“Come on, Mom,” I nervously pleaded, while pushing my way through the halls at Hendrix University. My first piano competition had started precariously. After only six months of lessons, my teacher had decided to throw me into the mix to see how I would fare. My mom & I were left with little help trying to find all the separate rooms where I would compete on different criterion. My tension grew exponentially as I made my way through the halls. All of my peers were dressed up in classic black pants and skirts. I tried my best to blend in, but since I hadn’t been warned of dress code, I was sporting a white tee shirt, blue jeans, and orange converses. Eventually my teacher arrived to be a moral support before my own performance. “What is this,” she said, not asked referring to my outfit. She quickly dismissed the matter for a later discussion. Once I was in the performance room, I was able to forget dress code and focus on the real reason we were all there- the music. I earned proficient in all criterions and made a name for myself in the piano regional, even though I was wearing converses.
Now, as I walk through the Reynolds Center at Harding University, I can appreciate the emptiness before the audience arrives. The halls are lonesome and there is no one yet to critique my outfit, but this time I am prepared. I linger in the reception area, amazed by the grandeur of a seemingly-small place. The series of glass doors gives way to a tiny, circular rotunda. The matching circular table in the center catches the eye immediately with a large bouquet of flowers, lovingly supplied by the women of the Beethoven Club. My eyes scan the clean grey tile and matching grey and teal walls, approving not only of the tastefulness of the color scheme, but the tidiness. My crew would have little to combat while setting up our fruit trays and punch bowls. Crossing the room in a few strides, I stop momentarily to glance upward. The vaulted ceiling above the aesthetic balconies for two more floors must be the supplier of the grandeur this place always gives me, I thought. Finally, I walk purposefully through the concert hall entrance. The walls turn to faux stone, giving a surreal, castle-like feel to the building, illuminated by small, dramatic lights reminiscent of candle aura. As my high heels move from the padded indoor/outdoor carpet of the entrance to the stone slab of the concert hall, I can feel the acoustics broaden, from a simple few steps. A small shiver slips through me, as I think of how my performance pieces will be accentuated by this first simple thing. Click-clack-click-clack, comes my stride, past the matching padded teal seats, past the stone walls, up the dark wooden steps, and onto an all-oak stage. I pace back and forth a few times to rehearse the logistics of my larger movements on the stage. Since that was mostly cleared up, I allowed myself a few minutes with a good friend, the 1920s classic black Steinway & Sons grand piano. A few years ago, I hadn’t completely realized the honor of such a high quality, full scale 9-foot grand piano. Now I was allowed to have one all to myself for an evening and an audience to match. My ritual began by removing the quilt covering, locking the wheels in place, lifting the cabinet to the full-concert level, the highest it could go, and finally, lovingly I removed the key cover and caressed the keys for a moment before testing the cavernous bass notes.
The few short hours before the recital passed with the swift movements of a hermit crab. I didn’t want much on my stomach for the show, so I dropped by Sonic for a snack. Once I returned, I meticulously dressed down into my lavender formal. It had thin strips, little, tastefully small flowers dispersed on the print, a shear covering and a slight ruffle on the end. My white prom heels would once again make an appearance. I silently scolded myself for my outfit choice, having recently learned that my piano teacher’s least favorite color was purple. If only I hadn’t bought this dress on sale! Fortunately, my sister was there to tame my thick, shoulder-length Auburn hair and apply a tactful amount of makeup. Having her there was the biggest comfort I could be allowed. As we prepared, I mentally went over my check list for the audience; the local paper had run the announcement, Mrs. Lewis had invited her colleagues and my future college piano professors, I had sent separate announcements along with my graduation announcements, requesting a presence here instead of graduation if there was a choice. My church had allowed my fliers to stay up for a few weeks and my band had been informed long ago. My entire being leaped at the thought of what size crowd I might have to myself.
The glass doors quietly tapped as people filtered into the reception area. A murmur began to fill the auditorium as I passed through a light cloud of perfume and cologne, down a skew hallway to the backstage area. This was not the only trek I had made to get to this stage. A mere four years of formal piano lessons, countless competitions, one week of piano camp, endless practice sessions with Mrs. Lewis and my duet partners, about 150 hours of practice time over nine months had brought me to this evening. I had nine songs to play by memory to an audience of about two hundred people. Mrs. Lewis soothed me with a bottle of water and her kind, motherly words, and by remaining constant. She was wearing a typical outfit of hers: black pants, a plain black blouse and a sheer black overlay, all matching her black rimmed glasses, and had styled her thin blond hair into the perfect helmet-shape as she always had. She took all of my nervousness in stride, gave a gushing welcome speech to talk me up as I reconsidered my life and then broke free of the chains in my mind. This is what I had lived for.
In the space of about thirty seconds, I gathered myself and strode confidently onto the stage. The brilliant stage lights warmed my skin as I glanced at the sea of familiar, supportive faces, then poised a thin, shaking hand on the edge of the Steinway and took my opening bow. The insecurity of being a teenager melted off of me. The ridiculous schemas of high school could no longer hold me back. There was one week until my high school graduation and as far as I was concerned, this concert was the beginning of my journey into womanhood. Unleashed from the binds that had held my persona the past several years, I was free to deliver my work as a pianist and not as a rookie. With the exception of applause, I wandered into my own world since the songs had become a deep part of me. I loved them more than anything else at that time. With each rise and swell of the music, the audience had a brief glimpse of the emotional contours of the song, the emotional journey that had built this concert, the emotional process that had built me.
The immaculate stage was so inviting and friendly in my mind, despite that I was technically alone on it. The fresh, invigorating scent of a bouquet of fresh flowers set on the music rack of the piano reminded me of two things. First, that Mrs. Lewis’ suggestion to maintain a formality to the event had been accepted as a responsibility for my father. Also, that Dad was encouraging me in a small way after supporting me for so long. He had paid for the piano lessons, driven me to the competitions and recitals and I had kept my end of the deal by winning piano scholarships, so this was a final gesture. Flowers. “You did it, against the odds,” they seemed to say for Dad. From the audience came whispers, murmuring, sneezing, and children struggling to sit still. Overall, these were comforts, not distractions. With my chosen audience, I knew the whispers were not condemning and the sneezing kept me in check with reality. These were the people I had been taught by: my Band Director, a few English teachers, my parents and family, a few children that looked up to me while also taking lessons from Mrs. Lewis, the friends I would graduate within a week. In no way could I possibly feel alone in this moment. The anticipation of college approaching was put into overdrive. If such a large gathering of people were here for me now, I was certain that they would be available to mold me throughout my college experience.
All too fast, I came to the end of my repertoire. My homely crowd cheered and pulled an encore out of me. I stood for my final bow to face a standing ovation, feeling the end of something great and the beginning of something promising. Upon exiting the stage, I greeted each person individually in the lobby. The reassurances, the compliments, the surprises seemed to be met by someone new. The girl that had once competed in blue jeans and converses could successfully manage a full-scale solo recital. She could walk in heels without tripping on the stage. She had learned a new form of etiquette, how to act at competitions, how to win modestly and take in stride the next level of competition. She had managed college performance scholarship auditions and worked with people beyond her experience to learn new crafts and old chords. She had spent long hours on changing the performances, but it had changed her.
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