etudes
in which Abby ushers several piano recitals/is a pisces
I imagine they are terrified. We are at the local university’s performance stage–not even that, the music department’s stage. They approach the lobby in carefully curated yet clumsy formal attire, their families either dragging them through the door or apparently nowhere to be seen. I had expected students roughly my age, or doctoral students one performance away from leaving School. In reality, they are kids. Check in on the left, I say. At the sight of them, their youth, their nerves, my stomach begins to sink. I have literally no stake in this–I am a mercenary protector of the performance, paid $12.41 an hour regardless of how it goes. Still, I hope they do well.
I overhear the other usher asking one of the performers if she is nervous. She looks to be in middle school, taller than expected with a matching headband that makes her look years younger. I feel a sympathy pang–the mortification of being so nervous you look like you are. “Yeah,” she says with a quick release of breath, and I physically absorb her nerves.
“Oh, you’re going to do great,” the other usher says, with a much more complete understanding of the day’s stakes.
The lights dim, and there’s an introduction. This is a recital for an association of private teachers, their students split into three concerts. I’m sitting in the back in a burgundy, polyester polo shirt, a shade I’ve theorized is meant to blend us into the seats. I am trying to be normal about the show I’m going to watch, but even so, I think no one wants to perform enthusiasm, even for strangers.
The first kid looks to be about eight, but a tiny eight-year-old. He approaches the piano, then bows towards the audience to scattered applause. My stomach tenses. He’s small, with wiry glasses perched upon the edge of his nose. He needs to scooch the bench forward, and the small screeches of the legs against the floor echo throughout the theater.
He places his hands on the keys, and I immediately understand my anxiety is misplaced. The piece is swirling, the tempo rapidly increasing. I am witnessing the skill of a person who has mastered their craft over the course of years. I once heard a conductor telling a horn player: you need to sound like you’ve been playing that for 50 years. This kid sounds about 37. When I had entered this room, I had been too aware of the six hours ahead of me. I am now entranced.
He finishes the piece with a magnificent, thunderous chord, then quickly bows, as though trying to leave the stage as fast as humanly possible. The effect is instant: he is very much a child.
They continue on, one after another. I almost wish I didn’t have to watch their entrances, they all look so aware of the attention upon them. But then they play and what they create fills the room, and I no longer feel nervous or guilty to be an unfamiliar witness to the moment. It ends, and they quickly bow to get off the stage.
The performance I remember the clearest was in the middle. Her dress was a pale yellow with a ribbon tied around her waist. She places her hands on the keys and the piece is immediately different from what we had heard. It sounds maybe age-appropriate. The tune goes: one-and TWO, three-and FOUR. It is a utilitarian piece, meant for counting or chord building. It is not beautiful. The first instinct is to wince at the juvenile pace, the obvious counting. The second is to wonder what exactly she had done to be put in between Liszt and Beethoven.
But I watched her face, tense with concentration and something I began to recognize as deep feeling. She was placing something in between the notes, something implied at the one-and TWO, three-and FOUR, a story like the ones Liszt and Beethoven told. She was giving us a gift in the etude, and maybe it was something I couldn’t make out at first. She stretched the tempo, letting the chords linger in the air, and then released the tension just in time. She closed her eyes as she listened, and in a moment, I could cry.
I wonder if each of them knew what they were creating, the effect it has on me. I wonder how you can go through the days missing these opportunities. Sometimes I don’t realize how starved for beauty I can be. It sneaks up on me. But then the moment arrives, and I realize I have to accept it.
The experience cycles three times. At the end everyone has to stand on the stage and receive a certificate and ribbon. I see the twitchy ones, the ones whose fingers miraculously found each note. I see the quiet ones, who are shifting from one foot to another, who are urged to move closer together for the photo. There are wide, careless grins and reserved closed-mouth smiles. They are stuck in this moment as their parents and teachers swarm. I feel a small admiration for these kids, even as I tell them to not jump off of the stage.
I’m realizing this can be something to live for. Moments spent being an observer, but intensely feeling your own participation. A kiss pressed against a cheek. Watching a robin peck through the grass. Seeing a slow grin develop on a two-year-old’s face, excited to see you, specifically. Taking in each unexpected feeling, without distraction. I am so easily distracted, and yet I am so easily brought back. I am ready for the realization to come, again and again
