A Worthy Performance
It was a warm early August morning as the bright blue sky allowed the sun to shine its full light over the vicinity of the church where I was going to take my piano examination. My mother had parked our green eighteen-year-old-car under the shadow of one of the more minuscule trees, whose collection of miniature yet flawless yellow-green leaves barely cast a shade over the parking lot. She was now, I believe, sitting downstairs on one of the classic purple school chairs in front of the entrance to the room, where the young children would socialize if the service was underway. From there, she would be able to register the diverse frequencies of every piece, phrase, note, and mistake which my fingers would produce throughout the rest of the hour.
On the other hand, I, one of the many people taking the examination, was sitting directly outside the examiner’s room, with my repertoire resting on my lap. I had my hands wedged between my thighs and the surface of the chair, trying to warm up my fingers. Every now and then, I inspected my fingertips for the pink-red colour, which naturally would show up after many hours of piano practice, reassuring myself of my readiness for the exam.
Throughout what seemed to be eons, I had repetitively performed the same seven pieces to my ear multiple hours per day. I was given feedback by my teacher concerning every small expression and tone and dynamic marking and articulation. My fingertips had been on the verge of bawling their pads out with blood, and my mind was on the brink of exploding from performing the repetitive non-visual recitals of the pieces, which were exploding with their large number of melodies, harmonies, and polyphonies.
The old and worn out black piano I practiced on had been inscribed into the very surface of my eyes. The dusty, scratched, and yellow-keyed piano covered by the once majestic-looking mahogany-purple drape along with the infinite piles of sheet music and piano books would appear clearly in the dark abyss my eyelids created whenever I retired myself to bed, constantly reminding me of the day which was edging closer by the second. I had pelted my mother every single day with the virtually identical inquiry of whether I would meet the standards set by the examiners.
My parents would have to put up with my incessant screams of anxiety during the evening hours when I wasn’t reciting my repertoire on the clavier. In turn, I would be infinitesimally assured that there was a reason for my registration: “if you hadn’t devoted so much time, we would not have registered you.”
Soon the doorknob turned and the door opened, revealing the absolute stranger: my examiner.
“Hi! Is this William?”
I subconsciously forced a genuine-looking and enthusiastic smile, which was used for casual small talk, and completed the exchange with a semi cheerful and steady voice.
“Hello! Yes, I’m William. Good morning, how are you today?”
“I’m good, thank you! Come in, please,” she said with a slightly more fatigued tone.
Now, as I sat down in uttermost silence in front of the black luminescent Steinway grand piano, my mind was blank; I was, for whatever reason, calm. My hands were completely dry, and I did not take notice of any possible distractions. I heard the familiar rustling sound of papers turning, followed by the unfamiliar female voice of the examiner:
“Alright, William. You may start.”
Subconsciously, the title of the first of multiple pieces rolled through my head: Clair de lune, Claude Debussy, published 1905. I proceeded to raise my light dominant hand and, with the weight of a feather, laid my second and fourth fingers into the minor third built on F, beginning the exam.
The following pieces flowed with ease from my forearms through my hands onto the striped, neatly uneven surface of the keyboard, creating pillars of sound, which augured well for the future of my musical passion.
After two weeks, the results came, offering congratulations for my passing the exam with honours, making everything worth its weight.