I came back early from winter break to play in Saint-Saëns' Carnival of the Animals, only to be greeted by childhood memories of wearing headgear and dancing in the back row with the nose pickers of Miss Bonnie's School of Dance. The participants of ChamberFest were given a schedule for their first day with three sessions titled "Turning Discomfort Into Inquiry" on the agenda -- in a dance studio, of all places. If Bärli Nugent hadn't been there with her soft-spoken, maternal coaxing, I would have fled to the safety of my apartment with a cup of tea and a good read.

ChamberFest participants (left to right) Jessica Wyatt, Vicky Chow, Jared Snyder, and Matt Way construct a dance in Liz Lerman's workshop. Photo by Lisa Yelon

The unusual invitation for a dancer/choreographer to work with Juilliard chamber musicians came from Ms. Nugent, director of chamber music. She said she asked Liz Lerman -- artistic director of the Liz Lerman Dance Exchange and recipient of a 2002 MacArthur Foundation grant for her visionary work in building dance communities -- to come to ChamberFest "because her work reflects a profound awareness of the joy and pain of small-group interaction. As a dancer and choreographer, her work culture is based predominantly on group interaction. For musicians, in contrast, our work culture has been based primarily on the solitude of the practice room."

She added that, as a Juilliard student years ago, she envied the richness of the group focus of the dancers' daily work. "Performing as a chamber musician for 20 years, I reveled in the community of my own ensemble," she added. "And now, as an administrator, I see student chamber groups struggling to find ways to enlarge their individually oriented focus into a group dynamic that works for them. I was certain Liz's work would offer them tools to achieve this."

That first morning, Liz (assisted by Peter DiMuro, her company's associate artistic director) started out by instructing the group of 20 people to move around the dance studio (without bumping into anyone) and to listen for commands of "freeze," "go faster," or "go slower." Then she put everyone into pairs; one person would close his or her eyes while the other led him or her around the dance studio. My partner suggested I be the one led around the room first. I closed my eyes and tried to allow her to lead me by the shoulders at a fast pace, but I couldn't do it without squinting or worrying I was going to run into someone else. I would later find this reaction in my playing.

After the first attempt, Liz stopped us for discussion: How did the "leaders" feel and how the "blind" feel? I was curious to hear what everyone had to say and relieved to know that others felt as I had. One statement really sank in: "It was hard for me to trust the person who led me around, but after awhile, I just let go."

I have heard this "command" throughout my time at Juilliard -- but what does it mean? It's like telling my parents in Kentucky, when I first moved to New York: "Just let go, guys; the subways are really safe." They still think it's best to be in my apartment before sundown and this is my fifth year here!

"Just let go." I've heard this "command" all through my time here at Juilliard, but what does it really mean?

For the next exercise, we were still in pairs, but this time there was a dovetailing aspect. The leaders could leave the blind anywhere in the dance studio, and the blind could either wait there for another leader or open their eyes and begin to lead someone else who had been dropped off. It was during this exercise that I started to understand this metaphor we had been dancing -- in my chamber music group, the Colando Woodwind Quintet, I had to switch roles constantly without always using my eyes to see what was going to happen. Now, I tried to sense when my leader was about to stop and kept a rhythm going while I opened my eyes and tried to find someone to lead. With more discussion, we realized we were sensitive to each leader; some led by the hand, some by the shoulders or back. Each leader was different, just as each player in a group would be.

After a few days of contemplation, I decided letting go is possible only if there is trust involved -- something applicable to chamber music, as well as individual performance and orchestral playing. Then again, if you don't trust your own gut feelings, how can you play with other musicians? Won't this be apparent to them?

The last session with Liz was about creating a safe environment for productive communication between performing artists. Let's say I'm working on a piece and it isn't quite congealing for me; I need some insight. There are some peers who will praise my performance and leave it at that -- not helpful! Then there are more truthful critics, who begin with a compliment about something and then go on to say a few things they don't necessarily like; this is a bit better. Finally, there are those who skip the nice part and tell me everything they don't like. Since I'm already feeling frustrated, I need a little more sensitivity than this.

Liz divided us into pairs to explore something she has developed called the Critical Response Process. We went through the following steps: 1) One person plays or dances a piece. 2) The other comments only on positive aspects of the performance. 3) The performer asks the observer to listen or watch again, playing close attention to one specific aspect named by the performer. Now positive or negative comments are acceptable, but only if they apply to the aspect the performer has asked about. 4) If the observer has any additional comments, rather than simply blurting them out, they may ask, "I have some other thoughts on your performance; would you like to hear them?"

Liz's formula strengthens the timid critics and tones down the ones ready to weigh in with a New York Times-style review. With this formula, I could have said "no, thanks" to that last question and just felt good about having the nerve to play for another flutist!

Liz's exercises are beginning to click: I need to trust whatever leads me to interpretations in pieces of music, excerpts, or even writing poetry. For many years, I have assumed my interpretations aren't "correct" or that my ideas are going to be "wrong," and I've been squinting to hold them in. My primary focus has been on playing things precisely, leaving the right side of my brain to engage in imitation. Now I have begun to question everything I do, and no longer justify something because I heard it on a recording. In my "Business of Music" class last semester, I learned that critics often attend performances that they consider to be "news" in the arts -- and imitation is not news! As my Victorian poetry teacher said in reponse to a proposal for a paper: "All I have to say is that... if you wear your own clothes, I would hope you use your own words."

Ah, ChamberFest! What better way to let go than dressing up as a ladybug and playing the "Aviary" movement from Saint-Saëns' Carnival while dancing around Louis Schwadron dressed as a bird hatching from a giant egg? Miss Bonnie, if you could only see me now.

Alice Dade is a master's student in flute.