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Today, at Duke, was the first time that I'd heard you put into words exactly what you were feeling about the playing. And it was enormously descriptive, in the same way that you would describe to any actor how to improve his or her performance. Sometimes it's very specific—slow down, speed up, hold back the second note—very technical. Other times, it's enormously metaphorical, like when you said, "Your playing is like water, it's too thin. It's falling down the keys. It needs to be thicker, like maple syrup, or honey—dripping down." It was phenomenal, a marvelous metaphor for what you wanted. And you know what? The next time the student played, it sounded somewhere between maple syrup and honey.
And then you told another student that there wasn't enough struggle and pain in that moment. It was this idea that you wanted the student to understand—exactly when it was in Brahms' life that he had written the piece, right before he died.
Fleisher: Schubert.
Kahn: Schubert. Sorry. But I thought that that instruction was remarkable, because many times I've heard people say in talking about My Architect, "Well, I don't need to know all those details about the guy's life: I just want to see the work, I want to see the architecture, I want to see the painting. I want to analyze it on its own terms. I don't need to know what happened to this person at that moment." But when you made the opposite point, I had to agree that it makes an enormous difference, in terms of the performance, to know exactly what was happening in the life of the composer.
Fleisher: Mozart, you know, wrote one of his most upbeat and triumphant and majestic piano concerts right after learning of his father's death. You can go Freudian on me, if you want, but knowing something like that might change the context for the performance.
[Question from the audience]: Did you ever struggle with being self-conscious about having your story told?
Fleisher: No, I didn't feel any self-consciousness about it.
[Question from the audience]: Was there a particular moment that marked the turnaround from despair toward acceptance?
Fleisher: It's probably different for different people. I just woke up one morning, and I was tired of my self-pity. I can only compare it with my decision to stop smoking; I stopped after forty years of smoking. So maybe that's my nature, I don't know. I had had enough. I think I was missing music, so I told myself, there are other ways of doing it.
[Question from the audience]: Given the level of your expertise, is it possible for you, Mr. Fleisher, just to enjoy a concert? And for you, Mr. Kahn, to enjoy a movie?
Kahn: Oh, definitely, I can. I'm always in awe of anybody who gets a movie made. You know, it's really hard. Of course, there are movies you see that are crafted poorly, or that just are dumb stories. But anybody who's really trying to tell something that is clearly close to them, I always admire.
Fleisher: I do try to go listen to great musicians.
Kahn: There's a big difference, I think. I mean, Leon is a master of what he does. And a lot of people go out and make movies. There are not a lot of people who can play the piano at that level that allows you to go on stage. And it's one of the reasons why I think classical music continues to be so important, because there is a standard. You've got to be pretty damn good to be able to be listened to in the context of the concert stage and to maintain a career doing that. There are a lot of hacks out there making movies and doing very well with it. It's pretty hard to be not a good piano player and continue your career.
Fleisher: Not as hard as you think.
Kahn: Really? Okay, I stand corrected.
[Question from the audience]: You've made two really wonderful movies about love and artistry. Is there more you want to say about those themes?
Kahn: It's funny you asked. Someone just asked me today, "Why did you want to make this movie about Leon?" I heard your recordings growing up, and I always loved your music as a boy. And then a few years ago, I opened up a copy of National Geographic, and there was the story of a man—it was Leon—who was helped greatly in his medical condition by the application of a poison. So, I thought, boy, this would be a marvelous story to tell. But I realized the real reason that I made the film is that we live in a time of such violence, and to be able to tell a story of someone who through his whole life has changed the world through art—through music—seemed terribly important. There's a rather noisy, clamorous way to protest. And there are more sonorous, beautiful ways to do it. I think that music, which speaks the universal language, can calm the restless soul and can restore dignity in a world that is not very dignified right now. That's why I wanted to make the movie.
[Question from the audience]: Your mother proposed two alternatives for you, becoming either a concert pianist or president of the United States. As your prospects in concert piano were fading, had you considered the other?
Fleisher: You flatter me, sir.
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