By Lucy Caplan
Lucy Caplan is Assistant Professor of Music at Worcester Polytechnic Institute. She is the author of Dreaming in Ensemble: How Black Artists Transformed American Opera, published by Harvard University Press.
Each work on this evening’s program is dedicated to a fellow musician: Beethoven’s sonata to the composer Antonio Salieri, Prokofiev’s to violinist David Oistrakh, Bardanashvili’s to composer Giya Kancheli, and Franck’s to violinist Eugène Ysaÿe. These commemorations speak to the fact that sonatas are musicians’ music. Straddling the line between virtuosic solo performance and the intimacy of a small ensemble, they rest on a close sense of interplay between two people—one that requires consummate skill, sensitivity, and the ability to really listen. Perhaps these works’ dedications honor that spirit of dialogue, with each composer naming an admired musical interlocutor.
Yet sonatas are, of course, products of the wider world. Prokofiev’s sonata is a case in point: composed between 1938 and 1946, it is suffused with despair at the horrors of war and state terror that transpired during those fateful years. This coexistence of political hideousness and artistic beauty can be hard to fathom. It is a question that Lisa Batiashvili has taken up in her own career, by commissioning Igor Loboda’s Requiem for Ukraine and organizing material support for Ukrainians. These activities may seem far removed from the performance of a sonata; yet, as the musicologist Christopher Small wrote, part of music’s power is its ability to model ideal social relationships. From this point, sonatas offer a tantalizing glimpse of a world in which beauty, dialogue, and care for one another are fundamental values – a world which may yet come into being.
Ludwig van Beethoven, Sonata for Piano and Violin in E-flat Major, Op. 12, No. 3 (1798)
Fans of the classic film Amadeus may be surprised to learn that the vengeful Salieri was, in real life, well-respected among his fellow composers. Indeed, Beethoven elected to dedicate his three Op. 12 violin sonatas to Salieri, with whom he had studied earlier in his career. Given that their lessons focused primarily on the craft of vocal music, the choice to honor his teacher with these works is rather unexpected—perhaps a nod to the sonatas’ operatic grandeur, made possible by both their rhetorically dramatic style and the virtuosic complexity of the instrumental writing for both performers.
The sonata’s E-flat major key gives it an early place among Beethoven’s “heroic” works, anticipating later hallmarks like the Symphony No. 3, “Eroica,” and the Piano Concerto No. 5, the “Emperor.” In the first movement, grand gestures—downward-sweeping scales and assertive repeated chords—melt seamlessly into a gentle second theme. Although the second movement is slower, it is not especially relaxed. Its melodies are majestic, and it maintains the rhetorical precision and elaborate figuration of the first movement. The third movement is a delightful rondo, with a warm, kinetic theme and several brilliant contrasting episodes. The piano and violin trade musical roles elegantly and often, rather like dance partners pulling off an elaborately choreographed routine.
Sergei Prokofiev, Violin Sonata No. 1 in F Minor, Op. 80 (1946)
Prokofiev wrote this sonata in fits and starts. He began the work in 1938, then took a hiatus. After returning to it in 1943, he paused his efforts a second time and did not complete it until 1946. It is not hard to see why he confided in a friend that this was a “difficult” effort. Prokofiev had moved to the Soviet Union in 1936 after more than a decade spent living in Germany and France. Soon after his return, he bore witness to Stalin’s Great Terror. Throughout the year of 1937, numerous of his colleagues and patrons were abducted and killed by the secret police. Prokofiev dutifully composed bright, vivid works that adhered to Soviet cultural policy’s emphasis on patriotic and folk-inspired music. But he found other outlets for expressing his despair through music—not least, this sonata.
The eventual completion of the sonata, which came after the traumas of Soviet repression were compounded and amplified by World War II, may have come at the behest of violinist David Oistrakh, a longtime collaborator to whom Prokofiev ultimately dedicated the work. The first movement is anchored by a mournful melody in the piano’s bass register, with an out-of-time quality enhanced by a time signature that alternates between 3/4 and 4/4. The second, marked “allegro brusco,” is angrier, with heavy repeated down-bows in the violin’s opening statement and a second theme whose lyricism carries a sardonic tinge. The third movement gestures wistfully toward Prokofiev’s time in Europe: it begins with ornamented lines which call to mind Baroque counterpoint, and the muted violin, doubled by the piano, recalls the textures of French impressionism. The final movement’s spirited sound is hard to pin down—it dances, then plays, then rages. Toward the end, themes from the rest of the piece resurface. Oistrakh would later note that Prokofiev described the hurried up-and-down scales prominent in the sonata’s first and last movements as sounding like “wind in a graveyard.” It is an apt description of the work’s pervasive mood, as well as the way it might have served as a subtle memorial to the composer’s disappeared colleagues.
Josef Bardanashvili, To Giya Kancheli (P.S.) (2020)
Born in 1948 in Batumi, Georgia, Josef Bardanashvili studied at the Music Academy in Tbilisi under Aleksandr Shaverzashvili, where he graduated with a Doctor’s Degree in composition in 1976. Bardanashvili served as Director of the Music College in Batumi (1986–1991), Culture Vice-Minister in Adjaria (1993–1994), and in this capacity organized numerous international music festivals. He settled in Israel in 1995. Bardanashvili has composed more than 100 works, five opera’s, five ballets, four symphonies, concertos for piano, violin, cello, mandolin, flute, and guitar; string quartets, quintets, and piano trios; piano sonatas; choir music; and songs. He has written music for 55 films and 65 theater productions. His numerous compositions have been successfully performed all over the world—in Israel, Georgia, the United States, Germany, Russia, France, Spain, Italy, Finland, Canada, Japan, Armenia, and the United Kingdom.
Composed in 2020, To Giya Kancheli (P.S.) is scored for violin and piano. The composer writes:
In our whole lifetime, we meet a large number of people—lots of human beings and faces will pass away in the process of our lives. But our memory usually preserves the faces of loved and special ones among them. The mind separately picks out the precious faces that stay with us forever, deeply becoming part of us, and the time factor doesn’t affect them. This, my new piece, is dedicated to such a look and was written to the memory of my close friend and famous composer Giya Kancheli. The musical language of the work is very simple, but full of special inner light. Episodes are built according to the contrasting principle and create the illusion of eternal reincarnation in time. [Biography and notes provided by the composer.]
César Franck, Sonata in A Major for Violin and Piano (1886)
Guests at the 1886 wedding of the esteemed Belgian violinist Eugène Ysaÿe and the singer Louise Bourdeau were treated to a special event: a hastily arranged performance by the groom and pianist Léontine Bordes-Pène of Franck’s newly composed sonata, which was a gift composed for the occasion. Delighted to have been honored with what he rightfully recognized as an instant classic, Ysaÿe continued to perform the sonata over the course of his career. It has become a staple of the repertoire.
The piece displays some of Franck’s signature qualities as a composer. The first movement foregrounds what one scholar has called his “iambic rhythm,” which features gently accented second beats and corresponding harmonic shifts. Rather than trading musical ideas back and forth, the violin and piano generally have distinct melodic material, allowing for the creation of two fully individualized voices. In Franck’s characteristically cyclical style, these themes reappear throughout the sonata, taking on different guises as the piece progresses. Whereas the first movement is contemplative and sunny, the second is tempestuous, with a driving violin line replete with virtuosic flourishes. Franck then breaks with formal convention by structuring the third movement as a recitative-fantasia. Quasi-improvisatory solo passages in the violin and moody chromaticism in the piano are followed by extended, ethereal duets. The final movement begins with an elegant canon between the two voices, then moves through a harmonically adventurous series of keys before coming to a joyous close.