Creativity can be a good thing. For example, it can bring you happiness, change the way you think, make things wonderful all around you. And that's why I tried it: the creative thing. But those weren't the results I got.
One day while teaching I felt that monster of boredom attempt to swallow up me and my student. She and her three siblings were in "a rut", having played the same stuff for days now. It was time to be creative.
Little five year old Mollie perked up when I made my announcement. "Let's play a game called Test the Teacher."
"What do you mean, test the teacher?"
"You write down ten words, any words you want, and I have to come up with a sound on the piano to go with each word. Then you get to score me on every word."
"Cool!" she said, leaping off the bench and practically shoving me off my teacher chair. I gave her a piece of paper and a pen, and the journey began.
At first, the game was simple, no challenge to the tested teacher at all. Leila had to play something pretty. Leila had to play something loud. Leila had to play something fun. This was a cinch.
But then it came time to teach her nine year old sister, and her ten year old brother, and Leila started getting tougher stuff, like: "Fat", "Wind", "Rain", "Slapped", and--get this--"Disrespected". How is one to compete with children so brilliant?
The worst moment came when Ben climbed into the teacher chair. Little seven year old Ben. Now, one can't treat Ben like other children, you must understand, because he informed me a few weeks ago that he is a king, and he even has a crown to prove it. So I have to be very humble in his presence. Meanwhile, he has taken to commanding me.
"Play something from Broadway!" he began, then listened a moment, and scribbled down a score. The test continued. "Play something boring! Play something mad! Play something old!" The words were simple enough, and I thought at first that I had this one in the bag. But then the test ended, and King Ben thrust his assessment in my face.
Very unusual scoring. He gave me six A+'s . . . and the rest were F+. "What!" I shrieked, and he fell over, laughing. "Was I that bad?"
He shook his head disappointedly. "It wasn't good. It just wasn't good. Sorry," he said, sitting back and crossing his arms. (Now my question is, what's the use of the + when you get an F, anyway?) You know royalty is always well educated . . . my scoresheet came with a personal drawing of an ugly person crying and saying, "You got them roing!"
The only thing that spared me from a head-chopping was bowing before his highness in extreme humiliation. Down on the floor. This is not where any experienced pianist belongs.
Just hand me the employment section of Newsday.
One day while teaching I felt that monster of boredom attempt to swallow up me and my student. She and her three siblings were in "a rut", having played the same stuff for days now. It was time to be creative.
Little five year old Mollie perked up when I made my announcement. "Let's play a game called Test the Teacher."
"What do you mean, test the teacher?"
"You write down ten words, any words you want, and I have to come up with a sound on the piano to go with each word. Then you get to score me on every word."
"Cool!" she said, leaping off the bench and practically shoving me off my teacher chair. I gave her a piece of paper and a pen, and the journey began.
At first, the game was simple, no challenge to the tested teacher at all. Leila had to play something pretty. Leila had to play something loud. Leila had to play something fun. This was a cinch.
But then it came time to teach her nine year old sister, and her ten year old brother, and Leila started getting tougher stuff, like: "Fat", "Wind", "Rain", "Slapped", and--get this--"Disrespected". How is one to compete with children so brilliant?
The worst moment came when Ben climbed into the teacher chair. Little seven year old Ben. Now, one can't treat Ben like other children, you must understand, because he informed me a few weeks ago that he is a king, and he even has a crown to prove it. So I have to be very humble in his presence. Meanwhile, he has taken to commanding me.
"Play something from Broadway!" he began, then listened a moment, and scribbled down a score. The test continued. "Play something boring! Play something mad! Play something old!" The words were simple enough, and I thought at first that I had this one in the bag. But then the test ended, and King Ben thrust his assessment in my face.
Very unusual scoring. He gave me six A+'s . . . and the rest were F+. "What!" I shrieked, and he fell over, laughing. "Was I that bad?"
He shook his head disappointedly. "It wasn't good. It just wasn't good. Sorry," he said, sitting back and crossing his arms. (Now my question is, what's the use of the + when you get an F, anyway?) You know royalty is always well educated . . . my scoresheet came with a personal drawing of an ugly person crying and saying, "You got them roing!"
The only thing that spared me from a head-chopping was bowing before his highness in extreme humiliation. Down on the floor. This is not where any experienced pianist belongs.
Just hand me the employment section of Newsday.
