Sitting at the piano in the stillness of early morning or late evening is profoundly sacred. The world is either yet to awaken or settling into rest, and for a brief moment, the distractions fade into silence. In these moments, with my fingers resting on the keys, I feel closest to the essence of music—a dialogue between soul and sound.
But this connection wasn’t always so clear to me. There were years when I doubted myself when the weight of perfectionism made every performance feel like a battlefield. Teachers insisted on their interpretations, colleagues judged from the shadows, and the younger generation seemed more enamoured with speed and technique than with the soul of music itself.
I often questioned: Was I doing this right? Did my playing matter anymore?
During a particularly challenging period, I rediscovered the true meaning of music—not in the applause of an audience or the approval of peers, but in the quiet resilience of showing up, day after day, to honour the score and the story it held.
As a young pianist, I resisted conformity. Teachers would ask for perfection, and I would ask for meaning. They wanted precision, and I craved soundscapes. While this resistance made my path more complex, it also made it mine. So, I turned into a notorious rebel!
Through it all, one figure stood above the rest as my guiding star: Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli. To me, Michelangeli was and always will be the absolute pianist. Listening to his recordings, attending his concerts, and analyzing his playing through videos for more than 50 years has been nothing short of revelatory. Michelangeli’s artistry was not just about perfection—though he played with precision so immaculate it seemed otherworldly—it was about transcendence.
His sound was pure, radiant, and yet profoundly human. Each note Michelangeli played felt drawn from the very fabric of the universe, perfectly placed but alive with meaning. Watching him perform was like witnessing an alchemist at work, turning music into gold, not through showmanship but through reverence for the score and the limitless possibilities of sound.
Michelangeli was not interested in impressing others; it was about uncovering the truth with him. His influence, albeit always from a distance, still permeates every note I play, reminding me that music is a sacred art that requires devotion, humility, and an unyielding commitment to beauty.
In my years of teaching, I’ve met students and pianists who’ve tackled Bach’s WTC and Beethoven’s 32 sonatas, among the other giants of our beloved piano literature. I’ve guided them to understand that music is more than mastery—it’s connection. We say music reflects life because it teaches us patience, vulnerability, and the art of listening.
Take a moment to think about your journey. Whether you’re struggling with a particular piece, facing physical challenges, or questioning your place in the music world, know this: Every step forward is worth it. Every note you play is a bridge, connecting you to something greater.
I’ve experienced health challenges that forced me to reevaluate everything I knew about playing. I’ve rebuilt my strength through Qigong, a practice that taught me to move with intention, breathe life into stillness, and feel the energy flow through my body and the music I create.
This practice has become as much a part of my pianistic journey as the hours spent at the keyboard. Balance, flow, and presence apply to music as they do to life itself. When I sit at the piano, I think of the Bai Hui, the crown of the head, as a channel for inspiration. I feel the energy of the Lao Gong in my palms as I touch the keys and the grounding of the Yong Chuan in my feet as I connect with the floor beneath me.
Through these practices, I’ve found a deeper connection to the instrument and myself. And I’ve come to understand that what truly matters is not the approval of others but the integrity of your relationship with the music.
So, my fellow pianists, I urge you to let go of the need to impress. Instead, focus on the connection between yourself and the keys, that threshold symbolizing the silent boundary between stillness and sound, where intention becomes resonance, and the unseen and unheard take form. What you bring to the piano is enough between the sound and the silence, as long as it’s honest.
Music is not a competition; it’s a conversation. It’s not about reaching a peak but about walking the path. Along the way, if you can inspire one soul, touch one heart, or even find a moment of stillness within yourself, you’ve succeeded in ways that truly matter.
Keep going. Keep listening. And above all, keep playing—not for the world, but for the beauty of the journey itself.
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