Series: Guiding Hands

I decided to go to Cleveland Institute for a Master of Music in Piano Performance but didn’t know who I should choose as my new teacher. I asked Prof. Scholz for advice. He looked at the faculty list and suggested that I studied with Vitya Vronsky-Babin. After arriving in Cleveland, I mentioned her name to a few Taiwanese piano students who had already been there. They advised me to reconsider. Nevertheless, I followed through with my request to study with Mrs. Babin.

A child prodigy, Vitya Vronsky was always an active performer. After forming a piano duo and marrying Victor Babin, he became the center of her life professionally and personally.^[1] His sudden death in 1972 affected her profoundly.

Trouble started at my first meeting with her. Based on my playing, she said that she would accept me into her undergraduate class–out of respect for Prof. Scholz and would keep me there for four years. She asked about my age. For whatever reason, I answered, “Twenty-third,” instead of “Twenty-three.” She took me to the office and told everyone there that I didn’t speak English so I should not be in the graduate classes.

Since I had tested out of most theory classes and could actually speak some English, I entered the school officially as a graduate student. I was determined to work hard and prove that I was able to do advanced work. After all, I graduated top of my class. There was no reason that I couldn’t turn things around.

I seriously miscalculated! Hours of work between lessons didn’t win me any positive comments. In fact, I became more and more confused of what I should do, technically and musically, as I was given contradictory information from week to week. Every time I walked into the small soundproofed practice rooms, the walls seemed closing in on me. Part of me started to lose confidence; part of me wanted to stay as far away from playing as possible.

Very quickly, I knew that I had to leave. Before taking any drastic actions, I sought advice from the school officials. However, Mrs. Babin’s words seemed to be the only thing that mattered. My only way out was to transfer to another school. Earlier I was accepted as a Master candidate at Kent State University. Wanting to attend a school with name recognition, I requested for a one-year admission deferral. It gave me a chance to make a smooth transition. After the end of the semester, Mrs. Babin found out indirectly that I was leaving. She graciously wished me all the best with my future endeavors.

Looking back, she probably had the best intention throughout the entire time I was in her studio. She might have wanted to keep me there long enough so I could fully absorb all the information. Unfortunately, her idea and my plan didn’t match. For the first time in my life, I had to accept my failure, face the consequences, and move on.

And, I walked away from Mrs. Babin studio having learned an important thing. During one of my lessons, while I was struggling with a soft passage, she said to me: “Think about how elephants walk. They are heavy but they walk quietly.” These words and image stayed with me since then. Later, Mr. Wustman would give me similar advice: “Use big muscle when you want to play softly. They have better control than the smaller ones.” Great minds think alike.

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^[1] Vronsky & Babin_Wiki

There were bright moments during my months at CIM. Every other week, Mr. Thomas Muraco, a New-York-based pianist/vocal coach,^[2]would be on campus to work with students. My friends told me that he was very popular among singers in the city and performed frequently in major concert halls. Yet, he was down to earth, casual and friendly.

Before meeting him, I didn’t know that it was possible for anyone to make a living playing songs. I didn’t know what vocal coaching was about. What I knew was that I loved poetry and music. The possibility of working with both disciplines simultaneously excited me.

Having no knowledge and no experience in accompanying, I didn’t even know where to start finding out more about vocal accompanying and coaching. So, I quietly observed Mr. Muraco. Often, in between lessons or during his lunch breaks, he would play standard piano repertoire—to refresh his mind, I believed. I liked sitting in the hallway listening to his playing—fluent, free and always with beautiful sounds. Then, it would be time to knock on the door and start my lesson.

In Mrs. Babin’s studio, everything was formal. There was a dress code: skirts and formal shoes for girls; dress shirts and pants for guys. Lessons always started with scales up, down and in contrary motions. Mr. Muraco had no rules. (If he had, I must not have followed.) We never discussed my situation, but I was sure that he must have heard about it from other students.

He assigned me standard Lieder. I worked on them like piano pieces, trying, as much as I could, to play the right notes and right rhythm. One day we started with Brahms’ “Ständchen.” I hadn’t even gotten halfway through the introduction when Mr. Muraco shouted, “Were those three trombones?” I stopped and looked at him. He wasn’t angry. The expression on his face told me that I must have misunderstood something completely. He guided me through the piece with gentler touch and lighter sound. The lesson ended. I didn’t ask about the trombones. The question was strange enough that I never forgot about it.

Mr. Muraco was my hero during those months. Through him I saw the possibility of someday doing something that I felt passionate about. I was intimidated by his expertise but not frightened by him personally. I envied that he was always traveling. (Of course, I know now how challenging it is to be living out of suitcases.) Most importantly, for an hour each time, I felt relatively safe moving my fingers on the keyboard.

Eventually, I understood the custom of young men delivering their admirations at night with songs underneath the windows or balconies of beautiful girls.^[3] I learned to study the text and to reflect its content in my playing. I appreciated how Brahms artfully blended the idiomatic features of flute, fiddles and zither in the piano part, especially the lighthearted introduction. No more trombone choir.

I heard that Mr. Muraco asked about me in the following semester and understood my reason for leaving. He continued traveling to Cleveland for several years. I sent a letter to him at Manhattan School of Music soon after moving to New York. Although we are both in the city now and have a few common acquaintances, I haven’t had the chance to see him and to thank him in person.

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^[1] Johannes Brahms, “Ständchen:” Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, baritone; Hertha Klust, piano.
^[2] http://www.stephensnicolson.com/artists/muraco.html
^[3] The common Chinese translation of “Ständchen” (or serenade) is 小夜曲, literally “little night tune,” similar to that of “nocturne,” 夜曲. I didn’t know the differences between the two.,