If you haven't already, please read Myung's "Nice White Lady" post on his blog: www.myung.org.
“Helping others is a privilege that brings great pleasure.”
Inspired simultaneously and erratically by the blog thoughts of both Stanley Lee and Ned Rorem.
Sep 30, 2005
Sep 27, 2005
I was also just recently informed that Pamela Frank has read my blog - specifically, the chapter about piano technique. And she agreed with me 100%.
I caused a whole fury of fire with that post it seems, particularly amongst the religious poets for pianists out there. It just struck me again today in Piano Topics class. We took apart a piano, and one key has over 100 moving parts to it, every time you hit a note. When you hit a note, it triggers another piece of wood that triggers another piece of wood that lifts a damper, triggering another piece of wood that hits a piece of metal, unlocking another piece of wood, and finally, lifting a hammer that hits a string.
A friend commented to me (in response to this blog post) that what I was saying could not be possible - "just try" she said. "Try and hit your finger against a piece of wood in a harsh way, then try it agian in a fatter way. You'll hear a difference."
In response to her: Yes, you're right. But when you hit a piece of wood with your finger, you have direct contact with the instrument that is producing noise, much unlike a piano where you must go through 100 intermediary steps before the noise is even produced. Not only that, but once you hit the hammer, you have no control of it - whether you like it or not, that hammer goes back down immediately, no matter what touch you use.
I caused a whole fury of fire with that post it seems, particularly amongst the religious poets for pianists out there. It just struck me again today in Piano Topics class. We took apart a piano, and one key has over 100 moving parts to it, every time you hit a note. When you hit a note, it triggers another piece of wood that triggers another piece of wood that lifts a damper, triggering another piece of wood that hits a piece of metal, unlocking another piece of wood, and finally, lifting a hammer that hits a string.
A friend commented to me (in response to this blog post) that what I was saying could not be possible - "just try" she said. "Try and hit your finger against a piece of wood in a harsh way, then try it agian in a fatter way. You'll hear a difference."
In response to her: Yes, you're right. But when you hit a piece of wood with your finger, you have direct contact with the instrument that is producing noise, much unlike a piano where you must go through 100 intermediary steps before the noise is even produced. Not only that, but once you hit the hammer, you have no control of it - whether you like it or not, that hammer goes back down immediately, no matter what touch you use.
The first few weeks of New York City.
I know. I haven't updated in awhile. Sorry. So much to say, so little time - I'll go with preliminary observations on the life of a Juilliardite in New York City.
I guess it's safe to say that my transitionary phase to Juilliard has been relatively painless; socially and sufficiently initiated by an estrogen-saturated crew of ridiculously rowdy women - a handful of asian girls, a sarcastic/hilarious Venezuelan pessimist and her deep-south former-redneck counterpart. All in all, a wholesome crowd. Unlike my brutal cross-country chapter switch to Yale, Juilliard seems to fit; albeit I have yet to find neither close friends nor a clique of homeboys.
The school is still this enigmatic vortex of contradictory stereotypes bolstered by a slew of the formulaic brand of freaks, psychopaths, people who take themselves too seriously, anorexic dancers, loud actors, fobby-giggling asian girls, and the like. But this, of course, is nothing unexpected. The "jail-yard" name has never been so tangible; it's palpability engendering itself like a wet dream in the middle of an angry nightmare - "You're in New York City now," says my ear-training teacher, yet I never leave this gigantic concrete plaza, and when I do, it's straight through a surreal tunnel that leads me to an ulterior universe filled with domino-playing thugs and sweet-potato pie.
My classes, for those I haven't bitched to yet, is this retrograde reality in which I seem to be stuck. Now that I'm 23, I'm filled in classes with 17-year old little asian girls; the ones that are experiencing the joys (and puking pains) of alcohol for the first time. They even giggle in unison it seems. But further than that, my classes are generally hell purely because there are 9 of them. Yes. 9 of them.
On a good day, I am sure I can survive. Sometimes it seems ok to be at school from 8am to Midnight. As with any new festival or school, I'm spending lots of time alone, which is good and different for me. A good majority of the day I spend smoking by myself, eating by myself, practicing in solitary confinement, and generally thinking, breathing, and living music. And I guess, this is all worth it.
I know. I haven't updated in awhile. Sorry. So much to say, so little time - I'll go with preliminary observations on the life of a Juilliardite in New York City.
I guess it's safe to say that my transitionary phase to Juilliard has been relatively painless; socially and sufficiently initiated by an estrogen-saturated crew of ridiculously rowdy women - a handful of asian girls, a sarcastic/hilarious Venezuelan pessimist and her deep-south former-redneck counterpart. All in all, a wholesome crowd. Unlike my brutal cross-country chapter switch to Yale, Juilliard seems to fit; albeit I have yet to find neither close friends nor a clique of homeboys.
The school is still this enigmatic vortex of contradictory stereotypes bolstered by a slew of the formulaic brand of freaks, psychopaths, people who take themselves too seriously, anorexic dancers, loud actors, fobby-giggling asian girls, and the like. But this, of course, is nothing unexpected. The "jail-yard" name has never been so tangible; it's palpability engendering itself like a wet dream in the middle of an angry nightmare - "You're in New York City now," says my ear-training teacher, yet I never leave this gigantic concrete plaza, and when I do, it's straight through a surreal tunnel that leads me to an ulterior universe filled with domino-playing thugs and sweet-potato pie.
My classes, for those I haven't bitched to yet, is this retrograde reality in which I seem to be stuck. Now that I'm 23, I'm filled in classes with 17-year old little asian girls; the ones that are experiencing the joys (and puking pains) of alcohol for the first time. They even giggle in unison it seems. But further than that, my classes are generally hell purely because there are 9 of them. Yes. 9 of them.
On a good day, I am sure I can survive. Sometimes it seems ok to be at school from 8am to Midnight. As with any new festival or school, I'm spending lots of time alone, which is good and different for me. A good majority of the day I spend smoking by myself, eating by myself, practicing in solitary confinement, and generally thinking, breathing, and living music. And I guess, this is all worth it.
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