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What’s going to waste in your organisation?

Recently I have been finding new pleasure in gardening.  Last year I planted courgettes and tomatoes in my back garden.  This year I have added runner beans, broccoli, cucumber and more besides.  I find a joy and stillness in the daily activities of watering the vegetables and attending to the weeds.  Nothing is more satisfying than the twilight slug raid.

This has been reflected in my reading, too.  Last night I read the first 30 pages of Bob Flowerdew’s book, Composting, and yesterday I tried an intriguing recipe – using beetroot leaves – from Monty and Sarah Don’s Home Cookbook.  The Dons’ recipe involved taking the leaves from some fresh beetroot, blanching it for five minutes and then gently frying it in olive oil with some chilli and garlic.  I added some seeds – a favourite! – and also some beetroot which I’d boiled separately before cutting it into eighths and adding it to the remainder.  I served the lot on fresh toast.  It was totally divine.

“I hate waste, especially wasted food”.  This was the first sentence of the preface to the recipe.  It made me wonder:  what’s going to waste in my life because I don’t recognise its value?  And yes, it made me wonder, in the organisations I work with, what’s going to waste because nobody can see its worth?

Do you have any thoughts about the hidden treasures that might be going to waste in your life or organisation?

Going Gothic

We did it!  Nine choirs (including three youth choirs), four soloists, a rather large orchestra (circa 120 players, subdivided into smaller orchestras and brass bands) and Maestro Martyn Brabbins:  together, we performed Havergal Brian’s Symphony Number 1, the Gothic Symphony on Sunday, 17th, July, 2011 at London’s Royal Albert Hall.

It’s about thirty years since it was last performed in the UK (and yes, a scattering of singers in our midst sang at that last performance).  It may be thirty more years before it’s performed again.  The sheer scale of the piece (and attendant costs) make it a major undertaking to bring it to the concert hall.  Even in the Royal Albert Hall, the stage has to be extended to accommodate the performers.

No doubt the audience comprises fans of this little known composer and a whole load of “musos” – especially composers, curious about such an audacious piece.  There is a sense of excitement and curiosity at the beginning of the concert.  Even amongst the performers there are many who have not yet heard the whole piece.  The choristers have not yet heard, for example, the first movements of the piece which are purely orchestral.  Nor have we heard the soloists in full.

There are many surprises.  A glockenspiel solo in the early movements takes my breath away.  Surely it’s the percussionist’s dream – an opportunity to show both the full range of the instrument and the skills and panache of the performer as well as to bring this music to its audience.  It would bear hearing again.  Susan Gritton is superb as she sings from the distant heights of the Royal Albert Hall, requiring a steely confidence as well as fine tone.  She has plenty of both.  Even in the midst of the choir I enjoy the stereophonic effects as different singers sing their separate parts.  I am full of admiration and respect for Martyn Brabbins for taking on a challenge of epic proportions.  (In an introduction to the piece by musicians in Brisbane, Australia, entitled The Curse of the Gothic Symphony, one person describes it as “the musical equivalent of climbing Everest, trekking to the South Pole, sending a man to the moon”).

To reach this point is the culmination of a long journey.  As one of the singers, I am aware that I have joined the road after many miles have already been travelled and still, it’s been hard work.  In the end, the response of my colleagues varies, from those who are glad to be done with this abominable piece to the (albeit tiny minority) who are truly elated.  I sit somewhere in between:  I am totally thrilled to have had this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to perform this piece.  It has taxed me, yes.  It has intrigued me, yes.  I would certainly sign up to sing it again, with all its strange quirks.

Above all, I celebrate this rare opportunity to showcase Britain’s rich choral tradition.  Even without Harvergal Brian, this has been a rare opportunity to bring together a dedicated population of amateur singers and we have collaborated with a great spirit of cooperation and respect.

Now though, it’s definitely back to business.  The ladies of the London Symphony Chorus have a break now, and I’m glad of it.  If you’d like to hear the performance you can follow this link to find a recording.  I’ll be resting my vocal chords and – for a while at least – writing about other things.

Reflecting on A Simpler Way

It’s Tuesday afternoon as I write and I find myself reflecting on the cycles of nature and how they play out in our work.


Last week, for example, I was at home on Monday, as I usually am, coaching by phone.  The weather was so glorious that I had breakfast in the garden before starting my work.  Later I enjoyed lunch outside in the shade.  I notice how being in nature settles me so that I feel more grounded.  Later in the week the sunshine was followed by rain and a different rhythm to my schedule though the afterglow of a sunny day was with me for several days.


This week, I’m still tired after a demanding weekend.  I was all lined up for a meeting this afternoon, cancelled at short notice.  I get to write this blog posting and to catch up with other tasks.  My body is calling out for sleep… sleep…


The industrial era made machines of us all.  The introduction of mechanisation gave a steady rhythm to manufacturing work and we organised ourselves around the machines that served us.  It was important to start on time, finish on time:  important because the machines needed our care and attention to do their job.


How does this play out in our post-industrial society?  There is a risk that we organise ourselves around needs that no longer exist, measuring our contribution by the number of hours we work.  Anne Wilson Schaef, author of  The Addictive Organization: Why We Overwork, Cover up, Pick up the Pieces, Please the Boss, and Perpetuate Sick Organizations, sees this as a symptom of addiction in organisations and outside of our collective conscious awareness.  Tim Ferriss, author of The 4-Hour Work Week:  Escape the 9-5, Live Anywhere and Join the New Rich, is an advocate for a different way of life and so are Margaret J. Wheatley and Myron Kellner-Rogers who, in their book A Simpler Way, draw parallels with nature to invite us to a life that is less arduous and more delightful.


When we check in with our own rhythms as well as the rhythms of nature we know that there are times when we are raring to go and times when we need rest and restoration.  When we check in with the rhythms of our work we know there are times we need to go flat out to meet a deadline and times when such effort is not needed.  How often, though, do we act from this conscious awareness?  How often do we work hard because, somehow, it’s the done thing, looks good, scores points with the boss… even when, deep down, we know it’s costing us and even know it brings no benefit in terms of the quantity or quality of our output.


I wonder, how do you respond to Wheatley’s and Kellner-Rogers’ call to a life that is less arduous and more delightful?


  

Speaking candidly about Candide

Soon after I joined the London Symphony Chorus it was my privilege to perform Leonard Bernstein’s Candide under the leadership of the great man himself. This experience was captured on camera by Deutsche Grammophon and I still have the DVD.  You can find extracts on YouTube (my, we were younger then!)

Approaching a performance some 20-plus years later a certain nostalgia sets in amongst members of the chorus and the London Symphony Orchestra as we share memories and recollections.  They are not all flattering to Bernstein who was not always an easy man – one soprano reminds me of how critical he was of our then pianist in rehearsal.  I recall Bernstein smoking on the concert platform during rehearsal and remember how staff had to approach him to ask him to stop.  We all remember how the cast was besieged by flu.  At the same time, many memories are treasured.  This was our last performance with Bernstein who died soon after.  The cast was superb.  Even some of our own chorus members had solos to sing.

These memories don’t augur well for our present-day conductor, Kristjan Jarvi though he may not know it, predisposing us to make comparisons and to resist his approach.  This is coupled with a certain pre-concert anxiety which compounds the effect:  we look for clearer directions than we are given (especially as we are asked to make movements, grappling with our scores, watching the conductor and dying… dancing… waving).  And even as we get clear about those movements we wish for more rehearsal time than we have.

Come the night, though, everything comes together and we – I at least! – enjoy ourselves hugely.  Our present day cast is also superb.  Rory Kinnear as narrator holds the story and engages the audience so that we are laughing from the very beginning and don’t stop until we have finished the piece.  Andrew Staples in the role of  Candide has the kind of guileless quality the role demands.  Kiera Duffey, as Cunegonde, puts on a superb performance of the song Glitter and Be Gay, scaling the song’s great heights with ease as well as conveying its comedy.  Kim Cresswell throws all vanity to the wind to give a hilarious performance in the role of the old lady.

Can we forgive Jarvi for not being Bernstein?  In the end it is the old man who prevails – not necessarily as a conductor but because he composed this wonderful piece with the same quality of tunes-manship that we enjoy so much in West Side Story and with orchestration which adds to the beauty of every note.  So, it will take something more from Mr Jarvi to usurp him.

Oh!  And PS:  we award “man of the match” to David Jackson, percussionist, for his athletic sprints between various instruments in the piece’s overture.

    

Picture this: on the way to a career that thrills

Hurrah!  Finally, I have got around to having professional photos done for all the places my image appears nowadays – my website, blog, LinkedIn, Twitter – the list seems endless!  I shall be taking time to change my photos in the days and weeks to come, beginning right here on my blog.

I was fascinated by the story Tim Spiers told me about his career history.  Tim was my photographer, thanks to a tip from my friend and colleague in the profession, Anne Smith, who recommended him and with whom I shared a day at Tim’s studio in North London.  From a very young age – just 9 or 10 years old – Tim started cutting people’s hair.  This was something he put aside when he embarked on a course at Eastbourne College of Art and Design in Visual Communications, including photography, where his aim was to prepare himself for a life of doing fashion shoots.

Not everyone supported Tim’s aspirations – as is often the way – so, influenced by the doubts of others, he left his course early.  His father arranged an interview for him, telling him about a guy called Vidal Sassoon.  Tim quickly came to London to work with San Rizz, where he learnt to do people’s hair for photo shoots and also pop videos.  Later he moved into salon management.

Along the way, Tim was also interested in the work of make-up artists so, when he was invited to do a modelling project as part of his studies in NLP, he decided to find out how his colleagues did make up – spending time with the make-up artists he had worked with on modelling shoots and his colleagues in the salons he worked for and studying their approach.  At the same time, his NLP studies helped Tim to clarify his values and revisit some old beliefs, leading to a major shift in his sense of his own capability.  This was, essentially, an experience that empowered him.

When photography went digital, Tim did a photo shoot himself and had one of those “aha!” moments:  “what if I put all these skills together to offer hair, make-up and photography as a service?”  He set up his own business which has been growing at a significant rate.  If you take a look at Tim’s website you’ll see how he caters for a wide variety of clients.  If you’re looking for a good photographer, I can recommend Tim.  It wasn’t just the hair and make-up:  my sense of ease grew over the course of our time together and I was thrilled to come away with a number of options for my signature photo.

I tell Tim’s story (with his permission) for another reason:  it says so much about the journey towards a career that is fulfilling.  The seeds of such a career lie in the things we most love to do – acorns are at their best when they become oaks.  Along the way, we take steps away from as well as towards our most natural career path – often because we are influenced by fear and the doubts of others.  With hindsight, the path looks so clear and obvious and yet, along the way, it can be so messy.  Both the highs and the lows contribute to our ultimate success.  Moving towards our ultimate career takes courage and a willingness to take risks.

That’s enough for now.  As I sign off I leave you with just two photos from my day with Tim.  Please tell me what you think.

An evening of Terrible singing

Reading the programme notes in Prokofiev’s Ivan the Terrible I get lost in questions of this and other composers’ relationship with the regimes of which their music speaks and of just how many versions exist of this piece, which  is fashioned from Prokofiev’s music for the film of the same name.  I think I’ll leave such thoughts with David Gutman, author of the programme notes.

As a member of the choir, I have been grappling in a far more intimate way with the challenges of learning the piece, along with my fellow singers.  I think of the well-trodden phrase “a bad workman always blames his tools” even as I think of the score we worked from, with words and music which were, at best, hard on the eye – and that’s before we even attempted the Russian.  We have been “note bashing” and – come to that – “word bashing”, with the help of Natalie as our chorus master, Alex (“Sacha”), our language coach and Roger on the piano.  We have been through our usual phases along the way, wondering if we’ll ever get there – even as our first tutti rehearsal approached, we were still learning corners of the work and coming to grips with the words.

On Friday, we had our first encounter with Xian Zhang, our conductor for the piece.  She is that rare creature, a female conductor, and, as such, the object of our curiosity.  I creep in late for the piano rehearsal and cannot see her from my place at the edge of our awkwardly shaped room.  Nor can I see just how diminutive she is in size.  At the same time, she is like a ball of energy – her presence is so much larger than her physical size.  Right from the beginning I find myself enjoying her approach.  Her energy and enthusiasm combine with clear instructions to the choir, orchestra and soloists.  Where some conductors would tread discreetly in their dealings with the soloists, she is open in giving her instructions so that I have a sense that we are all equals here.

As our first tutti unfolds so do the joys of the piece and of experiencing the work of my fellow performers.  Early on the men rehearse Feodor Basmanov’s Song with Russian bass Alexei Tanovitsky.  He turns to face the men so that they can hear each other, opening his arms wide.  His is not the energy of one who is trying hard to get things right.  Rather, his is the energy of one who sings and enjoys.  He does.  And so do we.  In the same movement Anthony Stutchbury, a member of our tenor section, is charged with providing a shrill whistle in several places and takes instruction from Xian Zhang.  David Jackson, a member of the percussion section of the London Symphony Orchestra is also charged with providing a shrill whistle in the next movement and I smile as he puts his fingers in his mouth in preparation, thinking of all those years of musical education.

Despite its themes, which include a good measure of violence as the men of the choir commit to a Russia forged on the bones of her enemies, the piece is above all – for me at least – tuneful.  One colleague hears echoes of Chopin and Rimsky Korsakov.  Another highlights a flavour of Orff’s Carmina Burana.  I confess that I finally work out that the rhythm which catches my attention early on is reminding me of the song Love and Marriage (go together like a horse and carriage…). And the broad sweep of the orchestra at the beginning of the Song about the Beaver reminds me of Nancy singing As Long as He Needs Me in the musical Oliver.  Somehow it doesn’t do to leave the concert singing Love and Marriage

Sometimes, by the time the concert comes, my best moments have already come and gone.  This evening though, I relish every moment of this lively and spirited music.  I enjoy my own singing (including the occasional “extra” as I join the altos – why should they have all the best lines?).  I enjoy the orchestra.  I enjoy my fellow singers.  I enjoy the soloists.  And above all, I enjoy the conducting of Xian Zhang.

As I walk away on my way home I feel fulfilled, alive.  Who could ask for more?

Toothy wisdom

When my mother was about 60 years old, her dentist advised her to stop cracking nuts open with her teeth.  She had not, until that time, had any fillings.

I was reminded of this this week when, in the midst of a week that was already far too busy, I fell victim to a dental emergency.  Was it the crunchy carrot stick?  I’m not sure, but in the midst of my lunch, something crunched and it wasn’t what was intended – a significant chunk of enamel fell away from the side of a very old filling.  Too much information, I know.

Have you ever noticed how, when something changes in your mouth – you chip a tooth or have a new filling – you have an urge to feel it with your tongue?  The cavity left by my lunchtime crunching felt like an enormous seaside cave to me.  It still does – I shall be hot footing it to the dentist this morning.

I find myself wondering:  what other changes in my life have seemed so huge at the time?  Changes that have gone on to become part of my life’s tapestry…  I think of some of the experiences that were so unwelcome at the time and seem so different now.  I think of the way those experience have shaped me and enriched my life.  And I feel grateful.

Right now, ahead of time, I’m feeling grateful for Dr. Lydia Pink at the Blackheath Village Dental Practice.

Real conversations: creating ground rules for effective communication

Recently, I wrote a posting for Discuss HR on communication, identifying a number of elements which, together, comprise our approach to communication.  In this posting I expand on what I wrote for Discuss HR, writing about some of the areas in which we can set ground rules for communication.

The more you can translate your aspirations into ground rules for effective communication, the more you can implement an approach in line with your chosen paradigm. A number of disciplines and approaches have chosen to do this and some of them have in common areas in which they set ground rules.

One of these areas, for example, is building and maintaining connection – rapport.  Ian McDermott, author and co-author of many books on NLP, including Way of NLP, sees rapport as one of the four pillars of success.  For him, rapport (with ourselves, with others) is not just about communication, it’s also about our success in the broadest sense.  Marshall Rosenberg, in the field of nonviolent communication (NVC) emphasises maintaining connection as a priority in communication.  Rosenberg’s invitation to connect first and only then to correct, reminds us that it’s hard for others to hear what we have to say if they do not, first, feel a sense of connection with us.  By adopting this as a rule, you remind yourself (and others) that communication is about building and maintaining relationships first. Any other outcomes depend on your relationship with others in the moment.

Another rule which is reflected in a number of different approaches to communication is, in the words of Roger Schwarz (author of The Skilled Facilitator Approach) to focus on interests, not positions.  Marshall Rosenberg puts the same point another way, inviting people to see beyond the immediate message to the needs that underpin the message.  This rule is at the core of approaches to negotiation and mediation.  It also has value in our every day communication – with ourselves, as well as with each other.

It seems to me that any additional rules are in support of these two rules and that these two rules imply a particular paradigm – one in which the emphasis is on a “win, win” approach to communication.  This is an approach in which everyone’s needs matter and power is shared – a “power with” rather than a “power over” paradigm of communication.  The rules for communication may be ones we adopt ourselves, no matter what the approach of others.  Perhaps they are rules we jointly agree to observe in a particular relationship or context.  Either way, they are designed to make it more likely that our communication will be effective.

Roger Schwarz, in his Skilled Facilitator Approach, offers a number of rules which pre-empt some of the most common communication problems. He invites people to test their assumptions and inferences, for example, and also to explain their reasoning and intent. Looking back on my own communication with John, whom I mentioned in my first posting in this series, I can see that I could have done more to make my own intentions crystal clear and that this, in turn, might have made a misunderstanding less likely.

Marshall Rosenberg, in his book Nonviolent Communication:  A Language for Life, distills a needs-based approach into four simple steps.  He invites us to replace the language of judging with clear observations (step one).  Acording to this rule, for example, we might replace a conclusion (“you’re always late at your desk in the morning”) with a precisely observed statement (“I have seen you arrive after 9am, which is your official start time, two or three times each week for the last six weeks or more.  As a result, I’m starting to think of you as someone who is always late for work”).  His is also a heart-based approach, so that he invites us to share our feelings (step two) as well as our needs (step three) or to seek to connect with the feelings and needs of others.  Only then do we make a clear and specific request (step four) such as “Would you be willing to tell me what you are hearing so that I can know how clearly I’ve expressed myself?”

I sometimes wonder if our investment in improving our communications skills – our personal skills or those of a whole organisation – are predicated on the idea that improved skills make for greater ease in the communications process.  I would add that, for me, this is one area when the opposite is also true.  Effective approaches to communication can make it easier, for example, to discuss the undiscussable.  They can make it clearer where the source of a misunderstanding lies.  At the same time, communication depends on the willing participation of everyone involved and is limited by our own – and others’ – current level of skill.

Take John, for example, whom I wrote about in my first blog of this series.  As I write, I experience both needs met and needs unmet in relation to our correspondence.  John has chosen to withdraw from the group of which we were both members as a way to improve his management of his time. He’s also chosen not to have any of the discussions which might help to rebuild our sense of connection. And me? I am ready – pleased – to support John in doing what’s right for him and in this way to meet my need for contribution.  I have also invited him to join me in the kind of dialogue that repairs relationships – a request to which he has so far not responded.  I feel sad that when I think that a number of needs – for connection, for example, and for respect and consideration – are not currently being met.  At the same time, I’m trusting he’ll do that …when he’s ready.

Mahler’s Third Symphony: all in a day’s work for the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra

Sir Simon Rattle and the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra at Royal Festival Hall for their London residency
Sometimes, the experience of going to see a film that has been highly praised by the critics leaves you feeling curiously disappointed – hungry even, yearning for something more.  I ponder this as Sir Simon Rattle steps onto the podium to conduct Mahler’s Third Symphony at London’s Royal Festival Hall. Rattle will be conducting the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra which has the reputation of being the very best orchestra in the world.  How much better, I wonder, can the world’s “best” orchestra be than so many other world class orchestras with whom I have had the privilege to sing as a member of the London Symphony Chorus?
For I am here as a member of the London Symphony Chorus, and as a result I have a seat at a concert which has been sold out for who knows how long.  In the midst of Mahler’s Third Symphony there is a brief and intensely beautiful alto solo which is, in turn, accompanied by ladies and children’s chorus.  With efficiency and compassion Rattle rehearsed the choir (the BBC Singers, ladies of the London Symphony Chorus and the boys choir of Eltham College) at the beginning of the morning’s tutti rehearsal and sent us on our way so that I do not know how the orchestra will perform across the grand sweep of this epic piece.
The concert begins with an hors d’oeuvre of two short pieces sung with great confidence by ladies of the BBC Singers before the concert’s “main course” begins.  I notice I am searching the filing cabinet of my Mahler 3 experiences in order to make comparisons and quickly decide to let go of experiencing this work through the filter of my intellect in order to surrender to my experience of this performance.  I am not disappointed.
Listening to the wide sweep of the symphony’s lengthy first movement, I am struck by something that goes beyond fine playing, even whilst wondering how many hours of study, practice, playing and performance are reflected in the exquisite playing of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra.  It seems to me that there is an intensity in the performance which comes from Rattle’s attention to the music’s every nuance as well as from the orchestra’s total commitment to their performance.
Seated as I am next to the boys of the Eltham Choir as they sniff, cough, fart and fidget I am aware of just how long a sit it is for them and still, I am barely distracted from the music.  And when our time comes to sing I am aware of how Rattle’s rehearsal has prepared us all – combining a lightness of touch with both confidence and precision for our brief performance.
Some time before the performance ends I find that I am experiencing something akin to the deep stillness I sometimes experience when I meditate – when I am present to everything that is around me even whilst experiencing a deep stillness within.  This has been an experience I cannot begin to render in words, one that I do not wish to discuss when, eventually, I leave the concert platform.
There is a moment of stillness as the piece ends which is quickly punctured when a member of the audience calls out “bravi!”  The audience is ecstatic, with fulsome applause as more and more people rise to their feet.  One of the boys of the Eltham Choir savours this word – “Bravi!  Bravi!” – like a new sweet he is tasting for the very first time.
I notice how Rattle not only acknowledges the performers, including individual members of the orchestra but thanks them, striding through their ranks to speak personally with those who have played some of the solos.
It’s hard to believe that, for these guys, this is all in a day’s work.  For me, it was far from an every day experience.