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Christ Church Cathedral
August 15, 2020
One of my earliest memories — perhaps even my earliest — is of lying in bed in our house in a rather dull London suburb and of being frightened of the patterns made on the ceiling by the lights of passing cars. To this day I have no idea why I found them so disturbing.
This came to mind during the eleventh movement, Fürchtenmachen (Frightening), of Robert Schumann's Kinderszenen (Scenes from Childhood), with which Jorge Edouardo Flores Carrizales opened his recital in the Cathedral on Saturday evening.
In this movement, as throughout the work (with a single exception — see below), Schumann brilliantly captures the childhood mood as seen by an adult: we not only realise that the child is frightened, we can also see that the fear is unfounded, yet real.
I must confess that I have somewhat mixed feelings about Schumann's music in general and that this applies no less to his piano music; yet Kinderszenen is, for me, the exception and remains my favourite among his keyboard words, as it has been for over three decades.
Carrizales gave a delightful performance, characterised by an appropriately light tone coupled with excellent, natural-sounding rubato. In a work that consists of little but highlights, I shall simply point to a few of the (very short) movements which I particularly enjoyed: the fleetness and agility of Hasche-Mann (Blind Man's Bluff), the way in which he conveyed the pleas of Bittendes Kind (Pleading Child) without those pleas ever becoming wheedling, the wonderful sense of happiness and security in Am Kamin (By the Fireside) and, the sense that all will indeed be well again in Kind im Einschlummern (Child Falling Asleep), which follows Fürchtenmachen. Clearly, if Schumann was writing from his own experience, his childhood must have been a happy one.
Finally, Der Dichter spricht (The Poet Speaks), the only movement written from the adult's point of view and easily among the most profound things Schumann ever wrote (and, once again to be perfectly honest, profundity is not something I tend to associate with his music). Antonín Kubálek once spoke of hearing Sviatoslav Richter play this as an encore and his stunned realisation that this deeply moving music was the finale of a work he thought he knew well, but had always considered essentially lightweight. Carrizales certainly gave it the emotional depth it so richly deserves and I, for one, should have been quite satisfied if his recital had ended there.
For the remainder of the programme, Carrizales chose to perform music from his native land, Mexico. I imagine that it was as unfamiliar to most of the audience as it was to me.
Melesio Morales (1838-1908), apart from three years in Italy, spent his entire life in Mexico. Among other achievements, he was the first to conduct Beethoven's symphonies in his native land. Mírame a mis ojos (Look into my eyes) was composed in memory of his daughter, who died at an early age.
For this plaintive piece, Carrizales was joined by violist Amanda Steinemann to perform it in her own arrangement for her instrument.
Presumably the original is for keyboard alone, but Steinemann's arrangement was so successful that one would never have guessed. The music is lyrical and tragic and was given a deeply felt performance, leaving at least one listener eager to hear more of this seldom-heard composer.
Finally, Domingo Lobato (1920-2012) was represented by his Suite de los Niños (Children's Suite).
Lobato was clearly influenced by Debussy and Ravel, but also by Manuel de Falla, all of whom were present and correct in the playful opening Danzinela. The charming Serenade, with its echoes of Clair de Lune, rocked gently and was conveyed in a limpid yet clear tone.
I did feel that even the most attentive child's concentration may have lapsed during The Love for the Red Spinning Top: not because of Carrizales' playing — his arpeggios and trills were delectable — but because of the sheer length of the movement which, frankly, I thought somewhat outstayed its welcome.
It is somewhat ironic that probably the best-known example of a Habanera, a Cuban popular dance from the nineteenth century, is the aria "L'amour est un oiseau rebelle" from Carmen, an opera about a Spanish factory worker composed by a Frenchman.
Nevertheless, Lobato's was the most Hispanic-sounding movement of the suite and Carrizales gave the rhythm a delightful gentle bounce.
Lastly, Mama Bear and her Son was in two distinct parts; in the first, one could almost hear the mother telling her offspring to eat his greens (or whatever the ursine equivalent is), in the exuberant second it was easy to imagine the cub rolling around in the mud, just having a good time.
All in all, this recital provided a most rewarding combination of the familiar and the unfamiliar, all performed with skill and obvious devotion.
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