{"id":49986,"date":"2013-04-04T13:34:02","date_gmt":"2013-04-04T17:34:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=49986"},"modified":"2013-04-04T14:01:42","modified_gmt":"2013-04-04T18:01:42","slug":"master-class","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/04\/04\/master-class\/","title":{"rendered":"Master Class"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"450\"<\/a>The packet came in the mail. My first MFA workshop would be led by Lynne Sharon Schwartz. So I did what any good writing student does: I bought and read one of her books. I remember humming along through Disturbances in the Field<\/i>, deeply engaged with Lydia, a Manhattan pianist who understands her life through the lessons of the great philosophers. \u201cHeraclitus was right,\u201d she says. \u201cNo sooner is a position established than it erodes. The solid earth under our feet melts into water, evaporates into air, and is consumed in fire. I moved from one family to another.\u201d The mood is heady, the details exquisite. Here, I thought, is a novel unhampered by plot: a capacious, intelligent book about the endless trouble of being smart and a woman, of being with other people and alive. A book that showed me how to write sentences, and how to live a life of the mind. Twenty-three in Brooklyn, I took constant, exuberant notes.<\/p>\n

But then, halfway through, like a guillotine, the plot falls into place. Something irreversible occurs in Lydia\u2019s life, something devastating. And despite the book\u2019s description, despite the many, many narrative clues, I was shocked. Suddenly, I had in my hands an entirely different book. The armor of ideas Lydia had been forging no longer fit the shape of the world; somehow, she\u2019d have to recast it. Schwartz was even more masterful than I\u2019d thought.<\/p>\n

Mildly daunted, I made my way to Bennington, where I met the author herself: a small, dignified woman who clearly didn\u2019t suffer fools. Somehow, I managed to call her Lynne. As a teacher, she turned out to be quite compatible with her book: broad-minded yet blunt, rigorous yet humane. Unsurprisingly, she\u2019d read everything\u2014because, as she often insisted, the only way to become a writer was to read and live and write. Like Lydia, she could always call up just the right book for any situation.<\/p>\n

Lynne wasn\u2019t the first writer I\u2019d known, but she may have been the first with whom I kept up a regular correspondence. I learned recklessly from her recommendations, and from her own books, too. In her memoir of bibliophilia, Ruined By Reading<\/i>, she cautions that \u201cthe writer is born of our fantasies. Reading her book, we fashion her image, which has a sort of existence, but never in the flesh of the person bearing her name.\u201d And yet, I really did know this person, which had to count for something. We traded childhood stories, discovered a mutual affection for Daniel Deronda<\/i> and Natalia Ginzburg, shared news of births and deaths. She was known as one of the bad cops at Bennington, famous for being tough on her students. Well, if this was bad, I wouldn\u2019t waste my time with good. <\/p>\n

It was with this insider smugness that I picked up Lynne\u2019s twenty-second book, Two-Part Inventions<\/i>, another novel about a pianist in New York. Inspired by the real-life Joyce Hatto and her husband William Barrington-Coupe, it\u2019s the story of a marriage in the rarefied, highly pressurized chambers of classical music\u2014and of an artist whose greatest success is built on a foundation of lies.<\/p>\n

Suzanne is a world-class musician\u2014gifted hands, perfect ear\u2014and yet her producer husband, Philip, has been splicing portions of other recordings into hers, creating more perfect compositions and earning her the critical acclaim he feels she greatly deserves. Lynne\u2019s question is how any artist could bear such a deception in her name, a puzzle she unpacks elegantly and economically, more Colm T\u00f3ib\u00edn than Richard Powers, allowing her characters\u2019 hyperfocused ambitions to shape the novel\u2019s style.<\/p>\n

Lynne has always written exceptionally well about loss\u2014in the 9\/11 novel The Writing on the Wall<\/i>, in the blackly comic tale of survivor guilt Referred Pain<\/i>, and of course in Disturbances in the Field<\/i>\u2014so it\u2019s no surprise to find a few traumas here. The most obvious is Philip\u2019s at age nine, when his parents and younger brother are killed in a car accident. The aunt and uncle who raise him do their best, but lack in optimism and warmth, and it is from this childhood that he grows into an affable but dangerously adaptable man willing to take shortcuts to achieve his goals.<\/p>\n

Suzanne\u2019s childhood, meanwhile, is marked by prodigy, an exhilarating gift: \u201cIt was just there, mixed in with the rest of you, the parts that were like everyone else\u2019s, but not everyone else had this. It made you special.\u201d Lynne herself was a talented child; in Ruined by Reading<\/i>, she recalls reading aloud from the New York Times<\/i> for her parents\u2019 friends, much as the four-year-old Suzanne must entertain company at the piano.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Yet despite her specialness, Suzanne is \u201ctroubled by the notion that she might not be real \u2026 How could you be sure you weren\u2019t just a mind dreaming moment to moment, a mind dreaming up a mind?\u201d With some effort she concludes that \u201cReal was being seen, noticed, acknowledged, and later remembered. Real was people thinking about you when you weren\u2019t in the room.\u201d<\/p>\n

I could relate to Suzanne as I imagined Lynne did. She begins, as we had, as a dreamy, ravenous student, awed by her powers of comprehension and expression, eager to learn and master the best pieces, and ambitious in her aspirations for her work\u2014which only makes her eventual agon with stage fright that much more unsettling. Talent, it turns out, really sets you up for loss.<\/p>\n

At least, it does for Suzanne. The demands of professionalism hit her hard, and at her first major adult recital, her ceiling comes crashing down: \u201cAs she entered from the wings, the lights assaulting her eyes were so bright that for an instant she saw nothing but bursts of color like fireworks, low to the ground. She paused, blinked, then moved toward the large dark object in the center of the flaring colors: the piano.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dear God, that piano. So alluring, so dreadful. I couldn\u2019t help but feel Suzanne\u2019s agony, how difficult it is for her to do the very thing at which she most excels: \u201cHer fingers, those dutiful slaves, trained robots, were the only part that kept their facility, and she let them go as they would.\u201d She is like an addict at the keys, the thing she has loved and needed so much utterly wearing her down. This is the terror of getting exactly what you want when what you want is to live in other people\u2019s minds. She loses not only her specialness, but her privacy as well.<\/p>\n

*<\/center><\/p>\n

Of course, countless writers I\u2019ve never met have struck similar nerves in me, and no doubt this scene strikes a nerve for the many readers who don\u2019t know Lynne. But for me, it was especially thrilling to encounter such a perfect evocation of art\u2019s horrors by a person who\u2019d coached me through them, and with whom I\u2019ve shared so many of its joys.<\/p>\n

Lynne has said that she is interested in \u201cthe self we feel ourselves to be inside and the persona we present to the world.\u201d Trauma, which grips the inner life even as the public life staggers on, offers some excellent terrain. But so does art, divulging the fruits of secret energies to an audience outside the self. Sometimes that audience is receptive; sometimes it can never be enough. Suzanne\u2019s sad career is a tale of plagiarism and deceit, but it\u2019s also a deft portrait of the artist too much enthralled with expectation.<\/p>\n

As my fiction teacher, Lynne was among the first serious audiences I ever tried to please. She was incredibly generous about it, indulging my nerdy enthusiasm, while nudging me toward clarity and care. But she was also quick to point out that I would always be my own best judge. Or as she once told the Writer\u2019s Chronicle<\/i>, \u201cDoing what is expected of you, by parents, by society, by institutions, by anyone and anything \u2026 can be very harmful in life, but it\u2019s lethal in writing. Once the desire to please or to fulfill others\u2019 wishes creeps into writing, the work becomes pointless.\u201d<\/p>\n

The same, I\u2019m sure, goes for music. If only Suzanne had had such a teacher.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0Katherine Hill<\/a>\u00a0lives and writes in the Northeast. Her\u00a0first novel,\u00a0<\/em>The Violet Hour, will be published by Scribner in July<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The packet came in the mail. My first MFA workshop would be led by Lynne Sharon Schwartz. So I did what any good writing student does: I bought and read one of her books. I remember humming along through Disturbances in the Field, deeply engaged with Lydia, a Manhattan pianist who understands her life through […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":510,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[10564,5301,6432,10565,10563,536,10566],"class_list":["post-49986","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-bennington","tag-colm-toibin","tag-george-eliot","tag-joyce-hatto","tag-lynne-sharon-schwartz","tag-mfa","tag-william-barrington-coupe"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nMaster Class by Katherine Hill<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"April 4, 2013 \u2013 The packet came in the mail. 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