«Finding

be a uty

in intellectual stimulation»

This is your first participation in rainy days. As a Luxembourgish artist, what is your relationship with the festival?

As someone fond of contemporary music and innovative programming, I’ve always loved this festival, which offers a concentration of events that you don’t often hear elsewhere. Its character has evolved depending on the successive artistic directors, which makes it all the more interesting. Some concerts left a strong impression on me and still linger in my memory today.

The idea of guiding the audience, sometimes hesitant at first, toward less conventional offerings is also something I strive for in my recitals. Even though programming it can be a battle, new music is often what leaves the most lasting impact on listeners, whether positively or negatively.

In 1986, György Ligeti reached a turning point in the long gestation of his concerto, after composing the first book of his Études the previous year. As someone deeply familiar with these works, what influence do you see there? Composer Karol Beffa refers to the concerto as a kind of «super-étude». Do you agree with that term?

I know Karol very well, and I completely agree with that description! [laughs] Ligeti’s style is very clear from the beginning, but it becomes much richer. The first book of Études clearly marks a turning point in his piano writing and in the pursuit of complexity. Simply put, Ligeti’s compositional method was to start from a basic idea and make it as complex as possible, to the point of saturation. That’s really the essence of his Études.

When I first started working on the concerto, I was terrified. The layering of textures, the piano and orchestra moving in parallel, the extreme polyphony, all with subtle shifts, create a kind of illusion. You could almost call them orchestrated études, played in succession.

The concerto was influenced by his Puerto Rican student Roberto Sierra, who introduced Ligeti to Caribbean and South American music, as well as by visual and auditory elements of African cultures. Ligeti also acknowledged a return to Béla Bartók’s polymodal approach. How are these multiple influences treated in the concerto?

I wouldn’t isolate the concerto specifically because it’s part of a very intense creative period for the piano, in which all those influences are condensed. What fascinates me about Ligeti is his «hyper-curiosity» and his ability to incorporate intellectual processes into his composition. For example, he was an avid reader of Karl Popper and epistemological theories, and he managed to translate that into his composition style, as well as his interest in mathematics, particularly fractals. However, unlike others, he didn’t compose according to any mathematical models! He sought beauty in intellectual stimulation.

Richard Steinitz compared the first movement of the concerto to Jean Tinguely’s kinetic sculptures. If you had to draw a parallel between this work and a visual artist, who would it be?

I would compare it more to fine watchmaking: a work of precision mechanics where all the cogs fit together perfectly despite their complexity. I can understand the Tinguely reference, but I find his sculptures too «flashy» by comparison. Ligeti didn’t write music to show anything off.

More generally, what role does the piano play in Ligeti’s work?

Ligeti wanted to be a pianist but said he couldn’t fulfil that dream because he started too late and wasn’t talented enough. His «Études» represent a threshold he could never cross technically, and his inability to play them made his imagination even more fertile. He wanted performers to experience physical joy while playing, which I haven’t yet found! [laughs] Each finger is treated equally, and his writing is physiological, but not exactly pianistic, it doesn’t rely on the automatic reflexes you gain from playing Mozart or Chopin. Instead, it requires developing new ones, which expands the possibilities of your own technique.

There’s also no harmonic base to rely on, though with enough practice you internalise the structure of the score. But it takes time to hear the wrong notes, and the work is mostly intellectual.

Do you think it’s necessary to do research on Ligeti before playing his music?

No, because even though he saw himself as highly elitist, he managed to become part of an almost pop culture realm, helped by Stanley Kubrick, for example. For audiences unfamiliar with his music, the attraction lies mainly in its intrinsic and irresistibly infectious rhythm.

When I participated in the project with dancers [NDLR: Hear Eyes Move – Dances with Ligeti, choreographed by Elisabeth Schilling], I noticed that the dancers counted according to their own «sound illusion» and not how I counted based on the score. That helped me and gave me another anchor. In fact, if you can play the Désordre étude or the first movement of the concerto at the requested tempo, a certain swing emerges. Then you get a mix of the intellectual dimension mentioned earlier and the vital need for the music to «vibrate».

You’ve collaborated many times with Catherine Kontz, composer and artistic director of the rainy days festival. What can we expect from this reunion?

I love working with Catherine; we’ve been doing so for over ten years. Her writing style has evolved a great deal over the years, with the focus shifting more to the instrument. Even though almost everything has already been written for the piano, she still manages to find new approaches. Her poetic and mischievous world also incorporates extensive techniques. The audience can’t help but be drawn in by her generosity and curiosity, both in her personality and her composing style. But once the score is delivered, often playful but always very precise, she gives the performer free rein. I trust her, she manages to take me places I didn’t think I could go, and I think she thrives on knowing I’m willing to try.

Playing contemporary music means accepting surprise and diving into the unknown. When you receive a piece written specifically for you that «works», and you’re the first to play it, it’s a tremendous gift.

Liam Dougherty composed a piano concerto without pianist. Have you ever experienced something so radical?

Never! It raises the question: is it musical performance art or conceptual art that includes music? I find it fascinating, even though it poses challenges when it comes to programming. But if the choice is intentional and assumed, it’s totally belongs there.

When you think of a piano concerto without pianist, the obvious reference is John Cage’s 4’33’’. That piece is already quite old, but I don’t think anyone has managed to equal the power of its message. How do you follow such radicality? Producing an actual «sound result» can be an interesting angle. There’s a conceptual, almost philosophical reflection on what a concerto is, and what elements (performers or sound material) are essential. Composers are choosing the concerto form less and less, partly because it’s hard to innovate when nearly everything has already been written for the orchestra.