Wagnerism
Villa Aurora in the fires
If there is one site in Los Angeles that enshrines the spirit of the great German-speaking emigration of the 1930s and 1940s, it is the house of Lion and Marta Feuchtwanger, now known as the Villa Aurora. After Marta's death, the home was purchased by the German government as a residency site for writers and artists. Thousands upon thousands of Lion's books remained in place, together with his and Marta's furniture and a host of other artifacts, including Franz Werfel's desk and a couch that had belonged to Hanns Eisler. (The Feuchtwangers' papers and their most valuable books are at the Feuchtwanger Memorial Library at USC.) I went to the villa twice last season to attend observances of the 150th anniversary of Arnold Schoenberg. When the Palisades Fire erupted on Tuesday, the Villa Aurora initially seemed doomed; reports from the neighborhood association suggested that every house on the high-climbing Paseo Miramar road was burning down. Then, on Wednesday, an intrepid neighbor on an e-bike sent in a video showing the structure astonishingly intact. Other observers confirmed as much; the photo above was taken yesterday. The house remains in danger, with Santa Ana winds returning early next week, but, for now, it has made a miraculous escape — as it did in 1961, when Marta defended her home against the Bel-Air Fire. With so much devastation all around — see the post below — there's no reason to celebrate. Yet the provisional survival of the Villa Aurora is, as the Feuchtwangers' neighbor Thomas Mann would say, a light in the night. The Mann House, for which I serve on the advisory board, is also safe for the moment.
In memoriam
Crushingly long lists of architectural sites destroyed in this week's Los Angeles fires are circulating. One I have not seen mentioned is Richard Neutra's Freedman House, on the Palisades bluffs. Neutra's Hees House, on Trino Way, and his Kesler House, on Monument Street, are also lost. Many other classics of residential modernism are gone, in both Pacific Palisades and Altadena. Gregory Ain's Park Planned development, with its colorful, variegated façades, has suffered catastrophic damage; only a handful of the twenty-eight structures are still standing. Add to this libraries, museums, archives, schools, churches, synagogues, art collections, artists' studios, writers' studies, and thousands of individual life stories. The entire archive of the Theosophical Society of America was destroyed in the Eaton fire. Houses that once belonged to Will Rogers, Zane Grey, Andrew McNally, and Henry Mather Greene are no more. Lawrence Schoenberg, son of Arnold Schoenberg, lost his home in Pacific Palisades, out of which he ran Belmont Music Publishers, devoted to his father's music. There is no way to calculate the totality of the loss.
The Zemlinsky-Messiaen connection
Witnessing an excellent concert performance of Zemlinsky's A Florentine Tragedy in Prague in the spring, I was struck by a curious resemblance, which I mentioned in my subsequent column: the opera's closing gesture is more or less the same as the one that ends Messiaen's La Nativité du Seigneur, written twenty years later. Listening to "Dieu parmi nous" on Christmas Day, as one does, I pondered the putative link again. In both pieces, a sustained major chord — augmented by a sixth in Messiaen's case — is at once underpinned and undermined by a bass line that begins a major third above the tonic and descends by way of a semitone, a whole tone, and a semitone again. In Zemlinsky, the key is A-flat major, and the bass line, given to trombones, bass tuba, bassoons, bass clarinet, harp, and cellos, is C, B-natural, A-natural, A-flat:
In Messiaen, the key is E major and the pedal line is G-sharp, G-natural, F-natural, E:
Notice a further resemblance: in each case, the bass line begins after a rest (eighth-note or quarter-note) and is doubled at the octave. What creates goosebumps in both instances is the dissonant grinding of the rogue notes against the general blaze of major, with the flattened second lengthened for extra effect. Messiaen makes the F-natural a dotted quarter; Zemlinsky has the trombones et al hold the A-natural for a full extra beat.
The associative contexts of the two works are almost comically disparate. A Florentine Tragedy, based on a dramatic fragment by Oscar Wilde, tells of a Florentine merchant who discovers that a prince has seduced his wife. When he kills the prince in a duel, the wife is impressed by his fortitude, and passion returns to the marriage. That four-note motif runs all through the opera and is heard in many different harmonic guises. You glimpse it already at the end of the prelude (B-flat, A, G, G-flat):
But it comes to the fore in a central sequence in which the merchant Simone, having overheard his wife hoping for his death, sings: "Who spake of Death? . . . What should death do in such a merry house?" In ironically refulgent B-flat-major, Simone has a falling line of B-flat / A-natural / G / G-flat, so that the final note is heard as a flattened sixth. Immediately after, it recurs in a B-flat-minor setting, ending on the leading tone. This happens again in the scene of the duel, amid orchestral mayhem. (Frantic repetitions of the figure make me think of Shostakovich's D-S-C-H.) Yet the four-note pattern can also expand to fill a wider intervallic space: it may traverse a Lamento fourth or a tritone, as at the beginning of the excerpt at the top of this post, or it can be compressed to a chromatic line. Such extraordinarily subtle motivic variations are typical of Zemlinsky's method. When husband and wife are reconciled, the opulent major-key version returns, first in D major and then in the concluding A-flat — key areas a tritone apart but somehow in perfect harmony. The notorious music for the kiss in Salome plainly provides inspiration for this spasm of grisly lust. Yet the final appearance of the motto is almost stealthy, with a marking of diminuendo. It's more of a shudder amid ecstasy.
Messiaen, in a completely different universe, is depicting the glory of "God among us," the Lord made flesh. Here, the four-note figure stems from the octatonic scale, as does the C-sharp in the sustained E-major chord. (It's possible to look at A Florentine Tragedy through an octatonic lens, too: that whole curtain-dropping gesture in the low brass and winds, A-flat / G-flat / F-flat / C / B-natural / A-natural / A-flat, is an octatonic scale missing only the E-flat, which is already sounding, and the D-natural.) Notably, Messiaen marks his bass line quadruple-forte: he obviously wants us to feel those passing dissonances in our gut. In his own performance, he holds down the pedals for a good long while, and other organists draw them out even more. This is dissonance as a maxing-out of joy. I tried playing the sequence on the Disney Hall organ once, and I've never had so much fun in my life.
So, is there a conscious or unconscious echo here? I assume not. It's possible that Messiaen knew Zemlinsky's music: Paul Dukas, his teacher, was well versed in the Mahler-Strauss orbit, and Zemlinsky had conducted Dukas's Ariane et Barbe-bleue at the Vienna Volksoper. More likely, though, it's a spooky coincidence of a kind that so often occurs in musical history. What it does show is a likeness between worlds that might seem far separated. I've commented before on Messiaen's seemingly improbable kinship with Richard Strauss; composers like Zemlinsky and Schreker sometimes come even closer. What it also shows is the fertility of Zemlinsky's invention. He has yet to receive anything like his due.
Apex 2024
At the New Yorker website may be found my overview of the past year, with emphasis on Peter Gelb's strange campaign against Elliott Carter, György Ligeti, and Zachary Woolfe. Attached is a list of notable recordings.
Mahler's wallet, glasses
From the digital archive of the Alban Berg Stiftung. Berg's library has been scanned, and one can also see photographs of various personal items, including these Mahler trophies.
