The conductor spoke of his ensemble’s strong relationship with Russian music and musicians; this was especially meaningful in light of the upcoming concerts behind the Iron Curtain, which would include twelve performances in the Soviet Union. For years, Ormandy noted, he and his musicians had felt a deep connection with several of Russia’s great composers, particularly Prokofiev, Shostakovich, and Glière. They would be honored to meet such figures and to perform their compositions, a prospect that led him to proclaim the virtues of musical exchange, which he said was a superb way to help people to understand one another.56
The Philadelphians’ eight-week European tour garnered rave reviews from critics and a euphoric reaction from countless music lovers, especially those behind the Iron Curtain. As the official Communist Party newspaper in Warsaw observed after the orchestra presented an evening of Beethoven, Copland, Debussy, and Tchaikovsky, Ormandy was a musician of “outstanding intellect,” who directed a superb ensemble.57 In Bucharest, a Romanian musician reflecting on the orchestra’s performances asserted that “technicians can play tricks with recording tapes.” But now it was clear that the famed “Philadelphia tone is the real thing.”58
Though enormously successful, not every moment of the trip was touristic nirvana. The famed maestro was less than enthralled when, upon entering his Warsaw hotel room, he was greeted by an unmade bed, though he was luckier than his musicians who had no rooms at all. Worse still, these unpleasant developments occurred in the wake of an experience the previous day in Poznań, where the group had been booked into a student hostel that lacked running water.59
The Soviet portion of the trip saw the orchestra praised wildly wherever they played, whether in Moscow, Leningrad, or Kiev. In Moscow, where obtaining a ticket was difficult, the Philadelphians’ five concerts were met with roars of approval from an audience, which, one reporter said, resembled what one heard at a “futbol” match. The city’s unusually sophisticated listeners were moved by the Americans’ “glowing” interpretations of Strauss’ Don Juan, Beethoven’s Seventh, Copland’s Quiet City, and Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings. After one concert, composer Aram Khachaturian praised the orchestra from the stage for its distinguished history, noting that in recent years, the group had performed in America with Soviet soloists. After the encore at another Moscow performance, the audience demanded more.60 The government newspaper, Izvestia, singled out Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition, a glittering showpiece that revealed the group’s “brilliant virtuosity.”61 And Ormandy’s decision to include a Russian composition on each program, which an American journalist likened to bringing coals to Newcastle, made a deep impression.62 Indeed, the music of Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky, Shostakovich, and Khachaturian brought down the house throughout the Soviet part of the journey.
American press coverage of the trip conveyed how deeply the Philadelphians’ artistry moved Soviet listeners and how such experiences likely had extramusical implications. One man, astonished by the sheer beauty of the orchestral sound, insisted that he wanted to examine the Americans’ instruments, which seemed to have “magical properties.”63 Such visits, it seemed, could transform international relations. As journalist Howard Taubman observed, among the Russians, one perceived a “yearning to make friends with Americans.” They were determined to connect with the musicians, from hotels to streets to concert halls. While only a few could attend the concerts, nearly everyone was listening to the orchestra’s Soviet radio broadcasts. American artists, Taubman declared, were “superb ambassadors of good will.”64 Still more pithily, he wrote, “Music, like love, can overcome obstacles.”65
But, as I noted in the introduction, the most memorable classical music event of 1958 concerned the achievement of an American pianist in Moscow, a twenty-three-year-old Texan who stunned the international music community. More remarkably, this gifted American captured the attention of presidents, premiers, and those who could not distinguish Rachmaninoff from Rameau. Van Cliburn’s victory in the Tchaikovsky Competition in April provided an unexpected shot in the arm for the United States at a time when the concert hall had become a realm of ideological struggle.
Van Cliburn
Born in Louisiana in 1934, Cliburn began studying the piano at age three with his mother, a gifted pianist whose teacher in New York had been a pupil of Franz Liszt. When Cliburn was six, his family moved to Kilgore, Texas, where he continued working with his mother and began to perform, making his debut with the Houston Symphony at thirteen. His mother’s musical influence was profound, and she instilled in her son the lyrical quality that would become a hallmark of his playing. “She always told me that the first instrument is the human voice,” Cliburn recalled.66 After refusing to study with anyone else during his teen years, Cliburn went to New York at seventeen to attend Juilliard, where he would work with the Russian pianist Rosina Lhévinne, who decided to take him on after he knocked on her studio door one day and told the esteemed pedagogue, “Honey, Ah’m goin’ to study with you.” After the Russian heard him play, she readily agreed, observing later, “Right then I said, ‘This is an unbelievable talent.’ ”67
His first great accomplishment was winning the Leventritt Award in 1954, a prestigious American piano competition, which had not selected a winner in several years because none was deemed worthy. Cliburn’s victory ended the drought, as the panel, which included conductors Leonard Bernstein and George Szell and pianist Rudolf Serkin, reached a unanimous verdict. The award, which set Cliburn’s career in motion, gave him the opportunity to make his debut with the New York Philharmonic and four other orchestras that year, with the New York performance eliciting a rave review in the World-Telegram and Sun, which called the young Texan “one of the most genuine and refreshing keyboard talents to come out of the West—or anywhere else—in a long time.”68
The following season, with his career on an upward trajectory, Cliburn played some thirty concerts across the country. But within two years after winning the Leventritt, his concertizing had nearly ground to a halt, a fate familiar to many aspiring classical musicians, even those with Cliburn’s gifts. Soon he was back in Texas, helping teach his mother’s students after a broken vertebra left her unable to work. Sinking into debt and increasingly troubled by his fate, Cliburn received a letter from Madame Lhévinne, suggesting he consider entering the competition in Moscow, which, after some uncertainty, he decided to do. Once accepted for the competition, in order to master the required repertory, he embarked on a disciplined regimen back in New York, practicing six to eight hours a day for two months. Cliburn also gave small recitals for friends and played weekly for Lhévinne. Upon leaving for Moscow, his trip financed by a private foundation, Cliburn had an unpaid phone bill and a contract with Columbia Artists Management that was near termination.69
Even before Cliburn won the competition, stories began to appear in American newspapers describing the impact his playing was having on Russian audiences and the contest’s judges. According to the Chicago Tribune, the young man had needed only an hour and a half to change Russia’s opinion of American culture.70 Baltimore Sun readers learned of the ten-minute standing ovation Cliburn earned after finishing the Rachmaninoff Third Piano Concerto, while the front page of the New York Times described how revered pianist Emil Gilels, chair of the contest’s jury, embraced Cliburn when he concluded his program in the competition’s final round.71
With Cliburn’s blazing performance completed on Friday, other participants continued their efforts into the weekend. On Sunday night, the jury announced that the American had won the Tchaikovsky Competition, and the next day, newspapers across the United States proclaimed the news. In Moscow, those who had passionately expressed their thoughts on Cliburn’s brilliance were thrilled. Indeed, obtaining a ticket to a Cliburn performance during the contest was seen as a mark of status.72 Beyond the prize of 25,000 rubles ($6,250), of which only half could be taken from the country, Cliburn was required to play a solo recital and concerts with other contest
winners, and was invited to perform in four Soviet cities. When asked about the currency restrictions on his winnings, the American was unperturbed: “Money doesn’t mean anything to me. There are so many things you cannot buy with it. Winning just means a great deal to me as an American.”73
Among Soviet artists, the reaction was extraordinary, with Sviatoslav Richter, considered the greatest living Russian pianist, proclaiming Cliburn a “genius.” The American was blessed with an “inborn artistry and subtle musical feeling [that] ennobles everything he plays.”74 Gilels called Cliburn “a musician of rare talent,” while making sure to note that the American was a pupil of Rosina Lhévinne, a graduate of the Moscow Conservatory. Expressing sentiments that had become common in a decade of global music-making, Gilels declared, “Increased cultural exchange among all countries and the development of international co-operation under conditions of lasting peace are becoming an urgent necessity.” Moreover, the competition had advanced the cause of “international cultural co-operation.”75
Not surprisingly, Premier Nikita Khrushchev was a presence during the Cliburn affair, as he engaged the pianist playfully and spoke later about the event with a touch of seriousness. Suggesting the importance Moscow attached to the contest, the Soviet leader devoted two evenings to events surrounding the competition and gave a party for the participants at the Kremlin. At their first meeting, after his victory was announced, Cliburn reported that the Soviet leader had engaged him in some humorous banter and given him a bear hug. “Why are you so tall?” the politician asked. “Because I am from Texas,” Cliburn answered. “You must have lots of yeast in Texas,” Khrushchev quipped. “No, it’s vitamin pills,” the musician declared.76 At a Kremlin reception the next day, Khrushchev called music an “international language,” and gesturing to Cliburn and the Chinese and Soviet pianists who had finished behind him, observed, “Here we are without a roundtable, having an ideal example of peaceful coexistence.” When someone suggested the musicians could cooperate better if government stayed out of the way, the Soviet leader concurred. Another political leader, First Deputy Premier Mikoyan, weighed in, telling Cliburn, “You have been a very good politician for your country. You have done better than the politicians.”77
With one exception, the spring days of the Moscow competition saw little political dissonance between Americans and Russians, the only dubious note being sounded by the Soviet Union’s most famous composer. In comments reported in the American press, Shostakovich, chair of the contest’s organizing committee, used Cliburn’s victory as an opportunity to speak patronizingly about American cultural life. While calling the pianist “phenomenally talented,” Shostakovich declared it had taken a victory in Moscow to gain for Cliburn the recognition he deserved. The Russians were pleased, the composer noted in a backhanded compliment, that Cliburn “earned his first wide and entirely deserving recognition among us here in Moscow.”78 Of course, Shostakovich was wrong about Cliburn’s lack of recognition in the United States, for he had performed widely back home.79
But Shostakovich’s half-baked generosity neither dampened the spirit of the American people nor diminished the energy of the celebration that was set to begin as the country’s newest celebrity returned home. Cliburn arrived at New York’s Idlewild airport, where his parents and a gang of reporters were there to greet him. “Hi, Sweetie,” he said to his mother, demonstrating the easygoing manner that had charmed the Russians. He told the reporters, “In the South, if people like you, they go crazy about you. From the reception I received I think there’s a little bit of Texas in the Russian people.” To prove the point, Cliburn mentioned his desire to plant a lilac bush from Russia on Rachmaninoff’s grave, which was located about an hour north of New York. Upon hearing this, some Russians had “saved up and bought a lilac bush for me.” (Along with several suitcases packed with gifts, the shrub accompanied him back to New York.) Asked what impact his performances would have on Soviet-American relations, Cliburn said that “long after the [Russian] people have forgotten who [has] won . . . they will remember that an American won it.” And now that he was home, what did he want to do? “Just play the piano.”80 Within a few days, he would do exactly that.
Three days after his return, Cliburn appeared at Carnegie Hall with the Symphony of the Air, performing the pieces he had played in Moscow, under the same conductor, Kirill Kondrashin. The maestro had obtained a last-minute visa, arriving from the Soviet Union one day after the Texan.81 The auditorium was packed, the reviews were superb, and by all accounts, it was a memorable night of music-making.82
Everyone wanted to be at Carnegie, including Russia’s Ambassador Menshikov and Princess Irene Wolkonsky (Rachmaninoff’s daughter). Countless luminaries from the classical music world were there, wishing to hear what the fuss was about. Again, Cliburn’s playing was acclaimed, with one reviewer highlighting his “poetic refinement.”83 And beyond his accomplishments on the stage, another wrote that Cliburn’s “musical ambassadorship has just begun.”84 Indeed, one reviewer remarked, by the end of the first movement of the Tchaikovsky concerto, “world peace seemed a possibility.”85
Among the many accounts of the Carnegie Hall concert, some were more provocative than others. Paul Henry Lang of the New York Herald Tribune lamented the political and commercial context in which the Cliburn episode had unfolded. One could not avoid feeling distress over the “immense apparatus of ballyhoo” Cliburn’s triumph had initiated. Who could not be disturbed by the excessive commercialism of the “Victory at Moscow” theme? While Lang praised aspects of Cliburn’s playing, he pointed to its “immature” and “old-fashioned” quality. Going forward, Cliburn should study music more broadly, not just the piano. Taking a swipe at Rosina Lhévinne and Mrs. Cliburn, Lang advised Cliburn to study with “modern teachers.”86 But most listeners would have agreed with the Daily News, which said Cliburn had “played like a house afire.”87
New York made sure Cliburn felt welcomed. One hundred thousand people turned up to see him become the first and only musician to be honored with a ticker tape parade, which culminated with a ceremony hosted by Mayor Wagner (or, as he was called on this occasion, “Mayor Vahgner”) at City Hall Plaza. At the ceremony recognizing his victory, Cliburn declared he would always remember the day, observing, “it wasn’t to me that this happened, but to the fact that music is a language and a message we can all have at our disposal.”88
If Cliburn transcended politics and egoism in acknowledging his achievement, the mayor’s proclamation had been decidedly nationalistic. The statement asserted that Cliburn’s triumph went “far beyond music and himself as an individual,” but was, instead, a “dramatic testimonial to American culture.” Countering what Shostakovich had said a few weeks before, the document asserted that the United States had “already recognized this genius and awarded him the highest honors in the world of music,” noting he had won the Leventritt Award and played with the New York Philharmonic. Rejecting the notion that Cliburn was a product of Russian instruction (by way of Rosina Lhévinne), the proclamation said his victory resulted from “superb American training and . . . our recognition of his talent by fellow-Americans.” Finally, the statement unsubtly highlighted the benefits the United States had derived from his musical labors: “with his two hands Van Cliburn struck a chord which has resounded around the world, raising our prestige with artists and music-lovers everywhere.”89
Clearly, for some, the Texan’s accomplishments had less to do with promoting universal values or advancing the cause of international cooperation than with extracting diplomatic advantage from his musical exertions. This was an idea suggested a few days later when Cliburn headed to Washington for a performance at Constitution Hall and a meeting with President Eisenhower.90 During his White House visit, Cliburn was accompanied by his parents and Russian conductor Kirill Kondrashin. For his part, Kondrashin told reporters that, besides conducting, while in America he was most interested in looking over American cars. And the president, who
was not known as a music lover, acknowledged during Cliburn’s visit that he was partial to painting. Indeed, when reporters asked the presidential press secretary whether the pianist would play for President and Mrs. Eisenhower, the answer was “Not that I know of.” However unmoved he was by Tchaikovsky, Eisenhower was convinced that America’s cultural achievements could advance the nation’s international objectives.91
Cliburn received widespread coverage over many weeks, from his April victory, to the May events in New York and Washington, and on into the summer as he performed throughout the country.92 And the coverage was not confined to news reporting. One also sees a flood of portraits and opinion pieces examining everything from Cliburn’s religious devotion, to stories on how the contest shed light on American society, to accounts that used the competition to ruminate upon US-Soviet relations. Even Lucy swooned as she thought about Cliburn while leaning on Schroeder’s piano.93
There was no shortage of commentary on the positive impact of artistic exchange, with Cliburn’s victory energizing those who believed in art’s power to enhance international cooperation. Writing that Cliburn had “seized the imagination” of all Americans, New York Post columnist Jo Coppola observed that if the politician dealt with “boundary lines,” the artist, who knows “nothing of frontiers,” spoke for men everywhere.94 In a similar vein, Drew Pearson contrasted the “old-fashioned” diplomacy of Secretary of State John Foster Dulles with what Cliburn had accomplished, telling Washington Post readers, the “new modern diplomacy of people-to-people friendship is winning victories in preventing war.” Those Russians who had cheered for Cliburn or watched him perform on television would be reluctant to fight against the United States.95
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