"I just wanted the chance to try. She gave it to me, and then she took it back. ‘Good news’, she called it."
I cried and cried and cried this afternoon when I left my music lesson. I learned Mrs Slawomirski judged me to be too incompetant a pianist to learn "Jupiter", by Holst. It would have been a duet with a Year 12 student, Perry Joyce, performed on two pianos because of the vastly complex texture and syncopation. Despite her better instincts, she let me attempt the piece. I was grateful beyond measure. I had a week to practice, practice I did. Every day of that week. In my next piano lesson, she was frustrated with my ineptitude but kept mercifully silent. I practiced even harder the following week, and today was my day to show her how much I had improved. She greeted me at the start of the lesson and told me I wouldn’t have to do it. I think she said she had found a replacement for me, but her words had lost meaning to me and made no sense. She didn’t want me to play it??
"1 hour a day isn’t a problem. I just won’t use the computer until I’ve practiced. Perhaps if I play in the chapel, God will be witness to my progress."
I had practiced six hours, easy, in total. I had begun learning the first part of the 32 page song (though it’s not nearly as long as it sounds). And she pulled the plug on me, without even listening to me play it more than once. Cold, furious determination swept over me. I screamed in frustration, and Jesus looked down sadly at me from his Cross.
"I’ve never cried for music like this before. I’ve cried in stress, I’ve cried in grief, and even for beauty, but never like this. These are not tears of stress or sorrow. These are tears of determined, fermented, ardent passion. I will master this song, with or without her consent," I promised. "I will prove to the world that I am, in my heart, a pianist."
I left the chapel with my eyes sore, but dry, and with determination set firmly on my face.
"I just hope Perry can keep up with me."