Encore at twelve!!!

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🎵 Encore at Twelve

When applause lingered longer than a dream

In those days, the world moved more slowly. Sundays were for rest, for visiting relatives, or for taking trips out of town. But one particular Sunday — the day of my first recital — music briefly took precedence over everything else.

I was twelve, small for my age, wearing a neat but modest dress and a pair of stiff shoes I wasn’t fond of. The recital was held at the Hellenic Conservatory, a place that felt both sacred and intimidating. The performance hall was more of a large classroom, filled with upright chairs, upright parents, and children either clutching their music sheets or wiping nervous palms against their skirts.

I was scheduled to perform later in the program, but my family had plans to leave town that afternoon. My parents, ever practical, asked the organizers if I could go first. Permission was granted. I walked in — awkward, composed, terrified. I bowed stiffly toward the small audience (mostly other children’s parents), and polite applause followed, encouraging and sweet.

Then I sat at the piano.

The piece was Sonatina in C major by Clementi — a piece I had fallen in love with. I had practiced it well. I can still, to this day, play it by heart. And this is the case for most of my piano or singing pieces. It was such an easy task for me, it seemed like a natural thing to do.

I now know it was just the sheer talent that made everything seem so instinctively natural.

I didn’t think — I just played.

I finished the piece, I bowed as best as I knew how, and stepped out of the room.

And then something happened that stayed with me for the rest of my life.

The Head of the Conservatory, Mrs. Eleni — a tall, elegant, and rather formidable woman with a reputation for sternness — came up to me. She took my hand, tapped me gently on the back, and leaned in.

“Can’t you hear the clapping?” she said. “They’re not stopping. They want more of you.”

I stood there, stunned.

“Go back in and play again,” she urged.

And so, at the age of twelve, I gave my first encore. I walked back in and repeated the Sonatina — this time with the energy of surprise, the joy of being wanted. And again, they clapped.

When I came out, I saw people whispering about me — my teacher, the headmistress, my parents. I remember the word talent surfacing again and again. But in the end, nothing came of it. Nothing changed.

My parents, like most families in those years, were caught up in the practicalities of everyday life.

Art was admired, but not pursued.

Dreams were applauded, but not fed.

Still, the music had taken root.

Not long afterward, I was chosen to appear on CYBC, the Cyprus Broadcasting Corporation, on a television program featuring promising young artists. For that performance, I chose a piece I adored from the collection Piano Pieces for Children — The Doll’s Dream. A delicate, imaginative work full of shifts in tempo and mood: the doll falling asleep, beginning to dream, whirling into a joyful dance, then slowly awakening as the music fades.

That televised performance stirred the air once more.

Again, it was Mrs. Eleni who made the call — to my teacher, to my parents.

“This child must pursue music,” she said.

But again, nothing came of it.

In time, the moment passed. The lights dimmed. The conversations quieted.

No doors opened, no scholarships came.

And I, still too young to fight for my own future, moved on.

It took me many years — decades — to understand that what I was carrying wasn’t ordinary.

It was extraordinary.

But by the time I truly recognized it, the path that might have led to great stages and grand pianos had already grown wild with other choices.

Still, I have that memory.

I have the Sonatina, still alive in my fingers.

I have the applause, still echoing in my chest.

I have the hand on my back, and the voice that told me, “They want more of you.”

And I have that dreamlike memory of the doll, dancing —

her quiet sleep, her wild joy, and her gentle awakening —

broadcast to an entire country from a tiny studio in Cyprus.

Sometimes, the first encore isn’t about the music.

It’s about being appreciated.

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Disclaimer:

This true story was written by the author and thoughtfully edited and formatted with the assistance of AI for clarity, structure,