Let the Child Breathe: A Call for Pedagogical Responsibility in Repertoire Selection

A reflection on formative forces, artistic becoming, and the duty of the teacher

It is becoming increasingly common in music education to witness young children burdened with a repertoire that exceeds not only their technical grasp but, more crucially, their stage of cognitive and emotional development. Etudes that demand explosive power, sonatas steeped in adult grief and works rooted in spiritual conflict are thrust into hands still forming, bodies still growing, and souls still finding their natural rhythm. This practice, though often veiled under the name of ambition or early talent cultivation, does more harm than good. It distorts the child's inner architecture, interrupts their natural unfolding, and leaves scars, some physical, others invisible and lasting.

The child is not a miniature adult. Each stage of life brings unique tasks of growth, tasks of integration, discovery, and balance. Within the developing human being, forces are at work that shape posture, breath, movement, thought, and emotional coherence. These forces do not respond well to external pressure. When the outer environment demands experiences that do not align with inner readiness, quiet violence is perpetrated. The body tightens. The breathing shortens. The trust in the self begins to wither.

Assigning music meant for seasoned, emotionally mature adults to a child hinders this growth. Romantic etudes, for example, with their sweeping passions and tragic density, demand not just technique but lived experience, inner dimensions not yet accessible to the young. What begins as a technical challenge soon becomes a burden on the child's entire system. The joy of music becomes anxiety. The playfulness of discovery gives way to a fear of failure. And the child learns, prematurely, that art is performance, not expression; competition, not communication.

But this path is not inevitable. There exists a better, wiser way, one that respects the child's becoming while still cultivating a strong, refined, and joyful technique. Among the most valuable and underappreciated resources in this regard are the more than 500 sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti.

Each Scarlatti sonata is a world in itself: precise, vibrant, full of character and challenge. They demand clarity, agility, fine articulation, independence of hands, and a refined sense of rhythm. Yet unlike many technically demanding pieces from later eras, Scarlatti's works do not ask the child to simulate emotional depths they cannot authentically access. They are ideal for forming a dependable technique while preserving lightness of touch, alertness of mind, and musical integrity. In the hands of a perceptive teacher, these short masterpieces can be assigned with a sense of progression that mirrors the child's growing capacities, offering variety without overwhelming and challenges without harm.

The truly dedicated teacher does not reach first for virtuoso warhorses or mechanical finger drills but for music that trains through art, not apart from it. It must be stated respectfully but firmly that the overuse of mechanical studies such as repetitive Hanon exercises or endless Czerny etudes often reflects not the student's need but the teacher's habit. Finger strength built in the absence of tone, imagination, and context leads to stiffness rather than fluency. A musical hand is not merely fast; it listens, shapes, and feels. And these qualities cannot be taught by rote drills. They must grow within the context of living music.

A perceptive and growing teacher will see that the need for a so-called "technical foundation" can be entirely fulfilled within meaningful literature. The early sonatas of Haydn, the miniatures of Schumann, the works of Bartók, and, yes, the entire spectrum of Scarlatti's inventive sonatas all offer a playground for the developing musician. These works do not insult the child's intelligence. Nor do they demand false maturity. They meet the child where they are and gently lead them forward.

It is essential to remember that teachers, too, are in the process of becoming. No pedagogue is ever complete. Just as we expect our students to grow, adapt, and deepen, so too must we. Actual teaching is not the transmission of method but the cultivation of discernment. The more we listen, really listen to the child before us, the clearer it becomes: progress is not made by pushing harder but by choosing more wisely.

Children are sensitive instruments. Their inner life is shaped not only by what they play but by how they are guided to play it. When we pressure them into inappropriate material, we interfere with their sense of balance, emotional safety, and developing relationship with music. But when we trust the quieter path, rich in depth, thoughtful in progression, and anchored in meaningful sound, we create the conditions in which true artistry can eventually flourish.

Let us, then, lay down the heavy armour of tradition when it no longer serves. Let us not confuse rigour with brutality. And let us remember that our responsibility as teachers is not to impress others with what our students can play at eight years old, but to guide these young beings so that they may still want to play at eighteen and do so with freedom, insight, and love for the art.

In this spirit, we become more than instructors. We become guardians of a sacred process in which the forces of life, growth, and music meet in harmony.

Each word is shaped by thought, not algorithm.