The following is a translation of an article I published in August 2021 in the magazine PERFORMATIVA, a magazine dedicated to performative Arts. It has much to do with the Performance Anxiety thread that Michelle Roper brought up and that elicited one of the biggest reply streams so long in TONEBASE. 

I feel that this paper can be of help to all of whom are dealing with PA but also maybe of general interest to everybody, as it speaks of things which are not often brought up in lessons or that are tangentially explained and rapidly moved over. 

The Space Between Sounds

Abstract

From intuitive preconceptions, certain academic guidelines, and the individual anxiety fueled by a consumerist society, the production of notes—the succession and linking of one to another—often seems to be the central concern of those who study music or work professionally as instrumentalists. Yet it is the moment between notes, the space between sounds, that truly holds the potential for learning, creating, and growing.

 

Keywords: Space between sounds, Functions, Relaxation, Self-assessment, Awareness

 

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A few weeks ago, when I was invited to write an article for this inaugural issue, it struck me as a good opportunity to put into words something that had been resonating with me lately: the space between sounds.

 

Later, while doing some online research, I discovered a famous phrase—appearing in various forms and attributed to different figures in music—that goes something like this: “Music is the space between the notes.”. It doesn’t really matter here who first said it or what the exact quotation is. What matters is the recognition that what happens between one sound and the next is often of profound importance.

For my part, from the moment I began studying music until quite far into my career, my main concern was the sounds themselves: the technical gestures required to produce them and how to connect one to another.

 

Rarely was there an opportunity to think about the space between them. The space of silence—or even the duration of a sound from one attack to the next (I’m a guitarist, so bear with me!)—took a surprisingly long time to become a meaningful part of my instrumental practice.

 

But once its importance became clear, many things began to change. The space between notes became, on several levels, a necessity. To begin with, it offered me a space for reflection.

 

The idea that I don’t need to play constantly. After playing something, I have the freedom to pause, to think, to remember, to explore how I feel and what I want—before playing again.

 

It became clear to me that even when I produce no sound at all, I can still be fully devoted to music. Even away from the guitar, I could work on interpretation and memory, analyze fingerings and technical problems, design study strategies, and seek out intertexts to help me connect more deeply with the music I was performing.

 

This realization also freed me from the guilt—common among musicians—that if we are not always sitting with our instrument, we are somehow failing the unwritten rule that music is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration.

 

What became clearer to me was that the person who makes music is, first of all, a human being. And what makes musical art so magical is that people pour into music what they live. One cannot live entirely locked away in study, no matter how much one enjoys it.

 

Soon, the concept began to seep through every crack. We already know that the space separating two things depends on the lens through which we look. And often, two things that once seemed inseparable, when seen differently, are in fact infinitely far apart.

 

Thus, the space between sounds shifted from being merely the interval between practice sessions to becoming:

• the pause between two movements of the same work, or between different works in a concert program;
   

• the breath between sections of a piece;
   

• the shift of energy between contrasting themes;
   

• the preparation for a technical gesture;
   

• the use of a written silence to release musical or physical tension;
   

• a space for bodily awareness and technical analysis between two moments of work;
   

• a moment of self-discovery between repeated notes;
   

—and, above all, a moment of learning and enjoyment.

 

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Functions of the Space Between Sounds

1 – A Space for Relaxation

Every gesture—no matter how effective or efficient—requires applied energy. When experimenting with the instrument, especially when seeking a controlled environment to investigate some technical aspect, resetting the energy from the previous attempt becomes crucial.

 

When I work on technical issues that interest me, I often find myself letting go of the instrument and resting my arms at my sides. This allows me to reestablish a fresh contact with the guitar.

 

This space is one of relaxation, but also of concentration. Relaxation is never absolute; noticing how much and how quickly the body can let go is fundamental for developing rapid and fluid sequences of gestures. Knowing the degree of relaxation to aim for, and learning to move from action to relative inaction as swiftly and effortlessly as possible, is something that can only be practiced in the pause between one sound and the next.

 

When I drop my arms—or even just one arm—I tell my students: “It’s not that I’m doing nothing. I’m observing as deeply as I can.” I check if the shoulders are loose, if the elbows are hanging freely or supported, if the wrists are supple. I sense whether the palms and fingers are filling with blood, whether the fingertips pulse with the heartbeat.

 

That awareness—born of observing relaxation and the intention to relax—helps me approach the next task with freshness and alertness toward the body’s state.

 

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2 – A Space for Preparation

Every sound—or group of sounds—we produce requires a specific technical and motor gesture, and every gesture needs preparation time.

 

During practice, this preparation time can be reduced or integrated through proper work, but whatever we do always needs some degree of preparation. When the preparation time is inadequate, the result is the same as when we have to pack for a trip at the last minute: mental and physical stress.

 

To work on preparation, I often separate the starting point and the arrival point with a set number of pulses of silence. That space gives me time to calmly prepare the new technical gesture—first mentally, then physically—dissociating it from previous gestures so it can emerge with the confidence and energy it requires.

 

This shift may involve any element of interpretation or instrumental technique: a left-hand position change, a different right-hand attack, a new timbre, an abrupt change of rhythm, a shift of character or persona, a tempo change (sudden or gradual), a dynamic contrast—anything.

 

Each of these requires movements that must be clearly prepared and differentiated from the previous ones, so the gesture does not remain tainted by leftover energy.

 

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3 – A Space for Reflection

Playing—making sound—can also become a kind of crutch, giving us a false sense of security simply by keeping our fingers moving. There’s a compulsion to play, often at the expense of knowing what we are actually doing.

 

This tendency has been reinforced historically by institutions, where the priority has often been meeting deadlines, completing syllabi, or preparing for exams, rather than focusing on how one studies or what one learns.

 

Fortunately, this trend is slowly shifting, but still today teaching often emphasizes playing more than reflecting on how to play, what to say through playing, or considering music and art as essential parts of human life and emotional communication.

 

For this reason, the space between sounds is often overlooked—because it confronts us with uncertainty, with the void we must fill by turning inward. That can be deeply uncomfortable. It floods us with doubt and forces us to face our own ignorance.

 

And yet, it also offers a path to follow. It invites us to explore, to understand ourselves better, to make decisions—even small and tentative ones. It urges us to approach the “otherness” of the composer and to reinvent a world that is not entirely our own. Through this, we encounter stories that may resonate with ours, but fundamentally place us in someone else’s shoes—with specific feelings that transport and enrich us.

 

This reflective space exists when we close the case with the instrument inside, but also between notes, between phrases, whenever we must decide on tempo, articulation, color, dynamics, and the hundreds of other decisions involved in making music—whether at home, in public, as professionals or amateurs, performers or teachers.

 

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4 – A Space for Sensitivity

The flood of actions often prevents a deep, sensitive awareness of what is happening before, beyond, or as a consequence of action.

 

Doing overshadows listening. Listening to the sounds we produce—and to our own body. As with reflection, listening is often obscured by action.

 

For those of us who work with sound, this is paradoxical. One might think that listening should be the guiding principle of our daily work. Yet it is common to feel more urge to play than to truly perceive the sounds we create.

 

Sound is infinitely rich: versatile, mutable, dynamic. It is the raw material from which we build emotional connections, landscapes, and characters. Deep listening to our own sound should be fundamental, almost sacred. And yet we often suppress it for the sake of continuous action.

 

But it is not only listening to sound that gets lost; sensitivity to the body performing the action also gets clouded. How often do we ignore clearly unpleasant sensations in the body, just to keep producing the required sounds?

 

It is no wonder, then, that injuries are so common in musical work. Too often we override the body’s signals, and only later face the consequences.

 

The space between sounds is an ideal place to sharpen sensitive listening—to both the sound and the body. Combining relaxation and reflection with listening is one of the most effective tools we have for artistic growth. Describing sounds aloud is a useful exercise, forcing us to expand our vocabulary and define what we hear more precisely. This, in turn, helps us when we need a specific sound to express a specific emotion.

 

Furthermore, the resonance of a freshly produced sound creates emotional feedback, which we can then transform into the impulse for the next phrase. Without this reference of emotional listening, we struggle to truly engage with the musical discourse we wish to share.

 

As for bodily awareness, I often scan what’s happening in my hands, arms, shoulders, neck, torso—even jaw and hips—checking joint availability and the energies involved in holding a position or preparing an impulse. This sensitive listening to the body can be much more focused in the space between sounds, or when playing very slowly, or when pausing while letting the resonance of the previous action linger.

 

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5 – A Space for Questions to Arise

It’s inevitable. Out of relaxation, reflection, and sensitive listening—of both sound and body—questions begin to emerge.

 

These questions are the gaps that move us forward. They open paths for exploration and play, fueling learning. They are engines of ideas, sensations, resources, and strategies. Or they may remain unresolved mysteries that accompany us for years, giving rise to more questions, uncertainties, and doubts—on which we can build a personal sound, a unique technique, a singular interpretive quest.

And then, these questions can be shared—with colleagues, teachers, audiences. Perhaps this is one of the most human aspects of making music.

 

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6 – A Space for Discernment of Differences

In practice, we are often driven to even things out.

 

For years, I tried to make my fingers equally agile, equally strong, equally fast. I sought to unify tone and touch. There is an academic tendency to homogenize differences.

 

It’s true: achieving evenness provides a foundation from which we can later shape intentional contrasts. But many “accidental” differences—rather than being observed and valued as information about the system—are dismissed as mere mistakes.

 

A difference might be the gap between what we feel and what we ideally want, whether in sound, bodily sensation, or movement quality. It might be the contrast between today’s attempt and yesterday’s, or even between two moments in the same practice session.

 

However small, a difference is a treasure. Recognizing it requires time and space. A new way of doing something opens the possibility of a new way of playing every note, in every piece we’ll ever study.

 

One tiny variation can open up a parallel universe of interpretation. A slightly altered articulation, a movement initiated from a different place, a shift in timing, a different part of the fingertip pressing the string.

 

The possibilities are infinite—often minuscule. To rescue them from the automatic flow of action, we must give them space.

 

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7 – A Space to Remember to Breathe

For those of us who don’t play wind instruments, unconscious apnea is surprisingly common—whether for technical or psychological reasons, especially in passages that require no special breath control at all.

 

This buildup of air pressure creates feelings of anxiety and makes it harder to produce movements that are organic, organized, and specific. The space between sounds can remind us: we are allowed to breathe.

 

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8 – A Space for Self-Assessment, Recognition, and Enjoyment

Self-assessment and enjoyment each require a dedicated moment.

 

On the one hand, to measure our results against the goals we’ve set.
On the other, to recognize and appreciate the outcome of our daily effort—whether after an entire practice session or just three repetitions of a passage.

 

Adjusting goals in light of what we actually encounter—difficulties and breakthroughs alike—is a process that happens in parallel with sound production, sometimes note by note.

 

This requires attention to the study strategies that emerge from these observations. And just as importantly, it requires ensuring that playing notes doesn’t become such a compulsion that we forget to enjoy the process.

 

It may sound strange, but many performers only realize, at a breaking point, that joy is missing from their practice. And if joy isn’t at the core of our daily work, how can we expect to enjoy a concert, an exam, or a competition?

 

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Conclusion

The act of producing sound is almost instantaneous; sound itself is fleeting. Music is prepared, reflected upon, heard before and after. The body that produces it both demands and gives. Joy is either present or absent. Differences are opportunities. On-the-spot self-assessment is indispensable for developing effective strategies. Questions that arise become engines that drive us forward.

 

All of this points to the importance of the space between sounds.

 

That space is not inactivity, not dead time, not artistic stagnation. Quite the opposite.

 

The space between sounds is where we grow, learn, live, understand, feel, relax, enjoy, design, investigate, explore, play, breathe, observe, desire, ask, and answer. It is where we gather strength, decide, listen, and recover energy.

 

That space can last years, as when someone leaves the instrument and later returns.
It can last weeks, as happens during parenthood, vacations, illness, or work.
It can last hours, between one practice session and the next.
It can last minutes, between repetitions of a passage.
It can last a single breath, between two phrases.
It can be the silence between two notes—close together or far apart.

 

It is from the space between sounds that sounds themselves draw nourishment—so they can become special, come alive, transform and transform us in turn: into more human beings, better performers, more empathetic, more attuned.

 

And it is thanks to this space that we can savor each note, each time, in a slightly different way.

 

Thanks for reading so far and, please, leave your comments!!