Back in the day, when I was not in as much control of my life as I would like to be now, I had to take piano lessons. I did not want to take piano lessons. My parents often admonished me with a "some day you'll thank us for these piano lessons." That day never came, at least not on any specific day that I can remember as having marked the time I thanked them for forcing me to study the piano.
Of course, you should never expect gratitude from a younger generation, simply because chronologically they're not in a position to appreciate your wisdom in these matters. Had I become a concert pianist, or even a competent pianist, undoubtedly I would have told anyone who listened that I owed it all to the generosity of my parents, who paid for the many hundreds of hours of instruction, and tolerated the thousands of hours of practice.
I quit taking piano from the first instructor, a tyrant who intimidated me at every misstep, and insisted that I did not practice sufficiently. Of course, he was right. I practiced out of fear, and gave new meaning to the musical term, tremolo.
The next and final teacher lived in the neighborhood, offering lessons to many who could otherwise not have afforded them. She might have succeeded in inspiring me to a more musical life, had it not been for the fact that I had been aesthetically traumatized by the first teacher, to the point where only a lobotomy would have allowed me to approach the instrument with any sense of calm.
Our next-door neighbour who moved in while I was still approaching the teen years, was, in fact, an accomplished classical pianist who taught many higher-achieving students. Her entire diningroom was taken up with a baby grand piano. Her husband, an Armenian rug merchant, was himself no musician, but spent hours listening from the kitchen while drinking his tea, in rapt adoration of his spouse's and her students' musical achievements. A professional photographer in his native country, he would retreat to the basement darkroom to develop his black and white photos of flowers and faces, but since it was directly under the piano, I suspect that much of what he did down there was listen undisturbed to the heavenly concerts above.
Although I did not blossom as a pianist, I retained a "musical ear" which has permitted me to play exclusively by it, in any of three common, uncomplicated keys, C, G and F, on a variety of instruments. That, plus a few lessons, allowed me to be a third clarinettist in our high school cadet corps band, thereby saving me from having to carry a gun. The clarinet was much lighter.
I like to think I didn't totally waste my parents' money even as I dashed their hopes, because I appreciate music, especially of the baroque classical genre. Perhaps the struggle with the intractable piano has led to a greater appreciation of those who master it (including my own brother's abilities: he plays both from notes and/or by ear, in a variety of styles, and in any key required, and if the key is unsuitable, he transposes, even if he's playing by sightreading a piece for the first time!)
The advent of Internet radio with stations like Otto's Baroque on 1.FM and many others from around the world is an enormous gift to my generation. Perhaps in the future the technology will make it possible to travel back in time to watch the young Mozart composing his themes on the harpsichord at the age of three. For now, I am seriously grateful for the musical education I was given, for by failing as a performer, I have had the time to become a better listener.
Showing posts with label piano. Show all posts
Showing posts with label piano. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, April 22, 2007
The finesse fish I tasted
Did you ever enjoy grilled fish, fresh from the furnace?
I did.
When I was a teenager in Toronto, we had an Armenian next-door neighbour, Ed, who was a man of all talents, and a well-respected carpet merchant. His wife, Winnifred, was a classical pianist who gave lessons to a number of students, most of conservatory-level talent, on a baby grand piano which was large enough to fill the dining room of their 1.5 storey 1940's house. The piano stood on a very fine maroon persian rug, of course, leaving just enough room left for the student and her master to sit at the keyboard, metronome ticking. But Ed always saw to it that there were fresh flowers on the piano.
Everyone called Ed what sounded like "Hopar" to my ears, a term of endearment and respect meaning "uncle", I was told. He adored his wife and her music and her students. He would sit in the kitchen for hours over an espresso and absorb the many repetitions of Schumann and Brahms (and the Liszt goes on) whom most pianists would find difficult to perform, waiting for Chopin and Mozart. If neither of these was forthcoming within a reasonable time (two espressos), he would disappear to the basement, where he had built a darkroom.
In his country of birth, Ed had been a professional photographer. That is, he took the pictures (often using a view camera with its enormous plates) and processed them whether in color or B&W, the latter being his creative favourite.
When he came to Canada, he was mentored by a previous immigrant who was a rug seller, and in due course, opened his own shop south of the 401 highway on Avenue Road. None of these merchants were in competition with each other: they were a community and most were directly related, so they would lend a hand when one was needed.
Hopar and I became great friends: I spent many a summer leisure hour in conversation with him in the back yard. He planted a mulberry tree (later to be known as "that damned mulberry"... a term my father coined when out in his garden rooting up the weeds and the unstoppable progeny of the tree, even though it was on the far side of Ed's yard.)
One summer, Ed gave me a job at his store for two weeks while his regular help was on vacation. I typed invoices, confirmed installations with customers, kept payment records and when things were slow, tacked down expensive rugs on the floor of the shop and sprinkled dry cleaner and vacuumed them. New shipments would arrive, and we would wrestle them into the storage area. It was fascinating, tiring and he even paid me, although I would have worked for him for nothing.
Ed's accent rendered the "i" as a long "e" in English, and the reverse. So one day I found myself puzzled for a moment or two when I saw him spreading fertilizer on his extensive border garden. I asked what it was, and he said, "The very best ship sheet."
Nevertheless it was Ed's tending, care and advice that nursed a sparse wisteria vine on his side of our back porch from a pathetic trellis of six or seven vines to an impenetrable forest of violet cascades and dark green leafiness. And his roses and cucumbers were paragons of their species.
One summer day, Ed invited me to dinner, and said that we were going to have greelled feesh. I knew it would be good. We went inside, but rather than to the stove, we descended to the basement. Ed opened the furnace. Inside was a steel tray of coals, sitting on the big circular burner that was part of the typical coal-to-gas conversion. On it was a grill, and on that were three white fish, that from my cloistered experience of mainly breaded fish sticks, I failed to recognize.
Hopar turned them over gently, closed the door, and went into the darkroom to show me his latest work. From the drying line he unclipped this picture. Five minutes later, we retrieved the perfectly grilled whatever-it-was, repaired to the kitchen, and with certain fresh additions from the garden, sat down in the guest bedroom, now converted to a dining area. Beethoven thundered from the music room. The metronome ticked relentlessly. But the furnace fish was finesse fish. I have not tasted its like since.
New owners inhabit our houses now. The music and the strong Armenian coffee are long gone. I have no idea what transpires in the neighbourhood these days, except that the price of those houses has increased more than tenfold. But I have no better wish for you than that you may enjoy neighbours on all your boundaries like Ed and Winnie.
(I wrote this with Canadian spellings in honour of my favourite neighbour who did me so many favours.)
I did.
When I was a teenager in Toronto, we had an Armenian next-door neighbour, Ed, who was a man of all talents, and a well-respected carpet merchant. His wife, Winnifred, was a classical pianist who gave lessons to a number of students, most of conservatory-level talent, on a baby grand piano which was large enough to fill the dining room of their 1.5 storey 1940's house. The piano stood on a very fine maroon persian rug, of course, leaving just enough room left for the student and her master to sit at the keyboard, metronome ticking. But Ed always saw to it that there were fresh flowers on the piano.
Everyone called Ed what sounded like "Hopar" to my ears, a term of endearment and respect meaning "uncle", I was told. He adored his wife and her music and her students. He would sit in the kitchen for hours over an espresso and absorb the many repetitions of Schumann and Brahms (and the Liszt goes on) whom most pianists would find difficult to perform, waiting for Chopin and Mozart. If neither of these was forthcoming within a reasonable time (two espressos), he would disappear to the basement, where he had built a darkroom.
In his country of birth, Ed had been a professional photographer. That is, he took the pictures (often using a view camera with its enormous plates) and processed them whether in color or B&W, the latter being his creative favourite.
When he came to Canada, he was mentored by a previous immigrant who was a rug seller, and in due course, opened his own shop south of the 401 highway on Avenue Road. None of these merchants were in competition with each other: they were a community and most were directly related, so they would lend a hand when one was needed.
Hopar and I became great friends: I spent many a summer leisure hour in conversation with him in the back yard. He planted a mulberry tree (later to be known as "that damned mulberry"... a term my father coined when out in his garden rooting up the weeds and the unstoppable progeny of the tree, even though it was on the far side of Ed's yard.)
One summer, Ed gave me a job at his store for two weeks while his regular help was on vacation. I typed invoices, confirmed installations with customers, kept payment records and when things were slow, tacked down expensive rugs on the floor of the shop and sprinkled dry cleaner and vacuumed them. New shipments would arrive, and we would wrestle them into the storage area. It was fascinating, tiring and he even paid me, although I would have worked for him for nothing.
Ed's accent rendered the "i" as a long "e" in English, and the reverse. So one day I found myself puzzled for a moment or two when I saw him spreading fertilizer on his extensive border garden. I asked what it was, and he said, "The very best ship sheet."
Nevertheless it was Ed's tending, care and advice that nursed a sparse wisteria vine on his side of our back porch from a pathetic trellis of six or seven vines to an impenetrable forest of violet cascades and dark green leafiness. And his roses and cucumbers were paragons of their species.
One summer day, Ed invited me to dinner, and said that we were going to have greelled feesh. I knew it would be good. We went inside, but rather than to the stove, we descended to the basement. Ed opened the furnace. Inside was a steel tray of coals, sitting on the big circular burner that was part of the typical coal-to-gas conversion. On it was a grill, and on that were three white fish, that from my cloistered experience of mainly breaded fish sticks, I failed to recognize.
Hopar turned them over gently, closed the door, and went into the darkroom to show me his latest work. From the drying line he unclipped this picture. Five minutes later, we retrieved the perfectly grilled whatever-it-was, repaired to the kitchen, and with certain fresh additions from the garden, sat down in the guest bedroom, now converted to a dining area. Beethoven thundered from the music room. The metronome ticked relentlessly. But the furnace fish was finesse fish. I have not tasted its like since.
New owners inhabit our houses now. The music and the strong Armenian coffee are long gone. I have no idea what transpires in the neighbourhood these days, except that the price of those houses has increased more than tenfold. But I have no better wish for you than that you may enjoy neighbours on all your boundaries like Ed and Winnie.
(I wrote this with Canadian spellings in honour of my favourite neighbour who did me so many favours.)
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