Angel of Music

Pay Homage to Music

The clock ticks loudly, the second hand creeping up toward the 12, only to surpass the pinnacle of the clock face and condemn itself to another lap around. Like Sisyphus, the clock hand must continue to climb in a pointless display of perpetual motion.

I adjust my hat and glance around to make sure everything is in place. The sheet music I picked out yesterday is on the coffee table, and my music stand is prominent in the room, with a chair nearby but not in the way, in case she wants to sit. I debated between using candles like I normally do or using the lamps, but decided that candles would send the wrong message.

I like my apartment to be dark. I know where everything is, so I only need to turn on the lights when I need to read or cook. It started when I was fifteen or sixteen, practicing the violin in the dark as a way to test my mastery of a piece, to see if I could play it without looking at the music or even my fingers. Next it was a challenge, to break myself out of the habit of looking at my left hand, second guessing where the pitches were and sliding through the piece. It developed into a habit, and now I almost always play in darkness, and do whatever else I can in the murky light that bleeds through my curtains. When I'm learning a new piece, I like the flickering, playful glow of candlelight against the orderly staff lines that march across the page. The shadows against the blots of ink that represent notes give the piece its personality, and I am disappointed that the school won't let me light candles when I practice the piano. They would be a fire hazard, the custodian told me; and besides, I didn't want to push my luck when they were already being so kind to let me in at all.

The doorbell rings and I hurry over to answer it. The girl standing in the hallway outside my apartment is clearly the same girl I talked to last Tuesday. Her long, curly hair has red tints that I couldn't see in the dim piano room, and she is taller than I am. Her violin case dangles from her long fingers.

She straightens up when she sees me, and stares at my face for a second before looking me in the eye. Does she recognize me? It was just over a week ago when she found me practicing. It was a brief conversation. Maybe not.

"Hi. Um, Kristy?"

"Yeah. And you're... Erin, right?"

"Uh huh. Come in."

She steps in and looks around, sliding her coat from her shoulders and hanging it over the back of my sofa. "So this is where the magic happens? Where you take kids like me and turn them into musicians for Carnegie Hall?"

"Not exactly. You're my first student. So, uh, be patient with me; I've never taught anyone before."

"That's fine. Do you mind if I warm up first?"

"Of course! Go right ahead."

She kneels down next to her case and flips up the latches, opening the lid to reveal a fine instrument, nearly as nice as mine, though her fingerboard is interspersed with thin strips of black tape to show her where her fingers go. She tightens her bow and slides her chin rest on while I pick up my tuner and play an A for her. She tunes quickly, and starts racing through some scales. I watch her fingers. She is very fast, but her notes are not always precise, more focused on rhythms than intonation. She is not so far out of tune that it is flat out wrong, but there are moments that I cringe as a note falls flat.

She ends with an arpeggio, climbing up two octaves before descending back to her starting note. She holds the note and looks to me for approval. I nod and pick up my stack of music, riffling through the pile until I find what I want. She makes a face when she sees it.

"Did I play that badly? I promise you, I can do better than "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star"."

"No, no, you were fine. This is just for practice. I, uh, want to show you something." She still looks skeptical, but she nods slowly. "Will you play it for me?"

She does, and I can see that I was right. Her rhythms are perfect, each note is held for the exact amount of time, but her fingers slide around to find the tapes, although I can tell that she is trying harder than she was with the scales. She finds the exact pitch before the count is up, so she does hit every note. It just takes a moment. She finishes the piece and asks, "Is that what you wanted to show me? How to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?"

"Not exactly. Uh, do you think you could memorize the notes?"

"Yeah. Easy. It's a really simple pattern." She plays it through again, quickly, then plays it memorized, turning to look at me rather than the music stand, though she glances over at her hand every so often. I turn away, looking instead at the photos on the mantle. Bad choice.

Thankfully, she stops playing then and I try to decide how best to help her. "Um, okay, that was good. But now play it one note at a time. I'll cue you when to change notes."

She plays the starting note, D, dragging her bow across the open string, fingers hovering just above but not touching. She tuned her violin well, so there are no problems with this note. I nod at her and she switches to the second note, A, another open string. Her fingers wave, drumming against the neck, fidgety from not being used. At another nod, her index finger dips down and presses the string against the fingerboard. Here she is a bit flat, but she corrects herself, sliding up toward the bridge. "Good. Don't be afraid to correct yourself. But, when possible, do it right the first time."

She sucks in her cheeks and releases the A string, fingers floating once more. I nod again and she sets down her ring finger, finding G without any problems. "There you go, that was good. Next note?"

Her middle finger, shepherded down behind the ring finger, finds its note as her third finger lifts, in a perfect trade off of one sound to another. "There! That was good. Perfect."

She grins and adjusts her first finger. When it is centered perfectly over the tape, she lifts her middle finger leaving the string to vibrate up to the note B.

When we finish the piece, she is focusing more on her placement and intonation, and makes fewer mistakes. She gets most of them right the first time.

"Good. Now, uh, this time, play it just a little slower than normal, but don't look at your hand. Don't even glance at it."

"Not at all?"

"Nope."

"Okay..." she says uncertainly, but when I count her off, she begins to play. She makes a point of
turning her head away from her hand and from the stand, staring at me again. I look down at the carpet, listening. At first, I can hear her struggle. The first B is flat again, but she corrects quickly. She cheats a bit at the G, glancing over at her hand. I clear my throat and she squeezes her eyes closed. She makes it through the piece like that, eyes closed, fingers sliding around to find the correct note.

When she finishes, I ask her to play it again, and she does better, her fingers more sure and solid.

"That was good."

"Thanks. Good to know that I can play 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' without messing up too badly."

"The song doesn't matter. What's important is that you played it without looking at your hand."

"Why does that matter? It's not like I'm staring at my hand all the time, it's just a glance every once in a while to make sure they're on the tapes." She sucks in her cheeks.

"You need to track, train, and trust your fingers, not the tapes. Track down the correct pitch and train yourself to find it without hesitation. Then, when you're playing, trust your muscle memory to find where the notes are. Then you can take off the tapes."

"Hmmph." Looking down at her instrument, she fidgets with the side of the third finger tape, partway down the neck. She pulls the end loose, then smooths it back down. I can tell that she will need more convincing to take them off entirely, but that can wait.

I slide a piece from the pile that is a bit closer to her abilities, and I guide her through the tricky spots, urging her eyes away from her fingers. The hour flies by and, too soon, it is five.

"Nice work today. Practice that, and remember what we worked on. I'll see you Friday?"

"Mmhmm. Friday," she affirms.

She carries her case, swinging at her side as she walks out my apartment door. Her shoe is untied, and the laces mark a short trail behind her.

"Goodbye," I whisper, and close the door.