The creative act
Last night I played the piano in my living room, for an audience of 1.5 (my partner Todd and my cat). Almost always, however, I start with no audience. Just me, pulling out the bench, sitting and contemplating for a flash before my fingers strike the keys. I play. The melody starts pensively and after a few minutes morphs into something else.
At this point I am still alone with the music, which is perfectly fine by me. My fix comes from the physical act of moving my hands, fingers and arms and knowing not necessarily where the song will go, but really knowing just before the key is played just how it will sound. Except for the first note, each note–each moment–thereafter is filled simultaneously with satisfaction and expectation. I play, I enjoy, I anticipate, over and over again.
So aside from each moment, nothing is planned. It’s precisely the act of being that is so enjoyable. And that being is not the music that comes out but the making of the music that comes out. That feeling that but for me moving this way or that, the sound wouldn’t happen. I alone, am the creator. Inspired, of course by the world of friends and emotions and all experience–my experience.
It’s clear that I play for no one but myself. I used to think that was selfish. Others did, too, especially my piano instructor Muriel who encouraged me to play what was written on the page before me, by some great composer or another. Of course it’s great music, but it isn’t mine! I would bang out tune after tune in my ostinato style in Muriel’s absence. Then, when the sixty-something farmwife would show up for my evening lesson I was forced to resort to Easy Piano Arrangements by Dan Coate. When I would add my own personal flourish–and mind you, I’m not a technical player in the least–Muriel would wrinkle her sinewy face and slap my hand. That isn’t what the composer intended!
But in that moment, that’s what the world got. Anyone with enough drive and devotion can replicate some other person’s work. There’s room for this, but at 15–just like 32–I had something to share.
Muriel deserves credit for forcing the little technique I do follow. So does Katiana, the Russian piano teacher in college. Both tried, but often failed as my fingers went elsewhere. I tried to force myself into the rigorous practice of sticking to it, but time and time again I would fail. When I did, I would break down and just cry. I was driven and devoted, but not to play the page, but simply the heart.
That is why I like playing so well, and to this day, it is the heart that drives my music. I will always defy the teachers, and although I respect them, know my place is away from theirs. My defiance was rooted in the simple idea that the piano was the one place in my world where it was just me. The bench was my stage, the keys were my audience. Nothing else mattered. This was a space for the most intimate outpouring of the heart there was. And no teacher was going to tell me how my heart was feeling.
In the living room, I continued to play. What started somberly in B-flat morphed into a brighter tune in D. The tempo picked up, as did my delight. My cat voiced his presence (or disdain) obstreperously but I didn’t care! My fingers flew. The air in the room was fresh and alive–and so was I!
Todd entered the room during a brief pause I took for a sip of water. Just enjoying the concert, he said. As much as I am endeared by this, I do not regard my playing as a concert, or recital or public performance in any way. But if playing what flowed from my heart is my creative right, then so is his creative experience of it.
At one point I sensed that both the cat and Todd drifted off to sleep. Some might be upset by this, but not me. My fingers continued, the expectation and release of each chord pushed me to encounter the next. This, as usual, can be a problem, since once I begin and find that creative space where the music simply flows, I can almost never stop. Try as I might, but it is a high–a wave I never wish to end.
I continue. Notes pour out of me–including the occasional klunker. But I just keep going. Some songs are happy, but the others become soulful. I mix styles, much like the complex waves of emotion that color our every experience. And all of this, simply, for me.
Playing the piano by ear is my self-therapy. It’s that creative act that belongs solely to me. Nothing else matters and in it there is absolutely no judgment–maybe why I detested lessons. And almost always, if I play long enough, I strike something so deep within that I cry. It could be a memory that pops up, but more often it is just the feeling of making a sound so clear, so precise and so simply authentic.
Really rambling along now, both Todd and Mr. B. begin to stir. I can feel myself healing, and it’s tiring! Soon my session will end and I will be completely exhausted. That’s when you know you’ve done a good job.
I encourage anyone who hasn’t to play the piano. Take a lesson, even. Play what sounds good, but more importantly, play what feels good. It doesn’t matter if you play Bach or if you play chopsticks. Just play. Give yourself the freedom to experience something, and you might be surprised how easily the music flows. If nothing else, you’ll get the chance to learn something. The more you practice it–whatever that means to you–the more you’ll feel empowered by your unique creative act. It’s serious soul-defining action, and those who get to do this every day are, in my book, the luckiest of all people.
