Boris Giltburg: Notes on the Program
“a convergence of heart and mind”
The tagline for today’s concert, “a convergence of heart and mind,” comes at the perfect time of the year. As we’re heading into the fall here in Oregon, a very poignant mix of reflection and introspection collide with a striking display of natural splendor, leaving us in a space where everything feels somehow connected. Maybe because on a certain level, it is. Buddhism even has a word for it: “citta”, or heart-mind. If you struggle with attaining this equilibrium, sometimes reached through meditation, yoga or writing morning pages, you have come to the right place. Let’s align your thoughts, feelings, values and intuition through some of the most marvelous music ever written, being played by one of the most soulful human beings ever to grace our stage.
In a program dedicated to two of his personal heroes, Chopin and Rachmaninoff, Boris Giltburg takes us along on an auditory meditation of sorts, exploring the length, breadth and depth of human emotion. After all, Chopin (1810–1849) and Rachmaninoff (1873–1943) each weathered many of their own Octobers, both literally and figuratively. And whether it’s the wistful melancholy of swirling leaves and migrating birds, the invigorating surprise of chilly mornings or that lazy, dappled autumn sunlight that you’re associating with this season – it’s all right here in the music, ready to help us affirm, together with Anne of Green Gables, that we’re “so glad to live in a world where there are Octobers!”
FRÉDÉRIC CHOPIN
Sonata No. 2 in B-flat Minor, op. 35
“I am writing here a Sonata in B flat minor which will contain my March which you already know. There is an Allegro, then a Scherzo in E flat minor, the March and a short Finale of about three pages of my manuscript-paper. The left hand and the right hand gossip in unison after the March. ...” (Chopin to Julian Fontana, August 1839)
Boris starts us on a dramatic and intense note with one of the most powerful and popular sonatas in the piano repertoire. Chopin’s second sonata (composed between 1837 and 1839 and published in 1840, during the mature period of the composer’s career) first pins us to our seats with its unmistakable and ominous-sounding opening chords, then takes off like a horse at the races, brimming with agitation and some sense of foreboding. The melody in the right hand spins out frantically and feverishly and finally crashes – not into crisis, but into a dreamy and luscious second theme that immediately takes us to that special plane reserved for Chopin, where everything will be okay in the end, despite drama and disruption! Regardless of (or maybe, thanks to?) the thunderous ending of the first movement, we reach the Scherzo in an energized and resolute mood. Just like in the first movement, Chopin gives us two contrasting passages, one more forceful, one more lyrical, and just like before, the ease with which the composer carries us from choppy waters to smooth sailing reminds me of yin and yang – the one existing in contrast to, but also because of the other.
The third movement, the über-famous Funeral March, was never intended to become a standalone piece or the umbrella-phrase for the entire work, and yet Chopin most likely knew that it would form the emotional heart of the sonata. Interestingly, it was most likely written well before the outer movements, as early as 1837. We are all overly familiar with the somber funeral bell-like ringing of the dum-dum-da-dum-theme … but what strikes me as profoundly important in listening to the sonata as a whole, is that we’re (again!) not left in an abandoned graveyard, staring into the abyss. Chopin balances the heavy, downtrodden theme with a peaceful, relaxing, and, dare I say, comforting middle part that really feels like a hug after a good cry. The tears come back, soon enough … but all is definitely not lost!
With the final movement, it’s all parallel octaves and complicated chromaticism in under two minutes of music which pianist Garrick Ohlsson claims to be “the weirdest movement [Chopin] has written in his whole life, something which truly looks to the 20th century and post-romanticism and atonality”. And yes, although this movement does make me think of Schumann’s often-quoted opinion that Chopin really didn’t have a good grasp on sonata form in this piece (referring to the four movements as four “unruly children”) there is something weirdly evanescent and unsatisfying about the finale. And yet, isn’t that … life? Leaving us somehow, exhausted, yet yearning for more?
Ballade No. 4 in F Minor, op. 52
“In order to understand Chopin’s music, one must first acknowledge his twin Polish and French roots. Both nationalities defined him. He was a mixture of the Polish ‘zal,’ or spleen, and the French ‘bon usage et bonne manière.’ Anguished, yet aristocratic. Patriotic, yet politely so.” (Walter Simmons Witt)
Of all four the Chopin ballades, this one is considered the most technically and musically challenging. Completed in 1842, it once again offers a blend of every possible mood and mindset, keeping that therapy-speak incantation of “holding both” in my thoughts.
The opening is deliciously haunting: like a siren beckoning from somewhere beyond this dimension, a door opening and luring us closer, but then promptly shutting once we approach. Then comes the real beginning – a melancholy waltz with the lilting motion of a boat song or “barcarolle”. This “Slavonic” (I use air quotes – trying to capture that modal-sounding, folk song-esque quality) theme becomes the base from which many variations and modifications evolve, with frequent modulations and a stopping-and-starting that fluctuates between soaring lyrical expression and reflective consideration.
One could endlessly discuss the melodic and harmonic structure of the piece. Essentially, Chopin intertwines and simultaneously develops two themes, effectively making use of both sonata and theme-and-variation form. Dissecting the magic doesn’t explain it, however. Much more intriguing, however, is opening Facebook and reading all 117 of the comments that Boris’ recording of this piece attracted when he posted it to his followers in November of 2024. To quote one fan: “Here I am, outside on what was a frosty morning, now turned golden warm in a low-slung waning sun. Leaning against a cold wall, but sealed in a bubble of warm musical delight.” A bubble of warm musical delight. What more could we ask for on this Sunday afternoon?
Scherzo No. 4 in E Major, op. 54
“Simplicity is the highest goal, achievable when you have overcome all difficulties. After one has played a vast quantity of notes and more notes, it is simplicity that emerges as the crowning reward of art.” (Frédéric Chopin)
It’s perhaps a bit unfair to preface our commentary on what is considered Chopin’s most difficult Scherzo (from a technical perspective) with a quote about simplicity, but the overall impression of this glittering diamond of a piece is that it bubbles up out of nowhere and simply is.
Just like the four Ballades, Chopin’s four Scherzos were never intended to be performed as a set and were composed in what is considered his mature period (between 1833 and 1843). In the first three Scherzos, there is little bearing to the original meaning of the title (“Scherzo” being the Italian word for joke or jest) – but in this last one, dating from 1842 (just a year before the Ballade we heard previously), Chopin’s sound world is decidedly bright and sunny. Maybe because he was summering at Nohant with his novelist-mistress, George Sand?
For slightly wonkily translated but utterly charming descriptions of each of the Scherzos (and the vast majority of Chopin’s catalogue, if you’re interested), the Polish website for the Chopin Competition in Warsaw offers wonderful insights: “There were two faces to the Romantic scherzo: the fairytale and the demonic. The fairytale aspect drew on the world of A Midsummer Night’s Dream; the demonic aspect was inspired by a nocturnal witches’ sabbath. Close to the fairytale sphere, though devoid of elves and goblins, [the Scherzo in E Major] is brighter than the others, written with a finer, lighter pen, though it too occasionally reminds us of the existence of shadows and frights.” And, as hard as the pianist has to work at controlling the mercurial whimsy in this piece, equally effortlessly it swirls and whirls into our hearts and minds.
RACHMANINOFF
“The variety of moods, characters, colors, and of technical challenges in this cycle is honestly staggering, as is the richness of invention.” (Boris Giltburg)
Apart from being the consummate pianist, Boris Giltburg is also a talented scholar and writer. His website (www.borisgiltburg.com) is a rich and nuanced resource where, in the section titled “Classical Music for All”, he provides enlightening (and entertaining!) insights into his repertoire, his musical heroes, the pitfalls and perks of playing a concert hall piano. It would be foolish not to lean heavily on his own article on the topic (written originally originally for Pianist magazine in 2019) for more insight into Rachmaninoff’s Préludes, a cycle of 24 works that took the composer 18 years to complete. Boris recorded the entire cycle for Naxos in 2019, and the knowledge that he gained from living these pieces add invaluable depth to our listening experience.
The selection we hear today, covering a historical period from 1892 (when Op. 3 no. 2 was composed) to 1910 (Op. 32 no. 12) was carefully curated to reflect not only the composer’s development, but also the shifts in emotional intensity, the variety in character and color, and the changing landscapes of texture and mood that are all captured in these “large miniatures” (Boris’s words). Each can stand alone, but in communion with each other they offer us a glimpse into Rachmaninoff’s soul: from the unbridled romanticism to the more angular edges. Here are some short observations, straight from Boris’ pen and then interspersed with my own, on each of the selected Préludes:
C-sharp Minor, op. 3, no. 2 – “perhaps one of the most famous opening gestures in piano literature.” Bells are a main feature, also nicknamed “The Bells of Moscow” by Western audiences during the composer’s lifetime.
G Major, op. 32, no. 5 – “pure and gentle as a summer’s morning”. From a technical perspective, a demanding exercise in evenness of tone and voice separation!
G Minor, op. 23, no. 5 – “elements of the exotic”. Listen to the Scheherazade-like middle-section: After the “alla marcia” of the opening theme, there’s something that sounds like a sensuous, veiled dance, before the temptation of lingering in the major gives way to a resolute return to the original key.
B Minor, op. 32, no. 10 – inspired by the painting The return or The homecoming by the Swiss symbolist Arnold Böcklin. “The opening mood is somber, solemn, subdued, with the measured alternation between the melody above and the short chords below creating an almost hypnotic effect. Later comes a tremendous buildup of repeated chords supporting a heavy melody, leading to an almost unbearably painful climax. Out of its aftermath appears a dreary, lifeless, desolate landscape. Later the opening theme is reprised and leads into a coda with the sound of steps receding into the distance. The final chord is at first in a major key, only to turn to minor at the last moment.”
G-sharp Minor, op. 32, no. 12 – “wintry, heartfelt and personal in its mood.”
C Minor, op. 23, no. 7 – “seems to depict a winter storm; mostly quiet and subdued, but flaring up to passionate climaxes.” (I would add to this that it sounds Chopinesque: the Minute Waltz, but in Rachmaninoff’s enormous hands?)
Sonata No. 2 in B-flat Minor, op. 36 (1931 version)
If you’re a fan of all things serendipitous, those finding-the-lost-earring-moments of cosmic perfection, here’s today’s, with complements from Wikipedia: “The premiere of Rachmaninoff’s Sonata no. 2 in B-flat Minor took place in Kursk on 18 October 1913 (5 October in the Julian calendar).” Holy moly! We follow the Julian calendar, and today is 5 October! Thus, Boris is giving us a 112th anniversary recital, although, to be painfully technical, not of the exact same piece. While the 1913-version of the sonata, performed by the composer himself at its premiere, was well received, Rachmaninoff (ever the perfectionist) wasn’t entirely happy with it, feeling that too much of the piece was superfluous. Major cuts were made to the middle sections of the second and third movements and some technically difficult passages were simplified – resulting in the shorter, more streamlined version we hear today. (Incidentally, the 1931 version of the sonata was first presented by the composer on 10 December 1931, in Portland … Maine. One can only hope for so much serendipity, I suppose. However, we do know for a fact that Rachmaninoff performed in Portland, Oregon, in 1921.)
The technical aspects of Rachmaninoff revising his own music are substantial enough to have justified many an academic thesis. For our listening purposes, suffice it to say that this piece’s reputation is on par with that of the third piano concerto. To quote Andrew Eales (a UK based author, composer and educator), “Rachmaninoff’s Sonata No. 2 in B flat minor Op. 36 is one of those gargantuan masterpieces generally only attempted by those with a truly titanic technique. Although conceived in three movements (Allegro agitato, non allegro, Allegro molto), the Second Sonata flows as one astonishing piece, its bravura technical demands matched by that dark emotional intensity which runs through so much of Rachmaninoff’s music. The movements are bound together by thematic cross-references and transformation; in particular, the opening descending passage pervades all three movements in different guises.”
Whether the 1931 revision truly improved the original sonata, or whether it upset its formal balance, is a question of heated scholarly dispute (and you can once again read about it in great detail on Boris’s website). One thing we can say for certain: Boris’s interpretation and execution of the Sonata surely makes a convincing argument for the powerful, passionate exhilaration of this exact version!