Slower, Much Slower
"Can you give me more of the top voice?" Dr. Whitley asks.
I nod and focus on bring the top notes out in the next few chords, looking to him for the verdict. He shakes his head, which in Whitley-ism means, "No, not even close." I play one chord, drawing out the upper note with my pinky while barely playing the other note. This earns me a nod. (Whitley-ism for "Hmmm. Better.")
"Again, but much slower."
I play the entire measure. A shake of the head this time. He plays it for me on the Kuwait, so I can hear what he wants. I try again.
"No, no, no. You're not listening to each note." (Whitley-ism for "You're not paying attention.") "Listen to each note, and go slower, much slower."
I focus on hearing the melody in the upper voice as I play it. This time we both shake our heads. I can hear how the middle voice of the chord is taking over the melody line, making it indistinguishable. I play it again, concentrating on keeping the line up above everything else, but it still falls.
"Slower, now, much slower," Dr. Whitley said, playing it for me again. After a few more tries, I find the sound he wants, and he gives me a pep talk from his place at the Kuwait while I lean my arms on the Yamaha. "You're past the infatuation stage with this piece, now. This is the commitment part. You need to practice all of this slowly, at least an hour a day, so that you can really listen to your tone and the melody line."
As much as I hate the piece and Chopin right then, I do as he says. For days I give an hour to that section, listening to the line over and over again. Earl Wild gives me inspiration, but for the most part it is just the piece and me. Frustration and discouragement set in, and the cold, dreary weather suits my mood. Do you know have any idea how difficult it is to keep the upper line steady while the rest of piece "just floats" between the hands? I must not give up, though.
I nod and focus on bring the top notes out in the next few chords, looking to him for the verdict. He shakes his head, which in Whitley-ism means, "No, not even close." I play one chord, drawing out the upper note with my pinky while barely playing the other note. This earns me a nod. (Whitley-ism for "Hmmm. Better.")
"Again, but much slower."
I play the entire measure. A shake of the head this time. He plays it for me on the Kuwait, so I can hear what he wants. I try again.
"No, no, no. You're not listening to each note." (Whitley-ism for "You're not paying attention.") "Listen to each note, and go slower, much slower."
I focus on hearing the melody in the upper voice as I play it. This time we both shake our heads. I can hear how the middle voice of the chord is taking over the melody line, making it indistinguishable. I play it again, concentrating on keeping the line up above everything else, but it still falls.
"Slower, now, much slower," Dr. Whitley said, playing it for me again. After a few more tries, I find the sound he wants, and he gives me a pep talk from his place at the Kuwait while I lean my arms on the Yamaha. "You're past the infatuation stage with this piece, now. This is the commitment part. You need to practice all of this slowly, at least an hour a day, so that you can really listen to your tone and the melody line."
As much as I hate the piece and Chopin right then, I do as he says. For days I give an hour to that section, listening to the line over and over again. Earl Wild gives me inspiration, but for the most part it is just the piece and me. Frustration and discouragement set in, and the cold, dreary weather suits my mood. Do you know have any idea how difficult it is to keep the upper line steady while the rest of piece "just floats" between the hands? I must not give up, though.
It is challenging for me, this "slower, much slower" idea that Dr. Whitley believes to be essential. I want to have it now, and I want to be perfect at it. Striving for perfection has always been important, and when it does not come easily, I often give up. I give up on the hard relationships because I can't make them be my idea of perfect. I give up on my relationship with God because it doesn't "feel good" or I don't see any progress. I give up because life, with all those little details and tiny decisions, adds up to this mountain that I try and try to scale while never reaching the summit.
It is lesson day again a week and a half after the commitment pep talk. Dr. Whitley asks for the Chopin, and I hand him the music. A pause to breathe, then I begin. After the first page, I turn for the nod or the shake of the head, whichever it is.
He nods. "Your voicing is so much better. It's really very good." I want to jump in ecstasy, I want to dance and sing, I want to-
"But the voicing is so good that now I can't hear the rest of these chords. Start again and give me a fuller sound like- he plays the opening measures, emphasizing the melody, while still playing the rest of it with strength so that the piece does not sound hollow. I listen, concentrating as much as I can on the sound he wants. I picture the notes in my head, all those little black notes and lines that add up to such unspeakable beauty, and then I begin to play very slowly.
Dr. Whitley has numerous bits of advice and directions that he proceeds to give. The best part, though, is that for the entire lesson he never once has to tell me to play slower. That much, at least, I have finally learned.
It is lesson day again a week and a half after the commitment pep talk. Dr. Whitley asks for the Chopin, and I hand him the music. A pause to breathe, then I begin. After the first page, I turn for the nod or the shake of the head, whichever it is.
He nods. "Your voicing is so much better. It's really very good." I want to jump in ecstasy, I want to dance and sing, I want to-
"But the voicing is so good that now I can't hear the rest of these chords. Start again and give me a fuller sound like- he plays the opening measures, emphasizing the melody, while still playing the rest of it with strength so that the piece does not sound hollow. I listen, concentrating as much as I can on the sound he wants. I picture the notes in my head, all those little black notes and lines that add up to such unspeakable beauty, and then I begin to play very slowly.
Dr. Whitley has numerous bits of advice and directions that he proceeds to give. The best part, though, is that for the entire lesson he never once has to tell me to play slower. That much, at least, I have finally learned.
Comments
Post a Comment