--For those of you into music, I'd like to hear your comment.
****
Lessons From Beethoven and Life
By STUART ISACOFF
NEW YORK -- Beethoven is forever contemporary. In his own time, he pushed artistic boundaries so far that the formidable pianist and composer Muzio Clementi once asked him if he really considered a set of string quartets to be "music." "Oh," replied the indomitable composer casually, "they are not for you, but for a later age."
That story appears in Donald Grout's classic, "A History of Western Music." It has been told in several versions, but the theme rings true. Like Shakespeare, Beethoven continually opens a curtain on the modern soul: its struggles, dreams, and incongruities.
Thus bringing Beethoven's musical vision to life is not a task for the inexperienced. That's why pianist Andras Schiff, whose stellar reputation was forged on masterly interpretations of Bach, Scarlatti, Mozart, Schubert, Schumann and others, waited until now, at age 53, to embark on his complete cycle of all 32 Beethoven sonatas, played chronologically in small groups throughout the year at recitals planned in Ann Arbor, Mich., San Francisco, Los Angeles and New York. As the program unfolds, the ECM label is releasing the repertoire on discs.
The recital at Carnegie Hall last Wednesday evening -- which included the three sonatas of Opus 10 and the famous Opus 13 "Pathetique" Sonata -- was truly remarkable. The piano, as it thundered and whispered and managed endless shades in between, probed to the very heart of Beethoven: his tenderness, humor, desolation and rage. Naughty rhythmic syncopations stuck their tongues out at you. Passages that drove onward like pistons in a great transparent engine were interrupted by frightening silences. The performance was musically stunning.
"It was quite deliberate to leave Beethoven for now," he told me recently. "I find him the most versatile and complex of the composers I've played. Performing all the sonatas is indeed similar to an actor taking on all the male roles in Shakespeare. But it goes beyond that. I would include the sonnets of Shakespeare as well, because there are also very personal, intimate pieces.
"There can be a born Mozart interpreter, or a born Schubert interpreter," he continued. "But in my mind there is no such thing as a born Beethoven interpreter -- you have to learn how to approach this work, and much of that comes from life's lessons. Mozart is not really human: He's superhuman. Beethoven is one of us -- but the best of us."
Mr. Schiff had played some of these sonatas all his life. But learning the entire set was an adventure. Along with the scores, he studied the composer's conversation books, letters, manuscripts and first editions. "Luckily, we know a lot more about Beethoven than we know about Bach," he explains. "His life is documented because of his loss of hearing -- so much of it is actually written down. He was a deeply cultured person who read a lot and was very passionate about Shakespeare. He respected Goethe and Schiller, and loved Greek and Latin literature and art. So you have to follow him there. These all offer clues. Yet, each of us still has to come up with our own solutions when interpreting the music. If the D Minor Sonata is connected with Shakespeare's 'The Tempest' -- after which it was named -- well, you can read 'The Tempest,' but you still have to figure out what the music really means. I find that Prospero's monologues give me an inspiration about how to play the recitatives [music that follows the rhythms of ordinary speech] in the first movement."
In researching this repertoire, the pianist experimented with earlier types of pianos -- the rather more delicate instruments that Beethoven played on. "The sound of modern instruments is evened out from top to bottom," he reports. "Early instruments have distinct registers that don't sound remotely similar to each other. In that era, the composers wrote with this concept in mind. When Beethoven asks us to play on 'one string,' then on 'two strings,' then on 'three strings,' that is a change of sound that is totally alien to contemporary instruments. Also, the bass strings on an 18th-century or 19th-century piano are much thinner than the ones we use today, and even if you play with full force on those earlier versions of the piano, the bass is never going to overpower the rest. So one has to do a lot of rethinking and retouching to play this music on a modern instrument.
"Actually, in an ideal world, you would need almost as many pianos as there are Beethoven sonatas -- that's an exaggeration, but it's wonderful to have variety. As a rule, I protest vehemently against sameness, whether it is in music, our eating habits or our clothing."
Indeed, having been born in Hungary in 1953, this émigré to the West is acutely aware of the value of freedom. This may account, in part, for his growing sense of kinship with Beethoven -- a composer who practically lived to defy limits. "It's interesting that Beethoven, after the deterioration of his hearing, turned an obstacle into a virtue," says Mr. Schiff. "He was hearing sonorities in his mind that the instruments of the day -- and even the instruments of today -- are not able to produce. Over and over again, he asks us to make a crescendo on a sustained note, which is impossible. And yet he asks for it. His imagination transcends the limitations of the instrument. He does this in the symphonies and quartets as well. It's characteristic of his thinking."
One can find a striving to express things in a new way throughout Beethoven's life. This shows up particularly in the sonatas as they progress over the years, reports Mr. Schiff. That is why he performs them for audiences in chronological order. Yet, even the most familiar works can hold surprises.
"Consider the so-called 'Moonlight Sonata,' " he says. "Beethoven never called it that, and the popularity of this piece actually irritated him. He thought his F Sharp Major Sonata was better, but it was not embraced in the same way. I hate the name myself -- it's a kitsch name. However, this is a fantastic sonata. The first movement is playable by amateurs, but they tend to think of 'moonlight' instead of actually reading the score, in which Beethoven asks the player to hold down the pedal for the entire movement. Most players ignore this, saying it is not practical on today's instruments. But they never really give it a try. Beethoven was inventing sounds and sonorities that no one thought of before. Using the pedal -- raising the dampers so that the strings continue to vibrate -- allows sounds that do not traditionally belong together to blend into a cloud. He's going against the textbook."
There are other wonderful discoveries to be shared. In one of the last sonatas, Opus 110, Beethoven quotes a lament from Bach's "St. John Passion" -- sung at the moment when Christ dies -- as well as two folk songs: "Our Cat Had Kittens" and "I Am Down and Out." Once again, the composer combines the sacred and the earthly in one artistic statement. And of a famous line written in the score of this sonata -- "Must it be? It must be!" -- Mr. Schiff comments that it was not, as is often assumed, a profound existential question being asked by the composer, but rather a message to his publisher, who owed Beethoven money. "Must it be? Yes, you have to pay!"
Mr. Schiff admires some of the great Beethoven interpreters of the past -- especially Edwin Fischer, Arthur Schnabel and Rudolf Serkin -- but he is, by now, on a musical path of his own making, in a continuing process of evolution. "I learn new things all the time," he reveals. "I may not change something consciously, but life changes it, time changes it. Sometimes I come back to a piece after a rest and find that something I never noticed before now seems so obvious and logical." Which is what makes attending a recital by this eloquent, impeccable musician so endlessly exciting.
Mr. Isacoff is the author of "Temperament: How Music Became a Battleground for the Great Minds of Western Civilization" and editor of Piano Today magazine.
- posted on 11/01/2007
moab wrote:
--For those of you into music, I'd like to hear your comment.
****
Lessons From Beethoven and Life
By STUART ISACOFF
NEW YORK -- Beethoven is forever contemporary. In his own time, he pushed artistic boundaries so far that the formidable pianist and composer Muzio Clementi once asked him if he really considered a set of string quartets to be "music." "Oh," replied the indomitable composer casually, "they are not for you, but for a later age."
贝多芬的风格多异,敢于尝试前人未竟的禁区,很大原因在于他是历史上第一位“签约”作曲,不用为五斗米发愁,更不用担心自己的作品眼下没有听众:))
"Consider the so-called 'Moonlight Sonata,' " he says. "Beethoven never called it that, and the popularity of this piece actually irritated him. He thought his F Sharp Major Sonata was better, but it was not embraced in the same way. I hate the name myself -- it's a kitsch name. However, this is a fantastic sonata. The first movement is playable by amateurs, but they tend to think of 'moonlight' instead of actually reading the score, in which Beethoven asks the player to hold down the pedal for the entire movement. Most players ignore this, saying it is not practical on today's instruments. But they never really give it a try. Beethoven was inventing sounds and sonorities that no one thought of before. Using the pedal -- raising the dampers so that the strings continue to vibrate -- allows sounds that do not traditionally belong together to blend into a cloud. He's going against the textbook."
月光奏鸣曲最初取名Quasi Una Fantasia, Number 14, Op 27, No.2, 当初写给他暗恋的女学生Guicciardi,据说是一夜之间完成(类似于上网通宵聊天:))。 三十年后诗人Ludwig Rellstab听到此曲,立刻联想到Lake Lucerne的月色,于是擅自改名为月光奏鸣曲。不过我有怀疑,piano pedal的出现已是贝多芬的晚期,而这首早年作品不应有此要求。
- Re: Lessons From Beethoven and Lifeposted on 11/01/2007
谢谢分享! 但愿可以听到Mr. Schiff 的演奏!
http://space.wenxuecity.com/media/1193463307.wma 贝多芬: 月光奏鸣曲 (by Alfred Brendel) - Re: Lessons From Beethoven and Lifeposted on 11/01/2007
Comment? Beethoven is my man.
One is never too old to come back to Beethoven. - Re: Lessons From Beethoven and Lifeposted on 11/01/2007
谢谢转贴。这篇讲了钢琴家 Schiff 学习和演奏贝多芬的心得。对我学习钢琴演奏有帮助。不知还要听什么方面的 comment。
Op.27 No.2 我小时候弹过,不知道有 pedal 上的争议。不过,钢琴踏板很早就有了吧。WOA 所说的贝多芬晚期才出现 pedal,是在哪里听说的?
- Re: Lessons From Beethoven and Lifeposted on 11/02/2007
hoho, I have exact the same opinios with A Shan. - posted on 11/02/2007
阿姗 wrote:
谢谢转贴。这篇讲了钢琴家 Schiff 学习和演奏贝多芬的心得。对我学习钢琴演奏有帮助。不知还要听什么方面的 comment。
Op.27 No.2 我小时候弹过,不知道有 pedal 上的争议。不过,钢琴踏板很早就有了吧。WOA 所说的贝多芬晚期才出现 pedal,是在哪里听说的?
切,又是抠字眼的角色。我说有争议,就肯定有争议:))
儿子弹琴不到一年的时候,老师给他安排Sonatina in G, 结果还了几次课,老师发现踏板跟不上,就解释说贝多芬的晚年时pedal 才开始流行,他的原谱根本就没有踏板。 果然她就翻出一份正宗的谱子,说回家照这一份去练,不带pedal效果的。我的第一印象就来自于此。
另外,刚查了历史,1883 年Sustaining Pedal 才首次出现,也就是老贝十几岁的时候,再推算一段新技术流行普及的滞后,时间上应该大至吻合。
- Re: Lessons From Beethoven and Lifeposted on 11/02/2007
Something, anything. For example, how do you feel about "Mozart is not really human: He's superhuman. Beethoven is one of us -- but the best of us."
阿姗 wrote:
谢谢转贴。这篇讲了钢琴家 Schiff 学习和演奏贝多芬的心得。对我学习钢琴演奏有帮助。不知还要听什么方面的 comment。 - Re: Lessons From Beethoven and Lifeposted on 11/02/2007
Thanks for the link.
- posted on 11/02/2007
切,是你自己说错了,哪里来的争议呢。你们老师说 pedal 在贝多芬晚期才“流行”,你却说晚期才“出现”,然后自己又跟着文章后面说贝多芬“敢于尝试前人未竟的禁区”。贝多芬是最前卫的了。Even if 在他的年代踏板还未没出现,他也会去找人发明踏板,或者直接将踏板写在音乐中,等着它的出现。
另外,一个 obvious 的错误:踏板怎么可能是1883年才首次出现呢?1883年浪漫主义都快结束了。肖邦1849年就死了,他的钢琴曲没有踏板怎么弹呢?
我可以去问一下我老爸。他是修钢琴的,读过很多钢琴历史书(因为他以前是教历史的)。
至于那首小奏鸣曲没有踏板,这个我可不清楚。我去问问我的老师。
WOA wrote:
Op.27 No.2 我小时候弹过,不知道有 pedal 上的争议。不过,钢琴踏板很早就有了吧。WOA 所说的贝多芬晚期才出现 pedal,是在哪里听说的?>儿子弹琴不到一年的时候,老师给他安排Sonatina in G, 结果还了几次课,老师发现踏板跟不上,就解释说贝多芬的晚年时pedal 才开始流行,他的原谱根本就没有踏板。 果然她就翻出一份正宗的谱子,说回家照这一份去练,不带pedal效果的。我的第一印象就来自于此。
另外,刚查了历史,1883 年Sustaining Pedal 才首次出现,也就是老贝十几岁的时候,再推算一段新技术流行普及的滞后,时间上应该大至吻合(不要再逼我去翻书,否则要请教浮生了:)) - Re: Lessons From Beethoven and Lifeposted on 11/02/2007
阿姗大师,切切,咖啡店混了这么久,你了解我的毛病就是用词欠准,经常产生不应有的歧义:))
浪漫主义的年代大致应该是1750-1820,如果我没记错,是一本美国大学音乐教材上的。踏板出现的年代,等你把正确的找出来,我回头把那个提供年谱的英国人骂一顿。
(再读一遍,发现是我的typo, 踏板出现1783年,也就是贝多芬十几岁的时候)
- Re: Lessons From Beethoven and Lifeposted on 11/02/2007
乐谱上明明写着“Si deve suonare tutto questo pezzo delicatissimamente e senza sordino”,也就是说踏板要一直踩着。但是这只适用于当时的钢琴,现在的钢琴共鸣时间长多了,如果一直不松脚,最后只剩噪音。 - Re: Lessons From Beethoven and Lifeposted on 11/02/2007
hehe, WOA needs to read more carefully. - posted on 11/02/2007
嗯,刚才试了一次,一个踏板从头到尾,的确有不同的效果,气氛浓郁而神秘,并不是想象中的噪音。只是我弹了错音,都掺在一起,没法重头来,只好忍着。我弹的是立式琴,如果用三角琴在演奏厅里弹,又不知效果如何。贝多芬时代的钢琴声音很单薄,Schiff 也说要用贝多芬的琴来弹,更想听听。
弹完贝多芬,回头弹我正在学习的 Scriabin 夜曲,也试着用了大量踏板,浪漫多了。我老师总说浪漫作品应该多用些踏板。
今后要向 Schiff 学习,大胆尝试。
过客 wrote:
乐谱上明明写着“Si deve suonare tutto questo pezzo delicatissimamente e senza sordino”,也就是说踏板要一直踩着。但是这只适用于当时的钢琴,现在的钢琴共鸣时间长多了,如果一直不松脚,最后只剩噪音。 - posted on 11/15/2007
Update on 11/15:
In "letters to the editor", a reader pointed out that the famous quotation "Muss es sein? Es muss sein!" (Must it be? It must be!) was not written in the score of the Opus 110 piano sonata. Instead, it was Opus 135, Beethoven's last string quartet.
And interestingly enough, according to Karl-Heinz Kihlbert, curator of the Beethoven Archives in the Staatsbibliothek and considered perhaps the foremost Beethoven expert in the world, this off-cited quote, far from being a profound philosophical pronouncement on life, is actually part of an exchange he had with his landlady who wanted to raise his rent.
- posted on 01/30/2008
Beethoven's Summation
His Ninth Symphony crystallizes all he learned and lived
By STUART ISACOFF
In 1824, Ludwig van Beethoven, 53, deaf, cantankerous and increasingly world weary, bared his soul in a work so stunning in originality, scale and emotional power that virtually every great composer who followed has lived under its shadow. Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, with its final movement for chorus, four vocal soloists and orchestra set to Friedrich Schiller's poem "Ode to Joy," left so great an impact on the classical music world that a superstition arose in its wake. "It seems that the ninth is a limit," stated Arnold Schoenberg, mulling over the fortunes of Schubert, Bruckner, Mahler and other symphonists who never managed to complete a 10th symphony. "He who wants to go beyond it must pass away."
Beethoven's last symphony seemed to sum up everything the composer had learned and lived. A critic of his day described the music as filled with "never-imagined magical secrets." The piece has everything: Universes seem to collide; intricate textures give way to wild rhythmic contractions -- the birth pangs of a new musical art. There are long, exquisite stretches of heavenly repose, passages of punctilious counterpoint, and moments of earthy humor. There is even a Turkish band thrown in for good measure. And in the end, Beethoven delivers Schiller's ardent plea for universal brotherhood.
The conception is as modern and relevant today as it was nearly 200 years ago. Little wonder this was the work Leonard Bernstein chose to perform in the former East Berlin Schauspielhaus on Christmas Day, 1989, to celebrate the fall of the Berlin Wall, substituting the word "Freiheit" (freedom) for Schiller's "Freude" (joy). (The two words were as connected for Beethoven and Schiller as for Bernstein.) Earlier that same year, student protesters in Beijing's Tiananmen Square blared Beethoven's music over their loudspeakers as they stood up to armed Chinese troops.
The symphony's popularity has, if anything, grown over time. Last summer, I heard a performance at the Hollywood Bowl with Michael Tilson Thomas conducting the Los Angeles Philharmonic and nearly 13,000 people were in attendance; the previous fall in Turin, Italy, I witnessed the La Scala chorus and orchestra performing it in an ice-hockey stadium that had been built for the Olympics. There, 10,000 men, women and children sat motionless at the conclusion of the performance, then stayed long into the night to cheer the orchestra members and singers.
And yet, this music is not especially easy to comprehend. Composer Hector Berlioz admitted that in some ways it remained unfathomable to him. Nevertheless, he asserted, if in composing it Beethoven broke some musical laws, as some contended, "So much the worse for the law!"
These were new forms, new visions of what music could do and say. The composer had begun early in his career to construct his compositions out of small musical cells, which grew organically, as if governed by a kind of musical DNA. Now, toward the end of his life, he shattered the model, allowing elements of his structures to break free and move in unorthodox ways, blurring distinctions between endings and beginnings, forming strange convergences and unconventional resolutions. The music unfolds as a psychological drama in which themes are declared, wrestle with each other and, in the final movement, strive to re-emerge -- only to become subsumed in the flame of heavenly bliss.
There are parallels here with Schiller's poem, and with the poet's philosophy of art. Schiller later called his "Ode to Joy" "entirely flawed." Nevertheless, Beethoven, who had some trepidation about adding singers to his symphonic work (a radical move), had begun trying to set the poem to music more than 32 years earlier. He was clearly attracted to its sentiments, which were fully outlined by Schiller in a work called "On the Aesthetic Education of Man" (1795): Art leads man, in stages, from primitive sensuality to ultimate perfection -- to a state of freedom and joy rooted in morality. The process involves a series of oppositions and syntheses -- an antagonism of forces that results first in disintegration, and then in the creation of a new, joyful wholeness. This could almost serve as an outline for Beethoven's method.
Naturally, the Ninth Symphony has its critics, and chief among them is a new breed of musicologist who sees the organizing principle of Western art music -- its reliance on the gravitational pull of tonal centers, and the artful control of musical tension and resolution -- as a direct reflection of the male libido and its primal urge toward domination. One of the leading figures of this school of thought, Susan McClary, found in the opening movement of Beethoven's masterpiece the "murderous rage of a rapist incapable of attaining release" (in her article "Getting Down Off the Beanstalk"; she subsequently toned down the language for a reprint in a published collection, but the sentiments remained the same). In the last century, thinkers like Max Weber and Theodore Adorno, who set out this sociological approach to musical analysis, quickly reached an intellectual dead end. But it thrives today on many college campuses, where scholarly rigor often takes a back seat to freakish conjecture -- especially when this serves the ideological goal of reducing great works to the mere tinkerings of "dead white men." (The irony, of course, is that cultures producing music free of those tonal principles -- the presumptive ideal -- generally turn out to be the most historically oppressive to women.) Beethoven will survive.
The genesis of the Ninth Symphony was a request made to the composer in 1822 by the London Philharmonic Society for a new work. Two years later, when word leaked out that Beethoven was considering premiering it in Berlin, a petition emerged in his hometown of Vienna, signed by some of the city's most distinguished musicians and patrons, pleading with him to reconsider because only Austria "may claim him as its own." Beethoven relented. But it's safe to say that from Berlin to Beijing, Turin to Los Angeles, when we hear this remarkable music today -- and perhaps dream a little, with Schiller, of a time when the spirit of joy "reunites all that custom has rudely divided" -- we can each claim him as our own.
- posted on 01/30/2008
The Death Effect
The mystery of posthumous fame
By TERRY TEACHOUT
Is dying really a shrewd career move? Cynics, art dealers and humorists seem to think so. The French painter Jean-François Millet fakes his own death in Mark Twain's play "Is He Dead?" in order to push up his prices: "A painter has so much more talent when he's dead. Indeed the deader he is, the better he is." Dawn Powell used a similar plot device in her comic novel "The Wicked Pavilion," in which an unsuccessful artist touches up the half-finished canvases of a deceased colleague and passes them off as authentic.
Both of these examples are, of course, fictional (though Millet was a real-life painter on whom Twain hung his made-up plot). Nevertheless, it's not unusual for the reputations of comparatively little-known artists to take a sharp turn upward when they die, a phenomenon whose implications have been known to border on the tragic. In the last years of his life, Béla Bartók was so obscure that he and his family actually had trouble making ends meet. It wasn't until after he died of leukemia in 1945 that he finally came to be widely regarded as a great composer -- too late for the resulting royalties on his music to ease his earthly lot.
On the other hand, the reputations of many artists who were well known in their lifetimes have gone to the grave with them. Arthur Rubinstein was one of the most successful classical pianists of the 20th century, but his recordings, unlike those of his arch-rival, Vladimir Horowitz, stopped selling soon after his death in 1982. It was as if his charismatic onstage physical presence had been necessary in order to persuade listeners of the artistic quality of his exciting but sometimes slapdash playing.
What is it about the demise of an artist that so often triggers a reconsideration of his significance? In the short run, the Death Effect arises in part from the publication of obituaries that discuss the whole of his achievement, admiringly or otherwise. Most of us, after all, have a tendency to take the continuing output of long-lived creative artists for granted, in much the same way that a resident of New York City may never get around to visiting a local landmark like the Empire State Building. If you forget to read their latest novel or see their new movie . . . well, there'll always be another one. Their death is thus a natural occasion for editors to commission articles that seek to sort them out and sum them up.
Not only can such articles stimulate renewed critical debate, but they may also have the unintended consequence of bringing a freshly deceased artist to the attention of younger readers hitherto unfamiliar with his work. I won't be surprised, for instance, if a considerable number of people under the age of 50 who had never heard of George MacDonald Fraser prior to his death earlier this month should be inspired to sample his witty "Flashman" novels by reading the admiring tribute by Robert Messenger that appeared in Thursday's Journal.
Another aspect of the Death Effect is the undeniable but nonetheless macabre fact that an artist's death makes it easier for critics to sum him up -- and for dealers to set a price on his work. You can't trust a living artist not to lose his touch or change stylistic direction, much less to keep his output low enough to make it more valuable to collectors. Once he's dead, though, critics and catalogers are free to do their stuff, and what economists call the "scarcity effect" comes into play. One reason why Vermeer's paintings are so fabulously valuable is because there are only 35 of them. If there were 350, they wouldn't be any less beautiful, but they'd be worth a lot less on the open market.
Sometimes, though, the mills of the gods of posthumous renown grind slowly. The jazz pianist Oscar Peterson, who died last month at the age of 82, was a superstar for most of his long life. He was also prolific to a fault, releasing some 200 albums in the course of his seven-decade career. Now that he's dead, how well is he likely to be remembered by future generations? My guess is that Peterson's place in the pantheon of jazz is secure, but that once the Death Effect wears off, his reputation will enter a protracted period of eclipse. Why? Because it will take a long time for critics and scholars to sift through his vast output and decide what portion of it is worth remembering.
The good news, if you want to call it that, is that death, in addition to being a smart career move, also has a way of making frustrated artists patient. In his lifetime Gustav Mahler was widely regarded as a great conductor with an annoying habit of writing overblown symphonies on the side. He knew better. "My time will come," he said, and it did -- but not until a half-century after his death in 1911. Thanks in large part to the advocacy of Leonard Bernstein, Mahler finally became one of the world's most frequently played classical composers.
Too bad he wasn't around to cash the checks. - Re: Lessons From Beethoven and Lifeposted on 01/30/2008
心想事成。这几天一直在想moab好久不来了 :-) - Re: Lessons From Beethoven and Lifeposted on 01/30/2008
赫赫是我想起来快过年了有个帐要讨。
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