One of my greatest regrets is not learning to play the piano, although I can't quite decide what sort of piano player I should like to be if I were proficient. Perhaps a rowdy ragtime tickler of the ivories with a toothy grin, straw boater, and those shirt clips that hold billowy sleeves in place. Maybe a grim-faced, wild-haired, and tuxedoed virtuoso sweeping my fingers across the keys as I chase the muse of Tchaikovsky. Or, God forbid, a bearded bohemian hammering my way repetitively through the minimalist oeuvre of Philip Glass. Alas, it's a mute question now as I can't even manage to complete 'Chopsticks' without making a mistake.
The lid of the piano slammed shut for me after a viewing of The Five Thousand Fingers of Doctor T when I was nine. Nightmares ensued and any plans for a potential career in the concert halls were promptly abandoned. The teachers tried coaxing me back gently with a xylophone and dulcimer but I had already made a firm decision to exchange musical instruments for paint brushes and a sketching pencil (themselves later swapped for notepad and pencil when I realized my imitations of Modigliani looked more like a misshapen self portrait an over indulgent mother might tape to her fridge door).
Of course, you're never too old to learn new skills (unless you suffer from crippling arthritis). I have often considered purchasing one of those portable electronic keyboards and a copy of 'The Idiot's Guide To Performing A Chopin Recital At Parties.' Alas, I cannot recall a social gathering I've been invited to where the other guests would appreciate half an hours worth of clumsy Chopin interrupting the conversational flow. Come to think of it, I doubt ham-fisted versions of Scott Joplin, Tchaikovsky, or Philip Glass would be very popular, either. People tend to prefer pre-recorded music at an indistinct volume during dinner.
Consequently, I must be content to merely hum along to the vague tunes in my head: the grand piano of the mind performing upon the stage of the mouth accompanied by the orchestra of the throat conducted by the baton of boredom. It's not Glenn Gould but it works for me.
