REFLECTIONS: An Interview with Maria João Pires - Identity and Evolution of a Pianist

At 81 (almost 82), one of the greatest pianists of our time lives far from the stages that made her famous. She traded them for the land and silence of Belgais, in Castelo Branco, where she discovered another rhythm of time and another way of listening. A rebel from the beginning — “I have always challenged things” — she built a life marked by transgression and freedom, often resisting what was expected of a woman of her generation. Along the way, she confronted pressure and expectation — “expectation destroys freedom” — and speaks of motherhood without sentimentality, shaped by the demands of an intense artistic life and by a world that rarely made space for both art and family.

In a long conversation that moves through childhood, education, interpretation, ego, faith, aging, and happiness, she sketches a philosophy grounded in restlessness and continual searching. And it is in that unfinished movement that she still seems to live ...

You recently said in an interview that you are no longer a pianist. What did you mean by that ?

It is a state of mind, you know? Being a pianist is not only about being a musician. It means playing an instrument, going on stage, performing for an audience. It is a whole way of being. I would never say that I am no longer an artist or a musician. But when I say I am no longer a pianist, I mean that I am no longer living inside that practice.

So being a pianist is more a practice than an identity ?

Yes, more a practice than an identity. I identify deeply with the piano — I started playing when I was three — but I stopped being a professional pianist. What I meant is that I am no longer only the person people knew through the piano. I am many other things. In fact, perhaps forty years ago I already felt this: I am not only a pianist. I am many things.

You started playing at three years old, and then discovered sound itself.

Yes — the discovery of sound.

I have always felt more connected to sound than to the piano itself. Sound on the piano was always a struggle for me: making the piano sing, giving it a voice instead of treating it as mere percussion. I want it to tell stories, to speak to us.

Today the piano is often played for sheer volume and power, but it has many other possibilities. It can imitate countless instruments and colors of sound. That takes work. Playing a note is never just playing a note. It is searching for the sound you want inside its context. And for me, that context must serve an idea.

Where do those ideas come from ?

From the music itself. I am not a composer — I was never particularly interested in composition. I admire composers enormously. My work has always been a search, and it still is, now also through my students.

Interpretation is not the same as composition, but it comes close. We recreate the work — not according to ourselves, but through an encounter with the composer. It is like a dialogue with someone who is no longer here, often someone far removed from our culture and our time. We have to enter that dialogue without destroying its spirit.

That means letting go of things that seem obvious. Tiny details — an accent mark, for instance — can completely change meaning from Haydn to Mozart to Beethoven. It demands culture, yes, but also something beyond culture. That is what I love doing. And now I can do it with younger people who watch me searching. That work is immensely rewarding.

You see yourself primarily as an interpreter, not a creator.

I am an interpreter, not a creator. I fully accept that. I do not think the performer and the creator are fundamentally the same, though there are points where they meet.

Does the performer have less ego ?

They may have less ego, or more — it depends. Some performers recreate the work entirely in their own image; naturally those people have stronger egos. Others follow the score obsessively and fail in another way, because the human being must also be present.

An artist is a meeting between body and mind. The purely intellectual artist fails. But the artist who is only physical, without the ability to search intellectually, also fails. The essential thing is balance.

It is interesting to speak about ego. There must be a balance between ego and humility. Without ego, humility is false and useless. But if someone has only ego and no humility — if they believe themselves superior to everyone else — they fail as well. In the end, we achieve things through balance.

You have spoken before about feeling like an outsider in the world of classical music. Today, does that feel like a wound or a form of freedom ?

I never had much difficulty expressing my freedom. But I often felt excluded, perhaps because I had an unusual childhood.

In what sense ?

There were four of us children. My father died before I was born, and although I never knew him, his absence marked the family deeply. My siblings were much older than I was.

How many siblings did you have ?

One brother and two sisters. I say “had” because they are no longer alive. I was much younger than all of them. There was a great deal of grief in the house during my early years.

My siblings already had their own lives. The piano became my way of expressing myself, of entertaining myself, of playing. It was a friend, a toy, a refuge. I did not grow up surrounded by other children. My nearest sister was ten years older than me, which is an enormous gap at that age. She quickly entered adolescence and had far more in common with the older siblings than with me. I was very lonely.

So the piano became a refuge.

Yes, but not only a refuge. A companion. A toy. I played while trying to understand how the body creates sound.

That sounds remarkably analytical for a child.

It did not feel analytical then. I only understood it later. I started teaching very young — around twelve or thirteen — and that is when I began noticing things that still help me today, especially in my work with young people. There are so many rules in music. Sometimes too many.

Which rules do you now prefer to dismantle ?

As a small child, I learned almost no technical rules at all. I learned to read music extremely early — before I was four — because I forced my mother to teach me. I wanted to understand what was written there.

But I never cared much for rigid theories. I like dismantling fixed rules. I prefer the rule that serves the moment.

In art, rigidity can destroy what is happening. Take classical music: time signatures and meter are often treated as rigid structures, when in fact they must be interpreted. If we submit ourselves entirely to the meter, we destroy the story we are trying to tell.

My whole life has been an attempt to discover how to avoid destroying what was written while still interpreting it.

This brings us back to freedom in interpretation.

Yes. I tend first to create chaos and only afterwards to search within it. Once I find the essence of a phrase, the rules stop imprisoning me.

Of course I respect rhythm. But I search for a natural rhythm — physical, bodily — not merely mechanical meter. I do not want to “be right”; I want to find the true rhythm, the bodily expression, not just the intellectual one.

That is also what distinguishes us from composers. A performer must begin with physical expression. We absorb the story, the emotion, everything that shaped the work — first physically, and only afterwards intellectually.

Do you think that distinguishes you from composers ?

Yes. The performer absorbs physically before analyzing. But today there is also a strong digital influence that has introduced many shortcuts and rigidities, and this can distance us from true interpretation.

In the past, two great pianists could play the same piece in completely different ways while still respecting the composer. Today there is more pressure to impose a personal signature on everything. To me, that is an abuse. The interpreter is creative, yes — but not a creator.

You are in dialogue with someone who is gone. Great creators possess something immortal. They left behind a way for us to access them.

You do not recognize that creative side in yourself ?

No. Human beings are naturally creative, but being a creator is something else entirely. I am not trying to diminish the role of the interpreter. It is absolutely an art. But the interpreter’s art depends on maintaining that balance between personal presence and total respect for the composer.

That is not easy.

You grew up in a time of harsh and authoritarian teaching. Do you remember when you first realized you could not — or should not — obey ?

It happened too early for me to explain it properly. As a child, I was not especially disobedient at home. My mother had no trouble raising me.

But when it came to what I wanted to do, I was completely rebellious. I spent my entire education resisting things.

Can you give an example ?

I challenged everything from the beginning.

When I was four years old, an aunt told my mother that I should study with Professor Campos Coelho, who taught at the Conservatory and was considered a great teacher at the time. This was in the 1940s — a completely different world from today.

My mother took me to him. She had no ambitions for me whatsoever, which was one of the greatest gifts she gave me. There was no obsession with career, prestige, or performance.

I already played by ear the pieces my older sister practiced. We had a piano at home, and I would secretly lock myself in the room and experiment with sound.

So the teacher said, “Play something.” I played the pieces I knew. Suddenly I saw this enormous hand descending onto mine. Instinctively, I pushed him away and elbowed him.

That was the beginning of a war between us. A tremendous war that lasted ten years. I obeyed nothing. I pretended to obey, and he constantly told my mother to scold me.

At that time, women were expected to obey. Do you feel you paid a price for your rebellion ?

I paid every price, always. But I was always ready to pay it. My rebellion was too strong for me not to accept the consequences that would eventually come.

Was marrying three times also part of that rebellion ?

No. Marriage came from my inability to understand what my role was supposed to be within family life. I understood it far too late.

I loved the idea of having children, but I probably should never have married or committed myself permanently to anyone. I always believed marriage was forever.

You truly believed that ?

Absolutely.

And now ?

For me, no.

But in general, do you still believe lasting love is possible ?

Of course. But what people call a profession — and what for me felt more like a mission — demanded total dedication.

Was that incompatible with love ?

Not with love. With marriage.

I do not think a life like mine — concerts, travel, constant movement — was compatible with conventional marriage. That does not mean there was no person somewhere who might have understood it.

There was a wonderful example among pianists of the last century: Alicia de Larrocha. I admired her immensely. She lived in New York while her husband stayed in Barcelona caring for their children. He devoted his life to her and to her art. That is rare.

History is full of examples of women sacrificing themselves for their husbands’ careers.

Exactly. In that case it was the reverse. He not only sacrificed his life but also his own career. Society assumes that the woman must always be the one to give things up. If there were true equality, either person could.

You speak as if, today, you might have chosen differently.

Yes. I think I would have given up the career — not the work, but the career. I could still have done meaningful work without living the life of an international concert pianist.

And above all, I would have liked not to drag my children around the world constantly.

Do you regret that ?

I think I traumatized them. It was not good.

But perhaps you also gave them the world.

Yes, they had that. But they lacked routine, stability, continuity. Artists live with instability all the time. We never know what tomorrow will bring. Children need something steadier than that.

Did any of your children become musicians ?

No. None of them. But I did not encourage them either.

Why not ?

At the time, I believed children should never be pushed toward anything they did not choose for themselves. It was the spirit of the 1970s: freedom above all else.

Later I regretted some of that. Children are not always capable of making the right choices. I remember being horrified by a classmate whose parents told him: “You may study music, but first you must complete an engineering degree, for your own security.”

I cannot imagine you as that kind of mother.

No, I was the opposite. But I am not sure that was better.

You seem to have reflected deeply on your life.

I hope so. At my age, if we do not reflect on our lives, what are we doing? I enjoy examining what happened.

Do you enjoy looking back ?

Yes. I do not live in the past, but I like to revisit it. The past helps us inhabit the present and move toward the future.

This is especially true in music. An interpreter must know the past — the style, the literature, the paintings, the entire world surrounding a composer. Otherwise we lose our ability to situate ourselves in relation to the work.

Because the past explains how we arrived here.

Exactly. And that knowledge is disappearing.

How have you dealt with aging and physical limitation ?

I cannot say peacefully, because I am not a peaceful person by nature. But I have always dealt well with change. Change is part of evolution.

I have had illnesses and accidents. I have had to stop many times — sometimes because of physical problems, sometimes because of the unbearable weight of my profession and the conflicts within my life.

I wanted to do everything perfectly: family, concerts, travel, motherhood. I had enormous energy and believed I could be everywhere at once. Eventually my body collapsed under the strain.

Wanting to be everything for everyone means failing somewhere.

Exactly. And eventually the strain became destructive.

As for aging, I have never seen it as something negative. We all age. What remains mysterious is death.

Do you think about death often?

Does anyone not think about it ?

Does the idea of finitude frighten you?

I cannot accept the idea of death as an absolute ending. I see it as the end of one phase, perhaps the beginning of another. Maybe that is an illusion. I do not know.

Are you a woman of faith ?

Very much so, though I do not belong to any religion.

What does faith mean to you ?

Believing in things we do not yet understand. Just because we cannot perceive something does not mean it does not exist. Human limitations are immense.

I have always believed in miracles. We see them every day, even if we cannot explain them.

You have spent your life overcoming limitations — even your famously small hands for a pianist.

Yes. Or perhaps I simply learned to adapt.

What makes you feel useful now?

Contributing to society. Teaching. Conversations like this one, if they are useful to someone.

You have retired from the stage several times, but always returned. What brought you back ?

Many things. Requests. Life itself.

But now it is different. I will not return to the stage. I will finish some recordings, perhaps begin another album. I had neurological problems affecting my right hand, and then I suffered a complete collapse from exhaustion. It was small physically, but psychologically it was decisive.

I never knew when to stop.

Did that frighten you?

I had a stroke that I recognized myself before doctors confirmed it. Afterwards the problems in my hand worsened.

But accepting the end of my stage career was surprisingly easy.

So no invitation could tempt you back now ?

No. I have settled that within myself.

But with music and the piano, no — those are unresolved forever. I now devote much more energy to teaching, not in a hierarchical way, but collectively. I learn enormously from my students.

Do they challenge your certainties ?

I am not a person of certainties. Certainty can be dangerous.

The only certainty I have is that we should not harm others — nor allow ourselves to be destroyed by them.

Do you enjoy solitude ?

I enjoy both solitude and group work. I think most people do.

When you think of happiness, what comes to mind ?

I feel fortunate because I carry a constant sense of happiness within me. Even in difficult times, I can recover something good.

To live beside this beautiful river, in such a beautiful place, while the world is often so ugly and horrifying — that is already a privilege.

How does one find happiness in a world marked by war and violence ?

The world is horrific. But horror does not necessarily create unhappiness. What can we do except try to transmit happiness to others? Perhaps that sounds naïve, but I believe it matters.

Listening to you, one senses a permanent restlessness — a continual search. Is that true ?

Yes. I have always been searching for something. It began that way and will probably end that way.

Even in moments of meditation or solitude, I continue searching — for balance, and for ways of transmitting that balance.

For me, music was always the path toward that. And now, when I teach and encounter people who are also searching for that balance, it is deeply rewarding.

Playing on stage fulfilled me too. But I was destroying myself there.

What was destroying you ? The pressure ? The pace ?

The pressure, certainly. The pace. And eventually I developed something I had never experienced when I was younger: stage fright.

I became afraid.

I do not like living under expectation.

The expectations of others, or your own ?

Both.

Earlier today I was practicing before coming here, and I thought about exactly this: I work much better when there are no expectations attached to what I am doing. Then the search becomes open. Free.

Is that the true condition of art ?

Yes. Art needs open space. Expectation destroys freedom — especially the freedom to imagine.

That reminds me of what you said earlier about your mother’s lack of ambition for your career. It seems central to your freedom.

I have beautiful memories of my mother. She wanted only one thing for me: that I should be happy and become a good person.

That absence of ambition gave me enormous peace and the strength to endure a very difficult life.

She had flaws, naturally. She could be rigid and moralistic. But she softened with age. She became more compassionate, more flexible.

I also have a rigid side, like hers. But I am learning.

Still learning ?

Yes — and strangely enough, one learns faster with age.

Really ?

Absolutely. Physically we become slower: it takes longer to shower, dress, walk. But understanding accelerates. We learn much faster.

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NOTE:

I published this interview translation from Portuguese at the request of many of Maria’s students and fans who do not speak Portuguese. I translated it to the best of my ability, striving to remain faithful to the authenticity of her voice while respecting the spirit of the original. I hope this rendition helps her voice reach and be appreciated by a much broader audience.