Biography

My name is Michiel Demarey, a 38-year-old pianist from Belgium. I wanted to share my story. Not for sympathy, but because maybe someone out there will recognize a part of themselves in it.

I started playing music when I was five. I had a little Casiotone keyboard and would pick out melodies I heard from the church bells outside. The first one I figured out was *Ode an die Freude.* From the beginning, music made sense to me—at least by ear.

But when I was six, I had a serious accident. After that, everything changed. I developed dyscalculia and couldn’t learn to read music properly. Theory, notation, solfège—it was all a blank wall. So I started doing everything by ear. Bach, Chopin, Liszt, Debussy. I listened, then played.

Still, I never wanted to become a concert pianist. I had terrible stage fright. I actually dreamed of becoming a music producer. But when I tried the entrance exam, I failed because I couldn’t write music. They told me I didn’t belong.

It crushed me. I stopped getting out of bed. I didn’t want to eat. I didn’t want to live. I planned to end my life. Then one day, the phone rang.

It was one of the jury members. He told me he believed I was a musical genius—his words—but that solfège was essential for production. He invited me to join his music school for an intensive course to catch up on the basics.

During that year, I had a piano teacher who assumed I’d be playing pop music. But when I told her I wanted to study *Pictures at an Exhibition* and Rachmaninoff’s *Études-Tableaux*, she was surprised in the best way. She gave me a phone number to call.

I had no idea who it belonged to. I took a long train ride with no phone, no GPS. Just a piece of paper with an address. A woman greeted me at the door and offered me lemonade. In the background, someone was playing *Rachmaninoff Op. 39 No. 6*—the very piece I had prepared. My stomach dropped. But I sat down at the Bechstein and played.

The man listening was Vitaly Samoshko, First Prize winner of the Queen Elisabeth Competition. He invited me into his piano class.

At the entrance exam, I was so nervous I drank liquor just to make it on stage. I ended up improvising Bach’s Prelude in G major—but in G-sharp major. My Rachmaninoff sounded like it was underwater. Still, Samoshko believed in me. He accepted me anyway.

The next few years were turbulent. My girlfriend took her own life. I lost my mind. I broke the fourth finger of my right hand, but still played the Mephisto Waltz. People at the conservatory started calling me “Mephisto.” Not to brag, but my version is still one of the best on YouTube.

Then came worse. I was blackmailed. I had to sell my grand piano. I hit rock bottom again and again. In my third year, I was preparing Prokofiev’s Third. I practiced more than nine hours a day, but I was completely burned out. When I played for Samoshko, he said, “You haven’t studied. Shame.”

Something inside me gave out. I crossed my name off the attendance list and left the conservatory.

I tried teaching in small music schools but couldn’t make ends meet. I took extra diplomas and found a job in IT. It was unbearable. As a hypersensitive person, the noise and pressure destroyed me. I broke down again. There were more suicide attempts. I ended up in psychiatric care and spent a year and a half in the clinic. There was an old Kawai grand piano there. It became my lifeline. I started playing the *Goldberg Variations*. I worked on *Petrushka.* For the first time in a long while, I felt a flicker of purpose.

And then something strange happened. I started dreaming of *Kreisleriana*.

Back at the conservatory, I had rejected it. Samoshko offered it to me as an alternative to Schumann’s Toccata, which I couldn’t play due to hand size. But I couldn’t connect to *Kreisleriana.* It gave me headaches.

Now, in the clinic, it returned. And this time, I could hear it differently. I remembered every note, but I played them in a completely new way. I heard the inner voices. I understood the architecture. It wasn’t just a piece anymore—it was a message. A dialogue.  Schumann had entered my life, quietly but completely. He started visiting me in dreams.

He showed me things. One night I dreamed of a piano I had never heard of: Boisselot. I looked it up the next day. It was real.

I began to feel like he was guiding me. I dreamed about how *Carnaval* should be played. About how to handle the pedaling. About the structure of the *Davidsbündlertänze.* I saw myself playing in a room I didn’t recognize, with slightly older hands. Everything felt vivid, as if it had already happened.

After I left the clinic, I had to wait for a new psychiatrist. I relapsed. I attempted suicide again. They had to pump my stomach.

That night, I had a dream. Schumann’s voice was calm but firm:  

**“You must record Kreisleriana.”**

So I did.

Since then, I’ve continued recording. My version of *Carnaval* includes even the silent Sphinxes. They hold meaning for me—masonic, erotic, sacred. In the “Chopin” section, I improvised in his voice. And I believe Schumann approved. I felt it.

The great musicologist Charles Timbrell—editor of the *Kreisleriana* score—heard my recording. He included it in his top three interpretations of all time, alongside Horowitz and Natan Brand.

That meant more than I can say. But honestly, it’s not about me. I just tried to get out of the way and let Robert speak.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. And if you feel moved or curious, it would mean a lot if you listened to my recordings. This music saved me. Maybe it can reach you too.

Warmly,

Michiel