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Sample translations submitted: 3
Italian to English: GUIDO D’AREZZO
Source text - Italian GUIDO D’AREZZO
L’alba dell’anno Mille trova la Chiesa nel mezzo della crisi seguita al crollo dell’impero carolingio. La simonia – cioè l’acquisto e la vendita per denaro delle cariche ecclesiastiche –immette nella compagine ecclesiale persone che mirano esclusivamente al proprio vantaggio e a quello delle famiglie da cui provengono, accedendo alla gestione di un immenso potere politico ed economico. La situazione è aggravata dal concubinato dei preti, il cosiddetto nicolaismo, la cui ovvia conseguenza è il nepotismo. Col tempo, l’istituzione feudale dei vescovi-conti ha generato un soffocante groviglio di interessi, non più bilanciato da un forte potere centrale. Il papato è condizionato dall’imperatore tedesco: anche la liturgia subisce fortemente l’influsso tedesco, come testimonia la diffusione del Pontificale romano-germanico, adottato nella stessa Roma.
È intorno a questi anni che da qualche parte in Italia, non sappiamo esattamente dove, nasce Guido: divenuto monaco, sarà il promotore di importanti innovazioni nel campo della musica. Le poche date sicure della sua biografia rimandano, grosso modo, al decennio 1023-1033. A quest’epoca, l’Italia è percorsa da fermenti di rinnovamento ecclesiale. I monaci sono in prima linea. Accanto a loro, vescovi riformatori agiscono nelle diocesi, tentando di restituire la Chiesa ai suoi diritti e ai suoi doveri: il diritto dell’indipendenza dal potere laico e il dovere di predicare il Vangelo. Sono questi monaci e questi vescovi a preparare il terreno sul quale Gregorio VII, nella seconda metà del secolo, potrà fondare la sua riforma e intraprendere la lotta per la libertas ecclesiae. Fra la Toscana e la regione padana fioriscono persone carismatiche: s. Romualdo, il fondatore di Camaldoli, propugna la riscoperta della vita eremitica; s. Pier Damiani alterna la vita solitaria con una predicazione infuocata; di lì a poco, s. Giovanni Gualberto darà vita al movimento di Vallombrosa. Per capire il senso dell’opera di Guido, dobbiamo avere una comprensione profonda di questa situazione. Non possiamo giudicare le riforme del monaco Guido solo come la soluzione di alcuni problemi tecnici riguardanti la musica. Egli vive nei luoghi che sono al centro di queste importanti esperienze ecclesiali e spirituali, alle quali partecipa in prima persona.
Andiamo con ordine. Non sappiamo nulla riguardo al luogo di nascita di Guido: alcuni studiosi locali hanno tentato di dimostrare che egli nacque e fu educato ad Arezzo. Le loro affermazioni sono prive di fondamento, non sostenute dai documenti e da un metodo corretto di indagine; anzi, è piuttosto improbabile che sia nato nella cittadina toscana. Si fa monaco a Pomposa, presso Ferrara, sul delta del Po. A Pomposa, abati discepoli di s. Romualdo hanno introdotto una particolare forma di vita monastica, nella quale la tradizione cenobitica benedettina coesiste con l’eremitismo. Qui Guido riceve la sua educazione spirituale e culturale.
L’educazione di un monaco: la cultura nella prospettiva della ricerca di Dio, la scienza quale mezzo di comprensione della creazione. E, al primo posto, la liturgia: luogo privilegiato dell’esperienza monastica, opus Dei per eccellenza, adornata del canto creato da s. Gregorio Magno, come si credeva a quel tempo. Ma quante difficoltà comporta questo canto! I testi sono scritti con precisione, mentre la musica no. Esistono i neumi, che sono una specie di “disegno della melodia”: suggeriscono al cantore che la melodia sale o scende, ma non indicano esattamente l’altezza dei suoni. Se il cantore non conosce a memoria la melodia, non servono a nulla. Perciò la tradizione è orale. Ciò comporta dei problemi, che colpiscono Guido. Ad esempio, ovunque si canta il gregoriano, ma con moltissime differenze da luogo a luogo: «From which it follows tht the antiphoners are by now not one nor even a few, but so many as there are teachers in the separate churches, and now commonly the antiphoner is called not Gregory’s, but Leo’s or Albert’s, or anybody else’s» (Prologus in Antiphonarium, transl. by Dolores Pesce). I cantori non hanno una conoscenza precisa della musica: cantano in un determinato modo perché nella loro chiesa si è sempre cantato così. Guido tenta di trovare delle soluzioni e intraprende una ricerca che solo dopo molti anni approderà a ciò che noi conosciamo come un insieme unitario, comprendente notazione, teoria e pedagogia musicale.
Le sue prime sperimentazioni mirano all’esatta rappresentazione scritta delle melodie e a un apprendimento mediante libri con notazione musicale (probabilmente la notazione alfabetica, come vedremo): ma i confratelli di Pomposa non le approvano assolutamente. Ai nostri occhi sembra strano che quei monaci abbiano respinto dei metodi che permettevano di imparare più facilmente il canto liturgico. Ciò deriva dal fatto che per noi cultura è sinonimo di lettura e scrittura; al contrario, in un mondo in cui il sapere è appreso principalmente attraverso l’oralità, il passaggio a un apprendimento sul libro può risultare enormemente difficile. Si tratta infatti di meccanismi mentali e processi cognitivi totalmente differenti. Inoltre, il metodo di Guido, in un certo modo, “desacralizzava” il canto e i cantori: questi ultimi non erano più i soli depositari delle sacre melodie gregoriane, queste ultime non erano più un inafferrabile mondo sonoro, che veniva tramandato e ricreato nel suono vivo solo attraverso la memoria dei cantori specializzati. Ora, apprendere il canto era operazione relativamente semplice; che chiunque, opportunamente istruito, poteva farlo, anche senza l’aiuto di un maestro. Scriverà più tardi Guido: «For, in such a way, with the help of God I have determined to notate this antiphoner, so that hereafter through it, any intelligent and diligent person can learn a chant, and after he has learned well part of it through a teacher, he recognizes the rest unhesitatingly by himself without a teacher». Al contrario, «wretched singer and pupils of singers, even if they should sing every day for a hundred years, will never sing by themselves without a teacher one antiphon, not even a short one, wasting so much time in singing that they could have spent better learning thoroughly sacred and secular writing» (Prologus in Antiphonarium, transl. by Dolores Pesce). Sorge così nel monastero una violenta opposizione, che lo costringe ad andare «banished in a distant land», come egli stesso racconterà nella Epistola ad Michaelem, indirizzata al monaco Michele di Pomposa.
La “distant land” fu Arezzo, una città della Toscana. Qui lo accolse il vescovo Teodaldo, un prelato impegnato profondamente nella riforma della Chiesa locale e nella lotta contro il concubinato e la simonia. Guido fu tra i suoi collaboratori nello studio e nella predicazione della Sacra Scrittura. Oggi gli studiosi concordano con varie testimonianze medievali nell’attribuirgli una veemente Epistola ad Mediolanensem ecclesiam, indirizzata all’arcivescovo di Milano Eriberto (o Ariberto) II: in essa demolisce efficacemente la distinzione fra beni materiali e spirituali all’epoca adottata per giustificare i commerci simoniaci. Questa breve opera è considerata uno dei testi più importanti della letteratura medioevale sull’argomento.
Pur fra tanti lavori, prosegue l’impegno musicale, istruendo i fanciulli cantori della cattedrale; su invito di Teodaldo scrive il trattato Micrologus (ca. 1026-1030), in cui espone i principi della teoria musicale. La stessa materia è riassunta poi in altri due testi: le Regulae rhythmicae (ca. 1030/31), scritte in versi poetici, e una sezione (in origine forse autonoma) della Epistola ad Michaelem (ca. 1031/32). Nel Prologus in Antiphonarium illustra un nuovo sistema di notazione musicale.
La fama dei fanciulli cantori da lui addestrati si diffuse grandemente; molti accorrevano ad applaudire lo spettacolo mirabile della sua schola. Infine, fu convocato a Roma dal papa. Nella Epistola ad Michaelem, Guido racconta con parole commosse e con un poco di legittimo orgoglio la presentazione a Giovanni XIX dell’Antifonario, scritto – come vedremo – con un nuovo metodo di notazione musicale: “The Pope rejoiced greatly at my arrival, conversing much and inquiring in detail about many things. And while pondering our antiphoner many times as if it were some kind of marvel, and reflecting on the prefixed rules, he did not stop or withdraw from the place where he was sitting until, in fulfillment of his wish, he learned one line that he had not yet heard. And he recognized quickly in himself what he scarcely believed in others” (transl. by Dolores Pesce).
Il papa approvò i metodi di Guido e lo invitò a tornare a Roma l’inverno successivo per insegnare il nuovo metodo al clero romano. Non sappiamo se ciò sia avvenuto, anche perché di lì a poco Giovanni morì (ottobre 1032). Nel 1033 Guido è ancora ad Arezzo: molto probabilmente possiamo leggere la sua firma autografa su un atto di donazione promulgato da Teodaldo a favore del monastero di Camaldoli. Questo documento e il desiderio di ritorno alla vita solitaria monastica, sempre ripetuto da Guido, sono, per alcuni, la prova che Guido abbia trascorso gli ultimi anni della sua vita presso i Camaldolesi. In realtà, la tradizione di Guido diventato eremita camaldolese è molto tarda e non ancora adeguatamente studiata. Oggi, l’ipotesi più verosimile è che, dopo la morte di Teodaldo nel 1036, sia ritornato a Pomposa.
Alla base del lavoro di Guido sta questo principio: si deve superare il tradizionale apprendimento fondato sull’imitazione. I cantori non devono più ripetere a memoria quanto hanno ascoltato dalla voce del maestro. Ciò comportava molti pericoli: soprattutto era lungo e non garantiva la salvaguardia delle melodie nel corso del tempo, come dimostravano le differenze che si riscontravano da luogo a luogo. Serviva un sistema pratico diverso, più efficace, più sicuro. Guido comprende che è necessario partire dalla teoria. Dal momento che combatte un metodo pratico basato sulla semplice ripetizione mnemonica, il primo passo è elaborare un sistema razionale: esso permetterà al cantore di acquistare la consapevolezza di ciò che fa. È necessario qui chiarire alcune opinioni sbagliate, ancora molto diffuse. La prima opinione sbagliata è che Guido preservi l’antica separazione fra musicus (il teorico) e cantor (il pratico), in accordo con la famosa posizione di Boezio (il grande divulgatore della teoria musicale greca, vissuto fra V e VI secolo). Tutti ricordano i famosi versi che aprono le Regulae rhythmicae: «Musicorum et cantorum magna est distantia: | Isti dicunt, illi sciunt, quae componit musica. | Nam qui facit, quod non sapit, diffinitur bestia» («Great is the gap between musicians and singers; the latter talk about what music comprises, while the former understand these things. For he who does what he does not understand is termed a beast», transl. by Dolores Pesce). Leggendo i versi nel loro contesto, si capisce che il cantor di Guido è molto diverso dal cantor di Boezio: non è lo studioso impegnato nello studio filosofico della musica, ma il musicista che esercita la propria arte conoscendone i fondamenti teorici. Questi fondamenti teorici non corrispondono al tradizionale armamentario aritmetico-teologico (Guido non lo disprezza, ma lo giudica inutile alla pratica): la teoria musicale è, secondo Guido, un insieme di nozioni funzionali a cantare bene. Possiamo così comprendere il significato delle parole che concludono la Epistola ad Michaelem. «Boethius, whose book is useful to philosophers only, not to singers» (transl. by Dolores Pesce). Il dualismo musicus / cantor di Boezio è ora sostituito da una una triplice distinzione: philosophus / musicus /cantor, in cui il musicus antico corrisponde al philosophus. Al tempo stesso non bisogna vedere Guido d’Arezzo come un anti-teorico: per lui, la pratica musicale priva di un solido supporto teorico non ha senso; teoria e pratica devono essere complementari, non mondi separati.
Operando in questa prospettiva, Guido fonda il concetto moderno di teoria musicale: una teoria che, partendo dallo studio dei singoli suoni, si sviluppa gradualmente abbracciando gli elementi fondamentali della musica, in funzione della pratica. Il Micrologus non presenta grandi novità nel suo contenuto, ma spesso è nuovo il modo in cui i concetti sono spiegati. Ad esempio, l’ottava non è catalogata fra le consonantiae (consonanze) – posizione contraria a tutta la tradizione: la ragione è, secondo Guido, che una consonanza implica concordia fra due elementi differenti; al contrario, l’ottava è costituita da due suoni della stessa qualità, diversi solo per altezza. È chiaro che questo modo di elaborare i concetti teorici si fonda sull’osservazione della realtà ed è giustificato dalla sua stretta relazione con lo scopo pratico del canto.
La riflessione teorica fornisce le basi di un rinnovato sistema di notazione, capace di esprimere con esattezza l’altezza dei suoni. Due sono le fonti principali del musico: il trattato Musica enchiriadis, scritto nel secolo IX nella Francia del Nord, e il Dialogus de musica, di origine nord-italiana, praticamente contemporaneo a Guido (questi testi hanno avuto varie attribuzioni, ma preferiamo considerarli anonimi). Alla Musica enchiriadis Guido si ispira per l’approfondita analisi degli elementi fondamentali della musica; da qui sviluppa lo studio dei rapporti fra i suoni e la teoria dei “suoni affini”, quelli che permettono la trasposizione. Dal Dialogus (che, secondo alcune ipotesi, potrebbe essere una sua opera giovanile), riprende una regola per definire il modo musicale di un pezzo: l’attribuzione a questo o a quel modo deve essere fatta sulla base della nota finale; si deve inoltre controllare la nota più acuta e la più grave, per verificare l’estensione della melodia. Questa idea si accorda con la tendenza dell’epoca, che ormai concepisce i modi come porzioni di scala, anziché come aggregazioni di suoni intorno a un centro tonale. L’autorità di Guido contribuirà grandemente a diffondere la teoria che rappresenta gli otto modi gregoriani come altrettante scale.
Un altro importante contributo del Dialogus è la costruzione della scala sulla base dell’ottava (e non sul tetracordo, come si usava in precedenza). La scala è espressa mediante una notazione alfabetica speciale, che Guido perfeziona in questa forma: ciascuna nota è designata con una propria lettera; le prime sette sono maiuscole, la loro ripetizione all’acuto è in lettere minuscole; si aggiungono quattro note superacute in minuscole sovrapposte, mentre al grave si pone una nota espressa dalla lettera greca gamma (Γ A B C D E F G a b/h c d e f g aa bb/hh cc dd). La nota ‘b’ può essere rotonda o quadrata (b molle, b quadratum), ma la prima è ammessa solo eccezionalmente. Il vantaggio pratico di questa notazione costruita sull’ottava è che a suono uguale corrisponde segno uguale. Anche in questo caso è chiaro che la definizione teorica è stata effettuata a misura della funzionalità pratica.
Posta l’ottava a fondamento del sistema musicale e assunta una notazione alfabetica adeguata, Guido comincia a sviluppare un sistema pedagogico. Anche in questo caso, il lavoro di elaborazione ha richiesto un certo tempo e ha attraversato vari stadi di sviluppo. In principio, il suo modo di insegnare si servì probabilmente del monocordo: con l’aiuto di questo antico strumento didattico, i fanciulli imparavano, nota dopo nota, le melodie trascritte in notazione alfabetica. A Pomposa e nel primo periodo ad Arezzo sembra conoscere solo questo metodo e questa notazione: nel Micrologus non si trova alcun cenno ad altri sistemi di notazione e di insegnamento. La mente genialmente pedagogica di Guido non tarderà però a comprendere i limiti dell’una e dell’altro.
Il difetto della notazione alfabetica è che, in essa, va perso il fraseggio del canto gregoriano, che era invece perfettamente visualizzato dagli agili neumi (essi però, come sappiamo, non esprimevano con esattezza l’altezza dei suoni). Così, Guido ricercò una scrittura musicale più efficace. La soluzione fu la seguente: i neumi tradizionali furono inseriti in un sistema di linee; ogni segno corrispondente a un suono era collocato su una linea (o nello spazio fra due linee), in maniera tale che i suoni uguali si trovassero sempre sulla medesima linea (o nel medesimo spazio). Per specificare l’altezza dei suoni, all’inizio di ciascuna linea (o spazio)è posta una lettera della notazione alfabetica (ad esempio: la lettera ‘c’ collocata all’inizio di una certa linea ci informa che tutti i neumi e sezioni di neumi posti su quella linea suonano ‘c’). Inoltre, le linee dei suoni F e C sono colorate rispettivamente in rosso e giallo: ciò fornisce ai cantori un ulteriore riferimento, utile anche alla trasposizione (F e C sono “suoni affini”). Tale adattamento della notazione neumatica è spiegato nel breve testo tradizionalmente intitolato Prologus in Antiphonarium (scritto presumibilmente negli anni 1030/31).
Riguardo all’apprendimento con il monocordo, qui il pericolo è che il cantore diventi schiavo dello strumento: «If you sound on the monochord the letters that belong to a given neume, and listen to the result, you will able to learn from the monochord in the same way as from a teacher. But this method is childish – good for beginners, but very bad for those who continue further (...) Therefore, we ought not always to seek a human voice or instrument for an unknown chant, lest like blind men we seem to go nowhere without a guide, but we should commit to deep memory all descents and ascents and diverse properties of individual sounds» (Epistola ad Michaelem, transl. by Dolores Pesce). Ora Guido vuole emancipare completamente il cantore, elaborando un metodo per cantare a prima vista sui libri notati con il rigo. A memoria non si devono imparare le melodie, ma gli elementi che costituiscono una melodia, qualsiasi melodia: i suoni e gli intervalli. In tal modo, il cantore potrà intonare da solo una melodia sconosciuta, scritta nella notazione su rigo (vale anche il contrario: potrà scrivere correttamente una melodia ascoltata). Per esercitare gli alunni, Guido si servì della prima strofa dell’inno di s. Giovanni Battista Ut queant laxis. A questo testo applicò una melodia speciale, le cui frasi hanno inizio ciascuna su un grado più acuto della precedente. Frase dopo frase, si hanno così le prime sei note della scala, con il semitono E-F al centro. Le sillabe del testo corrispondenti a ciascuno di questi suoni finirono per designare i suoni stessi; nei Paesi latini essi sono tuttora i nomi dei suoni: Ut-Re-Mi-Fa-Sol-La (Ut fu mutato in Do nel sec. XVII). La serie dei sei suoni fu detta in seguito “esacordo”. Come si vede, manca la sillaba per la settima nota (‘b’). Fu perciò elaborato un sistema di trasporto dell’esacordo, chiamato solmisatio o solfisatio (solmisazione), grazie al quale tutti i semitoni venivano chiamati Mi-Fa. Se tutti i semitoni si chiamano Mi-Fa, i suoni vicini prendono di volta in volta nomi diversi, in rapporto al semitono: è un sistema simile a quello dei moderni metodi Kodály o Goitre, che usano il “C mobile”.
In genere si attribuisce a Guido l’invenzione della solmisazione. In realtà, nelle sue opere non si trova né la parola ‘solmisazione’, né è descritto il sistema di trasposizione degli esacordi: perciò, alcuni studiosi oggi preferiscono negare la relazione diretta fra Guido e la solmisazione. Effettivamente è probabile che la complessa elaborazione della solmisazione, così come è descritta nelle fonti tardo-medioevali e rinascimentali, non risalga direttamente a lui. Tuttavia il meccanismo di base è perfettamente in linea con la teoria dei “suoni affini” e si trova già applicato nel manoscritto 318 di Montecassino, una raccolta di testi sulla musica scritta nella seconda metà del secolo XI, in epoca molto vicina a Guido (il manoscritto è la fonte italiana più antica delle sue opere). Inoltre, dobbiamo ricordare che, nella Epistola ad Michaelem, Guido accenna soltanto alle componenti fondamentali del proprio metodo, ma non lo descrive dettagliatamente, come egli stesso precisa: «All of these things, which we may scarcely indicate in any way with letters, we reveal merely by an easy argument» (transl. by Dolores Pesce).
La solmisazione fu per secoli alla base dell’insegnamento della musica. Quando cadde in disuso, si introdusse la sillaba Si ricavandola dalle due ultime parole dell’inno (Sancte Iohannes). Un altro strumento didattico attribuito a Guido è la “mano musicale”, chiamata infatti “mano guidoniana”: serviva a memorizzare la scala, facendo corrispondere ogni nota a una giuntura o punta delle dita della mano sinistra. Anche della mano non c’è alcun cenno nei suoi scritti. Tuttavia, l’uso mnemotecnico della mano per i più diversi scopi (musicali e non) è molto antico e faceva parte del patrimonio didattico comune nei monasteri.
Fra gli altri temi trattati da Guido nei suoi trattati, alcuni hanno sollevato molte discussioni e stimolato contrastanti interpretazioni. Fra di essi spicca il capitolo 15 del Micrologus, dedicato alla modulatio. Molti studiosi hanno cercato di trovare in questo capitolo precise indicazioni su come cantare il gregoriano: alcuni di loro lo hanno usato per affermare che all’epoca di Guido il gregoriano era cantato mensuralmente. John Blackley si è servito di Guido e di altri testi medioevali per sostenere la sua interpretazione ritmica del canto gregoriano, applicata nelle registrazioni effettuate con il gruppo Schola Antiqua (si vedano ad esempio i CD editi da Nonesuch e Decca). Alla base di queste discussioni c’è un grosso equivoco. Guido non sta parlando qui di esecuzione del canto, bensì di composizione. In queste brevi pagine del Micrologus troviamo il primo manuale di composizione della storia e anche, in un certo modo, il primo abbozzo di un’estetica musicale. Guido infatti manifesta qui il suo ideale riguardo alla composizione liturgica, suggerendo uno stile sobrio, costituito di frasi omogenee e ben proporzionate nei loro elementi costitutivi; il lavoro del compositore è paragonato a quello del poeta, ma gli è concessa maggiore libertà. Il compositore infatti, nota Guido, talvolta può operare in maniera non completamente conforme alle regole: malgrado ciò, il risultato è approvato dal nostro cuore e dalla nostra mente. Qui e in altri passi, Guido sembra affermare che la musica è qualcosa di così profondo e quasi divino, da sfuggire alla piena comprensione umana.
Un altro punto molto studiato del Micrologus è la trattazione della diaphonia o organum. Creare una diaphonia o organum significa amplificare una melodia liturgica già esistente, aggiungendo una seconda voce. Sempre nuove testimonianze ci fanno comprendere che, in un certo modo, la tradizionale nozione di gregoriano come monodia è da rivedere. Nelle chiese italiane si usava regolarmente cantare il gregoriano in questo modo, improvvisando una seconda voce. Non abbiamo le musiche, ma, fortunatamente, molti Libri Ordinarii (cioè i libri che descrivevano in dettaglio le consuetudini liturgiche di una determinata chiesa importante, di solito una cattedrale) ci informano sulle occasioni nei quali si cantava cum organo (questa espressione non si riferiva allo strumento, ma al canto polivocale, detto organum); dal Liber Ordinarius del XIII secolo della cattedrale di Firenze apprendiamo che l’esecuzione monodica del gregoriano era l’eccezione, non la regola. Nell’organum descritto da Guido, la nuova voce è collocata al di sotto della melodia originale, come nella tradizione più arcaica. Si basa principalmente sull’intervallo verticale di quarta; ammette inoltre la quinta, la terza maggiore e minore, la seconda maggiore e i raddoppi all’ottava. Grande cura è riservata all’occursus, cioè al movimento delle due voci verso la cadenza. Non è del tutto chiaro se, spiegando l’organum, Guido stia esponendo la propria teoria su questo genere di canto o se invece stia descrivendo il canto polivocale nella maniera in cui era eseguito nella cattedrale di Arezzo. Se così fosse, il testo guidoniano rappresenterebbe una testimonianza unica del canto a più voci in uso in Italia intorno al Mille. In ogni modo, l’organum ha attirato, naturalmente, l’interesse degli studiosi moderni, ma non sembra essere stato particolarmente a cuore a Guido: ne parla nel Micrologus, poi non ne fa più nemmeno un cenno nelle opere successive.
Esaminando l’opera di Guido nel suo complesso, possiamo dire che essa rappresenta il culmine dello sforzo, cominciato fin dal sec. IX, di studiare il suono e rappresentarlo con precisione nella notazione musicale. Guido, uomo del proprio tempo, vissuto a stretto contatto con le più vivaci correnti di riforma della Chiesa, a questo sforzo tecnico aggiunge la preoccupazione che il canto di s. Gregorio sia cantato e messo per scritto nel modo più esatto possibile, fedele alla tradizione antica, romana e gregoriana. Questa preoccupazione è perfettamente in linea con i tentativi di riforma, che mirano a una restaurazione della tradizione liturgica romana e alla sua diffusione. Per Guido, le melodie gregoriane devono essere preservata contro ogni cambiamento, prodotto da innovazioni o da errori dei cantori. Ciò spiega l’apparente contraddizione che emerge dai suoi testi: da una parte la sua pedagogia è genialmente innovativa, dall’altra si dimostra ostile a qualsiasi novità nel campo della creatività e del linguaggio musicale (ad esempio, raccomanda la massima prudenza nell’uso del b molle – h flat, perché può aprire la strada a pericolose novità). In sintesi, egli innova per conservare.
Al grande successo di Guido nel Medioevo contribuirono anche la chiarezza e il fascino del suo stile letterario. Egli scrive in modo chiaro e vivace; alle spiegazioni tecniche alterna sentenze icastiche e paragoni immaginosi; usa magistralmente il cursus (cioè la prosa ritmica, punteggiata di cadenze differenziate in base agli accenti delle parole che concludono le singole frasi) e padroneggia i versi poetici, come le Regulae rhythmicae dimostrano brillantemente.
Angelo Rusconi
Translation - English GUIDO D’AREZZO
The collapse of the Carolingian empire at the end of the first millennium brought a state of crisis to the Church. Simony – the buying and selling of ecclesiastical preferment – encouraged the emergence in the Church of persons concerned solely with their own interests, and those of their family members, resulting in the control of immense political and economic power. This situation was aggravated by nicolaism, that is to say priests cohabiting with women, a situation which could naturally led to nepotism. Over time the feudal institution of the count-bishop had resulted in a repressive network of interests no longer balanced by a robust central power structure. The papacy was influenced by the German emperor; even the liturgy was vulnerable to German influence, as is seen in the spread of the Romano-German Pontifical to Rome itself.
Guido was born around this time somewhere in Italy, the exact location remains unknown; he became a monk and was to be responsible for several important innovations in the field of music. With regard to his biography the few dates that can be considered secure relate to the decade 1023-1033. During this period Italy was in the throes of ecclesiastical reform, with monks being the prime movers. Alongside them reforming bishops were active in the diocese trying to restore the Church’s rights and responsibilities: independence from secular authority and the duty to evangelize. These monks and bishops were to lay the groundwork preparatory to Gregory VII’s reforms in the second half of the century, culminating in the bulla libertas ecclesiae. Tuscany and the area around Padua were home to several charismatic personalities: St. Romuald the founder of the hermitage at Camaldoli championed the eremitic life; St. Peter Damian alternated between a solitary lifestyle and a ministry of impassioned preaching and St. John Gualbert founded the Vallumbrosan Order. In order to really understand the nature of Guido’s work a comprehensive awareness of its context is essential. His reforms should not be judged simply as solutions to various technical problems arising in the musical fabric of his time. He found himself at the very centre of, and actively participated in, these important ecclesiastical and spiritual innovations.
Nothing is actually known as to where he was born. Various scholars local to Arezzo have tried to demonstrate that he was born and educated there. However their assertions lack foundation, are without any documentary support and fail to follow an approved research methodology. On the contrary, it is somewhat improbable that he would have been born in that particular Tuscan town. He became a monk in Pomposa, a town in the Po delta near Ferrara, where abbots following the teachings of St. Romuald had introduced a particular form of monastic life, in which the Benedictine coenobitic tradition coexisted with the eremitical model. It was here that Guido received his spiritual and cultural education.
Let us consider a monk’s education: an education directed toward the search for God and the knowledge by which to understand His Creation. Central to all this was the liturgy: the privileged focus of the monastic experience, the quintessential opus Dei, adorned, as was thought at the time, by singing created by St. Gregory the Great. But this singing was beset by problems. The texts were written down accurately but the music was not. There were the neumes, a form of “musical drawing”, that could suggest to the singer whether the music rose or fell, but the pitch itself was not indicated. If the singer had not already committed the melody to memory the neumes were pointless. Thus the tradition was an oral one, which brought with it the problems that attracted Guido’s attention. Gregorian chant was sung everywhere, but with enormous variation from place to place: “From which it follows that the antiphoners are by now not one nor even a few, but as many as there are teachers in the separate churches, and now commonly the antiphoner is called not Gregory’s, but Leo’s or Albert’s, or anybody else’s” (Prologus in Antiphonarium, transl. by Dolores Pesce). The singers did not actually know the music per se, they sang it in a particular way because that is how it had always been sung in their church. Guido attempted to provide solutions to this and other problems, and it was only after many years that he achieved the coherent system of notation, theory and musical pedagogy that we know today.
His first experiments aimed at an exact written representation of the melodies, and at a learning process by means of musical notation in book form (probably the alphabetical notation we shall come to later): but his brother monks rejected this absolutely. It seems strange to us that the monks should have refused methods that would have facilitated the learning of liturgical singing. That is because to us education is synonymous with reading and writing. But in a world where knowledge is principally transmitted orally the transition to book-based learning can be hugely difficult to accomplish. In effect we are dealing with a mental outlook and cognitive processes that are totally different to ours. Moreover, to a certain extent Guido’s methods threatened to “desacralize” singing and singers, in that the latter were no longer the sole depositaries of the sacred Gregorian melodies, which in turn were no longer an elusive world of sound, handed down and brought to life solely through the memory of specialized singers. These days, learning to sing is a relatively straightforward process, and if appropriate instruction is given then anyone can do it, even in the absence of a teacher. Guido later wrote: “For, in such a way, with the help of God I have determined to notate this antiphoner, so that hereafter through it, any intelligent and diligent person can learn a chant, and after he has learned well part of it through a teacher, he recognizes the rest unhesitatingly by himself without a teacher”. On the other hand, “wretched singer and pupils of singers, even if they should sing every day for a hundred years, will never sing by themselves without a teacher one antiphon, not even a short one, wasting so much time in singing that they could have spent better learning thoroughly sacred and secular writing” (the Prologus in Antiphonarium, transl. by Dolores Pesce). As a consequence the monastery erupted in violent opposition and Guido was compelled to leave “banished in a distant land”, as he himself recounted in his Epistola ad Michaelem, addressed to brother Michael of Pomposa.
The “distant land” was Arezzo, a city in Tuscany. There he was welcomed by Bishop Teodaldo, a prelate fully engaged in local Church reforms and in the fight against concubinage and simony. Guido became one of his collaborators in the study and preaching of the Holy Scriptures. Today, based on various medieval testimonies, there is general agreement amongst scholars that Guido was the author of a vehement Epistola ad Mediolanensem ecclesiam, addressed to Archbishop Aribert II of Milan, in which he powerfully demolished any distinction drawn between material and spiritual property, the argument adopted at that time to justify the business of simony. This brief work is now considered to be one of the most important texts in medieval literature on this issue.
Thus, in the midst of many other engagements, he pursued his musical commitments instructing the child-singers of the cathedral. At Teodaldo’s request he wrote his treatise the Micrologus (ca. 1026-1030), in which he expounds his ideas on music theory. This same material is summarized in two later texts: in the Regulae rhythmicae (ca. 1030/31), written in verse, and in a section (which may have an independent source) of the Epistola ad Michaelem (ca. 1031/32). In the Prologus in Antiphonarium he illustrates a new system of musical notation.
The fame of the child-singers he trained became widespread and many flocked to applaud the wonderful display by his schola. At last he was called to Rome by the pope. With heartfelt words, and just a touch of justifiable pride, Guido recounts in his Epistola ad Michaelem how he presented John XIX with his antiphoner, written, as we shall see, with a new method of musical notation: “The Pope rejoiced greatly at my arrival, conversing much and inquiring in detail about many things. And while pondering our antiphoner many times as if it were some kind of marvel, and reflecting on the prefixed rules, he did not stop or withdraw from the place where he was sitting until, in fulfillment of his wish, he learned one line that he had not yet heard. And he recognized quickly in himself what he scarcely believed in others” (transl. by Dolores Pesce).
The pope approved of Guido’s methods and invited him to return the following winter so that he could teach the new method to the Roman clergy. Whether this actually took place is not known as John XIX died shortly afterwards (October 1032). In 1033 Guido is still in Arezzo: the signature on an act of donation proclaimed by Teodaldo, in favour of the monastery at Camaldoli, is very probably in Guido’s hand. This particular document, and the often-repeated desire that Guido expressed of returning to a life of quiet monasticism, are seen by some as sufficient proof that Guido did indeed spend his last years in the community at Camaldoli. In fact, this particular tradition is a very late one, and has still not been studied adequately. To date, the most likely hypothesis is that Guido returned to Pomposa after Teodaldo’s death in 1036.
Guido’s work was based on the following principle: it was essential to get away from the traditional method of learning based on imitation. It was no longer desirable that singers simply commit to memory what they had heard from their teachers. That process had severe drawbacks; it was time consuming and could not guarantee the preservation of the melodies that during the course of time would begin to differ as they became geographically separated. Guido provided a safer, more efficient and practical new system. Guido understood that it all started with theory. As soon as one rejects a method based on rote learning one has to elaborate a rational system; one that allows the singer to gain an awareness of what he is actually doing. This is a good point at which to clear up some widely held misconceptions. One of which is that Guido preserved the ancient separation between musicus (the theorist/musician) and cantor (the practitioner/singer) as promulgated by Boethius (the great popularizer of Greek music, who lived between the end of the fifth and the first part of the sixth centuries). We are all aware of the famous opening lines of the Regulae rhythmicae: "Musicorum et cantorum magna est distantia: | Isti dicunt, illi sciunt, quae componit musica. | Nam qui facit, quod non sapit, diffinitur bestia" ("Great is the gap between musicians and singers; the latter talk about what music comprises, while the former understand these things. For he who does what he does not understand is termed a beast”, transl. by Dolores Pesce. If the lines are read in context it is clear that the cantor of Guido and the cantor of Boethius are very different creatures: not the scholar engaged in a philosophical study of music but the musician actually practicing the art well-grounded in its theoretical bases. These theoretical bases did not correspond to the traditional ideological arsenal of arithmetic and theology (Guido did not spurn these but considered them to be of little practical value): according to Guido, music theory is a set of practical elements that helped one to sing well. We can now appreciate the importance of the concluding phrase in the Epistola ad Michaelem: “Boethius, whose book is useful to philosophers only, not to singers” (transl. by Dolores Pesce). The Boethian dual distinction between musicus / cantor is now replaced by the Guidonian triple distinction between philosophus / musicus /cantor, in which the earlier musicus corresponds to the philosophus. But one shouldn’t regard Guido as being anti-theoretical, for him the practice of music without a solid theoretical foundation made no sense; theory and practice should be complementary to each other and not worlds apart.
It was from this perspective that Guido established the modern idea of music theory: the idea that starting with the study of single sounds one gradually develops an understanding of the basic elements in music with a view to their practice. There is nothing startlingly new in the contents of the Micrologus, but the way in which some of the concepts are explained is often novel. For example, the octave is not classified in terms its consonantiae (consonance) – an approach that flies in the face of tradition; the reason for this position, according to Guido, is that consonance implies agreement between two different elements, whereas the octave is made up of two sounds of the same quality, only different in pitch. It is obvious that this approach to theoretical formulation is based on an observation of reality and accounted for by his close connection to the practice of singing.
These theoretical considerations were to act as the basis for a new notational system capable of accurately expressing the pitch of any sound. The musician had two principal sources to draw on: the Musica enchiriadis, a treatise written in the north of France in the eleventh century, and the Dialogus de musica a treatise from the north of Italy practically contemporaneous to Guido (these texts have enjoyed varying attribution but are best considered as anonymous). Guido was most impressed by the in-depth analysis of music’s fundamentals present in the Musica enchiriadis and developed from this work a study of relationships between music and the theory of those “pitch affinities” that allowed for transposition. From the Dialogus de musica (which according to some hypotheses may well be a work from his youth) he drew a up a rule to define the musical mode of a piece; the attribution of any particular mode being dependent upon the final note; furthermore one must watch the highest and lowest notes so as to control the melodic extension. This idea accorded with the trends of the period in which the mode was regarded as a portion of a musical scale rather than an aggregation of notes around a central tone. Guido’s authority would lend considerable weight to the theory that portrayed the eight Gregorian modes as an equal number of scales.
Another important contribution made by the Dialogus de musica was the construction of the scale based on the octave rather than the previously used tetrachord. The scale is expressed by means of a special alphabet drawn up by Guido as follows; every note is designated by its own letter; the first seven are in upper case, and when repeated higher they are in lower case; there are four extra high notes that could be added above the line in lower case whilst if lower the Greek letter Gamma is used (Γ A B C D E F G a b/h c d e f g aa bb/hh cc dd). The note “b” could be round or square (“soft-b” or “hard-b”), but the former was only used exceptionally. An important advantage of this notation based on the octave was that equal sounds had equal signs. Once again there is a clear underlying principle of practical functionality informing theoretical codification.
With the octave as a fundamental aspect of the musical system, and with an adequate system of alphabetical notation in place, Guido now turned his attention to the principles and method of instruction. This development required some time to achieve and underwent various intermediate stages. Initially his teaching method made use of the monochord, and with the help of that ancient didactic instrument his child-pupils learned, note-by-note, the melodies that had been transcribed into alphabetical notation. At Pomposa and during the first period at Arezzo it would appear that he made use of only this method and notation. There is no hint of any other notational system or teaching principle in the Micrologus. However, Guido’s brilliant and pedagogically attuned mind did not take long to recognize the limitations of both.
The alphabetical notation’s drawback was that in using it the phrasing of Gregorian chant was lost, something that had been captured perfectly with the agile neumes (though we know that these could not accurately represent pitch). Thus Guido sought a more efficient form for writing music. He came upon the following solution: the traditional neumes were inserted into a system of lines; every sign corresponding to a sound was arranged on a line (or in the space between two lines) in such a way that equal sounds would always find themselves on the same line or in the same space. To specify the pitch of the sound a letter from the alphabetical notation was placed at the start of each line or space: for example if the letter ‘c’ was placed at the beginning of a certain line this tells us that all the neumes or sections of neumes arranged on that line would sound ‘c’. Furthermore, the lines for the sounds F and C were coloured red and yellow respectively; this provided the singer with a further reference, useful in transpositions (F and C are “pitch affinities”). This adaptation of the neumatic notation is explained in a short text traditionally known as the Prologus in Antiphonarium (presumably written around 1030/31).
As for learning on the monochord, here the risk was of the singer becoming enslaved by the instrument: “If you sound on the monochord the letters that belong to a given neume, and listen to the result, you will able to learn from the monochord in the same way as from a teacher. But this method is childish – good for beginners, but very bad for those who continue further (...) Therefore, we ought not always to seek a human voice or instrument for an unknown chant, lest like blind men we seem to go nowhere without a guide, but we should commit to deep memory all descents and ascents and diverse properties of individual sounds” (Epistola ad Michaelem, transl. by Dolores Pesce). Now Guido wanted to completely liberate the singer and formulated a method for sight-reading using books with a stave. Now the singers were not to know a melody by heart, but the elements that made up the melody, any melody, the sounds and the intervals. This way the singer could by himself intone an unknown melody written in notation on a stave (it could also work the other way around, once heard he could correctly write down a melody). To train his pupils he made use of the first strophe from the hymn to St. John the Baptist Ut queant laxis. He applied a special melody to this text, in which the beginning of each line began a scale degree higher than the preceding one, with the semitone E-F in the middle, The text’s syllables, corresponding to each of the sounds, ended up giving their names to the sounds themselves: in Latin countries the sounds are still known by these names: Ut-Re-Mi-Fa-Sol-La (Ut was changed into Do in the seventeenth century). Later on this series of six sounds was called a “hexachord”. As one can see there is no syllable available for the seventh note (‘b’). For this reason a means to transpose the hexachord was developed, this was called solmisatio or solfisatio (solfege or solmization), thanks to which all the semitones came to be named Mi-Fa, The sounds close to the Mi-Fa semitones from time to time have been given different names in relation to the semitone: a system similar to the modern movable-Do solfege methods of Kodaly or Goitre.
Guido is generally credited with the invention of solmization. Actually, the word solmization is not to be found in any of his works, neither do any of his texts describe the system of transposing the hexachord, which is why today some scholars prefer to refute any direct link between Guido and solmization. It probably is the case that the complex formulation of solmization as described in the late medieval and Renaissance sources does not arise directly from him. Nevertheless, the basic mechanism is perfectly in line with the theory of “pitch affinities” and is already to be found in operation in manuscript 318 from Montecassino, a collection of texts on music written in the second half of the eleventh century. As this is very close in time to that of Guido this manuscript is the earliest extant Italian source on his works. Furthermore, in the Epistola ad Michaelem Guido simply alludes to the basic elements of said method and does not go into a detailed description, as he himself states: “All of these things, which we may scarcely indicate in any way with letters, we reveal merely by an easy argument.” (transl. by Dolores Pesce).
For centuries solmization was at the heart of music teaching. When it fell into disuse they had introduced the syllable, Si, drawn from the last two words of the hymn to St. John the Baptist. Another teaching tool attributed to Guido is the “musical hand” also called the “Guidonian hand”. Its purpose was as an aid to memorizing the scale by linking every note to a point or joint on the left hand, of which there is also no mention in his writings. Nonetheless, the widespread use of the hand as a mnemonic aid, musical or otherwise, is very ancient and was commonly employed in monastic teaching.
Of the various topics dealt with in Guido’s treatises there are those that have given rise to heated discussion and conflicting interpretation, and of these the one that stands out is chapter 15 from the Micrologus, devoted to modulatio (modulation). Many scholars have sought in this chapter precise indications as to how Gregorian chant was sung; some have used it to maintain that in Guido’s day Gregorian chant was sung mensurally. John Blackley has made use of Guido and other medieval texts to support his rhythmical interpretation of Gregorian chant in his recordings with the group Schola Antiqua (his compact discs on Nonesuch and Decca). But there is a major ambiguity underlying such discussions, as Guido was not writing about the performance of song, but about its composition. These few pages of the Micrologus represent the first composition manual in history, and to a certain degree, the first outline of musical aesthetics. In fact, Guido is here showing us his ideal with regard to liturgical composition, suggesting a sober style composed of harmonious phrases and being well-proportioned in its constituent elements; the work of a composer is compared to that of a poet but one that is allowed greater freedom. In fact Guido observed that the composer can at times work in such a way as to not entirely fall within the established rules; in spite of which the ensuing result is both pleasing to heart and mind. Here, and in other passages, Guido seems to affirm that music is so profound, almost divine, that it eludes the mere understanding of man.
Another much studied area of the Micrologus is the treatment of diaphonia or organum. Adding a second voice to an already existing liturgical melody and thus enlarging it created a diaphonia or organum. As ever more evidence comes to light we are being made to understand that to a certain extent the traditional view of Gregorian chant as monody may need revising. Singing Gregorian chant in this manner with an improvised second voice was a regular occurrence in Italian churches. We do not have the music but fortunately we do have many Libri Ordinarii (that is to say the books that gave detailed descriptions of liturgical custom in any one particularly important church, usually a cathedral) that tell us when the singing was cum organo, an expression that does not refer to the instrument of that name but to the fact the chant is polyvocal, known as organum. A study of the thirteenth-century Liber Ordinarius from Florence cathedral shows monodic performance to have been the exception rather than the rule. According to the organum described by Guido the new voice, as in the most archaic tradition, is set underneath the original melody. It is mainly based on the musical interval of a fourth; but it could also be a fifth, a minor or major third, and a major second or redoubled octaves. Great care was expended on the occursus, a predecessor of the later cadence, when the two voices approached a unison. When Guido explains the organum, what is not at all clear is whether he is expounding his own theories on this type of singing, or whether he is describing polyvocal chant as it was then being performed in the cathedral of Arezzo. Should the latter be the case then this text by Guido represents a unique testimony to this type of singing in Italy at the turn of the first millennium. Either way, although the organum has attracted the interest of modern scholars it would seem that it was not particularly close to Guido’s heart, he discusses it in the Micrologus and then never mentions it again in any of his later works.
Assessing Guido’s output in its entirety it can be said to represent the culmination of efforts to study sound, and represent it accurately in musical notation, which had begun at the end of the ninth century. Guido was very much a man of his times, in close contact with the liveliest reforming trends in the Church. To these exertions add a preoccupation with ensuring that the chant of St. Gregory is both sung and written in the most accurate way possible, keeping faith with the earlier Roman and Gregorian traditions. This preoccupation is completely in line with the attempted reforms to restore and disseminate the Roman liturgical traditions. For Guido, the Gregorian melodies must be preserved and protected from any change wrought either by innovatory trend or singer error. This helps explain the apparently contradictory nature of some of his texts. On the one hand in his approach to teaching methods and principles is brilliantly innovative, and on the other hand he showed himself to be hostile to any innovation of musical language or creativity (for example he urged the greatest caution in the use of b molle – B flat, as it could open the door to dangerous innovations). In short, he innovated in order to conserve.
The clarity and charm of Guido’s literary style in the medieval period also contributed to his great record of achievements. His writing was clear and lively, and he enriched technical descriptions with figurative allusions and imaginative comparisons; he had a magisterial command of the cursus, that is a form of rhythmic Latin prose punctuated by varied cadences based on the accented words at the end of individual phrases. He was also a master of poetic verse as is brilliantly demonstrated in the Regulae rhythmicae
Angelo Rusconi
Spanish to English: La música en Toledo en el siglo XVIII
Source text - Spanish La música en Toledo en el siglo XVIII
Cuando en una publicación de las características de GOLDBERG se elige el nombre de una ciudad para describir su ambiente musical en un determinado momento, siempre se la asocia con un compositor de reconocido prestigio que vivió en ella y la enriqueció con su trabajo. Recordemos como ejemplo los trabajos de Brian Robins para esta revista en los que se asociaba a Purcell con Londres (Goldberg nº2), a Fux con Viena (nº15), a Mozart con Salzburgo (nº39) y a Zelenka y Hasse con Dresde (nº40). Todos son maravillosos ejemplos de que ciudad y compositor se benefician mutuamente por sus reconocidas famas. En el caso de Toledo no sucede así; a mí me hubiera gustado titular este artículo que les ofrezco “La Toledo de Casellas”, pero, ¿quién conoce a Jaime Casellas? Efectivamente, no creo que a muchos lectores les suene el nombre de ninguno de los compositores que trabajaron en Toledo durante el siglo XVIII, por muy reconocidos que estuvieran en España en su propia época o por mucho que yo, y otros pocos más –por el momento- vayamos conociendo los peculiares valores de la música conservada. Tampoco podríamos aprovechar ninguno de los nombres de los compositores más célebres que dejaron su huella musical en Toledo, pues no se puede decir que ni Morales, que apenas dedicó dos años de trabajo a su catedral (1545-1547), o Alonso Lobo (1593-1604), mucho más identificado con Sevilla, sean personajes fielmente ligados a la imagen de la ciudad. Y, sin embargo, Toledo es conocida en todo el mundo como una ciudad cargada de historia, arte y cultura que se desarrollaron a lo largo de muchos siglos. Por ello es fácil pensar que la música hubo de tener allí una presencia constante y destacada, y empezar a reconocer que los compositores que pasaron por Toledo estuvieron a la altura del patrimonio artístico que la convierte hasta la fecha en uno de los destinos turísticos más visitados de todo el mundo.
El lastre de la nostalgia de un brillante pasado
En 1786, el viajero británico Joseph Townsend visitó Toledo y nos dejó un comentario muy elocuente sobre la trayectoria y el estado de la ciudad que encontró:
“Esta famosa ciudad, que llegó a ser el centro del Imperio y vio florecer las artes, las ciencias, el comercio y la industria, ahora se encuentra arruinada y en decadencia, y si sigue existiendo se lo debe a la Iglesia. Esta ciudad llegó a tener 200.000 habitantes (sic), y ahora sólo alberga 25.000; la población la ha abandonado, y el clero se ha quedado. Sus 26 parroquias, 38 conventos, 17 hospitales, 4 colegios, 12 capillas y 19 ermitas permanecen como testigos de su antigua riqueza”.
Aunque las referencias al número de habitantes en ambos casos parecen sobrestimadas, no faltan a la verdad en cuanto a que la ciudad en ese momento era un espectro de lo que fue en épocas pasadas. Si bien se tiene al desplazamiento de la Corte a Madrid en 1561 como la principal causa de la progresiva decadencia, lo cierto es que el esplendor de la ciudad no empezó verdaderamente a declinar hasta los albores de la centuria siguiente. Incluso la ciudad experimentó entre los años 60 y 80 un crecimiento en términos globales, y no sólo no menguaron los cerca de 50.000 habitantes que había en 1561, sino que aumentaron hasta cerca de los 60.000. La verdadera crisis sobrevino hacia la tercera década del siglo XVII en que la población cayó hasta los 20.000 habitantes, y todo ello debido al desplome económico que supuso la emigración a la Corte de la casi totalidad de la nobleza y de un buen número de artesanos y mercaderes. Un siglo después, en 1752, el Catastro de Ensenada daba una población de 17.052 habitantes. Lejos quedaban la Toletum romana, asentada en el siglo III a.C. sobre un poblamiento celtíbero como ciudad con una clara función militar y fronteriza; la urbs regia de los siglos VI y VII (amenazados hoy sus vestigios por una feroz especulación inmobiliaria), arranque de su verdadero esplendor como corte de la monarquía visigoda y sede de los Concilios religiosos que establecerían la base del catolicismo en la Península; la ciudad andalusí de los siglos VIII al XI, calificada en ocasiones por sus habitantes musulmanes como Madinat al-Muluk (Ciudad de los Reyes); la Toledo medieval cristiana, cuya tolerancia religiosa en los dos primeros siglos favoreció un ambiente cultural que propició la traducción de textos científicos clásicos y árabes y su difusión posterior por toda Europa; muy lejos quedaba, en fin, de la Toledo del siglo XVIII aquella ciudad considerada por los monarcas castellanos el eje fundamental de su reino, en la que los Reyes Católicos convocaron hasta tres cortes generales para tratar sobre importantes asuntos de estado, y a la que poco después Carlos I reconoció con el título de Ciudad Imperial.
La ciudad levítica del siglo XVIII
El alejamiento de la corte supuso un progresivo desplazamiento de la nobleza hacia su nueva sede en Madrid, hasta el punto de que en el siglo XVIII apenas había nobles que habitaran en Toledo; se conservaban las casonas palaciegas, pero sus propietarios no vivían en ellas. En su comparación con los placeres de la Corte, los nobles criticaban a Toledo por sus múltiples incomodidades, entre las que se contaban los malos alojamientos, la escasez de agua, la dificultad por obtener manjares finos y demás bienes de consumo acordes con su posición, y el calor excesivo de los veranos.
A falta de corte y nobleza, la ciudad se orientó inmediatamente hacia una identidad religiosa, de tal manera que algunos creyeron ver en ella una segunda Roma. El arzobispo, el cabildo de la catedral y las numerosas comunidades religiosas monopolizaban buena parte del poder, de la influencia y de la propiedad, siendo la mayor parte de los toledanos, por una u otra razón, dependientes del clero. La sustitución de la presencia del poder real por otro religioso satisfizo los sentimientos de grandeza con los que intrínsecamente se identificaba la ciudad, pues los prelados toledanos reunían en su persona un enorme poder tanto espiritual como económico, e incluso, como en el caso del cardenal Portocarrero (1677-1709), decisivo en asuntos de estado –influyó en las últimas voluntades de Carlos II- y en los avatares de la guerra de Sucesión. La importancia de la silla arzobispal toledana queda demostrada por el interés que siempre tuvo la familia real por colocar en ella a alguno de sus miembros: el caso más extravagante, el de Luis Antonio de Borbón, elevado a cardenal con tan sólo 8 años de edad, como consecuencia de la ambición de su madre Isabel de Farnesio. Ni que decir tiene que su falta de vocación le impidió ni tan siquiera ordenarse, y que durante los 19 años que ocupó el cargo entre 1736 y 1754 no se tiene constancia de que visitara la capital de la diócesis. Eso sí, el marqués de Scotti, encargado de sus intereses, cuidaba de la administración de las extraordinarias rentas que le reportaba su cargo. Por cierto, Anibal Scotti, en su calidad también de director del teatro madrileño de los Caños del Peral, fue uno de los principales introductores de la ópera y de los cantantes italianos en la Corte, y en sus frecuentes visitas a Toledo no desaprovechó la oportunidad de intentar introducir en la capilla de la catedral toledana a alguno de sus músicos italianos; férrea fue la resistencia del Cabildo para impedirlo, pues en ello veían aires de trivialidad escénica que no convenían al estilo de la capilla. Queda aún por precisar si la presencia esporádica de Scotti en Toledo tuvo alguna relación con la música de los teatros madrileños que tanto estimaba.
El ambiente de esta ciudad eclesiástica, o ciudad-convento, como la califican los historiadores, se detectaba ya en 1611 cuando el viajero Jakob Sobieski pasaba por Toledo y comentaba que eran tan numerosos
“los monasterios y los monjes y monjas, que es de parecer que en ninguna parte de España, ni acaso en ningún lugar de la cristiandad, podría encontrarse igual número. Parece que las iglesias solas con los monasterios constituyesen la ciudad entera”.
En efecto, el número de religiosos que vivían en Toledo durante el siglo XVIII era elevadísimo, de tal manera que, según el Catastro de Ensenada, había un clérigo/fraile/monja por cada ocho seglares; y en total contabiliza 1.263 pertenecientes al clero secular y 1.522 al regular, a lo que habría que añadir a los poco más de 1.000 ciudadanos que dependían directamente de sueldos procedentes de la Iglesia.
La Iglesia controlaba la vida activa de la ciudad y en torno a ella gravitaban todos los oficios que trataban de subsistir. La mayor parte del resto de la población se dedicaba a lo que el Catastro denominaba “oficios y artesanos”, entre los que se incluyen las cuatro actividades artesanas que dieron fama a Toledo en épocas pasadas: la seda, la confitería, la platería y la espadería, conservadas en la primera mitad del siglo XVIII con cierta dignidad. Era el gremio de la seda el que más prestigio tenía y el que mayor número de ocupaciones absorbía. Los artífices más prestigiosos, como los Molero o los Medrano, producían en sus talleres ricas telas de seda, plata y oro destinadas a ropas de culto y ornamentos para la Iglesia, y hasta incluso servían directamente al palacio y Real Capilla de Madrid, llegando también a exportar sus trabajos a otros países de Europa. A pesar de todo, éste y los otros gremios toledanos evidenciaban a mediados de siglo una franca decadencia, por lo que se arbitraron medios para hacerlos competitivos frente a la pujanza de otras ciudades que iban arrebatando a Toledo la suya. Entre las iniciativas tomadas para tratar de restaurar el esplendor de la industria sedera toledana figuran la creación en 1748 de la Real Compañía de Fábrica y Comercio, y el fomento del plantío de moreras para que sirvieran de base a la cría del gusano de seda y a la industrialización de su fibra, negocio en el que participó, por ejemplo, uno de los músicos mejor pagados de la capilla catedralicia, el cantor castrado italiano Geronimo Bartolucci.
La música en la catedral
La Iglesia toledana, primada de las Españas, destacaba por su extraordinaria riqueza que obtenía de diezmos, censos, tributos, juros y donaciones (procedentes de capellanías, memorias, patronatos y obras pías), siendo además dueña de buena parte de las propiedades urbanas (un 70% del total de las casas habitadas por particulares eran de la Iglesia) y de unas extensas posesiones territoriales repartidas por toda la diócesis. Como consecuencia, los canónigos, racioneros y beneficiados constituían una especie de aristocracia dentro del clero y de la sociedad toledana. Tanta riqueza había de traducirse en una catedral que se correspondiese con su dignidad primacial y que estuviese “vestida” con todos los aditamentos artísticos necesarios para su mayor esplendor. Y entre ellos, la música, que sonaba a diario y en todo momento, tenía un lugar especial, en distinta medida, según la categoría de la misa, ceremonia o fiesta litúrgica de que se tratase. Para ello, y desde principios del siglo XVI, el cabildo dotó a su templo de una capilla de música o grupo de cantores e instrumentistas profesionales que estuvieran en todo momento dispuestos a exaltar el ambiente espiritual de las ocasiones más solemnes. Hasta aquí todo coincide con similares disposiciones que se tomaron en todas las catedrales y colegiatas españolas; pero si pensamos que Toledo y Sevilla eran, con diferencia, los cabildos más ricos de toda la península, convendremos también que sus oficios musicales fueran codiciados por los músicos más capacitados del país, por prestigio y por mejores condiciones económicas y laborales. Por encima de ellos, claro está, estaba la espléndida Capilla Real, que aventajaba a cualquiera en todos los sentidos. Al margen de los maestros de capilla, por Toledo pasaron organistas de la talla de Joaquín Martínez de la Roca y Joaquín Oxinaga, arpistas como Diego Fernández de Huete (que está gozando últimamente de una merecida atención discográfica por su tratado de arpa), del violinista Francesco Montali, del violonchelista Manuel Canales y de toda una pléyade de músicos excelentes que hacían de la capilla un conjunto homogéneo y brillante.
El paso de la antigua dinastía a la nueva monarquía borbónica representó también un paulatino cambio de apariencia en las capillas catedralicias españolas, con la incorporación de nuevos elementos que se fueron introduciendo como síntomas de su adaptación a los estilos y modas imperantes en Europa. A la tradicional estructura vocal concebida en varios coros –con la participación asimismo de ministriles de viento- que se apuntalan con un sólido bajo continuo, se van incorporando instrumentos que aportan un lenguaje más autónomo y personalizado como consecuencia de la pujanza que la música italiana va cobrando progresivamente en España.
La música que se oye en la Corte madrileña es el modelo para el resto del país, y la vecina Toledo no es ajena a este influjo que, bajo el filtro eclesiástico para evitar la intromisión de elementos profanos, se deja sentir en las obras que componen los maestros de capilla de la catedral. Hasta 1733, precisamente, el cargo estará ocupado por dos músicos de dilatada fama que vienen de trabajar en Madrid: Juan Bonet de Paredes (1706-1710) y Miguel de Ambiela (1710-1733), ambos procedentes del monasterio de las Descalzas Reales. El primero vivió sus últimos años en Toledo en un momento en el que la guerra de Sucesión castigó especialmente a la ciudad, pues pasó de unas manos a otras de manera alternativa y sufrió, entre otros destrozos urbanos, el incendio del Alcázar Real. Bonet, incluso, llega a padecer prisión en 1707 por espacio de casi tres meses por causas no reveladas, pero que podrían estar relacionadas con su afiliación ideológica. En los años de guerra, las tropas extranjeras traen consigo soldados que portan instrumentos que en España no eran aún habituales en las capillas. En 1710, en la última estancia de las tropas afines al Archiduque Carlos, se celebró la onomástica de éste en la plaza de Zocodover tocando “tambores, clarines y otros muchos y sonoros instrumentos”, entre los que se encontrarían oboes y trompas. Pero no es hasta 1717, con Ambiela como maestro, cuando en la capilla de Toledo se asientan definitivamente los oboes y, junto a ellos, los violines, instrumentos que le darán una nueva y definitiva sonoridad a la música que se oirá en la catedral. Los clarines, las trompas y las flautas traveseras se irán consolidando más tarde, en la década de los 40, quedando así configurado el conjunto orquestal que definirá el repertorio interpretado en la catedral de Toledo en el siglo XVIII.
El compositor que asumirá el protagonismo de estos cambios estilísticos será Jaime Casellas, que trabajó en Toledo durante los treinta años centrales del siglo (1734-1762). Quizá fuera decisiva la intercesión del arzobispo Diego de Astorga y Céspedes (1720-1734), anteriormente obispo en Barcelona, donde habría conocido el trabajo del compositor en Santa María del Mar. El caso es que Casellas fue el primero de los tres músicos catalanes que ocuparon consecutivamente el puesto en Toledo hasta casi completar la centuria, pues sería sucedido por Juan Rosell (1763-1780) y Francisco Juncà (1780-1792). Aunque cada uno de ellos se irá adaptando al estilo correspondiente a su época, la estructura implantada por Casellas permanecerá como un rasgo característico de la capilla de Toledo. Básicamente estaba cimentada en un experimentado empleo de formaciones policorales (preferentemente a 2 coros de 8 voces), en la brillantez de las intervenciones de los cantores solistas (generalmente encomendadas a los cantores castrados, algunos de ellos italianos), en la solidez del bajo continuo, y en el papel colorista y de creciente complejidad de los instrumentos concertantes, entre los que destacaban sobre todo los violines.
La fiesta del Corpus Christi
El trabajo de la capilla de la catedral de Toledo y la labor creativa de su maestro para hacer obras nuevas venían marcados por las fiestas más significativas de la ciudad dentro de su calendario litúrgico. De los momentos especiales y únicos, como las celebraciones relacionadas con la familia real y otros acontecimientos, hablaré más adelante, pero la razón de ser de todo el ceremonial que se desarrollaba en el interior de la catedral giraba en torno a los momentos de mayor significación religiosa del año. En Toledo había cuatro: la Navidad, la Semana Santa, el Corpus Christi y la Virgen de agosto. Desde el punto de vista musical, estas celebraciones, comunes a otros lugares, pretendían que Toledo se singularizase por una brillantez que fuera capaz de proclamar a toda la cristiandad su condición de Catedral Primada de las Españas. La Navidad estaba marcada por los ocho villancicos que coronaban el núcleo de unos larguísimos maitines en los que todavía se conservaba el tradicional canto de la Sibila, junto a la representación parateatral de Los Pastores. Las fiestas de verano en honor a la Virgen del Sagrario, patrona de Toledo, estaban también jalonadas por villancicos impregnados de un encantador estilo popular. Durante la Semana Santa, la música envolvía a todo el Tríduo Sacro, rememorando la pasión y muerte de Cristo con el canto de las lamentaciones de Jeremías (tres por cada miércoles, jueves y viernes santos), y del espectacular Miserere mei Deus (salmo 50), que tradicionalmente en Toledo se venía realizando con unos buscados efectos multicorales, que repartían las voces por grupos en diferentes lugares elevados o tribunillas situados en el entorno del epicentro de la catedral, logrando así asombrosos efectos de sonoridad. De Casellas se conservan 22 misereres, entre los que predominan los compuestos para 16 voces distribuidos en 5 coros (hay otro también para 18 voces).
Pero la fiesta de mayor carga identitaria era en Toledo la del Corpus Christi. La celebración gira en torno a una magnífica custodia realizada por Enrique de Arfe a principios del siglo XVI, que se exhibe primeramente en la catedral que la alberga y posteriormente se pasea en espléndida procesión por las calles de Toledo, por lo que la fiesta se adueña de las calles y pasa a ser una manifestación tanto religiosa como popular. Desde muy temprano, la procesión se convirtió en el eje principal de la fiesta del Corpus, para lo cual las calles se adornaban profusamente con motivos florales, vegetales e imaginería alusiva al Santísimo Sacramento con un resultado que algunos no han dudado en calificar de “fiesta para los sentidos”. Desde el momento en que la fiesta religiosa se adueñó de las calles y plazas, la Iglesia no vio con malos ojos la incorporación de elementos profanos, no ya en el sentido de aceptar la participación de autoridades seglares y gremios, sino incluso reservando espacio al desfile de figuras y danzas procedentes de la cultura popular. Las numerosas referencias que nos han llegado en fuentes de los siglos XVI, XVII y primeras décadas del XVIII –entre las que destaca la del ceremonial escrito durante la primera mitad del siglo XVII por el canónigo Chaves y Arcayos- nos describen la procesión encabezada por la tarasca -una especie de dragón-, a la que seguían grupos de gigantones y gigantillas, jinetes en fingidos caballos, ángeles, animales de diferentes géneros, diablillos y judíos, carros con representaciones alegóricas, y danzas, gran cantidad de danzas con los más variados temas y apariencias que se pueda imaginar. Los gremios se organizaban para preparar y ofrecer las suyas y, según constata un documento de 1543 alusivo al gremio de sastres y tundidores, corrían de su cargo desde “inmemorial tiempo el día del Corpus, su octava y otras fiestas”. Como podemos imaginar, todo esto debía estar condimentado convenientemente con música. Por un lado, la que proporcionaba la propia catedral para sus actos internos (entre los que destacaba la misa mayor cantada por toda la capilla, como la espectacular Missa Pange lingua/Sacris solemniis compuesta por Casellas para el año 1751) y para la procesión, como la entonación en canto llano de los himnos propios de la fiesta, motetes polifónicos ante los altares del recorrido, grupos de ministriles, o piezas instrumentales con órganos, violas o laúdes que se desplazaban sobre carros. Y además, la música popular que acompañaba a las danzas y demás celebraciones callejeras, que reflejaban los gustos de cada momento. Para que nos sirva de ejemplo, el jerónimo Norberto Caimo criticaba del Corpus barcelonés de 1755 a los músicos que iban tocando en la procesión “unas veces chaconas, otras jigas y zarabandas y otras especies de sonatas”, repertorio que se podría hacer extensible a Toledo.
Si estas tradicionales manifestaciones entre lo religioso y lo popular, que no dejaban de asombrar a los viajeros extranjeros que visitaban España, lograron superar los embates contrarreformistas, no sucedió otro tanto respecto al ojo crítico de la Ilustración, desde cuyas posiciones se consideraba que “las danzas, lo mismo que los gigantes y las gigantillas de la procesión del Corpus, eran producto de la barbarie e ignorancia de otros tiempos”, según dictamen del cardenal Lorenzana (1772-1800). Tal sensibilidad llevó a la implantación de diferentes decretos para que las danzas, gigantones y demás personajes grotescos se excluyeran del cortejo procesional, y que su presencia se limitara, a lo sumo, a la víspera o a los momentos previos del desfile.
Las fiestas “más sonadas” del siglo XVIII
El alejamiento de la monarquía en el siglo XVI fue una pérdida muy dolorosa para Toledo de la que nunca logró recuperarse, hasta el punto de que aprovechaba cualquier situación propicia para sentirse nuevamente corte, aunque sólo fuera por unas horas, por causa de alguna visita de la familia real o por la mera estancia de alguno de sus miembros, aun cuando ésta obedeciese a que hubiera caído en desgracia. Así sucedió con María Ana de Neoburgo, viuda de Carlos II, apartada de la corte y recluida en Toledo desde 1701 hasta 1706. Toledo la recibe con gran entusiasmo, pero ella se aisla en el Alcázar sin apenas tener contacto con el exterior. Entre los pocos actos a los que asistió fuera de su palacio se cuentan las solemnes exequias por su difunto marido, que se celebraron en el Real Convento de Capuchinos de Toledo con la presencia de todas las autoridades de la ciudad y con la intervención de las voces de la capilla de la catedral acompañadas con “instrumentos de caña, violón y arpa con grande solemnidad”. Entre el numeroso séquito que la acompañaba en su vida diaria en el Alcázar no consta la presencia de ningún músico, pero pensando que en su educación alemana estuvieron incluidos la música instrumental, el canto y la danza, no se puede descartar que en su vida privada todavía mantuviera alguna actividad musical, como puede demostrar el hecho de que, en un documento indirecto, el maestro guitarrero toledano Pedro de Aguilar declarase estar al servicio de la “Reyna viuda Ntra. Sra.”
Al margen de esta anecdótica estancia, los Borbones no se prodigaron mucho por Toledo a lo largo del siglo XVIII. Entre las visitas reales más festejadas hay que destacar la que hizo Felipe V en 1723; duró solamente un día, pero el enorme esfuerzo que hicieron los toledanos para engalanar la ciudad logró que ésta se volviera a sentir corte, aunque fuera por unas horas. Todos los gremios y oficios se pusieron manos a la obra para adornar calles, arcos y balcones del recorrido real con “colgaduras, alhajas de plata, pinturas, espejos, urnas y floreros”, y a cada paso del rey le salían al encuentro danzas ofrecidas por los hortelanos, alfareros o laneros al tiempo que sonaban los instrumentos de caña con sus atabales por doquier. Para solemnizar la ocasión, se trajeron trompetas, timbales y oboes de Madrid pertenecientes a las Reales Guardias que tocaron a primera hora de la tarde desde la balaustrada del Ayuntamiento, celebrándose también en la catedral un solemne acto religioso en el que toda la capilla de música entonó un Te Deum.
No siempre era necesaria la presencia de la familia real para festejar algún hecho relacionado con ella. Las fiestas por la proclamación de Carlos III en 1759 ocuparon tres días de brillantes festejos; entre las muchas actividades tanto lúdicas como ceremoniales que se realizaron, se cuenta la actuación de dos grupos instrumentales, uno procedente de la corte con “trompas, oboes y demás conciertos”, y otro con músicos de la catedral, que se situaron en los dos pisos de galerías de la fachada del Ayuntamiento y “se alternaron con tocatas a competencia, las tres noches, y en los tres días, desde las once a las doce, y por la tarde desde las cinco hasta el anochecer”. En las fiestas por la posesión del arzobispado de Luis Antonio de Borbón, hijo de Felipe V, en 1736, también se trajeron de Madrid dos trompas de caza, dos violines y dos oboes para que tocaran “un concierto de música” en el corredor alto de la galería del Ayuntamiento.
Pero si nos tenemos que quedar con la fiesta más singular que se celebró en Toledo en el siglo XVIII, sin duda escogeríamos la que se celebró en junio de 1732 para festejar la inauguración del Transparente de la catedral, un aparatoso altar escultórico-arquitectónico diseñado por Narciso Tomé que se empotra literalmente en el trascoro. La fiesta se apoderó de nuevo de la calle por tres días que se prolongaron en el jueves de Corpus, y a las consabidas danzas de gremios, mascaradas y sones instrumentales, se unió la representación en la plaza del Ayuntamiento de una “Armoniosa Ópera” compuesta por el organista de la catedral Joaquín Martínez de la Roca e ideada con un efectista aparato escenográfico. El acto empezó con los ministriles catedralicios (oboes, violines, chirimías, cornetas y bajoncillos) quienes desde la barandilla del cimborrio de la capilla mozárabe tocaron una “larga y sonora serenata”. La llamada Ópera se desarrolló con “diestros músicos, así en voces como en instrumentos de cuerda” que entraron en un carro y que fueron desgranando coros, recitados y arias para delicia de la muchedumbre, una composición sin duda extraordinaria de la que tan sólo nos ha quedado la letra.
La música en su aspecto más cotidiano
Desde 1576 Toledo tenía su casa de comedias en el Mesón de la Fruta, así llamado por encontrarse en un local en el que se almacenaban y distribuían frutas y hortalizas. Durante el siglo XVIII se seguían representando comedias, obras históricas y religiosas en temporadas que solían durar desde principios de diciembre hasta el martes de carnaval. El ayuntamiento arrendaba el local cada temporada a alguna compañía que venía de fuera para que representase todos los días, excepto la noche de Navidad. Cada compañía estaba compuesta por unos 15 o 16 actores dirigidos por su “autor” y tenían la capacidad de representar cada temporada una variedad de más de 60 títulos, alguno de los cuales se podía repetir cuatro o cinco veces seguidas si el público lo demandaba. Las compañías contaban también con tres o cuatro músicos que apoyaban la acción o acompañaban canciones o bailes con violines y guitarras. Desde mediados de siglo se viene notando un mayor interés por introducir más músicos y nuevos instrumentos, lo que viene determinado por el hecho de que se empiezan a representar de manera esporádica zarzuelas. Los títulos que he podido documentar eran una inmediata repercusión de obras que se habían presentado en el teatro del Príncipe de Madrid con textos de los autores de moda, como Cañizares y Ramón de la Cruz, y música de compositores del mismo entorno cortesano como Misón, Galván y García Pacheco. No tengo constancia, por el momento, de que se representase ninguna ópera italiana, pero sí alguna adaptación de ellas al castellano, como fue habitual en Madrid desde poco antes de la mitad de siglo.
En ocasiones, los gremios podían patrocinar alguna de estas representaciones, incluso favoreciendo títulos originales. Así sucedió con la zarzuela cómico-mitológica escrita en 1760 por el poeta local José Lobera y Mendieta titulada Sin el oro pierde Amor imperio, lustre y valor, con música de autor desconocido, encargada por el gremio de la seda de Toledo, aunque todavía desconozco en qué contexto se representó.
Si volvemos a la música generada por motivaciones religiosas, no hay que olvidar que las 27 parroquias computadas a mediados de siglo también desarrollaban un calendario litúrgico que conllevaba en muchas ocasiones su propia expresión musical. En este sentido, la organización de las fiestas parroquiales estaba impulsada por las numerosas cofradías que funcionaban en la ciudad (las dedicadas al Santísimo Sacramento, por ejemplo, llegaban a 24), que proveían de todo lo necesario a las fiestas patronales, infraoctavas de Corpus y sus procesiones. Muchas de estas cofradías se agrupaban por gremios o por oficios, por lo que no es de extrañar que encontremos una que aglutinaba a los músicos de la ciudad: se trataba de la cofradía de San Acacio, ubicada en la parroquia de San Justo y Pastor, que incluía a músicos tanto de la capilla de la catedral como de cualquier otro rango.
Al margen de los numerosos músicos que formaban parte de la plantilla catedralicia, el Catastro de Ensenada recogía en 1751 otros nombres de personajes que se ganaban la vida al amparo de la música, entre los que se cuentan un maestro de danza, varios tamborileros y clarineros, dos maestros guitarreros y otro oficial, un maestro en hacer cuerdas para instrumentos de cuerda y dos maestros organeros, más tres oficiales y dos aprendices. En esta relación no figura la gran cantidad de músicos que iban de un lado para otro al servicio de lo que surgiera. Con respecto a los organeros, Toledo fue tradicionalmente un lugar distribuidor de grandes maestros; aunque en el siglo XVIII hay otros lugares de España que comparten su prestigio, allí trabajan todavía nombres tan reconocidos como los Berrojo, Colmenero, Díaz o Llaneza, que van repartiendo sus órganos por Toledo y sus pueblos, si bien los dos órganos que presidieron el coro de la catedral durante todo el siglo XVIII se debieron a organeros de origen vasco de la familia Liborna Echevarría, establecidos en Madrid.
Queda referirse por último a las prácticas musicales en ámbitos más restringidos, como los conventos (no olvidemos que a mediados de siglo había 39) y las propias casas particulares. Era habitual que, sobre todo en el caso femenino, los conventos recibieran a monjas que demostraran además la habilidad de tocar algún instrumento, como el órgano, arpa, violón o bajón, además de cantar, para la formación de la pequeña capilla necesaria a la vida comunitaria. Por otro lado, en bastantes hogares acomodados de la sociedad toledana la música solía encontrar su hueco para los momentos de ocio, como así lo demuestran numerosos inventarios testamentales en los que aparecen guitarras o arpas, con las que se entretenían tocando las melodías y los ritmos de bailes que recogen algunos libros tan populares como el de Fernández de Huete. De otra índole es el uso diferente de la música que hacían los propios profesionales en sus casas, constatado asimismo por el inventario de sus bienes en los que suele aparecer, además de los instrumentos de su propiedad, alguna mención a “papeles de música” que les pertenecen. El violinista de la catedral José de Peralta poseía cuando murió en 1734 una amplia colección de música para su instrumento de autores tan conocidos como Vivaldi, Albinoni, Corelli, Veracini, Mascitti, entre otros, lo que prueba el conocimiento que había en ciertos círculos especializados de la música más novedosa procedente de otros lugares de Europa. La serie de famosos cuartetos de cuerda del toledano Manuel Canales publicados en la década de los 70, aunque justificados en el ámbito madrileño de los duques de Alba, denotan el uso de la práctica de unas formas camerísticas en Toledo que no pudieron surgir de repente.
Conclusión
Como hemos podido comprobar, la música en la Toledo del siglo XVIII da para mucho, y sería deseable que un artículo como el presente sirviera para animar a difundirla en conciertos y grabaciones. En estos momentos me encuentro realizando el catálogo musical de los fondos modernos de la catedral, cercanos al millar de ejemplares; un trabajo de lenta realización por la carencia absoluta de financiación. Ya pude materializar en una publicación aparecida en 2003 un primer acercamiento a los usos musicales que se hacían en la catedral a través de su capilla; por otro lado, la difusión en conciertos y grabaciones de la música más representativa de la catedral es aún un objetivo que se encuentra en sus inicios: el próximo año saldrá al mercado, en los Estados Unidos, el primer cd monográfico con música de Casellas. Fuera del ámbito catedralicio, estoy trabajando en estos momentos en la elaboración de un libro que recogerá información sobre “la otra música”, la que se escuchaba en la sociedad toledana del siglo XVIII. Sería deseable, por último, editar una colección de música en partituras para ponerla al alcance de cualquier interesado.
Carlos Martínez Gil, 1 de octubre de 2006.
Bibliografía:
• Donézar Díez de Ulzurrun, Javier M.: Toledo. 1751. Según las repuestas generales del Catastro de Ensenada. Alcabala del Viento (Madrid, 1990).
• García Mercadal, J.: Viajes de extranjeros por España y Portugal. Junta de Castilla y León, Consejería de Educación y Cultura. Salamanca, 1999.
• Jiménez de Gregorio, Fernando: Los pueblos de la provincia de Toledo hasta finalizar el siglo XVIII. Población. Sociedad. Economía. Historia. (Toledo, Diputación Provincial, 1986).
• Martínez Gil, Carlos: La capilla de música de la catedral de Toledo (1700-1764): evolución de un concepto sonoro. Servicio de Publicaciones de la Consejería de Educación y Cultura de la Junta de Comunidades de Castilla-La Mancha (Toledo, 2004).
• Martínez Gil, Fernando y Rodríguez González, Alfredo: “Del Barroco a la Ilustración en una fiesta del Antiguo Régimen: el Corpus Christi”, en Cuadernos de Historia Moderna Anejos, 2002, I.
• Montero de la Puente, Lázaro: “El teatro en Toledo durante el siglo XVIII (1762-1776), en Revista de Filología Española, tomo XXVI ( Madrid, 1942).
• Porres Martín-Cleto, Julio: “Una descripción sucinta de Toledo en 1767-1768”, en Anales Toledanos, V (Toledo, 1971).
• Santolaya Heredero, Laura: “La población de la ciudad de Toledo en el siglo XVIII”, en Actas del I Congreso de Historia de Castilla-La Mancha, Tomo VIII, (Conflictos sociales y evolución económica en la Edad Moderna (2), pp.267-274. Junta de Comunidades de Castilla-La Mancha (Talavera, 1988).
• V.V.A.A.: Historia de Toledo. Editorial Azacanes (Toledo, 1997).
Archivos:
• Archivo de la catedral de Toledo (ACT)
• Archivo Municipal de Toledo (AMT)
• Archivo Provincial de Toledo (APT)
• Biblioteca de Castilla-La Mancha – Fondos Borbón-Lorenzana (FBL)
Translation - English Music in eighteenth-century Toledo
When a publication such as Goldberg describes the musical life of a particular city at a given point in time it is invariably linked to a renowned composer whose output whilst staying in that city greatly enhanced its prestige. Brian Robin's essays for Goldberg: Purcell's London (No.2), Fux's Vienna (No.15), Mozart's Salzburg (No.39) and the Dresden of Zelenka and Hasse (No.40) are examples of this association. They are also wonderful examples of how the reputation of both composer and city could mutually benefit. Toledo is a different case entirely; I would have liked to have titled this article "The Toledo of Casellas", but who knows of Jaime Casellas? I really don't think that many readers would be familiar with the names of the composers working in Toledo in the eighteenth century, irrespective of the renown they enjoyed in the Spain of their time, or how hard I, and just a few others, try to make the particular merits of their surviving music better known. Neither can we take advantage of any of the more celebrated composers who left their musical traces on Toledo, nor can it be said that either Morales, who worked for only two years in the cathedral (1545-1547), or Alonso Lobo (1593-1604) more closely associated with Seville, have any readily identifiable connection with the city. Nonetheless, Toledo is globally respected for its historical significance and its long tradition of art and culture. By extension it would appear reasonable to think that music must have played a significant and constant part in the life of the city, and begin to recognize that the composers who passed through Toledo were equal to such a demanding artistic patrimony, one that had transformed the city into one of the world's most-visited tourist destinations.
The longing for a brilliant past
In 1786 the English traveller Joseph Townsend visited Toledo and left us an eloquent commentary on the prevailing state of the city as he found it:
“This famous city, once the centre of empire, and witness to the flowering of the arts, sciences, commerce and industry, is now in a state of ruin and sad decline, owing its very existence to the Church. At one time a city of some 200,000 inhabitants it now numbers only 25,000; abandoned by the people only the clergy remain. Its 26 parish churches, 38 convents, 17 hospitals, 4 colleges, 12 chapels and 19 hermitages endure as testament to its former glory."
Although both population figures cited appear somewhat excessive the underlying truth is that at that moment the city was a pale shadow of what it had been in former times. Even if the relocation of the court to Madrid in 1561 is to be seen as the main reason for the progressive decline in the city's fortunes, what is clear is that city's splendour did not begin to show any marked changes until the early years of the following century. In overall terms the city actually experienced a period of growth between the 1560s and 1580s with the 50,000 population of 1561 growing to almost 60,000. The real crisis took place in the third decade of the seventeenth century when the population fell to some 20,000 inhabitants, and all due to the economic collapse occasioned by the migration of the court, practically the entire nobility, and a considerable number of artisans and merchants. A hundred years later, in 1752, the Catastro de Ensenada [Trs. note: A large-scale census and statistical investigation initiated by the Crown of Castile in 1749 by Fernando VI's minister the Marquis of Ensenada] gives a population of 17,052 inhabitants. Far removed indeed from the Roman Toletum, settled as a clearly strategic frontier city in the third century BC on a previously Celtiberian foundation; from the urbs regia of the sixth and seventh centuries (the remains of which are presently being threatened by fierce property speculation) when the city attained true splendour as the seat of the Visigothic monarchs as well as being the home to the religious Councils that were to establish the shape of Catholicism in Spain; the Andalusian city of the eighth to eleventh centuries known by its Muslim inhabitants as Madinat al-Muluk (City of Kings); medieval Christian Toledo, whose religious tolerance for two hundred years was favourable to the translation of Classical and Arabic scientific texts which were later disseminated throughout Europe; and finally, far removed from the Toledo of the fifteenth-century, the city the Castilian monarchs considered to be the hub of their kingdom and in which the Catholic Monarchs held three General Courts to deal with vital state matters, and which was later honoured by Charles V with the epithet of Imperial City.
The eighteenth-century city of clerics
The removal of the court meant the progressive migration of the nobility to its new location in Madrid, to the point that in the eighteenth century hardly any noblemen lived in Toledo. They maintained their palatial establishments but no longer resided in them. Compared to the pleasures at court the nobility found fault with Toledo's numerous shortcomings, such as the poor accommodation, the shortage of water, the scarcity of select dishes and other refined consumer goods in keeping with their rank, and the excessive summer heat.
Lacking both court and noblemen the city immediately turned towards taking on a religious identity, to the extent that there were those who thought to see a new Rome in the making. The archbishop, the cathedral chapter, and the various religious communities controlled most of the power, influence and property, in that most of the inhabitants of Toledo were in one way or the other dependent on the clergy. This substitution of visible royal power with visible religious power fulfilled the pretensions to grandeur that had become intrinsic to the city, in that Toledo's prelates combined in their persons immense economic as well as spiritual power: Cardinal Portocarrero (1677-1709) played a key role in state decisions and the ups and downs of the war of the Spanish Succession, and had a hand in the last wishes of Charles II. As an ecclesiastical seat the archbishopric of Toledo was of such importance that the royal family would invariably try and attach it to one of the family members: the most outrageous example being Louis Antonio Bourbon, who was created a cardinal at only eight years of age to satisfy the ambitions of his mother Elizabeth Farnese. Needless to say his lack of vocation prevented him ever being ordained, and that in the 19 years he held the post, from 1736 to 1754, there is no evidence that he even ever visited the capital of his diocese. Instead it was the Marquis de Scotti, charged with protecting the cardinal's interests, who took care of the administration of the exceptional incomes pertaining to the post. In his other role as director of Madrid's Caños del Peral theatre Annibale Scotti was key in introducing Italian opera and singers to the court. One can be sure that on his frequent trips to Toledo he lost no time in trying to introduce some of his Italian musicians to the cathedral chapel. The chapter offered steely resistance in opposing this trend as they considered them trivial theatrical airs unsuited to the chapel's style. The effect that Scotti's sporadic stays in Toledo may have had upon his beloved theatres in Madrid is yet to be established.
The particular atmosphere of this ecclesiastical city, or monastery-city as some historians would have it, was already apparent in 1611 when the traveller Jakob Sobieski passed through Toledo and commented on how numerous were: "the monasteries, monks and nuns, that it seems that in no other part of Spain, and maybe no other place in Christendom, would one find an equal number. It seems that the whole city is made up of only churches and monasteries."
In fact the number of people involved in the Church living in Toledo during the eighteenth century was extremely high, to the extent that according to the Catastro de Ensenada there was a priest/monk/nun to every eight lay persons; the account shows 1,236 forming the secular clergy and 1,522 forming the regular clergy, to which one must add the more than 1,000 citizens whose wages relied directly upon the Church.
The church controlled the working life of the city and drew in all those professions that hoped to survive. The greater part of the remaining population were engaged in what the Catastro call "trades and crafts", amongst which were the four artisan activities that had brought fame to Toledo in past times: silk, confectionary, silver and sword making, which in the first half of the eighteenth century had managed to retain some dignity. The guild of silkworkers was the most prestigious and involved the greatest number of allied workers. In the workshops of the most sought-after craftsmen, such as the Molero and Medrano families, rich fabrics of silk, gold and silver were produced, destined to adorn or be worn in churches, even finding their way to the palace and royal chapel in Madrid, and beyond to the rest of Europe. Nevertheless this guild, and the other Toledo guilds, experienced a clear decline by the middle of the century. If they were to remain competitive with the other cities managing to snatch away their trade, measures would be needed. Amongst the various initiatives put in place were the creation in 1748 of the Real Compañía de Fábrica y Comercio and the promotion of a mulberry plantation, so vital to the raising of silkworms, an enterprise participated in by one of the cathedral chapel's highest-paid musicians, the Italian castrato Geronimo Bartolucci.
Music in the cathedral
The Church in Toledo, the primatial see of Spain and her colonies, was outstandingly wealthy. This extraordinary wealth came from tithes, ground rents, taxes, long-term property rights and donations (from chaplaincies, memorials, trusts and pious works), in addition to being the owner of the majority of urban properties (some 70% of privately inhabited houses were owned by the church) and extensive territories scattered throughout the diocese. Consequently the canons, prebendaries and incumbents constituted a form of aristocracy within Toledo's clergy and society at large. Such riches had to be translated into a cathedral worthy of its primatial dignity, one that was 'furnished' with all the artistic accompaniments necessary for its greater glory. And of these, music, which was to be heard at each and every moment, and in accordance with the Mass, ceremony or liturgical festival involved, had a special place. Hence, from the beginning of the sixteenth century the chapter endowed its place of worship with a capilla di musica or a group of professional singers and instrumentalists ready at any moment to exalt the spiritual atmosphere on the most solemn occasions. Similar arrangements took place in all the collegiate churches and cathedrals in Spain at this time. An added dimension with Seville and Toledo, whose chapters were the richest in the country, was that its musical offices would have been coveted, in terms of prestige, economic and working conditions, by all the country's most qualified musicians. The pinnacle would have been the splendid Royal Chapel, surpassing all others in every respect. Besides the maestros di capilla musicians of the very highest level passed through Toledo: organists such as Joaquín Martínez de la Roca and Joaquín Oxinaga, the harpist Diego Fernández de Huete (whose treatise for harp has lately been enjoying well-deserved attention), the violinist Francesco Montali, the cellist Manuel Canales and an entire galaxy of excellent musicians who turned the chapel into a brilliant and harmonious ensemble.
The replacement of the former Habsburg dynasty by the Bourbons also heralded a gradual change in the appearance of Spanish cathedral chapels, incorporating new elements symptomatic of their adoption of prevailing European styles and fashions. To the established choral structure -typically also with minstrels on woodwind- underpinned by a solid basso continuo, they began incorporating instruments of a more individual and personalized idiom, this being the result of the ever-increasing influence of Italian music.
The music heard at the Madrid court served as a model for the rest of the country, and neighbouring Toledo was not immune to this influence, and this could be heard in the cathedral maestro di capilla's compositions, despite the ecclesiastical watch kept on any meddling by profane elements. Until 1733 this duty was held by two well-respected musicians previously working in Madrid's Monasterio de las Descalzas Reales: Juan Bonet de Paredes (1706-1710) and Miguel de Ambiela (1710-1733). The former spent his last years in Toledo at a time during the war of Succession that was particularly difficult for that city, passing as it was from one side to the other and suffering extensive destruction such as the torching of the Royal Alcazar. For the space of some three months in 1707 he endured imprisonment, the exact cause for which is unknown but may well have been ideological. The war years resulted in the presence of foreign troops accompanied by soldiers bringing with them instruments still unfamiliar to the Spanish chapels. In 1710, during the last stay of the troops loyal to Archduke Charles, the leader's saint's day was celebrated in Zocodover square, when "drums, clarin trumpets and many other sonorous instruments" were played, amongst which figured oboes, horns and transverse flutes, instruments that were to give a new and definitive sonority to the music heard in the cathedral. The clarin trumpets, horns and transverse flutes were not incorporated until the 1740s, which then established the orchestral ensemble configuration of the repertoire performed in Toledo cathedral during the eighteenth century.
The composer who championed these stylistic changes was Jaime Casellas, who worked in Toledo throughout the middle-third of the century (1734-1762). The intercession of Archbishop Diego de Astorga y Céspedes (1720-1734), formerly Bishop in Barcelona, may well have been instrumental in this appointment having been familiar with this composer's output for the church of Santa Maria del Mar. Whatever the case, Casellas was to be the first of three Catalan musicians who were to occupy the position consecutively for virtually the rest of the century: he was followed by Juan Rosell (1763-1780) and Francisco Juncà (1780-1792). Though each of them was to be responsive to the prevailing stylistic trends the groundwork achieved by Casellas would remain as the characteristic feature of the Toledo chapel. Fundamentally, this was founded on tried and tested polychoral formations (preferably two choruses of eight voices), the brilliance of the solo vocalists' interventions (usually entrusted to castrati, some being Italian), the secure quality of the basso continuo, and the colourist role and growing complexity of the concerted instruments, amongst which the violins were pre-eminent.
The feast of Corpus Christi
The creation of new works by the maestro and chapel became closely related to the most significant feasts within the city's liturgical calendar. I will speak below of those special and unique moments relating to the Royal Family's celebrations and other events, but the very raison d'être for all the ceremonial that took place inside the cathedral revolved around the most significant religious moments of the year. In Toledo there were four: Christmas, Holy Week, Corpus Christi and the Virgin of August. From the musical perspective, as these celebrations were taking place all over Spain, Toledo had to single itself out with all the brilliance it was capable of in order to proclaim to all of Christendom its status as the primatial cathedral of Spain and her colonies. Christmas was marked by the eight villancicos crowning the nucleus of very lengthy Matins which still preserved the traditional Song of the Sybill, together with a performance of Los Pastores [Trs. note: a traditional theatrical performance about the birth of Jesus, a type of nativity play]. The summer feasts in honour of the Virgin of Sagrario, the patron saint of Toledo, were also celebrated with villancicos, these being imbued with a charming folk style. During Holy Week the celebrations lasted the entire Triduo Sacro, commemorating the Death and Passion of Christ with the singing of the Lamentations of Jeremiah (three for each Holy Wednesday, Thursday and Friday). At this time the spectacular Miserere mei Deus (Psalm 50) would also take place, which in Toledo was traditionally performed with cleverly devised multichoral effects throughout the very heart of the cathedral, by the careful placement of voices in different sites and elevations using platforms, resulting in some rather surprising sound effects. Some 22 Misereres by Casellas are preserved, the majority of which feature sixteen voices distributed in five choruses (there are others for eighteen voices).
But the feast most identified with Toledo was that of Corpus Christi. The celebrations had as their focus a magnificent monstrance from the beginning of the sixteenth century executed by Enrique de Arfe. This was first put on show in the cathedral where it was habitually kept, and then paraded in a splendid procession through the streets of Toledo. This effectively took over the streets entirely and ended up being as much a popular event as a religious one. From very early on the procession formed the central hub of the Corpus feast, the route of which was profusely decorated with floral and plant motifs with imagery relating to the the Most Holy Sacrament, leading it to be described by some as a "feast for the senses'. When the religious feast took possession of the streets and squares the church did not look unfavourably upon this incorporation of profane elements, not even when it came to accepting the participation of secular authorities and the guilds, but actually reserved spaces in the parade for figures and dances from popular culture. There are numerous surviving references to the procession in sources from the sixteenth, seventeenth and early part of the eighteenth centuries, the most remarkable of which is an account of the proceedings written in the middle of the seventeenth century by the canon Chaves y Arcayos. These describe a procession led by the tarasca -a mythical dragon-like creature- followed in turn by groups of gigantones and gigantillas [Trs.note: traditional, giant-sized papier-mâché allegorical figures carried aloft, often in pairs], riders on mocked-up mounts, angels, different types of animal, demons and Jews, floats with allegorical representations, and dances, a varied and dazzling display of every type of dance imaginable. The guilds would prepare and present their own contribution to the festivities, and according to a statement in a document from 1543, pertaining to the guild of tailors and shearers, this responsibility had been discharged "since time immemorial, the day of Corpus, its octave day and other feasts". As can be imagined the whole must have been suitably seasoned with music. There was the music provided by the cathedral itself. This could be for those acts that took place within the cathedral (the outstanding element being the High Mass sung by the entire chapel, such as the spectacular Missa Pange lingua/Sacris solemniis composed by Casellas for the year 1751). Then there were those that took place in the procession, such as the plainsong chanting of hymns appropriate to the feast, the polyphonic motets before the altars along the route, groups of minstrels and instrumental pieces performed on organ, viola or lute transported by cart. Then there was the popular music that accompanied the dances and other street celebrations and reflected the prevailing tastes of the moment. The Hieronymite Norberto Caimo's criticism of the Barcelona Corpus celebrations of 1755 affords us a glimpse of what this may have been like: the musicians in the procession were playing "at times chaconnes, at others gigues, sarabandes and other types of sonata", a repertoire that could be extended to Toledo.
If these traditional displays, combining the religious with the popular and so astonishing to foreign visitors to Spain, were able to survive the onslaught of the counter-Reformation, they did not escape the critical eye of the Enlightenment. In the opinion of Cardinal Lorenzana (1772-1800) "the dances, together with the gigantones and gigantillas of the Corpus procession, were products of the barbarism and ignorance of bygone times". Such feelings led to the issuing of various decrees excluding the presence of such dances, giants and other grotesques from the processional cortège, other than the eve of the feast, and the preliminary moments of the parade itself."
The 'most-talked about' festivals of the eighteenth century
The removal of the court in the sixteenth century was a crippling blow to Toledo, one it would never recover from, to the extent that it would grasp any available opportunity to feel itself once more home to the court, even if it was for just a few hours whilst the royal family visited, or for a short while one of its members, even the disgraced ones, stayed there. This happened with Maria Anna of Pfalz-Neuburg, widow of Charles II, removed from the court and confined to Toledo from 1701 till 1706. Toledo received her enthusiastically but she took refuge in the Alcazar and shunned all external contact. One of the few external occasions she attended was the funeral of her deceased husband. This took place in Toledo's Royal Capuchin Convent in the presence of all the city authorities, and with the participation of the singers from the cathedral chapel accompanied "with great solemnity by reed instruments, bass viol and harp". There is no explicit evidence for the presence of any musicians amongst the extensive retinue who shared her day-to-day life in the Alcazar, but given that her German education would have included instrumental music, song and dance, one cannot discount the possibility of musical activity in her private life. One oblique documentary confirmation of this situation may be that of the master guitarist from Toledo, Pedro de Aguilar, who proclaimed himself to have been in the service of "Our Lady the Queen Dowager".
Other than the sojourn related above the Bourbons did not lavish much attention on Toledo during the eighteenth century. Probably the most celebrated royal visit was that made by Philip V in 1732; it only lasted a day but the enormous efforts made by the citizens of Toledo to embellish their city succeeded in making it feel like the court centre once again, albeit for just a few hours. All the guilds and tradesmen took a hand in decorating the streets, arches and balconies along the route with "wall-hangings, jewelled silver, paintings, mirrors, urns and containers for flowers", and at each turn the king took he was met with dances to the playing of the numerous reed instruments and kettle drums sponsored by the market gardeners, potters and wool merchants. To further dignify the occasion the Royal Guards from Madrid were brought in to play trumpets, drums and oboes from the town hall balcony in the early evening. The cathedral also celebrated the event in a solemn religious act with the entire chapel intoning a Te Deum.
But there was no need for the royal family to be present to celebrate a royal occasion. The festivities to mark the proclamation of Charles III in 1759 took place over three days of sparkling celebrations; on this particular occasion in addition to the usual ceremonial and recreational activities there were two instrumental groups, one from the court with "horns, oboes and others" and the other comprising musicians from the cathedral. These groups stationed themselves on the two levels of galleries on the facade of the town hall and "took turns in playing, one trying to outdo the other, the three nights, and the three days, from eleven in the morning till two in the afternoon and from five in the evening until dusk". The festivities to mark the enthronement as archbishop of Philip V's son Luis Antonio Bourbon in 1736 also brought two hunting horns, two violins and two oboes from Madrid to play "a concert of music" from the gallery of the town hall.
But if we had to single out just one occasion celebrated in eighteenth-century Toledo it would undoubtedly be the one that took place in June 1732 to inaugurate the cathedral's Trasparente, a sumptuous sculptural-architectonic altar designed by Narciso Tomé, and actually built into the retrochoir. Once again the celebrations took over the streets with the usual dances from the guilds, masquerades and instrumental playing, and went on for three days beyond Corpus Thursday. Meanwhile in the square in front of the town hall an "harmonious opera" composed by the cathedral organist Joaquín Martínez de la Roca was performed, and devised with sensationally theatrical effects. The action began with the cathedral's minstrels (oboes, violins, shawms, cornetts and dulcians) playing a "a lengthy and florid serenata" from the dome railing of the Mozarabic chapel. This so-called opera then unfolded with "musicians, as skilled with voice as with string instrument" entering on a float and reeling off choruses, recitatives and arias to the delight of the crowd; obviously an extraordinary composition of which only the lyrics survive.
Music in its more everyday form
Since 1576 Toledo's playhouse had been the Mesón de la Fruta [Trs. note: capitals and italics are that of author; equivalent to the Fruit Tavern or Inn] so called as it was situated in an area which stored and dealt in fruit and vegetables. During the eighteenth century it continued to perform comedies, historical and religious works, in seasons that would usually last from the beginning of December till Shrove Tuesday. The town hall would lease the premises to an outside company able to provide daily performances, other than the evening of Christmas Day. Each company would be made up of some fifteen or sixteen actors directed by the company's 'author', and were able in any one season to put on around 60 different productions, some of which could be repeated four or five times in accordance with public demand. The companies also had three or four musicians who backed the action on stage or accompanied songs and dances with guitars or violins. It is noticeable that from the middle of the century there was a tendency to introduce more musicians and new instruments, probably because they had started in a sporadic fashion to perform zarzuelas. The titles that I have been able to document are an obvious echo to those works performed in Madrid's Principe theatre, with texts by fashionable authors such as Cañizares and Ramón de la Cruz, and with music from a similarly courtly circle of composers such as Misón, Galván and García Pacheco. I have no evidence as yet for the performance of any Italian opera, but only in Spanish translation, as had become customary in Madrid from slightly before the middle of the century.
On occasion the guilds would sponsor performances, sometimes even financing new works. An example of the latter is the comical-mythological zarzuela Sin el oro pierde Amor imperio, lustre y valor, written in 1760 by José Lobera y Mendieta, with music by an unknown composer. The sponsor was Toledo's guild of silk workers but the context of the performance itself remains unknown.
Returning to music in the religious context one should not forget that the 27 parish churches in existence mid-century were also involved in the liturgical calendar, for which they often had their own musical identity. In this respect the organization of parish festivities was often promoted by the religious brotherhoods at work in the city (there were 24 dedicated to the Most Holy Sacrament alone) who provided all that was needed to celebrate the neighbourhood's feast-day, the infraoctave [Trs.note: days 2-7 of the canonical 8-day ecclesiastical cycle] days of the Corpus festivities and the processions. Many of these fraternities were grouped by craft or trade so it is not surprising that one was to draw together the city's musicians: the brotherhood of San Acacio was located in the parish of San Justo y Pastor and was made up of musicians of all ranks, cathedral chapel or otherwise.
Besides the numerous musicians forming part of the cathedral personnel the Catastro de Ensenada provides the names of a further 1,751 people gaining their livelihood through music. These include a dance instructor, various drummers, clarin trumpet players, two master guitar-makers and one journeyman, a master string-maker for stringed-instruments and two master organ-builders with three journeymen and two apprentices. This list did not take account of the very many musicians who would have been itinerant. And as for the organ-builders Toledo had a long tradition exporting great maestros, and even if by the eighteenth century other parts of Spain were now sharing this prestige the city was still home to makers of such renown as Berrojo, Colmenero, Díaz and Llaneza. The organs they produced were still in demand in Toledo and beyond but the two organs that presided over the choir of the cathedral throughout the eighteenth century were actually built by the Liborna Echevarría organ-builders, a family with Basque origins but established in Madrid.
Lastly, there is the music practised in the more restrictive confines of the convent (let us not forget that by mid-century there were 39) and the private home. It was customary, especially in the case of females, for religious communities to accept as nuns those who could demonstrate their ability to play an instrument such as organ, harp, viol or dulcian in addition to singing, so as to form part of the small chapel that was such an important part of community life. Similarly, in many of the well-to-do households of Toledo society, as evidenced by the numerous testamentary inventories in which harps or guitars appear, there would have been moments of leisure when music was played and entertainment was to be had from the melodies and dance rhythms in popular compilations such as that of Fernández de Huete. Professional musicians would have made a different use of music in their own homes, the presence of which is attested by the inventories of chattels, which in addition to instruments in their possession would also often mention them owning "sheet music". When the cathedral violinist José de Peralta died in 1734 in his possession was a wide selection of violin music by the likes of Vivaldi, Albinoni, Corelli, Veracini and Mascitti, proving that certain specialized musical circles were familiar with the latest European music. The famous string quartet series by the Toledo composer Manuel Canales, published in the 1770s but adapted within the Madrid circle of the Dukes of Alba, shows the use in Toledo of certain chamber music forms which must have already been well-established in the city.
Conclusion
As we have been able to prove music in eighteenth-century Toledo has a lot to offer, and it would be worthwhile if an article such as this could serve to stimulate the wider reach of this music in concerts and recordings. At this moment in time I am engaged in preparing a catalogue of the cathedral's modern musical fonds, which number almost a thousand, a painfully slow process thanks to a critical shortage of funds. In a publication that appeared in 2003 I have now been able to undertake a preliminary treatmentof the musical usages in the cathedral through a study of the chapel; however, the transmission via concerts and recordings of the music most representative of the cathedral is still at an early stage: next year the first monographic CD recording of the music of Casellas will appear in the United States. Leaving the cathedral aside, I am working at the moment on a book that will bring together information on "the other music", that which was listened to in eighteenth-century Toledo society. Finally, it would be excellent to edit a collection of musical scores, so as to place the music within reach of interested parties.
Carlos Martínez Gil, 1 October 2006.
Bibliography:
• Donézar Díez de Ulzurrun, Javier M.: Toledo. 1751. Según las repuestas generales del Catastro de Ensenada. Alcabala del Viento (Madrid, 1990). • García Mercadal, J.: Viajes de extranjeros por España y Portugal. Junta de Castilla y León, Consejería de Educación y Cultura. Salamanca, 1999.
• Jiménez de Gregorio, Fernando: Los pueblos de la provincia de Toledo hasta finalizar el siglo XVIII. Población. Sociedad. Economía. Historia. (Toledo, Diputación Provincial, 1986).
• Martínez Gil, Carlos: La capilla de música de la catedral de Toledo (1700-1764): evolución de un concepto sonoro. Servicio de Publicaciones de la Consejería de Educación y Cultura de la Junta de Comunidades de Castilla-La Mancha (Toledo, 2004).
• Martínez Gil, Fernando y Rodríguez González, Alfredo: “Del Barroco a la Ilustración en una fiesta del Antiguo Régimen: el Corpus Christi”, en Cuadernos de Historia Moderna Anejos, 2002, I.
• Montero de la Puente, Lázaro: “El teatro en Toledo durante el siglo XVIII (1762-1776), en Revista de Filología Española, tomo XXVI ( Madrid, 1942).
• Porres Martín-Cleto, Julio: “Una descripción sucinta de Toledo en 1767-1768”, en Anales Toledanos, V (Toledo, 1971).
• Santolaya Heredero, Laura: “La población de la ciudad de Toledo en el siglo XVIII”, en Actas del I Congreso de Historia de Castilla-La Mancha, Tomo VIII, (Conflictos sociales y evolución económica en la Edad Moderna (2), pp.267-274. Junta de Comunidades de Castilla-La Mancha (Talavera, 1988). • V.V.A.A.: Historia de Toledo. Editorial Azacanes (Toledo, 1997).
Archives:
• Archivo de la catedral de Toledo (ACT) Archivo Municipal de Toledo (AMT) • Archivo Provincial de Toledo (APT) Biblioteca de Castilla-La Mancha • Fondos Borbón-Lorenzana (FBL)
French to English: FESTIVAL : PRINTEMPS DES ARTS NANTES
Source text - French FESTIVAL : PRINTEMPS DES ARTS NANTES
PHILIPPE BEAUSSANT
LA DISPARITION SOUDAINE DE PHILIPPE LENAEL AVAIT LAISSE LE PRINTEMPS DES ARTS DANS UNE STUPEUR CERTAINE. SOUCIEUX DE CONTINUITE ET DE QUALITE, LE FESTIVAL NANTAIS, QUI EST DEVENU AU FIL DES ANNEES L’UN DES HAUTS LIEUX D’EXPERIMENTATION AUSSI BIEN MUSICALE QUE SCENIQUE ET CHOREGRAPHIQUE, S’EST TOUT NATURELLEMENT TOURNE VERS LE MUSICOLOGUE ET ROMANCIER PHILIPPE BEAUSSANT, FIDELE COMPLICE DU METTEUR EN SCENE DISPARU, ET L’UNE DES PERSONNALITES ESSENTIELLES DU RENOUVEAU BAROQUE DEPUIS TANT D’ANNEES.
Comment avez-vous « géré » la succession difficile de Philippe Lénaël ?
Succession n’est pas exactement le mot que je voudrais utiliser. Philippe Lénaël et moi nous connaissions depuis 1980. Nous avons travaillé plus de vingt ans ensemble, avec exactement la même pensée sur le théâtre. Plus qu’une rencontre, j’ai eu l’impression qu’il s’agissait de retrouvailles, de voir une personne dont je connaissais déjà le style, les idées. J’ai travaillé pendant si longtemps avec Philippe Lénaël. Nous avons par exemple créé en 1983 pour le Bicentenaire de la naissance de Jean-Philippe Rameau, Pygmalion, avec des décors de Thierry Bosquet, et donné devant tout le Ministère de Pierre Mauroy ! Cette mise en scène avait été élaborée avec très peu de moyens pourtant. Après qu’il a créé son Printemps des Arts, j’y suis venu naturellement plusieurs fois. Et quand Philippe nous a quittés, il y a un peu plus d’un an, il a véritablement laissé orphelin d’abord l’œuvre qu’il était en train de mettre en scène, Rameau en clair-obscur, et ensuite son festival, le Printemps des Arts. J’aimerais au passage rappeler la disparition en décembre dernier de Francine Lancelot. Elle aussi a été la créatrice d’un mouvement fondamental en ce qui concerne la scène baroque, car c’est elle qui a rendu la vie à cette danse. J’en conclus que la scène baroque est orpheline de père et de mère.
Votre première mission fut donc de perpétuer un travail de longue haleine, d’en préserver la cohésion artistique.
Nous tentons bien entendu de continuer ce travail dans le domaine de la mise en scène – et ce n’est pas simple, car Philippe Lénaël lui-même a éprouvé les difficultés que l’on rencontre à être à contre-courant de la mode. Et chose curieuse, ce que les artistes ont réussi voilà maintenant trente ou quarante ans dans le domaine de la musique pure, en étant eux-mêmes à contre-courant et en réussissant à inverser ce courant, la scène n’a pas su le faire. Il est probable que ce courant est ici un peu plus rude, plus « totalitaire », en employant un terme excessif. Il y a un vrai problème, que les disparitions à si peu de distance de Philippe Lénaël et de Francine Lancelot soulignent de manière encore plus aiguë.
Dans cette perspective, quelles seront donc les principales directions prises pour l’édition 2004 du Printemps des Arts ?
Ce ne sera pas une surprise, nous voulons rendre hommage aux deux personnalités que j’ai citées. Nous ne faisons pas de mise en scène, mais nous imprimons une orientation très marquée vers la danse. Pratiquement en ouverture de festival, Le Ballet de l’Amour malade, par exemple, est une quasi-création puisque cela n’a jamais été donné depuis Lully ! Je tiens d’abord à signaler que d’une manière générale, le Printemps des Arts aura désormais une thématique annuelle, sans cependant que nous nous refusions d’inviter des musiciens parce qu’ils n’entrent pas dans la thématique choisie. Pour 2004, c’est donc la danse, avec la présence de Marie-Geneviève Massé dans L’Amour malade, et ensuite celle d’Ana Yepes qui va illustrer les origines espagnoles du baroque musical et chorégraphique, car on a tendance parfois à oublier ces si nombreuses influences nous venant de l’Espagne. Voilà les deux événements principaux, mais bien d’autres soirées seront elles aussi liées à la danse. Je citerai L’Arpeggiata de Christina Pluhar, qui vient avec un spectacle autour de Landi et de Kapsberger, et non avec son programme de tarentelles, mais nous avons cependant demandé la présence de leur danseuse, Ana Dego, qui est formidable.
La danse a toujours été au centre des préoccupations du Printemps.
Globalement, la présence de la danse depuis environ 25 ans, a marqué l’interprétation musicale, car les musiciens n’ont plus de la même manière le jour où Francine Lancelot leur a clairement dit qu’un menuet était comme cela, et pas autrement. On connaît bien la danse baroque, mais il y a, c’est vrai, un énorme travail encore à accomplir pour la rendre vivante. On a des sources, mais il faut entrer dans ces sources comme les musiciens l’ont fait en leur temps, en dépassant le stade des grimoires et des traités de l’époque.
La danse ne sera pas seule sur scène, cependant…
Il y a deux autres éléments importants, que nous mettons en route aussi cette année, dans l’idée qu’ils prendront toute leur ampleur l’année prochaine. C’est d’une part, et parallèlement au festival proprement dit, nous voulons faire toute une série d’événements visant à renforcer les initiations et la diffusion musicales sur le plan local. Nous commençons cette année modestement avec trois éléments, mais sans perdre de vue l’idée que l’année prochaine verra des efforts d’une tout autre ampleur. Cette mission s’articule autour de trois thèmes. Premièrement et en lien avec la danse, une série d’événements autour de la commedia dell’arte et d’Arlequin, en un grand week-end qui réunira chercheurs, conférenciers, comédiens etc… Et ceci en liaison avec l’Université de Nantes et le Conservatoire National de Région de Nantes. Deuxième événement, je ferai moi-même avec Marie-Geneviève Massé une conférence sur le ballet de cour, avec comme exemple concret L’Amour malade. Troisièmement, nous lancerons tout un travail autour du jeune public, pour lequel nous nous concerterons avec l’Université et toutes les structures d’enseignement de Nantes et de sa proche région, en liaison très directe donc avec les professeurs d’université, et toutes les instances de la région, collèges, lycées, etc.
Sans compter la diffusion des concerts en région, chose qui n’est pas nouvelle pour le festival, certes.
Cela est un aspect assurément traditionnel du festival. Il y a d’une part les concerts et les thématiques que nous venons de citer (la danse, Arlequin et le jeune public) dans les lieux traditionnels du Printemps à Nantes, et d’autres parts, une quinzaine de concerts en région – jusqu’à Angers.
Cet aspect de votre travail pose naturellement la question des rapports avec les autorités de tutelle.
J’ai beaucoup de plaisir à souligner que nos relations avec les autorités locales se passent très bien. Nous avons tremblé de manière temporaire, ce qui est normal car l’engagement de la Ville de Nantes se faisait beaucoup autour de la personne de Philippe Lénaël. Nous avons eu le bonheur de voir cette position se maintenir, et tant la ville que la région nous ont fait confiance. Ce qui montre bien l’implantation actuelle du festival. Dans ce domaine officiel, nous sommes satisfaits non seulement de la programmation que nous avons pu proposer, qui s’inscrit dans la continuité de ce qui s’était fait jusqu’à présent, mais aussi des ouvertures tant vers le CNR et l’université, que vers le monde du jeune public. Il faut souligner ces derniers points, mais je le répète, ce n’est qu’une petite ébauche de ce que nous prévoyons pour l’année prochaine.
A vrai dire, ce militantisme artistique a toujours accompagné votre travail de musicologue et de romancier.
Ce sont des choses qui m’intéressent au premier plan. Travailler pour les « happy few », cela peut être agréable, mais il faut aller au-delà. Nous avons au Printemps le sentiment que 2004 et 2005 vont être deux années tout-à-fait cruciales, tant au sein de la configuration de la musique baroque en France qu’en Europe. Chaque festival a son profil propre, qu’il s’agisse de Beaune ou d’Ambronay. Beaune, c’est la découverte de musique et d’artistes pendant un certain nombre de week-ends, Ambronay c’est la machine que l’on connaît mais qui a pris un élan nouveau avec la naissance et le développement de l’Académie, formidable levain pour le futur de la musique baroque. Il nous fallait accentuer la spécificité du festival, car un festival baroque de plus, ce n’est pas réellement utile.
Au niveau de la promotion artistique, vous avez eu l’expérience récente du Prix Goncourt.
Ces derniers temps, j’ai appris énormément grâce au Prix Goncourt. Pour le Goncourt des Lycéens, mon dernier roman Le Rendez-Vous de Venise (éditions Fayard) a eu l’honneur d’être retenu dans la liste. J’ai dû parler dans des lycées un peu partout en France, devant des classes de 2nde et de 1re. Expérience épuisante, mais fascinante aussi, qui m’a donné beaucoup d’idées pour notre domaine. En particulier, le créateur du Prix Goncourt des Lycéens a eu une idée géniale pour inciter à lire les jeunes qui n’y sont pas absolument prédisposés. Trouver une formule similaire pour Beethoven, Mozart ou Debussy, ce serait très utile. Si j’étais élève de lycée, je pense que j’aimerais qu’on me dise ce que j’écoute. Pour le Goncourt, certains élèves n’avaient jamais lu un livre entier, avec le Prix ils en ont lu dix soudainement ! C’est une chose incroyable… Le jour où ils entendront aussi dix CDs ce sera extraordinaire. C’est un énorme chantier, il me faudrait beaucoup plus de temps. De plus, le contexte habituel n’est pas un encouragement.
Le Printemps des Arts, cette année encore, s’est donné également comme mission de soutenir les forces vives de la musique ancienne en France.
C’est une mission capitale, car nous sommes bons en France, il faut le rappeler ! La musique ancienne, ce n’est pas que les artistes flamands, anglais ou plus récemment italiens. Par exemple, l’ensemble Tretraktys (avec notamment des musiciens comme le ténor Jean-François Novelli ou le claveciniste Bertrand Cuiller) va faire son concert fondateur au Printemps des Arts.
Et pour ce faire, vous forgez actuellement ce que vous-mêmes appelez des « alliances ».
C’est aussi un point que j’aimerais souligner : nous venons de conclure une association avec l’Académie Charles Cros. L’Académie décerne de préférence ses coups de cœur dans des lieux et des manifestations dont l’esprit est proche du thème traité. Par exemple, la musique contemporaine à Strasbourg du fait du festival Musica, alors que les prix en littérature musicale sont remis à Musicora à Paris etc… Pour la première fois, les coups de cœur de l’Académie en musique baroque seront proclamés en même temps que se tiendra la conférence de presse du Printemps des Arts, le 20 avril 2003. Là encore, nous avons l’idée que l’année prochaine, ce sera plus important, et que nous en ferons une manifestation avec la présence effective des musiciens, en un concert public au cours duquel seront décernés les prix aux artistes en chair et en os. Mais c’est une alliance parmi d’autres dont je ne vous parlerai pas parce que c’est encore confidentiel !
Dans votre édition 2004 figure un concert avec un pianiste jazz spécialisé dans l’improvisation, Baptiste Trotignon : une ouverture vers d’autres musiques ?
Nous avons aussi l’idée, à peine esquissée cette année, de faire ce qu’on peut appeler le « baroque transversal ». Je veux dire par là que certains musiciens baroqueux sont capables de faire tout autre chose. Certains font de la musique contemporaine, d’autres chantent du Bizet, de l’Offenbach. J’ai entendu du jazz par des baroqueux qui ont la réputation d’être stricts et sévères, et je vous assure que ce n’est pas triste ! Nous faisons donc un concert-jazz avec une création avec piano solo pour le Printemps des Arts ; on s’amuse et surtout on fait exploser les barrières. De même, dans un tout autre domaine, on voit L’Arpeggiata revenir à des sources populaires du baroque, et interprète cette musique d’une manière qui rappelle ce que Naples a pu apporter, et qu’on oublie aussi parfois. Nous avons une conception trop austère de la musique baroque.
Pour un travail d’une telle importance, comment s’organise concrètement la nouvelle équipe du festival ?
Nous avons formé un collège à trois. En premier lieu, il y a bien sûr le président du Printemps des Arts, depuis 20 ans, Philippe Soudis. C’est lui qui m’a demandé de devenir conseiller artistique du Printemps, ce que j’ai accepté parce que je ne pouvais pas manquer à ma fidélité avec Philippe Lénaël. Et le troisième, c’est Bruno Schuster, qui a toute sa carrière d’administrateur pointu et rigoureux, pour mettre toute la structure sur les rails. Chacun a son rôle précis, mais il faut une grande rigueur pour monter une telle affaire, et ça, c’est Bruno Schuster.
YUTHA TEP
Translation - English FESTIVAL : PRINTEMPS DES ARTS NANTES
PHILIPPE BEAUSSANT
CLEARLY STUNNED BY THE SUDDEN LOSS OF PHILIPPE LENAEL, AND ANXIOUS ABOUT QUALITY AND CONTINUITY, THE NANTES FESTIVAL ‘LE PRINTEMPS DES ARTS’, WHICH WITH THE PASSING YEARS HAS BECOME ONE OF THE MECCAS OF EXPERIMENTATION IN MUSIC, AND EQUALLY IN THEATRE AND CHOREOGRAPHY, HAS NATURALLY TURNED TO THE MUSICOLOGIST AND NOVELIST PHILIPPE BEAUSSANT, LOYAL PARTNER OF THE LATE DIRECTOR AND ONE OF THE KEY PERSONALITIES IN THE BAROQUE REVIVAL.
How have you “managed” the difficult task of taking over from Philippe Lénaël?
Taking over isn’t exactly the phrase I’d want to use. Philippe Lénaël and I had known each other since 1980. We had worked together for over twenty years and shared exactly the same thoughts on theatre. To find someone whose style and ideas I already knew; it was more of a reunion than a first meeting. I worked such a long time with Philippe Lénaël. In 1983, for example, we produced Pygmalion to celebrate the bicentenary of the birth of Jean-Philippe Rameau, with staging by Thierry Bosquet, and performed in front of the entire government of Pierre Mauroy! What’s more, that production was achieved with very limited means. After he created his Printemps des Arts it was natural for me to be involved at times. When Philippe died just over a year ago, first the work he was in the process of producing, Rameau en clair-obscur, and then his festival, the Printemps des Arts, were in a real sense orphaned. At this point I would like to recall the death last December of Francine Lancelot. She too, in reviving dance, was the creator of an important movement within the Baroque scene. I would thus conclude that the Baroque scene is both motherless and fatherless.
Then your first undertaking was to carry on the long-term work, in order to maintain artistic cohesion.
Of course we’re trying to continue this work in the field of production – and that’s not easy, as Philippe Lénaël himself discovered, encountering the same difficulties that we’re facing in going against the prevailing fashion. The odd thing is, those artists who at first found themselves to be against the prevailing fashion, during the last thirty to forty years have succeeded in reversing that trend, the music scene itself has not known how to . It’s likely that here the trend is a little bit rougher, or to use overly strong language, more “totalitarian”. There is a real problem, which the loss of both Philippe Lénaël and Francine Lancelot, in so short a space, underlines even more acutely.
Given this viewpoint what will be the principal directions taken by the 2004 Printemps des Arts ?
It will be no surprise that we want to pay homage to the two personalities just mentioned. Whilst not staging any as such, there will be a marked orientation towards the dance. Practically opening the festival for example will be Le Ballet de l’Amour malade, virtually a premiere as it has not been performed since the time of Lully! I am keen to point out that from now on, in a broad sense, the Printemps des Arts will have an annual theme, which doesn’t mean that we’ll no longer invite musicians that don’t enter into the theme chosen. For 2004 then the theme is dance, with the participation of Marie-Geneviève Massé in L’Amour malade, and later that of Ana Yepes, who will illustrate the Spanish origins in Baroque music and choreography, as one has a tendency at times to forget just how many influences did come to us from Spain. So, there we have the two main events but plenty of other evenings will also be connected to dance. At this point I would mention Christina Pluhar’s L’Arpeggiata, which comes with a performance based on Landi and Kapsberger, and not with their tarantella program, though we have requested the participation of their wonderful dancer, Ana Dego.
Dance has always been a major priority of Printemps.
Globally, for about the last twenty-five years, the presence of dance has had an impact on musical interpretation, as musicians have changed their ways since that day when Francine Lancelot told them clearly that this is how a minuet is to be, and not otherwise. Baroque dance is well known, but it’s true that there remains an enormous amount of work still to be done to really bring it to life. One has the sources, but one has to enter these sources as did the musicians at the time, going beyond the mumbo-jumbo and treatises of the period.
There won’t only be dance…
There are two other important elements that we’re also getting under way this year, with the idea that they’ll be fully established next year. Alongside the festival proper, we want to put on a whole series of events aimed at reinforcing the initiation and diffusion of music at a local level. We’re starting modestly this year with three elements, but without losing sight of the fact that the efforts will be on a larger scale next year. This undertaking has three central themes. Firstly, and connected to dance, a series of events on the theme of La commedia dell’arte and Arlecchino, in a full weekend bringing together researchers, lecturers, actors etc.. This will be in liaison with the University of Nantes and the Conservatoire National de Région de Nantes. Secondly, I together with Marie-Geneviève Massé will present a conference on Court ballet, using as a practical example L’Amour malade. Thirdly, we’re going to launch a project at aimed at a younger audience, for which we’ll consult with the University and all the teaching structures in Nantes and the surrounding region, and so be in close liaison with the university staff, and all the regional authorities, secondary schools (collèges , lycées)etc..
Not counting the regional broadcasting of the concerts, something that is certainly not new to the festival.
That’s definitely a traditional aspect of the festival. On the one hand there are the concerts and the theme-based events described above (dance, Arlecchino and a young audience) in the traditional Printemps venues in Nantes, and on the other hand fifteen or so concerts in the surrounding region, as far away as Angers.
This aspect of your work naturally raises the question of your relations with the regulatory authorities.
I am delight to stress the fact that our relations with the local authorities are very good indeed. They were a bit shaky for a while, which was only to be expected given the degree to which the town of Nantes’ commitment was centred round Philippe Lénaël. We are happy to say that this position has been maintained, and that the town and the region have equally placed their confidence in us. That clearly demonstrates the current standing of the festival. In terms of official dealings we are not just satisfied with the programming that we have been able to put forwards, which is an extension of the programming to date, but also with the opportunities created with the Conservatoire, and equally with the reaching out to a younger audience. One really must stress these last points, and I repeat, this is only a small taste of what we anticipate for next year.
In fact, this artistic activism has always accompanied your work , be it as musicologist or as novelist.
These matters interest me a great deal. To work for the “happy few” can be pleasant, but one must reach beyond that. At Printemps we have the feeling that 2004 and 2005 are going to be two, altogether crucial years for the future of Baroque music, whether in France or in Europe. Every festival, whether at Beaune or Ambronay, has its own profile. At Beaune, one discovers music and musicians over the course of a number of weekends, at Ambronay a well-known operation has taken on a new momentum with the inception and development of its Academy, a tremendous boost for the future of Baroque music. It was necessary for us to accentuate the specific nature of our festival, as there was really nothing to be gained in being ‘just another Baroque festival’.
On the subject of promoting the arts you have recently had experience with the Prix Goncourt.
Thanks to the Prix Goncourt I have recently learnt a great deal. My last novel ,Le Rendez-Vous de Venise (éditions Fayard), had the honour of being short-listed for the Prix Goncourt des Lycéens. I had to travel to Lycées all over France and speak to classes in the first two years (15-17 years of age). It was an exhausting experience, but also a fascinating one, and has given me plenty of ideas with regard to our artistic field. The creator of the Prix Goncourt des Lycéens had a brilliant idea to motivate young people, who have no natural predisposition whatsoever, to read books. It would be very useful if we could find a similar strategy for Beethoven, Mozart or Debussy. If I were a student at a Lycée I think I’d like it if I were to be told what I should listen to. With the Prix Goncourt, some students who had never read a book cover-to-cover before, after the prize had suddenly read ten books. That’s incredible! The day they also listen to ten CDs (non-pop) will be extraordinary. It’s a huge undertaking and I would need a lot more time. What’s more the environment isn’t very encouraging.
Once again this year the Printemps des Arts is equally committed to support the lifeblood of French Early Music.
It’s absolutely essential that we do so, and it must be recalled that in France we are very good at it. Early music is not only about Flemish, English and more recently Italian artists. As an example, the Tetraktys ensemble (with notable musicians like the tenor Jean-François Novelli and the harpsichordist Bertrand Cuiller) are to give their founding concert at the Printemps des Arts.
And to do this you are currently forging, what you yourself call “alliances”.
That’s something I would like to emphasize; we’ve just finalized a partnership with the Académie Charles Cros. The Academy prefers to present its Coups de Cœur awards in either a place, or at an artistic event, that has pertinent links to the subject matter of the prize in question. For example, contemporary music is awarded at Strasbourg, due to the Musica festival, whilst the prizes in musical literature are given at the Musicora in Paris etc.. For the first time the Académie’s Coups de Cœur for Baroque music will be announced at the same time as the Printemps des Arts press conference, on the 20th April. We also have plans that next year this will be expanded upon, in that we will stage an event with the nominated musicians in a public concert, at which the prizes will be awarded in the flesh. This is but one of the partnerships I’m working on; I cannot discuss the others for reasons of confidentiality.
In the 2004 program you feature a concert with a jazz pianist who specializes in improvisation ; a move towards other types of music ?
We also have the idea, only just outlined this year, to do what one could call “baroque transversal”[note to editor: in French it sounds like a geometry problem, the English ‘cross baroque’. sound like a musical friend of Snow White….over to you.] I mean by that term that some Baroque musicians are able to apply themselves to totally different styles of music. Some perform contemporary music, others sing Bizet or Offenbach. I’ve heard jazz played by Baroque specialists with a reputation for being strict purists, and I can assure you it was fun! So we’re putting on a jazz concert with a new piece for the Printemps des Arts, with piano solo ; it should be fun and above all we’re pulling down the barriers. In the same vein, but in a completely different area, one can see L’Arpegiatta retracing the popular sources of Baroque music, played in a manner that recalls, and at times we do forget, just how much Naples was able to contribute. Our conception of Baroque music is too severe.
For such an important undertaking, in practical terms, how will the new festival team be organized ?
We’ve formed a college of three. Firstly of course, we have Philippe Soudis, who has been president of Printemps des Arts for twenty years. He’s the one who asked me to become artistic advisor to Printemps, something I accepted so as to preserve my loyalty to Philippe Lénaël. The third member is Bruno Schuster, whose career as a rigorous and precise administrator should keep everything on track. Each one of us has a precise role to play, but the backbone of such a demanding undertaking will be Bruno Schuster.
YUTHA TEP
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Years of experience: 21. Registered at ProZ.com: Dec 2008.
I am a registered dentist with 30 years experience in general practice as well as extensive experience in forensic odontology and anthropology in the service of the United Nations in the Balkans. I originally qualified as a dentist from Guy's Hospital, London University and the Royal College of Surgeons, England. I later read Mesopotamian Epigraphy/ Cuneiform Studies at Oxford University's Oriental Institute while a post-graduate student at Worcester College. I also have an M.Sc. from University College London, in the Archaeology and Ancient History of Disease.
For five years I was a frequent translator for the early music publication, Goldberg.
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