Winging it

Presenter on Radio 4 said how he looked at Melvyn Bragg, say, or Stephen Fry, and they seemed effortless; and he always felt he was “winging it”. So this programme is about “winging it”, how he wants to be in control but is not, never is quite sure what he is doing, works at the pitch of his ability wondering when he will be “found out”. Many people feel like that, perhaps even Melvyn Bragg!

I hated him. I did not want to listen. I want to be in control too, which I have achieved, in a sense, in my living room, and I so envy him, an entertainer on the radio, doing that shtick. I would go back to ithe programme, not as a challenge, to correct my error, but to reassure myself. It is alright, really. (Most of) my fears are phantoms. The actual threats, I might not fear or perceive at all.

The phantoms are great in my mind, terrifying, making me cry-
I epilated this morning, and thought of the psychiatrist: “How did you feel when you started to grow body hair?”
I felt relieved: I might appear normal-

Sense and effort may work on the piano. I have not played it this year, and found that I had to play the C major scale hands separately to get the fingering right. But I saw the film Byzantium on the telly- the protagonists two ethical female vampires hunted through a seaside town- and the younger plays the Adagio from Beethoven’s sonata op.2 no.3, which fits the film perfectly. It is a bit twisted, and the harmony ramps up the emotional tension while the slow, measured regular demisemiquavers refuse to release it. I had never played it. I thought it a Bach prelude at first, perhaps “smeared when wet”, and when the credits rolled I got it out. I am in love with it. It is so beautiful.

Anyway. There is only one right note, and it must be hit squarely. You play a single bar over and over again, hands separately then together, and when you string the bars together if you hit a wrong note you go back over that bar and get it right. You practise, I read, until you cannot hit a wrong note. Then, you can play the piece, speak feeling with and through it. That fits the pedantic testing of each foothold before placing weight on it.

So much has gone wrong! Blithe trust in the ability of the air to support my wings when it has not-

Cezanne, rocks

Resistance

Why don’t I meditate? That moment in the evening when I repetitively check blog statistics and facebook rather than kneeling. I know if I stop it, and kneel, I will sleep far better, and carry on scrolling-

I have been kneeling in my ritual space, on and off, for years, but rarely regularly. Whatever it is- opening my chakras, counting breaths, reciting my affirmation- it is all good, and I know that. Why don’t I do it?

Because kneeling, I touch reality. Humankind cannot bear very much reality. I leave the facebook fug, where something pleases or irritates me but not much, not affecting me, and face my feelings about my own life and day. Real feelings frighten me.

And those real feelings work for my good. However difficult.

It may be beneficial to turn to meditation earlier, when I have the mental strength to overcome my initial resistance, or turn my attention to the blessing as well as the work of it.

—————-

Why do I not practise the piano?

On Saturday, I went through the music on H’s piano, and played those pieces I knew- not well, because I have not played them for ages, but sort-of. Possibly, it is because it is a real piano rather than a digital one: my digital piano has weighted keys, authentic sound, three pedals, but has a dinky little loudspeaker rather than a huge iron frame which vibrates in sympathy when I cough at a certain pitch, or to which I vibrate in sympathy as I play. That Romance sans Paroles by Fauré: I will always remember picking through it, before I learned it, and how the chord progression at the end moved me to tears. I was so far from tears and my femininity then, in my teens.

The wrong notes creep in, and they irk me. It is too much work to maintain a piece playably. I do not want to just bash through it. Yet on someone else’s piano, I bash away, affecting not to care.

—————-

My friend visited, and told a story, a memory of which he is proud and happy, which he had told me twice before. I told him I had heard it, and he just stopped. It took telling him I had heard it to realise that I should not have. The feeling it evokes in him is delightful to him. I can allow that feeling and enjoy sharing it.

Margaret Macdonald, Queen of Clubs

The idea of a piano

Boldini, Mary DonovanIn my teens, I found my voice pitched in a particular way could elicit vibration in sympathy from the strings of my piano. This completely delighted me, no matter how often I did it. The object was more than an object. It had a personality, and I had a relationship with it. I would wrestle with it. Because the syncopation was so alien to the ways my hands had gone together before, I spent a week on the first four bars of the Maple Leaf Rag, but learned Joplin more quickly afterwards. Then I learned the Pathétique  sonata, and thundered away, and though the tremolo often made my left wrist ache I kept it up until the muscles developed. I have played it to Mark Owen on his piano, and (yes I know a name-dropping story is less good if you have to explain who the person is) he is a member of Take That.

The end of the recapitulation is a moment of sublime darkness and catharsis.

My love of this is one of my greatest gifts from my father. As a toddler I listened to Jon Pertwee singing My Grandfather”s Clock and there was an old lady who swallowed a fly, and to the Emperor Concerto. I drove my mother mad with Couperin harpsichord music. I have just been listening to Beethoven’s piano concerto no. 4 in G major, and it has such full-hearted joy. I wept with it.

Ilya Repin, S.I. MenterPlaying became too much like hard work. Errors creep in, and I was disheartened from slowing down and picking a bar apart, when I had done so, so many times before. Now, it seems harder to learn a piece than in my teens. I have tried with a few, and given up.

This is such a wonderful, exalting experience. Why do I do it so little? I lose concentration and start ruminating, or I get upset, or I get a little bored, or there is a wonderful moment when the music speaks directly to me. Sometimes I follow the drama of it. There are familiar moments where I am with it completely. My sulking gets in the way. Perhaps it might motivate me out of my sulk.

Now, I shall listen to not Mahler or Shostakovich, but the Pastoral symphony. Self-improvement is all very well.

Happiness

Idina WallaceThe Etude, opus 10 no. 3, made me sob wildly, prompting the woman on my left, though I did not know her, to put a consoling arm around my shoulder. It strives upwards, to a tonic chord topped with the third, then the striving recedes likes waves just as emotion does, ti, so, and then mi an octave lower. Possibly that MI, rather than doh or so, adds vulnerability.

We had not expected this, but it was ten years since the Foundling Hospital, just south of St Pancras station, became a museum and they celebrated with a brass band and chamber music, and they have regular concerts. Sometimes I resent the power of music to manipulate me like this, but had it not, it would have no interest either. James Brawn played a muscular programme including the Prokofiev toccata op.11, deafening at times.

I can play the Rachmaninov prelude Opus 3 no. 2, and have performed it: a woman told me that the Bells of Moscow motif Fa, Mi, LA made her think “Let, Me, Out!” but graciously she found my performance unobjectionable. Unfortunately, it takes me an hour or two, perhaps spread over a week, to bring up the mid section to speed, and if I just play it errors creep in: I find the effort to keep it performable disheartening, and give up. So I have hardly played my own piano this year, but fiddled about on H’s landlord’s, and the St Pancras piano. Something about loving to perform, perhaps, and needing an audience.

The sustain pedal of the piano at H’s was not working, and I got permission to take the front off and fiddle with it. There is a horizontal lever going from the pedal to the side of the piano, and the upright which should transfer its force to the mechanism had come away. I balanced the upright on the lever, and it worked for a time, but fell off; so I opened the piano again, and stuck the upright to the lever with masking tape. As I did this, I felt pure happiness.

I sat in the living room as H got ready. I noticed wrinkles in the rug, and twists in an elastic band round a box. That elastic band had just been put on any old how, rather than perpendicular to the edges and flat against the box. I picked up the box and straightened the elastic band, then smoothed the wrinkles in the rug. I felt pleasure again, along with irritation and embarrassment that I should want to do these things. What if anyone should find me out? Not “doing good“, exactly, but making the world more as I want it.

At the bus stop there was a woman with her arm round the shoulders of a man- it would normally be the other way round, and I felt irritation, envy, perhaps yearning.

St Pancras 14 6 14

Waltz

File:Repin Portrait of Mrs Beatrice Levi.jpgI have not learned a new piece for years, but this Chopin waltz in A minor seems manageable. Perhaps I will play it for you, if I get it to a sufficient standard. It helps that it is so familiar: I have heard it many times, and its beauty echoes in my mind. Yet when I start to play it, hands separately, then hands together very slowly, I see what Chopin is doing, and individual chord progressions delight me. Then it is almost too much to play it at speed: there is too much going on, too much beauty.

In Meeting, I considered the fragility and strength, and beauty, of three daffodils. I have time, again, to see all the detail, which in days will be brown and cast onto a compost heap, and if it were not cut would do its task of fertilising and being fertilised, then change to something else. Parts of the waltz run in my mind.

I have the piano, Kate gets similar complete absorption in sewing, she says. Though that is not what I said: I said appreciation of beauty, not absorption, though I can get absorbed. And I could say, she gets the same appreciation of beauty, or sense of achievement, as probably she does, though she did not say it. Sue took her jacket off before meeting for worship, as she is intensely self-conscious of the noise and disturbance of it if she takes it off in meeting. But we can tolerate that much File:Andreyeva by Repin.jpgdisturbance, and if we cannot- I hear it and get irritated and am no longer as gathered as I ought to be, then I wasn’t doing it right to start with.

I would like the calm, contemplative, loving state, but I consider Fred Phelps, say: yes, intellectually I can accept that anger at him is not the right response, that it simply perpetuates the anger and hatred he channelled so publicly. Yet instead I feel relief at his death, and horror that there are more homophobes where he came from. Thinking of him makes me feel tired.

I did not quote all of Psalm 139. Here is the end of it:

O that you would kill the wicked, O God,
    and that the bloodthirsty would depart from me—
 those who speak of you maliciously,
    and lift themselves up against you for evil!
 Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord?
    And do I not loathe those who rise up against you?
 I hate them with perfect hatred;
    I count them my enemies.
 Search me, O God, and know my heart;
    test me and know my thoughts.
 See if there is any wicked way in me,
    and lead me in the way everlasting.

I hate them with perfect hatred. As I understand it, that is not what I am supposed to do. But perhaps I am supposed to do what I will do, and all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing is well.

Cliché

George OrwellIt is the cliché that most makes me grind my teeth. Seventy years after George Orwell attempted to eradicate cheap litotes with the sentence “a not unsmall dog chased a not unfrightened rabbit across a not ungreen field”, “It is…. that” makes me fall to my knees, sobbing Oh God!! NOOOO! WHY!!!!

From Prospect magazine: “It is Joanna Scanlan, as Catherine Dickens, who almost wordlessly conveys the true cruelties of Love”. “It is…who” adds nothing here. I first noticed it in my own writing. It is a way of providing emphasis to the subject of the sentence by making it the object of the verb to be. The trouble is that (pause- no, I have narrowly avoided it) this is a cheap way of emphasising, requiring no thought or creativity, and so it becomes addictive then omnipresent.

Just like Orwell’s cheap litotes. St Paul was a citizen of “no mean city”- the greatest in the World at the time- which carries a hint of menace, something to savour when you work it out. “Not un-” can be stuck in before any adjective.

File:Tolstoy, from Gallica.jpgI have hated the word “almost” since an adjudicator called my teenage performance of the Chopin C minor prelude “almost breathtaking”, offering me praise then snatching it away from under my nose. Either it is breathtaking or it is not. Prospect narrowly avoids that: one can indeed be almost wordless.

Listening in my mind to the rhythms of my sentences, I think of where to put the full stop, and where I can carry on the melody with a colon: for a colon inflects up, and a full stop irrevocably down. Too many colons: eg, here, ruin the effect. Psalms say the same thing twice, separated in English by a colon: saying it the second time, as lawyers often do, gets the idea over to more limited minds. One author I used to like made sentences longer than a page by making lists of clauses separated by semicolons. One Michael Moorcock novel had only one-clause sentences. They illustrated the closed-mindedness of the first-person narrator. It is tedious after a time.

“It is that,” agrees the Yorkshireman.

What clichés in writing set your teeth on edge?

Looking for an illustration- should I really use Orwell?- I started reading Clive James. He writes, Any successful style is a spell whose first victim is the wizard. Perhaps writers are better with our infelicities jerking you out of your mindless absorbing, so that readers question rather than idolise. But I could hardly wish that for myself.

Ludovico Einaudi

Here is my first Youtube video.

The z2H challenge is do something new. Mmm. I could do a video, but what of? Unless I pay for the video upgrade, I can only have a video here if I post it on youtube. A video here, I could just say hello, this is me and this is my voice, but not on Youtube, where I have no presence. I have nothing at the moment that I want to tell you about face to face, as it were. Piano it is, then.

This is with my own equipment, a DMC-TZ25 camera. If I started doing it seriously, I would consider getting a microphone, as the fidelity could be better. Windows Moviemaker should be able to shoot a film, but I can’t see how, and don’t have the button this otherwise helpful page indicates. There are downloads available, I might try them.

I am the performer here: it was important to have my head in the frame, though at its edge, and to wear a dress rather than jeans.

Performing I have nerves. I can usually play Giorni Dispari reasonably accurately, but make mistakes and perhaps rush a little for the video. I ended up with two almost-OK takes, plus aborted ones where I completely lost my way, or used the phone’s memory having lost my connector (actually I only thought I had) or realised half-way through that in thinking about other things, I had forgotten to put my hair on. I am unashamed of my body and my trans status- and I don’t want you seeing me wigless.

Oddly enough when I load to Youtube I can hear my videos, but not when playing them stored on my computer or on Dropbox.

What do you think? And, why would it take over two hours to upload a four minute video to Youtube?

Inspiration

lucie-leon-at-the-piano-1892 Berthe Morisot

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/73/Auguste_Renoir_-_Young_Girls_at_the_Piano_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg/363px-Auguste_Renoir_-_Young_Girls_at_the_Piano_-_Google_Art_Project.jpgI made a child cry. I am not proud of this.

When I visited last Christmas, Alice, now 15, was playing the piano and about to take grade 3. Since then, she gave up. Possibly she started a wee bit old: by 15, I was playing pieces which interested me, and my obsessive nature kept me on scales and fiddling with a bar until I got it: I spent a week getting the first four bars of the Maple Leaf Rag, aged about 15.

Her sister Olivia, now 7, has started, and is playing tunes with both hands, but not both hands together. I thought the way to interact over the piano was to let her explore it, and ask me for any help she wanted. Her mother told her to play it: she has not been playing over Christmas.

I asked her if she enjoyed playing the piano. “Yes”, she lied. I am almost certain of that. She sounded completely insincere. It was the wrong question. Does she want to play the piano? If so, she might be willing to work at it.

Jacob Maris, girl at the pianoOf course I would like a child mad keen to play the piano, with a clear idea of how to improve at it, natural talent, and a desire to explore my expertise to help her on- but I want to inspire the child, get her interested, and give her some ideas to bring her on a bit.

She needs to count on the notes and count on the stave to work out the first note of a piece she has played before.  I had a trick for H, which was done with me: my parents hold out thumb and fingers horizontally as if on a stave, and indicate a position for the child to name the note. The point is that rather than spending half an hour on the piano, or even ten minutes, which can be tiring and boring, you can do this for half a minute and give the child praise.

When she looks at the score and sees that there is a B♭, next time she sees a B she still plays B♮. I can sympathise with this: it is the kind of mistake I can imagine myself making. And- playing B♮ she hears it is wrong, checks the score and gets it right. This gives me hope. I want to make it easier for her to correct her mistakes.

How I brought a tear to her eye: I explained that a minim, a quaver and a crotchet- the one with the hole, the one with the tail, and the one with neither- last different times, and when she played the piece again with each note the same length, the third time I ejaculated “No!” I suppose I was pushing her to learn something when she found the rest of it difficult enough.

Unfortunately, that evening, they were still tired after their hogmanay party, and I could not enthuse her family to play that game with their hands.

In the pub

Josse-Lieferinxe-Abraham-and-the-Three-Angels Early at St Pancras, I play the piano. A woman asks what I am playing, and asks to record me on her phone.

I am here for Claire’s drama workshop “Mega-me”- be all you can be. Writing, now, on the train home on Monday morning I am happy, singing “Slow down, you’re going too fast” walking along the platform- I am my father and my father is me, he lives on in me. Earlier today, Jack asked how the funeral would be and I said we would be conventional and correct with each other- then, it is an interaction, a meeting, there is always hope. I saw a friend who told me she was going to a funeral, and I said I had a funeral this week.

-Whose funeral?
My mother’s.

I wondered whether to say it, but- “We both thought we could trump the other, didn’t we?”

Walking to the workshop in the sunshine on Remembrance Sunday, I passed some Army cadets on a street corner, with two adults.

He: Then we do a Hałt.
She: We all stop, yeah?
I would not have thought that jargon, myself.

Pietro Perugino angelLast night in the pub after the workshop, I met J and Arianna. She is a lawyer, qualified in Greece and now seeking qualification in London. She is angry about the government in Greece, forcing Austerity on the people- judges were told, “Tomorrow your wages will be halved”. There is no democracy, Papandreou was a fool, the Germans tell them what to do. She hates her country’s weakness.

-Tell me about Golden Dawn.
She does not understand, until I say we translate the party name into English. Fascists, she spits. I am perturbed that they should be shot. Later, she plays the guitar beautifully: she would like to be a musician. Law is a career for her. Everyone just does it for the money.

We did improvisation games with Dick, the same ones. In the group, we speak as moved, to count to 20: if two people speak at once, go back to one. Three line scenes: step into the middle, and speak. Don’t think of what you will say beforehand. Whatever we say in the moment is alright. One wants to say something clever and amusing, of course, and also I want to get beyond editing and censoring what I say. The thought comes, then the calculation: can I say that, could I say it better- and the moment is gone.

Once, in a three line scene- one speaks, the other responds, the first wraps it up- I spoke as the moment inspired. Allowing the other to speak, and responding, is more difficult. A question takes the energy out of the interaction, adding nothing, as bad as a denial or refusal. Can we accept what happens, and give back?

In a circle, we “pass energy” to each other. First we go round the circle: one gurns and gestures at the next, who copies the movement and expression and noise, then turns to the next to make a different movement to be copied in turn. I find myself mirroring the gestures each person makes: perhaps there is a shared emotion of the whole room in that moment.

Hope

https://i2.wp.com/upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/dc/Femme_cueillant_des_Fleurs_by_Pierre-Auguste_Renoir%2C_c1874%2C_oil_on_canvas.jpgI rushed for the train, ignoring the man playing  jazz at the St Pancras piano, but seeing it was late went to hear him. He was listening to a young woman singing her own song. She harmonised very simply- an octave in the bass, a triad in the treble, not even using inversions, and only chords I, IV and V- once, a VI. When he looked at me I wondered if he wanted me to go.

She left for her train, and he sat down to hit blue notes in a way those of us who do not, envy. “Do you play?”
-a little.
-Would you like to?

I sat down to play Giorni Dispari, a not terribly difficult piece, not terribly well- though with feeling.

“Oh, more than a little,” he expostulated, warmly, and I bathed in that warmth. I am thinking of it now. I went for my train.

What is that “A little”- mock-modesty, perhaps, to elicit praise; or my best estimate of my talents; or not properly valuing my gifts? It is the kind of thing I hear from others: it might be for varying causes, to hide ability in order to get one over on someone, or even because it is the done thing or the fashion.

I procrastinate, and retreat, because I have little hope, or valuing of my gifts, or belief in what I might achieve. It seems that seeking to evaluate my achievements and abilities might help me: discounting them does me no good. My feeling of never being good enough- if that were true, I would not be here.

He who fears he shall suffer already suffers what he fears.
-Michel de Montaigne