The summer of ’74 was a magical time for me. Tucked away in the Piedmont region of North
Carolina, every day at the Eastern Music Festival was a new experience. I met college-aged students attending
well-known conservatories and Ivy-League schools, I studied with a young
emerging pianist who helped me to refine aspects of my own playing that my
teacher back home ignored, and I rubbed elbows with greatness.
One of the most exciting visiting artists at the festival
was a triple-act: The Beaux Arts Trio.
This ensemble was the pre-eminent piano trio globally for over half a
century. Over the years the violinist
and cellist changed; that summer it was Isadore Cohen (formerly a violinist of
the Juilliard String Quartet, who played with the trio from 1969 to 1992) and
Bernard Greenhouse, the trio’s founding cellist who remained with the group for
32 years. Menahem Pressler, the pianist
who fled Nazi-Germany in 1939 and co-founded the trio in 1955, remained the
only pianist of this ensemble until its final concert in 2008.
Menahem Pressler is a pianist’s pianist—a true stylist and a
great collaborator. When the trio
performed together, three musicians breathed as one. But Pressler was also a great solo performer,
as comfortable on stage alone as he was with his musical partners. Between rehearsals with the Beaux Arts Trio
for its scheduled performances, Pressler was also disappearing into the depths
of the piano practice rooms to catch a little practice time for his upcoming solo
engagements.
In those days, I was deep into Rachmaninoff’s 2nd
Piano Concerto. I had performed both the
first and last movements with local Miami orchestras, but I was busy that
summer trying to learn the difficult second movement in order to have a “complete
concerto” in my repertoire. The festival
had a concerto competition; I was hoping to have the slow movement polished in
time to compete. Every day, I was out
early after breakfast to get first dibs on the good practice rooms. There, in the refrigerated, windowless cube,
I would work until lunchtime.
One day, I was working out my favorite “Russian march”
section of the 1st movement, trying to get the large chords more
crisp in my tiny hands, when there was a knock on the door. I stopped playing, yelling, “Come in!” The door opened and it was Menahem
Pressler. Looking sheepish, he
apologized before backing out of the room, closing the door behind him. I resumed my practicing only to be
interrupted a few moments later by another knock. Once again I stopped playing. The door opened and it was Pressler
again. “May I help you?” I asked,
politely, and clearly a little star struck.
“I am looking for someone,” he said.
“Are you here all alone?” He
looked around the practice room and behind the open door, trying to discover
whether there was more to the room than he could see.
“Who are you looking for?” I asked, thinking I might be able
to help. “I keep hearing someone playing
Rachmaninoff,” he said. “Do you know who
it is?” I explained that I was working
on Rachmaninoff’s 2nd. “No,”
he said, sincerely enough that I believed his surprise. “That could not be you. This sounded like a man.”
No amount of arguing could convince him; I was the only one
on campus working on that piece. He
pointed at the keyboard and commanded me to play. I picked up the passage I had been practicing
and played a bit for him. He said, “I’ve
never heard such a big sound come from such a little girl!” Then he explained that he, too, was working
on the same concerto. He was leaving
from EMF to appear with the Miami Beach Symphony the next night. “I just played this concerto with them!” I
said. I explained the Kiwanis Club
Concerto Competition in which I had just won a prize. It included a performance with this (now
defunct) professional orchestra.
“I’m looking for a place to practice,” Pressler said. “Can we share this room?” I instantly relinquished the bench to the
master, pulling in a folding chair so that I could sit alongside. For the rest of the morning we played
passages for each other, an exchange of which I was certainly the greater beneficiary. After a few solid hours the door flew open. It was Bernie Greenhouse and Izzy Cohen
looking for their pianist. Pressler made
introductions, and the four of us headed out to the dining hall for lunch.
After that, I was their constant companion for the rest of
their visit. Pressler invited my Brahms
Piano Quartet to play in their master class.
It was unfortunate, however, that I had just gotten the score and was
not really up to performance quality yet.
No matter. Pressler slid onto the
bench and played with my string players—a perfect impromptu performance. When it came time for the Beaux Art Trio to
give their own recital, Pressler asked me to turn pages for him on-stage. After a week and great words of
encouragement, I bade farewell to my new friends.
Fast forward six years.
I see a poster on the Harvard campus advertising a recital by the Beaux
Art Trio in Sanders Theatre. I
liquidated my emergency coin jar to buy a single ticket to the concert. I arrived early, sneaking into the area where
artists warm-up before concerts. I made
my way to Pressler, asking him if he remembered the summer at the Eastern Music
Festival, and the little girl who played Rachmaninoff with him all
morning. “Of course!” he exclaimed,
surprising me by his memory of that day.
“But how did you know. . .?” He looked at me again. “Come closer and let me look into your eyes,”
he said. I’m not sure what he was
looking for, but suddenly he reached out and grabbed me in a big bear hug. He turned to his partners, recounting the
story of that summer and the dueling Rachmaninoffs. He was thrilled to catch up, to see me “all
grown up into a lady,” and attending a good school.
Honestly, I thought he was just being polite. How could this day—which meant so much to me—have
made such a lasting impression on him as well?
But there is something special that happens between people when they
make music together. It forms a bond
that sometimes lasts a lifetime. He
offered me a ticket to attend a solo recital he was giving at Tufts the
following evening, asking me to be sure to come back stage afterward. When I tried to excuse myself to let them
complete their pre-concert preparations, he pulled me back and offered an even
greater gift. “Would you turn pages for
me,” he asked, “again?”
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