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| ISBN-13: | 9780253213822 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Indiana University Press (Ips) |
| Publication date: | 04/22/1994 |
| Pages: | 336 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.25(h) x (d) |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Beethoven Sonatas and the Creative Experience
By Kenneth Drake
Indiana University Press
Copyright © 2000 Kenneth DrakeAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-253-21382-2
CHAPTER 1
The First Raptus, and All Subsequent Ones
For approximately ten years, according to Anton Schindler, Beethoven considered preparing an edition of his works in which he would have described the extramusical idea or the psychological state that had led in each case to the composing of the work. The importance of extramusical stimulus in Beethoven's creative process was mentioned by others as well. Ferdinand Ries spoke of Beethoven's use of "psychological images" in his teaching. In a similar way, Czerny, the most important contemporary witness because of his long association with Beethoven and his stature as a professional musician, referred again and again to character, mood, extramusical events, and images.
In the Adagio of Op. 2 No. 3, Czerny writes, there is an evolving Romantic tendency, leading eventually to an integration "in which instrumental music was heightened to painting and poetry"; it was no longer a matter of merely hearing the expression of feelings, "one sees paintings, one hears the narration of events." Czerny describes the opening movement of Op. 27 No. 2 as being "extremely poetic" and easy to grasp—" a night scene, in which a plaintive ghostly voice sounds from far off in the distance." The first movement of Op. 31 No. 2 will never fail to make a powerful effect "if the fantasy of the player stands on an equally high level with his artistic skill." The sixteenth notes divided between the hands in the finale must be played as evenly as possible "in order to sound, as it were, like the gallop of a horse." In a footnote Czerny continues: "Beethoven improvised the theme of this piece as once he saw a rider gallop past his window. Many of his most beautiful works originated through similar occurrences. With him every sound, every movement became music and rhythm."
Czerny writes of the finale of Op. 57:
If Beethoven (who was so fond of depicting scenes from nature) here perhaps thought of the waves of the ocean on a stormy night, while a call for help is heard from afar,—such a picture can always give the player a suitable idea for the appropriate performance of this huge tone painting. It is certain that Beethoven was excited to work on many of his most beautiful compositions through similar visions and images created from readings or from his own active fantasy, and that we would find the true key to his compositions and their performance only through an accurate knowledge of these circumstances, if such were generally possible.
Nevertheless, Beethoven himself
was not prone to be communicative about such matters, only now and then, when in a confiding mood ... for he knew that the listener would not feel the music in so unconstrained a manner, if one's power of imagination were to be fettered beforehand to a specifically expressed goal.
Czerny's statement that only through a knowledge of Beethoven's extramusical stimuli, could they be known, would we find "the true key to his compositions and their performance" falls strangely on modern ears. Beside the professionalism of scholarly research or a concert career, night scenes, plaintive ghostly voices, galloping horses, and ocean waves are so much historical fluff. A well-trained pianist will play the sixteenths in the finale of Op. 31 No. 2 evenly anyway, and, in any event, the sound of a galloping horse would lead to an allegro instead of the indicated Allegretto.
Unlike any of us, Czerny actually studied with Beethoven and enjoyed his respect. However irregular their association may have been, Czerny was impressionable, observing in the working of Beethoven's vigorous fantasy how the extramusical image aroused the raptus—as Frau von Breuning described the young Beethoven's spells of moodiness—that in turn imbued a newly found musical idea with character. The musical idea became thereby more than a cerebral plaything. It became personally significant; it became meaning. Whenever Czerny played the finale of the D-minor Sonata, we may suppose, the imagery he remembered from Beethoven reached down to touch the motive of ongoing sixteenths, giving it a human dimension: the experience of repetitiveness, like time inescapable, a horse one cannot dismount. Were Czerny to return among us, it is likely that he would regard much that is applauded in our concert halls and schools of music as craft sanitized of human response and therefore lacking a sense of meaning.
Defining meaning is a highly subjective exercise, whether it refers to a more or less explicit musical depiction of an event or image or the quality of meaning. Do the stark contrasts in Mozart's B-minor Adagio, written in the year following Leopold Mozart's death, reflect the younger Mozart's ambivalent feelings toward his father? Is the Baroque-like rhythmic continuity of the opening movement of the A-minor Sonata, written in Paris the summer of his mother's death, a musical depiction of fatalism? Since we can no longer ask Mozart, we cannot establish an indisputable link between composition and event. "Who cares what the fact was, when we have made a constellation of it to hang in heaven an immortal sign?" Emerson asked. The attribute of meaning that we ascribe to some external stimulus originates in the aloneness of the innermost self where the experiences of living are catalogued and stored. When threatened by some personal crisis, the self identifies with an immortal sign in the form of an equally troubled work, such as the B-minor Adagio or the A-minor Sonata. Through a mysterious mental alchemy, the piece becomes a symbol for the unspoken. A student, asked what the Arietta theme of Op. 111 made him think of, looked long at the piano in silence and then replied, "It is like crying on the inside about something you cannot cry about on the outside," an extraordinarily insightful remark from a young person hearing this music for the first time. He intuitively associated the inwardness of the falling motive, the flowing triple subdivision, the arch of the widely spaced lines, and the slow harmonic rhythm with a personal sadness deep within himself. The music had acquired meaning of the most sophisticated sort.
Were Czerny to return in the flesh, would he find virtue in our concern for performance practice? Would he be pleased to find his writings still consulted? Undoubtedly, but not if research results in a clinical demonstration instead of a humanly moving experience. It is reasonable to suggest that, for him, "correct performance" was an attitude toward the music. In describing Beethoven's visions and images as the true key to interpretation, Czerny was stating, as the one, all-encompassing rule of performance practice for the playing of Beethoven, total personal involvement.
"Total personal involvement" is becoming possessed by the music, cerebrally, muscularly, and subjectively. Every question that is raised, every touch that is learned, and every response that is recorded in the mind should establish more firmly the authority of the score within the player. Such a performance may not be flawless, but it will not deviate from a perceived spiritual standard. Fortunately, Beethoven and his contemporaries did not live in a world of electronic reproduction, or even reliable instruments, and consequently their imagination was not misled to believe in an external perfection that can be repeated over and over by pressing a button. At a time when a performance could not be heard beyond earshot of those present, the temptation to use the music to demonstrate skill on the instrument would have been, though just as alluring as it is today, beyond the imagination of what is now possible. We may daydream about contemporary accounts of Beethoven's playing being dependent upon his moods, yet we cannot escape the fact that such an attitude toward performance is alien to our age, in which inconsistency is regarded as amateurish.
Although involvement does begin with the basics of learning the notes and the phrasing in an indicated tempo, its eventual goal is a synthesis of technique, analysis, and imagination in an act that is both rational and irrational, both measured and unmeasured. Applied study that is limited to cosmetic refinement halts growth at an elementary level of involvement, where security is found in definite answers to simple questions: How slow? How fast? How soft? How loud? How short? How long? If unfailing technique and memory are of primary importance, why burden one's concentration with anything but the outer shell of the piece? Why speculate about the reason for a particular musical feature, such as the offbeat sforzandos in the development of the first movement of Op. 2 No. 1 or the alternation of forte and piano in the Adagio espressivo in the exposition of the first movement of Op. 109? Why question the composer's intent in indicating a rallentando preceding the E-minor theme in the exposition of the first movement of Op. 2 No. 2, or the segmented articulation of the opening theme of Op. 90, or the absence of conventional working-out in the development section of the first movement of Op. 110?
Musical playing alone is not necessarily interpretively convincing playing. Questions such as those above usher one directly into the mind of the composer, there with each performance to be involved with the original insecurity of choices made in the moment of creation. When playing, each musical "fact" must be assigned a human dimension. It is not enough to think of the opening four measures of Op. 7 as tonic E major, however rational this observation may be. Because of the harmonic sameness, the listener's attention is drawn to the repeated eighth notes in 6/8 time, Allegro molto e con brio, which the imagination interprets as a "driving" rhythm, an adjective with a connotation of irrationality. Neither does it suffice to analyze the first six measures of the rondo of the same sonata as dominant harmony if one does not become aware of the many appoggiaturas, which the mind hears as "lingering" within the melodic line. The arpeggiated A-major sixth chord with which Op. 31 No. 2 opens is dominant harmony, but its harmonic function is uncommitted at this point, and, within pianissimo, the pianist's imagination hears only a quality of mystery.
What metronome marking can be assigned to "driving" or to "lingering"? What precise level of sound is appropriate for "mystery"? Any decision that involves the player's subjective (and, for the moment, infallible) judgment will be specific for only that moment; unlike the fixed perfection of a recording, performance that searches the depths of character can never be made totally predictable. There are two Urtexts, the one physical, black-on-white, that indicates the pitches, tempo, dynamics, phrasing, and articulation, and the other a human Urtext, a power within the printed page that performs us, enabling us to converse with the composer. The student who remarked, after playing the F-minor Fantaisie, "I felt like a giant for a moment," one might say had spoken with Chopin, personally.
For an interpreter committed to involvement, there is no station along the line to get off, for the music leads one always further into the composer's being and the humanness we share. The willfully philosophical in Beethoven is the spirit of one always dissatisfied and therefore driven to reach beyond his grasp, whether in formal construction, development of character, the treatment of the instrument, or in unceasing revision, even while works were being engraved. Finding meaning in struggle is the sentiment expressed in two letters to Countess Erdödy, one written in October 1815: "We finite beings, who are the embodiment of an infinite spirit, are born to suffer both pain and joy; and one might almost say that the best of us obtain joy through suffering", and the other in May 1816: "Man cannot avoid suffering; and in this respect his strength must stand the test, that is to say, he must endure without complaining and feel his worthlessness and then again achieve his perfection, that perfection which the Almighty will then bestow upon him."
The pianist who is an involved artist soon learns that the indefinite human dimension was and still remains too large for the definite canvas. How can the measure of the unmeasurable be expressed? What performer on what instrument can fill this ever-changing expandingness of the composer's imagination? How many performers, for that matter, are willing to risk failure trying to fill that beckoning void? We would rather believe that success and failure are mutually exclusive, and yet, joy through suffering and reaching beyond one's grasp both infer frustration and failure. As Lili Kraus was once quoted as saying, an audience that has been moved by a Beethoven sonata has experienced grace, and the performer who does not risk shame will never move anyone. Risking shame, being moved, experiencing grace—none of these sound like trustworthy advice for winning a competition. Consequently, she continued, each tries to escape into the perfection of the record player. Or, as the Ghost of an artist in C. S. Lewis's The Great Divorce reminisces,
It was all a snare. Ink and catgut and paint were necessary down there but they are also dangerous stimulants. Every poet and musician and artist, but for Grace, is drawn away from love of the thing he tells, to love of the telling till, down in Deep Hell, they cannot be interested in God at all but only in what they say about Him. For it doesn't stop at being interested in paint, you know. They sink lower—become interested in their own personalities and then in nothing but their own reputations.
To experience grace is to be forgiven for the one forgiven and to forgive for the forgiver. It is an act on the part of both performer and listener requiring a belief in meaning, and this is the ultimate involvement.
CHAPTER 2Technique as Touch
Among the misguided reasons for playing an early instrument is the intent to do a demonstration, as though dressing in its clothes will bring the past to life. Music making is not historical reenactment. An early piano should be used only as a medium to conjure up the spirit within the music. The Spirit of St. Louis, like the Concorde, enabled a person to fly nonstop across the Atlantic. Lindbergh, however, flew without the aid of sophisticated instrument systems, depending upon his skill and endurance. He came to know, as we cannot, the awesomeness of transatlantic distance and the elements, as well as the possibility for disaster.
Playing an early piano, though not life-threatening, also requires an exercise of judgment and skill. Lacking the resources of the modern piano, the player is responsible for believable dynamic levels and sensuous tone quality. When listeners remark that the period piano enabled them to hear the music for the first time, what they heard was the stimulus of the instrument to the player's imagination and ingenuity. In Beethoven, the player's involvement extends to the expressiveness of physical effort as well. As the historic piano is forced beyond the limits of its sonority, the music itself sounds more imposing. Because of the lesser sonority and the change in character from one register to another (as opposed to the homogenizing of sound on the modern piano), expressive details become as personal as words whispered directly in the ear of a single listener.
In program notes for a New York recital on which he used a clavichord, a harpsichord, an early piano, and a modern piano, Ralph Kirkpatrick compared playing Mozart on the modern piano to walking "lace-beruffled" on eggs; it is, he wrote, as though one were to look through the wrong end of opera glasses and see the singers as pygmies on the stage. An early piano, he continued, its intimacy and nuance inherited from the clavichord and clarity and declamatory quality from the harpsichord, reveals "life-size" Mozart, there being no need to restrain the normal sound of the instrument, as one might playing a modern piano. Just as opera glasses reveal lines in the individual actor's face, the sound of the early piano makes it seem that we are walking shoulder to shoulder with Mozart, and that we can speak to him and he to us. Playing Beethoven (or Mozart of Haydn) on a piano of the period teaches that the technique required is primarily a control of touch, revealing infinite variety within the basic elements of piano sound, which is to say, intensity and duration.
The notation of Classic keyboard scores may be compared to the dots and lines and spaces in the engraving on paper currency, representing a precise calculation of pressure and duration in the fingertips that communicates musical ideas equally precisely. The fingertip must know the sensuousness of sound before the ear hears it. Ultimately, playing is an integration of mind and muscles in which
hear tone hear touch
and becomes and
feel touch feel tone.
The content of the present chapter and the four that follow is not intended as a discussion of performance practice. For that, the reader is referred to Sandra Rosen-blum's monumental Performance Practices in Classic Piano Music. The examples have two purposes, to illustrate the subtlety of Classic scores and to speculate on the role of that subtlety in interpretation. Exx. 2.1 through 2.27 illustrate this mutational precision in single notes; of these, Exx. 2.1 through 2.14 relate to intensity and the remainder to duration.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Beethoven Sonatas and the Creative Experience by Kenneth Drake. Copyright © 2000 Kenneth Drake. Excerpted by permission of Indiana University Press.
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