What is real? What is true?

Pain. A spotlight. © Charles Thibo

Bela Bartok is a challenge. His music – I love it. But to write about it… It took me a long time to warm up to his language, but once I had summoned the courage to explore his works in detail, I was greatly rewarded. The String Quartets recorded by the Emerson String Quartet – what a fascinating universe! Bartok is unique in his style and perhaps in his ambitions as a composer. Transcending the principles of the Vienna classics era, blending the teachings of the past, serialism* included, with folk music elements and composing principles from different ethnic backgrounds, forging thus a contemporary music style that compares to no other – how daring! Chapeau.

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A whisper murmured into the wind

A fragile peace. © Charles Thibo

The wind, the wind, the heaven-born wind – you probably recognize that. It’s Hänsel and Gretel’s answer to the witch’s question: “Nibble, nibble, gnaw, who’s nibbling at my little house?” This string quartet is like the wind, or rather it is a whisper murmured into the wind, not meant to stay, meant to be blown away. Is it a lamentation? A silent prayer? A half-audible thought? A drawn-out sob about a sad reminiscence?

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A final masterpiece from the constant searcher

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Adagio religioso. © Charles Thibo

Ah, yes… Bartok. That Hungarian enigma. I hesitated for months before presenting one of his pieces as I haven’t studied his works long enough. It took the French pianist Hélène Grimaud to spur me. She was in town yesterday and what should I say? She was fabulous and Bartok’s Piano Concerto No. 3, Sz. 119 was even more fabulous. An unusual piece  executed with a lot of passion by Grimaud and the Rotterdam Philharmonic Orchestra led by Yannick Nézet-Seguin.

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Lost in thoughts with a duo for violin and cello

Autumn – from green to red. © Charles Thibo

I like this time of the year. The morning light is very special. I see myself on a Sunday morning sitting in the kitchen. The house is calm. I sit at the table and the first sunbeams are penetrating the morning haze hanging over the vineyards. They plunge the kitchen in a warm, welcoming light. On the right I see the river, on the left I see the leaves of a vine as they turn from green to red – a beautiful red I enjoy every autumn. In a few days all the leaves will be flaming red and hide that old cracked wall that leads to the garden.

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