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Category: Shakespeare

November / Month of the Sonata – 28

Geranium - Odilon Redon

    Geranium” 

 

         Odilon Redon

 

               _______

 

               

we’re reaching the end of November, with

only three sonatas to go, which will be 

devoted to Beethoven’s last three, they 

exist in their import, impact, beyond 

whatever’s been since, or before, 

recorded

 

if Beethoven’s Hammerklavier was a 

treatise on the physical possibilities 

of a piano, its breadth of tonal range, 

the scope of possible volumes, soft,

loud, not to mention its ability to, in

one instrument, play all the scales,

his following three sonatas, evolved

from the physical to the metaphysical,

“To be, or not to be”,  he might as well

be asking, much like Shakespeare

 

there’d been metaphysical works before,

Bach’s cantatas, Handel’s Messiah, but

this metaphysics was of another order,

there’d been a revolution in France, the 

Christian God had been there even

made illegal, Christians sent to the 

guillotine, see Poulenc’s formidable 

Dialogue of the Carmelites for proof

of that

 

Beethoven’s prayer, his evocation, in

his last three works for solo piano, 

were to the Entity that might, or might

not be, out there, “To be, or not to be, 

that [remained] the question”

 

the miraculous is that Beethoven, with 

profound humility and respect, notes 

that are clear, concise, and 

straightforward, confronts the Entity 

with nothing but his unadorned self, 

at a loss in a sea of meaning, even 

suffering despair, presenting, as an 

argument the evidence of his life, 

his art, his manifest and irrevocable 

being, much as a flower would, 

could it speak, no more, admittedly, 

no less, but nevertheless a flower, 

see above, and there is, Beethoven 

says, glory in that

 

here’s his Opus 109, listen, enjoy

               

ponder 

         

             

R ! chard

how to listen to music if you don’t know your Beethoven from your Bach, XVI – on Chopin

The Old Burgtheater, 1888 - 1889 - Gustav Klimt

       The Old Burgtheater (1888 – 1889)  

                  Gustav Klimt

                        _______

  

having brought up nocturnes and ballades

in my last instalment, however peripherally, 

I’ll dig into these deeper, to illustrate the 

impact Romanticism had on music, on 

fine arts as well, and literature, in the 

West, as it highlighted emotions as a 

requirement of the audiences that 

funded them

 

the French Revolution had happened,

the idea of individual rights, liberty,

equality, fraternity, spread across 

even autocracies, czars, kaisers, 

kings were threatened

 

theatres were becoming, because of 

the growth of the Middle Class, what 

had been the salons of the aristocrats,

people were paying for what the nobility

had been seeing, in concert halls, see

above

 

but the audience wanted their money’s 

worth, both in spectacle, and personal

contact, easy ingenuity was out, they

had to be impacted, get them howling,

whooping, just like today

 

but to return to ballades and nocturnes,

they were the answer, plangent appeals

to the heart, which had not been a 

concern of the earlier Classical Period,

where prestidigitation, technical

wizardry, had been the requirement

of the courtly courts  

 

ballades, nocturnes, preludes, didn’t 

exist before the Romantic Period, 

essentially, music that hadn’t a 

formal structure, hadn’t a set of 

compositional rules, but spoke, 

rather, from a place of intimacy,

unconstrainedly

 

here’s a balladefor instance, here’s 

a nocturne, both of Chopin, as 

identifiable as Shakespeare, van 

Gogh, in each their own particular 

vocabulary, wearing his heart on

his sleeve, and always absolutely 

extraordinary 

 

enjoy

 

 

R ! chard

how to listen to music if you don’t know your Beethoven from your Bach, XI

Funeral in the Snow near the Old Tower, 1883 - Vincent van Gogh

          Funeral in the Snow near the Old Tower (1883)

                          

                        Vincent van Gogh

                            _________

having introduced, however peripherally, in my

last instalment, Chopin’s Piano Sonata no 2,

it wouldn’t be fair to not present Beethoven’s

Piano Sonata no 12 to compare, they both

contain iconic funeral marches, written, even

if you have no interest at all in such music, in 

the blood of our Western culture, like

Shakespeare, to be or not to be, you’ve

heard the line, somewhere, even if you have

no idea what he might’ve been talking about

 

I don’t need to point out the dirges among 

the movements, the solemn bits, they will

impose themselves, whether you’re paying

attention or not

                                       

                                         

Beethoven and Chopin sound a lot alike,

Beethoven, 1770 -1827, is earlier, pushed

the Classical Period into the Romantic Era,

pretty well, astonishingly, by himself

 

Chopin, 1810 – 1849, gives us the pinnacle

of Romantic music

 

I tell them apart by their beat, Chopin is

always on, Beethoven is always off, his

schtick, his revolutionary spirit, Chopin,

rather, played for the aristocracy, in

their courtly salons, much like Haydn,

but that’s another story

 

you might notice also that the last

movement in Chopin’s sonata is

all texture, a precursor to the later

Impressionism, in all of the arts

 

Beethoven, however, always takes

you on a journey, never gives you

merely background, there’s always

a core, a foundational melody

 

enjoy

 

 

R ! chard

“The Story of Narcissus” (ll) – Ovid

Narcissus, 1896 - 1897 - Magnus Enckell

 

            “Narcissus” (1896 – 1897)

 

                     Magnus Enckell

 

                            __________

 

 

           Still o’er the fountain’s wat’ry gleam he stood,

           Mindless of sleep, and negligent of food;

           Still view’d his face, and languish’d as he view’d.

 

Narcissus has been smitten by this

reflection of himself in the fountain’s

wat’ry gleam, can’t sleep, won’t eat

 

note, incidentally, the two meanings

of Still here, the first, without moving,

the second, not having stopped, not

discontinued


           At length he rais’d his head, and thus began

           To vent his griefs, and tell the woods his pain.

          “You trees,” says he, “and thou surrounding grove,

           Who oft have been the kindly scenes of love,

           Tell me, if e’er within your shades did lye

           A youth so tortur’d, so perplex’d as I?

           I, who before me see the charming fair,

 

the charming fair, his reflection

in the fountain’s wat’ry gleam


           Whilst there he stands, and yet he stands not there:

           In such a maze of love my thoughts are lost:

 

Narcissus reflects, bewildered

by the ephemerality of his

vision

 

           And yet no bulwark’d town, nor distant coast

           Preserves the beauteous youth from being seen,

           No mountains rise, nor oceans flow between.

 

there is no material object, he reasons,

to obstruct a clear view of the beauteous

youth before him, no intervening

obstacles between him and his vision

 

bulwark’d, defended with fortifications,

as in Medieval towns

 

the beauteous youth, his own reflection


           A shallow water hinders my embrace;

 

A shallow water, only a sheen is

required to cast a reflection, a

film merely, the water need not

be at all that deep


           And yet the lovely mimick wears a face

 

the lovely mimickthe image in

the water

           

           That kindly smiles, and when I bend to join

           My lips to his, he fondly bends to mine.

 

what of homosexuality here, an

unobjectionable predilection at

the time, apparently, there isn’t

a whiff of iniquity in this attraction,

according to the text, no hint of

guilt or embarrassment

 

           Hear, gentle youth, and pity my complaint,

 

a direct exhortation here, note,

no longer, in this instance, a

literary narration, a tale being

told

 

           Come from thy well, thou fair inhabitant.

           My charms an easy conquest have obtain’d

           O’er other hearts, by thee alone disdain’d.

 

you, Narcissus says, alone, replication,

disdain[ ], repulse, my advances, my

elsewhere, otherwise, easy conquest[s]


           But why should I despair? I’m sure he burns

           With equal flames, and languishes by turns.

           When-e’er I stoop, he offers at a kiss,

 

offers, responds with

 

           And when my arms I stretch, he stretches his.

           His eye with pleasure on my face he keeps,

           He smiles my smiles, and when I weep he weeps.

           When e’er I speak, his moving lips appear

           To utter something, which I cannot hear.

 

all his senses are alive, but for

his hearing, which registers only

silence, when all of the other

aspects of the experience are

precise and vivid as though

real, utterly, however

incompatibly, convincing


           “Ah wretched me! I now begin too late

           To find out all the long-perplex’d deceit;

           It is my self I love, my self I see;

           The gay delusion is a part of me.

           I kindle up the fires by which I burn,

           And my own beauties from the well return.

           Whom should I court? how utter my complaint?

 

court, sue to, argue, put to the

test a dilemma, a complaint, as

though before an arbiter


           Enjoyment but produces my restraint,

           And too much plenty makes me die for want.

           How gladly would I from my self remove!

           And at a distance set the thing I love.

           My breast is warm’d with such unusual fire,

           I wish him absent whom I most desire.

           And now I faint with grief; my fate draws nigh;

           In all the pride of blooming youth I die.

 

the contradictions inherent in passion

are evidenced, in this case those of

love

 

           Death will the sorrows of my heart relieve.

           Oh might the visionary youth survive,

 

visionary, relating to vision, observed,

caught sight of, viewed, in the water

 

relieve, render solace to, there is no

solution to this anguished misery

but dying


           I should with joy my latest breath resign!

           But oh! I see his fate involv’d in mine.”

 

 

you might have noted, or not, that

the tale has become psychological

in the instance of Narcissus, where

earlier an action transpired and

events were recounted in

chronological order, in this myth,

the subject explores his inner

world while sitting quietly

throughout by the still water,

nothing moves, but the

palpitations of his heart, and its

distempers

 

there’s a shift here in not only

the mythological template, more

personal, individual stuff, but also 

in the very evolution of literature,

which takes on a more interior

tone rather than fatalistic,

episodic, given entirely to

unfathomed circumstance

 

this will lead to To be, or not to be

eventually, the anthem that took

over the subsequent centuries

since, Shakespeare‘s homage to

introspection, setting the stage

for the ensuing ages of

individualism, human rights

 

but that’s another story

stay tuned

 

 

R ! chard

Ovid / Shakespeare

Ophelia, 1851 - 1852 - John Everett Millais

               Ophelia(1851 – 1852)

 

                   John Everett Millais

 

                              _________

 

 

for a while now, I’ve been feeling the

spirit of Ovid in many of the works of

William Shakespeare, a recent, in

some depth, project of mine, the

nearly pagan perspective in many

of his works, a lust for life, for

instance, that is not at all that of his

contemporary Protestantism, not

to mention an obvious Catholic, and

therefore potentially treacherous, at

the time, prominent bent of his

 

but that’s another story

 

many of his plays set scenes in places

right out of Roman mythology, with a

morality to match,and even character

names, Hippolyta, Hero, Polonius,

Titania, Oberon, Greek and Latin

patronyms redolent of Classical

Antiquity

 

here’s Ovid, for instance, from The

Story of Narcissus

 

           There stands a fountain in a darksom wood,

           Nor stain’d with falling leaves nor rising mud;

           Untroubled by the breath of winds it rests,

           Unsully’d by the touch of men or beasts;

           High bow’rs of shady trees above it grow,

           And rising grass and chearful greens below.

 

here’s Shakespeare, from his Hamlet,

Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, gives

the news of Ophelia’s death, in a

particularly Ovidian, I think, manner

 

           There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
           That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
           There with fantastic garlands did she come
           Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
           That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
           But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them:
           There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
           Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
           When down her weedy trophies and herself
           Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
           And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
           Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
           As one incapable of her own distress,
           Or like a creature native and indued
           Unto that element: but long it could not be
           Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
           Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
           To muddy death.

 

see above

 

 

there is the influence of Dryden to

consider, it must be noted, Ovid‘s

translator into Englishbut the

similarity in the spirit of the text is

so great, the characteristic voice

so evident, regardless of elapsed

time, the intervening fifteen hundred

years, 8 CE for Ovid, to somewhere

around 1600 CE for Shakespeare,

for the congruence to be coincidental,

Shakespeare had to have been reading 

his Ovid, imbibing it, what, do you think

 

then again, as Shakespeare would

have said, There are more things in

heaven and earth, Horatio, / Than

are dreamt of in your philosophy

 

 

R ! chard

“Metamorphoses” (The Giants’ War, XII) – Ovid

after-the-storm-1872.jpg!Large

      “After the Storm (1872)

 

            Gustave Courbet

 

                __________

 

 

                  A thin circumference of land appears;
                  And Earth, but not at once, her visage rears,
                  And peeps upon the seas from upper grounds; 

 

as the land begins to peep[ ] through 

the water, a circumference of land 

appears, a circle of Earth within the 

earlier universal water

 

to rear, to raise upright, boldly, the better,

here, for Earth‘s visage, Earth‘s face, to 

peep[ ] upon the seas from newly gained 

upper grounds

 

                  The streams, but just contain’d within their bounds,
                  By slow degrees into their channels crawl; 

 

streams, just recently redefining their  

boundaries, or bounds[b]y slow 

degrees settle, become waterways, 

channels, rivers, rivulets, rills

 

I love crawl here, incidentally, the slow, 

insidious, infiltration of a territory, silent 

and immutable, as [t]he streams, at the 

dispassionate pace of nature, find their 

individual course

 

                  And Earth increases, as the waters fall. 

 

the waters fall, the waters recede


                  In longer time the tops of trees appear, 

 

[i]n longer time, after a while

                                                         

                  Which mud on their dishonour’d branches bear. 

 

for which the only solution here, would

be, I thought, however ironically, a

shower, rain

 

but I digress

                 
                  At length the world was all restor’d to view;

                  But desolate, and of a sickly hue:  

see, for instance, above


                  Nature beheld her self, and stood aghast,
                  A dismal desart, and a silent waste. 

 

desart, is desert, even my spellcheck 

insisted

 

meanwhile, back on Mount Parnassus

our two survivors, look around

 

                  Which when Deucalion, with a piteous look
                  Beheld, he wept, and thus to Pyrrha spoke: 

 

let me point out that what follows, 

which is to say when Deucalion 

… thus to Pyrrha spoke, we have 

an extended monologue, rather 

than a narration, the poet, Ovid

has given a voice to Deucalion

his character, his creation

 

I was reminded of Shakespeare‘s 

monologues, especially since the 

metre is iambic pentameter,

Shakespeare‘s signature poetic

rhythm 

 

it should be noted that this translation

of Metamorphoses is from 1717, a

century and a very year after 

Shakespeare‘s demise, in 1616, time 

for poets to have imbibed his already 

profound influence

 

nor could they not have been marked

by the spirit of their own time, and the 

many transformative epochs since 

Metamorphoses had been written, in 

the year 1, that would’ve affected the 

translation 

 

the original Latin text, for instance,

was in dactylic hexameter, not 

iambic pentameter

 

                  Oh wife, oh sister, oh of all thy kind
                  The best, and only creature left behind,
                  By kindred, love, and now by dangers joyn’d;
                  Of multitudes, who breath’d the common air,
                  We two remain; a species in a pair:
                  The rest the seas have swallow’d; nor have we
                  Ev’n of this wretched life a certainty.
                  The clouds are still above; and, while I speak,
                  A second deluge o’er our heads may break.
                  Shou’d I be snatcht from hence, and thou remain,
                  Without relief, or partner of thy pain,
                  How cou’dst thou such a wretched life sustain?
                  Shou’d I be left, and thou be lost, the sea
                  That bury’d her I lov’d, shou’d bury me.
                  Oh cou’d our father his old arts inspire,
                  And make me heir of his informing fire,
                  That so I might abolisht Man retrieve,
                  And perisht people in new souls might live.
                  But Heav’n is pleas’d, nor ought we to complain,
                  That we, th’ examples of mankind, remain. 

 

cou’d our father, JoveDeucalion asks,

breathe into me his inspiration, his old 

arts, his informing fire, so that I could 

reconstitute Man, retrieve him, and 

supply the perisht people with new, and

presumably more honourable, souls

 

                  He said; the careful couple joyn their tears: 

 

He said, or this he spoke, and the

couple joyn their tears


                  And then invoke the Gods, with pious prayers.
                  Thus, in devotion having eas’d their grief,
                  From sacred oracles they seek relief;
                  And to Cephysus’ brook their way pursue: 

 

Cephysus, or Cephissus, was a river god,

associated with the river Cephissus, which 

runs through Central Greece

 

                  The stream was troubled, but the ford they knew; 

 

the ford, the way across the stream


                  With living waters, in the fountain bred, 

 

living waters would gush from a 

spring, around which a fountain 

would’ve been built

 

                  They sprinkle first their garments, and their head,
                  Then took the way, which to the temple led.
                  The roofs were all defil’d with moss, and mire,
                  The desart altars void of solemn fire.
                  Before the gradual, prostrate they ador’d;
                  The pavement kiss’d; and thus the saint implor’d.

 

the gradual is a hymn sung within

the context of a full religious service

 

desart here is again desert, but in

this instance signifying deserted

 

the saint, an anachronism here, 

for saints were not at all even a

concept at the time of Ovid

would’ve been Themis, goddess,

at Delphi, on Mount Parnassus

of Divine Justice

 

 

R ! chard