The Balance of Old and New
I've spent most of this week in Germany, in Leipzig and Berlin, listening to the Leipzig Bach Competition amongst other things, which interestingly was for Baroque violinists and modern violinists, competing together. Including, in some cases, violinists using both instruments.
I have a morbid fascination with both Leipzig and Berlin because of the obvious incongruities in both cities' recent histories that are still evident today. The amount of investment that's gone into redeveloping Leipzig (a former East German city) since the fall of the wall is enormous, and the result is a thoroughly modern city which completely follows the cutting edge (big shiny transport systems, WiFi everywhere, 2012 Olympic bid etc.) Yet the city's present way of life is thoroughly respectful to its history. City tourism trades heavily on Leipzig's reputation as the 'City of Music', and culture is an integral part of everyday life - to a far more obvious extent than in London. Posters and advertising for the competition, as well as numerous concerts and events, adorned every last advertising hoarding.
When I visited Leipzig in 2004, the outgoing mayor talked at length on how he had led the city's transformation over ten years by asking not only 'how do we bring everything up to date for today and for the future?', but also 'how do we draw on the established qualities and traditions of the city and update them without compromising their core qualities?'. In a sense, the violinists of the Bach competition were faced with the same dilemma.
Like most things, of course, the answer comes down to balance, and this balance is something I'll be seeking during my long forthcoming journey across Europe this summer (of which more to follow...). It's a question of having such a clear idea of the boundaries, the Begrenzungen of a style, that within these limitations, there are no limitations. By which I mean, the violinist who knows the point at which a classical phrase will suffer from over-articulation or some other surfeit of a supposed 'good idea' is the violinist who is not afraid to play with unbounded charisma and excitement within that established framework. Not afraid, because he knows that he will never cross those boundaries unknowingly or inadvertantly. By comparison, the architect who has an unwavering sense of what will be tasteful, architecturally, within the city of Leipzig, is the architect who has no fear of causing controversy and excitement with a stunning new design that will 'push the boundaries' of what already exists, without being disrespectful to the validity of those boundaries (if he really must change something, he needs a really good reason for doing so).
Berlin also has many of these qualities. In fact, I find it to be even more of a striking metaphor because when the incongruities do exist, stylistic border-crossings let us ironically call them, they are so much more obvious, because of the East/West scars that can still be seen today.
What are the incongruities? They arise when others' boundaries are crossed, usually through ignorance. There are a million examples in the history of Berlin that will explain this better than I can - political, cultural and sociological. But when differences are too big to ignore, resolution is inevitable, however long it may take - be that through negotiation, war, or gradual evolution.
The true incongruities therefore, are the ones so small that it's easy not to notice. Visiting friends in Braunschweig, I play through the Adagio of a Bach Solo Sonata and realise that the vibrato I am using in several phrases is one-dimensional, unimaginative. Boring, dare I say it. I alter the colour, and it sounds right. But it takes another listener to point out to me that, when I change the vibrato, I instinctively alter the technique of the bow to complement it, which in turn increases the resonance of the sound I create. All this from one small alteration of vibrato, previously neglected and ignored.
The parallels are everywhere. In Berlin Schoenfeld airport, only after experiencing all the usual faff and security and shopping are passports finally examined, when people arrive at the boarding gate. So far, so usual. Except that it's not the job of the air people to check passports, it's instead the responsibility of two sombre immigration policemen, decked out in yellow regalia and perma-grimaces, barricaded in a large whitewashed security checkpoint. Odd, but we all accept it as we wait in line, for we have no choice. Only later do I realise that Schoenfeld is the old Berlin airport of the DDR, the Eastern point of departure to Soviet destinations only. Those yellow-clothed men were there in the past not to scrutinize who was coming in, but who was going out... Why though, no change? This unnecessary committment to the rituals that went before? It is seventeen years later! Can it be that the authorities have simply not thought to change their vibrato?
So what are the congruities? Take the Brandenburg Gate. Restored and as majestic as ever, the boulevard it towers over is less then a few years old; it is easy to forget that every single building surrounding it is a creation of the 21st century (for their predecessors were destroyed; this checkpoint was in the middle of the Berlin death strip). Here, on Unter den Linden, I'm writing from a branch of Starbucks that some planning officers must have seen as an ultra-symbolic statement of intent about the new capitalist East Berlin. Yet the fusion of Starbucks and Brandenburg Gate, tied together with beautiful paving and an iconic public space, does not for a moment seem unnatural. Just as Elgar's Third Symphony (completed by composer Anthony Payne) is true to Elgar's known intentions, yet is not entirely Elgar, and Mozart's Requiem (completed by Süssmayr) is true to Mozart, yet not entirely Mozart, we can see also that Starbucks and the Brandenburg Gate are neither one nor the other, and whilst the Brandenburg Gate is the icon that defines the situation, it is the relationship between it and the Starbucks (or everything that the Starbucks represents) which defines the present, and indeed the near future.
And perhaps that is the greatest challenge faced by those Bach violinists in Leipzig; how do we update our practices, our interpretations, our traditions, without compromising that which makes them special to begin with?
So I'm going to spend the next few months asking this question: Where are the Begrenzungen?
I have a morbid fascination with both Leipzig and Berlin because of the obvious incongruities in both cities' recent histories that are still evident today. The amount of investment that's gone into redeveloping Leipzig (a former East German city) since the fall of the wall is enormous, and the result is a thoroughly modern city which completely follows the cutting edge (big shiny transport systems, WiFi everywhere, 2012 Olympic bid etc.) Yet the city's present way of life is thoroughly respectful to its history. City tourism trades heavily on Leipzig's reputation as the 'City of Music', and culture is an integral part of everyday life - to a far more obvious extent than in London. Posters and advertising for the competition, as well as numerous concerts and events, adorned every last advertising hoarding.
Leipzig Hauptbahnhof
When I visited Leipzig in 2004, the outgoing mayor talked at length on how he had led the city's transformation over ten years by asking not only 'how do we bring everything up to date for today and for the future?', but also 'how do we draw on the established qualities and traditions of the city and update them without compromising their core qualities?'. In a sense, the violinists of the Bach competition were faced with the same dilemma.
Like most things, of course, the answer comes down to balance, and this balance is something I'll be seeking during my long forthcoming journey across Europe this summer (of which more to follow...). It's a question of having such a clear idea of the boundaries, the Begrenzungen of a style, that within these limitations, there are no limitations. By which I mean, the violinist who knows the point at which a classical phrase will suffer from over-articulation or some other surfeit of a supposed 'good idea' is the violinist who is not afraid to play with unbounded charisma and excitement within that established framework. Not afraid, because he knows that he will never cross those boundaries unknowingly or inadvertantly. By comparison, the architect who has an unwavering sense of what will be tasteful, architecturally, within the city of Leipzig, is the architect who has no fear of causing controversy and excitement with a stunning new design that will 'push the boundaries' of what already exists, without being disrespectful to the validity of those boundaries (if he really must change something, he needs a really good reason for doing so).
Berlin also has many of these qualities. In fact, I find it to be even more of a striking metaphor because when the incongruities do exist, stylistic border-crossings let us ironically call them, they are so much more obvious, because of the East/West scars that can still be seen today.
What are the incongruities? They arise when others' boundaries are crossed, usually through ignorance. There are a million examples in the history of Berlin that will explain this better than I can - political, cultural and sociological. But when differences are too big to ignore, resolution is inevitable, however long it may take - be that through negotiation, war, or gradual evolution.
The true incongruities therefore, are the ones so small that it's easy not to notice. Visiting friends in Braunschweig, I play through the Adagio of a Bach Solo Sonata and realise that the vibrato I am using in several phrases is one-dimensional, unimaginative. Boring, dare I say it. I alter the colour, and it sounds right. But it takes another listener to point out to me that, when I change the vibrato, I instinctively alter the technique of the bow to complement it, which in turn increases the resonance of the sound I create. All this from one small alteration of vibrato, previously neglected and ignored.The parallels are everywhere. In Berlin Schoenfeld airport, only after experiencing all the usual faff and security and shopping are passports finally examined, when people arrive at the boarding gate. So far, so usual. Except that it's not the job of the air people to check passports, it's instead the responsibility of two sombre immigration policemen, decked out in yellow regalia and perma-grimaces, barricaded in a large whitewashed security checkpoint. Odd, but we all accept it as we wait in line, for we have no choice. Only later do I realise that Schoenfeld is the old Berlin airport of the DDR, the Eastern point of departure to Soviet destinations only. Those yellow-clothed men were there in the past not to scrutinize who was coming in, but who was going out... Why though, no change? This unnecessary committment to the rituals that went before? It is seventeen years later! Can it be that the authorities have simply not thought to change their vibrato?
So what are the congruities? Take the Brandenburg Gate. Restored and as majestic as ever, the boulevard it towers over is less then a few years old; it is easy to forget that every single building surrounding it is a creation of the 21st century (for their predecessors were destroyed; this checkpoint was in the middle of the Berlin death strip). Here, on Unter den Linden, I'm writing from a branch of Starbucks that some planning officers must have seen as an ultra-symbolic statement of intent about the new capitalist East Berlin. Yet the fusion of Starbucks and Brandenburg Gate, tied together with beautiful paving and an iconic public space, does not for a moment seem unnatural. Just as Elgar's Third Symphony (completed by composer Anthony Payne) is true to Elgar's known intentions, yet is not entirely Elgar, and Mozart's Requiem (completed by Süssmayr) is true to Mozart, yet not entirely Mozart, we can see also that Starbucks and the Brandenburg Gate are neither one nor the other, and whilst the Brandenburg Gate is the icon that defines the situation, it is the relationship between it and the Starbucks (or everything that the Starbucks represents) which defines the present, and indeed the near future.And perhaps that is the greatest challenge faced by those Bach violinists in Leipzig; how do we update our practices, our interpretations, our traditions, without compromising that which makes them special to begin with?
So I'm going to spend the next few months asking this question: Where are the Begrenzungen?
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