From Bach to Stravinsky, Part III

Ayumi, from Korea but onetime resident of the States, began the third day with Pablo Sarasate's Carmen Fantasy. It put and puts me into a grouch. Its putative Spanishness may not be an assault but is certainly a blunt weapon, since countless composers are infinitely better at capturing the fine peculiarities and distinctions and ambiguities of folk music. Before it was mentioned that Sarasate composed it I had pegged it as a clumsy imitation of his country's folklore by a city-dwelling Gaul or Teuton. It's like watching Disney's Hunchback of Notre Dame for insights into gypsy culture. But, firstly, I suppose it's one of those pieces one must perform with wry flair, and then it sounds intelligent; secondly, I'm exaggerating; and thirdly even Beethoven was terribly off if he truly thought that his "Ecossaises" are remotely Scottish . . .

My grouch extended to the student, who basked in the smug and showy pretend-drama of the music, and was so satisfied by her own virtuosic prowess that she didn't seem to strive for anything nobler or to absorb the criticism particularly well. Which is human. But in my view a crucial part of being and growing as a musician is to work against character flaws that negatively affect performance, like vanity or unseriousness. These feelings can be merely distracting or outright poison, and must be dealt with sternly. (I suspect that some teachers are sadistically critical for that very reason, but I don't like this "remedy" for obvious reasons, and in my case such approaches, far from being helpful, transform me into a gibbering idiot.)

Anyway, Gitlis discussed inspiration and eventually got around to oblique criticisms. One of my notes was "crépuscule between contrasts," which interpreted means that there should be a gentle and gradual transition from piano to forte, for instance, just as day and night don't just change into each other at the flick of a switch but fade into each other, subtly. From there he went on to discuss feeling in music. He remarked, a little flippantly, that it's far better to have a tear in one's eye than to go about with eyes that are invariably dry. In an argument which anyone who has watched The Art of Violin will recognize, Gitlis addressed the the frequent criticism that Heifetz is "cold," saying that while he did not express much emotion outwardly, if one listens to what he actually played it is (in Gitlis's words) "pregnant with intensity and warmth." He also emphasized that suffering should not be necessary, and to illustrate its pointless extreme he spoke of Joseph Hassid, whom he seems to have known personally when they were children.

Returning to Ayumi's playing, he suggested a slighter approach; "if anything, don't play it so much" and instead "let it play you somehow." He went on to say that she should play as she would like to hear the music as opposed to how she thinks it should be played, and to "imagine it more" and experiment. In similar vein he observed that it's best to let the audience metaphorically search for you when you appear on the stage and begin to play, rather than to baldly declare your presence at once. Then — and I don't know if he was being sarcastic or not — Gitlis remarked of the Fantasy, "I never played this piece. I never played it because I like it too much." Finally he addressed technique and pointed out that her left arm was overly tense — I think that she tended to put too much pressure on the strings with the bow arm, which is bad not only for the tone, I think, but also for her joints and muscles — and that it's advisable to profit by the natural weight of the arm. (This was an extension of his attempts on the previous day to coax the students into relaxing enough to achieve a rubbery, limp arm, which is surprisingly difficult.)

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[YouTube: 1. Jascha Heifetz, Carmen Fantasy by Pablo de Sarasate, rec. 1924
(In my humble opinion, the most endurable rendition: mercifully if preternaturally swift, dry but not at all mechanical, and pleasantly quirky.)
2. Efrem Zimbalist, ditto
(This loyally interpreted version is, I suspect, close to what Sarasate had in mind.)
*
1. Jascha Heifetz, 1st Mvt. Scottish Fantasy in E flat major by Max Bruch, written 1879-80]

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Then Ha Lim took the stage to perform Bruch's Scottish Fantasy (which is incidentally dedicated to Sarasate and therefore a pleasing scrap of dramatic continuity in the masterclass). I had forgotten what it was and therefore racked my brains to figure out the composer, only concluding that it was purest Mendelssohn in stretches but overall not Mendelssohn at all, until enlightenment transpired. When the piece ended Ivry Gitlis began describing the view outside the windows of the Galakutschensaal as darkness fell, and when I and probably most of the audience was thoroughly bewildered, he stopped talking altogether. This time I'm pretty certain he enjoyed leading us along a woodpath, and then he proved that it was no woodpath at all by ending the pause to explain that it was oddly quiet considering that we were in the middle of the city. And, in a hushed voice, he asked the violinist to play again, to keep this quiet in mind and build the music on it. The result was great; to reduce it to mechanics, at least for that space of time the student evidently grasped what Gitlis had been saying about not forcing the music, taking one's time, and phrasing.

After this interlude of pedagogical mysticism it was a bit of a letdown to return to questions of posture — this time relaxing one's shoulders — but variety is after all the spice of life. And then Ha Lim's session was done and Simon reprised his rendition of the first movement of Tchaikovsky's violin concerto. Gitlis tried to get him to scrape with the bow a little, hinted that a touch of humour would not come amiss, remarked, "You play almost too well; I would like you to have a little accident from time to time," and wound up with the advice, "Don't be afraid to be afraid."

And then, before the masterclass series was conclusively over, Ivry Gitlis addressed us again. Though what he says doesn't come to mind now, for one thing he declared himself readily willing to return to the Musikschule to give another masterclass. And when the subject turned to general wisdom I think he repeated this message, "Don't be afraid to be afraid." It sounds to me like a warning against mindless conformity and excessive timidity, not only in the performance of music but also in our private and public lives altogether. And I think that it ties in with his overall approach to the masterclass, in which he tries to point out that beyond the prescribed routine and daily slog of music training there lie the profoundly individual qualities and work — experimentation and reflection, intelligence and feeling, etc. — which elevate a good musician to a great one.