On Piano Lessons and Reincarnation

    While living in Crawfordsville, Indiana I had the all-too-abbreviated privilege of piano studies with the incomparable Ms. Cheryl Everett.  My 1 to 2 hour weekly lessons were refreshment to mind and soul.  Cheryl is an extraordinarily gifted musician and a highly regarded teacher.  She is also uncompromising when it comes to musical standards.  We got along swimmingly.

Music Room and Studio:  Crawfordsville, Indiana

    Lessons with Cheryl made me feel as if I had entered sort of inner sanctum: a place where the greatest musical secrets of interpretation and technique are revealed for those who earnestly seek after musical truths.
   
    At some time in our lesson teacher and student would banter on about some less than stellar musical going-ons in the neighborhood.  The world (although most are blissfully unaware) is full of musical charlatans, most of whom have no idea the music they peddle is pedestrian, false, full of vainglory.  But Cheryl knew this and I knew it (although I lived in fear that I, too, was a charlatan). What does one do, I wondered aloud, when one has found herself unfortunately in attendance at some ghastly performance, and then, worse, forced upon to render a compliment?

    Cheryl taught me well.  “Always say, ‘there were some very fine moments,’” she replied with a smile. “After all, there will be a measure here or there that is played (or sang) competently enough.”   Genius! The performer and their dear relatives go away satisfied and I have not lied, not endangered my immortal soul any further.  Perhaps, those of us in the know should form a sort of society, a Some Very Fine Moments Society where we can rage against musical mediocrity everywhere.  But I digress...

My Music Room: Skaneateles, New York

    Counting childhood and Cheryl, I had nearly ten years of lessons tallied when I moved to Hilltop Lakes, Texas and headed the 60 miles (each way) to Huntsville to study with Sergio Ruiz, a fiery Latino-Apache mix of a man, a concert pianist since childhood. His wife pointed out that Sergio spent a total of 12 days per calendar year home, a statistic that required drastic improvement if Sergio wanted her to bear his children. Sergio left the concert tour and settled for university life and fatherhood.

    Lessons with Sergio didn’t go well.  Not to say that I didn’t learn anything from Sergio. I learned a great deal - in a very short time.   And, in his own way, he complimented me, “I know that it seems that you cannot play this instrument at all, but actually you are doing quite well.”  And “You came here barely able to play a scale, and now this!”  (I could play a scale. Sergio demanded the established norm of four octaves, 16th notes at 120 beats/minute. That’s 480 notes /minute starting from any key. It was getting up to this speed which he made note). Once he even said with satisfaction, “Yes, yes! now you don’t sound like an amateur.” High praise, indeed.

    But the compliments were few compared the to barrage of “No. No. No!”  followed by a curt "Thank you" if the desired skill was achieved. Some weeks I could not place my hands on the keyboard for three days following a lesson.  The voice in my head accusing me “No! No! No!” as my hands descended, but stopped short  of landing onto the keys.

    “The thumb is a troublesome finger," he remarked one Friday afternoon, "like a short, squat red-head.” That was the last lesson I took from Sergio.

 M. Elizabeth Gage Studio in Texas

    The following spring, I quietly attend a concert at the university.  I wanted to watch the passionate husband-father play, to be what he was born to be. I wondered how many of his students had survived the semesters of "No. No. No! Thank you." with Sergio; how many were stronger than I? Without speaking to anyone, I left the concert hall, grateful for the knowledge and skills Dr. Ruiz imparted, but equally certain that I had to find another way.




    “A concert pianist has moved to the Hill” or so the realtor claimed.  Not-so-old-to-the-hill myself, I signed up for lessons.  Carolyn seemed unnecessarily pleased to add me to her student roster.  She had a friend, she informed me upon introduction, an adult student who had recently passed on.  My appearance in her home studio burst open the flood gates of memories of this past student and her accomplishments.  Carolyn's loss was palpable, perhaps, she wondered, I could walk a path similar to her dearly-departed.

    For my part I wasn’t interested in a friend.  I wanted a competent teacher.  Sandwiched between genuine instruction and critical evaluation of my playing, Carolyn shared photo albums of pilgrimages to Germany, the home of Mozart.  She offered me pieces I could easily sight read, and hoped I’d play at festival “as her friend had" done to medal-winning success.

    I abandoned the cause.

    Months later I ran into Carolyn by the granite counter-top display at the College Station, Texas Lowe’s. “It wasn’t what you expected, was it?” she remarked with a look of disappointment.   

    “No,” I said quietly.

     No, for both of us.

    I didn’t want to be the reincarnation of her former student. She couldn’t replace my teacher Cheryl. Shortsightedness cost us a chance friendship.

    Being the new girl in town so often, I should have known better.