-Home :: Contact us- -Recordings :: Partners- -Concerts :: Reviews :: Curriculum vitae- Pianist recommended by Medtner Chamber Music concerts (Moscow, 1999) Volgograd-Piano-2000 as a festival and book Mikhail Lidsky talks to Natela Yenukidze Mikhail Lidsky is certainly an extraordinary figure among modern pianists. His name has been well-known since only a few years ago but we can already speak of the "Lidsky legend", the legend of the pianist whose playing is "different". "Different" does not mean good or bad. Simply each of his concerts gives you something unexpected. Almost everything is surprising: from his repertoire to his stage manners. The space of his music, his thought, his mere existence is markedly different from other performers. However, Lidsky is far from seeing himself so exceptional. He has no desire to baffle his listeners, no drive to astonish them. Yet many are baffled, and astonishment is a fact. This interview is an attempt to resolve the contradiction. - Was your path to music in any way different from usual, "standard" growing up of a talented man? Let's talk about your childhood, studies and teachers. You have now become a musician. Do you have second thoughts about it? How did it all happen - you weren't born a pianist, were you? Do you have musicians in your family? - No, we don't. I don't remember what I was like when I was born. Neither do I know if I regret of what I have become: it makes little sense to regret that late, anyway. As for the musical impressions in my childhood... My parents played records for me, it was a good way to quiet me - I was noisy. Among the records there were Sofronitsky's Chopin Anniversary recital (Mazurkas, Nocturnes, Waltzes) and some other of his recordings (since then my feeling of acme of perfection in music has been associated with Sofronitsky); some Gieseking - Beethoven's "Moonlight" and E minor Sonatas; some Rachmaninov's recordings; some Richter - I remember Beethoven's "Pathetique" and Bagatelles, Schubert's "Moments musicaux"; "Gilels at the Carnegie Hall"; many others... - Only pianists, then. Why not, for instance, vocal music? - I listened to vocal music as well but preferred piano. It had somehow happened by itself - probably, my parents preferred piano. - And how old were you then, about five? - Younger - about three; even younger, I think. - Well, at three you used to listen to pianists. Did you show any interest in the instrument yourself at that time? - Yes, we had an upright piano and my father would play, to my obvious enjoyment and I used to sit next to him. My father's first marriage was to Heinrich Neuhaus' daughter... - Now I understand why piano was chosen... - Well, maybe that was of some influence but my own bent for music was obvious, too. I also used to be taken to concerts - I remember many Stanislav Neuhaus' recitals, for example... When I was four and a half, my parents began thinking of serious lessons for me. - Had you already been able to play anything by the time? - Yes, a bit. I had a good ear and played by ear what I had heard. - Who was your first teacher? - Mrs. A. D. Artobolevskaya recommended us Mrs. Ekaterina Arkadiyevna Smirnova who taught me till I entered Gnessin School. I entered Gnessin School because I wasn't admitted to Central Music School. - Why weren't you? - I was still not enough prepared, probably. Central School had no preparatory classes, or it had but not for everybody. The anti-Semitic version was also discussed - it was 1975, one could be easily sent packing because of a "wrong" name those days... Central School was a prestigious institution those days while at Gnessin they were rather concentrated on music. - Who was your teacher there? - I had been studying with Marina Ilyinichna Marshak (later, in America, she became Marina Young) for three years till she left the school and soon emigrated. - I wonder if there was such time which you could call a "learning period". I have heard, you have never let anybody teach you... - Yes, of course there was such a period - though it was difficult to teach me. I was taught seriously. At the first grade, Marina Ilyinichna normally gave me 4,5 out of five. - So that you didn't think too much of yourself? - My progress was rather modest, most likely. - How were your studies getting on after you entered Vladimir Tropp's class? Was it a new beginning? - It was Marina Iliynichna's advice that I entered Vladimir Manuilovich's class, so the change was controlled and smooth. Marina Iliynichna kept her eye on me while she was in Moscow - the more so, that my new teacher used to go on tour. By the way, their instructions did not always agree with one another. But I am sure that such disagreements among musicians matter little, as long as they share a view of music as a living body, not as a means of personal advancement. I was very proud and at the same time embarrassed to study in a way different from that of my classmates - indeed, Vladimir Manuilovich does not normally teach children, and I, in a sense, became a college student at nine. - Upon graduation from the school you entered Gnessin Institute. Why not Moscow Conservatoire? - My decision to continue studying with Prof. Tropp at Gnessin Institute caused controversy. Many thought I should have applied to the Conservatoire. - Why? - But you are also asking me why I didn't enter the Conservatoire, aren't you? Prestige, and so on. Although, it was assumed that a Conservatoire graduate had better chances for a good career. Also, that it wasn't wise to study with the same professor for so long. - Was it because you belonged to a certain school that you entered Gnessin Institute? - To some extent, probably. I was taught to hate careerism and business spirit with which I identified the Conservatoire (I don't think it was only my opinion). - What do you think of piano schools in general? Do they exist in reality? And if so, to which school do you belong? - It's a complicated matter, really. I remember, Anatoly Ivanovich Vedernikov, a great musician, said in an interview: "A school? What does it mean? It is merely a word." I think, both this and the opposite is true. If "school" implies books on methods of teaching or playing it does exist, it is important but it is somehow apart from music. On the other hand, there is such a complex and interesting thing as tradition. - Do you feel rooted in a tradition? - You know, when I learn something I read ship's logs, so to speak, - that is, I listen to recordings. And when I get to know someone who "has already been in a certain place" and found a solution, I feel somewhat consoled and encouraged: it evokes a kind of solidarity. That's when I think of tradition, of Russian tradition in particular: it even helps foster my awareness of the culture to which I belong. That is what tradition is like, to my mind, rather than "Ritardando in a certain place is professor So?and?so's bequest". Such encouragement is needed very much, because this sort of "voyage" is always perilous and this is often misunderstood or altogether disregarded. The voyage is always perilous and fiasco is always a likelihood. - But you have never been afraid of it, seemingly. - Maybe, only when I was young and callow... - Are you afraid of it now? - Yes, now I am. But I push forward anyway - it is the only way out, I think. - Well, as far as the school is concerned, you read "ships' logs". But as regards repertoire I don't feel like you care too much about what others are doing. Let's talk about your programmes: each of them is entirely unique, each has its own "face". - Are you asking if I care about anything unusual? Certainly not. - Do they shape on their own? For example, the programme of your 1991 recital at the Great Hall of Moscow Conseravtoire (Mozart, Myaskovsky, Hindemith) which provoked an outcry by its eccentricity - above all, complete "Ludus tonalis" by Hindemith. - O. K., I'll tell you about it; by the way, it was my first recital at the Great Hall. But first I have to say a few words about my other recital (both of them were organized by Classica Music Centre). A half a year earlier I had my debut recital at the Hall of Columns where I was told to play nothing "special". The programme was as follows: 2 Choral Preludes by Bach (arr. by Busoni), 5 Scarlatti's sonatas, Beethoven's 'Appassionata' before the interval, and then 5th Sonata by Scriabin, several pieces by Prokofiev and "Reminiscences de 'Don Juan'" by Liszt (however, I played three pieces from Prokofiev's rather rarely?performed opus 52). It bothered me that the programme items were not connected closely enough: moving from piece to piece, I felt some incoherence, inconsistency in style (though I couldn't fully realize it at that time). After that recital I began compiling a programme for the Great Hall. Yes, I had a sort of polemic excitement. I sincerely believed that 'Ludus tonalis' must be as great success as 'Appassionata'. - Have you changed your mind? - At that time I didn't think it was more difficult to listen to 'Ludus tonalis' than to 'Appassionata' (now I am not sure). I was very enthusiastic about 'Ludus tonalis' and thought it could have had an enormous impact, if well played. Mozart's Sonata K. 309 emerged independently from 'Ludus tonalis'. I have always had problems with Viennese classics, and this piece was actually the first Mozart's sonata I played in public. Trying to link the pieces together, I needed a clear contrast with the Mozart's sonata. I was looking for something tumultuous, dark and tragic after such a serene Sonata, and chose the Fourth Sonata by Myaskovsky. 'Ludus tonalis' was planned as a moment of catharsis. - So, do your programmes grow by themselves like a living body or do you still compile them? - Both ways, you see. Programme as a whole must resemble a living body, that's the point. Some pieces come by accident (for instance, I'd like to play a particular work, or it's a promoter's request), other elements have to be hand-picked. - You play so many rarely-performed works... - Yes, but that's because they are good rather than rarely?performed. - But there are certain repertoire settings... - Established by the Communist Party, isn't that what you mean? Although, yes, there are some habits which have become a sort of rules. But I don't necessarily follow them, still. I think, popularity of a work (shaped by numerous factors, that is, basically, a random value) does not have much to do with its musical merits. As for me, I am concerned squarely (if not exclusively) with the music, since I am a musician. I could easily give you a long list of the so?called popular works of my repertoire, but what for? By the way I've planned for the next season 2 programmes put together specifically of popular pieces. - How did it come to your mind? - The producer of Denon with whom I work said that my CDs sold poorly. "No market for the works you record", he said. I asked him what was in demand. "Chopin's 'Fantaisie?Impromtu', some Waltzes, Liszt's 'La Campanella'..." - mostly popular miniatures. I said, "Great! Let me record such a CD." - "Are YOU going to play THAT?" I think, there was some misunderstanding here, regarding both music and me. Anyway, I have put together the two programmes. I'm going to record them and play in concerts as well. They have a few "rare" items, still - a couple of Etudes by Felix Blumenfeld, for instance. - You like rare things, but hardly play any contemporary music at all. Why? - Yes, it is an omission. Though I wouldn't say I avoid playing contemporary music on purpose. - Let's return to your programmes. They are often very long, which is also one of your distinguishing features. For example, your Beethoven recital which opened the second season of Moscow Musicians Union Enterprise (1996): First, Second and Third sonatas and 33 variations on a Waltz by Diabelli. The recital lasted over 3 hours (including 2 intervals). Some of the listeners said, it was tiresome. What do you yourself think of that? - In the programme you mention I intended to present 3 sonatas, opus 2 as a cycle - the way Beethoven published them. As for 'Diabelli', I put it on the programme because I wasn't satisfied with my performance of the composition in the previous season and needed to bring my work to a certain acceptable level. Artistically speaking, I found the juxtaposition of Beethoven's early and late works very instructive for myself and very interesting for a listener. I realize, some of my programmes are too long (though, my later programmes are shorter, aren't they?). On the other hand, what to do with pieces like 'Diabelli' taking nearly an hour to play, 'Ludus tonalis', or great sonatas by Schubert? To give them up? When Chopin premiered his concertos, he had to make entr'actes between the movements to let the audience have a rest and listen to excerpts from popular operas - otherwise, it would have been tiresome for the public. I think, now everybody would call it absurd. On the other hand, look at Hans von Bulow's recital programme (Moscow, January 20, 1885): Brahms - Third Sonata, ор. 5; Beethoven - ' Das Waldmadchen' Variations, Rondo-capriccio, ор. 129; Rubinstein - Prelude and Fugue, ор. 53; Tchaikovsky - Theme and variations from ор. 19; Reinberger - Minuet and Fuguette for Left Hand, ор. 113; Chopin - Nocturne in E major from ор. 62, Impromtu, ор. 51, Polonaise, ор. 44; Schubert - Impromtu in G major from ор. 90; Schubert-Liszt - Waltz 'Soirees de Vienne'; Liszt - Rhapsody No. 8; Beethoven - Sonata, ор. 109; Sonata, ор. 110. I'm giving you these examples (each of them represents a certain historical period) to prove the fact that the duration of a concert programme is not fixed once for all. In other words, a 3 hour?programme with 2 intervals is not necessarily unbearable for listeners, especially for those who love music and wish to know it. I think, it is "what" and "how" is played which matters, while "how long" is not so important (sounds like a commonplace - so what?). Yet, sometimes it is still important - that's why I'll try to avoid playing very long programmes in the future, especially in big halls where many listeners come by accident. - O. K., as for your programmes, I am satisfied with your explanation. But how about your interpretation? Today you are considered one of the most intellectualistic pianists. When I listen to your performance, I sometimes feel a sort of creak in my brain, while I am a musicologist. How about those of your listeners who have never studied music? - As regards the creak in your brain, I can scarcely offer you any remedy except regular music listening. Luckily, many of the finest specimens are recorded. In earnest, one can hardly say what is "simple" and "difficult" in music. This fact was often a ground for misunderstandings and abuses, as we know. As regards simplicity in interpretation, I understand simplicity first and foremost as getting rid of anything superfluous or far?fetched, being steadfast and coherent in performance. Quite traditional, isn't it? If, however, "simplicity" is understood as playback of familiar sounds rather than trying to look deeply into the score, this kind of simplicity is worse than swindling, as we put it in Russian. It is truly a sort of swindling, a kind of forgery. Indeed, if I perceive a given piece in a certain way (the way I read the score); if through a hard work I discovered something in it, and then rescinded my discovery by playing differently, swayed by considerations of "simplicity" and "convenience", this would be a deception, plain and simple. I strive to be truthful with my audience, and dare say this is the right thing to do. - Well, I agree, you are a traditional musician. Now let me ask you something else, seemingly unrelated, but actually very much to the point: why don't you take part in competitions? - Now it seems too late. But I did: I took part in the All-Russia Competition, in a couple of auditions... I remember, when I was a first year student I played at the "Prague Spring" audition and failed. And the All-Russia Competition - it was really an audition for the Tchaikovsky, and I won it. But I decided not to take part in the Tchaikovsky Competition itself. The dark side of musical competitions is well known. You have to play what is required and your programme often lacks musical sense. You have to display yourself in the best possible light, to compete with your colleagues... Add here doubtful impartiality of the jury, intrigues... Jury is more interested in how you look than in the music itself, and casts the judgement correspondingly. - It is their job... - Of course, many musicians participate in competitions, there are great artists among them. If someone takes part in a competition and keeps his principles - three cheers! But I can't. This feeling of mine is getting stronger and stronger with age. - In conclusion, let's talk about your concerts and your listeners. - That would be helpful, especially since there are complaints of my "strange" attitude towards the audience, of my alleged indifference to the public. But believe me, I always appreciate attention of my listeners and I am very grateful to them. It is not only a matter of politeness - no concert is possible without listeners. I need concerts: it is practically only when I play in concert that I concentrate well enough to give true life to the music, to make it live as if on its own, while the player and piano become instruments in the exact meaning of this word (as Heinrich Heine put it, "piano disappears and music reveals itself"). Achieving this is my primary goal while to experience this seems to me my listeners' main interest. Anyone who looks for something else is likely to be disappointed by my concert. Besides, I listen to music myself. Communicating with the audience is for me a collective experience of music. I cherish this feeling of unity. - There are a few things, which have the strongest effect on the audience. Performer's appearance, his stage manners including gestures, countenance, motions, the very approach to the instrument - like a theatre. Great artists used it efficiently. For example, Horowitz - on one hand, his style was utterly succinct; on the other, he did all of that - rolled his eyes, gave coquettish smiles at the audience - just everything. And, of course, virtuosity as an attribute of a popular artist's image. - I ignore or underestimate the element of theatre in concert, is that what you mean? - Yes. - But why? Recital can be easily likened to theatre. The music would stand for a play and the soloist in one person for all actors, director, scene-painter, etc. This example clearly demonstrates that a musician should present "the play" rather than himself. But why should he make a clown of himself? Anyway, I think, the performance and everything done by a performer is, basically, subordinate to the music (another commonplace). As for judging great artists, especially deceased, I would refer the matter to the highest authority. When on stage, I try to concentrate on the music I am to perform - I think, it is in my and my audience's best interest. I cannot select my appearance: there is not much to discuss here. And I don't think there is anything uncommon or abnormal about my stage manners. Virtuosity is something ambiguous. Figuratively speaking, it usually implies musical fireworks, various spectacular tricks. The question is, are they needed or not. In most cases I would try to follow Lev Tolstoy's saying: "So great a mastery that you can not see it". In Latin "virtus" means "virtue", "valour", "heroic deed". This makes you look at it from a different angle, doesn't it? Moscow, July 1997 Translated by M. M :: Home :: Contact us :: Recordings :: Partners :: Concerts :: Reviews :: Curriculum vitae :: Pianist recommended by :: :: Medtner Chamber Music concerts (Moscow, 1999) :: Volgograd-Piano-2000 as a festival and book ::