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Milan, Italy - February 18, 2008
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Dear Readers,
A new evening, a new audience. I don't always draw a full hall in Italy, but it's getting better: every time I return to an Italian city, more people show up. Tonight, I could swear the crowd expanded over intermission. During the Ives (program order: Franck-Mozart-Ysaÿe-intermission-Ives-Brahms), I kept recalling a scene in a Jascha Heifetz movie in which the violinist, during a stop at a classroom at UCLA, gives a supposedly impromptu performance. As soon as Heifetz unpacks his instrument, a young woman slips out the side of the classroom to announce to students lazing on a lawn, her Hollywood voice projecting through cupped hands: "Heifetz is playing a concert! Free concert, everyone! Mr. Heifetz is giving a free concert inside!" – or something like that. The men, wearing polished shoes and high-cinched belts, and the women, clad in dainty heels, sweater sets, and pearls, leap from the grass. As Heifetz concludes his first piece, they dart into the hall and take their seats, awestruck and excited as children on Christmas morning.
Don't get me wrong. I draw no parallel between tonight's mysterious audience growth and star appeal on the level of Mr. Heifetz's. True, we were at the Conservatorio Verdi in Milan – Italy's version of UCLA? – and surely, students were in the audience. But no one ran out to make an announcement. The central courtyard was deserted by the time the 9 pm recital began, and no one filed excitedly into the hall within even the first hour of the performance. I imagined a student shouting into the empty, dark city at intermission, in Italian, "Hahn is here! Free performance inside!" – to a comic lack of response.
The audience that was here tonight was great; they seemed to be listening to every note and, as I looked out into the crowd, I could see that they were following each piece with interest. This program is not light, and parts of it are new to most listeners, so to devote that much attention to this set of pieces is impressive. Several very little, very cute girls stayed awake for the whole concert, sitting bolt upright in their chairs through even the most demanding repertoire. I wanted to hug them all, they were so determined and adorable.
I don't mind having a smaller audience sometimes. Walking onstage to the sight of empty seats isn't necessarily disappointing. A full hall is a wonderful, wonderful thing, and it's always gratifying to play to and a pleasure to witness. On the other hand, a smattering of audience members and some empty space can be nice, too. With a full hall, people have been turned away; not everyone who wanted to be there could be. In an undersold hall, on the other hand, everyone who was interested is there. The audience is equally present either way. I also have this strange notion that if only a few people show, those must be the diehards, and I appreciate diehards in the audience under any circumstances.
This begs (or not) the question: Is a concert divided 500 ways instead of 3,000 more potent? Or is a crowd of 3,000's enjoyment magnified by the proximity of so many people focused on the same thing?
Okay, so I'm weird.
If you've been around classical music much, you might be aware of various artist pet peeves. There's coughing between movements, which to me is entertaining; from the stage, the hall often sounds like a bronchial ward. Cell phones ring from time to time, but everyone makes mistakes. Applause between movements shows excitement. Moving to the music is natural. Snoring – well, that happens (as it did tonight in every slow movement); we've all fallen asleep in some concert or other. I don't even mind if a person is reading or writing or drawing during a concert, as long as he or she is also listening.
Then there's the issue of photographing and filming without permission. This does bother me, no matter how subtly it's done. Even if I don't see it, I can feel when it's happening. A performance is like a conversation between those onstage and the audience. Anyone might feel unsettled if, in the middle of talking to someone, that person – or a stranger nearby – unexpectedly pulled out a camera and started filming or snapping. When this occurs in a concert, I feel a little invaded. But maybe that's just me.
Tonight, someone was filming. My heart sank. I love live performance, partly because of the blink-and-you'll-miss-it factor; there's no replay. Everything is in the moment, and once it's gone, it's gone. In a way unique to music, that's magical. Recording – audio or visual – alters the process. All I could do was look straight at the videographer a couple of times when I wasn't playing in hopes that he would stop once he saw that I'd seen him. Later, when it came time for our encore, a man with a camera and fish-eye lens ran down to the front row. I thought he would take some photos of us walking on- and offstage, which would have been fine – but once we started playing, he lifted his camera into my line of vision and prepared to shoot away. I lightly shook my head at him, but he didn't notice. So, fifteen seconds into that last piece, I had to stop. I asked him to please not photograph while we were playing. The other man was still filming, so I politely asked him too to turn off his video camera.
For the record, I don't like stopping concerts, and I hope to never do so again. To anyone who is planning to photograph or record any live concert without prior permission: please think twice about whether it's really worth distracting or discomfiting the artist and one's fellow concertgoers. There is a reason why audio and video recording and photography are prohibited in classical venues, and defiance is no victory.
To those who show up just for the music: Thank you.
Yours from Milan,
Hilary
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