For the last two years of high school, I had my cello lessons on the second floor of the violin shop Hammond Ashley. Designated as a small performance hall for student recitals, the room consisted of a wooden platform (the stage) where I would play as my teacher Ruslan looked on from the first row of chairs (the audience).
The wooden floor of the platform was littered with small holes where dozens of cellists before and after me would stick their endpins. I always liked to use an existing hole rather than digging my endpin into a fresh space of wood - it was more secure, and I’d rather not damage the wood even more.
During one lesson, I was adjusting my cello and testing a few holes, prompting Ruslan to ask me what was taking so long. “I’m trying to find a hole for my endpin,” I answered.
His response? “You’re a cellist - make your own!”
Ruslan isn’t a perfect teacher. He goes on way too many unnecessary tangents, is a little disorganized, and doesn’t always have the best teaching method. But Ruslan never stopped me from entering competitions or performing, something I took for granted until hearing about a few teachers in the Stanford music department. If I didn’t feel ready, he’d tell me the only way I’d ever be ready was to just go out there and play. He taught me to not be afraid of looking a little silly, of playing notes out of tune, of trying new ways of playing a passage. I never really developed the creativity needed to be as experimental as Ruslan encouraged me to be, but he taught me to try.
Talking with Christine about choosing school or music and finding old cello emails while sorting through my email (and seeing the acceptance letter from Midori!) has made me think about the “other life” I might have led. It’s really just a fantasy - I’m happy with my decision and I think that it really suits me better, but it’s fun to think about the what-ifs.
