I imagine myself floating onto the stage of a major venue, a vast audience waiting for the opening notes in hushed anticipation. I am calm, elegantly dressed, fully in control. I gracefully place my hands on the keys and a torrent of celestial sounds issues from a flawlessly calibrated piano.

I feel alive in a way which simply never happens in everyday life, as if I am the conduit for a musical intelligence greater than myself. It plays, not I.

The final notes die away. A torrent of rapturous applause issues from the listeners who have risen to their feet as one. They demand an encore, stomping the floor and yelling, “Bravo!”. I oblige.

No way.

The list of my performance humiliations is so long I can’t easily recall many of them. One blessedly forgets. They began in high school. The hands trembling uncontrollably. The out-of-the-blue memory lapses. The flight from the piano teacher’s recital in tears.

A surreal piano supplied by the concert sponsor contributed to my last meltdown: “You will love the piano. It was donated by our board chair and had been in her family for 100 years.” Depressing the keys required the strength of ten. The slightest foot tap sent the damper pedal to the floor, where it rested comfortably throughout most of the concert.

My unhappy performance ended in sporadic clapping.

A concert artist of my acquaintance claims that a competent pianist would be able to overcome such inconveniences and deliver a stellar performance. Good for her. I’m not that person.

Most of the time, in the practice room and on the stage, what I hear in my head is not what emerges through my fingers. The actual sounds are a parody of the glorious symphony in my mind. Poor technique, lack of talent, and a patchwork musical education might explain this. It is certainly not lack of effort.

We amateurs are a magnet for musical entrepreneurs promising an end to our agony. “If you will pay hundreds of dollars for my course (ditto private lessons, ditto workshop), your difficulties will disappear. You too can play like (insert name of famous concert pianist). Trust me.”

Nope. It’s a variation on get-rich-quick schemes.

So why try?

Playing a responsive piano is like driving a Lamborghini in the Grand Prix. There is a sensation of overwhelming speed and power, of freedom, and of transcendent joy. This happens very rarely but often enough to guarantee that I persist in the quest.

Beethoven once said, “Don’t only practice your art but force your way into its secrets, for it and knowledge can raise men to the Divine.”

I’ve signed up for another piano course. Hope never dies.

Eggphrasis

A new collection of poems by Ronnie Hess. Artwork by Mary Sprague.

“Ronnie Hess’s Eggphrasis is a mix of astute and sympathetic observations about her backyard chickens and encounters with wild species, interwoven with her perspectives on life. Her poetry is by turns amusing and poignant, while providing insight into the birds she writes about.” — Anna Pidgeon, Beers-Bascom Professor of Conservation, Department of Forest and Wildlife Ecology, University of Wisconsin-Madison “Throughout this collection, birds are a delight, a cause for concern, a flock, unique individuals, worthy of attention in and of themselves and for what they sometimes suggest about us humans. These insightful poems present for our regard the narrow and the wide earth and all who find a place here to fly, to walk, to write, and to practice their art.” — Margaret Rozga, author of Holding My Selves Together: New & Selected Poems, and 2019-2020 Wisconsin Poet Laureate For more about the author:https://ronniehess.com/ Available through Amazon or your independent bookstore.

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