The Mind of Beethoven By Peter Takács
	Peter Takács will play the 32 Beethoven Sonatas in eight recitals over two years. The first recital will take place in Finney Chapel this Thursday, November 19, at 8:00 P.M.		NOVEMBER 16, 1998--One of the abiding pleasures in approaching a complete segment of an artist's output is the opportunity to get to know the creator's mind, to glean the ideas, values, and visions that motivated his continued involvement in that given medium. In the case of Ludwig van Beethoven's 32 piano sonatas, which he wrote over a span of 27 years--from Opus 2 (1795) to Opus 111 (1822)--the challenge is to isolate these patterns of mind within the infinite variety of forms, with the additional perspective of their evolution over an entire life of artistic activity. I will mention only five of Beethoven's many preoccupations: a desire to startle, surprise, and delight the listener; darkness and light and their association with despair and hope; storms as reflections of inner turmoil; instrumental influences in the piano music; and a search for transcendence. Beethoven constantly sought to startle, surprise, and delight the listener. One way to accomplish these effects is through the initial contact: beginnings. These take the shape of rockets, questions, explosions, and other events that never fail to grab the attention (think of the famous "fate knocking at the door" of the 5th Symphony). Here, for example, is the opening of the Sonata in C minor, Op. 10 No. 1. I would call this a sputtering rocket that rises in spurts on a zigzag trajectory. Or consider the questioning, harmonically ambiguous beginning of the Sonata in E-flat major, Op. 31 No. 3. At the risk of sounding . . . well, risqué, I have put words to the first line: "Liebst du mich? Liebst du mich? Ich lie-be dich . . . Ich lie-be dich..." (Do you love me? I love you...) The entire movement that follows is an elaboration on this hesitant opening query. As a last example, here is the seismic event that starts Beethoven's monumental Sonata in B-flat major, Op. 106, known as the "Hammerklavier." Beethoven finds myriad ways to create surprise. He is the first composer to consistently use sudden accents (sforzandos) and drastic sudden (subito) dynamic changes to deny expectation and delay resolution of musical tension, as in this passage from the Sonata in C major, Op. 2 No. 3. One technique that I find particularly affecting is the use of harmonic detours to create tongue-in-cheek humorous effects (oops . . . wrong key!), or, more existentially, a sense of alienation and what I call "looking for home." He does this at times of heightened expectation, such as the recapitulation (a homecoming of sorts), where the main theme is supposed to return as a confirmation of the original key. Here is such a moment of delay and confusion, in the first movement of the Sonata in E-flat major, Op. 7. A recurring Beethovenian preoccupation is the idea of darkness and light as symbols for bondage and freedom. In the gripping opening of the second act of his rescue opera, "Fidelio," the curtain opens on a pitch-black stage; gradually, one makes out a human figure, chained to a rock in an airless dungeon. It is Florestan, a patriot unjustly imprisoned by the tyrant Don Pizarro. After a lengthy orchestral introduction, one hears the ghastly cry of the prisoner: "Gott! welch Dunkel hier! O grauenvolle Stille!" (God! such darkness here! O, terrifying silence!) One must hear this cry of despair to experience the hopeless chill of injustice. In the sonatas, the low and high registers of the piano represent these aspects of darkness and light. In the transition to the finale of the "Waldstein" Sonata, Op. 53, there is such a rise into higher spheres that (to me) signifies a reach for hope and deliverance. Beethoven was inspired by natural events, especially the idea of the storm as a reflection of inner turmoil and struggle. Consider the beginning of the "Appassionata" Sonata, Op. 57, as a depiction of the heavy, ominous atmosphere before a storm; suddenly, a bolt of lightning breaks the oppressive silence. Even if one rejects the pictorial associations, the shocking power of that sudden outburst is undeniable. In approaching the piano music, one must be cognizant of other media in which Beethoven worked, especially the symphony and string quartet. Here is the opening of the programmatic sonata "Les Adieux" (The Farewell), Op 81a, whose three movements reflect conflicting emotions caused by a loved one's departure, absence, and return. In this introduction, I hear unmistakable allusions to strings, winds, and especially natural horns. Now listen to an instrumental arrangement I made, performed by Oberlin students. This is only one example among many where the sounds of orchestral instruments enrich Beethoven's pianistic imagination. Perhaps the most striking aspect of Beethoven's artistic temperament is a lifelong search for transcendence--of personal limitations, of inherited rules, of pedestrian burdens. He expanded the scope of every form, such as sonata and variations, handed to him by earlier masters; with time he grew impatient of harmonic and structural parameters as fetters on his imagination. In the final movement of his last piano sonata, Op. 111, the composer achieves perfect simplicity in a set of variations in C major (that simplest of keys). He states the theme initially in the middle register, unadorned, in the gracefully lilting meter of 9/16. After many metamorphoses, he finally brings it back in the high register, surrounded by a shimmering texture of 32nd-note triplets and high trills. This suggests to me a picture of heavenly grace, and a symbolic last pianistic testament from the pen of a transcendent artistic spirit. This article is condensed from a paper Peter Takács delivered at the Music Teachers' National Convention in Nashville, Tennessee, this past March.
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