Written for Friends of UTokyoRay Iwazumi, D.M.A.November 14, 2025 During our violin lessons, my conversations with Taka (as he preferred to be called) were almost always exclusively in English. This was mostly by my insistence, as I personally find that nuances in the Western classical music tradition are comparatively easier to detail in Western languages than in Japanese. But once outside of the lesson, our conversations would be in Japanese. Here, we would invariably call each other, sensei, if we ever needed to. But, as the Japanese language goes (and our context almost always being private and not work-related, so to speak) we rarely needed to address each other. I preface my memories of Taka this way, because, as others who live in bi-cultural dynamics may understand, the sense of interpersonal distance can vary depending on linguistic nuances. As Taka’s violin teacher, I had the privilege to guide Taka in his violin studies almost every week. Despite his extremely busy schedule, and regardless of whether he or I might be in New York or Tokyo or somewhere else, we would find an hour-plus of time for a lesson. Given our variabilities in terms of location, we would often meet via Zoom. And for every lesson, invariably, Taka would be prepared. Taka was serious about playing the violin and I understood this commitment through his eagerness and preparation. I do not exaggerate when I say that the technical and musical challenges I outlined for him during our lessons were often significant. By my estimate, considering the pace and progress he was making, Taka was probably dedicating at least 8 to 12 hours of energetic, attentive, and disciplined practice per week. For an older adult, this is a serious physical, mental, and psychic commitment. Our mutual joy and reward was that the pieces he played became noticeably more fluid by the week. And that element that cannot be taught — artistic will — would speak ever more clearly through his playing. Taka was an artist. You could tell in his playing that he intuitively felt the potential message contained in a musical work. And like all true artists, he had vision and the desire to communicate something valuable and intangible to others. Early on in Taka’s studies with me, he told me that if he could play any piece, it would be to play Beethoven’s Kreutzer violin-piano sonata and Bach’s solo violin “Ciaccona” (Chaconne) from the Partita in D minor. Both works are known as pinnacles of the violin literature, and are tremendously demanding for their technical, musical, and physical stamina requirements. He knew they were a bit too much to try out at his level of training, and typical of the Japanese cultural norm of modesty, he added that he didn’t expect to get to play them. Yes, Taka certainly wasn’t ready then to take on either Kreutzer or the Chaconne. But I could feel the genuine wish paired with a strong ambition. And from the commitment he was already demonstrating, I intuitively knew it could be possible for him to get to study these works. Having thus these towering monuments to aim for, we began a plan to steadily march toward the goal of playing Kreutzer and the Chaconne. Once we set our long-term goal, I began to remind him (and myself) from time to time that each step we were taking was building up the skills, strength, and experience needed for the meaningful study of Kreutzer and the Chaconne. Our lessons became more rigorous. I also intentionally became quite strict with technical and artistic discipline. At first, Taka was slightly resistant to the demands. But as we focused on only a few things at a time and mixed in some musical variety, we found a manageable pace and started to see results. He then became more and more curious about how violin technique worked and the musical reasons for choosing one type of nuance over another. Often, Taka would ask about the background and history of a certain piece, technique, or a playing style. While I discussed and demonstrated, Taka would listen carefully and ask questions. He would then step out on his own to research, listen to recordings, or go to concerts, and then, come back in a week or two with a verbal report of what he had listened to or found out, along with more questions. He loved understanding context and cultural nuance. Coming from his own intensive practicing, I think he also enjoyed noticing subtle details in the different interpretations he listened to. He would seek to understand why one artist might approach the same piece so differently from another. Taka relished seeing how tone and interpretation differences could be realized through harnessing different playing techniques and phrasing patterns. It was enjoyable, and in a sense, straightforward, to guide Taka because he was looking for that special something. My role was to present what I knew in what he was seeking, and to point him toward resources when I didn’t. And when it became his turn to try things out on his violin, he would sometimes preface before playing, “I understand what is supposed to happen, but I still cannot make it happen.” To his credit, he did understand what was supposed to happen; and this allowed him to come closer and closer to what he was trying to express. This past 26th of October, pianist, Junko Ichikawa and I held a recital at the Blue Building in New York City. Taka would have enjoyed hearing this concert. Junko had been assisting our lessons, and as I demonstrated matters of ensemble with Junko’s help, he mentioned that he would enjoy hearing us in concert. In fact, the last time I had seen Taka in person was in late February, when he made a recording of Dvořàk’s Sonatina for violin and piano to finish his study of that piece, with Junko-san at the piano. After finishing, he had joked that he would like to have…
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