A Tribute to My Old Friend Wolfie

     It's Wolfie's birthday today—Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, that is—and I just wanted to take a moment to thank him for everything he's given me and done for me.
     Our friendship got off to a bit of a rocky start. Before Wolfie and I met, my best musical friend was Johann (Sebastian Bach). Johann and I hit it off from the very beginning. It seems my hands were made to play his music, and my sensibilities felt at home with it. Whenever I played or listened to him, I felt an almost visceral connection; something ancient and sacred stirred in the depths of my soul. Our friendship triggered my lifelong passion for early music.
     Maybe because I was so naturally in tune with Johann, I was initially uncomfortable with Wolfie. I can't remember what my first Mozart piece was—I suppose it was the Sonata in C, K. 545, the first Mozart sonata for most young pianists. However, I do remember that my first Mozart concerto happened to be one of his most difficult, the D Major No. 26 ("Coronation"). Why that particular one? Just because my teacher, Myrna von Nimitz, happened to have a score of it at hand when she decided I should try a Mozart concerto. I was 14 at the time.
     Now, Myrna had a slightly manipulative streak. While I struggled to make sense of Mozart—the subtlety of him, his humor, pathos, elegance, and exuberance—Myrna constantly reminded me that another of her students, who happened to be my age and (at that time) at the same pianistic level, was a natural whiz at Mozart. She never experienced anything like the struggle I was going through. Myrna never wasted an opportunity to compare my Mozart with hers, and always unfavorably. Maybe she was trying to light a fire under me; who knows?
     I don't know if it actually was Myrna's jibes, or something mysterious in my musical makeup, but somehow "things" fell into place between Wolfie and me, luckily before I began using his Concerto 26 in competitions (and earning prizes with it). All I do know is, once he and I finally meshed, we became the very best of friends. He, along with Johann, was my "calling card" composer, my specialty. Our friendship grew even stronger when I moved years later from solo pianist to opera coach and répétiteur; never was I so happy as when I was assigned to a Mozart opera. And when my technique and musical sensibilities needed to be purged of too much Puccini, Strauss, or Wagner, or one of the many harrowing new operas HGO was so fond of premiering, I would take out my well-worn score of Mozart sonatas and avail myself of their purifying elixir.
     I thank you, dearest Wolfie, not only for your genius, but for keeping me sane and musically grounded. You are a true friend and I will always love you.

Enter "Ms. von"

     When Peter Martinez moved away to graduate school, I had been studying with him for two years. It was now time for me to study with his teacher, one of the best piano teachers in the city, Myrna von Nimitz. I was then 11 years old.

     "Ms. von," a native Texan, had just moved into a large, newly built colonial style house on the north side of town. She and her Russian husband Igor filled their home with Louis XV furniture; valuable period paintings covered the walls and bronze statuary perched on every table. A Steinway concert grand dominated the front room. These surroundings were a bit overwhelming for me, as was the person of Myrna von Nimitz herself: I remember her as tall, though she might not actually have been; her slenderness and the white-blond hair sculpted smoothly into a high upsweep made her seem so to me. Large, expressive, almond-shaped brown eyes framed by precise, dark brows were the only things that lent color to her ivory face; the surprisingly small, pale mouth beneath the narrow nose was a mere textural element. Elegantly dressed, shoulders fashionably stooped, she would sit in a low Louis XV chair by the piano, one poodle in her lap and another lounging at her feet, a cigarette dangling from her long, languid hand. She was in her early- to mid-thirties at that time, though she could have been almost any age from any era. A true original.

     Peter Martinez's youthful maleness had exacerbated my social anxiety disorder, but Ms. von's flamboyant elegance and refined tastes fascinated me. Perhaps that was the beginning of my own Niles Crane-like fondness for the finer things in life; in fact, I know it was. Still, I remained mostly silent in my lessons, and Ms. von tried her best to draw me out those first few months, to no avail. Then one day, as I was playing the Bach G minor Concerto, I was suddenly and profoundly moved by the music; so much so, tears began streaming down my face. This was not the first time music affected me to the point of weeping, but I had always kept my tears to myself. Ms. von, perplexed and concerned, took me out to her wooded back yard and proceeded to ask me if I was having trouble at home or at school. When I didn't answer, she then began to talk of random things to put me at ease, until finally I stammered out, "It -- it's just the music. It's so -- so beautiful."

     Ms. von was not only relieved by my confession, she was delighted that I had a genuine love for music, and, as she told me afterward, a deep soul. From that moment on, I regarded her as a friend and mentor.

     The summer after my freshman year in high school, Ms. von took her piano students and a few college students to Europe -- a two-week tour of the continent, then a month in London taking music courses at Goldsmiths College. It was not only my first time abroad, but my first time flying. I might have known I'd be a bad flyer. To this day I cannot board a plane without first taking something for motion sickness. However, the half pack of cigarettes I smoked before boarding that day probably didn't help! I was only fourteen at the time, but my attire and bearing made me seem at least four years older -- and I don't exaggerate. People were always mistaking me then for a college student. My mother frowned on jeans and insisted that her children dress neatly at all times; Ms. von further influenced my taste in clothes. My social anxiety disorder, still very much with me, was the true reason behind my cool, seemingly composed and confident exterior. If I couldn't speak to anyone with ease, then I could at least give the impression that I didn't want to speak to them.

     My outer composure and mature appearance backfired, however, when one of my London professors began to have a personal interest in me. I was completely unaware of this until Ms. von told me she had had a word with him, telling him I was only fourteen. In my total innocence, I thought he took time to play duets with me just because he found it fun. I still saw myself as ugly and stiff, though Ms. von often told me I was growing up to be an attractive and poised young lady.

     Throughout my high school years, I competed in many competitions, always placing near the top, but never capturing a top prize until my senior year, when I finally won the San Antonio Symphony Young Artist Competition. Performing, too, became a frequent thing. I revelled in being onstage, though I did always suffer considerable nerves before walking out. Once I was behind the keyboard, however, the audience became a faceless, harmless presence, and I could lose myself, my feelings of awkwardness and inadequacy, in the music. For that short precious time, I felt accepted.

The Young Pianist

      In the few years between that fateful piano recital where Myrna von Nimitz (or "Ms. von," as all her students called her) evaluated my talent, and the time I actually began studying with her, I continued lessons with Mrs. Woliver, then with a jolly, Charlotte Greenwood-type woman named Mrs. Plewes (who also gave me my first lessons in music theory), and then with a college student of Ms. von, Peter Martinez. By the time I had my first lesson with Peter, I was in the fifth grade and had begun accompanying choir concerts at my elementary school -- this, though I didn't know it then, was the start of a long career working with choruses. My classmates were well aware of my ambition to be a concert pianist; some were drawn to me by my musical abilities, a few kept a wary distance, and others were simply indifferent.

     Other than Mr. Trent in the second grade, I had never had a male teacher. I suppose if Peter had been much older, more of a father figure (like Mr. Trent), I would have felt a bit more comfortable with him; but his being a college student and not much older than my siblings caused my already painful shyness to deepen. I was highly susceptible to crushes (still on boys who preferred blue-eyed blondes) and anyone of the male persuasion younger than my father made me nervous. Every week Peter came to our house, smelling wonderfully of English Leather, and I would sit shaking at the keyboard, hardly uttering a word. It was a wonder that I progressed at all, but he was a very good teacher and brought out the best in me. He introduced the art of phrasing and articulation into my playing, taught me the principles of rubato and romanticism with my first Chopin pieces, and helped me to "loosen up" with the Gershwin Preludes. He also furthered my studies in music theory. However, my lifelong battle with what I call "lazy ambition" reared its head during this period -- I no longer enjoyed practicing, and put in only the bare minimum between lessons, not even an hour a day. Because of my natural ability, I was able to get away with it, which was very unfortunate, especially in later years.

     Under Peter's tutelage, I entered my first competitions, earning consistently high marks; I also gave, at age 11, my first solo recital, and in the following year served as accompanist for the first time in a solo vocal recital given by my middle school choir director. It was in this vocal recital that I played my first art songs -- among them Brahms' "Botshcaft" (in six flats, thank you very much) and a group of Berg -- as well my first operatic arias, "Ain't It a Pretty Night" and "The Trees on the Mountains" from Carlisle Floyd's Susannah, and Norina's aria from Don Pasquale. I also earned my first fee as an accompanist, so starting my professional career.

     As my talent developed, so did my monstrous ego. Playing the piano well was the only thing that set me apart from my peers and made me feel special. Scholastically, I was falling off a bit, my laziness again the culprit. Popularity-wise, I still felt ugly and awkward, too shy with boys and intimidated by prettier girls. The keyboard was the only place I felt, not just equal, but superior. So I cherished that feeling of superiority and held onto it like a life preserver. My parents were, as parents are understandably wont to be, very proud of their child's talent, and showed me off to their friends at parties; my sisters, however, kept me in my place, again, as is siblings' wont. I can't say they (my sisters) made a conscious effort to bring me down off my musical high horse; they just treated me in the usual way older sisters treat younger sisters, sometimes coddling me, sometimes ignoring me, and sometimes being plain rotten. Most people would say that specially gifted children should be treated normally, to compensate for and balance their "specialness" and guard against conceit; in my case, however, starting out with an abnormally low self-esteem, I made it my mission to build myself up as much as I could through the piano. I simply came to love feeling special, and, like any addict, the more attention paid me because of my talent, the more I craved it.

Mr. Darcy, Me, and S. A. D.

     Mr. Darcy was so very misjudged and misunderstood. But then, that was partly due to the times in which he lived (yes, I know he's fictional; just indulge me for a moment). It is my belief that Mr. Darcy suffered from what is now known as social anxiety disorder, or S. A. D., an affliction which was unheard of in Austen's day -- and I believe this because I, too, once suffered greatly from it, and still do, to a much lesser degree. Mr. Darcy had all the classic symptoms: difficulty making friends, difficulty holding conversations not only with strangers but even with acquaintances, avoiding said acquaintances in the street or other public places (and going to ridiculous lengths to avoid them), and generally shielding himself behind a veneer of composure which was invariably mistaken by others as hauteur or pride. Plus, I suspect that he, like myself, sometimes broke out in a sweat or was suddenly convulsed by uncontrollable trembling when pressed into conversation.

     Yes, Mr. Darcy, I understand and empathize.

     The foundations of what I perceive to be Darcy's social anxiety disorder are quite clear to me. His excellent mother died when he was still at a vulnerable age; he had to share his father's affection with an annoyingly gregarious and comely companion who grew up to be an unprincipled scoundrel; after the death of his father, and while himself still a very young man, he was charged with the care of his sister who was very nearly seduced by the aforementioned scoundrel; and all his life he had to deal with the likes of Caroline Bingley throwing themselves at his head solely because of his wealth, handsomeness, and position in society. No wonder he withdrew into a distrustful shell.

     I first became aware of social anxiety disorder when I read an article about it in Parade magazine back in the late '90s. Reading it was like reading my own life story -- accounts of people ducking into bathrooms at work for fear of having to speak to an approaching colleague; or spending parties tucked in a corner, shaking nervously behind a potted palm. Far from being disheartened at recognizing myself in this article, I was immensely relieved that I was finally able to put a name to my life-long suffering, though at that point I had already made great strides toward conquering it. More about that later.

     In 2002, I began to see a therapist, mainly to explore my then current recovery of my religious faith and the inexplicable pull I was feeling toward monastic life. As all therapists deem it necessary to delve into their patients' pasts, I told her that I was the youngest of six children, that the sibling nearest me in age was four years older, a gap that seems much larger when young. Consequently, I spent much of my very early years alone at home while my sisters and brother were in school. My only companions, besides my mother, were Captain Kangaroo, Lucy and Ethel, and my stuffed animals; there were no children my age nearby until the Taylors moved into the house next door. I made a sort of friend of their youngest, Caroline, but constantly listening to everyone around me praise her prettiness and lively personality only drove me further into the shell that had already begun forming. I became convinced that I was ugly, inept, and absolutely no fun to be around; I found it increasingly painful just to speak to people and preferred solitude to shrinking into silence in the company of others. "You had social anxiety disorder!" my therapist exclaimed. So my self-diagnosis had been correct.

     When I started going to school, I found myself far ahead of my classmates, thanks to the home schooling my sisters had given me, but my intellectual advantage put me at rather a disadvantage in making friends. Having crushes on boys who only had eyes for blue-eyed blondes didn't help either. It was then that I forged my life-long preference for keeping a very few close friends whom I could trust completely. A couple of those childhood companions are my friends to this day.

     Since I showed a love and natural bent for music, my parents decided I should take piano lessons. I began studying with a Mrs. Woliver, a very capable neighborhood teacher, shortly after my seventh birthday. My lessons were mostly silent on my part, as talking was not my strong point, but Mrs. Woliver managed to pique my interest and encouraged me to practice at least a half hour a day. I progressed very quickly, and at my second public performance at age eight, a recital featuring all of Mrs. Woliver's students, I met my future primary piano teacher, Myrna von Nimitz. After hearing my insightful and technically brilliant renditions (I'm being sarcastic) of Beethoven's "Für Elise" and a jaunty little number called "Haydn-Go-Seek" which was based on themes from that composer's "Surprise" symphony, she announced to me and my parents that I had the makings of a concert pianist, and she would be glad to take me as a student, but I'd have to wait a few years. In the meantime, she would place me under the care of one of her college students.

     I was elated by this news, of course, but I also felt oddly vindicated. The awkward, brainy little nerd that all the cute boys and popular girls scorned had found an outlet through which she could ease her loneliness and feel admired and respected, if not liked. She could hide her painful shyness in public, as it were, by displaying her musical talent before an audience she didn't have to look in the eye.

To be continued. . . .