Kindergarten was also the year my parents signed me up for piano lessons, and every aspect of them was torture. I had to learn to read an entirely new language, stretch my ?ngers to ?t challenging intervals, use my arms with enough force to sound chords but not topple over, grope around blindly while keeping my eyes on the music, and the brain-splitting feat of doing this with each hand separately. Hardest was the very act of sitting down to practice. The physical challenges were more or less surmountable, but tackling them felt lonely and pointless.
I only fell in love with music when I found myself in a sweaty church on the Upper West Side—my ?rst chamber music concert, the ?nal event of a two-week camp the summer before sixth grade. I was nervous. My group, playing a Shostakovich prelude, was the youngest, so we went ?rst. My legs shook uncontrollably before, during, and after I played. I nearly became sick afterward from shame and relief. I was so disappointed that I thought I could never face my new music friends again. From the front row, I plotted my escape route for when the concert ?nished. But I didn’t run. I watched the whole concert. I watched the big kids breathe in unison, occupying the same disconnected body. I fell in love with music through the way they belonged to each other, the way they saw each other without even looking.
I stuck with that chamber camp. In the twenty chamber groups that have made up my last six years, I’ve performed in six-inch heels and nearly fallen off-stage during my bow. I’ve performed in sneakers and a sweatshirt, on pianos with half the keys broken and the other half wildly out of tune, in subway stations, nursing homes, international orchestras, Carnegie Hall, and on Zoom.
Chamber music doesn’t work when everyone aims to be a star; it works when everyone lets everyone else shine through. It’s more fun that way. A musical notation I rarely saw before playing chamber music is “una corda,” which says to put the soft pedal down and play on only “one string,” usually to highlight another player’s solo. I don’t need to be the loudest to breathe in unison with my friends, to create something beautiful. In that moment, I’m not just Una, I’m the pianist in the Dohnanyi sextet.
I started to love music only when I realized it doesn’t belong to me. I had to stop trying to make piano my own and take pleasure in sharing it. I learned that the rests in my part were as meaningful as the notes; that although my name means “one,” I’d rather not be the “only.” My favorite compliment I’ve received was that I made an audience member feel like they were sitting onstage next to me. This, to me, is the essence of chamber music. To pull your audience onto the stage, trusting your group isn’t enough—you have to fuse together, to forget you exist. For a few minutes, you have to surrender your name.
哈佛点评：
Una作为一名音乐家的成长经历使得这篇文章颇具意义 。她对自己名字的有力而内省的陈述立即吸引了读者的注意力 。年轻时渴望用自己的名字和涂鸦覆盖世界，作为自我表达的一种形式，这增添了好奇心和个性的元素 。Una对潜在后果的认识和她承担责任的最终愿望表明了她的正直和自我意识 。
一篇强有力的文章包含了脆弱性 。Una在探索自己的旅程时展示了她的经历，描述了弹钢琴所带来的身体和精神上的困难，以及孤独和无意义的感觉 。她还创造了一种面对障碍时的毅力和决心 。
当Una描述她在室内乐音乐会上的变革性经历时，这篇文章真正引人注目 。她对音乐连接人们的力量的开放和深刻认识确实令人感动 。
Una的文章通过她在不同场合的多样化表演进一步展示了她对音乐的承诺 。了解室内乐的协作本质以及她让他人发光发热的意愿，展示了 Una作为音乐家的成长以及对通过团队合作创造的美的欣赏 。

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