31/07/2026
The Meaning of Music
What is the point of studying music if, after giving it everything you have, your playing still falls short of what you hoped for?
I imagine this is a question that many people have asked themselves, whether they are professional musicians or simply passionate amateurs. If you devote countless hours, invest a great deal of money, and sacrifice so much of yourself, only to find that you never become as good as you dreamed—would you regret all that you put into it?
I remember when I was in my second year of university. I was learning one of Chopin’s Polonaises—my first attempt at a truly large-scale work. It was filled with daunting technical challenges, but strangely, those weren’t what troubled me the most. What haunted me was its musical character.
Musical character is such an elusive thing. Some pianists can play every note flawlessly, yet somehow their performances still feel as though something essential is missing. That feeling drove me crazy.
At that time, I practiced the piece obsessively. I spent every day at the piano, and every night, back in my dormitory, I fell asleep listening to recordings by the great masters. Even on the walk to the shower rooms, I found myself humming the same melodies.
Yet no matter how hard I practiced, every lesson ended the same way. My teacher would tear my performance apart, and I would leave feeling defeated. I couldn’t understand what I was missing. Gradually, I began to wonder if I simply wasn’t meant to be a pianist—if I lacked the talent altogether.
I lived in that cycle of doubt, confusion, and frustration for quite some time.
Then one morning, I went into a practice room as usual. Half awake and emotionally exhausted, I began playing the piece once again. As the solemn, heroic introduction came to an end, something suddenly changed.
For the first time, I could see it.
Images began unfolding before my eyes.
The introduction became dark storm clouds rolling across the land before the outbreak of war, foretelling the disaster that was about to come. Then, as the first theme entered, I imagined the protagonist receiving a letter from a messenger. I never knew what was written inside, but I could see the gravity on his face—the furrowed brow, the silent determination.
Then war swept across the country, drawing everyone into its chaos.
In the middle of the Polonaise comes a tender Mazurka. To me, it sounded like the bells welcoming the young man home. He had returned to marry the woman he loved. People danced, celebrated, and embraced one another, cherishing a brief and precious moment of peace.
But before long, the ominous motif from the introduction quietly returned.
This time, the war felt even more brutal, even more heartbreaking. As the main theme reappeared, I saw the young man reluctantly leaving his home once again, stepping back into the endless flames of war.
By the time I came back to reality, tears were already streaming down my face.
In that moment, I had finally discovered what this music meant to me.
It was no longer a piece defined by impossible techniques or relentless challenges. It had become a living story—a living soul.
So, for me, the original question no longer has an answer, because it no longer exists.
Once I experienced that overwhelming moment of being moved to tears by music in its purest form, music itself became the answer.
To understand music, to be touched by it, to share it with others through performance—those are extraordinary gifts.
And for me, that is meaning enough.
(This video is recorded on 2021, I was playing Chopin Polonaise Op.44)
