If you’re not Beethoven, don’t bother

by Anna Smart

I remember suddenly wincing when a close friend remarked, “You know you’re never going to be the best pianist, right?” A painfully perceptive statement. I had been discussing with her how frustrated I felt by a visceral sense of competition I experienced in relation to other pianists, and how much my own skills and finesse (or, lack thereof) felt like an utter failure in comparison. What seems like a blindingly obvious truth slapped me in the face: I had never stopped to confront the reality that I will never be the best. Why did that sting so much?

Mastery is good. Mastery of an instrument brings deep satisfaction, a sense of accomplishment, and even delight at the best of times. It allows us to enter into a composition without thinking too hard about where our fingers go or what comes next. Mastery is good. But somewhere along the way, for me at least, and maybe for you, it got corrupted by the notion that if I wasn’t striving to be the best, I wasn’t doing enough.

There are ways of ordering our Western culturally dominated society that strive for productivity, quality, and efficiency at all costs. I could name some of these structures and ideologies, but that’s not the point. Productivity, quality, and efficiency can all be fantastic things, valid to strive for even, but becoming the driving forces behind music-making? I think that’s misplaced, and I think it stifles freedom in creativity.

I have been relating to and learning music all my life, and it is very much part of who I am. I think at the core of things I play and listen to music because it speaks to wordless parts of me, and can speak to wordless depths of others, too. I play because I thoroughly enjoy creating music, learning the patterns, rhythms, and melodies, delving into the stories and worlds others have designed. This took me to Te Kōkī, the New Zealand School of Music, where I studied music theory and history for a year. I met some of the most wonderful people there, and on the whole, loved it. But what I realised towards the end of that year was that my passion for music was being swallowed up by the pressure to know the most about music, to be making impeccable music, and to excel in every area. My friends who have gained degrees in performance music at Te Kōkī could speak to this pressure much more, I am certain.

I found myself at the recitals of my friends, assignment hand-in’s, and any opportunity to perform, feeling paralysed by an acute awareness of what I lacked. I even coined the term “PCD”, that is “Post Concert Depression”, after leaving performances feeling truly useless in comparison (or worse, like a fraud). The end of the year came, and I was presented with a choice: take a leap of faith into a gap year at the risk of re-evaluating university, or slog on through the rest of my conjoint music and psychology degree? I’ll never regret choosing the former.

What followed was a healthy stepping back from playing music (though it felt excruciating at the time, and I obsessively worried about my “backsliding” in ability due to being away from my piano – not the most portable instrument). This was a difficult time, because my sense of identity was – and still is, to some extent – wrapped up in what I could accomplish with my instrument. I’d like to say that I’m slowly coming out the other side of this process, with a much healthier approach to music.

Music is to be enjoyed. Mastery of it is optional, and in my opinion, music is to be mastered for the purpose of enjoyment, creativity, fun, and community. Our love of music should drive us, rather than being driven by expectations of others, or internalised arbitrary standards of productivity and excellence. Being a musician is both an exploration of new worlds of sound, and the sinking into the comfort of familiar vignettes. It’s an exercise in patience and humility, as we almost never get it quite right the first time, the second, or even the third. Music teaches us to stop and to listen, there’s so much to be discovered, if we pay attention. And music is to be shared.

Experiencing and participating in making good music should be accessible to anyone, free from fear, or judgement, regardless of where each of us are at on the journey of mastery. My experience of music making throughout my life thus far has had threads of fear, and judgement woven through it. I remember once being told that I would not be allowed to play a famous Beethoven piece in the annual concert because I “wouldn’t do justice to Beethoven”. Perhaps that was true (likely), but that attitude towards performance has sown seeds of fear and self-doubt, and has made performing and sharing music with others really difficult for me. I don’t think this attitude helps us make good music. It fosters competition and comparison, rather than creativity, or curiosity.

I’d really like to see these artificial walls crumble, so that everyone who wants to, can give [insert composer here] a crack, and learn from the way they interacted with music, rather than shouldering the unreasonable burden of emulation. I know I’m never going to be the best pianist, and neither will you, because ultimately that stuff is subjective. But that’s not the point, and it should never get in the way of us making, enjoying, and sharing music. Music is for us, let’s shake off the great weight of expectations and simply enjoy being taught by it.

(photo and article by Anna Smart)