“The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself.” - Anna Quindlen
I didn’t exactly know stage fright until I was 12.
I had to play in a concert that night. My piece was a waltz from Streabbog, and it was something I’ve played by memory twice or thrice in studio classes so it should be a piece of cake. And it wasn’t my first concert either. I had been playing in school concerts for several times before that, so I was familiar with the atmosphere.
But on some days, things don’t happen. And on that day, it didn’t.
I remember I had a sudden attack of fever, and felt myself swimming between people who waited behind the stage. When I walked, sat, and started to play, I felt like walking on air, until I finally realized that I had already sat there, and then, I forgot my music. Whoosh. It simply disappeared from my brain, and I had to stop. I couldn’t even sing the next notes in my head, and I was wondering why I put my hands on that certain part of the keyboard. How I finally ended the piece was still a wonder to me even after 20 years, but I did manage to walk off the stage.
I always thought that this experience was the nightmare that made me hate the stage ever since. But it wasn’t. The nightmare only came after that. Here’s what happened.
I went back to where I was sitting, which were next to my parents. They were there, their backs arched rigidly, their eyes glued to the stage. When I crept back to my seat, there weren’t any hugs, nor comforting words, nor a sad look that said “oh, dear” or even a stern look that said “that’s what you get for not practising well,” or anything at all. There were simply nothing. Nada. Niente. They weren’t even looking at my direction, as if not wanting to be related to me, as if I’ve caused them a great humiliation. I can only thank God that it was dark at the concert hall that night so I could cry my hot tears silently. It was the first time I realized that you could feel terribly lonely among hundreds of people. And I wasn’t sure if it was because of the performance or the way my parents treated my failure. In any case, as soon as I was old enough to go to concert on my own, I firmly told them not to come. I said I did better when they were not around.
It took me years to forgive them, and after that I invited them to my concert again. I had to come up with an explanation I could think of (because we never discussed that) and I drew a conclusion that they probably didn’t know what to do about the situation. My mum was and always has been a perfectionist so I can understand if she was having a hard time accepting that stoppage, moreover to understand that it could happen, and my dad never really understood the psychology of such things. (In fact, he still doesn’t understand the psychology of many things). But first and foremost, I think the fact that they aren’t musicians were the reason that they just didn’t have a clue that shit does happen on stage.
Now, after 20 years, shit did happen again on stage.
I went up stage again last night. It was a chamber music concert which I’ve planned for more than a month. It was supposed to be nice. I had good musician-friends lined up, the program was interesting, it was all well thought. And my piece was perfect. I had a piano trio by Reinecke, it wasn’t big, and technically, nothing was beyond my capacity. And I loved the piece. I had loved the piece since I first picked it instinctively for the music camp and I had wanted to play it myself. I had a good partner for my trio, we had practice well, put our heart into the music, thought well about structures and everything, and…yeah, it’s fair to say that we played quite well. And we were ready.
But the night before the D-day, I had to finish all designs and arrangements for the concert plus the children’s concert we’re to have in the afternoon for our students. So I went to bed at 4 a.m., woke up at 9 and went to the hall to have rehearsal. Till then, everything was fine. The kids started rehearsing at 2.30 p.m., then they started their concert at 4.00 p.m. By the time they and their parents went home at 5.30, my energy level was low.
I tried to catch a bit of sleep but it was difficult. People started coming and they wanted me to listen to their balances, the piano tuner arrived and in no time, I had to get dressed and waited for our turn.
Well, I will quote a cellist friend here, who said that there’s no excuse for playing badly. Even after everything I’ve written, there’s simply no excuse. And I knew I didn’t play badly either. I just had blurry visions in two important parts in the first movement, where the piano led the other instruments, resulting in bizarre chords and out-of-sort routine, so everyone could hear that something wasn’t going as planned. But afterward, the second and third movement were fine. That I could tell. And musically, I dare said that we were one of the most musical performances and we managed to communicate something to the audience last night.
But here’s the most disappointing part. My parents left soon afterward. And when I came home, there were no words of encouragement or even a congratulation. The only acknowledgement was about my slips. When I said that I was losing concentration, my mum said that I should not sleep so late the night before. I would love to, I said, but I had to do everything. And I had to do it alone. Then my dad said, maybe I shouldn’t play at all.
So it’s true, after all. History repeats itself.
Here’s the thing I know about being somebody’s offspring. Whether your 12 or 32, your parents can cause you the same kind of pain, and it can hit you back in the same spot. To prevent this from happening, you have to address the issue to get a clear, blue sky. It’s difficult to do that when you’re 12, though. You didn’t have enough science to bring your parents to a discussion. But sometimes, even if you do have a comprehension and conviction on a certain matter and you wish to enlighten them with what you know, it doesn’t make it easier either to discuss it, even if you’re 32. The difference is, since I’m no longer a 12-year-old, it didn’t take me long to forgive them, because now I can empathize. As much as the saying says that ignorance is bliss, I really believe that knowledge is power. It gave me the power to recover quickly, as well as the power to forgive myself for not being perfect. And they were right, anyway. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have taken myself for granted. I should know that I’m not wonder woman with inexhaustible energy supply, and that I should make a mental note that to guarantee a success on concert day, I need 10 hours sleep, a hearty breakfast, a light lunch, and good, strong coffee. And no more multi-tasking. Not on concert day.
And here’s the thing I know about being 32. When something goes wrong, you tell yourself that it’s just one of those days, pull yourself together, repeating Dali's word that you should have no fear for perfection because you'll never reach it, and then you try again. There’s nobody to blame but yourself, but there’s also nobody to make it better but yourself. And you always have a chance to make it better. There will always be room for improvement. And luckily, I will have that chance next month. With my favorite composer, too. Only perhaps this time my parents won’t be invited. Because even a 32-year-old need time to restore trust, and sometimes, it has to be done alone.
