Series: Guiding Hands

As naive and uninformed as I was freshly out of college, I did hear about the theory and history placement exams for incoming graduate students at various schools. It would be a good idea to do well in order to avoid taking remedial classes—which would be time-consuming and would likely be non-credit. A few classmates and I knocked on the door of Mr. Lu Yan (盧炎).^[1] Weekly, we sorted through Bach chorales for harmonic analysis. We practiced species counterpoint one type, one rule at a time. Later, we also studied various of musical forms.

Having studied and worked in the States for over a decade, Mr. Lu went back to Taiwan in 1979 and quickly became a well-liked theory and composition teacher. Often, we met at his friends’ studio—a small but well-designed apartment. Good tea would be brewed. We sat around the table; quietly worked on the exercises. When necessary, Mr. Lu would provide us with information with his gentle voice. He was never in a hurry: There seemed to be a tiny delay of every word, as if he needed to confirm the wording with himself. It could very well be that he never stopped calculating and listening to notes in his head.

Mr. Lu was able to glance at our work and pinpointed out the error immediately. Sometimes, we chose to start harmonizing a phrase with a poor position. Within a few chords, chaos broke out. He would, with a big grin, guide us back to the point where trouble started.

These tutoring sessions paid off. I tested out of theory classes both at CIM and at Kent State. It freed me to select other classes that interested me. When reading through a musical work, I was able to deconstruct the content and understand the composer’s intention.

Music history was a different story. The two-semester Western Music History class at NTNU was given in Chinese. The textbook was written in an old-fashioned, hard-to-understand manner—most likely, half-translated.^[2] The content was read to us in class, word-for-word. The exams at the end of the semesters were open book.

I was told, when arrived at CIM, to not worry about the history placement. There was a school policy that all graduate students must take the one-semester history review class, as a preparation for the final comprehensive exam. I remembered opening the tests and not understanding any of the questions. So, yes, I took the review class—which, in my case, was to start from scratch.

Fitting centuries of musical development into a 15-week course was not easy. However, Dr. Quentin Quereau^[3] had the entire thing mapped out perfectly. (It was my first encounter with a “class syllabus.”) Other than a long list of books for each time period, we studied the examples from Historical Anthology of Music I (HAM)^[4] for Medieval and Renaissance works. I heard the sounds of early music for the first time. The fact that such mysterious and, sometimes, ethereal sounds could come out of mathematical calculations and organizations fascinated me to no end. Appropriately, the class met at a chapel on the campus of Case Western Reserve University.^[5] Totally unfamiliar with the terminology, the composers and the titles, I recorded every week’s lecture and reviewed them at home. I read the assigned reading as much and as quickly I could. When I was totally frustrated with practicing, I would go home to study music history. Other than gaining knowledge, this, at that time, helped me to feel purposeful.

Every few weeks, we would have a listening quiz: excerpts of various compositions would be played. We needed to identify the genre, describe the characteristics and list possible composer(s). I loved the challenges and did reasonably well. At the end of the semester, we were to select a piece that we might play later in a recital, give a historical and compositional analysis as a practice run for the written comprehensive. I chose the first movement of Beethoven’s Waldstein Sonata, Op. 53. It was my first essay in English. Dr. Quereau wrote, “Too long to be written during the comprehensive exam.” I was one of the two students earning an “A” that semester.

With the information freshly in my head, I tested out most history requirements at Kent. The one exception was, not surprisingly, twentieth-century music. However, I was hooked. I signed up for more advanced classes, not knowing that I was on my way to become a “musicologist.”

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^[1] Lu Yen_Biography
^[2]Some terms in Chinese translations are simply misleading. “Motet” is called 經文歌, literally “scriptural songs.” I was shocked to find out that they were often with secular texts.
^[3]CWRU, Quentin Quereau/
^[4]Archibald T. Davison and Willi Apel, eds., Historical Anthology of Music, revised edition, vol. 1, Oriental, Medieval and Renaissance Music (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, Fourteenth Printing, 1978).
^[5]CIM has a partnership with CWRU. Many academic classes, both music and non-music, are offered by CWRU. Applied music courses are offered by CIM.

Midway through the fall semester of 1983, I visited Kent State University for the first time. Another alumna of NTNU from Prof. Wu’s studio was there studying with Mrs. Lois Rova Ozanich. As I was considering transferring to Kent, I wanted to know more about the school, the degree program and the teachers—things that I learned from experiences.

Nested on the campus of CWRU in University Circle, CIM’s modern building was surrounded by greenery and stately stone buildings. Botanic garden was right across the street. Natural History Museum, Art Museum and Severance Hall—home of the Cleveland Orchestra—are all within walking distance. Unfortunately, in early 1980s, the entire area was crime-infested. Faculty members warned us to never to out alone after dark. We all had to call and wait for campus shuttles to get home after practice.

Like many Midwestern universities, Kent State campus was wide and open. Students strolled around freely from class to class. Although most of the buildings were mid-century and not very attractive, they gave the campus a modest and relaxed feel. I, having been feeling tense about everything, was breathing much easier right away.

My friend had informed Mrs. Ozanich about my visit. We set up an interview (audition?). I played the pieces that I was studying with Mrs. Babin for her. She gave me a slow movement of a sonatina to read. I did fine. She turned to a fast sonatina movement. I stumbled. She agreed to take me into her studio, if I decided to enroll at Kent in the spring. I observed her accompanying class, watching her showing students how to negotiate tempo changes, how to balance the sound. . .. I knew then that I could learn a few things from her.

I moved to Kent in the middle of winter and started regrouping. Since most required courses for graduate students were offered in fall semester, I wasn’t taking many classes. Eager to move my fingers and to rebuild my confidence, I accepted several invitations within weeks. I agreed to participate in the New Music Ensemble concert, playing Piscataway I “On Looking Deeper into the Water” (1979) by Peter Ware.^[1]I cannot recall if I asked to see the score before saying “Yes.”

As soon as she heard the news, Mrs. Ozanich sat me down and started helping me learning the piece. A proponent and experienced performer of contemporary music, she helped me to decipher the score. She told me to follow the relative length of notes instead of being restricted by bar lines and meters. This approach has made it possible for me to get through complicated rhythm in modern compositions. Thanks to her patience, I did fine in the performance a few weeks later.^[2]

We returned to standard repertoire after the concert. It didn’t take long for both us to realize that I had difficulties with pedaling. She said, “They taught you everything you needed to know about your fingers, but they forgot that you had feet.” All my previous teachers did teach me pedaling techniques. But I didn’t have to THINK about pedals since my teachers always marked them on my scores. Facing new pieces without prescribed markings, I finally had to learn the “how” of pedaling. Mrs. Ozanich also showed me that there were different levels of pedaling—not simply down and up. She introduced me to the “sostenuto” pedal. She taught me pedal diminuendo, trill and various way of articulations. It took me a long time to understand that pedaling and sound production are two sides of the same coin. The root of my problem was poor awareness of the underlining harmonic structure. I was busy listening to the melodic lines instead of listening to all parts simultaneous. Even now, I am still struggling with my feet at the pedals.

I signed up for the accompanying class. It was offered for both undergraduate and graduate piano majors. The younger students were just inexperienced as I was. So, for each piece studied, Mr. Ozanich would discuss the details with us, let us practice, and then bring in a singer or instrumentalist to work with us. For songs, she would ask us to learn the pronunciations using International Phonetic Alphabet, and to study the translations. From her class I learned the importance of word-for-word translations of texts, as the musical expressions must match the words precisely. (I also began to understand why my father spent decades puzzling over Goethe’s works. It is not always easy to maintain the word order in the original language while delivering the true meaning in the translation.) For the written exam, we were responsible for knowing the translations and the structure of the pieces. Although we were given reference books as guidance, it was still a time-consuming work.

At that time, my English vocabulary was limited. I would copy the translations, both literal and interpretive, from reference sources. Then, I had to translate the English translations into something that I could comprehend. When I finished, I would have learned three sets of words and lines. Thanks to my early linguistic experiences, IPA wasn’t an issue for me. I didn’t mind doing the work because knowing the connection between words and music was a beautiful thing to me. And, I liked making music with other people. Mrs. Ozanich noticed my interest and encourage me to continue.

My first accompanying performance was with a tenor for his degree recital. The program included the first half of Die schöne Müllerin^[3] and Poulenc’s Deux poèmes de Louis Aragon^[4]. When I told Mrs. Ozanich about the repertoire, her first reaction was, “Do you know how much work will be needed for the preparation?” But, again, she helped me.

In addition to her work at KSU, Mrs. Ozanich was in charge of the vocal chamber division of Kent/Blossom Festival, a summer training program of Cleveland Orchestra based in Kent and Blossom Music Center, the summer home of the orchestra.^[5] Late spring 1986, when a pianist dropped out at the last minute, she offered me the opportunity to participate. I was not fully aware of the significance at the time. Even though I really wasn’t quite ready, I had the chance to watch other young musicians work; to learn from the most well-respected professionals and to perform. I took my first step into the professional realm that summer.

Mrs. Ozanich and I had our differences from time to time—twice at pivotal points of my graduate study. Not long after coming to the States, when I found out how much there was to be learned and how fascinating music making could be, I broke my promise to mom of returning home, even though I did complete all my requirements within three semesters.

I wanted to apply for doctoral programs at other schools. Mrs. Ozanich told me that, in order to get into a top-level program, I had to first build up my repertoire. Since I already accumulated many credits in the academic area, I stayed for a second master’s degree in musicology, hoping to continue strengthening my playing and to build my repertoire at the same time.

Later, I applied for doctoral programs in piano performance again. Mrs. Ozanich still didn’t think that I was ready. Things were more complicated by then. I knew exactly what I wanted (and didn’t want) to do. With my tiny hands and limited repertoire, solo performances would have been an impossible dream. Teaching piano at college level also didn’t interest me. In many ways, getting into another piano degree program really wasn’t the right thing to do. I enjoyed my academic work at Kent and had started researches for my master thesis. It would make sense to complete the work and matriculate into the Ph.D. curriculum.

I also considered what I needed and could do about accompanying. While making up my mind to stay, I pushed hard for fellowship assignments in accompanying choirs and opera workshop. By the time I passed the candidacy exam, I was ready to knock on Mr. Wustman’s door. I never regretted the long detour that I took to get there.

On December 30, 1998, Mrs. Ozanich died unexpectedly at the age of fifty-five. I knew that I wasn’t the only student that benefited from her guidance. A scholarship was established in memory of her for piano students at Kent.

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^[1]I also played The Hibiscus on the Water from the same set later.
Excerpt of The Hibiscus on the Water, performed by Yvar Mikashoff.
Dr. Frank Wiley founded Kent New Music Ensemble in 1980 and directed it until his retirement in 2018. He would later guide me through a one-semester independent theory review before my doctoral candidacy exam. We stayed in touch through out all these years. I greatly appreciate his support and friendship.
^[2] Donald Rosenberg, the music reviewer of Akron Bean Journal, wrote, “The piano of Piscataway I explores its highest and lowest regions as it traces the river’s changing currents.” He commented my playing as “colorful.” Donald Rosenberg, “Review: New music gets KSU exposure,” Akron Beacon Journal, Wednesday, February 22, 1984.
^[3] Die_schöne_Müllerin: Prey; Krist, 1978
^[4] Duex_Poèmes_”C”: Crespin; Wustman; Duex_Poèmes_”Fêtes galantes”:Crespin; Wustman
^[5]The vocal chamber program of Kent/Blossom was cancelled after 1988 while the instrumental program continued.