Grandeur in Expression and Performance

The cello is a powerful instrument; like scarcely any other string instrument, it is suited to depict the chivalrous and the sublime alongside the emotional. This is, and remains, the cello’s domain, though the virtuoso cellist equipped with the right technical means should be able to rival the violinist in lightness and agility where appropriate. But it is the nature of things that the larger spatial range and the lower pitch give the cello more substance than the violin. In complete misrecognition of this fact, many a cellist goes against the nature of his noble instrument through sentimental, syrupy playing. The ability to paint in delicate pastel colors is sometimes necessary, but must not become a permanent, saccharine mannerism. If one misjudges the character of a work, the composer’s intentions are lost from the outset! The equal and opposite problem to such overly soft playing is, if I may put it this way, bombastic ostentation. In their ardent desire to achieve a big sound, cellists too often overlook that greatness of expression does not rely solely on producing a massive volume. Intensity of expression is not only a question of dynamic power. Nobility and dignity are often best expressed through wise restraint; we do not have to use all available means at every moment. We must deal with both mental and physical functions; these are mutually dependent and require coordination. Feeling and sentimentality should not overshadow the need for deliberate, reasoned judgment. “The music profession harbors more high-strung simpletons and spiritually vacant mediocrities than other arts, just as music lovers tend to be dazzled by flashy superficialities.”^[1] Discernment regarding the spirit of a musical work is necessary if one wants to avoid the error of misconception. The musicians of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were protected from this by their precise knowledge of the theory of emotions!

True greatness of expression comes only when we attempt to get to the heart of what the composer is asking of us, and use that understanding to choose the right interpretative approach. Constant empathy with the spirit of the composition will prevent us from performing anything and everything in only one way. It will do no harm to an insignificant salon piece if it is played with the same expression from beginning to end. This would not work for a meaningful, significant piece such as the slow movement of Brahms’s Sonata in F major. Here, if we used up all our expressive power at the beginning of the piece, it would be impossible to increase the intensity over the course of the movement. Without the ability to heighten the expression, the player cannot meet the intellectual demands of the work. Since every melody is composed of smaller motives, players have a praiseworthy desire to work out the individual details. This places them in danger of losing themselves in minutiae through splitting and separating them. The “big picture” gets lost, and in the worst case the results sound like a mosaic rather than a painting. We should therefore avoid all caesuras that are not dictated by musical sense. And with this, we arrive at the main reason for poor presentation. As is well known, changes of bow direction cannot be restricted only to places that require a caesura. The nature of bow technique, however, requires more frequent changes, especially when we must exert greater force. If not performed inaudibly, these bow changes can create the impression of caesuras, thus destroying the melodic line to the detriment of clarity. It is no coincidence that noble presentation also requires broad, sweeping bowstrokes—that is, expansive, vigorous arm movements from the shoulder joint, with the hand supporting changes in bow direction through the “grip change.” When energetic, clear rhythm is added to this, the impression of imposing grandeur cannot fail to affect the listener.