A Nod from the Past

Listening to a piano being tuned in the background, I thought, “How therapeutic this sound is.” I typically like to stay in the same room, doing other work while my piano technician works on the piano. To some, this repeated sound of notes might be noise—something to tune out as much as possible. But to me, tuning has always been like music to my ears. The slight adjustment of notes finding their better position is like spring cleaning in sound form—delightful and strangely satisfying. Like the first note at an orchestral concert, the musicians' tuning creates a sense of beginning, a sound of excitement for what’s to come. I’ve always loved that moment in a concert, as I tuned my own mind to the present.

I’ve been practicing rigorously lately. Part of the reason is that I’ll be heading to NYC soon to record my fourth album, Radiance. These days, I live in music—constantly—with or without the piano. Melodies from my pieces sing on their own in my head. Whether I’m waiting at the dentist, standing in a grocery line, driving, or eating, the music always seems to find its way back to me.

It’s been over sixteen years since I last played for my former teacher, Reiko Neriki, at Indiana University during my doctorate. As nerve-racking as it could be to be critiqued by a master artist like her, I cherished every moment of our lessons. I remember many days leaving her studio in tears—deeply moved by the music, and awestruck by the joy of creating and improving. By my final year with her, our lessons had become more philosophical discussions about music and composers, rather than ‘fixing’ things. We both knew I had a solid foundation in how to play the piano; the question was how to find my voice within the authentic style of each composer.

I don’t recall Mrs. Neriki ever saying, “You may fly alone now,” nor did I expect her to after I graduated with a doctorate. I assumed a sense of artistic security would come naturally after three decades of studying piano since age four. But the reality was different. A certain amount of insecurity is inevitable as an artist. One moment, you feel you have it; the next, it feels like it’s slipping away. I constantly search for better. And while that search gives me fuel to continue, it sometimes leaves me feeling lonely too.

This week, in the midst of long hours of practice, I found myself thinking of Mrs. Neriki and our lessons. Though her presence is always with me in my music-making, I miss her—someone I trust deeply, who is there for me. Her breathing during a particular phrase, her hand gesture, or even just a pleasant nod at a certain moment in the music—those would be more than enough to validate what I was doing.

When I visited Tokyo last year, I met Mrs. Neriki for dinner. Now in her mid-70s, she’s retired from the university and lives in Japan. She looked just as I remembered her from two decades ago—full of life, kindness, and energy. Sheepishly, I asked during our dinner, “Mrs. Neriki, I’d love to play a piece or two for you sometime. Would you be willing to listen?” She smiled and said, “Of course, any time!”

That time hasn’t come yet. But this week, I wished I could hop on a plane to Japan just to play for her.

People often don’t think about this side of a musician’s life—working long, solitary hours, sometimes with a mentor, but mostly alone. Audiences assume performers are born with talent, and from there, just show up and play. They have no idea how many hours—daily, for decades (a lifetime, really)—go into the 90 minutes of performance they see. Whenever I attend a piano concert, I often think of those lonely days of practice behind the scenes. How many hours did this pianist pour into this performance? I feel a deep sense of empathy and kinship, no matter the performer’s level.

Sometimes during my own practice, I wish people could really see what goes on. There’s no audience cheering when you finally get through a section. There’s silence—sometimes mixed with doubt, or disapproval from my own inner voice.

In the end, though, I have to be my own mentor. As hard as it is, I know it’s part of growing up—just like in life. As my mentors slowly move away or pass on, I’m gradually becoming the one others lean on. This week, one of my students asked how I figured out a certain phrasing so naturally. It still feels strange to be in that position—as if the person inside me is still in her early 20s, even if the body is now mid-40s.

Just like tuning a piano can never truly be finished, maybe life is also about constant adjustment—always refining, always listening closely, trying to make it better. I’d like Jeeyoon to stay in tune as often as possible.

I’m starting to realize there’s nothing wrong with questioning my phrasing decisions—or life decisions. I want to stay a student at heart forever. I hope, when I finally play for Mrs. Neriki again, she’ll see that the student in me never left. I’m still listening. Before it’s too late, I want to be her young student again—for just a moment.

What are you learning these days?

In what areas are you a mentor—or still a mentee? I’d love to hear.

💕Jeeyoon