Dear Masuko,
There is a rush of shock these days when I think of you. The last time I saw you, exactly two years ago, you were in good health and happy. Your passing after only 6 months battling leukemia is a terrible reality to face.
Until recently I took great comfort in knowing that you were only a phone call away, or a bus ride from New York to Boston if I wanted to play for you. At the time that you were sick, I moved so far away that I couldn’t possibly visit. Your passing is surreal. That I will never see you again weighs horribly on my chest.
I first came to you at 16. I played for you the first movement of Bach’s D minor Partita. When I finished, you sat in silence for a moment. Then you gestured out the window at the brick wall across the street and said that every note is important and serves to support the others. Like the bricks in the wall, if one note is cracked or missing, the others are unsupported. The wall loses its integrity and beauty. When I graduated at 22, I tried to draw a brick wall like that one, with all its intricacies and detail. It was far too arduous a task. Brick walls, like Bach, are deceptive in their simplicity.
For years I worried that your teaching did not address my technique. Then it dawned on me. You were teaching my ears which gave me the urgency to find the technique. When I understood the sound, the nuance, the clarity that I wanted, then I had to seek out how to make it happen. I don’t think it could have happened any other way for me.
At some points I wished our conversations were more personal. I wanted to talk about things going on in my life. But when in the room with you, they suddenly seemed insignificant. The one time we ever spoke about relationships, all you said to me was “you have to be friends first”. Looking back now though, I realize that what you taught me about music was deeply personal. You pushed me to play bigger. And bigger. The scale was never big enough. What happened was that my personal scale, the way I lived my life, grew with my playing. The nuances, the special moments that you encouraged me to cultivate, the tiny details that were personally satisfying (no matter how small, even if no one noticed) became reflected in how I lived. An appreciation for not only the bigger picture, but an attention to detail.
After the first two years as your student, I gave you a thank you card in which I drew a violin. After six years, I tried to draw a brick wall. Although I didn’t finish, my ambition had grown.
You taught us all, me and my studio-mates, in a way that made us bigger. In a way that made us more worldly and thoughtful. In your subtle and sweet way, you guided us towards being wiser, kinder, more driven. You were patient when we were not ready. Yet at the times when we were playing what we thought was our best, you pushed us so much harder to do so much more. You were never satisfied. And you were right. It is never enough.
I can hardly express my gratitude for the difference you made in my life. I know my studio brothers and sisters feel the same. The best I can do is swear that I will continue to live bigger, to become ever more worldly, thoughtful, and kind. This, I know, is what you wanted for me. For us all.
With much love and infinite appreciation, your student,
Emily Salmon
