Composers: On to Surrealism

The work was commissioned by the New York Philharmonic to celebrate its first season at Lincoln Center last year, but the second season was well under way when Argentine Composer Alberto Ginastera’s Violin Concerto was finally heard in New York. Soloist Ruggiero Ricci and the orchestra did not rehearse the full concerto together until the morning of the premiere. But when the musicians reached the final instrumental fantasy that ends the work, the composer was forgiven his wish to linger over his music. The players leapt to their feet with rare shouts of “Bravo!”—as much for the absent Ginastera as for Ricci’s command of the intricate music.

Ginastera intended the composition as an exploration of orchestral sonorities, but nothing in it exists without formal musical reason. The opening violin cadenza examines every element of the music that follows, preparing the way for a series of studies and variations on the tone-row. The orchestra is enriched by seven percussionists, and the drums, together with unique orchestral colors, create an Aztec mood of sadness, excitement and portent.

Shy and dutiful Ginastera, 47, has lived in Buenos Aires all his life. At 21, when his Panambi orchestral suite was first performed, he was immediately established as Argentina’s leading composer, and his recent string quartets and symphonic works have made him the ranking voice of his continent. His early music is full of native instrumentations and folkloric themes—Panambí is based on a legend of the Guarani Indians. “In my early works,” he says, “my music had a nationalist flavor. I call that my objective period. Little by little my work has become more abstract and more subjective, until now I have reached the surrealist stage.”

Ginastera works over his compositions for three or four hours each morn ing. He spends the rest of his day at the Latin American Center for Higher Musical Studies, which he founded in Buenos Aires two years ago to provide a place where Latin composers might study without losing contact with the musical spirit of their continent. Teaching is a passion with him, but it is a passion he permits himself only because it allows him to continue composing. “I write as a spiritual necessity,” he says, “and above all I want my work to be understood. The music must reach the public through an interpreter, and a successful work, I think, must emerge as a virtuoso piece for the players.”