The Other Side of Magic
by Lisa McDivitt
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Along the corridors of the Juilliard School, posters showed Liz and Greg’s faces superimposed on the bodies of Emma Watson and Daniel Radcliffe from Harry Potter: The Sorcerer’s Stone. In addition to being an eye-catching advertisement for their upcoming recital, this poster was a clever way of referencing The Sorcerer’s Apprentice (which was programmed on the concert) and their MTV experiences with the Harry Potter movies. At their recital, I would also be playing a role, as I would be turning their pages. Page-turners, as the saying goes, are good if nobody sees you, and bad if the audience knows you were there.
On the day of the recital, I met both of them in the studios on the top floor of the school where they had been rehearsing, and all three of us made our way down to the Green Room, just off the auditorium where they would be performing.
As the concert hall filled up, Liz and Greg prepared backstage. Liz applied makeup, still wearing her white shirt and jeans, and Greg was already in his suit. Finally, once most people had arrived, Liz put on her first dress – black lace over ivory silk, with a black sash around her waist. Liz returned to the mirror to apply lipstick. It was almost eight o’clock.
Greg walked over to a black box against one of the walls, somewhat hidden by the door of the Green Room. I could see him out of the corner of my eye as he sat, perfectly still. His hands were on his knees, his back was straight, his eyes closed. Liz, on the other side of the room, applied the finishing touches of her makeup. Ready to go onstage, Greg got up and Liz soon joined Greg near the door. He gave her a hug, lifting her off the ground. They look at each other, took a deep breath, and they were ready.
We all walked out into the recital hall, and while Liz and Greg took their bows, I set up the Mozart to the first page and took my seat just off to the side of the piano benches. They started into the piece, and immediately a man started sniffing repeatedly in the front row, distracting me as I worried if Liz and Greg could concentrate with that noise so close by. I watched as Greg’s fingers shook with pressure and excitement, and I could feel the energy of the performance. I know, from my own years of playing the piano, how hard it is to rely on your own memory, your own fingers, let alone those of someone else. But here they were, under the spotlight, shooting commands to each other through slight nods of the head, and even without motion or sound. Trusting each other, trusting their talent as a team.
Suddenly, I realized I had not been watching the music, and it felt like I should be turning a page. My stomach flipped over, so I stood up, then Greg shook his head, “no,” and I sat back down. I was too early. So I furiously read the music and caught up to where they were. Hopefully no one in the audience had seen me. My goal was to be invisible.
Part of Liz and Greg’s performance is what they wear – they like to both match the tone of whatever they play. So between each piece, the two of them went back to the green room and changed furiously. The elegant attire of the Mozart gave way to black velvet and bold colors for the Dukas. They came back out to the piano, and I set up the music. They started improvising, and Greg was playing chords where only single notes were written. He did a glissando, so I thought I could catch it on the page to mark where they were, but there was no glissando written. Suddenly, Greg looked at me from the corner of his eye, and I knew I should be turning the page.
After one more page-turning, I finally started to catch up to their pace and follow along in the music. My own nerves had settled and I could tell they were also relaxing into the music.
When the show ended, the audience’s applause called them out for an encore. Because they didn’t need me anymore, I remained in the Green Room. Just as they left to go back out on stage, the door from the hallway into the back room opened. Greg’s teacher, Julian Martin, with a shock of white hair and a white mustache and beard, poked his head in. “Are they playing an encore?” he asked. The stagehand who was also waiting backstage with me, nodded that they were.
With the room quiet again, I could hear some strands of their encore, a part of the show I did not expect. As I walked closer to the door that led on stage, I realized they were singing. “Imagine there’s no heaven…” The two of them, their voices melting together like butter and sugar, sat at the piano singing a simple duet, but I stood as close to the door as I could, because I felt just on the other side of magic. Something about them, whether making the piano dance or simply sitting and letting it sing with them, something draws you in.
In the hallway outside, a buzzing crowd had gathered. Amidst handshakes and hugs, I could hear strains of compliments: “You sounded great!” said one woman. “Very musical,” remarked another. “That sounded like the soundtrack to how I’m feeling,” enthused one man.