Apr 02 2006
.:proposals
outer: what is the next book you want to read?
inner: Memoirs of Hadrian, by Yourcenar.
outer: why?
inner: i always felt like i was born in the wrong era
| show comment »
Jan 14 2006
.:memory
Ultra stimulation
Vital vibration
[Finley Quaye, Ultra Stimulation]
[from: Oliver Sacks; The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat]
La straordinaria e costante precisione dei particolari evocati ogni volta che si stimolava la corteccia, precisione che superava quella di qualsiasi normale rievocazione della memoria, portò P. a ipotizzare che il cervello contenesse la registrazione quasi perfetta di tutte le esperienze della vita, che l’intero flusso di coscienza fosse conservato nel cervello e potesse pertanto essere sempre evocato, suscitato, o dalle normali necessità e circostanze della vita o dalle circostanze straordinarie di una stimolazione epilettica o elettrica.
The extraordinary and consistent detail, which was evoked each time the cortex was stimulated, and exceeded anything which could be recalled by ordinary memory, suggested to P. that the brain retained in almost perfect record of every lifetime’s experience, that the total stream of consciousness was preserved in the brain, and, as such, could always be evoked or called forth, whether by the ordinary needs and circumstances of life, or the extraordinary circumstances of an epileptic or electrical stimulation.
| show comments »
Jan 08 2006
.:richter:notebooks and conversations
Author: Bruno Monsaingeon
Title:Sviatoslav Richter: Notebooks and Conversations
Editor: Princeton Paperbacks
In the past few days I read this book, a biography about the great pianist Sviatoslav Richter written by Richter himself. Sparse annotations of life and music. Nowadays we still imagine pianist as privileged man living in a parallel world, detached from humans, for which they now and then perform, abandoning their intense solitude.
Richter himself was a terribly solitary man, raised in a country where you can walk for miles without encountering any life but yourself. At the same time, he was part of a lively musical scene, involving all the most important russian musicians of that time. He was then very public and very private, very histrionic and very serious, a pure man of excess.
In the book he is not only a pianist, but also a man that goes trough the history of his time, with an unusual career, the success as performer, the Second World War, the Russian Communism and its regimental censorship. His pen is witty and goes directly to the point, offering a precise but also vivid portrait of his own impressions. The following excerpt, where he talks about the older colleague Maria Yudina, is at the same time funny, innocent, dramatic and eccentric. I love the revolver part, the duel, the poetry of Pasternak, the strength of this controversial woman:
Maria Veniaminovna Yudina was a monstre sacré. I knew her, but only from afair - it has to be said that she was so odd that everyone avoided her. For her own part, she showed herself somewhat suspicious and critical of me. She said of me: Richter? Hmm! As a pianist, he’s good for Rachmaninov.
On her lips, that wasn’t a compliment, even though she herself occasionally played Rachmaninov. She had graduated from the Petrograd Conservatory in the early twenties […]. By the end of her life Yudina was an outrageous figure, a sort of Clytemnestra, always dressed in black and wearing sports shoes for her concerts. She was immensely talented and a keen advocate of the music of her own time: she played Stravinsky, whom she adored, Hindemith, Krenek and Bartók at a time when these composers were not only unknown in the Soviet Union but effectively banned. And when she played Romantic music, it was impressive - except that she didn’t play what was written. Liszt’s Weinen und Klagen [wine and moaning] was phenomenal, but Schubert’s B flat major Sonata, while arresting as an interpretation, was the exact opposite of what it should have been, and I remember a performance of the Second Chopin Nocturne that was so heroic that it no longer sounded like a piano but a trumpet. It was no longer Chopin, but Yudina.
During the war she had given The Well-Tempered Clavier as a splendid concert, even if she polished off the contemplative Prelude in B flat minor from Book Two at a constant fortissimo. At the end of the concert, Neuhaus, whom I was accompanying, went to congratulate her in her dressing-room.
But, Maria Veniaminovna - he asked her - why did u play the B flatminor Prelude in such a dramatic way?
Because we’re at war!!!
It was typical of Yudina. We’re at war!. She absolutely had to bring the war into Bach.
She also used to wander around with a revolver, which she would show to all and sundry. It really was a bit much. She used to say: Hold this thing for me, but be careful, it’s loaded.
One day she developed a crush on someone who didn’t return her advances. One can understand the poor man; he must have been terrified of her. And so she challenged him to a duel.
By the end of her concerts I always used to have a headache. She subjected her audiences to such a degree of intensity, an incredible intensity! And then there was always the impression she was walking through the rain. And she carried a crucifix and crossed herself before launching into the first note. I’ve nothing against this, but in Soviet Russia, at that time!!!
She had a vast crowd of admirers. Audiences worshipped her, no doubt because of her powerful artistic personality, but probably also because she made no secret of her religious convictions. For my own part, I found her behavior exaggeratedly theatrical and her religious beliefs somewhat false and ostentatious. At the time of her final public appearances, she couldn’t resist reading some lines of Pasternak, even though lots of her concerts had been cancelled by the authorities, who had made her promise that if she wanted to continue to appear in public, she would have to abandon this kind of provocation. but she couldn’t resist her own impulse to read Pasternak’s poetry. The spectacle was all the more appalling in that she no longer had any teeth.
Of course, she cared for the poor, took them in and lived like a tramp herself. An eccentric woman and an extraordinary artist, but someone who always felt the need to invent things. To tell the truth, I really didn’t like her. No doubt she was sincere, but her relation with composers seemed to me to be dishonest. Even so, I played at her funeral. Rachmaninov.
