Newsgroup: it.arti.musica.classica
Titolo: Vladimir Sofronitzky (8/5/1901 - 29/8/1961)

"La storia dell'esecuzione non è ben documentata ed è stata poco studiata;
certo è che, allo stato attuale delle nostre conoscenze, l'apparizione di un
personaggio come Vladimir Sofronitzki, nato nel 1901, non pare inserita
in una cultura in fase di sviluppo.
Sofronitzki non fu d'altronde artista "inserito" da nessuna parte:
all'estero andò solo nel 1928 (una tournée in Francia), in patria fu
popolare solo tra i musicisti, fu regolarmente ospitato solo nella sala
piccola del conservatorio di Mosca e nel Museo Scriabin, non suonò con le
grandi orchestre, insegnò senza successo nei conservatori di Leningrado e di
Mosca. Era un uomo solitario, enigmatico; è diventato un pianista
leggendario. Prima della guerra incise pochissimi dischi e, dopo, ne incise
in misura limitatissima; sono state però pubblicate molte delle sue
esecuzioni in pubblico, cosicchè si può oggi studiare un materiale
abbastanza vasto da dar ragione di una originalità persino sconcertante.
Sconcertante doveva essere del resto anche l'uomo Sofronitzki. Vladimir
Delman, suo allievo a Leningrado e a Mosca, mi raccontò che un mattino,
svegliato da una lunga scampanellata, aveva trovato Sofronitzki sulla porta
di casa: 'Che pensi di Beria?', disse Sofronitzki. Delman, lì per lì, non
pensava niente e si grattava il collo. 'Dimmi che pensi di Beria',
insistette con calma Sofronitzki. Delman cominciava a chiedersi se doveva
essere proprio svegliato per rispondere ad una simile domanda idiota; smise
di grattarsi il collo e guardò Sofronitzki: 'Lo hanno fucilato questa
notte', disse con forza Sofronitzki; ed i due si fissarono a lungo, senza
parlare.
L'emozione di Delman era stata violentissima, beninteso, ma il modo scelto
da Sofronitzki per comunicargli la notizia lo aveva sconvolto ancor di più.
E il racconto di Delman mi riportava alla sensazione di profonda
inquietudine che avevo spesso provato ascoltando i dischi di Sofronitzki.
Una delle più grandi interpretazioni di Sofronitzki, o per lo meno quella
che mi ha sempre lasciato annichilito, è l'interpretazione della Mazurka
op.50 n.3 di Chopin. Poema in pochi versi, la Mazurka op.50 n.3, costruzione
complessa, sintesi stilistica in cui confluiscono tutte le esperienza
spirituali di Chopin, dal ricordo della terra natale fino alla scoperta del
contrappunto bachiano. Tutti lo sappiamo, e tutti sappiamo che
un'interpretazione della Mazurka op.50 n.3 può dare da sola la misura di un
pianista, di un musicista. Chi si occupa di critica dell'interpretazione,
ascoltandola, è dunque sempre teso a cogliere le soluzioni che l'interprete
trova nel pullulare di problemi che ad ogni passo si pongono numerosi. Ma se
si ascolta Sofronitzki non si capisce neppure, alla prima nota, se si tratti
della Mazurka op.50 n.3 o di un pezzo della Stockhausen anni 50.
Quel primo sol diesis isolato, che Chopin indica mezza voce e con cui
preannuncia il secondo sol diesis dal quale farà iniziare il disegno
melodico, suona con Sofronitzky più a lungo di quanto ci si aspetterebbe e
con una forza ed una durezza di timbro da far sobbalzare qualsiasi
ascoltatore, anche quello che la Mazurka op.50 n.3 non la conosce e non l'ha
mai sentita. Sofronitzky, in altre parole, inizia in un modo che nega non
solo il mezza voce, ma qualsiasi concezione stilistica tradizionale della
musica di Chopin."
(da "Da Clementi a Pollini" di Piero Rattalino)
"As is well known, Vladimir Vladimirovich, Vovochka, and I studied at the
Leningrad (then Petrograd) conservatory at the same time, but with different
professors in different classes. Shortly after my teacher Vladimir Drozdov
left in 1918 for the USA (I went home then to spend some time with my dear
mother, who passed away shortly afterward, and then worked as a music
teacher - all that happened in my hometown Nevel), I became one of the
pupils of Leonid Nikolayev, and Vovochka Sofronitsky was already shining in
his class. We studied together with him for one year, but rarely met during
lessons: I was preoccupied with my studies at the University at that time,
and also in the conducting class of Emilii Cooper, where the main "food" for
his class were performances at the Mariinsky theater that Cooper directed
("The tale of Kitezh", "Lohengrin"; and "Die Walkire" was also prepared).
Unfortunately Vovochka and I almost never saw each other in Nikolayev's
class. Even more so because I was graduating with the works that I learned
previously with Drozdov, the most prominent one being Liszt h-moll sonata.
It was also present in Vovochka's final program. So both of us played it -
one after the other, since our graduation performances were scheduled for
two days in a row (there was no pompous word "diploma" then).
The Small Hall of the Petrograd Conservatory was full on both days (it was
either May or June - I don't remember! - of 1921) [Yudina and Sofronitsky
gave their performances on the same day, May 13], and, as it happens now at
competitions, the piano fans were divided sharply into two parties: admirers
of Yudina and Sofronitsky. The Liszt sonata got an especially heated
discussion. Huge articles about the two of us, our impending bright future,
and the differences between us, were published in newspapers; I remember
well Nikolai Strelnikov, who was the author of one of them, an educated and
witty journalist, who later wrote some operettas, but also befriended Alban
Berg who visited the Soviet Union at the time of the performances of his
remarkable opera "Wozzeck". However, neither the variety of critics'
opinion, nor the differences in our tastes and biases, caused any fall out
between me and Sofronitsky. Neither did they draw us closer - each one went
on his own path.
We talked sometimes during classes and rehearsals before our graduation from
the Conservatory (I did have to tear myself away from the medieval Latin
texts and attend the required classes ...). Vovochka even then was a
remarkable interpreter of Scriabin, while I was studying Bach cantatas (and
even learned some of them with Oda Slobodskaya, a marvelous dramatic soprano
at the Mariinsky Theater), and started playing the whole "Well-Tempered
Clavier"; I expressed to my inspired friend my disappointment in his lack of
love for Mozart - that is how we showed each other peacefully our own ways,
our treasures, and our idols! ... I should mention here that in 1920
Vladimir Sofronitsky married Elena (or Lialia), the elder daughter of
Alexander Scriabin. All of us at the Conservatory observed with sympathy and
happiness their poetic mutual love. They were incredibly charming!
Their youth, and unusual, inspired and transparent beauty of both Vovochka
an Lialia made them everybody's favorites, not to mention the talent of the
groom, and the name of bride's father. They would regularly come to a
performance at the Small Hall of the Conservatory, and sit in one of the
last rows (then, in the midst of the Civil War, most concerts were not full
or sold out) for un-interrupted whispered dialogue, or a dialogue of gazes.
Attention of the others did not disturb them: both they and this attention
were pure and touching. Lialia was, of course, also a good pianist. This
period was clouded only by the illness of Lialia's and Masha's (Maria
Scriabina-Tatarinova, a wonderful woman, who worked later at Scriabin's
museum) mother, Vera Isakovich, a wonderful well-known pianist, professor at
the Leningrad Conservatory; she died soon afterward, one of the first flu
victims.
That is "when" we graduated; it is inappropriate to discuss "how". But both
of us remained in Art.
Another wonderful pianist, Ariadna Birmak, graduated at the same time. Both
of us, Sofronitsky and I received a grand piano ... on paper ... [Both
Yudina and Sofronitsky received the Gold medal and Anton Rubinstein prize,
and according to the tradition they should have received white Schroeder
pianos as the prize. The latter never arrived.]
It was a difficult time ...
We almost haven't seen each other in the twenties: each own had his own
path, "days and labour", sorrow and joy.
We met "artistically" much later, in 1930 or 1931. I often traveled then to
Tiflis and Yerevan to play, and the artistic atmosphere there was right for
me. I suggested to Vladimir Vladimirovich that we prepare a joint program
for two pianos, and so we did: two fugues from the "The Art of Fugue",
Mozart D Minor Sonata - and I forgot what else!!! It is unbelievable but I
forgot!! [Their performances took place on May 24, 1931: two fugues from
"The Art of Fugue", Mozart D Minor Sonata, Schumann B-minor variations,
Taneyev Prelude and Fugue in g sharp minor, Busoni Concert duet in Mozart
style, and Debussy "Blanc et Noir".] However, without any doubt, all
Sofronitsky's programs have been preserved by his devoted friends, while I
never collected mine; I was fortunate, with God's help, to have many
wonderful friends, but my disregard to all outside attributes of the
artistic career, was, probably even stronger than that of Vladimir
Vladimirovich, or his friends were more persisting in this respect, and one
may recover our programs! I remember that during our rehearsals Sofronitsky,
who didn't know these works before, was saying: "How marvelous, how
beautiful, as in Heaven!" I met the wonderful family of artists Wiesel, who
worshiped Sofronitsky; the father was a well-known professor at the Arts
Academy in Petrograd, and of the daughters, Ada, was an architect, and a
devoted, wise, lifelong friend of the artist.
We played this program in Tiflis, and then in Leningrad, at the so called
Chamber Music Society.
Unfortunately we rarely met in the thirties, but I remember vividly three
encounters. The first: once late at night I was visited by Meyerholds,
Vsevolod Emilyevich and Zinaida Nikolayevna, with Vladimir Vladimirovich
Sofronitsky. Vladimir Vladimirovich was extremely excited and immediately
tore off the handle of the shaky door of my dwelling at the Palace Square,
the dwelling was not heated, I had nothing for tea (this was a hard time for
me) but we were all infinitely happy to see each other, each one talked
about himself, his plays, performances, hopes and disasters. The ice on Neva
shone outside, enormous winter star constellations looked on us kindly from
above, they left in the middle of the night, after staying for many hours,
we were all happy: they were famous, and I was in one of my stints in
disfavor with the powers.
That was one of the fantastic meetings between us, the people, sincerely
devoted to Art ..."
(dalla commemorazione di Sofronitzky scritta da Maria Judina).
http://www.math.uchicago.edu/~ryzhik/sofr.html
"After his concerts no one could ever say "He's played like this before".
His interpretations were never repeated. He could play the same piece twice,
as was the case at a concert when he asked permission of the public to
repeat a Chopin piece, which failed to please him. His second version was
always different. Sofronitsky was an amazing master of improvisation. He
used to say that before the concert he knows how he should play up to the
last pause. And then added: "It's different during the concert. Things may
be absolutely different." And he played always in a new and unexpected way.
Sofronitsky was drawn to dramatic aspects of life. This manifested itself in
a phrase he once uttered: "I live without a skin". This attitude was also
seen in the tragic expression of his face, which made his performances very
special. At times he reached the highest point of expression, making people
weep at his concerts. His performance of Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann,
Liszt, Metner, and Prokofuev was remarkable for a share of exaltation, a
generous feeling and lyricism. Sofronitsky kept in his memory and fingers
hundreds of works and could announce several dozen concert programs never
repeating them. His repertoire was truly limitless. Particularly talented
were his interpretations of Chopin and Skryabin.
Skryabin was his favorite and spiritually closest composer. Not
accidentally, Sofronistky married the composer's daughter. His poetic and
inspired interpretation of Skryabin's music matched the composer's genius.
Unfortunately, no recording can convey the impact Sofronitsky's live
performance had on his audiences. Recordings were made secretly because the
pianist hated the process. "It's not music," he used to exclaim with
indignation. "These are all dead bodies!". The disparity between live
performance and recordings made Sofronitsky furious.
As any great musician, Sofronitsky was a complicated and contradictory
person. He believed in visitors from outer space and tried to understand the
mystery of the other world. He was naive as a child, adored jokes, and could
easily invent rhymes. He was well-informed of everything that happened in
the world though during the last years of his life he almost did not leave
home and drew on radio and newspapers for information. He was critical of
himself but read every review about his performance and loved praise. Though
he had enormous concert experience, he practically did not play with
orchestras. He had only his love for music, to which he devoted his whole
life. Only music, he believed, could elevate the soul. "I'm the best when
I'm playing," he used to say. "Because when I'm playing, I love all people."
(da un articolo di G. Avdeeva per The Voice of Russia in occasione del
centenario dalla nascita)
http://www.vor.ru/culture/cultarch168_eng.html
--
"Il millenovecentonovantanove fu l'anno in cui il satellite nucleare indiano
impazzì. Nessuna sapeva dove sarebbe potuto cadere. Si librava appena al di
sopra dello strato d'ozono, come un micidiale uccello rapace..."
Wim Wenders, Fino alla fine del mondo

 I'm playing," he used to say. "Because when I'm playing, I love all people."
Buon compleanno, Vovocka, e grazie! Per la tua leggenda, e per la tua
storia.
E un grazie a te per averlo fatto un po' rivivere.
S.
-- 
Posted via Mailgate.ORG Server - 
http://www.Mailgate.ORG

 E un grazie a te per averlo fatto un po' rivivere.
Ci vorrebbe ben altro... ma è bello pensare che in questi giorni molte
persone, sparse per il mondo, penseranno ai suoi concerti.
Ciao    Mr Duffy
--
"Quando ha 15 anni, una nota gentile viene ad illuminare il suo orizzonte
fatto di brutalità e di miseria: Virgil riceve in dono un violoncello.
Virgil è affascinato dallo strumento. Nella casa degli Starkwell risuonano
note soavi ed armoniose".
Woody Allen, Prendi i soldi e scappa