by composer Dalit Warshaw, a master's student in composition at the Juilliard School

Article in The Juilliard Journal (Nov. 1996, pp. 10-11) deals with the musical gifts of [people with Williams Syndrome].

The following are excerpts from that article:

I had the privilege of working with Williams syndrome people during the summer of 1995 in a week-long camp especially designed for people with Williams syndrome at Belvoir Terrace in Lenox, Massachusetts. The ages ranged from nine to 46. Working with these people who were, in one way, mentally retarded and in another way so miraculously talented compelled me to find ways to teach different from the typical, traditional ones; at times, it led me to question whether what we actually are imparting to normal children through the traditional, and more cerebral, way of teaching is truly what music is about.

With quite a few of the individuals with Williams syndrome I've seen and worked with ... they seemed to have no mental disabilities at all, but were extremely musical people with brilliant ears who felt every phrase and musical inflection instinctively through the core of their being, without even knowing why. A question could be posed as to whether something as abstract and as mysterious as one's musicality even need be verbalized or explained, if one comprehends it implicitly; indeed, excessive verbalization could probably be a hindrance in cases of extreme musicality, for the musical instinct operates at a quicker rate and more definitively than does a methodical analysis. Mozart, for instance, had no need for logical justification of his language. The individuals with Williams syndrome are beyond this, as well. Although the degree varies, it seems that most possess a musicality more natural than that which most normal people have; what they need now is the proper "light switch" that would open to them the possibilities of what they could do with this gift.

I worked with each of my students for a half-hour every day, half an hour being enough for most of them, since they apparently require much more energy in their daily routines than most people. They are often not as physically adept. Differences in physical type were often extreme: Either they would be ungainly and overweight, or they would be very thin and hyperactively limber. All of them craved affection and were able to bestow it as readily: They would always greet you with a hug and an exclamation of love, and the limber ones would be inclined to run over to you and nearly topple you with the zest of their embrace. Their enthusiasm carried over into anything for which they had an affinity, such as music; at times, their interest was kindled more by an effort to please you, the instructor, and win your praise. They would frequently overexert themselves in their willingness to please, causing fatigue; care therefore had to be taken in teaching them and noticing their reactions. They would always be more than enthusiastic when they were beginning, and would use a good and sincere amount of their concentration, but when they seemed to slow down, repeat mistakes, or seem generally out of focus, it was a sign that their energy was waning. Of a half-hour lesson, perhaps twenty minutes would be used productively. The rest of the lesson would be spent either in conversation (at which they are more than adept and willing), in loose improvisation at the piano, or--as in the case with Adam [fictitious name]--in singing and playing songs, either his own or those which he had learned by ear, at the piano.

Adam, 18 years old, would enter the room and enthusiastically greet anyone and everyone within visual scope; he would then, without prompting, head straight for the piano and, once seated, would become so absorbed that hardly anything occurring nearby could distract him. He would improvise pop-style songs, in which well-timed lyrics and catchy phrases would be complemented by appropriate harmonies. I noticed, however, that he chose no root-position triads among his harmonies, and that, although he would play two notes together with one hand, I never caught him playing three notes together. The two-note intervals that he did play were mostly fourths and some thirds, and hence were mostly second inversion chords. When playing harmonies, he used for the most part only the second and fourth fingers. His hands were strangely shaped, with erratically bent fourth and fifth fingers as well as jutting thumbs.

 

I wanted to find out if he could, or would, use his fifth fingers if the music demanded it, but feared to infringe upon the musical language that he had created so uniquely for himself. I also sought to steer him away slightly from the stereotype so common in pop music of the left hand providing the harmonic rhythm and the right hand providing only melody, without detrimentally affecting his own musical style. I asked him if he would like to try something different, where we wouldn't necessarily need the voice to sing, but only our hands, which would have a new role from what he is used to. I played for him the beginning of the third movement of Beethoven's Tempest Sonata, a work which--although written about 200 years ago--employs mostly the same tonal basis as Adam's pop music: i, V, V, i, iv, and then the "weird chord" that causes the work to be so memorable: a flatted second, then V, i. Instead of block chords, however, both left hand and right hand are arpeggioed, forcing the pianist to play them legato, or connectedly, and to stretch the hand a span of an octave, employing the fifth finger.

Adam reacted excitedly to my playing, and when he imitated my right hand using his usual fingering, he seemed to realize of his own accord that it was awkward and that using the fifth finger was much less strenuous. With the bass part, it was even more obvious that it could not be played unless the left hand stretches and travels from the pinky up in order to achieve an arpeggio effect. After the second hearing he was able to play both hands together by ear. Adam cannot read music.

It was impossible to work with these Williams campers without being captivated, due to their opulently outgoing and affectionate demeanors. One was continually struck by their positive attitude. And yet, in their reactions to music, there could be seen a genuine sensitivity to pain: The emotional content being described was always very clear to them, indicating a certain point of empathy from within which appreciation of the music was kindled. In playing the fourth Ballade of Chopin for one 18 year-old boy and asking him how he felt about certain parts, he would readily answer, "This is very sad. Lonely. Angry. This is so happy!" Some might say that their musical talent arises purely from the imitative skill brought about by the disorder, but if that is the case, why the superior understanding of the musical language, the love for it, the ability to communicate within it? Perhaps, however, one should not generalize either way: As with all people, there are different levels of poetic understanding, based on the effects of life experience and poetic affinity. The degrees of musicality varied widely among those with whom I worked. Was this a result of individual personality, or of the disorder's effect? How much does musical affinity have to do with Williams syndrome, or with a talent that would have been inherent anyway, had nature taken its normal course? Surely such a condition, no matter how potent its inflence on the brain, cannot strip a person of his or her individual, naturally and genetically intended complexities--or can it?

Ten-year-old Josh [fictitious name] is thin and limber, blond and blue-eyed, mischievous, fidgety, and brilliant. This particular day was the first in which anything was really accomplished, because his mother was present. I taught him the beginning of Bach's Invention in F Major. Making a mistake wounds him to the quick--he can't deal with it and stops, frustrated and discouraged, starting to cry bitterly, "I'll never get it right. " The same thing had happened the day before, in front of an audience, mid-recital. At the same time, though, he seems to know how good he is. He demands a lot of himself He is able to transpose Kabalevsky's Toccatina into different keys, although he makes the effort grudgingly. He reads notes. He has a wonderful ear and memory, when he concentrates. During this particular lesson, he happened to hear a saxophone playing outside, and he could recreate the pitches on the piano.

Cases of Williams syndrome range in severity from the barely noticeable to the gravely obvious. Josh, for instance, who attends a normal elementary school in a grade befitting his years, has normal facial features, no flagrantly obvious orthopedic problems, and is able to use all of his fingers at the piano with reasonable technical dexterity, playing works challenging for any ten-year-old. His hands had been guided in the right direction early on, thanks to a scrupulous piano teacher and a regimen of Hanon and scales, although by normal pianistic standards his fingers could probably have been more curved.

In observing the unique and enthusiastically displayed artistic capacities of these individuals, one is awe-stricken and yet also filled with a profound sadness. One wonders why it requires a disability to cause such natural talent, why it takes affliction to cause such beauty. What lies in this one half-chromosome that causes its absence to affect the body and brain in such dramatic ways? One also wonders if the very existence of talent is always induced by genetic fluke, if genius and biological deviation are more linked than we might want to think. Is talent a "pathology"? If talent is abnormal, is it then normal for deviation to determine talent? And thus, wouldn't pure talent unassociated with any disorder be all the more a miracle? In any case, much about the syndrome still remains to be discovered, and much more effort taken to help people with Williams syndrome and encourage them--efforts not just on the part of geneticists and other researchers, but psychologists and musicians as well.

The Williams Syndrome Music and Arts Camp was founded in 1994 by Howard Lenhoff and Sharon Libera, each of whom has a child with the disorder. (Gloria Lenhoff is a gifted soprano with Williams syndrome who--although she cannot read music--has actually taken to singing professionally, and has recently released ... [her fifth album] of songs in [twenty-two] languages ranging from Hebrew to German to Italian. She also plays the accordion. John Libera is a gifted clarinetist and pianist.)