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“I can’t play this.”

It is a familiar response to difficulty. A passage refuses to yield, a technical challenge seems beyond us, or we open the score of a piece we long to play and conclude that it is simply too difficult. But add one small word and the meaning changes completely:

“I can’t play this yet.”

That single word transforms a statement of limitation into one of possibility. It acknowledges where we are now without assuming that this is where we will always be.

Learning to play a musical instrument is full of such moments. At the beginning, almost everything seems difficult. Coordinating two hands, reading several notes simultaneously, controlling dynamics, pedalling, producing different articulations – skills which an experienced musician barely thinks about once had to be acquired consciously and painstakingly. Progress can make us forget this. Something which now feels entirely natural may once have seemed impossible.

This is why “yet” can be such a useful word in teaching. A student who says “I can’t do it” has already reached a conclusion. The difficulty has become fixed and personal: I am someone who cannot do this. Add “yet”, and the difficulty becomes temporary. There is something to investigate and learn. This is not simply positive thinking. Telling a student that they can achieve anything if only they try hard enough is neither particularly useful nor necessarily true. Musicians have different physical characteristics, aptitudes, available time and circumstances, and these inevitably affect what is possible. Nor does repeatedly practising something badly make it more achievable. Effort without thought is rarely productive. The value of “yet” lies instead in resisting premature conclusions about our abilities.

Faced with a difficult passage, the useful question is not simply Can I do this? but What is preventing me from doing this at the moment? Perhaps the fingering is awkward. Perhaps the movement is inefficient or unnecessarily tense. Perhaps the passage has not been properly understood harmonically or rhythmically. Perhaps it needs to be dismantled, slowed down, practised in smaller sections or approached in an entirely different way.

Or perhaps we simply need more time.

Musical learning is rarely linear. We may practise something diligently for several days with little apparent improvement and then, after leaving it alone, return to discover that it has somehow become easier. Skills develop incrementally, often beneath the level of conscious awareness. The brain and body continue to assimilate what we have been practising even when we are away from the instrument. This makes patience an essential part of musicianship. It can be particularly difficult for adult learners, who are accustomed to being competent in most areas of their lives. Sitting at a piano and discovering that the fingers will not do something which appears perfectly straightforward can be intensely frustrating. The mind understands; the body has not yet caught up.

Children, too, readily compare themselves with others. Another student plays more advanced repertoire or progresses more quickly, and ability begins to seem like something one either possesses or does not. But comparison tells us remarkably little about our own capacity to learn. We begin from different places and progress at different rates. What matters is not whether someone else can do something now, but whether we are developing the knowledge and skills which may allow us to do it later.

The principle remains relevant however experienced we become. Advanced musicians continually encounter new kinds of difficulty. A composer whose musical language once seemed impenetrable gradually becomes comprehensible; a technical challenge which would have been unthinkable ten years earlier becomes manageable; repertoire we once regarded as permanently beyond us moves within reach.

One of the pleasures of playing over many years is occasionally returning to music we abandoned in the past and discovering that we are now able to understand or play things which defeated us before. The music has not become easier: we have changed. This is also why repertoire should sometimes stretch us. There is little satisfaction in remaining indefinitely with what we already know we can do. The right challenge encourages us to acquire new skills, listen differently and enlarge our musical understanding.

But there is an important distinction between challenge and struggle for its own sake. Not every piece will eventually suit every pianist, and there are times when setting something aside is the intelligent decision. “Not yet” may mean next year, in ten years, or perhaps never – and none of these represents failure.

What matters is that we remain open to the possibility of change.

Teachers have an important role here. Rather than simply supplying solutions, they can help students learn how to investigate difficulties for themselves: to experiment, ask questions, recognise progress and understand that mistakes are information rather than evidence of inadequacy. Gradually the student begins to replace “I can’t” with “How might I?”. That change in language reflects a deeper change in attitude.

The same curiosity can sustain us throughout a lifetime of music-making. However much experience we accumulate, there will always be something we cannot yet play, do or understand. That is not a deficiency but one of the reasons music remains endlessly absorbing. To be a musician is to remain, in some sense, a learner.

And perhaps the real power of “yet” is not that it promises eventual mastery. It simply leaves the door open.

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This article in The Spectator https://spectator.com/article/the-joy-of-the-little-things/, and a Facebook post by a good friend of mine, celebrating the little or simple things in her life which give her pleasure or fulfilment, set me thinking about the pleasure of simplicity in music. This might be a beautifully intonated note on the clarinet or violin, a perfectly executed C-major scale, or the elegant simplicity of a slow movement from a Mozart piano sonata.

The title of this article captures a core truth about music: what feels most satisfying to play and/or hear is often not the most complex, but the most clear, intentional, well-understood, and beautiful. This applies to both music practice and performance.

Simplicity in Music Practice

Mastery before complexity: Focusing on simple material – scales, basic rhythms, short phrases – allows a musician to build control, accuracy, and confidence. Simple exercises reveal weaknesses clearly, making improvement more efficient. Practicing a slow scale with even tone and perfect intonation develops more skill than rushing through advanced pieces, and a well-played simple passage is more valuable than a poorly executed difficult one.

Pleasure and fulfilment come from progress – and progress is most noticeable when working with manageable material.

Mental clarity and reduced frustration: Overly complex practice can lead to tension, fatigue, and discouragement. Simplicity helps break down difficult pieces into small, clear sections and allows one to focus on one goal at a time (for example, rhythm, tone, articulation).

Deep listening and awareness: Simple music leaves space for attention to detail, such as quality of tone, timing and balance, breath, bow, or touch. This awareness strengthens musical sensitivity, which is harder to develop when attention is overwhelmed by technical difficulty.

Simplicity in Musical Performance

Clarity over complexity: In performance, audiences respond most strongly to clear musical ideas, not technical display alone. Thus, a simple melody played with expression, shaping, and conviction can be more moving than virtuosic passages played to display technical prowess but without meaning. Simplicity allows the musical message to come through without distraction.

The pleasure lies in communication, not complication.

Confidence and presence: Simpler interpretations often lead to fewer mistakes, greater freedom of expression, stronger connection with the audience. When a performer is not struggling with difficulty, they can be fully present in the music.

Emotional honesty: By not hiding behind complexity, the performer reveals emotion, vulnerability, and authentic musical intent. Such honesty is deeply satisfying for both performer and listener.

Balance, not avoidance of difficulty

“The pleasure in simplicity” does not mean avoiding challenging music. Instead, it means: developing complexity from a simple, solid foundation; stripping music down to its essentials – melody, rhythm, harmony, expression; and remembering that difficulty should serve musical meaning, not replace it

In both practice and performance, simplicity brings pleasure by fostering clarity, control, confidence, and emotional connection. When music is approached with simplicity, it becomes more human, more expressive, and ultimately more enjoyable – reminding us that music’s power often lies in how little it needs to say to express something deeply meaningful.

We often overlook the beauty of simplicity. Some of the most profound insights are found in the elegant and uncomplicated.

Professor Richard Feynman, physicist

Images: Photo by Jason Gardner on Unsplash and Ivona Rož on Unsplash

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Guest post by Frances Jones

A few weeks ago I slipped on an icy pavement and fractured my right hand. There was a scary moment when I was told the break might be a serious one, and difficult to heal, but that proved to be a false alarm and the hand is almost back in normal use.

The injury, though, proved to have interesting consequences for my piano teaching, and got me thinking about motivation, a topic often in my thoughts concerning my students, who are currently between the ages of 4 and 11.

Because my right hand was immobile, I dictated homework notes to the older children to write in their practice diaries. (The younger ones made do with the squiggly efforts of my non-dominant hand.) Two particular children took this responsibility very seriously, to the extent that they are continuing to write their own notes and adhering to them, too. One of these children hadn’t been very motivated of late; she mostly did what was asked in terms of practice, but seemed to be going through the motions, rather than actually enjoying playing. Now, she makes annotations to the music, adding fingering or reminders of articulation and seems to be enjoying the piano once again. The difference in her playing is marked; there’s an expressive quality there that I hadn’t heard for months. There could be many different reasons, of course, for the change of attitude, but I think the shift in ownership has played a part. The child knows now that she is responsible for her own progress but I haven’t had to tell her that. The process has taught me a lesson, too; that for some children doing as much as possible for themselves is a real motivator. For others, it’s not important; they still have the intrinsic motivation they started out with.

Over the years, I’ve found that most children are motivated to play at first because they like the sound of the piano and take pleasure from being able to create that sound. (Very occasionally, a child has no interest in the instrument but his parents wish him to learn. Honesty, or extrinsic motivation are the options here.) Keeping hold of that initial motivation is key, and all teachers of young children have their own thoughts on how to do this. Here are mine:

Performing. This depends on the child, but I have found in schools that most children love to play in assembly or to their class and will devote considerable time to practice if they have this goal.

Being the teacher. A pupil of six was thrilled to tell me recently that he had taught his younger sister how to play a tune. Some children enjoy teaching their friends. I say to children they can teach their mum/dad how to play and younger children often love it when their parents can play a duet part.

Composing/improvising. I do this from time to time in lessons and with some children it really absorbs their interest and allows them to enjoy and explore the range of the piano. Writing down their melody is a good way to revise or bring in notation.

Learning a well-known tune. Many children, especially older ones, really want to be able to play specific pieces. Mastering a manageable version of a song you like can be very rewarding and I think helps some children continue to play when they might otherwise have given up.

Stickers. My use of these is extremely judicious and only for those up to the age of 8. I find that if a child manages to do something he’s been trying to achieve, the satisfaction of accomplishment is reward enough. For the youngest, the excitement of playing the piano is similarly, quite a match for a humble sticker and that excitement must be retained. Having said that, some children love making collections and if a sticker helps a child practice, I would certainly advocate being generous.

Praise and positivity. There are different schools of thought on this. My view is that children really value praise when it is earned and therefore, used truthfully, it is immensely helpful to progress. I find this is particularly true with children who are in a cohort with many high-achievers and feel they are never going to catch up. Sometimes a child needs convincing they are playing well, even if it’s a simple tune.

As a teacher, I’m conscious of the need to retain that initial interest and enjoyment so the child doesn’t lose sight of why he is playing and practising. Even the most well-intentioned child (and adult) can suffer a dip in motivation whilst navigating the distractions of modern life. Frustrating, yes, but truly rewarding when a little creative thinking puts things back on track.

Frances Jones teaches piano in SW London. She has also taught and led music provision in London prep schools.

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Do Not Mistake Activity for Progress: A Lesson for Musicians

The phrase “Do not mistake activity for progress” serves as a powerful reminder that being busy is not the same as being effective. Nowhere is this more relevant than in the life of a musician, where countless hours are spent practicing, refining technique, and mastering pieces. A romantic misconception persists, amongst musicians themselves as well as the general public, that musicians must spend hours and hours in the practice room to achieve perfection.

This article explores how the distinction between mere activity and genuine progress is particularly important for musicians, and how understanding this difference by employing focussed, thoughtful practice – quality rather than quantity – can lead to more productive and meaningful practice and results.

For many musicians, the act of practicing can become habitual. Sitting down you’re your instrument, playing through scales, or repeating pieces from memory may feel productive because it takes time and effort. But if these routines are executed without thoughtful engagement, they may offer little return in terms of technical and artistic development. In other words, you can be very active without actually improving. This is where the warning not to conflate activity with progress becomes critical. Just because a musician is practicing does not mean they are practicing well.

Effective practice requires focus, intention, and feedback. It’s not just about the quantity of time spent, but the quality of that time. For example, a violinist who practices a difficult passage for thirty minutes without addressing the underlying technical issues – such as bowing technique, intonation, or rhythm – is likely to repeat and reinforce mistakes. This is, in effect, simply “going through the motions” rather than engaging in deep, thoughtful, considered practicing. In contrast, a musician who spends just ten minutes isolating and correcting these problems may make far more progress. Thus, mindful, goal-oriented practice can achieve more in less time than mindless repetition.

The concept of deliberate practice, popularised by psychologist Anders Ericsson, is particularly useful in this context. Deliberate practice involves working just beyond one’s current abilities, identifying weaknesses, setting specific goals, and seeking constructive feedback. For musicians, this might mean slowing down a difficult section, using a metronome, recording oneself for critique, or working with a teacher, mentor or even a trusted colleague or friend to identify areas for improvement. Each of these activities is targeted and purposeful, aimed at achieving real growth rather than simply filling practice hours.

In addition, mistaking activity for progress can lead to frustration, burnout and even injury. (‘over-practicing’ is a real issue!). Musicians may feel that despite spending many hours practicing, they are not advancing, which can be discouraging and demotivating. Understanding that not all practice is equal allows you to assess the effectiveness of your practice routines and make the necessary adjustments. It encourages reflection, a crucial aspect of productive practicing: What am I trying to achieve? Is this exercise helping me reach that goal? What could I change to improve my results?

By focusing on the quality rather than the quantity of practice, musicians can ensure that their activity translates into meaningful progress. Ultimately, it is not how much one practices, but how one practices, that leads to mastery.