The stage is dimly
lit. Although the concert hall is full,
the audience is silent with anticipation.
I sit among the crowd, captivated by the commanding presence seated at
the grand piano, center stage. All is
quiet, and suddenly he starts to play. As his fingers wander across the keys, the
piano produces the sweetest, loneliest melody. I am instantly lost in
Beethoven’s Pathetique.
Like any skilled
musician, he is supremely aware of his talent.
He has an air of confidence when he plays. Despite the crowd of people spread out before
him, he is comfortable on the stage. The
piano is an extension of his spirit. His
fingers delicately brush the keys and they respond with lovely harmonies. As a musician myself, it is obvious to me
that he knows the piano by familiar love and touch - like a person. All my thoughts of stressful meetings and
homework melt away as the music washes over me.
Suddenly, the mood changes and Chopin’s rousing
Revolutionary Etude No. 2 bursts forth from the piano. He expertly controls the dramatic tension in
the hall with swelling crescendos and heavy accents, like punctuation marks in
the middle of a beautiful, never-ending line of poetry. And he moves; he dances with the piano, he
sways back and forth, his body jerks up and down, he gains energy as the
roaring refrain persists. For a moment,
I think he might explode off the piano bench in his passion. This extraordinary performance propels me to
another world, a world where my ears are my only asset, and my only purpose is
to listen.
It all ends with
Brahms’ Intermezzo No. 2 in A major. He
finishes, the poem ends, the music decrescendos to silence, and the audience is
holding its breath. I vaguely remember
that I am sitting in a concert hall surrounded by people. The sudden thunderous applause brings me back
to the present, and I jump to my feet to join the standing ovation. I went home that night with his performance
on my mind. How could I not? It was as if he had weighed the meaning of
every note, studied every phrase, and shaped each piece of music himself. His performance was a self-portrait. Listening to his music, I felt as if I had
known this stranger for years.
Every purposeful pause, every resounding chord, every intricate detail
in the music was a personal reflection of this great artist’s heart. I was happy to let my thoughts linger on the
performance.
Months passed, but I
did not forget his brilliant recital. We
never spoke, and the very sight of him intimidated me. I assumed his superior musical abilities put
him in a category far-removed from my own social circle. I never dared to approach him and
congratulate him on his flawless performance.
However, one day I was thrust into a situation which gave me the opportunity to overcome my fear of this skilled virtuoso. My piano instructor informed me that I was to
play a duet with him for an upcoming recital.
I immediately panicked. How could
I possibly be expected to perform with someone so accomplished? As an amateur pianist, I could picture myself
ruining the entire duet and shaming this prodigy. But the following week, there I was, music in
hand: fingers shaking, hands sweating.
In spite of my irrational
fear of him, the duet came together in record time. At first, when we played together, I felt
clumsy and awkward at the piano next to him.
My fingers fumbled around on the keys, while his danced and maneuvered
their way through difficult passages. More
than anything, I wanted to defend myself: “I actually play a lot better than
this. Your insane talent makes me
nervous.” Eventually, we grew
increasingly comfortable around each other, and his confidence seemed to
overflow onto me. It helped me immensely
to perform with a pianist who exuded such self-assurance. As our friendship developed, the powerful,
commanding persona I associated with him disappeared, and instead I discovered
a friendly, wonderfully witty, and complex individual.
The night of the
recital, the stage is dimly lit and the piano is center stage. It all feels oddly familiar, and I know that
if the duet is played half as well as his interpretation of the Beethoven Pathetique, our performance will be a
success. I am sitting in the hall,
waiting, like a witness awaiting the call to the stand. My heart is beating rapidly and my hands are
shaking. I cast a sideways glance over
at him as he looks over his music with a faint smile on his face. Silently willing myself to relax, I sit on my
jittering fingers and exhale loudly. He looks at me and smiles, and somehow I feel encouraged by his friendly and familiar
presence.
About halfway through
the program, the agonizing wait is over.
As we walk on stage, I stick out my chin and put on what I hope is a
convincing smile. Despite my nerves, his company has a miraculously calming effect. Composed and poised to play, we sit at the
piano and pause for a moment. Then,
fingers positioned, we breathe together and launch into action. We are soaring through the music. We are a team. I am not thinking about the many pairs of
eyes staring at me as I play. Instead, I
am thinking about the music, and about him.
I realize that my confidence is an extension of his. And suddenly, in what seems like no time at all, the
piece is over.
