The Pleasure of Playing the Piano
I am not a classically trained pianist. The piano remains deeply fascinating to me, but I would hesitate to call it an instrument I truly command with confidence.
Still, among those who have spent even a short time learning the piano, there are many who recognize that their affection for the instrument came not from listening, but from the experience of placing their hands on the keys. There are pieces that feel surprisingly more engaging when played than when heard, and in those moments, the pleasure of playing the piano becomes unmistakably clear.
This sensation is less something that can be explained in words than a memory that resurfaces for anyone who has once sat in front of the keyboard. It is the kind of feeling that makes your hands remember before your mind does.
1. Bach’s Inventions: The Pleasure of Playing When the Hands React First
The pieces that first revealed this pleasure of playing to me were Bach’s Inventions, which I encountered as a child. Many of my peers found these works frustratingly difficult and quickly set them aside. The melodies seemed plain, yet the hands were constantly crossing, and the structure collapsed the moment concentration wavered. “Why struggle with music that doesn’t even sound impressive?” was a common reaction.
Yet, strangely enough, I found these pieces enjoyable. Not because I wanted to play them well, but because they demanded that my hands stay fully awake at all times. The right hand would introduce a subject, the left would answer, and both hands had to remain alert without interfering with each other. It was not the sound that captivated me, but the sustained state of physical engagement, the feeling that my hands had nowhere to rest.
When playing Inventions No. 1 or No. 4, there was a quiet sense of stability as each hand maintained its role. In faster pieces like No. 8 or No. 13, thinking even briefly could cause everything to seize up, forcing me to trust my hands entirely. At some point, my fingers began to find their own paths without conscious calculation, and only then did I understand why these pieces were so rewarding.
What lingered afterward was not the satisfaction of “having played well,” but the comfort of knowing that my hands no longer disrupted the music. Even now, when I think of Bach’s Inventions, it is not the sound that comes back first, but the physical memory of my hands moving in balance.
2. Chopin: The Hand Following the Sound
If the pleasure of playing Bach arose from tension and control in the hands, my experience with Chopin moved in a different direction. When playing Chopin, the hands feel guided less by structure and more by sound already imagined. Rather than discovering what to do through movement, the ear leads first, and the hands follow carefully behind.
In Chopin’s Études and lyrical works, the flow of sound often leaves a stronger impression than the sensation in the fingers. Attention turns to whether the melody unfolds as envisioned, whether the harmony resonates as intended. Here, the pleasure of playing does not come from the physical motion itself, but from the confirmation that the sound one imagines is truly taking shape.
Because of this, playing Chopin often feels less like leading the music and more like adjusting the hands to serve it. What remains after a successful performance is not so much a memory in the fingers, but the lingering color and resonance of the sound. It is a distinctly different satisfaction from the grounded, muscular sensation left behind by Bach.
This contrast is why I approach the music of these composers with entirely different mindsets. With Bach, the music survives only as long as the hands remain fully alert; with Chopin, the hands must become more sensitive so that the sound itself is not lost. Through Chopin, I came to understand how deeply the source of this enjoyment can shift from piece to piece.
Maurizio Pollini’s recording is a striking example: a sound refined almost to the point of cool detachment, showing how a perfectly disciplined tone can pull the hands forward and shape every decision.
3. Scarlatti: Returning to the Pleasure of Playing Through the Hands
After following sound in Chopin, Scarlatti brings the hands back to the forefront. When playing Domenico Scarlatti’s sonatas, the pleasure of playing becomes physical again. The rapid pacing, short motifs, and sudden hand crossings keep the body in a constant state of motion.
In pieces such as K.113 or K.450, there is scarcely any time to consider how the sound should be shaped. The moment the hands stop, the music stops as well, compelling the body to move instinctively. The tension of crossing hands, the quick shifts in direction, leave a clearer imprint on physical memory than on auditory recall.
After playing these works, what comes to mind first is not the melody that sounded, but the way the hands moved. The satisfaction feels less like accomplishment and more like relief—the relief of having stayed with the music from beginning to end. The piano stops being only something you listen to, and becomes something you experience through touch.
After Bach’s disciplined focus and Chopin’s sound-driven flow, Scarlatti feels like a return to the hands. The sensation of the body leading the music, of movement generating sound, captures most vividly the kind of enjoyment that has kept me from letting go of the piano altogether.
In Paul Barton’s video, the score and the pianist’s hands are shown together, which makes it easy to follow both the musical structure and the physical reaction at once. Without any theatrical effects, the hands alone communicate why this piece feels so satisfying to play.
Conclusion
When people enjoy driving fast or riding a horse at full speed, it is rarely because of the destination. The pleasure lies in feeling movement and momentum directly through the body. Playing Baroque music offers a similar experience. The enjoyment emerges not from listening to sound, but from sensing the hands and body riding the current of the music. Only then does the pleasure of playing become truly vivid.
The focused hands of Bach, the sound-shaped movement of Chopin, and the bodily momentum of Scarlatti may appear different on the surface, but they all point in the same direction. The piano is not an instrument experienced solely through the ear, but through the body as a whole. Some pieces reach completion only when they are played rather than heard. The pleasure of playing remains not as an explanation, but as a memory—one that settles into the hands and refuses to fade.
Perhaps that is why I have never been able to let go of the piano entirely. Not because I wanted to play better, but because I wanted to feel that movement and speed once more. Even now, the memory of my hands running along the keyboard quietly calls me back to the instrument.
Further Reading
How a Fugue Works: A Glimpse into Bach Fugue Structure in C Minor (BWV 847)
How a Fugue Works: A Glimpse into Bach Fugue Structure in C Minor (BWV 847)