A childhood memory, distorted no doubt, as all childhood memories are.  My piano teacher, Dmitri Kuvshinov.  I was 11.  He was Russian.  I was told that he had been a concert pianist for a while, but the touring life did not agree with him.  He lived in a nearby San Francisco suburb.  He had high broad cheekbones, hooded icy gray eyes, and a deep voice with a soft accent.  His face was a still slab, but I could detect his love for music underneath. His wife was Japanese and their house was largely Japanese and very calm.  She was graceful, polite, and quiet. 

I loved music, loved the dramatic stuff, Beethoven, Chopin, CPE Bach, but was neither very talented nor a hard worker.  I noodled, listened to sounds, imagined more than I performed.

My goal with my lessons was to convince Mr. Kushvinof to play.  He was so good. I could listen to him play forever.  “What SHOULD it sound like” I would say.  There was nothing more that I wanted than to have him sitting beside me playing astounding, beautiful, music.  He would look at me with his cold gray eyes, knowing that I was a slacker who just wanted to hear him play, but he would give in.

My father lost his job.  My parents cancelled my lessons due to finances.  Mr.Kushvinof offered to continue to teach me for free.  He said I had talent.  I didn’t really. But my desire to hear him play might have been a payment in itself to him. As a professor I know how wonderful it is to have a student who actually cares about the material.

I now have my parents piano. I look at the music for Beethoven’s No.8 in C minor, Op.13 with desire. I can’t play it.  I want to. The piano was damaged a little in the move.  I need to have it tuned and repaired.  Also, I lack the skill. I have desire though. I don’t think Mr. Kushvinoff ever played it for me. It was way beyond my skill level at the time. But I can imagine it. In any case I remember Dmitri Kushvinof, his icy gray eyes, and his beautiful music.