What do I lack?

I'm going to make a long string of subjective claims here. I honestly don't listen to his music that much from day to day; this is because it really demands true attention to be enjoyed, and really demands the live experience. When I listen to his music casually, it is always great, but I am in danger of forgetting just how great it is. When I really pause to think, think completely about a piece I'm hearing and how he plays it (or how I play it, if applicable) I remember the initial awe I had, when I first encountered him. I suppose this article is an attempt to communicate and justify that feeling.

At a recent concert, the professional pianist Emilie Capulet complimented me on my "poise". I'm thankful, but when I remember to think about Lubomyr's own poise I am floored. I don't exactly lack poise, but I'm certainly still finding it. When I play Clouds No. 81 or Cloud Passade No. 3, I feel glad of my speed, even my attention to softness and dynamics - the issue of "too much power" in Pockets of Light doesn't occur in the lighter clouds pieces. My performances of them are now somewhat fluid and certainly fluent; what could be better? There was a moment a few months ago where I was revising in the library and Lubomyr's official recording of Clouds 81 came on. I had a very unusual and very strong emotional response, almost instantly; I almost found myself crying in the library, and was on the edge of breathlessness. The notes came only at a moderate pace, very clearly, resonant but not ringing; every tone was calmly placed, bright but not shining; light, but unpretentious and bold enough to be properly placed, earthed to the keyboard.

I was amazed by this piece the first time I heard it, many years ago, excitedly sharing it with friends who described it as a waterfall; then I started to learn it, finally having access to a score, and I felt almost a little disappointed. It wasn't as complicated as I had hoped, and seemed very repetitive, and I could never make it sound beautiful. Some years later I stopped whining and decided to lock in, learn the whole thing seriously and present it at university - the concert went very well, and I've been pleased since; again, I can do it gently yet swiftly. But there is a second layer of amazement - I think Lubomyr's music becomes more wonderful once you've got a foot in the door and you have an appreciation of how it is played, or could be played, because then, if you are patient and find a moment to be humble, you can really see the depth of his skill and its power.

I lack the ability to play that piece with a truly honest calm, a serenity. I always want to make it sound delicate, or make it sound fluid, but I do not embody fluidity in a full way. Lubomyr prefers the word "supple". I sometimes worry about making it sound beautiful without just letting it be, letting the notes calmly ring out and follow one another. I don't particularly worry about making it beautiful for an audience, but public performance is shaped by what happens in the practice rooms and it is fun, too fun, to test the extremes of one's own fluidity of playing: it is also too tempting to undermine the aesthetic of your own performance, and thereby "ruin" it by trying slightly too hard. These days the audience mostly melts away, which makes me seem poised and at ease on stage (which is true) but my arms don't melt away, so the immersion is not complete.

I have absolutely no idea how to adjust my technique to make the piece sound as it does in his recording - the same goes for Cloud Passade No. 3, but for a different sort of reason. In his official recording of Cloud Passade for the single piano, I had a similar epiphany, listening back to the piece after already having learned it. There, the notes have a completely mysterious weight, rather than a mysterious clarity. I hadn't heard it before, and I would struggle to explain this observation to someone who hasn't heard it, but it is audible. The clouds really are rolling, and the notes are heavy; they aren't thunking or thumping at all, and no delicacy is lost, but Lubomyr is combatting the technical challenge of: "how to play this piece swiftly without destroying the mood and dynamics?" (which is a real challenge) by having iron fingers embedded in the clouds; my usually strong-feeling fingers feel thin and frail when I listen to this piece, as I imagine my own hands trying to drive the clouds forward, with whatever powerful or soft touch; it's an imitation.

The notes, for him, arrive, implacably, but not as a military march. Cloud Passade No. 3 is a very driving piece, especially when I play it. You have to output a great many notes without pause, and the physical stretches in the hand are quite enormous; the exertion in that piece is great, even for Lubomyr, at first - but we both found it very easeful, after taking a month-long break; but whereas I am using my understanding of his technique to drive the piece forward, give it momentum and drama, to force and manage the clouds so they start rolling and keep rolling gently, his playing is... unabashed, not self-conscious, not even fractionally indulging in enjoying speed or showing the audience what he's capable of, and the sound just keeps coming, each tone placed; no, not placed, but simply there; his playing is better almost because of a great difference in maturity, a wisdom, more than any matter of raw ability or technique.

And I promise the difference this makes to the sound is audible, completely. It's even visible if you are lucky enough to see Lubomyr live. 

I feel many similar sentiments when thinking on the piece "Butterfly", too. The poise Lubomyr finds during the metamorphosis-climb period is honestly gobsmacking, especially once you've attempted, even become very good at, it yourself (recently that piece gave me the best concert I've ever played, and a best day of my life). The listener almost doesn't know that it's hit them. Perhaps it is not only because there is no difficulty, but no possibility of difficulty, for Lubomyr, that he can manage this so well. I know how to make Butterfly light and springy, how to mix the dry-spells with the "plaintive" with the roar of the wings, but I have to think about it. I never worry, but I do have to continually adjust my touch because I am aware it can quite easily go wrong - Lubomyr simply is. It almost sounds as if there is no true distinction for him between the "normal" main-theme section of the piece and the long climbs; there is a narrative distinction, but in either case he is simply playing, simply living. And that poise, dear reader, is extremely audible.

• "The life of the figure's flow must dance a little above the ground" 

• "That our spirit is constantly renewed, that is the anonymity of our flight's motion"

• "If you focus too much of your mind upon the patterns (when dealing with discrepancies in numbers) the figures become heavy and brittle. So brittle, they will crack from the weight of the mind and the mind will go sprawling as the table collapses, and the figure is broken. The mind must sit lightly upon the flow, so that the figures can live.. In their lightness"

• "There will be times when you will feel the need to draw back from the drive, and release from your existent tension. Do so. Draw your strength back to a point of soft breathing at a distance, so that the body may regain itself anew. You can move the contact of your existence's weight behind or forward, away or nearer, within the keyboard. [...] your will shall be the humble master."

But, of course, this is not all that the music is about, or capable of - the next quote applies somewhat to "Butterfly":

• "Do not think that at all times you will flow on the gentle rolling surface. At times, the same figure will appear from you as a static driving energy coalition; it will rain in pieces falling together at a steady and heavy oneness of volume."