Solo performance has never been my forte. It really didn’t matter how well practiced I was, nerves always got, and get, the better of me.
I began piano lessons when I was 7 years old after begging my mother with a relentless passion that even she was ultimately unable to stem. Practicing every day for the required 30 minutes was hard work. In the beginning, the easy songs didn’t require more than five minutes. It was boring to keep playing through the same songs over and over, day after day. I would use part of the time to do my Dozen-a-Day finger exercises, which also became boring. Harder still was filling in the notes in my music theory book as I tried to learn the meaning of key and time signatures. As the years went by, my teacher, Mrs. Wendt, assigned me more difficult and challenging pieces. Eventually, 30 minutes was not enough time to do my workbook assignments, scales, adagios, and classical work. My practice time expanded to an hour.
Mrs. Wendt was a very demanding and exacting teacher. She occasionally would write at the top of my assignment book: FILE NAILS! The pieces I was working on became splattered with her many notations: Listen! Hold, soften, legato, resolution, lighten, rest, EASY! Her insistence made me a better player, but nothing seemed to help me become a better performer.
Lessons were once a week for 30 minutes. Recitals were held twice a year, and I dreaded them. Mrs. Wendt would decide which piece I would memorize for an upcoming recital, and then I would go to work trying to perfect it for the performance. I never was a great piano player. I lacked the passion required to be really good. I enjoyed playing, and was good enough to fool anyone who didn’t play at all into believing I was good, but I knew the truth. The truth was that I thought myself a bit of a fraud, and consequently, could never muster the confidence I needed to resolutely perform a solo for an audience.
On recital days, I would practice the piece several times just to make sure I had the flaws worked out. I would do fine at home, alone in the basement, playing the upright that had been given to my grandmother on her sixteenth birthday. But as I sat in my “Sunday Best” awaiting my turn to perform, my hands would begin to sweat, my stomach to churn, and my heart to beat at a quickened pace. I would be panicked into thinking I had forgotten how to play. I would glance at the music in my lap, which I knew I would have to leave on my chair when my name was called. I would play the music in my head just to make sure I really did remember the notes. Without fail, when I took my place on the piano bench, I would manage to get through the piece, but my fingers would slip off keys, I would often fumble the initial start to a key change, or miss a note in a turn, mordent, or trill. I would bow, as Mrs. Wendt insisted we do when finished, but I would be embarrassed that the perfection I had demonstrated at my last lesson, or even just that morning in my basement, had completely eluded me. I could tell Mrs Wendt was disappointed with me. The only redeeming aspect was that my parents, my sister, and the other guests didn’t seem to notice how many errors I had made. Or maybe they were just being really kind with their compliments afterwards, not wanting to add insult to injury.
When I was 14 years old, having taken lessons for seven years, Mrs. Wendt announced that she was going to enter me in the Indiana State Piano Competition. Competition? I had never competed in anything or for anything in my life. The thought was terrifying. She handed me the sheet music for one of Ludwig van Beethoven’s Écossaises piano solos—number 6 in E-flat Major. Mrs. Wendt said, “The competition is in April, so there’s plenty of time. But I won’t lie to you. This piece will be very challenging.”
A country-dance in quick duple meter is the description for an Écossaise. With three flats—B, E, and A—a 2/4 time signature, numerous ornaments, and dynamics ranging from pianissimo to sforzando with crescendos and diminuendos, this piece goes lickety split. Because I wanted to please Mrs. Wendt, I worked relentlessly on it. I memorized it. I perfected it for her, for myself, for my family members...I took a Silver Medal in the competition. I think they were kind. My old demons accompanied me. But, speaking of accompanying, in addition to my competition, I was asked to be the accompanist for two other competitors—a violist and a bass player. They both took Gold, and to my shock, I did not get nervous at all when playing with them. I found I just needed a buddy! This held true for singing as well. I was a wreck if asked to perform a solo, but had no trouble at all holding my own when I had at least one other person to perform with.
At 16 years old and in my last recital with Mrs. Wendt, I performed Chopin’s Minute Waltz in D-flat Major, meant to be performed in two minutes. I probably took at least three minutes to get it done with plenty of mess-ups along the way. But, give me a piano duet...and I can kill it.
