Today I turn the blog over to our guest conductor Stefan Sanderling, who conducts the Shostakovich Eighth Symphony this weekend. The following essay places this symphony, and Shostakovich, in the context of the current debate over the great 20th-century composer. Shostakovich was an artist of the State, that State being the Soviet Union of Josef Stalin. Shostakovich survived, even prospered, as millions perished or endured the Gulag. His art is undeniably sublime. He is perhaps the greatest composer of the last century. Yet in the context of the extreme political circumstances under which he lived, how do we qualify his genius? Did this work wholly serve the regime, or did it carry within it a secret dissent? Does it matter? How we do we hear Shostakovich? Here is Sanderling’s view.
Advocate for Justice: On Dmitri Shostakovich
By Stefan Sanderling
Art is always political. However, in every social order, the question remains: Does culture control politics, or do politics, rather, control art? For every artist, the answer to that question is an existential one, signifying the meaning and form of creative activity. In the experience of artworks, whether painting, music, or literature, it is essential to examine their natural relationship to history in order to determine the degree to which what they say is still valid today. But it also entails an assessment of why the intellectual achievements that have become commonplace for us were, in another time, unprecedented, courageous, and even life-threatening to the author. Nothing, therefore, leads to greater misunderstanding than judging from the safe haven of intellectual freedom works of art that were created under the conditions of a dictatorship. If, in the former case, one must make certain to express oneself in a clearly, perhaps even shockingly bold manner, in the latter case, one will go to great lengths to do the opposite. Anything may be said if it is not backed up, if it is, perhaps, not even recognizable for those in control.
In the 20th century, there have been many dictatorships, and the mere fact that the Russian dictatorship had the greatest longevity is not particularly worth mentioning -- yet. But the fact that for the first time, a dictatorship was built from the bottom up -- that is to say, by the lowest strata of society in order to improve the lives of most (if only on paper) -- is why it was so extremely attractive for so many idealists, especially for the foreign idealists who were not confronted with the daily brutality of this dictatorship. Sooner or later, most Russian intellectuals fled the revolution, and just a few, mostly young ones, remained. And it is important to distinguish why they remained: some remained because no alternative to Russia presented itself, others because they hoped the new regime would afford them opportunities they had previously been denied, and others because they were committed followers of the Bolsheviks.
No one knows exactly what motivated Shostakovich to make the pact with the devil. What is certain is that in the new Soviet Russia, he was permitted to study; he was promoted, made important. And all that under the seductive and particularly convincing premise of liberty, equality, and fraternity. It is also certain that Shostakovich was a Communist. For him, Communism was the Utopia one read of in books: bright, happy, friendly, but above all, just. He cherished these ideals, and although this posed a threat to his life, he kept them for life.
He was a forthright person, but not an open combatant. Shostakovich survived the worst years of the terror; he was not in the Gulag, he was not shot, he even became a State-sponsored artist. Millions of others were given summary judgment, and he knew this all too well. One by one, his closest friends disappeared. Some were trotted out in public showcase trials and then executed, but most were sent, without much ado, to the labor camps by the Peoples’ Commissariat of the Interior (the NKWD), Stalin’s secret police, or murdered immediately. Surviving this period was probably the most important, and for an idealist, probably the most difficult struggle imaginable. To save oneself, compromises were essential. But how far can one distort oneself without betraying oneself? How much must one howl with the wolves in order to keep one’s own voice? To what degree is it necessary to stand in society’s midst to preserve one’s own intellectual sphere of intimacy? That decision had to be made every day and every day was fraught with new dangers. To have ended up in this situation, to have been served up to the terror, without defense, to have to whimper for his life in public, this was surely terrible for him. However, the fact that those responsible for all the crimes were the ones in whom he once fervently believed, whom he affirmed in his works during the first 15 years of his career as a composer, which helped them to consolidate their power, became the great tragedy of his life. And just as it is possible to hate the love of one’s life with particular virulence when betrayed, the basic statement of Shostakovich’s important, personal and honest works since the late 1930s is thus motivated. The cruelty, the ridiculousness of the powerful, as well as the terror, the loneliness, and above all, the anxiety…
In 1941, Germany started the war against the Soviet Union. The troops advanced rapidly, and soon Leningrad was encircled. For the Russians, Leningrad was more than just a strategically important port city on the Neva. The attack on Leningrad was an attack on their soul. Nothing reflected Russia’s cultural richness, but also the national identity of the Russians, as much as the old St. Petersburg. Defending Leningrad was a given, a question of honor. Like many others -- émigrés, too -- Shostakovich became a patriot. As absurd as it sounds: Hitler’s army made Shostakovich move closer to the regime.
His picture as an auxiliary fireman during German attacks is well known; his public addresses were to be a contribution to defense. But the barbarous effects of the German assault must have been personally shattering for Shostakovich as well. He was very drawn to German culture, not only to music, but theater and literature as well. Now, suddenly, he found himself an opponent of everything German. For as of that moment, German culture had the character of a State conspiracy. Everything had to concentrate on the strength, the heroic nature, the courage of the Red Army, and thus of the Russian people. There was no longer any room for anything else. Ergo, it was simply forbidden.
Shostakovich dedicated his 7th Symphony to the defenders of his birthplace, Leningrad. That was not merely a dedication that was deeply felt, it was also a political necessity. As mentioned earlier, if the intention was to survive, then public declarations of loyalty to the policies of the “wisest of all the wise” were essential. And the very emotional style of the symphony was pleasing. Shostakovich no longer had to prove which side he was on. For those in power, he was now a true artist of the “Worker’s Paradise.”
As laughable and petty as these things might appear to us today, that is how brutal they were in their simplicity then. Either you are for me (and I feed you) or you are against me (and I let you die). There was not much choice, and trust and discussion disappeared rapidly, because the State used its every power to uncover all those who were against it. Now, spiritual desolation was added to the rather physical distress, hunger and the miserable living conditions. It was not a time to write happy music. It was time for Shostakovich’s 8th Symphony.
What an immeasurable weight of suffering must have built up. How certain must one be about what one wants to say to write such a symphony within approximately six weeks. Shostakovich spent the summer of 1943 in Kuybishev, where he had gone after he was evacuated from Moscow. He worked in a concentrated manner, as if everything was all ready beforehand and needed only to be written down. Rehearsals with Yevgeny Mravinski, who had been ordered in from Novosibirsk especially, began in Moscow as early as September. The premiere on the 4th of November was not a success -- a rare phenomenon for Shostakovich. Whether it had to do with the fact that in the beginning even Mravinski was skeptical of the work, that all involved were shocked by the contents of the symphony, or whether a failure was simply ordered, is not known. Only one thing was clear: the symphony did not live up to the public’s expectations. Heroism, the compulsion to act, great feelings were called for, but not personal pain and silence. In its consistent honesty (and thus, its terrifying intimacy), it is the clearest example of how a great work must inevitably be misunderstood in the wrong time. To be sure, this is what saved Shostakovich. For it is unnecessary to mention that its theme was regarded as a provocation. It was openly called counterrevolutionary and anti-Soviet, and either one was enough for a condemnation. But there is more. The charge was leveled that he wrote an optimistic symphony after the beginning of the war, when the Red Army was on the defensive, but now, after the Battle of Stalingrad, when the war turned and the Soviet army was on the advance, the charge was made that he composed a deeply pessimistic one. The only thing that helped him was that his symphony was regarded as a failure, and he quickly caused it to be associated with the Red Army’s suffering during the battle for Stalingrad.
What, then, is so special about this work? It is its unsparing, personal honesty. There are works of music for which one feels that not one note too few or too many was written, that nothing is there for external effect, and nothing could be interchanged at will. The 8th Symphony is such a work; it is an uncompromising symphony. The proportions are unusual; the first movement takes up nearly half of the entire symphony. Two scherzos, a slow passacaglia, and a long fifth movement follow. It makes little sense to want to describe this music; it is music, simply because it should be indescribable. Shostakovich rarely drafted verbal interpretations to accompany his works, and whenever he did, they were coerced politically, and for that very reason, they are invalid. But the fact that the first movement tells of the loneliness and isolation of the individual in a dictatorship is evident from the first moment on, and one cannot withdraw from either the sadness or the surging of this music. The finale has no closing effect; rather, it resembles a question. The second movement is all the more surprising. Suddenly, the music becomes pretentious. It sounds as if a minor Soviet official was unexpectedly commended for good behavior, allowed to go on a trip abroad, and is now boastful of his new passport. (Today, we no longer have an inkling of what a big thing that was: a passport for foreign travel!) In the middle of the movement is his narrative of everything he had to do to get it. Whether the German foxtrot Rosamunde furnished material as a model, or whether that is a coincidence, remains unanswered. In any case, there is nothing comfortable or relaxed about this music. The third movement is also a scherzo, quite different, to be sure, from the previous one. Rough, brutal, screaming, sometimes almost comical. It seems as if one scherzo alone does not suffice to hold the powerful first movement at bay, but rather, that it takes at least two. That is probably more of a formal question; in terms of content, another structure reveals itself. If the first movement describes the fact of isolation, the distance from former ideals, the sadness, then the three following movements sketch out the reasons for it: the ludicrous nature and mediocrity of daily life in the second and the daily brutality and cruelty in the third movement. The fourth movement is eerie. A passacaglia as a synonym for infinity, eternity, and the immutability of action. Until his last symphony, Shostakovich always sought this form whenever he became aware of the regularity of the events around him. Precisely for this reason, these are always moments of unprecedented terror in his music as well. The realization that the failure of the great ideas of his life was unavoidable because they were a part of the system was his most bitter insight, and to the end of his life, it did not let him go. The fact that the fourth movement immediately follows the previous one can be said to attest to that. All that is so because it had to be so; there is no pause to reflect on anything new. The last movement differs, once again, from the previous ones by virtue of its dimensions. Like a recapitulation, it requires more space, more time. What are we to do with this life, where is my place here? The movement begins like a declaration of love. It should sound light, tender, full of longing as well. But soon, it becomes clear: it is impossible. In our life, there is no love, no tenderness, and longing for them is an illusion. Brutally, we are brought back to the ground -- brutality is the determining factor in our time. And unlike anytime before in his symphonies, the music ends exhausted and softly. Not tragically, but sadly. Not openly, but intimately; but evidently, as never before and above all else, honestly.
The fact that this work (together with his 14th Symphony of 25 years later, which is of quite a different nature) became his favorite symphony, is not surprising. It is perhaps, his most austere and for that reason, at first blush, has less effect on the audience (as does the 14th Symphony as well). But it gives testimony and punishes those liars who wanted to see in him (and he was well aware of it!) a fellow traveler and aratchik.
It is not known how he saw himself. Memoirs should not be trusted, especially if they come about under uncertain circumstances. He always expressed himself only in sibylline terms, even to his closest friends -- anything else would have been highly dangerous. But from most of his works, we know what he saw. And the fact that he wrote it down -- even though it was “disguised” as music -- is important for us in order to not forget the tragedy of this time.
Five years later, the feted, famous and esteemed composer Shostakovich had become a non-person. Not that he revealed his true self, for example; no changes in the way in which he composed, or in his aesthetics, can be determined. And yet, suddenly, he lived in a different world. What had happened? After the end of the war, the party leadership used its resources, which had now been freed up, to discipline its own people even more. If ideological disagreements were the exception during the war -- the idea, in any case, was to defeat the enemy -- in the first post-war years the terror inherent to the system combined with the stupidity and the envy of the have-nots. Art was equated with agitprop: whoever provided it was a Soviet artist; whoever did not was formalistic and thus counterrevolutionary. In February 1948, a party resolution appeared in Pravda, which, although it related to a rather mediocre opera by a rather mediocre composer, was to play a determining role in Shostakovich’s future. The resolution had consequences for the cultural life of the entire Soviet Union. Shostakovich, and with him, among others, Prokofiev, Khachaturian, and Miaskovski, was summarily charged with formalism, and thus, ostracized. Suddenly, he was a composer without commissions, without performances, and thus with no means of financial support. It hardly bears mentioning that in addition to his physical condition, his psychological condition deteriorated; he crashed. In the summer of that year, as he passed a second-hand bookstore, he bought himself a small book of Jewish folk poetry -- he had lots of time on his hands now -- that had been published by the two Soviet publishers in the Soviet Union’s pre-anti-Semitic period. It is idle, at this point, to reflect on what the final impetus to set the verses to music might have been: the intonation of the lyrics, to which Shostakovich felt particularly close as a result of his personal suffering at the moment or the anti-Semitism in the country, the virulence of which was without precedent and against which he made a statement (albeit very privately). In any case, the misery of the Jews affected him very much throughout his lifetime; many other works attest to this.
There is no more a beginning to the persecution of the Jews than there is a beginning to the misery of the majority of the Jews. Anti-Semitism is certainly not a German invention; they merely perfected it in unimaginable ways. And if one knows that racism always arises where the enforced misery of the masses seeks scapegoats, one can understand the scope of the pogroms in Russia and Poland. At the beginning of the 20th century, the Jews there were that stratum of the populace that had the fewest rights, was the poorest, and thus the most oppressed. Daily excesses were the rule, protection by governmental authority was precluded, and thus misery was pre-programmed. Small wonder, then, that the Jewish poetry of this period has precisely this peculiar mixture of sadness and despondence, but also of hope.
It is interesting that Shostakovich initially set eight songs to music, all having themes of solitude, hunger and sadness. That summer, these songs for three singers with piano accompaniment quickly emerged as if sprung from a mold. It was clear to him that they would not be performed. Whether he later included the three remaining poems, which are of a completely different nature, to hold open the possibility of publication is, as always in his life, unclear. The three last songs are, in point of fact, suddenly harmonious. They evoke the hopes of the Jews, which are now being fulfilled in the new Soviet era. Suddenly, life is worth living, thanks to the glorious power of the State. And it is surprising, too, that the master of sarcasm does not compose in a sarcastic manner at all in this case. He seems to have no doubts at all. But what looks like a break is, upon closer scrutiny, unmasked as logical. Firstly, in their day, the lyrics themselves did have their justification. In the very first years of Soviet power, the Jews, who for centuries had been cut off from education, from prosperity, from a sense of having arrived in society, were far better off than ever before. The pogroms were ordered stopped, not because of philanthropy, but for purely practical considerations (even if the ideals of the first generation of revolutionaries should not be underestimated: anti-Semitism was considered counterrevolutionary!). The resources of suppression were needed more urgently elsewhere. But another consideration seems much more important: if the last three songs have an optimistic, bright, and proud tone, but reality looks different, then this is not the fault of those who write songs, but the crime of those who control the world. It is not the content of the text or the music that is wrong -- reality is. It does not keep pace with its promises, it betrays them. Shostakovich was experienced in dialectics; he could not be any clearer than that. And the fact that he prepared an orchestral version of this cycle shows that even 15 years later, this would be his fate.
Shostakovich “purchased” truth without lying; he appeased with hidden provocations. The fact that many contemporaries did not see his internally tormented nature was part of his protection. The fact that he afforded his environment nothing that could be proven was his survival strategy. The line between being on the very top and on the very bottom was not only very narrow, it changed daily. And at the same time, while Shostakovich was a part of the driving machinery, he was also driven by it. If he advanced two steps, he then -- depending upon the moods of those in power, but also depending upon his need for safety -- did an about face and took one step back. No wonder that at the very end of his life, he revealed to friends that of his many works, he would gladly have left some unwritten. Perhaps that is why he composed in varying qualities; the works “on order” should not distinguish themselves by virtue of his genius. The varying measure of this genius in his music was, for all those around him, the only signpost with which to recognize when one Shostakovich was speaking, as opposed to the other, and even he judged his friends by the degree to which they recognized him.
The fact that this music can never be hearty or open, never really happy or optimistic, is simply a fact. He did not have the opportunity to impart his message unencumbered by his daily struggles. We, however, have the opportunity, from the relative security of our society today, to reconstruct the terror of his life within his society. We should avail ourselves of it!
This document has been translated from its original German text by InterNation, Inc. Copyright 2004.
