Beyond the MFA

This update is very much overdue, but I am happy to say that last year, I graduated with my Master of Fine Arts in Classical Piano and Musicology!

Performing Ravel's Valses nobles et sentimentales

In the process of earning my MFA, I met one of my most important personal goals for the program: presenting a full-length solo recital. If it were not for the late and much missed Mr. LaRatta, my piano teacher, I am not sure I would have accomplished it as smoothly as I did. He believed in me, and eventually, I came to believe in myself.

Performance is fraught with peril - the misgivings and doubts one has of oneself can neatly sabotage any attempt - and the endurance required to play a full hour and a half was something I had to work steadily towards. In the end, the self-doubt was what I wrestled with the most; strength was not an issue.

I recently came across my own reflections on my musical progress, written shortly after I had given my full-length recital. I realized anew just how precious this journey has been. Earning my MFA and reaching the milestone of a solo recital marked the beginning of new effort and more hard work towards the never-ending quest to learn, to understand more - and more deeply - everything I do, be it the art of practice, the art of performing, or the art of listening.

I humbly share with you my reflections from last year, as I neared graduation and considered my progress. In the end (or in the beginning!) my underlying motivation is about creating something new within myself that I can share with others. The reason for all my exertions is so that I may express the joy and deep emotion that blooms when music of the great composers surges through me. I am galvanized anew. It is time to practice!

Semester-End Reflection

My priority this semester, and indeed one of the milestones of my studies, has been to hold a full-length recital. My baseline goal was to have attempted it and to have pulled it off without any major calamities. Happily, my experience demonstrated that I do have the ability to focus, and that with enough preparation I can trust myself enough to let the music happen.   

The sudden, seizing doubt that has plagued me so often when playing in front of others was blissfully absent during my performance. Not once did I warn myself not to botch a challenging section, and not once did I ask myself if I knew my left hand. It was absolutely thrilling to put my hands on the keyboard and simply begin making music.

Alas, simplicity belies the work and dedication required to enable it, but if playing the piano were an easy feat would its pursuit be so rewarding (that is, when it is not utterly frustrating)?

This recital was the culmination of many (and admittedly not enough) hours of focused practice not only at the piano but also away from it as I mentally worked on pieces during a morning run, in the car, or while lying in bed when sleep eluded me. The knowledge that my efforts allowed me to fly free and to focus wholeheartedly on sharing beautiful music with others is gratifying beyond any measure.

As I embark on new repertoire I feel as though I am back to square one. It is a reminder that I am always learning, and that there are countless opportunities to broaden and to nuance my understanding of music, of practice, of reading, of listening, and of many more aspects I hope to discover. Every experience is one from which to build upon. Each experience shapes me and informs my next endeavor.         

As the end of the semester draws near, I head also towards my graduation. I cannot believe that this part of my journey is coming to an end, but I realize that this only means that I am leaving a particular framework. The wonderful community of mentors and classmates I have been privileged to know will always be with me in some form; their support and advice will guide me as I practice and perform throughout life’s many journeys. To them I give my heartfelt gratitude, and I wish them well as we continue sharing our love of music in whatever ways we will.

Mr. LaRatta: In Fond Remembrance

I have been truly remiss in updating here, and it is with great sadness - and happiness - that I reflect on the life of Mr. Tom LaRatta. After sharing his music, his wisdom, and his awfully funny wisecracks with all of us lucky enough to know him, he is resting peacefully. 

Before my full-length recital -
Mr. LaRatta made me believe I could do it!

It was because of Mr. LaRatta that I learned to believe in myself again, as a pianist. It was he who encouraged me to embark on a Master's degree in Fine Arts at Notre Dame de Namur University, to expand my world in analysis, musicology, and performance. Those whom I admire greatly and have learned so much from have also been nurtured by Mr. LaRatta. These individuals include my mentors Dr. Michael Schmitz,  Mr. Thomas Hansen, and Dr. Robert Hartwell; they are academic leaders and wonderful pianists. 

What I find so special about Mr. LaRatta is that he met you where you were at. He did not seem to have preconceived notions about who you were; if you wanted to learn, he would help you, and guide you in a way that worked for your personality and current state of being. 

As his student I was constantly challenged and at the same time, I felt incredibly nurtured. He was a close friend, a dear uncle or grandpapa. My biggest fear was to disappoint him. I wanted to work hard, not only because I wanted to make beautiful music and to become ever stronger, but also because I wanted to make him proud. 

He never said anything for the sake of filling in silence, or simply to make anyone feel better. He might have said certain things to make you feel better - because he cared - but it would absolutely be constructive. I always came away knowing what I needed to work on, or what to think about. 

I often hear Mr. LaRatta's voice - probably daily, now that I think on it - and not only when I'm practicing. After all, he taught me so much about how shifting one's perceptions about the many challenges and interesting situations in life can make all the difference. 

When I'm troubled, I hear him say, "Take a paper bag, put all your troubles in there, and leave it at the door. Do what you need to do, then you can pick up the bag on your way out. It'll still be there!"

When I feel that I lack confidence, I remember what he would say to me when I was nervous before performing. I see his face, looking very serious, as he asks me: "Have you practiced? Do you know what you're doing?" I would nod mutely. His expression would blossom into joyous amusement, and I would hear his raspy voice chide: "Well, then go DO it, you Goony-bird!!" 

So much of what Mr. LaRatta taught us transcends every part of life. I will always be grateful for what I have learned and continue to learn from him. I am honored to have to known him ... even if it was only for a little while. I look forward to continuing to remember and to share his wisdom, generosity, and droll humor with anyone who would understand and benefit from his gifts. 

Thank you, Mr. LaRatta. It was my honor and pleasure to have learned "Ducks On a Pond" from you! =D

Bringing Back the Romance

The fateful first chords that ensnared me forever

You know how familiarity has a tendency to wear off that initial starry-eyed enthusiasm one has for something cherished?  Practicing a piece over and over again, picking apart passages a phrase at a time or even a note at a time - ad nauseam - is inescapable if we are to play something well.  While that is all well and good, the rigors of study can make us forget why we even liked the music we're playing to begin with!

I fell in love with Ravel's Valses Nobles et Sentimentales at first sight (or hearing) at around age 8 while watching a 1966 recording of the Bolshoi Ballet perform excerpts of the simply titled ballet "Ravel Waltzes." It was hands-down the most romantic, mysterious, intoxicatingly beautiful work I'd ever encountered.  Since then, it had been a (sometimes forgotten) dream to play these waltzes.

The View from the Trenches
Since reigniting my efforts at the piano earlier this year, I've now been in the trenches for several months with Valses Nobles.  Eight waltzes, each of a very different character, have stretched my reading, understanding of phrasing, listening, hands (literally - there are some magnificent chords), and most prominently, my patience.

Whether it was getting the waltzes into my body the first time or memorizing them, it's been a challenge.  All of a sudden, passages I'd counted on playing smoothly would fall apart.  There were days I felt like I couldn't play at all - my hands simply wouldn't obey.  I'd play certain tough passages, each time the result worse despite herculean efforts at concentration.  I'd throw my hands up in the air with the drama of Moses in a classic MGM film and exclaim, "WHY?!"

On a particularly trying night of practicing, I sat in silence at the piano bench and felt rather empty. Suddenly, I knew I had let go for the time being.  I had to step away from the piano, and go back to find the romance within me I'd felt so keenly since childhood.

Recapturing That Feeling
I cued up a playlist that would run through an orchestrated recording of Valses Nobles with Charles Dutoit, and then the original piano solo version with Louis Lortie. I got comfortable on my bed, and closed my eyes.

It's amazing how sound can bring back so much.  I could picture it perfectly: A ballroom full of revelers who move purposefully yet chaotically.  Two people make a piercing connection but find themselves constantly thwarted in their attempts to reach one another. I could feel their desperation, their hearts' yearning.

I could smell the perfume and the delicious sensation of yielding to the intoxication of the first bloom of tentative but undeniable romance.  As the waltzes cycled I felt hope, desire, regret; the embers stoking once again. I could hardly sleep that night; the music swirled in my head and demanded attention.

And Then ... 
This past weekend I played all eight waltzes from beginning to end, entirely from memory for the first time.  After the final, haunting bass G note died away, my teacher Mr. LaRatta sat in silence for a moment.

"Do you know how proud I am of you?" he said slowly, his hands folded over the music book.

I looked expectantly at him, not quite believing what I was hearing.  My playing had been far from perfect ...

"No, I'm really impressed," he continued, "you're doing some very wonderful things with the music. I can see you dancing to this; I can hear it in your playing."

He could hear the dancing - that broke me out of my freeze.  He could hear the dancing in my playing!  That was the best thing I could have heard.  It meant that I'd begun to, in some way, recapture the wonderful feeling of the waltzes I'd cherished for so many years.

Before I knew it, I'd launched both fists into the air above my head and exclaimed, "YAY!"

And now, whenever I feel bogged down by the inevitable rigors of practice, I'll know when to take the occasional step back.  I'll know when I need to revisit my memories and stir up the timeless, magical feelings within me wrought by beautiful melodies.  It'll be time to bring back the romance.

Crystal Chandeliers and Turning Gears

It's amazing how a single, simple concept prompted by imagery can change the way I approach a phrase or an entire piece.

Beautiful Like a Chandelier
A few weeks ago, I began to launch into Chopin's Étude Op. 25, No. 1 during my lesson.  The first melody note sounded, and before I'd even gotten to the next one, my teacher Mr. LaRatta stopped me.  "Have you ever seen those crystal chandeliers?  Yes?  Good.  Have you ever run your fingers across one and noticed how it just tinkles beautifully?"

He made a motion with his hands, mimicking the cascading, seamless sound of crystals delicately hitting one another in rapid succession.  I could hear it in my head.  "That's how every single note needs to come out, clear as crystal," he continued, referring to those in-between-the-melody rapid arpeggios that give the Étude its "Aeolian Harp" nickname.

Mr. LaRatta must have seen the dawning realization on my face.  "You know what I mean?"  "Yes!" I replied excitedly.  "Okay.  Now, DO IT!!" And he glared at me from over the top of his glasses.

I began again.  "Yes, that was it, much better!  You got it?"  "Yes!"  "Okay.  Now, always do it this way, for the rest of your life!" He glared at me again, then laughed, a twinkle in his eye.  "You got it, kiddo!"

Have I mentioned how lucky I am to be Mr. LaRatta's student?

Thinking in Circles
Similarly, imagery helped me understand Chopin's Étude Op. 25, No. 2.  It's a deceptively simple concert etude that evokes the sight of a butterfly flitting amongst blossoms.  When I first started learning it, I was tripped up by the quarter note triplet pattern in the left hand topped by eighth note triplets in the right hand.  Technically it was fine, but it didn't sound or feel right.

During one lesson, Mr. LaRatta stopped me after I'd played three bars.  He asked me to picture a big gear, moving counterclockwise at a moderate speed.  Next to it was a smaller gear, turning clockwise at a faster speed.  Two different gears, turning in different directions and at different speeds - and yet they worked smoothly together, the grooves fitting perfectly with each rotation.  What a difference this gave me for the piece overall!

Moreover, the gear imagery helped me understand how I should phrase the left and right hand parts.  Gears have a momentum; they have a flow to their movement.  So why would I ever accent beat 1 on the left hand?  That'd be one wonky gear!  I found that accenting beat 2, gently, gave the left hand the contour and motion it needed.

And the right hand?  Mr. LaRatta invoked the gear imagery once again.  I pictured the smaller gear rotating clockwise, at a good clip.  "The right hand moves in circles, you see," he explained, "each circle builds off the other every phrase; it starts smaller, then swells as it comes around, and begins again."  And, suddenly, I got it.  By leading up gently to the second triplet, I could feel the gear turning, and the melody flowed more naturally.

Smaller turns, bigger turns.  Big wheel, little wheel, opposite motions; the smaller one turning faster.  Suddenly the piece was no longer a series of notes to be contended with.  It had a shape, little highs and lows, little ebbs and flows.  And finally, that beautiful, fluttery sound began to take shape.

Hello (again), Steinway!

The hiatus is over!  After an awful dry spell of being simply flat out from work and feeling unable to even face the piano (much less get sleep), I am back to practicing and my lessons.  The most frightening thing about being lost in a vortex of work-induced stress was that during that time, I had no idea why I'd ever wanted to pursue studies in music at all.  It was a very scary feeling, and it was all too real.  All I could think about was how tired I was, how I wasn't even close to getting done all the things I needed to get done, and how I was going to get through it with spirit intact.  

The spring quarter at Foothill had begun and as I wrote essays about Chopin, Liszt, and the rise of pianism in 19th century Europe, an ember sparked deep inside me.  That night, even as I looked in the mirror and thought my face was going to fall off, I told myself, "Come hell or high water, I'm going to my piano lesson this week!"  No matter how terrible I sounded, I had to start again.

And I am so very glad I went to class!  After knocking politely and entering the studio, I saw that Mr. LaRatta was sitting in his upholstered armchair as always.  He peered up from his glasses, crossword puzzle in hand, and said, "And you are ...?"

Like an impetuous child, I stamped my foot and exclaimed, "I knew you were going to say that!  I knew it!!" and we both burst out laughing.  After he asked about my health, I asked him how he was.  "Oh, I'm just fine.  Well, I worry about my babies, you know," and he gave me a knowing glance.  I was moved by this unexpected revelation - after all, I've been his student only since January!  It's wonderful how he truly cares about his musical charges, young and old.

I asked for his forgiveness even before I'd played a scale for him - I'd obviously fallen off the wagon and my playing would show it.  Mr. LaRatta didn't answer me immediately.  Instead, he made a simple drawing with his pencil in the margin of the crossword puzzle he'd been working on.  "Tell me what that is," he said, and I replied, "It's an eighth note."  "No," he said, with the air of someone patiently explaining something extraordinarily simple to a young child, "it's a threatening note."

I started at him with a deer-in-the-headlights-look.  "I beg your pardon?"

"If you're really not making any progress, this is what I'll send you, okay?  If you get this in the mail, you know you're in big trouble!"

Oh!  A threatening note in the mail!  I nearly fell off the armchair.

I've promised myself that no matter how tired I am, I am going to say hello to the piano every day.  I will feel the keyboard and know it a little, even if all I can muster is a scale or one Hanon exercise.  After I began to practice again for the first time since I fell off the track, I almost had to stop: the clarity and sheer beauty of Steinway's* sound was breathtaking.  I almost wanted to cry with joy; how could I have ever neglected it, and my own musical desires?

I suspect I would not have reacted so powerfully had it not been for the long period of running myself into the ground with my professional obligations - it's not that I necessarily disliked what I was doing, but the piano is something I'm truly doing for myself.  To rediscover that was like coming home.

And even if I had no other impetus to improve at the piano - and I have plenty - I certainly would not want to disappoint Mr. LaRatta.  The idea of that is much worse than the "threatening note" itself!

* I've taken to simply calling my piano "Steinway".  It feels both intimate and respectful!

Great-Grandpupil of the Masters

Franz Liszt, Johannes Brahms, and Maurice Ravel

One of the reasons I was (and still am) excited about studying with Mr. LaRatta is that his teacher was Rudolph Ganz, who had studied with none other than one of my favorite composers of all time, Maurice Ravel.  Ganz was responsible for bringing many new works to the United States, including the compositions of Ravel and Claude Debussy.

Ravel even dedicated one of his works to Ganz, the Scarbo from Gaspard de la Nuit.  It is notoriously difficult to play. Ganz had confided to Mr. LaRatta that the Scarbo was probably dedicated to him simply because he was able to play it!  Apparently his hands were enormous.  "If he ever took my hand, I'd double check to make sure it was still there afterwards!" Mr. LaRatta recalled, raising his eyebrows.

You can imagine that I've been completely in awe that my teacher studied with Ravel.  But there was more!  During my lesson last week, Mr. LaRatta told me that Ganz had also studied with Johannes Brahms, and with Franz Liszt!  My jaw dropped.

(Incidentally, my other thought was, "When was this guy born?!"  I looked Ganz up after I got home and indeed, he was born in 1877.  Liszt passed away in 1886 and Brahms in 1897.)

Mr. LaRatta recalled a recital in which Ganz played works by Brahms, Lizst, and Ravel, describing it as "the most electrifying" concert he had ever attended.  To be in the presence of a concert pianist who had studied with all three of these tremendous composers must have been absolutely amazing.  Sure enough, Mr. LaRatta recounted an extremely emotional and powerful experience.

My head is still reeling that this is the absolute closest that I've ever come (and likely ever will come) to these three composers - Mr. LaRatta is the link!  In a moment of passion and whimsy I thought: You know what?  That means I'm studying with the pupil of the pupil of Maurice Ravel, Franz Liszt, and Johannes Brahms.  I'm a great-grandpupil of the masters!

Not that this newfound knowledge accords me any special status, or indeed, any merit at all.  What it does give me, however, is a profound sense of history and heritage.  My piano teacher is passing on to me what he'd learned from Ganz, who had passed onto him what he'd learned from the masters.  All I can do is to turn to those black and white keys and those black notes on white paper, practice my heart out, and try to make some good on this amazing legacy.

Ducks on the Pond

Gotta love it!

I can hardly believe it's been barely two months since I began piano lessons again, and while I have a tendency to only see what I can do better, even I am cognizant of the progress I've made.  I feel stronger, literally.  Mr. LaRatta focuses on technique: his approach is to "know your keyboard" so that you have the ability to tackle anything that comes your way, rather than learn technique as it is encountered through certain pieces.  As someone who prefers a cover-your-bases, academic method of learning (think university textbook vs. Rosetta Stone for foreign language methods), I am thrilled!

As a result, I spend time every week on Hanon and scales, working my way around the Circle of Fifths.  Each week I wonder what I'll get since it's not just straight up Hanon.  I play each exercise as is, of course, but mainly in an alternate way that makes these admittedly dry little pieces so much more fun!  I've been playing them with varying dynamic ranges, switching rhythms, transpositions, etc.  My teacher, in his usual sardonic wit, said a few lessons ago, "I mean, I could teach a monkey how to play this like it's written ... but like this," and here he briefly played my assignment of switching hands over/under and transposed a half step up, "That's the difference!"  And, it doesn't have to be boring!

The scales, too, keep me busy: up and down, contrary, starting at the end, the middle, what have you.  "How often do you look at your hands when you're typing?" he'd ask.  The whole point is to know the keyboard so well that you can feel comfortable with anything, "and be smug about it!" We both laughed at this, but for me the laughter stemmed more from the wistful thought, "Oh, wouldn't that be nice someday."

To get to that glorious someday, I'm working on all those lovely scales this way and that, with my eyes closed.  Yep, I love that part.  And even though F# kicked my butt, within a week it felt so much more comfortable.  I'm beginning to feel the space between the black and white keys, to be able to anticipate the relationship from one key to the next and to make a subtle shift in my fingers to do the right thing.  It's really working!  

In other words, the way I perceive the piano, and my relationship with it, has already shifted.  It's only been a couple of months since I began again so I can hardly even begin to articulate what this is, but I can feel the enormity of it.  It's breathtaking and exciting.  It's going to have a hugely profound affect on my approach to the piano (indeed, it has already begun).

Although to be honest, the vast majority of the time as I practice I don't think about this; you'll find me repeating sections ad nauseam in various ways, muttering under my breath such inspired statements as "why is this so hard right now?" and more emphatically, "Argh!!!"

(I am also working on the first three Etudes from Op. 25 by Chopin, and Ravel's "Valses Nobles et Sentimentales".  More on these to come!)

In the end I know that whatever I do, I need to trust Mr. LaRatta, myself, and the piano.  It's the basics I need to constantly turn back to, the same way I start every dance class and rehearsal at the barre.  Hanon and scales are the plies and tendus of music.

At the end of my lesson yesterday, Mr. LaRatta turned his large, bespectacled eyes to me and proclaimed, "You're not bad for a beginner; next week I'll teach you "Ducks on the Pond"!"  It took me a second to realize that he meant this cute little piece meant for the budding piano student.  Ha!  But from what I know about my piano teacher so far, this was a real compliment and he meant that I was making progress.  I've got to love and embrace the basics, to get my little ducks in a row and eventually be able to cross any pond and fly to any destination. 

Mr. LaRatta

At Davies Symphony Hall, Christmastime 

On Christmas Eve, a bright, chilly Saturday, I found myself in front of a large, white mansion-like residence with a tower(!) in San Mateo.  I could hardly think of the family gathering I'd be at only a few hours later, with Christmas tree, presents, and copious amounts of delicious food; I was here to play for Thomas LaRatta, in the hopes that I might gain a piano teacher.  I was a few minutes past noon; the outing had begun inauspiciously as I encountered an accident on the highway.  As a result, I was even more anxious now that I was late.

Dr. Hartwell from the music department at Foothill College, who had graciously made my introduction that led to this opportunity, had told me that despite Mr. LaRatta's octogenarian status, to not underestimate his clarity of mind and aural sensitivity for music.  When I met Mr. LaRatta, I was at first struck by his raspy voice; it is mid-tenor yet husky.  When he takes a breath, it's almost as if he's searching for air from someplace deep within; it's like a prolonged gasp.  I would learn later from him that this was the result of a battle with lung cancer some decades ago due to chain smoking - I cannot tell you how glad I am that he survived!  But, I digress.

He led me to his studio, a standalone structure away from the house - I have a feeling it must be connected to the garage, but if so, it's remarkably soundproof - it felt like a warm cocoon of carpet, books, CDs, more books, and of course, two grand pianos crammed right up against one another like giant, boxy sardines (if there ever were such sardines).  Its clutter and Mr. LaRatta's warm demeanor made me feel oddly comfortable, despite my not knowing what to expect.  He has a penchant for using endearments such as "dear" and "babe", which he apologized for, explaining that it was an old habit.  It didn't bother me at all; I found it rather fitting.

He began by inviting me to sit in an armchair hopelessly mismatched with the one he sat in, across from me.  He asked me to tell him about myself, my musical background, my goals.  He prefaced that this was just to get to know me a little bit.  He was being cordial to break the ice; I knew that this was a "nice to know" - what really mattered was my playing.

Finally, he sat me down at the piano on the right; it was a black Yamaha salon grand that was well worn.  My first reaction was, "Oh, no ... me and Yamaha have never been a winning combination!" - I've never cared for most Yamaha pianos, due to a prevalence of glassy, extroverted shiny sound; I always worry that the tones will run away from beneath my fingers as I helplessly played on.  I like warm-centered pianos for those Romantic and Impressionist treasures.  (Can you imagine requesting a piano for a recital or concert by saying, "Medium rare, please!"?  Neither can I, but it would be a good laugh.)  But my goal is to be able to play on any piano and in any situation, well.  And at the moment, I had no choice.

Before I could think any further, I shifted on the piano bench and lurched violently; the seat was giving way!  "Don't worry, you won't fall," Mr. LaRatta rasped, explaining that it was just old.  It was one of those concert benches that adjust by rolling a knob on the side.  It gave me such a fright - this was not helping!  My heart was pounding.

"Listen, I need to step out for a moment, dear, just play around and get to know the piano a little bit," he told me, and I nodded, bewildered, as he made his way to the door and left.

Uh, okay.  (Only later did I realize what a clever ploy this was.)

Tentatively, I played a C major scale - totally safe and harmless - eight notes, two octaves.  Then it was the relative harmonic minor in A, during which I botched a G-sharp in descent.  An arpeggio.  I hesitated.

Then, I figured, why not?  Let's see what this piano sounds like.  I launched into Schumann's Valse Noble from Carnaval, the same piece I'd played on the Steinway that now graces my home, when it was still in the front of the Sherman Clay showroom in San Francisco.  I found the touch a bit unpredictable, but I tried my best to shape the tones - rich with grandeur in the opening, hushed and mignon in the middle.  As I came to the repeat, the door opened and Mr. LaRatta came in, his eyes sharp as he looked at me meaningfully, his palms pressing downward, "Shh," he said.  I quieted down, swelled, quieted again, lingered.  Then onto the grandiose waltz and finally into a hushed ending as he guided me from across the soundboard.

The remainder of the hour was Mr. LaRatta asking me what I've played, what I was working on, coaching me on my hands ("You have small hands, dear, can you really play those chords?" he asked, when I told him I was working on Ravel's Valses Nobles et Sentimentales - I played the opening chords for him.  "You really can!" he said, with satisfaction.), and dispensing interesting nuggets about music: "You have to play three composers: Bach for technique and voice leading, Brahms for depth, and Debussy or Ravel for coloring.  And that's it!  You've got it all, you can play anything!"

When he asked me why I hadn't brought a notebook for him to write assignments in, I was speechless; I couldn't say that he'd told me this wouldn't be a lesson; it was an audition, after all ... but as he chided me about my not coming with one, it dawned on me that he was in effect saying that he would teach me!

WOW!  "I would love to teach you.  In fact, I think it will be rather fun to teach you," he told me.  He told me I was well trained and that I played quite well.

Did I say, "WOW!"?  My first official lesson was scheduled for January 7th, shortly after the New Year, and before I left, he said, "Now you take good care of those hands, you hear?"  I figured it wouldn't be a good idea to tell him that I practice tumbling ... but I don't think I do anything dangerous.

I was dancing on air, exhilarated and almost incredulous.  I had myself a piano teacher!  And not just any piano teacher, it was Mr. LaRatta!  I couldn't wait to tell Dr. Hartwell and Sheila Raleigh, my first piano teacher.  Ironically, I still haven't told my parents, because they will probably tell me I should focus on important things.  Sigh.  They love music, but it's not something to be serious about.  I will break the news to them when I have made more progress.

After all this, my stomach made Chewbacca-like noises to inform me that I was incredibly hungry.  It was on to Jeffrey's in San Mateo, where I proceeded to wolf down a burger and onion rings.  It was the best meal ever.  After all that initial doubt, I'd received some validation from a well respected piano teacher that I was a competent player!  I still have constant self-doubt to deal with, but I have to take things one step at a time.  For the moment I could revel: I'd received the best Christmas gift; a new start with a piano teacher!

Back to the Future

My Certificate of Merit evaluation marks from 10th grade!

Now that I had my dream piano there was no doubt I had to practice.  It started out as the thought, "Okay, I'd better be worthy of my Steinway M!  Better start working!"  Once I began, however, it was evident that I wasn't going to stop at just "getting my chops back".  I wanted to draw all kinds of melodies out of this amazing instrument, all the pieces I'd played before and more.  Much more.  I wanted to be able to play well pieces I'd never even touched before (and are beyond my abilities currently, unless you count what I call "train wrecks") notably Ravel's Alborada del Gracioso.

I started with scales and arpeggios.  Around the circle of fifths I'd go, and at first I was absolutely appalled by the fact that I'd managed to forget how to play the flat keys.  Muscle memory supported me most of the way, until I fell apart, of course.  I turned to Hanon to work some dexterity and strength back into my fingers.  I'd never been proud of my technical ability on the piano - my strength was passion, not clean technique - and now it was humbling to know just how far I'd fallen behind.  But hey, I had to start somewhere!  I was so happy just to be playing, and those scales were rendered heavenly to my ears by my wonderful piano.

When I visited my parents a couple of months ago, I dug through a pile of sheet music from years past and found my Certificate of Merit evaluation grades and comments.  I'd completed the advanced levels of this music study program and even earned a Senior Medal granted by the Panel before I went off to university.  Thinking back, I don't really remember much about how I managed to study the music theory required to pass these exams, much less prepare the 4-5 pieces for the evaluation each time.  I read the comments, fascinated by how insightful they were.

For my rendition of Gershwin's Prelude No. 2, that deliciously slow, lazy one, one panelist pointed out that I was (incorrectly) accenting the second beat in walking bass line and I immediately recalled how I'd struggled with that.  Pow!  I was taken back to high school and my afternoons practicing this piece.  It felt amazing, humbling, exciting.  It was like a window into my past and yet still present, yet somehow secret, self.

But then I saw all my good marks and letters of invitation to play in various festivals and recitals: Schumann, Schubert, Bach, Panel Advanced Students, etc. and thought, "Well, I must not have been too bad a player" - it felt nice.  And it made me hopeful.

And there was the music theory.  If I wanted to have a solid background in the study of music, I needed to know at least as much as I'd learned before, and much more for any postgraduate study.  I would wake up super early, needing to figure out a plan, and I'd research for hours online while the sky was barely light.  I finally decided on taking a couple of online courses from Foothill College, one in music history and one in music theory.

Online classes are a godsend to folks like me, who are juggling a full time job along with everything else in life.  I embarked on this path after requesting to meet with the chair of the music department, Dr. Hartwell, who welcomed me warmly and was very supportive of my goals.  He asked me if I was planning to take piano lessons again, and recommended a certain Thomas LaRatta.  If I was interested, I was to tell him so that he could make an introduction for me.  One doesn't just call Mr. LaRatta!  I took note, but thought, "He sounds like a master teacher; he probably wouldn't accept me as a student!"

I got in touch with the one piano teacher I'd studied with as I grew up and visited her one afternoon with my sister, who was also her student.  Sheila Raleigh's little house at the end of the quaint country lane looked exactly the same as I'd remembered - even the lamp was in the same place.  I wasn't sure that I wasn't 13 again, approaching her house and anxious because I felt ill prepared for my lesson.  But no, this was years later, and we had a lovely time reminiscing and catching up.  I'd told her I wanted to study again, but she'd already retired and had prepared for me a small list of teachers who might accept adult students.

When I mentioned Mr. LaRatta, her eyes widened.  "Good heavens, is he still teaching?" she asked with incredulity (apparently he is getting on in years).  But she went on, eyes still wide to exclaim that if he was willing to teach me then "by all means, yes! ... Call him first!"  Okay, I told myself, I have to give it a shot now!

I asked Dr. Hartwell for an introduction to Mr. LaRatta, and before I knew it, I had an audition on Christmas Eve.  I started to practice my scales with a quality that carried a tinge of desperation (time was running out!) and chose 4 pieces to present: Bach, Schumann, Brahms, Ravel.  I knew I was missing a Classical period composer, but I didn't have time to prepare something else.  I needed to show what I could do, now, and could only work hard and hope for the best (and expect the worst).  This was the beginning of my new beginning, and I was excited, scared, elated.  I was really going to do this, and that's what counted.