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St. Louis Institute of Music Throughout most of grade school and high school my sister and I studied piano at the St. Louis Institute of Music. Once or twice a week after school our mother, who studied voice there, would drive us to Clayton for our lessons. The Institute was housed in a rambling 3-story brick building that seemed to have been around forever even in the 1960s. It sat far back from the busy streets, perched on a hill and surrounded by a shady lawn. Before the 1920s it had been an orphanage. Our mother remembers an incident where a man walked into one of the classrooms and started looking around, saying he used to live there.

Inside, the sound of tinkling pianos created an atmosphere of happy industry. The wide, drafty halls were busy with people of all ages going to and from lessons. The two women who ran the business office personify my image of the Institute as a pair of great, welcoming arms. They would offer a sympathetic ear when it was needed, and once bandaged the fingers of a frantic student who had caught them in a door jamb while clowning around with a friend.

An alcove off of the second floor hallway led to a balcony overlooking the lawn, and directly across from the alcove were several benches and vending machines. This area became an informal lounge. My sister and I spent many hours on these benches reading, eating chips, or giggling with other students. Sometimes I would wander out onto the grassy lawn. From the outside, several low windows gave you a glimpse into the basement where the Art Publication Society printed sheet music. The presses hummed and clicked as sheet after sheet of paper flipped off the roller and sank into place. It was hypnotic. I never saw anyone down there, but occasionally a hand came into view.

The faculty at the Institute were an outstanding group who taught mostly out of their love for music, because they earned very little money. Some had second jobs. I tried to evesdrop whenever they congregated in the stairwell between lessons, for I knew they were discussing deep and sophisticated matters. There had always been several distinguished European pianists on the faculty, one of whom had been Leo Sirota. During my time it was Miklos Ivanich, a powerfully handsome man with thick black curls. People said that he had once been sent into forced labor by the Communists. My mother’s voice teacher, an elegant Frenchwoman, had sung in the Paris Opera and worked in the Resistance. We adored Miss Kopecky, our own piano teacher. She was lively and fun but could also be quite strict. When I think of those times I can almost hear her voice calling out the beat and reinforcing it by tapping her foot loudly against the floorboards. The exclamation “fingering!” also comes readily to mind. I rode home in silent tears one night after she had described her disappointment with me in great detail because I had barely practiced. Nevertheless, we knew that she loved us. Miss Kopecky was a favorite among her students’ fathers, and I imagine this had as much to do with her personal warmth as it did with her hour-glass figure.

One reason for the Institute’s wide-spread reputation for excellence was its requirement that all piano students study music theory as well. But the small faculty was spread thin; they also taught accredited courses to students from nearby universities. Thus my sister and I found ourselves in the unusual position of taking classes with college students - a sort of one-room schoolhouse effect. Music theory was a struggle, but it gave me an understanding of music that has stayed with me.

The Institute’s finances had long been precarious, and sometime after I started college in 1972 it was forced to close. The teachers dispersed and several of them started a small academy. The Chromalloy corporation bought the land, tore down the building and erected a sky-scraper. During the demolition process our mother drove over and took the sign bearing Institute’s address: 7801 Bonhomme Avenue.

Even now, when I am visiting St. Louis and pass by the intersection where the Institute once stood, I have to avert my eyes.

Miss Kopecky (whom we now call Wilma Utterman) has remained a close family friend.

By Sarah Sears 7801 Bonhomme Avenue St. Louis MO warning.pngEmpty strings are not accepted. Institutional Life 38.647945° N, 90.337803° WLatitude: 38°38′52.602″N
Longitude: 90°20′16.091″W