The Piano Teacher & The Introvert
“It’s Mozart! Absolute clarity! Don’t ‘dee…dee…deee,’ plunking through.” My daughter’s piano teacher is Russian, and I think that is all you need to know — he lives up to the stereotype. He pushes her, accepting nothing less than her best.
“Make your fingers work, lift them higher. Do you hear what I’m saying?” Even through Facetime you can feel his intensity.
“Mmm hmmm,” Lillian quietly responds.
She plays a few notes, and her teacher interrupts.
“Not this,” as he plays. “But this,” and he plays again. My daughter didn’t get her musical ability from me: They sound the same.
Lillian sits in silence, taking in every word. She plays a few more notes.
Her teacher claps, three sharp claps in a row. “Stop. Again. Don’t get too relaxed — keep revisiting. Do you understand?”
“Mmm hmmm.” And she begins again.
Back and forth they go, a few notes from her, a few words from him, a few more notes from her.
And suddenly her fingers are flying over the keys. I hum along in my head to the piece I hear over and over, always delighting in it. Hearing my own child produce something beautiful is almost enough to make me believe in god.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” her teacher interrupts again. “Too fast, too fast. Do you get it?”
“Mmm hmmm.”
Lillian wants to fly through the notes and hear the grand whole of the piece. When she practices, I can hear her challenging herself to play as quickly as she can. But she knows her teacher doesn’t want that, so she silently forces herself to slow down. She begins to play.
“Yes, yes, yes!” her teacher encourages. “Play that measure again.” He leans forward to get a closer look at her hands through the phone screen.
Lillian plays the measure again. “Again.” She plays it again. “Work on that the way we talked about. Do you want to write something down?”
“Mmm hmmm.”
“Let’s go!” She begins to play.
“Lillian, Lillian. You’re taking too much time. Work on this measure 10 times, right now.”
She slowly plays the four notes over and over.
“No, no, no. Come on, Lillian. Same thing.”
She plays two notes.
“No!”
This constant interruption would infuriate me as an adult and would have destroyed me as a child. But not Lillian. Her face remains serene and focused. She uses his energy, learns from it and tries again.
“Come on, come on. More confidently, please. Mozart wants you to lift your hand. Make sure you do that, yeah?”
“Mmm hmmm.” She continues to play through the piece, until he stops her yet again.
“Let’s work on those last three lines. You’re on the right track, just stay focused.” Lillian is always focused at the piano. You see no frustration, no impatience. As her teacher talks, she continues to stare at the music, analyzing what she sees. She plays, but he stops her.
“Lillian, Lillian. Can you tell me what you think is wrong? Speak to me.”
“The timing,” Lillian quickly answers. Words! I knew she was paying attention but often wonder if her teacher is aware.
“Thank you very much,” he rewards her correct answer. “Does it make sense?”
“Mmm hmmm,” and she finishes the piece.
He applauds. “Quality job, you got the notes, you got the fingers. It’s these tiny things that make it sound so interesting to listen to. Every time I stop you, you may feel like, ‘Why is he always stopping me, why is he so annoying?’ Why do I keep stopping you?”
“Because I made a mistake?” she responds.
“You want to improve right?”
“Mmm hmmm.”
“Do we connect so I can praise you?” In a sarcastic, saccharine voice, he says, “Ooh, Lillian! You’re so good! No. It’s to make you better.”
“Mmm hmmm.”
“I very much like to work with you. Do you hear me?”
“Mmm hmmm.”
“I love what I’m hearing, but please. Go very responsibly, it’s the right thing to do, I promise you.”
“Mmm hmmm.”
“See you next time.”
Lillian hops off the piano bench and zips upstairs to join her virtual school. I know that later she will sit down and drill through those measures, repeating them over and over with an intensity that awes me. I can’t wait to listen.
