In the summer of 1969, a group of musicians walked on stage at the Montreux Jazz Festival in Switzerland with nothing short of a half-formed idea. In a last-minute effort, pianist Les McCann, bassist Leroy Vinnegar, and drummer Donald Dean recruited trumpeter Benny Bailey and saxophonist Eddie Harris to perform an impromptu hour-long set. The group had never played or rehearsed together for even so much as a minute; even the set list was not fully established. Yet, without hesitation, McCann counted in the band with the baseline for their first tune, Compared to What, and the group figured it out from there.
The performance was so spontaneous that, after the song and the roar of applause that followed, McCann made a brief clarification about their next number, Cold Duck Time.
“Alright, we’re gonna try a new song. This is a song written by Eddie Harris, and today is the first time we ever saw it. So, with your help, we just might do it.”
The performance—which, by happenstance, was recorded in its entirety—was released under the name Swiss Movement later that year and became a best-selling album.
The nature of this performance is not something unbeknownst to jazz musicians—after all, a fundamental aspect of the genre is improvisation. But improvisation and its accompanying excitement are not exclusive to jazz, or live music for that matter.
Improvisation is one of the fundamental roots of elation. In sports, the biggest plays are made in the heat of the moment, when a player must make a split-second decision to secure a goal, basket, or point. A stand-up comedian’s prowess is often measured by their ability to engage in crowd-work, offering witty comebacks to drunk audience members. To surprise spectators, even movies offer the illusion of characters making a last-ditch effort to save their universe through unforeseen tactics. Such an ability to improvise, when executed with confidence and precision, distinguishes people in their fields and awes observers who could only dream of doing something similar.
While these moments are most frequently felt in crowds, the act of stepping into realms of uncertainty should not be reserved for the highest-stakes environments.
When I explain the concept of life drawing to people, I am often asked why I enjoy it. Instinctively, the first thing I point to is that from the moment the model is fixed in place and the timer begins, I am utterly terrified. I find myself staring, trying to recall the various lessons on form and proportions I was taught years ago. In this moment of defeat, where I have convinced myself I know nothing, I turn to other solutions. I might meticulously fixate on the contours of their face, I might mentally retrace the composition 15 times, and I might even engage in an internal debate about whether to focus on the negative space. But, eventually, my pencil finds the paper, and, line by line, I piece it all together.
Whether lasting 45 or just 15 minutes, a pose requires a certain level of patience. It equally calls for a willingness to accept the decisions made in the moment, to trust in one’s ability, and to be present in an exercise that intrinsically connects the mind to one’s fingertips. It is a practice I love because it scares me, and however good or bad I might think my work is, it still represents a moment when I walked onto a stage, unsure of where it would lead me.
What makes improvisation so powerful is that it toes the line between control and uncertainty. Understanding a framework is only a preliminary step; what follows is learning to understand yourself. Engaging with the practice, redefining what it means to set limits for yourself, and finding a place for improvisation in your creative endeavours all allow for these limits to be tested, reshaped, and abandoned.
Should you feel doubt about the things you create, know that when McCann got off that Montreux stage, he feared his performance was less than satisfactory. It was not until he took a step back and listened to the tape that he began to understand how much joy he brought to the world that day.