Becoming a Steinway Artist

The first time I touched a Steinway, I was 15 years old. In the theatre of my school, there stood a Steinway Model D, grand and untouchable, reserved only for guest artists. It was hidden away, cloaked under two heavy covers in the backstage, as if guarding something sacred. But I convinced the administration to let me play it, and from that moment, I was captivated. I would sneak away from class in the quiet mornings, drawn to that dark corner where the piano sat, pressed so close to the wall I could barely move. But I didn’t need to move; the moment my fingers touched the keys, the piano came alive. It was as if I wasn’t playing it—it was playing me, filling the air with a sound it had been longing to release, and I was simply a conduit for its voice.

 

I wonder if a pilot, sitting behind the controls of a jet for the first time, feels this same surge of exhilaration when the engines roar to life. Or an ice skater, floating effortlessly across pristine ice. Or a chef, gripping the perfect knife, the blade so sharp and light it feels like an extension of their hand. It’s the feeling of pure connection, of inspiration flowing through something beyond you—of love, distilled into an experience.

 

As I grew older, the words ‘Steinway & Sons’ became more than just a piano brand. They were a constant companion through every important moment of my career. I saw those words before every exam at the Royal Academy of Music, before my first concerto with orchestra at the Southbank Centre in London, before my debut at Carnegie Hall, at piano competitions in Valencia, Shanghai, Andorra, before recording my first album of Rachmaninov 3rd Piano Concerto (he also played on Steinways). That warm, enveloping sound became my foundation, transforming each piece I played into something alive, something new. It was as if the piano itself whispered possibilities I had never heard before, and with every performance, my love for music deepened.

 

When I finally had the chance to own a Steinway, I was ready to uproot my life if necessary, just to make space for it. The narrow stairs of my London apartment nearly defeated us, but after two attempts by two different crews, the piano made its way in. From that day, playing became something else entirely. For a pianist, sound is everything—it’s our paint, our clay. Technique, rooted in the Greek word “techne,” means art, and a Steinway offers endless artistic possibilities. It invites you into a world where sound opens doors to boundless creativity.

 

Today, I became a Steinway Artist. It’s a title I can hardly wrap my mind around. It takes me back to that dim backstage corner at school, to the first time I felt the magic of a Steinway beneath my hands, to the dreams I had of concerts, of audiences, of music that would touch hearts. And now, I join the ranks of artists like Rachmaninov, Gershwin, Billy Joel, Cole Porter, and Arthur Rubinstein, all of whom looked at those same three words before every performance and felt the same reassurance and love.

 

Becoming part of this family is beyond words—it’s a dream that began in the shadows and now shines on stages I once only imagined.