Dmitri Shostakovich’s 5th symphony is a remarkable creation. The first movement’s quiet reverie has an edginess that betrays the underlying anxiety. Low staccato notes exchanged between the piano and the bass anticipate a new theme. Abruptly, with a crash, the mood is transformed into a compelling, if sinister march. Despite misgivings I follow it lockstep, willing to do whatever it demands, but as quick as the march appears it dissipates only to reappear, teasing, pleading to remain.
As I listen I begin to comprehend why Shostakovich found himself out of favor with the Communist party apparatchiks. Prior to WW II and during the Cold War he was accused of “formalism” and while many of his friends and colleagues did not survive the purges, I suppose even for Stalin the permanent disappearance of Russia’s greatest living composer was hard to justify.
Shostakovich would compose music in line with party doctrine for a while and then, trying to follow his artistic vision fall out of favor. The cycle continued until Stalin’s death in 1953.
His dilemma is evident in the first movement. The performance requires heartfelt, even sentimental lyricism. It requires military discipline. There are virtuosic solo performances and passages where the orchestra plays as one. There is quiet and there is bombast.
To perform it successfully requires collaborative skills. In forty years of listening to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, I have witnessed many of the world’s great conductors perform it. Most recently, under tumultuous skies at Ravinia, I heard Christoph Eschenbach’s glorious rendition. He is an elegantly detailed conductor. You can see notes flow from his baton.
Maestro Eschenbach has a gripping biography. Born in 1940, in what was then Germany, he was orphaned during WW II and adopted from a refugee camp while ill with typhoid fever. He begins his training in piano at the age of seven and debuts as a conductor in 1972.
Perhaps it is his history and his career as a pianist that provides him with a unique insight into this hour-long colossus. His interpretation was free of expectations. Now that the Soviet Socialist Republic is no more perhaps the Fifth can be put in the proper historical perspective without the prejudice that existed when it was first composed.
No matter who is the conductor, I seek it out. It is a work that begs to be listened to live, direct from the baton, the lungs and the muscles of the performers straight into your core. The fact that this performance stirs the soul is what sets it apart as a successful collaboration.
I have been blessed with many fulfilling collaborations through my study of chado, the way of tea. We try hard to learn the skills and the spirit of tea. Whether serving tea to dignitaries at a grand function, or making tea amongst ourselves in a makeshift chashitsu in a Chicago backyard while honoring one of our own, we strive to seamlessly perform our tasks.
Although Sen Rikyu, the founder of tea, stated that chanoyu is simply a matter of making and drinking tea, the skills needed to make tea can include carpentry, metalwork, cooking, flower arranging and a multitude of other equally important responsibilities that as a whole require a life time of study and even then may never be mastered.
Each serving of tea is an individual and begs for interpretation. Not unlike what conductors bring to the performance of the same score. We find ourselves in a unique environment with different requirements and have to adapt. The stress creates the opportunity for an artistic moment.
Success is never guaranteed. The slightest change, the smallest detail can be the difference between humdrum and memorable. Chanoyu and great orchestras have a certain élan, a confidence void of swagger that comes from a pure heart and a devotion to the task. This selfless participation is the essence of collaboration.
Volume 5773 (4), 8/21/09
