Essentially, a good teacher creates a successful student. This teacher doesn’t have to be a formal instructor of the subject, and could be a youtube video, a song, whatever. As long as something is making sure you understand and are prepared for any upcoming tests of knowledge.
My piano teacher was strange. She was a tall, rounded woman, who never smiled. If I had to describe her in physical adjectives, I would say she looks like Randall from Monsters Inc. She would saunter in, ready to make me feel awful about my overall musical ability, and leave. Now I know that I can’t blame her for being critical, but she wasn’t just critical. She was critical with no advice no how to improve my current ability. “Your left hand is playing too loud,” she’d say. And upon being asked how I could improve that, she would reply with a curt “practice more”. I’d practice every single day, shaking by the end of it, knowing that no matter what I did, she’d still let me know that I was not going to pass my exam. Anyway, with this buildup preparing me for the worst exam of my life, I woke up bright and early, and headed to the exam venue. Before I even walked into the room, I knew. I could tell from the beginning of the day, and I could tell from the beginning of the month. I was not going to pass this exam. I clearly remember the examiner smiling as I walked in, with her aged eyes crinkling upwards. I still wish I had some reason to hate that old lady. A sly comment, a rude gesture, anything that could make me blame her for my mistakes. But she had no cruel intentions. She just really wanted me to do well. And I know that my private instructor did as well. Her execution of these intentions might not always have been perfect, but she was only trying to make me better. With these thoughts running through my mind, I attempted to disguise my jitteriness as bubbly excitement. I sat down and took a deep breath. “When you’re ready, play D Minor both hands for me.” The room was silent as I took a deep breath, all except for the ticking clock. I steadied my hands. Tick. I attempted to find an octave low enough to start on. Tick. I tried to recall the sharps and flats in this scale. Tick. Nothing. I just start playing. Tick. and then I …show more content…
The lady instructed me to start my first piece when I was ready. The room goes silent again, with my thoughts ricocheting around the sound proofed room. By this point I was so in my own head that I didn’t even care about making sure I did what my teacher had told me to remember to do. I started to play, but my fingers went faster than my eyes. I tripped. Instead of recovering, I sat there frozen. After what felt like an hour of silence, I attempt to pick up where I left off. Wrong. I try again. Wrong. “How about you start again? But remember, if you mess up this time you have to keep playing and won’t get a restart.” With that in my mind, I started again. And i just played. I played too fast, then too slow. I messed up the dynamics. I played with my left hand so loudly that the melody my right hand was playing was barely
My piano teacher was strange. She was a tall, rounded woman, who never smiled. If I had to describe her in physical adjectives, I would say she looks like Randall from Monsters Inc. She would saunter in, ready to make me feel awful about my overall musical ability, and leave. Now I know that I can’t blame her for being critical, but she wasn’t just critical. She was critical with no advice no how to improve my current ability. “Your left hand is playing too loud,” she’d say. And upon being asked how I could improve that, she would reply with a curt “practice more”. I’d practice every single day, shaking by the end of it, knowing that no matter what I did, she’d still let me know that I was not going to pass my exam. Anyway, with this buildup preparing me for the worst exam of my life, I woke up bright and early, and headed to the exam venue. Before I even walked into the room, I knew. I could tell from the beginning of the day, and I could tell from the beginning of the month. I was not going to pass this exam. I clearly remember the examiner smiling as I walked in, with her aged eyes crinkling upwards. I still wish I had some reason to hate that old lady. A sly comment, a rude gesture, anything that could make me blame her for my mistakes. But she had no cruel intentions. She just really wanted me to do well. And I know that my private instructor did as well. Her execution of these intentions might not always have been perfect, but she was only trying to make me better. With these thoughts running through my mind, I attempted to disguise my jitteriness as bubbly excitement. I sat down and took a deep breath. “When you’re ready, play D Minor both hands for me.” The room was silent as I took a deep breath, all except for the ticking clock. I steadied my hands. Tick. I attempted to find an octave low enough to start on. Tick. I tried to recall the sharps and flats in this scale. Tick. Nothing. I just start playing. Tick. and then I …show more content…
The lady instructed me to start my first piece when I was ready. The room goes silent again, with my thoughts ricocheting around the sound proofed room. By this point I was so in my own head that I didn’t even care about making sure I did what my teacher had told me to remember to do. I started to play, but my fingers went faster than my eyes. I tripped. Instead of recovering, I sat there frozen. After what felt like an hour of silence, I attempt to pick up where I left off. Wrong. I try again. Wrong. “How about you start again? But remember, if you mess up this time you have to keep playing and won’t get a restart.” With that in my mind, I started again. And i just played. I played too fast, then too slow. I messed up the dynamics. I played with my left hand so loudly that the melody my right hand was playing was barely