After much consideration, I've chosen Dorothy Day as my violin instructor. Her reputation for nurturing the world's finest violinists precedes her, and I couldn't pass up this rare chance to study under her guidance. What draws me most is how she cultivates each student's unique voice rather than imposing a standardised technique.
The Quadrennial American Classical Virtuoso Competition looms on the horizon—a prestigious gathering where the nation's most gifted instrumentalists compete for recognition that can launch careers overnight. For violinists especially, it represents the pinnacle of achievement in the American classical music landscape. It's the pinnacle of American competition.
The competition's quadrennial schedule—reminiscent of the Olympics or World Cup—imbues it with a certain gravitas. Success there would open doors to international concert halls that might otherwise remain closed to me, regardless of talent.
The next morning, Rose awoke with the full weight of her ambitions resting atop her chest. The American Classical Virtuoso Competition—her own Olympic Games—loomed in the distance, and the time had come to stare down the list of pieces that would dictate the next six months of her life. Her phone buzzed with three new emails: the competition's official repertoire requirements, a note from Dorothy Day, and a cryptic message from Richard Lovett with the subject line "Survival Kit."
She started with the repertoire document, clicking open the package and scrolling through the single-spaced, twelve-point font—a typographical ocean of Italian, French, and meticulous diacritics. She read aloud to herself, as if summoning the names might make them more manageable:
"Witold Lutosławski – Subito (1994)," she read, then paused, remembering the first time she'd heard the piece at a master class in Chicago. It was a three-minute atom bomb, the kind of work that left audiences unsure whether to clap or catch their breath. Rose had spent months as a teenager analyzing Kuusisto's recording—his left hand a blur, his bow arm an exercise in controlled chaos. The piece was a technical Everest, but it was also a statement: modern, unflinching, and unapologetically virtuosic.
Below that, she found the familiar giants: Chopin's Nocturne in C-sharp minor, Debussy's "La fille aux cheveux de lin," and Sarasate's "Playera"—the latter a "crowd-pleaser," according to the competition's FAQ, but in truth a nightmare of left-hand pizzicato and fiendish harmonics. Each piece was paired with a recommended recording, and Rose noticed at least three ex-competition laureates featured, including two prodigies whose YouTube performance videos had made her rethink both her time management and her self-esteem.
Next, the note about the final concerto: Wieniawski, of course. "Violin Concerto No. 2 in D minor"—a piece with a reputation for breaking spirits as well as strings. Rose knew the opening by heart: the plaintive, yearning melody that masked a minefield of double stops and treacherous shifts. The "Notes from the Jury Panel" section warned contestants against "imitating the pyrotechnics of previous winners at the expense of interpretive nuance." Rose wondered if she was already at a disadvantage, having idolized those same performances since middle school.
There was also the matter of the encore. Kreisler, naturally, with options ranging from the lilting "Liebesfreud" to the fiery "La Gitana." The document noted that "contestants may substitute a work in the Kreislerian style, provided it is of similar brevity and character." Rose's mind raced: what if she chose something off the beaten path, a lesser-known caprice, or even an original cadenza? Was that brilliance or hubris?
She cross-referenced Dorothy's syllabus against the competition's requirements, relieved to see that her new mentor's curriculum was designed with the same brutal precision as the competition itself. Beethoven sonatas: Op. 12, then the Kreutzer. Prokofiev Sonata No. 2, memorized and ready for blindfolded performance. Ysaÿe's Sonata No. 5, the "Inferno" movement, which Dorothy claimed was "good for building character as well as wrist strength."
With the lineup set before her, Rose realized the challenge was not just technical, but existential. There were a thousand ways to play these pieces correctly, and yet only a handful of ways to play them memorably. If she played it safe, she'd be another name on the list—a "well-prepared, technically sound competitor," destined for a respectable finish and a polite mention in the program notes. If she took risks, she might flame out in glorious disaster, or she might, if the stars aligned, leave her mark as something more than the sum of her etudes and master classes.
The magnitude of it all—history, family legacy, the silent expectation radiating from her inbox—made Rose's hands tremble. But beneath the nerves was a spark of something like joy, the sense that the mountain before her was steep, but hers alone to climb.