“When I woke up, it seemed to me that some snatch of a tune I had known for a long time, I had heard somewhere before but had forgotten, a melody of great sweetness, was coming back to me now. It seemed to me that it had been trying to emerge from my soul all my life, and only now-”
– Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights
The soft strum of a guitar resonates in my ears. Gusts of winter winds whistle through the mountains. My family, along with several other Russian families, huddle around the warmth of the cabin fireplace. Stars glisten through the windows. The fire crackles. Voices blend together harmoniously, humming along to a folk-like melody.
My earliest musical memories come from childhood camping and ski trips. My parents and their Russian friends would sing songs by “bards,” or singer-songwriters from the Soviet Era. The lyrics range in themes from the beauty of life, to loneliness, the harsh climate, and social and political commentary. These songs told a story, poetically. And it didn’t matter if you knew how to play guitar or sing in tune. It didn’t matter if you were a musician, or a chemist. What mattered is the Russian soul, or dusha, which longs for music.
I looked up to the great Russian pianists such as Vladimir Horowitz and Sviatoslav Richter. Through the music of Sergei Rachmaninoff and Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, I internalized the ringing bells of Russian Orthodox churches and revelled in imagined birch trees, meadows, and tiny white snowdrop flowers. Likewise, through classical art and literature, I learned about the country’s cold and dark past.
Russian artistic expression was never just a form of entertainment. It was a form of survival.
My love for music was instilled at a young age. I sang in a Russian choir until I was eight years old. We performed repertoire by Russian composers such as Sergei Rachmaninoff and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. One time, I played September in a production of the Russian play, “The Twelve Months.” I wore a traditional yellow tunic, and a wreath made out of red, orange and yellow leaves around my head.
But eventually, classical piano became my main form of musical expression. I was 10 years old when I begged my mom to start piano lessons. By then I was already behind, but I didn’t care. I decided it was my destiny to become a pianist.
I used to place my ear up to my bedroom wall to listen to my mom sightread Tchaikovsky’s The Seasons on our first wooden upright piano. We bought the piano at a garage sale for $250. The keys were yellow, and out of tune, the wood was barely holding up, but it worked.
It just made sense to me. I didn’t have to fit into a particular box to be in music. I didn’t have to be Russian or American. At least that’s what I thought in the beginning.
Today, as a Russian American pianist, I am constantly struggling to find my place in between these two cultures. It is the tension of duality, the state of in between, the idea that I don’t really belong anywhere that scares me. And moving forward, it feels important to explore how this duality plays out in my life.
Everything I know and love about art, music, and culture comes from Russia. I grew up watching Soviet films, which taught me sarcastic humor. I developed my sense of artistry from the delicate drawings of Russian animations, like Hedgehog in the Fog and the Soviet version of Winnie the Pooh. Some of my favorite foods are borscht, buckwheat, and pelmeni. I found lyricism in the poetic language of Russian writers such as Alexander Pushkin. When children from American households spent hours watching SpongeBob Squarepants, my parents took me to see ballets at the theater.
Growing up in the United States, I came to realize the country’s high priority on economy, politics, and technology. To be American means to care about such things. And I do, to some extent.
But my soul longs for the rich art, music, culture I come from. How can I be a classical pianist in a country where art is not a priority? Or where flashy technique, accuracy, and speed seem to matter more than executing just three notes with beautiful musicality?
I was born in a little town near Moscow, Russia. My family immigrated to the United States when I was only 11 months old. Russians tell me rather bluntly, “So you’re practically American.”
Except I’m not.
The first half of my childhood was spent in Ohio. I remember running around grassy fields with my American neighbors. We caught fireflies in glass jars, climbed to the tops of trees, searched the dirt for rollie pollies and centipedes. Russian was my first language, but I didn’t need to speak English eloquently to pretend to be a pirate or a cowboy with my friends.
On the Fourth of July, we joined American families in gathering on picnic blankets on the grassy field across the road from our apartment. Little white tents sold kettle corn and snow cones drenched in artificial red and blue syrup. Local bands performed classics from the 60s and 70s. I would lie on the grass and gaze up at the sky in awe as the fireworks exploded in front of my eyes.
Ohio taught me what it meant to feel American.
When we moved to California in 2006, I became conscious of my Russian identity. People would tell me “I like your accent, where is it from?” I was puzzled. Accent? My parents had accents; foreign people had accents. Did I have one too?
Along with becoming the center of jokes about Putin, communism, and vodka, it grew evident I was different. I hardly understood the humor. I didn’t have the same interests as anyone else. My last name was too long and hard to spell.
I began to grow introspective about my identity. Then, isolated.
The piano became my main companion at this time.
Music gave me a reason for the emotions I felt but hardly understood at the time. As an overly sensitive child, my response to the outer world has always been pretty intense. I suffer through migraines whenever the weather changes, and spend hours overthinking the simplest things. My mood can jump from genuine happiness to dark melancholy in a matter of seconds.
But it also means music gives me goosebumps. Beautiful sounds will trigger the tiny hairs on the back of my neck to shoot up as my body fills up with a rush of adrenaline and pure joy. It’s like I’m flying through sunset painted skies over turbulent ocean waves.
To me, there wasn’t anything more beautiful than a Chopin nocturne or waltz, or the warm colorful tones of the piano. I longed to replicate these melodies just so others could feel the goosebumps too.
In Russia, children are scouted for talent before being admitted to study at one of the few top music conservatories in the country. They spend years working on simple repertoire, nailing down the basic technique and developing their artistry. Only after, are they encouraged to attempt pieces by composers such as Liszt, Chopin or Beethoven. At that point, they are fully equipped to handle the works with musical maturity.
In America, there is no structure to musical education. And as a result, many students dive into complex works before they’re even ready for them. It becomes more about perfecting technique, rather than developing musicality.
Like many Russian children, I started out learning short pieces from Tchaikovsky’s Children’s Album. I will confess, I despised the idea of systematic practicing, but I loved to play. Instead of tackling the most difficult sections first, like you’re supposed to, most of my practice sessions involved countless “play throughs” of what I thought were the most beautiful parts of the piece. I wanted to make music, not play as perfectly as possible.
One of my first piano teachers, Sveta, taught me that being a musician meant more than playing the right notes. She hardly fit the traditional image of a pianist. With her wild red hair, fancy earrings, colorful blouses, leather jackets and heels, she reminded me somewhat of a Russian gypsy.
Sveta showed me the world of music not only through a classical lens, but also American jazz. She introduced me to the music of Ray Charles and George Gershwin. I would listen to her bluesify a classical piece and play tunes by ear on the spot while her cocker spaniel, Misha, howled along. “This is what it means to be a real musician,” she would say. She taught me to hear pictures and colors, and to tell stories with the piano keys. I could barely read the complex music she gave me at the time, but I learned that sparkling arpeggios sounded like crystal lights, and legato was smooth as honey.
One time, I decided to shoot my chances at a classical piano competition in New York. Sveta took me to my first recording studio. Nothing about it was traditional or classical. The place reeked of cigarette smoke, the lighting was dim, photographs of bands and rock musicians were littered all over. But I sent my recordings in for the preliminary round and waited.
Then, came the rejection.
I was so naïve, and didn’t really understand, but my parents said if I was serious about this, it was time to find a new teacher. As Russians, they knew what a serious piano education meant.
At that moment I felt so torn between my opposing dualities. Part of me just wanted to play music for fun, but it was in tug of war with the other part, which was full of ambition. If I was going to do this, I would have to do it right. So, I went with what I thought was the correct answer: to switch teachers. At that moment, the tension between my dualities started to grow exponentially.
Soon after, I auditioned for the piano studio of Irina, a graduate of the Moscow Conservatory. Irina’s light hair was neatly pulled back away from her face. She dressed conservatively, in long skirts, and sleeves that never went above her elbows. My impression walking into the room for the first time was that everything was overly plain and clean, a shocking contrast to the vibrant environment I had gone to for lessons prior. The piano room was big but not large, with a Yamaha baby grand, peach colored window curtains, and a cream couch. Stacks of music lay on shelves and the air smelled of cinnamon apples. I immediately made a mental note that I would never wear shorts to a lesson again.
I hesitantly edged myself onto the piano bench. Irina was sitting to my right, with her arms crossed and posture upright and poised. “Nu, Davay,” she motioned for me to start playing. I took a deep breath and began Chopin’s Etude Op. 25 No. 9.
After I finished, there was silence. Irina didn’t say a word. She slowly stood up and walked to the closet, grabbing a copy of the Chopin Etudes. She placed it on the music stand and pointed to the open page. I began reading the notes, line by line, but it felt like solving a mathematical equation. After an excruciating 20 seconds, my heart froze. It was the same etude I had just played but my fingers were fumbling for the correct notes. To my horror, I had memorized it all wrong.
Irina pursed her lips. “Tell me, why do you want to pursue music?”
My ears were pulsing.
“I-I don’t think I can live without it,” a tiny voice escaped my lips.
I wanted to quit being Russian right then and there. I wasn’t cut out for this.
But that day, Irina took me into her studio.
I should’ve felt elated, as if I was flying in the clouds. But instead I felt guilty, for failing to fit the box of what I knew a pianist should be.
The fun and games were over. I locked myself up and dedicated all my time to practicing.
Wherever I went, I was typically the only Russian amidst the music students. There was always an expectation I had to fill, not only from others, but from myself. When I couldn’t, it felt as though my world was tumbling down. I was told I’m “musical,” “talented,” that I have “potential,” but lacked “solid technique and proper schooling.”
It affected me most at piano camps and festivals. I would see so-called prodigies accompanied by their mothers in the practice rooms, forcing them to hammer away at technique for ten hours a day. These kids weren’t old enough to grasp the emotional maturity of Franz Liszt, yet they received praise after praise for their impressive accuracy and speed, stealing the top prizes in competitions.
Sure, they sounded perfect, but where was the heart and soul? Where was the music?
Did I just not understand?
I would come back home discouraged, because I was critiqued for my flimsy fingers and inadequate technique. Because I didn’t fit in. And because I didn’t sound like the rest of them.
Irina rarely praised me, but when she did, she would say “technique can be taught, musicality can’t be.”
It became my mantra. And the only thing that kept me going.
My training strayed from the Russian path when I came to UCLA and studied under Mr. Ponce. He was old, short, and stocky with a bald spot on the top of his head, and always wore a suit and oval framed glasses. Whenever I played, he would close his eyes and place one palm over his face. I almost thought he fell asleep at my first lesson. Then I learned that’s just how he listened. He would always tell me stories about famous musicians or about his time at Juilliard. One time he brought me backstage at Walt Disney Concert Hall to meet his friend and world-renowned pianist, Murray Perahia.
The most important thing, Mr. Ponce would tell me, is “relaxation.” He repeated the word to me so many times, I grew to worship it. But relaxing turned out to be incredibly hard for someone like me, who was tense by default. Mr. Ponce made me throw my arms down on the piano keys, like jello. “Piano is supposed to feel easy,” he reminded me, but all I knew was how to grit my teeth and clench my jaw even harder.
Whenever I was burnt out, he would tell me to go to the grassy field near Royce Hall and sit underneath the big tree. It would be much more productive than practicing with a frustrated mind, he said. He also told me that piano teachers are overrated. “You are your best teacher,” he emphasized. I didn’t really understand it at the time but looking back it’s some of the most valuable advice I ever received. No Russian teacher would ever say something like that.
Maybe I could get used to this more American style of teaching.
Mr. Ponce retired a year later, just as I was starting to get the hang of it. My piano education began to feel cyclical. It came back to a more Russian style, with a focus on musicality, artistry, and imagination. And now, I’m learning how to relax once again.
But the further I dove into my piano education, the more unfulfilled I grew. Like my Russian American identity, I was constantly stuck in-between. And I came to realize the classical music I knew and loved was not the same in the country I grew up in.
The dualism within me begged for more. An answer or a release from the tension that plagued me.
Toska – noun /’to-sk?/ – Russian word for sadness or melancholia
“No single word in English renders all the shades of toska, ” Vladimir Nabokov once wrote. “At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning.”
So, I did the only thing I knew I could do to cope — I added on a second major, looking for any way possible to fulfill the dull ache of my Russian soul.
Looking back, I wonder if this duality stems from my mom’s side of the family. My mom went on to receive her second bachelor’s degree, in graphic art and design, when we moved to Ohio. Growing up in Russia, she never questioned following the science path. But her real passion was for art. When she was younger, she attended a little music school, with art classes on the top floor. After her piano lessons, which were often tense and nerve-racking, she would run upstairs to the art room where she felt greater freedom to express with pencils and paints. She also loved to paint over the bare walls of her family’s worn-down apartment, creating colorful images of her favorite childhood characters from animations like Karlson and Winnie the Pooh.
My mom’s parents were similar. Her father was a scientist who loved to write poetry. Her mother was a geometry teacher who sang and played music. Art was always there, but it was always accompanied by something else.
Throughout my time at UCLA, I wrote a lot. I wrote when I was anxious, when my mind couldn’t stop thinking a hundred miles per hour. I wrote when I was sad. Or when I needed to escape the constant tension in my head, creating worlds and stories that were far from my own reality.
But it wasn’t until I put two and two together when I realized my love for music and writing meant something along the lines of journalism. I settled on communications as my second major and spent whatever free time I had outside of music as an arts reporter at the Daily Bruin. My days were packed, and I found myself having to squeeze in time to practice piano in the gaps between my classes.
I was exhausted but finally, somewhat fulfilled.
The duality followed me everywhere. It was like I didn’t know how to function without it.
Roughly a year ago, my younger sister, Masha, dropped everything and moved to Russia to pursue a career in ballet.
This decision was made around 6 p.m. on a Tuesday evening in February of 2019. She was in her dorm room at USC, a freshman at the time, working on a homework assignment for her business class when suddenly she received a text message from our mom.
Pozvoni mne (call me)
The artistic director of the Astrakhan State Opera and Ballet Theater had just invited her to dance in Russia, immediately. This was a once in a lifetime chance. So, without a second thought, Masha took it, leaving her classes and family behind.
“Whenever I thought ballet, I always thought – Russia,” she said. “That was definitely the number one dream.”
But at the time, I didn’t understand. You had to be really Russian to do that.
To me, Russia felt cold and grey at that point. Like the smell of cigarettes lingering on the streets, old buildings with leaky tubes, half chipped paint, mismatched wallpapers. The winters are harsh. And every once in a while, the hot water is turned off for a week and you have to manage to heat the water on your own and shower by pouring buckets of water on yourself. My sister complains about it over our FaceTime calls sometimes.
As my parents tell me, Masha didn’t have a choice — “There is no ballet in America.”
What a Russian thing to say.
When I was seven years old, my parents sent Masha and me to spend the entire summer with our Babushka Tanya. All I remember from that trip was being yelled at by a cashier in a grocery store for excitedly grabbing a Sprite bottle out of the fridge, and getting my head stuck in a vent at the train station because my mouse toy fell in between the cracks. I felt clumsy. And guilty, as if someone would put me in jail for making it obvious I didn’t grow up in Russia. I wasn’t allowed to touch this, I couldn’t say that, my laugh was much too loud. One time I accidentally referred to a person of authority by the informal version of the word “you.” The embarrassment.
I never was very good at being Russian.
Neither was my sister. She grew up unable to roll her Rs, she quit Russian lessons right before high school, and often is told she speaks Russian with an Estonian accent.
Yet, that didn’t stop her from moving across the world.
“Do you ever think about coming back here?” I always ask.
“No,” is always her answer.
When we were little, Masha would watch the New York City Ballet’s Nutcracker on a VHS tape we borrowed from the library. It was her favorite. She threw on a purple dress and pretended to dance the role of Masha, or Clara in the non-Russian version of the story.
My sister didn’t dance for perfect technique, she danced for expression. Her ballet story is similar to mine in music. She’s admired for her tall slender figure and lines, but struggles with jumping high or executing an impressive number of pirouettes. It’s the reason she was never able to find her place in American ballet.
When Masha first arrived in Russia, she was shocked. A lot of the dancers would fall out of turns, they weren’t obsessed with tricks, or technique. But they knew how to stage a beautiful production. They knew how to rehearse, how to discipline themselves, in order to put together a beautiful corps de ballet.
Last summer, I visited Russia for the first time in 12 years. I wasn’t expecting much. But on this trip, everything was different. I saw Masha confidently navigate her way around, speaking conversationally and with greater ease. I admired the beautiful baroque palaces of St. Petersburg, dripping in gold and elegance. I walked through the halls of the renowned Hermitage museum. I sat before the grandiose stage of the Mariinsky Theatre.
I felt the nostalgia of visiting my birthplace, Dubna, and strolled through the green luscious forests. I stepped into my mom’s childhood home, looked at her paintings on the walls, and played on the old, and now very out-of-tune, piano that belonged to my Babushka Rita.
My mom says our family’s love for art comes from Babushka Rita. She was skinny and frail, but always singing and dancing. Her eyes sparkled with hope and optimism. She frequently put on mini concerts for her friends, playing the piano and singing Russian romances by Tchaikovsky and Glinka. But one of her most favorite composers was Chopin, whose portrait she hung up above her little upright piano. The scores of Chopin nocturnes, waltzes, and polonaises that are now stacked on top of my piano previously belonged to her.
Babushka Rita also loved to draw, sketching portraits of strangers on the train, and gifting it to them afterwards. Although she earned her money teaching geometry, artistic expression is what helped her deal with the difficult living conditions. She believed art could save the world.
And so, for the first time, I didn’t question my sister’s rash decision to move to Russia.
Because while Masha is currently in the midst of bustling rehearsals for Novosibirsk State Academic Theater of Opera and Ballet’s performance of La Bayadere, and I’m still at home, taking piano lessons remotely through Zoom, preparing for a recital that too will be online, I understand now.
It’s not about the poor living conditions, or the harsh weather, or about whether you’re good at being Russian or not.
Art is just not the same in America. Theaters and concert halls are currently closed and likely won’t reopen until a vaccine has been available for at least a year, according to Dr. Anthony Fauci in a recent interview over Instagram. Musicians and dancers don’t have a place to perform, unless it’s through livestreams online. It’s not the same.
But in Russia, even during World War II, music thrived, it lived and was performed with full support from the Soviet government. During quarantine, when many people lost their jobs, the ballet dancers were still paid by the government. Even now during the uncertainty of the pandemic, concerts and performances are coming back in full force.
It’s about priorities. And, clearly Russians can’t live without art.
As I observe what’s happening in America, I’m upset at the way the pandemic is being handled. Instead of supporting the arts when we need it most, there’s chaos and disunity. Instead of concerts and performances, there are disagreements over the simple idea of wearing face masks.
The isolation brought upon by the pandemic feels strangely familiar. Like the isolation I felt when I was figuring out whether I was Russian or American. And the isolation I still feel practicing alone at my piano. Except now it’s at a much larger scale. Everyone feels isolated, but especially artists in America.
And while I’ve had to come to terms with a lot of things over the years, regarding my technique, my broken Russian language, and my foreign last name, there’s one thing I still cannot come to terms with: the place of art in America.
Being a classical musician feels irrelevant in a country where art is not treated with the same necessity as the country I come from. I know what it’s supposed to be like.
It’s the duality, the tension from not being able to fit in one place that allows me to find the deeper meaning.
Art is a form of survival, and America needs it now more than ever.