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This quote is from an episode of Masterchef: The Professionals, a TV series to which I am addicted. It’s from a professional chef, a finalist in one season of the competition, and it struck a chord with me the moment he said it.

Why? Because the phrase “You can’t taste technique”, while in the example above refers to culinary arts, also captures a profound truth about musical performance: while technical mastery is essential, it is never the ultimate goal. In piano playing, technique provides the means through which expressive intent is realised, but it is not the substance of the art itself. Just as a beautifully prepared meal is valued for its flavour rather than the precision of the chef’s knife work, a piano performance moves us through sound, emotion, and imagination – not through the display of dexterity alone.

Technique, in its most basic sense, is the pianist’s physical control over the instrument: accuracy, finger strength, coordination, and tone production. It is the foundation on which artistry is built. Yet, audiences do not attend concerts to witness exercises in coordination; they come to be transported by an expression of sound that stirs the emotions and speaks to the human condition. When a pianist performs Chopin’s Nocturnes or Rachmaninov’s Preludes, the beauty lies not in the number of hours spent mastering scales or octaves, but in the capacity to shape phrases, create colour, and evoke feeling. A listener may admire flawless execution, but it is emotional resonance that lingers long after the final chord has sounded.

The quote also invites pause for thought on the dangers of confusing facility with artistry. In today’s musical culture – where recordings and competitions often prioritise perfection – there is a temptation to equate precision and speed with excellence. Yet this approach risks producing performances that are technically impeccable but emotionally sterile. A pianist who focuses solely on accuracy may play “correctly” but fail to communicate the spirit of the music. The notes, though polished, may lack narrative or character. Great artists, by contrast, use technique in service of expression: their virtuosity disappears behind the music’s emotional message. We do not “taste” the technique; we experience the artistry.

Moreover, the quote is a useful reminder that musical communication is sensory and emotional, not mechanical. The listener’s experience is shaped by sound, colour, timing and silence – the expressive choices that bring a score to life. Technical perfection alone is not a substitute for imagination or sincerity. As Alfred Brendel is widely quoted as saying, “Technique is only meaningful when it enables interpretation.” Thus, the pianist’s insight, experience, curiosity and emotional engagement breathe meaning into what might otherwise be mere sound.

Finally, “You can’t taste technique” implies that the truest performances are those where technique is invisible. When the pianist’s control is so complete that it no longer draws attention to itself, the listener can fully engage with the musical story. Technique thus becomes a silent partner in expression.

In essence, this quote is a reminder that music is a living art, not an athletic feat. The pianist’s challenge is not merely to master technique, but to transcend it – to turn skill into sound, and sound into meaning. The artistry that moves the heart, not the mechanism of the fingers, is what endures.

Chef photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash

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My husband laughs at my love of The Joy of Painting with American painter Bob Ross, which is broadcast on BBC Four in the early evenings. The programmes were originally created and aired in the 1980s and early 90s, and they do look a little dated now (along with Bob’s permed hair!). Additionally, Bob’s paintings – rather cheesy landscapes and snowy scenes – are not the sort of art I’d hang on my walls, but that hardly matters in the context of this article.

PBS Remix-Happy Painter

Bob is clearly a highly skilled artist. He exudes a quiet self-assurance which comes from confidence in his own techniques, and he uses his materials with a remarkable yet modest dexterity. He knows exactly which brush or palette knife to use to create a specific effect – the silvery bark of a birch tree or reflections on water. Watching a painting emerge from Bob’s palette before your eyes is mesmerising and strangely calming, but that is not the primary reason why I am hooked on these programmes: I am fascinated by Bob’s technique.

Musicians, like artists, need well-developed, secure technique in order to navigate the score and create music. Technique should always serve the art, whether it is painting or performing music; one demonstrates how finely-honed one’s technique is when it is no longer visible – when one plays, or paints, in such a way that it appears fluent and effortless. Bob Ross has mastered his technique to such an extent that we almost forget there is any technique involved at all.

Technical skills like this require consistent nurturing, which is why regular practicing is so important. Mindless note-bashing achieves little; focused, deliberate, deep practice, on the other hand, fosters technical assuredness and artistic mastery.

Through a process of constant reflection and refining during practice, physical and creative obstacles are overcome and one has in place the firm foundations and confidence from which to develop greater artistry. Assured technique also gives us the tools to explore more complex repertoire, a greater sense of intuition when we practice and perform, and the ability to play with greater spontaneity and nuance. The control of nuance will determine the version the performer performs. Much of this nuance will be pre-planned, practiced, memorised and finessed to such a degree that it sounds totally spontaneous in performance, but the rest comes ‘in the moment’ of performance – a genuinely spontaneous, quasi-improvisatory response to interaction between performer and music, performer and audience, the responsiveness of the audience, the performer’s mood and sensibilities, the ambiance of the concert hall, the time of day….It is this kind of musical “sprezzatura” that creates those magical, “you had to be there” moments in live concerts. It cannot be planned in advance – and yet it comes from the performer’s meticulous preparation, their deep knowledge of the music, their technical facility and mastery of their art, and their experience.

No one wants to watch an artist labouring with their work – this is one of the reasons why The Joy of Painting is such a pleasure to watch because Bob makes it look so easy (and he never lets his ego get in the way of the creation of art). Watch a performer like Martha Argerich in performance (a pianist I’ve been lucky enough to hear live in concert on several occasions) and you will see this same effortlessness.

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Confidence Commitment Concentration

Sometimes, and more frequently that you might imagine, my husband’s world (mountain-biking) and mine (music) intersect, with interesting results. At first sight, our respective passions could not be more different: he likes to hurl himself and his bike down the side of mountains, riding rough-shod (literally) over rocks and gnarly tree roots while I get my share of excitement out of playing the piano or hearing others play it in concert. How could there possibly be any connection between those two activities?

But a chance conversation between my husband, myself and two pianist/piano teaching friends over dinner recently revealed some noteworthy parallels between the world of the downhill mountain-biker and the performing pianist. In fact, there are many parallels between sportspeople and musicians, from the way we prepare for a race or a performance to the importance of listening to and taking care of our bodies (see The Musician as Sportsperson).

“Confidence Commitment Concentration” is a mantra my husband regularly repeats in relation to his cycling. In his world – and that of other sportspeople – Confidence is a key factor in propelling one down that vertiginous mountain track or round the running circuit. While negotiating a rocky descent there’s no time for self-doubt because a moment’s hesitation can lead to one to misjudge the line and ride into a tree, or worse. Confidence, and the ability to handle one’s bicycle or instrument adroitly, comes from practising and honing one’s technical skills. Assured technique then provides the firm foundation on which to build creativity and artistry. It also gives us the freedom and confidence to make snap decisions during performance and to prevent small slips or errors from distracting us or pulling us off course.

 

Commitment – so you’re barrelling down that alpine track and there’s a jump ahead. You can’t apply the brakes because you need the right speed to propel you over the jump. Now is the time to commit – don’t hold back and don’t be tentative. In a musical performance, we commit from the moment we start playing. At that point there is no going back – the first notes have sounded and we must play with commitment to offer our audience a convincing performance. Commitment also means playing fluently and not allowing errors or slips to distract us. And just as a moment’s hesitation on the mountain track could lead to an accident, tentative playing may hint at lack of confidence which might make our audience uneasy for the rest of the performance. Of course piano playing is not nearly as hazardous as downhill mountainbiking (I know this because my husband is a fairly frequent visitor to the A&E department at our local hospital), but a metaphoric accident during a performance can do serious damage to our confidence and self-esteem which may harm future performances.

 

Concentration – sounds obvious, doesn’t it? Of course you need to concentrate, but our concentration can easily be disturbed which can then disrupt or sabotage a performance. My husband cites things like “your mates standing at the side of the track taking photos or yelling at you“. In a musical performance, external factors such as a member of the audience coughing or rustling their programme can interrupt our concentration, in addition to internal issues such as the negative voice of the inner critic. Concentration can be trained to such a degree that we can accept external interruptions without affecting our performance – see my earlier post Mind Games for more on concentration.

Taken all together, The Three C’s can lead to a performance – musical or sporting – that is fluent, convincing and successful.

If you get one of The Three Cs wrong you can probably still pull it off, but if you get two of them wrong you’ll probably crash.