The Artist is on the Table!

by Sheila Weinstein

My physical therapist has an office in one of the studio towers at Carnegie Hall that houses people in various artistic professions. His name is Shmuel Tatz. He is world renowned for his magical work, which he calls ‘body tuning,’ with famous dancers, pianists and musicians of all kinds. Finding him is a great blessing in my arthritic and muscle aching life. His studio is unlike any other. I open the door and enter a peaceful world. Irina, a serenely beautiful assistant sits at her desk... the only sound... classical music playing in the background. Lights are dimmed, talking is at a minimum between Shmuel, his staff and patients.

I relax even before I lay down on his professional “table.” As our sessions progress I tell him a little about myself and ask about him and his career. Soon we are talking music and I am greatly impressed by his breadth of knowledge of music and performers. I find out, too, that he has written a book called: “The Pianist’s Hands.” I tell him that I am a pianist and show him my hands, the one that had surgery and the one that is still ailing. I tell him my piano playing is not what it once was but that I can still play. He takes my hands in his and presses here, there, shakes his head and says with his thick Lithuanian accent...” Poor you. You cannot play with these hands.”

The next week I bring him a recording of my master’s piano recital of which all these years later I am still proud. It was one of the highlights of my life, a time like few others when I stretched myself to my limits. He accepts my cd and thanks me. When I return the next week, I wonder if he has listened to it but I am not comfortable asking. He is a straight shooter. I am a little afraid of his critique. So, I say nothing. He works on my neck and shoulders and suddenly, my recording begins to play. I say: “Oh, my goodness. You’re playing it for everyone to hear?” He says. “Yes. It is wonderful.” As he continues to work on my body, the music plays on.

Our session ends. Shmuel tells me to rest for awhile. I continue to listen to my recording as I lay there. Up comes a Haydn Sonata and I am thinking that I am amazed at how my fingers could fly the way they did way back then. Suddenly the curtain that separates me from the next patient he is working on is drawn back quickly. Shmuel says to me, ‘This is perfection.” And closes the curtain.

I have goose bumps. I lay still until the Sonata ends. The audience on my cd is now clapping for me. And now Shmuel is by my side, saying to all the people in the studio...’Please, everybody, clap! The Artist is on the Table!” and points to me. A young woman who has hurt her ankle is hanging from a contraption in the ceiling while moving a ball around with her feet. “Is that really you, playing?” she says. “Yes,” I say. She slips gently down to the floor. “That’s fantastic!” “Thanks,” I say. “You’ve all made my day!”

I want to lay there and listen to the rest of my recording but I get myself up slowly. I am relaxed and also highly enervated by what has happened this morning. I find my coat and hat. Shmuel says: “You are not staying to hear the rest of your performance?” I tell him I have to give a tour of the Hall. He says: “Well, then you must go, but your spirit will stay here with us.” I hug him and thank him for what he did for me that day. He says: “I know if you did not choose your family, you could have big career.” I tell him those are the nicest words I have heard in a very long time.

I leave feeling that I had been given a great gift. This afternoon I give one of my best tours in the happiest of moods. With gratitude in my heart for having been that morning, ‘the artist on the table.’