Introducing Marie François

Photograph by Bernard Rosenberg.

Listening to Belgian concert pianist Marie François, one has the sense of being gently drawn into another world.

At the piano, François approaches classical music as a living, breathing conversation. For her, the instrument is not simply a vehicle for technical mastery; it is a space where narrative, imagination, and human experience meet.

That spirit has carried her to stages across the world, from her native Belgium to audiences in France and here in South Africa. François has a rare ability to dissolve the perceived distance between performer and audience, often speaking about the music during concerts and inviting listeners into the stories behind the sound.

In this conversation, François reflects on the curiosity that shapes her artistry, the quiet discipline behind learning a new piece, and the emotional spaces she hopes to create at the piano. From late-night practice sessions to her deep connection with Chopin’s nocturnes, she speaks with disarming honesty about the life behind the music — and about why, even in a world of constant noise and distraction, the shared silence of a concert hall still holds extraordinary power.

By Khaya Mnisi

Photograph by Johan Jacobs

Let’s start at the beginning — for readers who may be discovering you for the first time, how would you describe yourself, both as a pianist and as a person?

I think, first of all, I am a person who happens to be a pianist. At least, that is how I hope to see myself, even though in reality it is often the other way around, and people immediately see the pianist before they see the person. But both matter deeply to me, because I believe my projects grow out of who I am as a human being.

I do not want to sit at the piano with blinders on. I want everyday life to be part of my artistic practice. A lot of that comes from my curiosity. I always want to understand, to know more, to explore.

I am also very active and passionate, and sometimes I can be so full of ideas that they almost overflow. But I love that sense of wonder. I really try to keep my eyes open to small things, to unexpected things.

From that curiosity and that passion, I go to the piano and ask myself what I can do with these six hundred years of music — how I can create something that feels fresh, something that maybe has not yet been done in quite that way within classical music.

I also want to move away from the idea that classical music is only for people who already know the codes. That is very important to me.

I try not only to do storytelling, but what I would call story-doing: bringing the audience into the process itself, letting them travel through the making of a project with me. And that process can be different every time.

So if I had to describe myself, I would say I am curious, passionate, and communicative. And I hope those things are also present in my playing. The kind of energy I have as a person is also the energy I want to share through music, with my audience.

Thinking back to your early years, who or what first shaped your musical world? Were there particular pianists, teachers, recordings, or even moments that influenced the way you approach music today?

In the very beginning, it started with my grandfather and my mother. They were the ones who first drew me toward classical music, because my grandfather played himself, and my mother taught me my very first little song. My father, on the other hand, was much more at home in the world of jazz, so through him I was able to discover that world as well.

I have only ever had wonderful piano teachers, I was very lucky with that. They did nothing but encourage me, motivate me, and help shape me into the musician and person I am today...

And of course recordings were hugely important for me. I remember that from a very young age, I would spend hours at night listening to music. I think that is where I began to develop my ear, even before I could fully understand or technically produce those things with my own hands. I listened so much, so early, that I already had a sense of the sound world I was searching for — the kind of quality, colour and depth I wanted to reach.

The pianists who influenced me most through recordings were very much from the older generation: Rubinstein, Novaes, Freire, Horowitz, De Larrocha, Argerich, Hofmann, Gieseking, Weissenberg—really that great old guard of pianists. I have always been a bit of a recording fanatic, so those artists left a mark on me for sure.

And then, together with that listening, my teachers absolutely formed me. I could name them all: Anne Camps, Joop Celis, Lilya Zilberstein, Alan Weiss, Polina Leschenko and Eliso Virsaladze.

When you’re learning a new piece, what does that process look like for you? Do you begin analytically, emotionally, structurally? I’ve noticed you sometimes practice late at night — is there something about that time that helps you connect more deeply?

Learning a new piece is such a personal process, and I think everyone approaches it differently. For me, it usually begins with the piece already living somewhere in my ear. I have listened to so much music over the years that very often I already carry the repertoire in my head — but of course that is only the beginning.

Then the real work starts. You still have to build the piece, almost like working with Lego: you may already see the finished house in the picture, but you still have to place each block one by one and figure out what fits, what works, and what does not. Piano is very much like that for me. So yes, it begins emotionally, because there is excitement and desire to enter a new piece, but very quickly it becomes analytical and structural. That part can last for months.

What I do enjoy is going deeper and deeper into that new world, and slowly feeling the piece become more and more your own.

And yes, I really do love practicing at night. I am not entirely sure why, but it feels as though I only fully wake up later in the day. At night my concentration is at its best, because I know nothing can distract me. I do not have to be anywhere, I am not missing anything, everyone is asleep — and somehow that quiet allows my mind to settle. That is when I work best.

Ideally, I would practice in a room with nothing in it except a piano and a terrible LED light — a completely bare, almost sterile space where all my attention can go to the music.

In your view, what truly makes a performance ‘good’? Is it technical precision, emotional honesty, connection with the audience — or something harder to define?

I have thought a lot about what makes a performance truly good, and of course there is no single answer, because it also depends on what different people are looking for. But for me personally, the first thing is always that I want to feel something. I want to be moved. I want to be drawn into a story. So in that sense, I would say that for me it begins with the emotional dimension.

What is interesting is that when I go to a concert as a listener, I am actually much less strict. I love simply receiving what is there and letting it come to me. But when I am the one on stage, my expectations of myself are extremely high. Because yes, I want to tell a story, I want the music to become almost tangible in an emotional sense, but I also know that this is only really possible when there is technical precision underneath it.

For me, those two things are inseparable. You can only be emotionally free if you are technically free. You can only really shape a phrase, take time, dare something, or surrender to the moment if your hands and your technique are secure enough to support that freedom. Otherwise, part of your attention remains trapped in survival.

So technique is never the goal in itself, but it is fundament, the “know-how”, because it is what allows you to serve the music fully.

And then something else becomes possible, which is the connection with the audience. For me, that is one of the most special things about live performance: the fact that there can be a real exchange of energy in the room.

I always say that classical music remains one of the rare art forms where people still gather together in silence, without a phone in their hand, without a drink, without constant distraction. You can have people in the same room who are completely different from one another — very young, very old, people from different backgrounds, people who do not know each other at all — and yet for a certain amount of time they all focus collectively on one thing. I find that incredibly powerful. There is something almost sacred in that kind of shared attention. And when a performance really works, it is not only about what I do on stage. It becomes something larger: an exchange between me, the instrument, the music, the silence, and the audience. And hopefully, on some deeper level, something happens there that you cannot completely define, but that everyone in the room can feel.

A typical day for a concert pianist can seem quite mysterious from the outside. What does an ordinary day look like for you when you’re at home — and how does that change when you’re travelling?

Every day is different, but every day in my life is centered around music in one way or another. At least, that is how I like it. I am definitely more of an evening person, so I do not tend to wake up especially early unless I have to. I usually begin practicing later in the day, which means that the earlier part of my day is often filled with the more everyday things, but also with creative thinking.

A large part of my work actually happens away from the piano. I spend a lot of time thinking about new projects, imagining how I can shape them, and asking myself how I can do things in a creative way. I draw a great deal of inspiration from other art forms as well — from photography, from books, from visiting exhibitions.

I think it is so important to nourish yourself with all kinds of art. I like to think of myself almost as a sponge: I absorb things constantly, and all of that eventually feeds back into the musical and artistic ideas I want to create.

So on a day when I do not have a concert, my schedule is often a combination of practicing, thinking, reading, looking, planning, and developing larger artistic ideas. And of course there is also the practical side: coordinating projects, following up on things, making sure ideas actually move forward and become real.

On a concert day, the rhythm is different. Then the whole day is shaped by the performance in the evening. I get up and usually begin by going through the pieces slowly in the morning, just to reconnect with them and settle into the programme. Then I prepare for the day, and I often like to arrive at the hall well in advance so I can try the piano, test the light, and hear how the acoustic responds. I want to get a feel for the space before the audience arrives. From that point on, everything is really in service of the performance.

So I would say that when I am at home, my days are more open, more exploratory, more about building and imagining. When I am travelling or performing, everything becomes more focused and functional — all the energy narrows toward the concert itself.

Photograph by Yoshie Kuwayama

I assume performing at a high level requires immense discipline and repetition. How do you maintain balance in your life? And when you’re not at the piano, how do you reset or recharge?

That is a very good question — and honestly, I have absolutely no answer to it, because I have no balance in my life [laughs]. I find that quite funny myself, because of course I would like to be able to say something wise and well-adjusted here, but the truth is that music tends to take over very often.

At the moment, almost everything in my life revolves around music. And I think part of the reason is that, for me, it feels bigger than myself. It is not just a job that I can neatly switch off at the end of the day. I find it genuinely difficult to let it go, because even when I am not physically at the piano, I am usually still thinking about a project, a programme, an idea, a phrase, or some new artistic plan that has suddenly appeared in my head at the worst possible moment.

So no, at this stage of my life I would not claim to have balance. I suspect I probably need it more than I sometimes admit.

Because you can get so swept up in the momentum of everything — and it all feels exciting and positive — that you do not even notice you are exhausting yourself a little in the process.

So perhaps this is the moment where I should invite the readers to send in their best advice?[laughs]

After a concert — when the lights go down and the adrenaline fades, how do you usually wind down?

A lovely question. To be honest, after a concert I am usually very energized, because there is such a rush of adrenaline. So I do not immediately switch into calm mode. I am often still full of the evening.

One thing I really enjoy is speaking with the audience afterwards and hearing their reactions. That moment of exchange after a performance is actually very meaningful to me.

What really brings me down again, is the journey afterwards. If I am at home, it is the drive back; if I am abroad, it is often a walk. Being on my way back from the concert hall to wherever I am staying helps me settle. It gives me space to replay the evening in my mind, almost like watching the film of it once more.

And then, once I am finally in bed, I do enjoy lying there and thinking everything over quietly. Usually those nights are quite late anyway, so there is something very satisfying about letting the day slowly come to an end. And ideally, the next morning, I sleep in and allow myself a little time to land again.

I recently came across a book discussing how each era reshapes music — much like the shifts from the Renaissance to the Baroque period in visual art. In your opinion, how is the current cultural moment shaping classical music and classical musicians? Have you noticed meaningful shifts or even quiet revolutions within the field?

I would say that every era changes not only how music is presented, but also how it is heard.

Today, we live in a culture of speed, fragmentation and constant stimulation. That inevitably affects classical music as well. Our sense of time has changed, our attention has changed, even our tolerance for silence has changed. And because of that, the experience of large-scale form, of harmonic tension, of repetition, of delayed resolution — all things that are essential to classical music — can feel very different to a modern listener than they might have in another century.

Your album Chopin Nocturnes has resonated with me a lot. What drew you personally to these works? What continues to move you about Frédéric Chopin’s nocturnes?

There is something incredibly free in his music, something intimate, poetic and almost improvisatory. Chopin himself said that his compositions grew out of improvisation, and I think you can still feel that in the nocturnes. Each one feels like its own small world, its own little story.

What moves me about them is that they are refined and immediate. They create atmosphere so naturally, they open up an emotional space almost instantly, and at the same time they have these extraordinary melodic lines and such a rich harmonic world. Sophisticated, but accessible. They invite you in.

I tend to fall in love with certain works or certain groups of pieces, and then they do not let me go until I have really done something with them. That was very much the case with the nocturnes. I had wanted, from quite a young age, to live in Warsaw for a while and immerse myself in Chopin’s world, and at some point I felt: it is now or never. So I decided to go, and I spent a month there studying, listening, absorbing, and trying to understand that musical universe better.

What fascinates me, is that this music was written so long ago, and yet it still feels timeless. So much changes in the world, but these pieces continue to speak to people.

And on the album itself, one technical choice that was very important to me was to have the piano tuned slightly lower. It gave the instrument a warmer, rounder, darker colour, and that resonated for me personally with the atmosphere I wanted to create for this recording.

Photograph by Johan Jacobs

I often describe the nocturnes as ‘haunting’ yet ‘soothing.’ When you perform them, what emotional space are you hoping to create for the listener?

When I perform the nocturnes, I am first of all trying to serve Chopin’s music as faithfully and as I can — to recreate that world of colour, breath and style at the piano. So I am not trying to impose something onto the music, but rather to enter Chopin’s sound world and let it speak.

What I do play with, though, is the space within that world: the breathing of a phrase, the timing of a pause, the way silence can carry tension. Sometimes a rest can last just a fraction longer, depending on the atmosphere in the hall, and that can suddenly create an entirely different emotional charge. I think that is one of the most beautiful things in this music — that so much can live in those small moments of suspension.

So the emotional space I hope to create is something intimate, breathing, and alive. But in the end, I see myself as a servant of the music. My role is to listen very carefully to what Chopin is asking for, and then to shape that as truthfully as possible in the moment.

For someone who feels curious about classical music but doesn’t quite know where to begin, what would you suggest? How should they listen?

I would say: do not start with the idea that you have to understand everything. Start with what you feel. Choose one piece, sit with it, and just listen openly. Classical music is not only for specialists — it is for anyone willing to be curious.

For me, listening is about entering a world: hearing the colours, the atmosphere, the tension, the breathing of the music. You do not need perfect knowledge for that. You just need attention, imagination and a little patience. And once you allow yourself that space, the music can open up in a very powerful way.

Finally, are there any younger or lesser-known pianists you feel deserve more attention right now?

To be honest, I find that a difficult question, because not every pianist is necessarily looking for the same kind of visibility or attention. Some artists are very public-facing, others are much more private, and I do not think recognition always means the same thing for everyone.

So rather than naming specific people, I would simply say that there are many remarkable pianists doing beautiful work, often in very different ways. And I think it is always worth paying attention not only to the most visible careers, but also to artists who are quietly building something sincere, distinctive and deeply musical.