My posts in English

A masterwork by Alice Sara Ott

After the release of a single in November 2024 and the commercial launch of the full album on February 7 of this year, accompanied by the dissemination on social networks of various video clips of diverse aesthetics, the articulate presentation to the world of Alice Sara Ott and Deutsche Grammophon’s project around Field’s Nocturnes has just been completed this Saturday, February 15, with the premiere of the film Alice Sara Ott: Nocturne, on Stage+.

There’s a lot to say about this fascinating album. Alice Sara Ott has been unsettling me for some time now—something I actually appreciate. I wasn’t lucky the first time I saw her; that day, she didn’t play well, and it took me years to connect with what she was recording and performing in public. However, with each step she took, my admiration for her kept growing. Perhaps I, too, have changed. Over the years, Alice Sara Ott has become an icon of a world that may not be entirely mine, yet feels increasingly close—a world eager to be fascinated by simplicity, intimacy, and, why not, fragility. For instance, she posts videos on YouTube and social media that are not always technically polished or of high audiovisual quality—but that is precisely what makes them fascinating: she presents herself just as she is, without edits or retouching.

This connects with her broader social media presence: she is charming in interviews, always ready to share glimpses of her daily life and spontaneous laughter, and never exudes the underlying arrogance of someone who considers themselves special and outstanding. I don’t know her personally, so I can’t say how much this public image aligns with her day-to-day reality, but there’s no doubt that her approach reflects a deliberate way of presenting herself to the world. Whether she is studying at home, doing origami to warm up her hands before going on stage or solving the Rubik’s Cube (in 49 seconds, which is not bad at all), the feeling she gives you is never that of someone who is telling you “how good I am”, but rather showing what she is doing—a performance, obviously, but spontaneous and sincere, perfect for this TikTok era.

That association between music and experiences has become art with the album she released in 2021, Echoes of Life, where Chopin’s Preludes op. 28 are interspersed with a series of recent works by diverse authors presented with labels that turn the whole album into a life story, which begins with an explicit “In the beginning” by Francesco Tristano, continues with an “Infant rebellion”, passes through a “No roadmap to adulthood” and ends with a “Lullaby to eternity” by Alice Sara Ott herself, built on fragments of the Lachrimosa from Mozart’s Requiem. The most chilling moment comes with that peculiar funeral march that is Prelude No. 20 and the successive Für Alina, by Arvo Pärt (“A path to where”), a work that Ott herself linked —especially in this video, which left me very marked— with the onset of the chronic illness she announced on social media in 2019, thus making explicit a link that is also appreciated, in a really disturbing way, in the two video clips that Hakan Demirel and Ahmet Doğu Ipek made about this performance, the first of them in particular, where the pianist’s body is multiplying and fading away in a dreamlike world, full of invisible barriers.

Four years after Echoes of Life, and following a Beethoven album that had less to unpack, Ott now presents this new release dedicated entirely to John Field’s Nocturnes. She follows the numbering proposed around 1870 by editor Julius Schuberth—an edition of particular interest because none other than Franz Liszt revised it. (I will follow this numbering in the continuation of this post.) The album is accompanied by the same meticulous promotion as her previous releases, yet the sound approach is unlike anything she has done before.

One of the most intriguing aspects is its post-production, which raises questions I hope to answer more thoroughly and with greater documentation in the future. We do know that the album was recorded in Dolby Atmos, which in itself is not an entirely new development. However, the piano is not the ideal instrument to take full advantage of this immersive technology. The real potential of Dolby Atmos emerges when capturing natural environments or large-scale sonic events—for instance, an orchestra, with its spatial dimension and instrumental diversity, benefits far more from this system than a solo instrument with a single sound source. Moreover, Dolby Atmos was developed for cinema, meaning it excels at enhancing dramatic contrasts. That’s why, when it comes to piano recordings, its most notable applications have been in particularly colorful repertoires, as seen in the brilliant Rapsodia Mexicana by Argentina Durán.

Alice Sara Ott’s Field is built entirely on subtle shadings, making it seem like the last place where such a system would be effective. And yet, it’s clear that the technology has been skillfully leveraged—without ever losing the sense of naturalness, which ensures the digital mediation is not overtly apparent. This contrasts sharply with the highly artificial aesthetic of all the music videos released so far for these Nocturnes. Perhaps the album’s most defining feature is its rich range of nuances leading up to silence. Here, it’s difficult to determine how much credit goes to the performer (certainly a great deal) and how much is due to choices made during the recording and post-production process.

I do not have a technical sheet to determine exactly how this album was recorded, how many microphones were used, or their precise placement. Some aspects, however, are immediately noticeable upon first listen, while others can be inferred from certain images in the presentation feature film Alice Sara Ott: Nocturne, directed by Andrew Staples. The most striking detail is the number of small-diaphragm microphones positioned perpendicular to the strings, two of them placed directly in line with the hammers. At the same time, there are ambient microphones—some positioned high up, others just behind the performer, and likely additional ones at a greater distance. The result is a refined use of an increasingly common technique in classical music recording: combining highly direct and close-up microphone placements with others positioned at a distance to capture ambient sound. Here, it seems that several microphones have been set at different distances, creating an impression of natural reverberation without sacrificing clarity in the attack—an acoustic illusion, of course, since no one actually hears the music this way in a live setting, neither the audience nor the performer.

Moreover, the reverb is not consistent throughout the album. Some nocturnes feel almost dry (No. 12, for example, as well as Nos. 17 and 18), while in others, it is quite pronounced (No. 9, No. 15), with subtle variations that contribute to maintaining interest within an overall homogeneous sound world. This is not an entirely new technique—it’s even more extreme in Pavel Kolesnikov’s acclaimed recording of Bach’s Goldberg Variations for Hyperion. But it caught my attention to find it used in a Deutsche Grammophon album and so carefully integrated into the overall approach, complementing Ott’s pedaling choices—sometimes delicate half-pedals that could evoke either the dampener-less pianos of Field’s era or impressionistic effects that suit the general tone of the album.

Some of the most ingenious interpretative solutions in the entire album are, in fact, inseparable from this use of resonance: the misty opening of No. 11, for example, or the entirety of No. 13, a piece whose obsessively repetitive structure is particularly difficult to handle and which here acquires a charm light-years away from any previous interpretation. And the management of the overall structure in the most challenging pieces is one of the many aspects I appreciate in this recording. What Alice Sara Ott achieves with No. 16, in particular, is astonishing; it is the longest nocturne in the series, almost a fantasy. However, its writing revolves around a set of formulas that are not particularly contrasting, so much so that it can easily come across as a meandering work, drifting aimlessly from one place to another, uncertain of when or how to end. On this album, however, not a single note seems superfluous in its more than eight minutes of music, and it even keeps you on edge until the very last second.

The last two nocturnes, No. 17 and No. 18, also present similar challenges; but in this case, the greatest surprise for me has come from another extraordinary aspect of this interpretation. We always associate Field with Chopin, particularly when it comes to nocturnes. In these last two tracks, however, I kept thinking of Schumann: those sudden silences, those rapid staccato chord patterns, the swift transition from lyrical, sentimental phrases to others that are more capricious and fleeting… This should not surprise us, given that these works were written in 1836: the world of the late Field is that of the young Schumann, and also that of the mature works of other figures who are largely forgotten today but are essential for understanding what had happened and was still happening in the meantime. Ignaz Moscheles, for instance, played a crucial role in invigorating piano writing by integrating it into the most popular genres of the time. The point is that these two nocturnes, which had always seemed rather insipid to me, or even completely out of place, are revealed here as works that perfectly represent the aesthetics of their time.

To achieve all this, Alice Sara Ott clearly employs an enormous variety of effects, which are particularly refined in some of the closing passages; the final bars of No. 2, No. 5, No. 9, and No. 10 are highly representative of this pursuit to extract the utmost from the tiniest detail. In fact, the overall impression I get from listening to the album is the same as the one conveyed by the various promotional videos in which the pianist herself discusses some of the nocturnes—clearly intended to leave us with the feeling that each one has something unique that defines it. And this is exactly what happens under her fingers: in each nocturne, there is at least one detail, one effect, one sonic peculiarity that is found in that nocturne and in no other, whether in the way a passage is delivered or in the highlighting of the most characteristic writing patterns.

Alice Sara Ott subtly brings out the harmonic nuances that emerge (I am thinking, in particular, of No. 7), often through an ingenious interaction with the overlapping of frequencies generated by the natural reverberation. Silences are extended where they carry rhetorical weight, just as the occasional use of staccato successfully disrupts the continuity of a melodic line that might otherwise become overly uniform. No. 12 serves as a good summary of all these elements, and it is also the piece that includes the only explicit break from the overall timbral homogeneity, thanks to an effect involving extended techniques superimposed onto the conventional recording, precisely in correspondence with the twelve repeated E’s that earned this piece the title Twelve O’Clock (as it was presented in the 1832 English edition; the corresponding Midi appeared on the Parisian edition the following year). The resulting bell effect is not merely a colorful curiosity: it signifies a deliberate foray into multitrack recording, a process that still seems taboo in classical music but is quietly—and with increasing frequency—making its way into our world.

In this and other aspects, it is evident that we are dealing with an album that engages with other aesthetics. The accompanying music videos make this explicit, but so does the overall sound of the album. However—and this is what I most wish to emphasize here—this openness to other influences does not result in an irredeemably pop product. This album makes a move, and it is a new one, but the playing field remains the same: the move achieves something new and unprecedented, yet it is an internal movement within the classical tradition. Just think of how many elements of this tradition converge here. First and foremost, the idea of a complete edition (although, to be fair, the Complete Nocturnes advertised on the cover are not truly “complete”: missing here are the two already listed by Cecil Hopkinson in 1961 in his Bibliographical Thematic Catalogue of the Works of John Field, 1782–1837, along with a reference to another nocturne, supposedly published by Jurgenson in its time, no copies of which have yet been found). Here, not only are these 18 nocturnes presented together—as in the now-distant era of Pollini, Ashkenazy, and Barenboim—but even the order of publication is respected, thus foregoing the possibility of a more striking opening that might immediately capture the listener’s attention (how many music never go beyond track 1?) or a more effective conclusion to the journey. Here, the final bars of No. 18—a piece that, in itself, does not feel like a proper ending—are played with particular discretion, as if quietly closing the door after putting a child to bed. It is the least glamorous ending imaginable. Or perhaps, precisely for that reason, it is the perfect conclusion to an album so delicate and introspective as a whole?

At the same time, this is not merely a succession of pieces. There is an awareness of a larger structure. Expressive gestures become more evident as the nocturnes progress, although everything happens gradually, almost imperceptibly. The transitions between nocturnes are where the careful effort to maintain variety within the whole is most apparent, especially where changes in character and texture are less obvious (from No. 1 to No. 2; from No. 5 to No. 6; from No. 12 to No. 13), at times with remarkable creativity (for instance, in the transition from No. 10 to No. 11).

Note by note, measure by measure, these subtle interpretative choices guide us through a journey that has never before felt so clear—so capable of traversing from Mozart to Schumann, and of leading us seamlessly from the vocality of Paisiello and Sarti to that of Bellini and Donizetti—so much so that one eventually forgets the model of Chopin, which tends to be omnipresent not only in discussions about Field but also in the complete recordings made to date.

However, with those complete recordings, this one shares a fundamental aspect: it remains far removed from the performance practices of Field’s time. In many respects, we are further than ever from the sound we can reasonably attribute to Field, and not just because Ott does not play a historical instrument. The vast distance between melody and accompaniment here takes to the extreme a practice that would have been unthinkable in Field’s time and only became dominant much later. Likewise, the synchronization of both hands—actually a product of 20th-century aesthetics—is nearly absolute here, interrupted only occasionally (and always very discreetly), although, interestingly, one such instance occurs in the second note of the album. The comparison with the Hupfeld piano roll of Nocturne No. 4 recorded by Carl Reinecke around 1907 could not be more revealing. Reinecke, born in 1824, is a fascinating figure for understanding early 19th-century performance practices, and his approach aligns with the content of many treatises from Field’s time even more than with the practices of his late years when, already an octogenarian, he recorded his piano rolls.

In Alice Sara Ott’s playing, the 20th-century legacy—and the resulting distance from Field’s era—is evident in other aspects as well. There is virtually no added ornamentation, for example, even though Field is particularly generous in incorporating ornamentation within his melodic lines, making additional embellishments rarely feel necessary even from a 19th-century perspective. There are no improvised introductions, and no elaboration of the final chords. Likewise, the use of syncopated pedal—another hallmark of 20th-century aesthetics—is the rule, deviating not only from the original editions, where pedaling is usually absent, but also from the ingenious and varied effects suggested by Liszt in the Schuberth edition.

The point is that, since Liszt’s time, no one seems to have regarded Field’s music as worthy of the concert hall. A few nocturnes have occasionally entered the repertoire of great pianists, but always sporadically: No. 4 has been immortalized in a fabulous recording by Myra Hess; of the wonderful No. 15 we have an equally wonderful home recording by the unjustly forgotten Ignace Tiegerman. But there is not much more, and the few complete recordings of these 18 nocturnes have always been undertaken by performers without true international recognition. That things were beginning to change became evident in 2016, when Elizabeth Joy Roe (the “Roe” of the media-savvy duo Anderson & Roe) recorded these same 18 nocturnes for Decca. A recording that is curiously antithetical to Alice Sara Ott’s—austere, measured, and focused on extracting all possible density from these pages; the declamation is intense, and the sound warm and broadly uniform, to the point that the stylistic evolution so apparent in this new album remains largely unnoticed, while the sound that the 20th century invented for Chopin is omnipresent.

In Alice Sara Ott’s hands, Field is certainly not the pre-Chopin figure we have always wanted to see in him. And while in some respects his historical positioning emerges more clearly, it is equally true that this is, in every sense, 21st-century music. The sonic world generated here—thanks to technology, meticulous production, but above all, the ingenuity of a performer capable of making all this music meaningful—engages with listening processes that are deeply contemporary. And this makes you wonder how much other music, relegated to the attic of history, is awaiting similar reexaminations. Because yes, you end up thinking: what a wonderful interpreter Alice Sara Ott is. But you also realize, as never before, how magnificent John Field’s compositions are. And if the former may have already been evident from her previous albums, the latter, at least for me, is something new. Here, I admire both the creativity of Field and the creativity of Ott, and I witness once again the power of musical performance when it is undertaken with creativity, imagination, and a fertile dialogue with tradition.

My Lithuanian Experience

The five days I just spent in Lithuania—a country I had never visited before—have been full of fascinating experiences and encounters. As I fly back home, I write down some of the many reflections from these days, trying to bring some order to my own thoughts.

The first one is about the doctoral defense for which I had been invited. A three-day process that reaffirmed, once again, just how incredibly diverse doctoral defenses can be—both in form and substance. Amid the global push for homogenization, this variety is something truly worth preserving. I enjoyed every moment of this defense: from the anticipation surrounding a recital that even surprised those who had closely followed Neringa Valuntonytė’s doctoral journey—the bold protagonist of this research—to an entire day devoted to writing down a detailed report on the concert and its relation to the thesis as a whole. It all culminated in a third day featuring an extensive defense, where each participant in the ritual—including the two thesis supervisors—took the stage to deliver a speech from a lectern. Some of these addresses were especially insightful and moving, particularly those by the two distinguished co-supervisors, Lina Navickaitė and Ewa Kupiec. Then came the final speech by Neringa herself—a superb display of emotional depth, spontaneous delivery, and impeccable timing. I already knew and appreciated Neringa, but her performance during the defense was truly masterful.

That final act crowned a doctoral thesis that is, in itself, a milestone. It ingeniously develops and applies the concept of the ‘musical persona’ popularized by Philip Auslander, proposing a model in which performers shape their identity on stage through multiple possible artistic selves—completely overturning the classical music paradigm, where musicians are expected to adhere to a written score in service of the supposed ‘will of the composer’ (a topic that could easily fill an entire dissertation on its own), while still striving to maintain personal sensitivity and the kind of spontaneity that only true musicality can bring (and anyone who has read Malditas palabras knows exactly where I stand on this). Neringa’s dissertation dismantles this duality from its very foundations, masterfully intertwining theoretical reflection with performative practice. Rarely have I seen a thesis where the written component speaks so directly to what happens on stage, and where every aspect of the performance is inseparable from the research that supports it. And this isn’t just about reading: her work involved hands-on stage training with theater performers, stage directors, and even a business professional specializing in personal branding. The impact of this process is undeniable. It has shaped Neringa into an artist with a bright future ahead—something that becomes immediately evident the moment she steps on stage.

For those curious to explore her research in detail, access is still somewhat limited at this time. There’s virtually nothing online at the moment. A substantial summary of the written component has been published in Catalan, translated by Laia Martín, in Querol magazine (Issue 36, 2024), and hopefully, an English version will be available soon. Even more than that, I hope the full thesis will eventually be accessible—perhaps with some adjustments to reflect the fact that, as was evident during the defense, Neringa has already moved into a new phase of her artistic journey, expanding significantly on the theoretical foundation she laid out. Whether in book form or through further publications, this work deserves to be widely recognized. I certainly leave Lithuania with the firm conviction that what has been achieved here goes far beyond my expectations. And, of course, I look forward to seeing Neringa perform again soon—because we are talking about a truly remarkable artist, whose originality and mastery of both the keyboard and the stage are nothing short of astonishing.

Then there’s the Lithuanian Academy of Music and Theatre’s doctoral program. I must say, they treated me with exceptional generosity—something I appreciate not only on a personal level but also as a reflection of their commitment to fostering meaningful academic exchanges. This is becoming increasingly rare: too many universities have cut back on international invitations for doctoral committees, opting instead for the easy—but deeply impoverishing—solution of online defenses, which inevitably turn the process into a mere formality rather than a genuine intellectual exchange. In this case, the in-person experience made all the difference. It allowed me, for instance, to finally meet Ewa Kupiec in person—after having admired her impressive discography for years—and to discover not only what an extraordinary musician she is but also how much we share in common. I already can’t wait for our paths to cross again somewhere in the world.

But this university went even further. For Neringa’s doctorate, they specifically hired Ewa Kupiec—one of Europe’s most established pianists, whose main academic post is in Hannover—solely to teach her, for four years. That says a lot about how seriously this institution takes its doctoral program. And it aligns perfectly with the fact that every year, they offer fully funded doctoral positions for the full four-year term. Truly commendable. I’m well aware that much of this is due to the vision and perseverance of Lina Navickaitė, a leading researcher in the field, whose efforts have played a crucial role in shaping this international academic environment. Add to this the impeccable administrative work of Božena Čiurlionienė (a huge thank you, Božena!), because let’s be honest—when the administrative side runs smoothly, everything is possible, and when it doesn’t, everything turns into a nightmare. With all of this in place, I have no doubt that Vilnius has everything it takes to become a major hub for artistic research on the global stage.

Five days aren’t enough to truly grasp the complexity of a culture, the essence of a city, or the defining characteristics of a way of life. But I have formed a first impression, and it resonates perfectly with what I’ve observed in academia. Lithuania has its own language, a long history, and, since the fall of the Soviet Union, a solid democracy and hard-won independence that are a source of rightful pride. Just as I felt when I visited neighboring Latvia—equally fascinating, yet so different in many ways—here too, you sense the advantages of being an independent nation, small enough to maintain a distinct identity, but large enough to govern itself, make its own decisions, and engage fully in international institutions, whose significance is deeply felt here. You can perceive the strength of a language and a culture that people actively defend and cultivate, while also experiencing their remarkable ease in switching to fluent English—a linguistic versatility that made me feel welcome at all times. And this isn’t just among the younger generations. I have no idea where some of the elderly women selling flowers on the street or working in small-town cafés learned to speak such excellent English, especially in a country that doesn’t see much tourism. But when you dig into the history of this place, you start to understand.

I’m not just talking about the desire to move beyond Soviet imperialism—now tragically revived in Russia’s military actions—but about a long-standing tradition of empathy toward displaced populations, toward those who arrived here by chance and ultimately stayed. Vilnius: City of Strangers, as Laimonas Briedis aptly titled his book, captures this well. Over centuries, Lithuanians, Poles, Russians, Germans, Ukrainians, and Jewish communities from all backgrounds shaped this city into a cultural crossroads. And that legacy is still visible today. Lithuania’s most famous landmark, Trakai Castle—built when Trakai was the medieval capital—was originally intended as a home for the Karaim people, a Turkic-speaking Jewish community from Crimea. Trakai has been home to Lithuanians, Tatars, Russians, Poles, yet it remains deeply associated with Karaim culture, language, and cuisine.

Seeing how warmly this diversity is embraced here moves me deeply. The openness to others, the empathy for displaced populations, the mutual enrichment that comes from encounters that transform us all. Am I romanticizing this? Undoubtedly. Reality is never as idyllic. But I’d prefer to simplify it this way rather than in that other direction, too common today, where the ‘other’ is cast as a threat, and suspicion of those who come from elsewhere has become the norm. It’s the idea of the other as an enemy, the constant suspicion towards those who ‘come from outside,’ and the fear (always perceived by those who are already in a position of strength) of losing ‘purity’ or ‘identity’—as if human beings were not a single species, inherently mixed and nomadic from the very beginning.

You experience that welcoming Lithuania—with its unique yet blended culture—in the warmth of its people, the constant respect, the closeness in interactions, and the laughter that defies the stereotype of the cold North. Cold was indeed there—temperatures never rose above 0°C. But even with that, I was fortunate, and perhaps this contributed to the deep sense of kindness I brought back home. The Saturday afternoon I spent in Trakai, enjoying a breathtaking sunset, could not have been a better way to close this trip.

And on top of that, I spent the core of the visit listening to the album that I had been most anticipating this year, Alice Sara Ott’s Field Nocturnes, which was released that very day. But that definitely deserves another post. For now, I’ll savor the memory and let these thoughts quietly seep into my daily life from here on out.

Fears

I just watched No Fear, the documentary film by Regina Schilling featuring Igor Levit. It’s a feature-length documentary entirely focused on this pianist who, as we know, occupies a unique space in today’s musical landscape.

Levit plays very well and has a colossal repertoire, but his popularity isn’t based solely on musical merits. In reality, no career has ever been built solely on musical merits, neither today nor in the past. With Levit, however, this is especially evident. His handling of the COVID emergency was a clear example, with those 52 home concerts that garnered so much attention. But this feature film marks a leap forward in terms of public exposure.

It’s exactly two hours of film, with some footage of him performing live but mostly focused on showing him behind the scenes—not just rehearsing, recording, or preparing to take the stage, but also doing mundane activities like buying a pair of shoes or cooking rather unremarkably in his home while talking on a live video call (wearing, of course, a t-shirt emblazoned with the slogan “Love music, hate racism”).

And here lies much of the intent: to reveal the man behind the artist. With his good intentions, of course, but above all—and this is the new part—a man who is fragile, very fragile. The new masculinities embodied by one of today’s top piano figures, a celebrity who repeatedly speaks about his fears and insecurities. More than once, he even seems close to depression, a word he himself uses. It’s striking. And it all feels very sincere. Is it? I don’t know. It seems that way, but I don’t know Igor Levit personally to form a definitive opinion on the matter. I say this with the utmost respect: for him, of course, but also, and especially, for the many people who may find themselves in a similar situation. It’s also possible that this is his way of confronting those fears, which I completely understand, and I have no doubt that sharing them publicly can help many people feel less alone in such a profoundly human dimension.

On the other hand, however personal his reflections may be, the fact of presenting them in a documentary inevitably turns them into a spectacle, with all that entails. And it’s a spectacle designed to generate empathy. The entire documentary, in fact, shows the artist in everyday gestures we recognize as familiar—especially those tied to the use of a phone, like listening through its speaker to music he has just discovered (Muddy Waters, in this case, because it’s well known that no classical artist today can afford not to appreciate good popular music) or posting snippets of his daily life. And, of course, the unavoidable ecological commitment, presented through footage tied, unsurprisingly, to his presence on social media: a winter performance streamed for Greenpeace, among the trees of the Dannenröder Forest, about to be cut down.

Likewise, Igor Levit is not just any artist—and this documentary makes sure you don’t forget it. He’s top, top, top, playing over a hundred concerts a year, chatting casually with Germany’s president, and being close friends with Marina Abramović. And he’s also very modern: just as he’s applauded with a standing ovation at the Concertgebouw, you might find him playing the Appassionata live on TikTok—with an unstoppable flood of reactions and comments, of course, because he’s also hugely popular on social media. In reality, the suspicion that this is all staged never quite goes away. But whether it is or not doesn’t really matter. The entire documentary is, in some way, a montage of moments crafted to present a certain image of the person—and that person makes a living from music. Ultimately, it’s about selling the musician by filming his daily life. The whole thing is, in essence, a performance.

But then again, isn’t everything we see on screen a performance? We’re always performing, posting our day-to-day lives, and this is especially true with music, with the narcissism that drives us to share the concert halls we play in and how wonderful our lives are on and off stage. At the same time, it’s a way to communicate, to inform, to make others a part of what we do. With this documentary, Levit does just that. He does so by offering a certain image of himself—an image that sells. It sells and it impacts.

It’s impactful to see him doubt so much, even during a recording session, with Roland Stevenson’s Passacaglia literally assembled phrase by phrase; it’s impactful to witness his absolute trust in his recording technician, dismissing the notion of the great artist who needs no one because his decisions stem solely from his genius; and it’s impactful to observe so explicitly his need for physical contact, for kisses and hugs, and his insistence on placing himself at the center of the narrative.

Of course, it’s a performance. That’s precisely why it resonates so much: because it turns someone else’s experience into emotions for you, the observer.

“No fear”

Freedom is not being afraid, says the great Nina Simone in this video. Hopefully research will soon return the freedom that fear is taking away from us. Because healthcare personnel are saving lives in the short term, and we will never thank them enough for their work. But only research will create the conditions to clear the fear that grips us today. Research and the resulting knowledge will make us freer. As it has always been, throughout the history of humankind.

Sowing

This is a very, very special photo for me. Emilia Fadini and Laia Martín, one next to another. You can not see me, because I was 600 km away, but at the same time I’m there, 100%. From Emilia Fadini, today still very bright at 89 years old, a thousand things emerged in my life. In those distant years 80, my passion for questioning about the music I did found in her and her courses a path that led from then, solidly, to look at the treaties (even more than the instruments) the answers to the questions that arose when observing the scores. Thanks to her I discovered the clavichord, I heard for the first time the names of Santa María, Diruta, and many others whose existence I know that many of my readers have discovered in my books, and I began to live in first person an intimate way of sharing music whose values had nothing to do with the ones that were being proposed to me, in those same years, in the conservatory classes.

This week, at 20th FIMTE – International Festival of Spanish Keyboard Music, so brilliantly organised by Luisa Morales, Emilia has shared the FIMTE Symposium with Laia Martin, who from that lineage is, in many ways, the continuation. Without me being seen, in this picture I am in the middle. As the current teacher of one and the old student of another, seeing them together gives me a wonderful feeling. Without what I saw in those Emilia classes, I doubt that Laia would even know who I am, nor would I be orienting her doctoral thesis at the University of Aveiro, nor would she, most likely, have been in Mojácar this week. And that is the meaning of that peculiar sowing that is teaching. Teaching and also writing, which allows you to share with many people what you consider important even away from your physical presence, in a process that often ends in a future whose trajectories move far, out of sight. But when these trajectories intersect, as has happened these days in the FIMTE, even without having been there, happiness is very deep.

Oblivious to the 9th

I have just emerged from the performance of Beethoven’s 9th by the OBC, the Barcelona Symphony and Catalonia National Orchestra, which programmed this week’s event to include a bold staging design in the hands of a company with a strange name, one I’d heard in glowing reports from other shows: the Agrupación Señor Serrano.

They probably are great at doing other things, but I found this 9th horrendous, to put it frankly. The orchestra fulfilled its role. The choir (the splendid Orfeó Català) was magnificent. Perhaps some of the soloists could have been better. But it is impossible to view a production of this kind as anything but a whole, and there was no way to make sense of that whole.

You know I don’t like to speak ill of what I haven’t liked, so in such cases I usually keep my mouth shut and let it go (yes, well, there are also times when I don’t respond because I haven’t got time, so don’t go thinking that if I haven’t written about a concert or a CD you’ve given me that it must be because I don’t like it!). In this case, though, I think voicing some thoughts is warranted.

The principal idea, which the project had already announced in writing, was not bad: read this very “European” work as a reflection on Europe. The idea of a garden as a metaphor for the common European project, collectively watered and tended (1st movement); the struggles and clouds that darken it (2nd movement); the nostalgia and consideration of the many things we’ve botched (3rd movement); and a road full of hope towards the future, one built on affection, caring, and hugs (4th movement). Fantastic up to this point.

But hang on: in this all you actually see is plenty of goodwill. The reality, minute by minute, bar after bar, is that there was no relation with the music’s unravelling. No dramatic crescendo (precisely in this work!), no relation between what we hear and what we see (an old and common problem in many operatic staging ideas too). Spectacular—in its absurdity— was the entrance of the theme of the fourth movement, following the recitative: an entrance that went completely unnoticed, lacking even a brushstroke in the staging direction. But this was the tip of the iceberg. In neither the entrance of the “Turkish” variation or the a cappella variation was there any attempt at all to capitalise on these moments by having them coincide with something. Huh?! As if there, in the music, nothing significant happens!

Then there’s the ideological drift. Europe is going bad because we have “let the weeds grow” and haven’t known how to put up the right “fences”. But exactly this, mind (and take note: as if weeds growing in a garden can be avoided by fencing; little do I know about gardening but I think I grasp this much)! Yep, boldly essentialist and ethnicist, straight up. So, there it is, something that can even be seen as a revealing metaphor of the kind of Europe that some really desire: a fenced-off garden, managed from above, and in which we are the plants at the mercy of our lords and masters.

And not one nod to the internal problems, to the hierarchies between states, to what happened in Greece, to the inability to manage Mediterranean conflicts. Not one wink! A few well-known faces (Merkel, Lagarde, y other local figures), all in a directionless succession in which you could find Napoleon, Hitler, Casals, Freud, or Delacroix’s La liberté guidant le peuple. One brief flash, indeed, of Putin, and in another a keyboard with Cyrillic letters. ¿What’s this about? Are we to blame Europe’s problems, then, on the Russians? Well I never would have guessed!

And so, the biggest booing I have ever heard at Barcelona’s L’Auditori. I imagine that what may have most upset many spectators will have been all the explicit phallic images and the salaciousness of the couple scenes in the final minutes. This struck me as nothing more than gratuitous. But for one reason or another, I know this entire spectacle, in all its parts, just did not make sense. I prefer not to know how much public money was spent on it.

The difficulty is that, given its fatuity, the only sensible response was to boo it, which is what many of us did (though clearly wanting to distinguish the music from the staging, because the former was worthy in all ways), and this booing lumps you in with those who would have joined in the catcalls out of distaste for anything that doesn’t conform to the “usual”. But honestly, this is NOT the reason here. And it makes me doubly uneasy because the one time money is invested in something different, programming such a horror show instead of something truly valid and sound makes it more difficult next time the chance arises to be daring.

What a great shame! Truly. And a magnificent reminder that we have to be very, very dexterous when we try something different. People who know me also know how open I am to innovation, and in recent times I actively engage in this as a creative artist. But not anything goes, because there are many different ways to get across ideas within music, especially when words and staging can be used. Yet so often it is banality that rules, and this makes life so much more difficult for those of us who have things to say that do not fit in traditional channels.

Perfection

I am often told that in today’s musical world everybody seeks perfection. Students, teachers, juries, producers, critics, and concert players; all would be apparently obsessed with perfection. This is not my perception at all. Many students certainly are preoccupied with it, often encouraged by their teachers. And this is sometimes (not always) the concern of members of juries. But my understanding is that many teachers, juries, and musicians are highly attracted to other very different dimensions of music. This, in any case, is not my point here. Nor is it the actual definition of what we call “perfection” that interests me. My focus is: why should we even need perfection?

Perfection is boring, in any aspect of life. It is practical, if we are referring to machines. But in people it is tiresome, and even suspicious. No, I quite definitely do not like perfection. But let’s go further. Perfection is fake. Always. It does not exist. We humans are not perfect. What we call perfection is just the closest possible approximation to an idea. That idea possibly is perfect. But the perfection of the most perfect of our products is not real, never will be. Making perfection the goal of our activity is an escape, a flight from reality. It is an attempt to surrender to something superior, something imagined, a chimera. In a certain sense, it is a religious yearning, a leap of faith. And its pursuance is the best possible way to end up frustrated and uncomfortable with our bodies, our daily life, and our immediate surroundings. If our goal is to remind ourselves that another more perfect world exists, and that it is not part of this life we live, then obsession for perfection is a splendid tool. But if we can think of our life in a radically different way, the quest for perfection is our worst enemy.

Sex, travel, and music books

I don’t know about you, but by far the three most exciting things in life for me are writing books, travelling to unknown places, and having good sex. And I’ve always thought that writing books is the only one of these three things whose successful outcome does not require the involvement of other people. You have to interact in the other two, and it is from that interaction that an important part of pleasure comes (these two can also be done alone, like writing books, but in my experience there’s no comparison). With books, this isn’t so. You start from what others have written, said, played or recorded (at least in my case, since I write about music), but writing them is up to you, and depends only on you.

Of course, this is what happens when you write in a language you know well. If not, then again you need interaction with other people. It seems to be a problem, but it is not. Above all it is an opportunity, a wonderful opportunity. We are on this planet to share, not to live in isolated bubbles, from which we only exit now and then, out of necessity or for fun. While sharing, we learn and grow.

And this is exactly where I am now, applying the final touches to the new version of my History of Piano Technique. 800 pages in English. Well, none of them would exist without the hand-to-hand work I’ve done with Peter Russell Wix over the past three years. I don’t know how to explain the gratitude I feel for this shared task, which will continue in the future, because I will continue to need someone like him—with his dedication, his love for language and his taste for detail—for a long, long time, especially now, when English is becoming essential in my life. Thanks, Peter.

Finally, our PhD call!

Finally, the call for our doctoral programme at the University of Aveiro was published! Applications until August 3.

On October 11, we will start classes. Any brave in the room willing to challenge? #Doctorate #Aveiro #SóloParaValientes

https://www.ua.pt/research/PageEdict.aspx?g=9&a=0
https://acesso.ua.pt/upload/editais/e_3955.pdf

40 questions

In December 2017 I answered the Musikeon version of the so-called Proust Questionnaire. It was a nice way to talk about very different things, from tigers and archeology to Borges and Star Wars. Here are the questions and my answers.

 

  1. An adjective that best defines your character? Enthusiastic. This, at least, is what they say about me.
  2. What quality do you most appreciate in a person? The passion they put into what they do is what I love.
  3. What do you expect from your friends? That they should want to get across the passion they feel for what they do.
  4. You couldn’t live without…Having projects ahead that no one else has conceived in the same way.
  5. Your main fault? Unpunctuality.
  6. Your ideal of happiness? That what I do for pleasure brings joy to others and helps make their lives richer.
  7. What would be your greatest tragedy? Losing one my children.
  8. As a boy, what did you want to be? As a very small boy, nothing in particular. Later, an archeologist.
  9. And now, if you weren’t a musician, what would you like to be? An archeologist, exactly, although today my interests would have a far more anthropological focus than what I imagined when I was young. And for a while now I can also see myself as an astrophysicist: looking at the sky, dreaming about outer space, and knowing what to ask it. I could give my life over to that.
  10. Your favourite colour? I tend to like the variants of more common colours when they verge towards others: vermillion, turquoise, lime green.
  11. Your favourite animal? Felines, in general, and the tiger in particular. But I like to look at animals, not touch them: I don’t need too much physical interaction with them, as opposed to how I feel about people.
  12. Your favourite city? One in which I don’t have to live my whole life and which will keep me surprised day after day. If I have to choose from those I know, and for widely different reasons, I would say New York, Singapore, Rio de Janeiro, Paris, Cairo, and Barcelona.
  13. Your ideal landscape? Waking up in the Dolomites, preferably in a spot I have never visited.
  14. What place do you dream of visiting one day? Outer space. Literally: to see the earth from outside and without gravity.
  15. What place would you always go back to if you could? A great many. To begin with, a certain unforgettable landscape: my beloved Dolomites, of course, but also Lake Pichola in Udaipur, the summit of Pão de Açúcar, the Yellowstone Park geysers, an infinite number of spots in Iceland, Elephantine Island with the desert just behind it looking from the shores of the Nile in Aswan. Then, always, the Library of Congress. And to the arms of Silvia, my partner (it sounds a bit corny but it’s a fact).
  16. Three musicians without whom the world would be worse off? ¿Three who are alive? Frederic Rzewski, Brad Mehldau, David Ortolá.
  17. A work of music you never tire of hearing? It depends on what era and, very much so, on the performance and recording. Over recent weeks, Schumann Violin Concerto as played by Patricia Kopatchinskaja.
  18. A special song for you (and don’t say why)? “Abendstern” by Schubert.
  19. A musical instrument (not your own)? Alto Flute.
  20. A writer and a book? Jorge Luis Borges. “Ocean Sea” by Alessandro Baricco.
  21. A painter and a painting? Claude Monet. “Study after Velazquez’s portrait of Pope Innocent X” by Francis Bacon.
  22. A film. “Moulin Rouge” by Baz Luhrmann.
  23. A sport. Hiking.
  24. Car, bike, or public transport? Car or public transport, depending on the place and the quality of the transport.
  25. Favourite food and drink? My mama’s home-made sweet tortellini, and fresh mango juice (and fresh fruit juices in general)…but separately, of course!
  26. Do you cook regularly? Yes.
  27. What name do you like the most? Gaia. If I’d had a daughter I’d like her to have been called this.
  28. What is the habit of others you most detest? Belittling someone, on a small or grand scale, especially when it is an expression of scorn based on difference.
  29. What defect do you most easily tolerate? Mine, firstly: unpunctuality.
  30. Your fictional hero or heroine? Yoda.
  31. Your real-life hero or heroine? People like Oscar Camps (the founder of the NGO Proactiva Open Arms) who sacrifices everything to do what he believes in. And his family, who support him.
  32. In which city do you imagine yourself living? Many. The important thing for me is with whom and doing what. If I have to choose one, then it’s New York. At least for a while.
  33. Would you have like to have lived in another era? No. I’d just like my era to better than it is.
  34. What musical event would you have liked to be present at? The December 22 concert in 1808 in the Theater an der Wien, the day Beethoven premiered his 5th and 6th Symphonies, improvised and played a version of his 4th Concerto that I believe was unthinkably different to how we imagine this work today. But I would like to be at that concert not as a Viennese person from 1808 but being what I am today, a musician and musicologist of the 21st century. To be able to compare those performances with all that we have done later with those scores, that would be quite amazing!
  35. Which musician from the past would you have liked to know? Those whose personal qualities fascinate me and at the same time leave me questioning before which I would like to have an idea of my own. Beatriz de Dia, for example, or Josquin Desprez. And also Barbara Strozzi, and no doubt Haydn, who seems to me the most sympathetic guy of all Western music. Maria Szymanowska and Louise Farrenc. Brahms, without a doubt. And then, already entering the twentieth century, Cowell and Hindemith.
  36. 24 hours with…? Many people, known to me and not. Among those I know, perhaps Krystian Zimerman. Among those I don’t, at this moment in time, Lita Cabellut.
  37. What musician of the past would you have liked to know? Many. But, above all, I would like to know people whose existence at this moment I am ignorant of. There are people whose names and music don’t even reach us. Silvia and I, for example, met Ustad Niyaz Khan in Jodhpur, India, in 2005; what we saw and experienced there, in the antithesis of the star system, is the type of experience I would like to repeat above all else.
  38. How would you like to die? With the feeling of having done everything I wanted to do. Something that undoubtedly will not occur because my projects grow with the years in both number and size.
  39. What is your current state of mind, right now? Determined and looking forward to the year that awaits me.
  40. ¿Do you have a motto or a favourite saying? “The more you know, the closer you are to magic”. The actor José Sacristán said that in one of the most beautiful scenes of a film I am infinitely fond of, “Un lugar en el mundo” (“A Place in the World”, 1992) directed by Adolfo Aristarain.