Wang Yuja 王羽佳, 1987
The recent social-media rebuttal by the Beijing-born pianist Yuja Wang (1987-) created an unusual stir in the usually decorous world of classical music. The catalyst was an email from the 77-year-old British critic Norman Lebrecht (1948-), pressing her about an interview she had agreed to years earlier but never completed.
Wikipedia describes Norman Lebrecht as a “gossip columnist,” a label that feels faintly understated. I cannot say what term was used before this recent feud; Wikipedia evolves constantly, its language shifting almost by the second. Still, reducing him to gossip alone overlooks the influence he exercised for decades within the classical music world.
For many years, Lebrecht occupied a highly visible position as critic, commentator, and industry insider. In a field as small and reputation-sensitive as classical music, such visibility carries weight. His columns could amplify a career or cast a long shadow over it. Artists might benefit from his praise or smart under his criticism. Whether admired or resented, he was read — and in that ecosystem, being read translates into power.
Wang’s decision to respond publicly shifted the balance. Instead of handling the exchange privately, she posted her rebuttal online, where it quickly circulated. The incident punctured the cultivated politeness of the classical world. It suggested that the old hierarchy—critic speaks, artist absorbs—no longer holds. Social media has given performers their own platforms. In this case, the aftershocks reportedly included the BBC ending its association with Lebrecht. Whatever one’s view of the dispute itself, it marked a generational and cultural shift.
I have never attended Yuja Wang’s performance. Part of the reason, if I’m honest, is that she is still so young. Born in 1987, she seems to have time on her side. I have often thought there would be plenty of opportunities in the future. What I tend to forget is that while her time stretches forward, mine moves quietly in the opposite direction.
In 2023, while attending a concert at Müpa in Budapest, I noticed a poster announcing her solo recital scheduled for May 2024. I knew I wouldn’t return to Budapest solely for that concert, but I remember thinking, quite distinctly, that I would like to hear her play—somewhere. That wish remains uncashed.
Just yesterday, I was thinking about the Moscow-born pianist Evgeny Kissin (1971-), and wondered what he was doing these days. A friend replied, “He’s old.” I was startled. He is only in his fifties. But prodigies distort our sense of time. Kissin debuted so young that the public memory freezes him in adolescence; anything beyond that feels like aging.
Perhaps that same illusion surrounds Yuja Wang. She still looks youthful—some might say people of color often appear younger than their white counterparts, though perceptions of age are shaped by many factors. In any case, she does not project the weight of years. It is easy to imagine that she will remain forever in that bright, kinetic stage of her career.
Her stage presence has always been part of the conversation. Tight dresses, high heels, bold silhouettes—commentators rarely resist mentioning them. In that respect she reminds me somewhat of Khatia Buniatishvili, whose performance I once thoroughly enjoyed in a flaring, flattering red gown. The clothing becomes narrative, sometimes unfairly overshadowing the music itself.
The Wang–Lebrecht exchange feels like more than a personal quarrel. It reflects a broader transition in classical music. The “nice-nice” world—long governed by gatekeepers, critics, and institutional authority—now operates in a more exposed, less deferential environment. Artists answer back. Institutions respond to public reaction. The balance of power shifts.
And meanwhile, I still have not heard her live.
Perhaps the real theme running through all of this is time—who controls it, who assumes it, who misjudges it. We imagine there will always be another recital, another season, another opportunity. Yet while we debate critics and gowns and generational shifts, the more finite clock ticks quietly in the background.
Somewhere, I once told myself.
Perhaps somewhere should become soon.
北京钢琴家王羽佳（1987-）最近在社交媒体上发表的反驳声明，在向来温文尔雅的古典音乐界引发了一场不同寻常的风波。导火索是77岁的英国乐评人诺曼·莱布雷希特（1948-）发来的一封电子邮件，邮件中莱布雷希特追问她几年前答应接受采访但最终未能完成的事情。
这种恶言相向的邮件是因为她是’逆来顺受‘亚洲人 还是他一贯的作风/操作? Georgian Khatia Buniatishvili 格鲁吉亚人哈蒂亚·布尼亚季什维利也喜欢紧身衣.
维基百科将诺曼·莱布雷希特描述为“八卦专栏作家”，这个标签似乎有些轻描淡写。我记不清在这次争论之前人们是如何称呼他的；维基百科一直在更新，其措辞几乎每秒钟都在变化。然而，仅仅将他贬低为八卦专栏作家，却忽略了他几十年来在古典音乐界的影响力。
多年来，莱布雷希特作为乐评人、评论员和业内人士，一直占据着举足轻重的地位。在古典音乐这样一个规模较小且声誉极其敏感的领域，这样的知名度至关重要。他的专栏文章既可以成就一位艺术家的事业，也可以为其蒙上阴影。艺术家们或许会因他的赞扬而受益，也可能因他的批评而幡然醒悟。无论人们是敬仰还是憎恨他，他的作品都已被解读——而在那个生态系统中，被解读就意味着权力。
王羽佳选择公开回应，打破了平衡。她没有选择私下处理此事，而是将反驳发布到网上，并迅速传播开来。这一事件打破了古典界精心营造的礼貌氛围。它表明，旧有的等级制度——评论家发言，艺术家吸收——已不再适用。社交媒体为表演者提供了自己的平台。据报道，此次事件的余波包括BBC终止了与莱布雷希特的合作。无论人们对这场争论本身持何种看法，它都标志着一次代际和文化的转变。
我从未看过王羽佳的演出。坦白说，部分原因是她还很年轻。她出生于1987年，似乎时间对她有利。我常常觉得她未来会有很多机会。但我常常忘记的是，当她的时间向前延伸时，我的时间却在悄然流逝。
2023年，我在布达佩斯艺术宫（Müpa）听音乐会时，注意到一张海报，上面写着她将于2024年5月举办独奏音乐会。我知道我不会仅仅为了这场音乐会而重返布达佩斯，但我清楚地记得，当时我心里想着，我想听她演奏——无论在哪里。这个愿望至今仍未实现。
就在昨天，我想起了出生于莫斯科的钢琴家叶甫根尼·基辛（1971-），想知道他现在在做什么。一位朋友回答说：“他老了。”我吓了一跳。他才五十多岁。但天才往往会扭曲我们对时间的感知。基辛出道时年纪太小，以至于公众的记忆把他定格在了少年时代；任何更久远的岁月都感觉像是衰老。
或许王羽佳也笼罩着同样的错觉。她看起来依然年轻——有人可能会说，有色人种往往比白人看起来更年轻，尽管年龄的感知受到诸多因素的影响。无论如何，她丝毫没有岁月的痕迹。很容易想象，她会永远停留在事业巅峰时期那光彩夺目、活力四射的阶段。
她的舞台表现力一直是人们津津乐道的话题。紧身裙、高跟鞋、大胆的轮廓——评论家们几乎总是对此津津乐道。在这方面，她让我想起了卡蒂娅·布尼亚季什维莉，我曾非常欣赏她身着一袭飘逸动人的红色礼服的演出。服装本身就成为了一种叙事，有时甚至会喧宾夺主，掩盖音乐本身。
王和莱布雷希特之间的争论似乎不仅仅是一场私人恩怨，它反映了古典音乐界更广泛的转变。长期以来由把关人、评论家和机构权威主导的“彬彬有礼”的世界，如今在一个更加开放、更少人恭敬的环境中运作。艺术家们开始反击，机构也开始回应公众的反应。权力平衡正在发生转移。
而与此同时，我至今还没有机会现场聆听她的演出。
或许贯穿这一切的真正主题是时间——谁掌控它，谁臆断它，谁又误判它。我们总以为总会有下一场演出，下一个演出季，又一次机会。然而，当我们争论评论家、礼服和代际更迭时，那更为有限的时钟却在背后悄然滴答作响。
“总有一天，”我曾对自己说。
或许“总有一天”应该变成“很快”。
