soprano Suzanne Atwood and bassoonist Sandra Nikolajevs

ONCE AGAIN, a (large) Charleston audience got a taste of the fine caliber of our local musicians—thanks to Sandra Nikolajevs and her efforts to see Chamber Music Charleston not only flourish but become the standard bearer of classical music as a complete cultural experience.

“A Celebration of France” was presented as an evening of French romantic music, yet instead of the familiar Bolero, Pavane for a Dead Princess, and Claire de Lune we were treated to sophisticated chamber works by Ravel and Fauré—two of France’s most influential composers.

Maurice Ravel, known primarily for his piano and orchestral works, wrote just a handful of chamber pieces and only this one string quartet (in F Major), which he finished in 1903 when he was 28. At the time, however—as classical forms were yielding to romantic expression and being threatened by the “modern” impressionistic style—his quartet was rejected by the Paris Conservatoire. Even Gabriel Fauré, to whom Ravel dedicated it, called it a failure.

I was not familiar with this piece and found it to be at once unsettling and beautiful. Unsettling because of its atonal modernity; beautiful because of its structure, textures, variety, and vivacity. The more I have listened to it (going on six times now since the Saturday night concert), the more amazing I find it. The main theme is gorgeous and haunting. The background colors are mesmerizing and sensuous. The elaborate notation and syncopation (especially in the second movement) are fascinating. It is a meticulously crafted balance of elegant textures and colors encased in a classical quartet form. This satisfying combination is surely why the enthusiastic Memminger audience (of some 400 strong) was held captive by this nuanced piece.

Ruben Camacho, Frances Hsieh, Timothy O’Malley, and Ben Weiss

Kudos to CMC Director, Sandra Nikolajevs, for entrusting us with this music, and thanks to the string players (Ruben Camacho, Frances Hsieh, Timothy O’Malley, and Ben Weiss) for delivering it so superbly. The piece is a serious challenge technically and musically, and this group brought out all of the contrasting and complementary elements in the music. Just a fine performance.

Gabriel Fauré preceded Ravel by 30 years and the latter audited Fauré’s teaching classes at the Conservatoire. In 1883, Fauré (then 38) finished his Piano Quartet in c minor—one of five distinguished chamber works featuring the piano.

Although the piano is highlighted in this quartet, it languishes in the background of the first movement as the strings vigorously develop the theme amidst a charming, spirited, elaborate conversation—as only the French can do. In subsequent movements, the piano comes to the fore without, however, dominating the strings. In fact, one of the nice things about this work is the full treatment given to each of the instruments. The piano—the authoritative leader in certain passages—also provides a lush backdrop that both solidifies and romanticizes the string playing.

Irina Pevzner

The third movement (Adagio) is especially grand and gorgeous, with the scale and drama of a concerto that ends with perfect poise. The Allegro molto fourth movement adds a robust and ultimately furious finale to this velvety, complex composition.

Nicely sandwiched between Ravel’s intricacy and Fauré’s intensity was Emmanuel Chabrier’s delicate L’Invitation au Voyage (1870) which was based on a poem by his friend, Charles Baudelaire. It is a rare, if not the only, work ever written for the very pleasing combination of piano, bassoon, and soprano. Pianist Irina Pevzner, bassoonist Sandra Nikolajevs, and soprano Suzanne Atwood brought it alive in a way that made us feel we were in a Paris nightclub.

Chabrier was also friends with impressionistic painters Claude Monet and Édouard Manet. Not coincidentally, this early work (1870) presaged what would become the impressionistic style of music. As explained by www.answers.com, the piece “is curiously static in harmony, with unusual chords used in a striking new way. In particular passages the colorfully dissonant ninth chord is introduced without preparation: it is not flowed into by the preceding harmonies, nor flowed out of to the next. Instead, the chord appears as a sudden effect of musical color, which is just the way Debussy would habitually use such chords after he came to maturity nearly two decades later.”

But as one critic has said, “The revolutionary nature of the song does not alter the fact that it is exceptionally beautiful music.”

Learn more about upcoming Memminger concerts at www.ChamberMusicCharleston.org

violinist Yuriy Bekker and composer Edward Hart

Edward Hart’s “love letter to South Carolina”—his latest violin concerto formally entitled Under an Indigo Sky—will premier at the Gaillard Auditorium on Saturday, February 11, 2012. Charleston Symphony Orchestra concertmaster Yuriy Bekker (for whom the piece was written) will be featured with the orchestra led by guest conductor Darko Butorac, the Music Director of the Missoula Symphony Orchestra.

In the video below, the soloist and composer talk about their collaboration on this work—and about the 1686 Stradivarius violin that Yuriy will play for this occasion.

Each of the three movements is dedicated to a region of South Carolina: “Fast Flowing Rivers” for Columbia and the Midlands, “Warm Salt Air” for Charleston and the Coast, and “Misty Blue Horizon” for Greenville and the Upstate (see the composer’s notes below).

This CSO Masterworks Series concert will take place at 7:30 P.M. at the Gaillard Auditorium. The program for the concert includes Zoltán Kodály’s Dances of Galánta, Edward Hart’s Under an Indigo Sky, and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 in A Major, Opus 92. Learn more at CharlestonSymphony.com.

Notes by the Composer

Under an Indigo Sky
Concerto for Violin and Orchestra
Written for Yuriy Bekker

It is a privilege to have your music played by an exceptionally gifted musician. It is especially meaningful when that performer is your friend. That is why I am very thankful to have had the opportunity to write this violin concerto for my friend, Yuriy Bekker. Since first meeting some years ago, I have wanted to write him a substantial work not only because we are friends, but because he plays the violin the way I would want to if I could play. In short, he makes all the right musical choices. I am also fortunate that we share much in common as it relates to musical taste and style.

In a way, Under an Indigo Sky is a love letter to my home state, South Carolina. I am continually amazed and thankful for the natural and cultural diversity of this relatively small place. I have attempted to musically capture three distinct yet related regions of our state with an eye not only to the landscapes, but the feel and “soul” of the places.

Movement I
Fast Flowing Rivers –The Midlands
The Broad, Congaree, and Saluda Rivers are an important part of the greater Columbia landscape. At times, especially after heavy rain, these rivers move quickly creating an impressive natural display and an interesting metaphor for Columbia’s role in our state, a place of fast flowing and powerful political, educational, and economic currents. At other times, these rivers can flow gracefully and gently through the countryside reflecting the warm and genteel nature of the people of the Midlands.

Movement II
Warm Salt Air – The Coast
With its coastal location and sub-tropical climate, Coastal South Carolina’s weather can sometimes resemble a warm, wet, briny blanket. Though this might seem uncomfortable to some, these qualities in the right measurements can produce a lush and magical atmosphere. Imagine a May sunset over looking the water with just the right temperature and a sea breeze moving softly through the Palmetto trees.

Movement III
Misty Blue Horizon – The Upstate
The Blue Ridge Mountains, which dominate the Northern horizon, seem to give the Upstate a cool verdant freshness found in no other region of South Carolina. The early morning light offers dramatic vistas filled with broad strokes of blue, green, and purple. This landscape elicits a sense of awe, wonder, and reverent reflection along with a sense of gratitude toward its Creator.

photo by Daniel Schloss

LEE-CHIN SIOW is the Director of Strings and Professor of Violin at the College of Charleston, and co-founder and artistic co-director of Charleston Music Fest.

She has been recognized and awarded in her home country of Singapore as well as in her adopted home of South Carolina and Charleston, from where she regularly travels to perform around the globe.

She is also a big believer in the importance of classical music in our lives and in our education of youth.

In the video below, Lee-Chin talks about playing as a concert soloist and about teaching the violin—both of which she does with conviction and passion.

Her latest CD, Songs My Father Taught Me, topped HMV’s classical music charts and was picked for Fanfare Magazine’s 2009 Want List.

In this case, the ‘‘bistro’ will be at 56 Beaufain Street on Saturday, February 4, when Chamber Music Charleston presents its second installment of the Kuhn & Kuhn Law Firm Memminger Concert Series.

Come early to sip some French wine provided by Total Wine (by the glass), and to enjoy delicious bistro boxes by Whole Foods Market (pre-ordered). Seats will be available at tables in front of the stage and in the risers. But that’s not all. In true continental style, the evening will conclude with a reception provided by the Alliance Française de Charleston where you can taste delectable French food items, mingle with other guests, and meet the musicians.

(And don’t forget the special Kids Concert—“Ferdinand the Bull” for Wind Quintet—at 1:00 P.M. the same day. Learn more about that here.)

A Little About the Composers and Music

Emmanuel Chabrier’s 1870 L’Invitation au Voyage is based on a poem by Charles Baudelaire. The music features dream-like melodies (soprano and bassoon) against an ethereal, impressionistic backdrop (piano).

Maurice Ravel is regarded as one of the great French composers of all time and his frequently performed String Quartet in F is considered his first true masterpiece. In the early 1900s, however, he was considered a “bad boy” of French music—drinking and partying with a debauched group of artists called “Les Apaches” and composing music in a way that had not been heard before. When he showed the first movement of his String Quartet in F to a panel of judges at the Paris Conservatory, it was met with disapproval and he was expelled—for a third and final time.

At the first public performance of the complete quartet the audience showed great enthusiasm while the critics were harsh and deprecating. Fortunately, Ravel was not disheartened. He continued to compose in his original style, going on to create such acclaimed works as Bolero, Daphnis et Chloe, and Le Tombeau de Couperin.  

Gabriel Faure’s Piano Quartet in c minor, written between 1876 and 1879, exudes French charm with shimmering piano accompaniment set against lush singing tones of the strings.

When & Where
February 4 • Memminger Auditorium
Pre-concert bistro opens at 6:30 • concert at 7:30
Tickets: $35 bistro table • $25 general seating • $5 students
Note: bistro boxes must be ordered in advance (contact Sandra at the 2 options below)

www.ChamberMusicCharleston.org
(843) 763-4941

Leslie Vicary as “The Last Flapper”

LESLIE VICARY gave a daunting, daring portrayal in “The Last Flapper,” which unfortunately ran for only one weekend at the South of Broadway Theatre on Montague Avenue.

The one-woman play by William Luce (here directed by Mark Gorman) is taken fairly directly from the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife, Zelda, who was diagnosed as schizophrenic near the age of 30. Thereafter she lived in and out of—mostly in—mental institutions, which is where the audience finds her the day before she dies in a fire, aged 48.

Leslie’s performance was daunting because she was on stage alone (never an easy task for actor or director) and because she had to carry 90 minutes of dramatic action—which spans Zelda’s entire life—by means of dialogue alone. Her only props were a desk, a chair, and a phone.

At the same time, Leslie’s performance was daring because she had to honestly plum and unabashedly reveal her own depths in order to convey the conflicted emotions and multiple personalities of this character. Given the range of raw emotions that Leslie called forth, it was clear that she could not just “do what you did in rehearsal.” The material is too real for that.

I came away thinking, how do you navigate a script that by design has to be thoroughly scattered? How do you convincingly “act” mentally disturbed and—equally convincingly—summon divine madness on stage? How, in addition to portraying all of this in one character (and at different ages of that character), do you manage to also squeeze in her father, mother, daughter, and psychiatrist—to name just a few?

Even though Zelda was just a character on stage, it was unsettling and mentally exhausting to watch a schizophrenic traverse the territories—the morass—of her own mind. It was also illuminating to see that, even though her mind was distinctly haphazard compared to a “normal” mind, it did not really contain any abnormal thoughts. What made them abnormal was their arrangement. And distorted as some of them may have been, they were often accompanied by a disarmingly candid perspicacity.

For example: “There’s gotta be a streak of sanity in me somewhere.” “Psychiatry is worse than witchcraft; it gives one the illusion of hope.” “We (she and her husband) thought happiness would be something more… dramatic.” “There’s never been a way to hold onto summer.” And my personal favorite: “Mind you: I’m not monogamous in theory; only in practice.”

Zelda’s extraordinary penetration and clarity of thought also shone through in this sequence of lines: “Can you tell me why, when our bodies ought to bring relief from our tortured minds, they fail and collapse? And why, when we’re tormented in our bodies, does our soul desert us as a refuge? Why do we spend years using up our bodies to nurture our minds with experience, only to have our minds turn to our exhausted bodies for solace?”

Many have admired this play as a celebration of Zelda’s artistic talents which lay hidden in the shadow of her famous husband, who forbid her to publish only to then use her writings as source material in his own. The play also acknowledges Zelda’s fierce independence in the early 1900s when “flappers” were being so unconventionally bold as to “wear short skirts, bob their hair, listen to jazz, wear excessive makeup, drink, treat sex casually, drive cars, and otherwise flaunt their disdain for acceptable behavior.” (Wikipedia)

In fact, Zelda fit this mold so well that, contrary to the play’s title, her husband called her “the first American flapper,” adding that he “cherished her most extravagant hallucinations.”

It is those “extravagant hallucinations” that stood out in this portrayal—a portrayal that led us beyond Zelda’s artistic talent and dramatic (often humorous) flouting of social norms. This was a journey into, and a careful dissection of, the inner world of a woman whose outer life held so much promise, only to be sabotaged by excessive self-preoccupation, paranoia, and a seemingly bipolar nature.

To sit there and watch her implode was not pleasant—which demonstrated the pith and power of this performance.

Learn more about South of Broadway.

Katherine Chaney Long and Robbie Thomas

IN A FEROCIOUS PERFORMANCE where he portrays three different characters—sometimes within seconds of each other—Robbie Thomas proves himself one of Charleston’s most versatile actors. So fascinating are his transfigurations in this Village Playhouse production that you forget you are watching a psychological thriller dubbed a ghost story.

“The Turn of The Screw” is Jeffrey Hatcher’s two-actor adaptation of Henry James’s 1898 novel by the same name, here directed by Village Playhouse founder, Keely Enright. On stage with Robbie is Keely’s actor-daughter, Katherine Chaney Long, who is currently a sophomore at Marymount Manhattan in New York City, but who plays well beyond her years with poise and conviction.

Dark and demonic as the story is, it is not so much scary as it is a look at the obsession—if not derangement—that swirls around the specters of childhood corruption and molestation. Much remains unresolved across Henry James’s landscape of brooding implications, sexual riddles, and biblical allusions, yet this demanding, two-actor script traverses a lot of psychological ground.

Where James’s original story confronts the reality-versus-illusion of ghostly apparitions, Hatcher’s script adds a double layer by asking the audience to indulge in a reality-versus-illusion of characters who are there yet not there—specifically the man, woman, and boy portrayed by Robbie Thomas, who throughout the play wears a formal suit vest and tie.

Henry James was interested in the nature of consciousness and the inner workings of psychology, perhaps partly because he himself allegedly suffered from a form of undiagnosed sexual neurosis. That may explain the sometimes confused, self-confessed content of this story. But more importantly for this script—and more modern—is the profusion of opportunities it gives the male actor. Still, where many actors might relish this much latitude, few are up to the task of navigating it convincingly, especially without the support of makeup, costumes, or props.

Pure, powerful, persuasive acting: that is what this play calls for, and that’s what you see in this production—in a captivating demonstration of the actor’s craft.

And not just from Robbie. His counterpart, Katherine Chaney Long, provides just the right ballast to his mix of intimidating, naïve, explosive characters. As a newly hired governess thrown into a shadowy situation, Katherine takes her character through a challenging spectrum of emotions and a well defined arc of change (into darker depths). Her acting pedigree and training, along with her innate unflappability, speak for themselves.

The good chemistry and personal tenacity of this pair more than answer the call of Jeffrey Hatcher’s unique adaptation.

“The Turn of the Screw” is playing through January 28 at The Village Playhouse in Mount Pleasant.

Complexions is a company which was formed in 1994 when two of Alvin Ailey’s brightest stars, Dwight Rhoden and Desmond Richardson, broke off to begin their own company. Its mission was to push the boundaries of what dance can be and how movement can blend many styles and cultures reflecting the world around us. Primarily, the company is known for its dancers who are awe inspiring to watch with technical training that rivals any company in the world, as well as being a beautiful group representing many ethnic backgrounds.

In the opening 25-minute work titled Mercy, the 14 dancers examined the theme of faith accompanied by a collection of various chants, hymns, and spirituals representing an array of religions. A central figure danced by the brilliant Gary W. Jeter was at times a Christ figure, at others the antagonist, and others an evangelist; his theatrical gestures, jumps, and perfect lines immediately showed him as a standout. The company displayed explosive intensity here with convulsive jerks, angular shapes, and spit fire leaps driven by the pounding collage of music.

But this is where it became clear that what is secondary for the company is choreography, and by the end of this impressive blast off, I wondered if the dance had gotten anywhere, like a race car that revs its engine and doesn’t get to the finish line. The repetitive sequences were full of super high extensions and speedy turns which all happened so quickly that it was difficult to enjoy any one moment. Various costume changes and props came and went without any major rhyme or reason.

The second portion of the evening was lighter fare with four duets to very different music selections, with a high point being two male dancers dancing to one of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and another to Broadway show tunes. Here, the dancers pleased the crowd with their skill and personality and there was something for everyone to enjoy. This is a company where the men really carry the company, and it is refreshing to see.

Finally Rise was a celebration of U2 songs with the full company in bright and sexy costumes to the high powered tunes. This was where the dancer’s raw and relentless energy worked to its advantage, showing the pure love of movement and the fun and life affirming way physical expression can transport the viewer into another place.

Complexions is passionate about what they do and at the end, many were brought to their feet to show appreciation for this exhilarating display of the human spirit.

Conductor Joann Falletta

CONDUCTOR JOANN FALLETTA represents the best of what classical music is all about, and it rubs off—as it did Thursday night at the Gaillard Auditorium where she led the Charleston Symphony Orchestra in a lyrically rich program of Russian-European music.

This may have been the best we have heard the CSO play, and much of the credit goes to Maestro Falletta for her understated precision, her inspired leadership, and her willingness to let the musicians shine.

She, however, deflects the praise. When I thanked her for the performance, she responded: “The orchestra was wonderful.” I later heard her say: “The concert is the orchestra’s concert, not the conductor’s. It belongs to the orchestra. It is their sound. The conductor does not make a sound. The conductor’s responsibility is to create a landscape where excellence can flourish; to create that possibility.”

How refreshing to see a world-renowned conductor who does not carry herself like an “artiste,” who is not preoccupied with convincing audiences by means of showmanship, and whose expertise speaks for itself.

Watching Mrs. Falletta on stage, you get the impression that she does serious homework with the orchestra in rehearsals, then lets the performance unfold naturally (rather than in ultra-controlled fashion) under her attentive but not overbearing baton.

~ ~ ~

This very special concert started with the Overture from Alexander Borodin’s (1833-1887) opera, Prince Igor, a work that was finished by fellow Russian composers Alexander Glazunov and Nikolai Rimksy-Korsakov (1844-1908) after Borodin died unexpectedly in 1887. The overture itself is said to show mainly the influence of Glazunov, and it provided a colorful introduction to an evening of dazzling display by the CSO and guest violin soloist, Michael Ludwig.

Michael Ludwig • photo by Emily Everett

Mr. Ludwig, who is concertmaster of the Buffalo Philharmonic (which Mrs. Falletta directs), was featured in the romantic Symphonie espagnole of French composer Édouard Lalo (1823-1892) who wrote the work for Spanish virtuoso, Pablo de Sarasate. This five-movement piece (labeled a symphony by the composer but considered a suite by others) is often played without its middle movement. As Dr. William Gudger said in his pre-concert talk, the additional Intermezzo movement tends to “muddy” the whole thing so violinists choose to leave it out—which effectively renders it a concerto that features spectacular and tireless violin playing.

Mr. Ludwig performs with major orchestras around the world and it was evident why. He has a crisp technique, a song-like tone, and an undemonstrative yet engaging presence on stage. Periodically he sweeps one foot to the side in a waltz-like step, then pulls the other foot to join it as though he is stepping out of his own way before launching into another lunge of the bow. When things really get going, he leans back, points his violin to the sky, and unleashes all abandon. It is a dramatic, yet genuine gesture—which reflects the character of his unique music making.

As an encore, and in perfect contrast to the exhaustive Lalo piece, he played the silky Meditation from Thaïs by Jules Massenet (1842-1912). This could easily have marked the end of the evening, but we were only at intermission!

~ ~ ~

Maestro Falletta says she has performed Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, Opus 35 with some 20 or 30 orchestras (which is probably why she could conduct without a score in front of her) and that it is a nice way for her to get to know an orchestra, partly because the work has so many solo passages—“hard solos,” as she said, that leave the players very exposed.

(On a side note, principal flutist Jessica Hull-Dambaugh delivered her baby earlier than expected, so the second chair, Regina Helcher Yost, had to step up with barely 24 hours notice and play several demanding solos. Regina not only came through with shining colors, but stood out with her smooth, pure tone. It was a testament to the caliber of musicians in this orchestra.)

In addition to Scheherazade’s many solos, it highlights whole sections of the orchestra. For instance, just the violins play, then the violas, then full duties pass to the cellos and bases, on to the woodwinds, then to the brass section, and so on. On this night, the woodwind and brass players were also on risers where we could clearly see (and more fully appreciate) them. The riser effect enhanced the sound with brighter colors—which perfectly suited Rimsky Korsakov’s broad range of colors and motifs.

His tapestry of sounds is lushly textured, mysterious, romantic, dramatic, and at times poignantly sad. The frenetic finale, where all the fabrics and colors get tied together, is as gorgeous as it is powerful.

Many listeners may know this music from the adapted score for Russian-choreographer Michel Fokine’s twentieth-century ballet by the same name. Well, it is even more mesmerizing when heard in its entirety and for itself. There is one explosive section near the end, followed by an exquisite, delicate conclusion, that could epitomize the beginning of creation. It’s as though all the elements of the universe are being powerfully conceived and assembled, then sent gently on their way through creation with a tinge of parting sadness. It is exotic, haunting, memorable music.

~ ~ ~

The music aside, this concert was particularly special because of the graciousness of Joann Falletta and Michael Ludwig. Having two world-class guest musicians on the Gaillard stage at the same time is, in itself, wonderful. Their magnanimity made it even more so. Although Mr. Ludwig had to leave town right away, Maestro Falletta stayed two more nights in support of the orchestra. She attended a CSO donors reception one evening and a fundraiser the next simply because she believes in this orchestra and wants to see it thrive.

It was a heartfelt gesture, rare in the profession, and extremely fortunate for our arts community.

In between those events, she also found time to do an hour-long orchestra reading (a sort of master class) with the College of Charleston Orchestra. She led students through several movements of a piece they had recently performed, instructing them on different ways to approach the music, and answering their questions. Among other things, she mentioned how important it is for them to consistently look at and listen to each other while playing—something that distinguishes the best orchestras—and to always treat their playing as chamber music in the sense of communication, camaraderie, and mutual support; and to play even base-line sections as melodies—not to simply “follow” the lead voices. In a matter of minutes she had them playing tighter as a group and producing a deeper, richer sound.

What an opportunity and inspiration for these kids, whom she told, “even those of you who will not go on to become professional musicians, you will always be musicians inside and you will never forget the experience of being members of this orchestra,” which is now under the guidance of CSO’s concertmaster, Yuriy Bekker.

Yuriy himself—after several days of rehearsing and performing with Joann Falletta, then watching her inspire our musicians, audiences, and sponsors—remarked how incredibly fortunate our entire arts community is to host such a highly acclaimed conductor who is also an extremely kind, generous, and loving person.

Maestro, you left your indelible mark on this city. Thank you.

The nineteenth-century Hudson River School Painters certainly understood this and strove mightily to convey it—which makes for a fascinating tour of the 45 paintings now on display (through April 1) at the Columbia Museum of Art.

It’s one thing to paint a person or flower arrangement in a studio. It’s quite another to tackle Nature on her fickle terms. Yes, you can take a photograph and work from it in the studio, but then you lose the spatial grandeur, the immediacy of the elements, the tactile quality of natural light, and the assorted play of colors. There’s also the issue of how to eloquently corral Nature on a canvas and what to focus on. Try to encompass everything and you dull the view. Dwell too much on details and you underplay Nature’s uncanny unity.

Below are just a few impressions of how these artists responded to these (and other) demands of being an American landscape artist in the nineteenth century.

William Hart (1823 -1894)
On the Esopus, Meadow Groves, ca. 1857-58, Oil on canvas
New York Historical Society, Robert L. Stuart Collection

In the picture below (a detail of which appears above), the artist emphasized the foreground by means of the cattle and the reflection of the bank and tree. These elements lead your eye back and forth, left to right. The bank especially keeps your eye from venturing beyond it to the background, which is diminished in terms of light, color, and details—to the point of being just vaguely suggested. Even though the bare trunk above the cattle leads you up and into the sky, the sweep of cloud brings you back to the tree on right and down again into the reflection in the pond. It seems evident that Mr. Hart wanted to paint a local, tranquil scene and wanted to keep us there by means of a strong horizontal foreground.

William Hart (1823 -1894) On the Esopus, Meadow Groves

Could it be, too, that he borrowed a page from the Dutch painters Aelbert Cuyp (1620-1691) and Gerard Bilders (1838-1865)? Those two were known for putting cattle in serene landscapes, almost as an anchor amidst Nature’s ever-changing sea of elements. The cluster of cattle and kids in Hart’s painting (which is almost the most interesting part to look at) certainly serves this purpose. Just imagine this composition without it.

Asher Brown Durand (1786 - 1886) Shandaken Range, Kingston, New York

Asher Brown Durand (1786 – 1886)
Shandaken Range, Kingston, New York, ca. 1854, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Museum purchase, The Louis Durr Fund

Asher Durand, who has several (and varied) works in this exhibit, possessed a poetical view of Nature and a photographer’s eye for composition.

Here he employs a variety of techniques (branches, diagonals, color, and light) to converge our view on a point in the center of the composition, thereby heightening the sense of depth into the distance and back into the foreground—giving you the sense that you are standing way back, as if in a tunnel, looking out through the trees. I was left feeling comforted and secure—almost cozy—in my own private view of the distant countryside which itself has almost no detail and no distinct interest.

Although Durand’s other paintings are larger, more open scenes, they show a similar predilection for emphasizing the foreground and highlighting the animate vitality of trees and bark. In this respect, you cannot help but think that he was strongly influenced by the preeminent Dutch landscape painter, Jacob van Ruisdael (1628/9-1682) who, more than anyone else, knew how to render intimate scenes of Nature on a magnanimous scale, typically with trees as the prominent element.

George Henry Boughton (1833 – 1905)
Winter Twilight near Albany, New York, 1858, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Robert L. Stuart Collection

In this jewel of a painting—which one writer described as “a perfect piece of winter”—the artist uses an exquisite gray-blue-brown palette that perfectly captures the shadowy light and bitter cold of a winter dusk. This combined effect conveys the loneliness of a sole figure in the middle foreground who is slowly making his way along a frozen stream that reflects the color of the background sky—a deft touch that ties the composition together from top to bottom and side to side.

George Henry Boughton (1833 - 1905) Winter Twilight near Albany, New York

The three trees serve as ballast to guide us into the canvas from the left. The slight bend of the third tree leads us into the painting to follow the horizontal movement of the figure pulling his sled. Meanwhile, the small cottage at right, with its red glow of a warm fire in one tiny window holds our interest for a moment. Our eye then drops to the broken trunk in the bottom-right corner only to be led back into the composition to further dwell on the figure and his cold, lonely task.

The ice, snow, trees, clouds, house, and figure are individually (and beautifully) textured, offering us clear, sharp contrasts—all within a seemingly effortless management of composition. And as beautiful as this painting is as a landscape scene, it is even more a depiction of atmosphere and mood—an expression of the psychology of a season. As a result, you do more than look at this painting: you get drawn into it, enveloped by it, and made to feel cold, almost depressed, by it. Extraordinary. Especially considering that this is one of the smallest, most inconspicuous canvases in the exhibit. Had there been one painting I could have taken home and lived with, this was it.

Louisa Davis Minot (1788 – 1858)
Niagara Falls, 1818, Oil on linen
New-York Historical Society, Gift of Mrs. Waldron Phoenix Belknap, Sr.

The harmonious brown, blue, green, and white palette of this scene of Niagara Falls is extremely pleasing, which tempted me at first to think that this was a really good painting. But something kept nagging me. Looking more closely, I noticed that it lacked the monumental impact of Niagara’s steep height and dramatic, fast-flowing (almost threatening) surge of water, spray, and sound.

Louisa Davis Minot (1788 - 1858) Niagara Falls

Also lacking is a sharp contrast of textures. Notice, for example, how the water, rocks, foliage, and white clouds are all painted in a similar “curly” treatment—perhaps in an attempt to bring unity to the composition, but with the result that the whole lacks interest and conviction. At the same time, the strong horizontal composition is almost too contained, thus cramping the gargantuan falls and making them look quaint rather than large and looming.

Louis Rémy Mignot (1831 – 1870)
The Harvest Moon, 1860, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Robert L. Stuart Collection

A painting cannot be fully appealing without a balanced composition. Traditionally, this means building a design that flows from top-left to bottom-right, or which revolves clockwise (the two movements that at least our western eye is most familiar and comfortable with).

Louis Rémy Mignot (1831 - 1870) The Harvest Moon

Interestingly, Mignot has reversed this by having his main diagonal move gradually from right to left, which—even though the angle is not severe—creates a strong sense of “drop” for the sun. The sun itself is appropriately placed at the bottom of the diagonal, just at a point where the composition begins to rise again slightly. The graceful curve of a tree keeps our eye from drifting off the canvas and leads us back to the sun. The tree’s curve even echoes the curve of the sun and its halo, as does the green tree at right—and all three of these “rotate” clockwise, counterbalancing the leftward-flowing diagonal.

It would be interesting to see this place (if  it actually exits) to know how much is real and how much was contrived by the artist according to his compositional intent. In fact, the more you study this piece, the more subtle diagonals you find, all of which appear natural, yet which, on closer examination, reveal the hand of man artfully manipulating Nature’s designs. The result is a delightful, relaxing painting that you don’t tire of looking at. This Charleston, S.C.-born painter, who sadly died when he was 39 (and who painted this when he was only 29), obviously had a full range of talent when it came to composition, color, tone, perspective, and atmosphere.

Frederic Edwin Church (1826 – 1900)
Cayambe, 1858, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Robert L. Stuart Collection

Frederic Church was a painter-explorer in the sense of being an adventurous traveler—in this case to the Andes Mountains—but also in the sense of testing the boundaries of composition. In this painting, he manages to create equal interest in the foreground, middle ground, and background with three distinct worlds of Nature (exotic foliage, mysterious valley, and a cosmic, above-the-clouds volcano).

Frederic Edwin Church (1826 - 1900) Cayambe

To make things easy, he leads our eye from the middle of the foreground, through the lake of the middle ground, directly to the base of the volcano, and up to the striking snow peak and sky. It is simultaneously a very human and spiritually evocative painting that appeals to different sides of our nature. Church had a masterful stroke, but he was also more than just a good painter. His landscapes silently “speak.”

Thomas Cole (1801 – 1848)
The Course of Empire: The Consummation of Empire, 1836, Oil on canvas
New-York Historical Society, Gift of the New-York Gallery of the Fine Arts

In one room of the exhibit, devoted to a series of five large paintings, Thomas Cole metaphorically “warns” young America about the inevitable cycle of growth, splendor, and eventual destruction that previous empires have gone through. It as a thought-provoking presentation where Cole takes essentially the same scene and shows it changing over time: from pure landscape, to the summit of civilization, to ultimate ruin and desolation.

Thomas Cole (1801 - 1848) The Course of Empire: The Consummation of Empire

His painting is superb in such a large undertaking, and the series does prompt you to consider where we are as a country and a world, and where we may be headed. Nevertheless, from a purely artistic point of view, I felt that the inherent beauty of landscape painting and the pure skill of this artist are both overridden by his attempt at philosophical narrative, and by his use of romantic stylization to convey the message—with this particular painting being the most extreme example.

James Fennimore Cooper, on the other hand, had this to say about the series: “Not only do I consider The Course of Empire the work of the highest genius this country has ever produced, but I esteem it one of the noblest works of art that has ever been wrought.”

So what do you think? In the end, isn’t that the question we want to answer for ourselves as honestly as possible—in the arts and in life?

Sometimes it takes an art exhibit to remind us of this, too.

“Nature and the Grand American Vision: Masterpieces of the Hudson River School Painters” is part of a traveling exhibit of works from the New-York Historical Society.

Rembrandt van Rijn, Portrait of a Girl Wearing a Gold-Trimmed Cloak, 1632, oil on panel, 23 7/8 x 17 3/4 in. (oval), Private collection, New York

THE GOOD NEWS is that it is the largest collection of Rembrandt paintings ever presented in an American exhibition. The unfortunate part is that they are on display for only another 3 weeks (through January 22) at the North Carolina Museum of Art (NCMA) in Raleigh.

Featured are 27 autograph paintings, plus another 23 works previously attributed to Rembrandt but now “downgraded” by the Rembrandt Research Project.

Rembrandt took a fastidious approach to composition which stemmed from his training in narrative painting where every prominent element serves to tell the story. Throughout his career he also employed a strategic focal point around which the entire composition revolves. With this central core, he became more and more masterful (and subtle) in unifying hands, gestures, and posture to reflect a subject’s inner character and personal plight.

Such exacting composition and unity of expression are two things typically missing from the students, followers, and peers whose works have been mistaken as “Rembrandts.” Another distinguishing trait of a true Rembrandt is its monumentality, regardless of size, subject, and medium. When you see them firsthand, his paintings exude an indescribable magic and leave a visceral impression. When I asked my 8-year-old daughter what she thought about one painting above—Portrait of a Girl Wearing a Gold-Trimmed Cloak, 1632, which some surmise is Rembrandt’s sister, Lysbeth—she replied, “It is like the person comes out of the frame to you?” I certainly agree. The moment I stepped up to this exquisite portrait, it took my breath away with its immediacy and unabashed intimacy.

Clearly, Rembrandt possessed a rarefied perceptivity about human nature that manifests in everything he did: most notably his portraits, but also in his biblical works and even his landscapes. His special ability to capture the ineffable essence of a person and situation sets his work apart from that of nearly every other painter in history—as demonstrated by this significant gathering of paintings.

Rembrandt van Rijn, St. Bartholomew, 1657, oil on canvas, The Putnam Foundation, Timken Museum of Art, San Diego

St. Bartholomew, 1657

Bartholomew, a lesser known apostle of Christ, was, according to one popular tradition, flayed alive and crucified, head downward. Having converted the king of Armenia to Christianity, he was ordered to be executed by the king’s brother (Wikipedia).

Where most works of art depicting Bartholomew’s martyrdom show the horrendous act itself, Rembrandt, in his signature style, focused instead on the inward reflection of the man to whom it happened, just before it happened. Rembrandt had a penchant for selecting the pivotal moment—not of action, but of reflection related to action—and it seems to me that in the case of St. Bartholomew he chose the highest point of tension that might test the saintly character of the victim.

What does it mean to knowingly face your own death, especially such a brutal one, with a spiritual conviction rooted in devotion, contemplation, and practice? And despite your spiritual achievements, how would your physical body, your still bestial nature, respond?

Rembrandt was a mindful student of the Bible and the Apocrypha. With unique vision and sensitivity, his works interpret many of their stories, and it is easy to suppose, in the case of Bartholomew, that Rembrandt had in mind a particular line from Ecclesiates 3:16: “Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth?”

In the dark eyes, blackish-brown palette, and brutish frame we see a powerful, pugnacious man who has endured many struggles in a conflicted life. With an innate vehemence that has been resolved by faith, he appears to be looking up abruptly at his oncoming assailants. Guarded yet accepting, he holds in his gentle, open hand the knife that will be used to kill him.

It is, to say the least, a hellacious moment of anticipation and the saint is not perfect—as Rembrandt well understood from his own life, and as evidenced in the horrific flinching of Bartholomew’s right eyebrow; perhaps the most interesting eyebrow in all of painting.

Just how do you portray the reactions of someone about to be flayed alive, and in this case a presumably enlightened person? This painting—this rigorous assessment of human nature—reveals the full extent of Rembrandt’s skill, not just as a painter, but as a master of interpretation and expression.

Lucretia, 1664 oil on canvas: 47 1/4 x 39 3/4 in. Andrew W. Mellon Collection, National Gallery of Art

Lucretia, 1666

Lucretia was a legendary figure whose rape by the king’s son led her to suicide, an act that prompted a revolution to overthrew the monarchy and establish the Roman Republic (Wikipedia). The violation of rape was too much of a compromise to grant her violator, or to live with, so she literally took her fate into her own hands.

In 1664, Rembrandt depicted Lucretia about to stab herself (in the painting shown at right, which is not in this exhibit). Two years later, he took his depiction to a deeper psychological examination in the work (bottom right) whose current owner, the Minneapolis Institute of Art, describes as “arguably one of the greatest masterpieces in America.” Admittedly, the longer you stand in front of it, the more you tend to agree.

This work exhibits all the hallmarks of Rembrandt at his most profound: dramatic narrative, monumentality, unity of composition, gorgeous brushwork, expressive pathos, and, above all, poignancy of interpretation.

Rembrandt van Rijn, Lucretia, 1666, oil on canvas, 43 3/8 x 36 5/16 in., Minneapolis Institute of Arts, The William Hood Dunwoody Fund

In contrast to the St. Bartholomew and the 1664 Lucretia (both of which depict a moment right before the action), the 1666 version shows Lucretia just seconds afterwards, which strikes a different note.

The blood on her gown and the dagger in her right hand are anguishing, yet their impact is softened by the fact that Lucretia’s concern lies elsewhere. Her gaze is intently, lovingly focused on the bell chord that her left hand is ringing to call a servant who may not find her alive, and who will inform the world of her drastic deed.

It is a powerful, haunting image that brought to mind a similar painting by the Dutch master: his Bathsheba from 1654, now in the Louvre. Bathsheba is shown in her bath where she has been spied by King David who desires her. In her fallen hand is a letter calling for her to visit David’s bed chamber where she will eventually bear David a son, despite the fact that she is married to one of the king’s generals. It is an ominous moment, pregnant with the fate that will befall her, and the breadth of her realization is extremely touching in its range of grief, acceptance, and self-compassion—the same emotions depicted in the 1666 Lucretia.

As with many of Rembrandt’s most profound portraits, the 1666 Lucretia composition revolves around the focal point of her nose, with the eyes residing on either side of masterful chiaroscuro. The result is that our view moves subtly from one eye to the other, from light to dark and back again, in a way that evokes soft but not sentimental emotion—the kind of emotion you feel when you have been rendered quiet by loss or suffering or the majesty of nature. Rembrandt captured and conveyed this quality of transcendence better than any painter before or after him—no doubt because he possessed it himself and sought to express it. Indeed, it is this aspect of him that we see over and over again in his art.

Rembrandt van Rijn, Self-Portrait, 1659, oil on canvas, 33 1/4 x 26 in., National Gallery of Art, Andrew W. Mellon Collection, 1937.1.72

Self-portrait, 1659

The clearest example of this is his self-portraits, and one of the best—the 1659 self-portrait in this exhibit—hangs in the National Gallery in Washington, DC. I regard it among the most profound paintings in all of art because it brings us—as the exhibit itself says—“face to face with Rembrandt” the man.

This self-portrait reveals a piercing insight into human nature—his own in particular—that is boundless, as is the depth of empathy in those eyes. Meanwhile, his pursed lips and tightly clutched fingers betray lingering self-turmoil. It is a portrait of unadulterated honesty, and it brought to mind another well-known verse from Ecclesiastes (1:16): “For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.”

From one point of view, Rembrandt wanted us to look directly at him and into him—to such an extent, in fact, that it is unsettling to match his penetrating gaze for very long when looking at this life-size painting in person. At the same time, he was so uncompromising with himself—so eager to explore the truth of his inner being—that we can also view his self-portraits as ruthless, relentless self-examinations of character, as well as personal explorations into the ethereal atmosphere of his soul. As we look at him and become witness to these, it evokes the same—challenges and inspires the same—in ourselves.

Are we up to that task of all human tasks with the same measure of determination and devotion that he was? Suffice it to say that we can learn a lot when facing Rembrandt this directly. As Lawrence Wheeler, Director of the North Carolina Museum of Art, says in the excellent film accompanying the exhibit, “we come away with an elevated soul of our own.”

There can be no better endorsement of the crucial value of art.

Special thanks to Jennifer Warner, NCMA’s Marketing Manager, for her support in making this review possible.