My mother being a piano teacher and my sister an accomplished pianist, I grew up to the sound of classical piano music. However, my own attempts to master the instrument were not successful, despite strenuous efforts on the part of my mother to teach me.

From the age of seven I was drilled in a regime of practice involving five-finger exercises, scales, arpeggios and other keyboard acrobatics. But I fell short of perfect pitch and I had neither the diligence nor the digital dexterity to become another Rubenstein.

This did not stop me from fantasizing, Walter Mitty-like, that it was me performing whenever I heard a recording of one of the great masters. Unfortunately, fantasy often stumbles over reality, just as I stumbled over the minuets, gavottes, sonatinas and other charming pieces by Mozart, Handel and Beethoven fed to me by my mother.

My progress towards virtuosity was both helped and hindered by my mother’s insistence on a daily practice regime. It was a case of an irresistible force meeting an immovable object. She underestimated my rebelliousness and resentment at having to sacrifice an hour of outdoor play every day in the interests of pianistic perfection. In other respects she indulged me, but when it came to practicing the piano she stood her ground, imagining, I suspect, that there was a future for me on the concert platform.

After some resistance on my part and much perseverance on hers, we were both eventually rewarded by a small success. I became ‘note perfect’ in a short piece by Walter Carroll titled ‘Spray Mist’, which resulted in me, at the age of eight, mounting the stage to perform at the Johannesburg Eisteddfod, from which I proudly came away bearing a certificate with the legend that I had won first prize.

However, the transient joy of this accolade was offset by the stage fright which the experience sealed into me. Fear of playing a wrong note or forgetting how to continue the piece in midstream extended into the area of public speaking. I worried about ‘drying up’ and being met with the sympathetic looks of the audience, or worse still, their awkward gaze-avoidance.

It took me decades of assiduous therapeutic work to overcome this, including immersion in various groups and self-imposed exposure to audiences of all sizes and shapes. The behaviorists call this ‘flooding’, and in my case it worked.

My anxiety at having to play the piano was matched by my ambivalence towards the instrument itself. This was an upright model manufactured by Carl Otto, a renowned make, given to my mother by her father and it followed her around from one abode to the next in South Africa like a faithful dog, later traveling with the family to Israel and thence to Australia with my niece, where it finally found a permanent home.

Once, when I was about four years old, I clambered onto the piano stool and lifted up the lid of the piano to investigate its innards, forgetting that on the far end of the lid stood a precious bust of Wagner wearing his trademark beret, another gift from my zeide. The result of my investigation was a compound fracture of Wagner’s skull. Naturally, I blamed Wagner for the accident, and felt vindicated when, years later, I learnt of his fervently antisemitic views.

It is easy to forget that ambivalence has two sides to it, namely dislike and fondness. Having long since given up any hope of performing in public, I have nevertheless retained a passion for classical piano music and these days I often listen, entranced, to recordings by keyboard wizards past and present.

It would be remiss of me not to admit that I owe my love of piano music largely to my mother. Not only did she furnish me with a basic understanding of the art of piano playing but she also encouraged me to attend concerts and recitals where I could listen to performances by the pianistic luminaries who visited South Africa. After a while, my love of the music eclipsed my resentment and I am grateful to my mother for this legacy.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)