When I bought the new piano last year, I told myself I would play whatever I wanted. No agendas.  No “practicing.” I only wanted to hear the sound of the instrument, which makes any kind of playing pleasant to the ear, even the rusty renditions of pieces I once played with ease. 

But I’ve reached the point in this renaissance (can I call it that? I think so) where something more is required, some sort of foundation for the playing that is to follow. 

That something is Hannon. Yes, Hannon, much reviled in my youth but now revealed for what he/it actually is: the means to an end. The stronger and more nimble my fingers, the better I can master the Brahms’ intermezzos and  Chopin nocturnes and Bach fugues I’m trying to play. 

At this point I begin to understand the purpose of those dreaded assignments of my youth, the scales and the Hannon and the other exercises I avoided whenever possible, teacher notes scribbled on the yellowing pages, usually the words “slow down.” Can it be that I’m now inflicting these exercises on myself? 

As a matter of fact, I am. I know that practice won’t make perfect. But it will make better.