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Showing posts from March, 2021

Chopin Birthday Concert on 1 March 2021 by Szymon Nehring (piano), Ryszard Groblewski (viola) and Marcin Zdunik (cello) at Warsaw on the 211th Anniversary of the birth

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I feel grateful to the National Fyderyk Chopin Institute to able to attend live concerts once again. I also respect greatly the courage shown by these young musicians to perform in public, even in such a large hall as the Filharmonia. Such a bizarre experience to sit masked in the Filharmonia Hall, distant from others without the slightest concession to social interaction or interval discussion over coffee or a glass of claret. But there is music present at last !      Ph oto Wojciech Grzędziński   Szymon Nehring (piano), Ryszard Groblewski (viola) and Marcin Zdunik (cello)  Fryderyk Chopin  The hunting lodge, a  pavillon de chasse  in the romantic classical style, was bulit in 1822-1824 for Prince Antoni Radziwiłł by Karol Frideric Schinkel. The four-storey wooden building was erected on the plan of a Greek Cross. However, it was not actually completed until 1926. Introduction and Polonaise brillante in C major for piano and cello  Op. 3 (1829) In November 1829, Chopin wrote to his fr

Chopin Birthday Recital by Aleksandra Świgut on the 211th Anniversary at his birthplace of Żelazowa Wola, 50 kms from Warsaw

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The hopefully not irreversible blight that torments us at present was forgotten yesterday as we were immersed in the consoling nature of the music of Fryderyk Chopin. I had attended the birthday concert at this hamlet for many years but this was the first time I have been so cruelly denied by a merciless and indiscriminate pandemic.  In an access of nostalgia brought on by this denial,  I would like to quote my first impressions of this deeply poetic place  in 1992 from my book about Poland entitled  A Country in the Moon. In late spring, in a despondent frame of mind, I decided to raise my spirits with a visit to Chopin’s birthplace at Żelazowa Wola, a hamlet about fifty kilometres from Warsaw. The flat Mazovian landscape was relieved by stands of trembling birch and pine; forlorn willows with gnarled boles lined the deserted roads. I had long anticipated this visit to what musically, for me, was an almost sacred place. I wandered through the still and muffled park. A subtle at