Practice as the Teacher
Practice as the Teacher
In the end, wisdom does not come primarily from books, nor from teachers, nor even from the well-timed words of the wise. These things may open doors. But the real transformation happens inside the practice itself. It is through doing the work, over time, that the artist is shaped.
Artistic practice is not merely repetition of technique. When approached with awareness, it becomes a form of dialogue—a living relationship between the artist and the unknown. It is through this repeated engagement that the deeper lessons emerge.
The brush teaches the painter.
The instrument teaches the musician.
The floor teaches the dancer.
The blank page teaches the poet.
And the artist who returns again and again to the work, not in search of mastery but in search of honesty and trueness, becomes a student of the invisible.
In Visual Art: Humility and Patience
The visual artist learns that the eye often lies, and that seeing is a practice in itself. A painter may labor for hours to “get it right,” only to realize they’ve been looking at the subject all wrong. In that moment, humility is not a defeat—it is a door. The canvas becomes a mirror, revealing not just an image, but the artist’s own limitations, their assumptions, their longings.
Patience, too, is essential. A work may take days, weeks, or years to complete. It may go through stages of ugliness, confusion, even despair. The artist must resist the urge to force a solution and instead learn to wait—for the moment when the piece reveals its own direction. That’s when the work begins to guide the hand.
In Music: Discipline and Devotion
For the musician, practice is a daily act of devotion. Scales, arpeggios, fingerings, breath. The same notes repeated endlessly. To an outsider, this might seem mechanical. But inside the repetition, something mysterious happens. The instrument begins to speak. The player’s body learns what the mind cannot explain.
Here, wisdom arises through discipline. Not rigidity, but surrender to rhythm, to form, to the subtle nuances that only reveal themselves after long engagement. And devotion—the willingness to keep showing up, even when the performance is far away—this becomes the heart of the musician’s path.
In Dance: Vulnerability and Embodiment
Dance demands vulnerability. The dancer’s body is their instrument, their voice, their canvas. There is nowhere to hide. Every movement reveals something—not just about form, but about intention, presence, emotion.
Here, wisdom is somatic. It’s not about thinking, but about listening deeply to the body’s intelligence. The dancer learns to trust sensation, to inhabit rhythm, to surrender to gravity. They discover that every fall is part of the choreography, and every hesitation is an invitation to realign. Vulnerability is not a weakness in dance—it is the medium.
In Poetry: Discernment and Surrender
The poet listens. They listen to language, but also to silence. To what wants to be said, and what must remain unsaid. Poetry is the art of restraint. The poet practices discernment not just in words chosen, but in words withheld.
Here, wisdom arises through intimacy with the invisible. Through metaphor, through the music of syllables, through the tension between image and idea. The poet’s practice teaches them to say what cannot be said directly—to feel their way into the spaces between words. In poetry, surrender is strength.
In all these disciplines, the practice becomes a kind of initiation. Each day, the artist returns to the work not as an expert, but as a beginner. And over time, the practice reshapes them—softens the ego, strengthens the intuition, attunes the perception.
Eventually, the artist realizes that the real material is not paint, or movement, or language. The real material is themselves.
And through practice, they are being sculpted—not into something perfect, but into someone true to their moment.
There is a saying among musicians: Practice ‘till you puke! But there is a method to practicing beyond just repetition. Repetition is a necessary for memorization and skill development, but there is a lot of time wasted on practicing what you have already perfected. People do this because it feels really good to practice what you do well. But in music the discipline is in practicing what you don’t do well. Take those snippets that you don’t do well and figure out how to fix it. Once you figure out how to fix it, then you practice it over and over until you understand how it feels, commit that to memory, then practice it among the parts that are not a problem to make sure it works and comes easily. I always take time at that point to not sing it at all, but sing the song in my mind how you think it should be perfect. That culls out any remaining problem areas. Memorizing how it feels, is a tool when performing, should you feel insecure when approaching the problem areas, just remind yourself how it feels. This keeps you from letting stress derail you. I think for all performing arts this is pretty comprehensive, as well as in real life issues.
As Annette said in her comments, for the visual arts, it’s probably a little different as finding the solution on the original work could be irreversible.
Great article! Gives food for thought.
I've had to learn patience in my practicing. I've learned that testing certain things before I apply it to the actual piece has made the final piece "perfect" in my mind instead of seeing it as impatiently using up time to figure out the best way and not experimenting on the actual piece which can be disastrous and very difficult to do over or fix. So by practicing in this way is what's needed to do it right and satisfying........it's "grist for the mill". I've averted many hair-pulling frustration by practicing in that practicing has become a very crucial thing in of itself and quite satisfying. In a way it's like the scientist trying out a variety of theories to get to the conclusion she desires. Your essay made me look at the art of "Practice" differently as I'd never think to define what I do as practicing.