04/01/2026
A few months ago, I performed this beautiful Debussy prelude in the Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall.
There has always been a question lingering in my mind: why does Impressionist music sound so unique and evocative, yet still possess such a strict and delicate classical structure?
This prelude opens with a chain of chords that feels like the raising of a curtain, revealing a dreamlike world, drifting through fleeting light and shadow. Then come the scale passages, adorned with Baroque-style ornamentation, cascading like silver bells, presenting an entirely different palette of sound. Later, the music alternates between lyrical, song-like moments and playful, animated gestures—something utterly distinct from any Classical or Romantic work. What is it within the music that gives me such a fresh and transformative experience?
Carrying this question with me, I travelled to Paris last July. I wondered whether, by visiting the composer’s homeland, I might find some clues.
By sheer luck, I found a piano in the lobby of the hotel where I stayed. Each evening, after a full day wandering through Parisian museums and galleries, I would sit down at the piano and casually play pieces I loved. To my surprise, whenever I played music by Ravel or Debussy, people would come up to me and strike up conversations about Impressionist music. They seemed genuinely delighted to hear French composers being played in France.
On one occasion, I was sitting alone at the piano. When I began playing, there was no audience at all. But by the time I reached my third piece, someone nearby had started to dance to my music. I was astonished. Under the moonlight, she moved her fingers, arms, and waist in response to the sound, swaying as if she were a vine striving upward as it grew. When I finished, she tapped me on the shoulder and expressed how deeply moved she felt. She told me that she wasn’t even staying at the hotel—she had simply passed by on the street, heard someone playing the piano, and was drawn inside.
What an extraordinary experience it was: a Chinese pianist, in a French hotel, meeting a Brazilian girl in France, brought together and moved by music.
Long afterwards, whenever I play this Debussy prelude, I find myself recalling that night. Perhaps I will never fully understand why Debussy’s music sounds so profoundly “French” to me, or what French culture truly is at its core. But for me, this prelude now carries a memory that belongs solely to me. All my past experiences of performing it have converged and crystallised into this interpretation—maybe not the best one, but undeniably my own.
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