Glad I Didn't Pick Viola

I had a most productive violin lesson yesterday. My teacher said that my playing is showing marked improvement.

"You used to sound like this" she said, playing a tortured, under pitch passage which caused her cat and two attack dogs to run for cover. "But now your playing has a much more pleasant and open sound."

Then she asked me to play the last variation of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" on page 26 of my Level One Suzuki Violin book. And as I began my tentative performance with hands shaking and lips pursed in profound concentration, she picked up her violin and began to accompany me with a harmony line.

It caught me totally off guard, but was positively thrilling. I felt like an actual musician, playing an unassuming little duet as though it were the most natural thing in the world, when in fact my heart was in my throat and my knees were seconds away from buckling beneath me. It was the first time since I started studying violin that I felt a sense of accomplishment and got a taste for what it must be like to make real music. Which is enough to keep me going for at least a few more months.

I think my teacher is starting to warm up to me because towards the end of the lesson, she took me in her confidence by sharing a couple of viola jokes (apparently, viola players are the butt of violinist humor). And I laughed heartily, even though I did not understand the punchline. Because I will do anything for the honor of being included, if only by polite gesture, in the Cult of Violin.

The viola jokes are pretty bad. Here are some I found on this website:

How do you keep your violin from getting stolen?

Put it in a viola case.

What's the difference between a viola and a coffin?

The coffin has the dead person on the inside.

What's the difference between a viola and an onion?

No one cries when you cut up a viola.

How can you tell when a violist is playing out of tune?

The bow is moving.

What's the definition of "perfect pitch?"

Throwing a viola into a dumpster without hitting the rim.

(Ba-dum-bum-thonk.)

Fridays with Lorrie

In my violin teacher's living room this morning, I was fumbling through a rhythm exercise I had executed perfectly just hours before in the the privacy of my own home.

"I just want you to know" I said, "That I sound so much better when I'm practicing by myself and doing it ass backwards. But then I come over here and by the time you've corrected my hand position and bow hold and reminded me to relax my neck, everything just goes to pot!" I said. By way of a joke.

My teacher considered this, but did not let it roll. "I will always be correcting you," she said. "That is my job. You can't come in here, no matter how hard you've been practicing, and expect to play perfectly. It's not like one day you'll show up and I'll say, 'That's it! You're done! On to the symphony with you! There is always room for improvement, and I would be doing you a disservice if I didn't point that out."

I was dying to interject that No! that's not it at all! I just wanted to tell you that I only suck when I'm with you! (Even though in my heart of hearts, you know I'm always sort of hoping that one day she'll say, "You know . . . you have REAL TALENT.")

But she continued: "Being so hard on yourself is no way to live. When you expect perfection of yourself, it spills over into your relationships with others. You expect them to be perfect, too. And no one wants that."

She had imparted this wisdom with no hint of malice or judgment, but still my jaw dropped to the floor. Was my violin teacher lecturing me about personal relationships? The last time anyone besides my mother had offered up unsolicited advice was in 1997, when my friend V counseled me to quit the job I hated or stop bitching about it, already.

And then my teacher brought up my old nemesis, the adorable eight-year-old violin student.

"I think I've mentioned him to you before" she said. "He can barely get through one measure without me adjusting something, but do you know what he does? He just laughs, shrugs, gives me the cutest little impish look, and keeps on going! He is totally unfazed! And SO JOYFUL! I wish we could all be more like him!" she said, sunbeams shooting out of her ears and reflecting off her dangly silver zen earrings.

And I was like, "Is he also writing you a weekly check for $25 directly out of his allowance?" but I kept that thought to myself. Because what she said had really struck a chord with me. Especially that little part about perfectionists demanding that others be perfect, too.

I thought about my kids. And my husband. And everyone else who had let me down at any point in my life for coming up short in the Department of Excellence and Precision.

Had she been at our breakfast table today when I was yelling at J-Dog and V-meister for smearing Nutella all over their white school shirts first thing in the morning? Was she a fly on the wall when I was having an aneurysm because of the way the P-Dawg loaded the dishwasher? Was she there when I fired that one tech writer who did sloppy work? Or when I told my study abroad housemate in France that no one could understand him because his accent was so bad?

My violin teacher has seen right through me, and I think she's on to something. While I have to say that being neurotic has served me well in life in many ways, I don't know that I would want to live with me, or have me for a mother.

So. I went in for a violin lesson today, but left with a sparkly nugget of zen wisdom.

And I think I'll keep it.

Gold Star

The violin lessons are going much better. I'm still just working on rhythm exercises and improving my bowing technique, but progress has definitely been made. Today my teacher said something along the lines of, "That was actually not too bad," but stopped short of giving me a sticker. And I know she has them.

It gives me immense pleasure to know that I am a full page ahead of a third grader who started around the same time as me in the Suzuki Level One violin book. The two of us are now in fierce competition, although he doesn't know I exist.

I can feel OK about my progress as long as I'm one step ahead of the eight-year-old, but the problem is that he gets away with a lot more than me by virtue of being cute and little. My teacher is always telling stories about the endearing mistakes little Peter Protégé is making, but something tells me that she isn't regaling her other students with tales of "the soccer mom who always forgets her checkbook."

It kind of sucks being the eager non-traditional student, like the middle aged lady in your college French class who always sat up front and asked tedious questions in her bad accent. You know, the one who was always forming a study group and wondering aloud if there was a homework assignment just as the bell rang and everyone else was hightailing it out of there?

That's me as a violin student: I am nothing if not earnest. I pore over YouTube clips of violin masters, practice diligently, work ahead in my book, ask a million questions, and marvel aloud at the awesome beauty of a single perfect note.

I would have hated myself as a twenty-year-old.

Itzhak Perlman I Am Not

Total disaster of a violin lesson this morning, readers.

I must have made hella impression on my teacher last time, because today she forgot I was coming over.

And she only realized I was there for my bi-monthly lesson when she practically backed into my car on her way out the driveway. I could tell she was a little irked to find me standing on her stoop with my pencil bun hairdo and violin case in hand, but what could I do? We had a covenant.

She was like, "Well, we might as well do this thing since you're here now. Come on in." And I was like, "That's good, because I wasn't planning on leaving. (Telepathically.)

So then I followed her in the house, where the attack dogs were barking hysterically in a cage not two feet from the music room and began setting up my violin paraphernalia and whatnot. I guess it goes without saying that this time, we skipped the yoga stretches.

I had just finished painstakingly positioning my violin under my chin when she said,

"Is that how you've been holding it all week?"

And thus began a half hour humblepalooza during which I learned that every single frickity-frackin' thing I'd been practicing since my last lesson, I had been practicing ass backwards. And my teacher-who-had-someplace-else-to be was clearly getting irritated with me and my prehensile bow grip and form.

The really sad part is that I had been trying very hard, even going so far as to study Utube clips for hours (OK, minutes) on end to make sure I was on track. And I was getting kind of cocky, too, feeling like if the C1eve1and Orchestra ever needed someone in a pinch to play a single note for them, I could totally do it.

I'm not discouraged yet, readers, but the thing that's got me worried about my next lesson is the fact that I'm still not sure I understand exactly what it is that I'm supposed to do, or what I was doing wrong (besides holding my violin like a rocket launcher).

And, of course, the dogs.

Fiddling Around

So far, the best part about taking violin lessons is waltzing around town carrying a violin case and looking vaguely musical. The actual "learning how to play" bit is proving to be quite a challenge.

Did I listen when the first potential teacher I called, chuckling slightly under her breath, suggested I try cello or piano instead? Was I paying attention when she confided that playing violin is actually hard physical work? That proper form must be mastered before any real music making can begin? Did I pay heed when she explained that the hands of children who start playing at a very young age actually grow differently to accommodate the various string positions? That few adults have the time and stamina to take on the commitment that is violin?

I did not. I arched my brow and did the Z-snap. "Bring it, sistah!"

And that's how I ended up on a tree-lined street with ivy clad Tudor style houses last Friday, knocking on her door for my first ever lesson, a flimsy invisible fence separating me from the two pissed off attack dogs who were obviously trained to scare the crap out of housewives turned wanna be violinists.

The first thing I learned is that the violin is a high maintenance kind of gal - there' s a lot of rosin polishing, string tightening, and chin rest adjusting before one can even begin to think about making music. And when your instrument is finally ready (*snort*), it's time to get in play position.

But don't think you can hold the bow any which way and drag it across the stings willy-nilly, readers. The violin is a demanding luv-ah, and there's a special place in hell for players who don't practice good bow hold. Of course, once your gnarled thirty-six year old digits are finally in position, you must go directly to the nearest fire station to make sure you've installed yourself correctly. Then and only then can you begin to play. One note - the "A."

But you mustn't flap your arms all over tarnation like some kind of freak show carnival fiddler. Instead, move your forearm back and forth, as though opening a door - your elbow should remain almost stationery. There! Just like that. Now make sure the horsehair hits the string at an angle, like so, otherwise it sounds like you're skinning a cat. Pretty f*cking hard, eh? Try to do all this with a "light touch," even though you're concentrating so hard that your knuckles are turning bone white and it's everything you can do to hold in that fart. Now you're ready to play.

Despite not being especially supportive of my non-traditional student status, I think my teacher is pretty cool. She drinks tea, has a dry sense of humor and a little zen rock garden in her music room. She also makes you do yoga stretches before each lesson, which seems to run counter to the attack dogs, but who am I to question the mysterious violin subculture?

My only assignment for the next week is to practice holding the bow and striking the "A" string using proper form. If I get really good at playing the "A," I'm allowed to try another note, but I must not go nuts with it. My lesson was only a few days ago, and already I'm having trouble re-enacting the bow hold and arm movements my teacher showed me. Despite watching countless instructional clips on Utube and poring over the diagrams in my Level One Suzuki book, I feel like I'm just now getting acquainted with my opposable thumb.

Readers, it looks as though I've met my match. She's fifteen inches tall and weighs about a pound.