BETWEEN A REUNION AFTER TEN YEARS AND A FIRST ENCOUNTER, WHAT ONE VIOLIN VIRTUOSO DISCOVERED Prologue: Opening the Score Again “It’s been almost 10 years since I last performed it.” When World-renowned Violin Virtuoso Ray Chen opened the score of Brahms’ Violin Sonata No. 2 again, he wasn’t simply beginning “practice.” He was starting a conversation with himself from ten years ago. His practice sessions made public through the Tonic app captured in their entirety the tension and excitement of a world-class virtuoso reuniting with an old repertoire, along with an unexpected unfamiliarity. “I’m rereading it,” he told his viewers. “Don’t set expectations too high.” Within this seemingly humble statement lies deep meaning. The choice to use the language of reading rather than performing suggests that the familiar score has now become a new text for him. Time hasn’t changed the notes on the page, but it has transformed the eyes that read them. I. Two Faces of Brahms: First Encounter and Reunion Sonata No. 1: Between Anxiety and Beauty A few days later, Ray Chen sight-read Brahms’s Violin Sonata No. 1 on the same platform. This session, which began with the declaration “This is the first time in my life sight-reading this piece,” showed energy completely different from No. 2. After playing the first few measures, he admitted honestly, “Oh, that’s hard.” To find the characteristic dark and heavy sound of Brahms, he intentionally used a “less shiny bow.” As the music progressed, his murmurs could be heard. “A lot of self-doubt. but we need to keep moving forward.” This wasn’t merely a comment about technical difficulty. Chen was instinctively sensing, even in the moment of first reading, the emotional complexity contained in Brahms’ No. 1, first movement: the anxiety and passion seething within the young Brahms’s inner world. Reaching the second movement, he briefly remarked, “So sad.” Then, discovering where he had missed an upbow, he added, “Such details cannot be fully captured through sight reading alone.” Particularly striking was his comment about tone color. “Brahms’ characteristic ‘melancholic and then deep sound’ must be expressed within the same tone color.” This insight, that melancholy and depth must be simultaneously realized within one tone color, precisely captures the essential paradox of Brahms’s music: the magma of emotion boiling beneath surface restraint. Sonata No. 2: Unfamiliarity Within Familiarity Chen’s approach to Brahms No. 2, encountered again across a ten-year gap, was markedly different. Here, there was no caution of sight-reading. Instead, there coexisted the comfort of meeting an old friend and simultaneously the fresh discovery of “Did this person have this side too?” Playing the second movement, he praised the beautiful melody. “Like a beautiful dance.” And immediately, he analyzed the structure of the phrase. “Question-answer structure.” This wasn’t the manner of exploring a piece encountered for the first time, but rather the way of re-savoring the architecture of a piece already known. His interpretation of the third movement was even more specific. Deciding which string to use, he said he preferred “bright color,” then described the dark section as “darkness, mysterious.” This journey moving between two contrasting worlds within the same movement shows an interpretive maturity invisible ten years ago. Interestingly, however, he confessed midway through practice that he was “tired. I don’t think I’m playing well enough.” Though ten years of experience had accumulated, he was now listening to his performance through a lens of even stricter self-criticism. Familiarity brings not only comfort but higher standards. Between Two Sonatas: Brahms’s Evolution From 1853 to 1879, Brahms’s three violin sonatas were composed over twenty-six years. Between No. 1 (1879) and No. 2 (1886), there’s also a seven-year gap. Chen’s practice sessions coincidentally became a journey experiencing this temporal distance in reverse order: first rediscovering the mature No. 2, then encountering the young No. 1 for the first time. The “self-doubt” of No. 1 and the “beautiful dance” of No. 2 aren’t simple contrasts. This is the evolution of a composer’s relationship with his inner world, and simultaneously a metaphor for the growth a performer experiences within time. The difficulty and instability Chen felt while sight-reading No. 1 may not be different from what the young Brahms himself felt when writing this piece. II. Beethoven’s Light: Understanding Through Contrast The Clarity of Classicism Immediately after practicing Brahms’ No. 2, Chen switched to Beethoven’s Violin Sonata No. 1. The moment he heard the first note, he reacted instantly. “Very bright.” This simple assessment contains a profound aesthetic contrast. Brahms’s “melancholic and deep” and Beethoven’s “bright” aren’t merely differences in tone color. This is the fundamental difference between Romanticism and Classicism, interiority and extroversion, question and declaration. Chen wanted to adjust Beethoven’s tone. “Less jagged, a little softer on the edges.” But simultaneously, he wanted to maintain a “pointy ear kind of feeling. The front of the articulation must not be lost, while focusing on the back.” This delicate sense of balance, softening the sharpness while maintaining clarity, is crucial in interpreting Beethoven’s early sonatas. Particularly impressive was his stylistic judgment. “Since this is an early sonata, it should be played in a more classic-sounding style.” This historical consciousness, not viewing Beethoven’s early works through the lens of his late works, is a marker of informed interpretation beyond simply playing notes. “Time is Like Money”: The Economics of Artistic Choice The most intriguing insight Chen showed in his Beethoven interpretation was his philosophy about tempo and rubato. Regarding a passage where many performers take a ritardando, he spoke decisively. “I don’t want to waste time. Time is like money; it must be used wisely.” He pointed out that ritardando wasn’t specified in the score, explaining that tempo changes are purely an artistic choice. “I also take artistic liberties, but I wouldn’t slow down that much.” Then, when does he “spend” time? “I would spend more time earlier in the phrase.” This metaphor isn’t mere rhetoric. This perspective viewing time as a strategic resource in performance shows a deep understanding of where musical persuasiveness comes from. Slowing down at the climax is easy. That’s what everyone expects. True artistic boldness is stopping time in unexpected places and actually moving forward in expected places. The Dialectic of Humor and Grandeur Beethoven No. 1 required from Chen a completely different palette of expression from Brahms. “More playful,” he said about a certain passage. “Like hide-and-seek, with a ‘here I am!’ feeling.” Simultaneously, he paid special attention to the first appearance of fortissimo in the entire work. “Beethoven’s first fortissimo in the entire piece, so it should be a grand moment. Much grander.” The coexistence of these two elements, playfulness and grandeur, is the essence of Beethoven’s music. And Chen precisely recognized the difficulty of these switching instantaneously. “The challenge of switching quickly between highly melodic sections and sudden changes in sound.” If what he had to handle in Brahms was subtle variations of light and dark within one tone color, in Beethoven, it was the juxtaposition of stark contrasts. Moving between intimate whispers and heroic declarations within the same movement, sometimes within the same phrase. This is what Beethoven demands, and what Chen was exploring. III. Toward New York: The Continuity of Learning The Virtuoso’s Nervousness “I have a rehearsal scheduled in New York on Monday with a very special pianist to read through several sonatas. I’m secretly practicing for that rehearsal.” This confession provides an important clue to understanding the artist Ray Chen. He’s a violin virtuoso who has performed on the world’s top stages for decades. Yet he “secretly” practices before a rehearsal and says, “I don’t want to embarrass myself at the first rehearsal.” This isn’t false modesty. This shows the attitude of a true musician: respect for fellow musicians, reverence for the chamber music form, and the will for constant self-improvement. Particularly noteworthy is that what he named a “sight-reading session” was actually part of a thorough preparation process. “It doesn’t need to be perfect, but.” What lies behind that “but” is the essence of professionalism. Not expecting perfection, but preparing with utmost effort. The Courage of Honesty The most valuable aspect of Chen’s practice sessions is his honesty in not hiding his mistakes and struggles. “I might be the type of person who pretends to have ‘not practiced at all.'” Behind this self-deprecating humor is a subtle criticism of a certain culture prevalent in the music world: the myth that geniuses don’t work hard, the implicit attitude that practice is something shameful to be hidden. The moments when he discovers a mistake on the A string and says, “I need to practice that again,” when he admits, “Oh, that’s hard” at a certain passage, he dilutes the poison of perfectionism deeply carved into music education. “When people see me make mistakes, they should realize it’s okay to make mistakes in front of others.” This isn’t a simple consolation. This is the belief that making music is a process, that the process can be shared, and that sharing can give courage to others. IV. The Ecology of Interpretation: Time, Context, Meaning What It Means to “Reread” In literature, rereading is an act of discovering something new. Details of a story already known become foreshadowing and symbols in the second reading. The same is true in music. When Chen said he was “rereading” Brahms No. 2, he didn’t simply mean re-memorizing or loosening up his fingers. He could now see things invisible ten years ago: “hidden accents,” the delicate nuances of question-answer structure, the dialectic between darkness and brightness. Paradoxically, however, this new understanding brought not satisfaction but dissatisfaction. “I’m tired because I don’t think I’m playing well enough.” The more one knows, the higher the standard for perfection becomes. This is both the blessing and curse of an artist. The Power of Context That Chen practiced Brahms and Beethoven almost simultaneously may not be a coincidence. The two composers are mirrors reflecting each other. Beethoven’s clarity makes Brahms’s ambiguity sharper. Brahms’s interiority makes Beethoven’s extroversion more dramatic. Switching to the other after playing one isn’t simply broadening repertoire but a method of understanding each more deeply. This is like learning languages. Someone who knows only one language takes that language for granted. Someone who knows two languages recognizes the uniqueness and limitations of each. Chen, speaking both Brahmsian and Beethovenian simultaneously, was grasping the grammar and vocabulary of each more precisely. The Unending Journey Chen’s final comment is significant. “The final movement could be more moving and sparkly, while maintaining Beethoven’s rigidity. Could be”, the language of possibility. He doesn’t present a fixed interpretation. Instead, he leaves open a space of possibility. Being “more moving and sparkly” while maintaining “rigidity” sounds like a contradiction. But precisely within the tension of this contradiction, Beethoven lives and breathes. And this applies to Chen’s own artistic journey. He performed Brahms No. 2 ten years ago and now performs it again. Ten years from now, it will be different again. Music is fixed, but interpretation flows. The performer ages, but music is born anew each time. Epilogue: Music in Time, Time in Music What Ray Chen’s practice sessions have shown us isn’t a simple catalog of technical tips or interpretive choices. This is a living testimony about how time shapes musical understanding and how music structures time. Ten years ago, Chen performed Brahms No. 2. Chen in 2025 “rereads” it. The same notes, but different music. Because a different person is reading it: someone who has gone through ten years of experience, hundreds of performances, thousands of hours of practice. Simultaneously, he sight-reads Brahms’ No. 1 “for the first time in his life.” The moment a master becomes a beginner. The moment familiarity and unfamiliarity coexist. When he mentions “self-doubt,” is it his doubt or Brahms’s doubt, or both? Beethoven provides counterpoint to all this. The counterpoint of classical clarity against Brahms’s romantic complexity. The counterpoint of extroversion against interiority. And Chen lives these counterpoints simultaneously, illuminating each through the other. “Time is like money; it must be used wisely.” This statement he made about Beethoven may be a metaphor for his entire artistic life. Time is limited. Both the performer’s lifetime and the length of one piece. Where will he spend that time? At which moments will he linger, which moments will he let flow? This is the essence of interpretation. Choice. Balance. And constant reevaluation. Chen’s New York rehearsal has likely passed by now. What did he discover with that “very special pianist”? Was his “secret practice” sufficient? Did he discover a new musical truth? We don’t know. And perhaps that doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s still learning, still doubting, still open to new possibilities. “Something more might be coming,” he hinted as he finished his sight-reading session. Something is always coming. The next rehearsal, the next concert, the next ten years. And then, he will be opening old scores again and reading them anew. As if for the first time.
https://www.violinist.com/blog/Hyun/202511/30585/