Wigmore Hall
Schumann: Kinderszenen, op.15
Schubert: Piano Sonata no.18 in G major, D 894
Pavel Kolesnikov is an uncommonly, very particularly interesting pianist and musician. His performances are never ‘standard’ or run-of-the-mill, yet I have no recollection either of finding them perverse or self-regarding. They seem always to take their leave from programming, often remarkable in itself, but as much to the point suggesting a work (sometimes a single piece of movement) might have been performed very differently in a different programme. This recital, with Schumann and Schubert sandwiching Morton Feldman’s final piano work, Palais de Mari, might appear relatively conventional on paper—though how many opportunities do we have to hear that or any Feldman piano music? Schumann and Feldman in particular seemed to inform one another in performances pointing to unsuspected kinship. Yet, whether it were that way around, or more that Kolesnikov’s conception of the three works had prompted the programming in the first place – presumably, some measure of both – artistry and commitment were such, one almost wondered no one had thought of doing this before, whilst the nature of this programming and performing alchemy retained an element of mystery in precisely how and why they complemented one another so well.
Schumann’s Kinderszenen received a
captivating performance: rapt, poetic, its contrasts seemingly emanating from
the work ‘itself’ rather than imposed upon it from without. Each movement
possessed, was even possessed by, its own character, also taking its place in
the necessary sequence. Like that of all the best Schumann pianists, Kolesnikov’s
voicing was exquisite, yet never for its own sake, telling rather of the wayward,
flickering, brilliant subjectivity at work in the score. He built it to a
veritable black pearl of a ‘Träumerei’, taken very slowly (presaging Feldman), maintaining
line without so much as a stretch mark. It was a case of suspended animation: a
canto sospeso even, and indeed he invited us to listen with all the concentration
we must lavish on a work by Nono. (It would be wonderful, I suspect, to hear
him in such music.) Kinship with Chopin was particularly evident; it was,
though, kinship rather than identity, earlier common roots, for instance in
Bach, apparent, though again without didactic underlining. This was a truly
Romantic, even Jean Paul-like performance to savour.
But then, before the poet spoke, another intervened, perhaps a painter. Feldman’s
Palais de Mari takes its leave from an image he saw at the Louvre of a ruined
Babylonian palace. Kolesnikov drew us in to a work that is never quite static,
though it certainly takes its time. Does one often not, when something strikes
one in a museum or gallery? Here, it sounded as if Schumann’s neo-Bachian inner
voices attempted with every chord to progress, to develop, yet each time could
not: a different, yet mysteriously related form of suspension. A certain
similarity, perhaps superficial but perhaps not, to the last of Schoenberg’s
op.19 Piano Pieces emerged, albeit on a canvas that owed more to Rothko
than to Schoenberg’s very different, highly personal form of expressionism. Minimalist?
Yes, in a proper sense, though it does not seem to me to have anything in
common with most of the music that has taken that name. I was transfixed, as
most of the audience also seemed to be. After which, der Dichter sprach:
again, in highly measured, almost prophetic terms. It could hardly have been
better judged.
Highly effective use, unless my ears had
deceived me, of the una corda pedal, especially in the Feldman, effected
a bridge into the similarly pedalled opening of Schubert’s G major Sonata, D
894. When the full complement of strings was finally heard in the first
movement, the suggestion was of an act of Creation: ‘and there was Light’. I
also thought of Edgar Reitz’s use of colour in his Heimat series; for
me, at least, there was a sense of that haunting by memory, a reminiscence
perhaps of Die schöne Müllerin, a staging post even to Winterreise.
As so often with Schubert, Dylan Thomas’s ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the
light’ seemed to haunt pages and performances. It felt slow, though not
Richter-like glacial. That might have been an obvious choice post-Feldman, but
here there was a sense of self-collection in the wake of the first half,
furthered in the final three movements. Kolesnikov’s dynamic range was
considerable and always considered; his exquisite tone never hardened, though
it certainly impressed, at times in almost Lisztian fashion. Often the
performance dealt in opposites, but it mediated too, as does Schubert. This
music had lilt too; it danced. Line, lyricism, and proportion were all
impeccably judged, again appat emerging from the material itself. Above all,
though there was sadness, this was never lachrymose; there was resolve, even
strength, to be heard and personally felt.
‘L’Egyptienne’ from Rameau’s G major/minor suite in the Nouvelles Suites de
Pièces de Clavecin made for a refreshing, bracing, indeed vigorous encore: as
much a reaction as a complement, fashioned in a highly particular burst of
enthusiasm one imagined might well have been very different in other
circumstances.
