Uplifting music from a promising young man

Flying high. © Charles Thibo

A few weeks ago I finished reading a monumental double biography of Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin – well written and extremely interesting, as I elaborate in a review on my other blog, but depressing at times. Add the grey and wet weather we experienced in January – not exactly what makes me feel hopeful and optimistic. Luckily there is music to help me and you overcome such moments, music like that joyful Quartet in E flat major that Felix Mendelssohn wrote in 1823.

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When all is lost and life makes no sense anymore

Frozen. © Charles Thibo

Hours full of pain – not exactly a selling argument! But this is the title the composer Gabriel Dupont gave a piano cycle he wrote in 1904: Les Heures Dolentes. If you listen to the recording by Stéphane Lemelin, you will at once hear that title is well deserved and that no one ever has described in a more beautiful way the slowly passing, monotonous hours when you try to recover from really bad news, these moments when you feel paralyzed, unable to speak, unable to move, when you stare in front of you aimlessly, absent-minded. This singular mood when all seems lost and life makes no sense anymore.

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Penetrating the melody of a desperate love

Inspiration hour © Charles Thibo

Midnight. This specific time, this specific mood. The house is calm, everyone has gone to bed except the cat and me. A specific constellation. It is one of the moments that inspiration strikes me. I started to read a biography about the German pianist Grete Sultan (1906-2005) tonight while I was listening to Robert Schumann’s Fantasy in C major, Op. 17, performed by Grete Sultan. The urgent need to penetrate the music, to dream and drift, to write. Now.

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Schumann, Menschenskind!

A happy hour with the cello. © Charles Thibo

Robert Schumann. This man causes me pain. This man gives me joy. All at the same time. You may wonder why. Because of a stupid obsession of mine, one of these senseless ideas man comes up with to torture himself. Some time ago I have decided that I like Franz Schubert better than Schumann. I know both men’s works fairly well by now, and I hate to admit it, but if I am honest, Schumann is equal to Schubert. It. Can. Not. Be. I will never admit that in public. No way.

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