On the Other Side

Perhaps no obligation required of music school students is more daunting than that of the jury. A relatively brief, but seemingly interminable end-of-year examination, the prospect of undergoing this necessary evil entails a multitude of potentially unpleasant experiences: countless hours of tedious practicing, the anxiety-ridden night before, the veritable “march to the scaffold” when your name is called, and at long last, the jury itself, performing under the blinding lights of a recital hall while subject to the unyielding scrutiny of the faculty. Worst of all is the fear of failure, the knowledge that if this doesn’t go well, the prospects of your continued enrollment will be placed in jeopardy, with what seems to be your entire career hanging in the balance. Here, more so than anywhere else, you don’t want to make a mistake.

Of course, to think of a jury in such a way will only do you more harm than help–the faculty are not going to kick you out if you get nervous and botch a couple of shifts, and as long as you’ve been practicing diligently, there’s really nothing to worry about. Nonetheless, a perception of the jury as a sort of life event seems to take hold in the minds of music students across the country as the big day approaches, quickly becoming a source of dread and anxiety. Having spent the last half decade (my goodness, I’ve been in school too long) as a music student at two different conservatories, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to witness (and often, experience) the manifestations of such anxiety. The days leading up to jury week find the practice rooms packed with students, all feverishly working away at their concerti, Bach, and etudes, only stopping to run down to the local coffeehouse to procure an energy-inducing drink to sustain them for the next practice session. Students gather in groups to hold “mock” juries, attempting to visualize themselves at the actual exam, and record themselves ad nauseum, listening intently for every potential flaw. Then jury week arrives, and an unnatural hush falls over the school. Students walk about in their concert dress, perhaps clutching bananas or a bottle of beta-blockers, exuding a sense of unflappable determination. Afterwards, they converge in gaggling groups, rejoicing in their successes and bemoaning their failures.

“Oh my gosh, they asked for the fifth page of my concerto and I’d barely practiced it…and then my pianist got off, what a nightmare….”

“I so nailed my octaves! I’ll bet my teacher is so proud!”

“I had a memory slip in my Bach, do you think that will count against me?”

Then, the comment sheets are returned, students are reassured by their teachers that they are indeed cleared to come back in the Fall (“It was out of tune, Melinda, but we still passed you….”) and life at last returns to normal….that is, until finals week.

Such was the norm for each of the jury weeks I experienced during my undergraduate years, and as a first year graduate student at Eastman, there was little difference. I spent long nights practicing my repertoire, played practice juries for anyone who would listen, and allowed adequate time for rest and relaxation in the days leading up to my appointed jury time. For me, the most unpleasant part of the experience is not the actual act of taking the jury, but the hours immediately preceding it. The night before is always a drag–(I just want to get it over with! you think to yourself over and over again)–and the morning of is one of nervousness and apprehension. Having developed a personal “warm-up” routine as a result of the many similar experiences I’ve had in recent years, I was careful not to practice too much, and tried to take my mind off the task at hand, watching a little TV and repeatedly browsing my Facebook newsfeed. As the hour drew nearer, however, not even CNN or the latest updates from my favorite “cause” pages could distract me from my imminent appearance before several members of the Eastman faculty, and so I returned my focus to my cello, concentrating solely on the music I was about to perform. I assured myself that I was ready, and left for school with confidence, knowing that even if I had a bad day, I could deal with the consequences.

Ultimately, the jury went fine (or as fine as it could have been, considering I was offering the entire Dvorak concerto as part of my program), but I admit that it was still difficult for me to fully relinquish the daunting perception of the situation that seemed to be engrained in my subconscious. The faculty were all very friendly, which certainly put me at ease, but the mere knowledge that they were judging me caused me to focus in a different way than I would have if I had been in an alternative performance situation. Some people seem to thrive under such circumstances, but I’ve always been more comfortable presenting a solo recital than taking a jury. With a recital, you’re simply sharing music that you’re passionate about; in a jury, there’s an uneasy lacking of musical satisfaction as you’re asked to skip around to various sections of your repertoire. The very fact that it’s called a jury only re-enforces this perception of being scrutinized for flaws; it’s as if you’re guilty until proven innocent, forced to demonstrate your adequate preparedness. The final “thank you” from the faculty came with immense relief, and I eagerly left the room, elated to have the requirement over and done with.

However, I came to view the experience from a different perspective the next week when I had the opportunity to sit on the other side of the judges’ table. As part of my financial aid stipulations at Eastman, I teach a few students from the University of Rochester who have enrolled for secondary cello study, and they are required to sit for juries just like I am. Thus, I had the unique experience of preparing them as a teacher while I was simultaneously preparing for my own jury performance as a student. As I helped them get their repertoire in shape, we sometimes discussed concerns similar to those I had experienced myself: whether a certain piece was ready, how strict the standards were, or simply what the experience would be like. I assured my students that they had all worked hard, that they had nothing to worry about as long they were prepared, and that even if things went badly, it wouldn’t be the end of the world; the sun would still rise the next morning (“And if it doesn’t,” I would joke, “I can assure you that nobody will care what happened in the jury!”). Most importantly, I took care to emphasize the extraordinary low-risk nature of the situation. It’s not as if they were being instructed to perform open-heart surgery or something; this was a very safe activity, and in fact a privilege to undergo. Just think of all the people in the world who live in poverty, I would tell my students. They would relish the opportunity to go to the dentist, let alone having the means to take music lessons and sit for a jury. You have to keep that perspective.

Whether my students were thinking about poverty-stricken individuals before they came into the room, I’m not sure, but I do know that I was probably more on edge than they were as they sat down and gave their respective jury performances. After working with a person for an entire year, encouraging them, and doing everything you can to help them succeed, you really want to see them do well in this type of situation–you want them to nail that difficult shift that they’ve struggled with, to bring off that long, over-arching phrase with exquisite expression and musicality, or to execute that technical passage with accuracy and precision. It was quite interesting for me to experience that perspective after recently enduring my own jury, because it caused me to realize that the faculty want nothing more than for you to do your absolute best. They don’t want to watch someone succumb to nerves and present a subpar performance, or play badly due to a lack of personal confidence. They simply want to hear you make music, and give you insightful comments that will help you to do it even better.

Perhaps the most interesting part of being on the “other side” was that I could fully commiserate with my students’ emotions. I knew how they felt waiting outside the door; I knew they wanted to see me give them a nod of encouragement as they walked into the room, a reassurance that I supported them and had their back. I knew that they might have been distracted after they missed a minor shift, or had a brief finger fumble. And most of all, I knew how uncomfortable and stressful they thought it was, and I agree–juries really are one of those “necessary evils,” right up there with flossing and filing your tax return. But if those of us involved, whether we be participating as a student or a teacher, don’t forget what it’s really supposed to be–a privileged opportunity to demonstrate one’s musical abilities–then the unpleasantness of the activity diminishes significantly. For when it comes down to it, all you’re really doing in a jury is making music–and whether that takes place in a small practice room, the stage of Carnegie Hall, or a roomy classroom serving as a jury venue, it’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of. And that’s my final verdict.