At a piano summer camp when I was 14, my good friend played a piece I had never heard before. It was called “Mazeppa,” and it was so intense I hardly had a moment to breathe during the performance. I knew nothing about the piece but sensed a great struggle within. After the performance, I learned that it was about a man who has an affair with a Countess and is caught, dragged across the ground naked, and tied to a wild horse (the piece itself is mostly about the dragging, though). When I brought the piece to my teacher, she immediately dismissed it as being far beyond my reach. Nevertheless, the piece called out to me and I eventually came to realize that she didn’t necessarily mean it was beyond my reach technically, but emotionally, given my age and the content. But I’ve always striven to convey profound and powerful meaning through my music, because I’ve always known the music is not just my own--it’s been passed down to me like some family heirloom with a profound history filled with the joys, sorrows, lamentations and victories of those who came before. The unspeakable pain and suffering in the piece which my teacher was worried I couldn’t connect with actually served as the perfect inspiration and has guided how I play the piece to this day.
Along those lines, I’ve come to realize that I’ve always been drawn to melancholy pieces. I never even considered it until my teacher jokingly remarked that every piece I bring to her is in a minor key. Upon reflection, I realized that the reason I loved those emotional pieces so much was because I could connect most deeply to those pieces. Don’t get me wrong, I was not a sad child; I had a pretty happy childhood, but what I Iove about music is that, regardless of who you are or where you come from, there’s the potential to connect with it and others on a level that transcends any commonalities but the ability to feel, and despite my personal experience with a happy childhood, I’ve come to realize that the most universal feeling is one of longing, something often related to sorrow. Or more simply put: it’s not when we’re happy that we turn to music for comfort or for almost a kind of empathy from the composer, but when we’re sad. Only music has the power to convey emotion in its purest form, where anyone, without the slightest knowledge of music theory or experience playing an instrument can understand the music. That potential has become my greatest way to connect with others. And, in the best-case scenario, I not only connect with my audience, but play a part in creating a space where they can connect with one another and their inner selves.
My relationship with music has served also as a conduit for interacting with and understanding the world. Even when I was younger, I looked at the world through that lens. For example, when I was visiting other schools, I’d make note of how many pianos there were and whether they were uprights or grands. In doing so, I came to realize how rare opportunities can be for someone to begin the study of music. Even in the school I go to now, where a lot of people do music in some form, there are only two pianos. Through that lens I came to realize early on that it is a gift to not just have a piano available, but to have the ability and, above all, the resources to learn how to play it well. As such, I always remind myself to appreciate that I’ve been granted a privilege I cannot ignore. It is like an unspoken responsibility, something I owe to my parents, my teachers, and whatever it is in the universe that allows me to play the way I do; while I may have been the one logging the practice hours, I’m fully aware that I’m not the only one responsible for who I am, what I am capable of, and who I turn out to be. If I can contribute to the common good along the way, then I feel I am taking steps towards fulfilling my duty to those people who have made my music possible.