As cellists, we just can't afford to be heard playing out of tune. Or with unstable rhythm. Or without nuanced vibrato. Phrasing, articulation, and tone production are a constant negotiation with physics, whose unforgiving laws punish us immediately when we fail to comply. On top of that, every note has five finger choices and two possible bow directions. When they're strung together, we face an exponential number of possibilities, with each note just waiting for us to mess something up. Using over fifty guiding principles, we must systematically identify the most seamless finger and bow patterns for any piece that make cello playing more tractable, or else.

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Even once those are solved, we still have to be able to move between notes fluently. Each passage must be drilled, evaluated, and adjusted repeatedly for accuracy and consistency. Such discipline grants us at first only the ability to play, but not yet the ability to express. In order to do that, we must also consider related history, tradition, and style to respect the composer's intentions, while leaving room for informed freedom of interpretation. Only then may we start to call the deliberate results of our efforts, music.

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But what is all this careful attention to detail for, if not only to share the finished product with an audience? It is the impression that both practicing and performing music leave behind; impressions we form and reflect upon today, so we may become people who create with greater understanding tomorrow.