By PAUL KWAK

Without proper vigilance, the life of a student artist can fill itself with mindlessly ritualistic events planned in the service of some presumed good. Master classes, arguably the most notoriously hit-or-miss of such events, rarely live up to their own hype at the presumed inevitable success of a "master teacher" in a public place. Often, one feels that he is doing little more than watching a private lesson opened to the public—or worse, the class becomes simply a platform for the fullest expression of the teacher's egotism. And there is everything in between. Master classes become a meta-art form, conceived in the service of an art, but more constitutive of their own elusive artistry: the mysterious formula that combines teaching, performance, communicative aptitude, and revelation. Only on too rare occasions do master classes transcend mundane micromanagement and invite the audience on a genuinely interesting journey through process, interpretation, technique, and, indeed, art.

Leon Fleisher (center) speaks to pianist You You Zhang during a master class in January on Beethoven's "Emperor" Concerto; conductor George Stelluto looks on. (Photo by Peter Schaaf)

It was such a fortunate occasion that presented itself on the evening of January 19 in the Peter Jay Sharp Theater, as revered pianist Leon Fleisher led what he called "our little experiment" in the "labor-intensive art of concerto playing." The novel arrangement united two soloists from Juilliard's piano department with the Juilliard Lab Orchestra in a kind of exploratory master class, further remarkable for its focus on Beethoven's Fifth Piano Concerto, the beloved "Emperor" Concerto.

Begun in 1808 (around the time that the Fifth and Sixth Symphonies and the Fourth Concerto were completed), the concerto is dedicated to Beethoven's patron and friend, Archduke Rudolph, and remains perhaps the composer's most popular piano concerto—thanks to some combination of its heroism and grandeur (from whence comes its nickname), its sublime second movement, and the elegant triumph of its third movement. The "Emperor" became a fixture in Fleisher's repertory, and his recordings of the five Beethoven piano concertos with George Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra became required listening for all who would perform the works.

The inspiring and oft-repeated story of Fleisher's supposedly career-ending injury is surely well-known by now, but bears frequent hearing: Fleisher became a champion of and expert in repertory composed for the left hand, and sustained a long career therein until successful medical treatment enabled his return to two-hand playing, as heralded by his recent recording, Two Hands. Fleisher cuts a titanic presence in the heroic trajectory of his life, in his teaching at Peabody and around the world and in his continued performances.

Indeed, his teaching in the Peter Jay Sharp Theater bore witness to a life lived flouting setback, the realism of a personality seasoned by challenge, and the ardor of a musician devoted wholly to his repertory. In a warmly paternal baritone, Fleisher addressed musicians on stage and audience in house as a true master, some nexus of shepherd, pioneer, and guide in a pedagogical and artistic endeavor that was surely new for most present. Watching attentively from his second piano, dovetailed with the soloist's piano, he allowed a complete performance of each movement before commenting, and occasionally rose to observe members of the orchestra while playing, and to watch the soloists at work.

Conductor Vince Lee and pianist Ran Dank perform with the orchestra in Peter Jay Sharp Theater while Fleisher listens. (Photo by Peter Schaaf)

It was in the moments following You You Zhang's lively and athletic account of the first movement that Fleisher's artistry as a teacher made its fullest expressions, uninterrupted until the end of the class. Fleisher commanded the stage, which became a vast embodiment of the very processes that fueled his thinking and his artistry. For a musician whose life has been lived inside the music of the concerto, the stage became a window into that inhabitation, as he summoned the orchestra, conductor, and soloist into a unified reading of the piece, a true "concerto." One observed not merely the act of a teacher teaching, but of an artist truly at work; not the pedantic passing on of techniques, but the visceral imparting of vision. "I'm not sure I would take that much time there [in the introductory piano cadenza]," Fleisher suggested. "This is a noble piece, and these pillars of sound in the introduction are important."

Certainly, there were moments of micromanagement as befit Fleisher's methods and concepts, but where the worst of master classes seem in this sense like little more than a litany of small fixes, Fleisher's comments served the delivery of principles both for the practical performance of this concerto and for the wider appreciation of its art. Rhythmic exactitude and tone were discussed at length in the context of the aesthetic of nobility that suffuses the work, and the nature of expression was addressed in service to a classical sensibility.

But it was in discussing the act (and the art) of performing concertos with orchestra and in the difficulty of interpretation that Fleisher was most eloquent and most inspiring. In response to his perception that Ran Dank's reading of the second movement was indulgent, he urged, "This music is descriptive of a psychological, or spiritual, or emotional state. We can't pour our feelings into it—it's not a Chopin nocturne. It's not a question of demonstrating how much we feel it, but searching out the composer's intention, and putting your musical intelligence into supporting that."

This surpassing respect for the music and for the composer's intentions underlay much of what Fleisher said to the musicians. "The worst sin an orchestra feels it can commit," Fleisher said to soloist and orchestra onstage, "is to not play together. You will do anything to play together, and to hell with the music." Fleisher continued, "Music is more like physics; there has to be an inexorability about the impulse and the process. Forget the metronome and look to the demands of the material."

Near the end of the class, Fleisher observed that often "the psychology of the concerto is: who will triumph?" The remark drew laughs from the audience, but was followed by Fleisher's praise for the students participating, who, in his estimation, had succeeded in creating chamber music of a more soloistic art form. But what the audience had the rare opportunity to observe that evening was less the substantial collaborative achievement of those performing, and more the unadulterated revelation—indeed, the triumph—of watching a master at work. After Fleisher stood behind conductor Vince Lee at the close of the third-movement finale and conducted in tandem with him, marshalling all forces on stage in a newly energized and united effort, one left the theater that evening inspired not simply by the genius of Beethoven's work, but by the artistry of a master teacher and his gift for, in a moment, inhabiting the stage and transforming it into the fullest, most public, and most earnest bequest to the student musicians who were lucky enough to be sharing it with him that evening.

Paul Kwak is a master's student in collaborative piano.