The Horowitz Steinway

(This blog was written on October 1, 2012, which marks the 109^th birthday of legendary Russian-born pianist Vladimir Horowitz.)

I am of a generation of pianists that grew up worshipping two great legends:  Artur Rubinstein and Vladimir Horowitz.  Rubinstein stopped performing publicly while I was a teenager, but I was fortunate to see Vladimir Horowitz perform twice in my life.  Horowitz made many recordings during his lifetime—many of live performances—but none capture the electricity of seeing him perform live on stage. 

Horowitz came to Miami while I was in high school to perform a solo recital in the Dade Country Auditorium.  The tickets were very dear, but my parents allowed me to use the money I had saved from babysitting to purchase a single ticket.  Calling the box office, my mother procured a seat for me that turned out to be in the last row of the balcony, four seats off the aisle.  She dropped me off in front of the auditorium and I found my way to this nosebleed section where, as it turned out, all the starving students were sitting.  The diminutive figure of the artist was a tiny speck from such a distance, but when he sat down to play on the huge Steinway, the room filled with velvety fireworks of color.   I did not need a front row seat; the music touched me as if it were played for me alone.  I only regretted that I could not see the gymnastic hands that defied all I ever learned about finger technique.   Surely he was touched by an angel to be able to play such demanding works without a perceptible movement from the rest of his body.

At the end of the planned program the hall erupted in a frenzy.  The audience began chanting until the maestro returned, sitting down to extend the performance or to allow us to witness his warm down routine—I know not which.  He played some Chopin Mazurkas and some Scriabin, each piece an occasion for the audience to chant louder.   “Sousa!  Sousa!” they yelled, begging the artist to treat us to his signature encore—Stars and Stripes Forever in a piano transcription of his own design.  Eventually, he gave in graciously, beginning with the familiar call of the brass section that we all know from Fourth of July celebrations.  The roar was so loud that audience members instantly began shushing each other lest we miss the occasion completely.  It was a display of virtuosity that has been rarely equaled at any performance I have attended.

Years later, Horowitz came to Boston to perform a recital in Symphony Hall—on my birthday.  My husband of just three months surprised me with tickets to the performance.  If I wasn’t already smitten with his blue eyes and red hair and bound to him through all eternity, this one gesture would have pushed me over the edge.  I can no longer remember the detailed program except that Horowitz ended with the Chopin g-minor Ballade—a piece that was as prominent in my own performance repertoire as it was notorious in his.  The finale of this piece—two pages of sheer technicality configured unlike anything written for the piano—can make a pianist insane.  Horowitz’ performance made me cry—for the tempo, for the integrity, for the sheer brilliance of his mastery of the instrument.

Horowitz passed away in 1989.  I remember being struck by the knowledge that I would never again be able to witness one of his extraordinary performances in recital, the amazing performances caressing my ear and igniting my senses.  I wondered what a new generation of pianists would be like growing up as musicians but unable to experience a Horowitz concert in a live hall.  For me, it was the day the music died—a defining moment in musical history, the end of an era.

Not long after his death, word reached me through my Atlanta piano tuner that Horowitz’ own Steinway concert grand was on tour across the United States.   He put me in touch with the Steinway gallery owner who arranged for me to spend an hour before business hours playing this piano.  As it turns out, this piano—known only as CD 503—was custom made to Horowitz’ own specifications.  It was the only piano on which he played, whether practicing in his own apartment or on tour around the world.

I had a 3-week lead time before my rendezvous with the Horowitz Steinway.  I took time off from work to practice, not having played regularly for close to a decade.  I decided that I would play Chopin pieces that I had heard Horowitz play himself.  Of course, I had to resurrect the g-minor Ballade.  Early on the appointed Saturday morning, my husband and I set out for the Steinway store.  The piano sat prominently in the middle of the showroom while all the lesser models cowered in the corners.  The baby grands and uprights looked very much as if they were intimidated by this giant instrument, which was almost as legendary as the man who played it.

I sat down hesitantly, fingering a few notes.  The keys sprung to action under my touch like no piano I had ever played.  Instantly, I attacked the enigmatic opening of the Ballade, finding it easy to shape the phrase much as Horowitz had.  The quiet section that followed, so difficult in its simplicity to play without affect, again bowed to my command.  Easing into the body of the piece, I found it effortless to play—in fact, effortless to play LIKE HOROWITZ.  There was something about this piano—it fit my tiny hands, it responded to my out of practice fingers.

I later learned that this piano was indeed a special instrument.  It was constructed with keys that were imperceptibly narrower than a standard piano, allowing the fingers to grasp giant chords and passages with less strain across the hand.  The action had been optimized to perfection, making the barest pianissimo and the grandest fortissimo easily attainable.  If I had the opportunity to perform with such an instrument, and the means to carry it with me wherever I went, I, too, could have been a great artist.

As incredible as it was to have this private audience with this beautiful instrument, I have always had my misgivings.  It was a bit like discovering that the wizard behind the curtain was just a simple man from Kansas.  Nonetheless, it was exciting when Barbara, the gallery owner, came running out of the back room exclaiming that I sounded just like Horowitz himself.  And it was a rare thrill to know that as I played my beloved Ballade, I was running my fingers through the same paces in the same spaces as one of the greatest masters of all time.