a veritable Schubertiade, III
“Impression, Sunrise“ (1872)
Claude Monet
________
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Tag: Monet
August 15, 2023
how to listen to music if you don’t know your Beethoven from your Bach, XVIII – Rachmaninov
“Portrait of the composer Sergei Rachmaninov“
Konstantin Somov
______
though you probably still wouldn’t be able
to tell a prelude from a hole in the wall,
nor, admittedly, can I, unless indicated,
if you’ve listened to the pieces I’ve
recently presented, you’ve noted, even
merely sensed, really, that the preludes
of one composer don’t sound at all like
those of the others, Bach doesn’t sound
like Chopin, who doesn’t sound at all
like Debussy, the first step in telling
your Beethoven from your Bach, as
promised in my title
you might not even be able to tell which
is which as you’re listening, but you can
tell they’re different, you do the same
thing telling your Monet from your
Renoir
Rachmaninov also wrote, like Chopin,
and Debussy, 24 preludes, and, like
Chopin, in every key, major and minor
but spread out through three publications,
Opus 3, no. 2, from 1892, comprising of
only one prelude, but a scorcher, The
a second set, Opus 23, consists of ten,
mostly iconic, pieces, you’ve heard
them somewhere before, therefore
iconic
the final set comes out in 1910,
Opus 32, with thirteen preludes,
for a total of 24
you’ll marvel, even Marilyn Monroe
famously did
enjoy
R ! chard
September 13, 2018
Piano Concerto no 2 in G major, opus 44 -Tchaikovsky
“Beech Grove I“ (1902)
________
if a sonata, or any composition for one
instrument, is a meditation, a rumination,
an introspection, a concerto is its entire
opposite, it’s a declamation, a very
harangue, the performer is not only
before an audience, but before an
orchestra, before the conductor of that
orchestra, that soloist had better be,
therefore, something
Tchaikovsky’s 2nd Piano Concerto
hasn’t cut the cultural mustard, you’ve
probably never heard of it, never mind
heard it, not even in the miasma of our
collective unconscious
why
who knows, it’s magnificent
I suspect that Moscow’s distance,
St Petersburg’s, might’ve had something
to do with it, Russia would still have been
a backwater to Europe, regardless of what
Catherine the Great might’ve done for its
intellectual edification, indeed a veritable
Elizabeth the First, Queen of England,
she, in her sponsorship of the arts
something like that happened, but in
reverse, to Gustav Klimt, Egon Schiele
in art, Schoenberg, Berg, Webern, the
Second Viennese School in music, in
literature, Robert Musil, his “The Man
Without Qualities“ a very rival to
Proust‘s epic trip down memory lane,
“Remembrance …“, when the centre
of gravity for the arts moved from
Vienna to Paris in the late 19th
Century with the advent of
Impressionism
France had entered its Fourth
Republic by then, was to finally
entrench its democracy, and we got
Monet, Debussy, and indeed Proust
instead, not to mention all of that
city’s celebrated others
leaving creative Vienna, meanwhile,
the undisputed engine of the Zeitgeist,
the spirit of the times, for over three
quarters of an earlier century, thereby,
in the dust
New York would take over in the
1950s, similarly, for a time, Andy
Warhol and The Factory, eclipsing
any other town
in other words, location, location,
location, in tandem with historical
events
R ! chard
July 18, 2018
how to read music – Cello Sonata in D major, opus 102, no 2 – Beethoven
“Head in Black and Green“ (1913)
___________
the line of music, the essential melody,
is not resolved in Beethoven until several
bars from the beginning in his Fifth Cello
Sonata, one note follows another without
any specific reference to what preceded it
but the tempo, and the voice, which is to
say, its tonality
there is ever, however, though perhaps
sometimes eccentric, a harmony, a
convincing argument, we are speaking
the same language
as in reading, one follows the musical
line for those several bars, hanging
onto each note for meaning, spotting
even commas, semi-colons, periods,
however unconsciously, until one
reaches the end of the paragraph,
made evident by the recapitulation
therefore music
which doesn’t only, however,
recapitulate, here, but elaborates,
adding depth, dimension, local
colour, to the already intricate
story
Beethoven is challenging the very
idea of music in this composition,
much as later the Impressionists
did, for instance, when they
upended the entrenched idea of
merely representational art – a
process I saw reverberating in my
very own 1950’s, ’60’s, when even
Monet, people objected, could’ve
been managed by their children
Picasso, of course, was, at the time,
nothing less than a joke, not to
mention any of the Surrealists, or –
gasp – the Expressionists, see
above
I prefer the very early cello sonatas
of Beethoven, for their verve, their
energy, the second movement, the
“Adagio con molto sentimento
d’affetto” in this late one, overdoes
it, I think, a little, it’s like sitting with
someone you can’t leave, whose
sorrow is immense, and which you
can barely handle, but must, out of,
if nothing else, chivalry, or common,
and insuperable, one hopes, human
compassion, consider, and duly,
thus, proffer, ideally, grace
who hasn’t been there
R ! chard
April 22, 2018
String Quintets – Mozart / Beethoven
“A Path in Monet’s Garden at Giverny“ (1902)
________
concerned about presenting Beethoven’s
Opus 59, the next significant string quartets
of the early 19th Century, too early –
Beethoven had, incidentally, at that point no
rivals – I preferred to establish his credentials,
rather than to enter his next phase, equivalent
to the move from representational art to
Impressionism in painting, a sea change,
people would’ve balked at the very concept
of an alternative vision, and indeed they
were confused
this sea change, I should point out, challenged
the very notions of what not only art should be,
but also music, and literature, indeed very life
perspectives, philosophies
therefore the Romantic Period, when
expressions of personal epiphanies began
to crowd the new democratic environment
after the French Revolution, 1789, all of
which would lead to, eventually, our own
allegiance to, at least in the West, the
concept of human rights
music was already, in other words, talking,
and with Beethoven, indeed vociferously
still adheres to Classical conditions,
but bursts through them emotionally
written only 14 years earlier, one of six
of his
you won’t find them, perhaps, on the
surface, to be very different, wouldn’t
be able to even tell them apart in a
blind pinch
but juxtaposing, as I always urge,
sharpens one’s aesthetic pencil, ask
yourself, in this case, according to
your senses, which of the compositions
is earlier, you’ll find your senses have
already told you
everything flows from that initial
answer, when you ask yourself why
you think that
the hall we’d just entered
she demurred, of course, considering
herself not up to the challenge, despite
several visits together we’d had among
a wonder of other European art galleries
I insisted
she tossed off, okay, Renoir, an easy
answer, though it turned out to be a
Degas, or the reverse, or whatever
but upon reaching the painting, of
course, Degas, she said, knowing full
well it was him, having lacked only the
pluck and the confidence
who’s that, I asked, turning to another
master
Monet, she replied, confidently
and was, as I’d anticipated she would
be, correct, she can now tell her
we know of a lot more than we
think we do
R ! chard
September 18, 2014
Visconti’s Death in Venice
“Venice Looking East from the Guidecca, Sunrise“ (1819)
_______
“Death in Venice“ is perhaps the most
beautiful film I’ve ever seen, just click
Visconti suffuses his masterpiece with
all the colours and textures of Monet,
Renoir, Seurat, Toulouse-Lautrec, and
a host of other Impressionists, and
settles them all upon, nearly inevitably,
the splendours of a Canaletto Venice
Dirk Bogarde has never been better,
his von Aschenbach is definitive,
Silvana Mangano is every single inch
an aristocrat, the epitome of poise,
elegance and propriety, Tadzio is
throughout the very incarnation of a
Botticelli
all is given stately motion by the art
of film and made thereby into another
equal and haunting form of poetry
enjoy, marvel
Richard
psst: Visconti even makes Mahler sound
profound
as does Leonard Bernstein, incidentally,
in the accompanying clip, who is
manifestly transported throughout his
evidently otherworldly experience,
just as you might even be, just click
October 28, 2012
“Song of the South” – Walt Disney
never thought I’d see it again but now for the magic
of the Internet, the boundless trove of irreducible
treasures, like those in Ali-Baba’s caves, or the
attics of our ancestors, stowed away, open again
to our poetic or otherwise imaginations, at our
very fingertips
I remembered this movie to be wonderful, moving,
but not much else, except for the “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-
Dah” theme, which is unforgettable, and a single
plot twist it would be unchivalrous to divulge
it has apparently been controversial, and is
presently banned, it would appear, in cinemas,
but it would be to my mind as racially insensitive
as “Huckleberry Finn”, “Tom Sawyer’, or even
“Gone with the Wind” have been, when they
were patently giving voice rather to a shocking
human cultural, and political, abomination,
however awkwardly, that is still powerfully,
shamefully, even manifestly, resonant
this is not a universal, note, condition, every
season for any culture has its bugbears, its
demons and monsters, and woe to the
unfortunate and inadvertent victim
in perhaps his most wonderful movie, and there
were quite a few, “Song of the South“, Walt Disney
lets us know that we’re all in this together, and
that kindness meets kindness in everyone, when
you open your heart
and that the reverse is horrible
Walt Disney is of course one of the great cultural
influences of the 20th Century, dismissed among
the titans as merely for kids
Walt Disney will be for an entire generation the
place where we learned our moral ABCs, much
more than in the dire Bible
as such he’s no less significant an artist, not at
all less significant, than Monet, Picasso, for
instance, Beethoven, Shakespeare, in shaping
our present moral and aesthetic world
you’ll need some Kleenex
you can also sing along
Richard
psst: filmed, I’m sure, right here in beautiful Stanley
Park behind my place in Vancouver, even the
animated portions
January 20, 2012
Debussy, “L’isle joyeuse” (“The Joyous Island”)
here’s Daphne doing Debussy, his “L’isle joyeuse“, from 1904,
a long way from Beethoven, 1798
had it not been for Beethoven though, making music into a
language, instead of merely a Mozartean, a Haydnesque
aristocratic entertainment, Debussy wouldn’t have even
been possible, where were their “Moonlight Sonata“s, their
“Tempest“s, their “Appassionata“s for that matter, their
“Hammerklavier“s, these earlier composers, for a weightier,
more abstract, topic, Mozart and Haydn were having courtly,
though ever so inspired, fun, while Beethoven would proclaim,
pronounce, discover and describe, open up to the imagination,
upon these earlier, nevertheless mighty, Classical shoulders,
a whole new, transfigured, world
“L’isle joyeuse“ is not a sonata, it only has one movement,
1840-1926, is written all over it, the same shimmer,
ephemerality, must’ve been the light, not to mention of
course, at his most ethereal, Beethoven
Richard
October 22, 2008
ekphrasis
ekphrasis
poring among the possibilities the nearby university had to offer – they’re listed in a catalogue they seasonally send around – one on poetry, of course, how to make one out of a painting, stood out, how to make of something visual, a Monet, a Van Gogh, a Renoir, a poem
ekphrasis, there’s a word for that, I thought
and ate it up
the picture I got to ekphrase, my word for that, was one of a set the teacher sent around of Kobayashis, snapshots, I’d never heard of him, her, either, Milt Kobayashi, all of them intriguing
I quickly snapped one up, letting my instinct instead of my judgment pick it out – I find it’s usually more accurate – in order to keep the ball rolling, not slow things up
a waif in especially blue, the colour also of chairs behind her – like skies in winter, I thought, when the pressure’s up and the light is pale, colours aren’t crisp but muted – making that sort of association, hoping that wouldn’t be unintelligent
rudimentary roses, wine red, spotted here and there her blue skirt, more like patches than ornamental flowers, a black top the colour of her jet black hair was cut low in a U at her neck, she leaned against a wall, itself nondescript, at the right of the picture, her left, far to that side, and in her own black shadow there splashed upon the wall, a fathomless apparently abyss, seemed to find refuge, a respite, like a womb, pushing herself and it nearly right out of the picture
her arms were crossed, but one reached for her shoulder, lightly resting there, covering inadvertently, or not, her chest, and by my inference her soul, her modesty, her bosom, whereupon, like Michelangelo’s God touched Adam, with love, light and understanding, inadvertently again or not, she touched mine
and her black, plaintive eyes were looking right back
there’s next to nothing on the spartan walls, the table is somewhat set, but light reflected off some glasses there, and dishes, is gleaming, like in Dutch still lifes, artfully, and delightfully
“The Last Table” it’s called, though I’m not too sure what that’s about, a waitress calling it a day, a playful reference somehow to da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” maybe
that’s what I’d have to make into a poem, ekphrase
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