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THE TEACHING OF CLAUDIO ARRAU AND HIS PUPILS:

PIANO PEDAGOGY AS CULTURAL WORK


by
Victoria von Arx

A dissertation submitted to the Graduate Faculty in Music in partial fulfillment of the


requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, the City University of New York
2006

UMI Number: 3231979

Copyright 2006 by
von Arx, Victoria
All rights reserved.

UMI Microform 3231979


Copyright 2006 by ProQuest Information and Learning Company.
All rights reserved. This microform edition is protected against
unauthorized copying under Title 17, United States Code.

ProQuest Information and Learning Company


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P.O. Box 1346
Ann Arbor, MI 48106-1346

ii

VICTORIA VON ARX


All Rights Reserved

iii
This manuscript has been read and accepted for the Graduate Faculty in Music in
satisfaction of the dissertation requirement for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy.
___________________________
Date

_______________________________
Jeffrey Taylor
Chair of the Examining Committee

___________________________
Date

_______________________________
David Olan
Executive Officer
Professor Allan Atlas
Professor L. Michael Griffel
Professor Barbara R. Hanning
Profesor Leo Treitler
Professor Marion Guck
Supervisory Committee

THE CITY UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK

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Abstract
THE TEACHING OF CLAUDIO ARRAU AND HIS PUPILS: PIANO PEDAGOGY
AS CULTURAL WORK
by
Victoria von Arx
Adviser: Professor L. Michael Griffel

Claudio Arrau was an iconic figure in classical music in the twentieth century. In
addition to a major performing career, Arrau taught a sizeable class of students during the
years from 1945 until about 1972. Most of these pupils aspired to performing careers,
and many of them also became teachers whose instruction was informed by Arraus
principles. Their pupils in turn carried on the work of teaching with yet another
generation of pupils.
This dissertation examines the sources of Arraus principles in nineteenth-century
piano pedagogy. Its focus narrows from a broader view of piano playing down to one
individual, Arrau, and it enumerates and describes Arraus principles of piano playing
using Arraus published interviews and the testimony of Arraus pupils. From Arrau,
attention shifts to the larger group of his pupils. Using interviews with teachers and
transcriptions of lessons given by them and by Arrau, it describes how Arraus principles
have traveled from Arraus pupils and their pupils. And finally, the scope narrows again
to a select group of pupils of German Diez and their work with children at a community
music school on Manhattans Lower East Side. Thus, this study follows Arraus
teachings from their sources in the nineteenth century, through Arrau and his pupils who
were concertizing professionals, to the training of children in their first lessons.

v
This study also discusses relationships between scholarly and pedagogical
viewpoints on music. It studies the piano lesson in an attempt to discover what kind of
experience it is, how it corresponds to notions of musical artistry, and how it builds up a
capacity for independent musical expression.

vi
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are many people whose faith, support, and critical input made this work
possible. First of all, I wish to thank my adviser, L. Michael Griffel, for his scholarly
guidance and editorial precision. His wide-ranging musical scholarship, his knowledge of
piano performance, and his unfailing humanity and enthusiasm were indispensable in the
development of this study.
I also want to thank my primary readers, Barbara Hanning and Leo Treitler,
whose many critical insights clarified my thinking and my writing and who helped to
shape my thinking during my course work at the CUNY Graduate Center. Barbara
Hanning brought a deep knowledge of all periods of music, a lively interest and
background in piano playing, and editorial skill. Leo Treitler brought a wide experience
of scholarly writing about musical meaning and deep knowledge of the piano repertory.
Thanks also to my secondary readers, Allan Atlas, Jeffrey Taylor, Marion Guck
for giving generously of their time and experience to read and comment on the completed
dissertation. I owe a particular debt of gratitude to Allan Atlas whose teaching sparked
my initial interest in scholarly work and who provided expert guidance and editorial skill
in the beginning stages of this project.
I am grateful to Arraus pupils who shared their knowledge and experiences in
interviews, and enthusiastically supported this project: first, to my teachers German Diez
and Frederick Marvin, and also to William Goodrum, Ena Bronstein-Barton, Edith
Fischer, Jos Aldaz, Joseph Reis, Goodwin Sammel, Rosalina Sackstein, Edith Fischer,
Ivan Nuez, Bennett Lerner, Loretta Goldberg, Roberto Eyzaguirre, and Alfonso

vii
Montecino. I thank also Francisco Miranda, Joseph Ries, and Ellen Mandel (pupil of
Goodwin Sammel) for their contribution to this study.
I also want to thank Director Barbara Field, Associate Director Mary Lou Francis,
and all of the staff, faculty, students, and families of the Third Street Music School
Settlement, dear friends and my musical family for nearly thirty years, for extending
many a warm welcome during my visits to Third Street, and for their interest,
encouragement, and material assistance in this project. The generous hospitality of Mary
Lou Francis gave me a home-away-from-home and kept body and soul together during
numerous trips to New York City; Marcia Lewis helped coordinate my observation of
and conversations with teachers, and gave her time for numerous conversations and
interviews devoted to this study; Suzuki piano teachers Angelina Tallaj, Lus Alvarez,
Maritza Alvarez, and Susan Inamorato graciously shared their ideas and allowed me to
record lessons; and composer Nicholas Scarim provided friendly encouragement and
invaluable technical assistance in creating the musical examples in this study.
I would like to thank Arrau pupil German Diez and his pupils Cesar Reyes, Laura
Ahumada, Angelina Tallaj, and Marcia Lewis who gave generously of their time for
cooperative (and joyful!) efforts to produce English translations of Arraus lessons given
in Spanish.
Finally, I want to thank my family, the Von Arxs and the Zaks, for cheering me
on through thick and thin. And above all, loving thanks go to my husband, Albin Zak,
whose tireless counsel, encouragement, love, and fabulous cooking were essential to
bringing this work to completion.

viii

To Albin
With love and thanks

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Contents
ABSTRACT

iv

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

vi

INTRODUCTION

Chapter I: THE HISTORICAL BACKGROUND OF ARRAUS PRINCIPLES

Preliminaries
Finger Technique and Arm-weight Technique
The Piano and Piano Music
Carl Czerny
PROPONENTS OF FINGER TECHNIQUE
Adolf Kullak (1823-62) and Theodor Kullak (1818-82)
Piano Training in the Conservatories
Proponents of Arm-weight Technique
Franz Liszt (1811-86)
Ludwig Deppe (1828-90)
Martin Krause (1853-1918)
Rudolf Breithaupt (1873-1945)
Chapter II: THE ARRAU TECHNIQUE
Relaxation
The Elements of Technique
Use of the Fingers
Position of the Hand
Dropping the Weight, Pushing the Weight
Other Uses of Arm Weight
Up-and-down Motions of Wrist and Arm
Vibration
High Wrist Position
Rotation
Combining Techniques
Chapter III: TECHNIQUE AND INTERPRETATION
A Lesson on Chopins Second Ballade, Op. 38
Chapter IV: ARRAUS COLLABORATION WITH RAFAEL DE SILVA
Grete Sultan
Rafael de Silva

7
10
14
16
26
26
34
38
55
69
73
85
85
91
92
99
103
107
112
114
116
119
123
134
137
157
158
160

x
Assisting a Master Teacher
Dissolution
Chapter V: THE TEACHING OF ARRAUS PUPILS

162
172
177

German Diez: Integrating Arm-weight Technique and Finger Technique 177


Demonstration and the Oral (Aural) Tradition
187
Ena Bronstein-Barton: Carrying Forward a Transcendent Stream of Sound 192
Articulating the Sound Stream
200
Frederick Marvin: Oral Tradition and Fidelity to the Score
204
Expanding Arraus Principles
214
Goodwin Sammel: Indirection and Naturalness in Movement
218
Supervised Practice and the Pursuit of Insight
222
Pedagogy and Talent
227
Chapter VI: TEACHING ARRAUS PRINCIPLES TO THE YOUNG STUDENT
The Third Street Teachers: Building up from the Earliest Beginnings
Applying Arraus Principles in the Beginning Lessons
The Keyboard as Extension of the Body
The Elementary-level Pieces
Later Elementary-level Pieces
Expressive Schemata
The Language Analogy
CONCLUSION

233
244
256
261
267
274
285
290
293

APPENDICES
Appendix One: Arraus Pupils
German Diez
Goodwin Sammel
Roberto Eyzaguirre
Alfonso Montecino
Rosalina (Guerrero) Sackstein
Frederick Marvin
Edith Fischer
Ena Bronstein-Barton
Mario Miranda
Bennett Lerner
Ivan Nuez
Jos Aldaz
Loretta Goldberg
Hilde Somer
William Goodrum

299
302
304
306
307
310
312
314
316
321
323
326
328
332
337
338

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Appendix Two: A Lesson on Chopins Second Ballade, Op. 38
Claudio Arrau and Mario Miranda, December 19, 1965

344

Appendix Three: A Lesson on Beethovens Sonata in A-flat Major,


Op. 110
Claudio Arrau and Mario Miranda - undated

352

Appendix Four: A Lesson on Ravels Gaspard de la nuit: Scarbo


Claudio Arrau and Mario Miranda 1965

358

Appendix Five: Directory of Names

366

BIBLIOGRAPHY

397

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List of Examples
Example 3.1 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, m. 47

138

Example 3.2 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, mm. 51-54

141

Example 3.3 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, mm. 1-4

146

Example 3.4 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, mm. 5-7

148

Example 3.5 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, m. 48

151

Example 3.6 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, mm. 94-98

153

Example 5.1 Schubert, Impromptu in C Minor, D. 899, Op. 90,


mm. 1-33

193

Example 5.2 Haydn, Sonata in C Minor, Hob. XVI:20,


I. (Allegro) Moderato, mm. 1-4

202

Example 5.3 Haydn, Sonata in C Minor, Hob. XVI:20,


I. (Allegro) Moderato, mm. 9-13

202

Example 5.4 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110,


I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo mm. 1-12

205

Example 5.5 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110,


I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo mm. 60-61

206

Example 5.6 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110,


I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo mm. 12-19

208

Example 5.7 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110,


I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo mm. 25-27

209

Example 5.8 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110,


I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo mm. 28-31

211

Example 5.9 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110,


I. Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo mm. 32-39

212

Example 5.10 Goodwin Sammel, Exercise for dropping


arm weight

219

Example 6.1 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,
Variation A, mm. 1-2
257

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Example 6.2 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,
Variation B, mm. 1-2
258
Example 6.3 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,
Variation C, mm. 1-2
259
Example 6.4 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,
Variation D, mm. 1-2
260
Example 6.5 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, motives from
four early pieces

267

Example 6.6 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Au Clair de la Lune, mm. 1-4,
Long, Long Ago, mm. 1-4
268
Example 6.7 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Honey Bee,
mm. 1-4

271

Example 6.8 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2,


Weber, Cradle Song

275

Example 6.9 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2,


Mozart, Arietta

278

Example 6.10 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2,


Petzold, Minuet, mm. 1-4

280

Example 6.11 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2,


Mozart, Minuet, mm. 1-16

282

Example 6.12 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2,


Schumann, The Happy Farmer, mm. 9-11

283

Example 6.13 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2,


Hummel, Ecossaise, mm. 1-4

284

1
INTRODUCTION
Claudio Arrau, born February 3, 1903, in Chillan, Chile, was one of the most
prominent and active pianists of the twentieth century, with a performing career that
spanned eighty years. In his prime, Arrau played more than one hundred concerts each
season; and as late as 1980, at the age of seventy-seven, he was still playing about
seventy.1 He celebrated his eightieth birthday with a tour that included six concerts in
New York and performances of Beethovens Emperor Concerto and Brahmss
Concerto No. 1 in Paris and Berlin. Arrau died on June 9, 1991, in Mrzzuschlag,
Austria, where he was to have performed in a private recital.2
Arraus performing legacy is preserved in part on his numerous recordings of
nearly 250 works.3 Another aspect of his legacy is a distinct approach to piano technique
and interpretation, which he conveyed personally to a significant number of students.
Arraus principles are of interest in part because his main teacher, Martin Krause, was a
pupil of Liszt; and throughout Arraus career, there were claims of a Lisztian approach to
piano playing. This study will give an account of Arraus technical and interpretive
principles and explore their connection to Liszt.
This issue of Lisztian influence entails not only claims of Liszts pianistic
authority but of a historic lineage leading back to Beethoven.4 This claim is not mere

Joseph Horowitz, Conversations with Arrau (New York: Knopf, 1982), 187, 285.
Arrau died following surgery to correct an intestinal blockage.
3
A discography of Arraus recordings appears in Horowitz, Conversations, 288-307.
4
Henry Kingsbury notes that citing lineages is a means by which teachers present themselves as preservers
of musical heritage; in Music Talent Performance: A Conservatory Cultural System (Philadelphia: Temple
University Press, 1988), 46. See also, Mary Weaver, Interview with Claudio Arrau,
The Piano Quarterly 42 (Winter, 1962-63): 22. Weaver writes, Since Liszt was a pupil of Czerny and
Czerny of Beethoven, Arrau grew up in a world of unbroken tradition . . . Arrau himself alluded to this
lineage: That was what Krause must have received from Liszt . . . I often like to say that Liszt got it all
from Czerny, who received it from Beethoven. But, as in everything, it is never a single thing always the
2

2
egoism or self-promotion; it underscores the personal dimension of the link between
historic performance practice and pedagogy at all levels, and it points to pedagogy as a
form of cultural work. Music learning seen in light of this claim involves more than
musical knowledge and/or skill voluntarily acquired.5 It involves initiation into a
culture and belonging to a group with a history of shared experiences. Accomplishing the
tasks related to this initiation and sense of belonging is the cultural work performed by
music teaching. Shared musical experience transcends many lifetimes; each participant
may take from or contribute to it; and it is crucial not only for performing music but for
listening to it with understanding and enjoyment. Performance and appreciation of
classical piano music is not only a matter of individual expression and perception but also
of a culture with a long-established history and tradition. When speaking of a tradition, I
am thinking of a discipline and practice that is passed from one generation to another by
people who have gained the authority to determine how the art of music shall be carried
forward. Authority is gained through performances that competent listeners judge to be
examples of musical artistry, or at least, competency. Performers may transmit and
preserve, or they may transform those values, but they may do so only if their
performances are received by competent and comprehending listeners. Some circularity
is to be tolerated in this view, as music teaching and learning must both create and exist
within the community of learners, qualified listeners, and artists.
Music teaching and learning is therefore a fundamental fact of all musical life and
entails the dissemination of musical culture in the form of knowledge, skills, beliefs,

totality of things. Robert Silverman, Conversation With Claudio Arrau on Liszt, The Piano Quarterly 89
(Spring, 1975): 9.
5
Richard Crawford, Musical Learning in Nineteenth-Century America, American Music 1/1 (Spring,
1983): 3.

3
practices, shared experience, and sense of belonging. Such dissemination is what I would
like to speak of as the cultural work of piano pedagogy. What is this knowledge, skill,
and experience, and how exactly is it transmitted? I confronted this question for the first
time during a series of master classes when one participant critically noted that auditors
were writing down all of the teachers comments into their scores comments such as
make this note louder, that one softer, faster here, slower there, make this kind of a
sound, move your body like this and taking these comments as a prescription for
playing each work. He expressed doubt that musical knowledge consisted of an
accumulation of minutiae about each work, or that creative playing and satisfying
performances came as a result of following these directions. Since each person might
perform the work differently, he argued, the instructions pertained not to everyone
present but only to the particular performer and performance under discussion. His
argument seemed well founded. Nevertheless, piano lessons customarily proceed as in
those master classes: a student plays a work for a teacher who gives directions and
advice, fully expecting them to be followed, and from this the student learns. But the
questions remain. What is being taught? How is this musical knowledge? How does it
promote artistic playing? How does it lead to artistic independence? At the heart of these
questions is the issue of musical expression how it is taught, how it is related to
technique, and how it is shaped and determined by the language of instruction. In this
study, I suggest answers to these questions by drawing upon writings about art, dance,
language and music, and semiotic theory to provide a framework for interpreting the
actual pedagogical situations and actions of people under consideration as formative of an
independent capacity for musical expression.

4
This study presents the transmission of Arraus pianistic ideas as cultural work
the dissemination of beliefs and practices performed within the context of social groups
in which personal relationships among teachers and students are central. Stories told by
Arraus pupils are not passed on here merely for anecdotal interest but to show that the
support of the group, while obviously reinforcing to the students in their study,
performing, and sense of belonging also benefited Arrau in several ways. The group
enabled Arraus influence to travel (beyond his probable expectations) to several
generations of students from the most advanced to the most elementary levels. Within the
group, Arrau could make his actions more meaningful and more fully understood than
anywhere else, and the group mirrored back to him an image of himself as an artist,
showing him which musical ideas and techniques he communicated effectively. Through
the group, Arrau refreshed and renewed experiences that may otherwise have become
commonplace or unconscious through repetition. Through interaction with students,
combined with careful observation and thought, Arrau could gain insights and ways of
understanding music not available through the more impersonal relationship of performer
and audience. The support provided by the group may have helped Arrau to locate
himself within the larger project of consciously making and transmitting musical culture.
The group mitigated the isolation that normally accompanies a demanding schedule of
practice, performance, and travel.
This study also documents the progress of Arraus principles through his pupils,
and, through their pupils, to a third generation of piano students. It describes a process by
which those principles, which informed and guided a major performing career, have been
channeled into the training of young beginners studying piano in a community music

school, and thus have influenced and enhanced the lives of people far removed from
Arraus original sphere of activity. This progression invites reflection on the power of
both teaching and learning to incorporate values that may be either articulated or tacit; to
locate musical repertories within a context of social use; and to remove prejudices
imposed by issues of nationalism, ideology, and gender. As Arraus principles travel
farther, are internalized by greater numbers of people, and become intermixed with other
pianistic influences, they will become indistinguishable. Therefore, insofar as the history
of ideas and practices contributes to our understanding, this study attempts to document
Arraus contribution to that history as close to its source as possible.
This study came about as a result of two circumstances. First was my piano study
with two of Arraus pupils, Frederick Marvin and German Diez. Their teachings were
crucially important in my growth as a musician and alerted me to the importance of
Arraus pedagogical legacy. Second was my involvement with the Third Street Music
School Settlement, where I started the Suzuki piano department in 1978 and taught until
1997. From about 1984 until the present, the Suzuki piano department has been carried
forward by pupils of Arrau pupil, German Diez, under the continuous leadership of Diez
pupil, Marcia Lewis. These teachers common use of a highly structured teaching
method, training under a single Arrau pupil, ongoing relationships with Diez and others
of Arraus pupils, and working as a cohesive group within the social environment of a
community music school with continuity provided by Lewis made them a unique and
interesting group for study. This study is not intended as a prescription for teaching, but
as a description and interpretation of the pedagogy under study and discussion.
6

The Third Street Music School Settlement, located at 235 East 11th Street on Manhattans Lower East
Side in New York City.

6
The chapters within this study are organized as follows:
Chapter one posits two contrasting views of piano technique and investigates
nineteenth-century writings on piano pedagogy in light of these views in order to locate
Arraus principles in relation to those of earlier pedagogues, and to explore the claim that
Arrau inherited a Lisztian approach through his teacher and Liszt pupil, Martin Krause.
Chapter two discusses Arraus technical principles.
Chapter three explores the inseparability of technique and expression in Arraus
philosophy. Semiotic approaches recently applied to music study provide an apparatus for
analyzing excerpts from a lesson given by Arrau on Chopins second Ballade, Op. 38.
Chapter four describes the development of the collaboration between Arrau and
his teaching assistant, Rafael de Silva.
Chapter five discusses the teaching of Arraus pupils. It begins with the
experiences of two pianists whose studies reflect the contrasting pedagogical trends set
forth in chapter one; it then explores the teaching of Arraus pupils, and of how
expanding and developing Arraus principles have led to their individual philosophies
and styles of teaching.
Chapter six discusses the teaching of Diezs pupils at the Third Street Music
School Settlement.
Biographical information related to the major informants contributing to this
study is found in Appendix one. Appendices two, three, and four contain transcriptions of
lessons given by Arrau. Appendix five contains short biographical sketches of persons
named in this work.

7
ONE
THE HISTORICAL BACKGROUND OF ARRAUS PRINCIPLES: PIANO
PEDAGOGY IN GERMANY IN THE NINETEENTH AND EARLY TWENTIETH
CENTURIES
The war between musicians is
unfortunately not yet finished, and even less
so the war between teachers, which was
already raging during the Romantic era.1
PRELIMINARIES
To understand the principles of Claudio Arraus piano playing, we must uncover
their origin and development in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Already in
the early press releases, there are claims that Claudio Arrau inherited the secrets of
Liszts playing from Martin Krause. When asked how he acquired his technique, Arrau
replied, I was lucky enough to have had a great teacher, who not only handed down the
precepts he got from Liszt but carried them further. When I was young I spent hours and
hours on exercises, some of which Krause noted down . . . . They are not available now.2
On a video recording of Arraus eightieth-birthday recital, the commentator states, . . .
Arrau can claim a direct connection to Liszt. His teacher . . . Martin Krause was a pupil
of Liszts and imparted to the young Arrau many of the secrets of Liszts own piano
playing.3 Arraus pupils also believe this. According to Ena Bronstein-Barton,
A lot of what Arrau did was a product of influence, but mostly from
Krause and Liszt I would think. He admired Carreo greatly. But this
[Arraus way of playing] comes directly from Liszt and from Krause. He
just says he developed it further. But this is the way. The business, for
instance, about breaking arpeggios beautifully and having an inner life to
the broken chord -- all of this comes from the way he was taught. Except
he says he developed it even further.4
1

Bertrand Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy: Liszt et la pedagogie du piano, trans. Donald H. Windham
(Lampeter, Dyfed, Wales: Edwin Mellen Press, 1992), xiii.
2
Mary Weaver, Interview with Claudio Arrau, The Piano Quarterly 42 (Winter, 1962-63), 19.
3
Claudio Arrau: The 80th Birthday Recital, West Long Beach, N.J., Kultur, 1987.
4
Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, N.J., August 1, 2002.

8
Alfonso Montecino, another Arrau pupil, recalls,
He [Arrau] put so much emphasis on relaxation, how to get it through
certain motions like rotation, and chords that [are played with] free fall of
the weight of the arm, which was already something that Liszt talked
about. Of course, Martin Krause studied with Liszt. My impression is that
Martin Krause was not very strict on how to use this idea and it was Arrau
himself that gave it such importance.5
A flier advertising summer master classes conducted in Munich by Arraus assistant,
Rafael de Silva, explicitly claimed that Arrau and de Silva inherited the traditions of
the Liszt School:
Arrau and de Silva have carried further the traditions of the Liszt School
in a creative manner. With profound insight into the technical and
interpretation problems of the pianist, they have opened new paths to their
solution.6
According to other evidence, however, Arraus connection to Liszt is tenuous at
best; and Arrau himself mentioned only a few details of Krauses teaching that might be
traced back to Liszt.7 Arrau used and taught a complex and highly specific system of
piano technique; but he stated that this came from his own natural instinct for piano
playing and not from Krauses teaching.
There [with respect to hand position and arm weight] he [Krause] left me
alone to a great extent. You see, I moved on the piano like a cat. I played
by nature very relaxed. So he didnt tell me about special motions of the
5

Alfonso Montecino, interview in New York City, February 27, 2003.


This flier is found under the name Rafael de Silva in the clipping files at the New York Public Library
at Lincoln Center.
7
He would speak of Liszts way of breaking chords, and of trilling. He taught us several ways to break a
chord: to start slowly, and then accelerate toward the highest note; or to make a crescendo to the highest
note; or to make a diminuendo; or to do it freely, with rubato. But always so that broken chords would have
a meaning coming from what went before. . . . The speed of a trill has to be in relation to the Stimmung. . . .
He taught us to use the Bebung effect. It was something all the Liszt pupils did. I use this in the Petrarch
Sonnets and the Dante Sonata. Pedaling. That at the beginning of Beethovens G-major Concerto, for
instance, never to strike the chord and then put down the pedal, but to have the pedal down already, and
then strike the first chord. . . . And then for the long pedals in Beethoven in the D minor Sonata, for
instance to use a very fast vibrato pedal. Joseph Horowitz, Conversations with Arrau (New York:
Knopf, 1982), 38-39.
6

9
hands and arms. All that I found by myself, somehow. Sometimes he told
me not to be stiff, that all the joints must be relaxed. But I dont think he
ever told me very much about using my arms. I have noticed that a
number of his pupils never lifted their arms very much.8
Moreover, Liszts pupils reported that Liszt never taught technique, but and
here, perhaps, is the crucial point only musical principles (see p. 33). Thus, if Liszt did
not consciously teach his technique to Krause, Krause could have passed on Liszts
technique only if he had learned about it through observation. And if, as Arrau said, he
did not learn his technique from Krause, the connection between Liszt and Arrau appears
broken at two points. Nevertheless, one must entertain the suspicion that Liszts influence
had affected Krause just as profoundly as it affected nineteenth-century pianism
generally.
Martin Krause was the major figure in Arraus education, and Arrau had no other
teacher after him. At the time of Krauses death in 1918 (at age sixty-five), Arrau was
only fifteen years old and had studied with Krause for only about five years. While Arrau
believed that Krause had taught him all that a teacher could about piano playing,9 Arrau
still had a long life and career before him in which to develop, mature, and come into
contact with other influences. Some of these reflected various trends of nineteenthcentury thought that were still being explored and debated in piano playing.
Contextualizing Arraus principles, therefore, requires an investigation of what is
known of Liszts pianism as well as other writings on piano playing. The following takes
up this investigation in order to identify the elements that show a relationship between
Arraus principles and those of Liszt and other nineteenth-century pedagogues.

8
9

Horowitz, Conversations, 38.


Ibid., 49.

10
FINGER TECHNIQUE AND ARM-WEIGHT TECHNIQUE
Early in the nineteenth century, the technical demands of new music and heavier
piano actions made piano technique an issue of paramount importance. Pedagogues and
performers attempted to buttress the previously established finger techniques by
increasing the strength, agility, and stamina of the fingers. Fatigue while playing was
taken as a sign that more finger strength was needed. Thousands of exercises were
developed and etudes composed to strengthen and adapt the body to the new
requirements of the instrument. This approach dominated in the newly formed
conservatories and was epitomized in the teaching of Adolf and Theodor Kullak (who
taught at the Berlin Conservatory, later called the Stern Conservatory; and Neue
Akademie der Tonkunst in Berlin),10 Sigismund Lebert and Ludwig Stark (at the Stuttgart
Conservatory),11 and Louis Plaidy (at the Leipzig Conservatory).12
By the 1870s, however, many pianists were seeking other solutions to their
technical problems. The playing and teaching of Liszt was a catalyst that inspired a new
way of thinking about both piano technique and pedagogy that went beyond mere muscle
building. Some teachers began searching for ways to reinforce the fingers with the larger
muscles of the upper arm, shoulder, and back, and to use the force of gravity, or arm
weight. Rather than adapt the body to the requirements of the instrument, they tried to

10

Adolf Kullak, The Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing, trans. Theodore Baker (New York: G. Schirmer,
1893; repr. New York: DaCapo, 1972). Amy Fay described her experience of studying with Theodor
Kullak in Music Study in Germany (Chicago: A. C. McClurg, 1880; repr. New York: Dover, 1965), 264-68.
11
Sigismund Lebert and Louis Stark, Grand Theoretical and Practical Piano-School (Stuttgart: J. G. Cotta,
1869; New York: Schirmer, 1899), xxiii-xxiv. See also Amy Fays remarks about Leipzig in Music Study in
Germany, 264-68.
12
Leonard Phillips writes of Plaidys teaching in The Leipzig Conservatory: 1843-1881 (Ph.D.
dissertation, Indiana University, 1979), 141-43. See also Louis Plaidy, Technical Studies for the Piano
(New York: Schirmer, 1875), 3-7.

11
meet the challenges of playing by using the body accordance with its natural
capabilities.13 Moreover, they sought a more pleasing tone and a style of performance
able to move audiences, and they conceived these as the prerogative of a well-formed
technique.14 Among these were Ludwig Deppe, 15 Rudolf Breithaupt,16 Friedrich
Steinhausen,17 and their followers.
Thus, two distinct concepts of the body -- one as requiring necessary adaptations
to be trained into it and the other as having natural abilities to be released from it -- gave
rise to two different approaches to playing that may be characterized as finger
technique and arm-weight technique and that divided their followers into opposing
camps. Differing views of technique gave rise to different concepts and descriptions of
tone, and alternative views on the relationship of technique to interpretation and musical
style.

13

Writing nearly thirty-five years later, Friedrich Steinhausen summarized this view: Wir kommen damit
auf den einzig mglichen und richtigen Standpunkt, dass wir nmlich den Krper nichts lehren, sondern nur
von ihm lernen knnen. Thereby we come to the only possible and correct standpoint, namely that we
can teach the body nothing, but we can only learn from it; Die Physiologischen Fehler und die
Umgestaltung der Klaviertechnik (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Hrtel, 1913), 3.
14
Godowsky articulated this concept: Technique . . . embraces everything that makes for artistic piano
playing good fingering, phrasing, pedaling, dynamics, agogics, time and rhythm in a word, the art of
musical expression. . . . Weight, relaxation and economy of motion are the foundation stones of technique
or interpretation. . . . Ninety percent of my playing is based on the weight principle and I taught it
scientifically as early as 1892. J. G. Hinderer, We Attend Godowskys Master Class, The Musician 38
(July, 1933): 3; quoted in Reginald R. Gerig, Famous Pianists and Their Technique (Washington, D.C.,
and New York: Robert B. Luce, 1974), 332.
15
Ludwig Deppe, Armleiden des Klavierspielers, Deutscher Musiker-Zeitung (1885); repr. Neue
Zeitschrift fr Musik 70: 315, and in Gerig, Famous Pianists and Their Technique, 252-54. See also,
Elisabeth Caland, Die Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels (Magdeburg: Heinrichshofens Verlag, 1921);
Amy Fay, The Deppe Finger Exercises for Rapidly Developing an Artistic Touch (Chicago: S. W. Straub,
1890; repr. Chicago: Musica Obscura, 1971); Fay, Music Study in Germany, 286-92; C. A. Ehrenfechter,
Technical Study in the Art of Pianoforte-Playing (Deppes Principles) (London: William Reeves, 1900).
16
Rudolf M. Breithaupt, Die natrliche Klaviertechnik Band I: Handbuch der modernen Methodik und
Spielpraxis; Band II: Die Grundlagen Des Gewichtspiels (Leipzig: C. F. Kahnt, 1909).
17
See note 13.

12
Proponents of finger technique spoke of the activity of the fingers as striking the keys,
and the ideal tone as pearling (Kullak).18 Equalizing the striking power of the fingers
was considered of greatest importance, and lifting the fingers high was thought to be the
means by which the keys could be struck harder, thus creating a more powerful forte
(Lebert, Stark).19 Proponents of arm-weight technique spoke of the activity of the arm as
falling or rolling, the fingers as supporting the arm, transferring the weight,
remaining close to the keys, and the ideal tone as singing or penetrating or as having
carrying power without harshness (Deppe, Breithaupt).
No matter what their technical orientation, all pianists sought a technique that
would be effective in meeting the demands of new music and new instrument design. Yet
the urgency of this need also fostered anxiety that musical quality would suffer as
attention was drawn disproportionately to mechanical issues. Moreover, virtuosi
depended upon technical display to delight and impress audiences, and while it was
generally agreed that a strong technique was indispensable, some viewed the exhibition
of technical prowess in the concert hall as crass showmanship that devalued music and
degraded the public taste. Preserving musical quality and taste began to be equated with
classicism and performing the classic works by Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven began to be
regarded as a performers duty.

18

Kullak, The Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing, 101-2.


Lebert and Stark advocated the hammer touch: All the fingers must on average be held firmly about
one inch over the keys (thisdepends upon the size of the hand), strike rapidly and perpendicularly and
just as rapidly return to their first position. This is the normal touch; its modifications (nearer or quite near
the keys) can be learned only by personal instruction. Grand Theoretical and Practical Piano-School,
xxiv. For a discussion of Lebert and Starks pedagogy, see Sheryl Maureen Peterson Mueller, Concepts of
Nineteenth-Century Piano Pedagogy in the United States, (Ph.D. dissertation, University of Colorado,
1995), 143.

19

13
Piano technique was implicated in this issue, becoming emblematic of either a
progressive or conservative orientation. Finger technique had always sufficed in
performing the music of the classical masters, while newer arm techniques were
associated with modern music that was sometimes viewed as of unproven or dubious
quality and characterized by romantic excess. Educational curricula that required pupils
to give up studying repertoire while they built up their technique relegated technical
development to a process separate from musical study and interpretation.20 This
dichotomy reinforced a view of technique as different from interpretation, and as opposed
to musical value. Those who favored finger technique over arm-weight technique
contributed the most to the separation of technique from musical expression, and their
views were often adopted and replicated, unconsciously or not, by their pupils through
the process of education. Others, impatient with mechanical rigor and eager to ally
themselves with music in its purest form, rejected technical practice entirely, preferring to
let their techniques suffer rather than abuse their musical sensibilities with mind-numbing
exercise.
Proponents of arm-weight techniques tended to view technique and musical
expression together, as a continuum along which the means merged with the objective;
musical expression became inseparable from its physical realization. Technique was
conceived more broadly to include expressive issues as well as issues of dexterity,
strength, and endurance; and this advanced the notion that technique could be developed
20

Hans von Blow described his piano study in Leipzig: Every morning I play trill exercises, simple and
chromatic scales of all kinds, exercises for throwing the hands (for these I use a study of Moscheles, one of
Steibelt, and a two-part fugue of Bachs which I play with octaves in both hands . . . toccatas of Czerny
which Herr Plaidy gave me, and Moscheles and Chopins studies. . . . Hans von Blow, The Early
Correspondence (New York: D. Appleton, 1896), 11. Quoted in Phillips, The Leipzig Conservatory, 142.
In Phillips, see also p. 25, the teaching methods of the Stuttgart Conservatory.

14
in the process of building repertoire. Thus, the teaching and learning process united
technique and musicality as two sides of a coin, the how and what that circumscribed
a unified artistic endeavor, while it expanded the concept of technique to include all
facets of artistic playing. According to this view, technical advances gained new ground
for musical expression and interpretation and invested musical works with new meanings.
Technique became a part of the language of musical expression.
Though it is an oversimplification, reducing the thought on piano playing to two
categories, finger technique and arm-weight technique, is not without historical
justification. Moreover, it enables an examination of how well the views of nineteenthcentury writers on piano technique correspond with these categories, yielding a more
varied and accurate picture in which the features that connect Arrau to Liszt and to other
nineteenth-century figures may be seen.
THE PIANO AND PIANO MUSIC
The music written for the piano and the manner in which the music is to be played
is interrelated with the nature of the instrument itself. The eighteenth-century piano had
delicate hammers and thin, brittle strings. The lightness and sensitivity of the action and
the shallow key-drop both necessitated and compensated for the restriction imposed on
the movement of the hand. Tone was produced by the action of the fingers without any
participation by the arm, wrist, and hand. Furthermore, Ftis noted that these instruments
required no little management to prevent their [strings] being broken. For such
instruments Haydn, Mozart and Schubert wrote. He went on, They required delicacy of
touch, expression and volubility of finger.21 The technique of playing on these
21

Quoted in Thomas Fielden, The Science of Pianoforte Technique (London: Macmillan, 1934), 36.

15
instruments was confined to the fingers. The keys were pressed with ease, and the hand
and fingers naturally had all the strength that was necessary.
Nineteenth-century innovations in piano construction and changing styles of
composition for the piano coincided with changes in social structure and taste. A
growing and affluent middle class attended public concerts that were presented by
traveling virtuosi and sometimes sponsored by instrument manufacturers. These
performances brought the art of piano playing to audiences that had never before
experienced it.22 More powerful instruments were needed to project to large concert-hall
audiences. A more powerful sound required thicker, longer strings, and heavier
hammers. As a result, piano actions became heavier with a deeper key-drop, requiring
more weight and strength of the player to overcome the inertia of the keys. 23 The louder,
more resonant instrument encouraged long melodic lines. Longer and wider keys
encouraged chromatic music with dense passages of chords, arpeggios, and octaves.
Composer-pianists such as Chopin, Liszt, Thalberg, Herz, and Kalkbrenner, recognizing
the possibilities of the new instruments, gave to their piano music a virtuosic character
that enraptured audiences and placed greater demands on both instruments and
performers.24

22

Charlotte N. Eyerman and James Parakilas, 1820s to 1870s: The Piano Calls the Tune, in Piano Roles,
ed. James Parakilas (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1999), 184-85. See also, Leon
Plantinga, The Piano in the Nineteenth Century, in Nineteenth-Century Piano Music, ed. R. Larry Todd
(New York: Schirmer, 1990), 4-7.
23
The double-escapement action is often given credit for the revolution in piano technique. See Charles
Timbrell, French Pianism: A Historical Perspective, second ed. (Portland, Oreg.: Amadeus Press, 1999),
35. This is true indirectly, for the double escapement action certainly made it possible to write for the piano
in new ways. But from a technical standpoint, the difficulties that pianists had to face stemmed not from the
use of the double-escapement action itself but from heavier actions and more complex and demanding
music.
24
Edwin M. Good and Cynthia Adams Hoover, Designing, Making, and Selling Pianos, in Piano Roles,
58-60; in the same volume, James Parakilas and Gretchen Wheelock, 1770s to 1820s: The Piano

16
Concert-going stimulated an appetite for private music-making in middle-class
homes that was fed by a sharp increase in piano manufacturing and music publishing.
Amateur players as well as those with professional ambitions aspired to perform the
wonders they had witnessed in the concert halls. Piano playing and piano technique had
found a market. But it was evident that volubility of finger would no longer suffice;
piano technique and piano players themselves would have to adapt to the new
instruments and the music.25 To assist players in developing greater strength, skill, and
endurance, composers wrote volumes of exercises. No one was more prodigiously
productive in this endeavor than Carl Czerny.
CARL CZERNY (1791-1857)
A pupil of Beethoven and teacher of Theodor Kullak, Theodor Leschetizky, and
Franz Liszt, Czerny was a key figure in a transitional period that began with Beethoven
and ended with the younger generation of virtuoso pianist-composers that included
Dreyschock, Kalkbrenner, Thalberg, and Liszt. These composers represented a new style
that combined cantabile playing with bravura, a mode which, in Czernys words,
enables a player to give to the composition which he has selected, an unusual degree of
spirit and character, and often to exalt the satisfaction of his audience to absolute
enthusiasm.26
Czernys teaching and writing were crucial in the formation of two generations of
pianists. Facile in composition and methodical by nature, his writing touched on every

Revolution in the Age of Revolutions, 110. See also Leon Plantinga, The Piano in the Nineteenth
Century, in Nineteenth-Century Piano Music, 6.
25
E. Douglas Bomberger, Martha Dennis Burns, James Parakilas, Judith Tick, Marina Tsvetaeva, and Mark
Tucker, The Piano Lesson, in Piano Roles, 164.
26
Carl Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School, Op. 500 (1839), III: 29.

17
aspect of pianistic training and professional activity.27 The sheer number of his exercises
and etudes reveals a passion for analyzing and codifying the elements of pianistic styles
and techniques, and they present a wealth of pianistic passagework for the training of the
hands. His working method has been described as follows:
He is said to have kept several desks going to which he resorted whenever
a pupil had a special technical difficulty confronting him; he jotted down
the figure and later on, after teaching hours, amplified it into a full blown
study, which served not only as a study for the special purpose, but also as
a study in endurance. 28
Czerny put forth the foundation of his technique as well as a summary of
contemporary styles in his Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School, Op.
500, published in 1839 under the patronage of Queen Victoria of England. His
instructions for the position of the hand and use of the fingers served as the basis of piano
technique at least until the end of the nineteenth century, and continued to influence
piano pedagogy throughout the twentieth century. Though his etudes and exercises
include no commentary explaining exactly how to play them, they are usually regarded as
a foundation for the development of finger technique; however, a careful reading of his
written instructions in the Pianoforte School shows that Czerny did not advocate the high
finger technique of later pedagogues, and that he recognized the role of weight technique
in dynamic control and melodic expression, even though he did not provide adequate
instructions for its use.

27

Systematic Introduction to Improvisation on the Pianoforte, Op. 200; School of Practical Composition,
Op. 600, 3 vols.; Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School, Op. 500; Umriss der Ganzen
Musik-Geschichte bis 1800, Op. 815. For discussion of these works and Czernys importance as a
pedagogue, see Alice Levine Mitchell, A Systematic Introduction to the Pedagogy of Carl Czerny, Music
and Civilization: Essays in Honor of Paul Henry Lang, eds. Edmond Strainchamps, Maria Rika Maniates,
and Christopher Hatch (New York: W. W. Norton, 1984), 262-69.
28
Thomas Fielden, The History of the Evolution of Pianoforte Technique, Proceedings of the Musical
Association, Fifty-ninth Session, 1932-1933 (Leeds: Whitehead & Miller, 1933), 47.

18
Czerny wrote not only about piano technique and musical style but also about the
power of knowledge and technical competence to give intrinsic value to musical works.
His phrase in the quotation below, which they [musical works] could not otherwise lay
claim to, reveals the importance he placed upon actual sound in determining musical
identity and worth. In his view, a musical work existed not only as an artistic conception
residing in the composers mind, or as symbols on the page signifying a sound structure,
in what is termed the music itself, but in the potential a work provided for performers to
convey sense, interest, beauty, and meaning through the medium of sound. For Czerny,
the value of a composition rested upon its compelling embodiment in sound. Czerny
expressed it as follows:
In former times, when mechanical practice had not been carried to the
same height as at present, Players were content, when they were able to
execute rapid running passages distinctly and in correct Time, however
coarsely; and the novelty of the thing then never failed to excite
admiration. Now we have discovered that even the most difficult passages
admit of a high degree of expression; that by delicacy of touch, well
introduced rallentandos &c, an attractive charm may be given to such
passages, which formerly were considered only as an excessive heaping
together of a monstrous number of notes. By this discovery, Piano forte
playing has already gained an infinite degree of improvement; and many
Compositions obtain hereby an intrinsic value, which they could not
otherwise lay claim to; for in this way, passages possess a real melodial
interest, and cease to appear to the listener as a mere senseless jargon.29
In this passage, Czerny identified a creative role, not only for composition in
creating musical meaning through structural relationships, but also for performance in
conveying meaning to listeners and constructing the identities of musical works through
sounding elements not necessarily specified by notation. His viewpoint was a corollary to

29

Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School III: 51.

19
a new conception of piano playing as an autonomous career rather than simply as part of
a composers training. Piano performance was coming to be valued not simply as a
medium to facilitate and advance composition but as an art in itself. In the passage quoted
above, Czerny referred to the duality of technique and interpretation but he also made it
clear that interpretive achievements -- such as expression and charm -- are technical
attainments, the results of delicacy of touch and an advanced method of mechanical
practice. While he certainly understood the difference between musical expression and
mechanical training, Czerny nevertheless saw that, at every level of art, technique and
interpretation are inseparable.
Although execution and expression belong mainly to the intellectual
powers of the player, they depend so much on mechanical, or material
means, that even in great masters and with highly gifted players, both
qualities flow into one another, and hence one seems, as it were, only the
natural consequence of the other.30
Though thoroughly trained in the classical style, Czerny plunged into the trend
toward the new virtuosity with industry, enthusiasm, and a vision of virtuosity and
advanced mechanical training as an expansion of the earlier musical aesthetic. Virtuosity
was not mere mechanical display; it was creative art in the sense that it could be used to
create or reinvent meaning for a composition. It could elevate what seemed senseless
jargon to a work of intrinsic value.
Czerny places the position of the hand and training of fingers as the first practical
task. His instructions to position the hand curving the fingers so that the thumb and

30

Ibid., 1.

fingertips lie in a straight line 31 appears overly pedantic and counterproductive for a

20

technique suited to the modern piano keyboard; however, for Czernys keyboard these
instructions described a way of allowing all of the fingers (including the thumb) to fit
simultaneously on his keyboard.32 The natural heads on most keyboards of Czernys time
were about 3.5 cm (a little less than 1.5 inches) up to the end of the eighteenth century as
opposed to modern natural key heads, which are 5 cm (about 2 inches).33 Moreover,
Czerny states, The keys must not be struck near their edge, but at about half an inch
from their end nearest the player.34 If this point represents nearly the middle of the
natural head, then the natural head must have been about one inch long. Therefore,
aligning the fingertips in a straight line was necessary in order to fit the hand to Czernys
keyboard: the thumb and fingertips had to lie more or less in a straight line in order to fit
simultaneously on five adjacent natural heads. The curved position of the fingers brought
the thumb and fingertips into alignment. The fingers had to stay on the natural heads
because they could not fit easily between the sharp keys. This type of position would be
most suited to music that utilized comparatively few sharp keys.

31

The surface of the fore-arm, from the elbow to the knuckles of the bended fingers, must form an
absolutely straight and horizontal line; and the wrists must neither be bent downwards, nor upwards, so as
to resemble a ball. The preserving an exactly straight line with the knuckles and the upper surface of the
hands is one of the principal requisites towards acquiring a fine style of playing. Czerny, Complete
Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School I: 2.
32
The fingers must be somewhat bent inwards. As the fingers are of unequal lengths, each finger (not
including the thumb) must take such a part in this specie of curvature, that all their tips as well as the thumb
in its natural outstretched position, may form one straight line, when placed close together. In this case the
knuckles will assume nearly the form of a semicircle. Ibid. Also, The end of the thumb must always
reach to the middle of the fore or broad part of the white key, and never strike it near to its outer end. For
the percussion on the white keys should always be made on the surface of the keys by all the fingers, and
nearly in the middle of that part; they must never be struck near the extreme end, nor on the small narrow
portions included between the black keys. Ibid., 7.
33
Nicolas Mees, Keyboard, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie
(London: MacMillan, 1980), X: 10.
34
Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School I: 2.

21
Czerny recommended that each finger be held very near to its key (without
however touching it); so, after the stroke, it must again return to its previous situation.35
Thus, he did not advocate the high-finger action taught by later pedagogues (Lebert and
Stark, Plaidy; see pp. 33-35).
Czernys beginning exercises focus on the training of the fingers. First among them
is the reiteration of one note with repeated strokes of the same finger, a type of exercise
sometimes referred to as Klopfbung.36 Aware of the harmful effects of tension or strain
upon the nerves, he advises slow practice and gradual increase in speed. His use of
language such as moderately strong touch and press down the keys firmly, which
may produce tension or stiffness, is tempered by language such as as tranquilly as
possible, quiet movement, and flexibility, which has a softening effect and shows a
concern for the balance between exertion and relaxation in playing.37
Czernys exercises for legato touch are to be done with the weight of the hand
resting on the depressed key for the full duration of the note.38 While they do not yet
draw upon the weight of the arm, the fingers are not used exactly in isolation. If
Czernys instructions are followed literally, the notes played should be of equal volume,
35

Ibid., 7.
This exercise was replicated in piano teaching and methods well into the twentieth century. Pupils
reported that Liszt also recommended it (see p. 47).
37
The hand must be held as tranquilly as possible over the five keys, so that the reiterated
percussion may be produced by the quiet movement of the single finger. The beginner must accustom
himself to a moderately strong touch, so as to press down the keys firmly; he will naturally practice it, at
first very slow, accelerating the movement by degrees, as the flexibility of the fingers develops itself, and
without any strain upon the nerves. Ibid., 7. This exercise was reiterated and varied many times in later
books of exercises. According to Tilly Fleischmann, who studied with Stavenhagen and Berthold
Kellerman (both Liszt pupils), this exercise was one of several that Liszt himself practiced, and it became
a tradition among some of Liszts pupils who transmitted it to their pupils. Tilly Fleischmann, Aspects of
the Liszt Tradition, ed. Michael ONeill (Bryn Mawr, Pa.: Theodore Presser, 1991), 118.
38
In the first Exercise, intended only for two fingers, the thumb must quit the C at the very same moment
that the first finger strikes the D, which in its turn must be quitted, at the same moment that the thumb again
strikes the C. . . . The same thing takes place in the 2d Exercise, with the 3 fingers; then with the 4, and
36

22
the dynamic strength of the fingers being automatically equalized by the constant weight
of the hand. Perhaps this is why, in the following passage, Czerny speaks of equalization
of the fingers in terms of duration rather than dynamics. While equality of touch is
more commonly taken as meaning equality in dynamic strength,39 Czerny referred to
equality of touch in the context of keeping the hands exactly together, therefore
meaning equality in duration.
This equality in the touch can only be acquired, when both hands are kept
perfectly still, and all the fingers held up equally high; for those fingers
which are removed farther from the keys than the rest, or which are held
with stiffness, naturally strike later, by which the perfect equality of the
blow is destroyed [my emphasis].40
Czernys first mention of dynamics occurs in connection with exercises in fivefinger patterns in which one of the fingers must play a louder sound.41 Czerny asks that
the increased volume be produced by increased pressure of the finger alone; however,
without the participation of the arm or hand, the finger cannot exert greater pressure
except by rising higher and or depressing the key with more velocity, but either way,
Czerny wants the adjustment so small as to be invisible. It is not clear what he intends;
but Czerny invites the conclusion that introducing the arm and hand at this point
interferes with finger training.

lastly with all the 5 fingers; so that the weight of the hand always rests on the keys, but on one finger only,
while all the rest are poised in the air. Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School I: 7.
39
As in this passage: With beginners the thumb is very apt to strike too loudly, while the fourth and fifth
fingers are weak and stiff. They should, therefore, moderate the force of the thumb, and endeavor to make
that of the fourth and fifth fingers equal to the others. We would recommend their practicing passages
which are to be executed by these two fingers, with a stronger touch. Louis Plaidy, Technical Studies for
the Piano, 6.
40
Czerny, Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School I: 9.
41
Here it must be remarked, that the required emphasis must not be produced by any violent movement of
the Players hand or arm, but by a stronger pressure of the finger, which must be audible but not visible to
the Bystander. Even in marking a single note in the strongest manner, or in a crescendo, both the hand and
the arm must be held as quiet as possible. Ibid., 4.

23
A later reference to use of dynamics takes place in the context of musical
expression, and here Czerny stipulates the use of weight and pressure of the hand to
achieve different dynamics. Moreover, he seems to refer indirectly to an emotional
response to the music as leading to an increase in the feeling of weight: the increased
internal action of the nerves, both indication and result of a heightening emotional state
in crescendo, prompts greater weight in the hands.42
A reader cannot know from Czernys instructions how much weight is applied or
where exactly the weight comes from, but only that the hand receives it. If the weight
were to come from bearing down from the forearm, then there is the risk of fettering the
flexibility of the fingers (note 42). If the crescendo is to be produced not by any visible
exertion but by an internal and therefore invisible action of nerves, then what prompts
the nerves into action? It can only be an emotional response to the music, demanding a
crescendo. Therefore the increased weight is associated with the musical or emotional
response; the use of weight is the manifestation and expression of this response, rather
than simply a mechanical procedure. The very lack of mechanical directions invites this
interpretation, though the reader is no wiser about what must be done.43

42

Before anything else, it must be observed that the crescendo should never be produced by a visible
exertion of the hands, or by lifting up the fingers higher than is usual, when we are playing legato; but only
by an encreased [sic] internal action of the nerves, and by a greater degree of weight, which the hand
receives therefrom, without however fettering the flexibility of the fingers [Czernys emphasis]. Czerny,
Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School III: 15. Contrast Czernys instructions for dynamic
control with Plaidys: In proportion as a full and strong tone is required, the fingers must be raised so
much the higher, and press with greater weight upon the keys; the more subdued the tone is to be, the more
moderate should be the motion, as well as the pressure, of the fingers. Plaidy, Technical Studies for the
Piano, 4.
43
In another example, Czerny again associates the use of weight with musical emotion, in the case of a
passage that is mournful and requiring great expression, and he stipulates, Both hands must always be
held firm, and with all their weight resting on the keys; although the fingers, wherever p or pp is indicated,
must strike as gently as is necessary. To say that the hands are to be held firm implies a certain tension
in the hand, presumably to support the weight, but Czerny qualifies this language with the phrase as gently

24
Czerny again recommends using the entire weight of the hand and an internal
and invisible pressure for playing melodies expressively and in correct balance with
their accompaniments.44 Czernys direction that the hand must be kept quite tranquil, so
that this touch may be produced only by its entire weight . . . is of interest. He seems to
suggest either that tranquility or relaxation is essential to releasing the weight of the
hand in order to achieve dynamic control, or that movement, specifically finger
movement, should be kept to a minimum, letting weight be the means of tone production.
When he argues that with the change from a heavy to a lighter pressure, very different
qualities of tone may be produced from the Pianoforte; even when we play the whole
with an equal degree of piano, he indicates that tone quality is both a function of
weight and a separate domain from dynamics. Also significant is Czernys advice to
interpret piano markings in expressive melodic passages by playing the melody almost
forte with a corresponding decrease in volume for the accompaniment to create an
overall sense of piano.

as is necessary. In other instances, Czerny describes the state of the hand as tranquil. Czerny, Complete
Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School III: 21.
44
The Pianoforte, as we know, cannot sustain a sound long, nor swell and diminish it like the human
voice, the Violin, Clarinet, &c; For this reason, the performance of a melody consisting of slow notes
requires peculiar attention and address. In the present day Pianofortes are much improved in this respect;
and when the player knows how to treat them, he is enabled to approach very nearly to the instruments
above named, without the aid of embellishments and passages. . . . A simple melody must be played with
much greater expression, and comparatively with much greater power, than is required in the hand which
plays the accompaniment to it; . . . If the player were in this case to employ an equal degree of power in
both hands, the full harmony in the accompaniment would absolutely overwhelm the melody above it.
[Here Czerny gives as an example a melodic passage marked p.] For this reason the right hand,
notwithstanding the piano which is indicated, must be played almost forte, while the left hand accompanies
in a subdued tone. . . . In all such cases too, the hand must be kept quite tranquil, so that this touch may be
produced only by its entire weight, and by an internal and invisible pressure. . . . We must observe that by
this change from a heavy to a lighter pressure, very different qualities of tone may be produced from the
Pianoforte; even when we play the whole with an equal degree of piano. Ibid., 41.

25
In the bravura or brilliant style, combining the molto staccato or martellato touch
with great force, Czerny advised the use of the forearm with bent and rigid fingers.45
This passage raises many questions and perhaps disappointment as well, as
incompatibility of rigid fingers with speed is obvious. But Czernys various caveats 46
about excessive movement of the forearm, the possible harm to equality of tone, effects
too laborious, exciting, and even prejudicial to the health,47 suggest a reasonable
basis for arguments by Czerny as well as other pedagogues against the use of the arm in
playing. The forearm stroke described by Czerny was undoubtedly capable of
considerable violence; but it may also have been the only conceivable way of using the
arm, as the bent-finger hand position, which allowed all five fingers to lie on the keys

45

As in the pointed manner of detaching the notes, employed in the Molto Staccato, the entire hand and
even the fore-arm must be lifted up; every passage which is executed in this manner receives a particularly
shewy effect, and it appears to the hearer much more difficult, than it really is, or than it would appear; if
executed in any other style of playing. Thus, for Example, no one will call the following passage difficult
[Czerny gives as an example a passage containing a g minor arpeggio and several broken octaves]. But let
us play it in the following manner [staccato, martellato] that is with bent and rigid fingers, with great force,
extremely short, and with the necessary movements of the arm; we shall find that in truth it has become
much more difficult; but that it has also become much more effective, and that is now in a certain degree,
capable of justly exciting the admiration of the hearer. When a passage executed in this manner, is really
difficult, and conceived by the Composer with brilliancy, it receives the character of the Bravura, or that
which is more particularly called the brilliant style of playing; and when the Player, in public performances,
and in a large locality, makes use of this mode; he is enabled to give to the composition which he has
selected, an unusual degree of spirit and character, and often to exalt the satisfaction of his audience to
absolute enthusiasm. Ibid., 29-30.
46
This manner can only be employed in its full extent in f and ff; although, naturally speaking, the most
pointed detaching of the notes frequently occurs in p, and pp; only in the last case the arm must be kept
much more tranquil, and the detaching of the notes must be effected merely by the fingers . . . .
Great rapidity cannot be combined with this mode of playing; still, however, the scales must occasionally
be practiced in this way, and in a moderate degree of movement, in order to give the arms and fingers the
requisite precision in striking the keys. For the Player must take especial care, that the fore-arm shall only
be allowed so much movement, as is absolutely necessary to attain the desired effect, and to always
maintain a fine equality of tone. Excess in this respect would be too laborious and exciting, and in very
lengthy passage might even become prejudicial to the health. Ibid., 29-30.
47
One suspects that this particular warning was issued with female pianists in mind.

26
simultaneously, effectively prevented the flexibility of the wrist necessary for effective
use of the upper arm.48
Czerny justly has been credited with an ability to systematize diverse styles and
techniques during a period when they were still in flux.49 This examination of the
Pianoforte School shows Czernys progressive ideas of performance as art and of
technique as musical expression. While his basic orientation was toward a finger
technique, he advocated using weight for dynamic control, expressive tone, and nuance,
to bring out a melody against its accompaniment, or to effect the bravura or brilliant
(martellato) style. The ambiguous character of his directions for applying weight and
limitation in his use of the arm are related to the nature of his instrument and to that
period of flux in which he worked, but his recognition of arm technique as a topic was an
indicator of future developments. His three most prominent pupils developed in
directions starkly different from each other.
PROPONENTS OF FINGER TECHNIQUE
ADOLF KULLAK (1823-62) AND THEODOR KULLAK (1818-82)
Theodor Kullak was cofounder of the Berlin Conservatory in 1850,50 and the
Neue Akademie der Tonkunst in 1855. His brother, Adolf Kullak, also a professor of

48

The use of the upper arm is more compatible with somewhat straightened fingers but requires a flexible
wrist to prevent losing contact with the keys. Edna Golandsky notes that curving the fingers activates the
long flexor muscles in the hand, making them tighten over the wrist, thus preventing flexibility in the wrist.
Lecture by Edna Golandsky in Dorothy Taubman, The Taubman Techniques: A Series of Videocassettes
Presenting the Keyboard Pedagogy of Dorothy Taubman (Medusa, N.Y.: J.T.J. Films, Inc., in cooperation
with the Taubman Institute, 1994), Tape 1.
49
Alice L. Mitchell, Carl Czerny, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie
(London: Macmillan, 1980), V: 138-41.
50
In 1857, the Berlin Conservatory was renamed the Stern Conservatory. Its faculty would later include
Hans von Blow, Martin Krause, Rudolf Breithaupt, Edwin Fischer, and Claudio Arrau.

piano at the Neue Akademie, 51 was author of The Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing,

27

published in 1861. The book underwent three revisions by Hans Bischoff. Theodor, who
outlived Adolf by twenty years, endorsed the 1876 edition as not only an eminent
scientifico-artistic product, but also a dear personal inheritance. . . . I have at least been in
regular communication with Dr. Bischoff concerning the way in which the revision
should be carried out.52 There is, therefore, some justification for the assumption that the
book represented the views of both of them.
The Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing is in two parts: the first is devoted to essays
on the piano, on the history of piano playing, and on piano methods; the second and by
far the longer part is devoted to piano technique and interpretation. Kullak advocates a
technique based on finger action and incorporating tension as a necessary element. He
advises training first the hand, but thereafter the playing mechanism entire, even with
the muscles of the upper arm, always keeping in mind the touch and tone production
demanded by compositions.53 He patterns his approach after a four-fold analogy of the
finger to the hammer action of the piano: 1) the responsiveness of the hammer
corresponds to the looseness of the finger; 2) the fingers must be a match for the piano
action in striking power and speed; 3) the fingers must develop equality in striking
power; 4) the position of the hand must be the outward manifestation of the attainment of
these finger skills.
The finger-stroke, like the hammer-action of the piano, Kullak wrote, Must be

51

Horst Leuchtmann, Theodor Kullak, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley
Sadie (London, Macmillan, 1980), X: 304.
52
Theodor Kullak, Preface to the Second Edition, in Adolf Kullak, Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing,
trans. Theodore Baker (New York: G. Schirmer, 1893; repr. New York: DaCapo, 1972), no page number.
53
A. Kullak, Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing, 97.

28
perfectly loose. . . . It must look as if it moved on a hinge. . . . The movement of the
finger toward the key must exactly resemble a fall; so long as it looks like a reaching
stretching down . . . it is wrong.54 Kullak added to this a description of the finger resting
on the depressed key clingingly, firmly, yet gently, adhering to the key as if by
suction with the fingertip appearing soft, semi-fluid, readily kneadable. He thus
identifies two opposite phases in the basic finger stroke: first, a lightning-like vivacity of
lift and fall; and second, utter repose and passivity during the act of pressing down.
The resultant tone must have no suspicion of influence by arm or weakening in fingertip . . . it must be pearling. The fall of finger should be audible . . . as a tap of the
fingertip on the key.55 Kullak recommended a Klopfbung to individualize the fingers
and he advised equalizing their striking power by moderating the stronger fingers while
exerting the weaker fingers (by contrast with Czernys equalization of duration).56
Kullak described two basic positions of the hand. In the first, the back of the hand
is aligned horizontally with knuckle joint, wrist, and forearm, with the fingers curved so
that the tip joint is nearly perpendicular to the key. To prevent dropping the wrist and
breaking the horizontal line, Kullak recommends slightly raising the wrist so that the
forearm slants upward somewhat toward the wrist. If the knuckles protrude upward again
breaking the horizontal line, they should be pressed inward. In this wise the
horizontality first required is transformed to an undulating line, rising a little at the wrist,

54

Ibid., 101-2.
Ibid.
56
Each [finger] falls perpendicularly on the center of the front field of its white key. All the first exercises
are played with fixed hand, i.e., all the fingers stand firmly on the keys pressed down by them, while a
single finger practices the stroke. Thus, while the tension of the lift is brought into play, the hand is, so to
speak, pressed down by a weight. Ibid., 114. This is another example of the Klopfbung but of a more
rigid type than Czernys.
55

falling to the knuckles, and again rising in the first finger-joints. 57 Observing that this

29

position cannot exist without tension, Kullak reassured his reader that this tension would
eventually seem normal.58
Kullak returns to the matter of the fingers, describing their action in this position
as hammers moving up-and-down: The first joint [of the fingers] represents the heft of a
hammer, and the two others the descending hammer-head. The curved form of the fingers
must be stringently retained, the feeling of looseness subsisting only in the knuckle
joint.59 Kullak also refers to this position as a bent position or to the fingers as bent
fingers.60 In this description, all of the earlier instructions are compromised. Whereas
before, tension was directed to the knuckle and fingertip with all other parts of the
playing apparatus relaxed, now tension is present in virtually all the joints: wrist,
knuckles, and fingers. Kullak asserts that the tension created by pressing in on the
knuckles gives the fingers more striking power. Because depressing the knuckles is the
equivalent of lifting up the fingers, then lifting the fingers even further creates a tension
that, according to Kullak, drives them toward the keys as if by a steel spring . . . The tip
of the tensely curved finger strikes with firm resistance against the key . . . the finger
deals the key a blow.61
Kullaks second position calls for a low wrist, higher knuckles, and more
elongated fingers. Thus, the back of the hand slants slightly downward from knuckles to

57

Ibid., 105-6.
The maintainance [sic] of the curve in the forward finger-joints was attended by tension; the
horizontality of the line described from elbow to third finger, and still more the elevation of the wrist and
pressing in of the knuckles, can likewise not be maintained without tension. Only after long habituation
can this tension acquire the character of naturalness and unconstrainedness. Ibid., 106.
59
Ibid., 106.
60
Ibid., 107.
61
Ibid., 107, 108.
58

30
wrist and the fingers are less curved. The tension of the first position is now completely
absent, and the feeling is one of easy suspension. Fingers should rise above the back of
hand and fall from this height; a finger may stretch out straight in the lift but the curve
comes back when the finger falls. The fingers have more ease in lifting and should lift
high above the back of the hand. If the finger straightens out in lifting, it regains its curve
in the fall.62
Kullak advised cultivating both positions for opposite advantages. The first
position, he says, requires more effort in lifting but less effort in striking the keys; the
second position requires less effort in lifting but more effort in striking. The first position
possesses more strength owing to its inherent tension, while the second has the advantage
of greater relaxation. With the first position, the tone produced is sharply sparkling,
sprightly and has more strength in staccato and in bolder effects; with the second, the
tone is softer, looser, not so sharply defined, but more pearling and has the advantage
in legato.
Kullak limited use of the arm to the forearm, with the upper arm used only for
extreme power and volume. The forearm could be used in rebounding and suspension
above the keys, rising and falling into the keys, and lateral (rotational) movements; its
purpose was to lend power and bravura to passagework and chords, and to assist in
executing leaps. Like Czerny, Kullak admitted the value of the arm in creating a singing
tone and thus recognized the dichotomy outlined by Czerny: finger technique for the
pearling legato and arm pressure for the singing tone.63 However, there is a certain

62

Ibid., 107.
As long as the fingers execute a pearling legato, the cooperation of the arm is not allowable. Should it
take place, the evenness and independence of the finger-strokes would be lost. It is, however, a different

63

31
ambivalence regarding the use of the arm. Kullaks description of it, either as particular
to the modern style or as a rough, ponderous stroke, recalls the warnings of excess in
Czernys writing and suggests that an arm technique that both facilitated playing and
benefited tone production had not been adequately worked out.64
Amy Fay, who studied with Theodor Kullak from 1870 to 1873, credited him
with training many fine pianists, but complained that his teaching did not help to remedy
her pianistic problems. In June 1871, she wrote,
My constant thought is, When will my passages pearl? When will my
touch be perfectly equal? When will my trill be brilliant and sustained?
When will my thumb turn under and my fourth finger over without the
slightest perceptible break? When will my arpeggios go up the piano in
that peculiar roll that a genuine artist gives? etc., etc. [sic].65
Fays complaint suggests an incompatibility between her technical goals and the tenselycurved fingers, hammer-action, and pressure described by Adolf Kullak. Fay solved her
technical problems in later study with Ludwig Deppe, and she diagnosed her earlier
difficulties as follows:
I think my grand trouble all these years has been a stiff wrist and a heavy
arm. I have borne down too heavily on wrist and arm, whereas the whole
weight and power must be just in the tips of the fingers, and the wrist and
arm must be quite light and free, the hand turning upon the wrist as if it
were a pivot.66

matter with the separate long-sustained series of singing tones or accents not gliding on in unbroken flow.
Here the weight of the arm aids the pressure of the fingers and augments the singing tone. This occurs
most often with singing notes in the modern style, where they are to penetrate through a full figurate
accompaniment and are held long. Ibid., 190.
64
The most skillful arm-stroke, compared with that from the wrist or knuckle, savors somewhat of
roughness. . . . the arm-stroke requires far less artistic skill than the finger-strokes; neither does the
physical construction of the arm stand in just proportion to that of the keys. It is a too massive lever for the
keys, with which the fingers alone stand in direct and actual connection. In its ponderous stroke the arm
therefore represents a shade of tone-color, but not the primary color. The latter resides entirely in the
fingers, and only great and isolated contrasts claim the aid of the former. Ibid., 189-90.
65
Fay, Music Study in Germany, 123-24.
66
Ibid., 332.

32
Kullaks work gave increased detail and complexity to Czernys more general
instructions about the use and training of the fingers. However, writing twenty years
after Czernys Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School, Kullak
accomplished no further refinement of arm technique except to spell out the uses of the
arm as horizontal, or vertical, or a turning on its own axis.67 Moreover, his aggressively
mechanistic language and advocacy of tension are misleading. His first hand position,
which involves depressing the knuckles, weakens the fingers by placing them in the
extreme range of their motion, where movement is most tiring, and by preventing the
knuckles from acting as a fulcrum to give the fingers leverage on the keys.
Kullaks technical recommendations seem almost a reaction against virtuosity
rather than an effort to develop it. By contrast with Czernys optimism and enthusiasm
for the rising virtuosity, Kullak, in his second chapter (The History of Clavier
Virtuosity), discusses it with obvious antipathy. On the one hand, he observes that a
virtuoso technique has become an everyday matter a conditio sine qua non for any
good musician desiring to perform in public and, indeed, he dismisses lofty artistic
ideals without the finest technique as idealized morality.68 On the other hand, he
criticizes modern music for using technique to disguise superficial musical ideas.
Technique develops in everything. the most unimportant [detail] shines
in the brilliancy of technical training .What otherwise found room as an
ornament hardly noticed betwixt the pillars of the artistic idea, is now
seized upon and worked up in factory-like imitation . The tude form
predominates. Its principle so permeates the wide-spreading ramifications
of all forms, that its law quite predominates free productivity, and almost
nothing is left of the earlier ideal method of composition. The field of
earlier technique seems from this standpoint, too, like a portrait in
miniature. The demands upon physical energy and endurance outgrow all
67
68

A. Kullak, Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing, 187.


Ibid., 33-34.

33
limits. Where the earlier masters thought they were putting forth
tremendous efforts, the moderns just begin to take an interest in gymnastic
enjoyment. The former methods of touch are supplemented by the stroke
from the wrist and arm.69
Moreover, Kullak decries the influence of modern virtuosity on programming and
reception of classical-period works:
The performance of classic masterworks becomes infrequent, technique
finding no gratification in them. A Beethoven sonata cannot approach
Thalbergs and Kontskis fantasias in displaying all phases of gymnastics,
all kinds of arm, hand, and finger-joint touch and caressing the keys. A
comprehension of the masters is lost in the interest in gymnastics. The
individual sensitiveness of the finger, its mission of conveying the
emotions of the soul to the keys through subtle feeling, is swallowed up in
its mechanical function. As a point of honor, the virtuosi play a number
by Beethoven or some classic; they feel relieved on getting rid of it, and
the audience is, in fact, chary of applause after such performances. Other
masters of technique show, it is true, by superb isolated performances of
classical works, to what superior excellence such interpretations can attain
with modern resources; but they lack courage to risk their advantages, in
view of a perverted public taste. Dilettantism distorts classic style, by
treating it according to a technical, instead of an ideal, standard.70
Thus, while it is tempting to criticize Kullak for a lack of progressiveness, it
should be kept in mind that an optimistic embrace of virtuosity was easier for Czerny,
working in the early nineteenth century, than for Kullak, by whose time the new styles
and techniques had become more problematic. Kullaks position was governed by his
conviction that classic music and its technique epitomized musical expression and was
the duty of true artists, while the virtuosity of modern music amounted to empty
mechanical display. This may explain why the teaching of a technique whose precepts are
grounded in classical period music and instruments persisted into the twentieth century,

69
70

Ibid., 23.
Ibid.

34
despite the radical changes in instruments and musical style. Besides the ideological
factor, there was also the difficulty of describing, explaining, and systematizing the new
techniques. Thus, Kullaks writing on piano technique remained faithful to Czernys
model based upon finger technique and acquiring strength and endurance through
repetition. A departure from that model would await an infusion of new ideas from the
fields of philosophy, physiology, and psychology.
PIANO TRAINING IN THE CONSERVATORIES
The latter half of the nineteenth century saw the proliferation of conservatories
across Europe, and many were located in Germany. Conservatories were founded in
Leipzig (1843 by Mendelssohn), Munich (1846), Berlin (1850), Dresden (1856),
Frankfurt am Main (1861), Weimar (1872) and Hamburg (1873). Conservatories, as the
word suggests, were bastions of musical conservatism,71 and piano instruction was their
chief means of attracting students. Therefore, developing a course of piano study based
on finger training was a priority.72 Amy Fay wrote: The one [conservatory] in Stuttgardt
[sic] is considered the best; and there the pupils are put through a regular graded method,
beginning with learning to hold the hand, and with the simplest five finger exercises.
There are certain things, studies, etc., which all the scholars have to learn.73

71

. . . Moscheles belonged to the older generation of piano virtuosos and fit perfectly into the
conservative atmosphere of the town and school. Moscheles was thought of as a classical pianist, a
forerunner of Clara Schumann and Hans von Blow, both of whom put musical content above mere
virtuosity. Phillips, The Leipzig Conservatory, 147.
72
The importance of piano instruction to the prestige and success of the Conservatory was uppermost in
Mendelssohns mind from the beginning. He knew that it was this area of instrumental performance which
would attract the most students. With the names of Mendelssohn, Schumann, and finally Moscheles
connected with Leipzig and the Conservatory, success was assured. The school had its greatest influence
and reaped most of its fame through its piano faculty and students, sharing this position only with Weimar
and Liszt. Ibid., 141.
73
Fay, Music Study in Germany, 264.

35
The Stuttgart Conservatory was founded around 1856 by a group of musicians
that included Sigismund Lebert (1822-84), Ludwig Stark (1831-84), and Immanuel Faisst
(1823-94). The preparation of pedagogical repertoire was an important occupation at
Stuttgart. Lebert and Stark produced several instructional books including Grosse
theoretisch-praktisch Klavierschule (four volumes), Instruktive Klavierstcke (four
volumes), and Jugendbibliothek and Jugendalbum (twelve volumes each). They
compiled the Instruktive klassicher Ausgabe, twenty-one volumes containing works by
various composers, including Lebert, Faisst, Lachner, Liszt, and Blow. The Cotta
edition of the Beethoven Sonatas was a product of Stuttgart, initiated by Faisst and Lebert
and completed by Hans von Blow (from Op. 53 onward).
The methods of Lebert and Stark placed them definitively among the proponents
of finger technique.74 To ensure that the arm remained quiet and uninvolved in the
activity of the fingers, they recommended the use of a hand guide (guide-main), a device
consisting of a rod attached to the piano on a level with the white keys, but far enough
away from them so that the wrist could rest on it. The elbow and upper arm were to
remain as close to the body as possible, and if the hand moved from the middle of the
keyboard in either direction, only the forearm was allowed to move with it.
The hand was suspended above the keys and the fingers were rounded, neither
bending in (collapsing at tip joint) nor stretching out. The hand was inclined toward the
thumb so that all of the fingers would strike from the same height, and the thumb was
placed on the key only to root of nail lest the other fingers come into contact with black
keys. For the normal touch . . . All the fingers must on average be held firmly about one
74

Lebert and Stark, Grand Theoretical and Practical Piano-School, xxiii-xxiv.

36
inch over the keys (this . . . depends upon the size of the hand), strike rapidly and
perpendicularly and just as rapidly return to their first position.75
Though many pupils arrived at the Conservatory with a significant degree of
accomplishment, they were nevertheless subjected to a strict regimen of exercises.
One who enters the school with the intention of becoming a professional
musician must abstain from playing pieces altogether for the first six
months, and commence practicing very slowly with one finger; for his
instructor tells him that five-finger exercises are much too difficult to
begin with . . . . After the pupil can use one finger accurately, he is
promoted successively to two, three, four, and five-finger exercises, and is
then allowed to play with both hands. Having reached this point, he
naturally expects to find interesting studies awaiting him. But no, his hope
generally dies within him; for the further he advances the more he realizes
the musical sterility of this method.76
The Stuttgart Conservatory was highly esteemed for a time. Liszt, despite his
opposition to conservatory methods, contributed the two concert etudes, Waldesrauschen
and Gnomenreigen, to the Klavierschule of Lebert and Stark, where they appeared for the
first time in 1863.77 According to Amy Fay, . . . there is a certain intimacy between him
and Stuttgardt, and he always recommends scholars to the Stuttgardt conservatory.78
But by the late 1800s, objections began to be raised to the methods of training employed
there. The pain and injury to which pupils were subjected began to be recognized as
harmful and counterproductive.
In the first place, the hands are held at the usual distance from the keys,
upon a hand guide, an invention that has long since fallen into disrepute in
many schools here, as well as in America; while the fingers are held in the
75

Ibid., xxiv. Also called the hammer touch; see Mueller, Concepts of Nineteenth-Century Piano
Pedagogy, 143.
76
E. S. Kelley, Pianoforte Study: The Method Employed in the Conservatory at Stuttgart and its
Consequences, The Etude 6/11 (Nov., 1888): 169 (reprinted from American Musician, published in
Chicago by W. S. B. Mathews).
77
Franz Liszt, Etden, eds. Zoltn Grdonyi and Istvn Szelnyi (Basel: Brenreiter Kassel, 1971), ix.
78
Fay, Music Study in Germany, 267.

37
air in a cramped and fatiguing position, giving them the appearance of
semi-spiders (if the term may be allowed), and are made to fall upon the
keys with the utmost rapidity . . . . Sixths and octaves are produced in like
manner, from the wrist, while the hand is held with an exaggerated cramp,
at right angles with the forearm.79
Ehrenfechter, a disciple of Deppe, reported that some pupils suffered loss of function of
their fourth fingers after undergoing this training.80 However, Ehrenfechter agreed in
principle with the separation of technical and musical study, 81 asserting that purely
technical exercises are objected to on account of their being dry; some teachers pretend to
stand on higher grounds, objecting to them as being merely mechanical (geistlos) and
therefore detrimental to the mind (geisttdtend) and to the musical sense. This is a great
error; that which undermines the musical sense is the thoughtless and mechanical practice
of a really musical subject . . .82 Others insisted that dangers attended the separation of
technical and musical practice.
. . . some even go so far as to assert that it is better to study unmusical
exercises, for if the pupil plays that which pleases him, his attention will
be diverted from the position of his hands. Dr. Hans von Blow, while
commenting upon the effects of practicing monotonous five-finger
exercises, maintains that the flexibility thus gained is acquired at the cost
of musical intelligence. . . . Involuntarily, the performer loses all thought
of what he is playing. The great lack of charm and interest of the task
produces absent-mindedness, and, finally, utter thoughtlessness. The
player becomes a mere machine, forgetting that he has to be engineer at
79

Kelley, Pianoforte Study: The Method Employed in the Conservatory at Stuttgart, 169.
Ehrenfechter, Technical Study in the Art of Pianoforte-Playing, 34.
81
Though Ehrenfechter subtitled his book Deppes Principles, his thought on the relationship of
technique to expression does not correspond with Deppes principle as presented by Caland: The form of
the motion coincides exactly with the content of the piece. See pp. 65-66.
82
Ehrenfechter, Technical Study in the Art of Pianoforte-Playing, 110. Moritz Hauptmann, professor at the
Leipzig Conservatory, wrote similarly, When I pay my morning visit to the Conservatory and am deafened
by millions of pianos and that hateful, though necessary grinding process called practicing, which is the
death of all music, I cant help feeling mystified. It is hard to realize that brilliant players, such as Mozart or
Beethoven, worked mechanically their nine hours per diem, as our unhappy boys do, if they mean to excel.
But with those great ones, we cant help feeling, that playing and music went together and were indivisible.
Would that technique were possible entirely apart from the art itself. It seems too strange, that mere
mechanism could ever ripen into music! Moritz Hauptmann, The Letters of a Leipzig Cantor (London:
Novello, 1892), ii, 253-54; quoted in Phillips, The Leipzig Conservatory, 180.
80

38
the same time, without whose care its progress, if not stopped
immediately, will be greatly impeded.83
A further consequence of the separation of technical and musical training was musical
narrow mindedness. Pupils whose sole interest was the single-minded pursuit of a
stunning technique failed to see any relationship between the piano repertoire and the
larger context of musical compositions and genres and thus deprived themselves of the
stimulus to imagination from symphonic, chamber, and operatic works.
The predominance of the virtuoso element over the theoretical and ideal,
among the students of the Conservatory in question, is so great that the
majority of them never dream of attending the Quartet Soirees, and
among other instances known to the writer is that of a young pianist of
great technical ability, who visits the symphony concerts merely for the
sake of hearing the piano concertos, always leaving before the symphony
begins, saying he cares nothing for that kind of music.84
Amy Fay summed up her impression of conservatory training: However, I suppose it comes to the
same thing in the end if one studies Bach, Czerny, or Gradus, only you must keep at one of them all
the while. The grand thing is to have each of your five fingers go dum dum an equal number of
times, which is the principle of all three!85 Her statement underscores Ehrenfechters warning
about thoughtless practice of a musical subject, in this case, reducing the study of Bach to dum
dum.
PROPONENTS OF ARM-WEIGHT TECHNIQUE
FRANZ LISZT (1811-86)
More than any other nineteenth-century figure, Liszt revolutionized piano playing
and teaching and fundamentally altered the perceived relationship between piano

83

Kelley, Pianoforte Study: The Method Employed in the Conservatory at Stuttgart, 169.
Ibid.
85
Fay, Music Study in Germany, 266.
84

39
technique and expression. His transcendental technique, his conception of musical works,
and his ability to move audiences inspired a re-examination of old and a search for new
methods of playing. Liszt has been credited with bringing to piano technique the use of
not only the whole arm in playing but also the active participation of shoulders and back;
and from this the notion of weight, hitherto unimagined to such an extent, and those
massive movements of the arm, transporting immense blocks of sound from one end of
the keyboard to the other.86 While this suggests a correspondence between Liszts
technique and that of Arrau, discovering the precise points of correspondence is
hampered by Liszts apparent silence on technical issues.
As the teacher of 225 men and 184 women, Liszts pedagogical influence was
such that only Leschetizkys was comparable.87 Liszts teaching and abiding interest in
the training of young musicians was an outgrowth of a social consciousness inspired by
his reading of Victor Hugo, the social philosopher Count Claude-Henry Saint-Simon
(1760-1825), and the Christian socialist Abb Flecit de Lamennais (1782-1854).
Motivated solely by a sense of duty articulated in the words genie oblige, Liszt never
accepted fees from his pupils. 88

86

J. J. Eigeldinger, Chopin: Pianist and Teacher as Seen by his Pupils, trans. of Chopin vu par ses lves
(Neuchtel: La Baconnire, 1970) by Naomi Shohet, Krysia Osotowicz, and Roy Howat (Cambridge and
New York: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 20-21. Quoted in Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 157.
87
Mathias Matuschka, Die Erneuerung der Klaviertechnik nach Liszt, Berliner Musikwissenschaftliche
Arbeiten, eds. Carl Dahlhaus and Rudolf Stephan (Munich-Salzburg: Emil Katzbichler, 1987), 31: 12.
88
Eleanor Pernyi, Liszt: The Artist as Romantic Hero (Boston and Toronto: Little, Brown and Company,
1974), 307. Liszts example was emulated by Martin Krause and Arrau, both of whom also taught without
payment.

40
Liszt opposed the systematic study of technical exercises, uniformity, and
regimented drill characteristic of conservatory training.89 Despite a certain rapport
between Liszt and the conservatories,90 Liszt did not see himself, nor did others see him,
as a pedagogue of piano in the conventional sense.91 His students reported that he gave
little or no technical instruction. William Mason wrote:
He never taught in the ordinary sense of the word. During the entire time
that I was with him I did not see him give a regular lesson in the
pedagogical sense
. . . . He made audible suggestions, inciting me to put more enthusiasm
into my playing, and occasionally he would push me gently off the chair
and sit down at the piano and play a phrase or two himself by way of
illustration. He gradually got me worked up to such a pitch of enthusiasm
that I put all the grit that was in me into my playing.92
Jos Vianna da Motta wrote: [Liszts] remarks were almost only concerned with
the purely musical: tempo, nuances, rhythm. He seldom gave a poetic image as an
explanation and never a technical instruction. 93 Amy Fay found Liszts manner of
teaching liberating after the discipline imposed by Kullak: Liszt's grand principle is, to
leave you your freedom, and when you play to him, you feel like a Pegasus caracoling
about in the air. When you play to Kullak, you feel as if your wings were suddenly
clipped, and as if you were put into harness to draw an express wagon!94 Borodin

89

E. Douglas Bomberger, Martha Dennis Burns, James Parakilas, Judith Tick, Marina Tsvetaeva, and Mark
Tucker, The Piano Lesson, Piano Roles, 163. See also, Franz Liszt and Leipzig, in Phillips, The
Leipzig Conservatory, 190-97.
90
See above. Liszt says that Kullaks pupils are always the best schooled of any. . . . Fay, Music Study in
Germany, 267.
91
Liszt is no professeur du piano, as he himself used scornfully to remark. Fay, Music Study in
Germany, 283.
92
William Mason, Memories of a Musical Life (New York: The Century Company, 1901), 98.
93
Vianna da Motta studied in Scharwenkas class in Berlin prior to his study with Liszt. His article Liszt
als Lehrer appeared in Der Merker in 1911 and is reprinted in August Gllerich, The Piano Master
Classes of Franz Liszt 1884-1886, ed. Wilhelm Jerger, trans. Richard Louis Zimdars (Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 1996), 166-68.
94
Fay, Music-Study in Germany, 273.

41
recalled: Liszt never imposes his method on his pupils; he never makes detailed
observations about hand position or touch; he leaves each person the greatest freedom
concerning the means used to obtain the desired result.95
But the urgent question of many pupils was how to achieve the desired result,
and for some, this question remained unanswered. How was it that Liszt, who
revolutionized piano playing and piano composition, and who must have realized that
pupils came to him primarily to discover how he drew his marvelous effects from the
instrument, did not impart his technique to his pupils? Tilly Fleishmann suggests that
Liszt did not teach technique because his students came from varied backgrounds with
already well-established technique.
It is true that in his piano classes Liszt did not insist on a specific type of
technical foundation, and for the simple reason that his students were all
advanced performers, many of them artists of European fame. He
concentrated on interpretation, but always illustrated how he achieved this
or that effect.96
Alternatively, Liszts avoidance of technical instruction may have been
philosophically motivated. According to August Stradal, Liszt believed it a primary duty
in teaching to bring out his pupils artistic personalities and he urged them: Be
individual, do not imitate, play your own way. A bad original conception is always better
than a good imitative interpretation.97 Perhaps Liszt withheld specific technical

95

Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 37.


Fleischmann, Aspects of the Liszt Tradition, 118.
97
Seid individuell, ahmt nicht nach und spielt euch selbst. Immer besser ist noch eine schlechte originelle
Auffassung als eine gute imitierende Interpretation. Paul Michel, Franz Liszts Auffassungen ber
Musikerziehung und Menschenbildung, Beitrge zur Musikwissnschaft 5 (Berlin, 1963): 57. Quoted in
Matuschka, Die Erneuerung der Klaviertechnik nach Liszt, 14.
96

42
instructions on the grounds that they might harden into dogmatic rules that would hinder
pupils in the formation of their individuality.
Whatever the case may be, what can be known about Liszts technique must be
pieced together from scattered comments and observations found in the writings of his
pupils, who interpreted what they observed in light of their prior assumptions and
experiences. Stavenhagen noted that although Liszt did not teach technique in any
systematic way, much could be learned by careful observation when Liszt demonstrated a
passage.
It is often said that there could be no Liszt method of piano playing since
he actually never taught technique. This may be partly true, but he
frequently gave technical hints to his pupils, and from his playing for them
they were able to deduce much valuable information. Liszt concentrated
indeed on the intellectual and spiritual content of the music, but as
Stavenhagen noted: If one is attentive one can learn enormously from
him in technical matters.98
Here is a clue that Liszt intended not to exclude technique from his teaching, but
to convey a new conception of what constituted technique a conception so far removed
from the conventional one that his pupils simply did not recognize it as technique.
Stavenhagens remark suggests that Liszt taught technique and interpretation
simultaneously through demonstration at the keyboard, and Liszt reportedly said as much
in a conversation with Frederic Horace Clark. In discussing what Clark termed
harmonious touch, or coordinated use of the whole arm, hand, and fingers in playing,
he has Liszt saying:
I havent spoken about the harmony of touch on the piano since the years
when Chopin, Schumann, Clara, Paganini, and Ole Bull discussed it with
me. I sought to discuss that often many years ago with the students who
came to me but I found it not to be of much use. Thus, for thirty years I
98

Fleischmann, Aspects of the Liszt Tradition, 2.

43
have been observing, in reference to technique, mostly Goethes idea,
which has the teacher in Wilhelm Meister instruct only with wordless
actions .99
The conservatory approach to technique -- scales, exercises, and repetitive practice -- was
quite possibly what Liszts pupils expected of technical training, or of what William
Mason called a regular lesson in the pedagogical sense.100 For Liszt, whose opposition
to such methods was well known, technique was intimately bound with musical structure
and expression, and represented simply the practical side of musical expression.
According to Clark, Liszt described his technique thus: I alone have mixed my [method
of] touch with tonal form so completely, that no one can see it or suspect it from my
playing.101 He described the function of virtuosity thus: Virtuosity exists only to
permit the artist to reproduce everything that is expressible in art. It is indispensable and
is never developed enough.102 Liszts views recall the words of his teacher, Czerny,
about the power of technique to endow musical works with meaning and character; but
Liszt went further: Virtuosity is not a secondary branch but a necessary element of
music. It is not the passive servant of composition; the life or death of a work of art
99

Bei den Worten Geheimnis und Technik merkte ich, da Liszt mich sehr interessiert ansah, und er
antwortete: Ja, auch das alles werden wir noch besprechen; obwohl ich ber dieses innerste Heiligtum
meiner Kunst, ber die Harmonie der Berhrung des Klaviers, niemals mehr gesprochen habe seit den
Jahren, wo Chopin, Schumann und seine Klara, Paganini und Ole Bull das mit mir besprechen. Vor viele
Jahren suchte ich das fters mit den Schlern, die zu mir kamen, zu besprechen, aber ich fand, da es nicht
viel ntzte. Seit dreiig Jahren befolge ich hinsichtlich der Technik deshalb meistens Goethes Vorschlag,
der im Wilhelm Meister die Lehrer nur mit wortlosen Taten unterrichten lt. Frederic Horace Clark,
Liszts Offenbarung (Berlin, 1907), 59.
100
Possible evidence that pupils understood technique in this way and sought to acquire it is Masons use of
a two-finger exercise he claimed to have learned from Liszt, in the first volume of his Touch and Technic.
See William Mason, Touch and Technic: The Technic of Artistic Touch by Means of the Two-Finger
Exercise, The Etude 7/9 (September, 1889), 137. See also, Mueller, Concepts of Nineteenth-Century
Piano Pedagogy, 148-56; 330-36.
101
Ich allein habe meine Berhrung so vollkommen mit den Tonformen verschmolzen, dass neimand sie
sehen kann oder aus meinem Spiel herausahnen wird, bis er die Gesetze erkannt, die Verwicklungen gebt
hat und dazu gekommen ist, mit der ganzen Seele solche eine Wahrheit zu fhlen. Clark, Liszts
Offenbarung, 106. Quoted in Matuschka, Die Erneuerung der Klaviertechnik nach Liszt, 15.
102
Franz Liszt, Gesammelte Schriften III: 129. Quoted in Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 7.

depends on its breath.103 Liszt saw technique as an inseparable part of musical

44

expression. Lina Ramann described Liszts view of technique thus:


The worth of virtuosity depends, like that of composition, upon the
feeling-image of the artist and the talent lent to him, the intensity of
feeling, and finding the corresponding form that is easily communicated to
others. Without this life-breathing power of feeling, which alone dictates
the forms of beauty and endows the will to produce them in a moment,
both composition and virtuosity are only a clever head or finger
mechanism, a mindless dexterity or a calculation.104
Some of Liszts pupils, however, were frustrated by a lack of technical facility,
even as they studied with Liszt. Amy Fay lamented, Ah, if I had only studied with
Deppe before I went to Weimar! When I was there I didnt play half as often to Liszt as I
might have done, kind and encouraging as he always was to me, for I always felt I wasnt
worthy to be his pupil.105 As Bertrand Ott has pointed out, It is possible that the gifted
students arrived at the practical pianistic means employed by Liszt through the
interpretive demands pushed to an extreme acuteness of expression. . . . but Liszts
method left the less gifted empty-handed, except when they had the patience to observe
Liszts playing carefully.106
If observation was the key to understanding Liszts technique, then it was not only
a matter of pupils having patience, but also having the experience and pianistic
development to interpret their observations correctly. Citing Alexander Siloti as one

103

Franz Liszt, Gesammelte Schriften IV: 192. Quoted in Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 7.
Der Werth der Virtuositt hngt, wie der der Komposition, von der Gefhlsbildung des Knstlers und
der ihm verliehenen Gabe ab, der Intensitt eines Gefhls auch die entsprechende, Andern falich sich
mittheilende Form zu finden. Ohne diese lebeneinhauchende Gewalt des Gefhls, welche einzig und allein
die Formen des Schnen diktiert und den Willen verleiht, sie augenblicklich zu producieren, sind beide, die
Komposition wie die Virtuositt, nur ein sinnreicher Kopf- oder Fingermechanismus, eine geistlose
Fertigkeit oder eine Berechnung. Lina Ramann, Franz Liszt, als Knstler und Mensch (Leipzig, 1880 and
1894), II: 101-2. Quoted in Matuschka, Die Erneuerung der Klaviertechnik nach Liszt, 15.
105
Fay, Music Study in Germany, 302.
106
Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 37.
104

45
whose prior experience enabled him to read Liszts demonstrations accurately, Bertrand
Ott wrote: Teaching can dispense with technical advice when there is mutual
comprehension and prior pianistic development.107 If Liszt intended to lead students to
find their own way of playing by thinking, interpreting, and evaluating, rather than
merely imitating, it is evident from the writings of Liszts pupils that they did indeed
observe, strive to understand how Liszt played, and devise methods of developing this
manner of playing in themselves and others. William Mason described how one
demonstration by Liszt changed his playing:
While I was playing to him for the first time, he said on one of the
occasions when he pushed me from the chair: Dont play it that way.
Play it like this. Evidently I had been playing ahead in a steady, uniform
way. He sat down, and gave the same phrases with an accentuated, elastic
movement, which let in a flood of light upon me. From that one
experience I learned to bring out the same effect, where it was appropriate,
in almost every piece that I played. It eradicated much that was
mechanical, stilted, and unmusical in my playing, and developed an
elasticity of touch which has lasted all my life, and which I have always
tried to impart to my pupils.108
Mason also noted:
I found at this first lesson that he was very fond of strong accents in order
to mark off periods and phrases, and he talked so much about strong
accentuation that one might have supposed that he would abuse it, but he
never did. When he wrote to me later about my own piano method, he
expressed the strongest approval of the exercises on accentuation.109

107

Ibid., 55.
Mason, Memories of a Musical Life, 99-100.
109
Ibid., 98-99.
108

Bertrand Ott divides Liszts teaching into five periods.110 In the writings of

46

students from each period, he finds specific points of Lisztian technique, all of which
represent a radical departure from the techniques outlined by Czerny and Kullak, and
fostered in the conservatories. To a great extent, these points correspond with Arraus
teaching, and they may be summarized as follows: 111 sit low to avoid the hand, wrist, and
arm pushing against the fingers (Jall); keep the fingers as close to the keys as possible
(Fay, Boissier, Clark); the fingers should not be curved too much, nor should they be held
in any fixed position (Boissier); play on the ball, not the tip of the finger (Boissier); the
fingers should depress the keys in a pulling motion (Clark), not striking (Jall);112 the
wrist must maintain flexibility (Boissier); play with a raised wrist (Klindworth); the
energy deployed in moving the keys downward should result in a simultaneous upward
attraction or rebound from the bottom of the keys (Jall); a moving part or limb needs
support from a non-moving one (fixity; Jall); the shoulder, elbow, and wrist must not
be angles or corners that stop the playing energy; the arm should be extended and should
make spiral motions (Clark); playing radiates from shoulders and back and uses the
whole arm gliding over the keys in a continuous, flowing motion (Clark); hitting at the
keys with the hand or arm and moving the fingers independently destroys the harmony of
the system as a whole (Clark).
110

Paris, 1831-32 (Valerie Boissier); Weimar, 1847 (Joseffy, Klindworth, Raff, Mason); Rome, 1862-68;
an itinerant period, 1868-80 (Fay, Borodin); and a final period, 1880-86 (Jall, dAlbert, Siloti, Krause,
Vianna da Motta, Kellerman, Stavenhagen, Stradal, Gllerich, Clark). The most informative writings about
Liszts technical advice are those of Madame Auguste (Caroline) Boissier (whose daughter, Valerie,
studied with Liszt in Paris in 1831-32, thirty years before Kullaks Aesthetics of Pianoforte-Playing), Marie
Jall (who studied with Liszt in the summers of 1883-85), and Frederic Horace Clark (whose conversations
with Liszt beginning in 1882 are paraphrased in his book, Liszts Offenbarung, 1907).
111
Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 24-64.
112
Thus, according to Ott, the finger should move at all its joints, and from its extended or outstretched
position in the air, begins a pulling motion to reach the key and becomes just slightly rounded. Ott,
Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 32; see also 42.

47
Otts evidence for the use of the arm in Lisztian technique is drawn mainly from
the writings of Clark. Ott summarizes the Lisztian technique as one based on using the
whole arm in a state of suspension: . . . one must suspend the arm as a stable reference
point in the work of pressing or of lightening the forearm.113 He describes Lisztian arm
motion as movements in spirals, there is a rotating elasticity; leaps are rolled. The hand
moves in pivoting gestures; the fingers are flexible in their rounding.114 Ott does not see
the application of weight as a function of the arm in Lisztian technique. Instead he draws
the conclusion, Omnipresent movement replaces the inert, forced, unrefined notion of
weight.115
Tilly Swertz Fleischmann (1883-1967) gives a different view of Liszts technique
from that constructed by Ott. Fleischmann was a pupil of Bernhard Stavenhagen and
Berthold Kellerman, both pupils of Liszt. In her book, Aspects of the Liszt Tradition,
Fleischmann recorded Liszts performance directions for several of his own and Chopins
compositions as transmitted by his two pupils. Fleischmann also gives the technical
studies that she asserts were practiced by Liszt and passed on orally to Kellerman and
Stavenhagen.116 These exercises to develop finger independence and strength closely
resemble those recommended by Czerny and Kullak but with the addition of a few
exercises to develop flexibility in the wrist, arm drop on octaves and chords, and rotation.
They include the Klopfbung (recommended by Czerny, this exercise was also described
by Madame Boissier as one given by Liszt to her daughter), scales in single notes
(staccato and legato) and double thirds, arpeggios, finger and thumb stretching exercises,
113

Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 40; see also 156-57.


Ibid., 133.
115
Ibid.
114

48
octaves and broken octaves, glissandi, trills and double trills. Curved finger action is to
be practiced to develop the ability to strike the keys with the firmness of a hammer.117
Rotation in broken octaves is limited to the forearm with no movement at the elbow, and
scales are played by finger action alone; finger and wrist staccato are discussed, though,
according to Fleischmann, Liszt usually advised whole-arm staccato as it allowed a
lighter, more accurate staccato.118 Octaves are to be practiced first from the wrist and
later with the whole arm.
Fleischmanns remarks on musical works are interesting but, surprisingly, her
account of Lisztian technique reveals no significant advance over the earlier technique
described by Czerny. Fleischmann emphasizes finger training with little mention of arm
weight or arm techniques and tells the following anecdote to stress the importance of a
quiet hand and arm:
Stavenhagen was wont to place a sixpenny piece on the back of each of his
hands when playing scales, to show how even the action should be. . . .
No churning! he would say, and indeed when he played scales the notes
rippled along under an effortless and apparently motionless hand. . . . 119
Gllerich also quoted Liszt as saying, Field placed a taler coin on each hand and played
with a very steady hand and I myself have practiced octaves with the guide de la main
apparatus,120 but Gllerich gives no context for these statements, and Ott views them as
witticisms on the part of Liszt. Indeed, according to Weitzmann, Liszt later referred to the
guide-main as guid-ne.121 If one believes the statements of Liszts pupils that Liszt
never gave technical instructions, it is difficult to accept that Liszt would have
116

Fleischmann, Aspects of the Liszt Tradition, 118-31.


Ibid., 119.
118
Ibid., 125.
119
Ibid., 119.
120
Gllerich, The Piano Master Classes of Franz Liszt, 130. Ott, Lisztian Keyboard Energy, 63.
117

49
recommended artificial means of restricting hand and arm movement. It is more likely
that Fleischmanns anecdote is evidence of a conservatism that Stavenhagen acquired not
from Liszt but from his study with Ernst Rudorph, a pupil of Reinecke.122
It is important to remember that Fleischmanns information did not come directly
from Liszt but from his pupils Kellerman and Stavenhagen. Her testimony suggests that
Liszt and his pupils shared a common background of early training based on finger
exercises, and they carried elements of that early training along with later technical
acquisitions into their teaching. It may also suggest that Liszt treated his pupils technical
views with tolerance, whether or not they matched his own.
The writing of Frederic Horace Clark, an American (born near Chicago, 1860;
died in Berlin, 1917), deserves attention. In 1907, Clark published Liszts Offenbarung,
based on conversations Clark claimed to have had with Liszt beginning in 1882. It has
been pointed out that some of Clarks story lacks credibility as no biography of Liszt
mentions him and his account of conversations with Liszt was written from memory
sometime after they took place.123 Indeed, Clarks tale of returning to his hotel each
evening to write with the spirit of Liszt attending nearby mimics the legend of St.
Gregory receiving chant melodies through divine inspiration in the form of a dove on his
shoulder.124 However, correspondences between Clarks testimony and that of other

121

Quoted from Steinhausen, Die Physiologischen Fehler, 103.


Carl Reinecke (1824-1910) taught at the Leipzig Conservatory from 1860, and served as director from
1897. He conducted the Gewandhaus Orchestra until 1895. Conservative in his views, he worked to
promote and preserve works of the Classical and pre-Classical composers. See Phillips, The Leipzig
Conservatory, 150-53
123
Karl Wilhelm Engel, F. H. Clarks Liszts Offenbarung als Wegweiser zu einer naturgemssen
Krpermechanik des Klavierspiels (Vienna: typescript, 1972), 6-7.
124
Clark, Liszts Offenbarung, 195-96.
122

50
Liszt pupils make his work worthy of consideration. His philosophical and literary
allusions as well as his style of writing suggest that Clark intended to produce not only a
record of Liszts thoughts on piano playing, but a philosophical work revealing
relationships between piano technique and musical and natural forms.125 The following is
an example:
All of this [piano technique] lies in the unfolding of a primary, secondary
and tertiary spiral impulse in the arm-members, which create in the joints
cycling whirl-articulations, remaining invisible to the eye because in the
bringing forth of music (composition), they go into the keyboard in a
spiraling stream of energy, and are manifested to the ear only as an
absolute flow of harmony. So are created the corresponding systems of
movement that lie at the basis of musical form. The Ancients call that the
harmony of the spheres, where the infinite connectedness of
individualization forced a universal order. 126
Clark reiterates formulations like this one many times without explaining how to put
them into practical use; to a reader without considerable prior experience of arm
technique, or in an environment where finger training holds sway, such statements are
unintelligible. Clark describes Liszts playing as based on coordinated, circular

125

Karl Wilhelm Engel suggests that Clark has not been taken seriously because of his style of writing.
Die Nichtbeachtung der zahlreichen Schriften des seit 1885 als pianistischer Schriftsteller ttigen Clark
erklrt sich schon aus seiner seinem sonderbaren Wesen entsprechenden, tranzendental gewandten
Schreibweise. Der moderne, philosophisch-okkultistisch belastete, phantastische Klaviermetaphysiker, als
ihn W. Niemann in seinem Klavierlexikon charakterisiert . . . wurde zufolge der schwlstigen,
ungeniebaren Sprache, die das Studium seiner Schriften ungemein erschwert und die wenigen guten
Kerne wie ein Dornengestrpp verhllt, von seinen Fachgenossen gemieden. The contempt for
numerous writings of Clark, active as pianistic writer since 1885, is explained by his transcendental writing
style in conjunction with his odd nature. The modern, philosophical-occult based, fantastic piano
metaphysician, as W. Niemann characterized him in his Klavier-lexicon . . . was shunned by his
colleagues because of the puffed up, unpalatable language that made the study of his writing unusually
difficult and covered over the few good elements like a thorn bush. Engel, F. H. Clarks Liszts
Offenbarung als Wegweiser, 5-6.
126
Dies alles liegt in der Entfaltung primrer, sekundrer und tertirer Spiral-Impulse in den Armgliedern,
welche in den Gelenken zykloidierende Wirbel-Artikulationen schaffen, dem Auge jedoch unsichtbar All
bleiben, weil sie in dem Hervorbringen der Tonkunst, in dem spiralartigen Ausstrmen der Energie in
Tastenreihen hinein aufgehen und sich dem Ohr nun als absoluter Harmonienflu offenbaren. So werden
die entsprechenden Bewegungssysteme, welche der Musikform zu Grunde liegen, geschaffen. Die Alten
nannten das die Harmonie des Bogens, wo die unendliche Gebundenheit des Individualisierens allseitige
Anordnung erzwang. Clark, Liszts Offenbarung, 45-46.

51
movements of the upper arm and forearm, emanating not just from the back and
shoulders, but from the source of musical feeling, and brought into contact with the keys
through the hand and fingers. Clark has Liszt saying:
The source of my art springs forth from the heart and the solar plexus and
the axis of rotation, and unfolds in the uninterrupted unity and branching
out of rotational articulations of impulses in the arm members, by which
they work in changing relationships in the harmony of growing and
lessening proportions along magnetic lines.127
and:
When you learn in the release of your strength, to develop a proportioned
branching out from the solar region of the heart, from the rotational axis
outwards by means of spiral emanations in the shoulder, elbow, and wrist,
to create a harmony, a system of intertwined cooperation in the joints, so
that the whole power of the arm works on a succession of tones in the
most detailed modeling, that is, in pure, absolute legato, then you will
grasp the classicism of a true original art, and you will also be able to put
it into action. 128
Clark is describing a technique in which the entire body of the player forms a
unified playing mechanism creating a continuum with the music to be played, and he is
attempting to redefine classicism in metaphysical terms as a kind of universal law uniting
the spiritual and physical, represented by music and the body.
According to Clark, Liszt brought the activity of the arms to bear on the keyboard
while keeping the fingers close to the keys:
. . . we began to discuss how the touch on the piano is connected to the
tendency to keep the fingers constantly in contact with the keys. I said to
127

Meine Kunstquelle sprudelt hervor aus dem Herzen and dem Solarplexus und der Wirbelsule und
entfaltet sich in dem ununterbrochenen Einigen und Verzweigen wirbelartiger Impuls-Artikulationen unter
den Armgliedern, indem sie in wechselnden Beziehungen in der Harmonie der werdenden und vergehenden
Proportionen lngs magnetischer Linien wirken. Ibid., 54.
128
Wenn du lernst, in der Ausstrahlung deiner Kraft, von der Solarregion des Herzens, von der
Wirbelsule aus mittels Spiralsprudeln im Schulter-, Ellenbogen- und Handgelenk die proportionierenden
Verzweigungen zu entwickeln, eine Harmonie, ein System des verschlingenden Aufeinander-Wirkens in
den Gelenken zu schaffen, soda die ganze Armkraft auf die Tonreihe in ausfhrlichster Modellierung, das
heit in reinem, absoluten Legato wirkt, dann wirst du die Klassizitt einer wahren Quellenkunst erfat
haben und sie auch in dei Tat umsetzen knnen. Ibid., 60.

52
Liszt: It seems to me, as I have often observed, that your fingers always
stick to the keys, they never leave them! Yes, replied Liszt, in this external
manifestation, this contact with the keys, is hidden the whole inner world
of the source of dynamic energy.129
In fact, Clark states that Liszt advised not making any finger movements at all: . . . one
may not hit, above all may not make any finger motion.130 He states further that the high
lifting of the fingers is contrary to the idea of musical expression:
The lifting in order to hit, to fall, or to throw, is the best example of artistic
tradesmanship in piano playing, because this lifting itself does nothing to
the tone and creates a completely unnecessary piece of show, which
belongs not at all to the matters of tone, and springs only from a low, onesided, dismembered mechanical idea.131
Clarks language is in stark contrast to that of previously-cited writers, who
expressed themselves in terms such as striking power, stringently curved fingers,
bent and rigid fingers, and percussion on the keys. If Clark mentions the fingers at
all, it is to forbid their individualized movement, instead emphasizing the unified action
of the whole arm, hand and fingers (Harmonie) and the motion of the whole arm as an
undulating, oscillating wave.
Clark describes Liszts notion of combining pianistic touch with tonal form,
likening the participation of the upper arm, forearm, and hand in playing to the
interconnected musical structures of period, phrase, and motive in composition.

129

Im Frhjahr 1882 ging ich von Leipzig nach Weimar, um Liszt zu besuchen. Nachdem ich ihm seine
Eroica vorgespielt hatte, fingen wir an, darber zu sprechen, wie die Berhrung des Klaviers mit der
Tendenz der Glieder, an den Tasten zu haften, erwickelt ist. Ich sagte zu Liszt: Mir scheint es, wie ich
schon oft bemerkte, da deine Finger immer an den Tasten haften, sie nie verlassen! Ja, sagte Liszt, in
diesem ueren Zeichen, dem Haften an den Tasten liegt die ganze innere Welt der Schwungkraftquellen
verborgen. Ibid., 226.
130
. . . man drfe nicht anschlagen, berhaupt keine Fingerbewegung machen . . . Ibid., 58.
131
Das Heben, um zu schlagen zu fallen oder zu werfen, ist der best Beweis einer Kunstkrmerei beim
Klavierspiel, weil dieses Heben selbst nicht in dem Ton wirkt und ein blo unntzes Schaustck schafft,
was gar nicht zur Sache des Tons gehrt und nur einem niedrigen, einseitigen, zerstckelnden
Mechanikbegriff entspringt. Ibid., 67.

53
As to the interchange of artistic movement with musical form, we must
now understand an evolution of movement, from which the rhythmic
forms of music a harmony emerge in the development of artistic style,
as, for example, one oscillation of the upper arm from the shoulder
branches out into two oscillations from the elbow and four or six or eight
oscillations from the wrist, in order thereby to embody the musical formmembers (a theme, two phrases, four motives, etc.) directly and absolutely
in the form-system-movements of the arm members.
The absolute doing of my art therefore gets its style from the
rhythmic trinity of musical form itself. That is indeed my secret, said
Liszt.
Schiller indeed speaks upon this: In that, therefore, consists the
true artistic secret of the master, that he demolishes the matter through the
form. I have simply integrated this proportion of musical form 1:2:2:4
absolutely into my artistic movement as a three-part system, as intertwined
articulation (a spiral effervescence or whirling impulse of the upper arm
[the period], two of the forearm [the phrase], and four or eight of the hand
[the motive]): that is what they call demolishing matter through form.132
Thus Clark portrays Liszts concept of technique as a physical response to
musical affect, as the embodiment of musical form, and he criticizes the conventional
model of piano technique -- the analogy between the action of the piano hammers striking
the string and action of the fingers striking the keys -- as purely mechanical rather than
musical:
One sees in the mechanism of the instrument the premise for the
mechanics of piano playing; just as the hammer of the piano falls away
from the string after the attack and remains at rest, so should an attack or
fall onto the keys bring forth an individual tone without any binding with
the keys. That can never be brought into accord with life-likeness, nature,
132

Unter der Auswechslung der Kunst-Bewegung mit der Musik-Form haben wir nun eine Evolution der
Bewegung zu verstehen, aus der die Rhythmenformen der Musik eine Harmonie in der Entwicklung des
Kunststils entstehen, wie zum Beispiel ein Wirbel des Oberarms aus der Schulter sich verzweigt in zwei
Wirbel aus dem Ellenbogen und vier oder sechs oder acht Wirbel aus dem Handgelenk, um damit die
Musikform-Glieder (ein Theme, zwei Phrasen, vier Motive usw.) direkt und absolut in den Form-SystemBewegungen der Armglieder zu verkrpern.
Die absolut Tat meiner Kunst erhlt also ihren Stil von der rhythmischen Trinitt der Musikform
selbst. Das ist eben mein Geheimnis, sagte Liszt.
Hierzu sagt ja doch Schiller: Darin also besteht das eigentliche Kunstgeheimnis des Meisters, da
er den Stoff durch die Form vertilgt. Ich habe einfach diese Proportion-Involution der Musikform 1:2:2:4
absolut in meine Kunst-Bewegung hineingelegt als ein dreieinigendes System, als verschlingende
Artikulation (ein Spiralsprudel oder Wirbelimpuls des Oberarms [die Periode], zwei des Vorderarms [die
Kola], und vier oder acht der Hand [die Motive]): das heit den Stoff durch die Form vertilgen. Ibid., 63.

54
harmony, art, reason, because the basic nature of motivation and binding is
completely lacking and no man nor even God can assert [maintain] a
connection.133
Clarks description of unified, coordinated movement of the entire playing
organism as a physical manifestation of musical structure is a radical departure from
previous notions of piano playing that made strength, independence, and equalization of
the fingers the first priority. Clark gives no advice on how to develop the kind of playing
he describes -- no instructions for arm and hand position, for use of the fingers, for
movements of the arm and wrist. Moreover, it is clear that this omission is part of Clarks
point, for he viewed such technical elements as isolating factors that violate the
harmonious functioning of the playing mechanism as a whole. Clark makes this point
when he has Liszt saying:
In much of what you played for me, a natural gift was noticeable, in the
effortless motion of the arms to touch the piano. That was easy for you
because you have never done finger exercises, but like beams from the sun
you have brought the arms from the back onto the keyboard and played
completely naturally from the shoulders, and you have never thought
about any type of hand position or finger motion. That is the right
beginning and for you the great advantage, because it remains the only
true basis of all transcendental piano playing based on harmony. Of
course, this happened with you entirely instinctively as a result of your
pure gift of touch, that is, your unspoiled key sense. 134

133

Man sieht in der Mechanik des Instruments das Vorbild fr die Mechanik des Klavierspiels; wie der
Hammer des Klaviers nach dem Anschlag von der Seite wegfllt und liegen bleibt, so soll ohne alle
Verbindung mit der Taste ein Schlag oder Fall auf die Taste den einzelnen Ton hervorbringen. Das kann
niemals mit Lebenshnlichkeit, Natur, Harmonie, Kunst, Vernunft in Einklang gebracht werden, denn das
Grundwesen der Motivierung und Verbindung mangelt vollstdig, und kein Mensch und auch kein Gott
kann hier einen Zusammenhang behaupten. Ibid., 50.
134
In manchem, was du mir vorspieltest, war eine natrliche Begabung bemerkbar, in zwanglosen
Bewegungen des Armes das Klavier zu berhren. Dir was das ja leicht, denn du hast noch nie
Fingerbungen gemacht, sondern wie Strahlen aus der Sonne hast du die Arme von dem Rcken aus an die
Klaviatur herangebracht und von den Schultern aus ganz naturgem gespielt und noch nicht an irgend eine
Art Handhaltung oder Fingerbewegung gedacht. Das is auch der richtige Anfang und fr dich von groem
Vorteil, denn es bleibt die einzige, wahre Basis alles transzendentalen, auf der Harmonie fuenden
Klaviermusizierens. Doch das geshah bei dir ganz instinktiv infolge deiner reinen Berhrungsbegabung,
das heit deines unverdorbenen Tastinnes. Ibid., 60.

55
Even more pointedly, and in contrast to descriptions of Liszts finger exercises by
Fleischmann and Mason, Clark reports Liszts sarcastic judgment of the finger training
that pervaded contemporary pedagogy:
And just here in the periphery where we need subordination the most, just
here all these professors of piano begin with their insubordination: they
teach finger independence and hand independence, above all any
independence that is harmony then! So these professors of piano close
the door on harmony and fold their hands in holy self-absolution, indeed
they take it upon themselves to say that their life and light has
something to do with musical art and classical pedagogy.135
Clarks account presents Liszt, not as a virtuoso who taught no technique, but as
one whose teaching was founded upon an innovative concept of technique. Liszt had no
fixed notions about hand position, finger movement, and arm movement to impart, but
instead used the whole body in accordance with the demands of musical form. Clarks
evocative words about Lisztian use of the whole arm like beams from the sun . . . from
the back onto the keyboard and played completely naturally from the shoulder with
never a thought about any type of hand position or finger motion (see fn. 135) is in
sharp contrast to views that proper hand position preceded proper playing and that using
the arm produced too rough a tone to be used except in the loudest passages. No one
envisioned the spiraling motions of a unified arm described by Clark, or imagined that
keeping the fingers close to the keys could be a source of dynamic energy. More radical
still, Clark attributed to Liszt the belief that piano technique and musical form are a
single, inseparable expression of a musical idea.
135

Und gerade hier in der Peripherie, wo wir der Subordination am meisten bedrfen, gerade hier
beginnen alle diese Professeurs du Piano mit ihrer Insubordination: sie lehren Finger-Unabhngigheit ,
berhaupt irgend welche Unabhngigheit -- das soll dann Harmonie heien! So verschlieen diese
Professeurs du Piano der Harmonie die Tr, und falten in heiliger Selbstberhebung die Hnde, ja sie
nehmen sich heraus zu sagen, da ihr Leben und Licht dabei mit musikalischer Kunst und klassischer
Pdagogik etwas zu tun habe. Ibid., 47.

56
Clark does not present Liszts principles as a practice, but rather as a philosophy
and ideology, a vision of pianism that forms an ideal backdrop for Arraus principles and
for the practical aspects of his teaching.
LUDWIG DEPPE (1828-90)
Ludwig Deppe was the first to make arm technique the practical basis of his
approach. Born on November 7, 1828, at Alverdissen (Lippe-Detmold), he studied theory
and counterpoint with Eduard Marxsen (1806-1887; the teacher of Brahms) in Hamburg
and finished his studies in Leipzig under Johann Christian Lobe (1797-1881).136 Deppe
settled in Berlin where he was appointed royal Kapellmeister. He conducted the royal
opera and, without performing as a pianist himself, became well known as a teacher of
piano.137 In 1885, Deppe published Armleiden des Klavierspielers (Arm Ailments of the
Pianist) in the Deutsche Musiker-Zeitung, setting forth the principles of sitting low with a
slightly raised wrist so that the hand could be free of the oppressive influence of the
elbow, and producing tone, not through striking, but through the weight of the hand with
quiet, relaxed fingers.138 Deppe intended to publish a piano method that would include
exercises and technical explanations, but he died before he could complete it. Summaries
of his approach, written by his followers Amy Fay, Elisabeth Caland, Hermann Klose,
and C. A. Ehrenfechter, brought discussion of arm technique into the pedagogical
mainstream.

136

Caland, Die Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels, 2. Deppes compositions include a few large orchestral
works, a symphony in F major, an Overture to Zriny, and an overture to the opera Don Carlos.
137
Ibid., 2-3.
138
The main portion of the article is reproduced in Gerig, Famous Pianists and Their Technique, 252-54.

57
Amy Fay studied with Deppe after working with Louis Ehlert, Carl Tausig,
Theodor Kullak, and Liszt. Both Fay and Elisabeth Caland139 quoted Deppes claim,
Gifted people . . . play by the grace of God; but everybody could master the technique on
my system!!140 According to Caland, Deppe believed that beauty, expression, and ease
of playing were based on identifiable and teachable principles. Fay credited Deppe with
having thought out the technical secrets behind Liszts penetrating tone and the lightness,
speed, and smoothness of his playing.141 Fay described Deppes approach:
Deppe objects to this extreme lifting of the fingers. He says it makes a
knick in the muscle, and you get all the strength simply from the finger
whereas, when you lift the finger moderately high, the muscle from the
whole arm comes to bear upon it. The tone, too, is entirely different.
Lifting the finger so very high, and striking with force, stiffens the wrist,
and produces a slight jar in the hand which cuts off the singing quality of
the tone, like closing the mouth suddenly in singing. It produces the effect
of a blow upon the key and the tone is more a sharp, quick tone; whereas,
by letting the finger just fall it is fuller, less loud, but more penetrating.
. . . Dont you remember my saying that Liszt had such an extraordinary
way of playing a melody? That it did not seem to be so loud and cut-out
as most artists make it, and yet it was so penetrating? Well, dear, there
was the secret of it! Spielen Sie mit dem Gewicht (Play with weight),
Deppe will say.142
According to both Caland and Fay, Deppes principles of weight playing were
concerned not only with mechanical skill (speed and the bravura style) but also with
expressive qualities (legato and a singing tone that is fuller, less loud, but more
penetrating).143 Ironically, Amy Fay believed she was learning Liszts manner of

139

Caland, Die Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels, 4.


Fay, Music Study in Germany, 301. Caland reported exactly the same quotation in Die Deppesche Lehre
des Klavierspiels, 4.
141
Fay, Music Study in Germany, 286-91.
142
Ibid., 288.
143
Das heutige Klavierspiel ist mehr auf usserliche Mittel gerichtet, indem wir Virtuositt, Bravour,
Schnelligkeit und Glanz aufs hchste ausgebildet finden; das sinnige, innerliche Spiel dagegen, das
erforderlich ist, um die unvergnglichen Kompositionen der alten Meister in ihrer seelenvollen polyphonen
Schreibweise in voller Klarheit und Reinheit wiederzugeben, ist mehr und mehr in den Hintergrund
140

playing from Deppe although, according to Fay, Deppe never heard Liszt play.144 No

58

writer explicitly states who Deppes models were, but only that his work as a conductor
allowed him to observe many pianists in action. Amy Fay mentions his admiration for
Tausig, Rubinstein, and Clara Schumann. Elisabeth Caland also reports that Deppe was
motivated by the example of the great pianists145 and by the realization that no recognized
method existed that established rules for the attainment of artistic playing.
If great artists appear to perform the most difficult, complicated works on
the piano with natural, unpretentious simplicity and ease, and transport us
through their own gift and intuition into rapture, so, Deppe thought, it
must be possible to establish specific laws for the beauty of this playing,
by which even less gifted players, with ordinary but normal talent, can
achieve completely beautiful tone production and artistic representation of
performed pieces, even if, obviously, the results thus achieved do not
measure up to the accomplishments of the brilliantly talented.146
While Fay gives many interesting observations about Deppes teaching, it was
Caland who took up the task of systematically explaining Deppes method in Die
Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels. Caland attempted to give Deppe a voice through her
getreten, und so giebt es heute Spieler, die die schwierigsten Konzertstze mit grsster Leichtigkeit
hervorzuwirbeln im Stande sind, und dabei ein einfaches Legato auf dem Klavier nicht vollendet
vorzutragen vermgen. Und doch kann das Klavier, durch die jetzt erreichte Vollkommenheit des Gaues,
gerade auf die denkbar feinste Behandlung Anspruch machen, welcher Ansicht auch Klose in seiner
kleinen Schrift ber die Deppesche Lehre Ausdruck gibt.
The piano playing of today is more directed toward external (superficial) means in which we find
virtuosity, bravura, speed and glitter most highly developed; the sensitive, inward playing on the contrary,
which is necessary in order to perform the imperishable compositions of the old masters in their soulful
polyphonic style in full clarity and purity, is more and more receding into the background, and so it is with
todays player that the most difficult concert pieces are mixed up together with things of greatest ease and
yet a simple legato on the piano cannot be performed perfectly. And yet the piano can lay claim to the
finest treatment imaginable through the currently achieved completion of the areas, which Klose expressed
in his little writing about Deppean teaching. Caland, Die Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels. 1-2.
144
Fay, Music Study in Germany, 297.
145
Er beobachtete das Spiel aller grossen Knstler seine Zeit. . . . He observed the playing of all the
great artists of his time. . . . Caland, Die Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels, 4.
146
Wenn grosse Knstler die schwierigsten, verwickelsten Aufgaben auf dem Klaviere mit natrlicher,
anspruchsloser Leichtigkeit und Einfachheit auszufhren scheinen, und uns durch ihre eigene Begabung
und Intuition in Entzcken versetzen, so, meinte Deppe, mssten sich bestimmte Gesetze fr die Schnheit
dieses Spieles feststellen lassen, damit auch weniger begabte Spieler, mit gewhnlichen aber normalen
Anlagen, vollkommen schne Tonbildung und knstlerische Darstellung des Wiederzugebenden Stckes,

writing by quoting his various aphorisms:147 When it [the motion or position of the

59

hand] looks pretty, it is right; The pedal is the breath of the piano; Not a grain of
sand should go between them [successive tones in legato]; The tones should be joined
in the hand; One should draw the hand together like a nutshell; The hand must be
light as a feather.
Deppe advised students to sit in a somewhat low playing position, with the
forearm from the wrist to the elbow slanted downward several centimeters, so that no
weight would bear down on the hand. Sitting low encouraged the use of upper arm and
back muscles.148 The hand was lightened by being carried by the muscles of the upper
arm and back. Deppe was sparing in the use of exercises, but the exercise for carrying the
hand by means of the upper arm and back muscles he considered essential:
Now, how does one carry the hand? One carries it by taking the muscles to
help that first carry the hand, then the forearm, and finally the upper arm.
As the first exercise, the following is to be performed with the greatest
attention: in order to become conscious of the feeling that one can make
the hand light by carrying the arm from the back, one lifts the arms
slightly forward from the shoulders, without lifting up the shoulders
themselves. One guides ones full attention to the muscles of the
shoulders and back during this exercise; one must remain fully conscious
of the intense feeling that the arms are carried and held fast from the back,
while one allows the arms to sink down slowly upon the keys.149

erreichen knnen, wenn auch, selbstverstndlich, die so erzielten Resultate sich nicht mit den Leistungen
des genial Beanlagten messen drften. Caland, Die Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels, 4.
147
When Ehrenfechter quotes Deppe, he takes his quotation from Fay, Music Study in Germany.
148
Caland, Die Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels, 10.
149
Wie nun trgt man die Hand? Man trgt sie, indem man die Muskeln zu Hilfe nimmt, die zunchst die
Hand, dann den Unterarm und schliesslich den Oberarm tragen. Als erste Uebung sei Folgendes mit
grsster Aufmerksamkeit auszufhren: um des Gefhls uns bewusst zu werden, wie man die Hand, durch
den Arm vom Rcken aus getragen, leicht machen kann, hebe man die Arme, von den Schultern aus, leicht
nach vorne, ohne jedoch die Schultern selbst hinaufzuziehen. Man lenke seine volle Aufmerksamkeit auf
die Muskeln der Schultern und des Rckens whrend dieser Uebung; des intensiven Gefhls, dass die
Arme vom Rcken aus getragen und festgehalten werden, muss man sich voll bewusst bleiben, indem man
die Arme langsam auf die Tasten niedersinken lsst. Ibid., 9-10.

60
In drawing attention to the physical sensation of performing this exercise, there is the
recognition that competency in playing, the ability to produce the correct physical
responses at will, is a matter of memorizing and repeating physical sensations. The player
must direct his or her awareness to a uniquely personal physical sensation of producing a
tone by a stroke of the arm, the finger doing the work of simply resisting the key. Playing
single tones in this manner is a preparation for maintaining the support of the arm while
playing successive tones in a passage: . . . one therefore carries each finger over the
tone that he has to play, and the finger consequently does not disturb the harmony of the
whole through individual grasping forward, which Deppe indicated as a superficial
expedient.150 Focusing on the activity of the back muscles promotes a consciousness of
playing as originating more in the center of the body and, therefore, of the players being.
Deppe positioned the hand so that the fingers could serve as the extensions of the
arm.
One places the five fingers of the right hand on G A B C D. The elbow
may not protrude outward, but must be held as close as possible to the
body but without force, and the forearm goes somewhat upward to the
wrist, while the outside of the hand from the fifth finger to the upper arm
forms a straight line; the third finger constantly serves as the plumb line
for this line, which is formed through the hand and forearm; the shoulder
may never be lifted up. The fingers should stand on the keys restfully and
a little drawn into a rounded form, indeed the entire position should
constantly be unforced. Always amiable, said Deppe. Because the
hand is carried from above, the keys will not be pressed down by the
fingers. The wrist, which in passages may be held somewhat higher, is
held a little higher than the fingers in finger exercise position; the back of
the hand therefore rises somewhat up to the wrist. The first requirement is
that the hand is somewhat higher on the side of the fourth and fifth finger
than on the side of the second finger (it must therefore not sink at all to the
outside). From this follows a slight drawing in of the second finger while
150

. . . man also jeden Finger ber den Ton fhrt, den er zu spielen hat, und der Finger folglich nicht durch
unabhngiges Vorgreifen, welches Deppe als ein usserliches Mittel bezeichnete, die Harmonie des Ganzen
strt. Ibid., 21.

61
the thumb, with its outer side a little drawn in over the keys, rests without
pressing them down. 151
By establishing the third finger as the plumb line, Deppe finds a longitudinal axis or
balance point for the weight of the arm.152 Especially noteworthy in this passage is
Calands statement that the keys are depressed, not by the action of the fingers but by the
weight of the arm. Deppe noticed a tendency among pianists to let the hand tilt slightly
outward, thus weakening the fourth and fifth fingers by forcing them into a slanted
position when contacting the keys. He remedied this by asking for a slight inward tilt in
order to place the fourth and fifth fingers in a perpendicular relationship to the keys...
This hand position brings the fingers into direct connection with the
muscles of the arm, while the fourth and fifth fingers, which, with other
piano players who let both of these fingers fall slanting more towards to
the outward bent hand, are held here in a straight line with the upper arm.
So, as has been said, the outside of the hand and of the arm is set in a
straight line to the elbow, through this hand position the muscles of the
forearm, together with those of the upper arm, are brought into activity,
and hereby the connection with the upper arm becomes intensive. This
position of the hand helps all the fingers equally toward complete
independence and development of strength.153
151

Man stelle die fnf Finger der rechten Hand auf g. a. h. c. d. Der Ellenbogen darf nicht nach aussen
hervortreten, wird mglichst, aber ohne Zwang, an den Krper herangehalten, und der Unterarm geht bis
zum Handgelenk etwas hinauf, whrend die Aussenseite der Hand, vom fnften Finger an bis zum
Oberarm, eine gerade Linie bildet; der dritte Finger diene stets als Richtschnur fr diese Linie, welche
durch die Hand und den Vorderarm gebildet wird; die Schulter darf nie gehoben werden. Die Finger sollen
ruhig und ein wenig eingezogen in gerundeter Form auf den Tasten stehen, doch sei die ganze Haltung stets
eine ungezwungene. Immer liebenswrdig, sagte Deppe. Weil die Hand von oben getragen wird,
werden die Tasten nicht durch die Finger hinuntergedrckt. Das Handgelenk, welches bei Passagen etwas
hher getragen werden darf, wird in der Fingerbungslage ein wenig hher wie die Finger gehalten; die
Handflche steigt also bis zum Handgelenke etwas hinauf. Erste Bedingung ist es, dass die Hand sich an
der Seite des vierten und fnften Fingers etwas hher befindet, wie an der Seite des zweiten Fingers (sie
darf also keinenfalls, nach der Aussenseite zu sinken). Hieraus folgt ein leises Einziehen des zweiten
Fingers, whren der Daumen, mit seiner Aussenseite ein wenig eingezogen ber der Taste, ohne sie
niederzudrcken, ruht. Ibid., 14-15.
152
German Diez, an Arrau pupil, speaks of the fourth finger in a similar fashion. See ch. 5, pp. 181-82.
153
Diese Handhaltung bringt die Finger in direkte Verbindung mit den Muskeln des Armes, indem der
vierte und fnfte Finger, die bei andern Klavierspielern, deren mehr nach aussen gebogene Hand diese
beiden genannten Finger schrg abfallen lsst, sich hier in gerader Linie zum Unterarm verhalten. Da, wie
gesagt, die Aussenseite der Hand und des Armes bis zum Ellenbogen sich in gerader Linie fortsetzt, werden
durch diese Handhaltung, Muskeln des Unterarmes, die an denen des Oberarmes sich ansetzen, in Ttigkeit
gebracht, und es wird hierdurch die Verbindung mit den Oberarmmuskeln eine intensive. Diese

62
In these passages, Caland spells out the functions of each part of the playing
mechanism: of the back and upper arm muscles in suspending the arm weight; of the arm
in carrying the hand and fingers; of the wrist in maintaining a somewhat high position; of
the fingers in rising and falling only a little and aligning with the arm. The objective is to
unify and coordinate all of these parts into a single motion whether producing a single
tone or many tones. Deppe was the first to articulate a means to achieve a way of playing
that emanated ultimately from the upper arm and back. Furthermore, he saw that equality
and independence of the fingers result not from repetitive exercise but from using the
fingers as extensions of the arm. These discoveries were the outgrowth of his search for
principles to guide the production of beautiful tone, which he believed formed the basis
for artistic performance.
The tone that is formed on this foundation [harmonious use of the entire
playing mechanism] is always absolutely beautiful and noble, it possesses
a unique magic never is the ear offended by sharpness, the sweetest as
well as even the greatest tone produced in this way is singularly beautiful
and, because of its intensity, has more carrying power than any other. We
will later see that this harmonious cooperation of the muscles of the upper
body, as well being the foundation for the tone that appears unintentional,
is similarly also the foundation for an artwork that appears
unintentional.154
Here Caland echoes Amy Fays observation that Deppes manner of touch
produced a more penetrating tone having more carrying power. The claim that the tone as
well as the performance should appear unintentional is more difficult to understand since
beschriebene Stellung der Hand verhilft allen Fingern gleichmssig zur vollkommenen Unabhngigkeit und
Kraftentwickelung. Caland, Die Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels, 16.
154
Der Ton, der auf dieser Grundlage gebildet wird, ist immer absolut schn und edel, er besitzt einen
eigentmlichen Zauber nie wird das Ohr durch Schrfe verletzt, der zarteste sowohl, wie auch der grsste
auf diese Weise gebildete Ton, ist einheitlich schn, und durch seine Intensivitt tragfhiger wie jeder
andere. Wir werden spter sehen, dass dies harmonische Ineinanderarbeiten der Muskulatur des

63
tone production, along with all other technical and musical achievements, is the result of
conscious effort. But Caland is arguing for the appearance of unintentionality -- that is,
for naturalness and for a kind of playing where physical effort does not detract from
musical expression. Caland wrote, Schiller says: Grace must always be natural, that is,
unwillful, at least it must appear so, and the subject itself may never appear as if it is
conscious of its charm.155 This unintentionality or naturalness is achieved through a
unified, harmonious activity of back and shoulders, arm, hand, and fingers; such activity
has appearance of less effort since more muscles share in it. Therefore, the
unintentionality is bound up with ease in playing. In Deppes system, tone produced
through isolated finger action is equated with intentionality, lack of ease, or unnatural
effort.
A tone that is brought forth through attacks of individual, active fingers
allows the direct act of will of the player to come forward through its
superficiality in bare intention, and can, as Deppe said, never be the
foundation of a genuine artistic expression. He spoke of a tone
production originating from apparently unintentional events, which is
plainly required for the aesthetic practice.. . . when Kant says that the
necessity in the production of beautiful art, whether it is indeed
intentional, certainly must not appear intentional and when Schopenhauer
speaks of the state of soul of the artist, resting, still, free of will, because
only in a state of pure recognition where his will and goals are placed
entirely beyond the reach of man, can that purely objective view arise, that
forms the true material and seed of a genuine artwork, so may this serve
as the empowerment of the Deppean foundation, both in relation to his
tone production, as in relation to his manner of interpretation of an art
work . . . . 156
Oberkrpers, sowie es die Grundlage fr den absichtlos in Erscheinung tretenden Ton ist, ebenso auch die
Grundlage fr ein absichtlos in Erscheinung tretendes Kunstwek bildet. Ibid., 11-12.
155
Schiller sagt: Grazie muss jederzeit Natur, d. i. unwillkrlich sein wenigstens so scheinen, und das
Subjekt selbst darf nie so aussehen, als ob es um seine Anmut wsste. Ibid., 7.
156
Ein Ton, der durch Anschlagen des einzelnen, aktiven Fingers hervorgebracht wird, lsst den direkten
Willensakt des Spielers durch ihre Auesserlichkeit in nakter Absicht hervortreten, und kann, wie Deppe
sagte, nie die Grundlage einer echten Kunstusserung sein. Er sprach von einer aus anscheinend
unabsichtlichem Falle entstehenden Tonbildung, die fr die sthetische Ausbung geradezu erforderlich
ist.. . . wenn Kant sagt, dass die Zweckmssigkeit im Produkte der schnen Kunst, ob sie zwar absichtlich

64
Thus Caland presented Deppean principles as drawing together the physical issues
such as ease, economy, strength, and endurance under the rubric of unintentionality, a
concept she related to beauty of movement. One of Deppes often-stated maxims was,
When it looks pretty, it is right.157 Deppe reasoned that the least expenditure of strength
involved distributing the effort of playing among more muscles, i. e., calling upon the
muscles of the upper arm and back to support the fingers. Therefore, the use of these
muscles was a matter not only of beautiful tone but beauty, i.e., economy, of movement.
Caland invokes philosophy to support Deppes equation of beauty in movement with
economy and ease as essential to unintentionality, a determining factor of the beautiful
in art.
The foundation is that through this kind of playing less strength is used
and the strength is used more harmoniously. Spencer says: The graceful
way of performing a motion is that which costs the least exertion the
really graceful motions are those that are performed through relatively less
exertion of strength.
. . . The above is supported in the words of Souriau when he remarks the
following: If strength must be used, in order to avoid fatigue, the
necessary cooperation of the muscles is required; thus we not only spare
ourselves the feeling of exertion, but we can develop more real strength.
The strength is not transferred into the muscles, but it is produced or
brought forth by the muscles themselves; and since each muscle can have
only a certain amount of strength at its disposal, it is obvious that if we
want to lay onto a movement all of the strength we possess, we will have
the greatest number of muscles working together.158
ist, doch nicht absichtlich scheinen muss und wenn Schopenhauer von dem ruhigen, stillen willensfreien
Gemtszustand des Knstlers spricht, denn nur im Zustande des reinen Erkennens, wo dem Menschen
sein Wille und dessen Zwecke ganz entrckt sind, kann die jenige rein objektive Anschauung entstehen, die
den eigentlichen Stoff und Kern eines echten Kunstwerkes ausmacht, so darf dies wohl als Bekrftigung
des Deppeschen Grundsatzes, sowohl in Bezug auf seine Tonbildung, wie in Bezug auf seine
Interpretationsweise eines Kunstwerkes dienen . . . . Ibid., 44.
157
Ibid., 6.
158
. . . und zweitens ist der Grund massgebend, dass durch diese Art des Spieles weniger Kraft, und die
Kraft harmonischer gebraucht wird. Spencer sagt: die anmutige Art, eine Bewegung auszufhren, ist
diejenige, die am wenigsten Anstrengung kostet die wirklich anmutigen Bewegungen sind die, welche
durch verhltnismssig wenig Kraftanstrengung ausgefhrt werden. . . . Obiges findet seine Bekrftigung
in dem Ausspruche Souriaus, wenn er Folgendes bemerkt:Wenn man Kraft anwenden muss, wird, um der

65
Deppe pressed the point further, asserting that the most economical, therefore beautiful,
motions were curvilinear and flowed into one another without interruption. In the
playing of scale and arpeggio passages and in executing leaps, the arm moved in curved
lines to carry the fingers to the keys and provide the weight necessary to press down the
keys. In performing a work, all movements joined to form a continuous movement that
ended only with the end of the piece.
In order to connect tones and to play passages from which a piece of
music is put together, the hand must be moved from one place on the
keyboard to another. This movement Deppe called the simple curve in
contrast to the double-angled [movement] of ordinary piano playing; this
corresponds to the infinite spiral-shaped or intellectual line. Since the
hand should never stand still and should always be spiritually enlivened,
the movement is a progressive one that ends with the first tone of the
piece. It is therefore a single continuous motion and because of that is
suitable for performing a piece of music in complete form, where, through
the avoidance of all double motions, the form of the motion coincides
exactly with the content of the piece.159
This invocation of a connection between physical movement and musical form
resonates with ideas advanced by Clark in Liszts Offenbarung (see pp. 52-53). Caland
again provides philosophical support for Deppes theory with a quotation from

Ermdung zu entgehen, die notwendige Mitwirkung der Muskeln gefordert; wir sparen uns dadurch nich
allein das lstige Gefhl der Anstrengung, sondern wir knnen dadurch mehr wirkliche Kraft entwickeln.
Die Kraft wird nicht in die Muskeln bertragen, sondern wird durch die Muskeln selbst erzeugt oder
hervorgebracht; und da jeder Muskel nur ber eine gewisse Quantitt von Kraft verfgen kann, zeigt es sich
von selbst, dass, wenn wir in eine Bewegung alles, was wir an Kraft besitzen, hinein legen wollen, wir die
grsste Anzahl von Bewegungsfasern zusammenwirken lassen sollen. Ibid., 11-12.
159
Um Tne zu verbinden und Passagen zu spielen, aus denen ein Musikstck zusammengestellt ist, muss
die Hand von einer Stelle der Klaviatur zur andern bewegt werden. Diese Bewegung nannte Deppe die
einfache runde, im Gegensatze zur doppelten eckigen des gewhnlichen Klavierspiels; sie entspricht der
unendlich spiralfrmigen oder geistigen Linie. Da die Hand nie stille stehen und immer geistvoll belebt
sein soll, so ist die Bewegung eine fortschreitende, die mit dem ersten Ton des Stckes endet. Sie ist also
eine einzelne fortgesetzte Bewegung und deshalb geeignet, ein Musikstck in vollendeter Form
wiederzugeben, da, durch die Vermeidung aller doppelten Bewegungen, die Form der Bewegung genau
den Inhalt des Stckes deckt. Ibid., 19.

66
Swedenborg that ranks forms and, by analogy, movements in piano playing in a
hierarchical order that has a parallel in the spiritual realm:
Forms arise in ascending order of rank from the lowest to the highest. The
lowest form is the angular, cornered, or earthly, physical. The next higher
form is the circular form, which is also called the infinitely many-angled;
the next higher form is the spiral, which is also the origin of and measure
for the circular form; the next higher form is oscillating or infinitely spiralformed, or heavenly, and the last, the infinitely heavenly or spiritual.160
Caland uses this quotation (also reminiscent of Clark; see pp. 50-51) to give a spiritual
dimension to Deppes principles. The movements employed in piano playing describe
lines and shapes in space that can be seen as analogous to plastic forms, and piano
playing thus becomes choreographed movement whose forms have a spiritual character
in keeping with the spiritual content of musical works. It now seems appropriate to see
the physical movement of playing as one with the expressive content of the musical
work.
Cautioning that the motions she has described not be exaggerated, Caland alludes
to the difference in how players and observers perceive motion in playing, and to the
difficulty in relying upon observation to discover and define the physical elements of
piano technique.
The circular motion should be inwardly known to the player himself only
as circular; the listening observer notices only the light over and under
motion of the hand; the roundness of the motion is visible only as putting

160

Die Formen erheben sich in aufsteigender Reihenfolge von den niedrigsten bis zu den hchsten. Die
niedrigste Form is die winkelige, eckige oder irdische, krperliche. Die nchst hhere Form ist die
kreisfrmige, welche auch die unendlich vielwinkelige gennant wird; die nchst hhere Form ist die
Spirale, die zugleich Ursprung und Mass fr die Kreisformen ist; die nchst hhere Form ist wirbel- oder
unendlich spiralfrmige oder himmlische, und die letzte die unendlich himmlische oder geistige.
(Emanuel Swedenborg, Reclam-Ausgabe Nr. 3464-65, 96.) Ibid., 19.

67
down and lifting up the hand, by which the first occurs with raised
yielding and the second with gradually lifting of the wrist.161
Deppes teaching anticipated Arraus principles in many respects: use of weight
controlled by muscles in the upper arm, shoulders, and back to create beauty of tone as
well as ease and control in playing; the use of curvilinear motions; the alignment and
unification of the players body; the embodiment of musical form and expression in
physical movement; locating a spiritual dimension in physical movement itself.
There are also similarities between the language and concepts of Deppe (as
represented by Caland in Die Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels) and Liszt (as
represented by Clark in Liszts Offenbarung). Both oppose the independent movement of
the fingers, favoring instead a harmonious working of the whole body. Both refer to
continuous, spiral-shaped arm motions as embodiments of musical content, an idea that
forms an interesting backdrop to the insistence of Arraus pupils that the [Arrau]
technique incorporates the music into it somehow.162 Neither Liszt nor Deppe had a
direct influence upon Arrau, but it is possible that Arrau, who was an avid reader, read
the works of Caland and Clark.
It is also interesting to note that Clark and Deppe were acquainted and that Clark
married Deppes pupil, Anna Steiniger. However, Clark was no disciple of Deppe, and
lashed out at him both in Liszts Offenbarung and in a heated exchange with Amy Fay in
the pages of the Etude. Clark and Steiniger wrote:
. . . it is a fact that the Deppe hand position looks bad, can produce no
good tonal effects, and abases the hand mechanically. . . . Deppe did teach
161

Die runde Bewegung soll dem Spielenden selbst nur als rund innerlich bewusst sein;161 der zuhrende
Beobachter bemerkt nur das leichte Hinauf- und Hinunterbewegen der Hand; das Runde der Bewegung
wird allein sichtbar beim Aufsetzen und Abheben der Hand, wovon das erstere mit erhhtem
nachgebenden, und das zweite mit allmhlich zu erhebendem Handgelenke geschieht. Ibid., 23.
162
Ivan Nuez. See ch. 3, p. 143.

68
arm lateral motion before Plaidy. . . . But Deppe applied it from his own
experience in violin playing. . . . Again, Deppe does have a method for
using the wrist mechanism peculiar to himself alone . . . nor does Deppe
regard Amy Fay as a pupil of his. From her book, one who really knows
Deppe sees that Miss Fay does not at all know Deppes method,
particularly his use of the wrist. She has made a sad misrepresentation of
Deppes real principles: she pictures a ridiculous man altogether; on the
contrary, Deppe is really a great man. Musically considered, Deppe is a
very bad technician; but . . . Deppes true worth is as a teacher of Vortrag
or interpretations and expression. Many times has Deppe asked me to
clean the technic stench, as he called it, away from his name and fame
here in America. Once he bitterly lamented and said, Amy Fay has ruined
me. She never understood me. She has used me like a wooden hobby
horse. Please tell Americans that I am a Vortrag teacher.163
Amy Fay replied:
. . . when I returned to Berlin three years ago, Deppe put off his summer
travel in order to be there when I arrived and to give me his entire time.
He introduced me to his circle of pupils, by whom I was received with the
greatest honors, and did everything in his power to show me his
appreciation of what I had written about him in my book. Last year Deppe
sent me a pamphlet to translate called Die Deppesche Lehre des
Klavierspiels . . . written by Hermann Klose, one of Deppes pupils, under
his immediate supervision. In this pamphlet . . . long quotations are made
from my book in confirmation of it.164
Clark possessed more than enough vitriol to go around:
Nevertheless Deppe, like Kullak in his sham-aesthetic of piano playing,
Wieck, and all the others speak of harmonious working, of unity and even
of beauty of piano playing, and they dont know that they are simply
saying empty words, and that their whole teaching is pseudo-artistic,
because all finger dexterity, all dismemberment shows not only a
superficial but also a false basis in artistic activity, and without finger
motions they dont know a single word to say about piano teaching
whatsoever.165

163

Frederic Clark and Anna Steiniger Clark, The Deppe Method, The Etude 6/5 (May 1888): 76.
Amy Fay, The Deppe Method Again, The Etude 6/6 (June 1888): 96.
165
Jedoch Deppe wie Kullak in seiner Scheinsthetik des Klavierspiels, Wieck und alle die anderen
sprechen von harmonischem Wirken, von Einheit und sogar von Schnheit des Klavierspiels und wissen
nicht, da sie blo hohle Worte machen und da ihre ganze Lehre pseudo-knstlerische ist, weil alle
Fingerfertigkeit, alle Zerstcklung nicht nur Oberflchlichkeit sondern etwas Grundfalsches in der
164

69
The harsh, personal edge to Clarks criticism shows the passion that could be aroused by
differing viewpoints on piano playing, and casts light on Engels observation of Clark
(note 126). Amy Fay issued her summation of Clark as follows:
This gentleman . . . went to Europe to study music. According to his own
book, he took some lessons of many great masters but discovered that
none of them knew as much as he did himself.166
MARTIN KRAUSE (June 17, 1853 August 2, 1918)
Arrau received his closest contact with Liszts manner of playing through Martin
Krause. Krause was a pupil of Carl Reinecke at the Leipzig Conservatory, and after
teaching positions in Montreux, Detmold, and Bremen, he became established teaching in
Leipzig. In the 1880s he became a pupil of Liszt, and in 1885 Krause founded the first
Liszt Society in Leipzig. As a music critic, he contributed to Berlin publications, the
Vossischen Zeitung and Berliner Tageblatt. He also began writing a study of rhythm and
phrasing, but he did not finish it.167 In 1899 he joined the Stern Conservatory. Beloved as
a teacher, Krause taught on average eighty pupils between the years 1914 and 1918.168
Krauses obituary in the Allgemeine Musik-Zeitung from October 25, 1918, gives
the following account of Liszt Society concerts and illustrates the commitment of Krause
and the Society to new music:
Two performances of the Liszt Society on the 2 and 20 of September,
1885 were attended by the master himself whom Krause henceforth called
only our president. In both, Martin Krause performed as soloist and as
accompanist to Liszt lieder. The music-historical significance of the
concerts of the Liszt Society during its fourteen-year existence rests not
least in that through Krauses authority living composers, known as well
Kunstttigkeit kennzeichnet, und ohne Fingerbewegungen wissen sie alle nicht ein einziges Wort zum
Klavierunterricht von irgendwoher zu holen. Clark, Liszts Offenbarung, 283.
166
Fay, The Deppe Method Again, 96.
167
Wolfgang Rathert and Dietmar Schenk, eds., Pianisten in Berlin: Klavierspiel und Klavierausbildung
seit dem 19. Jahrhundert (Berlin: Hochschule der Kunst, 1999), 73.
168
Ibid.

70
as unknown, found recognition with greater and lesser works: I mention
only a few names here: such as Alexander Ritter, Bruch, Ansorge,
Reznicek, Dvorak, Piuttei, Busoni, Bungert, dAlbert, Delibes, Draeseke,
Goetz, Grieg, Heuberger, Herzogenberg, Humperdinck, Kahn, Klughardt,
Moszkowski, Berger, Scharwenka, Sinding, Sommer, Weingartner,
Reisenauer, Zoellner. 169
An inspiring mentor, not only because of his study with Liszt, Krause had heard firsthand the major musical figures of his time, including Johannes Brahms, Clara Schumann,
Teresa Carreo, and Ferruccio Busoni.
Krause treated Arrau as a member of his own household, providing him with
meals, supervising his practice, directing his general education, personally accompanying
him to museums, choosing operas for him to hear, and managing his successful career as
a prodigy.170 Arraus habit of reading, his lifelong interest in art and literature, and his
belief that musical interpretation should spring from a wider cultural knowledge and
experience, stem in part from his early training with Krause.171
Krauses obituary contains the following assessment of his teaching:
One is inclined to seek the secret of his teaching in pure technique. Or
purely tonally: in the building, in the sounding, in the singing of piano
tone as the final result of a particular kind of attack. The attack with
relaxed muscles of the arms and hands is proclaimed even by others as
dogma, and yet [the attack] persists, in its endlessly precise steps, as the
problem of all piano technique. Krause mastered the problem with an
inimitable spirit of invention and unraveled it with all pupils as no one
before. And how was it with tone, with phrasing, with cantilena? Here we
come closer to the pedagogical secret of Krausean art. Martin Krause saw
the ideal of the teachable piano tone only in a singing tone. He was able to
call as his own a wonderful sense of tone, which drove him to research in
sound analysis, first of all on tone in singing, always looking for and
establishing the parallels with piano tone. Krause had a burning desire for
169

Paul Bruns, Martin Krause, Allgemeine Musik-Zeitung, Berlin 45/43 (October 25, 1918): 463.
Horowitz, Conversations, 41.
171
Amy Fay told a similar story about Deppe: Deppe had been training this young English girl, now only
eighteen years of age, with the greatest care, for six years, and . . . he had such an interest in her that he did
not confine himself to giving her lessons only, but set himself to form her whole musical taste by taking her
to the best concerts and to hear the great operas. Fay, Music Study in Germany, 284.
170

71
beautiful, artistically shaped melodic lines, and a frankly remarkable
notion of voicing, a sharp, thoroughly authoritative ability of discernment
for natural sounds and for melodic lines shaped and developed in an
artistic sense.172
This passage recalls some principles of piano playing that Arrau attributed to
Krause.173 Krause pursued the ideal of beautiful, artistically shaped melodic lines,
teaching his young pupil to hear polyphonically by instructing him to memorize each
individual voice of Bachs fugues and to transpose the fugues to remote keys. Arrau
shared Krauses interest in the singing tone, but went further, stipulating that tone must
serve a higher purpose than beauty: it must convey meaning.
Tone must be different for every composer. An artist should have the
right sound for every composer. . . . Of course the individual interpreters
tone should vary, but the tone, should not be a conscious preoccupation.
Sound should be at the service of interpretation to begin with. Take the
trills at the end of Op. 111 of Beethoven. If these trills are played with
only a beautiful sound in mind, what have you? But if you have a cosmic
vision in mind, all the beauty of sound should be there anyway.174
Arrau credited Krause with teaching the performance of trills and other
ornaments in accordance with the style and mood of a piece. Krause was also known for
his insights into the music of Beethoven,175 possibly laying a foundation for the
172

Man ist geneigt, in der reinen Technik das Geheimnis seiner Lehre zu suchen. Oder rein klanglich: im
Schwingen, im Klingen, im Singen des Klaviertones als Endergebnis eines besonderen Anschlages. Den
Anschlag mit relaxierten Muskeln der Arme und Hnde verknden auch andere als Dogma, und dennoch
bleibt er in seinen unendlich feinen Abstufungen das Problem aller Klaviertechnik. Krause meisterte das
Problem mit unnachahmlichem Erfindungsgeist und lste es wie niemand zuvor bei allen Schlern. Und
wie stand es mit dem Ton, der Phrasierung, der Kantelene? Hier treten wir dem pdagogischen Geheimnis
Krausescher Kunst schon nher. Martin Krause sah nur im Gesangston das Ideal des lehrbaren
Klaviertones. Er konnte einen wunderbaren Tonsinn sein eigen nennen, der ihn zum klanganalytischen
Erforschen zunchst des Gesangstones antrieb, immer die Parallele mit dem Klavierton suchend und
begrndend. Krause hatte ein brennendes Verlangen nach schnen, kunstgebildeten Stimmen, hatte ein
geradezu bewunderungswrdiges Gedchtnis fr Stimmklang, ein scharfes, durchaus massgebendes
Unterscheidungsvermgen fr Naturklnge und im kstlerischen Sinne geformte und entwickelte
Stimmen. Bruns, Martin Krause, 463.
173
Horowitz, Conversations, 37-42.
174
Elder, 46.
175
James Methuen-Campbell, Martin Krause, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, eds.
Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), XIII: 878.

72
importance of Beethovens music in Arraus repertoire and for Arraus development as
one of the great interpreters of Beethoven in the twentieth century. Arrau performed
complete cycles of the Beethoven Sonatas, first in Mexico City in 1938, later in Buenos
Aires, London, and New York.176 His recordings of the sonatas, concertos, and variations
and his edition of the thirty-two sonatas are further testimony to the importance of
Beethoven in his repertoire.177
Arrau mentioned only the musical instructions that he received from Krause.
Though Krauses obituary states that Krause saw every aspect of piano technique as
related to tone production and advocated a relaxed arm and hand, nevertheless Arrau did
not mention this or any other elements of technique as coming from Krause. Arrau
attributed his technique to his own natural instinct for piano playing brought into the
realm of consciousness through a process of analysis, which he described as follows:178
It all became conscious long after Krause died. At first, I played without
thinking about technique, because I had this natural gift. Much later, I
decided it was better to be conscious of how I played. I put a mirror next
to my piano it must have been when I was eighteen or nineteen. Then I
began to notice the rotation, the vibration, the use of arm weight, and so
on.179
Perhaps Arraus natural gift coincided with a Lisztian or Krausean approach and Krause
simply preserved its integrity as Arrau progressed through the advanced repertoire, or
perhaps Krause guided and formed Arraus technique in ways too subtle to be perceptible
to his young pupil. By the time he was eighteen, Arrau may have internalized Krauses
176

Hctor Vasconcelos, Cuatro aproximaciones al arte de Arrau (Mexico City: DGE Ediciones, 2002),
129, 130.
177
Ludwig van Beethoven, Sonaten fr Klavier zu zwei Hnden, 2 vols., ed. Claudio Arrau (Frankfurt: C.
F. Peters, 1978).
178
Clark reported a similar statement by Liszt, During my life, I had to learn to do consciously what I first
did instinctively. Clark, Liszts Offenbarung; see also Ott, 45.
179
Horowitz, Conversations, 109.

73
teaching so thoroughly that he could no longer distinguish it as having come from an
external source. Unfortunately, Krause left no writings about piano playing, and there are
no known written accounts of Krauses teaching. Therefore, specific elements common
among Krauses principles and those of Arrau or Liszt cannot be determined.
It is clear from Arraus statement above that Arrau viewed the use of natural arm
weight and specific arm movements as primary features of his technique. While it is
possible that these stemmed from his natural gift for the piano, it is also significant that
Arrau was personally acquainted with Rudolf Breithaupt, the most influential German
proponent of arm-weight technique.
RUDOLF BREITHAUPT (1873-1945)
Rudolf Breithaupt, like Martin Krause, studied piano at the Leipzig Conservatory
and went on to teach at the Stern Conservatory in Berlin. His theories about piano
technique were influenced by those of Deppe and Steinhausen, and by the playing of
Teresa Carreo; furthermore, he claimed that Liszt, Eugen dAlbert, Anton Rubinstein,
Josef Hofmann, Leopold Godowsky, and Harold Bauer used weight technique to some
degree.180 Breithaupts instructional books include the three-volume Die natrliche
Klaviertechnik (The Natural Piano-Technic, 1906-22): I. Handbuch der modernen
Methodik und Spielpraxis; II. Die Grundlagen des Gewichtspiels (School of WeightTouch); III Praktische Studien (the latter volume was organized in five parts: 1.
Lngschwung (Hoch- und Tiefschwung); 2. Rollschwung und Kriesung;
3. Gleitung und Vibrato; 4. Fingerschwung; 5. Druckspiel).181 Arrau was familiar with

180

Gerig, Famous Pianists and Their Technique, 330.


Rudolph Breithaupt, Die natrliche Klaviertechnik (Leipzig: C. F. Kahnt, 1906-22). Only volume II
appeared in an English translation.
181

74
Breithaupts writings. Both Breithaupt and Arrau taught at the Stern Conservatory during
the time Arrau was identifying his own approach to technique. Arrau recalled:
One of the first people to write about it [weight technique] was Rudolf
Breithaupt, who taught at the Stern Conservatory in Berlin. I remember he
once asked me to play for him, and while I was playing he began saying,
Yes, yes, yes! Exactly right! His books were widely read for at least
twenty years. But nobody seems to remember them anymore.182
Breithaupts work contains photographs and detailed descriptions, instructions,
and exercises for developing a strong hand position to support arm weight, for the
transfer of weight from finger to finger, for using the swing (or motion) of the whole arm,
for flexibility of the wrist, to develop forearm rotation or lateral movements, and for
achieving what Breithaupt calls free oscillation of the fingers. His work was based on
the then radical belief that proper use of the arm, not the action of the fingers, is the first
task in piano instruction:
As the swinging motion of the arm is the principal function of technic, the
weight projected from the shoulder, the brachial mass itself, is the source
of all simple energy . . . . Active strength of the fingers --- active strength
of the wrist are erroneous, misleading ideas, for which we substitute those
of natural and efficacious energy: energy of the shoulder, of the muscles of
the upper-arm, and the weight of the whole arm [emphasis
Breithaupts].183
The function of the fingers was mainly to support and transfer the weight of the
arm. While other pedagogues directed their attention first and foremost to the
development of the fingers, and only in the latter stages of their work devoted a few
remarks to the uses of the arm, Breithaupt reversed this procedure, devoting the bulk of
his work to uses of the arm and only three pages to the action of the fingers. Breithaupt
182

Horowitz, Conversations, 109-10.

75
proposed a newly ordered pedagogical system free of exercises to develop finger strength
and striking power and finger independence and equalization:
. . . contrary to the old style of beginning with the active raising of the
fingers (a perfectly wrong conception), that exercise (raising the fingers)
must not be taken up until after studying the free descent of the weighted
arm upon the set, not upon the raised, passive fingers; as first of all, arm
and hand must be taught to remain supple and loose and learn how to
assume and transfer the weight . . . .184
Rather than concentrate effort upon strength and a forced adaptation to the
technical demands of music acquired through repetitious practice and exercise,
Breithaupt strove for the economical and informed use of the bodys natural resources. In
place of tension, he sought to develop relaxation: The normal state of muscular
relaxation, i. e., the natural equilibrium between a momentary tension and relaxation,
constitutes the supreme advantage and benefit of a natural, free automatic technic.185 In
place of athletic muscular strength, Breithaupt sought to utilize natural arm weight
mediated by various types of arm movement. Freedom of movement was therefore
crucial and depended upon freedom of the joints.
The removal of the impediments in the joints, of itself, brings about the
correct action of the muscles, or muscular system. Therefore, we must
direct our chief attention: to the loosening of the joints. Viewed thus, piano
playing is a display of joint-action, not one of muscular action in the sense
of acrobatic feats.186

183

Rudolf Breithaupt, Natural Piano-Technic II: School of Weight-Touch, trans. John Bernhoff (Leipzig: C.
F. Kahnt, 1909), 23-24.
184
Ibid., 55.
185
Ibid., 23-24.
186
Ibid., 92. This statement closely resembles Arraus statement that the most important consideration in
piano technique is the relaxation of the joints. See ch. 2, p. 86.

76
Breithaupts work begins with the development of the . . . hand bridge, on which
the arm rests like the superstructure of a bridge on its arches and pillars.187 This arched
hand position with slightly elongated fingers and raised wrist aimed at alignment and
balance of the bone structure of the hand and arm.188
With the basic hand position in place, the full-weighted arm is to rest on each of
the fingers in turn (beginning with the third finger), with the wrist high and each finger
standing perpendicular on a black key.189 After pointing out the difference between
carrying the weight of the arm by the fingertip (passive bearing, or relaxation) and
carrying it by the shoulder (active bearing, noting that here the weight of the action
should carry the key and the finger back up), Breithaupt offers as an exercise the
sequence, fall of the weight relaxation rising with the key. Notwithstanding some
ambiguous use of the word relaxation, the main issue here is controlling the weight of
the arm so that it rests either on the finger or the shoulder.190 Breithaupt points out the
importance of the knuckle joint in making the fingers, especially the fifth finger, capable
of supporting arm weight; and while admitting that the firm rounded fingertip is
preferable, he defends the flat-fingered approach noting that Liszt and Chopin almost

187

Ibid., 8.
While the hand position must not be rigidly maintained, Breithaupt recommended developing a position
where the fingers are straightened out or slightly curved, the knuckle-joints protruding and forming humps
Thus posed, the fingers become stilts, or props supporting the weight borne by the palm of the hand,
arched to form a bridge. Such specific instructions notwithstanding, Breithaupt recognized that hand
position should be both changeable and ultimately determined by the physical sensation of supporting the
arm: Later on . . . the hand may do as it likes, provided the supports are strong enough and the tone be
located in the bones (the knuckles). Ibid.
189
Ibid., 13-15.
190
He seems to use relaxation in two senses: (1) as the relaxation of the shoulder muscles allowing the
weight of the arm to be borne by the fingers; (2) the resumption of weight bearing by the shoulder that
allows the key to carry the finger back up. To confuse the issue even further, he adds, Having succeeded
in this, leave the (finger) hand on the key and let the descent be followed by instant relaxation. The best
way to do this is to relax the arch-set hand and slacken all its muscles: the hand, becoming soft and pliable,
rests with only as much pressure on the key as is required to keep it down and sustain the tone. Ibid., 17.
188

77
constantly played with a more or less flat touch and with the first joints bent in, as the
case required and as the execution suited the fingers.191
Later on in his discussion, Breithaupt points out that controlling how much weight
is borne by the finger and by the shoulder is the key to controlling dynamics.
All forms and manner of percussion (touch), without exception, differ only
in intensity, i.e. in the force applied in the percussion (touch), which again
results from the product of rapidity and weight . . . all tonal effect
corresponds to a certain degree of dynamic intensity. Generally speaking,
the modulatory capacity of the tone is determined by the grades of touch
proceeding from the discharged arm up to the weighted arm.192
In other words, weighting the arm heavily in loud tones and lightly in soft replaces
striking power of the fingers as the source of dynamic control.
Next, Breithaupt recommends playing the C-major scale, supporting the arm
weight on the third finger alone, swinging the arm off of each key and dropping it on
the next. Each finger is to take this exercise in turn, the main criteria being the use of the
full weight of the relaxed arm, avoidance of extraneous or exaggerated movement, and
immediate release following key descent.193
Breithaupt identified two basic types of arm motion used to mediate arm weight:
vertical motions (up and down), and rotary motion (rotation, side to side). Vertical
motions include the low fall, the high fall, and forearm extension. For the low fall,
the arm is dropped from above the keys and, as the fingers catch the keys, the hand sinks
below the keys, the wrist bending passively. The high fall reverses this movement,
beginning with the sunken wrist, projecting the hand and wrist upward and the finger
191

Ibid., 15.
Ibid., 65.
193
That the descent be followed instantaneously by the discharge of the weight and the relaxation of the
joints, so that the arm shall hang suspended, with joints and muscles relaxed, the hand yielding to its own
192

downward into the key, by extending the forearm forward and upward.194 The high and

78

low fall lead to a discussion of one of their constituent movements, forearm extension
or a straightening of the elbow that causes the wrist to bend passively, either upward or
downward. Put more simply, forearm extension is the source of up and down arm
movements that facilitate the passing under of the thumb in scales and arpeggios; broken
octaves, broken chord figures, staccato thirds, sixths, octaves, and chords; combining
with rotation to give dynamic power and shaping to passagework.195 Accelerated vertical
movement of the arm results in arm vibration.
Breithaupts second type of arm motion, rotation, rotary or side-to-side motion
(Rollung), is described as a turning outward (supination) and inward (pronation) of the
forearm with the hand passively following the movement. Breithaupt writes, it is not
generated in the wrist (as is maintained by the old methods), but in the cubital [elbow]
joint.196 The function of rotation is to transfer arm weight between the two fingers and
Breithaupt recommended it for playing trills, broken thirds, sixths, octaves and chords,
scales and arpeggios, tremolos, and many common accompaniment patterns.197
Vibration may be produced either by vertical movement, a free vibration of the
arm relaxed in all its joints, with the hand supported by the keys rising and falling with
them,198 or by rotary action or forearm rotation, a rolling-vibrato or shaking, as the

weight, and giving to the action of the wrist. Ibid., 14. Breithaupts procedure resembles that of German
Diez in practicing drops (see ch. 5, p. 180).
194
Ibid., 20. The low and high fall resemble Arraus techniques of dropping the weight and pushing the
weight. See ch. 2, p. 107-8.
195
Ibid., 25-28.
196
Ibid., 32. Arraus rotation is from the shoulder socket and involves the upper arm as well as the forearm.
197
Ibid.
198
Ibid., 28.

79
effects thus obtained appear to be shaken out of the arm or out of the sleeves.199 Vertical
arm vibration, or the extension of the fore-arm and hand worked up to a vibrato, is the
action producing . . . the so-called lightning octaves with the greatest velocity in the
fastest tempo. This [extension of the forearm and hand] is the key to the passive action
and absolute relaxation in wrist-vibrato, a key which we are the first to discover.200
Passages in which vibration is useful or advisable include those containing fast passages
in octaves, chords, and double notes. Among these, Breithaupt cites the Sonetto 104 del
Petrarca, m. 46, with Liszts performance direction vibrato. Based on this example,
Breithaupt thus takes vibrato as a Lisztian technique. Breithaupt recommends rotary
vibration for trills and tremolos; and where great power is needed, the rotation is carried
out by the upper arm: The arms are set firmly upon the keyboard on erected hands, the
elbows slightly turned outwards and the tremoli, shaken chords and double trills are
executed with all the muscular power of the shoulder, assisted by a rolling of the upper
and fore-arm swinging far out.201 Here Breithaupt specifically mentions the upper arm
for the first time, although one might speculate that, throughout his writing, Breithaupt
takes the whole arm as an inseparable unit.
A combination of forearm rotation and forearm extension (up and down
movement) is used to facilitate the passing over and under of the thumb in scales and
arpeggios.202 Combining rotation of the forearm and upper arm produces curved or
circular arm motions useful in broken or arpeggiated chord passages and in negotiating

199

Ibid., 32. Ena Bronstein-Barton uses exactly this expression, shake it out of your sleeves.
Ibid., 28. Jos Aldaz recalls learning this type of vibration from Arrau.
201
Ibid., 33.
202
Ibid., 36-47.
200

large skips. 203 Breithaupt does not explain what he means by upper arm-rolling, but

80

one may guess that it involves turning the whole arm from the shoulder socket, as this
movement is a component of the circular arm motions Breithaupt describes. Moreover,
one might argue that Breithaupts forearm rotation must include rotation in the upper arm
because his illustration of pronation 204 shows the hand turned so far that the fifth finger
side of the hand points straight upward. This is possible only by turning the upper arm
from the shoulder and, therefore, it is questionable whether Breithaupt truly meant
rotation to be performed by the forearm alone.
Breithaupt considers upper arm and forearm rotation necessary for legato because
rotation is a means of deploying weight to regulate the dynamic equality of the tones.
Real legato . . . depends upon the equality and the purling, smooth flow of
the series of tones to be played, and is obtained with the aid of . . . the
rotary action of upper and fore-arm, combined with the extension of
upper- and fore-arm.205
Staccato is also a matter of weight and of rebounding from the keys rather than an
active and isolated movement of the hand or fingers. In his discussion of staccato,
Breithaupt correctly described the passive role of the wrist:
In ordinary staccato, with the natural rebound of the whole arm, as one
mass, released, neither hand nor finger participates actively in the
movement: With this fact falls the old-style wrist-technic. . . . The hand
rebounds, trembles, shakes, because the whole arm is set vibrating. An
isolated motion of the hand in the wrist-joint does not take place. . . .
Staccato is not the result of wrist-action, but of the whole arm oscillating
in its three principal joints. . . . When we speak of finger-staccato . . . we
refer to the . . . free-descending fingers followed instantly by the weight of
the rebounding hand.206

203

Ibid., 47-48
Figure Xa, ibid., 31.
205
Ibid., 50.
206
Ibid., 52.
204

81
Having completed his discussion of arm-weight techniques, Breithaupt goes on to
describe the active role of the fingers in combination with arm weight: beginning with the
weighted arm resting on the third finger, each finger rises (straightens out) in turn and
descends on a key; simultaneously the entire weight of the arm shifts to the descended
finger. Breithaupt cautions against curved fingers, instead describing fingers that are
repeatedly curving with flexion and extension.
It is wrong to start training the fingers from a strictly curved position. A
free, natural style of movement or action can only be acquired from a free,
natural pose . . . of the hand, and from a natural curve of the naturally
straightened fingers. Long, flexible fingers having the natural swing in
extension and flexion may with impunity be curved in playing, but not
the other way about.207
Any active tension of the fingers in the shape of the cock of a gun or pistol
which still haunts the minds of master and pupil . . . is prohibited, as
infringing the law of friction, for, besides the loss of time, waste of energy
and the wrong and pernicious muscular exertion which results, the
realization of the most important feature of the whole movement is
rendered impossible, viz., the free, loose swing of the fingers and the
unimpeded descent of the weighted brachial mass. The tension must only
be a momentary one, like that of the bow-string.208
Breithaupt further stipulates that as soon as each finger sounds a tone, all weight except
the small amount necessary to keep the key depressed must be released at once. The
whole secret of finger-action consists in instantly relaxing hand and finger, i.e. releasing
them of any exaggerated pressure, tension, etc., the moment the tone is sounded.209
Breithaupt analyses the imperatives and styles of touch as follows: when greater
power is needed, raise the arm higher in the shoulder or descend with greater speed;
finger action with arm weight always produces non-legato; legato can be obtained only

207

Ibid., 55.
Ibid.
209
Ibid.
208

82
by keeping the fingers on the surface of the keys and allowing them to press down only
softly; staccato is produced by the sudden rebound of the playing mass; allowing the
fingers to tap the surface of the keys vigorously in playing produces con bravura style;
allowing the weight of the hand to fall lightly into the key on firmly set fingers, without
raising the fingers but letting them rest on the keys, weighting the keys as little as
possible, produces jeu perl; swinging the fingers, letting them descend and rebound with
the rapidity of drumsticks, produces leggiero, leggieremente, leggierissimo.
The correspondence between Breithaupts writing and the important elements in
Arraus technique is striking: the vertical use of arm weight utilizing the energy in both
downward and upward (high fall and low fall) directions, rotation, vibration, circular
motions, and the use of the whole arm. Arraus language concerning the relaxation of the
joints is identical with Breithaupts. Even some details such as his fingering in the Coda
to the Preambule movement of the Carnaval 210 and the circular movement in Chopins
Prelude Op. 23 no. 19 211 correspond with Breithaupts examples. Yet, Arrau expressed
reservations about Breithaupts work:
There was one fundamental problem in his teaching he only taught arm
weight. His pupils didnt develop their finger technique at all. Not
Carreo, of course she knew better. . . . She studied with Breithaupt
when she was, I think, about forty-five. Before that she had been playing
in the French way with jeu perl, and a stiff hand. She didnt have any
210

Example 94. Ibid., 71. At the concluding Presto (mm. 114-19). In a performance of the Carnaval filmed
in London on June 19, 1961, Arrau achieved the disconnection and force for the passage by playing every
note of the melody with his third finger, the same fingering as in Breithaupts example. Claudio Arrau,
Schumann Piano Concerto in A minor, Carnaval Op. 9, Beethoven Piano Sonata No. 32 in C minor, DVD
recording (EMI Classics, 2002).
211
Ena Bronstein-Barton tells the following story about this prelude: I was working on the Chopin
Preludes . . . [Arrau] had come for some concerts and I said I have questions, and he said do you have time
to come with me to the airport, I said sure, so I got the score and we got in the cab and we just went through
each one. . . . There was one example . . . the E-flat prelude . . . I said, I just cant reach this way, with my
thumb going out and down, and he said, but my dear it is so much easier to go the other way, and he
solved my problem right then and there. Ena Bronstein, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1,
2002.

83
power. Then she changed completely. I remember Carreo as a perfect
example of natural weight technique.212
It is true that the major portion of Breithaupts writing deals with arm-weight
techniques; however, Breithaupt contradicts his critics by explicitly stating that his work
should not be interpreted as a disavowal of finger technique:
The pupil must not, however, gather from the above that finger-exercises
are henceforth to be done away with. The contrast between finger-action
and weight-produced touch (weight-technic) owes its origin to a perfectly
wrong conception of matters. We have to choose between: Finger-action
without weight, which is altogether wrong, as it tires the fingers, and
Finger-action with weight, which is the only correct action [Breithaupts
emphasis].213
Thus, Breithaupt confronts the dualism of finger technique versus arm-weight
technique sketched out at the beginning of this chapter. While he does not credit this
dualism with legitimacy, Breithaupts defensive stance in opposition to it is evidence for
its existence and potency throughout the nineteenth century. If it were true that the
technical side of playing the piano is merely a question of working a set of levers
efficiently, the conflict between finger technique and arm-weight technique might
quickly be resolved, either empirically or logically as Breithaupt suggests. However, this
conflict remained unresolved throughout the twentieth century, because, as the foregoing
discussion shows, far from being mere mechanical efficiency, technique is inextricably
bound to ideological and musical issues.
Arrau grew up in a pianistic climate shaped by this dualism and found his place as
a proponent of arm techniques. He inherited his approach through Krause. His

212

Horowitz, Conversations, 109-10. Breithaupt gave credit to Carreo for the first suggestion of weight
and he dedicated The School of Weight-Touch to her. Gerig, Famous Pianists and Their Technique, 330.
213
Breithaupt, School of Weight-Touch, 56.

84
acquaintance with Breithaupts writings was a direct influence in which the language
used by Arrau to describe the elements of his technique can be seen. As the writings of
Caland and Clark show, the arm-weight technique that Arrau inherited carried other
concepts with it such as physical relaxation, the codification of technique as a set of
bodily movements, the principle of beauty and economy in movement, an analogy
between physical movement and musical form, and the unity of bodily movement with
musical expression. These concepts reach back to Czernys notion of the creative power
of performance, aided by technical advancement, to give musical works an intrinsic
value, which they could not otherwise lay claim to, and to Liszts belief that virtuosity,
the breath that determines the life or death of a work of art, was like composition
itself in requiring intensity of feeling, and finding the corresponding form that is easily
communicated to others. In his teaching, Arrau took on the cultural work of passing on
an approach that embodied and expanded these principles.

85
TWO
THE ARRAU TECHNIQUE
RELAXATION
Arrau expressed his technical ideas not in terms of the various musical or figural
elements to be mastered such as scales, arpeggios, octaves, and the like, but primarily in
terms of bodily sensations and movements. German Diez, who learned much of Arraus
technique from Arrau himself,1 recalls his surprise at encountering this approach for the
first time:
Although when I came to Arrau I had quite a good knowledge of many
things, he clarified a lot of things in a very simple way. Thats the first
thing he said: The technique is very simple! which I couldnt believe
when he said that. I said, My God, what does he mean? He said, You
just have to move correctly and you have only three types of movement in
your body, the circular or the rotation, gravity of dropping, and adding the
weight to the keys [Diez pantomime of this last motion is of pushing
weight up and out of the keys].2
This is not to say that the musical elements were of no concern, but that a player
experiences them internally as bodily sensations rather than externally as elements of
musical structure. Mastering a passage involved learning to use movements in accordance
with natural principles of body mechanics that were identifiable and controllable through
bodily sensation. Arrau made it clear that, just as technique and expression are
inseparable, bodily movement is inseparable from the spiritual experience of playing:
By really using the body in a natural way one moves toward achieving a
unity of the body with the psyche body and soul. There is actually no
division between the two. If you approach practice relaxedly and feel your
1

Most Arrau pupils report that Arraus assistant, Rafael de Silva, taught the elements of technique, leaving
Arrau free to discuss musical interpretation. However, Diez began lessons in 1945, before Arraus
performing career demanded extended periods of travel, so Diez began lessons with Arrau himself and
learned much technique from him rather than from de Silva. German Diez, interview in New York City,
October 9, 2005.
2
Ibid.

86
body as a whole and feel the unity of the instrument with your body this
works back on the psyche and awakens a tremendous number of creative
sources.3
Arraus choice of the words psyche and body and soul aimed not only at
volitional and intellectual faculties involved in perceiving, remembering, evaluating, and
deciding, but also at the emotional and unconscious elements directing inner experiences
such as feeling, imagination, inspiration. They are emblematic of the integrated whole
(psyche) formed by technique (body) and expression (soul). Thus, Arrau conceived of
artistic playing as a continuum of the piano, the body, and all psychic processes. Physical
relaxation released the powers of body and mind, enabling them to merge in musical
performance.
Using language similar to Breithaupts, Arrau explained relaxation as avoidance
of stiffening within the joints that impair the bodys ability to move freely. Freedom of
motion would allow the realization of the musical impulse, the transmission of musical
intentions through the body to the keyboard. The freer the body, the more the piano
would be experienced as an extension of the players body, converting musical impulses
into sound. By using the words emotional physical current to stand for the musical
impulse, Arrau likened it to the electrical impulses that stimulate the muscles into action
while stressing the importance of experiencing mind and body as an integrated whole:
The most important thing . . . seems to be the relaxation of all the joints,
all of the muscles, never to strike the keys. If you keep the body relaxed,
the body is in contact with the depths of your soul. If you are stiff in any
joint you impede the emotional physical current of what the music itself
dictates to you. You dont let it go through to the keyboard.4

Claudio Arrau and Hilde Somer, Two Artists Talk, The Piano Quarterly 83 (Fall, 1973): 13.
Interview with Arrau by Martin Bookspan, in Claudio Arrau, The 80th Birthday Recital (West Long
Beach, N. J.: Kultur, 1983, 1987).

87
Although speaking of relaxation of the joints is a misnomer, Arrau was
nevertheless attempting to give sharper definition to his concept of relaxation. Just as
joints are fixed by the simultaneous contraction of opposing muscles, relaxation of the
joints avoids the isometric working of opposing muscles. Thus, relaxation did not mean
the absence of physical effort, but coordinating the work of the muscles so that they did
not impede one another or the bodys ability to move freely. Arrau saw this type of
relaxation as the means to gain two objectives: 1) producing a full, rounded tone without
harshness, but also with great power, flexibility, and expressiveness; 2) locating an
emotional and physical response to music within the body and releasing it. In teaching
relaxation, Arrau focused his attention on free movement of arms and wrists, controlling
the release of muscles used to hold the arms up while feeling the sensation of gravity
pulling them down, and the connection between bodily responses to music and the sounds
that conveyed those responses. Ena Bronstein described working with Arrau to find the
right tone and to cultivate this bodily response to music, getting it to flow through the
arms and fingers to the piano:
The tone quality . . . comes from inside, it doesnt even come from the
arms, it doesnt come from dropping in the arms; it comes from your
breathing, through the arms . . . . So it gives an ease and freedom. And
thats where the sound comes from, it comes from inside. And its never
here [indicates the forearm]; it doesnt come from the wrist, it doesnt
come from the elbow, it doesnt come from the shoulder. The machine is
here in the upper arm. But its not this [meaning the sound does not
originate in the upper arm; she lifts both arms]. Im now lifting my arms,
you know, disembodied. Im not connected with my body. You see the
difference? [She lifts her arms again while breathing in]. Thats where the
sound comes from. Thats what we worked on.5

Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.

88
The goal of relaxation, therefore, was not only ease of playing, making the arms, hands,
and fingers respond efficiently and easily, but accessing and releasing the inner source of
musical feeling through a physical sensation, or, in Arraus words, an emotional
physical current. Unrelieved tension and contraction in the muscles causes not only
fatigue but loss of physical sensation, robbing the player of information necessary for
control and expressiveness. Relaxation facilitates both the free flow of expressive
impulses from the body to the keyboard and reactive impulses from the keyboard back to
the body. These reactive impulses give the player the necessary feedback to identify
actions and their resulting physical sensations. By internalizing associations between
qualities of sound and particular physical motions and sensations, a player develops the
ability to recreate the desired sounds at will by invoking their physical motions and
sensations. The player who cannot feel these bodily sensations because of tension cannot
learn, internalize, or reproduce them and, therefore, cannot control and shape the sound.
Blockage in bodily sensation impairs muscle memory, note accuracy, and control of tone
color. The inner musical response is blocked both by lack of a playing mechanism
properly trained to transmit it and by mental preoccupation with pain and paralysis. By
contrast, proper relaxation allows bodily sensations to be properly felt, learned, and
controlled so that they can become part of musical expression in performance.
Arrau sought to teach a proper understanding of relaxation and how to achieve
and maintain it during performance, an activity demanding physical strength, endurance,
and emotional tension. This meant prompting students with actions and words to feel the
exertion of the right muscles in a given passage and the relaxation of the muscles
immediately when their task was complete, thus keeping opposing sets of muscles from

89
working against each other. Ena Bronstein-Barton describes this as a mixture of tension
and relaxation:
Relaxation, you mustnt be stiff here [forearm], you mustnt be tense. But
the interesting thing is the mixture of tension and relaxation, which you
must combine all the time. You cant be one hundred percent relaxed and
do something -- not only piano playing. So the thing is, to know how to
combine this always. And the problem with music is youre expressing
tension. But that is musical tension, because when you are playing
something that is full of tension, to be relaxed is difficult.6
Relaxation, then, took on an aspect of positive action grounded in knowledge
rather than an attempt to achieve limpness or inaction. This meant knowing where action
had to be focused, understanding how all parts of the playing apparatus supported this
action, and being able to stop the action when it was no longer needed. Ena BronsteinBarton describes the sensation of this kind of relaxation:
Relaxation is hard to use because what does it mean? It doesnt mean you
can go limp. I dont find myself using the word relaxation very much
because I dont find it very helpful. . . . Its better to think about
something to do than something not to do. . . . Relaxation is not a matter of
going limp and going to sleep. Also, you want to be clear. Arraus
playing is very clean, its very clear. What it is not, its not harsh, its not
tense. It has life in it. So . . . instead of saying relaxed, sometimes I
say: There has to be nothing in your arms, no bones, no muscles, nothing.
Its empty like a sack. Youre moving from here [she points to the
shoulder or deltoid muscle] and directing it to the fingertip. But all of this
[she points to the whole length of the arm] is very flexible. And
sometimes you want a little focus to something, . . . not always relaxed -whatever the music calls for. But physically we do not want to have
tension in the joints and hold onto things. . . . Arrau used the word
relaxation.7
This statement illustrates an approach to relaxation through motion. Tension
occurs when opposing muscles fix a joint; therefore, purposely moving the limb below
that joint serves to free the opposing muscles, making them work one at a time in a

6
7

Ibid.
Ibid.

90
coordinated manner. Therefore, thinking about relaxation in terms of something to do -i.e., freely moving in a particular joint -- will promote relaxation that in turn enables
freedom of movement without devolving into limpness. Combining the use of an image,
the empty arm,8 with more specific instructions to direct movement from the shoulder into
the fingertip, activates muscles in the shoulders while creating a sense of looseness in the
arm. From this, Bronstein-Barton proceeds to the connection between the physical and the
spiritual:
Because the body is being used in such a relaxed manner, things can flow,
they dont get stuck. So part of his [Arraus] technique is not just to make
things easy, or to make things bigger or smaller, or even to make a nicer
sound here or there, it is to permit the flow of the music. Because music is
a spiritual experience, its not a mechanical experience, so keeping the
body relaxed and receptive or empty, you are able to realize this and to
physically communicate with the instrument and have it come out. Thats
partly the philosophy of the technique. Its not just the mechanics, not just
the fingering, not just to make it happen, but its to make it so your art,
your artistic experience can come out.9
The practical use of this image of the empty arm is to replace the idea of effort
with that of ease of motion. Imagining the body as an empty passageway through which
music can flow turns the focus away from muscular exercise; it opens a path to listening,
experimentation, and sensation. Although muscular exercise may build more strength, in
performance it invites the risk of muscular spasm and loss of sensation. Simply
possessing more strength does not automatically result in more endurance and skill in
playing. A physically stronger player can maintain tension longer and more powerfully,
compounding the fatigue, making playing ultimately more difficult, causing the musical

Bronstein-Barton took the image of the empty limb directly from Arrau and de Silva. She stated, Ive
been studying Tai Chi for several years, which Rafael did too; thats where I first heard about it. And
Arrau did for a while. I dont know if he went on with it, but they used the example of the empty limb.
Ibid.
9
Ibid.

91
flow to get stuck. A player must learn to deploy strength and balance exertion with
proper relaxation, or, as Bronstein-Barton puts it, to play with a mixture of tension and
relaxation.
Coincidentally, the imagery of an empty arm also resonates with a principle
articulated by Arrau of absolute fidelity to the musical score, by which the performer
assumes the role of serving the music and the intentions of a composer. To empty the
body in order to attain a spiritual experience of music is symbolic of this role. The empty
body lacks autonomous potential, feeling, and intention, until it is filled with music and
with the motions of musical gesture. With such imagery to shape a players experience,
an otherwise neutral process of physical training becomes permeated with a musical
ethic.
Thus, Arraus articulation of a concept of relaxation as a preparation for building
technique prepared the way for not only a triumphant victory over the mechanic but the
physical enactment of a spiritual experience of music.
THE ELEMENTS OF TECHNIQUE
When asked in an interview about his teaching,10 Arrau identified the elements of
his technique as: 1) use of arm and shoulder weight; 2) rotation; 3) finger action 4)
various combinations of the first three elements; 5) pushing up from the wrist for chords
and accented notes;11 5) vibration with a high wrist. Arrau did not attribute these
technical ideas to his teacher, Martin Krause, but to his natural endowment as a child
prodigy. It was after Krauses death that he undertook the transformation of his
10

Dean Elder, Pianists at Play (Evanston, Ill.: The Instrumentalist, 1982), 38.
Regarding this point German Diez recalls: He [Arrau] always said to go up to add the weight to the
fourth and fifth finger because they are shorter - to add to the weight by raising the wrist, not by raising the
wrist [actively], but the wrist has to go up to reach there. Otherwise it reaches down [Diez is describing

11

92
technique from instinctual behavior into a body of knowledge that he could apply
consciously, and this process represented part of his transition from child prodigy to
mature musician.12 Weight technique, as a corollary to the concept of relaxation, was not
original with or exclusive to Arrau; it was part of the legacy of nineteenth-century piano
playing that he inherited. While Arrau believed that his use of weight technique sprang
from his natural affinity for piano playing, he nevertheless was aware of the currency of
this idea in the late nineteenth century, and he cited Carreo and Rudolf Breithaupt
among his early influences that corroborated this way of playing. However, Arrau did
not conceive of arm weight and finger technique as opposites but as complementary
features of coordinated movement.
USE OF THE FINGERS
Discussing the use of the fingers separately from the use of the arm is misleading
because in Arraus technique the work of fingers is bound up inextricably with the
support and transference of arm weight. The fingers support the weight of the arm upon
reaching the key bed, and they act as extensions of the arm, connecting the weight of the
arm to the keyboard. Arrau referred to this as the stand in the keys13 and he helped
students develop it through practicing drops from high in the air onto the first joint,
especially onto the black keys.
Arrau also recommended practicing a high finger action in a manner reminiscent
of the older style of playing advocated in the German conservatories of the late

passive wrist movement; that is, when the arm pushes forward, the wrist has to give, and in doing so, it
must move either up or down]. German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.
12
See ch. 1, p. 72.
13
Mary Weaver, Interview with Claudio Arrau, Piano Quarterly 42 (Winter, 1962-63):22.

93

nineteenth century; however, he did not exclude participation of the arm as the older
pedagogues did:
Having strong fingers is the sine qua non; if you dont have strong fingers,
you cant have the use of the whole arm. To develop finger action, lift the
fingers as high as you he can, then strike immediately down on the key,
taking the arm along and relaxing afterwards. I start students very slowly,
of course.14
Arrau advised this practice to develop finger action, but not as a performance
technique. German Diez remembers Arraus teaching of this point and he explains it thus:
Arrau recommended sometimes to go very high with the finger and thats
one thing he explained to get the strength of the finger, but in my opinion,
thats the way he thought about it, but thats not really the truth. The truth
is, you put more arm into it, to raise the finger and sink it down with the
whole arm [here, Diez demonstrated what Arrau meant by taking the arm
along and relaxing afterwards; he raised his slightly bent finger high from
the knuckle, and as he lowered it downward again, his arm followed
behind it in a gesture of pushing forward with the wrist rising upward].
You learn to incorporate the shoulder all the way to the finger.15
Thus, according to Diez, what Arrau meant when he spoke of lifting the fingers
high was a movement of the finger from the knuckle joint that was part of a coordinated
movement of the upper arm, forearm, wrist, hand, and finger. However, Diez also recalls
that in his first lessons with Arrau, Arrau instructed, Dont move the fingers.16 This
reflected a concern for attending first to the behavior of the arm as well as a belief that

14

Elder, Pianists at Play, 38.


German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.
16
German Diez, interview in New York City, July 15, 2002.
15

94
the fingers should remain close to the keys or in contact with them.17 German Diez
explains the objection to high finger action:
When all of the [parts] of the body are at rest, they are in the middle of the
[range of] movement. Any movement away from that center [that is, from
that center away from the body] begins to lose strength. Any movement
coming from the center [toward the body] is stronger. So then its obvious:
if you lift the finger, youre making it weaker. And this induces all sorts of
tension because you are using a muscle in a condition that it doesnt want
to do it. There are some fallacies in the technique in that sense: you
develop the strength of the fingers by lifting the fingers! Nonsense! The
fingers are very strong! The way you develop the strength of the fingers is
by squeezing, because its from that point in that it gets stronger, not from
that point out. All that [lifting the fingers] does is create tension.18
Arraus approach contrasts with that of Kullak, Lebert and Stark, and their followers who
recommended developing finger strength through high finger motion without any
participation of the arm whatsoever. Arrau described the procedure he followed with
pupils:
I never let pupils use the fingers alone. I always ask them to use the whole
arm with the fingers. I start first with the big arm movements, just lifting
the whole weight of the arms and dropping the arms onto the keys. Raise
the arm high, let the entire weight of the arm fall on a very firm finger, on
a black key, for example. Most pupils cannot do it. Free falling of the
entire weight of the arm should be the most natural thing. But pupils keep
the upper arm and shoulder tight. The shoulder should be entirely relaxed
and used if you want a greater forte, use the weight of your shoulders as
well as the weight of your arm.19

17

Ortmanns remarks in this regard are of interest: Most movements in piano technique . . . are reciprocal
motions, movements in opposite directions. One direction produces tone, the other serves merely as the
spatial preparation of the next tone-production. Finger lift, for example, is in itself useless for toneproduction; its use lies in the preparation which it gives to the next finger-descent, the actual toneproducing stroke. Arm lift is useful only because it enables us to follow it with an appropriate arm-descent.
Finger-lift and arm-lift, therefore, may be considered the negative movements, finger-descent and armdescent, the positive movements. Otto Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique
(London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1929; New York: E. P. Dutton, 1962; repr. New York: Da Capo, 1981),
95-96. It seems that in terms of economy of motion, the challenge lies in achieving the maximum toneproducing benefit from the positive movements while minimizing the negative movements.
18
German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.
19
Elder, Pianists at Play, 38.

95
A very firm finger is not a stiff finger. The fingers can be made firm by a pulling
motion timed to catch the weight of the arm in the key bed with the finger in a position of
alignment. The lower joints of the finger draw inward slightly, pulling the finger inward
toward the palm. This drawing-in motion of the fingers is sometimes barely visible
because it is stopped by contact with the key bed. German Diez describes this behavior of
the fingers, becoming firm when approaching the key bed, as instinctive in the same way
that the legs instinctively prepare to support the weight of the body when walking:
It does it automatically. The children go like this: they get a very firm
finger the minute the arm is resting on the finger. The intuition works.
That I learned from a psychiatrist. This is intuition! Intuition takes over
like I said. You dont think about it when you are walking. The minute
you put the weight on your foot, your leg gets firm. If your knee buckles,
youll fall and you know that. But youre not thinking about it. Youre
thinking about comfort. When you think about comfort, the body takes
over. When you do the thing comfortably, it works. The animals . . . do
everything comfortably. They have good coordination because they use
intuition.20
Stiffness in the fingers is avoided by withdrawing most of the weight as soon as
the sound is produced and suspending it above the keys, supported by the muscles of the
upper arm. There is also a mechanical impetus for this since impact with the key bed
causes an instant upward reaction, a rebound of weight away from the keys, which must
be taken as a signal to relax the flexor muscles that pull the fingers. After the tone has
been produced, the fingers should remain resting in the key bed with only the light arm
weight necessary to keep the keys from rising back up again. As Diez explains,
The finger, when it works, the minute you hit the sound, it should stop.
And also the fact that youre at the bottom of the key [tells you that] you
should . . . stop. And the arm starts to go up because there is no
counteraction to it. The impact of playing throws the arm up, but since you
are not tense at all, the minute it goes up, it will drop back again. So then,
it drops back . . . at that point the . . . [next] finger picks it up, which we do
20

German Diez, interview in New York City, July 20, 2003.

96
when we are walking . . . once you are resting on the floor, you dont keep
pressing the floor. You cant! Nature doesnt allow it. On the piano, its
not allowed, but you can do it. If you respond to nature you dont do it.21
For staccato, the procedure is identical, but no weight remains resting in the key bed after
impact, and the fingers are immediately withdrawn from the keys, not by lifting them
upward, but by continuing the drawing-in motion until the finger loses contact with the
key surface. In staccato, the small movement of the finger comes full circle.
Finger strength and firmness, therefore, come not from stiffening the fingers, or
immobilizing them by contracting both the pulling-down (flexors) and picking-up
muscles (extensors), but from the drawing-in motion of the fingers (as Diez puts it, from
the center in as in squeezing) timed to catch the arm weight in the bottom of the key bed
in such a way that the hand and fingers have reached their position of optimal balance
and support. In this position, the fingers should feel supported both by the alignment of
the bones of the fingers and hands, and by the slight elevation in the wrist that aligns the
weight of the arm behind the fingers. The arm weight, which provides a basis for this
movement, is withdrawn the instant a tone is sounded, leaving only enough weight
resting on the fingers to keep the key depressed.22

21

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.


English piano pedagogue and writer Tobias Matthay (see Appendix Five) described the coordinated
action of the fingers and arm weight: In the first case (when the arm is gently and easily supported by its
proper muscles) its inertia becomes available as the necessary basis for the Finger and Hand to act against;
a basis sufficient for certain light touches, but insufficient where any large volume of tone is required. In
the second case (when the arm is left momentarily un-supported, or relaxed during the crisis of Keydescent) its whole weight may become available behind the finger and hand, --thus rendering possible large
volumes of tone of a perfectly beautiful and un-forced character. The Act of Touch in All Its Diversity
(London: Longmans, Green and Co., 1903), 162. Matthay also says, Touch . . . consists of a Resting on
the key-board which is continued parallel with each musical phrase, and an added-impetus which is
directed to, but which ceases with the consummation of each and every key depression and which is
therefore discontinuous. Touch is found to consist of these two simultaneous operations, the one
continuous with the duration of each phrase, and the other intermittent, discontinuous, and lasting therefore
never longer than in the most abrupt staccatissimo;--the latter being an act accurately aimed to cease the
moment our ear perceives the transition from Silence to Sound. The Act of Touch, 114-15.

22

97
Use of the fingers in conjunction with arm weight in the manner prescribed by
Arrau is crucial in achieving evenness and independence of the fingers. Each finger
supported by the arm is, as Heinrich Neuhaus pointed out,23 capable of playing a single
note at any desired dynamic level; and therefore, all of the fingers are able to produce
tones of equal strength. Simultaneously, the non-playing fingers can hang loosely, not
engaging in spasmodic contractions in an attempt to stabilize the hand or to provide a
fulcrum of leverage for the playing finger. The weight of the arm compensates for the
different strengths and sizes of the fingers, making it possible to achieve either evenness
of tone or any increase or decrease of tone that the music demands.
Ironically, just as Arrau cited Rudolf Breithaupt as a champion of arm-weight
technique who neglected finger technique, some of Arraus students criticized Arrau on
the same grounds, despite Arraus statements about finger strength and the conspicuous
strength of Arraus own finger technique.
I think his [de Silvas] version of Arrau's technique was, as above, too
intent on relaxation to the point of weakness. . . . Actually, Arrau may
have had a blind spot. When I was in my crisis, I went and played the
Davidsbndler for him and I was playing very much like this [with
collapsed knuckles]. He said something like, Its wonderful how youve
made the technique your own. And I said, But Im really not
comfortable, I get pains here [forearms]. And he didnt have anything to
say. 24
The motions were, I dont know -- a certain disintegration was taking
place and I didnt know how to deal with it. Rafael gave me a fantastic
spurt technically. I worked with him for six months; he was ferocious. But

23

Once upon a time it was thought, erroneously, that because one needs to be able to play evenly, the
fingers, too, should be even. How this was to be achieved since Nature has made all five fingers different,
remains a mystery. But if we put the question this way: any finger must be able to, and can, produce a tone
of any given strength, everything becomes perfectly clear, since it follows from this definition that all the
fingers will be able to produce tone of equal strength. Heinrich Neuhaus, The Art of Piano Playing, trans.
K. A. Leibovitch (London: Barrie and Jenkins, 1973), 95.
24
Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 10, 2003.

98
he really transformed my playing. When I came back I worked on more
difficult pieces. Then it sort of started falling apart.25
Other students interpreted the emphasis on arm movements and weight technique as a
reaction to the exclusive concentration on finger technique in their early training.
Nevertheless, they noticed a failure to address finger technique with a corresponding
adverse effect on playing.
For instance, Ena and myself, we had the teaching of my mother, who was
a harpsichordist, and we had a certain finger technique that was quite
solid. And Ena always had this technical facility that was quite
extraordinary since she was a child. . . . Bach! I just think I played
everything before coming to the States, and Mozart, too, because being a
small child I couldnt play too many Romantics because of [my small]
hand. . . . We had good fingers. Then when they [Arrau, de Silva] started
talking about putting all the weight, it worked. But when somebody didnt
have that and you started talking about gestures and weight and flexibility
and so on, sometimes . . . it becomes dirty. . . . And that is the only thing I
thought . . . was too direct from the first lesson. Maybe it [just] was with
me, that he thought, Well I can start like that. Because I didnt assist
[attend] the first lessons of other people. But I heard many that played a
little like that. . . . and if you think that Arrau had fantastic strength in the
fingers. If you look at his videos, its extraordinary! His scales!26
Some students believed they needed another point of view in order to understand and
rectify the problems they began to experience.
It was German who right away had something to say. He said, Your
fingers are getting too weak and too soft, so the balance is going too far
that way. . . . It was German Diez (to whom I was sent by soprano Uta
Graf, a close friend of the Arraus) who diagnosed my problems correctly
and cured them, and quickly, too! I was overdoing some of the technical
things that de Silva had taught, such as breaking the knuckles, never
moving the fingers, overdoing the arm motions. The one failing in the
Arrau technique, which German saw and made correction for, was a
neglect of the fingers. Most people came to de Silva and Arrau with tight,
strong fingers, and needed to relax them. But having relaxed them, neither
de Silva nor Arrau talked about how to keep them strong, and the
necessity of keeping them strong to support the arm weight and all the arm
motion. Neither of them taught the pull-up-onto-the-keys technique that is
25
26

Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003.


Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.

99
German's basic teaching. Arrau played with strong fingers, but he never
taught it, at least to me. De Silva said many times, "Less fingers." At my
last lesson with him, after working with German, de Silva thought my
fingers were too straight.27
. . . [Margaret] Scofield had a very good sound. She studied from
Solomon. She only used up-and-down rotary motions, she didnt use
lateral, so I dropped the lateral motions. Rotary is this circular wrist
movement; lateral is the side-to-side motion, which is such a big part of
the Arrau technique. The first thing he commented on when I played to
him the second time was that I wasnt doing the lateral motion. But then
when I came back, I was able to integrate it. I went back with Rafael.28
While not all of Arraus students felt that their technique was out of balance and sought
other instruction to restore it, it appears that some were at least aware of a danger of
imbalance between finger and arm activity and learned to be attentive in their own
teaching. As Edith Fischer expressed it:
You must really take care of the beginning, even with the weight, to say
Dont try to play too loud immediately, because when your fingers are
not used to support[ing] the weight, it becomes dirty. So I say, try little by
little, till the fingers are strong enough to really take all your weight on
them. . . . The fingers must be ready to be able to carry, to support all the
weight. And that is something that one must balance.29
POSITION OF THE HAND
Hand position is often a subject of concern, particularly in the beginning of study.
Virtually every method book contains some instruction regarding it.30 On the subject of
hand position Arrau said, I do not believe in the high arched hand or any position that is
fixed so that any joints, except the nail joints, are stiffened.31 When questioned about
Arraus teaching of hand position, German Diez exclaimed, Hand position! That is one

27

Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 10, 2003.


Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003.
29
Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.
30
See introductory volumes to method books by Faber and Faber; Palmer, Manus and Lethco; Bastien.
31
Mary Weaver, Interview With Claudio Arrau, 22.
28

100
of the evils! Arrau never mentioned hand position.32 In Diezs view, rigidly maintaining
any one position restricts free motion and causes tension in the hand and fingers before
any playing begins. He explains:
As far as positions at the piano, its not positions, the music is changing
constantly, so its not a problem of positions but of coping with the
situation you have to deal with. And at that time, you call it a position, but
its not going to stay very long. Its going to change immediately to
something else. So that s the kind of flexibility that, Arrau said many
times, you have to be so relaxed the music flows through your body. So
any tension you have in the joint is really an obstruction to the flow. You
put a stopper to the flow.33
Therefore, hand position can be said only to be fluid and changeable, depending
upon the demands of the music and the activities of the fingers at any given moment.
This being said, however, it is nearly impossible to view Arraus videotaped
performances without noticing the strategic positioning of his hands. His hands most
often appear arched and supported at the knuckles along the palm of the hand, with
slightly curved elongated fingers, and the wrist level with or slightly higher than the
knuckles. In earlier performances the movements of his fingers are more pronounced, but
in later ones, they are scarcely visible and his hands move with great economy.34
Arraus hand appears supported by its own skeletal structure. His fingers are
elongated with the joints only slightly bent or rounded to form a shallow arc from the
fingertips on the keys to the point where the fingers connect to the palm of his hand. The
knuckles along the palm of his hand form the main fulcrum of the hand and are bent at
about forty-five degrees. The knuckles are elevated higher than the other finger joints.
32

German Diez, interview in New York City, April 9, 2005.


German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.
34
See Claudio Arrau, Schumann Piano Concerto in A Minor, Carnaval Opus 9; Beethoven Piano Sonata
No. 32 in C Minor (EMI Classics, 2002). The distinction being made is between these performances,
which were originally recorded in 1963, 1961, and 1970, respectively, and Arraus video-recorded
33

101
His fingers appear partially supported by their bones, thus demanding less muscular
exertion. His wrist is slightly higher than the knuckles, so that the back of his hand slants
slightly downward toward the keys.35 Edith Fischer recalls that Arrau taught this way of
using the fingers in order to maximize their strength:
Edith Fischer: And Arrau always said if you want a very loud scale, you

must have the impression that you can look under the fingers, that your
fingers are standing [straight] on the keyboard. That is a very clear idea of
his. But, therefore, you need very strong fingers to hold all this [weight]
and of course very light.
Q: Does the straightness of the fingers align the bones to support the
fingers?
Fischer: I hope so!
Q: And that alignment accounts for some of their strength?
36
Fischer: Yes.
German Diez also points out, Why is it [the position of the fingers] straight?
Because all the tendons are in a neutral position! When they are like that, bent, they are
not neutral any more. This [straightened, or only slightly bent shape, as when the hand is
hanging loosely at ones side] is a neutral position so you transfer [weight] without
interference.37
The shape of the hand changes when it is stretched or extended. The knuckles
sink, making the position of the hand and fingers flatter; at fullest possible extension, the
knuckles appear depressed below the level of the rest of the hand and the fingers. As the
knuckles sink, the wrist rises to replace the knuckles as the main fulcrum.
performances of the 1980s. The amount of movement takes nothing away from Arraus precise placement
of his hands.
35
Ortmann notes the advantage to the fingers of a similar position. Though he specifies a depressed wrist
here, he discusses the advantage of a high wrist elsewhere. the position recommended by modern piano
pedagogy . . . the wrist is slightly depressed, the back of the hand ascends toward the hand knuckle, and
each finger joint is extended slightly . . . . All joints now move through an approximate mid-range, thereby
permitting maximum accuracy with minimum fatigue. The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique,
32-33.
36
Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.
37
German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.

102
In the notes accompanying a DVD recording of Arraus performances, Jeremy
Siepmann wrote, Arraus very unusual hand position high wrists, low knuckles is
very like Liszts, as seen in paintings.38 While Arrau scarcely uses this position, if at all,
in this recording, Loretta Goldberg recalls that Arrau at times instructed pupils to sink the
knuckles lower than the wrist, even if the extension of the hand did not require it, in order
to create a softer, less percussive sound especially in chord playing. Goldberg
underscores the point by showing a portrait of Liszt at the piano with his hands in this
position. 39 German Diez also mentions this position in connection with passages of
double thirds and sixths: When you need something more spongy, then you let this
[the knuckles] be more flexible, which he [Arrau] does many times, like the sixths (he
demonstrates a passage from Chopins Etude, Op. 25, No. 8). So its like a vibration and
flexible. You release the tension in the hand knuckle. . . . [making it more] loose. [The]
wrist is higher. [You are playing] more into the keys.40
As Bennett Lerner noted above, however, over-using this position posed a danger
of weakening the fingers: I was overdoing some of the technical things that de Silva had
taught, such as breaking the knuckles; and Ortmann points out that it reduces the
mobility of the fingers by placing them in a fully raised position.41

38

Claudio Arrau, Schumann Piano Concerto in A Minor, Carnaval Opus 9; Beethoven Piano Sonata No.
32 in C Minor (EMI Classics, 2002).
39
Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003.
40
German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.
41
Ortmann demonstrates that movement around a joint cannot occur with equal ease throughout its range.
Movement is smoothest and easiest near the middle of the range. Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics

103
DROPPING THE WEIGHT, PUSHING THE WEIGHT
In teaching pupils to use arm weight, Arrau found that most pupils could not do it
because of tension in their upper arms and shoulders.42 Therefore, relaxing this tension
was a precondition for letting the arm fall freely in response to gravity. Arrau cited Liszt
and Beethoven as the source of weight-playing, and he gave a general description of the
means by which students were taught to achieve it:
It is essential to be able to lift the whole upper part of the body, rib cage
and shoulders, with free floating arms and utmost suppleness and drop this
weight into the keys, supported by firm first joints [the nail joints]. . . . I
feel certain that Liszt started this way of playing and it is probable that
Beethoven also played this way. I myself have seen wonderful things
happen to pianists when they acquire such body and shoulder freedom.
Some, who seemed timid and cold in their playing, became quite
otherwise musicians with power and freedom of expression. For adults,
certainly, I have found it most helpful to practice drops43 from high in the
air onto the first joint, especially onto the black keys. This develops what
I call the stand in the keys.44
According to German Diez, the first thing a student must learn is to relax
correctly and drop the arm weight into the keys. Diezs language in describing this
resonates with Arraus reference (above) to drops and the stand in the keys.
German Diez: First is to learn to use gravity, which is the hardest thing for
them to grasp. The tenser they are the less they do it and it takes a long
time before they can really realize how to use the weight.
Q. How do you begin and what do you do?
German Diez: Just drop and [try] to get the coordination of the arm to be
completely relaxed until they really trust it and they do what is natural. To
balance the hand with the two fingers [2 and 4; Diez demonstrates with
elongated fingers and a high wrist] so the gravity of the hand is in the
middle. By the way, the middle of the arm is the fourth finger, not the
of Piano Technique, 31. Depressing the knuckles has the effect of raising the fingers, placing the fingers in
the extreme range of their motion. The fingers cannot be lifted well in this position.
42
Elder, Pianists at Play, 38. Heinrich Neuhaus, teaching at the Moscow Conservatory, also found students
too frightened and cramped to let their arms fall freely. Neuhaus, The Art of Piano Playing, 100.
43
Pupils of German Diez report that Diez used a similar technique of practicing drops on thirds played by
fingers 2 and 4 in order to realize a release of arm weight supported by Arrau called the stand in the keys.
(See ch. 5, pp. 181-82).
44
Mary Weaver, Interview with Claudio Arrau, 22.

104
third like we like to think. The fourth finger is the one! The balance of the
arm is on the fourth finger. But then, you do 2 and 4 with the wrist high.
They begin to realize that the weight goes to the fingers. [Diez goes on to
demonstrate how, when the wrist goes down, the arm weight falls into the
wrist and cannot rest in the keys]. Thats why short people with short arms
have seventy percent of the game in their body [with shorter arms, there is
less tendency to bend downward at the wrist]. Long arms have more
problems. And this takes a long time for somebody.
Q: Do you practice this always at the piano, or can you use something
else, like a table?
Diez: You can do it anywhere. Its much easier to do on a table or on your
knees because you dont have a piano in there. The minute you have a
piano, it changes the whole thing. The minute they [students] are near
keys, they become a different person; they begin to show all the tensions,
and other things, because its like a monster for them all of a sudden. They
are scared of it. It depends on the level of confusion that they have, the
habit that they have. Thats the first thing, to learn to relax this [the
shoulder] because from there on, everything else works. Because the
problem is, the arm should be relaxed. The shoulder is the whole arm! The
shoulder is the one that controls the arm. The tension begins here, which
by the way already begins in the neck. Many times you have to tell them
[students to] drop the shoulders. They are holding the weight of the arm.
They have to learn to release the shoulder and that takes a long time.45
Diezs reference to fear and intimidation in response to the keyboard is striking.
Some students report that freeing the body to exploit the force of gravity not only
transformed the quality of their sound and enhanced their technique, but gave them
greater personal confidence and self-assertiveness. Bennett Lerner recalled that this
feeling of power and freedom of expression extended beyond the musical into his
personal life:
I must say that de Silva really saved my life, both pianistically and
personally. I was extremely tight and extremely shy as a teenager, both in
personality and at the piano, and he cured both of those conditions. My
playing grew and grew, as did my sound and my confidence.46

45
46

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.


Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 10, 2003.

105
Arrau also alluded to this when he said, I myself have seen wonderful things happen to
pianists when they acquire such body and shoulder freedom. Some, who seemed timid
and cold in their playing, became quite otherwise musicians with power and freedom of
expression (see above, p. 103).
Arraus manner of dropping arm weight is corroborated by the detailed
mechanical description of freeing the weight of the arm given by Tobias Matthay.
Matthays assertion that the use of arm weight involves both upper arm and forearm is
identical with the ideas set forth by Arrau and others who maintain that all parts of the
playing mechanism should function, not in isolation, but as a unit.
To set Arm-weight free: we must relax (or cease acting with) the muscles
that serve to move, or retain, or support the arm upwards. . . . It is
important to notice, that the release required, is not that of the Fore-arm
alonea mistake often madebut that it is the whole arm (from the
shoulder) that must be released. And as the muscles involved are partly
situated on both sides of the shoulder and chest, it follows that the
sensation of their exertion (and cessation of such exertion therefore) is not
experienced in the arm itself, but is on the contrary felt to proceed from
muscles situated upon the bodyacross the shoulders. Lapse in armsupport is hence felt as Shoulder-release.47
Matthay goes on to explain that dynamic control is a result of control of lapsing in
arm-support. The more that supporting upwards muscles are relaxed, the more arm
weight will be exerted onto the keys, and the louder the tone. The more that the arm is
supported by the shoulder muscles, the less the arm weight exerted onto the keys, and the
softer the tone. Thus, while the drop of arm weight is said to be free, it is also controlled
in the amount released.
Control and freedom in the dropping of arm weight have been matters of debate.48
However, interpreting freedom in the use of weight as lack of control is an exaggeration,
47

Matthay, The Act of Touch, 178.

106
and perhaps also a confusion of language and techniques used in teaching with those used
in playing. Uncontrolled dropping of arm weight in playing would result in a dynamic
level both loud and constant.49 In Ortmanns language, the fall of the arm must be
controlled with a certain amount of inhibition and a coordinated motion of the fingers
that catches the arm at the moment of reaching the key bed, causing a reaction in the
opposite direction, an upward rebound. Freedom and control, like relaxation and tension,
are seen as conflicting terms and, indeed, pianists tend to be divided over these issues. It
seems one must release the muscles to allow the arm to drop freely while, at the same
time, one must control or inhibit this release and arm dropping in order to achieve
dynamic control. But, somehow, the control must not simply revert to the kind of tension
that, in Arraus view, prevented the natural use of weight. With Matthays description of
stiffness as resulting from simultaneous contraction of opposing muscles50 to further
explain what Arrau described as stiffness in the joints, a way of reconciling freedom and
control emerges:
If opposite sets of muscles are equally exerted . . . the two balance, and
there will be no movement . . . and also no effect upon any outside object,
such as the key. The only effect being, that the limb (or portion of it
affected) becomes set or rigid for the time. . . . there can be no real
STIFFNESS either of Finger, Wrist or Arm, except from conflicting
action of the muscles themselves. All stiffness vanishes under normal
circumstances, when we succeed in employing the required muscles only,
and no others. Hence the excellence of the doctrine of EASE. Ease
absolute freedom from all restraint in the muscular actions employed at
the Pianoforte . . . . Hence also, if we would learn to play with freedom
and ease, the first step muscularly, is, to learn to separate or isolate all
muscular activities from their opposite ones.51

48

See discussion in Seymour Bernstein, With Your Own Two Hands (New York: Schirmer, 1981), 129-130.
Ortmann points out that a completely relaxed fall of the arm will not bring the hand to rest on the
keyboard. However, Ortmanns experiment does not account for the role played by the fingers in catching
the weight of the arm in the key bed. Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique, 150.
50
Matthay, The Act of Touch, 21
51
Ibid., 153-54.
49

107
Thus, by observing and regulating the activity of the lifting muscles in the
shoulder and upper body, the weight of the arm can be held back or released without
stiffness. Arm weight is exerted onto the keys by relaxing the muscles that raise the arm.
There should be no contraction of or interference from the muscles that lower the arm.
Dynamic control depends upon the amount of relaxation of these raising muscles. As
Matthay puts it, Touch, in a word, resolves itself ultimately into an act of lowering more
or less weight upon the key during descent.52
OTHER USES OF ARM WEIGHT
Letting the weight of the arm fall into the keyboard is only one use of arm weight.
In discussing the playing of chords, Arrau described different ways of controlling arm
weight:
I have three ways of striking [fortissimo] chords. One is to begin with
the fingers hanging just above the keys, then lifting the entire arm and
dropping. The second is to begin touching the keys, and yank the arm
weight down by suddenly pulling the elbows in. The third is to again begin
with the fingers already touching the keys, and then pushing away, and up
with the wrists.53
The first way, dropping the weight, requires sufficient and correct relaxation in
order to allow gravity to pull the weight of the arm down without muscular pushing from
the player. However, the other two ways involve muscular activity and arm motion.
In the second way, the elbows must be held somewhat apart from the body;
otherwise one cannot pull the elbows in. How far away from the body to hold the elbows
is determined by aligning the axis of the forearms with the fifth fingers, to form a straight
line perpendicular to the keyboard from the position of the fifth fingers to the elbows.

52
53

Ibid., 103.
Horowitz, Conversations with Arrau (New York: Knopf, 1982), 104.

108
Arraus use of the word yanking indicates not the free fall of weight but the muscular
exertion of the arm weight into the keys.54
In Arraus third way, leverage is exerted against the keys. The wrists act as the
fulcrum while the hands and fingers are the moving parts. Upon impact with the key
beds, the fingers can descend no further and, consequently, the fingertips on the key beds
become a new fulcrum of leverage that propels the arm and wrist up and forward. This
movement will leave the hands hanging loosely from the wrist, either holding the keys
down or suspended above the keys.
Although Arrau does not discuss finger activity in conjunction with these arm
movements, it must be remembered that he stipulated elsewhere, Having strong fingers
is the sine qua non; if you dont have strong fingers, you cant have the use of the whole
arm.55 Without the drawing-in motion of the fingers toward the palms, timed to catch
the weight of the arm in the key bed at the instant they achieve a position of support and
balance, these arm motions cannot be effective in producing the desired tone. The motion
of the fingers may be very small and scarcely visible, but it is there nevertheless. The
sensation of impact with the key bed signals the arm to rebound and remain suspended
above the keys, so that there is just enough weight to hold the keys down. If no excess
pressure remains once the notes have been played, a primary cause of excess tension is
removed.
Each of the three ways described by Arrau of applying arm weight in chord
playing gives a different quality of sound and musical effect. Dropping the weight into
the keys and cushioning the fall gives a full, mellow tone, while pushing up from the keys
54

None of Arraus pupils has described this second way of applying weight. German Diez expressed some
puzzlement over the use of the word yanking as uncharacteristic of Arraus language. German Diez,

109
gives a sharper, more brilliant tone. Control of the weight of the arm is the source of
dynamic and timbral control.
There is never a hitting kind of a contact. There is a way of falling on the
keyboard in a cushioned way, cushioning the weight, or pushing up from
the key, but there is never hitting, there is never tension in the physical
approach and that gives a tremendous variety of sound. In fact, one
should be able to produce any sound you can imagine, because the arm or
the whole machine is kind of empty. It is totally not pressing. It is no
pressure. He [Arrau] used to joke, No pressure, dear! Either youre
falling . . .[on] the note, or a little farther, or a big distance, or youre
shifting this weight, or youre having a very little weight, if you want a
very, very soft sound. I remember him getting softness out of his students,
saying, You can play softer, you can play softer. It is the same approach
to take off the weight and to put it on.56
The impact of the arm weight is cushioned by the flexibility of the wrist, which, like a
spring or shock absorber, allows an upward reaction in proportion to the downward force
at the instant of reaching the key bed. Without this flexibility, the sound is considered
hard and harsh. This may be partly owing to the noises made by the fingertips on the key
surface and by the key impacting the key bed. Beginning the motion with the fingers in
contact with the keys eliminates some of the percussion from the sound by reducing the
noise of the finger hitting the key; properly anticipating and timing the upward reaction
of the arm and wrist reduces the noise of the key against the key bed. The fluency of
playing is also enhanced because the upward reaction serves as preparation for the
following notes. Bronstein-Bartons statement, It is the same approach to take off the
weight and to put it on is to say that the shoulder muscle functions to control how
much weight is released into the keys at a given moment. The words No pressure mean
that the weight ceases to press into the key bed at the instant a tone is produced. In

interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.


55
Elder, Pianists at Play, 38.
56
Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.

110
Diezs analogy, Once you are resting on the floor, you dont keep pressing the floor.
You cant! Nature doesnt allow it. On the piano, its not allowed, but you can do it. If
you respond to nature, you dont do it.57
Cushioning the weight of the arm as described above is also bound up with
relaxation. A flexible wrist action, which serves to cushion the weight, coincides with
the rebound of the arm and hand in response to the finger being stopped by the key bed.
This signals a release of the pressure of the finger against the key bed, and the weight of
the arm is again assumed by the shoulder. Thus, the finger, relieved of the weight of the
arm, can rest in a relaxed manner on the key after the tone has been produced.
You dont throw the weight, and if its very loud, you dont fall as on a
hard surface, you fall as if you were falling in deep water. You keep on
going down, but before you know it, youre coming back up. You dont
hit the bottom; you sink in and come back. You dont stay at the bottom.58
Using arm weight in the controlled manner described enables a player to
achieve any desired degree of volume without banging or hitting the keys. As
Matthay stated, . . . any percussion caused at the key-surface forms absolute MIS-USE
of the Pianoforte tone-producing mechanism.59 Matthay also cautioned against striking
the surface of the keys violently with the fingers: Not even in the fullest forte is there
any real occasion to make the finger-tip impinge upon the key with more force than could
be borne with impunity by one of those glittering balls of thinnest glass, so much in
evidence at Christmas.60 Even when playing with weight, hitting is possible and the
player needs knowledge and vigilance to avoid it. Arrau defined hitting as the
simultaneous fall of the arm or dropping the weight and pushing up and out in a
57

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.


Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002..
59
Matthay, The Act of Touch, 82.
60
Ibid., 125.
58

111
single note or chord. Applying from a distance the strong activity of the fingers in
pushing out of the keys produces the concussion at the surface of the key that Matthay
cautioned against. Ena Bronstein-Barton recalls Arraus teaching thus:
Now Arrau insisted that you must not combine falling with pushing,
because thats when you hit. It has to be either or. The most basic touch
would be falling, for most things. When you want something very sharp,
or some kind of accent, then you can use push. . . . I heard him [Arrau]
say that many times, that you must not combine the two because then you
hit, and we do not hit. Dont hit the keys.61
What counts in producing a louder, more accented tone is the speed of the hammer when
it strikes the string. The speed of the hammer is affected by the speed of key descent. The
pushing-out motion produces a sharp, strongly articulated sound because it can be used
with speed to depress the keys faster than the falling or dropping motion. A small
movement of the fingers, pulling inward toward the palms to propel the arm and wrist up
and out, is also a factor. This is implicit in Arraus insistence that the movement should
begin with the fingers touching the keys, for in this way, the noise of the fingers on the
keys would be minimized, thus eliminating what Arrau called hitting. 62

DOWN-AND-UP MOTIONS OF WRIST AND ARM

61

Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.


Matthay attributed differences in tone quality to differences in key speed that caused the hammer to put
the string in motion in different ways. . . . the difference in the strings behavior that gives us differences
of tone-quality depends on the manner in which the string is started upon its journey; and it is evident, that
the difference between the production of the harsher, Brilliant tone qualities, and the more pleasant
Sympathetic qualities lies in a greater or lesser percussiveness; for the string is in the first case set agoing with abruptness, suddenness and absolute Percussion, whereas in the second case, speed is imparted
to it, with a far more gradual application of the total Energy employed. It is found that a too sudden
application of energy tends to cause the string to move off rather into segmental vibration, than into those
complete vibrations of its whole length that enforce the fundamental sound. The more these segmental
vibrations (or harmonics) preponderate, especially the higher and harsher ones, the worse is the sound in
every respect; it is less beautiful and less full, and it is less able to travel or carry. Matthay, The Act of
Touch, 74.
62

112
The principle involved in falling on and pushing up and out of chords, a basic
down-and-up arm motion, can also be applied to single notes and intervals. In the playing
of single notes, the down motion used to depress the key is followed by a reactive up
motion or rebound serving both as a follow-through and a preparation for the next
down motion. German Diez points out that passive upward vertical motions are the
natural reaction of a loose arm to the impact of the finger reaching the bottom of the key.
When you play something, if there is no tension in the arm, the arm goes
up. . . . Its like a pushup. When the finger hits solid ground, then the arm
goes up unless the arm is pushing down, which is already a negative thing
to the finger. Its not helping the finger, its impairing the finger. So then,
thats [the rebound] a natural, intuitive thing.63
In this reactive/preparatory rebound motion, the upper arm moves up and forward and the
elbow moves slightly outward, away from the body, while the hand hangs loosely from
the wrist, with the fingers pointing downward toward the keys, either touching them or a
short distance from them. When the arm descends, the fingers pull inward to catch the
weight in the key bed. The wrist flexes downward somewhat at the instant of impact to
act as a cushion, but it springs upward again as the arm reacts to the impact.
Down-and-up motions are used in slurs of two equal notes (such as two eighth
notes) but intentions and results of their use are opposite those in playing chords and
single notes. The first note of a two-note slur, played by a down motion, is louder,
accentuated by the weight of the arm falling through the fingertip into the key. The
second note, played by an up motion, must be softer, with the finger somewhat relaxed
and pulling less energetically or hardly at all, so that it exerts less pressure on the key. (If
the finger pulls against the key in conjunction with the up motion, the second note will be
too sharp and accented.) As the arm is raised, the wrist must loosely flex upward so that

113
the finger remains in contact with the key, and releases contact slowly so as not to
produce a staccato accent.
Arraus method of performing two-note slurs was to shorten the first note and
separate each pair of slurred notes, almost producing a Lombard rhythm or Scotch snap.
Alfonso Montecino describes this: In the phrasing of the Les adieux [third movement],
the two-note phrasing, he would have the two first notes more together and then a luft
pause. Also [in] the Emperor. And it is so obvious and matter of fact. In the orchestra,
it is very difficult; and conductors, they hate it. . . . to separate the two notes from the
next ones, it gives that certain snap to it. It comes from his idea to play exactly as
written.64
Vertical motions of the arm and wrist serve to draw the weight of the arm into the
keys in legato passages in which the fingers must remain close to or in contact with the
keys. Sometimes these motions are so small that they are barely visible and involve a
small lighter weight. Sometimes they are larger and apply a heavier weight. Applying
weight in a separate vertical motion for each note keeps the sound from becoming weak
and gives the player dynamic control of each note. This use of weight can give all of the
fingers an equal dynamic power for evenness in a legato passage; or it allows the player
to use different amounts of weight to affect the dynamic shaping of a phrase. By
regulating the size and weight of each vertical motion, each tone in the phrase may be
played at a slightly different dynamic level depending upon the length of the tone and its
placement in the harmonic structure and melodic contour.

63

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.


Alfonso Montecino, interview in New York City, February 27, 2003. Arrau can be seen giving a lesson
on this point to the Symphony Orchestra of the University of Chile. See Claudio Arrau, The Emperor: A
Live Concert by the Maestro (West Long Beach, N.J.: Kultur, 1987).

64

114
In true legato, the end of each tone must meet the dynamic level of the tone that
follows it. Since a tone begins to die away as soon as it is played, longer tones must be
given more volume so that they meet the following tone with sufficient strength to
maintain the phrase. The player may regulate the volume of each tone by controlling the
amount of weight released into each key. The changing vertical movements of the arm
and wrist together with the horizontal movements up and down the keyboard contribute
to a physical sensation of phrasing as creating a curvilinear, undulating melodic line.
VIBRATION
Reciprocal down-and-up motions in piano playing, the upward reaction following
impact with the key bed in a downward direction, are the basis of what Arrau called
vibration. Arrau specified use of a high wrist as part of his way of achieving
vibration.65 Vibration is a type of non-legato touch in which the rebounding impulse from
the key bed is transmitted from the finger through a flexible wrist to the arm. Without
attempting to lift the hand from the keys, the rebounding or vibration makes the notes in a
given passage less connected and lends more force or percussiveness to the attack of each
note.
German Diez explains vibration as the speeded-up version of the passive vertical
arm motions that are a natural feature of slower playing:
The arm starts to go up because there is no counteraction to it. The minute
it goes up, the impact of playing throws the arm up, but since you are not
tense at all it will drop back again, so then it drops back, so then at that
point, another finger picks it up. . . . That state of action-relaxation
becomes very fast because youre not wasting any energy pushing down at
the wrong time. So that free bounce, you use it faster. You put actions
faster, one after the other, which depends . . . on relaxing immediately.

65

Elder, Pianists at Play, 38.

115
You put an impulse and then you relax. So then, you can produce it very
quickly.66
Vibration allows passages of fast-moving notes to be played with greater volume.
Controlling the speed of vibration lends evenness of tempo and tone in staccato and nonlegato passages. As Ortmann demonstrated, the impact of the finger on the key produces
an equal and opposite, i.e., upward, reaction on the part of the knuckle, wrist, elbow, and
upper arm. Even when the touch is very light, the reaction is very small but cannot be
eliminated.67 A heavier touch, a faster downward impulse, will produce a greater upward
reaction. Therefore, the speed and strength of the vibration can be controlled, just as one
would dribble a basketball, by regulating the weight and speed of the downward impulse
(arm weight together with the pulling motion of the finger) and the time allowed for the
arm to react. At the same time, the arm must be suspended loosely from the shoulder
above with the elbow held slightly apart from the body so that the rebounding action is
not inhibited by a muscular fixing of the wrist and elbow joints.
Vibrating in a series of notes, using gravity to exert force in a downward
direction, using the impact with the key bed to supply the intervening upward
preparations, the player may have the sensation that the piano plays itself. The
rebounding impulse propels the wrist, forearm, and upper arm upward, and this upward
motion prepares the next downward motion. What is crucial to a most efficient use of
vibration is small but well-timed finger motion that elicits an upward reaction from the
key bed and the suspension of the arm with a flexible wrist and elbow.
Although Arrau mentioned vibration in connection with a high wrist position,
changing the position of the wrist changes the way the upward force of the key acts upon
66

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.

116
the fingers and arm. With a high wrist and the hand slanting downward toward the
fingers, the upward reaction acts more upon the forearm and upper arm keeping the
fingers in closer contact with the keys. This allows more volume while lengthening each
tone, minimizing its percussiveness and maximizing the legato element. With the wrist
lowered to a position level with the knuckles, or even lower with the hand slanting
upward toward the knuckles, the upward reaction acts more upon the fingers and hand, so
that the fingers rebound higher out of the keys. This increases the loudness of tone while
shortening each tone and maximizing its percussiveness.
Vibration may also involve a quick use of the upper arm, thrusting it forward into
the keyboard and achieving a quick repetition. It is useful for chords and octaves in speed
or in dotted rhythms. This type of vibration gives the additional speed and power for
chords and octaves and assists in executing leaps. The rebounding impulse of vibration
helps to propel the hand and arm to the next note, across the next distance.
The less percussive form of vibration can be used to reinforce the higher notes in
fast passages where dynamic shaping is desired or where the higher notes are too weak in
the expressive context of the passage.
HIGH WRIST POSITION
Though the position of the wrist should not be fixed or rigid, a slightly elevated
wrist position is consistent with other elements of Arraus approach as it is one of the
conditions that enables and encourages the application of arm weight to the keyboard.
The higher wrist position facilitates using the fingers in a straighter or more elongated
position and directs more of the weight of the arm to a point of support by the fingertips
on the keys. German Diez finds a high wrist position helpful in enabling students to
67

Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique, 82-83.

117
experience the sensation of carrying the weight of the arm on the fingers: You do 2 and
4 with the wrist high. They begin to realize that the weight goes to the fingers.68 Because
the alignment of the skeleton takes on some of the burden, the muscular contraction in the
fingers necessary to support the weight is minimized. A low wrist position creates an
angle that interrupts the flow of arm weight into the keyboard.
The connection between a high wrist position and use of arm weight is
corroborated by Ortmann:
The best position for directing the maximum amount of arm-weight into
the key is that . . . where the wrist is high and the upper arm at a small
descending angle.69
Ortmanns experiments with a mechanical arm led him to conclude that the high wrist
favored relaxation in the arm, and facilitated the transfer of weight from finger to finger,
from key to key.
The position usually pictured for the ideal position of arm-relaxation with
weight transfer . . . is the least adapted to this transfer of weight, and the
position best adapted . . . is the high-wrist position so often frowned upon
by pedagogues. It follows that the key-depression for arm-weight must
take place in the first half of arm-descent, before the wrist reaches a
horizontal position. . . . Weight is always lost with the lowering-wrist.70
Ortmann described an arm position with the elbow brought slightly forward, held
somewhat apart from the body and turned very slightly outward to bring the longitudinal
axis of the arm in line with the third finger so as to direct as much weight as possible into
the keys. This position attempts to minimize the angles of all of the joints between the

68

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.


Ortmann., The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique, 130.
70
Ibid., 128.
69

118
shoulder and fingertip71 and, as a result, minimizes the muscular contraction necessary in
the fingers. According to Ortmann,
The amount of fixation or muscular contraction necessary to do work at
the finger-tip depends upon the positions of the parts of the arm. It is
greatest when the resistance acts at right angles to the longitudinal axis of
the bone; it is least when the resistance acts parallel to that axis.72
However, among the pianists he studied, Ortmann noticed a tendency of leaning
the upper body forward toward the keyboard. Leaning in this direction increases the
angle at the elbow and therefore lessens the amount of arm weight that can be brought
into the keys.
Directing the maximum amount of arm weight into the key . . . requires a
slight incline of the trunk away from the keyboard. If the trunk be leaned
forward, the arm-position . . . is poorest for weight transfer. The
advantage of the forward position is in other phases, and its universal
adoption by pianists proves that free arm-weight is probably never used in
actual playing but is replaced by a muscular contraction added to gravity.73
While Ortmanns observations may be correct, they are based only on the pianists
selected for his study. His conclusion that free arm-weight is probably never used in
actual playing recalls Arraus statement Today I don't know of anybody who plays
using natural weight. Anybody, except in our group.74 While Arrau did not elaborate
further, one can speculate that Arraus statement was based on observations similar to
Ortmanns, that other pianists did not use the body in ways that permitted the use of
weight. Ortmanns remark underscores Arraus point and supports Arraus belief that his
approach to weight technique was unique. Contrary to Ortmann, whose study led him to
71

Arraus pupils have noted that this is more easily achieved with shorter rather than longer arms, because
longer arms require a more acute angle at the elbow. His pupils note that Arrau himself had short arms. Ena
Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002; Goodwin Sammel, interview in
New York City, April 14, 2003.
72
Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique, 131.
73
Ibid., 130.
74

Horowitz, Conversations, 109.

119
conclude that a return to practicing finger action isolated from arm weight was needed,75
Arrau, based on his experience as a performer, concluded that finger action must always
be supported by the arm.
ROTATION
According to his pupils, Arrau sometimes used the words lateral movement or
side motion to mean the side-to-side motion of the arm (pronation and supination) that
is commonly called rotation. The word rotation should not be confused with circular
motions, where the elbow and forearm describe either a clockwise or counterclockwise
circle. Circular motions are composites movements, of which up-and-down motions and
rotation are components. Nevertheless, Arrau used the word rotation in interviews, and
his meaning is clear from the examples he gave of the uses of rotation.
Arrau described how he taught his pupils to master the broken chords in the
development section of the first movement of Beethovens Sonata, Op. 2, No. 3:
I start by having them do the rotation movement between each two notes
very slowly, so they go all the way in one direction and then in the other,
so they develop the sideward striking power, striking hard with the
fingers, turning the arm from the shoulder, gradually increasing the
speed.76
In the phrase turning the arm from the shoulder, Arrau explicitly stated that the rotation
comes from the upper arm.77
A somewhat high wrist position facilitates upper arm rotation while a low wrist
position inhibits rotation and the angle thus created interrupts the connection between the
upper arm and the fingertip. The wrist turns with the rotating arm, but the wrist itself
75

This points again to the duality of arm weight and finger technique that Breithaupt tried to clarify. See
ch. 1, p. 83.
76
Elder, Pianists at Play, 38.
77
German Diez has described rotation as the same movement used when turning a door-knob or operating a
screw driver.

120
does not take part in the rotating movement. Some descriptions of rotation describe it as
only forearm rotation, and indeed, some pedagogues rule out the use of the upper arm
entirely (Kullak, Leschetizky, Taubman). Arraus approach is unique in including the
upper arm in rotation. Forearm rotation suffices where the intervals are small, where the
thumb and second finger do not play (rotation toward the thumb necessitates the
participation of upper arm rotation), and where the passage is relatively short or not
requiring great endurance. In small intervals such as seconds and thirds, the sideward
striking power required is less than with larger intervals such as sevenths and octaves.
However, even in these cases, releasing the weight of the upper arm in playing may bring
about some upper arm rotation as a result of the rebound from the keys. Long passages of
larger intervals, such as the broken octaves in the Allegro of Beethovens Sonata in C
Minor, Op. 13, require the greater endurance and sideward striking power of upper arm
rotation. Using the larger muscles of the shoulder guards against the fatigue experienced
when the smaller forearm muscles are used exclusively.
As German Diez points out, the enhancement of forearm rotation when combined
with upper arm rotation involves more than the strength of the muscles involved (see
below). When the forearm is pronated, the radius bone of the forearm crosses the ulna.
Because the ulna is connected to the large bone of the upper arm, it cannot rotate.
Therefore, once the palm of the hand is facing downward, once the radius and ulna are
crossed, the forearm can rotate no further. Any further pronation in the direction of the
thumb must be accomplished with the participation (abduction) of the upper arm.78
Rotation that does not include the upper arm is not capable of raising the fifth finger to

78

Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique, 16, 22.

121
any appreciable distance from the keyboard and, therefore, the fifth finger has no great
sideward striking power. However, the forearm may turn in the direction of the fifth
finger (supination) raising the thumb as high as the player wishes. Therefore, forearm
rotation is inherently uneven, giving most of the advantage to the thumb and thereby
weakening the already weak fifth finger, a disadvantage immediately felt in long
passages of broken octaves, broken chords, and Alberti bass. Diez describes it thus:
Forearm rotation is 180 degrees from a vertical position, which is the way
it stops when you are standing [the way the forearm is positioned when
standing with the arm hanging down freely]. The rotation of the forearm is
limited to this position. If you want to go to this side here, if the keyboard
was vertical, forearm rotation would work. But because it [the keyboard]
is horizontal, you are already at 180 degrees rotation inward, which is
pronation. There is no way that you can lift the other side of the hand [the
fifth finger side] unless the shoulder does it. All you have to do is put your
arm like this [extend arm straight out from the shoulder] and try to turn
this way [so that the fifth finger side of the hand faces upward] and see
what happens. The shoulder is the only one that allows that [if you want to
turn your hand so that the fifth finger side of the hand points upward, you
must turn the arm from the shoulder socket], unless you force it [the upper
arm] not to turn, and you find you cant go any further. If you go any
further, you are straining. You better let nature take its course. Let the arm
turn the way it should turn. Nature is the one that tells you what to do,
which is something absolutely intuitive if you let the body do it. So
rotation implies that you have to rotate the upper arm. Rotation has often
been taught that you have to move just the forearm, dont move the upper
arm. Youre trying to bind the body into a very awkward situation. . . .
Youre creating an obstruction. When you are not trying to loosen up the
upper arm, which is the shoulder, you are already creating a problem for
the arm. So then, youre creating a problem for the music. Its not going to
pour out naturally.79
Rotating the whole arm from the shoulder socket is, therefore, a matter of
equalizing the rotation. An alternative approach to this movement is lifting the arm up
and sideways slightly by means of the deltoid muscle in the shoulder. In this way, the arm
may be rotated in the direction of the thumb so that the top of the forearm points inward

79

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.

122
and slants downward while the elbow turns outward and up, away from the body. This
motion raises the fifth finger, and at maximum rotation, the fifth-finger side of the hand
points directly upward. In this position, the thumb is in contact with the keys while the
fifth finger has great latitude to exercise its sideward striking power. Use of the upper
arm in rotation gives the player flexibility to rotate the arm within any part of the full
range of this movement and thus to manipulate the balance of thumb and fifth finger: if
the rotation moves from the center toward the thumb (pronation), the thumb remains
closer to the keys while the fifth finger is raised higher and achieves greater power; if the
rotation moves more from the center toward the fifth finger (supination), the fifth finger
remains closer to the keys while the thumb is raised higher and achieves greater power.
Though the larger muscles of the upper arm act more slowly than the smaller muscles of
the forearm, they are stronger and capable of more endurance. Because they are working
at a greater distance from the fingers, the larger muscles can, with small motions,
reinforce much larger and quicker motions of the hand and fingers. And the rebound from
the key bed helps even larger muscles react with greater speed. Thus, even though the
larger muscles are slower, they can be trained to respond with the necessary speed within
a smaller range of motion.
Matthay asserted that rotation is in constant use during playing because of its
importance in finger independence and equality: Constant changes in the state of the
fore-arms rotary Release and rotary Support are imperative, if the fingers at opposite
sides of the hand are to be equally strong. He also noted that small rotational
adjustments in the forearm are practically invisible unless they are exaggerated. 80

80

Matthay, The Act of Touch, 117.

123
Rotation is also useful for its potential to make large intervals on the keyboard
feel smaller. It facilitates broken chord passages in which each interval may be small but
the distance traveled in one direction is great, i. e., an octave or more. Players often
extend the hand to span this greater distance rather than deal individually with the smaller
intervals between successive notes. Without the use of rotation, the player must extend
the hand more than is necessary with rotation, and in this extended position the hand is
weaker. Rotation helps to negotiate each interval with less extension of the hand, and it
can be adjusted so that more rotation is used for larger intervals and less for smaller
intervals. A large skip to the left can be made more comfortable and accurate if one first
swings to the right. The momentum supplied by rotation in this case makes the distance
feel shorter. This is particularly advantageous to players with small hands. And as Edith
Fischer points out, all technical elements should be evaluated in light of the individual
players physique:
For instance, my husband is big, quite heavy, and can do from C to G
[12th] no problem. Well its evident that he doesnt need so much
[rotation] as I do. He will do a little bit less, being as much at ease.81
COMBINING TECHNIQUES
Piano music presents a rich and complex array of difficulties. From the point of
view of the pianist, there appear to be as many different technical problems as there are
works to be played. However, by identifying within his technique a few basic
movements, Arrau attempted to set forth the elements common to solving all technical
problems. By combining these elements in varying amounts, he arrived at complexity and
subtlety of motion capable of meeting musics technical and expressive challenges.

81

Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.

124
Ena Bronstein spoke of some uses for combinations of four types of motion: the
two vertical motions of the arm, dropping onto and pushing out of the keys, rotation, and
circular motions. One of these, circular motions, is itself a compound movement
incorporating vertical and rotational arm movements.
With those four in combination, you can do a lot, because lateral
movement [rotation] can be big tremolos, and can go all the way down to
a trill, from big arpeggios down to the chromatic scale. [For broken
octaves, use] left-to-right rotation plus some in-and-out for black keys
and, in general, in the direction of the passage. No up-and-down motion of
the wrist! The up-and-down motion of the wrist is integrated into circular
motions. [She demonstrates Chopin Etude, Op. 10, No. 4, using circular
motions in mm. 1-2, rotation in m. 3, circular motions m. 4.] Sometimes
you have to try; its not always clear which one will work better.
Sometimes you have to experiment to see which one [rotation or circular
motion] will work better.82
It is worthwhile to stress that solving a passage is often a process of trial and error in
which conscious knowledge of possible techniques and how to employ them is critical.
Bronstein-Bartons statement echoes Matthays remark that rotation is in almost constant
use during playing (see above).
Scale playing illustrates the combination of vertical arm movements and rotation.
Scales, ascending for the right hand and descending for the left hand, are divisible into
units of three tones (fingered 1, 2, 3) and four tones (fingered 1, 2, 3, 4). The thumb is
played with a down motion, taking care not to touch the key with the knuckle of the
thumb but the tip. As the fingers play the tones that follow, the wrist and arm are raised
up and forward by degrees, reaching their highest point on the last tone of each grouping.
Integrated with this vertical movement is a rotational adjustment in which the arm, turned
slightly inward toward the thumb on the first tone, rotates slightly outward with each

82

Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.

125
finger. Rotation brings the thumb above the key it must play to fulfill its passing under
function. The key is played with the thumb by bringing the arm down and rotating it
inward to its starting position. The process is repeated for the next group of tones.
Scales descending for the right hand and ascending for the left hand begin with
the fifth finger, and thereafter consist of groups of four tones (fingered 4, 3, 2, 1) and
three tones (fingered 3, 2, 1). This time the vertical movement of arm and wrist follows
the fingers in an upward direction, reaching their highest point with the thumb.
Simultaneously, the arm rotates inward toward the thumb, the upper arm guiding the
hand over the thumb. The hand will turn inward, the fifth finger side pointing upward.
This movement brings the third finger over the key it must play to complete crossing over
the thumb. The key is played with the third finger by bringing the arm down and rotating
it outward. The process is repeated for the next groups of tones.
Jos Aldaz recalls how Arrau taught him to play scales: The hand and fingers
move up and down the keys without tension. The wrists guide the motion.83 He
demonstrated this with a high wrist, the fingers positioned in an almost straight pose, and
as his hands moved outward from the body, he employed circular motions of the wrist
that followed the movement of his fingers. His wrist rotated generally outward
(clockwise for the right hand, counterclockwise for the left) when his hands moved away
from his body, and generally inward when his hands moved inward toward his body. His
upper arm moved out from his body as his wrist rotated inward, evidence of upper arm
rotation in the circular motion. The motions were continuous and fluid, never halting and

83

Jos Aldaz, interview in New York City, November 17, 2002.

126
interrupted. The circular movements of the wrist accommodated the transfer of weight
from finger to finger.
Aldaz also states that with arpeggios, the emphasis is on the wrists, turning out
when the hands move away from the body, turning in when the hands return toward the
body.
The flexibility of the wrists makes arpeggio playing a relaxed procedure of
the whole arm rather than of only the fingers. The movements are in
curves, there are no angular points. The wrist remains flexible. You go
from key to key and the wrist takes you along. It is like making a design
on the keys [Here Aldaz showed a loop resembling a series of lower case
cursive es.] At the top you turn [he demonstrated a circular turn with
the wrist rising up guided along by the arm, rotating from the fifth finger
side of the hand toward the thumb in, the elbow separating from the body
following the rotation of the arm and wrist.] The wrist is key, coming
along with the fingers.84
German Diez gives a different account of Arraus teaching of scale and arpeggio
playing, one that accounts for the way in which the motion of playing is fitted to the notes
of the scale. Embedded within the problem of scale playing is the problem of the thumb
in accordance with its function of opposing the movement of the fingers.
What he [Arrau] said in the scale is that you begin with the thumb low,
because thats the position of the thumb: it is flat. Which is another thing:
you operate the thumb by really this movement [he shows thumb played
with a downward stroke of the arm]. Well, its to have a flexible wrist. He
[Arrau] never said anything, he said not to do it [he demonstrates to show
that Arrau instructed him not pass the thumb under the third finger,
beneath the palm] but then I found later, actually the natural movement of
the thumb, like all the fingers, is towards the hand. The only movement
that is natural is this [the passing under movement]. Its completely insane
to do this [move the thumb up and down in a line parallel to the movement
of the other fingers], although the thumb has a capacity for that movement,
but it is not designed to do that movement. As I told you before, all
movements are toward the body.
So now, in the case of the scale, it is a little more difficult to
explain it because theres a complexity there. Because first of all, when
84

Ibid.

127
you go with a low wrist, the thumb should be less heavy, which is
something that took me a long time to really understand, because he
[Arrau] said always, the thumb goes down. And I dont know whether he
told me [here he is speaking of whether Arrau explained the reason behind
the technique], or I never heard it, because I dont recall. Probably he told
me at one point and it didnt -- like many times I tell a student to do
something and two years later, Why didnt you tell me to do this before?
Right! Yeah that happens! They say, Why didnt you tell me before that
this is the way to do it? Ive been telling you for two years. But its
then when it clicks, it really makes sense. So probably he said it and I
dont [it didnt] register. But then, I realized, actually part of it is to take
away the weight [if the thumb is played with a low wrist, then the arm
cannot put excessive weight or force behind the thumb].
So then, you go down with a movement that should be light,
because with the excess of the arm it would be very strong. It could be
very strong. You have to try to avoid that, and you have to try . . . to take
away the power from the strong ones [fingers] and give it to the weaker
ones. So you take away from this [the thumb] and give it to the second
[finger] that needs it. [Diez demonstrates the scale in two groups of notes
as follows: c-D-E f-G-A-B, with c and f played by the thumb with a low
wrist, and adding the weight of the arm in an upward direction on the
second finger to play D and G louder. He stresses that position or height of
the hand and wrist changes most in passing from the thumb to finger 2.]
So then, there is movement of the thumb. First of all, it should be
the least because thats the basic ascending movement towards the notes,
going to the notes [he shows what he means by playing a five-finger
pattern, beginning with a low wrist position for the thumb and pushing the
arm upward gradually going through 2, 3, 4, and 5]. So the thumb begins
neutral; then transfer to there [to F]; so then in the scale you have the
passage of the thumb, which is [starting on C with a low wrist and pushing
upward on the second and third fingers, d and e], and then here [thumb
moves to f], so you go to the four [the four notes, f, g, a, and b, beginning
with a low wrist and the thumb playing f, then pushing the weight of the
arm upward on fingers 2 and 3 ending at 4 on b]. So you have two groups
[that is, the scale falls into these two groups of notes, c-d-e played by 1, 2,
3 and f-g-a-b played by 1, 2, 3, 4].
What to do to go from one to two, [from the first group to] the
second group? The thumb -- he [Arrau] never said very much about doing
this [passing the thumb under] to get there, although it helps a little but its
not necessarily necessary, like, you know, you train your student keep the
hand still and go [pass the thumb under]. No! Actually at this point [where
the third finger plays] there is a lateral movement [rotation] that goes into
effect, a little lateral movement. So you go ascending, and that three [third
finger], it goes like this [the hand rotates to the right] to make room for the
thumb to come in very relaxed. So its here. . . . And then, the same thing
happens to the fourth finger. But when you hit the third finger, it should be
perpendicular like this. The students, they do it too early. It should be -- at

128
that point -- its like if it [the third finger] was a pole vault, like in the
Olympics. So the third finger pole-vaults to the side. I say, try to think that
you go over the third finger [that is, that the thumb passes over the third
finger rather than under it]. Well, it doesnt happen, but you go fast and it
works. You go over the third finger! So then you wait till the third finger
to do that -- four. So its a tiny movement and also coordinated to be very
loose because as you move the thumb it gets stiffer. This is very easy
[Diez demonstrates playing a scale with each octave containing two
ascending stepwise groups of keys, each played starting with a low wrist
for the thumb, gradually moving into its highest position at the end of each
group. On the final key of each group, he rotates his arm and wrist
outward. This rotation brings the thumb above its next key. Rotating the
arm back inward brings the thumb down onto its key].
The first finger [thumb] stays close [to the rest of the hand as it is
in motion]. It requires a very precise timing, which is something that the
body knows very well. The body has a perception of things that you dont
think [about] anymore. But first you have to train it to do that. But then
when you go very fast, it happens. But it happens so fast. You still feel the
power in that finger; at that point, you were at the peak, which is not
visible anymore. Its internalized.85
Diez stresses the importance of timing, not executing the rotation movements too
soon. By describing the rotation movement as pole-vaulting, he gives students a visual
image to help them time the movement with the approach to the key preceding the thumb
crossing. What Diez gives in this description is an analysis of circular motion into its
lateral and vertical components in a manner that shows their relationship to the passage to
be played. When executed fluently, these motions combine to form the circular shapes
described by Aldaz.
Arpeggios are played similarly, but with larger rotational adjustments to
compensate for the larger intervals. The combination of vertical and rotational
movements in scales and arpeggios may resolve into subtle circular motions, but care
must be taken that the size of the motion fits the size of the intervals played, so that the

85

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.

129
weight of the arm is really directed into the fingertip on the key and does not glide past it,
missing its mark. Diez continues:
Here again, I go over the third [finger]. Its the same, but it works. Here,
the third finger is a pole vault to go further. And coming down
[descending in scales or arpeggios] is the other way around. Then, its
lateral, its rotation [again Diez demonstrates the scale]. When you go up,
its ascending, but going down then you go over the thumb by rotating [he
shows rotation of the whole arm over the thumb so that the elbow is raised
up and pointing outward and the fifth-finger side of the hand is pointing
upward]. So then you are here already over the notes with the third finger
so you drop the elbow, or over the fourth and you drop on the fourth
finger. Same thing with the arpeggio!86
Circular motions are appropriate for repeated figural patterns in which at least
three notes move in the same direction. Examples include triplet figures such as in
Beethovens Sonata, Op. 2, No. 1, finale. Of this movement, Arrau said,
If you use only the fingers, it will sound mechanical. Use the arm, too.
Use rotation on groups of three. Also you have the arpeggio movements,
which are different [circular motion]. Most of the work is done with the
arm. Of course, you would have to practice it like an exercise, too, for the
fingers. You would have to develop the fingers and have them at your
disposal.87
Two points are of interest here. One is Arraus assertion of the mechanical sound
of the passage when played by the fingers alone, suggesting that the rotation on groups
of three and the arpeggio movements give the note groupings a gestural quality that is
more expressive than the individualization of notes that results from using only the
fingers.
The second point is the line of demarcation drawn between practice and
performance. Arrau recommends the movement that would best express the passage in
performance: rotation or small clockwise circular motions used in arpeggios. For

86
87

Ibid.
Elder, Pianists at Play, 39.

130
practice, he advises exploring the passage as a finger exercise; however, recalling Arraus
statement that the arm and fingers must not be used in isolation, one presumes that even
in a finger exercise, the arm does participate. This passage demonstrates not only Arraus
concern that, in using the arm, the fingers are not forgotten and weakened over time, but
also another point: that finding the correct solution for a passage may involve a synthesis
of opposites. This point has also been set forth by Heinrich Neuhaus: in working out two
contrasting principles, a third emerges that synthesizes the first two and constitutes the
solution to a given problem.88
All circular motions are generated in the upper arm and bring about passive
vertical and horizontal motions in the wrist and forearm. To best observe large circular
motions, the fingertip should remain in a fixed position on the key. Rotating the upper
arm in the shoulder socket generates the motion, drawing the elbow up and down, away
from and back toward the body, while the wrist acts as a double hinge from which the
hand can move up and down (vertically) as well as side to side (horizontally). The
passive rotation of the forearm connects the motion of the upper arm to the finger on the
key and the wrist allows the hand to move in any direction necessary. While keeping one
finger nearly straightened and in contact with a depressed key to stabilize the arm, the
combined movements of upper arm, forearm, elbow, and wrist create elliptical or circular
movements that may go in either clockwise or counterclockwise direction. The finger
traces a conical movement above the depressed key. The appearance is as a spiral
movement of the whole arm. When the finger is allowed to release the key, this motion
can be used to facilitate large leaps. The larger the distance to be covered, the larger the

88

See the comments of Neuhaus, The Art of Piano Playing, 108.

131
motion must be.89 Ena Bronstein-Barton cites this motion as especially helpful in a work
like Chopins Prelude in E-flat, Op. 28, No. 19, in which leaps are constant and
simultaneous in both hands.
It [the circular motion] can go in either direction. [With] Anything [that] is
coming out of the arm, the wrist will be moving. Its the arm that is
moving the wrist, not the wrist that is moving the arm. [She demonstrates
Chopins Prelude in E-flat with circular motions, right hand
counterclockwise, left hand clockwise, down toward the thumbs, up
toward the 5th fingers.]90
In a similar case, large circular arm movements may be used in Chopins Etude, Op. 25,
No. 1, in which broken chord figures often span more than an octave, and sometimes
include wide leaps.
In regard to leaps, Arrau advised practicing them with the eyes closed, and
concentrating on the physical sensation of the distance to be covered. The physical
sensation of the distance resides in the upper arm, in sensing the size of the motion
necessary to execute the leap with accuracy.
He [Arrau] said those [leaps] you should practice with eyes closed. It is
the arm that takes you there. Rafael used to say this. The upper arm takes
you there. You dont play the piano with your fingers. You dont play
with your hands. The accuracy is in the brain. . . . Youre learning the
distance which is in your brain and not in your eyes. Youre learning the
distance without looking. . . . Youre not crawling around holding onto the
keys. You have the whole keyboard here [in the mind]. That will make
you a better sight-reader, too. You dont have to see where things are.91
Thus, the connection between brain and upper arm establishes a sense of keyboard
geography independent of visual guidance. In mastering leaps, it is the memory of the

89

Neuhaus put it in characteristically entertaining terms: . . . the shortest path between two points on the
keyboard is a curve. The Art of Piano Playing, 132.
90
Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.
91
Ibid.

132
physical sensations that accompany an accurate execution and the ability to reproduce
them that is crucial. Edith Fischer gives advice concerning the direction of the arm
movement in making leaps:
For jumps that is extremely important. People jump like this [elbows kept
close to the sides; forearms stretching out]. Arrau always said, Think that
you come from the outer part of the piano and not from the inner part. So,
instead of jumping like that [from the body outward], you come from here
[from most distant point toward the body] as if you were bigger than the
piano.92
In the matter of accuracy in leaps, German Diez advises practicing the leap by
using the note(s) on one side as a springboard to propel the arm and hand in the direction
of the destination note(s). The leap is to be performed as instantaneously as possible, but
having completed the leap, the player should not depress the key(s) but stop with the
finger(s) in position to play. In this way, one focuses on the movement of leaping, so that
it can be judged, adjusted, and learned. More importantly, the leap is timed to take place
within the duration of the first note(s) of the leap, and not at the instant that the
destination note(s) should be played. Diez also uses this technique for successions of
chords where accuracy is difficult. The stretto just before the coda in Chopins fourth
Ballade is an example.
One further example of a passage requiring a combination of techniques is from
Brahmss D-minor piano concerto. Arrau says of this passage:
Sometimes, as in the arpeggios at the very end of the first movement of
the Brahms D-minor Concerto, you have to use every possible means of
making the piano come through the orchestra. Analyzing it, there are
three movements. One is to circle out with the arm [on the first four
eighth notes] and then come down on the tip of the thumb. And then, for
the last two notes [of the arpeggio figure, A and D], rotation of the arm.

92

Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.

133
And also, throughout, vibrating the arm. All these movements must be
done with tremendous weight.93
This combining of different technical elements to solve pianistic problems
requires a knowledge and mastery of the individual elements and the ability to analyze
complex technical problems. This gives way to a process of experiment, testing,
observation, and adjustment in which techniques are tried in varying amounts and
combinations until the desired results are attained. Then, it is a matter of repetition until
the correct physical response is internalized.
How Arrau applied these principles in his teaching and how they achieved unity
with musical expression and interpretation will be taken up in the following discussion of
a lesson on Chopins Ballade No. 2 in F Major/A Minor, Op. 38.

93

Horowitz, Conversations, 104.

134
THREE
TECHNIQUE AND INTERPRETATION
There is always an element of practical necessity in the teaching and learning of
technique. A player who is hampered by difficulty in playing cannot fully attend to the
expressive element in music. However, technique for Arrau was not simply a tool for
overcoming difficulties; it was a mode of expression that merged with the musical idea.
When asked his opinion of teaching technique and musicianship separately, Arraus
response revealed a concept of technique as integral to musical communication: Well, I
think that idea is entirely wrong. If you want to communicate certain phrases or passages,
how are you going to teach students if, at the same time, you dont explain how to do it;
how to produce or how to realize a conception you are giving them!1 On another
occasion, Arrau said, I saw the danger in playing exercises: you dissociate the function
of making music from the muscular function.2 By insisting that technique was integral to
musical expression, Arrau also implied a distinction between a craftsman, a pianist who
possesses technique to play accurately and cleanly or to thrill listeners, and an artist, a
musician who uses technique to convey a perceived meaning in music. The same
message was taught and reinforced by Arraus assistant. Ena Bronstein-Barton recalls,
My first lesson with Rafael de Silva I had brought the Mendelssohn
Variations srieuses, and he asked, What did you work on? And I said,
I worked on this, but just the technique so I would have it to come. And
he looked at me, and said, Hmm, and started walking around the piano,
slowly. I swear, about five minutes went by, and he said, Dear, can you
separate the two? So the technique is never the technique. Its how you
do everything, but its for the musical intention.3

Claudio Arrau and Hilde Somer, Two Artists Talk, The Piano Quarterly 83 (Fall, 1973): 12.
Dean Elder, Pianists at Play: Interviews, Master Lessons, and Technical Regimes (Evanston, Illinois: The
Instrumentalist, 1982), 45.
3
Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.
2

135
Arrau viewed music-making with a seriousness that would not permit him to
embrace the seductions of technical display or to view music as entertainment. He was
uncomfortable even with the suggestion that music could express humor: I, personally,
think that humor has nothing to do with music: humor has to do with words, music with
emotions. People, through associations, find certain contexts in music funny. But Im
against speaking of humor in music unless in an indirect way.4 The integration of
technique with expression and interpretation was characteristic of Arraus teaching, and
his pupils fully assimilated his view that technique aimed not at merely titillating
audiences, nor even at affording the performer greater ease, but at expressing the
ineffable qualities of music. Arrau pupil Edith Fischer spoke of integrating technique
with expression as an ideal that students must be taught to understand and embrace:
What people are looking for doesnt correspond really to what you can
achieve with this [Arraus] technique. And the problem now is to tell
students that they are musicians first of all, then pianists, because they
play mostly in a very superficial way. They want to play very accurately,
very clean, very fast, eventually very loud. The notion of sound is not at
all the main or the first value, [or] even interpretation. Maybe they play
correctly from the text point of view, but still, music is much more than
that. And then, of course, they dont need this technique [Arraus
technique] to do that . . . . It is important to think about the whole idea of
interpretation that is behind it [technique], because otherwise, it doesnt
mean a thing. The whole idea of listening: I say so many times, when you
play you must have the impression that you have a string quartet in your
hands; and the cello, even if he has three notes in that passage, he is
playing those three notes because for him they are important. Youve got
to listen like that. The playing is sometimes so incomplete . . . for instance
just melody, [or] just the rhythmical thing is important, or the precision.
But what is precision? There are so many things that should be
[considered] together.5

4
5

Elder, Pianists at Play, 51.


Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.

136
Other listeners also perceived a unity of technique and expression in Arraus
playing. Prior to 1958, a review appeared in Nieuwe Courant in The Hague6 that
compared the playing of Arrau to that of Rosenthal and Godowsky. The reviewer pointed
out Arraus balanced and versatile technique and its integration with poetic conception.
Arrau, he said, equaled his predecessors in devilish technique, in the worship of sound,
but his motive is more for the poetic. The finger, wrist, and arm playing, the rustling
lightness and thundering force, the united sculpture, are . . . unique, and the triumphant
victory over the mechanic . . . amazing. By this time, Arrau was a mature artist in his
mid-fifties and at the height of his powers. About sixteen years later, Peter G. Davis made
a similar comparison and also observed an integrated quality in Arraus playing: For
nearly half a century, New York has been essentially a three-pianist town: Arthur
Rubinstein for grandly scaled romantic splendor, Vladimir Horowitz for frenzied
virtuosity and Rudolf Serkin for rigorous intellectual stimulation of the spirit. . . . Arrau .
. . managed to combine the most distinctive elements of his three famous colleagues.7
When discussing technique either in their teaching or in casual conversation,
Arraus pupils refer to beliefs they share in common as the Arrau technique and they
use a common language when referring to its various elements. Words such as
vibration, circles, circular motion, rotation, and relaxation encapsulate a
complex of concepts, physical sensations, and physical movements. The use of a single
word calls up a group of related responses. For Arrau, the teaching of technique was
inextricably bound with the musical approach he was trying to convey to students. It

The review was quoted in a publicity flier for Arraus Carnegie Hall performance of February 7, 1958.
The undated flier is located in the clippings files of the New York Public Library at Lincoln Center. The
original review containing the quotation could not be located.
7
Peter G. Davis, Birthday Bach Greetings, New York (March 14, 1983): 58-59.

137
served as a point of departure and provided not only a means for students to accomplish
what he demanded of them, but also as a mode of communication whereby Arrau was
able to convey his musical directions. The experience of Goodwin Sammel illustrates
this point. When Sammel auditioned for Arrau in 1945, Arrau asked whether he thought
he needed a different technique and Sammel replied, somewhat waggishly, that he
preferred to improve the technique he already had. Arrau settled the matter by stating
definitively that Sammel needed a different one.8 This technique would serve not only to
enhance the quality of Sammels performance, but also as a basis and means for
understanding between himself and Arrau.
A LESSON ON CHOPINS SECOND BALLADE, OP. 38
Arraus technique consisted of physical movements that could be used to draw
various kinds of sound from the piano. Sounds and their corresponding movements
functioned not only as the expression of the music but as a medium of communication
between teacher and pupil. Specific sounds and movements were linked to the verbal
labels that identified them and these three together formed a language of musical
expression. In a lesson given to Mario Miranda on Chopins second Ballade,9 Arrau
speaks of the motion of the arm when playing the thirds in the right-hand passage in m.
47, Do you fall down? The thirds go up.

Goodwin Sammel, lecture at Greenwich House Music School in New York City, April 12, 2003.
This lesson is preserved on tape. It is undated but probably took place sometime during the 1960s. Some
parts of the tape are inaudible. The lesson was conducted in Spanish. The translation into English is a result
of a joint effort by students of German Diez in July of 2003; they are Angelina Tallaj, Laura Ahumada,
Cesar Reyes, and Marcia Lewis. All of Arraus remarks concerning Chopins second Ballade are quoted
from this lesson.
9

138
Example 3.1 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, m. 47

Arrau then explains the difference this makes to the sound, When you do it up the third
comes out clearer. You hear it better. It gets a fuller, round sound. Mirandas ability to
interpret these directions and the explanation that followed depended on learning in
previous lessons how to execute motions designated by the words fall down and go
up and what kinds of sounds would result when these motions were done correctly.
Arraus explanation connects a sound experienced under the description fuller, round
with the bodily motion needed to produce it. His instruction is dictated by an interpretive
concept of the work that contains the passage in question as an integral part and requires
the thirds to have a quality of fullness and roundness, rather than some other quality, such
as brilliance, sharpness, thinness, or brightness.10 Arraus students internalized such
10

In this case, saying that the sound is round is a qualification of what Arrau is asking Miranda to do.
Arrau says, Go up. Will this physical motion produce a round sound? Arraus pupils say that the upward
motion, in contrast to the downward motion, produces a stronger, sharper accent (see ch. 2, p. 109). But
Arraus stipulation of round suggests that this sharpness is not desired. The quality of the sound must
be reconciled with the instruction go up in the only way possible, by judging whether the speed of the
upward arm motion, the muscular state of the arm, hand, and fingers, and the closeness of the fingers to the
keys produce a tone sufficiently free of mechanical noise. But then, why not go down as Miranda seems
to have tried at first? The reason, perhaps, is that placing an upward motion in one part of this group of four
sixteenth notes requires a downward motion in another part. The down motion is a necessary consequence
of or preparation for another up motion, and vice-versa. In effect, placing the up motion on the third, as
Arrau suggests, has the effect of blending the up and down motions together to create a circular arm motion
that is counterclockwise. Placing the down motion on the thirds will turn the circle around clockwise so
that the upward portion coincides with the thumb. This is physically awkward, and the force of the up

139
connections among musical sounds, verbal descriptions, and physical motions to such an
extent that a reference to one category would evoke the other two.
This three-part synthesis -- sound, descriptive label, and physical motion -corresponds to the triadic semiotic function of music set forth by Naomi Cumming,
following Charles Peirces triadic division of signs into representamen, object, and
interpretant and his second trichotomy of signs as icon (likeness), index (response or
reference), and symbol (conventional association). A sign (representamen) may signify as
an icon through likeness to its object, as an index by pointing out an object, or as a
symbol through conventional substitution for its object. Interpretants, ideas that connect
signs with their objects, enable signs to be understood. Musical sounds function as signs
by virtue of a perceived sonic inflection or quality. Their interpretants are, in part, the
learned ideas that serve as preconditions for sounds (signs) being understood as rich,
round, full, thin, brittle, clear, muddy, dull, dry, bright, metallic, sweet, singing, rough,
sharp, hard, flat. The signified object is the sonic quality itself and its accompanying
mental concepts identified by verbal description. Such sonic qualities as rich, round, full,
thin, dull, etc., in their musical contexts are open to further interpretation as pain,
aggressiveness, submissiveness, joy, sorrow, etc. Cumming notes that, whereas linguistic
signs draw attention to the ideas conveyed rather than their own signifying properties,
musical signs draw attention to their own qualities: She writes, They do not invite a
mode of attention suitable to language, one of reflective thought about the idea conveyed
in an abstract term (although that need not be dogmatically excluded). Instead, they ask
for a closer attention to their own phenomenology, drawing the listener into the qualities

motion tends to accent the figure in the wrong places. Therefore, it seems Arrau is aiming for a motion that
gives ease and accentuates the hemiola, but modifying it with the words, round sound.

140
of a sign. Thus, with a musical sound, the verbal description stands for a quality of
musical sound as the object of signification but it is not a fixed meaning, and it does not
render the sign itself superfluous; musical sound remains the object of primary interest.11
Arraus description, fuller, round, draws attention to a quality of sound. For
Miranda, both prior piano study and general notions of how round and full might
apply to piano sound supply interpretants that allow a sound quality to be understood as
having those attributes.12 He would experience the sound as aural sensation, as bodily

11

Naomi Cumming, The Sonic Self (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2000), 72-76.
Cumming notes problems with semiotic approaches to music pointed out by Ann Clark, Monroe Beardsley,
and Stephen Davies: the lack of semantic content in music, the inability of music to take account of an
object, lack of any practical distinction between a sound and its heard quality, and the suggestion that music
points beyond itself. She defends a Peircean view as follows: the relationship of sign to object is not
necessarily reference to a concrete thing; the sound has many attributes in its potential to signify; the
metaphorically described object is a quality and an emergent property of the sound as heard; the object
is created by the performer and this can be done only through attention to the medium of sound and not
through over-involvement with idealized images; recognizing signification is not a private act but a
realization of ways of hearing established within a speech (and performance) community.
12
What interpretants Mr. Miranda possessed in order to judge whether his sound would be round and full
cannot be known. One might try to construct an idea of them by imagining oneself in the position of
seeking this sound. One might ask what determines the choice of the word round as opposed to square.
Square and round are visible, not audible, attributes. One cannot see sound, so how would one distinguish
a round from a square sound, if there were such a thing? Perhaps the word opposing the round sound is not
a word from the domain of shapes, but from some other domain of description, such as hard or sharp.
That may be the mark of there being a special musical language in play wherein the dualisms of other
domains do not apply.
In an effort to get to the meaning of round as applied to sound, one could imagine a sound that
materializes in such a way that one is unable to pinpoint exactly the instant in which it came to be, just as a
circle or sphere has no obvious point of beginning.
The piano mechanism works against this concept of sound because a hammer hits metal strings
producing audible noise that clearly articulates the beginning of a tone (tone meaning the sound of the
string vibrating as distinct and separate from the noise of attack). Further noise may result from the fingers
tapping or hitting the surface of the keys and the keys impacting with the key bed. There are various means
to camouflage and minimize those noises: use of the damper pedal to amplify the tone in relation to the
noise; use of the shift pedal in forte to gain the vibration of a string without its being struck; slightly
overlapping tones to camouflage the noise of attack; maintaining contact with the keys to minimize the
tapping of the fingers; maintaining a flexibility in the arm, wrist, and hand that allows maximum key speed
while minimizing the impact and resulting noise of the key in the key bed. (Ortmann believed that his
measurements showed it possible to move the key faster in the top of its descent and more slowly in the
bottom so as to minimize the noise of the key in the key bed). Mr. Miranda might decide in the
circumstances which of these means to employ.
Is the resultant sound round? If it comes into being without conspicuous noise in its attack, and
if, like the circular or spherical shape, one cannot pinpoint the exact instant of its beginning, then perhaps
one can say that it is and that its interpretant is based on an analogy with round shapes. What other
justification there would be for calling the sound round, square, or anything else? It can be said that we
experience a particular quality of sound as round; therefore, the sound IS round and the object of these

141
motion (the technical means used to produce it), and as the quality named to describe it.
The named quality may lead in turn to further associations. Through such pedagogical
interactions (as well as other types of interaction that similarly frame awareness and
perception of objects in the world), students build up an expressive vocabulary containing
elements of established practice, practical expedience, and personal creativity. The use of
language by teacher and student may be maximal, referring to qualities of sounds, their
descriptive labels, and the motions needed to produce them, or -- when a student has
acquired proficiency with the expressive language -- minimal, in which a reference to one
of these categories evokes the others.
Example 3.2 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, mm. 51-54.

meditations is a quality of sound, not round objects. Alternatively, it might be said that a sound cannot
literally be round and its description as round is metaphorical, imported from another domain where things
are literally round. But still, the main focus is the musical sound; the verbal label is for identification
purposes, and for making a pianist listen for a quality of sound and act in new ways. If the label is an apt
description, it is all the better.

142
In the same lesson quoted above, the following rather minimal exchange was
clear to both Arrau and his student.
Arrau: Yes, but here [mm. 51-54; Example 3.2] do you do it with circles also?
Miranda: Yes.
Arrau: But then at the very end, naturally, you change to rotation.
Miranda: Of course.
Making sense of this as a musical interaction requires a knowledge of the physical
responses indicated by circles and rotation as well as their significance as gestures.
As technical gestures or motions, they fit the range and direction of the particular motivic
units by reinforcing the fingers and placing them in a strong position to play the notes. As
expressive gestures, they are flexible in size and shape and, therefore, capable of
producing sonic inflections suited to the musical motivic units. They return to the player
a physical sensation of gesture that becomes identified with the expressive motivation:
circular motions subsume larger groups of notes in single smooth, expansive, rolling,
wave-like shapes; rotation breaks up these waves and enacts pairs of notes in shorter,
faster, more turbulent motions. Having mastered the basic movements indicated by the
words circle and rotation, a player is free to experiment with subtle variations in size,
shape, and balance of the movements to emphasize particular notes as desired, to increase
volume approaching them, to decrease volume falling away from them, and, by this
means, to shape the sound and alter the expression.
For Arraus pupils, building up a system of three-way connections sounds, the
physical means of producing them, and their expressive potentials was a process of
training and socialization. Arrau used master classes and other kinds of interactions as
social and pedagogical vehicles to transmit to his students the beliefs and practices that
bound them together as a group. As such, they reinforced these beliefs and practices in

143
each other. What Arrau had built up in his playing and what his students acquired
amounted to a language of expression that united the technical and musical. As Ivan
Nuez expressed it,
The thing is that the technique incorporates the music into it somehow.
Its part of the musical thing somehow. Its not two things, music and
hitting the keys. The way we play encompasses everything and its one
unit. . . . Youre one thing with the music, your body, your playing, its
one.13
Technique and expression have often been taught, practiced, and discussed as
separate domains, divided along the lines of the familiar mind/body duality. Technique
was considered only a bodily activity, while expression (predetermined by an act of
interpretation) was an activity of the mind. However, Arrau consciously attended to both
the physical and musical sides of playing in his teaching, either by addressing both
directly or by subtly drawing one out of the other, and he often spoke of the danger of
separating them. The continuity of bodily movement and musical expression is
manifested in scholarly writing by use of the term gesture, a term referring primarily to
bodily movement but also used to designate musical units of various kinds.
David Lidov has proposed, Music is significant only if we identify perceived
sonorous motion with somatic [bodily] experience.14 He develops a concept of icon
as a melodic pattern shaped by a performer into an expressive gesture.15 To be realized
as gestural, a pattern must be embodied, or capable of being embodied, in a
performance act that conveys a unitary impulse.16 Citing Lidovs work, Naomi Cumming
relates the icon to the listening experience through what she calls indices of action
13

Ivan Nuez, interview in New York City, February 26, 2003.


David Lidov, Mind and Body in Music, Semiotica 66/1-3: 70. This article was reprinted in David
Lidov, Is Language a Music? (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2005), 145-64.
15
Ibid., 70.
16
Ibid., 77. Quoted by Naomi Cumming in The Sonic Self, 136.
14

144
aspects of a performers manner of acting out a gesture that are sensed by a listener and
lead to the formation of some conclusion. The icon thus creates a haptic image, an
image shaped and conveyed by a performer through an act of touch.17 Cumming defines
gestures as relatively autonomous melodic shapes that present simply recognized
patterns of directional motion, energy (tempo, or degree of pitch change), and emphasis.
She cites musical style as a factor in determining gestures, appropriate manners of
performance, and their affective connotation.18 A gesture is realized by selecting one
performance act from a range of possibilities, and it is thus both a unique event and a
representation of a gestural type.19 Cumming identifies physical actions, notated
elements, and stylistic conventions as constituents of gesture.
. . . an interaction is set up between three different, but interrelated, senses
of gesture, which cannot be realized effectively apart from one another:
a gesture is an inflected performance of some patterning, uniquely
realized in a moment of time; it is a notated feature, closely aligned with a
figuration or motif; it is also an aspect of melodic patterning that is
systematically developed in some styles, in ornaments or short
conventional figurations.20
From this perspective, musical style can be seen as a product of both
compositional style and performance practice. On the performance side, it is a function
and prerogative of teaching to build up a vocabulary of physical actions linked to notated
features as gestural types and to identify them with images and concepts. These images
may derive from prior understandings of a musical work that are part of its performance
practice or of performance practice generally; they may have literary or pictorial sources
17

Cumming, The Sonic Self, 134-38.


If musical style means compositional style, it must be allowed that compositional style and performance
are mutually influential in determining gesture. One cannot conceive of music composed other than from
the standpoint of how it would be performed. Performances have the power to shape and alter the gestural
shape of a given work, as Czerny noted. See ch. 1, p. 18.
19
Cumming, The Sonic Self, 136-37.
20
Ibid., 138.
18

145
that are part of the lore surrounding a work; they may suggest a scenario that establishes a
tone for an entire work, or may simply suggest a mode of expression for a smaller
segment; they may spring spontaneously from a performers imagination as an expression
of some analogy between an element of the work and a perceived feature of the external
world. Pedagogy transmits performance practice and tradition one musical work at a
time, through instruction designed both for individual works and for works generally; and
simultaneously it exemplifies for the student a model for creative study and for preparing
performances. Some examples may be seen in Arraus lesson with Mario Miranda on
Chopins second Ballade.
Arrau: Chopins music is really not programmatic so the connection to
something programmatic is too distant and too indirect. But then, there is
the story of the enchanted lake. At the end of the story something
submerges itself in the water again. Have you ever read it? 21
Miranda: No.
Arrau: I tell it to you because its one way to get closer to the music.
Thats why in this whole section there should be no agitato or almost
none. Lets do the beginning again.
While cautioning against viewing the work as program music, Arrau offers a
poetic image as the reason to avoid any feeling of agitation. By referring to the enchanted
21

It has been a tradition that this Ballade was inspired by Switez, or The Legend of Lake Switez, adapted by
Mickiewicz from a popular ballad. The poem is summarized as follows:
Often at night out of a thick enveloping mist the lake of Switez emits the hum of a city, the tumult of
warriors, the cries of women, the tolling of bells and the clash of arms. The lord to whom the lake belongs,
eager to probe its mystery, assembles a fleet of barges to drag the waters depths. When the nets are drawn
to the surface a woman is revealed, of luminous complexion, with lips of coral and flaxen hair. She speaks
to the terrified crowd telling them that where this lake now stands there once stood a city famous for the
valor of its warriors and the virtue of its women. One day its ruler, Prinz Tuhan, and his knights were called
away by the Lithuanian king to help him give battle against the invading army of the Czar. The prince was
sorely grieved to leave Switez unprotected, but his daughter the lady of the lake herself bade him go
without fear, for in a vision she had beheld an angel bare his sword and spread his golden pinions over the
town as a symbol of protection. That very night the Russians battered their way into Switez. Rather than
suffer death at the hands of the invader, the defenseless inhabitants resolved to slay themselves. But the
princess prayed that the Lord himself would destroy them. Suddenly the town disappeared, swallowed into
the earth. In its stead a lake arose margined with water-lilies, into which the wives and daughters of Switez
had been changed. As the Russians touched these lilies, thinking to adorn their helmets, they were struck
down with sickness and perished. Tilly Fleishmann, Aspects of the Liszt Tradition, ed. Michael ONeill
(Bryn Mawr, Pa.: Theodore Presser, 1991), 38-39. See also, James Parakilas, Ballads Without Words:
Chopin and the Tradition of the Instrumental Ballade (Portland, Oreg.: Amadeus Press, 1992), 32-38.

146
lake, Arrau creates an aura of distance, tragedy, and folk legend, particular references that
the score alone cannot specify; he also suggests certain qualities of sound and physical
sensation will be appropriate in performing the work. In order to avoid an agitato feeling,
Arrau suggests performing the dotted rhythm motive as follows:
Arrau: We have to be very careful of the rhythm that it doesnt go bum ba
bum bum [Arrau sings a more percussive rendition] but dah da dah dah
[Arrau sings in a more drawn-out fashion], not too sharp.
Example 3.3 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, mm. 1-4

As in Cummings model, Arrau identifies the motive of m. 4 as a gesture, a


melodic shape with autonomy and direction, and allies it with sustained, connected
sounds not sharp sounds that will require certain physical responses to create them.
The melodic gesture is interpreted as an expression of calm, not by invoking
compositional style, but by alluding to a connection between the music and a literary
work. By the articulation of his singing, Arrau transmits to his pupil a sense of the
gesture, of a sound united with a bodily motion, that can function as a sign, both within
the limited context of this specific work and within the larger context of their ongoing
communication.
From this instruction, the physical motion cannot be known precisely because
Arrau did not say what it was. The student may have deduced it from other information

147
not perceptible on a tape recording. For example, the student enjoyed the advantage of
seeing Arraus facial expressions and bodily gestures, which may have provided clues to
the physical motions; he might have known an appropriate motion from previous lessons
at which Arrau specified bodily motions for this type of gesture. Thus, in the request for a
quality of sound, a type of physical motion was implicit. It might be speculated that the
motion would involve 1) maintaining contact with the keys by the fingers to maximize
control of the key speed, and 2) releasing enough arm weight to achieve a substantial yet
soft sound and to slow the key speed, thereby minimizing the sound of the attack. The
player might also experience the motion of the arms as slow and any upward rebounding
from the long notes as slow and of small size to avoid disrupting the aura of expectant
calm by an inappropriately dance-like rhythm or flirtatious character. The process of
listening for and selecting the desired sound and practicing to reproduce it at will results
in creating a musical gesture that embodies both notated and performed elements and
that, for the performer, unites sound, bodily motion, and emotive experience.
As a corollary of his instruction that there should be no agitato, Arrau addresses
the matter of legato. Of interest is his objection to relying on the pedal to create legato
rather than maintaining legato with the hands. What is at issue is whether the performer
can achieve a legato without feeling or enacting it physically. Considering that musical
tension must not result in physical tension (see ch. 2, p. 89; see also, Appendix Two, p.
294), one might conclude by extension that legato need not require physically connecting
notes as long as the sounds are convincingly connected by the pedal. Nevertheless, Arrau
makes the following general statement:
Arrau: Then we have to deal with something that you do sometimes, not
all the time: that you trust in the pedal for the legato. Remember that we

148
were talking about that, that if you let go with your hands, you dont feel
the legato.
Example 3.4 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, mm. 5-7.

He continues by noting a specific case in which legato is to be maintained by the


hands, not by the pedal only:
Arrau: [In m. 6, counting the anacrusis as m. 1] You let go of the keys. I
think I know why you do it, because the slur keeps on going and you feel
the need of breathing. I think that is just this edition. Would you like to see
other editions? I have the manuscript. You expect to breathe there [after
the C-A sixth, m. 6, b. 4-5] but there is no breathing there. Something new
starts, but keep the tension going.
This instruction reveals different understandings of legato as an expressive value and as
connected sounds. The pedal can connect the tones in question even though the fingers
leave the keys; however, when descending onto the keys from above, the speed of key
depression and the volume of sound are not controlled as minutely as when the fingers
are in contact with the keys before key depression begins. Thus, the legato might be
interrupted by changes in dynamic. However, if letting go of the keys in this case
causes no audible interruptions or increased percussiveness in the sound (i. e., the
physical connectedness of the sounds is not disturbed), then Arrau must be concerned
with a psychological dimension in which the expression of legato is bound to the physical
gesture of connecting the sounds. The mention of feeling the need of breathing

149
suggests that Arrau is not reacting to the students actual articulation of sound but to his
feeling or expressive intent; Arraus objection implies that the player experiences this
moment as a breath, whether he is conscious of it or not, and whether or not the sound is
actually continuous.
If, in order to convey to a listener the feeling of legato, a performer must feel a
physical sensation of maintaining contact with the keys, then it seems logical to conclude
that communication with a listener necessitates that a performer really feel what is to be
communicated. But it also seems clear that different expressive qualities must answer to
different rules. As noted above, a performance may convey a sense of musical tension,
but the performer should not feel the tension physically, for doing so can affect
performance adversely through loss of control or by contributing to unhealthy playing
habits. Therefore, communicating a sense of legato differs from communicating a sense
of musical tension in that the former must be physically felt by the player, while the latter
must not.
An additional interpretation of Arraus instruction is that Arrau is concerned
about maintaining contact with the keys versus lifting the hands from the keys as visual
symbols perceptible to listeners in a live performance.22 When a listener sees a player lift
22

John Sloboda writes: Davidson (1991, 1993) has recently shown that not all of the expressive intent of
a performance is necessarily contained within the sound parameters. Her studies demonstrated that the
body movements made by performers while playing contribute to the expressivity of the performance as
judged by observers. Movements of wrist, torso, and head tend to be systematic and related to specific
structural features of the music. It is as if such body movements draw the observers attention to particular
parts of the music, enhancing their salience. Even when performers are asked to play the music deadpan
(i. e., without expression), small but detectable body movements still occur. These are of exactly the same
type as the movements observed when the performer is asked to play expressively and occur at the same
points in the music. Just as in the Gabrielson (1974) study . . . these movements seem to have become
automatic. Davidsons results raise some interesting questions about the context of musical performance.
Do they help explain why live performances are often so much more engaging than recorded ones? Does
our societys increasing dependence on audio recordings of music mean that a whole dimension of musical
expressivity is being downplayed or abandoned? John Sloboda, Music Performance: Expression and the
Development of Excellence, in Musical Perceptions, eds. Rita Aiello and John A. Sloboda (New York:

150
his or her hands, the listener interprets this as an intentional articulation or breath. In this
case, the musical sign has both visual and aural components, raising the possibility that
musical communication depends in some part on visible bodily movements experienced
directly by performers and vicariously by listeners. In this context it is interesting to
recall Lidovs statement that music has significance only in terms of somatic
experience, because of the importance it claims for physical sensation in creating and
determining the musical aesthetic experience for both performer and listener. It calls into
question whether a listener can fully grasp the physical dimension of a musical
performance if the performer is not visible and, moreover, whether listeners who have
never experienced music in live performance can grasp its significance at all.23
In the Ballades alternating sections in a minor, technical skills are put to the test
in executing demanding passages both skillfully and expressively. Consequently, Arrau is
more specific in prescribing technical movements, not only for ease and accuracy in
executing the passages, but for creating the sounds and bodily sensations to present the
gesture convincingly.

Oxford University Press, 1994), 159. For a discussion of bodily gesture types, see Franois Delalande,
Meaning and Behavior Patterns: The Creation of Meaning in Interpreting and Listening to Music, in
Musical Signification: Essays in the Semiotic Theory and Analysis of Music, ed. Eero Tarasti (Berlin and
New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 1995), 219-28.
23
Thomas Christensen points out the importance of physical experience in music reception. Christensen
argues that piano transcriptions promoted a genric transfer of personal expression associated with chamber
music to the hitherto public and monumental symphonic repertory. In discussing the kinetic element in
performing four-hand piano transcriptions of orchestral works, he states, No orchestral musician, it seems
to me, can attain the sense of authority achieved by two pianists reenacting--and hence controllinga
performance of a large symphonic work. Perhaps not even the conductor can truly be said to have such
ultimately visceral control. . . . In our own culture of mechanical . . . reproduction of music, we have lost
much of the tactile, personalized understanding of the music repertory that musicians of the nineteenth
century who played piano transcriptions may have taken for granted. Our relation to the concert repertory
we consume tends to be passive and disembodied. . . . Among many issues raised by Christensen, there is
the question whether concentrating on history and musical form in music appreciation classes adequately
serves students who lack any physical experience of the music. Thomas Christensen, Four-Hand Piano
Transcription and Geographies of Nineteenth-Century Musical Reception, Journal of the American
Musicological Society 52/2 (Summer, 1999): 283, 286.

151

Example 3.5 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, m. 48.

Arrau: The second measure [m. 48], right hand, do you do it only with
rotation?
Miranda: Yes.
Arrau: Because sometimes we dont hear the sixths. For that I really
recommend you . . .
Miranda: I practiced 1, 2, just placing the 5 there [these numbers refer to
fingers].
Arrau: Thats good as an exercise, but now lets do an experiment. Try it
this way accenting up on the sixths. Check that you dont stiffen the
wrist. That gives you more security because youre already up and over
the keys. I know I have a different hand from yours but, from my
experience, I think that you will have more security doing it up than just
with rotation. But youll work it out.
Here Arrau seems to ask for a vertical movement in combination with rotation.
Rotation alone would draw the 2 and 5 away from the sixths while the thumb plays,
making accuracy and power on the sixths questionable. By asking the student to accent
up on the sixths, Arrau refers to a quick motion of the whole arm up (or forward with
the wrist reacting by moving upward), so that the weight of the arm is applied in an
upward direction, replacing some of the rotation motion and allowing fingers 2 and 5 to
be positioned on the sixths before playing them. Arrau seems to dismiss the idea of
practicing the 1-2 sequence alone, and one could speculate that he does so because it

152
tends to balance the weight on those fingers, leaving the fifth finger unsupported so that,
as Arrau noted, the sixths cannot be heard clearly.
Arrau: That second measure [m. 48]: practice it really slowly,
exaggerating the difference between the two movements. This is a really
good exercise in doing different movements with your two hands. Another
very important thing: that second measure, you have to start no more than
mezzo forte, and the fourth measure, too [m. 50, which contains the same
figuration].
The motions that Arrau calls different for the right and left hand actually have
similar elements: the left hand uses clockwise circular motions that, like the right-hand
motion described above, are composites of rotational and up-down movements; however,
motions of the two hands create a hemiola, the circular left-hand motion grouping the
notes by three, while the rotational right-hand motion groups them by two. This
technique is both a means for a powerful and controlled delivery engaging the large
muscles of the upper arm, shoulders, and back, as well as a gestural acting out of the
hemiola in which the player experiences in his entire torso a powerful sense of conflicting
accents that contribute to the rising turbulence in m. 48.
In the fifth measure [m. 51; see Example 3.2] you keep fortissimo with the
right hand. Start mezzo forte with the left hand. Here too, you have to find
a fingering that is convenient for you [octaves in the left hand]. I think it
would be convenient to have the fifth [finger] on the B, and the A with 4,
and the next B with 5 again [left hand, m. 51]. But I see that the big
problem is going from the G-sharp to the B with the 5. The sensation you
have to have is not that you are hitting each octave but that you are
playing a melodic line. Its as if you had a bag full of sand on the
keyboard. But here, more than in other passages! Because if you play
heh heh heh [percussive octaves] it sounds horrible. Its fifty times
harder work to do it like that. All this while, the right hand is playing
fortissimo [mm. 51-54]. Keep the right hand loud.
In telling his student how to play the left-hand octaves, Arrau purposefully
cultivates an awareness of bodily sensation. By requesting that the passage start mezzo

153
forte and referring to playing a melodic line as a sensation, he indicates that
successfully communicating a legato in this passage is more dependent upon the bodily
feeling of a horizontal direction and dynamic shaping than upon the actual connection of
sounds. The image of having a bag full of sand on the keyboard is meant to activate the
muscles of the upper arm (as one would use big muscles to lift a very weighty object),
and to minimize any vertical forearm motions in playing the octaves as the weight of the
imagined sand bag would hold the hand and fingers close to the keys. The experience of
the musical expression of this passage is therefore grounded in the bodily experience of
controlling the dynamic shaping by manipulating the weight of the arm with the muscles
of the upper arm and shoulder while the fingers remain close to the keys.
In a further example, Arrau gives instructions that, while appearing purely
mechanical, actually represent a particular interpretation of the passage. Examining these
instructions in light of corresponding details in the score shows how techniques of
manipulating tempo and dynamics are used to bring out notated elements with
conventional meanings that can be seen as significant in the context of the entire work.

Example 3.6 Chopin, Ballade, Op. 38, mm. 94-98.

Arrau: First measure, page 33 . . . [m. 95], the second half is hard to do.
There has to be a small rallentando and an emergence of the left hand. A
little bit of crescendo in the second half of the measure [mm. 95-96]. On

154
the three Cs, the left hand should crescendo, the right hand the opposite.
So then, the left hand diminishes a little bit and there is a little bit of
hesitation within the modulation.
While Arraus instructions appear purely mechanical, they actually present a way
of understanding and interpreting this passage in accordance with his previous remarks
about the character of the work. Arrau does not spell out his expressive intentions, but it
is telling to observe which notated features are brought out by his instructions.
A diminished seventh chord, written for the right hand in m. 96, suddenly derails
the expected cadence. Rather than make the diminished seventh louder to emphasize the
surprise (as the hairpin might suggest), Arrau recommends preparing it with a small
rallentando and then decreasing volume on the diminished seventh. He prepares for the
hairpin with a crescendo on the left-hand Cs, thus drawing attention to the bass register in
which the dotted eighth-sixteenth motive (which Arrau drew attention to and treated as a
gesture in an earlier comment) will now appear, played three times by the left hand
during a three-measure pause on the diminished seventh. The slight hesitation requested
by Arrau in mm. 96-98 underscores the lingering on the diminished seventh by somewhat
lengthening it.
This example is a practical illustration of both Lidovs concept of icon as a
melodic pattern shaped by a performer into an expressive gesture and Cummings triadic
model of gesture as physical action, notated feature, and stylistic convention. Arraus
instructions point out musical features that are both iconic (likeness) and symbolic
(stylistic convention): the dominant seventh, an unstable dissonance, creates motion
toward or desire for closure on the tonic; the diminished seventh with its multiple
possibilities of resolution is ambiguous, and its use in this context brings about

155
frustration or interruption of closure.24 Arrau exploits dynamics and rubato to intensify
these qualities. By executing the progression from dominant seventh to diminished
seventh with a decrease of tempo and dynamic level, Arrau treats it as a movement from
tension to rest, a treatment normal for a resolution of the dominant seventh to tonic. But
the diminished seventh cannot be heard as a point of repose, and quieting it down cannot
be heard as closure. Thus, Arrau creates a tension that could be heard as repressed
anxiety, anomaly, or phantasm.
Simultaneously, a crescendo by the left hand both draws attention to the
placement of the theme in the bass register, where it takes on a mano sinistra
association, and introduces a sense of foreboding or menace.25 A durational emphasis
on mm. 96-98 dramatizes the tonal ambiguity and enacts it as a moment of indecision or
circumspection, of pondering a response to peril or doubt.
Arraus instructions invite an interpretation of the passage that may resonate with
that of the entire work. Without specifying programmatic details of interpretation or
presenting the work as program music, his suggestion of the image of the enchanted lake
in Mickiewiczs poem evokes other images and creates a context for his subsequent
instructions. While their technical implications are clear, Arrau does not spell out the
interpretive meaning of his instructions. One could accept them merely as helpful
technical suggestions; however, considering Arraus principle that technique and
interpretation form a unity, his instructions invite interpretation. Following the lead of
Lidov and Cumming, the interpreter may consider qualities and conventions associated
24

Deryck Cooke gives evidence for the conventional use of the tritone or diminished seventh to express
alien, eerie, hostile and disruptive forces in The Language of Music (London and New York: Oxford
University Press, 1959), 84-89.
25
Cooke also comments on conventional use of the low register to evoke feelings of darkness, heaviness,
earthiness, or evil. Ibid., 110-11.

156
with harmonic and registral elements to create a context of iconic and symbolic
representation in which Arraus instructions may be read as introducing a layer of
indexical signs: rallentando and crescendo function as signs that point out the harmonic
and melodic elements to which they are applied, and they demand active responses to an
observable state of affairs in order for their sense to be understood.26 Thus the quality
pointed out by the decrescendo can be understood as secrecy, deception, sotto voce; that
indicated by rallentando, as hesitancy, anxiety, doubt, foreboding.
In his teaching, Arrau professed a unity of expression and technique. Bodily
motions were united with sound qualities; sound qualities were named by verbal
descriptions. Both physical movement and sound quality served as a medium of
communication between Arrau and his students. Theories about gesture and signs
advanced by Lidov and Cumming explain and support this unity and its communicative
function. They are a reminder of the expressive significance of bodily movement and of
elements that appear as purely mechanical. Arraus students possessed an awareness of
this significance, for they experienced the technique not as gymnastics but as the
embodiment of interpretation. As Nuez noted, The technique incorporates the music
into it . . . the music, your body . . . its one.

26

Cumming, The Sonic Self, 90.

157
FOUR
ARRAUS COLLABORATION WITH RAFAEL DE SILVA
Arrau once referred to his teaching as having a system.1 This system was partially
a product of his own process of making his technique conscious, a process that began
during a period of personal and professional crisis. Martin Krauses death in 1918
deprived the fifteen-year-old protg of a powerful mentor and father figure, who had
taught him, housed him, protected him, and directed his performing career. Arrau was
becoming a young adult, and audiences no longer responded with the enthusiasm they
afforded him as a precocious child. Without Krause, Arraus performing career began to
founder and he questioned the viability of a pianistic career. Moreover, Arrau was
developing psychological troubles and in 1924 began seeing a psychiatrist, Hubert
Abrahamsohn, in Dsseldorf.
These troubles were intensified by politics and the economy. The aftermath of
World War I in Germany was a period of economic depression and unemployment during
which Hitler began to consolidate political power. In 1921, Arraus stipend from the
Chilean government ended and he faced the responsibility of supporting his mother and
sister, who lived with him in Berlin.2 In the midst of these difficulties, three things
happened: Arrau began teaching at the Stern Conservatory,3 where he met Rudolf
Breithaupt and learned of Breithaupts theories about piano technique; he developed
friendships with pianists Grete Sultan and Rafael de Silva that would remain important

1
2
3

Horowitz, Conversations, 186.


Ibid., 46-7, 53.

Arrau taught at the Stern Conservatory from 1924 until 1940. Kenneth Marchant, The Beethoven Editions
of Schnabel and Arrau: A Comparison of Ten Selected Piano Sonatas (Ph.D. diss., Indiana University,
1984), 6.

158
for the rest of his life; and he began to investigate his own piano playing in order to
understand consciously the technique he had always used unconsciously and so
successfully as a child.
GRETE SULTAN
Grete Sultan (1906-2005) was a pupil of Leonid Kreutzer,4 Edwin Fischer,5 and
the American pianist Richard Buhlig.6 She recalled growing up in a well-to-do and
musical Jewish family.
Everybody played in my family. My uncles, my aunts, my sisters and
brother, everybody played. Some played violin, cello, and not all were
professional musicians. They all played, but they were doctors.
Two [of my] aunts were students of Clara Schumann. They were from my
mothers family. They all lived for a century in the Rhineland. . . . Lotte
Jacobi, Clara Jacobi. I still have a letter from Clara Schumann that she
wrote to my grandmother. It was just a very friendly letter about the
children. . . . I think it was just about one of her last letters. One of her
daughters kept on writing. On my fathers side they also were very
musical: doctors, surgeons that played the piano.7
Sultan reports meeting Arrau after a performance when he was in his early teens:
I met him [Arrau] pretty early. I met him, my memory of him is, I must
have been ten years old. I dont remember a year, so I cant tell it exactly
4

Born in St. Petersburg, March 13, 1884; died in Tokyo, October 30, 1953. The son of German-Jewish
parents, Kreutzer became an influential piano teacher at the Berliner Hochschule fr Musik. His solo
performances were musically and technically demanding, and often dedicated to specific composers or
themes. At some of these, notably in June of 1925, he performed works of contemporaries or modern
composers of his time or of the recent past such as Csar Franck, Claude Debussy, Paul Hindemith, and
Paul Juon..The Nazis targeted him prominently as a cultural enemy: he is one of two pianists whose names
appear in a list of "tidy-up tasks" ("Aufrumungsarbeiten") compiled by Alfred Rosenbergs "Kampfbund
fr deutsche Kultur" (Battle-Union for German Culture). He emigrated to the United States in 1933 and to
Japan in 1938. He is also known as an editor of Chopin's works. He wrote one of the first works on
systematic use of the pedal: Das normale Klavierpedal vom akustischen und sthetischen Standpunkt
(1915).
5
Swiss pianist, born in Basle, October 6, 1886; died in Zurich, January 24, 1960. He studied in Berlin with
Martin Krause, taught at the Stern Conservatory from 1905 to 1914 and at the Hochschule fr Musik
starting in 1931. Fischer published editions of keyboard works by Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart, and
reflections on the Beethoven sonatas, Ludwig van Beethovens Klaviersonaten (Wiesbaden, 1956).
6
Born in Chicago, December 21, 1880; died in Los Angeles, January 30, 1952. Buhlig studied with
Leschetizky and made his debut in Berlin in 1901. He was the teacher of Henry Cowell and John Cage.
Grete Sultans association with John Cage was the result of their mutual relationship with Buhlig.
7
Grete Sultan, interview in New York City, July 6, 2002.

159
but thats an age when I was very eager to play the piano, and I heard
Claudio, and then we met.8
Sultan also claims that it was through her that Arrau met Ruth Schneider, who became his
wife.
In Berlin, Claudio married Ruth Schneider 9 from Frankfurt, whom I knew
before she met Arrau. And when they met, she was a singer, and she
wanted to take piano lessons with me in order to be able to accompany
herself. And I introduced her to Claudio and that was it! . . . She . . .
stopped [singing] when she met Mr. Arrau. That was it! And pretty soon
she had children. Carmen, Mario. They lived in Berlin.10
Sultan remained a friend and confidante to Arrau though she never entered into a
professional relationship with him. She was connected with Martin Krause through her
study with Edwin Fischer, who, like Arrau, had studied with Krause, but there is no
evidence that she shared Arraus principles of piano technique. German Diez recalls a
conversation with Sultan in which they agreed that Fischer and Arrau had nothing in
common technically. While Sultan believes that Krause was not the source of Arraus
technique, Diez thinks that Arraus technique differed from Fischers because Arrau
realized and developed the technique taught by Krause more fully than either Fischer or
Krause himself. As Diez expresses it,
The ideas of Arrau were not Edwin Fischers ideas. The ideas about the
movements that Arrau teaches, that had nothing to do with her [Sultan] in
the sense that she learned from Edwin Fischer. She said she doesnt think
that [Arraus technique] comes from Krause. Edwin Fischer studied with
Krause. But Im sure that everything [taught by Krause], Arrau probably
made it more explicit.11

Ibid.
Arrau married Ruth Schneider in 1937.
10
Grete Sultan, interview in New York City, July 6, 2002.
11
German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.
9

160
This reasoning preserves and supports the belief shared by many of Arraus pupils that
Arraus technique originated with Liszt and was transmitted through Krause.
RAFAEL DE SILVA
Arrau and Rafael de Silva were very likely drawn together because both were
Chilean. Most of the details about de Silvas life are unknown. He was born on June 15,
1901. His city of birth is unknown, but according to Ena Bronstein-Barton, it may have
been Valparaiso.12 He attended several years of law school at the University of Chile in
Santiago before deciding to become a pianist. There is speculation that he changed his
name. Ena Bronstein-Barton says:
Some people say his real name was Rafael Silva de la Cuadra and I dont
know where that comes from, these are things I heard. And then, he
changed it to Rafael de Silva. He added the de to make it sound like a
von. But I cannot tell you if this is gossip or what. I know that he grew
up as a little boy in Valparaiso.13
Grete Sultan agrees that the name was changed so that de Silva would appear as an
aristocrat:
Rafael . . . called himself Rafael DE Silva. Rafael Silva! Thats how I first
knew him. It made him nobility. Like von in German.14
Rafael de Silva left Chile for Berlin in about 1921.15 By this time, Martin Krause
was dead and his daughter, Jennie Krause, had taken over teaching his students. De Silva

12

Rafael de Silva was maybe born in Valparaiso. . . . He and Arrau met when they were young men
studying in Germany in Berlin. . . . and they became friends way back then and worked as a team when it
came to teaching. From many, many years back. He [Rafael] studied with Krauses sister, Jennie Krause .
. . . Later on, de Silva never performed much. I think he really suffered very badly from nerves, from
performance anxiety, and although he was able to help his students with it, I think he never really
conquered it himself. He became Arraus teaching assistant in New York, and I dont know when, before I
came. Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.
13
Ibid.
14
Grete Sultan, interview in New York City, July 6, 2002.
15
This date comes from a publicity flier for de Silvas master classes in Munich during the summer of
1965. The flier is located under the name de Silva in the clippings files of the New York Public Library
(Lincoln Center).

161
began studies with Jennie Krause and befriended Arrau,16 who was two years younger.
Loretta Goldberg asserts that this was not a chance meeting, but that de Silva purposely
sought out Arrau.
Martin Krause was dead by the time Rafael had left Chile. Rafael left
Chile after he had done a couple years of law school at the University of
Santiago and decided he wanted to be a pianist. He was twenty, twentyone, something like that, so he got to Germany after Martin Krause died
and Jennie Krause was doing the teaching. And so he worked with Jennie
Krause. . . . De Silva sought him [Arrau].17
For Arrau, abruptly deprived of the sole male figure in his life and of his
sheltered childhood exclusively focused on piano training, and thrust into an adult world
where he had few friends and little experience, a new friendship with a young man nearer
his own age and a fellow Chilean must have been welcome. German Diez states,
Arrau was very young -- sixteen, seventeen -- and Rafael was much older.
he was in his twenties [de Silva was three years older than Arrau] . . . he
actually helped Arrau with many things socially . . . [Arrau] was under the
supervision all the time of his mother and the daughters [of Krause]; and
Krause himself took him every place. So when Krause died, Arrau was
fifteen, and then along came Rafael, who became his guide, so to speak, in
social life.18
A common interest in the piano and Arraus extraordinary ability were of primary
importance in their relationship. Grete Sultan suggests that the friendship contained an
element of self-interest on both sides: Arrau sought companionship while de Silva
sought a career.
The idea was that Claudio didnt want to be all alone . . . and Rafael was
not very gifted as a pianist, concertizing . . . . He wanted to get somehow
a living from pupils that Arrau would send him.19

16

Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003.


Ibid.
18
German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.
19
Grete Sultan, interview in New York City, July 6, 2002.
17

162
Whether or not it was founded on mutual advantage, their friendship endured for
nearly fifty years.20 For twenty-five of those years, de Silva served as Arraus teaching
assistant in New York City. The arrival of German Diez in New York City on November
30, 1945, to begin his studies with Arrau provides the earliest known date of the
collaboration between Arrau and de Silva. He recalled having lessons first with Arrau and
shortly afterward with de Silva:
He [Arrau] told me in Cuba . . . to wait until he came in, not to go to the
assistant, but to wait because he wanted to start me. And after that I
would start with the assistant. . . . So actually, I saw him [Arrau] first.
Then after that he introduced me to de Silva.21
Loretta Goldberg gives an indication of how long the arrangement between de
Silva and Arrau lasted: I know as late as 1968 Arrau told my mother and me that he was
enormously relieved he had somebody [that] . . . his teaching, he could leave in their
hands. Hed go away on tour and hed know that hed come back and not feel that he had
to undo things.22
ASSISTING A MASTER TEACHER
Edith Fischer acknowledged the effectiveness of de Silvas teaching and its
complementarity with Arraus teaching:
He [de Silva] was an extraordinary personality, very inspiring in teaching,
very precise, very rigorous, extraordinary. And he showed [demonstrated]
very little, but when he showed just some notes, you cant possibly forget
that. His sound was something like birds. You know, he must have been a
wonderful pianist, but he had trouble I think with nervousness and he
didnt play anymore. But, for instance, my father [Sultan Fischer, violist
in the Santiago Symphony], who heard him when he was young, he said
he was a wonderful musician. He was so! It was a very special case I
think of assistance that work[ed] because its very delicate, the assistant to
20

Their friendship lasted from at least 1945 until 1968, as the testimony of Goldberg shows.
German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.
22
Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003.
21

163
a teacher. . . . they dont think exactly the same and then it makes conflict,
or they are not interesting enough and you waste a little bit of your time
. . . . that was [by] far not the case, you never wasted your time with
Rafael. You learned a lot.23
As Loretta Goldberg suggests, Arrau could feel comfortable entrusting pupils
only to someone with a thorough grasp of his complex technique and musical philosophy.
How de Silva gained such extraordinary rapport with Arrau is not precisely known, but it
is likely that he began to acquire it during the early years of their friendship in Berlin. It
was during this same period that Arrau was developing his technique and bringing it from
the instinctual to the conscious level. Grete Sultan believes that de Silva sat with Arrau
while he practiced, observing his technique, copying out his fingerings.
He [de Silva] went always listening to Arrau practice; and then he went
there and practiced himself. And when Claudio was away and after
Claudio married Ruth Schneider, to her distress came Rafael there to the
piano and practiced and copied all of Claudios fingerings and so on.24
Loretta Goldberg corroborates this:
He sat with Arrau when he practiced. Hes told me that. He observed
him, hours and hours and hours. . . . he attached himself to Arrau and just
watched and watched and watched him and studied him and copied down
the fingerings as Grete says.25
During this time, Arrau not only identified the elements of his technique but also
adopted a vocabulary to describe it. Ena Bronstein-Barton alluded to this while pointing
out that clear and precise language was one of the things that made Arrau effective as a
teacher:
He watched himself move and play the piano and he brought everything
into consciousness, everything that he did as a child prodigy, he brought
into consciousness so he knew exactly what he did and he could tell you
exactly what needs to be done, and thats another reason why he was such
23

Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.


Grete Sultan, interview in New York City, July 6, 2002.
25
Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003.
24

164
a great teacher. Because he didnt say, Do it this way or Make it sound
like I make it sound. He could tell you how you could move your body to
produce what you wanted to do, and I think that this experience that he
had as a young man, when he had to overcome being an unconscious child
prodigy and become totally conscious of every movement he did and bring
it to the surface, that is what made him so precise.26
It is possible that de Silva played some role as an observer, cataloguer, or codeveloper in Arraus process of finding words to describe his technique. Grete Sultan,
though dismissive of the notion that Arraus approach to technique was unique in any
way, nevertheless suggested in a backhanded way that she knew something of the Arrau
technique and that perhaps de Silva played something more than a passive role in its
development:
Arrau had a natural way of playing. He hated to be advertised. The Arrau
technique! Well . . . Silva did that. So many people came when Arrau
got more well-known, traveling all over. . . . He might have, in the
summertime, one month or not even [that much time for teaching], at the
country house, and [for] listening to people. But otherwise, he wanted to
practice and play, and not teach. So thats all it was, I think. . . . The
Arrau technique! Stupid! Silly! Just to relax and, I dont know what. The
arm weight! Poor Claudio!27
After the Nazis came to power, Grete Sultan as well as Arrau and de Silva were
forced to leave Germany. Sultan described her treatment by the Nazi government and her
arduous escape accomplished through the efforts of Richard Buhlig.
I am from Jewish parents, and I was playing a lot and quite successfully.
But then when the Nazis came into power in 1933 they took away my
passport. I had already been traveling and playing quite a bit. I had just
had a success in Italy, in Milan, and then they took my passport and I
couldnt leave Germany anymore. And Buhlig was the one that got me to
come to America. I came in a Nazi transport from the first of February to
middle of June.28

26

Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.


Grete Sultan, interview in New York City, July 6, 2002
28
Ibid.
27

165
In 1940, Arrau left Germany and returned to Chile.29 According to Loretta Goldberg,
Arrau left Germany on a concert tour, leaving his family behind in Berlin. It was de
Silva who arranged for the departure of Ruth and the children.
Rafael got Ruth and the two kids out in 1941. He got them out of
Germany. Arrau went on tour and didnt come back. He went to Chile.
And Rafael was the one who got the family out and I think he sat back and
collected on favors since, but it was brave. And he also told me that
theyd have dinner and the servants would be spies, they had to be careful
what they said in front of the servants. But Rafael would meet Jewish
friends and theyd give him jewelry and hed take it to the Chilean
embassy. The SS would follow him and they knew what he was doing,
but because of the relationship between Chile and Germany they wouldnt
stop him. But he never knew when his string was going to run out with a
regime like that. He had a certain raw courage.30
By the following year, Arrau had moved to the United States. Arrau, de Silva, and
Sultan met again in New York City, and while Grete Sultan pursued her own career as
teacher and performer, Arrau and de Silva collaborated in teaching. Indeed, without de
Silva, Arrau may well have found it impossible to meet the demands of a concert career
while simultaneously giving regular and consistent attention to a sizeable group of
students. From 1945 to 1950, Arrau was able to teach students in private lessons, but as
his performing career became more demanding in the early 1950s, he would sometimes
be away from New York on tour for several months. During these periods, de Silva took
over the daily responsibilities of giving private lessons. Arraus pupils generally
acknowledge the contribution of de Silva during their years of study with Arrau.
Before, he [Arrau] didnt have so many concerts; so then he was much
longer here. But then he started to get very busy and be gone for three
months and be here a couple weeks and go back [on tour] again. He
started to collect a lot of students from all over the world who would come
here to study. So all these people studied with de Silva because he was the
base for the whole thing [when] Arrau wasnt here. He [de Silva] was the
29
30

Allan Kozinn, Claudio Arrau, Pianist, Is Dead at 88, New York Times (June 10, 1991): B11.
Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003.

166
one who took care of everything, the classes, because Arrau started to be
very busy.31
And Arrau definitely referred people to him [de Silva] for teaching. Ron
[Ronald Farren-Price] did several years with him. Ruth Nye was happy
with him. Hilde Somer worked with him for twenty years.32
Most of the students studied with Rafael because Rafael was always there
and with Rafael, it was two lessons a week, an hour and a half every time .
. . when Arrau came, you would go to his house and have very intensive
lessons one after the other from Arrau . . . and that would be two or three
days and of course he was concertizing and it could be very intense.33
If youve spoken to people I know, they all studied with Rafael. Hes a
very important part of this thing. Its very nice for everybody to say, I
was a pupil of Claudio Arrau. Its very good. . . . We all had lessons with
Arrau . . . some more, some less. But we all had regular lessons every
week with Rafael. And Rafael went out to Germany or to England or
wherever to give master classes and we all tagged along. So, I really
thought about this. I have to make this point. Rafael is a very important
part of this equation.34
Arrau met potential students while on tour and encouraged them to travel to New
York to study with him. To enable students from outside the United States to come to
New York on student visas, Arrau registered his teaching activities with the State
Department as The Piano School.35
When Arrau returned from concertizing, his students gathered at his home in
Douglaston, in New York Citys borough of Queens,36 and later in Chester, Vermont, for
master classes.
31

German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.


Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003.
33
Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.
34
Ivan Nuez, interview in New York City, February 26, 2003.
35
According to Loretta Goldberg, The Piano School was established in 1947 and approved for attendance
of non-immigrant students by the immigration and naturalization service on December 10, 1953 (number
0300-44408). Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003. Government records
cannot be located. The Piano School is mentioned in publicity fliers for de Silvas later master classes in
Munich in 1965 as well as in an article from El Mercurio published in Enrique Bunster, Recuerdos y
Pajaros (Santiago, Chile: Editorial del Pacifico, 1968), 348.
36
Arrau lived in Forest Hills, Queens, until he bought his home in Douglaston in 1947. Long Island Home
Bought by Musician, New York Times (March, 23, 1947): R2.
32

167
His home was in Douglaston and he taught in his own home. He didnt
have a home in Manhattan, but [Rafael] did. But when Arrau came, we all
got on the Long Island Railroad and went to Douglaston and he taught in
his home in Douglaston, Long Island (sic). Later years, I dont remember
when, he bought a property in Vermont and sometimes students would go
up there for their lessons. He loved that property. Chester, I believe, not in
Chester, but near there. So sometimes, we would go up and play for him
there . . . The Vermont lessons were later. When I was first starting
[lessons], it was always Douglaston, and then later, some years later, it
must have been somewhere in the early or mid 60s, he bought the
property in Vermont.37
In a master-class setting, Arrau could communicate his teaching to as many pupils
as possible while specifically addressing only one of them at a time. Traveling from
Manhattan to Douglaston together and attending lessons given in a group setting
established among the students a feeling of camaraderie and reinforced the sense of a
group identity that they derived from their association with a famous virtuoso performer
and descendant of Liszt. During this period of his teaching, Arrau was conscious of
fostering this feeling among his students, referring to them as our group.38
The first real studying was in Munich for a summer course, 1962, I think,
and that's when I realized I had joined the Arrau School, because I met a
lot of the European students, such as Greville Rothon, who died recently,
Daniela Ballek, the best pianist of them all. . . . Later in New York, I met
Philip Lorenz, Ena Bronstein, Ivan Nuez, Carlos Carillo, all of whom,
especially Philip, were encouraging. . . . Philip was quite strong; he was
quite a mentor to me, helping me understand things, pianistic things.39
The Arraus moved out to Douglaston on Long Island . . . all the students
would go out together and we would hear each others lessons, and this
was even more wonderful. German and I and Josefina and Alfonso and all
the others, wed all catch the same train on the Long Island Railroad and
go out to Douglaston and have our lessons and hear each other.40

37
38
39
40

Ena Bonstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.


Joseph Horowitz, Conversations, 109.

Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 3, 2003.


Goodwin Sammel, interview in New York City, April 14, 2003.

168
In part, Arrau used the lessons to pass on to students his views concerning Liszt
and other musical figures he had known or who had preceded him. All of Arraus
students were well aware that Arrau emulated Liszt in teaching without a fee, and that
Arraus only teacher had been a Liszt pupil. Thus, Arraus students gained a powerful
sense, not only of belonging to a group, but to a group with a pedigree.
Arrau said that Liszt was a much greater composer than he is given credit
for and perhaps the greatest performer that ever lived. I think one area
where Liszt was very influential on Arrau was as a teacher. Because Liszt
taught as a matter of mission and so did Arrau. Liszt didnt take money for
lessons and neither did Arrau. Most of us were on scholarship we had to
pay for lessons with Rafael, but Arrau didnt charge for lessons. His sense
of teaching -- it was a mission, to be passed on. Liszt was like that. He
always taught in master classes, to pass it on. He [Arrau] thought that
Liszt was a great spirit, that what he did for the piano was unequalled, that
his communication was unsurpassed. In his view, Liszt was the greatest
pianist that ever was, and mostly underrated. I heard him [Arrau] teach
the Mephisto Waltz and it was really quite wonderful. I studied some of
the Transcendental Etudes, and he stressed so much the passion and the
build-up of passion and emotion. . . . He embodied the music. He became
it. There was no division. He was that sound.41
At times, Arraus master-class lessons attracted special visitors, lending a glamor
and excitement that heightened the sense among students of being members of an elite
group and of a historic lineage. The following description of one such occasion is
reminiscent of a scene from one of Liszts master classes:
But during the years that I was here studying with Rafael, we had many
times when everybody would go to Douglaston and have a class with
Arrau. And one of us would be the one at the piano. And Arrau would sit
here, and Rafael would sit next to Arrau, and Arrau would then proceed to
spend an hour on the first three chords of . . . the Symphonic Etudes. Im
serious! He would spend an hour on the first bar, on how to transfer the
weight from one to the other. But it was fascinating! It was fantastic! It
was wonderful, the way he explained! I had a great experience once. I
went there. I dont know why I was chosen. You never knew. Youre
going to have a lesson with Arrau. Get to Douglaston, there was a crowd.
Everybody was there -- people who were just there from the music world.
41

Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.

169
Garrick Ohlsson was there. Garrick . . . studied with Olga Barabini. I dont
know how much he studied [with Arrau]. He probably did play for Arrau.
Olga was an Arrau-de Silva student, and Garrick was her prize pupil. I
dont know why I was chosen when there were all these people. It wasnt
just a group of students. The classes happened in his living room where
he had this piano covered with African art. His living room was a
museum! It was beautiful. I had to sit there and play for all these people.
And of all things, it was the Brahms first piano concerto. You know what
it is suddenly to be there with Arrau, his piece!42
Teaching in master classes not only made possible the most efficient
communication with all of the pupils in the relatively short time; the master classes also
strengthened the rapport between Arrau and de Silva. By attending the classes, German
Diez suggests, de Silva further refined his understanding of Arraus principles: I
imagine he learned a lot from Arrau himself when he gave the classes . . . the things that
he suggested technically. I am sure that Rafael learned from that too.43
Although Arrau and de Silva shared the same technical and musical objectives,
their styles of teaching were quite different. Arrau depended very much on verbal
descriptions and images and not at all on demonstration, while de Silva depended more
on demonstration and not very much on verbal instruction.
Rafaels style of teaching was not to explain too much. He was very much
interested in oriental philosophy, in Zen. I think he wanted to be like a
Zen master and so he would do and you would do in a nod, this is what
Im doing, and not a lot of talk. He would demonstrate.44
This difference in teaching style may reflect how Arrau and de Silva divided
responsibilities of teaching. Many pupils, while giving de Silva credit for his musical and
interpretive gifts, also report that de Silva was mainly responsible for teaching Arraus
technique. Making pupils grasp the purely physical and mechanical aspects of relaxation,

42

Ivan Nuez, interview in New York City, February 26, 2003.


German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.
44
Ena Bonstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.
43

170
movement, and use of weight entailed more demonstration. The technical preparation
provided by de Silva freed Arrau to concentrate on musical and interpretive points.
De Silva, Rafael, was able to transfer Arraus particular way of playing, I
guess philosophy, to music and was able to put all of those things together.
Not that he spoke for Arrau, but he transferred that way of thinking. And
certainly technically, and how to understand music, and how to perform
all of that was exactly what Arrau preached. . . . And I would say that it
was more the music than the technique with Arrau. He didnt spend too
much time saying, You have to do this. The technical aspect Rafael
took care of. Rafael was an excellent teacher also. He was the very best.
So I think you should make a point, as far as Im concerned, that Rafael
was a very important ingredient in all this Piano School. . . . the technical
aspect, we already, I mean, it was drilled in by Rafael. Rafael was the one
who taught us how to do, how to lift your arm, how to use the weight.45
He [Arrau] did not want to get into all the fundamental things of arm
weight, relaxation, and so on, he would suggest that people go to Rafael de
Silva, who had a genius for teaching that. And they made a good pair.46
In addition to teaching technique and preparing pupils for master class lessons, de Silva
reinforced Arraus teaching by helping pupils thoroughly understand and practice
correctly what Arrau had taught them.
But for me it was very important to have Rafael there first of all because
he prepared me, he prepared us, so when Arrau came, he didnt have to
waste his time explaining fundamentals, the concept of the technique, and
how they taught. And then, when we had the lesson with Arrau, Rafael de
Silva was sitting right there. And having a lesson with Arrau was almost a
feverish experience. It was so unbelievably exciting, and it would turn
your head, because what happened in a lesson with Arrau was that you
ended up playing much better than you thought you could. After my first
lesson with him, I thought, My God, was this me? I didnt know I could
play like this. He had the ability of making the student play much better
than you thought you could, but then after you left, . . . a couple of hours
after a lesson with Arrau you would say, What happened? And then
there was Rafael to tell you exactly what happened and go over it very
slowly again and again and again, and to teach us how to practice again
and again so that it would stick. And I find that those of us who were
privileged to study with Rafael, I think we could get more benefit out of
45
46

Ivan Nuez, interview in New York City, February 26, 2003.


William Goodrum, interview in Syracuse, New York, December 14, 2002.

171
Arraus lesson because we had the support. And Arrau was very patient in
his lessons and he could stay with something for a long time, but once you
played a phrase to his satisfaction once, he moved on. And so we had the
great benefit of being able to go over it again and again and again. And in
those years, they understood each other completely. And what Arrau said
went, so there was Rafael was just reinforcing and reiterating.47
Most pupils agreed that no difference of opinion ever arose between Arrau and de
Silva on musical matters. However, several have noted that Arrau was more flexible in
his approach than de Silva.
When I worked a passage with de Silva, I would think I could do it
another way and feel better, but de Silva would say, no, this was supposed
to be the way. And then, when I had a lesson with Arrau, I would present
the same problem and he would coincide with me, he would agree with
me, he would say, That is correct. And I think the reason is not because
Rafael was wrong. It is that he didnt see another angle that comes
through the experience of playing, because after all he was not a
performer. He knew all the rules, he was very intelligent musically. . . . I
think its just the fact that Arrau is the one naturally. He would see right
away whether something would work out right.48
He [de Silva] wanted so much to give you every detail of Arraus thought
that he was much more fixed in his way than Arrau was. This fingering,
this gesture, and this phrasing, and this note more, and so on. He had a
precise picture of what he wanted in every respect, and that was Arraus
playing. The problem is that Arraus playing, if you hear a recording of
the 40s or of the 60s or of the 80s, it is different because he was in a
constant evolution.49
I think they were very different. Arrau was much more patient, and much
more willing to accept differences. De Silva was much more pedantic and
difficult to please. The technique was, indeed, basically the same, but
Arrau would find more varied solutions to problems.50
DISSOLUTION
Sometime during the late 1960s or early 70s, the relationship between Arrau and

47

Ena Bonstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.


German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.
49
Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.
50
Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 10, 2003.
48

172
de Silva ended, and with it ended the continuity provided by de Silva during Arraus
absences. Though Arrau continued to teach pupils well into the eighties, Ena BronsteinBarton saw the break-up as the dissolution of Arraus group. Students studied with
Arrau in isolation without either de Silva or the other students to enhance their experience
and understanding. Indeed, some pupils may not have remained long enough with Arrau
to fully understand his principles.
After a while, and I dont remember when, he [Arrau] didnt continue
working with de Silva, so there was no longer a group of students that was
a cohesive group. And there are people out there whove had a few
lessons with Arrau and then call themselves Arrau students, but I dont
know to what point they really are, and I cant speak to that. Because I
think this approach takes a while, this was not an instant anything.51
Under de Silvas constant guidance, pupils remained longer with Arrau because they did
not have to look elsewhere for lessons during Arraus lengthy absences. With de Silva to
teach the fundamentals of technique, Arraus teaching time was spent more efficiently
because students could respond immediately to Arraus instructions. With de Silva
organizing master classes, students formed bonds that placed their study in a reinforcing
social context. Without de Silva, there was no continuity during Arraus absences, and
Arrau had to teach the technique himself on an irregular schedule interrupted by concert
engagements. The demands of his performing career were Arraus paramount concern,
and if he was away on tour or needed his time for practice, he could not spare time and
energy for pupils. This was true even during the period when Arrau and de Silva worked
together. William Goodrum recounts an incident illustrating this point:
I ended up in North Dakota for a short time . . . the Fargo-Moorhead
orchestra invited me to play with them one season . . . I decided to learn
the Chaikovsky concerto. And I called Arrau and Ruth . . . and Rafael de
Silva. Arrau decided, good, Hilde Somer was learning the Grieg concerto
51

Ena Bonstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.

173
getting ready to play it in Texas. Why dont you and Hilde come out?
Well work on both concertos. . . . I flew in to New York and contacted
Rafael. He wanted to be in the middle of it, understandably; he wasnt
going to miss a chance to hear Arrau work on the Grieg and Chaikovsky.
It was going to be just the two of us; usually it was a big group out at his
house. So, all set, all psyched up for early Sunday morning, I was in my
hotel. Rafael called and said Claudio decided he had to cancel. He had just
come back from Israel, he had been playing one of the Chopin concertos
there, and he was due to play it with the New York Philharmonic: for the
two weekday concerts, one concerto; and on the Sunday broadcast, the
other Chopin concerto. He practiced twelve hours yesterday and hes
exhausted. He had just played it in Israel, and when you play a concerto
in Israel, you play it seven or eight times. But he felt he had to do some
work on it. . . . Hed worked for twelve hours and he was understandably
too tired. Because when he worked in lessons, it really drained him.52
Later pupils had to learn Arraus teachings in short, concentrated periods, and
they did not acquire the same sense of group identity or group reinforcement. No one
among Arraus pupils can say what caused the rift between de Silva and Arrau.
I dont know what happened between Arrau and Rafael. Certainly the
relationship they had had before was not the same when they were in New
York. They were good friends and Arrau occasionally would go to have
dinner with Rafael in his apartment.53
With Arrau and De Silva there was a falling-out and we really dont know
what happened. De Silva used to be very hurt by it, because he told me he
didnt know why Arrau was behaving in such a manner.54
That was impossible to understand for us. I dont know. I was told they
had a discussion about something in a master class. That is absurd! I dont
believe that either. They never had things like that, and if once they didnt
agree on a fingering or an interpretation of something, you wont break,
because of that, a friendship of a whole life. That is impossible! I think
Rafael didnt understand that either. He didnt know why.55
Grete Sultan believed that Arrau ended the relationship because of his discomfort with de
Silvas advertising to get new pupils: Then finally, it ended up that Rafael advertised

52

William Goodrum, interview in Syracuse, New York, December 14, 2002.


Ivan Nuez, interview in New York City, February 26, 2003.
54
German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.
55
Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.
53

174
himself to get pupils, the Arrau technique! That was too much for my friend, Claudio.
He just stopped the relationship. Loretta Goldberg speculates that conflict arose when
de Silva included his own name on the Piano School letterhead:
Rafael had this made up [the letterhead], and this made Arrau very angry.
Although they had the Piano School authorized by the Justice Department,
he never authorized this. He never authorized de Silva putting his own
name on the letterhead. . . . I dont know when the relationship started to
go bad.56
When the collaboration with Arrau ended, de Silva resolved to return to Germany.
Hilde Somer learned of de Silvas intentions and wrote to Goldberg: I asked Rafael
about his future plans regarding a rumored move to Europe. He said, no matter what
happens hell be in New York at least six months a year to teach. Goldberg indicates
that the relationship had broken down over a period of time: In 1968, the relationship
was deteriorated enough for him [de Silva] to be thinking of moving back to Germany. . .
. But it didnt actually happen until 1972 [de Silva was then sixty-six years of age]. He
didnt spend anything like six months a year in New York. He would come for a month
or two. German [Diez] would set up lessons.57 German Diez recalls an incident that
occurred at one of de Silvas master classes during a visit to New York:
He [de Silva] moved to Munich when he retired. He actually came here
about three times and I arranged master classes for him. One of the times,
there was somebody having a lot of trouble, and he was pretty tired, and
he turned and whispered, German, help me. Do something. He got tired
of saying things. It was a long session. . . . I thought, My God! My
teacher asked me for help.58

56

Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January 31, 2003.


Ibid.
58
German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.
57

175
Rafael de Silva lived in Munich for almost ten years. During this time, he
contracted cancer and his health declined until, on June 14, 1981, he took his own life.
German Diez recalls,
He was very ill. He had already had a heart attack and he was a little
paralyzed. He came [to New York] after the heart attack once, and he
came another time. The last time he was here, he took care of visiting all
his students and everybody in the United States. He went around and
visited every one of the students . . . . He had a special quest about this
thing. Actually then he committed suicide. He was saying that he felt
very ill and very bad. He went to see a doctor in Vienna and he was
acknowledged to have cancer of the bones, and then he didnt want to live
any longer.59
It was Diez who broke the news of de Silvas death to the Arraus: Arrau was
here at the time, it was summer. So then I called him. He was in Vermont. Because I
knew he wouldnt have heard about it [de Silvas death] any other way. He was shocked.
I also talked to Ruth at the time. Shocked about the whole thing!60
Arrau continued to teach intermittently between his concert tours. In December
1980, when Joseph Horowitz asked Arrau if he still continued to teach, Arrau responded,
At the moment, very, very little. Not that I dislike teaching. On the
contrary, I love it. But I have had some students who very much
disappointed me. This way of playing that I try to teach has to do with a
general attitude toward life. And I thought I had succeeded in giving it to
them. Then I didnt see or hear them for several years. And when I did,
finally, I realized there was nothing left. I still hear young people when
they want to play for meI feel this is a duty. And its interesting, too.
But the moment I notice some of this terrible vanity, I lose interest.61
Arrau further noted, For a while there was a system with Rafael de Silva as my
assistant. In an interview published in the winter of 1982-83, Arrau responded to a

59

Ibid.
Ibid.
61
Horowitz, Conversations, 186.
60

176
similar question, I am concentrating all my energies on performing.62 Without de Silva
giving regular lessons to the students, teaching the technique, preparing them for master
classes, it became more difficult for Arrau to convey his principles and to maintain a
cohesive class of students. With the dissolution of the group, the possibility of making
his principles take root waned, and Arraus enthusiasm for teaching seemed to fade with
it.

62

Robert J. Silverman, Claudio Arrau An Interview, The Piano Quarterly 120 (Winter, 1982-83): 33.

177
FIVE
THE TEACHING OF ARRAUS PUPILS
GERMAN DIEZ: INTEGRATION OF ARM WEIGHT AND FINGER TECHNIQUE
In the following account, two students of German Diez describe the instruction
they received in Puerto Rico, their arrival at a conservatory in the United States, and
ultimately their studies with Diez.1 Their account tells how they fared under contrasting
types of training: one attempting to build finger strength through isolated movement of
the fingers and repetitive exercise, and the other based on use of arm movements and
weight coordinated with finger activity. The former type, adumbrated in the writings of
Czerny and epitomized by the training in German conservatories of the nineteenth
century, persisted throughout the twentieth century, and its effects are still lingering in
the twenty-first. The latter is represented by what these students perceived as the main
principles of Diezs approach, one patterned after the teaching of Arrau, and one that
resolves the duality set forth in chapter 1 (pp. 3-7) much as Breithaupt suggested (chapter
1, p. 66). Lus begins their story:
Lus: My teacher was Spanish. She studied in the Madrid Conservatory. I
remember the first year there and she was telling me how to do scales.
She told me to cross the thumb by twisting the wrist. She told me, you
have to play like this, and do this. We had to learn all the scales like that.
Here Lus pantomimed playing a scale with the right hand, turning at the wrist so
that his fingers pointed to the left and his thumb stretched below to the right.
Q: Did your teacher recommend exercises?
Lus: She recommended Hanon and Czerny etudes, Op. 740. I dont
remember any advice on how to play them.

All quotations of Lus Alvarez and Maritza Robles-Alvarez are from an interview in New York City,
March 15, 2004.

178
Maritza: My teacher didnt give any advice, but I think she had a good
idea of what sound [a good basic tone]. . . . But she couldnt know exactly
what to do with a student that was not doing the right thing. She would
say, You are having trouble with octaves, so play the Kullak studies for
octaves or So you are having problems with pedal, so do etudes for
pedaling. But she didnt know technically what to do, where the motions
related to the sound, proper for the sound, like German.
The assignment of exercises with no further instruction as to how to execute them
assumes a type of problem that can be solved by increased familiarity or muscular
strength. However, the point being made here is that many problems require an
understanding of the mechanical principles needed to solve them, and thus cannot be
solved by exercise alone. In such cases, the assiduous repetition and practice devoted to
exercises is very likely to reinforce the physical movements that cause the problem in the
first place, making the problem more entrenched. Under this kind of instruction, the more
these students labored to solve their problems, the more stubbornly their problems
persisted.
Next, a new teacher was found with a more active approach to technique:
Lus: One year before we came here we knew this woman who studied in
Juilliard with Rosina Lhevinne, and our last year in the conservatory we
did it, both, with this woman [we both studied with this woman]. She
didnt teach at the conservatory. We did it privately. And she has a lot of
technical approach but completely different from what we started with
German. And she would tell you how to do things, but she would say,
Dont move the arm. If you move[d] the arm because you were doing
this unconsciously, she would say No, no, no, dont move the arm.
Youre moving your arm.
Maritza: Quiet wrist! The wrist should never bounce.
Lus: Never bounce because the sound will be affected. She said the
scales have to be played without bouncing to give a very even sound to the
scales. It was painful. She was kind of famous for being the teacher out of
the conservatory who was the best. She recommended a lot of Stamaty.
Every week youd go and your lessons had to begin with Stamaty
exercises and scales, staccato and legato every two notes, with a
metronome. Every week! For a half hour! Without bouncing the wrist!
Q: Did you find this kind of work helpful?

179
Maritza: Not at all! And it was a really bad kind of preparation because,
since you did so many of those kind of exercises, then you had ten minutes
for pieces. So imagine! Symphonic Etudes in ten minutes! You have
nothing of it!
Lus. This was worse than the other teachers because you learn it--this
was very conscious. For the first time in my life I started to do scales or
any exercise very consciously. . . . I cannot move my wrist. I cannot move
my arm. Before that, it was Do this or do that but they did not specify
too much. And maybe you have some unconscious things but it worked.
Now, these students discovered, no advice at all was better than poor advice because a
lack of advice did not disrupt what they could already do naturally and successfully. This
presented the students with a new problem of judging whether the advice they received
would improve matters or, on the contrary, make them worse. Knowledge after the fact
simplifies such a judgment, but lacking such knowledge, how can a student in this
situation decide whether the fault lies in him or herself or in the instruction? In addition,
separating technical work from musical context delayed or avoided both musical work
and acquisition of repertoire.
Lus and Maritza now received scholarships to continue their studies in an
American conservatory, so they traveled to the United States. They had learned of
German Diez through another student and, upon arriving in New York, they went to meet
him at his home. Though they were attracted by his manner and his pianistic ideas, they
did not immediately take up study with him because their scholarships were restricted to
study with another teacher toward masters degrees. They describe what happened in
their first lesson with this teacher as follows:
Maritza. We each had one lesson. He [Lus] had one lesson. I had one
lesson.
Lus: And this other teacher was a pupil of Adele Marcus. He said Okay.
Can you play, please? Okay, I start playing. And he was like this: Okay,
okay, thats enough. We have to work a lot because your hand is
completely out of shape Your fingers are really weak, and you dont have

180
any pianistic-- uh, I dont remember the words . . . . We have to start
doing scales. But you have to strengthen your fingers with exercises. You
will do scales like this: UM UM UM. Raise your fingers really high, and
then go down, because your fingers are really weak, too weak, too weak!
I hurt. The first three days I was trying to do this. I feel pain. . . . I
remember also the woman in Puerto Rico, she said the same thing about
finger strength. You have to build up muscles in the fingers. This is the
point. You make the fingers really strong by doing exercises with the
scales.
Maritza: We didnt talk for a week! And we were newlyweds!
Lus. We were like -Maritza. Hi, good morning. And finally we -Lus We explode! How do you feel? I cannot keep doing this. We have to
study with this man [Diez]. We have to call him back. What are we
doing?
The experience described by these students is reminiscent of descriptions of piano
pedagogy at the German conservatories in the latter nineteenth century, at times
emphasizing technical exercises to the virtual exclusion of repertory, technical training
that isolated the fingers from any assistance by the arm, and repetitious exercise to build
muscular strength (see ch. 1, pp. 26-38). Luss description of his teachers instruction
repeated Amy Fays observation quite faithfully, that the grand thing is to have each of
your five fingers go dum dum an equal number of times.2 After considerable time and
effort expended, this training left these students painfully unable to solve persistent and
unrelenting problems that impeded their progress in playing.
Lus and Maritza then began study with Diez. They described a use of exercises
not to increase muscle strength but to cultivate specific motions and sensations, to find
and learn to deploy existing finger strength, to coordinate finger and arm movement.
Along with these mechanical issues, care was taken to attend to tone production, gaining
repertoire, and improving reading skill.
2

Amy Fay, Music Study in Germany (Chicago: A. C. McClurg, 1880; repr. New York: Dover, 1965),
266. See also, ch. 1, p. 38.

181
Lus. The first thing he told us was, Its a process; these things take time.
You have a lot of good things, but you have to improve others. He was
very kind. He never said, You cant play. No, he said-Maritza. You have to be consistent.
Lus. Exercises for the first semester! The first semester we started
working pieces after the second month.
Maritza. We read a prelude and fugue for every lesson. We worked on
two or three etudes of Chopin slowly, taking care of the motions, and
[getting] into the keys, and we started every lesson with drops and with
lateral-Lus. He talked about three main technical principles: one is drops.
This is to comprehend the weight of the arm and the gravity center.
Q: When you did these drops, did you lift your arm high?
Lus: Well, at the beginning he talked about exaggerating a lot because
this the only way you can understand it at first. If you dont exaggerate
this, it is difficult to really understand the difference between one thing
and another. He used [fingers] 2 and 4. He doesnt use three-note chords
because it is more difficult to understand the gravity center. He said the
fourth finger is the most balanced finger. It is like, when you use the first
finger it is completely natural, much easier than second because maybe the
hand will collapse. But the fourth finger is perfect. Then, use 2 and 4 and
do the drops in any chord [third], falling down in the keys with 2 and 4
three times. Then more, then more volume! Well, you know, I didnt have
any idea if we were doing it correctly. But he was like No, no, no! You
have to do it with your arm and fall down in the keys.
Maritza. Our arm was so quiet.
Lus. Because I was trained not to use the arm! . . . But I was convinced.
This is it! This is what I have been looking for! This is the man I have
been looking for for many years!
Q: Since your lessons were in Spanish, can you tell what words Mr. Diez
chose to describe drops?
Lus. Cadas: to fall down.
Maritza. Cadas, from the verb which is to drop. And lateral.
Lus. The three principles are drops, the other is lateral motion, like
rotation.3
Q: What Spanish word did he use for rotation?
Maritza. Rotacion [interchangeable with lateral] but he used more lateral.
Lus. And the other principle is five-finger motion. When you start on the
thumb and you go to the fifth finger, [He pantomimes a five-finger scale
with the arm and wrist beginning in a level position and moving
progressively forward, up, and to the right, the wrist flexing upward, with
the progression toward the fifth finger]. In any [passage] it doesnt matter
if you have a scale like c-d-e-f-g or if you have c-e-g-c, it is the same

This is to distinguish the sense of lateral movement as rotation from lateral movement as a horizontal
motion up and down the keyboard.

182
motion. Even if you have fourths, it is the same thing, like Chopin Etude
Op. 10, no. 1. The sense of the motion is this. Its the same muscles.
Q: Where would you say this movement starts from?
Lus: From the upper arm, but there is that reaction in the wrist.
The three principles identified by these students [highlighted in boldface],
dropping the weight of the arm into the keys, rotational-lateral arm motion, and a
coordinated use of arm and fingers in five-finger patterns, aim at building coordination
rather than strength. As bodily movement they represent three simple gestural shapes. In
teaching these principles, Diez tries to evoke a physical sensation, not merely correct
form and its outward appearance:
You just have to guide it [the arm]. When they do this [play with the arm
and hand out of alignment], you just [he shows taking hold of the arm and
guiding it to align with the fourth finger], so they begin to feel the right
thing. If youre going to use the fourth finger, you just show how to use it.
Arm position! You have to help the hand. You have to help the finger.
The finger is the messenger of the arm. It has to be at the service of the
arm. Then the finger . . . [is] the end of the chain of events. It begins here
[playing begins at the shoulder], goes through here and here and here
[indicating various points between the shoulder and finger], but not
backwards. Like when you walk, it has to be lined up, it has to be
balanced. If you are not lined up, you fall. Thats what happens with the
fourth finger. When you remain here [with the elbow too close to the
body], you have to move the finger a lot.more than necessary. When the
arm is not lined up with the fourth finger, the finger loses all the power. 4
The arm is responsible for tone production and dynamic control because, according to
Diez, the arm has a greater capacity for sensitivity to movement than the finger:
To develop the strength of the finger, that is a fallacy. That is just to
deteriorate your coordination as well as the sound because the finger is
incapable of being sensitive to movement. It is only sensitive to touch, not
to movement. So the speed of the finger is something that you cannot
calculate. . . . You are incapable of establishing what kind of speed you
need to use to get a sound. But the arm does it automatically [Diez
demonstrates playing a single note with all variations of dynamic]. You
dont move the finger and you dont lose power. See, the finger has
4

German Diez, interview in New York City, July 7, 2004.

183
nothing to do with it. You dont miss any [that is, you never get a sound
that you dont intend to get and you can produce many dynamic gradations
between soft and loud]. But if you do this [he shows the same using
different finger strokes], you have no control about the quality of the
sound or the control [dynamic level] of the sound.5
Diezs concern is not only for the mechanical issues of movement but also for the quality
of the sound. Each of the three movements is aimed at tone production and can be taken
to represent a pre-expressive musical level of single tones (a phonemic level) or
combinations of two or more different tones (a morphemic level).6 Each sounding
element requires the integration of three components: the desired sound quality, bodily
movement necessary to produce it, and the bodily sensation of sound, movement, and
contact with the keyboard that results when the movement is done correctly.
Use of the 2-4 finger combination to find a balanced position of the hand
resembles the technique taught by Arrau to develop what he called the stand in the
keys.7 Describing the fourth finger in this context as perfect, rather than in the more
commonplace manner as the weakest, is emblematic of the shift away from developing
greater muscular strength toward utilizing inherent strengths. This shift defines the two
types of training experienced by these students. Rotation and five-finger motion (moving
the arm and wrist upward and outward towards the fifth finger in the manner described)
build upon this alignment of arm and finger, putting the stationary stand in the keys
into motion. Diez characterizes the activity of the fingers in playing as getting out of
the keys rather than actively pressing them down.

Ibid.
For further discussion of the phonemic and morphemic levels, see ch. 6, The Language Analogy.
7
Mary Weaver, Interview With Claudio Arrau, The Piano Quarterly 42 (Winter, 1962-63): 22. Arrau
speaks of this technique in terms of individual fingers. What is described is actually pictured in Rudolf
Breithaupt, Natural Piano-Technique, vol. 2 (Leipzig: C. F. Kahnt, 1900), 13.
6

184
All you have to do is a very elemental thing, which is this [he shows
playing single notes detached with strokes of the arm], not this [moving
the fingers up and down in a striking motion], because [with the latter] all
you are doing is torturing your muscles. Then the movement of the finger
takes place very naturally because all you have to do is get out of the key
to go to the next one, like when you walk. So all you are doing is carrying
the weight from one to the other like when you walk but you have five
legs, which is the problem. When you have five legs, there is a problem of
coordination. There was a horse . . . they tried to analyze why it was so
fast. . . . every time he was running, he had only one foot on the ground.
Not two or three of them at a time, but only one! . . . Thats why he was
able to go fast. But all the animals do that. . . . [one foot is] only on the
ground for a very short time because the next one will take over. . . . so
this is what happens here. You have to learn to get off the ground. You
dont have to hit -- you have to get off the ground. The arm is already
waiting. If you play all the notes together [a five-note cluster], there is
nothing faster than that. Its so fast, there is no space between them.
Anytime you introduce a space between them, youre delaying the fingers.
So consequently they are not moving [toward the keys]. They have to get
out [of the keys].8
As these students continued in their study with Diez, they came to realize that, as
they progressed from beginners to initiates, they would revisit the relationship between
arm and finger movements, sometimes with surprising reversals.
Lus: It is very interesting whats happening now after four years with
him. Its very, very interesting because at the beginning it is like . . . one .
. . places the arm and the fingers react; but now, its like the fingers play
but the arm reacts. But as I understood it was at the beginning, I have to
teach my arm the way it should move. But its not really that the arm has
to move; the reality of this is if you correct your fingers, your arm will
move as a reaction of the fingers.
Q: Do the fingers carry the arm, or does the arm carry the fingers?
Lus and Maritza (speaking at the same time): The fingers carry the arm.
Yes, they pull.
Lus. It should happen naturally, but when this is not happening because
somebody interfered with this, German has to teach you how your arm
should move. And at the beginning you have to move the arm very
consciously. But this is supposed to become something unconscious. It
happened to me last Friday at my lesson with him. I was maybe moving a
little bit more, and he said, Dont move the arm! Dont move the arm!
The arm is just ready. It knows what it has to do. Just play. Dont be
careful of your arm. Your arm knows. It will follow your fingers. Yes,
8

German Diez, interview in New York City, October 9, 2005.

185
its much better. My arm was moving, but it was as a reaction of the
playing.
Maritza: It wasnt that you were thinking of the arm first, but thinking of
the notes and then the arm will be carried by the fingers. . . .
Q: So were the arm motions you learned designed to eliminate tension so
the arm could move?
Maritza: Yes, exactly!
Lus: Its like if somebody is completely natural, is not damaged by
anyone before, the natural thing will happen. The arm will move
coordinated with the hand and fingers. But if this doesnt happen naturally
you have to learn how the arm should move.
Q: How did this pulling of the arm by the fingers start to happen?
Maritza: That was one lesson specifically. It was about two months ago.
We were doing the Ballade [Chopin, Ballade no. 2] and there was
something going on -- that I couldnt understand how to move freely. So
he told me, Okay, lift every finger like a child. A child will use the
finger from [the big knuckle]. So we started doing that and suddenly
everything reacted. I felt nothing hard here [in the forearm] no tension
there. There was something going on, that my wrist wasnt feeling that
everything was loose. There was no velocity to the passage. There was no
good sound. So I told him, Okay, so thats the sound we are looking for
and this reaction is what we want. So the finger is pulling the arm. [He
replied], Thats what it is! The finger, its pulling the arm! Thats the
only way!
This experience re-interpreted the roles of the arm, hand, and fingers; it calls to
mind the criticisms that Arrau and de Silva neglected finger action (see ch. 2, pp. 97-98);
and it reflects Diezs concern to achieve the correct balance in his own teaching.9 Lus
explained this apparent reversal as an outcome of having moved beyond a beginning
stage into a more refined level of skill, at which the conscious cultivation of movements
gives way to conscious attention to musical choices while bodily responses connected
with those choices become unconscious:
Lus. You have to move first with the arm. He [Diez] gave an example . . .
somebody asked Teresa Carreo, What do you feel in your arms when
you play? and she said, I dont feel my arms. I feel like I dont have
arms. German says, thats the way. Youre not supposed to be thinking
9

Bennett Lerner conceptualizes arm technique and finger technique as forming a graph with varying X and
Y values. Experimenting with combinations of differing amounts of finger activity and arm weight
produces different energies and sounds. Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 10, 2003.

186
about your arms. This is just when you are training your arms to do the
correct things. But at a certain point these things have to become
unconscious. I remember he gave the example of when you go to sleep.
You dont know when it happens. So you dont think, when you are going
to stop thinking about your arm. This will become unconscious one day.
Finally, from their study with Diez, these students gained a view of teaching as a
creative and dynamic activity.
Lus: The interesting thing that happens with me with German that didnt
ever happen with another teacher: you start with any teacher, [in] one year
I dont have anything new to do with her. Its the same thing over and
over, I think, Im tired of this. With German, Im still learning new things
or changing. I dont know if it will stop some day. You never get tired to
get a lesson with German. You always want to have a lesson with him
because you always know something new will be there. And this affects
my teaching. I taught when I was in Puerto Rico on Saturdays, and I
remember how bored I was teaching. I was thinking about what am I
going to do when I graduate. I dont want to graduate. I didnt have
anything to do except for This note is wrong. I got sleepy during the
lesson. I felt like my life changed completely because I like to teach now.
Its interesting to see what students do, to try to change one thing to the
other, to be able to give something to them besides, play the right notes,
make a crescendo, faster, slower.
This account of Diezs teaching differs somewhat from the elaboration of
techniques as described by Arrau himself and by his pupils (see ch. 2). This may result
from 1) the unique perceptions of these students giving the account; 2) a selectivity
employed by Diez in focusing only on the areas in which students are lacking; and/or 3)
self-evaluation and modifications employed by Diez in trying to develop and extend
Arraus principles. Indeed, in internalizing and synthesizing Arraus principles with other
influences, and by observing the results of their own teaching, Arraus students inevitably
modified and refined what Arrau taught them and sometimes departed from some details
of Arraus approach.

187
DEMONSTRATION AND THE ORAL (AURAL) TRADITION
While Arrau avoided demonstrating in lessons because of a belief that his students
would simply imitate him, some of his students have departed from this view in their own
teaching. As Edith Fischer suggests, it was very unlikely that anyone would have played
as Arrau played, no matter how much he demonstrated: I dont think he [Arrau] ever
tried [to make pupils play as he did]; it would be impossible that we play like him
anyway.10
Ena Bronstein-Barton points out that, in fact, Arraus concerts were a
demonstration and his pupils had ample opportunity to hear and see Arrau play. Both
Bronstein-Barton and Fischer note that inexperienced students need a model when
learning for the first time to draw different sounds from the piano.
Ena Bronstein-Barton: [Arrau] did not demonstrate. He was very strong in
that, which I have had to grapple with in my own teaching, because I teach
different levels and different ages and so I do demonstrate especially to
my young students but he was of course demonstrating in every one of his
performances. And I think it is important that a teacher should be able to
demonstrate. But we heard him play in concert a lot, so that was not the
problem. The problem was that in the moment he didnt want you to
imitate his inflection or his expression. He would rather you found it from
some inner process.11
Edith Fischer: And that is something that I have changed a little bit in my
teaching. I show very little. I never show how to read something . . . but
sometimes I realize that people have so little imagination in sound. . . .
how can you explain a sound if they have never heard it? So sometimes I
have realized, that if you show a little bit . . . . And I realized that when
pupils go to concerts, the week after, they play better. . . . That means that
they heard something that they didnt imagine themselves. So once in a
while, very seldom I must say, I do show a very little. Sometimes I do. . .
I have come also to the point that you cant teach sound that people dont
imagine.12

10

Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.


Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.
12
Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.
11

188
It seems only logical that in conveying a musical idea to a student, the teacher
imagines a specific sound and tries to get the student to reproduce it. For the purposes of
instruction at least, no other sound will do; and since it is not really a question of leading
the student to create some sound other than that intended by the teacher, it matters little
whether the student achieves it through demonstration and imitation or through
description and trial and error. By hearing it demonstrated, a student forms an aural
image of the sound and approaches the creation of the sound through hearing and
imagination. When the student imitates a sound that is heard, the sound becomes
associated with the physical sensation of a physical action in creating it. Recalling the
sound later is an act of memory and imagination; producing it entails recreating the
physical sensation by performing the related physical action. Sound, physical sensation
and movement are thus mutually reflexive. To have a large store of such sounds with
their related physical sensations and actions is to have an expressive vocabulary.13
However the student acquires this expressive vocabulary, it is unlikely that he or
she will be ultimately a copy of the teacher.14 Even if a student has the opportunity to
13

Physical movement is commonly regarded as critical. More unusual is explicit mention of the
connection between physical movement and how a player listens, such as the following: The player is told
often enough that listening to oneself is the important thing in practice and performance. But he should be
told more often that the physical action of the performer conditions his listening. Unless these two
processes, physical activity and listening, are fully coordinated, the pupil will never achieve ease, enduring
technical facility, and complete enjoyment of the piano. From an interview with Abby Whiteside by
Robert Sabin, Successful Piano Teaching, Musical America (December 15, 1951); reprinted in Abby
Whiteside, Mastering the Chopin Etudes and Other Essays, eds. Joseph Prostakoff and Sophia Rosoff
(New York: Scribners Sons, 1969), 157. Even more rarely is attention paid to the physical sensation of
movement. Movements can be seen and sounds can be heard; but physical sensations felt by a player
cannot be felt by another person. Moreover, in playing, the sensibilities of players themselves can be
flooded by intense aural and visual sensations, mental impressions, and intellectual efforts to the extent that
they lose awareness of their own physical sensations. Therefore, physical sensation, which is intimately
bound with recognizing and reproducing the correct movements and with listening itself, must become the
object of special attention.
14
Bennett Lerner recalls what happened when he deliberately tried to imitate Arraus playing in a lesson:
The other thing I remember from that lesson, he also brought out an inner voice. And I brought out the
inner voice! He said, oh thats very beautiful! I told him, I stole that from you. That was a blind spot, I
thought. There was a story about Frederick Marvin playing an Appassionata just like Arraus and Arrau

189
imitate his or her teachers sounds exactly in various given instances, the resemblance is
likely to manifest itself only in the short term; over time the student will internalize and
integrate these experiences within his or her own vocabulary of sound-making techniques
with their conventional uses and meanings.
Moreover, demonstration and imitation are crucial in the learning of interpretation
because interpretation is embodied more within an oral than a written tradition. While
notation is highly specific about pitch, duration, volume, and speed, it gives little
information about interpretation. Cornelius Cardew observes that a correct reading of
notation does not insure a satisfying performance:
I have heard people criticizing interpretations of music in a variety of
ways, he played some wrong notes, but was faithful to the composers
intention, or he played correctly but seemed to miss the point. Such
criticism disturbs me (though I have often found it valid) because it
implies that there is something behind the notation, something the
composer meant but did not write.15
As Charles Seeger put it, musical notation
does not tell us as much about how music sounds as how to make it sound.
Yet no one can make it sound as the writer of the notation intended unless
in addition to a knowledge of writing he has also a knowledge of the oral
(or, better, aural) tradition associated with it i. e., a tradition learned by
the ear of the student, partly from his elders in general, but from the
precepts of his teachers.16
With the parenthetical observation or, better, aural, Seeger suggests an image of
an unbroken stream or web of sound that has been carried forward through
demonstrations at lessons by generations of teachers to their students. While notation
didnt notice. He just thought Marvin was playing very well. Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City,
April 10, 2003. On the one hand, the assumption is that Arrau was fooled by the imitation, and one might
question whether having this ability to mimic damaged the students individuality. On the other hand, given
that Arrau did not recognize them as such, one might ask how close really were these imitations to
sounding like Arraus playing.
15
Cornelius Cardew, Notation, Interpretation, etc., Tempo 58 (Summer, 1961): 27.
16
Charles Seeger, Prescriptive and Descriptive Music-Writing, The Musical Quarterly 44/2 (April,
1958): 186.

190
records pitches and something of their duration and volume, it does not serve as a
substitute for the sound itself nor does it prescribe a means of getting sound from an
instrument. Actual sounds and their physical means of production are transmitted only by
example; only in this form can students store them as mental images. Pandora Hopkins
agrees, No one in our culture or any other ever learned his music from notation. . . .
there is no such thing as a non-oral tradition of music. 17
While Arrau would not demonstrate in lessons, he was aware nevertheless of the
limitations of notation in guiding interpretation. Speaking in a seemingly fanciful way of
the relationship of notation and musical expression, Arrau asserted, Based on the text, I
go along with Mahler: Music is not in the notes. He meant that the music is above,
between, below the notes. Everywhere even in the rests and sometimes especially in
the rests.18
A similar idea, expressed by Ernst Kurth, is cited by Robert Hatten to support his
own concept of musical gesture in performance:
Gesture presupposes the continuity of motion through a path for which
tones provide the landmarks, analogous to the points outlining a smooth,
curvilinear function on an X-Y coordinate graph. As Rothfarb (2002:940)
explains, for Kurth . . . melody occurs between the tones, in the sweep of
kinetic energy that flows through them and becomes dammed up, as
potential energy, in chords.19
Hatten represents musical gesturing as a dynamic game of connect the dots, for which
pedagogy supplies the rules: Musical notation, which is also largely digital or discrete in
its symbols, cannot adequately represent the continuities of gesture. . . . Conventions of

17

Pandora Hopkins, The Purposes of Transcription, Ethnomusicology 10/3 (September, 1966): 311.
Dean Elder, At Ease with Claudio Arrau, interview of July 30, 1971, in Pianists at Play (Evanston, Ill.:
Instrumentalist, 1982), 44.
19
Robert S. Hatten, Interpreting Musical Gestures, Topics, and Tropes (Bloomington and Indianapolis:
Indiana University Press, 2004), 114.
18

191
style and the apprenticeship of instruction in earlier times also helped guarantee that
performers created gestural continuities beyond those explicitly represented in the
notation of a score [my emphasis].20
These remarks of Arrau and others suggest an ontological view of musical works,
not as notated scores, but as phenomena of sound, movement, and physical sensation.
Pedagogy historicizes these phenomena and enables them to transcend a particular
historical moment by transmitting musical works as streams of sound with their
movements and physical sensations, unbroken from their inception to the present,
through generations of teachers and pupils, and through changes to instruments and
performing styles, by means of the sounds demonstrated by teachers and passed on to
students in lessons. This may reflect a viewpoint particular to performance and pedagogy,
but that is merely to say that any ontological notion of music reflects how music is used
and that performers and teachers have different uses for music from historians and
analysts. Nevertheless, performers and teachers must have a share in forming any
collective view of musical ontology claiming be complete and accurate, for their
influence is likely inescapable. For example, it might well be suggested that the impetus
to describe music in terms of gesture has its basis in instrumental pedagogy, which is
vitally concerned with means of portraying the kinetic energy and relationships of timing
and volume between tones.21 A point to be remembered is that such a portrayal in a real
pedagogical environment entails an element of relativism as it is determined by and must
be conceived in terms of a medium. Therefore, pedagogy must be concerned not with

20

Ibid., 113.
Hatten refers to his piano study under Menahem Pressler at Indiana University. Interpreting Musical
Gestures, Topics, and Tropes, 111, 300, n.1.

21

192
musical style and expression in idealized form, as absolute music, but with reconciling
them in actual practice with instrumental potentials and limitations.
ENA BRONSTEIN-BARTON: CARRYING FORWARD A TRANSCENDENT
STREAM OF SOUND
Some excerpts from a lesson given by Ena Bronstein-Barton on the Schubert
Impromptu in C Minor (D. 899, Op. 90, No. 1) will show the process of teaching a
student to imagine a sound, uniting the sound image with the physical action of creating
it, placing it within a stylistic context, and assigning an expressive character to it.22 Since
the lesson was given in a master class, she neither demonstrated nor gave any overtly
technical instructions; however, had the lesson taken place under other circumstances,
demonstration might well have provided yet another and beneficial dimension to the
students experience.23
Addressing the opening octave, Bronstein-Barton asks the student to think about
the beginning of the piece. In proposing some questions, she outlines a thought process
that starts with musical intent and proceeds to imagining a sound and finding a means of
producing it. To some extent, she frames her questions from prior knowledge of what is
possible to achieve with the piano, not in order to find something new but to lead the
student to rediscover what the teacher already knows to be there.

22

Ena Bronstein-Barton, master class at Greenwich House Music School in New York City, March 29,
2003.
23
In master classes it is often the case that the master will advance musical advice freely but avoid
pressing a technical approach that may conflict with that of the students regular teacher. This is a matter
of courtesy, but also of practicality, because the larger issues of technique require more time to address than
a master class typically allows.

193
Example 5.1 Schubert, Impromptu in C Minor, D. 899, Op. 90, mm. 1-33.

194

Bronstein-Barton: That opening octave, its the dominant, isnt it? Were
in c minor and that starts with a g. Does that suggest anything to you?
[The student looks confused by the question.]
What kind of tone do we want?
[The student answers, but inaudibly.]
A big tone, but resonant! We want a tone that will continue and not go
whack. Thats physical. Put your pedal down first. How do you attack
that chord physically? From the top? From the bottom? You just press
down? What do you do?
[Again, the students reply cannot be heard.]24
Bronstein-Barton wants to hear a certain quality of sound and she is looking for a sign
that the student understands her. This student is hampered by too much tension to create
the sound she wants, possibly as a consequence of playing before an audience, but just as
possibly owing to an intense and habitual attention in practice to the music alone, without

24

Ena Bronstein-Barton, master class at Greenwich House Music School in New York City, March 29,
2003.

195
any awareness of the physical sensations of playing. A possible course of action would be
to draw attention to relaxing the tension; but this would take valuable time and divert
attention away from the music. Therefore, Bronstein-Barton attempts to imagine the
musical impulse as physical and join it to breathing, with the release of tension as a byproduct.25
Could we try it to see if you could feel that this octave is coming out of
your body, not out of your hands! Where is the music, now that we speak?
Its on the page, right? Its somewhere in your mind, somewhere in your
feelings; but where its not, its not in your hands. Thats the last place that
it is. So the hands just put it on the keys, but it has to go through you.
Thats the idea of using your arms, so that you open, so that what you are
thinking and feeling can go into the keyboard in one piece. [As she says
these words, she raises arms away from her body and drops them slightly,
pantomiming the gesture of playing.] So put the pedal down, and now,
lets take a few breaths. Breathing can bring the note into your arms, and
then into the keys.26
He plays the first octave, and she goes on:
Now, listen to it! When are we going to continue? You have to decide that
inside. Nobody can tell you how much [time to wait on the first notes]. To
my ears, that was a much better quality. Can we try that again and this
time Ill let you continue.27
With the words, Now, listen to it! Bronstein-Barton refers to the sound that
remains after a tone has been initiated, sound which the player cannot control once it is
produced, but which must nevertheless form the continuity between the points in time
represented by notes on the page. The simple act of listening to this single after-sound,
not permitting the attention to wander away after active control is no longer possible,

25

This is in accordance with Bronstein-Bartons belief in the inseparability of technique and musical
expression. See ch. 3, p. 134 and ch. 2, p. 90.
26
Ena Bronstein-Barton, master class at Greenwich House Music School in New York City, March 29,
2003.
27
Ibid.

196
listening to the whole duration of the tone and not its point of initiation only, is
preparatory to forming the continuities of the musical gesture.
What follows, concerning the performance of mm. 1-33, is the beginning of an
interpretative act that consists of forming a three-way connection among conventional
meanings, notational signs in the written score, and techniques of performance.
Bronstein-Barton continues:
We could think for a long time about all that goes on there. One [thing] is
the phrasing that he [Schubert] is giving us. Are you going to observe it or
not exactly, because Schubert has written careful slur marks and he
expects that you [will] break when he breaks. The other one is the pedal.
You dont have me convinced about the pedal. You start with a lot of
pedal [on the opening octaves] and then you have none at all [in the
single-note phrase that follows it]. And of course, hes [Schubert is]
presenting us with a single line, and then hes doing the same with chords.
How are these two phrases the same and how are they different? Those are
the problems that come up. Now, Im not suggesting that I have all the
answers, but these are the questions that you have to ask yourself in order
to resolve some of these problems of phrasing and pedaling. I dont know
what youre thinking. I dont know how much youre thinking or how
much youre aware of exactly how you use the pedal in the phrase.28
In these remarks, Bronstein-Barton lays the basis for experimentation with variations of a
technical point to determine the different expressive results and enable the performer to
realize and master the potential of a given technique. When the desired sound is selected
from among the various possibilities, a preferred application of the technique is also
adopted. Bronstein-Bartons questioning is a way of engaging with this particular work;
but the student may also extrapolate general principles about using the pedal in the
context of various articulations and textures to create sounds that exist together in a
harmonious relationship. Since the main issue here is the effect of pedaling on

28

Ibid.

197
articulation and tone, Bronstein-Barton lays out the general techniques of pedaling as a
foundation for making interpretive choices.
In general there are several kinds of pedal. Sometimes we pedal between
the notes. Sometimes we put down the pedal and we hold it for a long
time. And sometimes we can pedal together with the notes. So the foot
goes together with the hands: they go up and down at the same time. This
is called portamento pedal.29
Now, one technique is selected for this specific case, but there is also a generalized aspect
to this choice because it is prompted by a slur above staccato dots. So at this level, the
instruction addresses the meaning of the signs, how to employ pedaling in interpreting
them, and something about the kind of sound that should result.
I wonder if we couldnt try that [portamento pedal] here. You have a sign
that says staccato and legato at the same time, which means something inbetween. We are not connecting the notes, but theyre not staccato either.
That might be a time when you want to try this portamento pedal, which is
with the hands together.30
What has taken place has not raised the issue of interpretation directly, but in effect it is
building up an idea of what interpretation is. After hearing the student play the passage
with portamento pedal, Bronstein-Bartons next statements are a general instruction to
study notation signs carefully for meaning, imagining what sounds the composer is
telling the performer to create.
Now were getting more clarity on that line, for my ears anyway. So if you
spend a few years studying just the signs that Schubert wrote there, youll
be amazed at how much he is really telling you.31
The interpretive element here is one of translating from one medium to another,
from written signs to sounds, selecting the physical technique that accomplishes this most

29

Ibid.
Ibid.
31
Ibid.
30

198
faithfully and effectively. The obvious goal of the instruction is to enable the student to
perform the piece under discussion. At a deeper level, the student is building a repertory
of sounds and techniques for interpreting other works.
In what follows, Bronstein-Barton advances a description, an interpretation, of the
character of the chordal passage (mm. 5-9) based on its texture, dynamic, and
articulation. The student is asked to consider the staccato markings in light of this
character and decide what technique will best convey the character.
Now I feel that when he brings the chords, do you feel them like a little bit
of a march? But its a gentle march, not an angry march. So again, this is
my opinion now, youre getting my opinion. But if it is a martial kind of a
rhythm, then I think it has to be gentler; either we have to add a little touch
of pedal to each one or do it with the hand with a slightly longer staccato
so it doesnt sound choppy or too dry.32
Here, several characters have been suggested for the music; the sonic qualities and
techniques that will embody them have been identified: a longer staccato is equated with
gentleness, the lack of resonance with dryness of tone. The student chooses to add
pedal to the passage. Bronstein-Barton responds, noting the slight or gentle separation
that is obtained by adding a little touch of pedal to each chord. She describes this effect
as breathlessness.
Now you got a breathless quality which I think was really wonderful.
When youre very, very careful with the pedaling, it can really support. So
the pedaling has to support the phrasing that is on the page, not work
against it. That is something for you to think about.33
With this instruction, the student gains a concept of some possible sounds, the techniques
of creating them, and their expressive characters dryness (or in this case, perhaps,
liquescence), gentleness, and breathlessness. The score gives no indication of these

32
33

Ibid.
Ibid.

199
techniques, sounds, or expressive characters; rather, the teacher and student invented
them in response to questions raised by the performance. The instruction provides a
model for connecting sound, technique, and expressive character with elements of
notation to form an interpretation. Identifying works as gently martial based on a strong
vertical textural element and the staccato marking, or as solemn based on use of the
minor mode, are general and rough characterizations to be refined by subsequent acts of
interpretation bringing out further details, such as breathlessness. Once invented and
labeled with some expressive character, playing techniques and sounds can be repeated in
performance, they can be passed on with their expressive meanings from teacher to
student, and they may become more or less permanently attached to a musical work.
While this process appears spontaneous, and the student may well perceive it that
way, its reflexive nature must not be ignored. Bronstein-Barton, drawing upon her
knowledge and experience of piano playing, of musical style, and of this piece in
particular, exerted a subtle control by posing her questions in a way that would yield the
desired results. The interpretive ideas embodied in the words dry, breathless,
gentle, and martial as described above are not extraordinary in any respect. Many
pianists would regard them and the technical means of producing their effects as
commonplace and could easily cite other music that might be similarly characterized.
However, this is evidence for the power and breadth of the stream of sound transmitted in
pedagogy, the commonality in the learning process described above, and its power to
create a community of qualified listeners and interpreters as well as an expressive code.
As Sparshott has noted, In learning step by step the techniques of whatever one learns,
one inevitably acquires the values by which the practice is judged, not as a superadded

200
ideology, but as what gives the practice its cohesion and its learnability and makes it a
practice.34 Moreover, this example suggests how interpretative acts have the potential
not only to perpetuate but to change both works and performers: a convincing
interpretation can change how a work is understood; through repeated acts of
interpretation, performers expand, refine, and change their musical sensibilities and
technical and expressive capabilities.
ARTICULATING THE SOUND STREAM
Making phrase articulation clear while maintaining a sense of continuity among
phrases involves using a flexible vertical motion of the arm and wrist (see ch. 2, p. 112)
to articulate phrasing. The wrist is not active, but reactive (or passive), moving in
response to the active movement from the upper arm. Using upper-arm motion to take the
hand away with a flexible movement of the wrist is a way of controlling the sound,
making the release gradual rather than sudden, and preventing an accent on the last note
of the phrase. Edith Fischer describes it thus:
There are some things in the gestures that are extremely important from
the interpretation point of view, the way of going away from the keyboard;
because sometimes it is as difficult to go away as to go in. And to give you
an example, the end of the phrase, if you are in the piano and you finish
the phrase like that [lifting the hand from the elbow], with the hand instead
of taking the hand away, its as if you took scissors and cut the sound. And
then comes the next phrase but there is no relation. If you do it like: [she
demonstrates a lifting of the hand from the upper arm, not just from the
elbow or fore-arm, so that the hand drops loosely from the wrist], well,
Liszt said that already, you take a thread, and innerly (that is the main
thing), when you do that, innerly you are feeling the relation, so of course
the musical result will be completely different. And the sound goes in the
air, dissolves, and becomes alive again. The relation between one thing
and another! That is so important in the structure. You must feel that you
breathe but it goes further. That is something that is typically, for me,

34

Francis Sparshott, A Measured Pace: Toward a Philosophical Understanding of the Arts of Dance
(Toronto, Buffalo, and London: University of Toronto Press, 1995), 246

201
disturbing in the playing of people: that they are playing so well and then,
tchik! Scissors!35
While this assumes the importance of hearing phrase relationships in the first
place, it also argues that different physical means of disconnecting the phrases can either
preserve or destroy their relationships. There are two objects of concern here. One is
overall beauty of sound. The vertical motion of the forearm from the elbow with an
unyielding wrist is singled out as undesirable, producing a sound that begins with audible
mechanical noise that is disruptive to the musical line. A second concern is for the last
note within a slur, which should be neither accented nor suddenly clipped off without
regard for musical continuity with what follows it. Upper-arm motion with a flexible
wrist achieves both objects: the desired continuity by preventing unwanted accents, and
an improved overall sound. The reactive movement of the wrist divides the motion so
that the arm can be in motion to prepare the next melodic unit while the hand lags behind
to give a gradual, tapered ending to the previous one. The movement of the wrist makes it
possible to stay closer to keys when the arm moves to separate the phrases, reducing
abruptness and mechanical noise, and allowing better control of the sound that begins the
following phrase.
Frederick Marvin illustrated several instances of use of arm weight with a flexible
wrist to execute two-note slurs, legato chords, and short groups of sixteenth notes in
Haydns Sonata in C Minor, Hob. XVI: 20.36

35
36

Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.


Frederick Marvin, master class at Greenwich House Music School, February 1, 2003.

202
Example 5.2 Haydn, Sonata in C Minor, Hob. XVI: 20, I (Allegro) Moderato, mm. 1-4.

Focusing on the students quality of sound and sharply articulated slurs, Marvin
demonstrated a different mode of attack and release for the two-note slur (m. 2, beats 3
and 4), dropping his hand into the first note, playing the second on an up motion.
Dropping into the keys on strong beats 1 and 3 produced a less percussive tone, described
by Marvin as not harsh. The arm moving up and forward, and the wrist rising passively
with a relaxing of weight and tension in playing the second note softened the ending and
made its release more gradual. Marvin reinforced his demonstration with the instruction,
Dont be tense. Relax. Let it sing. By way of contrast, he showed a way of playing with
fingers only, accenting and clipping short the last note of the two-note slur when his hand
rebounded out of the keys. He asked for the same manner of playing in all two-note slurs.
Example 5.3 Haydn, Sonata in C Minor, Hob. XVI: 20, I (Allegro) Moderato, mm. 9-13.

203

Marvin then showed the use of arm weight with a flexible wrist to connect the
chords for the left hand in m. 9 (Example 5.3). Playing them with the fingers alone and
with an immovable wrist produced a clipped and severe staccato. The reactive movement
of the wrist maintained contact between the fingers and the keys, enabling a legato while
the arm was in motion to play successive chords.
In the sixteenth-note passages (mm. 10, 13), Marvin asked for a more controlled
drop into the keys and the same gradual release (with a flexible wrist and release of arm
weight) at the end. Played in this manner, the attack of the first note is scarcely heard; the
sound seems simply to materialize. The arm movement creates a dynamic shape that
grows from this first note and then diminishes, transforming eight individualized notes
into a single, discernible gesture.
This lesson showed the power of a given manner of articulation to color an entire
movement. By singling out the most pervasive gestures and connecting them to a specific
physical movement, Marvin revealed to the student a way of creating a conspicuously
different sound for the overall performance. Thus, Marvins instructions are aimed at
achieving a quality of sound and for interpreting the markings in the score in terms of that
sound. The two-note slur seems basic to his approach, perhaps because it is a phrase in
microcosm: it contains the drop into the keys and the release upward that begin and end
many phrases and motivic units. As Marvin interprets it, the drop is controlled so that it is
never percussive (except where an accent would require it) and it is capable of almost
infinite dynamic modifications for unaccented phrase beginnings.

204
FREDERICK MARVIN: ORAL TRADITION AND FIDELITY TO THE SCORE.
At the end of a lesson of over forty-five minutes spent on the first movement of
Beethovens Sonata Op. 110,37 Frederick Marvin pointed to the score, commenting, I
dont think I said anything thats not here! Many of Marvins comments had a direct or
indirect bearing on long melodic phrases. While slur markings often indicate phrase
length and structure, Beethovens slurs in this movement seldom cross a bar line; his
slurring picks out small, articulated units or motives, or somewhat longer,
homogeneously structured figurations, but gives no indication of phrasing.38 Therefore,
Marvins instructions are based on an oral (aural) tradition associated with how the score
should be read, and in the lesson, he passed some elements of this on to the student.
Marvin began by pointing out that the performance treated the first four measures
as individual measures rather than a cohesive phrase (see Example 5.4).
Think of this whole line, but not as parts; in other words, dont put it in a
square [here, Marvin held up his hands and made four gestures to show
that he meant, Dont play the music as individual measures or
squares].39
Now the student played it a second time and Marvin found the tempo too slow to hold the
phrase together:
What is your tempo? [He asks her to play at m. 5.] That was a little faster,
wasnt it? That tempo [at the beginning] is the same as that [at m. 5.
Marvin asks her to start again and he tells her:] Let it move, sing, talk!40

37

Frederick Marvin, master class at Greenwich House Music School, February 1, 2003.
Ludwig van Beethoven, Klaviersonaten, Wiener Urtext Ausgabe, eds. Karl Heinz Fussl, H. C. Robbins
Landon.
39
Frederick Marvin, master class at Greenwich House Music School, February 1, 2003.
40
Ibid.
38

205
Example 5.4 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110, I. Moderato cantabile, molto
espressivo, mm. 1-12.

Marvin, hearing another interruption in the way the student proceeded from the first to
the second measure, said, No break there! Its a continuous line.
The point of this instruction was not immediately apparent because the student did
not really disconnect the sound. Marvin demonstrated what he wanted by playing the
melody in single notes to show the sixteenth note connecting to the following measure as

206
an upbeat. Thus, Marvin was concerned not with the physical connection or
disconnection of sound but with the perception of the sixteenth note A-flat as moving
forward to the D-flat rather than as belonging to the previous A-flats. His demonstration
also showed a concern for the gesture and its timing. The student had played the two
chords in separate down strokes; when Marvin played this back to her to show what was
not good about it, he exaggerated the gestures creating a real separation of the sounds. He
did not represent her actual performance, but rather the impression he received from it.
By contrast, when he demonstrated a desirable way of performing this melody, he
combined the two notes in a single gesture: the A-flat on a down stroke and the D-flat on
the corresponding upstroke. The different gesture (a single down-up movement as
opposed to two down strokes), together with the intent of connecting the notes, produced
a very subtle change in the timing and dynamic levels of the two notes that served to join
rather than separate them.
Marvin reiterated the same point in mm. 60-61 where the same figure appears for
left hand, again demonstrating the contrasting gestures of performing the notes as
connected and separated.
Example 5.5 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110, I. Moderato cantabile, molto
espressivo, mm. 60-61.

207
Marvins authority for this detail of performance gesture cannot be the score,
which contains no indication of physical movements or the sounds likely to emanate from
them. Moreover, Marvins concern for the overall line prompts him to give an instruction
for m. 4 that overrides the slur calling for a separation before the D-flat: I would take
that E-flat to go to the D-flat [m. 4]. Dont break it.41 Here again it is a matter not only
of sound but also of physical movement, of not rising out of the keys before the D-flat,
and of combining the D and D-flat in a single up-down motion.
In the second part of the theme (mm. 5-11), Marvin asked for a unifying dynamic
scheme joining the separate motives in a longer statement.
What I do is, I feel it differently. Ill show you. [He plays mm. 5-6 with a
slight crescendo.]
Now this [indicating what he is about to play] is the end of the phrase. [He
plays mm. 7 and 8 with a decrescendo. The student verifies this by asking
if this phrase is to end more softly, and he replies] Yes. And the left hand,
especially here [mm. 7 and 8], this part would also be softer. [He plays the
left-hand part in mm. 7 and 8 with a decrescendo. The student plays again,
and when she comes to m. 9, he says] Now, build gradually. [And at m.
11:] Now thats a sforzando there. You did it before, but what I want to
say now, the sforzando is an impetus, a little more sound, but not a harsh
sound.42
In this passage, the melodic and rhythmic patterns in mm. 5-12 suggest two short phrase
units of two measures each, followed by a four-measure phrase. The performance first
played by the student underscored this interpretation, with endings tapering at similar
dynamic levels in mm. 6 and 8. Marvin asked for a crescendo to m. 6, maintaining the
dynamic level through m. 7 and a decrescendo in m. 8, creating at least two four-measure
units or, arguably, one eight-measure unit combining mm. 5-12. His remark about the
sforzando can be understood only through demonstration or trial and error. The words

41
42

Ibid.
Ibid.

208
an impetus . . . not harsh give no clear idea of the sound except to one who already
knows.
Neither Marvins conception nor the students performance of this passage can be
excluded, either by Beethovens markings or by score analysis. One might argue that
Marvins version is related to the harmony of the passage: I V4/3 V4/2 I6.
Example 5.6 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110, I. Moderato cantabile, molto
espressivo, mm. 12-19.

209
However, no rule stipulates that dominant harmonies should always be louder than tonic
harmonies. One might judge Marvins version as having more beauty, interest, or
rightness than the students performance, but the score does not dictate this judgment.
Others of Marvins instructions are intended to create dynamic and articulation
effects and a general awareness that favors sustaining long melodic lines.
[mm. 13-14; Example 5.6] Dont break here. Its all one continuous line.
(In this passage also, the phrases are complementary: two units of two
measures followed by one unit of four measures.)
[Delaying the crescendo marked in m. 17; Example 5.6] Now [indicating
m. 19] you can crescendo.
(Distributing the crescendo marked in m. 25; Example 5.7) Not too loud.
Wait until you get to the end of the trills.43
Example 5.7 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110, I. Moderato cantabile, molto
espressivo, mm. 25-27.

In the absence of performance directions to indicate it, how does Marvin arrive at
his conception of a long line? Analyzing structural and harmonic features of the
movement may be suggestive. For example, divisions are related to the structural
elements of sonata form (sections, themes, and transitions), different figurations, and
cadences. In this movement, Beethoven has closure on a tonic at a point of rest only at m.
38 (end of the exposition) and the end of the movement. Other cadence points are elisions

43

Ibid.

210
where one melodic unit or figuration ends by immediately beginning another, so that the
conclusion of any given phrase is not a point of repose but a departure in a new direction.
The sense of continuous forward movement thus created camouflages the structural
points that divide the movement. Therefore, the long line possesses a quality that serves
as iconic representation of the elided movement in the music, and Marvins expression
picks out this feature, or indexes it.
But even if an analytic process informed Marvins ideas about how the piece
should sound, these ideas could appeal only to ways of playing available to Marvin
through prior knowledge of piano playing. There could be no perception of a need to play
something in a certain way without first knowing how things can be played in that way.
Marvins instructions therefore reflect not just his reading of the score, but his possession
of expressive schemata, or repeatable techniques of grouping and shaping sounds,
components of an oral or aural tradition acquired in his own training and experience as
a student. These expressive schemata form a body of knowledge enabling him to make
decisions like those described above: choosing to represent long lines in certain instances
and short articulated motives in others; utilizing different bodily movements in creating
different melodic shapes; calculating where most of the increase in a crescendo belongs
and what dynamic level it should reach if not specified by the score. This kind of
knowledge may be attached to specific pieces as part of their interpretation (if Marvin
learned the Sonata Op. 110 as a student and received this kind of instruction from his
teacher) as well as being a store of practices that may be generally applied to works
containing similar features (if Marvin arrived at his interpretation in studying this piece
independently of any teacher).

211
That is to say, in this lesson the student (and audience) received from Marvin
some elements of the practice of piano playing as they are transmitted orally in teacherstudent relationships and other social interactions ranged around piano playing. These
elements are either specific points learned and remembered as an interpretation of the
specific piece in question (in this case, the Sonata Op. 110 by Beethoven), or tokens of
types -- examples from a store of knowledge deduced from many particular experiences
about specific kinds of music and how to deal with them. What they cannot represent is
knowledge spontaneously acquired from reading a score.
In this lesson, Marvin specifically drew attention to physical motions only in
playing two-note slurs in mm. 28ff.
Example 5.8 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110, I. Moderato cantabile, molto
espressivo, mm. 28-31.

Here he demonstrated the down-up motion to execute the two-note slurs and remarked,
Theyre all separated, but theyre not -- He finished his sentence by playing the sixnote figure completely legato. In other cases where the physical motion had an immediate
effect on the sound he asked for, such as that in mm. 1 and 2 described above, his verbal
instruction was accompanied by a demonstration that required some interpretation from
the student. Furthermore, he did not comment on the formal or expressive significance in
what his instructions. Indeed, one might take his instructions as purely mechanical,
having no formal or expressive significance. However, this would be a failure to realize
the true import of Marvins instructions. What is ultimately at stake is learning to

212
perceive the expressive content in different kinds of playing and to judge its
appropriateness for a musical work as a preparation for making interpretive choices
independently of a teacher.
It is instructive to peer over the shoulders of Marvin and this student with a view
to interpretive consequences in two further examples. Marvin points out cases where
different uses of dynamics, clearly marked by Beethoven, are analogous with harmonic
and figural motion.
Example 5.9 Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Op. 110, I. Moderato cantabile, molto
espressivo, mm. 32-39.

[mm. 32-33; Example 5.9] You didnt play the crescendo. This is one
continuous line. Youre doing this: [Marvin demonstrates the first three
notes and then deliberately causes a separation before m. 33].
Then get soft before the end. [That is, in the second half of beat 2, m. 33.
He then interrupts the student asking her to bring out a progression from

213
A-flat to G, in m. 32 of the upper voice, and in mm. 33-34 of the inner
voice.] You have it here. This one and the next one. [The student
independently observes this same detail in the upper voice, mm. 34 and
35].
[m. 36; Example 5.9] One long line! Theres no crescendo here at all.
Whatever color you are here, youre going to get softer. [As the student
plays m. 39, he says]: Shhh, now this is pianissimo yet.44
In these two examples, Marvin did as he claimed to do, i. e., he merely repeated
what is written in the score. Nevertheless, his drawing attention to these details without
attaching any significance to them invites interpretation, particularly as they exemplify
contrasting views on the use of dynamics to create continuity.
In the first example (mm. 32-33), the crescendo and descrescendo suggest an
integrated dynamic shape and seamless flow through the change from sixteenth to thirtysecond notes, a gesture of unbroken motion and a sonic arch that bridges the gap in the
left-hand motive (repeated from m. 31) and gives eloquence to the slight pause on the
sixteenth rest just before the cadence. The dynamic markings, therefore, signal not only a
dynamic effect, but also the necessity to create a sense of motion without which the gap
in the left-hand part (m. 33, beats 1 and 2) would seem clumsy and the pause (on the
second half of beat 4) trite and redundant.
In the second example, Marvin sees the crescendo not as integrating but as
disruptive to the line. The question arises, what line is he referring to? Perhaps he is
thinking of the whole series of events beginning with m. 5 and reaching a point of rest in
m. 38. Since the passage in mm. 36-37 is ascending in sixteenth notes, a slight crescendo
is at least conventionally acceptable. However, a crescendo turns the ascent into an
active rise, a bump that interrupts the line from the piano dolce reached in the
44

Ibid.

214
preceding measures to the close on a diminuendo in m. 38. Without a crescendo, closure
is preceded by an appropriate denouement: the ascent is a non-striving diffusion of the Eflat harmony from the low register to the high register as if by osmosis.
EXPANDING ARRAUS PRINCIPLES
Arrau instilled in all of his pupils a technical approach employing use of weight,
relaxation, and basic movements, a specific concept of tone production and tone quality,
and an attitude of fidelity to the musical score. While remaining faithful to these
principles, his pupils displayed considerable variation in teaching styles.
In telling the stories of their study with Arrau, his students invariably mention
Arraus respectful, friendly, and kind treatment of them. At first glance, one is tempted to
discount this testimony as of anecdotal interest only or simply as idealization of a largerthan-life iconic figure.45 However, the more this point is reiterated by his pupils, it
becomes clear that Arraus manner had some larger significance. The simple facts of
Arraus celebrity, that he taught by choice and not out of necessity, that he took no fee for
his teaching, and the pleasure and pride he showed in his teaching spoke compellingly of
the importance that he attached to it. Although most of Arraus students aspired to
performing careers, for some, teaching emerged later as a career alternative or, at least, a
necessary supplement to their performing careers and this could well have been
accompanied by disappointment and bitterness. However, just as the teaching of German
Diez powerfully affected his students view of teaching, Arraus conduct as a teacher

45

Loretta Goldberg described a contrasting form of interaction with students, sometimes employed by
Rafael de Silva, There are a number of teachers who are personally destructive. It was sort of a European
way of teaching, a Germanic way of teaching, in which youre very hard on the person. Arthur Schnabel
was like that, not Karl Ulrich, but Arthur was. . . . Some motivate by fear, and some slide their way into
the persons talent and manipulate and grow it. Rafael would yell and scream and hed get so angry hed
kick his slippers off. And you were so frightened you were just playing by rote.

215
seems to have directly affected how Diez and Arraus other students viewed the work of
teaching, how they treated their own students, and how teaching reflected back on their
own musical knowledge and assumptions. Arraus students characterize him as follows:
Ena Bronstein-Barton: His manner of teaching was extremely kind. His
way of addressing a student was, in my experience, extraordinarily kind.
He was not one of those teachers who yell. He was extremely kind. He
was very patient.46
Edith Fischer: He was always very kind, and I would say, very respectful
to pupils. He was sort of curious to see what you were giving. You never
had the impression he had a fixed idea he wanted to adhere to. That
happens with many people, that That is my truth and that is what they
have to do. That was not at all his attitude. That is very important, I think.
He wanted to know what you were giving, and then with that he would try
to do the best, to tell you, But look at the score, or The sound is not
good, take care of your gesture, or whatever, but starting with what you
had. Not starting from a fixed idea.47
Arraus teaching, therefore, imparted to students not only knowledge and skills,
but a model that they admired and sought to emulate. The respect that they received from
Arrau reinforced their own musical personalities; and they responded with a concern for
the musical personalities of their own students. They sought, not just to replicate their
experience with Arrau, but to expand upon his teaching, fully exploring its implications
and bringing it to higher definition and new contexts. This also followed their perception
of Arraus words and example:
Ena Bronstein-Barton: A lot of what Arrau did was a product of influence,
but mostly from Krause and Liszt, I would think. He admired Carreo
greatly. But this [Arraus way of playing] comes directly from Liszt and
from Krause. He just says he developed it further. But this is the way, the
business for instance about breaking arpeggios beautifully and having an
inner life to the broken chord, all of this comes from the way he was
taught. Except he says he developed it even further [my emphasis].48

46

Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.


Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.
48
Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.
47

216
The obvious point here is the admiration Arrau inspired; however, the way it is
stated reveals how powerfully he instilled in students the idea of further development, not
only in their playing, but as a primary goal and responsibility of teaching. The following
quotations can be read not only as praise for Arraus teaching but as mission statements:
Ena Bronstein-Barton: The great thing about their teaching, the great thing
that I am so indebted to Arrau and de Silva for, is [that] their method of
teaching gave you weapons, and it gave you a way of continuing to
develop beyond their presence.49
German Diez: But Im sure that everything [Krause taught], Arrau
probably made it more explicit. . . . Arrau has expanded much more,
because he is using it, so he knows how broad the thing could be.50
Edith Fischer: . . . a personality like his [Arraus] opens doors. That makes
you think. You try to become yourself. You can use this way of thinking
to develop other ideas. When I teach sometimes I do things that are
different, but the objective is probably the same.51
Arrau and de Silva had provided a vocabulary of techniques that entailed motions,
sensations, and physical responses of playing that served their musical and stylistic
objectives. Arraus students internalized these elements as well as a model of how to
teach them. Further developing the model demanded understanding the objective realities
of teaching: the technical and musical principles and possible ways of conveying them. It
also meant exploring through trial and error the subjective realities of playing and
teaching, finding alternative ways to think about piano playing, to engage with and build
upon the natural abilities of students of different backgrounds and preparation, ages,
perceptual tendencies, temperaments, physical characteristics, and mental habits.
This type of exploration could be justified only by a belief that each student
possessed an immanent musicality worth drawing out. Every student had to be seen not
49

Ibid.
German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.
51
Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.
50

217
merely as an epitomization of faults and weaknesses needing correction, nor as a blank
page upon which some musical message was to be written, but as having a valuable
musical personality to be brought forth, protected, and developed. This constituted a
more complex objective than simply making students play with more style, ease, and
technical proficiency. Edith Fischer noted that, indeed, the individual musical personality
has a power to assert itself, and finding a way of teaching that supports it is crucial:
Edith Fischer: Every person has his own sound. Even on an instrument
like the piano, which is supposed to be quite mechanical. But I still think
you can recognize . . . people when they have a personal quality of touch,
of sound. And that is why I think if you cant develop the imagination of
the pupil, if he cant imagine the sound, you can teach him all the gestures
you want and it wont work; or it will work while hes at the lesson, or
while he is working with you, but if you let him alone after two years, he
will reclaim his sound and the way he is producing it. . . . I know cases of
people who played beautifully and went to certain teachers, in Paris for
instance, and they said Oh, but that is not the way to play. You must start
playing scales every day. You must articulate like that, or do this. They
dont play the piano anymore. Because when you think, This is the way,
this is it, the only way, the truth! well, that is truth for us. But there are
some people who play differently and they are making music beautifully.
Maybe you dont like the sound. Okay, but there must be a certain need
for that, and an affinity to this way of playing.52
Thus, many of Arraus pupils became interested in developing a manner of
teaching that did not simply impose new ways of playing on students, but adapted to their
individual psychologies, communicated in a style that was natural to them, engaged their
individual abilities and adaptive powers, and helped them to develop their own musical
personalities. When it succeeded, this approach produced teacher-student relationships
that downplayed power aspects implied by superiority and deference, and foregrounded a
kind of social and cultural interaction from which both teacher and student had something
to gain.
52

Ibid.

218
GOODWIN SAMMEL: INDIRECTION AND NATURALNESS IN MOVEMENT
Goodwin Sammel, who studied with Arrau and de Silva from 1945 through 1951,
exemplifies an interesting and highly individual style of teaching. Well-schooled in
Arraus principles, he teaches them to his students in a manner that he has called
teaching by indirection. This consists in utilizing a students natural tendencies in
performing a specific task in order to elicit the desired response. The idea may have
occurred to Sammel in the course of his work with de Silva:
Goodwin Sammel: De Silva also would teach by indirection a little bit.
I remember playing a piece for him, Gnomenreigen by Liszt, and he
wanted a certain sound . . . and I wasnt getting exactly the sound he
wanted. Later on [the piece] gets expressively a little different, and he
said There! Thats it! . . . Esto! . . . Thats it! Now you have to get [it]
that same way in other places. In a way, thats by indirection. He didnt
get me to do it that way the first time it came . . . but later on, I just
naturally did it that way and he said, Thats it!53
This account underscores the tension in the teaching process between the need to
give free play to the artistic personality of the student and the need to instill specific
knowledge about piano playing -- to pass on a tradition. Sammels style of teaching
relies on several premises: that a natural technique is one that eliminates unnecessary
tension and fatigue; that such technique is most natural to the human body; that all human
bodies are governed by common mechanical principles so that a natural technique should
contain elements applicable for every student; that Arraus technique is a natural
technique. Rather than try to instruct students in the correct motions of playing, Sammel
creates exercises or activities that engage the students natural movements and responses
so as to reproduce or rediscover a natural technique as he envisions it.
Goodwin Sammel: I write them [the exercises] in their books for them.
Just for the dropping. Its [finger numbers] 2-4. Theyre playing C and E
53

Goodwin Sammel, interview in New York City, April 14, 2003.

219
here and you cannot, whats really wonderful here, once again its by
indirection because the students never miss. The very first time you ask
them to do it, they always hit the right notes.54
Sammel is referring here to the following exercise in which students learn to drop
the weight of the arm into the keys:
Example 5.10 Goodwin Sammel, Exercise for dropping the weight of the arm.

3
1

LH

2
4

LH
5

4-3

2-1


2
4

2
4

2
4

4-3

4-3

2
4

2
4

2
4

2
4

2
4

2
4

2
4

RH

4-3
2-1

2
4

4-3
2-1

2
4

2
4

2
4

2-1

4-3
2-1

2
4

2
4

2
4

2-1

4-3
2-1

2
4

2
4

2
4

2
4

2
4

Goodwin Sammel [exercise to develop the sensation of dropping arm


weight]: This [indicating the right-hand part] helps you to focus on what
the notes are. This feeling of changing fingers really helps you get the
firmness you need and so forth. And so, they almost never miss with the
left hand. And then we do it the other way, too [starting with the left hand
on the highest third and playing top-bottom-top] . . . And most people just
do it naturally.55
Developing technical skills through devising tasks and observing how they are
executed reflects an effort to adapt tasks to students rather than students to tasks. The
instructions of the teacher are framed not to call attention to the teachers knowledge, but
rather to draw out a response, accommodating the different bodies and minds of students

54
55

Ibid.
Ibid.

220
without imposing elements that are foreign to them.56 Since Sammel knows in advance
what a natural technique will look like, he can invent tasks that will encourage it to
emerge and he can guide students to discover its elements by being aware of their own
sensations in fulfilling the task. By carefully observing students responses, Sammel can
modify the task if necessary until it produces the desired results. In this way, Sammel
gains insight into a students psychology, natural capabilities, and physical adaptation. By
refraining from overt methods of instructing, explaining, and telling how things are to be
done, Sammel allows students to act creatively in solving their own difficulties.57
While Arraus first concern with Sammel was actively changing his technique, by
contrast, it would seem at first glance that Sammel has turned sharply and marched in the
opposite direction. He does not appear to employ an aggressive program to change his
students. However, he cites Arraus technique as the model of a natural way of playing,
and getting students to adopt the principles taught by Arrau informs at least a part of the
content of his teaching.
Goodwin Sammel: I dont teach technique very much. What I try to do is
. . . encourage a natural way. I have the feeling that people will find a
natural way. I feel that Arraus technique is a natural way. If they give up
all stiffness -- Ill say you dont need to feel stiffness or I give exercises
which will induce a free way of playing. Just for freedom of the arm, I
have exercises so you get the feeling of dropping.58
56

One advantage of approaching curriculum practice from the standpoint of instruction through
behavioural objectives is that it shifts the focus of teachers toward the behaviour of students and the details
of activity. The charisma of the teachers defers to the performance of the student. The major hazard of
regimenting learning through a pre-determined sequence of fixed objectives is that little scope may be left
for significant encounters,during which people respond in their own ways, framing educative experiences
for themselves. When most of the control of learning lies with the teacher, the student may not be able to
make it his or her own, and the whole transaction can become stale and arid. Keith Swanswick, Music,
Mind and Education (London: Routledge, 1988), 127.
57
Donald Woods Winnicott, Playing and Reality (New York: Basic Books, 1971), 102. Winnicott writes
of the importance in psychotherapy of empowering patients by allowing them the creative space to interpret
and understand their own behavior. The psychoanalyst must refrain from imposing his or her own
interpretations upon the patient, just as Sammel refrains from overtly instructing his students.
58
Goodwin Sammel, interview in New York City, April 14, 2003.

221
Thus, Sammel has extrapolated from the teaching of Arrau and de Silva the idea
of using the students own sense and capabilities to create new skills. He is developing
that idea through exploring the relationships between movements of making music and
movements of ordinary human action. The statement, I dont teach technique very
much is not to be taken at face value; it is only a signal that Sammel does not adhere to a
practice of telling students how they should play. Nevertheless, his striving toward
further development of technical and musical principles that he learned as a student and
his utilizing students own abilities to create greater skill is informed by Arraus example.
Implied in Sammels approach is the idea that music-making, as a human product,
is therefore also a product of natural human movements. This resonates with Deppes
aphorism about piano technique, When it looks pretty, it is right. In explaining Deppes
remark, Elisabeth Caland59 cited both Spencer60 and Souriau61 to support the claim that
both the aesthetic quality of movements and their efficacy in playing was related to ease,
gracefulness, economy, balance, and rhythm. These might also be taken as properties of
the kind of movement Sammel means by natural movement. All human beings with
normal capacity for movement have the potential to execute the natural movements
Sammel is talking about, which is not to say that these natural movements are always
automatically employed as a matter of course, or that conscious learning and effort are
not necessary in developing a style of movement with the properties Souriau discusses.62

59

Elisabeth Caland, Die Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels (Magdeburg, Heinrichshofens Verlag, 1921),

6.
60

Herbert Spencer, Essays: Scientific, Political and Speculative (New York: D. Appleton, 1891), 384.
Paul Souriau, The Aesthetics of Movement, trans. Manon Souriau (Amherst: University of Massachusetts
Press, 1983); originally published as Lsthetique du mouvement (Paris: F. Alcan, 1889), 81.
62
Sparshott writes: Every animal is an artist, says Souriau, in the intelligent economy with which it
performs complex bodily functions. But to achieve such economy is not the highest use of intelligence in
action, for a sense of ease may be deceptive. Something not obvious, something hard to learn and not
immediately comfortable, may serve better. The most rewarding movements in the long run are those that
61

222
Developing a sense of a natural style of movement and adapting it to piano playing is
what Sammel is working toward.
SUPERVISED PRACTICE AND THE PURSUIT OF INSIGHT
A belief that the physical side of piano playing consists of natural human
movements amounts to a belief that all human beings with normal movement capacity
can learn to play well. The value of this belief is in motivating the kind of close
observation of student behavior and responses that yields knowledge and insight. Its
pedagogical attraction lies in what teachers gain from it. German Diez described how
observation and the search for teaching techniques to fit the perceptions of different
students led to a deeper understanding of the principles he was trying to teach:
German Diez: . . . the experience of playing [teaching?] too taught me a
lot about doing things. For example, I took Antoine to play for Arrau a
couple of times. I remember once he [Antoine] was playing the Grieg
concerto, [a] passage with octaves. And Arrau would try to explain to him
how to drop the weight, how to do the octaves, say, You have to do this
way and this way. And since I knew Antoine better, and then I had to
facefor after all he [Arrau] was facing people who are very talented; and
we have to face people who . . . we still have to try to make talent out of it.
So you develop a good experience . . . you have to build more tools to the
right idea. . . . Then I said, What he means is, you have to try to lead with
the elbow more. Then Arrau said, Hes right. Thats the way. I have
more experience trying to find the way to convey those ideas. He [Arrau]
doesnt have the time to do it. I spend ten hours a day doing it. He
doesnt. Those are things that are basically the same thing, but there are so
many ways to look into it. But they are all the same idea.63
From observing the varying measures of success and failure with different ways
to communicate a single idea, says Diez, one gains proficiency in handling the
complexity of both the movements and the subjective realities involved in

secure greater economies in the accomplishing of remoter objectives. So we go beyond efficiency to an


articulate effectiveness. Foreword to Souriaus, The Aesthetics of Movement, viii.
63
German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.

223
communicating them. Ena Bronstein-Barton cites one of the most difficult issues in this
regard:
Ena Bronstein-Barton: . . . like the business, for instance, of dropping on
a chord, which is so hard, Arrau would do it and demonstrate [sic!] and
youd hear him do it in a concert, but how to do it yourself is a whole
other matter because people have different bodies, different brains, and in
order to maneuver the same technique, you have to be very patient and
repeat it and search for it, sometimes for years.64
Enabling a student to acquire correct movements and responses, if they are not
learned from the earliest lessons, also involves the challenge of removing conflicting
habits of movement. In this effort, Diezs students report that he spends generous
amounts of time practicing with them the principles he is trying to teach and patiently
repeats instructions in subsequent lessons. Knowing that he teaches so many students
each week (ten hours a day, as he says), one might be tempted to conclude that Diez
simply does not remember what he has said to each one of them and does not realize he is
repeating the same instruction. However, it is neither patience nor forgetfulness, but
practical necessity; according to Diez, repetition is necessary to maintain progress in the
right direction because of the complexities of what he is teaching and the unfolding
character of the learning process itself.
German Diez: This happens all the time with students. I tell them to do
one thing, and the next lesson they come, and . . . they dont make the
difference. It takes a while before you really channel it, [before] you really
understand it. And thats why you consider the reinforcement of
supervised practicing, so to speak. Because one doesnt know that one is
drifting in a different direction, all [the while] thinking that you do the
same thing, or not remembering at all, Well, how . . . did I do that? It
came out right, and then . . . you dont find a way again. Thats very
natural. The same [idea], . . .he [Arrau] would say . . . You have to do
this, you have to be relaxed here. Youd think, Thats the idea! Ive got
it! And then five years later, [you would think], Ah! This is what he
really meant. Oh! THIS is what he really meant. Because its so down
64

Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey, August 1, 2002.

224
deep that you dont see it. It takes a long time before it becomes
something that is natural.65
What Diez calls supervised practicing consists in observing while students try
to follow his instruction in a given passage many times, evaluating and commenting,
pushing and prodding the students arm into the desired position and motion, calling for
specifically directed listening, modifying his instructions until a student can really sense
and control the technique he is trying to learn. This is a two-fold practicing, or trialand-error, process in which Diez makes ample use of demonstration to show specific
sounds and physical movements. Diez either seeks to discover the students level of
awareness and engage him at that point before attempting to move him beyond that point,
or purposefully confronts him with a perplexing situation and watches for signs that his
mind, body, and ear are adjusting, making sense of things.
Marcia Lewis: I watched him [Diez] in the master class he gave at Third
Street on that Burgmller Ballade with a junior high student. And he got
to the middle singing part and the student played every note just the same.
And German would demonstrate G; and then C is more, and B is more,
and G is the most. And the boy -- just trying to go from G to C and
making sure that C was louder than the G -- it took the kid five, six, maybe
more tries to even hear that he wasnt copying Germans sound because he
wasnt making the C louder. German started saying the C has to be louder
. . . . But he just sat there with him until he heard it, and once the kid heard
it, then he could do it.66
Marcia Lewis: At one point he [German Diez] gave me a Mozart concerto
to work on. . . . I had to play it really slowly like an exercise, and after
each note I had to lift my finger as high as I could get it, because my
fingers tended to be slow about getting off the keys and therefore a little
bit blurry. And not only was it objectionable in terms of sound but, he also
said, I wasnt sending clear signals to each finger. And when I did that, the
fingers would work much better. . . . For instance, I was playing with my
third finger but still hanging on a little bit to my fourth finger. I wasnt
sending a clear enough signal to my third finger for it to play exactly right.
. . . everything worked back and forth. The sound and the physiology of
65
66

German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.


Marcia Lewis, interview in New York City, August 4, 2002.

225
everything was so interconnected there. And then, when I played up to
tempo, I had to imagine that my fingers were coming that far off. And so
we worked a lot on these picking-up muscles. And he did the
demonstration of me holding my hand in a fist and then hed grab it with
his hand and Id have to try to open up my hand; but of course those
muscles were weak. . . . he would make a fist with his hand and Id have
to try to keep his hand closed. And he had a very hard time . . . opening up
his hand with even a much weaker hand holding his closed.67
These cases illustrate a probing into the aural and physical sensation of the skill
involved and exercising an empathic sense to insure that a student learns to experience
and evaluate his or her own physical sensations as well as the actual sound coming from
the instrument. It is not self-evident that a student can always do this alone. It is possible
that instruction addressing only what is seen on the page, only a verbally expressed sound
concept (as opposed to an actual sound), or only a technical point in a difficult passage,
ignores the human dimension of the students actual felt and heard response; moreover,
there is a tendency for the students own intense concern about musical elements to block
awareness of his or her physical sensations. Over time, inattention to the physical and
aural sensations disables the students ability to alter or control any aspects of their
playing, technical or musical.
Diez has also used supervised practice to help students with injuries. Angelina
Tallaj tells that she went to Diez with injuries so painful that she could not play a single
piece.68 Pain in her forearms resulted whenever she attempted to raise either her hand
(bending from the wrist) or fingers. She also experienced pain in the shoulder blade area
and tension in the neck muscles. Diez began by showing her a way of playing scales,
allowing the wrist to drop downward on the thumb and gradually rise up as she

67
68

Ibid.
Angelina Tallaj, interview in New York City, July 18, 2002.

226
proceeded to the fifth finger the five-finger principle described by Lus and Maritza
Alvarez. She did not practice very much on her own but played only at lessons with Diez
supervising. By refraining from practicing alone, she believes she acquired the correct
techniques faster because, away from the piano, she continued to think about the correct
way to play while preventing any interference from practicing under the influence of her
previously learned habits.69
After working out this technique of scale playing, says Tallaj, the technique was
transferred first to Bach Preludes and then to other pieces. Although she is now capable
of handling long and technically demanding works, Angelina still feels pain when raising
her hands or fingers upwards (contracting the extensors), but moving in the opposite
direction (contracting the flexors) causes no discomfort.
To complete this account, Diez points out that correct and healthy finger
movement is moving the fingers from the knuckle joint where the fingers meet the hand.
The movement should be toward the palm as when making a fist. He considers raising
the fingers upwards from the knuckles in a hammer-like stroke a wasted motion. 70
Furthermore, Diez asserts that striking the keys from a position where the fingers are
raised high above the keys will not enable good control of tone. 71 He demonstrates this
on an opened door. Swinging the arm from a distance and striking the door with the palm
69

Diez often reminds students that learning grows away from the piano, and during sleep.
Ortmann points out a difference between the percussive (coming from above the key) and non-percussive
(beginning on the surface of the key) finger strokes. In percussive strokes, the original force can never be
maintained because the finger, through the principle of action and reaction, is retarded with the same force
with which the key is accelerated. There is, accordingly, a loss in force, for the moment after impact,
whereupon the finger reengages the key and uniform or controlled pressure is used from this point on. No
such adjustment is present in non-percussive touches. Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano
Technique (London: K. Paul, Trench, Trubner, 1929; repr. New York: Da Capo, 1981), 233-234.
71
Ortmann also maintains that the faulty surface tone common among inexperienced pianists results from
badly timed finger motion or contraction that takes place before and up to the impact of the finger on the
surface of the key, that is, when the finger is in a lifted position above the key. Good tone production,
however, results when the motion and contraction of the finger begins at the moment of contact with the
key and during key descent. Ortmann, The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique, 349-350.
70

227
of the hand creates a sudden impact that causes some disturbance or even pain to the
hand, but does not overcome the inertia of the door. But placing the palm of the hand on
the door and pushing moves the door efficiently and with intensity ranging from a very
gentle close to a slam; and the hand suffers no disturbance or discomfort. Diez applies
this analogously to the action of the finger on the key. Striking the key from above will
not move the key as efficiently or in as controlled a manner as pressing from a position of
rest on the surface of the key.72
PEDAGOGY AND TALENT
Lack of control of the technical side of playing produces a corresponding
limitation on what can be achieved in the interpretive and expressive realm. Sometimes
the cause of inexpressive playing is sought not in the physical behaviors associated with
playing, but in the students musical aptitude. As the account of Lus and Maritza
illustrates, despite training diligently to build muscular finger strength through repetitious
exercise, still their fingers were judged to be weak, still they remained ill-equipped to
deal with the technical and musical problems posed in musical works. With the failure of
all this effort, could it not be said that they simply lacked a talent for piano playing?
The concept of talent is a part of musical life in the sense that significant artistic
achievement or excellence is commonly thought to be a consequence of an innate ability
that can be neither created nor taught. Being beyond the reach of human endeavor, talent
is highly valued, partaking of some divine (or demonic) realm, and the condition of being

72

Diez gave this demonstration in a lesson with James Pang in New York City, July 29, 2003. When asked
how he discovered this connection between closing a door and the action of the finger on the key, Diez
jovially replied, Well, from fixing doors, of course! The connection between closing a door and key
depression is contained in an account of the methods and theories of Paul Pichier, a pupil of Leschetizky, in
The Pianists Touch, eds. Walter Krause, Elisabeth Hesse, and Waltraut Osborn (Graz, Austria: Leykam,
1972) 23-25.; translated by Martha Ideler and Peter R. Wilson (Palo Alto, Calif.: Perelen, 1972), 23-25.

228
talented or untalented contains an aspect of immutability. Talent serves as a convenient
explanation for individual ability and achievement deemed too exceptional to be
explained by any other means, just as lack of talent serves as a facile explanation for a
lack of achievement. In either case, one practical consequence of an unquestioning
acceptance of judgments of talent is a loss of opportunities to gain knowledge and
insight.
Kingsbury has pointed out that talent is not something proved or disproved but
socially constructed, involving both ethical and aesthetic judgments, and productive of a
social hierarchy. The very meaning of musical talent is inextricably linked to power
relations. The concept is used in the context of marked differentials in social power
(parent-child, teacher-pupil); ambiguities of its meaning are clarified through referral
back to higher levels of this power structure; and perhaps most importantly, the
invocation of talent contributes significantly to the reproduction of a structure of
inequality in social power. 73
Some pedagogues are openly critical of the talent concept, questioning whether it
is valid, productive, or ultimately humane. Dorothy Taubmans associate, Edna
Golandsky, states that most pianistic shortcomings have to do with shortage of
information rather than lack of talent, intelligence, or strong work habits. In discussing a
specific technical point, she remarked, Dont think, Maybe Im not talented. Think
through the fingerings and movements. When the fingerings and movements clear up,
you begin to be talented.74

73

Henry Kingsbury, Music, Talent, Performance (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1988), 79.
Dorothy Taubman, The Taubman Techniques: A series of videocassettes presenting the keyboard
pedagogy of Dorothy Taubman (Medusa, N. Y.: J.T.J. Films, Inc., in cooperation with the Taubman
Institute, 1994), Tape 9.
74

229
Taubman, herself, who gained attention in the 1980s for repairing the damage
sustained by pianists due to injury, is frankly critical of a teaching style that focuses only
on musical matters, delegating the responsibility of solving physical problems to the
student. In the following statement, she conspicuously avoids the word talent,
substituting concentration, sensitivity, personality, and intellect -- words which,
unlike talent, do not connote inalterability. Furthermore, she makes it plain that these
considerations are secondary; of primary concern is the teachers responsibility to
demonstrate and exercise knowledge and skill commensurate with what Kingsbury
asserts is the greater social power and position of teacher. In doing so, Taubman
implicates the negative aspects of power relationships in pedagogy.
Dorothy Taubman: Teaching is also knowing how to tell the pianist
exactly how to do something you want him to do. The most frustrating
thing is to have a young artist come in and to tell him what you want and
his hands cant do it. And he feels inadequate and miserable. And this is
pretty much what I find with the young people; they are terribly
intimidated by their past training, because if they cant do something its a
stigma. I think . . . the finger has to be pointed away from the students and
toward the teachers. Its the teachers job to find a way to get the student
to do [musical playing technically well]. Were talking about dedicated,
earnest, and gifted people. Theres no reason why any of them should not
be able to do exactly what they want to do. . . . I think I can teach anybody
to play well. The levels will be very different with different personalities
. . . . It has to do with the amount of concentration, the amount of inner
sensitivity. We all have different levels of sensitivity and concentration.
The amount of intellect! We all have different intellects. But physically,
every child, every person can learn to play physically well. The student
knows when something is right or wrong. I cant tell them. I cant tell
them, Youre playing wrong. He has to tell me, I dont feel good. And
then I know whats happening. I can make a diagnosis, listening,
watching, and mostly listening to what the student has to say. We have to
listen with a third ear, because Ive found the student is never wrong about
his own body and his own feelings.75

75

Ibid., Tape 1.

230
The case of Lus and Maritza shows their acute and painful awareness of failure before
their study with Diez, and the importance of coming to terms with their pianistic
problems to avoid internalizing this failure, becoming stigmatized by it. Perhaps they
believed, as Taubman says, that they could not be wrong about their own bodies and
feelings. A key element in their positive progress, however, was finding in Diez someone
who knew how to help them, someone with whom they could achieve true
communication and interaction in an atmosphere of trust, to whom they could expose the
want of knowledge and skill without fear of rejection based on a negative judgment of
their talent. And from this kind of interaction both teacher and student gained in
knowledge and skill. As Diez puts it:
Now in my case, I would say I have more experience than Rafael himself
(I told you he asked me to help him), because I have to deal with so many
people so far from being talented, not really that, but what I mean to say
is, people that have problems. Instead of people who are already well
developed when they come to them [Arrau and de Silva], we are dealing
with people who are building up to something. So we develop more
experience in tackling the problems, seeing how to get to the bottom of it.
Thats the experience of teaching. Arrau could never develop that
experience because he wasnt teaching that much. And he didnt teach
anybody he really had to teach from scratch. But then, he knew the way to
get to the top, anyway. So thats a different skill: to have the experience
of how to convey the idea so that you get the results.76
The mention of talent by Diez here is revealing, and not least for his immediately
recanting it. It appears that he both recognizes talent and dismisses it. Perhaps this is so,
not only because lack of talent is stigmatizing but also because, according to common
notions of it, talent is passive in the sense that it cannot be created. Thus, it does nothing
to advance Diezs active and dynamic project of development, building up to something,
tackling problems, getting to the bottom of things.
76

German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5, 2002.

231
Thus, what is at issue with the talent concept is not its truth or falsehood but its
musical, pedagogical, and social productivity. From a pedagogical standpoint, if pianistic
problems are the result of an immutable, inborn characteristic (lack of talent), there is
no point in looking for solutions and nothing of value to be learned from the process.
From a social standpoint, by adhering to a concept of musical talent, musical
performance is restricted to a small, elite subset of society: those judged to have talent.77
On the other hand, the premise articulated by Taubman that all students can learn the
physical motions of playing justifies an effort to discover the most effective way to
communicate with each student; and this effort yields insights into what is taught and the
process by which it is taught. It assumes, even if tacitly, that music is better served when
more people begin to be talented. Thomas Christensen has written of the important
function of the piano in shaping the reception of all genres of music in the nineteenth
century. He shows repeatedly that it is not only a matter of making musical works more
widely known but of making the bodily sensation of music more widely experienced and
felt.
Roland Barthes has pointed out that there are two kinds of music: the kind
one listens to and the kind one plays. The latter, in Barthess eroticized
world view, is infinitely superior since it brings the body into contact with
the music. When one plays an instrument or sings, there is a kinesthetic
sensualization and personalization of the notes.78

77

Kingsbury: In general, after an authoritative Jack (or Wolfgang, or Vladimir) has made the
judgment that Jill is not talented, it will probably become inappropriate for Jill to play or sing in Jacks
presence: her music will in all probability be perceived as something of a nuisance to him, and listening to
her a waste of his good time. Moreover, if Jacks musical opinions are widely influential or if his opinion
is widely shared, the social appropriateness of her music making will become problematic in many if not all
social situations. The performance of music before any audience can be frightening, but performing before
an audience that is disapproving in advance results in almost certain ostracism. Music, Talent,
Performance, 72.
78
Thomas Christensen, Four-Hand Piano Transcription and Geographies of Nineteenth-Century Musical
Reception, Journal of the American Musicological Society 52/2 (Summer, 1999): 293. He cites Roland
Barthes, Musica Practica (1970) in Image-Music-Text, 149.

232
This kinesthetic sensualization and personalization established a basis for an
understanding and appreciation of music in nineteenth-century society, in which piano
playing was a marker of social status. In this environment, such a progression was
encouraged. Moreover, within this society, musical elitism went hand in hand with
prestige and advantage. It must be questioned whether this kind of elitism in the twentyfirst century has become an anachronism, whether it has inhibited the growth of
pedagogical knowledge, and limited the kinesthetic experience of music to professionals,
thus contributing to the alienation and marginalization noted by Lawrence Kramer:
It is scarcely a secret that the extraordinary value ascribed to music, and to
the arts in general, during the nineteenth century has lost much of its
credibility; not much survives except a certain quantity of impoverished
rhetoric. Professional students of all the arts have been increasingly
confronted with a sense of cultural marginalization, an unhappy awareness
that their work is tolerated rather than encouraged by the academy and by
society at large.79

79

Lawrence Kramer, Music as Cultural Practice, 1800-1900 (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and Oxford:
University of California Press, 1990), 20.

233
SIX
TEACHING ARRAUS PRINCIPLES TO THE YOUNG STUDENT
Arrau formulated his principles to describe his way of performing the standard
concert repertory in the great concert halls of the world. In his teaching and that of his
assistant, Rafael de Silva, Arraus principles were passed on to a group of artist pupils
who aspired to performing careers. As Arraus principles spread more widely from his
pupils to a younger generation of their pupils, his principles reached teachers whose
primary work was with children, and they began to use these principles in nurturing the
musical aspirations of children and young beginners. Rather than wait for students to rise
to the level of advanced repertory, or to arrive at a level of maturity enabling a productive
discussion of technical principles, these teachers sought to develop the elements of
advanced playing from the earliest beginnings in elementary and intermediate repertory.
In addition to its mechanical aspect, the development of technique at the
elementary level naturally entailed issues of tone production, expression, and
interpretation. The practical problems of adapting Arraus principles to use with children
included selection and ordering of suitable repertory and finding techniques of conveying
the principles so that children would not simply learn them, but would internalize them.
Moreover, recognizing, promoting, and protecting the musical personality of students
(discussed in ch. 5 in connection with the teaching of advanced- and artist-level students)
is of particular importance with children, whose sensitive natures can be easily stifled or
overwhelmed. Discerning a musical personality in children is sometimes difficult because
children rarely display their musical potential from the beginning.1 However, the teaching

Contrary to common belief, in early childhood the kinds of indicators of later ability that would be
consistent with the notion of innate factors being important are conspicuous mainly by their absence. In an

234
of some of Arraus pupils suggests ways of dealing with these problems. Presenting
music in terms of scenarios that stimulate the childs personal creativity and expression
(for instance, as suggested in the teaching by indirection outlined by Arrau pupil
Goodwin Sammel) teaches the child to use music as an expressive medium. Developing
the necessary skills can be treated as a form of play, an approach that is congruent with
the general process of growth, for, as D. W. Winnicott has argued, play and selfexpression are important to human development.2 Edith Fischer, who founded a music
school for children in Switzerland,3 briefly described her approach as an imaginative recreation of Arraus development as a child performer:
Edith Fischer: I try to get them to imagine things, to imagine something
round to fill the room, or I say have you seen somebody playing a gong,
the gesture to play a gong, that they can easily imagine. . . . I always
started from what they want to hear, and normally, a child that is musical
investigation of the early backgrounds of 42 notably successful young musicians Sloboda and Howe (1991)
discovered that very few of the individuals were reported to have displayed any overt signs of musical
precocity. . . . Sosniak (1985) . . . interviewed 24 young American concert pianists and their parents. She
found that, even after these individuals had been playing the piano for several years, there were few signs
to indicate that they would eventually have more success than hundreds of other young pianists. That is,
there were no distinctive behaviours observed in these children that differentiated them from other
children. John Sloboda and Jane Davidson, The Young Performing Musician, in Musical Beginnings:
Origins and Development of Musical Competence, eds. Irne Delige and John Sloboda (Oxford, New
York, and Tokyo: Oxford University Press, 1996), 177.
2
Donald Woods Winnicott has written of the importance of play in the psychological growth of the
individual, the development of creativity, and the ability to participate in cultural experience: . . . it is play
that is the universal, and that belongs to health: playing facilitates growth and therefore health; playing
leads into group relationships; playing can be a form of communication in psychotherapy; and, lastly,
psychoanalysis has been developed as a highly specialized form of playing in the service of communication
with oneself and others. D. W. Winnicott, Playing and Reality (New York: Basic Books, 1971), 41. And:
I have tried to draw attention to the importance both in theory and in practice of a third area, that of play,
which expands into creative living and into the whole cultural life of man. This third area has been
contrasted with inner or personal psychic reality and with the actual world in which the individual lives,
which can be objectively perceived. I have located this important area of experience in the potential space
between the individual and the environment, that which initially both joins and separates the baby and the
mother when the mothers love, displayed or made manifest as human reliability, does in fact give the baby
a sense of trust or of confidence in the environmental factor. Playing and Reality, 102. Other studies that
link play to the development of cognitive, affective, interpersonal, and problem-solving processes include:
Sandra W. Russ, Play in Child Development and Psychotherapy: Toward Empirically Supported Practice
(London and Mahwah, N. J.: Lawrence Erlbaum, 2004); Toys, Play, and Child Development, ed. Jeffrey H.
Goldstein (Cambridge, Melbourne, and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994).
3
Cercle lmanique detudes musicales, located at Grand-Rue 2, 1095 Lutry, district of Lausanne, Canton
Vaud.

235
finds a way as Arrau found a way, Im sure, himself. And then he thought,
How do I do that?4
To illustrate how a teacher may use the creative and expressive intuitions of
young students to further their own musical ability, the following excerpts are given from
a master-class-style lesson with Ena Bronstein-Barton for young students playing fourand eight-hand music. In the master-class situation, the teaching takes place before an
audience, and therefore it was Bronstein-Bartons task to improve the performances, to
broaden the students knowledge, and to reinforce the enjoyment of the music without
causing discomfort or embarrassment by directly pointing out the weaknesses in the
performances. She met this task by engaging the listening skills and musical sense
already possessed by the players to improve certain technical aspects of the performances
and, in doing so, showed how addressing a single overarching principle can be an
effective and economical remedy for a variety of ills.
Four boys, nine and ten years old, performed an arrangement of a march by
Schubert for eight hands. The playing was rhythmically unstable throughout; in
particular, the students were having a hard time staying together in the middle section,
which was dominated by rhythms of triplet eighth notes in one part against duplet eighth
notes in the other. One might expect the instruction that followed to confront the issues of
beat, rhythm, and polyrhythm directly, by discussing two against three, by practice in
counting, and by trying to feel the beats together. Bronstein-Barton did not try to correct
the rhythmic problems in this way, nor did she even call attention to them; instead she
placed a musical question before the performers. She spoke to them as follows:

Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003

236
Bronstein-Barton: I got kind of confused in the middle where all these
triplets are. I think thats the hardest part, because the composer made that
kind of a problem. So Im listening from over there [she indicates a
location across the room], and Im thinking, What? So we have to be
very, very clear for the audience, who has what. What is more important,
the triplets or the other part?
Boys: The triplets!
Bronstein-Barton: The triplets, right? So I think you have to be a little
more [loud] because its hard to hear the way its written.5
The performers repeated the passage making the triplets much louder and plainly audible.
This louder playing gave an evenness to the triplet rhythm, which it lacked in the first
performance, and strengthened the beat so that the duplet accompaniment fell into place.
Although these performers appeared rhythmically weak, in fact, they did not have a
rhythmic deficiency per se; as their second attempt showed, they had a very good
rhythmic sense. However, they needed leadership. Identifying one musical element as
most important and making it stand out unequivocally provided rhythmic leadership and
stability that drew the ensemble together.
The beginning section of this piece was also rhythmically precarious, apparently
because of a subtle phrasing problem. The piece began with secondo players providing
the opening phrase, joined by the primo players in the second phrase. Although the primo
players made their entrance on the correct beat, they did not do so with a correct sense of
breathing between the phrases. In effect, they entered slightly too soon and the secondo
players could not finish their cadence with the proper inflection and timing. This caused
an upset in rhythm, and by the time it was righted, the repeat led to another upset. Again,
Bronstein-Barton did not speak of these problems at all. Instead, she asked for more

Excerpted from a transcription of a video-recorded master-class lesson given by Ena Bronstein-Barton at


the Third Street Music School Settlement in New York City on November 19, 2002.

237
sensitivity, as if that were a goal in itself, and in a way that captured the imaginations of
the students.
Bronstein-Barton: I have one more comment. As you come in, dont just
come in . . . dont just count your part, but feel your partner. Do you know
what I mean? So, youre counting your part, and [thinking] Now is my
turn to come in. But see if your ears can tell you when to come in. What
part of your body tells you when to come in?
Boys: [all talking at once, giving a variety of answers].
Bronstein-Barton: Yes, we need all of it! Try to figure out where they
[your partners] are and come in with them. Kind of like antennae, thats
what it is! [She pantomimes antennae on top of her head]. We need to
have antennae to know when to come in.6
This image was evidently intriguing to these young students. They responded with
entrances perfectly placed to give time for the cadence and a sense of a short breath
between the phrases; and the general rhythmic instability cleared up as well. It was an
impressive response from young players with little experience in ensemble playing.
In a lesson on duets by Norman Dello Joio (Promenade and The Dancing
Sergeant from Five Images for Piano) performed by two girls who were about eleven
years old, Bronstein-Barton again avoided mentioning the weaknesses of the performance
and asked instead for greater sensitivity. While her instructions were focused on a
specific piece, they also addressed general principles of practicing and listening
applicable in any ensemble playing.
Bronstein-Barton: I think youre very together and you feel good at the
beginning of each measure. But how about the middle? Can you hear if
youre completely together? . . . Why dont we try and see if . . . we get to
the middle of the measure and youre completely together.7
Again with this duet, rather than dictate explicit instructions, Bronstein-Barton
asked the students to determine for a particular passage what parts should stand out more

6
7

Ibid.
Ibid.

238
vividly. Her reiteration of the question, What is more important? with both ensembles
emphasized to the players and listeners the importance of this question in all ensemble
playing.
Bronstein-Barton: Here comes a part where, whos more important?
Students: [reply that they are each more important at different moments]
Bronstein-Barton: Sometimes you are, sometimes she is. Play that
section, and we want to know: My turn! My turn! My turn! One of you
is a little more important, and the other one accompanies, then you switch.
Its not always the same person thats important. And you are going to
show everybody.8
In this case, the message was not only about balance; the words you are going to show
everybody subtly told the students that the objective was communication, not merely to
be correct. Focusing on communication as the objective in performance rather than the
weaknesses of the performance is not simply a matter of kindness or courtesy toward the
students but a practical matter of training the students to give primary importance and
attention to a musical objective. If attention is on correcting mistakes, students are trained
to think more of avoiding mistakes than of making music. Bronstein-Barton demonstrates
how directing students attention toward defining their own musical priorities, and
communicating them to listeners, can guide the students awareness in such a way that
seemingly unrelated weaknesses and mistakes are corrected without drawing attention to
them.
In addressing the problem of balance with this duet, Bronstein-Barton also made
the following statement that speaks not only to the relative musical importance of
elements within the piece but also to a general point about the balance between the bass

Ibid.

239
and treble ranges of the piano. Such general principles as can be drawn from specific
instructions give structure to what is learned and define it as a practice.9
Bronstein-Barton: Im not sure who had the more important part.
[Addressing the secondo player:] You have the more dangerous part.
Whoever is playing the bottom part, the piano is going to sound much
more, so you have to be super-super-sensitive. Its something for you to
think about: who is really more important. 10
Even though the students may have learned to be aware of the balance between bass and
treble in their own playing, this point could easily bear repeating; with the change of
context to duet playing, the players now had to listen and balance the totality of sound
coming from the piano rather than their individual parts only.
Traditional ideas of piano pedagogy are concerned with ideas about discipline,
responsibility, and work as opposed to creativity, diversion, and play.11 By contrast,

Francis Sparshott describes a practice in terms of the values or general principles derived from learning
specific techniques: In acquiring step by step the techniques of whatever one learns, one inevitably
acquires the values by which the practice is judged, not as a superadded ideology, but as what gives the
practice its cohesion and its learnability and makes it a practice. Its no good talking and arguing: you have
to learn to do, and when you have learned you know. Francis Sparshott, A Measured Pace: Toward a
Philosophical Understanding of the Arts of Dance (Toronto, Buffalo, and London: University of Toronto
Press, 1995), 246.
10
Ena Bronstein-Barton, master-class lesson at the Third Street Music School Settlement in New York
City, November 19, 2002.
11
E. Douglas Bomberger, Martha Dennis Burns, James Parakilas, Judith Tick, Marina Tsvetaeva, and Mark
Tucker, The Piano Lesson, in James Parakilas, Piano Roles (New Haven and London: Yale University
Press, 1999). See p. 140 for the authors equation of piano pedagogy and child rearing. In the guise of
describing what is universally correct in music, Czerny prescribes a revolutionary musical aesthetic that is
at the same time a revolutionary method of child rearing. In the name of perfect evenness a value hardly
mentioned in the musical aesthetics of earlier eras he requires his student to hold all notes out for their
entire written duration, a practice likewise unprecedented. What made his ideology of child rearing equally
revolutionary, at least for a work of musical pedagogy, was not its idea of subjecting children, like
unbroken colts, to strict discipline, but its mechanical model of that discipline the idea that a child could
learn by dint of endless repetition to produce something that was perfectly uniform. See also William
Weber, Music and the Middle Class: The Social Structure of Concert Life in London, Paris and Vienna
(London: Croon Helm, 1975), 33: So anyone who thinks that upper-middle class people in the three
capitals sought refuge from society in their families should just think a moment about the many hours
children sat in front of the keyboard and remember all that meant socially. It may be true that the home had
taken on an internal life of its own such as it had not had before and that adults used it as a moralizing force
upon their offspring. But let us not delude ourselves that the family was a shelter from the world. It was
functioning as a link between the individual and society and in so doing manipulated individuals to do
many things society wished. Finally, see Alice Miller, For Your Own Good: Hidden Cruelty in Childrearing and the Roots of Violence (New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1983) for a discussion of nineteenth-

240
Bronstein-Barton is capitalizing on the familiarity and attractiveness of play and games:
her role as teacher gives her authority to propose rules (Decide what part of the music
must be louder; listen for that and make certain it is louder; pretend you have antennae on
your head that make you more sensitive to others); the students respond in accordance
with those rules as in any other game. It is not a game of winning or losing, but one of
exploration, experimentation, and the pure experience of the piano and the music in
which the student discovers his or her musical sense and the pleasure of exercising it.12
The teacher chooses the musical issues, activities, and challenges that are likely to draw
out musically creative thinking and to cause the mechanical elements (such as correct
notes, accurate rhythms) to fall into place. The students are asked to be creative rather
than merely compliant; but they are guided toward discoveries that coincide with
established principles of musical style and performance. If musical style and performance
practices can be imagined as systems that have been built up out of the collective
experience of human exploration and experimentation, then teaching might be viewed as
an imaginative attempt to devise scenarios that repeat the experience at the individual
level, leading students to recreate those very styles and practices.
Engaging the capacity for play is also a way of turning a feature of psychological
development to pedagogical advantage. Winnicott has written about the importance of
creative play, not only in childhood development, but in the adult capacity for

and early twentieth-century concepts of discipline and general pedagogy that served the needs of adults
rather than children.
12
This corresponds with Winnicotts concept of transitional phenomena, which have no climax. This
distinguishes them from phenomena that have instinctual backing where the orgiastic element plays an
essential part, and where satisfactions are closely linked with climax. But these phenomena that have reality
in the area whose existence I am postulating belong to the experience of relating to objects. . . . I have used
the term cultural experience as an extension of the idea of transitional phenomena and of play. . . .
Winnicott, Playing and Reality, 98-99.

241
participation in cultural experience, and its importance in maintaining a sense of the value
of life:
It is in playing and only in playing that the individual child or adult is able
to be creative and to use the whole personality, and it is only in being
creative that the individual discovers the self. . . . It is creative
apperception more than anything else that makes the individual feel that
life is worth living. Contrasted with this is a relationship to external reality
which is one of compliance, the world and its details being recognized but
only as something to be fitted in with or demanding adaptation.
Compliance carries with it a sense of futility for the individual and is
associated with the idea that nothing matters and that life is not worth
living. In a tantalizing way many individuals have experienced just
enough of creative living to recognize that for most of their time they are
living uncreatively, as if caught up in the creativity of someone else, or of
a machine. . . . In some way or other our theory includes a belief that
living creatively is a healthy state, and that compliance is a sick basis for
life.13
One well known teacher pointed out a difference in how teachers and students
viewed a good lesson: to the student, a good lesson was one in which he or she played
well; to the teacher, the good lesson was one in which he or she passed on some valuable
skill or knowledge.14 This reveals several potential sources of tension in the studentteacher relationship. Both seek acceptance, respect, and recognition from the other.
Therefore, both seek to impress each other with superior competence. Moreover, the
teacher needs to pass on knowledge and technical skills as well as elements of
performance practice associated with a tradition of playing, while the student needs to
find his own voice as a musician. The difficulty lies in overcoming the inherent conflict
between these differing points of view, in conveying the necessary knowledge without
robbing the student of identity, creativity, and self-reliance.

13
14

Winnicott, Playing and Reality, 54; 65.


Sascha Gorodnitzki, private communication with the author, ca. 1981.

242
Winnicotts writings about the relationship between creativity and play speak to
this dilemma. In developing his theory of transitional objects, he postulates a potential
third reality between the subjective and the objective, between inner experience and the
external world of objects, that is determined in childhood by developing a capacity for
play, and that in turn creates a capacity for later cultural experience and creative living.
Unlike the objective and subjective realms, which are determined (one because the world
is what it is, and the other by inherited factors), the potential third area is infinitely
variable because it is conditioned by the variability of individual experience. Therefore,
the potential third area provides a basis for the perception of ones individuality.
By contrast with these, I suggest that the area available for manoeuvre in
terms of the third way of living (where there is cultural experience or
creative playing) is extremely variable as between individuals. This is
because this third area is a product of the experiences of the individual
person (baby, child, adolescent, adult) in the environment that obtains.
There is a kind of variability here that is different in quality from the
variabilities that belong to the phenomenon of inner personal psychic
reality and to external or shared reality. The extent of this third area can be
minimal or maximal, according to the summation of actual experiences.15
Winnicott further states that a defective environment interferes with the development of
this potential third area and thus limits the capacity for play and later participation in
culture. Winnicott describes how this can occur in infancy:
There is, in cases of premature failure of environmental reliability, an
alternative danger, which is that this potential space may become filled
with what is injected into it from someone other than the baby. It seems
that whatever is in this space that comes from someone else is persecutory
material, and the baby has no means of rejecting it. Analysts need to
beware lest they create a feeling of confidence and an intermediate area in
which play can take place and then inject into this area or inflate it with
interpretations which in effect are from their own creative imaginations.16

15
16

Winnicott, Playing and Reality, 106-07.


Ibid., 102.

243
It is clear from Winnicotts writing that his work applies to adults as well as to children,
and when he cautions analysts (that is, psychoanalysts) not to inject their own
interpretations into the imaginations of their patients, he does not limit the application of
his theory of the potential space only to infants and children. Furthermore, he emphasizes
that the quality of primary relationships determines whether the creativity of an
individual will be encouraged or inhibited.
The potential space between baby and mother, between child and family,
between individual and society or the world, depends on experience that
leads to trust. It can be looked upon as sacred to the individual in that it is
here that the individual experiences creative living.
By contrast, exploitation of this area leads to a pathological condition in
which the individual is cluttered up with persecutory elements of which he
has no means of ridding himself.17
The implications for pedagogy in music wherein artistry and individual creativity are the
highest values are obvious. Even well-meaning instructions might actually function more
as persecutory elements if, while addressing local issues in the short term, they are in
the long run destructive to the individual, whose unique expression is understood as the
ultimate concern of art. And this is to say nothing of undisguised abuse that has at times
passed for pedagogy.18
In the preceding examples, students discovered what Bronstein-Barton wanted
them to discover without having specific rules or instructions for playing or, as Winnicott

17

Ibid.
Eva Kovalik, a teacher at the Juilliard School, told an interviewer about her experience as a student:
Marcus was known for her temper and bordered on tantrums at times. Just when I would be close to tears,
she would say that my playing really was not so bad. . . . The first time we met she looked at my hands and
asked what we should do with my tiny spaghetti fingers. Jeffrey Wagner, Passing on the Traditions of
Hungarian Piano Practice, Clavier 43/10 (December 2004): 16. See also, Joseph Rezits, Beloved Tyranna:
The Legend and Legacy of Isabelle Vengerova (Bloomington, Ind.: David Daniel Music Publications,
1995), which describes more personal excess than teaching. See, also, the experience of Ruth Crawford,
described as humiliation, in Judith Tick, How Ruth Crawford Became an American Woman Pianist,
in Piano Roles, 173-75.
18

244
would have it, persecutory elements imposed upon them. But would it not be simpler if
the person of obviously superior knowledge were to offer direct musical suggestions to
the students? It may be so, and, indeed, there are times when direct musical suggestions
must be given. However, in the cases considered here, Bronstein-Barton used her
superior position as teacher (vis--vis her students) to set up the rules of the game, so
that the students improved their own performances, discovered principles of piano
playing that she had in mind, and (most advantageously) did so by applying their own
thinking, knowledge, and skill to a musical question. In the process, Bronstein-Barton
articulated principles that are both specific to a single situation and generally applicable
to the practice of piano playing. Her approach has a philosophical kinship, not only with
Winnicotts theory, but also with Goodwin Sammels teaching by indirection (see ch.
5). Both of their approaches resonate with the concern they observed in Arraus teaching
to cultivate his students as individuals.
THE THIRD STREET TEACHERS: BUILDING UP FROM THE EARLIEST
BEGINNINGS
Since 1986, a group of teachers at the Third Street Music School Settlement in
New York City, all pupils of German Diez, have been using the Suzuki method to teach
Arraus principles, primarily to young children.19 This group represents one line of
descent in which Arraus philosophy and techniques have passed from the elite realm of
the international concert stage through the university and conservatory level and into
elementary music education. While other teachers and groups might represent a similar
progression, this case represents a chance coming together of teachers, a methodology,
and an institution with mutually complementary aims and procedures that has endured for
19

In doing so, they have co-opted a Suzuki piano program in existence since 1978.

245
nearly twenty years. The settlement house tradition of fostering the arts in a social work
setting is ideally matched to Suzukis inclusive educational philosophy. And Suzuki
methodology, based on mimetic and rote techniques applied to classic pedagogical
literature, has made it possible to instill Arraus techniques of tone production and
physical movement by modeling and imitation to very young students starting with their
first lessons.
The teachers are a small group drawn from the class of German Diez based in
New York City.20 Like Diez himself and others who studied with Arrau and de Silva
between 1945 and 1970, Diezs New York pupils share a camaraderie and common
approach derived from their study with Diez. Members of Diezs class continue to meet
regularly to perform for one another at the Greenwich House Music School in Greenwich
Village.21 Diez presides over these sessions and sometimes offers a few comments to the
performers. The talk about piano playing among these pianists reflects a common musical
philosophy and technical vocabulary. They recognize common elements in each others
performance, share similar ways of listening to and evaluating performances, and
generally agree on how the piano should be played. They also believe that the knowledge
gained from Diez is both crucial to their own playing and makes them embodiments of
the teaching of Arrau and part of a historic line of piano playing.
These teachers are also bound together by their common effort to work out ways
to use Arraus principles from the beginning with very young students. Their young
students participate in weekly performances, either in small groups in the private

20

Marcia Lewis, Angelina Tallaj, Susan Innamorato, Dana Pielet, Kate Whitney, Michiyo Morikawa,
Maritza Robles-Alvarez, Luis Alvarez, Tatyana Sirota.
21
Diez is chairman of the piano department at Greenwich House Music School, where he has taught since
his arrival in New York in 1945.

246
atmosphere of the studios or in the more public school-wide recitals in the school
auditorium; thus, they experience music as a social activity and, within just a few years,
gain much experience and ease in performing. For the teachers, frequently hearing
performances by their own and each others students gives a relative measure of their
achievements. Planning and participating in various student activities as well as
conversing with one another about their own discoveries and their students progress and
problems maximizes their strengths, enabling them to pool their thinking and select from
it the most workable ideas.
Though it is perhaps an unlikely alliance, the Suzuki piano method, with its
emphasis on rote learning and teacher demonstration, has provided a congenial format in
which to teach Arraus principles to young children. The Suzuki method, as it is taught to
teachers in training institutes, is highly organized in terms of its philosophy, teaching
literature, lesson procedures, and insight into the learning styles and capacities of
children; but it does not prescribe any particular pianistic technique. This makes it an
effective vehicle for the transmission of Arraus principles, or of anyones principles for
that matter. Teaching technique at the beginning stages depends entirely on the teachers
demonstration. Whatever technique the teacher demonstrates is the technique the student
will learn.
Developed in Japan in the aftermath of World War II by Shinichi Suzuki, the
Suzuki methodology was originally designed for teaching the violin and later adapted for
piano, cello, flute, and guitar. It was introduced in the United States in the 1960s.22

22

In 1958, Clifford Cook, Professor of String Instruments and Music Education at Oberlin College
Conservatory, saw a film brought to him by Kenji Mochizuki, a Japanese graduate student at Oberlin. The
film showed a large ensemble of Japanese children playing the Vivaldi and Bach double concertos from
memory. In May of that year, the film was shown at a meeting in Oberlin of the Ohio String Teachers

247
Suzuki observed that every child successfully masters the complexity of his or her native
language and learns to speak correctly and fluently; this observation gave rise to a
method of violin instruction based on the proposition that every child could learn to play
a musical instrument fluently if the method of teaching were predicated upon the childs
natural language-acquiring skills and upon a rewarding and pleasurable learning
experience.
In addition, Suzuki noted that children learn language by imitating the speech
sounds of others, and that literacy training is delayed to a later stage of development after
children have become fluent speakers, while music instruction, by contrast, traditionally
begins with literacyreading music notation. Therefore, Suzuki aimed his method at
young children (age three or four) and based it on music listening and rote learning in an
effort to capitalize upon the childs capacity for language acquisition. He selected
recordings by artists whose playing he admired to instill in very young children the sound
of their instrument and the language and structure of music. Children are taught by rote.
Reading notation is delayed until the habits of playing and listening and the basic
elements of musical grammar and syntax are well established. It appears from Suzukis
writing that his insight was based on observations about learning, but, coincidentally, his
method has parallels with traditional analogies between language and music.
Rote teaching and learning is by no means a new concept. Pedagogues before

Association. In 1963, Cook visited Suzuki Talent Education centers in Japan for six weeks. By September
of that year, Cook started thirty children on violin. Clifford A. Cook, Suzuki Education in Action: A Story
of Talent Training from Japan (New York: Exposition Press, 1970), 102-03.

248
Suzuki, notably Friedrich Wieck,23 Tobias Matthay,24 and Abby Whiteside,25
recommended it for its effectiveness in training listening and technical skills in children
at the beginning level. However, the power of rote learning is often misunderstood.
Francis Sparshott has noted that rote learning, regularly used in the training of dancers, is
a means of instilling general principles and values along with specific actions and skills, a
characterization of rote learning that applies equally well to music instruction.26 The

23

Friedrich Wieck wrote that before teaching pupils to read, he taught them to play by memory fifty or
sixty little pieces . . . written for this purpose . . . to develop gradually an increased mechanical skill. . . .
They must be learned perfectly and played well . . . in strict time . . . first slowly, then fast, faster, slow
again, staccato, legato, piano, forte, crescendo, diminuendo &c. This mode of instruction I find always
successful. . . . Wieck asserted, With my own daughters I did not teach the treble notes till the end of the
first years instruction, the bass notes several months later. Friedrich Wieck, Piano and Song: How to
Teach, How to Learn and How to Form a Judgment of Musical Performances (Boston: Lockwood, Brooks
& Co., 1875), 11, 13.
24
Wrong muscular habits, and wrong ways of looking at Piano-playing, so often formed during the childstage, and so difficult to eradicate afterwards, are very generally to be traced directly to this want of
localising-power, on the part of the teacher. Instead of being expected to learn one thing at a time, the child
is expected to learn musically to speak, read, and even write, all at the same time! Instead of being first
shown how to produce sounds from the instrument, and to recognise these, and to recognise the element of
Time in their production, the music-page is placed before the child's dazed eyes, and it is asked to translate
those written signs into sounds, when instead, it is the sound-making itself and recognition of the sounds
made, that should receive the fullest possible attention. The result of this struggle to learn to do several
things at the same time, is that the mental struggle engenders a muscular struggle. No thought can be given
to what really are the necessities of the key, or what are the real muscular-means required for this keytreatment. Undirected efforts, amounting to spasms, result as a consequence,and are calmly permitted
by the teacher!while, so far from learning to read Music, the child instead contracts that vicious habit,
that of spelling notes. A child, before it touches the instrument, should be made to understand that a definite
musical-sound is the thing required, not a mere putting down of keys anyhow. Sequences of sounds should
then be learnt from the teacher's dictation, portions of the material of musicscales, etc., and actual simple
tunes, -- In this way, the child begins by understanding that musical sense is required, and that this sense
must be drawn from the keys. Time enough, then, as a separate phase of education, to teach the written
signs representing musical letters, words and phrases! Tobias Matthay, The Act of Touch in All Its
Diversity: An Analysis and Synthesis of Pianoforte Tone-Production (London: Longmans, Green and Co.,
1903), 38n.1.
25
The music student should begin by playing by ear. He must learn to read, quite obviously, but he
should be an aural learner rather than a visual learner. Observe the ease and accuracy of pupils who have
learned to play by ear. Their skill is never attained by those who learned the notes first and then built up a
coordination that is depending on the eye. In an article based on an interview with Abby Whiteside by
Robert Sabin, Successful Piano Teaching, Musical America (December 15, 1951); reprinted in Abby
Whiteside, Mastering the Chopin Etudes and Other Essays, eds. Joseph Prostakoff and Sophia Rosoff
(New York: Scribners, 1969), 157.
26
As one learns dances, one learns to dance. A plausible sketch of the principles of such learning is often
extracted from Aristotles Ethics, where it serves as a clearer and simpler case of the principles by which
we learn morality. It goes like this. At first, one simply makes the moves one is told to make in the way
one is told to make them. Even to do that, one must be able to identify what the recurring moves are (to
copy the waving and not the twitching, and so on) and what the ways are. Purse your lips as if you were

249
principles to be grasped and used in piano playing consist of technical and expressive
principles that emerge in the process of showing the student what notes to play and how
to play them. Students learn to play the piano by first learning to play pieces and then by
observing which instructions are specific to one piece and which carry over from one
piece to another. The student must develop step-by-step a basic approach to the
instrument that includes physical movement and coordination, tone production, the ability
to listen, and to imagine sounds and reproduce them. This learning takes place separately
from learning to read notation.
The pieces that afford this step-by-step development in the Suzuki method are
contained in seven printed volumes of music arranged in a progressive order and
exhibiting principles of organization common in tonal music. Each volume comes with a
recording. Repeated listening to recordings of the music make children intimately
acquainted with each piece and with the sounds of the piano, and facilitates the rote
memorization of all of the pieces. The first volume begins with establishing a basic
rapport with the keyboard by means of rhythmic exercises on Twinkle, Twinkle, Little
Star, a melody widely familiar to children, and one that utilizes the perfect fifth as its first
melodic interval. Next, it launches into folk melodies with arpeggiated or Alberti bass
accompaniments based on the primary chords. These melodies consist of four-measure
phrases built from simple motives deployed as periods and double periods, sometimes
going to kiss, fingers like little hammers one has to understand even down-to-earth instructions like
those. Because understanding is involved, the habits one thus acquires are not mere reflexes; they are ways
of using ones intelligence in action. And so one goes on, through a series of more comprehensive and
more complex instructions and practices. One has to grasp the point of each of these, simply in order to
follow it. . . . As one learns dances, one acquires a learning style a way of scanning and packaging
experience. In short, learning is acquiring autonomy at ever deeper levels and in ever more thorough ways,
as one masters and interiorizes more and more of a rationale (ones own rationale, and whatever rationale
may be in the public domain) of what one had at first to learn by rote. And this is possible because even
what we call rote learning is largely a matter of grasping and using principles, whether or not those
principles are consciously formulated. Sparshott, A Measured Pace, 246.

250
expanding into binary and ternary forms. The first pieces utilize the tonic, dominant, and
dominant seventh harmonies in C major; the subdominant is introduced in the ninth
piece; the thirteenth piece is in A minor, the relative minor. The last pieces introduce the
keys of G major and D minor. Thus, along with the technical and expressive elements
that can be taught within the framework of each piece, there is an underlying strategy to
establish basic melodic and harmonic structures of tonal music as well as to introduce
some near-related keys.27 The technical and expressive principles of playing are governed
by these elements of structure. Rote learning lets the student attend to sound and
technique from the beginning; indeed, rote learning is the only way a beginner can learn
this music because it is too complex for a beginner to read.28
A central point in Suzukis philosophy is his belief that musical talent is not
inborn but developed, a point he repeated insistently in his writings. Suzuki used the
model of language learning to reinforce his views on talent as well as to frame his
methodology.29 He stressed the importance of good pedagogy and of starting from birth
for successful teaching of music.

27

This strategy differs from that of methods that begin with reading. Reading methods begin with short
reading exercises having no harmony and severely restricted pitch and rhythmic content. The musical
content is correspondingly small and does not admit expressive and technical issues. Teaching technique
and expression is delayed until reading is more advanced; but in the meantime, the student may acquire a
faulty approach to the instrument.
28
Reading is a combination of kinetic, mental, and visual skills requiring a coordination of its own. This
may be pursued concurrently, at the appropriate level, using a separate set of pedagogical materials.
29
Kingsbury also notes that the different valuations of language and music learning are related to the talent
concept. The domain of music, in which attributions of talent are balanced by injunctions against those
judged to be unmusical, contrasts significantly with the domain of speech and language acquisition.
Prohibitive deprecations of communicative action are generally not found in connection with language
learning. . . . Childhood performances of language skills may be viewed as idiosyncratic, as baby talk, or
as just plain wrong, but the cultural expectations are that every healthy child will learn to speak normally.
Infantile aberrations are understood to be transitory and essentially insignificant. By contrast, childhood
performances of music are typically evaluated very carefully for indications of talent, and the possibilities
for subsequently learning musical performance skills are very much contingent upon adult evaluations.
Henry Kingsbury, Music, Talent, and Performance (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1988), 73.

251
I had always thought that a nightingales incomparable song was
instinctive or inherited. But it is not so. Nightingales to be used as pets are
taken as fledglings from the nests of wild birds in the spring. As soon as
they lose their fear and accept food, a master bird is borrowed that daily
sings its lovely song, and the infant bird listens for a period of about a
month. In this way the little wild bird is trained by the master bird. This
method has been used in Japan since olden times. . . . Whether the wild
bird will develop good or bad singing quality is indeed decided in the first
month by the voice and tone of its teacher. It is not a matter of being born
a good or a bad singer. . . if a bird is brought to such a teacher after being
raised by wild nightingales, there is always failure, as long experience has
shown.30
If a child cannot do his arithmetic, it is said that his intelligence is below
average. Yet he can speak the difficult Japanese languageor his own
native languagevery well. . . . In my opinion the child who cannot do
arithmetic is not below average in intelligence; it is the educational system
that is wrong.31
I firmly believe that cultural and musical aptitude does not come from
within, and is not inherited, but occurs through suitable environmental
conditions. It is only a question of sensitivity and adaptive speed.
Therefore, to be born with excellent or superior qualities only means to be
born with an ability to adapt more speedily and sensitively to ones
environment.32
The aims of Suzuki education as articulated by Suzuki are based on humanism
rather than musical professionalism: to bring out and develop human potential based on
the growing life of the child. . . . that all children on this globe may become fine human
beings, happy people of superior ability.33 Aims thus expressed in terms of social
mission make Suzuki education ideally matched to the goals of the community music
school.
The Third Street Music School Settlement was founded on the Lower East Side of
New York in 1894 by Emilie Wagner. It was part of a larger settlement movement that
30

Shinichi Suzuki, Nurtured by Love, trans. Waltraud Suzuki (Jericho N.Y.: Exposition Press, 1969; repr.
Miami: Summy-Birchard, 1983), 9.
31
Ibid., 2.
32
Ibid., 13-14
33
Ibid., 87.

252
promoted progressivism and social reform as a response to urbanization and
industrialization in the nineteenth century.34 The first settlement house was Toynbee Hall,
founded by Samuel Barnett in East London in 1884, a residence that settled university
men in an impoverished urban slum where they could help to alleviate poverty while they
learned something of the real world. The idea spread quickly to the United States,
where most of its leaders were women.35
Emilie Wagners settlement house was devoted to teaching music on the premise
that music instruction could serve as a source of spiritual and cultural enrichment and as a
means to unify the Jewish, Irish, Italian, Russian, Greek, and Eastern European

34

The American settlement movement diverged from the English model in several ways. More women
became leaders in the American movement, and there was a greater interest in social research and reform.
But probably the biggest difference was the presence around the American settlements of a diverse ethnic
population. Working with recent immigrants, trying to ease their adjustment to the new country, and acting
as their advocate in the neighborhood and the nation became a primary function of the American workers.
They did not escape the prejudice nor completely overcome the ethnic stereotypes common to their
generation, however, and they tried consciously to teach middle-class values, often betraying a paternalistic
attitude toward the poor. Yet they also organized immigrant protective associations, sponsored festivals and
pageants, and tried to preserve each group's heritage. . . . To serve their neighborhoods, most settlement
workers started with clubs, classes, lectures, and art exhibitions. They usually had better luck attracting
women and children. Some men would come to play basketball, but no settlement ever replaced the local
saloon as a male social center. The settlements added programs as they discovered a need. They pioneered
in the kindergarten movement, taught English, and established theaters, courses in industrial education, and
music schools (Benny Goodman learned to play the clarinet at Hull-House). Website: Houghton Mifflin:
Readers Companion to American History:
http://college/hmco.com/history/readerscomp/rcah/html/rc_078300_settlementho.htm.
Founded in 1894, Third Street traces its roots to the late 19th century settlement house movement. It was
the unique inspiration of Third Street founder Emilie Wagner to make high quality music instruction the
centerpiece of a community settlement house that would also provide social services to the immigrant
population of the Lower East Side. In this context, music would provide a source of spiritual and cultural
nourishment, inspire achievement in its young students, and serve a universal language to unite the
community's Jewish, Irish, Italian, Russian, Greek, and Hungarian immigrants. Third Street soon grew to
include an extensive library of books and music, a rooftop playground and a summer camp in New Jersey,
and provided help with housing, employment and medical care - and even baths for neighborhood
residents. By 1915, Ms. Wagner's vision had inspired similar music school settlements in thirty American
cities. Website: http://www.thirdstreetmusicschool.org.
35
Jane Addams, Ellen Starr, Julia Lathrop, Florence Kelley, Alice Hamilton, Grace and Edith Abbott (Hull
House, Chicago, 1889); Lillian Wald (Henry Street Settlement, New York City, 1893); Mary Kingsbury
Simkhovitch (Greenwich House, New York City, 1902); Mary McDowell (University of Chicago Settlement,
1894), Helena Dudley, Emily Greene Balch, Helen Cheever, Vida Scudder (Denison House, Boston, 1892).
Furthermore, the settlements offered an urban immersion to thousands more middle-class women, including Hull
House's Florence Kelley, Alice Hamilton, Julia Lathrop, and Grace and Edith Abbott, who moved rapidly into
government service and advocacy for children, workers, and immigrants.

253
immigrant population. The Settlement also helped neighborhood residents with other
more basic needs, such as housing, employment, medical care, and even baths.36 The arts
provided a means of utilizing the resources of the community and emphasizing the
contribution of immigrants to society. Furthermore, John Ruskins ideas about the moral
value of the arts were influential in making the arts a part of the Settlement House
program.37 In this context, artworks came to be valued according to their social worth,
and placed among the expedients and prerogatives of social work.38
The ethnic makeup of the Lower East Side in the early twenty-first century differs
from that of the late nineteenth. The United States is currently undergoing the second
great wave of immigration with new immigrants predominantly from Asia, South
America, and Central America.39 The Third Street Music School Settlement now draws

36

On its dual identity as social and cultural institution, see also Mary Jo Pagano, The History of the Third
Street Music School Settlement 1894-1984 (D.M.A. dissertation, Manhattan School of Music, 1996; Ann
Arbor, Mich.: University Microfilms, 9703852), 6-62.
37
. . . as it is necessary to the existence of an idea of beauty that the sensual pleasure which may be its
basis should be accompanied first with joy, then with love of the object, then with the perception of
kindness in a superior intelligence, finally with thankfulness and veneration towards that intelligence itself
. . . it is evident that the sensation of beauty is not sensual on the one hand, nor is it intellectual on the other,
but is dependent upon a pure, right and open state of the heart. Ruskin, Works, IV, 48-49. Quoted in
Wendell V. Harris, Ruskins Theoretic Practicality and the Royal Academys Aesthetic Idealism,
Nineteenth-Century Literature 52/1 (June, 1997): 89.
38
As the settlement workers put their ideals of art into practice, they stumbled once again into a
contradiction that became an open debate by the 1920s. In offering their urban neighbors the best that
there is in the whole world, . . . they eventually had to confront the consequences of toppling one kind of
aristocracy in favor of another. Arts programs designed for social purposes would not necessarily serve
the needs of the minority of truly gifted pupils they attracted, and vice versa. Mina Carson, Settlement
Folk: Social Thought and the American Settlement Movement, 1885-1930 (Chicago and London:
University of Chicago Press, 1990), 116.
39
Today, the United States is experiencing its second great wave of immigration, a movement of people
that has profound implications for a society that by tradition pays homage to its immigrant roots at the same
time it confronts complex and deeply ingrained ethnic and racial divisions. The immigrants of today come
not from Europe but overwhelmingly from the still developing world of Asia and Latin America. They are
driving a demographic shift so rapid that within the lifetimes of today's teenagers, no one ethnic group
including whites of European descent will comprise a majority of the nation's population. This shift,
according to social historians, demographers and others studying the trends, will severely test the premise
of the fabled melting pot, the idea, so central to national identity, that this country can transform people of
every color and background into one America. William Booth, One Nation, Indivisible: Is It History?
The Washington Post (Sunday, February 22, 1998), A1. In the same series: Michael A. Fletcher,
Immigrants' Growing Role in U.S. Poverty Cited, Washington Post (Thursday, September 2, 1999), A2.

254
many students of Asian and Latino background as well as Caucasians and African
Americans. Most students come from the East Village and Greenwich Village. A
significant number are from the five boroughs of New York City and a few come from
Chinatown and New Jersey. These students represent a variety of economic and social as
well as ethnic, racial, and religious backgrounds. In accordance with its stated mission of
offering a safe and nurturing environment for children and families, 40 Third Street
provides music instruction in both individual and group settings, emphasizing its
educational and social benefits as well as aesthetic value. The belief in the potential of
the arts to foster a sense of commonality among an ethnically, culturally, and
economically diverse population reflects the habitus of the institution, created through the
community effort and work of over one hundred years. 41
The Settlement or community school, therefore, differs from conservatories in
philosophy and function. While conservatories represent an elite training ground for
musical professionals, community schools represent a grassroots effort to promote music
in a social environment. Both are committed to excellence in passing on and preserving
musical practices and traditions, but their pedagogy and musical activities are a response
Immigrants are a large and growing factor in the stubborn level of poverty seen in the United States over
the past two decades because newcomers to the country are more likely to be poor and to remain so longer
than in the past, according to a new study. The report, to be released today by the Center for Immigration
Studies, says the number of impoverished people in the nation's immigrant-headed households nearly
tripled from 2.7 million in 1979 to 7.7 million in 1997. During that same period, the number of poor
households headed by immigrants increased by 123 percent while the number of immigrant households
increased by 68 percent, according to the study. The share of immigrants living in poverty rose from 15.5
percent to 21.8 percent, the report notes -- a change that some analysts say holds troubling implications for
the nation's future. About 12 percent of the nation's native-born population lives in poverty, a figure that
has hardly changed in 20 years.
40
Third Street is much more than an educational institution. It is a true community in which students find
a welcoming second home, learn to work in harmony, and form close, lasting friendships. Website: Third
Street Music School Settlement: http://www.thirdstreetmusicschool.org..
41
Habitus is an embodied pattern of action and reaction, in which we are not fully conscious of why we
do what we do; not totally determined, but a tendency to behave in a certain way. Judith Becker, Deep
Listeners: Music, Emotion, and Trancing (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2004),
71.

255
to different social needs. In order to supply a limited demand for professional performers,
conservatories offer training on a selective basis. By contrast, in order to serve the social
needs of neighborhoods and communities, community schools emphasize inclusiveness,
retention, and making musical success attainable for as many as possible. There are about
six hundred community schools now operating in the United States. They exemplify the
melting pot ideal that has been part of American cultural identity since the nineteenth
century. In a community school setting, musical achievement creates among students and
families a sense of self-esteem and belonging as it enhances their general educational
attainments. While the main focus for music instruction is the education and socialization
of children, parents also benefit from social interactions with each other. In many cases,
the observation of the musical education of their children accomplishes a musical
socialization of parents in the only way this could be accomplished, given all of the
demands on their time and energy. Whether or not it is consciously articulated, music in
this setting comes to be seen as an intrinsic benefit, as a mark of ones belonging within
the Settlement, and as an asset that may later help a child to gain entry into a higher
social or economic class than that of his or her parents.42 Even in this nurturing
environment, true democratization is problematic, however, as musical training tends to
42

Richard Crawford has argued for the importance of the study of music learning as a means of acquiring a
roomier scholarly framework. Crawford writes, Americans accustomed to thinking of musical tradition
as a matter of repertory tend to believe that we have grown beyond and repudiated all but a tiny part of our
own musical past. Maybe if we define our legacy more broadly to include music learning, our American
roots run deeper than we thought. Music Learning in Nineteenth-Century America, American Music 1/1
(Spring, 1983): 7. Along these lines, it may be observed that teaching Western classical music to all
children regardless of ethnic background has been criticized as cultural imperialism and paternalism.
However, this view places restrictions of its own on individual achievements and preferences. Another
view of musical tradition is possible, based not on repertory and its national origins but on how and by
whom the music is used. The classical repertory as it is used in pedagogy is not primarily a carrier of
Western values, but it is a highly developed, various, and systematic pathway to the mastery of an
instrument. In a community school setting, this music does not operate as ideology but as an emblem of the
musical culture of the community school where it is used. It is the common property of the children and
teachers who participate in that culture in that place and they transform and use this repertory for their own
social purpose.

256
impose its own hierarchy.43 Some students may achieve professional status while others
do not. It is perhaps in response to the practicalities of securing the support of funding
sources that professional achievement of students is emphasized in the Settlements
public statements.
The coming together of these three factors teachers with a clearly defined
technical and musical approach as it has been transmitted to them by an Arrau pupil, a
methodology that places playing before reading and stresses environment over special
inherited abilities or talent, and an institution with a tradition of idealism, inclusiveness,
and social reform -- brings together complementary factors favorable for putting Arraus
principles to use in a wide social setting. The teachers are interested in using their
principles to maximize the musical achievements of all students, instilling the elements of
musical expression and efficient pianistic technique from the first lessons, even with
students three and four years of age. Their efforts are reinforced and enhanced by a social
context in which musical achievement is expected, valued, and rewarded.
APPLYING ARRAUS PRINCIPLES IN THE BEGINNING LESSONS
The beginning lessons are concerned with establishing a basic sound produced by
coordinated use of arm weight (in upward and downward directions) and determined by
habits of listening. The basic sound is then split into two dynamic levels (loud and soft),
and with these a few simple expressive gestures or nuances are possible.
The first exercises, consisting of four rhythmic variations on Twinkle, Twinkle,
Little Star (the Twinkle Variations), are used to establish these basic sounds as well as
the upward and downward application of arm weight. The teacher begins in the first

43

Mina Carson, Settlement Folk, 117.

257
lesson by demonstrating and guiding the student into playing the rhythmic pattern of
Variation A with the thumb on C.44
Example 6.1 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, Variation A,
mm. 1-2.

The repetition of single notes has a tendency to align the arm with the thumb.
When the teacher shows the student how to play the same rhythm with the fourth finger
on G, repetition of the note again tends to bring the arm into alignment with the fourth
finger. But the position of the hand and arm is very different when aligning with the
thumb as opposed to the fourth finger, so that there is immediately a stark contrast
between the sensations of balance and alignment on the thumb and the fourth finger.
While the exercise tends to achieve it automatically, it is up to the teacher to guide the
arm and hand of the student to achieve this balance and alignment, which is quickly
recognized and recorded in the body of the young student and forms the basis for all
further playing. Playing the full exercise utilizes all of the fingers in turn, and the arm
must find a place of balance and alignment with each one. Small children are likely to
use whole arm in playing this exercise. The teacher must see that the arm is used in
coordination with some action of the fingers.
Variation B is a syncopated rhythm consisting of a light staccato eighth note, a
heavier quarter note, and a light staccato eighth note.

44

All musical examples from the Suzuki repertory are taken from Suzuki Piano School (Princeton, N.J.:
Summy-Birchard, 1973).

258
Example 6.2 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, Variation B,
mm. 1-2.

The quarter note is played with a downward drop of arm weight and rebound from the
key bed with a flexible upward wrist motion, or alternatively with an upward application
of weight as the conversation below indicates; the note is sustained by resting lightly in
the key bed without pressing. This movement is used to produce a strong and focused
tone on the quarter note; and along with this, the ability to listen to the full duration of a
long tone (what Ena Bronstein-Barton referred to as the after-sound of a note (see ch.
5, p. 195) is introduced.
Marcia Lewis. In Twinkle Variation B, jump up off the keyshop45
and you fall down, and you hop back up again.
Maritza Robles-Alvarez. For the older kids its easier to do up. For
younger ones, they go down.
Lewis. If its staying in the keys, a longer note, they are less likely to
sabotage it somehow. Tell them, Youre catching the weight down here
[the arm falling to a position lower than the keyboard]. Can you catch it a
little higher [with the forearm and wrist a little higher than the
knuckles]?46
This manner of playing the quarter note is the preparation for legato playing.
Variation C consists of light, fast staccato throughout.

45

Lewis uses the terms, hop, sit, and roll when speaking to children of the movements she wants
them to perform. See pp. 262, 265-66.
46
Discussion among teachers at the Third Street Music School Settlement, recorded March 15, 2004.
Participants were Luis Alvarez, Maritza Robles-Alvarez, Marcia Lewis, and Susan Innamorato.

259
Example 6.3 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, Variation C,
mm. 1-2.

Each group of two sixteenth notes with the following eighth note is played as three notes
in rapid succession with a single arm motion combined with a light fast finger motion. As
the comments below show, demonstration is more important than verbal instruction in
conveying the movement of playing this exercise, but at least one teacher makes a
connection between this exercise and Arraus technique of vibration.
Marcia Lewis. The fingers scratch the keys a little bit. I think its down,
down, scratching a little bit. Its all down, I guess.
Lus Alvarez. [laughing] Maybe I have to review it.
Lewis. By this time, I dont even think about what Im doing. They just
copy whatever I do. Maybe thats what I do, too. I wont be able to play
this anymore.
Alvarez: I never thought about it. What I think is, if they learned how to
feel natural, they will do. They will find by themselves how to find this
vibration.47
At first the rhythms are played on one note at a time with stops between notes to
reposition the hand. The teacher asks the student to position the hand for each note and
play only on the words ready go. The teacher demonstrates and plays along with the
student, guiding his or her arm and hand into proper alignment. With very young
students, it is impossible for them to play these Variations without the participation of the
arm. The student sees and hears how the teacher plays and very soon begins to look and
sound just like the teacher.
47

Ibid.

260
Only when the student can easily and comfortably play the rhythms on each
single note are the notes joined together so that each Variation is played continuously
from beginning to end. Variation C calls for the fastest adjustment of the arm and hand
to the different notes, as there is only the duration of a sixteenth note for moving from
one pitch to another.
Legato is introduced in Variation D.
Example 6.4 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, Variation D,
mm. 1-2.

Legato playing consists at first of stringing together the sounds produced for the
quarter notes in Variation B. This entails connecting the motions of downward dropping
of arm weight and rebounding arm and wrist movements for each note. Legato playing
differs from the non-legato playing only in that each finger remains resting in the keys
until the next finger plays rather than withdrawing from the keys; but the motion of
initiating sound is otherwise the same as in Variation B. Each note of Variation D has a
separate arm and wrist motion so that, while the notes are connected, they are still
individualized in the sense that they all receive the same impulse from the arm.
Marcia Lewis. I do sit-roll so their wrists are moving and their arms and
fingers are connected. It doesnt always work at this point. But thats
what we work on through all of Book One. I dont want them out of Book
One until their fingers are pointing down and they can stand on their
fingers.48
48

Ibid.

261
THE KEYBOARD AS EXTENSION OF BODY
Edith Fischer: The feeling that the piano, the keyboard is part of you, that it is not
an object that is separated, that you do not have to feel that there is a wooden
thing here, but that you go in. That is, of course, his [Arraus] idea that you go in
with pleasure, that it becomes part of you! There is a relationship of confidence
also with the instrument, and not this is the piano and this is me. And, for
instance, even to children I say sometimes if you push the piano he doesnt like it.
He is like people. He answers very badly.49
Frequent and pervasive use of demonstration follows Suzukis belief that children
should learn to play music as they learn to speak their language: not through instruction
in rules of grammar, but by hearing the speech of those around them. Finding words that
describe musical sounds with any accuracy to people who already have a wealth of
musical experience is difficult; using words to convey the sense of a musical sound to a
young student who has no prior experience of it is impossible. In the regular interactions
of teacher and student, words serve less as accurate description and more as labels to
identify concepts and actions that the teacher has made clear to the student through
demonstration. The chosen words must be meaningful and appropriate to the childs age.
Verbal information may be given to parents to explain lesson procedures; but
verbal directions to the children are minimal because, in the context of the earliest
lessons, children regularly misinterpret them. The desired techniques are developed
almost exclusively in response to the automatic working of the exercises, the
demonstrations of the teacher, and the sounds coming from the piano. Words may serve
as mnemonics that imitate the rhythm of and label each variation. An account of an actual
lesson serves as an example of the procedure.

49

Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15, 2003.

262
Marcia Lewis is teaching two four-year-old students, Andres and Vittorio.50 As is
usual with Suzuki instruction, the mothers of both children, Indira and Katherine, are
present. Lewis begins by teaching a short lesson to each of the boys mothers. First,
Katherine plays Variation B and Lewis plays along, modeling how she wants Katherines
hand and arm to move. Lewis tells her to think of this rhythm as hop-sit-roll-hop. This
language is for the benefit of the child and suggests how the arm is to behave: the arm
hops upward as the first eighth note is played (pushing up and out, see p. 258); then the
weight of the arm goes down into the quarter note and sits there just long enough so
that the weight can be felt in the key bed (dropping the weight, see pp. 265-66); next, the
arm rebounds while sustaining the quarter note causing the wrist to roll up and forward;
finally, the arm hops upward again to play the final eighth note. The idea of hopping
has already been established by playing Variation A, which has been labeled with the
verbal mnemonic bunny rabbit hop hop. However, actual information as to how these
motions are done is supplied by Lewiss demonstration, playing alongside the student.
They play the rhythm together several times. Lewis asks Katherine to imagine
that a suction cup keeps her finger from sliding on the key while the arm and wrist roll
up. She draws attention to the opening and closing of space under the arm and hand as
well as to the feeling of the bottom of the key when the finger catches it.
Next Indira takes a short lesson on Variation A. First, Indira and Lewis practice
shaking the hand above the keys to observe the work of the arm and to practicing
loosening the wrist. Then they practice Variation A. Lewis demonstrates how the
movement can be timed so that the finger catches the bottom of the key with the wrist
in higher or lower positions. The word catch refers to a small finger movement. They
50

Marcis Lewis, lesson given at the Third Street Music School Settlement, October 9, 2004.

263
try to catch the bottom of the key with the wrist in a slightly raised position. As they do
so, they are also conscious of coordinating a small finger movement with shaking the
hand as they practiced it at first. They practice this, pausing after each finger has played.
When they come to the fifth finger, they take care to line up the arm behind this finger.
Next, they spend a few minutes playing Lightly Row with the right hand, using the
roll [sit-roll] motion for each note. This makes clear how the tone production,
movements, and sensations of playing the first exercises form the basis for playing the
first pieces.
Finally, Lewis turns her attention to the two boys who have been playing quietly
on the floor while their mothers played the piano. First she works with Andres to play the
first measure of Variation A. Using the words bunny rabbit hop hop to name the
activity for the child (a mnemonic which both mimics the rhythm and refers to the motion
of the arm), Lewis demonstrates Variation A with her thumb on C (C5) and Andres
imitates her. Andres is interested in trying to play this on different notes, also, and when
he does this, Lewis remarks interestedly that the sound is very different. She does not
attempt to curb his experimentation, but always draws him back to C. Then they practice
G (G5) with the fourth finger several times. Lewis asks Andres to wave with his fourth
finger and this brings about movement of his fourth finger from the knuckle joint. They
both hold their hands up and wave with the fourth finger moving from the knuckle joint
so that Andres can compare his own movement with that of his teacher. This is the end of
his lesson.
Then Vittorio takes his turn with Variation A. Using a felt tip pen, Lewis draws a
little face on Vittorios thumb to show where the thumb should touch the key. They

264
practice playing the thumb on C several times, Lewis demonstrating first and Vittorio
imitating her example. To improve the staccato of the last eighth note, Lewis reminds
Vittorio to hop, not sit, on the last note. This correction or refinement of his
technique tells Vittorio what to do, but it does so without being overly specific or subject
to misinterpretation. It is specific only in drawing attention to and naming a quality of
sound that Lewis demonstrates.
These represent the earliest lesson experiences of the youngest students. Only a
short time is spent at the piano in the beginning, but as the students master more skills,
the length of the lessons increases. Of paramount importance is the demonstration of the
teacher. As the students imitate her, they will internalize her sound and style of
movement. She watches and listens, guiding their movements by example, without
imposing specific verbal directions. It is also important to note the social context of the
lesson. The parents are taught along with their children and the advantages are manifold:
the parents must understand how to help their children to practice; the interest of the
parent is crucial in maintaining the childs interest; parents can better appreciate their
childs achievement when they understand what is being asked of them; parents value the
musical education they receive as a result of their involvement in lessons.51 Beginners
typically have a short time at the piano, appropriate to their age and attention span, but
learn much from exposure to the activities of the other people present. The usually

51

Examination of the early signs of musical ability highlights the importance of parental involvement.
Further investigation of the biographies of our sample showed that, once children begin learning musical
instruments, parental involvement is critical as to whether the child persists or gives up musical activity. In
Davidson, Howe, Moore, and Sloboda (in press) we discovered that high achievers had parents who were
more involved in initial practice and lessons than the parents of the other subgroups. This parental
involvement was characterized by regular feedback from the teacher, which often included being present in
the lessons, and participation in practice activities. None of the other groups studied had equal levels of
parent input. The group who gave up musical study had parents who hardly involved themselves in early
lessons and practice. Sloboda and Davidson, The Young Performing Musician, 180.

265
solitary nature of piano study is alleviated as each person in this small group feels the
interest, support, and encouragement of the others.
The technical points addressed in the teaching of these two variations are the
coordination of arm, hand, and finger movements in fast staccato (bunny rabbit), the
downward drop into the key (sit), a rebound from the key bed (hop), and a push
upward and forward out of the key (roll). Lewis has devised this terminology so that it
will carry through all of the beginning exercises. The objective she is striving for in the
first lessons is the development of tone production for staccato, for a single sustained
tone, and for the chaining together of sustained tones to create legato. The instructions
and demonstrations during these elementary lessons are informed by Arraus techniques
of dropping weight into the keyboard or pushing up and out. The demonstrations of
Lewis and the other teachers during these lessons reflect the way of playing learned from
Diez. The teachers refer to the elementary techniques of using arm weight as down and
up. The following discussion among the teachers reveals the influence of their own
study in their teaching, their concern to establish the simplest elements in such a way as
to support the growth of technique at higher levels, and their sensitivity to students
responses.
Lus : This thing of playing up or down is really complicated because
I think to play down involves to go up also, and it is not easy to
recognize. I say this because for me it was difficult to understand this at
the beginning with German. Sometimes I was playing up and he wanted
me to play down, or sometimes, he wanted me to play up and I was
playing down. I couldnt recognize it at first, because to play down
you have to go up and away, afterwards. And to play up, anyway you
have to go up, afterwards [meaning, you have to have gone down first].
Anyway, its the way you attack or the way you do, but anyway to play
down you go up afterwards.

266
Q: Is it correct to say that playing down involves the rebound, but in
playing up your motion is in an upward direction to begin with, or the
upward response is quicker?
Lus . Its faster. The speed affects the sound, the hammer.
Lewis. Here youre limited by how fast gravity works. I learned up
much faster than I learned down. I used to start falling down. At the
last second -- I couldnt see it; I can see my students do it -- at the last
second my fingers would sabotage it, theyd come up a little bit. He [Diez]
said that most people learn up much faster than down. Its easier to
teach them to go up than to go down.
Q: Where do you teach this up and down?
Marcia. In Twinkle Variation B, you jump up off the keys, hop, and
you fall down, and you hop back up again.
Maritza. For the older kids its easier to do up. For younger ones, they
go down.
Marcia. If its staying in the keys, a longer note, they are less likely to
sabotage it somehow. Tell them, Youre catching the weight down
here. Can you catch it a little higher? Or a little higher in the fingertips?
Lus . German says the way to go up is this [he demonstrates moving
the arm forward with the elbow simultaneously turning up and outward],
so its not this really [he demonstrates moving the arm and wrist straight
forward with the elbow pointing downward]. Its combined with out,
because the arm cannot go up this way. He told me, you have to come
out with the elbow, because its the only way the arm can go up. So now
you have to combine this with this [the upward and slight outward
motions]. So there is movement to the front. I tell my students to go to the
front, forward. They understand better than to go up. If I say, Go up,
it happens to me a lot that they do this [he raises the shoulder upwards]. I
have two students now who were Susans students in the past and they
both move like this, so I know she teaches this. I dont know if she does it
consciously, but both of them do this. Actually, they like this circle
motion.
Maritza. Twinkle Variation A they do down. With older students Ill
do up with the wrist: bunny rabbit down; hop hop - up. With
anybody amenable to learning it! With the little ones I dont interfere. I
got that from German. Give them time and theyll get it on their own.
Twinkle Variation B is both: up down up.
Lus . I always encourage to move up because they are going down by
themselves. But they stay there, thats the problem.
Marcia: I teach it exactly in time: Hop, sit, roll, hop. The hop is up
because they had bunny rabbit hop hop probably. So they know what hop
is. Hop, sit (just fall down and sit on the note), then roll forward so you
can hop again.52

52

Discussion among teachers at the Third Street Music School Settlement, March 15, 2004.

267
THE ELEMENTARY-LEVEL PIECES
The first pieces contain elements that utilize and further refine the sounds and
motions learned in the Twinkle Variations. The quarter note in Variation B continues to
serves as the model for the sound and movement used in legato melodies. However, the
teacher can demonstrate a larger, weightier use of the arm to generate a louder sound on
longer notes (see fn. 55). At first, this creates two levels of sound, one for long notes and
one for short notes, which is the beginning of dynamic control and phrasing. Later, using
the arm in this manner can generate many different levels of tone. These elementary
techniques are the means by which the student begins to build a vocabulary of expressive
gestures.
The following example shows various motives in the beginning pieces that the
teacher may choose for dynamic shaping by applying more arm weight and volume on
Example 6.5 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, motives from four early pieces.

268
long notes and less on the shorter notes:
As the student becomes more proficient in using the arm to regulate volume, there
is a tendency to make crescendos and decrescendos to create continuity between softer
and louder notes. Thus the notes in these motives begin by having two levels of sound,
softer for the short notes, louder for the long notes. But soon, the anticipation of the
louder notes brings a crescendo in the shorter notes leading up to them, for example, in
the five-finger pattern in mm. 3-4 of Lightly Row or the three Es in Mary Had A Little
Lamb (m. 2). The schema applied to motives in these beginning pieces may be extended
to shaping whole phrases in pieces that follow, such as Au Clair de la Lune and Long,
Long Ago.
Example 6.6 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Au Clair de la Lune,mm. 1-4; Long, Long
Ago, mm. 1-4.

The ability to shape phrases dynamically is built up step by step from the first exercises
that balance the arm behind each finger and use it, first for basic tone production, and
then to regulate soft and loud tone.
The softening of phrase endings (French Childrens Song, Cuckoo, Au Clair de la
Lune) is a refinement that may be added when two levels of sound are established for
long and short notes. Along with this softening, the use of ritardando to end a piece
comes naturally.

269
The echo effect requires more control; two dynamic levels must be sustained over
longer segments of music (applied in parallel phrases of Long, Long Ago, Little
Playmates, Allegretto 1, Christmas Day Secrets). This depends upon the students ability
to differentiate using more or less arm weight, and more or less arm motion.
Mastering the echo effect leads to hearing and controlling more subtly
differentiated levels of dynamic to allow parallel shaping of phrases at slightly different
dynamic levels corresponding to different pitch levels (Chant Arabe, Allegretto 2).
Dynamic shaping of the appoggiatura and giving different dynamic quality to recurrences
of the same note in a phrase are introduced in the last piece (Musette). Ritardando to end
a piece may be used throughout Book One, and it is also used to lead up to a fermata in
Allegro and Musette.
The balance of the hands when playing melody and accompaniment may be
introduced at any stage deemed appropriate, particularly as the pieces are maintained in
the students repertoire for a considerable period. However, Book One students are often
allowed to play the left-hand accompaniments too loudly in order to give the left hand
time to develop the same strength and tone-producing capability as the right hand. The
left hand may play unison melodies with the right hand in Book One for two or three
pieces, but it then becomes relegated to an accompaniment role and does not play a
melody again until Book Two (The Happy Farmer, the minuets from the Anna
Magdalena Bach Notebook). If the student learns to play the left hand softly at this early
stage, an inequality can develop in the hands. Therefore, except in a few cases like Chant
Arabe, which has a repeated fifth accompaniment that can become overly intrusive,
developing the correct balance between the hands is often left to Book Two.

270
The expression of emotion per se is not an overt objective in the beginning stages,
but that need not preclude a strong emotional response to the music on the part of the
child.53 A child may have an intense reaction to music without anyone trying to bring it
about and without having any verbal means to acknowledge or describe it.
Demonstration, aided by reference to recorded examples, plays a large part in the
early teaching process. Students memorize the sounds of their pieces from a recording,
and in lessons their teachers teach them how to create sounds, how to move, and how to
listen for qualities of sound. Eventually, sound becomes suggestive of the means by
which it is created. In time, children seem able to draw upon their experience of imitating
their teachers demonstrations to recognize and call up both sounds and technical
movements as interrelated aspects of a single phenomenon.
In the following excerpt, Susan Innamorato is teaching a four-year-old student
named Derek who has had a few months of piano lessons.54 They are practicing Honey
Bee, the first melody in Book One. The sonic quality of the long tone and flexibility of
the wrist introduced in Variation B and the chaining together of long tones introduced in
Variation D are carried over into this melody. The half notes in this melody will be
played with a larger, weightier arm motion to produce more sound. The quarter notes
will be somewhat individualized by a smaller arm motion as in Variation D. Thus, two
dynamic levels are explicitly introduced and this contains the seed of dynamic phrase
shaping. (In the example, f and p indicate the two different dynamic levels that
53

A study by Sloboda (1990) of autobiographical memories of emotional responses to music in childhood


showed that individuals with a life-long commitment to music were much more likely to report strong
emotions in response to musical content than were those individuals who were not involved with music or
considered themselves unmusical. . . . the individuals reporting content-based responses to music were
most likely to have experienced the music in situations of low external threat (such as the home, the concert
hall alone or with friends, and without performance expectations). Sloboda and Davidson, The Young
Performing Musician, 186.
54
Susan Innamorato, lesson given at the Third Street Music School Settlement, December 11, 2004.

271
Innamorato is asking for, but are not meant to indicate precise dynamic levels or
relationships).
Example 6.7 Suzuki Piano School, Book 1, Honey Bee, mm. 1-4.

Derek is playing with his right hand only. Innamorato repeatedly demonstrates the
first phrase using arm weight in an upward direction through a coordinated movement of
the arm pushing forward, the wrist flexing upward, fingers close to the keys. She draws
attention to the large motion of the arm, hand, and wrist when playing the half notes, and
she points out the full, rounded sound that is produced. The quarter notes are perceptibly
softer than the half notes and are played with a smaller version of the same motion. The
hierarchy of values implied in this activity leads from 1) tone production in single notes
to 2) connecting single notes to 3) constructing a legato. Innamoratos demonstrations
display the separate motions for producing each tone, the connections of the sounds, and
the use of two distinct dynamic levels as the components of legato.55 After each

55

Dynamics contribute to the singing tone by making long tones in a melody stand out sufficiently over a
moving-note accompaniment and to creating the illusion of legato on the piano by compensating for the
decrease in sound that occurs after a tone is sounded. When played with equal volume, a longer tone will
arrive at its ending with less volume than a shorter tone, causing a disjunction where a long tone meets the
next. Thus, legato on the piano demands both the physical connection of tones and their dynamic ordering.
This practice goes back at least as far as Czernys advice in his Pianoforte School: Generally speaking,
modern Composers place with sufficient exactness, some suitable character or other to each note which
they wish to be marked with particular emphasis, as >, ^, rf, sf, fz, fp, and even -, &c. and in this case the
Player has merely to attend with care to these marks.
But when this is not the case, the following rules will in general be found sufficient . . . .
a. Any note of longer duration than those which immediately go before or follow it must be played with
greater emphasis than those shorter notes [my emphasis]. Czerny gives as an example a melody with half
and quarter notes in 4/4 time.] Here, in the melody given to the right hand, each minim must receive an

272
demonstration, Derek plays the same phrase; it is evident that this ground has been
covered before, as he is able to copy her sound with surprising accuracy. Innamorato
encourages listening and draws attention to the technical points by complimenting
Dereks beautiful sound and his proficiency in getting up on his fingers. This short
phrase labels the complex action of applying arm weight and the alignment of the bones
of the fingers conveying the weight of the arm into the keys, i.e., Arraus stand in the
keys (see ch. 2, pp. 92, 103).
Innamorato confines her verbal directions to these short labeling phrases and
some encouragements to feel and listen. Most communication about what to do and how
to do it takes place through demonstration. Keeping verbal directions to a minimum
leaves an informational gap that must be filled in by referring to the sound of the piano.
Innamorato uses the piano as a medium of communication and a tool for conveying
information about qualities of sounds and the physical movements that create them, and
Derek understands it in this way. Gradually, the elemental sounds of music-making that
this small piece gives occasion for are built up through aural and bodily experience.
Innamorato and Derek play this melody for about fifteen minutes, noticing any
tones that are disconnected, too loud, or too soft. All the while, Innamorato is silently
nudging and guiding Dereks arm movements so that he can succeed in drawing the
desired sounds from the piano. She does not interrupt the immediacy of communication

accent and consequently they must be played with more emphasis than the crotchets. As the whole passage
is piano, we must avoid playing the emphatic notes so loud as forte; at most they must be played mezza
voce. Here, the accompaniment in the left hand does not take any part in this kind of expression, as it
proceeds throughout in simple quavers. If however the passage were composed of similar notes in both
hands, then we should be obliged to give an equal emphasis to the longer notes in both the hands. In
executing such emphatic notes the Player must avoid monotony as much as he possibly can. Carl Czerny,
Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School, Op. 500, vol. 3 (London: R. Cocks & Co., 1839), 67.

273
available through the piano itself by attempting to explain to Derek the technique of what
he is doing. Instead, she appeals to his powers of perception and self-awareness by
alternately drawing his attention to the sound he gets from the piano, the sensation of his
arm movement, and the feeling of the bottom of the key.
Innamorato makes a connection between this lesson and previous lessons by
turning attention to a review of Twinkle Variation D, where connecting sustained tones
in legato playing was first introduced. Innamorato continues to challenge Derek to listen
more intently and to have his arm in motion before depressing the keys. She demonstrates
a movement (for the right arm) that goes up and forward with a very slight
counterclockwise circle with each note.56 As Derek plays this melody, she sometimes
takes hold of the back of his elbow to guide the movement of his arm and plays along
with him one octave higher to show him the movement and the sound. She continually
asks for listening to get a full sound without a percussive edge. Derek responds with an
impressive ability to create and control the sound by himself.
From the beginning lessons, Innamoratos objectives are formed keeping in mind
significant conclusions arrived at in her own piano study. She explains:
Susan Innamorato: When I came to Diez, my problem was that I was all
down, I was very weighty, I had a very weighty type of approach, but I
had never gotten the rebound idea. . . . I was getting very heavy and very
stuck. And he just took this down and turned it into a forward
movement. And it seemed very natural and very relaxed. So he never
really changed anything, he added the rebound. And so I try to get that
with my students, I try to help my students to think more forward rather
than just down or just up. Its more . . . making the bottom of the key the
extension of the arm rather than going at the bottom of the key.57

56

This corresponds to a movement described earlier by Luis, as taught to him by German Diez, where the
arm goes out slightly, not just forward. See p. 265-66.
57
Discussion among teachers at the Third Street Music School Settlement, recorded March 15, 2004.

274
This stage of instruction focuses on the most basic gestures:58 the physical
motions associated with tone production in single tones (both sustained and staccato),
connecting tones, and the dynamic inflections of short motives involving tones of longer
and shorter duration. Even if affective significance is not assigned to them at this stage,59
these elements form the technical basis and sonic building blocks for later expressive
playing.
LATER ELEMENTARY-LEVEL PIECES.
The lessons at subsequent stages show the beginnings of combining these motions
and sounds to form a continuous flow capable of expressing groups of notes as melodic
phrases. There is also increasing independent movement of the two hands to create sonic
depth implied by different contrapuntal and homophonic textures. With the growth of
musical attainments, somewhat greater use of language is needed, but with very young
students, language is nevertheless used primarily to label technical movements.
Innamorato teaches seven-year-old Kelvin.60 Kelvin is in his second year of
lessons and has advanced to Suzukis Book Two, consisting of later elementary pieces

58

The term gesture is used in the sense suggested by John Sloboda and Jane Davidson: By gesture, we
mean some perturbation of the sound stream that arises from, or in some way models, a bodily movement
or a vocal sign that communicates emotion (for example, a caress, a blow, a sigh, a sob). This requires two
kinds of activity: (1) a process of trial and error in generating alternative gestural responses; and (2) the
application of a well-developed emotional reactivity to the aural outcomes of such experimentation.
Quoted from Sloboda and Davidson, The Young Performing Musician, 185.
59
It might be questioned whether these elements contain an expressive aspect, simply by virtue of their
being done in a certain way by someone with a certain intent, whether the expression is consciously
acknowledged or not. Sparshotts remarks on expression in dance seem relevant here: When I say
something . . . my tone and gesture, and aspects of my choice of words, show, without saying, how I feel
and what I am thinking. In a way, this is part of my meaning; in a way, it is not, for it is not what I mean by
what I say. . . . every dance can be seen as expressing some individual state of sentience or other, and
issuing from some social way of life or other. This may not be so (although it is often alleged to be so) in
other arts, but it must be so in dance, because, if no other (assumed or fictive) subjectivity underlies the
dance, that represented by the dancer must. The dance must be dance as the dance of someone . . . it must
be danced as by a sentient being whose sentience must have some recognizable (though not necessarily
nameable) character. Sparshott, A Measured Pace, 84-85.
60
Susan Innamorato, lesson given at the Third Street Music School Settlement, December 11, 2004.

275
drawn from standard classical teaching repertoire.61 By this time his note-reading ability,
which has been developed using another method book, has nearly caught up to his
playing level. He is playing Cradle Song by C. M. von Weber and Arietta by Mozart.

Example 6.8 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Weber, Cradle Song.

This melody is confined to the white keys (though the accompaniment is not; the
second and third phrases of this sixteen-measure piece have endings on the dominant and
61

Schumanns Album for the Young, Anna Magdalena Bach Notebook, short pieces by Mozart, Hummel,
Weber.

276
subdominant). The melody contains elements that refer back to expressive schemata
learned in Book One: repeated notes in crescendo in mm. 5-6 and 9-11 (Mary Had A
Little Lamb, French Childrens Song); the appoggiatura in mm. 6 and 10 (Musette); use
of the fifth finger to produce more volume at a climactic point in the phrase in mm. 2, 67, 12, and 14 (Lightly Row, Cuckoo). These expressive schemata figure in the teachers
demonstrations.
The lesson is directed at the dynamic shaping of phrases that has already been
established as a flowing series of gradations of up and down arm motions with different
weight applied to each note to create louder or softer sounds. This type of movement was
established earlier, in its elemental form, in the quarter note of Twinkle Variation B,
and then transferred to legato melodies beginning with Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star and
continuing throughout Book One. Innamorato refers to these arm motions as forward
motions, and she is concerned that they should not be exaggerated. She asks Kelvin to
pay attention to stopping the forward movement when he feels that he has played
through the bottom of the key. The objective seems to be eliminating unnecessary
movement. They play the right-hand part together, Innamorato modeling what she has
asked for by playing along with Kelvin on the same piano one octave higher, and they
both become absorbed in sensing the bottom of the key and the movement of the arm.
Kelvin sees and compares his own movements to those of his teacher. Then he tries it
alone several times. But each repetition is a slightly different experience because each
time he plays it, Innamorato asks Kelvin to shift his attention to a different feature of the
playing experience: listening to his tone and the shaping of his phrase; sensing the look
and feel of his arm movement; coordinating his movement with the sensation of touching

277
the bottom of the keys. This shifting to different modes of attention prevents boredom
while training a capacity for repetition and practice and it makes the student self-aware
and concentrated. Innamorato refrains from telling Kelvin in words what to do with his
arm and fingers and thereby gives maximum and immediate effectiveness to her
demonstrations of movements and sounds. Kelvin must observe them attentively to
understand what is being asked of him. Kelvins responses show that he has developed an
impressive ability to hear fine gradations of sound and reproduce them. He performs
Cradle Song easily, giving an appropriate dynamic shape to each phrase.
Innamorato later explained how this kind of work is aimed toward both ease of
playing and more musical playing.
Susan Innamorato: They relax and they can play more expressively.
Because they are playing more naturally, it seems they are more musical.
The musicality can come out, the feeling, emotion, and subtleties, because
theyre using what is more natural for them. What was happening with me
when I was all down, at times it would hinder my expression. If youre
so stuck, you cant make it work. Youre constantly trying to make it
work and make it work. So what s inside of you isnt flowing out.62
After about fifteen minutes, they turn their attention to Arietta. Kelvin has
memorized the right-hand and left-hand parts of this piece and he performs them
separately for Innamorato. The accompaniment pattern consists of a bass line with notes
that sustain for a whole measure followed by two after beats.
Innamorato shows Kelvin how to play the melodic notes of the bass line, dropping
the weight of the arm to create a full sound and then immediately using a rebounding
motion to lighten the hand and free it so that he can sustain melodic notes while playing
short and light after beats. She demonstrates this and asks Kelvin to repeat it after her

62

Susan Innamorato, interview at the Third Street Music School Settlement, December 11, 2004.

278
Example 6.9 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Mozart, Arietta.

several times. She then listens to Kelvin play the right-hand part several times and
frequently calls his attention to how he is getting up on his fingers (balancing each
finger so that the bones of the skeleton are aligned).
Next, Innamorato shows how to group a series of sixteenth notes (m. 5) into a
single motion by playing fingers 5-4-3 in a stepwise sequence, making the arm move up
and forward reaching the highest point with the third finger. In her demonstration, she
also incorporates a slight rotation from right to left. This grouping of notes in a single
gesture contrasts with the preceding passage, in which single tones corresponded to

279
individualized motions. It is followed by the same motion and grouping by fingers 4-2-1.
The motions of the arm following the fingers join these three-note units into a single
longer gesture and enable subtle changes in the weight applied with each finger to
produce nuances that reflect the pitch contour.
In the lessons of Derek and Kelvin, the techniques of creating individual sounds
(learned in the very beginning lessons) are joined together to create composite physical
gestures related to the musical gestures formed by motives and phrases. The strong sense
of vertical movements in creating the individualized sounds that was cultivated in the
beginning exercises (Twinkle Variations) gives way in these lessons to the horizontal
sensations of gestural playingsensations of moving laterally on the keyboard and of
regulating the amount of vertical motion from note to note to create a dynamic shaping63
of phrases and motives in ways corresponding to their pitch contour. For the player, the
sensation of arm weight and motion and the sensation of the resulting sound define this
activity as gesture.
Along with the sensation of horizontal and vertical motions, gesture gains another
dimension with the incorporation of black keys. In the following examples, Lus Alvarez
is helping Carol to play melodies broken up by staccato and legato articulations, moving
from one place to another on the keyboard, and the disruptive presence of black keys.64
His aim is to develop the physical movements that help to negotiate these problems, to
make the hand comfortable and able to draw the weight of the arm into shaping and
63

In Dorothy Taubmans system, movements in a three-dimensional field (up-and-down, in-and-out, sideto-side) are related to both the contour of melodies and to the geography of the keyboard and thus have
consequences both for dynamic shaping and for ease of playing. She refers to this entire topic as
shaping. The Taubman Techniques: A Series of Videocassettes Presenting the Keyboard Pedagogy of
Dorothy Taubman (Medusa, N.Y.: JTJ Films, Inc., in cooperation with the Taubman Institute, 1994), Tape
5.
64
Luis Alvarez, lesson given at the Third Street Music School Settlement, December 11, 2004.

280
articulating the motives and phrases. Carol is playing Minuet in G by Petzold (Book
Two).
Example 6.10 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Petzold, Minuet, mm. 1-4.

Alvarez wants her to play the cadence at the final two measures without twisting
her hand to cross over the thumb, but his approach is not to draw her attention to the fault
but to its alternative by demonstrating how to pick up her right hand and move it into
position for the cadence. Alvarez first plays the cadence chord, B-D-G, then releases it
and places his fourth finger on the preceding F-sharp. He shows that, with his fourth
finger so positioned, his hand is also loosely positioned over the chord just released. He
lets his hand hover over these notes without playing. He then shows Carol how to
practice, moving from the first notes of the measure to place her fourth finger on the F#,
noticing that her hand is hovering loosely over the G chord. She is to do this without
actually playing F# or the chord, but noticing the position of her hand closer to the fall
board, further into the black key area. They practice this together, Carols attempts
alternating with Alvarezs demonstrations.
In this activity, Alvarez draws attention to two things: 1) the position of the hand
closer to the fall board; 2) the physical mechanics of timing. The change of position
before the cadence is executed in a separate preparatory motion inward toward the fall

281
board and preceding the motion of playing. By separating the preparation and playing
into separate motions, the twisting associated with the thumb crossing is eliminated. The
F# is linked up physically to the following chord so that both are played nearer the
fallboard and are felt as if on the same plane. The ability to use arm weight, learned in
many previous lessons, overcomes the loss of leverage experienced in playing closer to
the fallboard. Acquiring a habit of timing the movement of the hands well in advance of
playing promotes better accuracy and control.
In this case, the cadence gesture entails vertical and horizontal elements but they
are combined with in-and-out movement toward and away from the fallboard. This type
of movement can be integrated into any gestures whenever black keys are present in a
passage. These types of passages are found as early as Book One in Allegro (right hand,
m. 2) and Musette (left hand, m. 3). For a childs small hands and fingers that feel
distances on the keyboard as larger than for an adult hand, the in-and-out adjustment is
more crucial. The loss of leverage experienced when playing closer to the fallboard is
compensated for by the gain in bringing the keys closer together and by the use of arm
weight.
Alvarez continues along the same lines with the Minuet in F Major by Mozart
(see Example 6.11), in which the placement of black keys where fingers 1 or 5 must play
causes the right hand to twist sideways. Alvarez approaches this by pointing out a
seemingly unrelated element: the broken chord patterns in the melody. Carol can identify
most of them herself and then, at Alvarezs direction, she practices playing each phrase
several times as a succession in blocked chords followed by the cadence figures. Alvarez
stresses getting the hand positioned with the fingers touching the notes of each chord,

282
then raising the arm slightly and dropping the weight into the chord. He demonstrates
how to do this by lifting the whole arm from the shoulder (but not lifting the shoulder
itself) while keeping his hand close to the keys. As he shows this, he tells Carol that the
fingers must pull against the notes slightly, and the arm and hand must bounce
(rebound) when the fingers meet the key bed. This kind of practice gives Carol a sense of
the way the arm adjusts moving the hand into the black-key area (toward the fallboard) to
accommodate chords with black keys, and back out again for white-key chords. In this
way, the black keys are subsumed within comfortable chord positions and the adjustment

Example 6.11 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Mozart, Minuet, mm. 1-16.

283
of moving from one chord position to another is clarified. Retaining the feeling of the
chords in her hand while playing the notes melodically eliminates the twisting of the
hands, makes the piece more comfortable to play, and frees the performer to play
expressively.
Such highly technical practice brings the black keys into line with the white keys
to form the visual image of a linear shape on the keyboard (or perhaps just above it) that
is designed to be comfortable and easy for the arm and hand to trace. This linear shape,
along with the vertical arm motions (bouncing) used in tone production and dynamic
nuance in shaping melodic gestures, translates the shape of the phrase into a physical
experience of movement through an envisioned trajectory with varying emphases and
nuances of weight.
Carol ends her lesson with a performance of The Happy Farmer by Schumann,
which she will play in a recital later in the day. The technique of playing chords with the
whole arm lifting from the shoulder, as practiced in the Mozart minuet, is very evident in
the right-hand part. Carol uses the technique to good advantage, controlling the sound so
that the chords are evenly voiced but softer than the left-hand melody. Alvarez reminds
her to bounce on the accompanying eighth-note intervals in the middle section.
Example 6.12 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Schumann, The Happy Farmer, mm. 9-12.

284
When she does this, the accompaniment takes on more clarity and vitality, but
does not overpower the melody. This shows a certain depth of previous learning and
experience. Carol has previously learned not only to hear and preserve the balance of
melody and chordal accompaniment, but also how to use arm weight to achieve lightness
and control as well as for loudness and emphasis. While the word bounce may mean
nothing to anyone else, the word evidently has a history of use by this teacher and student
as a label so that its meaning in terms of physical act and desired sound is immediately
understood within the context of other musical requirements of the piece.
Next, Alvarez teaches Thomas, who is playing Ecossaise by Hummel.65 Thomas knows
this piece very well. Alvarez reminds him to go up on 5 (m. 2, beat 1, right hand)
instead of down. Alvarez demonstrates this giving an accent on the G, and he reminds
Thomas to go all the way to the bottom of the key on the 5, not stop halfway down (a
reference back to the schema taught in Book One, Lightly Row and Cuckoo). As he
demonstrates this, Alvarez stops and rests his arm lightly on the fifth finger with the arm
and wrist balanced high above a straight fifth finger. This is to give Thomas a sense of
the lightness of the arm weight balanced there.

Example 6.13 Suzuki Piano School, Book 2, Hummel, Ecossaise, mm. 1-4.

65

Luis Alvarez, lesson given at the Third Street Music School, December 11, 2004.

285

Interestingly, in this short fragment, both hands remain for the first measure on
fingers 2 and 4 before moving on to the accent on 5, exploiting a means similar to that
used by German Diez to foster security in dropping the weight of the arm (as described
by Lus Alvarez and Maritza Roblez Alvarez; Arraus stand in the keys, see ch. 2, pp.
92, 103). Playing up on the 5 is a direct application of Diezs principle of five-finger
movement (see ch. 5, p. 182).
Next, Thomas plays Cradle Song (see Example 6.8). The accompaniment figure
in continuous eighth notes also contains a bass line consisting of the eighth notes falling
on the beats in the first two measures that moves with the right-hand melody. Alvarez
explains that this bass line must stand out above the Gs that alternate with it. He asks
Thomas to play the bass line along with the right-hand melody, but without the
harmonizing Gs. In doing this, the up-and-down movements and dynamic nuances of
Thomass right hand are adopted by his left hand. The notes of the bass line are sustained
beyond their written value and played with the down stroke. The Gs are played more
softly with the upstroke.
EXPRESSIVE SCHEMATA
An important facet of musical activity is its potential as a means for selfexpression. The focus of the beginning lessons is to address this expressive potential, not
starting with music literacy but by establishing the technical and listening habits that
constitute the elements of expressive schemata.
Ernst Gombrich has described the operation of expressive schemata in
representational artbasic geometric relationships (simple shapes and proportions,

286
such as circles, cones, triangles, and the like) used to draw figures. These basic
relationships serve as means of visual classification and enable artists to interpret and
represent what they see; and they are gradually modified to correspond with whatever the
artist would express.66 As one example among many, Gombrich cites a Dutch engraving
of 1598 in which a whale washed ashore is depicted with an ear in place of one of its
flippers. In making this picture, the artist was misled by the familiar schema of typical
heads. The point is not that the artist could not draw well enough to represent the whale
correctly but that his system of visual classification included ears, not flippers.67
Gombrich presses the point further, citing a Neo-Platonist view of art, prevalent between
1550 and 1850, which held that the purpose of art was not merely to portray nature. By
definition, artists were presumed gifted with the ability to see the universal or the
essential in the particular and to recreate nature in idealized form: not a particular tree but
the universal ideal of a tree. This, writes Gombrich, was a self-deception:
We need not doubt that painters experienced this very thrill. And yet one
suspects that the pattern they found behind the visible world was not the
one laid up in heaven but the remembered shapes they had learned in their
youth. Would not a Chinese call that orchid perfect which corresponds
most closely to the rules he had absorbed? Do we not tend to judge human
bodies by their resemblance to those Greek statues that have become
traditionally identified with the canon of beauty? I do not claim that this
answer contains the whole truth about the changing ideals of natural
beauty. But I do think the study of the metaphysics of art should always
be supplemented by an analysis of its practice, notably the practice of
teaching.68
Analogously to schemata in visual art, the progression of lessons from the first
exercises (Twinkle Variations) through the first pieces into the later elementary level is

66

E. H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation (Princeton, N.J.:
Princeton University Press, 1960), 146-47.
67
Ibid., 80.
68
Ibid., 156.

287
concerned with the most basic elements of musical expression. Within the context of a
group of pianists trained by students of Arrau, these schemata would consist of elements
derived from that training in Arraus techniques and philosophies of listening and
expressive playing. The elements include qualities of sound in single sustained notes
(rounded, non-percussive, beautiful), in the two main categories of articulation
(staccato and legato), and in parameters of dynamic control (louder, softer). These
elements are used in 1) the shaping of motives (defined by rhythmic accent, direction,
patterns of repetition); 2) the dynamic shaping of phrases containing nuanced motives; 3)
the dynamic structuring of phrase shapes as sections and whole pieces.
John Sloboda and Jane Davidson have suggested a structural theory, similar to
Gombrichs schemata, to explain and predict high levels of skill and expressiveness in
performing. They find that musically expressive performance does not spring
spontaneously as a manifestation of inspiration or giftedness, but from a process of
practice directed by rules related to musical structure and consisting of phenomena [that]
come about when a musician has a large repertoire of expressive responses that can be
mobilized in performance in response to specific musical structures without overt
conscious deliberation.69 As in Gombrichs theory that a visual artists ability to
represent figures depends upon his or her having schema to represent it, what pianists can
represent out of the possibilities presented in a score depends on the performative schema
they have acquired for representation. The intelligibility of the representation to a listener
depends on the listener having acquired some of the same schemata.70

69

Sloboda and Davidson, The Young Performing Musician, 175.


It is in this area of intelligibility of schemata that the social environment of the community school is
powerful. The presence of music in a social setting ensures a high degree of interaction and communication
among students and parents, in musical as well as other subjects. The repeated hearing of lessons and

70

288
Like Naomi Cumming, Sloboda and Davidson describe musical expressiveness as
the product of experimentation in practice to determine the most advantageous schema or
expressive response.71 Cumming gives an example of this experimentation,72 in which a
recorded performance communicates an expressive schema that is imitated in practice. In
this case, the recording builds an individuals repertoire of expressive schemata and,
depending upon how widely it is heard, a collective understanding of them. In part, the
intelligibility of this recorded communication, as well as the players understanding of
her own experimentation, is conditioned by the prior input of teachers associated with
various pedagogical lineages. As Kingsbury notes, the statement My teacher was Artur
Schnabel . . . [who] studied with Theodor Leschetizky . . . [who] studied with Liszt . . .
[who] studied with Czerny . . . a student of Beethoven may be made in mirth, but
certainly not in irony.73 Such associations place teachers as participants in a collective
and continuous stream of musical sound and expression that has been personally
transmitted through musicians of past generations and developed in contemporary use.
Through personal communication, teachers convey actual sounds and concepts about

performances results in a high level of understanding of the technical, musical, and ideological aspects of
music as it is transmitted within that environment.
71
Sloboda and Davidson, . . . a performer might attempt a crescendo-decrescendo over a particular
structure, monitor the emotional impact of this, and, if inappropriate, try another type of gesture.
Structurally appropriate performance is thus mediated through awareness of the emotional effect of
particular structurally determined events, rather than through analytical identification of such structures.
Sloboda and Davidson, The Young Performing Musician, 185.
72
Cumming: The very act of playing with the nuances of notes can allow the violinist to discover new
expressive possibilities, or nuances of emotion, in the music. As a result she may also recognize herself
as extending her expressive range. An example will make this clear. I want to play the opening two bars of
Tartinis Violin Sonata in G Minor . . . and I experiment with the degree of detachment between the notes
of the descending semitone . . . the Baroque violinist, Elizabeth Wallfisch, plays it . . . with a slight
detachment . . . . Played that way, the motive feels halting, stuttering, more uncertain in its movement.
(These terms apply no less to its expressive affect.) In trying to play it this way, I discover something about
the expressive possibility of the motive, and also about my own emotional capacity as the agent of its
formation. The Sonic Self: Musical Subjectivity and Signification (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana
University Press, 2000), 33.
73
Kingsbury, Music, Talent, and Performance, 46.

289
their meaning, as embodied in physical movements and sensations, to one student at a
time.74
The physical motions and sensations and the expressive shaping of sound that
Arrau and his students taught were part of and emanated from a continuous sound stream
carried through Arrau and his predecessors. At the same time, they were the products of
Arraus ability to segment a continuous sound stream and a continuous flow of physical
movement in musical works and, as a result of that segmentation process, to identify
commonly repeated elements. The teaching of Arraus principles at the beginning and
elementary level by the next generation (Arraus students students) is a continuing
participation in the sound stream carried through Arraus students, but breaks down those
sounds, physical motions, and sensations further, to the single notes, motives, and phrases
of the earliest pedagogical material. The repertoire of the Suzuki method, from the first
note that is to be played, presents musical structures that are too complex for reading at
this level, but that are aimed at developing classical styles of musical expressiveness. The
lessons at this formative stage provide the context for teacher and student to undertake
together the process of trial and error in generating alternative gestural responses75 that
gives the student tools for flexibility and control of dynamic shaping and nuance and
leads to expressive power and musical competence in playing.
74

Kingsbury writes of pedagogical lineages as constructive of social hierarchy. In the following passage,
he draws a connection between social organization and the aural tradition: One does not gainsay the
importance of the score in saying that even classical music does not reside in the printed page. The
patterns of social organization of the conservatory must not be dismissed as simply the political
underbelly of an artistic process. To believe otherwise is to retain a commitment to an insidious cultural
bias. To be sure, the scholarly appeal to the importance of aural tradition has heretofore been associated
primarily with the study of cultural idioms having no system of written notation. Perhaps because of this, it
is important to stress that a literate idiom such as classical music is also dependent for its meaning, its
vitality, and indeed for a major aspect of what it is, on what folklorists, ethnomusicologists, and
anthropologists have referred to as aural tradition. The social dynamics of the conservatory are of
fundamental importance to the aural tradition of classical music. Ibid., 46.
75
Sloboda and Davidson, The Young Performing Musician, 185.

290
THE LANGUAGE ANALOGY
To understand the segmentation and pairing (or coordination) of technical and
musical elements at the beginning level of pianistic training, one further analogy is
useful, that of music and language. Suzukis success in creating a methodology wherein
music learning makes use of the childs capacity for language acquisition suggests that,
just as importing the philosophical and methodological innovations of linguistics into the
realm of musicology yielded new models of structure relevant to perception and
understanding,76 applying them to music learning may yield further understanding of
musical expressiveness and how it is developed.
The sounding elements of language consist of phonemes and morphemes. This
analogy has been invoked in music analysis, and it may be similarly invoked in
elementary-level teaching. Charles Seeger explains the analogy:
An example of a speech-phoneme is the a in father; of a musicphoneme, a single tone (toneme) or beat (rhythmeme) or, better, tone-beat
(museme?). In both arts, several phonemes are combined to form a
morpheme in speech, according to Bloomfield, a morpheme is A
linguistic form which bears no practical phonetic-semantic resemblance to
any other form . . . . In less technical parlance, this might be said to be a
word with only one meaning and not sounding like any other word. In
music, a morpheme would be a motif, a pattern of design, a music-logical
mood.77
Articulation of the sound streams of music or language presents us with
parts or sections or units; parts of parts and thus hierarchies of parts with
possibly distinct strata and types of parts or categories. For everyday
speech (leaving aside the more elaborate special forms like jokes, orations,
novels, and so on) linguistics identifies the sentence as the largest unit
reliably accounted for by structural rules. The parts of a sentence
constitute a stratified hierarchy: clauses, phrases (nominal, verbal,
adjectival, etc.), words, morphemes, phonemes. The terms we use for
musical articulations periods, phrases, motives, notes reflect a
76

David Lidov, Is Language a Music? (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2005), 15.
Charles Seeger On the Moods of a Music-Logic, Journal of the American Musicological Society 13/1-3
(1960): 229.

77

291
linguistic borrowing of great antiquity (Powers 1980), but the hierarchy is
not always similar.78
In this case, the usefulness of a structural analogy with language is not to identify
a referential meaning in music. As Seeger points out, although music bears a syntactic
resemblance to language in its orderly and harmonious composition and functioning of
parts, it is at the level of semantics that the analogy breaks down: a sentence in language
is not just a string of morphemes but one of signs (sememes) that conveys a meaning
beyond its constituent sounds. Morphemes combine as words having conventional
references; and strings of words form sentences whose interest lies not in their sonic
qualities as a sound stream, but in their semantic qualities as strings of meanings. But
musical phrases differ from sentences of language in having no specific semantic content,
even though various features (motives, harmonies, tonalities, for example) sometimes can
be said to have conventional references. And, unlike sentences of language, musical
phrases draw attention primarily to their perceived sonic qualities as sound streams.79
Just as it is useful in revealing how music can be understood, the music-language
analogy is useful as a framework for understanding a way that music can be learned.
Pedagogy at the beginning level is concerned with the determination of the phonemic and
morphemic level in short musical works. It deals with the sound qualities of phonemes
and morphemes and the technical means of producing them as a prerequisite to creating
strings of phonemes and morphemes having the aural effect of phrases, continuous
78

Lidov, Is Language a Music?, 4.


Lidov: A sound stream may be regarded as continuous by definition if we acknowledge silences as
pauses or rests as part of the stream. Insofar as the sound stream is correlated with a stream of attention,
this makes perfect sense. What interests us is not the physics of continuity but both the experience of the
sound and our conceptualization of it the two not necessarily fully coinciding. In both language and
music we attend to a chain of articulations, notes, phrases, words, and syllables, but there is something
more. We are also caught up in the continuous inflections of the speaking voice, if it is personal or
expressive, and the continuous stream of the voice may appear as independent of its words as a river is of
the boats it carries. Is Language a Music?, 3.
79

292
streams of sound with particular sonic qualities, or temporal and dynamic shaping. In the
Suzuki method, the Twinkle Variations contain this phonemic and morphemic material.
In the beginning-level pieces, segmenting phrases into motives reveals the presence of
elements either identical or related to these basic phonemes and morphemes and makes
possible the teaching and learning of both the physical motions and sounds of these
individual segments. Chaining together the physical motions and sounds creates the
larger units of musical gestures. This follows Cumming and Lidov, who seem to agree
that the term gesture is superfluous unless used to refer to a performed musical
element. Thus, learning to play is first learning to play pieces; learning to play pieces is
learning to execute a set of physical motions.
As one progresses from short simple pieces to lengthier, more complex ones, the
shaping of sound becomes more refined; yet, references back to the basic phonemic and
morphemic level are frequent and common. Advanced-level playing may be seen as
elaboration and refinement of the principles established at the beginning. The difference
between playing a Sonata by Mozart and playing Arietta by Mozart, for example, is a
difference of degree, rather than of kind.

293
CONCLUSION
Between 1945 and 1970, Claudio Arrau established himself as a performer of the
first rank and an iconic figure in classical music. At the same time, he maintained a class
of pianists who studied with him consistently for some period of years. This was possible
with the help of Rafael de Silva, Arraus teaching assistant, who prepared students with a
basic grounding in Arraus technique, followed up on and reinforced Arraus teaching,
provided continuity with weekly lessons when Arrau was away on concert tours, and
organized master classes when Arrau returned to New York.
A significant part of Arraus legacy consists of his contribution to the cultural
work of piano pedagogy. Through master-class lessons, Arrau and de Silva formed their
students into a cohesive social group united by a philosophy of piano playing and a sense
of belonging to a historic lineage of pianists. Arraus group had a distinct language and
set of practices and beliefs, as well as a symbiotic culture of mutual support, and it
reinforced its individual members in the pursuit of Arraus principles. Furthermore, it
amplified Arraus teachings by preserving, adapting, and transmitting them to a widening
circle of people, eventually embracing all levels of pianism from elementary to advanced,
both amateur and professional, and reaching at least three generations of students
between 1945 and the present.
Arrau maintained that his technical approach was the outgrowth of his natural
instinct for piano playing; but he also felt a connection with Liszt through his teacher,
Martin Krause. These claims reflect a tension between conflicting needs to be seen on the
one hand as a uniquely individual artist and on the other as the possessor of a prestigious
pianistic pedigree; but the claims are not mutually exclusive. It is certain that both

294
Krauses teaching and Arraus natural potential contributed to the latters formation as a
pianist; but since little about Krauses teaching has been recorded, one cannot know what
specific aspects of Liszts pianism were transmitted through Krause. Therefore, efforts to
identify the sources of Arraus principles are limited to comparing Arraus principles
with what is known of Liszts teaching and with principles of other nineteenth-century
writers on piano playing.
Specious though a stark division along these lines may be in practice, classifying
nineteenth-century technical approaches to piano playing either as finger technique or
arm or arm-weight technique reflects the image pianists held of themselves and others,
and it was based in part on aesthetic ideology that divided piano music into classical
masterpieces and popular bravura-style works. Liszt was a proponent of the bravura style.
His playing was closely observed by his pupils and contemporaries, and their accounts
placed Liszts playing on the side of arm-weight. Considering the power of Liszts
influence, one can suppose that Krauses teaching was also informed by an arm-weight
approach. Krauses obituary refers to relaxation and cultivation of a singing style as
elements of his teaching, elements that figure in descriptions of arm-weight approaches.
Krause was Arraus primary musical influence during Arraus crucially formative years
between ages ten and fifteen, and it is possible that at this young age Arrau internalized
Krauses teachings to some degree without being able to articulate them consciously.
This is suggested by Arraus account of developing his own technique after Krauses
death and his statement that at first he played without thinking of technique but later
worked to gain conscious control of it; it also may explain why Arrau later said so little
about the specific points in Krauses teaching.

295
After Krauses death, Arraus efforts to continue developing on his own found
other influences. He spoke of his personal acquaintance with Rudolf Breithaupt and of
having read the writings by Breithaupt and Bonpensiere. Arraus voracious reading habits
and his consciousness of being a musical descendant of Liszt make it possible that he also
knew Clarks Liszts Offenbarung. Similarities between Liszts principles (as described by
Clark and others) and Arraus suggest that Arraus playing was linked to Liszts, either
through elements in Krauses teaching that lay beyond Arraus conscious recollection, or
through Arraus cultivating a familiarity with Clarks account of it, or both. Arrau would
have consulted various writings on piano playing in order to corroborate his own ideas of
it as well as to augment his own development and understanding.
Arrau differed from other proponents of arm technique in that he described the
active role of the upper arm and regarded the entire body as the playing mechanism.
Technical elements in Arraus system were described in terms of bodily movement rather
than musical figurations. For Arrau, relaxation was a prerequisite for allowing the
musical impulse to be expressed as bodily movement designed to create musical sounds.
Relaxation enabled access to the spiritual source of musical impulses, while tension, by
contrast, blocked it. Relaxation did not mean a continuous laxity in the muscles but an
ability 1) to prevent opposing sets of muscles from interfering with one another, and 2) to
induce either laxity or activity when required. This principle of relaxation may have been
developed by Liszt and received by Arrau directly from Krause; it was similarly
articulated by Deppe (and his followers), Breithaupt, and Matthay. Arraus description of
relaxation is similar to Breithaupts language and suggests a direct influence. Arraus

296
belief in the inseparability of technique and expression may also have been a Lisztian
principle, received either from Krause or from Clarks account of Liszts principles.
Arraus teaching imparted to his students a bodily approach to and experience of
music, as suggested by his formulation and description of technique as a set of bodily
movements, his adaptation of natural bodily movements to create different qualities of
tone and to shape musical gestures, his attention to the physical sensations of playing, and
his belief that technique and expression were inseparable. This bodily experience
informed the way students listened to and conceptualized the sound of the piano while it
enhanced their performing skills. Musical sound and bodily movement were so
intertwined that not only was a bodily movement selected on the basis of its propensity to
create a resultant sound, but the quality of a musical sound was judged according to the
appropriateness of bodily movement. Tone produced by means of a stroke from the
forearm rather than by means of the whole arm, for example, was rejected on the basis of
its inappropriate method of production. In lessons, sound and movement evoked one
another and were labeled by verbal descriptions of their expressive qualities. Learning a
piece entailed mastering not only its notes, harmonies, formal organization, and
expressive qualities but internalizing a set of physical motions so that, in performance,
musical interpretation and expression were experienced as bodily sensation. When
thoroughly internalized, the movements became unconscious, and the piece became a
part of the player as embodied knowledge. The Arrau Technique, which Arrau began to
develop in the aftermath of Krauses death, represented an attempt to codify and explain
these bodily movements and sensations along with their corresponding musical qualities.

297
Arraus teaching also functioned as an analysis and explanation of his own
playing, which gave students a basis for better understanding and acceptance of it as
authoritative. Thus, it created in them a sense of how the practice of piano playing should
be judged, and made them highly critical of ways of playing that did not conform well to
Arraus. Study with Arrau conferred upon students a consciousness of their own place
within the broader pianistic tradition of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
In his study of the visual arts, Ernst Gombrich wrote that any understanding of the
metaphysics of art should be supplemented by a study of the practice of teaching. In the
spirit of that advice, this study has followed the teaching of Arraus principles from
professional and advanced-level playing into the realm of the elementary- and
intermediate-level student. At every level, pedagogy inspired by Arraus principles
performs the cultural work of providing many experiences of musical expression within a
social environment and in a variety of specific musical contexts that can be generalized
and organized as a structured body of knowledge. Rather than springing independently
and spontaneously from some inborn tendency, individual creative expression derives
from and builds upon this structured body of knowledge and is valued and reinforced by
a social group. While individuals display differing abilities as performers of classical
piano music, the differences are of less interest than the possibility of a general musical
potential that may be stimulated into being by experience at an opportune age, because
the possibility fosters inquiry into the nature of that experience and the resultant body of
knowledge. Inspired by the example of Arrau himself, Arraus pupils and their musical
descendants are exploring how to frame experience so that it engages the individual
perceptions and adaptive powers of each student in the development of musical potential

298
not just as the fulfillment of extraordinary talent but as a fulfillment of an aspect of
humanity. Their efforts to preserve musical works, values, and practices within a social
context, to maintain a historical continuum while developing new perceptions and
insights in teaching and learning, and to train a community of players and listeners as
well as performers constitute the cultural work of piano pedagogy.

299
APPENDIX ONE
ARRAUS PUPILS
The present writer has collected the names of those who studied with Arrau from
conversations with the pupils themselves. Most were willing to consider only those who
studied for a significant length of time to be authentic Arrau students, as Arraus
approach was extensive and detailed and could not be learned in only a few lessons.
Not every student who was identified could be contacted for this study. For those
who did contribute, biographical information is given below. Each informant exhibited a
uniquely personal style in choosing the information they thought important to share.
Some were able to give detailed accounts of the role of music in their lives at an early
age, sometimes revealing how customs, personal relationships, and the world have
changed since the 1940s and mid-1950s. Some informants related anecdotes about their
study with Arrau that reveal specific details of Arraus teaching and the kinds of
relationships Arrau cultivated with his pupils.
Table 1 below provides information about pupils whom Arrau taught in the
United States between 1945 and about 1990 (Parts A, B, and C) as well as names of some
of his European students (Part D). The first group of pupils (Part A) belongs to the period
following Arraus immigration to the United States when his performing career was
developing. The second group (Part B) studied with Arrau from 1955, when his career
was at its height, until his break with Rafael de Silva in the early 1970s. Students in the
first and second groups typically studied with Arrau for longer periods and experienced
being members of a group because of de Silvas efforts to provide continuity,
cohesiveness, and organization. The third group (Part C) studied only with Arrau after his

300
break with de Silva. Because of the demands of Arraus performing career, their study
with Arrau tended to be intermittent and of shorter duration. For this reason, and because
de Silva was no longer teaching the students in Arraus absence and organizing master
classes, they did not have close associations with other Arrau students. Individual entries
are listed chronologically according to the years in which study with Arrau began.
Table 1, A. Arraus Pupils 1945-1955.
*contacted for this study
Name

Page Date of
birth/death

Dates of
study

Current
residence

b. 1924

Country of
origin
Cuba
Cuba

1945-1955

304

b. 1925

USA

1945-1951

306

b. 1923

Peru

1946-1954

307

b. 1924

Chile

1948-1955

310

b. 1923

Cuba

1948; 19501952

New York,
N.Y.
Berkeley,
Calif.
Houston,
Tex.
Bloomington,
Ind.
Miami, Fla.

312

b. 1923

USA

1950-1954

314

b. 1935
no
information
available
b. 1901
d. 1980
no
information
available

Chile

1952-1954

+Josefina Megret
*German Diez
302
*Goodwin
Sammel
*Roberto
Eyzaguirre
*Alfonso
Montecino
*Rosalina
Guerrero
Sackstein
*Frederick
Marvin
*Edith Fischer
Carlos Carillo
+Olga Barabini
Carmen
Guttierrez

+ deceased

Syracuse,
N.Y.
Spain

301

Table 1, B. Arraus Pupils 1955-1970.


Name

Page

Date of
birth/
death

Ronald FarrenPrice
Ruth Nye

Country
of origin

Dates of study

Australia

Melbourne,
Australia
London,
England

Australia

+Philip Lorenz
*Ena BronsteinBarton
Mario Miranda

316

b. 1940

Chile

1958-1969

321

b. 1926
d. 1979

Chile

*Bennett Lerner
*Ivan Nunez

323
326

b. 1944
b. 1941

USA
Chile

1959-ca. 1963;
intermittent lessons
until ca. 1975
1963-1973
1961-1970

*Jose Aldaz

328

b. 1942

Mexico

1961-1971, 1991

*Loretta
Goldberg

332

b. 1945

Australia

six-month periods
1963 and 1968;
1970-1973

+Hilde Somer

337

b. 1922
d. 1979

Austria

Anna Mara
Bedregal
Graciela
Beretervide
John Antoniadis

Esther Bernstein

Anita Berr

Ophra
Yerushalmi

Chile
Argentina

no
information
available
no
information
available
no
information
available
no
information
available

Current
residence

Princeton,
N.J.

Thailand
Southport,
Conn.
New York,
N.Y.
New York,
N.Y.

302

Table 1, C. Arraus Pupils 1970-1990.


Name
*Joseph Ries
Raul de la Mora
Frank Daykin
William Melton
Robert Phillips
Franco Renzulli 2
piano w above
David Lively
John Cobb

Date of
birth/death
b. 1952

Country of
origin
USA
Mexico
USA
USA

Dates of study Current


residence
1972-1973
New York, N.Y.
New York, N.Y.

USA

Table 1, D. Arraus Students in Europe.


Name
*William
Goodrum
+Greville Rothon
Daniella Ballek
Juan Moll
Jurgen Thompson
Wolfgang
Leibniz

Page Date of
birth/death
338 b. 1932

Country of
origin
USA

Dates of
study
1958-1965

Current
residence
Syracuse,
N.Y.

GERMAN DIEZ
German Diez was born in Havana, Cuba, on June 18, 1924.1 Both his parents
were from Spain: Antonio Diez from Ribota, a small town in Leon, and Mara Nieto from
Belmonte in Asturias. The couple met in Cuba. Antonio was an expert in selection of
tobacco leaves and worked in a tobacco factory in Havana.

Quotations and biographical information from German Diez, interview in New York City, August 5,
2002.

303
Two of their six sons pursued careers in music. The elder of the two, Alfredo
Diez y Nieto,2 was a musical prodigy and also the first teacher of his younger brother,
German.
German attended the Conservatorio Iranzo, graduated at age nineteen, and in 1945
won the National Music Award Competition, which enabled him to study abroad. At that
time, Arrau was concertizing in Havana. The two met and, after hearing Diez play, Arrau
granted Diez a personal scholarship to study with him in New York for a period of ten
years. Diez arrived in New York City during a snowstorm on November 30, 1945. He
resided in Washington Heights with his brother Armando, who had come to New York
some years earlier.
[I had lessons with Arrau and de Silva simultaneously] like everybody
had, because he [Rafael] was the assistant . . . Arrau told me [in Cuba] to
wait until he came in, not to go to the assistant, but to wait because he
wanted to start me. And after that I would start with the assistant . . . so
actually, I saw him [Arrau] first. Then after that, he introduced me to de
Silva. So [during] the time he [Arrau] was not here, de Silva was here and
in between too. Because before, he [Arrau] didnt have so many concerts
so then he was much longer here. But then, he started to get very busy and
[would] be gone for three months and . . . here a couple weeks and go
back again.
Diez taught piano at the State University of New York in Purchase from 1980 to 1988.
He has been visiting professor at Bard College since 1975. Currently he is an adjunct
professor at Hunter College and Brooklyn College of The City University of New York.
In 1968 he was named chair of the piano department at the Greenwich House Music
School, where he has taught since 1945. In demand as an adjudicator, he has served on

Cuban family names include both paternal and maternal family names. A prodigy, Alfredo attended the
Conservatorio Iranzo in Havana, where he completed courses of study in composition and conducting and
received his diploma at age fourteen. He joined the faculty of the Conservatorio, where his students
included Tanya Len, Paquito dRivera, and Arturo Sandoval.

304
many piano competition juries, including the first William Kapell Piano Competition, the
American Music Scholarship Association competition in Cincinnati, Ohio, and The
Governors Award of the New York City Public High School Piano Competition. From
1990 to 1993, he served on the national screening committee of the Fulbright Awards.
GOODWIN SAMMEL
Goodwin Sammel was born August 10, 1925, in St. Joseph, Missouri, to Nicholas
and Bessie Sammel.3 Bessie Sammel was a pianist and taught piano until her late teens
when economic hardship forced her to take up more regular and lucrative work. Goodwin
Sammel grew up in Chicago. As a child, he heard his mother play pieces by Chopin,
Schubert, and Weber, works she had studied in Chicago with her teacher, Isaac Levine.
Sammel remembers, When I was very young, when she wanted me to come in from
outside, shed start playing the piano, and pretty soon, Id be standing next to the piano. I
picked up piano mainly by myself. She tried to teach me a little bit, but it didnt work
out.
Sammel soon began regular piano lessons, at first with Evelyn Heesel and his
mothers teacher, Isaac Levine; but his longest period of study was with Isadore
Buchhalter. In the late 1930s, he began to attend concerts and he remembers hearing
Rubinstein, Horowitz, Schnabel, Serkin, and Petri. Sometime during the early 1940s,
Sammel first heard Claudio Arrau. By this time, the United States was engaged in World
War II, and Sammel spent the war years working in a freight yard; when the war ended,
he fulfilled a promise he had made to himself to study with some great pianist.
Following World War II, both Artur Schnabel and Claudio Arrau were living in

Quotations and biographical information, unless otherwise noted, from Goodwin Sammel, interview in
New York City, April 14, 2003.

305
New York City, so in the fall of 1945, Sammel moved to New York. He first approached
Schnabel for lessons and was politely refused, but with Arrau he succeeded. Sammel
approached Arrau backstage after a performance with the New York Philharmonic and
Arrau invited Sammel to audition for him at his home in Forest Hills.4 Sammel recalled,
Somebody let me in at the house and, after a while, someone else arrived.
And after, this other person arrived. Then, Mr. Arrau came downstairs and
introduced me to him, and that was Rafael de Silva. I had prepared the
Chromatic Fantasy and Fugue by Bach, the first Ballade of Chopin and
the Hammerklavier sonata of Beethoven. And so Arrau wanted me to start
with the Bach. I played the Chromatic Fantasy. I dont remember whether
I played the Fugue also. When I was done, he didnt say anything. He said,
Id like to hear the Chopin. So I played the Chopin Ballade and I was
done, he didnt say anything. Then he said, I would be interested to hear
some of the Beethoven. I didnt know at the time that he disapproved of
young people playing late Beethoven. So I launched into the
Hammerklavier sonata and played part of the first movement and then he
stopped me and he said, That was better. And I took that as a great
compliment. He said, Do you think you need a different technique? I
said, No, I think I just need to improve the one Ive got. He said, I
think you need a different technique.5
Arrau agreed to teach Sammel, and also arranged for him to take two lessons each week
with de Silva.6 Sammel, German Diez, and Josefina Megret were among the first
students to work with Arrau under this arrangement.
I came here just a few months before German [Diez] did. He [Diez] said
that he recalled that there were four of us at the time. He and I and
Josefina and Olga Barabini were the main ones. It was after a few more
people came that we began to hear all of each others lessons. We were
the first to do the double thing with de Silva and Arrau.
Sammel recalls the works that Arrau first assigned to him:
He said I should start working on the Variations srieuses of
Mendelssohn, which I did, and after a month I had a lesson with him on
that. And then he said to work on the Wanderer Fantasy of Schubert and I
4

Arrau lived in Forest Hills until 1947, when he purchased his Douglaston home. See ch. 4, p. 167, fn. 36.
Goodwin Sammel, lecture given at Greenwich House Music School, April 12, 2003.
6
During these years, Sammel also recalls that he received instruction from Oswald Jonas in Schenker
analysis; interview in New York City, April 14, 2003.
5

306
had one or two lessons on that. And then he assigned the Eroica variations
of Beethoven. And in the meantime I was taking regular lessons, I think
there were two lessons a week, with Mr. de Silva, and he had me working
on Chopin etudes and Debussy etudes. Then the Arraus moved out to
Douglaston on Long Island and the lessons began to be a little bit
different. All the students would go out together and we would hear each
others lessons, and this was even more wonderful. German and I and
Josefina and Alfonso and all the others, wed all catch the same train on
the LI RR and go out to Douglaston and have our lessons and hear each
other. Well, when I had my first lesson with Arrau thats more than
fifty-seven years ago he was not yet forty-three, and I was twenty.7
Sammel studied with Arrau from 1945 until the summer of 1951. Since then, he
has performed solo recitals, chamber music, and concertos. However, teaching has been
the main component of his career. He has taught privately in Berkeley, California, and
served on the faculty of Mills College. He has taken special interest in the study of
editions, comparing composers manuscripts and first editions with modern editions.
ROBERTO EYZAGUIRRE
Roberto Eyzaguirre was born in Piura, a small town in Peru, on September 2,
1923, to Mara Claudia and Anselmo Eyzaguirre.8 His father was an amateur violinist.
Eyzaguirre studied piano in Lima with Mara Ureta.
Roberto Eyzaguirre studied with Arrau in New York from 1946 until 1954. He
recalls having a close personal relationship with Arrau, at times driving Arrau to his
concerts, sometimes in the company of Mario Miranda, another of Arraus students.
As one of Arraus earliest students, Eyzaguirre had private lessons with Arrau.
Arrau also introduced him to managers in Europe in an effort to advance Eyzaguirres
performing career. Eyzaguirre made his debut at Town Hall on March 13, 1954. His
program included a Beethoven Sonata, Mozarts Rondo in A Minor, Barbers Sonata in
7
8

Goodwin Sammel, lecture given at Greenwich House Music School, New York City, April 12, 2003.
Biographical information from Roberto Eyzaguirre, telephone interview, December 9, 2002.

307
E-flat Minor, the first book of Debussys Images, and Poulencs Napoli. Eyzaguirre
followed this performance with appearances in England, Holland, Italy, Germany, and
Latin America. He returned to Town Hall on April 28, 1962.
Poor health forced Eyzaguirre to stop performing, and though later diagnosis
found proper treatment and a cure for his condition, it came too late for Eyzaguirre to
continue pursuing a concert career. He assumed a teaching position at the University of
Houston (Texas) and remained there from 1971 until 1980. Eyzaguirre currently resides
in Houston, where he is active as a private teacher and performer.
ALFONSO MONTECINO
Alfonso Montecino was born on October 28, 1924, in Osorno, Chile.9 After
preliminary study in Osorno, he entered the Conservatorio Nacional of the University of
Chile in 1938. He remembers his early training in music:
I started with a German lady by the name of Caroline Klagges. And she
was a very good teacher. Osorno is a town that was highly influenced by
the Germans that settled at the turn of the century. All of my education
took place in the German school and then I went to Santiago and studied
with a teacher, Alberto Spikin, who had been a student of Tobias Matthay
in London. And at the same time I used to like to compose very much and
I studied composition.
Montecino taught at the Conservatorio Nacional from 1945 to 1947. He then traveled to
the United States in 1947 to begin composition studies with Randall Thompson at
Princeton. Already a seasoned performer, Montecino gives the following account of his
pianistic career:
I used to commute from Princeton to New York for piano lessons. So this
is something I have done together with concertizing throughout [my
career]. . . . When I came to New York, I had already had two or three
years of concertizing in Chile, Argentina, Venezuela, so I played in
9

Biographical information and quotations from Alfonso Montecino, interview in New York City, February
27, 2003.

308
Carnegie Hall [1950] and then I started touring in Europe, the United
States, and South America. I have played the Well-Tempered Clavier
thirty-three times. In those years, Chile was a very, very interesting
country musically. Then came the dictatorship and the whole country is
culturally nothing of what it was. But I used to play the Well-Tempered
Clavier every year in Santiago, and then of course, for the Bach Centenary
I played it many times; and for the Beethoven Centenary in 1970, I played
the thirty-two sonatas. I have played the cycle ten times since. And Ive
done a lot of contemporary music. Chilean works, I have promoted as
much as I could. And I have been to China, Hong Kong, India, Singapore,
Taiwan, Japan, even Iran. Many, many years ago, in the time of the Shah,
there was an excellent orchestra.
Montecinos performances include three recitals in Town Hall in New York City;
six European tours from 1951 to 1974 that took him to England, France, Holland, Italy,
Germany, Norway, Austria, Hungary, Russia, Switzerland, and Turkey; and numerous
South American tours between 1958 and 1980, in which he performed with every major
South American orchestra.
In 2003, the centenary of Arraus birth, Montecino wrote an article for El
Mercurio in which he described his studies with Arrau between 1948 and 1955:
During the period from 1945 to 1952 we were about fourteen young
pianists of different nationalities. Later on the pianists Edith Fischer, Ena
Bronstein, Ivan Nuez joined our group of Chilean students. There were
other young people that played for him [Arrau] sometimes but they
couldnt be classified as students of Arrau. We had one monthly lesson in
his house in Douglaston. His classes were collective master classes.
Weekly classes were with . . . Rafael de Silva. . . . In that period my
lessons with Arrau were to prepare my concerts, especially the cycle of
thirty-two Beethoven sonatas. In my first lesson with Arrau in February
1948, which I remember as if it were yesterday, I played the English Suite
No. 4 of Bach. He commented on the importance of projecting clearly the
differences between the dances and he emphasized the contrasts. He
suggested taking allemands melodically and very delicately; courants,
very articulated and rhythmically; sarabands, majestic slow, expressive;
minuets, elegant and flexible; and gigues, fast and brilliant. He insisted
that the two halves of the dances must be repeated, varying the dynamics,
phrasing and ornamentation. He recommended playing Bach without
pedal, especially in the fast tempos. In slow tempos, for example,
sarabands, he allowed short pedals. Arrau said that long pedals interfere

309
with the horizontal clarity of the counterpoint and impede the linear
independence of the voices, polyphony, and that it would result in
harmonic and vertical textures. In his recordings of Bach (Goldberg
Variations, Inventions, etc.), as in his classes, one could discern his
inclination for Bach that is very sober, austere, and Apollonian; and that
the structure of the work, the clarity, and the rhythmic vitality were more
important than the emotional aspect. Arrau always recommended
interpreting Bach and Beethoven using the Urtext to avoid interference
from the opinion of editors that fill the manuscript with indications that are
sometimes doubtful. In the case of Bach, the performer that follows the
original text has liberty to decide for himself his interpretation in the sense
that the composer wrote his music without indications. . . . In another
lesson, I played the Appassionata by Beethoven. On that occasion, I
remember he said that the Beethoven sonatas were not three or four pieces
strung together but [each was] one unity in which the movements were
related, either thematically, harmonically, or rhythmically. In difficult
passages, he said to practice them with separate hands and with different
rhythms, including exaggerating the speed in which they were to be
played. He was very careful with the pedal, especially with scales and in
the lower register of the keyboard. Many times he used the soft pedal in
the pp. He never permitted difficult passages written for one hand to be
facilitated by dividing them between the two hands. He believed this
softened the expressive intensity. He emphasized the fiery character of the
first movement and he warned not to play the melodic sections
sentimentally. He said that Beethovens music was always virile, even in
the lyrical parts. The theme of the second movement should be played like
a chorale and all the variations with the same tempo as the theme. He
advised not to play the third movement too fast but to project it with great
inner agitation. Claudio Arrau never demonstrated at the piano how
certain passages should be played for fear that students would imitate
blindly instead of coming to their own decisions. The only time I saw him
coming to the keyboard was in a master class when we asked him to show
the extension of his hand. To our great surprise, between the thumb and
second finger he could reach eight keys and between the thumb and fifth
finger, 11 keys! . . . On another occasion, I worked on the sonata of Liszt,
which he considered one of the masterpieces of Romanticism. Among
Liszts disciples, there was the conviction that this work had been inspired
by Goethes Faust. During that lesson, he identified the themes of Liszt
with the characters of Mephistofeles, Faust, and Marguerite, and their
respective dramatic situations. He insisted not to play the passages
virtuosically and in a purely mechanical way but with most intense
expression and passion possible. There is no doubt that to relate the sonata
with the work of Goethe gives more psychological cohesion to the musical
flow.10
10

Alfonso Montecino, Aspectos de la tcnica del pianista: Bach, Liszt, Beethoven, segn Arrau, El
Mercurio, 2003. Translation by Alfonso Montecino.

310

Montecino taught at the Indiana University School of Music from 1963 and
received the title of Professor Emeritus in 1988. He was awarded the Bach Medal of
England in 1954 and joined the board of directors of the Bach Society in Washington,
D.C., in 1985. He has adjudicated numerous international piano competitions and
chaired competitions in Via del Mar (Chile) and Boca Ratn (Florida).
Montecino also composed more than fifty works for chamber ensembles, chorus,
voice, and solo piano that have been performed at festivals of contemporary music in
Spain, Argentina, Venezuela, Chile, and the United States. His most recent work is an
opera entitled The Imposter, based on an episode from the history of Spain and Portugal
at the end of the fifteenth century.
ROSALINA (GUERRERO) SACKSTEIN
Rosalina Guerrero was born in Matanzas, Cuba, on December 5, 1923.11 Her
father, Lus Guerrero, an accountant by profession, was born in Spain, raised in
Argentina by his father, and then traveled to Cuba to live with his uncle. Her mother,
Rosalina Santana, was born in Matanzas. Both parents were amateur musicians. While
Guerrero was a very young child, the family moved to Camaguey, where she received her
first piano lessons at age five with Elisa Cosio. Under Cosio, Guerrero studied solfge for
six months in order to be able to read notation before taking up the study of piano. At age
thirteen, Guerrero entered the conservatory in Camaguey for study with Lus Aguirre,
whose teaching was influenced by the ideas of Tobias Matthay. A romantic relationship

11

Guerreros mother gave her official birthdate as March 5, 1923, in order to facilitate school enrollment
by a desired date. Biographical information from Rosalina Sackstein, telephone interview, February 17,
2006.

311
developed between Aguirre and Guerrero, they married in January 1939, and a child was
born to them in November. The marriage ended after five years.
Guerrero moved to Havana where she received a degree in pedagogy from the
Conservatory of the University of Havana. During this time, Arrau came to Havana and
played two concerts there on a single day. Guerrero heard both of them. She was struck
by the beauty of his tone and wished for an opportunity to study with him.
Guerrero then received a stipend from the Cuban Ministry of Education under
president Carlos Prio Socarras to study in New York. She left Cuba in 1948 intending to
study at the Juilliard School, either with Olga Samaroff or Rosina Lhevinne. But once in
New York, she met Josefina Megret, a fellow-Cuban pianist who introduced her to Arrau.
Guerrero immediately became his student. Guerrero also studied with Rafael de Silva and
played for Arrau in master classes until a falling out with de Silva caused her to leave
Arraus group and take up lessons with Isabel Vengerova. After a year, she returned to
Arrau for private lessons, but never went back to de Silva. She continued to study with
Arrau through 1952.
Rosalina Guerrero played her debut recital in Town Hall in New York on
Octobert 5, 1950. Her program included Beethovens Rondo in C major, Op. 51, No. 1,
and Sonata in E flat, Op. 31, No. 3, Schumanns Carnaval, and shorter compositions by
Edgardo Martin, Jose Ardevol, de Falla, Debussy, and Prokofiev.
Guerrero married Harold Sackstein in 1952, and since then has been known
professionally as Rosalina Sackstein. Following her marriage, the couple lived in Cuba
but after Castros revolution, they returned to the United States and settled in Miami in
1960.

312
She is Professor Emerita at the University of Miami where she taught since 1961.
She was the first woman to obtain the rank of full professor at the University of Miami
School of Music and the first recipient of the Schools Phillip Frost Award for Excellence
in Teaching and Scholarship. She has received honors for her work with young pianists
and for community service. She is president of both the Miami Music Teachers
Association and the Miami Civic Music Association.
FREDERICK MARVIN
Frederick Marvin was born to Harry and Ann (Epstein) Marvin on June 11, 1923,
in Los Angeles, California.12 His early piano study was with Maurice Zam13 (1935-39).
Marvin played his debut recital in Los Angeles in 1933, and won a scholarship to
continue study at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia with Rudolf Serkin (1939-40). Later
studies were with Milan Blanchet14 (1940-41 and 1945-48), Artur Schnabel (dates
unavailable), and Claudio Arrau (1950-54).
During World War II, Marvin spent three years in the United States Army Air
Force. Stationed in Miami, Florida, from 1943 to 1944, he performed fifty-eight concerts
for service men, conducted a radio program in music appreciation, and appeared in
weekly hospital shows devoted to raising morale.
Marvins first New York recital took place in Carnegie Hall on November 21,
1948. The program included two sonatas by Antonio Soler, the Chromatic Fantasy and
Fugue by Bach, an Etude and Nocturne by Chopin, Phantasie in C major, Op. 17, by
Schumann, Epigraphs Antiques by Debussy, the Fourth Piano Sonata by George Antheil,
12

Biographical information from Frederick Marvin, interview in Syracuse, N.Y., December 14, 2002. See
also, Allan B. Ho, Frederick Marvin, The New Grove Dictionary of American Music, eds. H. Wiley
Hitchcock and Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 1986), III: 185-86.
13
Pupil of Artur Schnabel.

313
Almeria by Albniz, and Suggestion Diabolique by Prokofiev. For this performance,
Marvin received the Carnegie Award for the most outstanding debut of the season.
Marvins editions of compositions by Padre Antonio Soler are well known.
Marvin first encountered the keyboard works of Soler in a volume of eighteenth-century
Spanish music that he found in a second-hand music shop in Los Angeles. Recognizing
their beauty, he began performing them in recitals. In order to conduct further study of
Soler and his music, Marvin traveled to Spain and visited the Monastery of Montserrat,
El Escorial, the Biblioteca Nacional in Madrid, and the Biblioteca Central in Barcelona,
where he discovered hundreds of Solers manuscripts including keyboard works, masses
and religious music, incidental music for the theater, concertos, and chamber works.
Marvin has edited and published four volumes of sonatas and a Fandango with Belwin
Mills and Eight Villancicos, Stabat Mater, Lamentation, and Salve Regina with Universal
Edition. His edition of Two Piano Sonatas by Jan Ladislav Dussek has also been
published by Universal Edition.
Marvin has appeared in recitals and performed with orchestras throughout the
United States and Europe as well as in Central America and India. He accompanied the
Wagnerian singer Martha Mdl in Lieder-Abende, and excerpts of these concerts can be
heard on recordings issued by Gebhardt. Other recordings include music by George
Antheil, Fourth Piano Sonata (Aloo Records); Chopin-Liszt-Henselt (Capital Records);
Franz Schubert, Unfinished Piano Sonata and Posthumous Works (Society for Forgotten
Music); Liszts Piano Music (Genesis Records); Piano Sonatas of Ludwig Berger and
Ignaz Moscheles (Genesis Records); Piano Works by Jan Ladislav Dussek (Dorian
Records); Soler, Sonaten, Fandango (Gebhardt).
14

A pupil of Vladimir DePachmann and Eugen dAlbert.

314
Marvin was appointed Professor of Piano at Syracuse University (Syracuse, New
York) in 1968 and received the title of Professor Emeritus in 1990. His other honors and
awards include Comendator: Orden del Mrito Civil (Spain), La Mdaille de Vermeil,
Croix de Commendeur (Socit Academique Arts-Sciences-Lettres, France), and the
Beethoven Medal in Memory of Artur Schnabel (England).
EDITH FISCHER
Aspiring young pianists were attracted to study with Arrau by his performances,
in particular, by the beauty of his tone, but also by his amenable and approachable nature.
This was especially true in Chile where Arrau was a source of national pride. While
performing in Chile, Arrau made time to socialize with friends and fellow musicians,
among them, Elena Waiss and her husband, Sultan Fischer. Fischer was a violist in the
Santiago Philharmonic and Waiss, an accomplished pianist and harpsichordist, a wellknown teacher, and founder of a music school in Santiago.15 Waiss was influenced in her
teaching by Arraus playing and she cultivated a friendship with Arrau during his visits to
Chile. When Arrau played in Santiago, he was often invited to dinner at their home and
Waiss arranged for Arrau to hear some of her pupils. Two of these pupils later traveled to
New York to study with Arrau. One of them was her daughter, Edith Fischer, born
February 18, 1935.16 Fischer says of her mother,
She was a wonderful pedagogue and she founded the school trying to
build up a system of work for the children that was very complete, not just
piano playing, but learning music. . . . She was looking for new things all
her life. . . . She was very orderly, also, in her teaching. We made an
15

The Escuela Moderna de Musica was founded in 1940 in Santiago. The school began as a society founded by a
group of musicians including Elena Waiss, Ren Amengual, Alfonso Letelier, and composer Juan Orego-Salas.
From this small start, the school grew to have its own concert hall. The school accepted beginning pupils and aimed to
provide a basis for a professional career or to cultivate fine musical amateurs. Its pupils have included harpsichordist
Lionel Party and pianists Ena Bronstein-Barton and Edith Fischer.
16

Quotations and biographical information from Edith Fischer, interview in New York City, March 15,
2003.

315
incredible amount of repertory already [when I was] very young. I think
she gave us all the feeling of discipline and honesty, two things that were
very important. . . . Of course, my grandmother [Anna Band] was also a
pianist, and was also a piano teacher, my father was a viola player. So I
must say that I heard talks about pedagogy problems since I was born. In
fact, when my grandmother taught, I was very often listening to the
lessons and I thought when I was about four years old that Czerny was the
most beautiful and difficult thing. . . . Music was the life of our house.
When she began her own study of piano as a young child, Edith became a focal
point for the critical attention of her parents and grandmother. She good-humoredly
describes how each day she received the advice of each of these adults in turn:
Even now I have difficulty to practice when people are around because at
eight [oclock] I had to be at the piano, and first my father would come
down because he had to prepare the car to go to the rehearsal, and so he
went by and he told me, What are you doing there? Musical advice that
[was] very important for me! I remember very well what I learned from
him. And then my mother, How are you working here? You waste your
time. And then, when they were away, came my grandmother, Why do
you do this like that? So [chuckling] I started feeling well [better] when
all three left.
In 1952, at age seventeen, Edith Fischer traveled to New York to study with Arrau
and de Silva. She remained in New York until 1954, and then moved on to Europe, where
she continued to see Arrau as often as possible. She described how her relationship with
Arrau changed.
And our relationship changed, because when I was seventeen and I came
to him, I was almost in awe with respect, so I could hardly talk about
something else than the lesson and exactly the facts. I was too shy, in fact,
in front of him. With time, when we started meeting each other in Europe,
it became easier, the contact. And he was, in fact, also a shy person. He
was not somebody who talked easily. So it became so nice, because
something came out that didnt exist when I was just a pupil. . . . I didnt
go to master classes. I saw him only privately whenever I had a new work,
or questions, or to listen to me or to my pupils. I went to his concerts. In
my apartment, he came once and listened to my pupils. Here [in New
York] when I was in the normal group of pupils, we did listen to each
other all the time, to the lessons, because most of the lessons were in
group. I had the opportunity to listen to other lessons, too. [With] Rafael

316
de Silva, once a month we had to play for the group. A very difficult
audience!
Fischer remained in Europe, residing first in Switzerland and now in Spain with
her husband, pianist Jorge Pepi. She performs frequently in solo recitals and with her
husband. She has followed in her mothers footsteps, founding a music school near
Lausanne called Cercle lemanique dtude musicale.
ENA BRONSTEIN-BARTON
Elena Waiss also prepared Ena Bronstein-Barton for advanced study with Arrau.
Born in Santiago on September 3, 1940, to Jascha Bronstein and Riva GhelmanBronstein, Bronstein-Barton tells how her family left Europe to escape the Nazis and
economic impoverishment.
They [parents] were from Rumania. Actually, they were from a part of the
world that is now Moldavia. [My parents were musical, but] neither one of
them was professional. My father played the violin and then later the
viola. I think he had only one year of lessons, and was then pretty much
self-taught. And then he started learning with me when I was taking
lessons. And my mother had a beautiful singing voice and also sang folk
music in several languages just because she wanted to, but no training.
They came [to Chile] in the late thirties, I think, because my parents went
to Peru first when they left Europe . . . I dont know exactly when. And
then they moved to Chile, probably in 1938 or 39. . . . This was right
before [the Nazis]. This was, I think, because of financial reasons. . . .
There was nothing where they were . . . and so my grandfather decided to
emigrate to South America, or America, because, according to my father,
nobody knew the difference, and they thought there were opportunities. So
some Jewish people came to North America and some came to South
America. I dont know how they picked. And when my grandfather got
somehow settled in Peru, he sent for my father, and my father sent for my
mother. They were very young at the time . . . they worked there for a
while, and then again for business reasons, my grandfather moved to Chile
and my parents went with him to Chile. I think that [my familys business]
was really very primitive from what I hear. When my grandfather went to
Peru he used to sell stuff in the mountains on a donkey. He used to sell
fabrics, and I dont know, stuff. And later, my grandfather had a store in a
town called Melipia. I dont know what he sold, maybe electrical things,
because then later my father had a store and . . . he sold radios and fixed

317
radios. He knew everything about radios. Because when I was born, there
was no TV yet.17
With a mixture of pride and amusement, Bronstein-Barton also recalls that her
parents were intensely interested in music and decided before she was born that she
would play the piano.
My piano was bought for me before I was born. There was no choice in
the matter. My father played the violin. He always wanted to be a
musician; he wanted to become professional, but because of circumstances
or the fear of going for it or whatever, he decided to stay a businessman.
Therefore, when my mother was expecting a child, that child, whoever it
was, was going to play the piano.
So Bronstein-Barton began lessons at the age of five with the mother of Edith Fischer.
I had a very interesting teacher in Chile. Her name was Elena Waiss, and
she was quite phenomenal. She had founded, in 1940, a music school in
Santiago. Santiago has a National Conservatory. But she didnt think this
was good enough, so she and some colleagues of hers started a new
private music school, very much modeled after a European conservatory,
probably like a German conservatory . . . and so thats where I landed
when I was about five and a half. That school is still operating. . . . Its
called Escuela Moderna de Musica. She was my first teacher all the way
until I came to study with Arrau.
Bronstein-Barton tells how Elena Waisss connection with the symphony enabled
her to cultivate relationships with visiting artists, and particularly with Arrau. Waiss was
instrumental in securing a place for Bronstein-Barton among Arraus students.
Arrau was like god in Chile, certainly, a god in my school. And Edith
[Fischer] was his student. So thats how I got to meet Arrau, through my
teacher and her daughter. Arrau would come to Chile in those years at
least every other year, when I was growing up there, and give concerts.
And my teacher was part of the symphony orchestra. She played the
piano, harpsichord, and celesta and so she always had whoever came from
abroad, conductors, or pianists, or soloists, she had them to dinner at her
house. And she always had Arrau to visit her house for dinner.

17

Quotations and biographical information from Ena Bronstein-Barton, interview in Princeton, New Jersey,
August 1, 2002.

318
Bronstein-Barton tells of playing for the first time for Arrau, and her story reflects
Arraus status as an iconic figure and the ritualistic decorum observed in relationships
with him.
I was thirteen years old [when I first met Arrau]. . . . This was the first
time I ever played for him. . . . I dont know if it was 53 or 54, but I
know it was winter, because it was the first time we saw snow in Santiago.
It never snows and that week, for some reason, we saw a little snow. I
even remember what I was wearing. He came on a visit in the winter, I
dont know if it was May, June, or July, and my teacher arranged for me to
play for him for the first time. I played Bachs G major French Suite. It
was strictly I had my instructions come, dont say anything, play,
say Thank you very much. And then, after that, her daughter [Edith] was
to have a lesson, and I was to say, May I stay for a little while, please?
which I did. And then, I dont know why, she said after a little while,
You should leave. Say, Thank you very much, and leave. Right in the
middle of the lesson! You know, I could have stayed for the whole lesson,
but no, I was a good girl, I said, I have to leave now. Thank you very
much. And I left. There was no conversation. And afterward, she talked
to him and so he gave her the report. He said he liked me very much, he
liked the way I played the gavotte very much because of my sense of
rhythm. So that was my very first time. You have to understand that when
you meet god, its kind of scary. I remember everything. I remember the
dress I wore, everything, because this was so momentous. Because I
really grew up with the name Arrau. In the whole musical world in
Chile, there is no bigger thing. [Here Bronstein-Barton tells of her fathers
thrilled reaction.] But he was not allowed to come. I had to go alone,
because my piano teacher ruled. Anything she said went, so I had to go
alone. My parents were waiting outside.
Waiss arranged a second audition for Bronstein-Barton with Arrau, and this time,
Arrau accepted her as a student.
Then, a few years later, when I was finishing high school and getting
ready to where she [Waiss] thought I should play for him [Arrau], and
maybe he would take me as a student, we had a much longer session . . .
he came to our music school. That was in 1957, I believe, and then I
played for him for a long time. I played [sonata] Op. 2, No. 3 [by]
Beethoven. I remember I was then playing with the symphony orchestra.
It was my first opportunity to play a concerto by Hindemith, which
nobody plays: 1945, its called. So I played part of that for him. And I
dont remember what else. I know I played many things. But I remember
hearing him play after he said, Okay she can come. Ill take her on. And,

319
of course, you can imagine how emotional that was! And right that week
he was concertizing in Santiago. I went to hear him play in a place that
was a stadium, because he couldnt play in the concert hall. It wouldnt
hold enough people. So he would play in the Theatro Municipal a little bit,
but this was a popular concert in a stadium. I think it held about fourteen
thousand people. And he played the Schumann Carnaval, and I just cried
and cried . . . because I knew I was going to go study with him. So it was
just an unforgettable experience. But we heard him play a lot. He would
come and play, for instance, the last three Beethoven Sonatas, and I heard
him play them many times, because he would play them in Santiago, and
then play them in other cities. And there was a group of students. We
would just follow him and hear him play them again and again. So that
was . . . invaluable.
Bronstein-Barton speaks of the impression Arraus playing made upon her as well
as the excitement and feeling of personal identification that his performances generated
among Chilean audiences.
[His playing] was enormous. It was the kind of playing that I always felt
that I was completely filled up. It was magical. It was huge. His sound was
as big as the whole orchestra. He would play both Brahms concerti . . .
and all the Beethoven concerti. There was, of course, an electricity in the
hall because the whole audience just adored him as their personal relative.
So it was a very special kind of atmosphere. People would stand in line for
days before the concert. They would sleep around the concert hall and take
turns in line to make sure to get a ticket.
Bronstein-Barton reveals that Elena Waiss was concerned not only with giving
her a solid foundation in pianism but also specifically with preparing her to study with
Arrau.
My teacher made sure I had a subscription to the symphony orchestra, and
I went every Friday to concerts. She had me going to concerts, and if
Arrau came, he would play with this orchestra, so I got to have a ticket. I
dont remember exactly [how many times I heard him play] but I grew up
with his sound and I grew up with his repertoire in my ear. And I grew up
also with his pianistic influence, certainly when Edith went to study with
him. But before that my teacher was watching very carefully how he
played -- you know, the use of the arm movements, and the body, this was
influencing us way before I ever said hello to him, because it was the
biggest influence on my teacher, and on every pianist there. Interestingly
enough, she was a big harpsichordist. . . . We had to study a lot of Bach.

320
When I came to study with Arrau and Rafael, they thought that was very
good that I had this huge Bach background.
Bronstein-Bartons New York debut at Town Hall in 1961 was received with
critical acclaim. During the 1970s, she toured Europe, South America, and the United
States, performing in a duo with her husband and fellow-Arrau pupil, Philip Lorenz.
Bronstein-Barton has given recitals in South America, Europe, the Near and Far East,
Australia, New Zealand, and throughout the United States. She has appeared as soloist
with orchestras in Jerusalem, Luxembourg, and Rome.
Bronstein-Barton was the recipient of a 1976 Martha Baird Rockefeller Grant,
which resulted in a solo recital at Lincoln Centers Alice Tully Hall, and of the 1996
Distinguished Artists Piano Award by Artists International. She has appeared in chamber
music performances with violinist Jaime Laredo and the Guarneri Quartet.
Bronstein-Barton has taught at California State University-Fresno and was artistin-residence at Monterey Peninsula College in California. She has conducted master
classes at the University of Veracruz in Xalapa, Mexico, in New York City, and in
Santiago.
Currently, Bronstein-Barton is head of the piano department at the Westminster
Conservatory of Music, a community music school associated with Westminster Choir
College in Princeton, New Jersey. She is also a member of the piano faculty of
Westminster Choir College of Rider University in Princeton.

321
MARIO MIRANDA
Mario Miranda was born in Chuquicamata, Chile, on February 5, 1926.18
Miranda was brought up primarily by his mother, Lucrecia, his father having died while
he was very young. A patient and intelligent man, Miranda planned to become a surgeon
until a serious interest in music prevailed. He began his musical studies with Julia Pastn
when he was five years old, studying at the Conservatorio Nacional in Santiago from
1931 to 1933. In 1937, at the age of eleven, he made his public debut playing Mozarts
Concerto in A Major, K. 488.
Miranda traveled to Germany several times for piano study. From 1949 to 1951
he studied all of Debussys piano music with Walter Gieseking in Cologne. He returned
to Chile and in 1952 won first prize in a national piano competition. In 1953, he
performed a Brahms piano concerto in Chile and recorded the work with RCA. In that
year, he returned to Europe to continue his studies at the Hochschule fr Musik in
Cologne under Hans Otto Schmidt-Neuhaus. For the next few years, he performed in
recitals and concerts throughout Germany and Belgium.
Miranda took up residence in New York City in 1957, married in 1958, and
became the father of two children. He made his debut in Town Hall in 1959. In April
1961, he performed in Canada a concerto by Chilean composer Gustavo Becerra. He
presented Granadoss Goyescas and selections from Albnizs Iberia at the Metropolitan
Museum of Art in 1962. His two performances at Carnegie Hall took place on December
10, 1964 (Brahmss F Minor Sonata, Op. 5; Bachs Partita in G Major; Weberns
Variations, Op. 27; short works by Chilean composer Leon Schidlowsky; and Ravels Le

18

Biographical information obtained from Mirandas son, Francisco Miranda, interview in New York City,
July 26, 2003.

322
Tombeau de Couperin), and on March 15, 1966 (Haydns Sonata in E Minor, Hob. XVI:
34; Schuberts Sonata in B-flat Major, D. 960; and Chopins Four Ballades). He
continued to travel and concertize both in South America (Argentina, Bolivia, Uruguay,
Peru, and Chile) and in Europe, performing in Londons Wigmore Hall (1964) as well as
in Spain and Italy.
Miranda was drawn to study with Arrau not only because of Arraus status as an
acclaimed artist but also because of their common Chilean identity. Mirandas son,
Francisco, recalls: He [Miranda] talked about taking a car and traveling around Italy in
1966 and 1967, the two of them sharing personal thoughts, musical and non-musical. He
said it was one of the fulfilling moments of his life. . . . He was the pupil and Arrau was
the master, but at that moment they were friends, Chilean to Chilean. . . . He always
recorded his lessons so he could hear them over and over, because Arrau was the link
between Beethoven and his students.19
Miranda continued intensive studies with Arrau for two or three years during the
1960s and after that time, lessons continued intermittently. In the mid-70s, Arrau
coached Miranda for performances of Beethovens Emperor Concerto and of a
transcription for piano of Beethovens Violin Concerto.
In the 1960s, Miranda also began performing chamber music. He collaborated
with Gabriel Banat, a violinist in the New York Philharmonic, performing all of Mozarts
sonatas for violin and piano in Washington D.C. Later he appeared with violinist
Vladimir Weisman and cellist Robert Gardner, performing the Tchaikowsky Trio in
Japan. The performance was recorded but not released commercially.

19

Francisco Miranda, interview in New York City, July 26, 2003.

323
During the 1970s, Mirandas performing career began to slow down. He played
with the Orchestra da Camera in Long Island, a small group conducted by Weisman. The
ensemble performed Menottis opera The Medium in an arrangement for two pianos (with
Miranda playing secondo) and Jupiters Wanderings on Earth, a marionette opera by
Joseph Haydn.20
In 1973, Mirandas marriage ended in divorce. Miranda sought to support himself
by teaming up with Weisman to purchase a cab. They obtained a medallion and took
turns driving twelve-hour shifts.21 During this period, Miranda drank heavily. He died on
June 12, 1979, and was buried in the Trinity Church mausoleum on West 155th Street in
New York City.22
BENNETT LERNER
Bennett Lerner was born to Helen Kruger Lerner and Dr. Henry H. Lerner in
Cambridge, Massachusetts, on March 21, 1944.23 His mother, a singer and pianist, first
taught him to play the piano when he was four years old. Between ages five and sixteen,
Lerner studied with Harry Goodman in Boston, and with Goodman he recalls that he
learned quickly and easily. In 1959, he began studies with Sascha Gorodnitzki in New
York. Gorodnitzki recommended high finger technique and loud practice, and Lerner
experienced so much tension and pain that he discontinued his study.
Around 1962, Lerner attended classes on Mozart conducted by composer Otto
Luening at Columbia University. Luening noted Lerners ability as a pianist as well as

20

Performed in Alice Tully Hall, May 11, 1974.


Ivan Nuez, interview in New York City, February 26, 2003.
22
Mario Miranda, Pianist and Teacher, 53, Dies, New York Times (June 13, 1979), B 11.
23
Quotations and biographical information from Bennett Lerner, interview in New York City, April 10,
2003.
21

324
the tension in his technique and recommended that Lerner take up lessons with Rafael de
Silva, whom he knew from Berlin. In spite of Mr. de Silva's weird German-Chilean
accent, his foppish clothes, and his perfume, I soon realized that what he taught was what
I wanted to learn. At the very first lesson, as soon as he said, Use your arms! I was
happy. Lerner traveled to one of de Silvas summer courses in Munich in 1962, and
there he discovered that he had joined what he calls the Arrau School. Lerner met
some of and also met Arrau for the first time.
Arraus European students That summer, 1962, after the Munich course, I
went with Daniela [Ballek] to the Edinburgh Festival, where I met Arrau
for the first time. . . . I didn't have a lesson because I was too new, but
others did. Daniela, and an English girl named Diana [Slattery]. I was very
impressed with the teaching and got good models. I remember Arrau
saying that when you meet a harsh piano you must vary your dynamics
much more than usual to keep the sound apparently fresh and listenable. I
also remember him telling Diana to change the pedal on the high E after
all the whole tone scales on the last page of the Prelude from Pour le
Piano, and I do it that way now. I remember being impressed with how
heavily he breathed while listening to a student and how intent he was on
finding a solution to a problem, the solution very often being a hand
position alteration.
When he returned to New York, Lerner took weekly lessons with Rafael de Silva
until de Silva returned permanently to Europe. Lerner describes de Silvas method of
teaching Arraus technique as follows:
Everybody had to play the Rondo Capriccioso by Mendelssohn,
Variations srieuses by Mendelssohn, the Beethoven Thirty-two
Variations. I started with the Beethoven. Arpeggios . . . had to be legato
no matter what . . . . [In] Beethoven he taught very big movements at first,
and no fingers at all, because I was coming in like this [with high fingers];
very big movements for quite a while. And de Silva never did say, Now
they can get smaller. He never did say, Now you can use your fingers.
Which is a danger, because quite a lot of the students ended up playing
with no clarity at all and really being kind of uncomfortable. De Silva
never talked about the fingers at all except not to move them. And
breaking the knuckle, which Arrau sometimes did for good chords
. . . you dont want all the notes to sound at the same time, [producing a]

325
lusher sound. It got with de Silva like you were playing your scales like
that too.
In New York, Lerner met other members of Arraus group, and in particular
remembers Philip Lorenz, Ena Bronstein, Ivan Nuez, and Carlos Carillo. After about a
year of study with de Silva, Lerner played for Arrau in a master class.
I no longer remember what piece, although it may have been the Strauss
Burleske. At that lesson Arrau thought I was a bit arrogant, I was told
later, when I suggested that my fingering of one passage was better than
his. It is, too! But he was complimentary about my sound and my
absorption of his technique.
Lerner attended many master classes in Douglaston and played in about six of
them on one occasion, Beethovens Eroica Variations. Lerner also received a private
lesson on the Davidsbndler in the early 1970s. By this time, Lerner was again having
technical problems serious enough to feel he was in crisis and he asked for a private
lesson hoping to receive help from Arrau.
I was so desperate, I'd begged. I was in technical trouble, terrible pains in
my arms, and I needed help. I went and played the Davidsbndler for him
and I was playing very much like this [with collapsed knuckles]; he said
something like, Its wonderful how youve made the technique your
own. And I said, But Im really not comfortable. I get pains here
[forearms]. And he didnt have anything to say.
Lerner went for help to another Arrau pupil, German Diez, who helped him
resolve his technical difficulties.
Lerner currently lives in Thailand. He was head of the Piano Department at the
Chintakarn School of Music in Bangkok and is now a lecturer in the Music Department at
Payap University in Chiang Mai. He holds a Bachelor of Music degree from the
Manhattan School of Music and a Doctor of Musical Arts degree from the City
University of New York.

326
Lerner is active as a performer of new music and has premiered music by Aaron
Copland, David Diamond, Irving Fine, Marc Blitzstein, Roy Harris, Paul Bowles, Samuel
Barber, and Virgil Thomson. His performance at Lincoln Theater in Miami Beach in
2003 featured works by Aaron Copland, Robert Helps, Tison Street, Christopher Berg,
and Thai composer Narong Prangcharoen. His recordings include Tcherepnin Piano
Works (EtCetera Records, 1994), American Piano Music (EtCetera Records, 1994), and
Music By My Friends (Albany Records, 2004). Lerner is currently involved in a project to
record all of the piano music by Debussy for Bridge Records.
IVAN NUEZ
Ivan Nuez was born in Santiago on July 6, 1941, to Walter Nuez and Josefina
Franulic-Nuez, both the children of immigrants.24 Walter Nuezs mother came from
North Dakota and his father was Chilean. Josefina Franulics parents were both
Yugoslavian immigrants.
From 1946 until 1949, the Nuez family lived in Washington D.C., where Walter
Nuez, an officer in the Chilean Navy, was attached to the Chilean naval mission. Ivan,
then about five years old, began playing the piano and he remembers his first teacher
simply as Mrs. Peters.
The family returned to Chile in 1949 and settled in Via del Mar, a resort city
near Valparaiso, a port city where Walter Nuez continued his naval career. Ivan
continued to study the piano, first at the local conservatory with Christina Herreros, and
starting in 1953, at the Conservatorio Nacional in Santiago. There he studied with
Herminia Racagni and Rudolf Lehman. During the late 1950s, Rafael de Silva came to

24

Quotations and biographical information from Ivan Nuez, interview in New York City, February 26,
2003.

327
the Conservatorio as a visiting teacher and Nuez received a scholarship to study with
him. Nuez stresses de Silvas importance both as Arraus assistant and as a teacher in
his own right:
That was a revelation! He taught me very much. . . . He taught maybe
three months. . . . This was the second time that he went there, and I got to
be part of the course. I remember never studying so hard as I did when he
was there. And I remember clearly, the piece that I learned was the last
Chopin Prelude. I will never forget that. And I have never forgotten how
to play the scale in thirds. The thirds was the big deal because they are
difficult. Rafael was a master of fingering.
Nuez came to the United States in 1961 on a scholarship from the Organization
of American States that lasted two years.
But during the years that I was here studying with Rafael, we had many
times when everybody would go to Douglaston and have a class with
Arrau, and one of us would be the one at the piano. And Arrau would sit
here, and Rafael would sit next to Arrau. . . . I had a great experience once.
I went there. I dont know why I was chosen. You never knew. Youre
going to have a lesson with Arrau! Get to Douglaston, there was a crowd.
Everybody was there. People from the music world! Garrick Ohlsson was
there. Garrick was a good friend. He studied with Olga Barabini. . . . Olga
was an Arrau-de Silva student and Garrick was her prize pupil. I dont
know why I was chosen when there were all these people. It wasnt just a
group of students. The classes happened in his living room where he had
this piano covered with African art. His living room was a museum. It was
beautiful! I had to sit there and play for all these people. And of all things,
it was Brahmss first piano concerto. You know what it is suddenly to be
there with Arrau, his piece!
Nuez remembers traveling to Douglaston with a group that included Mario
Miranda, Edith Fischer, Roberto Eyzaguirre, Ena Bronstein, Philip Lorenz, Bennett
Lerner, Jurgen Thompson, Loretta Goldberg, Anita Berr (Chile), Anna Mara Bedregal
(Chile), and Graciela Beretervide (Argentina).
Nuez married in 1969. From 1969 to 1974, he traveled back and forth between
Europe and the United States, giving concerts in London (Wigmore Hall), Germany,

328
Spain, Denmark, Yugoslavia, and New York (Town Hall and Alice Tully Hall). In 1973,
Arrau declined a request to perform a benefit concert for the Pinochet government that
had come to power in Chile following the overthrow of President Salvador Allende
Gossens. Nuez seized the opportunity, performing four sonatas by Beethoven
(Moonlight, Waldstein, Pathtique, Appassionata), while demonstrators rallied
outside the concert hall.
Nuez eventually left performing to pursue a career in university administration.
He is presently Senior Advisor to the Vice Chancellor for Budget and Finance at the City
University of New York.
JOS ALDAZ
Jos Aldaz was born on August 3, 1942, in Matamoros, Mexico.25 There was little
classical music available in Matamoros during the 1940s and early 1950s, and no school
of music. Aldazs first teacher, Celeste Varela, taught him the fundamentals of music and
then referred him to Carmen Sacramento, also in Matamoros. At age fifteen, Aldaz
moved to Monterrey, Mexico. There he studied at the Technical Institute for a career in
engineering (at his familys request) but he also studied in the music preparatory school
associated with the Technical Institute. In Monterrey, he met Arrau for the first time.
Arrau was performing in a concert series that also included Iturbi, Rubinstein,
Brailowsky, and other artists, sponsored by the Monterrey Institute of Technology (the
school now deals with all branches of education, but in the late 1950s, it specialized in
science, engineering, and mathematics). Aldazs interest in piano prompted him to seek
out recordings of piano music, and Arraus recordings were among his favorites,

25

Biographical information from Jos Aldaz, interview in New York City, November 17, 2002.

329
particularly the Chopin Etudes, Beethoven Sonatas Op. 111 and 110, the Waldstein,
and the Appassionata. Since there were few concerts in Monterrey, Aldaz anticipated
Arraus performance eagerly, but did not expect to meet him.
But Aldaz did meet Arrau through Emilio Amores, a mathematics professor.
Amores took Aldaz to meet Arrau and to offer assistance with anything that Arrau might
need during his stay in Monterrey. Aldaz was dispatched to obtain a stamp from the
Chilean consulate for Arraus passport, and upon his return, Arrau engaged him in
conversation and asked if he was a pianist. Aldaz replied that he doubted his ability to
have a career as a pianist and was therefore studying to be an engineer. Arrau encouraged
him to resolve his doubt by studying music intensively for two years, and then to return
to engineering if that seemed the best course.
In 1960, over his familys objections, Aldaz enrolled at Trinity University in San
Antonio, Texas, studying piano with Marvin McGee, a pupil of Gieseking. A short time
later, Arrau came to San Antonio for a performance of Chopins E Minor Concerto with
the San Antonio Symphony. While traveling between the university campus and the hall
to buy his ticket for the performance, Aldaz chanced to meet Arrau on the street. Arrau
recognized Aldaz, stopped, and asked him, What are you doing here? Aldaz replied,
Following your advice. Aldaz told about his studies with McGee, and Arrau invited
Aldaz to play for him that afternoon. Aldaz played Brahmss Intermezzo in B-flat Minor
(Op. 76, No. 2), Bachs Prelude and Fugue in C Minor (Well-Tempered Clavier, Vol. I),
and Chopins second Ballade. After suggesting to Aldaz various avenues for pursuing
further piano study, Arrau mentioned his assistant in New York, Rafael de Silva, and
finally offered to teach Aldaz himself if he would come to New York. Arrau also

330
personally convinced Aldazs parents to give their consent for Aldaz to travel to New
York.
During the summer of 1961, Arrau remained at home in Douglaston, but traveled
on weekends to give performances at Tanglewood, Ravinia, and other music festivals.
Aldaz took up residence in a hotel in neighboring Great Neck, where he rented a room by
the week. For two months, he received daily lessons, Monday through Friday, for two
hours each day beginning at 9 a.m.
Arrau began his instruction with technical principles. Starting with the relaxation
of the body in playing, he proceeded to the proper manner of playing trills, double notes,
scales, and octaves. After this came a discussion of musical style. The first piece Aldaz
remembers playing in a lesson was Brahmss Rhapsody in G Minor, Op. 79, No. 2.
At the end of two months, Arrau advised Aldaz to return to San Antonio (where
he was still enrolled as a student) to continue working and developing what he had been
taught. Aldaz would resume his lessons that Christmas when Arrau was again in New
York, and he recalled having a lesson even on Christmas morning. After the holiday
season, Aldaz again returned to San Antonio. By 1963, following Arraus advice to move
closer to New York, Aldaz was enrolled at the Peabody Conservatory and traveled from
Baltimore to New York for lessons.
In all, Aldaz studied with Arrau for approximately ten years, from 1961 to about
1971. At the end of this time, Arrau advised him to concentrate on performing as much as
possible, taking lessons only when he needed special guidance.
In 1971, Aldaz played a performance in Mexico before an audience that included
Mexican President Lus Echeverria. The President requested a meeting with Aldaz and

331
appointed him cultural attach of Mexico in New York City. As part of his appointment,
Aldaz was to continue pursuing his concert career. He was given an office in New York
through which to manage his engagements and promote Mexican cultural activities. The
appointment lasted from 1971 until 1975. Aldaz performed his debut recital in the Palace
of Fine Arts in Mexico City in 1974.
In 1976, at the end of Echeverrias administration, the new government revoked
Aldazs passport, and Aldaz began a twelve-year struggle to remain in the United States.
During this period, he was prohibited from playing professionally, and all of his
professional engagements, including those at the Kennedy Center with the New York
Philharmonic and the Boston Symphony Orchestra, were cancelled. Limited to
performing benefits for the Catholic Church and other charities, he taught privately to
support himself. Ultimately, he prevailed and became a naturalized citizen of the United
States in 1984.
When asked if he had ever studied with Rafael de Silva, Aldaz replied that, at
Arraus request, he once played Mozarts Sonata in C Minor, K. 457, for de Silva. Apart
from this, Aldaz maintains that he had no contact with de Silva, though for a time they
occupied apartments in the same building. Aldaz also remembers playing for Josefina
Megret and Grete Sultan, again at Arraus request. Aldaz professes only slight
acquaintance with Arraus earlier pupils.
Aldaz reports that after his period of regular lessons, he saw the Arraus socially
and even more frequently. During the 1980s, Aldaz visited the Arraus daily. Aldaz would
be sent to practice in the morning while Arrau read. Then Aldaz and the Arraus would
have lunch. After lunch there was more practice while Arrau napped. Then the three met

332
for tea. After tea, Arrau would practice. If Arrau was away, Aldaz and Mrs. Arrau shared
lunch together.
Aldazs final lessons with Arrau, on the four Ballades of Chopin, took place in
1991. Since then, Aldaz has performed throughout Mexico and in some cities in the
United States and Canada. In 1994 he performed a recital at Trinity Church in Manhattan
in memory of Rildia Bee OBrian Cliburn, a pupil of Arthur Friedheim and mother of
Van Cliburn.
LORETTA GOLDBERG
Loretta Goldberg was born June 29, 1945, in Melbourne, Australia.26 Her
mother, Myrtle Hannah Silverman, was a pianist who had been trained by Renee
Simmons and invited to study with Cherkassky in London. Her father, Louis Goldberg,
was a professor at the University of Melbourne whose books on the theory and history of
accounting in Australia earned him a knighthood.27
Goldbergs first pianistic training in piano with her mother contained elements of
a weight approach taught by Renee Simmons. According to Goldberg, Simmons had
heard Arrau during his concert tour of Australia in 1947 and had also read Breithaupts
writing, and her teaching reflected these influences. When Goldberg was nine years old,

26

Quotations and biographical information from Loretta Goldberg, interview in New York City, January
31, 2003.
27
Louis Goldberg was educated at the University of Melbourne, where he received the degrees of BA,
MCom, and LittD and where he was Professor and Head of the Department of Accounting from 1955 to
1973. Before he became the first full-time academic in accounting in an Australian University in 1946, he
had extensive practical experience in public, industrial, and governmental accounting. His books include a
Philosophy of Accounting, Concepts of Depreciation, Elements of Accounting, the AAA Monograph No. 7,
An Inquiry into the Nature of Accounting, and A Journey into Accounting Thought. He visited the United
States as a Rockefeller Foundation Fellow in 1955 and as a Fulbright Fellow in 1963, when he was visiting
professor at Baruch College. In 1970 he was visiting professor at the University of Florida. Information
from the introductory note to Patterns of Accounting Activities, a lecture by Louis Goldberg at Baruch
College, October 8, 1974. Saxe Lectures in Accounting, Newman Library Digital Collection, Baruch
College, City University of New York.

333
her father won a sabbatical and grants that enabled both parents to go abroad for one
year. Goldberg kept up her piano studies with June McLean, a pianist trained in France.
Goldberg recalls, My mother . . . though a fingery kind of pianist . . . was open to rotary
motions and things like that. June McLean wasnt. She was trained more in the French
[style]. Shed been to France, jeu perl, things like that. So I had my first technique
change at age nine. It was a very bad year.
By 1957, Goldberg was an impressionable twelve-year-old with growing
seriousness about music, and now, for the first time, she heard Arrau in concert. Arraus
playing and his manner on stage made an indelible impression. Goldberg recalls,
Arrau played at the Melbourne Town Hall, which is a very big hall seating
2,500 people. Its a terrific hall, but its a little strange because the
entrance into the stage is from the stairs coming up from behind. So the
pianist pops up from below like an apparition. Then there was the issue of
God Save the Queen. Every concert had to start with the national anthem.
Britain was long past it but not Australia. So how Arrau coped with both
of those and the visual aspects of the stage caught my twelve-year-olds
imagination just like that! He came up in the traditional way. But at the
end of a piece, the getting down with dignity is a lot harder than getting up
the stairs. Everybody else just turned their back to the audience and then
went down the stairs but he didnt. He zigzagged backwards, bowed to
those, he zigzagged there, bowed to everybody there, bowed to the people
here, zigzagged there, turned around, and bowed to everybody there, and
then went very quickly down the stairs. So he made a choreography of it,
which was rather good. He dealt with God Save the Queen in an
entrancing way. The piano was set up and it had the lid with the music on
it. He came out. He sat down. He made a big to-do about taking out his
spectacles, putting on his spectacles, peering at the music. He played very
emphatically, peering hard at the music. Then he took off his spectacles
and sat back. A man came out and took away the music and . . . the music
stand. And then Arrau began the concert. He managed to create a space
between the concert and God Save the Queen. I thought that was very
sophisticated!
Goldberg also remembers what most impressed her in Arraus playing:
What I remember most was the Eroica variations. The quality of the
chordal playing Id never heard anything like that! And his trills! And
there was a polished sheen over what he did, it was so incredibly big and

334
smooth. His chords had a richness of sound. I didnt know how to
analyze it. Id never heard as dynamic a sound . . . as much loud to soft.
The sheen of his trills fast, slow, loud, soft! And then, the laying out of
the piece, of the whole architecture, so you really felt that the piece grew!
This concert was recorded and Goldberg obtained a copy of the recording. I was
transported by the sound and by the man, the impression I had of the man on stage. So
my mother and I sat and listened to this recording and tried to figure out how on earth he
made those sounds.
It was also around this time that Goldberg began playing in competitions, some of
which were adjudicated by Ronald Farren-Price. Farren-Price attracted Goldbergs
attention because of his thoughtful musical criticisms; and upon learning that FarrenPrice had been a pupil of Arrau, Goldberg began lessons with him in 1959. While a pupil
of Farren-Price, Goldberg began to win and place in various high school competitions.
And through Farren-Price, she received the opportunity to audition for Arrau in 1962.
This led to an extended relationship with Arrau that was both social and musical.
Australian tours were long. Hed be back in Melbourne . . . hed go to
other cities and then come back. Hed play concertos and recitals. They
were very, very big tours. Id get into the rehearsals, and then the concerts,
and go backstage afterwards, and I went to a couple of after-concert
parties. It was like a Gestalt experience, which he used to believe in
because that was what Martin Krause used to do. And so it was a quite
overwhelming experience.
Arrau also socialized with Goldbergs parents and shared their interest in
primitive art. The Goldbergs were on friendly terms with collectors and dealers of
aboriginal art, and Arrau, himself a collector, was particularly eager to meet two of them:
Leonhard Adam28 and Jim Davidson. Adam had written the first book on primitive art of

28

Adam, a German-Jewish judge, was forced to leave Germany after attempting to defy the Nazis in the
1930s, and his wife, a pianist, had studied with Schnabel and Backhaus. Ibid.

335
New Guinea and had amassed a fine collection. Arrau knew the book and wanted to see
the collection.
Jim Davidson had lived for twenty years in New Guinea before establishing an
engineering firm in Australia. His passion, however, was aboriginal art, and he sought to
preserve it and perpetuate its production by acting as a dealer. Davidson was friendly
with the Gomedj tribe in Northwest Land and spent several months of each year with
them. Goldberg tells about Arraus meeting with Davidson:
So we took him to meet Jim, and he was entranced by Jim, because Jim
didnt know who the hell he was. He had to ask him to spell his name on
the check, and that really made the Maestros day. Jim had all these
crocodile stories, stories of encountering crocodiles and dangerous
cannibals, which were very exciting. So he bought a number of things
from him, both from New Guinea and aboriginal Australian art.
By 1963, Goldberg had finished high school. Her father now received a second
sabbatical and the family traveled to New York. Goldberg studied with Arrau on a
scholarship basis for six months in 1963. During this period, she took lessons with Rafael
de Silva and attended master classes in Douglaston with Arraus other pupils.
Rafael gave me a fantastic spurt technically. I worked with him for six
months; he was ferocious. But he really transformed my playing. When I
came back I worked on more difficult pieces. Then it sort of started falling
apart . . . [there was] a certain rhythmic lack of discipline. I felt that the
motions were, I dont know, a certain disintegration was taking place and I
didnt know how to deal with it.
Toward the end of 1963, the Goldberg family spent some time in London and
then returned to Australia. From 1965 to 1970, Goldberg continued her piano study with
Margaret Scofield. She described what she gained from Scofields teaching that
contrasted with the teaching of Farren-Price and de Silva:
Ron is very nice, too gentle, perhaps. It wasnt so much a question of the
technique but the relationship we had and him not being able to help me

336
form helpful physical or integrative boundaries around the playing. It
wasnt working. So Bundy Scofield had a very good sound. She studied
with Solomon. She only used up-and-down rotary motions, she didnt use
lateral, so I dropped the lateral motions. Rotary is this circular wrist thing,
lateral is the side-by-side, which is such a big part of the Arrau technique.
. . . She put an enormous stress on the strong-weak-medium-weak
rhythmic impulse in the playing. She got me very focused on that. That
was good because when youre doing the motions, like if youre doing just
a five-finger exercise and youre doing kind of the egg-beater motion,
youre not really thinking about strong-weak-medium-weak, and it can get
too open, too big, and too divorced from the rhythmic impulse. Anyway it
did for me. She pulled me back . . . We had a troubled relationship, but it
was helpful. And when I came back [to New York], I was ready to try to
reintegrate it [lateral motion].
During this period, Goldberg earned a degree in literature from the University of
Melbourne and won first prize in piano in an important Australian competition, the
Australian National Eisteddfod, in Canberra in 1967. In 1970, she won a Fulbright
Scholarship and immigrated to the United States to pursue further study with Arrau and
de Silva. Goldberg has resided in New York City since 1970.
When de Silva moved his primary residence to Munich, Goldberg continued her
study with another Arrau pupil, Hilde Somer (see below). Goldberg developed an interest
in performing works of living composers that resulted in several recordings. These
include:
Tone Over Tone, Opus One Records, no. 135 (1988); works by George
Boziwick, John Cage, Sorrel Hays, John Charles Eaton, Constance
Cooper, Matthew Rosenblum.
Soundbridge, Opus One Records, no. 152 (1990); works by Sorrel Hays,
Tui St. George Tucker, Daria Semegen, Annea Lockwood.
The Sonorous Landscape, Opus One Records, no. 162 (1992); chamber
music by George Boziwick, Mary Jeanne van Appledorn, Reed Holmes
Zygotones, Centaur, no. CRC 2470 (2001); contemporary American works
for piano by Copland and Sorrel Hays, for Yamaha disc-klavier and
sampler by Warren Burt.

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Goldberg has contributed performances to the following: Resolver, a recording of works


by David First OO discs, no. 5 (1995); Mined with a Motion, vol. 2, works by Violetta
Dinescu, Charles Bestor, and Donna Kelly Eastman on Living Artist Recordings no. 2
(1996); and Snows of Yesteryear, works by Elizabeth Bell, recorded by North South
Music, no. NSR 1029 (2003). She has also recorded Liszts From the Cradle to the Grave
(EMI Australia, 1977; Orion, no. ORS 79365, 1980).
HILDE SOMER
Born into a Jewish family in Vienna in 1930, Somer and her family came to the
United States as refugees in 1938.29 At the age of fourteen, she studied with Rudolf
Serkin at the Curtis Institute and later with Moriz Rosenthal, Wanda Landowska, and
Claudio Arrau. Though she performed the standard repertoire, she was known as a
proponent of twentieth-century music. Somer recorded works by Revueltas, Ginastera,
Chvez, and Janek, and she premiered piano concertos by Ginastera (who dedicated his
Second Piano Concerto to her), John Corigliano, Antonio Tauriello, and Henry Brant.
She was known for performances of Scriabin's music with the accompaniment of colored
laser lights projected onto a screen, as prescribed by Scriabin. Somer died in December,
1979, while vacationing in the Bahamas.
WILLIAM GOODRUM
William Goodrum was born July 18, 1932, in Fall River near Boston,
Massachusetts, to William Goodrum and Lillian Hammond Goodrum.30 His first piano
teacher was Anna Fiore, a local organist. He entered the New England Conservatory in

29

Hilde Somer, 49, Dead; A Noted Concert Pianist, The New York Times (December 27, 1979), B13
Quotations and biographical information from William Goodrum, interview in Syracuse, New York,
December 14, 2002.

30

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1950 and studied piano with Lucille Monaghan. Through Sunday performances at
Symphony Hall in Boston, attended with Monaghan and other students, he became
acquainted with pianists such as Myra Hess, Horowitz, Rubinstein, and Arrau. Monaghan
admired Arrau and drew her students attention to his sound and technique as desirable
models of what could be achieved at the piano. Monaghan introduced Goodrum to Arrau
after a performance that they both attended.
Goodrums first attempt to study with Arrau was in the summer of 1952. Arrau
was teaching at the Aspen Music Festival and, upon Monaghans suggestion, Goodrum
traveled there but was disappointed to find the class full. After graduating from the New
England Conservatory, he tried again to make contact with Arrau, this time through
Arraus manager, Friede Roth. Though Roth tried to discourage him, Goodrum persisted,
so Roth suggested that Arrau might accept him at Tanglewood. In summer 1954
Goodrum went to Tanglewood with Felix Wolfers, his accompanying coach at New
England Conservatory. When Roth again attempted to turn Goodrum away,31 Wolfers
intervened. Goodrum spoke with Arrau by telephone and auditioned for him the next day.
Goodrum recalls, He was sort of dismayed that Id had such a hard time. Hed always
been a soft person, a soft touch for many, many people. And that was part of my job in
Europe . . . to keep some organization in his life, otherwise hed spend all his time seeing
people and helping people.

31

Goodrum explains Friede Roths actions as follows: Friede Roth was always trying to get him to stop
[teaching], drop all the students. But he lovedhe neededhis exchange with them. He felt sincerely that
he wanted to pass his wisdom and his knowledge on. It has been a tradition among musicians. Liszt used
to teach and Liszt charged nothing. Arrau wanted to continue [this tradition]. Martin Krause taught him a
lesson almost every day and he lived in Krauses house. So he felt he in turn should be doing this, too. He
charged nothing for those master classes. William Goodrum, interview in Syracuse, New York, December
14, 2002.

339
At this audition, Arrau suggested that Goodrum study with Rafael de Silva in
order to learn his technical system. Goodrum recalls,
I played three pieces, and he said, Obviously there are many ways of
playing the piano, and there are even perhaps a couple of good ways of
playing the piano, but I have my way of playing the piano and thats the
way I work with people. Because he believed in a certain way of playing
with relaxation and so on, and if someone came and wanted to play with
Russian percussion, well, fine if it worked for some pianists. Good!
But thats not the way I do it, thats not the road. In order to work with
him, one should get the basic technical foundation. So he suggested to
me, already up in Tanglewoodperhaps since he was traveling a lot; at
that time he was playing one hundred fifty concerts a yearhe said, Im
in New York from time to time, so when you come and play for me at the
house he did not want to get into all the fundamental things of arm
weight, relaxation, and so on. He would suggest that people go to Rafael
de Silva, who had a genius for teaching that. And they made a good pair.
Shortly after finishing a masters degree at the Conservatory in 1956, Goodrum
enlisted in the United States Army and was stationed in Germany. There, he reconnected
with Arrau who spent at least six months of the year touring Europe. Goodrum attended
Arraus performances whenever he could get away from the military base, once flying via
an army aircraft to hear him in Edinburgh. When Goodrums tour of army duty ended in
1958, Arrau convinced him to remain in Europe for a time, and he continued his studies
there between 1958 and 1965. Goodrum also served as Arraus driver during this period,
taking him from city to city for his performances. Goodrums experiences illustrate the
personal dimension of Arraus relationships with his pupils.
[Arrau said,] So why dont you consider staying until Christmas at least
when I come back for my fall tour. Which was always wonderful. He
played in Edinburgh and Switzerland, usually made one trip to Israel, or
something, and ended up in Italy. So he said, Stay! and he would leave
about the third week of November. So I thought, Good! and I had made
contact with a nice German lady . . . who had a Steinway piano and was
looking for some young American student who needed a place to live. So
it was great. I could live there for practically nothing and travel and drive
Arrau around. And he was getting tired of always traveling on trains and

340
planes, and he thought it would be fun. At that time, there was a two-year
waiting period for a Volkswagen but this lady knew someone. And so I
got a VW, and I was proud as could be. Telephone rings. This is Friede
Roth, she said. Do you mean to tell me you are driving the maestro
around in a VW? Yes, its a wonderful new one. No, that wont do.
You are driving him up to the artists entrance at the concert halls in a
VW? No, that wont do. And I said, Yes, and there are usually a couple
of other students in the back, too! She did not like it at all, but he loved
it! We went over the St. Gothard Pass. We went all over Italy in my VW
and he had a great time. He would practice there, and sleep, and every
once in a while wake up and say, Are you still awake, dear?
Goodrum remembers that Arrau continually sought fresh insights into musical works and
they sometimes discussed his performances together.
After the concerts, wed go out to do the necessary reception, perhaps, and
then get away, go off and enjoy . . . walk until two in the morning . . . I
can recall one time in Zrich, for example, he had just played and we were
walking alone that evening And he said, Did you notice anything? -which was always a dangerous question -- Did you notice anything in
that Beethoven tonight? [Goodrum recalls that the Sonata played that
evening was Op. 27, No. 1, in E-flat.] Well, it was very beautiful. No,
no, no! Didnt you notice? At the end of the first movement, I vibrated
every one of those notes and it worked, it came out! Didnt you notice?
So he was always trying to develop. He was never satisfied.
Arrau also asked Goodrum to assist him by timing the movements in his performances.
Goodrum described this exercise and explained its purpose:
The thing I disliked tremendously was that he would ask me to time
movements. I remember he was playing the Appassionata. He usually
traveled with three programs. But he was experimenting. Would you time
this? You know, [I would be] sitting in the concert hall counting the
minutes. He wanted seconds! He would play it one night and have a
certain feeling about it. Then he would play it the next night, and he would
want to know, now was it ten or fifteen seconds slower or faster, you see.
Did that tempo play a role within the overall feeling that he had of it
structurally? And so I had to sit there or try to sit at the end of the row and
see, did the hand go around six times. I dont know why on earth I didnt
get a stopwatch. But that was back in the late 50s, early 60s. Now you
can go into a kitchen store and get a stopwatch. But that often disturbed
me, my concentration. But it was an example of his always trying to
search, search, and find still more satisfying [performances] knowing that

341
one will never be completely happy with this but this particular evening it
felt good . . . slow or fast, a different sense of flexibility in it.
The time spent together enabled Goodrum to have private lessons with Arrau
despite Arraus more usual habit of working with his pupils in a master class setting.
Goodrum remembers a large, international group of students in Europe that included
Greville Rothon (South Africa), Ronald Farren-Price (Australia), Jurgen Thompson
(Denmark), Daniella Ballek (Czechoslovakia),32 Juan Moll (Spain), Wolfgang Leibniz
(Berlin), and Hilde Somer (Austria and USA). When Arrau had time in his schedule to
meet with pupils, Goodrum was asked to organize things. Goodrum recalls,
One time in Rome, he was taking a little break in his schedule. So he had
eight or nine days that he asked Friede to work into his schedule there with
only one concert. The rest of the time, he said, So tell the group to
come. So we all descended upon Rome, I was driving him anyway, but
they all came. And then wed have class lessons there and other types of
lessons, too, like trips to the art galleries, trips to Alfredos restaurant, just
in seeing Roman life, soaking up the whole atmosphere. This was I think
an important part of his approach to teaching, that it encompasses
everything. You dont just come in for a lesson once a week, but he spent
time. He ate with the students. He went to the museums with the students.
With me it was a special case. I was a rather conservative guy from New
England very, very quiet. So this was all new to me, which he just
enjoyed.
Goodrums narrative reveals the importance of the group not only for the students
but also for Arrau himself. The students had much to gain from Arraus enormous
experience as a performer, and being a part of the group gave them support and a sense of
belonging to a tradition of piano playing exemplified by an iconic figure. The social
experiences Arrau shared with his students increased the rapport they felt when he taught

32

Of her, Goodrum says, She had quite a big career and is still having a career in Europe. She even
substituted for Arrau one night when he was sick. She jumped in and played the second Beethoven piano
concerto, which was a great opportunity but awesome. She lived in Wiesbaden and had to go to Holland
[to] play the Beethoven concerto. William Goodrum,interview in Syracuse, New York, December 14,
2002.

342
them. This is clear in Goodrums story of his first visit to the Sistine Chapel in the
company of Arrau:
We walked into the middle of the Sistine Chapel. He was walking behind
me with his hands over my eyes until we got into the middle. He said, As
soon as I take my hands away, I want you to tell me what your first
reaction is to the Sistine Chapel. It was quite thrilling! He had seen it all
and done it all. But a sensitive young man who has never seen it before,
what is his reaction? These things he put into his music. The big thing he
taught to his students [was] everything you do, enjoy, live, put it into your
music. He could constantly make analogies that would just hit exactly the
right thing . . . he could find just the right analogy.
Arrau afforded his students the chance of knowing him as a man as well as an
artist and of seeing at close range what it meant to be an artist. As Goodrums story
indicates, shared experiences were a way of cultivating students imaginations, and since
Arrau never demonstrated in lessons, but relied on words and verbal images to make his
musical points, shared experience helped to make his analogies not only understood by
students but perceived as being just right.
Goodrums stories also clearly reflect the importance of the group for Arrau.
He had to hold the crowds at arms length, but he had this nucleus of
friends. We were all less than half his age. He was at this point sixty-ish
or so and we were all in our twenties. This was his way of trying to stay
active and keep his youth. It was important.
For Arrau, the group provided companionship and recreation amidst a demanding
schedule of practice, performance, and travel. Though Arrau was well traveled and highly
experienced, through the group his experiences maintained their novelty and power to
inspire, even if repeated many times. Arrau created in his group an understanding and
sympathetic community that mirrored back an image of himself as an artist, revealing
which musical ideas and techniques communicated effectively. This is evident in
Goodrums account of discussions about and timing performances. Arraus interactions

343
with his students had a potential to generate insights and ways of understanding music
not available through the less personal relationship of performer and audience.
Goodrum returned to the United States in 1965. By this time, he was married with
three children. After some short appointments, including one year at Valparaiso
University in Indiana and three years at North Dakota State University in Fargo,
Goodrum accepted a teaching position at Syracuse University, where he taught from
1972 until 1995. He currently resides in Syracuse, where he continues to be active as a
private teacher.

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APPENDIX TWO
A LESSON ON CHOPINS SECOND BALLADE, OP. 38
Claudio Arrau and Mario Miranda. Tape recording, December 19, 1965
In Spanish. Tranlated by Angelina Tallaj, Laura Ahumada, Cesar Reyes, and Marcia
Lewis.
Tape 1
Arrau: Up to there only [finishing the first section]. This whole part is really hard. Start
with the left pedal on. You dont just start, you surge, spring up, rise! You can even start
slower.
Miranda: I have the idea that things that start with a pickup actually start before, it is the

continuation of something already started, something that was already there, but you start
hearing it.
Arrau: Busoni used to say that music is always in the air and the composer just captures it.

Chopins music is really not programmatic, so the connection to something programmatic


is too distant and too indirect. But then, there is the story of the enchanted lake. At the
end of the story something submerges itself in the water again. Have you ever read it?
Miranda: No.
Arrau: I tell it to you because its one way to get closer to the music. Thats why in this

whole section there should be no agitato or almost none. Lets do the beginning again.
Beautiful. We have to very careful of the rhythm that it doesnt go bum ba bum bum [a
more percussive rendition], but dah da dah dah [a more legato sound on the dotted
rhythm in m. 2], not too sharp. Then we have to deal with something that you do
sometimes, not all the time: that you trust in the pedal for the legato. Remember that we
were talking about that, that if you let go with your hands, you dont feel the legato. Then
we have to talk about something else: that when a composer insists on an idea [repeats it],
it becomes more intense.
Miranda: There is so much of that in this piece.
Arrau: Yes. This insistence could also be reversed. It could get more piano, gradually

disappearing. Maybe a little faster, maybe a little bit slower, maybe softer. But you have
to be insistent in some way. [In m. 6, counting the anacrusis as m. 1:] You let go of the
keys. I think I know why you do it, because the slur keeps on going and you feel the need
of breathing. I think that is just this edition. Would you like to see other editions? I have
the manuscript. You expect to breathe there [after the C-A sixth] but there is no
breathing there. Something new starts, but keep the tension going.
Miranda: So I made the mistake of doing the thing physically.

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Arrau: Yes. Lets go back to the beginning and play that rhythm [the dotted one] a little

softer. Here we have the perfect example of what I was talking about. There is no
crescendo there, and if you want to keep it still in the magical world, you can slow down
at the F before the G [m. 9]. The end of the phase is much softer than the G. Now
another one of my favorite rules: in tension you cannot stop. The F is the tension [in m.
9]. And now, there is the second time. You can start in full voice [plena voce] and then at
the end of the phrase dying even more [m. 18]. And then a breath, even more than the
first time, because we have diminuendo. In that place we go a little out of the morendo
mood. Try to do it. Start from the second time. You stopped too much. Now, thats it
[m. 18]. All this is in one slur [see Paderewski edition where m. 1 m. 10, beat 3 is in
one slur; m. 10, beat 4 m. 18, beat 3 is also in one slur], but this edition has it in two
[Peters]. In the introduction of this edition, they wrote that they fixed some of the slurs
because they thought they were careless slurs. [Arrau sings what is lacking: lilting, not
with such regular accent.] Do you want to do that once again? In this passage we have to
take care of two things. In this four measures [m. 14, beat 6 m. 18, beat 3], the left
pedal, please. Then lift it and use it again for the pianissimo [m. 22]. Its like something
coming out from the mist and then going back to it. Here we have to bring out a little the
left hand [in the part he is singing: LH line at m. 18]. Its not that this is the most
important thing, dont bring it out like Hofmann or Cherkassky, but a little bit. Do you
want to do that again? The pianissimo is beautiful now, my child. But the following C
[m. 26] has to be warm and the next note [B-flat, m. 26] you can bring it out. Thats very
pretty now. But now you are lacking something that is equally important, the syncopation
of the G [RH, m. 26, beat 6 m. 27, beat 2].
Miranda: I didnt do it because I thought it was going to drown the B-flat.
Arrau: No, it wont happen because when you play the A [m. 27] the G continues. Give a

little accent to the G [accentito]. After the pianissimo you are in C major. You can put a
little crescendo before the C [in m. 26]. So after the tied G, you get back to pianissimo
again. The F is already pianissimo, and the pianissimo keeps on going. Do you want to
do the whole pianissimo part? You did a beautiful pianissimo!
Now comes something really hard to do. Thats the first atom of the drama [m. 34], the
first sign. Before that there was no sign of anxiety. You want to try to do it? Thats it.
The first time was better. Thats it. And then calm again. Once you are in A minor [m.
35], you calm yourself again. You want to do it again, my child, so we can keep on
going? [breathing, coughs] Keep going. But now that you stopped, you want to calm
down the anxiety that occurs there; you dont want to show too much. Do you want to
try again? Keep on going with the same idea. Why do you swallow [leave out] a half
measure there [mm. 44-45]?
Miranda: Is the smorzando too slow [m. 44]?
Arrau: No, its not too slow. It feels like youre dragging, not because of the smorzando

but because of the arpeggio. After the first F [LH], it has to flow more. And please do
this: after [the C, RH, m. 38], take away the left pedal, and when you get to smorzando,

346
put it on again. Better. Stay on the first F a little bit [m. 46], then free. You are getting
distracted in the middle, not getting up to the top. Thats it. Another little thing: [m. 39,
Arrau sings the RH part] while in the bass [m. 39, Arrau sings the LH part]. In this part
[mm. 39-43], the left hand is more important. In the smorzando [mm. 44-46], the A is
like a lament and the F is like relaxing. Pretty. Now, another thing: the idea we have to
arrive at is to feel completely physically relaxed even at the moment of most intensity. I
have the impression I saw you were a little bit restless. I didnt notice it in the sound.
This is exactly what Edwin Fischer was trying to achieve, but he never got to it because
in moments of emotional intensity he got tense. Because his biggest worry was to be able
to relax, he got tense. Now, do the last part so we can see the transition. Release the
pedal so you clean low F from the bass, then a very quick breath, and ATTACK!
Thats it. A little bit too fast. But its [you look] very relaxed.
Miranda: Theres a little bit of tension going up.
Arrau: So you have to think about circles.
Miranda: Always I have the fear of the skip [mm. 48-49].
Arrau: Well, do this instead of that. [The meaning is unclear.] Show me the RH on the

first measure [m. 47]. The accent goes on the first note. Let me see how you do it. Do
you fall down [on the thirds]? The thirds [should] go up. When you do it up, the third
comes out clearer. You hear it better. It gets a fuller, round sound. The left hand has to
start, not fortissimo, but forte. You can play [the octaves] with the fourth finger, 5[-1], 3[1], 5[-1], 4[-1].
Miranda: 5, 4, 5, 4.
Arrau: Ok. At the same time, rising [the motion of the arm and wrist?] to the last C gives

you the crescendo. The second measure [m. 48], right hand, do you do it only with
rotation?
Miranda: Yes.
Arrau: Because sometimes we dont hear the sixths. For that I really recommend you . . .

[unfinished sentence].
Miranda: I practiced 1, 2, just placing the 5 there.
Arrau: Thats good as an exercise, but now, lets do an experiment. Try it this way,

accenting up on the sixths. Check that you dont stiffen the wrist. That gives you more
security because youre already up and over the keys. I know I have a different hand
from yours but, from my experience, I think that you will have more security doing it up
than just with rotation. But youll work it out. That second measure [m. 48]: practice it
really slowly, exaggerating the difference between the two movements. This is a really
good exercise in doing different movements with your two hands. Another very
important thing: that second measure, you have to start no more than mezzo forte, and the

347
fourth measure, too [m. 50]. In the fifth measure [m. 51] you keep fortissimo with the
right hand, start mezzo forte with the left hand. Here, too, you have to find a fingering
that is convenient for you [octaves in the left hand]. I think it would be convenient to
have the fifth [finger] on the B, and the A with 4, and the next B with 5 again [LH, m.
51]. But I see that the big problem is going from the G-sharp to the B with the 5. The
sensation you have to have is not that you are hitting each octave but that you are playing
a melodic line. Its as if you had a bag full of sand on the keyboard. But here, more than
in other passages! Because if you play heh heh heh [sharp octaves] it sounds horrible.
Its fifty times harder work to do it like that. All this while the right hand is playing
fortissimo [mm. 51-55]. Keep the right hand loud. I have another idea! No! Lets leave
it like that.
Miranda: I have a good idea. This stands out automatically [thirds and sixths, RH, mm.

51-52].
Arrau: Yes, but here [mm. 51-54], do you do it with circles also?
Miranda: Yes.
Arrau: But then at the very end, naturally, you change to rotation.
Miranda: Of course.
Arrau: You have to keep the 5 completely loose. You have to have the other fingers a
little bit firm to play this rotation. [m. 54]. The left hand does a diminuendo while the
right hand plays a crescendo. This is all the same [mm. 55ff.]. No, the fingering of the
octaves is different.
Miranda: I would like to stay long on G [m. 57].
Arrau: Yes, but I would like to oblige you to play legato. You have a tendency to hit

sometimes. [discussion of LH fingering, m. 59, beat 4 m. 60, beat 3: 4-5-4, 4-5-4] Any
fingering, but I need to see the sand bag. You still dont rely on the weight, you [hit].
Have the sensation that you are carrying heavy weight from one note to the other. Thats
it. Its very important for your technique that you solve that forever. You have to avoid
that little hit completely. Its very little, but you have to eliminate it. Now, to do the big
crescendo [mm. 63ff.], we have to go back to a mezzo forte. I would like you not do the
diminuendo [mm. 61-62]. No diminuendo, no preparing, just start mezzo forte [m. 63].
Miranda: But this is still loud, belonging to the previous thing. My idea was to do this [he
plays the accented chords a third apart, mm. 63, 65, 67].
Arrau: But you have to start softer, otherwise you cannot grow. Stay fortissimo all the

way to the end [m. 62]; then mezzo forte with an accent, which will be kind of a forte.
Miranda: Should the left hand do a big crescendo [in each measure starting at m. 63]?

348
Arrau: Yes. I was going to ask you for it.
Miranda: Because it isnt written.
Arrau: It has to be a stormy left hand. I was going to ask you to start every one of those

[LH figures] softer, opposite to the right hand [mm. 63ff.]. Now show me that technically
[LH, m. 63]. The octaves shouldnt be so loud. You have to grow to the mi fa mi [the
highest notes in the LH figures]. Now lets do it consciously. How are you going to
make the crescendo? Youre going to start really light without vibration. Do the mi fa
mi with vibration to make it loud. You have to study things very scientifically. Then
you loosely fall into the octave. I want to see that passage of the octaves coming down
[RH, mm. 69ff.]. Please dont fall into the habit that people from other schools fall into,
playing the chords just as stuffed octaves. The middle is also important. The little
crescendo has to continue to the end [RH figures, mm. 79ff.]. In the right hand, continue
the crescendo up to the last [high] note; and a little rallentando at the end. Lets talk a
little about this psychologically. All the anxiety we built up cannot be gone after four
measures. Unless you make a terrific . . . [inaudible words].
Miranda: But there is evidently a crescendo. Here he lifts the pedal a little bit before

See, I was right.


Tape 2
Arrau: [mm. 79ff.] . . . still clear, it cannot be too clear. Try to avoid activity of the

fingers. Still too much fingers, too much articulation. That was good. The sound was
pretty. Play after the climax [m. 69]. This going down is still too dead [mm. 71ff.]
because the left hand doesnt do the crescendos yet. It sounds mechanical, the left hand.
Its still in your head but it doesnt come out. More, more, the last one! You have to go
back and find that calmness again. Do the left hand again. Exaggerate the last little bit of
the scale and try to vibrate, too. Thats better. Your hand was too quiet before. You have
to exaggerate the rotation, too. Now, the last four [m. 79]. Very beautiful! Only you
didnt wait long enough between B-flat and A [mm. 82-83]. All the preparation is
worthless unless you really do that wait.
Miranda: Rallentando!
Arrau: Its the same as. . . . Look what you did! You played A louder than the G [m. 86].
[A moment is given to turning off the ringer on the telephone.] Look! In the slentando
[m. 87], there has to be an element of strangeness, a premonition of what is coming.
Why dont you do the last three measures? Thats too ugly -- to do the A louder than the
G -- and its also a little bit too fast.
You have the same edition, right?
Miranda: Yes.
Arrau: First measure, p. 33, the second half is too hard to do. There has to be a small

rallentando and an emergence of the left hand. A little bit of crescendo in the second half
of the measure [mm. 95-96]. On the three Cs, the left hand should crescendo, the right

349
hand, the opposite. So then, the left hand diminishes a little bit and there is a little bit of
hesitation within the modulation. Do you want to do that? Very good in what follows,
but these diminuendos, dont anticipate [mm. 99ff.].You do the diminuendo too soon.
Before the stretto pi mosso [mm. 107-8], you have to foresee that it is going to happen.
And then, the stretto pi mosso, you have to do it against a high resistance. You did it too
fast too soon with no emotional justification for it. This first cell [m. 108, beats 4-6] has
to be still resistant. The stretto means to go gradually faster. You accelerate. The last
cell is very broad [m. 111]; take a big breath, then fortissimo. You rrrrushed it. It was out
of place. Now I am going to tell something really hard to do. Then we get to E major [m.
115] where you have ritenuto; the first B on the tenor is still loud. Then the tempo primo
[m. 116] is too much faster than before. Thats why we need to really broaden it and put
a little fermata on the B. The B is crying, Please notice me. And then it is with a big
effort, almost artificially, you go back to the calmness of the beginning. The agitato
starts again with a ninth. Lindo! Now with anxiety [m. 108] [stretto again, loud
breathing].
Beautiful! Here you did the right hand more than the left [m. 100]. And the third time the
theme appears, you bring the left hand out more than the right; it should be the other way
around [m. 108]. You started the figure very well, but by the fourth figure, the eighth note
was too light. The eighth note has to be full value, heavy all the time, so it wont rush.
Now what you do here is very pretty and very justifed the first time. But dont speed up,
grow better. Beautiful: the return to [m. 120?]; maybe a little too soft.
This [m. 140] has to be [more accented].
In this passage while the right hand is doing decrescendo, the left hand is doing crescendo
to mezzo forte [mm. 125ff.?].
The vertical arpeggio [rolled interval, m. 131], do you know what it means?
Miranda: Yes, it means vertical legato.
Arrau: Yes, thats right.

[In mm.155-56? It is unclear what measures these instructions refer to]: While the right
hand plays crescendo, the left hand should descrescendo. Otherwise it is impossible to
crescendo, and everything shuts down.
Arrau: Are you tired?
Miranda: Yes, Im a little stiff.
Arrau: Yes, you are stiff. There is an element of reproach here [in m.162]. Did you get

the idea? And from there to the next thing. In other words, the right hand has to follow
the rubato of the left hand. After two measures of the trill in fortissimo [m. 165], start
again softer [m. 167]. Now show me the right hand technically [mm. 157ff.]. Are you
vibrating? No, I think youre playing more forward. In the white keys, it is better

350
forward and back. In the black keys it is better to go up and down. The change itself
relaxes the muscles. And besides all that, add a little bit of vibration.
Then what follows [m. 169] doesnt say presto, only agitato. So what is most important
is not the speed but the agitato feeling. This tempo [the previous presto] dies on the trills.
Miranda: So the tempo dies on the trills and then theres a new tempo.
Arrau: Yes.
Miranda: Ah! I had the idea I had to speed up and speed up.
Arrau: No, because in speed the expression, the lamentation doesnt come out. In the best

of cases, the technical show-off comes out but the musical character doesnt come out.
Agitato is still a musical thing. Its not about tempo. Almost spoken, very clear, and in
presto you cannot do it. It doesnt have-- the ta ti-a ti-a [articulation of the RH figures,
mm. 169ff.] doesnt come out. It isnt written but its implied.
Miranda: It is almost as if he had the intention of doing the same phrasing.
Arrau: Yes. Thats why its important not to shorten the second note. Its like forte,

piano, forte, piano, but in the same voice. You do the same movement, strong weak,
but not shortening the second note [the third and fifth note of each sixteenth-note group,
RH], and then it will come out.
Miranda: Here there is no slur [m. 171].
Arrau: Not here either [m. 175]. It just keeps on going. Now in the third measure [m.

171] we have to do a fingering that allows you to do that strong weak. My fingering
for the bottom voice is 2-1-2-1-2-1 in the third measure and also in the fourth. After the
first measure its much easier. Exaggerate the strong weak strong weak.
Miranda: Is it possible to do?
Arrau: Yes, but if you do tatatatata [notes of equal volume] it sounds mechanical, maybe

the same on the first ones, but then ti-a ti-a ti-a [strong-weak]. I personally separate that
fourth [beat 1, mm. 178 and 179]. Then 1-3 [on the fourth] without legato. Not to link it
at all, just to fall on that one [m. 178]. Now, when you get to the syncopations [mm. 17879], squeeze the juice out of them [emphasize them]; not too fast [LH, mm.179ff.].
Youre really stiff, and you really lose because its all loud. Where the crescendo starts
[m. 185], mezzo forte, no more. Besides the crescendo on the four measures [mm. 18588] we have crescendo, crescendo, crescendo [mm. 185-86]. Now, I want you to do the
left hand also agitato [mm. 185-86]. I want to see this [RH, m. 185] technically. Do the
right hand by itself. Dont tighten the [inaudible word] or the wrist either. For the
octaves [LH, m. 189], you go up. Left-hand crescendo and articulation! The first octaves
have to be legatissimo. Then separate without hitting. And another thing: very important

351
are the little breathing points. In the first two fortissimo measures [mm. 189-90] you
dont have to worry about the breathing between the first two because it takes care of
itself. But the third [breathe before it]. I want to hear your last left-hand arpeggio [m.
197]. Why are you playing F-sharp? Lets check the manuscript. Play the arpeggios with
plenty of time. This has to be very pathetic. And dont rush into it. Again you played Fsharp. They all start together [RH and LH].
Miranda: Could I stay here [on the chord, m. 197]?
Arrau: Here it doesnt have the fermata.
Miranda: I feel rushed.
Arrau: Not too fast, but no fermata. If you start at tempo primo right away [at the
beginning of m. 197], you wont need to wait. [last cadence] The manuscript doesnt
have that arpeggio. That, once again, is up to you. There are about four versions of this.
I personally like this. But one thing that I still need is, to the D, but the E a little longer,
too [last 2 notes of phrase, m. 200, beat 6 m. 201].
Miranda: Is one of the versions the way I did it?

352
APPENDIX THREE
A LESSON ON BEETHOVENS SONATA IN A-FLAT MAJOR, OP. 110
Claudio Arrau with Mario Miranda. Tape recording, undated.
In Spanish. Translated by Angelina Tallaj, Laura Ahumada, Cesar Reyes, and Marcia
Lewis.
I. Moderato cantabile molto espressivo
Arrau: The transitions have to be less abrupt. It has to open up with a feeling of happiness

because you are going to be able to play faster, in mm. 104-5 especially.
Not abruptly. The bass notes are [should be] short, [as in] m. 105, for example. The
staccato notes [in m. 104, m. 12] should have the value of the eighth notes. Start again.
Start a little calmer. The thirty-second notes, calmer [in m. 12].
Play the trill [m. 3] with gentleness. More movement in the end [of m. 3]. Sing it more.
And in the measure with the fermata [m. 4] you can do whatever you want.
Move the ornaments a little faster than the thirty-second notes [in m. 4].
Give the modulation between A-flat and E-flat [m. 17] more emphasis.
Here [m. 28] you are changing the tempo abruptly. You can do what you want with the
thirty-seconds [LH, m. 27], but afterwards stay in tempo.
Crescendo [in mm. 25-28]. Go all the way to the B-flat. You didnt do it at all.
[In the development] you are lacking urgency when the music is going high and
relaxation when the music is going low.
The character is entirely different, the first time anxiously asking, the second time
[inaudible].
[In m. 45] There is crescendo. Urgent here: a little more violent and faster. Here a little
less violent [m. 47?].
After that, the left hand very calm and very melodic [mm. 46 (48?)-56].
The crescendo you didnt do [either the crescendo in m. 40 or the small ones in mm.
44ff.].
You played the C-sharp suddenly softer [in m. 67] but you didnt make a crescendo and
diminuendo. C-sharp is the culminating point. After that, the ritenuto of the last two
eighth notes you did very well [it is not clear which eighth notes Arrau is referring to or
whether he means the last two sixteenths in m. 69].

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The crescendo [m. 78] continues but in rallentando. Make a little accelerando in the first
two sixteenths and then hold back in the second two.
The second part was [the rest of the sentence is inaudible].
Here you have a new tempo. You should have a rallentando toward the new tempo.
[There is a return to an earlier part of the piece at this point. In m. 28]: Start piano so you
can crescendo.
Crescendo [in mm. 40-44]! As a listener I got nothing, no crescendo. Many times, you
have the crescendo in your head but your ear doesnt make it true. Exaggerate it a little
bit. Start a little bit softer.
From [m. 56] you have to start moving it. Take it from [m. 55]. Here, he [Beethoven] is
coming back to the basic foundation [recapitulation, fundamento, theme 1].
Rallentando on last two thirty-seconds [LH, m. 55]. Slow down a little bit [pochito].
Please remember that this movement depends on these little details. If you do not, the
movement is music you dont understand and is very boring. Now, play the crescendo in
the modulation to C-sharp [beginning in m. 63].
[m. 70] Watch out, watch out! The first group of thirty-seconds has to be calmer. Thats
it! [Eso.]
The alternations of right hand and left hand [in m. 70, beats 2 and 3] are original and you
should do them.
Play the section [beginning in m. 76] to do the crescendo ritenuto [m. 78]. Thats it!
Before I forget to tell you, the last two thirty-seconds before the molto legato [m. 76] are
calm, but continue in crescendo. [Again Arrau asks that transitions not be too abrupt,
following his first remark].
Play the half notes [m. 100].
Miranda: Here is crescendo, not diminuendo [before m. 100].
Arrau: Yes , but you should get to forte here [m. 100, beat 1], and then, on the first half

notes, mezzo forte on the seventh [m. 100, beat 2].


Do you want to know something else? You wait too long on the eighth note before the
half note [mm. 101-4]. You are distorting the rhythm. Think it in measures. Thats it,
thats it! No. You have to study it. The last third in eighth notes is ppp [m. 103] and the
last sixth, well, there is no marking.
Miranda: P [m. 101], then pp [m. 102], then ppp [m. 103], then pppp [m.104].

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Arrau: Muy bien! You have to study it very meticulously, mathematically, almost

pedantically [mm. 101-4].


Please play the last transition up to the end [mm. 109ff.].
II. Allegro molto.
Miranda: Sorry for the imprecision.
Arrau: Its ok. Now, the Allegro molto has become a little too slow, and the Trio too fast.

[Judging by this comment, it seems Miranda has played this in a previous lesson.]
Miranda: I was afraid of doing it too fast, but now its too slow.

Arrau: In the sixth measure, youre playing the left hand staccato instead of legato.
Starting in measure 9, the soprano is too weak. You are putting the weight on the wrong
side. Take flight [vuelo more lift in the right arm]. Go to the other side as much as you
can.
Miranda: You mean, more up and down?
Arrau: Yes, but also sideways. But the one where you have to take special flight is to the

fourth A-flat [m. 12; the accent has the effect of organizing mm. 9-14 in two-measure
units]. Do you understand the syncopations in the left hand? You can hear them better if
you accent the right hand. The syncopations in the left hand should have full value so that
you hear the forces one against each other. Syncopation means to go against something.
[Arrau sings the RH part.] Make this very clear. Just now when you just played it, you
drowned the right hand with the left hand. The left hand was too loud, the right hand too
soft. But play without losing the accents.
But then, ritardando before the a tempo, [m. 33] fortissimo. That is very Beethovenian.
You do the opposite.
Play a little of the two tempos, Allegro molto and the Trio, and compare them. In no way
play faster than that. The two should have the same tempo.
Very staccato on the two notes for the left hand in the upper range [LH, mm. 48-49].
[At mm. 41ff.] Be very conscious, study carefully, because if you dont, it sounds dead.
There are two groups of three, one of two [eighth notes in the right-hand part]. Shape it;
but then when you play it, play the big line with those things inside.
Miranda: If you practice it that way, you play it more fluently.

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Arrau: Exactly! On the sforzando [m. 48] you loose the character of YA TA TA, with

anger! Before getting to the second time through, you have to get to fortissimo. Up to
the second measure [m. 41], [play] fortissimo, especially the left hand. [In mm. 41, 49,
57, 65, etc.]: The left hand imitates the right hand. A lot of energy! Lets look for a
fingering that you could really play it [RH] fortissimo. You could play the top note [m.
40, RH] with three fingers, but try to have the thumb free [to keep going]. 5 4 3 on high
F.
There is also the possibility to do it like this.
No crescendo [before the ff, m. 48].
[In mm. 48-49]: There are three fortissimo notes; the last fortissimo is the end of these
three but it is also the beginning, so it has to be very clear. Those notes [should] never
[be] weak. Usually, people play soft on the F [at beginning of m. 48]. Where you have
the four measures in fortissimo [mm. 72-75], dont diminish the intensity.
[At the ritardando in the recapitulation, mm. 104ff.]:
Its very hard, to make it comprehensible for the listener. Why? It has to scare. You have
to get scared of your own effervescence and vitality. [After the ritardando]: More
ritardando, less ritenuto [more gradual slowing down].
Coda:
Arrau: Please! No ritardando at all before it is marked.
Miranda: Get there with all the energy. Forte, mezzo forte on the C chord, piano on the
final measures.

III. Adagio ma non troppo


[The movements are connected by pedal].
Arrau: More deep. You have to sink yourself into that pedal. Sink like you do in the depth

of the sea. Sink in your own soul. Hold the pedal between last two notes. The crescendo
in the Andante [m. 4] you didnt do enough. The three chords go in crescendo to mezzo
forte and then piano [m. 5]. The articulations on the same notes [the As, m. 5], I dont
like them. They sound too attacked. Crescendo more when it says meno adagio [m. 6] so
the C-flat will make a cry of pain. Here [mm. 14-16] you didnt do enough crescendo up
to G-flat [RH, m. 15, beat 3]. Crescendo up to G-natural [in LH, m. 16].
[Change] Pedal for every triplet [mm. 7ff.].
In Arioso dolente [m. 9], the feeling has to be desolation. In the last phrase, after you
have cried all your pain, the last phrase [m. 24, beat 4 m. 26] is like an act of
humbleness. And that [the Arioso dolente] goes for a long time, so from the depth of your
soul comes hope. Wait before the second one [last note of the movement, m. 26].
IV. Fuga, Allegro ma non troppo

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Arrau: [m. 114] Not too fast. The fugue is a millimeter [millimetro] too fast. The idea of

the whole fugue is that you are walking higher and growing on your faith, faith in God.
And then, you get to the end of the fugue with total conviction. And for that, it has to be
a little more fluid but, in general, you keep it quite collected, serene. Be careful after the
first crescendo that you dont play the first G of the middle voice too loud [m. 45],
because that is the beginning of the theme in octaves. But still, it is loud. You do a
diminuendo too soon.
Remember, I told you once that people play this fugue just bringing out the theme; they
dont play like they are seeing it in different lights, shades. The different voices are
giving different colors to the theme all the time. Thats why the other voices have to be
active and not too weak. The other voices are commenting, developing the theme. In the
voices of the intermezzos [episodes], when the theme is not present, the voices are still
active, as in a conversation [m. 58]. After that theme, you have to make the voices more
independent. This time when you played the bass, it didnt really mean anything. All the
voices have to have their life. The ninth [m. 70, between the G in the bass and the A-flat
in the treble], especially the minor ninth, always expresses a lot of pain. Here it is like a
cry. Dont you see there is a pause from the eighth note [actually after the quarter-note B
on beat 1] before? Take flight [vuelo, waiting a little bit, and lifting more before
playing] from there. Its as if suddenly you remember the pain from the arioso and you
cry. And then, desperately, you go back to the path of faith [m. 82]. When I said the
voices should be active, here you did it better. The middle voices also have to have life.
Then, after the third [three] octaves [m. 101], you have to get to the theme tremendously.
Remember that Listesso tempo means the same tempo. You are already in tempo there,
without ritardando. [Arrau points out that the tempo in the third movement is the same as
the tempo reached at the end of this first fugue.]
Do the ornament [in m. 125] with the downbeat.
In the last two measures [mm. 207-8], the left hand is very important and youre not
doing it because of your fingering. [Arrau suggests the fingering 5-3-2 2-2-3 | 5-3-2
2-2-3 for the lower notes of the left hand part.] The left hand has to be like a
thunderstorm. Dont rush for anything on earth, because the more you rush, the more you
lose the quality of grandiosity. And this sonata especially is one of hope and triumph. The
Listesso tempo [m. 114] seemed to me slower than before. At Perdendo le forze [m. 116]
you [should] lose force; but then you crescendo [m. 133]. Youre still alive!
Take a breath before the last fugue. You lift up the pedal and start with a new pedal for
the first note. Start the second fugue a little slower and, little by little, get into the primo
tempo. When you get here [Meno allegro, m. 168] you have to hold back the last three
notes [in each motive]. The Meno allegro is a moment of jubilation. You have to study it
counting aloud to make the tempo very clear. Poco a poco pi mosso [m. 172] needs a
little agitation. The sforzando [in the fugue subject, LH, mm. 175-76, 179-82], very, very
[inaudible]; its costing you a lot.

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In the Allegro molto [second movement] you could play the sforzando, but not here yet.
Make your power from here and not from there. The movement loses its mystical
quality. Have you heard the story of the angel that lives two different lives? And he
elevates himself to the clouds. And these two moments in which the angel gets to heaven
represent the two fugues.

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APPENDIX FOUR
A LESSON ON RAVELS GASPARD DE LA NUIT
Claudio Arrau and Mario Miranda. Tape recorded, 1965
In Spanish. Translated by Angelina Tallaj, Laura Ahumada, Cesar Reyes, Marcia Lewis,
and German Diez.
Scarbo
Arrau: Now that you stopped, the beginning is a little bit too slow. [Some inaudible
conversation takes place.] The beginning of the tremolo [at m. 45] is ok. You should
have started at that tempo from the beginning. You are always behind [adrasado] on the
main motive at Au mouvt. [To guide how this should be played, Arrau sings: ta da dee;
m. 45; there is no pause before the third note of the motive.] Thats why the fingering, the
new one that I have, they are like bunches of fingers.
[Arrau is referring to the left-hand arpeggio. He uses the word racimos, bunch, a word
used in speaking of bananas; when playing fast, the fingers should operate in a bunch.
Considerable time is spent discussing fingering for the left-hand arpeggio.]
[He tries another fingering.] It could be 5-3.
Miranda: Its kind of hard for me, that fingering.
Arrau: I think you raise the fifth finger, but raise the wrist! The wrist, a little bit before.
Later, later! There, there! [All of this concerns the LH, m. 38.] [Beginning of the
arpeggio]: (trapo) Hanging loose.
After the third measure [m. 34] what fingering do you do? Thats ok, and later: 5-5 [in
the] third measure. No, thats impossible. Try to play regular arpeggios. In the
impressionist style, you have to play all the notes, but very blurred. The structure of the
passage is faulty. Its unrealistic the way he wrote it. Keep the notes very blurred
because keeping it clear is not the point.
Ok, lets see the beginning. You should try not to have a big pause between the beginning
and the first motive and the chord. Quicker [rapido]! You are playing too carefully,
trying to bring out all the notes. I still dont like the character of the first three notes. It
must be already scary in character. It has to produce terror already. You played it better
this time.
The fingering 2-1 is better than 1-2 [on the tremolo].
Miranda: Gieseking plays it quite slower in his last period.
Arrau: People say that de Laroccha plays it like that. I also think the sound is a little
takatakataka [too articulated, each note defined clearly, on the tremolo].
Miranda: I cant do the pianissimo, the diminuendo.

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Arrau: Your first note is a little bit too soft. . . . That was the best. Your bass note is a
little bit too loud [mm. 9-13].
Miranda: Can I use 1-3 here [on the tremolo]?
Arrau: Yes, you can. You could do the movement first [tremolo mm. 9-13]. This
movement can be done better with first and second fingers. Each piano is different and
each hall. Like the glissando in the Waldstein, it is different with every piano and
every hall. You have to go and try it.
The accelerando you are not doing gradually enough [mm. 17ff.]. In the last measures
you accelerate too much while you dont accelerate enough in the beginning.
[After mm. 23ff.] Are you loose? Are you inside the keys? Trs fondu en tremolo,
[very meltingly in tremolo] it says at the beginning, and this is valid here, too. Again,
you should not hear all the notes. You are playing all the notes but you dont have to
hear them [following the comment above, that the notes should be more blurred
together]. I would like you to do the previous crescendo up to a forte, then subito
pianissimo [m. 23] and then start again.
Miranda: So you have to breathe.
Arrau: Yes.
[Miranda plays mm. 15ff.]
Arrau: But the important thing is [sings] really, really light.
[Miranda plays again.]
Arrau: Pretty. [In m. 32] The triplets are better. After that, a little too fast [in mm. 39ff.].
You have to play very measured sixteenth notes.
Miranda: Where it says 2 ped., should I use just the left pedal?
Arrau: No, no! Put down both. All these tremolo figures throughout the whole piece
should be played with two pedals.
[Miranda plays at m. 32].
Arrau: Do the same thing without getting away from the keys. The second time you did
it pretty, the first time, no. You cut it [paused before the third note of the motive]. More
crescendo! [Arrau sings the motive.]
[At un peu marqu, m. 52] The C is very important. [Arrau sings the crescendo, m. 54, to
show the decrescendo.] Uprising!
Miranda: Its like a commentary on the previous figure.

360

Arrau: Yes, those things continue through the passage. Why dont you put a mark for the
breath after the crescendo [beginning of m. 54] and three measure later, too? A breathing
point, one [auno after un peu marqu before m. 52], another [otro after the pp], and
naturally, four measures later. These breathing points at this point are very important
because you have very different elements. Thats one thing; [sings] another thing. Yes,
very good, but a little crescendo.
And now do something else. Those measures, dont rush them [mm. 57-58, 64-65.] One
tends to rush when there is a difficult part because you dont want to face the difficulty.
Its a discipline exercise to play in public and have total control of the tempo. And in that
part [m. 67] where you have the thirds and 2 ped. symbol, try to start pianissimo. And
please count, 1-2-3.
Miranda: Should I do 1-5, 1-4, or 1-5, 2-3 [fingering on the thirds, mm. 65-67]?
Arrau: 1-4, 2-3 is a little bit too difficult.
Miranda: On the chromatic scale here, I have 1-2-3-4-5 [m. 67].
Arrau: Thats the best. After that you have an accent on that measure [m. 68], but you
did it on the second measure, too [Arrau means, do not accent the beginning of m. 69].
And now, right there on the first measure [in mm.73ff.], show me the left hand. Show me
first the going up. Then well treat the going down. You should go down much slower
than you go up [m. 73 contains triplet sixteenths; m. 74 contains duplet sixteenths]. Go
towards the thumb [going up]. How wouldnt it be possible to play [staccato, m. 73]?
You just didnt put in the work on it. Youre always late with the left hand. You have a
tendency to get sluggish because of trying to connect the ninth. But you have to do five
jumps [you have to vibrate every note] without rotation. You didnt do the crescendo [m.
75]. Stay there [dont jump off the keys, mm. 78-79]. That little . . . [m. 79; sentence
unfinished].
Miranda: But Im doing this legato and then a staccato.
Arrau: Yes, the right hand is legato and the left hand is staccato. In the following dont
rush. All of this was really good [mm. 80ff.], but please, please write it down. Everyone
starts rushing because its easier there [m. 80].
Miranda: But its pianissimo right there.
Arrau: Yes, but when you play it fast, its easier. That has to be measured, not running.
Even in the big crescendo, that goes toward the chord [m. 92]. Dont rush! Very well, but
you didnt do the diminuendo [m. 93]. Its just a matter of concentration. Now you
anticipated the crescendo [mm. 104ff.], the one before the pause. It has to feel like
something that comes over you, like a nightmare, like its going to catch you.

361

Miranda: Should I do lateral movement [rotation]?


Arrau: Yes, a little bit, but it should feel measured. I dont like that da dup pum [m.
110]. Thats pretty when you go toward the top. You cut it! Now, remember that after
the triplets it should be measured [broken octaves, mm. 116-19]. Now what fingering do
you use there [m. 110]?
The important thing now is exactly . . . [sentence unfinished].
You have to play the Es vibrating [m. 122]. Thats it! Pretty!
Thats where you lose the rhythm [m. 131]. You start late, then you rush. [Play] With a
little bit of pedal.
Miranda: Here I become a little bit stiff.
Arrau: Thats because of the fingering.
Miranda: I didnt notice it before but I should have played like this.

Arrau: Yes.
Miranda: I heard a recording from the . . . it doesnt sound good.

Arrau: How did you realize it? By watching the music? What an ear you have!
Play very mechanically [mm. 159-67]! No rushing [m. 170]. Exact. Youre rushing.
Remember to do the same way as before [the chords]. What notes do you play there? It
sounds a bit weird [m. 162]. The last one is a little bit tricky. Maybe you could do it with
two vibrations.
Miranda: The fingering: 1-2-5, 1-3-5?
Arrau: Fingers 1-2-5. You are in trouble in this passage [mm. 168ff.]. When you get to
the fourth measure, let go of the pedal. Play pp but on the four staccati [mm. 171, 176]
study it ff. You get too lazy on the staccati. Its preferable to slow down.
[At m. 181, Miranda shows the fingering.]
Arrau: Do you use the thumb every time? It doesnt necessarily have to be the same
fingering every time. The four staccati are too important to let them go unnoticed. The
rhythmical change is really important. Now play this measure with a little ritardando [m.
171]. If you do that and also fortissimo when you practice it, you will be able to play it.
And now imagine a little crescendo [on the four staccati]. Now another little little trick
that you could do there on the first two notes of that measure [m. 182]! They are legato
and belong to the previous idea. Do them a little faster, and cut the pedal before the
staccato. And now the dynamic gradation is very important. First pianissimo [m. 168],
then piano [at m. 179, change to E-flat minor], then B major [m. 190], mezzo forte. On
the B major part, the crescendo is too much anticipated. You did the forte well and the

362
diminuendo [mm. 198ff.] but the fortissimo was not good. The thing is to lift the weight
on the rest [before you play the chords in m. 204] and drop, down-down; do two
vibrations after the rest. Or, you lift and play up-down. Did you understand the two
possibilities? Up-down.
Miranda: Or two downs? It should be relaxed.
Arrau: I realize that myself more and more. The lifting has to be the total relaxation of
the whole body. Lets check that first measure. What are you playing there [m. 202]?
Play again the two measures before the ff [mm. 202-3]. The fortissimo has to be
luminous, like the sun.
Incorrect! Dont rush [m. 220]!
[Miranda plays mm. 215ff. A discussion of fingerings for m. 232 follows.] This passage
is really hard and it is hard not to slow down. Every fingering is hard on that. The less
risky is 5-3-2-1 [LH], 5-2 on the last two notes. The intervals are wide. If the passage
comes out, thats the best fingering. The biggest challenge in this passage is to start from
an almost inaudible level, as if you had five ps. The whole passage is so difficult you
need to play it with a big impulse [Arrau uses the word vuelo]. And Im thinking that if
you start that passage with a lot of weight, youre going to make it too loud.
Miranda: Is the note in the bass pianissimo [m. 228]?
Arrau: Yes. Im thinking you could vibrate the pedal in that passage.
Miranda: Should I hold the bass note?
Arrau: The bass note has to get lost. The right hand was a little too heavy.
Thats it! What follows, you can work it out on your own.
Miranda: This passage [m. 253] is a little safer and Im doing the same fingering.
Arrau: But there are some tricky intervals. Use the same fingering as before, 5-3-2-1; and

at the end, also, 5-2.


Right there [mm. 256ff.], the appoggiaturas [the grace-note figures] have to start on time.
But notice that the first four measures are pianissimo and then the next four measures are
piano. Then comes that marvelous b-minor modulation [m. 268], which has to be
pianissimo In the b-minor section, you still have to notice those appoggiaturas that begin
on time [on the beat]. Before the [Arrau sings m. 268], take a breath. Look! Look! Its
like water! But I shouldnt talk about water because there isnt any water in this one. But
deep inside its the same window.
Its similar to Ondine [at mm. 264-67], where passages that refer to the water come out
of the blue. After that, the nervousness is going to return. Put the una corda pedal at the
change of key [m. 264]. Now, what fingering do you do on that right hand [m. 264]?

363
Yes, right there you can use 1-2 [C-sharp - D], but really the problem is that you play the
appoggiaturas as a chord. Right there, use 2 so you can go forward faster.
Miranda: I think what one should not do is play with anticipation, to throw myself at the
passage. [Anticipate the high notes, concentrate on the low notes.]
Arrau: And actually, even anticipate yourself a little bit. And now pause [m. 267];
before the ppp, a cut; and 9 measures later [after m. 276], another cut.
Right there, it is important that the position of the left hand is really high, that the fingers
are completely straight [mm. 277ff.].
After the ppp, you have four easy measures [mm. 277-80], but then the following four
measures you have to make your right hand go far from the left hand so that you leave a
place for the right hand [Arrau seems to be advising that the LH cross under the RH, and
that the RH must lift up to allow sufficient space for the LH to play comfortably]. Lift
your right hand.
Youre running a lot in that passage [mm. 285ff.]. You play legato because youre being
lazy. Shake the three notes [RH part] three times.
I still dont like your staccato passages very much [m. 285]. Play a little heavier and
louder. Right there [mm. 305 and 307] you always play wrong notes in the bass. [In LH,
m. 291] You play E instead of G-sharp.
I like how you are starting to play the staccato passagesshaking, shaking, shaking!
Play the third measure of the E-flat section [m. 305]. I want to check. Right there where
you have the two notes together with the right hand [mm. 310-12, where two consecutive
chords are written for RH], do it with shaking of the hand. Thats it! Loose and heavy!
Right there [m. 314] you have to do the crescendo just like the beginning, and in the left
hand [sings], too. Lets see, lets see, lets see! Youre making the same mistake as
everybody else. Right there, the last measure [LH, m. 317, beat 2]: E-sharp! Yes, the Esharp is because of the harmony.
Miranda: [plays the chords].
Arrau: Yes! Yes! Thats why, its E-sharp in the following one [RH, m. 318], but then Enatural. [RH, m. 320]. Ravel does those irregularities on purpose. That irregularity is very
Ravel-like. He solves the dissonance by using E-natural later.
Change pedal after the first beat [m. 319]. I still dont like that. Its too rushed [m. 314].
And then youre always behind [RH, m. 324]. That passage [mm. 325ff.], everybody
slows it down, but that cannot be. It has to be exactly in the previous tempo. Youre
making it harder for yourself by playing the grace note in the left hand as an octave.
Miranda: 2-5 for the grace note?

364

Arrau: Yes, thats the best. 5-3 goes well [for the bottom notes of the octaves, B-F-sharp,
LH, m. 326].
Now show me the fingering [RH, m. 326].
Miranda: 5-2-1-4-2-1-4-2-1.
[left hand] Should I finish with the 5th finger?
Arrau: Yes. 1-2-4-5-1-2-5-1-4 [This is unclear, but seems to refer to LH, m. 327, beat 2
m. 328, note 3]. Now this passage going down is really hard. Is that hard for you? You
have to study it, C-sharp - F-sharp [fast], D C-sharp, rhythm; and also the first two [Fsharp and C-sharp] together.
Then in the fourth measure come the sixty-fourth notes. What fingering do you do [RH,
m. 328]? The only safe fingering is 1-2-3-4-5 1-2-3-4-5. You still dont have a very
flexible wrist.
Miranda: It is convenient to do it like a single brush stroke?
Arrau: Yes. Thats better. And now diminuendo. And then again [m. 331]; only on the Eflat in left hand, did you have the thumb in the third measure, not the fourth [m. 330]?
The wrist, really high [RH, m. 331]. Thats really good now, but pay attention to the last
two so that you really shake the E-sharp [last note for the RH, m. 329].
The second passage [RH, m. 332], mucho esto, a lot in the thumb, sideways [lateral
motion]. Your thumb is not flexible enough.
Show me the left hand. What fingers do you do [LH, m. 335]? Third finger on D, [last
note for LH, m. 333].
No running [m. 335]!
No, youre doing something here that Rafael already corrected. That passage of the scale
[mm. 333-35] is one of the hardest in the piece and nobody can play it. You have to
practice it a hundred thousand times and without looking.
Miranda: So that I learn where the notes are spatially.
Arrau: Especially the space on the note A [LH, m. 334, beat 1] is terrible. A hundred
thousand times, and then try that all the notes form one movement that isnt interrupted.
That it doesnt have any jumps. Do you want to do it a few times, just the left hand?
[Miranda plays.] Pay attention to the last sixth going up [m. 334, beat 2]. Are you going
to do 1-2-3 before the A or are you going to do 1-2-4? What do you do on the bottom?
Fifth finger, right?
Miranda: Yes.
Arrau: So then practice this 1-2-3 and then jump to the seventh together. G and A
together. And that, too, a hundred thousand times. Then going up, the seventh together,

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then the thumb, then the third together. Thats it! Up-and-down would really do it.
Without doing it like that youll never play it. Now, lets see the next two arpeggios in
the left hand.
Miranda: Theyll never come out.
Arrau: After many years of experience, the ultimate fingering:1-2-4-5, then 1-3-1-2-4-5
[LH, m. 338]. Please notice that that part starts mezzo-forte [m. 345]. Each time you have
that, its mezzo-forte. There are four times [mm. 345, 347, 349, 351]. Write it down.
Miranda: [inaudible].
Arrau: Yes, every time. And that last arpeggio like this: bshshsshsh! Keep on going.
I know you must be a little tired, but I just want to see the shaking [mm. 358ff.]. Very big
shake! Un peu retenu [m. 366, Arrau sings the two motives]. Instead of sixteenth notes,
youre playing thirty-second notes. Thats right! Now a little secret for the first note: it
should be natural, but its not. For that first measure in the right hand, be already on the
keys. And that also helps you for the left hand. The same for the third measure [m. 368].
So when you finish, move the right hand right away to the following chords of the next
measure, because thats where you get behind.

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APPENDIX FIVE
DIRECTORY OF NAMES
SOURCE ABBREVIATIONS
DP

Wilson Lyle, A Dictionary of Pianists (London: Robert Hale, 1985).

EB

Encyclopedia Britannica Online, 2006.

GD1

Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (London: Macmillan, 1879).

GD2

Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (London: Macmillan, 1904).

NGD New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (London: Macmillan, 1980).
NGD2 New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (London: Macmillan, 2001).
NGDA New Grove Dictionary of American Music (London: Macmillan, 1986).
ODP

Simon Blackburn, The Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy (Oxford and New York: Oxford
University Press, 1994)

RML1 Hugo Riemanns Musik Lexikon (Berlin: M. Hesse, 1929).


RML2 Riemann Musik Lexikon (Mainz and New York: Schott, 1959-67).

Albert, Eugen (Francis Charles) d. Scottish-German pianist and composer, b. Glasgow, 1864; d.
Riga, 1932. DAlbert studied music with Arthur Sullivan and Ebenezer Prout at the
National Training School in London. In 1881 he traveled to Vienna, where he met Liszt;
the following year, he was a pupil of Liszt at Weimar. He toured widely as a piano
virtuoso from 1880 to 1900, and was known for his performances of German repertory.
DAlbert was court conductor at Weimar in 1885 and became director of the Berlin
Hochschule fr Musik in 1907. He was married six times, once to Teresa Carreo from

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1892 to 1895. His compositions include twenty-one operas, two piano concertos,
chamber music, lieder, piano pieces, and orchestral works. (NGD2)
Boissier, Comtesse de Gasparin, Valerie. Swiss writer, b. Geneva, 1813; d. Pregny-Chambsy
1894. Valerie Boissier was a pupil of Liszt in 1832. She was married to French Count
Agnor tienne de Gasparin in 1837. She wrote more than eighty literary and
journalistic works, mainly on religious themes. In 1859 she founded, with her husband,
the cole Normale Evanglique de Gardes-malades Indpendantes in Lausanne, the first
secular school for nurses, from which todays clinic and school, La Source, developed
(www.cosmovision.com/Gasparin.htm and www.1914-1918.be/soigner_inf.php).
Boissier-Butini, Caroline. Swiss composer and author, b. unknown; d. 1836. Mother of Valerie
Boissier, she is author of a description of Liszts teaching entitled Liszt pdagogue:
Leons de piano donnes par Liszt Mademoiselle Valerie Boissier Paris en 1832
(Paris, 1927). Her compositions include six piano concertos
(www.bonet.ch/musikdorf/index).
Breithaupt, Rudolf Maria. German piano teacher, composer, writer; b. Braunschweig, 1873; d.
Ballenstadt, 1945. Breithaupt succeeded Martin Krause as professor of piano at the Stern
Conservatory in Berlin and remained there from 1919 to 1929. His writings include Die
natrliche Klaviertechnik (Leipzig, 1906-1922) and Musikalische Zeit- und Streitfragen
(Grossenwrden [Nieder-Elbe], 1927). (DP)
Buhlig, Richard. American pianist and teacher, b. Chicago, 1880; d. Los Angeles, 1952. Buhlig
studied with Leschetizky and made his debut in Berlin in 1901; his American debut was
in 1907 with the Philadelphia Orchestra in New York. Buhlig was the teacher of Henry
Cowell and Wesley Kuhnle, and he took them with him to Europe in 1925. He was also

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the teacher of John Cage. Grete Sultans association with John Cage was the result of
their mutual relationship with Buhlig. Buhlig was also a piano teacher at the Institute of
Musical Art in New York City. (NGDA)
Caland, Elisabeth. Dutch-German pianist, teacher, and writer on piano technique; b. Rotterdam,
Netherlands, 1862; d. Berlin, 1929. A pupil of Ludwig Deppe and Josef Rebiek, Caland
also studied with Marie Trautmann Jall in 1897. She taught in Berlin from 1898 and in
Gehlsdorf (Mecklenburg-Schwerin) from 1915. Calands writings on piano technique
include Rforme pianistique (systme Deppe) (Brussels: 1899), Die Ausntzung der
Kraftquellen beim Klavierspiel: physiologisch-anatomische Betrachtungen (Stuttgart,
1905), Technische Ratschlge fr Klavierspieler (Stuttgart, 1902), Das knstlerische
Klavierspiel in seinen physiologischphysikalischen Vorgngen (Stuttgart, 1910),
Praktischer Lehrgang: Anleitung zur Ausnutzung der Kraftquellen und zur Aneignung
der Bewegungsformen beim knstlerischen Klavierspiel (Stuttgart, 1897, 1912), Die
Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels (Stuttgart, 1912; Magdeburg, 1921). (RML2)
Carreo, (Maria) Teresa. Venezuelan pianist, composer, conductor, singer, b. Caracas, 1853; d.
New York City, 1917. Her family was musical, and her grandfather was composer Jos
Cayetano Carreo. In 1862 the family immigrated to New York, where Carreo studied
with Gottschalk. She made her debut at Irving Hall in 1862 and performed at the White
House for Abraham Lincoln in 1863. Later, she studied in Paris with Mathias and Anton
Rubinstein. She toured Europe and made her debut as an opera singer in 1876. After
returning briefly to Venezuela, she settled in Berlin in 1889. Carreo was recognized as
one of the greatest pianists of her time. She was married four times, once to pianist Eugen
dAlbert from 1892 to 1895. Her daughter with singer Giovanni Tagliapietra, Teresita

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Tagliapietra-Carreo, was also a pianist. Teresa Carreos compositions include some


forty works for piano and one string quartet. She recorded for the reproducing piano
Welte-Mignon. Active as a teacher, her pupils included Edward MacDowell. (NGD2)
Clark (Clark-Steiniger; also known as Leopold St. Damian), Frederic Horace. American pianist,
teacher, and writer on piano technique; b. Liebeshain (Loves Park), Illinois (near
Chicago), 1860; d. Zurich, 1917. Clark gave his birthplace as Liebeshain, a settlement
that was a three-day walk west of Chicago. There is no record of a place by that name in
northeastern Illinois; however, there is a town called Loves Park about ninety miles west
of Chicago, and Clark may have simply Germanized the name. Clark traveled back and
forth between Germany and the United States several times. He studied piano in
Germany at the Leipzig Conservatory with Oscar Paul, privately with Ludwig Deppe and
Heinrich Ehrlich, and possibly also with Moritz Moszkowski (Kullaks school) and Oscar
Raif (Tausigs student). Clark claimed to have met Liszt in 1877 and visited him in
Weimar in 1882. His conversations with Liszt about piano playing were the subject of
Clarks book, Liszts Offenbarung. Clark married fellow Deppe pupil Anna Steiniger (she
figures in Amy Fays Music Study in Germany) and the couple moved to Uxbridge,
Massachusetts (near Boston), in 1885. There, they hoped to gain a following for their
transcendentalist theories of piano playing, but were disappointed. Anna Steiniger Clark
died in 1891, and Clark remarried and moved to Valparaiso, Indiana, where he took a
position as teacher in a normal school. Nothing further of his family is known, but in
1903 Clark was back in Germany, developing his theory of Harmonie, and giving
concerts to demonstrate his Cherubim-doctrine of playing in a standing position using a
two-keyboard piano, which he invented. His theories gained no more recognition in

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Germany than in the United States. Clark moved to Switzerland sometime between 1913
and 1914 and founded a publishing company, Pianisten-harmoniepresse, and a journal,
Das Musizieren der Zukunft. Clarks writings include Die Lehre des einheitlichen
Kunstmittels beim Klavierspiel (1885), Phorolyse des Klavierspiels (1885), Liszts
Offenbarung, Schlssel zur Freiheit des Individuums (1907), Pianistenharmonie (1910),
Eudmonie-Legende (1912-14), and Brahms-Noblesse (1914). (RML1; Robert Andres,
Pianos and Pianism: Frederic Horace Clark and the Quest for Unity of Mind, Body, and
Universe)
Deppe, Ludwig. German violinist, composer, conductor, and piano pedagogue, b. Alverdissen,
Lippe,1828; d. Bad Pyrmont, 1890. Deppe studied under Eduard Marxsen and Johann
Christian Lobe. He taught piano, founded a musical society in Hamburg, and was a
conductor there until 1868. He was Kapellmeister of the Royal Opera in Berlin (1874-86)
and conductor of the Silesian musical society in Breslau (1876). Among Deppes pupils
were Amy Fay, Frederic Horace Clark, C. A. Ehrenfechter, Hermann Klose, Emil Sauer,
and Donald Francis Tovey. His compositions include a symphony, overtures, and songs.
His essay Armleiden der Klavierspieler appeared in Der Klavierlehrer in 1885.
(NGD2)
Dreyschock, Alexander. Bohemian pianist and composer, b. ky, 1818; d. Venice, 1869. He
studied in Prague with Tomek in 1833, and toured Europe and Russia as a virtuoso
from 1838 to 1849. From 1862 until 1868 he was professor of piano at the St. Petersburg
Conservatory. Seeking relief from the Russian climate, he traveled to Italy in 1868 and
died there. Dreyschock performed mainly his own works, written to display his technical

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ability. His brother, Felix Dreyschock, was a violinist, second concertmaster of the
Gewandhaus Orchestra, and professor of violin at the Leipzig Conservatory. (NGD2)
Ehlert, Louis. German pianist, teacher, writer on music, b. Knigsberg, 1825; d. Wiesbaden,
1884. He was a pupil of Robert Schumann and Felix Mendelssohn at the Leipzig
Conservatory in 1845. After further studies in Vienna, he settled in Berlin in 1850 and
taught piano in Karl Tausigs Schule des hheren Klavierspiels. Later he went to
Meiningen as teacher to the Ducal court, and finally to Wiesbaden. He composed piano
music, choral music, orchestral music, and Requiem fr ein Kind. His writings include
Briefe ber Musik an ein Freundin (Berlin, 1879), Rmische Tage (Berlin, 1867, 1898),
and Aus der Tonwelt (Berlin, 1877). (GD2)
Ehrenfechter, C. A. English writer on piano technique and author of Technical Study in the Art of
Pianoforte Playing: Deppes Principles (London, 1900, 1939). No further information
available.
Faisst, Immanuel. German pianist, organist, and teacher, b. Esslingen,1823; d. Stuttgart, 1894.
Faisst studied theology in Schnthal and Tbingen. He was a self-taught musician but for
a few lessons with Felix Mendelssohn, K. A. Haupt (organ), and S. Dehn (theory) in
Berlin. At Stuttgart from 1846, he taught piano and organ and was organist and
choirmaster at the Stiftskirche. With Lebert and Stark, he was a founder of the Stuttgart
Conservatory in 1857. He toured successfully as an organist and composed numerous
lieder as well as choral and organ works. He is known for his pedagogical compositions
and editions. (NGD2)
Fay, Amy. American pianist, teacher, composer, and writer on music, b. Bayou Goula,
Louisiana, 1844; d. Watertown, Massachusetts, 1928. She studied piano in Germany with

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Carl Tausig, Theodor Kullak, Franz Liszt, and Ludwig Deppe. In 1875 she returned to the
United States to concertize, settling first in Boston and then in Chicago (1878), where she
taught, wrote, and lectured on music. She moved to New York City and, from 1903 to
1914, was president of the New York Womens Philharmonic Society, an organization
devoted to promoting achievement by women in music. Her book Music Study in
Germany (Chicago, 1880) is an important source of information on European music in
the later nineteenth century. She also published The Deppe Finger Exercises: For
Rapidly Developing an Artistic Touch in Pianoforte Playing (Chicago, 1890; reprinted
Chicago, 1971). She composed one piano concerto, dedicated to Teresa Carreo. John
Alden Carpenter was her pupil. (NGD2)
Ftis, Francois. Belgian music theorist, historian, and composer, b. Mons, near Lige, 1784; d.
Brussels, 1871. He studied with (Franois-)Adrien Boieldieu and Louis Pradher at the
Paris Conservatoire, where he became a professor (in 1821) and librarian. He taught
privately and at Chorons Institution Royale de Musique Classique and Religieuse, and
wrote reviews for Le Temps and Le National. In 1872 he founded Revue musicale and
wrote it almost single-handedly. He was appointed director of the Brussels Conservatory
in 1833. He published the Revue musicale de la Belgique, nearly identical to the Revue
musicale in Paris, which was by this time supervised by his son. His historical writings
include Biographie universelle des musicians (8 volumes, 1835-44), Histoire gnral de
la musique (1869-76), and biographies of Paganini and Stradivarius. His Mthode des
mthodes de piano (Paris, 1850) was written in collaboration with Moscheles. His
compositions include two symphonies, four operas, chamber music, church music, and
piano music. (NGD2)

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Fischer, Edwin. Swiss pianist and conductor, b. Basle, 1886; d. Zurich, 1960. Fischer attended
the Basle Conservatory and studied piano with Hans Huber; later, he studied with Liszt
pupil Martin Krause at the Stern Conservatory in Berlin. Fischer was one of Europes
leading pianists in the 1920s. After teaching at the Stern Conservatory (1905-14) and the
Berlin Hochschule fr Musik (starting in 1931), he returned to Switzerland (1943) and
held master classes in Lucerne. His pupils included Paul Badura-Skoda, Alfred Brendel,
and Sequeira Costa. He founded the Edwin-Fischer-Stiftung, a foundation to help young
or needy musicians. His publications include songs, short piano pieces, cadenzas for
concertos by Mozart and Beethoven, and editions of Mozarts piano sonatas, Bachs
keyboard works, and Beethovens violin sonatas. (NGD2)
Fleischmann, Tilly Swertz. Irish pianist and teacher, b. Cork, 1883; d. Cork, 1967. Her father,
Conrad Swertz, came to Cork from Dachau, Germany, in the late 1870s to take a position
as cathedral organist. Tilly studied piano at the Royal Academy of Music in Munich from
1901 to 1906, and took master classes from 1903 with Liszt pupil Bernhard Stavenhagen.
She married Aloys Fleischmann, a composer from Dachau and pupil of Rheinberger, and
the couple returned to Cork, where Aloys acceeded to the position of cathedral organist
and choirmaster and Tilly continued teaching piano until the day of her death. Their son,
Aloys Fleischmann (called Og, meaning young), studied music at University College,
Cork, and in Munich from 1932 until 1934. He was professor of music in Cork from 1934
to 1980. A composer and conductor, he founded the Cork International Choral Festival;
he was also an authority on traditional Irish music. He died in 1992; his Sources of Irish
Traditional Music was published in New York in 1998.
(www.musicweb.uk.net/bax/Tilly.htm)

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Godowsky, Leopold. Polish-American pianist, b. Soshly near Vilnius, 1870; d. New York, 1938.
Following the death of his father, he was raised by foster parents in Vilnius. By the age
of five he was proficient on the piano and violin and had begun composing. He gave his
first recital at the age of nine and subsequently toured throughout Lithuania and East
Prussia. After a brief period of study with Ernst Rudorff at the Berlin Hochschule fr
Musik, he traveled to America. He performed in Boston and New York in 1884 and 1885,
and the following year toured the Northeast United States and Canada with violinist
Ovide Musin. From 1887 to 1890, he was a protg of Saint-Sans in Paris. He returned
to the United States in 1890 and held teaching posts in New York, Philadelphia, and
Chicago. During the 1890s, he developed his theories of relaxed weight and economy of
motion in playing, and he began to make concert arrangements of other composers
works. In 1900 he took up residence in Berlin and made annual European tours until
1909. From 1909 to 1914, he was director of the Klaviermeisterschule of the Akademie
der Tonkunst in Vienna. He toured the United States in 1912 and 1914, and remained
there until his tour of East Asia in 1922. He resumed concertizing in Europe from 1926
to 1930. The years from 1926 to 1930 also saw the publication of numerous
transcriptions and original compositions. In 1928 he began recording major works by
Beethoven, Schumann, Grieg, and Chopin in London. He suffered a stroke in 1930 while
recording Chopins E major Scherzo. Godowsky composed many original works for solo
piano, but his best known compositions are his 53 Studies on the Etudes of Chopin and
transcriptions of Schuberts Songs and Bachs works. (NGD2)
Gllerich, August. German pianist and writer on music, b. Linz, 1859; d. Linz, 1923. Gllerich
studied piano with August Wick in Linz. He was Liszts pupil and secretary from May

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1884 until Liszts death in 1886. He became the head of the Ramann-Volckmann Music
School in Nuremberg in 1890, and director of the Richard Wagner Society there in 1891.
In 1896, Gllerich became head of the Music Society and Music Society School in Linz
(renamed the Kaiser Franz Josef Jubilee Music School in 1908). He is author of The
Piano Master Classes of Franz Liszt 1884-1886: Diary Notes of August Gllerich, edited
by Wilhelm Jerger, translated, edited, and enlarged by Richard Louis Zimdars
(Bloomington, 1996), and Franz Liszt: Erinnerungen (Berlin, 1908). With Max Auer, he
co-authored a biography of Anton Bruckner, Anton Bruckner: A Portrait of His Life and
Works (Regensburg, 1923-37). (The Piano Master Classes of Franz Liszt 1884-1886:
Diary Notes of August Gllerich)
Hauptmann, Moritz. German composer and writer, b. Dresden, 1792; d. Leipzig, 1868.
Hauptmann studied violin and composition under Spohr, was violinist in the Dresden
court chapel in 1812, and went to Vienna in 1813 with Spohrs orchestra. From 1815 to
1820 he served as teacher to the family of Prince Repnin and traveled with him to Russia.
He returned to Germany and in 1822 joined the orchestra of Kassel under Spohrs
direction. He also taught composition at Kassel, where his pupils included Ferdinand
David and Friedrich Burgmller. In 1842 recommendations from Spohr and Mendelssohn
led to his appointment as Kantor of the Thomasschule in Leipzig. In 1843 he became a
professor at the Leipzig Conservatory. His compositions consist of masses and choral
music. He was editor of the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung. As a founding member of
the Bach-Gesellschaft, he served as its first president and edited its first three volumes.
He wrote several theoretical works, including Erluterungen zu J. S. Bachs Kunst der

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Fuge (Leipzig, 1841, 1861) and Die Natur der Harmonik und Metrik (Leipzig, 1868,
1873). (NGD2)
Herz, Henri. German pianist, composer, and teacher, b. Vienna, 1803; d. Paris, 1888. Herz
studied with Daniel Hnten in Koblenz, and with Louis Pradher and Anton Reicha at the
Paris Conservatory. A widely celebrated virtuoso, he toured Europe, Russia, South
America, and the United States. He was professor of piano at the Paris Conservatory
from 1842 to 1874 and founded his own piano factory in 1851. With his brother, Jacques
Simon Herz, he founded the cole Spciale de Piano in Paris, where Marie Jall was one
of his pupils. He composed salon pieces in the style of Hummel, Czerny, and Moscheles.
(NGD2)
Jall, Marie Trautmann. Alsatian pianist, composer, and teacher, b. Steinseltz, 1846; d. Paris,
1925. A pupil of Henri Herz from 1857, she was also a friend to Liszt. Beginning in
1882, she spent several weeks each year as Liszts secretary at Weimar. In 1866, she
married pianist Alfred Jall (a Chopin pupil) and toured Europe with him, championing
music by Hiller, Liszt, Raff, Reinecke, and others. A composition pupil of Saint-Sans
and Franck, she composed approximately seventy works for piano, as well as concertos,
orchestral works, chamber music, and one opera. Fascination with Liszts playing
inspired her study of the psychology and physiology of piano playing (in collaboration
with physiologist Charles Fr) and her books: Le Toucher, enseignement du piano bas
sur la physiologie (1894; translated into German by her pupil, Albert Schweitzer), La
Musique et la psychophysiologie (1896), Le Mcanisme du toucher (1897), LIntelligence
et le rythme dans les mouvements artistiques (1904), Les Rythmes du regard et la
dissociation des doigts (1906), Un Nouvel tat de conscience et la coloration des

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sensations tactiles (1910), and La Rsonance du toucher et la topographie des pulpes


(1912). (NGD2)
Joseffy, Rafael. Hungarian pianist and composer, b. Hunfalo, Hungary, 1852; d. New York,
1915. Joseffy studied in Budapest with Ferenc Brauer (teacher of Stephen Heller), in
Leipzig with Moscheles and Wenzel (1866), and in Berlin with Tausig (1868-70). He
spent two summers (1870 and 1871) with Liszt in Weimar. In 1879 he settled in New
York. He toured with Theodore Thomas and his orchestra, and was one of the first to give
regular performances of the music of Brahms. After nervous strain caused him to give up
concertizing, he devoted himself to teaching. From 1888 to 1906, he taught at the
National Conservatory in New York. His pupils included Moriz Rosenthal, Edwin
Hughes, James Huneker, and Rubin Goldmark. He composed some salon pieces, and he
published the School of Advanced Piano Playing (New York, 1902) and editions of
works by Chopin, Czerny, Henselt, and Moscheles. (NGD2)
Kalkbrenner, Friedrich. German pianist and composer, b. between Kassel and Berlin, 1784; d.
Enghien (near Paris), 1849. Kalkbrenner was educated at the Paris Conservatoire under
Louis Adam and in Vienna under Johann Georg Albrechtsberger and Joseph Haydn. He
became a successful performer and teacher in London from 1814 until 1824; in Paris he
was the most celebrated pianist between 1825 and 1835 and a member of the firm of
Pleyel. He invented a hand guide, an adjustable horizontal rail on which to rest the
forearm when playing in order to isolate the movement of the fingers from any action of
the arm. His compositions are virtuosic works for piano, chamber ensemble, and piano
with orchestra. His pedagogical works include several volumes of etudes and the

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Mthode pour apprendre le piano-forte laide du guide-mains, Op. 108 (1831).


(NGD2)
Kellerman, Berthold. German pianist, b. Nuremberg, 1853; d. Munich, 1926. Kellerman studied
at Ramanns school in Nuremberg, and with Liszt at Weimar during the summers from
1873 to 1878. He taught in Berlin at Kullaks Conservatory (1875-79) and the Stern
Conservatory (1876-78). He went to Bayreuth in 1878 in Wagners Parsifal-Kanzlei, and
was music teacher to Wagners children. In 1881 he conducted the orchestra concerts in
Bayreuth. From 1882 to1919, he was a teacher at the Munich Royal Academy of Music.
He is the main character in Ernst von Wolzogens Der Kraft-Mayr: ein humoristische
Musikanten-Roman (Stuttgart: Engelhorn, 1897). (RML2)
Kelley, Edgar Stillman. American composer and critic, b. Sparta, Wisconsin, 1857; d. New
York, 1944. Kelley studied in Chicago, and at the Stuttgart Conservatory (1876) with
Wilhelm Krger and Wilhelm Speidel. He taught piano in San Francisco (1880-86), in
New York (1891-92), at Yale (1901-02, replacing Horatio Parker), and in Berlin (190210). He was appointed dean of the composition department of the Cincinnati
Conservatory (1910-34). His compositions include an orchestral suite (Aladdin, 1894),
two symphonies, and an oratorio (The Pilgrims Progress, 1918). He is the author of
Chopin the Composer (1913) and Musical Instruments (1925). Wallingford Riegger was
his pupil. (DP, RML2, NGDA)
Klindworth, Karl. German composer, conductor, pianist, and violinist, b. Hanover, 1830; d.
Stolpe (near Oranienburg), 1916. Klindworth studied with Liszt in Weimar in 1852,
where von Blow and William Mason were fellow students. He also studied and taught in
London from 1854 to 1868 and befriended Wagner there in 1855. He served as professor

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of piano at the Moscow Conservatory starting in 1868. In 1882 he became conductor of


the Berlin Philharmonic and the Potsdam Wagner Society. He opened a conservatory in
Berlin in 1884 that merged with Scharwenkas conservatory (see below) in 1895. He
toured England and the United States from 1887 to 1888. His eighteen-year-old adopted
daughter, Winnifred Williams, married Siegfried Wagner in 1915. Upon Siegfrieds
death in 1930, she assumed control of the Bayreuth Festival. Klindworths pupils
included Sergei Liapunov, Ethelbert Nevin, and Edouard Risler. He published
arrangements for piano of Wagners Der Ring des Nibelungen and Schuberts Great C
major Symphony, and editions of Chopins complete works and Bachs Das
wohltemperierte Klavier. He also wrote some original compositions and an
Elementarische Klavier-Schule. (NGD2)
Klose, Hermann. A pupil of Deppe and author of Die Deppesche Lehre des Klavierspiels
(1886). No further information available. (RML)
Kontski, Antoine de (Antoni Katski). Polish pianist and composer, b. Krakow, 1817; d.
Iwanowitsch, 1899. A pupil of John Field at the Moscow Conservatory, he was active as
a pianist in Paris until 1851, and court pianist in Berlin until 1853. After short stays in St.
Petersburg and London, he came to New York City in 1889. In 1897 he began a world
tour, visiting Australia, New Zealand, East Asia, Siberia, and Warsaw. He died during
this tour. He composed about four hundred salon pieces for piano, as well as operas,
symphonies, piano concertos, chamber music, and sacred music. (NGD2)
Krause, Martin. German pianist, teacher, music critic, b. Lobstdt (near Leipzig), 1853; d.
Plattling, Bavaria, 1918. Krause studied with Reinecke and Wenzel at the Leipzig
Conservatory and with Liszt at Weimar in the early 1880s. He concertized from 1878 to

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1880, but a nervous breakdown ended his performing career. He founded a Liszt Society
in Leipzig in 1885 and championed new music. He reported on musical events for Berlin
newspapers, Vossische Zeitung and Berliner Tageblatt. In 1899 he was a teacher at the
Dresden Conservatory; in 1901 he went on to the Munich Academy of Composition; and
from 1904 to 1918 he taught at the Stern Conservatory in Berlin. A popular teacher, he
taught fifty private pupils in Leipzig and was responsible in Berlin for eighty pupils at a
time. A Krause-School was founded by his pupils in Ottawa, Canada. His pupils included
Claudio Arrau, Edwin Fischer, Rosita Renard, Elisabeth Bokemeyer, and Grete von
Zieritz. He is reputed to have made a study of Liszts technique and teaching methods as
well as to have written an incomplete work on rhythm and phrasing; the location of those
writings is unknown. (RML2; NGD2)
Kreutzer, Leonid. Russian-German pianist, b. St. Petersburg, 1884; d. Tokyo, 1953. Kreutzer
studied piano with Annette Esipova and composition with Glazunov at the St. Petersburg
Conservatory, and taught at the Hochschule fr Musik in Berlin from 1921 to 1933. His
recitals were often devoted to specific composers and themes. He performed works by
contemporary composers Csar Franck, Claude Debussy, Paul Hindemith, and Paul Juon.
During the 1920s, he played in a trio with violinist Josef Wolfsthal and cellist Gregor
Piatigorsky. He is also known as an editor of Chopins works. Kreutzer immigrated to the
United States in 1933, and to Japan in 1938. He is the author of Das normale
Klavierpedal vom akustischen und esthetischen Standpunkt (1915). His pupils included
Sergius Kagen, Grete Sultan, Alexander Lipsky, Karl Ulrich Schnabel, Max Kowalski,
Wladyslaw Szpilman (subject of the 2003 film The Pianist), Boris Berlin, Maryla Jonas,
and Erno Balogh. (NGD2)

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Kullak, Adolph. German teacher and writer on music, b. Meseritz (now Midzyrzecz, Poland),
1823; d. Berlin, 1862. He was the brother of Theodor Kullak. While studying philosophy
in Berlin, he also studied music with A. B. Marx. He served as co-editor of the Berliner
Musikzeitung, taught at the Neue Akademie der Tonkunst, and wrote Die sthetik des
Klavierspiels (Berlin, 1861). (NGD2)
Kullak, Theodore. German pianist and teacher, b. Krotoschin (now Krotoszyn, Poland), 1818; d.
Berlin, 1882. He gave his first piano recital in Berlin before the Prussian king at the age
of eleven. While studying medicine in Berlin, he also studied music with W. J. A. Agthe,
E. E. Taubert, and Siegfried Dehn. In 1843, he completed musical studies in Vienna
under Czerny, Sechter, and Nicolai. In 1844 Kullak began teaching piano and in 1846
was appointed pianist to the Prussian court. With Julius Stern and A. B. Marx, he
founded the Berlin Conservatory (later the Stern Conservatory). In 1855 Blow
succeeded him there and Kullak went on to found the Neue Akademie der Tonkunst
which specialized in training pianists and became the largest private institute for music
study in Germany with 100 teachers and 1100 pupils. His pupils included Hans Bischoff,
Moritz Moszkowski, Philipp and Xaver Scharwenka, Amy Fay, and William Sherwood.
Of Kullaks many compositions for piano, the most important are his the studies. (NGD2)
Kurth, Ernst. Austrian-Swiss musicologist, b. Vienna, 1886; d. Berne, 1946. Kurth studied in
Vienna with Adler, privately with Robert Gund, and received a doctorate in 1908 with a
dissertation on Glucks early operas. He was founder and editor of Berner
Verffentlichungen zur Musikforschung. His published works are of interest both to
musicology and philosophy, and they include Grundlagen des linearen Kontrapunkts

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(1917), Romantische Harmonik (1920), and Musikpsychologie (1931). He taught at Berne


University from 1920 until his death. (NGD2)
Lachner, Franz. German conductor and composer, b. Rain am Lech, 1803; d. Munich, 1890.
Lachner studied in Vienna with Simon Sechter and Abb Maximillian Stadler and was a
close friend of Schubert. He was employed as coach at the Krntnertortheater in 1825 and
became music director there in 1828. He also conducted at the Mannheim Opera in 1834.
His greatest success was in Munich, as conductor of the court opera of King Ludwig I,
and as director of the Musikalische Akademie concerts and the Knigliche Vokalkapelle.
Though a champion of Wagners operas, he was ousted in 1864 when Ludwig II, as part
of a plan to entice Wagner to settle in Bavaria, replaced him with Hans von Blow.
Lachners compositions include eight symphonies, two oratorios, four operas, cantatas, a
requiem, and other vocal and instrumental works. (NGD, NGD2)
Lebert, Sigismund (Levy). German pianist, teacher, music editor, b. Wrtemburg, 1821; d.
Stuttgart, 1884. Lebert studied music in Prague with Tomek and D. Weber, and he
taught piano in Munich for several years before 1856. Though a successful teacher, his
style of piano playing and teaching was criticized as too percussive. He cofounded the
Stuttgart Music School with Stark, Faisst, Brachmann, and Laiblin, and co-edited (with
Stark) the Grosse Pianoforte Schule. The Cotta Edition of Beethovens Piano Sonatas
was begun by Lebert and Stark and continued by Hans von Blow. (GD2)
Leschetizky, Theodor. Polish pianist, teacher, and composer, b. Lancut in Austrian Poland, 1830;
d. Dresden, 1915. His piano playing first attracted attention in Vienna in 1845. He made
his debut in England in 1864 playing the Schumann Quintet and his own compositions.
He taught at the Conservatory in St. Petersburg until 1878, and thereafter remained in

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Vienna. Leschetizky was married to four of his pupils, among them Anna Esipova (from
1880 until 1894), with whom he gave a series of duo piano recitals in 1887. Among his
hundreds of pupils were Artur Schnabel, Jan Ignaz Paderewski, Alexander Brailowsky,
Elly Ney, Mark Hambourg, Ossip Gabrilovich, Ignaz Friedman, Vasily Safanov, Isabelle
Vengerova, Paul Wittgenstein, Mieczyslaw Horszowski, and Benno Moiseivich. His
compositions consist of an opera and salon pieces for piano. (NGD2)
Lobe, Johann Christian. German writer on music, violinst, and flutist, b. Weimar, 1797; d.
Leipzig, 1881. Lobe played flute and viola in the ducal orchestra in Weimar. He moved
to Leipzig in 1842, where he was editor of the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung from
1846 to 1848, and later edited his own series, Fliegende Bltter fr Musik, and the music
section of the Illustrierte Zeitung. His writings include Lehrbuch der musikalischen
Komposition (Leipzig, 1850-67; 2/1884-87), Consonanzen und Dissonanzen (Leipzig,
1869), and Katechismus der Compositionslehre (Leipzig, 1872). His writings contain
information about Goethe, Zelter, Mendelssohn, Schumann, Liszt, and Berlioz. Fliegende
Bltter contains his Gesprche mit Weber, giving first-hand information about the
composition of Der Freischtz. He composed five operas as well as orchestral and
chamber music. A study of Lobe by Torsten Brandt, Johann Christian Lobe (1797-1881):
Studien zu Biographie und musikshriftstellerischem Werk (Gttingen:Vandenhoeck &
Ruprecht), was published in 2002. (NGD2)
Marxsen, Eduard. German pianist and teacher, b. Nienstdten (near Altona), 1806; d. Altona,
1887. Marxsen studied with Johann Heinrich Clasing in Hamburg. After four years in
Vienna, where he studied with Ignaz Seyfried and Carl Maria von Bocklet, he returned to
Hamburg. Brahms studied composition with Marxsen and dedicated his B-flat Piano

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Concerto to him. Marxsen composed about seventy works, including an operetta,


symphonies and overtures, lieder, chamber music with piano, and numerous piano pieces.
(NGD2)
Mason, William. American pianist, teacher, writer on music, b. Boston, 1829; d. New York,
1908. Mason was the son of music educator Lowell Mason, and the brother of Henry
Mason, a cofounder of the Mason & Hamlin Company. His nephew, Daniel Gregory
Mason, was a composer, author, professor of music, and head of the music department at
Columbia University. William Mason studied piano with Henry Schmidt at the Boston
Academy of Music and, simultaneously, began composing and publishing his own pieces
for piano. In 1849, he traveled to Europe and studied with Ignaz Moscheles (Leipzig),
Alexander Dreyschock (Prague), and Franz Liszt (Weimar, 1853, 1854). Returning to the
United States in 1854, Mason settled in New York, where he performed, taught, and
composed. With Theodore Thomas, he organized the Mason and Thomas Chamber
Music Soires, which premiered many Romantic works, including Brahmss Trio in B
major, Op. 8. Masons pedagogical writings include A Method for the Piano-Forte (with
co-author E. S. Hoadly), A System for Beginners in the Art of Playing upon the PianoForte (1871), A System of Technical Exercises for the Piano-Forte (1878), and Touch
and Technic, Op. 44 (1891-92). His Memories of a Musical Life was published in 1901.
Mason composed more than fifty works for piano. (NGD2)
Matthay, Tobias. English pianist, writer, teacher, and composer, b. London, 1858; d. High
Marley (near Haslemere), 1945. Matthay entered the Royal Academy of Music in 1871,
where his teachers included Sterndale Bennett, Ebenezer Prout, Arthur Sullivan, and
George Macfarren. He was appointed sub-professor there in 1876, and full professor from

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1880 to 1925. His pupils included Myra Hess, Moura Lympany, Irene Scharrer, Harriet
Cohen, Eunice Norton, and Harold Craxton. Matthay wrote eighteen volumes on piano
playing and founded his own school based on his theories of piano technique and
methods of teaching. The Act of Touch in All Its Diversity (London, 1903) and The
Visible and Invisible in Pianoforte Technique (London, 1932, rev. in 1947 and 1956)
have been widely influential. (NGD2)
Mathews, W(illiam) S(mythe) B(abcock). American teacher, editor, writer on music, b. London,
New Hampshire, 1837; d. Denver, Colorado, 1912. Mainly a self-taught musician,
Mathews also studied with Lucien Southard of Boston in the 1850s and with William
Mason in Binghamton, New York, in the summers from 1871 to 1873. He also
collaborated with Mason on textbooks and piano methods. In 1867, he settled in the
Chicago area where he taught piano, organ, and piano pedagogy. He helped to organize a
teacher certification program sponsored by the Music Teachers National Association and
a program of correspondence study for pianists called the Music Extension Society. In
addition to piano methods and annotated collections of piano music, he wrote books on
music history and appreciation, and contributed numerous articles to Dwights Journal of
Music (1859-80) and The Etude (1884-1911). He was music critic for three Chicago
newpapers, and editor of several journals including Musical Independent (1868-71), the
Journal of School Music (1908-09), and Music (1892-1902), which he founded. (NGDA)
Ortmann, Otto. American writer on piano playing, b. Baltimore, 1889; d. Baltimore, 1979. He
graduated from Peabody Conservatory in 1917, was a faculty member from 1917 to
1941, and also served as conservatory director from 1928 to 1941. From 1942 to 1957 he
taught in the music department at Goucher College and was its chairman from 1948 to

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1957. He taught courses in the psychology of music at The Johns Hopkins University
from 1921 to 1924. His research in piano pedagogy gained him an international
reputation. He is the author of The Physiological Mechanics of Piano Technique
(London, 1929). (NGDA)
Plaidy, Louis. German piano teacher, b. Wermsdorf in Saxony, 1810; d. Grimma, 1874. He
studied piano with Agthe and violin with Haase in Dresden; in 1831, he went to Leipzig
and concentrated his efforts on the piano so successfully that he attracted the attention of
Mendelssohn, who appointed him to teach piano in the Leipzig Conservatory in 1843.
Plaidy was renowned for his ability to impart technical strength to his pupils. His
Technischen Studien was the result of a life devoted to technical training and it became a
standard textbook. Plaidy resigned his post in 1865 and taught privately for the rest of his
life. (GD2)
Raff, Joachim. Swiss composer, pianist, and teacher, b. Lachen, Switzerland, 1822; d. Frankfurt,
1882. Raff was educated at the Gymnasium in Wrtemberg and in a Jesuit Gymnasium in
Schwyz. During the years from 1840 to 1844, while teaching in a primary school in
Rapperswil, he became an accomplished pianist and organist. Mendelssohn praised his
first compositions and assisted in their publication. In 1845 Raff met Liszt, who helped
him find employment in Cologne. Raff later followed Liszt to Weimar, worked as his
assistant and secretary from 1849 until 1856, and continued to compose under his
supervision. Raff wrote polemics on behalf of Liszt and other Weimar composers but,
finding Liszts influence stifling, he became alienated from this group. He moved to
Wiesbaden and won independent recognition as a composer. He was appointed director
of the Hoch Conservatory in Frankfurt in 1877. His compositions include operas,

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symphonies and other orchestral music, piano compositions, chamber music, and choral
works. Edward MacDowell was his pupil. (NGD2)
Ramann, Lina. German teacher and writer on music, b. Mainstockheim (in Bavaria), 1833; d.
Munich, 1912. Her early interest in music was rewarded with lessons at age seventeen
when her family moved to Leipzig. She studied piano with the wife of Franz Brendel
(editor of the Neue Zeitschrift fr Musik), a pupil of John Field. Ramann took up a career
as music teacher and taught, first in Gera and then for a short time in the United States.
She founded an institute in Glckstadt (Holstein, 1858) for the training of women music
teachers, and cofounded with Ida Volckmann the Ramann-Volckmann Music School at
Nuremberg (1865). The latter school came under the leadership of August Gllerich
when Ramann moved to Munich in 1890. In 1880 she published a study of Liszts
Christus (Leipzig: Kahnt). This was followed by a two-volume biography of Liszt, Franz
Liszt als Knstler und Mensch (Leipzig, 1880-94), and a six-volume edition of Liszts
writings, Lisztiana: Erinnerungen an Franz Liszt in Tagebuchblttern, Briefen und
Dokumenten aus den Jahren 1873-1886/87 (Mainz, London, New York, 1983). Her
Liszt-Pdagogium (Leipzig, 1901) contains ideas of Liszt and some of his pupils on piano
teaching. She composed four sonatas (Op. 9), a piano method, and three volumes of
technical studies. (RML2, NGD2)
Reinecke, Carl. German pianist, conductor, composer, and teacher, b. Hamburg, 1824; d.
Leipzig, 1910. The son of a music teacher, his first concert tour took place in 1843 and
led to an appointment as Court pianist in Denmark from 1846 to 1848. He taught in
Hillers Conservatory in Cologne in 1851 and at the Leipzig Conservatory from 1860,
where he served as director from 1897. His pupils included Edvard Grieg, Christian

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Sinding, Leo Janek, Isaac Albniz, and Max Bruch. He served as conductor of the
Gewandhaus Orchestra from 1860 until 1895. His compositions included more than three
hundred published works. (NGD2)
Rudorff, Ernst. German pianist, teacher, and composer, b. Berlin, 1840; d. Berlin, 1916. He
studied piano and composition with Woldemar Bargiel and, in 1858, piano with Clara
Schumann. He studied violin with Louis Ries. In 1852 he played for Joachim, who
encouraged him to pursue a career in music. He attended the University at Leipzig and
studied at the Leipzig Conservatory with Plaidy, Moscheles, Reinecke, Richter,
Hauptmann, and Reitz; thereafter, he continued private studies with Hauptmann and
Reinecke. In 1867 he became professor at the Cologne Conservatory and founded a Bach
Society there. In 1869 he accepted a post at the Hochschule fr Musik in Berlin under
Joachims direction and remained there until 1910. He succeeded Max Bruch as
conductor of the Stern Choral Society in Berlin in 1880, and also conducted the Berlin
Philharmonic Orchestra. He was a member of the editorial board of Denkmler der
Deutscher Tonkunst, a member of the senate of the Royal Academy of the Arts, and a
founder of the environmental protection movement. He received an honorary doctorate
from the University of Tbingen in 1910. His compositions include orchestral and choral
works, lieder, and piano solos. (NGD2)
Ruskin, John. English poet, painter, and writer on art, social and political economy, and myth; b.
London, 1819; d. Brantwood (near Coniston Water in the Lake District), 1900. Educated
at Christ Church, Oxford, Ruskin was the first Slade Professor of Fine Art at Oxford from
to 1870 to 1880. He defended painter Joseph Turner from his critics, and befriended
American man of letters and art historian Charles Eliot Norton. Ruskins attack on the

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impressionist style and Whistlers painting Nocturne resulted in a libel suit that attracted
popular interest. Ruskins writings addressed the moral value of art and were influential
in the trade union and the Arts and Crafts movements, as well as in the founding of the
National Trust, the National Art Collections Fund, and the Society for the Protection of
Ancient Buildings. He wrote more than 250 works including Modern Painters, The Seven
Lamps of Architecture, The King of the Golden River, The Stones of Venice, The
Harbours of England, The Elements of Drawing. The Political Economy of Art, The
Elements of Perspective, The Two Paths. (EB)
Scharwenka, Xaver. Polish-German pianist, composer, and teacher, b. Samtner (then in
Southern Prussia, now part of Poland), 1850; d. Berlin, 1924. Scharwenka studied in
Berlin under Theodor Kullak from 1865. He began touring as concert pianist in 1874,
performing throughout Europe as well as in the United States and Canada. He founded a
conservatory in Berlin in 1881 (that merged with Klindworths in 1895; see above),
organized an annual concert series, and conducted orchestral works by Liszt, Beethoven,
and Berlioz. After his first tour of the United States in 1891, Scharwenka immigrated and
opened the Scharwenka Music School in New York City, which he directed from 1891 to
1898. He returned to Berlin and continued concert touring, helped to found the Music
Teachers Federation (1900) and the Federation of German Performing Artists (1912),
and, after a falling-out with Klindworth, opened another conservatory (1914). His
compositions include one symphony, chamber music, concertos, piano solos, and
Methodik des Klavierspiels (Leipzig, 1907). (NGD2)
Siloti, Alexander Ilyich (Ziloti). Ukrainian pianist and conductor, b. Kharkov, 1863; d. New
York City, 1945. Siloti studied at the Moscow Conservatory with Nikolay Rubinstein and

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Chaikovsky and with Liszt at Weimar (1883-86). He taught at the Moscow Conservatory
(1887-90) and conducted in Russia (1901-19). He settled in New York in 1922 and taught
at the Juilliard School of Music (1924-42). His pupils included Mark Blitzstein,
Alexander Goldenweiser, and Sergei Rachmaninoff. He wrote piano transcriptions and a
book, My Memories of Liszt (Edinburgh, 1910-19). (DP; NGD2)
Stark, Ludwig. German pianist, teacher, music editor, b. Munich, 1831; d. Stuttgart, 1884.
Educated at the University at Munich, and in music by the Lachners (see above), Stark
traveled to Paris in 1856. Shortly thereafter, he moved to Stuttgart, where he cofounded
the Stuttgart Music School with Faisst, Lebert, Brachmann, and Laiblin. In 1865 the
school was allowed to assume the title of Conservatorium. Stark and Lebert collaborated
on instruction books, including the four-volume Grosse Klavierschule, Instruktive
Klavierstcke (four grades), Jugendbibliothek and Jugendalbum (each in twelve parts),
and Instruktive klassischer Ausgabe (21 volumes, with compositions by various
composers). The Cotta edition of Beethovens Piano Sonatas was the best known of the
Stuttgart publications. (GD2)
Stavenhagen, Bernhard. German pianist, conductor, and teacher, b. Greiz, 1862; d. Plainpalais
(near Geneva), 1914. Stavenhagen studied in Berlin with Theodor Kullak (piano), Ernst
Rudorff (piano and conducting), and Friedrich Kiel (theory and composition). In 1880 he
received the Mendelssohn Prize for his Piano Concerto in C major. He went to Weimar in
1885 to study with Liszt and traveled with him to Rome, Budapest, Paris, London, and
Bayreuth. After Liszts death, Stavenhagen toured Europe and North America for ten
years. He became court pianist to the Grand Duke of Sachsen-Weimar in 1890 and
Kapellmeister in 1895. In 1898 he traveled to Munich and was named Director of the

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Royal Academy of Music there in 1901. From 1907 he lived in Geneva, where he
conducted and taught piano master classes at the Conservatory until his death. As
conductor, he advocated new music and premiered works by Richard Strauss, Hans
Pfitzner, Gustav Mahler, Arnold Schoenberg, Claude Debussy, and Maurice Ravel. His
pupils included Ernest Hutcheson, Edouard Risler, and Tilly Swertz Fleischmann.
(RML2)
Steinhausen, Friedrich. German physiologist and writer, b. 1859; d. 1910. Steinhausen was a
proponent of arm-weight technique who recommended applying knowledge of
physiology rather than mechanical drill to the development of technique. He was the
author of Die Physiologie der Bogenfhrung auf den Streich-Instrumenten (Leipzig,
1920) and ber die physiologischen Fehler und die Umgestaltung der Klaviertechnik
(Leipzig, 1905).
Stradal, August. Bohemian pianist, composer, and teacher, b. Teplice, Bohemia, 1860; d. Krsn
Lipa, 1930. Stradal studied in Vienna under Anton Door, Theodor Leschetizky, and
Anton Bruckner. He studied with Liszt in Weimar in 1884 and accompanied him to
Budapest and Bayreuth in 1885 and 1886. After a period of concert touring and teaching
piano in Vienna, he returned to Teplice and taught there until 1890. He arranged
orchestral works by Bruckner and Liszt for piano, edited keyboard works by Bach,
Handel, Buxtehude, and Frescobaldi, and composed original songs and piano pieces. His
writings include Erinnerungen an Franz Liszt (Leipzig, 1929). (RML2)
Sultan, Grete (Johanna Margarete). German-American pianist, b. Berlin, 1906; d. New York
City, 2005. Sultan was born into a German-Jewish family with strong musical interests.
Two of her aunts studied with Clara Schumann. Richard Strauss, Artur Schnabel,

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Ferruccio Busoni, and American pianist Richard Buhlig were family friends. Sultan
formed an early friendship with Claudio Arrau. She studied at the Hochschule fr Musik
under Leonid Kreutzer, and her later studies were with Edwin Fischer. The Nazis rise to
power interrupted her career and forced her to leave Germany, and Buhlig helped her to
escape to the United States in 1941. He also introduced her to Henry Cowell and John
Cage. Cages Etudes Australes were written for her. Sultan taught at Vassar College, the
92nd Street Y in New York City, and the Masters School in Dobbs Ferry, New York.
Throughout her life, she continued performing new music as well as classical works,
giving a performance of the Goldberg Variations in New Yorks Merkin Hall shortly
after her ninetieth birthday in 1996. (Anne Midgette, Grete Sultan, 99, a Pianist and
Mentor to Cage, Is Dead, The New York Times [July 3, 2005], 27)
Suzuki, Shinichi. Japanese violinist and teacher, b. Nagoya, 1898; d. Matsumoto, 1998. Suzukis
father owned the largest violin-making firm in Japan. Suzuki studied violin in Nagoya
with Ando Ko and in Germany with Karl Klingler from 1921 to 1928. Returning to
Japan, he founded the Suzuki Quartet with three of his brothers, and he became president
of the Teikoku Music School in 1930. As founder and conductor of the Tokyo String
Orchestra, he introduced Baroque music to Japanese audiences. He developed a
philosophy of teaching known as Talent Education. His pedagogical ideas were
published in Nurtured by Love (New York, 1969) and Ability Development from Age
Zero (Athens, Ohio, 1981). (NGD2)
Swedenborg, Emanuel. Swedish scientist, philosopher, spiritual writer, b. Stockholm, 1688; d.
London, 1722. Swedenborg was born into an ecclesiastical family and educated at
Uppsala. His scientific discoveries, made while working at the Board of Mines (1716-

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47), brought him recognition as one of the founders of crystallography. Swedenborg


believed he had direct contact with the spiritual world, and he created a fraternity of
followers of his doctrines. His philosophy contains elements of panpsychism, pantheism,
and theosophy. (ODP)
Tausig, Carl. Polish pianist and composer, b. Warsaw, 1841; d. Leipzig, 1871. His father, Aloys
Tausig, was a pupil of Thalberg. Carl Tausig became a pupil of Liszt at age fourteen. His
Berlin debut was in 1858 in a concert conducted by Blow. After brief stays in Dresden
and Vienna, Tausig settled in Berlin in 1865 and opened the Schule des Hheren
Klaverierspiels in 1866. Amy Fay was one of his pupils and she wrote about his teaching
in Music Study in Germany. Tausig toured successfully in Germany and Russia. The
rigors of travel weakened his health and he died of typhoid at age twenty-nine. His
compositions include original works and arrangements of classical works. (NGD2)
Thalberg, Sigismond. German or Austrian composer and pianist, b. Geneva, 1812; d. Posillipo,
Italy, 1871. Thalberg was a pupil of Hummel and Sechter in Vienna, of Pixis and
Kalkbrenner in Paris, and of Moscheles in London. His rivalry with Liszt resulted in a
journalistic controversy that was joined by Ftis (defending Thalberg) and Berlioz (on the
side of Liszt); the two pianists were reconciled in a concert, which they presented jointly
for the Princess de Belgiojoso. Thalbergs concerts and recitals thereafter drew large
audiences throughout Europe as well as in Brazil and the United States. He lived for a
time in the United States, teaching, concertizing, and organizing opera productions. In
1858, he bought a villa in Posillipo (near Naples) and there spent his last years as a
vintner. He composed approximately one hundred works, the most successful of which
are for the piano. (NGD2)

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Vianna da Motta, Jos. Portuguese pianist, teacher, and composer, b. So Tom, 1868; d. Lisbon,
1948. Vianna da Motta studied at Berlin with Xaver and Philip Scharwenka, with Liszt at
Weimar in 1885, and with Blow at Frankfurt in 1887. He presented his debut in Berlin
in 1885 and concertized thereafter throughout Europe and in South America, the United
States, and Russia. He was a friend of Busoni and an admirer of Wagner. In 1914 Vianna
da Motta moved to Switzerland and succeeded Stavenhagen at the Geneva Conservatory.
In 1917 he returned to Portugal and established the Sociedade de Concertos, conducted
symphony concerts in Lisbon, and was director of the National Conservatory of Lisbon
from 1919 to 1938. His compositions include a symphony and numerous short works for
piano and for piano and voice. He edited Liszts piano compositions. His brief sketch of
Liszt appears in Gllerichs The Piano Master Classes of Franz Liszt, 1884-1886
(Bloomington, 1996). (NGD2)
Wagner, Emilie. American musician, teacher, writer, b. New Bedford, Massachusetts, 1867; d.
Brookhaven, Long Island, New York, 1945. Wagner studied chemistry and biology at
Goucher College in Baltimore, and joined the advisory board of the newly formed
College Settlement Association there in 1894. In autumn of that year, she moved to the
Lower East Side of New York City and began giving violin and piano lessons in the
basement of the Mariners Temple in Chatham Square, an activity that quickly grew into
a school that became the Third Street Music School Settlement. After several changes in
location, the school was incorporated in 1903 as The Music School Settlement, and in
1905 it moved to quarters at 53 and 55 East Third Street. Wagner resigned from The
Music School Settlement in 1907 and founded two other music schools: at 69 Norfolk
Street and in Brookhaven, Long Island. She died in a car and train collision on May 4,

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1945. (Mary Jo Pagano, The History of the Third Street Music School Settlement 18941984, D.M.A. diss., Manhattan School of Music, 1996)
Whiteside, Abby. American piano pedagogue, b. South Dakota, 1881; d. New York City, 1956.
Whiteside studied in Germany with Rudolf Ganz. Her students included Robert Helps,
Sonia Rosoff, and Joseph Prostakoff. She published her teaching methods in
Indispensables of Piano Playing (New York, 1955). (DP)
Wieck, (Johann Gottlob) Friedrich. German piano teacher, b. Pretzsch (near Torgau), 1785; d.
Loschwitz (near Dresden), 1873. Wieck studied piano with J. P. Milchmeyer; he also
studied theology in Wittenberg and worked as a tutor in Thuringia and Saxony. His
interest in teaching and educationist writings were the basis of an essay, Wchentliche
Bermerkungen ber den Schler Emil von Metzradt (1809). Partly as a result of
collaboration with Adolph Bargiel, he settled in Leipzig as a piano teacher in about 1813.
He also sold instruments, opened a music lending library, and taught vocal technique.
Wieck was the father and teacher of Clara Schumann; Robert Schumann and Hans von
Blow were also his pupils. He published his teaching methods in Piano and Song
(Leipzig, 1853) and wrote for the Neue Zeitschrift fr Musik, Ccilia, and Signale fr die
musikalische Welt under the pseudonym DAS (Der alte Schulmeister). (NGD2)
Weitzmann, Carl Friedrich. German writer, theorist, and composer, b. Berlin, 1808; d. Berlin,
1880. Weitzmann studied composition and theory in Kassel with Louis Spohr and Moritz
Hauptmann. After some years in Riga, St. Petersburg, Paris, and London, he settled in
Berlin as a writer and composition teacher. He taught at the Stern Conservatory (starting
in 1857) and at Tausigs Schule des Hheren Klaverierspiels. He was a friend of Liszt
and Blow and a champion of Wagners music. His compositions consist of operas, piano

396

pieces, and songs. He is the author of Geschichte des Clavierspiels und der
Clavierliteratur (which appeared as the third part of the Lebert-Stark Grosse
theoretische-praktische Klavierschule, Stuttgart, 1879; it was published in English as A
History of Pianoforte-playing and Pianoforte-literature, New York, 1897). His
Harmoniesystem (Leipzig, 1860) and Die neue Harmonielehre im Streit mit der alten
(1861) are the subject of a dissertation by Rachel Rudd: Karl Friedrich Weitzmanns
Harmonic Theory in Perspective (Columbia University, 1992; UMI 9313669). His
monograph on the augmented triad, Der bermssige Dreiklang (Berlin, 1853), was
influential in Riemanns theories and is the subject of articles by Robert W. Wason, Larry
Todd, and Richard Cohn. (NGD2).

397
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