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Abroad When Fame Can’t Cross the Atlantic
Artists Management Company Grigory Sokolov, a star in Europe, stopped
issuing CDs in 1995.
By MICHAEL KIMMELMAN Published: April 17, 2008 BERLIN — On Tuesday
evening the Russian pianist Grigory Sokolov played, as he does dozens of
times a year throughout Europe, to an ecstatic, sold-out house. It filled the
Kammermusiksaal here. An unsmiling bear of a man onstage with a babyish face
and a white, monkish fringe of hair, Mr. Sokolov emerged looking shy and
downcast, as if he hoped no one would notice him. He scuttled to the
instrument, head bowed, then plunged in, pawing the keys. He’s a star on this side of the Atlantic. In America
his name will draw blank stares. In this day and age, how can that be? Even a century ago,
news about musical heavyweights traveled constantly between the continents,
along with the musicians themselves. When the cold war heated up during the
postwar era, Soviet stars were, for a while, prohibited from traveling, but
the aura of many of these players blossomed as a consequence of their
seclusion and they benefited, sometimes disproportionately to their actual
talent, when they finally made it to the West. This wasn’t the case with Mr.
Sokolov. Classical music is
supposedly universal. Language may still be a cultural barrier for writers
and actors. Even visual artists, depending on the subjects they choose, won’t
necessarily translate abroad. That Mr. Sokolov,
whose talent is beyond dispute, disproves this notion should remind us not
only of our persistent parochialism but also of our delusions about
technology. The Web, on which he can be found on YouTube, giving astonishing
performances, clearly doesn’t substitute for hearing him live. Neither do
discs, which, as a perfectionist, he stopped issuing in 1995 (this partly
explains his American situation), although years ago Mr. Sokolov’s recordings
sent me hunting for a chance to hear him in person. On one of those discs he
played Chopin’s 24 Preludes with great sensitivity. He played them again the
other night. It was, like all concerts likely to stay in the mind forever,
nothing that could ever be captured digitally. He gives about 60
solo recitals a year, so his manager told me; no chamber or orchestral music
at the moment. He was born in Leningrad and won the Tchaikovsky
Competition in 1966, at 16. Emil Gilels headed the jury. For a while Sol
Hurok promoted him. Clearly he has his
pride. The other day he withdrew from two sold-out recitals that were to take
place in May in Glasgow and London because of new visa requirements imposed
by Britain on Russian visitors, which after many years of playing there he
found too onerous and insulting. An editorial in The Independent of London
lamented a government policy, spurred by transnational conflict, that “ends
up divesting us of cultural riches” like “the great Russian-born pianist.” So, temperament
(Mr. Sokolov has plenty), poor luck, myopic concert agents and — who is to
say? — perhaps contentment with life as it is for him in Europe seem to have
conspired to prevent stardom in America; not any lack of musical genius,
that’s for sure. It’s America’s loss. He tackled two Mozart
sonatas before the Chopin preludes Tuesday night. In his case an imposing,
muscular, distinctly Russian technique combines with large, church-bell
sonority. Even small preludes occasionally invoked Mussorgsky. A tendentious,
soulful interpreter by inclination, he avoids any hint of routine. One
imagines he never allows himself to play anything the same way twice.
Sometimes, as in the Mozart, this leads toward mannerism. Humorous he is
certainly not. Purists might balk, but never is he just perverse or
uninteresting. At heart he’s a colorist, an intimist, melancholic, with
astonishing tonal nuances and an endless, much-trafficked variety of touches.
The slow movements
of the sonatas acquired moments of gravity that seemed almost to have
physical weight. But the preludes were the true revelation: profoundly
original, magisterial, heartfelt. The audience sat through them in complete,
rapt silence. Long lines breathed to an elastic rhythm. Preludes like the one
in B flat minor galloped and raced. Those in F sharp and D flat produced
moments of faraway, unearthly beauty. I can’t at the moment recall anything
like them. Here was a great
artist. If his case proves anything, it’s that Europe and America remain
separated by more than an ocean. After he had been called back for encore
after encore — a half-dozen by the end — the crowd still stood and roared.
Mr. Sokolov finally retreated, as he had arrived, expressionless, with a
brusque nod, bent slightly at the waist, one hand fastened behind his back
like a captain on the deck of his ship, facing into a nasty head wind. |
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