INTERVIEW | Jakub Hrůša | "enabling audiences to view spheres far beyond the obvious or customary is one of our tasks"

In conversation with Jakub Hrůša

Interviewed at Royal Festival Hall, London on 17 February 2019.

Jakub Hrůša, © Petra Klačková

It was just three days before I interviewed Mr. Jakub Hrůša that I discovered the phrase "Learn to listen. Opportunity sometimes knocks very softly", cropped out from an old piece of paper, hanging near my supervisor's office door. Serendipity is probably what the note reads, but serendipitous, too, was the discovery of the saying in another pertinence. I venture to guess, that is, that Mr. Hrůša must have lived an attentive life, not only listening carefully to the various orchestras and musicians he's collaborated with, but also to many of life's softly knocking opportunities. At the age of 37 - a ripe age for any conductor - he has already established himself as head of the Bamberg Symphony and has been named as Principal Guest Conductor of the Czech Philharmonic and the Philharmonia Orchestra. The fact that he has made his Berliner Philharmoniker debut around four months ago does little to downplay Mr. Hrůša's continuing ascend.

After conducting Mahler's valedictory 9th symphony in Paris with his Bamberg forces, Mr. Hrůša returned to London to conduct the second set of Dvořák's Slavonic Dances, Op. 72, with the Philharmonia Orchestra. I caught Mr. Hrůša after the final rehearsal on the day of the concert. In impeccable attire and assured calmness, Mr. Hrůša expressed his thoughts on conducting Czech music as a Czech conductor, the interplay between tradition, individual composers, and music, the relationship between words and music in operas, ambiguous emotions as sources of great beauty in the arts, and the awe-inspiring powers of Bruckner symphonies.

Below is a transcript of the interview. I have edited sections yet when done so attempted with utmost care to preserve the content and flow of the actual conversation.

I.

Young-Jin Hur (YH): Hello and welcome, Mr. Hrůša. Thank you for making time. I hope I pronounced your name correctly?

Jakub Hrůša (JH): Yes, that’s correct.

YH: How does it feel to be back in London to perform tonight’s concert?

JH: Well, I live in London, so it feels like home. The whole family including myself live here.

YH: I did not know about that. When did you move to London?

JH: We moved here last year.

YH: How often do you move back to Prague?

JH: Not very much. Only in occasions of holiday and when I work with the Czech Philharmonic.

YH: Would that mean you want to be engaged more in London’s music scene?

JH: It doesn’t mean anything else from the fact that we moved here, because we like it and because the children go to school here. The decision to move to London has nothing to do with my professional life. Of course, when I work with the Philharmonia Orchestra, it’s very convenient and it’s great I have this connection with the orchestra. Apart from that, I have to travel around the world as before. And it works.

YH: I am happy to hear things work out so well. In 2015, you became Principal Guest Conductor of the Czech Philharmonic. In 2016, you became Chief Conductor of the Bamberg Symphony, and in 2017, you were named Principal Guest Conductor of the Philharmonia Orchestra. It must be quite a feeling for so many things to happen in a matter of few years. Do you think things are going in the right direction and also in the right timing?

JH: The answer is easy. Yes. They are, and I am very happy about them.

YH: Do you think there were things you did right or things you didn’t do wrong in the process?

JH: With gratitude and gratefulness, I get what is coming to my life. It feels like the whole development has been meaningful. Anyway, it’s what it was. We cannot influence the past, and I feel I’m in a good place. Where I got and where I am, the whole journey has been very natural I think. I feel very well about it.

II.

YH: Czech music plays an important part of your repertoire. And of course, you’re playing Dvořák’s second set of Slavonic Dances in tonight’s concert with the Philharmonia Orchestra. As a Czech conductor, how important is it to play and represent Czech music?

JH: It’s very important, but you don’t ask yourself this question enough because it’s so automatic and natural. We have a rich tradition. If I decide I would do only Czech music for the rest of my career, I would never get bored because there’s so much of it. And much of it is not only peculiarities but really part of accepted repertoire. In the beginning of my career, I tried to balance the repertoire the other way around. I didn’t want to conduct only Czech music. Nowadays, my repertoire is wonderfully balanced, especially so because I am in charge of a German orchestra and I am also a guest conductor in English and Czech orchestras. I travel around the world to conduct. If you look at my repertoire, although Czech music plays an important role, it’s definitely not the majority.

YH: We also have to mention that you are a 21st century conductor too, such that you also conduct a lot of contemporary works.

JH: Yes.

YH: It’s interesting you mentioned shortcuts that audiences use to link your Czech nationality and the Czech music you conduct. Do you think you could have used that connection as an advantage? I know some music critics who might say that, for example, Russian music is best conducted by a Russian conductor with a Russian orchestra. I think there’s a similar pattern in Czech music too.

JH: There’s no such thing as a general opinion. Some people have this thought, which is reflected in their reviews or their writings. But others don’t. I think it’s possible to say it’s equally interesting to hear people or orchestras play the music of the region they stem from, as getting to hear foreigners getting in touch with music which is not their own because perspectives differ. I think there is something which cannot be probably learned about a tradition unless you really live in the country, getting to know the land’s nature, language, and habits. But this doesn’t simply mean that those people who have these experiences automatically will be better interpreters of music of that part of the world. That’s absolutely not right. The worst thing that can happen is to get these “ghettos” where certain music cannot be done well by people not from that particular region. So I am glad if I observe non-Czech conductors play, for example, Janáček, Suk, or Martinů. It’s great. But of course, I somehow feel authentic if I myself perform Czech music because I grew up surrounded by this music.

YH: You assume that growing up in the nature of a place and having certain cultural backgrounds can still influence one’s perspectives and interpretations. How can these experiences have specific musical consequences?

JH: Nature doesn’t influence music making straightforwardly. It influences your feelings about the music, however. As in every segment of life, there are certain things that are entirely objective. If you go into Czech nature, in objective terms this doesn’t help you to understand the harmony of a Dvořák piece. Yet such experiences can create the emotional background for you to get inspired when you deal with that music. For example, certain aspects of a composer’s psychology were probably influenced by their surroundings. So I think knowing the birthplaces of Smetana and Dvořák, and being there, breathing in the atmosphere of those places is another level of inspiration, even if these experiences are not objectively needed in interpreting these composers’ music. Also, if I consider Czech culture in the 19th century, there are numerous books, stories, and memoirs written in the language the composers themselves would have read. In this way, you feel you are part of that culture, and you know you are not a visitor.

YH: So this connection is a little bit like a state of mind, rather than a one-to-one link between, say, Czech sunshine and the sunniness in some of Dvořák’s works.

JH: I think so. I won’t say these extra-musical factors don’t play any role. Music-making is not a purely rational enterprise. There’s a lot of emotions, inspirations, and tastes involved. Yes, the state of mind is a good term. Music does not operate on either/or. I think some people who come from certain cultures to represent that part of the world sometimes make the opposite kind of mistake. They think everything can be done intuitively. They think they have everything in their systems anyway and they stop questioning. And I think it is also important to look at Czech music from an outer view and to frame it in a worldwide perspective. In fact, people like Smetana or Dvořák were an integral part of European culture and were educated by great masters of Europe. If you take Smetana, there is as much link between Smetana and his native country as between him and Ludwig van Beethoven. Both connections are equally important. If you speak about Dvořák, there wouldn’t be any Dvořák if there was no Schubert, Wagner, later Brahms, and definitely Mozart and Beethoven. And what’s Czech about Beethoven and Mozart? Nothing. The language of music in objective terms is inherited from previous generations independent of nationality.

YH: I agree with everything you’ve said. I think it’s also worth mentioning the influence of Russian music and culture on Janáček. In such a complicated picture of influences, it’s difficult to pin down national characters in music in specifically national terms.

JH: Yes.

III.

YH: Now that we’ve talked about conducting on national and societal levels, I would like to talk about conducting on the level of composers. In your opinion, is it important to understand the person behind the music? Or is it just about the notes?

JH: I think you know the answer already.

YH: Yes, but I thought I’d like to hear a better version of my answer.

(both laugh)

JH: Again, it’s a fine line. I think it’s inspiring in both objective and subjective terms to know as much as possible about the background of a piece of music. It's not only about the particular composer, but about the composer’s previous generations, and the societies these pieces were composed in. They’re always relevant. But the fine line means you should not think knowing details about the life and even opinions of that particular composer will substitute the understanding of the music itself. If the music is strong enough, and if it’s part of a stream of tradition going from one generation to another – and it must be – this is what is most important. You have to have some knowledge about these large streams of tradition.

For example, I won’t be able to understand artistic personalities in Japan of the 19th century, because I am not connected to Japan’s social traditions. But what I want to say is that if you know about traditions and then you get to know a piece of music, you should be able to connect with that music even if you know nothing about the composer. The personality of a composer is a point of orientation, so you get clearer features and clearer frames concerning a piece. But music given to us is abstract. So you should be able to understand music from what the music radiates from itself. In this way, the personality of a composer is less important than his/her music. And I think every real composer feels the same. Composers don’t feel they themselves should be remembered as human beings. Rather, they want their music to be the central point of investigation. No composer would like to know that his/her memoirs are being printed. That was never the intention of any single composer, maybe with some exceptions such as Wagner (both laugh). So I think we should distinguish what is really about the music and what is about the person. Even though biographical information can help and can inspire because one can understand why a piece of music was composed, the ‘how’s of music, that is of knowing what the music is like, should be understandable even without biographical stories.

YH: I agree. As a variation on this topic in a sense that we look at another issue of music versus things that aren’t necessarily music – and I understand you have much experience in opera conducting – I am curious how important it is to you to understand texts in operas. In other words, can operas be enjoyed without understanding the words?

JH: I’ve enjoyed many operas without understanding a single word. But the question is how deeper you enjoy it, and whether you get the essence of the message. If the music is good, you definitely enjoy. For example, I enjoy listening to someone speaking Chinese even if I don’t understand a word. But of course, I probably wouldn’t enjoy if it continues for 2 or 3 hours. With music, we’re in a better situation because in music there is a certain grammar which is being communicated independent of spoken words. But every piece of art has many layers of depths and opera is a genre that is essentially composed of words. In this sense, understanding the words in an opera is important.

For example, I think you can enjoy the music of a Janáček opera even if you don’t know what the plot is about. If you catch the music on the radio and have no idea what the music is about, you would still be intrigued, because it’s so fascinatingly original and emotional. But then, it’s another level of understanding if you know the plot, and it’s another level of understanding if you understand every word, even if it not your language. And yet it’s another level of understanding if you absorb every word of it in your native language. If someone learned Czech, as Sir Charles Mackerras or John Tyrrell the musicologist have, then they really know every meaning of every word. That’s a very deep understanding. It’s another level if you sense a colour of every word because it’s your mother tongue.

YH: So you are saying that understanding the words in operas adds to the overall experience.

JH: Of course. It also explains the way music is composed the way it is. I think you have to distinguish between various types of operas from various periods. If you think about Baroque operas, the words have probably less importance as bearers of emotions than those of later operas. There’s also a bit more formality in Baroque operas. This means you could even guess the plot is from the music. If you know one opera by, say, Handel really well and you start listening to another one from a similar period, you probably understand the moods and atmospheres of the plot through the music. But if you get the plot and you have some understanding of Italian or English, you suddenly realise you get closer to the music. If you take Wagner, it’s different. If you take Janáček, where every word is used like in real life, it’s again very different. So depending on the opera, the importance of the text differs.

YH: The relationship between words and music is very fascinating. Yet I am aware there are cases of librettos that are or were judged to be of low quality. So conversely, can there be times where bad librettos diminish the musical experience in an opera?

JH: Only if you decide at that moment the text to be equally important. So if you as a listener decide that you focus on the text and judge it, then, of course, bad librettos will diminish your opera experience. But if you take the words as a tool to help the music flourish, then you don’t have to be nervous. Some composers considered important that the librettos don’t cause too much attention because then it blocks the music. But you have Gluck who considered the text absolutely essential, and music was composed to support the beauty of the text. You have various ways. That said, it’s quite often the case that if you read a libretto aloud without music, it’s ridiculous.

(both laugh)

YH: Can you give an example of such libretto, perhaps?

JH: You don’t need to, because in most cases the libretto is written to sustain music or to support music. It’s like film music, just the whole thing is the other way around. So you watch a movie and you think that the music was absolutely wonderful. And then you buy the soundtrack separately, and you think, well, okay… (YH laughs) At least I have this experience very often. In this case the music works very well in the service of the movie. In this way, the libretto sometimes works only and because of the music with which they function.

IV.

YH: When we talk about emotions in music, people talk often about joy and sadness. From a conductor’s perspective, do you experience other emotions on stage, such as anger or disgust?

JH: Absolutely. Since I started conducting, I experienced all of them. Of course, there are emotions that are more usual, such as neutrality, sadness and joy, or activity and passiveness. One of the emotions I very much like in music and in art, in general, is ambiguity, which I define as the experience of limitation in deciding what the emotion is. That’s a sphere that is authentically possible in music. Poetry can do it, perhaps, but in common speech, it’s difficult to create ambiguous feelings. Where language is much more accurate than music, music can create undecided experiences. Maybe some part of the music has one character, the other part, another. You can also switch between one character to another very easily in music than in language. Again, poetry is excluded, because poetry is closer to music in this regards. Or in the opera, you have one emotion in the orchestra and another emotion on stage. And that ambiguity, that conflict between two different things being cast at the same time is very interesting.

YH: So in a way, are we are talking about mixed emotions?

JH: It’s either that or an emotion which is difficult to talk about. A personal favourite of such moments is in the Largo of the New World Symphony by Dvořák. When this fortissimo comes in, and it’s the only fortissimo there (JH starts humming), it culminates and culminates before reaching a crushing and surprising major chord. Since childhood, I’ve never been able to decide whether that chord is actually tragic or happy.

YH: Ha!

JH: I cannot say. The massiveness and the force of the chord after those delicate and gracious staccatos (JH starts humming again, more animated than before),… it’s a major chord but it’s over the top, and it’s somehow too forceful for me to enjoy it in a joyful way. It has the potential of being an outburst of happiness, but it could also be a moment of crashing an approaching happiness. Such moments of ambiguity are the most beautiful moments in music-making. It’s in Mahler, all the time. Is it bliss and happiness? Or is it sadness? This is bittersweetness, a kind of sweet pain. You know, sometimes a composer describes sadness delightfully, as a moment of happiness that can speak of sadness in musical terms. This way, you enjoy the sadness.

YH: When you mentioned the Largo, you said it’s a bit too much and possibly quite odd as well. But that very ambiguity is what you find beautiful at the same time.

JH: Yes, yes.

YH: So there is conflict somewhere in the music, but there’s a lot of conflict within you too. But I suppose you have to be confident about that conflict on the podium, right?

JH: Yes. You have to communicate it to the orchestra. If we get enough time and space to speak about these subtleties, I very much like to present those questions to the orchestra. I ask “do you think this is a happy moment or a tragic moment?” It’s an open question, and I don’t give an answer. But the mindset of these people suddenly open up to both possibilities. Maybe it depends on the day, and you have your set of emotions of the moment. By the way, when I say undecided, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t ever think about it. It’s doesn’t mean that things are indifferent or that everything is the same. Not at all. But being able to sustain the paradox of some places having two different possible explanations, I find very charming in art.

V.

YH: Given that we’ve talked about the possible paradox of sadness and joy, is it also possible to feel fear and joy? I ask this because in the field of aesthetics, there are theories that say that whenever something is so amazing, like mountains, we feel fear and joy together.

JH: Awe!

YH: Yes that’s right. Awe is, in fact, my PhD topic, where I investigate awe using photographs. I am curious whether this sensation of awe happens in music, and what your most memorable experience of awe may be in the context of conducting.

JH: I don’t know if I can talk about the most memorable awe experience because how can one judge what is more memorable between very powerful experiences? But definitely, there are composers whose works seem almost inhuman, like Wagner or Mahler or…

YH: … or Bruckner?

JH: Bruckner, yes. Recently I conducted the 4th symphony of Bruckner, which is actually rather tame compared to some of his other works. But Bruckner 9! Now that’s an example where I really feel this sense of awe. I am grateful that Bruckner touched these spheres of emotions and also used techniques that no one before attempted. Bruckner created these dissonances and stretches of tension. Whenever I hear the piece, I think I’m immensely grateful that it exists. Similarly, I’ve never done Bruckner's 9th symphony but I can imagine if I can do it at one point, then I would feel gratefulness that I can experience the symphony’s awe. It’s the same thing when you look up the sky at night or at a really bright sun, and face that something which is of an incredible strength. You’re happy that it exists. But you also know it could destroy you. I think experiencing incredibly huge love in life can be similar. Taking risks can also create this sense of awe. You are always seduced by things that seem to be bigger than life. I think art can communicate this kind of feeling. And very often it communicates through things like goosebumps. So a gradation at the end of a Bruckner symphony is unbearably fascinating. And again, it’s this ambiguity. You want that music never to stop. At the same time, you know very well that if it doesn’t stop, it would rather lose its power or maybe it would be too much for you. But these feelings belong to the experience of music. And to get over the limits, enabling audiences to view those spheres far beyond the obvious or customary is one of our tasks, I think. We interpreters should do it. But not cheaply. It’s almost a mystery that sometimes you plan things and they don’t happen. But a good performance happens with great orchestras in my case, or in opera or in chamber music – it doesn’t matter really matter what form it takes – and it’s our responsibility to communicate these unusual and extraordinary feelings.

(Note. What surprised me of Mr. Hrůša's description of awe was that it seemed to have been taken straight out of 19th century theories of awe. The characterisation of an object of awe being of immense strength, inhuman-ness, existential threat, and mystery, and that these objects create a sense of belittlement, gratefulness, and goosebumps in viewers of these exceptional encounters are very much in line with works by Immanuel Kant and Edmund Burke. The evoked imagery of the night sky as an example of an object of awe is a visual device not only adopted by Kant but also an example that other musicians such as Mr. Philippe Herreweghe gave in their descriptions of the sublime. For my interview with Mr. Herreweghe, see here. For a research article of mine where we looked at the relationship between fear and awe using physiological and behavioural measures, see here.)

YH: Given your enthusiasm toward Bruckner’s 9th symphony, why have you never conducted the piece?

JH: It’s the awe (laughter). I think some pieces have to wait for one’s own maturity. I would like to play Bruckner’s earlier works before I try to understand the 9th symphony. It’s different with Mahler’s 9th symphony, oddly. I conduct it often, and I even like it more than Maher’s earlier, 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th, symphonies. That symphony is very close to my heart, and I believe if you feel close to a work, you should go for it. But when I saw Blomstedt in London, who at the age of 90 played these incredible Bruckner symphonies, I automatically thought I have to wait to play the Bruckner 9.

(both laugh)

YH: Thank you very much. With this, I wish that tonight’s concert will also be awe-inspiring in its own way.

JH: Our concert tonight is a relaxed one. We have three pieces which are rather enjoyable. I don’t think they are very metaphysical (both laugh). After Mahler the day before yesterday - and that was very deep and metaphysical - I think this is an enjoyable programme. But sometimes even the smallest subtlety of a dance, the beauty of a phrase, or one little accent can do wonders. In the second set of Slavonic Dances we are playing tonight, my favourite is number 4. It has such a searching quality. There’s plenty of ambiguity there. It’s a dance, but you couldn’t dance to it really. It contemplates and questions. It’s one of the nicest ones in the set.

YH: I am intrigued. I wish you all the best. Thank you very much.

JH: Thank you.

Jakub Hrůša, © Andreas Herzau

Young-Jin Hur

@yjhur1885