In the winter when I acquired the piano, things weren’t going so well for me. I was lagging behind on the creation of my third book, getting a meagre four hours of sleep, and making a series of catastrophic romantic blunders. I was clandestinely anticipating some level-headed intervention. “Dolan, you’re messing this up royally,” they would say, showing me a more righteous way to go. Frustratingly, no one stepped in – or rather everyone did, but to no avail. My group of friends were in perfect accord on what I should do: take some melatonin, cut out caffeine, cease messaging those who were no good for me, and get on with my book. However, my counter-proposal was a simple: what if I ignore your advice and purchase a piano instead?
During my youth and teenage years in Dublin, I had devoted a decade to learning the piano. I was quite proficient by the end and retained it well enough to craft a character who was a pianist in my second book.
However, post my undergraduate degree from Ireland, I have not had a steady place to call home. Erratically, I drifted from one city to another, from one country to the next, never making a permanent stopping place for over a year. This constant transience meant that I couldn’t possess anything that wouldn’t fit into a carry-on suitcase. My yoga mat was so thin that it could be folded instead of being rolled; I had a strict limit of ten hangers, refusing to purchase more to ensure that for every new piece of clothing that came in, an old one had to be given away. Owning a piano was a distant thought. Without a place to practice, I just didn’t play.
At the onset of this wandering existence, I still played piano on visits back home to my parents. Their ebony and ivory keyed upright piano has its place in the family history, being salvaged from a neighbour’s fire and refurbished by my carpenter grandfather from Longford. Over time, seeing as I was the only one still playing, both, I and the instrument began to decline together. Each occasion when the lid was lifted, the keys were gradually losing their spring and my memory for notes spanned slower.
In due course, I halted these regular self-audits. The disparity between my current capabilities and past skills became overwhelming. I chose a peaceful separation from the piano and me, accepting our paths would diverge. C’est la vie.
Later, during the 2022 summer, my home changed from London to Berlin. I wasn’t lured to Berlin with an expectation to solve my various concerns – a mix of circumstantial and existential ones. I had taken refuge in Germany. I had gathered enough evidence to infer that a mere change in location would not alter me, yet I excelled in repeating the same actions while anticipating different outcomes.
The relocation did not provide a permanent solution as predicted. My initial months in Berlin were unusually steady, with learning the language acting as my anchor. Grappling with case declensions left me little room for creating problems for myself. However, I had attained considerable proficiency in German (plus Italian, an extended tale involving a book club and a baroness) within a year. While this was advantageous in dealing with local proceedings without falling into trouble, it robbed me of a sense of daily direction. Once the urgency attached to learning German faded, my counterproductive habits began to resurface: neglect of my physical wellbeing, absent boundaries, and glorification of personal pain coupled with a relentless pursuit for more suffering.
Usually, the lowest point of such despondent phases was a signal to switch countries. But I had grown excessively weary of moving – the hassle of bubble wrapping, the forfeiture of deposits – and I contemplated trying an alternative solution for a change.
The power of destiny had a role too. At the start of 2023, I had a coffee meeting with a Turkish acquaintance in my local area, and she extended an invitation to run some errands with her. One such chore led us to a music store that was on the brink of shutting down. Every piano was priced to sell. I found myself at a shiny black Steinway, playing a few broken chords. As the instrument was new, there was no room for comparisons with my adolescent expertise, unlike the fire-damaged piano at my parent’s house. I could examine the situation independently: I derived joy from pressing the keys and the resultant melody.
Later that day, I located their digital store and purchased the Yamaha P-145B, the most affordable electric piano featuring weighted keys. The convenience of dismantling and moving it if required somewhat alleviated my fear of commitments.
Within three days, it was delivered to me.
Piecing together the object became an adventurous endeavour, which I hadn’t realised I’d been desperately missing until I opened the jumbo cardboard box. I discovered that without a goal, I become a miserable being, yet these revelations always come too late. After accomplishing one aim without having another in place to chase, I spiral into desolation. This pattern remains undetected until I embark on a new venture, where I feel rejuvenated. Writing once served as this therapeutic outlet but now, burdened by the heightened stakes of it being my profession, I crave airy objectives that don’t carry my rent obligations.
I got a spring back in my steps from the joy that came from assembling the instrument, then I had to take on the longer challenge of remembering how to play. With the piano came a booklet of basic pieces, which looked like an unknown language to me. I spent weeks attempting scales and arpeggios, which I could easily interpret as a seven-year-old, but now posed a struggle.
While Berlin didn’t mend my emotional turmoil, it has taught me to be more patient than I was before. I’ve decided to stand tall and confront adversity when it shows up next.
Before moving to Berlin, such initial embarrassment would have been my downfall. To learn a new skill is one thing, but struggling to regain a previous level of expertise is entirely another. Learning the German and Italian languages tested and shaped my character. Knowing that excellence comes from consistent practice, I endured sounding like an imbecile initially. After all, confidence is triggered by action. As a testament to my tenacity, I became competent in German and Italian. So, I’ve resolved to bear with this phase of not being proficient at playing the piano, knowing that it leads to eventual mastery.
Over several months, I progressively improved, as though I were a child learning to read. Any difficulties, or need for a slower pace or repetition, were met with patience and understanding; there was no rush, it would all be resolved in good time. Occasional reminders of a deep-set self-loathing would surface, a life-long malware that no protective barrier could entirely thwart. The vital thing was to not let it take hold. Its familiar voice would taunt with insults of my stupidity and worthlessness. Rather than giving it any credence, I would respond with a mocking jeer, calling out its predictable rhetoric. I would dismiss it, wondering if it could report anything original, since the recurring tune had been evident since I was a tender of five.
After completing the introductory guide which came with the piano, my mother dispatched my former exam books to me. It was sentimental, she explained over the phone, having lost her own when her family property was sold, it had felt like losing a limb.
On receiving the books, I noticed my autograph on the inside of each cover. The first signatures were shaky and pencilled. With time, came more refined cursive and the finesse of a fountain pen, followed by bold-hued ballpoint pens, adorned with intricate floral and love heart doodles. Seeing my signatures stirred emotions. It was the stark disparity between the innocent handwriting and the burden of the intense commitment I bore. The memory of dread at the prospect of failing anyone, or making any error was fresh. Even at an age before I could adeptly wield a pen, I was chastising myself for falling short of perfection.
In my journey, I’ve grappled with these novels, encountered errors and set about growing gentler towards myself. Henle’s ‘At the Piano’ collection soon took up space on my shelves, gathering the works of Chopin, Mozart, and Bach. Slowly but surely, my skill at sight-reading music was regaining its strength, matching the level I had attained before discontinuing my practice, but I was far from performing studied pieces to perfection. Sight-reading had persistently been my vulnerable spot during piano examinations. The discrepancy between my immaculately prepared pieces and my sight-reading, which looked disappointingly poor in comparison, deterred me from further practice and widened the proficiency gap. I resolved to turn my frailty into my forte and dedicated half an hour daily to sight-reading.
Over the last seven months, my abilities have notably expanded—I can now take delight in playing most music pieces at first sight. I can effortlessly sail through a book of Chopin’s waltzes. Even though tedium and irritation persist, surmounting each hurdle only provides added motivation to persevere.
The knots in my life in Berlin have gradually untangled over this period. I’ve penned, revised, and polished my third novel, while the troublesome romantic entanglements have either ebbed away or exploded. Future challenges are inevitable, given I’m a high-strung person who’s irresistibly drawn to dramatic narratives. However, my daily engagements with musical scores have taught me the fine art of patience — to stay put, face adversities, and manage them when they come knocking next.
Naoise Dolan, author of ‘Exciting Times’ and ‘The Happy Couple.’