Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother - Amy Chua [38]
Meanwhile, Lulu and I had a blast. Every time a big new box arrived by UPS, we couldn’t wait to rip it open. It was fun playing on the different violins, comparing the wood and their different tones, reading about their difference provenances, trying to glean their different personalities. We tried a few new but mainly older violins, from the 1930s or earlier. We tried violins from England, France, and Germany, but mostly from Italy, usually Cremona, Genoa, or Naples. Lulu and I would get the whole family to do blindfold tests, to see if we could tell which violin was which and whether our preferences stayed the same if we couldn’t see the violins.
The thing about Lulu and me is that we’re at once incompatible and really close. We can have a great time but also hurt each other deeply. We always know what the other is thinking—which form of psychological torture is being deployed—and we both can’t help ourselves. We both tend to explode and then feel fine. Jed has never understood how one minute Lulu and I will be screaming death threats at each other, and the next minute we’ll be lying in bed, Lulu’s arms wrapped around me, talking about violins or reading and laughing together.
Anyway, when we finally arrived at Mrs. Vamos’s studio at the Chautauqua Institution, we had with us not one but three violins. We hadn’t been able to make a final decision.
“Wonderful!” said Mrs. Vamos. “How fun. I love trying violins.” Mrs. Vamos was down-to-earth and as sharp as a tack, with a quirky sense of humor. She was opinionated (“I hate Viotti 23. Boring!”) and exuded power and impressiveness. She was also amazing with kids—or at least with Lulu, whom she seemed to take to instantly. Mrs. Vamos and Jed hit it off too. The only person I don’t think Mrs. Vamos liked very much was me. I got the feeling that she had encountered hundreds, possibly thousands, of Asian mothers and that she found me unaesthetic.
Lulu played the first movement of Mozart’s Concerto no. 3 for Mrs. Vamos. Afterward, Mrs. Vamos told Lulu that she was extremely musical. She asked Lulu if she liked playing the violin. I held my breath, honestly not sure what the answer would be. Lulu replied yes. Mrs. Vamos then told Lulu that while she had the advantage of being naturally musical—something that couldn’t be taught—she lagged behind in technique. She asked Lulu if she practiced scales (“Sort of”) and études (“What are those?”).
Mrs. Vamos told Lulu that all this had to change if she really wanted to be a good violinist. She needed to do tons of scales and études to develop impeccable technique, muscle memory, and perfect intonation. Mrs. Vamos also told Lulu that she was moving much too slowly; it wasn’t good enough to spend six months on one movement of a concerto. “My students your age can learn an entire concerto in two weeks—you should be able to do that too.”
Mrs. Vamos then worked with Lulu on the Mozart line by line, transforming Lulu’s playing right before my eyes. She was an exceptional teacher: demanding but fun, critical but inspiring. When an hour was up—by then five or six students had come in and were sitting with their instruments on the floor—Mrs. Vamos gave Lulu some things to work on by herself and told us that she’d be happy to see her again the next day.
I couldn’t believe it. Mrs. Vamos wanted to see Lulu again. I almost leaped out of my chair—and probably would have if at that moment I hadn’t seen Coco fly by our window followed