Stravinsky shakes hands and, as he eats his breakfast, smokes and talks nonstop.
“In 1916,” he tells us, “touring Spain made a very deep impression on me.19 I am in love with its popular music. The Gypsy dances! Have you seen more surprising and richer dances than these? And what about the king? Felipe IV by Velázquez, a pure son of the nation: he is a very interesting king, much more so than any other king.20 The king of … for example.”
Stravinsky cannot hide a smile at the thought of another king, whose name we won’t say.
Stravinsky believes that music has been the victim of academic and philosophical preoccupation and that, because of this has little by little lost its purpose, which is, above all, to be an acoustic sensation.21 Attempts have been made to express all sorts of feelings and philosophical theories in music, which has only resulted in the rhythm, little by little, losing its richness.
“The feelings in our soul!” he exclaims. “What does that mean? Doesn’t every moment have a soul of its own? And is our soul not different in every moment? People have taken music as a medium and not as an end, and so we find that music has stagnated for centuries.”22
We ask him about Russian musicians, and he responds, devastated:
“Pitiful! The influence of Berlin, my friend, of the academies and of the German tradition. Defend me, Spaniards, from the Germans, who do not understand, nor have ever understood music, even though, at first glance, Germany seems to be the land of the musicians. Pure philosophy, my friend, pure mathematics. They have no sense of music; it’s just sheer musicality what they do, which is not the same. Beethoven! I am not saying that he wasn’t a genius; but he did not make music; he felt great things in his soul, which he cloaked in notes that say nothing to the ear. All of Germany is Beethoven or Brahms, the last, chronologically, of his disciples. Wagner! He provided new elements to the orchestra; but with him, music did not advance even an inch. I sincerely believe that Wagner was everything he tried not to be; certainly he was neither a musician nor a philosopher. The general culture of the Germans is the cause of all this: their children know Greek too soon, they go into great depth, and then they don’t have the strength to react against it, to contemplate nature impassively. Whereas, look at Mozart, he was a great musician, so simple, so musical; isn’t it true that the ear rejoices when listening to his music? We can say the same thing about Schubert.
“My whole aspiration,” he continues, “is to provide an acoustic sensation, seeking it wherever it is, and letting it come from wherever it comes. I run away from anything already made because it is conventional, academic;23 the truth of art still lies within the people—and the truth of music particularly. Popular songs and dances are of such richness that they seduce me completely: wherever I encounter them, I make them my own and I write them into my works. What am I, a thief? Okay, I’m a thief. But all of these things, from the moment they impress themselves upon me, are mine and I see them my way, and I surround them with atmosphere as I see fit, and as exactly as possible. So I create the work, and in creating it, everything is mine and original!”
“Take note,” he goes on, “that it is not a question of imbibing popular tradition, but of taking popular values as they are now; if we relied on tradition, if we were to drink from the fountains of Gregorian music, for example, we would do no more than create an academy like all the others, but without any freedom. We would create a new harmonic theory such as the one once sought by Scriabin, another unwitting victim of German influence.24 Harmony is something absolutely conventional and arbitrary that with every moment manifests itself in different ways. Melody and rhythm are the foundation: the flageolet and the drum.25 Do you understand? Harmony results from the melodic and rhythmic ambiance; it is constituted of those elements.”
We ask him about the possibility of creating a Spanish dance show in the style of the Ballets Russes, and he doesn’t let us finish the question.
“Without a doubt! I’m told that Spanish dance has a lot of individuality and is the opposite of ensemble dancing. But take note of the following observation, which I find extremely interesting: the Spanish dancer improvises most of the time, which gives the composer the right to improvise as well and put together the show as he sees fit. The dancer keeps the essential rhythm of the dance she is performing, and embellishes it in her own way with her movements. Magnificent! You have such an incredible wealth of rhythms and melodies, as do we, and as do the North Americans, who have it naturally thanks not to the English, but to the blacks.”
We talk about orchestration, and Stravinsky says that he is amazed by all the richness that he has found in the piano. “For me, it was an ‘enormous machine’ that Chopin, more than anyone else, understood. Recently, at my home in Saint-Cloud,26 I dedicated long months to studying its sounds, and I have found they are considerable and extremely varied. I have worked a lot and written some ‘études’ for pianola.”
“For pianola?”
“Of course! For pianola, because the pianist only has ten fingers and a limited capacity for speed: it’s a matter of not losing the simultaneity of many sounds, of different strings, nor sacrificing it to the limits of human capacity. I have written some études that have already made a big impression in London. I haven’t been able to listen to them yet, but my friends wrote to me saying that they produce new and marvelous effects.”27
Finally, Stravinsky expresses his belief that he has opened a new path for music.
“I don’t know if I will manage to continue to perfect my theories, but others will do it.”
Stravinsky is traveling to Seville to watch the processions of Holy Week, and he bids us good-bye, jovial and very likable, without long locks or strokes of genius: clean-shaven and with his hair cropped close.
Comoedia, 15 May 1921
Spaniards at the Ballets Russes
Igor Stravinsky
Spaniards at the Ballets Russes!28 Why? I am asked this question, and it’s easy for me to respond that for a long time we have admired and studied Spain and those manifestations of its national life that are so original. It is therefore entirely natural that we seek to be inspired by it, and to take with us, so to speak, a piece of Spain. The main thing is to pick what can be transported. There are local wines that one must drink on site, and others that can make the trip.
There is more than mere curiosity in this. I perceive a deep affinity between Spanish popular music, especially Andalusian music, and Russian popular music, an affinity that stems, no doubt, from their common oriental origins.29 Certain Andalusian songs remind me of melodies from our Russian provinces, awakening in me atavistic memories. Andalusians have nothing Latin about their music. They owe the sense of rhythm to their oriental heritage.
Rhythm is quite different from meter. In meter, four always equals four. Rhythm poses yet another question: which kind of number four is this—the one composed of three and one, or the one composed of two and two?
Another facet of this popular art is its extreme precision, down to seemingly accidental details: a quarter tone is always the same quarter tone, a rhythm that seems about to fall off actually does not, and is back on its feet in the very moment we thought it had vanished.
There is nothing in all of this of the passionate improvisation we ascribe to, for example, whirling dervishes. No improvisation: a very calculated, very meticulous art that is very logical in its own way, and coldly calculated. I would almost say a classical art, whose dogmas, though different from those of our schools, are no less rigorous. In a word: an art of composition.
ABC (Madrid), 25 March 1924
Igor Stravinsky and Modern Music
André Révész
What a pity that Fresno is not here with me!30 Stravinsky’s characteristic profile, his aquiline nose, his big mouth, the monocle on his right eye, would lend themselves so well to a caricature. The famous composer is of medium height, really rather short for a Russian, very thin and slightly slouching. He greets us in the foyer of the Pala
ce,31 and guides us to an isolated and quiet corner, where we can’t hear the rhythm of the shimmy.32
The Musicians He Prefers
“I see that you are in a hurry,” we tell him, “so I will formulate my questions precisely. To start with: which modern musicians do you like?”33
“I will answer you with the same precision: very few. Manuel de Falla, an extremely worthy, cultivated, and sensitive musician. Then, my fellow countryman Prokofiev, whose exuberance is astonishing. Finally, two young Frenchmen, Poulenc and Auric, who composed dances performed by the Ballet Russes.34
“What about composers of previous generations?”
“In France: Bizet, Gounod, Chabrier, Debussy, and Delibes. I love Carmen, Faust, Le Médecin malgré lui, and Philémon et Baucis.35 In Russia: Tchaikovsky.”
“Even 1812?”
“Not so much; 1812 is a little tacky and grandiloquent; pompier as the French say. However, The Nutcracker, Eugene Onegin, The Queen of Spades, and some sections of his symphonies are of incomparable rhythmic beauty. Have you noticed the very delicate and original orchestration in The Nutcracker? I think criticism has been unfair regarding Tchaikovsky; the admiration that persons of bad taste felt for him has greatly damaged his reputation among critics. Tchaikovsky is very easy, and for this reason he has been considered vulgar. In reality he is the most Russian of all the musicians from my country. I recognize the great merits of Musorgsky and Borodin—the only composers of ‘The Five’ who interest me—but at the moment I prefer Tchaikovsky. You don’t need to have a full boyar beard or wear a long Eastern caftan to compose Russian music.”
“Are you talking about Rimsky-Korsakov?”
“Him above all. He was my professor at the conservatory in Petrograd and I felt real admiration for him; but now I realize the artificial character of his ‘Russianism’ and his Orientalism.”36
“It is said that your high praise of Tchaikovsky’s music is, in fact, an indirect attack on Wagner.”
“Let me be frank. I don’t mean to deny that Wagner is a great musician, but I don’t like his aesthetic. I like opera, but not musical drama. That is why I prefer Tannhäuser to Lohengrin, and Lohengrin to the Ring cycle. Weber’s music suits my temperament better, although I recognize Wagner’s superiority.”
“And Verdi?”
“Verdi is immense; he has a brilliant imagination and he is even great at dramatic composition. But I stop liking him when he tries to be some sort of Italian Wagner. By my criteria, his best opera is Rigoletto.”
How He Works
“Would you be so kind as to describe how you work?”
“With pleasure. I stick to the so-called work regimen;37 that is to say, in order to economize my efforts, I complete the most difficult part of the composition in the morning; in the afternoon and the evening, I transcribe, copy, correct proofs, etc. I get up around 8 a.m. and do physical exercises. Then I work without interruption from 9 a.m. until 1 p.m. I live sometimes in Biarritz, sometimes in Paris: a simple life; I frequent society very little, and the outer monotony of my life is interrupted only when I travel.”
“Do you have any time left for literature?”
“Very little. Besides, there are few writers who interest me. In France, I prefer the novelist Marcel Proust and the poet Jean Cocteau—Cocteau on account of his aesthetic theory and his admirable versification. Among the young Russian poets, I prefer Yesenin and Mayakovsky.”38
His Self-Criticism
“You are considered an objective and anti-lyrical musician. Is this interpretation fair?”
“Let me tell you: I wouldn’t want to be pigeonholed, nor carry a medal with the inscription ‘I am an objective musician.’ However, I am more objective than subjective, more constructive than lyrical. I present audiences with musical objects, musical facts;39 I hide behind the work, to the point of retreating; the public comes in contact with those objects, with those facts, and they feel emotion, or they don’t.”
“How did you fight against the incomprehension of the critics?”
“Only through my works, never through polemics. What surprised me most about the unfavorable criticism was that it reproached my qualities and didn’t notice my defects.40 The critics didn’t make a single effort to understand what was in my work, and instead, they criticized the absence of certain musical elements they were used to. That is to say, for many years the reviews of my work were negative. The critics didn’t see that there was a new structure in my music, a new rhythm. Instead, they insisted on the lack of lyricism.”
“Which of your works are you most fond of? Petrushka?”
“How do I answer that question? The Rite of Spring, Petrushka, and Firebird are already twelve, thirteen, and fourteen years old, respectively. So you can understand that for the time being they interest me less than other, more recent works, like the Concertino for String Quartet, which is very characteristic of my musical aesthetic, and like the Pulcinella Suite, taken from the ballet of the same name, written in 1920. The Pulcinella Suite is based on fragments of themes and melodies by Pergolesi, and aims to be a kind of Neapolitan Petrushka.”41
“Have you also written operas?”
“Two: The Nightingale, in three short acts, taken from a short story by Andersen,42 and Mavra, an opera buffa, from a short story by Pushkin, for whom I have a real veneration. Mavra is dedicated to the memory of Pushkin, Glinka, and Tchaikovsky. I have also written, together with the Swiss poet Ramuz, a “theatrical piece” titled L’Histoire du soldat, the theme of which I discovered in a Russian short story.
In Spain
“This is my third time in Spain. In 1916 I had the great honor of being welcomed by their majesties the King and Queen,43 and of becoming acquainted with both the aristocracy of the blood and of art.44 In 1921, I wanted to present my homage to the sovereigns by conducting Petrushka in the Teatro Real. I just came from Barcelona, where I conducted three concerts at the Liceu.45 Three years ago, I spent Holy Week in Sevilla and I got to know admirable saetas.46 To finish, please tell ABC that I have found uncommon comprehension and enthusiasm for modern music in the musicians of the Philarmonic. My impression of the Orchestra could not be better.”
La Noche (Barcelona), 25 March 1925
Stravinsky, in Barcelona, Tells Us of His Travels in America
Rafael Moragas
Stravinsky, the musician who figures most prominently among innovators, is in Barcelona.47 Barely arrived, this man of intense gaze and nervous, restless temperament has made his way to the Liceu.48 He is surrounded by a group of admirers, Felipe Rodés, Pedro Soldevila, Luis Salgado, Mestres.49 Igor Stravinsky talks and talks continually, and what he says has a powerful influence on those who listen to him. He talks about music, his travels, and his successes.
We will try to summarize what was said by this great musician, who speaks with such prodigious ease and has a just and precise phrase for everything.
“Since I left Europe, it has been nothing but satisfying for me,” says the great composer. “In North America, the successes have been resounding.”50
“Only artistic successes?” we ask.
“Artistic and also financial successes, since I earned a lot. I conducted my own works in Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Detroit, Cincinnati. I appeared as a concert pianist, that is, as the interpreter of my own works, and Mengelberg, Koussevitzky, and Reiner conducted my works.51
“You could not be more satisfied.”
“I am extremely satisfied,” he told us. “And now I hope to see confirmed in Barcelona—a city for which I retain such fond memories—the satisfaction I felt in America.”
“Maestro, are you currently composing?”
“A sonata for piano, for solo piano. I am finishing it and I will probably introduce it in Paris next May. Now, I am going to Rome. I want to be in Italy. I adore la latinidad. As you well know. I work a lot and I want to introduce completely new programs in the coming year.”
“Are you drawn to the piano?”
>
“As you cannot imagine. I am drawn to ‘my piano.’ And there must have been something about my way of playing on ‘Steinway’ pianos when I recorded my piano works on the gramophone—I’m one of those who when I’m not in Paris play only Steinways—that interested people.”52
“Here, in Barcelona, your arrival is enthusiastically anticipated, my dear friend Stravinsky.”
“I know, and above all I know that I am well loved here. I always want to come to Barcelona, I have my friends, my audience, and an impresario like Mestres who draws me here and understands me. It is a great thing for an artist to feel understood.”
“We appreciate that, glory is so pleasing …”
“Yes, no doubt, but let me tell you, perhaps feeling glorified in an excessive manner is disturbing. Let me explain: recently, in Philadelphia, I was paid tribute, by whom, you may ask…? Well, by two thousand old ladies!! Don’t be scared. They made me sit on a throne and then they paraded by, one by one, kissing my hand. When the one they counted as number eight hundred! passed by, I could not stand it any longer. I excused myself as best I could and told them not to kiss my hand any more because otherwise, when I returned to Europe my hand would be worn out and I wouldn’t be able to conduct concerts. And I had to say this through a loudspeaker so everyone could hear me.”
Stravinsky and His World Page 26