“Poise,” Mr. Powell said.
We were in the lecture hall, and he was, again, on the stage.
“Presence.” He made a fist and shook it at us. “Performance. The three Ps.” He stood up straight and performed an elaborate, full-bodied bow. As he came back up, he brushed his hair back into place. “Bowing is not the most difficult thing to do. However, if it is done incorrectly, you can appear overly confident or smug. Or, possibly worse, meek. The bow is important, as is the handshake. When you come out from the side of the stage, you must be prepared to shake the first violinist’s hand.”
He put his hands together in prayer before him. Then, with his right hand, he pointed toward Cathy. “Cathy, could you help me with a demonstration?”
Cathy leaped to her feet and walked with pure determination to the stage.
“Can you go over to the side of the stage, then pretend you are coming out at the beginning of a performance. I am the first violin. The conductor always comes out with the soloist. Go ahead now.”
Cathy strode off the stage, turned and came back. She took Mr. Powell’s hand and shook it.
“Not bad. But not perfect,” Mr. Powell said. “First of all, you are the soloist. You are the star here. The first violin knows this. Yet, because you came out this way, from the right, the audience will see my hand on top of yours.” He took Cathy’s hand again. “This is called having the upper hand, and because you do not have it, the audience is not with you. They have come to see a performance. The first violin is here all the time. Right?”
“Okay,” Cathy said. “So what should I do?”
“You must demand to come from the left side of the stage.” When Cathy returned, this time from the left, we all saw that it was her hand on top now. I had never thought about this before, but she did, in some ways, seem more in command.
“A little bow, Cathy,” Mr. Powell said. “You don’t want to seem as though you’re above it all.”
Cathy bowed slightly.
“The audience has now ceased their celebrations in regards to your appearance before them. They are waiting for you to perform.”
I could see that Cathy believed this. She was dying to have people waiting for her to perform.
Mr. Powell pointed to her. “This is poise, people. Poise is how you present yourself. In control. Calm. Ready. If you have poise, you may then have presence. If you have presence, you will have your audience. You will have control of the stage. You will give a performance. Thank you, Cathy.”
Cathy sat back down with her group. She gave a little laugh when someone said something to her. She glanced in my direction, looking very pleased with herself.
“Performance is not just what you play and how you play it,” Mr. Powell said. “You must have a presence, a command of yourself and your audience. This is very important in auditions as well. The judges are looking for someone who commands their attention. Not just with their playing, but with their whole being.
“Poise, presence, performance. I cannot stress these elements enough. If you are not confident, you will not look confident, and people will not hear what you are playing. Not really hear it. Do you understand?”
There was some conversation, but mostly we all just stared at him. I doubt many people in the room had ever considered what it meant to hold the attention of an audience. I know I hadn’t.
“Okay then, practice. Set up a chair for the first violin. Someone be the conductor. Take turns. Feel what it is like to come out there with poise.”
Olivia went first. She seemed fine. She bowed well, had a firm handshake. Jon jokingly tripped, tried to give me a high five, then sat on Dani’s lap.
None of us laughed.
When it was my turn, I felt mostly fine. But then, as I stood before the mock audience, I became nervous again. I could feel my heart rate picking up. My hands got clammy.
It was ridiculous.
It wasn’t even real—but all I could think was, Everyone is looking right at you.
“You did fine,” Dani said.
But I didn’t believe her. Even in this pretend situation I was losing it.
How was I going to perform for the Juilliard people?
“You’re going to be great. Don’t worry,” Dani said.
Don’t worry, they say. It’ll be fine, they say.
Just do it, they say.
* * *
That afternoon I recorded a professional audition tape. I did the Paganini and a Mozart. The Mozart took two takes, the Paganini only one. I didn’t feel any of the anxiety, likely because I was standing alone in a sound booth.
Mr. Powell was in the recording studio when I came out. He shook my hand, holding it between both of his. “That was remarkable. Everything was perfect on this end. Did you like it?”
“I guess.”
“He guesses,” Mr. Powell said to the engineer. “Play that back for him.”
The engineer hit a few buttons and the sound of my violin filled the room. I heard a couple of spots where the tone wasn’t quite right. Once I even nicked the D string by mistake. But it wasn’t enough to redo.
“Perfect,” Mr. Powell said. “Will, if you can perform like this for the Juilliard people, the world will be your oyster. Do you understand that?”
“I guess. Sure.”
“You need to know.” He made a fist and gave me a light bump in the chest. “You need to believe.”
* * *
Mr. Jorgensen was waiting for me on the porch when I got home.
He was not all smiles.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said.
“What?”
“The problems,” he said. He began coughing. “Don’t play dumb. Alisha has been here. She told me about your…” He waved his hand around. “Issues.”
“I don’t…”
“I should have made you perform, I guess,” he said. “Put you in those little festivals. But no, that would have been useless. That would have been worse. People would have pulled you away. They would have told you how great you are and danced you out like their pet monkey.”
I sat on the railing. The evening buses were lined up outside the apartment. I scanned the street, trying to locate an accident or construction area to explain the traffic snarl.
“You get nervous,” he said.
I looked at the ground. “Yes.”
“Why are you looking down? This isn’t something to be ashamed about. My god, everyone gets nervous, and usually for dumber reasons than pouring their heart out in front of strangers.”
“Why?” I said. “Where does it even come from?”
“I have no idea! It doesn’t make sense. It’s just something that happens. But it’s all inside. I was nervous as anything around Alisha’s mother when we first met. I couldn’t eat. I could barely sleep.”
“That’s girls.”
“It’s not just girls, Will. Every time I got on the stage to conduct, I felt as though I was going to show the audience my dinner. But I never did.”
How, I wanted to ask. What was it that saved you? How did you control yourself? But instead I said, “I’ll be okay.” And I figured I would be. While I was away from the stage, I couldn’t even imagine the nerves I’d been feeling. It seemed stupid to me that I couldn’t just get up there and do it. I could even convince myself that I would. That the next time it would be no big deal. That how I was feeling at this moment was how I’d always feel. That I was fine. Brave, strong, ready to perform.
“Everyone has to deal with this in his or her own way,” he said. “It’s not something I can teach you. You have to find your reason. It has to come from inside. That’s the only way to defeat these nerves. This anxiety. You have to find control. Do you understand?”
Sometimes, Mr. Jorgensen could sound angry. I knew he never was, but it sometimes sounded that way. This was one of those times.
“I’ll be okay,” I said.
“You will,” he said. “You’re stronger than this.”