Elise Hills
Biography
Elise Jasmine Hills was born in the United Kingdom in 2001 and began playing the piano at the age of six, entirely self-taught, until she reached 17. She is now under the tutelage of some of the finest concert pianists of our era. Currently, Elise has finished her bachelors at one of the world's most esteemed music schools in London, where she studied with Professor Mikhail Kazakevich.
She has already made her mark in the musical world, participating in master classes led by Dorothy Khadem-Missagh, Pascal Roge, and Alim Beisembayev, Hiroaki Takenouchi, and lining up competitions, solo performances, and chamber recitals for the rest of the year. Elise has had the privilege of working with eminent pianists such as Pascal Roge, Dmitry Alexeev, Aaron Pilsan, Martin James Bartlett, Luka Okros, Can Çakmur, Gabriele Baldocci, and Mikhail Kazakevich. Her talent has not gone unnoticed; Pascal Roge praised her "natural musicality," even inviting her to perform for him in Nice, France. Aaron Pilsan describes her as "very talented and a careful listener."
During her formative years, Elise captivated audiences with her vibrant performances, described by one audience member as "grabbing the attention of every single person in the room." This experience has informed her perspective on music, motivating her to make it more accessible and appealing to a broader audience. Notably, Elise is the first-place winner of the International Competition "21st Century Talents." She was also a finalist in the Elizabeth Schumann Lieder Competition, where she collaborated with her musical partner, Johannes Gerges. This year, Elise was a Semi-Finalist of Essex Young Musician Of The Year.
Elise has started her concerto appearances this season with Mozart Piano Concerto No.12, K.414 in A Major with the esteemed Martin Tirimo, and up next is her debut with Camden Philharmonia with Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 3, Op. 37. Luka Okros sums it up by saying, "Elise is young, full of high ambition with fresh ideas, and possesses enormous potential.” This year, Elise has been performing the entire length of the UK, alongside performing internationally. She has given recent recitals in the Concert Hall of Sighet, Romania, and the Camel House Concert Hall, Lanzarote. Elise has had recent success in various places in Germany, where she visits Frankfurt twice a month to study with the eminent professor Grigory Gruzman and has been invited to Leipzig, where she will be recording on Franz Liszt’s and Edvard Grieg’s piano in January.
Apart from concertising, Elise has been invited to prestigious events and provided opportunities by the London Philharmonic Orchestra, Universal Pictures, UEG, and the Ministry of Culture to collaborate on her social media, where she has over 11 thousand followers. To name some of the events: Private Rehearsals, Red Carpet Premiere of Tar, Collaboration of Royal Philharmonic and Saudi National Orchestra & choir in the presence of the Saudi Prince and other important officials.
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It all began with weekly visits to my grandparents’ house. As a curious child, nothing could keep me still for long, and one day I stumbled across my grandfather’s keyboard tucked away in a spare bedroom. Like any child, I had to touch it, not knowing that this very moment would shape the course of my life. The connection was instant. From then on, every visit, my five-year-old legs would eagerly carry me up the stairs, straight to the keyboard. Before long, small melodies began floating down the staircase, reaching the ears of my family. I would imitate sounds I had heard and replicate them at the piano, piecing together my own discoveries.
Oddly, the music around me seldom resonated. The car radio often jarred with me, filled with the popular stations my family enjoyed. On occasion, during school runs, my father would roll down the windows and blast Mozart or other light classical pieces, leaving me embarrassed rather than inspired. Yet the experiences that moved me most came during the weekly school masses. At my Catholic primary school, I was exposed to music of a very different kind. Though I didn’t realize at the time that these were masterpieces of great composers, their warmth and gravity left an impression that lingered quietly within me.
Years later, when it came to choosing my GCSEs, music felt like the obvious path. My restless nature made the classroom a difficult fit, and I longed to explore my own ideas and imagination. Still, I sensed something was missing. That changed when I first encountered the analysis of Mozart’s symphonies, Handel’s oratorios, and Chopin’s preludes. That was the key—the key to the chest buried deep within my heart.
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I could never name a single favorite composer—it would feel like claiming to have only one friend. Still, there are a few who feel closest to me, each in their own way.
Schubert’s emotional temperament seems to move in step with mine; I hear myself in his music, as though looking into a mirror. Mozart, by contrast, feels like a mother tongue. His style and energy, playful, spirited, a little wild, come so naturally to me. Perhaps most surprisingly, I began reading music quite late and often struggled, yet Mozart’s scores always flowed with ease under my eyes and hands. Some might attribute this to the simplicity of the Classical style, but since Haydn never had the same effect, I’ve come to believe Mozart is something singular for me. My love for Chopin, meanwhile, grows endlessly—the more I play, the more I feel drawn into his world.
If I were to summarize: Bach is my hygiene, cleansing and grounding the soul. Mozart is my childlike and spiritual self. Schubert is my sadness, yet always carrying a smile. And Chopin is my nostalgia, my longing, my aesthetic heart.
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I’d say that Liszt’s technique fits very naturally under my hands, which makes his works especially fun to play. I also love the creative freedom he allows in performance—the essence of the true Romantic style.
That said, to return to what I mentioned before, I believe I perform Mozart’s music best. It feels like my musical mother tongue.
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A performance I am most proud of was my debut of a piano concerto. I had only two days to memorize and learn it before performing.
Those who heard me attempt it on the Friday evening were deeply worried and didn’t quite know what to expect on performance day. Of course, they encouraged me, but my closest friends were transparent. They strongly advised me to play with the score for Monday’s concert. Even my professor, who is typically very ambitious, suggested more than once that I should perform with the score or at least bring it onto the piano.
In fact, right up until the moments before going on stage, everyone around me seemed more anxious than I was. I continued to be advised to play with the score. But I decided against it. I knew what I was capable of, and most importantly, I believed in myself.
When Monday arrived, my mind was sharp and in tunnel vision, though my body swam with nerves. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage. In that moment, there wasn’t a single doubt in my mind. I played, entered a flow state with the music, and felt at peace as I breathed in the sounds of Mozart.
After the concert, I was met by friends, professors, and audience members who congratulated me warmly. Many complimented the performance, especially the second movement, describing it as “beautiful” and “lyrical.” One of my closest friends even told me that I had inspired her to memorize her own concerto, which she was scheduled to perform just a week later. That was a very special moment for me.
My friends and professors were stunned, the audience was pleased, and I felt an overwhelming sense of joy and pride. I had done it.
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I would say that my professor, Mikhail Kazakevich, has been the most influential musician in my life. His playing touches me on a profound level—it is pure, vulnerable, and deeply moving, qualities I feel are often missing in much of today’s performance style. At a time when many strive for absolute mechanical perfection, often at the cost of sincerity and inner temperament, his artistry reminds me that music must remain human and imperfect in the most beautiful sense.
What inspires me most is his unique approach to both music and the piano. His interpretations are always thought-provoking, opening new perspectives and ways of hearing familiar works. His encouragement has given me immense confidence and faith in my own musicianship. He has expanded my sound world, introducing me to new colors, unexpected ideas, and a rare sensitivity of expression.
Of course, pianists such as Horowitz, Hofmann, Rachmaninov, Gilels, Zak, and others stand as towering figures of genius and inspiration. Yet there is something fundamentally different between hearing legends on recordings and experiencing a living artist whose artistry shapes you directly. Witnessing Kazakevich’s music making in person, and being guided by him, has been invaluable—an influence no recording, however great, could ever replace.
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I find that inspiration often comes to me in simple, natural ways. I like to walk a lot, through fields, along forest paths, and by rivers. In what so often feels like a manmade world, walking allows me to feel like a guest in nature, and that shift in perspective tends to open my mind. My curiosity is always searching, and walking often provokes new thoughts and concepts.
Deep and meaningful conversations have a similar effect, and so does listening to old recordings or immersing myself in reading and research. All of these experiences feed directly into my music making.
For me, music should remain simple at its core. It is expression, nothing more, nothing less. Expression is a deeply sensitive form of communication, shaped by life itself. Music becomes richer as it absorbs what we have lived: knowledge, culture, joy, grief, love, loss, and everything in between. With this in mind, I believe that anything we experience in life, as long as we remain open to it, has the potential to inspire and refine our artistry.
Perhaps this is why many musicians seem to enter their prime between the ages of 45 and 65. By then, their expression is not only polished through years of practice but also deepened by wisdom, memory, and a wealth of human experience, while at the same time they remain at the height of their technical proficiency. It is a powerful combination.
I know that this kind of refinement takes time, but I always try to remain open to new experiences, to engage in conversations, and to learn from others. All of this is in the hope that my expression continues to grow and strengthen. For me, this approach to life is inseparable from keeping music making authentic and pure.
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My practice techniques usually consist of a lot of improvisation. This could be anything from random piano techniques, such as arpeggios, thirds, scales, or octaves, that eventually lead into the passage I am working on, almost like a prelude.
I enjoy experimenting with embellishments and playing around with passages for fun. Often, I make the passages more difficult by adding repeated notes or octaves, stretching the distance between my hands, or even closing my eyes. I sometimes change a tricky passage to even more challenging fingerings so that when I return to the original, it feels far more comfortable and natural. In this way, the passage becomes re-conceptualized in my mind, making it simpler to digest.
I will also take passages and compose new material out of their harmonic structure while trying to include some of the original material written by the composer.
When approaching a new piece for performance, I put it through rigorous trials. I practice it at an incredibly slow tempo, so slow that to an outsider it might be difficult to even identify what piece I am playing. I also practice certain passages very loudly and with great force, pressing deeply into the keys without lifting until absolutely necessary. Then, depending on the passage, I do the opposite—lifting my fingers as high and as quickly as I can.
In recent years, I have noticed that I rely heavily on my ears, both in performance and in memory. To strengthen this, I run through entire pieces by singing the right-hand part from start to finish, and then, as you might guess, I do the same with the left hand. I usually practice this exercise while walking, driving, or even on public transport.
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I have a few exciting projects coming up. On 29 November, I will make my debut with Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 3 alongside the Camden Philharmonia, which I am very much looking forward to.
In January 2026, I will have the opportunity to perform on the pianos once owned by Franz Liszt and Edvard Grieg. This is an incredibly thrilling prospect for me, and it promises to be a truly special moment.
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The greatest challenge I have faced so far is self-doubt.
Many things can bubble up from self-doubt, one of which is the unsettling idea that I might be perceived as a charlatan. I know I am not alone in experiencing this feeling, but it is still worth reflecting upon. I have battled with this doubt for years and continue to do so today. One of the ways it shows itself is in my fear of being recorded or performing for live recordings. The irony is almost comical, given that I have a well-established Instagram page filled with recordings.
The difference lies in control. On Instagram, I can prepare myself mentally before uploading, but when my music is in the hands of others, fear sets in almost instantly. The source of that fear is the pressure of presenting something as a “finished product.” Perhaps part of the problem lies in the recording industry itself, which often assumes a recording represents a fully solidified interpretation.
I am aware that I am still young, and no one can expect me to offer profound wisdom or fully matured playing. Yet there is a certain intensity, almost a toxicity, in the air I breathe—a pressure that pushes me toward impossibly high ideals. What anchors me is the trust of those closest to me. The deeper challenge lies in hearing things beyond my current physical ability. My ears are always slightly ahead of my hands, and so I cannot be satisfied. At times, it even feels as though I am cheating myself.
The fear of being seen as a charlatan is really the fear of showing my work in progress, presenting drafts before they reach the standard I truly want them to be. I need to accept that the bar is always rising and that mastery requires time and patience. This creates a painful inner conflict. For the most part, external opinions rarely sway me, but when they strike at my deepest insecurities, it can feel like salt poured into an open wound.
Over time, I am slowly desensitizing myself to this fear by immersing myself more deeply in the music I love and by gaining a greater understanding of it. That understanding provides me with confidence. I can rely on my integrity and my dedication to the discovery of each composer.
What helps me overcome this challenge is the realization that surrendering to self-doubt is like being blinded by the four walls of the practice room. The answers are found on stage. The music itself reveals the truth when placed in an environment of openness and receptivity.
It is a matter of ensuring that I believe in what I am doing and trusting that my constant efforts to refine my expression will translate to the audience. If they don’t like it, that is fine. At least I can have faith in it and know that I have been authentic.
So, ultimately, the greatest challenge I face is self-doubt.
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How do I calm my nerves? In general, I don’t suffer from them very often; they usually only arise when I am unprepared or when I have magnified the event with expectations, attaching it too strongly to my values. On the days when I do feel nervous, or when my brain is too hyperactive (which it usually is), I rely on a “meditation” technique I developed to channel my thoughts and redirect my focus.
I remember being in Romania, quivering in the wings just before stepping onto the stage. I hadn’t been that nervous before. Part of it was the dryness of the hall, but mostly it was because I had convinced myself that, since this was my debut in Romania, I would let both myself and the music down if I made a mistake in front of that particular audience. No pressure, right?
Somehow, in that moment, I came up with a technique that has stayed with me ever since. I close my eyes and tell myself to visualize objects, then I change their colors. Depending on my state of mind, this can happen instantly or it may take up to a minute. But once I manage to grasp that focus, I become fully present.
For example, I might tell myself to think of a blue square. Once I can clearly see the blue square, I change its color. Then I might change the object itself to a sphere (yes, I use both 2D and 3D shapes), or perhaps a truck, or even a monkey. Once I’m locked in, I can flick through these visualizations with the clarity of a flipbook.
At that moment, I think, “You’re ready. Go!”
I’m fairly certain this technique could work for others too—definitely worth trying.
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Considering that I am British, I believe giving a solo recital at Wigmore Hall would be a truly magical moment. Still, following in the footsteps of giants like Vladimir Horowitz, a debut at Carnegie Hall wouldn’t be too shabby either.
