Musical Mentor

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.