The Man at the Piano

When Music was Paradoxically a Perfect Representation of Humanity’s Greatest Attributes

Van Cliburn is embraced by Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev after Cliburn’s gorgeous playing at the first Tchaikovsky International Competition, 1958.

Sitting at the piano is a lanky man from Texas. Silence fills the Great Hall of the Moscow Conservatory—each player, each member of the audience seems to be holding his or her breath in anticipation of Kirill Kondrashin, the legendary man at the stick, raising his hand for the triumphant Brass opening of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1. And finally he begins to conduct. 

But this was no normal concert; nor was it a normal audience—for there in the box seats sat perhaps the most feared man by the West: Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev. All eyes are on the man at the piano: a 6’ 4” charismatic American—Van Cliburn is his name. And finally he begins to play.

His technique is impeccable. His fingers curl and uncurl; his body seems to move seamlessly and effortlessly with the music as if there is no music or player; it seems to the listener that he has become the embodiment of pure passion and soul. The warm horns, the lyrical oboe, the sharp trumpets—and of course the warmth of Van Cliburn’s magical touch of the ivory bars—has enamoured the audience. Khrushchev, who was told that this was the best pianist in the world, listens intently.

As Cliburn progresses through the piece—the ups and downs, the crescendos and diminuendos, the climaxes—he builds momentum toward the cadenza and finally, the famous B-flat major chord that concludes a great Russian first movement arrives.

Cliburn moves on to the second movement—which begins with pizzicato quickly overlaid by an almost fairy-tale-like flute solo. It transports the listener to a field, somewhere far away in Ancient Greece, where a faun plays a soft melody on his panpipe. Characteristic of concertos, the second movement is usually the slowest of the three. Of course, Cliburn interprets the music like Tchaikovsky himself must’ve imagined it.

Then…

BAM!!! The base drum suddenly awakens the listener from the trance-inducing pasture in Greece! And we’re back in Moscow and off to the finale! Lot’s of dialogue in this movement between Cliburn and the Kondrashin’s disciplined Moscow State Symphony Orchestra.

Cliburn handles the intensely fast scales with ease. But at this point, the viewer cannot help but watch the passion of Kondrashin pop off the screen. The final chord crashes through the hall like a strike from Zeus himself. Before the note ends the Great Hall erupts.

Heavily Russian-accented “Bravo! Bravo!”s fill the hall.

The audience collectively leaps to its feet. They are clapping, weeping, throwing flowers onto the stage. Eight minutes of applause—then ten—then longer still. Cliburn embraces Kondrashin. The orchestra members, realizing the beauty they have collectively created, tap their bows against their hands in the musician's salute. And there, in the box, even Khrushchev himself is clapping with a big old grin on his egg-shaped face.

This was April 1958, and the world was frozen in the icy grip of the Cold War. Nuclear weapons pointed at one another across an ideological continental divide. Espionage. Propaganda. Fear. Communism, capitalism. Freedom, socialism. Just months before, the Soviets had launched Sputnik, and America felt itself falling behind. The Space Race had begun, and with it, an arms race not just of missiles but of culture, of prestige, of proving whose system—whose way of life—was superior.

And yet here, in this moment, none of that mattered.

When the Soviet judges deliberated over whether to award the gold medal to this young American, they faced a dilemma. How could they give their highest honor to a representative of their greatest enemy? The story goes that they approached Khrushchev himself for permission to award Cliburn first prize. His response was simple and profound: "Is he the best?" They confirmed that he was. "Then give him the prize!"

Van Cliburn returned to New York City to a ticker-tape parade—the only time in history such an honor has been given to a classical musician. He appeared on the cover of Time magazine. He became, overnight, a symbol of something unexpected: the possibility of connection across even the deepest divides.

Because here is what that night in Moscow taught us: that great art transcends politics. That beauty speaks a language deeper than all differences in idealogy, or skin color, or gender. That when we allow ourselves to be moved by something larger than our differences—whether it's music, or poetry, or any expression of the human spirit at its finest—we remember what we share: the capability for human ingenuity.

There were no Soviets and Americans in that concert hall that night. There were only people, experiencing together the sublime. The same melodies that stirred the hearts of Russian farmers stirred the hearts of Texas ranchers. The same crescendos that brought tears to the eyes of Party officials brought tears to the eyes of capitalist diplomats. Tchaikovsky, long dead, had written something so universally human that it could, for one evening, make enemies forget they were supposed to hate each other.

We live now in another age of division. Sure, our problems take on a different image—social media echo chambers rather than Iron Curtains, culture and political wars rather than Cold Wars—but the sense of "us versus them" is just as real and perhaps just as bad. We are told constantly about what separates us: our politics, our backgrounds, our beliefs. We are encouraged to see those who think differently as not just wrong, but dangerous. Irredeemable. And in extreme cases, not worthy of life.

But Van Cliburn's night in Moscow reminds us that this is not the deepest truth about humanity. It never has been, it never should be, it never will be.

The deepest truth is that we are all moved by the same things. We all love. We all hope. We all recognize beauty when we encounter it. We all have the capacity to set aside our animosities, even if only for a moment, when confronted with something that reminds us of our common humanity.

What can we learn from that April night in 1958?

We can learn that to be an artist or musician or creative is not naive—it is courageous. That extending a hand across a divide is not weakness—it is strength. That choosing to see the humanity in those we disagree with is not betrayal of our principles—it is the highest expression of them.

We can learn that culture—art, music, literature, film—is not frivolous or secondary to the "important" work of politics and policy. It is, in fact, essential. Because it is through shared aesthetic experience that we access empathy. It is through beauty that we remember we are not so different after all.

And we can learn that sometimes, one person can change the world. Not through force. Not through rhetoric. But simply by being excellent at what they do, by pouring their whole soul into their craft, and by having the courage to walk onto a stage where they are not entirely welcome and play anyway.

Van Cliburn didn't set out to end the Cold War. He set out to play Tchaikovsky beautifully. But in doing so, he reminded thousands of people in that hall—and millions more who heard the story—that their "enemies" cried at the same music they did.

Perhaps that is the lesson we need most today: that we do not need grand gestures or sweeping solutions to begin mending the great divides and rifts in Western society and culture. We need only to find those moments, those spaces, where we can stand on common ground and recognize each other as fellow human beings.

We need only to listen.

And sometimes, if we're very lucky, we might hear something so beautiful that we forget, for just a moment, all the reasons we've been told to remain apart.

The music plays on.