First, an excerpt from this fiendishly challenging piece: Beethoven's Sonata Op. 101 (4th Movement)
His slightly trembling hands rose level to his torso as the anticipating coughs and movements of the audience began to settle. Off to his right was now a penetrating silence that egged him on and pushed him to dive in, like an eager bully would to a timid boy on the edge of a diving board. But he waited and thought. Hands relaxed on the jagged black and white surface, he pressed down to quell the piercing silence. Resonating through the rich acoustics of the hall was the opening E Major chord of Beethoven’s 28th piano sonata. He realize
d now that the circumstances had changed and all at once, the stakes were higher. The first interaction of the cold, smooth keys against the fingers was always the most unusual. In his numerous hours of practice, getting the right sound from the piano in the opening was fairly easy and natural, but suddenly achieving that once familiar sound became something so foreign and so intangible to his physical perceptions. The bright lights on the stage had slightly obscured his vision, his hands felt oddly frigid, and his tuxedo jacket felt as if it was strangling his every movement. Although he couldn’t see them, he could hear and feel the impatient, gaping eyes of the audience prodding him towards an uncertain fate. He found himself coaxing the sound from the instrument, desperately pleading with every motion of his fingers, wrist and arm.
To his relief, the tension of his muscles gradually began to subside and his shoulders down to the tops of each finger regained authority over the massive black and white machine. With each passing note and phrase, the keys began to feel like more like familiar territory, almost as physical extensions of his fingertips. The tempestuous and violent waves of discomfort slowly settled into a stable and assuring calm. As if nothing had happened and as if no time had elapsed, he concluded the first movement. A beautiful A Major resolution. This is what he lived for.
His eyebrows furled in preparation for the initial attack. F Major. A march, lively, but in control. Keep the rhythms tight and steady. Try for accuracy, but don’t let it consume you…. Before he could even think fast enough, his hands took off in an anxious eruption of notes and dotted rhythms. The second movement had begun, and his fingers were racing several lengths ahead of his cautious mind. A few missed notes ensued, but not enough to impair his goal, certainly not enough to break his concentration. He fixed his eyes on the keyboard, watching and observing every detailed move his hands made. It was a game, a game of will and focus. Are you sure you know all the notes? Careful here, it’s always given you problems! Everyone’s heard Beethoven before; you can’t reinvent the wheel with one performance! As the movement progressed, these voices began to run through his head, by no invitation of his conscience. Unexpectedly, he began to feel less secure. Though these negative thoughts infiltrated his mind, they were quickly denied by his sheer tenacity. He had to continue, regardless; he refused to succumb to this needless self-destruction.
At this point, he was frustrated at his loss of attention. His attack at the piano became angular and increasingly aggressive as his tempo began to escalate. The heart rate was rapid once more and beads of sweat began to manifest along the ridges of his forehead. Sometimes it took an event of uncertainty to turn a performance around, he thought. While he focused with all his might on the swift rhythms and rapidly changing harmonies, he secretly awaited the conclusion, which he knew would signal his chance to reorganize his thoughts. In poised fashion, he finished off the movement, allowing the thick and bold F Major chords to usher him forward to victory. He then waited, planning his next move, as the residual sounds of the final chord dissolved like mist in the cold, frigid air.
At last the moment of meditation had arrived. With no regrets in mind, he wiped the sweat from his face and shifted his focus to the present task, the third movement. A few coughs echoed from the audience. They always had to let all their coughs out during the slow movement. He closed his eyes, letting his muscles do the work as he fluidly pushed through each resonant and rich harmony, as if he were slowly stirring thick syrup. He angled his head slightly upwards in order to listen to the sounds of each chord dissolving in the air above him. Smiling, he felt suddenly a palpable connection with the composer, a powerful bond strengthened further by each resounding and cascading harmony. Briefly, the passion, anguish, and deep pathos of Beethoven’s music became a lucid and clear thought, a sensation free of enigma or abstraction. This is what he lived for. The coughing had ceased and he could feel the attention of the audience, the piercing feeling against his skin of a gazing crowd anticipating his every gesture.
Confidence always was a risk. When at ease, the mind constantly faced the temptation to wander, to deviate from the task at hand. The fourth and final movement of the sonata began without pause from the third. In dramatic and glorious fashion, the hands struck thick and sonorous chords in imitation of one another, followed by elaborate running sixteenth notes in flourishes that painted the keyboard up and down like the strokes of a brush against a canvas.
It was the final stretch and the boldest period to the grand statement that this sonata fully embodied. It was here that he felt the most ready, yet the most unsettled. Through all the chaos and magnificence of the sounds that engulfed his entire body, he fixed his eyes on the reflection of his hands moving briskly in the shiny black mirror of the keyboard lid. Steinway & Sons was printed proudly in gold lettering in its usual position on the inside of the lid. The letters displayed across the lid appeared so brilliant in the glaring lights of the stage. He was transfixed, strangely mesmerized by the Steinway logo. He loved how boldly and powerfully STEINWAY, in its all-capital glory, was branded on the instrument before him. Somehow it gave him a sense of empowerment and control. Yet, his heart was racing again, inexplicably. Imagine being this Steinway fellow, knowing that millions of pianos around the world bear your name… and your sons!! This time even faster. And how many of these sons were there?? And then the lapse.
This time, he had lost it, his concentration shattered cold-bloodedly by his internal voice. His hands hesitated, his ears listened intently and nervously, and the voices in his head diminished to nothing more than a whisper. All he could hear now was the pounding and earth-shattering expectation of his once faithful crowd. After another false start, he was able to pick himself up again and resume the movement. Though he was exasperated at his most recent flaws, he unknowingly smirked. Oh well, he thought, might as well join the human race.
As if inspired by his mistakes, he ploughed to the finish of the sonata, his hands rising and falling with trust and conviction. He visualized the final page of the score in his head as he played and felt an overwhelming sense of relief. The sudden outburst of A Major chords in both hands gave the piece an emphatic and heroic conclusion. His hands flew off the keys in a dramatic exclamation, the harmonies an uproarious outburst of monumental character. Before his arms had a chance to fully rest at his sides, the audience erupted in applause and cheer and enthusiastically rose to their feet. He stood to bow. This time he knowingly smirked.
He walked off into the dark corridors of the backstage and the next moment was ushered back onto the stage for another curtain call. The audience was still standing, and he stood before them, soaking in their appreciative claps. He felt an extraordinary sense of accomplishment that he knew would last only briefly, but would be worth every ounce of his commitment and passion to the art he so deeply worshipped.
He exited the stage for the final time that evening, realizing he could rest but very little. Tomorrow, it will be as though no performance, either good or bad, even took place. Tomorrow, it’s back to the colorless and daily monotony of practice, the beginning of a fresh ambition to repeat this sense of accomplishment time and time again. Even if it is for the smallest fraction of a moment, that time in space, filled with the rapturous sounds of applause after a performance, gives him a fulfillment that makes him believe his efforts and work have come to fruition. Despite the unexpected and anxiety-filled pathway music has paved for him, he carries with him one conviction he always know will remain: This is absolutely what he lives for.
A selection of a couple of my performances
