The classical concert last Thursday was a promotion event of a music school, actually. There were 7 pianists, 2 guitarists, 1 flutist, and 1 tenor performing in the 1,5-hour timeslot. No wonder I felt like being in a candy factory: so many sweets to choose from, it left me dizzy.
Watching a classical concert is paradoxical for me. I'd always have a great time doing it because I connect to the music just so; yet nothing pains me more than to have one great failure rubbed onto my face so harshly. You see, until I was 19, I thought classical music would get me somewhere.
I began taking piano lessons when I was old enough to know that a half is bigger than a quarter, and two one-eighth notes would total a quarter note. I knew no concept of hard work back then, but I knew if I practiced hard enough, hard enough that my fingers stung, hard enough that my brains numbed, hard enough that my heart ached, my teacher would reward me with a slight "Not bad!" in the next lesson.
I cried many times during my piano classes, sometimes because I was too young to handle criticism ("WRONNGGGGG!!!!!!!!!! YOU NEVER PLAY ANYTHING RIGHT!!!!! YOU RAISE MY BLOOD PRESSUREEEEE!!!!!!!), sometimes because I realised that I too demanded so much from myself. It is one thing to have an over-demanding teacher, but it is completely another thing to be your own over-demanding enemy. It was like having one part of me crying on the floor, begging for a time out to play hopscotch in the garden... and another part of me tearfully refused to budge an inch from the piano stool because this Schumann or Czerny or Kuhlau piece wasn't so difficult so we had to..we had to...we had to master it...even if...it meant no playing hopscotch for today. And tomorrow. And the next day. Even if it meant no playing hopscotch forever. The tearful girl at the piano always won. The one crying on the floor always lost. (Because deep down she too wanted to master this Schumann or Czerny or Kuhlau piece.)
Until adolescence came by a storm, and all realisation hit me across the face. It was during those cruel years that I realised I couldn't be anyone I wanted to, that my parents lied when they said I could choose what school to go to, that my grandmother was merely being nice when she told me that I was pretty, that being a female hurt, that Maths was bloody difficult, and that I wasn't gifted enough in classical music.
I continued studying on and off, though. Just to occupy my mind, and to please that one girl living inside me, the one who secretly wanted to be a musician.
That girl screamed inside me last Thursday, so loudly that my head hurt. Seeing Mario Santoso (merely 23 years old and shone brighter than Halley) playing Chopin was like being lashed across the face, the back, the legs, allover my body. My brains were throbbing with pain: how could he be so gifted, why were I so insufficient, how could I be so stupid for daring to have the big dream of being a musician, how could I wish for something too grand while having too little?
But I did have the other girl inside me still. The one who wanted to play hopscotch. She was the one who commanded me to lean forward in my seat, and absorb the music with gratitude.
When E asked when I was gonna perform on stage, if ever, my heart skipped a beat. I guess he didn't know how painful that casual question was for me. Something inside me wanted to die right then and there, for I was a person who could never swallow a reminder of a failure gracefully.
But I held back my tears. As a lump grew bigger in my throat, I told myself that fine, I would never ever play the piano like Mario Santoso did, but I bet he couldn't win playing hopscotch against me.
PS: But I had a great time watching the concert with you, E. You knew I did.
