You ring the doorbell, and you and your parents are welcomed in. There it is, in the corner. The black, shiny instrument standing on its four short legs pinned against the wall like a magnetic boulder. The lid is shut because whomever the instrument was purchased for hadn’t touched it in years. Now, a table runner made of lace (resembling a doily) runs along the top of the cover. Sitting atop the runner are four picture frames. Yes, holding pictures of the person for whom the piano was purchased.
The piano stares back at you because it knows what’s coming next. You walk in, take your shoes off, and you and your family are offered a drink. Usually juice or water, but you’ve been taught to decline the first offer. You take a seat in a spot on the couch away from where the “adults” will be conversing, and angle yourself purposely away from the peripheral view of the instrument. Maybe if they can’t see you seeing it, they won’t ask.
“Play for us!” Oh, they asked. They always ask. They think it’s a way of showing appreciation for you. They want you to believe that they actually want you to play. But you had played this morning and the morning before that, so why on earth would you want to play right now in a foreign space in front of a foreign piano?
But you have to, of course. Denying the request would only add further guilt after. Denying the request would only mean that you’ve wasted your mom’s lesson money and that you don’t value her efforts for putting you in lessons at all. You set down the mug full of tea that’s now close to cold, and your brain runs in circles as it tries to recall the piece you’re about to show them. Which one should I choose? That boring Bach gigue? No … you barely remember the left hand for that one. 2nd Movement Sonata? Too slow, they won’t find it impressive, even though it’s the hardest of them all. Your favourite and best one is the Czerny etude, but that is the farthest away from “musical” to the untrained ear. You walk over to the black bench and open the lid to reveal the keyboard. It’s a Yamaha because that’s what most families get their children at the beginning. Affordable, reliable, and sufficient quality. You settle for the Bach gigue because that’s the most “impressive” you have thus far, and at least if you miss a few notes in the left hand, the right hand rhythm will still carry you through.
You finish the piece and the sparse applause brings you a feeling of pride and confidence. It wasn’t so bad after all and you wish you could play again. But after one piece they’ve had enough. You’ve proven yourself worthy. You’ve made good use of your mom’s money, effort, and time. Now you want to go home and practice and work on the left hand, so you’d be better prepared for next time.
Conversations move on and the topic of the piano subsides. In a world where taking piano is just one chess piece of the extracurricular agenda, there needs to be nothing more than a one-time demonstration of what you’ve learned. There is no interest in what you want to do with it afterwards because surely anything in the arts would be absurd.
So we pedal on, literally and figuratively, as we are subtly discouraged from any form of passion beginning to flame.