The Quiet Prodigy

He was born in a small village in Warsaw, in 1810.

He was the second child and the only son of Justyna and Nicholas.

His first piano teacher was his big sister, and he gave his first concert at the age of seven.

He traveled to Paris, hoping he would stumble upon more opportunities as an aspiring musician, with a handful of his native soil in his pocket, in 1830.

But he was gone for good, because the rebellious Poland army was pulverized by the large and powerful Russian army, just a couple of weeks after his departure from Poland. Coming back home, returning to his homeland was, henceforth, not possible.

His lover broke up with him by writing a novel in which the female character (symbolizing herself) left the male character (our musician) for someone else, and sending our musician the novel.

He gave little less than 30 concerts in his short-spanned life. He was not a big-hit back then, as he "failed to fill the concert hall"; he was too quiet.

Compared to Liszt's and Berlioz's mighty compositions spilling over with fortissimo's and hammered chords, he was simply too soft for the audience in Paris.

His life was ended prematurely by a demanding disease, most probably tuberculosis.

This man is Frederic Chopin.

Most of his works are for the solo piano, and he is my all-time favorite composer.

Why, you ask?

It's because of the feelings inside his pieces, locked in tightly by the staves and the written, simple notes, waiting to be released by an understanding and passionate pianist.

Every single time I play his Nocturne No. 20 in C-Sharp major, I find something different in it, another feeling, another thought.

And every time I listen to this incredible piece of work, it takes me to a different place, stirs up different memories, different emotions.

His piece called Adieu, a waltz in A-Flat Major for the piano, conveys the emotions of farewells and goodbyes and departures better than any painting I've seen or any novel I've read. It is hard to keep your eyes from brimming with tears, to stay standing behind the sand bar the waves of memory build up in your mind. It is hard not to feel, it is hard not to live the music.

Frederic Chopin, the quiet, emotional, master of the Romantic Era, quite different from his fellow composer friends, manages to prove everyone who thinks that music can only express so much wrong. Now, if you will listen to his waltz L'Adieu, you will understand what I mean. The silent prodigy makes up for the lack of volume in his pieces with overflowing feeling and just simple, plain, beauty.