My parents were thrilled and wanted to help set up play-throughs in Michigan. They and a few of their friends arranged a couple of appearances in the Detroit area a few weeks before the tour began. Other family friends came through with an invitation to play the program in La Jolla, California.
Meanwhile, Carolyn said that I could count on her to host any number of full program play-throughs at her house. Two new friends in Santa Monica, pianist-composer Francis Hendricks and his wife, Katie, who had a beautiful nine-foot Steinway in their home, invited me to play the program there.
As I tried to absorb the prospect of returning to the stage, Amelia and I had some in-depth conversations about mind-set. One of the principles we discussed was a simple but effective technique, useful in all sorts of situations, that she called “acting as if.” When Amelia taught social workers and probation officers to work with families, one of her techniques was to “act as if ” they were, for example, relaxed and calm around their clients. Amelia demonstrated how she would stretch her arm over the back of a chair or couch, or otherwise “open up” her body posture so that the client subconsciously felt more at ease. At the very beginning of a session with clients, the “acting as if ” might be a conscious effort; but soon the more relaxed state becomes internalized for everyone in the room, including oneself.
If I could, to some extent, “act as if ” the larger audience, the larger hall, the higher-pressure situation were similar to my play-throughs in Eve’s living room, I could put myself into a state I had already experienced as a means of communicating the music despite my neuromuscular disabilities.
As in the play-throughs, the sublime musical vision needed to coexist at every moment with an artificial neuromuscular substitute. I had been learning to accept a finger stroke, or shove with the wrist, or any other “work-around,” in such a way as not to disturb that exalted musical image.
In my play-throughs there was a “near place” and an “encompassing place.” The “near place” was where the careful retraining of each small movement and impulse—each micro-movement and micro-impulse—happened on an ongoing basis. This was the area that suddenly seemed exposed with the time-stretch of the adrenalized state.
The “encompassing place” was the entirety of the music—beginning with the inner vision of the sublime content—flowing through me and through the instrument, becoming part of the room and the room’s atmosphere. The larger the room, the larger the encompassing place.
As a teenage pianist, the encompassing place was where I had dwelled; I performed often and always thought in terms of communicating the music. I had done careful work in the near place, to refine detail and develop solid technique, but in those days it had always merged seamlessly with the encompassing-place flow.
But now, in getting used to the idea of playing for a larger audience in a more formal situation, I needed to keep all of this in focus to offer the public this music that meant so much to me. And I needed to “act as if,” as Amelia put it, and see the audience as friendly if I were ever again to feel at home on the stage.
I played the concert program in performance mode twelve times in the weeks before leaving for Stockholm at the end of February. The agonizing first concert, in Detroit, took place on November 1, which happened to be my thirtieth birthday. I had made sure Mom and Dad got the word out to their friends that I didn’t want anything said about my illness to the press. The announcement that appeared was simply stated:
Carol Rosenberger will make her professional piano debut in a recital at the Detroit Institute of Arts November 1. The concert, which has already been sold out, will be repeated November 3. Miss Rosenberger has performed in this area since she was eight years old. She studied here with the late Edward Bredshall and in Pittsburgh under Webster Aitken, during which time she received several awards, including the Steinway Centennial Award. In Paris, she studied privately with Nadia Boulanger, and in Vienna, attended the Vienna Music Academy. Since her return to the United States, she has pursued her musical activities on the West Coast.”
The only thing I remember about those two concerts was pacing backstage beforehand, just as I had done as a teenager. I kept thinking of Bredshall, backstage there with me so many times when I had played in that hall years before. He would be smiling and encouraging me to think through the opening of the first piece I was going to play. That was the most calming thing one could do before a performance, he always said, and of course he was right. The rest is a blur, though I remember trying to focus on playing for all the friends in the audience.
Soon after I returned to California following the Detroit concerts, Amelia called from work with news so shocking that for a moment I thought it must be a horrible dream: President John F. Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. In the ensuing weeks, as Amelia, Eve, and I watched the gripping TV footage and discussed the fallout from the assassination, along with the rest of the country, everything we were working on individually felt unreal.
Just before I left for the European tour, Webster arrived in LA. We arranged to spend an afternoon together, and I was looking forward to outlining the whole tour plan with him in a leisurely fashion. But as we sipped our tea, I could tell that he was anything but relaxed. When we discussed my imminent departure for Stockholm, the first stop on the tour, I was distressed to see that the color had drained from his face. I suddenly realized that he was not just worried, but all-out frightened for me. And my own anxieties increased once it was clear that he doubted whether my reconstructed techniques would hold up in the spotlight of a strenuous concert tour.
Webster was not the only one. Even in my most positive mode, encouraged by Amelia and Eve, setting out for the tour felt more like a dangerous mission than a triumph. At my highest anxiety levels, I was just plain terrified. I tried to reassure myself that if I could just bring home a positive review or two, I might be better able to get a college teaching job.
For me, it was critical that the words “illness” or “polio” never come up. I didn’t want anyone to be watching for a disability to manifest itself; and I wanted any response to my playing to be unbiased. On the other hand, I had to get help with my luggage, even the lightest of hand luggage, or I would be unable to play at all. At each stage of the journey, this was not only a constant worry but also an embarrassment.
When I arrived in Stockholm, the head presenter was out of town, and his assistant seemed bored with her job. Everything she did and said increased my fear quotient. When she only grudgingly helped with my luggage, I knew that we were getting off on the wrong foot. In the taxi from the airport, she casually mentioned that we would have a good crowd, but that some Swedish critics didn’t like American musicians. If I didn’t receive a warm reception, I shouldn’t take it personally.
When we got out of the taxi, she asked the driver for a receipt, and once again I waited awkwardly for her help with the hand luggage. The American duo-pianists and twin brothers Richard and John Contigulia were just coming out of the hotel, and she introduced us nonchalantly. Their performance would be the evening after mine. The brothers were friendly and relaxed, and assured me that they would be at my recital. Although I was grateful for their warm greeting, knowing that they were coming to hear me made me even more nervous. Would professional pianists of their caliber see through some of my precarious neuromuscular structure?
Both the backstage milieu and the hall itself are dim in my memory, and I was too nervous to have any idea how I’d played. The manager’s assistant came backstage at intermission and tactlessly mentioned that the critics were all leaving. I knew that happened sometimes for practical reasons and tried my best not to panic.
The next morning, on our way to the airport, the assistant told me that the reviews were “all bad.” I didn’t even ask what they had said. By then I was just trying to hang on through ever-increasing panic. I was trying to ward off the feeling that I was a fake.
In Copenhagen, the next stop on the tour, the atmosphere was different. The
concert management people were welcoming, and I knew that some of my friends from Blegdam Hospital would be coming to the concert. I also recognized that nothing could be more difficult than that first experience in Stockholm. And no matter how I played, I had come a great distance from the time I’d been in Copenhagen as a patient. Perhaps that awareness helped me relax a little, too. After I had played the Bach, the audience broke into enthusiastic applause, and I relaxed a little more. (Secret tip for all concertgoers: Applaud like mad after the first piece, as the performer will give a better performance of the rest of the program.)
Backstage after the concert, I was greeted by the Blegdam physical therapy team, Mrs. Buttrup and her relatives, and a few other acquaintances from my months as a patient. Along with hugs were wide smiles and tears of joy. At Mrs. Buttrup’s side was a tall, charming young man with glasses and a big smile; it was Marcel, all grown up! After he had said something enthusiastic about the recital in fluent English, he had a question for me: “Remember when you put the bird gravel in the soup?” We had a good laugh, and I complimented him on his English. It was a kind of homecoming for me, and I could see that everyone felt the same way.
The tour took me next to Oslo, The Hague, Amsterdam, and Zurich. The Amsterdam and Hague audiences were especially warm and receptive, giving me a standing ovation at intermission. It was their custom to welcome an artist in this way, but their friendliness had a positive effect on me, and I was more relaxed for the second half. It was heartening to play the Beethoven under these reassuring circumstances, and I knew that I would always be grateful to these people no matter what the reviewers might write.
Then it was on to Vienna. Martha and Dady had returned to the Köllnerhof flat after the birth of their adorable little Nuvi (the nickname for Navroj), and it was good to be with them again. Although we were all nervous about the Vienna reception, the performance seemed to go quite well. Martha told me afterward that, in general, American pianists weren’t much treasured by the Viennese reviewers, so I shouldn’t be disappointed by whatever they wrote.
The after-concert party was enthusiastic and comforting. Professor Eibner was there—clearly excited that I was playing once again. We all sat around a large table, and he sat next to me, partly smiling and laughing, partly with tears in his eyes.
The last two concerts were in Salzburg and Athens. Since I had an extra day before flying back to the United States, I had a chance to visit the Acropolis and the Parthenon. I knew that Amelia would be excited to hear about these visits, as she had felt a great love for ancient Greek culture since childhood, when her father had introduced her to its language and philosophy.
Back in the States, I went first to Michigan, played the tour program at Oakland University, reunited with my parents, and then flew back to California. Once I was home in Malibu, I received two packets in the mail: one from Martha with clippings of the Vienna reviews and one from Bichurin with all the European reviews, translated by his staff. They were magnificent.
I was stunned. In review after review, the glowing comments were far beyond anything I could have hoped for. An Amsterdam review called me “a young pianist of stature.” The Vienna headline read, “Sie Kam, Spielte, Faszinierte” (“She Came, She Played, She Fascinated.”) A Zurich reviewer commented, “If we’re any judge at all, a new star has appeared in the pianistic heavens.” Even the Stockholm reviews, which I had been told two months before were “all bad,” said simply that I was like so many other American pianists: all technique and no soul. Once I had seen the other reviews, the Stockholm comments read almost like a bitter joke.
Soon after I got back, I played a recital at the Santa Monica (Assistance League) Playhouse that had been set up before I left for Europe. A well-known Los Angeles critic wrote a laudatory review of that performance as well.
Sherman Pitluck, meanwhile, got in touch to say that he was ready to sign me up with his management and had already created a flyer with his favorite quotes from the European reviews. I could hardly believe it. Nine years after the polio attack, I was a “pro” at last!
There was one problem, however: I had never told Sherman the story of my illness and years-long struggle to recover. I felt it should be done in person, and scheduled a trip to New York, explaining that I wanted to get together and talk about the future. We had a relaxed and positive discussion over dinner and some wine, and once we were nearing the end of our meal, I leaned forward and said, “Sherman, there is something I need to tell you.” My serious tone clearly alerted him. “I don’t want you to tell anyone,” I continued, “except perhaps Mark Bichurin, but you’d have to tell him to keep it to himself.” He nodded in consent.
Then I launched into the story of my polio attack and recovery years, complete with the true state of my neuromuscular condition. I knew it would be shocking and wanted to make sure he was aware of my disability before we signed a contract. I thought he might be wary or possibly concerned about my physical limitations in terms of carrying out further tours. If this worried him, I also wanted to give him a chance to back out of our contract.
But Sherman’s first response was not what I expected. “People should know about this!” he exclaimed. “There is no reason to keep it a secret!” I told him my fear that anyone who knew might suddenly notice some of my work-arounds and think of me as less of a pianist. Presenters might worry about my reliability.
But Sherman was on a roll of excitement. “What an inspiring story!” he kept saying. “I can’t wait to tell (so-and-so) about it!” Every time he thought of someone else in the business who “should know,” he would get excited all over again.
His jaw had dropped when I told him about the polio, but now mine did, as I tried to grasp his response. Every objection or “but what about . . .” that I came up with, he dismissed as totally unimportant. Finally, I gave in and told him that he had my permission to handle telling my story as he wished. I didn’t have to ask Amelia for her opinion; I already knew what she would say. Since the very first day we met, she had thought my polio story should not be kept secret.
Both Sherman and Amelia turned out to be right. In all the years I played in public from that time on, not one negative word appeared about my disability. No one ever speculated that my such-and-such finger must be weak, or was strangely positioned in some specific musical passage, or whatever else I might have been afraid people would say. On the contrary, in countless radio interviews and other ways I was to meet the public, people wanted to discuss their own problems with a right-hand thumb or a left wrist, or all kinds of other conditions, hoping that I might have some advice. Far from being something that kept me out of the performance world, my disability enabled me to be helpful, or at least encouraging, to others.
Chapter Thirteen
Back Onstage, and Heartbreak in LA
With reviews from my European tour in hand, Sherman embarked enthusiastically on his quest for concert dates in the United States and asked me for a list of concerto repertoire. I hadn’t even thought that far. I named five of the concertos I had played pre-polio and then mapped out a plan to approach them anew with my “work-around” techniques. Considering how much thought and care needed to go into reworking all five concertos, that was a tall order.
Next, I needed to decide on repertoire for the next European solo tour Mark Bichurin was already working on. I wanted to begin the program with a Handel suite and include another of my favorite Beethoven sonatas, the “Waldstein.” The all-important initial play-throughs began once more, with Eve and Carolyn hosting the gatherings.
A few invitations to play for groups in California also began to come my way—among them, a performance for a local chapter of the Music Teachers’ Association. This Los Angeles performance brought me some new private students, who were enjoyable to work with and helped me stay solvent.
Between Bichurin and Pitluck, my 1965 concert schedule was dotted with performances and auditions. Besides preparing thoroughly for each one, I had to sort out att
endant details: travel reservations; who was meeting me at each destination airport; prescription refills for anti-inflammatories; even careful notes about my wardrobe, so that I didn’t repeat a performance gown in the same, or a neighboring, town.
Still uneasy that the polio story was out, I told myself that when people saw me walk effortlessly into a room or onto a stage, bow gracefully, and seat myself easily on the piano bench, any worries that the “polio girl” might not be able to deliver the goods would be put to rest.
If anyone asked me about problems with my arms and hands, I tried to answer in the past tense, figuring that almost everyone likes to hear a story with a happy ending. My “happy ending” was that after going through hell for a long time, I had come back to a normal life and piano playing.
Privately, however, I was grabbing every chance I could to rest and soothe, stretch and treat the most damaged and vulnerable upper-body muscles. I knew that I should take everything one step at a time, but anxiety was building. En route to Europe for my second tour, I stopped in New York for a couple of auditions and then flew to Scandinavia for concerts in Oslo and Copenhagen. By that time, I was having what felt like a sustained anxiety attack. As I wrote to Amelia:
Perhaps it’s just the sum total of what I’m undertaking, but it seems so much larger this time! Last year in Europe I had no expectations. . . . Now, since I have hope for the first time, I’m afraid to see those hopes destroyed. There’s more at stake now because I’m hoping that I can dare to give out what I feel about music. Last time was more of an experiment.
What am I doing this for, anyway? With a new set of reflexes? When you think of it, it’s absurd. As we know, the channels couldn’t be as deep yet as they are for someone who hasn’t had to redo it all.
To Play Again Page 19