There I was, in front of a matte black grand piano, palms sweating, eyes darting sheepishly about the mass of spectators. From the crowd, my father gave me a look of encouragement, and, in a fleeting boost of confidence, I began to play.
Frédéric Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major, Opus 9, Number 2, a nigh-omnipresent piece nearly two centuries old, for some reason gave me particular trouble. What others had done effortlessly gave me major difficulty: the burgeoning ornamentation, the graceful rhythmic changes, the decorative trills. A work so intrinsically associated with piano, and yet, despite my half-decade of experience, just refused to give, to become second nature the way other pieces would. With discipline, I repeated my regimen time and again until I could run the piece through as smoothly as possible, slowly growing accustomed to the idiosyncrasies of Chopin’s compositions.
Now, sitting at the largest piano I had ever laid eyes upon, I placed my shaky hands onto the cool, delicate keys. I set off to communicate Chopin’s age-old musical message, a task I had been rehearsing for months. The quiet melodic line resonated from the piano’s sensitive hammers, as I visibly fought to keep the tempo in lockstep, the pedaling leveled, and the dynamics under control. Before I realized it, I had flipped the page, then again, then a third time. Although my performance was far from innovatory, I was elated to show off, practically floating above my seat in a spur of emotions. I reveled in the simple satisfaction of playing atop a stage, in front of a crowd of onlookers, feeling the adrenaline coursing through my body. My delight quickly became a liability: I waited a few seconds before turning the last page in my bout of inattention. My eyes wandered from the sheet to my hands as I played the last triumphant swell. It’s all smooth sailing from here, I thought to myself smugly. My posture relaxed as my right hand faintly began the closing lines.
The first major error: instead of playing the ornamental flutter, my hands haphazardly garbled out a discordant quaver of a measure, instantly changing the mood. Like a bird shot out of air, the descent was sudden and heavy-handed, starkly dissimilar to the gracefulness with which I had practiced only a few hours earlier. The electricity evaporated fully, replaced by crippling anxiety. As I continued to the last line, I realized that my hands had never stopped sweating, that I had been depressing the pedal too sharply, and that the left hand—which is supposed to carry the harmony—had overpowered the right.
It’s okay, I reminded myself. A strong conclusion can more than make up for this. The ending is fairly easy, after all. The ending cadence tied up an otherwise muddled last stretch, and the last two chords, despite being overly loud, were a proper send-off. Instead of fading out the pedal as directed, I abruptly stood up, turned, and bowed. The audience gave their routine, even-handed applause as I speed walked off stage and sat myself next to my dad.
At first glance, the story doesn’t seem like such a big deal. Almost all musicians have botched a performance before, and most don’t go writing essays about it. However, I did glean a great deal from my failure, and not just about my piano regimen. That night, I spent hours deliberating what exactly led to my tripping up, drawing blank after blank. Now, I realize the error was simple: my mindset. Overconfidence and the lack of a focused, targeted approach were the catalysts for my lacking performance. Having practiced so much, I felt as if I had already crushed the performance before laying my fingers on the keys. Despite being wrought with stage fright, I somehow simultaneously believed that nothing could possibly go wrong.
The experience I gained continues to influence me today. On test days, I’ve learned to keep my headspace balanced, always coming in prepared and confident, but never arrogantly so. Sometimes, it can be a struggle to keep both restless anxiety and overbearing hubris at bay; despite ostensibly being opposites, I often find myself defaulting to one or the other. In discussions with peers, I remain myself open to the ideas of others while still maintaining my own convictions, remembering that I still have room to grow. Just like in Chopin’s timeless Nocturne, presence of mind and modulation of mood are paramount to success, and, although there is still much to practice, I am more than up for the challenge now.
Dario Arash Bencardino is a senior at Harriton High School.
