One has to draw upon one's own musical thoughts and one's own

Host: The concert hall was nearly dark now, long after the applause had faded and the audience had gone. Only the faint glow of the stage lights lingered, golden and tender, dust motes swirling like quiet confetti in the air. The smell of wood polish, brass, and memory hung over the empty seats — the ghost of music still vibrating through the walls.

Jack sat at the edge of the stage, coat off, shirt sleeves rolled up. His fingers traced the rim of a crystal glass, restless. Beside him, Jeeny sat at the piano, the lid open, her hands resting lightly on the keys but not pressing them — as though afraid to disturb the silence that had become holy.

On the music stand lay a program sheet, folded and worn. At the bottom of the page, printed in elegant serif, was a quote that seemed to echo through the stillness itself:

“One has to draw upon one's own musical thoughts and one's own musical acumen, and not to be afraid to let that come into one's work. Perhaps that comes with more experience, but perhaps it also comes with daring, and believing that you should.”
— Jessye Norman

The words shimmered under the low light like a soft reprimand — or an invitation.

Jeeny: [gently, almost to herself] “Jessye Norman always sounded like truth when she sang. Like she wasn’t performing — she was remembering something the rest of us forgot.”

Jack: [half-smiling] “Maybe that’s what artistry is — remembering what it feels like to be real.”

Jeeny: [turning toward him] “And daring to stay real when everyone else expects polish.”

Jack: “Daring. That’s the word that matters. Most people aren’t afraid of failure — they’re afraid of being themselves in front of an audience.”

Jeeny: “Because the moment you show them who you really are, the judgment feels personal.”

Jack: [quietly] “Exactly. Every note becomes confession.”

Host: The piano hummed faintly as Jeeny pressed one key — a middle C that seemed to hum forever, pure and simple. The sound filled the empty hall like breath.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Norman was talking about more than music. She was talking about any kind of creation. Writing, painting, living. Drawing from yourself — not the formula.”

Jack: “That’s risky. The formula sells. The self? Not always.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “Maybe the self isn’t for sale.”

Jack: “Then what’s it for?”

Jeeny: [after a pause] “For offering. Not as perfection — but as presence.”

Host: The stage light flickered, and a beam of pale gold fell across Jeeny’s hands — hands that trembled slightly, not with fear, but with truth waiting to be born.

Jack: “You ever get scared before you play?”

Jeeny: [laughing softly] “Every single time. Fear’s the prelude to honesty.”

Jack: “But you never show it.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I show it. I just let it become part of the sound. Fear vibrates differently than confidence, but it still sings.”

Jack: “That’s beautiful.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “No, that’s survival.”

Host: She began to play softly — a few notes at first, hesitant, fragile, as if the melody were remembering itself. The sound filled the room — the kind of sound that makes silence feel like it’s listening.

Jack: [quietly] “That’s what she meant, isn’t it? Norman — about daring. Not technique, not polish, but permission.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The permission to trust your own instinct. To stop apologizing for the way your soul wants to sound.”

Jack: “That’s hard. We spend half our lives learning other people’s scales.”

Jeeny: “And the other half unlearning them.”

Host: The music grew, just slightly — not louder, but deeper, like a conversation between light and longing. Jack watched her hands move — sure, graceful, imperfect — and something in him softened, as if he were watching courage made visible.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? Everyone thinks musicians are brave because they perform. But the real bravery isn’t walking onto the stage — it’s deciding to stop hiding behind someone else’s song.”

Jack: [after a pause] “So the real music isn’t in the notes.”

Jeeny: [nodding] “It’s in the surrender.”

Jack: [quietly] “Then maybe life’s the same way.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can live skillfully or truthfully. Rarely both.”

Host: The piano fell silent again, the last note lingering like a thread of light before dissolving.

Jack: [leaning forward] “Do you think experience teaches daring, or daring teaches experience?”

Jeeny: [smiling] “Both. Experience gives you proof you won’t die of embarrassment. Daring gives you a reason to try again.”

Jack: “So courage isn’t the absence of fear.”

Jeeny: “It’s composition — using fear as harmony, not silence.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: [grinning] “It’s practical.”

Host: The rain outside began to fall harder, tapping against the tall windows like a gentle metronome. The hall, vast and empty, echoed with its rhythm.

Jack: [looking around] “You ever wonder why empty halls feel holy?”

Jeeny: “Because they remember.”

Jack: “Remember what?”

Jeeny: “Every note that was ever played here. Every risk that paid off. Every mistake that somehow made the music better.”

Jack: [nodding slowly] “You make it sound like failure’s sacred.”

Jeeny: “It is. Failure is the signature of sincerity.”

Host: The words hung in the air — not polished, not rehearsed, but alive.

Jeeny: [softly] “That’s what Norman was trying to tell us. That your true voice won’t sound safe. It’ll shake. It’ll crack. But it’ll be yours.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the only sound that matters.”

Jeeny: [closing the piano lid gently] “It’s the only sound the world hasn’t already heard.”

Jack: “So the artist’s job is to dare to be unrepeatable.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To be human enough to echo eternity.”

Host: The stage lights dimmed, leaving just the faintest glow, as if the room itself were sighing in contentment.

Jeeny: [standing, gathering her sheet music] “You know, we talk about courage like it’s something you find. But really, it’s something you decide. Every time you play, you decide to be seen.”

Jack: [softly] “And heard.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “Even if it’s imperfect.”

Jack: “Especially then.”

Host: They both stood in silence, the rain outside whispering like applause from a world that always listens better after the show.

On the piano, the program page fluttered in the draft from the closing door — Jessye Norman’s words glowing faintly in the light that remained.

“One has to draw upon one's own musical thoughts and one's own musical acumen, and not to be afraid to let that come into one's work... perhaps it also comes with daring, and believing that you should.”

Host: And in that quiet, fading hall, her wisdom became more than music — it became mantra.

Because artistry — like living —
is not the absence of fear,
but the audacity to let your own sound
become the song.

For in every trembling note,
in every fragile truth we dare to share,
we find the courage Jessye Norman meant —
to believe that we should.