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Guest post by Jill Timmons

These days we hear a lot about the allure of talent: gifted, extraordinary, special, something extra, blessed, graced, anointed, enviable. And as we know, the arts have been a particular repository for dazzling talent display.

Talent can be a kind of entry card. In music and dance we have such iconic artists as Arthur Rubinstein, Jascha Heifetz, Rudolf Nureyev, Margot Fonteyn, Taylor Swift, Fred Astaire, and the list goes on. There is a near religious fervour surrounding these folks who are perpetually confined to an archetypal pedestal – heroic figures living in a rarified alternate universe on Mount Olympus. To the lay person, it can seem almost magical that fame and fortune are readily available to those with exceptional talent. Often, there is a special entitlement afforded to these luminaries, and it may appear that with a bit of talent, we could all partake of these benefits. For some, there is the belief that talent alone should offer some measure of reward, a kind of requisite entitlement. Therein lies the shadow side of talent: acquiring something without the necessary earning of it.

As an artist, I stumble over the recognition of my own talent. To say that I am gifted strikes a difficult chord, so to speak. It feels like self-aggrandizement, ego inflation, and entitlement. Yet, if I don’t recognize my talent in an authentic and detached fashion, dare I say strategic, I would not be able to serve my gifts, perhaps my mission, and a sense of meaning and purpose to my life – making things better in the world through music. It’s a reminder, that the arts often contain paradox – two things can be true. I’m reminded of M. C. Escher’s lithographs where stairs simultaneously ascend and descend!

It is difficult to explain that talent and work go hand in hand. There can often be a disconnect (entitlement) between the temporal reality of musical study and the concrete requirements for what one may wish to achieve. As I regularly remind my students, there is no cramming for the concert, or for serious artistic growth. It’s a kind of marathon, and you wouldn’t just train for a few hours on Saturdays to take on those twenty-six miles!

Artists are individuals with varying skills and proclivities. While I might be a quick sight reader, it took me several months to learn J. S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Moreover, it wasn’t until I had performed it 6 times, that I really set to work! I had to marshal all my patience through this process, even with decades behind me as a professional pianist (perhaps some free-floating entitlement here!). These concepts are difficult to convey when entitlement is at play.

Add to this the fact that mostly our elementary and secondary education systems are now reduced to teaching to the test (reading and maths), and there is very little space in the curriculum for the arts, the creative process, and the fundamental human act of original thought. The notion of talent becomes a kind of bromide instead. Very little may be required to be considered talented. With that comes the risk of instant gratification, the dumbing down of quality and artistry, and a core understanding about what the arts require and what they can offer humanity.

Case in point: church music. This is by no means a declaration of any sort of religious affiliation. Consider, however, some of the greatest musical works from western European art music created by the likes of J. S. Bach, Mozart, Schubert, Bernstein (the Mass), Fauré, Poulenc, Elgar, and so forth. While there are still places where you can hear this exalted and compelling music, much of the American protestant church has withered into a kind of musical pablum: two chord changes with Jesus words. It doesn’t take much to master the ability to perform this music, nor does it require from the listener any level of artistic sophistication. It’s satisfying much in the same way as a bowl of Doritos. Oddly enough, many of the folks who deliver this music are often hailed as very talented.

For those of us who are educators, we can often encounter in our students that shadowy world of entitlement. It’s not just with the children we teach, but adult students as well. I recall one client who was a physician by profession. He had always wanted to play the piano at the advanced level, and so after reading Malcolm Gladwell’s edgy book, ‘Outliers: The Story of Success’, he asked me if after 10,000 hours of practice he could play one of the Chopin Ballades. Meanwhile, he was struggling with an early intermediate-level Haydn Sonata. Nonetheless, I lauded his efforts, and reminded him that the development of technic and musical capacity takes time – its own time, and that his responsibility would be to practice intelligently and regularly with a goodly amount based upon his goals, to follow my instruction, and to remember the long game. His sense of entitlement, however, overrode what I had hoped would be a gentle yet pointed reality check. He assumed that since he had weekly lessons, he was highly intelligent and disciplined, was committed to those 10,000 hours, and that in working with me he was entitled to have access to the advanced repertoire through some sort of short cut. Sadly, that sense of entitlement prevented him from serving his talent, of making a strategic plan in his practicing and study, honestly assessing his challenges along with his achievements, and trusting that together, he and I could move the cause forward. It would, however, require the long game as it does for most of us.

With young students, the struggle is more systemic. Parents are often driving their children to overload their schedules: A’s in everything, numerous sports, extra curriculars that might be the ticket to getting into Harvard or Oxford, and a schedule with every hour accounted for. Where is the time to daydream, to imagine, to create something original? Who will teach them the value and efficacy of this? Where is the education for the sublime, for beauty, for the inherent power of the arts to uplift humanity? How do they discover their own gifts, and more importantly how do they humbly serve music? How can they become inner directed, avoiding the distractions, the pressures to conform, and the seductions and misinformation that float around in the outer world?

Nurturing one’s talents takes time, commitment, appropriate education, inspiring and skilled mentors, confidence, patience, a keen work ethic, self-reflection, humility, and the long view. Moreover, one must acquire the ability to be ruthlessly honest about one’s work. What are my strengths? How can I build upon those? What led me to fluency in a performance? Conversely, what are the barriers to my progress? What blind spots do I have? Am I open to learning new things? Is my practice time allotment sufficient and effective for my goals? By the way, my definition of practicing is rehearsing solutions to musical and technical challenges. If you are not rehearsing solutions, what is it that you are drilling? Never mind those 10,000 hours! Can you measure yourself by what you strengthen in your own work? One can learn a great deal from mastering a new capacity! What is your artist vision and is it undergirded by a searingly honest and doable plan?

No matter how brilliant a mind, there will be a substantial, regular time commitment required if one is to develop artistry. For example, with musicians, the development of technic can take many years. I may dream of playing Beethoven’s Waldstein Sonata, but without the necessary technique, a grounding in historical performance practice, and a willingness to musically serve that style period, it will remain aspirational. No amount of will, talent, or entitlement will achieve that objective. Ask the artists at the top of the industry and they will regale you with stories of decades of practice, study, self-reflection, perseverance, sacrifice, challenges, luck, and yes, the long game.

So, in moving forward, how do we eschew entitlement in our own artistic work and that of our students? It may be that the way out is through. That Zen saying speaks volumes about the process required. In my own teaching, I have observed that when a student really wants to achieve something, they are apt to work for it if they can lift the veil of entitlement. It’s what I call concrete teaching. It’s a black and white approach (no pun intended) with weekly achievable goals, a constant check-in on reality, and that ruthless honestly. We ask our students as to how practicing is going? What is the quality of one’s practice time? Is it sufficient? Are we rehearsing solutions to musical and technical challenges? Are our musical goals congruent with our skills and time available? Needless to say, these points of practice apply equally to our own artistic work.

Moreover, all musical compositions have dues that one must pay in order to master fluency. It is relative to one’s skill and experience of course. The more experience you have, the more accurately you can assess the work ahead that is required. Back to the Goldberg Variations.

When I received an invitation to perform it, I had a year to prepare. I figured I could learn it in roughly three months with three to four hours of practice most days. I had other performances and professional tasks, but that time frame seemed appropriate. Wrong. It took me five months to learn it, during which time I had the flu, was preparing to move, and received a contract to write a book. Needless to say, I learned a great deal from that experience. Clearly, one’s musical skills and capacity are realized by the amount of time needed in order to learn a piece of music. This measurable and temporal reality may be your greatest weapon in combating entitlement: yours, or your students!

Speaking of students, the overarching concern that most music educators harbor is usually with sufficient and regular practice for their pupils. Moreover, that practice time must be informed, efficient, and consequential. As most of us know, many hours can be spent at the piano, even 10,000 hours, but there must be conscious awareness of how one is practicing. In those hours of practice, ideally, we become our own best teacher, and we train our students to embrace this concept as well. Mindless, disengaged drill at the piano does not engender mastery. One tool, however, can move the cause forward. If your student is motivated and is not under the spell of entitlement, they can greatly benefit from what I call a “mock practice session.” I periodically take an entire lesson time (usually one to two hours) and guide the student in what constitutes effective practicing. I am experientially teaching the student how to practice effectively and efficiently. This session is recorded for the student to review between lessons. Often, the student discovers that in a short period of time a great deal can be achieved in learning the score. Moreover, I remind students that they can continue this exciting path to mastery if they practice like they did in the lesson!

Ultimately, whatever way we approach the nurturing of talent, we need adequate time. This can be challenging in our cluttered and distracted world. I still struggle with this every now and then. There are, however, myriad solutions. Time management is a powerful tool, especially if you can review your schedule on a weekly basis. You are in charge, after all. As a side bar, I highly recommend Cal Newport’s groundbreaking book, ‘Digital Minimalism’. You will find a wealth of information, advice, and strategies to remain artfully engaged in your environment, but not possessed or distracted by the endless commotion from the digital world.

Lastly, I will leave you with several thoughts. My sense of music making is that it is 80 percent work and 20 percent talent. And moreover, the making of that music is not about me. I am merely the vessel. But without me, fully present, humbly prepared, and devoted to the composer and audience, that music remains on the page. It is indeed a sacred mission. In the final analysis, there is no entitlement, only devotion to the highest level our talent can take us. Music then becomes an act of service.

Jill Timmons is a leading performing arts consultant, serving individuals and nonprofits. As an international artist-educator, her work is sculpted by the ever-changing global market. The second edition of her book The Musician’s Journey is published by Oxford University Press.

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Guest post by Yvonne Frindle

I am that most unfortunate of creatures: a pianist without a piano. And the longer I procrastinate, the more and more out of practice I become. I doubt I’ll be trying out my next piano with one of Haydn’s great English sonatas or Rachmaninoff’s Polichinelle. Oh no.

There’s another piece I’ll be pulling from my satchel when time comes to explore The Next Piano’s sonority and touch. It’s charming, it’s intriguing and I love it to bits. (It also has the virtue of falling beautifully under the fingers, no matter how dormant one’s technique.) That piece is Les Baricades mistérieuses by François Couperin le Grand, a rondeau from the sixth ordre (or suite) in his second book of Pièces de Clavecin. Harpsichord music, in other words, but harpsichord music that happens to work beautifully on piano.

But it was on harpsichord that I first got to know this piece, and that’s probably how it should be:

This performance by Hanneke van Proosdij is synchronised with a facsimile of the 1717 edition – follow along and enjoy!

Why do I adore this piece?

On a purely tactile level, I love the way the two hands must operate so closely together on the keyboard. It’s like stroking a cat.

I love the style brisé (or broken style) texture, which Couperin uses to weave a carpet of legato sound. It’s an effect the French harpsichordists stole from the lutenists and Wanda Landowska in her recording from the 1940s nods to the theft by using the lute stop for the refrain.

And I love – as an extension of those endless broken chords – the way the different voices are entwined. The composer and pianist Thomas Adès has described Les Baricades mistérieuses as an object lesson in generating melody from harmony and vice versa. He pays tribute in an intriguing and revealing arrangement for low instruments: clarinet, bass clarinet, viola, cello and double bass.

That’s something else I’ve always loved about this piece: it sits low on the keyboard, never going above the G above middle C. It sits so low that Couperin notates the right hand part in alto clef. On both harpsichord and piano, the result is a rich, chocolatey sound. Then there’s the title – ‘Mysterious Barricades’ – what can it mean? There are as many theories as there are performers, some wild, some vaguely plausible. Perhaps, as Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia says of Fermat’s last theorem, it was simply a joke to make us all mad!

I’ve always believed the clue must lie in the character of the music itself. And the music is so seductive, I can’t help but agree with those who see in the title a kind of double entendre – a suggestion of feminine eyelashes and flirtation echoed in the coyly swaying lute figurations and the teasing suspensions, which offer a literal barricade to the basic harmonic progressions.

Yet not everyone agrees. There are those – especially pianists, because they can! – who ripple through the piece, barely pausing for breath. Alexandre Tharaud does so most impressively on his Tic Toc Choc album, while Marcelle Meyer in a recording from 1954 shows this approach is nothing new. In their hands the piece becomes a kind of toccata, beautiful in its own way but not, I think, what Couperin had in mind.

But let the harmony shape the musical conversation with lulls and pauses and forward movement, and Couperin’s music rewards with sounds that are haunting, spontaneous and utterly delicious. Which is why I love Les Baricades mistérieuses. Want to try playing it yourself? Download the 1717 edition; Les Baricades begins on page 6 (page 12 of the PDF). If alto clef isn’t your thing, an edition with modern clefs can be found here.

Yvonne Frindle © 2023

Yvonne Frindle’s background as a musician, orchestral programmer and concertgoer informs her work as a harmonious wordsmith – writing and speaking for ordinary music lovers. Her words have been published by Limelight magazine and all the major Australian concert presenters, as well as in the United States.

Hyperlinked URLs, in order of appearance

Landowska (1940s): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ESKxHiMOIGM

Adès arrangement: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBR1T6jl_14

Title theories: https://simonevnine.com/the-piece-and-its-title/

Tharaud (fast!): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDavx0eyjUY

Meyer (1954): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PP7g5hPAQ-s

1717 edition: https://vmirror.imslp.org/files/imglnks/usimg/4/4f/IMSLP319702-PMLP200269-Couperin_-_Second_Livre_-BNF_L-3983_(2),_1745-.pdf

Modernised edition: https://vmirror.imslp.org/files/imglnks/usimg/a/af/IMSLP844922-PMLP200269-COUPERIN_Les_Baricades_mist%C3%A9rieuses_(clefs_modernes)_f-s_mod.pdf

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By Michael Johnson

English musician and polymath Michael Lawson has established a reputation in a diversity of professions – composer, pianist, psychotherapist, documentary filmmaker and archdeacon of the Church of England. As a therapist, he has worked with a variety of individuals, ranging from child prodigies to sex offenders. His remarkable new novel, International Acclaim: The Steinfeld Legacy, is an ambitious work of ‘faction’, combining real-life giants of the Romantic music era with his family story of the “Steinfelds”—four generations of brilliant Jewish Polish concert pianists.

What drives this man? “I am definitely an enthusiast for the things I love to do,” he says in the interview below. “Does that make me a workaholic? Maybe, maybe not…. I can also be something of a sloth.”

His narrative chronicles the tumultuous story of Europe’s composers and performers through political change and wartime crises on the Continent. Leading his parade of historic figures are, among others, Alexander Siloti, Josef Hofmann, Sergei Rachmaninoff, Theodor Leschetizky, Ignacy Jan Paderewski, Sergei Taneyev, Leopold Godowsky, Huw Weldon and of course Nadia Boulanger.

In response to questions that led to his novel, Lawson granted an email interview:

How long a gestation period preceded the writing of your first novel, International Acclaim?

In short, about 40 years! I had always been fascinated by the great Romantic pianists. As a teenager, I’d listen for hours, enthralled by extraordinary virtuosity which shone through the hisses and scratches of their early 78 rpm recordings. I not only amassed a huge record collection, I researched and read everything I could find about them. So initially, I didn’t know where to begiin the novel but I’d worked out how it would end— a passage inspired by the death of Simon Barere, one of the last of the late Romantics, who tragically died during his performance of the Grieg piano concerto. at Carnegie Hall in 1951.

What took you so long to write these nearly 500 pages?

The novel remained unwritten as my growing family and day job took precedence. Yet an editor’s stimulus kept the aspiration alive, and the story gradually emerged in my imagination. Yes, the process started 40 years ago. And then in 2020 came the first coronavirus lockdown. That was my opportunity. I researched and wrote non-stop for six months till International Acclaim was complete and published. After six more months thinking about it and taking advice, I began the revisions. That is how the novel came to be republished recently – with a new subtitle to celebrate it: International Acclaim: The Steinfeld Legacy.

Was this story always in the background as you proceeded with your composing, church and psychotherapy careers?

Yes, it was on a slow boil but I knew that one day its time would come. Accumulated observation has taught me so much about human life and living, which I have worked into my story of the world of musicians. And to take on these different roles in parallel has enabled me to explore the passions that I have discovered within myself. This is why I don’t normally speak of “my career in music”. Music touches a deeper passion and informs my very identity. I feel the same about my work in psychotherapy and ordination.

Isn’t this what you therapists would call a split personality?

No, the worlds are different and yet at times so complementary. A prime learning experience for me has been my work in private practice with musicians of all kinds including child prodigies. Many of these have sought help feeling the unravelling of their emotional complexity may be assisted by someone who can understand the peculiar pressures of the performing piano world. Later in my career, my seven years in the prison service meant working with broken people with exceptionally convoluted life stories. For them rehabilitation is the goal. My therapeutic aim is the same with prisoners as it is with musicians – to bring support, to unravel self-understanding and thus to alleviate suffering.

You must have been a lifelong student of music history. What was your training?

Alongside my conservatoire training at the Guildhall School of Music, and the Écoles d’Art Américaines in Fontainebleau, France, my first degree in music was at the University of Sussex. Over my lifetime, I have built up quite a library about the whole of Western music and especially the composers and pianists of the late Romantic era. Although I had no other models in mind when I wrote International Acclaim, I included real figures of history alongside my fictional Steinfeld family. Allowing for literary license, I aimed for the best verisimilitude I could imagine. Bringing in the key figures of the era helped tell the story. We meet Alexander Siloti, Theodore Leschetizky, Sergei Taneyev, Leopold Godowsky, Sir Henry Wood, Huw Weldon and others. In a class by herself is my teacher Nadia Boulanger.

Workaholism seems to be your driving force, right?

I have thought about that, and my answer is I am definitely an enthusiast for the things I love to do. Does that make me a workaholic? Maybe, maybe not. I recognise I can also be something of a sloth. It’s only then that I say with Jerome K Jerome, “I love work. It fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours!” It’s my family that should take the credit. They are my reason to come up regularly for air.

From the age of 8, you knew you wanted to be a composer. Wasn’t that before you had started piano?

It didn’t take long for me, as a youngster, to discover that it was more enjoyable to create tunes of my own than to play others’ compositions. Some three years before I began piano lessons, I composed a set of “Hungarian dances”. On a family vacation there was an excellent pianist who played every night in the lounge of our hotel. I noticed that he often played requests. Without consulting my parents, this rather bold 8-year-old, with Hungarian dances in hand, asked the pianist to try them out. He was very nice and said that he would look them over.

Was that the end of it?

Not at all. As my parents were sipping Asti and my sister and I were exploring the ice cream menu, I heard a tune I recognised, looked up and realised this pianist was playing my music. It was thrilling to hear it played by such a good musician. But I was resistant to the effort that piano lessons might require. Finally, I gave in and started lessons. So, yes, that’s how it worked out – composer first, and piano second.

Did this lead to something of a career as a pianist?

Yes and no. My father, in his quest to get me to learn the piano, bought me a Kazoo! I could hum away and out would come music. I loved it. A few weeks later my dad popped the question, “Wouldn’t you like to be able to make music as easily on the piano?” My time had come.

Were you some kind of late-blooming prodigy?

I may not have been a child prodigy but I was certainly like a duck to water. I fell in love with the piano, and practised all hours, seemingly night and day, and passed grade 8 (by the skin of my teeth) at only 14 months after my first lesson. At age 14, I remember playing Bartok’s loud and ferocious Allegro Barbaro in public. In the audience was David Wilde, winner of first prize in the Liszt Bartok piano competition in Budapest in 1961. David was encouragingly complementary, but frank also. If I wanted to become a concert pianist I would need to develop considerable reserves of technique. To that end, he generously took me on as a private student and for several years taught me so much about the beating heart of the music as much as the mechanics of playing.

Didn’t you mix with some of the great players?

Yes. Through David, I met conductors such as Pierre Boulez and other leading musicians. I learnt so much from observing them in rehearsal. And there was another spin-off. Around this time, while I was a student, concert organisers often asked me to turn pages for some of the world’s greatest pianists, including Artur Rubenstein, Sir Clifford Curzon, Daniel Barenboim, Vladimir Ashkenazy, and others. I also turned pages for Geoffrey Parsons when he accompanied Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, and for chamber musicians like the remarkable American pianist, Lamar Crowson.

As a music student, you were in a position to learn informally from some of the greats.

I learnt much from all of them – by closely watching their hands, asking questions about interpretation and technique, and occasionally even getting a mini-lesson in return. On one occasion I asked Sir Clifford Curzon, the perfect English gentleman, how he recommended practising the demanding octave trills in the Brahms D minor piano concerto. “I don’t know,” he said, “I just do them.” But he did know really, and he showed me – in musical slow motion. When his fingers shook, his arms and shoulders shook with them. The facility flowed from the extraordinarily looseness and relaxation of his arms and shoulders. The effect was electric.

How close were you to Nadia Boulanger?

I was fortunate indeed to have studied with Mademoiselle for five very fruitful years. That is, during the summers at Fontainebleau, and while pursuing my other studies by flying back and forth to Paris during the rest of the year. During all that time she refused to let me pay for my lessons. The list of Boulanger pupils reads like a Who’s Who of many of the greatest figures in 20th-century music. The composers include Walter Piston, Aaron Copland, Elliott Carter, Virgil Thomson, Roy Harris, Philip Glass, Darius Milhaud, Jean Françaix, Thea Musgrave, Lennox Berkeley, Joseph Horovitz, and Emile Naoumoff. Her conductors include Igor Markevitch and John Eliot Gardner. She and I kept in touch until the end of her life.

Have you always considered yourself a writer?

Socially, I was quite shy. But something clicked in my brain and released all kinds of creative energy hitherto so dormant that my teachers thought was non-existent. I had been particularly poor at English. That quickly changed. I had been a poor reader but was encouraged by an older friend who had taken an interest in me. He was knowledgeable about literature and was an excellent classical pianist too. He introduced me both to novels and poetry. I began to read everything I could get my hands on. This all had an almost explosive effect on my use of language. And I began to write—words as well as music.

What was your introduction to music criticism?

By the time I went to Sussex University, I was appointed music critic of the University’s weekly newspaper. I’m not too proud of my youthful arrogance which surfaced in some barbed reviews. I admit I took some ungenerous liberties with the power of my pen. A lady in orchestral management helped me see the error in my ways, and after that I learned to be more encouraging in my writing. It was an exercise in understanding how your words are received. Eventually I was able bring all the rigour that I had learnt in composition and performance to producing regular material for sermons, script writing and presenting for the BBC Radio 2, which I did uninterrupted for 20 years. And for filmmaking and for eighteen books – so far.

International Acclaim: The Steinfeld Legacy by Michael Lawson is published by the Montpélier Press, and is available exclusively from Amazon

Website: www.international-acclaim.com

Audible version: www.audible.co.uk

Review: A Breathless Epic of the Great Romantic Pianists

Michael Lawson

MICHAEL LAWSON is a Composer, Writer, Psychotherapist, Film Maker and Broadcaster. His varied career began in music as a composer and concert pianist in the early seventies, having studied with the great French teacher, Nadia Boulanger, at the Paris and Fontainebleau conservatoires, with the British composer, Edmund Rubbra, at the Guildhall School of Music, and at Sussex University with Donald Mitchell, the leading Britten and Mahler scholar. His piano professors were the distinguished British pianists, David Wilde and James Gibb.

Find out more

MICHAEL JOHNSON is a music critic and writer with a particular interest in piano. He has worked as a reporter and editor in New York, Moscow, Paris and London over his journalism career. He covered European technology for Business Week for five years, and served nine years as chief editor of International Management magazine and was chief editor of the French technology weekly 01 Informatique. He also spent four years as Moscow correspondent of The Associated Press. He is a regular contributor to International Piano magazine, and is the author of five books. Michael Johnson is based in Bordeaux, France. Besides English and French he is also fluent in Russian.

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Guest review by Ruth Livesey

Jia Ning Ng, Biggar Music, Club 5th October 2023

BEETHOVEN: Piano Sonata No.17 in D minor, “Tempest”Op. 31 No. 2

ROBERT SCHUMANN: Bunte Blätter Op. 99

SCHUBERT: Piano Sonata in B-flat major, D960

Jia Ning, a young pianist from Singapore, studied at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland. She graduated top of her class in 2022 and was awarded her Artist Diploma, having previously gained her Master of Music (Piano Performance) and Bachelor of Music with First Class Honours. She also won several awards and competitions, including the RCOS concerto competition, allowing her to make her debut with the Royal Scottish National Orchestra. In addition to embarking on her solo career, Jia Ning regularly collaborates with other musicians as a keen chamber musician and is also a staff accompanist at the Conservatoire in Glasgow. Her recital at Biggar Music Club formed part of an RCS Governor’s recital tour, including performances in Peebles, Kelso and Falkirk, and forthcoming concerts in Inverness and at Strathearn Music Society in November.

Her performance was keenly anticipated in Biggar, after she received a standing ovation in Peebles, and deservedly so; her performance of the same programme here, tackling some very profound works, showed immense maturity, poise and mastery. Right from the sorrowful Largo opening phrase of the first movement of Beethoven’s Sonata in D minor, Op.31 No. 2 (Tempest), she captivated the audience, who didn’t move a millimetre from the beginning to the end of the concert. Indeed, it was one of those rare openings to a recital where it was apparent from the first few notes that it was going to be something very special.

One of several notable aspects of Jia Ning’s playing, which immediately stood out in this first motif, was the quality of her tone production – a feature that was evident and a highlight throughout the whole recital, in the vast spectrum of soundworlds called for – as she created a mysterious atmosphere, with such a gentle, but clear touch. This immediately gave way to the dramatic, agitated contrasting material that followed. The frequent alternation of the stormy and peaceful sections was well managed and varied throughout this movement. Passages where a lighter, more articulated touch was called for were wonderfully nuanced, with an interplay between melodic and harmonic lines in impressive balance at other times, such as at the end of the exposition. There was an other-worldly quality to the recitative-like section, a solo right hand line over an arpeggiated pedal, often attributed to Beethoven’s own words, but according to Dr Barry Cooper perhaps erroneously so, as being, “like a voice from the tomb.”

In the noble, hymn-like, ravishing slow movement, the audience remained entranced and completely silent, as Jia Ning achieved a splendid purity of tone in her long cantabile melodic lines, which unfolded organically, allowing the music to speak for itself. The triplet drum-like figures in the accompaniment, alternating in register, towards the end of the first subject were played with admirable articulation and an extraordinary, shimmering delicacy. Chords were voiced exquisitely throughout, with so many tangible layers to her sound, even just in this movement. The graceful sweep of the left hand demisemiquaver descending accompaniment in the recapitulation, was stunningly beautiful and elegant, creating one of many memorable moments in this introspective and sometimes poignant movement. Moreover, it was also obvious throughout the evening that Jia Ning possesses an intelligent attention to detail and faithfulness to the score in all aspects of her playing, yet her interpretations were never predictable.

We were always left with an impression of spontaneity and a feeling of discovery, with Jia Ning finding numerous special moments and delightful details, in order to portray her evocative exploration of many different emotions. In the final movement, she presented us witha contrast between lyrical lines and the stormier material, where there were bold torrents of sound. There was tension in the climaxes and a spine-tingling control in the quietest of passages. We were treated to a full range of expression to end this turbulent Sonata. It was a magnificent start to the recital, leaving a wonderful first impression of her astonishing pianism and ability to communicate meaning.

To end the first half, Jia Ning turned to Schumann and his uncommonly heard Bunte Blätter, Op. 99 (which translates as ‘Colourful Leaves’). She presented the first 10 of the 14 miniatures in the set, and each was expertly characterised with a vast array sentiments and moods, that often shifted abruptly. The opening to the first was extremely tender and moving, yet with a joyful simplicity and perfectly judged flexibility in the rubato. It was a splendid introduction to the rich and vivid world of Schumann. There was a meticulous approach, with every phrase precisely contoured, yet her playing always unfolded naturally and was never forced. The playfulness and liveliness achieved in the Novelette was particularly enchanting. An energetic conclusion in the Präludium brought this remarkable first half to an end and, for a while, the audience sat quite stunned, taking in what they had just heard before turning to each other with smiles and praise.

The second half was entirely given to Schubert’s monumental Sonata No. 21 in B flat, D960. This was his final sonata, written in a frenzy of activity during the last months of his life, a time wracked with poverty and ill-health before his premature demise. It is cast in four expansive movements, classical in overall structure, but romantic features are evident, such as the cyclic material unifying the movements, and also the harmonic language. It was pleasing to hear the exposition repeats in the long opening movement. Jia Ning explained that she had included them so as not to miss out important motivic details. The movement is notable for its mercurial shifts in harmony, colour and thematic material, which were handled with a staggering intensity and artistry, as we were drawn into the gentle drama that unfolded. The opening of the development section, in the remote key of C-sharp minor, was played with a celestial beauty and, as it progressed, contrasting motifs gave way to the climax of the development which was imbued with real pathos and serenity. At other moments, warmth radiated from long flowing lines over well-balanced and muted bass figurations. The dynamic and emotional range throughout the movement was boundless.

From the outset, we were drawn right into the reflective, sombre and sometimes tragic second movement. At times the playing was barely audible, yet with an ethereal clarity of sound that still reached the back of the hall. This considerable dynamic control was effortless and there to serve the music, with its spiritual inclination. The rich textures of the middle section signalled yet another shift in temperament. The change of timbre towards the end of the movement for the move to C major was hauntingly sublime.

The Scherzo of the third movement skipped along with a luminosity of sound and lightness of touch, interspersed by the momentarily darker mood of the Trio. The concert was brought to an end by a tumultuous reading of the mighty final movement. Just as in the Beethoven, Jia Ning handled the unpredictable shifts of mood, key, dynamics, texture and timbre astoundingly, yet there was never an excess of ideas. There was a real drive in the turbulent themes, which contrasted with the jubilation elsewhere. It was refreshing to heara player at the beginning of their professional career tackle this repertoire, rather than opt for more obvious showmanship, which she is clearly capable of, as shown in the rapid flourishes in the encore, (Balakirev/Glinka, The Lark). This left me speechless as we were taken to yet another stratosphere. However, it takes a pianist of outstanding skill to be able to play these works of great depth in the way that she achieved, with much of what astounded me being difficult to portray in words, because it was found in her deep communication with the audience. She balanced her ability to have something to say, with letting the music just be. How blessed are the music lovers in our community, and those surrounding us, to have been able to witness such fine creativity and artistry.

There is surely a bright future ahead for this pianist and I will look forward to attending a future concert given by Jia Ning.

©Ruth Livesey