*Vladimir lvanovich Nemirovich-Danchenko (1 858-1 943), director and playwright, who with Stanislavsky founded the famous Moscow Art Theater. In 1 934 he produced the Moscow premiere of Shostakovich's opera Lady Macbeth in the music theater he headed. In his late years Nemirovich insisted that Shostakovich was a genius and he never retreated from that position.
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Crippled Kustodiev painted his voluptuous nudes using a special contraption to move the canvas toward him so that he could reach it with his brush. He tilted the canvas and then returned it to its vertical position.
I watched in awe as he worked. Kustodiev liked my sister Marusya, and he used her in the painting Blue House. The picture depicts several scenes: a boy with his pigeons, a young couple in love, three friends talking. The painting also has a coffin-maker reading. That's life-the boy on the roof, the coffin-maker in the cellar.
Kustodiev grew tired of living. He couldn't work any more. Voluptuous women no longer brought him any pleasure. "I can't live any more, I don't want to," he used to say.
And he died, not of his disease, but of exhaustion. From a cold, which was naturally only an excuse. Kustodiev was forty-nine then, but to me he seemed an old man.
Kustodiev's example had a profound effect on me, something that I've become aware of now. Because I see that you can be the master of your body. Of course, you can't really be the master in the sense that if your legs don't work, then they don't work, and if your hands don't move, then they don't move. But you must try to continue your work, you must train and figure out feasible working conditions.
Kustodiev went on working even though he was seriously ill. This is a question of vital importance for me now.
You must try to work always, under any circumstances. It can sometimes save you. For instance, I can say that work saved Glazunov;* he was so busy that he never had time to think of himself.
After the Revolution, _everything around Glazunov changed and he lived in a terrible world that he didn't understand. But he thought that if he died, important work would perish. He felt responsible for the lives of hundreds of musicians, so he didn't die himself.
Once Glazunov listened to a friend and myself sight-read Brahms's Second Symphony. We were reading badly, because we didn't know
•Alexander Konstantinovich Glazunov (1 865-1 936), composer, head of the Pctcrsburg/Pctrograd/Lcningrad Conservatory Crom 1 906 to 1928. In this position he earned general respect.
A musician of conservative bent (he wrote lush, colorful symphonies and stylized ballets), Glazunov nevertheless was sympathetic toward Shostakovich. Placed under strong pressure at the Conservatory by radical teachers and students to case the Conservatory's academic traditions, Glazunov went abroad on a business trip in 1 928 and never returned to Russia. He died in France.
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the music. Glazunov asked whether we knew it, and I answered honestly, "No, we don't." And he sighed and said, ''You're so lucky, young men. There are so many beautiful things for you to discover.
And I already know it all. Unfortunately."
Glazunov, like Kustodiev, liked watching the young learn. Performers-violinists, cellists, pianists, harpists-came to his house every day.
And of course, singers. They brought him invitations and tickets to their recitals, each of which was described as being a decisive recital, vitally important for the performer. And Glazunov's opinion would be the ray of light in the darkness that . . . And so on, the same old nonsense.
Actually, Glazunov's opinion as such was not that indispensable for a young artist. I'm talking about his opinion on the essential point, the music. But there were other considerations-publicity-at work.
A recital is greatly enhanced, as every pushy artist knows, by the presence of celebrities. They always tried to seat Glazunov in the first row. And some very resourceful ones even managed to haul him on stage, where they set up chairs for particularly honored guests.
And the audience this way had double pleasure. For the same money they could watch the struggling performer and his famous guests. A circus.
And how lovely afterward: the green room, the violinist (or pianist or harpist) stands there pleasantly excited, accepting his due from his fans. And then the celebrity makes his way through the excited crowd and either shakes the performer's hand or kisses it, depending on the musician's sex. And pronounces a few pretty words, which immediately become known to the broad musical community. Cheap and satisfying, as they say.
I had to go through all that and more myself. Not with such frequency as Glazunov, who certainly holds the record. But they say that Glazunov had recourse to illegal means to make the record, to use a sports analogy.
It's said that when he came to a recital Glazunov stuffed cotton in his ears and sat and thought his own thoughts. I must admit that he thought prodigiously, and the process was very impressive to behold.
And his neighbors were certain that Glazunov was listening diligently to the sounds pouring from the stage.
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And when it was time to go backstage to the green room to congratulate the "subject of the festivities," Glazunov surreptitiously slipped. the cotton from his ears and muttered a few noncommittal but definitely laudatory generalities. "Marvelous, and such a stylish touch in the first part . . . "
Of course, to continue the sports metaphor, he should have been disqualified. But no one guessed, or they all pretended not to. E,veryone had something to gain from this comedy.
The greatest paradox lay in the fact that Glazunov's taste in music was on the highest level. He was actually a very strict and demanding appraiser.
How can this be explained? And it's very important to me that it be explained, because if I can explain Glazunov's position on this issue, it will clear up much confusion about my own evaluations and reviews.
I know that my reviews and opinions are greeted skeptically by some comrades. A complex game is being played here. On the one hand, people try to get a recommendation or review from me. And on the other . . .
And on the other hand, I was once told about the words of one of our outstanding conductors.* He's supposed to have said about me,
"Ah, that yurodivy, who says 'Very good, very good' about any performance."
First of all, it seems to me sometimes that this magnificent conductor (I hold his talent in high esteem) has more reason to be called yurodivy than I. I'm referring to his religious fanaticism. But I'm not talking about him here. Isn't it perfectly clear that there are many occasions when shooting a cannon at sparrows is completely unnecessary and pointless ?
There is a severe critic inside all of us. It's not so hard to be tough, but is it worth airing your aural preferences before everyone? When it's necessary I can express myself-and have-very sharply, when it comes to the performance of both other people's music and my own.