Journey

 

Lessons soon followed. I remember locking myself in my room going over my solfège for hours, memorizing notes, writing them down and their meanings.

 

Eventually, I stopped taking lessons—I was learning enough on my own to play during school lunch hours. But I needed a real piano; five octaves weren’t enough. When I finally got one, I began improvising, studying more, developing my own sound. I even tried composing, but it wasn’t for me—I preferred interpretation.

 

High school was magical: improvising on Paganini, music class fun, teachers yelling 'Great playing, but you're going to break my piano!' These were the best days—growing up, discovering life and music.