The year that my favorite pianoman, Richard Smallwood was born, was the year that pianist, vocal and symphonic composer, Sergei Vasilyevich Rachmaninoff (Rachmaninov) died.
He was only a few days shy of his 70th birthday.
In most photographs of him, his countenance was stern—almost as if he was struggling to say something; as if he wanted others to discern what he was thinking.
Like Richard, he had an aristocratic persona.
He was charitable, committed to his culture, loved the company of good friends, and had a great sense of humor.
He performed, conducted, and was very popular.
His mother Lyubov, like Richard’s mother Mabel, greatly encouraged his gift— early in life, and often—and she was fiercely protective of her son, too.
The more I learned about Rachmaninoff, the more I found similarities between Richard and the composer whose music his beloved mother shared with him as a child.
For a brief period, Rachmaninoff was a Music teacher, but it was a profession he did not like very much.
There was a three year period in his life in which he could not compose.
He successfully sought treatment for severe depression.
He suffered the loss of dear family members.
His preference in music was once banned where he studied.
He once put his music into the hands of someone who disparaged it.
Sometimes, he didn’t feel like composing. Other times, responsibilities and activities didn’t leave him adequate time to compose.
He never finished his opera, “Monna Vanna”.
He didn’t always like what he composed, but, perhaps he would have finished his opera had he not been discouraged by the business (and busyness) of music. Legalities and copyright issues stood in the way.
He had major issues with the modern music of his time. He said, “I have made immense efforts to understand the music of today, but I cannot.”
He suffered pain in his hands sometimes, and he was known to drive very fast.
He had financial security, but peace of mind was much more precious to him than riches and accolades.
He finally acquired a peaceful home that had large windows, a beautiful view, and the music room he’d always wanted.
Rachmaninoff didn’t always want to play, or immediately remember exactly how to play what some audience members wanted to hear.
He said, “I sometimes feel that all my audience wants is noise and excitement... Music should bring relief. It should rehabilitate the mind and soul. It cannot be just rhythm and color. It must reveal, as simply as possible, the emotions of the heart...”
Richard’s music has done that, and so much more.
On his birthday, and every day of his life, I pray that he continues to be kind to himself.
As he heals from recent hand surgery, I hope he perseveres in his own way, at his own pace, and—of course—as God leads.
That recipe has never failed him.
It was a tremendous undertaking, but his long-awaited autobiography “Total Praise” is now available wherever books are sold. Next year, “Total Praise” his masterful composition that is celebrated and performed worldwide, will turn 25.
I’m so proud of him that he finished the work.
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