost without thinking about it. The answer is a continuous smile.
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