Chopin, the Queen Elisabeth, Tchaikovsky.
Just as the phrase “the world’s three major competitions” exists,
people divided competitions into tiers according to their level and importance.
Naturally, this also applied to the competitions held within Korea, narrow as the country’s scene was.
It was an undeniable fact that the level differed from one competition to another.
If I had to pick just one among them,
it would of course be the Student Music Association Competition, the largest competition in Korea, where I had won the grand prize several times.
But this distinction did not always hold true.
Once students reached the high school division, ranking the major competitions against one another became meaningless.
Competitions hosted by universities.
Competitions hosted by newspapers.
Competitions hosted by associations.
There were twelve competitions in Korea alone.
And then there were the overseas international competitions recognized by the International Federation of Competitions.
All of these competitions shared one common characteristic.
They were competitions recognized for university admissions.
In other words, the advantage of becoming part of an admissions portfolio meant that, at least for the high school division, the level and importance of each competition were effectively equal.
Most high school students majoring in piano took part in them.
“Hello~!”
I greeted my practical teacher in charge and my lesson teacher brightly before calmly taking my seat in front of the piano.
“Oh my, it’s Dohee! You’re so pretty today, too. Have you practiced your pieces a lot?”
Then what was the reason universities recognized them?
Naturally, it meant that the student had delivered a performance worthy of recognition by a university.
And what exactly was a university-recognized performance?
There was one idiom that served as a clear example.
“Typical entrance-exam art.”
Of course, it was a satirical and humorous expression,
but it was true that entrance-exam art referred to conventional, formulaic paintings overly focused on displaying technique.
From the outset, a particular style was established, with students all drawing the same thing according to it.
Their ideas and techniques were inevitably similar as well.
In other words, the same applied to the performance of entrance-exam pieces.
A standardized performance style, formulaic expression that revealed just enough musicality without being aggressive, and carefully arranged rhythms.
It was what one called a “typical entrance-exam performance.”
Above all, an arts high school was a process for entering an arts university.
Every system and curriculum had been structured around entrance exams.
“You’ve prepared all the preliminary-round pieces, right? Then shall we try the finals piece?”
The practical teacher sitting before me had also failed to become a pianist, but she had succeeded in the entrance exams and graduated from one of the country’s prestigious music universities—an elite.
The teacher who had administered the accompaniment test earlier was also an elite who had graduated from a renowned Korean music college.
The teachers at arts high schools had followed the same entrance-exam curriculum as their students.
They were employees hired to guide students so that they could follow in their footsteps.
Ultimately, they were there to help students succeed in the entrance exams.
And that was both the strength of an arts high school
and, in a way, its weakness.
“Yes.”
I nodded and placed my hands on the keyboard.
What my lesson teacher in charge would ask of me was obvious.
‘Play accurately, following the score, giving it only the bare minimum of feeling.’
The piece I was about to play was Chopin’s Ballade No. 4.
It was the designated piece for the finals of this competition.
Of course, there would be no point if I failed in the preliminaries,
so I would have to practice the designated pieces for the preliminary round as well.
But it didn’t matter.
Honestly, as long as I practiced, I felt I could quickly play a formulaic rendition of a preliminary piece that lasted no more than two minutes.
* * *
After finishing my classes, I hailed a taxi instead of taking Manager’s van.
“Take care, student~”
“Thank you.”
I got out in front of my piano teacher’s house.
I had intended to visit whenever I had the time,
but today, my visit had become more than a simple drop-in, which made me feel a little sorry.
When I pressed the bell, I heard the same familiar, welcoming voice as always.
─Coming~
The only thing that was different from my previous visit
was that I couldn’t hear the sound of the teacher’s son Jinhyeon crying.
Well, he was six now.
“Dohee!”
The door swung wide open, and my teacher rushed out to hug me, looking no different from before.
“Teacher, I’m here~”
“What on earth brings you here? Superstar Dohee has come to visit!”
I was taller now, so I could no longer be enveloped in her cozy embrace,
but it was still as warm as ever.
I knew now.
Large breasts were probably something everyone, men and women, young and old, liked.
* * *
“Dohee only comes to visit whenever there’s a piano competition. It hurts the teacher a little... Still, I’m glad it seems I can be of at least a little help... And someday, Dohee will eventually forget me, won’t she?”
“No, as I said earlier, I really have been too busy to come for a while because of Saven activities and everything... If it weren’t for the competition today, I would’ve gone to the agency to practice...”
“I don’t know. I wanted to go to a Saven concert and cheer you on, too...”
“But I gave you tickets, and you said you probably wouldn’t be able to come because of Jinhyeon...”
“Sigh, actually, my husband had already made plans to attend a conference that day. Otherwise, I would’ve just left Jinhyeon with someone and gone. When else would I get to see our Dohee’s first concert? He’s so mean.”
My teacher and I exchanged the everyday stories we had been unable to share.
Of course, all the while, Jinhyeon was sitting on my lap and nestled in my arms.
“Big sister! Are you a princess?”
“A princess? Who knows?”
“Big sister, marry me when you grow up!”
I was making a small repayment for having used my teacher’s embrace when I was young.
“Jinhyeon, why don’t you go play with Daddy for a little while? Big sister has something to do with Mommy.”
“Nooo! I’m staying with Big sister!”
“Tsk, Hwang Jinhyeon. Who told you to behave so rudely? Do you want Mommy to get the switch?”
“Now then~ Jinhyeon can go play with Daddy~”
“Nooo! Daddy smells!”
“You’ll get it later, you little punk!”
“Nooo! Big sisteeeer!”
My teacher’s husband forcibly carried him away.
I briefly ignored Jinhyeon as he reached his hands toward me.
He was just as stubborn now as he had been at three.
“Sorry. He’s at that age when everything his mother does annoys him.”
“Come on, he’s just a baby. He’s cute.”
“When you came before, he cried for ages after you went home. Children really do become more adorable the more you learn about them.”
We headed naturally toward the piano room.
“Sigh, our Dohee was so obedient, clever, and pretty at five, and at six, too. You have no idea how many pointless dreams I dreamed because of you. I’m so envious of your mother...”
I’m talking about Jinhyeon...
Why is my mother flat-chested?
What did Doa grow up drinking?
And so we sat down in front of the piano.
“You said it was Chopin’s Ballade No. 4, right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a very difficult designated piece.”
My teacher took a score of Chopin’s Ballade No. 4 from the booklet.
“Hmm... But honestly, I’m not sure whether I can teach you better than the teachers at your arts high school. You might even play it better than I do.”
“No way. I haven’t even been able to practice properly because of my idol activities.”
“Still, you must have played consistently for at least an hour a day.”
“...There were days when I couldn’t play... but, more or less?”
“Exactly.”
My teacher smiled, looking pleased.
“Wait a moment. I played this piece before, too, so let me refresh my memory.”
She slowly studied the score, turning the pages.
The pages gradually turned until she stopped at measure 211.
“Dohee, did you happen to find the coda difficult, or was there anything you found particularly tricky here?”
The coda—the section added to the end of a piece, movement, or large section of a work to emphasize its concluding effect.
It was the part performers of Chopin’s Ballade No. 4 found most difficult.
“I’m not sure...”
Honestly, I hadn’t.
Not personally.
“If there aren’t any technical problems in the coda, then what matters is expression, right? For example, an intense coda, a crescendo and diminuendo within the forte, the melody, and so on.”
My teacher placed her right hand on the piano.
Then she played every note honestly.
“You don’t need to play every note in the right-hand melody like this. Just bring out the soprano line where the important points are... like this, give it a little more life. And subdue the alto melody. That way, the emotions exploding in the coda will come across clearly. Of course, that isn’t necessarily an easy expression to achieve.”
This time, she pointed to the score.
Then she placed her left hand on the keyboard.
“And here, the left-hand sforzando—especially forceful—marked forte is written to be played staccato, but use something closer to non legato—slightly lifting between the notes... Yes, with about this much depth. If you strike it too aggressively, this part will sound unmusical.”
My teacher turned her head away from the score.
“But Dohee, I don’t think you came here today because you don’t know these things. I feel like you could easily manage this level of expression, at least.”
As my teacher said, this was an expression of practiced musicality.
The techniques and emotions were difficult for a high school student to convey,
but they were still the kind of adult virtuosity that had not entirely escaped the framework of university entrance exams.
“Even if you didn’t know, I imagine your school teachers would have taught you at least this much.”
My lesson teacher in charge had praised my playing to the skies today as well.
She said my delivery was incredibly clean and precise.
But to me, it felt merely like recording and playback, not a performance.
It was a rigid, formulaic way of playing.
“You have your own interpretation of the piece, something you want to play in your own way, don’t you?”
I nodded slightly.
What I felt when listening to this piece was different.
“A little.”
My teacher sat down beside me and clasped my hand.
“Then just play it that way. Somehow, I feel like you’ll do just fine, Dohee.”
Then she gently pressed down on one side of my head, making me lean against her as I had when I was young.
“But more importantly, why is our Dohee’s hair so soft? What kind of treatment do celebrities get?”
Her fingers lightly brushed aside the strands tickling the corner of my eye.
“I do get treatments, but I’ve never dyed my hair. Kim Seoyun’s is like dog fur.”
“It looks fine from the outside.”
“It’s an illusion. The products make it look that way. If you tug lightly, it all comes falling out. Dog fur.”
My teacher chuckled.
“Sure. I’d like to meet Seoyun in person sometime, too.”
“Please come to the showcase when we debut this time. Bring Jinhyeon, too. We can all take pictures together afterward.”
“Sure, sure. Let’s do that.”
Nestled in that comfortable embrace, I gave a faint smile and quietly closed my eyes.
My heart gradually grew calmer.
I was still burdened, and doubts continued to surface,
but I thought it was right to simply try playing the piece the way I wanted.
If I failed to win the grand prize...
I was sorry to Team Leader Sohyeon, but I would have to think about that when the time came.
There would be another major competition a month later anyway.
I could enter again for revenge, or something...
I remained with my eyes closed in her arms for quite some time.
Even when I heard Jinhyeon whining from the living room as he searched for me,
my heart remained peaceful, freed from the stresses of everyday life for the first time in a long while.