Kitchen Counter Études

A not-so-thrilling tale of a goal foregone.

It was a year ago that, with very little forethought and based on nothing more than a whim, I took up the piano. I announced this to Gyan and the dog and promptly took the TTC over to Long and McQuade’s to poke around their rental section. The salesperson asked me if I was looking to rent a 61-key or 88-key piano. I told her that, quite frankly, I had no idea what the difference was, but that it sounded like I might be missing out with the former, so I opted for the latter. She showed me a few options to try, and I did my best impression of someone who is pondering with any semblance of understanding, though I felt more like a dog being asked to choose bathroom tile. After a few minutes of studious deliberation, I pointed to the keyboard on the right, handed over my credit card information, and hopped on the subway home, trying to keep the instrument from harming fellow passengers. If hoisting a rather weighty piano on the subway despite owning a car does not speak to my lack of planning, surely the fact that I had to place it on the kitchen counter for the first three months of study does. The hanging end of the island was the only place in the already brimming 450 square foot apartment, and so Gyan and I took to chopping vegetables and serving dinner in a corner of the counter so I could spend thirty-minute intervals learning the basics of music reading and scales.

From the Toronto Public Library, I checked out a book for beginners comprising short pieces that required only one stave, with only a handful of notes. I stood at the kitchen counter, triangulating the note on the score to a helpful diagram of a piano and then back to the keyboard. The self-imposed pedagogy turned out to be a bit of a bust, so I turned to YouTube instead, hoping someone might teach me a way to achieve a note that did not require a three-step program.

YouTube uncovered an overwhelming amount of information, promising all sorts of fantastic things. I was Pinocchio in the Land of Lost Boys, as I watched an animated talking head promise proficiency in two weeks, another bypassing sight reading and ushering me straight towards pressing the indicated keys, making complex songs possible if I was willing to follow along with moving bars on a screen. A part of me was enchanted by the idea of being able to oh, say, play along with Yann Tiersen’s Amelie soundtrack in a matter of months, but a quieter part of me wondered what the rush was. What was I gunning towards? A piano recital, live from my kitchen counter, with an audience huddling on the minuscule, cold balcony like smokers in February?

I eventually stumbled upon the channel of a very kind-sounding British man, Bill, and his series of videos for absolute beginners. In videos of increasing difficulty, he explained the keyboard, then notes, then introduced the left hand and the scale of C major. Each new competency took hours of repetition, sometimes frustrating, sometimes meditative. Like writing, piano has no ceiling. Once a skill is learned, it can be polished, improved, added upon. I learned my first scales, C major and F major. I then had to work on playing them with two hands, again to play them over two octaves, some more to get them closer to even, and more still to not lose my patience on the days when the right notes escaped me.

After a few months of working through these videos, a pang of guilt over my free education started to pull at me, so I signed up for Bill’s Patreon in January of 2025. The membership included, among other perks, a couple of virtual lessons with him. Too intimidated to do much about it, I continued to learn and play on my own, with only my partner and dog as witnesses to my efforts.

A few weeks back, I realized my membership was coming up on renewal, and I had to use my class credits. A bit of back and forth later, Bill logged on to the camera. After a year of playing and replaying his videos at various speeds, I was a little starstruck. I told him as much, and he laughed, telling me he was once recognized at a train station because of his voice. He asked me what my goal was when it came to piano and I shook my head slowly.

A brief aside: I’ve always had goals, a North Star to strive towards. As a child I loved reading and writing so, naturally, I got a doctorate degree in literature. At some point in my early twenties, I took up running and found myself hobbling through a marathon that same year. Rumor had it that Borges learned Italian by reading La Divina Commedia so I studied Italian to also read Dante in the original (this last one I haven’t achieved: I can only get through an annotated edition of the book with the help of a dictionary). Goals are useful, they’ve served me well. They have also, however, functioned as blinders, insulating me from anything that might not feed towards it, dissipating when the achievement has passed, leaving behind a hollow sting. Goals can sometimes be so enticing, that I forget to question whether it’s my goal at all, climbing several rungs towards it before looking down and realizing I don’t like the view after all.

So, what was my goal with piano? I hadn’t thought about it, I didn’t really have one beyond practicing a few times a week. I stuttered out as much, afraid that my lack of forethought and lackluster answer would label me unserious, uncommitted. “That’s perfect,” said Bill, “really great, a commitment to practice and nothing else.” I blinked a few times and smiled to disguise my incredulity. Bill was as warm and encouraging live as he was in videos, which was a relief, as I’d been dreading playing in front of him since I’d set the lesson date. He gave me pointers on my scales, my sightreading, my articulation. He confirmed I had not, as I’d feared, been learning the instrument all wrong. We waved goodbye, and I’m looking forward to our next lesson.

The keyboard is on a stand in the den now, and I am starting to browse models for purchase. There is still no long-term goal in mind, no recital to cap off a year’s study, no sparkly piece to achieve before I turn thirty-five. I guess I took up piano for all the usual reasons: the timelessness of the skill, the way it fills nooks of time otherwise neglected, the progressive challenge, the hope of flowing melodies effortlessly pouring out one day. If I really press, maybe it’s to etch into my body that daily practice and personal enjoyment are their own excuse for being.

Prone to Hyperbole by Ailén Cruz