‘The cycle of creativity’: a case study of the working relationship between a dance teacher and a dance musician in a ballet class

ABSTRACT

Research on the role of the ballet pianist is limited. A gap in the literature concerns the ways in which dance instructors and accompanists ‘make sense’ of their collaboration. The working relationship between a dance teacher and a dance musician in a ballet class was investigated. The researcher, a ballet pianist, conducted a semi-structured, in-depth interview with a ballet-teacher colleague who is also a musician and composer. The data was analysed using Interpretative Phenomenological Analysis (IPA), a methodology which takes into account the interpretations of the participant (dance teacher) and the researcher (dance musician). This single case study presents three higher-order themes: ‘the cycle of creativity’ between the teacher, musician, and students; ‘a tonic sense in the body’ facilitated by the musician’s playing; and ‘the ideal situation’ regarding the musician’s sensory awareness during the class. It also reveals two subordinate themes that challenge effective relationships: the students’ perceived response to percussion; and the teacher’s use of recorded music. The results offer insight into specific perceptions and understandings that are transferable to dance teachers and dance musicians engaged in continuing professional development.

KEYWORDS:

• Dance musician
• ballet pianist
• piano music for dance class
• music and movement
• dalcroze eurhythmics
• interpretative phenomenological analysis

Introduction

The field: the ballet class

The traditional ballet master of the eighteenth century was ‘a multi-skilled dancer, musician, and educator’ who ‘demonstrated to their class a series of graded ballet exercises’ and ‘musically accompanied these exercises themselves on a miniature violin’ (RAD (Royal Academy of Dance) 2005, 2). The ballet master passed on skills in ‘reading and writing of dances and in reading the musical score and playing an instrument’ (Bloomfield and Watts 2008, 610). Despite the interconnected nature of music and movement, ‘a chasm separates many musicians and dancers’ (Sawyer 1985, 3). In the contemporary world of specialisation, it is rare to find a polymath ballet teacher who plays piano to accompany their own ballet class. And, although the human capacity for dance has been proposed as a core component of musicality, it ‘has been unjustly neglected in most discussions of the cognition and neuroscience of music’ (Fitch 2018, 37).

Research on the role of the ballet pianist is limited. Perhaps, ‘due to the essentially non-verbal nature of music and movement, the oral tradition still remains the strongest medium of transmission’ (RAD 2005, 3). Or, perhaps, ‘dance accompaniment is an art that seems to defy verbalization and systematization’ (Cavalli 2001, xv). Either way, this study aims to contribute to the understanding of communication and collaboration in a ballet class, and the factors that facilitate or inhibit effective relationships. Despite its relatively small size, the extant literature on playing piano for dance contains some important research that seeks to document, describe, and analyse the profession. It includes monographs (Sawyer 1985; Teck 1990; Cavalli 2001) and dissertations (Jacklich 1980; Knosp 1988; Wong 2011) alongside handbooks (Lishka 1979) and anthologies (RAD 2005) that examine the details of professional practice. Journals such as the Journal of the International Guild of Musicians in Dance (1991–2007) contain opinion pieces and interviews with dance musicians and provide insight into the work of the pianist in a ballet class (Kaplan 1991; Moulton 1991). In addition, practice is disseminated through training programmes for dance musicians, including the Master of Music in Dance Accompaniment at the University of Arizona, USA, and the Master of Music in Piano for Dance at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland, UK.

A gap in the research concerns the ways in which dance instructor and dance accompanist ‘make sense’ of their collaboration. This study is an attempt to unearth some of the tacit, unconscious, and embodied aspects of that relationship. It seeks to show how specific approaches to physical, visual, and aural communication enhance or inhibit the success of a ballet class. The nature of this study is idiographic, focused on a single case. Therefore, it does not claim generalisability. Instead, it provides insight into specific perceptions and understandings that are transferable to dance musicians and dance teachers engaged in continuing professional development.

The methodology: Interpretative Phenomenological Analysis (IPA)

IPA emerged in the UK during the mid-1990s as an approach to qualitative research in the field of psychology (Smith, Flowers, and Larkin 2009). IPA makes an in-depth investigation of a subjective experience of a specific phenomenon. It allows for the uniqueness of the individual’s account and requires the researcher to make their own interpretation of it. IPA is founded on three philosophical traditions: phenomenology, the study of experience; hermeneutics, the process of interpretation; and idiography, the study of the particular. It is an inductive approach based on observation, not hypothesis (Smith 2004, 43). It is ‘empathic and questioning, and the simple word “understanding” captures this neatly’ (Smith, Flowers, and Larkin 2009, 36). Empathy and inquiry are also attributes of my work as a dance musician. I seek to ‘see what it is like from the [dance teacher’s] view, and stand in their shoes’ (36). I want to ‘take a look at [the ballet class] from a different angle, ask questions and puzzle over things’ (36). I see an excellent fit between the thing I am studying and the methodology I am studying it with.

The researcher: a ballet pianist

I am a fulltime teacher of acting and musical theatre at a university conservatoire. I am also a pianist, composer, and qualified teacher of Dalcroze Eurhythmics, a movement-based approach to music education (Anderson 2011). My experience as a freelance dance musician includes playing for ballet conservatoire training programmes, higher education dance degrees, and adult open classes. As a researcher, I acknowledge the experiential and theoretical bias presented by my artistic and educational work with actors, singers, dancers, actor-musicians, instrumentalists, directors, and choreographers. However, as the literature on qualitative research warns, ‘it may be naïve for us to argue that researchers can be theory free. Everyone has theories. They are the explanations people develop to help them make connections among events’ (Seidman 2006, 37). My own lived experience provides pedagogical and theatrical lenses through which to view my work as a dance musician and the work of my dance teacher colleagues. Without my position in the field, the motivation for this study may not have emerged:

The researcher is part of the case and the origin of the intervention. However, the researcher’s role is declared and the reader can readily glean the significance and appropriateness of both. (Moore 2014, 135)

The participant: a ballet teacher

As part of the ethical consent process, the participant formally waived the right to anonymity and agreed to be identified in this study. Kasper Cornish is a former dancer who teaches ballet in Cambridge and London. He is also a musician and composer who writes modern, tonal, classical music for ensembles and soloists. To date, he has published scores and recordings of seven volumes of music for ballet class: five for solo piano (Cornish 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2021); one for string quartet (Cornish 2018); and one for piano duet (Cornish 2019). In 2015, I began playing for weekly ballet classes taught by Kasper. In view of our intersecting interests in music and movement, it was serendipitous to work together. I could see potential for a piece of research that captured ‘rich descriptive accounts of the phenomenon under investigation’ (Pietkiewicz and Smith 2012, 365), namely, teaching ballet with a piano accompanist. The value of documenting Kasper’s particular experience is his unique combination of skills and knowledge as a dancer-teacher and musician-composer.

Method

A single case

Initial planning for this study included the intention to interview a sample of three ballet teachers, chosen specifically for their work with me as their ballet pianist. However, Smith states that, ‘it is possible to push the idiographic logic further and conduct an IPA analysis on a single case and I think such work is important in clearly marking a place for the significant contribution of the case in its own right’ (Smith 2004, 42). Bent Flyvbjerg asserts that experts acquire their expertise through contact with thousands of single cases (Flyvbjerg 2006, 219). Each case study presents concrete experiences within a real-world context. Without ‘context-based’ knowledge, learners remain ‘beginners’ (222). For example, a dance student who follows a written training manual and never attends a class will be limited to a ‘rule-based’ knowledge of ballet: ‘To make rule-based knowledge the highest goal of learning is regressive. There is a need for both approaches’ (223). In arts education, a single case study is an opportunity to view expertise in context, and each single case contributes to a body of specialist understanding within a creative practice.

Data collection

In 2017, Kasper agreed to be interviewed about his experience with dance musicians in his ballet classes. He was also prepared to speak about his specific experience of working with me as his ballet pianist. The interview was conducted mid-morning on Friday 10 March 2017 in a meeting room at the University of Surrey in Guildford, UK. The time and location were mutually convenient. The interview lasted 79 minutes, and was recorded as digital audio. Prior to the interview, I prepared a schedule of semi-structured interview prompts, using the approach to qualitative interviews outlined by Kvale and Brinkmann (Kvale and Brinkmann 2009, 134). As the interview progressed, I took written notes of key words and shaped follow-up questions.

Data analysis

I transcribed the audio recording and offered Kasper the opportunity to re-word, redact, or omit anything that he wished. We agreed on a final version of the interview transcript with which my analysis could be made. I began the iterative process of text analysis using the ‘heuristic framework’ outlined in Smith, Flowers, and Larkin (Smith, Flowers, and Larkin 2009, 79–107). Early iterations revealed approximately sixteen emergent patterns of interest to me. Quotes of relevance were highlighted, and initial notes captured significant events and descriptive terms. Mid-way through the process, I read the transcript in a non-sequential way, deconstructed it, and searched for uses of specific words. As phenomenology ‘directs the gaze’ to ‘where meaning originates’ (van Manen 2007, 12), each subsequent iteration focused on a particular aspect of the data. I grouped highlighted extracts into tables and made manual annotations. Connections emerged and I clustered minor themes under broader umbrellas. Finally, higher-order themes and sub-themes were arranged in a master list.

Validity

Lucy Yardley proposes four criteria for demonstrating validity in qualitative research, ‘to help researchers to reflect on and justify the methods they use’: sensitivity to the data, commitment and rigour, transparency, and importance (Yardley 2017, 296). This study is sensitive to the data in its purposive selection of a participant; active engagement of the researcher; a process of sense-making which relies on the data; high frequency of quotes from the transcript; assertions drawn directly from the analysis; and literature references in direct response to the analysis. This study shows commitment and rigor as it contains a data-rich interview; detailed attention to its transcription and in-depth analysis; connections between quotations and contentions; and consistent delving and extricating. This study is transparent in its precise explanation of the research process from selection of the participant to the interview schedule to the analytical stages; logical layout of themes acknowledging uncertainty and discrepancy; a suitable method for the aim; a richly practical context; and a focus on the thing being experienced. This study aspires to importance by telling the reader ‘something interesting, important or useful’ (Smith, Flowers, and Larkin 2009, 183). The account, analysis, and interpretation given are presented as ‘credible’ ones, but I do not declare them to be ‘the only credible’ ones (183).

Results and discussion

The results offer insight into specific perceptions and understandings arising from the interview. Three higher-order themes (labelled 1, 2, and 3) were revealed:

1. ‘The cycle of creativity’ describes the relationship between the teacher, the musician, and the students.

2. ‘A tonic sense in the body’ describes the nature of the musical support provided to the dancers by the pianist’s music.

3. ‘The ideal situation’ describes the impact of the musician’s kinesthetic, visual, and aural focus.

Two subordinate themes (labelled A and B) were also found. They facilitate and inhibit effective relationships in a ballet class:

• A. ‘There’s no home’ describes Kasper’s physiological response to the use of percussion in a ballet class.

• B. ‘There’s no relationship’ describes Kasper’s experience of teaching with recorded music.

For each theme, I first describe the result followed by discussion of key quotes from the interview.

1. ‘The cycle of creativity’: a trialogic relationship

The first higher-order theme emerged from Kasper’s self-reflexive account of his experience of a successful relationship between a dance teacher and a dance musician. He refers to it as ‘the circle’ or ‘the cycle of creativity’, and includes the dance student within this ‘cycle’, forming a trialogic relationship. ‘The cycle of creativity’ begins with Kasper setting a ballet exercise for the class; he expresses this as putting a question to the room:

Kasper: I [the teacher] like posing a question. Here’s the question, and there are several answers going to come out of this. Your [the musician’s] answer to that question. Their [the students’] answer to that question.

The words ‘question’ and ‘answer’ imply that discourse or exchange is taking place. This is not only the discourse of language and listening, but of language, gesture, listening, looking, music, and movement. Kasper illustrates the variety of possible ‘answers’ that his ‘question’ might elicit from me as the dance musician playing for his class:

Kasper: [It] is informed immediately by your [the musician’s] introduction which says, ‘Ooh’, or ‘Okay?’ (laughs) ‘It’s that. It’s Germanic, and very even and, you know, square’. Or it’s, ‘Ooh, it’s suddenly, you know, New Orleans!’

Kasper’s aural encounter with one of several possible musical styles (‘Germanic’, ‘New Orleans’, etc.) seems like the experience of receiving an unexpected gift. The utterances ‘ooh’ and ‘okay?’ characterise his curiosity or incredulity on receiving my music for his exercise. It may even provoke laughter. Next, the students respond to this unexpected gift:

Kasper: They [the students] might get excited by that because, ‘Ooh, that was a bit jazzy that one, wasn’t it? Was not what we were expecting. We were expecting kind of a dry frappé. And it all suddenly went a little bit, ooh, syncopated or something’. And then to, ‘Ooh, well let’s, let’s try that out’.

Kasper represents the imagined thoughts of the students. His use of multiple voices (‘we’) illustrates his awareness of the dancers trying to make sense of their experience of the pianist’s music. No single student voice offers a precise description of what has been heard: ‘a bit’, ‘kind of’, ‘a little bit’, ‘or something’. This provides insight into Kasper’s perception of the musician’s role in ‘the cycle of creativity’: the music that is played is an interpretation of Kasper’s question and it invites the students’ response. Finally, Kasper perceives the impact of the musician’s choices in the bodies of the students. He describes his experience of watching the ‘question’ and its ‘answers’ being passed around the room:

Kasper: You’ve [the musician] decided to play that [music] because I’ve [the teacher] set something at that speed with some sort of indication as to the quality. [] I can see the body language and the experience of the participants [the students] change. [] I like that surprise. And I think the participants do as well.

This describes the finale of ‘the cycle of creativity’: the teacher analyses the students’ physical interpretation of the pianist’s musical interpretation of the teacher’s exercise. Based on this description, I contend that all traditional ballet classes contain a triple ‘hermeneutic circle’ (Smith, Flowers, and Larkin 2009, 27–28): the teacher makes sense of the students making sense of the musician making sense of the teacher’s exercise.

Figure 1. Extrinsic relationships in ‘the cycle of creativity’.

Discussion

The Cycle of Creativity. The pedagogical literature on trialogical learning asserts that ‘interaction between people does not happen only through words and concepts and by communicating and changing ideas (like in dialogues) but through developing shared “objects” (artifacts and practices)’ (Paavola and Hakkarainen 2014, 53). Viewing a ballet class in this way, each dance step learned, developed, and perfected is a ‘shared artifact’, and the sequencing and shaping of steps into phrases, sections, and whole dances is an example of a ‘shared practice’.

Posing a Question. Kasper welcomes musical interpretation of each ballet exercise, evidenced in his willingness to accept ‘several answers’ to his question. Stephen Wangh, in his discussion of actor training, observes that ‘exactly how the teacher asks [a question] can make all the difference between promoting creative inquiry and shutting it down’ (Wangh 2013, 17). Kasper invites the dance musician to make a valued contribution: ‘I don’t know what era you’re going to play’, ‘I like that experience’, ‘I like that surprise’.

This first theme draws attention to the extrinsic relationships in a ballet class: the teacher communicates the exercise to the student; the musician and teacher agree on the tempo and quality; and the student and musician match their music and movement (see Figure 1). But what of the intrinsic relationships, the unspoken communications and collaborations that rely on tacit and embodied knowledge of music and movement? The second higher-order theme brings ‘the cycle of creativity’ to a close, and leads the ballet student ‘home’ to ‘a tonic sense in the body’.

2. ‘A tonic sense in the body’: a physiological, psychological and musical ‘home’

The second higher-order theme describes Kasper’s experience of a physiological, psychological, and musical ‘home’. He uses the word ‘home’ to characterise the artistically satisfying conclusion to the technical and expressive journey of a ballet exercise:

Kasper: So, if there is a home, in terms of a physiological home, as well as of a musical home, a tonic key, a tonic sense in the body, then when you get there, you feel a sense of relaxation and completion, physically, physiologically. There’s a sense of ‘the job is done’ and ‘we’ve finished’ and we’ve … ‘Dah-dah!’

I note the phrase ‘a tonic sense in the body’. Kasper uses the word ‘tonic’ in two different ways: to refer to the harmonies of music, and to refer to the muscles of the body. This link between aural and kinesthetic experiences appears several times during the interview. Kasper uses the phrase ‘coming home’ to describe the sensation at the end of an exercise. First, he distinguishes between two types of ‘home’, the psychological and the physiological:

Kasper: Psychological is the understanding, the conscious ‘we’re nearly home’, or ‘we’re landing on that beat, and you know we need to do something before to get there on time’. The physiological, I think, is the sense of conclusion in the muscle use.

This provides insight into Kasper’s own reflection on the process of ‘coming home’. He is aware of the dancers thinking ahead toward a ‘psychological home’ as well as the physical signals that are activated within the dancers’ bodies on the return to a ‘physiological home’. In summarising these two types of ‘home’, he adds a third, ‘musical home’: ‘The sensation [] of completion [] in the muscles synchronised with the music’.

Discussion

A Physiological ‘Home’. Kasper’s reference to ‘a tonic sense in the body’ is supported by the literature on human anatomy. ‘Tonic’ muscles are responsible for postural support and are engaged when the body is in a state of stillness. ‘Phasic’ muscles are responsible for dynamic movement and are engaged when the body is in motion (Gydikov and Kosarov 1973). As Emile Jaques-Dalcroze succinctly puts it, ‘after activity, human nature needs to rest’ (Jaques-Dalcroze 1917, 195) and ‘a tonic sense in the body’ describes the sensation of repose in a ‘physiological home’.

A Psychological ‘Home’. Joseph Campbell describes a pattern in storytelling that he calls the ‘monomyth’ (2004/1949). He identified it in world literature, religion, and ritual, and drew on the psychology of Carl Jung to explain it: The hero prepares for departure from home; the hero undergoes initiation in a new world of trials and tests; the hero succeeds in a great quest and returns home transformed (Campbell 2004, 45–236). I contend that Kasper’s descriptions of ‘preparation’ (departure), ‘journey’ (initiation), and ‘home’ (return) lend a mythic dimension to his experience of a ballet exercise. Metaphorical language includes:

Kasper: the answer to the question; the end of each episode; we’ve passed the finish line; anticipate and arrive; relaxation and completion; resolution and cadence; everything’s now switched off.

A Musical ‘Home’. Some rudiments of music theory will be useful for my analysis here. Melody in the Western classical tradition uses a scale of eight notes. Note number 1 is referred to as the ‘home’ note. All other notes sound and feel as though they are taking us on a journey ‘away’ from or around ‘home’. Our ear and body enjoy the sensation of ‘away’, but eventually they long for the melody to return ‘home’. Heinrich Schenker proposed that Western music has an archetypal ternary (three-part) structure: ABA. A = ‘home’, B = ‘away’, and the repetition of A = ‘return home’ (Forte and Gilbert 1982).

Harmony in the Western classical tradition builds vertical units of three or more tones on each scale note to create chords. Chord I = ‘home’. It is built on scale note 1 and is called the ‘tonic’. Why tonic? If music has the physical properties of the body’s muscles, chord I settles in a place of supported stillness and feels ‘at home’. Chord V = ‘away’. It is built on scale note 5 and is called the ‘dominant’. Why dominant? If music has the physical properties of gravity, the muscular energy required to oppose gravity exerts considerable force. Chord V’s energy dominates and pulls ‘away’ from ‘home’. The chord sequence V to I is known as a perfect cadence, and provides harmonic resolution.

The physiological, psychological, and musical ‘homes’ are powerfully ‘synchronised’ in Kasper’s experience of a ballet exercise. Research on musicality points to social synchronisation as the human ‘capacity to synchronize our musical behaviours with others’ (Fitch 2018, 37). Examples of social synchronisation in the general population include singing in unison or clapping in time with others. For the ballet pianist, synchronisation is a fundamental part of the job. But what is the social dimension? What skills are employed in order to connect, communicate, and collaborate? I will now focus on the sensory engagement of the dance musician which can, in ‘the ideal situation’, provide a form of musical empathy that facilitates learning.

3. ‘The ideal situation’: the musician’s sensory engagement

The third higher-order theme recounts Kasper’s perception of the pianist’s sensory engagement with the class. ‘The ideal situation’ occurs when the accompanist’s kinesthetic, visual, and aural awareness are activated before, during, and after a ballet exercise. Each of these modes of sensory awareness (kinesthetic, visual, and aural) are detailed and discussed below.

Kinesthetic awareness

During the interview, consideration of the kinesthetic aspect of the dance musician’s role emerged when Kasper asked me to describe what I think about while he is setting an exercise. My response makes explicit my contribution to ‘the cycle of creativity’ before the exercise begins:

Andrew: I’m listening and I’m looking. And I’m also sensing in my own body, kinesthetically, what it would be like to do [the exercise] in that combination of steps. [] The sensation of imagining myself doing it is what I’m looking at. [] Where is the weight? Where’s the balance? Where’s the flow through the phrase? Um, where are there accents? Where are there moments of sustain?

Discussion

Sensing in My Own Body. My experience of Kasper setting an exercise is a process of whole-body ‘listening’, ‘looking’, and ‘sensing’. Wangh asserts that a teacher who encounters students ‘with her [sic] whole being’ becomes ‘not just an observer, but a vicarious participant’ and ‘the sensation the student feels is mirrored within the teacher’s body and brain’ (Wangh 2013, 32–33). This ‘mirrored’ experience is supported by the neuroscientific literature: Mirror Neurons in the brain are engaged ‘when an individual executes a specific motor act and when they observe the same or similar act performed by another individual’ (Kilner and Lemon 2013, 1057). Music psychologist Eric Clarke goes further and contends that mirror neurons ‘may hold the key to understanding the evolutionary development of distinctively human culture – including language, art, and music’ (Clarke 2011, 63).

Imagining Myself Doing It. My phrase, ‘the sensation of imagining myself doing it’, implies an experience of kinesthetic empathy – the human capacity to feel a physical affinity with another person through the simple act of observing them moving (Reason and Reynolds 2010; Reynolds and Reason 2012; Kim 2015). Yee Sik Wong advises the dance musician ‘to assimilate and respond to the plethora of information from the body language and gestures of the ballet teacher’ (Wong 2011, 3). My account of observing ‘weight’, ‘balance’, ‘flow’, ‘phrase’, ‘accent’, and ‘sustain’ is supported by Harriett Cavalli who instructs the ballet pianist to notice ‘the flow, accents, and quality of the steps in a combination’, and to apprehend ‘phrases of movement, not individual steps’ (Cavalli 2001, 89).

Visual awareness

The visual aspect of the dance musician’s role during a ballet exercise is witnessed by Kasper as an active set of choices made by the pianist to engage in the work of the students:

Kasper: [Musicians] looking up at the dancers, bringing out accents, slowing down when [the dancers] need a little bit more time. [] The constant adjustment and analysis of ‘What’s the most appropriate thing right now?’ [] That’s the ideal situation. The musician constantly monitoring and analysing and adjusting and improving.

I note the active effort in the phrases ‘looking up’, ‘bringing out’, ‘slowing down’; the purposeful commitment of ‘constant’, ‘constantly’, ‘most appropriate’, and the discerning inquiry implied by ‘monitoring’, ‘analysing’, ‘adjusting’, and ‘improving’.

Figure 2. Intrinsic role of the musician in ‘the cycle of creativity’.

Discussion

Looking Up. Bringing Out. Slowing Down. Gerald Lishka supports this account with a pragmatic tip for the pianist ‘to keep his [sic] eyes on the dance class while playing’ and, in a more nuanced suggestion, to ‘separate himself [sic] from his own music and motor activity [] and divide his mental attention between himself and the dancers’ (Lishka 1979, 14). In a Dalcroze Eurhythmics class, piano improvisation is my fundamental teaching tool. The students move in response to musical instructions embedded in my playing, and I adjust my music to the students’ visible responses. For this reason, I have considerable experience of, as Lishka puts it, ‘devoting [my] attention to others while playing’ (14). Experience leads to expertise and ‘the mature dance accompanist accommodates the dancers almost instantly, and his [sic] playing reflects and enhances the quality of the dance movements’ (14).

What’s the Most Appropriate Thing Right Now? From the dancer’s perspective, the musician’s visual awareness contributes powerfully to each encounter in their non-verbal relationship. Katherine Teck quotes the experience of a dancer in a company warm-up:

I remember [the musician] did some Schubert Waltzes and he played the piano onstage. It was beautiful dancing to that because if he saw you were holding the balance for a little bit longer, he would hold the music too, and then wait until you were ready to start into the new phrase. (Holly Reeve quoted in Teck 1989, 154)

The words ‘if he saw you’ provide a glimpse into ‘the cycle of creativity’ between this particular dancer and this particular musician. He follows her with his focus and she hears him see her. My own experience of watching a group of dancers sometimes feels like following a conductor. For example, in an exercise where technical precision is required, such as a light jump, it is engaging to watch and match the collective elevation and landing. At other times, my experience feels like sight-reading an orchestral score. For example, in an exercise requiring expressive nuance, such as an adage, each dancer has an individual rubato within their phrasing, and I must read the whole room, as it were, to ensure that my playing accommodates everybody.

Monitoring, Analysing, Adjusting, Improving. Robert Kaplan asserts that ‘the study of dance technique is primarily visual’ (Kaplan 1991, 33). He reinforces Kasper’s account that the musician must ‘look at movement performed with rhythmic accuracy and proper phrasing’ (33, 37) and, as Elizabeth Sawyer writes, ‘learn by watching the dancers and comparing their varying degrees of success in achieving the teacher’s impeccable phrasing and timing’ (Sawyer 1985, 94). Lishka characterises the ballet pianist as ‘a very sensitive barometer which reflects and supports what the dancers are doing on the dance floor’ (Lishka 1979, 14). Monitoring the students’ execution of the teacher’s exercise is a challenging but achievable task. Improving the students’ execution of the exercise via the piano requires a far more sophisticated set of choices in the moment. These are outlined below.

Aural awareness

The aural aspect of the dance musician’s role goes beyond following the teacher’s instructions. Feedback is given to the students after an exercise, in a pause between sides, or following the decision to repeat an exercise. In ‘the ideal situation’ for Kasper, the musician listens with empathy to ‘the choice of words, and what you [the teacher] suggest in your body language’ (see Figure 2):

Kasper: ‘I want the arms to be very syrupy here’, and you [the teacher] close your eyes as you say ‘syrupy’ and [] sort of massage your hands as you say the word.

The accompanist has a significant role in interpreting this and applying it to their playing:

Kasper: I think you [Andrew] would play differently the second time, because I think you would be bothered to listen to what the teacher says. Then, ‘Oh, OK, that’s interesting, I wonder if this would support that a bit better? Maybe it’s less da-da-da-da, maybe it’s all luh-luh-luh-luh-luh’.

Echoing the ‘ooh’s and ‘okay’s uttered in response to my musical offerings within ‘the cycle of creativity’, Kasper now voices my thoughts as he imagines them in my response to his feedback. He then gives a detailed example of an experience in which he saw students improve because the musician’s playing incorporated the teacher’s feedback:

Kasper: Microscopic changes that you [Andrew] might make are similar in terms of the millimetres of difference, you know, in the height of the shoulder that the description that the teacher’s maybe said, ‘I want it to be more … ’, and then they’ve described how they want it to be more and what they want it to be more.

Discussion

Be Bothered to Listen to What the Teacher Says. Sawyer reminds us that ‘hearing lets us participate’ (Sawyer 1985, 16). In the liminal space between the exercise as it was played out and the exercise as it might be played out, ‘a pianist can make or break a class’ (RAD 2005, 9). Traditionally, the dance teacher’s voice is the only voice heard in a ballet class. The dance musician’s silence, far from signifying indifference, is a form of active listening, ‘attentive and alert to the dialogue and to the corrections’ (Lishka 1979, 3). ‘The sensitive ballet pianist pays attention to the terms used by the ballet teacher and, when necessary, learns to “translate” those terms into specific musical characteristics’ (Wong 2011, 91).

I Wonder If This Would Support That a Bit Better? Philosopher, Gemma Fiumara suggests that listening is ‘a capacity that has gradually been lost in the noisy inflation of discourse’ (Fiumara 1990, 9). The ‘noise’ I hear in a ballet studio is the students’ unspoken thoughts; their anxieties, achievements, frustrations, and pains. As a music educator, if I expect dance students to increase their sensitivity to music, then I must lead by example and listen with empathy to the room. Listening, as Fiumara puts it, ‘is characterized by the requirement that we dwell with, abide by, whatever we try to know; that we aim at coexistence-with, rather than knowledge-of’ (15). As a dance musician and researcher, my work has taught me to ‘dwell’, ‘abide’, and ‘coexist with’ my silent partners in ‘the cycle of creativity’.

Having detailed the three higher-order themes, I now turn to two subordinate themes (labelled A and B) that sit in relation to them: the impact of unpitched percussion and recorded music. As above, I present a description of the results followed by a discussion of key quotes.

A. ‘There’s no home’: the experience of percussion

This subordinate theme emerged in opposition to ‘a tonic sense in the body’. I asked Kasper to describe a situation in which he taught alongside a percussionist in a ballet class. He expressed his dissatisfaction with the physiological response to unpitched percussion in the phrase, ‘there’s no home’. He makes the following observations:

Kasper: A rhythm which can be infectious and extraordinarily engaging and have everybody wanting to tap their feet and move and, “Oh, this is just so great!” [] It’s linear, so it has no beginning, no end, it’s not necessarily building to a … orgasm.

I note Kasper’s use of the word ‘linear’. As discussed earlier, for Kasper, the journey ‘home’ requires a ‘circle’ or ‘cycle’, not a straight line. It requires ‘return’, not perpetual forward motion. He compares two musical sensations that make sense of ‘home’ and ‘no home’:

Kasper: For me, melody has structure and it has [] a sense of where home is [] and, for me, rhythm, drumming doesn’t. [] There’s no home with rhythm.

For Kasper, melody accompanies the dancer ‘home’ because it offers musical sense-making on ‘the road back’ (Campbell 2004, 306). Similarly, for Kasper, unpitched percussion does not provide melodic contour or harmonic gravity, and does not support ‘a tonic sense in the body’:

Kasper: Percussion has a very different physiological response than melody and phrasing [] and chord progression and resolution and cadence. [] So, when we would get to the end of an exercise, a ballet exercise, we weren’t arriving back home [] to the tonic key, or whatever you know.

Discussion

Melody has Structure. Victor Zuckerkandl’s phenomenological approach to musical analysis declares that ‘a melody is a series of tones that makes sense’ (Zuckerkandl 1956, 15). The ‘sense-making’ of Western classical music has produced as many cultural customs as classical ballet. Just as choreographed dance steps form a coherent physical statement, a well-made melody moves toward a convincing cadence. Pianist, Simon Frosi asserts that ‘the antecedent and the consequent phrase’ in ballet music provide the dancer with a sense of ‘tonal fulfilment’ (Frosi 2011, 8). Kasper’s ‘posing a question’ and ‘journey home’ are supported by these musical conventions. But, for Kasper, an unpitched instrument does not offer question and answer phrases and is therefore unable to provide tonal fulfilment.

Percussion is Linear. Kyoko Murakami examines what she calls the ‘lost lyricism’ of the ballet class in the early twentieth century (Murakami 2005). As the use of violin gave way to the piano, published scores for ballet class were adapted. In the process, they ‘lost’ two significant musical features: the anacrusis and the fermata (156–157). A musical anacrusis (the Greek word for ‘up strike’ or ‘back strike’) supports the preparatory movement of a dancer. A musical crusis (the ‘strike’ or ‘push’) supports the peak of the movement or its point of arrival. A musical metacrusis (the ‘after strike’ or ‘beyond the strike’) supports the aftermath or wake of the movement. Murakami shows that anacruses that appeared in the original violin scores were ‘lost’ from the later piano editions (153). Similarly, a fermata (Italian for ‘pause’) was used to ‘break up the even pulse in music [and give] the music a chance to follow the movement’ (153). Fermatas marked in early editions are absent from the more recent ones (156). Over time, the sustained string lines heard in a ballet class were eclipsed by the orchestral textures of the piano. Murakami’s lament for the anacrusis is not mere aesthetic intransigence or nostalgia. In parallel with Kasper’s kinaesthetic yearning for a melodic and harmonic goal, Murakami expresses the loss of something visceral that once provided a subtle yet vital nuance to the connection between music and movement.

A Very Different Physiological Response. To my knowledge, there has been no empirical study of the physiological impact of pitched versus unpitched music on a dancer’s bodily experience. However, classical ballet’s origins in the Renaissance associate it with the rediscovery of Ancient Greece. Each musical instrument in antiquity assumed the behavioural qualities of a particular Greek god. Kasper’s uneasy relationship with unpitched percussion in a ballet class may be understood through Jennifer Homans’ mythological explanation:

Apollo [] is the god of civilization and healing, prophecy and music – not the noisy pipes and percussion of Pan and Dionysus, but the soothing and harmonious strains of the lyre, which set men’s [sic] minds at ease. (Homans 2013, 4)

If classical ballet aspired to ‘civilise’ and ‘heal’, it is no surprise that classical music was recruited to pave the way: classical form demands that both music and dance provide a ‘soothing’ resolution and a sense of ‘ease’. As Cavalli puts it, ‘Can you imagine an adage done to the beat of a drum?’ (Cavalli 2001, 6). Outside the domain of classical ballet, there is ample evidence to support the successful use of untuned percussion in modern and contemporary dance. Just as modern dance broke with classical conventions in the early twentieth century, so did modern music:

Accompaniment for the modern dance is in a state of flux. A new music is being evolved to fit the structure of dances independently conceived. For the first time in the occidental history of the dance, an art form is being developed based upon techniques and aesthetic principles different from those of classical ballet. (Hellebrandt 1937, 290)

Yet, for Kasper, in his specific, pedagogical context, ‘I think I’m programmed to create exercises which fit a classical ballet format [and] I know it doesn’t work with drums.’

B. ‘There’s no relationship’: the experience of recorded music

This subordinate theme sits in opposition to ‘the cycle of creativity’. Kasper’s experience with recorded music in a ballet class unfolds as a comic narrative:

Kasper: ‘What about a jazz waltz?’ ‘Oh, I’ve got a jazz waltz somewhere’, and then three minutes later you’re looking through your iPod going, ‘Where is this? I’m sure that one of these … ’ And then you play the beginning of about seven tracks, ‘No, it’s not that one, it’s not that one, it’s not that one’, and I think that, then, everybody in the class switches off. [] It’s too long waiting for the information.

Kasper senses a loss of time (‘three minutes later’) and the students’ dwindling goodwill (‘too long waiting’). He seems caught in a loop of multiple false starts (‘about seven tracks’) and cumulative errors (‘it’s not that one’).

Discussion

The Class Switches Off. In describing ‘a tonic sense in the body’, Kasper used the phrase ‘switched off’ to refer to ‘relaxation and completion’. Here, ‘the class switches off’ expresses a sudden loss of focus which impacts on ‘everybody’. For Kasper, ‘there’s no relationship’ and ‘no cycle of creativity’ with recorded music:

Kasper: It’s not even on the scale of, of what it’s like to work with a live musician. Not even close. But it’s a satisfactory, s- second (laughs).

He does accept the possibility that recorded music can offer a ‘very limiting’ journey toward ‘a physiological home’. He adds that this is preferable to ‘a musician who’s phoning it in’. This is not the forum to criticise the shortcomings of dispassionate dance accompanists, but I can encapsulate them with Kasper’s revealing experience, ‘Some people read the newspaper. [] You have to kind of wave a bit, ‘cos they’re doing something else and on auto pilot’.

It’s a Satisfactory Second. The literature makes occasional reference to recorded music in a ballet class. Lishka supports Kasper’s account on two points. In relation to ‘the cycle of creativity’, recorded music ‘imposes severe limitations on the creative capabilities and spontaneity of the instructor’ due to a fixed and inflexible tempo which ‘greatly diminishes the possibilities’ (Lishka 1979, 2). In relation to ‘the ideal situation’, Lishka describes a scenario similar to Kasper’s, which ‘unquestionably disrupt[s] the flow, momentum, and spontaneity’:

After teaching a particular dance combination to a class, the instructor must then grope and fumble for a suitable and appropriate musical selection [] which not only consumes a great deal of time but is highly disruptive to a continuous train of thought. (Lishka 1979, 2)

William Moulton describes the use of recorded music as ‘a sad kind of “classical disco” [] with an empty emotive impulse’:

The greatest reason [for a live pianist] is the intangible inspiration of live music. This is something few outside the dance studio realize – the incredible dynamic, movement-inspiring impulse that is missing in a recording. (Moulton 1991, 25)

He makes a case for ‘the speed, ease and flexibility it allows a teacher in a dance class’ (25). This supports the flow of time in ‘the ideal situation’. He adds, ‘They can change directions of the class, change tempos and length of exercises as well as the style of music, its quality, or dynamics’ (25) which supports ‘the cycle of creativity’.

Conclusion

The purpose of this study was to better understand the working relationship between a dance musician and a dance teacher in a ballet class. The interview with Kasper Cornish, an expert ballet-teacher, elicited his experience of teaching alongside dance musicians, including his specific experience of working with the researcher as his ballet pianist. The data was analysed using IPA, in which the interpretations of participant and researcher were taken into account. The results yielded three higher-order themes and two subordinate themes.

Three higher-order themes

1. A cyclical process of creative sense-making was experienced as the teacher set the physical exercise, the pianist translated this into a musical accompaniment, the dancers assimilated both into a performance, and the teacher perceived an integrated result (‘the cycle of creativity’).

2. A sense of technical and artistic satisfaction was experience when the exercise synchronised and concluded with three different kinds of 'home': physiological, psychological, and musical ('a tonic sense in the body').

3. A commitment from the musician's whole self was experienced when engaged with three key senses: kinesthetic imagination while the exercise was set; visual monitoring as the exercise proceeded; and listening to verbal feedback following the exercise ('the ideal situation').

Two subordinate themes

1. Unpitched percussion, compared to melody and harmony, elicited a dissatisfying experience with the physiological sense of ‘home’ (‘there’s no home’).

2. Recorded music substituted for a disengaged musician, but its fixed parameters evoked a sense of loss for ‘the cycle of creativity’ (‘there’s no relationship’).

The idiographic nature of the study does not make a claim for generalisability. It provides insight into specific perceptions and understandings that are transferable to dance teachers and dance musicians engaged in continuing professional development.

I close with practical advice from dance musician Harriet Cavalli, which supports my own experience. She makes explicit the positive, professional impact of a successful working relationship, one that I have been fortunate enough to cultivate with Kasper:

The relationship between teacher and accompanist is very special. It is much more intimate than a normal employer-employee relationship, and it cannot grow and thrive without mutual respect. [] This collaboration manifests itself not necessarily in protracted discussions of musical selections during class, but by a meeting of the minds that has been established usually outside of class by working on problem areas and defining common goals. (Cavalli 2001, 52, 54)

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Kasper Cornish for his collegiality and friendship, and his generous and enthusiastic participation in this study. This article is based on a paper given at the Third International Conference of Dalcroze Studies (ICDS) at Laval University, Quebec City, Canada in July 2017. The ethics process was generously facilitated by Associate Professor Jane Southcott at Monash University, Melbourne, Australia.

Disclosure statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).

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Andrew Davidson

Andrew Davidson is an Australian theatre practitioner and musician with specialisms in actor training and music education. He is a Teaching Fellow in Acting & Musical Theatre at Guildford School of Acting (GSA), University of Surrey, UK. Andrew is a directing graduate of the National Institute of Dramatic Art (NIDA), Sydney, and a music graduate of Longy School of Music, Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA. As a piano accompanist, Andrew has played for ballet and contemporary dance classes at Central School of Ballet (CSB) and The Place, London. He is a member of the International Guild of Musicians in Dance (IGMID).