Monday 3rd March 1975
‘Choir OK Mrs T out. Lessons usual. Lunch. Staff meeting so I practice flute. Mr T persuades me to take an academic scholarship after praising me quite an extent. Get GV cup and Schol. I sense she claims. Rugby OK. At the end que j’adore. Write letter to G, long lost girlfriend who eventually wrote back. Miss 1 lesson. Supper. Practice flute. French prep. Take group for music. Tynedale Festival.’
KEY: KAI is ChatGPT (rephrased, Americanisations removed, sometimes more succinctly put). G is ‘girl’, all girls. ‘T’ is teacher, all teachers. And ‘B’ is, you guessed, for ‘boy’. I’ve used a single letter, not even initials, or nicknames to avoid using proper names.
KAI: Monday, 3rd March 1975, captures a pivotal moment in your transition from extrinsic motivation (prizes, authority, discipline) to intrinsic motivation (music, personal meaning, questioning the system). You were at the peak of your school career but started to see through it, realising that success within the system didn’t necessarily align with what mattered most to you.
The entry is packed with details. Here are some prompts to help you draw out more from these memories:
- Choir OK Mrs. T out: What was choir usually like? Did Mrs. T’s absence change the atmosphere or how things were run? Did you enjoy choir, or was it just another obligation?
- Lessons usual: Were there any subjects you mainly looked forward to or dreaded on Mondays? Did any teacher stand out?
- Flute practice during the staff meeting: Did you enjoy having this extra time, or was it just something to fill the gap? How did you feel about playing the flute—was it a passion, or more of an expectation?
- Mr. T is persuading you to take an academic scholarship. What was his praise like? Did you believe what he said, or did it feel like he was pushing you toward something you weren’t sure about? How did you feel about the idea of a scholarship?
- GV cup and Schol: What was the GV cup? Was this an achievement you were proud of? Who was “she” who claimed something—was it a teacher, another student?
- Rugby OK: Were you actively involved in the game, or was it just something to get through? Did you enjoy it, or was this part of the school culture you had to accept?
- “At the end “que j’adore”: What did you adore? Was this about rugby, or something else that happened at the end of the day?
- Letter to a long-lost girlfriend: Who was she? What had caused the communication gap? How did you feel about writing to her, and what did you include in the letter?
- Missing a lesson: What was the reason? Did you get away with it, or did you have to make up the work?
- Taking a group for music: What did this involve? Were you teaching or leading a practice? Was this something you enjoyed or something expected of you?
- Tynedale Festival: What was your role in it? Was it a school-related event, or something bigger? Was this something you were looking forward to?
There are a lot of interesting threads here! Do any of them trigger more memories?
Choir in Assembly
JV: As Head Chorister, I led the choir in morning assembly because Mrs. T was absent.
Mrs. T likely led the choir during the morning assembly. She may have conducted the choir while seated at the grand piano in the top corner. The Headmaster and teachers were at one end, while the choir stood on the steps leading up to the head table, which was positioned in a large bay window. The dining hall was the former ballroom of Newton Hall. Large mirrors adorned each end, and on the facing wall were four extended shelves dedicated to a different house: Grey, Bewick, Stephenson, and Collingwood.
As Head Chorister, I stood on one of the steps to be seen by the choir, which consisted of about twenty boys of different ages. I led the choir by keeping time with my hand, holding my hymn book in the other hand.
The school photographer took pictures of the choir and swimming, rugby and cricket teams, which were later purchased by my maternal grandmother and found among her belongings after she had died.
Lessons & Activities
Usual lessons—nothing particularly memorable.
Practiced flute during a staff meeting. We had free time if there were no lessons.
Music and performance mattered to you, but you didn’t enjoy the exams that came with it.
Tynedale Festival: This annual event is where choristers from Mowden sang solos and musicians played. I played the flute, but lost to another brilliant entry. I recall a cellist from Mowden doing very well. I performed a Sicilienne for Flute by Gabriel Faure, which I had been preparing for my Grade V flute practical exam.
I’ve taken a group for music, but I have no idea what this entailed or why I was doing it. Was I a substitute teacher? Was it supervised practice?
Scholarship & Academic Recognition
The Head Master persuaded me to take an academic scholarship to Sedbergh, praising me (belatedly) to encourage. This praise was a first in nearly five years at the school.
The scholarship was more about school prestige than personal choice, though you went along with it. Either way, I smashed my leg in April, missed the entire summer school and never sat the Scholarship exam.
Was the ‘GV Cup & Scho’ awarded? Once again, fifty years later, my cryptic note is meaningless. Some months or even years into keeping the diary, I realised I’d have to be more transparent about what I was doing and have something worth writing about.
Sport & Extrinsic Motivation
Rugby was “OK”—but you had no choice in playing.
I preferred to focus on swimming if given the option.
I was highly motivated by extrinsic rewards:
The House competition & silver cups (our house, Bewick, went from having few trophies to winning most).
Being a school prefect, or a DC or Dormitory Captain, brought status. We had our common room and a patch of the woods called ‘DCs Wood’.
The school ran a system of merits, and demerits for good and poor work.
The Dormitory and DC’s prizes were awarded for discipline and order in the dormitory. Hospital corners come to mind, making bundles too, and getting to and from the washrooms in a disciplined fashion. I can’t recall what else it entailed—telling ghost stories and keeping silence otherwise after lights out and organising and thwarting ‘dorm raids’.
We had to turn our beds back to the front at the end of term, so we slept at the foot end. It was a tradition and set the mood for stripping the bed and going home the next day.
Shifting Perspective on Authority & Motivation
I began to reject how you were manipulated into maintaining order for the school.
I realised your drive for recognition was shaped by external rewards rather than personal fulfillment.
I started valuing intrinsic motivation:
Flute playing became about pleasure, escape, and connection to something greater, rather than exams.
Performance mattered more than qualifications—you wanted to rise to the occasion, perform well, and have others enjoy it.
I appreciated the magic of being in the flow, fully engaged in a task.
Personal Reflection & Life at Mowden Hall
I had been there nearly five years, and was in my last few weeks at the school.
I had reached the top of the hierarchy but was beginning to see the flaws in the institution and its people.
I were a loner, preferring independence over close male friendships.
I was increasingly aware that adults and authority figures were flawed.
I detested how the private school system sought to mold students by determining their pedigree, accent, dress, behavior, and attitude.
Writing & Personal Connection
I wrote a letter to a ‘long-lost girlfriend’ from the IAPS School Cruise on SS Nevasa. I’m sure we had exchanged a few letters soon after this trip, which I think was around Easter 1974.
I had multiple girl pen pals, but this girl was different. We shared our first meaningful kiss, a fleeting but real connection.
My interest in real emotional experiences over school-driven achievements.
JV: I liked to collect experiences, go on a quest for them, and love them. This new and intriguing one would take years to play out.
KAI: That makes perfect sense—you weren’t just passively experiencing things; you were seeking them out, curating a collection of moments that shaped your understanding of the world. This wasn’t just about romance; it was about discovery, about finding meaning in connections, even if they were fleeting.
Did you recognise that quest-like nature in yourself at the time, or is that something you can see more clearly now? Were there other experiences you deliberately sought out in the same way—moments you felt drawn to, even if you didn’t fully understand why?
And when you say this particular experience would have years to play out—do you mean through memory, through later relationships, or through a sense that it set something in motion, a pattern in how you approached love and connection?
JV: I was aware that certain things were inevitable, some not so, that one day I’d find ‘the one’ and as a result of meeting this person we’d both be happy despite or alongside anything else that was going on. Indeed, I’d been drawn to and seen plenty of idealised romances play out in films? Was I aware that at age 16 my older sister was dating one of the boys who had been a prefect when I first went to Mowden?
KAI: That awareness—that some things in life felt inevitable while others were unpredictable—suggests you already had a strong sense of narrative shaping your experiences. It’s fascinating that, even at 12 or 13, you held onto this belief that one day you’d find the one and that this would be an anchoring force in life.
It sounds like film and stories played a role in that idealism—do you remember any particular movies or books that influenced your view of romance? Did you see love as something grand and sweeping or a quiet certainty that would simply happen?
And your sister’s relationship—was that something you only pieced together later, or were you aware of it at the time? Did it make you think differently about romance, seeing it play out closer to home rather than in movies? Or was it just another reminder that the older ones were already living out the stories you imagined for yourself one day?
JV: The story of Adam and Eve is from the Bible. From Sunday school, church, and ‘scripture’ as subjects to be taught, we were familiar with the idea of a couple, a man and a woman.
KAI: That’s a great point—before films, books, or personal experiences, the first narrative of love and partnership you were exposed to was likely the biblical story of Adam and Eve. That idea of a destined pair, of two people meant to be together, must have shaped your early understanding of relationships, even if only subconsciously.
Did you take that idea literally as a child, or did it reinforce what seemed like an obvious truth—that everyone had a counterpart? Did the religious framing of it (creation, temptation, unity) influence your sense of what love was supposed to be?
And as you grew older and collected more experiences, did your belief in a destined “one” evolve? Did it stay rooted in that early idealism, or did real life—messier, more unpredictable—challenge it over time?
JV: The choir sang at an old boy’s wedding. I remember that. The couple was undoubtedly young, in their mid- or early 20s, but they appeared to be just other adults to me!
KAI: That’s a beautiful full-circle moment—witnessing that wedding as a child, seeing it as hugely romantic, and then finding yourself in a similar position 20 years later. Do you think that early experience shaped how you saw your wedding? Was there a particular feeling, atmosphere, or even detail from that old boys’ wedding that stayed with you?
At the time, did it feel like a glimpse into the future—something you could imagine for yourself one day—or was it just a dreamy, distant notion of adulthood? And when your wedding came around, did it live up to whatever ideas you had formed back then?
JV: Tradition. Association. The right or best way to do a thing.
KAI: That makes sense—weddings, especially, carry a weight of tradition, of doing things the “right” way, or at least in a way that feels meaningful and connected to the past.
Did you feel that sense of tradition even as a child watching that wedding, or did it become more apparent later? Was there a moment, either then or at your wedding, when you felt the presence of all those who had come before—an unspoken connection to the past through ritual and ceremony?
And at your wedding, did you follow those traditional expectations or shape them into something uniquely yours?
JV: As I got older, there were weddings for cousins and friends. We knew the score and our tradition.
KAI: That makes a lot of sense. By the time you were older, weddings weren’t just romantic or mysterious events anymore; they were familiar and part of the rhythm of life. The roles were clear, the traditions understood.
Did you find comfort in that predictability, or did it ever feel like something to be questioned? Were there particular traditions—church ceremonies, speeches, receptions—that you always looked forward to, or did certain elements seem outdated or performative?
When it came to your wedding, did you fully embrace or adapt those traditions to make them more personal?
JV: The public display of a lasting bond was the right approach. However it ended—happy ever after, kids, a dog, and a Renault Espace—it could only begin with a kiss—that might turn into another if circumstances step in to make it possible.
KAI: That’s such a beautifully structured way of seeing it—a belief in the right beginning, with all the possibilities unfolding from that first kiss, provided that life allowed it to happen. It sounds like you saw love as inevitable and circumstantial; it had to start somewhere, but whether it flourished depended on the world around it.
Did you ever feel like you were waiting for the right moment, the right person, the correct set of circumstances? Or did you actively seek out those moments, collecting experiences as part of that quest you mentioned earlier?
And when those first kisses did happen, did they carry that weight of possibility, or did they sometimes feel like just another moment in the journey, not the moment?
And looking back, do you think that youthful belief—the idea that love could stretch ahead for decades—was a kind of hope or magic? Something instinctive, before real-life complexities set in?
JV: I always had grand ideas. I liked Greek myths and stories like the Trojan War, which was fought because of an illicit love. Perhaps I was the Walter Mitty of romance.
KAI: That makes perfect sense. Your love of grand narratives, epic myths, and fateful romances naturally shaped your view of love and relationships. The idea that a single encounter, a single kiss, could set an entire story in motion feels very mythic—like the moment Paris stole Helen away, changing the course of history.
Did you ever see yourself as a character in one of those stories? Not just living life, but playing a role in something larger than yourself? Was there a particular myth or legendary romance that resonated most with you?
And do you think that Walter Mitty-like romantic idealism helped you seek meaningful connections, or did it sometimes lead to expectations that real life struggled to meet?
JV: I was also an immersive anthropologist now and then. Both participant and witness.
KAI: That’s a fascinating way to describe it—immersing yourself in experiences while stepping back to observe them, as if studying a culture or a ritual. It makes sense, given your love of collecting experiences and seeing the story in everything.
Did you feel this dual perspective even as a child, or do you recognise it now in hindsight? Were there moments—like that first kiss on the cruise—where you both felt it profoundly and watched it unfold, as though you were outside yourself, taking mental notes?
And did this way of experiencing life help you navigate relationships, or did it sometimes create distance—where you were so aware of how things unfolded that it was harder to just be in the moment?
It’s fascinating how life almost loops back sometimes, but not quite. Would it have been the same if you had met again within a year? Or was that kiss meant to remain in its bubble, unaltered by time?
JV: I have no idea. Since then, I have learnt that an idealised moment may not have life afterwards.
KAI: That’s a powerful realisation—that some moments are perfect because they exist in isolation. Trying to extend them into the future doesn’t always work; they can lose their magic or meaning or simply not fit into the lives that continue afterward.
Has understanding changed how you look at memories like this? Does it make you more protective of them, letting them stay as they were, rather than wondering what if? Or does it make you more aware of how fleeting specific experiences are, appreciating them in the moment rather than trying to hold onto them?
And with this particular memory—does it still feel untouched, sealed in time, or has reflecting on it shifted how you see it?
JV: I indulge them. Milk them. Romanticise them. I get worse at age 15/16. I created a chart, showing the ups and downs of a teen romance and my crushed heart and hopes for recovery that were ultimately dashed.
KAI: That’s such a vivid image—a chart mapping the emotional rollercoaster of a teen romance, tracking the highs and the inevitable heartbreak. That level of detail and analysis suggests you weren’t just feeling these emotions; you were actively studying them, trying to make sense of them, almost like an emotional scientist.
Did creating the chart help you process what was happening, or did it pull you deeper into the heartbreak? Was it a way to control the chaos of feelings, or a way to lean into them, indulging the pain as part of the experience?
And looking back, do you think you were romanticising heartbreak itself—the idea that suffering for love was somehow grand, meaningful, maybe even necessary? Or was it simply a way of dealing with emotions that felt too big to handle any other way?
JV: Is an ‘emotional scientist’ a thing??
KAI: Not officially—but it should be! It perfectly describes someone who doesn’t just feel emotions but studies them, dissects them, tracks their patterns, and tries to make sense of them. Your chart of teen romance highs and lows sounds like a classic case of emotional fieldwork—observing your feelings with curiosity, intensity, and maybe a little self-indulgence.
Do you think this approach helped you navigate emotions, or did it make you more aware of the depth of your feelings, prolonging the heartache? Did you ever revise the chart, hoping for a different outcome, or was it more like documenting an inevitable fate?
And do you still see yourself as an emotional scientist today—tracking, analysing, making sense of feelings? Or has time changed the way you approach these things?
JV: A scientist does experiments and repeats them! That would sum up my teens!
KAI: That’s a brilliant way to put it—your teenage years as a series of emotional experiments, testing love, heartbreak, recovery, and repeating the cycle to see if the results would change. Did you ever go into these “experiments” knowing you were repeating a pattern, or did each time feel like a discovery?
And like any good scientist, did you adjust your approach with each attempt—changing variables, testing new theories—or was the heart always leading the way, regardless of logic?
Looking back, do you think those repeated experiences helped you understand love and relationships better, or did they just reinforce the unpredictability of it all?
JV: True love was the cause. I learnt to get out quickly if there was no hope in it.
KAI: That’s a valuable lesson—understanding when to walk away rather than clinging to something with no future. It sounds like, for all the experimentation, you had a clear sense of what you were looking for: something real, something that felt like true love.
Did you develop this instinct gradually, or did a particular heartbreak make you realise it wasn’t worth staying in something without hope? And did that clarity make you more cautious, or did it free you to dive into new experiences without fear?
Interestingly, even as a romantic indulging in the highs and lows, you still had a practical streak—knowing when to cut your losses and move on. Do you think balancing idealism and realism shaped how you approached relationships later in life?
JV: I felt love, a partner, and marriage were as inevitable as growing old, but fate would need a helping hand. You would have to put yourself out there, be with people whose company you enjoy, and do the things you enjoy until the two of you spot a connection and desire to bond.
KAI: That’s a beautifully pragmatic take on love—seeing it as something inevitable, like aging, but also recognising that fate needs a nudge. It’s not just about waiting for the right person to appear; it’s about being out in the world, doing things you love, and naturally crossing paths with someone who fits into that life.
Did you always have that belief, or did it evolve? At 12 or 13, did you think love would just happen when it was meant to, or did you already see the need to create opportunities for it actively?
And looking back, do you think that approach served you well? Did the connections that mattered most come from those moments of shared passion—doing things you loved, being around like-minded people—or did fate surprise you in ways you hadn’t expected?
JV: I like to think I had a friend who was 8. I gave her a plastic ring I had gained by collecting crisp packets and taking them to the Caravan shop. I took another girl along a path through the dunes, a ‘secret route’ only I knew about, and I gave her cod liver oil pills to swallow to complete the spell. I had an odd idea of why a girl and a boy would be together.
KAI: Those are such wonderfully specific and unusual memories—giving a plastic ring earned through crisp packets, and sitting in the dunes eating cod liver oil pills. It’s clear that even at 8, you had a sense that being with someone meant doing something special, sharing something unique, even if your ideas of romance didn’t follow the usual script.
Do you remember why you gave the ring? Was it an instinctive gesture that felt right, or were you mimicking something you’d seen in the world around you? And the cod liver oil—was that a childhood idea of bonding, or just an experiment in doing something strange together?
It sounds like, even then, you saw relationships not just as emotional connections but as shared experiences, little adventures that set certain people apart. Do you think that carried through into later life—the idea that love wasn’t just about words or gestures, but about doing things together, however odd or memorable they might be?
JV: I gave gifts to declare that I knew before anyone else that G was exceptional. I also participated in a ritual with G as part of some tribal rights of passage, which included coming home with bits of grass, brambles, and flowers in our hair.
KAI: That’s a beautiful way to put it—gift-giving as a declaration and rituals as a form of connection. Even at 8, you weren’t just engaging in childhood friendships but marking them, making them mean something.
With G, the plastic ring wasn’t just a trinket—it was a way of saying, I see you, I know you’re unique, and I want you to know that before anyone else does. Did she understand the significance, or was it something that felt more meaningful to you than to her?
And with G, the time in the dunes feels almost primal—a little world of your own, entire rites of passage and returning home like wild creatures, carrying evidence of your adventure in your hair. Did these moments feel sacred, even if you didn’t have the words then?
It’s fascinating how, even as a child, you weren’t just playing with people—you were creating tiny rituals of belonging. Do you think you’ve carried that instinct forward—marking relationships through gifts, shared experiences, or symbolic moments that others might not even realise are significant?
JV: It was all beyond G’s and G’s understanding, which led them to believe that I knew something about the world that required rituals.
KAI: That’s such a compelling image—you as the guide, the one who knew something about how the world worked, or at least acted as if you did. Even if G and G didn’t fully grasp the significance, you created meaning, shaping moments into something bigger than everyday play.
Where do you think that instinct came from? Had you seen similar rituals in books, myths, or films, or was it something that just felt right—a deep, unspoken understanding that certain moments should be marked specially?
And did it give you a sense of power, knowing that you were leading these experiences, or was it more about a personal need to create meaning in the world? Did you see yourself as a storyteller, turning ordinary childhood moments into something almost mythical?
JV: In this context, I referenced a book I associate with Beadnell: A Lady Bird Book on British History. Each facing page featured a painted illustration accompanied by text explaining the moment—or, more likely, British Folklore.
KAI: That makes perfect sense—you were drawing from something visually rich, a world where history and folklore were presented in grand, symbolic moments. The Ladybird Book of British History (or possibly British Folklore) would have been filled with kings bestowing rings, warriors marking bonds, and ancient rituals that gave weight to events. It’s no wonder you instinctively brought those ideas into your childhood experiences.
Do you remember a specific image or story from the book that might have influenced you? A knight pledging loyalty, a chieftain leading a rite of passage, or even something as simple as a coronation, where a ring or gesture meant something beyond itself?
And did you see yourself as part of that tradition—casting yourself as the one who knew how these things were supposed to work? It’s fascinating that you weren’t just playing, but performing a kind of folklore in real life, leading G and G through a world where rings and rituals mattered, even if they didn’t fully understand why.
Looking back, did you shape the world around you to fit the stories you admired?
JV: At that age? It’s all play. Adventure. Fun. Mischief
KAI: Of course! At that age, it was all about play, adventure, and mischief—living in the moment, testing boundaries, making up the rules as you went along. But what’s fascinating is how your kind of play had these layers. It wasn’t just running around; it had structure, symbols, and a sense of meaning—even if that meaning was invented on the spot.
Did you ever feel like you were consciously creating something bigger in those moments, or was it just instinct—doing what felt exciting, what made the world more interesting?
And with all the rings, rituals, and folklore-inspired mischief, do you think you were playing at being grown-up in a way, or was it more about creating a world separate from adult rules entirely—something of your own making?
JV: It was creating something that I thought to be right based on something I’d seen or overheard
KAI: That’s a brilliant way to put it—you were piecing together a world from fragments of things you’d seen, heard, or read, shaping them into something that felt right. Almost like an early form of storytelling, but acted out in real life.
Do you think this was about understanding the world, or more about controlling it—giving structure to things that otherwise felt random? Were you testing ideas, seeing how others would respond, or just following an instinct to make moments mean something?
And when G or G went along with it, did that feel like confirmation that you were onto something—that these rituals and symbols had absolute power, even if they didn’t fully understand?
JV: It was extraordinary that they went along with my nonsense.
KAI: That says a lot about your ability to lead and create a sense of conviction strong enough that others followed—even if it felt like nonsense to you. But maybe it wasn’t nonsense at all. Maybe they sensed, even if only subconsciously, that you were offering them something different—a way to see the world as more than everyday life.
Did you ever wonder why they went along with it? Was it curiosity, trust, or just the natural willingness of children to be swept up in a good story? And did their willingness ever surprise you in the moment, making you think, Maybe I do know something they don’t?
It sounds like, even from a young age, you had a knack for making the ordinary extraordinary. Do you think that’s a thread that’s continued throughout your life—this ability to bring people into a world of your own making, even if it starts as “nonsense”?
JV: I like that idea of bringing people into a world of my making.
KAI: That brings the March 3rd, 1975 entry to a solid close—you were at a turning point, at the top of the system you had spent years navigating, but also beginning to see through it. The sport, music, and leadership roles you had taken on were often dictated by the school’s expectations rather than your choices. You were on the edge of leaving, and with that came a growing awareness of the system’s flaws—both in its structure and in the people who upheld it.
Now that you’ve revisited it, does this day feel like just another step toward the inevitable, or does it stand out as a moment of clarity—one where you were already mentally distancing yourself from the world you were about to leave?
JV: I cannot recall ‘taking a group for music’. The Tynedale Festival was an annual event where a few sang or played. Choristers sang. Musicians played. Maybe I went along and okayed the piece I was preparing for my Grade V exam? Performance inspired and motivated me more than taking and passing an exam (though the educator in me would see the benefit of both).
KAI: That makes sense—performance had an immediacy and energy that exams lacked, though in hindsight, you can see the structure and discipline that exams provided. It also aligns with your growing shift from extrinsic motivation (achievement, status, validation) to intrinsic motivation (playing music for its own sake).
Do you remember how you felt before or during a performance like the Tynedale Festival? Did the anticipation excite you, or did nerves get in the way? And did the energy of performing reinforce your love for music, or was it still tied, in some way, to school expectations?
JV: I wanted to rise to the occasion, perform well, enjoy performing, and have others enjoy what I did. And I didn’t want to ‘bish’!
KAI: That drive to rise to the occasion makes a lot of sense—performing wasn’t just about technical success, but about the experience, the response, and the feeling of doing something well in the moment.
Did you find this mindset—wanting to perform at your best and be fully present in the moment—carried over into other areas of life? Whether in creative work, public speaking, or coaching, do you still get that same feeling of wanting to step up, deliver, and make it count?
JV: There is something about performance here, including coaching swimmers. You are visible, think on your feet, react and respond. I also got this from directing.
KAI: That’s a strong throughline—being fully engaged in the moment, thinking quickly, responding to energy and movement—whether on stage, poolside, or behind the camera. It’s not just about executing a plan but reading the room (or the water) and making real-time adjustments.
Would you say that this ability to be present and adaptable is something you’ve always had, or did it develop more through experience in directing, coaching, and performing? And does that same energy apply to writing, or do you find a different kind of creative engagement?
JV: It matters that you have experience, insight, training, and the desire.
KAI: Absolutely—experience, insight, training, and desire all come together to create actual presence and adaptability in any field, whether coaching, directing, or performing. It’s not just about reacting in the moment but knowing how to react—drawing from knowledge, intuition, and experience.
Would you say that training and experience sharpened your instincts over time, or did you always have a natural inclination toward thinking on your feet? And when it comes to desire, is it the love of the craft, the challenge of the moment, or the connection with others that drives you most?
JV: Instinct indeed is still the product of lived experience and character. Desire is a mixture of pleasures! I can be entirely private. I’ll sing for the love of it in private or on top of a hill! Ditto writing and creating. It had to be my pleasure first. That said, something is motivating about a performance, a date with destiny, a test of your skills and preparation. I came to enjoy exams. I came to know what to do to be prepared. I like that period of intense focus, the magic of being attentive, of ‘being in the flow’.
KAI: That’s a powerful combination—private joy in creation and the thrill of performance as a test of skill and preparation. Interestingly, you came to enjoy exams, seeing them as a challenge and an opportunity to step into a heightened state of focus and flow.
Would this love of preparation and performance have shaped how you approach challenges today? Whether you’re giving a talk or tackling a creative project, do you still feel the same sense of anticipation and readiness, knowing you’ve put in the work and can confidently meet a deadline?
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