INTERVIEW | Nikolai Lugansky | "Music creates the greatest of human passions"
In conversation with Nikolai Lugansky
Interviewed in London on 3 March 2019.
 |
| Nikolai Lugansky, © Jean-Baptiste Millot |
It was on a particularly sunny day in early spring of 2019 I met Mr Nikolai Lugansky in London. I chose a quiet café at the Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) as the place of our conversation. I have always admired the RIBA. Located near the calm of Regent's Park's trees and in its own graceful architecture, the RIBA openly demonstrates how the aesthetics of man-made structures can be an extension of nature's encompassing beauties.
On this particular day, I was struck by two thoughts. First, while preparing to meet a musician in a building dedicated to architects, I realised how similar artists are to each other. Regardless of their specific mode of expression, artists seem unable to help themselves; they tirelessly dig into their craft, a craft that in its ideal form permeates deep thoughts and emotions. Great art portrays individuality but within constraints of certain rules and logic. With logic only, one sacrifices artistic imaginations. Yet without logic, art risks becoming a fantastical whim. In this sense, great art resembles humans. All humans, irrationally alive, live by constructing structures and rules all the while being, inevitably so, totally different from one another. So what positions artists are in, to be both human and to have the capacity to create something human!
The second thought occurred in the few minutes of encountering Mr Lugansky, as he offered to buy coffee and cake. Although I only accepted coffee, I noticed that Mr Lugansky still brought two spoons for the cake he bought for himself. When a bite of his cake was eventually offered to me, I was deeply moved by such kindness. Kindness is especially powerful when it seems so unnecessary and inconsequential, I thought.
Such generosity of Mr Lugansky in the form of relaxed humbleness recurred as a theme in our subsequent conversation. While quick to de-mystify a famous childhood anecdote of his, that at the age of 5 he could play a Beethoven sonata entirely by memory, there was a palpable sense of gratitude he felt toward his supportive parents. He further revealed his efforts to cover up his obvious talents during his school years in consideration of his peers. Yet firmness was in place when it came to musical matters, with Mr Lugansky vehemently denying thoughts of his personal style, while expressing his love for Vaughan Williams, Glazunov, and Bruckner. There was what one may call a Russianness in Mr Lugansky's way of story-telling, a flowing narrative that touches upon so many colours of emotions, with a sense of spirituality never far out. This latter point was strongly felt as we discussed the Russian soul and the impossibilities of describing musical passions.
Below is a transcript of the conversation. I have attempted with utmost care to represent the personality of Mr Lugansky and to retain the flow and spirit of the entire conversation.
I.
Young-Jin Hur (YH): It is a pleasure to have you as a guest, Mr Lugansky. Thank you very much for making time. As I understand, you live in Moscow. How does London compare to Moscow?
Nikolai Lugansky (NL): I travel to a lot of different places, but Moscow and London have many similarities. They are both international cities with large numbers of inhabitants and they have their own transportation problems. Historically there probably was a big antagonism between Moscow and London, or between Russia and England. There almost were no periods of pure friendship. Certainly not now, unfortunately. But these are probably two of the biggest cities in Europe. Both Moscow and London are rich in culture and musical events.
YH: Given that we are talking at the Royal Institute of British Architects, I should also mention that Moscow and London share a tendency to contain a wide variety of architectural styles within themselves.
NL: Yes. I think this is especially the case for Moscow. In Moscow, there are beautiful areas but this is often contrasted to some completely awful (NL stresses "awful" in animated fashion) districts. We cannot say such stylistic clashes exist in St Petersburg, Amsterdam, or Paris.
(both laugh)
II.
YH: Going over to music, I have come across this unbelievable story that when you were at the age of 5, you listened to a Beethoven sonata once and you played the entire piece by memory. What happened?
NL: I heard from some great impresarios in the past that people love stories. So for me, this particular episode became “my” story. However, the greatest story in music is always the music itself. When you listen to a piece for the first time, the music provides an incredible story. If you play the piece for the 25th time, the story is still the same but also not the same. If I think of the stories of a Beethoven sonata, a Bruckner symphony, a Schubert song, or a Rachmaninov prelude and compare them to what is written in music magazines about particular performances, it is clear that words can never justify a musical story (NL laughs).
But if I will be concrete about what you brought up, yes, I heard the G major Beethoven sonata at a young age and tried to play it afterwards. I don’t remember exactly, but I am sure I could not play the entire sonata. I must have played a quarter of the second movement, the Minuet (NL hums a theme). At least what I remember is that there were no proper instruments at home, and we had a small Organola instead. It is an instrument where you had to pump in air through a pedal to produce sounds. So I tried to play this minuet from the G major sonata. Funnily enough, I never played this piece in a concert.
YH: I was about to ask if you’ve ever played that specific piece in a concert. The answer is a “no” then.
NL: I am not going to die immediately, so who knows, I might play the piece one day at a concert (YH laughs). Actually one of the most remarkable Sviatoslav Richter concerts I have attended was in Amsterdam at the Concertgebouw. He played five Beethoven sonatas and among them were these two small sonatas, in G minor and G major… unforgettable.
What I wanted to tell you was that this particular childhood story took place in a village where my parents used to spend parts of their summers. One of our neighbours, Sergei Patov, was a musician who owned an upright piano. One day, my parents took me to him to ask if I could occasionally visit him and try out his upright piano. Sergei Patov, in a way, had a typical Russian childhood. He was from an orphanage. He started to play the piano at the age of 14 or 15, and I would guess that had he been born in Moscow or London and started his musical education at the age of 6, he would have become a famous musician. He responded to my parents, “I saw so many parents who tried to make their children play the piano. Let your child play football instead and let him enjoy the sun.”
But I persisted to ask if I could play the piano. And this was when I played the Minuet of Beethoven's G major sonata. After listening to me play, Sergei Patov immediately changed his mind. He started giving me lessons and one and a half year later, I entered the central music school (Note. I assume this is the Moscow Central Music School) where everything was organised for me to study the piano properly.
Back then, when you were 6 or 7 years old, you could get any form of musical education for free and as professional as possible. There were possibilities, all without cost. This was a great education system typical of the Soviet Union. Maybe something like this still exists in China. But in Europe and America, I don’t think they have such system.
III.
YH: Coming back to your story of how you impressed your neighbour, this means you clearly had a distinctive talent from a young age. When did you realise you were different from your peers? Or was there a moment of this realisation at all?
NL: I think at the age of 7, 8, or 9, it is an axiom that you are different to others. There is me and there are others. It is inevitable. Naturally, everyone thinks about themselves, thinking that they are totally unique… regardless of how things actually are.
(both laugh)
Since childhood, although it was clear I was different from others, I put in a lot of effort to be the same as them. I act and think in this way still today. I have a strong need to cover up my differences at least in normal life. I must be the same as others.
Maybe the Soviet education system, which tried to portray the view that everybody is equal, played a special role in shaping this mindset. Of course, perfect equality is impossible. This is utopian. There also must be exceptions. For example, when you are young, you have to be polite to older people. But the fundamental idea was that people communicate with each other as absolute equals, and this sense of interpersonal equality was very, very strong in me. So if I saw that I can study a piece in two hours and some of my colleagues need one week, I would keep it a secret that I need only two hours. There were many situations like this in school. With friends, I always tried to show that I am as slow as they are.
(both laugh)
I don’t know... it is psychologically strange. It should be in their nature of artists to show that they are different. But this was never the case for me.
YH: Despite all your efforts to be the same as others, you still managed to stand out. Did you at one point believe you were meant to become a pianist? In other words, because of your unique talent, did you think you will go far regardless of your conscious efforts or your environmental constraints?
NL: I don’t think I ever (NL stresses “ever”) thought about what I was going to become. Maybe this is another atypical side of me. For instance, there are many stories where musicians had to fight against their parents for their musical education. My parents are not musicians, but they are wonderful and intelligent people. Both are not from Moscow, although both were educated there. My father is a physicist, and he still works, and my mother is a biochemist. They immediately supported my piano playing and I was always happy if they were happy. If I played well, this made them happy too. I simply liked to play the piano and I never had thoughts regarding who I should become or what I deserve to become.
So I played the piano in a happy environment and because of the good Soviet system, I started to give public performances from the age of 8, 9, or 10. I don’t remember the moment I started thinking I am a professional musician. It was just life for me. This is a little bit like… with your children, you remember when they start to walk. From a parent’s perspective, this is an unforgettably joyful moment. But a child never remembers when they first started walking. So for me, my piano playing was like walking. I liked to play what other people told me to play. I also loved to get new scores. I put new scores on my desk and simply played. My score reading is quite good perhaps for this reason.
YH: Many things seemed to have happened unconsciously. Was there a time when you thought consciously about your style of playing?
NL: No. And I actually don’t like to think about this. Everyone is different, and there are some people who enjoy thinking about these things. For me, music is as natural as life. So it should be okay to acknowledge influences. But generally, music performance is a process which you cannot control. If you think “this is my style”, it sounds very unappealing. I can guess what a Bach style is, what a Beethoven style is, or what a Chopin style is, but these are only guesses. And these styles also change within me. How I played one week ago may be different from how I played 10 years ago. One can think endlessly about these things. In the end, I am much more proud if I play Mozart, Chopin, or Rachmaninov and these performances sound as if they come from three different people than when I am told, “in every composer I can hear this Lugansky style.” That, for me, is not the best compliment.
YH: You are indeed a versatile musician. Although many associate you with Rachmaninov, Chopin, Debussy, or Scriabin, we should not forget that your very first international prize in music was in 1988 in Leipzig when you played Bach.
NL: Prizes are maybe not too important. When I was very young in school, there were times when the teacher gave young schoolboys concerti of Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninov. But my teacher, Tatiana Kestner, who was very old and who worked in the central school almost since the time the school was founded, was strict and academic. As a consequence, I became more famous in school as a performer of Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach. I generally think it is very important for artists to have a wide repertoire. With a wider repertoire, one increases the widths of one’s soul as well as one’s musical understanding.
I played a lot of Mozart and Beethoven. Bach was difficult because Bach is so different. You have to sit differently, and the weight of your hands must be different. Of course, every composer should be approached differently, but Bach is still so different from other composers. My main teacher after Tatiana Kestner was Tatiana Nikolayeva. For Tatiana Nikolayeva, it was natural to play Bach and Schumann in one concert, or even Bach and Scriabin. For me, however, this was more problematic. It is a long time since I played, let’s say, parts of the Well-Tempered Clavier of Bach together with the works of some Romantic composers. There are many people who repeatedly ask me to play Bach. Maybe that can happen in the future.
YH: You mentioned soul. People often talk about the Russian soul or even Toska. They are meant to represent a Russian sentiment of sorrow. What are these? And do you have a Russian soul?
NL: Certainly I don’t have a British, German, or an American soul. But I also cannot certainly say whether I have a Russian soul or not. Maybe I still have it. If I think of Toska, it reminds me of a Polish word called żał. In English, this translates into “pity”, but this is completely misleading. There are certain words like these. Sehnsucht is another one (Note. See also Saudade). What is the English word for Toska?
YH: I am not sure there is an English word for Toska. I was speaking with a Russian friend recently about this, and she told me there is no English translation for it. I remember Nabokov wanted to come up with an English characterisation of Toska.
NL: I think that if we think of all Russian writers, there is certainly one writer who didn’t have a Russian soul at all. That was Nabokov. That was the reason it was easy for him to write his novels in English. I think I do have the Russian soul, but there is so much banal demagoguery about these things that I am not too sure I can speak about them.
(both laugh)
In terms of music, there are some Russian composers who are closely associated with the expressions of Toska, Sehnsucht, and the likes. Rachmaninov, certainly yes. Shostakovich, in a very black sense. Some works by Mussorgsky and some by Tchaikovsky also have these qualities. But there are Russian composers who absolutely did not have these qualities. Glinka did not, and neither did Borodin. Prokofiev… not at all, even though for me, Prokofiev is a very Russian composer whose music sounds utterly Russian. I imagine in this sense, Borodin and Glinka are closer to Prokofiev than they are to, let’s say, Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninov.
YH: May I suggest the Soviet symphonist Nikolai Myaskovsky as having a Russian soul or Toska? I’ve always been attracted to his strong Russian-ness. Unfortunately, he is not well represented outside of Russia.
NL: I think he is a great composer but it is a shame I cannot say I know his music. I listened to two of his symphonies, which are very good. There are four piano sonatas I think. I think Richter played the third one. I would need to explore Myaskovsky further. There are great Russian composers out there.
YH: Is there a composer you feel especially close to?
NL: Glazunov is one of my favourite Russian composers. I love most of his symphonies. There are two ballets that are absolutely on the same level as Tchaikovsky’s great ballets. These are Raymonda and, especially, The Seasons. The violin concerto is probably the most popular Glazunov piece in Europe. Three or four years ago I fell in love for the first time with the music of Ralph Vaughan Williams. This means I didn’t reach the age when I cannot fall in love (NL laughs) in music anymore.
YH: Rozhdestvensky was a Russian conductor who played a lot of Vaughan Williams.
NL: Rozhdestvensky had an incredibly wide repertoire. He was an unbelievably educated man who gave wonderful speeches before concerts especially for the Russian public. In many occasions, he introduced British composers such as Elgar, Vaughan Williams, and Holst to Russians. Nowadays, I think Vladimir Jurowski does a similar thing.
YH: In a way touching upon the ideas of the Russian soul and Toska again, but focusing on your own piano repertoire this time, there is a lot of sadness in Rachmaninov’s piano music. But there is simultaneously a lot of joy. Therefore, there seems to be a contradiction of emotions. As a performer, how do you understand this contradiction?
NL: From Rachmaninov’s perspective, this contradiction of sadness and joy works wonderfully.
(both laugh)
There are great pieces of music by Rachmaninov. If you think of Études-Tableaux, Moments musicaux, the piano concerti and piano sonatas, so many of Rachmaninov’s pieces are in the minor key compared to the major key. There is a strong sense of sadness and nostalgia in these works. Maybe this was because Rachmaninov was estranged from his motherland. For him, this separation from his homeland was personal and tragic.
For Stravinsky, this loss of motherland was not tragic at all. Stravinsky was the same wherever he was. Prokofiev was a very Russian composer but very, very healthy. He was so mentally healthy that he came back to his homeland Russia not because of nostalgia, but because he thought his premiers would be more successful in the Soviet Union than in Paris (Note. See my essay on the relationship between health and music here).
YH: That’s very practical.
NL: Yes, these were extremely logical and practical decisions. Prokofiev had some problems, but in my opinion, he generally made the right decisions regarding his publications and compositions. But this is just my opinion. Us Russians will never agree with each other on this matter (NL laughs).
YH: We will slowly conclude this conversation. Are there things that people talk too much in music, and are there things in music that people don’t talk enough about?
NL: We produce so many words. Imagining how things have developed since past ages, what does it mean to write? The invention of the papyrus was crucial. With Johannes Guttenberg's contributions to printing, people started to write more and more. Now we have the Internet. These days, people who don’t write anything on the Internet are the exceptions. I think there are many things about music that people enjoy talking and writing about.
The problem is that the most important moments in music cannot be discussed. Why? Music arouses great passions. Passion is when something suddenly happens that switches you and makes you go out of control, something that transports you out of your normal way of life. Of the passions, most strong is love, but there can also be hatred and fear. And to discuss these things using words is impossible. Even for poetry, this is difficult. Imagine if you listen to Tristan and Isolde without the music. You are left with the poetry of Wagner that Wagner wrote himself. We will just smile without the music. Music is something that is not comparable to any piece of poetry or literature. Music creates the greatest of human passions.
YH: Just smile?
NL: Yes, just smile. The weakest points in literature, at least in prose, are when writers write about love, hatred, or something emotional. In truly strong moments of emotions, you are speechless. And music can do this. The most passionate moments in pieces by Rachmaninov, Chopin, Wagner, Schumann, or Beethoven have a kind of sudden aggression. If you write about this aggression, you have already reflected on the experience. The rawness of the initial experience is gone. When you think then write, you do this just to smile. But in a piece of music by, say, Beethoven, this musical aggression is unbelievable. That’s the truth. If you talk about the truth, the truth is no longer the truth. So we can talk, we should talk, and we will talk about music, but we must never forget that the most important moments in music cannot be described with words.
YH: I agree. With that note, I can only wish that your concerts can create astonishing moments of speechless events.
NL: I will try. I hope. Who knows.
YH: Thank you very much
NL: Thank you.
YH: You mentioned Bruckner symphonies earlier. I was surprised by this because you are a pianist. What is your history with Bruckner?
NL: Bruckner is one of the greatest loves of my life. When I was probably around the age of 10 or 11, I listened to Daniel Barenboim conducted the 7th symphony. Back then, I thought this was not good music. But when I was 18, I listened to Georg Solti conduct the 8th symphony with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. That completely changed my life. I particularly remember how amazing the brass section was.
YH: Are there Bruckner symphonies you like in particular?
NL: The ones I really like are the unnumbered ones, the 0 and 00 symphonies. I learned to enjoy them a lot recently.
IV.
YH: Many things seemed to have happened unconsciously. Was there a time when you thought consciously about your style of playing?
NL: No. And I actually don’t like to think about this. Everyone is different, and there are some people who enjoy thinking about these things. For me, music is as natural as life. So it should be okay to acknowledge influences. But generally, music performance is a process which you cannot control. If you think “this is my style”, it sounds very unappealing. I can guess what a Bach style is, what a Beethoven style is, or what a Chopin style is, but these are only guesses. And these styles also change within me. How I played one week ago may be different from how I played 10 years ago. One can think endlessly about these things. In the end, I am much more proud if I play Mozart, Chopin, or Rachmaninov and these performances sound as if they come from three different people than when I am told, “in every composer I can hear this Lugansky style.” That, for me, is not the best compliment.
YH: You are indeed a versatile musician. Although many associate you with Rachmaninov, Chopin, Debussy, or Scriabin, we should not forget that your very first international prize in music was in 1988 in Leipzig when you played Bach.
NL: Prizes are maybe not too important. When I was very young in school, there were times when the teacher gave young schoolboys concerti of Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninov. But my teacher, Tatiana Kestner, who was very old and who worked in the central school almost since the time the school was founded, was strict and academic. As a consequence, I became more famous in school as a performer of Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach. I generally think it is very important for artists to have a wide repertoire. With a wider repertoire, one increases the widths of one’s soul as well as one’s musical understanding.
I played a lot of Mozart and Beethoven. Bach was difficult because Bach is so different. You have to sit differently, and the weight of your hands must be different. Of course, every composer should be approached differently, but Bach is still so different from other composers. My main teacher after Tatiana Kestner was Tatiana Nikolayeva. For Tatiana Nikolayeva, it was natural to play Bach and Schumann in one concert, or even Bach and Scriabin. For me, however, this was more problematic. It is a long time since I played, let’s say, parts of the Well-Tempered Clavier of Bach together with the works of some Romantic composers. There are many people who repeatedly ask me to play Bach. Maybe that can happen in the future.
V.
YH: You mentioned soul. People often talk about the Russian soul or even Toska. They are meant to represent a Russian sentiment of sorrow. What are these? And do you have a Russian soul?
NL: Certainly I don’t have a British, German, or an American soul. But I also cannot certainly say whether I have a Russian soul or not. Maybe I still have it. If I think of Toska, it reminds me of a Polish word called żał. In English, this translates into “pity”, but this is completely misleading. There are certain words like these. Sehnsucht is another one (Note. See also Saudade). What is the English word for Toska?
YH: I am not sure there is an English word for Toska. I was speaking with a Russian friend recently about this, and she told me there is no English translation for it. I remember Nabokov wanted to come up with an English characterisation of Toska.
NL: I think that if we think of all Russian writers, there is certainly one writer who didn’t have a Russian soul at all. That was Nabokov. That was the reason it was easy for him to write his novels in English. I think I do have the Russian soul, but there is so much banal demagoguery about these things that I am not too sure I can speak about them.
(both laugh)
In terms of music, there are some Russian composers who are closely associated with the expressions of Toska, Sehnsucht, and the likes. Rachmaninov, certainly yes. Shostakovich, in a very black sense. Some works by Mussorgsky and some by Tchaikovsky also have these qualities. But there are Russian composers who absolutely did not have these qualities. Glinka did not, and neither did Borodin. Prokofiev… not at all, even though for me, Prokofiev is a very Russian composer whose music sounds utterly Russian. I imagine in this sense, Borodin and Glinka are closer to Prokofiev than they are to, let’s say, Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninov.
YH: May I suggest the Soviet symphonist Nikolai Myaskovsky as having a Russian soul or Toska? I’ve always been attracted to his strong Russian-ness. Unfortunately, he is not well represented outside of Russia.
NL: I think he is a great composer but it is a shame I cannot say I know his music. I listened to two of his symphonies, which are very good. There are four piano sonatas I think. I think Richter played the third one. I would need to explore Myaskovsky further. There are great Russian composers out there.
YH: Is there a composer you feel especially close to?
NL: Glazunov is one of my favourite Russian composers. I love most of his symphonies. There are two ballets that are absolutely on the same level as Tchaikovsky’s great ballets. These are Raymonda and, especially, The Seasons. The violin concerto is probably the most popular Glazunov piece in Europe. Three or four years ago I fell in love for the first time with the music of Ralph Vaughan Williams. This means I didn’t reach the age when I cannot fall in love (NL laughs) in music anymore.
YH: Rozhdestvensky was a Russian conductor who played a lot of Vaughan Williams.
NL: Rozhdestvensky had an incredibly wide repertoire. He was an unbelievably educated man who gave wonderful speeches before concerts especially for the Russian public. In many occasions, he introduced British composers such as Elgar, Vaughan Williams, and Holst to Russians. Nowadays, I think Vladimir Jurowski does a similar thing.
VI.
YH: In a way touching upon the ideas of the Russian soul and Toska again, but focusing on your own piano repertoire this time, there is a lot of sadness in Rachmaninov’s piano music. But there is simultaneously a lot of joy. Therefore, there seems to be a contradiction of emotions. As a performer, how do you understand this contradiction?
NL: From Rachmaninov’s perspective, this contradiction of sadness and joy works wonderfully.
(both laugh)
There are great pieces of music by Rachmaninov. If you think of Études-Tableaux, Moments musicaux, the piano concerti and piano sonatas, so many of Rachmaninov’s pieces are in the minor key compared to the major key. There is a strong sense of sadness and nostalgia in these works. Maybe this was because Rachmaninov was estranged from his motherland. For him, this separation from his homeland was personal and tragic.
For Stravinsky, this loss of motherland was not tragic at all. Stravinsky was the same wherever he was. Prokofiev was a very Russian composer but very, very healthy. He was so mentally healthy that he came back to his homeland Russia not because of nostalgia, but because he thought his premiers would be more successful in the Soviet Union than in Paris (Note. See my essay on the relationship between health and music here).
YH: That’s very practical.
NL: Yes, these were extremely logical and practical decisions. Prokofiev had some problems, but in my opinion, he generally made the right decisions regarding his publications and compositions. But this is just my opinion. Us Russians will never agree with each other on this matter (NL laughs).
VII.
YH: We will slowly conclude this conversation. Are there things that people talk too much in music, and are there things in music that people don’t talk enough about?
NL: We produce so many words. Imagining how things have developed since past ages, what does it mean to write? The invention of the papyrus was crucial. With Johannes Guttenberg's contributions to printing, people started to write more and more. Now we have the Internet. These days, people who don’t write anything on the Internet are the exceptions. I think there are many things about music that people enjoy talking and writing about.
The problem is that the most important moments in music cannot be discussed. Why? Music arouses great passions. Passion is when something suddenly happens that switches you and makes you go out of control, something that transports you out of your normal way of life. Of the passions, most strong is love, but there can also be hatred and fear. And to discuss these things using words is impossible. Even for poetry, this is difficult. Imagine if you listen to Tristan and Isolde without the music. You are left with the poetry of Wagner that Wagner wrote himself. We will just smile without the music. Music is something that is not comparable to any piece of poetry or literature. Music creates the greatest of human passions.
YH: Just smile?
NL: Yes, just smile. The weakest points in literature, at least in prose, are when writers write about love, hatred, or something emotional. In truly strong moments of emotions, you are speechless. And music can do this. The most passionate moments in pieces by Rachmaninov, Chopin, Wagner, Schumann, or Beethoven have a kind of sudden aggression. If you write about this aggression, you have already reflected on the experience. The rawness of the initial experience is gone. When you think then write, you do this just to smile. But in a piece of music by, say, Beethoven, this musical aggression is unbelievable. That’s the truth. If you talk about the truth, the truth is no longer the truth. So we can talk, we should talk, and we will talk about music, but we must never forget that the most important moments in music cannot be described with words.
YH: I agree. With that note, I can only wish that your concerts can create astonishing moments of speechless events.
NL: I will try. I hope. Who knows.
YH: Thank you very much
NL: Thank you.
Epilogue.
(Note. As we exited RIBA, we had a short conversation about Bruckner).
YH: You mentioned Bruckner symphonies earlier. I was surprised by this because you are a pianist. What is your history with Bruckner?
NL: Bruckner is one of the greatest loves of my life. When I was probably around the age of 10 or 11, I listened to Daniel Barenboim conducted the 7th symphony. Back then, I thought this was not good music. But when I was 18, I listened to Georg Solti conduct the 8th symphony with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. That completely changed my life. I particularly remember how amazing the brass section was.
YH: Are there Bruckner symphonies you like in particular?
NL: The ones I really like are the unnumbered ones, the 0 and 00 symphonies. I learned to enjoy them a lot recently.
 |
| Nikolai Lugansky, © Marco Borggreve |
Young-Jin Hur
@yjhur1885