I knew an artist who, when he said “painting”, elongated the diphthong so much that it sounded like an extra syllable. Painting was that important to him. Young pianists in NY in the early 1960’s had a peculiar accent that was hard to place. It sounded vaguely European, but was actually an affectation peculiar to this subculture. My own speech may or may not have picked it up, but often people ask about my accent. I answer that I just have a thick tongue. But it may also be that the sound of my own words circulates through my head rapidly before it comes out of my mouth. This may be due to having been ridiculed for my speech in early life. I may also have picked up a Boston accent, before moving to Maryland, where I was continually ribbed by my friends for being a “Yankee”. And then of course there was a little St. Louis drawl acquired later.

It often happens that I cannot practise in the days before a concert. It is as if my work goes into a kind of eclipse, and needs to stew in the dark for a few days. This of course causes some anxiety, but I have come to accept the process. This week I have tried to focus on future programs: an all-Brahms program, and especially a Chopin group. I am especially excited about the Chopin, as I feel I have acquired a key to my own relation to this music. I think Chopin wanted every note to be beautiful.