It's absolutely fascinating to teach a naturally musical child who bends over backwards to keep her music a secret: she doesn't remember vocabulary (chords, clefs, etc.); she rejects note reading--in short, she doesn't make it easy to deal with her.

Yet everything she touches she transforms: almost imperceptible nuances of timing; an unmistakable lilt.

It is an awesome responsibility.

What is it about playing tennis that makes it fun? Is it necessarily winning? If not, what else is there?

Connecting with the ball; delivering a beautiful serve; getting the ball to go exactly where you wanted it to go--I'm sure the list could go on.

It's not unlike playing the piano for pleasure. Having to win is like competing with other players in terms of numbers of notes, speed, perhaps repertoire. For non-competitive types there are other sources of satisfaction among which savoring dissonances ranks high on the list.

One of my adult students pointed out that dissonance has an entirely different impact in Bartok than in Mozart. Learning to savor this has brought both maturity and satisfaction to her playing.

The real beauty of schmush and smear is that you can't even pronounce it without clear articulation.

Yesterday afternoon saw the naming of a new aesthetic approach: schmush and smear. Take any Classical period work which relies for its wit on the clear articulation of rhythmic elements, play the piece like an interminable run-on sentence and--voila! schmush and smear.

Admittedly it takes time to put in an occasional comma or period. But what's the rush?

Perhaps the rush is the result of the boredom inherent in schmush and smear.

Thanks to the nine-year-old whose beaming smile at the contrast proved that there is something to it.

Soft and loud in music might be compared to transparent and opaque--I think of watercolor vs. oil paint. Mozart specified dynamics very clearly. It's not that a musical idea was to be played softly; it was soft. Soft was part of its essence.

The subject came up today in the Prelude to Schumann's Kleine Fuge in The Album for the Young. The sonorities seem to invite upbeat playing, yet the designation piano indicates that something more subtle is going on. The forte coming later is not prepared by a crescendo, as one might expect, but by a diminuendo! Lots to think about.

Addressing a young musician who was at a loss to feel confident in his playing, I assured him that it was OK: It had taken me at least 30 years after finishing formal training to have the slightest idea of what I was doing at the piano.

Autonomy is a pretty basic element of character and goes hand in hand with self-confidence. Questions: Is it possible to build the two into music training? Once they have been trained out of a person is it possible to get them back?

Do you agree with me that these are good questions -- even important?

This post deserves a title comparable to "Trout Fishing in America." That title, belonging to one of my favorite books, by Richard Brautigam, is already taken, alas, but the scope of what I am thinking about matches it.

The subject is the connection between discipline and going fishing. I just heard a concert by a pipa player, classically trained in China, severely dressed in black head to toe, playing trios together with a Seattle-born bassist and a terrific guitarist, both in sport shirts and soft shoes. Quite a contrast in sight and in style, but an interesting meeting of minds via sensitive listening. The concert followed a chat on the inevitable dilemma awaiting an American adolescent raised in a super-strict musical discipline.

Judging from my own experience I would put money on the notion - in fact, I have staked my livelihood on it - that one's standards for oneself are and have to be the highest standards that exist. Sometimes super-strict discipline imposed from the outside actually undermines the individual's respect for her own standards, ultimately undermining self-esteem.