a conversation with joseph thapa (who understands the question)

Muriel Paéz Rasmussen, myself and Joseph Thapa, in the orange-tree-filled square outside the Fundación Barenboim-Said, Seville.

“Remember Dudamel?” Joseph says to me as we walk to a cafe. “I don’t understand the question.”

I’ve just explained to him the divide that artists often encounter in Australia — from the public, from funding bodies, from agents, from each other — between what counts as ‘excellence’ (‘high art’) and ‘community engagement’. The word ‘community’ often spells the death-knell for any artistic project to be taken seriously as a piece of art worthy of professional representation, as my colleagues and I on Cad Factory projects have often discussed. It bothers me. Firstly, because quite frankly I think it’s wrong, and secondly, because it can be an excuse to marginalise or under-resource work or artists seen as worthy, but not good. Joseph finds it wrong-headed, too.

Joseph reminds me that on Monday, I told him and Muriel that it was the excellence of the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra’s Beethoven recording that made me pay attention to them, and want to find out what was behind the organisation. The orchestra isn’t a salaried institution, but it was nevertheless their standard that caught my attention in the first place.
“The point is not to have the best orchestra compared to Berliner Philharmoniker,” Joseph says. “The point is to make the best music with [your musicians] — the best they can do.” He points out that even if an ensemble only gets 70% of the way to excellence, if everyone has put in 150%, “you get a lot of things: you get craftsmanship, making music, excellence within their own possibility, and, on the other side, a lot of self-esteem, and the possibility to grow within their project.”

Aiming for excellence is a pre-requisite for Barenboim-Said projects. What excellence looks like for three-year-olds is an open question, but part of the answer is focussing on ensuring excellent teaching. I’ve been watching that all week with Vicente.

In Australia, Maestro Daniel Barenboim is mostly known for his work with the world’s top
symphony orchestras. With this in mind, I ask why three-year-old kids are part of the Barenboim-Said Fundación’s work. Joseph responds, “Why not? Barenboim always said that music education should start as early as possible. There’s also a neuroscientific justification: from 0-7, 8, 9, is the biggest development in the brains of children. Not only cognitive, but social changes and emotional changes.” Music can influence all these things, as well as being another kind of language, so if you want music to assist the brain at its most plastic, it has to be as early as possible.

The Fundación’s teachers aren’t selected for any particular training. Their teachers may have backgrounds in Dalcroze like Vicente, or Orff, Kodaly and others. They’re selected for their skill and their ability to understand the children in each class. And the kids adore Vicente. I tell Joseph about my second day at school in Polígono Sur. I arrived first. A minute later, there’s a suspiciously Vicente-shaped tower of child in the courtyard. One child envelopes his torso, and one clings to each of his legs. He is so adored, he is regularly mobbed by kids.

He finds ways to connect with each one, subtly shifting tasks to ensure each child can have small wins. Some kids demonstrate really impressive aural skills, but when Vicente and I talk afterwards, he says that the children’s personal circumstances — lack of sleep, disrupted home life, all the disadvantages that go along with poverty — means learning rarely sticks. He types something into Google translate for me: “Teaching here is like building a sandcastle on the beach.”

I type back: “At least kids have fun building sandcastles.”

Maybe it’s not a lot in the grand scheme of each child’s life, but it’s something. It’s a possibility.

For some, it could be a beginning. It’s certainly respite — and isn’t that also important?