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Big yes.

I get frustrated easily when I play, like most people here. My frustration comes from the fact that I am not (yet?) physically capable of producing on the piano all of the delightful music that is in my head. Sometimes, I doubt that I will ever get there at all.

But then, when a piece I've been working on is starting to come together, and I no longer need to think about the notes or the rhythm because they've become pretty much ingrained in my muscle memory, the piece of music I'm playing becomes like an empty canvas, upon which I can express emotions that are difficult to express any other way.

I have a difficult time controlling my emotions. They overwhelm me, seemingly out of nowhere. As such, I can be positively euphoric one day, but ready to jump off the nearest bridge the next. That's the kind of thing I'm better off not saying out loud to anyone. But when I sit down at the piano, and I have a piece that qualifies as an 'empty canvas', then it finds an out.

In a nutshell, that is why I know I will be playing for the rest of my life. That is why I dared to make the leap when someone else bought me a €20.000 grand, and expected me to pay him back. Music is a balm for my soul, both in the heights of joy, and in the depths of despair.

The following is a snippet I wrote in 1984 about playing the flute in Arches National Park, having fun with the complex echoes returned by massive walls of red rock. I am not there yet with the piano, but there are little moments with familiar pieces when this delicious balance returns to remind me why I continue to work at this... despite all the frustrations of starting late in life:


My vision soared; the shackles fell. I played with a smooth complexity unmatched before or since, toying with echoes, flirting with wind, seeking and quickly finding that precise balance between too much and too little attention. I became a focused listener, absorbed in the sound without fully realizing that I was the one making it, guiding it gently with humor and expectation. "Everything in music must be at once surprising and expected," said Beethoven, and I was stunned to observe that something pouring from my own spirit could indeed be both.

Yeah... my spirit. Not my intellect. That was the key! I was listening, not playing -- the flutist was someone else: a musician reacting to my fantasies, a psychic puppet, a built-in minstrel subject to my every whim. I was aware of Judith's soft presence, but knew not the self-consciousness of "performance."

The subtlety grew; the sound became an impressionistic image of the land around me -- a synesthesia made tangible. It had no idiom, no key, no tonic. Little tensions appeared and then resolved themselves like micro-sonatas, but the music was less that than a documentation of magic, a moment-to-moment realization of the possibilities contained in consciousness.

This was not composition... it was breath.


-Steven K. Roberts

This was not writing ... It was beauty .

>> My vision soared; the shackles fell. I played with a smooth complexity unmatched before or since, toying with echoes, flirting with wind, seeking and quickly finding that precise balance between too much and too little attention. ...
>>

Nomadness, that is some beautiful prose. I am another fluter, though I am more of a hack than a musician on flute because I started so late and put so little time into it. Overall, I find the wind instruments to be more pure, than my digital piano. The breath has a lot to do with it.

Thanks all for the replies.

Thank you so much for the kind words, Saranoya and Sand Tiger! It was a moment of passion, and I'm so glad I took the time to write about it... such things can be terribly fleeting and remembered later only as vague impressions.

I do wish I were often in that zone on the piano; the flute was deeply familiar but only by ear, and I never started to learn to read music until I was 54 (the same time I started with the piano). It is slow going still, six years later.

Somewhere in there, I got on a Satie kick and taught myself the first four Gnossiennes, and I never tire of them. Although I do have a few four-chord wonders and a few other pieces under my fingers, only Satie can take me to that place where the analytical intellect finally gets out of the way and lets the music reflect emotion. (I suspect a lot of other things would do that too, but I can't play them yet!)

I honestly couldn't say at any moment in those pieces what chord I'm playing; I'd have to stop, switch gears, think about it, and completely lose my place. From a pedagogical perspective, I suspect this is not a good thing, but I don't really care... the fact that I can enjoy that magic as a relative newbie on the keyboard gives me enough hope to continue, and that's all that matters.

I'm now living aboard a sailboat, and building a piano into the lab/studio desk.


Warm cheers from Nomadness, and a toast of recognition to Saranoya... very well said up the page there, just before my post! And Sand Tiger, you're right... there is an intimacy in the breath that I can't really even imagine ever finding through my fingers. Good point...

Steve

Nomadness- that was sublime. I don't think I've ever hit anything like with music I've played, or been a part of playing...but is is lovely to imagine that day!

I am adding a new word "calm".

I'm learning a new piece, which is very light, sweet, delicate.
Even though there are parts that I haven't quite got the swing of, I find this piece calming.

(Schumann's "Melody" Op 60, N1)

Nomadness, what a beautiful thought! I would love to experience such feeling.

Saranoya, I can somewhat relate to you. Years ago when I came back to piano, I was in not so great situation. I felt bad about breathing air because i did not feel worthy to live. Looking back its not that devastating but a divirce in a foreign land for this spoiled girl was too much to bear. I got married with an American college teacher (an irresponsible & violent person) without waiting to graduate Japanese college! So I wound up becoming a minimum wage worker here. I felt miserable every day. I did not want go home to face my tiger mon either! Then one day I heard Chopin in a movie. Can't remember what it was unfortunately. It just permeated into my soul. I sneaked into Arizona State University one day and played the piano. I was thrilled that I could still remember my childhood pieces! Let me say that it was the beginning of all the good things happened. At least it was the only beautiful moment in my life at that time. I feel immensely grateful that I'm alive and have music with me.

I press the keys
Black and white
Try to play well
A long long fight
The sound of a note
The feel of the key
I'm in heaven

"When I sit down and just play, I am emoting and just letting the music take me where ever it goes. It is liberating and thrilling."

I wish that were true for me. I hit too many wrong notes, especially when I get over enthusiastic or loud . . .so frustration is the word that comes to mind.

You have certainly come a long way since then FarmGirl.
It sounds like your music helped you start to heal.
That certainly is a blessing!

Hi, FarmGirl. And thank you.

Thank you for showing me a small glimpse of your journey, and for making it clear what a positive role music (and, specifically, piano playing) has had in it.

In life, we all have our own burdens to carry, and we all have to find a (hopefully constructive) way to cope -- be it through music, some other art form, or something else entirely. If your goal was to remind me of that, then you accomplished it beautifully.

I'm sorry to hear that your ex-husband was a jerk (pardon my French), and very glad to know that you are now no longer with him -- even though I know it must have hurt a lot when things first started falling apart for you.

Many beautiful thoughts on playing, but I'm not there yet. For me, it takes a great deal of time, effort, focus, and practice to get to the point where I can relax and "just play". But for the few times that I can just relax and let my fingers and spirit soar, it's worth the many hours of practice.