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I have a confession. I hate practising
piano but I have always loved to play. I realised as an eight-year-old
that I wanted to play the piano more than anything else so I
wasn't forced into playing a musical instrument and made to undertake
a daily ritual of scales and arpeggios. Learning to play was
my first encounter with learning how to learn - finding out that
the joy of doing something well sometimes needs hours of preparation.
A daily ritual of scales, arpeggios
and set examination pieces began in earnest. Somehow, my youthful
exhuberance and a vision of what I wanted to be kept me going
but I found the process tedious and the subsequent repercussions
for failing to meet expected standards hard to accept. Luckily
for me now, as I suspect there were times that I would have given
up, my mum started to cajole me into working harder. She kept
every single piano lesson receipt and used to hold me to account
for the amount of money she had spent on my tuition. Bless!
So now, forty odd years later,
I can sit down and play piano, improvising around a theme and,
if I am lucky, drift off to another place somewhere between head
and hands. I don't need to make a conscious effort to guide my
fingers because they are engaged in such familiar actions my
mind can start to drift. Sometimes in this dream-like state I
will hear something being played that I like. Its like hearing
someone else play something so good that you want to know how
to play it. When I try and consciously replicate the notes, I
find it ridiculously difficult.
Learning to dance tango has been
a similar journey for me. Sometimes I can drift off to another
place, somewhere between head and feet, lost in the music and
conscious of the need to invite my partner into the next safe,
empty space.
As a tango dancer I can see similarities
between learning to play a musical instrument and learning to
dance. For years my playing sounded dull, mechanical and processed
as I focussed on technique and worked to acquire muscle and motor
skills. Somethimes, the conscious effort needed to play a sequence
of notes was so great that I would not be able to hear their
potential beauty or marvel at the sound I was making.
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The notes
were played without thought for the way they could sound as I
was totally focussed on the process of playing piano instead
of making music.
Then I found jazz. Jazz taught
me how to improvise and make mistakes. I became aware that provided
I had a basic keyboard competence and understanding of structure,
I could listen more to the way I was playing rather that what
I was playing. I also learnt that making a mistake could be a
good thing and occasionally even turn out to be an inspiration
and gateway to other ideas.
As I look back at my tango journey,
I can see similarities between learning endless sequences and
scales and arpeggios. I cringe when I remember stepping sequences
with no consideration for the way I was communicating with my
partner and with no real attention for the feeling and emotion
the music was conveying. I was so focussed on the process of
stepping sequences instead of dancing the feeling.
Then I remembered jazz. I realised
that provided I had a basic competence and understanding of structure,
I could think more about the way I was dancing rather that what
I was dancing. I remembered that it was good to make mistakes.
To relax and enjoy the moment.
I still hate practising but realise
that dance, like playing, can only be a thing of beauty with
practice. Don't forget to do your scales.
This article is declared open
source and free from copyright by its author Steve Morrall, 2005.
Please attribute extracts to to the author using this webpage
as the source. If you have an experience
of tango as a dance, social interaction, confrontation, reconciliation,
or enlightenment that you would like to share, please email Steve
at the address shown below. Thanks
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