GETTIN’ THERE

Written by Karen Rile
Published: October 10, 2013 at 8:12 PM [UTC]

GETTIN’ THERE

When my daughter was a gap-toothed eight-year-old her teacher invited us to a masterclass where several of his older students would be playing for a famous violinist. Although I was hesitant to bring a young child to an event that ended close to her bedtime, my daughter insisted, so we went.

The masterclass was held at the music school’s main branch, on the other side of town. We arrived a few minutes after the hour, due to traffic on the expressway.

At the front of the room, a serious-faced eleven-year-old boy in a black sweater was already playing a movement of unaccompanied Bach. I thought he looked terribly grown-up in comparison to my pigtailed daughter, and to my ear he sounded astonishingly sophisticated. In what world do children play the violin this well? Would my daughter be like him someday? The famous violinist was watching him intensely.

We glanced around for my daughter’s teacher. Me, nervous for his reproving look since we were late; she, hoping to wave at him, because his face always brightened when he saw her. But not today. Her teacher was staring at the boy, who was the first and youngest of his students to perform on this program. The teacher’s body was as rigid; every muscle in his face was tense with grave concern.

The boy finished playing and looked up at the famous violinist with his large, dark eyes. The violinist smiled at the boy and began to speak. I opened my notebook out of habit. My daughter opened her notebook, too, a child’s black-and-white composition book. What on earth was she writing? “Watch your frazing in the Bach…” I imagined my own self at eight, which was a year before I’d even begun my own ill-fated piano lessons. I could probably have sat through a similarly long lecture demo, but only if someone gave me Twizzlers, and only with my head buried in Harriet the Spy.

The class continued for two hours. A thirteen-year-old Russian girl, who had soloed with the Philadelphia Orchestra in a schoolchildren’s concert earlier that same day, played a movement of Wieniawski. An 11th grade boy played Tchaikovsky, a performance so exciting I found myself holding my breath. After each child played, the famous violinist gave his opinions; then they re-played their pieces, incorporating his suggestions. My daughter and I scribbled more notes. I kept glancing at her teacher, whose gaze remained locked on his students, his face muscles stiff with concentration. I couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone in the audience ought to lighten up. We ought to leap to their feet to celebrate the astonishing achievements of these kids, these children. These children.

There was no reception after, no folding table groaning with cupcakes and punch, like at student recitals where families show up with bunches of supermarket flowers to help the performers feel like little divas no matter how it went. The mood remained sober and studious to the end, but with a frisson of dangerous excitement—because it meant something to play for the famous violinist, who was on the faculty of a famous conservatory some twelve blocks north. It was an opportunity that would not be taken lightly by these children, their parents, or their teacher. And the stakes were high. It could go either way.

“Why isn’t he saying hello to me?” whispered my daughter. Her teacher still had not acknowledged us, or even looked in our direction. He, who made her feel so special during her lessons.

“It’s because he’s focusing on the students who played tonight. He’s their teacher too, you know.” In this room, she was not important. Her first lesson in recontextualization.

My daughter’s teacher finally greeted us. His face lit up as he smiled down at her (he is a very tall man and she was tiny for her age.) He repeated for us with pleasure, sotto voce, what the famous violinist had just told him, about the eleven-year-old boy who'd played Bach: “He is a very talented boy." Then a shadow passed over his face and he rushed off to speak to the mother of the Russian girl, who was applying that month for early admission to the famous violinist's conservatory. We found ourselves chatting with the mom of the very talented boy.

“What are you working on now?” she asked my daughter.

“Bach A minor!” she answered. In spite of myself, I  felt a small swell of pride; it was a new piece, assigned a few lessons ago. Her first “real” concerto.

The woman narrowed her eyes, regarding my daughter. “Gettin’ there,” she said after a pause.

My daughter beamed back at the boy’s mom, considering this a compliment. I felt the sting of her condescension. I got it: we were in the room, but we weren’t really “there.” My daughter wasn’t yet among those who would be chosen to play for a famous visitor. But she would someday if she kept working. She was "gettin' there."

But where is “there”? How do you know when you're no longer aspiring, when you’ve arrived? By a teacher’s approval, by advancement in repertoire, or technique, or some elusive, shifting sense of mastery? Is Carnegie Hall “there”? Is winning a competition “there”? What about a job? What about a career?

No matter where you are on the grid, you'll always be able to make out the distant figures of the ones far ahead of you. But don't be fooled: they're not there any more than you are. The very talented boy, the Russian girl, the 11th grade boy, my daughter, her teacher, the famous violinist, you, me, all of us moving forward in our own orbits, traveling towards the elusive “there”.

It’s exhausting; it's essential. Keep moving. You're getting there.