Instability

So far I have resisted discussing my personal situation and emotional state, hence the period of silence. It hasn’t felt right to use this platform to whine about my own problems, especially with the myriad global issues which have been thrown into sharp relief since starting this blog. But as time went on–and London has slowly unlocked–so has the need to express myself with more honesty and openness grown.

Just a few posts ago I was advocating for personal growth and development as if I had everything figured out. Now, nothing feels as it did in May; now, I am going through a period of self-discovery while grappling with personal changes as well as a future that seems completely out of my own hands. At the same time I have recognised the gravity of situations that are so much bigger than myself yet demand my attention and dedication: social injustices; deep, lingering structural and institutional issues. I want to do what I can but I am also reeling from the instability of my own life.  

As a performing musician, I have been told time and again by others in the field that stability is a pipe dream; the sooner I accept this, the better. In fact, those who possess the kind of restless nature that craves constant change and embraces uncertainty are more suited for this career. The romantic idea of the impoverished bohemian–penniless but devoted to the pursuit of art–still lingers in our conception of the musician identity, even as our capitalist society places pressure on us to achieve very different goals.

Since a young age I have always thought that permanence was a beautiful and comforting thing. My dream as a child was to one day get a flower of my own design tattooed onto my body to accompany me until the end of my life. When I was twenty years old I saved enough money to do so. Also around that age my parents gifted me with a jade bracelet during my first and only trip back to China since we immigrated to the US when I was five. Jade is said to be protective and bring good fortune and happiness to the wearer, so it is generally never taken off. The one I have is also just a bit too small to fit comfortably past my hand, so from the moment I put it on in the store over a decade ago (with the help of some soap and hand lotion), it has not left my wrist. 

This tendency towards permanence may even have sustained my musical training. Certainly there were moments when I wanted to quit the piano, when I doubted my abilities and talent so much that getting up in the morning and facing a day of practicing felt almost too painful to bear. But the thought of changing paths and starting something else from scratch seemed ridiculous. How could I expect to be good at something that I hadn’t spent almost my entire life mastering? Besides, I seemed to have no other strengths or talents and never had the time to develop serious interest in anything other than music. Maintaining the stability of my path, rather than diverging and essentially ‘giving up’, seemed to be my only option. 

When I was fourteen my parents and piano teacher sat me down and asked if I wanted to be a professional pianist. I said ‘yes’ even though I had little idea of what that meant for my future. I would subsequently learn that part of it meant becoming home-schooled and isolated from the outside world for almost three years. At the time I did not know that Western classical music is a specialisation that struggles for relevance in modern society. I did not think about the vast amounts of money and time needed for its training and the potentially crippling psychological and physical effects of its highly competitive, judgmental, and demanding environment. I did not realise that, even with all the necessary sacrifice, the chances of earning a sustainable living through performing varies wildly depending on elements that have nothing to do with practice and hard work such as luck, ‘talent’, circumstance, and even, as we are seeing with the global pandemic, events far beyond our control. 

It is only now that I have been forced (or given the opportunity, depending on my outlook day-to-day) to re-evaluate my path within classical music. Several recent events have revealed the naivety of my seemingly ‘stable’ but narrow-minded career plan of practice hard – get more performing opportunities – have successful career – achieve happiness. I’ve realised that change is necessary – that stable, immovable paths can and should be questioned and adjusted. 

Recently I’ve been questioning the idea that a classical pianist should primarily identify as one out of the four roles of soloist, accompanist, teacher, or academic. Throughout my studies I believed in the notion that being one thing meant being less of another; I also believed that focusing on more than one path meant doing an injustice to them all. Fortunately I was not very good at sticking to such beliefs. Although I was training as a solo pianist, I became drawn to the experience of making music with others and devoted a significant amount of my time in conservatoire playing with other instrumentalists and singers. I also began to teach students both young and old, not just to earn money but to learn through the act of teaching and nurture my ability to pass knowledge forward. Four years ago I embarked on a research degree that split my time between frantically catching up on writing and practicing, miraculously resulting in an academic qualification. Now, I don’t know what to identify as anymore. 

It’s interesting why I have an urge to fit into a single role. Perhaps I am still influenced by my younger self’s belief that focusing on one thing is the only way to success and will provide me with the stability and security I crave. Realistically though, that is not likely true or even possible anymore. Careers in classical music are becoming more variable and overlapping as musicians in fast-moving, competitive cities like London need to balance multiple sources of income to achieve financial stability. Not to mention that we may have multiple interests and be skilled in a variety of activities that span genres and fields. There may actually be more than one path available!

It seems strange that performing classical musicians are expected to accept or even embrace the instability of our careers, yet must also devote our entire lives to one focus from a young age: the training and maintaining of our musical craft, often through the sacrifice of time, money, and life experiences. At least for myself, this led to a fear of stepping off my path into the unknown, even as the path itself became more treacherous and overgrown. But when some brave souls do step slightly off or start ‘thinking outside the box’ through experimentation, crossover, interdisciplinary endeavours, entrepreneurial pursuits, or *gasp* academic degrees, there is pushback in the form of judgments like, ‘they’ve given up as a performer’ or ‘they’ve sold out’.

My question is: how are we meant to adapt to the ever-changing, overlapping, chaotic, and capitalistic world of today when our conceptions of role and identity within Western classical music still takes a page from centuries-old ideals?