The Ballad of a Sculptor Pianist

It’s me again!
Finally, you might say. And I would agree. Unfortunately, schoolwork takes precedence over pleasure. But tonight is an exception. Tonight, anything that provides a bit of stress relief is my homework.
Tomorrow is the big day! My junior recital!

I’d like to chronicle the experience of preparing and giving a full-length solo recital. It’s something I’ve never done, and it’s something many of us will never do. It’s always nice to know that your subject matter isn’t something that your readers are likely to know more about than yourself.
Of course, it all started at the beginning of the semester, when my teacher and I worked out a program. Most of the choices were fairly obvious, since I’d been working on them enough to have a decent start. First in the lineup: the first movement of Bach’s Italian Concerto. Next, all of Mozart’s Sonata in F, K. 332. Then, a set of short character pieces by Debussy, and then, the grand finale, Chopin’s Ballade no. 1 in G minor.

Now, that’s only 38 minutes of music, which isn’t terribly ambitious. And most of the repertoire is “doable,” as my teacher so aptly describes it. However, I’ve been hearing mixed results about the ballade. One lady who was waiting in the hallway asked me when I angrily burst out of the practice room if I was a graduate student. Frustrated that my practicing wasn’t going as well as I liked, I laughed and told her “Good heavens, no! I’m getting ready for a junior recital, and it's not even going all that well,” and she looked agreeably impressed. On the other hand, I heard three phenomenal performances of the ballade by high school students during the Chopin Competition (one of whom had only been working on the piece for three months), which made me feel most disagreeably inadequate.

So…ambitious or not, I was in for it. And I had no idea what I had gotten myself into during those last months in Italy. My Italian maestro was very enthusiastic about the piece and told me I was making good progress, but all I really managed to do was get some really good groundwork again until I was back to my usual structured semester at Meredith.

So I began pounding away in earnest in January. The Ballade is fifteen pages of stormy lyricism; heartbreaking and breathtaking when played well, and unbearably showy and self-indulgent when played poorly. Chopin himself wrote that it was his favorite of all of his compositions, and many agree that while it may not be his best writing, they still love it best of all. That’s a high standard for any piece, but for one that is so technically demanding, it’s nearly impossible to live up to such expectations.

I quickly learned which sections needed lots and lots of drilling. So I did just that…slow and fast, with and without pedal, staccato and legato, as written and with rhythmic variations, loud and soft, hands alone and hands together, but mostly just slow. Over and over and over again. Usually, with enough drilling, there’s one day when I have a sudden breakthrough, when everything just “clicks.” Not with the ballade. I felt like I was at the foot of a giant rock, as big as the Great Wall of China, with a chisel, making tiny dents here and there when I pounded mindlessly and getting nowhere at all when I threw all I had into it.

Of course, I kept up with my other repertoire. But those pieces progressed fairly steadily, with some bumps in memorization and some technical issues. For the most part, however, they were “doable.” Chopin was proving intractable. Nothing provided the impetus, the final shove, not even hearing Walter Hautzig’s stunning performance (and powerful story about the piece: the ballade, in a way, saved his life by getting him a job with a conductor who was willing to get him out of Austria during the early years of the Third Reich). While I was personally mightily inspired, my playing didn’t reflect it. My teacher patiently gave me comments and practice techniques week after week, reminding me that sometimes pieces just take time to settle. Finally, however, he told me that we would have to reschedule my recital.

Of course, I was disappointed. I was much more than disappointed, I was furious. Anybody can get a recital together in three and a half months! People do it all the time! Why couldn’t I? I sure as heck was practicing enough! Faculty members had taken to greeting me as they left in the evenings with “Why are you still here?” and “Go home!” What was wrong with me? Why wasn’t my drilling and drilling and drilling making any progress?

I stormed around in a dark, gloomy, frazzled mood for the two extra weeks before my rescheduled hearing. The dent in the Great Wall of a bolder was growing slowly, but was still just a dent. At some point, I gave up on the chisel and started using my head as a battering ram.

Then the Monday before my hearing, it happened. I looked up, and the rock was gone. In its place was something entirely different, something beautiful. Granted, it was rough around the edges, and there was still lots of rubble that needed clearing away. But I felt like there was no need to bang my head against it anymore. I wondered if that was how Michelangelo felt when he finished David.

I had a piano lesson the next day. My teacher told me that we would treat it just like the hearing (which I interpreted as him trying to scare the heck out of me so I’d be mentally prepared for playing for a committee of three piano faculty), so I played through my entire program. He didn’t say a word until I finished the last note of the fifteen pages of ballade. When I finished, he told me, “You deserve a hug for that.” When he told me I was definitely ready, I had to take a deep breath and try not to cry.

I should stop and explain. The concept of “tears of joy” never made sense to me. When I’m happy, I laugh, I smile, and I talk a lot. I don’t cry. Seeing tears as a good thing is new for me.

In the two weeks following my hearing, I’ve tried to connect to the Ballade on more of an artistic level, now that my technique is at the “doable” level. A ballade tells a story; this type of composition takes its name from literary ballads. What story, I wasn’t sure. I knew from my program notes research that it was supposed to be a lament, but a lament for who or what?

I’ve told many stories with the ballade. I’ve been Ophelia, losing her sanity over her fickle prince. I’ve been Buttercup from the Princess Bride, bitterly vowing to “never love again” after Wesley has died. I’ve been myself, beyond frustrated with the monumental task I have set before me. Regardless of what story I choose to tell, the passion and desperation of the music will make any narrative a poignant one.
I wish I could say I’ve literally poured my blood, sweat, and tears into this performance. Actually, it wouldn’t be that far off. Substitute chipped fingernails and sore wrists for blood, and you’ve got it. I’ve spent my fair time sweating under the stage lights. I’ve cried of exasperation, exhaustion, and exhilaration. Tomorrow night, I hope you cry too.

It may sound like a bizarre wish. But it really isn’t. I hope, if you happen to hear me tomorrow night, that Chopin’s ballade will bring tears to your eyes. Because that means that my rock will have been sculpted into something wonderful.