The Secrets of Ray Chen's Practice Sessions: When Poetry Meets Revolution

August 10, 2025, 9:13 AM · What happens when a world-class violinist lets us peek behind the curtain? A fascinating glimpse into how different pieces demand entirely different approaches to practice sessions on TONIC.

"Playing it on the A string sounds better," he mutters to himself, making the kind of micro-decision that separates good playing from transcendent performance. He's constantly experimenting. Reversing bow directions mid-phrase, sliding fingers across the fingerboard in ways that would make conservatory professors nervous, all in service of finding the perfect emotional color.

The Revolutionary Hidden in Plain Sight

But step into Chen's world of Tchaikovsky's ‘Souvenir de Florence’, and everything changes. Here, he's not just a musician. He's a detective uncovering political secrets hidden in the score.

"This is subterfuge," Chen explains, demonstrating how Tchaikovsky disguises duple meter as triple meter.
The music sounds like it's dancing in threes, but the underlying pulse pushes forward in twos.
A rhythmic sleight of hand that mirrors the political deception of late 19th-century Russia.

Chen connects the dots with the enthusiasm of a scholar who's just cracked an ancient code.
A section in the second movement sounds like a "national anthem," he points out, linking it to the revolutionary tensions following Tsar Alexander II's assassination in 1881. The Italian title becomes a mask, hiding Russian turmoil beneath Mediterranean sunshine.

This isn't academic speculation—it's performance philosophy in action. Chen adjusts his bow strokes accordingly: wider and more grandiose for the "national anthem" moments, thinner and more secretive for the spy-like passages. Every technical choice serves the historical narrative.

Breaking the Rules, Respectfully

What strikes me most about Chen's practice is his fearless approach to the score. If traditional fingerings don't serve his musical vision, he changes them. If printed slurs create awkward bow changes, he rewrites them. This isn't musical vandalism—it's interpretive courage.

"The slurs were inconvenient," he says matter-of-factly, demonstrating his revised bowing pattern. "If the score's markings get in the way of musical meaning, change them." It's advice that would make many students uncomfortable, but it reflects a mature artist's relationship with the text.

He anchors difficult passages by locking in specific notes, then builds the surrounding material around those stable points—a technique that's both practical and profound. Those notorious octave jumps in the Tchaikovsky become manageable when you have reliable waypoints to guide you through the musical terrain.

The Dialogue Continues

Chen doesn't practice in isolation. He constantly references other violinists. The old-school elegance of Christian Ferras against the modern brilliance of Augustin Hadelich. This isn't a competitive comparison; it's artistic dialogue across generations, a way of testing his interpretive choices against the wisdom of the violin tradition.

His practice sessions are intensely concentrated. This reflects the reality of a touring artist's life, where practice time is precious and must be maximally efficient.

The Laboratory of Music-Making

What transforms these practice sessions from mere technical work into something extraordinary is Chen's willingness to share the process. Mistakes, revelations, and all.
When he encounters a passage that's "ear-destroying" (his words), he doesn't hide it. He works through it publicly, showing how professional musicians solve problems.

This transparency turns practice into performance, education into entertainment. We see not just the polished result but the journey of discovery that creates it.

Looking Ahead
As Chen prepares for his August 16 performance at the Olympic Music Festival, we're witnessing more than just preparation.
We're seeing the birth of interpretation.

The "sad sparkle" of the Chausson and the revolutionary subterfuge of the Tchaikovsky aren't just analytical concepts; they're living, breathing musical realities that will shape every note in performance.

The practice room, it turns out, is where technique and interpretation clash and ultimately shine together. In Chen's hands, even broken rosin becomes part of the story—a reminder that the most transcendent art emerges from the most human moments.

Ray Chen performs Chausson's Poème and Tchaikovsky's Souvenir de Florence at the Olympic Music Festival on August 16.
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The Secrets of Ray Chen's Practice Sessions: When Poetry Meets Revolution

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