Pre-ludes, Middle-ludes, After-ludes (Part III)

Continuing my quest to "find" 24 observations, thoughts and after-thoughts on Frederic Chopin's 24 preludes op. 28. This is chapter 3 out of 4.

13) I once had a few lessons on the preludes with the late pianist Marek Jablonsky. One of the things that intrigued me was that he liked calling the short preludes (nos. 5, 7, 10 etc) "Interludes”, referring to them as short breaths, quick pauses, or as connecting links between two prominent statements. So now we have "Preludes", "Middle-ludes", After-ludes" and "Interludes" - all have different psychological implications to the piece as a whole.   

14) Chopin opposed programmatic references to his music. He refuted Schumann when the latter crafted storied around his Op. 2 variations. Chopin saw music as representing abstract feelings and ideas, transcending visual earthly images. Nevertheless two noteworthy musicians - Hans von Bülow and Alfred Cortot - went as far as giving nicknames to each of the 24 preludes. Occasionally the names are somewhat similar, though most of the time they differ remarkably. It is worth glancing at these names. Hans von Bülow, for example, gave the ubiquitous name "Raindrop" to the famous D flat prelude no. 15. He called the succeeding prelude no. 16 "Hades". Alfred Cortot named the beautiful A flat prelude no. 17 "She told me, I love you…", and to the culminating prelude no. 24 he gave the emphatic name “Blood, Passion and Death".

15) As I mentioned in chapter 1 of this endeavor Chopin organized the preludes differently than the way Bach did. Rather than in chromatic order, Chopin organized them according to what we call the "circle of fifths". As such, each prelude (first major then minor) adds one accidental. The result means that the first half of the cycle (nos. 1-13) employs the keys with the sharps while the second half (nos. 14-24) employs the keys with the flats. Since keys to a piece of music is to a large extent like color to a painting, there is a greater sense of spring or sunrise in the first half of the piece while the second half sounds more autumnal, sunset.

16) Ambiguity seems to be a favorite ingredient when analyzing transcendental works. Ambiguity plays an important role in the preludes. Almost every prelude has an ambiguous element to it. No. 1 -

Melodic: The melody is not on the down beat but rather on the upbeats. It is also toying between being played by the thumb and the pinky.  No. 2 - Tonal: Until the very last chord we cannot be sure of the key. No. 4 - Harmonic: The suspensions throughout this prelude with the two note melody hovering above has a great sense of instability. No. 5 - Rhythmic: The constant hemiolas, together with the extreme brevity of this prelude makes the listener feels disoriented and bewildered. Etc etc.

17) The idea ambiguity should lead to further discussion about the enigmatic no. 14 in e flat minor? This prelude is pure anarchy!! It is almost violent - not from anger, but rather from the unknown. It is scary, frightening, and unstable. The pianist Russell Sherman referred to it as music from the under-world. Chopin, the composer that thrived on melodic beauty, sensuality and elegance, the composer that was admired for the suave quality of his sound, his soft touch, wrote here a piece of incredible darkness and menace. The two hands are playing absolutely the exact same pitches an octave apart. Both hands are playing continuous eighth notes, and it is all in the same low "F" clef. A dark shadow. Never has brevity been so brief, and ambiguity been so emblematic. Needless to say, one should compare this prelude to the final movement of another great work by Chopin - the 2nd sonata.    

18) “Chopin’s music is essentially unhealthy. That is its imperfection and also its danger”. 

This comforting statement belongs to Hippolyte Barbedette, a scholar of the mid 19th century who wrote essays on Chopin’s music. While admiring Chopin's individuality and remarking that the Preludes are “a jewel-box of precious stones”, she also wrote that he was a sick man who enjoyed suffering and did not want to be cured. Furthermore she pointed that by playing his music one will inevitably imagine that the sickness is his own. She concluded with the above quote which I find to be absolutely true - Chopin's music is dangerous to play. It is also unhealthy. These might be two of the reasons why we cannot leave without it. It is intoxicating.

I came, I saw, I wanted to stay,,,

Canceling art vs. Creating art:

Not long ago a good friend of mine posted on Facebook a newspaper announcement that: "The board of the Delaware Symphony has decided to cancel the next season of the orchestra." As usual the reason was linked to the financial situation.

The "shock waves" were felt as far as two hours away, which is where I live in Maryland. I immediately wrote to my friend offering to come and play a benefit concert. My main goal (aside from a chance to have lunch with my good friend), was to show that people outside the community also care. I also wanted to raise awareness to my strong belief that canceling a season / cutting concerts… could not be a solution for "helping" sustain art. In other words canceling music could not help make music. There has to be another way, or music will not be heard anymore in this beautiful building shown here. 

Before playing a note, I addressed the appreciative audience, many of which were patrons, sharing with them my feelings and concerns regarding cutting concerts due to financial climate. The second step after that is probably shutting down the museum because that takes a lot of tax money. Next on the list will be turning the park into a parking lot, and soon enough, without music, museum and a park we might as well move to another city, one that offers these essential "luxuries". The recital raised $50,000. I was happy and proud, but later learned that this is like giving a band-aid to stop massive bleeding.

On the contrary, last weekend I gave a concert in a small town in Virginia called Staunton. Nestled in the Shenandoah valley near the foothills of the Blue-ridge mountains, prior to the year 2000 Staunton was just another little town, an exit on interstate 81 going north or south. In 2001 a group of art lovers got together and raised money to build the only re-creation of a Shakespeare indoor theatre in the US - The Blackfriars Play House. The city was transformed after the theatre was built, and the American Shakespeare Center, which was founded in 1988 as a Touring Troupe, moved in as its resident company. 

Since opening its gates more than half a million people visited this theatre. A number of hotels opened up in the downtown area along with new restaurants. The town is now a cultural destination where people from all around come to see one of sixteen different productions each year. The shows run five days a week, a total of 7 performances mostly in the evenings but also at times in the morning (for students) and afternoon (the elderly). I could not help it, and went to see Shakespeare's "As you like it" at 10:30am the morning of my concert. There were many students. It was thrilling - so fresh, so alive. I was inspired.    

In the middle of nowhere, three hours away from the nearest big city, there lies a small town that thanks to its theatre has become a destination to many. I want to believe it has also become a better place to live. Seven performances a week?! Are there so many art lovers in Staunton to fill the sits? Maybe the answer is that when you build something special people will come? Perhaps also the people who helped create this place feel responsible to bring their friends to the shows? Whatever the answer may be, it is an example of how to create not to cancel, how to make something where there was nothing, and how art can change as well as revive a whole town.

I do not know if it is possible to do the same with music let alone an orchestra. To play seven concerts a week in a small village? Wouldn't that be something?! Playing concerts for kids, elderly people, whoever… seven concerts every week! I do not know. I sure though wanna live in such a place! Hopefully it also has a nice little museum, a park and even a small Shakespeare theatre…

About a Vision, a Voice and a Visit

Back in 1994, when I was a student at Ravinia's Steans Music Institute, one of my highlights was performing Schubert's E flat major trio.  I cannot remember if it was after the dress rehearsal or the actual performance, that a person came to me and started talking about Schubert's music in correlation with my playing. It's been nearly twenty years and I remember that conversation quite vividly. 

He was chubby looking, open hearted and warm. From his musical insights and inquiries it was obvious that he was no stranger to this music. On the contrary, he knew it intimately. At one point he addressed the challenges a pianist faced when trying to produce a singing tone on the piano, especially in music of the master of song literature Franz Schubert. Getting more specific he spoke about the way I trilled, the singing aspect. He was very complimentary, supportive and loving. A few years later I learned that that person was Edward Gordon (1930-1996), the vision and force behind the whole program known as the Steans Institute of Music… or as he simply introduced himself: "my name is Ed."

Ed served as Executive Director of the Ravinia festival between 1968 and 1990. Back then he articulated to the Board of Trustees his vision to create a comprehensive educational program. "I have long felt that many young artists never attain their potential as performers, not from any lack of fine teaching and necessary skills, but because they have not had certain opportunities at a critical time in their development. The most important opportunity is having prominent performance platform, where listeners include peers, artistic leaders, and the important general public." Quite a VISION!

Jump starting to the summer of 2013, I was invited again to teach at the Steans. My week comprised of coaching Beethoven and Brahms, Chopin and Schumann. At my last day I was asked to give an extra coaching on a piece I could not recall ever coaching before - Schubert's Trio in E flat. It was a Friday night, late after everyone had dinner. A few students still practiced, most already left. Instead of going to a teaching classroom the students and I had the hall to ourselves. I sat in the middle of this wonderful space, while the group played the slow, lyrical second movement.

The playing was beautiful, well meant and heart-felt. I started to ask for something, but could not quite articulate what was it that I wanted. I was searching for the right  quality or sound, looking for that special singing tone - what Ed Gordon and I were discussing back then. I asked the cellist, who had the opening tune to search for the right voice. It was not there yet.

The legendary cellist Bernhard Greenhouse used to say: "you will be judged by your VOICE!" 

But what is your voice? Where and how to find it?  I kept insisting, going back and forth to the beginning, to find that special sound - an internal beauty, a quality, a voice, that exists only within you.  Perhaps a slower vibrato, using less hair on the bow, softer attack on the string… pilling one layer after another - layers of uncertainties, insecurities, self-doubts - slowly a glimmer of light, a miracle surfaced. An inner-voice started to shine, piercing the air. It was shivering and luminous. It had a glare, a hallow.  We could hardly breath. It was meaningful! The pianist was forced to play half as much to support, to caress that shimmering voice, to coarse it.

All of a sudden a door opened and a phantom walked in and sat next to me. It was Ed! I froze in my sit - could not move, could not talk. Ed died in 1996, yet he was sitting there next to me. He came to VISIT his vision. It was a long day, it was a long session. It ended when the building closed close to midnight.

The next day we had a big barbecue. I went and told the story to Paul Biss who coached me that Schubert Trio when I was a student. He shared with me that after that conversation I had with Ed many years ago, they all had lunch and Ed brought it up saying "this was my vision when I thought of this place".

"You will be judged by your voice", said Bernard Greenhouse. For Ed that voice was a vision. On that day his vision turned to be a voice that came to visit me when I listened to Schubert.

Edward Gordon 

Bernard Greenhouse

Franz Schubert

Pre-ludes...Middle-ludes...After-ludes (Part II)

This is the second of four installments about 24 Pre-thoughts, Middle-thoughts and After-thoughts on Chopin's epic 24 Preludes Op. 28.

7) Bach's Preludes and Fugues were conceived as a "study", an "exercise". One can argue that a few of Chopin preludes also sound as a kind of a "study". Both Bach and Chopin wrote these works as a labour of love for the keyboard, its keys, colors, sensualities, timbre and infinite potential. However, even-though some of Bach's Preludes and Fugues have inner-connections, as a whole, they were not thought of as one gigantic work to be performed as such. Chopin's Preludes on the other hand are inseparable. The more I play them, the more I feel how they are connected. They support each other, they rely on one another. Each prelude complement as well as contradict the previous one or the next one that follows. Put together side by side, they become a journey, a roller-coaster ride, or more poetically a symbol of the infinite diversity of the human spirit.

8) Unlike Schumann who was somewhat bewildered by the Preludes, Franz Liszt

on the other hand found them "admirable for their variety, the labour and learning with which they abound…appreciable only by the aid of a scrupulous examination; everything seems fresh, elastic, created at the impulse of the moment, abounding with that freedom of expression which is characteristic of works of genius."

9) Chopin was a ground breaking pioneer not only with transforming the prelude into an independent entity, but also with the way and to the extent in which he freed the right hand from the left hand - or perhaps better to say the melody from the accompaniment. The art of great Chopin playing involves "a free walk (the melody) on a firm ground (the accompaniment, the pulse)", to quote the words of the great Artur Schnabel.

10) Harmonically speaking, Chopin was among those who lay the foundation for the break-up of tonality! Take for example Prelude no. 2 - the sense of tonal ambiguity is astounding. Not until the very last chord of the piece do we finally arrive at the home key of A minor, which has not been heard even once before.

11) Furthermore, harmonic analysis of the preludes can be tricky at best, useless many times. Prelude no. 4 is one of the most beautiful single pages of music ever written. Analyzing this prelude vertically, knowing the degree of each chord means not knowing much at all in regards to this masterpiece. Chopin tells us that true harmonic understanding dates back a century or two - first and foremost to Bach or even prior, when figured bass and voice leading stood above all.

12) But maybe Chopin is trying to tell us that harmonic examination is not the way to approach this piece (and others as well). "Passing notes", "neighbor notes", "leading notes", all serve a much greater purpose. Chopin decided to write one of his most profound pieces when he reached the key of E minor in the cycle. This key used to symbolize the crucifixion in the Baroque era. Just as Bach's "Crucifixus" from the B minor Mass was written in E minor so was this prelude. And just as Bach's music descends as if picturing the descent of Jesus into the grave, so does the notes in this prelude descend slowly and steadily. Slowly as if trying to cling to life, and steadily inexorably striding towards its ultimate faith and final breath.

...to be continued with Part III which includes yet another reaction to the Preludes: "Chopin's music is essentially unhealthy".

An Adventure in Anti-Gravity

Dedicated to Leon Fleisher in celebration of his 85th birthday.

It has been fifteen years since I received my last "official" lesson with my sainted teacher Leon Fleisher. I remember telling him not long after I moved on that my best decision in life was to come and study with him, and the second best decision was to leave. He smiled. That was said, obviously, with much love and admiration.

Fleisher's teaching did not involve extensive demonstrations. Not being able to play with his right hand for many years, he spent a lot of time searching for the right word to express what his inner ear was seeking. Musicians tend to say that music cannot be described in words. I believed it until I heard Fleisher speak. It was so clear, so eloquent, so rich, so incredibly precise, even if it took me a while to figure out how to spell surreptitious, periodicity, subtle or menacing. His goal was to teach us to teach ourselves: to know what to ask and when to ask, how to do, where to find, why this and why that.


It was not too long after I began my studies with him that at one of my lessons after playing for him, he said one of the most beguiling yet resolute discoveries I heard him saying. It was during a lesson on a Schubert or Beethoven sonata, while I was trying to find the focal point in the phrase, create a long line, generate momentum and so forth, that Fleisher leaned backward slowly in his chair, closed his eyes gently, raised his eye-brows and said that "music is made out of physical forces."  Every note, every ascending or descending line, circular patterns or huge leaps is surrounded with physical forces. They are the magnet between the notes. This is what the music is made of. Understanding these physical forces, knowing how to utilize them makes for an interpretation that is not only irresistible but inevitable.

The other day I came back to my alma mater, the Peabody Conservatory of Music, to rehearse Mozart's concerto for two pianos with Katherine Jacobson Fleisher in preparation for a performance with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra later this summer. In the midst of rehearsing Fleisher entered the room unexpectedly and we both embraced the opportunity to be transported by his presence.

As we began the first movement these physical forces slowly awakened – Centrifugal force pushed us outwards when an ascending melodic run changed its direction. Centripetal force pulled us inwards when a descending line suddenly turned upwards. Circular patterns, angular ones, leaps, jumps, sustain notes - all generated forces that glued the notes to become a musical phrase. 


There was one force, though that existed from the moment the first note of the piece was pressed and until the last note disappeared. That was the force of gravity. As the melody soared high above, then dived back down almost touching the ground, making loops and leaps, taking us on a roller-coaster journey, it was a journey in anti-gravity. Fleisher, Kathy and myself, were conversing together with Susanna, Dr. Bartolo, the count and Figaro. Oh, and Mozart… he was conducting the whole opera.

Hours passed, Fleisher became more immersed in the music. As we began the second movement he was pointing out the achingly beautiful suspended notes in the melody. "It hurts so good" he said, and then continued: "Listen to the way the long notes make a crescendo after being pressed, followed by a diminuendo before the next note arrives." Every physicist would say this is impossible, but we musicians are not physicists, we are illusionists. This is vocal playing.

When Fleisher was pressing those keys there was a sense of rightness. The notes appeared at exactly the right place in time. He (and Mozart) did not need to use many keys to open the lock into the mystery of such divine beauty.  Elevating our level of awareness to the next sphere, Fleisher described a tune as "rising the way a balloon does, at an ever-decreasing rate of speed, to the point where the pressure outside equals the pressure inside and it stays suspended".

The heavenly beauty of the opening tune gave way to the intense sorrow of the middle section. I was bewildered by Fleisher's reorganization of the phrase structure. "Listen to the way the held notes in the melody change their color when the harmony underneath changes". A simple held note, so painful, became so hopeful under a different harmony, different color. After experiencing this extraordinary moment, the rising line with the force of resistance felt exhausting. The next held note was one of resignation, of acceptance. It gave in to gravity.

The middle section came to a close, and the opening melody returned. At the beginning this melody had a future. Now it had a past. It sounded entirely different as a result. Our resistance to the force of gravity was soon coming to a close as the movement approached its end. Taking off when the movement started, being carried on top of one giant force, hovering above when the pressure outside equaled the pressure inside, experiencing all those ever-changing moods, while being aware of the forces surrounding the notes, and at the end coming back down.

It seemed so natural, so obvious when Fleisher put his hand on the piano. Every key he pressed was part of nature's forces that shape our world in general and this music in particular. For Kathy and me it was a great adventure. After all, music is an adventure in anti-gravity.  

Closing Circles

Celebrating the 25th anniversary of Ravinia Festival's Steans Institute of Music

It was the summer of 1994 that gave a whole new perspective for me as a musician. A new chapter started less than a year prior to that, when I left Israel to come and study with Leon Fleisher at the Peabody conservatory of music in Baltimore, MD. So much had happened during the course of that year, and yet something very special was left for the summer, when I was accepted to attend the Steans Institute of the Ravinia Festival in Highland Park, IL not too far from Chicago.

"I hope your experience here will be an everlasting increase of awareness" asserted Mr. Fleisher to a group of young musicians at a festival, me being one of them. My experience that summer of 1994 at the Steans was not so much to do with awareness. It was to do with awakening!

I was never a big fan of competitions. It gave me neither motivation nor inspiration to go and practice. Yet competitions seem to have been the excuse for countless of hours of practice to so many young pianists, seeking that elusive thing we call "career".  The Steans institute took me on a different path, one which was much healthier in my humble opinion.

Five weeks of intense work on solo repertoire as well as chamber music literature - one nourishes as well as supports the other. It is interconnected, interwoven. The Piano faculty consisted of Leon Fleisher, Menachem Pressler, Christoph Eschenbach, and Claude Frank to name just a few. The String faculty was of equal merit with Miriam Fried, David Geringas, Lynn Harrell, Kim Kashkashian, Paul Biss and many more.

Miriam Fried the leader of the program with her uncompromising musicianship and sense of integrity has created an environment where individualism and creativity flourishes. I will always remember the many hours of extra work that Paul Biss spent with Laura, Inna and me on Schubert's E flat major trio, helping us achieve a performance that opened our eyes (and ears) to the infinite beauty of Schubert and of chamber music. I remember how Lynn Harrell, while coaching Colin, Si-Fei, Inna and me the Brahms c minor quartet joined us in the last movement. His playing with us amounted to a tsunami wave which I had never known existed. For a moment I can also close my eyes and feel the aura in the room when Claude Frank spoke about and played parts of Beethoven's sonata op. 90, or feel the exhaustion after working nearly six hours with Christoph Eschenbach on Beethoven's Les Adieux sonata.

After that summer I decided that at the end of each year I would go to a different summer festival. I went to Aspen, Tanglewood, Verbier, Marlboro and Santa Fe. All have their special virtues. For me though, it was the Steans Institute that turned on the light and showed the way that was best for me.

Sometimes a lightening strikes twice in one place. I was struck for the first time in the summer of 1994. Then again when Miriam Fried called me to join the Piano faculty.  For the past three years now I have been coming to teach / coach at the Steans. To share and pass on what was given to me here in this special place more than a decade ago, together with other experiences each with its own nuances, is what we are meant to do. It is a privilege. To see how the Steans continues to grow and inspire young musicians while still keeping its core values is one of the joys in my professional life.  

Eat, Play, Fly...

I made my orchestral debut when I was 18, playing Rachmaninov's 1st piano concerto with the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra under the baton of Zubin Mehta. Needless to say how exciting that was: the sense of achievement, of fulfillment - reaching for the stars and then touching one. I was completely intoxicated by the whole experience and contemplated pursuing a career playing just one piece... the Rachmaninov 1st. After all, I played it quite well, and also I did not know much else.

Jumping ahead a few years (twenty-three to be exact) and about three dozen concerti, I was reminded of that thought when touring Latin-America with the Israel Chamber Orchestra conducted by Yoav Talmi.

For nearly one month I enjoyed a superb career playing only two pieces - Beethoven's concerto no. 2 and Mendelssohn's concerto no. 1. Sixteen concerts, starting in Tel-Aviv and continuing in Mexico (two concerts), Guatemala, Costa Rica, Columbia, Peru (2), Ecuador (2), Argentina (5), and Uruguay.  All of the concerts were in the major halls of the major cities including Teatro Colon in Buenos Aires, Palacio de Bellas Artes in Mexico City, Teatro Nacional in San Jose, etc.

Several stretches of this tour turned out to be: playing in Guatemala City, flying the next morning to San Jose (Costa Rica) and playing that night, flying the next morning to Medellin (Columbia) and playing that night, flying the next morning to Lima (Peru). My "job" was to be at my very best sixteen times in order to serve Beethoven or Mendelssohn (as to be at their service), as well as serve to the public Beethoven or Mendelssohn (I am also a waiter in some sort of way). All I did was Eat, Play and Fly. There really was not much sleeping involved. And yet, in many ways it ended up being much easier than the "normal" erratic concert schedule when one plays once or twice each week usually different repertoire.

I had no time (zero, nada, zilch) for anything but what I came here to do - perform B&M. No e-mails, no voice messages, credit card statements, traffic jams (we cruised through traffic with the help of the local police in Medellin and Lima), or any other 21st century improvements/distractions.  The level of concentration was at its highest, constant adrenalin, getting into the rhythm of performing. It was a continuous state of euphoria. This was one of the most rewarding music experiences I have ever had.

Performing sixteen consecutive times with the vibrant and wonderfully supportive Israel chamber orchestra under the commanding hand of the venerable conductor Yoav Talmi allowed for a degree of insight and intimacy that I have rarely felt. The possibility for experimentation and exploration, risk taking and stretching the boundaries was enormous.

* Should I launch onto and bring out the dramatic side of Beethoven right at the opening statements of the concerto, or should I play with a Mozartian elegance and leave the dramatic aspect more to the outrageously daring Cadenza?

* How far can I push the limits of the operatic scene in the second movement of the Beethoven? Perhaps each day I can give the role to a different singer?

* Can I totally change each appearance of the Rondo theme of the third movement, or should I "try to get closer to how my inner-ear would like it to sound" as my legendary teacher Leon Fleisher would have said?

* Can I really joke around in the last movement of the Mendelssohn concerto, while even adding a few ornaments?

* How about giving the First movement of the Mendelssohn a Lisztian flair?

All these questions and countless more were "up for grabs" or rather "up for trying out". What ecstasy!

Feeling at home on the stage, challenging and being challenged by the warmth and wit of Maestro Talmi; Making chamber music with the whole orchestra; And above all, being proven yet again that Music has a power of communication like no other. The music of Beethoven and Mendelssohn have not only transcended time and survived over centuries, it has also transcended place and touched the people of Guatemala, Peru, Ecuador or Columbia, just as profoundly as in any other parts of the world. We all witnessed it, and were privileged to have taken a role of ambassadors - ambassadors for music, for dialogue, for friendship, for multi-culturalism.

At the beginning of the tour I was excited every day we had a concert. As we approached the end. I got excited when we had a day off...

Now, it is time to move on, but I want to linger just a little longer. I want to savor the moments, perhaps even write about them, talk, share, and most of all start dreaming about the next tour.


Alon Goldstein

In front of the Palacio de Bellas Artes in Mexico City with the whole orchestra and Yoav Talmi

Inside the hall warming up just before the concert

My second visit to see Il Sistema in action in Guatemala City, Guatemala

The add for the concert in Teatro Nacional in San Jose, Costa Rica

In front of Teatro Nacional in San Jose, Costa Rica

This (and the concert) is pretty much what I remember from the 12 hours we spent in Medellin, Columbia

OK... I did not just perform (Lima, Peru)

A sign for our performance in Guayaquil, Ecuador

With Yoav Talmi in a moment of profound concentration

The beautiful hall in Cordoba, Argentina during the second half of our concert

Teatro Colon at night - This is It!

In action - Tearto Colon

I had to add one more

Four hands encore with the multi-faceted maestro

Teatro Solis in Montevideo, Uruguay

One last goodbye together in Montevideo, Uruguay (after the concert)