Up on stage there is a feeling of self-awareness. The room becomes a little world, and I, its focus. This little world has gathered to listen to me, and I always feel apologetic for having nothing great or grand to give. I only have me.
So with all my heart I offer the audience what little I have: my daily practice sessions, my joys and sorrows and frustrations. Every key must be struck deliberately, and every note must be in its place. I move on from mistakes quickly because I must, because I cannot afford to lose the present for the past.
I hear all the sounds in the room—the drop of a pencil, the crinkle of programs, uncontrollable coughs and sneezes—but I cannot let myself become distracted by these, as my purpose is to give everything I can.
Then I’m finished. I bow, probably exhausted, mentally thank my audience, and leave the stage.
I want to live life like a piano performance.
There are no regrets in a performance.