Van
Cliburn passed away after a bout with bone marrow cancer. His active career as a concert pianist was
all too short. Much like President
Kennedy, whose term in office was cut short, the quality of his active tenure
overrode its brevity. Cliburn spent the
last 35 years of his life as an elder statesman of Classical Music.
I
remember in the 1980s mentioning to my mother that Cliburn was turning 50; she
responded “He’s already 50?” I then
pointed out to my mother that she was already 51. My mother was not amused.
Cliburn
was truly “America’s pianist” (even more than William Kapell) to the extent
that Cliburn invariably started his domestic concerts with The Star Spangled
Banner. It was as such that he returned home to a ticker-tape parade after
winning the 1958 Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow – the only such accolade
ever accorded a Classical musician.
Despite
Cliburn’s All-American,apple pie loving boy from Texas image, his musical
training was solidly in the Russian School.
It’s not for nothing that his teacher was Rosina Lhévinne, doyenne of Russian piano teachers. His
playing appealed to the jurors at the Tchaikovsky Competition – particularly
Sviatoslav Richter, who awarded Cliburn TENs and scored everyone else ZEROs. Eventually the situation came to the
attention of Nikita Khrushchev, who asked if Cliburn was really “the best” of the
lot. When Khrushchev was answered in the
affirmative, he responded succinctly “Then give him the prize.” When Cliburn played Moscow Nights as an encore
at his victory recital, he won the hearts of the Russian public.
In
retrospect, it’s easy to forget what a coup it was for an American to win
Russia’s premier musical competition during the Cold War’s height. But listening to the evidence, it’s also easy
to see why he won. Cliburn had technique
to burn, but never felt the need to get into a speed race – even when he played
such warhorses as Rachmaninoff’s Third Concerto. Yet it’s Cliburn’s recording of that concerto
which brings a lump to my throat at the final statement of the third movement’s
“big tune.” Cliburn was among the most
sincere of interpreters, and his example shines through in an era of growing
cynicism – both in and out of music. His
temperament ran warm, but not hot like Rubinstein’s and certainly not molten
like Horowitz’s. In many ways, Cliburn
resembled Benno Moiseiwitsch, the master of relaxed virtuosity. Also, Cliburn’s ringing sonority reminded many of Rosina
Lhévinne’s husband, Josef. (Vladimir Horowitz once remarked that he and
Arthur Rubinstein together couldn’t match Cliburn’s tone.) His stage demeanor was soulfully dignified
and welcoming. Although he was too
classy to make negative comments about other musicians, Cliburn was no doubt
horrified by the face-pulling freak shows put on by the likes of Lang Lang. Cliburn’s sense of decorum wasn’t always
returned – particularly when he was slapped with an unsuccessful palimony suit
in the 1990s
Let’s get one thing out of the way, Cliburn was a good musician. There is a misconception, mostly centered in the Germanic circles, that one has to be a great Mozart and Beethoven interpreter to be a great musician. Nothing could be further from the truth. Much of this stems from Artur Schnabel’s statement that he limited his repertoire to music that was “better than it could be played.” As others have pointed out, Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantasie and Schumann’s Fantasy are also “better than they can be played”. Fact is, there have been plenty of pianists who turn in fine performances of various Beethoven and Mozart works – including Cliburn. (There are also plenty of pianists who have been lauded for their Beethoven, Mozart, and Schubert interpretations for no good reason.) But there are not many pianists who can hold together Chopin’s B-flat minor Sonata, let alone the Liszt sonata.
Cliburn was wise enough to know his
limitations and be selective in the music he chose to present to the public.
Chronologically and stylistically, Cliburn’s repertoire started with Mozart and
ended with Barber’s Piano Sonata. He
didn’t embrace serialism or twelve-tone because music without a “line” didn’t
speak to him. Nor did he play much
chamber music. Instead, he concentrated
on the core Romantic solo and concerto repertoire – and he played it very well.
Cliburn
was also wise enough to know when to stop.
Much has been written about the decline in Cliburn’s career in the
1970s. It was a classic case of burnout:
too many performances of the same prize-winning concertos with not enough time
for contemplation. Cliburn’s management
– and don’t underestimate the extent to which managers run the careers of
Classical musicians – was too eager to cash in on the prize winner as opposed
to developing his career and allowing him to grow over decades. While many know-it-alls crowed over Cliburn’s
retirement, at least he knew when enough was enough. That can’t be said for many of the
intellectual crowd’s pantheon of musical heroes – including Claudio Arrau and
Rudolf Serkin, great artists who should have left the stage years before they
did. Then there are those who shouldn’t
have begun in the first place.
Cliburn
attempted several comebacks, but it was never really the same. When he admonished contestants at his
competitions to only engage in a performing career if it was something “you
feel you HAVE to do, FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE” one could sense his warning was
directed backwards in time to the man in the mirror.
Cliburn,
or Vanya as he was called by the Russians who adored him, was more than just a
pianist. He harkened back to an era when
a musician was thought of as almost a higher form of life than we ordinary
humans. Cliburn’s performance of Moscow Nights at the 1987 Reagan-Gorbachev Summit may have done more to thaw the cold
war than the START Treaty.
As with Van
Cliburn’s heroes and friends Horowitz and Rubinstein, his recordings will live
on after him. Fortunately, his recorded legacy has been treated with respect and his complete recordings were recently reissued. But recordings can
present, at best, an incomplete picture. Those who were lucky enough to hear him in
person (I wasn’t) will carry the treasurable memories of an American icon.
