My first public performance was at the age of three. I don’t remember too much about it - I don’t remember what I played or what I wore, but I do remember two things. One was that it was the first time I played on a grand piano, and I thought it looked funny. The second thing I remember is that when I finished playing and crawled off the piano bench to take my awkward bow, the audience laughed. I will never forget that moment because I remember very clearly feeling a certain kind of pain, a pain that comes from feeling alienated, from feeling a separation between you and those around you. I remember running back to my mother’s arms and crying. She kept asking me what was wrong, and I couldn’t explain to her (the words to articulate were not in my vocabulary yet) that I hurt because I had become aware that I was different.

The start of this pain marked the start of the loneliness that is an inherent part of life as an artist. At the age of thirty, I’ve been performing professionally for 22 years, and have performed and lived in many parts of the world. My mother tried to protect me and provide as normal a life as possible for me, but it goes without saying that with the trajectory of my musical career, this was not easy. Over the years, I have learned to become comfortable, accepting, and grateful for the unusualness of my life. I have been able to use my work as a musician to reach out and get involved with different projects as well as social, educational, and humanitarian causes that I believe in. I have come to the understanding that it was my path to discover, just as everyone else has their own unique life path to follow.

But along that path that has brought me to where I am, my experiences have also taught me that others may not be able to comprehend or feel as comfortable with the atypical nature of my life as I do, and that they will often prefer to see what it is they want to see, rather than who I really am or what I feel my life stands for. As human beings, whether it be because of our own ignorance, fears, or limitations, we have this need to constantly categorize everyone, to put people into clearly defined boxes in order to either feel better about our own selves or to superficially describe someone who has lived a very different life than our own. Over the years, I have been on the receiving end of many attempts at categorizations, whether it be sexism, racism, or ageism (most often a combination of all three). And I continue to face them all the time. It is frequently easier for others to define you on their terms, rather than to accept what is the reality.

It used to upset me tremendously when people did these things, when there was such a blatant disregard for my life and for me as a human being - whatever the reason may be. It reminded me of that moment at age three when I felt helpless in the midst of oblivious adults, and it compounded the sense of distance I already felt from people. I once talked to P, a great friend of mine, about all of this and complained, “You know, I am just so cynical now”, and he laughed and replied, “No, you are an optimist because you still believe in people - that’s why you get disappointed.” And he was right.

It has taken me a long time to understand that, like a painting of contrasts, the sometimes base, petty qualities of human nature actually highlight the very reasons why I have chosen to dedicate my life to art. In the face of such ugliness, music reminds us of the beauty and inspiration we are capable of creating, and, optimist that I am, I cling to that hope.