How Does Feedback Make You Feel?

A key component of developing singing skills is receiving and implementing useful feedback. As I have blogged about previously, there are two primary forms of feedback: augmented and inherent. Augmented feedback comes from an external source, like the instructions your voice teacher gives you. Inherent feedback is the feedback you provide yourself based on the things you notice when you're singing—what you see, hear, and feel. 

In our voice lessons, you receive both kinds of feedback. When I ask questions like, "How was that?" or "What did you notice?" I am asking you to self-assess and provide yourself with some inherent feedback. When I offer my own suggestions, adjustments, or tactics to try, that is augmented feedback. 

When you are by yourself in the practice room, the only feedback you have to rely on is inherent. Obviously, while you have 24/7 access to your own voice, you only have access to a teacher's augmented feedback for the limited amount of class or lesson time you have each week. Therefore, a primary goal of voice training is to help you develop the ability to give yourself quality inherent feedback. 

There is a lot written about feedback in the motor learning literature (which we discuss at length in vocal pedagogy class). Research studies have examined different aspects of feedback and how they impact our ability to learn, including how much feedback to give, when to give it, and whether feedback should focus on negative or positive results. 

I recently read about a different aspect of feedback in a Journal of Singing article by Professor Lynn Helding. Citing a 2015 article by Telio, Ajjawi, and Regehr, she notes an increasing amount of evidence that points to how our satisfaction with any feedback we receive is often linked to the emotional impact that feedback has on us. As Helding states, "The receiver may care more about the way the feedback makes them feel rather than the quality of the feedback's content." Therefore, if an effective suggestion makes us feel bad, we may rate it as less valid feedback than a less-effective suggestion that makes us feel good. 

Have you ever experienced that? Maybe someone made a valid suggestion but did it in a way that shamed you, embarrassed you, or made you feel "less than." Or maybe someone gave you a suggestion you didn't ask for, sharing an opinion that wasn't welcome. As a result, we usually reject these forms of augmented feedback and look for other solutions instead. I've certainly discarded potentially good advice in my life because I didn't like how (or from whom) it was given. 

As your teacher, I try to be mindful about how I'm delivering my augmented feedback, anticipating how my comments might land with each of you. Admittedly, since I'm a perpetual work in progress, I'm better about that in some instances than I am in others. But I'm always aware that my choice of words or my tone of voice can significantly impact whether or not a suggestion is well received. I would hate for any of you to reject potentially helpful instruction because I was clumsy or insensitive in the way I stated it. 

Now think about the inherent feedback you give yourself. How mindful are you about how you give it? Do you correct yourself gently, offering adjustments with kindness? Do you encourage yourself to keep trying with confidence that you can improve? Or are you "your own worst critic," giving yourself feedback laced with judgment and cruelty? Do you blame yourself for not already being better and discourage yourself from further exploring and enjoying your own voice? 

If the feedback you give yourself was coming from someone else, would you accept it or reject it because of how it made you feel? 

How might you adjust your inherent feedback as you prepare for your final performances of the semester?

Now go practice. 

Sing the Process, Part III

OK, one more installment on this theme... 

As I mentioned in Sing the Process, Part I, performances are snapshots in time, reflecting all we have to give in a specific moment, which eventually will grow, evolve, and change. Because of this, our performances will always be different, making a single "perfect" performance unachievable. So, we should focus more on the process of providing audiences unique experiences rather than perfect performances that will be locked away in a museum for all time. 

The one exception, as I described in Sing the Process, Part II, is when a performance is recorded. In that case, audiences across generations can view the same piece exactly as it was. With different viewings, however, audiences may still have different takeaways from the same piece, as I experienced when I watched the same version of Sunday in the Park with George years apart. 

Here's one more thing to consider. When a theatrical production is filmed, you could argue that it is no longer theatre. Since it can only be viewed on a screen, it's as if it becomes film instead of theatre. And the differences between the genres are significant. 

When I'm watching theatre, I get to decide where to look and where to place my focus. Where my attention is drawn is impacted by where I am sitting in the theatre. When I'm closer to the stage, I'm more likely to focus on the action that is happening directly in front of me. When I'm sitting farther back, I'm more likely to take in the full stage. 

But when a performance is filmed, the director and editor choose which camera shot to use at each particular moment. During ensemble numbers, they are more likely to use a wide frame where more of the stage is in the screen. During solo numbers or duets, they are more likely to zoom in on just the actors who are singing. So, instead of getting to choose where to place my attention, the film director and editor are deciding where they think I should be placing my attention. That's why you could argue that a filmed theatrical production is more of a film than it is a theatrical work. 

The actors also give different performances in film than in theatre. Speech, inflection, and gesture are all much bigger in theatre so that the people sitting in the back of the house can understand each actor's expressive choices. On film, the acting is more conversational since there is no need to project for a larger space. Zoomed-in camera angles mean that gestures and facial expressions can be much smaller, more like they are in real life. In theatre productions, some of those subtleties would never be detected by audiences—even by those sitting in the front row. 

I did some reading about the video of Sunday in the Park with George that I watched and it turns out it was filmed over five days. That means that pieces of multiple performances were edited together to create the version that I watched. So, in reality, no one in the audience saw the start-to-finish show that ultimately became the recorded product because it was spliced together from multiple performances. 

Essentially, then, recorded theatre isn't really film (because the actors are making "theatrical" choices) and it isn't really theatre (because there is a film editor deciding where you can place your focus). It suddenly becomes a strange hybrid of genres—not really enough of one or the other. Something like the Wicked movie is clearly film, which allows the creators to do lots of different things with the material than audiences would experience when attending a staged version of Wicked. But the Sunday in the Park with George that I watched is sort of caught in between—it's both and neither. 

So, what does all this have to do with "Sing the Process"? In film, you get multiple takes that a director will choose from and splice together to tell the story. In theatre, you get one shot to create a unique experience—once again, a snapshot in time—that everyone in the room will only experience in that way one time. Therefore, we don't need to be perfect. We need to be committed and engaging. We get to tell a complete, unique story each night. All we can do is sing the process. 

Lastly, I heard an NPR story earlier this year that included interviews with people who had attended Taylor Swift concerts. These fans had recorded videos on their phones during the concert so they could relive certain moments after the fact. Oddly enough, though, when they went back to watch those videos, they had no specific recollections of those moments. They knew that they had a great time at the concert, and they remember what they felt, but they didn't remember any specific details from the times when they were recording. 

Now, you could respond to this and say, "I guess the details of my performance don't really matter all that much, then, since no one will remember them." I would argue the opposite: It is the details of your performance that create the product that instills the feelings that are remembered. Audiences may not remember (or may misremember) the specifics of your performance, but they will remember the way your detailed work made them feel. 

How might it change your approach to performances if your overriding goal was to tell a story that inspires great feeling, rather than trying to nail every high note or perfectly execute every difficult passage? 

Do you need to make any adjustments to your practice routine so you can make the most of this last half of the semester (and last quarter of the school year)? 

Now go practice.