REFLECTIONS ON THE PAINS OF JUDGING

It is a dirty job, but someone has to do it. I have been doing it, sporadically, for nearly a quarter-century. I think I may be beginning to get the knack of it.

I’m talking about piano contests. I’m talking about serving as a judge. It is important work, or so I am told: choosing winners and assigning losers, awarding cash and withholding recognition. Careers can be launched, encouraged, supported, frustrated and thwarted--though, I hasten to add, never halted--by contests.

Like them or not, contests can be difficult, unfair, frustrating, painful. Still, the system has assisted numerous needy artists at crucial points in their performing lives.

Winning a major competition does give unheard musicians opportunities to move upward in the career-spiral.

It gives them cash--prizes can range from $1,000 to $10,000 and up. Sometimes, as at the Western states competition referred to below, it gives them a new piano. Then, it gives them notoriety, no matter how short-lived, through media coverage of the event.

Finally, and most important, it gives them exposure, because often, along with cash awards, they also win orchestral and recital performances, and most helpfully, a debut appearance in a large musical center. Such an appearance is the real bottom line in winning a competition: It can launch a career.

At worst, a contest may reward less worthy contenders for qualities which should not be prized: conventionality, literalness, a lack of imagination. Sometimes, moreover, contests penalize talented youngsters for their uniqueness and failure to conform.

It all began for me one March morning in 1962, when a friend called, asking me to replace him on a judging panel. As fate would have it, the student contest in question was one I happened to have won myself only a few years before. In that town, at that particular time, my youth made me a suspect judge. But the sponsors had no choice.

Selecting an appropriate winner, I soon discovered, is a matter of unraveling, of piecing together a puzzle, of creative analysis. Sometimes the solutions are knotty, and the results unfocused or inconclusive. Quandaries come with the territory.

What exactly happens at competitions? It is simple. Most of the competitors defeat themselves. The one who doesn’t, wins.

It happens time and again. In a two-round situation, a competitor will make an unblemished impression in the first round, playing his or her strongest vehicle. In the second round, the obligatory contrasting piece will immediately reveal a weakness--of technique, stylistic versatility, temperament or merely authority. Or--having survived in, let us say, a concerto competition, the preliminary round--the pianist will try to exceed expectations by choosing an even more difficult or virtuosic work in the subsequent audition. Follow Liszt with Rachmaninoff, for example.

In the first case, the attempt to be all things to all judges has backfired. Few musicians are really as versatile as they would like to be. Using up one’s biggest gun early in the game sometimes means having no ammunition later on.

In the second, unless one can really top oneself by playing Rachmaninoff’s Third more impressively than Liszt’s First--and few can--the sequence might actually be more effective if reversed.

The goal both times ought to be: To impress in the first hearing, then to deepen the impression in the second. The immediate aspiration has to be to survive each plateau; the larger aim is to widen one’s horizons, to reveal new facets (assuming that one has new facets) with each move upward.

Some competitors defeat themselves by exceeding their grasp. By a lack of caution. By miscalculating their limitations. By failing to assess and utilize their best qualities.

Many times, they will waste everyone’s time by choosing repertory of no special interest either to themselves or the judges. In a recent competition, my notes for two of the self-defeating ones bore the same essential questions:

“Why does he choose it and then not sell it?”

“Why is she playing this piece, since she obviously does not love it?”

Forget that in these cases the composers happened to be Elliott Carter and Charles Griffes--and that the rules of this contest required one work by an American composer. The principle remains: Don’t be a martyr about repertory. Meet all requirements, whenever possible, with music you feel strongly about. Your rapport with, or love of, that music may cause you to produce your best playing.

What does a judge look for? Actually, one doesn’t look--one finds. Or one doesn’t find--in which case one is free, sometimes, to declare no winner. What, then, is essential in a winner?

Easy. What is essential is that the chosen one make music; that he or she communicate through the instrument; that he or she command the techniques and resources of the instrument; that the sounds produced have color, variety, meaning and intelligibility; that the basic sound be at least pleasant, hopefully pretty or, best, beautiful.

If there were such a thing, a universal judging scorecard for piano competitions would concentrate on four areas: tone, musicality, communication and technique. Informally, at a recent competition, I experimented with such a system. The final session in question allowed each of the competitors an uninterrupted 30 minutes, the repertory to be entirely of their own choosing.

The first to compete chose “Kreisleriana” for her entire program--a defensible choice, but not the right one, given her slighting of Schumann’s fantastical element in these most characterful of character-pieces. Instead, the young (21) pianist seemed to be playing for her own delectation, not for the projection of mood or point, and certainly without using the full range of her own imagination. She produced a solid, soft-edged sound, proved herself consistently musical, and stumbled nowhere. Out of a possible 40 points, she earned 24.

The next competitor chose Liszt’s Sonata in B minor as his test-piece. But the 24-year-old Texan began without the heat or intensity he would show later. In the meantime, he sounded a lot like a clever student, not an artist in the making.

His great facility was undermined by his committing a number of graceless phrases, his inspired moments alternating with dull and unconcentrated ones. Coloristically, he seemed limited, even more limited than he had appeared the day before. Strongest in technique, he fell down in communication. His final score: 25.

The third auditioner, 26 years old, put together a mixed program beginning with Rachmaninoff’s “Etude-Tableau” in D, Opus 39, No. 9, and, for a few minutes, looked like the winner we had been awaiting.

Canny choices marked the remainder of his agenda: The first movement from Beethoven’s “Tempest” Sonata; the Prelude and Fugue in A-flat from Bach’s “Well-Tempered Clavier,” Book II; and two morceaux of Ravel, “Oiseaux tristes” and “Alborada del gracioso .”

The impression the mustachioed pianist gave of comprehensive color and technique was soon dispersed. His Beethoven displayed authority, but his Bach produced a sense of glibness, frequent harsh tone and a penchant for overstatement (grandstanding, if you will). Overall, this Prelude and Fugue became noisy, and the opposite of reposeful--reposeful being its natural state, I believe.

There was more glibness in the Ravel pieces; one began to suspect this pianist was courting his audience, not painting aural pictures. Finally, his eclectic program betrayed him, for it revealed to all who could hear that he played all four styles in but one manner. Strong in technique and musicality, he proved weakest in tone-differentiation. Final score: 26.

At this point in the proceedings, the eight discarded semifinalists, every one, began to look better than they had the day before. Each of the finalists so far had been disappointing; in each case, a second hearing, and closer scrutiny, had revealed blemishes, not beauty marks.

What happened next could not have been predicted.

The fourth finalist, a strong pianist who had made a good but not spectacular showing the day before--he had opened weakly, then warmed to the task, without at any point showing any potential winner’s stripes. His program actually consisted entirely of miniatures, but stunning miniatures in a balanced arrangement: Frank Martin’s Prelude No. 8, Ravel’s “Ondine,” a Sonata in G of Scarlatti, two short pieces by Leos Janacek and Kreisler’s “Liebesfreud,” in the transcription by Rachmaninoff.

Here was a program that answered most questions about this musician’s taste and achievement. It displayed his power, lightness, exemplary dynamic control, virtuosity in the service of eloquence, technical challenges met and vanquished, stylistic breadth, emotional range and solid musical values.

Did it omit the demonic? Yes, clearly. But omitting the demonic is characteristic of this generation of pianists. This particular pianist, 24 years old and a doctoral candidate at a university in the Northwest, certainly represented his generation. From his apparently thorough self-knowledge, he constructed two separate but complementary programs. For the semifinals, he opened with Scriabin’s Etude in D-sharp minor; offered toccatas by Stefans Grove and Debussy; smartly added Samuel Barber’s Nocturne; climaxed on Liszt’s “Transcendental” Etude No. 10 (“Feux Follets”), and concluded with the Barcarolle by Chopin.

In performance, this splendid program fell short of an ideal realization. Nervousness marred the Etude. In the Barcarolle, which emerged in many moments lush and articulate, the contestant rushed disappointingly. Still, both toccatas were given immaculate readings. There was a surge of poetry in the Nocturne, and “Feux Follets” showed a technique so reliable that no amount of extra adrenalin could corrupt it.

When it came time to pick the top four in this field of 12, this contestant could not be ignored--even though, at this point, he still looked to be a dark horse. His appearance in the finals--and he had perfect good luck in drawing fourth position among his colleagues--confirmed all his strengths. His playing of “Ondine” displayed exemplary control and leggerezza; his way with the Martin and Janacek pieces showed all their best qualities, as well as his critical ear and solid virtuosity. Deep musicality and an unfeigned sincerity seemed to pour from his fingers.

Only the lilt and Schmalz of “Liebesfreud” seemed to elude him. Actually, it eluded him by miles. But, by then, he had already won.

This judge, still concentrating hard after two days, and, by then, 11 solid hours of Steinway-listening, figured that the contestant had earned 30 points out of a possible 40.

Through all the elation that most people feel in attending competitions, one must not forget that there is an unhappy side to the story just told. At this event, at least two--maybe four, or maybe even six--of the discarded eight semifinalists deserved a second hearing. Their talents and accomplishment needed encouragement, nurturing and guidance.

What losing contests means to budding artists is personal and individual, of course. For some, losing is a spur: It fuels one’s ambition, or drive, causes the artistic juices to flow. For others, it is a lid: It fosters containment, discouragement, a drying-up of creativity.

Many wise musicians question the fundamental validity of the system. After all, one can build a successful career without even entering a competition. Many losers have gone on to glory. Many winners, by the same token, have gone on to oblivion.

For many who play the game, contests are a necessary evil at best, a worthwhile gamble at worst. In any case, the process is agonizing--and not just for the contestants.