It wasn’t the most eloquent choice of words, but I could tell that Kasumi was trying to make a point. “What I mean,” she stuttered, “What I mean is that you’re not like other people. You go to Sanskrit camp to learn a dead language. You read weird books about prophets like Muhammad … but you also follow Kim Kardashian on Instagram. And you crack up at John Oliver’s cursing rants. I guess I’m trying to say…you’re full of strange contradictions, Vivian.”
I sat for a moment, stupefied at this unexpectedly honest observation. “Well,” I finally sputtered, “What can I say? … I guess I’ve always been true to myself.”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean!” she said, with a clap of her hands.
“I do like ‘Keeping up with the Kardashians,’ once in a while, but I also like ‘weird’ stories about the prophet Muhammad meeting angels,” I giggled nervously. It had never occured to me that my interests were so contradictory.
In eighth grade, reading about Muhammad trembling under the violent embrace of an angel beckoning him to “Recite!” left me starry-eyed because it seemed to verge on the fictional. The image of the divine urging a regular man to become a conduit of God seemed a little quixotic for a small middle schooler in Ms. Campbell’s English Classroom. And yet, Muhammad’s horror that he may become a kahin, an Arabian soothsayer who reads from unreliable oracles, felt startlingly familiar. His quivering protest, “I am not a reciter!” resonated with my own turmoil as a young trumpet player who regularly grumbled, “How can I call myself a musician when my lips get too tired after playing for just two minutes?!” I must have gushed my thoughts to Kasumi after class.
In high school, I completely forgot about this exchange with Kasumi until junior year, when I had an unexpectedly cathartic experience at an important Juilliard Pre-College rehearsal.
The rehearsal began with the usual hustle and bustle of an orchestra room. I balanced two trumpets, a music folder, a mechanical pencil, and two mutes while hobbling over to my seat. A dozen musicians trudged in at the last minute, some with huge instrument cases strapped around their necks, while a virtuosic violinist flaunted her polished Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor and a bass trombonist blasted long tones.
From the beginning, I knew this was no ordinary rehearsal. Our guest, world-renowned conductor David Robertson, leapt to his podium with an infectious enthusiasm, beaming, “Everyone, please welcome, Juilliard Professor Orli Shaham on piano, internationally renowned violinist Robert McDuffie, and the amazing cellist Julia Bruskin!”
Such glamorous introductions instantly stiffened the air in the room, prompting all of us to sit up a little straighter as we applauded the arriving trio. The high title of “Juilliard Pre-College Symphony” suddenly loomed over me like a shadow I had somehow never managed to fill. I smiled through the familiar feeling of intimidation though, as I was confident in my preparation for this moment. After all, I had practiced with the sounds of cellist Yo-Yo Ma and with violinist Anna Sophie Mutter emanating from my iPhone! Could I have been more prepared?
I could not have been more wrong. Nothing could have prepared me for this. Robertson flicked his baton up before softly settling into the first downbeat. The bass section quietly murmured the first theme. After a regal introduction from our orchestra, the stage was cleared for the cool, sybillic voice of Julia Bruskin’s cello, which sweetly hummed the first theme dolce. Violinist Robert McDuffie then echoed her, his nuanced crescendo and flowering vibrato jolted my mind and wrenched my heart. Then, Bruskin’s bouncing counter melody added a sprig of giddiness before it fully immersed into a synchronized duet with McDuffie which immediately uplifted me to an astral plane. Transfixed, I completely lost count of the hundred bars of rest. For moments, the quarter notes and rests swam freely on the stand before me and I did not have a care in the world! My wonder eclipsed any duty I felt to contribute meaningfully to this artistic labyrinth.
A prompting nudge on my arm from Michael, my trumpet mentor, slapped me back into reality for a second, my head spinning with worry about the next entrance, only to forget it all again as I was subsumed in the first movement’s recursive and propulsive meanings. Each musical line was like transcendent poetry that continuously sucked me in: one moment the cello whispered demurely, in another, the violin bellowed dominantly. Each voice wove itself into the trio’s intricate tapestry of emotional overtones, taking my breath away and never giving it back.
I threatened myself that I would be humiliated in front of the entire orchestra for not playing in time, but to no avail. This overwhelming sense of ecstasy would have upended me, had it not been for Michael recognizing my glazed look and kindly filling in for my accompanying quarter notes.
In the second movement, my feelings dove deeper into the abyss of awe. I could have sworn that I heard the gentle susurrus of a mother’s voice trailing the cello’s opening soft sighs. The piano then pulsed the pattering footfalls of childhood, and I melted into nostalgia when the violin and cello summoned the purest forms of beauty in their synchronized song. Never before had I felt sheer beauty so intimately, its frequencies sending shivers down my back, quivers to my hands, and tears down my cheeks.
Thankfully, I managed to pull myself together for my minor part at the concerto’s close. Trying to hide my swollen eyes, I profusely apologized to Michael while whisking my trumpets together in my case.
I rushed out of the rehearsal room, flustered at my embarrassing lack of self control, yet tickled by my deep sensitivity. In the past, I had listened to pieces of music that had left me wide-eyed, mouth agape, but I had never ever sobbed to music. Nor had I tearfully lost my place during an entire rehearsal! So, what was it about Beethoven’s Triple Concerto that crippled my mature inclinations and rigid musical standards?
Amidst this pondering, I recalled Kasumi’s comment. Her words, “You’re full of strange contradictions, Vivian,” stirred my thoughts until their intention was suddenly clear. She was right, I realized: I am not like everyone else. Like Muhammad, I’m a conduit of some intangible musical force that has me at my knees, sobbing helplessly. And yet I also love lip syncing to Doja Cat in the car and watching John Oliver on the weekends. Both Brahms "Trio for Violin, Horn and Piano in E-flat Major" and Doja Cat’s song “Like That” hold a special place in my “Confidence Boost” playlist on Spotify.
I am simultaneously a serious musician as the Juilliard name suggests, but sounds resembling my mother’s voice or the pitter-patter of toddlers’ feet can invoke the verklempt child within me.
Today, I’m reminded that Beethoven himself faced a dire threat while composing his triple concerto: he was growing deaf and his hard-earned identity as an esteemed composer was slipping away. I feel grateful for that both Beethoven and Muhammad ultimately heard their uniting messages through their deafening doubts.
What leaves me starry-eyed nowadays is the thought that Beethoven, Muhammad, and I share one defining commonality [1] : we rescued ourselves from conflicting planes of identity by embracing their jagged junctures and choosing to stay true to our multi-dimensional selves.
Beethoven: Triple Concerto in C Major, Op. 56 - 1. Allegro
Beethoven: Triple Concerto in C Major, Op. 56 - 2. Largo
Beethoven: Triple Concerto in C Major, Op. 56 - 3. Rondo alla Polacca
Why Beethoven is the brilliant optimist we need right now:
[1] To be clear, I am NOT comparing myself to Muhammad or Beethoven. I have not in any way experienced the extreme suffering and divine revelations encountered by both of these extraordinary individuals. My point is that I am mesmerized by the reflection that all three of us inhabit several parallel and contradictory forms of identity.
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