There's an interesting parallel between King Lear and the story of the Indian demon king Prahrada (or Prahlada), in that I always took issue with the two tales' zero-sum idea of good values.
Firstly, Cordelia's famous answer when asked how she loves her father:
'Why have my sisters husbands if they say
They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,
That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry
Half my love with him, half my care and duty.'
And then the fate of Prahlada, who somehow gives away his good conduct to his pupil (the disguised king of the gods) as a boon. The passage is from the epic Mahabharata, as translated from Sanskrit by Bibek Debroy:
Both love and good conduct, surely, are multiplied by being given. They are not bizarre zero-sum games.
Went to Evensong for the first time, at Westminster Abbey no less. It was a highly anticipated trip. I love choral music but hadn’t heard it live since accidentally stumbling upon a rehearsal of Minuit, chrétiens (the most chillingly beautiful Christmas carol) two years ago, in Toulouse’s Basilica of Saint-Sernin. Before going to the abbey, I looked up the first hymn, Lucis Creator Optime, Wikipedia offering the very different Neale and Newman translations. Neale's rhythms are quick, nimble, and he has wonderful turns of phrase. ‘[N]ight comes with all its darkling fears’ is simply the English language at its best. ‘[T]hat they may strain/the heavenly gate,’ is also much more lyrical than Newman’s simple ‘So may we knock at Heaven’s door.’ Saying that, it was Newman's beautiful rendition of the first verse which caught my eye. Translating ‘creator’ as ‘Father’ was a nice touch, and his choice of verbs is also memorable.
‘Father of Lights, by whom each day
Is kindled out of night,
Who, when the heavens were made, didst lay
Their rudiments in light;’
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'[..] there is nothing—absolute nothing—half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. Simply messing," he went on dreamily: "messing—about—in—boats; messing—" '
The Water Rat's remarks on boats are equally applicable to my own sentiments on messing around in old piano recordings. Yes, yes, there are plenty of excellent modern recordings, but I am at heart an art historian, an archivist, an archaeologist. I like nothing better than to jump into the labyrinths of YouTube to unearth new, obscure, idiosyncratic recordings, experience the historian's thrill in hearing a long-gone pianist's work speak to me across the decades, add their work to a lovingly curated mental library, spread the word. And you find all sorts of treasures of a wackiness you don't often get now.
This week I want to celebrate Francis Planté, who has shot into my 'Top 10 20th-century pianists' in a matter of days. 'He is forgotten now,' reminisces Rubinstein sadly in an interview, 'but he was considered the top, the greatest French pianist, for quite a few years.' Depending on who you believe, he may or may not have heard Chopin as a child (he was born in 1839), but he certainly knew- and played WITH!- Liszt. Most of the recordings we have of Planté were made when he was around 90 (!) but each is vivid, daring, full of colour- rather like Friedman in brashness. Here is one of his better-known, and most memorable, recordings, of the fiery Op 10 no 4, made at the age of 89:
You should also check out his beautiful textures on some of the runs in Op 25 no 11.
The next recording is definitely better-known, but it deserves still more love, and it's worth bringing up just for the genius. Last week I talked about the lovely crescendo in Cortot's '33 interpretation of the Funeral March, and this week it's the turn of Rachmaninov (1930). He crescendos from a whisper to a roar over the ENTIRE first third of the movement, and fades over the last third from a roar to a whisper. Perhaps the best YouTube comment I have ever read compares it to a group of mourners drawing steadily closer to the listener before moving off into the distance.
Briefly visited Bremen over Christmas, and visited St Peter's Cathedral, a building of mixed Gothic and Romanesque architecture. Quite possibly my favourite feature in a church is a rose window (my favourite in the world are at Chartres, north and south). When I glimpsed this beautiful example looming above the Christmas market stall, I had to go inside. In the bottom right of the photo you can see a sign advertising Bach's Christmas oratorio, which I narrowly missed, and regretted a little, as "Jauchzet, frohlocket" is one of my favourite Bach vocal compositions.
Some beautiful Byzantine-style art (the second one, at least, was only placed there in 1888).
A statue of Moses near the left portal. Notice the beautiful tympanum and intricately panelled door of the latter.
The right portal, again with a beautiful tympanum depicting Christ Pantocrator:
Detail of the doors of the right portal. Christ washing the disciples' feet, the Last Supper (see Judas at the bottom right turned towards the viewer with a bag of silver), Christ's trial.
Inside the church. Saint Veronica's veil:
Some beautiful stained glass:
The pulpit staircase with the Four Evangelists and David (here's St Matthew):
I rediscovered an old video of Valery Afanassiev playing the D960 live, in a tribute to his teacher Yakob Zak. Afanassiev takes a very slow tempo to emphasise the titanic spiritual proportions of the work, sucking the listener into a slow, patient trance (but not TOO slow a la Richter). His distinctive style- long lines, a firm tone by turns harsh and gentle as required- keeps things interesting.
It made me think back to the last time I heard the sonata live (Piemontesi at Wigmore Hall), I often fall out with a friend about whether it is better to hear music live than recorded (I maintain the two formats are equal, while he prefers the former). But there are exceptions I make for certain pieces, and the D960 is one of them; it really should be heard live once you know the structure well.
A line from Hilaire Belloc (probably based on Matthew 5:5) goes well with this sonata. 'Blessed is he who has come to the heart of the world and is humble.'
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