Prodigy
I’m waiting in the wings tonight. My eyes are locked in a tunnel of black and white. Without the clarity of keys, things are blurred and grey. Voices ring atonal. Away from a piano, I know nothing.
I am a cold woman. I’ve been instructed to smile more, and to laugh at jokes, even when they’re at my expense. I’ve chosen to ignore this. I’ve been told that silence is a virtue.
As far back as I have memories, I’ve been sitting tall and straight, shoulders back in line with the corners of a piano stool. I don’t know how to bend any other way. I get mixed messages about posture. My handler, Badger, said that though my stature is perfect, men might feel more comfortable if I made myself look smaller than I really am. My hands have developed a claw-like resting position, very unladylike. Musicians, especially their hands, are associated with grace. Male musicians, however, are not expected to float in real life too.
I process back to the green room. At these events, I stand to the side, glass in hand, so still the wine barely moves. I do not drink it. My disinterest in others adds credence to my reputation. Even if it makes people dislike me, I find it better to keep them wary. I see no reward in false modesty, or in patronising affection. There is no point making others underestimate me—I want them playing at their best, too. The danger needs to be real to activate the switch in my amygdala, opening the floodgates to adrenaline. I will play better the only way that is possible—driven into each performance knowing it could be my last.
The other pianists mingle in an alarming palette of black, white, and deep red. The relaxed muscles, gentle laughter and gestures look like a good way to warm up physically before a performance. Badger has discouraged me from trying to engage my competitors in conversation.
‘It’s not a priority. You don’t need friends and all that.’
If I were to approach them, I may not know what to say. I have not learned.
I’m going for a classic look with mid-length white gloves. I have a ritual of removing them with a flourish before every performance. It’s impressive and intriguing, revealing a secret self, only seen by the keys. But if I can draw the audience into that character, I have more chance of succeeding.
I’ve seen different behaviours in lower-level competitions, people sitting stiffly by the walls, having ‘meltdowns,’ curling their bodies into defensive balls, being either held or yelled at by whatever adults buzzed around them. At the level of tonight’s show (age and experience) if anyone has a shred of doubt about their skill left, it’s kept behind closed doors. This group appears experienced. Their poise isn’t dissimilar to my own—there are only small dregs of anxiety and exhaustion remaining, visible in too-frequent rolling of a wineglass stem between red finger pads, and frequent shifting of weight from one leg to another. Maybe the unpredictability that fatigue brings to a performance tilts it into a uniquely engaging, fragile space.
That’s something all musicians say, ‘my career IS my life.’ They don’t mean it. As far as I know, their lives won’t be over if they don’t win, only their careers. The losers will either keep working, retiring next year a little stronger, or fade into comfortable mediocrity and local acclaim. Others will fall into a spiral of shame, never to return. I, on the other hand, see no such future. There has never been a player like me before, so all I can see ahead is more of the same (success) or nothing.
Even when young, practicing was the only thing I could imagine to pass my time. When focusing on music, I could ignore the dull whirrings of my body that underscored every moment. I became elegant and precise, compliments flowed in. Teachers and technicians enjoyed the praise of their handiwork. I think I would have been exhausted if I’d had the time.
Badger walks among the crowd, stopping for brief, affable interactions. He whispers to some other man, and they both turn to stare at me.
‘Fine tuned machine […] demonstration of our method […] early days. We can’t know for sure.’
There’s no need to worry. I’ve been trained hours, years for this evening. Every movement is ingrained in my muscles. Memory is not my problem now. All that remains is what to do with the piece.
I’m playing Liszt’s “La Campanella.” It’s an odd piece to express emotion through, notable for speed and difficulty. There’s no time to linger, to let the piece grow a life of its own in the mind of the listener. Before it can take root, I have to move on, and break apart the delicate chord sculpture with the next brutal phrase. If I give in to sentimentality for even a fraction of a second, I’ll be dismissed as clumsy, not worth considering a threat. However, if I play perfectly, it won’t be personal.
I’ve been trying to understand the process of creating emotion, all the behavioural signifiers, the flow charts, the different steps and intakes of breath that, through the course of a day, give rise to a particular feeling. Music is subjective, it’s hard to predict its effect on a listener. An accelerando up a scale or a gently pressed cadenza can squeeze tears out of eyes, or lose an audience entirely, seeming too contrived. Even though they chose the piece, the men are critical if I can break it to the audience. I overhear Badger and the other technicians, as I have many times before.
Mechanical
Hollow Tired Ironic
I have to ensure my performance isn’t an insignificant footnote in the evening, quickly forgotten. Which is worse? Being forgotten, or being remembered for making a mistake? I’m so well prepared I only have one of those possibilities to worry about. At least if you make a mistake, the audience will be drawn in by the possibility of a redemption arc. Music is a language, and human foibles creeping in is often what connects. There’s an expectation of the artist’s fingerprints on the performance.
My name is called. Badger sidles up to me. I stay as still as I can. He tugs a strand of my hair out of place, then pulls it behind my ear. He pulls my glass out of my hand.
‘Can’t have that. You’re sloppy enough already. Try to look a little perkier, for once.’ He downs the rest of the wine in one gulp.
He registers a dent his nail made in my skin. He picks up my wrist again, smoothing the dent away with his thumb.
He snaps back into our routine.
‘Right. Articulation,’ he says.
I spread my fingers out, palms facing him. He pushes each of my fingers back, checking the joints for any looseness or excessive tension. I offer no resistance first time round, second with as much strength as I can muster. He lets out a sharp hiss when the skin at the base of each finger burns red.
He steps back, taps a brisk tempo with his heel. I reach across and push each finger back one by one, in time. First, each beat, then subdividing up.
“Good. Again.”
Quavers. Semi-quavers. Demi-semi-quavers. Up and up, metric acceleration. The same exercises I’ve done every day, from the beginning of my development. Exercises perfect for “La Campanella.” It begins to process; the uncertainty before me. Who will I be, then, when the piece ends, tonight? What will I do with my days? A new piece, I suppose. I cannot picture it.
“Well. Off you go.”
I draw my hands back to my side. A suited, headset-wearing usher directs me out of the golden lit greenroom into a dim, forbidding corridor. There is a series of thin, wood-walled rooms to navigate. All of the delightful period details are reserved for the guests and teachers in the waiting area where drinks were held. Anywhere pictures might be taken. Whether a community theatre or national opera house, the eating rooms and crew corridors are barely lit and claustrophobic. Any worries are trapped in with you, and you feel you will never make it out.
I hear muffled applause through the wall. When it ebbs into silence, I roll my shoulders back and walk onstage. My small view opens up, green velvet curtains and cruel white light. Before I play a single note, the performance has begun. I don’t need to look, I can see them, stern-browed judges, and the sleepy audience hiding behind their programmes, examining my dress, how I walk.
I bend down to adjust my stool—I don’t trust an assistant to get it right. Everything looks wrong under these lights. Until I am in this moment, suddenly again onstage, I always forget this feeling, these looks. I feel so weak. I suppose I shall forget again. With more effort than it should take, I sit, trying to hold my body still. I turn to the audience, with what should be an acceptable hint of a smile.
“La Campanella” is a ‘gutsy’ choice. It requires a mechanical precision, a ringing bell, a built-in metronome, making any mistake painfully clear, not just to an adjudicator, to a vaguely interested audience, but to anyone. The janitors, caterers, will be able to tell, supportive family members watching the live stream will tell. One millisecond mistake cascades, tearing a bigger and bigger hole in the rhythm of the piece, until it consumes all the attention of the audience. It grows too large for the pianist to ignore. You can skip a beat to try to make it up, but you might just create a second hole, a second mistake.
I sit, inhale, and the gloves come off. I hold my hand in the air, my muscles tense, and I wait milliseconds for my elbows to drop a few degrees, for my muscles to relax. Finally, things feel a little closer to perfect. I exhale.
Cold ivory strikes the hot pads of my fingers, bone against bone.
Aspiration to elegance is empty. Economy of motion is a very shallow aspect of technique. Just the first step to mastery, not a drop of artistry. My style is vicious, bodyweight behind each fingertip, investing the right amount of pressure on each key. It takes work in my core to maintain a steady silhouette onstage. All elegance is a deception. The woman is an illusion and only the music is true.
It’s not written in the score, but between the first two themes, I stop. I let off the pedal, and let the air gasp, leaving a space for the audience to catch up, be captured too.
For the second section, I create a cheerful, bright tone. I hear people unfamiliar with the piece shifting in their seats. There’s an upward scale. Despite the repetition and speed of the piece, I carefully adjust my playing for each note, taking time to understand how each echoes in the space. I adapt until I have each note ringing as I wish. The notes overlap in the room, creating a strange, otherworldly tide, sounding more like a xylophone trill than a piano. The effect is serene.
I’m not sure if I want to stay here, on this stage, in my perfect “La Campanella” forever, or wish it were already over, to see and hear what lies beyond the performance every skill I have was honed for.
What is this? I know time cannot stop. The rhythm beats on—in my head, in my chest. My hands follow.
Machine. Machine. Right. Left. Articulation. Onto the next section. Metric acceleration.
Pressure pulses beneath my skin, through my chest and lungs, heating the metal too far, too fast.
I just want to keep playing, for many more nights after this, many more songs. I want to get away from what I’ve mastered, the metronome, the bell, “La Campanella.” It’s a piece about music. For me, the metronome, a ticking spectre atop the piano, mercilessly marking my proximity to perfection.
I pull my fingers to the far right keys, repeating two notes. I build sound, more power than before. Cut the next note slightly short to make up the time. Linger in unease. I roll my shoulders forward, transfer a fraction of my bodyweight into my fingertips to make the forte just a little stronger. Yes. I will make it. Contained metal-on-metal screech repetitive release.
Metronomic high notes are played over the simple primary melody. It’s odd to listen to, and I can feel, surely the audience does too, how unsure I am of what part to place my attention on. I draw out the melody with more legato, lightening the metronomic notes. I want to glide organically, away from the mechanical scream in my right hand.
For a piece of music to sound alive, it needs space to breathe. Those moments are not written into a score, they can’t be. You have to learn to sense them, where to place them. You need to learn to play so intuitively that the music is an extension of your body. As each player is different, so will be the creature they create, and how it breathes.
In even the most praised recordings of “La Campanella,” you hear the bell falter, once or twice. Performing the piece to a professional standard is impressive enough it’s overlooked, but leaves the question in the mind of a listener: Is the perfect performance possible? Performing the piece to that level of accuracy is still enough to impress. This audience won’t allow me that margin of charming human error. Letting the melody breathe while maintaining the bell-like repetition is, in theory, an impossible task. But I’ll be the one to manage it. Because I have to, to survive.
I’m unsure if this was ever stated to me. Unsure if I thought it, inferred it, if Badger implanted it. Illogically, my brain registers it as fact. If I don’t succeed, I will be discarded. There will be another student after me. They will have the benefit of the methods used to train me. They will be able to process faster. They may even have a beating heart, and warm the perfect playing with their flesh. I wish, I wish, I wish I could do that. I wish I was enough.
I’ve never cried. Maybe tear ducts weren’t fitted. This new pain in my head has nowhere to go. My vision explodes in white gold.
Finally, the music in the room sounds the way the piece sounds in my head. My own, unique ideal of it. Even though my body hurts, even though it took me so long to play like this, those mechanical, bodily flaws are no longer in the way of the music.
The sequence programmed into my hands ensures that good things never last.
This melody is my last chance to recapture the pristine feeling. I give in to that wish. I devote all of my focus to the left hand. I attempt to make the notes more than the sum of their parts. Something truly worthy of the decades I’ve wasted to play this tune. Listen for sweetness within the mathematics. Fill each note with all my breath. I hope it is enough.
l give up perfection, reaching for the final notes with nothing left to give. I don’t move my head, but I roll my eyes upwards towards the bright ceiling. My shoulders, my back, everything burns. If I take one more breath, this world will break.
The final note reverberates away until first the audience, one by one, and then lastly I, no longer hear it. The music, the moment, is already gone. The audience have begun to forget, but it’s ingrained in my body forever.
The skin of my back tears apart, the satin of my dress stained by oil, gears and fluid struggling against the fabric. I cannot tell if sweat, tears or condensation run down my face. It no longer matters. The audience applaud.
Everything that filled me pours out of my back. The shell shudders, still in the angles of the pianist’s precise poise. Strip after strip of thin metal warps and tears. Tightly coiled wires buzz, dragged over and against each other and strange metals. Did I ever really breathe, or have I just spent my life perpetually rattling? For the first time, I wonder if I have fingerprints. Did I ever move at all?
I have always lain here, in a thin pool of air.
I stare at worn, red fingertips. Each second that goes by, they seem more alien. The angles my shadow casts across the floor are abstract.
I hear two men walk onstage. They move closer, blocking me from the audience’s view as I slide off the stool. The lighting brightens to show their faces clearly, leaving me a crumpled silhouette.
Through trial and error,
I discover I cannot speak.
I send the same message again and again
Move.
Anything.
Fingers?
Please. Anything.
A curtain falls, muffling roars from the audience. The light is trapped inside, revealing the stage to be filled with dust. A man drags me offstage by the wrist. The white gold lighting is the last image burned in. It is time for the next act.
Amy Blyth Noble studied English and Creative Writing at Te Herenga Waka (Vic) and now writes about living with a disability and being a nerd. She can be found hiding in Wellington’s choirs. She has been published in Circular, Mayhem, Turbine | Kapohau 2022 and the National Library of New Zealand.