Includes Arabeske, Kinderszenen, Kreisleriana. Nino
Gvetadze, piano. Challenge Classics CC 72855.
by Bill Heck
It turns out, at least for the works on the recording reviewed here, that I was listening to the wrong performances. Oh, I suppose that it could be age that has made me more patient, more receptive to Schumann’s approach. Or it could be the phase of the moon or the boredom of the pandemic – but I really think it was hearing these performances that made me a convert.
When I first heard this recording, the word “personal” leapt to mind; I felt that I was listening to a musical conversation between performer and composer, or even between the performer and me, an intimate communication played in the moment. From that time to this, I’ve not gotten that word “personal” out of my head.
One bit of trivia to get out of the way: the title of the album, Einsam, usually translated as “lonely.” But why, as none of the works here deals with loneliness? My German professor sister (thanks, Barb!) pointed out that for the German Romantics, of which Schumann surely was one, loneliness has the connotation of solitude, a romantically noble aloneness, especially in connection with nature. Perhaps “contemplation” would be a better word for us English speakers.
The first work on the album, Arabeske, is fairly brief, clocking in here at 7:39. It was perhaps meant as a love letter of sorts to Robert’s beloved Clara Weick, for at the time of this composition he was banished from the Weick household as an unsuitable match for Clara. Schumann himself described the work as “delicate – for ladies”, and I suppose that one could characterize it as delicate. But that would be to sell it short: although a relatively early work (Schumann was 29 when he composed it), it does exhibit emotional depth. As such, I would think of it as a nice and well-played warmup for what is to come.
The Kinderszenen (Children’s Scenes) does have a program, although the program seems to have been added by Schumann after the completion of the composition. It represents a series of 12 scenes from childhood, not from the perspective of the child, but rather as the adult remembers them. As such, we might expect moments of innocent joy, but joy tinged with wistful nostalgia. The 13th and final movement depicts the adult reflecting on the reflections, so to speak, coming back to the reality of adulthood, but with those childhood memories lingering in the background.
After more of those childhood memories, we eventually reach 13, which portrays the adult reflecting back on childhood memories. The music is hesitant, as if the memories are quite old now, growing fainter with the years. Played very slowly, the movement still hangs together: each phrase anticipates the next, so that we have a sense of flow and coherence even as the individual thoughts emerge hesitantly. The end is subdued, but the last quiet notes give a sense of repose.
Throughout the performance, one has the feeling of attention lavished on each phrase, Gvetadze exerting full control of the dynamics of each finger and each note throughout the work, with an extraordinarily smooth touch. In contrast, for instance, Lupu delivers a powerful, even robust reading with some wonderful insights, his children in movement 9 are positively rambunctious and his adult of 13 is indeed contemplative. But the percussiveness of his fingering is less persuasive than Gvetadze’s, especially in the slower, quieter movements (and her tone is plenty robust enough when the music calls for it). Another comparison: I’m generally a fan of Ivan Moracvec, especially of his Chopin, and his version of the Kinderszenen does feature some beautiful playing. However, I just could not get past his tendency to come almost to a halt after defining phrases. Gvetadze never commits that sin: the well-judged phrasing is one of the loveliest things about her playing. Her rubato always seems perfectly timed, the delayed notes arriving just at the instant that they should to keep the music moving forward.
I next turned to Argerich: would not Schumann’s work be right up her alley? Indeed, Argerich’s account is in many ways like Gvetadze’s, but there were points where the former’s playing just seemed to fade away rather than to carry me along; I lost engagement from time to time where Gvetadze’s performance kept drawing me in.
Let’s turn to the second work on the disc, the Kreisleriana. Here, the opening seems a little confused (the sound, not the pianist), with notes running together; fortunately, things quickly snap back into focus and the remainder of the movement is well played. The little transition just after the 7:00 mark sneaks up on us, a wonderful effect. The second movement opens with a beautiful sense of longing, the music sounding as if in a dream, which in context feels perfectly appropriate. My listening notes remark repeatedly on the full control over each note, the dynamics of each finger wonderful, the timing just right.
I listened to several other accounts for comparison, but to keep things brief will mention just one. Murray Perahia’s playing is impeccable: after all, it’s Perahia. The entire first movement demonstrates an incredible separation of the two hands; quick finger work throughout the work is no challenge, the little runs that open the 3rd movement are so fleeting as to bring to mind water running down a mountain stream. Such technique! Yet Gvetadze’s playing, while not quite so dazzling, engages me with the music even more.
Look, I don’t really know what it is, but this recording – all of it – feels incredibly “personal.” (As I mentioned earlier, I can’t seem to get that word out of my head.) The music pulls me back in; forget the analysis, I’ll just listen. Surely the recorded sound helps: the Challenge Classics engineers have captured the lower registers of the piano (a Steinway, I believe) to provide structural support; meanwhile, the image of the instrument is there in front of me. In the end, though, it is the playing that is so – oh, no, not that word again – personal. Thank you, Ms. Gvetadze, for properly introducing me to Mr. Schumann.
BH
To listen to a brief excerpt from this album, click below:
