Series: Guiding Hands

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He thinks like my dad

This entry is part 11 of 17 in the series Guiding Hands

I heard about Dr. W. Richard Shindle from my friend before moving to Kent but didn’t meet him until the day of my placement tests. It was a typical Midwest snowy winter day. I remember the hat, the coat and the boots that I wore that day. I slipped and almost fell over the threshold, making my grand entrance. A gentleman in his suit and tie came over to help me. Assuming I was there for the test, he asked for my name. I pointed at it on his list. He stared and looked at me. I said, “Julia.” He smiled and said, “Oh, that’s much easier.”

I next saw him in his graduate seminar on cantus firmus.[1] Knowing that I was a piano major, he was surprised to see me there. He made sure that I wasn’t lost in the building and let me stay. A few other teachers did double takes when they walked by and saw me sitting in that class. There were scores and recordings on the desk. (I soon found out that there were always scores and recordings in Dr. Shindle’s classes.) Everyone, except me, seemed to know each other. Dr. Shindle didn’t waste time and started introducing a few familiar existing melodies that inspired centuries of composers.

I was fine following the examples and understood the compositional devices used the pieces. Very soon, Dr. Shindle started talking about some Italian composers and their patrons. I had no idea how we got there; didn’t recognize any of the names that he mentioned; and was clueless of what to do next. Never a good note-taker, I quickly scribbled down the names so I could figure out the connections.

We were given some pieces to study for the next class. It didn’t take me long to sort out the links between the cantus firmus and these works. But I sat in the library for days, tracking down all the names that I heard in class. I was scared, thinking that I must be missing some crucial information related to the subject of the seminar. On the other hand, a huge part of me was comforted by the way Dr. Shindle’s mind traveled through subjects, from one century to another; from one country to another; and from genre to genre. I grew up with dad jumping from subject to subject in a conversation within minutes. His friends all seemed to understand him just fine. I was too young to know if he was like that in his lectures. I was very glad to find out that there were other people like dad. With this, I formed a connection with Dr. Shindle very early on.

From a close-knit family of religious background, Dr. Shindle lives simply. Fancy foods and clothing never interest him much. He finds amusement in the smallest things. He is always eager to share his knowledge, which seems infinite. When he spoke, words just trickled out of his mouth. Articulation never seems to matter much. When he got frustrated or angry, his voice would intensify. But he never spoke loudly. I always sat on the front row in class so I could catch as much information as possible.

I loved the open discussions in a seminar setting. I loved looking at beautiful images from medieval manuscripts[2] and finding out the hidden message within. Dr. Shindle would come over to the table when I sat in the library decoding these pieces. If I missed anything, he would give me some hints. Years later, in casual conversations, he would recall seeing my Chinese name for the first time. He worried about having a piano student in his class but was pleased that I was capable of the work.

In Dr. Shindle’s seminars, I learned how Beethoven’s compositional styles transitioned from early to middle, and, then, late period. I learned his favorite compositional devices. I became aware of the advanced tonal approach in his late piano works and string quartets. We learned the basic structure of Mozart’s concerti. By following the scores, we saw how the “formula” worked in individual works. I was among the most “vocal” students in these classes. He never discouraged me.

I learned from Dr. Shindle the importance of the “Urtext”—the original source. It could be manuscripts, first editions or any existing early sources of a work. He would show us facsimiles of manuscripts when discussing findings of recent researches. When listening to recordings, he would point out the performance practice to us. He also liked sitting down at the piano to demonstrate his point.

History of Western music notation was part of the required curriculum for Ph.D. students. I loved deciphering and transcribing old notations until we encountered keyboard tablatures[3]. The lines and scribbles blurred my eyesight and made no sense to me. Dr. Shindle sat down and played an example for us. He told the story of how, as a student at Indiana University, he was inspired by his mentor Dr. Willi Apel[4] reading and playing these tablatures at sight. He later became Dr. Apel’s research assistant and edited keyboard works of Ercole Pasquini and Girolamo Frescobaldi[5].

Knowing my interests in Lieder, Dr. Shindle led me to the works of Carl Friedrich Zelter[6]. For my master thesis, I studied Zelter’s Lieder on Goethe’s poems—something that dad would have approved of. I learned of Zelter’s pedagogical heritage, from J.S. Bach to Johann Philipp Kirnberger[7]; I learned of Zelter’s influence on Felix Mendelssohn; I learned of his establishment of Sing-Akademie zu Berlin[8], through which his contribution on the revival of Bach’s works

When I finished my course work, I had no idea what to choose as the subject of my dissertation. Dr. Shindle handed me madrigals of late sixteenth-century Neapolitan composer Giovan Domenico Montella, a contemporary of Giovanni de Macque,[9] of whose works he was an expert. He told me that he had started the research years ago but never had the chance to continue. Without thinking much, I accepted the suggestion. Only after I started the work that I realized how unprepared I was. Though, clearly, it was a great honor that Dr. Shindle trusted me with something that he cared about very much.

Dr. Shindle was getting ready to retire when I left for Italy. We both felt that it would be necessary for him to oversee my work. A special request was made for him to continue advising me after retirement. He moved to Maryland to be close to his family. I moved to Illinois to work with Mr. Wustman. We started a five-year long-distance collaboration. I would call him when I had questions. Whenever I completed a portion of the text, I would send a copy to Maryland. Then, I would fly out to go over the material with him in person.

He always made me read the text out loud. Often, he would stop me and ask what I really wanted to say. As I explained my point, he would say, “Why didn’t you just write THAT down?” We would read for hours; take a lunch break and continue.

An enthusiast of genealogy, Dr. Shindle has been tracing his family history for decades. Before the existence of search engines, genealogy research was a time-consuming, and labor-intensive task. During one of my visits, worrying that I would be bored, he took me on a genealogical tour through Maryland’s countryside. We drove through small towns. He pointed out libraries and county offices where he found records of his extended family. We passed through some farmlands his relatives used to own. He showed me where his relatives lived. From his voice, I could tell how much he cared for his family and relatives.

Although I have not expanded my research after graduation, I never abandon the approach of staying true to composer’s original ideas. I never stop finding out more about every piece that I study or perform. I make every effort to show my students the importance of understand all the details in the score. I thank Dr. Shindle for changing the way I look at scores and the way I listen to music.

[1] Cantus firmus, literally fixed song, is a pre-existing melody, used as the foundation of polyphonic compositions. cantus-firmus-britannica
[2] Google-images-Ars-subtilior
[3] Keyboard_tablature_Wiki
[4] Willi_Apel_Wiki
[5] Ercole_Pasquini_Wiki; Girolamo_Frescobaldi_WiKi; Corpus_of_Early_Keyboard_Music
[6] Carl_Friedrich_Zelter_Wiki; Carl_Friedrich_Zelter_Wiki/de
[7] Johann_Kirnberger_Wiki; Johann_Philipp_Kirnberger_Wiki/de
[8] Sing_Akademie_Berlin_Wiki
[9] Giovanni_de_Macque_Wiki

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Punch lines

This entry is part 12 of 17 in the series Guiding Hands

Walking into the small office of the musicologist, one would have seen the contrast between Dr. Shindle’s desk, with documents piled high, and Dr. Terry Miller’s desk, organized, with everything in plain sight. Other than both being alumni of Indiana University, they didn’t have much else in common. Dr. Miller led the ethnomusicology division, specializing in Asian musics. He plays kaen (also spelled khaen, khene), a free-reed mouth organ of Thailand[1] among other things. He founded the Chinese ensemble, the Thai ensemble and the gamelan ensemble—things one would not expect to find in a small Midwestern college town. In addition to subjects in ethnomusicology, Dr. Miller taught twentieth-century music history and the bibliography/research class that all graduate students had to take.

He was feared, at least among international students, for his strict rules and high expectations. Entering the program in the spring semester, I had half a year to get to know him personally first. Tall and skinny, with his curly hair, big eyes and glasses, Dr. Miller looked more like a mad scientist than a musician. He conducted his classes with the precision of scientific projects. His syllabuses were clearly laid out with detailed instructions for reading and written assignments and deadlines.

In the bibliography class, each week we learned different types of reference book, e.g., “catalog,” “index,” “bibliography.” Dr. Miller would give general information on the particular kinds of books. Students would then use items from our library to demonstrate the usefulness of these books. In my four years at NTNU, I never stepped into the library. I did know how to use library index cards—something I learned in high school. Terms like “bibliography of bibliographies” sounded more like a tongue twister to me than actual things. But I learned the existence of some important reference sources. A few of them were crucial to my dissertation.

Dr. Miller has a dry sense of humor and he delivers his punch line without any facial expressions. I remembered him saying that whoever tried to “read” and/or memorize the books we examined in class should be institutionalized. I giggled. Whenever I caught on with his funny tales, I would laugh. One day he said, in front of the class, that I was the first Asian student ever to laugh at his jokes. He asked if I knew what I was laughing about. I said, “Yes.” He obviously didn’t believe me. Several years later he asked me the same question at a party.

One objective of the class was to prepare us for academic writing, both in structure and style. We were to practice writing essay, using Turabian[2] as our style guide. Before taking the class, I didn’t know it was necessary to provide reference citations. (I cannot recall ever writing any formal reports in my undergraduate years. My essay for Dr. Quereau wasn’t supposed to be a real “paper.”) I don’t remember the subject of my paper for the class. I do remember flipping through Turabian to find the right format for each note. Proper application of punctuation was another area that I had to take caution since there were minor differences in punctuation between Chinese and English. Oh, and the spaces. . ..

I didn’t know then that I would become a musicology student. Nor was I thinking about writing scholar publications. But I learned the importance of respecting intellectual properties. I also learned, from studying the sources that I quoted, these citations would be helpful to other scholars and researchers interested in the same subject. I thank Dr. Miller for his thoroughness in preparing us.

In my final year of class work I took “Introduction of Ethnomusicology.” Other than learning the history and development of ethnomusicology, we had to practice transcribing field recordings. We also had to find a subject, do some “field research”—interviews and recording, submit our finding along with a paper. [3] The workload was so heavy that it became a tradition that all students would take an “incomplete.” I refused to do so at first. I ran into Dr. Miller several times during finals week. He continued to persuade me. Eventually, I realized that rushing through things just to get done really didn’t make sense. (Of course, by then, I was too exhausted to push forward.) I learned the important lesson of acknowledging my limit. This might seem inconsequential to many. But, for me, pride has always been a hindrance.

Dr. Miller has always kept a busy agenda: traveling extensively for researches and conferences. In addition to musical studies, he is also an expert in covered bridges. He has written about them.[4] Recently, he appeared in an episode of PBS’s NOVA series: “Operation Bridge Rescue”[5]

I remain in touch with Dr. Miller. Every year, I would send holiday greetings to him and Sara, his wife who is also a scholar. And, in return, I would receive a long letter about their extended family, their international travels, and publications. It doesn’t seem that they will slow down anytime soon.

[1] Khene_Wiki
[2] Kate L. Turabian, A Manual for Writers of Research Papers, Theses, and Dissertations, 4th ed. (Chicago: University Chicago Press, 1973).
[3] My report was on bandura, a Ukrainian plucked-string instrument. Bandura_Wiki
A choral conducting student of Ukrainian ancestry helped me completing the project. Here’s an introduction to the instrument and Ukrainian Bandurist Chorus: Ukrainian Bandurist Chorus
[4] Terry E. Miller and Ronald G. Knapp, America’s Covered Bridges: Practical Crossings—Nostalgic Icons (Clarendon: Tuttle Publishing, 2014). Reissued August 2017.
[5] operation-bridge-rescue-PBS-NOVA