Wednesday, October 30, 2019 // The Statement
2B

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Managing Editor

Finntan Storer
statement

THE MICHIGAN DAILY | OCTOBER 30, 2019

T

hough I write “flutist” on my 
resume, “professional scaredy-
cat” might be more accurate.
I’m sure any musician remembers their 
first performance vividly. My memory, 
however, is a bit too vivid and not in a good 
way. After weeks of hesitation, I mustered 
up my courage and asked my teacher for a 
performance opportunity at a local church. 
As the director of music there, he happily 
put my name down on the Sunday program 
and I received the music score right away. I 
was self-conscious about my lack of perfor-
mance experience, so I practiced endlessly 
(Apologies to the girl who lived right above 
the music room — she was definitely sick 
of the melody). Beginning Saturday night 
after dinner, I started to feel a bit uneasy. 
But somehow, I managed to calm myself 
and slip into a good night’s sleep. I hoped 
everything would be just dandy the next 
morning.
“I got this!” I said to my reflection in the 
mirror before wrapping myself with the 

blanket.
Sadly, as soon as I woke up the next 
morning, the Freudian unconsciousness 
revealed its ugliness. I wasn’t thinking 
about the performance while chewing my 
breakfast eggs and toast, but my heart was 
beating at an unusual pace. As 10 o’clock 
approached, its rhythm increased. Linearly.
Oh boy.
I decided to make myself look pretty 
first. I put on my favorite dress from Free 
People and gave myself a final mirror-
check. Strangely, the phoenix pattern on 
the dress seemed a bit less glorious than it 
was two days ago on the hanger. I did not 
have the choice to back out and be a cow-
ard, so I grunted and headed toward the 
church. The uphill route did not help. If I 
had graphed my heart rate, the function 
would have transformed from a linear one 
to an exponential one.
The choir was already there in their 
robes, chatting and giggling. I quietly 
assembled my flute and sat at the bench. I 

was hoping to blend into the back-
ground, which may have been pos-
sible if I weren’t wearing a colorful 
phoenix dress.
“There you are, Ivy!”
With the whole choir staring at 
me, my teacher asked me to play 
the note “A” to tune with the piano. 
To anyone who plays an orchestral 
instrument, the “A” note must be 
familiar — this tuning note signi-
fies the start of a performance or a 
rehearsal. I, however, did not know 
such a thing as the “tuning note.” 
So my first reaction was to produce 
a frowning, confused face.
Fair enough. But I was surely 
capable of playing a single note, 
wasn’t I?
No. And here’s why. On the 
piano, you can produce a sound, 
maybe even a good one by simply 
pressing down a key. However, the 
flute requires mastery of breathing. 
A slight change in the air stream 
may result in a catastrophic sound. 
Learning how to properly breathe 
was already difficult enough dur-
ing practice. How did I think my 
delicate breath would react when 
it was being chased by the giant, 
spooky monster of nervousness?
Shake was all I did. I had a shaky brain, 
10 shaky fingers, two shaky lips and a shaky 
stream of air. I played that A note (sort of) 
in a pitiful way. The flowy melody that 
I was capable of producing during prac-
tice sessions fell into pieces. Oh, if only I 
could’ve hid behind the piano! I shook so 
violently that the slur became staccato. 
The 20 seconds of my solo felt like an eter-
nity. Thankfully, the choir sang so loud 
and enthusiastic that their voice drowned 
my fragmented notes. I have never felt so 
grateful for a singing voice before.
Anyone would guess after that experi-
ence, I’d avoid public performance when-
ever possible. Wrong. I forgot about my 
pain too quickly. Only after a few weeks, 
I signed up for my high school graduation 
performance to play “Variations For Flute 
and Piano”, a challenging piece by Chopin. I 
was determined I would conquer my adren-
aline this time. Chopin may have liked my 

courage, but he definitely would have yelled 
at me: “Girl, not my piece. Play something 
simpler!” 
As if my last performance wasn’t trau-
matic enough, this time, I took my shaki-
ness to a stage with an audience of 400. 
All of them were students, faculty and par-
ents of the graduating class, and they were 
all watching the girl who stood under the 
brightest spotlight. But instead of rocking 
the stage, she went completely catatonic 
and lost her rhythm. Chopin and I left an 
eternal mark in the program pamphlet. I 
sincerely hope he won’t be angry at me. It 
was far beyond embarrassing.
I, the so-called performance musician, 
am utterly crippled by stage fright.
But I am not alone. The famed tenor, 
Luciano Pavarotti, threw up backstage 
before his performances. Ozzy Osbourne 
wrote in his biography: “to say that I suf-
fer from pre-show nerves is like saying that 
when you get hit by an atom bomb it hurts a 
bit.” I suppose that’s why stage fright is kind 
of a cliché. Knowing how these masters 
suffered does offer me a little relief. Unfor-
tunately, understanding that fear is com-
mon isn’t exactly a remedy for fear itself. 
I can’t help but wonder if it was magic, or 
maybe performance-enhancement drugs, 
that allowed them to ultimately put on such 
magnificent shows.
The answer, I believe, is neither. How 
these introverted artists pushed themselves 
onstage, despite shaky muscles, ice-cold 
hands, and racing hearts, is miraculous. It’s 
also the most human thing I can imagine. 
They set their finger to the keys, or the fret-
board, and draw a deep breath. It’s terrify-
ing, but they push through. The notes will 
only linger for a moment, but the music will 
outlive them for hundreds of years. That is 
the paradox of creativity — despite great 
fear, something fragile within us demands 
to be created. That desire is strong enough 
to conquer adrenaline. That’s why, despite 
the judgmental eyes of the audience, and 
despite my ice-cold fingertips, I continue to 
perform. That’s why I raise my flute in the 
spotlight — to imitate so many scaredy-cats 
before me, each of whom chose to be brave, 
for one moment, and leave beautiful music 
behind.

A shaky flutist

BY IVY CAI, STATEMENT COLUMNIST

ILLUSTRATION BY JONATHAN WALSH

