When did you start playing piano?

I started piano lessons when I was four. For some reason, one of my earliest memories is standing in the kitchen with my mom, talking on the phone, and suddenly asking me if I would like to try playing the piano. My first teacher was a very patient Russian lady, a Suzuki instructor, with whom I studied until I was eleven years old. She held her students to a high standard, never allowing us to play mechanically or sloppily, and using group classes to teach reading and theory. For the first few years, my mom diligently followed the Suzuki method's guidelines, continually exposing me to recordings of the repertoire, taking notes during my lessons, and sitting with me while I practiced each day. It must have been frustrating work for both her and my teacher, as I was told I often decided I hated piano and would never practice again. However, they persevered long enough for me to develop a solid musical foundation, for which I am very grateful.

How did you start teaching?

I think I took on my first formal piano student during my summer break at Temple University. Still, my teaching history begins in high school, when I was heavily involved with the thespian troupe there. During my senior year, I collaborated with another student to write a musical parody of The Hunger Games: she wrote the libretto and directed, while I composed the music and taught everyone their parts. That was great fun and my first real teaching experience. That same year, our thespian troupe put on a musical adaptation of Alice in Wonderland called Alice in Concert, in which our drama teacher had me accompany the show from the stage and serve as the de facto musical director, my responsibility being to help other students learn the music. I got a big kick out of that and learned a lot. Throughout college, I intended to make a living from performing and teaching as little as possible, thinking that teaching privately (and, in particular, teaching beginners) would be a tedious task. Still, when I graduated and took on a few students out of necessity, I found that teaching can be a stimulating challenge with rich rewards. This huge responsibility invites one into a profoundly valuable body of knowledge. Eventually, I took steps to become a certified Suzuki piano teacher, unexpectedly coming full circle back to my roots.

What do you do outside of teaching?

Surprisingly to my old self: not performing! Even by the end of my degree at Temple University, my interest in performing full-time was waning, discouraged by the concrete realities of trying to make a musical living and complicated by an obstinate, repetitive strain injury that had hampered my playing since I was a teenager. Fortuitously, during my last semester there, I discovered the Alexander Technique, a technique for coordinating the body and the mind, which many musicians have found helpful in overcoming playing-related injuries. It is a healing practice and a kind of meta-technique that facilitates the learning of other techniques. I, being another Alexander, was beguiled. I began AT lessons after leaving Temple and found massive benefits, starting with an ability to play piano with much greater fluency and control, and more importantly, without pain. Hence, the AT rose to preeminence in my life, and I decided to attend a three-year teacher training course here in Boston. I still practice piano (now with much greater success and efficiency), and I occasionally enjoy playing in public, but my focus has shifted elsewhere.

What advice do you have for students?

Practice daily, but not to the point of getting tired of it. A daily practice of twenty to thirty minutes, while minimal, is more fruitful than practicing three hours once a week.
Practice short sections with firm intention and unwavering attention. Have a clear conception of how four measures or four notes should sound and make it happen, as opposed to aimlessly playing a long passage over and over again while thinking about dinner.
Practice with an expansive awareness of your body, and treat every passage like a puzzle to be solved. Feeling steadily your bodily sensations, calmly reason out how to approach each technical problem most effectively as it arises. Do not slump, keep your heels on the ground, and take a break if you feel sore or tired.
Listen to music carefully, respecting it as a phenomenon worthy of scrutiny and full attention rather than merely a perfume to lift your mood.
Remember, you cannot produce great music just by willing it. When the time is ripe, profound music will blossom through you, but only if you get out of the way and allow it, and have already sown the field by disciplined listening and practice.
Do not compare yourself to others. When you catch yourself doing this, ask yourself how any comparison could be accurate or trustworthy, let alone helpful, and then (if you are practicing) return to conceiving how the music should sound.
Do not let music become your identity. Music can be a wondrous plaything, a uniquely ephemeral art to be enjoyed and flowed with, but identification will hinder you.