CARNEGIE HALL PRESENTS
András Schiff

Stern Auditorium / Perelman Stage
Wednesday, October 24th, 2007 at 8:00 PM

András Schiff, Piano

BEETHOVEN Sonata No. 5 in C Minor, Op. 10, No. 1
BEETHOVEN Sonata No. 6 in F Major, Op. 10, No. 2
BEETHOVEN Sonata No. 7 in D Major, Op. 10, No. 3
BEETHOVEN Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, Op. 13, "Pathétique"

Encore:
BACH Partita No. 2 in C Minor, BWV 826

Program Notes:

Striving for the Impossible
Beethoven’s Sonatas, Op.10 and Op. 13
András Schiff in conversation with Martin Meyer

Martin Meyer: Beethoven’s piano sonatas were composed over a period of 25 years—that is to say, from 1795 to 1820—and they reflect an enormous spectrum of creative ideas and solutions to problems. Do any comparable challenges exist for you as a performer?

András Schiff: I would probably have to say no. When we say that Beethoven’s output of sonatas for piano brings with it a wealth of material and forms, of concepts and structures, of visions and not least of moods, it doesn’t inevitably imply that all other composers are “easier” to play, but that the challenge of this corpus of pieces as a “work in progress” is immense. You could perhaps place it alongside the two parts of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier. However, the genre of the prelude and fugue is, per se, much more closely defined than the sonata movement, so that the types of transformations Beethoven creates in the genre of the sonata aren’t possible.

What are the specific features and particular difficulties of the 32 sonatas, not only for the performer but also for the listener?

Well, firstly within the time span you mentioned, there is a tremendous evolution in the composing, whereby the general tendency leads to an ever-greater economy of means. But secondly, each sonata from the F-Minor, Op. 2 No. 1, onwards is a masterpiece of individualization and character. Unlike with Mozart and Schubert, there are no repeated gestures in Beethoven: everything unfolds and is developed in a new aspect. The pianist has to convey this in his interpretation, and at the same time the listener has to be actively involved in Beethoven’s innovative processes. For something to be just “nice” or “pleasant” isn’t possible with Beethoven.

The agility of the pianist as a thinker, and at the same time as a well-prepared craftsman—do the two have to be brought together under the same roof?

That really is one of the greatest difficulties for successful Beethoven performance. Because Beethoven never proceeds schematically (and this of course is a general hallmark of great music), and on top of that because it’s precisely the differences, variations, elaborations, etc., that distinguish the piano sonatas, the performer is continually confronted with a wealth of challenges regarding form, articulation, and sonority. There is no such thing as a simple “Beethoven sound.”

On the other hand, there used to be so-called Beethoven specialists, of whom the most prominent was probably Wilhelm Backhaus, just as there were Chopin and Liszt specialists. Are such specializations obsolete today?

Probably. Arthur Rubinstein, for example, was a world-famous Chopin performer who also played some Beethoven without running the danger of becoming a “Beethoven specialist.” As far as Beethoven and Chopin are concerned, they demand two very different ways of playing the piano. Although Chopin’s music is certainly great, it does not have the philosophical and existential depth of Beethoven. Chopin’s music is sonority, it is engraved, and it arises very much out of the piano. For Beethoven the piano is a means of realizing the impossible—his own musical thoughts. Beethoven encompasses not only “pianistic” means of expression, but also sonorities conceived in terms of orchestral and chamber music. The difficulty lies in giving voice to each of these types of sonority.

You are the opposite of a specialist yourself, although you have been committed to Bach, then Mozart and Schubert.

Specialization is unhealthy. By that I include the tendency always to play the same pieces by a particular composer. That tires and restricts your creative horizons. On the other hand, you should also be aware of your own personal limits. No pianist plays everything equally well. And if we take contemporary music into account, a possible if not perhaps realistic repertoire stretches from the Baroque to Stockhausen, Lachenmann, and Rihm. To encompass all of this in the “right” way poses enormous problems, not least from the point of view of actual sound.

What kind of sound do Beethoven’s piano sonatas demand?

As I said, practically every note matters in its specific relationship to the piece and its character. But perhaps Beethoven “suits” contemporary music better than Mozart or Chopin for instance, because for his part he was more a sculptor than a painter—the corners and edges in his music stick out sharply and must be heard to do so. Beethoven’s aesthetic governs the sounds according to his thematic and spiritual ideas, and not the other way round.

If we take the early sonatas, what are their particular challenges for the pianist and the musical interpreter?

First of all, we have to take these works absolutely seriously. They are not in any way “preliminary exercises” for the later works. Of course, the collective sonatas display an evolution, but already with Op. 2, No. 1, the highest quality is achieved. On the other hand, the first three sonatas are not particularly economically written; Beethoven enthuses and exaggerates, repeats while varying, hardly moderates himself at all. As a result, the pianist has to be careful to hold the form and content together. Moreover, the long Sonata, Op. 7, with its wonderfully rich sonorities, should never sound boring. Finally, Beethoven’s early works require a piano technique that also comprises great virtuosity. Youth, energy, physical and psychological well-being, the acclaimed improviser—all this can also be seen in the handwriting of these pieces; and the three sonatas of Op. 2, in particular—of course with the exception of the “Hammerklavier” Sonata—are for me the most demanding works, not only technically but also from the point of view of memory.

The three sonatas of Op. 10, on the other hand, appear by comparison to be already more ordered, more concentrated, and in many ways less “playful.”

Without doubt. All the same, Beethoven and his publisher again used the collective form of the triptych, which suggests a certain unity. And whereas the Sonatas Op. 2 are much more inward looking, and composed for Beethoven’s own use, the sonatas Op. 10 already turn outwards, towards connoisseurs and amateurs. Perhaps for that reason they are slightly easier to play. From the point of view of their overall conception, the composer pitches their moods differently. The C-Minor Sonata is highly dramatic and thus still follows in the footsteps of the F-minor work from Op. 2, but I see the F-Major Sonata, Op. 10, No. 2, as clearly humorous and comical, while the concluding D-Major Sonata is much harder to define. Certainly, it marks not only the high-point of the Op. 10 triptych, but thanks to its quite extraordinary slow movement it can claim a special place within Beethoven’s sonata output.

The sonata design has also changed. For the first time, with the Sonatas, Op. 10, Nos. 1 and 2, Beethoven composes three-movement works.

This results naturally from the concentration of material I described before. Additionally, in the case of the F-Major Sonata there is no real slow movement; the pale, melancholy mood of the Allegretto gives it more the character of an intermezzo.

What would you describe as the special attributes and landmarks of the C-Minor Sonata?

Drama and turmoil. Its opening theme is a so-called “Mannheim rocket,” as in Op. 2, No. 1, but it is sharpened by its dotted rhythm. The tempo of the first movement is Allegro molto e con brio, and therefore not a tempo ordinario. Beethoven can be seen here as a rebel, a revolutionary, perhaps even slightly as deliberately provocative. In addition to the virtuoso explosiveness, we continually meet with many-voiced chords. The piano writing is thickly scored, and the musical phrase continually poses questions, which are intensified by the rhetoric of the text. As further contrasts we could cite the wide range between pianissimo and fortissimo, or the enormous gaps between high and low registers, or the dramatically effective pauses, which by the way must be counted out exactly in performance. As far as the tonal range of the first movement is concerned, it makes me think much less of the piano, than of an orchestra. In short, with its extreme economy, this is breathless music, unresolved by any catharsis.

On the other hand, the Adagio molto has a completely different atmosphere. A flat major serenity, so to speak, between the assault of the outer movements.

Here the whole structure becomes expanded. The elements of motion are highly differentiated, but precisely notated, down to the minutest ornaments. The “Baroque” tendencies of this movement, which is a sonata form without development, reminded Edwin Fischer of Bach’s Partita in E Minor. Outbursts like the one that occurs from bar 17 could actually confirm this. The basic character is essentially lyrical, but even here elements of unrest resonate—for instance in the unusually rich harmonic palette—and the coda, with its syncopated rhythm, strikes me as very pensive.

In the third movement we meet with storm and stress again, extreme speeding up of tempo and a C-major ending that hardly corresponds with our notion of “major” at all.

Not at all: it is written as major, but we hear it as minor. The whole movement is secretive and urgent, although the E-flat major subsidiary theme is high-spirited and dance-like. The extremely short development anticipates the first movement of the Fifth Symphony. The various pitches and registers sound orchestral, and the fact that the work disappears mysteriously and rapidly at the end of the coda without any ritardando creates a ghostly conclusion.

By way of contrast, the following sonata is full of F-major joyfulness. You interpret it as a humorous and capricious piece.

Yes. If it weren’t for the pale Allegretto placed as an intermezzo, like a dark valley between the peaks of the outer movements, we could speak of unbroken cheerfulness. The key reminds us of course of the “Spring” Sonata for piano and violin, and also of the “Pastoral” Symphony. Mischief, wit and something like ‘Great Expectations’ come to the fore. The theme begins questioningly and with an upbeat, and the following triplet answers like an echo of birdsong. This again shows how intelligently Beethoven is able to establish contrasting sonorities. After this rather aphoristic beginning, broad, singing lines develop: neither Haydn nor Mozart shaped their phrases so expansively.

But it is particularly here that Beethoven uses the art of surprise.

The sonata is peppered with unexpected changes. We only have to think of the explosive gesture in C minor (bar 41 ff.), or the Baroque “quotation” of invention technique in the development, or of the “false” recapitulation (bar 118 ff.). We only return home 19 bars and a couple of startling modulations later! Then the traditional slow movement is replaced by that Allegretto whose quarter-notes rising in unison evince a striking sense of subdued tension. But the fact that the second half is so polyphonic, or that the trio would evoke a yearning chorale in D-flat major, like a distant song, is something we would hardly have been able to predict from the movement’s pale beginning. The finale is amazingly witty. It’s true that it is in sonata form, but Beethoven incorporates fugal passages, as though in homage to Bach. Interpretatively it’s important for the opening to begin rather discreetly and quietly, so that enough energy and intensity are left in reserve for the development, as well as for the very virtuosic, contrapuntally-worked recapitulation.

With the third sonata of the Op. 10 triptych Beethoven finds yet another form of expression: four movements, of which the Largo e mesto towers almost waywardly over the others.

But only almost. Because from the point of view of its thematic proportions and its moods, the work is extremely harmoniously designed. The first movement, very unusually a presto, is thematically open to many directions and metamorphoses, and it therefore conveys immense constructive momentum. Of course the slow movement forms the climax: such grief and such depth were quite unprecedented. The tone of voice of D minor, which may remind us, for instance, of Mozart’s Piano Concerto, K. 466, or of Don Giovanni, attests to an existential dimension. The breadth of the transformations is enormous: a “still-life,” as it were, in the first eight bars, then the aria-like declamation that ventures almost into the operatic, then the dynamic and rhythmic intensification in the second theme, and finally the chorale-like F-major passage that already throws light on the middle section of the slow movement from Schubert’s B-flat-major Sonata. To me, the music at this point carries a sense of release.

But surely not for long: after five bars it’s interrupted by a fortissimo explosion.

Yes, the movement vibrates in its contrasts. In addition to the introverted brooding and the consolation, we find outbursts and sighs—a whole range of emotive gestures. Only with the grandiose coda, rising from the depths of the bass to the plaintiveness of the descant in an almost unbroken chromatic progression, is this contrasting interweaving of moods left behind.

So the following movements must per se have a more gentle effect?

Beethoven knows of course that only a gently-toned minuet, offering a careful “return to life,” like the one in D major, can provide the appropriate transition. For me, such moments as these, where the tension is resolved and something new is prepared, belong among the most beautiful and moving experiences in Beethoven. Admittedly, they can only succeed completely if the audience participates attentively, without breaking the spell. The trio of the minuet brings with it humor, and humor is of course reflected again in the concluding rondo, with its repeated “questioning” phrases and with the clashing dislocation of melody and accompaniment in the second episode. What’s really impressive is the way that after the big cadenza Beethoven doesn’t end the movement with fireworks, but allows it casually to die away quietly in such a genial way.

Barely a year later, that’s to say between 1798 and 1799, the composer produced one of the most famous of all his sonatas, the “Grand Sonate Pathétique,” Op. 13.

Even today it’s not clear as to whether or not the title came from Beethoven. I don’t imagine it was his choice, but he didn’t object to it, which implies a kind of acceptance. There is much that is “pathetic” about it, above all in the first movement. The grand, theatrical, Grave introduction in dotted rhythm is again something new. Its model is the French Overture. Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven were all familiar with this form. What does the introduction express? Certainly pathos, suffering, agitation—and with a symphonic breadth, in which the theme is shaped in an easily graspable form. This also applies to the Allegro molto e con brio that follows, as well as to the other movements.

Do you see this Grave purely as an overture for what follows, or as already a theme in itself?

For me it is definitely the first main theme. Because unlike in the case of the Sonata Op. 111, the opening recurs several times, varied on each occasion. This is why I follow Rudolf Serkin and Charles Rosen in so far as when I repeat the exposition I also repeat the Grave. I think this is what Beethoven had in mind, although in the first edition the repeat applies only to the Allegro. Unfortunately the autograph score is lost. The dynamic marking at the beginning of the Grave is simply fortepiano, so one should absolutely not play a thundering fortissimo, but instead increase the intensity of the extremely thick, many-voiced piano writing rather carefully. The last three bars, with their cadenza-like rhetoric, although they are without a crescendo, prepare the way for the Allegro with great tension.

How should the tempi be defined at such transitional moments?

A certain agogic delay is desirable, but it is more important to find the right proportions between the Grave and the Allegro. The Allegro is di molto e con brio and absolutely has to be played alla breve. Incidentally, Chopin composed the first movement of his “Funeral March” Sonata in a similar way, and at the parallel point—that’s to say between the Grave introduction and the doppio movimento—it shows definite references to the “Pathétique”. The theme of the Allegro again spirals upwards in the style of a “Mannheim rocket,” but it is filled out with thirds and sixths, which, combined with the fast tempo, poses certain technical demands: heavier weights than at the beginning of the Sonata, Op. 10, No. 1, have to be lifted. The subsidiary theme begins in E-flat minor, an extremely unusual key for Beethoven, but it very quickly modulates. The way the Grave reappears at the beginning of the development is highly significant: its mood is different—beseeching, and very mysterious. The development itself, with its bare octaves and the “drum roll,” increases the “orchestral” effect. The fact that it begins in the distant key of E minor, with accelerated quotations of the Grave theme, epitomizes for me the new and revolutionary aspect of the sonata as a whole. And finally, the last return of the Grave, before the coda, is eerie, spreading a kind of frozen stillness against all expectations.

Beethoven shapes the two following movements in a noticeably more “classical” manner, as though after such unruliness there must be a return to a certain politeness.

Exactly. The outer sections of the Adagio cantabile in A-flat major are like a song without words; then in the middle section, with its polyphonic complexities, the timbre is more like chamber music, and finally with the sforzati it becomes positively orchestral. The slow movement of Schubert’s C-Minor Sonata reproduces this section very closely. The rondo is similarly classical and clearly laid out, with its main theme recurring four times. In the episodes Beethoven varies things in the way we would expect from him: partly with contrapuntal elements, as in the second episode, partly with lyrical ideas, as in the dolce motif. Not until the coda, from bar 182, is the connection to the first movement made clear; then it becomes virtuosic again and, with much rhetoric, “pathetic.” In between the two closing phrases, cascading down from the descant, the Grave theme slips in once again, with a very discreet questioning gesture, which is however immediately answered with a furious “no.”

Translation: Misha Donat

András Schiff, Piano
András Schiff was born in Budapest, Hungary, in 1953. He began piano lessons at the age of five with Elisabeth Vadász and continued his musical studies at the Ferenc Liszt Academy with Professor Pál Kadosa, György Kurtág, and Ferenc Rados; he also worked with George Malcolm in London. Recitals and special projects take him to all of the international music capitals and include cycles of the major keyboard works of Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Chopin, and Bartók. In 2004, he began a series of performances in Europe exploring the 32 Beethoven piano sonatas in chronological order—a project recorded live for ECM New Series, to be released in eight volumes though 2009. The Beethoven Sonata Project in North America begins this season.

The Beethoven Sonata Project in its entirety is slated for New York’s Carnegie Hall, Los Angeles’s Disney Hall, San Francisco’s Symphony Hall, and Ann Arbor’s Hill Auditorium. Individual recitals are slated for Boston, Princeton, Santa Barbara, and Washington, DC. Mr. Schiff makes his only North American concert appearance this season with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, under the baton of Bernard Haitink performing Bartòk’s Piano Concerto No. 3.

In 1999, Mr. Schiff created his own chamber orchestra, the Cappella Andrea Barca, for a seven-year series of the complete Mozart piano concertos, taking place at the Mozartwoche of the Internationale Stiftung Mozarteum in Salzburg. The group, consisting of international soloists, chamber musicians and close friends, toured North America during the 2005–06 and 2006–07 seasons in a series of concerts at Carnegie Hall and Alice Tully Hall to commemorate the 250th anniversary of Mozart’s birth. The six concerts included 12 of the Mozart piano concertos, chamber music and symphonies.

During the next few seasons, the focus of Mr. Schiff's orchestral activities will be conducting programs of Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart from the keyboard. He has annual engagements with the Philharmonia Orchestra, London, and the Chamber Orchestra of Europe as conductor and soloist. He is a regular visitor as conductor and soloist with the Philadelphia Orchestra, Los Angeles Philharmonic, National Symphony Orchestra, Staatskapelle Dresden, Budapest Festival Orchestra and City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra. He has conducted Bach’s B-Minor Mass and Haydn’s Creation with the London Philharmonia and was conductor and soloist with the Chamber Orchestra of Europe on a critically acclaimed tour of New York, Chicago, and San Francisco.

Since childhood Mr. Schiff has enjoyed playing chamber music. He was Artistic Director of Musiktage Mondsee, an internationally praised, annual chamber music festival near Salzburg, from 1989 until 1998. He is presently joint artistic director of Ittinger Pfingstkonzerte, a chamber music festival he founded in Switzerland with Heinz Holliger in 1995. In 1998, Mr. Schiff started a similar series entitled Ommaggio a Palladio at the Teatro Olimpico in Vicenza. From 2004 to 2007 he was Artist-in-Residence of Kunstfest Weimar in Germany.

Mr. Schiff has established a prolific discography, including recordings for Teldec (1994–97), London/Decca (1981–94) and, since 1997, ECM New Series. Recordings for ECM include the complete solo piano music of Beethoven and Janáček, a solo disc of Schumann piano pieces, and his second recording of Bach’s “Goldberg” Variations. He has received several international recording awards, including two Grammy Awards for Best Classical Instrumental Soloist (Without Orchestra) for the Bach English Suites, and Best Vocal Recording for Schubert’s Schwanengesang with tenor Peter Schreier, and, for the 49th annual Grammy Awards, was nominated for Best Classical Album (Without Orchestra) for the second volume of his complete Beethoven sonata recordings for ECM.

Among other honors, András Schiff was awarded the Bartók Prize in 1991 and the Claudio Arrau Memorial medal from the Robert Schumann Society in Düsseldorf in 1994. In March 1996, Mr. Schiff received the highest Hungarian distinction, the Kossuth Prize, and in May 1997 he received the Leonie Sonnings Music Prize in Copenhagen. He was awarded the Palladio d’Oro by the city of Vicenza, and the Musikfest-Preis Bremen for “outstanding international artistic work” in 2003. Recently, Mr. Schiff received two awards in recognition of his Beethoven Performances: in June 2006, he became an Honorary Member of the Beethoven House in Bonn, and in May 2007 he was presented with the renowned Italian Prize, the Premio della critica musicale Franco Abbiati, in recognition of his Beethoven piano sonata cycle. This fall, Mr. Schiff will be honored by the Royal Academy of Music with the institution’s prestigious Bach Prize, awarded each year to an individual who has made an outstanding contribution to the performance and/or scholarly study of the music of Johann Sebastian Bach.

In 2007, András Schiff and music publisher G. Henle began a unique partnership to produce special, joint editions of Mozart and Bach. Mr. Schiff is currently editing the complete Mozart piano concertos to include his specific fingerings and cadenzas where the original cadenzas are missing. Once the Mozart project is complete, plans are set for Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier to be edited with Mr. Schiff’s insights and fingerings.

András Schiff is an Honorary Professor of Music Schools in Budapest, Detmold, and Munich. In 2001, Mr. Schiff became a British citizen; he resides in Florence and London and is married to the violinist Yuuko Shiokawa.