My father's family is not a musical family.
My
father
's
family
is
not
a
musical
family
.
They are a family of words.
They
are
a
family
of
words
.
My brother has my father's dark hair, his love of a good argument.
My
brother
has
my
father
's
dark
hair
,
his
love
of
a
good
argument
.
I take after my mother.
I
take
after
my
mother
.
From her I inherited a curious nature, a sense of adventure, bright red hair.
From
her
I
inherited
a
curious
nature
,
a
sense
of
adventure
,
bright
red
hair
.
I did not, contrary to her hopes, inherit a talent for the piano.
I
did
not
,
contrary
to
her
hopes
,
inherit
a
talent
for
the
piano
.
That fact was established beyond doubt after unsuccessful attempts to draw music from me.
That
fact
was
established
beyond
doubt
after
unsuccessful
attempts
to
draw
music
from
me
.
The piano lessons began when I was four.
The
piano
lessons
began
when
I
was
four
.
My mother was convinced that I would be a child Mozart.
My
mother
was
convinced
that
I
would
be
a
child
Mozart
.
She found the ideal teacher-Madame Oblenka, a strict Russian woman, whose pursed lips were enough to frighten a wild horse into submission.
She
found
the
ideal
teacher-Madame
Oblenka
,
a
strict
Russian
woman
,
whose
pursed
lips
were
enough
to
frighten
a
wild
horse
into
submission
.
Madame Oblenka, who expected a little Mozart, was not very delighted to find a little girl banging her fists on the keys.
Madame
Oblenka
,
who
expected
a
little
Mozart
,
was
not
very
delighted
to
find
a
little
girl
banging
her
fists
on
the
keys
.
I tried to please her.
I
tried
to
please
her
.
"Feel the music," she urged.
``
Feel
the
music
,
''
she
urged
.
I "felt" it and winced my ears-for what is more unpleasant than a series of wrong notes played continuously?
I
``
felt
''
it
and
winced
my
ears-for
what
is
more
unpleasant
than
a
series
of
wrong
notes
played
continuously
?
She "felt" my music, too, which is why she always left with an angrier expression than when she came.
She
``
felt
''
my
music
,
too
,
which
is
why
she
always
left
with
an
angrier
expression
than
when
she
came
.
Once, when I was ten, I managed to record one of my own rehearsals.
Once
,
when
I
was
ten
,
I
managed
to
record
one
of
my
own
rehearsals
.
In order to escape my practice sessions, I would close myself behind the door of the piano room, put on the tape recording, and read until the tape had finished.
In
order
to
escape
my
practice
sessions
,
I
would
close
myself
behind
the
door
of
the
piano
room
,
put
on
the
tape
recording
,
and
read
until
the
tape
had
finished
.
That method worked for a week, until my mother began to wonder why I always missed the same B-sharp.
That
method
worked
for
a
week
,
until
my
mother
began
to
wonder
why
I
always
missed
the
same
B-sharp
.
She knocked on the door, and, receiving no answer, came in to check on me and found that I had fallen asleep while the tape of my performance played on and on.
She
knocked
on
the
door
,
and
,
receiving
no
answer
,
came
in
to
check
on
me
and
found
that
I
had
fallen
asleep
while
the
tape
of
my
performance
played
on
and
on
.
I was twelve when my parents finally acknowledged that my hidden talent was not about to emerge any time soon.
I
was
twelve
when
my
parents
finally
acknowledged
that
my
hidden
talent
was
not
about
to
emerge
any
time
soon
.
My mother, refusing to admit defeat, told me to pick another instrument.
My
mother
,
refusing
to
admit
defeat
,
told
me
to
pick
another
instrument
.
"Choose anything you want, Honey," she said, assuming that freedom of choice would inspire devotion.
``
Choose
anything
you
want
,
Honey
,
''
she
said
,
assuming
that
freedom
of
choice
would
inspire
devotion
.
I thought long and hard and chose the drums.
I
thought
long
and
hard
and
chose
the
drums
.
My parents, sensitive to noise, would be less than overjoyed by a daily bombardment of playing.
My
parents
,
sensitive
to
noise
,
would
be
less
than
overjoyed
by
a
daily
bombardment
of
playing
.
I imagined my father in his study, cotton wads in his ears.
I
imagined
my
father
in
his
study
,
cotton
wads
in
his
ears
.
I worked my way through several other instruments before my mother hit on another idea.
I
worked
my
way
through
several
other
instruments
before
my
mother
hit
on
another
idea
.
Maybe I wasn't meant to be an instrumentalist.
Maybe
I
was
n't
meant
to
be
an
instrumentalist
.
Realizing that drama might be more suited to my talents, Mom took me to a drama teacher.
Realizing
that
drama
might
be
more
suited
to
my
talents
,
Mom
took
me
to
a
drama
teacher
.
However, he put me backstage, painting scenery.
However
,
he
put
me
backstage
,
painting
scenery
.
Once I recovered from my sense of injury, I realized the wisdom of his choice.
Once
I
recovered
from
my
sense
of
injury
,
I
realized
the
wisdom
of
his
choice
.
I loved the active, practical backstage world, and I discovered that I had a knack for constructing and painting.
I
loved
the
active
,
practical
backstage
world
,
and
I
discovered
that
I
had
a
knack
for
constructing
and
painting
.
I loved the challenge of taking our scanty supplies and using them to make something beautiful.
I
loved
the
challenge
of
taking
our
scanty
supplies
and
using
them
to
make
something
beautiful
.
Imagining a scene and then seeing it emerge before me-this, to me, was close to magic.
Imagining
a
scene
and
then
seeing
it
emerge
before
me-this
,
to
me
,
was
close
to
magic
.
I'm a sculptor now, and every day I experience afresh the joy of being fully absorbed in the act of artistic creation.
I
'm
a
sculptor
now
,
and
every
day
I
experience
afresh
the
joy
of
being
fully
absorbed
in
the
act
of
artistic
creation
.
It's a wonderful, blissful feeling.
It
's
a
wonderful
,
blissful
feeling
.
I realize that my parents, in their misguided attempts to interest me in music, were trying to give me this feeling.
I
realize
that
my
parents
,
in
their
misguided
attempts
to
interest
me
in
music
,
were
trying
to
give
me
this
feeling
.
And now I feel grateful.
And
now
I
feel
grateful
.
Perhaps they went about it in the wrong way, but their hearts were in the right place.
Perhaps
they
went
about
it
in
the
wrong
way
,
but
their
hearts
were
in
the
right
place
.
My father's family is not a musical family. They are a family of words. My brother has my father's dark hair, his love of a good argument. I take after my mother. From her I inherited a curious nature, a sense of adventure, bright red hair. I did not, contrary to her hopes, inherit a talent for the piano. That fact was established beyond doubt after unsuccessful attempts to draw music from me.  The piano lessons began when I was four. My mother was convinced that I would be a child Mozart. She found the ideal teacher-Madame Oblenka, a strict Russian woman, whose pursed lips were enough to frighten a wild horse into submission. Madame Oblenka, who expected a little Mozart, was not very delighted to find a little girl banging her fists on the keys.  I tried to please her. "Feel the music," she urged. I "felt" it and winced my ears-for what is more unpleasant than a series of wrong notes played continuously? She "felt" my music, too, which is why she always left with an angrier expression than when she came.  Once, when I was ten, I managed to record one of my own rehearsals. In order to escape my practice sessions, I would close myself behind the door of the piano room, put on the tape recording, and read until the tape had finished. That method worked for a week, until my mother began to wonder why I always missed the same B-sharp. She knocked on the door, and, receiving no answer, came in to check on me and found that I had fallen asleep while the tape of my performance played on and on.  I was twelve when my parents finally acknowledged that my hidden talent was not about to emerge any time soon. My mother, refusing to admit defeat, told me to pick another instrument. "Choose anything you want, Honey," she said, assuming that freedom of choice would inspire devotion. I thought long and hard and chose the drums. My parents, sensitive to noise, would be less than overjoyed by a daily bombardment of playing. I imagined my father in his study, cotton wads in his ears.  I worked my way through several other instruments before my mother hit on another idea. Maybe I wasn't meant to be an instrumentalist. Realizing that drama might be more suited to my talents, Mom took me to a drama teacher. However, he put me backstage, painting scenery. Once I recovered from my sense of injury, I realized the wisdom of his choice. I loved the active, practical backstage world, and I discovered that I had a knack for constructing and painting. I loved the challenge of taking our scanty supplies and using them to make something beautiful. Imagining a scene and then seeing it emerge before me-this, to me, was close to magic.  I'm a sculptor now, and every day I experience afresh the joy of being fully absorbed in the act of artistic creation. It's a wonderful, blissful feeling. I realize that my parents, in their misguided attempts to interest me in music, were trying to give me this feeling. And now I feel grateful. Perhaps they went about it in the wrong way, but their hearts were in the right place.