Tetiana Shafran: Notes on the Program
“An overwhelmingly positive response”
Readers of these notes hardly have need of a reminder that all “great” music came about as the result of a composer’s most ardent, urgent response to inspiration, the whole of it tempered necessarily by hard study, obedience to certain rules of a particular tradition and pedagogy, and devotion to both emotional release and getting it all down on paper! Too often, as well, composers and performers have had to struggle with exceptional challenges in their personal and/or compositional lives, but, amazingly, still came through with music of great power. Stories about exactly that abound in music history.
We live right now, of course, in particularly challenging times. Great music seems especially welcome at the moment.
It would be wrong to imagine that today’s recitalist was chosen to open our 2024-25 season because of her Ukrainian background, but it must be acknowledged that she is a young artist currently living a life, in her native Kyiv, of immense challenges. Yet, the program that she chose for this opening recital is altogether, like each of the pieces comprising it, an overwhelmingly positive response to events currently hard to discern.
We will hear shining music, in the hands of a real virtuosa, from composers who largely had difficult lives. We might note in particular these biographical bits from today’s composers:
• Scriabin – severely injured his right hand from over-practicing, rendering it non-functional at the piano, yet wrote two beguiling pieces, to be heard in today’s opening, for the left hand alone
• Busoni – struggled to shake off his reputation as being merely a transcriptionist of Bach’s music
• Lysenko – was hounded by Russian music authorities because of his striving for an utterly Ukrainian ethos in his music
• Liszt – ah, the difficulties of being wildly, universally adulated
• Paganini – chronic illness, possibly exacerbated by a voluptuous life-style
• Ravel – not wanting to be called an Impressionist; strong bias against him in his early days at the Conservatoire
• Tchaikovsky – personal ambiguity about the musical style he most wanted to pursue, Russian or not; probable homosexuality in a very disapproving era.
Thus, Tetiana’s program is suffused with hope, with those “overwhelmingly positive responses” to terrible circumstances that can serve as not merely solace, but encouragement and delight in troubled times. You might want to know a few things about these pieces in order to enter into them a bit more deeply.
Scriabin
Scriabin isn't the sort of composer whom you'd regard as your daily bread, but is a heavy liqueur on which you can get drunk periodically, a poetical drug, a crystal that's easily broken. – Sviatoslav Richter
Passionately devoted to the music of Chopin, affected by synesthesia (perceiving certain colors when hearing certain pitches), hailed as a marvelous concert pianist, Scriabin left a large catalogue of compositions, with many pieces unfortunately too rarely played. Happily, the opening of this recital gives us his famous left-hand-only Prelude and Nocturne, pieces of great technical demands and emotional depth. Scriabin wrote it in response to his having severely injured his right hand and wanting to continue his rising musical career.
It is music strongly planted in tonality, but goes into the extended harmony and intended dissonances that were to be expected from composers in the late Romantic period. The melodies ebb and flow, the harmony is all-embracing. Scriabin played this work throughout his North American tour of 1906 so often that he was often called “the composer for the left hand” in the press.
Busoni
The function of the creative artist consists of making laws, not in following laws already made. – Busoni
Busoni, of course, is most famous as a transcriptionist, particularly of the works of J.S. Bach, but he was equally a fine pianist, composer in his own right, and conductor. (There is a great tale that his wife was often introduced socially as “Mrs. Bach-Busoni.”) The Variations we will hear today fit the genre I have long called “a piece of music in love with a piece of music,” but they are also arguably profound and quite a feat for the composer and a tall order for the performer. There is a long history of Busoni having revised the set several times (the details don’t matter here at the moment), but the final version, to be heard today, delivers astounding variety and much more than mere flattery to Chopin’s original version. There are curiosities in the proceedings, including why he so significantly reharmonized Chopin’s themes in the very beginning of the piece (still quite odd to my ears after several listenings) and the inclusion of an introductory fugato (added in 1922) and an “homage-waltz” to Chopin in the finale. We all know Chopin’s original very well. Enjoy the ride!
Lysenko
Widely regarded as “the father of Ukrainian classical music,” with an astonishing list of accomplishments in his life (an advanced degree in natural sciences, a career in civil service, education in the Leipzig Conservatory, a vast compositional output, the founding of his own school of music and drama in 1904), Lysenko was a son of the political conditions in 19th-century Europe that spawned intense nationalism and patriotism, most of all in many important artists. One only has to think of Smetana and Dvorák in the Czech area, Grieg in Norway, Sibelius in Finland, etc., to hear again in one’s musical memory the vivid musical statements that spoke to the hearts of various peoples struggling for freedom and national unity.
Drawing extensively from Ukrainian folk music and devoting himself to the work of collecting, developing, and creating a uniquely Ukrainian musical ethos, rather than duplicating that of Western classical composers, he put forth monumental works (perhaps most of all his opera Taras Bulba) and was an unparalleled influence on his nation’s composers who succeeded him. His music academy in Kyiv was a supremely important gathering place for intellectuals, poets, and musicians in a turbulent time.
About this Elegy, one writer described it as “an homage to the fallen Ukrainian soldiers in Ukraine’s unfortunate war with Russia and defense of their nation.” History has a way of repeating itself.
Liszt
Truth is a great flirt. – Liszt
Liszt wrote only two Ballades for piano among the myriad pieces in his mountain of compositions and there is significant disagreement among scholars about the narrative that this Ballade “depicts.” (A ballade is, of course, ultimately narrative, a real story-telling in music.) Chilean-American pianist Claudio Arrau insisted that it was based on the Greek myth of Hero and Leander, but Italian-American pianist Antonio Pompa-Baldi insists that it reveals the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. Yet another writer claims another literary inspiration, Gottfried August Bürger’s Lenore. Perhaps we would do best in leaving aside the particulars of any of these epic tales and, rather, just listen attentively to the clear sense of story-telling (whatever tale we might imagine . . .) and revel in the sense of drama and opulent musical rhetoric with which it all proceeds. Here we can hear his exceptional practice of “thematic transformation” by which he achieved evocative moods of every description. This thematic metamorphosis, full of pounding octaves, sky-rocketing scales, and real pianistic pyrotechnics, is key to his manipulation of thematic ideas, his fusion of drama and lyricism, resulting in often breath-taking changes of mood and the synthesis of many opposing ideas.
So much could be said about the ominous opening theme and the highly contrasted second theme, a beautiful melody. But, soon we are on to an immense struggle of harmonies, melodic fragments, and fanfare-like motives, all delivered in knuckle-busting ultimate pianism, all meant to add heft to the story-telling. We hear all the things that we expect in one of Liszt’s major works – the thundering octave passages, arpeggios in floods, overly poignant melodies breaking through, a cantabile, grandiose exultation – only to arrive at the end with a hauntingly enigmatic ending.
Liszt wrote the Second Ballade in a time of great turmoil in his personal life, shortly after he had separated from his mistress of many years, Marie Comtesse d’Agoult. He called his first sketches for the First Ballade Dernières Illusions (Last Illusions.) It is interesting to note that he originally wrote two fortissimo endings in the autograph of the Second Ballade, but finally opted for the quiet ending to be heard today.
Paganini-Liszt
“What a man, what a violin, what an artist! God, what suffering, what misery, what tortures in those four strings!’”
Franz Liszt in a letter to a student after hearing Paganini play in Paris, April 1832
Purists and elitists may balk, but it says something about a tune’s staying power if, almost 200 years after its composition, it pulsates through countless sets of AirPods as prelude to a chart-topping K-pop song, delighting tweens and teens across the globe! Granted, not everyone in this audience would be equally charmed by the South Korean K-pop band Black Pink and their use of “La Campanella” in their song “Shut down,” but for us, there is Liszt’s delightful transcription of Paganini’s original.
“La Campanella” (“the little bell”) took inspiration from the final movement of Paganini’s Violin Concerto no. 2 in B minor – where a small handbell is incorporated to add to the Romani-music feel of the harmonics. Liszt was only twenty years old when he heard the almost fifty-year-old Paganini play in Paris and was so impressed by his wizardry at the strings that he would spend the next twenty years of his career trying (and succeeding!) to achieve the same level of jaw-dropping virtuosity at the piano.
The version of “La Campanella” popularly performed nowadays was only published after Liszt’s retirement as touring virtuoso and underwent substantial revision from its first inception in 1839. Initially conceived as an étude – containing some standard technical exercises such as fast repeated notes, chromatic scales for strengthening weak fingers and interlocking octaves – it gradually evolved into the bravuro show-stopper finalized in 1851. Despite the lightened texture and reduced technical complexity, the artistry required to convey the elegance is no less demanding. It is not easy to appear effortless and at the same time to maintain the scintillating effects!
Ravel
Inspiration – “the process of being mentally stimulated to do something,” if the Oxford Dictionary is to be quoted – doesn’t always come from watching another virtuoso or being visited by the muse. Sometimes, the driving force behind exceptional creative work is … the dangling carrot of potential prize money. In 1903, the struggling Anglo-French magazine Weekly Critical Review invited composers to submit the first movement of a piano sonatina, no longer than 75 bars, for the chance to win 100 francs. Ravel entered (under a pseudonym, an anagram of his name, “Verla”) but sadly, the magazine went bankrupt shortly after and the competition was cancelled. Nevertheless, the seed was planted – and Ravel continued to dabble with his Sonatine, eventually expanding it to three movements by 1905. In doing so, he had created a brilliant homage to late eighteenth-century musical elegance and his Sonatine would go on to become an exquisite example of his unique craftsmanship.
The first movement of the Sonatine is a textbook example of sonata form (exposition, development, recapitulation), albeit colored with Ravel’s signature harmonic language. Distinctly present is the recurring motive based on the interval of a descending fourth (“Adeste Fideles,” the “Hallelujah Chorus” or the catchy riff from Queen’s “Under pressure” for those who need a refresher on their aural training).
The second movement, a graceful minuet, pays homage to the baroque dance form, minus the trio, perhaps in keeping with the abbreviated form of a sonatina. Ravel is said to have indicated that it should be played sensitively, “but not overly refined.”
The virtuoso, toccata-like final movement begins with flashy passagework, fast-moving broken chords, and a fanfare motive. We hear Ravel the modernist step forward with a section in alternating meters, shifting restlessly between the unusual 5/4 meter and a traditional 3/4 meter. It is also a strong tribute to the baroque French keyboard masters Rameau and Couperin, to whom Ravel felt spiritually connected.
“As far as the ballet is concerned, my God, I cannot decide. It is usually difficult for me to determine which are the best of my works. Everything seems equally good or is equally foul to me, depending on whether or not I am satisfied with a piece. In this case I will say only that The Sleeping Beauty pleases me in its entirety from the beginning to the end.”
Tchaikovsky in a letter to his publisher, October 1890
Ask any random, non-classical-music lovers whether they’ve heard the name “Tchaikovsky” and chances are that The Nutcracker or Swan Lake may be mentioned. The more snobbish among us may dismiss Tchaikovsky exactly because of its “mass appeal,” but in doing so deny ourselves the joy of his genius. For genius applies to a composer whose music retains an unmistakable, pulsating essence, even when it is stripped down from its original orchestral form and recast in a solo piano mold. Listening to Pletnev’s arrangement of the “Sleeping Beauty” suite is like meeting a second cousin and immediately recognizing your own face: We may be three times removed from Tchaikovsky’s original ballet, but the distinctive features are as present as in the original.
The Sleeping Beauty – the second of Tchaikovsky’s three famous ballets – was completed in 1889 and first performed in 1890. Based on Charles Perrault’s La belle au bois dormant, it features not only the standard princess-who-sleeps-for-a-century-and-is-woken-by-a-prince’s-kiss narrative, but also introduces a cast of visiting characters from other fairy tales.
As can be deduced from the quotation above, Tchaikovsky himself was (for once in his tormented, neurotic life!) very satisfied with this work, and although he expressed strong interest in having a concert suite published, simply couldn’t commit to which parts to exclude. A concert suite by the pianist Alexander Siloti (op.66a) was eventually published only several years after the composer’s death. It would take almost another hundred years (without a kiss) before the contemporary Russian pianist Mikhail Pletnev would attempt a solo piano transcription and succeed brilliantly in what the composer himself could not: Reducing the two-and-a-half hour ballet for full orchestra to a thirty-five-minute tour de force for piano.
The main question, when listening to the transcription, then: What is the essence of the original piece’s character, and how is this honored or retained in its new form? At the heart of Tchaikovsky’s music is depth and texture. The focus here is not so much on an exact reproduction of the work, but of a reproduction of its spirit and central subjects: color, movement, drama, the spirit of the dance, rich harmony, and soaring melodies. Pletnev’s arrangement makes some structural changes to the score, including shortening and condensing bars, as well as leaving out one of the ballet’s most recognizable movements – the Waltz! – yet it remains undeniably true to Tchaikovsky in all its sweeping, virtuoso glory.