The Teaching of Claudio Arrau and His Pupils

THE TEACHING OF CLAUDIO ARRAU AND HIS PUPILS: PIANO PEDAGOGY AS CULTURAL WORK by Victoria von Arx

A dissertation submitted to the Graduate Faculty in Music in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, the City University of New York 2006

UMI Number: 3231979

Copyright 2006 by von Arx, Victoria All rights reserved.

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© VICTORIA VON ARX All Rights Reserved

iii This manuscript has been read and accepted for the Graduate Faculty in Music in satisfaction of the dissertation requirement for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy. ___________________________ Date

_______________________________ Jeffrey Taylor Chair of the Examining Committee

___________________________ Date

_______________________________ David Olan Executive Officer Professor Allan Atlas Professor L. Michael Griffel Professor Barbara R. Hanning Profesor Leo Treitler Professor Marion Guck Supervisory Committee

THE CITY UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK

iv Abstract THE TEACHING OF CLAUDIO ARRAU AND HIS PUPILS: PIANO PEDAGOGY AS CULTURAL WORK by Victoria von Arx Adviser: Professor L. Michael Griffel

Claudio Arrau was an iconic figure in classical music in the twentieth century. In addition to a major performing career, Arrau taught a sizeable class of students during the years from 1945 until about 1972. Most of these pupils aspired to performing careers, and many of them also became teachers whose instruction was informed by Arrau’s principles. Their pupils in turn carried on the work of teaching with yet another generation of pupils. This dissertation examines the sources of Arrau’s principles in nineteenth-century piano pedagogy. Its focus narrows from a broader view of piano playing down to one individual, Arrau, and it enumerates and describes Arrau’s principles of piano playing using Arrau’s published interviews and the testimony of Arrau’s pupils. From Arrau, attention shifts to the larger group of his pupils. Using interviews with teachers and transcriptions of lessons given by them and by Arrau, it describes how Arrau’s principles have traveled from Arrau’s pupils and their pupils. And finally, the scope narrows again to a select group of pupils of German Diez and their work with children at a community music school on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Thus, this study follows Arrau’s teachings from their sources in the nineteenth century, through Arrau and his pupils who were concertizing professionals, to the training of children in their first lessons.

v This study also discusses relationships between scholarly and pedagogical viewpoints on music. It studies the piano lesson in an attempt to discover what kind of experience it is, how it corresponds to notions of musical artistry, and how it builds up a capacity for independent musical expression.

vi ACKNOWLEDGMENTS There are many people whose faith, support, and critical input made this work possible. First of all, I wish to thank my adviser, L. Michael Griffel, for his scholarly guidance and editorial precision. His wide-ranging musical scholarship, his knowledge of piano performance, and his unfailing humanity and enthusiasm were indispensable in the development of this study. I also want to thank my primary readers, Barbara Hanning and Leo Treitler, whose many critical insights clarified my thinking and my writing and who helped to shape my thinking during my course work at the CUNY Graduate Center. Barbara Hanning brought a deep knowledge of all periods of music, a lively interest and background in piano playing, and editorial skill. Leo Treitler brought a wide experience of scholarly writing about musical meaning and deep knowledge of the piano repertory. Thanks also to my secondary readers, Allan Atlas, Jeffrey Taylor, Marion Guck for giving generously of their time and experience to read and comment on the completed dissertation. I owe a particular debt of gratitude to Allan Atlas whose teaching sparked my initial interest in scholarly work and who provided expert guidance and editorial skill in the beginning stages of this project. I am grateful to Arrau’s pupils who shared their knowledge and experiences in interviews, and enthusiastically supported this project: first, to my teachers German Diez and Frederick Marvin, and also to William Goodrum, Ena Bronstein-Barton, Edith Fischer, José Aldaz, Joseph Reis, Goodwin Sammel, Rosalina Sackstein, Edith Fischer, Ivan Nuñez, Bennett Lerner, Loretta Goldberg, Roberto Eyzaguirre, and Alfonso

vii Montecino. I thank also Francisco Miranda, Joseph Ries, and Ellen Mandel (pupil of Goodwin Sammel) for their contribution to this study. I also want to thank Director Barbara Field, Associate Director Mary Lou Francis, and all of the staff, faculty, students, and families of the Third Street Music School Settlement, dear friends and my musical family for nearly thirty years, for extending many a warm welcome during my visits to Third Street, and for their interest, encouragement, and material assistance in this project. The generous hospitality of Mary Lou Francis gave me a home-away-from-home and kept body and soul together during numerous trips to New York City; Marcia Lewis helped coordinate my observation of and conversations with teachers, and gave her time for numerous conversations and interviews devoted to this study; Suzuki piano teachers Angelina Tallaj, Luís Alvarez, Maritza Alvarez, and Susan Inamorato graciously shared their ideas and allowed me to record lessons; and composer Nicholas Scarim provided friendly encouragement and invaluable technical assistance in creating the musical examples in this study. I would like to thank Arrau pupil German Diez and his pupils Cesar Reyes, Laura Ahumada, Angelina Tallaj, and Marcia Lewis who gave generously of their time for cooperative (and joyful!) efforts to produce English translations of Arrau’s lessons given in Spanish. Finally, I want to thank my family, the Von Arxs and the Zaks, for cheering me on through thick and thin. And above all, loving thanks go to my husband, Albin Zak, whose tireless counsel, encouragement, love, and fabulous cooking were essential to bringing this work to completion.

viii

To Albin With love and thanks

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Contents ABSTRACT

iv

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

vi

INTRODUCTION

1

Chapter I: THE HISTORICAL BACKGROUND OF ARRAU’S PRINCIPLES

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Preliminaries Finger Technique and Arm-weight Technique The Piano and Piano Music Carl Czerny PROPONENTS OF FINGER TECHNIQUE Adolf Kullak (1823-62) and Theodor Kullak (1818-82) Piano Training in the Conservatories Proponents of Arm-weight Technique Franz Liszt (1811-86) Ludwig Deppe (1828-90) Martin Krause (1853-1918) Rudolf Breithaupt (1873-1945) Chapter II: THE ARRAU TECHNIQUE Relaxation The Elements of Technique Use of the Fingers Position of the Hand “Dropping the Weight, Pushing the Weight” Other Uses of Arm Weight Up-and-down Motions of Wrist and Arm Vibration High Wrist Position Rotation Combining Techniques Chapter III: TECHNIQUE AND INTERPRETATION A Lesson on Chopin’s Second Ballade, Op. 38 Chapter IV: ARRAU’S COLLABORATION WITH RAFAEL DE SILVA Grete Sultan Rafael de Silva

7 10 14 16 26 26 34 38 55 69 73 85 85 91 92 99 103 107 112 114 116 119 123 134 137 157 158 160

x Assisting a Master Teacher Dissolution Chapter V: THE TEACHING OF ARRAU’S PUPILS

162 172 177

German Diez: Integrating Arm-weight Technique and Finger Technique 177 Demonstration and the Oral (Aural) Tradition 187 Ena Bronstein-Barton: Carrying Forward a Transcendent Stream of Sound 192 Articulating the Sound Stream 200 Frederick Marvin: Oral Tradition and Fidelity to the Score 204 Expanding Arrau’s Principles 214 Goodwin Sammel: “Indirection” and Naturalness in Movement 218 Supervised Practice and the Pursuit of Insight 222 Pedagogy and Talent 227 Chapter VI: TEACHING ARRAU’S PRINCIPLES TO THE YOUNG STUDENT The Third Street Teachers: Building up from the Earliest Beginnings Applying Arrau’s Principles in the Beginning Lessons The Keyboard as Extension of the Body The Elementary-level Pieces Later Elementary-level Pieces Expressive Schemata The Language Analogy CONCLUSION

233 244 256 261 267 274 285 290 293

APPENDICES Appendix One: Arrau’s Pupils German Diez Goodwin Sammel Roberto Eyzaguirre Alfonso Montecino Rosalina (Guerrero) Sackstein Frederick Marvin Edith Fischer Ena Bronstein-Barton Mario Miranda Bennett Lerner Ivan Nuñez José Aldaz Loretta Goldberg Hilde Somer William Goodrum

299 302 304 306 307 310 312 314 316 321 323 326 328 332 337 338

xi Appendix Two: A Lesson on Chopin’s Second Ballade, Op. 38 Claudio Arrau and Mario Miranda, December 19, 1965

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Appendix Three: A Lesson on Beethoven’s Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110 Claudio Arrau and Mario Miranda - undated

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Appendix Four: A Lesson on Ravel’s Gaspard de la nuit: “Scarbo” Claudio Arrau and Mario Miranda – 1965

358

Appendix Five: Directory of Names

366

BIBLIOGRAPHY

397

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List of Examples Example 3.1 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, m. 47

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Example 3.2 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, mm. 51-54

141


146


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Example 3.5 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, m. 48

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Example 5.1 Schubert, Impromptu in C Minor, D. 899, Op. 90, mm. 1-33

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Example 5.2 Haydn, Sonata in C Minor, Hob. XVI:20, I. (Allegro) Moderato, mm. 1-4

202

Example 5.3 Haydn, Sonata in C Minor, Hob. XVI:20, I. (Allegro) Moderato, mm. 9-13

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Example 5.4 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110, I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo mm. 1-12

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206


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209


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Example 5.10 Goodwin Sammel, Exercise for dropping arm weight

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Example 6.1 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, Variation A, mm. 1-2 257

xiii Example 6.2 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, Variation B, mm. 1-2 258 Example 6.3 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, Variation C, mm. 1-2 259 Example 6.4 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, Variation D, mm. 1-2 260 Example 6.5 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, motives from four early pieces

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Example 6.6 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Au Clair de la Lune, mm. 1-4, Long, Long Ago, mm. 1-4 268 Example 6.7 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Honey Bee, mm. 1-4

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Example 6.8 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Weber, Cradle Song

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Example 6.9 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Mozart, Arietta

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Example 6.10 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Petzold, Minuet, mm. 1-4

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Example 6.11 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Mozart, Minuet, mm. 1-16

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Example 6.12 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Schumann, The Happy Farmer, mm. 9-11

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Example 6.13 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Hummel, Ecossaise, mm. 1-4

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1 INTRODUCTION Claudio Arrau, born February 3, 1903, in Chillan, Chile, was one of the most prominent and active pianists of the twentieth century, with a performing career that spanned eighty years. In his prime, Arrau played more than one hundred concerts each season; and as late as 1980, at the age of seventy-seven, he was still playing about seventy.1 He celebrated his eightieth birthday with a tour that included six concerts in New York and performances of Beethoven’s “Emperor” Concerto and Brahms’s Concerto No. 1 in Paris and Berlin. Arrau died on June 9, 1991, in Mürzzuschlag, Austria, where he was to have performed in a private recital.2 Arrau’s performing legacy is preserved in part on his numerous recordings of nearly 250 works.3 Another aspect of his legacy is a distinct approach to piano technique and interpretation, which he conveyed personally to a significant number of students. Arrau’s principles are of interest in part because his main teacher, Martin Krause, was a pupil of Liszt; and throughout Arrau’s career, there were claims of a Lisztian approach to piano playing. This study will give an account of Arrau’s technical and interpretive principles and explore their connection to Liszt. This issue of Lisztian influence entails not only claims of Liszt’s pianistic authority but of a historic lineage leading back to Beethoven.4 This claim is not mere

1

Joseph Horowitz, Conversations with Arrau (New York: Knopf, 1982), 187, 285. Arrau died following surgery to correct an intestinal blockage. 3 A discography of Arrau’s recordings appears in Horowitz, Conversations, 288-307. 4 Henry Kingsbury notes that citing lineages is a means by which teachers present themselves as preservers of musical heritage; in Music Talent Performance: A Conservatory Cultural System (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1988), 46. See also, Mary Weaver, “Interview with Claudio Arrau,” The Piano Quarterly 42 (Winter, 1962-63): 22. Weaver writes, “Since Liszt was a pupil of Czerny and Czerny of Beethoven, Arrau grew up in a world of unbroken tradition . . .” Arrau himself alluded to this lineage: “That was what Krause must have received from Liszt . . . I often like to say that Liszt got it all from Czerny, who received it from Beethoven. But, as in everything, it is never a single thing – always the 2

2 egoism or self-promotion; it underscores the personal dimension of the link between historic performance practice and pedagogy at all levels, and it points to pedagogy as a form of cultural work. Music learning seen in light of this claim involves more than “musical knowledge and/or skill voluntarily acquired.”5 It involves initiation into a culture and belonging to a group with a history of shared experiences. Accomplishing the tasks related to this initiation and sense of belonging is the cultural work performed by music teaching. Shared musical experience transcends many lifetimes; each participant may take from or contribute to it; and it is crucial not only for performing music but for listening to it with understanding and enjoyment. Performance and appreciation of classical piano music is not only a matter of individual expression and perception but also of a culture with a long-established history and tradition. When speaking of a tradition, I am thinking of a discipline and practice that is passed from one generation to another by people who have gained the authority to determine how the art of music shall be carried forward. Authority is gained through performances that competent listeners judge to be examples of musical artistry, or at least, competency. Performers may transmit and preserve, or they may transform those values, but they may do so only if their performances are received by competent and comprehending listeners. Some circularity is to be tolerated in this view, as music teaching and learning must both create and exist within the community of learners, qualified listeners, and artists. Music teaching and learning is therefore a fundamental fact of all musical life and entails the dissemination of musical culture in the form of knowledge, skills, beliefs,

totality of things.” Robert Silverman, “Conversation With Claudio Arrau on Liszt,” The Piano Quarterly 89 (Spring, 1975): 9. 5 Richard Crawford, “Musical Learning in Nineteenth-Century America,” American Music 1/1 (Spring, 1983): 3.

3 practices, shared experience, and sense of belonging. Such dissemination is what I would like to speak of as the cultural work of piano pedagogy. What is this knowledge, skill, and experience, and how exactly is it transmitted? I confronted this question for the first time during a series of master classes when one participant critically noted that auditors were writing down all of the teacher’s comments into their scores – comments such as make this note louder, that one softer, faster here, slower there, make this kind of a sound, move your body like this – and taking these comments as a prescription for playing each work. He expressed doubt that musical knowledge consisted of an accumulation of minutiae about each work, or that creative playing and satisfying performances came as a result of following these directions. Since each person might perform the work differently, he argued, the instructions pertained not to everyone present but only to the particular performer and performance under discussion. His argument seemed well founded. Nevertheless, piano lessons customarily proceed as in those master classes: a student plays a work for a teacher who gives directions and advice, fully expecting them to be followed, and from this the student learns. But the questions remain. What is being taught? How is this musical knowledge? How does it promote artistic playing? How does it lead to artistic independence? At the heart of these questions is the issue of musical expression – how it is taught, how it is related to technique, and how it is shaped and determined by the language of instruction. In this study, I suggest answers to these questions by drawing upon writings about art, dance, language and music, and semiotic theory to provide a framework for interpreting the actual pedagogical situations and actions of people under consideration as formative of an independent capacity for musical expression.

4 This study presents the transmission of Arrau’s pianistic ideas as cultural work – the dissemination of beliefs and practices – performed within the context of social groups in which personal relationships among teachers and students are central. Stories told by Arrau’s pupils are not passed on here merely for anecdotal interest but to show that the support of “the group,” while obviously reinforcing to the students in their study, performing, and sense of belonging also benefited Arrau in several ways. The group enabled Arrau’s influence to travel (beyond his probable expectations) to several generations of students from the most advanced to the most elementary levels. Within the group, Arrau could make his actions more meaningful and more fully understood than anywhere else, and the group mirrored back to him an image of himself as an artist, showing him which musical ideas and techniques he communicated effectively. Through the group, Arrau refreshed and renewed experiences that may otherwise have become commonplace or unconscious through repetition. Through interaction with students, combined with careful observation and thought, Arrau could gain insights and ways of understanding music not available through the more impersonal relationship of performer and audience. The support provided by the group may have helped Arrau to locate himself within the larger project of consciously making and transmitting musical culture. The group mitigated the isolation that normally accompanies a demanding schedule of practice, performance, and travel. This study also documents the progress of Arrau’s principles through his pupils, and, through their pupils, to a third generation of piano students. It describes a process by which those principles, which informed and guided a major performing career, have been channeled into the training of young beginners studying piano in a community music

6

5

school, and thus have influenced and enhanced the lives of people far removed from Arrau’s original sphere of activity. This progression invites reflection on the power of both teaching and learning to incorporate values that may be either articulated or tacit; to locate musical repertories within a context of social use; and to remove prejudices imposed by issues of nationalism, ideology, and gender. As Arrau’s principles travel farther, are internalized by greater numbers of people, and become intermixed with other pianistic influences, they will become indistinguishable. Therefore, insofar as the history of ideas and practices contributes to our understanding, this study attempts to document Arrau’s contribution to that history as close to its source as possible. This study came about as a result of two circumstances. First was my piano study with two of Arrau’s pupils, Frederick Marvin and German Diez. Their teachings were crucially important in my growth as a musician and alerted me to the importance of Arrau’s pedagogical legacy. Second was my involvement with the Third Street Music School Settlement, where I started the Suzuki piano department in 1978 and taught until 1997. From about 1984 until the present, the Suzuki piano department has been carried forward by pupils of Arrau pupil, German Diez, under the continuous leadership of Diez pupil, Marcia Lewis. These teachers’ common use of a highly structured teaching method, training under a single Arrau pupil, ongoing relationships with Diez and others of Arrau’s pupils, and working as a cohesive group within the social environment of a community music school with continuity provided by Lewis made them a unique and interesting group for study. This study is not intended as a prescription for teaching, but as a description and interpretation of the pedagogy under study and discussion. 6

The Third Street Music School Settlement, located at 235 East 11th Street on Manhattan’s Lower East Side in New York City.

6 The chapters within this study are organized as follows: Chapter one posits two contrasting views of piano technique and investigates nineteenth-century writings on piano pedagogy in light of these views in order to locate Arrau’s principles in relation to those of earlier pedagogues, and to explore the claim that Arrau inherited a Lisztian approach through his teacher and Liszt pupil, Martin Krause. Chapter two discusses Arrau’s technical principles. Chapter three explores the inseparability of technique and expression in Arrau’s philosophy. Semiotic approaches recently applied to music study provide an apparatus for analyzing excerpts from a lesson given by Arrau on Chopin’s second Ballade, Op. 38. Chapter four describes the development of the collaboration between Arrau and his teaching assistant, Rafael de Silva. Chapter five discusses the teaching of Arrau’s pupils. It begins with the experiences of two pianists whose studies reflect the contrasting pedagogical trends set forth in chapter one; it then explores the teaching of Arrau’s pupils, and of how expanding and developing Arrau’s principles have led to their individual philosophies and styles of teaching. Chapter six discusses the teaching of Diez’s pupils at the Third Street Music School Settlement. Biographical information related to the major informants contributing to this study is found in Appendix one. Appendices two, three, and four contain transcriptions of lessons given by Arrau. Appendix five contains short biographical sketches of persons named in this work.

7 ONE THE HISTORICAL BACKGROUND OF ARRAU’S PRINCIPLES: PIANO PEDAGOGY IN GERMANY IN THE NINETEENTH AND EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURIES “The war between musicians is unfortunately not yet finished, and even less so the war between teachers, which was already raging during the Romantic era.”1 PRELIMINARIES To understand the principles of Claudio Arrau’s piano playing, we must uncover their origin and development in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Already in the early press releases, there are claims that Claudio Arrau inherited the secrets of Liszt’s playing from Martin Krause. When asked how he acquired his technique, Arrau replied, “I was lucky enough to have had a great teacher, who not only handed down the precepts he got from Liszt but carried them further. When I was young I spent hours and hours on exercises, some of which Krause noted down . . . . They are not available now.”2 On a video recording of Arrau’s eightieth-birthday recital, the commentator states, “. . . Arrau can claim a direct connection to Liszt. His teacher . . . Martin Krause was a pupil of Liszt’s and imparted to the young Arrau many of the secrets of Liszt’s own piano playing.”3 Arrau’s pupils also believe this. According to Ena Bronstein-Barton, A lot of what Arrau did was a product of influence, but mostly from Krause and Liszt I would think. He admired Carreño greatly. But this [Arrau’s way of playing] comes directly from Liszt and from Krause. He just says he developed it further. But this is the way. The business, for instance, about breaking arpeggios beautifully and having an inner life to the broken chord -- all of this comes from the way he was taught. Except he says he developed it even further.4 1

Bertrand Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy: Liszt et la pedagogie du piano, trans. Donald H. Windham (Lampeter, Dyfed, Wales: Edwin Mellen Press, 1992), xiii. 2 Mary Weaver, “Interview with Claudio Arrau,” The Piano Quarterly 42 (Winter, 1962-63), 19. 3 Claudio Arrau: The 80th Birthday Recital, West Long Beach, N.J., Kultur, 1987. 4 Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, N.J., August 1, 2002.

8 Alfonso Montecino, another Arrau pupil, recalls, He [Arrau] put so much emphasis on relaxation, how to get it through certain motions like rotation, and chords that [are played with] free fall of the weight of the arm, which was already something that Liszt talked about. Of course, Martin Krause studied with Liszt. My impression is that Martin Krause was not very strict on how to use this idea and it was Arrau himself that gave it such importance.5 A flier advertising summer master classes conducted in Munich by Arrau’s assistant, Rafael de Silva, explicitly claimed that Arrau and de Silva inherited the “traditions of the Liszt School”: Arrau and de Silva have carried further the traditions of the Liszt School in a creative manner. With profound insight into the technical and interpretation problems of the pianist, they have opened new paths to their solution.6 According to other evidence, however, Arrau’s connection to Liszt is tenuous at best; and Arrau himself mentioned only a few details of Krause’s teaching that might be traced back to Liszt.7 Arrau used and taught a complex and highly specific system of piano technique; but he stated that this came from his own natural instinct for piano playing and not from Krause’s teaching. There [with respect to hand position and arm weight] he [Krause] left me alone to a great extent. You see, I moved on the piano like a cat. I played by nature – very relaxed. So he didn’t tell me about special motions of the 5

Alfonso Montecino, interview in New York City, February 27, 2003. This flier is found under the name “Rafael de Silva” in the clipping files at the New York Public Library at Lincoln Center. 7 “He would speak of Liszt’s way of breaking chords, and of trilling. He taught us several ways to break a chord: to start slowly, and then accelerate toward the highest note; or to make a crescendo to the highest note; or to make a diminuendo; or to do it freely, with rubato. But always so that broken chords would have a meaning coming from what went before. . . . The speed of a trill has to be in relation to the Stimmung. . . . He taught us to use the Bebung effect. It was something all the Liszt pupils did. I use this in the Petrarch Sonnets and the Dante Sonata. Pedaling. That at the beginning of Beethoven’s G-major Concerto, for instance, never to strike the chord and then put down the pedal, but to have the pedal down already, and then strike the first chord. . . . And then for the long pedals in Beethoven – in the D minor Sonata, for instance – to use a very fast vibrato pedal.” Joseph Horowitz, Conversations with Arrau (New York: Knopf, 1982), 38-39. 6

9 hands and arms. All that I found by myself, somehow. Sometimes he told me not to be stiff, that all the joints must be relaxed. But I don’t think he ever told me very much about using my arms. I have noticed that a number of his pupils never lifted their arms very much.8 Moreover, Liszt’s pupils reported that Liszt never taught technique, but – and here, perhaps, is the crucial point – only musical principles (see p. 33). Thus, if Liszt did not consciously teach his technique to Krause, Krause could have passed on Liszt’s technique only if he had learned about it through observation. And if, as Arrau said, he did not learn his technique from Krause, the connection between Liszt and Arrau appears broken at two points. Nevertheless, one must entertain the suspicion that Liszt’s influence had affected Krause just as profoundly as it affected nineteenth-century pianism generally. Martin Krause was the major figure in Arrau’s education, and Arrau had no other teacher after him. At the time of Krause’s death in 1918 (at age sixty-five), Arrau was only fifteen years old and had studied with Krause for only about five years. While Arrau believed that Krause had taught him all that a teacher could about piano playing,9 Arrau still had a long life and career before him in which to develop, mature, and come into contact with other influences. Some of these reflected various trends of nineteenthcentury thought that were still being explored and debated in piano playing. Contextualizing Arrau’s principles, therefore, requires an investigation of what is known of Liszt’s pianism as well as other writings on piano playing. The following takes up this investigation in order to identify the elements that show a relationship between Arrau’s principles and those of Liszt and other nineteenth-century pedagogues.

8 9

Horowitz, Conversations, 38. Ibid., 49.

10 FINGER TECHNIQUE AND ARM-WEIGHT TECHNIQUE Early in the nineteenth century, the technical demands of new music and heavier piano actions made piano technique an issue of paramount importance. Pedagogues and performers attempted to buttress the previously established finger techniques by increasing the strength, agility, and stamina of the fingers. Fatigue while playing was taken as a sign that more finger strength was needed. Thousands of exercises were developed and etudes composed to strengthen and adapt the body to the new requirements of the instrument. This approach dominated in the newly formed conservatories and was epitomized in the teaching of Adolf and Theodor Kullak (who taught at the Berlin Conservatory, later called the Stern Conservatory; and Neue Akademie der Tonkunst in Berlin),10 Sigismund Lebert and Ludwig Stark (at the Stuttgart Conservatory),11 and Louis Plaidy (at the Leipzig Conservatory).12 By the 1870s, however, many pianists were seeking other solutions to their technical problems. The playing and teaching of Liszt was a catalyst that inspired a new way of thinking about both piano technique and pedagogy that went beyond mere muscle building. Some teachers began searching for ways to reinforce the fingers with the larger muscles of the upper arm, shoulder, and back, and to use the force of gravity, or arm weight. Rather than adapt the body to the requirements of the instrument, they tried to

10

Adolf Kullak, The Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing, trans. Theodore Baker (New York: G. Schirmer, 1893; repr. New York: DaCapo, 1972). Amy Fay described her experience of studying with Theodor Kullak in Music Study in Germany (Chicago: A. C. McClurg, 1880; repr. New York: Dover, 1965), 264-68. 11 Sigismund Lebert and Louis Stark, Grand Theoretical and Practical Piano-School (Stuttgart: J. G. Cotta, 1869; New York: Schirmer, 1899), xxiii-xxiv. See also Amy Fay’s remarks about Leipzig in Music Study in Germany, 264-68. 12 Leonard Phillips writes of Plaidy’s teaching in “The Leipzig Conservatory: 1843-1881” (Ph.D. dissertation, Indiana University, 1979), 141-43. See also Louis Plaidy, Technical Studies for the Piano (New York: Schirmer, 1875), 3-7.

11 meet the challenges of playing by using the body accordance with its natural capabilities.13 Moreover, they sought a more pleasing tone and a style of performance able to move audiences, and they conceived these as the prerogative of a well-formed technique.14 Among these were Ludwig Deppe, 15 Rudolf Breithaupt,16 Friedrich Steinhausen,17 and their followers. Thus, two distinct concepts of the body -- one as requiring necessary adaptations to be trained into it and the other as having natural abilities to be released from it -- gave rise to two different approaches to playing that may be characterized as “finger technique” and “arm-weight technique” and that divided their followers into opposing camps. Differing views of technique gave rise to different concepts and descriptions of tone, and alternative views on the relationship of technique to interpretation and musical style.

13

Writing nearly thirty-five years later, Friedrich Steinhausen summarized this view: “Wir kommen damit auf den einzig möglichen und richtigen Standpunkt, dass wir nämlich den Körper nichts lehren, sondern nur von ihm lernen können.” “Thereby we come to the only possible and correct standpoint, namely that we can teach the body nothing, but we can only learn from it;” Die Physiologischen Fehler und die Umgestaltung der Klaviertechnik (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1913), 3. 14 Godowsky articulated this concept: “Technique . . . embraces everything that makes for artistic piano playing – good fingering, phrasing, pedaling, dynamics, agogics, time and rhythm – in a word, the art of musical expression. . . . Weight, relaxation and economy of motion are the foundation stones of technique or interpretation. . . . Ninety percent of my playing is based on the weight principle and I taught it scientifically as early as 1892.” J. G. Hinderer, “We Attend Godowsky’s Master Class,” The Musician 38 (July, 1933): 3; quoted in Reginald R. Gerig, Famous Pianists and Their Technique (Washington, D.C., and New York: Robert B. Luce, 1974), 332. 15 Ludwig Deppe, “Armleiden des Klavierspielers,” Deutscher Musiker-Zeitung (1885); repr. Neue Zeitschrift für Musik 70: 315, and in Gerig, Famous Pianists and Their Technique, 252-54. See also, Elisabeth Caland, Die Deppe’sche Lehre des Klavierspiels (Magdeburg: Heinrichshofen’s Verlag, 1921); Amy Fay, The Deppe Finger Exercises for Rapidly Developing an Artistic Touch (Chicago: S. W. Straub, 1890; repr. Chicago: Musica Obscura, 1971); Fay, Music Study in Germany, 286-92; C. A. Ehrenfechter, Technical Study in the Art of Pianoforte-Playing (Deppe’s Principles) (London: William Reeves, 1900). 16 Rudolf M. Breithaupt, Die natürliche Klaviertechnik Band I: Handbuch der modernen Methodik und Spielpraxis; Band II: Die Grundlagen Des Gewichtspiels (Leipzig: C. F. Kahnt, 1909). 17 See note 13.

12 Proponents of finger technique spoke of the activity of the fingers as “striking” the keys, and the ideal tone as “pearling” (Kullak).18 Equalizing the striking power of the fingers was considered of greatest importance, and lifting the fingers high was thought to be the means by which the keys could be struck harder, thus creating a more powerful forte (Lebert, Stark).19 Proponents of arm-weight technique spoke of the activity of the arm as “falling” or “rolling,” the fingers as supporting the arm, transferring the weight, remaining close to the keys, and the ideal tone as “singing” or “penetrating” or as having “carrying power without harshness” (Deppe, Breithaupt). No matter what their technical orientation, all pianists sought a technique that would be effective in meeting the demands of new music and new instrument design. Yet the urgency of this need also fostered anxiety that musical quality would suffer as attention was drawn disproportionately to mechanical issues. Moreover, virtuosi depended upon technical display to delight and impress audiences, and while it was generally agreed that a strong technique was indispensable, some viewed the exhibition of technical prowess in the concert hall as crass showmanship that devalued music and degraded the public taste. Preserving musical quality and taste began to be equated with classicism and performing the classic works by Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven began to be regarded as a performer’s duty.

18

Kullak, The Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing, 101-2. Lebert and Stark advocated the “hammer touch”: “All the fingers must on average be held firmly about one inch over the keys (this…depends upon the size of the hand), strike rapidly and perpendicularly and just as rapidly return to their first position. This is the normal touch; its modifications (nearer or quite near the keys) …can be learned only by personal instruction.” Grand Theoretical and Practical Piano-School, xxiv. For a discussion of Lebert and Stark’s pedagogy, see Sheryl Maureen Peterson Mueller, “Concepts of Nineteenth-Century Piano Pedagogy in the United States,” (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Colorado, 1995), 143.

19

13 Piano technique was implicated in this issue, becoming emblematic of either a progressive or conservative orientation. Finger technique had always sufficed in performing the music of the classical masters, while newer arm techniques were associated with modern music that was sometimes viewed as of unproven or dubious quality and characterized by romantic excess. Educational curricula that required pupils to give up studying repertoire while they built up their technique relegated technical development to a process separate from musical study and interpretation.20 This dichotomy reinforced a view of technique as different from interpretation, and as opposed to musical value. Those who favored finger technique over arm-weight technique contributed the most to the separation of technique from musical expression, and their views were often adopted and replicated, unconsciously or not, by their pupils through the process of education. Others, impatient with mechanical rigor and eager to ally themselves with music in its purest form, rejected technical practice entirely, preferring to let their techniques suffer rather than abuse their musical sensibilities with mind-numbing exercise. Proponents of arm-weight techniques tended to view technique and musical expression together, as a continuum along which the means merged with the objective; musical expression became inseparable from its physical realization. Technique was conceived more broadly to include expressive issues as well as issues of dexterity, strength, and endurance; and this advanced the notion that technique could be developed 20

Hans von Bülow described his piano study in Leipzig: “Every morning I play trill exercises, simple and chromatic scales of all kinds, exercises for throwing the hands (for these I use a study of Moscheles, one of Steibelt, and a two-part fugue of Bach’s which I play with octaves in both hands . . . toccatas of Czerny which Herr Plaidy gave me, and Moscheles’ and Chopin’s studies. . . .” Hans von Bülow, The Early Correspondence (New York: D. Appleton, 1896), 11. Quoted in Phillips, “The Leipzig Conservatory,” 142. In Phillips, see also p. 25, the teaching methods of the Stuttgart Conservatory.

14 in the process of building repertoire. Thus, the teaching and learning process united technique and musicality as two sides of a coin, the “how” and “what” that circumscribed a unified artistic endeavor, while it expanded the concept of technique to include all facets of artistic playing. According to this view, technical advances gained new ground for musical expression and interpretation and invested musical works with new meanings. Technique became a part of the language of musical expression. Though it is an oversimplification, reducing the thought on piano playing to two categories, “finger technique” and “arm-weight technique,” is not without historical justification. Moreover, it enables an examination of how well the views of nineteenthcentury writers on piano technique correspond with these categories, yielding a more varied and accurate picture in which the features that connect Arrau to Liszt and to other nineteenth-century figures may be seen. THE PIANO AND PIANO MUSIC The music written for the piano and the manner in which the music is to be played is interrelated with the nature of the instrument itself. The eighteenth-century piano had delicate hammers and thin, brittle strings. The lightness and sensitivity of the action and the shallow key-drop both necessitated and compensated for the restriction imposed on the movement of the hand. Tone was produced by the action of the fingers without any participation by the arm, wrist, and hand. Furthermore, Fétis noted that these instruments required “no little management to prevent their [strings] being broken. For such instruments Haydn, Mozart and Schubert wrote.” He went on, “They required delicacy of touch, expression and volubility of finger.”21 The technique of playing on these 21

Quoted in Thomas Fielden, The Science of Pianoforte Technique (London: Macmillan, 1934), 36.

15 instruments was confined to the fingers. The keys were pressed with ease, and the hand and fingers naturally had all the strength that was necessary. Nineteenth-century innovations in piano construction and changing styles of composition for the piano coincided with changes in social structure and taste. A growing and affluent middle class attended public concerts that were presented by traveling virtuosi and sometimes sponsored by instrument manufacturers. These performances brought the art of piano playing to audiences that had never before experienced it.22 More powerful instruments were needed to project to large concert-hall audiences. A more powerful sound required thicker, longer strings, and heavier hammers. As a result, piano actions became heavier with a deeper key-drop, requiring more weight and strength of the player to overcome the inertia of the keys. 23 The louder, more resonant instrument encouraged long melodic lines. Longer and wider keys encouraged chromatic music with dense passages of chords, arpeggios, and octaves. Composer-pianists such as Chopin, Liszt, Thalberg, Herz, and Kalkbrenner, recognizing the possibilities of the new instruments, gave to their piano music a virtuosic character that enraptured audiences and placed greater demands on both instruments and performers.24

22

Charlotte N. Eyerman and James Parakilas, “1820s to 1870s: The Piano Calls the Tune,” in Piano Roles, ed. James Parakilas (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1999), 184-85. See also, Leon Plantinga, “The Piano in the Nineteenth Century,” in Nineteenth-Century Piano Music, ed. R. Larry Todd (New York: Schirmer, 1990), 4-7. 23 The double-escapement action is often given credit for the revolution in piano technique. See Charles Timbrell, French Pianism: A Historical Perspective, second ed. (Portland, Oreg.: Amadeus Press, 1999), 35. This is true indirectly, for the double escapement action certainly made it possible to write for the piano in new ways. But from a technical standpoint, the difficulties that pianists had to face stemmed not from the use of the double-escapement action itself but from heavier actions and more complex and demanding music. 24 Edwin M. Good and Cynthia Adams Hoover, “Designing, Making, and Selling Pianos,” in Piano Roles, 58-60; in the same volume, James Parakilas and Gretchen Wheelock, “1770s to 1820s: The Piano

16 Concert-going stimulated an appetite for private music-making in middle-class homes that was fed by a sharp increase in piano manufacturing and music publishing. Amateur players as well as those with professional ambitions aspired to perform the wonders they had witnessed in the concert halls. Piano playing and piano technique had found a market. But it was evident that “volubility of finger” would no longer suffice; piano technique and piano players themselves would have to adapt to the new instruments and the music.25 To assist players in developing greater strength, skill, and endurance, composers wrote volumes of exercises. No one was more prodigiously productive in this endeavor than Carl Czerny. CARL CZERNY (1791-1857) A pupil of Beethoven and teacher of Theodor Kullak, Theodor Leschetizky, and Franz Liszt, Czerny was a key figure in a transitional period that began with Beethoven and ended with the younger generation of virtuoso pianist-composers that included Dreyschock, Kalkbrenner, Thalberg, and Liszt. These composers represented a new style that combined cantabile playing with “bravura,” a mode which, in Czerny’s words, enables a player to “give to the composition which he has selected, an unusual degree of spirit and character, and often to exalt the satisfaction of his audience to absolute enthusiasm.”26 Czerny’s teaching and writing were crucial in the formation of two generations of pianists. Facile in composition and methodical by nature, his writing touched on every

Revolution in the Age of Revolutions,” 110. See also Leon Plantinga, “The Piano in the Nineteenth Century,” in Nineteenth-Century Piano Music, 6. 25 E. Douglas Bomberger, Martha Dennis Burns, James Parakilas, Judith Tick, Marina Tsvetaeva, and Mark Tucker, “The Piano Lesson,” in Piano Roles, 164. 26 Carl Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School, Op. 500 (1839), III: 29.

17 aspect of pianistic training and professional activity.27 The sheer number of his exercises and etudes reveals a passion for analyzing and codifying the elements of pianistic styles and techniques, and they present a wealth of pianistic passagework for the training of the hands. His working method has been described as follows: He is said to have kept several desks going to which he resorted whenever a pupil had a special technical difficulty confronting him; he jotted down the figure and later on, after teaching hours, amplified it into a full blown study, which served not only as a study for the special purpose, but also as a study in endurance. 28 Czerny put forth the foundation of his technique as well as a summary of contemporary styles in his Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School, Op. 500, published in 1839 under the patronage of Queen Victoria of England. His instructions for the position of the hand and use of the fingers served as the basis of piano technique at least until the end of the nineteenth century, and continued to influence piano pedagogy throughout the twentieth century. Though his etudes and exercises include no commentary explaining exactly how to play them, they are usually regarded as a foundation for the development of finger technique; however, a careful reading of his written instructions in the Pianoforte School shows that Czerny did not advocate the high finger technique of later pedagogues, and that he recognized the role of weight technique in dynamic control and melodic expression, even though he did not provide adequate instructions for its use.

27

Systematic Introduction to Improvisation on the Pianoforte, Op. 200; School of Practical Composition, Op. 600, 3 vols.; Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School, Op. 500; Umriss der Ganzen Musik-Geschichte bis 1800, Op. 815. For discussion of these works and Czerny’s importance as a pedagogue, see Alice Levine Mitchell, “A Systematic Introduction to the Pedagogy of Carl Czerny,” Music and Civilization: Essays in Honor of Paul Henry Lang, eds. Edmond Strainchamps, Maria Rika Maniates, and Christopher Hatch (New York: W. W. Norton, 1984), 262-69. 28 Thomas Fielden, “The History of the Evolution of Pianoforte Technique,” Proceedings of the Musical Association, Fifty-ninth Session, 1932-1933 (Leeds: Whitehead & Miller, 1933), 47.

18 Czerny wrote not only about piano technique and musical style but also about the power of knowledge and technical competence to give “intrinsic value” to musical works. His phrase in the quotation below, “which they [musical works] could not otherwise lay claim to,” reveals the importance he placed upon actual sound in determining musical identity and worth. In his view, a musical work existed not only as an artistic conception residing in the composer’s mind, or as symbols on the page signifying a sound structure, in what is termed the music itself, but in the potential a work provided for performers to convey sense, interest, beauty, and meaning through the medium of sound. For Czerny, the value of a composition rested upon its compelling embodiment in sound. Czerny expressed it as follows: In former times, when mechanical practice had not been carried to the same height as at present, Players were content, when they were able to execute rapid running passages distinctly and in correct Time, however coarsely; and the novelty of the thing then never failed to excite admiration. Now we have discovered that even the most difficult passages admit of a high degree of expression; that by delicacy of touch, well introduced rallentandos &c, an attractive charm may be given to such passages, which formerly were considered only as an excessive heaping together of a monstrous number of notes. By this discovery, Piano forte playing has already gained an infinite degree of improvement; and many Compositions obtain hereby an intrinsic value, which they could not otherwise lay claim to; for in this way, passages possess a real melodial interest, and cease to appear to the listener as a mere senseless jargon.29 In this passage, Czerny identified a creative role, not only for composition in creating musical meaning through structural relationships, but also for performance in conveying meaning to listeners and constructing the identities of musical works through sounding elements not necessarily specified by notation. His viewpoint was a corollary to

29

Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School III: 51.

19 a new conception of piano playing as an autonomous career rather than simply as part of a composer’s training. Piano performance was coming to be valued not simply as a medium to facilitate and advance composition but as an art in itself. In the passage quoted above, Czerny referred to the duality of technique and interpretation but he also made it clear that interpretive achievements -- such as “expression” and “charm” -- are technical attainments, the results of “delicacy of touch” and an advanced method of “mechanical practice.” While he certainly understood the difference between musical expression and mechanical training, Czerny nevertheless saw that, at every level of art, technique and interpretation are inseparable. Although execution and expression belong mainly to the intellectual powers of the player, they depend so much on mechanical, or material means, that even in great masters and with highly gifted players, both qualities flow into one another, and hence one seems, as it were, only the natural consequence of the other.30 Though thoroughly trained in the classical style, Czerny plunged into the trend toward the new virtuosity with industry, enthusiasm, and a vision of virtuosity and advanced mechanical training as an expansion of the earlier musical aesthetic. Virtuosity was not mere mechanical display; it was creative art in the sense that it could be used to create or reinvent meaning for a composition. It could elevate what seemed “senseless jargon” to a work of “intrinsic value.” Czerny places the position of the hand and training of fingers as the first practical task. His instructions to position the hand curving the fingers so that the thumb and

30

Ibid., 1.

fingertips lie in a straight line 31 appears overly pedantic and counterproductive for a

20

technique suited to the modern piano keyboard; however, for Czerny’s keyboard these instructions described a way of allowing all of the fingers (including the thumb) to fit simultaneously on his keyboard.32 The natural heads on most keyboards of Czerny’s time were about 3.5 cm (a little less than 1.5 inches) up to the end of the eighteenth century as opposed to modern natural key heads, which are 5 cm (about 2 inches).33 Moreover, Czerny states, “The keys must not be struck near their edge, but at about half an inch from their end nearest the player.”34 If this point represents nearly the middle of the natural head, then the natural head must have been about one inch long. Therefore, aligning the fingertips in a straight line was necessary in order to fit the hand to Czerny’s keyboard: the thumb and fingertips had to lie more or less in a straight line in order to fit simultaneously on five adjacent natural heads. The curved position of the fingers brought the thumb and fingertips into alignment. The fingers had to stay on the natural heads because they could not fit easily between the sharp keys. This type of position would be most suited to music that utilized comparatively few sharp keys.

31

“The surface of the fore-arm, from the elbow to the knuckles of the bended fingers, must form an absolutely straight and horizontal line; and the wrists must neither be bent downwards, nor upwards, so as to resemble a ball. The preserving an exactly straight line with the knuckles and the upper surface of the hands is one of the principal requisites towards acquiring a fine style of playing.” Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School I: 2. 32 “The fingers must be somewhat bent inwards. As the fingers are of unequal lengths, each finger (not including the thumb) must take such a part in this specie of curvature, that all their tips as well as the thumb in its natural outstretched position, may form one straight line, when placed close together. In this case the knuckles will assume nearly the form of a semicircle.” Ibid. Also, “The end of the thumb must always reach to the middle of the fore or broad part of the white key, and never strike it near to its outer end. For the percussion on the white keys should always be made on the surface of the keys by all the fingers, and nearly in the middle of that part; they must never be struck near the extreme end, nor on the small narrow portions included between the black keys.” Ibid., 7. 33 Nicolas Meeùs, “Keyboard,” The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: MacMillan, 1980), X: 10. 34 Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School I: 2.

21 Czerny recommended that each finger “be held very near to its key (without however touching it); so, after the stroke, it must again return to its previous situation.”35 Thus, he did not advocate the high-finger action taught by later pedagogues (Lebert and Stark, Plaidy; see pp. 33-35). Czerny’s beginning exercises focus on the training of the fingers. First among them is the reiteration of one note with repeated strokes of the same finger, a type of exercise sometimes referred to as Klopfübung.36 Aware of the harmful effects of tension or “strain upon the nerves,” he advises slow practice and gradual increase in speed. His use of language such as “moderately strong touch” and “press down the keys firmly,” which may produce tension or stiffness, is tempered by language such as “as tranquilly as possible,” “quiet movement,” and “flexibility,” which has a softening effect and shows a concern for the balance between exertion and relaxation in playing.37 Czerny’s exercises for legato touch are to be done with the weight of the hand resting on the depressed key for the full duration of the note.38 While they do not yet draw upon the weight of the arm, the fingers are not used exactly in isolation. If Czerny’s instructions are followed literally, the notes played should be of equal volume, 35

Ibid., 7. This exercise was replicated in piano teaching and methods well into the twentieth century. Pupils reported that Liszt also recommended it (see p. 47). 37 “… The hand must … be held as tranquilly as possible over the five keys, so that the reiterated percussion may be produced by the quiet movement of the single finger. … The beginner must accustom himself to a moderately strong touch, so as to press down the keys firmly; he will naturally practice it, at first very slow, accelerating the movement by degrees, as the flexibility of the fingers develops itself, and without any strain upon the nerves.” Ibid., 7. This exercise was reiterated and varied many times in later books of exercises. According to Tilly Fleischmann, who studied with Stavenhagen and Berthold Kellerman (both Liszt pupils), this exercise was one of several that Liszt himself practiced, and it became “a tradition among some of Liszt’s pupils” who transmitted it to their pupils. Tilly Fleischmann, Aspects of the Liszt Tradition, ed. Michael O’Neill (Bryn Mawr, Pa.: Theodore Presser, 1991), 118. 38 “In the first Exercise, intended only for two fingers, the thumb must quit the C at the very same moment that the first finger strikes the D, which in its turn must be quitted, at the same moment that the thumb again strikes the C. . . . The same thing takes place in the 2d Exercise, with the 3 fingers; then with the 4, and 36

22 the dynamic strength of the fingers being automatically equalized by the constant weight of the hand. Perhaps this is why, in the following passage, Czerny speaks of equalization of the fingers in terms of duration rather than dynamics. While “equality of touch” is more commonly taken as meaning equality in dynamic strength,39 Czerny referred to “equality of touch” in the context of keeping the hands exactly together, therefore meaning equality in duration. This equality in the touch can only be acquired, when both hands are kept perfectly still, and all the fingers held up equally high; for those fingers which are removed farther from the keys than the rest, or which are held with stiffness, naturally strike later, by which the perfect equality of the blow is destroyed [my emphasis].40 Czerny’s first mention of dynamics occurs in connection with exercises in fivefinger patterns in which one of the fingers must play a louder sound.41 Czerny asks that the increased volume be produced by increased pressure of the finger alone; however, without the participation of the arm or hand, the finger cannot exert greater pressure except by rising higher and or depressing the key with more velocity, but either way, Czerny wants the adjustment so small as to be invisible. It is not clear what he intends; but Czerny invites the conclusion that introducing the arm and hand at this point interferes with finger training.

lastly with all the 5 fingers; so that the weight of the hand always rests on the keys, but on one finger only, while all the rest are poised in the air.” Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School I: 7. 39 As in this passage: “With beginners the thumb is very apt to strike too loudly, while the fourth and fifth fingers are weak and stiff. They should, therefore, moderate the force of the thumb, and endeavor to make that of the fourth and fifth fingers equal to the others. We would recommend their practicing passages which are to be executed by these two fingers, with a stronger touch.” Louis Plaidy, Technical Studies for the Piano, 6. 40 Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School I: 9. 41 “Here it must be remarked, that the required emphasis must not be produced by any violent movement of the Player’s hand or arm, but by a stronger pressure of the finger, which must be audible but not visible to the Bystander. Even in marking a single note in the strongest manner, or in a crescendo, both the hand and the arm must be held as quiet as possible.” Ibid., 4.

23 A later reference to use of dynamics takes place in the context of musical expression, and here Czerny stipulates the use of “weight” and “pressure” of the hand to achieve different dynamics. Moreover, he seems to refer indirectly to an emotional response to the music as leading to an increase in the feeling of weight: the “increased internal action of the nerves,” both indication and result of a heightening emotional state in crescendo, prompts greater weight in the hands.42 A reader cannot know from Czerny’s instructions how much weight is applied or where exactly the weight comes from, but only that the hand “receives” it. If the weight were to come from bearing down from the forearm, then there is the risk of “fettering the flexibility of the fingers (note 42).” If the crescendo is to be produced not “by any visible exertion” but by an internal and therefore invisible action of nerves, then what prompts the nerves into action? It can only be an emotional response to the music, demanding a crescendo. Therefore the increased weight is associated with the musical or emotional response; the use of weight is the manifestation and expression of this response, rather than simply a mechanical procedure. The very lack of mechanical directions invites this interpretation, though the reader is no wiser about what must be done.43

42

“Before anything else, it must be observed that the crescendo should never be produced by a visible exertion of the hands, or by lifting up the fingers higher than is usual, when we are playing legato; but only by an encreased [sic] internal action of the nerves, and by a greater degree of weight, which the hand receives therefrom, without however fettering the flexibility of the fingers” [Czerny’s emphasis]. Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School III: 15. Contrast Czerny’s instructions for dynamic control with Plaidy’s: “In proportion as a full and strong tone is required, the fingers must be raised so much the higher, and press with greater weight upon the keys; the more subdued the tone is to be, the more moderate should be the motion, as well as the pressure, of the fingers.” Plaidy, Technical Studies for the Piano, 4. 43 In another example, Czerny again associates the use of weight with musical emotion, in the case of a passage that is “mournful” and requiring “great expression,” and he stipulates, “Both hands must always be held firm, and with all their weight resting on the keys; although the fingers, wherever p or pp is indicated, must strike as gently as is necessary.” To say that the hands are to be “held firm” implies a certain tension in the hand, presumably to support the weight, but Czerny qualifies this language with the phrase “as gently

24 Czerny again recommends using the “entire weight” of the hand and “an internal and invisible pressure” for playing melodies expressively and in correct balance with their accompaniments.44 Czerny’s direction that “the hand must be kept quite tranquil, so that this touch may be produced only by its entire weight . . .” is of interest. He seems to suggest either that tranquility or “relaxation” is essential to releasing the weight of the hand in order to achieve dynamic control, or that movement, specifically finger movement, should be kept to a minimum, letting weight be the means of tone production. When he argues that with the “change from a heavy to a lighter pressure, very different qualities of tone may be produced from the Pianoforte; even when we play the whole with an equal degree of piano,” he indicates that “tone quality” is both a function of weight and a separate domain from dynamics. Also significant is Czerny’s advice to interpret “piano” markings in expressive melodic passages by playing the melody almost “forte” with a corresponding decrease in volume for the accompaniment to create an overall sense of “piano.”

as is necessary.” In other instances, Czerny describes the state of the hand as “tranquil.” Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School III: 21. 44 “The Pianoforte, as we know, cannot sustain a sound long, nor swell and diminish it like the human voice, the Violin, Clarinet, &c; For this reason, the performance of a melody consisting of slow notes requires peculiar attention and address. In the present day Pianofortes are much improved in this respect; and when the player knows how to treat them, he is enabled to approach very nearly to the instruments above named, without the aid of embellishments and passages. . . . A simple melody must be played with much greater expression, and comparatively with much greater power, than is required in the hand which plays the accompaniment to it; . . . If the player were in this case to employ an equal degree of power in both hands, the full harmony in the accompaniment would absolutely overwhelm the melody above it. [Here Czerny gives as an example a melodic passage marked “p.”] For this reason the right hand, notwithstanding the piano which is indicated, must be played almost forte, while the left hand accompanies in a subdued tone. . . . In all such cases too, the hand must be kept quite tranquil, so that this touch may be produced only by its entire weight, and by an internal and invisible pressure. . . . We must observe that by this change from a heavy to a lighter pressure, very different qualities of tone may be produced from the Pianoforte; even when we play the whole with an equal degree of piano.” Ibid., 41.

25 In the bravura or brilliant style, combining the molto staccato or martellato touch with “great force,” Czerny advised the use of the forearm with “bent and rigid fingers.”45 This passage raises many questions and perhaps disappointment as well, as incompatibility of rigid fingers with speed is obvious. But Czerny’s various caveats 46 about excessive movement of the forearm, the possible harm to equality of tone, effects too “laborious,” “exciting,” and even “prejudicial to the health,”47 suggest a reasonable basis for arguments by Czerny as well as other pedagogues against the use of the arm in playing. The forearm stroke described by Czerny was undoubtedly capable of considerable violence; but it may also have been the only conceivable way of using the arm, as the bent-finger hand position, which allowed all five fingers to lie on the keys

45

“As in the pointed manner of detaching the notes, employed in the Molto Staccato, the entire hand and even the fore-arm must be lifted up; every passage which is executed in this manner receives a particularly shewy effect, and it appears to the hearer much more difficult, than it really is, or than it would appear; if executed in any other style of playing. Thus, for Example, no one will call the following passage difficult [Czerny gives as an example a passage containing a g minor arpeggio and several broken octaves]. But let us play it in the following manner [staccato, martellato] that is with bent and rigid fingers, with great force, extremely short, and with the necessary movements of the arm; we shall find that in truth it has become much more difficult; but that it has also become much more effective, and that is now in a certain degree, capable of justly exciting the admiration of the hearer. When a passage executed in this manner, is really difficult, and conceived by the Composer with brilliancy, it receives the character of the Bravura, or that which is more particularly called the brilliant style of playing; and when the Player, in public performances, and in a large locality, makes use of this mode; he is enabled to give to the composition which he has selected, an unusual degree of spirit and character, and often to exalt the satisfaction of his audience to absolute enthusiasm.” Ibid., 29-30. 46 “This manner can only be employed in its full extent in f and ff; although, naturally speaking, the most pointed detaching of the notes frequently occurs in p, and pp; only in the last case the arm must be kept much more tranquil, and the detaching of the notes must be effected merely by the fingers . . . . Great rapidity cannot be combined with this mode of playing; still, however, the scales must occasionally be practiced in this way, and in a moderate degree of movement, in order to give the arms and fingers the requisite precision in striking the keys. For the Player must take especial care, that the fore-arm shall only be allowed so much movement, as is absolutely necessary to attain the desired effect, and to always maintain a fine equality of tone. Excess in this respect would be too laborious and exciting, and in very lengthy passage might even become prejudicial to the health.” Ibid., 29-30. 47 One suspects that this particular warning was issued with female pianists in mind.

26 simultaneously, effectively prevented the flexibility of the wrist necessary for effective use of the upper arm.48 Czerny justly has been credited with an ability to systematize diverse styles and techniques during a period when they were still in flux.49 This examination of the Pianoforte School shows Czerny’s progressive ideas of performance as art and of technique as musical expression. While his basic orientation was toward a finger technique, he advocated using weight for dynamic control, expressive tone, and nuance, to bring out a melody against its accompaniment, or to effect the bravura or brilliant (martellato) style. The ambiguous character of his directions for applying weight and limitation in his use of the arm are related to the nature of his instrument and to that period of flux in which he worked, but his recognition of arm technique as a topic was an indicator of future developments. His three most prominent pupils developed in directions starkly different from each other. PROPONENTS OF FINGER TECHNIQUE ADOLF KULLAK (1823-62) AND THEODOR KULLAK (1818-82) Theodor Kullak was cofounder of the Berlin Conservatory in 1850,50 and the Neue Akademie der Tonkunst in 1855. His brother, Adolf Kullak, also a professor of

48

The use of the upper arm is more compatible with somewhat straightened fingers but requires a flexible wrist to prevent losing contact with the keys. Edna Golandsky notes that curving the fingers activates the long flexor muscles in the hand, making them tighten over the wrist, thus preventing flexibility in the wrist. Lecture by Edna Golandsky in Dorothy Taubman, The Taubman Techniques: A Series of Videocassettes Presenting the Keyboard Pedagogy of Dorothy Taubman (Medusa, N.Y.: J.T.J. Films, Inc., in cooperation with the Taubman Institute, 1994), Tape 1. 49 Alice L. Mitchell, “Carl Czerny,” The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 1980), V: 138-41. 50 In 1857, the Berlin Conservatory was renamed the Stern Conservatory. Its faculty would later include Hans von Bülow, Martin Krause, Rudolf Breithaupt, Edwin Fischer, and Claudio Arrau.

piano at the Neue Akademie, 51 was author of The Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing,

27

published in 1861. The book underwent three revisions by Hans Bischoff. Theodor, who outlived Adolf by twenty years, endorsed the 1876 edition as “not only an eminent scientifico-artistic product, but also a dear personal inheritance. . . . I have at least been in regular communication with Dr. Bischoff concerning the way in which the revision should be carried out.”52 There is, therefore, some justification for the assumption that the book represented the views of both of them. The Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing is in two parts: the first is devoted to essays on the piano, on the history of piano playing, and on piano methods; the second and by far the longer part is devoted to piano technique and interpretation. Kullak advocates a technique based on finger action and incorporating tension as a necessary element. He advises “training first the hand, but thereafter the playing mechanism entire, even with the muscles of the upper arm,” always keeping in mind the touch and tone production demanded by compositions.53 He patterns his approach after a four-fold analogy of the finger to the hammer action of the piano: 1) the responsiveness of the hammer corresponds to the looseness of the finger; 2) the fingers must be a match for the piano action in striking power and speed; 3) the fingers must develop equality in striking power; 4) the position of the hand must be the outward manifestation of the attainment of these finger skills. The finger-stroke, like the hammer-action of the piano, Kullak wrote, “Must be

51

Horst Leuchtmann, “Theodor Kullak,” The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie (London, Macmillan, 1980), X: 304. 52 Theodor Kullak, “Preface to the Second Edition,” in Adolf Kullak, Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing, trans. Theodore Baker (New York: G. Schirmer, 1893; repr. New York: DaCapo, 1972), no page number. 53 A. Kullak, Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing, 97.

28 perfectly loose. . . . It must look as if it moved on a hinge. . . . The movement of the finger toward the key must exactly resemble a fall; so long as it looks like a reaching stretching down . . . it is wrong.”54 Kullak added to this a description of the finger resting on the depressed key “clingingly, firmly, yet gently,” adhering to the key “as if by suction” with the fingertip appearing “soft, semi-fluid, readily kneadable.” He thus identifies two opposite phases in the basic finger stroke: first, a “lightning-like vivacity of lift and fall”; and second, “utter repose and passivity during the act of pressing down.” The resultant tone must have “no suspicion of influence by arm or weakening in fingertip . . . it must be pearling. The fall of finger should be audible . . . as a tap of the fingertip on the key.”55 Kullak recommended a Klopfübung to “individualize” the fingers and he advised equalizing their striking power by moderating the stronger fingers while exerting the weaker fingers (by contrast with Czerny’s equalization of duration).56 Kullak described two basic positions of the hand. In the first, the back of the hand is aligned horizontally with knuckle joint, wrist, and forearm, with the fingers curved so that the tip joint is nearly perpendicular to the key. To prevent dropping the wrist and breaking the horizontal line, Kullak recommends slightly raising the wrist so that the forearm slants upward somewhat toward the wrist. If the knuckles protrude upward again breaking the horizontal line, they should be pressed inward. “In this wise the horizontality first required is transformed to an undulating line, rising a little at the wrist,

54

Ibid., 101-2. Ibid. 56 “Each [finger] falls perpendicularly on the center of the front field of its white key. All the first exercises are played with fixed hand, i.e., all the fingers stand firmly on the keys pressed down by them, while a single finger practices the stroke. Thus, while the tension of the lift is brought into play, the hand is, so to speak, pressed down by a weight.” Ibid., 114. This is another example of the “Klopfübung” but of a more rigid type than Czerny’s. 55

falling to the knuckles, and again rising in the first finger-joints.” 57 Observing that this

29

position cannot exist without tension, Kullak reassured his reader that this tension would eventually seem normal.58 Kullak returns to the matter of the fingers, describing their action in this position as hammers moving up-and-down: “The first joint [of the fingers] represents the heft of a hammer, and the two others the descending hammer-head. The curved form of the fingers must be stringently retained, the feeling of looseness subsisting only in the knuckle joint.”59 Kullak also refers to this position as a “bent position” or to the fingers as “bent fingers.”60 In this description, all of the earlier instructions are compromised. Whereas before, tension was directed to the knuckle and fingertip with all other parts of the playing apparatus relaxed, now tension is present in virtually all the joints: wrist, knuckles, and fingers. Kullak asserts that the tension created by pressing in on the knuckles gives the fingers more striking power. Because depressing the knuckles is the equivalent of lifting up the fingers, then lifting the fingers even further creates a tension that, according to Kullak, drives them toward the keys “as if by a steel spring . . . The tip of the tensely curved finger strikes with firm resistance against the key . . . the finger deals the key a blow.”61 Kullak’s second position calls for a low wrist, higher knuckles, and more elongated fingers. Thus, the back of the hand slants slightly downward from knuckles to

57

Ibid., 105-6. “The maintainance [sic] of the curve in the forward finger-joints was attended by tension; the horizontality of the line described from elbow to third finger, and still more the elevation of the wrist and pressing in of the knuckles, can likewise not be maintained without tension. Only after long habituation can this tension acquire the character of naturalness and unconstrainedness.” Ibid., 106. 59 Ibid., 106. 60 Ibid., 107. 61 Ibid., 107, 108. 58

30 wrist and the fingers are less curved. The tension of the first position is now completely absent, and the feeling is one of “easy suspension.” Fingers should rise above the back of hand and fall from this height; a finger may stretch out straight in the lift but the curve comes back when the finger falls. The fingers have more ease in lifting and should lift high above the back of the hand. If the finger straightens out in lifting, it regains its curve in the fall.62 Kullak advised cultivating both positions for opposite advantages. The first position, he says, requires more effort in lifting but less effort in striking the keys; the second position requires less effort in lifting but more effort in striking. The first position possesses more strength owing to its inherent tension, while the second has the advantage of greater relaxation. With the first position, the tone produced is “sharply sparkling, sprightly” and has more strength in staccato and in “bolder effects”; with the second, the tone is “softer, looser, not so sharply defined, but more pearling” and has the advantage in legato. Kullak limited use of the arm to the forearm, with the upper arm used only for extreme power and volume. The forearm could be used in rebounding and suspension above the keys, rising and falling into the keys, and lateral (rotational) movements; its purpose was to lend power and bravura to passagework and chords, and to assist in executing leaps. Like Czerny, Kullak admitted the value of the arm in creating a “singing tone” and thus recognized the dichotomy outlined by Czerny: finger technique for the “pearling legato” and arm pressure for the “singing tone.”63 However, there is a certain

62

Ibid., 107. “As long as the fingers execute a pearling legato, the cooperation of the arm is not allowable. Should it take place, the evenness and independence of the finger-strokes would be lost. It is, however, a different

63

31 ambivalence regarding the use of the arm. Kullak’s description of it, either as particular to the “modern style” or as a rough, “ponderous stroke,” recalls the warnings of excess in Czerny’s writing and suggests that an arm technique that both facilitated playing and benefited tone production had not been adequately worked out.64 Amy Fay, who studied with Theodor Kullak from 1870 to 1873, credited him with training many fine pianists, but complained that his teaching did not help to remedy her pianistic problems. In June 1871, she wrote, My constant thought is, “When will my passages pearl? When will my touch be perfectly equal? When will my trill be brilliant and sustained? When will my thumb turn under and my fourth finger over without the slightest perceptible break? When will my arpeggios go up the piano in that peculiar roll that a genuine artist gives? etc., etc. [sic].65 Fay’s complaint suggests an incompatibility between her technical goals and the tenselycurved fingers, hammer-action, and pressure described by Adolf Kullak. Fay solved her technical problems in later study with Ludwig Deppe, and she diagnosed her earlier difficulties as follows: I think my grand trouble all these years has been a stiff wrist and a heavy arm. I have borne down too heavily on wrist and arm, whereas the whole weight and power must be just in the tips of the fingers, and the wrist and arm must be quite light and free, the hand turning upon the wrist as if it were a pivot.66

matter with the separate long-sustained series of singing tones or accents not gliding on in unbroken flow. Here the weight of the arm aids the pressure of the fingers and augments the singing tone. This occurs most often with singing notes in the modern style, where they are to penetrate through a full figurate accompaniment and are held long.” Ibid., 190. 64 “The most skillful arm-stroke, compared with that from the wrist or knuckle, savors somewhat of roughness. . . . the arm-stroke requires far less artistic skill than the finger-strokes; neither does the physical construction of the arm stand in just proportion to that of the keys. It is a too massive lever for the keys, with which the fingers alone stand in direct and actual connection. In its ponderous stroke the arm therefore represents a shade of tone-color, but not the primary color. The latter resides entirely in the fingers, and only great and isolated contrasts claim the aid of the former.” Ibid., 189-90. 65 Fay, Music Study in Germany, 123-24. 66 Ibid., 332.

32 Kullak’s work gave increased detail and complexity to Czerny’s more general instructions about the use and training of the fingers. However, writing twenty years after Czerny’s Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School, Kullak accomplished no further refinement of arm technique except to spell out the uses of the arm as “horizontal, or vertical, or a turning on its own axis.”67 Moreover, his aggressively mechanistic language and advocacy of tension are misleading. His first hand position, which involves depressing the knuckles, weakens the fingers by placing them in the extreme range of their motion, where movement is most tiring, and by preventing the knuckles from acting as a fulcrum to give the fingers leverage on the keys. Kullak’s technical recommendations seem almost a reaction against virtuosity rather than an effort to develop it. By contrast with Czerny’s optimism and enthusiasm for the rising virtuosity, Kullak, in his second chapter (“The History of Clavier Virtuosity”), discusses it with obvious antipathy. On the one hand, he observes that a virtuoso technique has become “an everyday matter … a conditio sine qua non for any good musician desiring to perform in public” and, indeed, he dismisses lofty artistic ideals without the finest technique as “idealized morality.”68 On the other hand, he criticizes modern music for using technique to disguise superficial musical ideas. Technique develops in everything. …the most unimportant [detail] shines in the brilliancy of technical training ….What otherwise found room as an ornament hardly noticed betwixt the pillars of the artistic idea, is now seized upon and worked up in factory-like imitation …. The Étude form predominates. Its principle so permeates the wide-spreading ramifications of all forms, that its law quite predominates free productivity, and almost nothing is left of the earlier ideal method of composition. … The field of earlier technique seems from this standpoint, too, like a portrait in miniature. The demands upon physical energy and endurance outgrow all 67 68

A. Kullak, Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing, 187. Ibid., 33-34.

33 limits. Where the earlier masters thought they were putting forth tremendous efforts, the moderns just begin to take an interest in gymnastic enjoyment. The former methods of touch are supplemented by the stroke from the wrist and arm.69 Moreover, Kullak decries the influence of modern virtuosity on programming and reception of classical-period works: The performance of classic masterworks becomes infrequent, technique finding no gratification in them. A Beethoven sonata cannot approach Thalberg’s and Kontski’s fantasias in displaying all phases of gymnastics, all kinds of arm, hand, and finger-joint touch and caressing the keys. A comprehension of the masters is lost in the interest in gymnastics. The individual sensitiveness of the finger, its mission of conveying the emotions of the soul to the keys through subtle feeling, is swallowed up in its mechanical function. As a point of honor, the virtuosi play a number by Beethoven or some classic; they feel relieved on getting rid of it, and the audience is, in fact, chary of applause after such performances. Other masters of technique show, it is true, by superb isolated performances of classical works, to what superior excellence such interpretations can attain with modern resources; but they lack courage to risk their advantages, in view of a perverted public taste. Dilettantism distorts classic style, by treating it according to a technical, instead of an ideal, standard.70 Thus, while it is tempting to criticize Kullak for a lack of progressiveness, it should be kept in mind that an optimistic embrace of virtuosity was easier for Czerny, working in the early nineteenth century, than for Kullak, by whose time the new styles and techniques had become more problematic. Kullak’s position was governed by his conviction that classic music and its technique epitomized musical expression and was the duty of true artists, while the virtuosity of modern music amounted to empty mechanical display. This may explain why the teaching of a technique whose precepts are grounded in classical period music and instruments persisted into the twentieth century,

69 70

Ibid., 23. Ibid.

34 despite the radical changes in instruments and musical style. Besides the ideological factor, there was also the difficulty of describing, explaining, and systematizing the new techniques. Thus, Kullak’s writing on piano technique remained faithful to Czerny’s model based upon finger technique and acquiring strength and endurance through repetition. A departure from that model would await an infusion of new ideas from the fields of philosophy, physiology, and psychology. PIANO TRAINING IN THE CONSERVATORIES The latter half of the nineteenth century saw the proliferation of conservatories across Europe, and many were located in Germany. Conservatories were founded in Leipzig (1843 by Mendelssohn), Munich (1846), Berlin (1850), Dresden (1856), Frankfurt am Main (1861), Weimar (1872) and Hamburg (1873). Conservatories, as the word suggests, were bastions of musical conservatism,71 and piano instruction was their chief means of attracting students. Therefore, developing a course of piano study based on finger training was a priority.72 Amy Fay wrote: “The one [conservatory] in Stuttgardt [sic] is considered the best; and there the pupils are put through a regular graded method, beginning with learning to hold the hand, and with the simplest five finger exercises. There are certain things, studies, etc., which all the scholars have to learn.”73

71

“ . . . Moscheles belonged to the older generation of piano virtuosos and fit perfectly into the conservative atmosphere of the town and school. Moscheles was thought of as a ‘classical’ pianist, a forerunner of Clara Schumann and Hans von Bülow, both of whom put musical content above mere virtuosity.” Phillips, “The Leipzig Conservatory,” 147. 72 “The importance of piano instruction to the prestige and success of the Conservatory was uppermost in Mendelssohn’s mind from the beginning. He knew that it was this area of instrumental performance which would attract the most students. With the names of Mendelssohn, Schumann, and finally Moscheles connected with Leipzig and the Conservatory, success was assured. The school had its greatest influence and reaped most of its fame through its piano faculty and students, sharing this position only with Weimar and Liszt.” Ibid., 141. 73 Fay, Music Study in Germany, 264.

35 The Stuttgart Conservatory was founded around 1856 by a group of musicians that included Sigismund Lebert (1822-84), Ludwig Stark (1831-84), and Immanuel Faisst (1823-94). The preparation of pedagogical repertoire was an important occupation at Stuttgart. Lebert and Stark produced several instructional books including Grosse theoretisch-praktisch Klavierschule (four volumes), Instruktive Klavierstücke (four volumes), and Jugendbibliothek and Jugendalbum (twelve volumes each). They compiled the Instruktive klassicher Ausgabe, twenty-one volumes containing works by various composers, including Lebert, Faisst, Lachner, Liszt, and Bülow. The Cotta edition of the Beethoven Sonatas was a product of Stuttgart, initiated by Faisst and Lebert and completed by Hans von Bülow (from Op. 53 onward). The methods of Lebert and Stark placed them definitively among the proponents of “finger technique.”74 To ensure that the arm remained quiet and uninvolved in the activity of the fingers, they recommended the use of a hand guide (guide-main), a device consisting of a rod attached to the piano on a level with the white keys, but far enough away from them so that the wrist could rest on it. The elbow and upper arm were to remain as close to the body as possible, and if the hand moved from the middle of the keyboard in either direction, only the forearm was allowed to move with it. The hand was suspended above the keys and the fingers were rounded, neither bending in (collapsing at tip joint) nor stretching out. The hand was inclined toward the thumb so that all of the fingers would strike from the same height, and the thumb was placed on the key only to root of nail lest the other fingers come into contact with black keys. For the “normal touch . . . All the fingers must on average be held firmly about one 74

Lebert and Stark, Grand Theoretical and Practical Piano-School, xxiii-xxiv.

36 inch over the keys (this . . . depends upon the size of the hand), strike rapidly and perpendicularly and just as rapidly return to their first position.”75 Though many pupils arrived at the Conservatory with a significant degree of accomplishment, they were nevertheless subjected to a strict regimen of exercises. One who enters the school with the intention of becoming a professional musician must abstain from playing pieces altogether for the first six months, and commence practicing very slowly with one finger; for his instructor tells him that five-finger exercises are much too difficult to begin with . . . . After the pupil can use one finger accurately, he is promoted successively to two, three, four, and five-finger exercises, and is then allowed to play with both hands. Having reached this point, he naturally expects to find interesting studies awaiting him. But no, his hope generally dies within him; for the further he advances the more he realizes the musical sterility of this method.76 The Stuttgart Conservatory was highly esteemed for a time. Liszt, despite his opposition to conservatory methods, contributed the two concert etudes, Waldesrauschen and Gnomenreigen, to the Klavierschule of Lebert and Stark, where they appeared for the first time in 1863.77 According to Amy Fay, “. . . there is a certain intimacy between him and Stuttgardt, and he always recommends scholars to the Stuttgardt conservatory.”78 But by the late 1800s, objections began to be raised to the methods of training employed there. The pain and injury to which pupils were subjected began to be recognized as harmful and counterproductive. In the first place, the hands are held at the usual distance from the keys, upon a hand guide, an invention that has long since fallen into disrepute in many schools here, as well as in America; while the fingers are held in the 75

Ibid., xxiv. Also called the “hammer touch”; see Mueller, “Concepts of Nineteenth-Century Piano Pedagogy,” 143. 76 E. S. Kelley, “Pianoforte Study: The Method Employed in the Conservatory at Stuttgart and its Consequences,” The Etude 6/11 (Nov., 1888): 169 (reprinted from American Musician, published in Chicago by W. S. B. Mathews). 77 Franz Liszt, Etüden, eds. Zoltán Gárdonyi and István Szelényi (Basel: Bärenreiter Kassel, 1971), ix. 78 Fay, Music Study in Germany, 267.

37 air in a cramped and fatiguing position, giving them the appearance of semi-spiders (if the term may be allowed), and are made to fall upon the keys with the utmost rapidity . . . . Sixths and octaves are produced in like manner, from the wrist, while the hand is held with an exaggerated cramp, at right angles with the forearm.79 Ehrenfechter, a disciple of Deppe, reported that some pupils suffered loss of function of their fourth fingers after undergoing this training.80 However, Ehrenfechter agreed in principle with the separation of technical and musical study, 81 asserting that “purely technical exercises are objected to on account of their being dry; some teachers pretend to stand on higher grounds, objecting to them as being merely mechanical (geistlos) and therefore detrimental to the mind (geisttödtend) and to the musical sense. This is a great error; that which undermines the musical sense is the thoughtless and mechanical practice of a really musical subject . . .”82 Others insisted that dangers attended the separation of technical and musical practice. . . . some even go so far as to assert that it is better to study unmusical exercises, for if the pupil plays that which pleases him, his attention will be diverted from the position of his hands. Dr. Hans von Bülow, while commenting upon the effects of practicing monotonous five-finger exercises, maintains that the flexibility thus gained is acquired at the cost of musical intelligence. . . . Involuntarily, the performer loses all thought of what he is playing. The great lack of charm and interest of the task produces absent-mindedness, and, finally, utter thoughtlessness. The player becomes a mere machine, forgetting that he has to be engineer at 79

Kelley, “Pianoforte Study: The Method Employed in the Conservatory at Stuttgart, 169. Ehrenfechter, Technical Study in the Art of Pianoforte-Playing, 34. 81 Though Ehrenfechter subtitled his book “Deppe’s Principles,” his thought on the relationship of technique to expression does not correspond with Deppe’s principle as presented by Caland: “The form of the motion coincides exactly with the content of the piece.” See pp. 65-66. 82 Ehrenfechter, Technical Study in the Art of Pianoforte-Playing, 110. Moritz Hauptmann, professor at the Leipzig Conservatory, wrote similarly, “When I pay my morning visit to the Conservatory and am deafened by millions of pianos and that hateful, though necessary grinding process called practicing, which is the death of all music, I can’t help feeling mystified. It is hard to realize that brilliant players, such as Mozart or Beethoven, worked mechanically their nine hours per diem, as our unhappy boys do, if they mean to excel. But with those great ones, we can’t help feeling, that playing and music went together and were indivisible. Would that technique were possible entirely apart from the art itself. It seems too strange, that mere mechanism could ever ripen into music!” Moritz Hauptmann, The Letters of a Leipzig Cantor (London: Novello, 1892), ii, 253-54; quoted in Phillips, “The Leipzig Conservatory,” 180. 80

38 the same time, without whose care its progress, if not stopped immediately, will be greatly impeded.83 A further consequence of the separation of technical and musical training was musical narrow mindedness. Pupils whose sole interest was the single-minded pursuit of a stunning technique failed to see any relationship between the piano repertoire and the larger context of musical compositions and genres and thus deprived themselves of the stimulus to imagination from symphonic, chamber, and operatic works. The predominance of the virtuoso element over the theoretical and ideal, among the students of the Conservatory in question, is so great that the majority of them never dream of attending the “Quartet Soirees,” and among other instances known to the writer is that of a young pianist of great technical ability, who visits the symphony concerts merely for the sake of hearing the piano concertos, always leaving before the symphony begins, saying he “cares nothing for that kind of music.”84 Amy Fay summed up her impression of conservatory training: “However, I suppose it comes to the same thing in the end if one studies Bach, Czerny, or Gradus, only you must keep at one of them all the while. The grand thing is to have each of your five fingers go “dum dum” an equal number of times, which is the principle of all three!”85 Her statement underscores Ehrenfechter’s warning about thoughtless practice of a musical subject, in this case, reducing the study of Bach to “dum dum.” PROPONENTS OF ARM-WEIGHT TECHNIQUE FRANZ LISZT (1811-86) More than any other nineteenth-century figure, Liszt revolutionized piano playing and teaching and fundamentally altered the perceived relationship between piano

83

Kelley, “Pianoforte Study: The Method Employed in the Conservatory at Stuttgart,” 169. Ibid. 85 Fay, Music Study in Germany, 266. 84

39 technique and expression. His transcendental technique, his conception of musical works, and his ability to move audiences inspired a re-examination of old and a search for new methods of playing. Liszt has been credited with bringing to piano technique “the use of not only the whole arm in playing but also the active participation of shoulders and back; and from this the notion of weight, hitherto unimagined to such an extent, and those massive movements of the arm, transporting immense blocks of sound from one end of the keyboard to the other.”86 While this suggests a correspondence between Liszt’s technique and that of Arrau, discovering the precise points of correspondence is hampered by Liszt’s apparent silence on technical issues. As the teacher of 225 men and 184 women, Liszt’s pedagogical influence was such that only Leschetizky’s was comparable.87 Liszt’s teaching and abiding interest in the training of young musicians was an outgrowth of a social consciousness inspired by his reading of Victor Hugo, the social philosopher Count Claude-Henry Saint-Simon (1760-1825), and the Christian socialist Abbé Félecité de Lamennais (1782-1854). Motivated solely by a sense of duty articulated in the words genie oblige, Liszt never accepted fees from his pupils. 88

86

J. J. Eigeldinger, Chopin: Pianist and Teacher as Seen by his Pupils, trans. of Chopin vu par ses élèves (Neuchâtel: La Baconnière, 1970) by Naomi Shohet, Krysia Osotowicz, and Roy Howat (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 20-21. Quoted in Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 157. 87 Mathias Matuschka, “Die Erneuerung der Klaviertechnik nach Liszt,” Berliner Musikwissenschaftliche Arbeiten, eds. Carl Dahlhaus and Rudolf Stephan (Munich-Salzburg: Emil Katzbichler, 1987), 31: 12. 88 Eleanor Perényi, Liszt: The Artist as Romantic Hero (Boston and Toronto: Little, Brown and Company, 1974), 307. Liszt’s example was emulated by Martin Krause and Arrau, both of whom also taught without payment.

40 Liszt opposed the systematic study of technical exercises, uniformity, and regimented drill characteristic of conservatory training.89 Despite a certain rapport between Liszt and the conservatories,90 Liszt did not see himself, nor did others see him, as a pedagogue of piano in the conventional sense.91 His students reported that he gave little or no technical instruction. William Mason wrote: He never taught in the ordinary sense of the word. During the entire time that I was with him I did not see him give a regular lesson in the pedagogical sense . . . . He made audible suggestions, inciting me to put more enthusiasm into my playing, and occasionally he would push me gently off the chair and sit down at the piano and play a phrase or two himself by way of illustration. He gradually got me worked up to such a pitch of enthusiasm that I put all the grit that was in me into my playing.92 José Vianna da Motta wrote: “[Liszt’s] remarks were almost only concerned with the purely musical: tempo, nuances, rhythm. He seldom gave a poetic image as an explanation and never a technical instruction.” 93 Amy Fay found Liszt’s manner of teaching liberating after the discipline imposed by Kullak: “Liszt's grand principle is, to leave you your freedom, and when you play to him, you feel like a Pegasus caracoling about in the air. When you play to Kullak, you feel as if your wings were suddenly clipped, and as if you were put into harness to draw an express wagon!”94 Borodin

89

E. Douglas Bomberger, Martha Dennis Burns, James Parakilas, Judith Tick, Marina Tsvetaeva, and Mark Tucker, “The Piano Lesson,” Piano Roles, 163. See also, “Franz Liszt and Leipzig,” in Phillips, “The Leipzig Conservatory,” 190-97. 90 See above. “Liszt says that Kullak’s pupils are always the best schooled of any. . . .” Fay, Music Study in Germany, 267. 91 “Liszt is no ‘professeur du piano,’ as he himself used scornfully to remark.” Fay, Music Study in Germany, 283. 92 William Mason, Memories of a Musical Life (New York: The Century Company, 1901), 98. 93 Vianna da Motta studied in Scharwenka’s class in Berlin prior to his study with Liszt. His article “Liszt als Lehrer” appeared in Der Merker in 1911 and is reprinted in August Göllerich, The Piano Master Classes of Franz Liszt 1884-1886, ed. Wilhelm Jerger, trans. Richard Louis Zimdars (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996), 166-68. 94 Fay, Music-Study in Germany, 273.

41 recalled: “Liszt never imposes his method on his pupils; he never makes detailed observations about hand position or touch; he leaves each person the greatest freedom concerning the means used to obtain the desired result.”95 But the urgent question of many pupils was how to achieve the “desired result,” and for some, this question remained unanswered. How was it that Liszt, who revolutionized piano playing and piano composition, and who must have realized that pupils came to him primarily to discover how he drew his marvelous effects from the instrument, did not impart his technique to his pupils? Tilly Fleishmann suggests that Liszt did not teach technique because his students came from varied backgrounds with already well-established technique. It is true that in his piano classes Liszt did not insist on a specific type of technical foundation, and for the simple reason that his students were all advanced performers, many of them artists of European fame. He concentrated on interpretation, but always illustrated how he achieved this or that effect.96 Alternatively, Liszt’s avoidance of technical instruction may have been philosophically motivated. According to August Stradal, Liszt believed it a primary duty in teaching to bring out his pupils’ artistic personalities and he urged them: “Be individual, do not imitate, play your own way. A bad original conception is always better than a good imitative interpretation.”97 Perhaps Liszt withheld specific technical

95

Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 37. Fleischmann, Aspects of the Liszt Tradition, 118. 97 “Seid individuell, ahmt nicht nach und spielt euch selbst. Immer besser ist noch eine schlechte originelle Auffassung als eine gute imitierende Interpretation.” Paul Michel, “Franz Liszts Auffassungen über Musikerziehung und Menschenbildung,” Beiträge zur Musikwissnschaft 5 (Berlin, 1963): 57. Quoted in Matuschka, “Die Erneuerung der Klaviertechnik nach Liszt,” 14. 96

42 instructions on the grounds that they might harden into dogmatic rules that would hinder pupils in the formation of their individuality. Whatever the case may be, what can be known about Liszt’s technique must be pieced together from scattered comments and observations found in the writings of his pupils, who interpreted what they observed in light of their prior assumptions and experiences. Stavenhagen noted that although Liszt did not teach technique in any systematic way, much could be learned by careful observation when Liszt demonstrated a passage. It is often said that there could be no Liszt method of piano playing since he actually never taught technique. This may be partly true, but he frequently gave technical hints to his pupils, and from his playing for them they were able to deduce much valuable information. Liszt concentrated indeed on the intellectual and spiritual content of the music, but as Stavenhagen noted: “If one is attentive one can learn enormously from him in technical matters.”98 Here is a clue that Liszt intended not to exclude technique from his teaching, but to convey a new conception of what constituted technique – a conception so far removed from the conventional one that his pupils simply did not recognize it as technique. Stavenhagen’s remark suggests that Liszt taught technique and interpretation simultaneously through demonstration at the keyboard, and Liszt reportedly said as much in a conversation with Frederic Horace Clark. In discussing what Clark termed “harmonious touch,” or coordinated use of the whole arm, hand, and fingers in playing, he has Liszt saying: I haven’t spoken about the harmony of touch on the piano since the years when Chopin, Schumann, Clara, Paganini, and Ole Bull discussed it with me. I sought to discuss that often many years ago with the students who came to me but I found it not to be of much use. Thus, for thirty years I 98

Fleischmann, Aspects of the Liszt Tradition, 2.

43 have been observing, in reference to technique, mostly Goethe’s idea, which has the teacher in Wilhelm Meister instruct only with wordless actions .99 The conservatory approach to technique -- scales, exercises, and repetitive practice -- was quite possibly what Liszt’s pupils expected of technical training, or of what William Mason called “a regular lesson in the pedagogical sense.”100 For Liszt, whose opposition to such methods was well known, technique was intimately bound with musical structure and expression, and represented simply the practical side of musical expression. According to Clark, Liszt described his technique thus: “I alone have mixed my [method of] touch with tonal form so completely, that no one can see it or suspect it from my playing.”101 He described the function of virtuosity thus: “Virtuosity exists only to permit the artist to reproduce everything that is expressible in art. It is indispensable and is never developed enough.”102 Liszt’s views recall the words of his teacher, Czerny, about the power of technique to endow musical works with meaning and character; but Liszt went further: “Virtuosity is not a secondary branch but a necessary element of music. It is not the passive servant of composition; the life or death of a work of art 99

“Bei den Worten Geheimnis und Technik merkte ich, daß Liszt mich sehr interessiert ansah, und er antwortete: Ja, auch das alles werden wir noch besprechen; obwohl ich über dieses innerste Heiligtum meiner Kunst, über die Harmonie der Berührung des Klaviers, niemals mehr gesprochen habe seit den Jahren, wo Chopin, Schumann und seine Klara, Paganini und Ole Bull das mit mir besprechen. Vor viele Jahren suchte ich das öfters mit den Schülern, die zu mir kamen, zu besprechen, aber ich fand, daß es nicht viel nützte. Seit dreißig Jahren befolge ich hinsichtlich der Technik deshalb meistens Goethes Vorschlag, der im Wilhelm Meister die Lehrer nur mit wortlosen Taten unterrichten läßt.” Frederic Horace Clark, Liszts Offenbarung (Berlin, 1907), 59. 100 Possible evidence that pupils understood technique in this way and sought to acquire it is Mason’s use of a two-finger exercise he claimed to have learned from Liszt, in the first volume of his Touch and Technic. See William Mason, “Touch and Technic: The Technic of Artistic Touch by Means of the Two-Finger Exercise,” The Etude 7/9 (September, 1889), 137. See also, Mueller, “Concepts of Nineteenth-Century Piano Pedagogy,” 148-56; 330-36. 101 “Ich allein habe meine Berührung so vollkommen mit den Tonformen verschmolzen, dass neimand sie sehen kann oder aus meinem Spiel herausahnen wird, bis er die Gesetze erkannt, die Verwicklungen geübt hat und dazu gekommen ist, mit der ganzen Seele solche eine Wahrheit zu fühlen.” Clark, Liszts Offenbarung, 106. Quoted in Matuschka, “Die Erneuerung der Klaviertechnik nach Liszt,” 15. 102 Franz Liszt, Gesammelte Schriften III: 129. Quoted in Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 7.

depends on its breath.”103 Liszt saw technique as an inseparable part of musical

44

expression. Lina Ramann described Liszt’s view of technique thus: The worth of virtuosity depends, like that of composition, upon the feeling-image of the artist and the talent lent to him, the intensity of feeling, and finding the corresponding form that is easily communicated to others. Without this life-breathing power of feeling, which alone dictates the forms of beauty and endows the will to produce them in a moment, both composition and virtuosity are only a clever head or finger mechanism, a mindless dexterity or a calculation.104 Some of Liszt’s pupils, however, were frustrated by a lack of technical facility, even as they studied with Liszt. Amy Fay lamented, “Ah, if I had only studied with Deppe before I went to Weimar! When I was there I didn’t play half as often to Liszt as I might have done, kind and encouraging as he always was to me, for I always felt I wasn’t worthy to be his pupil.”105 As Bertrand Ott has pointed out, “It is possible that the gifted students arrived at the practical pianistic means employed by Liszt through the interpretive demands pushed to an extreme acuteness of expression. . . . but Liszt’s method left the less gifted empty-handed, except when they had the patience to observe Liszt’s playing carefully.”106 If observation was the key to understanding Liszt’s technique, then it was not only a matter of pupils having patience, but also having the experience and pianistic development to interpret their observations correctly. Citing Alexander Siloti as one

103

Franz Liszt, Gesammelte Schriften IV: 192. Quoted in Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 7. “Der Werth der Virtuosität hängt, wie der der Komposition, von der Gefühlsbildung des Künstlers und der ihm verliehenen Gabe ab, der Intensität eines Gefühls auch die entsprechende, Andern faßlich sich mittheilende Form zu finden. Ohne diese lebeneinhauchende Gewalt des Gefühls, welche einzig und allein die Formen des Schönen diktiert und den Willen verleiht, sie augenblicklich zu producieren, sind beide, die Komposition wie die Virtuosität, nur ein sinnreicher Kopf- oder Fingermechanismus, eine geistlose Fertigkeit oder eine Berechnung.” Lina Ramann, Franz Liszt, als Künstler und Mensch (Leipzig, 1880 and 1894), II: 101-2. Quoted in Matuschka, “Die Erneuerung der Klaviertechnik nach Liszt,” 15. 105 Fay, Music Study in Germany, 302. 106 Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 37. 104

45 whose prior experience enabled him to read Liszt’s demonstrations accurately, Bertrand Ott wrote: “Teaching can dispense with technical advice when there is mutual comprehension and prior pianistic development.”107 If Liszt intended to lead students to find their own way of playing by thinking, interpreting, and evaluating, rather than merely imitating, it is evident from the writings of Liszt’s pupils that they did indeed observe, strive to understand how Liszt played, and devise methods of developing this manner of playing in themselves and others. William Mason described how one demonstration by Liszt changed his playing: While I was playing to him for the first time, he said on one of the occasions when he pushed me from the chair: “Don’t play it that way. Play it like this.” Evidently I had been playing ahead in a steady, uniform way. He sat down, and gave the same phrases with an accentuated, elastic movement, which let in a flood of light upon me. From that one experience I learned to bring out the same effect, where it was appropriate, in almost every piece that I played. It eradicated much that was mechanical, stilted, and unmusical in my playing, and developed an elasticity of touch which has lasted all my life, and which I have always tried to impart to my pupils.”108 Mason also noted: I found at this first lesson that he was very fond of strong accents in order to mark off periods and phrases, and he talked so much about strong accentuation that one might have supposed that he would abuse it, but he never did. When he wrote to me later about my own piano method, he expressed the strongest approval of the exercises on accentuation.109

107

Ibid., 55. Mason, Memories of a Musical Life, 99-100. 109 Ibid., 98-99. 108

Bertrand Ott divides Liszt’s teaching into five periods.110 In the writings of

46

students from each period, he finds specific points of Lisztian technique, all of which represent a radical departure from the techniques outlined by Czerny and Kullak, and fostered in the conservatories. To a great extent, these points correspond with Arrau’s teaching, and they may be summarized as follows: 111 sit low to avoid the hand, wrist, and arm pushing against the fingers (Jaëll); keep the fingers as close to the keys as possible (Fay, Boissier, Clark); the fingers should not be curved too much, nor should they be held in any fixed position (Boissier); play on the ball, not the tip of the finger (Boissier); the fingers should depress the keys in a “pulling” motion (Clark), not striking (Jaëll);112 the wrist must maintain flexibility (Boissier); play with a raised wrist (Klindworth); the energy deployed in moving the keys downward should result in a simultaneous “upward attraction” or rebound from the bottom of the keys (Jaëll); a moving part or limb needs support from a non-moving one (“fixity”; Jaëll); the shoulder, elbow, and wrist must not be angles or corners that stop the playing energy; the arm should be extended and should make spiral motions (Clark); playing radiates from shoulders and back and uses the whole arm gliding over the keys in a continuous, flowing motion (Clark); hitting at the keys with the hand or arm and moving the fingers independently destroys the harmony of the system as a whole (Clark). 110

Paris, 1831-32 (Valerie Boissier); Weimar, 1847 (Joseffy, Klindworth, Raff, Mason); Rome, 1862-68; an itinerant period, 1868-80 (Fay, Borodin); and a final period, 1880-86 (Jaëll, d’Albert, Siloti, Krause, Vianna da Motta, Kellerman, Stavenhagen, Stradal, Göllerich, Clark). The most informative writings about Liszt’s technical advice are those of Madame Auguste (Caroline) Boissier (whose daughter, Valerie, studied with Liszt in Paris in 1831-32, thirty years before Kullak’s Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing), Marie Jaëll (who studied with Liszt in the summers of 1883-85), and Frederic Horace Clark (whose conversations with Liszt beginning in 1882 are paraphrased in his book, Liszts Offenbarung, 1907). 111 Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 24-64. 112 Thus, according to Ott, the finger should move at all its joints, and “from its extended or outstretched position in the air, begins a pulling motion to reach the key and becomes just slightly rounded.” Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 32; see also 42.

47 Ott’s evidence for the use of the arm in Lisztian technique is drawn mainly from the writings of Clark. Ott summarizes the Lisztian technique as one based on using the whole arm in a state of suspension: “ . . . one must suspend the arm as a stable reference point in the work of pressing or of lightening the forearm.”113 He describes Lisztian arm motion as “movements in spirals, there is a rotating elasticity; leaps are rolled. The hand moves in pivoting gestures; the fingers are flexible in their rounding.”114 Ott does not see the application of weight as a function of the arm in Lisztian technique. Instead he draws the conclusion, “Omnipresent movement replaces the inert, forced, unrefined notion of weight.”115 Tilly Swertz Fleischmann (1883-1967) gives a different view of Liszt’s technique from that constructed by Ott. Fleischmann was a pupil of Bernhard Stavenhagen and Berthold Kellerman, both pupils of Liszt. In her book, Aspects of the Liszt Tradition, Fleischmann recorded Liszt’s performance directions for several of his own and Chopin’s compositions as transmitted by his two pupils. Fleischmann also gives the technical studies that she asserts were practiced by Liszt and passed on orally to Kellerman and Stavenhagen.116 These exercises to develop finger independence and strength closely resemble those recommended by Czerny and Kullak but with the addition of a few exercises to develop flexibility in the wrist, arm drop on octaves and chords, and rotation. They include the Klopfübung (recommended by Czerny, this exercise was also described by Madame Boissier as one given by Liszt to her daughter), scales in single notes (staccato and legato) and double thirds, arpeggios, finger and thumb stretching exercises, 113

Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 40; see also 156-57. Ibid., 133. 115 Ibid. 114

48 octaves and broken octaves, glissandi, trills and double trills. Curved finger action is to be practiced to develop the ability to strike the keys with the “firmness of a hammer.”117 Rotation in broken octaves is limited to the forearm with no movement at the elbow, and scales are played by finger action alone; finger and wrist staccato are discussed, though, according to Fleischmann, Liszt usually advised whole-arm staccato as it allowed a lighter, more accurate staccato.118 Octaves are to be practiced first from the wrist and later with the whole arm. Fleischmann’s remarks on musical works are interesting but, surprisingly, her account of Lisztian technique reveals no significant advance over the earlier technique described by Czerny. Fleischmann emphasizes finger training with little mention of arm weight or arm techniques and tells the following anecdote to stress the importance of a quiet hand and arm: Stavenhagen was wont to place a sixpenny piece on the back of each of his hands when playing scales, to show how even the action should be. . . . “No churning!” he would say, and indeed when he played scales the notes rippled along under an effortless and apparently motionless hand. . . . 119 Göllerich also quoted Liszt as saying, “Field placed a taler coin on each hand and played with a very steady hand” and “I myself have practiced octaves with the ‘guide de la main apparatus,’”120 but Göllerich gives no context for these statements, and Ott views them as witticisms on the part of Liszt. Indeed, according to Weitzmann, Liszt later referred to the guide-main as “guid-âne.”121 If one believes the statements of Liszt’s pupils that Liszt never gave technical instructions, it is difficult to accept that Liszt would have 116

Fleischmann, Aspects of the Liszt Tradition, 118-31. Ibid., 119. 118 Ibid., 125. 119 Ibid., 119. 120 Göllerich, The Piano Master Classes of Franz Liszt, 130. Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 63. 117

49 recommended artificial means of restricting hand and arm movement. It is more likely that Fleischmann’s anecdote is evidence of a conservatism that Stavenhagen acquired not from Liszt but from his study with Ernst Rudorph, a pupil of Reinecke.122 It is important to remember that Fleischmann’s information did not come directly from Liszt but from his pupils Kellerman and Stavenhagen. Her testimony suggests that Liszt and his pupils shared a common background of early training based on finger exercises, and they carried elements of that early training along with later technical acquisitions into their teaching. It may also suggest that Liszt treated his pupils’ technical views with tolerance, whether or not they matched his own. The writing of Frederic Horace Clark, an American (born near Chicago, 1860; died in Berlin, 1917), deserves attention. In 1907, Clark published Liszts Offenbarung, based on conversations Clark claimed to have had with Liszt beginning in 1882. It has been pointed out that some of Clark’s story lacks credibility as no biography of Liszt mentions him and his account of conversations with Liszt was written from memory sometime after they took place.123 Indeed, Clark’s tale of returning to his hotel each evening to write with the spirit of Liszt attending nearby mimics the legend of St. Gregory receiving chant melodies through divine inspiration in the form of a dove on his shoulder.124 However, correspondences between Clark’s testimony and that of other

121

Quoted from Steinhausen, Die Physiologischen Fehler, 103. Carl Reinecke (1824-1910) taught at the Leipzig Conservatory from 1860, and served as director from 1897. He conducted the Gewandhaus Orchestra until 1895. Conservative in his views, he worked to promote and preserve works of the Classical and pre-Classical composers. See Phillips, “The Leipzig Conservatory,” 150-53 123 Karl Wilhelm Engel, F. H. Clarks “Liszts Offenbarung” als Wegweiser zu einer naturgemässen Körpermechanik des Klavierspiels (Vienna: typescript, 1972), 6-7. 124 Clark, Liszts Offenbarung, 195-96. 122

50 Liszt pupils make his work worthy of consideration. His philosophical and literary allusions as well as his style of writing suggest that Clark intended to produce not only a record of Liszt’s thoughts on piano playing, but a philosophical work revealing relationships between piano technique and musical and natural forms.125 The following is an example: All of this [piano technique] lies in the unfolding of a primary, secondary and tertiary spiral impulse in the arm-members, which create in the joints cycling whirl-articulations, remaining invisible to the eye because in the bringing forth of music (composition), they go into the keyboard in a spiraling stream of energy, and are manifested to the ear only as an absolute flow of harmony. So are created the corresponding systems of movement that lie at the basis of musical form. The Ancients call that the harmony of the spheres, where the infinite connectedness of individualization forced a universal order. 126 Clark reiterates formulations like this one many times without explaining how to put them into practical use; to a reader without considerable prior experience of arm technique, or in an environment where finger training holds sway, such statements are unintelligible. Clark describes Liszt’s playing as based on coordinated, circular

125

Karl Wilhelm Engel suggests that Clark has not been taken seriously because of his style of writing. “Die Nichtbeachtung der zahlreichen Schriften des seit 1885 als pianistischer Schriftsteller tätigen Clark erklärt sich schon aus seiner seinem sonderbaren Wesen entsprechenden, tranzendental gewandten Schreibweise. ‘Der moderne, philosophisch-okkultistisch belastete, phantastische Klaviermetaphysiker,’ als ihn W. Niemann in seinem Klavierlexikon charakterisiert . . . wurde zufolge ‘der schwülstigen, ungenießbaren Sprache, die das Studium seiner Schriften ungemein erschwert und die wenigen guten Kerne wie ein Dornengestrüpp verhüllt, von seinen Fachgenossen gemieden.’” “The contempt for numerous writings of Clark, active as pianistic writer since 1885, is explained by his transcendental writing style in conjunction with his odd nature. ‘The modern, philosophical-occult based, fantastic piano metaphysician,’ as W. Niemann characterized him in his Klavier-lexicon . . . was shunned by his colleagues because of the ‘puffed up, unpalatable language that made the study of his writing unusually difficult and covered over the few good elements like a thorn bush.’” Engel, F. H. Clarks “Liszts Offenbarung” als Wegweiser, 5-6. 126 “Dies alles liegt in der Entfaltung primärer, sekundärer und tertiärer Spiral-Impulse in den Armgliedern, welche in den Gelenken zykloidierende Wirbel-Artikulationen schaffen, dem Auge jedoch unsichtbar All bleiben, weil sie in dem Hervorbringen der Tonkunst, in dem spiralartigen Ausströmen der Energie in Tastenreihen hinein aufgehen und sich dem Ohr nun als absoluter Harmonienfluß offenbaren. So werden die entsprechenden Bewegungssysteme, welche der Musikform zu Grunde liegen, geschaffen. Die Alten nannten das die Harmonie des Bogens, wo die unendliche Gebundenheit des Individualisierens allseitige Anordnung erzwang.” Clark, Liszts Offenbarung, 45-46.

51 movements of the upper arm and forearm, emanating not just from the back and shoulders, but from the source of musical feeling, and brought into contact with the keys through the hand and fingers. Clark has Liszt saying: The source of my art springs forth from the heart and the solar plexus and the axis of rotation, and unfolds in the uninterrupted unity and branching out of rotational articulations of impulses in the arm members, by which they work in changing relationships in the harmony of growing and lessening proportions along magnetic lines.127 and: When you learn in the release of your strength, to develop a proportioned branching out from the solar region of the heart, from the rotational axis outwards by means of spiral emanations in the shoulder, elbow, and wrist, to create a harmony, a system of intertwined cooperation in the joints, so that the whole power of the arm works on a succession of tones in the most detailed modeling, that is, in pure, absolute legato, then you will grasp the classicism of a true original art, and you will also be able to put it into action. 128 Clark is describing a technique in which the entire body of the player forms a unified playing mechanism creating a continuum with the music to be played, and he is attempting to redefine classicism in metaphysical terms as a kind of universal law uniting the spiritual and physical, represented by music and the body. According to Clark, Liszt brought the activity of the arms to bear on the keyboard while keeping the fingers close to the keys: . . . we began to discuss how the touch on the piano is connected to the tendency to keep the fingers constantly in contact with the keys. I said to 127

“Meine Kunstquelle sprudelt hervor aus dem Herzen and dem Solarplexus und der Wirbelsäule und entfaltet sich in dem ununterbrochenen Einigen und Verzweigen wirbelartiger Impuls-Artikulationen unter den Armgliedern, indem sie in wechselnden Beziehungen in der Harmonie der werdenden und vergehenden Proportionen längs magnetischer Linien wirken.” Ibid., 54. 128 “Wenn du lernst, in der Ausstrahlung deiner Kraft, von der Solarregion des Herzens, von der Wirbelsäule aus mittels Spiralsprudeln im Schulter-, Ellenbogen- und Handgelenk die proportionierenden Verzweigungen zu entwickeln, eine Harmonie, ein System des verschlingenden Aufeinander-Wirkens in den Gelenken zu schaffen, sodaß die ganze Armkraft auf die Tonreihe in ausführlichster Modellierung, das heißt in reinem, absoluten Legato wirkt, dann wirst du die Klassizität einer wahren Quellenkunst erfaßt haben und sie auch in dei Tat umsetzen können.” Ibid., 60.

52 Liszt: It seems to me, as I have often observed, that your fingers always stick to the keys, they never leave them! Yes, replied Liszt, in this external manifestation, this contact with the keys, is hidden the whole inner world of the source of dynamic energy.129 In fact, Clark states that Liszt advised not making any finger movements at all: “. . . one may not hit, above all may not make any finger motion.”130 He states further that the high lifting of the fingers is contrary to the idea of musical expression: The lifting in order to hit, to fall, or to throw, is the best example of artistic tradesmanship in piano playing, because this lifting itself does nothing to the tone and creates a completely unnecessary piece of show, which belongs not at all to the matters of tone, and springs only from a low, onesided, dismembered mechanical idea.131 Clark’s language is in stark contrast to that of previously-cited writers, who expressed themselves in terms such as “striking power,” “stringently curved fingers,” “bent and rigid fingers,” and “percussion on the keys.” If Clark mentions the fingers at all, it is to forbid their individualized movement, instead emphasizing the unified action of the whole arm, hand and fingers (Harmonie) and the motion of the whole arm as an undulating, oscillating wave. Clark describes Liszt’s notion of combining pianistic “touch with tonal form,” likening the participation of the upper arm, forearm, and hand in playing to the interconnected musical structures of period, phrase, and motive in composition.

129

“Im Frühjahr 1882 ging ich von Leipzig nach Weimar, um Liszt zu besuchen. Nachdem ich ihm seine Eroica vorgespielt hatte, fingen wir an, darüber zu sprechen, wie die Berührung des Klaviers mit der Tendenz der Glieder, an den Tasten zu haften, erwickelt ist. Ich sagte zu Liszt: Mir scheint es, wie ich schon oft bemerkte, daß deine Finger immer an den Tasten haften, sie nie verlassen! Ja, sagte Liszt, in diesem äußeren Zeichen, dem Haften an den Tasten liegt die ganze innere Welt der Schwungkraftquellen verborgen.” Ibid., 226. 130 “ . . . man dürfe nicht anschlagen, überhaupt keine Fingerbewegung machen . . .” Ibid., 58. 131 “Das Heben, um zu schlagen zu fallen oder zu werfen, ist der best Beweis einer Kunstkrämerei beim Klavierspiel, weil dieses Heben selbst nicht in dem Ton wirkt und ein bloß unnützes Schaustück schafft, was gar nicht zur Sache des Tons gehört und nur einem niedrigen, einseitigen, zerstückelnden Mechanikbegriff entspringt.” Ibid., 67.

53 As to the interchange of artistic movement with musical form, we must now understand an evolution of movement, from which the rhythmic forms of music – a harmony – emerge in the development of artistic style, as, for example, one oscillation of the upper arm from the shoulder branches out into two oscillations from the elbow and four or six or eight oscillations from the wrist, in order thereby to embody the musical formmembers (a theme, two phrases, four motives, etc.) directly and absolutely in the form-system-movements of the arm members. The absolute doing of my art therefore gets its style from the rhythmic trinity of musical form itself. That is indeed my secret, said Liszt. Schiller indeed speaks upon this: “In that, therefore, consists the true artistic secret of the master, that he demolishes the matter through the form.” I have simply integrated this proportion of musical form 1:2:2:4 absolutely into my artistic movement as a three-part system, as intertwined articulation (a spiral effervescence or whirling impulse of the upper arm [the period], two of the forearm [the phrase], and four or eight of the hand [the motive]): that is what they call demolishing matter through form.132 Thus Clark portrays Liszt’s concept of technique as a physical response to musical affect, as the embodiment of musical form, and he criticizes the conventional model of piano technique -- the analogy between the action of the piano hammers striking the string and action of the fingers striking the keys -- as purely mechanical rather than musical: One sees in the mechanism of the instrument the premise for the mechanics of piano playing; just as the hammer of the piano falls away from the string after the attack and remains at rest, so should an attack or fall onto the keys bring forth an individual tone without any binding with the keys. That can never be brought into accord with life-likeness, nature, 132

“Unter der Auswechslung der Kunst-Bewegung mit der Musik-Form haben wir nun eine Evolution der Bewegung zu verstehen, aus der die Rhythmenformen der Musik – eine Harmonie – in der Entwicklung des Kunststils entstehen, wie zum Beispiel ein Wirbel des Oberarms aus der Schulter sich verzweigt in zwei Wirbel aus dem Ellenbogen und vier oder sechs oder acht Wirbel aus dem Handgelenk, um damit die Musikform-Glieder (ein Theme, zwei Phrasen, vier Motive usw.) direkt und absolut in den Form-SystemBewegungen der Armglieder zu verkörpern. Die absolut Tat meiner Kunst erhält also ihren Stil von der rhythmischen Trinität der Musikform selbst. Das ist eben mein Geheimnis, sagte Liszt. Hierzu sagt ja doch Schiller: “Darin also besteht das eigentliche Kunstgeheimnis des Meisters, daß er den Stoff durch die Form vertilgt.” Ich habe einfach diese Proportion-Involution der Musikform 1:2:2:4 absolut in meine Kunst-Bewegung hineingelegt als ein dreieinigendes System, als verschlingende Artikulation (ein Spiralsprudel oder Wirbelimpuls des Oberarms [die Periode], zwei des Vorderarms [die Kola], und vier oder acht der Hand [die Motive]): das heißt den Stoff durch die Form vertilgen.” Ibid., 63.

54 harmony, art, reason, because the basic nature of motivation and binding is completely lacking and no man nor even God can assert [maintain] a connection.133 Clark’s description of unified, coordinated movement of the entire playing organism as a physical manifestation of musical structure is a radical departure from previous notions of piano playing that made strength, independence, and equalization of the fingers the first priority. Clark gives no advice on how to develop the kind of playing he describes -- no instructions for arm and hand position, for use of the fingers, for movements of the arm and wrist. Moreover, it is clear that this omission is part of Clark’s point, for he viewed such technical elements as isolating factors that violate the harmonious functioning of the playing mechanism as a whole. Clark makes this point when he has Liszt saying: In much of what you played for me, a natural gift was noticeable, in the effortless motion of the arms to touch the piano. That was easy for you because you have never done finger exercises, but like beams from the sun you have brought the arms from the back onto the keyboard and played completely naturally from the shoulders, and you have never thought about any type of hand position or finger motion. That is the right beginning and for you the great advantage, because it remains the only true basis of all transcendental piano playing based on harmony. Of course, this happened with you entirely instinctively as a result of your pure gift of touch, that is, your unspoiled key sense. 134

133

“Man sieht in der Mechanik des Instruments das Vorbild für die Mechanik des Klavierspiels; wie der Hammer des Klaviers nach dem Anschlag von der Seite wegfällt und liegen bleibt, so soll ohne alle Verbindung mit der Taste ein Schlag oder Fall auf die Taste den einzelnen Ton hervorbringen. Das kann niemals mit Lebensähnlichkeit, Natur, Harmonie, Kunst, Vernunft in Einklang gebracht werden, denn das Grundwesen der Motivierung und Verbindung mangelt vollstädig, und kein Mensch und auch kein Gott kann hier einen Zusammenhang behaupten.” Ibid., 50. 134 “In manchem, was du mir vorspieltest, war eine natürliche Begabung bemerkbar, in zwanglosen Bewegungen des Armes das Klavier zu berühren. Dir was das ja leicht, denn du hast noch nie Fingerübungen gemacht, sondern wie Strahlen aus der Sonne hast du die Arme von dem Rücken aus an die Klaviatur herangebracht und von den Schultern aus ganz naturgemäß gespielt und noch nicht an irgend eine Art Handhaltung oder Fingerbewegung gedacht. Das is auch der richtige Anfang und für dich von großem Vorteil, denn es bleibt die einzige, wahre Basis alles transzendentalen, auf der Harmonie fußenden Klaviermusizierens. Doch das geshah bei dir ganz instinktiv infolge deiner reinen Berührungsbegabung, das heißt deines unverdorbenen Tastinnes.” Ibid., 60.

55 Even more pointedly, and in contrast to descriptions of Liszt’s finger exercises by Fleischmann and Mason, Clark reports Liszt’s sarcastic judgment of the finger training that pervaded contemporary pedagogy: And just here in the periphery where we need subordination the most, just here all these “professors of piano” begin with their insubordination: they teach finger independence and hand independence, above all any independence – that is harmony then! So these professors of piano close the door on harmony and fold their hands in holy self-absolution, indeed they take it upon themselves to say that their life and “light” has something to do with musical art and classical pedagogy.135 Clark’s account presents Liszt, not as a virtuoso who taught no technique, but as one whose teaching was founded upon an innovative concept of technique. Liszt had no fixed notions about hand position, finger movement, and arm movement to impart, but instead used the whole body in accordance with the demands of musical form. Clark’s evocative words about Lisztian use of the whole arm “like beams from the sun . . . from the back onto the keyboard and played completely naturally from the shoulder” with never a “thought about any type of hand position or finger motion” (see fn. 135) is in sharp contrast to views that proper hand position preceded proper playing and that using the arm produced too rough a tone to be used except in the loudest passages. No one envisioned the spiraling motions of a unified arm described by Clark, or imagined that keeping the fingers close to the keys could be a source of dynamic energy. More radical still, Clark attributed to Liszt the belief that piano technique and musical form are a single, inseparable expression of a musical idea. 135

“Und gerade hier in der Peripherie, wo wir der Subordination am meisten bedürfen, gerade hier beginnen alle diese “Professeurs du Piano” mit ihrer Insubordination: sie lehren Finger-Unabhängigheit , überhaupt irgend welche Unabhängigheit -- das soll dann Harmonie heißen! So verschließen diese Professeurs du Piano der Harmonie die Tür, und falten in heiliger Selbstüberhebung die Hände, ja sie nehmen sich heraus zu sagen, daß ihr Leben und “Licht” dabei mit musikalischer Kunst und klassischer Pädagogik etwas zu tun habe. Ibid., 47.

56 Clark does not present Liszt’s principles as a practice, but rather as a philosophy and ideology, a vision of pianism that forms an ideal backdrop for Arrau’s principles and for the practical aspects of his teaching. LUDWIG DEPPE (1828-90) Ludwig Deppe was the first to make arm technique the practical basis of his approach. Born on November 7, 1828, at Alverdissen (Lippe-Detmold), he studied theory and counterpoint with Eduard Marxsen (1806-1887; the teacher of Brahms) in Hamburg and finished his studies in Leipzig under Johann Christian Lobe (1797-1881).136 Deppe settled in Berlin where he was appointed royal Kapellmeister. He conducted the royal opera and, without performing as a pianist himself, became well known as a teacher of piano.137 In 1885, Deppe published Armleiden des Klavierspielers (Arm Ailments of the Pianist) in the Deutsche Musiker-Zeitung, setting forth the principles of sitting low with a slightly raised wrist so that the hand could be free of the “oppressive influence of the elbow,” and producing tone, not through striking, but through the weight of the hand with quiet, relaxed fingers.138 Deppe intended to publish a piano method that would include exercises and technical explanations, but he died before he could complete it. Summaries of his approach, written by his followers Amy Fay, Elisabeth Caland, Hermann Klose, and C. A. Ehrenfechter, brought discussion of arm technique into the pedagogical mainstream.

136

Caland, Die Deppe’sche Lehre des Klavierspiels, 2. Deppe’s compositions include a few large orchestral works, a symphony in F major, an Overture to Zriny, and an overture to the opera Don Carlos. 137 Ibid., 2-3. 138 The main portion of the article is reproduced in Gerig, Famous Pianists and Their Technique, 252-54.

57 Amy Fay studied with Deppe after working with Louis Ehlert, Carl Tausig, Theodor Kullak, and Liszt. Both Fay and Elisabeth Caland139 quoted Deppe’s claim, “Gifted people . . . play by the grace of God; but everybody could master the technique on my system!!”140 According to Caland, Deppe believed that beauty, expression, and ease of playing were based on identifiable and teachable principles. Fay credited Deppe with having thought out the technical secrets behind Liszt’s penetrating tone and the lightness, speed, and smoothness of his playing.141 Fay described Deppe’s approach: Deppe objects to this extreme lifting of the fingers. He says it makes a knick in the muscle, and you get all the strength simply from the finger whereas, when you lift the finger moderately high, the muscle from the whole arm comes to bear upon it. The tone, too, is entirely different. Lifting the finger so very high, and striking with force, stiffens the wrist, and produces a slight jar in the hand which cuts off the singing quality of the tone, like closing the mouth suddenly in singing. It produces the effect of a blow upon the key and the tone is more a sharp, quick tone; whereas, by letting the finger just fall – it is fuller, less loud, but more penetrating. . . . Don’t you remember my saying that Liszt had such an extraordinary way of playing a melody? That it did not seem to be so loud and cut-out as most artists make it, and yet it was so penetrating? Well, dear, there was the secret of it! ‘Spielen Sie mit dem Gewicht (Play with weight),” Deppe will say.142 According to both Caland and Fay, Deppe’s principles of weight playing were concerned not only with mechanical skill (speed and the bravura style) but also with expressive qualities (legato and a “singing tone” that is “fuller, less loud, but more penetrating”).143 Ironically, Amy Fay believed she was learning Liszt’s manner of

139

Caland, Die Deppe’sche Lehre des Klavierspiels, 4. Fay, Music Study in Germany, 301. Caland reported exactly the same quotation in Die Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels, 4. 141 Fay, Music Study in Germany, 286-91. 142 Ibid., 288. 143 “Das heutige Klavierspiel ist mehr auf äusserliche Mittel gerichtet, indem wir Virtuosität, Bravour, Schnelligkeit und Glanz aufs höchste ausgebildet finden; das sinnige, innerliche Spiel dagegen, das erforderlich ist, um die unvergänglichen Kompositionen der alten Meister in ihrer seelenvollen polyphonen Schreibweise in voller Klarheit und Reinheit wiederzugeben, ist mehr und mehr in den Hintergrund 140

playing from Deppe although, according to Fay, Deppe never heard Liszt play.144 No

58

writer explicitly states who Deppe’s models were, but only that his work as a conductor allowed him to observe many pianists in action. Amy Fay mentions his admiration for Tausig, Rubinstein, and Clara Schumann. Elisabeth Caland also reports that Deppe was motivated by the example of the great pianists145 and by the realization that no recognized method existed that established rules for the attainment of artistic playing. If great artists appear to perform the most difficult, complicated works on the piano with natural, unpretentious simplicity and ease, and transport us through their own gift and intuition into rapture, so, Deppe thought, it must be possible to establish specific laws for the beauty of this playing, by which even less gifted players, with ordinary but normal talent, can achieve completely beautiful tone production and artistic representation of performed pieces, even if, obviously, the results thus achieved do not measure up to the accomplishments of the brilliantly talented.146 While Fay gives many interesting observations about Deppe’s teaching, it was Caland who took up the task of systematically explaining Deppe’s method in Die Deppe’sche Lehre des Klavierspiels. Caland attempted to give Deppe a voice through her getreten, und so giebt es heute Spieler, die die schwierigsten Konzertsätze mit grösster Leichtigkeit hervorzuwirbeln im Stande sind, und dabei ein einfaches Legato auf dem Klavier nicht vollendet vorzutragen vermögen. Und doch kann das Klavier, durch die jetzt erreichte Vollkommenheit des Gaues, gerade auf die denkbar feinste Behandlung Anspruch machen, welcher Ansicht auch Klose in seiner kleinen Schrift über die Deppe’sche Lehre Ausdruck gibt.” “The piano playing of today is more directed toward external (superficial) means in which we find virtuosity, bravura, speed and glitter most highly developed; the sensitive, inward playing on the contrary, which is necessary in order to perform the imperishable compositions of the old masters in their soulful polyphonic style in full clarity and purity, is more and more receding into the background, and so it is with today’s player that the most difficult concert pieces are mixed up together with things of greatest ease and yet a simple legato on the piano cannot be performed perfectly. And yet the piano can lay claim to the finest treatment imaginable through the currently achieved completion of the areas, which Klose expressed in his little writing about Deppean teaching.” Caland, Die Deppe’sche Lehre des Klavierspiels. 1-2. 144 Fay, Music Study in Germany, 297. 145 “Er beobachtete das Spiel aller grossen Künstler seine Zeit. . . .” “He observed the playing of all the great artists of his time. . . .” Caland, Die Deppe’sche Lehre des Klavierspiels, 4. 146 “Wenn grosse Künstler die schwierigsten, verwickelsten Aufgaben auf dem Klaviere mit natürlicher, anspruchsloser Leichtigkeit und Einfachheit auszuführen scheinen, und uns durch ihre eigene Begabung und Intuition in Entzücken versetzen, so, meinte Deppe, müssten sich bestimmte Gesetze für die Schönheit dieses Spieles feststellen lassen, damit auch weniger begabte Spieler, mit gewöhnlichen aber normalen Anlagen, vollkommen schöne Tonbildung und künstlerische Darstellung des Wiederzugebenden Stückes,

writing by quoting his various aphorisms:147 “When it [the motion or position of the

59

hand] looks pretty, it is right”; “The pedal is the breath of the piano”; “Not a grain of sand should go between them [successive tones in legato]”; “The tones should be joined in the hand”; “One should draw the hand together like a nutshell”; “The hand must be light as a feather.” Deppe advised students to sit in a somewhat low playing position, with the forearm from the wrist to the elbow slanted downward several centimeters, so that no weight would bear down on the hand. Sitting low encouraged the use of upper arm and back muscles.148 The hand was “lightened” by being carried by the muscles of the upper arm and back. Deppe was sparing in the use of exercises, but the exercise for carrying the hand by means of the upper arm and back muscles he considered essential: Now, how does one carry the hand? One carries it by taking the muscles to help that first carry the hand, then the forearm, and finally the upper arm. As the first exercise, the following is to be performed with the greatest attention: in order to become conscious of the feeling that one can make the hand light by carrying the arm from the back, one lifts the arms slightly forward from the shoulders, without lifting up the shoulders themselves. One guides one’s full attention to the muscles of the shoulders and back during this exercise; one must remain fully conscious of the intense feeling that the arms are carried and held fast from the back, while one allows the arms to sink down slowly upon the keys.149

erreichen können, wenn auch, selbstverständlich, die so erzielten Resultate sich nicht mit den Leistungen des genial Beanlagten messen dürften.” Caland, Die Deppe’sche Lehre des Klavierspiels, 4. 147 When Ehrenfechter quotes Deppe, he takes his quotation from Fay, Music Study in Germany. 148 Caland, Die Deppe’sche Lehre des Klavierspiels, 10. 149 “Wie nun trägt man die Hand? Man trägt sie, indem man die Muskeln zu Hilfe nimmt, die zunächst die Hand, dann den Unterarm und schliesslich den Oberarm tragen. Als erste Uebung sei Folgendes mit grösster Aufmerksamkeit auszuführen: um des Gefühls uns bewusst zu werden, wie man die Hand, durch den Arm vom Rücken aus getragen, leicht machen kann, hebe man die Arme, von den Schultern aus, leicht nach vorne, ohne jedoch die Schultern selbst hinaufzuziehen. Man lenke seine volle Aufmerksamkeit auf die Muskeln der Schultern und des Rückens während dieser Uebung; des intensiven Gefühls, dass die Arme vom Rücken aus getragen und festgehalten werden, muss man sich voll bewusst bleiben, indem man die Arme langsam auf die Tasten niedersinken lässt.” Ibid., 9-10.

60 In drawing attention to the physical sensation of performing this exercise, there is the recognition that competency in playing, the ability to produce the correct physical responses at will, is a matter of memorizing and repeating physical sensations. The player must direct his or her awareness to a uniquely personal physical sensation of producing a tone by a stroke of the arm, the finger doing the work of simply resisting the key. Playing single tones in this manner is a preparation for maintaining the support of the arm while playing successive tones in a passage: “. . . one therefore carries each finger over the tone that he has to play, and the finger consequently does not disturb the harmony of the whole through individual grasping forward, which Deppe indicated as a superficial expedient.”150 Focusing on the activity of the back muscles promotes a consciousness of playing as originating more in the center of the body and, therefore, of the player’s being. Deppe positioned the hand so that the fingers could serve as the extensions of the arm. One places the five fingers of the right hand on G A B C D. The elbow may not protrude outward, but must be held as close as possible to the body but without force, and the forearm goes somewhat upward to the wrist, while the outside of the hand from the fifth finger to the upper arm forms a straight line; the third finger constantly serves as the plumb line for this line, which is formed through the hand and forearm; the shoulder may never be lifted up. The fingers should stand on the keys restfully and a little drawn into a rounded form, indeed the entire position should constantly be unforced. – “Always amiable,” said Deppe. – Because the hand is carried from above, the keys will not be pressed down by the fingers. The wrist, which in passages may be held somewhat higher, is held a little higher than the fingers in finger exercise position; the back of the hand therefore rises somewhat up to the wrist. The first requirement is that the hand is somewhat higher on the side of the fourth and fifth finger than on the side of the second finger (it must therefore not sink at all to the outside). From this follows a slight drawing in of the second finger while 150

“. . . man also jeden Finger über den Ton führt, den er zu spielen hat, und der Finger folglich nicht durch unabhängiges Vorgreifen, welches Deppe als ein äusserliches Mittel bezeichnete, die Harmonie des Ganzen stört.” Ibid., 21.

61 the thumb, with its outer side a little drawn in over the keys, rests without pressing them down. 151 By establishing the third finger as the “plumb line,” Deppe finds a “longitudinal axis” or balance point for the weight of the arm.152 Especially noteworthy in this passage is Caland’s statement that the keys are depressed, not by the action of the fingers but by the weight of the arm. Deppe noticed a tendency among pianists to let the hand tilt slightly outward, thus weakening the fourth and fifth fingers by forcing them into a slanted position when contacting the keys. He remedied this by asking for a slight inward tilt in order to place the fourth and fifth fingers in a perpendicular relationship to the keys... This hand position brings the fingers into direct connection with the muscles of the arm, while the fourth and fifth fingers, which, with other piano players who let both of these fingers fall slanting more towards to the outward bent hand, are held here in a straight line with the upper arm. So, as has been said, the outside of the hand and of the arm is set in a straight line to the elbow, through this hand position the muscles of the forearm, together with those of the upper arm, are brought into activity, and hereby the connection with the upper arm becomes intensive. This position of the hand helps all the fingers equally toward complete independence and development of strength.153 151

“Man stelle die fünf Finger der rechten Hand auf g. a. h. c. d. Der Ellenbogen darf nicht nach aussen hervortreten, wird möglichst, aber ohne Zwang, an den Körper herangehalten, und der Unterarm geht bis zum Handgelenk etwas hinauf, während die Aussenseite der Hand, vom fünften Finger an bis zum Oberarm, eine gerade Linie bildet; der dritte Finger diene stets als Richtschnur für diese Linie, welche durch die Hand und den Vorderarm gebildet wird; die Schulter darf nie gehoben werden. Die Finger sollen ruhig und ein wenig eingezogen in gerundeter Form auf den Tasten stehen, doch sei die ganze Haltung stets eine ungezwungene. – ‘Immer liebenswürdig’, sagte Deppe. – Weil die Hand von oben getragen wird, werden die Tasten nicht durch die Finger hinuntergedrückt. Das Handgelenk, welches bei Passagen etwas höher getragen werden darf, wird in der Fingerübungslage ein wenig höher wie die Finger gehalten; die Handfläche steigt also bis zum Handgelenke etwas hinauf. Erste Bedingung ist es, dass die Hand sich an der Seite des vierten und fünften Fingers etwas höher befindet, wie an der Seite des zweiten Fingers (sie darf also keinenfalls, nach der Aussenseite zu sinken). Hieraus folgt ein leises Einziehen des zweiten Fingers, währen der Daumen, mit seiner Aussenseite ein wenig eingezogen über der Taste, ohne sie niederzudrücken, ruht.” Ibid., 14-15. 152 German Diez, an Arrau pupil, speaks of the fourth finger in a similar fashion. See ch. 5, pp. 181-82. 153 “Diese Handhaltung bringt die Finger in direkte Verbindung mit den Muskeln des Armes, indem der vierte und fünfte Finger, die bei andern Klavierspielern, deren mehr nach aussen gebogene Hand diese beiden genannten Finger schräg abfallen lässt, sich hier in gerader Linie zum Unterarm verhalten. Da, wie gesagt, die Aussenseite der Hand und des Armes bis zum Ellenbogen sich in gerader Linie fortsetzt, werden durch diese Handhaltung, Muskeln des Unterarmes, die an denen des Oberarmes sich ansetzen, in Tätigkeit gebracht, und es wird hierdurch die Verbindung mit den Oberarmmuskeln eine intensive. Diese

62 In these passages, Caland spells out the functions of each part of the playing mechanism: of the back and upper arm muscles in suspending the arm weight; of the arm in carrying the hand and fingers; of the wrist in maintaining a somewhat high position; of the fingers in rising and falling only a little and aligning with the arm. The objective is to unify and coordinate all of these parts into a single motion whether producing a single tone or many tones. Deppe was the first to articulate a means to achieve a way of playing that emanated ultimately from the upper arm and back. Furthermore, he saw that equality and independence of the fingers result not from repetitive exercise but from using the fingers as extensions of the arm. These discoveries were the outgrowth of his search for principles to guide the production of beautiful tone, which he believed formed the basis for artistic performance. The tone that is formed on this foundation [harmonious use of the entire playing mechanism] is always absolutely beautiful and noble, it possesses a unique magic – never is the ear offended by sharpness, the sweetest as well as even the greatest tone produced in this way is singularly beautiful and, because of its intensity, has more carrying power than any other. We will later see that this harmonious cooperation of the muscles of the upper body, as well being the foundation for the tone that appears unintentional, is similarly also the foundation for an artwork that appears unintentional.154 Here Caland echoes Amy Fay’s observation that Deppe’s manner of touch produced a more penetrating tone having more carrying power. The claim that the tone as well as the performance should appear unintentional is more difficult to understand since beschriebene Stellung der Hand verhilft allen Fingern gleichmässig zur vollkommenen Unabhängigkeit und Kraftentwickelung.” Caland, Die Deppe’sche Lehre des Klavierspiels, 16. 154 “Der Ton, der auf dieser Grundlage gebildet wird, ist immer absolut schön und edel, er besitzt einen eigentümlichen Zauber – nie wird das Ohr durch Schärfe verletzt, der zarteste sowohl, wie auch der grösste auf diese Weise gebildete Ton, ist einheitlich schön, und durch seine Intensivität tragfähiger wie jeder andere. Wir werden später sehen, dass dies harmonische Ineinanderarbeiten der Muskulatur des

63 tone production, along with all other technical and musical achievements, is the result of conscious effort. But Caland is arguing for the appearance of unintentionality -- that is, for naturalness and for a kind of playing where physical effort does not detract from musical expression. Caland wrote, “Schiller says: ‘Grace must always be natural, that is, unwillful, “at least it must appear so, and the subject itself may never appear” as if it is conscious of its charm.’”155 This “unintentionality” or naturalness is achieved through a unified, harmonious activity of back and shoulders, arm, hand, and fingers; such activity has appearance of less effort since more muscles share in it. Therefore, the “unintentionality” is bound up with ease in playing. In Deppe’s system, tone produced through isolated finger action is equated with “intentionality,” lack of ease, or unnatural effort. A tone that is brought forth through attacks of individual, active fingers allows the direct act of will of the player to come forward through its superficiality in bare intention, and can, as Deppe said, never be the foundation of a genuine artistic expression. He spoke of a “tone production originating from apparently unintentional events, which is plainly required for the aesthetic practice.”. . . when Kant says that “the necessity in the production of beautiful art, whether it is indeed intentional, certainly must not appear intentional” and when Schopenhauer speaks of the “state of soul of the artist, resting, still, free of will, because only in a state of pure recognition where his will and goals are placed entirely beyond the reach of man, can that purely objective view arise, that forms the true material and seed of a genuine artwork,” so may this serve as the empowerment of the Deppean foundation, both in relation to his tone production, as in relation to his manner of interpretation of an art work . . . . 156 Oberkörpers, sowie es die Grundlage für den absichtlos in Erscheinung tretenden Ton ist, ebenso auch die Grundlage für ein absichtlos in Erscheinung tretendes Kunstwek bildet.” Ibid., 11-12. 155 “Schiller sagt: ‘Grazie muss jederzeit Natur, d. i. unwillkürlich “sein wenigstens so scheinen, und das Subjekt selbst darf nie” so aussehen, als ob es um seine Anmut wüsste.’” Ibid., 7. 156 “Ein Ton, der durch Anschlagen des einzelnen, aktiven Fingers hervorgebracht wird, lässt den direkten Willensakt des Spielers durch ihre Auesserlichkeit in nakter Absicht hervortreten, und kann, wie Deppe sagte, nie die Grundlage einer echten Kunstäusserung sein. Er sprach von einer aus ‘anscheinend unabsichtlichem Falle entstehenden Tonbildung, die für die ästhetische Ausübung geradezu erforderlich ist.’. . . wenn Kant sagt, dass ‘die Zweckmässigkeit im Produkte der schönen Kunst, ob sie zwar absichtlich

64 Thus Caland presented Deppean principles as drawing together the physical issues such as ease, economy, strength, and endurance under the rubric of “unintentionality,” a concept she related to beauty of movement. One of Deppe’s often-stated maxims was, “When it looks pretty, it is right.”157 Deppe reasoned that the least expenditure of strength involved distributing the effort of playing among more muscles, i. e., calling upon the muscles of the upper arm and back to support the fingers. Therefore, the use of these muscles was a matter not only of beautiful tone but beauty, i.e., economy, of movement. Caland invokes philosophy to support Deppe’s equation of beauty in movement with economy and ease as essential to “unintentionality,” a determining factor of the beautiful in art. The foundation is that through this kind of playing less strength is used and the strength is used more harmoniously. Spencer says: “The graceful way of performing a motion is that which costs the least exertion – the really graceful motions are those that are performed through relatively less exertion of strength. . . . The above is supported in the words of Souriau when he remarks the following: “If strength must be used, in order to avoid fatigue, the necessary cooperation of the muscles is required; thus we not only spare ourselves the feeling of exertion, but we can develop more real strength. The strength is not transferred into the muscles, but it is produced or brought forth by the muscles themselves; and since each muscle can have only a certain amount of strength at its disposal, it is obvious that if we want to lay onto a movement all of the strength we possess, we will have the greatest number of muscles working together.”158 ist, doch nicht absichtlich scheinen muss’ und wenn Schopenhauer von dem ‘ruhigen, stillen willensfreien Gemütszustand des Künstlers’ spricht, ‘denn nur im Zustande des reinen Erkennens, wo dem Menschen sein Wille und dessen Zwecke ganz entrückt sind, kann die jenige rein objektive Anschauung entstehen, die den eigentlichen Stoff und Kern eines echten Kunstwerkes ausmacht,’ so darf dies wohl als Bekräftigung des Deppe’schen Grundsatzes, sowohl in Bezug auf seine Tonbildung, wie in Bezug auf seine Interpretationsweise eines Kunstwerkes dienen . . . .” Ibid., 44. 157 Ibid., 6. 158 “. . . und zweitens ist der Grund massgebend, dass durch diese Art des Spieles weniger Kraft, und die Kraft harmonischer gebraucht wird. Spencer sagt: ‘die anmutige Art, eine Bewegung auszuführen, ist diejenige, die am wenigsten Anstrengung kostet – die wirklich anmutigen Bewegungen sind die, welche durch verhältnismässig wenig Kraftanstrengung ausgeführt werden.’ . . . Obiges findet seine Bekräftigung in dem Ausspruche Souriau’s, wenn er Folgendes bemerkt:‘Wenn man Kraft anwenden muss, wird, um der

65 Deppe pressed the point further, asserting that the most economical, therefore beautiful, motions were curvilinear and flowed into one another without interruption. In the playing of scale and arpeggio passages and in executing leaps, the arm moved in curved lines to carry the fingers to the keys and provide the weight necessary to press down the keys. In performing a work, all movements joined to form a continuous movement that ended only with the end of the piece. In order to connect tones and to play passages from which a piece of music is put together, the hand must be moved from one place on the keyboard to another. This movement Deppe called the “simple curve” in contrast to the double-angled [movement] of ordinary piano playing; this corresponds to the infinite spiral-shaped or intellectual line. “Since the hand should never stand still and should always be spiritually enlivened,” the movement is a progressive one that ends with the first tone of the piece. It is therefore a single continuous motion and because of that is suitable for performing a piece of music in complete form, where, through the avoidance of all double motions, the form of the motion coincides exactly with the content of the piece.159 This invocation of a connection between physical movement and musical form resonates with ideas advanced by Clark in Liszts Offenbarung (see pp. 52-53). Caland again provides philosophical support for Deppe’s theory with a quotation from

Ermüdung zu entgehen, die notwendige Mitwirkung der Muskeln gefordert; wir sparen uns dadurch nich allein das lästige Gefühl der Anstrengung, sondern wir können dadurch mehr wirkliche Kraft entwickeln. Die Kraft wird nicht in die Muskeln übertragen, sondern wird durch die Muskeln selbst erzeugt oder hervorgebracht; und da jeder Muskel nur über eine gewisse Quantität von Kraft verfügen kann, zeigt es sich von selbst, dass, wenn wir in eine Bewegung alles, was wir an Kraft besitzen, hinein legen wollen, wir die grösste Anzahl von Bewegungsfasern zusammenwirken lassen sollen.’” Ibid., 11-12. 159 “Um Töne zu verbinden und Passagen zu spielen, aus denen ein Musikstück zusammengestellt ist, muss die Hand von einer Stelle der Klaviatur zur andern bewegt werden. Diese Bewegung nannte Deppe die ‘einfache runde,’ im Gegensatze zur doppelten eckigen des gewöhnlichen Klavierspiels; sie entspricht der unendlich spiralförmigen oder geistigen Linie. ‘Da die Hand nie stille stehen und immer geistvoll belebt sein soll,’ so ist die Bewegung eine fortschreitende, die mit dem ersten Ton des Stückes endet. Sie ist also eine einzelne fortgesetzte Bewegung und deshalb geeignet, ein Musikstück in vollendeter Form wiederzugeben, da, durch die Vermeidung aller doppelten Bewegungen, die Form der Bewegung genau den Inhalt des Stückes deckt.” Ibid., 19.

66 Swedenborg that ranks forms and, by analogy, movements in piano playing in a hierarchical order that has a parallel in the spiritual realm: Forms arise in ascending order of rank from the lowest to the highest. The lowest form is the angular, cornered, or earthly, physical. The next higher form is the circular form, which is also called the infinitely many-angled; the next higher form is the spiral, which is also the origin of and measure for the circular form; the next higher form is oscillating or infinitely spiralformed, or heavenly, and the last, the infinitely heavenly or spiritual.160 Caland uses this quotation (also reminiscent of Clark; see pp. 50-51) to give a spiritual dimension to Deppe’s principles. The movements employed in piano playing describe lines and shapes in space that can be seen as analogous to plastic forms, and piano playing thus becomes choreographed movement whose forms have a spiritual character in keeping with the spiritual content of musical works. It now seems appropriate to see the physical movement of playing as one with the expressive content of the musical work. Cautioning that the motions she has described not be exaggerated, Caland alludes to the difference in how players and observers perceive motion in playing, and to the difficulty in relying upon observation to discover and define the physical elements of piano technique. The circular motion should be inwardly known to the player himself only as circular; the listening observer notices only the light over and under motion of the hand; the roundness of the motion is visible only as putting

160

“Die Formen erheben sich in aufsteigender Reihenfolge von den niedrigsten bis zu den höchsten. Die niedrigste Form is die winkelige, eckige oder irdische, körperliche. Die nächst höhere Form ist die kreisförmige, welche auch die unendlich vielwinkelige gennant wird; die nächst höhere Form ist die Spirale, die zugleich Ursprung und Mass für die Kreisformen ist; die nächst höhere Form ist wirbel- oder unendlich spiralförmige oder himmlische, und die letzte die unendlich himmlische oder geistige.” (Emanuel Swedenborg, Reclam-Ausgabe Nr. 3464-65, 96.) Ibid., 19.

67 down and lifting up the hand, by which the first occurs with raised yielding and the second with gradually lifting of the wrist.161 Deppe’s teaching anticipated Arrau’s principles in many respects: use of weight controlled by muscles in the upper arm, shoulders, and back to create beauty of tone as well as ease and control in playing; the use of curvilinear motions; the alignment and unification of the player’s body; the embodiment of musical form and expression in physical movement; locating a spiritual dimension in physical movement itself. There are also similarities between the language and concepts of Deppe (as represented by Caland in Die Deppe’sche Lehre des Klavierspiels) and Liszt (as represented by Clark in Liszts Offenbarung). Both oppose the independent movement of the fingers, favoring instead a harmonious working of the whole body. Both refer to continuous, spiral-shaped arm motions as embodiments of musical content, an idea that forms an interesting backdrop to the insistence of Arrau’s pupils that “the [Arrau] technique incorporates the music into it somehow.”162 Neither Liszt nor Deppe had a direct influence upon Arrau, but it is possible that Arrau, who was an avid reader, read the works of Caland and Clark. It is also interesting to note that Clark and Deppe were acquainted and that Clark married Deppe’s pupil, Anna Steiniger. However, Clark was no disciple of Deppe, and lashed out at him both in Liszts Offenbarung and in a heated exchange with Amy Fay in the pages of the Etude. Clark and Steiniger wrote: . . . it is a fact that the Deppe hand position looks bad, can produce no good tonal effects, and abases the hand mechanically. . . . Deppe did teach 161

“Die runde Bewegung soll dem Spielenden selbst nur als rund innerlich bewusst sein;161 der zuhörende Beobachter bemerkt nur das leichte Hinauf- und Hinunterbewegen der Hand; das Runde der Bewegung wird allein sichtbar beim Aufsetzen und Abheben der Hand, wovon das erstere mit erhöhtem nachgebenden, und das zweite mit allmählich zu erhebendem Handgelenke geschieht.” Ibid., 23. 162 Ivan Nuñez. See ch. 3, p. 143.

68 “arm lateral motion” before Plaidy. . . . But Deppe applied it from his own experience in violin playing. . . . Again, Deppe does have a method for using the wrist mechanism peculiar to himself alone . . . nor does Deppe regard Amy Fay as a pupil of his. From her book, one who really knows Deppe sees that Miss Fay does not at all know Deppe’s method, particularly his use of the wrist. She has made a sad misrepresentation of Deppe’s real principles: she pictures a ridiculous man altogether; on the contrary, Deppe is really a great man. Musically considered, Deppe is a very bad technician; but . . . Deppe’s true worth is as a teacher of Vortrag or interpretations and expression. Many times has Deppe asked me to clean the “technic stench,” as he called it, away from his name and fame here in America. Once he bitterly lamented and said, “Amy Fay has ruined me. She never understood me. She has used me like a wooden hobby horse. Please tell Americans that I am a Vortrag teacher.”163 Amy Fay replied: . . . when I returned to Berlin three years ago, Deppe put off his summer travel in order to be there when I arrived and to give me his entire time. He introduced me to his circle of pupils, by whom I was received with the greatest honors, and did everything in his power to show me his appreciation of what I had written about him in my book. Last year Deppe sent me a pamphlet to translate called Die Deppe’sche Lehre des Klavierspiels . . . written by Hermann Klose, one of Deppe’s pupils, under his immediate supervision. In this pamphlet . . . long quotations are made from my book in confirmation of it.164 Clark possessed more than enough vitriol to go around: Nevertheless Deppe, like Kullak in his sham-aesthetic of piano playing, Wieck, and all the others speak of harmonious working, of unity and even of beauty of piano playing, and they don’t know that they are simply saying empty words, and that their whole teaching is pseudo-artistic, because all finger dexterity, all dismemberment shows not only a superficial but also a false basis in artistic activity, and without finger motions they don’t know a single word to say about piano teaching whatsoever.165

163

Frederic Clark and Anna Steiniger Clark, “The Deppe Method,” The Etude 6/5 (May 1888): 76. Amy Fay, “The Deppe Method Again,” The Etude 6/6 (June 1888): 96. 165 “Jedoch Deppe wie Kullak in seiner Scheinästhetik des Klavierspiels, Wieck und alle die anderen sprechen von harmonischem Wirken, von Einheit und sogar von Schönheit des Klavierspiels und wissen nicht, daß sie bloß hohle Worte machen und daß ihre ganze Lehre pseudo-künstlerische ist, weil alle Fingerfertigkeit, alle Zerstücklung nicht nur Oberflächlichkeit sondern etwas Grundfalsches in der 164

69 The harsh, personal edge to Clark’s criticism shows the passion that could be aroused by differing viewpoints on piano playing, and casts light on Engel’s observation of Clark (note 126). Amy Fay issued her summation of Clark as follows: This gentleman . . . went to Europe to study music. According to his own book, he took some lessons of many great masters but discovered that none of them knew as much as he did himself.166 MARTIN KRAUSE (June 17, 1853 – August 2, 1918) Arrau received his closest contact with Liszt’s manner of playing through Martin Krause. Krause was a pupil of Carl Reinecke at the Leipzig Conservatory, and after teaching positions in Montreux, Detmold, and Bremen, he became established teaching in Leipzig. In the 1880s he became a pupil of Liszt, and in 1885 Krause founded the first Liszt Society in Leipzig. As a music critic, he contributed to Berlin publications, the Vossischen Zeitung and Berliner Tageblatt. He also began writing a study of rhythm and phrasing, but he did not finish it.167 In 1899 he joined the Stern Conservatory. Beloved as a teacher, Krause taught on average eighty pupils between the years 1914 and 1918.168 Krause’s obituary in the Allgemeine Musik-Zeitung from October 25, 1918, gives the following account of Liszt Society concerts and illustrates the commitment of Krause and the Society to new music: Two performances of the Liszt Society on the 2 and 20 of September, 1885 were attended by the master himself whom Krause henceforth called only “our president.” In both, Martin Krause performed as soloist and as accompanist to Liszt lieder. The music-historical significance of the concerts of the Liszt Society during its fourteen-year existence rests not least in that through Krause’s authority living composers, known as well Kunsttätigkeit kennzeichnet, und ohne Fingerbewegungen wissen sie alle nicht ein einziges Wort zum Klavierunterricht von irgendwoher zu holen.” Clark, Liszts Offenbarung, 283. 166 Fay, “The Deppe Method Again,” 96. 167 Wolfgang Rathert and Dietmar Schenk, eds., Pianisten in Berlin: Klavierspiel und Klavierausbildung seit dem 19. Jahrhundert (Berlin: Hochschule der Kunst, 1999), 73. 168 Ibid.

70 as unknown, found recognition with greater and lesser works: I mention only a few names here: such as Alexander Ritter, Bruch, Ansorge, Reznicek, Dvorak, Piuttei, Busoni, Bungert, d’Albert, Delibes, Draeseke, Goetz, Grieg, Heuberger, Herzogenberg, Humperdinck, Kahn, Klughardt, Moszkowski, Berger, Scharwenka, Sinding, Sommer, Weingartner, Reisenauer, Zoellner. 169 An inspiring mentor, not only because of his study with Liszt, Krause had heard firsthand the major musical figures of his time, including Johannes Brahms, Clara Schumann, Teresa Carreño, and Ferruccio Busoni. Krause treated Arrau as a member of his own household, providing him with meals, supervising his practice, directing his general education, personally accompanying him to museums, choosing operas for him to hear, and managing his successful career as a prodigy.170 Arrau’s habit of reading, his lifelong interest in art and literature, and his belief that musical interpretation should spring from a wider cultural knowledge and experience, stem in part from his early training with Krause.171 Krause’s obituary contains the following assessment of his teaching: One is inclined to seek the secret of his teaching in pure technique. Or purely tonally: in the building, in the sounding, in the singing of piano tone as the final result of a particular kind of attack. The attack with relaxed muscles of the arms and hands is proclaimed even by others as dogma, and yet [the attack] persists, in its endlessly precise steps, as the problem of all piano technique. Krause mastered the problem with an inimitable spirit of invention and unraveled it with all pupils as no one before. And how was it with tone, with phrasing, with cantilena? Here we come closer to the pedagogical secret of Krausean art. Martin Krause saw the ideal of the teachable piano tone only in a singing tone. He was able to call as his own a wonderful sense of tone, which drove him to research in sound analysis, first of all on tone in singing, always looking for and establishing the parallels with piano tone. Krause had a burning desire for 169

Paul Bruns, “Martin Krause,” Allgemeine Musik-Zeitung, Berlin 45/43 (October 25, 1918): 463. Horowitz, Conversations, 41. 171 Amy Fay told a similar story about Deppe: “Deppe had been training this young English girl, now only eighteen years of age, with the greatest care, for six years, and . . . he had such an interest in her that he did not confine himself to giving her lessons only, but set himself to form her whole musical taste by taking her to the best concerts and to hear the great operas.” Fay, Music Study in Germany, 284. 170

71 beautiful, artistically shaped melodic lines, and a frankly remarkable notion of voicing, a sharp, thoroughly authoritative ability of discernment for natural sounds and for melodic lines shaped and developed in an artistic sense.172 This passage recalls some principles of piano playing that Arrau attributed to Krause.173 Krause pursued the ideal of beautiful, artistically shaped melodic lines, teaching his young pupil to hear polyphonically by instructing him to memorize each individual voice of Bach’s fugues and to transpose the fugues to remote keys. Arrau shared Krause’s interest in the “singing” tone, but went further, stipulating that tone must serve a higher purpose than beauty: it must convey meaning. Tone must be different for every composer. An artist should have the right sound for every composer. . . . Of course the individual interpreter’s tone should vary, but the tone, should not be a conscious preoccupation. Sound should be at the service of interpretation to begin with. Take the trills at the end of Op. 111 of Beethoven. If these trills are played with only a beautiful sound in mind, what have you? But if you have a cosmic vision in mind, all the beauty of sound should be there anyway.174 Arrau credited Krause with teaching the performance of trills and other ornaments in accordance with the style and mood of a piece. Krause was also known for his insights into the music of Beethoven,175 possibly laying a foundation for the 172

“Man ist geneigt, in der reinen Technik das Geheimnis seiner Lehre zu suchen. Oder rein klanglich: im Schwingen, im Klingen, im Singen des Klaviertones als Endergebnis eines besonderen Anschlages. Den Anschlag mit relaxierten Muskeln der Arme und Hände verkünden auch andere als Dogma, und dennoch bleibt er in seinen unendlich feinen Abstufungen das Problem aller Klaviertechnik. Krause meisterte das Problem mit unnachahmlichem Erfindungsgeist und löste es wie niemand zuvor bei allen Schülern. Und wie stand es mit dem Ton, der Phrasierung, der Kantelene? Hier treten wir dem pädagogischen Geheimnis Krausescher Kunst schon näher. Martin Krause sah nur im Gesangston das Ideal des lehrbaren Klaviertones. Er konnte einen wunderbaren Tonsinn sein eigen nennen, der ihn zum klanganalytischen Erforschen zunächst des Gesangstones antrieb, immer die Parallele mit dem Klavierton suchend und begründend. Krause hatte ein brennendes Verlangen nach schönen, kunstgebildeten Stimmen, hatte ein geradezu bewunderungswürdiges Gedächtnis für Stimmklang, ein scharfes, durchaus massgebendes Unterscheidungsvermögen für Naturklänge und im küstlerischen Sinne geformte und entwickelte Stimmen.” Bruns, “Martin Krause,” 463. 173 Horowitz, Conversations, 37-42. 174 Elder, 46. 175 James Methuen-Campbell, “Martin Krause,” The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, eds. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), XIII: 878.

72 importance of Beethoven’s music in Arrau’s repertoire and for Arrau’s development as one of the great interpreters of Beethoven in the twentieth century. Arrau performed complete cycles of the Beethoven Sonatas, first in Mexico City in 1938, later in Buenos Aires, London, and New York.176 His recordings of the sonatas, concertos, and variations and his edition of the thirty-two sonatas are further testimony to the importance of Beethoven in his repertoire.177 Arrau mentioned only the musical instructions that he received from Krause. Though Krause’s obituary states that Krause saw every aspect of piano technique as related to tone production and advocated a relaxed arm and hand, nevertheless Arrau did not mention this or any other elements of technique as coming from Krause. Arrau attributed his technique to his own natural instinct for piano playing brought into the realm of consciousness through a process of analysis, which he described as follows:178 It all became conscious long after Krause died. At first, I played without thinking about technique, because I had this natural gift. Much later, I decided it was better to be conscious of how I played. I put a mirror next to my piano – it must have been when I was eighteen or nineteen. Then I began to notice the rotation, the vibration, the use of arm weight, and so on.179 Perhaps Arrau’s natural gift coincided with a Lisztian or Krausean approach and Krause simply preserved its integrity as Arrau progressed through the advanced repertoire, or perhaps Krause guided and formed Arrau’s technique in ways too subtle to be perceptible to his young pupil. By the time he was eighteen, Arrau may have internalized Krause’s 176

Héctor Vasconcelos, Cuatro aproximaciones al arte de Arrau (Mexico City: DGE Ediciones, 2002), 129, 130. 177 Ludwig van Beethoven, Sonaten für Klavier zu zwei Händen, 2 vols., ed. Claudio Arrau (Frankfurt: C. F. Peters, 1978). 178 Clark reported a similar statement by Liszt, “During my life, I had to learn to do consciously what I first did instinctively.” Clark, Liszts Offenbarung; see also Ott, 45. 179 Horowitz, Conversations, 109.

73 teaching so thoroughly that he could no longer distinguish it as having come from an external source. Unfortunately, Krause left no writings about piano playing, and there are no known written accounts of Krause’s teaching. Therefore, specific elements common among Krause’s principles and those of Arrau or Liszt cannot be determined. It is clear from Arrau’s statement above that Arrau viewed the use of natural arm weight and specific arm movements as primary features of his technique. While it is possible that these stemmed from his natural gift for the piano, it is also significant that Arrau was personally acquainted with Rudolf Breithaupt, the most influential German proponent of arm-weight technique. RUDOLF BREITHAUPT (1873-1945) Rudolf Breithaupt, like Martin Krause, studied piano at the Leipzig Conservatory and went on to teach at the Stern Conservatory in Berlin. His theories about piano technique were influenced by those of Deppe and Steinhausen, and by the playing of Teresa Carreño; furthermore, he claimed that Liszt, Eugen d’Albert, Anton Rubinstein, Josef Hofmann, Leopold Godowsky, and Harold Bauer used weight technique to some degree.180 Breithaupt’s instructional books include the three-volume Die natürliche Klaviertechnik (The Natural Piano-Technic, 1906-22): I. Handbuch der modernen Methodik und Spielpraxis; II. Die Grundlagen des Gewichtspiels (School of WeightTouch); III Praktische Studien (the latter volume was organized in five parts: 1. Längschwung (Hoch- und Tiefschwung); 2. Rollschwung und Kriesung; 3. Gleitung und Vibrato; 4. Fingerschwung; 5. Druckspiel).181 Arrau was familiar with

180

Gerig, Famous Pianists and Their Technique, 330. Rudolph Breithaupt, Die natürliche Klaviertechnik (Leipzig: C. F. Kahnt, 1906-22). Only volume II appeared in an English translation. 181

74 Breithaupt’s writings. Both Breithaupt and Arrau taught at the Stern Conservatory during the time Arrau was identifying his own approach to technique. Arrau recalled: One of the first people to write about it [weight technique] was Rudolf Breithaupt, who taught at the Stern Conservatory in Berlin. I remember he once asked me to play for him, and while I was playing he began saying, “Yes, yes, yes! Exactly right!” … His books were widely read for at least twenty years. But nobody seems to remember them anymore.182 Breithaupt’s work contains photographs and detailed descriptions, instructions, and exercises for developing a strong hand position to support arm weight, for the transfer of weight from finger to finger, for using the swing (or motion) of the whole arm, for flexibility of the wrist, to develop forearm rotation or lateral movements, and for achieving what Breithaupt calls free “oscillation” of the fingers. His work was based on the then radical belief that proper use of the arm, not the action of the fingers, is the first task in piano instruction: As the swinging motion of the arm is the principal function of technic, the weight projected from the shoulder, the brachial mass itself, is the source of all simple energy . . . . Active strength of the fingers --- active strength of the wrist are erroneous, misleading ideas, for which we substitute those of natural and efficacious energy: energy of the shoulder, of the muscles of the upper-arm, and the weight of the whole arm [emphasis Breithaupt’s].183 The function of the fingers was mainly to support and transfer the weight of the arm. While other pedagogues directed their attention first and foremost to the development of the fingers, and only in the latter stages of their work devoted a few remarks to the uses of the arm, Breithaupt reversed this procedure, devoting the bulk of his work to uses of the arm and only three pages to the action of the fingers. Breithaupt 182

Horowitz, Conversations, 109-10.

75 proposed a newly ordered pedagogical system free of exercises to develop finger strength and striking power and finger independence and equalization: . . . contrary to the old style of beginning with the active raising of the fingers (a perfectly wrong conception), that exercise (raising the fingers) must not be taken up until after studying the free descent of the weighted arm upon the set, not upon the raised, passive fingers; as first of all, arm and hand must be taught to remain supple and loose and learn how to assume and transfer the weight . . . .184 Rather than concentrate effort upon strength and a forced adaptation to the technical demands of music acquired through repetitious practice and exercise, Breithaupt strove for the economical and informed use of the body’s natural resources. In place of tension, he sought to develop relaxation: “The normal state of muscular relaxation, i. e., the natural equilibrium between a momentary tension and relaxation, constitutes the supreme advantage and benefit of a natural, free automatic technic.”185 In place of athletic muscular strength, Breithaupt sought to utilize natural arm weight mediated by various types of arm movement. Freedom of movement was therefore crucial and depended upon freedom of the joints. The removal of the impediments in the joints, of itself, brings about the correct action of the muscles, or muscular system. Therefore, we must direct our chief attention: to the loosening of the joints. Viewed thus, piano playing is a display of joint-action, not one of muscular action in the sense of acrobatic feats.”186

183

Rudolf Breithaupt, Natural Piano-Technic II: School of Weight-Touch, trans. John Bernhoff (Leipzig: C. F. Kahnt, 1909), 23-24. 184 Ibid., 55. 185 Ibid., 23-24. 186 Ibid., 92. This statement closely resembles Arrau’s statement that the most important consideration in piano technique is the relaxation of the joints. See ch. 2, p. 86.

76 Breithaupt’s work begins with the development of the “. . . hand bridge, on which the arm rests like the superstructure of a bridge on its arches and pillars.”187 This arched hand position with slightly elongated fingers and raised wrist aimed at alignment and balance of the bone structure of the hand and arm.188 With the basic hand position in place, the “full-weighted arm” is to rest on each of the fingers in turn (beginning with the third finger), with the wrist high and each finger standing perpendicular on a black key.189 After pointing out the difference between carrying the weight of the arm by the fingertip (“passive” bearing, or “relaxation”) and carrying it by the shoulder (“active” bearing, noting that here the weight of the action should carry the key and the finger back up), Breithaupt offers as an exercise the sequence, “fall of the weight – relaxation – rising with the key.” Notwithstanding some ambiguous use of the word “relaxation,” the main issue here is controlling the weight of the arm so that it rests either on the finger or the shoulder.190 Breithaupt points out the importance of the knuckle joint in making the fingers, especially the fifth finger, capable of supporting arm weight; and while admitting that the firm rounded fingertip is preferable, he defends the flat-fingered approach noting that “Liszt and Chopin almost

187

Ibid., 8. While the hand position must not be rigidly maintained, Breithaupt recommended developing a position where the fingers are “straightened out or slightly curved, the knuckle-joints protruding and forming humps Thus posed, the fingers become ‘stilts,’ or ‘props’ supporting the weight borne by the palm of the hand, arched to form a bridge.” Such specific instructions notwithstanding, Breithaupt recognized that hand position should be both changeable and ultimately determined by the physical sensation of supporting the arm: “Later on . . . the hand may do as it likes, provided the supports are strong enough and the tone be located in the bones (the knuckles).” Ibid. 189 Ibid., 13-15. 190 He seems to use “relaxation” in two senses: (1) as the relaxation of the shoulder muscles allowing the weight of the arm to be borne by the fingers; (2) the resumption of weight bearing by the shoulder that allows the key to carry the finger back up. To confuse the issue even further, he adds, “Having succeeded in this, leave the (finger) hand on the key and let the descent be followed by instant relaxation. The best way to do this is to relax the arch-set hand and slacken all its muscles: the hand, becoming soft and pliable, rests with only as much pressure on the key as is required to keep it down and sustain the tone.” Ibid., 17. 188

77 constantly played with a more or less flat touch and with the first joints bent in, as the case required and as the execution suited the fingers.”191 Later on in his discussion, Breithaupt points out that controlling how much weight is borne by the finger and by the shoulder is the key to controlling dynamics. All forms and manner of percussion (touch), without exception, differ only in intensity, i.e. in the force applied in the percussion (touch), which again results from the product of rapidity and weight . . . all tonal effect corresponds to a certain degree of dynamic intensity. Generally speaking, the modulatory capacity of the tone is determined by the grades of touch proceeding from the discharged arm up to the weighted arm.”192 In other words, weighting the arm heavily in loud tones and lightly in soft replaces striking power of the fingers as the source of dynamic control. Next, Breithaupt recommends playing the C-major scale, supporting the arm weight on the third finger alone, “swinging” the arm off of each key and dropping it on the next. Each finger is to take this exercise in turn, the main criteria being the use of the full weight of the relaxed arm, avoidance of extraneous or exaggerated movement, and immediate release following key descent.193 Breithaupt identified two basic types of arm motion used to mediate arm weight: vertical motions (up and down), and rotary motion (rotation, side to side). Vertical motions include the “low fall,” the “high fall,” and “forearm extension.” For the low fall, the arm is dropped from above the keys and, as the fingers catch the keys, the hand sinks below the keys, the wrist bending passively. The high fall reverses this movement, beginning with the sunken wrist, projecting the hand and wrist upward and the finger 191

Ibid., 15. Ibid., 65. 193 “That the descent be followed instantaneously by the discharge of the weight and the relaxation of the joints, so that the arm shall hang suspended, with joints and muscles relaxed, the hand yielding to its own 192

downward into the key, by extending the forearm forward and upward.194 The high and

78

low fall lead to a discussion of one of their constituent movements, “forearm extension” or a straightening of the elbow that causes the wrist to bend passively, either upward or downward. Put more simply, forearm extension is the source of “up and down” arm movements that facilitate the passing under of the thumb in scales and arpeggios; broken octaves, broken chord figures, staccato thirds, sixths, octaves, and chords; combining with rotation to give dynamic power and shaping to passagework.195 Accelerated vertical movement of the arm results in “arm vibration.” Breithaupt’s second type of arm motion, rotation, rotary or side-to-side motion (“Rollung”), is described as a turning outward (supination) and inward (pronation) of the forearm with the hand passively following the movement. Breithaupt writes, it is “not generated in the wrist (as is maintained by the old methods), but in the cubital [elbow] joint.”196 The function of rotation is to transfer arm weight between the two fingers and Breithaupt recommended it for playing trills, broken thirds, sixths, octaves and chords, scales and arpeggios, tremolos, and many common accompaniment patterns.197 Vibration may be produced either by vertical movement, a “free vibration of the arm relaxed in all its joints,” with the hand supported by the keys rising and falling with them,198 or by rotary action or forearm rotation, a “rolling-vibrato or shaking, as the

weight, and giving to the action of the wrist.” Ibid., 14. Breithaupt’s procedure resembles that of German Diez in practicing “drops” (see ch. 5, p. 180). 194 Ibid., 20. The low and high fall resemble Arrau’s techniques of dropping the weight and pushing the weight. See ch. 2, p. 107-8. 195 Ibid., 25-28. 196 Ibid., 32. Arrau’s rotation is from the shoulder socket and involves the upper arm as well as the forearm. 197 Ibid. 198 Ibid., 28.

79 effects thus obtained appear to be shaken out of the arm or out of the sleeves.”199 Vertical arm vibration, or “the extension of the fore-arm and hand worked up to a vibrato, is the action producing . . . the so-called ‘lightning octaves’ with the greatest velocity in the fastest tempo. This [extension of the forearm and hand] is the key to the passive action and absolute relaxation in wrist-vibrato, a key which we are the first to discover.”200 Passages in which vibration is useful or advisable include those containing fast passages in octaves, chords, and double notes. Among these, Breithaupt cites the Sonetto 104 del Petrarca, m. 46, with Liszt’s performance direction “vibrato.” Based on this example, Breithaupt thus takes vibrato as a Lisztian technique. Breithaupt recommends rotary vibration for trills and tremolos; and where great power is needed, the rotation is carried out by the upper arm: “The arms are set firmly upon the keyboard on erected hands, the elbows slightly turned outwards and the tremoli, shaken chords and double trills are executed with all the muscular power of the shoulder, assisted by a rolling of the upper and fore-arm swinging far out.”201 Here Breithaupt specifically mentions the upper arm for the first time, although one might speculate that, throughout his writing, Breithaupt takes the whole arm as an inseparable unit. A combination of forearm rotation and forearm extension (up and down movement) is used to facilitate the passing over and under of the thumb in scales and arpeggios.202 Combining rotation of the forearm and upper arm produces curved or circular arm motions useful in broken or arpeggiated chord passages and in negotiating

199

Ibid., 32. Ena Bronstein-Barton uses exactly this expression, “shake it out of your sleeves.” Ibid., 28. José Aldaz recalls learning this type of vibration from Arrau. 201 Ibid., 33. 202 Ibid., 36-47. 200

large skips. 203 Breithaupt does not explain what he means by “upper arm-rolling,” but

80

one may guess that it involves turning the whole arm from the shoulder socket, as this movement is a component of the circular arm motions Breithaupt describes. Moreover, one might argue that Breithaupt’s forearm rotation must include rotation in the upper arm because his illustration of pronation 204 shows the hand turned so far that the fifth finger side of the hand points straight upward. This is possible only by turning the upper arm from the shoulder and, therefore, it is questionable whether Breithaupt truly meant rotation to be performed by the forearm alone. Breithaupt considers upper arm and forearm rotation necessary for legato because rotation is a means of deploying weight to regulate the dynamic equality of the tones. Real legato . . . depends upon the equality and the purling, smooth flow of the series of tones to be played, and is obtained with the aid of . . . the rotary action of upper and fore-arm, combined with the extension of upper- and fore-arm.205 Staccato is also a matter of weight and of rebounding from the keys rather than an active and isolated movement of the hand or fingers. In his discussion of staccato, Breithaupt correctly described the passive role of the wrist: In ordinary staccato, with the natural rebound of the whole arm, as one mass, released, neither hand nor finger participates actively in the movement: With this fact falls the old-style wrist-technic. . . . The hand rebounds, trembles, shakes, because the whole arm is set vibrating. An isolated motion of the hand in the wrist-joint does not take place. . . . Staccato is not the result of wrist-action, but of the whole arm oscillating in its three principal joints. . . . When we speak of finger-staccato . . . we refer to the . . . free-descending fingers followed instantly by the weight of the rebounding hand.206

203

Ibid., 47-48 Figure Xa, ibid., 31. 205 Ibid., 50. 206 Ibid., 52. 204

81 Having completed his discussion of arm-weight techniques, Breithaupt goes on to describe the active role of the fingers in combination with arm weight: beginning with the weighted arm resting on the third finger, each finger rises (straightens out) in turn and descends on a key; simultaneously the entire weight of the arm shifts to the descended finger. Breithaupt cautions against curved fingers, instead describing fingers that are repeatedly curving with flexion and extension. It is wrong to start training the fingers from a strictly curved position. A free, natural style of movement or action can only be acquired from a free, natural pose . . . of the hand, and from a natural curve of the naturally straightened fingers. Long, flexible fingers having the natural swing in extension and flexion may with impunity be “curved” in playing, but not the other way about.207 Any active tension of the fingers in the shape of the cock of a gun or pistol which still haunts the minds of master and pupil . . . is prohibited, as infringing the law of friction, for, besides the loss of time, waste of energy and the wrong and pernicious muscular exertion which results, the realization of the most important feature of the whole movement is rendered impossible, viz., the free, loose swing of the fingers and the unimpeded descent of the weighted brachial mass. The tension must only be a momentary one, like that of the bow-string.208 Breithaupt further stipulates that as soon as each finger sounds a tone, all weight except the small amount necessary to keep the key depressed must be released at once. “The whole secret of finger-action consists in instantly relaxing hand and finger, i.e. releasing them of any exaggerated pressure, tension, etc., the moment the tone is sounded.”209 Breithaupt analyses the imperatives and styles of touch as follows: when greater power is needed, raise the arm higher in the shoulder or descend with greater speed; finger action with arm weight always produces non-legato; legato can be obtained only

207

Ibid., 55. Ibid. 209 Ibid. 208

82 by keeping the fingers on the surface of the keys and allowing them to press down only softly; staccato is produced by the sudden rebound of the playing mass; allowing the fingers to tap the surface of the keys vigorously in playing produces “con bravura” style; allowing the weight of the hand to fall lightly into the key on firmly set fingers, without raising the fingers but letting them rest on the keys, weighting the keys as little as possible, produces jeu perlé; swinging the fingers, letting them descend and rebound with the rapidity of drumsticks, produces leggiero, leggieremente, leggierissimo. The correspondence between Breithaupt’s writing and the important elements in Arrau’s technique is striking: the vertical use of arm weight utilizing the energy in both downward and upward (high fall and low fall) directions, rotation, vibration, circular motions, and the use of the whole arm. Arrau’s language concerning the relaxation of the joints is identical with Breithaupt’s. Even some details such as his fingering in the Coda to the “Preambule” movement of the Carnaval 210 and the circular movement in Chopin’s Prelude Op. 23 no. 19 211 correspond with Breithaupt’s examples. Yet, Arrau expressed reservations about Breithaupt’s work: There was one fundamental problem in his teaching – he only taught arm weight. His pupils didn’t develop their finger technique at all. Not Carreño, of course – she knew better. . . . She studied with Breithaupt when she was, I think, about forty-five. Before that she had been playing in the French way – with jeu perlé, and a stiff hand. She didn’t have any 210

Example 94. Ibid., 71. At the concluding Presto (mm. 114-19). In a performance of the Carnaval filmed in London on June 19, 1961, Arrau achieved the disconnection and force for the passage by playing every note of the melody with his third finger, the same fingering as in Breithaupt’s example. Claudio Arrau, Schumann Piano Concerto in A minor, Carnaval Op. 9, Beethoven Piano Sonata No. 32 in C minor, DVD recording (EMI Classics, 2002). 211 Ena Bronstein-Barton tells the following story about this prelude: “I was working on the Chopin Preludes . . . [Arrau] had come for some concerts and I said I have questions, and he said do you have time to come with me to the airport, I said sure, so I got the score and we got in the cab and we just went through each one. . . . There was one example . . . the E-flat prelude . . . I said, ‘I just can’t reach this way, with my thumb going out and down,’ and he said, ‘but my dear it is so much easier to go the other way,’ and he solved my problem right then and there.” Ena Bronstein, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.

83 power. Then she changed completely. I remember Carreño as a perfect example of natural weight technique.212 It is true that the major portion of Breithaupt’s writing deals with arm-weight techniques; however, Breithaupt contradicts his critics by explicitly stating that his work should not be interpreted as a disavowal of finger technique: The pupil must not, however, gather from the above that finger-exercises are henceforth to be done away with. The contrast between finger-action and weight-produced touch (weight-technic) owes its origin to a perfectly wrong conception of matters. We have to choose between: Finger-action without weight, which is altogether wrong, as it tires the fingers, and Finger-action with weight, which is the only correct action [Breithaupt’s emphasis].213 Thus, Breithaupt confronts the dualism of finger technique versus arm-weight technique sketched out at the beginning of this chapter. While he does not credit this dualism with legitimacy, Breithaupt’s defensive stance in opposition to it is evidence for its existence and potency throughout the nineteenth century. If it were true that the technical side of playing the piano is merely a question of working a set of levers efficiently, the conflict between finger technique and arm-weight technique might quickly be resolved, either empirically or logically as Breithaupt suggests. However, this conflict remained unresolved throughout the twentieth century, because, as the foregoing discussion shows, far from being mere mechanical efficiency, technique is inextricably bound to ideological and musical issues. Arrau grew up in a pianistic climate shaped by this dualism and found his place as a proponent of arm techniques. He inherited his approach through Krause. His

212

Horowitz, Conversations, 109-10. Breithaupt gave credit to Carreño for the “first suggestion of weight” and he dedicated The School of Weight-Touch to her. Gerig, Famous Pianists and Their Technique, 330. 213 Breithaupt, School of Weight-Touch, 56.

84 acquaintance with Breithaupt’s writings was a direct influence in which the language used by Arrau to describe the elements of his technique can be seen. As the writings of Caland and Clark show, the arm-weight technique that Arrau inherited carried other concepts with it such as physical relaxation, the codification of technique as a set of bodily movements, the principle of beauty and economy in movement, an analogy between physical movement and musical form, and the unity of bodily movement with musical expression. These concepts reach back to Czerny’s notion of the creative power of performance, aided by technical advancement, to give musical works “an intrinsic value, which they could not otherwise lay claim to,” and to Liszt’s belief that virtuosity, the “breath” that determines “the life or death of a work of art,” was like composition itself in requiring “intensity of feeling, and finding the corresponding form that is easily communicated to others.” In his teaching, Arrau took on the cultural work of passing on an approach that embodied and expanded these principles.

85 TWO THE ARRAU TECHNIQUE RELAXATION Arrau expressed his technical ideas not in terms of the various musical or figural elements to be mastered such as scales, arpeggios, octaves, and the like, but primarily in terms of bodily sensations and movements. German Diez, who learned much of Arrau’s technique from Arrau himself,1 recalls his surprise at encountering this approach for the first time: Although when I came to Arrau I had quite a good knowledge of many things, he clarified a lot of things in a very simple way. That’s the first thing he said: “The technique is very simple!” which I couldn’t believe when he said that. I said, “My God, what does he mean?” He said, “You just have to move correctly and you have only three types of movement in your body, the circular or the rotation, gravity of dropping, and adding the weight to the keys [Diez pantomime of this last motion is of pushing weight up and out of the keys].”2 This is not to say that the musical elements were of no concern, but that a player experiences them internally as bodily sensations rather than externally as elements of musical structure. Mastering a passage involved learning to use movements in accordance with natural principles of body mechanics that were identifiable and controllable through bodily sensation. Arrau made it clear that, just as technique and expression are inseparable, bodily movement is inseparable from the spiritual experience of playing: By really using the body in a natural way one moves toward achieving a unity of the body with the psyche – body and soul. There is actually no division between the two. If you approach practice relaxedly and feel your 1

Most Arrau pupils report that Arrau’s assistant, Rafael de Silva, taught the elements of technique, leaving Arrau free to discuss musical interpretation. However, Diez began lessons in 1945, before Arrau’s performing career demanded extended periods of travel, so Diez began lessons with Arrau himself and learned much technique from him rather than from de Silva. German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005. 2 Ibid.

86 body as a whole and feel the unity of the instrument with your body this works back on the psyche and awakens a tremendous number of creative sources.3 Arrau’s choice of the words “psyche” and “body and soul” aimed not only at volitional and intellectual faculties involved in perceiving, remembering, evaluating, and deciding, but also at the emotional and unconscious elements directing inner experiences such as feeling, imagination, inspiration. They are emblematic of the integrated whole (psyche) formed by technique (body) and expression (soul). Thus, Arrau conceived of artistic playing as a continuum of the piano, the body, and all psychic processes. Physical relaxation released the powers of body and mind, enabling them to merge in musical performance. Using language similar to Breithaupt’s, Arrau explained relaxation as avoidance of stiffening within the joints that impair the body’s ability to move freely. Freedom of motion would allow the realization of the musical impulse, the transmission of musical intentions through the body to the keyboard. The freer the body, the more the piano would be experienced as an extension of the player’s body, converting musical impulses into sound. By using the words “emotional physical current” to stand for the musical impulse, Arrau likened it to the electrical impulses that stimulate the muscles into action while stressing the importance of experiencing mind and body as an integrated whole: The most important thing . . . seems to be the relaxation of all the joints, all of the muscles, never to strike the keys. If you keep the body relaxed, the body is in contact with the depths of your soul. If you are stiff in any joint you impede the emotional physical current of what the music itself dictates to you. You don’t let it go through to the keyboard.4

3

Claudio Arrau and Hilde Somer, “Two Artists Talk,” The Piano Quarterly 83 (Fall, 1973): 13. Interview with Arrau by Martin Bookspan, in Claudio Arrau, The 80th Birthday Recital (West Long Beach, N. J.: Kultur, 1983, 1987).

4

87 Although speaking of relaxation of the joints is a misnomer, Arrau was nevertheless attempting to give sharper definition to his concept of relaxation. Just as joints are fixed by the simultaneous contraction of opposing muscles, relaxation of the joints avoids the isometric working of opposing muscles. Thus, relaxation did not mean the absence of physical effort, but coordinating the work of the muscles so that they did not impede one another or the body’s ability to move freely. Arrau saw this type of relaxation as the means to gain two objectives: 1) producing a full, rounded tone without harshness, but also with great power, flexibility, and expressiveness; 2) locating an emotional and physical response to music within the body and releasing it. In teaching relaxation, Arrau focused his attention on free movement of arms and wrists, controlling the release of muscles used to hold the arms up while feeling the sensation of gravity pulling them down, and the connection between bodily responses to music and the sounds that conveyed those responses. Ena Bronstein described working with Arrau to find the right tone and to cultivate this bodily response to music, getting it to flow through the arms and fingers to the piano: The tone quality . . . comes from inside, it doesn’t even come from the arms, it doesn’t come from dropping in the arms; it comes from your breathing, through the arms . . . . So it gives an ease and freedom. And that’s where the sound comes from, it comes from inside. And it’s never here [indicates the forearm]; it doesn’t come from the wrist, it doesn’t come from the elbow, it doesn’t come from the shoulder. The machine is here in the upper arm. But it’s not this [meaning the sound does not originate in the upper arm; she lifts both arms]. I’m now lifting my arms, you know, disembodied. I’m not connected with my body. You see the difference? [She lifts her arms again while breathing in]. That’s where the sound comes from. That’s what we worked on.5

5

Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.

88 The goal of relaxation, therefore, was not only ease of playing, making the arms, hands, and fingers respond efficiently and easily, but accessing and releasing the inner source of musical feeling through a physical sensation, or, in Arrau’s words, an “emotional physical current.” Unrelieved tension and contraction in the muscles causes not only fatigue but loss of physical sensation, robbing the player of information necessary for control and expressiveness. Relaxation facilitates both the free flow of expressive impulses from the body to the keyboard and reactive impulses from the keyboard back to the body. These reactive impulses give the player the necessary feedback to identify actions and their resulting physical sensations. By internalizing associations between qualities of sound and particular physical motions and sensations, a player develops the ability to recreate the desired sounds at will by invoking their physical motions and sensations. The player who cannot feel these bodily sensations because of tension cannot learn, internalize, or reproduce them and, therefore, cannot control and shape the sound. Blockage in bodily sensation impairs muscle memory, note accuracy, and control of tone color. The inner musical response is blocked both by lack of a playing “mechanism” properly trained to transmit it and by mental preoccupation with pain and paralysis. By contrast, proper relaxation allows bodily sensations to be properly felt, learned, and controlled so that they can become part of musical expression in performance. Arrau sought to teach a proper understanding of relaxation and how to achieve and maintain it during performance, an activity demanding physical strength, endurance, and emotional tension. This meant prompting students with actions and words to feel the exertion of the right muscles in a given passage and the relaxation of the muscles immediately when their task was complete, thus keeping opposing sets of muscles from

89 working against each other. Ena Bronstein-Barton describes this as a mixture of tension and relaxation: Relaxation, you mustn’t be stiff here [forearm], you mustn’t be tense. But the interesting thing is the mixture of tension and relaxation, which you must combine all the time. You can’t be one hundred percent relaxed and do something -- not only piano playing. So the thing is, to know how to combine this always. And the problem with music is you’re expressing tension. But that is musical tension, because when you are playing something that is full of tension, to be relaxed is difficult.6 Relaxation, then, took on an aspect of positive action grounded in knowledge rather than an attempt to achieve limpness or inaction. This meant knowing where action had to be focused, understanding how all parts of the playing apparatus supported this action, and being able to stop the action when it was no longer needed. Ena BronsteinBarton describes the sensation of this kind of relaxation: Relaxation is hard to use because what does it mean? It doesn’t mean you can go limp. I don’t find myself using the word relaxation very much because I don’t find it very helpful. . . . It’s better to think about something to do than something not to do. . . . Relaxation is not a matter of going limp and going to sleep. Also, you want to be clear. Arrau’s playing is very clean, it’s very clear. What it is not, it’s not harsh, it’s not tense. It has life in it. So . . . instead of saying “relaxed,” sometimes I say: There has to be nothing in your arms, no bones, no muscles, nothing. It’s empty like a sack. You’re moving from here [she points to the shoulder or deltoid muscle] and directing it to the fingertip. But all of this [she points to the whole length of the arm] is very flexible. And sometimes you want a little focus to something, . . . not always relaxed -whatever the music calls for. But physically we do not want to have tension in the joints and hold onto things. . . . Arrau used the word relaxation.7 This statement illustrates an approach to relaxation through motion. Tension occurs when opposing muscles fix a joint; therefore, purposely moving the limb below that joint serves to free the opposing muscles, making them work one at a time in a

6 7

Ibid. Ibid.

90 coordinated manner. Therefore, thinking about relaxation in terms of “something to do” -i.e., freely moving in a particular joint -- will promote relaxation that in turn enables freedom of movement without devolving into limpness. Combining the use of an image, the empty arm,8 with more specific instructions to direct movement from the shoulder into the fingertip, activates muscles in the shoulders while creating a sense of looseness in the arm. From this, Bronstein-Barton proceeds to the connection between the physical and the spiritual: Because the body is being used in such a relaxed manner, things can flow, they don’t get stuck. So part of his [Arrau’s] technique is not just to make things easy, or to make things bigger or smaller, or even to make a nicer sound here or there, it is to permit the flow of the music. Because music is a spiritual experience, it’s not a mechanical experience, so keeping the body relaxed and receptive or empty, you are able to realize this and to physically communicate with the instrument and have it come out. That’s partly the philosophy of the technique. It’s not just the mechanics, not just the fingering, not just to make it happen, but it’s to make it so your art, your artistic experience can come out.9 The practical use of this image of the empty arm is to replace the idea of effort with that of ease of motion. Imagining the body as an empty passageway through which music can flow turns the focus away from muscular exercise; it opens a path to listening, experimentation, and sensation. Although muscular exercise may build more strength, in performance it invites the risk of muscular spasm and loss of sensation. Simply possessing more strength does not automatically result in more endurance and skill in playing. A physically stronger player can maintain tension longer and more powerfully, compounding the fatigue, making playing ultimately more difficult, causing the musical

8

Bronstein-Barton took the image of the empty limb directly from Arrau and de Silva. She stated, “I’ve been studying Tai Chi for several years, which Rafael did too; that’s where I first heard about it. And Arrau did for a while. I don’t know if he went on with it, but they used the example of the empty limb.” Ibid. 9 Ibid.

91 flow to “get stuck.” A player must learn to deploy strength and balance exertion with proper relaxation, or, as Bronstein-Barton puts it, to play with a “mixture of tension and relaxation.” Coincidentally, the imagery of an “empty arm” also resonates with a principle articulated by Arrau of absolute fidelity to the musical score, by which the performer assumes the role of serving the music and the intentions of a composer. To “empty” the body in order to attain a spiritual experience of music is symbolic of this role. The empty body lacks autonomous potential, feeling, and intention, until it is filled with music and with the motions of musical gesture. With such imagery to shape a player’s experience, an otherwise neutral process of physical training becomes permeated with a musical ethic. Thus, Arrau’s articulation of a concept of relaxation as a preparation for building technique prepared the way for not only a “triumphant victory over the mechanic” but the physical enactment of a spiritual experience of music. THE ELEMENTS OF TECHNIQUE When asked in an interview about his teaching,10 Arrau identified the elements of his technique as: 1) use of arm and shoulder weight; 2) rotation; 3) finger action 4) various combinations of the first three elements; 5) pushing up from the wrist for chords and accented notes;11 5) vibration with a high wrist. Arrau did not attribute these technical ideas to his teacher, Martin Krause, but to his natural endowment as a child prodigy. It was after Krause’s death that he undertook the transformation of his 10

Dean Elder, Pianists at Play (Evanston, Ill.: The Instrumentalist, 1982), 38. Regarding this point German Diez recalls: “He [Arrau] always said to go ‘up’ to add the weight to the fourth and fifth finger because they are shorter - to add to the weight by raising the wrist, not by raising the wrist [actively], but the wrist has to go up to reach there. Otherwise it reaches down [Diez is describing

11

92 technique from instinctual behavior into a body of knowledge that he could apply consciously, and this process represented part of his transition from child prodigy to mature musician.12 Weight technique, as a corollary to the concept of relaxation, was not original with or exclusive to Arrau; it was part of the legacy of nineteenth-century piano playing that he inherited. While Arrau believed that his use of weight technique sprang from his natural affinity for piano playing, he nevertheless was aware of the currency of this idea in the late nineteenth century, and he cited Carreño and Rudolf Breithaupt among his early influences that corroborated this way of playing. However, Arrau did not conceive of arm weight and finger technique as opposites but as complementary features of coordinated movement. USE OF THE FINGERS Discussing the use of the fingers separately from the use of the arm is misleading because in Arrau’s technique the work of fingers is bound up inextricably with the support and transference of arm weight. The fingers support the weight of the arm upon reaching the key bed, and they act as extensions of the arm, connecting the weight of the arm to the keyboard. Arrau referred to this as the “stand in the keys”13 and he helped students develop it through practicing “drops from high in the air onto the first joint, especially onto the black keys.” Arrau also recommended practicing a high finger action in a manner reminiscent of the older style of playing advocated in the German conservatories of the late

passive wrist movement; that is, when the arm pushes forward, the wrist has to give, and in doing so, it must move either up or down]. German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005. 12 See ch. 1, p. 72. 13 Mary Weaver, “Interview with Claudio Arrau,” Piano Quarterly 42 (Winter, 1962-63):22.

93

nineteenth century; however, he did not exclude participation of the arm as the older pedagogues did: Having strong fingers is the sine qua non; if you don’t have strong fingers, you can’t have the use of the whole arm. To develop finger action, lift the fingers as high as you he can, then strike immediately down on the key, taking the arm along and relaxing afterwards. I start students very slowly, of course.14 Arrau advised this practice to develop finger action, but not as a performance technique. German Diez remembers Arrau’s teaching of this point and he explains it thus: Arrau recommended sometimes to go very high with the finger and that’s one thing he explained to get the strength of the finger, but in my opinion, that’s the way he thought about it, but that’s not really the truth. The truth is, you put more arm into it, to raise the finger and sink it down with the whole arm [here, Diez demonstrated what Arrau meant by “taking the arm along and relaxing afterwards”; he raised his slightly bent finger high from the knuckle, and as he lowered it downward again, his arm followed behind it in a gesture of pushing forward with the wrist rising upward]. You learn to incorporate the shoulder all the way to the finger.15 Thus, according to Diez, what Arrau meant when he spoke of lifting the fingers high was a movement of the finger from the knuckle joint that was part of a coordinated movement of the upper arm, forearm, wrist, hand, and finger. However, Diez also recalls that in his first lessons with Arrau, Arrau instructed, “Don’t move the fingers.”16 This reflected a concern for attending first to the behavior of the arm as well as a belief that

14

Elder, Pianists at Play, 38. German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005. 16 German Diez, interview in New York City, July 15, 2002. 15

94 the fingers should remain close to the keys or in contact with them.17 German Diez explains the objection to high finger action: When all of the [parts] of the body are at rest, they are in the middle of the [range of] movement. Any movement away from that center [that is, from that center away from the body] begins to lose strength. Any movement coming from the center [toward the body] is stronger. So then it’s obvious: if you lift the finger, you’re making it weaker. And this induces all sorts of tension because you are using a muscle in a condition that it doesn’t want to do it. There are some fallacies in the technique in that sense: you develop the strength of the fingers by lifting the fingers! Nonsense! The fingers are very strong! The way you develop the strength of the fingers is by squeezing, because it’s from that point in that it gets stronger, not from that point out. All that [lifting the fingers] does is create tension.18 Arrau’s approach contrasts with that of Kullak, Lebert and Stark, and their followers who recommended developing finger strength through high finger motion without any participation of the arm whatsoever. Arrau described the procedure he followed with pupils: I never let pupils use the fingers alone. I always ask them to use the whole arm with the fingers. I start first with the big arm movements, just lifting the whole weight of the arms and dropping the arms onto the keys. Raise the arm high, let the entire weight of the arm fall on a very firm finger, on a black key, for example. Most pupils cannot do it. Free falling of the entire weight of the arm should be the most natural thing. But pupils keep the upper arm and shoulder tight. The shoulder should be entirely relaxed and used – if you want a greater forte, use the weight of your shoulders as well as the weight of your arm.19

17

Ortmann’s remarks in this regard are of interest: “Most movements in piano technique . . . are reciprocal motions, movements in opposite directions. One direction produces tone, the other serves merely as the spatial preparation of the next tone-production. Finger lift, for example, is in itself useless for toneproduction; its use lies in the preparation which it gives to the next finger-descent, the actual toneproducing stroke. Arm lift is useful only because it enables us to follow it with an appropriate arm-descent. Finger-lift and arm-lift, therefore, may be considered the negative movements, finger-descent and armdescent, the positive movements.” Otto Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique (London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1929; New York: E. P. Dutton, 1962; repr. New York: Da Capo, 1981), 95-96. It seems that in terms of economy of motion, the challenge lies in achieving the maximum toneproducing benefit from the positive movements while minimizing the negative movements. 18 German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005. 19 Elder, Pianists at Play, 38.

95 A “very firm” finger is not a stiff finger. The fingers can be made firm by a pulling motion timed to catch the weight of the arm in the key bed with the finger in a position of alignment. The lower joints of the finger draw inward slightly, pulling the finger inward toward the palm. This drawing-in motion of the fingers is sometimes barely visible because it is stopped by contact with the key bed. German Diez describes this behavior of the fingers, becoming firm when approaching the key bed, as instinctive in the same way that the legs instinctively prepare to support the weight of the body when walking: It does it automatically. The children go like this: they get a very firm finger the minute the arm is resting on the finger. The intuition works. That I learned from a psychiatrist. This is intuition! Intuition takes over like I said. You don’t think about it when you are walking. The minute you put the weight on your foot, your leg gets firm. If your knee buckles, you’ll fall and you know that. But you’re not thinking about it. You’re thinking about comfort. When you think about comfort, the body takes over. When you do the thing comfortably, it works. The animals . . . do everything comfortably. They have good coordination because they use intuition.20 Stiffness in the fingers is avoided by withdrawing most of the weight as soon as the sound is produced and suspending it above the keys, supported by the muscles of the upper arm. There is also a mechanical impetus for this since impact with the key bed causes an instant upward reaction, a rebound of weight away from the keys, which must be taken as a signal to relax the flexor muscles that pull the fingers. After the tone has been produced, the fingers should remain resting in the key bed with only the light arm weight necessary to keep the keys from rising back up again. As Diez explains, The finger, when it works, the minute you hit the sound, it should stop. And also the fact that you’re at the bottom of the key [tells you that] you should . . . stop. And the arm starts to go up because there is no counteraction to it. The impact of playing throws the arm up, but since you are not tense at all, the minute it goes up, it will drop back again. So then, it drops back . . . at that point the . . . [next] finger picks it up, which we do 20

German Diez, interview in New York City, July 20, 2003.

96 when we are walking . . . once you are resting on the floor, you don’t keep pressing the floor. You can’t! Nature doesn’t allow it. On the piano, it’s not allowed, but you can do it. If you respond to nature you don’t do it.21 For staccato, the procedure is identical, but no weight remains resting in the key bed after impact, and the fingers are immediately withdrawn from the keys, not by lifting them upward, but by continuing the drawing-in motion until the finger loses contact with the key surface. In staccato, the small movement of the finger comes full circle. Finger strength and firmness, therefore, come not from stiffening the fingers, or immobilizing them by contracting both the pulling-down (flexors) and picking-up muscles (extensors), but from the drawing-in motion of the fingers (as Diez puts it, “from the center in as in squeezing”) timed to catch the arm weight in the bottom of the key bed in such a way that the hand and fingers have reached their position of optimal balance and support. In this position, the fingers should feel supported both by the alignment of the bones of the fingers and hands, and by the slight elevation in the wrist that aligns the weight of the arm behind the fingers. The arm weight, which provides a basis for this movement, is withdrawn the instant a tone is sounded, leaving only enough weight resting on the fingers to keep the key depressed.22

21

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005. English piano pedagogue and writer Tobias Matthay (see Appendix Five) described the coordinated action of the fingers and arm weight: “In the first case (when the arm is gently and easily supported by its proper muscles) its inertia becomes available as the necessary basis for the Finger and Hand to act against; a basis sufficient for certain light touches, but insufficient where any large volume of tone is required. In the second case (when the arm is left momentarily un-supported, or ‘relaxed’ during the crisis of Keydescent) its whole weight may become available behind the finger and hand, --thus rendering possible large volumes of tone of a perfectly beautiful and un-forced character.” The Act of Touch in All Its Diversity (London: Longmans, Green and Co., 1903), 162. Matthay also says, “Touch . . . consists of a Resting on the key-board which is continued parallel with each musical phrase, and an added-impetus which is directed to, but which ceases with the consummation of each and every key depression and which is therefore discontinuous. Touch … is found to consist of these two simultaneous operations, the one continuous with the duration of each phrase, and the other intermittent, discontinuous, and lasting therefore never longer than in the most abrupt staccatissimo;--the latter being an act accurately ‘aimed’ to cease the moment our ear perceives the transition from Silence to Sound.” The Act of Touch, 114-15.

22

97 Use of the fingers in conjunction with arm weight in the manner prescribed by Arrau is crucial in achieving evenness and independence of the fingers. Each finger supported by the arm is, as Heinrich Neuhaus pointed out,23 capable of playing a single note at any desired dynamic level; and therefore, all of the fingers are able to produce tones of equal strength. Simultaneously, the non-playing fingers can hang loosely, not engaging in spasmodic contractions in an attempt to stabilize the hand or to provide a fulcrum of leverage for the playing finger. The weight of the arm compensates for the different strengths and sizes of the fingers, making it possible to achieve either evenness of tone or any increase or decrease of tone that the music demands. Ironically, just as Arrau cited Rudolf Breithaupt as a champion of arm-weight technique who neglected finger technique, some of Arrau’s students criticized Arrau on the same grounds, despite Arrau’s statements about finger strength and the conspicuous strength of Arrau’s own finger technique. I think his [de Silva’s] version of Arrau's technique was, as above, too intent on relaxation to the point of weakness. . . . Actually, Arrau may have had a blind spot. When I was in my crisis, I went and played the Davidsbündler for him and I was playing very much like this [with collapsed knuckles]. He said something like, “It’s wonderful how you’ve made the technique your own.” And I said, “But I’m really not comfortable, I get pains here [forearms].” And he didn’t have anything to say. 24 The motions were, I don’t know -- a certain disintegration was taking place and I didn’t know how to deal with it. Rafael gave me a fantastic spurt technically. I worked with him for six months; he was ferocious. But

23

“Once upon a time it was thought, erroneously, that because one needs to be able to play evenly, the fingers, too, should be even. How this was to be achieved since Nature has made all five fingers different, remains a mystery. But if we put the question this way: any finger must be able to, and can, produce a tone of any given strength, everything becomes perfectly clear, since it follows from this definition that all the fingers will be able to produce tone of equal strength.” Heinrich Neuhaus, The Art of Piano Playing, trans. K. A. Leibovitch (London: Barrie and Jenkins, 1973), 95. 24 Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 10, 2003.

98 he really transformed my playing. When I came back I worked on more difficult pieces. Then it sort of started falling apart.25 Other students interpreted the emphasis on arm movements and weight technique as a reaction to the exclusive concentration on finger technique in their early training. Nevertheless, they noticed a failure to address finger technique with a corresponding adverse effect on playing. For instance, Ena and myself, we had the teaching of my mother, who was a harpsichordist, and we had a certain finger technique that was quite solid. And Ena always had this technical facility that was quite extraordinary since she was a child. . . . Bach! I just think I played everything before coming to the States, and Mozart, too, because being a small child I couldn’t play too many Romantics because of [my small] hand. . . . We had good fingers. Then when they [Arrau, de Silva] started talking about putting all the weight, it worked. But when somebody didn’t have that and you started talking about gestures and weight and flexibility and so on, sometimes . . . it becomes dirty. . . . And that is the only thing I thought . . . was too direct from the first lesson. Maybe it [just] was with me, that he thought, “Well I can start like that.” Because I didn’t assist [attend] the first lessons of other people. But I heard many that played a little like that. . . . and if you think that Arrau had fantastic strength in the fingers. If you look at his videos, it’s extraordinary! His scales!26 Some students believed they needed another point of view in order to understand and rectify the problems they began to experience. It was German who right away had something to say. He said, “Your fingers are getting too weak and too soft, so the balance is going too far that way.” . . . It was German Diez (to whom I was sent by soprano Uta Graf, a close friend of the Arraus) who diagnosed my problems correctly and cured them, and quickly, too! I was overdoing some of the technical things that de Silva had taught, such as breaking the knuckles, never moving the fingers, overdoing the arm motions. The one failing in the Arrau technique, which German saw and made correction for, was a neglect of the fingers. Most people came to de Silva and Arrau with tight, strong fingers, and needed to relax them. But having relaxed them, neither de Silva nor Arrau talked about how to keep them strong, and the necessity of keeping them strong to support the arm weight and all the arm motion. Neither of them taught the pull-up-onto-the-keys technique that is 25 26

Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003. Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.

99 German's basic teaching. Arrau played with strong fingers, but he never taught it, at least to me. De Silva said many times, "Less fingers." At my last lesson with him, after working with German, de Silva thought my fingers were too straight.27 . . . [Margaret] Scofield had a very good sound. She studied from Solomon. She only used up-and-down rotary motions, she didn’t use lateral, so I dropped the lateral motions. Rotary is this circular wrist movement; lateral is the side-to-side motion, which is such a big part of the Arrau technique. The first thing he commented on when I played to him the second time was that I wasn’t doing the lateral motion. But then when I came back, I was able to integrate it. I went back with Rafael.28 While not all of Arrau’s students felt that their technique was out of balance and sought other instruction to restore it, it appears that some were at least aware of a danger of imbalance between finger and arm activity and learned to be attentive in their own teaching. As Edith Fischer expressed it: You must really take care of the beginning, even with the weight, to say “Don’t try to play too loud immediately,” because when your fingers are not used to support[ing] the weight, it becomes dirty. So I say, try little by little, till the fingers are strong enough to really take all your weight on them. . . . The fingers must be ready to be able to carry, to support all the weight. And that is something that one must balance.29 POSITION OF THE HAND Hand position is often a subject of concern, particularly in the beginning of study. Virtually every method book contains some instruction regarding it.30 On the subject of hand position Arrau said, “I do not believe in the high arched hand or any position that is fixed so that any joints, except the nail joints, are stiffened.”31 When questioned about Arrau’s teaching of hand position, German Diez exclaimed, “Hand position! That is one

27

Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 10, 2003. Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003. 29 Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003. 30 See introductory volumes to method books by Faber and Faber; Palmer, Manus and Lethco; Bastien. 31 Mary Weaver, “Interview With Claudio Arrau,” 22. 28

100 of the evils! Arrau never mentioned hand position.”32 In Diez’s view, rigidly maintaining any one position restricts free motion and causes tension in the hand and fingers before any playing begins. He explains: As far as positions at the piano, it’s not positions, the music is changing constantly, so it’s not a problem of positions but of coping with the situation you have to deal with. And at that time, you call it a position, but it’s not going to stay very long. It’s going to change immediately to something else. So that s the kind of flexibility that, Arrau said many times, you have to be so relaxed the music flows through your body. So any tension you have in the joint is really an obstruction to the flow. You put a stopper to the flow.33 Therefore, hand position can be said only to be fluid and changeable, depending upon the demands of the music and the activities of the fingers at any given moment. This being said, however, it is nearly impossible to view Arrau’s videotaped performances without noticing the strategic positioning of his hands. His hands most often appear arched and supported at the knuckles along the palm of the hand, with slightly curved elongated fingers, and the wrist level with or slightly higher than the knuckles. In earlier performances the movements of his fingers are more pronounced, but in later ones, they are scarcely visible and his hands move with great economy.34 Arrau’s hand appears supported by its own skeletal structure. His fingers are elongated with the joints only slightly bent or rounded to form a shallow arc from the fingertips on the keys to the point where the fingers connect to the palm of his hand. The knuckles along the palm of his hand form the main fulcrum of the hand and are bent at about forty-five degrees. The knuckles are elevated higher than the other finger joints. 32

German Diez, interview in New York City, April 9, 2005. German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005. 34 See Claudio Arrau, Schumann Piano Concerto in A Minor, Carnaval Opus 9; Beethoven Piano Sonata No. 32 in C Minor (EMI Classics, 2002). The distinction being made is between these performances, which were originally recorded in 1963, 1961, and 1970, respectively, and Arrau’s video-recorded 33

101 His fingers appear partially supported by their bones, thus demanding less muscular exertion. His wrist is slightly higher than the knuckles, so that the back of his hand slants slightly downward toward the keys.35 Edith Fischer recalls that Arrau taught this way of using the fingers in order to maximize their strength: Edith Fischer: And Arrau always said if you want a very loud scale, you

must have the impression that you can look under the fingers, that your fingers are standing [straight] on the keyboard. That is a very clear idea of his. But, therefore, you need very strong fingers to hold all this [weight] and of course very light. Q: Does the straightness of the fingers align the bones to support the fingers? Fischer: I hope so! Q: And that alignment accounts for some of their strength? 36 Fischer: Yes. German Diez also points out, “Why is it [the position of the fingers] straight? Because all the tendons are in a neutral position! When they are like that, bent, they are not neutral any more. This [straightened, or only slightly bent shape, as when the hand is hanging loosely at one’s side] is a neutral position so you transfer [weight] without interference.”37 The shape of the hand changes when it is stretched or extended. The knuckles sink, making the position of the hand and fingers flatter; at fullest possible extension, the knuckles appear depressed below the level of the rest of the hand and the fingers. As the knuckles sink, the wrist rises to replace the knuckles as the main fulcrum. performances of the 1980s. The amount of movement takes nothing away from Arrau’s precise placement of his hands. 35 Ortmann notes the advantage to the fingers of a similar position. Though he specifies a depressed wrist here, he discusses the advantage of a high wrist elsewhere. “…the position recommended by modern piano pedagogy . . . the wrist is slightly depressed, the back of the hand ascends toward the hand knuckle, and each finger joint is extended slightly . . . . All joints now move through an approximate mid-range, thereby permitting maximum accuracy with minimum fatigue. The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique, 32-33. 36 Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003. 37 German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.

102 In the notes accompanying a DVD recording of Arrau’s performances, Jeremy Siepmann wrote, “Arrau’s very unusual hand position – high wrists, low knuckles – is very like Liszt’s, as seen in paintings.”38 While Arrau scarcely uses this position, if at all, in this recording, Loretta Goldberg recalls that Arrau at times instructed pupils to sink the knuckles lower than the wrist, even if the extension of the hand did not require it, in order to create a softer, less percussive sound especially in chord playing. Goldberg underscores the point by showing a portrait of Liszt at the piano with his hands in this position. 39 German Diez also mentions this position in connection with passages of double thirds and sixths: “When you need something more ‘spongy,’ then you let this [the knuckles] be more flexible, which he [Arrau] does many times, like the sixths (he demonstrates a passage from Chopin’s Etude, Op. 25, No. 8). So it’s like a vibration and flexible. You release the tension in the hand knuckle. . . . [making it more] loose. [The] wrist is higher. [You are playing] more ‘into the keys.’”40 As Bennett Lerner noted above, however, over-using this position posed a danger of weakening the fingers: “I was overdoing some of the technical things that de Silva had taught, such as breaking the knuckles”; and Ortmann points out that it reduces the mobility of the fingers by placing them in a fully raised position.41

38

Claudio Arrau, Schumann Piano Concerto in A Minor, Carnaval Opus 9; Beethoven Piano Sonata No. 32 in C Minor (EMI Classics, 2002). 39 Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003. 40 German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005. 41 Ortmann demonstrates that movement around a joint cannot occur with equal ease throughout its range. Movement is smoothest and easiest near the middle of the range. Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics

103 “DROPPING THE WEIGHT, PUSHING THE WEIGHT” In teaching pupils to use arm weight, Arrau found that most pupils could not do it because of tension in their upper arms and shoulders.42 Therefore, relaxing this tension was a precondition for letting the arm fall freely in response to gravity. Arrau cited Liszt and Beethoven as the source of weight-playing, and he gave a general description of the means by which students were taught to achieve it: It is essential to be able to lift the whole upper part of the body, rib cage and shoulders, with free floating arms and utmost suppleness and drop this weight into the keys, supported by firm first joints [the nail joints]. . . . I feel certain that Liszt started this way of playing – and it is probable that Beethoven also played this way. I myself have seen wonderful things happen to pianists when they acquire such body and shoulder freedom. Some, who seemed timid and cold in their playing, became quite otherwise – musicians with power and freedom of expression. For adults, certainly, I have found it most helpful to practice drops43 from high in the air onto the first joint, especially onto the black keys. This develops what I call the “stand in the keys.”44 According to German Diez, the first thing a student must learn is to relax correctly and drop the arm weight into the keys. Diez’s language in describing this resonates with Arrau’s reference (above) to “drops” and the “stand in the keys.” German Diez: First is to learn to use gravity, which is the hardest thing for them to grasp. The tenser they are the less they do it and it takes a long time before they can really realize how to use the weight. Q. How do you begin and what do you do? German Diez: Just drop and [try] to get the coordination of the arm to be completely relaxed until they really trust it and they do what is natural. To balance the hand with the two fingers [2 and 4; Diez demonstrates with elongated fingers and a high wrist] so the gravity of the hand is in the middle. By the way, the middle of the arm is the fourth finger, not the of Piano Technique, 31. Depressing the knuckles has the effect of raising the fingers, placing the fingers in the extreme range of their motion. The fingers cannot be lifted well in this position. 42 Elder, Pianists at Play, 38. Heinrich Neuhaus, teaching at the Moscow Conservatory, also found students too “frightened and cramped” to let their arms fall freely. Neuhaus, The Art of Piano Playing, 100. 43 Pupils of German Diez report that Diez used a similar technique of practicing “drops” on thirds played by fingers 2 and 4 in order to realize a release of arm weight supported by Arrau called the “stand in the keys.” (See ch. 5, pp. 181-82). 44 Mary Weaver, “Interview with Claudio Arrau,” 22.

104 third like we like to think. The fourth finger is the one! The balance of the arm is on the fourth finger. But then, you do 2 and 4 with the wrist high. They begin to realize that the weight goes to the fingers. [Diez goes on to demonstrate how, when the wrist goes down, the arm weight falls into the wrist and cannot rest in the keys]. That’s why short people with short arms have seventy percent of the game in their body [with shorter arms, there is less tendency to bend downward at the wrist]. Long arms have more problems. And this takes a long time for somebody. Q: Do you practice this always at the piano, or can you use something else, like a table? Diez: You can do it anywhere. It’s much easier to do on a table or on your knees because you don’t have a piano in there. The minute you have a piano, it changes the whole thing. The minute they [students] are near keys, they become a different person; they begin to show all the tensions, and other things, because it’s like a monster for them all of a sudden. They are scared of it. It depends on the level of confusion that they have, the habit that they have. That’s the first thing, to learn to relax this [the shoulder] because from there on, everything else works. Because the problem is, the arm should be relaxed. The shoulder is the whole arm! The shoulder is the one that controls the arm. The tension begins here, which by the way already begins in the neck. Many times you have to tell them [students to] drop the shoulders. They are holding the weight of the arm. They have to learn to release the shoulder and that takes a long time.45 Diez’s reference to fear and intimidation in response to the keyboard is striking. Some students report that freeing the body to exploit the force of gravity not only transformed the quality of their sound and enhanced their technique, but gave them greater personal confidence and self-assertiveness. Bennett Lerner recalled that this feeling of power and freedom of expression extended beyond the musical into his personal life: I must say that de Silva really saved my life, both pianistically and personally. I was extremely tight and extremely shy as a teenager, both in personality and at the piano, and he cured both of those conditions. My playing grew and grew, as did my sound and my confidence.46

45 46

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005. Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 10, 2003.

105 Arrau also alluded to this when he said, “I myself have seen wonderful things happen to pianists when they acquire such body and shoulder freedom. Some, who seemed timid and cold in their playing, became quite otherwise – musicians with power and freedom of expression (see above, p. 103).” Arrau’s manner of dropping arm weight is corroborated by the detailed mechanical description of freeing the weight of the arm given by Tobias Matthay. Matthay’s assertion that the use of arm weight involves both upper arm and forearm is identical with the ideas set forth by Arrau and others who maintain that all parts of the playing mechanism should function, not in isolation, but as a unit. To set Arm-weight free: we must relax (or cease acting with) the muscles that serve to move, or retain, or support the arm upwards. . . . It is important to notice, that the release required, is not that of the Fore-arm alone—a mistake often made—but that it is the whole arm (from the shoulder) that must be released. And as the muscles involved are partly situated on both sides of the shoulder and chest, it follows that the sensation of their exertion (and cessation of such exertion therefore) is not experienced in the arm itself, but is on the contrary felt to proceed from muscles situated upon the body—across the shoulders. Lapse in armsupport is hence felt as Shoulder-release.47 Matthay goes on to explain that dynamic control is a result of control of lapsing in arm-support. The more that “supporting upwards” muscles are relaxed, the more arm weight will be exerted onto the keys, and the louder the tone. The more that the arm is supported by the shoulder muscles, the less the arm weight exerted onto the keys, and the softer the tone. Thus, while the drop of arm weight is said to be free, it is also controlled in the amount released. Control and freedom in the dropping of arm weight have been matters of debate.48 However, interpreting freedom in the use of weight as lack of control is an exaggeration, 47

Matthay, The Act of Touch, 178.

106 and perhaps also a confusion of language and techniques used in teaching with those used in playing. Uncontrolled dropping of arm weight in playing would result in a dynamic level both loud and constant.49 In Ortmann’s language, the fall of the arm must be controlled with “a certain amount of inhibition” and a coordinated motion of the fingers that “catches” the arm at the moment of reaching the key bed, causing a reaction in the opposite direction, an upward rebound. Freedom and control, like relaxation and tension, are seen as conflicting terms and, indeed, pianists tend to be divided over these issues. It seems one must release the muscles to allow the arm to drop freely while, at the same time, one must control or inhibit this release and arm dropping in order to achieve dynamic control. But, somehow, the control must not simply revert to the kind of tension that, in Arrau’s view, prevented the natural use of weight. With Matthay’s description of stiffness as resulting from simultaneous contraction of opposing muscles50 to further explain what Arrau described as stiffness in the joints, a way of reconciling freedom and control emerges: If opposite sets of muscles are equally exerted . . . the two balance, and … there will be no movement . . . and also no effect upon any outside object, such as the key. The only effect being, that the limb (or portion of it affected) becomes “set” or rigid for the time. . . . there can be no real “STIFFNESS” either of Finger, “Wrist” or Arm, except from conflicting action of the muscles themselves. All “stiffness” vanishes under normal circumstances, when we succeed in employing the required muscles only, and no others. Hence the excellence of the doctrine of EASE. Ease – absolute freedom from all restraint in the muscular actions employed at the Pianoforte . . . . Hence also, if we would learn to play with freedom and ease, the first step muscularly, is, to learn to separate or isolate all muscular activities from their opposite ones.51

48

See discussion in Seymour Bernstein, With Your Own Two Hands (New York: Schirmer, 1981), 129-130. Ortmann points out that a completely relaxed fall of the arm will not bring the hand to rest on the keyboard. However, Ortmann’s experiment does not account for the role played by the fingers in catching the weight of the arm in the key bed. Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique, 150. 50 Matthay, The Act of Touch, 21 51 Ibid., 153-54. 49

107 Thus, by observing and regulating the activity of the lifting muscles in the shoulder and upper body, the weight of the arm can be held back or released without stiffness. Arm weight is exerted onto the keys by relaxing the muscles that raise the arm. There should be no contraction of or interference from the muscles that lower the arm. Dynamic control depends upon the amount of relaxation of these raising muscles. As Matthay puts it, “Touch, in a word, resolves itself ultimately into an act of lowering more or less weight upon the key during descent.”52 OTHER USES OF ARM WEIGHT Letting the weight of the arm fall into the keyboard is only one use of arm weight. In discussing the playing of chords, Arrau described different ways of controlling arm weight: I have three ways of striking [fortissimo] chords. One… is to begin with the fingers hanging just above the keys, then lifting the entire arm and dropping. The second is to begin touching the keys, and yank the arm weight down by suddenly pulling the elbows in. The third is to again begin with the fingers already touching the keys, and then pushing away, and up with the wrists.53 The first way, dropping the weight, requires sufficient and correct relaxation in order to allow gravity to pull the weight of the arm down without muscular pushing from the player. However, the other two ways involve muscular activity and arm motion. In the second way, the elbows must be held somewhat apart from the body; otherwise one cannot pull the elbows in. How far away from the body to hold the elbows is determined by aligning the axis of the forearms with the fifth fingers, to form a straight line perpendicular to the keyboard from the position of the fifth fingers to the elbows.

52 53

Ibid., 103. Horowitz, Conversations with Arrau (New York: Knopf, 1982), 104.

108 Arrau’s use of the word “yanking” indicates not the free fall of weight but the muscular exertion of the arm weight into the keys.54 In Arrau’s third way, leverage is exerted against the keys. The wrists act as the fulcrum while the hands and fingers are the moving parts. Upon impact with the key beds, the fingers can descend no further and, consequently, the fingertips on the key beds become a new fulcrum of leverage that propels the arm and wrist up and forward. This movement will leave the hands hanging loosely from the wrist, either holding the keys down or suspended above the keys. Although Arrau does not discuss finger activity in conjunction with these arm movements, it must be remembered that he stipulated elsewhere, “Having strong fingers is the sine qua non; if you don’t have strong fingers, you can’t have the use of the whole arm.”55 Without the drawing-in motion of the fingers toward the palms, timed to catch the weight of the arm in the key bed at the instant they achieve a position of support and balance, these arm motions cannot be effective in producing the desired tone. The motion of the fingers may be very small and scarcely visible, but it is there nevertheless. The sensation of impact with the key bed signals the arm to rebound and remain suspended above the keys, so that there is just enough weight to hold the keys down. If no excess pressure remains once the notes have been played, a primary cause of excess tension is removed. Each of the three ways described by Arrau of applying arm weight in chord playing gives a different quality of sound and musical effect. Dropping the weight into the keys and cushioning the fall gives a full, mellow tone, while pushing up from the keys 54

None of Arrau’s pupils has described this second way of applying weight. German Diez expressed some puzzlement over the use of the word “yanking” as uncharacteristic of Arrau’s language. German Diez,

109 gives a sharper, more brilliant tone. Control of the weight of the arm is the source of dynamic and timbral control. There is never a hitting kind of a contact. There is a way of falling on the keyboard in a cushioned way, cushioning the weight, or pushing up from the key, but there is never hitting, there is never tension in the physical approach and that gives a tremendous variety of sound. In fact, one should be able to produce any sound you can imagine, because the arm or the whole machine is kind of empty. It is totally not pressing. It is no pressure. He [Arrau] used to joke, “No pressure, dear!” Either you’re falling . . .[on] the note, or a little farther, or a big distance, or you’re shifting this weight, or you’re having a very little weight, if you want a very, very soft sound. I remember him getting softness out of his students, saying, “You can play softer, you can play softer.” It is the same approach to take off the weight and to put it on.56 The impact of the arm weight is cushioned by the flexibility of the wrist, which, like a spring or shock absorber, allows an upward reaction in proportion to the downward force at the instant of reaching the key bed. Without this flexibility, the sound is considered hard and harsh. This may be partly owing to the noises made by the fingertips on the key surface and by the key impacting the key bed. Beginning the motion with the fingers in contact with the keys eliminates some of the percussion from the sound by reducing the noise of the finger hitting the key; properly anticipating and timing the upward reaction of the arm and wrist reduces the noise of the key against the key bed. The fluency of playing is also enhanced because the upward reaction serves as preparation for the following notes. Bronstein-Barton’s statement, “It is the same approach to take off the weight and to put it on” is to say that the shoulder muscle functions to control how much weight is released into the keys at a given moment. The words “No pressure” mean that the weight ceases to press into the key bed at the instant a tone is produced. In

interview in New York City, October 9, 2005. 55 Elder, Pianists at Play, 38. 56 Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.

110 Diez’s analogy, “Once you are resting on the floor, you don’t keep pressing the floor. You can’t! Nature doesn’t allow it. On the piano, it’s not allowed, but you can do it. If you respond to nature, you don’t do it.”57 Cushioning the weight of the arm as described above is also bound up with relaxation. A flexible wrist action, which serves to cushion the weight, coincides with the rebound of the arm and hand in response to the finger being stopped by the key bed. This signals a release of the pressure of the finger against the key bed, and the weight of the arm is again assumed by the shoulder. Thus, the finger, relieved of the weight of the arm, can rest in a relaxed manner on the key after the tone has been produced. You don’t throw the weight, and if it’s very loud, you don’t fall as on a hard surface, you fall as if you were falling in deep water. You keep on going down, but before you know it, you’re coming back up. You don’t hit the bottom; you sink in and come back. You don’t stay at the bottom.58 Using arm weight in the controlled manner described enables a player to achieve any desired degree of volume without “banging” or “hitting” the keys. As Matthay stated, “. . . any percussion caused at the key-surface forms absolute MIS-USE of the Pianoforte tone-producing mechanism.”59 Matthay also cautioned against striking the surface of the keys violently with the fingers: “Not even in the fullest forte is there any real occasion to make the finger-tip impinge upon the key with more force than could be borne with impunity by one of those glittering balls of thinnest glass, so much in evidence at Christmas.”60 Even when playing with weight, “hitting” is possible and the player needs knowledge and vigilance to avoid it. Arrau defined hitting as the simultaneous fall of the arm or “dropping the weight” and “pushing up and out” in a 57

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005. Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.. 59 Matthay, The Act of Touch, 82. 60 Ibid., 125. 58

111 single note or chord. Applying from a distance the strong activity of the fingers in pushing out of the keys produces the concussion at the surface of the key that Matthay cautioned against. Ena Bronstein-Barton recalls Arrau’s teaching thus: Now Arrau insisted that you must not combine falling with pushing, because that’s when you hit. It has to be either or. The most basic touch would be falling, for most things. When you want something very sharp, or some kind of accent, then you can use “push.” . . . I heard him [Arrau] say that many times, that you must not combine the two because then you hit, and we do not hit. Don’t hit the keys.61 What counts in producing a louder, more accented tone is the speed of the hammer when it strikes the string. The speed of the hammer is affected by the speed of key descent. The pushing-out motion produces a sharp, strongly articulated sound because it can be used with speed to depress the keys faster than the falling or dropping motion. A small movement of the fingers, pulling inward toward the palms to propel the arm and wrist up and out, is also a factor. This is implicit in Arrau’s insistence that the movement should begin with the fingers touching the keys, for in this way, the noise of the fingers on the keys would be minimized, thus eliminating what Arrau called “hitting.” 62

DOWN-AND-UP MOTIONS OF WRIST AND ARM

61

Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002. Matthay attributed differences in tone quality to differences in key speed that caused the hammer to put the string in motion in different ways. “. . . the difference in the string’s behavior that gives us differences of tone-quality depends on the manner in which the string is started upon its journey; and it is evident, that the difference between the production of the harsher, “Brilliant” tone qualities, and the more pleasant “Sympathetic” qualities lies in a greater or lesser percussiveness; for the string is in the first case set agoing with abruptness, suddenness and absolute Percussion, whereas in the second case, speed is imparted to it, with a far more gradual application of the total Energy employed. It is found that a too sudden application of energy tends to cause the string to move off rather into segmental vibration, than into those complete vibrations – of its whole length – that enforce the fundamental sound. The more these segmental vibrations (or harmonics) preponderate, especially the higher and harsher ones, the worse is the sound in every respect; it is less beautiful and less full, and it is less able to travel or carry.” Matthay, The Act of Touch, 74. 62

112 The principle involved in falling on and pushing up and out of chords, a basic down-and-up arm motion, can also be applied to single notes and intervals. In the playing of single notes, the “down” motion used to depress the key is followed by a reactive “up” motion or rebound serving both as a follow-through and a preparation for the next “down” motion. German Diez points out that passive upward vertical motions are the natural reaction of a loose arm to the impact of the finger reaching the bottom of the key. When you play something, if there is no tension in the arm, the arm goes up. . . . It’s like a pushup. When the finger hits solid ground, then the arm goes up unless the arm is pushing down, which is already a negative thing to the finger. It’s not helping the finger, it’s impairing the finger. So then, that’s [the rebound] a natural, intuitive thing.63 In this reactive/preparatory rebound motion, the upper arm moves up and forward and the elbow moves slightly outward, away from the body, while the hand hangs loosely from the wrist, with the fingers pointing downward toward the keys, either touching them or a short distance from them. When the arm descends, the fingers pull inward to catch the weight in the key bed. The wrist flexes downward somewhat at the instant of impact to act as a cushion, but it springs upward again as the arm reacts to the impact. Down-and-up motions are used in slurs of two equal notes (such as two eighth notes) but intentions and results of their use are opposite those in playing chords and single notes. The first note of a two-note slur, played by a down motion, is louder, accentuated by the weight of the arm falling through the fingertip into the key. The second note, played by an up motion, must be softer, with the finger somewhat relaxed and pulling less energetically or hardly at all, so that it exerts less pressure on the key. (If the finger pulls against the key in conjunction with the up motion, the second note will be too sharp and accented.) As the arm is raised, the wrist must loosely flex upward so that

113 the finger remains in contact with the key, and releases contact slowly so as not to produce a staccato accent. Arrau’s method of performing two-note slurs was to shorten the first note and separate each pair of slurred notes, almost producing a Lombard rhythm or Scotch snap. Alfonso Montecino describes this: “In the phrasing of the Les adieux [third movement], the two-note phrasing, he would have the two first notes more together and then a luft pause. Also [in] the “Emperor.” And it is so obvious and matter of fact. In the orchestra, it is very difficult; and conductors, they hate it. . . . to separate the two notes from the next ones, it gives that certain snap to it. It comes from his idea to play exactly as written.”64 Vertical motions of the arm and wrist serve to draw the weight of the arm into the keys in legato passages in which the fingers must remain close to or in contact with the keys. Sometimes these motions are so small that they are barely visible and involve a small lighter weight. Sometimes they are larger and apply a heavier weight. Applying weight in a separate vertical motion for each note keeps the sound from becoming weak and gives the player dynamic control of each note. This use of weight can give all of the fingers an equal dynamic power for evenness in a legato passage; or it allows the player to use different amounts of weight to affect the dynamic shaping of a phrase. By regulating the size and weight of each vertical motion, each tone in the phrase may be played at a slightly different dynamic level depending upon the length of the tone and its placement in the harmonic structure and melodic contour.

63

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005. Alfonso Montecino, interview in New York City, February 27, 2003. Arrau can be seen giving a lesson on this point to the Symphony Orchestra of the University of Chile. See Claudio Arrau, The Emperor: A Live Concert by the Maestro (West Long Beach, N.J.: Kultur, 1987).

64

114 In true legato, the end of each tone must meet the dynamic level of the tone that follows it. Since a tone begins to die away as soon as it is played, longer tones must be given more volume so that they meet the following tone with sufficient strength to maintain the phrase. The player may regulate the volume of each tone by controlling the amount of weight released into each key. The changing vertical movements of the arm and wrist together with the horizontal movements up and down the keyboard contribute to a physical sensation of phrasing as creating a curvilinear, undulating melodic line. VIBRATION Reciprocal down-and-up motions in piano playing, the upward reaction following impact with the key bed in a downward direction, are the basis of what Arrau called “vibration.” Arrau specified use of a high wrist as part of his way of achieving vibration.65 Vibration is a type of non-legato touch in which the rebounding impulse from the key bed is transmitted from the finger through a flexible wrist to the arm. Without attempting to lift the hand from the keys, the rebounding or vibration makes the notes in a given passage less connected and lends more force or percussiveness to the attack of each note. German Diez explains vibration as the speeded-up version of the passive vertical arm motions that are a natural feature of slower playing: The arm starts to go up because there is no counteraction to it. The minute it goes up, the impact of playing throws the arm up, but since you are not tense at all it will drop back again, so then it drops back, so then at that point, another finger picks it up. . . . That state of action-relaxation becomes very fast because you’re not wasting any energy pushing down at the wrong time. So that free bounce, you use it faster. You put actions faster, one after the other, which depends . . . on relaxing immediately.

65

Elder, Pianists at Play, 38.

115 You put an impulse and then you relax. So then, you can produce it very quickly.66 Vibration allows passages of fast-moving notes to be played with greater volume. Controlling the speed of vibration lends evenness of tempo and tone in staccato and nonlegato passages. As Ortmann demonstrated, the impact of the finger on the key produces an equal and opposite, i.e., upward, reaction on the part of the knuckle, wrist, elbow, and upper arm. Even when the touch is very light, the reaction is very small but cannot be eliminated.67 A heavier touch, a faster downward impulse, will produce a greater upward reaction. Therefore, the speed and strength of the vibration can be controlled, just as one would dribble a basketball, by regulating the weight and speed of the downward impulse (arm weight together with the pulling motion of the finger) and the time allowed for the arm to react. At the same time, the arm must be suspended loosely from the shoulder above with the elbow held slightly apart from the body so that the rebounding action is not inhibited by a muscular fixing of the wrist and elbow joints. Vibrating in a series of notes, using gravity to exert force in a downward direction, using the impact with the key bed to supply the intervening upward preparations, the player may have the sensation that the piano plays itself. The rebounding impulse propels the wrist, forearm, and upper arm upward, and this upward motion prepares the next downward motion. What is crucial to a most efficient use of vibration is small but well-timed finger motion that elicits an upward reaction from the key bed and the suspension of the arm with a flexible wrist and elbow. Although Arrau mentioned vibration in connection with a high wrist position, changing the position of the wrist changes the way the upward force of the key acts upon 66

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.

116 the fingers and arm. With a high wrist and the hand slanting downward toward the fingers, the upward reaction acts more upon the forearm and upper arm keeping the fingers in closer contact with the keys. This allows more volume while lengthening each tone, minimizing its percussiveness and maximizing the legato element. With the wrist lowered to a position level with the knuckles, or even lower with the hand slanting upward toward the knuckles, the upward reaction acts more upon the fingers and hand, so that the fingers rebound higher out of the keys. This increases the loudness of tone while shortening each tone and maximizing its percussiveness. Vibration may also involve a quick use of the upper arm, thrusting it forward into the keyboard and achieving a quick repetition. It is useful for chords and octaves in speed or in dotted rhythms. This type of vibration gives the additional speed and power for chords and octaves and assists in executing leaps. The rebounding impulse of vibration helps to propel the hand and arm to the next note, across the next distance. The less percussive form of vibration can be used to reinforce the higher notes in fast passages where dynamic shaping is desired or where the higher notes are too weak in the expressive context of the passage. HIGH WRIST POSITION Though the position of the wrist should not be fixed or rigid, a slightly elevated wrist position is consistent with other elements of Arrau’s approach as it is one of the conditions that enables and encourages the application of arm weight to the keyboard. The higher wrist position facilitates using the fingers in a straighter or more elongated position and directs more of the weight of the arm to a point of support by the fingertips on the keys. German Diez finds a high wrist position helpful in enabling students to 67

Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique, 82-83.

117 experience the sensation of carrying the weight of the arm on the fingers: “You do 2 and 4 with the wrist high. They begin to realize that the weight goes to the fingers.”68 Because the alignment of the skeleton takes on some of the burden, the muscular contraction in the fingers necessary to support the weight is minimized. A low wrist position creates an angle that interrupts the flow of arm weight into the keyboard. The connection between a high wrist position and use of arm weight is corroborated by Ortmann: The best position for directing the maximum amount of arm-weight into the key is that . . . where the wrist is high and the upper arm at a small descending angle.69 Ortmann’s experiments with a mechanical arm led him to conclude that the high wrist favored relaxation in the arm, and facilitated the transfer of weight from finger to finger, from key to key. The position usually pictured for the ideal position of arm-relaxation with weight transfer . . . is the least adapted to this transfer of weight, and the position best adapted . . . is the high-wrist position so often frowned upon by pedagogues. It follows that the key-depression for arm-weight must take place in the first half of arm-descent, before the wrist reaches a horizontal position. . . . Weight is always lost with the lowering-wrist.70 Ortmann described an arm position with the elbow brought slightly forward, held somewhat apart from the body and turned very slightly outward to bring the longitudinal axis of the arm in line with the third finger so as to direct as much weight as possible into the keys. This position attempts to minimize the angles of all of the joints between the

68

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005. Ortmann., The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique, 130. 70 Ibid., 128. 69

118 shoulder and fingertip71 and, as a result, minimizes the muscular contraction necessary in the fingers. According to Ortmann, The amount of fixation or muscular contraction necessary to do work at the finger-tip depends upon the positions of the parts of the arm. It is greatest when the resistance acts at right angles to the longitudinal axis of the bone; it is least when the resistance acts parallel to that axis.72 However, among the pianists he studied, Ortmann noticed a tendency of leaning the upper body forward toward the keyboard. Leaning in this direction increases the angle at the elbow and therefore lessens the amount of arm weight that can be brought into the keys. Directing the maximum amount of arm weight into the key . . . requires a slight incline of the trunk away from the keyboard. If the trunk be leaned forward, the arm-position . . . is poorest for weight transfer. The advantage of the forward position is in other phases, and its universal adoption by pianists proves that free arm-weight is probably never used in actual playing but is replaced by a muscular contraction added to gravity.73 While Ortmann’s observations may be correct, they are based only on the pianists selected for his study. His conclusion that “free arm-weight is probably never used in actual playing” recalls Arrau’s statement “Today I don't know of anybody who plays using natural weight. Anybody, except in our group.”74 While Arrau did not elaborate further, one can speculate that Arrau’s statement was based on observations similar to Ortmann’s, that other pianists did not use the body in ways that permitted the use of weight. Ortmann’s remark underscores Arrau’s point and supports Arrau’s belief that his approach to weight technique was unique. Contrary to Ortmann, whose study led him to 71

Arrau’s pupils have noted that this is more easily achieved with shorter rather than longer arms, because longer arms require a more acute angle at the elbow. His pupils note that Arrau himself had short arms. Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002; Goodwin Sammel, interview in New York City, April 14, 2003. 72 Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique, 131. 73 Ibid., 130. 74

Horowitz, Conversations, 109.

119 conclude that a return to practicing finger action isolated from arm weight was needed,75 Arrau, based on his experience as a performer, concluded that finger action must always be supported by the arm. ROTATION According to his pupils, Arrau sometimes used the words “lateral movement” or “side motion” to mean the side-to-side motion of the arm (pronation and supination) that is commonly called “rotation.” The word “rotation” should not be confused with circular motions, where the elbow and forearm describe either a clockwise or counterclockwise circle. Circular motions are composites movements, of which up-and-down motions and rotation are components. Nevertheless, Arrau used the word “rotation” in interviews, and his meaning is clear from the examples he gave of the uses of rotation. Arrau described how he taught his pupils to master the broken chords in the development section of the first movement of Beethoven’s Sonata, Op. 2, No. 3: I start by having them do the rotation movement between each two notes very slowly, so they go all the way in one direction and then in the other, so they develop the sideward striking power, striking hard with the fingers, turning the arm from the shoulder, gradually increasing the speed.76 In the phrase “turning the arm from the shoulder,” Arrau explicitly stated that the rotation comes from the upper arm.77 A somewhat high wrist position facilitates upper arm rotation while a low wrist position inhibits rotation and the angle thus created interrupts the connection between the upper arm and the fingertip. The wrist turns with the rotating arm, but the wrist itself 75

This points again to the duality of arm weight and finger technique that Breithaupt tried to clarify. See ch. 1, p. 83. 76 Elder, Pianists at Play, 38. 77 German Diez has described rotation as the same movement used when turning a door-knob or operating a screw driver.

120 does not take part in the rotating movement. Some descriptions of rotation describe it as only forearm rotation, and indeed, some pedagogues rule out the use of the upper arm entirely (Kullak, Leschetizky, Taubman). Arrau’s approach is unique in including the upper arm in rotation. Forearm rotation suffices where the intervals are small, where the thumb and second finger do not play (rotation toward the thumb necessitates the participation of upper arm rotation), and where the passage is relatively short or not requiring great endurance. In small intervals such as seconds and thirds, the “sideward striking power” required is less than with larger intervals such as sevenths and octaves. However, even in these cases, releasing the weight of the upper arm in playing may bring about some upper arm rotation as a result of the rebound from the keys. Long passages of larger intervals, such as the broken octaves in the “Allegro” of Beethoven’s Sonata in C Minor, Op. 13, require the greater endurance and “sideward striking power” of upper arm rotation. Using the larger muscles of the shoulder guards against the fatigue experienced when the smaller forearm muscles are used exclusively. As German Diez points out, the enhancement of forearm rotation when combined with upper arm rotation involves more than the strength of the muscles involved (see below). When the forearm is pronated, the radius bone of the forearm crosses the ulna. Because the ulna is connected to the large bone of the upper arm, it cannot rotate. Therefore, once the palm of the hand is facing downward, once the radius and ulna are crossed, the forearm can rotate no further. Any further pronation in the direction of the thumb must be accomplished with the participation (abduction) of the upper arm.78 Rotation that does not include the upper arm is not capable of raising the fifth finger to

78

Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique, 16, 22.

121 any appreciable distance from the keyboard and, therefore, the fifth finger has no great “sideward striking power.” However, the forearm may turn in the direction of the fifth finger (supination) raising the thumb as high as the player wishes. Therefore, forearm rotation is inherently uneven, giving most of the advantage to the thumb and thereby weakening the already weak fifth finger, a disadvantage immediately felt in long passages of broken octaves, broken chords, and Alberti bass. Diez describes it thus: Forearm rotation is 180 degrees from a vertical position, which is the way it stops when you are standing [the way the forearm is positioned when standing with the arm hanging down freely]. The rotation of the forearm is limited to this position. If you want to go to this side here, if the keyboard was vertical, forearm rotation would work. But because it [the keyboard] is horizontal, you are already at 180 degrees rotation inward, which is pronation. There is no way that you can lift the other side of the hand [the fifth finger side] unless the shoulder does it. All you have to do is put your arm like this [extend arm straight out from the shoulder] and try to turn this way [so that the fifth finger side of the hand faces upward] and see what happens. The shoulder is the only one that allows that [if you want to turn your hand so that the fifth finger side of the hand points upward, you must turn the arm from the shoulder socket], unless you force it [the upper arm] not to turn, and you find you can’t go any further. If you go any further, you are straining. You better let nature take its course. Let the arm turn the way it should turn. Nature is the one that tells you what to do, which is something absolutely intuitive if you let the body do it. So rotation implies that you have to rotate the upper arm. Rotation has often been taught that you have to move just the forearm, don’t move the upper arm. You’re trying to bind the body into a very awkward situation. . . . You’re creating an obstruction. When you are not trying to loosen up the upper arm, which is the shoulder, you are already creating a problem for the arm. So then, you’re creating a problem for the music. It’s not going to pour out naturally.79 Rotating the whole arm from the shoulder socket is, therefore, a matter of equalizing the rotation. An alternative approach to this movement is lifting the arm up and sideways slightly by means of the deltoid muscle in the shoulder. In this way, the arm may be rotated in the direction of the thumb so that the top of the forearm points inward

79


122 and slants downward while the elbow turns outward and up, away from the body. This motion raises the fifth finger, and at maximum rotation, the fifth-finger side of the hand points directly upward. In this position, the thumb is in contact with the keys while the fifth finger has great latitude to exercise its sideward striking power. Use of the upper arm in rotation gives the player flexibility to rotate the arm within any part of the full range of this movement and thus to manipulate the balance of thumb and fifth finger: if the rotation moves from the center toward the thumb (pronation), the thumb remains closer to the keys while the fifth finger is raised higher and achieves greater power; if the rotation moves more from the center toward the fifth finger (supination), the fifth finger remains closer to the keys while the thumb is raised higher and achieves greater power. Though the larger muscles of the upper arm act more slowly than the smaller muscles of the forearm, they are stronger and capable of more endurance. Because they are working at a greater distance from the fingers, the larger muscles can, with small motions, reinforce much larger and quicker motions of the hand and fingers. And the rebound from the key bed helps even larger muscles react with greater speed. Thus, even though the larger muscles are slower, they can be trained to respond with the necessary speed within a smaller range of motion. Matthay asserted that rotation is in constant use during playing because of its importance in finger independence and equality: “Constant changes in the state of the fore-arm’s rotary Release and rotary Support are imperative, if the fingers at opposite sides of the hand are to be equally ‘strong.’” He also noted that small rotational adjustments in the forearm are practically invisible unless they are exaggerated. 80

80

Matthay, The Act of Touch, 117.

123 Rotation is also useful for its potential to make large intervals on the keyboard feel smaller. It facilitates broken chord passages in which each interval may be small but the distance traveled in one direction is great, i. e., an octave or more. Players often extend the hand to span this greater distance rather than deal individually with the smaller intervals between successive notes. Without the use of rotation, the player must extend the hand more than is necessary with rotation, and in this extended position the hand is weaker. Rotation helps to negotiate each interval with less extension of the hand, and it can be adjusted so that more rotation is used for larger intervals and less for smaller intervals. A large skip to the left can be made more comfortable and accurate if one first swings to the right. The momentum supplied by rotation in this case makes the distance feel shorter. This is particularly advantageous to players with small hands. And as Edith Fischer points out, all technical elements should be evaluated in light of the individual player’s physique: For instance, my husband is big, quite heavy, and can do from C to G [12th] no problem. Well it’s evident that he doesn’t need so much [rotation] as I do. He will do a little bit less, being as much at ease.81 COMBINING TECHNIQUES Piano music presents a rich and complex array of difficulties. From the point of view of the pianist, there appear to be as many different technical problems as there are works to be played. However, by identifying within his technique a few basic movements, Arrau attempted to set forth the elements common to solving all technical problems. By combining these elements in varying amounts, he arrived at complexity and subtlety of motion capable of meeting music’s technical and expressive challenges.

81

Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.

124 Ena Bronstein spoke of some uses for combinations of four types of motion: the two vertical motions of the arm, dropping onto and pushing out of the keys, rotation, and circular motions. One of these, circular motions, is itself a compound movement incorporating vertical and rotational arm movements. With those four in combination, you can do a lot, because lateral movement [rotation] can be big tremolos, and can go all the way down to a trill, from big arpeggios down to the chromatic scale. [For broken octaves, use] left-to-right rotation plus some “in-and-out” for black keys and, in general, in the direction of the passage. No up-and-down motion of the wrist! The up-and-down motion of the wrist is integrated into circular motions. [She demonstrates Chopin Etude, Op. 10, No. 4, using circular motions in mm. 1-2, rotation in m. 3, circular motions m. 4.] Sometimes you have to try; it’s not always clear which one will work better. Sometimes you have to experiment to see which one [rotation or circular motion] will work better.82 It is worthwhile to stress that solving a passage is often a process of trial and error in which conscious knowledge of possible techniques and how to employ them is critical. Bronstein-Barton’s statement echoes Matthay’s remark that rotation is in almost constant use during playing (see above). Scale playing illustrates the combination of vertical arm movements and rotation. Scales, ascending for the right hand and descending for the left hand, are divisible into units of three tones (fingered 1, 2, 3) and four tones (fingered 1, 2, 3, 4). The thumb is played with a down motion, taking care not to touch the key with the knuckle of the thumb but the tip. As the fingers play the tones that follow, the wrist and arm are raised up and forward by degrees, reaching their highest point on the last tone of each grouping. Integrated with this vertical movement is a rotational adjustment in which the arm, turned slightly inward toward the thumb on the first tone, rotates slightly outward with each

82


125 finger. Rotation brings the thumb above the key it must play to fulfill its “passing under” function. The key is played with the thumb by bringing the arm down and rotating it inward to its starting position. The process is repeated for the next group of tones. Scales descending for the right hand and ascending for the left hand begin with the fifth finger, and thereafter consist of groups of four tones (fingered 4, 3, 2, 1) and three tones (fingered 3, 2, 1). This time the vertical movement of arm and wrist follows the fingers in an upward direction, reaching their highest point with the thumb. Simultaneously, the arm rotates inward toward the thumb, the upper arm guiding the hand over the thumb. The hand will turn inward, the fifth finger side pointing upward. This movement brings the third finger over the key it must play to complete crossing over the thumb. The key is played with the third finger by bringing the arm down and rotating it outward. The process is repeated for the next groups of tones. José Aldaz recalls how Arrau taught him to play scales: “The hand and fingers move up and down the keys without tension. The wrists guide the motion.”83 He demonstrated this with a high wrist, the fingers positioned in an almost straight pose, and as his hands moved outward from the body, he employed circular motions of the wrist that followed the movement of his fingers. His wrist rotated generally outward (clockwise for the right hand, counterclockwise for the left) when his hands moved away from his body, and generally inward when his hands moved inward toward his body. His upper arm moved out from his body as his wrist rotated inward, evidence of upper arm rotation in the circular motion. The motions were continuous and fluid, never halting and

83

José Aldaz, interview in New York City, November 17, 2002.

126 interrupted. The circular movements of the wrist accommodated the transfer of weight from finger to finger. Aldaz also states that with arpeggios, the emphasis is on the wrists, turning out when the hands move away from the body, turning in when the hands return toward the body. The flexibility of the wrists makes arpeggio playing a relaxed procedure of the whole arm rather than of only the fingers. The movements are in curves, there are no angular points. The wrist remains flexible. You go from key to key and the wrist takes you along. It is like making a design on the keys [Here Aldaz showed a loop resembling a series of lower case cursive “e”s.] At the top you turn [he demonstrated a circular turn with the wrist rising up guided along by the arm, rotating from the fifth finger side of the hand toward the thumb in, the elbow separating from the body following the rotation of the arm and wrist.] The wrist is key, coming along with the fingers.84 German Diez gives a different account of Arrau’s teaching of scale and arpeggio playing, one that accounts for the way in which the motion of playing is fitted to the notes of the scale. Embedded within the problem of scale playing is the problem of the thumb in accordance with its function of opposing the movement of the fingers. What he [Arrau] said in the scale is that you begin with the thumb low, because that’s the position of the thumb: it is flat. Which is another thing: you operate the thumb by really this movement [he shows thumb played with a downward stroke of the arm]. Well, it’s to have a flexible wrist. He [Arrau] never said anything, he said not to do it [he demonstrates to show that Arrau instructed him not pass the thumb under the third finger, beneath the palm] but then I found later, actually the natural movement of the thumb, like all the fingers, is towards the hand. The only movement that is natural is this [the passing under movement]. It’s completely insane to do this [move the thumb up and down in a line parallel to the movement of the other fingers], although the thumb has a capacity for that movement, but it is not designed to do that movement. As I told you before, all movements are toward the body. So now, in the case of the scale, it is a little more difficult to explain it because there’s a complexity there. Because first of all, when 84

Ibid.

127 you go with a low wrist, the thumb should be less heavy, which is something that took me a long time to really understand, because he [Arrau] said always, the thumb goes down. And I don’t know whether he told me [here he is speaking of whether Arrau explained the reason behind the technique], or I never heard it, because I don’t recall. Probably he told me at one point and it didn’t -- like many times I tell a student to do something and two years later, “Why didn’t you tell me to do this before?” Right! Yeah that happens! They say, “Why didn’t you tell me before that this is the way to do it?” “I’ve been telling you for two years.” But it’s then when it clicks, it really makes sense. So probably he said it and I don’t [it didn’t] register. But then, I realized, actually part of it is to take away the weight [if the thumb is played with a low wrist, then the arm cannot put excessive weight or force behind the thumb]. So then, you go down with a movement that should be light, because with the excess of the arm it would be very strong. It could be very strong. You have to try to avoid that, and you have to try . . . to take away the power from the strong ones [fingers] and give it to the weaker ones. So you take away from this [the thumb] and give it to the second [finger] that needs it. [Diez demonstrates the scale in two groups of notes as follows: c-D-E f-G-A-B, with c and f played by the thumb with a low wrist, and adding the weight of the arm in an upward direction on the second finger to play D and G louder. He stresses that position or height of the hand and wrist changes most in passing from the thumb to finger 2.] So then, there is movement of the thumb. First of all, it should be the least because that’s the basic ascending movement towards the notes, going to the notes [he shows what he means by playing a five-finger pattern, beginning with a low wrist position for the thumb and pushing the arm upward gradually going through 2, 3, 4, and 5]. So the thumb begins neutral; then transfer to there [to F]; so then in the scale you have the passage of the thumb, which is [starting on C with a low wrist and pushing upward on the second and third fingers, d and e], and then here [thumb moves to f], so you go to the four [the four notes, f, g, a, and b, beginning with a low wrist and the thumb playing f, then pushing the weight of the arm upward on fingers 2 and 3 ending at 4 on b]. So you have two groups [that is, the scale falls into these two groups of notes, c-d-e played by 1, 2, 3 and f-g-a-b played by 1, 2, 3, 4]. What to do to go from one to two, [from the first group to] the second group? The thumb -- he [Arrau] never said very much about doing this [passing the thumb under] to get there, although it helps a little but it’s not necessarily necessary, like, you know, you train your student keep the hand still and go [pass the thumb under]. No! Actually at this point [where the third finger plays] there is a lateral movement [rotation] that goes into effect, a little lateral movement. So you go ascending, and that three [third finger], it goes like this [the hand rotates to the right] to make room for the thumb to come in very relaxed. So it’s here. . . . And then, the same thing happens to the fourth finger. But when you hit the third finger, it should be perpendicular like this. The students, they do it too early. It should be -- at

128 that point -- it’s like if it [the third finger] was a pole vault, like in the Olympics. So the third finger pole-vaults to the side. I say, try to think that you go over the third finger [that is, that the thumb passes over the third finger rather than under it]. Well, it doesn’t happen, but you go fast and it works. You go over the third finger! So then you wait till the third finger to do that -- four. So it’s a tiny movement and also coordinated to be very loose because as you move the thumb it gets stiffer. This is very easy [Diez demonstrates playing a scale with each octave containing two ascending stepwise groups of keys, each played starting with a low wrist for the thumb, gradually moving into its highest position at the end of each group. On the final key of each group, he rotates his arm and wrist outward. This rotation brings the thumb above its next key. Rotating the arm back inward brings the thumb down onto its key]. The first finger [thumb] stays close [to the rest of the hand as it is in motion]. It requires a very precise timing, which is something that the body knows very well. The body has a perception of things that you don’t think [about] anymore. But first you have to train it to do that. But then when you go very fast, it happens. But it happens so fast. You still feel the power in that finger; at that point, you were at the peak, which is not visible anymore. It’s internalized.85 Diez stresses the importance of timing, not executing the rotation movements too soon. By describing the rotation movement as pole-vaulting, he gives students a visual image to help them time the movement with the approach to the key preceding the thumb crossing. What Diez gives in this description is an analysis of circular motion into its lateral and vertical components in a manner that shows their relationship to the passage to be played. When executed fluently, these motions combine to form the circular shapes described by Aldaz. Arpeggios are played similarly, but with larger rotational adjustments to compensate for the larger intervals. The combination of vertical and rotational movements in scales and arpeggios may resolve into subtle circular motions, but care must be taken that the size of the motion fits the size of the intervals played, so that the

85


129 weight of the arm is really directed into the fingertip on the key and does not glide past it, missing its mark. Diez continues: Here again, I go over the third [finger]. It’s the same, but it works. Here, the third finger is a pole vault to go further. And coming down [descending in scales or arpeggios] is the other way around. Then, it’s lateral, it’s rotation [again Diez demonstrates the scale]. When you go up, it’s ascending, but going down then you go over the thumb by rotating [he shows rotation of the whole arm over the thumb so that the elbow is raised up and pointing outward and the fifth-finger side of the hand is pointing upward]. So then you are here already over the notes with the third finger so you drop the elbow, or over the fourth and you drop on the fourth finger. Same thing with the arpeggio!86 Circular motions are appropriate for repeated figural patterns in which at least three notes move in the same direction. Examples include triplet figures such as in Beethoven’s Sonata, Op. 2, No. 1, finale. Of this movement, Arrau said, If you use only the fingers, it will sound mechanical. Use the arm, too. Use rotation on groups of three. Also you have the arpeggio movements, which are different [circular motion]. Most of the work is done with the arm. Of course, you would have to practice it like an exercise, too, for the fingers. You would have to develop the fingers and have them at your disposal.87 Two points are of interest here. One is Arrau’s assertion of the mechanical sound of the passage when played by the fingers alone, suggesting that the “rotation on groups of three” and the “arpeggio movements” give the note groupings a gestural quality that is more expressive than the individualization of notes that results from using “only the fingers.” The second point is the line of demarcation drawn between practice and performance. Arrau recommends the movement that would best express the passage in performance: rotation or small clockwise circular motions used in arpeggios. For

86 87

Ibid. Elder, Pianists at Play, 39.

130 practice, he advises exploring the passage as a finger exercise; however, recalling Arrau’s statement that the arm and fingers must not be used in isolation, one presumes that even in a finger exercise, the arm does participate. This passage demonstrates not only Arrau’s concern that, in using the arm, the fingers are not forgotten and weakened over time, but also another point: that finding the correct solution for a passage may involve a synthesis of opposites. This point has also been set forth by Heinrich Neuhaus: in working out two contrasting principles, a third emerges that synthesizes the first two and constitutes the solution to a given problem.88 All circular motions are generated in the upper arm and bring about passive vertical and horizontal motions in the wrist and forearm. To best observe large circular motions, the fingertip should remain in a fixed position on the key. Rotating the upper arm in the shoulder socket generates the motion, drawing the elbow up and down, away from and back toward the body, while the wrist acts as a double hinge from which the hand can move up and down (vertically) as well as side to side (horizontally). The passive rotation of the forearm connects the motion of the upper arm to the finger on the key and the wrist allows the hand to move in any direction necessary. While keeping one finger nearly straightened and in contact with a depressed key to stabilize the arm, the combined movements of upper arm, forearm, elbow, and wrist create elliptical or circular movements that may go in either clockwise or counterclockwise direction. The finger traces a conical movement above the depressed key. The appearance is as a spiral movement of the whole arm. When the finger is allowed to release the key, this motion can be used to facilitate large leaps. The larger the distance to be covered, the larger the

88

See the comments of Neuhaus, The Art of Piano Playing, 108.

131 motion must be.89 Ena Bronstein-Barton cites this motion as especially helpful in a work like Chopin’s Prelude in E-flat, Op. 28, No. 19, in which leaps are constant and simultaneous in both hands. It [the circular motion] can go in either direction. [With] Anything [that] is coming out of the arm, the wrist will be moving. It’s the arm that is moving the wrist, not the wrist that is moving the arm. [She demonstrates Chopin’s Prelude in E-flat with circular motions, right hand counterclockwise, left hand clockwise, down toward the thumbs, up toward the 5th fingers.]90 In a similar case, large circular arm movements may be used in Chopin’s Etude, Op. 25, No. 1, in which broken chord figures often span more than an octave, and sometimes include wide leaps. In regard to leaps, Arrau advised practicing them with the eyes closed, and concentrating on the physical sensation of the distance to be covered. The physical sensation of the distance resides in the upper arm, in sensing the size of the motion necessary to execute the leap with accuracy. He [Arrau] said those [leaps] you should practice with eyes closed. It is the arm that takes you there. Rafael used to say this. The upper arm takes you there. You don’t play the piano with your fingers. You don’t play with your hands. The accuracy is in the brain. . . . You’re learning the distance which is in your brain and not in your eyes. You’re learning the distance without looking. . . . You’re not crawling around holding onto the keys. You have the whole keyboard here [in the mind]. That will make you a better sight-reader, too. You don’t have to see where things are.91 Thus, the connection between brain and upper arm establishes a sense of keyboard geography independent of visual guidance. In mastering leaps, it is the memory of the

89

Neuhaus put it in characteristically entertaining terms: “ . . . the shortest path between two points on the keyboard is a curve.” The Art of Piano Playing, 132. 90 Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002. 91 Ibid.

132 physical sensations that accompany an accurate execution and the ability to reproduce them that is crucial. Edith Fischer gives advice concerning the direction of the arm movement in making leaps: For jumps that is extremely important. People jump like this [elbows kept close to the sides; forearms stretching out]. Arrau always said, “Think that you come from the outer part of the piano and not from the inner part.” So, instead of jumping like that [from the body outward], you come from here [from most distant point toward the body] as if you were bigger than the piano.92 In the matter of accuracy in leaps, German Diez advises practicing the leap by using the note(s) on one side as a springboard to propel the arm and hand in the direction of the destination note(s). The leap is to be performed as instantaneously as possible, but having completed the leap, the player should not depress the key(s) but stop with the finger(s) in position to play. In this way, one focuses on the movement of leaping, so that it can be judged, adjusted, and learned. More importantly, the leap is timed to take place within the duration of the first note(s) of the leap, and not at the instant that the destination note(s) should be played. Diez also uses this technique for successions of chords where accuracy is difficult. The stretto just before the coda in Chopin’s fourth Ballade is an example. One further example of a passage requiring a combination of techniques is from Brahms’s D-minor piano concerto. Arrau says of this passage: Sometimes, as in the arpeggios at the very end of the first movement of the Brahms D-minor Concerto, you have to use every possible means of making the piano come through the orchestra. Analyzing it, there are three movements. One is to circle out with the arm [on the first four eighth notes] and then come down on the tip of the thumb. And then, for the last two notes [of the arpeggio figure, A and D], rotation of the arm.

92


133 And also, throughout, vibrating the arm. All these movements must be done with tremendous weight.93 This combining of different technical elements to solve pianistic problems requires a knowledge and mastery of the individual elements and the ability to analyze complex technical problems. This gives way to a process of experiment, testing, observation, and adjustment in which techniques are tried in varying amounts and combinations until the desired results are attained. Then, it is a matter of repetition until the correct physical response is internalized. How Arrau applied these principles in his teaching and how they achieved unity with musical expression and interpretation will be taken up in the following discussion of a lesson on Chopin’s Ballade No. 2 in F Major/A Minor, Op. 38.

93

Horowitz, Conversations, 104.

134 THREE TECHNIQUE AND INTERPRETATION There is always an element of practical necessity in the teaching and learning of technique. A player who is hampered by difficulty in playing cannot fully attend to the expressive element in music. However, technique for Arrau was not simply a tool for overcoming difficulties; it was a mode of expression that merged with the musical idea. When asked his opinion of teaching technique and musicianship separately, Arrau’s response revealed a concept of technique as integral to musical communication: “Well, I think that idea is entirely wrong. If you want to communicate certain phrases or passages, how are you going to teach students if, at the same time, you don’t explain how to do it; how to produce or how to realize a conception you are giving them!”1 On another occasion, Arrau said, “I saw the danger in playing exercises: you dissociate the function of making music from the muscular function.”2 By insisting that technique was integral to musical expression, Arrau also implied a distinction between a craftsman, a pianist who possesses technique to play accurately and cleanly or to thrill listeners, and an artist, a musician who uses technique to convey a perceived meaning in music. The same message was taught and reinforced by Arrau’s assistant. Ena Bronstein-Barton recalls, My first lesson with Rafael de Silva… I had brought the Mendelssohn Variations sérieuses, and he asked, “What did you work on?” And I said, “I worked on this, but just the technique so I would have it to come.” And he looked at me, and said, “Hmm,” and started walking around the piano, slowly. I swear, about five minutes went by, and he said, “Dear, can you separate the two?” So the technique is never the technique. It’s how you do everything, but it’s for the musical intention.3

1

Claudio Arrau and Hilde Somer, “Two Artists Talk,” The Piano Quarterly 83 (Fall, 1973): 12. Dean Elder, Pianists at Play: Interviews, Master Lessons, and Technical Regimes (Evanston, Illinois: The Instrumentalist, 1982), 45. 3 Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002. 2

135 Arrau viewed music-making with a seriousness that would not permit him to embrace the seductions of technical display or to view music as entertainment. He was uncomfortable even with the suggestion that music could express humor: “I, personally, think that humor has nothing to do with music: humor has to do with words, music with emotions. People, through associations, find certain contexts in music funny. But I’m against speaking of humor in music unless in an indirect way.”4 The integration of technique with expression and interpretation was characteristic of Arrau’s teaching, and his pupils fully assimilated his view that technique aimed not at merely titillating audiences, nor even at affording the performer greater ease, but at expressing the ineffable qualities of music. Arrau pupil Edith Fischer spoke of integrating technique with expression as an ideal that students must be taught to understand and embrace: What people are looking for doesn’t correspond really to what you can achieve with this [Arrau’s] technique. And the problem now is to tell students that they are musicians first of all, then pianists, because they play mostly in a very superficial way. They want to play very accurately, very clean, very fast, eventually very loud. The notion of sound is not at all the main or the first value, [or] even interpretation. Maybe they play correctly from the text point of view, but still, music is much more than that. And then, of course, they don’t need this technique [Arrau’s technique] to do that . . . . It is important to think about the whole idea of interpretation that is behind it [technique], because otherwise, it doesn’t mean a thing. The whole idea of listening: I say so many times, when you play you must have the impression that you have a string quartet in your hands; and the cello, even if he has three notes in that passage, he is playing those three notes because for him they are important. You’ve got to listen like that. The playing is sometimes so incomplete . . . for instance just melody, [or] just the rhythmical thing is important, or the precision. But what is precision? There are so many things that should be [considered] together.5

4 5

Elder, Pianists at Play, 51. Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.

136 Other listeners also perceived a unity of technique and expression in Arrau’s playing. Prior to 1958, a review appeared in Nieuwe Courant in The Hague6 that compared the playing of Arrau to that of Rosenthal and Godowsky. The reviewer pointed out Arrau’s balanced and versatile technique and its integration with poetic conception. Arrau, he said, equaled his predecessors in “devilish technique, in the worship of sound, but his motive is more for the poetic. The finger, wrist, and arm playing, the rustling lightness and thundering force, the united sculpture, are . . . unique, and the triumphant victory over the mechanic . . . amazing.” By this time, Arrau was a mature artist in his mid-fifties and at the height of his powers. About sixteen years later, Peter G. Davis made a similar comparison and also observed an integrated quality in Arrau’s playing: “For nearly half a century, New York has been essentially a three-pianist town: Arthur Rubinstein for grandly scaled romantic splendor, Vladimir Horowitz for frenzied virtuosity and Rudolf Serkin for rigorous intellectual stimulation of the spirit. . . . Arrau . . . managed to combine the most distinctive elements of his three famous colleagues.”7 When discussing technique either in their teaching or in casual conversation, Arrau’s pupils refer to beliefs they share in common as the “Arrau technique” and they use a common language when referring to its various elements. Words such as “vibration,” “circles,” “circular motion,” “rotation,” and “relaxation” encapsulate a complex of concepts, physical sensations, and physical movements. The use of a single word calls up a group of related responses. For Arrau, the teaching of technique was inextricably bound with the musical approach he was trying to convey to students. It

6

The review was quoted in a publicity flier for Arrau’s Carnegie Hall performance of February 7, 1958. The undated flier is located in the clippings files of the New York Public Library at Lincoln Center. The original review containing the quotation could not be located. 7 Peter G. Davis, “Birthday Bach Greetings,” New York (March 14, 1983): 58-59.

137 served as a point of departure and provided not only a means for students to accomplish what he demanded of them, but also as a mode of communication whereby Arrau was able to convey his musical directions. The experience of Goodwin Sammel illustrates this point. When Sammel auditioned for Arrau in 1945, Arrau asked whether he thought he needed a different technique and Sammel replied, somewhat waggishly, that he preferred to improve the technique he already had. Arrau settled the matter by stating definitively that Sammel needed a different one.8 This technique would serve not only to enhance the quality of Sammel’s performance, but also as a basis and means for understanding between himself and Arrau. A LESSON ON CHOPIN’S SECOND BALLADE, OP. 38 Arrau’s technique consisted of physical movements that could be used to draw various kinds of sound from the piano. Sounds and their corresponding movements functioned not only as the expression of the music but as a medium of communication between teacher and pupil. Specific sounds and movements were linked to the verbal labels that identified them and these three together formed a language of musical expression. In a lesson given to Mario Miranda on Chopin’s second Ballade,9 Arrau speaks of the motion of the arm when playing the thirds in the right-hand passage in m. 47, “Do you ‘fall down’? The thirds ‘go up.’”

8

Goodwin Sammel, lecture at Greenwich House Music School in New York City, April 12, 2003. This lesson is preserved on tape. It is undated but probably took place sometime during the 1960s. Some parts of the tape are inaudible. The lesson was conducted in Spanish. The translation into English is a result of a joint effort by students of German Diez in July of 2003; they are Angelina Tallaj, Laura Ahumada, Cesar Reyes, and Marcia Lewis. All of Arrau’s remarks concerning Chopin’s second Ballade are quoted from this lesson. 9

138 Example 3.1 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, m. 47

Arrau then explains the difference this makes to the sound, “When you do it ‘up’ the third comes out clearer. You hear it better. It gets a fuller, round sound.” Miranda’s ability to interpret these directions and the explanation that followed depended on learning in previous lessons how to execute motions designated by the words “fall down” and “go up” and what kinds of sounds would result when these motions were done correctly. Arrau’s explanation connects a sound experienced under the description “fuller, round” with the bodily motion needed to produce it. His instruction is dictated by an interpretive concept of the work that contains the passage in question as an integral part and requires the thirds to have a quality of fullness and roundness, rather than some other quality, such as brilliance, sharpness, thinness, or brightness.10 Arrau’s students internalized such 10

In this case, saying that the sound is “round” is a qualification of what Arrau is asking Miranda to do. Arrau says, “Go up.” Will this physical motion produce a round sound? Arrau’s pupils say that the upward motion, in contrast to the downward motion, produces a stronger, sharper accent (see ch. 2, p. 109). But Arrau’s stipulation of “round” suggests that this “sharpness” is not desired. The quality of the sound must be reconciled with the instruction “go up” in the only way possible, by judging whether the speed of the upward arm motion, the muscular state of the arm, hand, and fingers, and the closeness of the fingers to the keys produce a tone sufficiently free of mechanical noise. But then, why not “go down” as Miranda seems to have tried at first? The reason, perhaps, is that placing an upward motion in one part of this group of four sixteenth notes requires a downward motion in another part. The down motion is a necessary consequence of or preparation for another up motion, and vice-versa. In effect, placing the up motion on the third, as Arrau suggests, has the effect of blending the up and down motions together to create a circular arm motion that is counterclockwise. Placing the down motion on the thirds will turn the circle around clockwise so that the upward portion coincides with the thumb. This is physically awkward, and the force of the up

139 connections among musical sounds, verbal descriptions, and physical motions to such an extent that a reference to one category would evoke the other two. This three-part synthesis -- sound, descriptive label, and physical motion -corresponds to the triadic semiotic function of music set forth by Naomi Cumming, following Charles Peirce’s triadic division of signs into representamen, object, and interpretant and his second trichotomy of signs as icon (likeness), index (response or reference), and symbol (conventional association). A sign (representamen) may signify as an icon through likeness to its object, as an index by pointing out an object, or as a symbol through conventional substitution for its object. Interpretants, ideas that connect signs with their objects, enable signs to be understood. Musical sounds function as signs by virtue of a perceived sonic inflection or quality. Their interpretants are, in part, the learned ideas that serve as preconditions for sounds (signs) being understood as “rich, round, full, thin, brittle, clear, muddy, dull, dry, bright, metallic, sweet, singing, rough, sharp, hard, flat.” The signified object is the sonic quality itself and its accompanying mental concepts identified by verbal description. Such sonic qualities as rich, round, full, thin, dull, etc., in their musical contexts are open to further interpretation as pain, aggressiveness, submissiveness, joy, sorrow, etc. Cumming notes that, whereas linguistic signs draw attention to the ideas conveyed rather than their own signifying properties, musical signs draw attention to their own qualities: She writes, “They do not invite a mode of attention suitable to language, one of reflective thought about the idea conveyed in an abstract term (although that need not be dogmatically excluded). Instead, they ask for a closer attention to their own phenomenology, drawing the listener into the qualities

motion tends to accent the figure in the wrong places. Therefore, it seems Arrau is aiming for a motion that gives ease and accentuates the hemiola, but modifying it with the words, “round” sound.

140 of a sign.” Thus, with a musical sound, the verbal description stands for a quality of musical sound as the object of signification but it is not a fixed meaning, and it does not render the sign itself superfluous; musical sound remains the object of primary interest.11 Arrau’s description, “fuller, round,” draws attention to a quality of sound. For Miranda, both prior piano study and general notions of how “round” and “full” might apply to piano sound supply interpretants that allow a sound quality to be understood as having those attributes.12 He would experience the sound as aural sensation, as bodily

11

Naomi Cumming, The Sonic Self (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2000), 72-76. Cumming notes problems with semiotic approaches to music pointed out by Ann Clark, Monroe Beardsley, and Stephen Davies: the lack of semantic content in music, the inability of music to “take account” of an object, lack of any practical distinction between a sound and its heard quality, and the suggestion that music points beyond itself. She defends a Peircean view as follows: the relationship of sign to object is not necessarily reference to a concrete thing; the sound has many attributes in its potential to signify; the metaphorically described object is a quality and an “emergent property of the sound as heard”; the “object” is created by the performer and this can be done only through attention to the medium of sound and not through over-involvement with idealized images; recognizing signification is not a private act but “a realization of ways of hearing established within a speech (and performance) community.” 12 What interpretants Mr. Miranda possessed in order to judge whether his sound would be round and full cannot be known. One might try to construct an idea of them by imagining oneself in the position of seeking this sound. One might ask what determines the choice of the word “round” as opposed to “square”. Square and round are visible, not audible, attributes. One cannot see sound, so how would one distinguish a round from a square sound, if there were such a thing? Perhaps the word opposing the round sound is not a word from the domain of shapes, but from some other domain of description, such as “hard” or “sharp.” That may be the mark of there being a special musical language in play wherein the dualisms of other domains do not apply. In an effort to get to the meaning of round as applied to sound, one could imagine a sound that materializes in such a way that one is unable to pinpoint exactly the instant in which it came to be, just as a circle or sphere has no obvious point of beginning. The piano mechanism works against this concept of sound because a hammer hits metal strings producing audible noise that clearly articulates the beginning of a tone (“tone” meaning the sound of the string vibrating as distinct and separate from the noise of attack). Further noise may result from the fingers tapping or hitting the surface of the keys and the keys impacting with the key bed. There are various means to camouflage and minimize those noises: use of the damper pedal to amplify the tone in relation to the noise; use of the shift pedal in forte to gain the vibration of a string without its being struck; slightly overlapping tones to camouflage the noise of attack; maintaining contact with the keys to minimize the tapping of the fingers; maintaining a flexibility in the arm, wrist, and hand that allows maximum key speed while minimizing the impact and resulting noise of the key in the key bed. (Ortmann believed that his measurements showed it possible to move the key faster in the top of its descent and more slowly in the bottom so as to minimize the noise of the key in the key bed). Mr. Miranda might decide in the circumstances which of these means to employ. Is the resultant sound “round”? If it comes into being without conspicuous noise in its attack, and if, like the circular or spherical shape, one cannot pinpoint the exact instant of its beginning, then perhaps one can say that it is and that its interpretant is based on an analogy with round shapes. What other justification there would be for calling the sound round, square, or anything else? It can be said that we experience a particular quality of sound as round; therefore, the sound IS round and the object of these

141 motion (the technical means used to produce it), and as the quality named to describe it. The named quality may lead in turn to further associations. Through such pedagogical interactions (as well as other types of interaction that similarly frame awareness and perception of objects in the world), students build up an expressive vocabulary containing elements of established practice, practical expedience, and personal creativity. The use of language by teacher and student may be maximal, referring to qualities of sounds, their descriptive labels, and the motions needed to produce them, or -- when a student has acquired proficiency with the expressive language -- minimal, in which a reference to one of these categories evokes the others. Example 3.2 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, mm. 51-54.

meditations is a quality of sound, not round objects. Alternatively, it might be said that a sound cannot literally be round and its description as round is metaphorical, imported from another domain where things are literally round. But still, the main focus is the musical sound; the verbal label is for identification purposes, and for making a pianist listen for a quality of sound and act in new ways. If the label is an apt description, it is all the better.

142 In the same lesson quoted above, the following rather minimal exchange was clear to both Arrau and his student. Arrau: Yes, but here [mm. 51-54; Example 3.2] do you do it with “circles” also? Miranda: Yes. Arrau: But then at the very end, naturally, you change to “rotation.” Miranda: Of course. Making sense of this as a musical interaction requires a knowledge of the physical responses indicated by “circles” and “rotation” as well as their significance as gestures. As technical gestures or motions, they fit the range and direction of the particular motivic units by reinforcing the fingers and placing them in a strong position to play the notes. As expressive gestures, they are flexible in size and shape and, therefore, capable of producing sonic inflections suited to the musical motivic units. They return to the player a physical sensation of gesture that becomes identified with the expressive motivation: circular motions subsume larger groups of notes in single smooth, expansive, rolling, wave-like shapes; rotation breaks up these waves and enacts pairs of notes in shorter, faster, more turbulent motions. Having mastered the basic movements indicated by the words “circle” and “rotation,” a player is free to experiment with subtle variations in size, shape, and balance of the movements to emphasize particular notes as desired, to increase volume approaching them, to decrease volume falling away from them, and, by this means, to “shape” the sound and alter the expression. For Arrau’s pupils, building up a system of three-way connections – sounds, the physical means of producing them, and their expressive potentials – was a process of training and socialization. Arrau used master classes and other kinds of interactions as social and pedagogical vehicles to transmit to his students the beliefs and practices that bound them together as a group. As such, they reinforced these beliefs and practices in

143 each other. What Arrau had built up in his playing and what his students acquired amounted to a language of expression that united the technical and musical. As Ivan Nuñez expressed it, The thing is that the technique incorporates the music into it somehow. It’s part of the musical thing somehow. It’s not two things, music and hitting the keys. The way we play encompasses everything and it’s one unit. . . . You’re one thing with the music, your body, your playing, it’s one.13 Technique and expression have often been taught, practiced, and discussed as separate domains, divided along the lines of the familiar mind/body duality. Technique was considered only a bodily activity, while expression (predetermined by an act of interpretation) was an activity of the mind. However, Arrau consciously attended to both the physical and musical sides of playing in his teaching, either by addressing both directly or by subtly drawing one out of the other, and he often spoke of the danger of separating them. The continuity of bodily movement and musical expression is manifested in scholarly writing by use of the term “gesture,” a term referring primarily to bodily movement but also used to designate musical units of various kinds. David Lidov has proposed, “Music is significant only if we identify perceived sonorous motion with somatic [bodily] experience.”14 He develops a concept of “icon” as a melodic pattern shaped by a performer into an expressive gesture.15 To be realized as “gestural,” a pattern must be embodied, or capable of being embodied, in a performance act that conveys a unitary impulse.16 Citing Lidov’s work, Naomi Cumming relates the icon to the listening experience through what she calls “indices of action” – 13

Ivan Nuñez, interview in New York City, February 26, 2003. David Lidov, “Mind and Body in Music,” Semiotica 66/1-3: 70. This article was reprinted in David Lidov, Is Language a Music? (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2005), 145-64. 15 Ibid., 70. 16 Ibid., 77. Quoted by Naomi Cumming in The Sonic Self, 136. 14

144 aspects of a performer’s manner of acting out a “gesture” that are sensed by a listener and lead to the formation of some conclusion. The icon thus creates a “haptic image,” an image shaped and conveyed by a performer through an act of touch.17 Cumming defines gestures as “relatively autonomous” melodic shapes that “present simply recognized patterns of directional motion, energy (tempo, or degree of pitch change), and emphasis.” She cites musical style as a factor in determining gestures, appropriate manners of performance, and their affective connotation.18 A gesture is realized by selecting one performance act from a range of possibilities, and it is thus both a unique event and a “representation of a gestural type.”19 Cumming identifies physical actions, notated elements, and stylistic conventions as constituents of gesture. . . . an interaction is set up between three different, but interrelated, senses of “gesture,” which cannot be realized effectively apart from one another: a “gesture” is an inflected performance of some patterning, uniquely realized in a moment of time; it is a notated feature, closely aligned with a figuration or motif; it is also an aspect of melodic patterning that is systematically developed in some styles, in ornaments or short conventional figurations.20 From this perspective, musical style can be seen as a product of both compositional style and performance practice. On the performance side, it is a function and prerogative of teaching to build up a vocabulary of physical actions linked to notated features as gestural types and to identify them with images and concepts. These images may derive from prior understandings of a musical work that are part of its performance practice or of performance practice generally; they may have literary or pictorial sources 17

Cumming, The Sonic Self, 134-38. If musical style means compositional style, it must be allowed that compositional style and performance are mutually influential in determining gesture. One cannot conceive of music composed other than from the standpoint of how it would be performed. Performances have the power to shape and alter the gestural shape of a given work, as Czerny noted. See ch. 1, p. 18. 19 Cumming, The Sonic Self, 136-37. 20 Ibid., 138. 18

145 that are part of the lore surrounding a work; they may suggest a scenario that establishes a tone for an entire work, or may simply suggest a mode of expression for a smaller segment; they may spring spontaneously from a performer’s imagination as an expression of some analogy between an element of the work and a perceived feature of the external world. Pedagogy transmits performance practice and tradition one musical work at a time, through instruction designed both for individual works and for works generally; and simultaneously it exemplifies for the student a model for creative study and for preparing performances. Some examples may be seen in Arrau’s lesson with Mario Miranda on Chopin’s second Ballade. Arrau: Chopin’s music is really not programmatic so the connection to something programmatic is too distant and too indirect. But then, there is the story of the enchanted lake. At the end of the story something submerges itself in the water again. Have you ever read it? 21 Miranda: No. Arrau: I tell it to you because it’s one way to get closer to the music. That’s why in this whole section there should be no agitato or almost none. Let’s do the beginning again. While cautioning against viewing the work as program music, Arrau offers a poetic image as the reason to avoid any feeling of agitation. By referring to the enchanted 21

It has been a tradition that this Ballade was inspired by Switez, or The Legend of Lake Switez, adapted by Mickiewicz from a popular ballad. The poem is summarized as follows: “Often at night out of a thick enveloping mist the lake of Switez emits the hum of a city, the tumult of warriors, the cries of women, the tolling of bells and the clash of arms. The lord to whom the lake belongs, eager to probe its mystery, assembles a fleet of barges to drag the water’s depths. When the nets are drawn to the surface a woman is revealed, of luminous complexion, with lips of coral and flaxen hair. She speaks to the terrified crowd telling them that where this lake now stands there once stood a city famous for the valor of its warriors and the virtue of its women. One day its ruler, Prinz Tuhan, and his knights were called away by the Lithuanian king to help him give battle against the invading army of the Czar. The prince was sorely grieved to leave Switez unprotected, but his daughter – the lady of the lake herself – bade him go without fear, for in a vision she had beheld an angel bare his sword and spread his golden pinions over the town as a symbol of protection. That very night the Russians battered their way into Switez. Rather than suffer death at the hands of the invader, the defenseless inhabitants resolved to slay themselves. But the princess prayed that the Lord himself would destroy them. Suddenly the town disappeared, swallowed into the earth. In its stead a lake arose margined with water-lilies, into which the wives and daughters of Switez had been changed. As the Russians touched these lilies, thinking to adorn their helmets, they were struck down with sickness and perished.” Tilly Fleishmann, Aspects of the Liszt Tradition, ed. Michael O’Neill (Bryn Mawr, Pa.: Theodore Presser, 1991), 38-39. See also, James Parakilas, Ballads Without Words: Chopin and the Tradition of the Instrumental Ballade (Portland, Oreg.: Amadeus Press, 1992), 32-38.

146 lake, Arrau creates an aura of distance, tragedy, and folk legend, particular references that the score alone cannot specify; he also suggests certain qualities of sound and physical sensation will be appropriate in performing the work. In order to avoid an agitato feeling, Arrau suggests performing the dotted rhythm motive as follows: Arrau: We have to be very careful of the rhythm that it doesn’t go bum ba bum bum [Arrau sings a more percussive rendition] but dah da dah dah [Arrau sings in a more drawn-out fashion], not too sharp. Example 3.3 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, mm. 1-4

As in Cumming’s model, Arrau identifies the motive of m. 4 as a gesture, a melodic shape with autonomy and direction, and allies it with sustained, connected sounds – “not sharp” sounds – that will require certain physical responses to create them. The melodic gesture is interpreted as an expression of calm, not by invoking compositional style, but by alluding to a connection between the music and a literary work. By the articulation of his singing, Arrau transmits to his pupil a sense of the gesture, of a sound united with a bodily motion, that can function as a sign, both within the limited context of this specific work and within the larger context of their ongoing communication. From this instruction, the physical motion cannot be known precisely because Arrau did not say what it was. The student may have deduced it from other information

147 not perceptible on a tape recording. For example, the student enjoyed the advantage of seeing Arrau’s facial expressions and bodily gestures, which may have provided clues to the physical motions; he might have known an appropriate motion from previous lessons at which Arrau specified bodily motions for this type of gesture. Thus, in the request for a quality of sound, a type of physical motion was implicit. It might be speculated that the motion would involve 1) maintaining contact with the keys by the fingers to maximize control of the key speed, and 2) releasing enough arm weight to achieve a substantial yet soft sound and to slow the key speed, thereby minimizing the sound of the attack. The player might also experience the motion of the arms as slow and any upward rebounding from the long notes as slow and of small size to avoid disrupting the aura of expectant calm by an inappropriately dance-like rhythm or flirtatious character. The process of listening for and selecting the desired sound and practicing to reproduce it at will results in creating a musical gesture that embodies both notated and performed elements and that, for the performer, unites sound, bodily motion, and emotive experience. As a corollary of his instruction that there should be no agitato, Arrau addresses the matter of legato. Of interest is his objection to relying on the pedal to create legato rather than maintaining legato with the hands. What is at issue is whether the performer can achieve a legato without feeling or enacting it physically. Considering that musical tension must not result in physical tension (see ch. 2, p. 89; see also, Appendix Two, p. 294), one might conclude by extension that legato need not require physically connecting notes as long as the sounds are convincingly connected by the pedal. Nevertheless, Arrau makes the following general statement: Arrau: Then we have to deal with something that you do sometimes, not all the time: that you trust in the pedal for the legato. Remember that we

148 were talking about that, that if you let go with your hands, you don’t feel the legato. Example 3.4 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, mm. 5-7.

He continues by noting a specific case in which legato is to be maintained by the hands, not by the pedal only: Arrau: [In m. 6, counting the anacrusis as m. 1] You let go of the keys. I think I know why you do it, because the slur keeps on going and you feel the need of breathing. I think that is just this edition. Would you like to see other editions? I have the manuscript. You expect to breathe there [after the C-A sixth, m. 6, b. 4-5] but there is no breathing there. Something new starts, but keep the tension going. This instruction reveals different understandings of legato as an expressive value and as connected sounds. The pedal can connect the tones in question even though the fingers leave the keys; however, when descending onto the keys from above, the speed of key depression and the volume of sound are not controlled as minutely as when the fingers are in contact with the keys before key depression begins. Thus, the legato might be interrupted by changes in dynamic. However, if “letting go of the keys” in this case causes no audible interruptions or increased percussiveness in the sound (i. e., the physical connectedness of the sounds is not disturbed), then Arrau must be concerned with a psychological dimension in which the expression of legato is bound to the physical gesture of connecting the sounds. The mention of “feeling the need of breathing”

149 suggests that Arrau is not reacting to the student’s actual articulation of sound but to his feeling or expressive intent; Arrau’s objection implies that the player experiences this moment as a breath, whether he is conscious of it or not, and whether or not the sound is actually continuous. If, in order to convey to a listener the feeling of legato, a performer must feel a physical sensation of maintaining contact with the keys, then it seems logical to conclude that communication with a listener necessitates that a performer really feel what is to be communicated. But it also seems clear that different expressive qualities must answer to different rules. As noted above, a performance may convey a sense of musical tension, but the performer should not feel the tension physically, for doing so can affect performance adversely through loss of control or by contributing to unhealthy playing habits. Therefore, communicating a sense of legato differs from communicating a sense of musical tension in that the former must be physically felt by the player, while the latter must not. An additional interpretation of Arrau’s instruction is that Arrau is concerned about maintaining contact with the keys versus lifting the hands from the keys as visual symbols perceptible to listeners in a live performance.22 When a listener sees a player lift 22

John Sloboda writes: “Davidson (1991, 1993) has recently shown that not all of the expressive intent of a performance is necessarily contained within the sound parameters. Her studies demonstrated that the body movements made by performers while playing contribute to the expressivity of the performance as judged by observers. Movements of wrist, torso, and head tend to be systematic and related to specific structural features of the music. It is as if such body movements draw the observer’s attention to particular parts of the music, enhancing their salience. Even when performers are asked to play the music “deadpan” (i. e., without expression), small but detectable body movements still occur. These are of exactly the same type as the movements observed when the performer is asked to play expressively and occur at the same points in the music. Just as in the Gabrielson (1974) study . . . these movements seem to have become automatic. Davidson’s results raise some interesting questions about the context of musical performance. Do they help explain why live performances are often so much more engaging than recorded ones? Does our society’s increasing dependence on audio recordings of music mean that a whole dimension of musical expressivity is being downplayed or abandoned?” John Sloboda, “Music Performance: Expression and the Development of Excellence,” in Musical Perceptions, eds. Rita Aiello and John A. Sloboda (New York:

150 his or her hands, the listener interprets this as an intentional articulation or breath. In this case, the musical sign has both visual and aural components, raising the possibility that musical communication depends in some part on visible bodily movements experienced directly by performers and vicariously by listeners. In this context it is interesting to recall Lidov’s statement that music “has significance only in terms of somatic experience,” because of the importance it claims for physical sensation in creating and determining the musical aesthetic experience for both performer and listener. It calls into question whether a listener can fully grasp the physical dimension of a musical performance if the performer is not visible and, moreover, whether listeners who have never experienced music in live performance can grasp its “significance” at all.23 In the Ballade’s alternating sections in a minor, technical skills are put to the test in executing demanding passages both skillfully and expressively. Consequently, Arrau is more specific in prescribing technical movements, not only for ease and accuracy in executing the passages, but for creating the sounds and bodily sensations to present the gesture convincingly.

Oxford University Press, 1994), 159. For a discussion of bodily gesture types, see François Delalande, “Meaning and Behavior Patterns: The Creation of Meaning in Interpreting and Listening to Music,” in Musical Signification: Essays in the Semiotic Theory and Analysis of Music, ed. Eero Tarasti (Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 1995), 219-28. 23 Thomas Christensen points out the importance of physical experience in music reception. Christensen argues that piano transcriptions promoted a genric transfer of personal expression associated with chamber music to the hitherto public and monumental symphonic repertory. In discussing the kinetic element in performing four-hand piano transcriptions of orchestral works, he states, “No orchestral musician, it seems to me, can attain the sense of authority achieved by two pianists reenacting--and hence controlling—a performance of a large symphonic work. Perhaps not even the conductor can truly be said to have such ultimately visceral control. . . . In our own culture of mechanical . . . reproduction of music, we have lost much of the tactile, personalized understanding of the music repertory that musicians of the nineteenth century who played piano transcriptions may have taken for granted. Our relation to the concert repertory we consume tends to be passive and disembodied. . . . ” Among many issues raised by Christensen, there is the question whether concentrating on history and musical form in music appreciation classes adequately serves students who lack any physical experience of the music. Thomas Christensen, “Four-Hand Piano Transcription and Geographies of Nineteenth-Century Musical Reception,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 52/2 (Summer, 1999): 283, 286.

151

Example 3.5 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, m. 48.

Arrau: The second measure [m. 48], right hand, do you do it only with “rotation”? Miranda: Yes. Arrau: Because sometimes we don’t hear the sixths. For that I really recommend you . . . Miranda: I practiced 1, 2, just placing the 5 there [these numbers refer to fingers]. Arrau: That’s good as an exercise, but now let’s do an experiment. Try it this way accenting “up” on the sixths. Check that you don’t stiffen the wrist. That gives you more security because you’re already up and over the keys. I know I have a different hand from yours but, from my experience, I think that you will have more security doing it “up” than just with rotation. But you’ll work it out. Here Arrau seems to ask for a vertical movement in combination with rotation. Rotation alone would draw the 2 and 5 away from the sixths while the thumb plays, making accuracy and power on the sixths questionable. By asking the student to “accent up” on the sixths, Arrau refers to a quick motion of the whole arm up (or forward with the wrist reacting by moving upward), so that the weight of the arm is applied in an upward direction, replacing some of the rotation motion and allowing fingers 2 and 5 to be positioned on the sixths before playing them. Arrau seems to dismiss the idea of practicing the 1-2 sequence alone, and one could speculate that he does so because it

152 tends to balance the weight on those fingers, leaving the fifth finger unsupported so that, as Arrau noted, the sixths cannot be heard clearly. Arrau: That second measure [m. 48]: practice it really slowly, exaggerating the difference between the two movements. This is a really good exercise in doing different movements with your two hands. Another very important thing: that second measure, you have to start no more than mezzo forte, and the fourth measure, too [m. 50, which contains the same figuration]. The motions that Arrau calls “different” for the right and left hand actually have similar elements: the left hand uses clockwise circular motions that, like the right-hand motion described above, are composites of rotational and up-down movements; however, motions of the two hands create a hemiola, the circular left-hand motion grouping the notes by three, while the rotational right-hand motion groups them by two. This technique is both a means for a powerful and controlled delivery engaging the large muscles of the upper arm, shoulders, and back, as well as a gestural acting out of the hemiola in which the player experiences in his entire torso a powerful sense of conflicting accents that contribute to the rising turbulence in m. 48. In the fifth measure [m. 51; see Example 3.2] you keep fortissimo with the right hand. Start mezzo forte with the left hand. Here too, you have to find a fingering that is convenient for you [octaves in the left hand]. I think it would be convenient to have the fifth [finger] on the B, and the A with 4, and the next B with 5 again [left hand, m. 51]. But I see that the big problem is going from the G-sharp to the B with the 5. The sensation you have to have is not that you are hitting each octave but that you are playing a melodic line. It’s as if you had a bag full of sand on the keyboard. But here, more than in other passages! Because if you play “heh heh heh” [percussive octaves] it sounds horrible. It’s fifty times harder work to do it like that. All this while, the right hand is playing fortissimo [mm. 51-54]. Keep the right hand loud. In telling his student how to play the left-hand octaves, Arrau purposefully cultivates an awareness of bodily sensation. By requesting that the passage “start mezzo

153 forte” and referring to playing a melodic line as a “sensation,” he indicates that successfully communicating a legato in this passage is more dependent upon the bodily feeling of a horizontal direction and dynamic shaping than upon the actual connection of sounds. The image of having a “bag full of sand on the keyboard” is meant to activate the muscles of the upper arm (as one would use big muscles to lift a very weighty object), and to minimize any vertical forearm motions in playing the octaves as the weight of the imagined sand bag would hold the hand and fingers close to the keys. The experience of the musical expression of this passage is therefore grounded in the bodily experience of controlling the dynamic shaping by manipulating the weight of the arm with the muscles of the upper arm and shoulder while the fingers remain close to the keys. In a further example, Arrau gives instructions that, while appearing purely mechanical, actually represent a particular interpretation of the passage. Examining these instructions in light of corresponding details in the score shows how techniques of manipulating tempo and dynamics are used to bring out notated elements with conventional meanings that can be seen as significant in the context of the entire work.

Example 3.6 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, mm. 94-98.

Arrau: First measure, page 33 . . . [m. 95], the second half is hard to do. There has to be a small rallentando and an emergence of the left hand. A little bit of crescendo in the second half of the measure [mm. 95-96]. On

154 the three C’s, the left hand should crescendo, the right hand the opposite. So then, the left hand diminishes a little bit and there is a little bit of hesitation within the modulation. While Arrau’s instructions appear purely mechanical, they actually present a way of understanding and interpreting this passage in accordance with his previous remarks about the character of the work. Arrau does not spell out his expressive intentions, but it is telling to observe which notated features are brought out by his instructions. A diminished seventh chord, written for the right hand in m. 96, suddenly derails the expected cadence. Rather than make the diminished seventh louder to emphasize the surprise (as the hairpin might suggest), Arrau recommends preparing it with a “small rallentando” and then decreasing volume on the diminished seventh. He prepares for the hairpin with a crescendo on the left-hand Cs, thus drawing attention to the bass register in which the dotted eighth-sixteenth motive (which Arrau drew attention to and treated as a gesture in an earlier comment) will now appear, played three times by the left hand during a three-measure pause on the diminished seventh. The slight hesitation requested by Arrau in mm. 96-98 underscores the lingering on the diminished seventh by somewhat lengthening it. This example is a practical illustration of both Lidov’s concept of “icon” as a melodic pattern shaped by a performer into an expressive gesture and Cumming’s triadic model of gesture as physical action, notated feature, and stylistic convention. Arrau’s instructions “point out” musical features that are both iconic (likeness) and symbolic (stylistic convention): the dominant seventh, an unstable dissonance, creates motion toward or “desire for” closure on the tonic; the diminished seventh with its multiple possibilities of resolution is ambiguous, and its use in this context brings about

155 “frustration” or interruption of closure.24 Arrau exploits dynamics and rubato to intensify these qualities. By executing the progression from dominant seventh to diminished seventh with a decrease of tempo and dynamic level, Arrau treats it as a movement from tension to rest, a treatment normal for a resolution of the dominant seventh to tonic. But the diminished seventh cannot be heard as a point of repose, and quieting it down cannot be heard as closure. Thus, Arrau creates a tension that could be heard as repressed anxiety, anomaly, or phantasm. Simultaneously, a crescendo by the left hand both draws attention to the placement of the theme in the bass register, where it takes on a “mano sinistra” association, and introduces a sense of “foreboding” or “menace.”25 A durational emphasis on mm. 96-98 dramatizes the tonal ambiguity and enacts it as a moment of indecision or circumspection, of pondering a response to peril or doubt. Arrau’s instructions invite an interpretation of the passage that may resonate with that of the entire work. Without specifying programmatic details of interpretation or presenting the work as program music, his suggestion of the image of the enchanted lake in Mickiewicz’s poem evokes other images and creates a context for his subsequent instructions. While their technical implications are clear, Arrau does not spell out the interpretive meaning of his instructions. One could accept them merely as helpful technical suggestions; however, considering Arrau’s principle that technique and interpretation form a unity, his instructions invite interpretation. Following the lead of Lidov and Cumming, the interpreter may consider qualities and conventions associated 24

Deryck Cooke gives evidence for the conventional use of the tritone or diminished seventh to “express alien, eerie, hostile and disruptive forces” in The Language of Music (London and New York: Oxford University Press, 1959), 84-89. 25 Cooke also comments on conventional use of the low register to “evoke feelings of darkness, heaviness, earthiness, or evil.” Ibid., 110-11.

156 with harmonic and registral elements to create a context of iconic and symbolic representation in which Arrau’s instructions may be read as introducing a layer of indexical signs: rallentando and crescendo function as signs that “point out” the harmonic and melodic elements to which they are applied, and they demand “active responses to an observable state of affairs in order for their ‘sense’ to be understood.”26 Thus the quality pointed out by the decrescendo can be understood as secrecy, deception, sotto voce; that indicated by rallentando, as hesitancy, anxiety, doubt, foreboding. In his teaching, Arrau professed a unity of expression and technique. Bodily motions were united with sound qualities; sound qualities were named by verbal descriptions. Both physical movement and sound quality served as a medium of communication between Arrau and his students. Theories about gesture and signs advanced by Lidov and Cumming explain and support this unity and its communicative function. They are a reminder of the expressive significance of bodily movement and of elements that appear as purely mechanical. Arrau’s students possessed an awareness of this significance, for they experienced the technique not as gymnastics but as the embodiment of interpretation. As Nuñez noted, “The technique incorporates the music into it . . . the music, your body . . . it’s one.”

26

Cumming, The Sonic Self, 90.

157 FOUR ARRAU’S COLLABORATION WITH RAFAEL DE SILVA Arrau once referred to his teaching as having a system.1 This system was partially a product of his own process of making his technique conscious, a process that began during a period of personal and professional crisis. Martin Krause’s death in 1918 deprived the fifteen-year-old protégé of a powerful mentor and father figure, who had taught him, housed him, protected him, and directed his performing career. Arrau was becoming a young adult, and audiences no longer responded with the enthusiasm they afforded him as a precocious child. Without Krause, Arrau’s performing career began to founder and he questioned the viability of a pianistic career. Moreover, Arrau was developing psychological troubles and in 1924 began seeing a psychiatrist, Hubert Abrahamsohn, in Düsseldorf. These troubles were intensified by politics and the economy. The aftermath of World War I in Germany was a period of economic depression and unemployment during which Hitler began to consolidate political power. In 1921, Arrau’s stipend from the Chilean government ended and he faced the responsibility of supporting his mother and sister, who lived with him in Berlin.2 In the midst of these difficulties, three things happened: Arrau began teaching at the Stern Conservatory,3 where he met Rudolf Breithaupt and learned of Breithaupt’s theories about piano technique; he developed friendships with pianists Grete Sultan and Rafael de Silva that would remain important

1 2 3

Horowitz, Conversations, 186. Ibid., 46-7, 53.

Arrau taught at the Stern Conservatory from 1924 until 1940. Kenneth Marchant, The Beethoven Editions of Schnabel and Arrau: A Comparison of Ten Selected Piano Sonatas (Ph.D. diss., Indiana University, 1984), 6.

158 for the rest of his life; and he began to investigate his own piano playing in order to understand consciously the technique he had always used unconsciously and so successfully as a child. GRETE SULTAN Grete Sultan (1906-2005) was a pupil of Leonid Kreutzer,4 Edwin Fischer,5 and the American pianist Richard Buhlig.6 She recalled growing up in a well-to-do and musical Jewish family. Everybody played in my family. My uncles, my aunts, my sisters and brother, everybody played. Some played violin, cello, and not all were professional musicians. They all played, but they were doctors. Two [of my] aunts were students of Clara Schumann. They were from my mother’s family. They all lived for a century in the Rhineland. . . . Lotte Jacobi, Clara Jacobi. I still have a letter from Clara Schumann that she wrote to my grandmother. It was just a very friendly letter about the children. . . . I think it was just about one of her last letters. One of her daughters kept on writing. On my father’s side they also were very musical: doctors, surgeons that played the piano.7 Sultan reports meeting Arrau after a performance when he was in his early teens: I met him [Arrau] pretty early. I met him, my memory of him is, I must have been ten years old. I don’t remember a year, so I can’t tell it exactly 4

Born in St. Petersburg, March 13, 1884; died in Tokyo, October 30, 1953. The son of German-Jewish parents, Kreutzer became an influential piano teacher at the Berliner Hochschule für Musik. His solo performances were musically and technically demanding, and often dedicated to specific composers or themes. At some of these, notably in June of 1925, he performed works of contemporaries or modern composers of his time or of the recent past such as César Franck, Claude Debussy, Paul Hindemith, and Paul Juon..The Nazis targeted him prominently as a cultural enemy: he is one of two pianists whose names appear in a list of "tidy-up tasks" ("Aufräumungsarbeiten") compiled by Alfred Rosenberg’s "Kampfbund für deutsche Kultur" (Battle-Union for German Culture). He emigrated to the United States in 1933 and to Japan in 1938. He is also known as an editor of Chopin's works. He wrote one of the first works on systematic use of the pedal: Das normale Klavierpedal vom akustischen und ästhetischen Standpunkt (1915). 5 Swiss pianist, born in Basle, October 6, 1886; died in Zurich, January 24, 1960. He studied in Berlin with Martin Krause, taught at the Stern Conservatory from 1905 to 1914 and at the Hochschule für Musik starting in 1931. Fischer published editions of keyboard works by Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart, and reflections on the Beethoven sonatas, Ludwig van Beethovens Klaviersonaten (Wiesbaden, 1956). 6 Born in Chicago, December 21, 1880; died in Los Angeles, January 30, 1952. Buhlig studied with Leschetizky and made his debut in Berlin in 1901. He was the teacher of Henry Cowell and John Cage. Grete Sultan’s association with John Cage was the result of their mutual relationship with Buhlig. 7 Grete Sultan, interview in New York City, July 6, 2002.

159 but that’s an age when I was very eager to play the piano, and I heard Claudio, and then we met.8 Sultan also claims that it was through her that Arrau met Ruth Schneider, who became his wife. In Berlin, Claudio married Ruth Schneider 9 from Frankfurt, whom I knew before she met Arrau. And when they met, she was a singer, and she wanted to take piano lessons with me in order to be able to accompany herself. And I introduced her to Claudio and that was it! . . . She . . . stopped [singing] when she met Mr. Arrau. That was it! And pretty soon she had children. Carmen, Mario. They lived in Berlin.10 Sultan remained a friend and confidante to Arrau though she never entered into a professional relationship with him. She was connected with Martin Krause through her study with Edwin Fischer, who, like Arrau, had studied with Krause, but there is no evidence that she shared Arrau’s principles of piano technique. German Diez recalls a conversation with Sultan in which they agreed that Fischer and Arrau had nothing in common technically. While Sultan believes that Krause was not the source of Arrau’s technique, Diez thinks that Arrau’s technique differed from Fischer’s because Arrau realized and developed the technique taught by Krause more fully than either Fischer or Krause himself. As Diez expresses it, The ideas of Arrau were not Edwin Fischer’s ideas. The ideas about the movements that Arrau teaches, that had nothing to do with her [Sultan] in the sense that she learned from Edwin Fischer. She said she doesn’t think that [Arrau’s technique] comes from Krause. Edwin Fischer studied with Krause. But I’m sure that everything [taught by Krause], Arrau probably made it more explicit.11

8

Ibid. Arrau married Ruth Schneider in 1937. 10 Grete Sultan, interview in New York City, July 6, 2002. 11 German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002. 9

160 This reasoning preserves and supports the belief shared by many of Arrau’s pupils that Arrau’s technique originated with Liszt and was transmitted through Krause. RAFAEL DE SILVA Arrau and Rafael de Silva were very likely drawn together because both were Chilean. Most of the details about de Silva’s life are unknown. He was born on June 15, 1901. His city of birth is unknown, but according to Ena Bronstein-Barton, it may have been Valparaiso.12 He attended several years of law school at the University of Chile in Santiago before deciding to become a pianist. There is speculation that he changed his name. Ena Bronstein-Barton says: Some people say his real name was Rafael Silva de la Cuadra and I don’t know where that comes from, these are things I heard. And then, he changed it to Rafael de Silva. He added the “de” to make it sound like a “von.” But I cannot tell you if this is gossip or what. I know that he grew up as a little boy in Valparaiso.13 Grete Sultan agrees that the name was changed so that de Silva would appear as an aristocrat: Rafael . . . called himself Rafael DE Silva. Rafael Silva! That’s how I first knew him. It made him nobility. Like “von” in German.14 Rafael de Silva left Chile for Berlin in about 1921.15 By this time, Martin Krause was dead and his daughter, Jennie Krause, had taken over teaching his students. De Silva

12

“Rafael de Silva was maybe born in Valparaiso. . . . He and Arrau met when they were young men studying in Germany in Berlin. . . . and they became friends way back then and worked as a team when it came to teaching. From many, many years back. He [Rafael] studied with Krause’s sister, Jennie Krause . . . . Later on, de Silva never performed much. I think he really suffered very badly from nerves, from performance anxiety, and although he was able to help his students with it, I think he never really conquered it himself. He became Arrau’s teaching assistant in New York, and I don’t know when, before I came.” Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002. 13 Ibid. 14 Grete Sultan, interview in New York City, July 6, 2002. 15 This date comes from a publicity flier for de Silva’s master classes in Munich during the summer of 1965. The flier is located under the name “de Silva” in the clippings files of the New York Public Library (Lincoln Center).

161 began studies with Jennie Krause and befriended Arrau,16 who was two years younger. Loretta Goldberg asserts that this was not a chance meeting, but that de Silva purposely sought out Arrau. Martin Krause was dead by the time Rafael had left Chile. Rafael left Chile after he had done a couple years of law school at the University of Santiago and decided he wanted to be a pianist. He was twenty, twentyone, something like that, so he got to Germany after Martin Krause died and Jennie Krause was doing the teaching. And so he worked with Jennie Krause. . . . De Silva sought him [Arrau].17 For Arrau, abruptly deprived of the sole male figure in his life and of his sheltered childhood exclusively focused on piano training, and thrust into an adult world where he had few friends and little experience, a new friendship with a young man nearer his own age and a fellow Chilean must have been welcome. German Diez states, Arrau was very young -- sixteen, seventeen -- and Rafael was much older. he was in his twenties [de Silva was three years older than Arrau] . . . he actually helped Arrau with many things socially . . . [Arrau] was under the supervision all the time of his mother and the daughters [of Krause]; and Krause himself took him every place. So when Krause died, Arrau was fifteen, and then along came Rafael, who became his guide, so to speak, in social life.18 A common interest in the piano and Arrau’s extraordinary ability were of primary importance in their relationship. Grete Sultan suggests that the friendship contained an element of self-interest on both sides: Arrau sought companionship while de Silva sought a career. The idea was that Claudio didn’t want to be all alone . . . and Rafael was not very gifted as a pianist, concertizing . . . . He wanted to get somehow a living from pupils that Arrau would send him.19

16

Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003. Ibid. 18 German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002. 19 Grete Sultan, interview in New York City, July 6, 2002. 17

162 Whether or not it was founded on mutual advantage, their friendship endured for nearly fifty years.20 For twenty-five of those years, de Silva served as Arrau’s teaching assistant in New York City. The arrival of German Diez in New York City on November 30, 1945, to begin his studies with Arrau provides the earliest known date of the collaboration between Arrau and de Silva. He recalled having lessons first with Arrau and shortly afterward with de Silva: He [Arrau] told me in Cuba . . . to wait until he came in, not to go to the assistant, but to wait because he wanted to start me. And after that I would start with the assistant. . . . So actually, I saw him [Arrau] first. Then after that he introduced me to de Silva.21 Loretta Goldberg gives an indication of how long the arrangement between de Silva and Arrau lasted: “I know as late as 1968 Arrau told my mother and me that he was enormously relieved he had somebody [that] . . . his teaching, he could leave in their hands. He’d go away on tour and he’d know that he’d come back and not feel that he had to undo things.”22 ASSISTING A MASTER TEACHER Edith Fischer acknowledged the effectiveness of de Silva’s teaching and its complementarity with Arrau’s teaching: He [de Silva] was an extraordinary personality, very inspiring in teaching, very precise, very rigorous, extraordinary. And he showed [demonstrated] very little, but when he showed just some notes, you can’t possibly forget that. His sound was something like birds. You know, he must have been a wonderful pianist, but he had trouble I think with nervousness and he didn’t play anymore. But, for instance, my father [Sultan Fischer, violist in the Santiago Symphony], who heard him when he was young, he said he was a wonderful musician. He was so! It was a very special case I think of assistance that work[ed] because it’s very delicate, the assistant to 20

Their friendship lasted from at least 1945 until 1968, as the testimony of Goldberg shows. German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002. 22 Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003. 21

163 a teacher. . . . they don’t think exactly the same and then it makes conflict, or they are not interesting enough and you waste a little bit of your time . . . . that was [by] far not the case, you never wasted your time with Rafael. You learned a lot.23 As Loretta Goldberg suggests, Arrau could feel comfortable entrusting pupils only to someone with a thorough grasp of his complex technique and musical philosophy. How de Silva gained such extraordinary rapport with Arrau is not precisely known, but it is likely that he began to acquire it during the early years of their friendship in Berlin. It was during this same period that Arrau was developing his technique and bringing it from the instinctual to the conscious level. Grete Sultan believes that de Silva sat with Arrau while he practiced, observing his technique, copying out his fingerings. He [de Silva] went always listening to Arrau practice; and then he went there and practiced himself. And when Claudio was away and after Claudio married Ruth Schneider, to her distress came Rafael there to the piano and practiced and copied all of Claudio’s fingerings and so on.24 Loretta Goldberg corroborates this: He sat with Arrau when he practiced. He’s told me that. He observed him, hours and hours and hours. . . . he attached himself to Arrau and just watched and watched and watched him and studied him and copied down the fingerings as Grete says.25 During this time, Arrau not only identified the elements of his technique but also adopted a vocabulary to describe it. Ena Bronstein-Barton alluded to this while pointing out that clear and precise language was one of the things that made Arrau effective as a teacher: He watched himself move and play the piano and he brought everything into consciousness, everything that he did as a child prodigy, he brought into consciousness so he knew exactly what he did and he could tell you exactly what needs to be done, and that’s another reason why he was such 23

Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003. Grete Sultan, interview in New York City, July 6, 2002. 25 Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003. 24

164 a great teacher. Because he didn’t say, “Do it this way” or “Make it sound like I make it sound.” He could tell you how you could move your body to produce what you wanted to do, and I think that this experience that he had as a young man, when he had to overcome being an unconscious child prodigy and become totally conscious of every movement he did and bring it to the surface, that is what made him so precise.26 It is possible that de Silva played some role as an observer, cataloguer, or codeveloper in Arrau’s process of finding words to describe his technique. Grete Sultan, though dismissive of the notion that Arrau’s approach to technique was unique in any way, nevertheless suggested in a backhanded way that she knew something of the Arrau technique and that perhaps de Silva played something more than a passive role in its development: Arrau had a natural way of playing. He hated to be advertised. The Arrau technique! Well . . . Silva did that. So many people came when Arrau got more well-known, traveling all over. . . . He might have, in the summertime, one month or not even [that much time for teaching], at the country house, and [for] listening to people. But otherwise, he wanted to practice and play, and not teach. So that’s all it was, I think. . . . The Arrau technique! Stupid! Silly! Just to relax and, I don’t know what. The arm weight! Poor Claudio!27 After the Nazis came to power, Grete Sultan as well as Arrau and de Silva were forced to leave Germany. Sultan described her treatment by the Nazi government and her arduous escape accomplished through the efforts of Richard Buhlig. I am from Jewish parents, and I was playing a lot and quite successfully. But then when the Nazis came into power in 1933 they took away my passport. I had already been traveling and playing quite a bit. I had just had a success in Italy, in Milan, and then they took my passport and I couldn’t leave Germany anymore. And Buhlig was the one that got me to come to America. I came in a Nazi transport from the first of February to middle of June.28

26

Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002. Grete Sultan, interview in New York City, July 6, 2002 28 Ibid. 27

165 In 1940, Arrau left Germany and returned to Chile.29 According to Loretta Goldberg, Arrau left Germany on a concert tour, leaving his family behind in Berlin. It was de Silva who arranged for the departure of Ruth and the children. Rafael got Ruth and the two kids out in 1941. He got them out of Germany. Arrau went on tour and didn’t come back. He went to Chile. And Rafael was the one who got the family out and I think he sat back and collected on favors since, but it was brave. And he also told me that they’d have dinner and the servants would be spies, they had to be careful what they said in front of the servants. But Rafael would meet Jewish friends and they’d give him jewelry and he’d take it to the Chilean embassy. The SS would follow him and they knew what he was doing, but because of the relationship between Chile and Germany they wouldn’t stop him. But he never knew when his string was going to run out with a regime like that. He had a certain raw courage.30 By the following year, Arrau had moved to the United States. Arrau, de Silva, and Sultan met again in New York City, and while Grete Sultan pursued her own career as teacher and performer, Arrau and de Silva collaborated in teaching. Indeed, without de Silva, Arrau may well have found it impossible to meet the demands of a concert career while simultaneously giving regular and consistent attention to a sizeable group of students. From 1945 to 1950, Arrau was able to teach students in private lessons, but as his performing career became more demanding in the early 1950s, he would sometimes be away from New York on tour for several months. During these periods, de Silva took over the daily responsibilities of giving private lessons. Arrau’s pupils generally acknowledge the contribution of de Silva during their years of study with Arrau. Before, he [Arrau] didn’t have so many concerts; so then he was much longer here. But then he started to get very busy and be gone for three months and be here a couple weeks and go back [on tour] again. He started to collect a lot of students from all over the world who would come here to study. So all these people studied with de Silva because he was the base for the whole thing [when] Arrau wasn’t here. He [de Silva] was the 29 30

Allan Kozinn, “Claudio Arrau, Pianist, Is Dead at 88,” New York Times (June 10, 1991): B11. Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003.

166 one who took care of everything, the classes, because Arrau started to be very busy.31 And Arrau definitely referred people to him [de Silva] for teaching. Ron [Ronald Farren-Price] did several years with him. Ruth Nye was happy with him. Hilde Somer worked with him for twenty years.32 Most of the students studied with Rafael because Rafael was always there and with Rafael, it was two lessons a week, an hour and a half every time . . . when Arrau came, you would go to his house and have very intensive lessons one after the other from Arrau . . . and that would be two or three days and of course he was concertizing and it could be very intense.33 If you’ve spoken to people I know, they all studied with Rafael. He’s a very important part of this thing. It’s very nice for everybody to say, “I was a pupil of Claudio Arrau.” It’s very good. . . . We all had lessons with Arrau . . . some more, some less. But we all had regular lessons every week with Rafael. And Rafael went out to Germany or to England or wherever to give master classes and we all tagged along. So, I really thought about this. I have to make this point. Rafael is a very important part of this equation.34 Arrau met potential students while on tour and encouraged them to travel to New York to study with him. To enable students from outside the United States to come to New York on student visas, Arrau registered his teaching activities with the State Department as The Piano School.35 When Arrau returned from concertizing, his students gathered at his home in Douglaston, in New York City’s borough of Queens,36 and later in Chester, Vermont, for master classes. 31

German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002. Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003. 33 Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002. 34 Ivan Nuñez, interview in New York City, February 26, 2003. 35 According to Loretta Goldberg, The Piano School was established in 1947 and approved for attendance of non-immigrant students by the immigration and naturalization service on December 10, 1953 (number 0300-44408). Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003. Government records cannot be located. The Piano School is mentioned in publicity fliers for de Silva’s later master classes in Munich in 1965 as well as in an article from El Mercurio published in Enrique Bunster, Recuerdos y Pajaros (Santiago, Chile: Editorial del Pacifico, 1968), 348. 36 Arrau lived in Forest Hills, Queens, until he bought his home in Douglaston in 1947. “Long Island Home Bought by Musician,” New York Times (March, 23, 1947): R2. 32

167 His home was in Douglaston and he taught in his own home. He didn’t have a home in Manhattan, but [Rafael] did. But when Arrau came, we all got on the Long Island Railroad and went to Douglaston and he taught in his home in Douglaston, Long Island (sic). Later years, I don’t remember when, he bought a property in Vermont and sometimes students would go up there for their lessons. He loved that property. Chester, I believe, not in Chester, but near there. So sometimes, we would go up and play for him there . . . The Vermont lessons were later. When I was first starting [lessons], it was always Douglaston, and then later, some years later, it must have been somewhere in the early or mid ’60s, he bought the property in Vermont.37 In a master-class setting, Arrau could communicate his teaching to as many pupils as possible while specifically addressing only one of them at a time. Traveling from Manhattan to Douglaston together and attending lessons given in a group setting established among the students a feeling of camaraderie and reinforced the sense of a group identity that they derived from their association with a famous virtuoso performer and descendant of Liszt. During this period of his teaching, Arrau was conscious of fostering this feeling among his students, referring to them as “our group.”38 The first real studying was in Munich for a summer course, 1962, I think, and that's when I realized I had joined the Arrau School, because I met a lot of the European students, such as Greville Rothon, who died recently, Daniela Ballek, the best pianist of them all. . . . Later in New York, I met Philip Lorenz, Ena Bronstein, Ivan Nuñez, Carlos Carillo, all of whom, especially Philip, were encouraging. . . . Philip was quite strong; he was quite a mentor to me, helping me understand things, pianistic things.39 The Arrau’s moved out to Douglaston on Long Island . . . all the students would go out together and we would hear each other’s lessons, and this was even more wonderful. German and I and Josefina and Alfonso and all the others, we’d all catch the same train on the Long Island Railroad and go out to Douglaston and have our lessons and hear each other.40

37 38 39 40

Ena Bonstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002. Joseph Horowitz, Conversations, 109.

Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 3, 2003. Goodwin Sammel, interview in New York City, April 14, 2003.

168 In part, Arrau used the lessons to pass on to students his views concerning Liszt and other musical figures he had known or who had preceded him. All of Arrau’s students were well aware that Arrau emulated Liszt in teaching without a fee, and that Arrau’s only teacher had been a Liszt pupil. Thus, Arrau’s students gained a powerful sense, not only of belonging to a group, but to a group with a pedigree. Arrau said that Liszt was a much greater composer than he is given credit for and perhaps the greatest performer that ever lived. I think one area where Liszt was very influential on Arrau was as a teacher. Because Liszt taught as a matter of mission and so did Arrau. Liszt didn’t take money for lessons and neither did Arrau. Most of us were on scholarship we had to pay for lessons with Rafael, but Arrau didn’t charge for lessons. His sense of teaching -- it was a mission, to be passed on. Liszt was like that. He always taught in master classes, to pass it on. He [Arrau] thought that Liszt was a great spirit, that what he did for the piano was unequalled, that his communication was unsurpassed. In his view, Liszt was the greatest pianist that ever was, and mostly underrated. I heard him [Arrau] teach the Mephisto Waltz and it was really quite wonderful. I studied some of the Transcendental Etudes, and he stressed so much the passion and the build-up of passion and emotion. . . . He embodied the music. He became it. There was no division. He was that sound.41 At times, Arrau’s master-class lessons attracted special visitors, lending a glamor and excitement that heightened the sense among students of being members of an elite group and of a historic lineage. The following description of one such occasion is reminiscent of a scene from one of Liszt’s master classes: But during the years that I was here studying with Rafael, we had many times when everybody would go to Douglaston and have a class with Arrau. And one of us would be the one at the piano. And Arrau would sit here, and Rafael would sit next to Arrau, and Arrau would then proceed to spend an hour on the first three chords of . . . the Symphonic Etudes. I’m serious! He would spend an hour on the first bar, on how to transfer the weight from one to the other. But it was fascinating! It was fantastic! It was wonderful, the way he explained! I had a great experience once. I went there. I don’t know why I was chosen. You never knew. You’re going to have a lesson with Arrau. Get to Douglaston, there was a crowd. Everybody was there -- people who were just there from the music world. 41


169 Garrick Ohlsson was there. Garrick . . . studied with Olga Barabini. I don’t know how much he studied [with Arrau]. He probably did play for Arrau. Olga was an Arrau-de Silva student, and Garrick was her prize pupil. I don’t know why I was chosen when there were all these people. It wasn’t just a group of students. The classes happened in his living room where he had this piano covered with African art. His living room was a museum! It was beautiful. I had to sit there and play for all these people. And of all things, it was the Brahms first piano concerto. You know what it is suddenly to be there with Arrau, his piece!42 Teaching in master classes not only made possible the most efficient communication with all of the pupils in the relatively short time; the master classes also strengthened the rapport between Arrau and de Silva. By attending the classes, German Diez suggests, de Silva further refined his understanding of Arrau’s principles: “I imagine he learned a lot from Arrau himself when he gave the classes . . . the things that he suggested technically. I am sure that Rafael learned from that too.”43 Although Arrau and de Silva shared the same technical and musical objectives, their styles of teaching were quite different. Arrau depended very much on verbal descriptions and images and not at all on demonstration, while de Silva depended more on demonstration and not very much on verbal instruction. Rafael’s style of teaching was not to explain too much. He was very much interested in oriental philosophy, in Zen. I think he wanted to be like a Zen master and so he would do and you would do in a nod, “this is what I’m doing,” and not a lot of talk. He would demonstrate.44 This difference in teaching style may reflect how Arrau and de Silva divided responsibilities of teaching. Many pupils, while giving de Silva credit for his musical and interpretive gifts, also report that de Silva was mainly responsible for teaching Arrau’s technique. Making pupils grasp the purely physical and mechanical aspects of relaxation,

42

Ivan Nuñez, interview in New York City, February 26, 2003. German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002. 44 Ena Bonstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002. 43

170 movement, and use of weight entailed more demonstration. The technical preparation provided by de Silva freed Arrau to concentrate on musical and interpretive points. De Silva, Rafael, was able to transfer Arrau’s particular way of playing, I guess philosophy, to music and was able to put all of those things together. Not that he spoke for Arrau, but he transferred that way of thinking. And certainly technically, and how to understand music, and how to perform all of that was exactly what Arrau preached. . . . And I would say that it was more the music than the technique with Arrau. He didn’t spend too much time saying, “You have to do this.” The technical aspect Rafael took care of. Rafael was an excellent teacher also. He was the very best. So I think you should make a point, as far as I’m concerned, that Rafael was a very important ingredient in all this Piano School. . . . the technical aspect, we already, I mean, it was drilled in by Rafael. Rafael was the one … who taught us how to do, how to lift your arm, how to use the weight.45 He [Arrau] did not want to get into all the fundamental things of arm weight, relaxation, and so on, he would suggest that people go to Rafael de Silva, who had a genius for teaching that. And they made a good pair.46 In addition to teaching technique and preparing pupils for master class lessons, de Silva reinforced Arrau’s teaching by helping pupils thoroughly understand and practice correctly what Arrau had taught them. But for me it was very important to have Rafael there first of all because he prepared me, he prepared us, so when Arrau came, he didn’t have to waste his time explaining fundamentals, the concept of the technique, and how they taught. And then, when we had the lesson with Arrau, Rafael de Silva was sitting right there. And having a lesson with Arrau was almost a feverish experience. It was so unbelievably exciting, and it would turn your head, because what happened in a lesson with Arrau was that you ended up playing much better than you thought you could. After my first lesson with him, I thought, “My God, was this me?” I didn’t know I could play like this. He had the ability of making the student play much better than you thought you could, but then after you left, . . . a couple of hours after a lesson with Arrau you would say, “What happened?” And then there was Rafael to tell you exactly what happened and go over it very slowly again and again and again, and to teach us how to practice again and again so that it would stick. And I find that those of us who were privileged to study with Rafael, I think we could get more benefit out of 45 46

Ivan Nuñez, interview in New York City, February 26, 2003. William Goodrum, interview in Syracuse, New York, December 14, 2002.

171 Arrau’s lesson because we had the support. And Arrau was very patient in his lessons and he could stay with something for a long time, but once you played a phrase to his satisfaction once, he moved on. And so we had the great benefit of being able to go over it again and again and again. And in those years, they understood each other completely. And what Arrau said went, so there was Rafael was just reinforcing and reiterating.47 Most pupils agreed that no difference of opinion ever arose between Arrau and de Silva on musical matters. However, several have noted that Arrau was more flexible in his approach than de Silva. When I worked a passage with de Silva, I would think I could do it another way and feel better, but de Silva would say, no, this was supposed to be the way. And then, when I had a lesson with Arrau, I would present the same problem and he would coincide with me, he would agree with me, he would say, “That is correct.” And I think the reason is not because Rafael was wrong. It is that he didn’t see another angle that comes through the experience of playing, because after all he was not a performer. He knew all the rules, he was very intelligent musically. . . . I think it’s just the fact that Arrau is the one naturally. He would see right away whether something would work out right.48 He [de Silva] wanted so much to give you every detail of Arrau’s thought that he was much more fixed in his way than Arrau was. This fingering, this gesture, and this phrasing, and this note more, and so on. He had a precise picture of what he wanted in every respect, and that was Arrau’s playing. The problem is that Arrau’s playing, if you hear a recording of the ’40s or of the ’60s or of the ’80s, it is different because he was in a constant evolution.49 I think they were very different. Arrau was much more patient, and much more willing to accept differences. De Silva was much more pedantic and difficult to please. The technique was, indeed, basically the same, but Arrau would find more varied solutions to problems.50 DISSOLUTION Sometime during the late 1960’s or early ’70s, the relationship between Arrau and

47

Ena Bonstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002. German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002. 49 Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003. 50 Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 10, 2003. 48

172 de Silva ended, and with it ended the continuity provided by de Silva during Arrau’s absences. Though Arrau continued to teach pupils well into the eighties, Ena BronsteinBarton saw the break-up as the dissolution of Arrau’s “group.” Students studied with Arrau in isolation without either de Silva or the other students to enhance their experience and understanding. Indeed, some pupils may not have remained long enough with Arrau to fully understand his principles. After a while, and I don’t remember when, he [Arrau] didn’t continue working with de Silva, so there was no longer a group of students that was a cohesive group. And there are people out there who’ve had a few lessons with Arrau and then call themselves Arrau students, but I don’t know to what point they really are, and I can’t speak to that. Because I think this approach takes a while, this was not an instant anything.51 Under de Silva’s constant guidance, pupils remained longer with Arrau because they did not have to look elsewhere for lessons during Arrau’s lengthy absences. With de Silva to teach the fundamentals of technique, Arrau’s teaching time was spent more efficiently because students could respond immediately to Arrau’s instructions. With de Silva organizing master classes, students formed bonds that placed their study in a reinforcing social context. Without de Silva, there was no continuity during Arrau’s absences, and Arrau had to teach the technique himself on an irregular schedule interrupted by concert engagements. The demands of his performing career were Arrau’s paramount concern, and if he was away on tour or needed his time for practice, he could not spare time and energy for pupils. This was true even during the period when Arrau and de Silva worked together. William Goodrum recounts an incident illustrating this point: I ended up in North Dakota for a short time . . . the Fargo-Moorhead orchestra invited me to play with them one season . . . I decided to learn the Chaikovsky concerto. And I called Arrau and Ruth . . . and Rafael de Silva. Arrau decided, good, Hilde Somer was learning the Grieg concerto 51

Ena Bonstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.

173 getting ready to play it in Texas. “Why don’t you and Hilde come out? We’ll work on both concertos.” . . . I flew in to New York and contacted Rafael. He wanted to be in the middle of it, understandably; he wasn’t going to miss a chance to hear Arrau work on the Grieg and Chaikovsky. It was going to be just the two of us; usually it was a big group out at his house. So, all set, all psyched up for early Sunday morning, I was in my hotel. Rafael called and said Claudio decided he had to cancel. He had just come back from Israel, he had been playing one of the Chopin concertos there, and he was due to play it with the New York Philharmonic: for the two weekday concerts, one concerto; and on the Sunday broadcast, the other Chopin concerto. “He practiced twelve hours yesterday and he’s exhausted.” He had just played it in Israel, and when you play a concerto in Israel, you play it seven or eight times. But he felt he had to do some work on it. . . . He’d worked for twelve hours and he was understandably too tired. Because when he worked in lessons, it really drained him.52 Later pupils had to learn Arrau’s teachings in short, concentrated periods, and they did not acquire the same sense of group identity or group reinforcement. No one among Arrau’s pupils can say what caused the rift between de Silva and Arrau. I don’t know what happened between Arrau and Rafael. Certainly the relationship they had had before was not the same when they were in New York. They were good friends and Arrau occasionally would go to have dinner with Rafael in his apartment.53 With Arrau and De Silva there was a falling-out and we really don’t know what happened. De Silva used to be very hurt by it, because he told me he didn’t know why Arrau was behaving in such a manner.54 That was impossible to understand for us. I don’t know. I was told they had a discussion about something in a master class. That is absurd! I don’t believe that either. They never had things like that, and if once they didn’t agree on a fingering or an interpretation of something, you won’t break, because of that, a friendship of a whole life. That is impossible! I think Rafael didn’t understand that either. He didn’t know why.55 Grete Sultan believed that Arrau ended the relationship because of his discomfort with de Silva’s advertising to get new pupils: “Then finally, it ended up that Rafael advertised

52

William Goodrum, interview in Syracuse, New York, December 14, 2002. Ivan Nuñez, interview in New York City, February 26, 2003. 54 German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002. 55 Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003. 53

174 himself to get pupils, the Arrau technique! That was too much for my friend, Claudio. He just stopped the relationship.” Loretta Goldberg speculates that conflict arose when de Silva included his own name on the Piano School letterhead: Rafael had this made up [the letterhead], and this made Arrau very angry. Although they had the Piano School authorized by the Justice Department, he never authorized this. He never authorized de Silva putting his own name on the letterhead. . . . I don’t know when the relationship started to go bad.56 When the collaboration with Arrau ended, de Silva resolved to return to Germany. Hilde Somer learned of de Silva’s intentions and wrote to Goldberg: “I asked Rafael about his future plans regarding a rumored move to Europe. He said, no matter what happens he’ll be in New York at least six months a year to teach.” Goldberg indicates that the relationship had broken down over a period of time: “In 1968, the relationship was deteriorated enough for him [de Silva] to be thinking of moving back to Germany. . . . But it didn’t actually happen until 1972 [de Silva was then sixty-six years of age]. He didn’t spend anything like six months a year in New York. He would come for a month or two. German [Diez] would set up lessons.”57 German Diez recalls an incident that occurred at one of de Silva’s master classes during a visit to New York: He [de Silva] moved to Munich when he retired. He actually came here about three times and I arranged master classes for him. One of the times, there was somebody having a lot of trouble, and he was pretty tired, and he turned and whispered, “German, help me. Do something.” He got tired of saying things. It was a long session. . . . I thought, “My God! My teacher asked me for help.”58

56

Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003. Ibid. 58 German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002. 57

175 Rafael de Silva lived in Munich for almost ten years. During this time, he contracted cancer and his health declined until, on June 14, 1981, he took his own life. German Diez recalls, He was very ill. He had already had a heart attack and he was a little paralyzed. He came [to New York] after the heart attack once, and he came another time. The last time he was here, he took care of visiting all his students and everybody in the United States. He went around and visited every one of the students . . . . He had a special quest about this thing. Actually then he committed suicide. He was saying that he felt very ill and very bad. He went to see a doctor in Vienna and he was acknowledged to have cancer of the bones, and then he didn’t want to live any longer.59 It was Diez who broke the news of de Silva’s death to the Arraus: “Arrau was here at the time, it was summer. So then I called him. He was in Vermont. Because I knew he wouldn’t have heard about it [de Silva’s death] any other way. He was shocked. I also talked to Ruth at the time. Shocked about the whole thing!”60 Arrau continued to teach intermittently between his concert tours. In December 1980, when Joseph Horowitz asked Arrau if he still continued to teach, Arrau responded, At the moment, very, very little. Not that I dislike teaching. On the contrary, I love it. But I have had some students who very much disappointed me. This way of playing that I try to teach has to do with a general attitude toward life. And I thought I had succeeded in giving it to them. Then I didn’t see or hear them for several years. And when I did, finally, I realized there was nothing left. I still hear young people when they want to play for me—I feel this is a duty. And it’s interesting, too. But the moment I notice some of this terrible vanity, I lose interest.61 Arrau further noted, “For a while there was a system with Rafael de Silva as my assistant.” In an interview published in the winter of 1982-83, Arrau responded to a

59

Ibid. Ibid. 61 Horowitz, Conversations, 186. 60

176 similar question, “I am concentrating all my energies on performing.”62 Without de Silva giving regular lessons to the students, teaching the technique, preparing them for master classes, it became more difficult for Arrau to convey his principles and to maintain a cohesive class of students. With the dissolution of “the group,” the possibility of making his principles take root waned, and Arrau’s enthusiasm for teaching seemed to fade with it.

62

Robert J. Silverman, “Claudio Arrau – An Interview,” The Piano Quarterly 120 (Winter, 1982-83): 33.

177 FIVE THE TEACHING OF ARRAU’S PUPILS GERMAN DIEZ: INTEGRATION OF ARM WEIGHT AND FINGER TECHNIQUE In the following account, two students of German Diez describe the instruction they received in Puerto Rico, their arrival at a conservatory in the United States, and ultimately their studies with Diez.1 Their account tells how they fared under contrasting types of training: one attempting to build finger strength through isolated movement of the fingers and repetitive exercise, and the other based on use of arm movements and weight coordinated with finger activity. The former type, adumbrated in the writings of Czerny and epitomized by the training in German conservatories of the nineteenth century, persisted throughout the twentieth century, and its effects are still lingering in the twenty-first. The latter is represented by what these students perceived as the main principles of Diez’s approach, one patterned after the teaching of Arrau, and one that resolves the duality set forth in chapter 1 (pp. 3-7) much as Breithaupt suggested (chapter 1, p. 66). Luís begins their story: Luís: My teacher was Spanish. She studied in the Madrid Conservatory. I remember the first year there and she was telling me how to do scales. She told me to cross the thumb by twisting the wrist. She told me, you have to play like this, and do this. We had to learn all the scales like that. Here Luís pantomimed playing a scale with the right hand, turning at the wrist so that his fingers pointed to the left and his thumb stretched below to the right. Q: Did your teacher recommend exercises? Luís: She recommended Hanon and Czerny etudes, Op. 740. I don’t remember any advice on how to play them.

1

All quotations of Luís Alvarez and Maritza Robles-Alvarez are from an interview in New York City, March 15, 2004.

178 Maritza: My teacher didn’t give any advice, but I think she had a good idea of what sound [a good basic tone]. . . . But she couldn’t know exactly what to do with a student that was not doing the right thing. She would say, “You are having trouble with octaves, so play the Kullak studies for octaves” or “So you are having problems with pedal, so do etudes for pedaling.” But she didn’t know technically what to do, where the motions related to the sound, proper for the sound, like German. The assignment of exercises with no further instruction as to how to execute them assumes a type of problem that can be solved by increased familiarity or muscular strength. However, the point being made here is that many problems require an understanding of the mechanical principles needed to solve them, and thus cannot be solved by exercise alone. In such cases, the assiduous repetition and practice devoted to exercises is very likely to reinforce the physical movements that cause the problem in the first place, making the problem more entrenched. Under this kind of instruction, the more these students labored to solve their problems, the more stubbornly their problems persisted. Next, a new teacher was found with a more active approach to technique: Luís: One year before we came here we knew this woman who studied in Juilliard with Rosina Lhevinne, and our last year in the conservatory we did it, both, with this woman [we both studied with this woman]. She didn’t teach at the conservatory. We did it privately. And she has a lot of technical approach but completely different from what we started with German. And she would tell you how to do things, but she would say, “Don’t move the arm.” If you move[d] the arm because you were doing this unconsciously, she would say “No, no, no, don’t move the arm. You’re moving your arm.” Maritza: Quiet wrist! The wrist should never bounce. Luís: Never bounce because the sound will be affected. She said the scales have to be played without bouncing to give a very even sound to the scales. It was painful. She was kind of famous for being the teacher out of the conservatory who was the best. She recommended a lot of Stamaty. Every week you’d go and your lessons had to begin with Stamaty exercises and scales, staccato and legato every two notes, with a metronome. Every week! For a half hour! Without bouncing the wrist! Q: Did you find this kind of work helpful?

179 Maritza: Not at all! And it was a really bad kind of preparation because, since you did so many of those kind of exercises, then you had ten minutes for pieces. So imagine! Symphonic Etudes in ten minutes! You have nothing of it! Luís. This was worse than the other teachers because you learn it--this was very conscious. For the first time in my life I started to do scales or any exercise very consciously. . . . I cannot move my wrist. I cannot move my arm. Before that, it was “Do this or do that” but they did not specify too much. And maybe you have some unconscious things but it worked. Now, these students discovered, no advice at all was better than poor advice because a lack of advice did not disrupt what they could already do naturally and successfully. This presented the students with a new problem of judging whether the advice they received would improve matters or, on the contrary, make them worse. Knowledge after the fact simplifies such a judgment, but lacking such knowledge, how can a student in this situation decide whether the fault lies in him or herself or in the instruction? In addition, separating technical work from musical context delayed or avoided both musical work and acquisition of repertoire. Luís and Maritza now received scholarships to continue their studies in an American conservatory, so they traveled to the United States. They had learned of German Diez through another student and, upon arriving in New York, they went to meet him at his home. Though they were attracted by his manner and his pianistic ideas, they did not immediately take up study with him because their scholarships were restricted to study with another teacher toward master’s degrees. They describe what happened in their first lesson with this teacher as follows: Maritza. We each had one lesson. He [Luís] had one lesson. I had one lesson. Luís: And this other teacher was a pupil of Adele Marcus. He said “Okay. Can you play, please?” Okay, I start playing. And he was like this: “Okay, okay, that’s enough. We have to work a lot because your hand is completely out of shape Your fingers are really weak, and you don’t have

180 any pianistic--” uh, I don’t remember the words . . . . “We have to start doing scales. But you have to strengthen your fingers with exercises. You will do scales like this: UM UM UM. Raise your fingers really high, and then go down, because your fingers are really weak, too weak, too weak!” I hurt. The first three days I was trying to do this. I feel pain. . . . I remember also the woman in Puerto Rico, she said the same thing about finger strength. You have to build up muscles in the fingers. This is the point. You make the fingers really strong by doing exercises with the scales. Maritza: We didn’t talk for a week! And we were newlyweds! Luís. We were like -Maritza. Hi, good morning. And finally we -Luís We explode! “How do you feel? I cannot keep doing this. We have to study with this man [Diez]. We have to call him back. What are we doing?” The experience described by these students is reminiscent of descriptions of piano pedagogy at the German conservatories in the latter nineteenth century, at times emphasizing technical exercises to the virtual exclusion of repertory, technical training that isolated the fingers from any assistance by the arm, and repetitious exercise to build muscular strength (see ch. 1, pp. 26-38). Luís’s description of his teacher’s instruction repeated Amy Fay’s observation quite faithfully, that “the grand thing is to have each of your five fingers go ‘dum dum’ an equal number of times.”2 After considerable time and effort expended, this training left these students painfully unable to solve persistent and unrelenting problems that impeded their progress in playing. Luís and Maritza then began study with Diez. They described a use of exercises not to increase muscle strength but to cultivate specific motions and sensations, to find and learn to deploy existing finger strength, to coordinate finger and arm movement. Along with these mechanical issues, care was taken to attend to tone production, gaining repertoire, and improving reading skill. 2

Amy Fay, Music Study in Germany (Chicago: A. C. McClurg, 1880; repr. New York: Dover, 1965), 266. See also, ch. 1, p. 38.

181 Luís. The first thing he told us was, “It’s a process; these things take time. You have a lot of good things, but you have to improve others.” He was very kind. He never said, “You can’t play.” No, he said-Maritza. “You have to be consistent.” Luís. Exercises for the first semester! The first semester we started working pieces after the second month. Maritza. We read a prelude and fugue for every lesson. We worked on two or three etudes of Chopin slowly, taking care of the motions, and [getting] into the keys, and we started every lesson with drops and with lateral-Luís. He talked about three main technical principles: one is “drops.” This is to comprehend the weight of the arm and the gravity center. Q: When you did these “drops,” did you lift your arm high? Luís: Well, at the beginning he talked about exaggerating a lot because this the only way you can understand it at first. If you don’t exaggerate this, it is difficult to really understand the difference between one thing and another. He used [fingers] 2 and 4. He doesn’t use three-note chords because it is more difficult to understand the gravity center. He said the fourth finger is the most balanced finger. It is like, when you use the first finger it is completely natural, much easier than second because maybe the hand will collapse. But the fourth finger is perfect. Then, use 2 and 4 and do the drops in any chord [third], falling down in the keys with 2 and 4 three times. Then more, then more volume! Well, you know, I didn’t have any idea if we were doing it correctly. But he was like “No, no, no! You have to do it with your arm and fall down in the keys.” Maritza. Our arm was so quiet. Luís. Because I was trained not to use the arm! . . . But I was convinced. This is it! This is what I have been looking for! This is the man I have been looking for for many years! Q: Since your lessons were in Spanish, can you tell what words Mr. Diez chose to describe “drops”? Luís. Caídas: to fall down. Maritza. Caídas, from the verb which is to drop. And lateral. Luís. The three principles are “drops,” the other is lateral motion, like rotation.3 Q: What Spanish word did he use for rotation? Maritza. Rotacion [interchangeable with lateral] but he used more lateral. Luís. And the other principle is five-finger motion. When you start on the thumb and you go to the fifth finger, [He pantomimes a five-finger scale with the arm and wrist beginning in a level position and moving progressively forward, up, and to the right, the wrist flexing upward, with the progression toward the fifth finger]. In any [passage] it doesn’t matter if you have a scale like c-d-e-f-g or if you have c-e-g-c, it is the same

3

This is to distinguish the sense of lateral movement as rotation from lateral movement as a horizontal motion up and down the keyboard.

182 motion. Even if you have fourths, it is the same thing, like Chopin Etude Op. 10, no. 1. The sense of the motion is this. It’s the same muscles. Q: Where would you say this movement starts from? Luís: From the upper arm, but there is that reaction in the wrist. The three principles identified by these students [highlighted in boldface], dropping the weight of the arm into the keys, rotational-lateral arm motion, and a coordinated use of arm and fingers in five-finger patterns, aim at building coordination rather than strength. As bodily movement they represent three simple gestural shapes. In teaching these principles, Diez tries to evoke a physical sensation, not merely correct form and its outward appearance: You just have to guide it [the arm]. When they do this [play with the arm and hand out of alignment], you just [he shows taking hold of the arm and guiding it to align with the fourth finger], so they begin to feel the right thing. If you’re going to use the fourth finger, you just show how to use it. Arm position! You have to help the hand. You have to help the finger. The finger is the messenger of the arm. It has to be at the service of the arm. Then the finger . . . [is] the end of the chain of events. It begins here [playing begins at the shoulder], goes through here and here and here [indicating various points between the shoulder and finger], but not backwards. Like when you walk, it has to be lined up, it has to be balanced. If you are not lined up, you fall. That’s what happens with the fourth finger. When you remain here [with the elbow too close to the body], you have to move the finger a lot.more than necessary. When the arm is not lined up with the fourth finger, the finger loses all the power. 4 The arm is responsible for tone production and dynamic control because, according to Diez, the arm has a greater capacity for sensitivity to movement than the finger: To develop the strength of the finger, that is a fallacy. That is just to deteriorate your coordination as well as the sound because the finger is incapable of being sensitive to movement. It is only sensitive to touch, not to movement. So the speed of the finger is something that you cannot calculate. . . . You are incapable of establishing what kind of speed you need to use to get a sound. But the arm does it automatically [Diez demonstrates playing a single note with all variations of dynamic]. You don’t move the finger and you don’t lose power. See, the finger has 4

German Diez, interview in New York City, July 7, 2004.

183 nothing to do with it. You don’t miss any [that is, you never get a sound that you don’t intend to get and you can produce many dynamic gradations between soft and loud]. But if you do this [he shows the same using different finger strokes], you have no control about the quality of the sound or the control [dynamic level] of the sound.5 Diez’s concern is not only for the mechanical issues of movement but also for the quality of the sound. Each of the three movements is aimed at tone production and can be taken to represent a pre-expressive musical level of single tones (a phonemic level) or combinations of two or more different tones (a morphemic level).6 Each sounding element requires the integration of three components: the desired sound quality, bodily movement necessary to produce it, and the bodily sensation of sound, movement, and contact with the keyboard that results when the movement is done correctly. Use of the 2-4 finger combination to find a balanced position of the hand resembles the technique taught by Arrau to develop what he called the “stand in the keys.”7 Describing the fourth finger in this context as “perfect,” rather than in the more commonplace manner as the weakest, is emblematic of the shift away from developing greater muscular strength toward utilizing inherent strengths. This shift defines the two types of training experienced by these students. Rotation and five-finger motion (moving the arm and wrist upward and outward towards the fifth finger in the manner described) build upon this alignment of arm and finger, putting the stationary “stand in the keys” into motion. Diez characterizes the activity of the fingers in playing as “getting out” of the keys rather than actively pressing them down.

5

Ibid. For further discussion of the phonemic and morphemic levels, see ch. 6, The Language Analogy. 7 Mary Weaver, “Interview With Claudio Arrau,” The Piano Quarterly 42 (Winter, 1962-63): 22. Arrau speaks of this technique in terms of individual fingers. What is described is actually pictured in Rudolf Breithaupt, Natural Piano-Technique, vol. 2 (Leipzig: C. F. Kahnt, 1900), 13. 6

184 All you have to do is a very elemental thing, which is this [he shows playing single notes detached with strokes of the arm], not this [moving the fingers up and down in a striking motion], because [with the latter] all you are doing is torturing your muscles. Then the movement of the finger takes place very naturally because all you have to do is get out of the key to go to the next one, like when you walk. So all you are doing is carrying the weight from one to the other like when you walk but you have five legs, which is the problem. When you have five legs, there is a problem of coordination. There was a horse . . . they tried to analyze why it was so fast. . . . every time he was running, he had only one foot on the ground. Not two or three of them at a time, but only one! . . . That’s why he was able to go fast. But all the animals do that. . . . [one foot is] only on the ground for a very short time because the next one will take over. . . . so this is what happens here. You have to learn to get off the ground. You don’t have to hit -- you have to get off the ground. The arm is already waiting. If you play all the notes together [a five-note cluster], there is nothing faster than that. It’s so fast, there is no space between them. Anytime you introduce a space between them, you’re delaying the fingers. So consequently they are not moving [toward the keys]. They have to get out [of the keys].8 As these students continued in their study with Diez, they came to realize that, as they progressed from beginners to initiates, they would revisit the relationship between arm and finger movements, sometimes with surprising reversals. Luís: It is very interesting what’s happening now after four years with him. It’s very, very interesting because at the beginning it is like . . . one . . . places the arm and the fingers react; but now, its like the fingers play but the arm reacts. But as I understood it was at the beginning, I have to teach my arm the way it should move. But it’s not really that the arm has to move; the reality of this is if you correct your fingers, your arm will move as a reaction of the fingers. Q: Do the fingers carry the arm, or does the arm carry the fingers? Luís and Maritza (speaking at the same time): The fingers carry the arm. Yes, they pull. Luís. It should happen naturally, but when this is not happening because somebody interfered with this, German has to teach you how your arm should move. And at the beginning you have to move the arm very consciously. But this is supposed to become something unconscious. It happened to me last Friday at my lesson with him. I was maybe moving a little bit more, and he said, “Don’t move the arm! Don’t move the arm! The arm is just ready. It knows what it has to do. Just play. Don’t be careful of your arm. Your arm knows. It will follow your fingers.” Yes, 8


185 it’s much better. My arm was moving, but it was as a reaction of the playing. Maritza: It wasn’t that you were thinking of the arm first, but thinking of the notes and then the arm will be carried by the fingers. . . . Q: So were the arm motions you learned designed to eliminate tension so the arm could move? Maritza: Yes, exactly! Luís: It’s like if somebody is completely natural, is not damaged by anyone before, the natural thing will happen. The arm will move coordinated with the hand and fingers. But if this doesn’t happen naturally you have to learn how the arm should move. Q: How did this “pulling of the arm by the fingers” start to happen? Maritza: That was one lesson specifically. It was about two months ago. We were doing the Ballade [Chopin, Ballade no. 2] and there was something going on -- that I couldn’t understand how to move freely. So he told me, “Okay, lift every finger like a child. A child will use the finger from [the big knuckle].” So we started doing that and suddenly everything reacted. I felt nothing hard here [in the forearm] no tension there. There was something going on, that my wrist wasn’t feeling that everything was loose. There was no velocity to the passage. There was no good sound. So I told him, “Okay, so that’s the sound we are looking for and this reaction is what we want. So the finger is pulling the arm.” [He replied], “That’s what it is! The finger, it’s pulling the arm! That’s the only way!” This experience re-interpreted the roles of the arm, hand, and fingers; it calls to mind the criticisms that Arrau and de Silva neglected finger action (see ch. 2, pp. 97-98); and it reflects Diez’s concern to achieve the correct balance in his own teaching.9 Luís explained this apparent reversal as an outcome of having moved beyond a beginning stage into a more refined level of skill, at which the conscious cultivation of movements gives way to conscious attention to musical choices while bodily responses connected with those choices become unconscious: Luís. You have to move first with the arm. He [Diez] gave an example . . . somebody asked Teresa Carreño, “What do you feel in your arms when you play?” and she said, “I don’t feel my arms. I feel like I don’t have arms.” German says, that’s the way. You’re not supposed to be thinking 9

Bennett Lerner conceptualizes arm technique and finger technique as forming a graph with varying X and Y values. Experimenting with combinations of differing amounts of finger activity and arm weight produces different energies and sounds. Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 10, 2003.

186 about your arms. This is just when you are training your arms to do the correct things. But at a certain point these things have to become unconscious. I remember he gave the example of when you go to sleep. You don’t know when it happens. So you don’t think, when you are going to stop thinking about your arm. This will become unconscious one day. Finally, from their study with Diez, these students gained a view of teaching as a creative and dynamic activity. Luís: The interesting thing that happens with me with German that didn’t ever happen with another teacher: you start with any teacher, [in] one year I don’t have anything new to do with her. It’s the same thing over and over, I think, I’m tired of this. With German, I’m still learning new things or changing. I don’t know if it will stop some day. You never get tired to get a lesson with German. You always want to have a lesson with him because you always know something new will be there. And this affects my teaching. I taught when I was in Puerto Rico on Saturdays, and I remember how bored I was teaching. I was thinking about what am I going to do when I graduate. I don’t want to graduate. I didn’t have anything to do except for “This note is wrong.” I got sleepy during the lesson. I felt like my life changed completely because I like to teach now. It’s interesting to see what students do, to try to change one thing to the other, to be able to give something to them besides, play the right notes, make a crescendo, faster, slower. This account of Diez’s teaching differs somewhat from the elaboration of techniques as described by Arrau himself and by his pupils (see ch. 2). This may result from 1) the unique perceptions of these students giving the account; 2) a selectivity employed by Diez in focusing only on the areas in which students are lacking; and/or 3) self-evaluation and modifications employed by Diez in trying to develop and extend Arrau’s principles. Indeed, in internalizing and synthesizing Arrau’s principles with other influences, and by observing the results of their own teaching, Arrau’s students inevitably modified and refined what Arrau taught them and sometimes departed from some details of Arrau’s approach.

187 DEMONSTRATION AND THE ORAL (AURAL) TRADITION While Arrau avoided demonstrating in lessons because of a belief that his students would simply imitate him, some of his students have departed from this view in their own teaching. As Edith Fischer suggests, it was very unlikely that anyone would have played as Arrau played, no matter how much he demonstrated: “I don’t think he [Arrau] ever tried [to make pupils play as he did]; it would be impossible that we play like him anyway.”10 Ena Bronstein-Barton points out that, in fact, Arrau’s concerts were a demonstration and his pupils had ample opportunity to hear and see Arrau play. Both Bronstein-Barton and Fischer note that inexperienced students need a model when learning for the first time to draw different sounds from the piano. Ena Bronstein-Barton: [Arrau] did not demonstrate. He was very strong in that, which I have had to grapple with in my own teaching, because I teach different levels and different ages and so I do demonstrate especially to my young students but he was of course demonstrating in every one of his performances. And I think it is important that a teacher should be able to demonstrate. But we heard him play in concert a lot, so that was not the problem. The problem was that in the moment he didn’t want you to imitate his inflection or his expression. He would rather you found it from some inner process.11 Edith Fischer: And that is something that I have changed a little bit in my teaching. I show very little. I never show how to read something . . . but sometimes I realize that people have so little imagination in sound. . . . how can you explain a sound if they have never heard it? So sometimes I have realized, that if you show a little bit . . . . And I realized that when pupils go to concerts, the week after, they play better. . . . That means that they heard something that they didn’t imagine themselves. So once in a while, very seldom I must say, I do show a very little. Sometimes I do. . . I have come also to the point that you can’t teach sound that people don’t imagine.12

10

Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003. Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002. 12 Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003. 11

188 It seems only logical that in conveying a musical idea to a student, the teacher imagines a specific sound and tries to get the student to reproduce it. For the purposes of instruction at least, no other sound will do; and since it is not really a question of leading the student to create some sound other than that intended by the teacher, it matters little whether the student achieves it through demonstration and imitation or through description and trial and error. By hearing it demonstrated, a student forms an aural image of the sound and approaches the creation of the sound through hearing and imagination. When the student imitates a sound that is heard, the sound becomes associated with the physical sensation of a physical action in creating it. Recalling the sound later is an act of memory and imagination; producing it entails recreating the physical sensation by performing the related physical action. Sound, physical sensation and movement are thus mutually reflexive. To have a large store of such sounds with their related physical sensations and actions is to have an expressive vocabulary.13 However the student acquires this expressive vocabulary, it is unlikely that he or she will be ultimately a copy of the teacher.14 Even if a student has the opportunity to 13

Physical movement is commonly regarded as critical. More unusual is explicit mention of the connection between physical movement and how a player listens, such as the following: “The player is told often enough that listening to oneself is the important thing in practice and performance. But he should be told more often that the physical action of the performer conditions his listening. Unless these two processes, physical activity and listening, are fully coordinated, the pupil will never achieve ease, enduring technical facility, and complete enjoyment of the piano.” From an interview with Abby Whiteside by Robert Sabin, “Successful Piano Teaching,” Musical America (December 15, 1951); reprinted in Abby Whiteside, Mastering the Chopin Etudes and Other Essays, eds. Joseph Prostakoff and Sophia Rosoff (New York: Scribner’s Sons, 1969), 157. Even more rarely is attention paid to the physical sensation of movement. Movements can be seen and sounds can be heard; but physical sensations felt by a player cannot be felt by another person. Moreover, in playing, the sensibilities of players themselves can be flooded by intense aural and visual sensations, mental impressions, and intellectual efforts to the extent that they lose awareness of their own physical sensations. Therefore, physical sensation, which is intimately bound with recognizing and reproducing the correct movements and with listening itself, must become the object of special attention. 14 Bennett Lerner recalls what happened when he deliberately tried to imitate Arrau’s playing in a lesson: “The other thing I remember from that lesson, he also brought out an inner voice. And I brought out the inner voice! He said, oh that’s very beautiful! I told him, I stole that from you. That was a blind spot, I thought. There was a story about Frederick Marvin playing an Appassionata just like Arrau’s and Arrau

189 imitate his or her teacher’s sounds exactly in various given instances, the resemblance is likely to manifest itself only in the short term; over time the student will internalize and integrate these experiences within his or her own vocabulary of sound-making techniques with their conventional uses and meanings. Moreover, demonstration and imitation are crucial in the learning of interpretation because interpretation is embodied more within an oral than a written tradition. While notation is highly specific about pitch, duration, volume, and speed, it gives little information about interpretation. Cornelius Cardew observes that a correct reading of notation does not insure a satisfying performance: I have heard people criticizing interpretations of music in a variety of ways, “he played some wrong notes, but was faithful to the composer’s intention,” or “he played correctly but seemed to miss the point.” Such criticism disturbs me (though I have often found it valid) because it implies that there is something behind the notation, something the composer meant but did not write.15 As Charles Seeger put it, musical notation does not tell us as much about how music sounds as how to make it sound. Yet no one can make it sound as the writer of the notation intended unless in addition to a knowledge of writing he has also a knowledge of the oral (or, better, aural) tradition associated with it – i. e., a tradition learned by the ear of the student, partly from his elders in general, but from the precepts of his teachers.16 With the parenthetical observation “or, better, aural,” Seeger suggests an image of an unbroken stream or web of sound that has been carried forward through demonstrations at lessons by generations of teachers to their students. While notation didn’t notice. He just thought Marvin was playing very well.” Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 10, 2003. On the one hand, the assumption is that Arrau was fooled by the imitation, and one might question whether having this ability to mimic damaged the student’s individuality. On the other hand, given that Arrau did not recognize them as such, one might ask how close really were these imitations to sounding like Arrau’s playing. 15 Cornelius Cardew, “Notation, Interpretation, etc.,” Tempo 58 (Summer, 1961): 27. 16 Charles Seeger, “Prescriptive and Descriptive Music-Writing,” The Musical Quarterly 44/2 (April, 1958): 186.

190 records pitches and something of their duration and volume, it does not serve as a substitute for the sound itself nor does it prescribe a means of getting sound from an instrument. Actual sounds and their physical means of production are transmitted only by example; only in this form can students store them as mental images. Pandora Hopkins agrees, “No one in our culture – or any other – ever learned his music from notation. . . . there is no such thing as a non-oral tradition of music.” 17 While Arrau would not demonstrate in lessons, he was aware nevertheless of the limitations of notation in guiding interpretation. Speaking in a seemingly fanciful way of the relationship of notation and musical expression, Arrau asserted, “Based on the text, I go along with Mahler: ‘Music is not in the notes.’ He meant that the music is above, between, below the notes. Everywhere – even in the rests and sometimes especially in the rests.”18 A similar idea, expressed by Ernst Kurth, is cited by Robert Hatten to support his own concept of musical gesture in performance: Gesture presupposes the continuity of motion through a path for which tones provide the landmarks, analogous to the points outlining a smooth, curvilinear function on an X-Y coordinate graph. As Rothfarb (2002:940) explains, “for Kurth . . . melody occurs between the tones, in the sweep of kinetic energy that flows through them and becomes dammed up, as potential energy, in chords.”19 Hatten represents musical gesturing as a dynamic game of connect the dots, for which pedagogy supplies the rules: “Musical notation, which is also largely digital or discrete in its symbols, cannot adequately represent the continuities of gesture. . . . Conventions of

17

Pandora Hopkins, “The Purposes of Transcription,” Ethnomusicology 10/3 (September, 1966): 311. Dean Elder, “At Ease with Claudio Arrau,” interview of July 30, 1971, in Pianists at Play (Evanston, Ill.: Instrumentalist, 1982), 44. 19 Robert S. Hatten, Interpreting Musical Gestures, Topics, and Tropes (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2004), 114. 18

191 style and the apprenticeship of instruction in earlier times also helped guarantee that performers created gestural continuities beyond those explicitly represented in the notation of a score [my emphasis].”20 These remarks of Arrau and others suggest an ontological view of musical works, not as notated scores, but as phenomena of sound, movement, and physical sensation. Pedagogy historicizes these phenomena and enables them to transcend a particular historical moment by transmitting musical works as streams of sound with their movements and physical sensations, unbroken from their inception to the present, through generations of teachers and pupils, and through changes to instruments and performing styles, by means of the sounds demonstrated by teachers and passed on to students in lessons. This may reflect a viewpoint particular to performance and pedagogy, but that is merely to say that any ontological notion of music reflects how music is used and that performers and teachers have different uses for music from historians and analysts. Nevertheless, performers and teachers must have a share in forming any collective view of musical ontology claiming be complete and accurate, for their influence is likely inescapable. For example, it might well be suggested that the impetus to describe music in terms of gesture has its basis in instrumental pedagogy, which is vitally concerned with means of portraying the kinetic energy and relationships of timing and volume between tones.21 A point to be remembered is that such a portrayal in a real pedagogical environment entails an element of relativism as it is determined by and must be conceived in terms of a medium. Therefore, pedagogy must be concerned not with

20

Ibid., 113. Hatten refers to his piano study under Menahem Pressler at Indiana University. Interpreting Musical Gestures, Topics, and Tropes, 111, 300, n.1.

21

192 musical style and expression in idealized form, as absolute music, but with reconciling them in actual practice with instrumental potentials and limitations. ENA BRONSTEIN-BARTON: CARRYING FORWARD A TRANSCENDENT STREAM OF SOUND Some excerpts from a lesson given by Ena Bronstein-Barton on the Schubert Impromptu in C Minor (D. 899, Op. 90, No. 1) will show the process of teaching a student to imagine a sound, uniting the sound image with the physical action of creating it, placing it within a stylistic context, and assigning an expressive character to it.22 Since the lesson was given in a master class, she neither demonstrated nor gave any overtly technical instructions; however, had the lesson taken place under other circumstances, demonstration might well have provided yet another and beneficial dimension to the student’s experience.23 Addressing the opening octave, Bronstein-Barton asks the student to think about the beginning of the piece. In proposing some questions, she outlines a thought process that starts with musical intent and proceeds to imagining a sound and finding a means of producing it. To some extent, she frames her questions from prior knowledge of what is possible to achieve with the piano, not in order to find something new but to lead the student to rediscover what the teacher already knows to be there.

22

Ena Bronstein-Barton, master class at Greenwich House Music School in New York City, March 29, 2003. 23 In master classes it is often the case that the “master” will advance musical advice freely but avoid pressing a technical approach that may conflict with that of the student’s regular teacher. This is a matter of courtesy, but also of practicality, because the larger issues of technique require more time to address than a master class typically allows.

193 Example 5.1 Schubert, Impromptu in C Minor, D. 899, Op. 90, mm. 1-33.

194

Bronstein-Barton: That opening octave, it’s the dominant, isn’t it? We’re in c minor and that starts with a g. Does that suggest anything to you? [The student looks confused by the question.] What kind of tone do we want? [The student answers, but inaudibly.] A big tone, but resonant! We want a tone that will continue and not go “whack.” That’s physical. Put your pedal down first. How do you attack that chord physically? From the top? From the bottom? You just press down? What do you do? [Again, the student’s reply cannot be heard.]24 Bronstein-Barton wants to hear a certain quality of sound and she is looking for a sign that the student understands her. This student is hampered by too much tension to create the sound she wants, possibly as a consequence of playing before an audience, but just as possibly owing to an intense and habitual attention in practice to the music alone, without

24

Ena Bronstein-Barton, master class at Greenwich House Music School in New York City, March 29, 2003.

195 any awareness of the physical sensations of playing. A possible course of action would be to draw attention to relaxing the tension; but this would take valuable time and divert attention away from the music. Therefore, Bronstein-Barton attempts to imagine the musical impulse as physical and join it to breathing, with the release of tension as a byproduct.25 Could we try it to see if you could feel that this octave is coming out of your body, not out of your hands! Where is the music, now that we speak? It’s on the page, right? It’s somewhere in your mind, somewhere in your feelings; but where it’s not, it’s not in your hands. That’s the last place that it is. So the hands just put it on the keys, but it has to go through you. That’s the idea of using your arms, so that you open, so that what you are thinking and feeling can go into the keyboard in one piece. [As she says these words, she raises arms away from her body and drops them slightly, pantomiming the gesture of playing.] So put the pedal down, and now, let’s take a few breaths. Breathing can bring the note into your arms, and then into the keys.26 He plays the first octave, and she goes on: Now, listen to it! When are we going to continue? You have to decide that inside. Nobody can tell you how much [time to wait on the first notes]. To my ears, that was a much better quality. Can we try that again and this time I’ll let you continue.27 With the words, “Now, listen to it!” Bronstein-Barton refers to the sound that remains after a tone has been initiated, sound which the player cannot control once it is produced, but which must nevertheless form the continuity between the points in time represented by notes on the page. The simple act of listening to this single after-sound, not permitting the attention to wander away after active control is no longer possible,

25

This is in accordance with Bronstein-Barton’s belief in the inseparability of technique and musical expression. See ch. 3, p. 134 and ch. 2, p. 90. 26 Ena Bronstein-Barton, master class at Greenwich House Music School in New York City, March 29, 2003. 27 Ibid.

196 listening to the whole duration of the tone and not its point of initiation only, is preparatory to forming the continuities of the musical gesture. What follows, concerning the performance of mm. 1-33, is the beginning of an interpretative act that consists of forming a three-way connection among conventional meanings, notational signs in the written score, and techniques of performance. Bronstein-Barton continues: We could think for a long time about all that goes on there. One [thing] is the phrasing that he [Schubert] is giving us. Are you going to observe it or not exactly, because Schubert has written careful slur marks and he expects that you [will] break when he breaks. The other one is the pedal. You don’t have me convinced about the pedal. You start with a lot of pedal [on the opening octaves] and then you have none at all [in the single-note phrase that follows it]. And of course, he’s [Schubert is] presenting us with a single line, and then he’s doing the same with chords. How are these two phrases the same and how are they different? Those are the problems that come up. Now, I’m not suggesting that I have all the answers, but these are the questions that you have to ask yourself in order to resolve some of these problems of phrasing and pedaling. I don’t know what you’re thinking. I don’t know how much you’re thinking or how much you’re aware of exactly how you use the pedal in the phrase.28 In these remarks, Bronstein-Barton lays the basis for experimentation with variations of a technical point to determine the different expressive results and enable the performer to realize and master the potential of a given technique. When the desired sound is selected from among the various possibilities, a preferred application of the technique is also adopted. Bronstein-Barton’s questioning is a way of engaging with this particular work; but the student may also extrapolate general principles about using the pedal in the context of various articulations and textures to create sounds that exist together in a harmonious relationship. Since the main issue here is the effect of pedaling on

28

Ibid.

197 articulation and tone, Bronstein-Barton lays out the general techniques of pedaling as a foundation for making interpretive choices. In general there are several kinds of pedal. Sometimes we pedal between the notes. Sometimes we put down the pedal and we hold it for a long time. And sometimes we can pedal together with the notes. So the foot goes together with the hands: they go up and down at the same time. This is called portamento pedal.29 Now, one technique is selected for this specific case, but there is also a generalized aspect to this choice because it is prompted by a slur above staccato dots. So at this level, the instruction addresses the meaning of the signs, how to employ pedaling in interpreting them, and something about the kind of sound that should result. I wonder if we couldn’t try that [portamento pedal] here. You have a sign that says staccato and legato at the same time, which means something inbetween. We are not connecting the notes, but they’re not staccato either. That might be a time when you want to try this portamento pedal, which is with the hands together.30 What has taken place has not raised the issue of interpretation directly, but in effect it is building up an idea of what interpretation is. After hearing the student play the passage with portamento pedal, Bronstein-Barton’s next statements are a general instruction to study notation signs carefully for meaning, imagining what sounds the composer is “telling” the performer to create. Now we’re getting more clarity on that line, for my ears anyway. So if you spend a few years studying just the signs that Schubert wrote there, you’ll be amazed at how much he is really telling you.31 The interpretive element here is one of translating from one medium to another, from written signs to sounds, selecting the physical technique that accomplishes this most

29

Ibid. Ibid. 31 Ibid. 30

198 faithfully and effectively. The obvious goal of the instruction is to enable the student to perform the piece under discussion. At a deeper level, the student is building a repertory of sounds and techniques for interpreting other works. In what follows, Bronstein-Barton advances a description, an interpretation, of the character of the chordal passage (mm. 5-9) based on its texture, dynamic, and articulation. The student is asked to consider the staccato markings in light of this character and decide what technique will best convey the character. Now I feel that when he brings the chords, do you feel them like a little bit of a march? But it’s a gentle march, not an angry march. So again, this is my opinion now, you’re getting my opinion. But if it is a martial kind of a rhythm, then I think it has to be gentler; either we have to add a little touch of pedal to each one or do it with the hand with a slightly longer staccato so it doesn’t sound choppy or too dry.32 Here, several characters have been suggested for the music; the sonic qualities and techniques that will embody them have been identified: a longer staccato is equated with “gentleness,” the lack of resonance with “dryness” of tone. The student chooses to add pedal to the passage. Bronstein-Barton responds, noting the slight or “gentle” separation that is obtained by adding “a little touch of pedal” to each chord. She describes this effect as “breathlessness.” Now you got a breathless quality which I think was really wonderful. When you’re very, very careful with the pedaling, it can really support. So the pedaling has to support the phrasing that is on the page, not work against it. That is something for you to think about.33 With this instruction, the student gains a concept of some possible sounds, the techniques of creating them, and their expressive characters – “dryness” (or in this case, perhaps, “liquescence”), “gentleness,” and “breathlessness.” The score gives no indication of these

32 33

Ibid. Ibid.

199 techniques, sounds, or expressive characters; rather, the teacher and student invented them in response to questions raised by the performance. The instruction provides a model for connecting sound, technique, and expressive character with elements of notation to form an interpretation. Identifying works as “gently martial” based on a strong vertical textural element and the staccato marking, or as “solemn” based on use of the minor mode, are general and rough characterizations to be refined by subsequent acts of interpretation bringing out further details, such as “breathlessness.” Once invented and labeled with some expressive character, playing techniques and sounds can be repeated in performance, they can be passed on with their expressive meanings from teacher to student, and they may become more or less permanently attached to a musical work. While this process appears spontaneous, and the student may well perceive it that way, its reflexive nature must not be ignored. Bronstein-Barton, drawing upon her knowledge and experience of piano playing, of musical style, and of this piece in particular, exerted a subtle control by posing her questions in a way that would yield the desired results. The interpretive ideas embodied in the words “dry,” “breathless,” “gentle,” and “martial” as described above are not extraordinary in any respect. Many pianists would regard them and the technical means of producing their effects as commonplace and could easily cite other music that might be similarly characterized. However, this is evidence for the power and breadth of the stream of sound transmitted in pedagogy, the commonality in the learning process described above, and its power to create a community of qualified listeners and interpreters as well as an expressive code. As Sparshott has noted, “In learning step by step the techniques of whatever one learns, one inevitably acquires the values by which the practice is judged, not as a superadded

200 ideology, but as what gives the practice its cohesion and its learnability and makes it a practice.”34 Moreover, this example suggests how interpretative acts have the potential not only to perpetuate but to change both works and performers: a convincing interpretation can change how a work is understood; through repeated acts of interpretation, performers expand, refine, and change their musical sensibilities and technical and expressive capabilities. ARTICULATING THE SOUND STREAM Making phrase articulation clear while maintaining a sense of continuity among phrases involves using a flexible vertical motion of the arm and wrist (see ch. 2, p. 112) to articulate phrasing. The wrist is not active, but reactive (or passive), moving in response to the active movement from the upper arm. Using upper-arm motion to take the hand away with a flexible movement of the wrist is a way of controlling the sound, making the release gradual rather than sudden, and preventing an accent on the last note of the phrase. Edith Fischer describes it thus: There are some things in the gestures that are extremely important from the interpretation point of view, the way of going away from the keyboard; because sometimes it is as difficult to go away as to go in. And to give you an example, the end of the phrase, if you are in the piano and you finish the phrase like that [lifting the hand from the elbow], with the hand instead of taking the hand away, it’s as if you took scissors and cut the sound. And then comes the next phrase but there is no relation. If you do it like: [she demonstrates a lifting of the hand from the upper arm, not just from the elbow or fore-arm, so that the hand drops loosely from the wrist], well, Liszt said that already, you take a thread, and innerly (that is the main thing), when you do that, innerly you are feeling the relation, so of course the musical result will be completely different. And the sound goes in the air, dissolves, and becomes alive again. The relation between one thing and another! That is so important in the structure. You must feel that you breathe but it goes further. That is something that is typically, for me,

34

Francis Sparshott, A Measured Pace: Toward a Philosophical Understanding of the Arts of Dance (Toronto, Buffalo, and London: University of Toronto Press, 1995), 246

201 disturbing in the playing of people: that they are playing so well and then, tchik! Scissors!35 While this assumes the importance of hearing phrase relationships in the first place, it also argues that different physical means of disconnecting the phrases can either preserve or destroy their relationships. There are two objects of concern here. One is overall beauty of sound. The vertical motion of the forearm from the elbow with an unyielding wrist is singled out as undesirable, producing a sound that begins with audible mechanical noise that is disruptive to the musical line. A second concern is for the last note within a slur, which should be neither accented nor suddenly clipped off without regard for musical continuity with what follows it. Upper-arm motion with a flexible wrist achieves both objects: the desired continuity by preventing unwanted accents, and an improved overall sound. The reactive movement of the wrist divides the motion so that the arm can be in motion to prepare the next melodic unit while the hand lags behind to give a gradual, tapered ending to the previous one. The movement of the wrist makes it possible to stay closer to keys when the arm moves to separate the phrases, reducing abruptness and mechanical noise, and allowing better control of the sound that begins the following phrase. Frederick Marvin illustrated several instances of use of arm weight with a flexible wrist to execute two-note slurs, legato chords, and short groups of sixteenth notes in Haydn’s Sonata in C Minor, Hob. XVI: 20.36

35 36

Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003. Frederick Marvin, master class at Greenwich House Music School, February 1, 2003.

202 Example 5.2 Haydn, Sonata in C Minor, Hob. XVI: 20, I (Allegro) Moderato, mm. 1-4.

Focusing on the student’s quality of sound and sharply articulated slurs, Marvin demonstrated a different mode of attack and release for the two-note slur (m. 2, beats 3 and 4), dropping his hand into the first note, playing the second on an up motion. Dropping into the keys on strong beats 1 and 3 produced a less percussive tone, described by Marvin as “not harsh.” The arm moving up and forward, and the wrist rising passively with a relaxing of weight and tension in playing the second note softened the ending and made its release more gradual. Marvin reinforced his demonstration with the instruction, “Don’t be tense. Relax. Let it sing.” By way of contrast, he showed a way of playing with fingers only, accenting and clipping short the last note of the two-note slur when his hand rebounded out of the keys. He asked for the same manner of playing in all two-note slurs. Example 5.3 Haydn, Sonata in C Minor, Hob. XVI: 20, I (Allegro) Moderato, mm. 9-13.

203

Marvin then showed the use of arm weight with a flexible wrist to connect the chords for the left hand in m. 9 (Example 5.3). Playing them with the fingers alone and with an immovable wrist produced a clipped and severe staccato. The reactive movement of the wrist maintained contact between the fingers and the keys, enabling a legato while the arm was in motion to play successive chords. In the sixteenth-note passages (mm. 10, 13), Marvin asked for a more controlled drop into the keys and the same gradual release (with a flexible wrist and release of arm weight) at the end. Played in this manner, the attack of the first note is scarcely heard; the sound seems simply to materialize. The arm movement creates a dynamic shape that grows from this first note and then diminishes, transforming eight individualized notes into a single, discernible gesture. This lesson showed the power of a given manner of articulation to color an entire movement. By singling out the most pervasive gestures and connecting them to a specific physical movement, Marvin revealed to the student a way of creating a conspicuously different sound for the overall performance. Thus, Marvin’s instructions are aimed at achieving a quality of sound and for interpreting the markings in the score in terms of that sound. The two-note slur seems basic to his approach, perhaps because it is a phrase in microcosm: it contains the drop into the keys and the release upward that begin and end many phrases and motivic units. As Marvin interprets it, the drop is controlled so that it is never percussive (except where an accent would require it) and it is capable of almost infinite dynamic modifications for unaccented phrase beginnings.

204 FREDERICK MARVIN: ORAL TRADITION AND FIDELITY TO THE SCORE. At the end of a lesson of over forty-five minutes spent on the first movement of Beethoven’s Sonata Op. 110,37 Frederick Marvin pointed to the score, commenting, “I don’t think I said anything that’s not here!” Many of Marvin’s comments had a direct or indirect bearing on long melodic phrases. While slur markings often indicate phrase length and structure, Beethoven’s slurs in this movement seldom cross a bar line; his slurring picks out small, articulated units or motives, or somewhat longer, homogeneously structured figurations, but gives no indication of phrasing.38 Therefore, Marvin’s instructions are based on an oral (aural) tradition associated with how the score should be read, and in the lesson, he passed some elements of this on to the student. Marvin began by pointing out that the performance treated the first four measures as individual measures rather than a cohesive phrase (see Example 5.4). Think of this whole line, but not as parts; in other words, don’t put it in a square [here, Marvin held up his hands and made four gestures to show that he meant, ‘Don’t play the music as individual measures or “squares”’].39 Now the student played it a second time and Marvin found the tempo too slow to hold the phrase together: What is your tempo? [He asks her to play at m. 5.] That was a little faster, wasn’t it? That tempo [at the beginning] is the same as that [at m. 5. Marvin asks her to start again and he tells her:] Let it move, sing, talk!40

37

Frederick Marvin, master class at Greenwich House Music School, February 1, 2003. Ludwig van Beethoven, Klaviersonaten, Wiener Urtext Ausgabe, eds. Karl Heinz Fussl, H. C. Robbins Landon. 39 Frederick Marvin, master class at Greenwich House Music School, February 1, 2003. 40 Ibid. 38

205 Example 5.4 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110, I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo, mm. 1-12.

Marvin, hearing another interruption in the way the student proceeded from the first to the second measure, said, “No break there! It’s a continuous line.” The point of this instruction was not immediately apparent because the student did not really disconnect the sound. Marvin demonstrated what he wanted by playing the melody in single notes to show the sixteenth note connecting to the following measure as

206 an upbeat. Thus, Marvin was concerned not with the physical connection or disconnection of sound but with the perception of the sixteenth note A-flat as moving forward to the D-flat rather than as belonging to the previous A-flats. His demonstration also showed a concern for the gesture and its timing. The student had played the two chords in separate down strokes; when Marvin played this back to her to show what was not good about it, he exaggerated the gestures creating a real separation of the sounds. He did not represent her actual performance, but rather the impression he received from it. By contrast, when he demonstrated a desirable way of performing this melody, he combined the two notes in a single gesture: the A-flat on a down stroke and the D-flat on the corresponding upstroke. The different gesture (a single down-up movement as opposed to two down strokes), together with the intent of connecting the notes, produced a very subtle change in the timing and dynamic levels of the two notes that served to join rather than separate them. Marvin reiterated the same point in mm. 60-61 where the same figure appears for left hand, again demonstrating the contrasting gestures of performing the notes as connected and separated. Example 5.5 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110, I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo, mm. 60-61.

207 Marvin’s authority for this detail of performance gesture cannot be the score, which contains no indication of physical movements or the sounds likely to emanate from them. Moreover, Marvin’s concern for the overall line prompts him to give an instruction for m. 4 that overrides the slur calling for a separation before the D-flat: “I would take that E-flat to go to the D-flat [m. 4]. Don’t break it.”41 Here again it is a matter not only of sound but also of physical movement, of not rising out of the keys before the D-flat, and of combining the D and D-flat in a single up-down motion. In the second part of the theme (mm. 5-11), Marvin asked for a unifying dynamic scheme joining the separate motives in a longer statement. What I do is, I feel it differently. I’ll show you. [He plays mm. 5-6 with a slight crescendo.] Now this [indicating what he is about to play] is the end of the phrase. [He plays mm. 7 and 8 with a decrescendo. The student verifies this by asking if this phrase is to end more softly, and he replies] Yes. And the left hand, especially here [mm. 7 and 8], this part would also be softer. [He plays the left-hand part in mm. 7 and 8 with a decrescendo. The student plays again, and when she comes to m. 9, he says] Now, build gradually. [And at m. 11:] Now that’s a sforzando there. You did it before, but what I want to say now, the sforzando is an impetus, a little more sound, but not a harsh sound.42 In this passage, the melodic and rhythmic patterns in mm. 5-12 suggest two short phrase units of two measures each, followed by a four-measure phrase. The performance first played by the student underscored this interpretation, with endings tapering at similar dynamic levels in mm. 6 and 8. Marvin asked for a crescendo to m. 6, maintaining the dynamic level through m. 7 and a decrescendo in m. 8, creating at least two four-measure units or, arguably, one eight-measure unit combining mm. 5-12. His remark about the sforzando can be understood only through demonstration or trial and error. The words

41 42

Ibid. Ibid.

208 “an impetus . . . not harsh” give no clear idea of the sound except to one who already knows. Neither Marvin’s conception nor the student’s performance of this passage can be excluded, either by Beethoven’s markings or by score analysis. One might argue that Marvin’s version is related to the harmony of the passage: I – V4/3 – V4/2 – I6. Example 5.6 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110, I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo, mm. 12-19.

209 However, no rule stipulates that dominant harmonies should always be louder than tonic harmonies. One might judge Marvin’s version as having more beauty, interest, or rightness than the student’s performance, but the score does not dictate this judgment. Others of Marvin’s instructions are intended to create dynamic and articulation effects and a general awareness that favors sustaining long melodic lines. [mm. 13-14; Example 5.6] Don’t break here. It’s all one continuous line. (In this passage also, the phrases are complementary: two units of two measures followed by one unit of four measures.) [Delaying the crescendo marked in m. 17; Example 5.6] Now [indicating m. 19] you can crescendo. (Distributing the crescendo marked in m. 25; Example 5.7) Not too loud. Wait until you get to the end of the trills.43 Example 5.7 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110, I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo, mm. 25-27.

In the absence of performance directions to indicate it, how does Marvin arrive at his conception of a long line? Analyzing structural and harmonic features of the movement may be suggestive. For example, divisions are related to the structural elements of sonata form (sections, themes, and transitions), different figurations, and cadences. In this movement, Beethoven has closure on a tonic at a point of rest only at m. 38 (end of the exposition) and the end of the movement. Other cadence points are elisions

43

Ibid.

210 where one melodic unit or figuration ends by immediately beginning another, so that the conclusion of any given phrase is not a point of repose but a departure in a new direction. The sense of continuous forward movement thus created camouflages the structural points that divide the movement. Therefore, the long line possesses a quality that serves as iconic representation of the elided movement in the music, and Marvin’s expression picks out this feature, or indexes it. But even if an analytic process informed Marvin’s ideas about how the piece should sound, these ideas could appeal only to ways of playing available to Marvin through prior knowledge of piano playing. There could be no perception of a need to play something in a certain way without first knowing how things can be played in that way. Marvin’s instructions therefore reflect not just his reading of the score, but his possession of “expressive schemata,” or repeatable techniques of grouping and shaping sounds, components of an oral or “aural” tradition acquired in his own training and experience as a student. These “expressive schemata” form a body of knowledge enabling him to make decisions like those described above: choosing to represent long lines in certain instances and short articulated motives in others; utilizing different bodily movements in creating different melodic shapes; calculating where most of the increase in a crescendo belongs and what dynamic level it should reach if not specified by the score. This kind of knowledge may be attached to specific pieces as part of their interpretation (if Marvin learned the Sonata Op. 110 as a student and received this kind of instruction from his teacher) as well as being a store of practices that may be generally applied to works containing similar features (if Marvin arrived at his interpretation in studying this piece independently of any teacher).

211 That is to say, in this lesson the student (and audience) received from Marvin some elements of the practice of piano playing as they are transmitted orally in teacherstudent relationships and other social interactions ranged around piano playing. These elements are either specific points learned and remembered as an interpretation of the specific piece in question (in this case, the Sonata Op. 110 by Beethoven), or tokens of types -- examples from a store of knowledge deduced from many particular experiences about specific kinds of music and how to deal with them. What they cannot represent is knowledge spontaneously acquired from reading a score. In this lesson, Marvin specifically drew attention to physical motions only in playing two-note slurs in mm. 28ff. Example 5.8 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110, I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo, mm. 28-31.

Here he demonstrated the down-up motion to execute the two-note slurs and remarked, “They’re all separated, but they’re not -- ” He finished his sentence by playing the sixnote figure completely legato. In other cases where the physical motion had an immediate effect on the sound he asked for, such as that in mm. 1 and 2 described above, his verbal instruction was accompanied by a demonstration that required some interpretation from the student. Furthermore, he did not comment on the formal or expressive significance in what his instructions. Indeed, one might take his instructions as purely mechanical, having no formal or expressive significance. However, this would be a failure to realize the true import of Marvin’s instructions. What is ultimately at stake is learning to

212 perceive the expressive content in different kinds of playing and to judge its appropriateness for a musical work as a preparation for making interpretive choices independently of a teacher. It is instructive to peer over the shoulders of Marvin and this student with a view to interpretive consequences in two further examples. Marvin points out cases where different uses of dynamics, clearly marked by Beethoven, are analogous with harmonic and figural motion. Example 5.9 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110, I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo, mm. 32-39.

[mm. 32-33; Example 5.9] You didn’t play the crescendo. This is one continuous line. You’re doing this: [Marvin demonstrates the first three notes and then deliberately causes a separation before m. 33]. Then get soft before the end. [That is, in the second half of beat 2, m. 33. He then interrupts the student asking her to bring out a progression from

213 A-flat to G, in m. 32 of the upper voice, and in mm. 33-34 of the inner voice.] You have it here. This one and the next one. [The student independently observes this same detail in the upper voice, mm. 34 and 35]. [m. 36; Example 5.9] One long line! There’s no crescendo here at all. Whatever color you are here, you’re going to get softer. [As the student plays m. 39, he says]: Shhh, now this is pianissimo yet.44 In these two examples, Marvin did as he claimed to do, i. e., he merely repeated what is written in the score. Nevertheless, his drawing attention to these details without attaching any significance to them invites interpretation, particularly as they exemplify contrasting views on the use of dynamics to create continuity. In the first example (mm. 32-33), the crescendo and descrescendo suggest an integrated dynamic shape and seamless flow through the change from sixteenth to thirtysecond notes, a gesture of unbroken motion and a sonic arch that bridges the gap in the left-hand motive (repeated from m. 31) and gives eloquence to the slight pause on the sixteenth rest just before the cadence. The dynamic markings, therefore, signal not only a dynamic effect, but also the necessity to create a sense of motion without which the gap in the left-hand part (m. 33, beats 1 and 2) would seem clumsy and the pause (on the second half of beat 4) trite and redundant. In the second example, Marvin sees the crescendo not as integrating but as disruptive to the line. The question arises, what line is he referring to? Perhaps he is thinking of the whole series of events beginning with m. 5 and reaching a point of rest in m. 38. Since the passage in mm. 36-37 is ascending in sixteenth notes, a slight crescendo is at least conventionally acceptable. However, a crescendo turns the ascent into an active rise, a “bump” that interrupts the line from the piano dolce reached in the 44

Ibid.

214 preceding measures to the close on a diminuendo in m. 38. Without a crescendo, closure is preceded by an appropriate denouement: the ascent is a non-striving diffusion of the Eflat harmony from the low register to the high register as if by osmosis. EXPANDING ARRAU’S PRINCIPLES Arrau instilled in all of his pupils a technical approach employing use of weight, relaxation, and basic movements, a specific concept of tone production and tone quality, and an attitude of fidelity to the musical score. While remaining faithful to these principles, his pupils displayed considerable variation in teaching styles. In telling the stories of their study with Arrau, his students invariably mention Arrau’s respectful, friendly, and kind treatment of them. At first glance, one is tempted to discount this testimony as of anecdotal interest only or simply as idealization of a largerthan-life iconic figure.45 However, the more this point is reiterated by his pupils, it becomes clear that Arrau’s manner had some larger significance. The simple facts of Arrau’s celebrity, that he taught by choice and not out of necessity, that he took no fee for his teaching, and the pleasure and pride he showed in his teaching spoke compellingly of the importance that he attached to it. Although most of Arrau’s students aspired to performing careers, for some, teaching emerged later as a career alternative or, at least, a necessary supplement to their performing careers and this could well have been accompanied by disappointment and bitterness. However, just as the teaching of German Diez powerfully affected his students’ view of teaching, Arrau’s conduct as a teacher

45

Loretta Goldberg described a contrasting form of interaction with students, sometimes employed by Rafael de Silva, “There are a number of teachers who are personally destructive. It was sort of a European way of teaching, a Germanic way of teaching, in which you’re very hard on the person. Arthur Schnabel was like that, not Karl Ulrich, but Arthur was. . . . Some motivate by fear, and some slide their way into the person’s talent and manipulate and grow it. Rafael would yell and scream and he’d get so angry he’d kick his slippers off. And you were so frightened you were just playing by rote.”

215 seems to have directly affected how Diez and Arrau’s other students viewed the work of teaching, how they treated their own students, and how teaching reflected back on their own musical knowledge and assumptions. Arrau’s students characterize him as follows: Ena Bronstein-Barton: His manner of teaching was extremely kind. His way of addressing a student was, in my experience, extraordinarily kind. He was not one of those teachers who yell. He was extremely kind. He was very patient.46 Edith Fischer: He was always very kind, and I would say, very respectful to pupils. He was sort of curious to see what you were giving. You never had the impression he had a fixed idea he wanted to adhere to. That happens with many people, that “That is my truth” and that is what they have to do. That was not at all his attitude. That is very important, I think. He wanted to know what you were giving, and then with that he would try to do the best, to tell you, “But look at the score,” or “The sound is not good, take care of your gesture,” or whatever, but starting with what you had. Not starting from a fixed idea.47 Arrau’s teaching, therefore, imparted to students not only knowledge and skills, but a model that they admired and sought to emulate. The respect that they received from Arrau reinforced their own musical personalities; and they responded with a concern for the musical personalities of their own students. They sought, not just to replicate their experience with Arrau, but to expand upon his teaching, fully exploring its implications and bringing it to higher definition and new contexts. This also followed their perception of Arrau’s words and example: Ena Bronstein-Barton: A lot of what Arrau did was a product of influence, but mostly from Krause and Liszt, I would think. He admired Carreño greatly. But this [Arrau’s way of playing] comes directly from Liszt and from Krause. He just says he developed it further. But this is the way, the business for instance about breaking arpeggios beautifully and having an inner life to the broken chord, all of this comes from the way he was taught. Except he says he developed it even further [my emphasis].48

46

Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002. Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003. 48 Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002. 47

216 The obvious point here is the admiration Arrau inspired; however, the way it is stated reveals how powerfully he instilled in students the idea of further development, not only in their playing, but as a primary goal and responsibility of teaching. The following quotations can be read not only as praise for Arrau’s teaching but as mission statements: Ena Bronstein-Barton: The great thing about their teaching, the great thing that I am so indebted to Arrau and de Silva for, is [that] their method of teaching gave you weapons, and it gave you a way of continuing to develop beyond their presence.49 German Diez: But I’m sure that everything [Krause taught], Arrau probably made it more explicit. . . . Arrau has expanded much more, because he is using it, so he knows how broad the thing could be.50 Edith Fischer: . . . a personality like his [Arrau’s] opens doors. That makes you think. You try to become yourself. You can use this way of thinking to develop other ideas. When I teach sometimes I do things that are different, but the objective is probably the same.51 Arrau and de Silva had provided a vocabulary of techniques that entailed motions, sensations, and physical responses of playing that served their musical and stylistic objectives. Arrau’s students internalized these elements as well as a model of how to teach them. Further developing the model demanded understanding the objective realities of teaching: the technical and musical principles and possible ways of conveying them. It also meant exploring through trial and error the subjective realities of playing and teaching, finding alternative ways to think about piano playing, to engage with and build upon the natural abilities of students of different backgrounds and preparation, ages, perceptual tendencies, temperaments, physical characteristics, and mental habits. This type of exploration could be justified only by a belief that each student possessed an immanent musicality worth drawing out. Every student had to be seen not 49

Ibid. German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002. 51 Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003. 50

217 merely as an epitomization of faults and weaknesses needing correction, nor as a blank page upon which some musical message was to be written, but as having a valuable musical personality to be brought forth, protected, and developed. This constituted a more complex objective than simply making students play with more style, ease, and technical proficiency. Edith Fischer noted that, indeed, the individual musical personality has a power to assert itself, and finding a way of teaching that supports it is crucial: Edith Fischer: Every person has his own sound. Even on an instrument like the piano, which is supposed to be quite mechanical. But I still think you can recognize . . . people when they have a personal quality of touch, of sound. And that is why I think if you can’t develop the imagination of the pupil, if he can’t imagine the sound, you can teach him all the gestures you want and it won’t work; or it will work while he’s at the lesson, or while he is working with you, but if you let him alone after two years, he will reclaim his sound and the way he is producing it. . . . I know cases of people who played beautifully and went to certain teachers, in Paris for instance, and they said “Oh, but that is not the way to play. You must start playing scales every day. You must articulate like that, or do this.” They don’t play the piano anymore. Because when you think, “This is the way, this is it, the only way, the truth!” well, that is truth for us. But there are some people who play differently and they are making music beautifully. Maybe you don’t like the sound. Okay, but there must be a certain need for that, and an affinity to this way of playing.52 Thus, many of Arrau’s pupils became interested in developing a manner of teaching that did not simply impose new ways of playing on students, but adapted to their individual psychologies, communicated in a style that was natural to them, engaged their individual abilities and adaptive powers, and helped them to develop their own musical personalities. When it succeeded, this approach produced teacher-student relationships that downplayed power aspects implied by superiority and deference, and foregrounded a kind of social and cultural interaction from which both teacher and student had something to gain. 52

Ibid.

218 GOODWIN SAMMEL: “INDIRECTION” AND NATURALNESS IN MOVEMENT Goodwin Sammel, who studied with Arrau and de Silva from 1945 through 1951, exemplifies an interesting and highly individual style of teaching. Well-schooled in Arrau’s principles, he teaches them to his students in a manner that he has called “teaching by indirection.” This consists in utilizing a student’s natural tendencies in performing a specific task in order to elicit the desired response. The idea may have occurred to Sammel in the course of his work with de Silva: Goodwin Sammel: De Silva also would teach by “indirection” a little bit. I remember playing a piece for him, Gnomenreigen by Liszt, and he wanted a certain sound . . . and I wasn’t getting exactly the sound he wanted. Later on [the piece] gets expressively a little different, and he said “There! That’s it! . . . Esto! . . . That’s it! Now you have to get [it] that same way in other places.” In a way, that’s by indirection. He didn’t get me to do it that way the first time it came . . . but later on, I just naturally did it that way and he said, “That’s it!”53 This account underscores the tension in the teaching process between the need to give free play to the artistic personality of the student and the need to instill specific knowledge about piano playing -- to “pass on a tradition.” Sammel’s style of teaching relies on several premises: that a natural technique is one that eliminates unnecessary tension and fatigue; that such technique is most natural to the human body; that all human bodies are governed by common mechanical principles so that a natural technique should contain elements applicable for every student; that Arrau’s technique is a natural technique. Rather than try to instruct students in the correct motions of playing, Sammel creates exercises or activities that engage the student’s natural movements and responses so as to reproduce or rediscover a natural technique as he envisions it. Goodwin Sammel: I write them [the exercises] in their books for them. Just for the dropping. It’s [finger numbers] 2-4. They’re playing C and E 53

Goodwin Sammel, interview in New York City, April 14, 2003.

219 here and you cannot, what’s really wonderful here, once again it’s by indirection because the students never miss. The very first time you ask them to do it, they always hit the right notes.54 Sammel is referring here to the following exercise in which students learn to drop the weight of the arm into the keys: Example 5.10 Goodwin Sammel, Exercise for dropping the weight of the arm.

3 1

    

LH

2 4

LH 5

4-3

2-1       2 4

2 4

2 4

4-3

4-3

2 4

 



  

 



  

 



  



 

 



 

 



 

 

2 4

2 4

2 4

2 4

2 4

2 4

RH

   

4-3 2-1

2 4

4-3 2-1

 



  



 

 

2 4

2 4

2 4

 



2-1

4-3 2-1



  

 

 

2 4

2 4

2 4

 



2-1

4-3 2-1



  

 

 

2 4

2 4

2

4  



   2 4

2 4

 



   2 4

Goodwin Sammel [exercise to develop the sensation of dropping arm weight]: This [indicating the right-hand part] helps you to focus on what the notes are. This feeling of changing fingers really helps you get the firmness you need and so forth. And so, they almost never miss with the left hand. And then we do it the other way, too [starting with the left hand on the highest third and playing top-bottom-top] . . . And most people just do it naturally.55 Developing technical skills through devising tasks and observing how they are executed reflects an effort to adapt tasks to students rather than students to tasks. The instructions of the teacher are framed not to call attention to the teacher’s knowledge, but rather to draw out a response, accommodating the different bodies and minds of students

54 55

Ibid. Ibid.

220 without imposing elements that are foreign to them.56 Since Sammel knows in advance what a natural technique will look like, he can invent tasks that will encourage it to emerge and he can guide students to discover its elements by being aware of their own sensations in fulfilling the task. By carefully observing students’ responses, Sammel can modify the task if necessary until it produces the desired results. In this way, Sammel gains insight into a student’s psychology, natural capabilities, and physical adaptation. By refraining from overt methods of instructing, explaining, and telling how things are to be done, Sammel allows students to act creatively in solving their own difficulties.57 While Arrau’s first concern with Sammel was actively changing his technique, by contrast, it would seem at first glance that Sammel has turned sharply and marched in the opposite direction. He does not appear to employ an aggressive program to change his students. However, he cites Arrau’s technique as the model of a natural way of playing, and getting students to adopt the principles taught by Arrau informs at least a part of the content of his teaching. Goodwin Sammel: I don’t teach technique very much. What I try to do is . . . encourage a natural way. I have the feeling that people will find a natural way. I feel that Arrau’s technique is a natural way. If they give up all stiffness -- I’ll say you don’t need to feel stiffness or I give exercises which will induce a free way of playing. Just for freedom of the arm, I have exercises so you get the feeling of dropping.58 56

“One advantage of approaching curriculum practice from the standpoint of instruction through behavioural objectives is that it shifts the focus of teachers toward the behaviour of students and the details of activity. The charisma of the teachers defers to the performance of the student. The major hazard of regimenting learning through a pre-determined sequence of fixed objectives is that little scope may be left for significant encounters,during which people respond in their own ways, framing educative experiences for themselves. When most of the control of learning lies with the teacher, the student may not be able to make it his or her own, and the whole transaction can become stale and arid.” Keith Swanswick, Music, Mind and Education (London: Routledge, 1988), 127. 57 Donald Woods Winnicott, Playing and Reality (New York: Basic Books, 1971), 102. Winnicott writes of the importance in psychotherapy of empowering patients by allowing them the creative space to interpret and understand their own behavior. The psychoanalyst must refrain from imposing his or her own interpretations upon the patient, just as Sammel refrains from overtly instructing his students. 58 Goodwin Sammel, interview in New York City, April 14, 2003.

221 Thus, Sammel has extrapolated from the teaching of Arrau and de Silva the idea of using the student’s own sense and capabilities to create new skills. He is developing that idea through exploring the relationships between movements of making music and movements of ordinary human action. The statement, “I don’t teach technique very much” is not to be taken at face value; it is only a signal that Sammel does not adhere to a practice of telling students how they should play. Nevertheless, his striving toward further development of technical and musical principles that he learned as a student and his utilizing students’ own abilities to create greater skill is informed by Arrau’s example. Implied in Sammel’s approach is the idea that music-making, as a human product, is therefore also a product of natural human movements. This resonates with Deppe’s aphorism about piano technique, “When it looks pretty, it is right.” In explaining Deppe’s remark, Elisabeth Caland59 cited both Spencer60 and Souriau61 to support the claim that both the aesthetic quality of movements and their efficacy in playing was related to ease, gracefulness, economy, balance, and rhythm. These might also be taken as properties of the kind of movement Sammel means by “natural movement.” All human beings with normal capacity for movement have the potential to execute the natural movements Sammel is talking about, which is not to say that these natural movements are always automatically employed as a matter of course, or that conscious learning and effort are not necessary in developing a style of movement with the properties Souriau discusses.62

59

Elisabeth Caland, Die Deppe’sche Lehre des Klavierspiels (Magdeburg, Heinrichshofen’s Verlag, 1921),

6. 60

Herbert Spencer, Essays: Scientific, Political and Speculative (New York: D. Appleton, 1891), 384. Paul Souriau, The Aesthetics of Movement, trans. Manon Souriau (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1983); originally published as L’èsthetique du mouvement (Paris: F. Alcan, 1889), 81. 62 Sparshott writes: “Every animal is an artist, says Souriau, in the intelligent economy with which it performs complex bodily functions. But to achieve such economy is not the highest use of intelligence in action, for a sense of ease may be deceptive. Something not obvious, something hard to learn and not immediately comfortable, may serve better. The most rewarding movements in the long run are those that 61

222 Developing a sense of a natural style of movement and adapting it to piano playing is what Sammel is working toward. SUPERVISED PRACTICE AND THE PURSUIT OF INSIGHT A belief that the physical side of piano playing consists of natural human movements amounts to a belief that all human beings with normal movement capacity can learn to play well. The value of this belief is in motivating the kind of close observation of student behavior and responses that yields knowledge and insight. Its pedagogical attraction lies in what teachers gain from it. German Diez described how observation and the search for teaching techniques to fit the perceptions of different students led to a deeper understanding of the principles he was trying to teach: German Diez: . . . the experience of playing [teaching?] too taught me a lot about doing things. For example, I took Antoine to play for Arrau a couple of times. I remember once he [Antoine] was playing the Grieg concerto, [a] passage with octaves. And Arrau would try to explain to him how to drop the weight, how to do the octaves, say, “You have to do this way and this way.” And since I knew Antoine better, and then I had to face—for after all he [Arrau] was facing people who are very talented; and we have to face people who . . . we still have to try to make talent out of it. So you develop a good experience . . . you have to build more tools to the right idea. . . . Then I said, “What he means is, you have to try to lead with the elbow more.” Then Arrau said, “He’s right. That’s the way.” I have more experience trying to find the way to convey those ideas. He [Arrau] doesn’t have the time to do it. I spend ten hours a day doing it. He doesn’t. Those are things that are basically the same thing, but there are so many ways to look into it. But they are all the same idea.63 From observing the varying measures of success and failure with different ways to communicate a single idea, says Diez, one gains proficiency in handling the complexity of both the movements and the subjective realities involved in

secure greater economies in the accomplishing of remoter objectives. So we go beyond efficiency to an articulate effectiveness.” Foreword to Souriau’s, The Aesthetics of Movement, viii. 63 German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.

223 communicating them. Ena Bronstein-Barton cites one of the most difficult issues in this regard: Ena Bronstein-Barton: . . . like the business, for instance, of “dropping” on a chord, which is so hard, Arrau would do it and demonstrate [sic!] and you’d hear him do it in a concert, but how to do it yourself is a whole other matter because people have different bodies, different brains, and in order to maneuver the same technique, you have to be very patient and repeat it and search for it, sometimes for years.64 Enabling a student to acquire correct movements and responses, if they are not learned from the earliest lessons, also involves the challenge of removing conflicting habits of movement. In this effort, Diez’s students report that he spends generous amounts of time practicing with them the principles he is trying to teach and patiently repeats instructions in subsequent lessons. Knowing that he teaches so many students each week (ten hours a day, as he says), one might be tempted to conclude that Diez simply does not remember what he has said to each one of them and does not realize he is repeating the same instruction. However, it is neither patience nor forgetfulness, but practical necessity; according to Diez, repetition is necessary to maintain progress in the right direction because of the complexities of what he is teaching and the unfolding character of the learning process itself. German Diez: This happens all the time with students. I tell them to do one thing, and the next lesson they come, and . . . they don’t make the difference. It takes a while before you really channel it, [before] you really understand it. And that’s why you consider the reinforcement of supervised practicing, so to speak. Because one doesn’t know that one is drifting in a different direction, all [the while] thinking that you do the same thing, or not remembering at all, “Well, how . . . did I do that?” It came out right, and then . . . you don’t find a way again. That’s very natural. The same [idea], . . .he [Arrau] would say . . . “You have to do this, you have to be relaxed here.” You’d think, “That’s the idea! I’ve got it!” And then five years later, [you would think], “Ah! This is what he really meant. Oh! THIS is what he really meant.” Because it’s so down 64


224 deep that you don’t see it. It takes a long time before it becomes something that is natural.65 What Diez calls “supervised practicing” consists in observing while students try to follow his instruction in a given passage many times, evaluating and commenting, pushing and prodding the student’s arm into the desired position and motion, calling for specifically directed listening, modifying his instructions until a student can really sense and control the technique he is trying to learn. This is a two-fold “practicing,” or trialand-error, process in which Diez makes ample use of demonstration to show specific sounds and physical movements. Diez either seeks to discover the student’s level of awareness and engage him at that point before attempting to move him beyond that point, or purposefully confronts him with a perplexing situation and watches for signs that his mind, body, and ear are adjusting, making sense of things. Marcia Lewis: I watched him [Diez] in the master class he gave at Third Street on that Burgmüller Ballade with a junior high student. And he got to the middle singing part and the student played every note just the same. And German would demonstrate G; and then C is more, and B is more, and G is the most. And the boy -- just trying to go from G to C and making sure that C was louder than the G -- it took the kid five, six, maybe more tries to even hear that he wasn’t copying German’s sound because he wasn’t making the C louder. German started saying the C has to be louder . . . . But he just sat there with him until he heard it, and once the kid heard it, then he could do it.66 Marcia Lewis: At one point he [German Diez] gave me a Mozart concerto to work on. . . . I had to play it really slowly like an exercise, and after each note I had to lift my finger as high as I could get it, because my fingers tended to be slow about getting off the keys and therefore a little bit blurry. And not only was it objectionable in terms of sound but, he also said, I wasn’t sending clear signals to each finger. And when I did that, the fingers would work much better. . . . For instance, I was playing with my third finger but still hanging on a little bit to my fourth finger. I wasn’t sending a clear enough signal to my third finger for it to play exactly right. . . . everything worked back and forth. The sound and the physiology of 65 66

German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002. Marcia Lewis, interview in New York City, August 4, 2002.

225 everything was so interconnected there. And then, when I played up to tempo, I had to imagine that my fingers were coming that far off. And so we worked a lot on these “picking-up” muscles. And he did the demonstration of me holding my hand in a fist and then he’d grab it with his hand and I’d have to try to open up my hand; but of course those muscles were weak. . . . he would make a fist with his hand and I’d have to try to keep his hand closed. And he had a very hard time . . . opening up his hand with even a much weaker hand holding his closed.67 These cases illustrate a probing into the aural and physical sensation of the skill involved and exercising an empathic sense to insure that a student learns to experience and evaluate his or her own physical sensations as well as the actual sound coming from the instrument. It is not self-evident that a student can always do this alone. It is possible that instruction addressing only what is seen on the page, only a verbally expressed sound concept (as opposed to an actual sound), or only a technical point in a difficult passage, ignores the human dimension of the student’s actual felt and heard response; moreover, there is a tendency for the student’s own intense concern about musical elements to block awareness of his or her physical sensations. Over time, inattention to the physical and aural sensations disables the student’s ability to alter or control any aspects of their playing, technical or musical. Diez has also used supervised practice to help students with injuries. Angelina Tallaj tells that she went to Diez with injuries so painful that she could not play a single piece.68 Pain in her forearms resulted whenever she attempted to raise either her hand (bending from the wrist) or fingers. She also experienced pain in the shoulder blade area and tension in the neck muscles. Diez began by showing her a way of playing scales, allowing the wrist to drop downward on the thumb and gradually rise up as she

67 68

Ibid. Angelina Tallaj, interview in New York City, July 18, 2002.

226 proceeded to the fifth finger – the five-finger principle described by Luís and Maritza Alvarez. She did not practice very much on her own but played only at lessons with Diez supervising. By refraining from practicing alone, she believes she acquired the correct techniques faster because, away from the piano, she continued to think about the correct way to play while preventing any interference from practicing under the influence of her previously learned habits.69 After working out this technique of scale playing, says Tallaj, the technique was transferred first to Bach Preludes and then to other pieces. Although she is now capable of handling long and technically demanding works, Angelina still feels pain when raising her hands or fingers upwards (contracting the extensors), but moving in the opposite direction (contracting the flexors) causes no discomfort. To complete this account, Diez points out that correct and healthy finger movement is moving the fingers from the knuckle joint where the fingers meet the hand. The movement should be toward the palm as when making a fist. He considers raising the fingers upwards from the knuckles in a hammer-like stroke a wasted motion. 70 Furthermore, Diez asserts that striking the keys from a position where the fingers are raised high above the keys will not enable good control of tone. 71 He demonstrates this on an opened door. Swinging the arm from a distance and striking the door with the palm 69

Diez often reminds students that learning grows away from the piano, and during sleep. Ortmann points out a difference between the percussive (coming from above the key) and non-percussive (beginning on the surface of the key) finger strokes. In percussive strokes, the “original force can never be maintained because the finger, through the principle of action and reaction, is retarded with the same force with which the key is accelerated. There is, accordingly, a loss in force, for the moment after impact, whereupon the finger reengages the key and uniform or controlled pressure is used from this point on. No such adjustment is present in non-percussive touches.” Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique (London: K. Paul, Trench, Trubner, 1929; repr. New York: Da Capo, 1981), 233-234. 71 Ortmann also maintains that the faulty “surface tone” common among inexperienced pianists results from badly timed finger motion or contraction that takes place before and up to the impact of the finger on the surface of the key, that is, when the finger is in a lifted position above the key. “Good” tone production, however, results when the motion and contraction of the finger begins at the moment of contact with the key and during key descent. Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique, 349-350. 70

227 of the hand creates a sudden impact that causes some disturbance or even pain to the hand, but does not overcome the inertia of the door. But placing the palm of the hand on the door and pushing moves the door efficiently and with intensity ranging from a very gentle close to a slam; and the hand suffers no disturbance or discomfort. Diez applies this analogously to the action of the finger on the key. Striking the key from above will not move the key as efficiently or in as controlled a manner as pressing from a position of rest on the surface of the key.72 PEDAGOGY AND TALENT Lack of control of the technical side of playing produces a corresponding limitation on what can be achieved in the interpretive and expressive realm. Sometimes the cause of inexpressive playing is sought not in the physical behaviors associated with playing, but in the student’s musical aptitude. As the account of Luís and Maritza illustrates, despite training diligently to build muscular finger strength through repetitious exercise, still their fingers were judged to be weak, still they remained ill-equipped to deal with the technical and musical problems posed in musical works. With the failure of all this effort, could it not be said that they simply lacked a talent for piano playing? The concept of talent is a part of musical life in the sense that significant artistic achievement or excellence is commonly thought to be a consequence of an innate ability that can be neither created nor taught. Being beyond the reach of human endeavor, talent is highly valued, partaking of some divine (or demonic) realm, and the condition of being

72

Diez gave this demonstration in a lesson with James Pang in New York City, July 29, 2003. When asked how he discovered this connection between closing a door and the action of the finger on the key, Diez jovially replied, “Well, from fixing doors, of course!” The connection between closing a door and key depression is contained in an account of the methods and theories of Paul Pichier, a pupil of Leschetizky, in The Pianist’s Touch, eds. Walter Krause, Elisabeth Hesse, and Waltraut Osborn (Graz, Austria: Leykam, 1972) 23-25.; translated by Martha Ideler and Peter R. Wilson (Palo Alto, Calif.: Perelen, 1972), 23-25.

228 talented or untalented contains an aspect of immutability. Talent serves as a convenient explanation for individual ability and achievement deemed too exceptional to be explained by any other means, just as lack of talent serves as a facile explanation for a lack of achievement. In either case, one practical consequence of an unquestioning acceptance of judgments of talent is a loss of opportunities to gain knowledge and insight. Kingsbury has pointed out that talent is not something proved or disproved but socially constructed, involving both ethical and aesthetic judgments, and productive of a social hierarchy. “The very meaning of musical ‘talent’ is inextricably linked to power relations. The concept is used in the context of marked differentials in social power (parent-child, teacher-pupil); ambiguities of its meaning are clarified through referral back to higher levels of this power structure; and perhaps most importantly, the invocation of ‘talent’ contributes significantly to the reproduction of a structure of inequality in social power.” 73 Some pedagogues are openly critical of the talent concept, questioning whether it is valid, productive, or ultimately humane. Dorothy Taubman’s associate, Edna Golandsky, states that most pianistic shortcomings have to do with “shortage of information rather than lack of talent, intelligence, or strong work habits.” In discussing a specific technical point, she remarked, “Don’t think, ‘Maybe I’m not talented.’ Think through the fingerings and movements. When the fingerings and movements clear up, you begin to be talented.”74

73

Henry Kingsbury, Music, Talent, Performance (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1988), 79. Dorothy Taubman, The Taubman Techniques: A series of videocassettes presenting the keyboard pedagogy of Dorothy Taubman (Medusa, N. Y.: J.T.J. Films, Inc., in cooperation with the Taubman Institute, 1994), Tape 9. 74

229 Taubman, herself, who gained attention in the 1980s for repairing the damage sustained by pianists due to injury, is frankly critical of a teaching style that focuses only on “musical” matters, delegating the responsibility of solving physical problems to the student. In the following statement, she conspicuously avoids the word “talent,” substituting “concentration,” “sensitivity,” “personality,” and “intellect” -- words which, unlike “talent,” do not connote inalterability. Furthermore, she makes it plain that these considerations are secondary; of primary concern is the teacher’s responsibility to demonstrate and exercise knowledge and skill commensurate with what Kingsbury asserts is the greater social power and position of “teacher.” In doing so, Taubman implicates the negative aspects of power relationships in pedagogy. Dorothy Taubman: Teaching is also knowing how to tell the pianist exactly how to do something you want him to do. The most frustrating thing is to have a young artist come in and to tell him what you want and his hands can’t do it. And he feels inadequate and miserable. And this is pretty much what I find with the young people; they are terribly intimidated by their past training, because if they can’t do something it’s a stigma. I think . . . the finger has to be pointed away from the students and toward the teachers. It’s the teacher’s job to find a way to get the student to do [musical playing technically well]. We’re talking about dedicated, earnest, and gifted people. There’s no reason why any of them should not be able to do exactly what they want to do. . . . I think I can teach anybody to play well. The levels will be very different with different personalities . . . . It has to do with the amount of concentration, the amount of inner sensitivity. We all have different levels of sensitivity and concentration. The amount of intellect! We all have different intellects. But physically, every child, every person can learn to play physically well. The student knows when something is right or wrong. I can’t tell them. I can’t tell them, “You’re playing wrong.” He has to tell me, “I don’t feel good.” And then I know what’s happening. I can make a diagnosis, listening, watching, and mostly listening to what the student has to say. We have to listen with a third ear, because I’ve found the student is never wrong about his own body and his own feelings.75

75

Ibid., Tape 1.

230 The case of Luís and Maritza shows their acute and painful awareness of failure before their study with Diez, and the importance of coming to terms with their pianistic problems to avoid internalizing this failure, becoming stigmatized by it. Perhaps they believed, as Taubman says, that they could not be wrong about their own bodies and feelings. A key element in their positive progress, however, was finding in Diez someone who knew how to help them, someone with whom they could achieve true communication and interaction in an atmosphere of trust, to whom they could expose the want of knowledge and skill without fear of rejection based on a negative judgment of their talent. And from this kind of interaction both teacher and student gained in knowledge and skill. As Diez puts it: Now in my case, I would say I have more experience than Rafael himself (I told you he asked me to help him), because I have to deal with so many people so far from being talented, not really that, but what I mean to say is, people that have problems. Instead of people who are already well developed when they come to them [Arrau and de Silva], we are dealing with people who are building up to something. So we develop more experience in tackling the problems, seeing how to get to the bottom of it. That’s the experience of teaching. Arrau could never develop that experience because he wasn’t teaching that much. And he didn’t teach anybody he really had to teach from scratch. But then, he knew the way to get to the top, anyway. So that’s a different skill: to have the experience of how to convey the idea so that you get the results.76 The mention of talent by Diez here is revealing, and not least for his immediately recanting it. It appears that he both recognizes talent and dismisses it. Perhaps this is so, not only because lack of talent is stigmatizing but also because, according to common notions of it, talent is passive in the sense that it cannot be created. Thus, it does nothing to advance Diez’s active and dynamic project of “development, building up to something, tackling problems, getting to the bottom of things.” 76

German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.

231 Thus, what is at issue with the “talent” concept is not its truth or falsehood but its musical, pedagogical, and social productivity. From a pedagogical standpoint, if pianistic problems are the result of an immutable, inborn characteristic (“lack of talent”), there is no point in looking for solutions and nothing of value to be learned from the process. From a social standpoint, by adhering to a concept of musical talent, musical performance is restricted to a small, elite subset of society: those judged to have talent.77 On the other hand, the premise articulated by Taubman that all students can learn the physical motions of playing justifies an effort to discover the most effective way to communicate with each student; and this effort yields insights into what is taught and the process by which it is taught. It assumes, even if tacitly, that music is better served when more people “begin to be talented.” Thomas Christensen has written of the important function of the piano in shaping the reception of all genres of music in the nineteenth century. He shows repeatedly that it is not only a matter of making musical works more widely known but of making the bodily sensation of music more widely experienced and felt. Roland Barthes has pointed out that there are two kinds of music: the kind one listens to and the kind one plays. The latter, in Barthes’s eroticized world view, is infinitely superior since it brings the body into contact with the music. When one plays an instrument or sings, there is a kinesthetic sensualization and personalization of the notes.78

77

Kingsbury: “In general, after an authoritative “Jack” (or “Wolfgang,” or “Vladimir”) has made the judgment that “Jill” is not talented, it will probably become inappropriate for Jill to play or sing in Jack’s presence: her music will in all probability be perceived as something of a nuisance to him, and listening to her a waste of his good time. Moreover, if Jack’s musical opinions are widely influential or if his opinion is widely shared, the social appropriateness of her music making will become problematic in many if not all social situations. The performance of music before any audience can be frightening, but performing before an audience that is disapproving in advance results in almost certain ostracism.” Music, Talent, Performance, 72. 78 Thomas Christensen, “Four-Hand Piano Transcription and Geographies of Nineteenth-Century Musical Reception,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 52/2 (Summer, 1999): 293. He cites Roland Barthes, “Musica Practica” (1970) in Image-Music-Text, 149.

232 This “kinesthetic sensualization and personalization” established a basis for an understanding and appreciation of music in nineteenth-century society, in which piano playing was a marker of social status. In this environment, such a progression was encouraged. Moreover, within this society, musical elitism went hand in hand with prestige and advantage. It must be questioned whether this kind of elitism in the twentyfirst century has become an anachronism, whether it has inhibited the growth of pedagogical knowledge, and limited the kinesthetic experience of music to professionals, thus contributing to the alienation and marginalization noted by Lawrence Kramer: It is scarcely a secret that the extraordinary value ascribed to music, and to the arts in general, during the nineteenth century has lost much of its credibility; not much survives except a certain quantity of impoverished rhetoric. Professional students of all the arts have been increasingly confronted with a sense of cultural marginalization, an unhappy awareness that their work is tolerated rather than encouraged by the academy and by society at large.79

79

Lawrence Kramer, Music as Cultural Practice, 1800-1900 (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and Oxford: University of California Press, 1990), 20.

233 SIX TEACHING ARRAU’S PRINCIPLES TO THE YOUNG STUDENT Arrau formulated his principles to describe his way of performing the standard concert repertory in the great concert halls of the world. In his teaching and that of his assistant, Rafael de Silva, Arrau’s principles were passed on to a group of artist pupils who aspired to performing careers. As Arrau’s principles spread more widely from his pupils to a younger generation of their pupils, his principles reached teachers whose primary work was with children, and they began to use these principles in nurturing the musical aspirations of children and young beginners. Rather than wait for students to rise to the level of advanced repertory, or to arrive at a level of maturity enabling a productive discussion of technical principles, these teachers sought to develop the elements of advanced playing from the earliest beginnings in elementary and intermediate repertory. In addition to its mechanical aspect, the development of technique at the elementary level naturally entailed issues of tone production, expression, and interpretation. The practical problems of adapting Arrau’s principles to use with children included selection and ordering of suitable repertory and finding techniques of conveying the principles so that children would not simply learn them, but would internalize them. Moreover, recognizing, promoting, and protecting the musical personality of students (discussed in ch. 5 in connection with the teaching of advanced- and artist-level students) is of particular importance with children, whose sensitive natures can be easily stifled or overwhelmed. Discerning a musical personality in children is sometimes difficult because children rarely display their musical potential from the beginning.1 However, the teaching

1

“Contrary to common belief, in early childhood the kinds of indicators of later ability that would be consistent with the notion of innate factors being important are conspicuous mainly by their absence. In an

234 of some of Arrau’s pupils suggests ways of dealing with these problems. Presenting music in terms of scenarios that stimulate the child’s personal creativity and expression (for instance, as suggested in the “teaching by indirection” outlined by Arrau pupil Goodwin Sammel) teaches the child to use music as an expressive medium. Developing the necessary skills can be treated as a form of play, an approach that is congruent with the general process of growth, for, as D. W. Winnicott has argued, play and selfexpression are important to human development.2 Edith Fischer, who founded a music school for children in Switzerland,3 briefly described her approach as an imaginative recreation of Arrau’s development as a child performer: Edith Fischer: I try to get them to imagine things, to imagine something round to fill the room, or I say have you seen somebody playing a gong, the gesture to play a gong, that they can easily imagine. . . . I always started from what they want to hear, and normally, a child that is musical investigation of the early backgrounds of 42 notably successful young musicians Sloboda and Howe (1991) discovered that very few of the individuals were reported to have displayed any overt signs of musical precocity. . . . Sosniak (1985) . . . interviewed 24 young American concert pianists and their parents. She found that, even after these individuals had been playing the piano for several years, there were few signs to indicate that they would eventually have more success than hundreds of other young pianists. That is, there were no distinctive behaviours observed in these children that differentiated them from other children.” John Sloboda and Jane Davidson, “The Young Performing Musician,” in Musical Beginnings: Origins and Development of Musical Competence, eds. Irène Deliège and John Sloboda (Oxford, New York, and Tokyo: Oxford University Press, 1996), 177. 2 Donald Woods Winnicott has written of the importance of play in the psychological growth of the individual, the development of creativity, and the ability to participate in cultural experience: “. . . it is play that is the universal, and that belongs to health: playing facilitates growth and therefore health; playing leads into group relationships; playing can be a form of communication in psychotherapy; and, lastly, psychoanalysis has been developed as a highly specialized form of playing in the service of communication with oneself and others.” D. W. Winnicott, Playing and Reality (New York: Basic Books, 1971), 41. And: “I have tried to draw attention to the importance both in theory and in practice of a third area, that of play, which expands into creative living and into the whole cultural life of man. This third area has been contrasted with inner or personal psychic reality and with the actual world in which the individual lives, which can be objectively perceived. I have located this important area of experience in the potential space between the individual and the environment, that which initially both joins and separates the baby and the mother when the mother’s love, displayed or made manifest as human reliability, does in fact give the baby a sense of trust or of confidence in the environmental factor.” Playing and Reality, 102. Other studies that link play to the development of cognitive, affective, interpersonal, and problem-solving processes include: Sandra W. Russ, Play in Child Development and Psychotherapy: Toward Empirically Supported Practice (London and Mahwah, N. J.: Lawrence Erlbaum, 2004); Toys, Play, and Child Development, ed. Jeffrey H. Goldstein (Cambridge, Melbourne, and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994). 3 Cercle lémanique d’etudes musicales, located at Grand-Rue 2, 1095 Lutry, district of Lausanne, Canton Vaud.

235 finds a way as Arrau found a way, I’m sure, himself. And then he thought, “How do I do that?”4 To illustrate how a teacher may use the creative and expressive intuitions of young students to further their own musical ability, the following excerpts are given from a master-class-style lesson with Ena Bronstein-Barton for young students playing fourand eight-hand music. In the master-class situation, the teaching takes place before an audience, and therefore it was Bronstein-Barton’s task to improve the performances, to broaden the students’ knowledge, and to reinforce the enjoyment of the music without causing discomfort or embarrassment by directly pointing out the weaknesses in the performances. She met this task by engaging the listening skills and musical sense already possessed by the players to improve certain technical aspects of the performances and, in doing so, showed how addressing a single overarching principle can be an effective and economical remedy for a variety of ills. Four boys, nine and ten years old, performed an arrangement of a march by Schubert for eight hands. The playing was rhythmically unstable throughout; in particular, the students were having a hard time staying together in the middle section, which was dominated by rhythms of triplet eighth notes in one part against duplet eighth notes in the other. One might expect the instruction that followed to confront the issues of beat, rhythm, and polyrhythm directly, by discussing two against three, by practice in counting, and by trying to feel the beats together. Bronstein-Barton did not try to correct the rhythmic problems in this way, nor did she even call attention to them; instead she placed a musical question before the performers. She spoke to them as follows:

4

Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003

236 Bronstein-Barton: I got kind of confused in the middle where all these triplets are. I think that’s the hardest part, because the composer made that kind of a problem. So I’m listening from over there [she indicates a location across the room], and I’m thinking, “What?” So we have to be very, very clear for the audience, who has what. What is more important, the triplets or the other part? Boys: The triplets! Bronstein-Barton: The triplets, right? So I think you have to be a little more [loud] because it’s hard to hear the way it’s written.5 The performers repeated the passage making the triplets much louder and plainly audible. This louder playing gave an evenness to the triplet rhythm, which it lacked in the first performance, and strengthened the beat so that the duplet accompaniment fell into place. Although these performers appeared rhythmically weak, in fact, they did not have a rhythmic deficiency per se; as their second attempt showed, they had a very good rhythmic sense. However, they needed leadership. Identifying one musical element as most important and making it stand out unequivocally provided rhythmic leadership and stability that drew the ensemble together. The beginning section of this piece was also rhythmically precarious, apparently because of a subtle phrasing problem. The piece began with secondo players providing the opening phrase, joined by the primo players in the second phrase. Although the primo players made their entrance on the correct beat, they did not do so with a correct sense of “breathing” between the phrases. In effect, they entered slightly too soon and the secondo players could not finish their cadence with the proper inflection and timing. This caused an upset in rhythm, and by the time it was righted, the repeat led to another upset. Again, Bronstein-Barton did not speak of these problems at all. Instead, she asked for more

5

Excerpted from a transcription of a video-recorded master-class lesson given by Ena Bronstein-Barton at the Third Street Music School Settlement in New York City on November 19, 2002.

237 sensitivity, as if that were a goal in itself, and in a way that captured the imaginations of the students. Bronstein-Barton: I have one more comment. As you come in, don’t just come in . . . don’t just count your part, but feel your partner. Do you know what I mean? So, you’re counting your part, and [thinking] “Now is my turn to come in.” But see if your ears can tell you when to come in. What part of your body tells you when to come in? Boys: [all talking at once, giving a variety of answers]. Bronstein-Barton: Yes, we need all of it! Try to figure out where they [your partners] are and come in with them. Kind of like antennae, that’s what it is! [She pantomimes antennae on top of her head]. We need to have antennae to know when to come in.6 This image was evidently intriguing to these young students. They responded with entrances perfectly placed to give time for the cadence and a sense of a short breath between the phrases; and the general rhythmic instability cleared up as well. It was an impressive response from young players with little experience in ensemble playing. In a lesson on duets by Norman Dello Joio (“Promenade” and “The Dancing Sergeant” from Five Images for Piano) performed by two girls who were about eleven years old, Bronstein-Barton again avoided mentioning the weaknesses of the performance and asked instead for greater sensitivity. While her instructions were focused on a specific piece, they also addressed general principles of practicing and listening applicable in any ensemble playing. Bronstein-Barton: I think you’re very together and you feel good at the beginning of each measure. But how about the middle? Can you hear if you’re completely together? . . . Why don’t we try and see if . . . we get to the middle of the measure and you’re completely together.7 Again with this duet, rather than dictate explicit instructions, Bronstein-Barton asked the students to determine for a particular passage what parts should stand out more

6 7

Ibid. Ibid.

238 vividly. Her reiteration of the question, “What is more important?” with both ensembles emphasized to the players and listeners the importance of this question in all ensemble playing. Bronstein-Barton: Here comes a part where, who’s more important? Students: [reply that they are each more important at different moments] Bronstein-Barton: Sometimes you are, sometimes she is. Play that section, and we want to know: “My turn! My turn! My turn!” One of you is a little more important, and the other one accompanies, then you switch. It’s not always the same person that’s important. And you are going to show everybody.8 In this case, the message was not only about balance; the words “you are going to show everybody” subtly told the students that the objective was communication, not merely to be correct. Focusing on communication as the objective in performance rather than the weaknesses of the performance is not simply a matter of kindness or courtesy toward the students but a practical matter of training the students to give primary importance and attention to a musical objective. If attention is on correcting mistakes, students are trained to think more of avoiding mistakes than of making music. Bronstein-Barton demonstrates how directing students’ attention toward defining their own musical priorities, and communicating them to listeners, can guide the students’ awareness in such a way that seemingly unrelated weaknesses and mistakes are corrected without drawing attention to them. In addressing the problem of balance with this duet, Bronstein-Barton also made the following statement that speaks not only to the relative musical importance of elements within the piece but also to a general point about the balance between the bass

8

Ibid.

239 and treble ranges of the piano. Such general principles as can be drawn from specific instructions give structure to what is learned and define it as a practice.9 Bronstein-Barton: I’m not sure who had the more important part. [Addressing the secondo player:] You have the more dangerous part. Whoever is playing the bottom part, the piano is going to sound much more, so you have to be super-super-sensitive. It’s something for you to think about: who is really more important. 10 Even though the students may have learned to be aware of the balance between bass and treble in their own playing, this point could easily bear repeating; with the change of context to duet playing, the players now had to listen and balance the totality of sound coming from the piano rather than their individual parts only. Traditional ideas of piano pedagogy are concerned with ideas about discipline, responsibility, and work as opposed to creativity, diversion, and play.11 By contrast,

9

Francis Sparshott describes a “practice” in terms of the values or general principles derived from learning specific techniques: “In acquiring step by step the techniques of whatever one learns, one inevitably acquires the values by which the practice is judged, not as a superadded ideology, but as what gives the practice its cohesion and its learnability and makes it a practice. It’s no good talking and arguing: you have to learn to do, and when you have learned you know.” Francis Sparshott, A Measured Pace: Toward a Philosophical Understanding of the Arts of Dance (Toronto, Buffalo, and London: University of Toronto Press, 1995), 246. 10 Ena Bronstein-Barton, master-class lesson at the Third Street Music School Settlement in New York City, November 19, 2002. 11 E. Douglas Bomberger, Martha Dennis Burns, James Parakilas, Judith Tick, Marina Tsvetaeva, and Mark Tucker, “The Piano Lesson,” in James Parakilas, Piano Roles (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1999). See p. 140 for the authors’ equation of piano pedagogy and child rearing. “In the guise of describing what is universally ‘correct’ in music, Czerny prescribes a revolutionary musical aesthetic that is at the same time a revolutionary method of child rearing. In the name of perfect evenness – a value hardly mentioned in the musical aesthetics of earlier eras – he requires his student to hold all notes out for their entire written duration, a practice likewise unprecedented. What made his ideology of child rearing equally revolutionary, at least for a work of musical pedagogy, was not its idea of subjecting children, like ‘unbroken colts,’ to strict discipline, but its mechanical model of that discipline – the idea that a child could learn by dint of endless repetition to produce something that was perfectly uniform.” See also William Weber, Music and the Middle Class: The Social Structure of Concert Life in London, Paris and Vienna (London: Croon Helm, 1975), 33: “So anyone who thinks that upper-middle class people in the three capitals sought refuge from society in their families should just think a moment about the many hours children sat in front of the keyboard and remember all that meant socially. It may be true that the home had taken on an internal life of its own such as it had not had before and that adults used it as a moralizing force upon their offspring. But let us not delude ourselves that the family was a shelter from the world. It was functioning as a link between the individual and society and in so doing manipulated individuals to do many things society wished.” Finally, see Alice Miller, For Your Own Good: Hidden Cruelty in Childrearing and the Roots of Violence (New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1983) for a discussion of nineteenth-

240 Bronstein-Barton is capitalizing on the familiarity and attractiveness of play and games: her role as teacher gives her authority to propose rules (“Decide what part of the music must be louder; listen for that and make certain it is louder; pretend you have antennae on your head that make you more sensitive to others”); the students respond in accordance with those rules as in any other game. It is not a game of winning or losing, but one of exploration, experimentation, and the pure experience of the piano and the music in which the student discovers his or her musical sense and the pleasure of exercising it.12 The teacher chooses the musical issues, activities, and challenges that are likely to draw out musically creative thinking and to cause the mechanical elements (such as correct notes, accurate rhythms) to fall into place. The students are asked to be creative rather than merely compliant; but they are guided toward discoveries that coincide with established principles of musical style and performance. If musical style and performance practices can be imagined as systems that have been built up out of the collective experience of human exploration and experimentation, then teaching might be viewed as an imaginative attempt to devise scenarios that repeat the experience at the individual level, leading students to recreate those very styles and practices. Engaging the capacity for play is also a way of turning a feature of psychological development to pedagogical advantage. Winnicott has written about the importance of creative play, not only in childhood development, but in the adult capacity for

and early twentieth-century concepts of discipline and general pedagogy that served the needs of adults rather than children. 12 This corresponds with Winnicott’s concept of transitional phenomena, which “have no climax. This distinguishes them from phenomena that have instinctual backing where the orgiastic element plays an essential part, and where satisfactions are closely linked with climax. But these phenomena that have reality in the area whose existence I am postulating belong to the experience of relating to objects. . . . I have used the term cultural experience as an extension of the idea of transitional phenomena and of play. . . .” Winnicott, Playing and Reality, 98-99.

241 participation in cultural experience, and its importance in maintaining a sense of the value of life: It is in playing and only in playing that the individual child or adult is able to be creative and to use the whole personality, and it is only in being creative that the individual discovers the self. . . . It is creative apperception more than anything else that makes the individual feel that life is worth living. Contrasted with this is a relationship to external reality which is one of compliance, the world and its details being recognized but only as something to be fitted in with or demanding adaptation. Compliance carries with it a sense of futility for the individual and is associated with the idea that nothing matters and that life is not worth living. In a tantalizing way many individuals have experienced just enough of creative living to recognize that for most of their time they are living uncreatively, as if caught up in the creativity of someone else, or of a machine. . . . In some way or other our theory includes a belief that living creatively is a healthy state, and that compliance is a sick basis for life.13 One well known teacher pointed out a difference in how teachers and students viewed a “good lesson”: to the student, a good lesson was one in which he or she played well; to the teacher, the good lesson was one in which he or she passed on some valuable skill or knowledge.14 This reveals several potential sources of tension in the studentteacher relationship. Both seek acceptance, respect, and recognition from the other. Therefore, both seek to impress each other with superior competence. Moreover, the teacher needs to pass on knowledge and technical skills as well as elements of performance practice associated with a “tradition” of playing, while the student needs to find his own voice as a musician. The difficulty lies in overcoming the inherent conflict between these differing points of view, in conveying the necessary knowledge without robbing the student of identity, creativity, and self-reliance.

13 14

Winnicott, Playing and Reality, 54; 65. Sascha Gorodnitzki, private communication with the author, ca. 1981.

242 Winnicott’s writings about the relationship between creativity and play speak to this dilemma. In developing his theory of “transitional objects,” he postulates a potential third reality between the subjective and the objective, between inner experience and the external world of objects, that is determined in childhood by developing a capacity for play, and that in turn creates a capacity for later cultural experience and creative living. Unlike the objective and subjective realms, which are determined (one because the world is what it is, and the other by inherited factors), the potential “third area” is infinitely variable because it is conditioned by the variability of individual experience. Therefore, the potential “third area” provides a basis for the perception of one’s individuality. By contrast with these, I suggest that the area available for manoeuvre in terms of the third way of living (where there is cultural experience or creative playing) is extremely variable as between individuals. This is because this third area is a product of the experiences of the individual person (baby, child, adolescent, adult) in the environment that obtains. There is a kind of variability here that is different in quality from the variabilities that belong to the phenomenon of inner personal psychic reality and to external or shared reality. The extent of this third area can be minimal or maximal, according to the summation of actual experiences.15 Winnicott further states that a defective environment interferes with the development of this potential third area and thus limits the capacity for play and later participation in culture. Winnicott describes how this can occur in infancy: There is, in cases of premature failure of environmental reliability, an alternative danger, which is that this potential space may become filled with what is injected into it from someone other than the baby. It seems that whatever is in this space that comes from someone else is persecutory material, and the baby has no means of rejecting it. Analysts need to beware lest they create a feeling of confidence and an intermediate area in which play can take place and then inject into this area or inflate it with interpretations which in effect are from their own creative imaginations.16

15 16

Winnicott, Playing and Reality, 106-07. Ibid., 102.

243 It is clear from Winnicott’s writing that his work applies to adults as well as to children, and when he cautions analysts (that is, psychoanalysts) not to inject their own interpretations into the imaginations of their patients, he does not limit the application of his theory of the potential space only to infants and children. Furthermore, he emphasizes that the quality of primary relationships determines whether the creativity of an individual will be encouraged or inhibited. The potential space between baby and mother, between child and family, between individual and society or the world, depends on experience that leads to trust. It can be looked upon as sacred to the individual in that it is here that the individual experiences creative living. By contrast, exploitation of this area leads to a pathological condition in which the individual is cluttered up with persecutory elements of which he has no means of ridding himself.17 The implications for pedagogy in music wherein artistry and individual creativity are the highest values are obvious. Even well-meaning instructions might actually function more as “persecutory elements” if, while addressing local issues in the short term, they are in the long run destructive to the individual, whose unique expression is understood as the ultimate concern of art. And this is to say nothing of undisguised abuse that has at times passed for pedagogy.18 In the preceding examples, students discovered what Bronstein-Barton wanted them to discover without having specific rules or instructions for playing or, as Winnicott

17

Ibid. Eva Kovalik, a teacher at the Juilliard School, told an interviewer about her experience as a student: “Marcus was known for her temper and bordered on tantrums at times. Just when I would be close to tears, she would say that my playing really was not so bad. . . . The first time we met she looked at my hands and asked what we should do with my tiny spaghetti fingers.” Jeffrey Wagner, “Passing on the Traditions of Hungarian Piano Practice,” Clavier 43/10 (December 2004): 16. See also, Joseph Rezits, Beloved Tyranna: The Legend and Legacy of Isabelle Vengerova (Bloomington, Ind.: David Daniel Music Publications, 1995), which describes more personal excess than teaching. See, also, the experience of Ruth Crawford, described as “humiliation,” in Judith Tick, “How Ruth Crawford Became an ‘American Woman Pianist,’” in Piano Roles, 173-75. 18

244 would have it, “persecutory elements” imposed upon them. But would it not be simpler if the person of obviously superior knowledge were to offer direct musical suggestions to the students? It may be so, and, indeed, there are times when direct musical suggestions must be given. However, in the cases considered here, Bronstein-Barton used her superior position as teacher (vis-à-vis her students) to set up “the rules of the game,” so that the students improved their own performances, discovered principles of piano playing that she had in mind, and (most advantageously) did so by applying their own thinking, knowledge, and skill to a musical question. In the process, Bronstein-Barton articulated principles that are both specific to a single situation and generally applicable to the practice of piano playing. Her approach has a philosophical kinship, not only with Winnicott’s theory, but also with Goodwin Sammel’s teaching by “indirection” (see ch. 5). Both of their approaches resonate with the concern they observed in Arrau’s teaching to cultivate his students as individuals. THE THIRD STREET TEACHERS: BUILDING UP FROM THE EARLIEST BEGINNINGS Since 1986, a group of teachers at the Third Street Music School Settlement in New York City, all pupils of German Diez, have been using the Suzuki method to teach Arrau’s principles, primarily to young children.19 This group represents one line of descent in which Arrau’s philosophy and techniques have passed from the elite realm of the international concert stage through the university and conservatory level and into elementary music education. While other teachers and groups might represent a similar progression, this case represents a chance coming together of teachers, a methodology, and an institution with mutually complementary aims and procedures that has endured for 19

In doing so, they have co-opted a Suzuki piano program in existence since 1978.

245 nearly twenty years. The settlement house tradition of fostering the arts in a social work setting is ideally matched to Suzuki’s inclusive educational philosophy. And Suzuki methodology, based on mimetic and rote techniques applied to classic pedagogical literature, has made it possible to instill Arrau’s techniques of tone production and physical movement by modeling and imitation to very young students starting with their first lessons. The teachers are a small group drawn from the class of German Diez based in New York City.20 Like Diez himself and others who studied with Arrau and de Silva between 1945 and 1970, Diez’s New York pupils share a camaraderie and common approach derived from their study with Diez. Members of Diez’s class continue to meet regularly to perform for one another at the Greenwich House Music School in Greenwich Village.21 Diez presides over these sessions and sometimes offers a few comments to the performers. The talk about piano playing among these pianists reflects a common musical philosophy and technical vocabulary. They recognize common elements in each other’s performance, share similar ways of listening to and evaluating performances, and generally agree on how the piano should be played. They also believe that the knowledge gained from Diez is both crucial to their own playing and makes them embodiments of the teaching of Arrau and part of a historic line of piano playing. These teachers are also bound together by their common effort to work out ways to use Arrau’s principles from the beginning with very young students. Their young students participate in weekly performances, either in small groups in the private

20

Marcia Lewis, Angelina Tallaj, Susan Innamorato, Dana Pielet, Kate Whitney, Michiyo Morikawa, Maritza Robles-Alvarez, Luis Alvarez, Tatyana Sirota. 21 Diez is chairman of the piano department at Greenwich House Music School, where he has taught since his arrival in New York in 1945.

246 atmosphere of the studios or in the more public school-wide recitals in the school auditorium; thus, they experience music as a social activity and, within just a few years, gain much experience and ease in performing. For the teachers, frequently hearing performances by their own and each other’s students gives a relative measure of their achievements. Planning and participating in various student activities as well as conversing with one another about their own discoveries and their students’ progress and problems maximizes their strengths, enabling them to pool their thinking and select from it the most workable ideas. Though it is perhaps an unlikely alliance, the Suzuki piano method, with its emphasis on rote learning and teacher demonstration, has provided a congenial format in which to teach Arrau’s principles to young children. The Suzuki method, as it is taught to teachers in training institutes, is highly organized in terms of its philosophy, teaching literature, lesson procedures, and insight into the learning styles and capacities of children; but it does not prescribe any particular pianistic technique. This makes it an effective vehicle for the transmission of Arrau’s principles, or of anyone’s principles for that matter. Teaching technique at the beginning stages depends entirely on the teacher’s demonstration. Whatever technique the teacher demonstrates is the technique the student will learn. Developed in Japan in the aftermath of World War II by Shinichi Suzuki, the Suzuki methodology was originally designed for teaching the violin and later adapted for piano, cello, flute, and guitar. It was introduced in the United States in the 1960s.22

22

In 1958, Clifford Cook, Professor of String Instruments and Music Education at Oberlin College Conservatory, saw a film brought to him by Kenji Mochizuki, a Japanese graduate student at Oberlin. The film showed a large ensemble of Japanese children playing the Vivaldi and Bach double concertos from memory. In May of that year, the film was shown at a meeting in Oberlin of the Ohio String Teachers

247 Suzuki observed that every child successfully masters the complexity of his or her native language and learns to speak correctly and fluently; this observation gave rise to a method of violin instruction based on the proposition that every child could learn to play a musical instrument fluently if the method of teaching were predicated upon the child’s natural language-acquiring skills and upon a rewarding and pleasurable learning experience. In addition, Suzuki noted that children learn language by imitating the speech sounds of others, and that literacy training is delayed to a later stage of development after children have become fluent speakers, while music instruction, by contrast, traditionally begins with literacy—reading music notation. Therefore, Suzuki aimed his method at young children (age three or four) and based it on music listening and rote learning in an effort to capitalize upon the child’s capacity for language acquisition. He selected recordings by artists whose playing he admired to instill in very young children the sound of their instrument and the language and structure of music. Children are taught by rote. Reading notation is delayed until the habits of playing and listening and the basic elements of musical grammar and syntax are well established. It appears from Suzuki’s writing that his insight was based on observations about learning, but, coincidentally, his method has parallels with traditional analogies between language and music. Rote teaching and learning is by no means a new concept. Pedagogues before

Association. In 1963, Cook visited Suzuki Talent Education centers in Japan for six weeks. By September of that year, Cook started thirty children on violin. Clifford A. Cook, Suzuki Education in Action: A Story of Talent Training from Japan (New York: Exposition Press, 1970), 102-03.

248 Suzuki, notably Friedrich Wieck,23 Tobias Matthay,24 and Abby Whiteside,25 recommended it for its effectiveness in training listening and technical skills in children at the beginning level. However, the power of rote learning is often misunderstood. Francis Sparshott has noted that rote learning, regularly used in the training of dancers, is a means of instilling general principles and values along with specific actions and skills, a characterization of rote learning that applies equally well to music instruction.26 The

23

Friedrich Wieck wrote that before teaching pupils to read, he taught them to play by memory “fifty or sixty little pieces . . . written for this purpose . . . to develop gradually an increased mechanical skill. . . . They must be learned perfectly and played well . . . in strict time . . . first slowly, then fast, faster, slow again, staccato, legato, piano, forte, crescendo, diminuendo &c. This mode of instruction I find always successful. . . .” Wieck asserted, “With my own daughters I did not teach the treble notes till the end of the first year’s instruction, the bass notes several months later.” Friedrich Wieck, Piano and Song: How to Teach, How to Learn and How to Form a Judgment of Musical Performances (Boston: Lockwood, Brooks & Co., 1875), 11, 13. 24 “Wrong muscular habits, and wrong ways of looking at Piano-playing, so often formed during the childstage, and so difficult to eradicate afterwards, are very generally to be traced directly to this want of localising-power, on the part of the teacher. Instead of being expected to learn one thing at a time, the child is expected to learn musically to speak, read, and even write, all at the same time! Instead of being first shown how to produce sounds from the instrument, and to recognise these, and to recognise the element of Time in their production, the music-page is placed before the child's dazed eyes, and it is asked to translate those written signs into sounds, when instead, it is the sound-making itself and recognition of the sounds made, that should receive the fullest possible attention. The result of this struggle to learn to do several things at the same time, is that the mental struggle engenders a muscular struggle. No thought can be given to what really are the necessities of the key, or what are the real muscular-means required for this keytreatment. Undirected efforts, amounting to spasms, result as a consequence,—and are calmly permitted by the ‘teacher!’—while, so far from learning to read Music, the child instead contracts that vicious habit, that of spelling notes. A child, before it touches the instrument, should be made to understand that a definite musical-sound is the thing required, not a mere putting down of keys anyhow. Sequences of sounds should then be learnt from the teacher's dictation, portions of the material of music—scales, etc., and actual simple tunes, -- In this way, the child begins by understanding that musical sense is required, and that this sense must be drawn from the keys. Time enough, then, as a separate phase of education, to teach the written signs representing musical letters, words and phrases!” Tobias Matthay, The Act of Touch in All Its Diversity: An Analysis and Synthesis of Pianoforte Tone-Production (London: Longmans, Green and Co., 1903), 38n.1. 25 “The music student should begin by playing by ear. He must learn to read, quite obviously, but he should be an aural learner rather than a visual learner. Observe the ease and accuracy of pupils who have learned to play by ear. Their skill is never attained by those who learned the notes first and then built up a coordination that is depending on the eye.” In an article based on an interview with Abby Whiteside by Robert Sabin, “Successful Piano Teaching,” Musical America (December 15, 1951); reprinted in Abby Whiteside, Mastering the Chopin Etudes and Other Essays, eds. Joseph Prostakoff and Sophia Rosoff (New York: Scribners, 1969), 157. 26 “As one learns dances, one learns to dance. A plausible sketch of the principles of such learning is often extracted from Aristotle’s Ethics, where it serves as a clearer and simpler case of the principles by which we learn morality. It goes like this. At first, one simply makes the moves one is told to make in the way one is told to make them. Even to do that, one must be able to identify what the recurring moves are (to copy the waving and not the twitching, and so on) and what the ‘ways’ are. ‘Purse your lips as if you were

249 principles to be grasped and used in piano playing consist of technical and expressive principles that emerge in the process of showing the student what notes to play and how to play them. Students learn to play the piano by first learning to play pieces and then by observing which instructions are specific to one piece and which carry over from one piece to another. The student must develop step-by-step a basic approach to the instrument that includes physical movement and coordination, tone production, the ability to listen, and to imagine sounds and reproduce them. This learning takes place separately from learning to read notation. The pieces that afford this step-by-step development in the Suzuki method are contained in seven printed volumes of music arranged in a progressive order and exhibiting principles of organization common in tonal music. Each volume comes with a recording. Repeated listening to recordings of the music make children intimately acquainted with each piece and with the sounds of the piano, and facilitates the rote memorization of all of the pieces. The first volume begins with establishing a basic rapport with the keyboard by means of rhythmic exercises on Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, a melody widely familiar to children, and one that utilizes the perfect fifth as its first melodic interval. Next, it launches into folk melodies with arpeggiated or Alberti bass accompaniments based on the primary chords. These melodies consist of four-measure phrases built from simple motives deployed as periods and double periods, sometimes going to kiss,’ ‘fingers like little hammers’ – one has to understand even down-to-earth instructions like those. Because understanding is involved, the habits one thus acquires are not mere reflexes; they are ways of using one’s intelligence in action. And so one goes on, through a series of more comprehensive and more complex instructions and practices. One has to grasp the point of each of these, simply in order to follow it. . . . As one learns dances, one acquires a learning style – a way of scanning and packaging experience. In short, learning is acquiring autonomy at ever deeper levels and in ever more thorough ways, as one masters and interiorizes more and more of a rationale (one’s own rationale, and whatever rationale may be in the public domain) of what one had at first to learn by rote. And this is possible because even what we call rote learning is largely a matter of grasping and using principles, whether or not those principles are consciously formulated.” Sparshott, A Measured Pace, 246.

250 expanding into binary and ternary forms. The first pieces utilize the tonic, dominant, and dominant seventh harmonies in C major; the subdominant is introduced in the ninth piece; the thirteenth piece is in A minor, the relative minor. The last pieces introduce the keys of G major and D minor. Thus, along with the technical and expressive elements that can be taught within the framework of each piece, there is an underlying strategy to establish basic melodic and harmonic structures of tonal music as well as to introduce some near-related keys.27 The technical and expressive principles of playing are governed by these elements of structure. Rote learning lets the student attend to sound and technique from the beginning; indeed, rote learning is the only way a beginner can learn this music because it is too complex for a beginner to read.28 A central point in Suzuki’s philosophy is his belief that musical talent is not inborn but developed, a point he repeated insistently in his writings. Suzuki used the model of language learning to reinforce his views on talent as well as to frame his methodology.29 He stressed the importance of good pedagogy and of starting from birth for successful teaching of music.

27

This strategy differs from that of methods that begin with reading. Reading methods begin with short reading exercises having no harmony and severely restricted pitch and rhythmic content. The musical content is correspondingly small and does not admit expressive and technical issues. Teaching technique and expression is delayed until reading is more advanced; but in the meantime, the student may acquire a faulty approach to the instrument. 28 Reading is a combination of kinetic, mental, and visual skills requiring a coordination of its own. This may be pursued concurrently, at the appropriate level, using a separate set of pedagogical materials. 29 Kingsbury also notes that the different valuations of language and music learning are related to the talent concept. “The domain of music, in which attributions of talent are balanced by injunctions against those judged to be unmusical, contrasts significantly with the domain of speech and language acquisition. Prohibitive deprecations of communicative action are generally not found in connection with language learning. . . . Childhood performances of language skills may be viewed as idiosyncratic, as “baby talk,” or as just plain wrong, but the cultural expectations are that every healthy child will learn to speak normally. Infantile aberrations are understood to be transitory and essentially insignificant. By contrast, childhood performances of music are typically evaluated very carefully for indications of talent, and the possibilities for subsequently learning musical performance skills are very much contingent upon adult evaluations.” Henry Kingsbury, Music, Talent, and Performance (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1988), 73.

251 I had always thought that a nightingale’s incomparable song was instinctive or inherited. But it is not so. Nightingales to be used as pets are taken as fledglings from the nests of wild birds in the spring. As soon as they lose their fear and accept food, a “master bird” is borrowed that daily sings its lovely song, and the infant bird listens for a period of about a month. In this way the little wild bird is trained by the master bird. This method has been used in Japan since olden times. . . . Whether the wild bird will develop good or bad singing quality is indeed decided in the first month by the voice and tone of its teacher. It is not a matter of being born a good or a bad singer. . . if a bird is brought to such a teacher after being raised by wild nightingales, there is always failure, as long experience has shown.30 If a child cannot do his arithmetic, it is said that his intelligence is below average. Yet he can speak the difficult Japanese language—or his own native language—very well. . . . In my opinion the child who cannot do arithmetic is not below average in intelligence; it is the educational system that is wrong.31 I firmly believe that cultural and musical aptitude does not come from within, and is not inherited, but occurs through suitable environmental conditions. It is only a question of sensitivity and adaptive speed. Therefore, to be born with excellent or superior qualities only means to be born with an ability to adapt more speedily and sensitively to one’s environment.32 The aims of Suzuki education as articulated by Suzuki are based on humanism rather than musical professionalism: to bring out and develop “human potential based on the growing life of the child. . . . that all children on this globe may become fine human beings, happy people of superior ability.”33 Aims thus expressed in terms of social mission make Suzuki education ideally matched to the goals of the community music school. The Third Street Music School Settlement was founded on the Lower East Side of New York in 1894 by Emilie Wagner. It was part of a larger settlement movement that 30

Shinichi Suzuki, Nurtured by Love, trans. Waltraud Suzuki (Jericho N.Y.: Exposition Press, 1969; repr. Miami: Summy-Birchard, 1983), 9. 31 Ibid., 2. 32 Ibid., 13-14 33 Ibid., 87.

252 promoted progressivism and social reform as a response to urbanization and industrialization in the nineteenth century.34 The first settlement house was Toynbee Hall, founded by Samuel Barnett in East London in 1884, a residence that “settled” university men in an impoverished urban slum where they could help to alleviate poverty while they learned something of the “real world.” The idea spread quickly to the United States, where most of its leaders were women.35 Emilie Wagner’s settlement house was devoted to teaching music on the premise that music instruction could serve as a source of spiritual and cultural enrichment and as a means to unify the Jewish, Irish, Italian, Russian, Greek, and Eastern European

34

“The American settlement movement diverged from the English model in several ways. More women became leaders in the American movement, and there was a greater interest in social research and reform. But probably the biggest difference was the presence around the American settlements of a diverse ethnic population. Working with recent immigrants, trying to ease their adjustment to the new country, and acting as their advocate in the neighborhood and the nation became a primary function of the American workers. They did not escape the prejudice nor completely overcome the ethnic stereotypes common to their generation, however, and they tried consciously to teach middle-class values, often betraying a paternalistic attitude toward the poor. Yet they also organized immigrant protective associations, sponsored festivals and pageants, and tried to preserve each group's heritage. . . . To serve their neighborhoods, most settlement workers started with clubs, classes, lectures, and art exhibitions. They usually had better luck attracting women and children. Some men would come to play basketball, but no settlement ever replaced the local saloon as a male social center. The settlements added programs as they discovered a need. They pioneered in the kindergarten movement, taught English, and established theaters, courses in industrial education, and music schools (Benny Goodman learned to play the clarinet at Hull-House).” Website: Houghton Mifflin: Readers Companion to American History: http://college/hmco.com/history/readerscomp/rcah/html/rc_078300_settlementho.htm. “Founded in 1894, Third Street traces its roots to the late 19th century settlement house movement. It was the unique inspiration of Third Street founder Emilie Wagner to make high quality music instruction the centerpiece of a community settlement house that would also provide social services to the immigrant population of the Lower East Side. In this context, music would provide a source of spiritual and cultural nourishment, inspire achievement in its young students, and serve a universal language to unite the community's Jewish, Irish, Italian, Russian, Greek, and Hungarian immigrants. Third Street soon grew to include an extensive library of books and music, a rooftop playground and a summer camp in New Jersey, and provided help with housing, employment and medical care - and even baths for neighborhood residents. By 1915, Ms. Wagner's vision had inspired similar music school settlements in thirty American cities.” Website: http://www.thirdstreetmusicschool.org. 35 Jane Addams, Ellen Starr, Julia Lathrop, Florence Kelley, Alice Hamilton, Grace and Edith Abbott (Hull House, Chicago, 1889); Lillian Wald (Henry Street Settlement, New York City, 1893); Mary Kingsbury Simkhovitch (Greenwich House, New York City, 1902); Mary McDowell (University of Chicago Settlement, 1894), Helena Dudley, Emily Greene Balch, Helen Cheever, Vida Scudder (Denison House, Boston, 1892). Furthermore, the settlements offered an urban immersion to thousands more middle-class women, including Hull House's Florence Kelley, Alice Hamilton, Julia Lathrop, and Grace and Edith Abbott, who moved rapidly into government service and advocacy for children, workers, and immigrants.

253 immigrant population. The Settlement also helped neighborhood residents with other more basic needs, such as housing, employment, medical care, and even baths.36 The arts provided a means of utilizing the resources of the community and emphasizing the contribution of immigrants to society. Furthermore, John Ruskin’s ideas about the moral value of the arts were influential in making the arts a part of the Settlement House program.37 In this context, artworks came to be valued according to their social worth, and placed among the expedients and prerogatives of social work.38 The ethnic makeup of the Lower East Side in the early twenty-first century differs from that of the late nineteenth. The United States is currently undergoing the second great wave of immigration with new immigrants predominantly from Asia, South America, and Central America.39 The Third Street Music School Settlement now draws

36

On its dual identity as social and cultural institution, see also Mary Jo Pagano, The History of the Third Street Music School Settlement 1894-1984 (D.M.A. dissertation, Manhattan School of Music, 1996; Ann Arbor, Mich.: University Microfilms, 9703852), 6-62. 37 “ . . . as it is necessary to the existence of an idea of beauty that the sensual pleasure which may be its basis should be accompanied first with joy, then with love of the object, then with the perception of kindness in a superior intelligence, finally with thankfulness and veneration towards that intelligence itself . . . it is evident that the sensation of beauty is not sensual on the one hand, nor is it intellectual on the other, but is dependent upon a pure, right and open state of the heart.” Ruskin, Works, IV, 48-49. Quoted in Wendell V. Harris, “Ruskin’s Theoretic Practicality and the Royal Academy’s Aesthetic Idealism,” Nineteenth-Century Literature 52/1 (June, 1997): 89. 38 “As the settlement workers put their ideals of art into practice, they stumbled once again into a contradiction that became an open debate by the 1920s. In offering their urban neighbors ‘the best that there is in the whole world,’ . . . they eventually had to confront the consequences of toppling one kind of ‘aristocracy’ in favor of another. Arts programs designed for social purposes would not necessarily serve the needs of the minority of truly gifted pupils they attracted, and vice versa.” Mina Carson, Settlement Folk: Social Thought and the American Settlement Movement, 1885-1930 (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 116. 39 “Today, the United States is experiencing its second great wave of immigration, a movement of people that has profound implications for a society that by tradition pays homage to its immigrant roots at the same time it confronts complex and deeply ingrained ethnic and racial divisions. The immigrants of today come not from Europe but overwhelmingly from the still developing world of Asia and Latin America. They are driving a demographic shift so rapid that within the lifetimes of today's teenagers, no one ethnic group – including whites of European descent – will comprise a majority of the nation's population. This shift, according to social historians, demographers and others studying the trends, will severely test the premise of the fabled melting pot, the idea, so central to national identity, that this country can transform people of every color and background into ‘one America.’” William Booth, “One Nation, Indivisible: Is It History?” The Washington Post (Sunday, February 22, 1998), A1. In the same series: Michael A. Fletcher, “Immigrants' Growing Role in U.S. Poverty Cited,” Washington Post (Thursday, September 2, 1999), A2.

254 many students of Asian and Latino background as well as Caucasians and African Americans. Most students come from the East Village and Greenwich Village. A significant number are from the five boroughs of New York City and a few come from Chinatown and New Jersey. These students represent a variety of economic and social as well as ethnic, racial, and religious backgrounds. In accordance with its stated mission of offering a safe and nurturing environment for children and families, 40 Third Street provides music instruction in both individual and group settings, emphasizing its educational and social benefits as well as aesthetic value. The belief in the potential of the arts to foster a sense of commonality among an ethnically, culturally, and economically diverse population reflects the habitus of the institution, created through the community effort and work of over one hundred years. 41 The Settlement or community school, therefore, differs from conservatories in philosophy and function. While conservatories represent an elite training ground for musical professionals, community schools represent a grassroots effort to promote music in a social environment. Both are committed to excellence in passing on and preserving musical practices and traditions, but their pedagogy and musical activities are a response “Immigrants are a large and growing factor in the stubborn level of poverty seen in the United States over the past two decades because newcomers to the country are more likely to be poor and to remain so longer than in the past, according to a new study. The report, to be released today by the Center for Immigration Studies, says the number of impoverished people in the nation's immigrant-headed households nearly tripled from 2.7 million in 1979 to 7.7 million in 1997. During that same period, the number of poor households headed by immigrants increased by 123 percent while the number of immigrant households increased by 68 percent, according to the study. The share of immigrants living in poverty rose from 15.5 percent to 21.8 percent, the report notes -- a change that some analysts say holds troubling implications for the nation's future. About 12 percent of the nation's native-born population lives in poverty, a figure that has hardly changed in 20 years.” 40 “Third Street is much more than an educational institution. It is a true community in which students find a welcoming second home, learn to work in harmony, and form close, lasting friendships.” Website: Third Street Music School Settlement: http://www.thirdstreetmusicschool.org.. 41 “Habitus is an embodied pattern of action and reaction, in which we are not fully conscious of why we do what we do; not totally determined, but a tendency to behave in a certain way.” Judith Becker, Deep Listeners: Music, Emotion, and Trancing (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2004), 71.

255 to different social needs. In order to supply a limited demand for professional performers, conservatories offer training on a selective basis. By contrast, in order to serve the social needs of neighborhoods and communities, community schools emphasize inclusiveness, retention, and making musical success attainable for as many as possible. There are about six hundred community schools now operating in the United States. They exemplify the “melting pot” ideal that has been part of American cultural identity since the nineteenth century. In a community school setting, musical achievement creates among students and families a sense of self-esteem and belonging as it enhances their general educational attainments. While the main focus for music instruction is the education and socialization of children, parents also benefit from social interactions with each other. In many cases, the observation of the musical education of their children accomplishes a musical socialization of parents in the only way this could be accomplished, given all of the demands on their time and energy. Whether or not it is consciously articulated, music in this setting comes to be seen as an intrinsic benefit, as a mark of one’s belonging within the Settlement, and as an asset that may later help a child to gain entry into a higher social or economic class than that of his or her parents.42 Even in this nurturing environment, true democratization is problematic, however, as musical training tends to 42

Richard Crawford has argued for the importance of the study of music learning as a means of acquiring a “roomier scholarly framework.” Crawford writes, “Americans accustomed to thinking of musical tradition as a matter of repertory tend to believe that we have grown beyond and repudiated all but a tiny part of our own musical past. Maybe if we define our legacy more broadly to include music learning, our American roots run deeper than we thought.” “Music Learning in Nineteenth-Century America,” American Music 1/1 (Spring, 1983): 7. Along these lines, it may be observed that teaching Western classical music to all children regardless of ethnic background has been criticized as cultural imperialism and paternalism. However, this view places restrictions of its own on individual achievements and preferences. Another view of musical tradition is possible, based not on repertory and its national origins but on how and by whom the music is used. The classical repertory as it is used in pedagogy is not primarily a carrier of Western values, but it is a highly developed, various, and systematic pathway to the mastery of an instrument. In a community school setting, this music does not operate as ideology but as an emblem of the musical culture of the community school where it is used. It is the common property of the children and teachers who participate in that culture in that place and they transform and use this repertory for their own social purpose.

256 impose its own hierarchy.43 Some students may achieve professional status while others do not. It is perhaps in response to the practicalities of securing the support of funding sources that professional achievement of students is emphasized in the Settlement’s public statements. The coming together of these three factors – teachers with a clearly defined technical and musical approach as it has been transmitted to them by an Arrau pupil, a methodology that places playing before reading and stresses environment over special inherited abilities or talent, and an institution with a tradition of idealism, inclusiveness, and social reform -- brings together complementary factors favorable for putting Arrau’s principles to use in a wide social setting. The teachers are interested in using their principles to maximize the musical achievements of all students, instilling the elements of musical expression and efficient pianistic technique from the first lessons, even with students three and four years of age. Their efforts are reinforced and enhanced by a social context in which musical achievement is expected, valued, and rewarded. APPLYING ARRAU’S PRINCIPLES IN THE BEGINNING LESSONS The beginning lessons are concerned with establishing a basic sound produced by coordinated use of arm weight (in upward and downward directions) and determined by habits of listening. The basic sound is then split into two dynamic levels (loud and soft), and with these a few simple expressive gestures or nuances are possible. The first exercises, consisting of four rhythmic variations on Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star (the “Twinkle Variations”), are used to establish these basic sounds as well as the upward and downward application of arm weight. The teacher begins in the first

43

Mina Carson, Settlement Folk, 117.

257 lesson by demonstrating and guiding the student into playing the rhythmic pattern of Variation A with the thumb on C.44 Example 6.1 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, Variation A, mm. 1-2.

The repetition of single notes has a tendency to align the arm with the thumb. When the teacher shows the student how to play the same rhythm with the fourth finger on G, repetition of the note again tends to bring the arm into alignment with the fourth finger. But the position of the hand and arm is very different when aligning with the thumb as opposed to the fourth finger, so that there is immediately a stark contrast between the sensations of balance and alignment on the thumb and the fourth finger. While the exercise tends to achieve it automatically, it is up to the teacher to guide the arm and hand of the student to achieve this balance and alignment, which is quickly recognized and recorded in the body of the young student and forms the basis for all further playing. Playing the full exercise utilizes all of the fingers in turn, and the arm must find a place of balance and alignment with each one. Small children are likely to use whole arm in playing this exercise. The teacher must see that the arm is used in coordination with some action of the fingers. Variation B is a syncopated rhythm consisting of a light staccato eighth note, a heavier quarter note, and a light staccato eighth note.

44

All musical examples from the Suzuki repertory are taken from Suzuki Piano School (Princeton, N.J.: Summy-Birchard, 1973).

258 Example 6.2 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, Variation B, mm. 1-2.

The quarter note is played with a downward drop of arm weight and rebound from the key bed with a flexible upward wrist motion, or alternatively with an upward application of weight as the conversation below indicates; the note is sustained by resting lightly in the key bed without pressing. This movement is used to produce a strong and focused tone on the quarter note; and along with this, the ability to listen to the full duration of a long tone (what Ena Bronstein-Barton referred to as the “after-sound” of a note (see ch. 5, p. 195) is introduced. Marcia Lewis. In “Twinkle Variation” B, jump up off the keys—hop45— and you fall down, and you hop back up again. Maritza Robles-Alvarez. For the older kids it’s easier to do “up.” For younger ones, they go “down.” Lewis. If it’s staying in the keys, a longer note, they are less likely to sabotage it somehow. Tell them, “You’re catching the weight down here [the arm falling to a position lower than the keyboard]. Can you catch it a little higher [with the forearm and wrist a little higher than the knuckles]?”46 This manner of playing the quarter note is the preparation for legato playing. Variation C consists of light, fast staccato throughout.

45

Lewis uses the terms, “hop,” “sit,” and “roll” when speaking to children of the movements she wants them to perform. See pp. 262, 265-66. 46 Discussion among teachers at the Third Street Music School Settlement, recorded March 15, 2004. Participants were Luis Alvarez, Maritza Robles-Alvarez, Marcia Lewis, and Susan Innamorato.

259 Example 6.3 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, Variation C, mm. 1-2.

Each group of two sixteenth notes with the following eighth note is played as three notes in rapid succession with a single arm motion combined with a light fast finger motion. As the comments below show, demonstration is more important than verbal instruction in conveying the movement of playing this exercise, but at least one teacher makes a connection between this exercise and Arrau’s technique of vibration. Marcia Lewis. The fingers scratch the keys a little bit. I think it’s down, down, scratching a little bit. It’s all down, I guess. Luís Alvarez. [laughing] Maybe I have to review it. Lewis. By this time, I don’t even think about what I’m doing. They just copy whatever I do. Maybe that’s what I do, too. I won’t be able to play this anymore. Alvarez: I never thought about it. What I think is, if they learned how to feel natural, they will do. They will find by themselves how to find this vibration.47 At first the rhythms are played on one note at a time with stops between notes to reposition the hand. The teacher asks the student to position the hand for each note and play only on the words “ready – go.” The teacher demonstrates and plays along with the student, guiding his or her arm and hand into proper alignment. With very young students, it is impossible for them to play these Variations without the participation of the arm. The student sees and hears how the teacher plays and very soon begins to look and sound just like the teacher. 47

Ibid.

260 Only when the student can easily and comfortably play the rhythms on each single note are the notes joined together so that each Variation is played continuously from beginning to end. Variation C calls for the fastest adjustment of the arm and hand to the different notes, as there is only the duration of a sixteenth note for moving from one pitch to another. Legato is introduced in Variation D. Example 6.4 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, Variation D, mm. 1-2.

Legato playing consists at first of stringing together the sounds produced for the quarter notes in Variation B. This entails connecting the motions of downward dropping of arm weight and rebounding arm and wrist movements for each note. Legato playing differs from the non-legato playing only in that each finger remains resting in the keys until the next finger plays rather than withdrawing from the keys; but the motion of initiating sound is otherwise the same as in Variation B. Each note of Variation D has a separate arm and wrist motion so that, while the notes are connected, they are still individualized in the sense that they all receive the same impulse from the arm. Marcia Lewis. I do “sit-roll” so their wrists are moving and their arms and fingers are connected. It doesn’t always work at this point. But that’s what we work on through all of Book One. I don’t want them out of Book One until their fingers are pointing down and they can stand on their fingers.48 48

Ibid.

261 THE KEYBOARD AS EXTENSION OF BODY Edith Fischer: The feeling that the piano, the keyboard is part of you, that it is not an object that is separated, that you do not have to feel that there is a wooden thing here, but that you go in. That is, of course, his [Arrau’s] idea that you go in with pleasure, that it becomes part of you! There is a relationship of confidence also with the instrument, and not “this is the piano and this is me.” And, for instance, even to children I say sometimes if you push the piano he doesn’t like it. He is like people. He answers very badly.49 Frequent and pervasive use of demonstration follows Suzuki’s belief that children should learn to play music as they learn to speak their language: not through instruction in rules of grammar, but by hearing the speech of those around them. Finding words that describe musical sounds with any accuracy to people who already have a wealth of musical experience is difficult; using words to convey the sense of a musical sound to a young student who has no prior experience of it is impossible. In the regular interactions of teacher and student, words serve less as accurate description and more as labels to identify concepts and actions that the teacher has made clear to the student through demonstration. The chosen words must be meaningful and appropriate to the child’s age. Verbal information may be given to parents to explain lesson procedures; but verbal directions to the children are minimal because, in the context of the earliest lessons, children regularly misinterpret them. The desired techniques are developed almost exclusively in response to the automatic working of the exercises, the demonstrations of the teacher, and the sounds coming from the piano. Words may serve as mnemonics that imitate the rhythm of and label each variation. An account of an actual lesson serves as an example of the procedure.

49


262 Marcia Lewis is teaching two four-year-old students, Andres and Vittorio.50 As is usual with Suzuki instruction, the mothers of both children, Indira and Katherine, are present. Lewis begins by teaching a short lesson to each of the boys’ mothers. First, Katherine plays Variation B and Lewis plays along, modeling how she wants Katherine’s hand and arm to move. Lewis tells her to think of this rhythm as “hop-sit-roll-hop.” This language is for the benefit of the child and suggests how the arm is to behave: the arm “hops” upward as the first eighth note is played (pushing up and out, see p. 258); then the weight of the arm goes down into the quarter note and “sits” there just long enough so that the weight can be felt in the key bed (dropping the weight, see pp. 265-66); next, the arm rebounds while sustaining the quarter note causing the wrist to “roll” up and forward; finally, the arm “hops” upward again to play the final eighth note. The idea of “hopping” has already been established by playing Variation A, which has been labeled with the verbal mnemonic “bunny rabbit hop hop.” However, actual information as to how these motions are done is supplied by Lewis’s demonstration, playing alongside the student. They play the rhythm together several times. Lewis asks Katherine to imagine that a suction cup keeps her finger from sliding on the key while the arm and wrist “roll” up. She draws attention to the opening and closing of space under the arm and hand as well as to the feeling of the bottom of the key when the finger “catches” it. Next Indira takes a short lesson on Variation A. First, Indira and Lewis practice shaking the hand above the keys to observe the work of the arm and to practicing loosening the wrist. Then they practice Variation A. Lewis demonstrates how the movement can be timed so that the finger “catches” the bottom of the key with the wrist in higher or lower positions. The word “catch” refers to a small finger movement. They 50

Marcis Lewis, lesson given at the Third Street Music School Settlement, October 9, 2004.

263 try to catch the bottom of the key with the wrist in a slightly raised position. As they do so, they are also conscious of coordinating a small finger movement with shaking the hand as they practiced it at first. They practice this, pausing after each finger has played. When they come to the fifth finger, they take care to line up the arm behind this finger. Next, they spend a few minutes playing Lightly Row with the right hand, using the “roll” [“sit-roll”] motion for each note. This makes clear how the tone production, movements, and sensations of playing the first exercises form the basis for playing the first pieces. Finally, Lewis turns her attention to the two boys who have been playing quietly on the floor while their mothers played the piano. First she works with Andres to play the first measure of Variation A. Using the words “bunny rabbit hop hop” to name the activity for the child (a mnemonic which both mimics the rhythm and refers to the motion of the arm), Lewis demonstrates Variation A with her thumb on C (C5) and Andres imitates her. Andres is interested in trying to play this on different notes, also, and when he does this, Lewis remarks interestedly that the sound is very different. She does not attempt to curb his experimentation, but always draws him back to C. Then they practice G (G5) with the fourth finger several times. Lewis asks Andres to “wave” with his fourth finger and this brings about movement of his fourth finger from the knuckle joint. They both hold their hands up and “wave” with the fourth finger moving from the knuckle joint so that Andres can compare his own movement with that of his teacher. This is the end of his lesson. Then Vittorio takes his turn with Variation A. Using a felt tip pen, Lewis draws a little face on Vittorio’s thumb to show where the thumb should touch the key. They

264 practice playing the thumb on C several times, Lewis demonstrating first and Vittorio imitating her example. To improve the staccato of the last eighth note, Lewis reminds Vittorio to “hop,” not “sit,” on the last note. This correction or refinement of his technique tells Vittorio what to do, but it does so without being overly specific or subject to misinterpretation. It is specific only in drawing attention to and naming a quality of sound that Lewis demonstrates. These represent the earliest lesson experiences of the youngest students. Only a short time is spent at the piano in the beginning, but as the students master more skills, the length of the lessons increases. Of paramount importance is the demonstration of the teacher. As the students imitate her, they will internalize her sound and style of movement. She watches and listens, guiding their movements by example, without imposing specific verbal directions. It is also important to note the social context of the lesson. The parents are taught along with their children and the advantages are manifold: the parents must understand how to help their children to practice; the interest of the parent is crucial in maintaining the child’s interest; parents can better appreciate their child’s achievement when they understand what is being asked of them; parents value the musical education they receive as a result of their involvement in lessons.51 Beginners typically have a short time at the piano, appropriate to their age and attention span, but learn much from exposure to the activities of the other people present. The usually

51

“Examination of the early signs of musical ability highlights the importance of parental involvement. Further investigation of the biographies of our sample showed that, once children begin learning musical instruments, parental involvement is critical as to whether the child persists or gives up musical activity. In Davidson, Howe, Moore, and Sloboda (in press) we discovered that high achievers had parents who were more involved in initial practice and lessons than the parents of the other subgroups. This parental involvement was characterized by regular feedback from the teacher, which often included being present in the lessons, and participation in practice activities. None of the other groups studied had equal levels of parent input. The group who gave up musical study had parents who hardly involved themselves in early lessons and practice.” Sloboda and Davidson, “The Young Performing Musician,” 180.

265 solitary nature of piano study is alleviated as each person in this small group feels the interest, support, and encouragement of the others. The technical points addressed in the teaching of these two variations are the coordination of arm, hand, and finger movements in fast staccato (“bunny rabbit”), the downward drop into the key (“sit”), a rebound from the key bed (“hop”), and a push upward and forward out of the key (“roll”). Lewis has devised this terminology so that it will carry through all of the beginning exercises. The objective she is striving for in the first lessons is the development of tone production for staccato, for a single sustained tone, and for the chaining together of sustained tones to create legato. The instructions and demonstrations during these elementary lessons are informed by Arrau’s techniques of dropping weight into the keyboard or pushing up and out. The demonstrations of Lewis and the other teachers during these lessons reflect the way of playing learned from Diez. The teachers refer to the elementary techniques of using arm weight as “down” and “up.” The following discussion among the teachers reveals the influence of their own study in their teaching, their concern to establish the simplest elements in such a way as to support the growth of technique at higher levels, and their sensitivity to students’ responses. Luís : This thing of playing “up” or “down” is really complicated because I think to play “down” involves to go “up” also, and it is not easy to recognize. I say this because for me it was difficult to understand this at the beginning with German. Sometimes I was playing “up” and he wanted me to play “down,” or sometimes, he wanted me to play “up” and I was playing “down.” I couldn’t recognize it at first, because to play “down” you have to go “up” and away, afterwards. And to play “up,” anyway you have to go “up,” afterwards [meaning, you have to have gone down first]. Anyway, it’s the way you attack or the way you do, but anyway to play “down” you go “up” afterwards.

266 Q: Is it correct to say that playing “down” involves the rebound, but in playing “up” your motion is in an upward direction to begin with, or the upward response is quicker? Luís . It’s faster. The speed affects the sound, the hammer. Lewis. Here you’re limited by how fast gravity works. I learned “up” much faster than I learned “down.” I used to start falling “down.” At the last second -- I couldn’t see it; I can see my students do it -- at the last second my fingers would sabotage it, they’d come up a little bit. He [Diez] said that most people learn “up” much faster than “down.” It’s easier to teach them to go “up” than to go “down.” Q: Where do you teach this “up” and “down?” Marcia. In “Twinkle Variation” B, you jump up off the keys, “hop,” and you fall “down,” and you hop back up again. Maritza. For the older kids it’s easier to do “up.” For younger ones, they go “down.” Marcia. If it’s staying in the keys, a longer note, they are less likely to sabotage it somehow. Tell them, “You’re catching the weight “down” here. Can you catch it a little higher? Or a little higher in the fingertips?” Luís . German says the way to go “up” is this [he demonstrates moving the arm forward with the elbow simultaneously turning up and outward], so it’s not this really [he demonstrates moving the arm and wrist straight forward with the elbow pointing downward]. It’s combined with out, because the arm cannot go “up” this way. He told me, you have to come out with the elbow, because it’s the only way the arm can go up. So now you have to combine this with this [the upward and slight outward motions]. So there is movement to the front. I tell my students to go to the front, forward. They understand better than to “go up.” If I say, “Go up,” it happens to me a lot that they do this [he raises the shoulder upwards]. I have two students now who were Susan’s students in the past and they both move like this, so I know she teaches this. I don’t know if she does it consciously, but both of them do this. Actually, they like this circle motion. Maritza. “Twinkle Variation” A they do “down.” With older students I’ll do “up” with the wrist: bunny rabbit – “down”; hop hop - “up.” With anybody amenable to learning it! With the little ones I don’t interfere. I got that from German. Give them time and they’ll get it on their own. “Twinkle Variation” B is both: “up down up.” Luís . I always encourage to move “up” because they are going “down” by themselves. But they stay there, that’s the problem. Marcia: I teach it exactly in time: Hop, sit, roll, hop. The hop is “up” because they had bunny rabbit hop hop probably. So they know what hop is. Hop, sit (just fall “down” and sit on the note), then roll forward so you can hop again.52

52

Discussion among teachers at the Third Street Music School Settlement, March 15, 2004.

267 THE ELEMENTARY-LEVEL PIECES The first pieces contain elements that utilize and further refine the sounds and motions learned in the “Twinkle Variations.” The quarter note in Variation B continues to serves as the model for the sound and movement used in legato melodies. However, the teacher can demonstrate a larger, weightier use of the arm to generate a louder sound on longer notes (see fn. 55). At first, this creates two levels of sound, one for long notes and one for short notes, which is the beginning of dynamic control and phrasing. Later, using the arm in this manner can generate many different levels of tone. These elementary techniques are the means by which the student begins to build a vocabulary of expressive gestures. The following example shows various motives in the beginning pieces that the teacher may choose for dynamic shaping by applying more arm weight and volume on Example 6.5 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, motives from four early pieces.

268 long notes and less on the shorter notes: As the student becomes more proficient in using the arm to regulate volume, there is a tendency to make crescendos and decrescendos to create continuity between softer and louder notes. Thus the notes in these motives begin by having two levels of sound, softer for the short notes, louder for the long notes. But soon, the anticipation of the louder notes brings a crescendo in the shorter notes leading up to them, for example, in the five-finger pattern in mm. 3-4 of Lightly Row or the three Es in Mary Had A Little Lamb (m. 2). The schema applied to motives in these beginning pieces may be extended to shaping whole phrases in pieces that follow, such as Au Clair de la Lune and Long, Long Ago. Example 6.6 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Au Clair de la Lune,mm. 1-4; Long, Long Ago, mm. 1-4.

The ability to shape phrases dynamically is built up step by step from the first exercises that balance the arm behind each finger and use it, first for basic tone production, and then to regulate soft and loud tone. The softening of phrase endings (French Children’s Song, Cuckoo, Au Clair de la Lune) is a refinement that may be added when two levels of sound are established for long and short notes. Along with this softening, the use of ritardando to end a piece comes naturally.

269 The echo effect requires more control; two dynamic levels must be sustained over longer segments of music (applied in parallel phrases of Long, Long Ago, Little Playmates, Allegretto 1, Christmas Day Secrets). This depends upon the student’s ability to differentiate using more or less arm weight, and more or less arm motion. Mastering the echo effect leads to hearing and controlling more subtly differentiated levels of dynamic to allow parallel shaping of phrases at slightly different dynamic levels corresponding to different pitch levels (Chant Arabe, Allegretto 2). Dynamic shaping of the appoggiatura and giving different dynamic quality to recurrences of the same note in a phrase are introduced in the last piece (Musette). Ritardando to end a piece may be used throughout Book One, and it is also used to lead up to a fermata in Allegro and Musette. The balance of the hands when playing melody and accompaniment may be introduced at any stage deemed appropriate, particularly as the pieces are maintained in the student’s repertoire for a considerable period. However, Book One students are often allowed to play the left-hand accompaniments too loudly in order to give the left hand time to develop the same strength and tone-producing capability as the right hand. The left hand may play unison melodies with the right hand in Book One for two or three pieces, but it then becomes relegated to an accompaniment role and does not play a melody again until Book Two (The Happy Farmer, the minuets from the Anna Magdalena Bach Notebook). If the student learns to play the left hand softly at this early stage, an inequality can develop in the hands. Therefore, except in a few cases like Chant Arabe, which has a repeated fifth accompaniment that can become overly intrusive, developing the correct balance between the hands is often left to Book Two.

270 The expression of emotion per se is not an overt objective in the beginning stages, but that need not preclude a strong emotional response to the music on the part of the child.53 A child may have an intense reaction to music without anyone trying to bring it about and without having any verbal means to acknowledge or describe it. Demonstration, aided by reference to recorded examples, plays a large part in the early teaching process. Students memorize the sounds of their pieces from a recording, and in lessons their teachers teach them how to create sounds, how to move, and how to listen for qualities of sound. Eventually, sound becomes suggestive of the means by which it is created. In time, children seem able to draw upon their experience of imitating their teacher’s demonstrations to recognize and call up both sounds and technical movements as interrelated aspects of a single phenomenon. In the following excerpt, Susan Innamorato is teaching a four-year-old student named Derek who has had a few months of piano lessons.54 They are practicing Honey Bee, the first melody in Book One. The sonic quality of the long tone and flexibility of the wrist introduced in Variation B and the chaining together of long tones introduced in Variation D are carried over into this melody. The half notes in this melody will be played with a larger, weightier arm motion to produce more sound. The quarter notes will be somewhat individualized by a smaller arm motion as in Variation D. Thus, two dynamic levels are explicitly introduced and this contains the seed of dynamic phrase shaping. (In the example, f and p indicate the two different dynamic levels that 53

“A study by Sloboda (1990) of autobiographical memories of emotional responses to music in childhood showed that individuals with a life-long commitment to music were much more likely to report strong emotions in response to musical content than were those individuals who were not involved with music or considered themselves unmusical. . . . the individuals reporting content-based responses to music were most likely to have experienced the music in situations of low external threat (such as the home, the concert hall alone or with friends, and without performance expectations).” Sloboda and Davidson, “The Young Performing Musician,” 186. 54 Susan Innamorato, lesson given at the Third Street Music School Settlement, December 11, 2004.

271 Innamorato is asking for, but are not meant to indicate precise dynamic levels or relationships). Example 6.7 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Honey Bee, mm. 1-4.

Derek is playing with his right hand only. Innamorato repeatedly demonstrates the first phrase using arm weight in an upward direction through a coordinated movement of the arm pushing forward, the wrist flexing upward, fingers close to the keys. She draws attention to the large motion of the arm, hand, and wrist when playing the half notes, and she points out the full, rounded sound that is produced. The quarter notes are perceptibly softer than the half notes and are played with a smaller version of the same motion. The hierarchy of values implied in this activity leads from 1) tone production in single notes to 2) connecting single notes to 3) constructing a legato. Innamorato’s demonstrations display the separate motions for producing each tone, the connections of the sounds, and the use of two distinct dynamic levels as the components of legato.55 After each

55

Dynamics contribute to the “singing tone” by making long tones in a melody stand out sufficiently over a moving-note accompaniment and to creating the “illusion” of legato on the piano by compensating for the decrease in sound that occurs after a tone is sounded. When played with equal volume, a longer tone will arrive at its ending with less volume than a shorter tone, causing a disjunction where a long tone meets the next. Thus, legato on the piano demands both the physical connection of tones and their dynamic ordering. This practice goes back at least as far as Czerny’s advice in his Pianoforte School: “Generally speaking, modern Composers place with sufficient exactness, some suitable character or other to each note which they wish to be marked with particular emphasis, as >, ^, rf, sf, fz, fp, and even -, &c. and in this case the Player has merely to attend with care to these marks. But when this is not the case, the following rules will in general be found sufficient . . . . a. Any note of longer duration than those which immediately go before or follow it must be played with greater emphasis than those shorter notes [my emphasis]. Czerny gives as an example a melody with half and quarter notes in 4/4 time.] Here, in the melody given to the right hand, each minim must receive an

272 demonstration, Derek plays the same phrase; it is evident that this ground has been covered before, as he is able to copy her sound with surprising accuracy. Innamorato encourages listening and draws attention to the technical points by complimenting Derek’s “beautiful sound” and his proficiency in “getting up on his fingers.” This short phrase labels the complex action of applying arm weight and the alignment of the bones of the fingers conveying the weight of the arm into the keys, i.e., Arrau’s “stand” in the keys (see ch. 2, pp. 92, 103). Innamorato confines her verbal directions to these short labeling phrases and some encouragements to feel and listen. Most communication about what to do and how to do it takes place through demonstration. Keeping verbal directions to a minimum leaves an informational gap that must be filled in by referring to the sound of the piano. Innamorato uses the piano as a medium of communication and a tool for conveying information about qualities of sounds and the physical movements that create them, and Derek understands it in this way. Gradually, the elemental sounds of music-making that this small piece gives occasion for are built up through aural and bodily experience. Innamorato and Derek play this melody for about fifteen minutes, noticing any tones that are disconnected, too loud, or too soft. All the while, Innamorato is silently nudging and guiding Derek’s arm movements so that he can succeed in drawing the desired sounds from the piano. She does not interrupt the immediacy of communication

accent and consequently they must be played with more emphasis than the crotchets. As the whole passage is piano, we must avoid playing the emphatic notes so loud as forte; at most they must be played mezza voce. Here, the accompaniment in the left hand does not take any part in this kind of expression, as it proceeds throughout in simple quavers. If however the passage were composed of similar notes in both hands, then we should be obliged to give an equal emphasis to the longer notes in both the hands. … In executing such emphatic notes the Player must avoid monotony as much as he possibly can.” Carl Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School, Op. 500, vol. 3 (London: R. Cocks & Co., 1839), 67.

273 available through the piano itself by attempting to explain to Derek the technique of what he is doing. Instead, she appeals to his powers of perception and self-awareness by alternately drawing his attention to the sound he gets from the piano, the sensation of his arm movement, and the feeling of the bottom of the key. Innamorato makes a connection between this lesson and previous lessons by turning attention to a review of “Twinkle Variation” D, where connecting sustained tones in legato playing was first introduced. Innamorato continues to challenge Derek to listen more intently and to have his arm in motion before depressing the keys. She demonstrates a movement (for the right arm) that goes up and forward with a very slight counterclockwise circle with each note.56 As Derek plays this melody, she sometimes takes hold of the back of his elbow to guide the movement of his arm and plays along with him one octave higher to show him the movement and the sound. She continually asks for listening to get a full sound without a percussive edge. Derek responds with an impressive ability to create and control the sound by himself. From the beginning lessons, Innamorato’s objectives are formed keeping in mind significant conclusions arrived at in her own piano study. She explains: Susan Innamorato: When I came to Diez, my problem was that I was all “down,” I was very weighty, I had a very weighty type of approach, but I had never gotten the rebound idea. . . . I was getting very heavy and very stuck. And he just took this “down” and turned it into a forward movement. And it seemed very natural and very relaxed. So he never really changed anything, he added the rebound. And so I try to get that with my students, I try to help my students to think more forward rather than just “down” or just up. It’s more . . . making the bottom of the key the extension of the arm rather than going at the bottom of the key.57

56

This corresponds to a movement described earlier by Luis, as taught to him by German Diez, where the arm goes out slightly, not just forward. See p. 265-66. 57 Discussion among teachers at the Third Street Music School Settlement, recorded March 15, 2004.

274 This stage of instruction focuses on the most basic gestures:58 the physical motions associated with tone production in single tones (both sustained and staccato), connecting tones, and the dynamic inflections of short motives involving tones of longer and shorter duration. Even if affective significance is not assigned to them at this stage,59 these elements form the technical basis and sonic building blocks for later expressive playing. LATER ELEMENTARY-LEVEL PIECES. The lessons at subsequent stages show the beginnings of combining these motions and sounds to form a continuous flow capable of expressing groups of notes as melodic phrases. There is also increasing independent movement of the two hands to create sonic depth implied by different contrapuntal and homophonic textures. With the growth of musical attainments, somewhat greater use of language is needed, but with very young students, language is nevertheless used primarily to label technical movements. Innamorato teaches seven-year-old Kelvin.60 Kelvin is in his second year of lessons and has advanced to Suzuki’s Book Two, consisting of later elementary pieces

58

The term “gesture” is used in the sense suggested by John Sloboda and Jane Davidson: “By gesture, we mean some perturbation of the sound stream that arises from, or in some way models, a bodily movement or a vocal sign that communicates emotion (for example, a caress, a blow, a sigh, a sob). This requires two kinds of activity: (1) a process of trial and error in generating alternative gestural responses; and (2) the application of a well-developed emotional reactivity to the aural outcomes of such experimentation.” Quoted from Sloboda and Davidson, “The Young Performing Musician,” 185. 59 It might be questioned whether these elements contain an expressive aspect, simply by virtue of their being done in a certain way by someone with a certain intent, whether the expression is consciously acknowledged or not. Sparshott’s remarks on expression in dance seem relevant here: “When I say something . . . my tone and gesture, and aspects of my choice of words, show, without saying, how I feel and what I am thinking. In a way, this is part of my meaning; in a way, it is not, for it is not what I mean by what I say. . . . every dance can be seen as expressing some individual state of sentience or other, and issuing from some social way of life or other. This may not be so (although it is often alleged to be so) in other arts, but it must be so in dance, because, if no other (assumed or fictive) subjectivity underlies the dance, that represented by the dancer must. The dance must be dance as the dance of someone . . . it must be danced as by a sentient being whose sentience must have some recognizable (though not necessarily nameable) character.” Sparshott, A Measured Pace, 84-85. 60 Susan Innamorato, lesson given at the Third Street Music School Settlement, December 11, 2004.

275 drawn from standard classical teaching repertoire.61 By this time his note-reading ability, which has been developed using another method book, has nearly caught up to his playing level. He is playing Cradle Song by C. M. von Weber and Arietta by Mozart.

Example 6.8 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Weber, Cradle Song.

This melody is confined to the white keys (though the accompaniment is not; the second and third phrases of this sixteen-measure piece have endings on the dominant and 61

Schumann’s Album for the Young, Anna Magdalena Bach Notebook, short pieces by Mozart, Hummel, Weber.

276 subdominant). The melody contains elements that refer back to expressive schemata learned in Book One: repeated notes in crescendo in mm. 5-6 and 9-11 (Mary Had A Little Lamb, French Children’s Song); the appoggiatura in mm. 6 and 10 (Musette); use of the fifth finger to produce more volume at a climactic point in the phrase in mm. 2, 67, 12, and 14 (Lightly Row, Cuckoo). These expressive schemata figure in the teacher’s demonstrations. The lesson is directed at the dynamic shaping of phrases that has already been established as a flowing series of gradations of up and down arm motions with different weight applied to each note to create louder or softer sounds. This type of movement was established earlier, in its elemental form, in the quarter note of “Twinkle Variation” B, and then transferred to legato melodies beginning with Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star and continuing throughout Book One. Innamorato refers to these arm motions as “forward” motions, and she is concerned that they should not be exaggerated. She asks Kelvin to pay attention to stopping the forward movement when he feels that he has “played through” the bottom of the key. The objective seems to be eliminating unnecessary movement. They play the right-hand part together, Innamorato modeling what she has asked for by playing along with Kelvin on the same piano one octave higher, and they both become absorbed in sensing the bottom of the key and the movement of the arm. Kelvin sees and compares his own movements to those of his teacher. Then he tries it alone several times. But each repetition is a slightly different experience because each time he plays it, Innamorato asks Kelvin to shift his attention to a different feature of the playing experience: listening to his tone and the shaping of his phrase; sensing the look and feel of his arm movement; coordinating his movement with the sensation of touching

277 the bottom of the keys. This shifting to different modes of attention prevents boredom while training a capacity for repetition and practice and it makes the student self-aware and concentrated. Innamorato refrains from telling Kelvin in words what to do with his arm and fingers and thereby gives maximum and immediate effectiveness to her demonstrations of movements and sounds. Kelvin must observe them attentively to understand what is being asked of him. Kelvin’s responses show that he has developed an impressive ability to hear fine gradations of sound and reproduce them. He performs Cradle Song easily, giving an appropriate dynamic shape to each phrase. Innamorato later explained how this kind of work is aimed toward both ease of playing and more musical playing. Susan Innamorato: They relax and they can play more expressively. Because they are playing more naturally, it seems they are more musical. The musicality can come out, the feeling, emotion, and subtleties, because they’re using what is more natural for them. What was happening with me when I was all “down,” at times it would hinder my expression. If you’re so stuck, you can’t make it work. You’re constantly trying to make it work and make it work. So what’ s inside of you isn’t flowing out.62 After about fifteen minutes, they turn their attention to Arietta. Kelvin has memorized the right-hand and left-hand parts of this piece and he performs them separately for Innamorato. The accompaniment pattern consists of a bass line with notes that sustain for a whole measure followed by two after beats. Innamorato shows Kelvin how to play the melodic notes of the bass line, dropping the weight of the arm to create a full sound and then immediately using a rebounding motion to lighten the hand and free it so that he can sustain melodic notes while playing short and light after beats. She demonstrates this and asks Kelvin to repeat it after her

62

Susan Innamorato, interview at the Third Street Music School Settlement, December 11, 2004.

278 Example 6.9 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Mozart, Arietta.

several times. She then listens to Kelvin play the right-hand part several times and frequently calls his attention to how he is “getting up on his fingers” (balancing each finger so that the bones of the skeleton are aligned). Next, Innamorato shows how to group a series of sixteenth notes (m. 5) into a single motion by playing fingers 5-4-3 in a stepwise sequence, making the arm move up and forward reaching the highest point with the third finger. In her demonstration, she also incorporates a slight rotation from right to left. This grouping of notes in a single gesture contrasts with the preceding passage, in which single tones corresponded to

279 individualized motions. It is followed by the same motion and grouping by fingers 4-2-1. The motions of the arm following the fingers join these three-note units into a single longer gesture and enable subtle changes in the weight applied with each finger to produce nuances that reflect the pitch contour. In the lessons of Derek and Kelvin, the techniques of creating individual sounds (learned in the very beginning lessons) are joined together to create composite physical gestures related to the musical gestures formed by motives and phrases. The strong sense of vertical movements in creating the individualized sounds that was cultivated in the beginning exercises (“Twinkle Variations”) gives way in these lessons to the horizontal sensations of gestural playing—sensations of moving laterally on the keyboard and of regulating the amount of vertical motion from note to note to create a dynamic shaping63 of phrases and motives in ways corresponding to their pitch contour. For the player, the sensation of arm weight and motion and the sensation of the resulting sound define this activity as gesture. Along with the sensation of horizontal and vertical motions, gesture gains another dimension with the incorporation of black keys. In the following examples, Luís Alvarez is helping Carol to play melodies broken up by staccato and legato articulations, moving from one place to another on the keyboard, and the disruptive presence of black keys.64 His aim is to develop the physical movements that help to negotiate these problems, to make the hand comfortable and able to draw the weight of the arm into shaping and 63

In Dorothy Taubman’s system, movements in a three-dimensional field (up-and-down, in-and-out, sideto-side) are related to both the contour of melodies and to the “geography” of the keyboard and thus have consequences both for dynamic shaping and for ease of playing. She refers to this entire topic as “shaping.” The Taubman Techniques: A Series of Videocassettes Presenting the Keyboard Pedagogy of Dorothy Taubman (Medusa, N.Y.: JTJ Films, Inc., in cooperation with the Taubman Institute, 1994), Tape 5. 64 Luis Alvarez, lesson given at the Third Street Music School Settlement, December 11, 2004.

280 articulating the motives and phrases. Carol is playing Minuet in G by Petzold (Book Two). Example 6.10 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Petzold, Minuet, mm. 1-4.

Alvarez wants her to play the cadence at the final two measures without twisting her hand to cross over the thumb, but his approach is not to draw her attention to the fault but to its alternative by demonstrating how to pick up her right hand and move it into position for the cadence. Alvarez first plays the cadence chord, B-D-G, then releases it and places his fourth finger on the preceding F-sharp. He shows that, with his fourth finger so positioned, his hand is also loosely positioned over the chord just released. He lets his hand hover over these notes without playing. He then shows Carol how to practice, moving from the first notes of the measure to place her fourth finger on the F#, noticing that her hand is hovering loosely over the G chord. She is to do this without actually playing F# or the chord, but noticing the position of her hand closer to the fall board, further into the black key area. They practice this together, Carol’s attempts alternating with Alvarez’s demonstrations. In this activity, Alvarez draws attention to two things: 1) the position of the hand closer to the fall board; 2) the physical mechanics of timing. The change of position before the cadence is executed in a separate preparatory motion inward toward the fall

281 board and preceding the motion of playing. By separating the preparation and playing into separate motions, the twisting associated with the thumb crossing is eliminated. The F# is linked up physically to the following chord so that both are played nearer the fallboard and are felt as if on the same plane. The ability to use arm weight, learned in many previous lessons, overcomes the loss of leverage experienced in playing closer to the fallboard. Acquiring a habit of timing the movement of the hands well in advance of playing promotes better accuracy and control. In this case, the cadence gesture entails vertical and horizontal elements but they are combined with in-and-out movement toward and away from the fallboard. This type of movement can be integrated into any gestures whenever black keys are present in a passage. These types of passages are found as early as Book One in Allegro (right hand, m. 2) and Musette (left hand, m. 3). For a child’s small hands and fingers that feel distances on the keyboard as larger than for an adult hand, the in-and-out adjustment is more crucial. The loss of leverage experienced when playing closer to the fallboard is compensated for by the gain in bringing the keys closer together and by the use of arm weight. Alvarez continues along the same lines with the Minuet in F Major by Mozart (see Example 6.11), in which the placement of black keys where fingers 1 or 5 must play causes the right hand to twist sideways. Alvarez approaches this by pointing out a seemingly unrelated element: the broken chord patterns in the melody. Carol can identify most of them herself and then, at Alvarez’s direction, she practices playing each phrase several times as a succession in blocked chords followed by the cadence figures. Alvarez stresses getting the hand positioned with the fingers touching the notes of each chord,

282 then raising the arm slightly and dropping the weight into the chord. He demonstrates how to do this by lifting the whole arm from the shoulder (but not lifting the shoulder itself) while keeping his hand close to the keys. As he shows this, he tells Carol that the fingers must pull against the notes slightly, and the arm and hand must “bounce” (rebound) when the fingers meet the key bed. This kind of practice gives Carol a sense of the way the arm adjusts moving the hand into the black-key area (toward the fallboard) to accommodate chords with black keys, and back out again for white-key chords. In this way, the black keys are subsumed within comfortable chord positions and the adjustment

Example 6.11 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Mozart, Minuet, mm. 1-16.

283 of moving from one chord position to another is clarified. Retaining the feeling of the chords in her hand while playing the notes melodically eliminates the twisting of the hands, makes the piece more comfortable to play, and frees the performer to play expressively. Such highly technical practice brings the black keys into line with the white keys to form the visual image of a linear shape on the keyboard (or perhaps just above it) that is designed to be comfortable and easy for the arm and hand to trace. This linear shape, along with the vertical arm motions (“bouncing”) used in tone production and dynamic nuance in shaping melodic gestures, translates the shape of the phrase into a physical experience of movement through an envisioned trajectory with varying emphases and nuances of weight. Carol ends her lesson with a performance of The Happy Farmer by Schumann, which she will play in a recital later in the day. The technique of playing chords with the whole arm lifting from the shoulder, as practiced in the Mozart minuet, is very evident in the right-hand part. Carol uses the technique to good advantage, controlling the sound so that the chords are evenly voiced but softer than the left-hand melody. Alvarez reminds her to “bounce” on the accompanying eighth-note intervals in the middle section. Example 6.12 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Schumann, The Happy Farmer, mm. 9-12.

284 When she does this, the accompaniment takes on more clarity and vitality, but does not overpower the melody. This shows a certain depth of previous learning and experience. Carol has previously learned not only to hear and preserve the balance of melody and chordal accompaniment, but also how to use arm weight to achieve lightness and control as well as for loudness and emphasis. While the word “bounce” may mean nothing to anyone else, the word evidently has a history of use by this teacher and student as a label so that its meaning in terms of physical act and desired sound is immediately understood within the context of other musical requirements of the piece. Next, Alvarez teaches Thomas, who is playing Ecossaise by Hummel.65 Thomas knows this piece very well. Alvarez reminds him to “go ‘up’ on 5 (m. 2, beat 1, right hand) instead of ‘down’.” Alvarez demonstrates this giving an accent on the G, and he reminds Thomas to go all the way to the bottom of the key on the 5, not stop halfway down (a reference back to the schema taught in Book One, Lightly Row and Cuckoo). As he demonstrates this, Alvarez stops and rests his arm lightly on the fifth finger with the arm and wrist balanced high above a straight fifth finger. This is to give Thomas a sense of the lightness of the arm weight balanced there.

Example 6.13 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Hummel, Ecossaise, mm. 1-4.

65

Luis Alvarez, lesson given at the Third Street Music School, December 11, 2004.

285

Interestingly, in this short fragment, both hands remain for the first measure on fingers 2 and 4 before moving on to the accent on 5, exploiting a means similar to that used by German Diez to foster security in dropping the weight of the arm (as described by Luís Alvarez and Maritza Roblez Alvarez; Arrau’s “stand in the keys,” see ch. 2, pp. 92, 103). Playing “up” on the 5 is a direct application of Diez’s principle of five-finger movement (see ch. 5, p. 182). Next, Thomas plays Cradle Song (see Example 6.8). The accompaniment figure in continuous eighth notes also contains a bass line consisting of the eighth notes falling on the beats in the first two measures that moves with the right-hand melody. Alvarez explains that this bass line must stand out above the Gs that alternate with it. He asks Thomas to play the bass line along with the right-hand melody, but without the harmonizing Gs. In doing this, the up-and-down movements and dynamic nuances of Thomas’s right hand are adopted by his left hand. The notes of the bass line are sustained beyond their written value and played with the down stroke. The Gs are played more softly with the upstroke. EXPRESSIVE SCHEMATA An important facet of musical activity is its potential as a means for selfexpression. The focus of the beginning lessons is to address this expressive potential, not starting with music literacy but by establishing the technical and listening habits that constitute the elements of expressive schemata. Ernst Gombrich has described the operation of expressive schemata in representational art—“basic geometric relationships” (simple shapes and proportions,

286 such as circles, cones, triangles, and the like) used to draw figures. These basic relationships serve as means of visual classification and enable artists to interpret and represent what they see; and they are gradually modified to correspond with whatever the artist would express.66 As one example among many, Gombrich cites a Dutch engraving of 1598 in which a whale washed ashore is depicted with an ear in place of one of its flippers. In making this picture, the artist was misled by the familiar schema of typical heads. The point is not that the artist could not draw well enough to represent the whale correctly but that his system of visual classification included ears, not flippers.67 Gombrich presses the point further, citing a Neo-Platonist view of art, prevalent between 1550 and 1850, which held that the purpose of art was not merely to portray nature. By definition, artists were presumed gifted with the ability to see the universal or the essential in the particular and to recreate nature in idealized form: not a particular tree but the universal ideal of a tree. This, writes Gombrich, was a self-deception: We need not doubt that painters experienced this very thrill. And yet one suspects that the pattern they found behind the visible world was not the one laid up in heaven but the remembered shapes they had learned in their youth. Would not a Chinese call that orchid “perfect” which corresponds most closely to the rules he had absorbed? Do we not tend to judge human bodies by their resemblance to those Greek statues that have become traditionally identified with the canon of beauty? I do not claim that this answer contains the whole truth about the changing ideals of natural beauty. But I do think the study of the metaphysics of art should always be supplemented by an analysis of its practice, notably the practice of teaching.68 Analogously to schemata in visual art, the progression of lessons from the first exercises (“Twinkle Variations”) through the first pieces into the later elementary level is

66

E. H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1960), 146-47. 67 Ibid., 80. 68 Ibid., 156.

287 concerned with the most basic elements of musical expression. Within the context of a group of pianists trained by students of Arrau, these schemata would consist of elements derived from that training in Arrau’s techniques and philosophies of listening and expressive playing. The elements include qualities of sound in single sustained notes (“rounded,” non-percussive, beautiful), in the two main categories of articulation (staccato and legato), and in parameters of dynamic control (louder, softer). These elements are used in 1) the shaping of motives (defined by rhythmic accent, direction, patterns of repetition); 2) the dynamic shaping of phrases containing nuanced motives; 3) the dynamic structuring of phrase shapes as sections and whole pieces. John Sloboda and Jane Davidson have suggested a structural theory, similar to Gombrich’s schemata, to explain and predict high levels of skill and expressiveness in performing. They find that musically expressive performance does not spring spontaneously as a manifestation of inspiration or giftedness, but from a process of practice directed by rules related to musical structure and consisting of “phenomena [that] come about when a musician has a large repertoire of expressive responses that can be mobilized in performance in response to specific musical structures without overt conscious deliberation.”69 As in Gombrich’s theory that a visual artist’s ability to represent figures depends upon his or her having schema to represent it, what pianists can represent out of the possibilities presented in a score depends on the performative schema they have acquired for representation. The intelligibility of the representation to a listener depends on the listener having acquired some of the same schemata.70

69

Sloboda and Davidson, “The Young Performing Musician,” 175. It is in this area of intelligibility of schemata that the social environment of the community school is powerful. The presence of music in a social setting ensures a high degree of interaction and communication among students and parents, in musical as well as other subjects. The repeated hearing of lessons and

70

288 Like Naomi Cumming, Sloboda and Davidson describe musical expressiveness as the product of experimentation in practice to determine the most advantageous schema or expressive response.71 Cumming gives an example of this experimentation,72 in which a recorded performance communicates an expressive schema that is imitated in practice. In this case, the recording builds an individual’s repertoire of expressive schemata and, depending upon how widely it is heard, a collective understanding of them. In part, the intelligibility of this recorded communication, as well as the player’s understanding of her own experimentation, is conditioned by the prior input of teachers associated with various pedagogical lineages. As Kingsbury notes, the statement “My teacher was Artur Schnabel . . . [who] studied with Theodor Leschetizky . . . [who] studied with Liszt . . . [who] studied with Czerny . . . a student of Beethoven” may be made “in mirth, but certainly not in irony.”73 Such associations place teachers as participants in a collective and continuous stream of musical sound and expression that has been personally transmitted through musicians of past generations and developed in contemporary use. Through personal communication, teachers convey actual sounds and concepts about

performances results in a high level of understanding of the technical, musical, and ideological aspects of music as it is transmitted within that environment. 71 Sloboda and Davidson, “. . . a performer might attempt a crescendo-decrescendo over a particular structure, monitor the emotional impact of this, and, if inappropriate, try another type of gesture. Structurally appropriate performance is thus mediated through awareness of the emotional effect of particular structurally determined events, rather than through analytical identification of such structures.” Sloboda and Davidson, “The Young Performing Musician,” 185. 72 Cumming: “The very act of playing with the nuances of notes can allow the violinist to discover new expressive possibilities, or nuances of emotion, in the music. As a result she may also recognize ‘herself’ as extending her expressive range. An example will make this clear. I want to play the opening two bars of Tartini’s Violin Sonata in G Minor . . . and I experiment with the degree of detachment between the notes of the descending semitone . . . the Baroque violinist, Elizabeth Wallfisch, plays it . . . with a slight detachment . . . . Played that way, the motive ‘feels’ halting, stuttering, more uncertain in its movement. (These terms apply no less to its expressive affect.) In trying to play it this way, I discover something about the expressive possibility of the motive, and also about my own emotional capacity as the agent of its formation.” The Sonic Self: Musical Subjectivity and Signification (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2000), 33. 73 Kingsbury, Music, Talent, and Performance, 46.

289 their meaning, as embodied in physical movements and sensations, to one student at a time.74 The physical motions and sensations and the expressive shaping of sound that Arrau and his students taught were part of and emanated from a continuous sound stream carried through Arrau and his predecessors. At the same time, they were the products of Arrau’s ability to segment a continuous sound stream and a continuous flow of physical movement in musical works and, as a result of that segmentation process, to identify commonly repeated elements. The teaching of Arrau’s principles at the beginning and elementary level by the next generation (Arrau’s students’ students) is a continuing participation in the sound stream carried through Arrau’s students, but breaks down those sounds, physical motions, and sensations further, to the single notes, motives, and phrases of the earliest pedagogical material. The repertoire of the Suzuki method, from the first note that is to be played, presents musical structures that are too complex for reading at this level, but that are aimed at developing classical styles of musical expressiveness. The lessons at this formative stage provide the context for teacher and student to undertake together the “process of trial and error in generating alternative gestural responses”75 that gives the student tools for flexibility and control of dynamic shaping and nuance and leads to expressive power and musical competence in playing. 74

Kingsbury writes of pedagogical lineages as constructive of social hierarchy. In the following passage, he draws a connection between social organization and the aural tradition: “One does not gainsay the importance of the score in saying that even ‘classical’ music does not reside in the printed page. The patterns of social organization of the conservatory must not be dismissed as simply the ‘political’ underbelly of an ‘artistic’ process. To believe otherwise is to retain a commitment to an insidious cultural bias. To be sure, the scholarly appeal to the importance of aural tradition has heretofore been associated primarily with the study of cultural idioms having no system of written notation. Perhaps because of this, it is important to stress that a literate idiom such as ‘classical’ music is also dependent for its meaning, its vitality, and indeed for a major aspect of what it is, on what folklorists, ethnomusicologists, and anthropologists have referred to as aural tradition. The social dynamics of the conservatory are of fundamental importance to the aural tradition of ‘classical’ music.” Ibid., 46. 75 Sloboda and Davidson, “The Young Performing Musician,” 185.

290 THE LANGUAGE ANALOGY To understand the segmentation and pairing (or coordination) of technical and musical elements at the beginning level of pianistic training, one further analogy is useful, that of music and language. Suzuki’s success in creating a methodology wherein music learning makes use of the child’s capacity for language acquisition suggests that, just as importing the philosophical and methodological innovations of linguistics into the realm of musicology yielded new models of structure relevant to perception and understanding,76 applying them to music learning may yield further understanding of musical expressiveness and how it is developed. The sounding elements of language consist of phonemes and morphemes. This analogy has been invoked in music analysis, and it may be similarly invoked in elementary-level teaching. Charles Seeger explains the analogy: An example of a speech-phoneme is the “a” in “father”; of a musicphoneme, a single tone (toneme) or beat (rhythmeme) or, better, tone-beat (museme?). In both arts, several phonemes are combined to form a morpheme – in speech, according to Bloomfield, a morpheme is “A linguistic form which bears no practical phonetic-semantic resemblance to any other form . . . .” In less technical parlance, this might be said to be a word with only one meaning and not sounding like any other word. In music, a morpheme would be a motif, a pattern of design, a music-logical mood.77 Articulation of the sound streams of music or language presents us with parts or sections or units; parts of parts – and thus hierarchies of parts with possibly distinct strata – and types of parts or categories. For everyday speech (leaving aside the more elaborate special forms like jokes, orations, novels, and so on) linguistics identifies the sentence as the largest unit reliably accounted for by structural rules. The parts of a sentence constitute a stratified hierarchy: clauses, phrases (nominal, verbal, adjectival, etc.), words, morphemes, phonemes. The terms we use for musical articulations – periods, phrases, motives, notes – reflect a 76

David Lidov, Is Language a Music? (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2005), 15. Charles Seeger “On the Moods of a Music-Logic,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 13/1-3 (1960): 229.

77

291 linguistic borrowing of great antiquity (Powers 1980), but the hierarchy is not always similar.78 In this case, the usefulness of a structural analogy with language is not to identify a referential meaning in music. As Seeger points out, although music bears a syntactic resemblance to language in its orderly and harmonious composition and functioning of parts, it is at the level of semantics that the analogy breaks down: a sentence in language is not just a string of morphemes but one of signs (sememes) that conveys a meaning beyond its constituent sounds. Morphemes combine as words having conventional references; and strings of words form sentences whose interest lies not in their sonic qualities as a “sound stream,” but in their semantic qualities as strings of meanings. But musical phrases differ from sentences of language in having no specific semantic content, even though various features (motives, harmonies, tonalities, for example) sometimes can be said to have conventional references. And, unlike sentences of language, musical phrases draw attention primarily to their perceived sonic qualities as sound streams.79 Just as it is useful in revealing how music can be understood, the music-language analogy is useful as a framework for understanding a way that music can be learned. Pedagogy at the beginning level is concerned with the determination of the phonemic and morphemic level in short musical works. It deals with the sound qualities of phonemes and morphemes and the technical means of producing them as a prerequisite to creating strings of phonemes and morphemes having the aural effect of phrases, continuous 78

Lidov, Is Language a Music?, 4. Lidov: “A sound stream may be regarded as continuous ‘by definition’ if we acknowledge silences as pauses or rests as part of the stream. Insofar as the sound stream is correlated with a stream of attention, this makes perfect sense. What interests us is not the physics of continuity but both the experience of the sound and our conceptualization of it – the two not necessarily fully coinciding. In both language and music we attend to a chain of articulations, notes, phrases, words, and syllables, but there is something more. We are also caught up in the continuous inflections of the speaking voice, if it is personal or expressive, and the continuous stream of the voice may appear as independent of its words as a river is of the boats it carries.” Is Language a Music?, 3. 79

292 streams of sound with particular sonic qualities, or temporal and dynamic shaping. In the Suzuki method, the “Twinkle Variations” contain this phonemic and morphemic material. In the beginning-level pieces, segmenting phrases into motives reveals the presence of elements either identical or related to these basic phonemes and morphemes and makes possible the teaching and learning of both the physical motions and sounds of these individual segments. Chaining together the physical motions and sounds creates the larger units of musical gestures. This follows Cumming and Lidov, who seem to agree that the term “gesture” is superfluous unless used to refer to a performed musical element. Thus, learning to play is first learning to play pieces; learning to play pieces is learning to execute a set of physical motions. As one progresses from short simple pieces to lengthier, more complex ones, the shaping of sound becomes more refined; yet, references back to the basic phonemic and morphemic level are frequent and common. Advanced-level playing may be seen as elaboration and refinement of the principles established at the beginning. The difference between playing a Sonata by Mozart and playing Arietta by Mozart, for example, is a difference of degree, rather than of kind.

293 CONCLUSION Between 1945 and 1970, Claudio Arrau established himself as a performer of the first rank and an iconic figure in classical music. At the same time, he maintained a class of pianists who studied with him consistently for some period of years. This was possible with the help of Rafael de Silva, Arrau’s teaching assistant, who prepared students with a basic grounding in Arrau’s technique, followed up on and reinforced Arrau’s teaching, provided continuity with weekly lessons when Arrau was away on concert tours, and organized master classes when Arrau returned to New York. A significant part of Arrau’s legacy consists of his contribution to the cultural work of piano pedagogy. Through master-class lessons, Arrau and de Silva formed their students into a cohesive social group united by a philosophy of piano playing and a sense of belonging to a historic lineage of pianists. Arrau’s group had a distinct language and set of practices and beliefs, as well as a symbiotic culture of mutual support, and it reinforced its individual members in the pursuit of Arrau’s principles. Furthermore, it amplified Arrau’s teachings by preserving, adapting, and transmitting them to a widening circle of people, eventually embracing all levels of pianism from elementary to advanced, both amateur and professional, and reaching at least three generations of students between 1945 and the present. Arrau maintained that his technical approach was the outgrowth of his natural instinct for piano playing; but he also felt a connection with Liszt through his teacher, Martin Krause. These claims reflect a tension between conflicting needs to be seen on the one hand as a uniquely individual artist and on the other as the possessor of a prestigious pianistic pedigree; but the claims are not mutually exclusive. It is certain that both

294 Krause’s teaching and Arrau’s natural potential contributed to the latter’s formation as a pianist; but since little about Krause’s teaching has been recorded, one cannot know what specific aspects of Liszt’s pianism were transmitted through Krause. Therefore, efforts to identify the sources of Arrau’s principles are limited to comparing Arrau’s principles with what is known of Liszt’s teaching and with principles of other nineteenth-century writers on piano playing. Specious though a stark division along these lines may be in practice, classifying nineteenth-century technical approaches to piano playing either as finger technique or arm or arm-weight technique reflects the image pianists held of themselves and others, and it was based in part on aesthetic ideology that divided piano music into classical masterpieces and popular bravura-style works. Liszt was a proponent of the bravura style. His playing was closely observed by his pupils and contemporaries, and their accounts placed Liszt’s playing on the side of arm-weight. Considering the power of Liszt’s influence, one can suppose that Krause’s teaching was also informed by an arm-weight approach. Krause’s obituary refers to relaxation and cultivation of a singing style as elements of his teaching, elements that figure in descriptions of arm-weight approaches. Krause was Arrau’s primary musical influence during Arrau’s crucially formative years between ages ten and fifteen, and it is possible that at this young age Arrau internalized Krause’s teachings to some degree without being able to articulate them consciously. This is suggested by Arrau’s account of developing his own technique after Krause’s death and his statement that at first he played without thinking of technique but later worked to gain conscious control of it; it also may explain why Arrau later said so little about the specific points in Krause’s teaching.

295 After Krause’s death, Arrau’s efforts to continue developing on his own found other influences. He spoke of his personal acquaintance with Rudolf Breithaupt and of having read the writings by Breithaupt and Bonpensiere. Arrau’s voracious reading habits and his consciousness of being a musical descendant of Liszt make it possible that he also knew Clark’s Liszts Offenbarung. Similarities between Liszt’s principles (as described by Clark and others) and Arrau’s suggest that Arrau’s playing was linked to Liszt’s, either through elements in Krause’s teaching that lay beyond Arrau’s conscious recollection, or through Arrau’s cultivating a familiarity with Clark’s account of it, or both. Arrau would have consulted various writings on piano playing in order to corroborate his own ideas of it as well as to augment his own development and understanding. Arrau differed from other proponents of arm technique in that he described the active role of the upper arm and regarded the entire body as the playing mechanism. Technical elements in Arrau’s system were described in terms of bodily movement rather than musical figurations. For Arrau, relaxation was a prerequisite for allowing the musical impulse to be expressed as bodily movement designed to create musical sounds. Relaxation enabled access to the spiritual source of musical impulses, while tension, by contrast, blocked it. Relaxation did not mean a continuous laxity in the muscles but an ability 1) to prevent opposing sets of muscles from interfering with one another, and 2) to induce either laxity or activity when required. This principle of relaxation may have been developed by Liszt and received by Arrau directly from Krause; it was similarly articulated by Deppe (and his followers), Breithaupt, and Matthay. Arrau’s description of relaxation is similar to Breithaupt’s language and suggests a direct influence. Arrau’s

296 belief in the inseparability of technique and expression may also have been a Lisztian principle, received either from Krause or from Clark’s account of Liszt’s principles. Arrau’s teaching imparted to his students a bodily approach to and experience of music, as suggested by his formulation and description of technique as a set of bodily movements, his adaptation of natural bodily movements to create different qualities of tone and to shape musical gestures, his attention to the physical sensations of playing, and his belief that technique and expression were inseparable. This bodily experience informed the way students listened to and conceptualized the sound of the piano while it enhanced their performing skills. Musical sound and bodily movement were so intertwined that not only was a bodily movement selected on the basis of its propensity to create a resultant sound, but the quality of a musical sound was judged according to the appropriateness of bodily movement. Tone produced by means of a stroke from the forearm rather than by means of the whole arm, for example, was rejected on the basis of its inappropriate method of production. In lessons, sound and movement evoked one another and were labeled by verbal descriptions of their expressive qualities. Learning a piece entailed mastering not only its notes, harmonies, formal organization, and expressive qualities but internalizing a set of physical motions so that, in performance, musical interpretation and expression were experienced as bodily sensation. When thoroughly internalized, the movements became unconscious, and the piece became a part of the player as embodied knowledge. The “Arrau Technique,” which Arrau began to develop in the aftermath of Krause’s death, represented an attempt to codify and explain these bodily movements and sensations along with their corresponding musical qualities.

297 Arrau’s teaching also functioned as an analysis and explanation of his own playing, which gave students a basis for better understanding and acceptance of it as authoritative. Thus, it created in them a sense of how the practice of piano playing should be judged, and made them highly critical of ways of playing that did not conform well to Arrau’s. Study with Arrau conferred upon students a consciousness of their own place within the broader pianistic tradition of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In his study of the visual arts, Ernst Gombrich wrote that any understanding of the metaphysics of art should be supplemented by a study of the practice of teaching. In the spirit of that advice, this study has followed the teaching of Arrau’s principles from professional and advanced-level playing into the realm of the elementary- and intermediate-level student. At every level, pedagogy inspired by Arrau’s principles performs the cultural work of providing many experiences of musical expression within a social environment and in a variety of specific musical contexts that can be generalized and organized as a structured body of knowledge. Rather than springing independently and spontaneously from some inborn tendency, individual creative expression derives from and builds upon this structured body of knowledge and is valued and reinforced by a social group. While individuals display differing abilities as performers of classical piano music, the differences are of less interest than the possibility of a general musical potential that may be stimulated into being by experience at an opportune age, because the possibility fosters inquiry into the nature of that experience and the resultant body of knowledge. Inspired by the example of Arrau himself, Arrau’s pupils and their musical descendants are exploring how to frame experience so that it engages the individual perceptions and adaptive powers of each student in the development of musical potential

298 not just as the fulfillment of extraordinary talent but as a fulfillment of an aspect of humanity. Their efforts to preserve musical works, values, and practices within a social context, to maintain a historical continuum while developing new perceptions and insights in teaching and learning, and to train a community of players and listeners as well as performers constitute the cultural work of piano pedagogy.

299 APPENDIX ONE ARRAU’S PUPILS The present writer has collected the names of those who studied with Arrau from conversations with the pupils themselves. Most were willing to consider only those who studied for a significant length of time to be authentic Arrau students, as Arrau’s approach was extensive and detailed and could not be learned in only a few lessons. Not every student who was identified could be contacted for this study. For those who did contribute, biographical information is given below. Each informant exhibited a uniquely personal style in choosing the information they thought important to share. Some were able to give detailed accounts of the role of music in their lives at an early age, sometimes revealing how customs, personal relationships, and the world have changed since the 1940s and mid-1950s. Some informants related anecdotes about their study with Arrau that reveal specific details of Arrau’s teaching and the kinds of relationships Arrau cultivated with his pupils. Table 1 below provides information about pupils whom Arrau taught in the United States between 1945 and about 1990 (Parts A, B, and C) as well as names of some of his European students (Part D). The first group of pupils (Part A) belongs to the period following Arrau’s immigration to the United States when his performing career was developing. The second group (Part B) studied with Arrau from 1955, when his career was at its height, until his break with Rafael de Silva in the early 1970s. Students in the first and second groups typically studied with Arrau for longer periods and experienced being members of a group because of de Silva’s efforts to provide continuity, cohesiveness, and organization. The third group (Part C) studied only with Arrau after his

300 break with de Silva. Because of the demands of Arrau’s performing career, their study with Arrau tended to be intermittent and of shorter duration. For this reason, and because de Silva was no longer teaching the students in Arrau’s absence and organizing master classes, they did not have close associations with other Arrau students. Individual entries are listed chronologically according to the years in which study with Arrau began. Table 1, A. Arrau’s Pupils 1945-1955. *contacted for this study Name

Page Date of birth/death

Dates of study

Current residence

b. 1924

Country of origin Cuba Cuba

1945-1955

304

b. 1925

USA

1945-1951

306

b. 1923

Peru

1946-1954

307

b. 1924

Chile

1948-1955

310

b. 1923

Cuba

1948; 19501952

New York, N.Y. Berkeley, Calif. Houston, Tex. Bloomington, Ind. Miami, Fla.

312

b. 1923

USA

1950-1954

314

b. 1935 no information available b. 1901 d. 1980 no information available

Chile

1952-1954

+Josefina Megret *German Diez 302 *Goodwin Sammel *Roberto Eyzaguirre *Alfonso Montecino *Rosalina Guerrero Sackstein *Frederick Marvin *Edith Fischer Carlos Carillo +Olga Barabini Carmen Guttierrez

+ deceased

Syracuse, N.Y. Spain

301

Table 1, B. Arrau’s Pupils 1955-1970. Name

Page

Date of birth/ death

Ronald FarrenPrice Ruth Nye

Country of origin

Dates of study

Australia

Melbourne, Australia London, England

Australia

+Philip Lorenz *Ena BronsteinBarton Mario Miranda

316

b. 1940

Chile

1958-1969

321

b. 1926 d. 1979

Chile

*Bennett Lerner *Ivan Nunez

323 326

b. 1944 b. 1941

USA Chile

1959-ca. 1963; intermittent lessons until ca. 1975 1963-1973 1961-1970

*Jose Aldaz

328

b. 1942

Mexico

1961-1971, 1991

*Loretta Goldberg

332

b. 1945

Australia

six-month periods 1963 and 1968; 1970-1973

+Hilde Somer

337

b. 1922 d. 1979

Austria

Anna María Bedregal Graciela Beretervide John Antoniadis

Esther Bernstein

Anita Berr

Ophra Yerushalmi

Chile Argentina

no information available no information available no information available no information available

Current residence

Princeton, N.J.

Thailand Southport, Conn. New York, N.Y. New York, N.Y.

302

Table 1, C. Arrau’s Pupils 1970-1990. Name *Joseph Ries Raul de la Mora Frank Daykin William Melton Robert Phillips Franco Renzulli 2 piano w above David Lively John Cobb

Date of birth/death b. 1952

Country of origin USA Mexico USA USA

Dates of study Current residence 1972-1973 New York, N.Y. New York, N.Y.

USA

Table 1, D. Arrau’s Students in Europe. Name *William Goodrum +Greville Rothon Daniella Ballek Juan Moll Jurgen Thompson Wolfgang Leibniz

Page Date of birth/death 338 b. 1932

Country of origin USA

Dates of study 1958-1965

Current residence Syracuse, N.Y.

GERMAN DIEZ German Diez was born in Havana, Cuba, on June 18, 1924.1 Both his parents were from Spain: Antonio Diez from Ribota, a small town in Leon, and María Nieto from Belmonte in Asturias. The couple met in Cuba. Antonio was an expert in selection of tobacco leaves and worked in a tobacco factory in Havana.

1

Quotations and biographical information from German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.

303 Two of their six sons pursued careers in music. The elder of the two, Alfredo Diez y Nieto,2 was a musical prodigy and also the first teacher of his younger brother, German. German attended the Conservatorio Iranzo, graduated at age nineteen, and in 1945 won the National Music Award Competition, which enabled him to study abroad. At that time, Arrau was concertizing in Havana. The two met and, after hearing Diez play, Arrau granted Diez a personal scholarship to study with him in New York for a period of ten years. Diez arrived in New York City during a snowstorm on November 30, 1945. He resided in Washington Heights with his brother Armando, who had come to New York some years earlier. [I had lessons with Arrau and de Silva simultaneously] like everybody had, because he [Rafael] was the assistant . . . Arrau told me [in Cuba] to wait until he came in, not to go to the assistant, but to wait because he wanted to start me. And after that I would start with the assistant . . . so actually, I saw him [Arrau] first. Then after that, he introduced me to de Silva. So [during] the time he [Arrau] was not here, de Silva was here and in between too. Because before, he [Arrau] didn’t have so many concerts so then he was much longer here. But then, he started to get very busy and [would] be gone for three months and . . . here a couple weeks and go back again. Diez taught piano at the State University of New York in Purchase from 1980 to 1988. He has been visiting professor at Bard College since 1975. Currently he is an adjunct professor at Hunter College and Brooklyn College of The City University of New York. In 1968 he was named chair of the piano department at the Greenwich House Music School, where he has taught since 1945. In demand as an adjudicator, he has served on

2

Cuban family names include both paternal and maternal family names. A prodigy, Alfredo attended the Conservatorio Iranzo in Havana, where he completed courses of study in composition and conducting and received his diploma at age fourteen. He joined the faculty of the Conservatorio, where his students included Tanya León, Paquito d’Rivera, and Arturo Sandoval.

304 many piano competition juries, including the first William Kapell Piano Competition, the American Music Scholarship Association competition in Cincinnati, Ohio, and The Governor’s Award of the New York City Public High School Piano Competition. From 1990 to 1993, he served on the national screening committee of the Fulbright Awards. GOODWIN SAMMEL Goodwin Sammel was born August 10, 1925, in St. Joseph, Missouri, to Nicholas and Bessie Sammel.3 Bessie Sammel was a pianist and taught piano until her late teens when economic hardship forced her to take up more regular and lucrative work. Goodwin Sammel grew up in Chicago. As a child, he heard his mother play pieces by Chopin, Schubert, and Weber, works she had studied in Chicago with her teacher, Isaac Levine. Sammel remembers, “When I was very young, when she wanted me to come in from outside, she’d start playing the piano, and pretty soon, I’d be standing next to the piano. I picked up piano mainly by myself. She tried to teach me a little bit, but it didn’t work out.” Sammel soon began regular piano lessons, at first with Evelyn Heesel and his mother’s teacher, Isaac Levine; but his longest period of study was with Isadore Buchhalter. In the late 1930s, he began to attend concerts and he remembers hearing Rubinstein, Horowitz, Schnabel, Serkin, and Petri. Sometime during the early 1940s, Sammel first heard Claudio Arrau. By this time, the United States was engaged in World War II, and Sammel spent the war years working in a freight yard; when the war ended, he fulfilled a promise he had made to himself to study with some great pianist. Following World War II, both Artur Schnabel and Claudio Arrau were living in

3

Quotations and biographical information, unless otherwise noted, from Goodwin Sammel, interview in New York City, April 14, 2003.

305 New York City, so in the fall of 1945, Sammel moved to New York. He first approached Schnabel for lessons and was politely refused, but with Arrau he succeeded. Sammel approached Arrau backstage after a performance with the New York Philharmonic and Arrau invited Sammel to audition for him at his home in Forest Hills.4 Sammel recalled, Somebody let me in at the house and, after a while, someone else arrived. And after, this other person arrived. Then, Mr. Arrau came downstairs and introduced me to him, and that was Rafael de Silva. I had prepared the Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue by Bach, the first Ballade of Chopin and the Hammerklavier sonata of Beethoven. And so Arrau wanted me to start with the Bach. I played the Chromatic Fantasy. I don’t remember whether I played the Fugue also. When I was done, he didn’t say anything. He said, “I’d like to hear the Chopin.” So I played the Chopin Ballade and I was done, he didn’t say anything. Then he said, “I would be interested to hear some of the Beethoven.” I didn’t know at the time that he disapproved of young people playing late Beethoven. So I launched into the Hammerklavier sonata and played part of the first movement and then he stopped me and he said, “That was better.” And I took that as a great compliment. He said, “Do you think you need a different technique?” I said, “No, I think I just need to improve the one I’ve got.” He said, “I think you need a different technique.”5 Arrau agreed to teach Sammel, and also arranged for him to take two lessons each week with de Silva.6 Sammel, German Diez, and Josefina Megret were among the first students to work with Arrau under this arrangement. I came here just a few months before German [Diez] did. He [Diez] said that he recalled that there were four of us at the time. He and I and Josefina and Olga Barabini were the main ones. It was after a few more people came that we began to hear all of each other’s lessons. We were the first to do the double thing with de Silva and Arrau. Sammel recalls the works that Arrau first assigned to him: He said I should start working on the Variations sérieuses of Mendelssohn, which I did, and after a month I had a lesson with him on that. And then he said to work on the Wanderer Fantasy of Schubert and I 4

Arrau lived in Forest Hills until 1947, when he purchased his Douglaston home. See ch. 4, p. 167, fn. 36. Goodwin Sammel, lecture given at Greenwich House Music School, April 12, 2003. 6 During these years, Sammel also recalls that he received instruction from Oswald Jonas in Schenker analysis; interview in New York City, April 14, 2003. 5

306 had one or two lessons on that. And then he assigned the Eroica variations of Beethoven. And in the meantime I was taking regular lessons, I think there were two lessons a week, with Mr. de Silva, and he had me working on Chopin etudes and Debussy etudes. Then the Arraus moved out to Douglaston on Long Island and the lessons began to be a little bit different. All the students would go out together and we would hear each other’s lessons, and this was even more wonderful. German and I and Josefina and Alfonso and all the others, we’d all catch the same train on the LI RR and go out to Douglaston and have our lessons and hear each other. Well, when I had my first lesson with Arrau – that’s more than fifty-seven years ago – he was not yet forty-three, and I was twenty.7 Sammel studied with Arrau from 1945 until the summer of 1951. Since then, he has performed solo recitals, chamber music, and concertos. However, teaching has been the main component of his career. He has taught privately in Berkeley, California, and served on the faculty of Mills College. He has taken special interest in the study of editions, comparing composers’ manuscripts and first editions with modern editions. ROBERTO EYZAGUIRRE Roberto Eyzaguirre was born in Piura, a small town in Peru, on September 2, 1923, to María Claudia and Anselmo Eyzaguirre.8 His father was an amateur violinist. Eyzaguirre studied piano in Lima with María Ureta. Roberto Eyzaguirre studied with Arrau in New York from 1946 until 1954. He recalls having a close personal relationship with Arrau, at times driving Arrau to his concerts, sometimes in the company of Mario Miranda, another of Arrau’s students. As one of Arrau’s earliest students, Eyzaguirre had private lessons with Arrau. Arrau also introduced him to managers in Europe in an effort to advance Eyzaguirre’s performing career. Eyzaguirre made his debut at Town Hall on March 13, 1954. His program included a Beethoven Sonata, Mozart’s Rondo in A Minor, Barber’s Sonata in 7 8

Goodwin Sammel, lecture given at Greenwich House Music School, New York City, April 12, 2003. Biographical information from Roberto Eyzaguirre, telephone interview, December 9, 2002.

307 E-flat Minor, the first book of Debussy’s Images, and Poulenc’s Napoli. Eyzaguirre followed this performance with appearances in England, Holland, Italy, Germany, and Latin America. He returned to Town Hall on April 28, 1962. Poor health forced Eyzaguirre to stop performing, and though later diagnosis found proper treatment and a cure for his condition, it came too late for Eyzaguirre to continue pursuing a concert career. He assumed a teaching position at the University of Houston (Texas) and remained there from 1971 until 1980. Eyzaguirre currently resides in Houston, where he is active as a private teacher and performer. ALFONSO MONTECINO Alfonso Montecino was born on October 28, 1924, in Osorno, Chile.9 After preliminary study in Osorno, he entered the Conservatorio Nacional of the University of Chile in 1938. He remembers his early training in music: I started with a German lady by the name of Caroline Klagges. And she was a very good teacher. Osorno is a town that was highly influenced by the Germans that settled at the turn of the century. All of my education took place in the German school and then I went to Santiago and studied with a teacher, Alberto Spikin, who had been a student of Tobias Matthay in London. And at the same time I used to like to compose very much and I studied composition. Montecino taught at the Conservatorio Nacional from 1945 to 1947. He then traveled to the United States in 1947 to begin composition studies with Randall Thompson at Princeton. Already a seasoned performer, Montecino gives the following account of his pianistic career: I used to commute from Princeton to New York for piano lessons. So this is something I have done together with concertizing throughout [my career]. . . . When I came to New York, I had already had two or three years of concertizing in Chile, Argentina, Venezuela, so I played in 9

Biographical information and quotations from Alfonso Montecino, interview in New York City, February 27, 2003.

308 Carnegie Hall [1950] and then I started touring in Europe, the United States, and South America. I have played the Well-Tempered Clavier thirty-three times. In those years, Chile was a very, very interesting country musically. Then came the dictatorship and the whole country is culturally nothing of what it was. But I used to play the Well-Tempered Clavier every year in Santiago, and then of course, for the Bach Centenary I played it many times; and for the Beethoven Centenary in 1970, I played the thirty-two sonatas. I have played the cycle ten times since. And I’ve done a lot of contemporary music. Chilean works, I have promoted as much as I could. And I have been to China, Hong Kong, India, Singapore, Taiwan, Japan, even Iran. Many, many years ago, in the time of the Shah, there was an excellent orchestra. Montecino’s performances include three recitals in Town Hall in New York City; six European tours from 1951 to 1974 that took him to England, France, Holland, Italy, Germany, Norway, Austria, Hungary, Russia, Switzerland, and Turkey; and numerous South American tours between 1958 and 1980, in which he performed with every major South American orchestra. In 2003, the centenary of Arrau’s birth, Montecino wrote an article for El Mercurio in which he described his studies with Arrau between 1948 and 1955: During the period from 1945 to 1952 we were about fourteen young pianists of different nationalities. Later on the pianists Edith Fischer, Ena Bronstein, Ivan Nuñez joined our group of Chilean students. There were other young people that played for him [Arrau] sometimes but they couldn’t be classified as students of Arrau. We had one monthly lesson in his house in Douglaston. His classes were collective master classes. Weekly classes were with . . . Rafael de Silva. . . . In that period my lessons with Arrau were to prepare my concerts, especially the cycle of thirty-two Beethoven sonatas. In my first lesson with Arrau in February 1948, which I remember as if it were yesterday, I played the English Suite No. 4 of Bach. He commented on the importance of projecting clearly the differences between the dances and he emphasized the contrasts. He suggested taking allemands melodically and very delicately; courants, very articulated and rhythmically; sarabands, majestic slow, expressive; minuets, elegant and flexible; and gigues, fast and brilliant. He insisted that the two halves of the dances must be repeated, varying the dynamics, phrasing and ornamentation. He recommended playing Bach without pedal, especially in the fast tempos. In slow tempos, for example, sarabands, he allowed short pedals. Arrau said that long pedals interfere

309 with the horizontal clarity of the counterpoint and impede the linear independence of the voices, polyphony, and that it would result in harmonic and vertical textures. In his recordings of Bach (Goldberg Variations, Inventions, etc.), as in his classes, one could discern his inclination for Bach that is very sober, austere, and Apollonian; and that the structure of the work, the clarity, and the rhythmic vitality were more important than the emotional aspect. Arrau always recommended interpreting Bach and Beethoven using the Urtext to avoid interference from the opinion of editors that fill the manuscript with indications that are sometimes doubtful. In the case of Bach, the performer that follows the original text has liberty to decide for himself his interpretation in the sense that the composer wrote his music without indications. . . . In another lesson, I played the Appassionata by Beethoven. On that occasion, I remember he said that the Beethoven sonatas were not three or four pieces strung together but [each was] one unity in which the movements were related, either thematically, harmonically, or rhythmically. In difficult passages, he said to practice them with separate hands and with different rhythms, including exaggerating the speed in which they were to be played. He was very careful with the pedal, especially with scales and in the lower register of the keyboard. Many times he used the soft pedal in the pp. He never permitted difficult passages written for one hand to be facilitated by dividing them between the two hands. He believed this softened the expressive intensity. He emphasized the fiery character of the first movement and he warned not to play the melodic sections sentimentally. He said that Beethoven’s music was always virile, even in the lyrical parts. The theme of the second movement should be played like a chorale and all the variations with the same tempo as the theme. He advised not to play the third movement too fast but to project it with great inner agitation. Claudio Arrau never demonstrated at the piano how certain passages should be played for fear that students would imitate blindly instead of coming to their own decisions. The only time I saw him coming to the keyboard was in a master class when we asked him to show the extension of his hand. To our great surprise, between the thumb and second finger he could reach eight keys and between the thumb and fifth finger, 11 keys! . . . On another occasion, I worked on the sonata of Liszt, which he considered one of the masterpieces of Romanticism. Among Liszt’s disciples, there was the conviction that this work had been inspired by Goethe’s Faust. During that lesson, he identified the themes of Liszt with the characters of Mephistofeles, Faust, and Marguerite, and their respective dramatic situations. He insisted not to play the passages virtuosically and in a purely mechanical way but with most intense expression and passion possible. There is no doubt that to relate the sonata with the work of Goethe gives more psychological cohesion to the musical flow.10 10

Alfonso Montecino, “Aspectos de la técnica del pianista: Bach, Liszt, Beethoven, según Arrau,” El Mercurio, 2003. Translation by Alfonso Montecino.

310

Montecino taught at the Indiana University School of Music from 1963 and received the title of Professor Emeritus in 1988. He was awarded the Bach Medal of England in 1954 and joined the board of directors of the Bach Society in Washington, D.C., in 1985. He has adjudicated numerous international piano competitions and chaired competitions in Viña del Mar (Chile) and Boca Ratón (Florida). Montecino also composed more than fifty works for chamber ensembles, chorus, voice, and solo piano that have been performed at festivals of contemporary music in Spain, Argentina, Venezuela, Chile, and the United States. His most recent work is an opera entitled The Imposter, based on an episode from the history of Spain and Portugal at the end of the fifteenth century. ROSALINA (GUERRERO) SACKSTEIN Rosalina Guerrero was born in Matanzas, Cuba, on December 5, 1923.11 Her father, Luís Guerrero, an accountant by profession, was born in Spain, raised in Argentina by his father, and then traveled to Cuba to live with his uncle. Her mother, Rosalina Santana, was born in Matanzas. Both parents were amateur musicians. While Guerrero was a very young child, the family moved to Camaguey, where she received her first piano lessons at age five with Elisa Cosio. Under Cosio, Guerrero studied solfège for six months in order to be able to read notation before taking up the study of piano. At age thirteen, Guerrero entered the conservatory in Camaguey for study with Luís Aguirre, whose teaching was influenced by the ideas of Tobias Matthay. A romantic relationship

11

Guerrero’s mother gave her official birthdate as March 5, 1923, in order to facilitate school enrollment by a desired date. Biographical information from Rosalina Sackstein, telephone interview, February 17, 2006.

311 developed between Aguirre and Guerrero, they married in January 1939, and a child was born to them in November. The marriage ended after five years. Guerrero moved to Havana where she received a degree in pedagogy from the Conservatory of the University of Havana. During this time, Arrau came to Havana and played two concerts there on a single day. Guerrero heard both of them. She was struck by the beauty of his tone and wished for an opportunity to study with him. Guerrero then received a stipend from the Cuban Ministry of Education under president Carlos Prio Socarras to study in New York. She left Cuba in 1948 intending to study at the Juilliard School, either with Olga Samaroff or Rosina Lhevinne. But once in New York, she met Josefina Megret, a fellow-Cuban pianist who introduced her to Arrau. Guerrero immediately became his student. Guerrero also studied with Rafael de Silva and played for Arrau in master classes until a falling out with de Silva caused her to leave Arrau’s group and take up lessons with Isabel Vengerova. After a year, she returned to Arrau for private lessons, but never went back to de Silva. She continued to study with Arrau through 1952. Rosalina Guerrero played her debut recital in Town Hall in New York on Octobert 5, 1950. Her program included Beethoven’s Rondo in C major, Op. 51, No. 1, and Sonata in E flat, Op. 31, No. 3, Schumann’s Carnaval, and shorter compositions by Edgardo Martin, Jose Ardevol, de Falla, Debussy, and Prokofiev. Guerrero married Harold Sackstein in 1952, and since then has been known professionally as Rosalina Sackstein. Following her marriage, the couple lived in Cuba but after Castro’s revolution, they returned to the United States and settled in Miami in 1960.

312 She is Professor Emerita at the University of Miami where she taught since 1961. She was the first woman to obtain the rank of full professor at the University of Miami School of Music and the first recipient of the School’s Phillip Frost Award for Excellence in Teaching and Scholarship. She has received honors for her work with young pianists and for community service. She is president of both the Miami Music Teachers Association and the Miami Civic Music Association. FREDERICK MARVIN Frederick Marvin was born to Harry and Ann (Epstein) Marvin on June 11, 1923, in Los Angeles, California.12 His early piano study was with Maurice Zam13 (1935-39). Marvin played his debut recital in Los Angeles in 1933, and won a scholarship to continue study at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia with Rudolf Serkin (1939-40). Later studies were with Milan Blanchet14 (1940-41 and 1945-48), Artur Schnabel (dates unavailable), and Claudio Arrau (1950-54). During World War II, Marvin spent three years in the United States Army Air Force. Stationed in Miami, Florida, from 1943 to 1944, he performed fifty-eight concerts for service men, conducted a radio program in music appreciation, and appeared in weekly hospital shows devoted to raising morale. Marvin’s first New York recital took place in Carnegie Hall on November 21, 1948. The program included two sonatas by Antonio Soler, the Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue by Bach, an Etude and Nocturne by Chopin, Phantasie in C major, Op. 17, by Schumann, Epigraphs Antiques by Debussy, the Fourth Piano Sonata by George Antheil, 12

Biographical information from Frederick Marvin, interview in Syracuse, N.Y., December 14, 2002. See also, Allan B. Ho, “Frederick Marvin,” The New Grove Dictionary of American Music, eds. H. Wiley Hitchcock and Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 1986), III: 185-86. 13 Pupil of Artur Schnabel.

313 Almeria by Albéniz, and Suggestion Diabolique by Prokofiev. For this performance, Marvin received the Carnegie Award for the most outstanding debut of the season. Marvin’s editions of compositions by Padre Antonio Soler are well known. Marvin first encountered the keyboard works of Soler in a volume of eighteenth-century Spanish music that he found in a second-hand music shop in Los Angeles. Recognizing their beauty, he began performing them in recitals. In order to conduct further study of Soler and his music, Marvin traveled to Spain and visited the Monastery of Montserrat, El Escorial, the Biblioteca Nacional in Madrid, and the Biblioteca Central in Barcelona, where he discovered hundreds of Soler’s manuscripts including keyboard works, masses and religious music, incidental music for the theater, concertos, and chamber works. Marvin has edited and published four volumes of sonatas and a Fandango with Belwin Mills and Eight Villancicos, Stabat Mater, Lamentation, and Salve Regina with Universal Edition. His edition of Two Piano Sonatas by Jan Ladislav Dussek has also been published by Universal Edition. Marvin has appeared in recitals and performed with orchestras throughout the United States and Europe as well as in Central America and India. He accompanied the Wagnerian singer Martha Mödl in Lieder-Abende, and excerpts of these concerts can be heard on recordings issued by Gebhardt. Other recordings include music by George Antheil, Fourth Piano Sonata (Aloo Records); Chopin-Liszt-Henselt (Capital Records); Franz Schubert, Unfinished Piano Sonata and Posthumous Works (Society for Forgotten Music); Liszt’s Piano Music (Genesis Records); Piano Sonatas of Ludwig Berger and Ignaz Moscheles (Genesis Records); Piano Works by Jan Ladislav Dussek (Dorian Records); Soler, Sonaten, Fandango (Gebhardt). 14

A pupil of Vladimir DePachmann and Eugen d’Albert.

314 Marvin was appointed Professor of Piano at Syracuse University (Syracuse, New York) in 1968 and received the title of Professor Emeritus in 1990. His other honors and awards include Comendator: Orden del Mérito Civil (Spain), La Médaille de Vermeil, Croix de Commendeur (Société Academique Arts-Sciences-Lettres, France), and the Beethoven Medal in Memory of Artur Schnabel (England). EDITH FISCHER Aspiring young pianists were attracted to study with Arrau by his performances, in particular, by the beauty of his tone, but also by his amenable and approachable nature. This was especially true in Chile where Arrau was a source of national pride. While performing in Chile, Arrau made time to socialize with friends and fellow musicians, among them, Elena Waiss and her husband, Sultan Fischer. Fischer was a violist in the Santiago Philharmonic and Waiss, an accomplished pianist and harpsichordist, a wellknown teacher, and founder of a music school in Santiago.15 Waiss was influenced in her teaching by Arrau’s playing and she cultivated a friendship with Arrau during his visits to Chile. When Arrau played in Santiago, he was often invited to dinner at their home and Waiss arranged for Arrau to hear some of her pupils. Two of these pupils later traveled to New York to study with Arrau. One of them was her daughter, Edith Fischer, born February 18, 1935.16 Fischer says of her mother, She was a wonderful pedagogue and she founded the school trying to build up a system of work for the children that was very complete, not just piano playing, but learning music. . . . She was looking for new things all her life. . . . She was very orderly, also, in her teaching. We made an 15

The Escuela Moderna de Musica was founded in 1940 in Santiago. The school began as a society founded by a group of musicians including Elena Waiss, René Amengual, Alfonso Letelier, and composer Juan Orego-Salas. From this small start, the school grew to have its own concert hall. The school accepted beginning pupils and aimed to provide a basis for a professional career or to cultivate fine musical amateurs. Its pupils have included harpsichordist Lionel Party and pianists Ena Bronstein-Barton and Edith Fischer. 16

Quotations and biographical information from Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.

315 incredible amount of repertory already [when I was] very young. I think she gave us all the feeling of discipline and honesty, two things that were very important. . . . Of course, my grandmother [Anna Band] was also a pianist, and was also a piano teacher, my father was a viola player. So I must say that I heard talks about pedagogy problems since I was born. In fact, when my grandmother taught, I was very often listening to the lessons and I thought when I was about four years old that Czerny was the most beautiful and difficult thing. . . . Music was the life of our house. When she began her own study of piano as a young child, Edith became a focal point for the critical attention of her parents and grandmother. She good-humoredly describes how each day she received the advice of each of these adults in turn: Even now I have difficulty to practice when people are around because at eight [o’clock] I had to be at the piano, and first my father would come down because he had to prepare the car to go to the rehearsal, and so he went by and he told me, “What are you doing there?” Musical advice that [was] very important for me! I remember very well what I learned from him. And then my mother, “How are you working here? You waste your time.” And then, when they were away, came my grandmother, “Why do you do this like that?” So [chuckling] I started feeling well [better] when all three left. In 1952, at age seventeen, Edith Fischer traveled to New York to study with Arrau and de Silva. She remained in New York until 1954, and then moved on to Europe, where she continued to see Arrau as often as possible. She described how her relationship with Arrau changed. And our relationship changed, because when I was seventeen and I came to him, I was almost in awe with respect, so I could hardly talk about something else than the lesson and exactly the facts. I was too shy, in fact, in front of him. With time, when we started meeting each other in Europe, it became easier, the contact. And he was, in fact, also a shy person. He was not somebody who talked easily. So it became so nice, because something came out that didn’t exist when I was just a pupil. . . . I didn’t go to master classes. I saw him only privately whenever I had a new work, or questions, or to listen to me or to my pupils. I went to his concerts. In my apartment, he came once and listened to my pupils. Here [in New York] when I was in the normal group of pupils, we did listen to each other all the time, to the lessons, because most of the lessons were in group. I had the opportunity to listen to other lessons, too. [With] Rafael

316 de Silva, once a month we had to play for the group. A very difficult audience! Fischer remained in Europe, residing first in Switzerland and now in Spain with her husband, pianist Jorge Pepi. She performs frequently in solo recitals and with her husband. She has followed in her mother’s footsteps, founding a music school near Lausanne called Cercle lemanique d’étude musicale. ENA BRONSTEIN-BARTON Elena Waiss also prepared Ena Bronstein-Barton for advanced study with Arrau. Born in Santiago on September 3, 1940, to Jascha Bronstein and Riva GhelmanBronstein, Bronstein-Barton tells how her family left Europe to escape the Nazis and economic impoverishment. They [parents] were from Rumania. Actually, they were from a part of the world that is now Moldavia. [My parents were musical, but] neither one of them was professional. My father played the violin and then later the viola. I think he had only one year of lessons, and was then pretty much self-taught. And then he started learning with me when I was taking lessons. And my mother had a beautiful singing voice and also sang folk music in several languages just because she wanted to, but no training. They came [to Chile] in the late thirties, I think, because my parents went to Peru first when they left Europe . . . I don’t know exactly when. And then they moved to Chile, probably in 1938 or ’39. . . . This was right before [the Nazis]. This was, I think, because of financial reasons. . . . There was nothing where they were . . . and so my grandfather decided to emigrate to South America, or America, because, according to my father, nobody knew the difference, and they thought there were opportunities. So some Jewish people came to North America and some came to South America. I don’t know how they picked. And when my grandfather got somehow settled in Peru, he sent for my father, and my father sent for my mother. They were very young at the time . . . they worked there for a while, and then again for business reasons, my grandfather moved to Chile and my parents went with him to Chile. I think that [my family’s business] was really very primitive from what I hear. When my grandfather went to Peru he used to sell stuff in the mountains on a donkey. He used to sell fabrics, and I don’t know, stuff. And later, my grandfather had a store in a town called Melipia. I don’t know what he sold, maybe electrical things, because then later my father had a store and . . . he sold radios and fixed

317 radios. He knew everything about radios. Because when I was born, there was no TV yet.17 With a mixture of pride and amusement, Bronstein-Barton also recalls that her parents were intensely interested in music and decided before she was born that she would play the piano. My piano was bought for me before I was born. There was no choice in the matter. My father played the violin. He always wanted to be a musician; he wanted to become professional, but because of circumstances or the fear of going for it or whatever, he decided to stay a businessman. Therefore, when my mother was expecting a child, that child, whoever it was, was going to play the piano. So Bronstein-Barton began lessons at the age of five with the mother of Edith Fischer. I had a very interesting teacher in Chile. Her name was Elena Waiss, and she was quite phenomenal. She had founded, in 1940, a music school in Santiago. Santiago has a National Conservatory. But she didn’t think this was good enough, so she and some colleagues of hers started a new private music school, very much modeled after a European conservatory, probably like a German conservatory . . . and so that’s where I landed when I was about five and a half. That school is still operating. . . . It’s called Escuela Moderna de Musica. She was my first teacher all the way until I came to study with Arrau. Bronstein-Barton tells how Elena Waiss’s connection with the symphony enabled her to cultivate relationships with visiting artists, and particularly with Arrau. Waiss was instrumental in securing a place for Bronstein-Barton among Arrau’s students. Arrau was like god in Chile, certainly, a god in my school. And Edith [Fischer] was his student. So that’s how I got to meet Arrau, through my teacher and her daughter. Arrau would come to Chile in those years at least every other year, when I was growing up there, and give concerts. And my teacher was part of the symphony orchestra. She played the piano, harpsichord, and celesta and so she always had whoever came from abroad, conductors, or pianists, or soloists, she had them to dinner at her house. And she always had Arrau to visit her house for dinner.

17

Quotations and biographical information from Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.

318 Bronstein-Barton tells of playing for the first time for Arrau, and her story reflects Arrau’s status as an iconic figure and the ritualistic decorum observed in relationships with him. I was thirteen years old [when I first met Arrau]. . . . This was the first time I ever played for him. . . . I don’t know if it was ‘53 or ‘54, but I know it was winter, because it was the first time we saw snow in Santiago. It never snows and that week, for some reason, we saw a little snow. I even remember what I was wearing. He came on a visit in the winter, I don’t know if it was May, June, or July, and my teacher arranged for me to play for him for the first time. I played Bach’s G major French Suite. It was strictly — I had my instructions — come, don’t say anything, play, say “Thank you very much.” And then, after that, her daughter [Edith] was to have a lesson, and I was to say, “May I stay for a little while, please?” which I did. And then, I don’t know why, she said after a little while, “You should leave. Say, ‘Thank you very much,’ and leave.” Right in the middle of the lesson! You know, I could have stayed for the whole lesson, but no, I was a good girl, I said, “I have to leave now. Thank you very much.” And I left. There was no conversation. And afterward, she talked to him and so he gave her the report. He said he liked me very much, he liked the way I played the gavotte very much because of my sense of rhythm. So that was my very first time. You have to understand that when you meet god, it’s kind of scary. I remember everything. I remember the dress I wore, everything, because this was so momentous. Because I really grew up with the name “Arrau.” In the whole musical world in Chile, there is no bigger thing. [Here Bronstein-Barton tells of her father’s thrilled reaction.] But he was not allowed to come. I had to go alone, because my piano teacher ruled. Anything she said went, so I had to go alone. My parents were waiting outside. Waiss arranged a second audition for Bronstein-Barton with Arrau, and this time, Arrau accepted her as a student. Then, a few years later, when I was finishing high school and getting ready to where she [Waiss] thought I should play for him [Arrau], and maybe he would take me as a student, we had a much longer session . . . he came to our music school. That was in 1957, I believe, and then I played for him for a long time. I played [sonata] Op. 2, No. 3 [by] Beethoven. I remember I was then playing with the symphony orchestra. It was my first opportunity to play a concerto by Hindemith, which nobody plays: “1945,” it’s called. So I played part of that for him. And I don’t remember what else. I know I played many things. But I remember hearing him play after he said, “Okay she can come. I’ll take her on.” And,

319 of course, you can imagine how emotional that was! And right that week he was concertizing in Santiago. I went to hear him play in a place that was a stadium, because he couldn’t play in the concert hall. It wouldn’t hold enough people. So he would play in the Theatro Municipal a little bit, but this was a popular concert in a stadium. I think it held about fourteen thousand people. And he played the Schumann Carnaval, and I just cried and cried . . . because I knew I was going to go study with him. So it was just an unforgettable experience. But we heard him play a lot. He would come and play, for instance, the last three Beethoven Sonatas, and I heard him play them many times, because he would play them in Santiago, and then play them in other cities. And there was a group of students. We would just follow him and hear him play them again and again. So that was . . . invaluable. Bronstein-Barton speaks of the impression Arrau’s playing made upon her as well as the excitement and feeling of personal identification that his performances generated among Chilean audiences. [His playing] was enormous. It was the kind of playing that I always felt that I was completely filled up. It was magical. It was huge. His sound was as big as the whole orchestra. He would play both Brahms concerti . . . and all the Beethoven concerti. There was, of course, an electricity in the hall because the whole audience just adored him as their personal relative. So it was a very special kind of atmosphere. People would stand in line for days before the concert. They would sleep around the concert hall and take turns in line to make sure to get a ticket. Bronstein-Barton reveals that Elena Waiss was concerned not only with giving her a solid foundation in pianism but also specifically with preparing her to study with Arrau. My teacher made sure I had a subscription to the symphony orchestra, and I went every Friday to concerts. She had me going to concerts, and if Arrau came, he would play with this orchestra, so I got to have a ticket. I don’t remember exactly [how many times I heard him play] but I grew up with his sound and I grew up with his repertoire in my ear. And I grew up also with his pianistic influence, certainly when Edith went to study with him. But before that my teacher was watching very carefully how he played -- you know, the use of the arm movements, and the body, this was influencing us way before I ever said hello to him, because it was the biggest influence on my teacher, and on every pianist there. Interestingly enough, she was a big harpsichordist. . . . We had to study a lot of Bach.

320 When I came to study with Arrau and Rafael, they thought that was very good that I had this huge Bach background. Bronstein-Barton’s New York debut at Town Hall in 1961 was received with critical acclaim. During the 1970s, she toured Europe, South America, and the United States, performing in a duo with her husband and fellow-Arrau pupil, Philip Lorenz. Bronstein-Barton has given recitals in South America, Europe, the Near and Far East, Australia, New Zealand, and throughout the United States. She has appeared as soloist with orchestras in Jerusalem, Luxembourg, and Rome. Bronstein-Barton was the recipient of a 1976 Martha Baird Rockefeller Grant, which resulted in a solo recital at Lincoln Center’s Alice Tully Hall, and of the 1996 Distinguished Artists Piano Award by Artists International. She has appeared in chamber music performances with violinist Jaime Laredo and the Guarneri Quartet. Bronstein-Barton has taught at California State University-Fresno and was artistin-residence at Monterey Peninsula College in California. She has conducted master classes at the University of Veracruz in Xalapa, Mexico, in New York City, and in Santiago. Currently, Bronstein-Barton is head of the piano department at the Westminster Conservatory of Music, a community music school associated with Westminster Choir College in Princeton, New Jersey. She is also a member of the piano faculty of Westminster Choir College of Rider University in Princeton.

321 MARIO MIRANDA Mario Miranda was born in Chuquicamata, Chile, on February 5, 1926.18 Miranda was brought up primarily by his mother, Lucrecia, his father having died while he was very young. A patient and intelligent man, Miranda planned to become a surgeon until a serious interest in music prevailed. He began his musical studies with Julia Pastén when he was five years old, studying at the Conservatorio Nacional in Santiago from 1931 to 1933. In 1937, at the age of eleven, he made his public debut playing Mozart’s Concerto in A Major, K. 488. Miranda traveled to Germany several times for piano study. From 1949 to 1951 he studied all of Debussy’s piano music with Walter Gieseking in Cologne. He returned to Chile and in 1952 won first prize in a national piano competition. In 1953, he performed a Brahms piano concerto in Chile and recorded the work with RCA. In that year, he returned to Europe to continue his studies at the Hochschule für Musik in Cologne under Hans Otto Schmidt-Neuhaus. For the next few years, he performed in recitals and concerts throughout Germany and Belgium. Miranda took up residence in New York City in 1957, married in 1958, and became the father of two children. He made his debut in Town Hall in 1959. In April 1961, he performed in Canada a concerto by Chilean composer Gustavo Becerra. He presented Granados’s Goyescas and selections from Albéniz’s Iberia at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in 1962. His two performances at Carnegie Hall took place on December 10, 1964 (Brahms’s F Minor Sonata, Op. 5; Bach’s Partita in G Major; Webern’s Variations, Op. 27; short works by Chilean composer Leon Schidlowsky; and Ravel’s Le

18

Biographical information obtained from Miranda’s son, Francisco Miranda, interview in New York City, July 26, 2003.

322 Tombeau de Couperin), and on March 15, 1966 (Haydn’s Sonata in E Minor, Hob. XVI: 34; Schubert’s Sonata in B-flat Major, D. 960; and Chopin’s Four Ballades). He continued to travel and concertize both in South America (Argentina, Bolivia, Uruguay, Peru, and Chile) and in Europe, performing in London’s Wigmore Hall (1964) as well as in Spain and Italy. Miranda was drawn to study with Arrau not only because of Arrau’s status as an acclaimed artist but also because of their common Chilean identity. Miranda’s son, Francisco, recalls: “He [Miranda] talked about taking a car and traveling around Italy in 1966 and 1967, the two of them sharing personal thoughts, musical and non-musical. He said it was one of the fulfilling moments of his life. . . . He was the pupil and Arrau was the master, but at that moment they were friends, Chilean to Chilean. . . . He always recorded his lessons so he could hear them over and over, because Arrau was the link between Beethoven and his students.”19 Miranda continued intensive studies with Arrau for two or three years during the 1960s and after that time, lessons continued intermittently. In the mid-’70s, Arrau coached Miranda for performances of Beethoven’s “Emperor” Concerto and of a transcription for piano of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto. In the 1960s, Miranda also began performing chamber music. He collaborated with Gabriel Banat, a violinist in the New York Philharmonic, performing all of Mozart’s sonatas for violin and piano in Washington D.C. Later he appeared with violinist Vladimir Weisman and cellist Robert Gardner, performing the Tchaikowsky Trio in Japan. The performance was recorded but not released commercially.

19

Francisco Miranda, interview in New York City, July 26, 2003.

323 During the 1970s, Miranda’s performing career began to slow down. He played with the Orchestra da Camera in Long Island, a small group conducted by Weisman. The ensemble performed Menotti’s opera The Medium in an arrangement for two pianos (with Miranda playing secondo) and Jupiter’s Wanderings on Earth, a marionette opera by Joseph Haydn.20 In 1973, Miranda’s marriage ended in divorce. Miranda sought to support himself by teaming up with Weisman to purchase a cab. They obtained a medallion and took turns driving twelve-hour shifts.21 During this period, Miranda drank heavily. He died on June 12, 1979, and was buried in the Trinity Church mausoleum on West 155th Street in New York City.22 BENNETT LERNER Bennett Lerner was born to Helen Kruger Lerner and Dr. Henry H. Lerner in Cambridge, Massachusetts, on March 21, 1944.23 His mother, a singer and pianist, first taught him to play the piano when he was four years old. Between ages five and sixteen, Lerner studied with Harry Goodman in Boston, and with Goodman he recalls that he learned quickly and easily. In 1959, he began studies with Sascha Gorodnitzki in New York. Gorodnitzki recommended high finger technique and loud practice, and Lerner experienced so much tension and pain that he discontinued his study. Around 1962, Lerner attended classes on Mozart conducted by composer Otto Luening at Columbia University. Luening noted Lerner’s ability as a pianist as well as

20

Performed in Alice Tully Hall, May 11, 1974. Ivan Nuñez, interview in New York City, February 26, 2003. 22 “Mario Miranda, Pianist and Teacher, 53, Dies,” New York Times (June 13, 1979), B 11. 23 Quotations and biographical information from Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 10, 2003. 21

324 the tension in his technique and recommended that Lerner take up lessons with Rafael de Silva, whom he knew from Berlin. “In spite of Mr. de Silva's weird German-Chilean accent, his foppish clothes, and his perfume, I soon realized that what he taught was what I wanted to learn. At the very first lesson, as soon as he said, ‘Use your arms!’ I was happy.” Lerner traveled to one of de Silva’s summer courses in Munich in 1962, and there he discovered that he had joined what he calls the “Arrau School.” Lerner met some of and also met Arrau for the first time. Arrau’s European students That summer, 1962, after the Munich course, I went with Daniela [Ballek] to the Edinburgh Festival, where I met Arrau for the first time. . . . I didn't have a lesson because I was too new, but others did. Daniela, and an English girl named Diana [Slattery]. I was very impressed with the teaching and got good models. I remember Arrau saying that when you meet a harsh piano you must vary your dynamics much more than usual to keep the sound apparently fresh and listenable. I also remember him telling Diana to change the pedal on the high E after all the whole tone scales on the last page of the “Prelude” from Pour le Piano, and I do it that way now. I remember being impressed with how heavily he breathed while listening to a student and how intent he was on finding a solution to a problem, the solution very often being a hand position alteration. When he returned to New York, Lerner took weekly lessons with Rafael de Silva until de Silva returned permanently to Europe. Lerner describes de Silva’s method of teaching Arrau’s technique as follows: Everybody had to play the Rondo Capriccioso by Mendelssohn, Variations sérieuses by Mendelssohn, the Beethoven Thirty-two Variations. I started with the Beethoven. Arpeggios . . . had to be legato no matter what . . . . [In] Beethoven he taught very big movements at first, and no fingers at all, because I was coming in like this [with high fingers]; very big movements for quite a while. And de Silva never did say, “Now they can get smaller.” He never did say, “Now you can use your fingers.” Which is a danger, because quite a lot of the students ended up playing with no clarity at all and really being kind of uncomfortable. De Silva never talked about the fingers at all except not to move them. And breaking the knuckle, which Arrau sometimes did for good chords . . . you don’t want all the notes to sound at the same time, [producing a]

325 lusher sound. It got with de Silva like you were playing your scales like that too. In New York, Lerner met other members of Arrau’s group, and in particular remembers Philip Lorenz, Ena Bronstein, Ivan Nuñez, and Carlos Carillo. After about a year of study with de Silva, Lerner played for Arrau in a master class. I no longer remember what piece, although it may have been the Strauss Burleske. At that lesson Arrau thought I was a bit arrogant, I was told later, when I suggested that my fingering of one passage was better than his. It is, too! But he was complimentary about my sound and my absorption of his technique. Lerner attended many master classes in Douglaston and played in about six of them – on one occasion, Beethoven’s Eroica Variations. Lerner also received a private lesson on the Davidsbündler in the early 1970s. By this time, Lerner was again having technical problems serious enough to feel he was in crisis and he asked for a private lesson hoping to receive help from Arrau. I was so desperate, I'd begged. I was in technical trouble, terrible pains in my arms, and I needed help. I went and played the Davidsbündler for him and I was playing very much like this [with collapsed knuckles]; he said something like, “It’s wonderful how you’ve made the technique your own.” And I said, “But I’m really not comfortable. I get pains here [forearms].” And he didn’t have anything to say. Lerner went for help to another Arrau pupil, German Diez, who helped him resolve his technical difficulties. Lerner currently lives in Thailand. He was head of the Piano Department at the Chintakarn School of Music in Bangkok and is now a lecturer in the Music Department at Payap University in Chiang Mai. He holds a Bachelor of Music degree from the Manhattan School of Music and a Doctor of Musical Arts degree from the City University of New York.

326 Lerner is active as a performer of new music and has premiered music by Aaron Copland, David Diamond, Irving Fine, Marc Blitzstein, Roy Harris, Paul Bowles, Samuel Barber, and Virgil Thomson. His performance at Lincoln Theater in Miami Beach in 2003 featured works by Aaron Copland, Robert Helps, Tison Street, Christopher Berg, and Thai composer Narong Prangcharoen. His recordings include Tcherepnin Piano Works (EtCetera Records, 1994), American Piano Music (EtCetera Records, 1994), and Music By My Friends (Albany Records, 2004). Lerner is currently involved in a project to record all of the piano music by Debussy for Bridge Records. IVAN NUÑEZ Ivan Nuñez was born in Santiago on July 6, 1941, to Walter Nuñez and Josefina Franulic-Nuñez, both the children of immigrants.24 Walter Nuñez’s mother came from North Dakota and his father was Chilean. Josefina Franulic’s parents were both Yugoslavian immigrants. From 1946 until 1949, the Nuñez family lived in Washington D.C., where Walter Nuñez, an officer in the Chilean Navy, was attached to the Chilean naval mission. Ivan, then about five years old, began playing the piano and he remembers his first teacher simply as Mrs. Peters. The family returned to Chile in 1949 and settled in Viña del Mar, a resort city near Valparaiso, a port city where Walter Nuñez continued his naval career. Ivan continued to study the piano, first at the local conservatory with Christina Herreros, and starting in 1953, at the Conservatorio Nacional in Santiago. There he studied with Herminia Racagni and Rudolf Lehman. During the late 1950s, Rafael de Silva came to

24

Quotations and biographical information from Ivan Nuñez, interview in New York City, February 26, 2003.

327 the Conservatorio as a visiting teacher and Nuñez received a scholarship to study with him. Nuñez stresses de Silva’s importance both as Arrau’s assistant and as a teacher in his own right: That was a revelation! He taught me very much. . . . He taught maybe three months. . . . This was the second time that he went there, and I got to be part of the course. I remember never studying so hard as I did when he was there. And I remember clearly, the piece that I learned was the last Chopin Prelude. I will never forget that. And I have never forgotten how to play the scale in thirds. The thirds was the big deal because they are difficult. Rafael was a master of fingering. Nuñez came to the United States in 1961 on a scholarship from the Organization of American States that lasted two years. But during the years that I was here studying with Rafael, we had many times when everybody would go to Douglaston and have a class with Arrau, and one of us would be the one at the piano. And Arrau would sit here, and Rafael would sit next to Arrau. . . . I had a great experience once. I went there. I don’t know why I was chosen. You never knew. You’re going to have a lesson with Arrau! Get to Douglaston, there was a crowd. Everybody was there. People from the music world! Garrick Ohlsson was there. Garrick was a good friend. He studied with Olga Barabini. . . . Olga was an Arrau-de Silva student and Garrick was her prize pupil. I don’t know why I was chosen when there were all these people. It wasn’t just a group of students. The classes happened in his living room where he had this piano covered with African art. His living room was a museum. It was beautiful! I had to sit there and play for all these people. And of all things, it was Brahms’s first piano concerto. You know what it is suddenly to be there with Arrau, his piece! Nuñez remembers traveling to Douglaston with a group that included Mario Miranda, Edith Fischer, Roberto Eyzaguirre, Ena Bronstein, Philip Lorenz, Bennett Lerner, Jurgen Thompson, Loretta Goldberg, Anita Berr (Chile), Anna María Bedregal (Chile), and Graciela Beretervide (Argentina). Nuñez married in 1969. From 1969 to 1974, he traveled back and forth between Europe and the United States, giving concerts in London (Wigmore Hall), Germany,

328 Spain, Denmark, Yugoslavia, and New York (Town Hall and Alice Tully Hall). In 1973, Arrau declined a request to perform a benefit concert for the Pinochet government that had come to power in Chile following the overthrow of President Salvador Allende Gossens. Nuñez seized the opportunity, performing four sonatas by Beethoven (“Moonlight,” “Waldstein,” “Pathétique,” “Appassionata”), while demonstrators rallied outside the concert hall. Nuñez eventually left performing to pursue a career in university administration. He is presently Senior Advisor to the Vice Chancellor for Budget and Finance at the City University of New York. JOSÉ ALDAZ José Aldaz was born on August 3, 1942, in Matamoros, Mexico.25 There was little classical music available in Matamoros during the 1940s and early 1950s, and no school of music. Aldaz’s first teacher, Celeste Varela, taught him the fundamentals of music and then referred him to Carmen Sacramento, also in Matamoros. At age fifteen, Aldaz moved to Monterrey, Mexico. There he studied at the Technical Institute for a career in engineering (at his family’s request) but he also studied in the music preparatory school associated with the Technical Institute. In Monterrey, he met Arrau for the first time. Arrau was performing in a concert series that also included Iturbi, Rubinstein, Brailowsky, and other artists, sponsored by the Monterrey Institute of Technology (the school now deals with all branches of education, but in the late 1950s, it specialized in science, engineering, and mathematics). Aldaz’s interest in piano prompted him to seek out recordings of piano music, and Arrau’s recordings were among his favorites,

25

Biographical information from José Aldaz, interview in New York City, November 17, 2002.

329 particularly the Chopin Etudes, Beethoven Sonatas Op. 111 and 110, the “Waldstein,” and the “Appassionata.” Since there were few concerts in Monterrey, Aldaz anticipated Arrau’s performance eagerly, but did not expect to meet him. But Aldaz did meet Arrau through Emilio Amores, a mathematics professor. Amores took Aldaz to meet Arrau and to offer assistance with anything that Arrau might need during his stay in Monterrey. Aldaz was dispatched to obtain a stamp from the Chilean consulate for Arrau’s passport, and upon his return, Arrau engaged him in conversation and asked if he was a pianist. Aldaz replied that he doubted his ability to have a career as a pianist and was therefore studying to be an engineer. Arrau encouraged him to resolve his doubt by studying music intensively for two years, and then to return to engineering if that seemed the best course. In 1960, over his family’s objections, Aldaz enrolled at Trinity University in San Antonio, Texas, studying piano with Marvin McGee, a pupil of Gieseking. A short time later, Arrau came to San Antonio for a performance of Chopin’s E Minor Concerto with the San Antonio Symphony. While traveling between the university campus and the hall to buy his ticket for the performance, Aldaz chanced to meet Arrau on the street. Arrau recognized Aldaz, stopped, and asked him, “What are you doing here?” Aldaz replied, “Following your advice.” Aldaz told about his studies with McGee, and Arrau invited Aldaz to play for him that afternoon. Aldaz played Brahms’s Intermezzo in B-flat Minor (Op. 76, No. 2), Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in C Minor (Well-Tempered Clavier, Vol. I), and Chopin’s second Ballade. After suggesting to Aldaz various avenues for pursuing further piano study, Arrau mentioned his assistant in New York, Rafael de Silva, and finally offered to teach Aldaz himself if he would come to New York. Arrau also

330 personally convinced Aldaz’s parents to give their consent for Aldaz to travel to New York. During the summer of 1961, Arrau remained at home in Douglaston, but traveled on weekends to give performances at Tanglewood, Ravinia, and other music festivals. Aldaz took up residence in a hotel in neighboring Great Neck, where he rented a room by the week. For two months, he received daily lessons, Monday through Friday, for two hours each day beginning at 9 a.m. Arrau began his instruction with technical principles. Starting with the relaxation of the body in playing, he proceeded to the proper manner of playing trills, double notes, scales, and octaves. After this came a discussion of musical style. The first piece Aldaz remembers playing in a lesson was Brahms’s Rhapsody in G Minor, Op. 79, No. 2. At the end of two months, Arrau advised Aldaz to return to San Antonio (where he was still enrolled as a student) to continue working and developing what he had been taught. Aldaz would resume his lessons that Christmas when Arrau was again in New York, and he recalled having a lesson even on Christmas morning. After the holiday season, Aldaz again returned to San Antonio. By 1963, following Arrau’s advice to move closer to New York, Aldaz was enrolled at the Peabody Conservatory and traveled from Baltimore to New York for lessons. In all, Aldaz studied with Arrau for approximately ten years, from 1961 to about 1971. At the end of this time, Arrau advised him to concentrate on performing as much as possible, taking lessons only when he needed special guidance. In 1971, Aldaz played a performance in Mexico before an audience that included Mexican President Luís Echeverria. The President requested a meeting with Aldaz and

331 appointed him cultural attaché of Mexico in New York City. As part of his appointment, Aldaz was to continue pursuing his concert career. He was given an office in New York through which to manage his engagements and promote Mexican cultural activities. The appointment lasted from 1971 until 1975. Aldaz performed his debut recital in the Palace of Fine Arts in Mexico City in 1974. In 1976, at the end of Echeverria’s administration, the new government revoked Aldaz’s passport, and Aldaz began a twelve-year struggle to remain in the United States. During this period, he was prohibited from playing professionally, and all of his professional engagements, including those at the Kennedy Center with the New York Philharmonic and the Boston Symphony Orchestra, were cancelled. Limited to performing benefits for the Catholic Church and other charities, he taught privately to support himself. Ultimately, he prevailed and became a naturalized citizen of the United States in 1984. When asked if he had ever studied with Rafael de Silva, Aldaz replied that, at Arrau’s request, he once played Mozart’s Sonata in C Minor, K. 457, for de Silva. Apart from this, Aldaz maintains that he had no contact with de Silva, though for a time they occupied apartments in the same building. Aldaz also remembers playing for Josefina Megret and Grete Sultan, again at Arrau’s request. Aldaz professes only slight acquaintance with Arrau’s earlier pupils. Aldaz reports that after his period of regular lessons, he saw the Arraus socially and even more frequently. During the 1980s, Aldaz visited the Arraus daily. Aldaz would be sent to practice in the morning while Arrau read. Then Aldaz and the Arraus would have lunch. After lunch there was more practice while Arrau napped. Then the three met

332 for tea. After tea, Arrau would practice. If Arrau was away, Aldaz and Mrs. Arrau shared lunch together. Aldaz’s final lessons with Arrau, on the four Ballades of Chopin, took place in 1991. Since then, Aldaz has performed throughout Mexico and in some cities in the United States and Canada. In 1994 he performed a recital at Trinity Church in Manhattan in memory of Rildia Bee O’Brian Cliburn, a pupil of Arthur Friedheim and mother of Van Cliburn. LORETTA GOLDBERG Loretta Goldberg was born June 29, 1945, in Melbourne, Australia.26 Her mother, Myrtle Hannah Silverman, was a pianist who had been trained by Renee Simmons and invited to study with Cherkassky in London. Her father, Louis Goldberg, was a professor at the University of Melbourne whose books on the theory and history of accounting in Australia earned him a knighthood.27 Goldberg’s first pianistic training in piano with her mother contained elements of a weight approach taught by Renee Simmons. According to Goldberg, Simmons had heard Arrau during his concert tour of Australia in 1947 and had also read Breithaupt’s writing, and her teaching reflected these influences. When Goldberg was nine years old,

26

Quotations and biographical information from Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003. 27 Louis Goldberg was educated at the University of Melbourne, where he received the degrees of BA, MCom, and LittD and where he was Professor and Head of the Department of Accounting from 1955 to 1973. Before he became the first full-time academic in accounting in an Australian University in 1946, he had extensive practical experience in public, industrial, and governmental accounting. His books include a Philosophy of Accounting, Concepts of Depreciation, Elements of Accounting, the AAA Monograph No. 7, An Inquiry into the Nature of Accounting, and A Journey into Accounting Thought. He visited the United States as a Rockefeller Foundation Fellow in 1955 and as a Fulbright Fellow in 1963, when he was visiting professor at Baruch College. In 1970 he was visiting professor at the University of Florida. Information from the introductory note to “Patterns of Accounting Activities,” a lecture by Louis Goldberg at Baruch College, October 8, 1974. Saxe Lectures in Accounting, Newman Library Digital Collection, Baruch College, City University of New York.

333 her father won a sabbatical and grants that enabled both parents to go abroad for one year. Goldberg kept up her piano studies with June McLean, a pianist trained in France. Goldberg recalls, “My mother . . . though a fingery kind of pianist . . . was open to rotary motions and things like that. June McLean wasn’t. She was trained more in the French [style]. She’d been to France, jeu perlé, things like that. So I had my first technique change at age nine. It was a very bad year.” By 1957, Goldberg was an impressionable twelve-year-old with growing seriousness about music, and now, for the first time, she heard Arrau in concert. Arrau’s playing and his manner on stage made an indelible impression. Goldberg recalls, Arrau played at the Melbourne Town Hall, which is a very big hall seating 2,500 people. It’s a terrific hall, but it’s a little strange because the entrance into the stage is from the stairs coming up from behind. So the pianist pops up from below like an apparition. Then there was the issue of God Save the Queen. Every concert had to start with the national anthem. Britain was long past it but not Australia. So how Arrau coped with both of those and the visual aspects of the stage caught my twelve-year-old’s imagination just like that! He came up in the traditional way. But at the end of a piece, the getting down with dignity is a lot harder than getting up the stairs. Everybody else just turned their back to the audience and then went down the stairs but he didn’t. He zigzagged backwards, bowed to those, he zigzagged there, bowed to everybody there, bowed to the people here, zigzagged there, turned around, and bowed to everybody there, and then went very quickly down the stairs. So he made a choreography of it, which was rather good. He dealt with God Save the Queen in an entrancing way. The piano was set up and it had the lid with the music on it. He came out. He sat down. He made a big to-do about taking out his spectacles, putting on his spectacles, peering at the music. He played very emphatically, peering hard at the music. Then he took off his spectacles and sat back. A man came out and took away the music and . . . the music stand. And then Arrau began the concert. He managed to create a space between the concert and God Save the Queen. I thought that was very sophisticated! Goldberg also remembers what most impressed her in Arrau’s playing: What I remember most was the Eroica variations. The quality of the chordal playing – I’d never heard anything like that! And his trills! And there was a polished sheen over what he did, it was so incredibly big and

334 smooth. His chords had a richness of sound. I didn’t know how to analyze it. I’d never heard as dynamic a sound . . . as much loud to soft. The sheen of his trills – fast, slow, loud, soft! And then, the laying out of the piece, of the whole architecture, so you really felt that the piece grew! This concert was recorded and Goldberg obtained a copy of the recording. “I was transported by the sound and by the man, the impression I had of the man on stage. So my mother and I sat and listened to this recording and tried to figure out how on earth he made those sounds.” It was also around this time that Goldberg began playing in competitions, some of which were adjudicated by Ronald Farren-Price. Farren-Price attracted Goldberg’s attention because of his thoughtful musical criticisms; and upon learning that FarrenPrice had been a pupil of Arrau, Goldberg began lessons with him in 1959. While a pupil of Farren-Price, Goldberg began to win and place in various high school competitions. And through Farren-Price, she received the opportunity to audition for Arrau in 1962. This led to an extended relationship with Arrau that was both social and musical. Australian tours were long. He’d be back in Melbourne . . . he’d go to other cities and then come back. He’d play concertos and recitals. They were very, very big tours. I’d get into the rehearsals, and then the concerts, and go backstage afterwards, and I went to a couple of after-concert parties. It was like a Gestalt experience, which he used to believe in because that was what Martin Krause used to do. And so it was a quite overwhelming experience. Arrau also socialized with Goldberg’s parents and shared their interest in primitive art. The Goldbergs were on friendly terms with collectors and dealers of aboriginal art, and Arrau, himself a collector, was particularly eager to meet two of them: Leonhard Adam28 and Jim Davidson. Adam had written the first book on primitive art of

28

Adam, a German-Jewish judge, was forced to leave Germany after attempting to defy the Nazis in the 1930s, and his wife, a pianist, had studied with Schnabel and Backhaus. Ibid.

335 New Guinea and had amassed a fine collection. Arrau knew the book and wanted to see the collection. Jim Davidson had lived for twenty years in New Guinea before establishing an engineering firm in Australia. His passion, however, was aboriginal art, and he sought to preserve it and perpetuate its production by acting as a dealer. Davidson was friendly with the Gomedj tribe in Northwest Land and spent several months of each year with them. Goldberg tells about Arrau’s meeting with Davidson: So we took him to meet Jim, and he was entranced by Jim, because Jim didn’t know who the hell he was. He had to ask him to spell his name on the check, and that really made the Maestro’s day. Jim had all these crocodile stories, stories of encountering crocodiles and dangerous cannibals, which were very exciting. So he bought a number of things from him, both from New Guinea and aboriginal Australian art. By 1963, Goldberg had finished high school. Her father now received a second sabbatical and the family traveled to New York. Goldberg studied with Arrau on a scholarship basis for six months in 1963. During this period, she took lessons with Rafael de Silva and attended master classes in Douglaston with Arrau’s other pupils. Rafael gave me a fantastic spurt technically. I worked with him for six months; he was ferocious. But he really transformed my playing. When I came back I worked on more difficult pieces. Then it sort of started falling apart . . . [there was] a certain rhythmic lack of discipline. I felt that the motions were, I don’t know, a certain disintegration was taking place and I didn’t know how to deal with it. Toward the end of 1963, the Goldberg family spent some time in London and then returned to Australia. From 1965 to 1970, Goldberg continued her piano study with Margaret Scofield. She described what she gained from Scofield’s teaching that contrasted with the teaching of Farren-Price and de Silva: Ron is very nice, too gentle, perhaps. It wasn’t so much a question of the technique but the relationship we had and him not being able to help me

336 form helpful physical or integrative boundaries around the playing. It wasn’t working. So “Bundy” Scofield had a very good sound. She studied with Solomon. She only used up-and-down rotary motions, she didn’t use lateral, so I dropped the lateral motions. Rotary is this circular wrist thing, lateral is the side-by-side, which is such a big part of the Arrau technique. . . . She put an enormous stress on the strong-weak-medium-weak rhythmic impulse in the playing. She got me very focused on that. That was good because when you’re doing the motions, like if you’re doing just a five-finger exercise and you’re doing kind of the egg-beater motion, you’re not really thinking about strong-weak-medium-weak, and it can get too open, too big, and too divorced from the rhythmic impulse. Anyway it did for me. She pulled me back . . . We had a troubled relationship, but it was helpful. And when I came back [to New York], I was ready to try to reintegrate it [lateral motion]. During this period, Goldberg earned a degree in literature from the University of Melbourne and won first prize in piano in an important Australian competition, the Australian National Eisteddfod, in Canberra in 1967. In 1970, she won a Fulbright Scholarship and immigrated to the United States to pursue further study with Arrau and de Silva. Goldberg has resided in New York City since 1970. When de Silva moved his primary residence to Munich, Goldberg continued her study with another Arrau pupil, Hilde Somer (see below). Goldberg developed an interest in performing works of living composers that resulted in several recordings. These include: Tone Over Tone, Opus One Records, no. 135 (1988); works by George Boziwick, John Cage, Sorrel Hays, John Charles Eaton, Constance Cooper, Matthew Rosenblum. Soundbridge, Opus One Records, no. 152 (1990); works by Sorrel Hays, Tui St. George Tucker, Daria Semegen, Annea Lockwood. The Sonorous Landscape, Opus One Records, no. 162 (1992); chamber music by George Boziwick, Mary Jeanne van Appledorn, Reed Holmes Zygotones, Centaur, no. CRC 2470 (2001); contemporary American works for piano by Copland and Sorrel Hays, for Yamaha disc-klavier and sampler by Warren Burt.

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Goldberg has contributed performances to the following: Resolver, a recording of works by David First OO discs, no. 5 (1995); Mined with a Motion, vol. 2, works by Violetta Dinescu, Charles Bestor, and Donna Kelly Eastman on Living Artist Recordings no. 2 (1996); and Snows of Yesteryear, works by Elizabeth Bell, recorded by North South Music, no. NSR 1029 (2003). She has also recorded Liszt’s From the Cradle to the Grave (EMI Australia, 1977; Orion, no. ORS 79365, 1980). HILDE SOMER Born into a Jewish family in Vienna in 1930, Somer and her family came to the United States as refugees in 1938.29 At the age of fourteen, she studied with Rudolf Serkin at the Curtis Institute and later with Moriz Rosenthal, Wanda Landowska, and Claudio Arrau. Though she performed the standard repertoire, she was known as a proponent of twentieth-century music. Somer recorded works by Revueltas, Ginastera, Chávez, and Janáček, and she premiered piano concertos by Ginastera (who dedicated his Second Piano Concerto to her), John Corigliano, Antonio Tauriello, and Henry Brant. She was known for performances of Scriabin's music with the accompaniment of colored laser lights projected onto a screen, as prescribed by Scriabin. Somer died in December, 1979, while vacationing in the Bahamas. WILLIAM GOODRUM William Goodrum was born July 18, 1932, in Fall River near Boston, Massachusetts, to William Goodrum and Lillian Hammond Goodrum.30 His first piano teacher was Anna Fiore, a local organist. He entered the New England Conservatory in

29

“Hilde Somer, 49, Dead; A Noted Concert Pianist,” The New York Times (December 27, 1979), B13 Quotations and biographical information from William Goodrum, interview in Syracuse, New York, December 14, 2002.

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338 1950 and studied piano with Lucille Monaghan. Through Sunday performances at Symphony Hall in Boston, attended with Monaghan and other students, he became acquainted with pianists such as Myra Hess, Horowitz, Rubinstein, and Arrau. Monaghan admired Arrau and drew her students’ attention to his sound and technique as desirable models of what could be achieved at the piano. Monaghan introduced Goodrum to Arrau after a performance that they both attended. Goodrum’s first attempt to study with Arrau was in the summer of 1952. Arrau was teaching at the Aspen Music Festival and, upon Monaghan’s suggestion, Goodrum traveled there but was disappointed to find the class full. After graduating from the New England Conservatory, he tried again to make contact with Arrau, this time through Arrau’s manager, Friede Roth. Though Roth tried to discourage him, Goodrum persisted, so Roth suggested that Arrau might accept him at Tanglewood. In summer 1954 Goodrum went to Tanglewood with Felix Wolfers, his accompanying coach at New England Conservatory. When Roth again attempted to turn Goodrum away,31 Wolfers intervened. Goodrum spoke with Arrau by telephone and auditioned for him the next day. Goodrum recalls, “He was sort of dismayed that I’d had such a hard time. He’d always been a soft person, a soft touch for many, many people. And that was part of my job in Europe . . . to keep some organization in his life, otherwise he’d spend all his time seeing people and helping people.”

31

Goodrum explains Friede Roth’s actions as follows: “Friede Roth was always trying to get him to stop [teaching], drop all the students. But he loved—he needed—his exchange with them. He felt sincerely that he wanted to pass his wisdom and his knowledge on. It has been a tradition among musicians. Liszt used to teach and Liszt charged nothing. Arrau wanted to continue [this tradition]. Martin Krause taught him a lesson almost every day and he lived in Krause’s house. So he felt he in turn should be doing this, too. He charged nothing for those master classes.” William Goodrum, interview in Syracuse, New York, December 14, 2002.

339 At this audition, Arrau suggested that Goodrum study with Rafael de Silva in order to learn his technical system. Goodrum recalls, I played three pieces, and he said, “Obviously there are many ways of playing the piano, and there are even perhaps a couple of good ways of playing the piano, but I have my way of playing the piano and that’s the way I work with people.” Because he believed in a certain way of playing with relaxation and so on, and if someone came and wanted to play with “Russian percussion,” well, fine if it worked for some pianists. Good! “But that’s not the way I do it, that’s not the road.” In order to work with him, one should get the basic technical foundation. So he suggested to me, already up in Tanglewood—perhaps since he was traveling a lot; at that time he was playing one hundred fifty concerts a year—he said, “I’m in New York from time to time, so when you come and play for me at the house—” he did not want to get into all the fundamental things of arm weight, relaxation, and so on. He would suggest that people go to Rafael de Silva, who had a genius for teaching that. And they made a good pair. Shortly after finishing a master’s degree at the Conservatory in 1956, Goodrum enlisted in the United States Army and was stationed in Germany. There, he reconnected with Arrau who spent at least six months of the year touring Europe. Goodrum attended Arrau’s performances whenever he could get away from the military base, once flying via an army aircraft to hear him in Edinburgh. When Goodrum’s tour of army duty ended in 1958, Arrau convinced him to remain in Europe for a time, and he continued his studies there between 1958 and 1965. Goodrum also served as Arrau’s driver during this period, taking him from city to city for his performances. Goodrum’s experiences illustrate the personal dimension of Arrau’s relationships with his pupils. [Arrau said,] “So why don’t you consider staying until Christmas at least when I come back for my fall tour.” Which was always wonderful. He played in Edinburgh and Switzerland, usually made one trip to Israel, or something, and ended up in Italy. So he said, “Stay!” and he would leave about the third week of November. So I thought, “Good!” and I had made contact with a nice German lady . . . who had a Steinway piano and was looking for some young American student who needed a place to live. So it was great. I could live there for practically nothing and travel and drive Arrau around. And he was getting tired of always traveling on trains and

340 planes, and he thought it would be fun. At that time, there was a two-year waiting period for a Volkswagen but this lady knew someone. And so I got a VW, and I was proud as could be. Telephone rings. “This is Friede Roth,” she said. “Do you mean to tell me you are driving the maestro around in a VW?” Yes, it’s a wonderful new one.” “No, that won’t do. You are driving him up to the artists’ entrance at the concert halls in a VW? No, that won’t do.” And I said, “Yes, and there are usually a couple of other students in the back, too!” She did not like it at all, but he loved it! We went over the St. Gothard Pass. We went all over Italy in my VW and he had a great time. He would practice there, and sleep, and every once in a while wake up and say, “Are you still awake, dear?” Goodrum remembers that Arrau continually sought fresh insights into musical works and they sometimes discussed his performances together. After the concerts, we’d go out to do the necessary reception, perhaps, and then get away, go off and enjoy . . . walk until two in the morning . . . I can recall one time in Zürich, for example, he had just played and we were walking alone that evening And he said, “Did you notice anything?” -which was always a dangerous question -- “Did you notice anything in that Beethoven tonight?” [Goodrum recalls that the Sonata played that evening was Op. 27, No. 1, in E-flat.] “Well, it was very beautiful.” “No, no, no! Didn’t you notice? At the end of the first movement, I vibrated every one of those notes and it worked, it came out! Didn’t you notice?” So he was always trying to develop. He was never satisfied. Arrau also asked Goodrum to assist him by timing the movements in his performances. Goodrum described this exercise and explained its purpose: The thing I disliked tremendously was that he would ask me to time movements. I remember he was playing the Appassionata. He usually traveled with three programs. But he was experimenting. “Would you time this?” You know, [I would be] sitting in the concert hall counting the minutes. He wanted seconds! He would play it one night and have a certain feeling about it. Then he would play it the next night, and he would want to know, now was it ten or fifteen seconds slower or faster, you see. Did that tempo play a role within the overall feeling that he had of it structurally? And so I had to sit there or try to sit at the end of the row and see, did the hand go around six times. I don’t know why on earth I didn’t get a stopwatch. But that was back in the late ’50s, early ’60s. Now you can go into a kitchen store and get a stopwatch. But that often disturbed me, my concentration. But it was an example of his always trying to search, search, and find still more satisfying [performances] knowing that

341 one will never be completely happy with this but this particular evening it felt good . . . slow or fast, a different sense of flexibility in it. The time spent together enabled Goodrum to have private lessons with Arrau despite Arrau’s more usual habit of working with his pupils in a master class setting. Goodrum remembers a large, international group of students in Europe that included Greville Rothon (South Africa), Ronald Farren-Price (Australia), Jurgen Thompson (Denmark), Daniella Ballek (Czechoslovakia),32 Juan Moll (Spain), Wolfgang Leibniz (Berlin), and Hilde Somer (Austria and USA). When Arrau had time in his schedule to meet with pupils, Goodrum was asked to organize things. Goodrum recalls, One time in Rome, he was taking a little break in his schedule. So he had eight or nine days that he asked Friede to work into his schedule there with only one concert. The rest of the time, he said, “So tell the group to come.” So we all descended upon Rome, I was driving him anyway, but they all came. And then we’d have class lessons there and other types of lessons, too, like trips to the art galleries, trips to Alfredo’s restaurant, just in seeing Roman life, soaking up the whole atmosphere. This was I think an important part of his approach to teaching, that it encompasses everything. You don’t just come in for a lesson once a week, but he spent time. He ate with the students. He went to the museums with the students. With me it was a special case. I was a rather conservative guy from New England – very, very quiet. So this was all new to me, which he just enjoyed. Goodrum’s narrative reveals the importance of the group not only for the students but also for Arrau himself. The students had much to gain from Arrau’s enormous experience as a performer, and being a part of the group gave them support and a sense of belonging to a tradition of piano playing exemplified by an iconic figure. The social experiences Arrau shared with his students increased the rapport they felt when he taught

32

Of her, Goodrum says, “She had quite a big career and is still having a career in Europe. She even substituted for Arrau one night when he was sick. She jumped in and played the second Beethoven piano concerto, which was a great opportunity but awesome. She lived in Wiesbaden and had to go to Holland [to] play the Beethoven concerto.” William Goodrum,interview in Syracuse, New York, December 14, 2002.

342 them. This is clear in Goodrum’s story of his first visit to the Sistine Chapel in the company of Arrau: We walked into the middle of the Sistine Chapel. He was walking behind me with his hands over my eyes until we got into the middle. He said, “As soon as I take my hands away, I want you to tell me what your first reaction is to the Sistine Chapel.” It was quite thrilling! He had seen it all and done it all. But a sensitive young man who has never seen it before, what is his reaction? These things he put into his music. The big thing he taught to his students [was] everything you do, enjoy, live, put it into your music. He could constantly make analogies that would just hit exactly the right thing . . . he could find just the right analogy. Arrau afforded his students the chance of knowing him as a man as well as an artist and of seeing at close range what it meant to be an artist. As Goodrum’s story indicates, shared experiences were a way of cultivating students’ imaginations, and since Arrau never demonstrated in lessons, but relied on words and verbal images to make his musical points, shared experience helped to make his analogies not only understood by students but perceived as being “just right.” Goodrum’s stories also clearly reflect the importance of the group for Arrau. He had to hold the crowds at arm’s length, but he had this nucleus of friends. We were all less than half his age. He was at this point sixty-ish or so and we were all in our twenties. This was his way of trying to stay active and keep his youth. It was important. For Arrau, the group provided companionship and recreation amidst a demanding schedule of practice, performance, and travel. Though Arrau was well traveled and highly experienced, through the group his experiences maintained their novelty and power to inspire, even if repeated many times. Arrau created in his group an understanding and sympathetic community that mirrored back an image of himself as an artist, revealing which musical ideas and techniques communicated effectively. This is evident in Goodrum’s account of discussions about and timing performances. Arrau’s interactions

343 with his students had a potential to generate insights and ways of understanding music not available through the less personal relationship of performer and audience. Goodrum returned to the United States in 1965. By this time, he was married with three children. After some short appointments, including one year at Valparaiso University in Indiana and three years at North Dakota State University in Fargo, Goodrum accepted a teaching position at Syracuse University, where he taught from 1972 until 1995. He currently resides in Syracuse, where he continues to be active as a private teacher.

344 APPENDIX TWO A LESSON ON CHOPIN’S SECOND BALLADE, OP. 38 Claudio Arrau and Mario Miranda. Tape recording, December 19, 1965 In Spanish. Tranlated by Angelina Tallaj, Laura Ahumada, Cesar Reyes, and Marcia Lewis. Tape 1 Arrau: Up to there only [finishing the first section]. This whole part is really hard. Start with the left pedal on. You don’t just start, you surge, spring up, rise! You can even start slower. Miranda: I have the idea that things that start with a pickup actually start before, it is the

continuation of something already started, something that was already there, but you start hearing it. Arrau: Busoni used to say that music is always in the air and the composer just captures it.

Chopin’s music is really not programmatic, so the connection to something programmatic is too distant and too indirect. But then, there is the story of the enchanted lake. At the end of the story something submerges itself in the water again. Have you ever read it? Miranda: No. Arrau: I tell it to you because it’s one way to get closer to the music. That’s why in this

whole section there should be no agitato or almost none. Let’s do the beginning again. Beautiful. We have to very careful of the rhythm that it doesn’t go bum ba bum bum [a more percussive rendition], but dah da dah dah [a more legato sound on the dotted rhythm in m. 2], not too sharp. Then we have to deal with something that you do sometimes, not all the time: that you trust in the pedal for the legato. Remember that we were talking about that, that if you let go with your hands, you don’t feel the legato. Then we have to talk about something else: that when a composer insists on an idea [repeats it], it becomes more intense. Miranda: There is so much of that in this piece. Arrau: Yes. This insistence could also be reversed. It could get more piano, gradually

disappearing. Maybe a little faster, maybe a little bit slower, maybe softer. But you have to be insistent in some way. [In m. 6, counting the anacrusis as m. 1:] You let go of the keys. I think I know why you do it, because the slur keeps on going and you feel the need of breathing. I think that is just this edition. Would you like to see other editions? I have the manuscript. You expect to breathe there [after the C-A sixth] but there is no breathing there. Something new starts, but keep the tension going. Miranda: So I made the mistake of doing the thing physically.

345 Arrau: Yes. Let’s go back to the beginning and play that rhythm [the dotted one] a little

softer. Here we have the perfect example of what I was talking about. There is no crescendo there, and if you want to keep it still in the magical world, you can slow down at the F before the G [m. 9]. The end of the phase is much softer than the G. Now another one of my favorite rules: in tension you cannot stop. The F is the tension [in m. 9]. And now, there is the second time. You can start in full voice [plena voce] and then at the end of the phrase dying even more [m. 18]. And then a breath, even more than the first time, because we have diminuendo. In that place we go a little out of the morendo mood. Try to do it. Start from the second time. You stopped too much. Now, that’s it [m. 18]. All this is in one slur [see Paderewski edition where m. 1 – m. 10, beat 3 is in one slur; m. 10, beat 4 – m. 18, beat 3 is also in one slur], but this edition has it in two [Peters]. In the introduction of this edition, they wrote that they fixed some of the slurs because they thought they were careless slurs. [Arrau sings what is lacking: lilting, not with such regular accent.] Do you want to do that once again? In this passage we have to take care of two things. In this four measures [m. 14, beat 6 – m. 18, beat 3], the left pedal, please. Then lift it and use it again for the pianissimo [m. 22]. It’s like something coming out from the mist and then going back to it. Here we have to bring out a little the left hand [in the part he is singing: LH line at m. 18]. It’s not that this is the most important thing, don’t bring it out like Hofmann or Cherkassky, but a little bit. Do you want to do that again? The pianissimo is beautiful now, my child. But the following C [m. 26] has to be warm and the next note [B-flat, m. 26] you can bring it out. That’s very pretty now. But now you are lacking something that is equally important, the syncopation of the G [RH, m. 26, beat 6 – m. 27, beat 2]. Miranda: I didn’t do it because I thought it was going to drown the B-flat. Arrau: No, it won’t happen because when you play the A [m. 27] the G continues. Give a

little accent to the G [accentito]. After the pianissimo you are in C major. You can put a little crescendo before the C [in m. 26]. So after the tied G, you get back to pianissimo again. The F is already pianissimo, and the pianissimo keeps on going. Do you want to do the whole pianissimo part? You did a beautiful pianissimo! Now comes something really hard to do. That’s the first atom of the drama [m. 34], the first sign. Before that there was no sign of anxiety. You want to try to do it? That’s it. The first time was better. That’s it. And then calm again. Once you are in A minor [m. 35], you calm yourself again. You want to do it again, my child, so we can keep on going? [breathing, coughs] Keep going. But now that you stopped, you want to calm down the anxiety that occurs there; you don’t want to show too much. Do you want to try again? Keep on going with the same idea. Why do you swallow [leave out] a half measure there [mm. 44-45]? Miranda: Is the smorzando too slow [m. 44]? Arrau: No, it’s not too slow. It feels like you’re dragging, not because of the smorzando

but because of the arpeggio. After the first F [LH], it has to flow more. And please do this: after [the C, RH, m. 38], take away the left pedal, and when you get to smorzando,

346 put it on again. Better. Stay on the first F a little bit [m. 46], then free. You are getting distracted in the middle, not getting up to the top. That’s it. Another little thing: [m. 39, Arrau sings the RH part] while in the bass [m. 39, Arrau sings the LH part]. In this part [mm. 39-43], the left hand is more important. In the smorzando [mm. 44-46], the A is like a lament and the F is like relaxing. Pretty. Now, another thing: the idea we have to arrive at is to feel completely physically relaxed even at the moment of most intensity. I have the impression I saw you were a little bit restless. I didn’t notice it in the sound. This is exactly what Edwin Fischer was trying to achieve, but he never got to it because in moments of emotional intensity he got tense. Because his biggest worry was to be able to relax, he got tense. Now, do the last part so we can see the transition. Release the pedal so you clean low F from the bass, then a very quick breath, and ATTACK! That’s it. A little bit too fast. But it’s [you look] very relaxed. Miranda: There’s a little bit of tension going up. Arrau: So you have to think about circles. Miranda: Always I have the fear of the skip [mm. 48-49]. Arrau: Well, do this instead of that. [The meaning is unclear.] Show me the RH on the

first measure [m. 47]. The accent goes on the first note. Let me see how you do it. Do you fall down [on the thirds]? The thirds [should] go up. When you do it up, the third comes out clearer. You hear it better. It gets a fuller, round sound. The left hand has to start, not fortissimo, but forte. You can play [the octaves] with the fourth finger, 5[-1], 3[1], 5[-1], 4[-1]. Miranda: 5, 4, 5, 4. Arrau: Ok. At the same time, rising [the motion of the arm and wrist?] to the last C gives

you the crescendo. The second measure [m. 48], right hand, do you do it only with rotation? Miranda: Yes. Arrau: Because sometimes we don’t hear the sixths. For that I really recommend you . . .

[unfinished sentence]. Miranda: I practiced 1, 2, just placing the 5 there. Arrau: That’s good as an exercise, but now, let’s do an experiment. Try it this way,

accenting up on the sixths. Check that you don’t stiffen the wrist. That gives you more security because you’re already up and over the keys. I know I have a different hand from yours but, from my experience, I think that you will have more security doing it up than just with rotation. But you’ll work it out. That second measure [m. 48]: practice it really slowly, exaggerating the difference between the two movements. This is a really good exercise in doing different movements with your two hands. Another very important thing: that second measure, you have to start no more than mezzo forte, and the

347 fourth measure, too [m. 50]. In the fifth measure [m. 51] you keep fortissimo with the right hand, start mezzo forte with the left hand. Here, too, you have to find a fingering that is convenient for you [octaves in the left hand]. I think it would be convenient to have the fifth [finger] on the B, and the A with 4, and the next B with 5 again [LH, m. 51]. But I see that the big problem is going from the G-sharp to the B with the 5. The sensation you have to have is not that you are hitting each octave but that you are playing a melodic line. It’s as if you had a bag full of sand on the keyboard. But here, more than in other passages! Because if you play “heh heh heh” [sharp octaves] it sounds horrible. It’s fifty times harder work to do it like that. All this while the right hand is playing fortissimo [mm. 51-55]. Keep the right hand loud. I have another idea! No! Let’s leave it like that. Miranda: I have a good idea. This stands out automatically [thirds and sixths, RH, mm.

51-52]. Arrau: Yes, but here [mm. 51-54], do you do it with circles also? Miranda: Yes. Arrau: But then at the very end, naturally, you change to rotation. Miranda: Of course. Arrau: You have to keep the 5 completely loose. You have to have the other fingers a little bit firm to play this rotation. [m. 54]. The left hand does a diminuendo while the right hand plays a crescendo. This is all the same [mm. 55ff.]. No, the fingering of the octaves is different. Miranda: I would like to stay long on G [m. 57]. Arrau: Yes, but I would like to oblige you to play legato. You have a tendency to hit

sometimes. [discussion of LH fingering, m. 59, beat 4 – m. 60, beat 3: 4-5-4, 4-5-4] Any fingering, but I need to see the sand bag. You still don’t rely on the weight, you [hit]. Have the sensation that you are carrying heavy weight from one note to the other. That’s it. It’s very important for your technique that you solve that forever. You have to avoid that little hit completely. It’s very little, but you have to eliminate it. Now, to do the big crescendo [mm. 63ff.], we have to go back to a mezzo forte. I would like you not do the diminuendo [mm. 61-62]. No diminuendo, no preparing, just start mezzo forte [m. 63]. Miranda: But this is still loud, belonging to the previous thing. My idea was to do this [he plays the accented chords a third apart, mm. 63, 65, 67]. Arrau: But you have to start softer, otherwise you cannot grow. Stay fortissimo all the

way to the end [m. 62]; then mezzo forte with an accent, which will be kind of a forte. Miranda: Should the left hand do a big crescendo [in each measure starting at m. 63]?

348 Arrau: Yes. I was going to ask you for it. Miranda: Because it isn’t written. Arrau: It has to be a stormy left hand. I was going to ask you to start every one of those

[LH figures] softer, opposite to the right hand [mm. 63ff.]. Now show me that technically [LH, m. 63]. The octaves shouldn’t be so loud. You have to grow to the “mi fa mi” [the highest notes in the LH figures]. Now let’s do it consciously. How are you going to make the crescendo? You’re going to start really light without vibration. Do the “mi fa mi” with vibration to make it loud. You have to study things very scientifically. Then you loosely fall into the octave. I want to see that passage of the octaves coming down [RH, mm. 69ff.]. Please don’t fall into the habit that people from other schools fall into, playing the chords just as stuffed octaves. The middle is also important. The little crescendo has to continue to the end [RH figures, mm. 79ff.]. In the right hand, continue the crescendo up to the last [high] note; and a little rallentando at the end. Let’s talk a little about this psychologically. All the anxiety we built up cannot be gone after four measures. Unless you make a terrific . . . [inaudible words]. Miranda: But there is evidently a crescendo. Here he lifts the pedal a little bit before

See, I was right. Tape 2 Arrau: [mm. 79ff.] . . . still clear, it cannot be too clear. Try to avoid activity of the

fingers. Still too much fingers, too much articulation. That was good. The sound was pretty. Play after the climax [m. 69]. This going down is still too dead [mm. 71ff.] because the left hand doesn’t do the crescendos yet. It sounds mechanical, the left hand. It’s still in your head but it doesn’t come out. More, more, the last one! You have to go back and find that calmness again. Do the left hand again. Exaggerate the last little bit of the scale and try to vibrate, too. That’s better. Your hand was too quiet before. You have to exaggerate the rotation, too. Now, the last four [m. 79]. Very beautiful! Only you didn’t wait long enough between B-flat and A [mm. 82-83]. All the preparation is worthless unless you really do that wait. Miranda: Rallentando! Arrau: It’s the same as. . . . Look what you did! You played A louder than the G [m. 86]. [A moment is given to turning off the ringer on the telephone.] Look! In the slentando [m. 87], there has to be an element of strangeness, a premonition of what is coming. Why don’t you do the last three measures? That’s too ugly -- to do the A louder than the G -- and it’s also a little bit too fast. You have the same edition, right? Miranda: Yes. Arrau: First measure, p. 33, the second half is too hard to do. There has to be a small

rallentando and an emergence of the left hand. A little bit of crescendo in the second half of the measure [mm. 95-96]. On the three C’s, the left hand should crescendo, the right

349 hand, the opposite. So then, the left hand diminishes a little bit and there is a little bit of hesitation within the modulation. Do you want to do that? Very good in what follows, but these diminuendos, don’t anticipate [mm. 99ff.].You do the diminuendo too soon. Before the stretto più mosso [mm. 107-8], you have to foresee that it is going to happen. And then, the stretto più mosso, you have to do it against a high resistance. You did it too fast too soon with no emotional justification for it. This first cell [m. 108, beats 4-6] has to be still resistant. The stretto means to go gradually faster. You accelerate. The last cell is very broad [m. 111]; take a big breath, then fortissimo. You rrrrushed it. It was out of place. Now I am going to tell something really hard to do. Then we get to E major [m. 115] where you have ritenuto; the first B on the tenor is still loud. Then the tempo primo [m. 116] is too much faster than before. That’s why we need to really broaden it and put a little fermata on the B. The B is crying, “Please notice me.” And then it is with a big effort, almost artificially, you go back to the calmness of the beginning. The agitato starts again with a ninth. Lindo! Now with anxiety [m. 108] [stretto again, loud breathing]. Beautiful! Here you did the right hand more than the left [m. 100]. And the third time the theme appears, you bring the left hand out more than the right; it should be the other way around [m. 108]. You started the figure very well, but by the fourth figure, the eighth note was too light. The eighth note has to be full value, heavy all the time, so it won’t rush. Now what you do here is very pretty and very justifed the first time. But don’t speed up, grow better. Beautiful: the return to [m. 120?]; maybe a little too soft. This [m. 140] has to be [more accented]. In this passage while the right hand is doing decrescendo, the left hand is doing crescendo to mezzo forte [mm. 125ff.?]. The vertical arpeggio [rolled interval, m. 131], do you know what it means? Miranda: Yes, it means vertical legato. Arrau: Yes, that’s right.

[In mm.155-56? It is unclear what measures these instructions refer to]: While the right hand plays crescendo, the left hand should descrescendo. Otherwise it is impossible to crescendo, and everything shuts down. Arrau: Are you tired? Miranda: Yes, I’m a little stiff. Arrau: Yes, you are stiff. There is an element of reproach here [in m.162]. Did you get

the idea? And from there to the next thing. In other words, the right hand has to follow the rubato of the left hand. After two measures of the trill in fortissimo [m. 165], start again softer [m. 167]. Now show me the right hand technically [mm. 157ff.]. Are you vibrating? No, I think you’re playing more forward. In the white keys, it is better

350 forward and back. In the black keys it is better to go up and down. The change itself relaxes the muscles. And besides all that, add a little bit of vibration. Then what follows [m. 169] doesn’t say presto, only agitato. So what is most important is not the speed but the agitato feeling. This tempo [the previous presto] dies on the trills. Miranda: So the tempo dies on the trills and then there’s a new tempo. Arrau: Yes. Miranda: Ah! I had the idea I had to speed up and speed up. Arrau: No, because in speed the expression, the lamentation doesn’t come out. In the best

of cases, the technical show-off comes out but the musical character doesn’t come out. Agitato is still a musical thing. It’s not about tempo. Almost spoken, very clear, and in presto you cannot do it. It doesn’t have-- the “ta ti-a ti-a” [articulation of the RH figures, mm. 169ff.] doesn’t come out. It isn’t written but it’s implied. Miranda: It is almost as if he had the intention of doing the same phrasing. Arrau: Yes. That’s why it’s important not to shorten the second note. It’s like forte,

piano, forte, piano, but in the same voice. You do the same movement, “strong weak,” but not shortening the second note [the third and fifth note of each sixteenth-note group, RH], and then it will come out. Miranda: Here there is no slur [m. 171]. Arrau: Not here either [m. 175]. It just keeps on going. Now in the third measure [m.

171] we have to do a fingering that allows you to do that “strong weak.” My fingering for the bottom voice is 2-1-2-1-2-1 in the third measure and also in the fourth. After the first measure it’s much easier. Exaggerate the “strong weak strong weak.” Miranda: Is it possible to do? Arrau: Yes, but if you do tatatatata [notes of equal volume] it sounds mechanical, maybe

the same on the first ones, but then ti-a ti-a ti-a [strong-weak]. I personally separate that fourth [beat 1, mm. 178 and 179]. Then 1-3 [on the fourth] without legato. Not to link it at all, just to fall on that one [m. 178]. Now, when you get to the syncopations [mm. 17879], squeeze the juice out of them [emphasize them]; not too fast [LH, mm.179ff.]. You’re really stiff, and you really lose because it’s all loud. Where the crescendo starts [m. 185], mezzo forte, no more. Besides the crescendo on the four measures [mm. 18588] we have crescendo, crescendo, crescendo [mm. 185-86]. Now, I want you to do the left hand also agitato [mm. 185-86]. I want to see this [RH, m. 185] technically. Do the right hand by itself. Don’t tighten the [inaudible word] or the wrist either. For the octaves [LH, m. 189], you go up. Left-hand crescendo and articulation! The first octaves have to be legatissimo. Then separate without hitting. And another thing: very important

351 are the little breathing points. In the first two fortissimo measures [mm. 189-90] you don’t have to worry about the breathing between the first two because it takes care of itself. But the third [breathe before it]. I want to hear your last left-hand arpeggio [m. 197]. Why are you playing F-sharp? Let’s check the manuscript. Play the arpeggios with plenty of time. This has to be very pathetic. And don’t rush into it. Again you played Fsharp. They all start together [RH and LH]. Miranda: Could I stay here [on the chord, m. 197]? Arrau: Here it doesn’t have the fermata. Miranda: I feel rushed. Arrau: Not too fast, but no fermata. If you start at tempo primo right away [at the beginning of m. 197], you won’t need to wait. [last cadence] The manuscript doesn’t have that arpeggio. That, once again, is up to you. There are about four versions of this. I personally like this. But one thing that I still need is, to the D, but the E a little longer, too [last 2 notes of phrase, m. 200, beat 6 – m. 201]. Miranda: Is one of the versions the way I did it?

352 APPENDIX THREE A LESSON ON BEETHOVEN’S SONATA IN A-FLAT MAJOR, OP. 110 Claudio Arrau with Mario Miranda. Tape recording, undated. In Spanish. Translated by Angelina Tallaj, Laura Ahumada, Cesar Reyes, and Marcia Lewis. I. Moderato cantabile molto espressivo Arrau: The transitions have to be less abrupt. It has to open up with a feeling of happiness

because you are going to be able to play faster, in mm. 104-5 especially. Not abruptly. The bass notes are [should be] short, [as in] m. 105, for example. The staccato notes [in m. 104, m. 12] should have the value of the eighth notes. Start again. Start a little calmer. The thirty-second notes, calmer [in m. 12]. Play the trill [m. 3] with gentleness. More movement in the end [of m. 3]. Sing it more. And in the measure with the fermata [m. 4] you can do whatever you want. Move the ornaments a little faster than the thirty-second notes [in m. 4]. Give the modulation between A-flat and E-flat [m. 17] more emphasis. Here [m. 28] you are changing the tempo abruptly. You can do what you want with the thirty-seconds [LH, m. 27], but afterwards stay in tempo. Crescendo [in mm. 25-28]. Go all the way to the B-flat. You didn’t do it at all. [In the development] you are lacking urgency when the music is going high and relaxation when the music is going low. The character is entirely different, the first time anxiously asking, the second time [inaudible]. [In m. 45] There is crescendo. Urgent here: a little more violent and faster. Here a little less violent [m. 47?]. After that, the left hand very calm and very melodic [mm. 46 (48?)-56]. The crescendo you didn’t do [either the crescendo in m. 40 or the small ones in mm. 44ff.]. You played the C-sharp suddenly softer [in m. 67] but you didn’t make a crescendo and diminuendo. C-sharp is the culminating point. After that, the ritenuto of the last two eighth notes you did very well [it is not clear which eighth notes Arrau is referring to or whether he means the last two sixteenths in m. 69].

353 The crescendo [m. 78] continues but in rallentando. Make a little accelerando in the first two sixteenths and then hold back in the second two. The second part was [the rest of the sentence is inaudible]. Here you have a new tempo. You should have a rallentando toward the new tempo. [There is a return to an earlier part of the piece at this point. In m. 28]: Start piano so you can crescendo. Crescendo [in mm. 40-44]! As a listener I got nothing, no crescendo. Many times, you have the crescendo in your head but your ear doesn’t make it true. Exaggerate it a little bit. Start a little bit softer. From [m. 56] you have to start moving it. Take it from [m. 55]. Here, he [Beethoven] is coming back to the basic foundation [recapitulation, “fundamento,” theme 1]. Rallentando on last two thirty-seconds [LH, m. 55]. Slow down a little bit [pochito]. Please remember that this movement depends on these little details. If you do not, the movement is music you don’t understand and is very boring. Now, play the crescendo in the modulation to C-sharp [beginning in m. 63]. [m. 70] Watch out, watch out! The first group of thirty-seconds has to be calmer. That’s it! [Eso.] The alternations of right hand and left hand [in m. 70, beats 2 and 3] are original and you should do them. Play the section [beginning in m. 76] to do the crescendo ritenuto [m. 78]. That’s it! Before I forget to tell you, the last two thirty-seconds before the molto legato [m. 76] are calm, but continue in crescendo. [Again Arrau asks that transitions not be too abrupt, following his first remark]. Play the half notes [m. 100]. Miranda: Here is crescendo, not diminuendo [before m. 100]. Arrau: Yes , but you should get to forte here [m. 100, beat 1], and then, on the first half

notes, mezzo forte on the seventh [m. 100, beat 2]. Do you want to know something else? You wait too long on the eighth note before the half note [mm. 101-4]. You are distorting the rhythm. Think it in measures. That’s it, that’s it! No. You have to study it. The last third in eighth notes is ppp [m. 103] and the last sixth, well, there is no marking. Miranda: P [m. 101], then pp [m. 102], then ppp [m. 103], then pppp [m.104].

354

Arrau: Muy bien! You have to study it very meticulously, mathematically, almost

pedantically [mm. 101-4]. Please play the last transition up to the end [mm. 109ff.]. II. Allegro molto. Miranda: Sorry for the imprecision. Arrau: It’s ok. Now, the Allegro molto has become a little too slow, and the Trio too fast.

[Judging by this comment, it seems Miranda has played this in a previous lesson.] Miranda: I was afraid of doing it too fast, but now it’s too slow.

Arrau: In the sixth measure, you’re playing the left hand staccato instead of legato. Starting in measure 9, the soprano is too weak. You are putting the weight on the wrong side. Take flight [“vuelo” more lift in the right arm]. Go to the other side as much as you can. Miranda: You mean, more up and down? Arrau: Yes, but also sideways. But the one where you have to take special flight is to the

fourth A-flat [m. 12; the accent has the effect of organizing mm. 9-14 in two-measure units]. Do you understand the syncopations in the left hand? You can hear them better if you accent the right hand. The syncopations in the left hand should have full value so that you hear the forces one against each other. Syncopation means to go against something. [Arrau sings the RH part.] Make this very clear. Just now when you just played it, you drowned the right hand with the left hand. The left hand was too loud, the right hand too soft. But play without losing the accents. But then, ritardando before the a tempo, [m. 33] fortissimo. That is very Beethovenian. You do the opposite. Play a little of the two tempos, Allegro molto and the Trio, and compare them. In no way play faster than that. The two should have the same tempo. Very staccato on the two notes for the left hand in the upper range [LH, mm. 48-49]. [At mm. 41ff.] Be very conscious, study carefully, because if you don’t, it sounds dead. There are two groups of three, one of two [eighth notes in the right-hand part]. Shape it; but then when you play it, play the big line with those things inside. Miranda: If you practice it that way, you play it more fluently.

355 Arrau: Exactly! On the sforzando [m. 48] you loose the character of YA TA TA, with

anger! Before getting to the second time through, you have to get to fortissimo. Up to the second measure [m. 41], [play] fortissimo, especially the left hand. [In mm. 41, 49, 57, 65, etc.]: The left hand imitates the right hand. A lot of energy! Let’s look for a fingering that you could really play it [RH] fortissimo. You could play the top note [m. 40, RH] with three fingers, but try to have the thumb free [to keep going]. 5 4 3 on high F. There is also the possibility to do it like this. No crescendo [before the ff, m. 48]. [In mm. 48-49]: There are three fortissimo notes; the last fortissimo is the end of these three but it is also the beginning, so it has to be very clear. Those notes [should] never [be] weak. Usually, people play soft on the F [at beginning of m. 48]. Where you have the four measures in fortissimo [mm. 72-75], don’t diminish the intensity. [At the ritardando in the recapitulation, mm. 104ff.]: It’s very hard, to make it comprehensible for the listener. Why? It has to scare. You have to get scared of your own effervescence and vitality. [After the ritardando]: More ritardando, less ritenuto [more gradual slowing down]. Coda: Arrau: Please! No ritardando at all before it is marked. Miranda: Get there with all the energy. Forte, mezzo forte on the C chord, piano on the final measures.

III. Adagio ma non troppo [The movements are connected by pedal]. Arrau: More deep. You have to sink yourself into that pedal. Sink like you do in the depth

of the sea. Sink in your own soul. Hold the pedal between last two notes. The crescendo in the Andante [m. 4] you didn’t do enough. The three chords go in crescendo to mezzo forte and then piano [m. 5]. The articulations on the same notes [the As, m. 5], I don’t like them. They sound too attacked. Crescendo more when it says meno adagio [m. 6] so the C-flat will make a cry of pain. Here [mm. 14-16] you didn’t do enough crescendo up to G-flat [RH, m. 15, beat 3]. Crescendo up to G-natural [in LH, m. 16]. [Change] Pedal for every triplet [mm. 7ff.]. In Arioso dolente [m. 9], the feeling has to be desolation. In the last phrase, after you have cried all your pain, the last phrase [m. 24, beat 4 – m. 26] is like an act of humbleness. And that [the Arioso dolente] goes for a long time, so from the depth of your soul comes hope. Wait before the second one [last note of the movement, m. 26]. IV. Fuga, Allegro ma non troppo

356

Arrau: [m. 114] Not too fast. The fugue is a millimeter [millimetro] too fast. The idea of

the whole fugue is that you are walking higher and growing on your faith, faith in God. And then, you get to the end of the fugue with total conviction. And for that, it has to be a little more fluid but, in general, you keep it quite collected, serene. Be careful after the first crescendo that you don’t play the first G of the middle voice too loud [m. 45], because that is the beginning of the theme in octaves. But still, it is loud. You do a diminuendo too soon. Remember, I told you once that people play this fugue just bringing out the theme; they don’t play like they are seeing it in different lights, shades. The different voices are giving different colors to the theme all the time. That’s why the other voices have to be active and not too weak. The other voices are commenting, developing the theme. In the voices of the intermezzos [episodes], when the theme is not present, the voices are still active, as in a conversation [m. 58]. After that theme, you have to make the voices more independent. This time when you played the bass, it didn’t really mean anything. All the voices have to have their life. The ninth [m. 70, between the G in the bass and the A-flat in the treble], especially the minor ninth, always expresses a lot of pain. Here it is like a cry. Don’t you see there is a pause from the eighth note [actually after the quarter-note B on beat 1] before? Take flight [“vuelo,” waiting a little bit, and lifting more before playing] from there. It’s as if suddenly you remember the pain from the arioso and you cry. And then, desperately, you go back to the path of faith [m. 82]. When I said the voices should be active, here you did it better. The middle voices also have to have life. Then, after the third [three] octaves [m. 101], you have to get to the theme tremendously. Remember that L’istesso tempo means the same tempo. You are already in tempo there, without ritardando. [Arrau points out that the tempo in the third movement is the same as the tempo reached at the end of this first fugue.] Do the ornament [in m. 125] with the downbeat. In the last two measures [mm. 207-8], the left hand is very important and you’re not doing it because of your fingering. [Arrau suggests the fingering 5-3-2 2-2-3 | 5-3-2 2-2-3 for the lower notes of the left hand part.] The left hand has to be like a thunderstorm. Don’t rush for anything on earth, because the more you rush, the more you lose the quality of grandiosity. And this sonata especially is one of hope and triumph. The L’istesso tempo [m. 114] seemed to me slower than before. At Perdendo le forze [m. 116] you [should] lose force; but then you crescendo [m. 133]. You’re still alive! Take a breath before the last fugue. You lift up the pedal and start with a new pedal for the first note. Start the second fugue a little slower and, little by little, get into the primo tempo. When you get here [Meno allegro, m. 168] you have to hold back the last three notes [in each motive]. The Meno allegro is a moment of jubilation. You have to study it counting aloud to make the tempo very clear. Poco a poco più mosso [m. 172] needs a little agitation. The sforzando [in the fugue subject, LH, mm. 175-76, 179-82], very, very [inaudible]; it’s costing you a lot.

357

In the Allegro molto [second movement] you could play the sforzando, but not here yet. Make your power from here and not from there. The movement loses its mystical quality. Have you heard the story of the angel that lives two different lives? And he elevates himself to the clouds. And these two moments in which the angel gets to heaven represent the two fugues.

358 APPENDIX FOUR A LESSON ON RAVEL’S GASPARD DE LA NUIT Claudio Arrau and Mario Miranda. Tape recorded, 1965 In Spanish. Translated by Angelina Tallaj, Laura Ahumada, Cesar Reyes, Marcia Lewis, and German Diez. “Scarbo” Arrau: Now that you stopped, the beginning is a little bit too slow. [Some inaudible conversation takes place.] The beginning of the tremolo [at m. 45] is ok. You should have started at that tempo from the beginning. You are always behind [adrasado] on the main motive at Au mouvt. [To guide how this should be played, Arrau sings: ta da dee; m. 45; there is no pause before the third note of the motive.] That’s why the fingering, the new one that I have, they are like bunches of fingers. [Arrau is referring to the left-hand arpeggio. He uses the word “racimos,” bunch, a word used in speaking of bananas; when playing fast, the fingers should operate in a bunch. Considerable time is spent discussing fingering for the left-hand arpeggio.] [He tries another fingering.] It could be 5-3. Miranda: It’s kind of hard for me, that fingering. Arrau: I think you raise the fifth finger, but raise the wrist! The wrist, a little bit before. Later, later! There, there! [All of this concerns the LH, m. 38.] [Beginning of the arpeggio]: (trapo) Hanging loose. After the third measure [m. 34] what fingering do you do? That’s ok, and later: 5-5 [in the] third measure. No, that’s impossible. Try to play regular arpeggios. In the impressionist style, you have to play all the notes, but very blurred. The structure of the passage is faulty. It’s unrealistic the way he wrote it. Keep the notes very blurred because keeping it clear is not the point. Ok, let’s see the beginning. You should try not to have a big pause between the beginning and the first motive and the chord. Quicker [rapido]! You are playing too carefully, trying to bring out all the notes. I still don’t like the character of the first three notes. It must be already scary in character. It has to produce terror already. You played it better this time. The fingering 2-1 is better than 1-2 [on the tremolo]. Miranda: Gieseking plays it quite slower in his last period. Arrau: People say that de Laroccha plays it like that. I also think the sound is a little takatakataka [too articulated, each note defined clearly, on the tremolo]. Miranda: I can’t do the pianissimo, the diminuendo.

359

Arrau: Your first note is a little bit too soft. . . . That was the best. Your bass note is a little bit too loud [mm. 9-13]. Miranda: Can I use 1-3 here [on the tremolo]? Arrau: Yes, you can. You could do the movement first [tremolo mm. 9-13]. This movement can be done better with first and second fingers. Each piano is different and each hall. Like the glissando in the “Waldstein,” it is different with every piano and every hall. You have to go and try it. The accelerando you are not doing gradually enough [mm. 17ff.]. In the last measures you accelerate too much while you don’t accelerate enough in the beginning. [After mm. 23ff.] Are you loose? Are you inside the keys? “Très fondu en tremolo,” [very meltingly in tremolo] it says at the beginning, and this is valid here, too. Again, you should not hear all the notes. You are playing all the notes but you don’t have to hear them [following the comment above, that the notes should be more blurred together]. I would like you to do the previous crescendo up to a forte, then subito pianissimo [m. 23] and then start again. Miranda: So you have to breathe. Arrau: Yes. [Miranda plays mm. 15ff.] Arrau: But the important thing is [sings] really, really light. [Miranda plays again.] Arrau: Pretty. [In m. 32] The triplets are better. After that, a little too fast [in mm. 39ff.]. You have to play very measured sixteenth notes. Miranda: Where it says “2 ped.,” should I use just the left pedal? Arrau: No, no! Put down both. All these tremolo figures throughout the whole piece should be played with two pedals. [Miranda plays at m. 32]. Arrau: Do the same thing without getting away from the keys. The second time you did it pretty, the first time, no. You cut it [paused before the third note of the motive]. More crescendo! [Arrau sings the motive.] [At un peu marqué, m. 52] The C is very important. [Arrau sings the crescendo, m. 54, to show the decrescendo.] Uprising! Miranda: It’s like a commentary on the previous figure.

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Arrau: Yes, those things continue through the passage. Why don’t you put a mark for the breath after the crescendo [beginning of m. 54] and three measure later, too? A breathing point, one [“auno” after un peu marqué before m. 52], another [“otro” after the pp], and naturally, four measures later. These breathing points at this point are very important because you have very different elements. That’s one thing; [sings] another thing. Yes, very good, but a little crescendo. And now do something else. Those measures, don’t rush them [mm. 57-58, 64-65.] One tends to rush when there is a difficult part because you don’t want to face the difficulty. It’s a discipline exercise to play in public and have total control of the tempo. And in that part [m. 67] where you have the thirds and 2 ped. symbol, try to start pianissimo. And please count, 1-2-3. Miranda: Should I do 1-5, 1-4, or 1-5, 2-3 [fingering on the thirds, mm. 65-67]? Arrau: 1-4, 2-3 is a little bit too difficult. Miranda: On the chromatic scale here, I have 1-2-3-4-5 [m. 67]. Arrau: That’s the best. After that you have an accent on that measure [m. 68], but you did it on the second measure, too [Arrau means, do not accent the beginning of m. 69]. And now, right there on the first measure [in mm.73ff.], show me the left hand. Show me first the going up. Then we’ll treat the going down. You should go down much slower than you go up [m. 73 contains triplet sixteenths; m. 74 contains duplet sixteenths]. Go towards the thumb [going up]. How wouldn’t it be possible to play [staccato, m. 73]? You just didn’t put in the work on it. You’re always late with the left hand. You have a tendency to get sluggish because of trying to connect the ninth. But you have to do five jumps [you have to vibrate every note] without rotation. You didn’t do the crescendo [m. 75]. Stay there [don’t jump off the keys, mm. 78-79]. That little . . . [m. 79; sentence unfinished]. Miranda: But I’m doing this legato and then a staccato. Arrau: Yes, the right hand is legato and the left hand is staccato. In the following don’t rush. All of this was really good [mm. 80ff.], but please, please write it down. Everyone starts rushing because it’s easier there [m. 80]. Miranda: But it’s pianissimo right there. Arrau: Yes, but when you play it fast, it’s easier. That has to be measured, not running. Even in the big crescendo, that goes toward the chord [m. 92]. Don’t rush! Very well, but you didn’t do the diminuendo [m. 93]. It’s just a matter of concentration. Now you anticipated the crescendo [mm. 104ff.], the one before the pause. It has to feel like something that comes over you, like a nightmare, like it’s going to catch you.

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Miranda: Should I do lateral movement [rotation]? Arrau: Yes, a little bit, but it should feel measured. I don’t like that da dup – pum [m. 110]. That’s pretty when you go toward the top. You cut it! Now, remember that after the triplets it should be measured [broken octaves, mm. 116-19]. Now what fingering do you use there [m. 110]? The important thing now is exactly . . . [sentence unfinished]. You have to play the E’s vibrating [m. 122]. That’s it! Pretty! That’s where you lose the rhythm [m. 131]. You start late, then you rush. [Play] With a little bit of pedal. Miranda: Here I become a little bit stiff. Arrau: That’s because of the fingering. Miranda: I didn’t notice it before but I should have played like this.

Arrau: Yes. Miranda: I heard a recording from the . . . it doesn’t sound good.

Arrau: How did you realize it? By watching the music? What an ear you have! Play very mechanically [mm. 159-67]! No rushing [m. 170]. Exact. You’re rushing. Remember to do the same way as before [the chords]. What notes do you play there? It sounds a bit weird [m. 162]. The last one is a little bit tricky. Maybe you could do it with two vibrations. Miranda: The fingering: 1-2-5, 1-3-5? Arrau: Fingers 1-2-5. You are in trouble in this passage [mm. 168ff.]. When you get to the fourth measure, let go of the pedal. Play pp but on the four staccati [mm. 171, 176] study it ff. You get too lazy on the staccati. It’s preferable to slow down. [At m. 181, Miranda shows the fingering.] Arrau: Do you use the thumb every time? It doesn’t necessarily have to be the same fingering every time. The four staccati are too important to let them go unnoticed. The rhythmical change is really important. Now play this measure with a little ritardando [m. 171]. If you do that and also fortissimo when you practice it, you will be able to play it. And now imagine a little crescendo [on the four staccati]. Now another little little trick that you could do there on the first two notes of that measure [m. 182]! They are legato and belong to the previous idea. Do them a little faster, and cut the pedal before the staccato. And now the dynamic gradation is very important. First pianissimo [m. 168], then piano [at m. 179, change to E-flat minor], then B major [m. 190], mezzo forte. On the B major part, the crescendo is too much anticipated. You did the forte well and the

362 diminuendo [mm. 198ff.] but the fortissimo was not good. The thing is to lift the weight on the rest [before you play the chords in m. 204] and drop, down-down; do two vibrations after the rest. Or, you lift and play up-down. Did you understand the two possibilities? Up-down. Miranda: Or two downs? It should be relaxed. Arrau: I realize that myself more and more. The lifting has to be the total relaxation of the whole body. Let’s check that first measure. What are you playing there [m. 202]? Play again the two measures before the ff [mm. 202-3]. The fortissimo has to be luminous, like the sun. Incorrect! Don’t rush [m. 220]! [Miranda plays mm. 215ff. A discussion of fingerings for m. 232 follows.] This passage is really hard and it is hard not to slow down. Every fingering is hard on that. The less risky is 5-3-2-1 [LH], 5-2 on the last two notes. The intervals are wide. If the passage comes out, that’s the best fingering. The biggest challenge in this passage is to start from an almost inaudible level, as if you had five ps. The whole passage is so difficult you need to play it with a big impulse [Arrau uses the word “vuelo”]. And I’m thinking that if you start that passage with a lot of weight, you’re going to make it too loud. Miranda: Is the note in the bass pianissimo [m. 228]? Arrau: Yes. I’m thinking you could vibrate the pedal in that passage. Miranda: Should I hold the bass note? Arrau: The bass note has to get lost. The right hand was a little too heavy. That’s it! What follows, you can work it out on your own. Miranda: This passage [m. 253] is a little safer and I’m doing the same fingering. Arrau: But there are some tricky intervals. Use the same fingering as before, 5-3-2-1; and

at the end, also, 5-2. Right there [mm. 256ff.], the appoggiaturas [the grace-note figures] have to start on time. But notice that the first four measures are pianissimo and then the next four measures are piano. Then comes that marvelous b-minor modulation [m. 268], which has to be pianissimo In the b-minor section, you still have to notice those appoggiaturas that begin on time [on the beat]. Before the [Arrau sings m. 268], take a breath. Look! Look! It’s like water! But I shouldn’t talk about water because there isn’t any water in this one. But deep inside it’s the same window. It’s similar to “Ondine” [at mm. 264-67], where passages that refer to the water come out of the blue. After that, the nervousness is going to return. Put the una corda pedal at the change of key [m. 264]. Now, what fingering do you do on that right hand [m. 264]?

363 Yes, right there you can use 1-2 [C-sharp - D], but really the problem is that you play the appoggiaturas as a chord. Right there, use 2 so you can go forward faster. Miranda: I think what one should not do is play with anticipation, to throw myself at the passage. [Anticipate the high notes, concentrate on the low notes.] Arrau: And actually, even anticipate yourself a little bit. And now pause [m. 267]; before the ppp, a cut; and 9 measures later [after m. 276], another cut. Right there, it is important that the position of the left hand is really high, that the fingers are completely straight [mm. 277ff.]. After the ppp, you have four easy measures [mm. 277-80], but then the following four measures you have to make your right hand go far from the left hand so that you leave a place for the right hand [Arrau seems to be advising that the LH cross under the RH, and that the RH must lift up to allow sufficient space for the LH to play comfortably]. Lift your right hand. You’re running a lot in that passage [mm. 285ff.]. You play legato because you’re being lazy. Shake the three notes [RH part] three times. I still don’t like your staccato passages very much [m. 285]. Play a little heavier and louder. Right there [mm. 305 and 307] you always play wrong notes in the bass. [In LH, m. 291] You play E instead of G-sharp. I like how you are starting to play the staccato passages—shaking, shaking, shaking! Play the third measure of the E-flat section [m. 305]. I want to check. Right there where you have the two notes together with the right hand [mm. 310-12, where two consecutive chords are written for RH], do it with shaking of the hand. That’s it! Loose and heavy! Right there [m. 314] you have to do the crescendo just like the beginning, and in the left hand [sings], too. Let’s see, let’s see, lets’ see! You’re making the same mistake as everybody else. Right there, the last measure [LH, m. 317, beat 2]: E-sharp! Yes, the Esharp is because of the harmony. Miranda: [plays the chords]. Arrau: Yes! Yes! That’s why, it’s E-sharp in the following one [RH, m. 318], but then Enatural. [RH, m. 320]. Ravel does those irregularities on purpose. That irregularity is very Ravel-like. He solves the dissonance by using E-natural later. Change pedal after the first beat [m. 319]. I still don’t like that. It’s too rushed [m. 314]. And then you’re always behind [RH, m. 324]. That passage [mm. 325ff.], everybody slows it down, but that cannot be. It has to be exactly in the previous tempo. You’re making it harder for yourself by playing the grace note in the left hand as an octave. Miranda: 2-5 for the grace note?

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Arrau: Yes, that’s the best. 5-3 goes well [for the bottom notes of the octaves, B-F-sharp, LH, m. 326]. Now show me the fingering [RH, m. 326]. Miranda: 5-2-1-4-2-1-4-2-1. [left hand] Should I finish with the 5th finger? Arrau: Yes. 1-2-4-5-1-2-5-1-4 [This is unclear, but seems to refer to LH, m. 327, beat 2 – m. 328, note 3]. Now this passage going down is really hard. Is that hard for you? You have to study it, C-sharp - F-sharp [fast], D – C-sharp, rhythm; and also the first two [Fsharp and C-sharp] together. Then in the fourth measure come the sixty-fourth notes. What fingering do you do [RH, m. 328]? The only safe fingering is 1-2-3-4-5 1-2-3-4-5. You still don’t have a very flexible wrist. Miranda: It is convenient to do it like a single brush stroke? Arrau: Yes. That’s better. And now diminuendo. And then again [m. 331]; only on the Eflat in left hand, did you have the thumb in the third measure, not the fourth [m. 330]? The wrist, really high [RH, m. 331]. That’s really good now, but pay attention to the last two so that you really shake the E-sharp [last note for the RH, m. 329]. The second passage [RH, m. 332], mucho esto, a lot in the thumb, sideways [lateral motion]. Your thumb is not flexible enough. Show me the left hand. What fingers do you do [LH, m. 335]? Third finger on D, [last note for LH, m. 333]. No running [m. 335]! No, you’re doing something here that Rafael already corrected. That passage of the scale [mm. 333-35] is one of the hardest in the piece and nobody can play it. You have to practice it a hundred thousand times and without looking. Miranda: So that I learn where the notes are spatially. Arrau: Especially the space on the note A [LH, m. 334, beat 1] is terrible. A hundred thousand times, and then try that all the notes form one movement that isn’t interrupted. That it doesn’t have any jumps. Do you want to do it a few times, just the left hand? [Miranda plays.] Pay attention to the last sixth going up [m. 334, beat 2]. Are you going to do 1-2-3 before the A or are you going to do 1-2-4? What do you do on the bottom? Fifth finger, right? Miranda: Yes. Arrau: So then practice this 1-2-3 and then jump to the seventh together. G and A together. And that, too, a hundred thousand times. Then going up, the seventh together,

365 then the thumb, then the third together. That’s it! Up-and-down would really do it. Without doing it like that you’ll never play it. Now, let’s see the next two arpeggios in the left hand. Miranda: They’ll never come out. Arrau: After many years of experience, the ultimate fingering:1-2-4-5, then 1-3-1-2-4-5 [LH, m. 338]. Please notice that that part starts mezzo-forte [m. 345]. Each time you have that, it’s mezzo-forte. There are four times [mm. 345, 347, 349, 351]. Write it down. Miranda: [inaudible]. Arrau: Yes, every time. And that last arpeggio like this: bshshsshsh! Keep on going. I know you must be a little tired, but I just want to see the shaking [mm. 358ff.]. Very big shake! Un peu retenu [m. 366, Arrau sings the two motives]. Instead of sixteenth notes, you’re playing thirty-second notes. That’s right! Now a little secret for the first note: it should be natural, but it’s not. For that first measure in the right hand, be already on the keys. And that also helps you for the left hand. The same for the third measure [m. 368]. So when you finish, move the right hand right away to the following chords of the next measure, because that’s where you get behind.

366 APPENDIX FIVE DIRECTORY OF NAMES SOURCE ABBREVIATIONS DP

Wilson Lyle, A Dictionary of Pianists (London: Robert Hale, 1985).

EB

Encyclopedia Britannica Online, 2006.

GD1

Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (London: Macmillan, 1879).

GD2

Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (London: Macmillan, 1904).

NGD New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (London: Macmillan, 1980). NGD2 New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (London: Macmillan, 2001). NGDA New Grove Dictionary of American Music (London: Macmillan, 1986). ODP

Simon Blackburn, The Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1994)

RML1 Hugo Riemanns Musik Lexikon (Berlin: M. Hesse, 1929). RML2 Riemann Musik Lexikon (Mainz and New York: Schott, 1959-67).

Albert, Eugen (Francis Charles) d’. Scottish-German pianist and composer, b. Glasgow, 1864; d. Riga, 1932. D’Albert studied music with Arthur Sullivan and Ebenezer Prout at the National Training School in London. In 1881 he traveled to Vienna, where he met Liszt; the following year, he was a pupil of Liszt at Weimar. He toured widely as a piano virtuoso from 1880 to 1900, and was known for his performances of German repertory. D’Albert was court conductor at Weimar in 1885 and became director of the Berlin Hochschule für Musik in 1907. He was married six times, once to Teresa Carreño from

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1892 to 1895. His compositions include twenty-one operas, two piano concertos, chamber music, lieder, piano pieces, and orchestral works. (NGD2) Boissier, Comtesse de Gasparin, Valerie. Swiss writer, b. Geneva, 1813; d. Pregny-Chambésy 1894. Valerie Boissier was a pupil of Liszt in 1832. She was married to French Count Agénor Étienne de Gasparin in 1837. She wrote more than eighty literary and journalistic works, mainly on religious themes. In 1859 she founded, with her husband, the École Normale Evangélique de Gardes-malades Indépendantes in Lausanne, the first secular school for nurses, from which today’s clinic and school, La Source, developed (www.cosmovision.com/Gasparin.htm and www.1914-1918.be/soigner_inf.php). Boissier-Butini, Caroline. Swiss composer and author, b. unknown; d. 1836. Mother of Valerie Boissier, she is author of a description of Liszt’s teaching entitled Liszt pédagogue: Leçons de piano données par Liszt à Mademoiselle Valerie Boissier à Paris en 1832 (Paris, 1927). Her compositions include six piano concertos (www.bonet.ch/musikdorf/index). Breithaupt, Rudolf Maria. German piano teacher, composer, writer; b. Braunschweig, 1873; d. Ballenstadt, 1945. Breithaupt succeeded Martin Krause as professor of piano at the Stern Conservatory in Berlin and remained there from 1919 to 1929. His writings include Die natürliche Klaviertechnik (Leipzig, 1906-1922) and Musikalische Zeit- und Streitfragen (Grossenwörden [Nieder-Elbe], 1927). (DP) Buhlig, Richard. American pianist and teacher, b. Chicago, 1880; d. Los Angeles, 1952. Buhlig studied with Leschetizky and made his debut in Berlin in 1901; his American debut was in 1907 with the Philadelphia Orchestra in New York. Buhlig was the teacher of Henry Cowell and Wesley Kuhnle, and he took them with him to Europe in 1925. He was also

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the teacher of John Cage. Grete Sultan’s association with John Cage was the result of their mutual relationship with Buhlig. Buhlig was also a piano teacher at the Institute of Musical Art in New York City. (NGDA) Caland, Elisabeth. Dutch-German pianist, teacher, and writer on piano technique; b. Rotterdam, Netherlands, 1862; d. Berlin, 1929. A pupil of Ludwig Deppe and Josef Rebiček, Caland also studied with Marie Trautmann Jaëll in 1897. She taught in Berlin from 1898 and in Gehlsdorf (Mecklenburg-Schwerin) from 1915. Caland’s writings on piano technique include Réforme pianistique (système Deppe) (Brussels: 1899), Die Ausnützung der Kraftquellen beim Klavierspiel: physiologisch-anatomische Betrachtungen (Stuttgart, 1905), Technische Ratschläge für Klavierspieler (Stuttgart, 1902), Das künstlerische Klavierspiel in seinen physiologischphysikalischen Vorgängen (Stuttgart, 1910), Praktischer Lehrgang: Anleitung zur Ausnutzung der Kraftquellen und zur Aneignung der Bewegungsformen beim künstlerischen Klavierspiel (Stuttgart, 1897, 1912), Die Deppe’sche Lehre des Klavierspiels (Stuttgart, 1912; Magdeburg, 1921). (RML2) Carreño, (Maria) Teresa. Venezuelan pianist, composer, conductor, singer, b. Caracas, 1853; d. New York City, 1917. Her family was musical, and her grandfather was composer José Cayetano Carreño. In 1862 the family immigrated to New York, where Carreño studied with Gottschalk. She made her debut at Irving Hall in 1862 and performed at the White House for Abraham Lincoln in 1863. Later, she studied in Paris with Mathias and Anton Rubinstein. She toured Europe and made her debut as an opera singer in 1876. After returning briefly to Venezuela, she settled in Berlin in 1889. Carreño was recognized as one of the greatest pianists of her time. She was married four times, once to pianist Eugen d’Albert from 1892 to 1895. Her daughter with singer Giovanni Tagliapietra, Teresita

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Tagliapietra-Carreño, was also a pianist. Teresa Carreño’s compositions include some forty works for piano and one string quartet. She recorded for the reproducing piano Welte-Mignon. Active as a teacher, her pupils included Edward MacDowell. (NGD2) Clark (Clark-Steiniger; also known as Leopold St. Damian), Frederic Horace. American pianist, teacher, and writer on piano technique; b. Liebeshain (Loves Park), Illinois (near Chicago), 1860; d. Zurich, 1917. Clark gave his birthplace as Liebeshain, a settlement that was a three-day walk west of Chicago. There is no record of a place by that name in northeastern Illinois; however, there is a town called Loves Park about ninety miles west of Chicago, and Clark may have simply Germanized the name. Clark traveled back and forth between Germany and the United States several times. He studied piano in Germany at the Leipzig Conservatory with Oscar Paul, privately with Ludwig Deppe and Heinrich Ehrlich, and possibly also with Moritz Moszkowski (Kullak’s school) and Oscar Raif (Tausig’s student). Clark claimed to have met Liszt in 1877 and visited him in Weimar in 1882. His conversations with Liszt about piano playing were the subject of Clark’s book, Liszts Offenbarung. Clark married fellow Deppe pupil Anna Steiniger (she figures in Amy Fay’s Music Study in Germany) and the couple moved to Uxbridge, Massachusetts (near Boston), in 1885. There, they hoped to gain a following for their transcendentalist theories of piano playing, but were disappointed. Anna Steiniger Clark died in 1891, and Clark remarried and moved to Valparaiso, Indiana, where he took a position as teacher in a normal school. Nothing further of his family is known, but in 1903 Clark was back in Germany, developing his theory of “Harmonie,” and giving concerts to demonstrate his “Cherubim-doctrine” of playing in a standing position using a two-keyboard piano, which he invented. His theories gained no more recognition in

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Germany than in the United States. Clark moved to Switzerland sometime between 1913 and 1914 and founded a publishing company, Pianisten-harmoniepresse, and a journal, Das Musizieren der Zukunft. Clark’s writings include Die Lehre des einheitlichen Kunstmittels beim Klavierspiel (1885), Phorolyse des Klavierspiels (1885), Liszts Offenbarung, Schlüssel zur Freiheit des Individuums (1907), Pianistenharmonie (1910), Eudämonie-Legende (1912-14), and Brahms-Noblesse (1914). (RML1; Robert Andres, Pianos and Pianism: Frederic Horace Clark and the Quest for Unity of Mind, Body, and Universe) Deppe, Ludwig. German violinist, composer, conductor, and piano pedagogue, b. Alverdissen, Lippe,1828; d. Bad Pyrmont, 1890. Deppe studied under Eduard Marxsen and Johann Christian Lobe. He taught piano, founded a musical society in Hamburg, and was a conductor there until 1868. He was Kapellmeister of the Royal Opera in Berlin (1874-86) and conductor of the Silesian musical society in Breslau (1876). Among Deppe’s pupils were Amy Fay, Frederic Horace Clark, C. A. Ehrenfechter, Hermann Klose, Emil Sauer, and Donald Francis Tovey. His compositions include a symphony, overtures, and songs. His essay “Armleiden der Klavierspieler” appeared in Der Klavierlehrer in 1885. (NGD2) Dreyschock, Alexander. Bohemian pianist and composer, b. Žáky, 1818; d. Venice, 1869. He studied in Prague with Tomášek in 1833, and toured Europe and Russia as a virtuoso from 1838 to 1849. From 1862 until 1868 he was professor of piano at the St. Petersburg Conservatory. Seeking relief from the Russian climate, he traveled to Italy in 1868 and died there. Dreyschock performed mainly his own works, written to display his technical

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ability. His brother, Felix Dreyschock, was a violinist, second concertmaster of the Gewandhaus Orchestra, and professor of violin at the Leipzig Conservatory. (NGD2) Ehlert, Louis. German pianist, teacher, writer on music, b. Königsberg, 1825; d. Wiesbaden, 1884. He was a pupil of Robert Schumann and Felix Mendelssohn at the Leipzig Conservatory in 1845. After further studies in Vienna, he settled in Berlin in 1850 and taught piano in Karl Tausig’s Schule des höheren Klavierspiels. Later he went to Meiningen as teacher to the Ducal court, and finally to Wiesbaden. He composed piano music, choral music, orchestral music, and Requiem für ein Kind. His writings include Briefe über Musik an ein Freundin (Berlin, 1879), Römische Tage (Berlin, 1867, 1898), and Aus der Tonwelt (Berlin, 1877). (GD2) Ehrenfechter, C. A. English writer on piano technique and author of Technical Study in the Art of Pianoforte Playing: Deppe’s Principles (London, 1900, 1939). No further information available. Faisst, Immanuel. German pianist, organist, and teacher, b. Esslingen,1823; d. Stuttgart, 1894. Faisst studied theology in Schönthal and Tübingen. He was a self-taught musician but for a few lessons with Felix Mendelssohn, K. A. Haupt (organ), and S. Dehn (theory) in Berlin. At Stuttgart from 1846, he taught piano and organ and was organist and choirmaster at the Stiftskirche. With Lebert and Stark, he was a founder of the Stuttgart Conservatory in 1857. He toured successfully as an organist and composed numerous lieder as well as choral and organ works. He is known for his pedagogical compositions and editions. (NGD2) Fay, Amy. American pianist, teacher, composer, and writer on music, b. Bayou Goula, Louisiana, 1844; d. Watertown, Massachusetts, 1928. She studied piano in Germany with

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Carl Tausig, Theodor Kullak, Franz Liszt, and Ludwig Deppe. In 1875 she returned to the United States to concertize, settling first in Boston and then in Chicago (1878), where she taught, wrote, and lectured on music. She moved to New York City and, from 1903 to 1914, was president of the New York Women’s Philharmonic Society, an organization devoted to promoting achievement by women in music. Her book Music Study in Germany (Chicago, 1880) is an important source of information on European music in the later nineteenth century. She also published The Deppe Finger Exercises: For Rapidly Developing an Artistic Touch in Pianoforte Playing (Chicago, 1890; reprinted Chicago, 1971). She composed one piano concerto, dedicated to Teresa Carreño. John Alden Carpenter was her pupil. (NGD2) Fétis, Francois. Belgian music theorist, historian, and composer, b. Mons, near Liège, 1784; d. Brussels, 1871. He studied with (François-)Adrien Boieldieu and Louis Pradher at the Paris Conservatoire, where he became a professor (in 1821) and librarian. He taught privately and at Choron’s Institution Royale de Musique Classique and Religieuse, and wrote reviews for Le Temps and Le National. In 1872 he founded Revue musicale and wrote it almost single-handedly. He was appointed director of the Brussels Conservatory in 1833. He published the Revue musicale de la Belgique, nearly identical to the Revue musicale in Paris, which was by this time supervised by his son. His historical writings include Biographie universelle des musicians (8 volumes, 1835-44), Histoire général de la musique (1869-76), and biographies of Paganini and Stradivarius. His Méthode des méthodes de piano (Paris, 1850) was written in collaboration with Moscheles. His compositions include two symphonies, four operas, chamber music, church music, and piano music. (NGD2)

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Fischer, Edwin. Swiss pianist and conductor, b. Basle, 1886; d. Zurich, 1960. Fischer attended the Basle Conservatory and studied piano with Hans Huber; later, he studied with Liszt pupil Martin Krause at the Stern Conservatory in Berlin. Fischer was one of Europe’s leading pianists in the 1920s. After teaching at the Stern Conservatory (1905-14) and the Berlin Hochschule für Musik (starting in 1931), he returned to Switzerland (1943) and held master classes in Lucerne. His pupils included Paul Badura-Skoda, Alfred Brendel, and Sequeira Costa. He founded the Edwin-Fischer-Stiftung, a foundation to help young or needy musicians. His publications include songs, short piano pieces, cadenzas for concertos by Mozart and Beethoven, and editions of Mozart’s piano sonatas, Bach’s keyboard works, and Beethoven’s violin sonatas. (NGD2) Fleischmann, Tilly Swertz. Irish pianist and teacher, b. Cork, 1883; d. Cork, 1967. Her father, Conrad Swertz, came to Cork from Dachau, Germany, in the late 1870s to take a position as cathedral organist. Tilly studied piano at the Royal Academy of Music in Munich from 1901 to 1906, and took master classes from 1903 with Liszt pupil Bernhard Stavenhagen. She married Aloys Fleischmann, a composer from Dachau and pupil of Rheinberger, and the couple returned to Cork, where Aloys acceeded to the position of cathedral organist and choirmaster and Tilly continued teaching piano until the day of her death. Their son, Aloys Fleischmann (called Og, meaning “young”), studied music at University College, Cork, and in Munich from 1932 until 1934. He was professor of music in Cork from 1934 to 1980. A composer and conductor, he founded the Cork International Choral Festival; he was also an authority on traditional Irish music. He died in 1992; his Sources of Irish Traditional Music was published in New York in 1998. (www.musicweb.uk.net/bax/Tilly.htm)

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Godowsky, Leopold. Polish-American pianist, b. Soshly near Vilnius, 1870; d. New York, 1938. Following the death of his father, he was raised by foster parents in Vilnius. By the age of five he was proficient on the piano and violin and had begun composing. He gave his first recital at the age of nine and subsequently toured throughout Lithuania and East Prussia. After a brief period of study with Ernst Rudorff at the Berlin Hochschule für Musik, he traveled to America. He performed in Boston and New York in 1884 and 1885, and the following year toured the Northeast United States and Canada with violinist Ovide Musin. From 1887 to 1890, he was a protégé of Saint-Saëns in Paris. He returned to the United States in 1890 and held teaching posts in New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago. During the 1890s, he developed his theories of relaxed weight and economy of motion in playing, and he began to make concert arrangements of other composers’ works. In 1900 he took up residence in Berlin and made annual European tours until 1909. From 1909 to 1914, he was director of the Klaviermeisterschule of the Akademie der Tonkunst in Vienna. He toured the United States in 1912 and 1914, and remained there until his tour of East Asia in 1922. He resumed concertizing in Europe from 1926 to 1930. The years from 1926 to 1930 also saw the publication of numerous transcriptions and original compositions. In 1928 he began recording major works by Beethoven, Schumann, Grieg, and Chopin in London. He suffered a stroke in 1930 while recording Chopin’s E major Scherzo. Godowsky composed many original works for solo piano, but his best known compositions are his 53 Studies on the Etudes of Chopin and transcriptions of Schubert’s Songs and Bach’s works. (NGD2) Göllerich, August. German pianist and writer on music, b. Linz, 1859; d. Linz, 1923. Göllerich studied piano with August Wick in Linz. He was Liszt’s pupil and secretary from May

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1884 until Liszt’s death in 1886. He became the head of the Ramann-Volckmann Music School in Nuremberg in 1890, and director of the Richard Wagner Society there in 1891. In 1896, Göllerich became head of the Music Society and Music Society School in Linz (renamed the Kaiser Franz Josef Jubilee Music School in 1908). He is author of The Piano Master Classes of Franz Liszt 1884-1886: Diary Notes of August Göllerich, edited by Wilhelm Jerger, translated, edited, and enlarged by Richard Louis Zimdars (Bloomington, 1996), and Franz Liszt: Erinnerungen (Berlin, 1908). With Max Auer, he co-authored a biography of Anton Bruckner, Anton Bruckner: A Portrait of His Life and Works (Regensburg, 1923-37). (The Piano Master Classes of Franz Liszt 1884-1886: Diary Notes of August Göllerich) Hauptmann, Moritz. German composer and writer, b. Dresden, 1792; d. Leipzig, 1868. Hauptmann studied violin and composition under Spohr, was violinist in the Dresden court chapel in 1812, and went to Vienna in 1813 with Spohr’s orchestra. From 1815 to 1820 he served as teacher to the family of Prince Repnin and traveled with him to Russia. He returned to Germany and in 1822 joined the orchestra of Kassel under Spohr’s direction. He also taught composition at Kassel, where his pupils included Ferdinand David and Friedrich Burgmüller. In 1842 recommendations from Spohr and Mendelssohn led to his appointment as Kantor of the Thomasschule in Leipzig. In 1843 he became a professor at the Leipzig Conservatory. His compositions consist of masses and choral music. He was editor of the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung. As a founding member of the Bach-Gesellschaft, he served as its first president and edited its first three volumes. He wrote several theoretical works, including Erläuterungen zu J. S. Bachs Kunst der

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Fuge (Leipzig, 1841, 1861) and Die Natur der Harmonik und Metrik (Leipzig, 1868, 1873). (NGD2) Herz, Henri. German pianist, composer, and teacher, b. Vienna, 1803; d. Paris, 1888. Herz studied with Daniel Hünten in Koblenz, and with Louis Pradher and Anton Reicha at the Paris Conservatory. A widely celebrated virtuoso, he toured Europe, Russia, South America, and the United States. He was professor of piano at the Paris Conservatory from 1842 to 1874 and founded his own piano factory in 1851. With his brother, Jacques Simon Herz, he founded the École Spéciale de Piano in Paris, where Marie Jaëll was one of his pupils. He composed salon pieces in the style of Hummel, Czerny, and Moscheles. (NGD2) Jaëll, Marie Trautmann. Alsatian pianist, composer, and teacher, b. Steinseltz, 1846; d. Paris, 1925. A pupil of Henri Herz from 1857, she was also a friend to Liszt. Beginning in 1882, she spent several weeks each year as Liszt’s secretary at Weimar. In 1866, she married pianist Alfred Jaëll (a Chopin pupil) and toured Europe with him, championing music by Hiller, Liszt, Raff, Reinecke, and others. A composition pupil of Saint-Saëns and Franck, she composed approximately seventy works for piano, as well as concertos, orchestral works, chamber music, and one opera. Fascination with Liszt’s playing inspired her study of the psychology and physiology of piano playing (in collaboration with physiologist Charles Féré) and her books: Le Toucher, enseignement du piano basé sur la physiologie (1894; translated into German by her pupil, Albert Schweitzer), La Musique et la psychophysiologie (1896), Le Mécanisme du toucher (1897), L’Intelligence et le rythme dans les mouvements artistiques (1904), Les Rythmes du regard et la dissociation des doigts (1906), Un Nouvel État de conscience et la coloration des

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sensations tactiles (1910), and La Résonance du toucher et la topographie des pulpes (1912). (NGD2) Joseffy, Rafael. Hungarian pianist and composer, b. Hunfalo, Hungary, 1852; d. New York, 1915. Joseffy studied in Budapest with Ferenc Brauer (teacher of Stephen Heller), in Leipzig with Moscheles and Wenzel (1866), and in Berlin with Tausig (1868-70). He spent two summers (1870 and 1871) with Liszt in Weimar. In 1879 he settled in New York. He toured with Theodore Thomas and his orchestra, and was one of the first to give regular performances of the music of Brahms. After nervous strain caused him to give up concertizing, he devoted himself to teaching. From 1888 to 1906, he taught at the National Conservatory in New York. His pupils included Moriz Rosenthal, Edwin Hughes, James Huneker, and Rubin Goldmark. He composed some salon pieces, and he published the School of Advanced Piano Playing (New York, 1902) and editions of works by Chopin, Czerny, Henselt, and Moscheles. (NGD2) Kalkbrenner, Friedrich. German pianist and composer, b. between Kassel and Berlin, 1784; d. Enghien (near Paris), 1849. Kalkbrenner was educated at the Paris Conservatoire under Louis Adam and in Vienna under Johann Georg Albrechtsberger and Joseph Haydn. He became a successful performer and teacher in London from 1814 until 1824; in Paris he was the most celebrated pianist between 1825 and 1835 and a member of the firm of Pleyel. He invented a “hand guide,” an adjustable horizontal rail on which to rest the forearm when playing in order to isolate the movement of the fingers from any action of the arm. His compositions are virtuosic works for piano, chamber ensemble, and piano with orchestra. His pedagogical works include several volumes of etudes and the

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Méthode pour apprendre le piano-forte à l’aide du guide-mains, Op. 108 (1831). (NGD2) Kellerman, Berthold. German pianist, b. Nuremberg, 1853; d. Munich, 1926. Kellerman studied at Ramann’s school in Nuremberg, and with Liszt at Weimar during the summers from 1873 to 1878. He taught in Berlin at Kullak’s Conservatory (1875-79) and the Stern Conservatory (1876-78). He went to Bayreuth in 1878 in Wagner’s Parsifal-Kanzlei, and was music teacher to Wagner’s children. In 1881 he conducted the orchestra concerts in Bayreuth. From 1882 to1919, he was a teacher at the Munich Royal Academy of Music. He is the main character in Ernst von Wolzogen’s Der Kraft-Mayr: ein humoristische Musikanten-Roman (Stuttgart: Engelhorn, 1897). (RML2) Kelley, Edgar Stillman. American composer and critic, b. Sparta, Wisconsin, 1857; d. New York, 1944. Kelley studied in Chicago, and at the Stuttgart Conservatory (1876) with Wilhelm Krüger and Wilhelm Speidel. He taught piano in San Francisco (1880-86), in New York (1891-92), at Yale (1901-02, replacing Horatio Parker), and in Berlin (190210). He was appointed dean of the composition department of the Cincinnati Conservatory (1910-34). His compositions include an orchestral suite (Aladdin, 1894), two symphonies, and an oratorio (The Pilgrim’s Progress, 1918). He is the author of Chopin the Composer (1913) and Musical Instruments (1925). Wallingford Riegger was his pupil. (DP, RML2, NGDA) Klindworth, Karl. German composer, conductor, pianist, and violinist, b. Hanover, 1830; d. Stolpe (near Oranienburg), 1916. Klindworth studied with Liszt in Weimar in 1852, where von Bülow and William Mason were fellow students. He also studied and taught in London from 1854 to 1868 and befriended Wagner there in 1855. He served as professor

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of piano at the Moscow Conservatory starting in 1868. In 1882 he became conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic and the Potsdam Wagner Society. He opened a conservatory in Berlin in 1884 that merged with Scharwenka’s conservatory (see below) in 1895. He toured England and the United States from 1887 to 1888. His eighteen-year-old adopted daughter, Winnifred Williams, married Siegfried Wagner in 1915. Upon Siegfried’s death in 1930, she assumed control of the Bayreuth Festival. Klindworth’s pupils included Sergei Liapunov, Ethelbert Nevin, and Edouard Risler. He published arrangements for piano of Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen and Schubert’s “Great” C major Symphony, and editions of Chopin’s complete works and Bach’s Das wohltemperierte Klavier. He also wrote some original compositions and an Elementarische Klavier-Schule. (NGD2) Klose, Hermann. A pupil of Deppe and author of Die Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels (1886). No further information available. (RML) Kontski, Antoine de (Antoni Katski). Polish pianist and composer, b. Krakow, 1817; d. Iwanowitsch, 1899. A pupil of John Field at the Moscow Conservatory, he was active as a pianist in Paris until 1851, and court pianist in Berlin until 1853. After short stays in St. Petersburg and London, he came to New York City in 1889. In 1897 he began a world tour, visiting Australia, New Zealand, East Asia, Siberia, and Warsaw. He died during this tour. He composed about four hundred salon pieces for piano, as well as operas, symphonies, piano concertos, chamber music, and sacred music. (NGD2) Krause, Martin. German pianist, teacher, music critic, b. Lobstädt (near Leipzig), 1853; d. Plattling, Bavaria, 1918. Krause studied with Reinecke and Wenzel at the Leipzig Conservatory and with Liszt at Weimar in the early 1880s. He concertized from 1878 to

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1880, but a nervous breakdown ended his performing career. He founded a Liszt Society in Leipzig in 1885 and championed new music. He reported on musical events for Berlin newspapers, Vossische Zeitung and Berliner Tageblatt. In 1899 he was a teacher at the Dresden Conservatory; in 1901 he went on to the Munich Academy of Composition; and from 1904 to 1918 he taught at the Stern Conservatory in Berlin. A popular teacher, he taught fifty private pupils in Leipzig and was responsible in Berlin for eighty pupils at a time. A Krause-School was founded by his pupils in Ottawa, Canada. His pupils included Claudio Arrau, Edwin Fischer, Rosita Renard, Elisabeth Bokemeyer, and Grete von Zieritz. He is reputed to have made a study of Liszt’s technique and teaching methods as well as to have written an incomplete work on rhythm and phrasing; the location of those writings is unknown. (RML2; NGD2) Kreutzer, Leonid. Russian-German pianist, b. St. Petersburg, 1884; d. Tokyo, 1953. Kreutzer studied piano with Annette Esipova and composition with Glazunov at the St. Petersburg Conservatory, and taught at the Hochschule für Musik in Berlin from 1921 to 1933. His recitals were often devoted to specific composers and themes. He performed works by contemporary composers César Franck, Claude Debussy, Paul Hindemith, and Paul Juon. During the 1920s, he played in a trio with violinist Josef Wolfsthal and cellist Gregor Piatigorsky. He is also known as an editor of Chopin’s works. Kreutzer immigrated to the United States in 1933, and to Japan in 1938. He is the author of Das normale Klavierpedal vom akustischen und äesthetischen Standpunkt (1915). His pupils included Sergius Kagen, Grete Sultan, Alexander Lipsky, Karl Ulrich Schnabel, Max Kowalski, Wladyslaw Szpilman (subject of the 2003 film The Pianist), Boris Berlin, Maryla Jonas, and Erno Balogh. (NGD2)

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Kullak, Adolph. German teacher and writer on music, b. Meseritz (now Międzyrzecz, Poland), 1823; d. Berlin, 1862. He was the brother of Theodor Kullak. While studying philosophy in Berlin, he also studied music with A. B. Marx. He served as co-editor of the Berliner Musikzeitung, taught at the Neue Akademie der Tonkunst, and wrote Die Ästhetik des Klavierspiels (Berlin, 1861). (NGD2) Kullak, Theodore. German pianist and teacher, b. Krotoschin (now Krotoszyn, Poland), 1818; d. Berlin, 1882. He gave his first piano recital in Berlin before the Prussian king at the age of eleven. While studying medicine in Berlin, he also studied music with W. J. A. Agthe, E. E. Taubert, and Siegfried Dehn. In 1843, he completed musical studies in Vienna under Czerny, Sechter, and Nicolai. In 1844 Kullak began teaching piano and in 1846 was appointed pianist to the Prussian court. With Julius Stern and A. B. Marx, he founded the Berlin Conservatory (later the Stern Conservatory). In 1855 Bülow succeeded him there and Kullak went on to found the Neue Akademie der Tonkunst which specialized in training pianists and became the largest private institute for music study in Germany with 100 teachers and 1100 pupils. His pupils included Hans Bischoff, Moritz Moszkowski, Philipp and Xaver Scharwenka, Amy Fay, and William Sherwood. Of Kullak’s many compositions for piano, the most important are his the studies. (NGD2) Kurth, Ernst. Austrian-Swiss musicologist, b. Vienna, 1886; d. Berne, 1946. Kurth studied in Vienna with Adler, privately with Robert Gund, and received a doctorate in 1908 with a dissertation on Gluck’s early operas. He was founder and editor of Berner Veröffentlichungen zur Musikforschung. His published works are of interest both to musicology and philosophy, and they include Grundlagen des linearen Kontrapunkts

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(1917), Romantische Harmonik (1920), and Musikpsychologie (1931). He taught at Berne University from 1920 until his death. (NGD2) Lachner, Franz. German conductor and composer, b. Rain am Lech, 1803; d. Munich, 1890. Lachner studied in Vienna with Simon Sechter and Abbé Maximillian Stadler and was a close friend of Schubert. He was employed as coach at the Kärntnertortheater in 1825 and became music director there in 1828. He also conducted at the Mannheim Opera in 1834. His greatest success was in Munich, as conductor of the court opera of King Ludwig I, and as director of the Musikalische Akademie concerts and the Königliche Vokalkapelle. Though a champion of Wagner’s operas, he was ousted in 1864 when Ludwig II, as part of a plan to entice Wagner to settle in Bavaria, replaced him with Hans von Bülow. Lachner’s compositions include eight symphonies, two oratorios, four operas, cantatas, a requiem, and other vocal and instrumental works. (NGD, NGD2) Lebert, Sigismund (Levy). German pianist, teacher, music editor, b. Würtemburg, 1821; d. Stuttgart, 1884. Lebert studied music in Prague with Tomášek and D. Weber, and he taught piano in Munich for several years before 1856. Though a successful teacher, his style of piano playing and teaching was criticized as too percussive. He cofounded the Stuttgart Music School with Stark, Faisst, Brachmann, and Laiblin, and co-edited (with Stark) the Grosse Pianoforte Schule. The Cotta Edition of Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas was begun by Lebert and Stark and continued by Hans von Bülow. (GD2) Leschetizky, Theodor. Polish pianist, teacher, and composer, b. Lancut in Austrian Poland, 1830; d. Dresden, 1915. His piano playing first attracted attention in Vienna in 1845. He made his debut in England in 1864 playing the Schumann Quintet and his own compositions. He taught at the Conservatory in St. Petersburg until 1878, and thereafter remained in

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Vienna. Leschetizky was married to four of his pupils, among them Anna Esipova (from 1880 until 1894), with whom he gave a series of duo piano recitals in 1887. Among his hundreds of pupils were Artur Schnabel, Jan Ignaz Paderewski, Alexander Brailowsky, Elly Ney, Mark Hambourg, Ossip Gabrilovich, Ignaz Friedman, Vasily Safanov, Isabelle Vengerova, Paul Wittgenstein, Mieczyslaw Horszowski, and Benno Moiseivich. His compositions consist of an opera and salon pieces for piano. (NGD2) Lobe, Johann Christian. German writer on music, violinst, and flutist, b. Weimar, 1797; d. Leipzig, 1881. Lobe played flute and viola in the ducal orchestra in Weimar. He moved to Leipzig in 1842, where he was editor of the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung from 1846 to 1848, and later edited his own series, Fliegende Blätter für Musik, and the music section of the Illustrierte Zeitung. His writings include Lehrbuch der musikalischen Komposition (Leipzig, 1850-67; 2/1884-87), Consonanzen und Dissonanzen (Leipzig, 1869), and Katechismus der Compositionslehre (Leipzig, 1872). His writings contain information about Goethe, Zelter, Mendelssohn, Schumann, Liszt, and Berlioz. Fliegende Blätter contains his “Gespräche mit Weber,” giving first-hand information about the composition of Der Freischütz. He composed five operas as well as orchestral and chamber music. A study of Lobe by Torsten Brandt, Johann Christian Lobe (1797-1881): Studien zu Biographie und musikshriftstellerischem Werk (Göttingen:Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht), was published in 2002. (NGD2) Marxsen, Eduard. German pianist and teacher, b. Nienstädten (near Altona), 1806; d. Altona, 1887. Marxsen studied with Johann Heinrich Clasing in Hamburg. After four years in Vienna, where he studied with Ignaz Seyfried and Carl Maria von Bocklet, he returned to Hamburg. Brahms studied composition with Marxsen and dedicated his B-flat Piano

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Concerto to him. Marxsen composed about seventy works, including an operetta, symphonies and overtures, lieder, chamber music with piano, and numerous piano pieces. (NGD2) Mason, William. American pianist, teacher, writer on music, b. Boston, 1829; d. New York, 1908. Mason was the son of music educator Lowell Mason, and the brother of Henry Mason, a cofounder of the Mason & Hamlin Company. His nephew, Daniel Gregory Mason, was a composer, author, professor of music, and head of the music department at Columbia University. William Mason studied piano with Henry Schmidt at the Boston Academy of Music and, simultaneously, began composing and publishing his own pieces for piano. In 1849, he traveled to Europe and studied with Ignaz Moscheles (Leipzig), Alexander Dreyschock (Prague), and Franz Liszt (Weimar, 1853, 1854). Returning to the United States in 1854, Mason settled in New York, where he performed, taught, and composed. With Theodore Thomas, he organized the Mason and Thomas Chamber Music Soirées, which premiered many Romantic works, including Brahms’s Trio in B major, Op. 8. Mason’s pedagogical writings include A Method for the Piano-Forte (with co-author E. S. Hoadly), A System for Beginners in the Art of Playing upon the PianoForte (1871), A System of Technical Exercises for the Piano-Forte (1878), and Touch and Technic, Op. 44 (1891-92). His Memories of a Musical Life was published in 1901. Mason composed more than fifty works for piano. (NGD2) Matthay, Tobias. English pianist, writer, teacher, and composer, b. London, 1858; d. High Marley (near Haslemere), 1945. Matthay entered the Royal Academy of Music in 1871, where his teachers included Sterndale Bennett, Ebenezer Prout, Arthur Sullivan, and George Macfarren. He was appointed sub-professor there in 1876, and full professor from

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1880 to 1925. His pupils included Myra Hess, Moura Lympany, Irene Scharrer, Harriet Cohen, Eunice Norton, and Harold Craxton. Matthay wrote eighteen volumes on piano playing and founded his own school based on his theories of piano technique and methods of teaching. The Act of Touch in All Its Diversity (London, 1903) and The Visible and Invisible in Pianoforte Technique (London, 1932, rev. in 1947 and 1956) have been widely influential. (NGD2) Mathews, W(illiam) S(mythe) B(abcock). American teacher, editor, writer on music, b. London, New Hampshire, 1837; d. Denver, Colorado, 1912. Mainly a self-taught musician, Mathews also studied with Lucien Southard of Boston in the 1850s and with William Mason in Binghamton, New York, in the summers from 1871 to 1873. He also collaborated with Mason on textbooks and piano methods. In 1867, he settled in the Chicago area where he taught piano, organ, and piano pedagogy. He helped to organize a teacher certification program sponsored by the Music Teachers National Association and a program of correspondence study for pianists called the Music Extension Society. In addition to piano methods and annotated collections of piano music, he wrote books on music history and appreciation, and contributed numerous articles to Dwight’s Journal of Music (1859-80) and The Etude (1884-1911). He was music critic for three Chicago newpapers, and editor of several journals including Musical Independent (1868-71), the Journal of School Music (1908-09), and Music (1892-1902), which he founded. (NGDA) Ortmann, Otto. American writer on piano playing, b. Baltimore, 1889; d. Baltimore, 1979. He graduated from Peabody Conservatory in 1917, was a faculty member from 1917 to 1941, and also served as conservatory director from 1928 to 1941. From 1942 to 1957 he taught in the music department at Goucher College and was its chairman from 1948 to

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1957. He taught courses in the psychology of music at The Johns Hopkins University from 1921 to 1924. His research in piano pedagogy gained him an international reputation. He is the author of The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique (London, 1929). (NGDA) Plaidy, Louis. German piano teacher, b. Wermsdorf in Saxony, 1810; d. Grimma, 1874. He studied piano with Agthe and violin with Haase in Dresden; in 1831, he went to Leipzig and concentrated his efforts on the piano so successfully that he attracted the attention of Mendelssohn, who appointed him to teach piano in the Leipzig Conservatory in 1843. Plaidy was renowned for his ability to impart technical strength to his pupils. His Technischen Studien was the result of a life devoted to technical training and it became a standard textbook. Plaidy resigned his post in 1865 and taught privately for the rest of his life. (GD2) Raff, Joachim. Swiss composer, pianist, and teacher, b. Lachen, Switzerland, 1822; d. Frankfurt, 1882. Raff was educated at the Gymnasium in Würtemberg and in a Jesuit Gymnasium in Schwyz. During the years from 1840 to 1844, while teaching in a primary school in Rapperswil, he became an accomplished pianist and organist. Mendelssohn praised his first compositions and assisted in their publication. In 1845 Raff met Liszt, who helped him find employment in Cologne. Raff later followed Liszt to Weimar, worked as his assistant and secretary from 1849 until 1856, and continued to compose under his supervision. Raff wrote polemics on behalf of Liszt and other Weimar composers but, finding Liszt’s influence stifling, he became alienated from this group. He moved to Wiesbaden and won independent recognition as a composer. He was appointed director of the Hoch Conservatory in Frankfurt in 1877. His compositions include operas,

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symphonies and other orchestral music, piano compositions, chamber music, and choral works. Edward MacDowell was his pupil. (NGD2) Ramann, Lina. German teacher and writer on music, b. Mainstockheim (in Bavaria), 1833; d. Munich, 1912. Her early interest in music was rewarded with lessons at age seventeen when her family moved to Leipzig. She studied piano with the wife of Franz Brendel (editor of the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik), a pupil of John Field. Ramann took up a career as music teacher and taught, first in Gera and then for a short time in the United States. She founded an institute in Glückstadt (Holstein, 1858) for the training of women music teachers, and cofounded with Ida Volckmann the Ramann-Volckmann Music School at Nuremberg (1865). The latter school came under the leadership of August Göllerich when Ramann moved to Munich in 1890. In 1880 she published a study of Liszt’s Christus (Leipzig: Kahnt). This was followed by a two-volume biography of Liszt, Franz Liszt als Künstler und Mensch (Leipzig, 1880-94), and a six-volume edition of Liszt’s writings, Lisztiana: Erinnerungen an Franz Liszt in Tagebuchblättern, Briefen und Dokumenten aus den Jahren 1873-1886/87 (Mainz, London, New York, 1983). Her Liszt-Pädagogium (Leipzig, 1901) contains ideas of Liszt and some of his pupils on piano teaching. She composed four sonatas (Op. 9), a piano method, and three volumes of technical studies. (RML2, NGD2) Reinecke, Carl. German pianist, conductor, composer, and teacher, b. Hamburg, 1824; d. Leipzig, 1910. The son of a music teacher, his first concert tour took place in 1843 and led to an appointment as Court pianist in Denmark from 1846 to 1848. He taught in Hiller’s Conservatory in Cologne in 1851 and at the Leipzig Conservatory from 1860, where he served as director from 1897. His pupils included Edvard Grieg, Christian

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Sinding, Leoš Janáček, Isaac Albéniz, and Max Bruch. He served as conductor of the Gewandhaus Orchestra from 1860 until 1895. His compositions included more than three hundred published works. (NGD2) Rudorff, Ernst. German pianist, teacher, and composer, b. Berlin, 1840; d. Berlin, 1916. He studied piano and composition with Woldemar Bargiel and, in 1858, piano with Clara Schumann. He studied violin with Louis Ries. In 1852 he played for Joachim, who encouraged him to pursue a career in music. He attended the University at Leipzig and studied at the Leipzig Conservatory with Plaidy, Moscheles, Reinecke, Richter, Hauptmann, and Reitz; thereafter, he continued private studies with Hauptmann and Reinecke. In 1867 he became professor at the Cologne Conservatory and founded a Bach Society there. In 1869 he accepted a post at the Hochschule für Musik in Berlin under Joachim’s direction and remained there until 1910. He succeeded Max Bruch as conductor of the Stern Choral Society in Berlin in 1880, and also conducted the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra. He was a member of the editorial board of Denkmäler der Deutscher Tonkunst, a member of the senate of the Royal Academy of the Arts, and a founder of the environmental protection movement. He received an honorary doctorate from the University of Tübingen in 1910. His compositions include orchestral and choral works, lieder, and piano solos. (NGD2) Ruskin, John. English poet, painter, and writer on art, social and political economy, and myth; b. London, 1819; d. Brantwood (near Coniston Water in the Lake District), 1900. Educated at Christ Church, Oxford, Ruskin was the first Slade Professor of Fine Art at Oxford from to 1870 to 1880. He defended painter Joseph Turner from his critics, and befriended American man of letters and art historian Charles Eliot Norton. Ruskin’s attack on the

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impressionist style and Whistler’s painting Nocturne resulted in a libel suit that attracted popular interest. Ruskin’s writings addressed the moral value of art and were influential in the trade union and the Arts and Crafts movements, as well as in the founding of the National Trust, the National Art Collections Fund, and the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings. He wrote more than 250 works including Modern Painters, The Seven Lamps of Architecture, The King of the Golden River, The Stones of Venice, The Harbours of England, The Elements of Drawing. The Political Economy of Art, The Elements of Perspective, The Two Paths. (EB) Scharwenka, Xaver. Polish-German pianist, composer, and teacher, b. Samtner (then in Southern Prussia, now part of Poland), 1850; d. Berlin, 1924. Scharwenka studied in Berlin under Theodor Kullak from 1865. He began touring as concert pianist in 1874, performing throughout Europe as well as in the United States and Canada. He founded a conservatory in Berlin in 1881 (that merged with Klindworth’s in 1895; see above), organized an annual concert series, and conducted orchestral works by Liszt, Beethoven, and Berlioz. After his first tour of the United States in 1891, Scharwenka immigrated and opened the Scharwenka Music School in New York City, which he directed from 1891 to 1898. He returned to Berlin and continued concert touring, helped to found the Music Teachers Federation (1900) and the Federation of German Performing Artists (1912), and, after a falling-out with Klindworth, opened another conservatory (1914). His compositions include one symphony, chamber music, concertos, piano solos, and Methodik des Klavierspiels (Leipzig, 1907). (NGD2) Siloti, Alexander Il’yich (Ziloti). Ukrainian pianist and conductor, b. Khar’kov, 1863; d. New York City, 1945. Siloti studied at the Moscow Conservatory with Nikolay Rubinstein and

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Chaikovsky and with Liszt at Weimar (1883-86). He taught at the Moscow Conservatory (1887-90) and conducted in Russia (1901-19). He settled in New York in 1922 and taught at the Juilliard School of Music (1924-42). His pupils included Mark Blitzstein, Alexander Goldenweiser, and Sergei Rachmaninoff. He wrote piano transcriptions and a book, My Memories of Liszt (Edinburgh, 1910-19). (DP; NGD2) Stark, Ludwig. German pianist, teacher, music editor, b. Munich, 1831; d. Stuttgart, 1884. Educated at the University at Munich, and in music by the Lachners (see above), Stark traveled to Paris in 1856. Shortly thereafter, he moved to Stuttgart, where he cofounded the Stuttgart Music School with Faisst, Lebert, Brachmann, and Laiblin. In 1865 the school was allowed to assume the title of Conservatorium. Stark and Lebert collaborated on instruction books, including the four-volume Grosse Klavierschule, Instruktive Klavierstücke (four grades), Jugendbibliothek and Jugendalbum (each in twelve parts), and Instruktive klassischer Ausgabe (21 volumes, with compositions by various composers). The Cotta edition of Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas was the best known of the Stuttgart publications. (GD2) Stavenhagen, Bernhard. German pianist, conductor, and teacher, b. Greiz, 1862; d. Plainpalais (near Geneva), 1914. Stavenhagen studied in Berlin with Theodor Kullak (piano), Ernst Rudorff (piano and conducting), and Friedrich Kiel (theory and composition). In 1880 he received the Mendelssohn Prize for his Piano Concerto in C major. He went to Weimar in 1885 to study with Liszt and traveled with him to Rome, Budapest, Paris, London, and Bayreuth. After Liszt’s death, Stavenhagen toured Europe and North America for ten years. He became court pianist to the Grand Duke of Sachsen-Weimar in 1890 and Kapellmeister in 1895. In 1898 he traveled to Munich and was named Director of the

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Royal Academy of Music there in 1901. From 1907 he lived in Geneva, where he conducted and taught piano master classes at the Conservatory until his death. As conductor, he advocated new music and premiered works by Richard Strauss, Hans Pfitzner, Gustav Mahler, Arnold Schoenberg, Claude Debussy, and Maurice Ravel. His pupils included Ernest Hutcheson, Edouard Risler, and Tilly Swertz Fleischmann. (RML2) Steinhausen, Friedrich. German physiologist and writer, b. 1859; d. 1910. Steinhausen was a proponent of arm-weight technique who recommended applying knowledge of physiology rather than mechanical drill to the development of technique. He was the author of Die Physiologie der Bogenführung auf den Streich-Instrumenten (Leipzig, 1920) and Über die physiologischen Fehler und die Umgestaltung der Klaviertechnik (Leipzig, 1905). Stradal, August. Bohemian pianist, composer, and teacher, b. Teplice, Bohemia, 1860; d. Krásná Lipa, 1930. Stradal studied in Vienna under Anton Door, Theodor Leschetizky, and Anton Bruckner. He studied with Liszt in Weimar in 1884 and accompanied him to Budapest and Bayreuth in 1885 and 1886. After a period of concert touring and teaching piano in Vienna, he returned to Teplice and taught there until 1890. He arranged orchestral works by Bruckner and Liszt for piano, edited keyboard works by Bach, Handel, Buxtehude, and Frescobaldi, and composed original songs and piano pieces. His writings include Erinnerungen an Franz Liszt (Leipzig, 1929). (RML2) Sultan, Grete (Johanna Margarete). German-American pianist, b. Berlin, 1906; d. New York City, 2005. Sultan was born into a German-Jewish family with strong musical interests. Two of her aunts studied with Clara Schumann. Richard Strauss, Artur Schnabel,

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Ferruccio Busoni, and American pianist Richard Buhlig were family friends. Sultan formed an early friendship with Claudio Arrau. She studied at the Hochschule für Musik under Leonid Kreutzer, and her later studies were with Edwin Fischer. The Nazis’ rise to power interrupted her career and forced her to leave Germany, and Buhlig helped her to escape to the United States in 1941. He also introduced her to Henry Cowell and John Cage. Cage’s Etudes Australes were written for her. Sultan taught at Vassar College, the 92nd Street Y in New York City, and the Masters’ School in Dobbs Ferry, New York. Throughout her life, she continued performing new music as well as classical works, giving a performance of the Goldberg Variations in New York’s Merkin Hall shortly after her ninetieth birthday in 1996. (Anne Midgette, “Grete Sultan, 99, a Pianist and Mentor to Cage, Is Dead,” The New York Times [July 3, 2005], 27) Suzuki, Shinichi. Japanese violinist and teacher, b. Nagoya, 1898; d. Matsumoto, 1998. Suzuki’s father owned the largest violin-making firm in Japan. Suzuki studied violin in Nagoya with Ando Ko and in Germany with Karl Klingler from 1921 to 1928. Returning to Japan, he founded the Suzuki Quartet with three of his brothers, and he became president of the Teikoku Music School in 1930. As founder and conductor of the Tokyo String Orchestra, he introduced Baroque music to Japanese audiences. He developed a philosophy of teaching known as “Talent Education.” His pedagogical ideas were published in Nurtured by Love (New York, 1969) and Ability Development from Age Zero (Athens, Ohio, 1981). (NGD2) Swedenborg, Emanuel. Swedish scientist, philosopher, spiritual writer, b. Stockholm, 1688; d. London, 1722. Swedenborg was born into an ecclesiastical family and educated at Uppsala. His scientific discoveries, made while working at the Board of Mines (1716-

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47), brought him recognition as one of the founders of crystallography. Swedenborg believed he had direct contact with the spiritual world, and he created a fraternity of followers of his doctrines. His philosophy contains elements of panpsychism, pantheism, and theosophy. (ODP) Tausig, Carl. Polish pianist and composer, b. Warsaw, 1841; d. Leipzig, 1871. His father, Aloys Tausig, was a pupil of Thalberg. Carl Tausig became a pupil of Liszt at age fourteen. His Berlin debut was in 1858 in a concert conducted by Bülow. After brief stays in Dresden and Vienna, Tausig settled in Berlin in 1865 and opened the Schule des Höheren Klaverierspiels in 1866. Amy Fay was one of his pupils and she wrote about his teaching in Music Study in Germany. Tausig toured successfully in Germany and Russia. The rigors of travel weakened his health and he died of typhoid at age twenty-nine. His compositions include original works and arrangements of classical works. (NGD2) Thalberg, Sigismond. German or Austrian composer and pianist, b. Geneva, 1812; d. Posillipo, Italy, 1871. Thalberg was a pupil of Hummel and Sechter in Vienna, of Pixis and Kalkbrenner in Paris, and of Moscheles in London. His rivalry with Liszt resulted in a journalistic controversy that was joined by Fétis (defending Thalberg) and Berlioz (on the side of Liszt); the two pianists were reconciled in a concert, which they presented jointly for the Princess de Belgiojoso. Thalberg’s concerts and recitals thereafter drew large audiences throughout Europe as well as in Brazil and the United States. He lived for a time in the United States, teaching, concertizing, and organizing opera productions. In 1858, he bought a villa in Posillipo (near Naples) and there spent his last years as a vintner. He composed approximately one hundred works, the most successful of which are for the piano. (NGD2)

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Vianna da Motta, José. Portuguese pianist, teacher, and composer, b. São Tomé, 1868; d. Lisbon, 1948. Vianna da Motta studied at Berlin with Xaver and Philip Scharwenka, with Liszt at Weimar in 1885, and with Bülow at Frankfurt in 1887. He presented his debut in Berlin in 1885 and concertized thereafter throughout Europe and in South America, the United States, and Russia. He was a friend of Busoni and an admirer of Wagner. In 1914 Vianna da Motta moved to Switzerland and succeeded Stavenhagen at the Geneva Conservatory. In 1917 he returned to Portugal and established the Sociedade de Concertos, conducted symphony concerts in Lisbon, and was director of the National Conservatory of Lisbon from 1919 to 1938. His compositions include a symphony and numerous short works for piano and for piano and voice. He edited Liszt’s piano compositions. His brief sketch of Liszt appears in Göllerich’s The Piano Master Classes of Franz Liszt, 1884-1886 (Bloomington, 1996). (NGD2) Wagner, Emilie. American musician, teacher, writer, b. New Bedford, Massachusetts, 1867; d. Brookhaven, Long Island, New York, 1945. Wagner studied chemistry and biology at Goucher College in Baltimore, and joined the advisory board of the newly formed College Settlement Association there in 1894. In autumn of that year, she moved to the Lower East Side of New York City and began giving violin and piano lessons in the basement of the Mariner’s Temple in Chatham Square, an activity that quickly grew into a school that became the Third Street Music School Settlement. After several changes in location, the school was incorporated in 1903 as The Music School Settlement, and in 1905 it moved to quarters at 53 and 55 East Third Street. Wagner resigned from The Music School Settlement in 1907 and founded two other music schools: at 69 Norfolk Street and in Brookhaven, Long Island. She died in a car and train collision on May 4,

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1945. (Mary Jo Pagano, “The History of the Third Street Music School Settlement 18941984,” D.M.A. diss., Manhattan School of Music, 1996) Whiteside, Abby. American piano pedagogue, b. South Dakota, 1881; d. New York City, 1956. Whiteside studied in Germany with Rudolf Ganz. Her students included Robert Helps, Sonia Rosoff, and Joseph Prostakoff. She published her teaching methods in Indispensables of Piano Playing (New York, 1955). (DP) Wieck, (Johann Gottlob) Friedrich. German piano teacher, b. Pretzsch (near Torgau), 1785; d. Loschwitz (near Dresden), 1873. Wieck studied piano with J. P. Milchmeyer; he also studied theology in Wittenberg and worked as a tutor in Thuringia and Saxony. His interest in teaching and educationist writings were the basis of an essay, Wöchentliche Bermerkungen über den Schüler Emil von Metzradt (1809). Partly as a result of collaboration with Adolph Bargiel, he settled in Leipzig as a piano teacher in about 1813. He also sold instruments, opened a music lending library, and taught vocal technique. Wieck was the father and teacher of Clara Schumann; Robert Schumann and Hans von Bülow were also his pupils. He published his teaching methods in Piano and Song (Leipzig, 1853) and wrote for the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, Cäcilia, and Signale für die musikalische Welt under the pseudonym DAS (Der alte Schulmeister). (NGD2) Weitzmann, Carl Friedrich. German writer, theorist, and composer, b. Berlin, 1808; d. Berlin, 1880. Weitzmann studied composition and theory in Kassel with Louis Spohr and Moritz Hauptmann. After some years in Riga, St. Petersburg, Paris, and London, he settled in Berlin as a writer and composition teacher. He taught at the Stern Conservatory (starting in 1857) and at Tausig’s Schule des Höheren Klaverierspiels. He was a friend of Liszt and Bülow and a champion of Wagner’s music. His compositions consist of operas, piano

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pieces, and songs. He is the author of Geschichte des Clavierspiels und der Clavierliteratur (which appeared as the third part of the Lebert-Stark Grosse theoretische-praktische Klavierschule, Stuttgart, 1879; it was published in English as A History of Pianoforte-playing and Pianoforte-literature, New York, 1897). His Harmoniesystem (Leipzig, 1860) and Die neue Harmonielehre im Streit mit der alten (1861) are the subject of a dissertation by Rachel Rudd: “Karl Friedrich Weitzmann’s Harmonic Theory in Perspective” (Columbia University, 1992; UMI 9313669). His monograph on the augmented triad, Der übermässige Dreiklang (Berlin, 1853), was influential in Riemann’s theories and is the subject of articles by Robert W. Wason, Larry Todd, and Richard Cohn. (NGD2).

397 BIBLIOGRAPHY Andres, Robert. Pianos and Pianism: Frederic Horace Clark and the Quest for Unity of Mind, Body, and Universe. Lanham, Maryland, and London: Scarecrow Press, 2001. Arrau, Claudio. Arrau and Brahms: The Two Romantics. West Long Beach, N.J.: Kultur, 1988. Videotape. ____________. “Artur Schnabel: Servant of the Music.” Musical America 42 (February, 1952): 31. ____________. “Beethoven Sonatas.” New York Times (October 11, 1953): Sec 2, 7. ____________. Claudio Arrau: The Maestro and The Masters. West Long Beach, N.J.: Kultur, 1988. Videotape. ____________. The 80th Birthday Recital. West Long Beach, N.J.: Kultur, 1983, 1987. Videotape. ____________. The Emperor: A Live Concert by the Maestro. West Long Beach, N.J.: Kultur, 1987. Videotape. ____________. “The Piano Sonatas: Performance Insights.” Clavier 9 (January, 1970): 18-23. ____________. Schumann Piano Concerto in A minor, Carnaval Op. 9, Beethoven Piano Sonata No. 32 in C minor. EMI Classics, 2002. DVD recording. Arrau, Claudio and Hilde Somer. “Two Artists Talk.” The Piano Quarterly 83 (Fall, 1973): 6-14. Arrau, Claudio and others. Great Pianists on the Bell Telephone Hour (1959-1967). Pleasantville, N.Y.: Video Artists International, 2002. Videotape. Becker, Judith. Deep Listeners: Music, Emotion, and Trancing. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2004. Beethoven, Ludwig van. Sonaten für Klavier zu zwei Händen. 2 vols. Edited by Claudio Arrau. Frankfurt: C. F. Peters, 1978. Bernstein, Seymour. With Your Own Two Hands. New York: Schirmer, 1981. Bomberger, Douglas. “‘Our Conservatories’ from Praeludien und Studien (1895) by Hugo Riemann.” The Bulletin of Historical Research in Music Education 15/3 (May, 1994): 220-35.

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Hatten, Robert S. Interpreting Musical Gestures, Topics, and Tropes. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2004. Hendricks, Renee Christine. “An Examination of the Teaching Methods of Seven Nineteenth-Century Piano Pedagogues.” M.A. thesis, American University, 1988. UMI 13-34061. Hess, Myra. “Tobias Matthay.” Recorded Sound 24 (1966): 98. “Hilde Somer, 49, Dead; A Noted Concert Pianist.” The New York Times (December 27, 1979): B13. Hofmann, Josef. Piano Playing with Questions Answered. Philadelphia: Theodore Presser, 1920. Hopkins, Pandora. “The Purposes of Transcription.” Ethnomusicology 10/3 (September, 1966): 310-17. Horowitz, Joseph. Conversations with Arrau. New York: Knopf, 1982. Johnson, Mark. The Body in the Mind: The Bodily Basis of Meaning, Imagination, and Reason. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987. Kelley, E. S. “Pianoforte Study: The Method Employed in the Conservatory at Stuttgart and Its Consequences.” The Etude 6/11 (Nov., 1888): 169; reprinted from American Musician, published in Chicago by W. S. B. Mathews. Kingsbury, Henry. Music, Talent, Performance. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1988. Kozinn, Allan. “Claudio Arrau, Pianist, Is Dead at 88.” New York Times (June 10, 1991): B11. Kramer, Lawrence. Music as Cultural Practice, 1800-1900. Berkeley, Los Angeles, and Oxford: University of California Press, 1990. Kullak, Adolf. The Aesthetics of Piano-forte Playing. Translated by Theodore Baker. New York: Da Capo, 1972; reprint of 1893 translation published in New York of the 1889 third German edition, edited by Hans Bischoff. Lebert, Sigismund and Louis Stark. Grand Theoretical and Practical Piano-School for Systematic Instruction in All Branches of Piano-playing from the First Elements to the Highest Proficiency. Stuttgart: J. G. Cotta, 1869. Leuchtmann, Horst. “Theodor Kullak.” The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians. Edited by Stanley Sadie. London, Macmillan, 1980, X: 304.

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