Freeing What Is Already There: On Practising Beethoven and Schubert in the Spirit of Michelangelo

There is an old story, perhaps more poetry than documented fact, that Michelangelo, standing before an unhewn block of marble, already saw within it the figure that was waiting to be released. His task, he explained, was not to impose a shape upon the stone, but to remove what did not belong. Thus, the imprisoned form might finally emerge, resplendent and free.

Whether he ever uttered these precise words scarcely matters. The image itself holds a luminous truth about all profound creation. And nowhere is this truth more alive than in the intimate realm of the piano, where we stand, day after day, before works by Beethoven or Schubert, hands trembling to give shape to their mysterious inner life.

What if, as we practice, we believed that the sonata was already complete, already breathing in its invisible sphere, awaiting only the gentle removal of whatever prevents it from sounding? How differently, how reverently, we might approach our task. Our practice would become not an act of construction, but of revelation, a sacred unveiling of the music's inherent beauty.

Metaphorically speaking, the music we seek to bring to life is akin to a block of marble residing within us. It exists in an unshaped state, awaiting our patient hand to uncover its innate beauty through devoted practice and thoughtful interpretation. When we sit at the piano, we do not confront the obstacles of cold stone. Instead, the actual barriers dwell within our own hands, which stiffen from old conditioning or subtle, unspoken fears. 

In our arms and shoulders, we are weighed down by past failures or the quiet desire for recognition, in the swift thoughts of our minds, which disrupt the fragile structure of phrase and pause.

The sonata, whether it is Beethoven's Opus 110 or Schubert's introspective B♭ major, D. 960, already lives in a realm beyond our frailties. Our work is to remove the veils that keep it from speaking through us. Each stiffened joint, each hurried breath, each shallow inspiration is a layer of coarse marble obscuring the radiant form within.

So we begin our practice not by forcing Beethoven's existence, but by singing what stands in its way. This is not merely a technical inquiry, but also a moral and spiritual one. What tensions of body or soul must we gently chisel away so that the actual figure may stand forth?

The chisels of subtlety

The tools we use are humble: attentive listening, mindful breathing, and the willingness to wait. We slow our practice, not to grind it mechanically into our muscles, but to sense what lies beneath the surface. We listen not only for notes, but for the tremors of meaning between them, for the invisible threads that bind one phrase to another.

In this way, practice becomes an almost devotional act. We learn how to let the weight of the hand fall naturally into the keys, allowing a line to unfold without artificial urgency. We test how little effort is required to produce a resonant sound. Each refinement is a tiny flake of marble falling away, leaving the hidden sculpture clearer.

Often it is in silence that we find the surest progress. Imagining the phrase inwardly until it becomes so vivid that the hands, when they move, merely trace its already perfect shape. Then the sonata emerges not from willpower, but from a quiet attunement to something that was waiting all along.

Schubert's tender translucence, Beethoven's solemn grandeur

Consider Schubert's B♭ Major sonata. It begins as though out of the hush of eternity, softly descending, tentative, as if reluctant to disturb the air. Its delicacy is almost perilous; any heaviness of touch or hasty pedalling risks shattering its fragile poise. Here, our work is to strip away every excess, to pare it down to the most essential gesture until what remains is scarcely more than a whisper, yet a whisper vibrant with breath and shimmering with inner life.

Beethoven, by contrast, often demands we reveal structures of immense strength, like pillars rising toward unseen vaults. In Opus 110, the opening is at once intimate and spacious, a human voice speaking with calm assurance. To serve such music, we must strip away all superficial dramatics or sentimental distortions. We carve carefully, respecting the proportions of phrase and motif, so that the architecture stands in unadorned nobility.

Yet whether with Schubert's diaphanous textures or Beethoven's grand designs, the principle remains the same. We are not adding ourselves to the music; we are clearing a path through which it may pass.

The hardest marble: our vanity

There is a form of stone more complex than any quarried from the earth: our ego. It longs to dazzle, to impress, to linger over Schubert's flatter us rather than Beethoven's music. This is the most stubborn impediment to true revelation. For each time we impose a clever idea or a self-indulgent rubato that does not grow from the phrase itself, we are pasting gaudy ornaments onto a sculpture that needs none.

It is an uncomfortable truth that our personality shines most purely only when we do not seek to display it. If we practice removing vanity-trusting instead of the inherent dignity of the music, what remains is our authentic humanity, unforced and transparent, capable of touching others without manipulation. This authentic humanity, unadorned by vanity or self-indulgence, is what truly connects us to the music and our audience. It is the essence of sincere and meaningful musical interpretation.

Thus, practising becomes a gentle school of humility. We learn to bow before the work, to let go of the craving for recognition, and become the space through which the sonata speaks. This is not a loss of self, but its highest fulfilment. Humility, in this context, is not a weakness but a strength, allowing us to serve the music and the audience with grace.

Patience as a silent companion

Such carving cannot be rushed. Michelangelo did not reveal the David in a matter of days. The same is true for us. Often, we return to a sonata over weeks and months, feeling we have made no visible progress. But somewhere beneath, small shards of obstruction are falling away. Our hearing grows keener, our hands are less burdened by old tensions, and our hearts are steadier in their approach. Patience, like a silent companion, is a necessary virtue in our practice.

Then, perhaps one morning, a phrase we struggled with suddenly breathes as if by its own will. The figure stands revealed, not because we forced it into being, but because at last we removed what stood in its way.

This is why the true pianist is marked by patience. A deep inner confidence that the music is there, waiting. We need only be faithful enough to let it unfold in its own time. Patience is not just a virtue, but a necessary companion in the journey of musical revelation. It allows us to trust the process, to believe in the music's inherent potential, and to wait for the right moment of revelation.

An act of moral fidelity

There is also a quiet ethics in this approach. To practice by removing what obstructs is to honour Beethoven and Schubert as living presences, as if we were entrusted with a delicate mission. We do not cheapen their creation by bending it to our music; we listen for what it longs to be, and shape ourselves around it. This is a form of moral fidelity, a commitment to the truth of the music and a recognition of our responsibility as interpreters.

In this way, we also honour our listeners. They come seeking something beyond mere display. When we have done the humble work of chipping away what is unnecessary, we offer them a chance to stand before the unveiled figure. They may glimpse, if only for a moment, something timeless and authentic.

Standing before the unveiled figure

So even if Michelangelo never truly spoke of seeing the angel in the stone, the spirit of that story remains an unfailing guide. Each sonata is already complete, dwelling in a realm of living ideas. Our role is to clear away what is coarse, to quiet what is noisy, to soften what is rigid until at last the music emerges, breathing with a life that feels both ancient and eternally new.

Then we understand that we have not conquered Beethoven or Schubert, nor adorned them with our brilliance. We have served. We have become the quiet hands that brushed away the marble so that something nobler could stand revealed, luminous and free.