The struggle for vulnerability: why classical musicians feel afraid to speak out

I recall various attempts to seek comfort during my anxiety disorder at music college. A panicked Google search ‘classical musicians mental health’ in 2016 came up with little beyond features on ‘how classical music helps your mental health’. No one appeared to speak about the possibility of the musicians themselves suffering. Crushing loneliness, along with shame that I didn’t belong, ensued for years, as I saw classical music as a place of perfection in which I no longer belonged. Expected to be little more than a source of therapeutic melodies and something nice to look at, the role has been laid out. Musicians are there to support, rather than to be supported.

This role implied from a young age within the musical education system. The elitism and ‘pressures’ of the profession have created a culture around the survival of the fittest. Can’t afford lessons and instruments? Help is there until you’re 18, and then fewer options. You’ll likely have to work alongside your degree, reducing the ability to practise and falling further behind. Perhaps most debilitating, if you can’t afford to socialise with the wealthy musicians, is investing in your future through expensive masterclasses, extra lessons and prestigious events. Then, despite all this, the culture says, ‘we can’t understand why you’re here.’

Fionnuala Ward, a freelance pianist from Northern Ireland explains how her lower income background impacted her mental health at music college: ‘Unless you’re going to bring glory to the name of the college, you’re not really given much help. In my last year of my Masters  I had a bit of a breakdown: I needed to work part time, so I swallowed my pride and asked my college whether there was any support. I said to them, ‘The amount I’m working I can’t practise enough, so my teacher is getting frustrated, and my marks are really crap.’ The college said they couldn’t help me. I was watching others with scholarships ask for a top up and being granted it, but because I was poor and unable to practice enough to be at world-class standard, I was turned down. If you miss out in one rung of the music education ladder, you’re screwed.’

The 'stiff upper lip' is a stereotype within British society, mostly challenged but still in practice within classical music circles. Younger musicians from diverse ethnic, socio-economic backgrounds still feel pressure to appease the largely white, older and middle-class culture. It is difficult to challenge because of the power dynamics at play. White, male conductors are ‘good people to know’ because they might get you a job, or an opportunity to play to more people of similar calibre. Furthermore, being chronically depressed or in desperate need of financial support doesn’t seem to fit the mould. Speaking out about adversity isn’t employable, however much the audience might be able to connect or relate.

I look to the NME (New Musical Express) website to feel less alone in what I am going through. It has become clear to me that the other side of the pond, pop culture welcomes vulnerability and this is where I find my people. The interview section suggests an interview with singer Kate Nash: ‘Kate Nash on how mental health shaped her new music’. I am instantly intrigued. Nash admits to the reader: ‘Last year I was really depressed and sort of useless,’ Nash explained. ‘And then I had to kind of find my way and figure out how I could be a musician in this pandemic.’

This is a reality for so many musicians, regardless of genre, but to find a similarly vulnerable classical musician is difficult. In the majority of classical music interviews, the focus is often exclusively on the music. This isn’t inherently wrong, but it does appear that the music is used as a means of deflecting the struggles of the musician, rather than exploring how they are linked. In Nash’s interview we see words such as ‘depressed’, ‘hopeless’, ‘useless’ and ‘devastating’ to express the extent of her struggles over the past year. Looking at the interviews of The Cross-Eyed Pianist, following a similar structure of questions, we do see vulnerability alluded to, but from a distance. When asked the greatest challenges in their musical careers so far, we see words such as ‘difficult’, ‘challenging’, ‘a low point’, but struggle to find specifics. Perhaps the question itself alludes to a non-personal answer. We are asked about our careers, so avoid admitting the struggles within ourselves as humans.

According to a team of psychologists writing in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology in 2016, admitting to our vulnerabilities - failures, admitting mistakes, seeking help - is rewarded positively by others. The ‘Beautiful Mess Effect’ is the name researchers have given to the phenomenon. They found that others view our vulnerabilities far more positively than we do. When we think about our own vulnerability, we do so very concretely and critically. When we think about others’ vulnerability we do so more abstractly, focusing on the positive aspects of showing vulnerability, and, therefore, we evaluate it more positively.

Musicians have been brought up in a strangely masochistic, stoical world, where to admit you have ‘no days off’, ‘had to make so many sacrifices as a kid’ and demonstrating yourself to be ‘strong enough to keep going’ is praised hugely. This becomes a comfortable defence for many of us. Contrary to our fears, the risks of imperfection appear to have life-changing outcomes. The researchers of the Beautiful Mess Effect explained many benefits of expressing vulnerability: self-disclosure can build trust, seeking help can boost learning and admitting mistakes can foster forgiveness.

To admit we have been wrong is an important step for making amends with the many classical musicians who have felt let down, through abuse, ignorance and racial discrimination. This isn’t to put our profession lower in people’s estimation, but to express how important it is to us that things change. This is the reality of radical vulnerability. To be open to change, to apologise and to have the courage to support the wider conversations around mental health, discrimination and sexism, to name but a few.

We don’t like to sell the soul of music to become more ‘relatable’ or ‘sellable’ through bowing to trends, but the having the vulnerability to contribute to the wider conversation about mental health and wellbeing isn’t a trend; it’s an absolute necessity.