Wigmore Hall
Schumann: Kinderszenen, op.15; Humoreske in B-flat major, op.20Chopin: Preludes, op.28
Nikolai Lugansky (piano)
The first movement from Kinderszenen announced,
if a little stiffly, an absorbing recital of Schumann and Chopin from Nikolai
Lugansky. We can all, to be fair, take a little time to get going. Thereafter,
I had few, if any, reservations concerning playing that combined musical
integrity and superlative playing to great effect. Indeed, recalling my
previous most recent visit to the same hall, Lugansky’s performance was, if not
necessarily superior to, certainly less wilful than Pavel Kolesnikov’s markedly different conception and execution last month. The
relationship between pieces penetrated to the heart of opposing forces in
Schumann’s music. Dazzling fingerwork in ‘Hasche-Mann’ seemed to enable, even
to necessitate, yielding in ‘Bittendes Kind’, which in turn led to greater
freedom in ‘Glückes genug’. ‘Träumerei’ dreamed, yet carried on, finely shaped
without sounding unduly moulded, instigating an infectious response in ‘Am
Kamin, that yet at the outset seemed possessed of an almost Mozartian sadness
beneath the surface, albeit soon dispelled. For contrasting characteristics were
certainly present within pieces too, as in ‘Ritter vom Steckenpfered’, indeed there
almost disturbingly so. Changes of mood and complexity led us seemingly
inexorably to ‘Der Dichter spricht’, blessed by touching nobility and
considerable poetic depth.
Humoreske furthered that kaleidoscope of moods, unfurled both within and between movements. The ambiguity of the first, for instance, suggested very much a knife-edge, which could go either way. Ultimately, it was Schumann’s poetic idea, once more, that held things together—an idea, of course, brought into being in performance by Lugansky. That Schumann was a Romantic and Romanticism was above all a literary movement that came to influence and shape other art forms may seem obvious points to make, but they can readily be forgotten; certainly not here, as a parade of characters and narrators made their presence felt. Voicing of lines unlocked many a door, to exultation as well as quandary. The work’s undeniable formal complexity was shown, ultimately, to rest above all upon questions – perhaps answers too – of feeling.
Chopin’s Preludes followed, again very much a cumulative sequence, the C major opening succinct, laconic, Webern-like in essence if hardly language, a brief-curtain raiser to a further parade of characters, emotions, and more. Lugansky’s A minor Prelude captured beautifully both tension and ultimately marriage between hands: a technical problem (and opportunity) brought to étude-like musical life. Bright, gymnastic, liberated by the keyboard, its G major successor in turn necessitated both sadness and inner strength in its E minor counterpart. We heard and felt Schumannesque flickering in volatility, engrossing tumult, Bachian homage in harmony and counterpoint, and jet-black malevolence (as in the E-flat minor and F minor preludes). There was also plenty of time and space for reflection, the D-flat Prelude – ironically, given its ‘Raindrop’ nickname – clearing the skies magically, only for them to darken again in its ominous middle section, the close nicely ambiguous as to which had won out. If, in the end, blistering, tragic vehemence won out (G minor as well as the final D minor) then memories of much else, as in the Schumann works, persisted. There was no either/or.
Nor, indeed, was there in three finely contrasted encores, at least taken as a whole. The A-flat ‘Duetto’ Song Without Words brought Mendelssohn closer still to Schumann, Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu no less magical, yet more overtly thrilling. I am not sure I have ever heard the latter better played. Likewise Rachmaninov’s C minor Prelude, op.23 no.7, sounding as the composer’s piano music always should: music for the Steinway.
