ARD International Piano Competition – Germany

I was 23 years old when I entered my first major international piano competition: the ARD in Munich. I didn’t yet feel ready for a global career—I lacked repertoire and experience—but I was curious to test myself.

The final result? A shared second prize with German pianist Bernd Glemser. No first prize was awarded that year, and I found that to be completely fair. I didn’t yet have the tools to take on the world—but I thinl I did have something special that carried me far: a remarkable first round.

I performed Chopin’s Etude in thirds, Mozart’s Rondo in A minor, and a rarely heard work by the Swiss composer André François Marescotti. That program made a strong impression on the jury, as I've been told after, and propelled me straight to the finals.

And what a final it was. I had the privilege of performing in the legendary Herkulessaal with the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra—an unforgettable experience for a young pianist from Bahia. It was a moment that showed me what was possible, even if I wasn’t quite there yet.

I would also like to highlight that the ARD Competition is one of the best I’ve encountered in every aspect. I highly recommend it!

Géza Anda Competition – Switzerland

Just a few months after Munich, in May the following year, I found myself enrolled in the Géza Anda Competition in Zurich—without really planning to. The reason? A dear friend and supporter of my career, Hans Rahn, insisted I go. I had won the Rahn Competition when I first arrived in Switzerland, and Hans had believed in me ever since.

The only problem: I had just three months to prepare one of the most demanding programs in the piano world—14 works in total, including three full piano concertos!

The first round was a disaster. The repertoire had to be memorized, and the jury would choose, on the spot, what they wanted to hear. I remember stepping on stage ready to play the first movement of Beethoven’s Les Adieux, only to be interrupted by a jury member asking: “Can you play the second and third movements instead?” I was furious—but I played, and it was enough to pass. (Fortunately, those rules have changed since then. Now they let us know the repertoire they want to hear before we go on stage.)

The second round was a 50-minute solo recital. Somehow, I made it to the semifinal, but I had only learned one movement of the Mozart concerto that was required in full. I spent the night learning the other two movements, barely slept, and performed the next day.

After the performance, I went back to my room to rest and accidentally slept through the announcement of the finalists. My absence didn’t go over well—some saw me as the irreverent, irresponsible young Brazilian. And yet… I reached the final and was awarded third prize, which carried the same value as the first. I received excellent reviews and a full calendar of engagements. The lesson? Sometimes chaos and courage walk hand in hand.

Leeds International Piano Competition – United Kingdom

After winning prizes in Munich and Zurich, my career in Europe was growing. I was performing with good orchestras, touring regularly—but I still felt fragile inside. I hadn’t yet won a first prize in a major international competition.

We are taught to believe that winning a big competition is essential. And being Brazilian, even more so. Brazil is not known for its pianists, and our artistic passport often comes loaded with stereotypes that clash with the expectations of the traditional classical market. With the support of my agent, Pedro Kranz from the Caecilia agency in Geneva, I decided to return to the competition circuit. I chose Leeds, because I felt artistically close to two of its most iconic laureates: Radu Lupu and Murray Perahia.

Leeds 1990 – The first attempt

My first appearance, in 1990, was a disappointment. I came with a program focused on the Viennese classics and the German romantics, opening with Beethoven’s Waldstein Sonata. I was eager to explore the aesthetic depths of Schubert in the next round. But, to everyone’s surprise, I was eliminated in the very first stage, along with 50 other pianists—most of them already with good international careers.

Confused and frustrated, I stayed to listen to other performances, then returned home questioning everything. Months later, I reached out to a jury member seeking answers: Dominique Merlet. I chose well. He welcomed me into his home in Verneuille-sur-Seine and opened his notes—meticulously preserved in his rich library.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Ricardo,” he said. “But you looked sad. Your sound didn’t project, your phrasing lacked direction, and your stage presence was weak.”

That conversation marked a turning point. I was, indeed, going through a turbulent period: a chaotic first marriage, isolation in my early years in Europe, far from home and everyone I loved. For the first time, I fully understood how deeply our personal life shapes the artist we become.

I changed everything. I earned a grant to live at the Cité des Arts in Paris and began a focused, deliberate preparation to return to Leeds.

Leeds 1993 – The comeback

When I returned in 1993, I knew I was entering the battle of my life. I had a mental strategy to shield myself from any emotional disturbances.

I avoided the university residence where competitors and their entourages created a tense atmosphere. During meals, parents, teachers, and agents would do anything to throw off the others. I distanced myself, always carrying a book and taking breaks only to play ping-pong. I remember Alex Bax, a brilliant 16-year-old pianist who also advanced to the next round. His father approached me during a ping-pong match—one of the few who did so respectfully and kindly.

After the first round, everything changed. From outsider, I became a frontrunner. Suddenly, I was taken to rehearsals in a Jaguar, practicing on a top-tier Steinway, a world apart from the upright piano and Fiat Uno I had before. The press took interest—but I wasn’t ready. When a journalist asked what it was like to return to Leeds, I snapped. The trauma from 1990 was still fresh. All I wanted was not to talk about it. From that moment, I earned a reputation for being difficult—especially with the British press. A costly mistake, as I would later learn during the final round.

This time, I watched as other talented pianists were eliminated—devastated. It brought back memories of myself, three years earlier. And when the results were announced and I learned I had won first prize, I didn’t feel joy—just exhaustion and a strange sadness.

“Everyone there played as well or better than I did. I wasn’t expecting it. I felt distant, drained, weighed down by my own insecurity and unresolved pain.”

As I left the country, passing through passport control at Heathrow, an officer recognized me:

“So you’re the young Brazilian who stole the first prize from our Leon McCauley…”

Winning Leeds gave me international visibility. But it also taught me something deeper: no prize replaces inner work—emotional, psychological, human. And sometimes, winning is only the beginning of a much longer journey.

Teaching: A Tradition That Breathes

I did not choose to teach — teaching found me.

It began, almost by chance, when I was asked to step in for Alexei Golovin at the Geneva Conservatoire. Just months earlier, I had been babysitting his infant daughter. That moment, so simple, became the first thread in a tapestry that continues to unfold.

At the time, I was studying with Maria Tipo — a pianist of formidable intensity, who offered her artistry to the stage with the same devotion she gave her students. Her example was powerful: many of her students went on to become great performers and inspired teachers. It was not a contradiction — it was a continuation.

Later, I would experience this same generosity in others. Maria João Pires, who opens her world to share deeply with others. Alicia de Larrocha, whose quiet wisdom stayed with me. Nikita Magaloff, who guided me with humility and depth.

And then — there was Midori.

Meeting her was perhaps the most striking human-artistic encounter of my life. Her selfless dedication, her discipline, and the sheer excellence she maintains on the violin showed me something I had almost forgotten: that to be a great musician, one must also be a great person. She rekindled that belief in me.

These encounters taught me that great musicians are often great teachers, because they understand that music is not a possession — it is a legacy.

As I reflected, I saw how this lineage ran deep. Chopin taught. Liszt taught. Even Claudio Arrau, among the last titans of a vanished age, passed on his knowledge to dozens. Without them, music would have faded into silence. Tradition survives only when it is passed from hand to hand, heart to heart.

When I founded NEOJIBA, I carried this with me. We adopted the words of Seneca — Docendo discimus — we learn by teaching. And it’s true: the best performers among us are also our finest teachers. There is no hierarchy between stage and classroom, only a current flowing through both.

I have always rejected that bitter old saying — “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.”

It diminishes what is most generous and human in art.

Teaching is not a lesser path — it is the fertile soil from which artistry grows.

In sharing what I received, I do not lose it. I deepen it.

Because art must not remain a secret.

Beauty must be passed on.

No need to play a samba, a choro, or a popular song for Brazil to be present in my music.

Brazil lives within me — even when I play Schubert, Beethoven, or Brahms.

I spent part of my childhood in Juazeiro, Bahia — the hometown of João Gilberto — a city bathed by the São Francisco River, surrounded by heat, silence, and music. It was there I learned that music doesn’t come only from study, but from listening. Listening to others. Listening to the world. Listening to the space between notes — to the silence, which I rarely found in Salvador. Perhaps it was there, still a boy, that I first understood what balanço truly is — not a marked rhythm, but the breath of the soul.

My training as a pianist took me far: studies and competitions in Europe, concert halls around the world, revered mentors. But I never carried Brazil only in my luggage — it always came with me, inside. In my gestures, in the freedom of phrasing, in the openness to the unexpected. Brazil taught me how to improvise with life.

And João Gilberto was not just the invisible neighbor. Alongside Furtwängler’s LPs, he represented a devotion to beauty and excellence. The way he waited for silence before releasing a note… taught me more about musicality than many books and lessons ever could. Listening to his delicacy — so deeply Brazilian and so universally human — I understood that there is profound sophistication in simplicity.

The Brazil that lives in me is full of contradictions: joy and melancholy, celebration and contemplation, technique and instinct. It is a country that suffers and vibrates, and whose beauty — when it emerges — carries a truth that is overwhelming.

When I founded NEOJIBA, it wasn’t just a social or musical project. It was a reunion with that Brazil. The collective Brazil. The resilient, creative Brazil. The Brazil that transforms. And that, despite all its wounds, still believes in music as a possible path.

The Brazil that plays within me is not in any score or musical genre.

It’s in the way I play.

In the way I listen.

And in the way I share.