The program:

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Rachmaninoff :

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Trio élégiaque No. 1 in G minor

Sonata in G minor for Cello and Piano, Op. 19

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Dina Nesterenko, violin 

Dan Sloutskovski, cello 

Leon Livshin, piano 

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​A Note from Leon:

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Dear friends,

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In Chinese, the word "crisis" is composed of two characters: one signifies "danger," and the other is commonly translated as "opportunity." While the first character indeed denotes danger, the second, if we strive for accuracy, means "decisive moment," "turning point," or "trigger moment." Thus, in Chinese, a crisis is danger leading to a turning point or a trigger moment.

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In 1917, Freud, in his Mourning and Melancholia, introduced the concept of "grief work," later expanded to "crisis work." He stated that coping with a crisis can only be done by the individual himself. Experiencing a crisis is an absolutely personal effort. In this work, Freud nominally distinguishes three phases. The initial stage is when one encounters the news of a crisis—internally or externally—when fate throws one a challenge, and one is left without strength. (Pardon me for simplifying greatly to avoid delving into psychoanalytical depths.) Thus, the first reaction is shock and denial ("No, this can’t be happening!"). The purpose of this shock is to allow a person to regain his strength and energy. It’s possible to get stuck in this phase of shock, and then the development of the crisis will significantly slow down, and the crisis will transform into trauma. Therefore, it’s important to slightly “distance” oneself from the shock. After the shock comes the phase of aggression—anger and rage—against the injustice of fate. This is followed by a phase of experiencing and suffering. According to Freud, suffering is twofold: physical and psychological. Probably everyone has experienced grief and knows what physical suffering feels like. Even remembering a past crisis makes one sigh deeply—it’s a reminiscence of a physical experience. The other side of suffering is the mental, existential pain. It’s impossible to hide or escape from it; one can only forcibly turn off one’s consciousness—by getting drunk or by self-harm. And to make this unbearable situation somewhat bearable, it’s very important to tell someone about your pain, turn it into a story, a narrative. When we speak about pain, it no longer fills the entire inner world. If I start treating pain, looking at it from the outside, it’s no longer equal to me.

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Our heroes today are united precisely by this desire to part with their pain. And there is something truly inspiring in their striving for disclosure and liberation from pain. Let’s get inspired by their example and try to understand the secrets behind their experiences! So, what actually happened to Rachmaninov? What crisis did he experience, and how did Chekhov become involved in this story? Here are the words of Rachmaninov himself, which are connected with the story of his painful crisis:

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"I visited Tolstoy in Khamovniki several times. It all ended unpleasantly. Princess Liven asked Leo Nikolayevich to receive me after the failure of my First Symphony, writing: 'Please accept him, the young man may perish, he has lost faith in his own strength.' When I first came, Tolstoy was playing chess with Goldenweiser. I came with Shalyapin; Fedya sang my song 'Fate.' It’s impossible to describe how he sang: he sang as Tolstoy wrote. We were both twenty-six years old. When we finished, everyone applauded admiringly, but then suddenly fell silent. Tolstoy seemed gloomy and displeased. For an hour I avoided him, then he approached and excitedly said: 'I must tell you, I do not like all this. Beethoven—nonsense, Pushkin and Lermontov—too.' It was terrible."

 

And here is how Shalyapin describes the same scene:

 

"…And here he is alive! I saw a figure, seemingly below average height, which surprised me greatly—by photographs, Leo Nikolayevich seemed to me not only a spiritual, but also a physical giant—tall, powerful, and broad-shouldered... Sergey Rachmaninov seemed braver than me but was also nervous and had cold hands. He whispered to me: 'If they ask to play, I don’t know how—I have absolutely icy hands.' Indeed, Leo Nikolayevich asked Rachmaninov to play. What Rachmaninov played, I do not remember. I was nervous and kept thinking: it seems I will have to sing. I was even more scared when Leo Nikolayevich directly asked Rachmaninov: "Tell me, is such music necessary to anyone?"

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Rachmaninov continues:
"Later, Tolstoy approached again: 'Sorry, I am an old man, did not mean to offend you.' I replied: 'How can I be offended on my behalf, if I was not offended for… Beethoven?' And further: 'I told all this to Anton Pavlovich Chekhov. He adored Tolstoy, and if Tolstoy loved anyone, it was certainly Chekhov. He told me: “If this happened on a day when Tolstoy was suffering from stomach pain, he could not work and therefore must have been in a very nervous state. On such days he is inclined to speak nonsense. But do not pay attention to it. It’s not important."

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It is important to remember that Chekhov was not only a writer but also a doctor, and during his short life, he managed to treat quite a few people. He always incredibly subtly noticed the reasons for people’s reactions and states. It would seem that Chekhov is a light, subtly ironic writer, with a fine sense of humor. So what do crises have to do with it—where do his existential torments come from? But just open his plays—and suddenly you see a completely different Chekhov. I vividly remember the first time I read Chekhov’s story The Black Monk—I was literally physically shaken. If you remember, the protagonist of the story lived calmly and happily, was sure that he was a genius, chosen, almost Napoleon. And suddenly—he recovered. And when he recovered, it turned out that he was no longer chosen and basically nobody. No crisis, just a complete recovery—and a tragedy for a lifetime. The hero develops a disgust for… normality, an unbearable sense of the catastrophe of everyday life... Do we not face this problem ourselves today—when we are satisfied with anything, just not our reality? So, perhaps crises and even a little madness are not always a bad thing. Chekhov hints at this: sometimes it’s better to be a little crazy than completely normal. After all, complete liberation from illusions is the most severe tragedy. Imagine how lucky Buddha or Shakespeare were that kind relatives and caring doctors did not cure them of ecstasy and inspiration! Thus, we will try to look into the world of crisis through the fate of Rachmaninov, his music, and Chekhov’s stories. It is especially worth noting that our guest performers for this concert - Dina Nesterenko (violin) and Dan Sloutskovski (cello) - in addition to being fantastic musicians, seem to know how to live on the edge: how to enter this dangerous and fragile zone of crisis without fear of losing themselves, and most importantly, how to come out of it renewed!

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​Musically yours,
Leon Livsin