Thursday, July 22, 2010

Glenn Gould and...

Notes

Entrusted to me were Garbo’s ‘notes’.

Years before they were published I came across this entry that I found rather peculiar in that I heard a voice I hadn’t heard before, a plaintive probing voice. Judge for yourself:

Some time ago I saw an interview by ‘x’ with Glenn Gould. The interviewer asked him why he chose to re-record the Goldberg Variations. Remember that his original recording some twenty plus years earlier was what brought a heretofore unknown Canadian pianist to the forefront of the classical music’s world in terms of a profound musical interpretation of what had been considered Bach’s exercises for piano studies.

Gould’s foundation was therefore challenged by Gould himself. Those hearing the new recording were confused by the ostensible contradiction in interpretations. The two were said by some to be analogous to the physicist’s apparent quandary whether to describe light as wave or particle. So I was most fascinated by what Gould himself would say. I ask you to forgive my paraphrase but I believe it is close enough.

Gould said, ‘Ahh, There was a good deal of PIANO PLAYING on that early recording and I don’t mean that in a good way’.

I have puzzled over what Gould called piano playing and what he much later believed to be the very deepest expression.

Today I saw a painting show at the Getty Museum of some of the finest works by Jean-Leone Gerome. And I found his work most intoxicating, and as satisfying as many of us found in Gould’s first recording of the ‘Variations’.

The Gerome show was on loan at the Getty, but on this same day I saw, in the permanent collection at the Norton Simon Museum a Rembrandt self-portrait.

I spent some time this evening thinking about Gerome, Gould, Bach, Rembrandt and somehow without belittling Gerome I felt the difference between Great Painting and the depth of a great soul showing itself. Do you follow me?

Monday, July 19, 2010

Performances (Garbo)

Performances (Garbo)

After a bit more Ouzo than usual, Garbo went over to his stereo and played Maria Callas : Casta Diva from Bellini’s Norma. His head was bowed and as it faded, he turned and said,

“I was there, I heard her sing this alive. It was a very moving moment. In Vienna where Beethoven shook boots off. In the great hall that Kokoschka painted. I walked up those gleaming marble stairs and waited for Maria. She brought Greek tragedy to the twentieth century and beyond. I don’t go to live concerts anymore; I have spoiled myself by listening to my favorite performances over and over.

You know I paint with the great music every day, every day all day for 40 or more years. So that now I have no leeway in the sound or feeling of it. Tempo tempo. There is only one tempo to Shostakovich 5th. I have to leave. Not that I am correct in my assessment of a performance. I have, as I said, denied myself the capacity to appreciate any other interpretation of Bach than Glenn Gould, and that is a very sad thing. I’m a poorer being because of it. But Gould it has to be.

But there was a time it was not so. When I heard Renata Tibaldi (Turandot) in Barcelona. You know they carried her limo as they cheered. I was speechless but she sat unruffled in the back seat and waved. Or Leontyne Price, a voice like rosewood or teak. In London I heard her make a sound like it had been resonating throughout the Universe forever.

I heard the great pianists as well: Rudolph Serkin, Richter, Gilels, Rubenstein, and Casadesus, on successive weeks in Florence during the May Music Festival. I heard Casals play in the great Cave in Rhondo. One of the enormous limestone caves in southern Spain. One cannot describe such a tremolo. I missed Toscanini but saw one of the last performances of Serge Koussevitzky. And Leonard Bernstein, I went in ready to see histrionics but found myself yelling for another curtain call. I love Lenny and prefer his Mahler to any other.

One thing more, Give me Di Stefano who makes me believe.”

Garbo was a little red in the cheeks as he finished and tossed his head as if to say ‘There I go again.’

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Prayer Song

PRAYER SONG

What happened to Rapture

Who took Sublime

Ecstasy vanished

Joy ran out of time


Sacred’s forgotten

Man has a new flaw

Wonder is absent

Nobody’s is Awe


There’s dust on the Relic

The Prophet grows dim

His lesson’s forgotten

What happened to him


Man’s best face

Is fast asleep

As to make the Angels weep


The message of Clerics

Is not what it seems

Men guided by dogma

Don’t listen to dreams


The warning of Wise Men

Is seen as a rouse

The Wisdom of Ages

Is replaced by the “News”


Who hid compassion

Lost is the Source

How long until Reason

Is moved by remorse


Man’s best face

Is fast asleep

As to make the Angels weep


The thief that stole Greatness

Is now King of fools

The Scepter is Passed

Mediocrity rules


The Dam stops the River

The Ax fells the Tree

The Mine rapes the mountain

Waste now fills the Sea


The Symbols have faded

The Myth is obscure

The Story, forgotten

The Moral, a blur


Man’s best face

Is fast asleep

As to make the Angels weep


I pray for Deliverance

From man’s cunning hold

Take me from his Temple

His God’s made of Gold


I pray for Redemption

I pray we embrace

A longing to live in

A true State of Grace


A longing to live in

A true State of Grace

Amen, Amen Amen

Monday, July 5, 2010

Garbo Says

Garbo says:

Here is my question to you? When you look at a string of dixie cups hanging on a gallery wall or a series interlocking bands of naugahyde that are arranged across a corner of a museum, do you get the same kind of feeling I got when I first saw El Greco. Is there the same paralyzing feeling I get in the pit of my stomach. The same sort of wonder or the level of respect I get when I see Re!mbrandt. Is it like that ? is it visceral?

Or do you admire something else in the Dixie cups? Is it something that you can love like I have come to love in Velazquez. Do you see neon tubes like I see brush strokes in Manet? Is that what it is? That you ‘get it’ the way I get Caravaggio. And are they the same kind of genius… and Michelangelo did it on a ceiling and your guy does it with grafitti or squirts of piss?

If it is so, that the deepest recesses of your soul resonates upon being witness to a giant slab of cor-ten steel somehow precariously placed corner to corner in a sixty foot room having been designed by an artist using a maquette of foam core and sent to a steel mill (ratio: one to a hundred). Then I envy you because you can get yours from so many sources and I have to travel so far.

Last trip to Madrid I wrote to the Director of del Prado Museum. He granted me permission(vis a vis) my 'Museum Suite' series, to be alone with the rooms and the paintings I so love. Alone with Goya and Zurburan. Just us. On a Monday when the museum was closed, save for me.

I had been there when I was twenty. Obtained permission to copy. I told the director . He said ‘come’. I paid my respects to Velazquez as did John Sargent earlier. I didn’t know it then but we made copies of the same ones.

It’s tradition. It’s homage and respect for ones ancestors.

What have your guys built lately?... I forgot…. a stuffed shark. Whoopee!