Piano
Saying goodbye to my piano. Or at least, trying to.
No. 35: Piano
Not long after moving to Oakland, I spent a blissful week steeping in the rapturous music of the Romantic composers — artists like Franz Liszt, Frederic Chopin, Franz Schubert, and Felix Mendelssohn. The music carried me to such a height of intoxication that an idea was seeded: the best way to love this music was to learn to play it, at which point I might even compose something myself.
I bought a piano.
The first piece I ventured to learn was Chopin’s “Nocturne No. 2 in E-Flat Major, Op. 9 No. 2,” one of his most famous works, composed between 1830 and 1832, when the artist was twenty years old. I memorized about ten percent of it before realizing I was a nutcase. The belief that I could buy a piano and immediately jump to Chopin was akin to believing I could buy canvas, paint, and some brushes and produce a Picasso.
In fact, I’m a nutcase about a lot of things. My confidence often hurls me into adventures I have no business embarking upon. I don’t mind. Usually, I’m forced to figure it out, and fast. By the end, if not necessarily an expert, I’m proficient in a new area and have the years ahead to achieve mastery.
But playing the piano is another story.
The story of learning any instrument is a long one, but to be any good at piano the aspiring artist must learn to read music. Once upon a time, I could. Now, I can’t. The obstacles that were piling up on my path to play one (yes, one) Chopin piece were becoming too much to overcome. Of course, if I wanted to — if I really wanted to — I could do it. There are piano teachers, piano books, YouTube, and my own, mindless drive. In my adolescence, I might have tactfully worked through the obstacles to achieve my goal, but as a young adult becoming a not-so-young adult, I’ve begun to weigh my time-draws more cautiously. For now, listening to Chopin was more than enough. Playing Chopin could wait.
So the piano sat, gathering particles of dust that were strangely shaped like the legs of baby spiders.
Worthwhile pursuits demand the most time. In my midtwenties, these are reading and writing. This is a deliberate situation at risk of being disrupted almost every day.
For example, being a Mexican-American who can’t speak Spanish very well, it’s been a longtime goal of mine to become fluent in my father’s native language. The language and I are like incompatible lovers: we’ve flirted, loved one another, and have even had periods exclusivity, only for it all to fall apart again. And all this fooling around without having mastered English, a language I can confidently call mine. So for now, Spanish, it’s a we’ll see.
My impulsive nature is to dive headfirst into the hundreds of subjects, sidequests, and opportunities that capture spurts of my undivided attention every week, but to be great in any pursuit requires massive amounts of practice, focus, and dedication — which amount to a whole lot of time — and I’ve decided to be master of few crafts rather than apprentice of many.
I put the piano up for sale.
It wasn’t being used, after all, besides the occasional smatterings of scales and chords I’d play when feeling plucky. Plus, I could use the extra space, since Grace was now living with me and our dining room table was effectively being used as our collective desk. It wasn’t long before I had a buyer. She lived nearby and wanted to pick it up as soon as I was available. I told her I was on my way home and would send a message when I arrived. Really, I was sitting at the piano, playing a few last notes.
An hour passed.
“You home yet?” she texted.
How beautiful a piano is, just to look at, even if it not frequently played. It was quite fun to freestyle my way up and down the keys, even if I didn’t know how to read music or play a full song.
Plus, what if we had piano-playing company? That would be nice — having an experienced player drop-in and serenade us with a dreamy number.
Plus, I play guitar, so there’s the potential for a multi-instrument jam session. A few extra instruments lying around is never a problem, is it?
I would miss the piano when it was gone.
“Is now good? I’m like ten minutes away,” she texted again.
I played a moody chord.
“I’m sorry, but I just decided not to sell it,” I replied. “Sat dow to give it one last play, and I can’t do it.”
She was understanding (“haha ok enjoy”).
The piano still lives with me. It’s the most beautiful, sweet-sounding dust-catcher there ever was. ♦
Weekly Three
HEAR: Chopin’s “Nocturne No. 2 in E-Flat Major, Op. 9 No. 2” is a soothing lullaby and the first composition I started — and failed — to learn on the piano
READ: “The Plague After The Plague” by Nick Paumgarten is a hilariously brilliant mini-piece about the common cold, or the Man Flu, from which I suffered this week. Damn you, fetid nose!
VIEW: Season two of Dogs on Netflix is a well-done, if sometimes worrying, docuseries about our love and obsession of ‘furbabies’
I’ve always wanted to play the piano, so I understand why you purchased it. And who knows, maybe you’ll take lessons someday! Even if you don’t, it’s such a classy piece of furniture to have in a house (along with a grandfather clock)