For all of the remarkable orchestral concerts that have occurred at Carnegie Hall this season, there is no more iconic sight than seeing the cavernous Carnegie stage occupied solely by a single performer, sitting behind a Steinway grand. The roll call of pianists who have played here is nearly as legendary as the hall itself: Paderewski, Horowitz, Rubenstein, Pollini, Brendel.
Mitsuko Uchida has established herself as one of a select group of pianists who are regularly invited to perform on the Carnegie stage, a group in which she is something of an anomaly. Born in Japan and raised in Vienna, Uchida brings a decidedly feminine touch to this male-dominated instrument, with her long flowing hair and sheer silk garments. But don't think for a minute that Uchida is some fragile flower: she is capable of an explosive intensity that would wither the burliest of male musicians.
Uchida returned to Carnegie Wednesday night to play an all-Schubert program, to a house so packed that additional seats were set up onstage behind her. In addition to being one of the world's great Mozart performers
Schubert's last three sonatas are one of the great enigmas of the piano repertoire. Written in the space of a month, mere weeks before he died at the age of 31, they are expansive, inscrutable symphonies for the keyboard, vacillating between dark despair and effervescent joy. (Schubert was suffering the final stages of syphilis while he was composing them.) Performing all three on the same program requires a pianist who not only possesses great technical skill and stamina (they last over two hours combined), but also the ability to convey the deepest emotion with maximum restraint. In other words: Soul. Liszt, it's not.
Uchida's performance was spotless and moving, if a bit eccentric at times in it's phrasing and dynamics. In the great B-flat Major sonata, D. 960, I've never heard the Andante start off more darkly, or felt such release at the arrival of the triumphant middle section. The final Allegro came off like some kind of manic episode, with Uchida only slowing things down in the last few bars – only to pick it up again in a wild final race to the finish. It was thrilling and totally satisfying.
But, walking towards the subway home, I found myself haunted by a whole other thought: What does it say about the state of human intelligence that we are still held in thrall by 2 1/2 hours of piano music written in a single month by a 31 year old nearly 200 years ago? Is it simply an instance of art's timeless charm, or do we worship this music because are we no longer capable of delivering such large-scale aesthetic feats? Are there no Schuberts left among us, or are they simply (as Schubert was himself) confined to house concerts and smaller venues? Share your thoughts below.
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