A JUBILANT HOMECOMING FOR LOST DICKENS MINIATURE AS PORTRAIT RETURNS TO FAMED WRITERS RESIDENCE-TURNED-MUSEUM AT 48 DOUGHTY STREET ft. Did You Know? (Musical Tributes)

Margaret Gillies' restored portrait of Charles Dickens (extracted)

Incredibly exciting news out of London for fans of literary master Charles Dickens as the Charles Dickens Museum (being the former residence of the writer, wherein he composed Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby, completed The Pickwick Papers and began Barnaby Rudge) announces the return of a previously considered "lost" original watercolor of the British icon, and touts its forthcoming public display of the item beginning in late October 2019. 

The museum acquired the item through the aid of a successful fundraising campaign backed by generous private donations in addition to substantial grants from the Art Fund and the lottery-funded Arts Council England/V&A Purchase Grant Fund. Together, donors raised £180,000 for its acquisition of the historic painting.

The portrait in question, a miniature for which Dickens actually sat, is the work of Margaret Gillies, an early supporter of women's suffrage and vocal social reformer of the destitute in Victorian society. Gillies' politically motivated illustrations, submitted anonymously, had appeared in her common-law husband's (sanitary reformer and physician Dr. Thomas Southwood Smith's) 1842 report for the Royal Commission of Inquiry into Children’s Employment in Mines and Manufactories as a form of silent protest.

It was this bold and unyielding yearning for social reform and alleviation of poverty which first attracted Dickens to Gillies, who shared the writer's philosophies. Together, the pair would collaborate on a new portrait of Charles in late 1843. It was a pivotal moment in Dickens' career: a period of riding high off of the success of his second novel - a serial published several years earlier which we know today as the famous Oliver Twist  - was beginning to wane. Dickens' subsequent works were critical flops (perhaps the greatest being Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of Eighty, published in the 1840-1841 weekly serial Master Humphrey's Clock) and as a result, funds were becoming spurious for the frazzled writer. Something had to be done, and fast, at that - to preserve his former image as a revolutionary literary mind - an icon in the making. Dickens was living in full-on damage control mode. 

Extant correspondence from Dickens to Gillies preserved at the museum authenticates the sitting: a letter dated "twenty-first July, 1843" (an excerpt of which is seen above) confirms the struggling writer's appointment, which Dickens notes is to occur some two days later, on "next Tuesday, at 12."

Charles Dickens by Daniel Maclise, 1839
Click to enlarge image.

In a subsequent letter sent a few months later to Gillies, the image-conscious Dickens hints at a desire to have the renowned Royal Academician (RA), Sir Daniel Maclise observe one of what would become a total of six sittings. Maclise was not only a confidante of Charles, he was also a favorite portraitist of Dickens, having painted the writer's likeness in quite regal form - much to Charles' satisfaction - three years earlier, in 1839.

This seemingly minor request posed to Ms. Gillies, when sufficiently analyzed, speaks volumes about Dickens' penchant for a controlled social presence, shouldered by a keen sense of self-marketing. The distinguished, worldly visage previously offered by Maclise (pictured left) was the very image the artist wanted to portray to the world - in particular to his finicky readership - who might have otherwise taken his latest literary failures as an indicator of a here today, gone tomorrow talent: a former rising star who wasn't quite up to cuff, who simply didn't have that certain Je ne sais quoi to make of himself a serious writer.

It was therefore crucial for Dickens that Gilles' portrait be not only true to life, but regal, powerful, polished. And that it was. Gillies' Dickens presents the writer in distinguished, muted tones - his otherwise child-like face is transformed into a state of burgeoning manhood. His doe-eyes penetrate the viewer head on, the nasolabial folds at either side of his mouth appear uncensored, on prominent display. This ingenious blend of youth and maturity exude a ripening sense of the boy-turned-man. Unlike Maclise's portrait, wherein Dickens fails to engage the viewer, Gillies portrait has him grip the viewer by the collar, and demands of him a listen. The portrait portrays a force - a man - to be reckoned with.

Fans of Classical Music iconography
may be familiar with Maclise's sketches
of Niccolò Paganini. This drawing, in
pencil, is titled "Debut in London of
Nicolo [sic] Paganini"^[1] (1831)
(Click to enlarge image)

The first glimpse of Gilles' portrait, where the greater public was concerned, would be in the form of a black and white engraved print of the original, employed as the frontispiece for the 1844 volume published by Smith Elder & Co. "A New Spirit of the Age," a celebratory collection of creative minds that dotted the Victorian landscape, of which Dickens was one. The colorless engraving would be the version presented to the greater (literate) public, whilst the original painting would be showcased, temporarily, at London's Royal Academy of Arts the same year.

For some 130-175-plus years, little was known about the location of Gillies' portrait. The mystery began as late as 1886, and the question of its whereabouts confounded even the artist herself, as evidenced in a surviving correspondence dated that year between Gillies and contemporary Dickens researcher Frederick Kitton, who wrote to the artist to inquire about the miniature for an upcoming illustrated project. Gillies response was less than revelatory: "I have lost sight of the portrait itself."

According to the British specialist art dealer Philip Mould & Co., there has been made no record of the whereabouts of the Gillies portrait since its display at the Royal Academy in 1844 - that is, until now.

Gillies' watercolor appeared as the frontispiece for R.H Horne's (ed.) "A New Spirit of the Age" in the form of a
black and white engraving. This was how the greater (literate) public would come to know this particular portrait.
London: Smith Elder & Co., 1844 | Charles Dickens Museum.

Enter into timeline one Emma Rutherford, Portrait Miniatures Consultant for Philip Mould & Co. who recently received an email identification request from a gentleman in South Africa who had acquired a "box of household trinkets" from a local auction house. His purchase seemed on face value to have been run of the mill, nothing extraordinary - the auction house from which he made the purchase failing to single out any particular "trinket" as an item of interest. What he had, after all, was covered in a thick, virulent yellow mold - a result of the 19th century practice of mixing in paint gum with the watercolor - its subject indistinguishable. For Rutherford and the staff at Philip Mould, however - who frequently sift through identification requests, the reaction was quite a bit more surreal. They recognized the portrait as Gillies original - an authentication which would later be positively confirmed. Both the artist's technique and distinctive mount matched known examples by Gillies, and further research into her family tree revealed a crucial link between the artist and South Africa, where the portrait was ultimately found. 

Gillies' watercolor, as it was presented to Rutherford, covered in "virulent yellow mold." The miniature
was tossed in a "box of trinkets" containing, among other items, an old recorder and a toy lobster
fashioned in metal, only to be later "forgotten."  | Image: Philip Mould & Co.

The painting's journey toward the "Rainbow Nation" began with the extended family of Gillies' adoptive daughter, whose brothers-in-law would become early settlers at the British colony of Natal (present day Kwa-Zulu Natal) - the very spot miniature was found.

The portrait, which has been restored to its original lustre through the skilled hands of a conservator at the Victoria & Albert Museum will make its modern day "premiere" this fall as the Charles Dickens Museum prepares to present it to the public beginning October 24. While the portrait's true modern debut occurred this past April, on the 2nd - 7th in Dickens' study at 48 Doughty Street, the display was brief - the mid-campaign event launched to bring awareness to potential donors who could aid in the museum's acquisition of the portrait. The launch this October will present the miniature for the first time in its permanent home.

It will be an especially exciting display for fans not only of art but of the author Dickens: dealer Philip Mould, speaking in a brief presser shot by the museum made quite an astute observation when he recalled a reference made by Dickens himself - his very first - concerning "A Christmas Carol" during a time frame which coincides exactly with the days he would have been sitting for his portrait with Gillies. Considering the pair shared a similar social ideology, Mould aptly posited, it could be argued that Gillies herself could have possibly influenced what would become Dickens' career-saving, everlasting hit. If this is accurate, it makes this portrait in particular far more invaluable to the Dickens legacy. 

Did You Know?

An excerpt from a production of the little known singspiel written
by Goethe for Corona Schröter's "Die Fischerin." Intended for
open air performance at Weimar in 1782, it premiered that year
in the park at Tiefurt on the banks of the Ilm river. Goethe was
by all accounts a man of many hats - he served as co-designer
of both Tiefurt and Beledere Parks, both situated along the
Ilm. They, alongside "Goethe's Gardens" are today
designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

While musical homages to Dickens seem to pale in comparison to other famous literary minds before him (of the likes of the Italian Dante Alighieri, the German Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and fellow Englishman William Shakespeare), tributes to the 19th century icon have nonetheless dotted the classical music landscape - the inquisitive ear simply need seek them out.

Dickens himself incorporated music into his works, however they were not orchestral, nor operatic in nature - save for a nod to George Frederic Handel in the dialogue of Pip, the main character in Charles' 1861 "Great Expectations" who is assigned the nickname "Handel" by the character Herbert Pocket (as a reference to the former's upbringing.) "We are so harmonious -- and you have been a blacksmith --- would you mind it?...There's a charming piece of music by Handel, called the Harmonious Blacksmith" Dickens writes.

Rather, it is simple dance tunes that would have been heard in the domiciles of the everyday Englishman's family home or whilst outdoors, enjoying a leisurely stroll that are given preference. A frequently heard domestic staple in the era of Charles would have been "The College Hornpipe," a jaunty instrumental dance number which made its way into the pages of 1848 "Dombey and Son" and his 8th novel, published in 1850 "David Copperfield."

Songs and ballads were also included in Dickens' works, such as "The Ivy Green," which appears in "The Pickwick Papers." Their inclusion in his novels is perhaps a nod to his beloved past time of singing. This adoration for the common musical fare of domestic and street musicians, however, had its time and place - Dickens was known to abhor such distractions whilst engaged in writing.

Above: Dame Janet Baker sings the aria "Che farò senza Euridice"
in her final performance as Orfeo (and in her farewell to the
operatic stage) in Peter Hall's 1982 Glyndebourne production of
Gluck's Orfeo ed Euridice. It is easy to see why Dickens
admired this work - Charles famously attended a performance of this
beloved opera while in Paris, with confidante Arthur Sullivan in tow.

Dedications and treatments for Dickens oeuvre, as previously stated, are somewhat spurious. They include - but are not limited to - Scottish composer Sir Alexander Mackenzie's (the same composer who admittedly once "stalked [Dickens] closely from Oxford Street to Wardour Street") 1914 operetta, titled after (and inspired by) Dickens' The Cricket on the Hearth; a work for chamber orchestra by Benjamin Britten: Men of Goodwill: Variations on 'A Christmas Carol' and, most notably, a exciting orchestral score penned by the great Master of the King’s Music under George VI, Sir Arnold Bax for the 1948 film adaptation by David Lean of "Oliver Twist," which starred famed English actor Alec Guinness.

The beautifully composed music is classic Bax: lush, thrilling, and incredibly picturesque. The masterful score, arranged by Muir Mathieson as an orchestral suite under the composer's supervision, can be heard below (split into two videos - part two here):



In addition, the late, great German lyric baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau paid his own tribute to Dickens in the form of recitation when he read a passage, in his native tongue, from "A Christmas Carol" - "Das war der Pudding," or, "That was the pudding," the track titled after a line in the novella's famed "pudding scene" - released in 2004 on the album put out by Claves Records, "Weihachten."

Listen below to Dietrich's reading, interspersed with "Mozart's" (attr./ K. Deest) fragmentary Piece in G major for Piano, performed by Duo Crommelynck. For reference (for my English readers) and to follow along, skip below to pages 84-89 of the interactive novella, A Christmas Carol, available in the public domain (and posted at the bottom of this article.) Reading begins on pg. 84 with "...Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits..." and ends on pg. 89 with " 'A Merry Christmas to all, my dears, God bless us!' Which all the family re-echoed.")





Footnote:

^[1]This lithograph after a drawing by Maclise depicts Paganini's London debut at the King's Theatre (Opera House) on 3 June, 1831 and was sketched live by the artist. Paganini is pictured three times in the drawing: at center, performing in front of 36 members of the in-house orchestra, and on the lower right and left corners under the central oval, where he can be seen bowing (L) and playing the violin (R.) The inscription at the bottom reads: "The Debut of Paganini / Harmonies & Seul Corde / Sketched at Opera House." 

Paganini, by all accounts, dazzled London concertgoers, as well as the musicians in the Orchestra. His debut was the talk of the town long after the June 3rd concert, as evidenced by a raving review published the following month in The Harmonicon by editor, eminent musician and critic William Ayrton, who wrote:  

"The long, laboured, reiterated articles relative to Paganini, in all the foreign journals for years past, have spoken of his powers as so astonishing, that we were quite prepared to find them fall far short of report; but his performances at his first concert, on the 3rd of last month, convinced us that it is possible to exceed the most sanguine expectation, and to surpass what the most eulogistic writers have asserted. We speak, however, let it be understood, in reference to his powers of execution solely. These are little less than marvellous, and such as we could only have believed on the evidence of our own senses; they imply a strong natural propensity to music, with an industry, a perseverance, a devotedness, and also a skill in inventing means, without any parallel in the history of his instrument."

Another critic writing for the periodical The Athenæum shared an even more visceral sentiment:

"At length all differences have been arranged, and the mighty wonder has come forth—a very Zamiel in appearance, and certainly a very devil in performance! He is, beyond rivalry, the bow ideal of fiddling faculty! He possesses a demon-like influence over his instrument, and makes it utter sounds almost superhuman.... The arrival of this magician is quite enough to make the greater part of the fiddling tribe commit suicide."

The concert brought in a total of £700 (£500 less than his subsequent concert at the theatre seven days later), with Paganini affirming his worth as a talent worth top dollar (he had previously failed to secure double the going rate prior to his debut.) 

On the June 3 programme was Beethoven's 2nd, the concerto in E flat (Paganini's violin concerto in D was originally performed in E flat) and the musician/composer's own Military Sonata for the G string (Military Sonata on Mozart's "Non più andrai.")

-Rose.

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QUOTE OF THE DAY - FEBRUARY 7, 2017: DICKENS PAYS HOMAGE TO HANDEL

Today’s Quote of the Day comes to us from one of the 19th century’s most beloved literary figures, the English writer Charles Dickens, in honor of the 205th anniversary of his birth, and is extracted from the author’s 1861 novel Great Expectations, in a (narrative) dialogue between the stories’ main character Pip (Philip) - whose early fate seemed predestined to see him employed as a humble blacksmith - and the character Herbert Pocket, the son of Pip’s tutor:

“…I informed him in exchange that my Christian name was Philip.

"I don't take to Philip," said he, smiling, "for it sounds like a moral boy out of the spelling-book, who was so lazy that he fell into a pond, or so fat that he couldn't see out of his eyes, or so avaricious that he locked up his cake till the mice ate it, or so determined to go a bird's-nesting that he got himself eaten by bears who lived handy in the neighborhood. I tell you what I should like. We are so harmonious, and you have been a blacksmith, --- would you mind it?"

"I shouldn't mind anything that you propose," I answered, "but I don't understand you."

"Would you mind Handel for a familiar name? There's a charming piece of music by Handel, called the Harmonious Blacksmith."

"I should like it very much."

"Then, my dear Handel," said he, turning round as the door opened, "here is the dinner…”

The music to which Dickens so cleverly alludes is George Frideric Handel’s Suite no. 5 in E major,  known colloquially as “The Harmonious Blacksmith,” and is an obvious nod from the author to the composer himself.

Handel's Harmonious Blacksmith:


It is widely known amongst literary and classical music intelligentsia that Dickens possessed a deep fondness for Western Classical music. He knew casually the German composer Giacomo Meyerbeer, adored the works of Chopin, Mozart and Felix Mendelssohn and was a confidante of Sir Arthur Sullivan. A frequent visitor to the opera, Dickens is said to have patronized many an operatic performance during his travels in Europe. According to the memoirs of Sullivan, the pair once attended together a performance of Orfeo ed Euridice by 18th century reformist composer Christoph Willibald Gluck.

Dickens also boasted a brief stint as librettist for a small operetta, The Village Coquettes, produced in 1836.

Che farò senza Euridice? from Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice, as performed by Canadian contralto Marie-Nicole Lemieux in the “trouser role” of Orfeo:



Suggested Reading (external link):

• Dickens and Music at WQXR (archived) 
• Read Great Expectations by Charles Dickens for free at Project Gutenberg

-Rose.

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DRAWING INSPIRATION: MUSIC, ART & POETRY

Titlecard: Der rote Blick, Arnold Schoenberg

In the first installment of this series concerning artistic worlds colliding, I will highlight some of the creative realm's most fruitful connections and shared admirations. Whether ascending the heights of greatness through parallel paths, or via a complex web of interpersonal connections, all of the icons mentioned below would leave an indelible, lasting impact on the face of art itself.

Gershwin moonlighted as a talented portrait
artist. Above, he can be seen painting the
likeness of fellow composer Arnold
Schoenberg.

In an age where the goal of mastering multiple disciplines was desired and polymath status revered, a well rounded education in the arts undoubtedly proved a signal of good breeding. To achieve this lofty ideal, poets, composers, and painters alike regularly crossed fields, showcasing their talents across a range of media under the umbrella of liberal arts. Even in the absence of a protean lifestyle, it was not uncommon for individual masters of complimentary art forms to exist within a single family unit.

Felix Mendelssohn, Arnold Schoenberg and George Gershwin were all accomplished painters and composers, each attaining a level of recognition within their adopted realms, whilst John Cage shifted focus in his later years to the visual arts - producing a multitude of drawings and prints in a minimalist fashion, paralleling the style of music for which he was renown.

The visceral intensity that can be found among Schoenberg's artistic oeuvre in particular - specifically those which focus on vision and gaze - drew the admiration of consummate contemporary painters Oskar Kokoschka, Egon Schiele, and Max Oppenheimer (all of whom would capture the composer's likeness on canvas).

Although somewhat of a fleeting affair with the brush (Schoenberg's artistic output would correspond with the introduction of atonality into his musical style - he would abandon his side career in 1912) the composer considered his creations on canvas to be as important as his primary outlet of expression.

In a 1949 interview with the American music biographer Halsey Stevens heard here, the (largely) self-taught* Schoenberg described in detail his love of both media:

"In fact, it was to me the same as making music. It was to me a way of expressing myself, of presenting emotions, ideas, and other feelings; and this is perhaps the way to understand these paintings or not to understand them. They would probably have suffered the same fate as I have suffered; they would have been attacked and scolded...the same would happen to them what happened to my music. This, I mean, would (be) understood or not understood...

I expressed myself in the same manner as I did it in music. I never was very capable of expressing my feelings or emotions in words. I don’t know whether this is the cause why I did it in music and also why I did it in painting, or vice versa. That I had this (way) as an outlet, I could renounce expressing something in words."

Schoenberg's foray into atonality in music - beginning in 1908 with the fourth movement of his second string quartet - and his most striking artwork (that of the Blicke: a series of up close, personal - and often quite harsh - angst-ridden self portraits) parallel both the personal and professional conflicts experienced by the composer.

*Above: The infamous Blicke portraits. Top row:
from left-right: Green Self-Portrait, 1910;
Self-Portrait, 1910; Bottom row: The Red Gaze,1910;
Tears, Undated (first displayed 1912).
Although Schoenberg briefly studied under
Gerstl, he denied being artistically influenced
by his former confidante.
(Click on image to enlarge)

Some three weeks after completing his career transforming 10th opus, Schoenberg uncovered the ongoing, elicit affair between his beloved wife Mathilde and the Viennese expressionist Richard Gerstl - a painter nearly a decade Schoenberg's junior and a confidante once considered so close, the pair not only shared a studio, they also vacationed as a trio (it was at the Schoenberg's rental property in the Austrian lakeside town of Gmunden that the composer discovered the amorous couple in flagrante delicto).

The lovers' indiscretions would continue until the intervention of Anton Webern, who persuaded Mathilde to end the affair. Feeling himself ostracized from both his inamorata and from Schoenberg's influential circle, Gerstl would end his own life via a violent suicide, by stabbing and hanging himself.^[1]

Further compromising Schoenberg's already fragile mental state was the reception to the composer's new, atonal style of music: largely scathing in nature, he would find the fruits of his life's work subject to mass condemnation by the Viennese critical establishment.

It is difficult to interpret the Blicke series of self portraits, painted during this period as anything but autobiographical. From the Green Self-Portait to Tears, they reflect raw human emotion and the various stages of grief - the disembodied heads a bleak representation of the excruciating alienation the composer undoubtedly felt as a result of betrayal and of loss, both personally and professionally.



Above: Schoenberg's String Quartet no. 2, op. 10. The famed Russian painter and theorist Vasily Kandinsky was so floored by Schoenberg's Second String Quartet - in particular it's fourth, atonal movement, heard above - he would pen a letter to the composer, praising him for his daring new compositional method:

"You have realized in your work that which I…have so long sought from music. The self-sufficient following of its own path, the independent life of individual voices in your compositions, is exactly what I seek to find in painterly form."

Like Schoenberg, who set aside existing rules of harmony in favor of a new sound, Kandinsky sought to break from traditional figurative modes of painting. The two would become personally acquainted, with Kandisky showcasing Schoenberg's paintings in his own Blaue Reiter exhibition in 1911.

Although Schoenberg's second string quartet was composed before he discovered the affair between his wife and Gerstl - he would document the affair in the subsequent works Erwartung (Op. 17, 1909) and Die glückliche Hand (Op. 18, 1910).

Mendelssohn's illustrated facade for the
first Gewandhaus, executed in
remembrance of Cherubini's Ali Baba,
conducted by Felix on 11 February 1836

Felix Mendelssohn undertook art instruction from an early age, compiling scrapbooks of both pen and ink and pencil drawings by the tender age of 13. He would also try his hand at watercolor painting, expertly capturing the serene landscapes which caught his fancy during his excursions to Switzerland, Scotland and Italy.

To the left, we see the facade of Leipzig's first Gewandhaus, painted by Felix to commemorate a performance, held in February 1836, of the sextet from Luigi Cherubini's opera Ali Baba, which Mendelssohn himself conducted (an excerpt of the opera appears below the facade). The striking watercolor, dated 23 Feb 1836, may have been intended as a gift for the betrothal of the soprano Henriette Grabau, who performed in the production.

In the absence of a protean lifestyle, a career in the arts still thrived within families practising multiple creative disciplines:

the ancestors and descendants of Gustav Holst and Johann Sebastian Bach may have eschewed the title of a Renaissance Man (despite being surrounded by musical behemoths) in favor of a single artistic outlet, however they too were undoubtedly influenced by those within their respective inner circles who worked in like-fields:

Badende Hirten in einem Wald by Johann Sebastian Bach
the Younger (Click on image to enlarge)

Johann Sebastian Bach the Younger, grandson to the great baroque composer though the Elder's son Carl Philipp Emanuel, is alleged to have been named after his more famous ancestor in the hope that through him, the musical legacy synonymous with the Bach paternal line would live on - through grandfather to father, from father to son ad infinitum.^[2]

Carl would, however, prefer to spend his young life immersed in composition of a different ilk, taking to writing poetry and earning a living as a painter and draughtsman. His idyllic Badende Hirten in einem Wald (Shepherds Bathing in a Forest) drew its inspiration from the quill of the great Scottish poet James Thomson - in particular, a bathing scene from the latter's The Seasons.

Thomson's Seasons would later serve to inspire Joseph Haydn's 1801 secular oratorio of the same name.



Above: The Wiener Philharmoniker and Konzertvereinigung Wiener Staatsopernchor perform Haydn's The Seasons under maestro Nikolaus Harnoncourt

Before the name Gustav Holst became synonymous with the musical manifestation of the planets which form our vast solar system, his great-uncle, Theodor von Holst (whose moniker Gustav inherited as a middle name) was busying himself as a child prodigy - on the canvas. His early drawings attracted the attention of seasoned artists Henry Fuseli and Sir Thomas Lawrence, and later, his paintings drew the praise of the Pre-Raphaelite master Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and famed symbolist painter William Blake (two icons I will further touch on in this article).

Von Holst was revered within the illustrator community during the mid 19th century, becoming the first artist to illustrate Mary Shelley's Frankenstein in 1831, in addition to drawing scenes from the works of Dante, Virgil, Shakespeare, Goethe and Hugo.

Frontispiece for the 1831 edition of Mary Shelly's
Frankenstein, or, The modern Prometheus,
illustrated by Theodor von Holst. PD US
(Click on image to enlarge)

Accomplished painters, poets, and literary icons have also contributed to music - from composing libretti to writing sonnets, to fashioning wardrobe and set design for operatic productions.

The aforementioned painter Rossetti also astonished as a poet and songwriter - his ca. 1870/71 sonnet Silent Noon was covered in 1903 by the English composer Ralph Vaughan Williams - initially as an independent work, before becoming incorporated into the composer's song cycle The House of Life the following year.

In turn, dominating literary figures of the 20th century often turned to the music of Swiss composer Othmar Schoeck. His haunting suite of songs for male voice and orchestra, "Lebendig-Begraben" (Buried Alive) so impressed James Joyce, who first heard the cycle in Zurich in 1935, that the poet actively sought out the composer to make of him an acquaintance.

Schoeck's cycle, which borrowed its text from the pen of Swiss poet Gottfried Keller, would later be translated into English by Joyce, which itself was in turn adapted once more into music - this time, into a song, composed in 1972 for the German lyric baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau by American composer Samuel Barber.

The first entry in a three part cycle - Now I Have Fed up and Eaten the Rose - aptly titled Three Songs, was commissioned by the Lincoln Center Chamber Music Society for Fischer-Dieskau. It marked Barber's 45th opus.

Below: English tenor Ian Bostridge performs William's Silent Noon (left). The composer's treatment of Rossetti's paradox of time - and its fleeting serenity - is utterly transcendent. Schoeck's opus can be heard on the right, performed by its dedicatee, Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau:

  

Blake, the esteemed painter and print maker, preceded Rossetti in his proficiency for the liberal arts. The polymath also indulged in poetry of the first order, many of them of quite lyrical quality. Vast and varied are the interpretations by composers into music of both the master's poetry, songs and painting.

Perhaps the most notable of these translations into the medium of music is Sir Hubert Parry's treatment (and Edward Elgar's infamous orchestration) of Blake's poem And did those feet in ancient time from the preface of his epic Milton: A Poem in Two Books. The hymn is better known to the English populous as Jerusalem, and likewise widely acknowledged as the nation's unofficial, alternative national anthem.




Another English composer worth mentioning, Benjamin Britten, twice translated into music a mixed genre watercolor and moral on the unseemly effects of unexpressed rage and revenge: Blake's A Poison Tree, published in 1794 as a part of his Songs of Experience (a collection of self-illustrated poetry (right).

Blake's watercolor and moral "A Poison Tree"
from the master's Songs of Experience.
Britten interspersed Pears' selections with
extracts of Blake's proverbs - A Poison Tree is
immediately preceded by the words: "The bird
a nest, the spider a web, man friendship."

Although originally set to music by the composer in 1934, a second version was included by Britten in his 1965 cycle Songs and Proverbs of William Blake. The subject matter for the cycle was selected by Britten's personal and professional partner, tenor Peter Pears. 

A Poison Tree is just one extract from the through-composed piece - the other selections are musical settings from Blake's Proverbs of Hell, Auguries of Innocence, and Songs of Experience.

Like Barber's Three Songs, Britten's setting of Blake's moral was in dedication to the baritone Fischer-Dieskau.

On its surface, the moral of A Poison Tree is a stark one: to never allow anger to seethe inside oneself without expressing it, for if rage is allowed to brew silently in both mind and heart, it will inevitably poison not only the soul of its host, it will also destroy everything in its path. 

Objects and people, once considered beautiful by the emotionally assaulted, thus become withered and ugly as they become infected by the poison of unbridled rue. The newly defiled beings, in turn, become ugly themselves - passing on to another the sickly poison as evil reincarnates into the soul of each and every person touched by the diseased party - setting into motion a perpetual cycle of destruction not unlike a noxious plague.

Blake chose to paint in both words and brush this metaphor quite literally, with the seething vitriol of the protagonist infiltrating nature itself, in the form of an apple (which his foe, naively unaware of the rage encapsulated inside - takes a bite, and thus poisoned, promptly falls dead).



Above: Blake's fiendishly delectable moral A Poison Tree performed by the great Canadian Bass-baritone Gerald Finley on vocals, accompanied by English pianist Julius Drake.

In reality, Blake's moral - and the whole of the master's Songs of Experience - bears a deeper meaning:

published in 1794 at the height of the Terror occurring in Revolutionary France, the songs parallel the socio-political unrest across the English channel and the subsequent repressive laws that a panic-stricken British government enforced upon its citizens. 

Just four years prior, Blake had published an illustrated collection of morals, of which Songs of Experience would become counterpart: Songs of Innocence.  Produced in 1789 during a hopeful period of harmonious reform just prior to la Terreur, Songs of Innocence focused on exaltation of the divine as found in all of creation. This concept was much in contrast to Songs of Experience, in which Blake explores the consequences of man being subject to an authoritarian Deity and His oppressive laws (a regime of which even a defiant Lucifer rebelled, effectively making him the world's first protestor). 

The morals contained in the latter collection can therefore be viewed as a retrospective study of man's rebellion and his inner conflicts - both spiritual and political - as both concepts contrast and support each other in the context of a modern, hypocritical world post-Eden. Together, Songs of Innocence, and Songs of Experience - and the morals contained within - were a testament to a burgeoning romantic ideology in a time of an intense political - and for many, a spiritual - revolt.
 

French playwright-novelist Jean Cocteau, the
brainchild behind Satie's Parade, also made a
living in the artistic realm. Here, he depicts
Picasso congratulating Stravinsky on a
successful reprisal of Le Sacre du Printemps.
Cocteau depicts the pair in 1917 Rome, where
both Pablo and Igor were attending rehearsals
of Parade. The onset of WWI had caused a
minor exodus from Paris into the Italian
capital among the French artistic community,
prompting Picasso to take up residence in
the city. This, and other early drawings would
be published as a collection of line cuts,
cheekily dedicated from Cocteau to Picasso
with the warning: “Poets do not draw. They untie
the knots in handwriting and then retie them
differently.”  History would a much more
positive opinion of these simple works.

It would be considered a sacrilege to omit the power couples birthed in the early 20th century as a by-product of having worked with, or having been acquainted with Russian impresario Sergei Diaghilev and his famed itinerant ballet company, the Ballet Russes.

Numerous composers collaborated with famous artists as a result of this shared connection: Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse each lent a hand in set design and in textiles, and although other notable painters (including Jean Cocteau, Georges Braque, André Derrain, Joan Miro, Max Ernst and Giorio de Chirico) collaborated with the company, it is the contributions of these two legendary icons in particular that are considered most revolutionary for their time, and the fruits of their labor remain instantly recognizable even to the uninitiated spectator.

Picasso was involved in the design of six ballets for Diaghilev - the first production, 1917's Parade, choreographed by Léonide Massine (and written by poet Jean Cocteau with music composed by Erik Satie), showcased a mix of figurative art and the avant garde, as the famed Spanish painter revisited a Saltimbanque scene for the production's drop curtain (previously explored by the artist during his Blue and Rose periods^[3] and a cubist theme for both costume and scenery. Other notable collaborations with Picasso include Manuel de Falla's Le Tricorne (1919) and Darius Milaud's Le Train Bleu (1924).

Parade was roundly lambasted by critics, prompting an infuriated Satie to send a series of expletive-fueled postcards to the critic Jean Poueigh, who had recently published a negative review of the ballet in the French newspaper Les Carnets de la Semaine (Satie was later briefly jailed after Poueigh successfully sued him for libel).  

The ballet, however, was not without merit - it would mark the first time the independent creations of individual artists came together as a collective unit in the theater. This revolutionary pairing of the creatively inclined prompted the French poet Guillaume Apollinaire, who wrote the program notes for the ballet, to describe the production as "une sorte de surréalisme" (a sort of serialism).

Apollinaire's use of the term "surrealism" would soon enter the artistic lexicon, when some seven years following the premiere of Parade, it was adopted as the moniker of the artistic movement which was rapidly infiltrating the liberal arts across Europe.

Below: A recreated performance of Erik Satie's Parade by the Europa Danse Academy.
Click here to view a clearer version (highlights only)




From Apollinaire's program notes (extract):

"...it is a scenic poem transposed by the innovative musician Erik Satie into astonishingly expressive music, so clear and simple that it seems to reflect the marvelously lucid spirit of France.

The cubist painter Picasso and the most daring of today’s choreographers, Léonide Massine, have here consummately achieved, for the first time, that alliance between painting and dance, between the plastic and mimetic arts, that is a herald of the more comprehensive art to come.

There is nothing paradoxical about this.  The Ancients, in whose lives music played such an important role, were totally unaware of harmony, which constitutes the very basis of modern music.

This new alliance-I say new, because until now scenery and costumes were linked only by factitious bonds-has given rise, in Parade, to a kind of surrealism, which I consider to be the point of departure for a whole series of manifestations of the New Spirit that is making itself felt today and that will certainly appeal to our best minds.  We may expect it to bring about profound changes in our arts..."

Diaghilev would continue to facilitate the introductions of modernist titans of industry: through him, Picasso would make the acquaintance of Igor Stravinsky in April 1917. The pair would first meet in Italy, where they would quickly strike up both a personal and a creative friendship. Stravinsky would become the subject of several of Picasso's sketches - three of which can be seen below, in addition to a piece of manuscript art:



The second image from the left, executed in 1919, was used as a cover image for the composer's piano reduction for Ragtime for 11 Instruments. The 'line drawing' (so named for the moulding of a single, continuous line of ink into recognizable shapes in one fluid motion - in this instance that of two musicians) marked the de-facto first professional project on which the two fast friends collaborated (Stravinsky would later cheekily refer to the cover art as "a fine phallic circle-drawing").

Previously, the pair exchanged private correspondence - Stravinsky sent a five bar sketch of clarinet music to Picasso by telegram, and from Picasso, the first in a series of three portraits of the composer. 

The first of these sketches (the 'head shot' on the far left) was drawn by Picasso in 1917 whilst lodging at the Hotel de la Russie near the Piazza Popolo in Rome, shortly after the pair first met. It  boasts quite the wild back story. In the pages of his 1936 autobiography Chronicles of My Life, Stravinsky references in vivid detail his harrowing attempt to bring the portrait across the border from Italy into Switzerland:

"I shall never forget the adventure which later befell me in crossing the frontier at Chiasso on my return to Switzerland. I was taking my portrait, which Picasso had just drawn at Rome and given to me. When the military authorities examined my luggage they found this drawing, and nothing in the world would induce them to let it pass. They asked me what it represented, and when I told them that it was my portrait, drawn by a distinguished artist, they utterly refused to believe me. "It is not a portrait, but a plan," they said. "Yes, the plan of my face, but of nothing else," I replied. But all my efforts failed to convince them, and I had to send the portrait, in Lord Berners' name, to the British Ambassador in Rome, who later forwarded it to Paris in the diplomatic bag. The altercation made me miss my connection, and I had to stay at Chiasso till next day."

The remaining two portraits, dated 24 May and 31 of December were both executed in 1920.

Stravinsky's clarinet music for Picasso

Stravinsky would later join forces with Picasso rival Henri Matisse for the ballet production of the composer's opera-turned-symphonic work Le Rossignol (as Le Chant de Rossignol). It was Diaghilev who commissioned Matisse to travel to Paris in 1920 to design for the production its costumes and set. It would mark an artistic milestone for Matisse: he experimented in gouaches découpés (paper cut outs) for the first time, fashioning a three dimensional model akin to a diorama with the paper figures pinned in place. This mock-up and 'rehearsal' technique would later be adopted by the artist in his final years - as a standalone art form itself. 

Above: A reconstruction of the original version of Le Chant du Rossignol. Re-staged by Millicent Hodson and Kenneth Archer in 1999 with Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo.

Spanish surrealist Salvador Dalí would likewise design sets for nine ballets produced in New York from 1939-1949. His first set design, for Les Ballets Russes de Monte Carlo (formed in 1932 following the death of Sergei Diaghilev and subsequent demise of the Ballets Russes) was for the ballet Bacchanale. Dalí also acted as librettist, setting the work to music by Richard Wagner, notably the Venusburg Music (Bacchanale) from the opera's first act.

Inspired by Wagner's epic Tannhäuser and the ancient Greek myth of Leda and the Swan, Dalí's bizarre attempt at a psychoanalytical ballet follows the mental unraveling of King Ludwig II of Bavaria as he experiences escalating levels of delirium.
 



Jack Anderson, author of The One and Only: The Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, describes the rarely performed production thusly:

Dali's Drawing for Bacchanale, Ludwig II of Bavaria, 1939

"The season's scandal was Bacchanale... Purporting to show the delirious visions of Ludwig II of Bavaria, it mixed mythological figures with such personages as Lola Montez and Sacher-Masoch... Dali's decor was dominated by a huge swan with a hole in its breast through which dancers emerges, some in remarkable costumes. There was a woman with a rose-colored fish-head. Lola Montez wore harem trousers and a hoop skirt decorated with false teeth. The Knight of Death turned out to be an immense perambulating umbrella. Later, when Ludwig died, a whole set of umbrellas opened on stage. Prudish audiences blushed to behold the male ensemble with large red lobsters (as sex symbols) on their thighs, and Nini Theilade, portraying Venus, created a sensation because she seemed totally nude. In actuality, she wore flesh-colored tights from her neck to her toes..."

Tannhäuser is undeniably one of Wagner's most sexually explicit operatic works - its protagonist torn between the sacred and the profane (natural love vs. sensual love) inspiring both analyst, novelist and pornographer alike. This description of Dali's overtly erotic use of props following the demise of Ludwig - chiefly a "perambulating umbrella" - representing a pre-coital male at full mast - is reminiscent of the orgiastic scene in which Tannhäuser finds himself upon entering the mythical realm of the Venusberg:

"the Nymphs have already begun, round the foaming basin of the waterfall, the inviting dance that is meant to draw the youths to them. The two groups mix together in pairs; pursuits, flights and alluring coquetries enliven the dance. From the far background comes a swarm of Bacchantes, who break through the ranks of the amorous couples, inciting them to wilder delights. By gestures of exalted intoxication the Bacchantes urge on the lovers to further abandonment. The revellers embrace each other with the most ardent passion. Satyrs and Fauns emerge from the clefts in the rocks, and thrust themselves with their dance between the Bacchantes and the pairs of lovers. They increase the confusion by chasing the Nymphs; the general tumult rises to the maddest climax."

Both artists' depictions of raw sexuality, and their exploration into the subject of delirium shocked conservative audiences: Wagner's Tannhäuser famously describes his time spent in the Venusberg as something akin to a dream, whilst Dali's Ludwig plays loosely on the notorious King's (very real) reported delusions.

Contemporary (l) and reproduction (r) of Dalí's backdrop for Bacchanale. Described by the artist in the ballet's program: "The setting represents Mount Venus (the Venusberg near Eisenach), the background showing Salvador Dali's birthplace, the Ampurdan plain, in the center of which rises the temple as seen in The Marriage of the Virgin by Raphael." Bacchanale premiered at the NY MET Opera in 9 November, 1939, following a failed attempt at an opening night two months prior at London's Covent Garden due to the onset of the second world war.^[4] (Click on image to enlarge)

.
Likewise, the rumored sexual attraction to Wagner espoused by King, who was, in reality Wagner's greatest admirer and staunchest patron, was publicly viewed as a perversion, and contrary to nature.

These real life social dilemmas played into a common theme prevalent among 19th century Romantic society: that of the hypocritical and oppressive nature of a puritanical, righteous love versus sensual pleasure in the absence of love. This inner conflict was experienced by many intellectuals of the era, who struggled with the opposing concepts of adherence to one's religious faith over the perceived moral complacency offered by atheism (and its espoused promise of autonomy over one's own body and beliefs).

The (largely) unbridled, hedonistic nature of the Venusburg Bacchanale from Tannhäuser marked, according to Dali, the apex of Wagner: his theatrical ascension.

Tannhäuser in the Venusberg as seen in the study of Ludwig II
at Neuschwanstein Castle, Josef Aigner, 1880-81

It was high praise, indeed: the creation of Tannhäuser came at no small cost to Wagner from both a creative, and an emotional standpoint.

In a letter dated 28 May, 1865, the Bavarian King Ludwig II requested of Wagner "an account of your intellectual and spiritual development and of the external events of your life."  Wagner was only too keen to oblige his staunchest patron, and began to dictate his autobiography to his wife and amanuensis Cosima. He would begin reciting his life story on the 17th of July the same year.

One entry of note in Wagner's autobiography Mein Leben (My Life) vividly highlights the composer's frenzied mental state as he began to reach what Dali referred to as his summit:

"With much pain and toil I sketched the first outlines of my music for the Venusberg, as fortunately I already had its theme in my mind. Meanwhile I was very much troubled by excitability and rushes of blood to the brain. I imagined I was ill, and lay for whole days in bed..."

It is safe to say Dalí was more than a little enamored with Wagner. He would incorporate the German composer's likeness
into several artworks throughout his career. The unconventional surrealist went so far as to install a shrine - comprised of multiple disembodied heads of the composer - in the garden at his 'castle' at Púbol in Spain (above). Although in a much smaller scale (if no less eccentric than the architectural marvels dedicated to Richard by his most famous admirer, the aforementioned Bavarian King Ludwig II), Dali's deep admiration for the composer is evident, particularly when one considers the significance of the Castle of Púbol - it was designed as a sanctuary for his lifelong partner, muse and model for many of his paintings, his beloved, Gala. (Click on image to enlarge)

Bacchanale would not be the last time Dalí would pay homage to his musical idol.

Back in 2012, a massive, 9x15 meter curtain painted by Salvador in 1944 for the NY Met Opera's ballet production of Mad Tristan re-emerged into the artistic realm's collective conscience.

Word of the previously archived painting began to make the international press when Switzerland-based Compagnia Finzi Pasca announced it had been contacted by the anonymous owners of the megalithic piece, who were eager to include it in the company's upcoming circus show, La Verità.

Dalí's backdrop had been previously shielded from the public eye since 1944 when it was retired into a private European art collection.

The gargantuan canvas depicts Dalí's take on the climactic closing moments of Wagner's magnum opus, Tristan und Isolde, when the Breton nobleman Tristan, intoxicated in love from the effects of having ingested a love potion (which he believes is poison) and mortally wounded following a sword fight with a rival, falls dead before his beloved, Isolde. What follows in Wagner's opera is perhaps one of the most orgasmic, ethereal, thought provoking scenes in operatic history - the concept of Liebestod (literally, of love-death) as Isolde herself is transfigured.

As she begins to perish by her lover's side (presumably from the effects of the love potion she had also ingested, which made her unable to live without her true love) the Irish princess, now delusional, sings a breathtaking aria in which she describes her vision of Tristan, who she sees once more risen: their love so boundlessly unbridled, it could only exist unassaulted in death.

Dalí's backdrop for Léonide Massine's Wagner-inspired ballet Mad Tristan re-emerged from obscurity before Canadian
audiences in Montreal following it's modern unveiling at the city's Théâtre Maisonneuve on 17 January, 2013, where
it was repurposed as scenery for the traveling circus show La Verità, produced by Swiss-based Compagnia Finzi Pasca.
The premiere at the Quebec capital marked the first time the greater public had laid eyes on the massive work in nearly
70 years. It had previously been "rediscovered" in prop storage at the MET in New York before being restored and later
sold, where it would be added to an anonymous European art collection.

Dalí opted to depict this scene in a rather macabre fashion: re-visiting an earlier theme of a post-coital praying mantis, ready to devour her mate. In 1934, the artist re-conceptualized the famous pastoral religious painting by Jean-Francois Millet, Angelus, re-fashioning it into a terrifying - and highly erotic - moral on the effects of sexual aggression. Titled Atavism at Twilight, Dalí transforms the otherwise placid scene into a carnivorous one.

Above: Jean-François Millet's The Angelus (L), and Salvador Dalí's Atavism at Twilight (R)

One year previously, Dali had written an essay on Millet's well known painting. In a missive titled "Paranoic-Critical Interpretation of the Obsessive Image of the Angelus by Millet" Dalí likens the hat held by the male figure as either hiding, or drawing attention to "the well-known phenomenon...of erection," and describes his female counterpart in even greater detail:

"Opposite him..the sewing machine...goes as far as to invoke the mortal and cannibal virtue of her sewing needle, the activity of which may be identified with that super fine perforation of the praying mantis 'emptying' her male."

It is this depiction of insatiable sexuality that was translated into Dalí's reading of Tristan: so maddeningly disconnected from reality was his love for Isolde, he envisioned her as a praying mantis, ready to devour him - thus, two become one. For Dalí, this was a formidable means to build on the concept of Liebestod - the concept of death in love, and love in death.

Above: the sublime liebestod of Isolde ("Mild und leise") from Wagner's Tristan und Isolde

Dalí's expression of admiration for Wagner didn't end with set design and composing libretti - he also hinted at using the composer's likeness in the literary arts.

The lead-in to his upcoming novel would be his ca. 1934/6 artwork featuring Richard, A Chemist Lifting with Extreme Precaution the Cuticle of a Grand Piano (originally titled Instantaneous presence of Louis II of Bavaria, Salvador Dalí, Lenin, and Wagner on the beach at Rosas). It symbolized, according to Dalí, a book he intended to write in which are joined "all the real and fantastic personages of the modern tragedy."

Above: Dalí's A Chemist Lifting with Extreme Precaution the Cuticle of a Grand Piano. Wagner can be
seen in profile in the foreground. (Click on image to enlarge)

Dalí's proposed book (on which he planned to commence writing following the completion of what would become his only novel, Hidden Faces) was never realized, but this magnificent painting (above) more than filled the void.

I will conclude this post with one of the pioneers of abstract art in Europe: Lithuanian polymath Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis.

A quintessential representative of the fin de siècle epoch, Čiurlionis' contributions to both symbolism and art nouveau have made a lasting impact on the culture of his native country - his small output of some 300 paintings in addition to his music compositions (over 400 of which survive) have inspired composers, scientists and artists alike.

As proof of the painter-cum-writer-cum-composer's far reaching influence, Čiurlionis assumed the ranks of musical captains of industry in space when, in 1984, a stony Eunomian asteroid was assigned his moniker.

Čiurlionis' stunning The Gift of Friendship (1906)

Discovered in October 1975 by Soviet astronomer Nikolai Chernykh and provisionally designated 1975 TN, the minor planet became known as 2420 Čiurlionis.

He joins some of classical music's most iconic figures, including Mozart (1034 Mozartia), Beethoven (1815 Beethoven), Bach (1814 Bach), Schubert (3917 Franz Schubert) and Chopin (3784 Chopin), who have all been posthumously awarded the same distinction.

Čiurlionis' influence is not limited to Northern Europe or even to outer space. From cliffs located in the Russian archipelago to a peak in the Asian Pamir Mountains which bear his name, to galleries and exhibitions in Chicago and Los Angeles, both his life and art have been commemorated.

His paintings were featured States side as recently as 2005, at a so-called "Visual Music" festival that highlighted the phenomenon of synesthesia. The exhibit, held at L.A.'s Museum of Contemporary Art also featured the works of Wassily Kandinsky, James McNeill Whistler, and Paul Klee.

It is easy to see why Čiurlionis continues to inspire legions of painters and musicians. The former child prodigy, who could play several instruments (including flute and piano) by ear at age three and could sight-read music freely by age seven, believed himself to be a synesthete (one who perceives both music and colors simultaneously). The fruits of this self proclaimed gift are evident in the maestro's works, particularly in his so-called "Sonata Cycle," paintings, which are believed to directly correlate with his musical compositions.

The most notable of these cycles, dubbed Sonata V, consist of a series of three striking paintings depicting an expansive sea in various states of tide (pictured above, from left - right: "Allegro," "Andante," and "Finale." )

The three panels, executed shortly after the maestro composed his stunningly picturesque symphonic poem Jūra (The Sea, heard below), are thought to mirror the composer's 1908 composition: from the moody, dramatic opening chords which aptly characterize the foreboding nature of the sea - immense in depth and vast in scope (Allegro); to the brief, shimmering strings which respond with an eerie sense of placidity, suggesting the stillness of the hand (Andante) which guides the boat to shore (and the rather insignificant nature of man's presence within the far-reaching space of the ocean);^[5] and finally, to the climactic buildup toward the wildly turbulent finale, which concludes with the violent clash of symbols - a metaphor for the unpredictable, untamed nature of the sea. This gooseflesh-inducing denouement is mirrored in the last of the three paintings which comprise Sonata V (the 'Finale'), as a massive tidal wave appears suddenly and without warning. Far removed from the placid repose pictured in the penultimate panel, Finale suggests nature's triumph over man, as the undulating wave of her ocean threatens to effortlessly engulf all who dare attempt to try to tame her.

Listen below to the gorgeous Jūra:



Čiurlionis' many talents were not relegated only to painting - the multi-faceted artist also dabbled in writing, composing many literary and poetic works. Music, however, remained a constant throughout the life of the polymath. This method of expression proved as significant to his attractors as did his stunning artwork. 

Čiurlionis would receive his early education at the esteemed music school of the influential Polish Prince Michał Ogiński in Plungė via scholarship - this was no small honor for a budding composer: Ogiński was himself a renowned musician in his time, attracting the attention of many musical Polish nationals, not the least of whom included a young Chopin.^[6] 

Considered a hero of the Fatherland, Ogiński's patriotic polonaises held a special significance in the breasts of his fellow countrymen, and the exacting standards for admission into the school which bore his name prevailed long after his death.



The prolific Lithuanian composer-diplomat Osvaldas Jonas Balakauskas can be counted among those musicians whose music fall under the influential spell of Čiurlionis' stunning artwork.

The former Lithuanian ambassador to France, Spain and Portugal (and present head of the Composition Department of the Lithuanian Academy of Music and Theatre) based his 1975 Sonata of the Mountains after his fellow countryman's collective works. Both abstract and highly evocative, Balakauskas' homage feels a perfect fit alongside a perusal of Čiurlionis' diverse catalogue raisonné:



This concludes this installment of Music, poetry and art. My next post in this series will focus solely on works of art that directly influenced composers to pen a specific piece.

Image: © Victoria and Albert Museum, London

..that 18th century German-turned-English composer George Frederic Handel played an instrumental role in the future of British sculpture?

In the brief video below, Keeper of Applied Arts at the Fitzwilliam Museum at Cambridge, Dr Victoria Avery, and Assistant Keeper of Manuscripts and Printed Books, Dr Suzanne Reynolds discuss the composer's influence on his contemporary, Huguenot sculptor Louis François Roubiliac (1702-1762), whilst showcasing a rare terracotta model of the artist's sculpture.

According to Dr. Avery, Roubiliac's life-size statue of Handel, which the ardent music lover and patron executed for display at the 18th century London hotspot, the Spring Gardens at Vauxhall, marked the first time the British public encountered a sculpture of its combined size and nature. The stunning likeness, displaying the composer - then considered a commoner - in vulnerable, informal attire (Handel is depicted unwigged, in his sleeping robe and day cap) was considered revolutionary for its time. Previously, in terms of public, life-size, marble sculptures, the British would have been accustomed to seeing resplendent, heroic figures: monarchs, noblemen or military leaders who represented well their countrymen. For the German-born Handel to be displayed both publicly and in such a humble - yet still exalted - state in his restrictive, adopted land was nothing short of groundbreaking, and it would ultimately change the face of public sculpture itself for the foreseeable future.

The life-size monument is presently housed at the Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

 Watch the fascinating video below:



For those curious, the piece performed in the video is the fourth movement of Handel's Concerto Grosso, Op. 6 no.2 in F major, and the oratorio discussed (that of Alexander's Feast) can be heard here. 

Footnotes:

Female Seated Nude, Gerstl, 1908

^[1]Like his contemporary Oscar Kokoschka, whose obsession with Alma Mahler (the wife of Gustav Mahler) found itself permanently expressed on the canvas, Gerstl, too, paid homage to his lover in multiple paintings. His most scandalous portrayal of his inamorata was also his final work: his 1908 Female Seated Nude depicts Mathilde, fully undressed, sitting in front of a mirror in his studio. It is believed the painting, which depicts a post-coital liaison, was executed only days before Gerstl committed suicide. He would stab and hang himself on 4 November 1908, directly in front of the mirror portrayed in this painting.


^[2] According to a theory touted by the German musicologist Johann Friedrich Rochlitz. Rochlitz drew his conclusion (now considered anecdotal) based on a letter written from Emmanuel Bach to the German musician Johann Niokolaus Forkel in 1775, in which CPE states "The present generation, quoad Musicam, is degenerating.” There is no evidence to support a conclusion that Emmanuel was in any way discouraged by his son's chosen occupation, in spite of possessing the moniker of his grandfather.

Family of Saltimbanques, Picasso, 1905

^[3] Picasso's early work channeled his own experiences as an artist striving for recognition as a Spanish émigré in Paris. The Saltimbanque, a family of transient circus people, were explored during the painter's early years (1904-1905). From the modern perspective, these harlequin and carnivalesque figures appear to represent gaiety, however Picasso intended them to be viewed as the lowly, affronted class of artistes. Some of these depictions by the artist included a character playing on a barrel organ - a 'musical instrument' so loathed, it's performers were frequently named and shamed inside the pages of 19th century police blotters after having been found guilty of the offense of disturbing public order. Charles Dickens famously paid these 'musicians' (known as organ grinders) to go away.

^[4] England declared war on Germany on 3 September - just one day prior to the slated original premiere. As a result of the ongoing conflict, the Ballet Russes de Monte Carlo was forced to leave London for New York. Dali's costumes, which had been constructed by the famed French designer Coco Chanel, were subsequently held up in Paris. The daunting task of recreating the wardrobe fell on Russian costumer Barbara Karinska, who used Dali's original sketches as a guide.

Monument of Jūratė in Poland

^[5]The gentle nature of the Andante may also be represented by the tale of Jūratė and Kastytis. The popular Lithuanian legend tells the story of Jūratė, goddess of the sea and of marine life (who may represent nature) who falls in love with the mortal fisherman, Kastytis, who had disturbed the natural order of the sea by extracting too much life from within. Instead of punishing Kastytis for his transgression, Jūratė and the young fisherman engage in pleasantries inside of her amber castle located beneath the Baltic Sea. This newfound union is cast asunder by the thunder-god Perkūnas, who becomes enraged and strikes the castle, causing it to explode into millions of fragments. Perkūnas then has Jūratė permanently chained to a rock upon the seafloor. Čiurlionis had been planning to compose an opera based on the famous legend, and it is entirely possible that the ruins painted beneath the hand in Andante foretell this endeavor.

^[6] Chopin's first published composition (a polonaise in G minor), written at the tender age of 8, shows the influence of the works of Ogiński. According to Chopin biographer Dr. Alan Walker, the soldier-composer wrote music in between stints on the battlefield (combating the Russians alongside Gen. Tedeusz Kosciusko). His patriotic polonaises were especially revered by his fellow countrymen, who considered the Prince a national hero. Ogiński's efforts on the frontline were said to have been just as impressive - he posed such a threat to the Russians, Catherine the Great put a price on his head.


"Nature contains the elements, in color and form, of all pictures, as the keyboard contains the notes of all music. But the artist is born to pick, and choose, and group with science, these elements, that the results may be beautiful – as the musicians gathers his notes, and forms his chords, until he brings forth from chaos glorious harmony"

- 'Ten O’Clock Lecture' of 1885, Whistler

- Rose.

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