Andres Segovia once called the classical guitar a small orchestra. Traditionally, its back and sides are made of rosewood, its soundboard of spruce or cedar. Together with these resonant woods, its six nylon strings, three or four of them wire-wound, can produce a rich variety of tones, ranging from the velvety to the brilliant, the smoky to the metallic. Depending on where the player’s right hand is positioned, the guitar can imitate instruments as diverse as the clarinet, the cello, the flute, and the snare drum. Notes on the so-called open strings (E, A, D, G, B, E) can be played on multiple places on the fingerboard, each placement creating a distinctive timbre. Notes can also be played as harmonics, natural or artificial. Like stops on a pipe organ, these technical options greatly expand the expressive potential of the classical guitar. At the same time, they make it one of the more difficult instruments to play well. And for some players, that difficulty is only compounded when an audience is listening.
For many years, I taught classical guitar at Alfred University. I also took part in the Performing Arts Division’s annual faculty recitals. Most often I played solo pieces from the Renaissance, Baroque, Romantic, and modern repertoires. But one year I invited an advanced student to join me in a duet. For our offering I chose “My Lord Willoughby’s Welcome Home” by John Dowland (1563-1626), a stately, lyrical piece originally composed for Renaissance lute. The arrangement for guitar included an optional second part, which I asked my student to learn. That the second part was optional proved crucial to our public performance. Halfway through, my student lost his way and had to drop out, leaving me to finish the piece alone. As we left the stage, he whispered, “I’m sorry, Ben.”
There was no need to apologize. Stage fright is far more common than one might think. It has afflicted not only inexperienced amateurs but also seasoned professionals of the stature of Frederic Chopin, Vladimir Horowitz, Glenn Gould, Laurence Olivier, and Pablo Casals, to name a few. And it can strike when least expected. Those who suffer from chronic stage fright can either cease to perform publicly, as Gould chose to do, or find reliable ways to settle their nerves. Proven stratagems include controlled breathing, yoga, Tai Chi, and the repetition of a mantra.
For performers who are also Zen practitioners, the daily experience of zazen (seated meditation) can also create a foundation for dealing with stage fright, not so much by enabling a performer to “conquer” it as by learning to integrate anxiety and its physical symptoms into one’s present experience. The deep breathing developed during sitting meditation can of course be beneficial. It stimulates the vagus nerve and helps the body relax. No less important, however, are three practices intrinsic to Zen meditation, namely the cultivation of awareness, the development of presence, and the discipline of selfless contemplation.
Zen practice trains us to bring awareness to every moment of our lives. This begins with mindfulness of breathing, posture, and state of mind, but it also extends to the immediate environment: its temperature, lighting, ambient noises, and so on. For a performing soloist, the experience of stepping on stage and suddenly facing a darkened, hushed auditorium can all too easily precipitate anxiety. Becoming aware of it as soon as it arises can forestall its spiraling into a debilitating attack. Conversely, being caught unawares, as my student evidently was, can subvert and even abort the most well-rehearsed performance.
Zen practice also cultivates presence: the capacity to be continuously present for the present moment. David Russell, a contemporary master of the guitar, once noted that audiences rarely hear every note being played. It is the guitarist’s job to direct attention to the notes that matter most. And to do that, performers must themselves remain present for every note, phrase, and cadence they are playing. Doing so can make the difference between an anxious, lifeless performance and a fresh, expressive one. And because fear is so often future-based, returning to presence can also be a potent antidote to stage fright.
And last, Zen practice teaches us to align the self with things as they are, however pleasant or unpleasant. “When it’s hot, be completely hot,” one Zen master put it. In the case of musical performance, this means aligning ourselves with such intricacies as the crescendos and decrescendos, the legatos and staccatos, and, not least, the points of rest in the music we are playing. Under the pressure of performance, it is easy to forget that the activity in which we are engaged is not ultimately about ourselves. It’s about the music. And to the degree that we can forget ourselves and listen, selflessly and contemplatively, to the music’s pulse and flow, we will not only enhance our performance and garner deserved applause. We will also share with our audience the music’s inherent depth and beauty.
Photo: My 2023 Masaki Sakarai guitar
Listen to my rendition of J.S. Bach’s “Sleepers Awake” at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4YbhKkq9Wk
Listen to “My Lord Wlloughby’s Welcome Home” at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NzYHqiZDUG4.
One Time, One Meeting 
