Abstract
The purpose of this study was to investigate broad structural divisions in advanced studio lessons, characterising and comparing them, and considering their implications beyond the context of the studio. The study took a microethnographic approach to the observation of two undergraduate studio lessons, one classical and one jazz, given by expert performer-teachers. Structures were identified by seeking patterns of behaviour in terms of performance and lesson dialogue, along with discourse markers that might signify changes of focus or trajectories of action. A common feature for the two lessons was a series of episodes focused on student performance, with behavioural patterns changing for episodes reflecting on it. Contextual episodes emerged as the outstanding feature of the jazz studio lesson. It is argued that contrasts between the two lessons might be linked to the cultural traditions implied in each, and that such studies can contribute to research-informed studio practices by provoking and supporting the ongoing development of excellence in the studio.
Keywords
In recent years, research into advanced music studio teaching has drawn on a widening range of research tools and theoretical lenses to investigate behaviours, attitudes and contexts. In a landmark review of the literature, Jørgensen (2009) asked how research could inform one-to-one teaching and argued that the studio represented a complex context: improvement would depend on an ongoing accumulation of descriptions, discussions and reflections, informed by research, so that the individual experience of practitioners could be related to broader perspectives. In my own work as a teacher, researcher and professional development leader I have found colleagues eager to engage with research findings, which have been welcomed as grounds for shared reflection. The purpose of this paper is to contribute to that ongoing discussion by exploring the structure of classical and jazz studio practices.
‘Structure’ could be applied to small- or large-scale patterns, with either local or general implications. A useful dictionary definition describes it as ‘the existing arrangement and mutual relation of the constituent parts of a material object, [especially] as determining its distinctive nature or character’ (Oxford English Dictionary [OED], 2022). In microethnography, the focus is on social interaction rather than material objects, describing patterns of behaviour in minute detail and taking them to be constitutive of social practices (Garcez, 2017; Meehan, 1998; Streeck & Mehus, 2005). Thus the current study seeks to identify the order and distinction among patterns of behaviour in studio lessons, themselves produced by, and productive of, broader cultures. Although the scope of microethnography is necessarily limited, given its laborious procedures (Garcez, 2017), a case study can suggest generalisations on conceptual grounds rather than to whole populations, the configurations within the case providing the basis for comparison with other cases (Radley & Chamberlain, 2012).
In the early research focused on studio practices, small-scale structures were identified deductively. Thus Yarbrough and Price (1989) and Speer (1994) sought initiation-reply-evaluation (IRE) sequences, drawn from general education theory. Later Duke (1999) suggested that ‘rehearsal frames’ would be a more appropriate unit for analysis, focusing on periods in which students perform while teachers instruct and evaluate: more than the direct progression of the IRE sequence, this would allow for simple, repetitive or complex pathways to a successful performance. Kennell (2010), similarly, proposed a dynamic scaffolding model that allowed for adaptations in behaviour, according to the teacher’s continual evaluation of the student’s success.
A further contribution came from Koopman et al. (2007, p. 381), who described patterns in behaviour that might not seem to be structured at all. They reported that studio procedures could be driven by repertoire, addressed ad hoc: ‘the students played the pieces they had been performing, and the teachers then gave comments and suggestions on the basis of what they had heard and seen’. These procedures were consistent with the students’ individual practice sessions (p. 386), a connection endorsed by Barry (2007, p. 58), who reported that practice strategies were adopted by college-level students only after they had been used ‘repeatedly and vividly’ in lessons. These significant findings suggest that lesson structure might have a formative role in the individual work and trajectories of students.
The match between lesson procedures and practice strategies was highlighted in a description of undergraduate clarinet lessons by Burwell (2012, p. 191), who proposed the label of ‘learning games’ for certain patterned, collaborative procedures that were tacitly understood by lesson participants, including phases of systematic exercise-practice-rehearsal. Such ‘set pieces’ were scaffolded by the teacher, but in one instance a relatively mature student stepped aside briefly to deal with a technical problem in the same systematic way, having appropriated one of these procedures for himself. Scaffolded procedures might be cognitive as much as practical, and in a later study Burwell (2021, p. 474) described cognitive scaffolding so close that the teacher seemed to ‘inhabit’ the student, telling him precisely how to think, quizzing him about his intentions and encouraging him to demonstrate his appropriation of thinking behaviours. This was linked to Vygotsky’s notion of sharing consciousness until the learner can function independently (Vygotsky, 1981, p. 38).
These were authoritative procedures, that also appeared in a study of an expert voice teacher in the ‘warmup’ period of studio lessons (Burwell, 2018), distinguished by high proportions of singing and asymmetrical behaviour between teacher and student. The structure involved ‘behavioural loops’ (p. 21) initiated by the teacher, supported by coaching, and followed by feedback. This recalls the classic initiation-reply-evaluation cycle, except that successive cycles formed a ‘broadening spiral of activity’ (p. 28): as the exercises increased in difficulty, the loops took more time and included more singing, supported by more substantive feedback from the teacher. Again, this dynamic structure seemed to allow for an independent contribution from more mature students, with a particularly able soprano, for example, asserting herself into the feedback process, and turning it into a shared discussion.
That lesson mechanisms and behaviours might vary with participants was shown in the work of Barry (2007), who proposed three ‘styles’ of studio teaching, from ‘The Coach’ who worked closely and collaboratively with the student, ‘The Professor’ who provided more verbal instruction and feedback, and ‘The Conductor’ who eschewed explanation for high-energy activity. Once again, lesson behaviours were reflected in the practice behaviours of students. Barry’s models are clear, easily recognisable and parsimonious, but they may give the impression that teachers fall neatly into one or another category, without allowing for variation. Teachers might change their approach from one lesson to another, and they might change their approach within lessons, according to the task at hand or, arguably, its place in the lesson structure.
Variation can be incorporated into theoretical modelling if the modelling is broad enough, and several authors have described studio teaching in more abstract terms. Nerland (2007, p. 399) drew on discourse analysis to position studio teaching strategies within complex sociocultural networks, taken for granted by participants but affecting their ‘modes of thinking, learning and doing music’; features of these discourses might be recognised in other contexts, but the approach emphasises individual nuances rather than generalisable templates. A similar consideration of complexity was offered by de Bruin (2018), who observed interactive behaviour in jazz improvisation lessons, a relatively new field for the advanced studio tradition and one that continues to draw on a wide range of teacher experience and learning backgrounds. His description distinguished between categories of action and affiliation, but emphasised the variety among the personalities and behaviours involved, alongside ‘a complex mosaic of histories [and attitudes] to both learning and performance’ (p. 174).
The current study examines two advanced studio lessons, using both deductive and inductive tools to describe lesson behaviour, and seeking to identify structural features, characterising and comparing them, and considering their implications beyond the context of the studio. In this way it is aimed at contributing to our shared descriptions of studio practices, and to reflections on their broader significance.
Method
Participants were recruited to a study making a broad investigation of studio practices through a call for volunteers in an undergraduate music programme in Australia. In keeping with the ethics protocols of the host institution, participants were involved through informed consent and were assured of anonymity in reporting. The current study focuses on two filmed studio lessons, each involving a second-year undergraduate with an expert teacher-performer.
These lessons were identified for particular investigation because the teachers did not demonstrate on their specialist instruments, which is unusual among lessons given by highly accomplished performers (Duke & Simmons, 2006), while the distinct styles – classical and jazz – might present some interesting contrasts. In this report, the classical saxophone student will be known as Stuart, and his teacher as Tegan; the jazz trumpet student will be known as Seth, and his teacher as Travis.
The approach to analysis was microethnographic, regarding lesson interactions as embedded in social and cultural contexts, and regarding communication as a co-construction of understanding (Gillespie & Cornish, 2009). The lesson dialogue was transcribed in full, along with notes about lesson activity. Incidents of performance and of teachers’ singing were timed in seconds; verbal dialogue was measured in wordage, and the relative contributions of teachers and students were calculated. Teacher talk was categorised according to four pre-determined categories (Burwell, 2012): (1) Information, typically consisting in statements about the instrument, music, practice or contextual matters; (2) Elicitation, using instructions or questions to elicit student activity or answers; (3) Coaching, delivered during student performance; and (4) Feedback, delivered after student performance or student talk. Underlying structures were sought through changes of focus or trajectories of action. Common discourse markers, for example, can be used not only to signal a change of topic, but to bracket topics among foreground and background structures (Ferrara, 1997). Other salient behaviours were noted, along with promising patterns (Yin, 2018); where patterns emerged in one lesson, they were examined systematically and then checked against the other, in an iterative process that helped to clarify and justify the subdivisions. Thus qualitative research designs tend to be emergent (Creswell & Creswell, 2018), and nonlinear until a narrative account is devised in the form of a research report (Maxwell, 2013). In reporting the findings, some preliminary points of comparison are drawn between the two lessons, before structural features are identified and characterised, for each lesson in turn.
Findings
The students filmed their own lessons, and it was clear that some discussion had taken place before each film began. The film of the classical saxophone lesson lasted 64 minutes 45 seconds (64:45), and the jazz trumpet lesson ran for 52:43. It has been noted that neither teacher played on their specialist instrument during these lessons, though both sang, Tegan for 6% of the saxophone lesson time and Travis for 4% of the trumpet lesson. In addition, Travis played the piano for 17% of the lesson, either alone or to accompany his student.
There were strong contrasts in the proportions of lesson time devoted to student performance, with Stuart playing saxophone for 38%, and Seth playing trumpet for 11% of his lesson time. While Stuart played saxophone entirely unaccompanied, typically Seth’s trumpet was accompanied by his teacher Travis; he was unaccompanied for only 23% of his playing time, or 2% of the whole lesson. Regardless of the overlap between teacher and student, the proportion of time in which Travis played piano or sang (21%) was almost double that of Seth playing the trumpet.
Both teachers dominated lesson dialogue, Tegan contributing 84% of the wordage in the saxophone lesson, and Travis 87% in the trumpet lesson. Pre-determined categories accounted for 98 and 99% of teacher talk in the saxophone and trumpet lessons, respectively. In the saxophone lesson, Tegan’s talk was dominated by Information (61%), followed by Elicitation (20%), Feedback (9%) and Coaching (7%). In the trumpet lesson, Travis’s talk was dominated still more by Information (78%), at the expense of Elicitation (16%) and Feedback (5%); there was no Coaching at all, though as noted, Travis often provided piano accompaniment for his student’s playing. Taken together, Coaching and Feedback – the categories responding most directly to student performance – represented 16% of teacher talk in the saxophone lesson, and 5% in the trumpet lesson.
On the whole then, the classical saxophone lesson was focused more directly than the jazz trumpet lesson on student performance: the saxophone student played more, and played more unaccompanied. This was reflected in aspects of the teacher’s verbal behaviour, with the saxophone teacher’s talk focusing on student activity through higher proportions of Elicitation, Coaching and Feedback.
Structure in the classical saxophone lesson
The saxophone lesson fell into alternating episodes that, for convenience, will be given the metaphorical titles of ‘verses’ and ‘choruses’. Verses included all student performance, and the talk immediately related to it; choruses consisted in broader discussion, typically reflecting on verse activity. Verses (
Student performance occupied 45% of verse time, and teacher singing 5%; the teacher dominated verbally by contributing 85% of verse dialogue. Within teacher talk in verses, Information represented 55% of the wordage, Elicitation 22%, Feedback 11% and Coaching 9%. Thus, the proportion of Information was reduced from the lesson average of 61%, while the other categories increased, reflecting the focus on student performance.
The lesson began with a verse, as Tegan and Stuart spent a full minute devising a working plan, not just for the verse but for the whole lesson. This is shown in Excerpt 1, in which student talk is represented in italics, and action in square brackets.
Excerpt 1: Saxophone lesson 00:00–01:14 00:05 And, what are we up to today? Yes. Cool. Well perhaps the etude first, just to warm up, Yes. You need to be warm to do a lot of the techniques in that. 00:35 Um, we were discussing last lesson about the, ah, the use of the octave leap And how you can, the saxophone can actually help you do that . . . So the, maybe the second variation, or the first variation, the second section. And just play the octave leaps for me, and do it in a very, kind of prescriptive way: release your thumb before you want to, want the note to come down. And then as it’s coming down, help it to come down. Yes. (Unclear) slur it. 01:14 [Stuart plays.]
In the Information and Elicitation that concluded this exchange (from 00:35), Tegan recalled some background information and then gave highly specific instructions to prepare for Stuart’s first performance; whenever choruses gave way to verses, there was specific preparation for performance. Other, more concise examples included ‘Play – walk through that one for me; you don’t have to run at this point’ (20:20), indicating some parameters for the trial to follow; and ‘Shall we have a go at the vibrato?’ (48:07), identifying a specific point of focus.
Repetition emerged as a significant feature of verses: the first octave leap, for example, was played three times before Tegan said ‘Good? Next one?’ (01:42), followed by a repeat: ‘Again’ (01:55), ‘Couple more times?’ (02:12), ‘One more of that one?’ (02:37). In all, there were 17 explicit commands to repeat, along with 3 explicit references to repetition from the student. It seemed, too, that repetition was to be carried over into Stuart’s practice, with Tegan explaining and even joking about it: ‘You can’t practise it too frequently, slowly; because if you’re reiterating it, you’re reiterating it the right way rather than, kind of banging into it quickly and getting it wrong . . . So, when you’re practising this, you have to hear me going “Nah! Still not quite right!”’ (06:19).
Another salient feature of teacher talk in verses was the pairing of instructions or statements with a further statement beginning ‘because’, as shown in bold print in Excerpt 1. Further examples include ‘Really listen out for it:
Each verse culminated in a chorus. Within choruses the student Stuart did not play but made a stronger contribution to lesson dialogue, with 21% of the wordage, up from 14% in verses. With less need for elicitation, and no need for coaching or feedback, teacher talk was dominated more strongly by Information, representing 89% of her wordage, up from 55% in verses. The purpose of choruses may be surmised from the teacher’s opening statement in each, listed in Excerpt 2:
Excerpt 2. Saxophone lesson, chorus openings 08:59 How can we improve it, do you think? 18:54 28:57 Okay! 44:50 47:26 You do need to sort the notes out, okay? 52:00 Okay, 59:53
The word ‘so’, used in five of the seven openings, acted as a discourse marker indicating a relationship between each chorus and its preceding verse. All seven chorus openings were framed as questions for the student. Two of these were not answered by him: Stuart deflected the query about improvement with a joke, ‘Ah, do that again lots of times, better?’ (09:01), leaving Tegan to answer the question herself; and later, ‘okay?’ (47:26) proved to be a rhetorical question followed by a more detailed prescription for Stuart’s practice. The remaining five questions, however, allowed responses from Stuart before Tegan elaborated with more information, as in Excerpt 3.
Excerpt 3: Saxophone lesson 28:57-29:18 Okay! So, it’s – it’s knowing what?
Mm hm
A lot of them, they’re not
Yes, it is muscle memory; and then not a particular scale that you’d ordinarily play. And it’s very very Bozza to do that, to just throw in an accidental just because he can . . .
The chorus openings looked both backward and forward, taking performance-focused verse activity as the point of departure and then securing the lessons to be taken from them. Thus in choruses, teacher and student worked together to reflect on the preceding verses, summarising them, engaging in analytical thinking, and drawing out the consequences of verse activity.
Structure in the jazz trumpet lesson
Verses (
The verse openings of the trumpet lesson are shown in Excerpt 4.
Excerpt 4. Trumpet lesson, verse openings 09:07 15:50 22:32 Okay. Should play the tune: let’s have a blow, 28:00 Let’s just do that A section over. 30:28 One, two, a-one two three four. 34:15 One, two, a-one two three four. 36:15 One, two, a-one two three four. 37:45 So, let’s go from the top. One, two, a-one two three four. 40:43 BUT 43:49
In contrast to the saxophone verses, the trumpet verses tended to open with a quick switch to action, without specific preparation. Of the ten openings, three followed directly from jokes (09:07, 28:00, 34:15), two followed anecdotes about leading jazz players (15:50, 40:43), one followed some reflections from Travis on his role as a teacher (22:32), and the rest followed general remarks about approaches to rhythm (30:28), melodic construction (36:15), practice (37:45) and ensemble playing (43:49). A specific challenge – getting from F to F sharp – was identified at 40:43, but more often, the starting point was indicated and Travis counted in to the performance, with a point of focus identified only after the event. For example, the performance preceded by ‘You should play’ (15:50) was followed by ‘Okay, so. Articulation’ (16:07).
Five of the openings were marked by ‘anyway’, apparently dismissing the preceding discussion as less important, and returning to duty. This structural use of ‘anyway’ was exclusive to trumpet verses: there was only one occurrence aside from those highlighted in Excerpt 4, and that lay within a verse, again signalling a resumption of play – ‘The piano’ll play it, but –
There was a more salient kind of episode, unique to the jazz trumpet lesson, and focused on a range of contextual issues rather than related directly to verses. While verses occupied 25% of the lesson time, contextual episodes (
Contextual references had not been absent from the classical saxophone lesson: on four occasions Tegan had mentioned the composers of the works studied by Stuart – Sancan, Bozza, Noda –even referring to Noda by his first name, presumably indicating a personal acquaintance, and urging ‘you can’t listen too much . . . to someone playing shakuhachi, [especially] someone like him’ (55:07). But in the jazz trumpet lesson, Travis mentioned artists’ names on no less than 34 occasions: Louis Armstrong (four times), or Louis (2); Chet Baker (1), or Chet (1); Beethoven (1); Clifford Brown (1); Dave Brubeck (3); Miles (3); Kenny Dorham (1); Duke Ellington (1), or Ellington (1); Roger Frampton (1); Aretha Franklin (1); Lambert, Hendricks & Ross (1); Monk (7); Bud Powell (4); and Sonny Rollins (1). These names were not incidental to the discussion: typically the discussion was about them. Monk was the only artist mentioned outside the contextual episodes, which at times seemed immersed in history; an impression of background familiarity was strengthened by the highly specific usage that meant, evidently, that Louis Armstrong could be called by his first or both names; Beethoven should be called by his surname, but Miles Davis should be called by his first only; and Bud Powell was always named in full, even when he was mentioned twice in quick succession.
There were other distinctive features in the language use of contextual episodes; one of them was swearing. The first instance occurred beforehand, while Travis was discussing a choice of bridges available for
‘Shit’ was exclusive to contextual episodes, and aside from a single use as part of a joke, so was ‘man’, which also seemed to indicate warmth of feeling: of the Ken Burns documentary, ‘Oh, get it man’ (13:19); ‘Come on Saturday night man, at the Foundry’ (39:28); ‘Aretha Franklin singing “Amazing grace” . . . makes me cry, man’ (51:07); and of Chet Baker, ‘Just at the right time, I’ll be “Oh man this is way beyond any words”’ (51:21). The contextual episodes drew out Travis’s passion for his subject, for example ‘I love it – it’s an excellent documentary’ (13:40); ‘But boy, [that gospel] music is unbelievably powerful for an old heathen like me’ (50:42); and ‘To me that’s incredible’ (51:51). This personal perspective was extended to the teacher’s remarks about practice, using plural pronouns to indicate that the challenges were shared: discipline was something that ‘most of us’ needed (32:04), and Travis offered himself as an example – ‘I reckon every day we’ve got a chance, just to get rid of one little habit’ (32:53), and ‘it works for me because my mind needs something like that’ (33:04).
After verses and contextual episodes, 34% of the trumpet lesson remains to be accounted for. Much of this can be classified in terms of choruses, in that they have some relationship with the performance-focused verses. The nine ‘chorus’ openings shown in Excerpt 5, however, indicate a wider range of content:
Excerpt 5. Trumpet lesson, chorus openings 00:25 Which bridge do you play, for that? 09:53 19:14 Rhythm is such a hard thing. 29:31 Now, back to time. 35:46 Quite often I go ‘Oh yeah, first four bars the bridge, is that okay?’ 36:53 Boy that’s a habit that’s staying there . . . How can you get rid of that? 42:08 49:14 51:56
In the first two choruses Travis discussed the various bridges available for
Language usage in choruses shared one trait with contextual episodes, in that it featured what might be called ‘cool vernacular’: the word
Discussion
This study has investigated structural features of advanced studio lessons, identifying broad subdivisions –variously labelled as verses, choruses or contextual episodes – rather than the more local procedures typically identified in previous research, such as the IRE sequence, and other scaffolding procedures. The subdivisions have been justified by internal consistency in participant behaviours, alongside discourse markers signalling changes of direction in lesson activity.
Performance-focused ‘verses’ were a common element in the two lessons, prevalent for the classical saxophone and present for the jazz trumpet. In the classical saxophone verses, unaccompanied performance was supported by detailed instructions in which the word
The perception of a sense of duty might be linked to the contrasting registers of the jazz teacher’s talk, with the use of a ‘cool vernacular’ reserved for contextual episodes and choruses in the trumpet lesson. It might be linked also to the cliché that in the studio tradition, ‘teacher talks, student plays’. However, although verses dominate the classical saxophone lesson, the choruses – parenthetical discussions punctuating the verses – belie the simplicity of the cliché description. The saxophone choruses systematically complement verse activity, and what is secured through mindful repetition in verses is secured cognitively and metacognitively in choruses, through shared discussions often introduced by the teacher’s
In contrast, there are fewer reasons to identify ‘choruses’ as a coherent structural element of the jazz trumpet lesson. Lacking the internal consistencies of the verses and contextual episodes, what remains can be described as middle ground; a loose focus on verse activity distinguishes the middle ground from the contextual episodes, which are arguably the outstanding feature of the jazz trumpet lesson, certainly in terms of teacher talk and enthusiasm. In contextual episodes the teacher’s vivid account of practical artistry contextualises the studio lesson, largely by evoking great figures of the past, and their approaches to the creation of jazz composition and performance; there is a sense that the centrality of instrument and repertoire in classical music is displaced, here, by the embodied expertise of individual jazz performer-composers (Evans, 2022). Perhaps more, it evokes the culture through which jazz was traditionally learned, prior to being incorporated into institutions of formal education (Ake, 2010; Berliner, 1994). It is beyond the scope of this paper to give a just description of that culture, or cultures; but the teacher’s own descriptions, the warmth of feeling and the vernacular usage are consistent with the paradoxes informing Wilf’s (2014) assertion that the institutionalisation of jazz is at odds with its key aesthetic principles, traditions and ideologies.
Arguably this gives the jazz studio teacher in higher education a twofold task: firstly, a duty to deliver formal one-to-one lessons that may be perceived as the institutional norm, its expectation and indeed its strength; and secondly, what may be a more gratifying drive to evoke the sociocultural environment and practices implicated in the art and history of jazz. This hybridity appears to be reflected in the contrasting structures of the classical and jazz lessons examined here. The ‘verse-chorus’ structure of the classical lesson is consistent, elegant and parsimonious; it is consistent with Duke’s (1999) notion of rehearsal frames, the dynamic scaffolding procedures observed by Kennell (2010) and Burwell (2012), and the purposeful loops of activity described by Burwell (2018). Lesson participants Tegan and Stuart navigate this structure with native ease and confidence, and there is abundant evidence suggesting that Stuart leaves his lessons knowing what to do and how, to become a master of his instrument. In contrast, the ‘verse-chorus-contextual episode’ model is far less tidy in the jazz lesson, with the number, order and proportions of episodes far more variable. Verses can be identified, with choruses that are loosely related to them, but both lack the systematicity of the classical approach. Both teachers give expert advice, but typically Tegan’s advice is actioned and unpacked during the lesson, while Travis’s advice is a more open invitation, leaving his student with the freedom to participate, abstain, succeed or fail. Discipline is evoked and assumed here, rather than taught and learned. At the same time, the motivation to participate is warmly supported in contextual episodes, suggesting that Seth leaves his lesson knowing what to do and how, to become a member of a musical community.
The theoretical modelling emerging in this study perhaps lies between the holistic clarity of Barry’s (2007) teaching styles, and the sociocultural complexity evoked by Nerland (2007) and de Bruin (2018). It has not been the purpose of this study to make generalisations about the population of advanced studio practitioners, nor about classical and jazz musicians; these two lessons may be exceptional anyway, in that the teachers never demonstrate on their principal instruments, and single lessons can hardly be regarded as wholly representative even of individual teachers’ work. Even so, microethnography seeks to identify the foundations of social organisation and cultural practices in particular interactions (Streeck and Mehus, 2005), and there is a striking contrast between the two lessons, giving rise to questions that might inform both practice and research. To what extent can these practices be related to classical and jazz traditions? Is there a tendency for classical lessons to focus on the student’s playing – to the extent that it becomes possible to conduct a lesson without either teacher demonstration or accompaniment? Is there a tendency for jazz lessons to be torn between communal, participatory models of learning and a perceived requirement to attend to the student’s playing? What can classical and jazz practitioners learn from one another, and in what contexts would such learning be valuable? Studies like this can contribute to the development of heuristics that can be applied in the examination of other studio lessons; and such contributions can help to build a richer description of possible practices, provoking and supporting the ongoing development of excellence in the studio.
