studio non troppo : music : facilitation

“Yes, and…” is a technical term used by improvisers, a shorthand way of describing how stories begin to grow. Roughly, it refers to a particular, generative way to respond to a situation or suggestion. The “yes” part is an acknowledgement, made possible by listening. The “and” part is followed by a contribution that builds upon the situation:

A: Those clouds sure are dark.

B: [Yes, and] Yet again, I left my umbrella at home.

Maybe B is on the way to his job interview, wearing the delicate, vulnerable silk tie that was a gift from his grandmother. With “yes, and…” we look forward to the story.

•••

“Yet, but…” is something beginning improvisers frequently say instead of “yes, and….” They want to be contributing to building a story, but their use of “but” instead of “and” stands in the way of the story, canceling or hampering it instead of nurturing it:

A: Those clouds sure are dark.

B: [Yes, but] They’re far away; they won’t be a problem.

In improvisation, “yes, but…” sounds like it’s a form of “yes,” but it’s actually a form of “no,” a denial of the reality that has been offered. In activities other than (formal) improvisation, there can be echoes of this.

Compare:

“Yes, that would be really exciting, but I’m not really up for it.”

with:

“Yes, that would be really exciting, and I have to say, I’m terrified at the same time!”

The first version puts a stop to the story, never buying in, despite the claim of being excited. The second version leans into the future. Will this person act in spite of fear?

Or compare:

“Yes, my job is awful, but no one has a perfect job.”

with:

“Yes, my job is awful, and no one has a perfect job.”

In the first version, you feel the stagnation, the absence of story. In the second, you can imagine the force of frustration lining up with the desire to do things differently. The first version sounds like acceptance of a situation but is really denial of story. The second is catalytic acceptance.

There are different ways to respond to a document that contains typos.

Sometimes, we don’t see the typos at all.

Other times, we see them but don’t seem to register them consciously. This can subtly influence how we feel about the document, the subject, or the author.

The typos may assert themselves into our consciousness and distract us. Maybe we grow annoyed or find ourselves becoming judgmental.

Or we may see the typos as a natural consequence of an author creating with bold strokes, not bogging down. Suggesting fixes in this case may not be a form of criticism, but a way to begin participating. Whether or not the author changes the document in response to the suggestions is less important than whether or not the feeling of participating starts to develop.

It’s possible to speak in a listening way. By this, I mean there can be speaking that isn’t just broadcasting, or delivering, but speaking that includes constant adjustments in response to the listeners’ responses.

Speaking in this way acknowledges that the point isn’t to be talking, but to communicate.

Once you are sensitized to this, you might start noticing how often you don’t listen while speaking. Maybe you will hear yourself talk over another person who tried to insert something into the discussion. Or maybe you will not hear anything at all after you have spoken. I know that I notice these signs sometimes when I speak, and when I do, it encourages me to make an effort to listen better when I speak the next time.

If we allow room for the listeners to contribute, new things may arise.