Lara St. John had her own story about sexual abuse in classical music. What she didn’t know was how widespread it is.

NEW YORK — In 2019, Lara St. John came forward with an accusation against Philadelphia’s Curtis Institute of Music that shook the music world. The renowned solo violinist recounted how in the mid-1980s, at age 14, she was sexually assaulted and raped by her teacher, famed violinist Jascha Brodsky.

She repeatedly reported what happened to the school’s leadership, both at the time and years later, and was ignored.

Today, five years after going public with the allegation in an Inquirer investigation and receiving a belated apology from Curtis, St. John’s life is greatly changed. She says she came to realize who her real friends were and weren’t, and has become interested in taking only certain kinds of concert appearances.

Perhaps most startling, her relationship with the music to which she’s devoted half a century of her life — she started playing at age 2 — has been ruptured.

“I no longer listen to classical at all. I think from all the knowledge [of abuse], it’s just kind of soured,” she said in a recent interview in her Manhattan home.

There’s one thing taking her story public hasn’t changed, she says — not to the extent she had hoped: how the power imbalance in classical music keeps fostering a culture of sexual abuse. After The Inquirer published her story and in the years since, St. John has received hundreds of accounts from women, plus a few from men, sharing their experiences.

“I definitely did not know that it was this widespread,” said the Canada-born St. John, 53, who played her first concert at age 4. “I’ve heard from people all over the world, mostly about sexual abuse and harassment in schools and orchestras, but also psychological and physical harm done to people as children, students, and even employees of classical music institutions.”

And then it occurred to her: “I need to get these people’s stories heard. … And I thought, ‘Well, look, I’ve got cameras. I can take a train, I can take a plane. I can do this.’”

The fruit of that labor is a film she and producer Patrick Hamm are in the process of finishing and getting onto the film festival circuit. Dear Laura, a full-length documentary, explores not just St. John’s experience at Curtis, but also those of others at schools and in orchestras internationally.

So far, the film has only been shown in rough-cut form to viewers in focus groups, sometimes drawing surprise at this dark corner of the classical music world. “I’ve had people say, ‘Oh my God, I just thought it was beautiful music.’”

» READ MORE: Abused, then mocked: Acclaimed violinist says she was sexually assaulted by her renowned teacher at the Curtis Institute, then disregarded when she reported it.

St. John’s struggle for resolution didn’t end with the story’s publication in July 2019. About an hour after it appeared online, Curtis told students and others in the Curtis family to “refrain from discussing this matter publicly, online, or on social media” — a directive that drew immediate criticism for promoting the same culture of silence around sexual assault that produced the abuse in the first place.

Curtis quickly apologized for that move. Four months later, the conservatory commissioned law firm Cozen O’Connor to investigate St. John’s complaint. In addition to finding her accusation credible, the law firm’s report said Curtis’s response “reflected a lack of compassion and a lack of understanding of the dynamics of sexual abuse of a minor in the institutional setting.

“In some instances, validation and apology, coupled with a comprehensive commitment to learning from past lessons, may be the only remedy available to such an individual.

“Even as late as 2019,” the 2020 report said, “Curtis did not appreciate that such an approach may have been the only meaningful recourse it could have offered to St. John.”

After the report, Curtis finally did issue apologies, both a public one and a personal one to St. John.

“You were 14 years old, living far from home, when you were entrusted to our care during the 1985–86 school year. You and your family had a right to expect that we would keep you safe from harm. Yet we failed to do so, and we refused to credit your claims when you came to us to help,” Curtis leaders wrote to St. John. “None of this should have happened to you, Lara, and we are profoundly sorry that it did.”

The letter was signed by board chair Deborah M. Fretz and president/CEO Roberto Díaz, both of whom still lead Curtis.

Curtis changed some of its policies, like ending the practice of students taking lessons in the homes of its teachers.

It also established a trauma fund to provide free counseling for any member of the Curtis community who has experienced sexual abuse; set up reporting hotlines and deepened relationships with Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN) and Women Organized Against Rape (WOAR); created a Young Alumni Fund to assist those who may be experiencing career obstacles; hired a Title IX coordinator to lead the school’s human resource initiatives and foster “a safe and welcoming environment” for the entire Curtis community; “addressed and improved” the school’s culture regarding issues like student-teacher power dynamics, mental health, and equity and inclusion; provided training and resources for the community to foster a welcoming environment for all; and created “stronger and more effective” policies aimed at preventing harassment, sexual assault and retaliation.

The school publishes an annual “outcomes report” with a certain amount of information about sexual misconduct reported in the prior year as well as the actions taken in response.

These changes and others “have made Curtis an incredibly safe and nurturing place,” the school said in a recent statement to The Inquirer.

Curtis attempted a rapprochement with St. John. She’s not interested, and has asked her alma mater to drop her from its alumni association.

“I think the only thing they feel sorry about is that they got found out, that it finally became public,” she said.

St. John says didn’t know what to expect before going public, “and I guess in a way, I was pleasantly surprised that about 95% of all the reactions everywhere were not negative — like, ‘thank you for doing this.’”

But what has disturbed her is that even though the classical music industry by and large believed her, some former students of Brodsky have continued to list his name in their artist biographies.

“So that tells me that it’s more important for them to have this supposedly very hallowed teacher at this supposedly very hallowed institution on their stupid bio than it is to support a survivor of child rape. And that really makes me mad.”

Brodsky, who came to Curtis in 1930 as a student and taught there for decades, died in 1997.

St. John entered the role of documentary filmmaker with a deep well of common understanding, which allowed her to gain the trust of interviewees — some of whom initially granted interviews insisting on anonymity but who later agreed to be identified.

“It’s hard as hell to do, as I know well,” she said of putting your name to an allegation, “but I think it was a little bit [from] people seeing me do it and just kind of [thinking], ‘well, she’s not dead.’ Eventually everybody used their own voice, and for me that’s going to make it pack a solid punch.”

One of the big risks of going public was the career question — whether it would hurt bookings for St. John, who has recorded and toured widely as a soloist, and whose playing has been cited for its “brilliant ferocity” by the New York Times. The effect is hard to measure. Eight months after the initial story was published, COVID hit, and performances were shut down worldwide.

Plus, the violinist now feels the pull of an additional consideration guiding decisions about which solo appearances to accept.

“It’s kind of hard because I can’t go to this orchestra because I know about the conductor or the principal trumpet. I know too much about this profession and so much that I can’t say because of libel laws. I don’t really know if I want to be in it that much anymore.”

Now St. John is at a different stage in life, with a new philosophy.

“The new rule is only do concerts if it’s really exciting, new, interesting repertoire or if it’s in a really cool, exciting place. So, for example, in November I’ve got a bunch of Tchaikovsky [concerto performances] — not exciting, but they’re in Mexico City with Sinfonia Rotterdam. So, that’s cool. Sometime next year there’s [Vivaldi/Piazzolla] Eight Seasons, which I’ve done a million times, but it’s in Peru. So that’s awesome.”

St. John says two factors made it possible for her to come forward: The #MeToo movement, and the support of her husband. In 2018, she married her longtime partner, Stephen H. Judson, who owns a Manhattan real estate investment and management firm as well as other companies.

His support allowed her to sell her Manhattan apartment, which has provided the film’s primary funding. The documentary also has some foundation and individual support.

St. John knows that independent films like hers don’t generally make money.

“What I care about when it eventually comes out is for people to see it and for awareness to be broadened about this situation … and I don’t care about the money.”

Ideally she’d like to present the film in schools with discussions afterward, but she’s prepared to not be embraced in certain quarters.

“I’m not stupid — obviously this isn’t going to be shown at Curtis or the University of Michigan [where there have been several cases of sexual assault and misconduct in recent years] or any of those places.”

Despite a spate of allegations in the past few years, St. John isn’t sensing enormous progress in the classical world.

“Stories continue to roll in. That’s why I think not a whole lot has changed,” she said.

And yet she continues along a path shaped by fate, and by her own persistence.

“The only thing to do for me at least is to just keep standing on rooftops and screaming my a— off. Because there’s just no other way, right?”