The Power of Silence

The Power of Silence

Auditioning for Juilliard has always been intense but today, it's even more competitive. Many incredibly talented musicians don't make it past the prescreening round. When I auditioned over 25 years ago, the process was just as nerve-wracking.

It started with a prescreening recording. After I was lucky enough to pass, I flew to New York for the live audition. From there, only a handful of us were invited to a callback. Then came the final step: a one-on-one interview with a faculty member.

Oddly enough, that last meeting was the most intimidating part. I was 18, nervous, and completely unsure of what to expect. I’d made it so far. I didn’t want to stumble right at the finish line.

We sat down in a quiet classroom.

He smiled and asked me, “What do you think creates musical intensity?”

In that moment, I was nervous… but also strangely relieved. It was a question I had been thinking about for a long time.

As a young musician, I used to believe intensity came from speed, complexity, and dramatic chords. The flashier, the better. But over time, I discovered something deeper. Something quieter.

Silence.

Those moments of stillness, the fermatas, the sudden rests, the held breath between phrases can be magical. They make listeners lean in. They create space for anticipation, for emotion to bloom.

Take the opening of Chopin’s First Ballade. There’s one measure of one long held note just after the introduction. That silence draws the listener in, sets the stage. Or the piano entrance in Beethoven’s Third Concerto: it does not begin on the downbeat. It begins with a sixteenth rest, and quarter rests punctuate each C minor scale. It’s the pause between those scales that generates real tension.

Silence in music isn’t empty. It holds weight. It creates shape. It lets the music breathe. And often, it's the space between the notes that carries the most emotional power.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to believe life works the same way. True power doesn't come from constant motion. It comes from knowing when to pause. When to stop. When to listen. We can’t fill every moment with sound. Silence isn’t a void. It is a vital part of the rhythm of life.

It’s been many years since that audition at Juilliard, but that simple question has stayed with me. And now, as both a performer and a teacher, I return to it often. Because sometimes, the most powerful moments-in both music and life-are the ones where nothing is played at all.