piano lessons
january 16, 2008
Over my break from school I found my first piano assignment notebook from 1996. I remember the ugly blue bag I carried it in, and the somewhat awkward drive thirty seconds down the street to my piano teacher's home. My parents seemed to have a morbid fear of me ever walking alone, even within our quiet, suburban neighborhood. Gas was more affordable then.
I was always unsure of what name I could use to refer to my piano teacher. At that age, I'd never addressed an adult by his first name, and was generally too shy to talk to anyone, anyway. Parts of me haven't changed at all since then. My piano teacher was a kind woman in her seventies - remarried after her first husband passed away. Come to think of it, I don't know that much else about her. I guess I never really took the time. When lessons were over and she'd try to talk to me about non-music related things, I'd stand by her screen door and wait anxiously for my mom to pull up in her car to take me home ... thirty seconds away. I was pretty awkward, even for a nine year old.
I do remember some things, though. I remember my first recital ... my first contest ... my first time playing on a grand piano. I remember my first real lesson. During the previous meeting, which was a consultation over what style of learning I'd like to have, she gave me a book of around 30 children's songs to look over. I was supposed to decide whether it would be the first book I'd like to study. The day after, I came to the first lesson - handed her the book and said "I'm done." She laughed, and at nine years old, I was offended.
She tried to patiently explain to me that we had to go through things slowly and thoroughly. All I cared about was proving to her that I really was done with the book. I played each of the book's simple pieces perfectly for her one after the other. "Wow," she said, most likely humoring me, "maybe you really are done." 3/4ths of the way through the book, I ran into trouble. It was some dumb song about Indians, and I couldn't play it. She smiled and talked about practice. I was sad at the thought of not getting a new book to play.
Another night, a few years later, she made me cry. There was a passage in some sonata I had been negligent of during my practice. I tried to just graze over it sloppily when I was playing it for her, but she wouldn't have it. She made me play it over forty times in the course of 30 minutes. After each repetition, all she would say was "again." I felt so resentful, but today I don't even remember why I did ... because I understand now.
Looking over this book makes me realize how hard-headed I was and still am today. There's a column for notes that she had for me after each lesson. Sometimes I think, if I actually listened to her, where would I be now?
"Chest up. Sit tall."
"Compose !! A little .."
"Write list of your repertoire."
"Write list of songs you like"
"Think of songs you might want to sing to"
These are all so enormously applicable to my life now, but still in 4 years of lessons she never once heard me sing.
I look back at the compositions I made at 10 years old - songs set to Langston Hughes' poetry. I look at the repertoire I had acquired in such a short time and it's probably more than I've taught myself since I quit. I've grown since then, but it's somewhat sad to think of how much more I could have grown if I really took these lessons to heart.
My growth overall these days seems so slow. This is probably because I still hate practicing. Maybe I just need someone to say "no" when I say "I'm done."