Last November, I had the privilege of listening to Krystian Zimerman play Chopin’s Piano Sonatas No. 2 and 3 in two consecutive evenings. You might wonder: why am I writing about it more than half a year later? That, precisely, is why I call it a privilege – even after such a long time, I still have vivid memories of his playing, and I’m certain they will linger for years to come, if not indefinitely.

Krystian Zimerman © Anna Kaczmarz/Dziennik Polski/Reporter/East News

Before delving into his performance, I must emphasise that Zimerman is a completely different being on stage. In the studio, he can come across as a perfectionist or even a micromanager, but on stage, he exudes such an electrifying energy and an all-consuming passion.

Now, back to the Sonatas. As Zimerman strongly detests bootleg recordings, I can only try my very best to articulate the essence of his playing – a task approaching futility. Zimerman’s account of Chopin Piano Sonata No. 2 was disturbingly anguished, with tempi often pushed to the extreme: the first movement moved at a pace so blisteringly fast that one sat on the edge of their seat, concerned he might lose control (he didn’t, though). The repeated chords were delivered with a relentless, almost violent intensity on the verge of bombast. Yet this extraordinary celerity transcended mere virtuosic display. It imbued the music with an unstoppable forward momentum and an urgency that the music asks for.

While we might appear to emerge victorious from the end of the first movement, the ensuing Scherzo proved otherwise. Imagined as a menacing mazurka driven by demonic forces, the Scherzo oozed a palpable sense of danger as if one’s life were at stake.

Then came the Marche funèbre. As one would’ve expected from Zimerman, the march was poised and solemn, while the trio was serene and exquisite, but what really struck me (and, I suspect, many others) was the haunting effect of the funeral procession dissolving into the distance. Zimerman himself described this phenomenon in an interview:

I lived next to a church, and every now and then the funeral procession was passing my window. I could hear the orchestra already from very far, and you never noticed the moment of the beginning. I intently listened when they passed, you could hear the phenomenon of dynamic and loudness. They played exactly as loud when they were passing my window, but at some point, I couldn’t hear them anymore.

The bizarre finale (something revolutionary in Chopin’s time, almost hinting at modernism) was perceived as a frenzied whirlwind. Zimerman took extra time before the final outcry of the B-flat minor chord, during which the silence was deafening, and the tension was so unbearable that time seemed to stop.

Krystian Zimerman – Chopin: Piano Sonata No. 2 in B-flat minor, Op. 35 (1984)

What Zimerman constructed as a whole was a struggle between life and death, in which the latter ultimately prevailed by the very inevitability of nature. A narrative convincingly told through not only technical prowess but also imaginative power, whether musical or extra-musical.

If the Second Piano Sonata was a depiction of utter defeat in the face of mortality, then the Third would be a resounding triumph under Zimerman’s hands. As the dignified opening unfolded, it became a demonstration of poetry and subtlety. The Largo was even more so – tranquil, noble, and lyrical without veering into sentimentality.

The finale was, however, the real deal. After the opening octaves with a carefully judged crescendo, the music erupted into a feverish dance at breakneck speed (at times reminding me of a tarantella). It’s easy to be mesmerised by the sheer pyrotechnics: the staggering clarity and exquisite shaping of runs, the thunderous bass added to the theme’s final reprise, and the full-bodied orchestral sonorities conjured from his Steinway. But again, it wouldn’t be so impressive if it were only at the service of virtuosity. What was created here was a hard-won battle against the forces of inevitability – whether death or destiny – and a narrative of epic proportions comparable to that of Greek tragedy.

Krystian Zimerman – Chopin: Piano Sonata No. 3 in B minor, Op. 58 (2003)

Was this what Chopin envisioned? In my humble opinion, and with all due respect, perhaps not. Would Chopin have approved it? I don’t know.

Some purists would be offended by Zimerman’s deviations from the score and his daring extremes of tempi and dynamics. I would even go as far as saying Zimerman might not have won the Chopin Competition in 1975 had he played in this manner. But I’m convinced that Zimerman’s interpretive choices were inspired by his conception of the sonatas. Certainly, some musicians try to be “faithful to the composer’s intention” through total adherence to the score, but there’s more than one way to be “true” to the music. The different effects Zimerman employed intensified the drama, rendering the devastation in the B-flat minor Sonata more tangible and the victory in the B minor Sonata more hard-earned.

To take this question one step further, why should a composer’s intentions (assuming we can ever get a glimpse of them) be treated as the Bible? Why should musicians belittle themselves as mere “servants” of composers?

Philosopher Peter Kivy has put it eloquently in his book Authenticities: Philosophical Reflections on Musical Performance:

… what bestows upon the performer the status of artist and on the performance the status of art, is the real, full-blooded possibility of the performer finding a better or at least different way of performing the music from the way the composer has specifically envisioned and explicitly instructed.

The manuscript, to me, serves as the basis for interpretation and in itself should not confine interpretation. Of course, there exists a certain boundary of interpretive freedom, defined by one’s aesthetics and understanding of not only the music and its composer, but also of the cultural and historical context in which the work was created.

Zimerman’s performance reminds us to reconsider the essence of interpretation – music isn’t necessarily a static entity confined to the composer’s intention but a living art form that evolves with each performer’s very own sensibility.

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