A few days ago, I practiced for a couple of hours in a hall here in Madrid. As I walked out of the hall and headed for the subway station to go home, I was lost in my thoughts about the music I had been working on. Humming under my breath, I revisited a phrase from the Chopin B minor sonata in my head and walked rather obliviously toward the station. It wasn’t until I got home later that evening, that I saw on the news that I had walked right past a rather large and vocal protest. I vaguely recalled seeing some police officers and people on the street, but the scene, and more importantly, the sounds from that very loud protest had simply not registered as I walked past. I have previously posted on this blog my thoughts on the differences between hearing and listening. As I thought about how I perceive sounds in different ways depending upon the situation, I wanted to revisit this issue.

During my practice sessions, I become so absorbed in what I’m doing that I will not hear the phone ring or realize when someone is speaking to me. When I was younger, this was the cause of a lot of laughter in my family. My mother would actually have to touch me before I would lift my eyes away from the piano, look at her, and then realize that she’s actually saying something to me. My brother’s favorite past time was to come up behind me while I was practicing and scare the living daylights out of me. Of course, it’s not that I don’t actually hear the sound - rather, it’s more like my active “listening” is so focused on what I’m working on that any other extraneous sound from my surroundings simply does not register in my head, or enter my sphere of attention. The sounds around me are filtered through the “hearing” part of my brain and doesn’t get processed in the “listening” section.

The exact opposite situation happens when I perform. As I sit at the piano on stage, every sound from the hall or audience - the rustle of a skirt, the turning of a page in the program, the sound of someone whispering to their neighbor, a raspy cough, the crinkling of a candy wrapper or cough drop - becomes unbelievably magnified, and I feel as though a megaphone is directly attached to my ear and is amplifying every sound from my surroundings. In this case, my listening becomes so active and sensitive to the acoustics, vibe, and subtle nuances of the space within which I am about to produce music, that every other sound also gets caught in my “listening net” and feels like an incredible intrusion or interference. It is the same when I rehearse in a hall prior to a performance - if someone enters the hall or walks nearby, I feel the energy of the space drastically shift. This is the reason why I usually request that my rehearsals be closed so that I have the needed “alone” time on the day of a performance to absorb the space of the hall.

This difference also permeates into the periods after I make music. After I practice, rehearse, or perform, it takes me at least an hour to come down from the music-induced listening (the reason for my experience on the street the other day). I remain in a rather spacey state in which I’m still occupied with listening to music (even if it’s just in my head), and everything else immediately goes into the section of my brain reserved for background noise. After about an hour or so, my sound perceptions start to shift back to its normal equilibrium.

I am fascinated with how music, or any type of endeavor that requires one to reach internally for a higher degree of awareness , can cause a shift by bringing some elements to the foreground while pushing others to the back. This holds true whether I am the one making music or the one experiencing it. For example, I cannot listen to a wonderful recording while I do small tasks or errands around the house. A powerful recording will demand my attention, push itself to the front, and will not settle into the fuzzy realm of “background noise.” I cannot continue to wash dishes or cook - I have to actually sit down, listen, and absorb what is being said.

Whether it’s the composition or interpretation of a musician, the speech of an orator, the words of a writer, or the visual world of a painter, choreographer, or director, art places demands on both the creator and his audience. It insists that we shift our perceptions from passive to active, that we listen rather than simply hear, and that we search rather than accept.


I just finished reading Milan Kundera’s thought-provoking book, Testaments Betrayed, and have been mulling over some of the interesting points he makes about how an artist’s wishes regarding his work are often ignored and misinterpreted.

Although Kundera uses many examples throughout history, one main theme that pervades his essay is the story of Franz Kafka and Max Brod. Kafka, as most people may know, left explicit instructions with his friend, Brod, to destroy his works upon his death. He did not ask for all of his works to be destroyed, but left a clear list - he wanted his personal writings, letters, and diaries as well as stories and novels that he felt were not successfully written to be destroyed. Instead, Brod believed in his friend’s genius and had all of Kafka’s works and private papers published after his death and became the greatest proponent of his friend’s art. What we know of Kafka today - his works, his life, the resulting Kafkology myths - are a result of Max Brod’s efforts. Thus, the fundamental question: Did Brod do the right thing or did he betray the artistic intentions of his friend? Many have argued that though Brod’s actions may have been flawed, he nevertheless provided the world with the discovery of Kafka, and that this alone more than made up for any kind of betrayal.



“Brod the enigma. He was guided by no ulterior motive, only by the spirit of justice; he loved him for the essential, for his art. But he did not understand that art….Brod understood cubism as little as he understood Kafka and Janacek. Doing his best to free them from their social isolation, he confirmed their aesthetic aloneness. The real meaning of his devotion to them was: even a person who loved them, and was thus most disposed to understand them, was alien to their art.” (Testaments Betrayed, p. 253)



I am not a composer, poet, or novelist - I cannot imagine what I would feel about such a situation. But as a performer, I believe that this issue is important. I have asked my friends who are writers and composers what their thoughts were on this, and they unanimously agreed that an artist’s aesthetic concepts and wishes regarding his creations are absolute. And yet, in both the literary and music worlds, we have clearly seen so many examples of how an artist’s wishes or intentions are ignored. There are concerts that promote the first performances of previously unpublished or abandoned material from a composer’s work and new recordings of previously unpublished fragments. New revised editions with material that the author or composer chose to remove are added back in for “authenticity.” I have never quite understood this concept - why do we perform a work or fragment that the composer himself clearly deemed not suitable for performance and either removed or abandoned? Why - 200 years after a composer’s death, when he no longer has the ability to speak up or protest - do we insist on pulling every possible scrap from his personal, private life as well as from his pile of discarded, incomplete works and shine a bright light onto it like some kind of novelty? Would a composer want us to publicly perform fragments of works that he had completely abandoned? Would an author want excerpts and fragments of ideas he had written in his private journals, notes that were meant only for his eyes, to be published?

It reminds me of a conversation I once had with a well-known musician, who shall remain nameless. We were discussing Mozart’s works and he told me that he thought it was very important to go to Austria and see and study the desk, writing instrument, and shoes Mozart wore and used as he wrote a certain piece (I kid you not) because it helps us to play his music better. This same musician also said that he didn’t believe one could perform Bach unless one was German. Now, I strongly disagreed with both of these statements and very vehemently told him so. His way of thinking represents the way some people narrow their view or focus in the hopes of finding a deeper understanding or meaning. But they fail to consider the possibility that taking the exact opposite action and broadening their view could actually provide them with the meaningful perspective they’re searching for.

Even as I passionately argued against his views, this musician insisted that he was right in what he said because he truly “loved” and “revered” Bach and Mozart, and felt that he was “protecting” their authentic values. He believed that we must leave no stone unturned in analyzing their lives, and that every scrap of paper - a fragment tossed out into the trash, or a private note that was only meant for the recipient’s eyes - was important in preserving and understanding the genius of their art. But by insisting that Bach could only be played by Germans, he inadvertently limits the Bach that he loves so much to being an artist of only one country, when his artistic legacy belongs to a perspective and history much larger and greater than that. I was also left thinking about what Mozart would say if he knew people were looking at his shoes to figure out how to interpret his music…it seems, in many ways, that the spirit of Max Brod continues to live on.

Do artists have any control or authority over the legacy they ultimately leave behind? In what ways do we misconstrue or warp an artist’s original aesthetic conception or intention? Do you believe people like Brod are correctly acting in the greater interest of art? Or do you believe he betrayed the fundamental individual freedoms that are at the heart of what art is? Are there circumstances or situations that are exceptions?


A confession: I have never been particularly fond of that rather overused saying about how one door has to close in order for another to open. The image of two different doors just never felt quite right to me. I always preferred the image of one solitary door, a door that with each opening and closing reveals a view vastly different from what we saw before. I like to think that we are always standing in the exact same spot, simply and curiously looking through the doorframe at a vista that changes and shifts each time the door swings open.

I have been quiet on this blog for these past several months because I have been doing a lot of thinking about beginnings and endings. It has been an emotionally tumultuous year for me. First, there was the joy and fulfillment of getting married this past summer. It was a very private and quiet ceremony and it filled both my husband and I with the kind of hope and happiness that can only come at the start of a new journey. After this new beginning, however, came about a succession of endings. First, the very sudden death of my extraordinary teacher in New York, a person who was dearly important to me and one of the greatest influences in my artistic life. This was followed by the passing of our family’s beautiful dog in Hawaii, who finally lost his long and brave battle with cancer. A few weeks later, my uncle passed away in Japan, leaving behind a grieving family including his younger sister, my mother.

As anyone who has lost someone knows, it is difficult to grapple with the feelings of grief. I was here in Madrid and felt as though important parts of my life were disappearing all over the world and I was powerless to do anything about it. All of the memories intertwined with these people, with their words and actions, as well as the emotions tied with those memories, surged back to the surface and I needed to work through my feelings privately.

When I was a student, my teacher, Alexander, used to talk with me about what might happen after he was gone. We always had extended conversations about the meaning behind artistry, about what it meant to be an artist. Our lessons were not simple and dry one hour sessions. I would head from Manhattan to his home in New Jersey, and spend all day (between 8 to 10 hours) there. He would work with me, cook meals for us, and we also spent many hours discussing paintings, literature, and philosophy. Some of my most affectionate memories are where I would be playing a Chopin ballade and I could hear his voice, marvelously thick with his Russian accent, coming from the kitchen. “Gracie, Gracie, please - your 4th finger legato!” he would roar as he continued to chop onions for the soup we would have that evening. It was wonderful, eccentric, inspiring, and special. He used to muse aloud that music is a performance art, one that is meant to be experienced live and one that defines the very spirit and soul of the artist who creates it. Therefore, when an artist dies it would be almost as though he had never existed at all. The sounds of his music and of his art would disappear along with him, and in the end, all that would be left would be his photo on the wall. After his passing, I could not get that particular conversation I had with him out of my head.

Besides performing, I have dedicated the past few months to extended humanitarian and charity work, and have used classical music to reach out to teach students in my hometown of Hawaii and also impoverished and needy children in India and Nepal. I threw myself into intensive work with both government and local organizations abroad to contribute in any way. Music and the arts are such powerful means of empowering children to express their own creative individuality and to communicate and understand ideas and emotions that perhaps cannot be put into words. Of course, I ended up learning so much more from these children than I could ever have taught them.

As I taught, as I gave myself over to the refreshing purity, honesty, and freshness of children, I came to terms with my own grief and the aching feeling of loss. I remembered Alexander’s face as he talked about how an artist would disappear after he dies - and as I taught Nepali children about music and aesthetic principles that I had learned from him, I thought about how his photo should be up on the broken wall in that crumbling school in Kathmandu.

In the weeks following my uncle’s death, my mother spent most of her time sharing with me the wonderful Japanese folk songs he taught her when they were children. My uncle did not study music but he loved to sing and had a beautiful lyrical voice. In the end, the strongest memories that stayed with his little sister were not complex, overwhelming moments, but something much more bare and infinitely more priceless, an essence that I call my uncle’s “internal” music - a personal music that every individual, regardless of whether they studied music or not, possesses. What remains of my uncle are the sounds of his voice, of his laughter, of his pure unadulterated joy in singing, and the excitement and life on his face as he taught his little sister a new song.

I have been thinking not only about Alexander, my uncle, my unconditionally loving dog, but also about the many other fragile strands of souls spread out all over the world who helped to form the very fabric of who I am. I grieved because with each death I felt that these strands were slipping away, disappearing from me, and evaporating into the air. But I have started to realize that the ends of those strands have not vanished - they are, in fact, connected and linked right into the very heart of me, inextricably intertwined to who I am, to my music, and to my future that continues to open in front of me. I just couldn’t see it before - and now, as that one door once again opens for me, I am standing and looking at a wondrously transformed view.

Silence is the absence of sound, the lack of auditory vibrations traveling through the air. But this absence does not necessarily mean emptiness. Silence can communicate, can carry a weighted meaning, and can often transmit ideas and emotions of penetrating profundity.

I was a painfully shy child, sensitive and emotional - but the one thing I remember with crystalline clarity is the security and comfort I felt whenever I was with my mother. I was happy and content because of her - she made my life as normal as possible, and there was an absolute certainty that my mother would always protect me, always be there to hug and console me, and perhaps most importantly of all, would always understand me.

My mother seemed to possess an innate understanding not only of the power of silence, but also when it was important. She would quietly let me sit and play for hours at the piano and let me have countless hours of fun by myself (and later with my younger brother) as we created and acted out our different imaginary stories and scenarios, and had animated conversations with my stuffed animals as though they were real human beings. My brother and I were both avid readers and ever since I was five, she used to take us to the local public library every Sunday morning. She would sit there with us for 7 or 8 hours (until the library closed), as we consumed and read book after book. She always wrote down in a little notebook each and every book we read, what we thought about it, why we enjoyed it, and would ask us to rate it on a scale of 1 to 5. One day, after reading an adventure book, my brother and I become consumed with the idea of creating an imaginary world that involved defending the queen of the castle from various evil doers. I remember my mother quietly sitting at the dining room table as we jumped around the room, excitedly talking about all the different scenarios and possibilities. The next day when I came home from school, there was a pile of 20 to 30 empty boxes of different sizes. When I asked her what they were, she simply said, “I brought them home for you and your brother.” I still remember the indescribable glory and happiness of those next two weeks, as my brother and I cut up, colored, and painted those boxes and created the very castle that we had been talking about.

To this day, I marvel at how a first generation American and single mother was able to give my brother and I so much of her time while also running the household, taking care of all of my unusual music related activities and schooling, staying on top of my brother’s life and education, and running her own school in which she educated and influenced literally hundreds of other children. By nurturing me with her silence, my mother gave me a priceless gift - the freedom to be myself. She gave me the quiet I needed in order to think for myself, to formulate my own ideas, to choose my path in life, and to make my own mistakes along the way so that I could truly understand the learning process. On this mother’s day, I celebrate my extraordinary mother’s life, and the inspiration she continues to give me everyday.


“The true poem is not that which the public reads. There is always a poem not printed on paper… in the poet’s life. It is what he has become through his work. Not how is the idea expressed in stone, or on canvas or paper, is the question, but how far it has obtained form and expression in the life of the artist. His true work will not stand in any prince’s gallery.” - Henry David Thoreau

The above is one of my favorite quotes. I first came across it as a teenager at a time when I was immersed with thoughts about my future and what it meant to pursue a life in music. I recently had some interesting conversations with some friends about the nature of creativity and the definition of an artistic life, and as I thought about how to discuss this idea on this blog, this quote came floating to me from the memories in the back of my mind.

I do not come from a family of professional musicians. They are all music lovers and my mother is an amateur pianist, but my family members are all educators, scholars, researchers, and activists. One of my uncles, a mathematician, was one of my closest relatives during my childhood. My brother and I wrote handwritten letters to him every week, and would receive one back from him as well. These letters are some of my most prized possessions, and the joy I felt in reading them is one of the strongest memories I have from my childhood. Although I was only seven years old, his letters to me were filled with his thoughts on life, his work, his research, and his philosophical musings about the nature of the universe and its connection to everything around us including the arts, sciences, and humanities.

When I was about ten, he finally completed one of his great life opuses by solving a celebrated mathematical problem. Taking a break from his work, he came to visit and shared with us how he came to the solution. He was kind enough to show me his published theory (which, of course, I couldn’t even remotely fathom) but he took the time to explain to me as though I could understand. He had been working on the solution to this problem for 15 years. This fact alone boggled my 10 year old mind - why that was even longer than my age! I asked him how he could think and work on one problem, one idea, for so long. He then told me about a trip he had taken to France in which he visited the beautiful gardens and home of Monet in Giverny. Inspired by the natural setting and beauty, he decided to walk back to the city he was staying in rather than take the train back as he had planned to. He ended up walking for over five hours to get back to his hotel. I was astonished. “Why didn’t you just take the train back?” I asked. He calmly replied, “Because I wanted to think.” What I took from his anecdote was that time - whether it be 5 hours or 15 years or even an entire lifetime - becomes irrelevant when one endeavors to reach for an original insight.

Since then, my uncle has continued his research into another theory, another chapter and challenge in his life’s work. My formative years were colored by conversations and the sharing of ideas with people who I believe, like my uncle, lead an artistic life in their respective professions. There may be many layers of interpretation to Thoreau’s quotation, but I have always interpreted it to mean that an artist’s best work and the true meaning of his life is always yet to be discovered; that is, the essence and definition of what it means to be an artist lies within the very act of questioning, searching, and seeking. There is always a possibility that we may never discover what we hope to find. We may reach the end knowing that what we have learned along the way is not even remotely close to satisfying, and we may spend a lifetime pursuing an idea or belief that ultimately has no resolution - but this in no way means that the search itself was futile. An artistic life celebrates and values the courage needed to ask the question that allows us to continue searching and growing - not for “any prince’s gallery”, but because the question itself reveals the infinite dimensions of our relationship to the world around us.

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.