Dedication: András Mihály
Premiere location: Budapest
Premiere date: 1971.10.13.
Premiere performers: Erika Sziklai, soprano; Budapest Chamber Ensemble, conducted by: András Mihály
Lyricist name: István Bálint
Language: Hungarian
Composition end date: 1999
Genre: Chamber Music with Voice
Instrumentation: oboe, horn, cimbalom, harp, piano / celesta, violin, viola, violoncello, double bass, soprano, flute / piccolo, Clarinet in A
Duration (minutes): 11
Year of publication: 1996
Publisher: Universal Edition/Editio Musica Budapest
Publication number: UE 3126 és UE 30393 (piano reduction)
1 Paris I, Musée de Cluny: La Dame à la Licorne
2 Paris II, Tour Saint Jacques
3 Language Lesson
4 Ars poetica
Poems by István Bálint
1
Paris I - Musée de Cluny:
The Lady with the Unicorn
Before touching your unicorn
with your fingers do not forget
the curtain of the eyes gets soiled, if
between your legs, anyway
small animals are watching,
let's get it over with.
2
Paris II - The Tower of Saint-Jacques
If I could. So unfinished
thorn broken from the sky,
incomplete male display
just ran out of
If I could. So un ...
3
Language Lesson
No matter how the cat
scratches and screams
You tear it from the rug
to throw into the shadow of my open umbrella.
A macska az esernyő alatt van.
No matter how the umbrella
screams and scratches the rug
You tear the cat off
to throw into its open shadow.
The cat is under the umbrella.
4
Ars poetica
Very superficially,
just about skin deep
with things ready to pop out
naturally
While under
there is the finest spring
clockwork of a stinger,
you see
I lie on You
rich with weird analogies
and wonder, how come,
despite all this.
Translations by István Bálint
Introduction to the piece by György Kroó, published in the weekly Élet és Irodalom two months before the premiere
The score has not yet been published, the music has not yet been performed, and these are settings of unpublished poems – yet I am eager to write about them, for Kurtág’s works are always a major event in our musical life.
Those unfamiliar with the composer might not believe that this is only his ninth work at the age of forty-five. Those who are familiar with his career know that his timeline begins with his musical rebirth during his study trip to Paris in 1957–58, and that his String Quartet, Op. 1, is separated by only 12 years from the Capriccio – written in score form in just six months, an almost personal record, and completed this past January. Score, I say, as I marvel at the nearly 20 instrumental parts of the sheet music lying on my desk. This series of songs composed for a chamber ensemble is Kurtág’s largest score to date; it truly resembles an orchestra, following his instrumental solos, two- or three-part chamber works, and even the string quartet and wind quintet. Yet this is still chamber music: the atmosphere of the expression and the nature of the composition make it so.
I wonder what it was in István Bálint’s poems that captivated the composer. Did they evoke memories of Paris? This seems likely, as the inspiration for the first two songs comes from the world-famous woven tapestries of the Musée de Cluny and the Saint Jacques tower. Perhaps he was also drawn to the poems’ flashes of insight and intellectual leaps. The aphoristic or capriccio-like moods likely suited this master of miniature musical forms and devotee of Viennese declamation, while the play of ambiguity and the blurring of associations probably both intrigued him and brought a smile to his face. Beyond all this, the poem about the ruined tower of St. James struck a deeply resonant chord within him, embodying the beauty of the unfinished, the unsaid, the truncated, yet fully constructed, deeply felt, and completely expressed thought. Thus, the four songs, under the pretext of seemingly incidental, capriciously selected and linked poems, coalesce into something resembling a worldview; in any case, they emerge as a masterpiece that is characteristically self-portrait-like.
The first song (La Dame à la Licorne), consisting of just three vocal phrases, slowly emerges from the haze of the instrumental introduction but then passes by with the speed of a dream, vanishing before we can grasp it. The music ennobles its playful, slightly erotic air, while the melody’s piquant inflections and dance-like flutters evoke not only the mood of the Way of St. Michael but also the atmosphere of Place Pigalle.
The second song, “Tour Saint-Jacques,” is a poem of incompleteness and one of Kurtág’s most beautiful pieces. Its gaze is almost Bartókian in depth and clarity. There is something infinitely soft, breath-like, and even sweetly dissolved in its character. Its form is even slimmer than its model’s and, above all, more fleeting; the whole is almost just a hint. Alongside the vocal line, the horn takes center stage.
The third movement (Language Lesson) is the antithesis of the previous one. A wild scherzo, it cannot break free from the grip of the rhythm and is forced to yield to the magnetism of the form. Pulsating and passionately playful, the music imposes an almost impossible task on the singer, yet the strength of its character and the brilliance of its logic shine through.
The finale is titled “Ars poetica.” It serves as a finale because it weaves together threads from the previous movements; it is connected to the scherzo through a quotation, yet, according to its position in the cycle, it is the symmetrical counterpart to the slow second movement. Here, the poet feigns apparent lightness, acting as if only the surface matters to him. With brilliant inspiration, Kurtág begins the music with the indifferent noise of a tuning orchestra, which gradually builds its own nervous structure. When the grimace appears in the poem (“… with twisted similes I lie upon you and marvel that despite this”), the vocal melody lifts it with an enchanting gesture, conjuring the joke into the realm of poetry.
This exceptionally high degree of fusion between musical imagery and lyrical expression, characteristic of the Four Capriccios, is worthy of Alban Berg’s artistry in Wozzeck. Few are capable of such variety and completeness within a strictly defined puritanical style. The structure here resembles an invisible steel net, above which the imagination performs individual feats of magic at dizzying heights. A radio recording of Kurtág’s work is being made under the direction of András Mihály, with the vocal solo performed by Erika Sziklai.
(Élet és Irodalom 15 [1971]/34, 13.)
_____________
Program notes by Márta Sz. Farkas for the premiere
(October 11, 1971)
György Kurtág composed Four Capriccios, Op. 9, in late 1970. Like the composer’s other works designated with opus numbers, this piece was the result of a lengthy gestation period; it is separated from Four Fragments, Op. 8, by one year.
The Four Capriccios were set to poems by István Bálint. The first is Paris I (Musée de Cluny: La Dame à la Licorne). Its title refers to the image on the world-famous Renaissance tapestry at the Cluny Museum, which depicts Mary of England with the legendary unicorn. However, the image serves only as a starting point for the ideas contained in the poem, from which a series of associations that recede into the distance takes flight; its elements are held together not by logical order but by the hidden connections that arise from the sequence of words. The second capriccio, “ Paris II (Tour Saint-Jacques),” is composed in a manner similar to the previous poem and is likewise linked to a visual experience in Paris: the Tour Saint-Jacques. “The Language Lesson” and “The Ars Poetica” are poems whose content diverges strikingly from the usual meanings of the words, yet they remain tied to familiar concepts.
György Kurtág entrusted the vocalization of the text in his work to a soprano voice. The vocal part is the most direct interpreter of the words’ expressive content. The unusual contour of its melody and its treatment – which require a technique different from traditional singing methods – convey the poetic message beyond the text’s expressive possibilities. The work’s carefully chosen instrumental ensemble represents a wide range of colors: the colors of the orchestration, the constantly shifting nuances of the sound, its distinctive dynamic gradations, and its spatial effects – which encompass both height and depth – serve as the work’s potent means of expression. The constituent elements of musical texture – the vertical and horizontal relationships of intervals, the vividly delineated instrumental lines, and the rhythmic patterns – derive their particular significance from the unity of the musical material. The structure of the composition’s technical elements thus serves its expressive content, evoking associations and creating atmosphere.
(Program notes of the National Philharmony [1971]/35, 17.)
No sheet music files available for this piece.
Reviews of the first perfomance
András Rajk: Hungarian premieres
(Népszava, October 17, 1971)
On October 13, in the Chamber Hall of the Academy of Music – now traditionally – several interesting pieces from the latest chamber music repertoire were presented. This is not the place to provide a comprehensive overview of the works of five contemporary Hungarian composers (György Ligeti, Endre Székely, Zsolt Durkó, György Kurtág, András Mihály). Instead of evaluating their works, this space is reserved for assessing the fact itself: in all its modesty, this is nonetheless one of the most significant events of the Budapest Music Weeks and of the arts weeks as a whole. As far as can be determined upon first hearing – which is no less true for some of the works not presented here – no work of exceptional significance has been created (I reserve the right to be mistaken, of course). What seems certain – or rather, sounds certain – is that Zsolt Durkó and György Kurtág approach the new sonic possibilities of the post-Bartók era with seriousness and great sensitivity. I am convinced that the paths Kurtág has now taken (and the paths of István Bálint’s poetry – the Four Capriccios were written for this) are dead ends, but they run alongside interesting, colorful, and substantial main roads. Both composers and performers deserve the utmost attention and gratitude for their tireless search for new directions in Hungarian music. Indeed, only such a path leads to new experiences.
(Népszava, 99 [1971]/245, 9.)
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Péter Várnai: New Hungarian Musical Works
(Magyar Hírlap, October 17, 1971)
György Kurtág’s Four Capriccios, another new work, was the other highlight of the evening. (Two of Kurtág’s earlier works, the Wind Quintet and the Violin-Cimbalom Duos, were also on the programme.) The new piece was composed to short poems by István Bálint, for soprano and chamber ensemble. Kurtág, much as in his Bornemisza cantata, once again delves deeply into the text, using musical means to capture the essence of these grotesque, often risqué poems. The new piece is extremely entertaining, revealing a completely new side of Kurtág. The four short movements are a veritable treasure trove of colours, accents, and ideas, yet not for a single note does the strict composition compromise the demands of the most modern techniques.
(Magyar Hírlap 4 [1971]/291, 6.)
_____________
R. I.: Hungarian Premieres
(Magyar Nemzet, 19 October 1971)
György Kurtág’s Capriccio (Op. 8), comprising four short movements, was performed as the fourth premiere of the concert. The work translates the expressive, almost punctual imagery of the selected poems – written by István Bálint – into musical solutions that vividly characterise the contemporary texture of Kurtág’s music. Erika Sziklay performed her part with the intensity of the music and the expressiveness of the poems.
(Magyar Nemzet 27 [1971]/246, 4.)
_____________
János Breuer: Music Chronicle
(Népszabadság, 19 October 1971)
Kurtág’s new composition, Four Capriccios – set to poems by István Bálint – offers numerous variations on the intimate sphere of private human life. This is evident in everything the poem expresses, and even more so in what it leaves unspoken. The music highlights the omitted parts, giving voice to the unspoken words that cannot be captured in print. The immense passion of the composer’s Bornemisza cantata, written a few years ago, has been tamed and transformed into playful phrases. Atlas has laid the world’s burdens – all its cares and troubles – off his shoulders and is resting. Let us not deny him this right.
(Népszabadság 29 [1971]/246, 7.)
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Előd Juhász: Premieres of Hungarian Works
(Tükör, 2 November 1971)
György Kurtág’s Four Capriccios, set to poems by István Bálint, were also premiered at the same concert. The composition is concise and expressive, faithfully capturing the character and mood of the free-association poems, as well as the nervous tension of our times. The treatment of the vocal part is unusual yet remains primarily musical even when it disregards the laws of prosody. The capriccio set is exceptionally effective and, at times, enriched with elements – a dance-like, playful character – that have appeared only rarely in the composer’s previous works. It is difficult to predict whether we are witnessing a slight shift in the composer's expressive means or merely an expansion of the toolkit for a song cycle.
(Tükör 8 [1971]/44, 12.)
_____________
Review by István Homolya
(Program Booklet of the National Philharmonic, November 15, 1971)
The Budapest Chamber Ensemble enriched the Music Weeks concert series with a valuable program and beautifully executed artistic production. True to the Chamber Ensemble’s core mission, the program featured only works by contemporary Hungarian composers. The concert’s favorable overall impression can be attributed to both the consistently high quality of the works performed and the high artistic standard of the performance. The program centered on three compositions by Kurtág; two of these, the Wind Quintet and the Violin-Cimbalom Duos, are already well-known and frequently performed concert pieces. In addition to Kurtág, one work each by three other Hungarian composers – Zsolt Durkó, András Mihály, and Endre Székely – was performed. One of the highlights of the program was the Hungarian premiere of an instrumental composition by György Ligeti, who lives abroad. […]
The Kurtág premiere was preceded by considerable interest. The attention that typically accompanies Kurtág’s works was heightened in this case by the fact that the Four Capriccios were written for a large ensemble – something entirely unusual in Kurtág’s oeuvre. Upon listening to the work in its entirety, we discovered another novelty in terms of content: the emergence of a playful element, a touch of humor, in this major artist’s repertoire. The composition fully embodied the remarkable formal power and creative sensibility that we have always admired in Kurtág’s work. Yet the process of finding one’s way – which involves many innovations – did not entirely disappear from the work this time, as evidenced, among other things, by certain Schönberg-like echoes that, by any standard, place this work behind his compositions from earlier years. […]
Finally, let us acknowledge the members of the performing ensemble, each of whom contributed with dedication to this successful production. By name, we recognize Erika Sziklay, who sang the vocal parts in the Kurtág and Székely works; Ildikó Hegyi and Márta Fábián, who performed Kurtág’s Violin-Cimbalom Duos; the Hungarian Wind Quintet, who performed Kurtág’s Wind Quintet with great feeling and artistry; and the ensemble’s principal conductor, András Mihály.
(Program Booklet of the National Philharmonic [1971]/39, 21–22.)
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Review by Imre Keszi
(Film Színház Muzsika, November 27, 1971)
Looking back on the musical events of the past few weeks – the series of Hungarian premieres – the sounds of two composers’ works resonate most clearly with us: those of György Ligeti and György Kurtág. Both can now be properly assessed; it is no longer too early to speak of them. Now in their forties and fifties, far beyond the turbulence of their early years, even their experimentation has become part of a unified musical message. Their experimentation, yes, as both are restless musicians with a strong penchant for it. And this is about the only thing they have in common. […]
While Ligeti is a composer of wide-ranging interests and great breadth, György Kurtág is an intensely focused artist, a creator with the temperament of an oil prospector who drills to great depths within a narrow field. Behind Ligeti’s known compositions, we sense an extensive body of work, whereas we know that Kurtág composed very little, working as if with a filter and a dropper. His song cycle Four Capriccios, now being presented, is Op. 9. Op. 8 is also a song cycle, based on texts by Pál Gulyás, titled Four Fragments.
A one-year interval between the two cycles is a substantial amount of time, and this is evident in the differences in conception between the two works. As mentioned, Kurtág explores a narrow field, but he does so with all the more intensity and a distinctive, feverish precision. Each of his works is both an expression and an exploration. This time, it seems he is offering an expression of a kind of accusation and humorous paroxysm – a faltering, stuttering, fading ecstasy that points toward existential “silence,” yet still finds its final note. At the same time, he explores the possibilities of the singing voice. In his previous songs – Four Fragments and the strikingly beautiful Bornemisza Cantata – he was more of a Hungarian reinterpretation of Webern’s aspirations, striving to bring the melody closer to a resonant, full, speech-like quality while acknowledging the rights of language. This time, he consciously – indeed, passionately – breaks away from declamation. It is true that István Bálint’s intriguing poems are also far removed from any recitable form. They are fragments – half sentences and quarter sentences – pointing to themselves with jagged, grotesque gestures. Yet what remains necessarily fragmentary in the text becomes whole in the music: there are things for which music is a more suitable medium of expression than text. Without Kurtág’s music, István Bálint’s poems would be mere ramblings reminiscent of the experimental modernism of the 1920s. Kurtág’s music is inconceivable without the text, yet together they constitute one of the most astonishing musical masterpieces of recent years. How delightfully heart-wrenching, for example, is that associative (and therefore not illustrative) connection between details when, at the beginning of the song Ars Poetica, Kurtág conveys the shuddering sensation of a superficial touch on the skin through the open fifth of a violin tuning, after all those towers of sound and sky-piercing chordal spikes that came before. One can only envy the poet whose verses are elevated to the heights of immortality by such music.
(Film Színház Muzsika 15 [1971]/48, 6–7.)
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Review by Szilárd Biernaczky
(Kritika, 1972)
[…] György Kurtág’s Four Capriccios, which also premiered in the fall, bears some resemblance to Székely’s approach; it is a work for solo soprano and chamber ensemble based on the bizarre poems of István Bálint. The familiar – and often almost exhaustingly crowded – colors and moods of new music appear in Kurtág’s work as transparent, delicately interwoven mosaics. In a work that includes text, the composer always has more freedom in terms of composition. In Kurtág’s work, however, the small tableaux, or “structures,” are well interconnected; the logical flow is not disrupted by a single poorly composed break, even though the poems used almost suggest this, especially the last two, in which the avant-garde poetic approach arises from certain transformed concepts and the use of unfinished sentences. Particularly captivating is the closing poem, with its poetic, subtly teasing musical texture that reflects the delicate eroticism of the Ars poetica. […]
(Kritika 1 [1972]/7, 29.)
No sheet music files available for this piece.
