This piece had its world premiere in 1941; the venue wasn’t fancy—a Nazi prisoner-of-war camp.
Olivier Messiaen (1908-1992), Quatuor pour la fin du temps(Quartet for the End of Time), live, ChamberFest Cleveland (Franklin Cohen, clarinet; Yura Lee, violin; Gabriel Cabezas, cello; Orion Weiss, piano), 2013
Marcos Balter (1974-), Frisson (2011); Chicago Composers Orchestra (Matthew Kasper, cond.) with Eric Lamb (flute), Chicago, 2011
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lagniappe
reading table
Speculative, imaginative writings—texts that ‘open possibility’—help us to live because the definitions by which we live are themselves productions of the cultural imaginary.
—Frances Richard, “Multitudes” (Poetry, May, 2014)
Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750), Violin Sonata No. 1 in G minor (2nd Movt.)
Henryk Szeryng (1918-1988), live
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Arthur Grumiaux (1921-1986), recording
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Yoojin Jang (1990-), live
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lagniappe
reading table
[A] mad person not helped out of his trouble by anything real begins to trust what is not real because it helps him and he needs it because real things continue not to help him.
—Lydia Davis, “Liminal: The Little Man” (The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis)
Frederic Chopin (1810-1849), Piano Sonata No. 3 in B minor
Rafal Blechacz (1985-), piano, live
1st Movement
2nd Movement
3rd Movement
4th Movement
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can’t wait
Tomorrow Blechacz (pronounced, I just learned, BLEH-hatch), who recently won the 2014 Gilmore Artist Award,* will be at the University of Chicago’s Mandel Hall, playing Bach and Beethoven and Chopin.
[O]ne of the great windfalls of the music world . . . the $300,000 Gilmore Artist Award . . . is given every four years to an unsuspecting pianist deemed worthy of a great career by a panel of anonymous judges who conduct their worldwide talent search in secret.
Gyorgy Ligeti (1923-2006), Piano Etudes (Book 1), No. 6 (Automne a Varsovie [Autumn in Warsaw]); Susanne Anatchkova (piano), live
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lagniappe
reading table
[N]othing has ever been—nor will it ever be—the way it used to be.
—Aleksandar Hemon, The Book of My Lives
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yesterday
Some things cannot be planned for, nor can they be explained. Such was the case this week when a friend of my son Alex—someone who was in our house, full of conversation, just a few weeks ago—killed himself. The funeral was yesterday. Before it began Alex and I talked briefly with the mother and father, whom I had never met. I told them one of the things I appreciated about their son was that he wasn’t merely polite to me, his friend’s father. He wanted to connect. A greater sorrow a parent could not know.