Music and Intention

To recreate a piece of classical music is to unlock a capsule of emotion buried deep in the score before you.

It is to bring the work to life, stretching the imagination as far as it will go, giving way to a balance of narratives. It’s this emotion that probes your own, that lets you humanize the score and embody the composer’s story. You may find yourself losing sight of your surroundings, falling into an artistic trance, taken back to centuries past when its creation was underway. But as you focus on illuminating the pain, the anger, the frustration, and the joy through those chiming keys, you may find yourself feeling more focused and centered than before.

***

The piano and I have a history.

We met when I was four years old, barely able to reach the halfway point between the bench and the floor, much less the pedals. I guess that’s the beauty of the instrument; you can learn to give it life without needing to match its size or its strength. Like most kids, I resented playing for a long time before growing to love it. But that didn’t sway my parents from obligating daily practice. Silenced throughout their own childhood as Jews growing up in Soviet Russia, freedom of self-expression—no matter what medium it came in—was a privilege in and of itself; there was no excuse to let such an opportunity slip through my fingers.

Seated uncomfortably upon that bench, my stubborn four-year-old self could never have imagined the gratitude I would one day feel for their insistence and diligence.

In the seventh grade, I remember desperately wanting to spend the summer at sleepaway camp. Predictably, the idea was utterly foreign to my parents. It didn’t make the slightest sense to want to sleep away from home. More importantly, to go without practicing piano for two months was out of the question. The final compromise was a performing arts camp in the middle of Sweden, Maine. I would be majoring in piano and minoring in voice, practicing every day, learning to sight-read faster, and working with esteemed mentors. Every kid’s dream. As my friends prepared for waterparks and volleyball tournaments, I was sorrowfully printing sheets of music to work through and perfect by August.

Yet isn’t it often the case that our best experiences manifest when we least expect them to? Slowly learning that I had a knack for the piano, I grew to love and appreciate it. The people I was surrounded by, students and mentors alike, were not only warm and welcoming but incredibly talented. I was acquainted with kids from all walks of life, all races, ethnicities, and religions, and all connected by a pure and raw love for music and its history. As the summer ran its course, I found myself unexpectedly captivated by the uses of color in Chopin’s Four Ballades, by the irony of Mahler’s First Symphony, and the hints of melancholy in Brahms’ Cello Sonata. I remember the first time I heard George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue”––it was like watching smooth chocolate pouring out of a ramekin.

Confidence was never my strong suit. Gratuitously shy as a kid, anxious to engage, and slow to digest conversation, I always felt behind in a world that worships charisma and poise.

Developing a voice, fully honest and true to myself, has been a challenging feat in the presence of self-criticism, judgment, and doubt. I’ve been told this kind of self-acceptance and assurance is not something that can be taught, but rather learned through experience and perhaps gradually with age. It’s funny how often this advice rings true as I discover, engage, and connect with new interests, beginning that summer with music. At the piano, I found that voice, and it continues to sing with certainty and conviction, telling a story better than I can with my own words.

***

When I sat down to practice, I did it with intention.

Alongside my own, the voice of my summer mentor stays with me in the memories of our lessons and conversations. We’d begin in silence, listening—really listening—to a recording of the piece I’d been grappling with. Sometimes we’d focus on the breathtaking; other times, we’d lament the mundane, or perhaps we’d deliberate the performer’s directional changes in the music. We’d talk about history: not only the composer’s but the performer’s as well. Many pianists, I learned, connect with and relate to a particular composer above all others, a connection that inevitably comes through in the music.

“Pressing keys mechanically won’t get you far,” this mentor would say. “You have to know and feel what you’re doing on the inside.” I came to understand that to convey a story meaningfully and influence the hearts and minds of an audience requires more from us as performers than mere knowledge and memorization of the score. It involves a kind of inner commitment: a genuine understanding and willingness to embody the music before us.

With nowhere to be and nowhere to go in the middle of Sweden, Maine, I’d sit in a small, cramped, and pungent practice room, windows open to let the breeze in. The serenity of the woods made the air feel peaceful; it was a blank canvas gradually shaded with the color of trumpets, violins, and cellos in the practice rooms nearby. With hours to spend, I started identifying individual sections to work on and reflected on the particulars of each page. I learned to practice consciously and with genuine focus. Even the way my body leaned into the keyboard would affect the softness of the keys. I was using all five senses to make the music sing, to unlock that capsule of emotion. And as I took the smallest steps in progress each day, I seemed to be gaining more and more control of the instrument. Despite difficult technical passages, I centered that focus, and I practiced intentionally.

***

Only recently has the piano become a guiding hand for me.

At the onset of Covid, I did what many of us had to do to keep our sanity—or perhaps what classically trained pianists have been habituated to do—creating a strict routine to keep myself from thinking too deeply about world events. Indeed, it alleviated some of the anxiety I seemed to share with the rest of the nation. Tangible goals and a predictable schedule tend to keep us fairly stable in a time that is anything but predictable.

Slowly, however, I found myself treating that routine as though it was a lifeline. With no human contact and no socialization, I was completing tasks merely to get them finished and out of the way. There was little meaning to coursework, as seasonal goals slipped away with every passing month that the pandemic loomed. I found myself confronted with an empty schedule and complying with empty rules. Now, after a year of Zoom, classes that I once would have approached with inordinate enthusiasm and zest, I struggle to sit through. Papers that once would have been intriguing to write and meditate over, I find to be a burden. Learning and writing, the two things I valued above all else coming into college, have both become a chore to complete. For the past year, I realize I’ve been moving through life mechanically and senselessly: following the schedule, the plan. But in the midst of all of it, I lost genuine curiosity and, more importantly, genuine presence.

Now, as I reflect on those pure and slow-moving childhood summers, I’m beginning to recall and appreciate the role that intention plays in a life of meaning and purpose. Perhaps we don’t all have the freedom to lessen our loads, but we do have the opportunity to cultivate that same presence and mindfulness we used to nurture as children. In these deliberate times, I often find myself clutching those nostalgic memories of breezy Maine summers, worn-down wooden keys, and the familiar feeling of enthusiasm at the site of a new score.

As the world recalibrates normalcy, we are being thrown back into the fast-paced and competitive cycle we were forced to break free of last March. But after a year of moving senselessly from task to task, I am learning from those people in my life who have abandoned that race in order to breathe, reflect and re-evaluate. In my final year of college, I challenged myself to revitalize that love of learning that I held on to so firmly before the pandemic; to be more engaged, more mindful, and more committed to things I take on. I challenge myself to listen better, to be more present in my relationships. And I challenge myself to welcome responsibility, following through on it intentionally.

From what I’ve learned over these past seventeen years of growth as a musician, it is only through a steadfast dedication and sincere focus to even the most mundane of tasks that we can become grateful for our achievements and clearer in our vocation.

***

To grow with a piece of classical music is to let it be shaped and molded by your development and experience.

It is to understand that art can be transformed and re-interpreted, even if only in our minds. For the performer, it is to remember that every piece has a new lesson to offer, a new message to convey, and a new way to connect with it. Growing with a piece of classical music involves revision, and re-orientation with every experience, both in the score and in ourselves. In this season of solitude and separation, music can bring us into a relationship with the creator, can revive the audiences that cannot congregate, and can draw us into deeper relationships with ourselves.