I remember my first piano recital. I was either 5 or 6, and had been studying for most of the school year. My piano teacher lived down the street, and taught out of her basement. I played If I Could Talk to the Animals which had been in "Dr. Dolittle" at the end of the year recital. It was actually rather advanced for a child that young, and I remember lots of tears mixed into the rehearsal process. To make it worse, it had to be memorized! I was terrified that I would forget something. The recital, in May at the end of the school year, was in her church's fellowship hall. I remember my mother making cupcakes for the reception afterward, so I guess it was a kind of pot-luck affair. There were no lessons after that until the next fall, by which time, we'd moved.
In the new town, I studied with the wife of a professor at the college where Dad taught. She taught out of her living room, on a wonderful grand piano. She had a huge braided rug in the room, (I'd never seen one before!) and a huge Persian cat who liked to sleep on the rug. I loved her and her cat. I remember playing at her recital, but I don't remember where it was or what I played, except that I played a solo and a duet with another student. That was out of a book that I still have and was called Hot Potato. (I still think it's fun.)
Then the crazy pianist came to town, and convinced all the other teachers to retire. Her end-of-year recitals were a big deal. They were held in the main hall of Halliehurst Hall on the college campus.
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| Halliehurst Hall, Davis & Elkins College |
You were given your recital piece just before Christmas. Months were spent on that song. First you had to learn all the notes, and the dynamics that were on the music. (Dynamics tell you how loudly or softly to play sections, where to speed up, where to slow down. That type of thing.) Once you got that down, then she would tell you what your interpretation was supposed to be.
Now, by the time I was 12, I had 7 years of piano under my belt. And while I knew that there were years of lessons to come, I had worked my way up to being the 3rd from the last to perform at the recital the year before. (There was a strict heirarchy - you played in the order of your ability, so if you were the last one, you were the best.) So, when she started to tell me what my interpretation was going to be, I balked. If it was MY interpretation, shouldn't I have some say in the matter? The answer to that was NO. So, I played it her way in her living room. At home, I had to practice even more to work on my way of doing the song, along with hers. I played it the way she'd insisted at the rehearsal, but; and I'm still a little surprised at my own bravery, but when my turn came at the performance, I played Capricietto the way I wanted to. Turns out that was my last recital with her.
We came to a parting of the ways the following year when she found out that piano was my second instrument, after voice. And she'd wanted me to practice for 6 hours every single day. And I had her for glee club every school day, plus an afternoon for my piano lesson. And I'd finally had enough of her brand of crazy.
Even though I've studied piano almost continually since then, that was my last piano recital. Or at least the last one that I played in. Because the recital saga continued with the next generation. Years later, my children took piano for a while.
Of theirs, the recital that was the most memorable was also the worst: 4 1/2 hours of kids and a few adults playing bad to mediocre piano solos. Yes, 4 1/2 hours! Besides my daughter, who was, of course, brilliant and had her song flawlessly memorized, I only remember one other performer. Poor thing, she was a beginning adult student. She walked up to the piano and began her song. You could see her hands shaking from the 3rd row. She played a few measures, and stopped. Blushing horribly, she started over, got to the same place, and stopped. She tried a third time, and then burst into tears and fled. Most of that could have been solved if she'd only been allowed to have the music with her.
Anyway, I thought it was rude to stay for your child and then leave, so I insisted that we stay til the end. I had no idea it would be THAT long. But, we toughed it out. After all, I kept telling the kids, there's sure to be food afterward, you don't want to miss that. Food? One veggie tray that the teacher had picked up at the grocery. I would happily have brought something if I'd known. I think that she only had that, because she didn't expect anyone to stay though til the end.
So, when the time came to think about how I wanted to run recitals, I had a fair bit of experience in the field. (Yes, I know I'm primarily a voice teacher, but a recital is a recital, regardless of the instrument.) When compared to the usual round, I have made quite a few changes. I don't do the one big recital at the end of the year. I do one roughly every quarter. I want my students to have as much performance experience as I can give them. We talk a lot about how to perform, how to present yourself. And they perform for each other even more often than the recitals, with Master Class.
I don't insist on memorization. There are places where it is essential, and I will happily help prepare for that, but the recitals are not it. I can't afford to cater the reception, and I want more than a single veggie tray, so I ask people to bring munchies. My living room can't hold everyone, so I turn the recital into an open house, with people coming and going. Rather than have programs, I look around, see who is there, and call someone up to perform. We keep it relaxed, and have a fun party. So far, people seem to like it. Does this solve all the problems inherent in the recital process? Nope. But, it's the best I can think of at the moment.
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