When time disappears

When I left New Hampshire, one of my students gave me a small clock, the case made of wood, resembling the shape of the state, the clock itself no larger than a watch. It stands on the windowsill by my desk, and has become the time keeper of my work. I like it, because it is silent and small, not overly intrusive, but present for a quick glance when I teach or practice. I’m always concerned whether there is enough time left to do everything that needs to be done.

The other day I came home and found that the clock had stopped, probably in need of a new battery.

There was no need to do anything about it during the vacation week. I got used to it and I almost liked it better that way:

• allowing time to stretch out without keeping track
• allowing myself to get absorbed in a task and keep going until I feel that I’m done for now
• allowing a task to develop at its own pace and in its own time

In fact, it’s one of the greatest luxuries I can imagine. Tomorrow, I start teaching again. I wasn’t too disappointed when I found the store already closed where I wanted to get the battery changed today. It will make it easier to preserve some of that feeling of letting time pass without measuring it.  

There has to be music at every lesson

“The students are coming for a musical experience. There has to be music at every lesson.” I don’t remember who made the statement during the two hours of lively discussion at the Leschetizky Association’s Teachers’ Forum last Saturday, but it went home with me. 

It’s so obvious that it seems hardly worth mentioning. In real life, things can easily go the other way. A situation comes to mind from a lesson last week: The student came in, beaming with joy, reporting with pride that she managed to learn the entire piece hands together. 

My inner response was a mixture of thrill and worry, which I found confirmed in the child’s playing. The part of the piece she was particularly proud of was also particularly fast and breathless, possibly reflecting her inner excitement at having accomplished this task. In addition to the pace, the phrasing had gotten lost, so had the articulation and the dynamics. We had worked on these aspects at the previous lesson, and I thought I had taken care to have her hear and feel the difference in the way the piece sounded.

And then, I imagine, she started to practice, got all excited over hands together, and her enthusiasm swept away the phrasing and the articulation and the dynamics like a storm. 

I’ve been there myself, even as an adult student. Just recently, I learnt Liszt’s Consolation No 3. It didn’t seem too difficult, and in practicing I was pleased with myself. I had a good time, indulged in the beautiful sounds and only realized at my lesson that I had never taken the trouble to exactly figure out the mixed rhythms...

My teacher took it calmly, we laughed it off, and with a smile he promised he wouldn’t tell anyone. I was just a little embarrassed and vowed to myself I would observe the score more diligently the next time. As an adult, you can to see to it yourself that the child in you doesn’t get hurt. 

With young students, it’s different. No matter how hard you try as a teacher, occasional casualties seem almost inevitable. Most of the time, the students don’t hear the music the way you do. You hear nuances they can’t even imagine. They rely on you to improve their playing and gradually perceive those subtle differences themselves.   

Sometimes, it’s the most gifted and the most hard working students that pose the greatest challenge. A student plays beautifully, and I’m still commenting on a tiny little thing that could be improved. Even though I take great care to praise her for her playing, my suggestion for improvement comes across as criticism. She is too young to understand that my criticism is a compliment, that I’m asking a lot, because I know she can do it. 

Explaining is fruitless, for her, I’m just a nagging old woman at that moment. If I don’t sense the moment when it’s time to stop nagging, and if I don’t find an appropriate way to bring my suggestions across, there’s a chance that the music, as the student feels it, will get smothered, chopped up into items on an endless list: fingerings and timing and motions and hand position and pedal and dynamics...

If that’s happening, sometimes, it’s time to let go, and wait for a better moment, or a different piece to add on what is still missing. It’s the feeling for the music that fuels the learning process. There has to be music at every lesson.

Student Recital

After three weekends of student performances, peace of mind finally returns. I have nights of restful sleep. I’m not sure what makes me more nervous: performing myself, or working with students towards a performance, and listening to them play.

They have to do the work, of course, the practicing, but I always feel I’m in there with it. Have I chosen the right pieces?  If students don’t practice, in spite of the recital coming up, how can I motivate them to do it? Young people have a different sense of time passing. How much can you fit into your day, and how secure do you have to be in order to survive a performance? Teenagers tend to chronically over schedule themselves, and young children often have no sense of time at all. Sometimes, I envy them for their talent of “being in the moment.” 

The only way to learn how to prepare for a recital and how to perform successfully is to experiment. If you fall flat on your face, that tells you you need to do something different the next time. Getting over the disappointment gives you an opportunity to train a life skill. Occasionally, you learn more from a bad performance than from a good one. Regardless of that, I don’t like disappointments or people falling apart on stage, and I try everything to make performance a positive experience, for myself and for my students as well. Maybe, I’m a little over protective.

Celeste, Hanna, Mita and Athy at performance class

Everybody was in good shape at the performance class a week before the recital. We have a performance class every month. It gives students a chance to gather experience playing for others, and listening to others. It also means sharing the work, realizing that it’s a process and no one simply goes out there and does a perfect job. 

Group photo at the library, 

with Celeste, Zoe, Louise, Kenny, Olive and Hanna (left to right)

“I hope they didn’t peak early,” I thought after the class. They didn’t, the playing held up at the recital which we held at the South Orange Public Library on January 29th. Most important, everybody made music, nobody played “just the notes.”  The last piece on the program was a little round we used to sing in Germany when I was a child: “Froh zu sein bedarf es wenig” - “It takes little to be happy, if you’re happy you’ re a king.”  

Louise, Kenny and Zoe had played it three times in the course of the program, giving the audience a chance to learn it. Before everybody went home, we played it in 4 parts, and the audience sang along.

"It takes little to be happy" in four parts

A week after the studio recital, Kenny and Athy had yet another event coming up: they performed at a student recital organized by the Leschetizky Association at Montclair State University. 

Playing in a public recital like that is a big step. It means leaving the familiar environment of the studio and “swimming in a larger pond.” Students come from different backgrounds, and you are bound to meet people who are your age and they play pieces that are much more difficult.

Athy (2nd on left) and Kenny (last on right) and other performers in the recital of the Leschetizky Association 

We had talked about this - about the fact that different people start to play at different ages, some work harder than others, and some simply progress faster than others. It’s a fact of life that you encounter in other areas as well, and it doesn’t have to be defeating - on the contrary, it can be inspiring. The most important thing is that you do whatever you do as best as you can. They both did, and they enjoyed playing on the beautiful new concert grand the school acquired a year ago.    

When it was all over, I made a mental note to myself that we have to pay more attention to “stage presence” at performing class again. Usually, everybody plays and bows afterwards, but this time, we got so involved in discussing the playing that it fell through - and of course, everyone just ran off after they played their piece at the recital. Also, I might start to print out the programs - so that the students learn what you can do with them other than folding paper airplanes...

Last Bus from the City

The weather forecast was grim last Wednesday. Nevertheless, I decided to go to the city to teach. Snowstorms seem to have developed a preference for Wednesdays lately. Two weeks ago, I had cancelled because of the weather, then, students had to cancel because they were sick. If you cancel all too often, you lose momentum. 

New Jersey already had a considerable amount of snow in the morning, and a travel alert announced 20-30 minute delays. I got on the bus - an hour earlier than usual - and of course, we got to New York on time. We even had a glimpse of the sun, before the bus disappeared in the tunnel.

New York had more slush than snow, and late in the afternoon, it stopped snowing altogether. “That was it,” I thought, not for the first time wondering what the people in charge of the weather forecast are being paid for. On the way to my last student, light snow started up again, and there were occasional gusts of wind. 

“It’s supposed to get really bad after nine,” she said, before I left her place just around that time. Outside, a thin layer of snow was covering the sidewalk. Big, fluffy snowflakes were falling from the sky, and I enjoyed my walk from Chelsea back to Port Authority through the wintry city.

No signs of foreboding at the bus station - except for a snowplow, which is an unusual sight inside the terminal. The bus was a little late, but that happens. On the way down the ramp, the snow was falling heavily. 

I took out my book and began to read. My habitual last glimpse at the the city from the other side of the river was cancelled by the weather. “Oh well,” I thought, getting back to my book as we slowly progressed. 

A few passengers were having a passionate discussion about the most recent game of the Jets. At first, I thought the bus driver was involved in it, too. I looked up again and found it reassuring that he wasn’t, wondering how on earth he managed to keep the bus on the road. We were just going through the curvy exit towards Newark, rather fast, for my taste. The visibility was close to zero, occasionally, the wind was shaking the bus, and the road was starting to feel bumpy. 

Memories caught up with me, of an 8-hour bus trip from New York to Boston, creeping along the highway in a snow storm. That was during my first year in New Hampshire. The last bus to Concord was cancelled, I knew no one in Boston and had to find accommodation in the middle of the night.

      

Spending the night in a bus in the snow storm in the middle of the wetlands between New York and Newark wasn’t such a compelling perspective, either. At least, I wasn’t in a car by myself, and I had a book. It’s never felt so good to reach Newark, the lights flickering dimly through the snow. 

Still grateful for the book, my mind began to go through the last stations of the trip. There’s that insane "hairpin" turn when you get off the highway in Irvington, and a couple of more narrow curves on the way to Springfield Avenue. Who knows what’s going on there. Irvington Bus Terminal - home is about 2 miles from there, and you could walk, if you had to - under normal circumstances. 

We passed the terminal and got onto Irvington Avenue. We passed a couple of cars that were stuck on the side of the road. “Hey you, from the back of the bus, come up here, please,” the bus driver called out to one of the passengers. He told him that he couldn’t let him off at his usual bus stop - so where should he let him off instead?

Shortly after that, a car was blocking the street. With determination, the bus driver turned into the next side street, and off we went. I could probably walk home from Irvington Bus Terminal even in a snow storm, but now I had no clue where we were, let alone where we were going.

Another woman appeared a little worried, too. Together, we went up to the bus driver. “Don’t worry, ladies, I know what I’m doing,” he said. It’s amazing how those bus drivers always know where everyone gets off. “This is probably going to be the last bus?” the woman said. The bus driver didn’t answer, but you could tell that he was eager to get back to South Orange before everything closed down completely.

Shortly afterwards, he took another turn that led us back to the usual bus route. I’ve never been so relieved to see Irvington Avenue again, and get off at my usual bus stop. I’ve never been so relieved to turn the key to my apartment, after wading home through the snow that was knee deep by then.    

Farewell to a Favorite Place

On my first visit to New York City in 1996, I could hardly believe what I saw on entering the bookstore at the corner of Broadway and Columbus Avenue, right across the street from Lincoln Center. Open from 9 am to midnight, 7 days a week! That beat any library hours, and the supplies - books from the basement to the 3rd floor - appeared compatible as well.

Many people seemed to be using the store in the sense of a reference library. Some were sitting on the carpet right between the shelves, deeply absorbed in the books they had taken. A whole line of readers were sitting on the floor, comfortably leaning against the wall while taking notes. It was even hard to find a place. 

If you had tried the same thing in Germany at the time, a shop assistant would have been after you before you got around to turning a page, with instructions that the books were for purchase only, and if you intended to do anything with them beyond that, would you move on to the cash register, please. 

The cafe on the fourth floor was the best. Overlooking Broadway from above, you could sit there for hours over a bite to eat or something to drink and a stack of books. The portraits of great writers on the back wall of the cafe conjured up their spirits; in short, it was a reader’s heaven. 

In 1997, I began to study piano with Seymour Bernstein. On numerous trips to New York City, from Germany at first, then from New Hampshire, the bookstore became a sort of “soul home” in the city, a place that anchored me, while I stayed overnight in different places; or before I headed out for another long trip on the plane or on the bus. Even after I moved to New Jersey, I kept up the habit of spending time over a cup of tea and a stack of books at the cafe after my piano lesson, and at other times as well.

In December 2010, a simple notice on plain white paper informed customers that the book store would be closing at the end of the year. For a couple of days, I felt homeless. 

The other day, I found the following message posted on the door:

“This location of Barnes&Noble has closed. Yes, it was just a store. But for us, the people who filled this store, it has been our honor and pleasure to serve this community for the past fifteen years. Some of you we’ve known all that time, others only briefly. But we’ve valued our relationships with all of you.

Thank you for allowing us into your lives, and into your community.

We will miss you.” 

It’s a small comfort that I’m not the only one who has to find a new routine. Others have lost their workplace - compared to that, my loss is minor. I didn’t know that I had been a regular visitor ( and an occasional customer) from the beginning to the end.   

There is a special energy in places where people come together randomly to do the same thing, even if they do it by themselves. It’s a part of city culture, and it’s a part of its magic - of the parks in the summer, and the "public spaces" in the winter. The bookstore was one of them. New York City has lost one of its magical places.

Heartwarming Wishes

When I went to South Orange this morning to put my Christmas Cards in the mail, the pole of the big clock in the center of town caught my attention. It looked different than usually. Something was wrapped around it, looking a little messy from a distance. 

Coming closer, I found one of the most heartwarming Christmas decorations I’ve ever seen: hand made woolen scarves and items, samples with good wishes, as if to warm the cast iron pole ... and maybe time itself?

May you all find something 

to warm your heart this Christmas.

"Encore" with Obstacles

As far as performing is concerned, I was ready to wind down for the year after the recital in Concord. Eagerly, I plunged into new repertoire. A call from our choir director on the last day of November provided me with an unexpected “encore”.

The choir had been hired to sing several movements of the Durufle Requiem at a memorial service that was to take place in Alice Tully Hall in New York City a week later. Since a video was going to be shown at the service, the organ had to disappear behind a large screen and could not be used.

Now, the choir would sing “At the River” by Copland, and “O beautiful for spacious skies” together with the audience. An accompanist was needed, who was also to play a SHORT Prelude and a SHORT Postlude on the piano. 

I agreed to do the job, rescheduled my students, cancelled everything I didn’t absolutely have to do, put Chopin’s F-major Ballade back on the shelf and spent hours every day reviving two selections from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier. We thought they were a good choice for the solemn occasion. They take less than 10 minutes to perform, but every little detail in articulation and voicing makes a difference, and every mishap sticks out like a sore thumb.

On the day of the event, I arrived early to ensure that I would get a chance to try out the piano. The concert grand stood huddled in the back corner of the stage. At first I didn’t even notice that it was positioned the wrong way, the bass facing the audience,”so that I could see the choir director”, one of the stage managers explained. 

A small reading light had been positioned on the music stand. It barely illuminated the entire score, and the keyboard disappeared in the shadows. “This is an event, not a concert,” was the reply to our request for more light. During rehearsal with the choir, the reading light went out altogether. Even though I was assured this was not going to happen again, I asked my page turner to, please, find a flashlight, just in case.

Apparently, there had been some miscommunication, regarding the length of the program. Could I play for half an hour, was the question, so that there would be some music while people were walking in and out ? It’s possible that someone even said no one would be listening - a feeble attempt to boost my confidence ? 

An hour before the beginning of the service, I found that the Preludes and Fugues I had performed in Concord 2 weeks earlier were still in good shape. I practiced and timed the pieces. A student from the Juilliard School would be hired to fill in the rest. “Why are you doing this in the first place”, a tiny voice asked in the back of my mind. Well, I guess there’s nothing like a challenge...

Pleasant Jazz Tunes wavered through the hall as it began to fill with people. After 20 minutes, our choir director shooed the pianist off stage, so I could strike up a more serious tone with Bach. 

There’s nothing wrong with putting your concentration to the test. If you can keep your mind on the Fugue in g-sharp minor from Book II of the Well-Tempered Clavier while people are engaged in a conversation a few feet away from you, it speaks for the quality of your preparation.

Performing on the street pianos at Lincoln Center in the summer had been a good preparation for this task. The major differences between the occasions were the concert grand I got to play this time, and the pay check. Regardless of that, there was something about the street pianos and their off colored, sticking, sticky keys, and the sounds of the music mixing with the random sounds of the city that felt more honest and authentic. 

The ways in which music can touch people’s hearts are mysterious and often a matter of chance. Someone came back stage and thanked us afterwards. Beyond conventions and representation, this had been a memorial service, and at least music was given a chance to bring comfort to those who were grieving the loss of someone they loved.