‘Where Have You Been, Bolet?’

John Gruen interviewed Jorge Bolet for a long article which appeared in The New York Times on 28 January 1973. I've referred to it often (I love the Poe/Hawthorne bit) but here's the text.

To sit in a desperately cheerful New York hotel room with Jorge Bolet is to know the meaning of absolute contradiction. The Cuban‐born pianist is simply too imposing and disquieting a figure to meld easily with screaming red‐and‐orange curtains, and wildly patterned bedspreads. He demands a far more austere setting—possibly a somber Buñuel set, with dark, musty wall‐hangings, shadowy chandeliers, ornate furnishings, sinister rugs.

Bolet, heavy‐set, and a towering six‐foot‐two, exudes the enigmatic, if not the menacing. In a way, he recalls mysterious characters out of Poe and Hawthorne. The head is large, with blackbrown fiery eyes; the eyebrows are heavy—startlingly so. A mustache, thick, squarish, and carefully clipped, suggests the aggressively military, as does the graying black hair, slicked down and sharply parted to the side. This morning, he is impeccably groomed in a black suit (its buttons are scarlet red), and a striped, icily starched shirt. The knot of his silk tie its almost cruel. The voice is deep, resonant, decisive.

But as he lights a cigarette, Bolet's long, quite delicate hands tremble. It is clear that his fierce exterior masks a certain fragility. “I am a very even‐tempered person,” he tells me at point. “I have my mother's temperament and character. My mother was completely even‐tempered—an unruffled woman. Her sufferings, her frustrations, her sorrow were always held in. I am very much like her.”

At 58, Jorge (he pronounces it George) Bolet (the “t” is sounded) has only of late received major recognition. While he has been a pianist for 52 of his 58 years, his ascent has been painfully slow, and fraught with missed opportunities and frustrations. Were he a lesser man, or, indeed,. a lesser artist, he might still be relegated to that demi‐world of pianists whose names elicit a faint nod, or a blank response.

Today, Jorge Bolet is reaping the rewards of those who firmly believe that all good things come to those who wait. While his repertory vast, he has recently become known as a Liszt specialist. Critics the world over have called his forays into the known and lesser known forests of the Liszt literature nothing if not staggering. The Times's music critic, Harold C. Schonberg, has written, “Mr. Bolet is one of the great Liszt pianists of the century, with the fingers of Horowitz and the tone of a Lhévinne.”

During the 1971–72 season, Bolet made no less than ten appearances with the New York Philharmonic, opening the season under Pierre Boulez with Liszt's rarely heard “Totentanz,” followed by four performances of the composer's Fantasy on Beethoven's “Ruins of Athens,” and Chopin's “Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise,” under Michael Tilson Thomas. Bolet also opened the 1971–72 season of the American Symphony Orchestra, playing Prokofiev's Concerto No. 2, under Stokowski. A solo recital at Tully Hall followed, where, with his Liszt group, Bolet again, “could do no wrong.”

Last year, the pianist signed an exclusive, long‐term contract with RCA Records. The recently released “Franz Liszt's Greatest Hits of the 1850s” has become a best‐seller, and has just been given a “Record of the Year” award by Stereo Review. RCA will soon issue Bolet's second Liszt recording, featuring the twelve “Transcendental Etudes” and “Consolations.” Bolet will offer more Liszt at his recital this afternoon at Hunter College. Following Chopin's four Scherzos, which open his program, he will play Liszt's three “Sonetti del Petrarca” and the composer's transcription of Wagner's Overture to “Tannhäuser”

Success sits well on Bolet. He has been expecting it all his life.

“I will not deny it,” he says in a slight Cuban accent. “I had some terrible years. There was great struggle. There was starvation. That all came in the late forties and fifties. I would not be here if it weren't for the kindness of my friends. They saw me through those ghastly, lean years. But you know, the human mind has the capacity of forgetting disagreeable things. It wants to remember only the good things.”

And so Bolet begins to remember the good things—as well as the bad. “The earliest recollections I have of life is hearing my sister Maria practice the piano. That was in Havana, where was born. My mother tells me that as a baby of two or three months I was quite unruly, but that whenever I heard Maria play, I would immediately quiet down, and lie for hours almost as if mesmerized. Naturally, as I grew older, my dream was to become a pianist.

“When I was five years old, my sister took me to hear a piano recital given by Rudolf Ganz at the National Theater in Havana. Well, that was my moment of decision. I vowed I'd be that man up there on that stage. By the age of six, I began my formal piano studies with my sister Maria, who was an exceptional pianist, but who had no desire to make a career of it. I also came under the influence of an older brother—Alberto —who later became a conductor. He is now the conductor of the Long Beach Symphony California.

“At any rate, I studied with my sister until I was 12, and then an extraordinary thing happened. But I should first tell you that we were six children in our family, and that we were not at all well‐off. My father had only minor post with the Cuban army and we were, in fact, quite poor. Well, there was a woman in Havana, a certain Mrs. Amelia [Solberg] Hoskinson, Cuban woman married to an American, who became my benefactress. She had a real old-fashioned salon in Havana, where all the leading poets, writers, artists and musicians would gather, and where everyone would read their latest poems, play their latest compositions, or perform on the piano.

“Although I was a mere child of 9 or 10, I would be invited to these soirées, and, invariably, would be asked to play. I had by then made strides in my studies, and could play Chopin études with considerable ease. Well, this Mrs. Hoskinson once had a house‐guest—a woman from Erie, Pennsylvania. When this woman heard me play, she decided that upon her return to the States, she would contact the Curtis Institute of Music, which had just opened, and ask for an application on my behalf. It duly arrived, and on it was the date when I was appear in Philadelphia for an audition.

“As we had very little money for a trip America, Mrs. Hoskinson went into high gear and organized a benefit concert at which many of the leading performers in Havana sang, and danced and played, and where I closed the program with a selection of piano pieces. With the money raised, my sister Maria and I traveled Philadelphia, and on the appointed day, I appeared at Curtis, played, and was accepted.

“I was 12 years old. My teacher was David Saperton, and he was fantastic. He would assign me things like Beethoven's ‘Appassionata,’ Chopin's F minor Fantasy and the A flat Ballade. I had always been held back by my sister. She just couldn't believe that a youngster my age could tackle such difficult pieces. But Saperton let me fly. And I memorized everything within a week, and then he would ask me to play for Josef Hofmann, who was then the head of Curtis. I studied at Curtis for seven years on a scholarship and graduated In 1934. Those were the happy years!”

As Bolet speaks, his fierce demeanor seems imperceptibly to alter. The stern face, breaking into frequent smiles, assumes enormous charm; the voice, with its initially curt, stacéato timbre, relaxes into good‐humored cordiality. A man‐ofthe‐world ambience makes itself felt.

“After Curtis,” he continues, “I decided to go to Paris. By this time, I was so sick of schools, and teachers and piano lessons, that I decided to simply live practice on my own, and listen to a lot of music. I did all this for nine months, then went to London for another month of just living. Finally, the little money I had ran out, and this time, another member of my family came to the rescue. My eldest brother, Nico, who was a military man, very kindly gave me enough money, to make it possible for me to give a number of recitals in Europe. That's how my concert career began. I played recitals in Amsterdam, the Hague, Paris, London, Berlin, Vienna, Milan.

I was well received. “You see, I've always been well received. I can honestly say that wherever I played, both the public and the press received me very well. Unfortunately, I've never had the kind of overnight success that so many young pianists of today enjoy. I've arrived through a very, very slow process of constantly maturing and growing. Actually, don't regret this. I think there is something quite lethal in quick success. I've watched dozens of young pianists receiving early success, and four or five years later they are finished. One doesn't hear about them again.

“As for me ... well, I should most probably have stayed in Europe. Instead, I chose to return to Curtis. I got it in my head to study conducting. And so I did—with Boris Goldovsky, from whom I learned a great deal, and with Fritz Reiner, from whom I learned nothing. All that Reiner taught me was to memorize a score. Finally, one day, Reiner told me, ‘Bolet, you're a wonderful pianist, but you'll never be a conductor.’ And that was that. The next thing I did at Curtis was to assist Rudolf Serkin. In those years, Serkin concertized a great deal, and I would take over his classes during his absence. I taught most of his pupils, including Eugene Istomin and Seymour Lipkin.

“And then, World War II came along. I was to be drafted in this country. I passed my physical, and a date of induction was set. In the meantime, my brother Nico, who had by then become the head of the engineer corps in the Cuban army, and who was close to Cuba's President Batista, happened to mention to the President that I was about to be inducted in the U. S. Army. Well, when Batista heard that, he called an aide, and the next thing I knew, I received a cable which read ‘President Batista orders you return Cuba immediately.’ So, I was released from American induction, went to Cuba, trained for a few months, then was sent back to Washington, D.C., and was made Assistant Military Attaché tothe Cuban Embassy.

“Right in the middle of the war, in 1944, Batista lost the election in Cuba, and suddenly, I was out of my job in Washington. Well, I headed straight for Philadelphia, presented myself to the draft board, and was immediately inducted in the American army as a private. I qualified for infantry OCS, was made an infantry second lieutenant, and was sent to Japan, The war ended, and I remained in Tokyo—in the Special Service, which was the entertainment unit. I organized endless shows, and I managed to squeeze in some playing myself. My crowning achievement was a full‐scale production of The Mikado, with full orchestra, which I conducted. Life Magazine printed five pages of photographs of that production, and with that, my army career came to an end. In 1946, I returned to civilian life—hard times.

“Talk about disappointments and frustrations! What kept me going during that period was simply playing. I played for everybody—and everywhere—and for no money. And people kept hearing me play, and they would say, ‘My God! Where have you been? Why aren't you at the top?’ And I played for some pretty important people, such as Mitropoulos and Rodzinski, and Koussevitsky, and they, too, kept exclaiming, ‘My God! Where have you been, Bolet?’ You see, it was a question of not having had the good fortune to be heard at the right time by the right people in the right place.

“Finally, a few breaks came my way. Rodzinski heard me play in Havana in 1949, and he gave me letters of introduction to people at the New York Philharmonic. Mitropoulos was the conductor then, and, after an audi tion, I was engaged to play the Prokofiev Second Concerto with him. Later, in 1951, Koussevitsky invited me to play at Tanglewood, which I did, but not with him—he, died just then. So, the career was slow and difficult .. . and the years kept rolling by.

“Look, my whole life can be summed up in a nutshell. Everything I have ever done has been geared to promoting and advancing and furthering my career. That is one of the reasons I have never married. For me, it was either marriage and a family, or a career. I chose a career, and all my life has been in the pursuit of one goal: to mature as a pianist, as a musician, as an artist. It has taken me a very long time. I think I have achieved that goal.

“Don't forget that during my lifetime, I have had the opportunity of hearing 90 per cent of the greatest pianists of the day. I heard Backhaus, Cortot, Rachmaninoff, Paderewski, Gabrilowitch, Bauer, and, of course, HofMinn. These are legendary names! Among them, I always had two idols: Hoffmann and Rachmaninoff. Although I have never consciously tried to imitate them, their brand of piano playing has been my ideal. These are the pianists I identify with.”

Jorge Bolet pauses. He reflects. Then ... “As a pianist, I am not a purist. I mean, don't consider a composer's score as sacrosanct. To me, all that is so much hogwash. And Liszt is a perfect case in point. Liszt must be played with great freedom, great abandon. When I play Liszt, I take a great many liberties. I alter the text ad libitum. Because I'm sure that Liszt was, himself, the kind of pianist who would never hesitate to take liberties, not only with his own music, but also With the music of others.

You see, Liszt was not the kind of Romantic that Chopin was—or Schubert or Schumann or Mendelssohn. In Liszt the romantic style is carried to its extreme—and that is how I play him. The point is, the moment you take a composer's score as gospel, that's the moment the music comes out sounding sterile. To me, music is something that lives—that is alive. When you play, you must bring a composition to life. For the past five years, have been professor of piano at the University of Indiana, in Bloomington, and I instil this in all pupils. I tell them that a score is merely a negative. It is a piece of paper with signs and symbols on it, conveying only a poor approximation of what composer really had in mind. I mean, a written piece of music is the deadest thing in the world!

“And so, the trick is to turn those dead scribbles and squiggles into a living experience. Pianists who consider the score as being the Bible, turn out to be excellent craftsmen. They wiggle their fingers very well, and they play all the notes, and follow all the markings and play all the fortes and pianos. They consider these things as absolutes. But I can tell you only this: From the vantage point of my 58 years—from learning and growing and investigating and searching—I have found only one absolute in music, and that is that there is no absolute. Everything in music is relative. Everything in music must be sifted through one's musical mind and personality. That's what music‐making is all about.”

I ask Bolet, now an American citizen, whether he still has any contact with his native Havana—whether Castro's Cuba considers him a hero. At this, his eyes blaze, and that earlier dark mien envelops him. “I am a hero to the Cubans in exile,” he says quietly. “And I am a hero to my former good friends who are still living in Cuba. I know that the name Bolet is very, very much on the blacklist. I always felt that if I ever got on a plane that was hijacked to Cuba, I would be separated at once, and would probably be grilled and put through a third degree.” With that, Bolet falls silent on the subject.

Given the years of hardship and set‐backs, I ask Bolet whether it was all worth it. Would he go through it all over again?

“I think I can safely say that at no time have I ever become bitter or resentful during the years of my struggles. I've never been envious or jealous of other people's success. I always delighted in my colleagues' good and great fortune. As for going through it all over again, I can only say that I'm a very pragmatic man. I never, but never encourage anyone to take up a concert career. I always try to paint the darkest picture possible, because I feel that the darkest picture is the real picture. My advice is more inclined to be, If there is anything at all in this world that you can do, and whereby you could be happy, by all means, do that. Don't take up, a concert career! It is one of, the most heartbreaking, impossible, and difficult things that anyone could wish for. Believe me, I know!”