Boris Berman Book

 notes from the 

Boris Berman

   pianist ’s bench 

Yale Universi University ty Press Press • New Haven Haven and and London

Published with the assistance of the A. Whitney Griswold and the Frederick W. Hilles Publication Funds of Yale University. Copyright © 2000 by Yale University. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publishers. Designed by Nancy Ovedovitz and set in Scala type by The Composing Room of  Michigan, Inc., Grand Rapids, Michigan. Printed in the United States of America by Sheridan Books, Dexter, Michigan. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Berman, Boris. Notes from the pianist’s bench / Boris Berman. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 0-300-08375-0 (alk. paper) 1. Piano—Instruction and study. 2. Piano—Performance. I. Title. MT220 .B15 2000 786.2 193—dc 00-036514 

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

contents  Preface ix Part I

In the Practice Room

1 Sound and Touch 3 2 Technique 24 3 Articulation and Phrasing 53 4 Matters of Time 75 5 Pedaling 97 6 Practicing 112 Part II

Shaping Up a Performance

7 Deciphering the Composer’s Message 139 8 Seeing the Big Picture 150 9 Technique of the Soul 169 10 At the Performance (and Prior to It) 179 11 The Art of Teaching and the Art of Learning 198 Notes 211 About the Author 215 Index 217 Music Publisher Credit 223 vii

   preface  This book is a compendium of various thoughts, discussions, and experiences that I have had in the course of my work as a performer and teacher. A reflection of my personal and professional experience, it presents issues that arise continually in my work with advanced students or that seem relevant to me as a performer. Much of the book has been written during concert tours as well as in the wake of numerous lessons. This has influenced the choice of the repertoire discussed here. I do not purport to cover each and every problem that pianists may encounter, nor do I aspire to produce revelations; in fact, I hope that my colleagues will be able to identify with much of what I have to say. I also hope that they will find helpful some of the ways I suggest to address familiar problems. My goal is not to replace the piano instructor. Rather, students should approach the book in the same way they approach a master class—as an opportunity to be exposed to another point of view to complement the instruction of the teacher. The teacher faces a multitude of problems during the short time of a lesson. Between correcting notes and rhythms, suggesting a better fingering, and discussing the interpretation of a particular piece, he can seldom find time for a general discussion of any of the issues covered in this book.* Thus, I hope that some of my colleagues may occasionally as*In writing this book I struggled with the grammatical issue of gender parity. I ultimately felt that constant use of “he or she” makes the text cumbersome. Because

ix

x Preface

sign a chapter as useful supplemental reading for a student to complement the more concrete work done during the lesson. This is neither a how-to book nor one confined exclusively to general musical matters. My experiences as both teacher and performer have convinced me of the fallacy of separating practical and ideal aspects of the art of playing piano. I strongly believe that these two areas cannot be addressed independently of each other. Technical work should always have a musical goal in sight, and lofty ideas need to be supported by know-how to be put into practice. In lessons with students, discussion of the stylistic features of a particular composer whose work is being studied can switch to the examination of  the position of the student’s hand or a search for the best fingering for a diªcult passage. The book reflects this interdependence of the practical and the ideal. Although it is divided into two parts— the first dealing with more technical issues and the second with more artistic ones—this separation is made only for purposes of easy reference. In reality, even an accomplished artist occasionally revisits technical issues and revises his approach. In this sense, an inquisitive artist remains a student for a lifetime. By the same token, a talented student, even one whose expertise is limited, is an artist and should be treated as such. I often had diªculty deciding which material should go into which chapter, for one cannot really separate articulation from technique, or draw a dividing line between work on sound and work on technique. Cross-references abound between both parts, as well as within them, reflecting my strong conviction that we should mobilize all the tools and approaches at our disposal to re-create a work of music in all its richness. Sometimes, for the sake of clarity, issues in the book have been formulated and separated too neatly. The reader will do well to remember that in real life they are often interwoven with, and infringe on, each other with fascinating complexity. Or, as Goethe said: “Grau . . . ist alle Theorie / Und grün des Lebens goldner Baum.” (Grey is all theory / And green of life the much of the writing reflects my own experience, it seemed more natural to use masculine pronouns throughout the book. I hope that my female readers will not mind.

Preface xi

golden tree). Students naturally look for clear-cut answers to their problems, and teachers understandably try to respond with catch-all solutions. Yet, apart from working with young beginners, no recommendation or solution should be given (or received) with the words “always” or “never” in mind. In the green of the music’s golden tree there surely is room for many exceptions to even the wisest rules. The chapters of this book do not have to be read in order. I encourage pianists to turn to individual chapters that respond to their current needs. Readers who are not practicing pianists (no pun intended) may be daunted by the technical discussions in certain chapters of Part 1 (“In the Practice Room”). For them, Part 2 (“Shaping Up a Performance”) and such chapters of Part I as “Articulation and Phrasing” and “Matters of Time” may be more interesting. This book could not have been written without the help and encouragement of many people. My sincere thanks go to Michael Friedmann, my friend and fellow faculty member at Yale School of Music. His advice throughout every stage of my work has been invaluable. Other colleagues read early versions of the manuscript and contributed extremely helpful opinions. Among these individuals are Claude Frank, Peter Frankl, Annie Frankl, Stephane Lemelin, and Janos Cegledy. Harry Haskell of Yale University Press guided me through the unfamiliar terrain of the publishing world. Harold Meltzer, Wei-Yi Yang, Dmitri Novgorodsky, and my meticulous editor Je¤rey Schier all helped me to prepare the manuscript for publication. Harold Shapero produced photos, Leora Zimmer formatted music examples. I gratefully acknowledge the assistance of the Griswold Fund and the Frederick W. Hilles Publication Fund of Yale University. Finally, I thank most a¤ectionately my wife, Zina, and my children, Ilan and Daniella (my first reader), for their constant encouragement, particularly when the task seemed to be too immense and daunting. I doubt that the book could have been written without their support.

PART I

 in the practice room 

 sound and touch 

1

Many issues are important in shaping the pianist’s skills. Technique, rhythm, memorization, and repertoire are among them and will all be discussed in this book. I would like to begin, though, with a topic that is frequently neglected by teachers and students or that receives only perfunctory attention: sound . For music, this omission is as strange as ignoring color in visual arts, or body movement in acting. Sound production should be considered part of  technique in a broader sense, for technique is much more than the ability to play notes rapidly and evenly. On the rare occasion when sound production is discussed, it is often reduced to such platitudes as “It must sound beautiful,” “Sing!” or “Change the color.” Instructors rarely give advice on how to achieve a beautiful sound, what to do with the hands or arms to make the piano sing, or what one needs to do physically to create the sensation of a change in color. I believe that the teacher must be specific to meet the needs of students who seek more practical guidance on these matters. Over the years, I have developed a way to deal with this issue. Before presenting it here, I would like to o ¤ er a few caveats: 1. Although I find it actually quite easy to teach the basics of sound production, these skills usually do not “stick” to one who is indi ¤ erent to quality of piano tone, or to one whose ears do not crave a particular kind of sound. In short, you cannot refine your touch without refining your ear. I am refer-

3

4 In the Practice Room

ring to two kinds of “musical ears.” One is the “subjective ear,” the pianist’s image of the kind of sound he would like to produce. The more specific the image, the better the results will be. The other is the “objective ear,” which refers to the musician’s ability to monitor the sound that actually comes from under his fingers. Objective listening is a perennial goal, a life-long battle, for a musician always tries to listen objectively to his own playing but never fully succeeds. The pianist cannot do meaningful work without learning to listen intently and tirelessly to every sound he produces on the piano (more about this in the chapter on practicing). 2. Often overlooked is the need to work on an instrument that responds suªciently to the nuances of touch. (No electronic keyboard will do, I’m afraid.) Chopin apparently had this opinion because, according to his student Karol Mikuli, in the master’s house “the pupil played always on a magnificent concert grand, and it was his duty to practice only on best quality instruments.”1 As Russian pianist and writer Grigory Kogan put it: “The pianist must be able to play on any piano, but he must practice only on a good one.” 2 3. The pianist may be tempted to look for sound of absolute beauty that fits all occasions. I often tell my students that there is no such thing as beautiful sound; but there is sound appropriate to a particular style, piece, or passage. (To be sure, there is such a thing as ugly sound, and the pianist should know how to avoid producing it.) Sound that suits Rachmaninov would feel out of  place in Mozart, and vice versa. In fact, sound can and should be used as a tool of stylistic definition. Stylistic awareness, expressed in the choice of tempo, rhythm, phrasing, and articulation that the performer considers appropriate to the style of a work, should incorporate the notion of a proper sound. 4. Even a two-year-old can produce the “right” sound occasionally, but it will be a sound, a single note. Only a well-trained pianist can produce a second sound to perfectly match the qualities of the first. It is crucial for pianists to have the ability to sustain a certain type of sound for the length of  a passage or a phrase and to change it at will. When pianists talk about beautiful sound, they usually mean a singing, long-lasting tone that reveals as little as possible of the piano’s inherently

Sound and Touch 5

percussive nature. Even in the relatively infrequent instances when composers highlight the instrument’s percussiveness (examples that come to mind are Bartók’s First Concerto and Stravinsky’s Les Noces), the pianist should not be indi¤ erent to the quality of sound; he should aspire to emulate the brassy resonance of a gong or the powerful combination of dryness and resonance of African drums, rather than a clatter of kitchen pots. Each professional pianist has (or should have) endured long and often frustrating hours in the practice room looking for his own way of producing this beautiful, long-lasting sound. We are all di ¤ erent physically, and for this reason every pianist develops his own strategy. The multitude of approaches and their combinations, however, can be reduced to two generic types. My late teacher the wonderful Russian pianist and pedagogue Lev Oborin defined the polarity of these physical approaches as sostenuto and leggiero. I prefer using the English words “in” and “out.” Both of these ways of playing, as we will see, share a common goal: to mask the most treacherous, dangerously telling moment—that of the actual attack, when the hammer hits the string. Eloquent imagery has been used to describe the “in” kind of sound production. Rachmaninov talked about fingers growing roots in the keyboard. Joseph Ho¤ mann said that the sound should be produced as if there were a very ripe strawberry sitting on a key and you had to push through it. These images imply two important features of the “in” type. One is the deliberate speed of the process: the slow pace at which the roots grow, and the unhurried tempo at which the strawberry must be penetrated to avoid a messy keyboard. The other is the continuous quality of the process; the roots grow without stopping at a certain point. The “in” type, then, is based on a slow immersion in the keyboard: the action continues even after the sound has been produced, as if the moment of attack were ignored. The weight brought into the key stays there without being released; it is then “poured” into the next note of the phrase. The “out” type is quite the opposite. The sound is produced by a quick stroke, as if the finger left the key even before the sound could be heard. Obviously, if the note has to be sustained or connected to the next, the finger

6

In the Practice Room

does not leave the key. But most of the weight is gone; only a vestige remains to hold the key down. This type of action is similar to playing the harp (is not the piano essentially a horizontally placed harp?). The harpist strikes and then escapes the strings almost before the notes are produced, otherwise the sound is dampened by the fingers. Or think about the way the percussionist plays the tam-tam: the performer never leaves the mallet pressed against the instrument. After striking the tam-tam he pulls the mallet out of the way, allowing the instrument to resonate without being obstructed. Playing this way, the pianist should not direct the movement downward into the keyboard. Rather, he should employ a circular (tangential) motion, as if passing through the key but not stopping. Once again, the action is similar to the circular motion used to pluck the harp, strike the tam-tam, crash a pair of cymbals—or play baseball or tennis. In the sports analogy the tennis racquet and baseball bat pass the point at which they strike the ball, continuing in a circular motion (called follow-through). The pianist directs the motion toward himself as if he were “grabbing” the sound from the keyboard and bringing it out.* Some pianists prefer to move the hand forward rather than toward themselves. Konrad Wol¤  describes Artur Schnabel’s playing in this manner. 3 Schnabel may have learned it from T heodore Leschetitzky, whose other student (and one-time wife), the legendary Russian pianist and teacher Anna Esipova, recommended: “Place your hand on the keys, form the chord, and move the hand as if pushing a drawer into a desk.” 4 What is important to me is that both this motion and the “out” way as discussed above do not aim vertically downward but touch the key at an angle. Both motions can be described as caressing; they both allow the finger to glide along the key.** I find it more practical to move the hands toward me instead of away from the body because in the latter case the the piano’s name-board restricts the *The circular movement approach is executed by either finger, hand, or forearm, depending on which lever the pianist decides to employ at any particular time. The reasons for choosing a particular lever are discussed below. **The gliding movement can be very helpful in achieving smoothness of legato, though strictly speaking it is irrelevant for producing the sound.

Sound and Touch 7

movement on the far end. More room exists between the keyboard and the pianist’s body.) These two types of sound production, the “in” and the “out,” almost never appear in their pure form; rather, there are countless combinations of the two. Di¤ erent national schools have shown preferences for one or the other: pianists of the Russian school have favored the “in” approach, while those of  French or German musical descent seem to have preferred the “out” way of  playing. (I use the perfect tense here because the current cross-fertilization of traditions has left hardly any national school untouched by other influences.) For me, it is important to use di ¤ erent kinds of sound for di ¤ erent types of music. A work of introverted character, such as Brahms’s Intermezzo op. 119, no. 1 (Ex. 1.1), may benefit from an “in” approach, while more outspoken, extroverted music, like the beginning of Chopin’s C-Minor Nocturne (Ex. 1.2), asks for the “out” stroke. Many pieces can be presented equally convincingly using either of these approaches—Chopin’s F-sharp Major Nocturne, for example (Ex. 1.3). The pianist who is conversant with both may choose the one that seems more appropriate.

Ex. 1.1 Brahms, Intermezzo in B Minor, op. 119, no. 1 Lento

mezza voce

Ex. 1.2 Chopin, Nocturne in C Minor, op. 48, no. 1

8 In the Practice Room

Ex. 1.3 Chopin, Nocturne in F-sharp Major, op. 15, no. 2

At times the pianist may wish to imitate the sound of other instruments, especially when trying to realize an orchestral reduction at the piano. The airy sound of the French horn, as in the beginning of the orchestral part of  the B-flat Major Concerto by Brahms (Ex. 1.4), will be better rendered by the “out” stroke. The warmth of the strings in the excerpt from Liszt’s First Concerto (Ex. 1.5), on the other hand, calls for the “in” approach. 3

Ex. 1.4 Brahms, Concerto no. 2 in B-flat Major, op. 83, mvt. 1

Ex. 1.5 Liszt, Concerto no. 1 in E-flat Major 

So far, we have contemplated ways of producing the sound while dealing with relatively soft music. For loud playing, I am afraid, the “in” approach almost never succeeds. Imagine a long crescendo: as we increase the speed of  immersion into the key to produce the louder sound, the time between the moment of attack and the imaginary goal of the movement becomes shorter and shorter, until the two coincide. As a result, instead of masking the moment of attack we are highlighting it; the sound becomes unpleasantly hard and harsh, and immersion turns into pressure.

Sound and Touch

Allegro deciso

8

9

8

Ped.

Ex. 1.6 Liszt, Concerto no. 2 in A Major 

My solution to avoid harshness of sound is to switch to the “out” way using a “hit-and-run” approach. The louder the dynamic level is, the faster the movement should be. The chords in Ex. 1.6, for instance, are played as if being torn from the piano. (Naturally, the pedal will prolong their duration and enhance the resonance.) If the notes must be sustained, the fingers do not leave the keys, but the weight of the hands is used for the attack only, and they do not sink into the keys even for a moment. A good example of this approach is the first subject of Beethoven’s Fourth Concerto (first movement) as it appears forte in the beginning of the recapitulation (Ex. 1.7).

Ex. 1.7 Beethoven, Concerto no. 4 in G Major, op. 58, mvt. 1

Earlier, I was talking about the need for the pianist to have sound imagination, the refined “subjective ear.” This is not enough, however, for the performer must also possess the technical ability to realize the sonorities he hears in his head. The pianist needs to know what physical actions influence sound and in what way. Here are several variables that are used in both “in” and “out” types of sound production. Some also a ¤ ect other aspects of playing, such as articulation or velocity. (The real life of a practicing pianist can-

10 In the Practice Room

not be neatly compartmentalized.) But first I would like to mention one physical constant that is indispensable for producing rich, nuanced tone: the flexible wrist. Josef Lhevinne compared its role to that of shock absorbers in a car.5 The wrist cushions the sound and absorbs the excess force. (Frequently the pianist uses the elbow as an additional shock absorber, as described in the next chapter.) 1. Weight . The more weight that is applied to the key, the fuller (and/or louder) the sound. The pianist needs to be able to use the full weight of his fingers, hand, forearm, and upper arm. Equally important is knowing how not to use weight when a lighter sonority is required. I often ask my students to experiment with making their fingers heavy by letting the weight of the bigger joints “pour” into the fingers (not to be confused with applying pressure), and then gradually withdrawing the weight to regain the lightness. (For the latter, imagine a vacuum cleaner being applied to your shoulder blade, sucking the weight from the hand. This image can be particularly helpful for larger-sized pianists who find it di ªcult to prevent the weight of  their arms from participating when the music requires lightness of touch.) These experiments are important for learning one of the most necessary skills for the pianist: to let in just as much or as little of the weight as is needed for a particular passage. Pianists who possess a delicate physique sometimes feel that they cannot muster enough weight to play a loud passage. They try to compensate by pressing into the key using the “in” touch, which is generally not suitable for forte, as discussed above. The pressure usually produces a hard, forced sound. In such cases I strongly recommend that the pianist resist the temptation to apply additional pressure. Instead, I would switch to the “out” approach and increase the speed of the stroke. 2. Mass. This variable concerns how much of the body is involved in sound production. The sound can be produced with the finger alone, or with the finger supported by the hand, or with finger supported by the hand plus the forearm, or with the finger supported by the hand plus the forearm plus the upper arm. The bigger the participating joint—that is, the greater the mass—the fuller the sound.

Sound and Touch 11

When we want to increase the volume we activate the bigger joints. When we want to stay at the same dynamic level, however, and at the same time, achieve a fuller sound, we seek the support of the bigger joints, rather than their overt participation. To help my students accomplish this goal, I often mention that they should develop the feeling of a “long finger” or imagine that all the “juices” from the arm are flowing into the finger. Another useful image is that of a “long neck” to help feel uninterrupted succession of muscles from behind one’s ear to the neck, to the upper arm and so forth down to the finger tip. (Compare this with the “extension” principle discussed in the next chapter.) When the pianist feels the need to add air to his sound, which he experiences as excessively thin and “bony,” a flexible elbow can be particularly helpful. Imagining a parachute attached to one’s elbow can be useful. It is important to distinguish between mass and weight. One can use the whole arm and still make a very light sound, or use just the finger, which would have the weight of bigger joints “poured” into it. 3. Speed . The speed with which the finger strikes the key contributes to changes not only in volume but also in articulation. Elementary physics teaches us that speed can be developed only over a certain distance. This means that a finger needs to fall from a certain height, unless we want to play very softly. If the pianist tries to play loudly while his fingers remain glued to the surface of the key, all he can do is to push the key down, producing a very pressured sound. The greater the speed we want to develop, the higher we should position the finger. At a certain point, however, the pianist cannot rely merely on the energy of the falling finger; he must involve the hand as well. (This is discussed further in the chapter on technique). In my discussion of the “out” way of playing, I stated that its basic movement must be fast. Yet gradations of the speed can add much variety to this type of touch, and in my lessons I use di ¤ erent images to underline the di¤ erences. I talk about “taking” the sound out of the piano as opposed to “pulling” it or, on the other end of the spectrum, “tearing” it out as opposed to “plucking.” Speed not only can compensate for insu ªcient weight, it can also be in-

12 In the Practice Room

terchangeable with mass. A similar dynamic level can be achieved by using a larger joint with lesser speed, or a smaller joint with greater speed. The decision regarding the course of action to take depends on the pianist’s feeling of the sound that is best suited or most appropriate stylistically for a particular piece of music. A mezzo-forte singing line in Mozart, for example, may require using fingers to activate keys fairly quickly, probably supported by the hand, possibly with just a little participation of the forearm. In contrast, a similar dynamic level in a Rachmaninov work will be best produced by bringing the weight of the arm into the key with a relatively slow speed. T he lean sound appropriate for Mozart is quite di ¤ erent from the full or thick sound suitable for Rachmaninov. 4. Perception of depth. More than the other variables, this depends on the pianist’s imagination, because the depth of the key has very little leeway per se. Yet every properly trained pianist is able to hear the di ¤ erence between deep and shallow touch. One usually plays deep into the key to achieve a singing tone. (The depth should not be exaggerated, though, as it invites pressure, which in turn produces a forced, strangulated tone. I have seen pianists who played as if they were intent on making a hole in the bottom of  the keyboard.) A common mistake is to aim deep while playing loudly, but to use a much shallower stroke while playing softly. For developing the deep touch in piano, Esipova’s advice is very useful: “First practice the phrase (which is to be played pianissimo) slowly, feeling the bottom of the key and in the dynamics of mezzo-forte. Afterward repeat it with the same feeling of depth, but very softly. Keep switching from one way of playing to the other.”6 The depth of the touch should remain the same for the duration of a phrase or passage. Inconsistent touch, when adjacent notes are produced in di¤ erent layers of depth, is clearly noticeable to the trained ear and testifies to the pianist’s poor sound control. However, not all lines in the musical texture need to sing; for those that do not a shallower touch may be more appropriate. For each particular line or phrase we aim for a certain depth in the keys. It is crucial to sustain this depth until the nature of the material changes. Very often we have two or more elements, played simultaneously or in quick succession, each performed with a di ¤ erent depth. Obviously,

Sound and Touch

13

this situation requires great ability to control the touch, especially when these di¤ erent elements appear in the part of the same hand. (Di ¤ erentiation in articulation, very much linked with the subject of depth, is discussed in the chapter “Articulation and Phrasing.”) When the “out” way of playing is used, the di ¤ erence in depth can be as e¤ ective as with the “in” touch. For the “out” approach I encourage students to imagine taking (or pulling, tearing, and so on, as described above) the sound from a deeper or shallower layer within the keyboard. 5. The shape of the fingers. Josef Lhevinne observed: “It is almost an axiom to say that the smaller the surface of the first joint of the finger touching the key, the harder and blunter the tone; the larger the surface, the more ringing and singing the tone.”7 The di¤ erence in sound is made by touching the key with either the fleshier part of the finger or with the tip. To play music that requires clarity of articulation, the pianist often curves his fingers so that the smallest joint is almost perpendicular to the keys. On the other hand, e ¤ orts to create a singing sound of great warmth will succeed if the fingers assume a flatter position, shaping the phrase as if molding warm clay. To avoid muscular tension, fingers should never be outstretched more than is natural. The physiologically correct position can be checked by letting the arm hang freely alongside the body; the fingers will naturally assume their proper curved position (Fig. 1.1). Whether one uses flatter or more rounded fingers, the sensitivity of the fingertips is of supreme importance. The tips of the fingers have to be “alert” and active even in the softest and most delicate passages. To quote Natan Perelman, the doyen of piano professors in St. Petersburg, Russia, “The soul of pianists is located in their fingertips.”8 Having described these concrete tools of piano playing, I should emphasize that they serve to achieve the most important goal: the ability to create an illusion. What one does is infinitely less important than the sound that emerges from the instrument. Thus, for instance, it is not always necessary to play physically legato to create the legato sound. In fact, e ¤ orts to connect notes physically may make the melodic line less smooth than by playing it non legato (naturally, with the help of pedaling). In the passage from De-

14 In the Practice Room

Fig. 1.1 Naturally curved position of the hand 

bussy’s “La fille aux cheveux de lin” (Ex. 1.8), the pianist who tries to connect the chords with his fingers can easily become “stuck” in the keyboard; the lightly gliding melodic line will be better served by gentle non legato playing, assisted by a frequently changed pedal. The key to success in this and similar cases is an ideal matching of the attacks of successive chords. Here, too, very close listening is crucial. (sans lourdeur)

Ex. 1.8 Debussy, “La fille aux cheveux de lin,” from Preludes, book 1

Cédez

Sound and Touch

15

Control over dynamics is an important manifestation of cultivated touch. Heightened awareness of di¤ erentiation of dynamics can be traced to the piano literature of the early twentieth century. Baroque music used just two indications, forte and piano, almost exclusively (only occasionally can we find examples of pianissimo in J.S. Bach’s music). In keyboard music, these dynamic markings served merely as an indication for a louder or softer keyboard on harpsichord or organ. Classical period composers used a greater number of dynamic markings; Romantic composers used still more. Even so, these indications were not meant to be interpreted literally. In fact, very often we would play an expressive passage in Romantic music in the mezzoforte dynamic range, though the composer’s indication may be piano. It was Claude Debussy who revolutionized our perception of the scale of  dynamics. In the development of piano playing his importance may be compared only to that of Liszt. Whereas Liszt reached new horizons in matters of velocity, Debussy raised the level of awareness of touch control to an unprecedented height. His indications require precise changes of minute dynamic gradations. See, for example, the end of “Pagodes” from Estampes, in which the dynamic indications are ff, dim, p, dim, pp, più pp, encore plus pp, and aussi pp que possible. Even more demanding are the occurrences when he uses several layers of texture within the same dynamic level, each requiring a touch and articulation of its own (Ex. 1.9). Touch control was carried further in serial music, which assigns every note its own indication of dynamics and articulation, as in the groundbreaking Modes de valeurs et d’intensités by Messiaen (Ex. 1.10). I am convinced that a contemporary pianist simply cannot function without acquiring the precision of control over the scale of dynamics. We all know that every pianist’s dynamic scale is di¤ erent. Besides, when a pianist switches from one instrument to another, from one hall to another, he adjusts the dynamics accordingly. And yet, within the conditions of a specific performance, one is frequently required to establish a more or less absolute dynamic scale. To clarify this concept, I often ask students to play a short melodic phrase repeatedly, changing the dynamics on my request. Starting with mf, for example, we proceed to pp, to f, to mp, to p, and then back to mf .

16 In the Practice Room

un peu en dehors

Lent

3

3

3

doucement sonore

3

3

3 3

m.g.

3

3

3 3

3

3 3

3

Ex. 1.9 Debussy, “Les cloches à travers les feuilles,” from Images, book 2 Modéré 8

Ex. 1.10 Messiaen, Modes de valeurs et d’intensités

When the student returns to mf , I insist that it sound neither louder nor softer than it did before. The objective of this exercise is to establish a scale of dynamics to teach the pianist, for example, that mf is not merely somewhat louder than p, but exactly two steps above it.* *Establishing the dynamic scale does not absolve the pianist from mastering di¤erences of sound within each category. Forte pesante should sound di¤erent from  forte leggiero; piano espressivo from piano misterioso.

3

Sound and Touch

17

Playing two or more notes simultaneously, we must prioritize, or voice, the dynamics between them, even when the composer is not making specific demands. The more notes that are struck simultaneously, the more important the issue of voicing becomes, particularly in loud playing. Nothing on the piano sounds more vulgar than a loud chord in which all notes shout indiscriminately. Each chord must have a certain leading note, while the other tones in the chord should be voiced down. To accomplish this, the pianist needs to decide which sound in the chord (or which line in the chordal progression) to highlight. Then he must have enough control over his fingers and enough finger independence to execute it. The exercise in Ex. 1.11 helps the fingers to develop these qualities. The white notes of the chords shown in the example are to be played forte, the rest of the notes piano. Practice with both hands playing separately as well as together. Later choose di¤ erent, less convenient chords.

Ex. 1.11

In the past several hundred years the leading melodic line was entrusted with increasing frequency to the top voice. As a result, our ear habitually craves the clarity of the top line. In chordal textures, the highest note of the chord is almost always the melodic one and needs to be highlighted. Insuªcient voicing of the top notes of chords (or of octaves) makes them sound “blind,” lacking profile and clarity. Sometimes we voice to reveal a hidden melody, like the bass line of a passage from Beethoven’s “Eroica” Variations (Ex. 1.12). On other occasions the pianist achieves di ¤ erent shades of color by choosing to highlight certain notes within the chord, or a 3

Ex. 1.12 Beethoven, 15 Variations with a Fugue (“Eroica”), op. 35, finale

18 In the Practice Room

certain line in the chordal progression. In the beginning of Debussy’s La cathédrale engloutie the di¤ erent choice in voicing indicated by “ ” and “” in the two examples changes the color of the passage (Ex. 1.13). When a melodic line is doubled in one or two octaves, whether played by one or two hands, we usually bring out the upper line. However, changing the balance in favor of the lower voice can be very e ¤ ective in giving a darker color to the passage. In all matters of voicing, one should take care to maintain consistency of balance between lines or within chords. A related issue is the balance among di¤ erent elements of a texture, for instance among melody, accompaniment, and secondary voices. Even the less-complicated texture, for instance, of many Chopin nocturnes, valses, or mazurkas requires careful treatment. What many inexperienced players regard as two-part writing (melody and accompaniment) is, in fact, threepart writing: melody, low bass, and chords in the middle register, or the harmonic “stuªng” (Ex. 1.14). Beautiful sonority is achieved only if the bass 8

a)

+

=

=

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+ +

+ +

+ +

+

+

+

8

b) =

=

+ +

+

+ +

+

Ex. 1.13 Debussy, “La cathédrale engloutie” from Preludes, book 1

Sound and Touch 19

Ex. 1.14 Chopin, Nocturne in F Minor, op. 55, no. 1

has a resonant, airy quality and the stu ªng is played very lightly and sensitively.* Balance among these components will determine the way one uses the pedal (see the chapter “Pedaling”). The separation of sonorities among these strata will help the performer to reveal the inner life of each of these layers and enhance the clarity of the voice leading. In accompaniment presented in the form of rolled arpeggios (Ex. 1.15), one should not play each note of an arpeggio with the same degree of loud-

Andante

3

3

Ex. 1.15 Chopin, Nocturne in E Minor, op. 72, no. 1 *In such instances, the bass is usually played “out” from a deep layer of the keyboard. A comparison with the resonant pizzicato of the double bass may be helpful. Clearly, the loudness as well as the speed of the stroke change depending on the circumstances.

20 In the Practice Room

ness. Usually, after the full and resonant low bass the few notes that follow it are played softer, gradually emerging with a slight dynamic increase. I have paid so much attention to the issue of producing the sound, of the beginning of the tone, that it threatens to overshadow the even more important factor, that of the follow-up, of “listening through” the note. Phrases cannot sing without the pianist listening between the notes. Heinrich Neuhaus suggests a very good exercise to become aware of this concept (Ex. 1.16a).9 It can be made more complicated by including additional dynamic gradations (Ex. 1.16b). It is essential to match the dynamic level of the new sound to that of the preceding note, not at the point of the attack but at the very end of it.* If a pianist is using the “in” touch while listening between the notes, the pressure his finger exerts on the key will keep diminishing as the ear follows the decay of the sound, so that it is ready to match the touch required to produce the dynamics of the ensuing note. a)

b)

Ex. 1.16 

Yet a pianist cannot be too dependent on the natural decay of the piano sound, otherwise all phrases will have to be played diminuendo. If his intention is to make a crescendo, he does not follow what he hears but, rather, what he imagines. (In the “in” sound the weight of the finger staying on the key will grow accordingly.) This technique may help to make credible crescendi on a sustained note or chord, both of which are found in *Neuhaus also o¤ers the very good suggestion of practicing a melodic passage much slower than it is going to be played, as if in slow motion.

Sound and Touch 21

Beethoven’s works and which, strictly speaking, are not performable on the piano. At any point in this chapter someone could ask, “Are all these minute details really noticeable to most listeners?” My answer would have to be, “Probably not.” The ear of somebody who works constantly with the nuances of  the sound of his instrument becomes much more discerning than that of an outsider, even when the outsider is himself a musician. I remember being present at a lesson where a very good percussion player demonstrated to a student di¤ erences in sound produced by di¤ erent strokes on the triangle. To my great embarrassment, I could not tell much of a di ¤ erence, but both the teacher and the student clearly recognized it. When working with string players, I often witness their deliberations (and arguments) over whether to play a certain note on the A string or the D string. To me, the di ¤ erence does not seem significant. Are musicians splitting hairs to worry about such matters? For me, the importance of this work lies as much in the practical result it achieves as in the dedication to the music it manifests. Together with Arnold Schoenberg, I marvel: “How high the development of spirit that could find pleasure in such subtle things!”10 I am also reminded of the story about Michelangelo, working with great care on the back of one of his sculptures that was to be placed in a corner of a church. He was asked why he spent so much e ¤ ort on the part that no one would see. His reply was, “God will see it.” From time to time, a composer reveals that he was thinking in orchestral terms: such indications as “quasi tromboni” or “quasi corni” appear in the score. Even without such an explicit suggestion, the pianist often feels that a certain phrase would sound wonderful being played, for example, by the oboe or the cello. He then may wish to try to create the sound evocative of  that particular instrument. Performing transcriptions of orchestral works, the pianist often finds that creating the illusion of a specific instrument’s sonority is indispensable. In the last four bars of “The Young Juliet,” Prokofiev’s own transcription from his ballet Romeo and Juliet (Ex. 1.17), a

22 In the Practice Room

Meno mosso

assai rit.

tranquillo

Harp

Lento

Saxophone

Ex. 1.17 Prokofiev, “The Young Juliet” from Ten Pieces from Romeo and Juliet, op. 75 

pianist cannot adequately represent the sonority of the original without trying to imitate its orchestration. The first scale in the left hand is scored for the harp; it is answered by the saxophone. In the orchestra, the two scales sound dramatically di¤ erent; the pianist is challenged to re-create this di¤ erence. I can anticipate a sober critic saying here: “No matter how hard you try, the piano will always sound like a piano.” I agree entirely with this statement but find these attempts extremely important nevertheless, as they will yield a much richer and more varied piano sonority. Or, as Perelman put it: “The best results are reached when one demands an impossible thing of the student: vibrato! pizzicato! tutti! French horn! drum! sing! quartet! clarinet! . . . until the student starts getting hallucinations of sound color.”11 It is diªcult to find practical advice on how to make the piano sound like other instruments. In fact, I have encountered only one such example: Alfred Brendel’s essay, “Turning the Piano into an Orchestra (Liszt’s transcriptions and paraphrases),” published in his book Musical Thoughts and Afterthoughts.12 Here are some of his suggestions: The sound of the oboe I achieve with rounded, hooked-under, and, as it were, bony fingers, in poco legato. . . .

Sound and Touch 23

The flute . . . whenever possible, I play every note with the help of a separate arm movement. . . . The bassoon . . . the touch is finger-staccato. . . . The noble, full, somewhat veiled, ‘romantic’ sound of the horn demands a loose arm and a flexible wrist. Although its dynamics extend from pp to f, the sordino pedal should always be used. . . . Do not forget that the harp is a plucked instrument! The pianist should play harp notes with round, tensed fingers—sempre poco staccato— within the sustained pedal. In rapid, sharply ripped-o ¤  arpeggios, the finger-play is assisted by movements of the wrist. I suggest that every pianist try to apply Brendel’s recommendations, though I predict that the rate of success will not be very high. This does not mean that the suggestions of this wonderful and experienced pianist are wrong or imprecise. Rather, this advice may not work as successfully for anyone else because the delicate area of piano coloring depends so much on individual physique or on each pianist’s innate approach to playing. Still, it is extremely important for the teacher to be able to suggest to the student what to do physically if he wants to imitate a bassoon, harp, or other instrument. Even more important is to encourage students to seek their own approach, to find what would work best for each person. I see it as building one’s vocabulary of physical motions, a personal pianistic “toolbox.” The larger the vocabulary, the more eloquent our musical speech becomes; the better equipped the toolbox, the more e ¤ ective and eªcient the pianist’s work will be. And the better the pianist controls sound, the more e¤ ectively he is able to communicate musical expression to an audience.