“It’s simple, but not easy.” I forget where I first heard that adage, but I’ve always liked it. Life is hard enough; no need to make it more complicated.
This notion was vividly driven home to me in my mid-twenties, when I was directing my first professional stage show, a musical review of the work of George and Ira Gershwin. All of us involved in the production — creators, cast, and crew — were about the same age. Both blessed and cursed with the unbridled self-confidence that comes only with youth, we didn’t have the common sense to be scared out of our wits.
Our orchestrator, Francis, and our conductor, Matthew, each possessed remarkable musical talents. But they couldn’t have been more different in temperament or style. Francis was cosmopolitan, philosophical, and suave (at least as much as a twenty-four-year-old could be). In contrast, Matthew was earthy, pragmatic, and socially rather awkward.
In creating a show, the orchestrator’s job is to conceptualize how the music is to be arranged and how it should sound. The conductor’s job is to interpret that vision into a musical performance. So Francis would do his best to express to Matthew exactly what he envisioned. And Matthew would do his dutiful best to comply.
But it was like witnessing two guys from different countries attempting to negotiate a contract, each in his own native language. Francis’s words were abstract, metaphorical, and poetic: “I’d like this passage to be more wistful”; “I’d like that passage to be more effervescent.” But Matthew, who tended to be more concrete and practical, couldn’t quite follow. His eyes would glaze over, he’d tentatively nod his head, and then consistently fail to give Francis what he wanted.
And so it would go, week after frustrating week. It became increasingly clear that Francis was speaking a language that Matthew was entirely unable to translate. As Francis’s patience waned, he tried making his appeals more nuanced — and more complex: “Please make it less ponderous and more ethereal.” “This should be a blend of contemplative yet also yearning.” Their communication divide only widened.
As opening night bore down on us, tensions were reaching a boiling point. Finally, Matthew summoned the courage to approach Francis — timidly but clearly: “Maybe we can just try sticking with the four basics? Do you want it faster, slower, louder, or softer?” At first, Francis was taken aback. He thought he had been crystal clear. But then he got it. At long last, understanding had been achieved. And with the first musical downbeat on the first night of the performance, both Francis and Matthew ultimately got what they each wanted. And so did the enthusiastic audience. But it wasn’t easy getting there…
The value of pursuing simplicity has stayed me with ever since. I’m constantly reminded of it when I see people close to me struggle with all types of addictions. “It’s simple, but not easy”: Just don’t pick up the bottle; it’s not going to pour itself down your throat. Just don’t grab the needle; it’s not going to jump off the counter and stick itself in your arm. Just don’t place the bet; the money is not going to flutter out your pockets and onto the gaming table.
None of this is meant to minimize the horrible pain and anguish of those who do battle with tortuous addictions. That’s hard enough. But don’t over complicate it. Strive for simplicity.
Years later, I discovered that this concept is embodied in what is known as the KISS principle: “Keep It Simple, Stupid.” Although this amusing acronym was first coined in the early 1960s by a prominent aeronautical engineer as guidance for his aerospace designers, the KISS quest is universal. Or at least it should be…