The time spent preparing for a recital can be staggering. In many ways it is like preparing for a half marathon-- where you spend several weeks, months, preparing for one specific event. With a half marathon (I can use this analogy because I survived the San Francisco Marathon last summer), you find yourself "upping your ante" stretching more, extending your runs gradually over several weeks, getting hungrier after runs, craving a lot more protein, needing better sleeping habits. When I did the half marathon, I was able to witness a beautiful sunrise along the San Francisco Bay, trek over the Golden Gate Bridge (twice) and feel a sense of exhilaration that is hard to find in most day to day activities. There really wasn't much of an emotional let down after, since I have been able to continue running (more or less) in the months after. (I have yet to come close to running another half marathon again, but I hope to get back to that point in the months ahead.)
With preparing for a recital, there are some similarities, but there are some stark differences. You try to go over every detail, finding the ideal collaborator(s), workshopping specific pieces, finding a page turner, making sure all paperwork is filled out, giving test runs of your works, and blitzing social media trying to get a handful of friends, family and supporters to turn out to your performance. You have to brace yourself for test run recordings, where you may have had a lousy entrance, a sloppy shift, or a passage that was completely out of tune. Your focus on other activities and projects takes a back seat, and you find yourself more isolated from your family and friends-- the time that might be spent calling them up is being diverted to extra practice time. The sacrifices that you make-- the emotional, the physical, and financial are worth the hour of beauty that you are trying to capture.
The day of the recital comes (in my case there were three, so each recital was building up on the energy from the one before). Your level of preparedness and readiness is at its peak. You have been ignoring phone calls, shirking the completion of your taxes (and paying them), hoping a handful of students, colleagues, friends and family attend (or digitally view) your recital. Little else has mattered, so that you can give your all to anyone and everyone who is willing to listen. You get to channel every last ounce of energy from your soul into each piece you are performing, with the hopes of shattering the expectations of those who are listening to you.
When my last recital came and went, a little over three weeks ago, that is more or less what happened. I had a pretty good turnout both physically and digitally, and after listening to the recording, I was pretty happy with how the performance turned out. I received a lot of positive feedback from friends, family, mentors and colleagues, and more importantly, I was happy with how things turned out. (As many of you know, this does not happen after each and every performance.) Like the half marathon in San Francisco last summer, I was happy with the beauty produced from my viola, and my collaborator, Juliana Han's piano. The combination of efforts from the wood, metal and horse hairs of our instruments, the brain cells from our own brains, and those of our composers produced about 80 minutes of blissful music that transported everyone into our own little worlds for a short while. But then it stops. Just stops.
In the first few days after the recital, I was able to ride on the leftover endorphins. I felt an urge to continue at the breakneck speeds that I was working at, for about a day, and then I crashed. Emotionally, physically. I had to face the realities that were building up around me, paying taxes, car maintenance, other seemingly important projects that still had to happen. I still had other performances to prepare for, a Dissertation that still needs to be completed, but for much of the past three weeks, I was tossed back into survival mode, and it has been rough. Depression, anxiety, insecurity and insomnia were replacing the positive forces of recital preparation, practice, drive, focus and energy. Even in my moments of higher quality performance, it felt like the fight was real, and I would have been just as content staying bed for a week doing absolutely nothing.
This past weekend was the first weekend in awhile where I had a chance to recharge. It was a weekend spent with newfound family (complete with fun toddlers), in a new and exhilarating place that included a hot tub, lots of hiking with blissful views, and some fine dining. That opportunity to reset the buttons for just a few days was crucial and essential, and has given me the ability to come back, ready for what reality has to offer.
New projects are approaching on the horizon, and I feel like I am ready to take them all on. None of these projects will bring me eternal sunshine, but will become a new layer of glistening red bricks that will help to bolster my foundation in the months and years to come.
