(no subject)
the professor hailed it as a "total fucking cattle call, emily" -- and it was. it was a delightful surprise to be called back for the final round on sunday, and i am perhaps more proud of myself for sticking to my guns when i thought it's too late for them to call me, which means i didnt make it, but i played well and i'm pretty happy with that. and was completely satisfied with that thought.
i played a little bit psyched-out and sloppy at the end, perhaps the worst performance of that piece i've ever given, and placed pretty low on the totem pole for finalists -- who were all playing extensive romantic pieces. that's okay. i won a hundred bucks. i made it into the finals, which nobody was expecting, where i felt like i totally humiliated myself in front of all these Real Pianists. that's okay. i won a hundred bucks. i am the bigfoot representative, with the price of gas back in her pocket.
the whole scene of competitive piano is ridiculous. lots of flash and "artistically subdued" twinkly bullshit. one girl wore a floor-length red gown. tension. unspeaking pianists whose smiles never leave their mouths trailing anxious parents and coaches and somebody is carrying the gloves, the score, the sweater. there are people, quilters-union kind, to kindly shepherd your idiot pianisting machine with tight small-bird shoulders around to this piano, or that one, the concert hall. i congratulated one girl who had done really well after the awards were handed out, and she didnt look at me disdainfully, but rather as if i had just landed from outer space. there was a pause. she didnt smile. "oh. you too."
its distressing how quickly one can learn to hate people one hasn't even met. [especially after one has been driving in the city. (for the record, chinatown is a lie. it doesnt exist.)] i dont like the person i am when i'm there.
and still i'm completely caught by this itch that says, go back next year. beat their slimy little asses. do better. big fat vegan white girl with hairy legs is going back to triumph over your stupid liszt machine ass.
i played a little bit psyched-out and sloppy at the end, perhaps the worst performance of that piece i've ever given, and placed pretty low on the totem pole for finalists -- who were all playing extensive romantic pieces. that's okay. i won a hundred bucks. i made it into the finals, which nobody was expecting, where i felt like i totally humiliated myself in front of all these Real Pianists. that's okay. i won a hundred bucks. i am the bigfoot representative, with the price of gas back in her pocket.
the whole scene of competitive piano is ridiculous. lots of flash and "artistically subdued" twinkly bullshit. one girl wore a floor-length red gown. tension. unspeaking pianists whose smiles never leave their mouths trailing anxious parents and coaches and somebody is carrying the gloves, the score, the sweater. there are people, quilters-union kind, to kindly shepherd your idiot pianisting machine with tight small-bird shoulders around to this piano, or that one, the concert hall. i congratulated one girl who had done really well after the awards were handed out, and she didnt look at me disdainfully, but rather as if i had just landed from outer space. there was a pause. she didnt smile. "oh. you too."
its distressing how quickly one can learn to hate people one hasn't even met. [especially after one has been driving in the city. (for the record, chinatown is a lie. it doesnt exist.)] i dont like the person i am when i'm there.
and still i'm completely caught by this itch that says, go back next year. beat their slimy little asses. do better. big fat vegan white girl with hairy legs is going back to triumph over your stupid liszt machine ass.