"When I found a cassette tape of the Bach-Busoni Chaconne, aged seven, it's how I imagine a kid would feel seeing Messi play football and thinking: I have to do that with my life. By then, I had already been sexually abused by a teacher for two years, and despite showing all the signs of trauma night terrors, twitching, wetting the bed, constant stomach aches I obediently kept his secret."
"Bach composed the Chaconne when his wife died suddenly, and he didn't get to say goodbye or even go to the funeral. Even if you don't know any of that, listening to it, on some level you will know. When you think it's the end, it just carries on, like having one more thing to say to a person after they die."
"At seven, music offered me a way to deal with what I was feeling but didn't yet have the words for. I became obsessed. Every night, I would sit in my room listening to recordings of Bach, then Horowitz and Ashkenazy, pretending to play along. It was pure escape, pure fantasy. I could hide inside the music, and it made everything bearable."
At seven, finding a cassette of the Bach-Busoni Chaconne felt like seeing Messi play and deciding to devote life to music. By then the child had been sexually abused by a teacher for two years and showed night terrors, twitching, bedwetting, and stomach aches while keeping the abuse secret. The Chaconne provided a private light and an almost religious release. Bach composed the piece after his wife's sudden death without a chance to say goodbye, and the music's persistence felt like one more thing to say after loss. Obsession with recordings led to lessons, a scholarship offer denied by parents, a ten-year hiatus working in the City, and a late-twenties return to piano with renewed devotion; learning as an adult was more difficult.
Read at www.theguardian.com
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