The Piano Shop on the Left Bank: Discovering a Forgotten Passion in a Paris Atelier

From Publishers Weekly In this engaging memoir, an American writer living in Paris recounts his experiences in a piano shop tucked into an out-of-the way street on the rive gauche. Because the elderly proprietor refuses to admit strangers to the atelier where he repairs, rebuilds and sells used pianos to select customers, Carhart does not at first get in. But with an introduction from another client and the help of the owner's younger assistant and heir apparent, Luc, Carhart is finally welcomed into a magical space crowded with pianos of all makes and vintages. Soon he becomes one of the favored insiders who stop by nearly every day to gossip and talk about pianos with Luc. Luc's love of pianos is so infectious that Carhart's own childhood passion for the instrument is rekindled. He starts to take lessons again and buys a piano for his small apartment, a purchase that takes some time, for Luc, who regards a piano as a member of a family, prides himself on finding instruments compatible with his customers. Caught up in Luc's zeal, Carhart immerses himself in the history and mechanics of the piano, and he includes chapters on the craft of piano making, the instrument's development over the centuries and the fine points of tuning. In his renewed fascination, he reflects on piano teachers, those of his childhood as well as several renowned teachers of today. Carhart conveys his affection for Luc, the atelier and the piano with such enthusiasm that readers might be inspired to return to their own childhood instrument. At the very least, they will enjoy this warmhearted, intelligent insight into a private Paris. (Apr. 20) Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Library Journal Carhart's life as an American expatriate in Paris provides the setting for this witty and fascinating account of finding a piano to purchase and relearning how to play. His familiarity with French customs aids in his dealings with and subsequent acceptance as a friend by Luc, the proprietor of Desforges Pianos. A piano restoration workshop by day, it turns into an exclusive local hangout Friday nights. Gracefully shifting from the present day to his youth, Carhart, a freelance writer, provides both technical explanations about the workings of the piano and a history of the instrument. This background information helps place his studies and the remarks of various piano teachers, technicians, and aficionados in context. Similar to Noah Adams's fine Piano Lessons (LJ 3/15/96) with a continental flavor, Carhart's book will be of special interest to patrons with an affection for pianos or experience traveling in France. Warmly recommended for all libraries. Barry Zaslow, Miami Univ. Libs., Oxford, OH Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc. From the Inside Flap never realized there was a gap in his life until he happened upon Desforges Pianos, a demure little shopfront in his Pairs neighborhood that seemed to want to hide rather than advertise its wares. Like Alice in Wonderland, he found his attempts to gain entry rebuffed at every turn. An accidental introduction finally opened the door to the quartier’s oddest hangout, where locals ― from university professors to pipefitters ― gather on Friday evenings to discuss music, love, and life over a glass of wine.Luc, the atelier’s master, proves an excellent guide to the history of this most gloriously impractical of instruments. A bewildering variety passes through his restorer’s hands: delicate ancient pianofortes, one perhaps the onetime possession of Beethoven. Great hulking beasts of thunderous voice. And the modest piano “with the heart of a lion” that was to become Thad’s own.What emerges is a warm and intuitive portrait of Thad Carhart has lives in France for much of his life. He was educated at Yale and Stanford and has worked as an events coordinator in the music industry and as communications head of Apple Compter’s European division. A freelance writer and consultant, he lives in Paris with his wife, Simo, and their two children. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Luc Along a narrow street in the paris neighborhood where i live sits a littlestore front with a simple sign stenciled on the window: “Desforges Pianos:outillage, fournitures.” On a small, red felt-covered shelf in the windoware displayed the tools and instruments of piano repair: tighteningwrenches, tuning pins, piano wire, several swatches of felt, and varioussmall pieces of hardware from the innards of a piano. Behind the shelf theinterior of the shop is hidden by a curtain of heavy white gauze. Theentire façade has a sleepy, nineteenth-century charm about it, the windowframe and the narrow door painted a dark green.Not so many years ago, when our children were in kindergarten, this shoplay along their route to school, and I passed it on foot several times onthe days when it was my turn to take them to school and to pick them up.On the way to their classes in the morning there was never time to stop.The way back was another matter. After exchanging a few words with otherparents, I would often take an extra ten minutes to retrace my steps,savoring the sense of promise and early morning calm that at this hourenvelops Paris.The quiet street was still out of the way and narrow enough to be pavedwith the cobblestones that on larger avenues in the city have been coveredwith asphalt. In the early morning a fresh stream of water invariably ranhigh in the gutters, the daily tide set forth by the street sweepers who,rain or shine, open special valves set into the curb and then channel theflow of jetsam with rolled-up scraps of carpet as they swish it along withgreen plastic brooms. The smell from la boulangerie du coin, the localbakery, always greeted me as I turned the corner, the essence of freshlybaked bread never failing to fill me with desire and expectation. I wouldbuy a baguette for lunch and, if I could spare ten minutes before gettingto work, treat myself to a second cup of coffee at the café across thestreet from the piano shop.In these moments, stopping in front of the strange little storefront, Iwould consider the assortment of objects haphazardly displayed there.Something seemed out of place about this specialty store in our quietquartier, far from the conservatories or concert halls and their relatedmusic stores that sprinkle a select few neighborhoods. Was it possiblethat an entire business was maintained selling piano parts and repairtools? Often a small truck was pulled up at the curb with pianos beingloaded or unloaded and trundled into the shop on a handcart. Did pianosneed to be brought to the shop to be repaired? Elsewhere I had alwaysknown repairs to be done on site; the bother and expense of moving pianoswas prohibitive, to say nothing of the problem of storing them.Once I saw it as a riddle, it filled the few minutes left to me on thosequiet mornings when I would walk past the shop, alone and wondering. Afterall, this was but one more highly specialized store in a city known forits specialties and refinements. Surely there were enough pianos in Paristo sustain a trade in their parts. But still my doubt edged intocuriosity; I saw myself opening the door to the shop and finding somethingnew and unexpected each time, like a band of smugglers or an eccentricmusic school. And then I decided to find out for myself.I had avoided going into the shop for many weeks for the simple reasonthat I did not have a piano. What pretext could I have in a pianofurnisher’s when I didn’t even own the instrument they repaired? Should Itell them of my lifelong love of pianos, of how I hoped to play againafter many vagabond years when owning a piano was as impractical askeeping a large dog or a collection of orchids? That’s where I saw myopening: more settled now, I had been toying with the idea of buying apiano. What better source for suggestions as to where I might find a goodused instrument than this dusty little neighborhood parts store? It was atleast a plausible reason for knocking.And so I found myself in front of Desforges one sunny morning in lateApril, after dropping off the children down the street. I knocked andwaited; finally I tried the old wooden handle and found that the latch wasnot secured. As I pushed the door inward it shook a small bell secured tothe top of the jamb; a delicate chime rang out unevenly, breaking thesilence as I swung the door closed behind me. Before me lay a long, narrowroom, a counter running its length on one side, and along the facing walla row of shelves laden with bolts of crimson and bone-white felt. Betweenthe counter and the shelves a cramped aisle led back through thewindowless dark to a small glass door; through it a suffused light shonedimly into the front of the shop. As the bell stopped ringing and Iblinked to adjust my eyes, the door at the back opened narrowly and a manappeared, taking care to move sideways around the partly opened door sothat the view to the back room was blocked.“Entrez! Entrez, Monsieur!” He greeted me loudly, as if he had beenexpecting my visit; he looked me up and down as he made his way slowly tothe front of his shop. He was a squarely built older man, probably in hissixties, with a broad forehead and a massive jaw that was fixed in a widegrin; the eyes, however, did not correspond to the mouth. His regard wasintense, curious, and wholly without emotion. I realized that the smilewas no more than his face in repose, a somewhat disquieting rictus thatspoke of neither joy nor social convention. Over his white shirt and tiehe was wearing a long-sleeved black smock that hung loosely to his kneesand gave him a formal yet almost jaunty appearance, like an undertaker onvacation. This was clearly the chef d’atelier, wearing a more soberversion of the deep-blue cotton smocks that are the staple of craftsmenand manual laborers throughout the country.We shook hands, the obligatory prelude to any dealings with another humanbeing in France, and he asked how he could be of help. I explained that Iwas looking to buy a used piano and wondered if he ever came across suchthings. A slight wrinkling of his brow suggested that my questionsurprised him; the smile never varied, but I thought I detected a glint inhis eyes. No, he was sorry, it was not as common as one might think; ofcourse, once in a great while there was something, and if I wanted tocheck back no one could say that with a stroke of luck a client might nothave a used piano for sale. Both disappointed and puzzled, I couldn’tthink of how to keep the conversation going. I thanked him for hisconsideration and turned to leave, casting a last glance at theceiling-high shelves behind the counter stuffed with wooden dowels,wrenches, and coils of wire. As I pulled the door behind me he turned andheaded toward the back room once again.I returned two, perhaps three times in the next month and always thereaction was the same: a look of perplexity that I might consider hisbusiness a source of used pianos, followed by murmured assurances that ifever anything were to present itself he would be delighted to let me know.I was familiar enough with the banality of formal closure in Frenchrhetoric to recognize this for what it was: the brush-off. Still Ipersisted, stopping by every few weeks out of sheer doggedness andcuriosity. I was just about to give up hope when a development changed theequation, however slightly.On this occasion, as before, my entry set off the little bell and the doorat the back of the shop opened a few moments later. But instead of theblack-smocked patron there appeared a younger man—in his late thirties, Iguessed—wearing jeans and a sweat-soaked T-shirt. His face was open andsmiling, and ringed by a slightly scruffy beard that gave him the look ofa French architect. More surprising than the new face was the fact that heleft open the door to the back room; as he walked toward me I peered overhis shoulder for a glimpse of what had so long intrigued me.The room beyond was quite long and wider than theshop, and it was swimming in light pouring down from a glass roof. It hadthe peculiar but magical air of being larger on the inside than theoutside. This was one of the classic nineteenth-century workshops that arestill to be found throughout Paris behind even the most bourgeois façadesof carved stone. Very often the backs of buildings were extended to coverpart of the inner courtyard and the space roofed over with panels ofglass, like a giant greenhouse. I took this in at a glance and then, inthe few seconds left to me as he made his way along the counter, Irealized that the entire atelier was covered with pianos and their parts.Uprights, spinets, grands of all sizes: a mass of cabinetry in varioustones presented itself in a confusion of lacquered black, mahogany, andrich blond marquetry.The man gestured with his two dirty hands to excuse himself and then, asis the French custom when hands are wet or grimy, he offered his rightforearm for me to shake. I grasped his arm awkwardly as he moved it up anddown in a parody of a shake. I explained that I had stopped in before andwas looking for a good used piano. His face broke out in a smile of whatseemed like recognition. “So you’re the American whose children go to theschool around the corner.”I accepted this description equably and asked how he had known. It didn’tsurprise me that in the close-knit neighborhood he was aware of aforeigner who daily walked down his street even though we had never met.“My colleague told me you had been here a few times looking to buy a Read more