When approaching the greatest geniuses to acquire knowledge of their masterpieces, the necessary requisite – unfortunately, not sufficient in itself – is an attitude of utmost humility, the readiness to submerge one's own theoretical and aesthetic convictions to make room for the will that is the origin of the masterpieces themselves. This undertaking, more than normally arduous in any case, further complicates itself when the genius in question is the supreme Johann Sebastian Bach, and the masterpiece to be examined is the monumental Goldberg Variations BWV 988. The enormous quantity of information contained in the music is inscribed in a manner in which the more the compositional line appears to unfold, the more the information is concealed. If this affirmation might appear alien to the classical view of the reading of the musical text with regard to the vast majority of composers, one cannot disregard its validity for the music of J. S. Bach, an utterly atypical composer, at least in the context of the age in which he lived. Not in the least the "honest bourgeois" of whom Albert Schweitzer speaks, Bach allied himself – more than with the baroque tendencies of his time – to that dark and fascinating era in which the first polyphony came to light: the era of the re-evaluation of classical rhetoric for the realization of musical poems based on the longa and on the brevis, those Middle Ages in which some of the most stupefying universal works were born, including not only the sciences of Trivium and Quadrivium, but also the most esoteric alchemical components.
And this is why it seems natural to once again ally Bach, and his musica reservata, not only with the humanistic tradition – which, at that time, saw artists, writers and composers jealously setting apart the secrets of their works from the profanum vulgus – but even more so with classical rhetoric (Bach was a fervent Latinist), in which Quintilian's words were representative: «… docti rationem componendi intelligunt, etiam indocti voluptas …» («… the learned understand the principles of artistic composition, yet the ignorant receive only pleasure …»).
In this perspective, it would seem inopportune, at the very least, to deprive the works of the Maestro of integral components, as, in the case of the Goldberg, of the repeats (indispensable both for the expressiveness and the proportions of the work) and even of complete variations (as did Busoni, among so many others), in the name of aesthetic canons or of concert requirements. If indeed one finds oneself before a masterpiece in which truly all is written (albeit secretly) and whose aim is almost alchemical, all the normal interpretive-aesthetic cannons must of necessity be shifted to a secondary level, and, if anything, spring from the most scrupulous respect for all the other factors. An almost maniacal respect for the celestial alchemies inherent in this music has prompted me to attend all the aspects, from the more meditated to the more purely technical (the entirety of my interpretation is absolutely without "adjustments" intended to facilitate the execution).
The structure of the Goldberg Variations is, at one and the same time, simple and articulate; in fact, as in all Bach's great creations, what we are witnessing here is a combined presence of differing divisions, all thoroughly perfect. The work is structured according to a ternary division, a "reflecting" binary division, and a division which we will here call the "theatrical" division, as it has as its primary function that of carefully separating certain moments in the musical procedure, for either thematic or strategical purposes.
The ternary division is in reality both starting point for and consequence of the same composition: Bach exploits the number 3 in order to structure the prosecution of the various canons. Variation No. 3 is, in fact, a canon at the unison, Variation No. 6, a canon at the second, and so forth. In other words, all the variations that have numbers which are multiples of 3 are canons born of the division of their number by the number 3. Variation No. 18 will thus be a canon at the sixth (18/3=6), the Variation No. 21, a canon at the seventh (21/3=7), Variation No. 27, a canon at the ninth (27/3=9), and so on. This helps us to understand how the "Quodlibet" – quod libet (that which pleases) – which Bach took the trouble to write at the beginning of Variation No. 30 – does not refer to the pace to be followed, but rather to the compositional procedure which he used: in fact, Variation No. 30, rather than being a canon at the tenth, according to the division by the number 3, turns out to be instead a free variation within the style of the composition.
The binary division is easily marked, as it is a simple matter to distribute the Aria, the 30 Variations, and the Aria da capo in two blocks, one being the mirror image of the other:
1) Aria + 14 + 1 Variation.
2) 1 + 14 Variations + Aria.
I have separated the Variations 15 and 16 from the others as No. 15 is the epilogue of the first how the 15th Variation, being the conclusive one, has an indication of tempo (Andante), since, according to classical rhetoric, the orator must conclude his discourse with the "peroratio in adfectibus", in which he would demonstrate more human sentiments. The expedient of respecting the "peroratio in adfectibus" also by inserting indications of tempo is utilized by Bach many times, as, for example, in the conclusions of Das Wohltemperirte Clavier and the Musikalisches Opfer. Furthermore, the subdivision I have indicated gives prominence to the way in which Bach, once again, has used the number 14 – the number obtained by adding the sequence of the letters of his last name (B+A+C+H=2+1+3+8=14), almost as if he wished to sign his masterpiece, once again in secret. The number 14 recurs indeed in the majority of the Maestro's works and even in the events of his daily life. It seems, in fact, that in 1747, on joining the Societät der Musikalischen Wissenschaften (founded by Lorenz Christoph Mizler, his pupil and friend), he waited until 13 members had enrolled themselves in order to become the fourteenth.
The third of the divisions I have spoken of is clearly readable in the score itself, with the fermatas that Bach has written on the final double-bar of some of the variations to indicate a pause prior to the beginning of the following variation and, at the same time, signalling what in modern film scripts would be the "scene cut". The task of the good interpreter, according to me, is that of underscoring these "scene changes", if in no other way, with little moments of silence corresponding to the fermatas. It is worth noting here how, as an example, the Variation No. 25 belongs to a unique block together with Variation No. 26, an expedient indicative of Bach's wish to revive the music from the moment of 'psychological' sadness which the first of the two variations had lead to by means of the second variation, where the sestinas of sixteenth notes indicate an uncontainable restorative joy. This calls to my mind the atmosphere of uncontrollable enthusiasm of the «Et Resurrexit», after the painful «Crucifixus» in the Mass in B Minor.
Regarding the interpretive solutions, I think there exist few composers with the precision of Bach. This affirmation, to the eyes of many, might even appear scandalous, but on a more attentive analysis it is easy to detect the logic of such an assertion. Let us begin, for example, with the indications of tempo. The metronomic scansions very often adopted by the romantics would have been offensive even to the ranks of the enlightened. For Bach, it was possible to come up with equally precise indications, but in a more concealed manner, in such a way that the correct key to the reading would be given only to whomsoever might be deemed worthy, and, thusly, to whomever might be capable of understanding prelude and the first fugue of the First book of the Das Wohltemperirte Clavier, for example, up to a certain point, are perfectly super imposable. From their superimposition originates a music that causes the adaptation that Gounod made of the same prelude to turn pale, while at the same time the pace to be followed is manifestly obvious, both for the prelude and for the fugue: if, in fact, one began to play the former at a pace that is too slow, the execution of the fugue would be drawn out beyond measure, and in the same manner, by starting the fugue at too fast a pace, one would obtain a prelude of such agitated movement as to be almost impossible to execute. The pattern of movement that emerges therefore fluctuates between canons that are quite restricted indeed.
So very many other expedients are regularly used by Bach to indicate pacing in his compositions. In general, one should follow the pace of the heartbeat, which corresponds roughly to the time of 72 on the metronome. Even this could become, for Bach, an expedient for giving the composition a life of its own. In considering the variations in question, I have chosen to proceed by means of induction, setting as a starting point precisely the heartbeat, with the necessary fluctuations suggested to me by the music and authorized by the scene cuts mentioned above. I have noted how the pace of the variations underwent a mutation between one variation and the next – a mutation not caused by myself, but according to the changes in tempo written by Bach: a 2/4 that is transformed into a 3/4, a 3/4 that changes into a 3/8 and so on, changes which assure that, while still following the same rhythmic scansion, the interpreter is able to obtain a music which varies constantly – how, while following the same bass, the Maestro had altered the music between one variation and the next. I have thereby verified how, in this way, some schemes followed by almost all of the interpretations I have listened to have been turned "upside down", schemes that conceived of some of the variations as extremely slow (such as No. 25) and others as very fast (as the No. 5). In my case, the pace of the No. 5 becomes more deliberate, whereas Variation No. 25 as well as the No. 13, become strangely more lively compared to the interpretations I have heard.
Setting aside the question of the aesthetic discourse, which, as I have indicated above, in these cases should arise as a consequence of all the rest, I have then observed the musical score more closely. Both Variation No. 13 as well as the No. 25 are exclusively of sixteenth notes. This particular detail could be of little importance for any other composer, but not for Bach, who took the trouble to have his son-in-law Altnikol change the eighth notes of his Prelude XXIV of the second book of Das Wohltemperirte Clavier into sixteenth notes, given the fact that the character of the piece should be rather lively. My inductive reasoning is consequently validated by the musical text.
At this point it is legitimate to think of other factors, such as the aesthetic and the practical aspects of the performance.
The new execution which I propose of some of the variations – from "time immemorial" realized at tempos according to my judgement excessively romantic – is free of rhetorical and pedantic sentimentalism, suggesting the deepest humbling of the soul with a more "infantile" naturalness and conveying a beauty that is unselfconscious. In the same way it is possible to detect implications pointing to such an execution from the indications set down in the score, as, for example, certain portamentos in Variation No. 5, impossible to perceive if performed at an excessively accelerated speed.
As far as the public is concerned, this resolves the age-old problem of the full-length execution of the Goldberg Variations, many of the variations having been deprived of the repeats for reasons of excessive length. As a matter of fact, normally, "standard" performances of this work fluctuate from 78 to 85 minutes, while, according to the outlines that my reasoning has lead me to find, the compete duration, with all the repeats present, is somewhere around 65 minutes.
Let us now confront another age-old question: that of the instrument on which the works of Bach are to be performed. In my opinion it is rather useless to get agitated over arguments that would seek to associate the works of the Maestro with this or that instrument, as he himself had no preference in this matter. His compositions are the only ones in musical literature that are possible to perform with any instrument whatsoever without losing their beauty. The enrichment of the instrumental range in executions, however, only provides further expressive possibilities to the music in question. Bach himself, lover of transcriptions, in his later works – those not birthed for a patron, those which he composed "for himself" – bear no indication at all of instrumental destination. What should, on the other hand, ignite discussions on the matter far more than it does, in my view, is rather, the manner of performing Bach – whatever instrument is adopted. If one chooses to perform the Goldberg Variations on the piano, to play it in the romantic manner would be to perform in a manner both vulgar and out of place, as this would be over-loading a music designed to remain light, in the highest sense of the word. It would be, in other words, like applying cosmetics to a statue of Canova, or like wanting to delineate the contours of a painting by Monet.
What I have tried to do with this instrument, which offers infinitely great potentialities for the Maestro's music, is to bring out all the tiny details written by Bach. I have sought to play the piano as if I were endowed with two manuals and at times also a pedal-board, to obtain differing levels of sound, with the voices mutually interweaving themselves. Very often I have used the repeats to bring out first one voice and then another, or to execute the same voice a first time stripped of embellishments, and therefore a purer rendering, and the second time, enriching it with mordents, trills or passing notes to convey a greater gaiety. I have tried to get the repeats, in their executive iteration, to become other than themselves, to give the listener the impression of listening to a music continually renewed – in its nuances, in spirit, and even in the notes themselves. This undertaking has been facilitated in large part by the very richness of the Bachian composition itself, which has offered me an infinity of choices, all equally valid and interesting. The musical material of Bach's production that I have sought to draw on to enrich my interpretation of the Goldberg has improved me as a musician and as a person. I have indeed lived my exploration of the music of the great Bach as a personal relationship with the Author.
By using the piano, it has been possible to play with the sound, varying it from the livelier tones (consequently, in the manner of the sheerer sounds of the harpsichord) of the Variation No. 26, to the sublimated sounds of the final Aria. It has also made it possible to try to bring out the difference between notes that are held and those that are played staccato, underlining in this way all the primary intentions of the author, with an ease that both the harpsichord and the organ would have denied me.
I like to conceive of my interpretation of the final Aria as a sort of bas-relief, where the notes are born of the pauses, and not vice-versa. For me, it is as if this music of Bach's came from a world of silence, where each note is a miracle in itself of consummate, irresistible beauty.
In the Goldberg Variations I have witnessed the disclosure of a rarefied reality, where all the emotions appear more profound, as being free of vanity, sublimated, where – to use the words of Alberto Basso – the contact with the Work «… marvels and moves [...], and all problems seem to vanish, fainting away among the reflected lights of a pure spiritual vision…».
© 2001 - Stefano Greco
Translation: Meredyth Ann Savage
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