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How do musicians turn the pages of their sheet music?

Kate would stop playing, turn the page and resume again. Rick’s hand flew from the keyboard to the page and back, without missing a note. Is music written with that in mind? Does the pianist read ahead?

I arrived at 12:15 for the recital at 12:30, concerned that I wouldn’t get a good seat. Unlike for the last pianist, the professional, the couches and chairs were not all rearranged to face the piano. Nor were there many folks waiting, so I knew I had time to follow Flo back to her apartment to : plug in her new Victorian-shaded night light, glue the bottom of the full length mirror to her closet door and hang the paper towel holder. Still, concerned the masses were assembling for Kate, the granddaughter of one the Concord Parkians, we hurried back to the piano room.

No sweat, we got prime seats and Kate walked in the door only a few minutes late. With no introduction, no synopsis of the music she was about to play – she plopped on the bench and began to play. My impressions? She’s sixteen, more or less, and she’s no prodigy, but she plays determinedly and well enough. Flo and I both enjoyed her talent, but Flo, always concerned about other people’s feelings, worried about her reception.

For instance, there was no one to introduce her, and at the end there were no formal thank yous. Nor flowers. Kate stood up, back to her admirers and walked out. And that page turning thing. Even those who fell asleep, awoke to applaud when she finished a song. But when you stop, flip a page, tuck it under an adjacent music book, then resume, quite often you’ll get inappropriate applause . Flo would shake her head when that happened – she knows when a song ends. And, as she did when Rick played, she sang along. This time to Liebestraum, “I could sing that in German, but not anymore.” Flo even thanked Kate at the end for playing – Susan, is that the Mephisto Waltz?

Midway through her routine, Kate tapped out a mostly flawless rendition of something even I recognized, and without page turning punctuations. I was compelled to hop up and ask her, “What was that?”

I got a brief smile and an icy, “Chopin.”

I thought, okay, but what piece? However, I suddenly recognized this familiar, mum, teenage territory and though I wanted an answer, I realized I wasn’t going to get it. I looked at the thick play book, saw Chopin and underneath, Nocturnes, and said, ëOh, Chopin’s Nocturne?” As soon as the words tumbled from my lips, I knew I had joined the inappropriate clappers. She gave me an icier, get-back-to-your-seat look, and answered with a condescending, “Yes.”
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