Imagine it’s three p.m. on a Tuesday and you’re hanging out in the practice room hallway. Your best friend is in a practice room working on their junior recital repertoire. They’re playing the Beethoven sonata that they’re particularly worried about.
After a few seconds of listening, you open the practice room door. “There you go again!” you comment loudly, startling your friend. “Starting too fast just like Dr. K said at yesterday’s lesson!”
Your friend stops, embarrassed, and begins again more slowly. “But come on, slower doesn’t mean dragging,” you say. “Keep the energy up. It needs to move forward.” Your friend awkwardly accelerates and misses a few notes. You raise your eyebrows but don’t say anything.
After a moment your friend calms down a little, relaxes, and the music unfolds more naturally. “Great job!” you comment, loud enough to be heard clearly over the music. “That was really good phrasing.” Your friend looks over their shoulder to say thank you and loses their place in the music.
“You have never had a memory slip there before. What is wrong with you?” you demand. “Play it correctly five times before you keep going!” It takes eight attempts to product five correct repetitions, and your frustration shows.
“Fine. Good enough, but you’ll probably forget it at the recital now. Whatever, just keep going.”
Your friend is getting into the development of the Beethoven. “Don’t forget, the part where your left hand always rushes is coming up,” you say. As the passage approaches, your friend tenses and their shoulders and elbows pinch nervously inward. “Don’t screw up! Steady left hand! Get it right!” The passage is a train wreck, just like the last time you heard it.
I can’t imagine talking to a friend like this, can you?
Let’s stop talking to ourselves like we’re worthless.
Three ideas for how to talk to yourself in the practice room:
Don’t interrupt the music to talk; just listen sometimes.
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