This piece originated as an assignment that sort of went rogue and proceeded to take over my life. It’s taken a long time—too long—to get it out into the world, but that’s a story for another day.

Today, I want to share a very different kind of post. While it’s certainly not the “here’s a deep dive on this technique” or “listen to this recording” you’re used to, it’s important to realize that, for many professionals, our musical lives are inseparable from the experiences we had—and continue to have—in the culture that surrounds us. When I write or give a workshop about stage presence, my body and mind are suffused with memories, both fond and shall we say, instructive. The teachers and colleagues who supported me are right there; present and taking up space, along the ones who went out of their way to maximize pressure and revel in my defeats. Other topics bring up their own contingent of characters: Brahms’ E minor Sonata will forever ring with Ron Leonard’s stern guidance on bow apportionment and my introduction to martelé. Haydn D major was my audition warhorse and has collected associations like black clothing picks up pet hair, among them, the time I played it for a former mentor and woke the next morning to a lengthy email about the things he’d like to do to me. I am fortunate that this and other experiences have not sapped my ability to enjoy music, though they have absolutely affected my career trajectory every bit as much as injuries and insider politics have.

All of this is to say that there is no way to truly separate the things we love about classical music from the things we do not. We can examine the disparate elements individually, but one cannot say they have a grasp of the way things work without acknowledging the entire mechanism. Fans of musicians, sports teams, film franchises often recoil when an incident of abuse/discrimination/other malfeasance comes to light. Comment sections overflow with “stick to sports, no need for this shit” and “I don’t care if he molested girls, this album slaps” and “I mean, women are just doing this to get back at him”. I don’t assume good faith on the part of most PeopleInTheComments™️. The internet teems with cowards whose only pleasure is making misery and smooth-brained edgelord cosplayers, not to mention the armies of bots. But for the handful of thoughtful people who resist facing up to the problems within the culture of your chosen passion, know this: your compliance is a necessity for the cycle to continue. Bad actors aren’t stupid. They’re awful people who explicitly understand they can count on folks like you to flinch more at the mention of abuse than the fact of the abuse itself. Abusers often hide behind charisma, professional networks, and the protection of the people they have not harmed. They’re very rarely the cartoon villains we would rather them be. That’s how it works. If there was an overwhelming sense that the general public would demand action and accountability following credible accusations of abuse, the entire landscape would change.

Lara St. John’s documentary is a treatise on one of the only quiet parts of a life in music: the pervasive silence surrounding the topic of sexual assault, harassment, and intimidation, especially when it comes to venerated instructors and the institutions that employ them.

My hope is that we can look back at this moment in a few years and appreciate the seismic shift in classical music culture that emerged as a consequence. If that happens, we will have Lara St. John and others like her to thank for it.

If you’d rather watch on YouTube, click here.

CW: non graphic discussion of sexual assault.

The Threshing Machine 

The parable goes something like this: ten men are in a room, and one of them makes a vile joke at the expense of women. Two of the men laugh. Three chuckle a bit to fit in, though they don’t find it amusing. Four say nothing, pretending they did not hear it at all. Afterward, nine of the men believe they are the good guys, and that the one who made the joke is the exception. 

The room is real. It’s a locker room, of course. It is also a staff lounge, a conference call, a cocktail party, a church vestry, a group chat, a political rally, a boardroom. These are spaces where currents of power intermingle seamlessly with depravity, where even a whiff of nonconformity can cost a career. Silence, after all, is golden. 

Violinist Lara St. John’s documentary filmmaking début is titled Dear Lara, which premiered at the Santa Barbara Film Festival earlier this year. Inspired by the overwhelming response to her public account of abuse in the Philadelphia Inquirer, it chronicles the devastating experiences she and others have been subject to at the hands of a trusted instructor—facilitated by a culture of institutional complicity that borders upon sadism. 

Tacet 

Dear Lara is beautiful, unflinching, and harrowing. Unadorned by any sense of overt production slickness, mechanics of abuse are laid bare: a filing cabinet drawer opened just enough to obscure a studio window. Lessons organized to occur off campus. A throat gripped tightly to muffle screams. St. John, whose rape by Jascha Brodsky has been acknowledged by Curtis, was blackmailed into silence. Brodsky pointed out that if she told anyone, it would cost not only her, but her brother Scott, their prized Curtis education. Throughout the film, original music composed and performed by St. John embodies the dual nature of the relationship to their instrument survivors often remark on. Music is a life-affirming vehicle for expression and authenticity, the love of which led them to their abusers.

The way these systems are held in place could nearly be described as elegant. Children who discover a passion for music are funneled into the academy as early as possible; and families who want their children to succeed are encouraged to essentially surrender them to the conservatory: think Curtis, Colburn, Chetham’s. Once there, students are made acutely aware that their primary teacher has real scope to wield power, and the institutional rules are absolute. Every attendee is on probation during the entirety of their enrollment and may be dismissed at any time, further skewing the power dynamic and providing a muscular tool for punishment. Mature enough to have deep feelings about Brahms, but young enough to have little functional control of their lives, these children are wildly vulnerable to malign intent. 

When a student reports abuse as St. John did in the months following her assault(s), decision-makers often respond with some combination of incredulity, defensiveness, and deflection. Former Curtis dean Robert Fitzpatrick essentially asked what he was supposed to do about it, pointing out that people were less likely to believe a child accuser than a celebrated pedagogue. Eventually, it was decided that Lara would study with a different teacher. To comemmorate this fresh start, the wife of the school director took St. John out for ice cream at a posh hotel. At the end of the conversation, one thing was clear: this was quid pro quo. For the privilege of this arrangement, she was expected to remain quiet.

By the time St. John was ready to seek a legal remedy, the statute of limitations had expired. In Pennsylvania, plaintiffs have two years from the time of an assault to bring a case to court, meaning St. John would have had to secure an attorney and build a case at age 16. According to Professor Marci Hamilton, founder and CEO of Child USA, the average age of disclosure—when survivors feel ready to speak out and/or go to court—is 52. The solution Hamilton proposes is simple: eliminate the statute of limitations on allegations of child sexual abuse. Murder carries no SOL, Hamilton notes, and is perhaps the only other crime where the victim is so utterly powerless after the fact. 

A familiar leitmotif accompanies these horrifying accounts of abuse. Like problematic Catholic priests, teachers who have done irreparable harm are allowed to resign “for personal/family reasons,” and go on to find lucrative positions at other institutions. Highlighted in the film: Stephen Shipps, Rafael Druian, Michael Brewer, Jan Repko, Chris Ling, Duncan McTier. There are certainly more.

Ostinato

After a student completes their conservatory training, the school helps facilitate the transition into a high-profile performing career. This is not an act of magnanimity; it is the expected return on investment. The institution shares in the spotlight, its reputation burnished, endowments secure. Once established in the music business, many survivors feel unable to risk saying anything: for fear of retribution, and because one can never be sure how colleagues—even women, even other survivors—will react. Victims are painted as ungrateful for complaining. Why push back against a man, an institution, a system that imbues life with such beauty, purpose, and meaning? What will this mean for the legions of musicians who benefit from the status quo? 

There is a defensive cynicism at play, the idea that sexual harassment is just the way awkward or old men pay a compliment; unwanted touching is not the end of the world, the occasional rape the price of admission. It seems too ghastly to be the official policy of any organization, yet when you follow the money, it is implicit. This is common practice across industries. The FAA, for instance, privately estimated the troubled Boeing 737 Max variant would suffer 15 crashes over a period of 30 years following the loss of Lion Air Flight 610. The fix would be expensive and bad press could crater the stock price, so it was allowed to keep flying until the loss of Ethiopian Airlines Flight 302, after which the FAA pronouncement became public and the plane was grounded. A risk becomes de facto institutional policy if it is acknowledged but not remedied. 

What of the outliers? The female aggressors? The men who have been assaulted, bullied, and harassed? While only an unserious interlocutor would venture a comparison to the number of male perpetrators, it’s difficult to get a handle on the extent of these abuses. In addition to the pressures that discourage women from coming forward, male survivors risk being labeled “not real men”. Distilled to its purest form: the belief is that women are weak and thus allowed to be victims. Traumatized men who come forward are seen as something even worse: they’re just like women. 

Poco a poco

Where does excellence come from in the conservatory? Most would make the reasonable argument that it comes from both students and teachers.  Institutions develop reputations for their superstar alumni, and over time, the details become elided: it is the institution itself that is great, bestowing greatness upon the select few allowed within. It is natural to feel protective of these iconic places, to resist tinkering with an establishment that has yielded a steady stream of compelling, successful artists for generations. Yet, evolution is essential for any organism. Classical music survives despite the culture of normalized abuse, not because of it. 

Dear Lara closes with a hopeful example. In response to its own scandal, the Amsterdam University of the Arts took the calls for institutional transparency to a new level in the construction of its new conservatory. Students are taught by a team, rather than a single primary instructor, avoiding the reliance on a single relationship to establish a path into professional music. The building itself is a series of lucent rectangles, inviting anyone passing by to witness lessons, rehearsals, and classes. In the film’s final minutes, the dazzling campus is bathed in soft sunlight, the metaphorical antidote to secrets and shame. 

One reason our field resists change is because we have all been groomed to some extent. Pedigree, tradition and lineage; these things are currency in classical music, and it is very human to resist retrofitting a long and deeply held respect for a person or an institution in the face of these unfurling scandals. It is also human to fear for one’s own prospects, to quail at the thought of being that inconvenient voice of dissent in the room. Courage does not denote a lack of fear. It simply means that there are things more important than fear.

Resources

Lara’s website

Dear Lara website

Katherine Needleman’s Queen of Filth Digests

ChildUSA website

The Representation Project Sound Off: Make the Music Industry Safe