Practice

Almost… Almost.

You have been practicing. I can tell now. From our last talk, you have actually learned something. Not just listening to what I say and then off to TV and videogameland. Once again…

I am saying the same thing to you once more again: fingerwork, fingerwork, fingerwork! You don’t just read the notes; put your fingers into them. Like digging for money you have put in some private place and cannot find because you have not written it down. That is what you have to do on that part.

Yes, in two weeks. You will be on display in two weeks for the whole world to see. Just for an hour, so make sure that you know your pieces. Okay, maybe not the whole world, but you must know your work. Try the third part again.

How is your mother? She only came by early in the month and I never see her again. She told me that she is very anxious for you and wanted to give you more time to practice. Also, no piano at home. Ech, I just do not understand our time. TV everywhere; culture nowhere. May as well stare at a bonfire every night.

I think that works. Remember: keep digging! You have to feel those notes as if you are the ink digging into the page.

Yes, she did pay me. Don`t worry about me and the money. They cannot throw me out with the piano anymore than they can stop the cold in this country. Always too much of it here, except in this month. I have some lemonade if you want. Try it… Remember, no sugar!

Here, you might want to look at these. Me as a young girl with my own history. These I never really show, but why not? You may want to know about this. I had to make my own debut – so French! – when I was so much younger than you. Maybe not so much young, but still…

Yes, but not the same pieces. Much more Russian back then. I had a mother who saw very little reason to listen to most of the great Europeans. All that heavy piano work every day for years without change made me train my hands and mind to perform without a thought…

Of course, I won. Why else would I talk about this? To say how losing taught me important nonsense? Nonsense! My father would – a little prayer to him – say that. My mother gave me the discipline, but she did not have his ambitions. He let me hear the Europeans while she kept my minds and hands in her world. I do not know why they just did not talk to each other and explain things. That was just their way. They could not…

Again, remember that it must flow from your fingers. Your hands are a team; an army of ten soldiers. They have their roles…

Yes, of course, the story of my life. I knew that I had a secret inside of me between my father and my mother. Secret? Yes, I should say that. It felt like one. When I played, it was all there in the notes. It could be hidden, but it would come out. Even my teachers could sense and hear something in how I hit my notes, tell – or complaining – about my influences when I handled a very standard piece in the repertoire. She began to suspect things, saying nothing that you could hear, but I could read her.

More focus on your left hand…

Yes, the left. It always got me in trouble. I was left-handed, or I am, but my right hand was better at exploring things. Teachers gave me a very hard time with this, but I did well when competing. And as long as the lessons were paid for and the awards grew all over the shelves my father built again and again, not one said a thing. Not one thing…

And yes, I won. My father was not there, but I did have my friends and mother in crowd. The judge who headed the committee explained that we were all excellent and much improved since our last competition (not our first time out – did I mention that?). We were all so nervous. One girl had to leave the stage with such a panic in her. She would have been ill. And she did not win! Just me…

I wonder now… Things could have changed if he had been there. My father was the one who wanted great things for me. Not my mother (poisonous lady). I was in the middle of a crowd who loved what I did. All those years of the piano with the Russians and some private Europeans when I could. All that time… Me with that plaque and a bouquet of roses (red and white). Maybe if my hands were free then it would have been different.

No, your right hand is fine, excellent. Wish mine had been that good. My mother had no such problems with hers, believe me. Never once did she slap me like that at home. If I did not play well, she just had to curse loudly for me to play better, or at least repeat my mistakes until I got it right. But right in the middle of a crowd of people; the head of the conservatory and other musicians from various schools and countries; the people who resented me for taking this opportunity away from their children; all those other strangers… I saw her coming towards me with a hard face (not a surprise), and just when I was about to introduce her…

Well, I won, as I said… Not too much time after, I left home and had my life. I even was recorded. Yes, I have it. Here.

Ahh, you know the name. Do you know his story? Injured in a war and he left a war only able to play with one hand. And it was his right. Very simple psychology, I think. Yes, take one. I have many…

Yes, next week. Same time. Your right hand is your weapon. Your left hand drops like a dead bird on the ground. Remember: FORTISSIMO, FORTISSIMO, FORTISSIMO!

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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