Breaking the Mold

This afternoon opens with pianist Steve Hodson offering some of the most beloved pieces of the standard Western art-music repertoire. If there were a definitive required-listening list of piano music, then Frédéric Chopin’s (1810-1849) Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, Op. 23 (1835/6), and Claude Debussy’s (1862-1918), Reflets dans l’eau (Reflections on the Water, 1905) and La Cathédrale engloutie (The Sunken Cathedral, 1905) surely would appear on it. They each come from larger collections of works; each break ground in some respect; and each refers to a narrative or image, however tightly or loosely.

The Four Ballades of Chopin remain staples in piano literature due largely to their lyrical beauty and fiendish difficulty. The premiere ballade enjoys historical significance in the Romantic era. First, for a time, it remained Chopin’s favorite composition. Second, and most importantly, the ballade represents Chopin’s attempt to produce a viable alternative to the then-hegemonic sonata form – an example being the first movement of Beethoven work on this afternoon’s program. In addition, Chopin did not base Op. 23 on any pre-existing form in Western music, so he was charting new territory of organization, thematic treatment, and expression. In addition, scholars recently have discovered the narrative structure of the ballade modeled in part on a story: Adam Mickiewicz’s pseudo-medieval narrative poem Konrad Wallenrod (1828), a tragic tale of Polish honor and resistance. Despite its being one movement, the ballade effectively balances Chopin’s working through the creation of a new genre while tightly economizing thematic development in service of telling a vivid tale.

In many ways, Debussy saw himself as an heir to Chopin, as both composers experimented with inherited genres and, to varying degrees, attempted to develop a specifically French pianism. As Chopin broke molds with his ballades, so too did Debussy with his first book of genre-defying Images (1903-1905). Debussy was so confident with Images, he rested on the intuition that the pieces would take their place in the pantheon of the classical-music canon alongside the works of Schubert and Chopin. The rest, as they say, is history. The first piece of Images is the famous Reflets dans l’eau. Water: an image of endless possibilities. It is at once both ominous and peaceful. Rapid and placid. Deadly and life-giving. Reflets dans l’eau illustrates Debussy’s exploring some of these features. He constructs an harmonic backdrop alternating between pentatonic and whole-tone sound worlds. Both convey a sense of wandering and buoyancy due to the absence of the half-step resolution found in traditional tonality. In addition, Debussy plays with the elusiveness of water as he speeds and slows the rhythmic figures. The melody, which is a brief three-note descent, always appears against a constantly shifting harmonic and rhythmic background – it’s the only thing that stays constant amid a sea of reflections shimmering in and out of focus. But Debussy does not stop there in his evocation of water.

The prelude La Cathédrale engloutie (The Sunken Cathedral, 1905) lists as the tenth in his first book of twelve Préludes (1909-1910). The piece tells of the legend of Ys, an island off the coast of Brittany, France. Ys was the jewel of Europe and unparalleled in beauty, yet its fate lay in destruction due to the evil deeds of its inhabitants. The ocean thus rose up to engulf the island, including its tallest structure, the cathedral. Much like Reflets dans l’eau, Debussy begins the prelude with alternating harmonic backdrops, in this case modality and pentatonicism. Moreover, he employs a texture connoting medieval organum. In effect, we may (or may not) think of the overtones of church bells ringing in the distance, an archetypical choir chanting during Mass, or the deep, cavernous space of a cathedral throughout which bells and choir voices echo. Next comes a sound more contemporary to early Debussy, a mix of tonal and whole-tone languages set with wave-like figurations. We may or may not picture the waves of the ocean; or perhaps the object the waves either are covering or revealing. In any case, Debussy masterfully paces ebb and flow, as well as anticipation and climax, as he returns to a grand statement of the opening modal material. The cathedral now has emerged from the depths for all to see. But only for a moment, however. As quickly as it emerged, the cathedral sinks back into the ocean not to reveal itself again for 100 years, so the legend goes.

The prolific Australian composer Carl Vine (b. 1954) is among the most well-known composers in the country’s history and may be the most versatile. In addition to writing contemporary-classical works, he is famed for composing for the theater, as well as electronic music. His music thus possesses an agility with some finely honed genre-crossing techniques. He composed the Sonata for Flute and Piano (1992) with an eye (or ear) to have both instruments function as equal partners. In this context, Vine inherited a classical-music concept of elevating instruments traditionally used for accompaniment, in this case the piano, and making it as important as the featured instrument. Vine does here what Bach did for the harpsichord in the Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 and what Beethoven did in most of his duo sonatas. According to Vine, a consistent barrage of sixteenth-note figures create a web, which is an effective image to visualize when navigating through this afternoon’s performance by pianist Christopher Davis and flutist Adriane Hill. In the first movement, for example, Vine uses the rhythm as a means to increase chromaticism within the melodic content. In subsequent movements, however, he uses the figures to intensify the rhythmic drive. Whereas the first and third movements complement each other because of the focused homogenous interaction between the instruments, the second movement presents a study in polarization. As Vine writes, “the flute’s sinuous melodic ability [contrasts] against static ringing qualities of the piano.” He may have inherited a procedure popularized by Beethoven, but Vine departs from tradition in his treatment of color, rhythm, and form.

And what better way to demonstrate departure from tradition by presenting an example of said tradition? Thus we conclude today’s program with violinist Han Soo Kim and pianist Neil Di Maggio performing Ludwig van Beethoven’s (1770-1827) Sonata for Piano and Violin in C Minor, Op. 30/2 of 1802. The Op. 30 collection of three sonatas emerged against the backdrop of Beethoven’s coming to terms with progressive deafness as articulated in the famous Heiligenstadt Testament to his brother, in which the composer reconciles despondency with the resolve to keep composing. The sonatas offer us a musical analogue to the difficult crossroads Beethoven faced. With regard to the craft of composition, he hit a wall with writing in conventional genres. Op. 30 suggests his struggle with the anxieties of responding to the question “Where do I go from here?” and wiping the creative slate clean. Thus, the three sonatas reveal Beethoven’s working through technical and formal problems, such as balancing sonorities of the two contrasting instruments and their colors. More importantly, Op. 30/2 locates the beginnings of Beethoven’s experimentation and expansion. He begins to developing large scale forms from small, rhythmic motives, as opposed to long, symmetrical phrases, as evinced by the first movement’s opening melody. In addition, this sonata carries prestige among Beethoven’s earlier works, as he cast it in C minor. Several scholars and program writers have observed Beethoven’s lending just a bit more gravitas to C minor works than others. Op. 30/2 shares tonality with works including The Pathetique and final Piano Sonatas, the Third Piano Concerto, and the Fifth Symphony – that’s some lofty company.