Romania has proven to be particularly fecund soil for generation after generation of violinists. Among the latest and most distinguished exemplars of this phenomenon is Silvia Marcovici (b. 1952), whose very individual sound—lustrous, rich, glinting with sunny expressivity—echoes the pivotal position that her homeland rests upon in Europe, wedged as it is between Slavic and Mediterranean civilization.
Born in the city of Bacău, she began her violin studies with Harry Coffler. At the age of 12 Marcovici moved on to Ștefan Gheorghiu, who became her lifelong mentor. The next year she would make her public debut; at the age of 16 she made her first appearance outside the Eastern Bloc in the Netherlands under the baton of Bruno Maderna. She quickly earned the attention and admiration of musicians and audiences in the West, including Leopold Stokowski with whom she recorded Alexander Glazunov’s Violin Concerto.
“It was a very charming experience,” Marcovici recalled to me in an interview. “We were having a coffee break with the London Symphony Orchestra at the Royal Festival Hall. Stokowski took a sheet of paper, drew three hearts, and passed it along to me. On one heart was inscribed ‘L. S.’, on another ‘L. S. O.’, and on the last one ‘S. M.’ The whole orchestra was smiling because he was like a child. It was so tender.”
During the 1970s she fell afoul of the Nicolae Ceaușescu regime in Romania, which kept her in virtual captivity. Thanks to the efforts of friends and supporters in the West such as Isaac Stern and Ernest Fleischmann, she was eventually allowed to emigrate, first traveling to Israel, then later settling in Germany. Her recordings, however, were subsequently banned from public broadcast in her homeland until after the Romanian Revolution of 1989. Today she divides her time between teaching at the University of Music and Performing Arts in Graz, Austria and spending time with her family at their home in Strasbourg, France.
In anticipation of this present reissue of her Electrecord set of the Beethoven violin sonatas, Marcovici agreed to share her thoughts on them, as well as the recording sessions which preserved her interpretations.
Néstor Castiglione (N. C.): Unlike his string quartets or piano sonatas, Beethoven’s violin sonatas only span a comparatively smaller number of years in his career. Do you ever find yourself wishing he had explored the medium further?
Silvia Marcovici (S. M.): This is difficult to answer. We can only really consider what he gave us. Everybody would do something differently or more so had they lived longer.
What I can say is that his first nine violin sonatas are all set down in an easy-going sort of classical manner. Yet his last one, the tenth—which he composed in his 40s when he lost the totality of his hearing, and also happens to be my personal favorite—begins to point towards the late music, giving an impression of what more he could have achieved with the medium in later life. It is full of a certain modern sensibility and humanity, really on a completely different plane from its predecessors. Whereas the earlier sonatas are more conventional concertante works for the violin, the world [Op. 96] inhabits is very interiorized, very spiritual. It is a noble, delicate dialogue between violin and piano. One cannot grasp it merely from its surface. The performer must search beneath it. Doing so, one discovers that this work is full of meanings that enfold yet more meanings.
N. C.: When did you begin to play these works?
S. M.: I started to play them when I was 16, starting with the [Violin Sonata No. 1]. I learned it in 1969 for my tour of the Netherlands, which was my first ever outside of Romania. Gradually I would come to learn the other sonatas. In 1976, I immigrated to Israel and learned [the Violin Sonata No. 10] on my own. I loved this work from the very beginning and it has treated me so well in my career. When I came back to Romania to record it, I approached my ex-teacher Ștefan Gheorghiu and played it to him. He was like a god to me, so it was very important to have his approval, which was almost like a Dukhanen [rabbinical blessing]. Gheorghiu was extremely astonished with my playing of this work.
N. C.: Was the entire series of Beethoven violin sonatas part of your repertoire at this point?
S. M.: Some had been works that I had already played in public, others were learned specifically for these recording sessions.
N. C.: Did the idea to record this set originate with you?
S. M.: Not at all. Electrecord asked me to record them. In a communist country, one couldn’t ask these sort of things—one had to be asked. If you were asked, you couldn’t refuse. You weren’t free to decide.
N. C.: Of especial note on these recordings is your partner Valentin Gheorghiu. What was it like to perform with him?
S. M.: He is the brother of my teacher, so I had known him since the days of my studies with him. But we didn’t play together at first because, after all, he was very famous in Romania and I was at the time only a gifted young student. But as time passed, we finally had the opportunity to work together. Eventually I only wanted to play with him. Our partnership has endured all these years. When I played in Bucharest a few years ago, Valentin Gheorghiu joined me in the recital.
N. C.: The location where these recordings were made, the Casa Scanteii (today the Casa Presei Libere), is a building of great historical import in Romania, isn’t it?
S. M.: Oh, yes. I remember it well. It was built in the Stalinist Empire style, which glorified the Communist Party. In the 1970s, cars were relatively scarce and I was the only one who arrived [to the Casa Scanteii] in one. I was able to park right at the main entrance, a feat which would sound like a dream for today’s commuters in Bucharest. Inside waiting for me were the Electrecord staff, who were very kind. I remember how cold it was in the building because at the time electrical heating was rare in Romania.
N. C.: Listening to them some 40 years later do you find yourself wishing you could have done certain things differently?
S. M.: We continuously change and evolve across time. But what cannot be altered is one’s individual voice as an artist. Certain details which embroider it can be modified or developed, but not its essence. It is like a fingerprint: Immutable.
In recent years I’ve been trying to find a compromise between my own ideals about music and the style of the present day, which tends to be informed by period performance practices. Because I don’t always agree with the [period performance style], I believe that it’s important for performers to remain true to their own voice, even if it does veer towards the Romantic. Ultimately what is important is to develop good taste. This was the paramount goal of my teacher Ștefan Gheorghiu: To have organic phrasing, to eschew exaggeration, and to remain sincere in expression.
N. C.: Do these recordings hold a special place in your esteem?
S. M.: They were just a part of the many musical events which comprise my life. But they do please me, yes. Recently I got a phone call from Valentin Gheorghiu. His daughter had played him our recording of the “Kreutzer” Sonata, which had been uploaded online. “Oh, Silvia!,” he told me, “I just heard once again our recording of the ‘Kreutzer’ on YouTube. Not bad, eh?”
—Néstor Castiglione (b. 1982) is a freelance music critic, program note annotator, translator, and lecturer born and raised in Los Angeles, California. Aside from classical music, he also writes and lectures on the culture and popular music of early Shōwa Japan (1925 – 1945). His Instagram account is @echorrhea.
ネストル•カスティリオーネ （１９８２年、南加州ロサンゼルス生まれ） は米国のフリーランス音楽評論家、講演者、翻訳家（西英）。クラシック音楽と昭和戦前流行歌の専門家。インスタグラムで @ｅｃｈｏｒｒｈｅａをフォロー出来ますよ。
(This interview will be published in the liner notes of a forthcoming reissue from Weitblick comprising of Silvia Marcovici’s and Valentin Gheorghiu’s recordings of the Beethoven violin sonatas.)