Artist

- Rhapsody -

The last concert I went to was the first and only time I ever saw Yuja Wang perform—my old professor had invited my wife and me to tag along with his current piano students.

If you’ve never seen her play, there’s one thing to expect besides her pyrotechnical demonstration of effortless, virtuoso prowess:

Lots of skin.

Whatever you might make of her decision to bare more than her soul on stage, I personally believe she's earned the right to do whatever she wants. After all, it was done in the right sequence—skill first, then sex appeal.

I appreciate the visual treat, so I'm definitely not complaining. Yet a part of me wonders what's going to happen when she's no longer young enough to do this.

The conductor of the local symphony orchestra that usually performs in that hall came out to introduce her and also explained she would be doing things differently—specifically, that she would be playing anything she wanted to in whatever order she chose.

On top of this, she wouldn't be announcing what she would be playing next.

So glad I only paid the rush ticket price.

Lastly, a recording of her voice was played, explaining why she was doing what she would be doing. I don't remember the reason given, only that it made even less sense than what was about to take place.

The whole audience looked at the program for a good portion of the recital. I heard one of the piano majors mutter, 'she's playing Scriabin now, right? Right???'

Her anger, which seemed directed at us, increased as the concert progressed. One of the students wondered aloud if it was that time of the month. I would have kept that thought to myself but still I laughed along with everyone else.

Regardless, we all applauded wildly at the end of the concert, no doubt hoping for an encore from the one who had been dubbed the queen of encores:

No encore was played, neither did she come out to acknowledge the second round of applause.

Two weeks later there was an article about her latest concert in Canada, an accompanying photograph showing her in sunglasses. Not bizarre in and of itself, except that she wore them the entire time she was on stage. She had been crying, the aftermath of being subjected to the same pandemic protocols (Coronavirus was just starting) that was commonplace for the regular person.

There was one last thing I remember about that night, after my wife and I left the venue:

We were at a nearby Izakaya, waiting for a table. Then, we spotted her. In the flesh. Within arm's length. Funny because we almost felt like stalkers. She was waiting in line with someone who appeared to be her manager. He was anxious, a frown on his face, nervously looking left and right.

They soon left.

Probably too long of a line.

• • •

In my first year as a piano major, I knew next to nothing about classical music. I don’t think I even listened to a single recording before then.

But when I heard Martha Argerich for the first time, I knew I was hearing something special. I had no idea what I was listening to, I just spend the whole time in disbelief.

Watching her is even more overwhelming.

I have a DVD. What immediately comes to mind is the finale in the last movement of the 3rd Prokofiev piano concerto.

Human fingers are not supposed to move this way.

It leaves you utterly exhausted. Depleted like you just finished a marathon lovemaking session.

I love her playing, and it feels like falling in love with her.

I watched an interview of when she was younger. Ravishing. That she spoke in French only accentuated the entire experience. She carried herself as if she was royalty, still carries herself that way today. The natural grace of a person who knows she was supremely talented from birth and doesn’t care that she flaunts it.

Thank God.

In later years she has become more involved in chamber music. At times, saying that she felt quite lonely on the stage.

Personally, I think it's that she was the only one who could keep up with herself back then.

• • •

Hiromi Uehara. My favorite living jazz pianist.

Not that I'm some jazz aficionado—the entire gamut of my knowledge happens to be the several albums I own.

YouTube, as usual, showed me a video that should have been recommended sooner. A teenage Hiromi performing in a classical piano masterclass. I think she was playing Schumann. I forget, since I was more taken aback at how serious she looked, hardly the smiley wonder she is today.

I found a live performance on YouTube. An NPR "Tiny Desk" concert. Along with her ensemble, she was performing music from her latest album at the time.

It's not just her infectious smile, the absolute joy she exudes or how much damn fun she's having.

Solos. It's her solos.

I love how she lets it all hang out, her ideas fueled by a limitless imagination propelled by an absurd technique. There can't be more, you say to yourself as she continues to burst far past the edge of what you thought was impossible, your mouth growing wider and wider.

Everything seems possible for her, nothing out of reach.

My favorite part of the concert is intermission, when she expresses her gratitude for being there. And the way she introduces each of her bandmates, not out of obligation but desire. She's gotten older but this is one thing that hasn't changed.

Yes, she's older but there's no sign of her slowing down.

If anything, it's like she's speeding up.

• • •

There's a certain meticulousness to classical music, as if the careful preparation is what allows the performer her freedom. But no matter how free the playing is, it's always constrained by the form.

I guess that's why I'm drawn to writing. The page is where my jazz sessions take place, where I prove to myself each time that constraints only exist to be surpassed. It's the closest I'll ever get to improvising on stage, the exhilaration of trusting in the moment and knowing it will all work out.

Is this what it feels like to be an artist?

The thing about great art is that it knows no gender. But when it comes to pianists, it's no coincidence that the women inspire me the most.

After all, I'm married to one of them.