Showing posts with label Mozart. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mozart. Show all posts

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Home is where the heart is

I have a penchant for collecting odd facts - for trying to learn the inside story about people and things. Over the years I have amassed enough useless trivia to tie up a good part of my cerebral cortex which I realize could have been put to better use but which makes for rather quirky blog posts from time to time when some of that flotsam drifts to the surface. This is probably one of those posts.

One time I was curious about what musical instruments were actually played by famous classical composers. I don't know why I was curious; I should have been content to simply listen to their beautiful music.

Most of them shared the piano as the instrument they were most proficient on. That's probably no surprise to any of you. There were exceptions. And most played other keyboard instruments, too.

Beethoven was very hot stuff on the piano before he went deaf - enough, when he was young, to impress the famous Mozart, who himself knew a thing or two about keyboards. Both men also played the violin of course, but did you know they were both quite proficient on the viola as well? A viola is different enough from a violin to count as a separate instrument - more different than a piano vs. an organ, for example. (A viola, a bit larger than a violin, is tuned like a cello, both using the odd C clef.)

Mozart hated the flute, loved the clarinet. Beethoven probably loved and hated things as well.

This (of course) turns one's mind to pianos in general and other people (besides Mozart and Beethoven) who did most of their composing for (and sometimes performing upon) that instrument. Brahms. Schumann. Mendelsohn (although Felix was a violin virtuoso.) And, of course, Liszt and Chopin.

This post is really about Chopin, I guess, although I don't think he played any other instruments except organ, which isn't really a stretch for a virtuoso piano player like Chopin. And I can only find where he played organ once. I digress.

Frederic Chopin was, quite simply, the greatest piano composer and piano player who ever walked the earth. Devotees of Franz Liszt will disagree, but they know nothing. Chopin was even better than Billy Joel.

Like all geniuses of the period, Chopin caught TB and died at age 39. Mozart died at 36 but not of TB. Never mind.

All of these boys were pretty quirky. I could choose any of them to write a quirky post about, but you already know about the quirks of Mozart and Beethoven. And perhaps even Liszt. But you probably didn't know how demented and off-center Chopin was. Well, perhaps "demented" is a bit much. You may have even thought him shy and polite. Should you want to continue believing this about him, you need to stop reading here.

Chopin's mother, the former Justyna Krzyżanowska, (I forgot to mention Chopin was Polish) was the aunt of a boy who would later become American Civil War General Włodzimierz Krzyżanowski. I suppose that would have made the general and the Polish composer cousins, come to think of it. Ah, well, Chopin died in 1849, so no matter - they obviously didn't hang out together. Some of you are probably amazed at my Polish spelling and diacritical abilities. It is a gift.

Chopin, it has been written, was an artistic and social snob; an impeccably dressed dandy who hated contact with the rest of the human race.

But the music transcends the social shortcomings of the man. Like no other piano music you have ever heard. Unearthly, almost. And yet...

Andras Shiff: "A very strange person, very hard to like. An anti-semite."

Polish poet Adam Mickiewicz: "A moral vampire."

Of course, Mickiewicz and another Polish exile called on Chopin and he wouldn't even answer the door, so there is that bit of resentful baggage bugging him.

"His addiction to solitude went hand-in-hand with a fanatical dandyism, but his need for exquisitely tailored waistcoats, gloves, and boots was probably dictated by something deeper and darker than mere vanity."

For musician/biographer Schiff, the freshly laundered white gloves that Chopin put on each day signaled Chopin's horror of human contact.

Chopin treated Schumann almost sadistically, ridiculing his music as "no music at all." Liszt and Chopin had shared an apartment together, but Chopin soon came to despise and envy Liszt's talents, calling them vulgar. (Liszt was a very showy and animated piano player. The ladies liked him. A lot.)

Chopin himself had more than his share of fainting females, but not much is known of his sex life before his famous affair with George Sand. The two were together 10 years and she definitely got the best of him, leaving him devastated. He was, by all accounts, devoted to her, but she dumped him when he was 37, as death was approaching.

He hated crowds, performed only in small venues, gave probably only about 30 truly public performances in his whole life. Some say his playing was so quiet and personal that a large auditorium was out of the question anyway. He was happiest performing for only a small gathering of intimate friends - and he did have friends.

His music is intricate and difficult to play (though not as hard as Franz Liszt's - who was accused of composing music only 3 or 4 people in the whole world could play) but at the same time has a captivating subtlety to it. My own favorite Chopin piano composition is his Fantasie Impromptu (he mostly only named his compositions by genre) which demonstrates both the incredible complexity of fingering, as well as the sweet simplicity of the theme. Listening to this piece makes you forget the social shortcomings of the man himself.

And the title of this post? What's up with that? A final Chopin quirk was that he was afraid of being buried alive. So, by prior arrangement, his heart was removed after his death and his body buried without the heart. (He is buried in Paris.) His heart went home to Poland and is still today entombed in a pillar in a church in Warsaw.

His heart is still trapped in his music, too. Listen to my favorite piece if you have 4 minutes and 33 seconds to spare.
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Astonishingly, because it was in the infancy of photography, there exists an actual photograph of Frederic Chopin from 1849, the year of his death. Here it is.






"Simplicity is the final achievement. After one has played a vast quantity of notes and more notes, it is simplicity that emerges as the crowning reward of art."

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Finding your purpose in life

I have always thought it a shame that we are often asked to decide what we want to do with the rest of our lives when we are 18 years old and have just finished high school. Looking back, what does an 18-year-old know yet of himself to make such a life decision? One is expected to enter college, and the college will expect one to declare a major before long.

Some people are lucky in that they are born knowing what they want to do with their lives; they know what they are. For many of the rest of us, it is only through years of trial and error that we discover where we fit in and what we should be doing. This type of life-experience comes long after college is over.

I'm guessing Mozart knew what he was as soon as he could think properly. Probably Picasso knew early on, too. I doubt if either considered going to college to learn how to be lawyers. These sort of people don't agonize over what they should be doing with their lives. They begin doing it naturally at an early age and simply never stop doing it. This is not to say training and practice are not required still.

I spent years, just like a lot of people do, researching the question of what I should be doing with my life - what it is that I was "meant" to do, what I do naturally, what I love to do. Although I eventually became able to articulate what that something was, the answer didn't come easily. Certainly I had no clue when I finished high school.

Like Mozart and Picasso, I believe that most of us - if not all of us - are truly born to be doing a particular thing. I don't mean you were necessarily born to be a machinist, but happy machinists were probably born loving to craft things with their hands. Generally.

Just as happy analysts love to clarify things.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Common humanity, inhumanity, maybe even divinity: Carpe Diem.



















And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts. And I looked and behold, a pale horse. And his name that sat on it was Death. And Hell followed with him...

=========
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"To the Virgins, to make much of Time"
Robert Herrick, 1591-1674

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

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=========

Keating turns towards the trophy cases, filled with trophies, footballs,
and team pictures.

KEATING
Now I would like you to step forward over
here and peruse some of the faces from
the past. You've walked past them many
times. I don't think you've really looked
at them.

The students slowly gather round the cases and Keating moves behind them.

KEATING
They're not that different from you, are
they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones,
just like you. Invincible, just like you
feel. The world is their oyster. They
believe they're destined for great things,
just like many of you. Their eyes are full
of hope, just like you. Did they wait until
it was too late to make from their lives
even one iota of what they were capable?
Because you see gentlmen, these boys are
now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen
real close, you can hear them whisper their
legacy to you. Go on, lean in.

The boys lean in and Keating hovers over Cameron's shoulder.

KEATING
(whispering in a gruff voice)
Carpe.

Cameron looks over his shoulder with an aggravated expression on his face.

KEATING
Hear it?
(whispering again)
Carpe. Carpe Diem. Seize the day boys,
make your lives extraordinary.

The boys stare at the faces in the cabinet in silence.

=========
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Jesus Christ, Fanny Brice,
Wolfie Mozart and Humphrey Bogart and
Genghis Khan and
On to H. G..Wells.
Ho Chi Minh, Gunga Din,
Henry Luce and John Wilkes Booth
And Alexanders
King and Graham Bell.
Ramar Krishna, Mama Whistler,
Patrice Lumumba and Russ Colombo,
Karl and Chico Marx,
Albert Camus.
E. A. Poe, Henri Rousseau,
Sholom Aleichem and Caryl Chessman,
Alan Freed and
Buster Keaton too.
And each one there
Has one thing shared:
They have sweated beneath the same sun,
Looked up in wonder at the same moon,
And wept when it was all done
For being done too soon.



["Dead Poet's Society" final script written by Tom Shulman. "Done Too Soon" Prophet Music, Written by Neil Diamond.]
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