Spiraling Scaffolds for Interdependent Practice
Parent and Child hear a pianist inside the house as they exit the car parked under the shade of a eucalyptus tree in afternoon sun. The music is expressive, volcanic, conveying a sense of controlled chaos, a warmup before teaching.
This subdivision grew up across the way from a fairly new middle school, third in an upscale suburban district, near a small park. Children, unborn when the contractor sold the lots, now, with backpacks, walk its streets home, potential candidates for a University of California campus in a few short years.
Piano Teacher’s day is just beginning.
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With a gentle but firm hand Teacher runs a tight ship. Her students study with her for years, many begin with her in kindergarten and graduate from high school with her, some special few attending places like Julliard, never breaking from Teacher. She becomes a familiar figure within the families.
When Child began piano lessons just after her fifth birthday, Teacher tested her fitness and readiness. Not every student she taught stayed with her. Child appeared at her door by fate, and Teacher had a rare opening. Teacher tried her stamina at thirty minutes. Soon Child was taking standard forty-five minute lessons.
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Teacher first met with Child to assess Child’s readiness. Behavior wasn’t the concern. Child had been in a structured, well-managed commercial preschool since infancy. She knew a bench as a cultural and historical object, understood its proper function, and could attend to instruction; she was an expert in classroom etiquette.
But the hearing and the humming, the rhythm and the tempo, the memory for musical frequencies, these things can take time, they can take a lot of practice, Teacher said. Was she ready? Or did she need more time? I know you Parents are musical, and she has listened to a lot of music, and this is all very good. But what can she really do alone?
After twenty minutes with Child, Teacher called the Parents in. The Parents were nervous. Child was very interested in the piano, and Teacher had been strongly recommended.
“She has a very good ear for music. In fact, she may have perfect pitch someday. It may develop. Her memory is very good. She can sing back several notes in pitch and rhythm. She will need to work on tempo. Her fingers are short, but so are mine. Short fingers can be overcome.”
*
Teacher had a bag of trusted strategies she used to support Child’s mastery of the instrument. For a few years Teacher assigned graded exercises in graded books from a trusted publisher sold at a local music store. Teacher demanded that Child play these exercises mindfully, expressively, at a given tempo, in Teacher’s presence.
Teacher had many sharp pencils. Her pencil hovered above the music, a helicopter commanding joint attention, two sets of eyes, two sets of ears, meeting at the moving tip, merging sound, sight, fingers, keys, Teacher’s eyes observing activity in the keyboard area, softly swaying with the rhythms as Child’s small fingers brush the keys. Teacher hums ever so softly. Together they reach the end of a section.
“That was very nice, Child. Good job.” Teacher makes eye contact and smiles. “I can tell you practiced that. Did you practice that? Was it hard or easy?”
“Kind of hard,” Child says.
“Show me where.”
Child plays the section slowly. Teacher listens and watches the music and the fingers.
“You know, Child, right here I think you might try something different.”
“What do you mean?” Child asks.
“Show me how you are doing it.”
“Like this,” Child plays.
“Can you think of an easier way?”
“What do you mean?” Child asks.
“Sometimes the starting finger can be harder or easier. Find the easier one when you are in a situation like this. Try it with this, your thumb here. You remember this. Here, let me show you.”
The pencil is no longer a helicopter but a pencil. Use thumb, Teacher writes. An arrow points to the location.
“So what I would like you to do is work really hard next week on this part especially. Slow it down a little with the metronome—I know you don’t like the metronome but do it anyway—and think about playing it very smoothly like water. And remember this is an Eb. You will soon play it beautifully. Sound is everything, Child.”
*
Teacher used a staggered method much like Reading Recovery. Spiral may be the word today. New pieces appeared. Piano Teacher played them for Child, Child tried to play as Teacher watched and listened and fussed, and gradually the new became old. Some became recital pieces.
“You look really nice the way you dip your right shoulder at the beginning of the crescendo, Child. It is your way of expressing yourself. It’s really nice.”
Together when the time arrived they would select a piece for the recital. “I’ve been thinking you might play Chopin for the next recital,” Teacher would say. “You like that piece, and you play it beautifully.”
Child might agree or propose a different piece. For a few weeks it would receive polish and expressive touches. Child would practice it for dynamics, for tempo changes, for grace notes. Her body and its flow with the music was celebrated.
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Parents could not enforce a practice schedule at home. Even so, it soon became clear Child benefited from these lessons even if a week passed without practice. Teacher always knew the score and patiently reassigned songs and exercises. Child would go through spurts of intense practice. Parents would hear her at the piano at erratic times, playing challenging segments at lightning speed, her fingers racing across the keys.
Practice for Child was always available when she was home. It was never routine, regularized, counting repetitions, logging minutes. Sometimes it was just for fun, sometimes intensely goal-directed. Always, it was available. Recitals were held every three months with a regional yearly recital held at a piano store.
Child decided to try a second instrument in fifth grade, a baritone. Within three months she was playing it as if she had always played it.
“How did you learn this so quickly?” Parent asked one afternoon.
“Well, it only has 24 notes,” she said. “They’re written one at a time.”
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