11 September 2026 14:25One of the most important life lessons I have learned as a piano teacher is not to correct every mistake.
At first, this may sound paradoxical. Isn’t that precisely why a student comes to a lesson? Yet correcting mistakes can consume entire lessons, months, and sometimes even years. It brings no joy to the teacher and even less to the student. Most importantly, it often fails to bring about genuine change.
When I focus all my attention on the mistake, I lose sight of the real objective: what I want the student to achieve. The student begins to fixate on what went wrong and to become afraid of making mistakes, instead of directing their attention towards the music, its message, and communication with the audience.
It is easy to fall into the habit of correcting constantly. A list of things the student must not do is far easier to compile than a genuine strategy for development. At the piano, as in life, it is often easier to say what we do not want than to imagine clearly what we want to achieve.
The desired result changes according to the piece, the moment, and the individual student. That is why I do not believe that the right solution is always the same. It would be easier for me to impose rules and provide ready-made answers. But my task is different: to develop the student’s ability to observe, think, judge, and choose independently.
Imagine that a student is playing a scale and stumbles on a particular note. I can immediately name the correct note or tell them which finger to use. Gradually, however, the lesson turns into a series of commands from me: “F-sharp” whenever the student reaches the troublesome spot, or an insistent “fourth finger” when they once again reach for the note with the third.
The same can happen with repertoire practised during the week. A wrong note, unclear articulation, or inappropriate dynamic appears, and I immediately respond: “That is a G,” “Play staccato,” or “Louder!” Of course, I too have communicated in this way during my lessons.
Over time, I realised that such instructions help only at that particular moment. They respond to a mistake that has already been made, but they do not help the student understand why it happened or how to find a solution independently. This is why one of the most valuable principles in my teaching is very simple:
I do not merely correct the mistake. I look for its cause.
My experience shows that a great many technical mistakes are connected with fingering. If a student repeatedly hits the wrong note, I first check the fingering. If they cannot play a phrase legato, I begin there again. I do not merely check whether the fingering printed in the score has been followed. I ask whether it genuinely helps that particular hand to play the notes, articulation, rhythm, and musical phrase correctly. The fingering printed in an edition is a suggestion, not an absolute truth.
Among the other causes, I most often find that the student has either failed to notice something or has not imagined it clearly enough. I therefore try not to fill the piece with detailed instructions that the student will later reproduce mechanically. I prefer to help them hear where the phrase is going, feel the climax, discover its character and tone colour, and understand why one climax needs greater sound while another calls for restraint.
My aim is not simply to eliminate an isolated mistake. I want to nurture a musician who can independently find logical, convincing, and emotionally engaging solutions.
At this point, the piano lesson meets a much larger and painfully relevant issue: the state of education and the way we treat mistakes. Too often, children learn from an early age that the most important thing is to give the correct answer, follow instructions precisely, and avoid asking unnecessary questions. Mistakes are punished instead of explored. Gradually, students become afraid not only of being wrong, but also of trying, suggesting a different solution, or expressing an opinion of their own.
In this way, we risk educating flawless followers of instructions rather than free and thoughtful human beings—people who wait for someone else to tell them which note is correct, which finger to use, and how loudly they are expected to play. Life, however, rarely presents us with problems that have only one predetermined answer.
This is why I do not want my students simply to follow my commands. I want them to ask questions, listen, observe, make connections, and take responsibility for their decisions. Sometimes a mistake opens the way to the most important question of all: Why did this happen?
If I immediately provide the correct answer, I may correct one note. If I help the student discover the cause independently, I give them a way of thinking that will remain with them far beyond the piano lesson.
The same principle applies outside music. If I receive a bill for the wrong amount every month, I can dispute the charge each time, or I can find out why the system is billing me incorrectly and resolve the underlying cause. If I set my alarm for seven o’clock but am late every day, the answer is not necessarily to get ready faster. Perhaps I have allowed twenty minutes for a journey that takes forty, or have failed to include time for breakfast. Once I identify the cause, I can make an effective change.
To me, the mistake is only the visible result. Behind it there is almost always something deeper: an awkward movement, unsuitable fingering, a misunderstood rhythm, lack of attention, an unclear inner image of the sound, or an unhelpful habit. If I correct only the result, the mistake will probably return. If I help the student identify the cause, they gain not merely the correct note, but a tool for independent thought.
I do not want a child or an adult student to be afraid of mistakes. I do not want to create flawless robots capable only of following commands. I want my students to understand why they make mistakes, think about how to overcome the problem, and have the courage to ask questions.
If we never make mistakes, we cannot learn. And if we do not learn to think independently during a lesson, we will find it difficult to do so in life.
I am convinced that genuine education does not begin with the correct answer. It begins with curiosity, with a question, and with the courage to search for the cause. Only then does a mistake cease to be a verdict and become the beginning of growth and genuine change.
