On Friday afternoon of last week, Joshua and I flew down to Washington for the weekend.
We joined my parents for a busy 48 hours in Washington, 48 hours into which we managed to squeeze a performance of the Royal Ballet (the main point of our Washington visit), two plays, and several art exhibitions.
We were out and about from early morning until late at night all weekend, and we had a lovely time.
On Friday morning of this week, Josh and I will rise at 3:00 a.m. and take a cab to the airport to catch an early flight home. If everything proceeds according to schedule, Josh and I should be in Minneapolis no later than 8:15 a.m. Minneapolis time.
My middle brother will pick Josh and me up at the airport and take us home. As soon as we arrive home, we plan to have a big breakfast, after which we will all immediately head up to the lake for a week of quiet and tranquility. We hope to arrive at the lake no later than 12:00 Noon.
Each year, we all keenly look forward to our week at the lake, yet this year we are more eager than ever for the week to get under way, what with both a niece and a nephew to play with and care for this year.
It should be great fun.
Meanwhile, I am intently completing assignments at work, all of which must be finished no later than Thursday afternoon—or I shall not be able to go away for six weeks.
I am on the verge of panic.
Josh has been busy preparing our things for the summer, determining what we will take with us and what we will leave behind, and boxing up a few things we no longer need in Boston—“detritus we don’t have room for” in Josh’s words—and shipping them home.
I hope he held on to our flatware.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Still Not Up To Much
Joshua and I still are not up to much.
I have been busy at work, trying to complete some projects, and Josh has been taking it easy and enjoying his free time.
Last night we attended a party at a colleague’s home, but otherwise we have done nothing new or interesting.
Next weekend we travel to Washington to attend a performance of the Royal Ballet and to see a few art exhibitions.
The following weekend we head for home.
Summer is here.
I have been busy at work, trying to complete some projects, and Josh has been taking it easy and enjoying his free time.
Last night we attended a party at a colleague’s home, but otherwise we have done nothing new or interesting.
Next weekend we travel to Washington to attend a performance of the Royal Ballet and to see a few art exhibitions.
The following weekend we head for home.
Summer is here.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Handel, Beethoven, Brahms And Dohnanyi, And Janacek And Hindemith
For the last month or more, Josh and I have kept four discs in our player. The discs made for a very fine listening program, especially during Josh’s exam period, because the music was weighted more toward “objectivity” than “profundity”. “Profound” music in large doses must be avoided during weeks devoted to intense study, or so I have always believed.
Handel’s Concerti Grossi, Opus 3, performed by Tafelmusik under Jeanne Lamon, on the Sony label
Beethoven Piano Trios, performed by the Beaux Arts Trio, on the Philips label
Chamber music of Dohnanyi and Brahms transcribed for String Orchestra, performed by the NES Orchestra under Dmitry Sitkovetsky, on the Nonesuch label
Orchestral music of Janacek and Hindemith, performed by the London Symphony under Claudio Abbado, on the Decca label
Handel’s first set of Concerti Grossi (Opus 3) is not an integral set of compositions in the same sense as the latter set (Opus 6). The six concerti gathered together as Opus 3 recycle material from a variety of earlier sources—operas, anthems, orchestral works—and may have been compiled more by the original publisher than by the composer.
Each concerto has a different instrumentation. Each concerto may be classified as devolved from various German, Italian and French models. Each concerto is of different length, with the number of movements varying between two and five. There is nothing unified about the cycle—it is a diverse set of individual concertante works, nothing more, and Handel probably never intended all six works to be performed as a group. (There are multiple editions of Opus 3; in some editions, a seventh concerto is included, whose movements probably were intended for one or more of the other six concerti.)
Although the concerti were first published in 1734, when the 49-year-old Handel enjoyed great popularity in London, much of the music was probably written a quarter-century or more earlier.
Opus 3 was a great hit with the British public at the time of its initial publication. Tuneful, vivacious and often exhilarating, Opus 3 has an infectious, ear-catching appeal that remains irresistible after almost 300 years. The enormous success of Opus 3 inspired Handel to go on to write his great set of Opus 6 concerti, valued by many as the composer’s very finest instrumental compositions.
The Tafelmusik recording of Opus 3, released in 1993, is very fine. The performances have great energy and focus, which make listening a pleasure.
Tempi are very fast. In fact, tempi are so fast that the listener never has time to question whether instrumental timbres are pleasing.
On modern instruments, I prefer more moderate tempi for these works, but on period instruments the Tafelmusik tempi succeed on their own terms.
This disc is highly regarded among Handel scholars, and I can fully understand why this is so. Josh and I listened to the disc many, many times, always with pleasure.
I have never heard Tafelmusik in concert. Either the Toronto-based group has never offered a concert in a city in which I was living or visiting, or conflicts prevented me from attending their appearances. I hope to catch Tafelmusik in performance one day.
I never heard the Beaux Arts Trio in concert, either. For this I must be chastised, as I had numerous opportunities to hear the Beaux Arts Trio while I was in law school—and, for whatever reasons, I always decided not to get tickets. (The ensemble was long in residence at The Library Of Congress, only a few blocks from where I lived during my three years in Washington.)
I had always assumed that the Beaux Arts Trio would continue with another pianist once founding pianist Menahem Pressler finally retired. Pressler was the only remaining original member of the Beaux Arts Trio, the original violinist and cellist having long since retired, and I had assumed that violinist Daniel Hope and cellist Antonio Meneses would continue with a new master pianist once Pressler decided to call it a day.
My assumption was incorrect. When Pressler elected to retire last year, after fifty-three years as Beaux Arts pianist, the Beaux Arts Trio decided to retire, too. I had my chances to hear this legendary ensemble, and I failed to take advantage.
My father cannot believe my stupidity, as the Beaux Arts Trio has long been one of his most-cherished chamber ensembles. He became interested in the Beaux Arts Trio in the late 1960’s, and he heard the Beaux Arts many, many times over the years. He insists that, for at least two decades, the Beaux Arts Trio was nonpareil in music of Mozart, Haydn and Beethoven. I believe my father owns every disc the ensemble ever recorded.
The Philips disc of Beethoven Piano Trios is taken from a five-disc set of the complete Beethoven Piano Trios recorded between 1979 and 1983. The Beaux Arts violinist at the time was Isidore Cohen, and the Beaux Arts cellist at the time was Bernard Greenhouse. That 1979-1983 set was the second integral recording of the Beethoven Piano Trios recorded by the Beaux Arts Trio, the earlier edition having been recorded and issued in the mid-1960’s.
The disc offers three works, including the two most famous “named” trios: Number 4, Opus 11; Number 5, Opus 70 (“Ghost”); and Number 7, Opus 97 (“Archduke”).
These are cultured, urbane, aristocratic performances, very Central European in flavor and tone. The Beaux Arts Trio was always the least “American” of American chamber ensembles. A Central European sensibility permeates these Beethoven performances. Everything is measured and poised. The long line is observed, but interesting detail is captured and highlighted without ever losing the overall arc of a movement’s shape. The performances have forward momentum, but never at the expense of expression or characterization. In short, these are masterly performances, about as fine as one has a right to expect.
I have a quibble with the recording: the pianist is too forward. Whether this is the fault of the pianist or the engineers I cannot say, but the piano at times overpowers the violin and cello.
Suitably, the greatest work on the disc, the “Archduke”, receives the greatest performance. Josh and I listened to the “Archduke” over and over with the greatest of pleasure and admiration.
It was with the “Archduke” that the Beaux Arts Trio ended its final concert last September in Lucerne. That must have been a very emotional evening, both for the musicians and for the members of the audience.
The Nonesuch disc contains Dmitry Sitkovetsky’s own arrangements for String Orchestra of two chamber works: Ernst Dohnanyi’s Serenade, Opus 10, an early five-movement work for String Trio; and Brahms’s String Sextet No. 2, Opus 36. This disc, issued in 2000, is a follow-up to an earlier recording made by these same forces, the earlier recording having featured Sitkovetsky’s arrangement for String Orchestra of the “Goldberg Variations”.
I have always believed that Sitkovetsky’s arrangement of the “Goldberg Variations” was masterly. In transferring Bach’s lengthy keyboard composition to an entirely new medium, Sitkovetsky preserved the essence of the original while creating a brilliant and imaginative new work for String Orchestra, an original and independent work in its own right.
Sitkovetsky’s Dohnanyi/Brahms arrangements are not on the same high level.
The Dohnanyi is the more successful of the two arrangements. It surely was the easier arrangement to create, as Sitkovetsky merely had to flesh out Dohnanyi’s already-transparent writing for String Trio.
The Dohnanyi Serenade is a sophisticated, charming but slight work, lacking individuality and memorability. Sitkovetsky’s arrangement neither adds to nor detracts from the original. It is nice to hear this work once in a while, but it is easy to understand why the Dohnanyi Serenade has never entered the repertory.
Dohnanyi was a highly-skilled, highly-professional composer whose music never made much of a mark, during his lifetime or after, because it lacked individuality. It is music that might have been written by anyone.
Dohnanyi’s scores are completely admirable—they are polished, even learned—but no trace of a unique personality ever peeps through the pages.
Many of Dohnanyi’s works are very beautiful. I like the five-movement Symphony No. 1 very much, and I like both Violin Concertos. I appreciate the artistry of Variations On A Nursery Tune and I am even partial to his Concertino For Harp And Orchestra, which I believe to be a masterpiece. Nevertheless, Dohnanyi’s music will never reach a mainstream audience because it is so impersonal, totally lacking a unique stamp.
Sitkovetsky’s arrangement of Brahms’s Sextet No. 2 is not, I think, successful. In, fact, I cannot understand why Sitkovetsky thought the Brahms Sextet might benefit from an arrangement for String Orchestra in the first place.
The string writing in Brahms’s original is already dense. Given its denseness, there is no point in expanding the number of string players—added richness will go hand-in-hand with added opaqueness—nor is there much an arranger can do to lighten the textures short of rewriting the composition and turning Brahms’s voicings into hash.
Sitkovetsky’s is a very conservative arrangement, and for that perhaps one should be grateful. However, it adds nothing to Brahms’s original other than offering a larger body of sound.
As a general rule, Brahms’s music does not lend itself to arrangement. The music is already so perfectly-matched to the performing forces chosen by the composer that an arrangement only weakens what is already there.
The one exception to this rule is Schoenberg’s transcription for orchestra of Brahms’s early Piano Quartet No. 1, Opus 25. In that transcription, Schoenberg practically re-writes Brahms to serve his own ends. His is an aggressive, even radical, transcription. In the process, Schoenberg uses his own genius to serve the genius of Brahms—with the result that both composers are served brilliantly.
Sitkovetsky’s arrangement is not at that exalted level. Sitkovetsky’s arrangement of the Sextet No. 2 reminds me of two other unsuccessful arrangements of Brahms, Edmund Rubbra’s arrangement for orchestra of Brahms’s early piano work, Variations And Fugue On A Theme By Handel, and Luciano Berio’s arrangement for orchestra of one of Brahms’s late clarinet sonatas, the Sonata For Clarinet And Piano, Opus 120, No.1.
In all three cases, the arrangements are dutiful but not particularly imaginative and in no way enlightening. Nothing of value has been added to Brahms’s originals. Nothing new, nothing intriguing has been offered to give listeners a fresh perspective on the original compositions. In all three cases, I can only ask: what was the point?
Claudio Abbado’s 1969 recording of Janacek’s Sinfonietta and Hindemith’s Symphonic Metamorphosis On Themes Of Weber is one of the classics of the gramophone. It is the recording that made Abbado’s name outside of Italy.
This disc has been celebrated for four decades. The performances have been reissued frequently over the years, always with a new coupling. The coupling for the reissue Josh and I brought to Boston is a suite from Prokofiev’s ballet, “Le Chout”—but Josh and I skipped the Prokofiev, as it did not fit into our listening scheme.
These performances of the Janacek and the Hindemith are the finest I have ever heard. The performances are extremely brilliant, capturing a staggering level of detail, but the performances are also very subtle. The performances are so excellent that I can hardly listen to either work in another conductor’s hands.
The Hindemith is little more than an orchestral showpiece, but what a great showpiece it is. It is also one of the wittiest works ever written, and one of the most fun both to play and to hear.
Abbado obtains a level of virtuosity from the orchestra that no other conductor has ever been able to match, at least on disc. He also elicits a palpable sense of enjoyment from the players that is not duplicated on any other recording of the work.
The Janacek is a work of greater substance, and Abbado offers what I believe to be a profound performance. The performance has incredible energy and freshness, yet Abbado gives each of the five movements a very precise emotional weight, characterization and tinctura not achieved by other conductors. Compared to Abbado, every other recording of the Sinfonietta I have heard sounds like a generalized run-through.
Abbado finds things in Janacek’s score missed by other conductors. For instance, Abbado rightly sees Janacek’s supporting string figurations not as accompaniment but as musical content. At times, his analysis of the score borders on genius, most evident in the introduction to the fifth movement, where the repetitive descending string figurations are chilling, becoming part and parcel of the musical argument while adding a degree of drama and anticipation to what will soon prove to be the work’s culmination.
The whole performance shimmers, first bar to last. This is one of the great orchestral recordings of the stereo age.
In some quarters, this recording is highly controversial.
This is so for two reasons.
First, Abbado’s performance of the Janacek Sinfonietta lacks rusticity, and some observers find Abbado’s elegance and extremely sophisticated command of orchestral texture to be at odds with the composer’s intent in writing a very nationalistic, celebratory piece of music.
Second, the recording techniques used in both the Hindemith and the Janacek are not to all tastes.
The recording is multi-miked to death (there were probably more microphones present in the studio than there were instrumentalists) and engineered to death (highlighting is used to an extreme degree) and spliced to death (the many edits may be heard in the digital remastering), and some observers cannot get beyond the artificiality of the final result. Indeed, some persons insist that credit for these undeniably brilliant performances must be assigned above all to the sound engineers, and not to the musicians.
Quite obviously, these performances would have sounded vastly different if a single microphone had been suspended above the orchestra in an effort to capture a natural, unprocessed orchestral sound.
However, I have no problem with excessive engineering if the final result is as pleasing as it is here. I have always believed that the recording medium is a unique art form, quite different from the mere documentation of a live performance. I have always found the Abbado Hindemith/Janacek disc to be uncommonly enjoyable, and my opinion is not affected by how success for the enterprise must be apportioned between performers and engineers.
At the time this recording was made, Abbado was not happy at Decca and was contemplating leaving the label (in fact, he was shortly to depart for Deutsche Grammophon). Decca wanted to keep Abbado, as Decca realized what a valuable property it had on its hands, and Decca lavished every possible attention on this particular recording. Multiple sessions were used, and multiple Decca personnel were assigned to the project, a sign of the measures Decca was prepared to take to keep Abbado within its stable of conductors.
Nevertheless, despite the success of the recording, the Hindemith/Janacek pairing proved to be one of Abbado’s final projects at Decca. He was soon to seek happier ground elsewhere. This disc is the only lasting mark of Abbado’s work during his brief time with the Decca label.
Sometimes I think this forty-year-old recording is the finest recording Abbado ever made.
Abbado’s recording career has been checkered, with far more misses than hits. The only lasting recordings he made during his eighteen years at La Scala were Verdi’s “Macbeth” and “Simon Boccanegra”. His years as Principal Guest Conductor of the Chicago Symphony resulted in only one special recording, Mahler’s Symphony No. 7. Of the many, many recordings Abbado has made with the Vienna Philharmonic over the years, only Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 4 and Rossini’s “L'Italiana In Algeri” have proven to be durable. Abbado’s years at the helm of the London Symphony resulted in only one truly superb recording, Bizet’s “Carmen”. His recordings while Music Director of the Berlin Philharmonic all met a certain high standard, but none of his Berlin Philharmonic recordings has managed to hold a claim on the public’s affection (including his pale Berlin remake of the Janacek/Hindemith pairing).
Abbado is, largely, a conductor who must be experienced live in order to be appreciated. Myself, I have never departed an Abbado concert feeling shortchanged.
However, I suspect that Abbado is not cut out to work in a recording studio. He CAN recreate a successful opera performance in the studio if he has already worked with the same artists in the theater, as he has proven several times. However, for orchestral works, I wonder whether Abbado needs the inspiration of an audience to give his best. Most of his orchestral recordings have proven to be disappointing to some degree.
Apparently Abbado can become prickly, even difficult, in the studio—and in his personal dealings with record company officials, too. He and Sony had a major falling-out over the “Boris Godunov” recording made in Berlin, with Abbado accusing Sony of being incompetent and Sony accusing Abbado of being incompetent.
In person, Abbado is apparently anything but the saintly figure portrayed by public-relations personnel. Some who have had extended dealings with Abbado over the years have raised serious concerns about his personal candor and integrity.
None of this, however, can take away from the success of the Decca recording Josh and I enjoyed.
Josh, who played trumpet all through grade school, junior high and high school, absolutely loved the disc, what with all the brilliant writing for brass on display. We must have played the disc twenty times, perhaps more, because Josh loved the music and the performances so much.
We’ll have to be sure to bring more Janacek and Hindemith discs to Boston next term.
Handel’s Concerti Grossi, Opus 3, performed by Tafelmusik under Jeanne Lamon, on the Sony label
Beethoven Piano Trios, performed by the Beaux Arts Trio, on the Philips label
Chamber music of Dohnanyi and Brahms transcribed for String Orchestra, performed by the NES Orchestra under Dmitry Sitkovetsky, on the Nonesuch label
Orchestral music of Janacek and Hindemith, performed by the London Symphony under Claudio Abbado, on the Decca label
Handel’s first set of Concerti Grossi (Opus 3) is not an integral set of compositions in the same sense as the latter set (Opus 6). The six concerti gathered together as Opus 3 recycle material from a variety of earlier sources—operas, anthems, orchestral works—and may have been compiled more by the original publisher than by the composer.
Each concerto has a different instrumentation. Each concerto may be classified as devolved from various German, Italian and French models. Each concerto is of different length, with the number of movements varying between two and five. There is nothing unified about the cycle—it is a diverse set of individual concertante works, nothing more, and Handel probably never intended all six works to be performed as a group. (There are multiple editions of Opus 3; in some editions, a seventh concerto is included, whose movements probably were intended for one or more of the other six concerti.)
Although the concerti were first published in 1734, when the 49-year-old Handel enjoyed great popularity in London, much of the music was probably written a quarter-century or more earlier.
Opus 3 was a great hit with the British public at the time of its initial publication. Tuneful, vivacious and often exhilarating, Opus 3 has an infectious, ear-catching appeal that remains irresistible after almost 300 years. The enormous success of Opus 3 inspired Handel to go on to write his great set of Opus 6 concerti, valued by many as the composer’s very finest instrumental compositions.
The Tafelmusik recording of Opus 3, released in 1993, is very fine. The performances have great energy and focus, which make listening a pleasure.
Tempi are very fast. In fact, tempi are so fast that the listener never has time to question whether instrumental timbres are pleasing.
On modern instruments, I prefer more moderate tempi for these works, but on period instruments the Tafelmusik tempi succeed on their own terms.
This disc is highly regarded among Handel scholars, and I can fully understand why this is so. Josh and I listened to the disc many, many times, always with pleasure.
I have never heard Tafelmusik in concert. Either the Toronto-based group has never offered a concert in a city in which I was living or visiting, or conflicts prevented me from attending their appearances. I hope to catch Tafelmusik in performance one day.
I never heard the Beaux Arts Trio in concert, either. For this I must be chastised, as I had numerous opportunities to hear the Beaux Arts Trio while I was in law school—and, for whatever reasons, I always decided not to get tickets. (The ensemble was long in residence at The Library Of Congress, only a few blocks from where I lived during my three years in Washington.)
I had always assumed that the Beaux Arts Trio would continue with another pianist once founding pianist Menahem Pressler finally retired. Pressler was the only remaining original member of the Beaux Arts Trio, the original violinist and cellist having long since retired, and I had assumed that violinist Daniel Hope and cellist Antonio Meneses would continue with a new master pianist once Pressler decided to call it a day.
My assumption was incorrect. When Pressler elected to retire last year, after fifty-three years as Beaux Arts pianist, the Beaux Arts Trio decided to retire, too. I had my chances to hear this legendary ensemble, and I failed to take advantage.
My father cannot believe my stupidity, as the Beaux Arts Trio has long been one of his most-cherished chamber ensembles. He became interested in the Beaux Arts Trio in the late 1960’s, and he heard the Beaux Arts many, many times over the years. He insists that, for at least two decades, the Beaux Arts Trio was nonpareil in music of Mozart, Haydn and Beethoven. I believe my father owns every disc the ensemble ever recorded.
The Philips disc of Beethoven Piano Trios is taken from a five-disc set of the complete Beethoven Piano Trios recorded between 1979 and 1983. The Beaux Arts violinist at the time was Isidore Cohen, and the Beaux Arts cellist at the time was Bernard Greenhouse. That 1979-1983 set was the second integral recording of the Beethoven Piano Trios recorded by the Beaux Arts Trio, the earlier edition having been recorded and issued in the mid-1960’s.
The disc offers three works, including the two most famous “named” trios: Number 4, Opus 11; Number 5, Opus 70 (“Ghost”); and Number 7, Opus 97 (“Archduke”).
These are cultured, urbane, aristocratic performances, very Central European in flavor and tone. The Beaux Arts Trio was always the least “American” of American chamber ensembles. A Central European sensibility permeates these Beethoven performances. Everything is measured and poised. The long line is observed, but interesting detail is captured and highlighted without ever losing the overall arc of a movement’s shape. The performances have forward momentum, but never at the expense of expression or characterization. In short, these are masterly performances, about as fine as one has a right to expect.
I have a quibble with the recording: the pianist is too forward. Whether this is the fault of the pianist or the engineers I cannot say, but the piano at times overpowers the violin and cello.
Suitably, the greatest work on the disc, the “Archduke”, receives the greatest performance. Josh and I listened to the “Archduke” over and over with the greatest of pleasure and admiration.
It was with the “Archduke” that the Beaux Arts Trio ended its final concert last September in Lucerne. That must have been a very emotional evening, both for the musicians and for the members of the audience.
The Nonesuch disc contains Dmitry Sitkovetsky’s own arrangements for String Orchestra of two chamber works: Ernst Dohnanyi’s Serenade, Opus 10, an early five-movement work for String Trio; and Brahms’s String Sextet No. 2, Opus 36. This disc, issued in 2000, is a follow-up to an earlier recording made by these same forces, the earlier recording having featured Sitkovetsky’s arrangement for String Orchestra of the “Goldberg Variations”.
I have always believed that Sitkovetsky’s arrangement of the “Goldberg Variations” was masterly. In transferring Bach’s lengthy keyboard composition to an entirely new medium, Sitkovetsky preserved the essence of the original while creating a brilliant and imaginative new work for String Orchestra, an original and independent work in its own right.
Sitkovetsky’s Dohnanyi/Brahms arrangements are not on the same high level.
The Dohnanyi is the more successful of the two arrangements. It surely was the easier arrangement to create, as Sitkovetsky merely had to flesh out Dohnanyi’s already-transparent writing for String Trio.
The Dohnanyi Serenade is a sophisticated, charming but slight work, lacking individuality and memorability. Sitkovetsky’s arrangement neither adds to nor detracts from the original. It is nice to hear this work once in a while, but it is easy to understand why the Dohnanyi Serenade has never entered the repertory.
Dohnanyi was a highly-skilled, highly-professional composer whose music never made much of a mark, during his lifetime or after, because it lacked individuality. It is music that might have been written by anyone.
Dohnanyi’s scores are completely admirable—they are polished, even learned—but no trace of a unique personality ever peeps through the pages.
Many of Dohnanyi’s works are very beautiful. I like the five-movement Symphony No. 1 very much, and I like both Violin Concertos. I appreciate the artistry of Variations On A Nursery Tune and I am even partial to his Concertino For Harp And Orchestra, which I believe to be a masterpiece. Nevertheless, Dohnanyi’s music will never reach a mainstream audience because it is so impersonal, totally lacking a unique stamp.
Sitkovetsky’s arrangement of Brahms’s Sextet No. 2 is not, I think, successful. In, fact, I cannot understand why Sitkovetsky thought the Brahms Sextet might benefit from an arrangement for String Orchestra in the first place.
The string writing in Brahms’s original is already dense. Given its denseness, there is no point in expanding the number of string players—added richness will go hand-in-hand with added opaqueness—nor is there much an arranger can do to lighten the textures short of rewriting the composition and turning Brahms’s voicings into hash.
Sitkovetsky’s is a very conservative arrangement, and for that perhaps one should be grateful. However, it adds nothing to Brahms’s original other than offering a larger body of sound.
As a general rule, Brahms’s music does not lend itself to arrangement. The music is already so perfectly-matched to the performing forces chosen by the composer that an arrangement only weakens what is already there.
The one exception to this rule is Schoenberg’s transcription for orchestra of Brahms’s early Piano Quartet No. 1, Opus 25. In that transcription, Schoenberg practically re-writes Brahms to serve his own ends. His is an aggressive, even radical, transcription. In the process, Schoenberg uses his own genius to serve the genius of Brahms—with the result that both composers are served brilliantly.
Sitkovetsky’s arrangement is not at that exalted level. Sitkovetsky’s arrangement of the Sextet No. 2 reminds me of two other unsuccessful arrangements of Brahms, Edmund Rubbra’s arrangement for orchestra of Brahms’s early piano work, Variations And Fugue On A Theme By Handel, and Luciano Berio’s arrangement for orchestra of one of Brahms’s late clarinet sonatas, the Sonata For Clarinet And Piano, Opus 120, No.1.
In all three cases, the arrangements are dutiful but not particularly imaginative and in no way enlightening. Nothing of value has been added to Brahms’s originals. Nothing new, nothing intriguing has been offered to give listeners a fresh perspective on the original compositions. In all three cases, I can only ask: what was the point?
Claudio Abbado’s 1969 recording of Janacek’s Sinfonietta and Hindemith’s Symphonic Metamorphosis On Themes Of Weber is one of the classics of the gramophone. It is the recording that made Abbado’s name outside of Italy.
This disc has been celebrated for four decades. The performances have been reissued frequently over the years, always with a new coupling. The coupling for the reissue Josh and I brought to Boston is a suite from Prokofiev’s ballet, “Le Chout”—but Josh and I skipped the Prokofiev, as it did not fit into our listening scheme.
These performances of the Janacek and the Hindemith are the finest I have ever heard. The performances are extremely brilliant, capturing a staggering level of detail, but the performances are also very subtle. The performances are so excellent that I can hardly listen to either work in another conductor’s hands.
The Hindemith is little more than an orchestral showpiece, but what a great showpiece it is. It is also one of the wittiest works ever written, and one of the most fun both to play and to hear.
Abbado obtains a level of virtuosity from the orchestra that no other conductor has ever been able to match, at least on disc. He also elicits a palpable sense of enjoyment from the players that is not duplicated on any other recording of the work.
The Janacek is a work of greater substance, and Abbado offers what I believe to be a profound performance. The performance has incredible energy and freshness, yet Abbado gives each of the five movements a very precise emotional weight, characterization and tinctura not achieved by other conductors. Compared to Abbado, every other recording of the Sinfonietta I have heard sounds like a generalized run-through.
Abbado finds things in Janacek’s score missed by other conductors. For instance, Abbado rightly sees Janacek’s supporting string figurations not as accompaniment but as musical content. At times, his analysis of the score borders on genius, most evident in the introduction to the fifth movement, where the repetitive descending string figurations are chilling, becoming part and parcel of the musical argument while adding a degree of drama and anticipation to what will soon prove to be the work’s culmination.
The whole performance shimmers, first bar to last. This is one of the great orchestral recordings of the stereo age.
In some quarters, this recording is highly controversial.
This is so for two reasons.
First, Abbado’s performance of the Janacek Sinfonietta lacks rusticity, and some observers find Abbado’s elegance and extremely sophisticated command of orchestral texture to be at odds with the composer’s intent in writing a very nationalistic, celebratory piece of music.
Second, the recording techniques used in both the Hindemith and the Janacek are not to all tastes.
The recording is multi-miked to death (there were probably more microphones present in the studio than there were instrumentalists) and engineered to death (highlighting is used to an extreme degree) and spliced to death (the many edits may be heard in the digital remastering), and some observers cannot get beyond the artificiality of the final result. Indeed, some persons insist that credit for these undeniably brilliant performances must be assigned above all to the sound engineers, and not to the musicians.
Quite obviously, these performances would have sounded vastly different if a single microphone had been suspended above the orchestra in an effort to capture a natural, unprocessed orchestral sound.
However, I have no problem with excessive engineering if the final result is as pleasing as it is here. I have always believed that the recording medium is a unique art form, quite different from the mere documentation of a live performance. I have always found the Abbado Hindemith/Janacek disc to be uncommonly enjoyable, and my opinion is not affected by how success for the enterprise must be apportioned between performers and engineers.
At the time this recording was made, Abbado was not happy at Decca and was contemplating leaving the label (in fact, he was shortly to depart for Deutsche Grammophon). Decca wanted to keep Abbado, as Decca realized what a valuable property it had on its hands, and Decca lavished every possible attention on this particular recording. Multiple sessions were used, and multiple Decca personnel were assigned to the project, a sign of the measures Decca was prepared to take to keep Abbado within its stable of conductors.
Nevertheless, despite the success of the recording, the Hindemith/Janacek pairing proved to be one of Abbado’s final projects at Decca. He was soon to seek happier ground elsewhere. This disc is the only lasting mark of Abbado’s work during his brief time with the Decca label.
Sometimes I think this forty-year-old recording is the finest recording Abbado ever made.
Abbado’s recording career has been checkered, with far more misses than hits. The only lasting recordings he made during his eighteen years at La Scala were Verdi’s “Macbeth” and “Simon Boccanegra”. His years as Principal Guest Conductor of the Chicago Symphony resulted in only one special recording, Mahler’s Symphony No. 7. Of the many, many recordings Abbado has made with the Vienna Philharmonic over the years, only Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 4 and Rossini’s “L'Italiana In Algeri” have proven to be durable. Abbado’s years at the helm of the London Symphony resulted in only one truly superb recording, Bizet’s “Carmen”. His recordings while Music Director of the Berlin Philharmonic all met a certain high standard, but none of his Berlin Philharmonic recordings has managed to hold a claim on the public’s affection (including his pale Berlin remake of the Janacek/Hindemith pairing).
Abbado is, largely, a conductor who must be experienced live in order to be appreciated. Myself, I have never departed an Abbado concert feeling shortchanged.
However, I suspect that Abbado is not cut out to work in a recording studio. He CAN recreate a successful opera performance in the studio if he has already worked with the same artists in the theater, as he has proven several times. However, for orchestral works, I wonder whether Abbado needs the inspiration of an audience to give his best. Most of his orchestral recordings have proven to be disappointing to some degree.
Apparently Abbado can become prickly, even difficult, in the studio—and in his personal dealings with record company officials, too. He and Sony had a major falling-out over the “Boris Godunov” recording made in Berlin, with Abbado accusing Sony of being incompetent and Sony accusing Abbado of being incompetent.
In person, Abbado is apparently anything but the saintly figure portrayed by public-relations personnel. Some who have had extended dealings with Abbado over the years have raised serious concerns about his personal candor and integrity.
None of this, however, can take away from the success of the Decca recording Josh and I enjoyed.
Josh, who played trumpet all through grade school, junior high and high school, absolutely loved the disc, what with all the brilliant writing for brass on display. We must have played the disc twenty times, perhaps more, because Josh loved the music and the performances so much.
We’ll have to be sure to bring more Janacek and Hindemith discs to Boston next term.
Monday, June 08, 2009
"Titian, Tintoretto And Veronese"
This past weekend, Joshua and I went downtown to see Boston’s most important art exhibition of the year, “Titian, Tintoretto And Veronese: Rivals In Renaissance Venice”, at the Boston Museum Of Fine Arts.
The exhibition was superb. We were exceedingly pleased. Although there were only fifty-some paintings in the exhibition, it took Josh and me more than two hours to get through the exhibition. The exhibition was so fine that we may visit the exhibition again next weekend, too. We bought the exhibition catalog, and we plan to read it this week. It should make a second visit to the exhibition even more enriching for us.
The exhibition has proven to be very popular with Boston art-lovers. “Titian, Tintoretto And Veronese” was originally intended to end in mid-July, but the exhibition has now been extended until mid-August, when the paintings must travel to the Louvre, the only other venue for the exhibition.
The exhibition has received generous press attention. Major national magazines—TIME, Newsweek—have covered the exhibition, as have various national arts quarterlies such as The New Criterion. Most national newspapers have written about “Titian, Tintoretto And Veronese”. Even the Los Angeles Times sent its art critic to Boston for the opening.
London’s Times covered “Titian, Tintoretto And Veronese”, too, offering an extensive review written by Professor Rabb, now retired from Princeton.
It is not often that an art exhibition generates such a vast amount of press coverage.
I wish my mother could visit the exhibition. I told her all about it. Josh and I will take the exhibition catalog to Minneapolis in July so that my mother may read it. It would be nice if my parents could make a brief visit to Boston to attend “Titian, Tintoretto And Veronese” before the exhibition ends, but I do not believe their schedules will permit it.
The Boston Museum Of Fine Arts needs to review its admission policy. Tickets to “Titian, Tintoretto And Veronese” cost $25.00, far too much for an art exhibition. Admission to tax-supported institutions should be free, and admission to temporary exhibitions at tax-supported institutions should carry no more than a nominal charge.
The exhibition was superb. We were exceedingly pleased. Although there were only fifty-some paintings in the exhibition, it took Josh and me more than two hours to get through the exhibition. The exhibition was so fine that we may visit the exhibition again next weekend, too. We bought the exhibition catalog, and we plan to read it this week. It should make a second visit to the exhibition even more enriching for us.
The exhibition has proven to be very popular with Boston art-lovers. “Titian, Tintoretto And Veronese” was originally intended to end in mid-July, but the exhibition has now been extended until mid-August, when the paintings must travel to the Louvre, the only other venue for the exhibition.
The exhibition has received generous press attention. Major national magazines—TIME, Newsweek—have covered the exhibition, as have various national arts quarterlies such as The New Criterion. Most national newspapers have written about “Titian, Tintoretto And Veronese”. Even the Los Angeles Times sent its art critic to Boston for the opening.
London’s Times covered “Titian, Tintoretto And Veronese”, too, offering an extensive review written by Professor Rabb, now retired from Princeton.
It is not often that an art exhibition generates such a vast amount of press coverage.
I wish my mother could visit the exhibition. I told her all about it. Josh and I will take the exhibition catalog to Minneapolis in July so that my mother may read it. It would be nice if my parents could make a brief visit to Boston to attend “Titian, Tintoretto And Veronese” before the exhibition ends, but I do not believe their schedules will permit it.
The Boston Museum Of Fine Arts needs to review its admission policy. Tickets to “Titian, Tintoretto And Veronese” cost $25.00, far too much for an art exhibition. Admission to tax-supported institutions should be free, and admission to temporary exhibitions at tax-supported institutions should carry no more than a nominal charge.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
"Ah" And "Bah" And "Gah"
My niece will be six months old early next week, and she started eating solid foods this past weekend.
Her mother started by giving her infant cereal on Saturday morning along with her bottle. She liked the cereal.
At lunchtime, she was offered pureed poached pears, which she liked very much, and pureed steamed peas, which she did not like at all. Babies generally do not like any vegetable the first few tries, and it will probably be a week or two before my niece begins to like peas.
For Saturday night’s dinner at my parents’ house, my niece was offered pureed cooked butternut squash, which she did not like, and pureed fresh, warm applesauce, which she liked very much.
She had her cereal again Sunday morning as well as her first taste of pureed banana, which she did not like. Her dislike of banana was not a surprise, since it often takes a week or more before babies begin to like the taste of banana.
For Sunday lunch at my parents’ house, she was given pureed poached pears again, which she liked very much for a second time—I think pears must be her favorite, for now—as well as pureed steamed butter beans, which she did not like.
For Sunday dinner, again at my parents’ house, she was given pureed mashed potatoes, which she liked, and pureed poached apricots, which she did not like as much as the pears.
On Monday morning, along with her cereal, she was offered pureed banana a second time. She clearly remembered the banana from Sunday, because she spit it out as soon as she tasted it.
For Monday lunch, she was offered pureed poached peaches, which she liked—but not as much as the pears—and pureed steamed lima beans, which she did not like.
For Monday dinner, she was offered pureed mashed potatoes and pureed homemade warm applesauce, both of which she liked for a second time.
For Tuesday morning’s breakfast, she was given a very small amount of pureed fresh orange along with her cereal, and she was very definitely intrigued by the taste of the pureed orange—but, once again, she didn’t seem to like it as much as the pears.
At lunchtime on Tuesday, it was back to pureed poached pears, again a success, and pureed steamed peas, again not a success.
Last evening at dinner, my sister-in-law tried pureed butternut squash a second time and pureed poached plums. My niece took a couple of swallows of the butternut squash last night, nothing more, and three swallows of the plums, nothing more.
This morning she had a very small amount of pureed fresh orange for a second time with her cereal, and I think she is beginning to like the taste of orange.
For today’s lunch, she had pureed applesauce again, which she still likes, and pureed steamed wax beans, which she did not like.
For tonight’s dinner at my parents’ house, my niece was given pureed mashed potatoes and pureed poached pears. I think this combination has become her preferred dinner, at least for now.
Naturally, my niece only takes a few swallows of solid food at each meal. Her infant formula remains her main source of nourishment. Other than her morning infant cereal, all other solid foods, as of now, are exercises in experimentation, preparations for a few weeks from now when solid food will become a significant part of her diet.
At present, she is, more or less, learning to swallow, and trying out her taste buds, and little else. A month from now, however, she should be a genuine eater, able to accept meaningful amounts of solid food three times a day.
She is just at the point at which she can sit in a high chair during family mealtimes. She is buckled in, of course, but she can now make it through breakfast, lunch and dinner sitting up on her own in a high chair. Her chair is placed alongside her mother’s chair at mealtimes at her own house. At my parents’ house, she sits between her mother and her grandmother at a corner of the dining table, just as my nephew used to do before he took his place at table. I wish I could be there to see it.
My niece burbles a lot now—lots of “Ah” and “Bah” and “Gah” sounds come out of her—and she responds fully now to people, sounds and interesting, colorful things. Her eyes follow people around a room and she burbles when people talk to her.
Her favorite toy is a small bright red corduroy animal with bright yellow ears and bright green hands and bright black-and-white-striped socks on its feet. It has bells inside that ring every time the toy is moved, and she loves it. She can pick it up and put it down, and move it from hand to hand.
She is at the point now at which she can enjoy the colorful pictures in a picture book. She will happily sit on her mother’s or father’s lap and enjoy looking at the pictures in a children’s book while one of her parents reads out the nonsensical rhymes and stories. She could not do that as recently as a month ago.
My niece doesn’t cry much, and she has not been prone to childhood ailments, for which we are all thankful. Happily, she has not suffered any sudden ear infections or sudden high fevers to which infants are sometimes susceptible. She has been a very healthy baby, and for that we are all blessed.
In exactly another month, Josh and I will get to see her again.
Her mother started by giving her infant cereal on Saturday morning along with her bottle. She liked the cereal.
At lunchtime, she was offered pureed poached pears, which she liked very much, and pureed steamed peas, which she did not like at all. Babies generally do not like any vegetable the first few tries, and it will probably be a week or two before my niece begins to like peas.
For Saturday night’s dinner at my parents’ house, my niece was offered pureed cooked butternut squash, which she did not like, and pureed fresh, warm applesauce, which she liked very much.
She had her cereal again Sunday morning as well as her first taste of pureed banana, which she did not like. Her dislike of banana was not a surprise, since it often takes a week or more before babies begin to like the taste of banana.
For Sunday lunch at my parents’ house, she was given pureed poached pears again, which she liked very much for a second time—I think pears must be her favorite, for now—as well as pureed steamed butter beans, which she did not like.
For Sunday dinner, again at my parents’ house, she was given pureed mashed potatoes, which she liked, and pureed poached apricots, which she did not like as much as the pears.
On Monday morning, along with her cereal, she was offered pureed banana a second time. She clearly remembered the banana from Sunday, because she spit it out as soon as she tasted it.
For Monday lunch, she was offered pureed poached peaches, which she liked—but not as much as the pears—and pureed steamed lima beans, which she did not like.
For Monday dinner, she was offered pureed mashed potatoes and pureed homemade warm applesauce, both of which she liked for a second time.
For Tuesday morning’s breakfast, she was given a very small amount of pureed fresh orange along with her cereal, and she was very definitely intrigued by the taste of the pureed orange—but, once again, she didn’t seem to like it as much as the pears.
At lunchtime on Tuesday, it was back to pureed poached pears, again a success, and pureed steamed peas, again not a success.
Last evening at dinner, my sister-in-law tried pureed butternut squash a second time and pureed poached plums. My niece took a couple of swallows of the butternut squash last night, nothing more, and three swallows of the plums, nothing more.
This morning she had a very small amount of pureed fresh orange for a second time with her cereal, and I think she is beginning to like the taste of orange.
For today’s lunch, she had pureed applesauce again, which she still likes, and pureed steamed wax beans, which she did not like.
For tonight’s dinner at my parents’ house, my niece was given pureed mashed potatoes and pureed poached pears. I think this combination has become her preferred dinner, at least for now.
Naturally, my niece only takes a few swallows of solid food at each meal. Her infant formula remains her main source of nourishment. Other than her morning infant cereal, all other solid foods, as of now, are exercises in experimentation, preparations for a few weeks from now when solid food will become a significant part of her diet.
At present, she is, more or less, learning to swallow, and trying out her taste buds, and little else. A month from now, however, she should be a genuine eater, able to accept meaningful amounts of solid food three times a day.
She is just at the point at which she can sit in a high chair during family mealtimes. She is buckled in, of course, but she can now make it through breakfast, lunch and dinner sitting up on her own in a high chair. Her chair is placed alongside her mother’s chair at mealtimes at her own house. At my parents’ house, she sits between her mother and her grandmother at a corner of the dining table, just as my nephew used to do before he took his place at table. I wish I could be there to see it.
My niece burbles a lot now—lots of “Ah” and “Bah” and “Gah” sounds come out of her—and she responds fully now to people, sounds and interesting, colorful things. Her eyes follow people around a room and she burbles when people talk to her.
Her favorite toy is a small bright red corduroy animal with bright yellow ears and bright green hands and bright black-and-white-striped socks on its feet. It has bells inside that ring every time the toy is moved, and she loves it. She can pick it up and put it down, and move it from hand to hand.
She is at the point now at which she can enjoy the colorful pictures in a picture book. She will happily sit on her mother’s or father’s lap and enjoy looking at the pictures in a children’s book while one of her parents reads out the nonsensical rhymes and stories. She could not do that as recently as a month ago.
My niece doesn’t cry much, and she has not been prone to childhood ailments, for which we are all thankful. Happily, she has not suffered any sudden ear infections or sudden high fevers to which infants are sometimes susceptible. She has been a very healthy baby, and for that we are all blessed.
In exactly another month, Josh and I will get to see her again.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Not Up To Much
Joshua and I have not been up to much.
Last weekend, we were in Oklahoma for Josh’s brother’s high school graduation. It was a beautiful ceremony, and it was encouraging to see so many fresh-faced young men and women marking the end of their high school days. Josh and I were very pleased that we were able to make it to the graduation.
Josh’s parents hosted a graduation party after the ceremony, and all of Josh’s aunts and uncles attended, including a couple of which I had not previously met. There was a big cookout in the back yard, followed by cake and homemade ice cream.
We spent much of the weekend discussing our upcoming trip. We already know how we will spend our week in Austria, but we devoted significant attention to discussing how we might spend our four days in Munich. We did not make any firm decisions, but we know we will easily be able to visit the essential attractions of Munich in the allotted time.
Josh’s time is now his own for the rest of the summer. Since Josh and I will be away during July and the first half of August, Josh is presently trying to decide what to do with his time during the month of June.
Josh has not come up with anything yet. However, we have made weekend plans for the last weekend of June. For only the second time since our 2006 graduations, Josh and I will return to Washington for a weekend.
The genesis of the weekend is a visit to Washington by the Royal Ballet.
When my father read that the Royal Ballet will be appearing in Washington this summer, he asked my mother whether she wanted to travel to Washington to see one or two of the performances. Since my parents will not take a trip this summer, my father thought that a short summer visit to Washington might appeal to my mother.
My mother was delighted at the prospect of seeing the Royal Ballet. After a little research, she was even more delighted when she learned that in June there will be two plays in Washington she and my father want to see. The icing on the cake for my mother was her discovery that there will be six important art exhibitions on display in Washington in late June: two at the Corcoran; two at the National Gallery; one at the Renwick; and one at the Smithsonian Museum Of American Art.
All of this was more than enough to make a trip to Washington worthwhile, and my parents booked the trip—and asked Josh and me whether we wanted to join them.
Josh and I looked at the various offerings, and we immediately said “Yes”.
We should be able to fit everything we want to see and do in Washington into two full days and nights.
It should be a good way to wrap up the month of June—and a good way to spend our final weekend before returning home for the summer.
Last weekend, we were in Oklahoma for Josh’s brother’s high school graduation. It was a beautiful ceremony, and it was encouraging to see so many fresh-faced young men and women marking the end of their high school days. Josh and I were very pleased that we were able to make it to the graduation.
Josh’s parents hosted a graduation party after the ceremony, and all of Josh’s aunts and uncles attended, including a couple of which I had not previously met. There was a big cookout in the back yard, followed by cake and homemade ice cream.
We spent much of the weekend discussing our upcoming trip. We already know how we will spend our week in Austria, but we devoted significant attention to discussing how we might spend our four days in Munich. We did not make any firm decisions, but we know we will easily be able to visit the essential attractions of Munich in the allotted time.
Josh’s time is now his own for the rest of the summer. Since Josh and I will be away during July and the first half of August, Josh is presently trying to decide what to do with his time during the month of June.
Josh has not come up with anything yet. However, we have made weekend plans for the last weekend of June. For only the second time since our 2006 graduations, Josh and I will return to Washington for a weekend.
The genesis of the weekend is a visit to Washington by the Royal Ballet.
When my father read that the Royal Ballet will be appearing in Washington this summer, he asked my mother whether she wanted to travel to Washington to see one or two of the performances. Since my parents will not take a trip this summer, my father thought that a short summer visit to Washington might appeal to my mother.
My mother was delighted at the prospect of seeing the Royal Ballet. After a little research, she was even more delighted when she learned that in June there will be two plays in Washington she and my father want to see. The icing on the cake for my mother was her discovery that there will be six important art exhibitions on display in Washington in late June: two at the Corcoran; two at the National Gallery; one at the Renwick; and one at the Smithsonian Museum Of American Art.
All of this was more than enough to make a trip to Washington worthwhile, and my parents booked the trip—and asked Josh and me whether we wanted to join them.
Josh and I looked at the various offerings, and we immediately said “Yes”.
We should be able to fit everything we want to see and do in Washington into two full days and nights.
It should be a good way to wrap up the month of June—and a good way to spend our final weekend before returning home for the summer.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Ballets Russes
On Saturday night, Joshua and I went downtown to attend a performance of Boston Ballet.
In a way, the evening was a celebration for us, as it marked the end of Josh’s first year in law school.
The Boston Ballet program was a centennial tribute to Ballets Russes, founded 100 years ago by Sergei Diaghilev.
George Balanchine’s 1929 Expressionist masterpiece, “The Prodigal Son”, constituted the first part of the program. Although Balanchine choreographed for Ballets Russes only in the company’s very final years, he was the greatest of all choreographers who created dances for the company. Accordingly, it was fitting that “The Prodigal Son” be on the program—it probably is the single greatest ballet ever commissioned by Diaghilev and brought to life by Ballets Russes.
The second part of the program was devoted to two ballets created for Vaslav Nijinsky, who danced in their first productions: Mikhail Fokine’s 1911 “Spectre De La Rose” and Nijinsky’s own 1912 “Afternoon Of A Faun”.
By design, Josh and I skipped the third part of the program, which featured a performance of “The Rite Of Spring” to brand-new choreography by Finnish choreographer Jorma Elo.
It would be inconceivable to omit music of Igor Stravinsky from a Ballets Russes tribute program, since Stravinsky was the greatest composer who wrote music for Ballets Russes. In the process, Stravinsky redefined what ballet music could and should be.
Nevertheless, Balanchine always said that “The Rite Of Spring” cannot and should not be danced—and, late in life, Stravinsky himself said much the same thing. I happen to agree.
The new Boston “Rite Of Spring” received blistering notices in the local and national press, so I suspect Josh and I did not miss out on much.
“The Prodigal Son” was the main feature for us. Josh had never seen “The Prodigal Son”, and I had very much wanted Josh to see Balanchine’s first great masterpiece. “The Prodigal Son” is perhaps the most overtly-dramatic work Balanchine was to create. If Balanchine had died immediately after completing the ballet at age 25, his name would nonetheless be remembered forever.
Josh was bowled over by “The Prodigal Son”. It was not at all what Josh had expected. Josh had previously experienced only plotless, Neo-Classical Balanchine ballets, and he had had no idea that Balanchine was also a master at creating story ballets. The drama and power of “The Prodigal Son” took Josh completely by surprise.
Almost every minute of “The Prodigal Son” is unforgettable; its images have become icons. The startling, angry, violent leaps at the beginning of the ballet, when the son demonstrates his restlessness and his bristling at his father’s authority, seize the audience’s attention immediately. The final leap takes the son over the fence of his father’s home and onto his journey in search of manhood.
The scene with The Goons is always unsettling. For me, it is the most disturbing part of the ballet. I gasped the first time I saw The Goons raise one end of the long table on which The Prodigal Son stands, causing him to slide to the floor.
The scene with The Siren is the heart and soul of the ballet. The steps Balanchine created for The Siren are among his most original and imaginative. When The Siren is done humiliating The Prodigal Son, there is nothing of him left—and nothing left for him to do but to crawl home.
I love the closing scene, perhaps the most powerful emotional moment in all of Balanchine: The Prodigal Son’s sisters see him approach the family home, and call their father, who comes forward and wraps The Prodigal Son in his cloak and takes him back into the home.
I was overwhelmed the first time I saw “The Prodigal Son”, and Josh was overwhelmed Saturday night. The ballet gave Josh an entirely new perspective on Balanchine.
The beauty of “The Prodigal Son” almost always comes across, even in a mediocre performance. Boston Ballet did well by the work, I thought, even though The Siren was not very threatening and The Prodigal Son not quite up to the full requirements of the role.
“Spectre De La Rose” and “Afternoon Of A Faun” do not have much dance interest, at least compared to the Balanchine masterpiece, and they seemed pretty thin after “The Prodigal Son”. I understand why these two ballets created sensations a century ago—the lead role in each ballet is tailored for a star who, through personal magnetism, can carry each ballet—but these ballets are curiosities now, no longer viable without overwhelming stage presences in the leads.
In general, I thought the performances were unobjectionable. The dancers had been meticulously rehearsed and had mastered the steps, although they hardly offered the last word in technique, style and characterization.
Given that Boston Ballet had completed a two-week run of the full-length “The Sleeping Beauty” only two weeks earlier (which Josh and I had missed owing to Josh’s study schedule), and given that the company had simultaneously been preparing a brand-new “Rite Of Spring”, it was a marvel that the dancing was as fine as it was on Saturday night.
It was a rewarding evening.
In a way, the evening was a celebration for us, as it marked the end of Josh’s first year in law school.
The Boston Ballet program was a centennial tribute to Ballets Russes, founded 100 years ago by Sergei Diaghilev.
George Balanchine’s 1929 Expressionist masterpiece, “The Prodigal Son”, constituted the first part of the program. Although Balanchine choreographed for Ballets Russes only in the company’s very final years, he was the greatest of all choreographers who created dances for the company. Accordingly, it was fitting that “The Prodigal Son” be on the program—it probably is the single greatest ballet ever commissioned by Diaghilev and brought to life by Ballets Russes.
The second part of the program was devoted to two ballets created for Vaslav Nijinsky, who danced in their first productions: Mikhail Fokine’s 1911 “Spectre De La Rose” and Nijinsky’s own 1912 “Afternoon Of A Faun”.
By design, Josh and I skipped the third part of the program, which featured a performance of “The Rite Of Spring” to brand-new choreography by Finnish choreographer Jorma Elo.
It would be inconceivable to omit music of Igor Stravinsky from a Ballets Russes tribute program, since Stravinsky was the greatest composer who wrote music for Ballets Russes. In the process, Stravinsky redefined what ballet music could and should be.
Nevertheless, Balanchine always said that “The Rite Of Spring” cannot and should not be danced—and, late in life, Stravinsky himself said much the same thing. I happen to agree.
The new Boston “Rite Of Spring” received blistering notices in the local and national press, so I suspect Josh and I did not miss out on much.
“The Prodigal Son” was the main feature for us. Josh had never seen “The Prodigal Son”, and I had very much wanted Josh to see Balanchine’s first great masterpiece. “The Prodigal Son” is perhaps the most overtly-dramatic work Balanchine was to create. If Balanchine had died immediately after completing the ballet at age 25, his name would nonetheless be remembered forever.
Josh was bowled over by “The Prodigal Son”. It was not at all what Josh had expected. Josh had previously experienced only plotless, Neo-Classical Balanchine ballets, and he had had no idea that Balanchine was also a master at creating story ballets. The drama and power of “The Prodigal Son” took Josh completely by surprise.
Almost every minute of “The Prodigal Son” is unforgettable; its images have become icons. The startling, angry, violent leaps at the beginning of the ballet, when the son demonstrates his restlessness and his bristling at his father’s authority, seize the audience’s attention immediately. The final leap takes the son over the fence of his father’s home and onto his journey in search of manhood.
The scene with The Goons is always unsettling. For me, it is the most disturbing part of the ballet. I gasped the first time I saw The Goons raise one end of the long table on which The Prodigal Son stands, causing him to slide to the floor.
The scene with The Siren is the heart and soul of the ballet. The steps Balanchine created for The Siren are among his most original and imaginative. When The Siren is done humiliating The Prodigal Son, there is nothing of him left—and nothing left for him to do but to crawl home.
I love the closing scene, perhaps the most powerful emotional moment in all of Balanchine: The Prodigal Son’s sisters see him approach the family home, and call their father, who comes forward and wraps The Prodigal Son in his cloak and takes him back into the home.
I was overwhelmed the first time I saw “The Prodigal Son”, and Josh was overwhelmed Saturday night. The ballet gave Josh an entirely new perspective on Balanchine.
The beauty of “The Prodigal Son” almost always comes across, even in a mediocre performance. Boston Ballet did well by the work, I thought, even though The Siren was not very threatening and The Prodigal Son not quite up to the full requirements of the role.
“Spectre De La Rose” and “Afternoon Of A Faun” do not have much dance interest, at least compared to the Balanchine masterpiece, and they seemed pretty thin after “The Prodigal Son”. I understand why these two ballets created sensations a century ago—the lead role in each ballet is tailored for a star who, through personal magnetism, can carry each ballet—but these ballets are curiosities now, no longer viable without overwhelming stage presences in the leads.
In general, I thought the performances were unobjectionable. The dancers had been meticulously rehearsed and had mastered the steps, although they hardly offered the last word in technique, style and characterization.
Given that Boston Ballet had completed a two-week run of the full-length “The Sleeping Beauty” only two weeks earlier (which Josh and I had missed owing to Josh’s study schedule), and given that the company had simultaneously been preparing a brand-new “Rite Of Spring”, it was a marvel that the dancing was as fine as it was on Saturday night.
It was a rewarding evening.
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Gonzaga Of Mantua
In 2002, my middle brother and I took a guided tour of the Ducal Palace in Mantua.
At the time, a guided tour was the only way to gain access to the Palace (the public may now visit seven rooms without taking a guided tour) and my brother and I bought tickets, not quite knowing what was in store for us.
We knew that the tour was to be conducted in Italian, but we had hoped that the tour guide would offer a little information in English, especially since most of the visitors that particular day were American (including a church group from Austin, Texas, that made up more than half that day’s tour participants).
The guide, alas, spoke no English, so we were treated to a stream of rapid-fire Italian as we were stewarded through room after room after room of the enormous Palace.
There are more than 500 rooms in the Ducal Palace, and my brother and I had assumed—incorrectly—that the tour would last 45 minutes or an hour and would include only a handful of the most celebrated public rooms.
In fact, the tour went on forever—it was two hours and twenty-five minutes before the tour concluded—and the number of rooms visited, I would estimate, was fifty, perhaps sixty, perhaps more.
Moreover, I believe the tour that day was cut short by the guide. After ninety minutes or so, the church group from Austin began waving wristwatches, following that up by asking the guide to speed things up, and finally insisting upon finding its own way out of the complex (which is not allowed).
The church group was hungry, or so its leaders tried to explain to the guide, and the guide in exasperation escorted everyone back to the entrance of the Palace and said “Ciao”.
My brother and I were hungry, too—the tour had started at 12:00 Noon and we had not had lunch—but we had found the Palace to be absolutely fascinating. We have long wondered how much of the regular tour of the Palace we missed because of the Texans.
Despite its amazing importance to the history of Italy, the Ducal Palace at Mantua is not heavily visited, just as the city of Mantua itself is generally bypassed by visitors to Italy.
The small number of visitors to the Palace is probably all for the best, because the Palace is crumbling. The Italian government does not have sufficient funds to maintain the Palace properly, let alone restore it to its original glory.
Original furnishings were long ago sold off, as was the finest art collection ever assembled up to the 17th Century. All that remains of the original glory of the Mantuan Court is the stately procession of Palace rooms, mostly empty now, and the famed frescoes that once were the envy of every court in Europe.
Run-down and musty, the Palace was nonetheless an essential stop for my brother and me. Three centuries of great architects had created the grand, stately spaces through which 800 nobles and courtiers formerly passed, living and working in this magnificent assemblage of interiors erected over the course of more than 300 years.
The exteriors of the Palace were not as imposing. The Ducal Palace is a massive sequence of buildings that flows from the very center of Mantua to the very outskirts of the city. The exteriors were built in a hodgepodge of Medieval, Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque styles, reflecting rapid changes in architectural design over three centuries. There is nothing unified about the Palace exteriors. Further, the exteriors are neither beautiful nor unique.
I remember our visit to the Ducal Palace well, and my memories were the only thing that kept me going while reading Kate Simon’s “A Renaissance Tapestry: The Gonzaga Of Mantua”, a history of Mantua, the Mantuan Court and the Gonzaga dynasty.
In Simon’s book, it is the Palace itself that is the most colorful presence, far more colorful than any of the rulers and courtiers that populated and governed what was once one of Europe’s most powerful and most important and most fascinating kingdoms.
“A Renaissance Tapestry” is an inept book. The research is inept, the writing is inept, the organization is inept. Even the photographs are inept. I suspect the only reason the book was published was because Simon was a popular travel writer in the 1960’s and 1970’s and, by the 1980’s, had developed a loyal readership. As a result, Simon was able to convince a reputable publishing house to bring out her first (and, to be thankful, only) history book.
Incomprehensibly, “A Renaissance Tapestry” was a bestseller when first published in 1988. The book was reviewed widely and respectfully—it was even reviewed TWICE by The New York Times (inanely on both occasions)—and treated as a major publishing event.
As history, the book is bunk. Neither an historian nor an expert on Italy, Simon uses secondary sources, some good, some not so good, to present the saga of the Gonzaga family. Most of her material is rehashed from old sources, and her rehashing is not very accurate, not very lively, and not very imaginative. Simon simply had no insight for or penetrating views about the subject she had selected.
Further, Simon’s book is inartfully, even clumsily, arranged. While reading 309 pages, I was never able to ascertain the organizing principle at work. The author flitted from subject to subject in no logical fashion, incoherently blending bits of biography with bits of history with bits of personal “interpretation”. The whole affair was a mess—and there was a grievous lack of citation for the more risible claims Simon made throughout the book.
Simon’s papers reside at Hunter College, and those papers hold the first two drafts of her Gonzaga volume. As the final draft was definitely not a case of the third time being the charm, I would be curious to see the first two drafts. They must be among the most comical pages ever written.
The Gonzaga family seized power in Mantua in 1328—they overthrew the previous ruling family in a bold, even reckless, act of subterfuge, an act of subterfuge that, against all odds, succeeded beyond the family’s wildest dreams—and governed Mantua for almost 400 years, scheming and conniving to hold power and expand the family’s influence into other Italian kingdoms, primarily Venice, Ferrara and Milan.
Because Mantua was situated midway between Venice and Milan, two powerful states in a perpetual state of conflict, Mantua was a valuable partner for Venice and Milan to court. In general, the Gonzaga family played off those two powerful rivals very skillfully, always allying with one or the other—and always demanding (and receiving) a hefty fee. The result was that riches from Venice or Milan continuously poured into the coffers of Mantua, riches that the Gonzaga family used to erect palaces, buy gold and jewels, acquire an art collection of staggering quality, and engage the best poets, writers, artists and composers of the day to create tributes to itself.
The Gonzaga family also used the ever-flowing sums from Venice and Milan to buy influence. Influence was sought and acquired in Rome—there was generally a Gonzaga Cardinal in place at the Vatican to bend the Pope’s ear—and in most other Italian kingdoms, as well as in France, Bavaria and Spain. Because of its desire for influence throughout Europe, the Gonzaga dynasty maintained the largest and most skillful group of diplomats in Europe, an ambassadorial retinue that was the envy of the British and French sovereigns.
Many rulers from the Gonzaga clan were extravagant spendthrifts, and several times over the centuries the Mantuan court was on the verge of financial collapse. Neighboring kingdoms were always on the lookout for an opportunity, and the demise of the Gonzaga clan was predicted (and sought) many times. Nevertheless, the Gonzaga family always managed to hold on to power, finding necessary sources of funds through marriages, unexpected political alliances, luck—or, if need be, theft.
When Gonzaga rule in Mantua ended in 1707, it did so not because of the family’s collapse but because there was no heir to carry on the line. Without an heir to continue the Gonzaga hold on power, Mantua ceded to the Hapsburgs of Austria. Excepting Napoleon’s brief occupation of Italy, Mantua was to remain under Hapsburg control until the unification of Italy in the 19th Century.
Just like the Gonzaga dynasty, the city of Mantua has long departed from the world stage. Today’s Mantua remains the capital of Lombardy, an Italian province, but it is of interest to outsiders solely for the legacies of the Gonzaga’s. The buildings they left behind and the art they once owned are the only surviving testaments to Gonzaga glory from days gone by.
Art from the Gonzaga collection is now everywhere. Gonzaga paintings form the basis of the collections of the Hermitage, the Louvre, and the most important galleries in Britain and the United States.
The dispersal of the Gonzaga painting collection began almost a century before the Gonzaga line ended. The Gonzaga collection had been rumored to be for sale for decades, but in the 1620’s a sale of a significant portion of the collection finally occurred, when agents for Charles I purchased 700 Gonzaga masterpieces and shipped the paintings to London (the ship carrying the artworks to Britain almost sank en route during a storm, and dozens of major masterworks were irreparably damaged when mercury in the ship's hold spilled onto numerous canvases).
Charles continued to purchase Gonzaga paintings for three years. When Charles grew short of funds, the Gonzaga family had to look for other buyers, often using noted dealers in Venice. On one occasion, more than 1000 paintings were transported by a train of horses and mules from Mantua to Venice, where the paintings were offered for private sale.
Charles I was not to enjoy his new art collection for long, as he was to lose his head in 1649. One of the results of his execution was the dispersal of the collection for the second time in a generation. After Charles's death, most of his collection was put up for sale by Cromwell, and the bulk of the collection was sold to continental buyers.
One type of art could not be moved from Mantua and sold: the frescoes that adorned various parts of the Palace. Numerous artists from the Early Italian Renaissance and High Italian Renaissance contributed to the frescoes, but the most celebrated frescoes in Mantua are those by Andrea Mantegna, who devoted more than four decades of his life to creating art for the Gonzaga family. Mantegna’s most important legacy is his series of frescoes for Mantua, the greatness of which may still be glimpsed through centuries of damage and decay.
There is an important need for an authoritative account of the Gonzaga era, but Simon does not provide it. Hers is very much an amateur’s book, and a dismal one at that. Fatally, it lacks the two qualities that often make an amateur’s work readable: good prose and an intense passion for the subject.
If Simon were alive, I would want to ask her what made her choose to write about Mantua and the Gonzaga dynasty in the first place. There is no passion in her work, no inkling that she found a good story here, no suggestion of an abiding love for Italy or art or the Renaissance. Her book struck me as the expanded updating of a decades-old term paper, supplemented with the experience of a single late-in-life visit to Mantua.
There was one striking thing about “A Renaissance Tapestry” that none of the reviewers mentioned: the book was the work of more than one hand.
Ninety-nine per cent of the writing was slop, but a dozen times in the volume the writing suddenly became elegant and cogent, even sparkling, for three or four paragraphs at a stretch. Such paragraphs clearly were the work of another writer, and generally involved summations and transitions.
This other, vastly-superior writer was undoubtedly responsible, too, for the entire closing chapter, a truly elegant and concise wrap-up of all that had come before, as well as the last half of the penultimate chapter, where the writing suddenly switched from dogged to gleaming at the blink of an eye. Who was this uncredited writer? I suspect it was an academic to whom the publisher had farmed out the manuscript in order to obtain a hasty clean-up prior to publication.
The publisher should have requested even more drastic measures from the uncredited book doctor—the entire manuscript should have been rewritten, and afterward turned over to a team of fact-checkers in order to correct the misstatements of fact, which were legion.
Whenever Simon stepped outside of Italy and addressed historic events and personages elsewhere, she was totally lost. Her discussions of people and politics in Austria, Britain, France, Germany the Netherlands, Spain and Turkey were laughable, displaying an astonishing if not unforgivable lack of knowledge and understanding about European history and culture.
Given the remarkable cast of characters she was given, Simon should have been able to make her book about the Gonzaga family one of the most riveting reading experiences of the last fifty years. That the book is so lame is testament to the fact that Simon was so profoundly untalented, both as a writer and as a thinker.
To cite merely a handful of the persons who lived in the Ducal Palace at Mantua and worked for the Gonzaga’s is almost too much for a modern-day person to contemplate: Giulio Romano, Peter Paul Rubens, Claudio Monteverdi, Baldassare Castiglione.
During our tour of the Ducal Palace, my brother and I heard the guide drop these and other names in rapid succession. Clearly, room-by-room, she was talking about long-ago events, involving the most famous of names, which had occurred in the various corridors, staterooms, salons, ballrooms and private apartments through which we were passing.
Names were the only things we could pick out in the flow of Italian, but the richness of the names added a layer of excitement to our visit. We knew we were being offered one remarkable story after another, with remarkable characters, recalling remarkable events—and yet we could understand none of it. It was very frustrating.
Simon’s book is most remarkable for how little she makes of this extraordinary cast of characters participating in extraordinary events during extraordinary times.
That, too, was very frustrating.
At the time, a guided tour was the only way to gain access to the Palace (the public may now visit seven rooms without taking a guided tour) and my brother and I bought tickets, not quite knowing what was in store for us.
We knew that the tour was to be conducted in Italian, but we had hoped that the tour guide would offer a little information in English, especially since most of the visitors that particular day were American (including a church group from Austin, Texas, that made up more than half that day’s tour participants).
The guide, alas, spoke no English, so we were treated to a stream of rapid-fire Italian as we were stewarded through room after room after room of the enormous Palace.
There are more than 500 rooms in the Ducal Palace, and my brother and I had assumed—incorrectly—that the tour would last 45 minutes or an hour and would include only a handful of the most celebrated public rooms.
In fact, the tour went on forever—it was two hours and twenty-five minutes before the tour concluded—and the number of rooms visited, I would estimate, was fifty, perhaps sixty, perhaps more.
Moreover, I believe the tour that day was cut short by the guide. After ninety minutes or so, the church group from Austin began waving wristwatches, following that up by asking the guide to speed things up, and finally insisting upon finding its own way out of the complex (which is not allowed).
The church group was hungry, or so its leaders tried to explain to the guide, and the guide in exasperation escorted everyone back to the entrance of the Palace and said “Ciao”.
My brother and I were hungry, too—the tour had started at 12:00 Noon and we had not had lunch—but we had found the Palace to be absolutely fascinating. We have long wondered how much of the regular tour of the Palace we missed because of the Texans.
Despite its amazing importance to the history of Italy, the Ducal Palace at Mantua is not heavily visited, just as the city of Mantua itself is generally bypassed by visitors to Italy.
The small number of visitors to the Palace is probably all for the best, because the Palace is crumbling. The Italian government does not have sufficient funds to maintain the Palace properly, let alone restore it to its original glory.
Original furnishings were long ago sold off, as was the finest art collection ever assembled up to the 17th Century. All that remains of the original glory of the Mantuan Court is the stately procession of Palace rooms, mostly empty now, and the famed frescoes that once were the envy of every court in Europe.
Run-down and musty, the Palace was nonetheless an essential stop for my brother and me. Three centuries of great architects had created the grand, stately spaces through which 800 nobles and courtiers formerly passed, living and working in this magnificent assemblage of interiors erected over the course of more than 300 years.
The exteriors of the Palace were not as imposing. The Ducal Palace is a massive sequence of buildings that flows from the very center of Mantua to the very outskirts of the city. The exteriors were built in a hodgepodge of Medieval, Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque styles, reflecting rapid changes in architectural design over three centuries. There is nothing unified about the Palace exteriors. Further, the exteriors are neither beautiful nor unique.
I remember our visit to the Ducal Palace well, and my memories were the only thing that kept me going while reading Kate Simon’s “A Renaissance Tapestry: The Gonzaga Of Mantua”, a history of Mantua, the Mantuan Court and the Gonzaga dynasty.
In Simon’s book, it is the Palace itself that is the most colorful presence, far more colorful than any of the rulers and courtiers that populated and governed what was once one of Europe’s most powerful and most important and most fascinating kingdoms.
“A Renaissance Tapestry” is an inept book. The research is inept, the writing is inept, the organization is inept. Even the photographs are inept. I suspect the only reason the book was published was because Simon was a popular travel writer in the 1960’s and 1970’s and, by the 1980’s, had developed a loyal readership. As a result, Simon was able to convince a reputable publishing house to bring out her first (and, to be thankful, only) history book.
Incomprehensibly, “A Renaissance Tapestry” was a bestseller when first published in 1988. The book was reviewed widely and respectfully—it was even reviewed TWICE by The New York Times (inanely on both occasions)—and treated as a major publishing event.
As history, the book is bunk. Neither an historian nor an expert on Italy, Simon uses secondary sources, some good, some not so good, to present the saga of the Gonzaga family. Most of her material is rehashed from old sources, and her rehashing is not very accurate, not very lively, and not very imaginative. Simon simply had no insight for or penetrating views about the subject she had selected.
Further, Simon’s book is inartfully, even clumsily, arranged. While reading 309 pages, I was never able to ascertain the organizing principle at work. The author flitted from subject to subject in no logical fashion, incoherently blending bits of biography with bits of history with bits of personal “interpretation”. The whole affair was a mess—and there was a grievous lack of citation for the more risible claims Simon made throughout the book.
Simon’s papers reside at Hunter College, and those papers hold the first two drafts of her Gonzaga volume. As the final draft was definitely not a case of the third time being the charm, I would be curious to see the first two drafts. They must be among the most comical pages ever written.
The Gonzaga family seized power in Mantua in 1328—they overthrew the previous ruling family in a bold, even reckless, act of subterfuge, an act of subterfuge that, against all odds, succeeded beyond the family’s wildest dreams—and governed Mantua for almost 400 years, scheming and conniving to hold power and expand the family’s influence into other Italian kingdoms, primarily Venice, Ferrara and Milan.
Because Mantua was situated midway between Venice and Milan, two powerful states in a perpetual state of conflict, Mantua was a valuable partner for Venice and Milan to court. In general, the Gonzaga family played off those two powerful rivals very skillfully, always allying with one or the other—and always demanding (and receiving) a hefty fee. The result was that riches from Venice or Milan continuously poured into the coffers of Mantua, riches that the Gonzaga family used to erect palaces, buy gold and jewels, acquire an art collection of staggering quality, and engage the best poets, writers, artists and composers of the day to create tributes to itself.
The Gonzaga family also used the ever-flowing sums from Venice and Milan to buy influence. Influence was sought and acquired in Rome—there was generally a Gonzaga Cardinal in place at the Vatican to bend the Pope’s ear—and in most other Italian kingdoms, as well as in France, Bavaria and Spain. Because of its desire for influence throughout Europe, the Gonzaga dynasty maintained the largest and most skillful group of diplomats in Europe, an ambassadorial retinue that was the envy of the British and French sovereigns.
Many rulers from the Gonzaga clan were extravagant spendthrifts, and several times over the centuries the Mantuan court was on the verge of financial collapse. Neighboring kingdoms were always on the lookout for an opportunity, and the demise of the Gonzaga clan was predicted (and sought) many times. Nevertheless, the Gonzaga family always managed to hold on to power, finding necessary sources of funds through marriages, unexpected political alliances, luck—or, if need be, theft.
When Gonzaga rule in Mantua ended in 1707, it did so not because of the family’s collapse but because there was no heir to carry on the line. Without an heir to continue the Gonzaga hold on power, Mantua ceded to the Hapsburgs of Austria. Excepting Napoleon’s brief occupation of Italy, Mantua was to remain under Hapsburg control until the unification of Italy in the 19th Century.
Just like the Gonzaga dynasty, the city of Mantua has long departed from the world stage. Today’s Mantua remains the capital of Lombardy, an Italian province, but it is of interest to outsiders solely for the legacies of the Gonzaga’s. The buildings they left behind and the art they once owned are the only surviving testaments to Gonzaga glory from days gone by.
Art from the Gonzaga collection is now everywhere. Gonzaga paintings form the basis of the collections of the Hermitage, the Louvre, and the most important galleries in Britain and the United States.
The dispersal of the Gonzaga painting collection began almost a century before the Gonzaga line ended. The Gonzaga collection had been rumored to be for sale for decades, but in the 1620’s a sale of a significant portion of the collection finally occurred, when agents for Charles I purchased 700 Gonzaga masterpieces and shipped the paintings to London (the ship carrying the artworks to Britain almost sank en route during a storm, and dozens of major masterworks were irreparably damaged when mercury in the ship's hold spilled onto numerous canvases).
Charles continued to purchase Gonzaga paintings for three years. When Charles grew short of funds, the Gonzaga family had to look for other buyers, often using noted dealers in Venice. On one occasion, more than 1000 paintings were transported by a train of horses and mules from Mantua to Venice, where the paintings were offered for private sale.
Charles I was not to enjoy his new art collection for long, as he was to lose his head in 1649. One of the results of his execution was the dispersal of the collection for the second time in a generation. After Charles's death, most of his collection was put up for sale by Cromwell, and the bulk of the collection was sold to continental buyers.
One type of art could not be moved from Mantua and sold: the frescoes that adorned various parts of the Palace. Numerous artists from the Early Italian Renaissance and High Italian Renaissance contributed to the frescoes, but the most celebrated frescoes in Mantua are those by Andrea Mantegna, who devoted more than four decades of his life to creating art for the Gonzaga family. Mantegna’s most important legacy is his series of frescoes for Mantua, the greatness of which may still be glimpsed through centuries of damage and decay.
There is an important need for an authoritative account of the Gonzaga era, but Simon does not provide it. Hers is very much an amateur’s book, and a dismal one at that. Fatally, it lacks the two qualities that often make an amateur’s work readable: good prose and an intense passion for the subject.
If Simon were alive, I would want to ask her what made her choose to write about Mantua and the Gonzaga dynasty in the first place. There is no passion in her work, no inkling that she found a good story here, no suggestion of an abiding love for Italy or art or the Renaissance. Her book struck me as the expanded updating of a decades-old term paper, supplemented with the experience of a single late-in-life visit to Mantua.
There was one striking thing about “A Renaissance Tapestry” that none of the reviewers mentioned: the book was the work of more than one hand.
Ninety-nine per cent of the writing was slop, but a dozen times in the volume the writing suddenly became elegant and cogent, even sparkling, for three or four paragraphs at a stretch. Such paragraphs clearly were the work of another writer, and generally involved summations and transitions.
This other, vastly-superior writer was undoubtedly responsible, too, for the entire closing chapter, a truly elegant and concise wrap-up of all that had come before, as well as the last half of the penultimate chapter, where the writing suddenly switched from dogged to gleaming at the blink of an eye. Who was this uncredited writer? I suspect it was an academic to whom the publisher had farmed out the manuscript in order to obtain a hasty clean-up prior to publication.
The publisher should have requested even more drastic measures from the uncredited book doctor—the entire manuscript should have been rewritten, and afterward turned over to a team of fact-checkers in order to correct the misstatements of fact, which were legion.
Whenever Simon stepped outside of Italy and addressed historic events and personages elsewhere, she was totally lost. Her discussions of people and politics in Austria, Britain, France, Germany the Netherlands, Spain and Turkey were laughable, displaying an astonishing if not unforgivable lack of knowledge and understanding about European history and culture.
Given the remarkable cast of characters she was given, Simon should have been able to make her book about the Gonzaga family one of the most riveting reading experiences of the last fifty years. That the book is so lame is testament to the fact that Simon was so profoundly untalented, both as a writer and as a thinker.
To cite merely a handful of the persons who lived in the Ducal Palace at Mantua and worked for the Gonzaga’s is almost too much for a modern-day person to contemplate: Giulio Romano, Peter Paul Rubens, Claudio Monteverdi, Baldassare Castiglione.
During our tour of the Ducal Palace, my brother and I heard the guide drop these and other names in rapid succession. Clearly, room-by-room, she was talking about long-ago events, involving the most famous of names, which had occurred in the various corridors, staterooms, salons, ballrooms and private apartments through which we were passing.
Names were the only things we could pick out in the flow of Italian, but the richness of the names added a layer of excitement to our visit. We knew we were being offered one remarkable story after another, with remarkable characters, recalling remarkable events—and yet we could understand none of it. It was very frustrating.
Simon’s book is most remarkable for how little she makes of this extraordinary cast of characters participating in extraordinary events during extraordinary times.
That, too, was very frustrating.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
"Maybe Some Other Time"
Joshua and I have been dutifully attending to business.
Josh will wrap up his first-year exams this week. I have been busy at work. In the evenings and on weekends, I have been doing some serious reading while Josh has been buried in his casebooks.
After this week, Josh will be free until late August.
Because Josh has nothing on his schedule for the month of June, we issued some invitations, thinking the month of June would be an ideal time for us to host visitors.
No one took us up on our offers.
Josh’s sister and brother wanted to know what there is to see and do in Boston, and we gave them a rundown of the city’s highlights, after which their response was “Maybe some other time.”
I asked my middle brother whether he wanted to come visit in June, and his response was “I think I’d rather wait and come visit this autumn”. At least in my brother’s case, he is adhering to past practice—his typical habit was to visit me once each semester while I was in law school, and he came to Boston to visit us only four months ago.
I asked a close friend from law school whether he wanted to visit—he went to Tufts as an undergrad and he knows the city of Boston very well—and his response was “Maybe some other time.”
I asked another friend from law school whether she wanted to visit and she, too, said “Maybe some other time. Wouldn’t it be better if you came to Los Angeles?”
Josh and I have come to the conclusion that we are exceedingly boring and that no one wants to risk suffering our bland hospitality.
Josh and I will travel to Oklahoma over Memorial Day Weekend to attend Josh’s brother’s high school graduation, but otherwise we have no plans until the beginning of July, when we will head for Minnesota for a six-week stay.
Over Memorial Day Weekend, everyone in my family is planning the first excursion of the year up to the lake.
I think the lake house will experience much heavier use this year than it has experienced in ten or even fifteen years, and this is because my brothers are back in the Twin Cities. This summer will be the first summer in the Twin Cities for my older brother since 1997 and the first summer in the Twin Cities for my middle brother since 2000. Now that they are back home—and now that my older brother has children—I think the tentative plan is to make use of the lake house every other weekend for the duration of the summer. It will be just like old times, since all of us spent most summer weekends at the lake when we were kids.
My parents are doing well, supremely happy that two of their sons and both of their grandchildren are now living nearby. Everyone goes to my parents’ house on weekends and one weeknight each week, so everyone gets to see a lot of each other.
My middle brother likes his new job very much, and he is happy to be back in Minnesota. He likes the people at work, he likes his apartment, he likes renewing friendships and acquaintances from school days, and he likes spending lots of time with his nephew and niece.
My older brother likes his new job, too, but he does not like the commute, even though his commute is not a long one by modern-day standards. However, he very much likes having his own house, as opposed to an apartment, and he now says he does not know how he managed to survive living in New York for so many years. He likes having a big house and a big yard, and now he says he feels “uncramped” for the first time in years.
My sister-in-law likes Minneapolis. She has always liked Minneapolis—in fact, she has always liked Minneapolis much more than New York. I think she will be very happy there (although I doubt she plans to spend much time outdoors in the winter and I shall be very, very surprised if she takes up ice-fishing).
My nephew and niece, of course, don’t care where they live, but they are very happy to have so many family members close at hand. For them, it means lots of attention from lots of people, and they thrive on that.
The dog, alas, has announced that he has become tired of Minnesota. He claims that he needs new vistas, new challenges, new opportunities, and he is making noises about relocating to Singapore, where he hopes to start an export-import business specializing in niche software. At present, he is in the process of getting his shots and paperwork in order in preparation for his move.
As for Josh and me, we look forward to spending at least part of the summer at home. It will give us an opportunity to enjoy some down time and some family time. Furthermore, it will give us some vital time with my niece, who probably has already forgotten who we are.
We don’t want THAT to go on too long.
Josh will wrap up his first-year exams this week. I have been busy at work. In the evenings and on weekends, I have been doing some serious reading while Josh has been buried in his casebooks.
After this week, Josh will be free until late August.
Because Josh has nothing on his schedule for the month of June, we issued some invitations, thinking the month of June would be an ideal time for us to host visitors.
No one took us up on our offers.
Josh’s sister and brother wanted to know what there is to see and do in Boston, and we gave them a rundown of the city’s highlights, after which their response was “Maybe some other time.”
I asked my middle brother whether he wanted to come visit in June, and his response was “I think I’d rather wait and come visit this autumn”. At least in my brother’s case, he is adhering to past practice—his typical habit was to visit me once each semester while I was in law school, and he came to Boston to visit us only four months ago.
I asked a close friend from law school whether he wanted to visit—he went to Tufts as an undergrad and he knows the city of Boston very well—and his response was “Maybe some other time.”
I asked another friend from law school whether she wanted to visit and she, too, said “Maybe some other time. Wouldn’t it be better if you came to Los Angeles?”
Josh and I have come to the conclusion that we are exceedingly boring and that no one wants to risk suffering our bland hospitality.
Josh and I will travel to Oklahoma over Memorial Day Weekend to attend Josh’s brother’s high school graduation, but otherwise we have no plans until the beginning of July, when we will head for Minnesota for a six-week stay.
Over Memorial Day Weekend, everyone in my family is planning the first excursion of the year up to the lake.
I think the lake house will experience much heavier use this year than it has experienced in ten or even fifteen years, and this is because my brothers are back in the Twin Cities. This summer will be the first summer in the Twin Cities for my older brother since 1997 and the first summer in the Twin Cities for my middle brother since 2000. Now that they are back home—and now that my older brother has children—I think the tentative plan is to make use of the lake house every other weekend for the duration of the summer. It will be just like old times, since all of us spent most summer weekends at the lake when we were kids.
My parents are doing well, supremely happy that two of their sons and both of their grandchildren are now living nearby. Everyone goes to my parents’ house on weekends and one weeknight each week, so everyone gets to see a lot of each other.
My middle brother likes his new job very much, and he is happy to be back in Minnesota. He likes the people at work, he likes his apartment, he likes renewing friendships and acquaintances from school days, and he likes spending lots of time with his nephew and niece.
My older brother likes his new job, too, but he does not like the commute, even though his commute is not a long one by modern-day standards. However, he very much likes having his own house, as opposed to an apartment, and he now says he does not know how he managed to survive living in New York for so many years. He likes having a big house and a big yard, and now he says he feels “uncramped” for the first time in years.
My sister-in-law likes Minneapolis. She has always liked Minneapolis—in fact, she has always liked Minneapolis much more than New York. I think she will be very happy there (although I doubt she plans to spend much time outdoors in the winter and I shall be very, very surprised if she takes up ice-fishing).
My nephew and niece, of course, don’t care where they live, but they are very happy to have so many family members close at hand. For them, it means lots of attention from lots of people, and they thrive on that.
The dog, alas, has announced that he has become tired of Minnesota. He claims that he needs new vistas, new challenges, new opportunities, and he is making noises about relocating to Singapore, where he hopes to start an export-import business specializing in niche software. At present, he is in the process of getting his shots and paperwork in order in preparation for his move.
As for Josh and me, we look forward to spending at least part of the summer at home. It will give us an opportunity to enjoy some down time and some family time. Furthermore, it will give us some vital time with my niece, who probably has already forgotten who we are.
We don’t want THAT to go on too long.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Johannes-Brahms-Museum
Hamburg is home to Johannes-Brahms-Museum, one of many museums throughout Europe devoted to the great composer.
Hamburg has a deeper claim to Brahms than any other city, and this is because Brahms was born and raised in the city of Hamburg.
It was in this house on Peterstrasse that Brahms was born in 1833. The Brahms family lived on the first floor, on the left side of the building. The photograph was taken in 1891, six years before Brahms’s death.
The house no longer stands—it was destroyed in the 1943 firestorm—but Peterstrasse was recreated in the 1960’s and 1970’s, and an attempt was made to restore Peterstrasse to its ancient pre-war form, which dated back to the Renaissance and Baroque Periods.
The Johannes-Brahms-Museum lies on Peterstrasse, but not on the actual site of the birth home. The museum, with an unmarked and nondescript entrance, is a few doors down from where the Brahms birth home formerly stood.
The museum is small, and seldom visited (or so we were informed by museum personnel). It occupies only a few rooms and has very constricted hours. In both regards, it very much reminded me of the Puccini museum in Puccini’s family home in Lucca.
The Johannes-Brahms-Museum displays a collection of keepsakes that illustrates the life and work of the composer. Letters, photographs, autographs, concert programs, books, periodicals, artworks and sheet music are on display.
The composer’s writing desk is housed in the museum, as is one of Brahms’s pianos.
The bust of Brahms in the photograph below was sculpted by Ilse Conrat and is on loan from Hamburg’s Kunsthalle. It is one of many busts of Brahms that Conrat created, including the famous bust that lies over Brahms’s grave in Vienna.
Brahms’s family was very poor, and did not spend much time in Brahms’s birth home. The Brahms family lived in a proliferation of different homes in Hamburg’s poorer neighborhoods, changing abodes every few months either because the family could not afford to pay its rent or because the family needed to relocate to ever-cheaper lodgings.
Brahms’s father held a wide variety of jobs—among other things, he played bass in the orchestra of the Hamburg Opera—but the family was never able to accumulate any money.
Brahms continued to return to Hamburg with some frequency until he was in his mid-forties, by which time his visits to his hometown became sporadic.
Oddly, there is no street in Hamburg named after Brahms.
At least the plaza in front of nearby Laeiszhalle, Hamburg’s primary concert hall, is now named after the city’s most famous native son. However, the plaza was not christened Brahmsplatz until 1997, the centenary of the composer’s death. Given the German love for music, I am surprised it took 100 years for Hamburg to name a street or plaza for such a seminal figure that arose from the city’s slums.
Hamburg has a deeper claim to Brahms than any other city, and this is because Brahms was born and raised in the city of Hamburg.
It was in this house on Peterstrasse that Brahms was born in 1833. The Brahms family lived on the first floor, on the left side of the building. The photograph was taken in 1891, six years before Brahms’s death.
The house no longer stands—it was destroyed in the 1943 firestorm—but Peterstrasse was recreated in the 1960’s and 1970’s, and an attempt was made to restore Peterstrasse to its ancient pre-war form, which dated back to the Renaissance and Baroque Periods.
The Johannes-Brahms-Museum lies on Peterstrasse, but not on the actual site of the birth home. The museum, with an unmarked and nondescript entrance, is a few doors down from where the Brahms birth home formerly stood.
The museum is small, and seldom visited (or so we were informed by museum personnel). It occupies only a few rooms and has very constricted hours. In both regards, it very much reminded me of the Puccini museum in Puccini’s family home in Lucca.
The Johannes-Brahms-Museum displays a collection of keepsakes that illustrates the life and work of the composer. Letters, photographs, autographs, concert programs, books, periodicals, artworks and sheet music are on display.
The composer’s writing desk is housed in the museum, as is one of Brahms’s pianos.
The bust of Brahms in the photograph below was sculpted by Ilse Conrat and is on loan from Hamburg’s Kunsthalle. It is one of many busts of Brahms that Conrat created, including the famous bust that lies over Brahms’s grave in Vienna.
Brahms’s family was very poor, and did not spend much time in Brahms’s birth home. The Brahms family lived in a proliferation of different homes in Hamburg’s poorer neighborhoods, changing abodes every few months either because the family could not afford to pay its rent or because the family needed to relocate to ever-cheaper lodgings.
Brahms’s father held a wide variety of jobs—among other things, he played bass in the orchestra of the Hamburg Opera—but the family was never able to accumulate any money.
Brahms continued to return to Hamburg with some frequency until he was in his mid-forties, by which time his visits to his hometown became sporadic.
Oddly, there is no street in Hamburg named after Brahms.
At least the plaza in front of nearby Laeiszhalle, Hamburg’s primary concert hall, is now named after the city’s most famous native son. However, the plaza was not christened Brahmsplatz until 1997, the centenary of the composer’s death. Given the German love for music, I am surprised it took 100 years for Hamburg to name a street or plaza for such a seminal figure that arose from the city’s slums.
