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When I was in high school, a budding pianist who could sightread like the wind, I was embarrassed by my inability to improvise.
Hazel Wood, who played for Marilyn Smith's dance classes in town, played "by ear." She could hear any song and reproduce it on the piano, harmonies and all. She couldn't read music, and it's true that she didn't play with much nuance or sensitivity. But she could play absolutely anything after she'd heard it once.
I, on the other hand, could play anything printed on a page of music. But I wanted HER skill. I really wanted it. My parents heard of a woman in town who gave lessons in improvisation and otherwise playing without written music. They set up a series of lessons with her, in addition to my usual piano lessons.
The piece we worked on, for eight weeks, was "The Best Things in Life are Free." She pointed out to me the harmonies of the piece, the building blocks underpinning it. She showed me where to use the tonic and the fifth or the fourth or a diminished 7th. I listened carefully to everything she told me, then went home and practiced the piece from the sheet music, as I always had.
The next week she showed me harmonies again, showed me the stride bass, showed me little tricks. I went home and practiced from the sheet music, as I always had.
I quit after four lessons.
To me, my inability to improvise reflects rigidity, a trait that occasionally rears its ugly head in my life. I'm less rigid than I once was. Less rigid than some people I know. And yet. And yet.
Half a dozen years ago, a very smart person suggested, as I was bemoaning my inability to improvise—that I simply put my hands on the keys—anyplace—and play. It took a month of her urging before I was actually able to sit at the piano, take a deep breath, and put my hands just anyplace on the keyboard. I had never done this before, during some 50 years of piano playing.
But I did it.
Playing any old notes at all, I played loud. I played soft.
And I liked it.
I played single notes, little melodies that were beautiful but that were never to be repeated. I used my other hand to play block chords wherever I wanted to on the keyboard. I crossed my left hand over my right and played. I crossed my right hand over my left and played.
I made ugly sounds. I made beautiful sounds. For about six months I sat at the piano several times a day and just amused myself. And the result was that one rigid layer simply shattered.
I still can't play "The Best Things in Life Are Free" without the music in front of me, but I no longer care. Whenever I want the feeling of flying or of surfing the waves, I simply let my hands do whatever they want to do on the keyboard. It may be ephemeral, but it sure is fun.
Copyright 2008 Ann Tudor
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