Resilience

March 5, 2026

It is assumed that to be accepted by the renowned Curtis Institute of Music, a student must already be fluent in his or her instrument and in possession of an innate musicality. Shmuel Ashkenazi and I, teachers at the school, recognized these qualities in the young violinist Hyun Jae Lim during her audition, and accepted her as a student.

Working with Hyun Jae was in certain respects a satisfying experience. She was an excellent violinist, hardworking and eager to learn. But although Hyun Jae rapidly assimilated repertoire, she was still a work in progress as far as developing a unique and striking musical personality. This is not unusual for a young person in the early stages of musical exploration. For Shmuel and me, and later when Hyun Jae studied as well with Midori Goto, our task was not only to refine her technical prowess, but more importantly to help her cultivate what was special in her as a musician. On occasion I would tell Hyun Jae that she had played a certain phrase well enough, but that I longed for her to reveal more of herself. Who was she? What did she think and feel about the music? And if she would have the courage to dig down deeper and really show who she was, people might love what they heard.

In 2020 Hyun Jae graduated from Curtis, but because of the Covid pandemic, she found herself accepting her Bachelor of Music degree from afar in her native South Korea. Of course, I wished her well on the occasion, and told her that I hoped she would continue to grow as a musician.

But it was not to be.

On the very day of her graduation, an oncoming driver fell asleep at the wheel and collided with the car Hyun Jae, her mother, and her aunt were in. All survived, but the accident left Hyun Jae in critical condition, hospitalized for two years, and unable to play the violin for two years after that. What must it have been like, I wondered, for Hyun Jae to lose the use of her legs, be confined to a wheelchair, and live without music in her life? 

For a while she pursued things other than music, but her heart was not in it. Hyun Jae’s eventual return to the violin began modestly, by teaching young students and occasionally demonstrating with the instrument. It served to rekindle her love of the violin and the glorious music it could produce. In June 2024, four years after the accident, Hyun Jae began to practice seriously. By her account, she had to learn how to play the violin all over again, starting with the basics.

Astonishingly, little more than than a year later, Hyun Jae won first prize in both the Seoul and Elmar Olivera Violin Competitions.  I first heard her Sibelius Violin Concerto at the Seoul Competition.  I was stunned by the sheer conviction of her playing, and then overjoyed. At both competitions, her performances  were near flawless, and showed utter fearlessness as she rushed headlong into the most difficult of passages. Not only that, Hyun Jae now possessed all of the thoughtfulness and nuance that she had been lacking as a student.

I try to imagine that dark time in Hyun Jae’s life, without the violin she had begun as a child, which must have defined her in essential ways. Who was she without the instrument that could make such exquisite music? And how did she have the resilience finally to pick herself up and move courageously forward?

There’s an old cliché that to be a successful artist you must suffer. Hyun Jae did plenty of that as she endured many operations with uncertain outcomes, the pain associated with them, and the eventual knowledge that she would never walk again. I couldn’t help but remember her student playing and how it had now been magically transformed into wondrous music making. Was her harrowing accident responsible, the crucial support of a parent, a friend, a mentor, or was it the natural maturity that comes with time?

Yes, Hyun Jae has won the coveted first prize in violin competitions, and will undoubtedly go on to a successful career. It is a cause for rejoicing. But what I will always cherish, among many other memorable moments, was a passage in the slow movement of the Sibelius Concerto, in which Hyun Jae opened her heart to us as she played and moved me to tears.