Russian pianist Yulianna Avdeeva, winner of the legendary Chopin Prize in 2010 (now superstar Danil Trifonov came second at the time) made her debut in Las Palmas in deplorable conditions. The great Steinway tail of the Philharmonic Society was installed in the central hall of the Santa Catalina hotel, whose acoustic space does not exceed a third of the volume necessary for an instrument of this richness, and also has a very hard marble floor of which no clean sonorities bounce but there are constant blots, mixed resonances and confusion. The pianist started the program like this: evidently confused with an almost unrecognizable version of Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantasia Op.61. Guilt was in the air, not in his hands.
The transhumance imposed on the Philharmonic by the public administrations of Las Palmas is shameful. A society with 176 years of active cultural life, which develops an admirable struggle for survival, deserves to have as a priority one of the good acoustic spaces in the city and not be postponed by programs that are often stupid on the dates given by the great artists. hired. They are not many but they spread the cultural prestige of the city in its nature as private entities that give more genuine excellence than the “collectivizations”, so often mediocre, paid for with public money. By way of consolation, it is fair to add that, for the remainder of the season, the Philharmonic will not return to that room, not conceived for music
For her part, Mrs. Avdeeva had two works by secondary authors on the program: the Polish-Jewish superprolific Mieczyslaw Weinberg (Sonata No. 4 Op.56) and the Russian-Jewish Wladislaw Szpillman with the suite.
The life of the machines, linked both by the horrible fact of having lost their families in the Nazi death camps. The prestissimo of the first and the cantabile of the second, were the most notable pieces of anachronistic, politicized or very follower writings.
The bomb of the program was the masterful Sonata number 8.Op.84, the penultimate of Prokofiev’s and demonstrating his best version: that of a cosmopolitan artist, tricked into returning to Stalin’s USSR and forced to write cheap, hymnic and commemorating the “Soviet spirit.” Actually, this Sonata, one of the greatest testimonies of anguish and despair in the History of Music, in which the author narrates fragments of his creation as a free musician in contrast to the suffering that the last day of his life moved him to answer “my soul hurts” to the desperate questions of his wife, who was watching him die. Transcendental virtuosity, overwhelming; and sound drama that started the braves of the public, standing up. The tip was a gem: the transparent Prelude to the drop of waterby Chopin.