Just the day before, their high school chamber orchestra had won the prestigious National High School Orchestra Cup at Alice Tully Hall in New York City's Lincoln Center. Now, on this unforgettable day, they were visiting three of the most renowned music schools and conservatories in the country.

While touring one of these elite institutions, a door unexpectedly opened. Standing there was one of the world's most celebrated violinists. With a warm smile, she invited the students into her studio. Without a word, she picked up her violin and performed an excerpt from Paganini's Caprice No. 16—from memory. When she finished, the room stood in stunned silence and awe.

Then she turned to the group and asked, "How many of you are considering majoring in performance?"

About 10% of the students raised their hands.

She followed with a more pointed question: "And how many of you would like to study with me next year?"

Given what they had just witnessed, the question felt almost impossible. Only three hands went up.

She studied the group for a moment, especially the students who had raised their hands earlier—but not this time. Then, raising her bow, she pointed directly at one student and asked,

"Why are you not auditioning here next year?"

The student replied honestly:

"The word is, the sightreading here is brutal. And since it's the first thing required in the audition, no matter how well I might—or might not—play after that, I think it would blow the rest of my audition."

Another student chimed in, "Why does this school put so much emphasis on sightreading in the audition?"

The violinist leaned casually against her piano, smiled, and said,

"Sightreading tells your musical story. In fact, it tells more than that—it actually reveals who you are."

What Sightreading Really Reveals

The violinist stepped forward, eyes scanning the students with a mixture of warmth and challenge.

"Let me tell you something about sightreading," she began, her voice calm but compelling. "It's not just about getting the notes right. Anyone can learn notes."

She lifted her bow slightly, as if conducting their attention.

"Sightreading is like a musical x-ray. It reveals your sense of rhythm, your accuracy with pitch, your understanding of style. It shows us whether you can speak the language of music—or if you're still stuck decoding the alphabet."

The students leaned in.

"It tells me if you understand what makes Baroque feel different from Romantic, or why a jazz chart breathes differently than a Mozart quartet. I can hear your technique. I can hear your ear. But most of all…"

She paused, letting the silence settle like rosin dust in the air.

"…I can hear how you handle the moment. When you don't have time to prepare. When you can't lean on perfection."

A cellist raised her hand. "You mean… like how we handle pressure?"

The violinist nodded. "Exactly. It shows me your character. Do you panic? Do you push through? Do you make music anyway?"

Beyond the Music: The Audition Within the Audition

She stepped away from the piano now, slowly circling the room like a dancer who knew the choreography of authority. Her silk scarf caught the light. Every student tracked her like a spotlight was following her—not because they were told to, but because they couldn't help it.

Then, with no warning, she stopped.

"Let me ask you something," she said, her tone shifting—not cold, but precise. "Are you a slave to fear… or a master of your strength?"

The silence was thick. Even the air seemed to wait for permission to breathe.

She raised an eyebrow, almost amused. "That's what we're watching for. Not perfection. Not polish. Not even potential."

She walked toward the violin case she had set aside earlier and gently tapped it with her perfectly manicured finger. "We want to see what happens when the music betrays you. When your hands sweat. When the page turns too soon or the rhythm turns to fog."

Her heels clicked once on the wood floor.

"Sightreading doesn't just show preparation," she continued. "It reveals discipline. Grit. Courage. Your ability to hold the line when everything in you wants to fold."

A student in the back fidgeted. She noticed.

"If you stop," she said, softly but firmly, "we see it. And we wonder—do you stop when rehearsals run long? Do you stop when the music gets hard? Do you stop when you're not center stage?"

Then, a sly smile.

"Or do you adapt? Adjust? Stay inside the sound? Even wrong notes," she said, "can sound brave when played with intention."

She turned back to the piano, tracing the top with her finger. "Auditions aren't just about what you know. They're about how you respond when you don't."

Real Students, Real Growth

A tall girl near the back raised her hand, her orchestra pin catching the light.

"I'm Kai," she said, her voice a little shaky. "And I used to freeze during sightreading… every single time. Total panic."

The violinist turned toward her—not correcting, not comforting, just listening.

"But once I started treating it like storytelling instead of a test," Kai continued, "everything changed."

There was a beat of silence. Not awkward—just respectful.

A few students nodded. One whispered, "That's actually good."

The violinist smiled—not the kind you give for politeness, but the kind that says, I see you.

"That's the shift," she said softly. "Music doesn't reward fear. It rewards honesty. A sightreading page is like meeting a stranger—you won't have long to impress them, but if you're real, they'll remember you."

She stepped closer, not intimidating—just present.

"That kind of courage?" she said, placing her hand gently over her heart, "That's what we listen for."

Why It Matters in the Real World

She stood taller now—shoulders back, chin high—the kind of posture that fills concert halls before a single note is played.

"You want to know why sightreading matters?" she said, scanning the room. "Because things go wrong."

Her voice was smooth, deliberate.

"Musicians get sick. Pages go missing. Accompanists drop out. You fly across the country and your luggage—your music—doesn't make it. You walk into a hall with no rehearsal, no warning, and they hand you a part you've never seen before."

A pause.

"And they expect brilliance."

She let the words hang in the air, like the echo after a final bow.

"Your ability to stay calm, stay musical, and make something beautiful anyway… that's what gets you hired. That's what earns respect. That's what makes you valuable."

She took a slow step forward, the air around her sharper now.

"You might have the perfect solo. You might have prepared for months. But if you fall apart when things don't go your way…"

She gave a small shrug—elegant, devastating.

"…you won't even get to the rest of your audition."

Her eyes locked on the group.

"That," she said, "is why we start with sightreading."

Building Confidence—From the Stage and the Soul

The room was quiet again, the students holding onto her last words like a downbeat waiting to drop.

Then, just as the tension began to settle, she walked back to her stand and picked up her violin.

"But if sightreading scares you," she said gently, "you're not alone."

She tucked the instrument beneath her chin, not to play—but to hold it, like a memory.

"Start small. Choose something easy, and read a little each day. Not for perfection—just for presence."

She looked across the room.

"Count first. Breathe before you begin. See the rhythm before you hear it. And then—before a single note—sing it silently. Trust that inner ear."

From the corner, the quiet tap of someone typing into their phone. Another student, pretending to adjust their sleeve, was filming with a slightly trembling hand. But she kept going.

"And when you mess up? Keep going. The audience doesn't have your music. They're following your energy, not your error."

She raised her bow like a baton.

"Even on a first read, shape the phrase. Make it musical. Make it matter."

Then her eyes found Kai again.

"And what you said earlier, Kai… that you stopped treating it like a test and started telling a story?"

She smiled—not a performance smile. A personal one.

"That's exactly right."

She turned her gaze back to the group.

"That's what we're listening for. That's what we're hoping for. Not just accuracy, not just talent—but the moment someone starts telling a story… even before they know the ending."

A long breath. A hush that no one wanted to break.

"You walked in here as students," she said, her voice steady and low.

"You'll walk out as concert soloists."

Begin With Naked Courage

She glanced at the clock on the studio wall and gave a soft, theatrical gasp.

"Oh no—I've done it again."

The students chuckled, already knowing what she meant.

"I was having too much fun," she said, reaching for her coat. "I've got to get to LaGuardia—flight to Dallas. Rehearsal tonight with the symphony. Mendelssohn's Concerto in E Minor. Concert tomorrow evening, they're filming it for PBS—it airs in June."

Her hands moved quickly—snapping the latches of her violin case shut with a practiced rhythm, slinging her coat over her shoulder with the same energy she might use to cue an orchestra.

Then she paused at the door, turned, and faced them one last time.

"When I walk on that stage tomorrow night," she said, her voice quiet but unwavering,

"I'm going to place my right hand over my heart… and turn my head to the left."

A few students held their breath.

"That will be for you," she said. "For your questions. For your honesty. For the way you showed up today not with polish, but with presence."

She looked directly at Kai, then slowly across the room.

"And what you said earlier—about telling a story instead of taking a test?"
She nodded once, firmly.
"That's it. That's the secret. That's what changes everything."

She stepped forward—not dramatically, but with quiet intensity—and placed her hand over her own heart.

"So, listen to me now," she said. "Don't you dare walk into an audition with fear on your shoulders. That room does not need your fear—it needs your story. It needs your voice."

Her hand remained on her heart for a moment longer—then dropped gently to her side.

"And when the sightreading page drops in front of you—don't flinch. Don't hesitate.

Begin with naked courage. Play like the music already belongs to you. Shape the phrase. Mean every note."

Then her eyes lit with a flicker of mischief.

"Oh—and one more thing. I'll be sure to tell the Dallas Symphony that I spent the morning with the winners of the National High School Orchestra Cup. And that, despite everything being bigger and better in Texas…"

She gave a long, elegant shrug.

"…the winners came from California."

The room erupted in laughter—laughter filled with pride and newfound confidence.

She gave a playful bow, then turned for the door.

But just before stepping out, she paused again—just for a heartbeat.

"That's what I'm going to do tomorrow night," she said softly, almost to herself.
"Retell Mendelssohn's story."

And then she was gone—
leaving behind only the echo of her heels, the warmth of her words,
and the quiet knowledge that the next story… would be theirs.

No one spoke for a long time. No one had to. They had just seen what it looked like to be both fearless and true.