The map you can't see

Yesterday I asked one of my younger piano students, aged eight, to play something with her eyes closed.

It’s not the first time, so she just grinned at me, found the right place on the keyboard for her hand, and shut her eyes.

I watched as she stilled.

For a moment she did nothing while she got used to no longer being able to see anything. Then her fingers curved in just the right way so that they were exactly in the middle of each key, whereas a moment before she was making movements that were too big in an effort to make sure she was hitting the right note.

She fumbled a bit at first, trying to not just remember the layout of the keys but also the notes she was supposed to be playing. But I could tell the moment her mental image of the keyboard kicked in, as well as her awareness of where her fingers were.

It was as if the geography of the piano and her fingers combined in such a way that everything became clear, like a map.

Having your eyes shut makes you feel vulnerable, especially in the middle of a music lesson that you thought was going to involve, you know, music.

So I always do it first. Because there’s something about seeing someone else make themselves vulnerable that helps you give yourself permission to do it, too.

It’s such a small action, closing your eyes. But the impact is immediate and huge.

The world drops away.

My studio with its pianos and recording equipment, music stands, the big window, and shelves of music, all of it gone, and me, now just a voice.

The stronger voice, though, is now coming from within.

Everything feels different, the way you stand or sit, each breath you take, and especially each sound you make.

If you’re singing, for example, what previously might have felt like something you were forcing out into the world now wraps around you, becoming something you inhabit. And each note you create, whether from a melody you’ve learnt or something you’re creating yourself, feels like it’s part of you.

Remove the visual map and you quickly discover how much you usually rely on it. The challenge is learning how to trust the information that’s coming from within you rather than leaning on the external context for validation.

Usually we want to get rid of friction that gets in the way of doing something. But this isn’t friction that’s a result of making something harder for the sake of it. Instead, it’s there because by shutting your eyes you’re removing a support you didn’t even realise you were using.

It’s a friction that is inherently and powerfully creative.

Close your eyes while balancing, singing, playing an instrument, drawing, or even thinking, and you haven’t changed the fundamental task. But what you have done is changed the conditions under which you perform it.

Vision is our dominant sense. When your eyes are open, your brain is constantly processing movement, objects, lighting, facial expressions, music stands, and whatever else is in your immediate environment.

Without it, you’re forced to recalibrate. At first whatever it is that you’re creating or doing will seem harder, even impossible. You might be wondering how it can be possible to do something with your eyes closed that you struggle to do with them open.

But then something that feels quite magical starts to happen. Your focus begins to deepen as the rest of the world recedes.

The old map you’ve always relied on begins to fade and a new one starts to emerge. Your focus deepens, and information that was always there, but hidden beneath the noise of seeing, becomes visible in a different way.

The friction comes from that shift.

Not because the task itself has changed, but because the source of certainty has changed.

We often assume that for creativity to flourish we have to ease the way, remove as many obstacles as we can, and that it will only really work when we feel confident and ready.

But some forms of friction don’t block creativity. Instead, they help reveal it and make it happen.

You begin to trust your ears more, your memory, and your own ability to do whatever it is. You also begin to trust your instincts a little more than the reassurance of getting everything exactly right.

My student discovered this at the piano.

Once the visual map disappeared, she had to rely on a different map entirely. This was a map built from memory, touch, and awareness, trust in her own ability to navigate all these things. She was stepping into what must have felt like a new world, even if it was still entirely built from the old one.

I think this is what creative friction often asks of us.

Not to work harder or become more talented. And not even to learn something completely new.

Instead, it asks us to let go of a source of certainty we didn’t realise we were relying on and discover what happens when we do.

When she closed her eyes, she lost access to the visual map she thought she needed more than anything else.

And in doing so, she began to draw one of her own.