Classical Sex

Jeanette Fang

Looking back on it, I appreciate its brilliance. The waves of the violin, held up against the soft shadows of her skin, like an extension of the flesh, a testament to how sensuality is inherent to the music being played. Of course, that wasn't what I realized when I first picked up Lara St. John's 1996 release, Bach Works for Violin Solo and saw the album art. Instead, my 11-year-old self gasped and thought, "But what will people think? She's naked!"

"Eroticism has no place in serious music!" is what the stodgy elitists say. Even in 2007, the classical music world is still very much male-dominated, and, it seems, ready to denounce as trashy attractive women performers who aren't shy about their sexuality. A mere glance can be cause for censure. When the Eroica Trio released its Brahms CD in 2002, using only conservative headshots for the cover, they got criticized for what some people interpreted as provocative expressions. "People still said we had a sensual, come-hither look," the trio's pianist, Erika Nickrenz, told a New York Times reporter.

In the days of Martha Argerich-worship, it seemed that female musicians could gain critical status when they either emulated the strength and virtuosity of men (how many times have you heard it said, "She plays with balls"?), or when they embodied the feminine ideal of refined elegance (think of Alicia de Larrocha's twinkling on her bench). The artists who were more overtly sexual were written off as being part of the "sex sells" emulation of pop stars, even though many, like St. John, and the Eroica and Ahn Trios, deliberately created their own images and were hard-working interpreters in their own rights. Violinist Anne-Sophie Mutter is no vinyl Vanessa Mae, yet she still gets residual flack for her infamous strapless Dior gowns. This sort of reactionary prudishness, still alive today, seems almost a paranoia, as if a female reveling in her own sexuality is too much, is overkill.

Scanning through classical CD bins can be like flipping through the Christian pop section. CD covers for so many artists still have a sterilized conservatism about them. Young artists who want to avoid being labeled trashy, like the female string quartet Bond or the vocal group Celtic Woman have been, wear somber layers and sleeves, like Hilary Hahn. Unlike the worlds of literature and visual arts, classical music still seems afraid to acknowledge that sex is fundamental toward understanding humanity, relationships, and aesthetics.

The cover of Laura St. John's 1996 Bach CD raised a few classical music lovers' eyebrows—and helped bolster sales of the album.

It is wrong to equate a stimulating image with a marketing ploy if the artist using it believes that sensuality is an important element to achieving intimacy in a performance. This makes a lot of sense given the erotic nature of the musical language. The music we play is saturated with such interplay of love, with tension, climax, and post-coital sweetness. Franz Lizst didn't get women to faint at his feet by ignoring the virile makeup of what—and how—he played. He was a hero, an icon; there's no need to look down on this. Sexuality itself is not demeaning, but sex as a commodity, removed from integrity and subtlety, is. Yet fear of sex, fueled by critics who accuse musicians of pandering to the appetite of flesh, makes many serious artists button up. But what does that accomplish? Perhaps dwindling audiences. Less room for unique voices and personalities. By striking back with a better and substantial definition of sexuality, one that is about individual taste, we would be keeping "classy music" from disappearing.

The embrace of sexuality is just another way of saying "let's try different things to see which one might help us communicate better." It would be premature and foolhardy to discourage what could keep prudishness out of classical music. Isn't it time we let go of our fear of expression?

Jeanette Fang is a fourth-year piano student.