Her First Piano Recital

Have you ever noticed a thin felt lining above the keys of a piano? Along the edge where keys meet the lid? Upon research, you will find that the industrial function of that lining is to dampen the harsh knocking sound when a key lifts. This lining is classically red, but if lucky, you may encounter a few emeralds and blues. 

Now imagine: a girl, age seven and three-quarters, skin and hair of day and night - almost like an intentional addition to the piano’s chiaroscuro. She is sitting primly on the piano stool (adjusted for her...lack of height). She dons a ridiculously ruffly white dress, which, upon serious contemplation, she decides makes her look like an over-frosted cupcake. The sleeves are itchy, but she suppresses the urge to scratch, trying to be as immobile as the mammoth instrument before her. Her brows are woven and lips are pursed. Because sheet music is strictly forbidden during recitals, one might assume her expression is from acute focus in recalling her music. But then, one would be mistaken. She is, in fact, studying the lining of the piano. Something that continues to be a source of her fascination, almost ten years in the future. Its function was unbeknownst to her then; thus, she was left to her musings: perhaps it’s for decoration? A dash of vibrancy across the otherwise mono-chrome keys? Perhaps...

Her thoughts cease as a single command is directed her way: “Begin!”

After the time accounted for a single intake of breath and a sincere attempt at forgetting about the itchy sleeves, she begins to move. She is like a wind-up musical box that’s received a few hearty turns. Her hands know where to go. Her fingers are like the disciplined soldiers during Chinese military parades at Tiananmen Square; like herself even, half a decade later, as a junior military cadet performing drills in the vicious August sun. Every subtle move is calculated (by someone else, then taught and ingrained into her), but every note she plays registers in her own ears as perfunctory.

And so the piece goes. It’s Bach’s Minuet in G Major - the customary “first performed piece” for young prodigious pianists, emphasis on the “young.” Seven and three-quarters was really pushing it. If she’d like to win the favor of her instructor, the girl must play as she is told. She must not bounce up and down while playing staccato; she must not do anything that might make her stumble. The piece is about two minutes in length - straightforward. It does not feel like eternity... but it definitely feels longer than the time she is supposed to brush her teeth. The girl decides that from now on, she will not trust in the security of time.

When reaching a “problem area” of hers in the piece, the first time the signature motif transforms into something entirely new, the girl can almost visualize the angry pencil marks her instructor left on her sheet music. She can definitely recall the throbbing pain of her palms from the lashes of Mrs. Huang’s despicable white plastic pointer stick. Remember herself staring down at the lining above the keys and blinking back tears. The girl decides not to sue the woman for corporal punishment, only because she remains the girl’s only supply of Taiwanese pineapple snack cakes.

Back to the scene of the recital, our girl manages to dodge every possible misstep by a hair. Saying a quick silent prayer, the girl’s hands lock into position for the final chord. She presses down the right keys and relief washes over her. She scoots back the piano bench, lifts herself up to standing, smooths out her dress and walks to center stage. The few rows of parents are clapping and smiling, and the girl tries to mirror their expression. She curtsies for the audience the way she’s been practicing in front of the armoire mirror in her parents’ bedroom. Her ankle wobbles, but all is still well. 

Scuttling off of the stage, the girl rejoins her mother in the audience to watch the rest of the performances. She receives a small congratulatory squeeze of the hand, and this makes her  really smile. The performances are scheduled in order of skill and difficulty of the piece being played. As each young pianist steps up to the stage, the girl sees the future of her pianist career flash before her eyes. A dainty girl in a blouse and a plaid skirt plays a sonatina; another slightly older boy plays a Chopin’s ballade. Both make zero mistakes. 

It goes on for a while like this: running smoothly, perfectly. If the girl were in the position to look, she would see that her instructor’s perpetually furrowed brow is relaxed, and it makes her look young and beautiful.

To close the recital, a pair of older twins - sixth graders, and transfer students from another

state - take the stage. 

The first plays a bold rendition of the devious “Pink Panther Theme,” wowing the crowd with the strength in his notes and overall prowess. When the second boy sits down, all eyes are on him, expecting the best. Our girl sits in anticipation and watches intently as his back contracts and relaxes, taking in a deep breath. In the front row, Mrs. Huang speaks into her microphone a final yet casual: “Begin.” And he does. And the girl listens.

The song he plays was unfamiliar to our girl at the time. But because we have the advantage of third-person omniscience, you should get to know that it was Antonín Dvořák’s “Humoresque No. 7”. The song is like sunlight filtering the otherwise windowless auditorium. It was like trotting through an apple orchard to the nearby woods, watching a stream hurry over burnished pebbles, then rinsing and sinking your teeth into your sweet stolen fruit. It presents feelings of joy and even nostalgia to the girl, who hasn’t even lived long enough to experience it first-hand.

And then, suddenly, the tone shifts. It hints at becoming more complex, but it is brief and immediately returns to the melody. Then, yet again, it evolves into another bridge. And the music is so forlorn and misty blue that the girl feels her heart sinking. 

The song closes with a final repetition of the initial refrain, although, it’s not so simple anymore. The once playful tinkling is layered beneath the sadness, only separated by the space of seconds. The melody is weathered. It feels frayed at the edges, like an old manuscript of a still-beautiful tale, and our girl is crying.

As people file out of the auditorium, our girl can’t help but overhear a conversation between this “Humoresque” boy and his mother. She is shaking her head, and his head hung low in shame. Apparently, he had misplayed one of his first ending chords. The notes were not “in unison” as they should have been, but slightly scattered. In addition to this, he had forgotten to play one repetition of the refrain, and decided it best to add it later on. His twin, the “Pink Panther” boy gazes at him sympathetically, looking as if he was about to speak up, just as his mother gives him a cold stare, as if to say “I haven’t even gotten to you yet.”

The boy had stumbled. But more than that, he had swayed to the music, both with his body and soul. The music went far beyond his fingertips, traveling to his arms and everywhere else. The music was surging through his veins, and each subtle movement wasn’t calculated, but yet it still meant something: a constituent of the stream of musical consciousness that they expelled throughout themselves and the room. As for the mistakes? She decided that they only added charm. 

As they leave the building, Mrs. Huang offers congratulations and pineapple snack cakes. However, the little rectangular pastries seem almost counterfeit in this light. For the first time, they are too dry, too crumbly, and tasted nothing like happiness...not in this new light.

Almost ten years later, the girl sits at her lap-top, fingers methodically tinkering away, trying her best to put these memories to words. The girl still visits Mrs. Huang with her mother from time-to-time, as a friend rather than a pupil. She’s heard that the stern instructor has eased up a bit on her students, and that she has gotten rid of her white pointer stick.

And the girl has changed as well. Instead of three hours a day, she practices whenever she likes. A couple of her new music books have colorful pictures on them. She knows how to play quite a few more songs on the piano than she did at seven and three-quarters, and “Humoresque” happens to be part of her repertoire. 

When she looks down at the keys of her new Yamaha piano, she remembers how much she used to hate the sight of them. How sometimes she felt disheartened to play a single note, for fear she would stumble, for fear she would get it wrong. She hated that there was right and wrong of music, that piano keys were black and white. But now, the girl is all grown up. She knows that her piano has a red felt lining, and she is allowed to determine for herself what she likes.

The girl grins as she sits down at the piano bench; she bounces when she plays staccato.