COLOR ME CLASSICAL

Climb every mountain. Play every piece.

At my kids’ piano recital recently, the instructor, who is Russian and was once a concert pianist, concluded the concert by playing an amazing Mozart sonata. I can’t remember which one, and I don’t always understand the classification letters alongside. But it was a brilliant piece, played exquisitely, all the same. If it didn’t inspire the children directly, it definitely resonated with the adults in the crowd who patiently sat through 300 songs played before her by the shorter masters.

The kids' instructor approaches their lessons much the way you might envision a Russian concert pianist might: with serious attention to detail and structure; and posture. She was less than thrilled by the habits the kids had (or more likely hadn’t) developed in the last year from their previous instructor.

The recital piece inspired my husband so much, he downloaded a bunch of piano sonatas on ITunes and lately, he listens to them at night just before sleep.

I borrowed his tunes the other day when I went running with the dog. Usually I can take or leave music in my ears when I run; it distracts me from the sound of the birds (and the car or possibly bicyclist about to hit me), but on this day it definitely put a pep in my step and made the weather seem less shitty.

Listening to the sonatas got me thinking of my own short-lived piano pursuits. I determined (probably after that nice run while still high on endorphins) to pick up where I left off, and once again delve into the classical realm.

My German teacher from 30 years ago resembled the kids' now; trained classically and equally bent on proper applications and practicing. She always fascinated me, because in the 80s she cycled all the way down High Street in Columbus from Clintonville to Worthington twice a week to teach. I found her exotic and a little scary.

Sometimes my lessons were in her studio in back of her house; filled with music and her really really long snow skis. She didn’t hash her words. Maybe because English was her second language. She always made clear her intent, in short concise bursts. Just like the kids’ Russian teacher does now, "fingers like a kit-tee cat not like beag-a booll!" My teacher also thought American’s were puss skiers on stubs. I remember that, too.

I’m not sure when my piano playing became stifled, but I do have vivid recollection of my mom selling the piano when I stopped practicing. Unlike the “tiger mother,” Amy Chua’s Chinese hand's on approach to get her daughters to practice and to succeed, my mother’s was more of the hands off, “either play or the piano goes,” variety.

The piano went.

For whatever reason that life’s moment laid a heavy hand on my constitution. So much so, practically since introductions, I always spoke to my husband about "replacing" my long gone instrument with at least a baby grand by the time I was 40. I never paid much creedance to success, measured in houses and belongings, but I was determined about the piano.

Being sometimes saintly, my husband did get me a piano on my 40^th; an electric one, which is more compatible with our mobile existence. It’s the one we now all practice on (almost) daily.

I play. And I enjoy it. But I make most my choices by following the path of least resistance. I usually gauge my selections on my ability to at least be able to sight read/play a piece through without too much effort upon first sight. And, in short measure, for it’s length.

Most classical pieces are at least six pages long.

I don’t have that kind of attention span.

And classical pieces are scary.

I don’t know why I think they’re scary.

Probably because they are six or more pages long.

I think maybe I need to draw strength from the likes of the tiger mother and our Russian and German influences for their steadfast adherence to form and function, in order to succeed.

We have a new motto in our home, which is really not new, but new to us and really, we think, gets to the point quite nicely when our kids show resistance to practicing.

“Practicing is better than sucking!” We borrowed that one from Justin Halpern’s dad.

In short — there is no one way to skin a cat.