I don’t
know why my mother decided that my sister and I should take piano lessons.
Unlike swimming – another thing we pay others to teach our children how to do –
playing the piano isn’t really a life skill. It’s more a pose, a boast, a
feather tucked squarely in the back of one’s cap to be pointed at every once in
a while and otherwise left to rot. I mean, how many people who took piano
lessons as a child still play the piano as they grow older? Not that many from
what I can tell (though maybe more than I think, maybe the secrecy of it all is
part of the allure).
While my
mom would probably say that her own inability to make a piano do anything but
cough and spit probably had much to do with her interest in our taking lessons,
I imagine that our family’s social class actually played the more significant
role. Our family occupied the upper end of the middle class spectrum in what
was at the time a small furniture and carpets town in southern Virginia and that
made piano lessons – one of those marks of achievement and social
sophistication towards which my mom often strived - something we could afford
to try. My sister and I, still young enough that we couldn’t really differentiate
between our parents’ interests and our own and not knowing what piano lessons
entailed until the decision was long past done, went along with things because
that’s what we were supposed to do. Plus, it was exciting to bring a piano into
the house. I still remember reading the name scrawled across the left-hand side
just above the keyboard – Baldwin Acrosonic – and feeling like it sounded
special.
Even though I didn’t like
practicing for the requisite thirty minutes each night – Mom had to resort to
setting a timer and even then with trips to the bathroom and various
meanderings away from the piano I found plenty of ways to cut things short – I eventually
learned to make my way through a respectable number of pieces. However, my heart
wasn’t into it enough to ever get really good. The only reason to push on when
a piece got dull or to repeat a measure again and again when I wasn’t getting
something was that my parents were paying someone to teach me to do this. While
that was all fine and dandy for a bit, it was not a particularly good motivator
when the pieces got harder. At some point the input-to-success ratio got low
enough that something had to give. Either I needed to find another reason to do
lessons or it was time to stop and look for something else to do. I, like most
kids, did the latter.
Then
something unexpected happened. It turns out that the moment I stopped taking
lessons, the moment playing the piano could be something I did for me and not
for someone else, the moment the music became a means of expression instead of social
training, I started to really enjoy it. Dispensing with the lesson and recital
books, I took up a couple of New Age piano solo books, playing them cover to
cover, experimenting with how fast I could play the pieces or how dramatic I
could make them. Released from having to meet anyone’s expectations, I found playing
the piano could become an outlet, an opportunity to be loud or sharp or
mischievous or mean or sulky or ecstatic or inside my head, to scream and yell
or cry, to be something I was not for a few minutes at a time. I wound up
spending many a lonesome teenage evening banging out two or three of the pieces
that seemed to speak to me, calling forth thunderstorms or dreams or naked dances
in the moonlight. Sometimes, Mom and Dad would come and listen – taking a seat
in a velvety blue wingback chair that faced away from the piano, obscuring all
but their legs from my view - but it always felt a touch awkward. I didn’t mind
their presence, but I wasn’t playing for them. I was playing in spite of them.
Maybe
that’s what my mother was hoping for all along.
****
Ironically,
it is because of my parents that my children may wind up learning to play the
piano as well. About three years ago they bought us a piano. They didn’t ask us
first. They found a used piano in good condition at a charity auction and
decided that it was something we should have; so they bought it. It was only
after the fact that they pretended to broach our interest before revealing the
fait accompli. At the time Ava, the kids, and I were living in a rental house
and contemplating a move to a new city. The last thing we needed was a five
hundred pound box of vibrating strings that only I knew or cared how play. And
yet, how can you say no to an idea your parents have invested so much in that
they are willing to rent a truck and drive the thing seven hours for you to
have it? We couldn’t, and so we wound up with a piano.
For the first six months it was in
our house, no one touched it. It sat in our dining room, a respectable upright
dust collector with some framed pictures on top crammed back into the corner so
we wouldn’t trip over it when we brought food out to the table. Eventually I
started playing for a few minutes before Pip came home from school just to see
what kind of chops I still had. It was a pleasant diversion, but in no way did
it feel essential. When we finally bought a house of our own two years ago, we
contemplated donating the piano to the owner of the rental house just so we
didn’t have to move it. However, it turned out to be less painful to move the
thing than try to explain to my folks why we left it behind.
In the new
house, the piano once again occupied a spot in the dining room, but this time it
was centered on the back wall in the direct line of sight whenever you came in
from the living room, right where you could never quite put it out of your
mind. I continued to fiddle from time to time, playing Christmas songs and
seeing how much of my old recital pieces I could still play, and Pip started
plucking at it some too. After he expressed interest in learning how to play,
we tried a couple of lessons together. But the dynamic didn’t work. As long as
the pieces were easy, he was willing to let me teach him things, but the moment
he started having trouble, he didn’t want to do it anymore. He’d been less
interested in the music itself and more in seeing if he could do something that
I was doing. Remembering my own experience, I didn’t make an issue of it. We
closed up the books and put them away in the bench for safe keeping.
However, I had liked listening to
him work on things; the plucking and plinking of the notes – even when they
weren’t doing anything much – was soothing and pleasant. The sound of a piano
with a child at the helm is not like what you get with a clarinet or a violin.
With those instruments the bad notes are so grating they make you want to fill
your ears with cement, but with the piano, the harmonies can be wrong and the
rhythms can be all over the place, and it still sounds inviting. There is
something timeless about the searching and stretching of a child feeling their
way along a keyboard. The music that comes from this is simple, primal,
tentative, murky, halting, repetitive and yet viscerally progressive; it’s like
a condensation of childhood itself and listening to it always made me feel both
hopeful and nostalgic at the same time.
****
Last year, it was our great good
fortune that Pip was invited to take lessons through his school and, with
someone else teaching him, he’s found some new interest in playing. In hopes of
nurturing this interest while not overdoing it, I’m constantly trying to thread
the needle. I remind Pip of times he could play the piano but never tell him he
has to. When he finishes after only ten minutes of practice, I want to tell him
to go back through his pieces again or find something new to work on, but I
keep my trap shut so that he can maintain control over his own progress. I ask
questions about things he’s learning and jump in to play with him whenever he
asks but otherwise try to let him do it on his own. This means that some weeks
he’s just not interested and when he winds up practicing only twice or three
times, I have to make my peace with that. However, there are some nights where
he’ll sit and play for thirty to forty minutes. We’ll be doing the dishes and
he’ll begin with something he knows and then continue to something new – a new
piece, sometimes a scale or a new chord. It captures him and he tinkers with it,
often asking us questions or running through a tricky measure repeatedly until
he gets it. On those evenings I take my sweet time cleaning up, stretching out
the tidying and the sweeping, hoping that if it seems like everyone else is
busy with their own things, he’ll just keep on playing right up until it’s time
to go to bed.
****
It doesn’t look like Polly is going
to get the same opportunity to take lessons through the school that Pip did and
this leaves me stuck in a dilemma. Polly’s interest in playing is furtive and
difficult to discern. Whenever I suggest we sit and play for a few minutes, she
puts up a half-hearted resistance before dragging herself glumly over to the
piano. Yet she has collected together all of the earliest exercises Pip brought
home from school and placed them in a folder with her name on it. Also once she
starts going she often wants me to find something more for her to play. She’ll
go for a good ten minutes without pause and seems genuinely interested in
learning about the various things she sees on a page of music. If she had
disavowed any intent in playing, I would respect that and leave it alone. But
she shows enough casual interest that I keep wondering if I should push a
little harder, give her enough of a start so she can see if she really likes it
or not. I feel as if she might.
There is one example that I keep
coming back to as I ponder what to do about this. When Polly was four, I
decided it was time for her to dispense with the training wheels on her bicycle.
We were riding down to school with Pip every morning and the training wheels
were becoming dangerous. Not only were they wearing down but Polly could get
the bike going fast enough that one false bump in the wrong direction would
send her flying. She needed the maneuverability and nimbleness that comes when
the training wheels are gone. However, she wasn’t particularly interested in
this project. It wasn’t that she was against it necessarily, but whenever I
brought up the idea she preferred to do something else. She was comfortable
with her training wheels and the challenge of learning to go without them
didn’t excite her. So we came to an agreement: we would practice riding without
training wheels once a week for ten or fifteen minutes; just enough time for me
to teach her a little bit but not enough for her to feel trapped in something
that wasn’t fun for her. If after our time was up she wanted to do more, we
could. If not, we would stop for the day and pick it up again the following
week. This gave her a sense of control over the project allowing for her both
to plan for our lessons and shut them down when she was done for the day.
It took about four weeks of these short
lessons before Polly was interested in doing more. But once she got there she
really went after it. We would ride up and down the street together for up to
an hour at a time and even started going out multiple days of the week to
practice. The elderly couple who lived up the block began coming out to cheer
for her as she improved. Within three months she was riding on her own down to
the school and back.
I feel as if the same thing could
be true with playing the piano. We could do ten to fifteen minutes once or
twice a week, and she would gradually acquire a comfort with the instrument,
the kind of comfort that could lead to real enjoyment in playing. And yet, I’m
hesitant to even push that much. Riding a bike without training wheels was a
necessary skill for Polly to acquire. We move about our city on our bikes and
she needed to be able to keep up. Playing the piano is not. At what point am I
helping my child and at what point am I merely indulging my own self-interested
whims? It’s a dilemma that brings me back full circle to where I started.