Piano Frustration

I glare at the notes until I get cross-eyed. The trill in particular seems to be mocking me. Not that there’s anything wrong with the trill, I mean I love a good trill, but it’s the grace notes that follow are bothering me. Now those are definitely there to spite me. Oh, how Mozart must be snickering at me. 

I take a deep breath in an attempt to regain myself. Not today, Wolfgang. Frustration will lead you nowhere, I remind myself. I used to think that that wasn’t the case. Truthfully, I still think that. Anyone could do some good with some good old fashioned rage.

My teacher had laughed when I said that. The piano is a graceful instrument, I could hear him saying, there is no room for frustration. I bit back a retort. I knew that he wasn’t exactly all sunshine and rainbows when he was just starting. Piano frustration is as real as it gets, especially with some of the pieces Lizst and Rachmaninoff put out. 

I focus my attention back to the piece and place my fingers on its respective keys. Then I start playing. So far so good. 

As I near the trill, my nerves settle in. My playing stalls just a bit as if it could already anticipate the failure. I was not a stranger to failure, especially when it comes to the piano. My previous teacher could attest to that. Given a few more days, my current teacher could attest to that too.

When my right hand’s second and third fingers start playing the trill, my left-hand plays to the tempo I set in my head. Keep tempo, my mind screams. 

One e and a two e and a three e and a four e and a

It’s no use counting. My sense of rhythm is nonexistent and I just cannot keep tempo for the life of me. How did I play my repertoire if I have no sense of rhythm you ask? I just play and hope for the best.

I stop abruptly. My left hand was too slow. Again. Even with someone as bad as I am with tempo can so clearly hear that. I slam the keys in frustration. There is no room for frustration, I mocked at myself. 

I was in one of my moods again and I knew it. I started playing again but from a couple measures before. This time, I did not falter. I neared the trill and played it. My left hand played the sixteenth notes so terribly that I could sense Mozart thrashing in his grave. 

What a sight it would have been for the visitors in Vienna I mused. I snap out of my trance and glare at the notes. I’m not glaring at any notes in particular, not even the trill. I glare at all of them. Even the harmless rests and dynamics. It shouldn’t be this hard. Right-hand trill, left-hand sixteenth notes, then right-hand grace notes with the left hand’s last sixteenth note. Then repeat for the other trouble spots. 

When I put it that way, it seems easy. Easier said than done I suppose. I sigh and start to play a familiar song. When my current repertoire got hard, I would play easier pieces. For some, it might have been an ego booster. For me, it’s to remind myself of how far I’ve come.

I’ve bounced back and forth when it comes to the piano. This would be my fourth teacher and I refused to let myself quit again. This is my last chance. In no way does the piano come easy to me but I was always as stubborn as a mule. 

There are prodigies who can immediately pick up on an instrument and play Lizst or Paganini. Obviously, I’m not one of them. I laugh bitterly. Maybe I should’ve picked the violin instead. I always liked the violin. 

After I’ve calmed myself down from playing Fur Elise, I begin playing the Mozart. I practice for about ten minutes, repeating the same measure over and over again until I am satisfied. 

I watch as my slender fingers dance on the keys and move from white key to white key. I watch as my fingers produce music from the keys. I have practiced enough times that I play the piece by muscle memory. 

It is too bad that I always mess up on the measures with the trills. I’d like to think that I could have been an accomplished pianist. I could’ve been playing piano concertos effortlessly. I could’ve been playing La Campanella or one of Chopin’s Etudes: Op. 25 No.11. How I love those two pieces, I think wistfully. 

Could have. Should have. Would have. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I need to practice. To me, today’s practice isn’t all that bad. I didn’t even break down crying yet. It’s been a decent thirty minutes of practice.

I practiced the section again. And again. And again. The time when I least expected it to happen, it did happen. I almost couldn’t believe my ears. I played it correctly! It sounded correct to me, at least. My lips curve into a smile. It’s the little things like this that keep me going. The section that I have been trying to perfect for weeks has finally been somewhat perfected. It is in no way perfect to a keen ear but it’s a big step for me. And that is good enough for me. More than good, actually, it’s fantastic.

I played it again but my left hand was too slow. Then I played again until I got it right. It’s a wondrous feeling, knowing that even I can play the measures correctly a couple of times. At least now I know that it is possible for me. 

I return to practicing with an eagerness that I have not had for a while and a lighter heart. Today’s practice is not so bad, I think while watching my fingers dance on the keys. Not bad as all.