"Why I hate ****" rant, or The Death of Art.

Death of art. Textbook correctness. Utter lack of creativity-personality-subjectivity, in other words Artistry as I define it. She is a good example of the dullest, most uninteresting playing that a human being is capable of producing; she takes music and erases from it all colour and inflection except for one: a confident, smoothly unobtrusive inoffensiveness – that most offensive quality in art making. There is no reflection of the human condition/range of expressiveness/weakness (flaw being an archetypal human personality trait) in her playing, which is the fundamental role of art. If I had to choose one characteristic that is most essential for performing European classical music well but too often absent today, it would be vulnerability. Music and art often are not about the rock solid unambivalent success of humanity; they explore our dilemmas and neuroses more readily, and without this vulnerability being brought out, the most human, enlightening, moving and profound dimension is missing. (Granted, it is difficult to have a modern career if one is acquainted with the concept of self-doubt; it seems that more often a supreme, almost arrogant and thoughtless confidence is encouraged and successful. But in such cases artistry too often becomes a casualty of single mindedness/limited life experience, since I believe that the artist can easily and correctly be intuited through their art). And finally the number one reason perhaps for my justified hatred? People idolize her without reservation. Due to the sheer number of accolades and fans she has become for me the poster child for a certain type of performer in the modern day classical music scene: the pure athlete, where the athletic feat is an end unto itself rather than a tool to be used in the creation of something greater. Her greatest attribute is in fact that her technique is absolutely “perfect”, machine-like. But rather than being put to a good use, it exists for its own sake. (I would go as far as to claim that this aseptic technical cleanliness by its very nature actually precludes individuality of interpretation/performance). In any case, I find it depressing that that’s all some people look for in classical music performances! I suppose it is easier to judge simplistic empirical criteria such as correct intonation (something we mistakenly believe is a set thing), unrelenting uniform vibrato and sustained monotonous phrasing and to label them as desirable or GOOD, than it is to see if these things actually MEAN anything (beyond the simple act of someone being able to produce them, thus proving themselves to be “good” artists), or if they are a smoke screen for vapidness. Technical "imperfection" is also not always categorically undesirable or BAD: an extremely high note that is not sharp and is without a wildly flailing about, uncontrolled vibrato is simply not particularly expressive. Though to be fair, I think she is simply a classic example, by no means an isolated one, of the mainstream academic American violin school of playing, as well as being reminiscent of the beloved nice simple girl/boy “next door” (perhaps the key to understanding why her “interpretations” have such MASS appeal), and not the devil incarnate. However the damage to people’s perception of what art is capable of amounts nonetheless to evil.

7 Things I Like

0. Garlic.
1. Opera, at number 1.
2. Being nowhere: between places, travelling on a bus, train, airplane, momentarily free and with a bird’s eye view of daily life concerns; reflecting on the life left behind and the one ahead.
2A. Driving late at night on an empty road or highway, flipping through favourite radio stations.
3. The profound peace at bedtime, after having had spent the entire day working. A rather elusive endeavor.
4. Trying to see out into the drizzling, prematurely dark fall evening through the window of a Viennese streetcar (the older model), preferably on the way to an opera, naturally.
5. Walking city streets, Viennese suburbs, forest and meadow, Niagara Escarpment’s Bruce Trail, simply being out in nature.
6. Honesty, truth, kindness, considerateness, thoughtfulness, integrity, generosity of spirit, commitment to living the best life one is capable of, not compromising quality, whether the effort will go unnoticed or not.
7. Preparing buckwheat crêpes and coffee in the morning in anticipation of a close friend.
7. “Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure.”

Schostakowitsch at the Staatsoper

Recently I went to see Shostakovitch's Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District, one of my long-standing favourites, at the Vienna State Opera. Even though this has been my "second home" for a year now, I chose for the first time the Parterre Stehplatz (standing room), rather than the habitual Balkon or Gallerie. It turned out to be a veritable zoo. The Parterre is the most popular choice, always packed beyond capacity unlike the more comfortable, orderly and civilized Balkon and Gallerie, and always sells out first. I suppose it is because the best and closest view of the stage is to be had here, and most people probably go to the opera in order to see it, rather than to listen to the music. To be fair, the voices are best heard here as far as the balance with the orchestra is concerned, but I have a feeling that most of the tourists - who are the mainstay of standing rooms - don't know that. When I returned to my spot marked by my tied cravat on the railing as is the custom, it was overrun by bodies and I was immediately enveloped by a sickly stifling heat produced (I suppose a must in any old European opera house), and the show has not even begun. I was uneasily grateful to a rather aggressive Viennese, who threw out a woman so that there would be space for me (I wondered if it was him who took my spot in the first place).

As the show progressed, people were leaving intermittently, often at the most inappropriate moments. In contrast to these unappreciative types, two typical (although in this instance particularly psychotic) examples of Viennese audience and society sighed or stifled a guffaw beside me everytime anyone in the audience made a sound, infallibly following it with an irate and usually ironic comment mezza voce vaguely directed to each other, in itself just as disturbing, if not more so, than the very thing they were deploring. Sometimes physical action was necessary: an older man trying to take a flashless picture earned himself a push from behind and an angry admonition. And, just as if one were on an airplane or a coach, inevitably there always is one unfortunate person (and concurrently many others), who developes a body odour.

This was only the second performance of a relatively obscure and virtuoso score in a premier production for the Staatsoper. The orchestra sounded muddy, unprecise in ensemble and rhythm. I missed the clarity and detail in this stupendous jigsaw puzzle of an orchestral part with its complex superimposed layers of "Shosty's" signature incisive rhythms, textures and colours, where the slightest lack of precision is deadly to the success and effect of the music. I wondered (and my suspicion was soon confirmed by a friend joining me from the Balkon after the intermission) whether this was partly due to the acoustics in this hitherto unfamiliar spot. It turns out that the extraordinarily perfect balance between the voices and the orchestra is achieved at the expense of clarity of detail emerging from the pit, although this should have only obsured the laxness of ensemble. Likewise the audience was a let-down, perhaps for the first time in my presence there. Usually so knowledgable, responsive and passionate (if opinionated), this time they were lukewarm at best. They seemed more appreciative of the performers' efforts as shown by the final curtain call applause (nonetheless lasting only a fraction of the usual duration), than of the extraordinary piece of music itself, which merited only a miniscule tepid reception between the acts. If anything, it was the apathetic lackluster performance that didn't rise to the excitement of the score. This uptight purse-lipped reaction of the audience was perhaps partly due to the sexually explicit and violent story, music and staging. I imagine that the respectable public at the venerable State Opera prefers the comfortable polished grandness of Wagner to the vulgar rough reality of Russia; a choice between escaping, or living life through art.

Vienna Court Opera 1902; now the State Opera.

The first of November

On this venerable, pensive and moving holiday of All Saints' Day (the exact opposite of its vulgar twin Halloween across the ocean), a friend and I hit a couple of cemeteries in order to pay a visit to the supposed area of Mozart's grave. We didn't get to Beethoven, Brahms and Schubert as planned, opting instead for the sad paltry remnants of the biggest late Renaissance castle in Austria, Schloss Neugebäude, and for the hot Maroni (chestnuts) sold in the alley - a valid defence against the chilling damp air.

Wienerwald salamander

One drizzly late afternoon at the foot of shrouded wooded hills infused with a misty twilight, a narrow path, lined with trees and slightly elevated as if on a motte, traversed the surrounding farm fields and vinyards. Framed between the gentle slopes of ravines one could catch a veiled glimpse of Vienna and the Millennium Tower down below, while a convent, perched on top of the looming hill and soon to be artificially illuminated, was looking down at me with severity. Further uphill I encountered several little guys more fit for a desert or rainforest due to their vibrant hues, rather than the outskirts of the Grinzing district.

À la recherche...

Some weeks ago I had a great time watching The Third Man for the first time, and what better city is there to do that in than "dear sweet old bitch Vienna", as my fellow expatriate Canadian friend - who's been here for decades - puts it. Recently however, Les Chansons d'Amour has revived my nostalgia for all things French (well, perhaps a lovely dinner this week with absinthe and a francophone guest helped) including Paris (which I barely know), as well as Montréal, Québec and its people and culture and of course poutine!

Sturm und Knödel

On a gorgeous sunny Sunday afternoon in September some new lovely friends and I biked along the Danube to an authentic Heuriger in Kahlenbergerdorf. Heurige are local taverns that sell only the current vintage from their own vinyards by which they are surrounded. Some food is offered (hot buffet and cold plates) - but they are not restaurants. A speciality of the fall season is Sturm, a young "new wine" that is partially fermented, cloudy and slightly fizzy, which we supplemented with a white wine Spritzer and Knödel mit Sauerkraut, a sort of chewy, sometimes stuffed dumpling with a side of pickled cabbage. Delicious, and representative of traditional Polish food as well! For dessert, a spotting of the house where I was told Schubert wrote his famous Serenade.

Soniferous Wien

During my recent flâneries about Vienna I've bumped into Schubert's birth-house, the spot where Mozart's death-house used to be, and the house where Schumann spent roughly half a year living. This is the season for Sturm and the falling down and breaking open of chestnuts, startlingly exploding on the pavement, the car roofs, and I imagine on some unfortunate heads of unsuspecting passers-by.

Teutonic Tenderness

I still clearly recall the first time I heard Beethoven's last violin sonata. The music, as well as the live performance, was mesmerising. It continues to be the only violin sonata by Beethoven I truly like, no other reaching for me the level of the great piano sonatas and quartets despite the popularity and the simple sweeping excitement of the Kreutzer. It is whimsical, poetic, gentle, sophisticated, joyful, smiling, original. The fantastically quirky ending of the first movement with its reams of trills, the almost bewilderingly chromatic sixteenth-notes (in a movement of gently lilting eigths and triplets), the final statement of the opening theme suddenly hijacked by a rush of sixteenth notes leading to two concluding bangs (usually pedestrian but so surprising and effective here), all odd and strange and full of contrasts but so skillfully seamless, magical and exciting, forshadows a similar conclusion, although perhaps less subtle there, of the final movement. (Some quartets, for example, have also such potpourri endings, but this one here is perhaps the most successful). I find this an oddly brave and relatively unusual piece for Beethoven: the music meanders, most of the time unconcerned whatsoever with "impressing" anyone, fully confident without posturing; for even in the other late works full of deep spirituality there often is still a conscious element of Greatness. But here Beethoven comes close to the early-Romantic spirit and the great and unassuming poetry of Schubert.

Schikaneder At Last

Theater an der Wien

View of Naschmarkt, opposite the theatre

Last night I saw a performance of Britten's Death in Venice in the theatre built by the librettist of Mozart's Magic Flute, who was also the first Papageno. Many thanks to my friend playing the piano in the orchestra for buying the ticket for me as an early birthday present. I was doubly glad, as I have not been to this intimate theatre before, despite trying to catch Pelléas et Mélisande with Natalie Dessay there unsuccessfully last year. This night was also memorable for it being the first time in Vienna I had a seat, rather than a standing room spot!

Newly arrived in my Viennese attic: