A Lesson Learned

{This is a re-post from an earlier NOTE on Facebook}

When I begin a new year, I always remember Virginia Taylor. Like many students, I knew Virginia for a period of years, and then she moved on. I heard from her only one time after she “graduated”, when she wrote an extremely nice letter to my Dean, extolling my virtues (such as they are). However, in my first meeting with Virginia, “my virtues” were still on summer vacation.

I was in my studio, practicing up a storm; and the knock came at my door. I have to admit that when I’m deep into my own mind, I have great difficulty changing gears, and talking to a real human. I schedule a little time in between my practicing and lessons, so I can be totally focused on the student for their lesson. When I’m interrupted, God only knows how I appear to the person at the door; probably not very virtuous.

Virginia was standing there; being used to late teens and early twenty-somethings in a college setting, I wasn’t prepared for the seventy year old lady confronting me. Big smile, extended hand; I just stared, at a loss. It was early August, and I was used to having the music building almost to myself. Roaring through the Liszt Sonata in B Minor, limbs flailing, and heart soaring. After all, that was one of my life’s dreams, to play the Liszt that had appeared so intimidating when I was in school.

“I just retired from 35 years of teaching over in Simsboro, and I promised myself piano lessons. I’ve heard you take new students”. Virginia even knew about the new Louisiana law that gave senior citizens the right to take any college course for $10 per quarter. She needed my permission on her registration. I didn’t tell her "no", but I’m sure it was obvious that I was talking all around her idea, not addressing her promise to herself. I had explained all about the requirements, the juries (performances students were required to give to piano faculty); she just nodded. She seemed really nice, an intelligent lady who had taught for over three decades, so I signed.

When we got started, I discovered that mostly she had played hymns in her Baptist Sunday School; she couldn’t read very well, and her technique looked to be mostly self-taught. I thought her chances were pretty dim. But I didn’t know Virginia. She cut her fingernails; she learned and practiced her scales; she attended my performance classes, and… she cried in her lesson before it was time for her to perform for the other students. She was so scared, and she really had done every other thing I asked.

By the end of the first school year, Virginia was playing in Performance Class; she had played on Recital Hour for the whole student body of music majors. I still had not required a jury of her, but it was time for her to take a jury, or she wouldn’t be admitted to the next level of piano. So, we prepared, and she decided that it might just work.

It was about then that she asked if I would come to her senior group at church, to perform for them. I had heard about that group. They were all retired, and their butts never saw the seat of a rocking chair! They were a group focused on keeping the bodies and brains of seniors engaged. I loved that! I knew I’d perform for them. But, I had a (almost virtuous) thought. “Virginia,” I said. “I’ll play for your group, if you will.” We worked up a short program of literature she had mastered over the past year. We even decided to do a duet together for her group.

Virginia did so well! It was just the right balance of friend and the offering of her talent, and her hard work, and the determination the she had. I realized that she never would have been there if it had been up to me. That was probably not the first time I learned from one of my students, but…I still think of Virginia when I begin again, every fall.

On Nurturing Students

Last weekend two of my students shared a recital.  One is a high school junior, and he played the bulk of the program; a high school sophomore “assisted” with a nice set of pieces in the middle of the program.  Her role, besides the experience of performing a larger set of pieces than usual, was to give a little focus-time to her cohort.  They did marvelously!

I’ve thought about the recital quite a bit this week.  I try hard to give my students perspective when they accomplish something significant.  I think they look up to me, and my playing abilities, so when I tell them that I had never done such an extended performance until college, they are amazed.  And, I think, flattered.

I’ve also pondered the array of things that I am trying to teach my students.  They learn how to read music (a much greater task than learning to read notes!); they learn how to practice; learn how to listen and interpret a score, and how to memorize their music.  Finally, they learn how to perform.  None of these items naturally lead to the next.  They form a comprehensive curriculum to be mastered, and then integrated into a whole, a total musician.

I spent a whole day re-amazing myself that these two students have come so far on the path to musical magic in the age of short attention spans, digital devices and a demand for instant gratification.  These two students are not the only ones that are developing in such a positive manner.  How blessed I am to be able to hang out with superior people!

Actually, I think all of my own accomplishments are the result of luck, fate, or whatever it might be called.  So much came so easily to me.  Reading musical notation never posed a problem.  I had a teacher that assigned me mass quantities of music every week.  Virtually no polishing was done, and no finesse was expected.  Once a year I would perform one piece in her home, along with all of her other students.  I loved spending time at the piano, so inefficient as my “practicing” was, I absorbed a love for the piano, and the ability to read music easily.

Learning how to practice well, and how to perform came with some pain, and only small successes for a long time.  Memorizing was my curse.  I don’t think anyone ever attempted to help me with that.  Trial and error was my god!  In a large way, I think I was as much self-taught as I was tutored.  Even through multiple degrees in piano performance!  I think that the teacher I am is the result of being the best in my own teachers, and being what none of my teachers ever were… nurturers.  As a result, my students are stunningly better at being students that I ever was.

A Teaching Story

I had a church pastor that used to lace his sermons with stories.  They were wonderful because he told them to US, as personal revelations.  Not from notes prepared ahead of time, but from memory, from experience with other people.  Personal stories about real people are compelling.  I believe that’s because we worry that we might be alone in our experiences, and that no one could possibly understand.  Personal stories place us comfortably in society with other strugglers. 

  

I find the telling of stories to be indispensable to my teaching.  If I can make a point by way of a story, I find I have the complete attention of my student, immediately, when I say the words, “I have a story to tell you…” Of course, the stories have to have a point, and they can’t be overly long.  Even my pastor would, at the conclusion of his stories, say, “Now, what am I trying to say?”  He made his point, with the story as his vehicle.  So, let me tell you a story…

I just had a lesson with one of my middle school girls; she performed Midnight Escapade by Melody Bober for me at the end of her lesson.  I listened with great interest as she came to the final cadence; such mastery!  She released the keys and placed her hands in her lap, the way I have showed her; I sat there silently, with my head down just a little.  She was unprepared for that.  “What’s wrong, Rory?”  “I’m just a little sad”, I said.  “You know this is a Contest piece, don’t you.  Even though you said you didn’t want to do any competitive events this year, I assigned a Contest piece, just to see how you’d do.  Now, when I know that you would have done so well, I’m just sad.”  

She looked very surprised, but immediately began to explain that performing just made her too nervous to enter the MMTA Contest, or the NFMC Festival.  I suspected that her real concern was that she wouldn’t be ready, considering the amount of preparation she intended to invest, and that a lack of preparation would, indeed make her nervous.  When I told her that she would actually be ready two months before the event, she didn’t know how to react.  I sensed that she was thinking hard about this idea, so I told her a story.

 “Vladimir Horowitz was, until he died, the absolute KING of pianists.  I once went to a concert of his; he was 10 minutes late coming onto stage.  When the lights dimmed, at 4:10 on a Sunday afternoon, it still took a full minute for Horowitz to come on stage.  Before that moment, I had never, and have never since heard that kind of silence.  A packed auditorium, the “hero” of the day that late, and there was no sound!  The audience held him in that kind of reverence.”

At that moment, I had 100% of my student’s attention.  A middle school girl, ready to go to school to see her friends, and get on with her day; and yet, she moved not a muscle.  “You may be interested to know,” I said, “that Vladimir Horowitz was world famous, and quite rich from playing piano concerts.  Then he abruptly ‘retired’ from performing.  He said he had paralyzing stage fright.” 

She was stunned.  We discussed his long absence, his return to the stage, and the coping mechanisms that he invented for himself.  She was interested, but I hadn’t ‘zinged’ her yet.  I knew that often stories have a greater impact if we tell the stories on ourselves.  Our students don’t always think of us a “normal” people, who were once students, and wrestled ourselves with practicing and performing.

“I also have had to combat stage fright”, I told her.  I’m sure you've seen the computer emoticon that represents astonishment… with the wide open mouth and big eyes.  That is exactly what her mouth and eyes looked like.  At first I thought maybe she was astonished that I, her teacher, ever had stage fright.  On second thought, I decided that she was simply astonished that I had ever had to perform in recitals, contests and festivals.  So, I told her another story.

“I had the good fortune, for several summers, to attend a special Piano Institute at Amherst College in Massachusetts.  The Institute met there every summer, with a master teacher named Dorothy Taubman.  Mrs. Taubman had taught many concert pianists, and was known for her abilities to help a pianist’s technique.  The second summer I attended, along with about 300 professional pianists from all over the world, I was selected to play in a public “master class” with Mrs. Taubman.  I would have to play for her, in front of all those people.  That was possibly the SCARIEST audience I could have imagined; everyone in the concert hall would be an accomplished performer, and I was worried if I would be good enough.  After the performance, I would have a mini-lesson, right in front of those pianists.” 

My girl was intrigued.  What did I do?  HOW did I do?  I told her that I decided to do my job.  I practiced with focus.  I told her the thing that helped the most was what one of my teachers told me:  “Practice like you’re performing, and perform like you’re practicing”.  At that moment, I knew I had her; nothing was decided right then about what she would do with her Contest piece; but I know we’ll have a chance to discuss this properly over the next weeks.  Once again, a story made real communication possible.

My Compliments

I have a difficult time receiving compliments.  Maybe I’m not the only one who has that as a personality flaw, but it does adversely affect those who are performers.  It’s not really a “humility thing”; I fully embrace my need for approval.  It’s at the moment of the compliment, that I have no idea how to respond. 

As performers, we a taught to bow; the lucky among us are actually taught how to bow.  We are told by our teachers that a simple "Thank You" is the proper phrase when, in a receiving line, we are told how well we did, how much the person enjoyed our playing, etc. etc. etc.  Of course, I can do those things.  But it feels so awkward, and artificial.  I often feel the urge to quickly leave.  Too often, I hear myself transform the compliment of my playing into a comment about the greatness of the piece, or of the composer.

I think the source of my feelings of discomfort is my college undergraduate years as a piano performance major.  I started school with a bang, went through a terrible second year, and found a way out of a slump the likes of which would have been nightmares for Babe Ruth or Barry Bonds.  But first, some background…

By ninth grade, I already knew what my career was going to be.  I loved practicing the piano.  I asked my piano teacher what kind of job I could get that would allow me to practice for hours during the day.  She replied that being an independent piano teacher, as she was, would not be the route to go; she told me that university professors not only were able to practice a great deal, but also were expected to practice and perform.  I wasn’t sure about the performing part, but since I would be guaranteed practice time… even paid for it (!), I knew definitively what my career would be.

Since I am born to naïveté, I had decided that during my first two years in college, I would be the best student pianist in the music department.  Quite a first goal, but it pales before my second goal:  I was determined to outplay the entire faculty by my graduation.  I knew that fours hours of practice per day would get me there.  And, I fulfilled my part.  I was at work at 6:00 a.m. in the food service 6 days a week, went to class, practiced two hours in the afternoon, and two hours after supper.  I practiced on the weekends, and sometimes hid in the music building around 11:00 p.m., so I could practice in the auditorium on the Steinway concert grand after the building closed.  My freshman year was great, and I was simply in heaven.

Unfortunately, in my sophomore year, I never had a successful performance.  I crashed every time.  We had studio performance classes, weekly seminars for all piano majors (in “my” auditorium!), and Recital Hour once each week; music majors were required to perform several times each semester, so my failures were there, for all of music-majorhood to witness!  Many students, in a situation like that, would have changed their major; but not me. 

I can’t really remember what was said, or who said it; but I realized that my problem was the way I thought about the whole matter of performing.  My focus was on ME.  What did they think of ME?  Did my peers think I was ever going to be a performer?  I realized that the focus was the problem.  I developed a little mind-game that helped.  I refocused… on the music!  I imagined that I had invited just a couple of my friends, into my practice room; that I had become excited about a piano piece that I LOVED, and I just wanted them to hear the greatest piece ever composed.  Sometimes, I would even focus on certain things about this piece that gave me “goose bumps”; those were the places that I especially wanted my friends to hear.  It was a sharing thing.  I thought only about the music, and… that whole change of focus revitalized my ability to perform.  My junior and senior years were glorious.  I had chances to play with orchestras twice, performed in small ensembles, got into a jazz band, and went on tour with the college orchestra…

I’ve often wondered if my discomfort at well-intended compliments had to do with avoiding a “jinx”.  I was determined that nothing would put me back on the ego track that led to failure.  I’ve not had a bad performance experience since I changed my attitude.  But, back to a point I’d like to make about compliments; I can still remember the time that a compliment touched me, heart and soul. 

I am a big fan of “trial performances”.  When I would get near to a recital date, I liked to arrange for small groups of people to hear me play brief sections of that recital.  I often arranged several small groups for each recital portion.  These informal performances were usually held in my studio.  This is the way that I gained total focus; they reinforced my mental game… “Come here, I’ve got this wonderful piece that I’d like to share with you”.

On this occasion, I was getting ready for a recital that included Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition.  This is a massive, thirty-minute work, originally written for the piano (although perhaps better known as an orchestra piece).  I invited a friend, who was also an adult student of mine.  She taught in the Foreign Language department at the university; she came to my studio to assist me with my “trial performances”, and after chatting about Mussorgsky, and composing of the Pictures, and some discussion about how I prepared my interpretation of the piece, I launched into the first Promenade.  The piece is very easy to get lost in, and I was aware of nothing else for the next thirty minutes.

When I finished, I turned to get her comments; she had been seated behind me, and slightly to the right, where she could see and hear everything.  I looked at her, and she was weeping.  That might be one of the most precious moments of my life.  No words, and no reason for me to respond verbally.  We just shared the moment.  Applause is nice, but it’s formal.  Tears are simply genuine, and they validated for me the musical focus that I chose as a college junior.