I WENT TO THE PIANIST’S DEBUT at Franklin Hall, the most prestigious hall in this town. He had recently moved to town, I read in the paper, as an artist-in-residency at the university’s music department which, while small, had a good reputation. Dressed in a tux with an open collar, he strode onto the stage with a serious expression, took a bow, sat down at the piano and launched into a full program performed passionately yet with complete control. He was of medium height with glossy, thick dark hair, with the large head and long arms of what I’d come to think of as a typical male pianist’s body. Although he was not handsome, he had the kind of face that held your eyes. As he played, his entire body engaged in communion with his instrument.
At the end of the program, he played Chopin’s G minor Ballade, a piece I had longed to play for years, attempted and deserted many times as beyond my skill. He addressed the audience beforehand, sharing how he had fallen in love with the piece when he was a teenager; the same reaction I’d had decades ago, when I first heard it. I sat in the back of the balcony and when he began to play this piece, which I had often imagined making my own, I closed my eyes.
The pianist played it the way I dreamed of playing it. He communicated the piece’s power, beauty, and subtlety, the vast palette of emotion it explored,
…
Nancy McMillan is the author of March Farm: Season by Season on a Connecticut Family Farm. A Pushcart nominee, her work has appeared in various literary journals, including the Connecticut Literary Anthology 2020, Pangyrus, and The Sunlight Press. Her feature articles have run in Litchfield Magazine. She is seeking representation for her YA novel and at work on a memoir. See more at www.nancymcmillan.com.