My two New York lifelines, the M57 bus and the Lexington Ave. subway, took me last evening to the 92nd St. Y, the warm and cozy hall to which I will go often, as its programming is simply irresistible. So is the hall, called the Theresa L. Kaufmann Concert Hall, most certainly after a lady of that name, who, nevertheless, seems as elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel for I could not find a single word on her anywhere. What is almost certain is that she had the money, for that is what concert hall, hospital wing, university dorm and classroom, library, museum wing and room names are all about in this country. So much the better, immense egos serving education, culture and health, who would dare to complain? Better to spend your money to see your name on a building façade than to squander it chez Dior, Chanel and Vuitton, don’t you think?
This totally wood panelled hall is much smaller than its West Side counterparts, and has the looks and ambiance of a positivist chapel. Names of famous men (no women, I’m sad to observe) are boldly and randomly embossed in gold letters along the top of the wooden walls. I tried to figure out the criterion used to choose the names, but as much as I tried, I could find none. I made a note of some of the names in order, so if anyone has any idea about this, please let me know: Beethoven – Lincoln – Washington (aha! Two American presidents) – David – Moses – Isaiah (a tribute to Jewishness), I forget who follows, but I know that Shakespeare and Goethe are also there – but no Mozart! Next time I will complete the list and go on trying to understand what Beethoven and Lincoln, Isaiah and Shakespeare, David and Goethe had in common. Never mind, the names add to the hall’s academic aspect – this is more a place of cultural reverance than of entertainment, although one definitely does not exclude the other, far from it.
To reach my seat, I had to disturb an extremely sour looking gentleman, who seemed supremely annoyed to have to get up. Considering that I was 20 minutes early for the concert, I felt no guilt whatsoever. I myself had to get up several times to let people get through, as my grumpy neighbor and I were in the two first seats in the row. I had fun watching him get almost apoplectic. He calmed down when the music started, and was attentive enough, although I sensed absolutely no enjoyment. Why was he there? I will never know, and, what’s more, I don’t care!
Of course, I myself was very excited and had very high hopes regarding the pianist. The last time I had heard him, which was also the first, was in Mecklemburg-Pomerania (see my 2008 review “A Diplomatic Excursion to Pomerania”). Along with the LSO and Daniel Harding, he had bedazzled me, which was not good as I was terribly afraid this could be a letdown.
His looks were just as I remembered, Hollywoodian – a cross between George Clooney and Sir Simon Rattle, two uncontested stars and professional charmers. Paul Lewis charms inadvertently, unintentionally – there is nothing obviously histrionic about him. He can’t help being good looking and he immediately proceeds to make you forget the question of his appearance.
But that is all he makes you forget about. Everything else is unforgettable, and lingers on in your soul long after the last note has died down. My fears were absolutely not justified – Paul Lewis, alone on the stage, just him and the Steinway grand and Schubert, was just as superb, or even more so, than Paul Lewis in a huge hall with the London Symphony orchestra. He filled the Y and our ears and minds with some of the most beautiful music I have heard in years.
Paul Lewis, according to the Playbill, has decided to devote a few years to Schubert’s piano music, as he had done before with Beethoven’s. One of the questions in the short interview published in the programme notes had to do with the possible “fatigue”which could arise from concentrating on one composer for so long. Lewis’s answer didn’t surprise me one bit – Schubert fatigue? Beethoven fatigue? Unthinkable. These composers, as Bach, Haydn, Mozart before them and Brahms after them, can occupy one’s mind and senses forever. I believe that, especially as far as piano music is concerned, Schubert is perhaps the greatest of all. Yes, what about Liszt, will you say, the most famous virtuoso pianist of them all? Well, I have to confess, as I am sure I have said somewhere before, that Liszt bores me to tears with his unbearably verbose compositions. If it is a question of notes per minute, he wins hands down, but then so does Dvorak, and I mean August, of typewriter fame, not Antonin.
The 4 impromptus D. 935, written in 1827, the year of Beethoven’s death, completely belie their title. Schubert apparently did not want to brand them as sonatas, but they are definitely not “impromptu”pieces. But then, neither are Chopin’s scherzos sheer divertissements. This is music of the highest caliber and degree of elaboration. And I cannot help thinking of the Beethoven sonatas, especially as I listen to the first of the Impromptus. The introduction does remind one tremendously of the op. 2 no. 3. But the impression is fleeting, as Schubert’s strong personality and mastery of the instrument immediately take over, and it is to Schubert himself that one is referred, especially to his lieder. This may sound pretty obvious, but there it is – the right hand sings the melody while the left takes on the full accompaniment by itself. But this is even more apparent in the Moments Musicaux, more sedate than the impromptus, more introspective, even in the faster movements. The last piece on the program is the Wanderer Fantaisie, perhaps the most powerful and dramatic of Schubert’s compositions for the piano.
Paul Lewis takes one on this Schubertian journey with nothing less than genius. The deep intelligence of the music translates into an overwhelming surge of emotion without compromise or transgression. What I mean is that there is never the slightest tinge of sentimentalism or “schmaltziness “, not a single note or accent in poor taste, as is so often the case (I am, of course, thinking of a certain Chinese “star”…) Sensitive yes, sentimental never. The range of dynamics seems infinite, from a perfectly audible pianissimo to a contained fortissimo, in the vein of Clara Haskil. The notes are all crystal clear, the scales likes strings of pearls, the chords with all the necessary inner tension, the balance absolutely remarkable. As I listen to the strongest passages in the Wanderer, I realize which quality strikes me most at that moment – the playing, even in the fortissimos, is always incisive, but never aggressive. Vigorous, but never overbearing. And the lyricism, being so controlled, is all the more effective. The plasticity of Lewis’s phrasing matches his dynamic skill. In short, through a profoundly cerebral approach he reaches the pinnacle of expression.
Not wanting, in his own words, to send the audience home on such an unsettling mood as that of the Wanderer, Lewis played the Allegretto in C minor as an encore – maybe not as intense, but equally haunting, especially when the penetrating first theme is played with such a mysterious quality as that infused into the music by Paul Lewis. I could have listened all night, and I do look forward to the second installment of this series, scheduled for next April.