The price of art

Some pieces demand everything from us. Galina Ustvolskaya’s Sonata No. 6 is one of them. I adore this piece—not just for its brutal honesty, but for the way it strips away all pretense, leaving only the rawest form of expression. There is no room for ego, no space for vanity. When I play it, I don’t just interpret the music; I submit to it.

But this piece does not allow for submission without sacrifice. The physical toll is undeniable—bruises bloom across my hands, a visible reminder of the force and intensity it demands. And yet, in some strange way, I welcome it. Because pain, in this case, is not just suffering; it is evidence of something real, something deeply felt.

Art is human. It is not always gentle. Sometimes, it hurts. And maybe that is what makes it meaningful. Maybe that is what makes it necessary.