a veritable Schubertiade, III
“Impression, Sunrise“ (1872)
Claude Monet
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Tag: Renoir
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
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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
April 22, 2018
String Quintets – Mozart / Beethoven
“A Path in Monet’s Garden at Giverny“ (1902)
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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 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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