This One Goes Out to the Ladies

This is not a political post. Except this.

I’d like to talk about bosoms. Boobs, if you will. Many bodies have them. Many bodies with boobs play the piano. And sometimes these things interfere with each other.

“I feel like my boobs are getting in my way.” 

Reader, can you imagine my laughter at hearing this sentence spoken a few weeks ago in a lesson? Let me tell you, it was nothing compared to the hilarity as I sought to very clearly, calmly, professionally, maturely, explain how to navigate one’s boobs in this specific piano situation.

“So. *nervous giggle* Boobs are great, in part because they are ahhhh, movable. I mean, they’re attached, but only on one um. Side. *laughter* You don't need to feel like you need to avoid them. Just let the inside of your arm *points out specific upper arm area* really go ahead and ahhh, push against them quite firmly. *gales of laughter* Your boobs, or just one, will then maneuver themselves out of the way. Go under them if possible, definitely not over, but just sort of...straight through, if that’s the best option. In other words, your boobs are in service to your playing, not the other way around.”

But here’s the thing: classical musicians don’t freaking talk about this! Having boobs at the piano is a whole THING that so rarely gets discussed in any sort of meaningful way.

Classical piano is still a man’s world (FTP). This means many teachers (including my three major teachers, for example) are male. My male teachers were wonderful, supportive, very attentive to the way my body functioned at the piano. By body, I mean hands, wrists, arms, elbows, back, feet. Even pectoral muscles. Collarbones. I was sure not going to ask them about my damn boobs though! And they certainly wouldn’t bring it up. Why invite a sexual harassment case? Or maybe they’ve never thought about it, having never had them.

But so many of us have boobs. 

I’m so happy that my student asked about it. I was never confident enough to ask my female teachers about how to navigate arm crossings. In part, I felt constrained by the formalities of the classical world; one simply doesn’t ask about Such Things. But piano - at least in my world - doesn’t have to be so damn proper. These sorts of conversations are important. All bodies are welcome here—we’ll figure it out together.

Reading the Repertoire

I like sight reading. Maybe this is my lazy side talking - reading means, you know, not buckling down Like A Good Musician Should - but I find so much pleasure, both physical and emotional, in the exploration.

Here are some of the things I've been reading through.

Tchaikovsky Seasons. There are 12 pieces, named for the months of the year. 

-Side note: Joshua McFadden has a cookbook called Six Seasons. I like this idea of seasons being something beyond the normal four we associate with the word. My therapist talks about being in certain seasons in life as times of various foci. "This is a season where I am focusing on my physical health." "This is a season of spending time practicing." "This is a season of addressing personal relationships." 

Back to the Tchaik. They're delightful; easy on the hands, easy on the eyes, easy on the ears. Short and sweet enough to hold the attention. I can appreciate the pedagogy without feeling like I'm being Taught Something. 

Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel has a cycle of 12 pieces too, Das Jahr, also named for the months. More difficult, physically and emotionally, than the Tchaikovsky. I find my hands and brain wandering.

I just picked up Janáček's On an Overgrown Path, and have been slowly working my way through it. Visually, it's a little disconcerting, though technically not so difficult. They sound lovely.

I try to start each morning by sight-reading. I feel like I can sort of sneak up on myself this way. Irritatingly, I often resist going to the piano. Sitting down early and bleary eyed has the advantage of letting me approach through the emotional back door, so to speak. I don't exactly have to try hard, or think very much. Once I'm there, I remember the piano isn't so goddamn intimidating. "There," I think to myself, "see, now, you're not so terrible." Having broken that day's cherry, I'm much more likely to sit down later, eager to practice.

Have I mentioned how much of a Not Real Pianist I am? I mean this in that my experience is not that of the typical classical pianist with a doctorate. I was raised the 'proper' way, learning all the technique and theory. But the repertoire, the repertoire. My older sister is also a pianist. Notice I said older? She got to all the standards first. Gentle reader, do you have siblings? If so, you are well aware that those pieces were therefore strictly off limits for me - in both our minds. 

Here are a few pieces I have subsequently never played. Gasp away.

Für Elise Clair de Lune (which means I also ignored the entire set) Chopin Ballade No. 1 (ditto) Bach Partita No. 1 (ditto) Bach Italian Concerto Beethoven Waldstein Beethoven Das Lebenwohl Schumann Concerto

Reader, I didn't play a single thing she had played until my doctorate. At which point I then asked her. (I should clarify this most assuredly had much more to do with me and my charming hang-ups than her. She's a doll. [Not a real doll. You know what I mean.])

I can't blame it all on family dynamics though. I feel like I've never consistently had ample practice time.

Elementary/junior high. Well. I probably had time. I definitely did not have ample concentration.

High school. I was obsessed with my sport - sports acrobatics. It took all my time and energy.

Undergrad. By this point I was in a terrible (and immersive, as these things are wont to be) romantic relationship. Suffice to say, my musical self was not supported. Desperately sad, I took a semester off, crammed in loads of courses at the community college, and finished my bachelors in 3 years. I spent only 2 as a music major, leaving very little time for expanding ye olde repertoire.

Graduate. Well, now we're into almost adult life - mostly financially independent. Turns out when one works, one has very little time for practice. 

Doctorate. EVEN LESS TIME TO PRACTICE??? Dear god. 

I survived, but my repertoire list is laughably small. How many Chopin etudes have I played? Oh....three, if we're being generous. And hell, let's be generous! Full Beethoven sonatas? Four...ish. Bach suites? One. Juuuuuuust one. And on and on.

It’s hard to consider myself a Real Pianist when I compare myself (oh hush, we all do it) to my colleagues. Do they know I’m so lacking in this way? Am I forever fundamentally less than I could be because I didn’t learn more notes at a young age?

This brings me back to sight-reading. It's a way for me to explore the repertoire. It wasn't pretty, but I read all the Beethoven sonatas. All the Haydn. The Mozart. The complete works of Schumann. The WTC, book I.

We're in 2021 though, and dead white men do not enjoy the same reverence they used to, thankfully. Now, I sight-read less to get to know the canon, and more to actually explore! I want to find what I don't know, and what speaks to my hands and heart. Some of it isn't so radical. Today I read through two Scarlatti sonatas (10/10 would recommend). But it feels less like trying to fix my lesser pianist self, and more like my own discovery channel.

Across The Years

*

2021 is not going to solve anything. I'm not usually one to look at the downside. And I’m not sure I am here, exactly. But still.

I get the importance of dates, of fresh starts, of the need to put something away and start something new. But we know dates are sort of made up, right? When we turn 18, we are not suddenly smarter, or wiser, or more cool-headed.

January 1st is not going to suddenly be better. Shitty things are still going to happen - a lot of them. Yes yes, we all say, we know. But we still look forward to the upcoming end of 'This Terrible Year' as if the terrible part will end with the calendar, as if the bad things that will continue to happen will be...less bad? We won't be able to attribute them to 'The Worst Year'; does this lessen our heartbreak? Are we using 2020 (in all its implications of the No Good Very Bad Year) as a reason to give ourselves hope that we won't experience such collective grief again? I'm certainly not arguing against hope. But I feel like we fall into the trap of 'of course this bad thing happened - it's 2020.' This thought pattern makes me uncomfortable. It removes agency from individual action and responsibility, while also indulging in a sort of the-world-is-out-to-get-me self-pity that I really dislike. Yes, 2020 has sucked, for many of us, in many ways. But really, does the universe - the entire UNIVERSE - care about our human ideas of time measurement? Simultaneously, did bad things only start to happen this year? Realizing bad things happen to other people was a big thing for some this year, but the bad things themselves weren’t like...new.

Do we get to count good things that happened in 2020? The vaccines have started to be administered...but it's still December. Are we allowed to put it in the good column, to give it full credit, despite it being in The Bad Year?

I understand wanting guideposts though. Otherwise, life can feel like a really long slog. Speaking of long slogs, piano can feel like a really long slog too (hey, notice that sweet transition?). It's one reason we have recitals. Concerts. Whatever. It's a moment to hold in our personal timeline, to say 'oh, last semester/year I was there, and now I'm here'. No matter our goals, whether it's getting one's nerves better under control, being more authentic and intimate in one's performance, or merely (ha) playing a more difficult piece, we look to these moments to mark our way forward.

So what am I arguing for: being perfectly (already, you see the problem) in the moment, while having the foresight to plan ahead, but still being flexible at every instant to what reality is, but still not be blown about by the vagaries of passing emotional/physical sensations? I know, dear reader, I’m laughing too. We can pile up the clichés about life being a journey not a destination, a direction not a destiny, to stop and smell the..oh, you know how it goes.

Let's go back to piano. Practicing.

—side note: every performer I know obsesses about their practice; 'am I practicing enough? [No. The answer is always No, even when Yes is appropriate.] How am I feeling about my practice? [Complicated. Always complicated.] Is it going well? [Ehh..] Am I getting anything done? [Ehhhhhhh….] I don't want to practice, but I am practicing; can I still feel like I'm being a dutiful musician if my heart isn't in it? What should I say when people ask me about my practice? [Etc.]

Though practicing is always a weird thing (see above), spending time at the piano has been especially unstable this year. I didn't touch it for the first like, 2 months of quarantine. Then I was super into it. Then I wanted to just sight read. Then I wanted to really delve into a set of pieces. Then I just wanted to sight read. I'm trying to hold my desire to be, and effectiveness, at the piano very lightly. It comes and goes. I try most days to spend some time there, I let myself try again later if lack of time or lack of brain prevents anything from happening. I'm fortunate I'm still able to make my living through teaching rather than playing, and don't have to practice for financial reasons. I can be the most intermittent of performers, as everything I do is entirely on my own schedule.

I have, however, fallen into the trap of taking a very long time to get anything done. Maybe what I dislike are arbitrary markers. Both for the good and the bad.

*having run out of piano pictures, I guess this blog will now be populated with pictures I’ve taken while hiking.

How Is A Blog Post Not Like A Memoir

Trigger warning: meta’ self-referential. You are warned.

…..

Reader, I’ve been thinking: maybe this blog is my practice memoir. Maybe these are all rough drafts that you’re slogging through (you and me both, baby, you and me both), and my best-selling memoir will spring forth fully formed and perfect in a decade or so. No need for an editor, I’ve had this GROUNDBREAKING blog to perfect all my ideas.

I love memoirs. Okay, to be fair, I love reading. Not being allowed to watch TV as a kid turned me into a reader, hard. As an adult, I read all kinds of books, but I really gravitate toward memoirs. I just find it so fascinating how people see themselves, and what they find worth reporting. It’s like the good parts of being at a bar with someone; the openness booze tends to encourage without (presumably) the lost train of thought, the 50% bullshitting, the uncontrolled emotions encouraged by said lubricant. 

It’s a little disconcerting, not knowing exactly what it is I’m writing about half the time. My bff/editor assures me that teaching is a theme that runs throughout. That’s good to hear, as I can’t even recognize it half the time. But then, teaching does saturate my life. I suppose I’m just used to seeing teaching blogs that are much more…specific. Here’s how to teach legato pedaling. Here are some practice techniques to help students memorize. Clearly, gentle reader, no such pearls will you find here. And speaking of pearls, the traditional classical realm would surely clutch theirs at my language.

So okay, why am I writing a blog? I love reading blogs. Cooking blogs, in particular. But really, even though I love to cook and sometimes cook recipes from cooking blogs, I really like the intro part. The part where they tell you what’s going on in their life when they found/developed/experienced this particular recipe. The memoir part of it.

…..

Side note. I don’t think writing cooking blogs, or other blogs, is easy. Writing is hard. Good writing is hard. On the other hand, when a blog is definitively about a specific topic, it does lend a certain cohesiveness. Food bloggers can always say ‘so anyway, this is what I’ve been cooking these days.’ I’m tempted do something similar, though certainly not always with food, and certainly not with my own recipes.

‘Anyway, this is what I’ve been reading today.’

‘Anyway, here is a picture of the hike I did today.’

‘Anyway, I made this for dinner and it turned out pretty damn well.’

…..

Oh, how about this?! Anyway, here’s what I worked on with my students today.

That might work. I imagine I could use the other things too, in a pinch. As long as we’re agreed that what I’m thinking about with teaching might have very little relevance to my PracticeMemoirIntro, it’ll all be fine. And really, it’s my blog, so I guess I’m allowed.

Let’s try.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about shifting focus in lessons. How every week, most students seem to have the same problems, across levels and age groups. I’m quite sure it’s not them, I place the blame squarely on the teacher. This week seems to be rudiments: chords and inversions. With the metronome, no less. Very salad-like, but like, a nice salad. It’s not like we haven’t done this before, but my students seems suddenly more attracted to this than they’ve been recently. Maybe it’s the Rona. The stability, the pattern, maybe those feel safe.

I’m Betraying All My Principles, And I Think I Like It

Reader, the title says it all.

…

Not really, of course. Let me try to explain.

I was raised in a pretty strict family. My sister and I were homeschooled until we were 13 and 15. We weren't super religious. But no TV, extremely shielded from everyday life, careful monitoring of friends and experiences, etc. And there was definitely a sense (both articulated and implied) that there is a right way to do things, and We Do Things The Right Way In Our Family. Combine this with an anxious personality, and a lifetime of playing classical piano...well. You see where this is going. 

I started teaching when I was 14. A baby. In the beginning, I stuck firmly to such unhelpful principles as: Classical Piano Is The One True Way; Learning Visually From The Page Is The Only Kind Of Proper Learning; There Is One Way Of Playing Something Correctly.

It wasn't until my doctorate that I learned some generosity. It felt like my whole first year was spent on the dictum given by my advisor; 'you must be kind to yourself and others.' I, in my infinite wisdom, informed said advisor that I in fact didn't want to do any such thing. Thankfully, I did not win this argument. 

For me, it really wasn't until after the doctorate that I was able to find more flexibility, and more fully inhabit myself as a musician and teacher. During the degree, I wanted to be a Good Student (until the end, then I just wanted to be done). Grad school is a weird thing; you're an adult and supposed to be acting independently, except your committee also gets to choose what they think you should be knowledgeable about. So post-graduation, with the somewhat horrifying honorific of 'doctor' attached to my name, I found myself with no one to look over my shoulder and approve. Or disapprove. 

I discovered I actually didn't especially mind what repertoire my students wanted to work on, as I was much more interested in the process of teaching itself. I found when I approached teaching from as many angles as possible - aural, visual, kinesthetic - students responded with pleasure. When I let students work on only pop music, or things that were definitely 'too hard' for them, they found joy and motivation. 

Certain things were beyond the pale though. Never would I ever just...not make a student count. Nor would I play something for them first, without making them try it on their own. And teaching by rote...no. No, those things just aren't done.

Turns out, teaching exclusively online overturns everything. Not only have I been (and fortunate enough to be) teaching some of my regular studio online, I've started a few new students. One hasn't taken piano for years. One hasn't ever. How to get a student, especially one without a shared vocabulary, to understand swung eighth-notes. Or dotted notes. Or syncopation. Or almost anything rhythmic...without just playing it for them! I had been loathe to play for my students because I didn't want them blindly imitating me. It's not a bad ideal, I still stand by it. Sort of. Because it also turns out that imitation is its own kind of learning process. 

I know, I know, this is probably obvious to lots of people. But we all take our own time (as I am wont to tell my students) and willing yourself to be further along than you are is, unfortunately, wholly ineffective.

As it happens, demonstration is fun. And it makes my job a hell of a lot easier. It's not that I have stopped caring about the learning process, it's that I have come incredibly late to this whole other side of the party. I have to use my words much more, this is true. But the time lag. My god, the time lag. And the unstable internet! I can't always tell if my students are actually staying on tempo, given Zoom's preference for retaining all the sounds, then delivering them in a hurry to catch up. Demonstrating something properly, then asking the student if what they have done matches, allows for that self-analysis I'm always blathering on about.  

How Is A Blog Not Like A Diary

In a lot of ways, it feels like one, albeit a very public kind. Self-indulgent, hubristic, narcissistic...why do I feel like these meandering musings are worth publishing? I don't have the answer, so no need to skip to the bottom looking for, you know, enlightenment or anything.

For one, I don't have a diary/journal. Maybe this is what I'm using this blog for. I've 'journaled' in the past though, and it's been quite different from what I'm doing now. 'Journaling' (reader, I can't not put this in quotes) always felt super awkward to me until I hit upon the great idea of taking notes of my brain. No longer did I try to create complete sentences; instead, my writing looked like a bubble outline (thanks Ms. Erdei, wherever you are). Of course, anyone looking at it besides me would find little comprehension, which was sort of the point (I retain, to this day, a healthy fear of someone knowing what I truly think). I've gone back to look at these brain notes later on, and they mean little to me too. 'Journaling', at least how I've done it, seems to work best for me as an in the moment process. Something to make immediate sense of inner chaos. 

Note. This is not a post about how to 'journal', or how to write a blog. 

I write these posts  not just to make sense of chaos, but because I want to hold onto a thought for a longer period of time. To see if I discover something along the way. Sometimes I have something in my head that make me giggle every time I think about them, and I really want to share them with you. Sometimes I've been in a super dark place, and reading a blog has allowed me the comfort of a conversational experience, and I wonder if/hope that my writing might provide a momentary comfortable distraction for someone else.

I'll tell you, it provides lots of moments of distraction for me. I learned to touch-type in my adolescence, and my OCD qualities ensured that I would practice at every opportunity. Mostly I could type whatever I was saying quickly enough on my legs that people wouldn't notice. Mostly. Despite the definite lack of coolness this practice bestowed on me, it did forge a link between how I speak and what comes out on a computer keyboard. I could segue into something about the piano keyboard here too, but I'll refrain for the moment.

I don't have any answers, or really any helpful solutions for dealing with 2020. A friend told me years ago that one of the best things we can do for society is simply to be happy. That even if we aren't saving the whales, or working on the frontlines of healthcare, being fulfilled in our lives will make us a positive addition to society. 

This blog allows my brain to focus on something other than 'yes, but what next?' In the act of writing, all I can do is write. I struggle to find the right word, the right narrative arc, to maintain a tone that strikes the right balance of humor and warmth and vulnerability. And this focus on language is what keeps me present. I meditate...well, at least once a week (it's how my therapist starts each session). I yoga most days. I take the anxiety meds, I dose myself with CBD, I get outside frequently. But that tricksy brain of mine isn't so great at being calm, being present, staying with the breath. 

Staying with the words though. That, I can do.

Teaching in the Time of Corona

I have always prided myself on being an in-person teacher. Intensely focused on the physical. People would tell me "oh, you should move your work online, you'd reach such a bigger audience", and I'd react negatively. Too difficult. Too busy. Not my jam.

Here are some potential problems with teaching online, and these are just off the top of my head. My passion is for that most archaic of things, classical piano. I hate keyboards. I'm an introvert and thus get my energy from connecting deeply with one person at a time, which I hear is not how the internet often works. I'm tender hearted, and always stay out of the comments. I'm fascinated by the tiniest physical manipulations and how they affect changes in sound and physical ease, and how is that possible to really see/hear through an online platform? I can also do barely more than turn on my computer (true story, I couldn't find the power button on my Macbook Air when I got it). I am overwhelmed by GoogleDocs (but hey, I hear they're great!), I still pay for Dropbox because I know how it works, despite the fact that I *think* I have space...in the cloud...?

But. Forced as we all have been to the dark side of Zoom, here are some things I have learned. One. No smells. I never need to worry about the other person or myself. Of course, I tend to be better smelling these days, as I'm not going straight from the gym to teach (sorry, dear students!). Two, no undergarments necessary. The cameras aren't THAT good. Speaking of which, ever check out that 'touch up my appearance' button? Turns out, my skin never has to look anything but lovely!

For real though, I am obliged to be more patient. My students in The Before Times (to be referred from now on as TBT - it's like the original #tbt, but much more sinister) would compliment me on my patience. Mostly I would laugh and say 'oh, you know, 20 years in, I've gotten a lot better' as I'm screaming inside 'JUST FUCKING COUNT'. But the time lag in online teaching doesn't allow me to stop someone in the moment. The best I can do is a half second after the problem, which is usually entirely too late. And I'll tell you from any number of attempts, it doesn't actually matter if I try to say it louder, it still doesn't make it earlier. Side note: this is probably an excellent point to make to my students.

We hold our students in different ways. Maintaining energy through a long day of teaching is difficult, but nothing compared to sustaining it over an internet connection. The rhythm, that all-important factor of music, is shifted. Kids can’t interrupt. I can’t interrupt. I have to use my words. Why does this sound like I’m learning to grow out of toddlerhood? I’m a good teacher. I’m comfortable in what I know, and really love what I do. Teaching online is putting me in an unusual position, where I can’t rely on my eyes and ears in the same way. I can’t point to the music, I can’t physically manipulate someone’s body. I can’t catch someone in the moment. I can’t even really give them comments as they are playing. I certainly can’t help them count out loud.

One of the things I loved most about my doctoral advisor was his gentleness and forbearance when his students tried new ways of playing. I'd play something, poorly, and he'd lightly murmur 'mmhmm...why don't you try that again'..and we'd repeat this process until finally something halfway decent came out. I even specifically articulated my joy to others at the freedom this gave me. And still, it's something I've really struggled bringing into my teaching.

So okay, I allow my students to play longer, and then inquire as to whether they used the correct fingering, or had a relaxed elbow. And then they laugh and say they have no idea, and so I laugh and say they'd better do it again to check, as this format doesn't allow for me to see and hear in the same way. They're learning to self-monitor in a way I've mostly been too anxious and uptight to let them. I'm forced back into my armchair (this is a lie: I'm currently shifting between sitting on a yoga block and on the floor), forced into allowing them space to try without interruption. I’m learning to let them rely on their own ears, eyes, and kinesthetic awareness.

Takes a pandemic, I guess.