My favorite composer is Chopin. My love for his music began when I was a four-year-old child in dance class, although I didn’t know it was Chopin at the time. All I knew was that the music I heard—performed on a tinkly old piano by my British dance teacher, who never looked at the instrument at all but watched us like a hawk as she played—was part of the reason I loved the lessons so much.
It never occurred to me at the time that the music had a composer; it just seemed to spring from the piano and my teacher’s hands, fully formed. But later on I’d hear a familiar piece on the radio or at a concert, and it was attributed to Chopin. Then I’d hear another, and think, “Oh, that’s Chopin too; what a coincidence!” That led to the slowly dawning realization that a great deal of that dance music I had loved was also Chopin.
By the time I came to purchase some of my very first records (I was in graduate school at the time, because until then I hadn’t had discretionary funds for such frivolities—how strange does that seem, in this day and age?), Chopin led the way. The waltzes were acquired first, followed in short order by his nocturnes. Then I got a boxed set of his entire oeuvre, and still have it somewhere, even though I no longer have a record player setup.
I had quit piano lessons around the age of nine, before I had mastered much of anything except the early John Thompson books. But in graduate school I lived in a house with four other women and an upright piano. In my spare time (mostly gained by procrastination on my work) I decided I would learn to play a piece by Chopin.
I bought the sheet music to his waltzes. And that’s when I learned that this was going to be a lot harder than I had thought. There were a great many notes there, and a great many sharps and flats, far beyond what John Thompson had prepared me for.
But I persevered. I taught myself one of Chopin’s waltzes, measure by laborious measure, over about a year’s time (yes, I was/am a strange sort). I chose this particular one not only because I liked it, but because it was in the least complicated key (no sharps! no flats!) and had a deceptively simple beginning.
The piece was Opus 34-2, and I knew it cold after a year of that lengthy learning process. For about a decade afterward, I could have played it in my sleep—which didn’t make me Horowitz, although it made me a one-trick pony sensation at gatherings that included a piano:
Somewhere along the line I lost access to a piano, and my skills degenerated. But at my peak I had also mastered the fast part of this one (it begins at 00:56 and repeats later). I got pretty good at it; practice makes—better. But it sure didn’t make me Rubinstein:
Or Horowitz:
