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.

The concert last night was lovely, and today I am slowly recovering from over-indulging in too much Spanish tapas at the post-concert fun with friends.

Yesterday’s concert took place at a hall where I have frequently performed, and so I felt very comfortable with everyone there. They also know me quite well, and so they were able to provide me with a situation which was quite ideal for my own mental and personal preparations. I was also pleasantly pleased and surprised by the quality of the piano, which had vastly improved since I last performed there two years ago. However, while the piano itself had a lovely resonance and responsive action, the bench was another story. As soon as I sat down on it, it squeaked. Loudly. It also looked so rickety that I could just imagine its legs falling apart at some crucial moment. Images started to race through my mind of the audience listening to the quiet intimacy of Chopin’s nocturnes, the crystal clarity of Ravel, or the poignant solitude of Takemitsu, all intertwined with and punctuated by the squeaks from my bench. Of course, I had to change it - luckily, because I actually live in the city where the concert was taking place, I simply brought my piano bench from my house to the hall so that I could use it.

This was a very, very mild inconvenience, but it got me thinking of the numerous unforeseen situations that often surprise us and can interfere with a smooth concert experience. This can range from (all of the below have happened to me):

1. Actually getting to the hall: Bad weather conditions, travel delays or flight cancellations, terrible traffic, lost luggage (including your performance dress), literally managing to arrive at the hall itself within ten minutes of a performance, having had no time to rehearse or think straight.

2. At the hall itself: Piano in a terrible state; hall acoustics are unbearable; other performers being delayed or not able to show up in time for the concert; stage lights or some other equipment breaking down at the last minute; backstage/dressing room area doesn’t have access to a private restroom (about 15 minutes prior to the concert I had to make my way, in full dress, to the public restroom right in front of the entire 1000 + audience who was coming into the hall).

3. Physical/mental: Getting the flu, getting food poisoning or some other ailment (like an eye infection or a sprained ankle on your pedal foot), feeling mentally or physically exhausted from travel and jet lag, being upset/disturbed by the behavior of people around you, or just feeling “off” in general.

All of these things can influence the quality of a performance. Performers somehow need to be able to transcend this stress and get into a certain frame of mind in which we can still achieve the concentration and connectivity needed to perform. This involves a certain mental preparation and process that is not easy to define. Everyone - from myself to my managers to presenters and hall staff - tries as hard as possible to create optimum conditions and the right environment, but no one can control everything, and inevitably unexpected things happen.

But what is more interesting to me, is how often we can surprise ourselves. Some of my best performances have been when I was so sick with a 104 degree fever, major body aches, sneezing and coughing like crazy, playing in the worst situation imaginable. When every possible thing that could go wrong, does, it’s almost as if everything, including physical awareness, dissolves and you are only left with an amazing mental clarity and concentration that allows you to delve deeper into yourself and find new unknown sources of inspiration.

Of course, the above example is very extreme and I would not want to do this all the time because it would just kill me. But it is nice to remind ourselves that sometimes, when the unexpected happens, when we feel at our worst and that there is absolutely nothing else left for us to give, everything drops away and we are able to suddenly discover a hidden path we couldn’t see before.

Click here to view a few photos I took from the concert

I’ve recently been given a lot of food for thought by the internet. After meeting Chris Brogan on Twitter, he thoughtfully asked me how I felt social media affected or was a part of my world as a classical musician. Just as I was thinking of how best to e-mail him my thoughts on quite a complex question, Chris Foley posted an interesting question on his blog about a similar idea. I thought that maybe I could discuss my response in a post.

I certainly do not have all the answers, and can only share some of my thoughts and ideas as a performer and as someone who is starting to become better acquainted with the new media sphere. I tend to think of social media as an information tunnel. It helps me to connect with people who a) might not otherwise get to hear me play live b) want to continue the emotional excitement and connection they original felt from being at a concert. I asked a friend recently about her thoughts on this (she lives in Hawaii) - and she said that one of the reasons why she thought it was great that my videos were on YouTube, was that it allowed her to watch and hear me play even if I don’t go to Hawaii for several years to perform. The reason why I am active on certain other outlets - YouTube, Flickr, Twitter, and this blog - is for this very reason. I feel that somehow I can extend this feeling of connectivity beyond simply the concert itself. This is also the reason why I love doing any community outreach when I go somewhere to play - by just visiting with kids, or giving a master class, I feel as though I can contribute in a way that perhaps will last a little longer than a single night’s performance.

Do I think having tons of friends on MySpace or Facebook directly leads to a musician’s success? Absolutely not. I still believe, or hope, that artistic quality and not empty marketing counts in a musician’s career. Do I believe a great performance in and of itself can still be powerful enough to transform listeners and communicate something that stays with people? Absolutely, and that should still be what we as performers should aim for, what our first priority should be. The essence of music can only truly be transmitted through live performance. There was a time when live concert was the only way that we could reach people, where we could share what it is that we do; but then a technical evolution in the form of recordings came about for the very reason of extending the concert experience to a wider audience and also as a means of preserving the memory of a particular performer’s interpretation. In the same way, I think social media is doing something along the same lines - blogs to preserve a performers ideas and artistic approach, videos to preserve and spread a concert experience.

Many feel that recording technology negatively changed the way in which we play, by advocating a certain technical perfection (a result of editing), leading to thousands of homogenized music students graduating from conservatories consumed with playing all the right notes and mimicking interpretations, rather than making an original artistic statement. And in essence, I think our field’s reluctance and fear of embracing new technology stems from this previous experience - I think we are somehow afraid and wary of the consequences any new technology that encourages widespread dissemination may have on our ability to preserve and recognize quality, especially in a field as discerning as classical music. But perhaps it’s not the technology itself that we should fear, but rather our reaction to it.

Let me elaborate - There is a certain attitude and mentality towards performance itself nowadays that has concerned me, and which I have long felt musicians themselves should take more responsibility for. I have given countless master classes where students are so consumed with what it takes to get a career, how to network and get an agent, how to get concerts, etc. etc., to the point where they don’t really care about the quality of their playing, but care only about how many concerts they can get in a season. I also personally know many well-known soloists and musicians who treat concerts as nothing more as “gigs”, as something to just show up, play mindlessly, grab your paycheck, and leave. Needless to say, as a performer, as someone who loves music, and as an occasional audience member, I find this kind of behavior and attitude offensive.

I think this is at least partially a result of the kind of society we have become, a society in which we often base our sense of self and success on our relationship to our surroundings. We are constantly looking at others, vicariously reading personal blogs and watching reality television, competing against others, somehow trying to find some validation externally rather than internally. There seems to be an inability to determine and understand for ourselves what it means to search for and pursue a deeper quality in one’s music and life, and a certain lack of self-responsibility and awareness. My advice to young musicians has always been the same - first, and foremost, you must always be looking within yourself. How can I improve? How do I keep searching, reaching, and developing as an artist? How do I keep asking questions that challenge me to keep growing? When I go back to play a piece from a year ago, do I take the easy way out and go on auto-pilot and play it the same way as I did then? Or do I dig deeper, and keep searching to discover new things in the music that I didn’t see before? How can I understand myself better? These are questions that only you can ask yourself. The death of any artist is the day they stop growing - the search should continue to the last day of your life, until the last breath you take. And of course, I don’t mean simply locking yourself up in a practice room and looking only at scores for the rest of your life - although there are many people who believe this is what is meant by growing and improving. One has to grow consistently as a human being, in all facets - emotionally, mentally, spiritually - because this is what will always color the lens through which one can perceive and understand humanity, and thereby deepen one’s relationship and understanding to the nature of music and art itself.

When we complain that recording technology changed the way we play, is it really the fault of the technology itself, which was simply a tool that enabled a wider dissemination of music? Shouldn’t musicians themselves take responsibility for the choice they themselves made in changing their fundamental approach towards performance to suit the technology instead of staying true to the integrity and quality of their art? If audiences show up to a concert hall expecting a technically perfect performance that sounds exactly like a recording they heard of Rubinstein’s Chopin or Horowitz’s Rachmaninoff, is it the fault of the technology or does it point out the fact that we need to improve the quality of music education for the public? This is what I mean when I say that rather than being afraid of new technology itself, I think the greater concern is how we each will maintain the responsibility towards original and genuine artistry in our field, even as the means and tools by which that artistry is shared with the public changes.

In the end, I think the issue is a very human one. Technology has the power to change the way in which we view things - this has remained the same throughout the entire course of human civilization. With every advance, we redefine our society and the means through which we connect and communicate with one another, because the tools with which we manage our lives and work change. But the responsibility for how this affects the value and meaning of what we do has always, and I believe will always, lie with each individual, each person, and the choices that we each make.

Hearing is a passive act. We hear things around us all the time - the car screeching on the street, voices in conversation, the TV in the background, children running down the street. When we make music, hearing is useless. We can hear ourselves playing phrase after phrase without processing anything, without any artistic value or commitment, without any understanding.

Listening is an active state. It is an act of exploration, of search and discovery - to find the music that lies deep within the instrument, beyond the notes and score, and the sounds which can remain hidden until the performer brings them to life. Listening stems from a process within us that is way beyond our hands or ears. It demands another level of concentration and self-commitment in order to discover for ourselves that elusive source from which artistic interpretation is born. Making music requires us to listen.