Wigmore Hall
Bach – Partita no.6 in E minor,
BWV 830
Schumann – Papillons, op.2Szymanowski – Métopes, op.29
Schumann – Variations on an original theme in E-flat major, WoO 24, ‘“Ghost’ Variations’
Bach – Partita no.1 in B-flat major, BWV 825
In this outstanding recital,
Piotr Anderszewski celebrated the twenty-fifth anniversary of his Wigmore Hall
debut. There was nothing showy about his artistry; there never is. Musicianship
and virtuosity were as one; indeed, one barely noticed the latter, since it was
deployed in and expressed through his musical tone-poetry. There was, moreover,
something approaching, if you will forgive the expression, a ‘third half’, in
which one Janáček encore was followed by the whole of the Second Book from On an Overgrown Path: at least as
engrossing as anything on the programme ‘proper’.
Anderszewski both began and
ended with a Bach Partita; the last would be first and the first would be last,
so we opened with the E minor suite. The Toccata began in forthright fashion,
almost but not quite aggressive; that certainly did not preclude yielding
later. An involved – and involving – fugue offered a mix of shading within
phrases and terraced, manuals-style dynamics. Overall mood and tone were
unmistakable; so was variegation within. Above all, though, this was Bach that
mattered; Anderszewski’s dynamic performance left one in no doubt. There were
lightness and depth, anticipating, so
it seemed, Schumann, to the Allemande and Corrente. They danced, not in some
facile ‘stylistically correct’ way – who decides what is correct, and what
sanctions should (s)he employ? – but fashioning their own, sometimes wayward
but always compelling, path. The highly insistent line of the Corrente suddenly
confounded expectations with the nonchalance of the final cadence. Anderszewski
imbued the Air with a vocal quality such as can only be achieved by keyboard
imitation (or expansion). The quality of proliferation put me in mind of Boulez’s
music, similarly its luxuriant sensuality. An unswerving teleology in the Tempo
di Gavotta nevertheless permitted graceful yielding. Of that there could be
none in a splendidly severe Gigue. Here was Bach in all his grandeur,
anticipating, even surpassing, the Second Viennese School. Janus-faced, the
music seemed to encompass both mediæval and modern tendencies, as well as the
composer’s own. Procedures were as audible, even visible, as in Webern; one
could pretty much see the score through listening to it. The telos was as
all-determining as in Beethoven. In a sense, this felt like the Art of Fugue, yet more so.
Schumann’s Papillons followed: an opening invitation to the waltz, with
Schubertian charm and the composer’s very own impetus to the fantastic. There
was a strong element of characterisation to Anderszewski’s performance, almost
as if the pianist were having Schumann anticipate Wagner: ‘characters’, sharply
and lovingly etched, came centre-stage and took their leave (or sometimes, did
not). In its way, this was a performance as vividly pictorial as, say, the Symphonie fantastique, and as ‘poetic’ –
a word covering a multitude of sins – as anything else in Schumann’s œuvre. And
yet, there was, of course, so much that could not be rendered in words, in images,
in anything but music. However much our Hoffmann – or perhaps better, Jean Paul
– at the piano seemed to invite such impulses, he just as readily denied them.
It was a joy to hear
Szymanowski’s Métopes in concert; if
I have heard the work in concert before, it must have been a long time ago. It
was still more a joy to hear Métopes
in so complete a performance. ‘L’Ile des Sirènes’ sounded Debussyan, albeit
through a thicker, or rather more Byzantine, haze. The piano lost its hammers
in certain passages, whilst at the same time retaining a more Ravel-like – not for
the last time, I thought of Gaspard de la
nuit – precision where necessary. This sounded as ‘poetic’ as Papillons, whilst tending to frankly
Lisztian (and sexual) heights at climaxes. These were sirens neither man nor
woman would have been able to resist; their landscape, moreover, proved just as
inviting. Gaspard again hovered in ‘Calypso’:
not just similarity but thoughts of dissimilarity too. Certain flickering
figures seemed to point to later French music, to Messiaen, even to Boulez,
without loss of Scriabin-like perfume; why, after all, should there be such or
indeed any loss? The heady mix was Szymanowski’s – and Anderszewski’s – own. ‘Vague
dance’, an aptly Debussyan paradox, was my abiding impression of ‘Nausicaa’,
which shifted in and out of focus not entirely unlike Schumann’s Papillons characters. Swathes of music
and musical history seemed to lie ahead – even, a little surprisingly perhaps,
Stravinsky – yet it was, again, both kinship with and difference from Gaspard that most vividly registered in
my consciousness.
Schumann’s Ghost Variations are a distressing experience, not an experience I
am inclined to repeat so very often. Here, however, they received at least a
compelling a musical performance as I
can recall. Anderszewski imparted to the theme an almost Beethovenian dignity,
whilst tugging a little in a Brahmsian direction. It was, moreover, those two
composers, Beethoven and Brahms, who seemed to haunt the variations’ progress
throughout. They were ghosts who, tragically, could not communicate themselves
fully, but the sadness and resilience with which Schumann, their apparent
mediator, summoned up his resources for the last time were greatly moving.
Out of the closing bar of the
Variations, there emerged the ineffable ‘purity’ – however ideological a
concept, that is how it sounded – of Bach’s B-flat major Partita. Bach is not ‘pure’,
thank goodness; who is? Yet there was something both utopian and grounded to
his melody, and counterpoint here, offering consolation so desperately needed.
Following that Praeludium, the sense of release and invention were, if
anything, quietly intensified in the Allemande. Harmony, in more than one
sense, seemed restored – in motion. The Corrente came to life in similar vein,
up to a point, yet was imbued with a character, again provoking thoughts of
Schumann, that also sounded quite new. Anderszewski spun the Sarabande as if
from a single, infinitely varied thread. The first Menuet offered contrast,
almost plain-spoken and yet just as lovely in its way. It was beautifully, yet
not excessively, shaded, whilst its companion dance offered an ideal match of
grace, delight, and the profound. When we heard the first Menuet again, it
sounded utterly transformed, and indeed was; this was no mere ‘repeat’. An
urgent Gigue, full of life, of potentiality, and of that potentiality fully
achieved, concluded the programme. Might it have smiled a little more, I
wondered? The throwaway quality to the final bar disarmed, rendered irrelevant,
any such criticism. This was great artistry, by any standards.
