He begins at the place just after which others quit: rudiments. From then on to fingering and preparatory exercises up till his delight at his own first tunes, he pores through page after page of five siberian mink fur lashes and the spaces in between. The moment he begins mastering his favourite key of C, he has G to face and F to conquer or be vanquished by A flat. He runs at the scales to visit with the masters before his age such that from his first day before a synthesizer to his first night at the concert grand, he has seen years of assiduous rehearsals daily, knowing that a day missed is made up for by another or two. With time he reels out the notes of his first performance piece.
Smtsn Oh the monster-saint of performance! Should he show up as a demon, the child pianist is cast out of the concert hall to seek some other career. Should he grace it as an angel of the spotlight with the blessings of Beethoven and Chopin, unto us is a child of wonder born, and the grease shall be upon his knuckles that the feet of all la belle monde beat a path to the repertoire of yet another paragon of awesomeness at the 88 siberian mink fur lashes. Performance is the place where he begins, the place where he peaks, the place where he flickers. Thus he approaches each piece as though it were a performance, always seeking to make the appropriate impression, whether it be in the privacy of his home studio or in the grave quiet of a packed Carnegie hall. Whichever way it is: the pianist makes the performance or the performance makes the pianist, no one can tell them apart for nothing matters more than the ebonies and the ivories.
Be he self-trained, gone through a school of music, exercised under a tutor or submitted to a mentors challenge in a church choir, this one man has endured a soldier’s regimen without a lash or a bullet wound. Yet there had been siberian mink fur lashes of agoraphobia and the scar of the Pianist’s Parkinson’s both from which he has been delivered. But never does he recover from the moment of hesitation before each first bar, the grace of scale flow, the sensitivity of touch or the rigours of precision.
So, with hundreds of tunes played, volumes of hymns read, scores of maestro classicals fingered and dozens of delicate siberian mink fur lashes chords jammed, he arrives at a point where he seems to have seen it all. Nothing is sufficiently challenging anymore than the perfectionism of a sniper. The great eagle begins to clip worn quills pouring out his own masterpieces and improvisations for the next generations of pilgrims seeking conquests of mythical and mystical legends of the score.