Latest news with #19thCentury
The Guardian
5 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Left turns: How a terrible war injury led to the birth of one-handed piano music
I love talking to people about piano music written for the left hand. It's a corner of the repertoire that's often seen as a mysterious niche – yet it comprises a handful of hidden gems for solo piano and a few celebrated concertos too. With most people, the conversation quickly turns to Ravel's legendary Piano Concerto for the Left Hand (1929-30). This masterwork, a favourite among pianists, has been performed by some of the world's greatest keyboard titans and – as a pianist born without my right hand – holds a special place in my own output. But there are a great deal more pieces for the left hand out there. The story begins in the early 19th century when concert pianists were cultural superstars. Liszt, for instance, packed out European concert halls in the same way that a modern day icon such as Taylor Swift sells out stadiums in minutes. These virtuosos enthralled their audiences with their technical brilliance and dramatic showmanship. And they often added an encore designed to astonish – such as performing dazzling feats of pyrotechnics using only their left hand. Using the so-called 'weaker' hand to deliver a bravura display was irresistible to concertgoers, and the spectacle would leave them in awe. The trick lay in the aural illusion: left-hand works often create the impression of two or even three hands playing simultaneously, deceiving even the savviest listeners. Though the left hand tends to be weaker, its physiology gives it an advantage. In standard two-handed piano repertoire the melody line is mostly projected in the right hand by the little finger, the weakest of the fingers. But in left-hand repertoire the melody line is projected by the thumb, the strongest digit, giving it greater clarity. This is why there are more than 3,000 works for left hand alone, yet only a few for the right hand. Another important element in the left-hand pianist's toolkit is the sustain pedal. This allows bass notes to remain present in the texture creating a fuller sound, similar to that which two hands can achieve. The development of serious left-hand repertoire beyond encore and novelty pieces, give or take a few real left-hand gems, did not occur until the 20th century, in the aftermath of the first world war. At the centre of this evolution was Paul Wittgenstein (1887-1961) whose story would forever alter the course of left-hand-alone music. A member of the prominent Viennese Wittgenstein family, Paul was the son of a wealthy steel magnate and the brother of renowned philosopher Ludwig. The family was deeply embedded in European high society, with close connections to some of the greatest names in art, music and culture. Paul was a gifted pianist who made his concert debut in 1913. But the outbreak of war would soon change his life for ever. Having enlisted in the Austro-Hungarian army, Wittgenstein was seriously injured fighting the Russian army in the Battle of Galicia, losing his right arm. This was tragically a common wartime injury: right-handed soldiers often suffered damage to their dominant limb during combat. Taken prisoner after the battle, Wittgenstein was moved to a Siberian camp. Here he etched out the lines of a piano keyboard in charcoal on the base of an upturned wooden crate, spending several hours a day hammering the phantom keys with his remaining hand. A visiting dignitary, witnessing this poignant and unusual sight, arranged for him to be transferred to a camp where there was an upright piano. Wittgenstein set to work figuring out how to play the pieces he adored – but with his left hand alone. Repatriated to Vienna in 1915, Wittgenstein faced the monumental challenge of reinventing himself as a one-handed pianist. With steely determination (and his family's immense wealth and elite connections), he set out to build a career. He commissioned some of the most celebrated composers of the era to write works for him. These included concertos by Prokofiev, Strauss, Britten, Korngold and Hindemith. Wittgenstein did not perform every piece he commissioned. He told Prokofiev that he did not understand his 4th Piano Concerto: 'The inner logic of the work is not clear to me, and, of course I can't play it until it is.' He quarrelled with other composers over changes he demanded to their scores. Among the works he commissioned was Ravel's aforementioned Piano Concerto for the Left Hand. Yet even that iconic work was not scandal-free: Wittgenstein made changes to the score for the premiere. Ravel was incensed, and the pair only reconciled after Wittgenstein agreed to perform it as originally written. The concerto is a triumph of ingenuity and artistry. Though it was composed at around the same time as Ravel's other Piano Concerto, for two hands, the works are poles apart – each a unique testament to the composer's mastery of orchestration and piano writing. I vividly remember hearing it for the first time as a 15-year-old. Its opening captivated me immediately: an ominous visceral rumble from the orchestra that gradually unfolds into a majestic theme, rising through the low growl of the instruments. All the while the pianist sits in suspense waiting for their dramatic entrance. The attention is electric, and ice-cold nerves are required from the soloist as they prepare for their moment of brilliance. Throughout his life Ravel was inspired by the play of water. Jeux d'eau (Water Games, 1901), and Ondine (the water nymph) from Gaspard de la Nuit (1908) convey this beautifully. Yet, for me, his most water-like musical achievement comes in the left-hand concerto's breathtaking extended cadenza, heard towards the end of the work. Here the piano becomes a shimmering cascade, rippling and flowing with crystalline beauty before building to a powerful conclusion. Specialising in this extraordinary repertoire is a privilege, a responsibility and, at times, a real challenge. If my forthcoming Proms performance of the Ravel whets your appetite to hear more, I recommend the Britten Diversions for Piano Left Hand and Orchestra as well as Martinu's Concertino (Divertimento), a lovely little gem of a work for chamber orchestra and piano left hand. And I confess I can't agree with Wittgenstein about the work's inner logic – I'll be performing Prokofiev's 4th Piano Concerto next year, and will also soon be adding Korngold's glorious Piano Concerto for Left Hand to my repertoire. There are still preconceptions around disability and a career in music. As one of just a few classical soloists with a physical disability, I've had to be patient and resilient and to develop a thicker skin simply because I don't fit into the correct box. But I hope I can inspire the next generation of pianists to explore this remarkable music. Just as Wittgenstein blazed a trail for me, I aspire to light the way for others, ensuring that the legacy of left-hand-alone music continues to thrive. Nicholas McCarthy performs Ravel's Piano Concerto for the Left Hand at the Proms on 20 July. Listen live on BBC Radio 3 or on demand until 12 October. This is an edited version of an essay that is in the BBC 2025 Proms Guide
The Guardian
6 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Left turns: How a terrible war injury led to the birth of one-handed piano music
I love talking to people about piano music written for the left hand. It's a corner of the repertoire that's often seen as a mysterious niche – yet it comprises a handful of hidden gems for solo piano and a few celebrated concertos too. With most people, the conversation quickly turns to Ravel's legendary Piano Concerto for the Left Hand (1929-30). This masterwork, a favourite among pianists, has been performed by some of the world's greatest keyboard titans and – as a pianist born without my right hand – holds a special place in my own output. But there are a great deal more pieces for the left hand out there. The story begins in the early 19th century when concert pianists were cultural superstars. Liszt, for instance, packed out European concert halls in the same way that a modern day icon such as Taylor Swift sells out stadiums in minutes. These virtuosos enthralled their audiences with their technical brilliance and dramatic showmanship. And they often added an encore designed to astonish – such as performing dazzling feats of pyrotechnics using only their left hand. Using the so-called 'weaker' hand to deliver a bravura display was irresistible to concertgoers, and the spectacle would leave them in awe. The trick lay in the aural illusion: left-hand works often create the impression of two or even three hands playing simultaneously, deceiving even the savviest listeners. Though the left hand tends to be weaker, its physiology gives it an advantage. In standard two-handed piano repertoire the melody line is mostly projected in the right hand by the little finger, the weakest of the fingers. But in left-hand repertoire the melody line is projected by the thumb, the strongest digit, giving it greater clarity. This is why there are more than 3,000 works for left hand alone, yet only a few for the right hand. Another important element in the left-hand pianist's toolkit is the sustain pedal. This allows bass notes to remain present in the texture creating a fuller sound, similar to that which two hands can achieve. The development of serious left-hand repertoire beyond encore and novelty pieces, give or take a few real left-hand gems, did not occur until the 20th century, in the aftermath of the first world war. At the centre of this evolution was Paul Wittgenstein (1887-1961) whose story would forever alter the course of left-hand-alone music. A member of the prominent Viennese Wittgenstein family, Paul was the son of a wealthy steel magnate and the brother of renowned philosopher Ludwig. The family was deeply embedded in European high society, with close connections to some of the greatest names in art, music and culture. Paul was a gifted pianist who made his concert debut in 1913. But the outbreak of war would soon change his life for ever. Having enlisted in the Austro-Hungarian army, Wittgenstein was seriously injured fighting the Russian army in the Battle of Galicia, losing his right arm. This was tragically a common wartime injury: right-handed soldiers often suffered damage to their dominant limb during combat. Taken prisoner after the battle, Wittgenstein was moved to a Siberian camp. Here he etched out the lines of a piano keyboard in charcoal on the base of an upturned wooden crate, spending several hours a day hammering the phantom keys with his remaining hand. A visiting dignitary, witnessing this poignant and unusual sight, arranged for him to be transferred to a camp where there was an upright piano. Wittgenstein set to work figuring out how to play the pieces he adored – but with his left hand alone. Repatriated to Vienna in 1915, Wittgenstein faced the monumental challenge of reinventing himself as a one-handed pianist. With steely determination (and his family's immense wealth and elite connections), he set out to build a career. He commissioned some of the most celebrated composers of the era to write works for him. These included concertos by Prokofiev, Strauss, Britten, Korngold and Hindemith. Wittgenstein did not perform every piece he commissioned. He told Prokofiev that he did not understand his 4th Piano Concerto: 'The inner logic of the work is not clear to me, and, of course I can't play it until it is.' He quarrelled with other composers over changes he demanded to their scores. Among the works he commissioned was Ravel's aforementioned Piano Concerto for the Left Hand. Yet even that iconic work was not scandal-free: Wittgenstein made changes to the score for the premiere. Ravel was incensed, and the pair only reconciled after Wittgenstein agreed to perform it as originally written. The concerto is a triumph of ingenuity and artistry. Though it was composed at around the same time as Ravel's other Piano Concerto, for two hands, the works are poles apart – each a unique testament to the composer's mastery of orchestration and piano writing. I vividly remember hearing it for the first time as a 15-year-old. Its opening captivated me immediately: an ominous visceral rumble from the orchestra that gradually unfolds into a majestic theme, rising through the low growl of the instruments. All the while the pianist sits in suspense waiting for their dramatic entrance. The attention is electric, and ice-cold nerves are required from the soloist as they prepare for their moment of brilliance. Throughout his life Ravel was inspired by the play of water. Jeux d'eau (Water Games, 1901), and Ondine (the water nymph) from Gaspard de la Nuit (1908) convey this beautifully. Yet, for me, his most water-like musical achievement comes in the left-hand concerto's breathtaking extended cadenza, heard towards the end of the work. Here the piano becomes a shimmering cascade, rippling and flowing with crystalline beauty before building to a powerful conclusion. Specialising in this extraordinary repertoire is a privilege, a responsibility and, at times, a real challenge. If my forthcoming Proms performance of the Ravel whets your appetite to hear more, I recommend the Britten Diversions for Piano Left Hand and Orchestra as well as Martinu's Concertino (Divertimento), a lovely little gem of a work for chamber orchestra and piano left hand. And I confess I can't agree with Wittgenstein about the work's inner logic – I'll be performing Prokofiev's 4th Piano Concerto next year, and will also soon be adding Korngold's glorious Piano Concerto for Left Hand to my repertoire. There are still preconceptions around disability and a career in music. As one of just a few classical soloists with a physical disability, I've had to be patient and resilient and to develop a thicker skin simply because I don't fit into the correct box. But I hope I can inspire the next generation of pianists to explore this remarkable music. Just as Wittgenstein blazed a trail for me, I aspire to light the way for others, ensuring that the legacy of left-hand-alone music continues to thrive. Nicholas McCarthy performs Ravel's Piano Concerto for the Left Hand at the Proms on 20 July. Listen live on BBC Radio 3 or on demand until 12 October. This is an edited version of an essay that is in the BBC 2025 Proms Guide
New York Times
09-07-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
‘The Gilded Age' Enriches Its Portrait of Black High Society
The air felt different as I sat across from Phylicia Rashad, Audra McDonald and Denée Benton. I was lifted simply by being with these women, three generations of Broadway royalty. (Of course, as the former Clair Huxtable, Rashad qualifies as TV royalty as well.) Now they are together on 'The Gilded Age,' the HBO drama about late 19th-century New York City and the old-money elites, arrivistes and workers who live and clash there. I was initially worried about the show when it debuted in 2022. As a long-term fan of the creator Julian Fellowes's more homogenous hit 'Downton Abbey,' I feared this American counterpart would similarly overlook the racial dynamics of its era. But I was pleasantly surprised by the nuance of the character Peggy Scott (Benton), an aspiring journalist and secretary for Agnes van Rhijn (Christine Baranski) and a member of Brooklyn's Black upper-middle class. An early version of Peggy had the character posing as a domestic servant to gain access to Agnes. But Benton and the show's historical consultant, Erica Armstrong Dunbar, pushed for a more multifaceted exploration of the lives of Black New Yorkers, who often interacted with Manhattan's white elite even as they lived separately. (Dunbar and I were colleagues at Rutgers University.) This season, 'The Gilded Age' has its most diverse and in-depth portrayal of Black high society yet, often pitting Peggy's mother, Dorothy (McDonald), against the aristocratic Elizabeth Kirkland (Rashad), who arrives on the show on Sunday. Like other wealthy mothers on this show, Elizabeth spends most of her time trying to control the marital fate of her children and discriminating against other families, like the Scotts, that she believes to be socially inferior. Want all of The Times? Subscribe.
Geek Dad
09-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Geek Dad
Review – Batman Gotham by Gaslight: A League for Justice #1
Gotham by Gaslight: A League for Justice #1 cover, via DC Comics. Ray: This 19th-century Elseworlds started out as a gritty Gotham adventure – but with this new chapter, the scale has increased to an almost staggering degree. After taking about half a year off, a new arc begins as the entire Justice League of this era has gathered in Smallville. There's just one problem – very few of them can stand each other. As Harley Quinn's criminal gang ravages the town on behalf of Lex Luthor, Superman is focused on stopping them. This version of the character is very similar to the classic 1930s version, more a brawler than a superhero. But he's the only one focused – as this version of J'onn J'onnz views him as a murderer, complicit in the ancient Kryptonian genocide of the Martians. As a flashback journal by Adam Strange makes clear, this is a darker world – and every character in this world is haunted by the times in a way they usually aren't. Haunted. Via DC Comics. The most interesting segment of the issue is the showdown between J'onn and Alan Scott. Alan's ring has given him memories of the past wielders – including Jong Li, the last human wielder, who died in battle with J'onn ages ago. Alan in this world is a distinctly less honorable man than he usually is, but there's a brilliant flashback segment to his childhood with an abusive father that shows how he became so embittered and how he's choosing to rise above it now. This issue packs a lot of character work into an oversized first issue packed with action, but the scale of the issue escalates even more with the final page – as Lex Luthor arrives in town and debuts a new weapon that fits the aesthetic of this world perfectly. This is very much just the next issue of this series, so I highly recommend reading the previous mini before jumping in here – it's a great ride and another win for the Elseworlds line. To find reviews of all the DC issues, visit DC This Week. GeekDad received this comic for review purposes. Liked it? Take a second to support GeekDad and GeekMom on Patreon!
ABC News
05-07-2025
- General
- ABC News
Slow looking is your ticket to deeper insights, better writing and quieter skies
The best piece of writing advice I have ever heard is only four words long: "Look at your fish." I first discovered this in an interview the American historian David McCullough did with the Paris Review. In it, he cites renowned Harvard teacher Louis Agassiz, a 19th century naturalist, who placed a smelly, dead fish in a tin pan in front of his new students and told them to look at it. Then he would leave the room: When he came back, he would ask the student what he'd seen. Not very much, they would most often say, and Agassiz would say it again: Look at your fish. This could go on for days. The student would be encouraged to draw the fish but could use no tools for the examination, just hands and eyes. Samuel Scudder, who later became a famous entomologist and expert on grasshoppers, left us the best account of the "ordeal with the fish." After several days, he still could not see whatever it was Agassiz wanted him to see. But, he said, I see how little I saw before. Then Scudder had a brainstorm and he announced it to Agassiz the next morning: Paired organs, the same on both sides. Of course! Of course! Agassiz said, very pleased. So, Scudder naturally asked what he should do next, and Agassiz said, Look at your fish. When I was writing a lengthy biography of a much pored-over British queen, I wrote these words on a card and pinned it above my desk. I had to believe that if I went back and scrutinised the archives, held myths and stereotypes up to the light, then scrutinised the archives again, that I would see things others had missed. So, I looked at that fish for years. This is why the re-emerging idea of "slow looking" in art galleries and museums is such a wonderful one; it encourages intense observation, attention to detail, reverence for art, skepticism about what first glances reveal, appreciation of learning, respect for the subject. It can be done anywhere — and it might even sharpen our instincts to be better able to identify the hand of artificial intelligence. The slow looking movement seems to have quickened its pace in recent years — the Tate employed it for an exhibition on Bonnard (they had a lovely take on how to slow look), as did the UK National Gallery during lockdown, galleries in New York City and our National Gallery too. The Frederiksberg Museums in Denmark is encouraging slow looking as therapy for young people with poor mental health. The program, called See Listen Talk, is done in collaboration with Roskilde University and is intended to foster social connection and build empathy along with recovery. Dr Kasper Levin, associate professor of social psychology and aesthetics at Roskilde University, says: "Many mental health conditions are linked to disrupted perceptions of time and space, which affect one's sense of self. Slow looking may help participants restructure these perceptions, fostering a sense of coherence and stability." Surveys show people spend mere seconds looking at pieces of art, and often just glance. But museum educator Clare Bown says slow looking is not "simply the amount of time that you spend with something, it's the belief that all discovery originates in looking. Slow looking simply requires us to be present, patient and willing to immerse ourselves in the act of observation." Shari Tishman, author of Slow Looking: The Art and Practice of Learning Through Observation, published in 2017, argues that taking time to immerse yourself in the details of a range of objects — of anything, really — can unlock your brain, help you think and learn better, more critically, and more meaningfully. Core to this is patience. In 2013 American art historian Jennifer Roberts wrote an article titled Power of Patience about teaching students the value of deceleration and immersive attention. In it, she described challenging her art history students to dedicate three hours to a single work of art. She wrote: "Every external pressure, social and technological, is pushing students in the other direction, toward immediacy, rapidity, and spontaneity — and against this other kind of opportunity. I want to give them the permission and the structures to slow down." Roberts's technique for teaching is fascinating. Each of her students chooses a work of art to write an intensive research paper about. The first thing she tells them to do is "spend a painfully long time looking at that object." One example she gives is A Boy With A Flying Squirrel, painted in Boston in 1765 by John Singleton Copley. The student would need to — before doing anything else — sit in front of it in the Museum of Fine Arts for three hours, writing down what they see. She says when she did this herself: It took me nine minutes to notice that the shape of the boy's ear precisely echoes that of the ruff along the squirrel's belly — and that Copley was making some kind of connection between the animal and the human body and the sensory capacities of each. It was 21 minutes before I registered the fact that the fingers holding the chain exactly span the diameter of the water glass beneath them. It took a good 45 minutes before I realised that the seemingly random folds and wrinkles in the background curtain are actually perfect copies of the shapes of the boy's ear and eye, as if Copley had imagined those sensory organs distributing or imprinting themselves on the surface behind him. And so on. The art world has many advocates for this approach. For decades, British art critic Peter Clotheri has run one-hour meditation sessions in front of pieces of art, which he wrote about in his book Slow Looking in 2012. But now slow looking is being used in a range of disciplines and areas, colouring more public discussions about education and understanding. It's not just about looking at art, in other words, but about looking at the world. In 2000, historian James Elkins wrote a delicious book called How to Use Your Eyes. In it, he invites readers to look at — and maybe to see for the first time — the world around us, with quite astonishing outcomes. He suggests mandalas, the periodic table, an Egyptian hieroglyph, postage stamps, grass, a twig. In his book On Looking: Eleven Walks with Expert Eyes, Alexander Horowitz tells us to turn fresh eyes to the paths we walk or drive down every day, and note how much more we can see. I appreciate that some reading this might say: "Oh, it's very well for a bunch of academics to sit and stare at squirrels or fish for hours a day — most of us don't have time." But we don't hesitate to spend several hours on screens. This is in an era where we are being constantly bombarded with news and information, some of it deeply disturbing, much of it skewed and false. Consuming anything slowly, paying deep careful attention, has become profoundly counter-cultural. Anything that serves as an antidote to chronic distraction, that pulls our gaze from pulsing, popping screens to quieter skies surely should be applauded. Juila Baird is an author, broadcaster, journalist and co-host of the ABC podcast, Not Stupid.
