Remembering Stephen Kovacevich

Maestro Arts’ Rachel van Walsum pays tribute to Stephen Kovacevich, who died last week, and looks back at what he taught her as a young artist manager 

I worked with Stephen for about ten years at Van Walsum Management. I was new to artist management when I first met him, and it was a baptism of fire. He was demanding and exacting, and I had to learn how to stand up to him, but he was also one of the most outstanding artists I have ever worked with.  

The key thing for me was that on one level he was such a transparent person. He was open about his nerves and the impact they had on his playing, his thinking and his ability to settle. At a time when people didn’t talk about things that might threaten their careers, that was very helpful to many people. 

He was so exacting with himself as an artist. He always pushed himself to be completely true to the work he was interpreting. Sometimes that took him – and the audience – to the edge of the precipice. Sometimes you’d go over that precipice, but usually you came back with him, and it would be an inspiring concert. 

He had the ability to play so quietly that the audience would practically be in the piano with him, listening so hard. He knew he could get the audience into his pocket. We talked about it a lot: he felt that was something all artists should aspire to. He was listening to himself and to the response from the audience. He didn’t like a passive audience; he wanted to feel their energy coming with him. It was all done on gut feeling. 

His nerves could become quite physical. I remember one experience of them at Snape, when I was supposed to be on maternity leave. He was doing a recital, including the Diabelli Variations, and he wouldn’t go on. It was a full house. He said he was too nervous and that he was too worried about the ‘DV monster’. I asked him what would help, and he said, ‘It would be weird, but do you think we could change the programme around?’ The Snape team was happy with anything that would make the recital happen, so we changed it, and he walked on, played the Diabelli Variations in the first half, and all was well. 

Because of his anxiety, he had a checklist of practices that helped him, so there were usually things to sort out before a major recital. A week beforehand, he would ring and ask, ‘You haven’t forgotten the piano stool?’ I’d say, ‘No, they’ve got your height of the piano stool.’ He sat very low, and somehow, even when the stool was the right height, it could still be wrong. Technicians would often be asked to saw the legs down. I suggested he have one made to carry around with him, so we didn’t have the world littered with piano stools with their legs cut short. He said it was a good idea, but actually it wouldn’t have solved the problem, because he needed that process and that attention. It was all about settling into the fact that he had this momentous thing he had to do. 

I don’t know where the fear came from. It was always there, and I think there was a huge amount of self-doubt. He tried therapy and beta-blockers, and went through phases of different things. I went to an IAMA seminar about pre-performance anxiety and patterns of behaviour, and as I listened, I thought, ‘This is Stephen.’ That helped me understand how to manage him and to help him reach the sense of security he needed to feel. I learnt to stay calm and say, ‘Yes, we’ve had that done; I’ve done this.’ Sometimes I’d suggest he run up the stairs, because having a physical outburst could help. 

He was a very active concertgoer and could be very critical, but he was also a great supporter of young people. He has supported many – to name just two, Khatia Buniatishvili and Yuja Wang. He saw their bravery and authenticity as artists, and he stood by them. He did a lot of teaching and challenged young artists about their presentation of the repertoire. His open masterclasses were amazing. He had the ability to make young artists grow in front of your eyes, regardless of where they started, and to stir them into positive action, as well as making the class interesting for the audience. 

He was a marvellous entertainer, too. He threw lots of parties and had an open house in Hampstead. There would be a huge amount of chamber music with people, very spontaneously, and it would end with wine and food. Every artist who came into contact with him speaks of him with so much love and respect. 

What he taught me about being a manager was that, in spite of all the turmoil and the trouble and the endless rejigging of things, it was important to get it right, so he could do his best, because his best was worth it. It was never done out of greed or nastiness. It was about finding a relative peacefulness so he could reach for perfection.  

I respected his strength of character and authenticity, and how he kept pursuing that. I think he would have been proud of the tributes that spoke about his artistic personality and courage, and his relentless pursuit of authenticity and perfection. He never gave up on it. Thank you, thank you, dear Stephen.