l'Orchestre Nationale
Thursday night I was riding the RER commuter train home at 7 pm, pretending to read the book sitting in my lap by staring intently but uncomprehendingly at its pages when my cell phone buzzed. It was Viswa, the conductor.
“Where are you?”
“On the RER”
“When will you be at the cité? I have two tickets to the orchestra tonight and I desperately need somebody to come with me. Will you come?”
“Ehhhh . . ,” I wavered. I was looking forward to going home, eating leftovers and passing out “. . . what are they playing?”
“A Sibelius violin concerto and Shostakovich No 5” I happen to love Shostakovich 5 and the prospect of seeing the French national orchestra play it was enough to lure me away from the imagined warmth of my comforter and pillow. “Ok, I’ll come”.
I met him at the door of the Fondation, where he is also a resident, and flew upstairs to get changed into something a more appropriate than the frayed jeans and sweater I was wearing. Within five minutes we were running out the door, me with a chunk of bread between my teeth and a banana in hand. We took two metro lines and emerged from the network of underground trains across the Seine from le Théâtre des Champs-Elysées, home of the orchestre nationale. Although I am reminded on a daily basis of how beautiful Paris is, it never strikes me as much as when walking across the Seine. It was a windy night and the cold, damp gusts created little wavelets on the river which reflected the lights from the grandiose buildings lining its banks. As I looked downstream bridge after bridge twinkled. It was one of those surreal moments which seem to happen all too often here.
We arrived ten minutes before the scheduled start and walked into the unimposing (by Parisian standards) orchestra hall to crowds of nicely dressed people milling around, searching for friends and waiting to take their seats before the performance began. Viswa walked up to the musician and guest ticket counter to claim our tickets and programs. To his delight, his name was printed on the main page of the program as “chief assistant conductor” for the first time. We grabbed a couple more for his family. On the way to our seats I was introduced to several people. “He is an extremely gifted pianist” or “She is the personal assistant to Masur, the conductor” Viswa would say under his breath after each introduction. Circles of people formed and then dissolved, exchanging pleasantries as was expected and as was habitual. One particularly important but exceedingly fleeting introduction occurred during just before we left to take our seats. A friend of Viswa’s introduced us to a rather non descript man whose name I don’t remember. Viswa was almost shaking as we walked away from the cursory exchange of names. “That was the biggest agent in the business!” he exclaimed as we made our way to our incredible seats. He then proceeded to explain how it was a very strategic introduction and part of the reason why Viswa need to be seen with a guest.
The performances were amazing. The Sibelius violin concerto was played by a 19 year old Armenian phenomenon, Sergey Khachatryan. He played brilliantly, displaying both technical and artistic mastery. At first his performance seemed at odds with his small frame, curly dark hair and large eyes, so adolescent. But then it occurred to me that he played with same raw emotion that you would imagine a serious, sensitive boy pouring into his first love, that same sort of abandon and willingness to be completely taken in by the experience. The audience fell in love in turn and he received close to ten ovations which he repaid with a solo encore.
We had a brief intermission which included a mandatory coffee and more introductions, and then we settled in for the Shostakovich. I have heard No. 5 in a couple different recordings and played live at Ravinia, the Chicago symphony orchestra’s summer home, but I have never heard it played like I did Thursday night. The orchestra was playing with every piece of themselves; some of the pianissimos were so soft you could barely hear them playing, yet at the same time the sound was full and satisfying. At other parts you could imagine you were marching at the front of a Soviet military parade, enveloped in all of its power. Masur, the 77 year old conductor, seemed to understand the piece and to understand Shostakovich and the orchestra followed his vision with complete devotion. (In fact he spent a large portion of his life in East Germany, continually protesting against the regime but never leaving the country, which is a somewhat similar life-trajectory to Shostakovich) At the end Masur and the orchestra received ten ovations, many of them dedicated to Masur. Viswa and the other assistant conductors said that they had never seen the orchestra that enthusiastic over a performance and that deferential to Masur.
We then went back stage to stand outside of Masur’s dressing room amongst the notables waiting to praise him for the evening. After ten minutes or so the door opened and he addressed the group of 15 of us, visibly energized, “I gave it everything tonight and I didn’t know if the orchestra could follow but I didn’t care. I wanted everything! And they were magnificent!” Yet another introduction ensued, and after a few minutes of conversation we left. As we walked back across the Seine, the Eiffel tower sparkling. Surreal doesn’t begin to describe life here sometimes.
“Where are you?”
“On the RER”
“When will you be at the cité? I have two tickets to the orchestra tonight and I desperately need somebody to come with me. Will you come?”
“Ehhhh . . ,” I wavered. I was looking forward to going home, eating leftovers and passing out “. . . what are they playing?”
“A Sibelius violin concerto and Shostakovich No 5” I happen to love Shostakovich 5 and the prospect of seeing the French national orchestra play it was enough to lure me away from the imagined warmth of my comforter and pillow. “Ok, I’ll come”.
I met him at the door of the Fondation, where he is also a resident, and flew upstairs to get changed into something a more appropriate than the frayed jeans and sweater I was wearing. Within five minutes we were running out the door, me with a chunk of bread between my teeth and a banana in hand. We took two metro lines and emerged from the network of underground trains across the Seine from le Théâtre des Champs-Elysées, home of the orchestre nationale. Although I am reminded on a daily basis of how beautiful Paris is, it never strikes me as much as when walking across the Seine. It was a windy night and the cold, damp gusts created little wavelets on the river which reflected the lights from the grandiose buildings lining its banks. As I looked downstream bridge after bridge twinkled. It was one of those surreal moments which seem to happen all too often here.
We arrived ten minutes before the scheduled start and walked into the unimposing (by Parisian standards) orchestra hall to crowds of nicely dressed people milling around, searching for friends and waiting to take their seats before the performance began. Viswa walked up to the musician and guest ticket counter to claim our tickets and programs. To his delight, his name was printed on the main page of the program as “chief assistant conductor” for the first time. We grabbed a couple more for his family. On the way to our seats I was introduced to several people. “He is an extremely gifted pianist” or “She is the personal assistant to Masur, the conductor” Viswa would say under his breath after each introduction. Circles of people formed and then dissolved, exchanging pleasantries as was expected and as was habitual. One particularly important but exceedingly fleeting introduction occurred during just before we left to take our seats. A friend of Viswa’s introduced us to a rather non descript man whose name I don’t remember. Viswa was almost shaking as we walked away from the cursory exchange of names. “That was the biggest agent in the business!” he exclaimed as we made our way to our incredible seats. He then proceeded to explain how it was a very strategic introduction and part of the reason why Viswa need to be seen with a guest.
The performances were amazing. The Sibelius violin concerto was played by a 19 year old Armenian phenomenon, Sergey Khachatryan. He played brilliantly, displaying both technical and artistic mastery. At first his performance seemed at odds with his small frame, curly dark hair and large eyes, so adolescent. But then it occurred to me that he played with same raw emotion that you would imagine a serious, sensitive boy pouring into his first love, that same sort of abandon and willingness to be completely taken in by the experience. The audience fell in love in turn and he received close to ten ovations which he repaid with a solo encore.
We had a brief intermission which included a mandatory coffee and more introductions, and then we settled in for the Shostakovich. I have heard No. 5 in a couple different recordings and played live at Ravinia, the Chicago symphony orchestra’s summer home, but I have never heard it played like I did Thursday night. The orchestra was playing with every piece of themselves; some of the pianissimos were so soft you could barely hear them playing, yet at the same time the sound was full and satisfying. At other parts you could imagine you were marching at the front of a Soviet military parade, enveloped in all of its power. Masur, the 77 year old conductor, seemed to understand the piece and to understand Shostakovich and the orchestra followed his vision with complete devotion. (In fact he spent a large portion of his life in East Germany, continually protesting against the regime but never leaving the country, which is a somewhat similar life-trajectory to Shostakovich) At the end Masur and the orchestra received ten ovations, many of them dedicated to Masur. Viswa and the other assistant conductors said that they had never seen the orchestra that enthusiastic over a performance and that deferential to Masur.
We then went back stage to stand outside of Masur’s dressing room amongst the notables waiting to praise him for the evening. After ten minutes or so the door opened and he addressed the group of 15 of us, visibly energized, “I gave it everything tonight and I didn’t know if the orchestra could follow but I didn’t care. I wanted everything! And they were magnificent!” Yet another introduction ensued, and after a few minutes of conversation we left. As we walked back across the Seine, the Eiffel tower sparkling. Surreal doesn’t begin to describe life here sometimes.
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