Glenn Gould 首先是个钢琴家，他的独特的风格和对音乐的解释使他成为人类伟大的钢琴家之一。因为他最喜欢巴赫，有人把他当成巴赫的专家，尽管他的巴赫也许和最真实的巴赫相差甚远。巴赫造就了他，他改造了巴赫。
而我最感兴趣的，并不是一个热爱巴赫的钢琴家，而是作为一个艺术家的Gould。 除了弹钢琴，Gould 还是一个作曲家，指挥家，艺术评论家，作家和一个隐居者。他的一生都在和各样疾病挣扎。 他最为著名的录音是巴赫的《哥德堡变奏曲》， 而Gould自己，也是一首炫目的变奏曲。
- posted on 09/02/2007
- posted on 09/02/2007
Strauss Sonata Opus 5
It may be
some essential sadness
governed his heart;
and because his death
allowed no repartee,
he intended each note
a profound impiety
as he acted his life.
Music would prove
all he knew; music
would manipulate his
bones into other bones,
so he might renounce
so much of the world
and invent unworldly
order - was it love?
He seemed over-full
with life, seemed a
maker of sound
he already heard;
yet his thinking
took him out of reach
and his solitude,
His art was not
and, to some, a
default of essence
was the making
of his pride.
maybe feared, that
his guiding spirit
and some claimed
his will the root
of all our dreams,
though who knows
what is music and
what the human heart?
In his northern
solitude, made of
passionate trees, he
allured the absolute
silence into music.
Yet silence that
passed through him,
that he shaped
with meticulous ease,
must remain as we live,
as we are cut down,
as everlasting music dies.
Bach: Two & Three Part Inventions
The gills of a fish
and the lungs of humankind
breathe concentric, musical
will, harmonious and divine.
A dog asleep knows tranquil
ecstasy, and cows, who
claim no reason, prove
their wisdom, soundlessly.
The birds invent a
gentle symmetry; who would
tamper with happiness to
imitate their song?
From the lake, shore to
shore, the stars all seem
predictable, yet clearly
some order is their will
and their companion. Thus
every human masterwork
is only a beginning, perhaps
the outset of timelessness, as
it pours invention upward
like apprentice to the dew.
Yet our music gives beauty
a name, while fish divide
deep darknesses and music
is what they are, but nothing
they desire. Today life is
music, the earth convinces me.
Byrd: First Pavane and Galliard
If darkness be light invisible,
or want of light that conspires
greater darkness, each notion
of art knows no love 's fibre.
The moon 's dark quarter becomes
another moon, and silences dream
one another among the living, among
the unreachable dead. Even the sentient
stars cannot heal this wound in the
universe; and even those who aspire
with love shall be neither water
nor sky but silence, veined of silence,
and perfect only because they die.
But in darkness every sound is
true, and imagination, willed or
made of will, flows like cosmic blood
where light is spent. Souls, whatever
they are, overlap on spirit, on the
crisscross dance of nothing and idea.
We are naked of purpose here, we
carve our meaning in sound, though
music makes no shadow, even in pure
light. Each sound dies superfluous to
silence, dies nothing before our brief
wisdom dies, perfectly this and
imperfectly that, perhaps eternal.
Schoenberg: Klavierstücke Opus 11 & Opus 23
Words would sleep,
if we let them,
and make no sound; they
would hear us cry the end
hear us dead and leave
no mark, no meaning.
would steal our secrets
and tell us none
of their own. So,
wordless, we must talk
of things we do not
the earth verbatim
for music, for sound.
should we fingertip
each sound ungraciously,
the silences would rebel.
No doubt that art,
are nothing to
nature; who knows
cares for us at all?
Mozart Sonatas Reconsidered
Was it art or hypothesis
he took music for? Was it
music intended or music found out
he played? Did he hear a clock
in the vein of a flower, or did
he discover order not his own?
To be creative is to be oneself.
This is not easy: one must
take doubt for certainty. And
rebellion, for reasons true or
profane, and rather than rote,
still betrays the earth with
vanity. We own no music; no
wonder he paused, confirmed,
before he made a sound. And sound
was his biography as he pointed
there, not here, and took on this
world. It was not logic nor
madness, the extremes were
available, and each moment offered
everything he knew. Each instant
he spoke his lifetime, yet
something that did not exist
before, something more.
We cannot assume the man
and music were one; the grasses
endure through seasons on his bones.
What music he reshaped remains
forever what it was, and, because
he tried it, forever not the same.
The Art of the Fugue
Knowledge that stays forever
when music subsides, not consensus,
touches each note into ecstasy,
and the everpresent tense of art
shows off, sublime, its genius:
sound that is question and answer,
sound one finds with only the heart.
What the tongue cannot speak, these
wondrous permutations do; where
flesh cannot walk, these sounds
touch on snow, and footsteps follow
these harmonies forever. In this place
he knows again what he hears, he
knows that he knows, he is maybe very
lonely. He lingers precisely, places
an atom of thinking to foreshadow
a sound; and each sound endures
this world as if unborn. He touches
vague perfection to make a sound,
perfection jealous of echo until
he makes another; no clarity more
is spoken, no nuance taken away. In
some way free of mortal intention, this
clarity gives him the ultimate joy,
surprise; it inspires him also to sing.
After Hearing the Brahms Ballades
Toronto makes awakening noise
on St. Clair West. The morning
coffee hangs contrapuntal scent
over chatter in restaurants.
In that building, like an actor,
he played every part: he played
himself. He was something more than
alive and, dead, he knows the great
void that no earth can fill, for
death is always keen to pluck a body
from thinking, from posture and idea.
He was not less wounded if he did
not speak his wounds. No doubt he was
always the age of his pain; and demons
around him lived their demon lives,
like all fickle things that torment
us unending. And dextrous of hand,
precise of mind, perhaps he was not
wise and somehow made himself die. Or
maybe he could not assume the good
of this world, as he could not deny
the beauty in it, and maybe this age,
so splendid of mediocrity, was heir to
his echoes of summer. Still, for some,
this world is happiness and what
bleeds is alive until it bleeds no more,
no matter the farce of perfection
because we speak all the sorrows and we
die. His life was a life no one could
foretell, like pure experience that
emerges through textures of lakeside
morning mist. And who knows why we pray,
why in our bliss every torment speaks?
At the Grave of Glenn Gould
It's an ordinary place,
for death is ordinary.
The grass is cut,
it's a tidy place.
The trees, too far apart,
cast no shadow on your name;
nearby, a squirrel, a robin,
and, at another grave, mourners
who mourn a death the first
time. Overhead, some Canada
Geese make petulant sounds.
The sun is unmerciful today,
and so is death. The whole
place seems to yawn as if,
for reasons beyond reason,
the dead are quite bored with us.
Were you ever bored, alive?
Did mastery make you weary?
Did you ever dare tread where
you might make mistakes? The
naysayers said no, and so
many made of water, fire, earth,
and air asked too humbly of the
stars what each day would be;
no wonder you and the world
went separate ways.
Still, I look for something
more on your grave. Was
perfection too painful where
no one might see your ecstasy?
You wouldn't be part
of the world unless you
had your way; you sang perfect
in much but not imperfection;
you doubted where music gave
over to dance and dance
to madness, disorder.
You marvelled at secrets,
wanted no secrets, and you
lived a secret life. You
seemed too cautious to weep
and defied emotion the best
you could, as if the heart
intended some clarity of brain.
But each life remains unlived,
unrealized; and as I leave,
I make only footsteps, only
a passing shadow. You
died at fifty, and I, at
forty-nine, like most of this
world, have not been true to
all that is true in me.
- posted on 09/03/2007
- posted on 09/03/2007
3）Gould说过，他如果没有成为一个钢琴家，就会成为一个作家。 他制作了很多电视广播节目。其中最有名的一个节目叫做：“北方的理想”。这是对加拿大寒冷的北方以及那里的居民的赞美。北方对他来说，是大自然，是勇气，是道德，象征着纯洁和不朽。我读了苦瓜和Lucy 的阿拉斯加，就想到了Gould 的北方。Gould 的北方和他的巴赫一样感动我。
"I was fascinated by the country as such. I flew north from Churchill to Coral Harbour on Southampton Island at the end of September. Snow had begun to fall and the country was partially covered by it ... this flat, flat country frightened me a little, because it just seemed endless ..."
"I always think of the long summer nights, when the snow had melted and the lakes were open and the geese and ducks had started to fly north. During that time the sun would set but, when there was still a last shimmer in the sky, I would walk out to one of those lakes and watch those ducks and geese just flying around peacefully or sitting on the water, and I felt that I was almost part of that country, part of that peaceful surrounding, and I wished that it would never end."
"You know what one young fellow told me? He was taking -- I forget what he was taking -- probably philosophy. He said this was the myth of Sisyphus. Matter of fact, he lisped but I didn't, I think. And the fact is that he had quite a time with it, and here was some wretched -- who? King? was it a king? Yes, a king of Greece -- Corinth? Well, might have been Corinth, and here he was, rolling this confounded rock up to the top of this precipice, for some reason or other, and then he let gravity take over and it hit the bottom. And then he did the same thing again, no doubt with a larger rock."
"There's the outside world and there's a barrier -- the barrier may be lack of road or maybe eight or ten miles of stormy water, whatever, it is a barrier creating the state of isolation. On the other side of that barrier there is the rest of the world.. Now, everything in the outside world that's trying to get in, if it were all good, all desirable, of course isolation would be a terrible thing..."
"[Faulkner's] novels are universal in that they deal with the universal problems of the human soul or, as he preferred to call it, the human spirit. But if you can interpret these problems in terms of a strong local region, you can do it much more surely and much more convincingly. Well, let me put it this way; perhaps "The Last Supper" is as great an abstract work of art as anything produced."
"In a certain sense, of course, Newfoundland itself is a fantasy..."
"I could tell you some very interesting stories about some of these people. I knew two brothers who lived there in that area, one on one side of the point, the other on the other, about 100 yards apart, and I don't suppose one of them visited the other in twenty years, just stayed apart, no animosity mind you, no animosity, friendly, and they didn't ask for help from the other one. Both of them had large boats, 30 - 40 ft, boats; they would get these out of the water in the Fall, repair them themselves, requiring help but yet they would do it themselves, they were that type. And you know the interesting thing about it, the follow up? I buried the both of them the same day, one on one side of the point, the other on the other. The ashes of one on one side of the point and the body of the other on the other side.."
"I suppose I see it through slightly rose-tinted glasses now and I see it in a sense as a romantic sees it and as a sentimentalist sees it ... [but] you can't seal these places off and make museums out of them. The impact of modern technology is bound to be felt."
"You can't build an island of holiness in the middle of a city…"
"The breakdown of the historic, ethnic Mennonite kind of existence, in view of their relatively recent concern for being in the world in order to evangelize, is also, at the same time, the road that will lead them away from that which they have been and, in many cases, that which they have called cardinal to their own existence."
- posted on 09/03/2007
Glenn Gould, facing a string quartet on stage in an empty hall, with parts for his String Quartet, Op. 1 on the music stands. 196?
Glenn Gould, Howard Scott and a CBS recording engineer, listening to tapes of the String Quartet, Op. 1., n.d.
Glenn Gould, playing the piano during his lecture on Arnold Schoenberg at the University of Cincinnati, 1963
Glenn Gould as Theodore Slutz, 1980
Glenn Gould as Sir Nigel Twitt-Thornwaite, 1980
Glenn Gould as Karlheinz Klopweisser, 1980
Glenn Gould, wearing a cap, overcoat and galoshes and sitting in the doorway of a caboose for a CBC publicity shot for The Idea of North, n.d.
- posted on 09/04/2007
- posted on 09/06/2007
我觉得古尔德的这个录像和你贴的那几幅画很象. 我很喜欢这个录像. 虽然是古尔德在家里的练习, 不是表演,但确非常inspiration.
另外, 提一下我前一阵偶然发现的自立写的诗"倾听古尔德", 了解他的特殊感受.
- posted on 09/06/2007
- posted on 09/06/2007
- posted on 10/13/2007
晚年的古尔德和Patricia Rideout (另一位加拿大出生的歌唱家)表演的交响诗(tone poem)-苏格兰狂想曲(Scottish Rhapsody, from Facade Suite).
而我最感兴趣的，并不是一个热爱巴赫的钢琴家，而是作为一个艺术家的Gould。 除了弹钢琴，Gould 还是一个作曲家，指挥家，艺术评论家，作家和一个隐居者。他的一生都在和各样疾病挣扎。
- RE: 有关Glenn Gouldposted on 05/22/2013
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