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Caffeine, Rachmaninoff, and Voskresensky By JEANETTE FANG
Once I was served "Russian-style coffee," which happily shot my already caffeine-dependent heart rate into the stratosphere. It's no exaggeration when I say that this grainy pudding of finely ground roast was thick enough for my spoon to stand up in. If this is indicative of what the Russians drink, then I think I've discovered the secret to Mikhail Voskresensky's infectious energy. He is quite possibly one of the most dynamic characters to stand in Morse Hall, with his perpetual grin of amusement, benevolently crinkled face, Beethovenesque tufts of hair, and limitless enthusiasm.
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At a Russian pianist's master class,
a call for drama, energy, expressiveness, and the sounds of bells.
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Hailed alongside Vladimir Ashkenazi, Lazar Berman, Dmitry Bashkirov, and Eliso Virsaladze as one of the brilliant new Russian pianists of the post-Richter generation, Voskresensky was the bronze medalist in the first Van Cliburn Competition in 1962 and has won prizes in the Schumann, Enescu, and Rio de Janiero International Competitions. Constantly shuttling between the Moscow and Tokyo Conservatories, Voskresensky briefly visited Juilliard two years ago as a guest artist, but is here now for a prolonged stay as an artist-in-residence.His master class on October 25 began with an obligatory Rachmaninoff selection: his Variations on a Theme by Corelli, solemnly played by Vasileios Varvaresos. Voskresensky sat beside the performer on the piano to the left, twitching his expressive mouth and studying the score, alternately frowning, smiling, or inspecting the student's feet to observe his pedaling. As soon as Vasileios finished, he bounded up enthusiastically—"It's great, such a good performance!"—and then rapidly preceded to fire off with what he liked and what he didn't, his emotional voice emphasizing his points even more than his actual words.While the listeners might have gotten lost occasionally in the details, we were mesmerized, because he was so lively. Clearly this was music Voskresensky loves and is excited by. He spent an hour with Vasileios, spilling out his ideas of how the theme should be "severe," not "religious or tender"; how the sound must be "deep, deep, like Rachmaninoff's sound, very rich"; how the pedal should be precisely applied and not "too murky." He exhorted for more "Russian drama," for more of the "nostalgia, laughter, suffering" within the piece, poetically urging for the portrayal of hope by entreating one to "look to the gods."He pointed out that the polyrhythms of the first variations must be keenly felt in order to bring out the inherent tensions; that one must not over-solemnize or slow them down. As he had Vasileios start again, Voskresensky egged the performer on, snapping his fingers and singing along with glee. He demonstrated the dynamics he wanted through his roller-coaster voice, as the audience tittered with enjoyment. He exhorted for more flow after the central adagio variation: "You play … a little like … you walk. It must flow." His repartee with Vasileios—who was not at all intimidated by Voskresensky's emphatic nature—was entertaining.Voskresensky was clearly revved up for the next piece ("Medtner, I like him very much, as you also will!") but he was in no mood to sit still and listen. He immediately stopped Nicholas Ong after the opening of the Sonata, Op. 22, to entreat for more crescendo. As Nicholas resumed, Voskresensky periodically interrupted with the occasional "soft, very soft" or "yes!" He sang along, stood up and walked around, shook his fist to the music. Sometimes he doubled the melodic line on the other piano, grumbled, or air-conducted while Nicholas played with admirable ease and fluidity. "Bravo!" said Voskresensky when Nicholas finished. "I like very much. Very emotionally … sincere." But he wanted "more energy. You have the temperament, now go!" And as Nicholas started again, it was to Voskresensky's accompaniment of foot-stamping and clapping. He invoked feral imagery, telling him to think of a lioness; he pointed out how one must feel the "light of major and the drama of minor—for me, this is the point of this music!" He constantly urged for extremes, for drama and passion, urging Nicholas "not to be afraid to be expressive."The evening was capped off with the forceful Allegro of Prokofiev's Sixth Sonata, the first of the three "War Sonatas." Immediately after Ang Li's performance, Voskresensky gleefully shouted, "Bravo! I like, I like." He certainly seemed happy during her performance, actively enacting all the drama of the piece, and was occasionally moved to parallel her warm, robust sound with gleeful laughs and militaristic punches. But still he asked for more drama and conflict. He pointed out the bells in the piece and how Russian music is full of them, but that Prokofiev's differed from Rachmaninoff's because they portrayed the anxiety of war. He insisted that the bells should be clearly differentiated from the melody, that there should be more precision in what was what. He also said, "This music must have resistance, has to feel difficult." As she played the passage again, I noticed that, contrary to some master classes, no one around me was yawning. So we were surprisingly shocked by the fire drill that blared at precisely 7 p.m., cutting Voskresensky off abruptly just 20 minutes into the Prokofiev. I suppose it was a logical ending, since his energy showed no signs of waning—and the clang added a fitting touch to the discussion of Russian pianistic bells.I don't want to be guilty of an amateur's kind of glee, since Voskresensky's observations were as insightful as those of any other distinguished teacher. But what I carried away most from the master class was a new physical sprightliness, a renewed enthusiasm, and living proof that the ecstasy of music doesn't diminish with experience.Jeanette Fang is a second-year piano student.
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