Music school demands much from every student, but for some, it takes far more than it gives.
An undergraduate degree in violin, cello, or piano performance is unlike any other major. To be accepted into an arts or sciences program, you must show, at the very least, good grades, but in the case of music school, prospective students are required to have already dedicated their entire lives to their craft.
I, like many of my colleagues in music, began learning violin at the age of four. By the time I auditioned for a place in an undergraduate music program, I had been yelled at to practice harder (I mean that in no figurative sense), shrivelled up crying after competitions gone wrong, and, as a thirteen-year-old, publicly berated by a world-renowned conductor.
I had already spent countless ten-hour days practicing. I often ended my sessions at 1:00 am, enclosed in my makeshift practice-room drenched in sweat. It is expected that students come to music school more like a statue than slab of marble.
But I loved it. It was, of course, tough. Standing up on stage by yourself, being judged by peers, strangers, and teachers, was not initially and often still isn’t an exceptionally pleasant experience. Yet, there’s something almost addictive about the whole multi-decade-long process.
You spend hours searching for the right sounds, and then there’s that moment, a moment that is almost never seen by anyone except your reflection in the mirror, where you find them. It might not be more than a few bars, maybe not even a few notes, but for a few moments, you’ve reached your goal. Then you try harder because your recently achieved goal is simply not good enough.
The pursuit of high-level classical music performance is a grind. We’re told that we’re artists yet treated like child gymnasts preparing for the Olympics. We fixate on imperceptible imperfections that are likely unnoticeable to our audiences. We do so because if we don’t address it, we know we’ve failed even if no one else knows.
This is the world that classical musicians inhabit even before setting foot in an undergraduate audition. When choosing a school, students typically make decisions based upon which teacher they wish to study with. The status quo in a conservatory is not a lecture room but private lessons—time spent behind closed doors honing your craft with only your professor.
To many, this professor is not just a teacher but a hero, perhaps even a deity. I was lucky in that my professor never allowed himself to be put on a pedestal and reinforced to his students that his goal was to help us become better musicians than he was. On not one occasion did my professor show favouritism to any specific student. But he is the exception, not the rule. It takes a very particular kind of person to succeed in the classical music environment, and an excess of humility does not often mark that person. Professors in top-tier music schools are not just good at what they do, they’re the undisputed best. In music, those who can do, teach, and many (though I hasten to say not all) revel as hoards of students flock to them, begging for access to their wisdom, technical ability, and connections.
Closed doors. Vulnerable students. Teachers with a god complex. Why the classical music world is surprised whenever a new case of sexual assault is revealed is beyond me.
I have been fortunate that many of my experiences with professors have been extremely positive. I’ve benefited from the guidance that they have given me and the experiences I have been offered. Yet, I’ve also known other professors that were (thankfully only) mentally manipulative. However, I’ve had colleagues whose experiences crossed the line from minimal manipulation into outright abuse, another whose professor was physically violent, and others put in uncomfortable physical situations. From my mid-teens onwards, there were whispers amongst my peers to stay away from a particular world-renowned solo violinist who was alleged to have begun sexual relationships with minors when he taught and performed at summer classical music festivals and visited universities. This violinist had been a childhood idol of mine. From the first whisper I heard of him, any glorification of him that existed in my mind was shattered.
In 1971, violinist Lara St. John was born in London, Ontario. When she was thirteen years old she, along with her brother, began her studies at the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia, one of the world’s most prestigious conservatories. At the age of fourteen she began to study with the pedagogical legend, Jascha Brodsky. Within eight months of St. John beginning her studies with Brodsky, he raped her. Curtis is a full scholarship institution, and Brodsky utilized the threat of eliminating the siblings’ funding as leverage.
She eventually approached the dean of Curtis who, according to St. John, stated “Who do you think [the police] are going to believe? A bunch of kids or somebody who’s been with this school for decades?”
The dean’s inaction resulted in St. John having to continue lessons with Brodsky for the rest of the year. She switched teachers in her third year, but due to the trauma that had occurred, she soon decided to move to New York. In New York, the wife of Curtis’ director called St. John and told her to keep her mouth shut about the happenings at the conservatory. Brodsky died in 1997.
In 2019, St. John wrote a letter to The Philadelphia Inquirer, telling her story publicly for the first time. The Inquirer published an article, and Curtis quickly sent an email out to its alumni entreating them to avoid talking to anyone who might come asking for more information. Curtis’ president later made a public apology for the email.
The Brodsky situation is not the only high-profile case of sexual assault in a music school. In 2013, Malcolm Layfield resigned from his position as the Head of Strings at the Royal Northern College of Music in Manchester. He was accused of raping one of his students when he taught at Chetham’s School of Music. He was found not guilty but admitted to having sexual relations with a number of his students at Chetham’s and RNCM, all of which he claimed were consensual.
Layfield’s trial came on the heels of a former colleague from Chetham’s. The founder of the National Youth Choirs of Great Britain and the former director of Chetham’s, Michael Brewer, was, in 2013, found guilty of sexual abuse perpetrated against fourteen-year-old Frances Andrade. Andrade, who testified against her former teacher, killed herself after telling her friend that her experience being cross-examined by Brewer’s lawyer made her feel as if she had been “raped all over again.” Brewer was stripped of his designation as an Officer of the Order of the British Empire.
The Jacobs School of Music at Indiana University is one of the great music schools in North America and it too has been the setting for abuse. In May 2019, the Indiana Daily Student published an article about David Jang, a graduate conducting student accused of sexual abuse towards male students. As the manager of the school’s Conductor’s Orchestra (a paying ensemble) and conductor of a string orchestral class for non-music majors, Jang was in a position of significant influence over a number of students. Over twenty reports were filed regarding Jang to Indiana University’s Office of Student Conduct, claiming that he had engaged in non-consensual sexual and otherwise physical contact with students. After a hearing in front of university authorities, Indiana University banned Jang from their property for one year.
In late 2020, Stephen Shipps, a violin professor who retired from his post at the University of Michigan due to allegations of sexual misconduct, was arrested for transporting a minor across state lines for the purpose of engaging in sexual activity. US Attorney, Matthew Schneider, stated: “For over 20 years, Stephen Shipps had close interactions with many young girls who were gifted musicians….Our determination and commitment to seeking justice for victims has no time limit.”
I do not intend to provide an exhaustive account of all occasions of abuse in music schools. Above, I have offered a smattering of what can be found if one performs a simple Google search of the subject matter. However, what can be seen is that there is a clear sickness running rampant within the classical music community, and yet little is done to fix it. The University of British Columbia’s practice rooms and teaching offices have no windows. Despite student practice rooms at Indiana University being equipped with small viewing windows, it is impossible to see inside the rooms where teachers and students are engaged in one-on-one learning. Windows, it would seem obvious, provide an easy and literal form of transparency.
It is traditionally held, and I agree, that a mentor-mentee relationship is necessary in the context of advanced musical learning. Music is a highly personal matter and to succeed, a student needs a teacher to be highly invested in her success. It takes time for a teacher to know the ins and outs of a student’s personality, musicality, and physiology as it relates to this particular craft. Though bouncing between teachers or taking group lessons might ameliorate some degree of harm, it would also fundamentally lower the quality of music-making. Windows would allow for that personalized education to continue while dissuading any would-be offenders from engaging in illicit conduct. Likewise, the use of CCTV cameras in one-on-one encounters would act as a deterrent. The university’s footage would be stored, and should a student wish to file an abuse complaint, the institution would be in possession of the necessary verification. While some community members might see this as a breach of privacy in the context of a highly personal context, I suggest that it is far less intrusive than the violent acts perpetrated against vulnerable students.
Non-partisan third parties might also perform semi-regular, random checks during lesson times so that the cloud of oversight shades all actions undertaken by the professor in relation to the student.
These are superficial solutions that do not address the underlying malady. Abusive and pedophilic actors exist in all areas of society, and I am not suggesting that the music community is the only one plagued by such foul behaviour. However, the culture of classical music has a created a situation where professors are not only deified but given free and private access to students who stand before their teachers in an emotionally raw environment. This access must be revoked, but more necessary is that the pedestals that performance professors are placed upon must be wrenched out from under them.
Those of us in music proclaim such things as beauty, elegance, and purity of expression to be our guiding forces. We often think ourselves to be a cut above somehow, for we understand where others do not, that which is artful. We are a cut above nothing. The most common discussion within the music community has to do with finding methods to help people see classical music’s value in the twenty-first century. While I by no means want to see the art I’ve dedicated my life to die, it is not currently a discussion worth having. Though it is likely only a comparative few of our community that have perpetrated acts of physical and sexual violence, by turning a blind eye or begrudgingly accepting this behaviour as the status quo, those of us who have not acted against such exploitation are complicit in it. We have allowed a situation ripe for sexual abuse to abound and, to add insult to a most grievous injury, argue that the systems that allow for this evil ought still to exist.