Victoria Wu

C. The note that started all notes. The first note I played when I was four and the first note I play tonight to begin Chopin’s Ballade No.1 in G minor. 

The audience is cloaked. I can’t see past the stage. The spotlight is on me, and on the black instrument in front of me, its pearl white keys catching the sparkling stage light—their stillness and beauty transformed by a gentle touch of my finger. Sink into the keys. I lean into the first notes, riding the vibrant music the pianoemits. I play the broken arpeggio up to its peak, before letting it fall back down and die away. A melancholy trail cries out through the strings. 

Playing piano is about precision and perseverance. Every night, I perfect the motions, feel the keys, untilthe notes come on their own. Each press has to be precise for the note to convey my meaning. Each phrase has to sing, previous notes connecting to the next. Only then, comes interpretation—a true interpretation arises when the piece becomes as familiar to the musician as her heartbeat and the composer andconventions of the time are kept in mind. 

A part of me has escaped; I gave it up voluntarily. My hands instinctively form the next chord. The story of this piece has played itself out in my mind thousands of times: how, during Chopin’s travels (between autumn of 1829 and of 1831), his experiences and traumas, dreams and memories, molded together to birth this ballade that both he and Schumann quoted is his best, genius work. 

Like I have since I was four, I walk into my living room and sit on my piano bench. Years of use cause it to creak, but the cushions remember my form. This is my room. A cushy rocking chair adjacent the glossy blackpiano holds memories of me reading books. My pains and my joys are imprinted here. This room and thepiano have been my constant, from when my legs were too short to touch the ground and blocks had to be added under my feet. 

There are some days my piano does not see me because I am at recitals. The pianos on these stages are different—they hold their own memory. I add to their narrative too, using every single key to paint a story. Sometimes mine, sometimes someone else’s. When I play Brahms’s Intermezzo in A Major, I evoke a sense ofdreamy nostalgia, constantly searching its way forward. When I play Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in B flat Major, I capture Bach’s sheer delight at finally being free from the chains of the wolf tone, once well-tempered tuning developed.  Performing brings me so much joy. I get to draw my audience into the music—share a part of meand convey my emotional message in a way I cannot with mere language. 

I play Chopin’s Ballade No.1. My hands stretch wider and wider and octaves cascade down likeavalanches, growing louder and louder, faster and faster. A triple forte ensues, before I finally cede, ending on a majestic chord. The notes ring loudly and reverberate throughout the concert hall. Though this piece hasended, my story has only just begun.