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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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Guest post by Alexandra Westcott

This article about learning the piano, the skills and the memories was lovely, and jogged my own memories of myself both as student and teacher.

I was about 6 when I used my sister’s books to learn the piano – they had photos for hand positions and finger numbers and that seemed all I needed (I’ve no idea to this day how I learned the rhythm and counting; I don’t remember reading about it but I must have!). I raced through the books and started fiddling with any music floating around, which was a fair amount as my Mum was a singer and also played the piano. I remember having the C major Mozart sonata at home and learning two pages during each holiday when home from boarding school at around 8 or 9. At this point Mum asked me if I wanted lessons, and because all my friends hated it (they hated the
practice); I said no because I loved playing, but she obviously ignored me and I ended up with a teacher I adored with whom I became very close.

I played the piano in all my spare time to the extent my reports used to say ‘she spends a lot of time at the piano’ and during prep, having done my homework as fast as possible, would skip off to the music rooms. I was fussy even then about the piano I played, and only the teachers’ or the grand in the assembly hall would do! None of the awful practice pianos for me!

During my time at school with this wonderful teacher, me and a group of friends would be taken away for a weekend each term to him and his wife at his amazing ancient cottage. He was the church organist and ran the church choir so we ate well on local Devon produce that he was given by local friends and members of the church. At times we also had breakfast in bed (often sugar on toast!), It was all very idyllic and I stayed in touch with him and his wife until they died.

For the 6th form I left there and went to a college local to my home, so I changed teacher and went to a local music school during my A levels. A completely different teacher and one the parents were scared of but the pupils loved. We did Sunday concerts at her house, always with cake, and a large concert once a year at the 6th form college at which she got her advanced students to do a movement of a concerto with her school orchestra. I did the first movement of the Schumann. I never wanted to be a concert pianist but this was good experience and I later had the chance to play on a few occasions with another orchestra, and for one of the concerts performed the whole of the Schumann. It brought back many memories.

I had another teacher for my degree, and then had a break in formal lessons before returning to a commitment to my own playing in my 20s. I had a local teacher for a year but then met Nelly Ben Or and knew I had to learn with her.

Nelly Ben Or

I studied with Nelly for many many years undoing my bad habits in order to acquire new and better ones and becoming a much better pianist, and a better teacher for that. I would often have lunch along with my lessons, and, again, house concerts and other performances enhanced the lessons. And, yes, you guessed it, always with accompanying food and drink.

As a teacher myself I became the sort of teacher I had grown up with; I had close bonds with my students, always had house concerts and local concerts both with tea parties afterwards, usually some chocolate for after lessons, and often would become close friends and either take them out for tea when young, or stay in touch later on.

Piano teachers, or any instrument teacher, hold a particular place in the life of a child. Such a close bond is formed and often many confidentialities shared. There needs to be trust for something that is hard to learn and something that needs self expression in execution. It is maybe not surprising that the bond becomes a firm friendship (and, often, one that needs physical as well as sustenance)!

I often wonder about my students’ memories of their time with me and whether they have similar memories as I do about my own mentors. I hope they hold the same  happy and cherished memories in their hearts for all the hours we spent and fun we had together as I do for my own teachers.

Alexandra Westcott is a piano teacher based in north London who specialises in understanding the piano in the light of the Alexander Technique, as studied with Nelly Ben Or, and encourages all areas of learning in a creative way. Find out more here

If you would like to share your piano memories, whether you are a teacher or pianist, or bothm, please get in touch

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Guest post by Frances Jones

One of the bonuses of teaching is that from time to time you are introduced to new repertoire. Sometimes, you get the opportunity to change your view of a composer that was really only based on a passing experience. 

A pupil of mine has recently been learning a piece by Cecile Chaminade, a composer whose music I had until now associated with a flautist house-mate practising diligently in the run up to a recital. A beautiful work, the Concertino, but the flute can be surprising loud in close quarters. 

Cecile Chaminade (1857-1944) composed throughout her life, and left a large number of piano works, in addition to orchestral music and songs. The piece that my pupil learnt, and that inspired me to explore Chaminade’s music, was the Idylle, Op. 126, No. 1, from her Album for Children of 1907. It has a melody that becomes a real ear worm; marked bien chanté, it does indeed feel very singable. It’s such a satisfying piece to play; the melody in the right hand is accompanied by a simple enough bass line helped along with discreet pedalling. The middle section requires a little more diligent practice for the aspiring Grade 4 pianist (the piece has recently been on the ABRSM Grade 4 syllabus) and the writing is never dull; the melody wings its way onwards, and for a glorious minute or so you can be flying over the rooftops, your spirits lifted. The opening melody returns to round off the piece and you sense in the pupil the confidence that familiarity brings. Immediately the pupil’s playing is more assured, expressive, even playing around with tempo and the placing of the notes. 

I think it was the singable melody that piqued my curiosity, and made me want to know more about Chaminade’s music. The piece I found first was her Serenade Op. 29, written in 1884. After listening to this you can see why Chaminade’s music has been described as charming. The opening melody is gentle, almost like a lullaby, and is supported by pleasing harmonies in the accompaniment. The second melody has a similar rhythmic pattern and is more searching but still holds a tender quality. They are both such beautiful melodies that the whole piece really works. Both tunes use similar rhythmic patterns and accompaniments, but it’s the subtle melodic development as well as changes in articulation that keeps this piece interesting. The music finally fades away to ppp and a tonic chord, dusk having fallen and the musicians taking their leave. 

The next work of Chaminade’s I listened to, which really threatened to take the attached description of ‘charming’ and hurl it out of the window, was her Arabesque No 1, Op. 6, from 1892. It’s a tempestuous piece, technically much more difficult than the Serenade. Chaminade was a pianist, studying with teachers from the Paris Conservatoire, and later performing her works in Europe and the United States. I can imagine her sitting at the keyboard, absorbed in her music, taking the audience with her on a journey through delicate flourishes and big chords, carried along by a melody that is seeped in the Romanticism of her Russian and German contemporaries. 

Her Caprice-Impromptu, despite being one of her later works, written in 1914, is also decidedly Romantic. Chaminade, like her near contemporary Rachmaninov, remained broadly consistent in her style whilst many composers around her responded to new influences. Indeed, the Caprice-Impromptu has hints of Rachmaninov in its melodic writing. Like the Arabesque, there’s a sense of urgency and although the first section is playful as the title of the piece suggests, the melody that follows in the second section is at once both yearning and lyrical. Chromatic scales in octaves add to the sense of drama and the composer makes full use of the expressive range of the piano; the music ranges from fortissimo to piano and dolce. 

Chaminade’s music is characterized by its melodic writing and chromaticism; it’s Romantic, yes, accessible, maybe, but no less interesting for that. Chaminade was a prolific composer and her piano works are both imaginative and musically satisfying. I can’t wait to discover more. 

 

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Watching Masterchef The Professionals, a series to which I am rather addicted (mainly because my son is a professional chef), I have noticed a certain expression from chef Marcus Wareing during the preliminary Skills Test section of the competition.

In this round, contestants’ culinary skills and nous are tested with a set of technical challenges, most of which should be second-nature to any well-trained chef – filleting fish, shucking oysters, boning out a joint of meat, making meringue or hollandaise sauce, for example. For some, this is a daunting round where weaknesses are exposed or nerves get the better of the contestant. For others, it proves their mettle and demonstrates that not only have they been properly trained (and keep their skills well-honed), but also that they are able to adapt their skillset and intuitive culinary common sense to an unfamiliar recipe or set of ingredients. When a chef succeeds in this, Marcus Wareing will often say, with an approving nod, “Chef’s head“.

So I’m coining the expression ‘Pianist’s Head’ to apply to those situations when we might encounter music which is unfamiliar or outside our comfort zone, which might at first appear daunting, challenging or even almost impossible, but which, with some consideration, drawing on our musical knowledge, experience and intuition – our Pianist’s Head – is achievable. Having a good Pianist’s Head upon your shoulders will stand you in good stead for successful sight-reading and the ability to learn music more quickly.

No repertoire is ever learnt in isolation – or at least it shouldn’t be – and everything is connected. Musical skills, just like culinary skills, once learnt and practiced, can and should be applied to different situations. No learning should ever be done in a vacuum: a single piece of music is not just that one piece, it is a path to other pieces via accrued technical proficiency, musical knowledge and artistry. Early students and less advanced pianists often see the pieces they are learning in terms of stand alone works which have little or no relevance to other music they are working on, or are going to learn. This is also particularly true of scales, arpeggios and other technical exercises which may be studied in isolation instead of appreciating their relevance not just in understanding keys and key relationships, but also in actual pieces of music. This was something I was not taught when having piano lessons as a child, and it’s the fault of the teacher, not the student, if the usefulness and relevance of such technical work is not highlighted.

Chopin knew this: it is said that he studied Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier every day, appreciating the music’s relevance to his own musical development, his composing and his teaching. If you can successfully manage Bach’s ornamentation, for example, your Pianist’s Head should allow you to cope with Chopin’s trills and fioriture.

Your Pianist’s Head skills will develop the more time you spend with varied repertoire and your willingness to take an open-minded, lateral thinking approach to learning and playing music to an point where these skills become intuitive and you won’t even know you’re applying them!

To develop and maintain your Pianist’s Head, approach each new/unfamiliar piece of music with the thought, “what do I know already and how can I apply experience from other repertoire to this piece?“. For example, if you’ve encountered a similar passage or technical challenge elsewhere you’ll know how to approach it this time.

Understand and appreciate the composer’s particular stylistic characteristics, idioms, soundworld, and quirks. This can be developed not only through playing other music by the same composer but also by listening and studying scores away from the instrument. And as your Pianist’s Head develops, you’ll find yourself making intuitive decisions about how to approach repertoire based on sound technical knowledge and musical insight.

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