The 'Million Dollar' Question - How My Musical Journey Took Shape
Nearly a decade ago, I woke up early in the morning on a beautiful and sunny fall day in Boston, ready to return to class. The night before I had come home from Europe after spending part of the summer training intensively, competing in an international competition, followed by more training in Munich, Germany. I was trying to catch up with my missed grad school assignments when my phone rang. Irina, my teacher and mentor who had returned from Europe before me, was asking if we could meet up before her recording session that I was supposed to be at. I hurried over to Harvard University’s Paine Concert Hall to grab a quick coffee nearby.
I assumed we were going to discuss upcoming deadlines (I had to decide on doctoral applications after all) so after the usual chit-chat, I got ready for some serious talk. But instead of asking about my prospective university short list, she looked across at me and simply said:
“What’s your legacy going to be?”
Legacy? The concept hadn’t even crossed my mind. I was in my mid-20s, enjoying performing, and trying to finish grad school while running a packed schedule.
“Where do you see yourself going with music in general?” she asked.
The concert stage? I had experience in orchestra, chamber, and solo recitals. Traveling was fun. I’d built so many great connections with people from around the world. Teaching? Sure, I always wanted to transition to a mentor role.
Legacy. Such a short word that carries so much power.
“How are you going to use music to enhance people’s lives?”
I had never thought of music beyond the emotional depth and entertainment aspects of it. At least in relation to the audience, and people in general. That had been my journey with music from the age of six, when I first set foot on a concert stage.
But my limited view of what I could do with music was being challenged in that moment.
And I accepted that challenge.
I spent the next few years balancing out my playing career with everything music-related that didn’t revolve around performing, and just playing in general. I took my elective classes in ethnomusicology, music cognition, psychology, and neuroscience.
Not long after I moved to New York for my last degree, a new student walked into my studio. Ten years old, talented, smart, but incredibly unaware of it. Insecurity masked with a rebellious attitude. Every lesson and coaching session full of uncertainty. I once learned from a former coach that being good at teaching/coaching meant you had to be part-therapist, part-musician. So, I started teaching like it was a therapy session. I asked questions without requiring answers. As the years went by, I began to notice a change. They’d arrive extremely early for their lessons. Fifteen minutes early became thirty. Eventually forty-five. By then they were in high school and attended boarding school, coming home on weekends, so I assumed it was schedule-related. At the beginning of junior year, they walked into the first lesson of the year and told me what I’d already figured out by then: the reason they were so early to lessons was because that was the environment where they could relax emotionally. I knew they weren’t talking about vacation-like relaxation. Anyone who’s ever trained with me knows I run a tight ship. So I told them that they could arrive as early as they wanted. Several solo opportunities later and one competition, and the last lesson rolled around. Before heading off to college, they handed me a card. Inside was a simple sentence with a strong impact:
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Thank-you for believing in me when I didn’t even believe in myself.
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After that fateful conversation over coffee many years ago in Boston, I’d accepted the challenge of seeing my journey with music from a different perspective. Life on the road was enjoyable, and on a scaled-back version now, continues to be rewarding. But living out of a suitcase for weeks on end and going through the adrenaline rush of being on stage then crashing through sleepless nights catching 5am flights, and doing the same on repeat became less purposeful as the years went by. I saw others burn out, suffer through repetitive strain injuries, lose motivation...And I wondered if there was more to what I could do in my pursuit of musical excellence..
But someone had to first come and challenge my mindset, and years later, my teacher and doctoral degree advisor, Phil, would echo it at a different stage in my journey. Now, it’s my turn to do the same while broadening the role of music in people's everyday lives.