The Masterclass
Packed in my tote bag was my mum’s old copy of the Beethoven piano sonatas, a new edition of the Mendelssohn piano concerto no.1, and I was ready to go. Ready to seize the day, learn, laugh, and most importantly, play. The day was warm and humid, so I threw on my favourite beige linen mini skirt and paired it with a loose cotton cream camisole adorned with a beautiful bow in the front. I’d done my usual makeup, my go-to millennial cat eyeliner, long lashes, and a good helping of blusher. I made a real effort, I felt confident, excited, and I couldn’t wait to meet her. I’d heard she was one of the best.
I decided to arrive a few minutes early; I was properly into my ‘good girl’ routine. Smile, be very polite, do exactly as you are told, and make flattery your number one aim. The door opened and she entered, followed by a collection of minions who seemed to throw rose petals on the floor every step she took. The problem with these classes, they gather spectators who seem to worship the ground these teachers walk on. My stomach started churning, palms a little sweaty. She carried with her a traditional leather handbag, placed it on the floor, and sat at the piano next to mine. (Two pianos in the same room was a real treat for me at the time!). After hearing news that she was dealing with some personal situations, I offered my sympathies and even suggested we reschedule the session if it suited. But nope, she was happy to continue…
”So, what do you have today?”, she asked, initially pleasant.
“Oh, I have the Beethoven sonata, Op.110…It’s still a work in progress so I do apologise in advance if I make a mess of it!”. I smoothed out the pages on the music stand. “I really value your input and would love to play this to you.”
“Well, you are far too pretty to make a mess of things”. Her response caught me by surprise. I found myself tugging on the hem of my skirt, trying to add a few inches, and I felt myself hunch forward, rounding my shoulders, making myself less visible. I’d never been commented on my appearance in this type of situation, when my sole aim was to create music, not be looked at.
I played through the first movement of the sonata. Not well, but not horrifically. Nothing to write home about, just fine, so I thought. I turned to her after the final note tapered off, eager to hear her thoughts and ready to take on board any feedback she had. The room fell silent.
”Well, you weren’t joking were you”, she stared at me. My face dropped and I felt sicker than I had before I started. I felt like I had unknowingly woken up the beast. “You clearly have no respect for this music whatsoever. You shouldn’t be playing the piano, you have no soul, you clearly aren’t advanced enough for this, do you even know what a piano is”. Harsh words no doubt, but it was the delivery that was the most shocking. I was used to plenty of shouty teachers calling “again, again” into your face, covering me with their spit, but this felt worse, almost personal. Cold, quiet and direct, with little to no facial expression other than her eyebrows turning downwards with the sheer look of disgust in her eyes. In that moment, I froze. The tension in the room around me felt like there was a collective freeze, her minions now in a state of shock. I sat, staring directly at the sheet music in front of me and did everything in my power to stop my bottom lip from quivering and not to let the tears that were pooling in my eyes from trickling down my cheeks. Knowing I had a further 45 minutes of the class to get through, I had to find reserves in myself that I hadn’t needed to use since I was a little girl being told off by a school teacher. “Don’t cry, don’t cry”, I said to myself as a 27 year old woman whose dad had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer a few months earlier.
My mouth was glued shut the rest of the session as the abuse continued, and as soon as I was released from the prison chamber, I ran to the toilet and sobbed. Broken and confused at what had just happened. Have I been delusional this whole time? Perhaps in fact, I shouldn’t be playing. Have I been getting it wrong all this time? I spent the rest of the afternoon on the lawns in front of the building, crying on the phone to my dad.
“Oh dad, it was so horrible,” I choked out, wiping tears from my cheek. “She was so cruel, and now I don’t even know why I’m playing.”
“Listen darling,” he replied, his voice cutting cleanly through my panic. “You are going to need to develop a tougher skin if you want to play this music.”
Dad was a master of unapologetic truth. Soft, soothing words weren’t in his vocabulary, and while it wasn’t the warm sympathy my twenty-seven-year-old self was crying out for, it was classic Dad - honest to a fault. He didn't indulge the drama; he handed me the reality.
And as hard as it was to hear in that moment, he was entirely right.
How was I supposed to navigate a second session the following day? Fuck.
Should I cancel it? I was filled with dread at the thought of another complete roasting, my eyes heavy as I prepared myself for another battering and my appetite completely gone. I confided in the most emotionally solid friend I had there, a delightful Russian gentleman who plays with fire but has the wisdom of a gentle owl. I asked him, ‘What would you do? How should I handle this!?’. His response was simple, “just go in there, and smile”. A tactic I’d yet to try.
As the second session approached the following morning, I purposefully chose to wear something, let's say, a little more ‘conservative’ and a little less ‘me’. Still, I took my flattery to the next level, clutching a banana (I thought an apple would be too cliche) in the palm of my hand, and placed it on the piano in front of her as I entered the room. “You mentioned yesterday that you didn’t have much time for breakfast so I bought this for you”. I felt a surge of confidence come over me. I was not going to let this woman take my playing from me. She did not know me, the reasons I chose to play, and she did not have the authority to strip that connection from me, no matter her age or experience. I began to fight back, to speak up, and to reclaim the reason I even played in the first place. “You seem to have got the wrong impression of me yesterday. I am a serious pianist, and I have come here to learn from you as I value what you have to say. You mentioned that you cannot ‘hear my soul’, so perhaps if you could tell me how I can show you, that would be great”. I surprised even myself at how I just laid it all out. I’ve paid for you to teach me goddamit. “Listen, you either have it or you don't”. She waved a dismissive hand, eyes already drifting to her leather bag. “And you just don’t.” But I wasn’t going to let her win. “No seriously, tell me what I need to do here. More technical work perhaps?” - it was like getting blood out of stone.
After the back and forward of comments like some sort of shit game of tennis, she ‘allowed’ me to perform the second movement. Once I reached the end, she turned to me and said “can I just stop you and compliment you, because now I can hear your soul”. It was at that moment that I realised I was not participating in a piano masterclass at all, but a circus performance. A world class demonstration of power imbalance, emotional abuse, and a brilliant display of the old school ethics of ‘I’ll pull you down to be the one who magically built you in 24 hours’. Total utter bollocks. But, in that moment, I saw right through it. I stood up after the class, continued to play along, said a meager goodbye and thank you as she said “good luck” to me through a sarcastic smile stretched across her face. This time, I walked straight to the bathroom mirror, looked myself in the eye, and whispered: “Fuck you, bitch. You will not take this from me.” Perhaps I should send her a signed copy of my album.
It was the best masterclass I ever had. It taught me to never let anyone speak to you with the disrespect and disregard she did, and most importantly, it taught me that my playing is sacred. It taught me that I deserved more than that. It taught me that you should never let a single person try and take your playing away, no matter what.
