Chopin 2025: Looking a Little Further Ahead

I’ve been writing a lot about the Chopin Competition lately, mostly on Facebook. Long posts that have stirred an interest for which I’m grateful. Here’s another one: the most important, I think, and certainly the most personal and engaged.

We’ve just witnessed the final, and with it, twenty days come to an end—days in which I’ve devoted many hours to listening to this competition. I’ve done it gladly, with that blend of professional interest and pleasure I’m lucky to experience so often in what I do. Because this competition is much more than a competition like any other: you look at the prize-winners, and behind them you can recognize the profile of an entire cultural history. Everything is there: the “schools” so often mentioned in their day (starting with the first prize of the first edition in 1927: Lev Oborin), but also those figures who remind you that passports have little to do with personal histories (in 1932 the winner was Alexander Uninsky, Ukrainian by birth, competing as a representative of the Soviet Union, but trained from the age of 13 in Paris by the most French of French teachers, Lazare Lévy); and then the legitimate pride of a Poland heroically reborn from the nightmare of war (with Halina Czerny-Stefańska’s victory in 1949 and Adam Harasiewicz’s in 1955), and soon afterwards—far beyond national concerns—the internationalisation of an “objective” rendering of the text, which reached its fullest expression with Maurizio Pollini in 1960 (without forgetting the increasing presence, among the jury, of already legendary figures such as Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli and Artur Rubinstein).

But already with the 1965 edition and the victory of Martha Argerich, the competition showed its ability to signal the subtle shifts occurring in what had seemed a dogma destined to stay: that of a perfect rendering of the score, ideally identified with the composer’s will. From there began a long series of prize-winners, some followed by worldwide fame, others not, but together they softened that “official” Chopin—which with Harasiewicz and Pollini had seemed so radically exact—enriching it with new nuances yet also reaffirming the limits of what was deemed “authentically Chopinesque.” An idea that had little or nothing to do with what musicology—at last interested in questioning 19th-century performance practice—was discovering at the same time, and which, incredibly, has not changed much since then. That, in fact, is the subject of this post.

That “official” Chopin, as presented to the world from Warsaw, found in Krystian Zimerman in 1975 its most perfect and iconic embodiment (with Frederic Mompou, incidentally, on the jury). Nothing seemed more perfect, more musical, more technically impeccable than what that young man was doing (even if, in fact, in the final with orchestra, he was far from flawless).

In reality, already in the next edition, in 1980 (with a young Josep Colom sitting alongside Martha Argerich and Nikita Magaloff, this time), alternatives began to appear, the most famous of which soon achieved global renown, embodied by the truly alternative figure of Ivo Pogorelich. Poland at the time was in full ferment: one of its own had been leading the Catholic Church for two years under the name of John Paul II; the competition began on 1 October, less than a month after the agreement that ended the Gdańsk shipyard strikes and legalised the Solidarity union. The Pogorelich scandal, skilfully amplified and capitalised upon by Deutsche Grammophon, showed that competitions—and this one, in particular—could also turn out to be a moment to make visible alternatives that tradition refused to acknowledge as valid.

The reality of the Chopin Competition over the past half-century, however, has been a different one: dissent has not appeared. Not only does the evaluation system itself leave no room for truly disruptive proposals, but successive editions have systematically promoted a way of playing that seems reluctant to move away from the Zimerman model. Yulianna Avdeeva was an exception: in 2010 she triumphed with a visceral, daring, and wonderfully executed approach that must have raised strong objections among some jurors but clearly captivated the majority with those performances, some of them truly extraordinary. Otherwise, the personalities who took part in that competition and now have a distinctive voice in the international piano scene are those who did not win it—like the exceptional Gabriela Montero, third prize in 1995. And by “distinctive voice” I mean a way of playing that would have been unimaginable in Zimerman’s youth, turning their approach into something unmistakable.

Which brings me to this year’s edition, where, since no one from the start stood out dramatically from the rest, I had the constant feeling that what I was hearing, I had already heard too many times. Almost all the time. With the exception of some performances by Zitong Wang (the Nocturnes Op. 48 No. 2 and Op. 15 No. 1 above all, and the Scherzo Op. 20, but also the Etude Op. 25 No. 6 and the Sonata Op. 35), the Mazurkas Op. 17 by Yehuda Prokopowicz (who, for once, quite deservedly won the Mazurka Prize), and a few moments in the Preludes Op. 28 by Piotr Alexewicz and Miyu Shindo, what I heard were magnificent reiterations of a very familiar proposal.

Among them, of course, there were notable differences in quality of execution (with a surprisingly high number of memory slips, something worth reflecting on) and, as always, subtle divergences in tempo, dynamics, articulation, and other choices, resulting in nuanced contrasts in character. I’d understand anyone saying that this is precisely what classical interpretation is about. And to some extent that’s true, at least for the last two or three generations.

The fact is, once again, the Chopin Competition does not fail: it reflects our time perfectly. And our time, for classical music, is a period defined more by geographic shifts than by aesthetic ones. Fifty years ago, the overwhelming majority of the jury was European (19 of 21 in Zimerman’s 1975 edition), and so were the competitors. Participation from the United States was smaller, and from other places, occasional. It reflected a reality: piano playing (especially at a high level) was primarily a European and American matter. Not exclusively European, but predominantly so, to the point that even those from elsewhere were usually trained in Europe or, sometimes, in the United States. That last point hasn’t changed much today, but the geographical origin of both jurors and participants has. This year, the European representation on the jury was limited to Yulianna Avdeeva (Russia), John Rink (UK), and Michel Béroff (France), plus the traditional Polish contingent (smaller than ever). The rest—the majority—came from the United States, South Africa, Argentina, Japan, China, and, of course, Vietnam, with the influential Dang Thai Son. This lays bare a reality: Europe is no longer the main centre of piano history. And if we look at recent prize lists, the change is even clearer: for three consecutive editions now, the first prize has gone to pianists of Asian origin (and yes, for five editions in a row— five!—the first prize has gone to pianists studying with a member of the jury, but that must surely be pure coincidence…).

Europe still grants prestige and, in part, excellent training (though quantitatively outpaced by leading US and Canadian institutions, which have fully adapted to the new landscape). But the piano’s greatest concentration of human and financial resources is now in Asia. And we can’t expect that not to shape aesthetic trends as well. That Chopin style that moves gently between contemplative calm and light, outward virtuosity—with a touch of unpretentious sentimentality, all grounded in staggering technical reliability—is exactly what the majority of the new classical audience is looking for. In short: it’s a “revised and corrected” version of the Lang Lang world, filtered through an academy that removes everything overly histrionic. If millions—literally millions—of young pianists dedicate their youth to pursuing that model with tenacity, it’s only logical that some will end up winning first prizes. For now, they are trained (and often still born, for now) in the United States or Europe, since that’s where they more easily absorb the cultural coordinates. But that what’s happening in the Chopin Competition is part of a global shift.

This also includes another aspect, rightly highlighted today by Luca Ciammarughi on Facebook in yet another of his flawless reflections: although it may seem the opposite of the aesthetic goal, the competition’s own rules define the highest score as corresponding to a “perfect” performance. Does that exist? According to the rules, yes. And according to the vocabulary we’ve long used in Europe, yes as well. How often have we read of “a definitive recording,” “a flawless interpretation,” or “the best performer of such and such”? So we can’t tear our clothes in outrage because perfection is being sought. And if we add the fact that whoever wins faces a profound life change—with stressful travel, performances with varied conductors, time-zone shifts, dietary changes, new repertoire, recordings, and the high expectations of audiences, critics, and the major economic stakes of labels, concert halls, and agencies—it’s no wonder that reliability becomes a value.

This has been very clear this year, as in the previous two editions: it wasn’t the most interesting performer who won, but the most consistent, the most reliable, the one who played the fewest wrong notes and had the fewest doubts. I don’t know whether the cut Eric Lu sustained on his finger before the second stage (which led the organisers to reschedule him to play last in his group) was genuine; I assume it was, and I don’t want to think otherwise. But I’m sure it worked wonderfully in his favour (and I do believe every effort was made to ensure everyone in the profession knew it): he appeared as the guy who, no matter what happens, gets on stage and delivers. Something concert agencies and venues value far more than a miraculous phrase or a sublime moment—because nothing is more inconvenient or costly than a cancelled concert.

Efficiency and solidity—and if these are seasoned with a vaguely Zen touch, even better: the image of the shy, introspective musician sells in classical music today just as much as extroversion ever did. Add to that—and this was confirmed to me by someone present in the hall—that his sound did project, unlike other finalists whose pianissimos got lost halfway, and we have a first prize that makes perfect sense. Just as it’s logical (and good for her) that Tianyao Lyu, who turned 17 today, did not win first prize. The visibility and experience she’s gained from this competition are valuable assets for the future, but what she needs now is to keep studying, to develop her technique and repertoire, to live and experience the world; with that background, we’ll likely see her again soon, perhaps even as a future winner, because she already plays marvellously and clearly has everything it takes to grow further. A victory now would inevitably have interfered with a development that needs its own time.

Here in Spain, where I’m writing, there’s been a lot of protest about David Khrikuli, who ended up without any prize, and was also a victim of the absurd way the prizes were announced: instead of starting from the bottom (with honourable mentions) or—as I think would be best, though it’s never done—from the top, with the first prize, they were announced from sixth to first. Until the very last moment, the first prize could just as well have been his or Lu’s—perhaps thrilling for the public, but frankly rather disrespectful to him, and to Miyu Shindo too, even if she had fewer chances. Yet Khrikuli’s case is emblematic: he had several memory lapses, many wrong notes (many), especially in the first stage, visibly nervous, and at the end of the Sonata Op. 58 he let the tempo run away with him in a way hard to understand except as loss of control. Add to that a tendency to over-accentuate staccato notes, and you have a synthesis of everything juries tend not to like—and have not liked for decades: the same traits behind the 1995 scandal when the prize was not awarded to poor Alexey Sultanov, clearly superior to the rest (his recording of the Concerto Op. 21 is still impressive), but who pushed exactly those characteristics to extremes that many professionals on juries consider red lines. David Khrikuli is a fabulous pianist, and I wish him the best. I don’t think Chopin is the composer that suits him most right now; in fact, I liked him much more at this year’s Van Cliburn, with that formidable Brahms—that seemed like his competition, and yet he didn’t even reach the final. But we know how competitions are: it’s easy to lose by a single stray point. I just hope he won’t be discouraged, and that he’ll find himself in the right place at the right time; he still has several years ahead for major competitions and many other ways to bring his pianism to the stages where we could enjoy it.

As for me, faced with all these prizes and interpretative approaches, my position is very clear—and with it I’ll close my intense series of writings on this competition.

Perhaps it’s true that the world of music is full of people who genuinely appreciate the kind of playing that the Chopin Competition has rewarded for decades. On the other hand, reading the reactions of so many people, here and elsewhere, I see statements by those who perceive enormous differences from one interpretation to another. Because I, frankly, do not. Eric Lu may bore me a bit more or less than other competitors, but overall what strikes me is that almost everything I hear I’ve heard before. Almost identical. A thousand times. So I cling, like to a burning nail, to the moments when something seems to happen: this year it was mainly Zitong Wang; in the previous edition, Kyohei Sorita, and at times Eva Gevorgyan; and throughout, while he remained in the competition, that phenomenon Hayato Sumino / Cateen—mostly to see when he’d stop pretending not to be himself and dare, even on that classical stage, to do the very things that had earned him millions of followers.

So, looking back at these twenty days, here’s a brief list of what I did not hear—from anyone—and which, had it appeared, would have meant a genuinely different proposal. Shall I? Let’s go.

There are two groups, though there could be many more. I’ll start with one that’s among my specialities: practices once fashionable but now absent from our interpretative habits (Chopinesque ones, in this case), such that if we brought them back—more or less transformed—they’d sound strikingly new today.

• Added ornamentation in the cantabile lines (in the vein of Mikuli’s well-known suggestions in his edition of the Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2) and in repeats (there was one tiny attempt, by Kwanwook Lee—and he was eliminated, go figure).
• The realisation of fermatas (put into practice the advice of any major 19th-century violin or vocal treatises on the subject—Baillot, Duprez, Cinti-Damoreau—would amaze listeners today).
• Transformation of pianistic writing (can anyone imagine the sensation if a finalist played the ending of First Chopin Concerto in alternating octaves, as Tausig did? I confess I had a faint hope Kevin Chen might pull that card, especially after seeing him switch register for a second—by mistake?—in the Waltz Op. 18).
• Some hints of basso continuo (or a full realisation of it, why not?), so that the piano joins the tutti, at least in the last bars of the concertos (it was done in Chopin’s time; Cortot still did it, and Piero Rattalino assured me that even Pollini did it at the 1960 competition—are we sure it wouldn’t lift the audience from their seats today?).
• A steady left hand accompanying a rubato melody (it is endlessly repeated that Chopin did this, yet hearing it on the modern piano seems impossible; the only Chopin Competition winner to have done so was Yulianna Avdeeva; since then, nothing. Meanwhile, rubato has become increasingly flexible worldwide—so much so that it often disrupts pulse coherence. It makes me dizzy, yet there are superstars who do it, and everyone seems fine with it).

I could go on, but that will do. Now comes the second group—far more important, yet simpler: it’s about seeking an idea. A real idea, around which to shape the interpretation. I already mentioned this in a 2021 post about that year’s final: when we listen to the Concerto Op. 11 by Josef Hofmann and by Moriz Rosenthal (the two earliest complete recordings we have), the first impression is not only that they sound very different—they embody different conceptions of the work: in Hofmann’s case, the first movement becomes a colossal waltz, almost a foreshadowing of Strauss’s Burleske; in Rosenthal’s, it’s like a fragmented opera, with recitatives, arias, cavatinas, dramatic turns, each with its own tempo and character. Is asking for something like that asking too much?

And that’s still within musical genres, but ideas can go elsewhere: imagine a Chopin Op. 21 that really sounds like Hummel—how would that be? Or clearly like Fauré, which is also possible. And I’m limiting myself to readings that would still fit within the competition’s tradition and format, without staging or orchestral alterations.

In Chopin, there are works just waiting for subtle interventions with radical impact. The Ballades, for instance, arise from the model of poetic versification, yet tradition has sought above all their narrative dimension. Prose has taken over poetry. What would happen if we brought back the poetry, the rhymes, the regularity of verse? We would surely hear something new, something different.

And where explicit imagery exists, it becomes even easier for any intervention to carry a meaning-laden impact: just think of the many ways in which the idea of the “funereal” comes to life in recordings of the Sonata op. 35’s march under the fingers of Pugno, Paderewski, Rachmaninov, Cortot, Friedman, and other great figures of the past. It is not nostalgia for bygone times: it’s that when someone is allowed (or takes the liberty) to add clusters, register changes, violent dynamic inversions, and a thousand other effects of every kind, the scope for interpretative diversity expands enormously—and with it, the possibility for the work to truly reinvent itself each time.

Just as we have so often seen (with greater or lesser success, of course) in classical theatre, and as we once did with classical music not so long ago. But no: we refuse. It can’t be done. Are we sure? In Warsaw, perhaps it can’t. Although it’s not as if we’ve seen that many people actually trying. I’m sure in other spaces they do. All it takes is the will. Who knows what might happen—especially if, beyond rethinking how a work can sound, we start questioning our own identity as artists, and in particular that “specialization” that competitions so implicitly celebrate. For months now, the dear and admired Josu de Solaun has been writing passionately on social media and in his blog about this need to challenge the many disciplinary barriers that, over time, our musical culture has created and nurtured. Humbly, I keep at it.