To Play Again

by Carol Rosenberger

  The strenuous efforts that I was putting into my work at the piano, and at the same time a little teaching, left me no energy to build other relationships on my own. But Amelia and Eve had—and made—those connections, and I could be part of it all. When we went out in public, Amelia or Eve would casually open doors, pick up packages, move a chair this way or that, make sure there was an armchair for me to sit in—done so gracefully and naturally that only our medical friends would have noticed my disability. I felt as if I were emerging once again as a person—emerging from that very protective shell I had built for the first years after the polio attack. I no longer felt like just a struggling soul in rehab.

  If my energy had been used up for the day, it didn’t matter. The conversation was lively and enjoyable, and all I had to do was smile or add a comment here and there. If the three of us went to a concert or an opera or a play, Amelia and Eve would do the applauding and I would smile, exchange enthusiastic comments with them, and not have to tire my shoulders to show my delight. Instead, I could shout “Bravo!” and pound the floor with my feet.

  My own informal performances became more frequent once Eve began hosting them, with Amelia’s help. Thanks to these play-throughs, I once again became accustomed to the adrenaline rush, and learned to work with it. Play-throughs turned out to be the path—the only path—to redeveloping my piano playing.

  Imagine that you were a circus performer, sure-footed on a tightrope, and then one day you’d suffered paralytic scatter damage all through your entire body, to the extent that you felt weak and unstable walking from your bed to the bathroom. Yet you were determined to get back on that tightrope—a tightrope without a safety net.

  Extreme athletes say that in life-threatening situations, once the adrenalized “fight or flight” response kicks in, they can find the right solutions in “flow” state. British BASE jumper Shaun Ellison, who jumps off “big cliffs in beautiful places,” describes this state as being “on a different plane,” where he can find “channels that are closed in day-to-day life.”

  For me at that point, playing for even three or four people was terrifying, and therefore felt like that high-wire act with no safety net. The gradual gains I made must have been in some form of “flow” or I couldn’t have endured the process.

  I found ways, in informal performance mode, to connect dots that otherwise would have remained isolated. It took the actual act of presenting music to others to call forth neuromuscular responses beyond what I could work out consciously in practice sessions. It was a magic that could have happened only in “flow” state.

  I had stumbles, of course, and terrifying moments, on a regular basis. But I also found windows into a gradually smoother, more integrated, more effective way of handling some of the musical detail. Those windows that allowed vision and discovery were found randomly among hundreds or, over time, thousands of prospective openings.

  To function for the play-throughs, and get into flow state, I had to develop an entirely new way of preparing to perform—even for a piece of music I had “lived within” and memorized thoroughly. My old pre-polio “normal” way of preparing wouldn’t have worked at all. In general, pianists who perform from memory rely heavily on reflexes developed in the process of building a piano technique over the years, and in practicing and memorizing a specific piece. But my normal neuromuscular reflexes had, of course, been destroyed by polio.

  As I had found a way to do with the Beethoven Opus 109 when I had played it for Mom and Dad and their friends, I prepared every piece by creating “starting places”—many, many spots throughout each musical composition—where I could have walked into a room and started cold.

  All musical performers are highly conscious of natural starting places. It’s where you break the silence and start the music. Since these “opening” spots become unforgettable, the reflex needed to play them is the most reliable. It’s the most solidly built-in detail in the entire piece. One always mentally rehearses a starting place. If it’s the very beginning of the piece, you know exactly how you’re going to start it.

  What comes afterward should flow naturally from that beginning, if you have normal technique, and if you keep the musical whole in mind consistently, as well as the specific moment within that whole.

  But what if the music doesn’t flow naturally? Or what if the flow is unreliable? My solution was to make another starting place as soon as necessary after the beginning, so that the next step would also become highly clarified and highly defined, in both musical and neuromuscular ways. And each starting place had to be imagined and played expressively as if flowing from the previous material, or it wouldn’t work.

  To better explain what I mean, let’s discuss a moderately paced piano piece that takes about ten minutes to perform. If you know the work well, you will have no problem coming into a room, sitting down at the piano, and playing the very beginning of the piece. There will also be a few places during the piece where you could restart “cold” because you are entering a different or contrasting section, and therefore you’ve had to be more conscious of that spot. Even so, most of the piece is a musical “fabric” that moves seamlessly forward, flowing and blending and creating a musical shape. But what if your reflexes aren’t reliable, and you are stopped suddenly right in the middle of creating this beautiful fabric? Then you have to create a super-secure infrastructure for your performance.

  As an example, now let’s lay out the above piece of music in “swatches” that take an average of five seconds each to play in performance tempo. That would make about one-hundred-twenty swatches within the ten-minute piece. You’ll want the swatches to make musical sense within their own small confines, of course, so the five-second length of a swatch is just an average.

  Next you’ll want to become acquainted with, and fix firmly in your mind, the beginning of each swatch as thoroughly and deeply as you know the very beginning of the ten-minute piece. As a test, you’ll want to come to the piano fresh, sit down, and start at the beginning of any one of those one-hundred-twenty swatches.

  But it’s not enough just to know the one-hundred-twenty starting places “cold.” You’ll need to think of each swatch as emerging from its predecessor in thoroughly musical fashion. Each swatch needs to be fixed in your mind as absolute in its own detail, but also as a natural musical continuation of what has gone before.

  For my situation, a five-second swatch would sometimes be too long. Some were half that length. It would all depend on the complexity of the passage, along with my specific neuromuscular unreliability.

  Another important aspect of preparing for my high-risk performance was slow-motion practice—both actual and mental. I would play through the piece in slow motion from memory and play each swatch in the same fashion. I would also make sure that I could think through the entire ten-minute piece away from the piano, in slow motion, from memory. Then I would make sure that I could think through each swatch in slow motion, from memory. I would confirm that I wasn’t relying on reflex to fill in a complex chord, for example. I would think up and down that chord, away from the piano, making sure that I had fixed the entire makeup of the chord in my conscious memory.

  I knew that, in performance, a disruption could happen at any moment. Some impulse would try to join in, and everything would go haywire. I would suddenly have a neural blockage or a nerve shudder; or I might unconsciously begin to put together one work-around with another one in a different way. There were incalculable neuromuscular unknowns and seemingly infinite variations on such events. I wanted to be so secure in knowing the material mentally that I could make a lightning-quick judgment as to how to recover, or how to take a slightly different neural path, in the heat of the moment. Almost anything could happen at any split second as I played a piece of music.

  Presenting complex musical/pianistic material that required neuromuscular complexity of impulse, reflex, and strength in this way was indeed comparable to a death-defying act. And this is where the adrenaline
from “performance nerves” came in.

  In the heat of performance, with adrenaline flowing, time seems to slow down. That is why inexperienced performers tend to play a piece of music faster than they’ve practiced it. Or if they try to keep to the same tempo they’ve practiced, even those with normal reflexes can find themselves in a frightening position. What comes next? Too much time to think!

  But if you are keeping to the intended tempo during the performance, you can also welcome the adrenaline-induced sensation of having much more room between successive notes, even between microscopic movements. From my detailed slow-motion and “swatch” practice, I knew exactly what should come next. That knowledge gave me life preservers that could rescue me from any neurological hiccup, nerve shudder, or sudden neural blockage.

  Since I was so well prepared, I could welcome the extra time the adrenaline gave me. I could even take chances. In the adrenalized slowdown, there were times when I would suddenly try to call on an old, rusty reflex or some new, dangerous-feeling connection that I wouldn’t have dared to try while practicing, or that wouldn’t even have occurred to me post-polio. If I did try it in performance mode, and it didn’t feel possible, the adrenaline time-stretch gave me a chance to recover quickly and go back to what I had so carefully prepared.

  In the play-throughs, I also tried to maintain a sense of joy in sharing the music with friends, despite my limitations. I didn’t sink or swim right away. I took all kinds of neuromuscular wrong turns and steps-too-far. But after every few performances under these circumstances, I was clearly finding paths in the only way paths could be found for someone in my condition.

  I’m describing split-second, microscopic things here; and the whole process was possible only because I had carefully prepared those life preservers throughout. And if an impulse that had popped up only in performance came back during another performance, I recognized it and felt easier about taking a chance on it for the second, third, or fourth time. My play-throughs built upon each other.

  Thus, the key to making further progress was indeed the act of performance itself, supported by the positive preparation for performance and by a continuously refreshed vision of the sublime musical image. The possibilities that occurred to me in the adrenalized state would never have popped up in my normal struggling piano practice. And without those performances, the advice that I should turn away from piano playing and resign myself to following a different life path would have been accurate. But thanks to Amelia and Eve, and the performing opportunities they created, I was taking my first steps on the path to a miracle.

  Chapter Twelve

  The First Miracle

  From time to time Amelia would casually broach the subject of my making a trial run back onto the concert stage—preferably in a low-pressure situation. I found that idea difficult to discuss and would usually shift the conversation to my goal of a teaching career. I was hoping to apply to some of the local college and university music departments. Of course, my curriculum vitae would look much better if I could take the step Amelia was suggesting, even onto a small community stage.

  Meanwhile, Martha and Dady had come to the United States—to White Plains, New York, where David and Eileen lived. Martha had given birth to their first child, Navroj, and she and Dady wanted me to be the baby’s godmother. Their invitation was irresistible enough to tear me away from Malibu and my piano work for a while. We had a warm reunion, focused on Martha and Dady’s adorable new son, with whom I fell in love at first sight.

  While I was in White Plains, Webster got in touch and surprisingly suggested that I play for a well-known pianist-teacher in New York City, just to get an “objective” opinion of my playing. Although I was fearful, I didn’t want to refuse the challenge.

  Before the audition, I attended one of this teacher’s master classes to get an idea of his musical approach. His comments to the young pianists who participated weren’t especially insightful, but the attendees seemed to hang on his every word. Once the others had left, I played for him privately, and he had mostly negative comments about my playing, which reinforced my worst fears about how far I still had to go. On the other hand, I recognized those criticisms as a strategy to gain a new student: His main message was that I needed a good deal of his advice and help if I were ever to amount to anything. I couldn’t get out of his studio fast enough.

  A friend of mine in Michigan, who worked closely with a local presenter there, had set up a meeting for me with a New York artist manager, Sherman Pitluck. I didn’t see how this could lead to anything, but Martha and David encouraged me to go ahead, even if it only resulted in crossing another item off my list. To my surprise, Sherman Pitluck turned out to be a quietly friendly but businesslike person who was happy to meet with me. He explained some of the realities of the concert scene and asked if I would like to play for him. An audition for an artist manager, just like that? I had figured that he was doing my friend a favor and hadn’t expected that he would want to hear me play.

  But could playing for a professional manager possibly be a worse experience than my recent encounter with the “master teacher”? Since I had nothing to lose, I played some of the repertoire that I had developed in my many play-throughs. To my amazement, Pitluck seemed immediately interested and suggested that I also audition for his colleague, Mark Bichurin. Bichurin, a large man with a resonant voice and a thick Russian accent, also had a friendly demeanor, liked what he heard, and seemed interested in exploring some possible tours.

  The two men explained that Pitluck managed artists who toured in the United States and Bichurin handled tours for American artists in Europe. They had both worked for Hurok Artist Management earlier in their careers, and Pitluck had also been with Columbia Artists, so they knew the ropes. They felt that the best approach was to see if Bichurin could get me some tour dates in Europe first, as those were more readily available. That made sense, as I had seen many young Americans, especially singers, turn to Europe for performance opportunities that they hadn’t found at home.

  Pitluck went on to explain that if the response in Europe turned out to be positive, resulting in some good reviews, he could then go after tour dates for me in the U.S. Bichurin warned that the European tour, if he were successful in setting it up, would not be lucrative; in fact, I would undoubtedly lose money by the time I had paid my travel expenses. I told him that would be OK.

  This unexpected development happened so suddenly that it seemed somewhat unreal. Fortunately, neither man asked my age or much about my background. I told them a few details about my college years—studying with Webster Aitken and winning a couple of competitions—and that I had studied further in Europe. I mentioned the magic name of Nadia Boulanger as one of my teachers and referred to my study of Baroque style in Vienna. Every detail was accurate; I just never mentioned polio.

  When I returned to White Plains that evening, I was still in shock over the reception I’d received from the two managers. David practically threw his hat in the air, exclaiming: “But you’re in!” (He made it sound like “Bichurin.”)

  “I’m in? David! This is just a toe in the water!” I cautioned. But he was enjoying it so much that I let the evening be a celebratory one, while telling myself that I’d believe those European dates when I saw them. I hadn’t even started to wrap my mind around how I would carry out such a tour.

  Once back in Malibu, I found that Amelia and Eve were as excited as David had been. I tried not to get my hopes up, but couldn’t help thinking about what program would be best to offer if the tour materialized.

  I felt relatively secure playing the Bach Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue in my informal performances, so the three of us agreed that it could be a fine program opener. My beloved Beethoven Sonata Opus 111, which by then had been the focal point of many a play-through, could be a musically powerful second half of such a program. For a couple of years, I had also been preparing a group of Chopin Preludes—especially appropriate choices for me because each one was short a
nd not too demanding on any aspect of my physical endurance. And yet each Prelude could create a unique sound picture and mood—perhaps one reason the Chopin group had become a favorite for our play-through audiences.

  As I thought about the significance of such a tour, should it come to pass, I kept thinking of Mademoiselle Boulanger, and the special piece of sheet music she had given me when I left Paris. It was the Fauré 13th Nocturne, a late piano work of Gabriel Fauré, who had been her teacher. As such, this work represented her great love for his music. Mademoiselle had inscribed the piece to me, and I had worked on it intermittently, enjoying its spare, intimate beauty. If I were to put that nocturne on a tour program, perhaps it could be a talisman, carrying with it Mademoiselle’s wishes for my musical recovery. Amelia and Eve both loved the idea, so I set to work making the piece secure.

  To my surprise, in only a few weeks Bichurin got back to me with some specific engagements for March and April of 1964, starting with an appearance in Stockholm. It was really going to happen! I would be making my European debut at the advanced age of thirty! I just had to avoid potential questions about my “debut” age and hope that the word “polio” never came up.

  I sent Bichurin the suggested program, to which I had added a couple of my favorite Schubert Impromptus. The first half had a nice variety, and the second half was devoted to Beethoven’s monumental Opus 111. He liked it and said that he would pass the program along to his presenters.

  Eve’s immediate response was to plan a shopping trip. She wanted plenty of time to make sure that the performance gown—or gowns—would be stunning. I protested that we had months to worry about my wardrobe, but she was determined. “Stunning” was fine with me, but secondary; first and foremost, any gown we chose would have to be comfortable to play in. It was just as well that we started early. Coming up with solutions that satisfied both requirements became a major effort. But we finally found two gowns that would work.