The title has all I need for an introduction, so plunging straight in (there's a first time for everything)...
The scene is typical. *On-hand artist rapidly gets to work with swishing brush strokes* I cannot stress this typicality enough (though it would seem I am making my best efforts to), as this is a collection of events from my TYPICAL lessons. *clears throat busily*
I await my teacher for my piano lesson to commence, hovering indecisively by the instrument. The distant sound of doors forewarns me of his approach, and in a flash he has appeared in the room, sporting what looks to be a bandana as he bounds over to the piano, deftly kicking the heater en route to encourage it to splutter into life. I sit, while he flops into the armchair and glances through my books. After a few moments of general conversation, often involving descriptions of his latest exploits in testing the speedlimits and crash-endurability of his car, we begin. A short perusal of my scalebook informs him that it isn't very interesting, and he throws it to me, with a short instruction of "Thrill me."
I attempt to accomplish this rather odd command, with what little supplies I have (the scalebook and piano). This therefore induces my teacher to leap up and rip the book from my sight. When he is once more sprawled on the chair (one leg propped up on the side of the piano, one on the stool I am sat on), we begin a random quickfire round of scales and arpeggios. He flicks back and forth through the book, occassionally barking comments such as "Play it like you mean it", "That one sounded like a wet lettuce, play it again", while I sometimes merit a "That was COCK-ON! We want them all like that".
We make it onto the pieces, for which I am instructed to give 'full beans'. My teacher leaps up for these, as they spark more interest. He wanders about the room, supplying a drum backing for my Handel piece, getting a little carried away with a halfshuffle and forgetting to turn my page. He whirls round as I pause for a speedy pageflick, waving his hand with a: "No, No. Stop. From the top, you were playing that bit there" - vague hand gesture which easily covers the whole page - "like a WITCH'S TIT...do it properly". I desperately try to take this constructive criticism on board, trying not to examine too hard what in my playing had inspired this particular similie. I falter as he exclaims: "Are you hungover???"
"No", I reply meekly, in full knowledge that he has already decided on a 'yes'.
"You sure?" Quite sure.
"So you weren't out last night with your mates getting wasted and goodness knows what?" Ahh, so you're assuming I have a life amid the 30-or-so hours of work I have to do for this? Not only must I accept the immense workload and suffer in the knowledge that I sit at home turning slowly and surely into a bedraggled hermit in attempting to complete it, I must also be reminded of what having a life is actually like.
While I rant furiously in my head I give a small smile, so that he does not get the (true) impression of my lack of normality. A mysterious smile, which somehow transforms itself into a pained grimace for the outside eye. No doubt somewhat unnerved and unconvinced by my face expression, my teacher moves onto the interrogative part of the lesson.
"How much practice are you doing per day?". Ahh here we go. I mumble a number between 1 and 2 hours.
"IS THAT ALL?"
"...yes, but with the theory and the sight reading it 's actually more and I have to do other stuff like for school and...." My voice trails miserably off until I speak the last couple of words in a strained whisper to the piano keys, bending closer and closer to them for each syllable. Before my nose has the chance to stoop right onto the keys (no doubt tricked by the logic that the further I sink the less existence I will have) I am confronted with another bout of questioning. "I'm not having a go at you" is a phrase repeated on a regular basis, meaning I must peak out from my mask of hair to give a weary "of course I know that" smile. "It's close! It's close! But we want it to be GREAT" he maintains. Next comes my moment to prove myself in response to his suggestions of how I'm practicing things wrongly - accepting it all in a professional, calm sophisticated style.
"Well, yeah, sorta, I guess." Wonderfully committed. I accompany my awkward replies with some shoulder movements. Fortunately I am saved from looking too twitchy by the distraction of a cat which has wandered into the room. Brief respite while we both watch her meow, stretch, and flop down next to the heater (me and my teacher watching the cat..any other combination would be slightly odd). "Cat porn" mutters my teacher jokingly as the cat rolls onto her back, and suddenly I feel uncomfortable staring at her with a smile on my face. I turn back to the piano, busying myself with the pages of my book. My teacher becomes distracted by his hatred of the classical music-route in life, tutting madly as he rifles through the pages of some books.
Time for another piece, and an instruction of: "If I'm not blown away by this I'm going to strangle you. Not that I'm putting you under any pressure of course". He conducts the peaks and falls of the piece, using a blunt pencil in his waving hand. We encounter a few problems with the page turning, as the page continues to turn back and he must bat it back down for me at regular intervals, providing an oddly rhythmic background to the piece. As I am instructed to go over a few sections, my teacher goes for a wander about the room.
At this point, another obscenity is uttered. What fresh hell? Has my playing deteriorated this much? I turn around to meet my fate head-on, or that is what I laughingly tell myself in the hopes of banishing cowardice. Of course, I am just being victim to what killed the proverbial cat. I find my teacher in a frozen stance, some metres away from the window. There is a wasp in the room. A few whispered instructions of 'don't move' prove contrast to my teacher's own cat-like prowling over to the piano. A dramatic lunge as the wasp shoots past, and my teacher grabs the nearest weapon to hand (my scalebook). He leaps up onto the sofa, with an 'on garde!' look in his eyes, pausing briefly to comment: "Why have you stopped playing? The house could be on fire and you should still be playing! From the top. With some balls." I delicately play a few notes - "STOP! Put some meat into it. Play it with ..with BALLS". But I'm a girl, I weakly protest, but nevertheless I subsequently apparently succeed to play with the desired qualities. "GOOD" my teacher announces, ducking the indifferent buzz of the wasp from his station (now stood on the windowsill). As I crescendo in my Beethoven piece the battle is brought closer to the piano, until the wasp comes to rest on the wall, pausing (I would like to think) to listen to my harmonious playing. However, it cannot satisfy its musical thirst for long as my teacher is fast approaching like a wraith with scalebook in hand. Fortunately (or unfortunately for the music-loving wasp) I have reached a calm part in the piece and so my teacher can sneak up behind the wasp. I see the shadow of the unfolding events on the wall in true agatha-christie style - the book comes down with a few furious swipes, interjected with my teacher's instruction: "KEEP-*whack*-PLAYING-*whack*". But it gets too much, I stop to watch the massacre. A deathly hush fills the room, and my teacher hands my book back to me, a sheepish expression on his face in acknowledgement of the immense dent in the cover. I take it in my hand, while he comments on improvements I can make on the piece. However, all is not over, as a feeble buzzing emerges from behind the piano - the scale book is whipped away from my hands once more, and used to waft the confused, dazed wasp out of the door.
This excitement over with, we resume the lesson, until I am told I am "free to go about my business.....well no. Another two hours to go", often accompanied with an unneccessarily fiendish chuckle."Do you want anything to drink? Water? Orange juice? Grapefruit? Cranberry? Cider?"
"Nono, I'm good."
"Sure you don't want anything? A couple of beers? Fag?"
"NO" I say, a little too forcefully. "Thankyou" I add as an afterthought.
"You need to chill the fuck out..." then, on realising the presence of a swear word: "oh shit..fuck! shit!" His hand covers his mouth too late. And then, I must start theory work, a much calmer period of the lesson, brief excitement often occuring only when I turn to face the window to find myself eye-to-eye with a sheep, curiously looking in from the other side.
There we have it (I always have these anticlimatic endings..perhaps I should incorporate some sort of firework display at the end....for those few people who actually DO make it to the end...all I can give you at present is my deepest respect, which is as useful and welcome as consolation flowers to competition runners-up who suffer from hayfever. ) Until next time folks.............................. -flashes a winning smile-
