THE vulgarity and staleness of much of Khachaturian’s music . . . is without
parallel in the works of any other internationally known composer today," an
English critic wrote in 1954. Other Western critics in the 1950’s and 60’s were
scarcely less harsh.
These were, of course, the years when the cold war was at its height, and
Shostakovich was considered an opportunist and a Stalinist. These were also the
prime years of the postwar avant-garde, when creating something like
Khachaturian’s wildly popular "Saber Dance" amounted to a crime against high
art. Writing beautiful melodies in a traditional idiom was reproachable, and in
Khachaturian’s case, it seemed to be a special mark of conformity to a "Soviet
style."
Now, in the Khachaturian centennial year, the situation is different. The
pendulum of serious music has swung to the other extreme. The realities of
Soviet life and politics are better known, and the personal histories of artists
are understood as having been more complex. The time may be ripe to take another
look at Khachaturian’s music.
New Yorkers can do so on Friday, when Constantine Orbelian and the
Philharmonia of Russia present a Khachaturian program at Carnegie Hall.
Listeners elsewhere can hear some of the same music by the same performers on a
new CD from Delos.
Khachaturian’s leap from musical illiteracy to international prominence, made
possible by a huge talent, was aided by an artistically gifted family, a
beneficial environment, excellent teachers and, above all, perfect timing. He
was a true son of his era, a man who came into maturity when the great utopia of
Soviet society, energetic and optimistic, was beginning to take shape. He
sincerely believed in its ideals and illusions, and he had reasons to do so.
Khachaturian was born into an Armenian family of peasant origins in the
Georgian capital, Tiflis (now Tbilisi). A colorful and vivacious multicultural
center of the Caucasus region, Tiflis was a place where, it must have seemed,
you could become a musician just by breathing the air. Khachaturian heard
Armenian and Azerbaijani songs sung by his parents; Georgian, Turkish, Iranian,
Russian and other European melodies played on the streets and in parks; and
sacred chants from churches and mosques.
He learned to play horn and piano by ear, and he loved to improvise. He
attended his first opera at 16, his first symphony concert a few years later.
Encouraged by his oldest brother, Suren, a noted theater figure, Khachaturian
moved to Moscow in 1921. But he did not begin a formal study of music until he
was 20.
Through Suren, who worked at the Moscow Art Theater, Khachaturian met the
elite of Moscow’s artistic circles and became involved with the newly
established Armenian Theater Studio. The studio was one of many offspring of a
new ethnic policy. The Soviet state saw itself as a "family of nations," with
the small ones protected and educated by the great Russia in a kind of
affirmative action. Top professionals went to the eastern Soviet republics, and
national cadres were nurtured both regionally and in major Russian cities. The
Armenians, who had been decimated by the Turkish massacres, stood to gain in
stature from this policy.
So it is small wonder that when an exceptionally gifted Armenian with a
distinctive musical personality deeply rooted in the folk traditions of his
region chose the path of a music professional, he was readily admitted to the
Moscow Conservatory and soon became its star. Khachaturian eagerly absorbed the
composition lessons of Mikhail Gnessin and Nikolai Miaskovsky, students of
Rimsky-Korsakov and thus heirs to the St. Petersburg School, which had a long
tradition of creating "Russian music of the East." Under their guidance, he
produced his own blend of East and West, first in charming chamber pieces, then
in big orchestral works. The blend was fresh and natural.
At 31, after five years at the conservatory, he completed his graduation
piece, his First Symphony, which drew the attention of prominent conductors and
was soon performed by the best Soviet orchestras. His next big work, the Piano
Concerto, of 1936, established his name abroad. The Violin Concerto, first
performed by the already famous David Oistrakh in 1940, got Khachaturian his
first Stalin Prize, then the highest artistic award in the Soviet Union, and it
soon joined the Piano Concerto in the international repertory.
By the age of 40, Khachaturian had also written the popular ballet "Gayane"
(the source of the "Saber Dance"), a number of chamber pieces and patriotic
songs, and two dozen scores of incidental and film music, including his best
known, for the Lermontov drama
Newspapers mentioned his name alongside those of Prokofiev, Shostakovich and
Miaskovsky.
Khachaturian was not the first ethnic professional composer from the East,
but he was the first educated in Soviet times, and his music had all the energy,
optimism and accessibility necessary to epitomize the new Soviet art. Those
qualities never seemed "learned" or forced; like a great street musician,
Khachaturian sounded spontaneous and sincere, emotionally open and engaging.
Naturally, he immediately became an example for young national composers and a
hero in Armenia, showered with honors and privileges. If he knew anything about
the dark side of life under Stalin, he accepted it. He willingly wore blinders.
That is why his denouncement (alongside those of other leaders of Soviet
music) as a formalist composer and enemy of the people by the central committee
of the Communist Party in 1948 came as a huge shock. It took him a long time to
recover. And although the government denounced the denouncement in 1958,
Khachaturian produced few works in the 30 years before his death in 1978. Only
one of them, the ballet
internationally acclaimed.
There were public responsibilities, teaching and conducting obligations,
trips abroad and hospital stays. Was he tired, or did he lose any creative urge,
feeling out of place in a new musical era? He never discouraged his students at
the Gnessin Academy and the Moscow Conservatory from taking new and risky paths,
but he did not take them himself.
Should we blame Khachaturian for not having been more adventurous in his work
or for not having suffered enough under Soviet rule? Or should we simply listen
to his music, admire its emotional power and textural richness and enjoy the
rhythmic diversity and the melodic beauty?
One may regret a certain predictability in Khachaturian’s structures yet be
surprised by delicious details: an elegant imitation of Eastern instruments, a
hint of jazz, a shadow of sadness amid sunny landscapes, brought by dissonant
chords or unexpected turns of melody. Is it shameful to be swept away by the
perpetual feast and improvisational freedom of his Violin Concerto, to melt into
the sensuality and passion of "Spartacus" or to be moved to tears by the Waltz
from "Masquerade"?
Prokofiev, after hearing "Gayane," suggested that Khachaturian look for new
means to handle Armenian material, different from those of Borodin and
Rimsky-Korsakov. To do so would not have been easy for a composer who came of
age in the Soviet Union of the 1930’s. What’s more, few people in those
Eurocentric times thought that Eastern cultures should avoid Western influences.
Khachaturian’s way seemed the proper one to transform the oral improvisational
tradition of the East into a universal idiom.
"No matter how I may waver between various musical languages, I remain an
Armenian, but a European Armenian, not an Asian Armenian," he wrote. "Together
with others, we will make all of Europe and the whole world listen to our music.
And when they hear our music, people are certain to say, `Tell us about that
people, and show us the country that produces such art.’ "
Maya Pritsker is the cultural editor of Novoye Russkoye Slovo, a
Russian-language newspaper.
Yorumlar kapatıldı.