Today was the regional music contest that brings kids from all over to a local high school. I was hoping Stella would find it less stressful than she did last year, and for a while it seemed like that might be the case. She sang a Schubert piece for her vocal solo; it went well. But immediately afterward, her anxiety spiked. She studies voice and piano with the same teacher, who played the accompaniment for her vocal performance. The teacher leaned over the keyboard afterward and whispered, "The piano judge is giving 3s to ALL OF MY STUDENTS." She was incensed. "I'm going to complain after it's over," she added.
When I was a piano student in the 1980s, it was really hard to get a 1. Every time I went to one of these competitions, I had practiced for months beforehand, and every time I got a 2. But these days, a reasonably prepared student will get a 1. Even a performance that seems rough and fumbly may well wind up with a 1 rating; the judging has shifted over the years. I've been taking kids to these competitions for ten years now, and I've never heard of anyone getting a 3.
Stella left the room after her vocal solo and immediately started to cry.
Thankfully, she spent some time laughing with friends in between the two rounds of judging, and she was happy to learn that she got a 1 on her vocal solo. But the time ticked by, and all too soon we found ourselves in the room with two other participants, their families, and the piano judge, who was running behind for reasons that will shortly become clear.
Participant #1 warmed up, and the judge asked her to introduce herself. "What?" the judge said when she heard a Korean name. "I don't know how to pronounce that. Say it again." Afterward she summoned the student to the table. "Next year," she said, "you'll need to step up and play something more challenging. And do you know what a metronome is? You should really practice with a metronome."
Participant #2 stepped forward. "Ray-jay?" the judge queried. "Raja," he answered. He played his piece competently, but she spent 5 minutes afterward telling him how important it was to honor the dynamic markings. "I could tell you were trying," she said in a voice that oozed condescension, "but you really have to honor those dynamics."
Then it was Stella's turn, but her teacher wasn't there yet. We were totally clear, absolutely 100% clear, that the person we were waiting on was Stella's piano teacher, who had the copy of the music that the judge would review. When the teacher walked in, it was entirely obvious that she was there because she was Stella's piano teacher. This is why it seemed a little odd that the judge spent 5 minutes after Stella's performance complaining that she needed to relearn how to pedal.
This, I thought to myself, was a serendipitous choice of things for her to complain about. Stella's teacher is a stickler, an absolute martinet, when it comes to pedaling. She has coached and coached; Stella has practiced and practiced. We knew Stella might hit a sour note somewhere in there, but we were all confident that the pedal would be flawless. Mysteriously, the judge was lecturing the teacher about how Stella should go back to pedaling quarter note rhythms, because lots of pianists think they know how to pedal when they actually don't.
That, I thought to myself, is A Choice, to tell a well-respected piano teacher to her face that she probably needs to relearn the basics.
Stella kept her brave face on while the judge was talking to her, and then she walked out into the hallway with her best friend and immediately dissolved in tears. I said goodbye to the teacher, who whispered, "She's going to get a 3. Everybody's getting a 3."
And then Mr. B came along. Mr. B is a music teacher in the district who taught Joe back in junior high and also taught Pete in high school. Different as they are, they both loved him. He asked Stella how it went, and she said, tearily, "Not the best."
He gave her the loveliest pep talk, you guys. He said he'd been watching the ratings coming out of the piano room all day, and he invited her to think about the bigger picture. Had she grown as a musician in preparing for the contest? Had she learned some new skills and sharpened old ones? Had she put in the work to become a better pianist? It was so sincere and spot-on that I wanted to fling my arms around him and say "THANK YOOOUUUUU," but I restrained myself.
"This is just one more step on your journey," he assured her. He nodded wisely and walked off. But less than a minute later he looped back. "You're Stella, right?" he said. She nodded. "Never mind," he said. "You got a 1, kid."
I came right home after the contest and wrote it all down; I wanted to capture the details while they were fresh in my mind. But I also felt like I had some more thinking to do about the whole thing.
How much does rating inflation matter? How much does consistent judging matter? What do kids take away from a numerical rating, and does it help or hurt their future musicianship?
I don't know the answers to any of those questions. But I will remember Stella's soprano voice, soaring lyrically across the lines of German verse. And I will remember her brave face, her resolution to do the best she could despite the judge's truculence and her refusal to crumple in the face of criticism afterward.
I hope that for the rest of her life she finds joy in music, in all the ways we can teach our hands and voices to do hard things in the pursuit of evanescent beauty. I hope that she never gives much weight to the opinions of people determined to criticize, when it's really about the magical intersection of patience and skill and joy.
(Also, I hope they find a different piano judge for next year.)
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