A Walk to Bonn

“Your performance sounds smooth, but it sounds soulless. Do you understand? Soulless, without music in it,” my violin instructor remarked. I was crushed. What did it mean that I was playing music without music? Then what was I playing? For the past decade, I have loved playing the violin. Now, it suddenly seemed odious.           

In the summer of 2023, I traveled from my hometown in Taiwan to the unfamiliar city of Düsseldorf, Germany, to join a music camp and participate in a violin competition. My confidence in playing the Tchaikovsky violin Concerto No. 3, which I had practiced for over a year and a half, was high. I managed the piece's techniques well, with my fast-paced, moving fingers tapping the violin strings and my right hand controlling the bow. Yet, the feedback from the instructor made me question my passion for playing the violin — the skill I was most proud of.  

The following week, I spent whole days in the practice room trying to crystallize every note I played to make it sound flawless and add more “music” to the music. However, I continued to receive the same feedback from the instructor. I felt despondent and disoriented. One Sunday afternoon, I put my violin back in the case and closed it. I needed a walk. 

I wanted to visit a place where musical inspiration could be found, and I thought of the city of Bonn, Beethoven’s birthplace. As I walked through the pebble-stoned alley Bonnegasse, flanked by classical architecture, I saw a white-bearded old man playing violin beside the Beethoven statue. People gathered around him, enjoying the joyous atmosphere of the plaza. Some even started to dance! His music didn’t sound precise and delicate like the performances I had heard in the concert hall. There were even some cracked notes. But it was lively and passionate. He wasn’t just performing the music; the music was inside him. His bow swung freely, like an extension of his soul, and his whole body waltzed with the music.  

Until dusk, I sat on the bench in the plaza, listening to his music as the world suddenly went timeless. I wondered why I couldn’t meet the violin instructor’s standards. And what about my parents’ expectations? I hadn’t come so far away from home to disappoint them and myself. When I returned to the practice room, I questioned myself by looking at the uncased violin. Are you me?  

I picked up the violin and started to play freely, pushing all the rules to the back of my mind. I only paid attention to the music's feeling at that moment. I pictured myself as that white-bearded old man. Although I didn’t sound entirely professional, I found meaning in playing the violin for the first time in more than ten years. I wanted to express my emotions, play the violin with more than just technique. After the performance, I paused on the stage. As I looked at the violin instructor, I saw a smile on her face. I knew she felt how I had just felt. 

I felt happy. It was a kind of happiness that I had never experienced—mixed with excitement, satisfaction, nervousness, and bits of anxiety. Although the instructor's criticism initially crushed me, it ultimately forced me to step out of my comfort zone. I confronted my exaggerated confidence and the perfunctory quality of my music, and I tried to find inspiration in an unfamiliar city for the first time. This experience will motivate me to find the right tempo as I traverse my life’s path and search for inspiration from different perspectives in life and music—not only from Beethoven but also from street musicians. Maybe one day, I can also be an inspiration for others.

Rebecca Yu, a violinist from Taiwan and member of the University of Boston Class of 2029, brings over a decade of classical training to her music. A pivotal experience in Düsseldorf, Germany, helped her rediscover the soul behind her playing. She looks forward to continuing her academic and musical journey in Boston, where she will inspire others through both scholarship and performance.