TWICE VIOLA
Among the noble and ancient family of string instruments, the viola has the privilege of a feminine ending; perhaps a coincidence, but a very happy one: its voice reveals the most mysterious and arcane aspect of femininity, linked to the cycles of Nature and the moon, which celebrates and consecrates the shadows of the night, crossing them with its opalescent light.
The viola stands out for its natural nonchalance, disdaining the technical and expressive virtuosity of its smaller counterpart, the violin, tuned a fifth above, or the clear, virile sound of the cello, which doubles it in the
lower octave. In the inconspicuous middle range of its register, it often suggests the deep texture of the musical composition it interprets; the viola acts in the
intimate satisfaction of recognising itself in a role that is partly hidden but fundamental. This secret quality can only be appreciated by those who truly know.
Long imprisoned by its male relatives, the violin and cello, in the hidden middle ground of the score, followed a path of emancipation in the last century similar to that of women. It broke the chains of noble subordination, becoming the protagonist of extraordinary musical pages.
Great composers such as Bartok, Britten and Walton (among others) made its original voice, with its dark and veiled charm, loved and appreciated, while at the same time offering its performers an awareness of their own expressive potential. This awareness revolutionised not only the role but also the psychology of violists, leading them to a technical mastery that not everyone previously felt was necessary. No longer former violinists who, for various reasons, were content with a less prestigious instrument, but true and fierce musicians who celebrate it with passion and devotion; in recent decades, a more appropriate and
effective teaching method has been developed for them.
Duets have always played an important role in the practice and study of an instrument. Teacher and student play together: the former's expertise is transmitted to the latter almost by osmosis. It is a highly effective means of learning technique and practising the correct identification of tone and expression. The viola repertoire for this fundamental educational and musical form is still rather lacking, and this CD also has the merit of beginning a journey aimed at filling the gap with new and interesting pieces.
The 44 duets by Hungarian composer Bela Bartok, written in 1931 as teaching material for Erich Doflein's violin method, are a veritable treasure trove of wonders. Neither the pedagogical intent nor the relative ease of execution hinders (if anything, the opposite is true) the imagination of the musician, who gallops inexhaustibly and richly in these short musical gems.
Extraordinary emotional movements stir these short compositions: they range from the almost wild joy of peasant dances to lyrical gloom not far removed from expressionism. An arcane perception of suspended time acts on these perfect musical mechanisms, rendering them as precious as they are ineffable; the sensation of originality and wonder never ceases to amaze us: the inventiveness of sound in the treatment of rhythm, melody and polyphony is always capable of deviating from the obvious; in the flow of the music, what we expect never happens, but without any artifice, with authenticity and naturalness. Bartok relentlessly stimulates the curiosity and wonder of the listener and performer. Conventionality and intellectualism are banished from this original and surprising
soundscape.
On this CD, we can hear 36 of the 44 violin duets that Peter, son of the Hungarian composer, transcribed for violas. This does not detract from their charm and intensity in the slightest; on the contrary, the dark timbre of the new instrument makes the sound even more arcane and mysterious. The shift of the musical text to a lower register increases the perception of an origin whose enigmatic power we can feel; the folklore that fuels Bartók's invention is a wellspring of stories of inexhaustible linguistic energy, but at the same time it is the slingshot that catapults us into the future; yet we perceive the evocation of a remote origin as foggy and uncertain as that of an inexplicable future. Past and future mirror each other and fade together in the fairy tale.
In Huting Sonata for two violas, Giovanni Sollima – a happily contemporary composer – interprets that Absolute Present in which we live, not without effort and disorientation. The past creeps into the folds of a confused and disjointed everyday life, and the future is reduced to a conventional and ideological dimension, without becoming a sensible project shared by reason and feeling.
For the Palermo-born composer, this precarious reality is not a limitation, but rather a powerful catalyst for bringing together sounds and music from different sources; it seems that it is precisely the heterogeneity of musical sources that ignites his unquenchable imagination.
The first movement of the Sonata (Adagio-Allegro) is an ideal bridge connecting the Magyar Bartok to the Palermo-born composer; here too, the folkloric material, which shifts the inspiration southwards – a Middle Eastern song, or one from an archaic Sicily in which Arab-Muslim memories resound – is powerful and takes us back to the Origin, to a past that nostalgia pushes back to infinity. The interlocking of the persuasive and voluptuous melody and the whimsical accompanying figures, mobile and changeable in mood, is dizzying and hypnotic.
The second movement, entitled Siciliana, is imbued with an enchantment that moves the listener with its delicate and alienating melos. Unlike the
first movement, the relationship that the musician establishes with the past has a definite origin: Sollima appropriates and transfigures late 17thcentury
instrumental models, which he knows deeply both as a composer and as an extraordinary cellist.
There is no concession to parody, let alone collage. All the music, whether it sounds ancient or modern, is invented by Sollima himself, and this is perhaps why we do not notice any rift between the two worlds, any arbitrariness. There are not two worlds, but only one, and it lives in the composer's present imagination.
The third movement is a Giga, once again a dance from the 17th and 18th centuries. The frenzied rhythmic impulse ignites the ancient accents, leading them to the climax of modern dance music. Sollima dispels any lingering traces of modesty that the viola might still possess, calling upon it to play the role of a virtuoso instrument, fearlessly rivalling its larger and perhaps more cumbersome cousin: the cello.