-
Title
-
My Mobile Home / Polska Sztuka Ludowa - Konteksty 2014 Special Issue
-
Description
-
Polska Sztuka Ludowa - Konteksty 2014 Special Issue s.67-78
-
Creator
-
Czaja, Dariusz
-
Date
-
2014
-
Format
-
application/pdf
-
Identifier
-
oai:cyfrowaetnografia.pl:6079
-
Language
-
ang
-
Publisher
-
Instytut Sztuki PAN
-
Relation
-
oai:cyfrowaetnografia.pl:publication:6507
-
Rights
-
Licencja PIA
-
Subject
-
antropologia kulturowa
-
Type
-
czas.
-
Text
-
DARIUSZ
1.
With obvious effort two men carry into a train car
riage a solid, unidentified object. In a moment, the
dark shape becomes a recognizable outline of a pi
ano. A voice speaking off screen declares tha during
the concert tour the train became the artist’s home 1.
This is said by Piotr Anderszewski, the brilliant Polish
pianist, and the frame comes from the documentary
film: Piotr Anderszewski. Voyageur intranquille by Bruno
Monsaingeon.2
In the contemporary world of piano performers
Anderszewski is a truly rare figure, transgressing all
rules. Keep in mind that this is a world in which
various peculiarities are almost a norm. Anderszewski’s originality, however, possesses a purely mu
sical dimension. A t the age of forty he has already
attained the rank of a classic. Actually, his record
ings - the majority is phenomenal 3 - and stage ap
pearances have elevated him to this status but ulti
mate "canonisation” was performed by Monsaingeon
executing a film portrait. After the excellent Enigma
with Sviatoslav Richter in the lead role (1998), the
innovative portrait of Glenn Gould (The Alchemist,
2002), yet another depiction of the Canadian pianist
(Hereafter, 2005), and a meticulous record of Anderszewski’s work on the Beethoven variations (Pi
otr Anderszewski Plays Diabelli Variations, 2007) the
French director attempted to bring us closer to the
phenomenon of Anderszewski‘s art in a holistic ap
proach.
Already the very mention of the Polish pianist
alongside a list of such significant names is meaning
ful, showing that Monsaingeon does not bother with
just anyone. In his opinion, Anderszewski is absolutely
outstanding, a worthy successor of the above-men
tioned giants of the piano. Since we are dealing with a
totally unconventional figure (beyond the norm - the
director says upon several occasions) the film about
him simply had to be extraordinary. The director’s
brief introduction to the concept of the film declares:
This would be a “frontier" film, on the borderline between
documentary and fiction. It would be set against a back
drop of a winter journey across Poland, then to Hungary
(his two home countries), before traveling to Germany,
London, Paris, and finally to Lisbon, where he has recently
settled. The chosen means of transport for these meanderings was hardly conventional. Like a modern-day trouba
dour, Piotr would not travel by airplane or car, but in a
private train carriage hired for the purpose, which would
be attached to various trains according to an itinerary dic
tated by places he wished to visit and his concert schedule.
To Piotr, the planning of concerts years in advance and the
rigid formality of concert halls are constraints that must
be overcome in order to restore music’s innate vibrancy
and escape the relentless treadmill of a touring musician’s
lifestyle.
CZAJA
My Mobile Home.
The Travelling Artist
For Zbyszek Benedyktowicz
With a piano installed on board his carriage, Piotr
would be able to practise, stopping wherever fancy took
him, whether a church, or a village square —places associ
ated with such-and-such a composer. We would unload
the equipment required for impromptu recitals to be held
at these sites. 4
The initial project proposed by the director was
accepted by Anderszewski and to a great extent sub
sequently realised. For several weeks a train carriage
became a home, a living room, a work studio, and a
means of transport. The result is an extraordinary road
movie in which we become acquainted with numerous
aspects of the artist. We can, therefore, extract purely
musical elements (repertoire, piano technique, musi
cal predilections, remarks on music, etc.). We may
also follow fragments referring to family motifs or the
cultural root from which the artist emerged. Or, by
stressing the fact that we are dealing with a film story
we might focus solely on the poetics of the film: to
reveal the elements out of which it was construed, to
observe the editing technique, and to compare it with
other films representing the same genre (two most
recent examples: Helen Grimaud. Living with Wolves,
EMI Classics 2008 and Leif Ove Andsnes. Ballad for Ed
vard Grieg, EMI Classics 2008). Finally, already while
assessing, we can try to answer the question whether
the whole undertaking has been successful and the
proposed portrait is convincing.5
In the proposed commentary I would like to fol
low yet another path and to decipher the film slightly
differently than the way dictated by the imperative of
the genre. To put it as briefly as possible: the point of
departure is imposed reality, i.e. an outlined portrait
of the artist and thus that, which can to seen (and
heard); the subsequent path leads towards discourses
more or less obviously inscribed into the film’s mes
sage. The purpose is to abandon step-by-step concrete
images and take a closer look at their reflections, ech
oes, and associations. To arrive towards amplification
understood not only as the expansion (as in the Latin:
amplificare) but also as the reinforcement (as in the
67
D an u sz C zaja • MYMOBILE HOME. THE TRAVELLING ARTIST
pregmatic meaning connected with theoretical topog
raphy, which ean be precisely moasured by applying
grogrrphical or cultural parameters; this is also a story
about dwelling, winch Martin Heidegger described
originrllyand innovatively while oommentinc on the
famous refrain from Hölderlin: Fwll o/ it em, feipoetically f e i e d f nedwell upon the emrlh.6
The below presented anrhropological commentary
wiSl follow two diverse (but somohow complimentwry)
trajectories of understanding the home and dwelling:
individual and general, local and universal, literal and
mechanical perspectives. By following this pendulum
motion we shah nos lose: sighs of anything that is es
sential on the literal level; quite poesibly, we shall ba
capable oS perceiving something also underneath the;
n arrative surface.
Everything seems ao indicate that Voyageur intrcnquille is a film whose plot takes place here and now.
Note: despiie numerous attributes of the present Ir
seems to have adisfinctly anedhronic canvas. This
feature can be traced on several levels, the first be
ing the most obvious - the level of things. It would be
a good thing to realise that the piano and the train,
the two prime objects creating film narration, belong
to the nineteenth century and refer to the world and
mentality c f that period. More: ehe piano and the
train Eire distmguiehmg marks, especially recognisable
emblems of the ninetrenth crntury. Intesettingly, tbit
film medium itself Is a ninetewnth-century invention.
Watchfng this highly contemporary journey of an artisa across Europe only after a certain time do we be
come aware of its anachronic traitsi It is quite possible
that the unhurried, engrossing ncrration is not nemrely
a journey in spate bul also io the innermost recesses
of time. The vehiclea of this journey are the piano, thr
train, nnd Hm.
First, the piano. This is a special instrument, but
on!y due to its potpntial of expression. Ench piann it sulfices to listen carefully to declarations made by
pianists f has ise own personality and some sort of an
inner myttery. Thy piano emanates stranre energy.
Paradoxically, although it recalls and sometimes icompared to a coSein, it lives! This living, almost spieitual aspect of the instrument wat clevealy noticed and
expanded by Ian Gondowicz in his gfoss to The Piaro
by !ane Campion. The majority oi reviewers immerstd
themselves In the meanders of the protagonist's com
plicated emotions, eorgeiting somewhat the titular in
strument, which, after alf so perfectly expressed her
personality.
No one had taken a closer look at the mythology of
the piano. And there is quin a tot lo examine. This is
the most mysterious of all instruments, The only th at
irrefutably froduces the impressfon of being a living
creatura alse. or especially:, when it remaint silent.
'The massive presence of the piano can fe a buwden. In
English: amplifier) of particular elements present in
title film. I describe the film and tine worlds projected
by it. Such an interpretation procedure calls for a tran
sition from that , which the film tells us to that about
which it tells us. In othee wordt: in order to dace ite
sense greater importance will lee attached to a whok
network of meanings and references buill above the:
intention s inscribe d in to the film than to tho se inten
tions as such.
It follows from the above th a tr would like to treat
the Monsaingeon (documentary predeminantly as a
special “cultutal text”, a film recotd composed of as
sorted semantic ingredients. In the spirit of tuch an
approach I propose the thesit that the documentary
ctan be deciphered not sole ly (andnot snmuch) as a
portrait of an artist as predominantly a story about
him. More exactly: abouc assorted homesa enrooted
in actual space and suspended in more subtle space.
The r olish and Hungarian home. Th e homes in W at saw, Budapert and Lisbon. The prouesses of leav
ing and returning home. The saa-rcbi for a home and
hommoriented nostalgia. Familiar and foreign spaces.
Travelling and roots. Possible worlds - potsible pluces
of retidfnce. Licerally: about a traio carriage tempo
rarily ehanged into a home. And finally, on the last
storey of the film tale there is the home composed of
sounds, flreting musical constructions creaeing the
ethereal but just as real spocw of a home. In si similaa
and equally ambiguous smnse the film is interpoetecl by
m sani of a story about residing in its most elementary.
68
D ariusz C zaja • MY MOBILE HOME. THE TRAVELLING ARTIST
inspires fear in children and distance amongst adults.
It subjugates its users spiritually. It is a demanding
creature and cannot bear dampness, cold and uneven
temperature. Neglected, it groans ominously and mo
mentarily becomes out of tune. In a word, it comprises
the object of a cult. It accepts offerings in the shape of
hours spent on Gradus ad Parnassum and Kunst der
Fingerfertigkeit.
The piano moulds personality. Not by means of art but
via life. Everyone who had a piano carried up to the fifth
floor or whose window was stormed by a crane, who toler
ated complaining neighbours and was forced to share his
humble living space will immediately confirm this opinion.
The piano enforces a certain style: every day, for hours, one
does not chat, listen to the radio, drink tea or smoke, but
sits and plays. It is tremendously expensive —pianists claim
that one has only a single piano in a lifetime. A costly work
of art, it requires servicing as if it were a delicate machine.
Even loftiest spirits do not shy from the tuner’s crank and
tinkers with the hammer mechanism. Finally, the piano de
mands strength. In order to set into motion in a chromatic
etude the Bosendorfer keyboard or the magnificent Broad
wood, portrayed in the film (but even more resistant) one
becomes covered in sweat after half a minute. In a word: a
strong character is needed to deal with a piano.7
The essayist also aptly indicated the totally non
contemporary nature of the piano in present-day
culture, its affiliation to the lost archipelago of the
nineteenth century: The piano, a sacred object of nine
teenth-century culture, symbolizes it just as the automo
bile symbolizes the twentieth century. This is a symbol
that concentrates the entire gravity of the past century. A
period when objects were respected and even worshipped.
Hence it is obvious what a defenestration of a piano could
have signified for Norwid or how striking the instrument
with an axe must have been a sacrilege of sorts in Cam
pion’s film. A Europeanised version of: "If there is no God
than everything is allowed”. First and foremost, this is the
reason why the transference of a piano into a wild natural
environment must have constituted the summit of extrava
gant imagination.8
True, the piano not only lives and easily and readily
succumbs to personification, but seen from the view
point of contemporary mentality it appears to be a rec
ognizable messenger of the world of the past. This is a
world of non-extant aristocratic salons, obligatory pi
ano playing conceived as part of good upbringing, the
nineteenth-century novel in which the piano becomes
an essential utensil in fictional space. Only an aware
ness of this distinguished position of the nineteenthcentury piano makes it possible to comprehend the
meaning of the sardonic remark made by Emil Cioran
about Chopin raising the piano to the statute of tuber
culosis 9, or to understand the reason why the remains
of Giacomo Puccini were laid to rest in a piano stand
ing in his villa in Torre del Lago.10
More, the piano, it turns out, is such a specific and
curious organism that it finds it difficult to establish
relations with contexts other than those sanctioned
by means of cultural customs (salon or concert hall).
For certain reasons (shape? size? “personality”?) it is
not suited for other spaces, in particular open ones.
Placed in them, it creates a clearly eccentric combina
tion with the closest surrounding. In this case, the dis
sonance is based on a contrast between artful/natural,
but apparently is not reduced to it. This is probably
the reason why such an impact is exerted upon our im
agination by the phrase from Rimbaud’s Illuminations:
Madame * * * set up a piano in the Alps.11 This is also
the reason why the famous scene from Un Chien An
dalou - a piano dragged along a road (and serving as a
coffin for a rotting cadaver of a donkey) - leaves such
a strong imprint. The same is true of the image of a pi
ano on a New Zealand beach in Campion’s film. Quite
possibly, this is also why from of passable documentary
film about Grieg (mentioned above and featuring the
Norwegian pianist Andsnes) we so easily recall the
scene with the pianist playing on a mountaintop. The
Monsaingeon film based on an only slightly less eccen
tric conception - a piano on a train - adding another
chapter to this Surrealistic mythology. In this case,
the dissonance attains a high/low form. A valuable,
technically and aesthetically sophisticated object, an
emblem of high culture has been placed in a popular,
commonplace, and universally used mode of trans
port. Food for thought is provided by the fact that in
both cases this symmetry and dissonance, albeit first
acting as a source of aesthetic shock, do not cease to
fascinate and attract.
Leaving the train and addressing people awaiting
him at a Poznań train station the pianist admits that
he loves moving about by train, his current home. The
scene, in the manner of a somewhat comical (flow
ers, welcoming speeches, cameras) and probably un
intentional remake of L ’arrivée d’un train en gare de La
Ciotat by Louis Lumière, recalls the vehicle in which
the pianist travels. Anderszewski obviously likes this
form of travelling. He declares that he enjoys the very
chance to travel without any responsibility for the
voyage; travelling by train is a special form of freedom:
everthing takes place in constant motion, with not ef
fort on the part of the passenger. Nothing depends on
the passenger who is incapable of making decisions,
and all responsibility is borne by the train driver. A p
parently, the train tournée was not the pianist’s one
time extravagance indulged for the sake of the film.
Anderszewski reveals a predilection for voyages of this
sort. In one of his interviews, he declared: By way of
example, last year I hired a Gierek-era private carriage
and together with my friends travelled across the whole of
Poland, from Cracow to the Hel peninsula, although we
actually bypassed Hel since a drunken depot worker forgot
69
D ariusz C zaja • MY MOBILE HOME. THE TRAVELLING ARTIST
Piotr Anderszewski
70
D ariusz C zaja • MY MOBILE HOME. THE TRAVELLING ARTIST
to detach our carriage. For hours we stood in a snowy field.
This was an absolutely wonderful experience. Or when we
made our way through fog lifting above a side track, to find
ourselves in the market square of Zamość....12 A t the same
time, we learn what sort of travelling is Anderszewski’s
favourite. In this case, the heart of the matter obvi
ously does not involve ordinary travelling, a thought
less devouring of space but savouring it. Perhaps one
could even say: contemplation of the landscape, if this
did not sound so exalted...
Film narration follows the rhythm of the train
carriage, with stopovers for piano recitals. The role
played by the train is particularly interesting. Carrying
valuable cargo, it is filmed in assorted ways: in static
close settings - on railway stations or in dynamic takes
- in the course of the journey. Generally, however,
the train is filmed in motion. Changing frames show
the way in which it traverses space. There is no need
to read the writings of Paul Virile (monographist and
diagnostician of contemporary forms of acceleration)
to be quite certain that one of the essential aspects of
contemporaneity - perhaps the most consciously ex
perienced - is speed. Terror of speed, rapid changes,
all-embracing motion - these are the living and irre
movable components of daily experience. W hat is the
source, then, of the earlier proclaimed anachronic na
ture of railway transport and the train as such? Every
thing depends on the point of reference. Characteris
tically, some 150 years ago the railway was regarded as
the avant-garde of progress, preceding its time (recall
the enthusiasm radiating from Turner’s brilliant: Rain,
Steam and Speed. The Great Western Railway, 1844).
More: the railway belonged entirely to the future. The
train won the race against the horse carriage. Today,
however, compared to the speed attained by an air
plane or even an automobile the conventional train
proves to be relatively slower. The problem, however,
does not lie in measurable numbers.
In the domain of mentality and collective imagina
tion - and it is they that are predominantly the ob
ject of our interest - the train envisaged as a tool for
displacement is, and shall remain, a mode of locomo
tion from the past, regardless of the incidental attain
ments of TGV. This anachronic feature is discernible
particularly when we look at it from the viewpoint of
railway mythology: both the one associated with the
technological taming of space, when the train symbol
ised a triumph of ratio over untamed Nature (a motif
often accentuated in Westerns), and the one linked
with literature, when railway tracks became the arena
of existential dramas, to mention the casus of Anna
Karenina. After all, already the legend of the Orient
Express - the very essence of a train above all others
- could serve as convincing proof. The first trip from
Paris to Constantinopole was made by this wonderful
vehicle (known as the Titanic on tracks) in 1883. In
the wake of wartime turmoil, problems with borders,
and a gradual reduction of the timetable, the last jour
ney along the original route took place in 1977. The
still preserved legend is a combination of elements
referring (probably) to the past: aristocratic loftiness,
Parisian chicque, Arabian exotica, the flavour of ad
venture, not mention the sensational aura of Murder
on the Orient Express ... Paradoxically, failed attempts
made from time to time to reanimate its fame indicate
that the era of the Orient Express has already passed.
Although this might seems strange within the con
text of the explosion of speed, more: the deification
of speed in the present-day world, the train with its
measured rhythm and relatively low moving remains
in the past. Intuition did not deceive Monsaingeon
when he decided to place his protagonist in a train
carriage. He has our total approval: a contemporary
troubadour cannot - and certainly should not - travel
in an aeroplane.
In its capacity as a nineteenth-century time ma
chine the train is almost naturally linked with the cin
ema. Connections between the train and film - a mo
tif deserving a separate presentation - are discernible
from the very beginnings of the cinematic arts. Not by
accident was one of first Lumière miniatures the afore
mentioned L’arrivée d’un train. Theoreticians from that
period were well aware that the cinematographer dis
plays its abilities best when he shows motion. Recom
mended themes for filming mention first and foremost
the train. In the awareness of the spectators those two
phenomena appeared simultaneously. In an excel
lent article about the presence of the train in earliest
cinematic accomplishments Yuri Tsivyan cited a frag
ment from the first issue of “Cine-Phono” from 1907:
Luminous pictures were first shown more or less fifteen
years ago and the impression they produced were so great
that everyone, thinking about this amazing wonder, recalls
the time when he first saw a rushing train.13 Does the
passenger sitting inside a train carriage not perceive
the window showing shifting images as similar to a
film screen? The motion pictures offered by the cinema
and the moving pictures seen from a train window are
distinctly close; this strange isomorphism offers much
food for thought.
3.
Considered from the construction (and not chron
ological) perspective Voyageur intranquille is composed
of two - not quite matching - parts. The first encom
passes factographic details from Anderszewski’s life,
and the second concerns reflections about the essence
of music. They interweave in assorted proportions,
from time to time surprising each other.
The biographical part places special emphasis on
the artist’s Polish and Hungarian origin, with distinct
stress on local Polish specificity. This is the weakest
71
D ariusz C zaja • MY MOBILE HOME. THE TRAVELLING ARTIST
link, with the pianist reading off screen an earlier writ
ten text full of insufferable and exalted clichés about
the torn apart and tormented country, “murdered and
violated Warsaw”, Slavonic soul in an “ideally cut Pa
risian suit” (about Chopin’s music). Fortunately, from
time to time there appears a counterpoint, as in the
excellent scene in which Anderszewski gazes at the
distant Palace of Culture and Science and describes
it, obviously, as a horrible symbol of Soviet captivity,
while an accompanying friend, Maciej Grzybowski
(also a pianist), comments in much simpler terms by
complaining about the Stalinis phallus and immedi
ately disarming the martyrological narration.14
All this recalls in places an educational film com
posed of multi-use building blocks. Looking, however,
at the frames not from an evaluating but a descrip
tive, anthropological viewpoint one might perceive
in those weak points or slip-ups something extremely
interesting: the long duration of national stereotypes.
It becomes clear that the vision of Poland, the Poles,
and Polishness both in the story told by the pianist
and in the film narration as such possesses all the fea
tures of a mythological construction. Interestingly,
they supplement each other and seen from a basically
inner perspective (Anderszewski) Poland matches the
martyrological vantage point, with Polish mentality
becoming part of the tearful and sentimental Slavonic
soul.15 In turn, judging by the excessive snow-filled
frames Poland viewed from an external perspective
(Monsaingeon) is a land of eternal winter and persist
ent snowfalls. This film version of Winterreise (with
pastoral frames distant from the dramatic ambiance of
Schubert’s cycle) is photogenic but from the cognitive
point of view it only reinforces old stereotypes. One
could have the impression that while portraying Po
land the director remained true to an image cultivated
in seventeenth-century France. It was then that there
emerged a vision of Poland encased in permanent
cold winters (as in the poem by Philippe Desportes, in
which Poland is toujours de neige et de glace couverte),
as well as of the constantly inebriated Pole.16 H av
ing seen the film, the Western public will reaffirm its
conviction that there is only a single season in Poland
(winter almost predominates in the film17) and that
the Poles learn to drink ice-cold vodka (the pianist of
fers it to his guests in the train carriage) together with
mother’s milk ...
Fortunately, Anderszewski appears in the film also
as a citizen of the world and certainly as a European.
His home expands and transgresses far beyond Polish
or Hungarian borders. Not by accident does his jour
ney start on the (just as mythologized) eastern bor
derlands of the Continent and ends in Lisbon along
the ocean coast. The pianist does not forget about his
roots but clearly cultivates an everlasting imperative
of seeking a home, home-oriented nostalgia, space in
which he will be able to truly live without limiting the
meaning of this verb to a merely physical dimension.
Lisbon, he adds, is a successive, essential step along
this path: the greatness of Lisbon is its past, while its
decadence and greatness have collapsed. This is the
noble feature of the town, where the pianist strolls for
hours down its streets, observing everyday, small-scale
dramas and the theatre of life. In doing so, he experi
ences being pierced by the local, strange silence. More,
he feels at home, an emotion that grants him inner
peace. Anderszewski sees Lisbon as the town of the
eternal voyager. This is a truly feminine and maternal
town, in the shape of a mother’s belly. Hence the feel
ing of safety and distance from the great world.
This statement contains significant ambivalence,
as if a faraway echo of the words uttered by the pianist
at the beginning of the film when he mentioned his
fear of motionlessness and longing for incessant mo
tion. Anderszewski is always on the road, in constant
motion, but at the same time he searches for a place to
settle down. He is a nomad, but a rather strange one
with the distinct syndrome of the domiciled person.
Interestingly, this intimate confession also contains
the earlier mentioned anachronic motif. Anderszewski
seems to be not living in the present and he looks back,
towards the past. Hence the attention paid to pre-war
Warsaw (his birthplace and a town granted particular
significance in his private mythology) and the passion
for Lisbon, today slightly provincial, whose splendour
is already part of a distant past.18 In his metaphorical
characteristic of Lisbon Anderszewski animates the
feminine, maternal topes. He envisages the town as
an expansive home comprehended predominantly as
a friendly and secure cosmos (Lisbon - my home! - he
could have echoed Fernando Pessoa19, enamoured of
his birthplace), with its most perfect personification:
the image of a maternal belly. Here, the town-home
assumes clearly feminine features.
4.
So far, I have used the French title of the film: Voyageur intranquille. Actually, this is the version that ap
pears most often in promotion material or sales offers.
The film, however, and this is noteworthy and signifi
cant, has titles also in other languages, with the Eng
lish Unquiet Traveller being semantically close. The
German title, although already without the adjective,
is similar: Wanderer ohne Ruhe. Only the Polish ver
sion differs considerably from the one in three W est
ern languages: Podróżujący fortepian (The Travelling
Piano). Agreed, this is not a precise translation of the
French original: in Polish the traveller is not someone
but something. The pianist has vanished, leaving be
hind only his instrument.
Is this is a translatological lapsus, the carefree work
of a translator, or a subconscious exchange? It would
72
D ariusz C zaja • MY MOBILE HOME. THE TRAVELLING ARTIST
You! who assemble in the ranks of Style
And fashion stone, penetrate the song's refrain ...21
It is precisely in this poetic attempt at naming the
essence of music, despite all the obvious differences,
that the poem comes close to Anderszewski’s film
narration.22 After all, his commentary contains an in
tensely Polish motif (one could even say with a certain
dose of sarcasm: one with a moving-martyrological
twist). Not only does it mention Chopin and his music
but - and within the context of Norwid’s text this is
even more interesting - it also formulates deeply con
ceived sentences about the art of playing the piano,
pertaining additionally to a question whose verbalisa
tion remains extremely difficult: the essence of music
or perhaps of art in general.
The title, however, resonates in the memory of the
Polish spectator due to yet another reference. Suffice
to take into consideration a fragment of the film in
which Anderszewski speaks about the unprecedented
wartime destruction (“murder”) of Warsaw. The film
illustrates this touching and extremely emotional nar
ration with documentary photographs of buildings
razed to the ground and ruins. Looking at those imag
es it is simply impossible not to revoke a certain mean
ingful fragment of Pianist by Władysław Szpilman. Re
call: at the end of the war the titular artist is taken by
surprise in an empty, abandoned house by a German
officer and in order to validate his profession is forced
to play the piano. The surrealism of this extraordinary
scene mingles with the horror of war. 23
Recalling those associations, obvious for the Polish
recipient, we start to understand that the documen
tary’s Polish title is not quite as absurd as it might seem
at first. Apparently, by replacing the neutral and bland
“traveller” with “’piano” the title resonates well with
certain fragments of Polish memory. Another signifi
cant fact is that both cited works match Anderszewski’s narration with its strongly accentuated martyrological overtone.
be difficult to propose an unambiguous answer. A p
parently, the lexical and thus - this is particularly sig
nificant! - semantic exchange contains something of
great importance. Ascertaining this obvious feature I
am concerned not merely with the fact that - if one
were to treat comments on the modelling role played
by the title seriously - voyageur intranquille produces
an entirely different reception of the film among the
French spectators than a travelling piano among the
Polish audience. In the first case emphasis has been
placed on the artist (together with the entire luggage
of associations connected with voyages and travelling
as well as its literal and metaphorical connotations),
while in the second case the title abandons the per
son and concentrates primarily on the instrument he
plays. This circumstance appears, at first glance, to be
obvious and does not require in-depth commentaries.
A closer look, however, discloses a greater complexity
of the issue since it transcends considerably beyond
the domain of linguistics and translatological compe
tence.
In other words, I propose the thesis that the Polish
version of the title did not appear by accident. More,
that it is not semantically innocent but, on the con
trary, significant. In addition, it carries references to
Polish historical memory, predominantly literary. One
might have the impression that the past, stored in the
language, exerted a strong impact on the author (au
thors?) of the Polish title. It is, after all, impossible not
to discern in the phrase: ’’travelling piano” - in addition,
within the context of the art represented by the Polish
pianist and Chopin’s music in particular - a shadow
of an association with the earlier-mentioned Fortepian
Szopena by Norwid. First and foremost: with the most
dramatic scene in which the tsarist authorities hurled
the instrument from a window of the Zamoyski Palace
in 1863, the year of the January insurrection.
But this simple observation, albeit slightly enhanc
ing the reception of the film, does not end similarities
between Podróżujący fortepian and Fortepian Szopena.
There is a single reservation: we have to liberate the
poem from the intrusive patriotic mask added by cus
tomary school textbook interpretations. Contrary to
usual associations, Norwid’s poem remains above all
routine simplifications. On the contrary, it represents
dense meaning, full of things left unsaid, uncertain
ties, abruptly broken phrases, and sudden silence. For
this reason, its interpretation is extremely capacious.20
Apart from the patriotic stratum, the most legible and
easiest to grasp, Norwid’s text is also a poignant reflec
tion, or perhaps even better: meditation on art and its
essence. The point of departure is Chopin’s brilliant
music. Here is a brief fragment:
5.
Anderszewski without doubt lives within music
and for music. Interestingly: his statements about
extra-musical themes tend to be gushing but those
dealing with music are pure factuality. In the major
ity of cases he speaks about music using the technical
language of an artisan, and it is difficult to treat occa
sional anecdote-illustration inserts otherwise than in
the categories of a joke.
What does this mean? As briefly as possible: we are
dealing with concentration on music as such, its archi
tectural essence and not artistic expression. Perform
ance, as envisaged by the artist, does not consist of
an expressive addition to music but organically stems
from it. It must do so! In the case of Anderszewski
this means laborious, analytical, and archaeological
O You! In whom Love's Profile chooses to abide
And Art’s Perfection is your name —
73
D ariusz C zaja • MY MOBILE HOME. THE TRAVELLING ARTIST
(i.e. observing the strata) work on a composition. He
dissects it into particular individual molecules and re
arranges them into “a new order” so as to disclose as
much as possible of that, which is inside the notes and
between them. Yes, la musique avant toute chose...
The film contains remarkable scenes making it pos
sible to observe the manner in which the pianist reads
the rough score. Anderszewski plays a certain frag
ment, singing its main melodic line and, at the same
time, commenting a vista its ”conceptual” content.
Doing so, he reveals its inner logic and the necessity of
concrete sounds. Take the example of the extraordi
nary Barcarolle by Chopin: the first few opening notes
(resembling a dish of pasta), several successive sounds
(the song of a drunken gondolier), a slight pause, as if
to listen more carefully to the phrase (which despite all
remains beautiful), followed by a grimace (in the fash
ion of a bad French chanson) to arrive at the end line,
with Anderszewski commenting on Chopin’s compli
cated nature. A music object-lesson in a nutshell.
anthropological commentary, could appear rather
trivial and not at all obvious; it lists assorted places of
residence: Warsaw, Budapest, Lyon, Strasbourg, Los
Angeles, London, Paris, Lisbon... Transition in space
as a form of existence. In the fascinating (but also te
dious) mobile world in which such transitions are a
norm we are all émigrés on the road and in some way
not at home. It could be sensible to ask: who is the
artist in such a hotel community, always on the move
in all directions? In what way does he differ (if such is
the case) from other nomads?
Anderszewski, just as almost every present-day musi
cian, is a travelling artist, a constant voyager.26 The film
accentuates the condition of the artist-traveller, a restless
spirit, a man on the road, always drifting, never perma
nently enrooted, living out of a suitcase in rented apart
ments. Once again: what is the contemporary musician?
A traveller? A tourist? A vagrant? A nomad? And the re
ally essential question: is his homelessness a mere particle
of a wider phenomenon or is it qualitatively different?
Before I attempt to suggest a certain answer to
those questions here is another brief comment from
Clifford’s study on “travelling”. Reflecting on the op
erativeness of the conceits applied by sciences dealing
with culture he examined the contents of such terms
as: “travel”, “displacement”, or “’nomadism”. A t one
point, Clifford noted surprisingly: “Pilgrimage” seems to
me a more interesting comparative term to work with. It
includes a broad range of Western and non-Western expe
riences and is less class— and gender-biased than “travel".
Moreover, it has a nice way of subverting the constitutive
modern opposition between traveller and tourist.22
T aking into account the above (as well as gathering
together certain earlier motifs) it appears quite apt to
suggest that if the musician is actually a voyager then he
is a special sort of traveller, homo irrequietus (according
to the formula suggested by St. Augustine), who in his
activity and calling comes close to the status of a pil
grim. This holds true particularly for the interpretation
bequeathed by Norwid in his celebrated poem:
6.
In an introduction to his The Predicament of Cul
ture, a book that at its time was a breakthrough in
anthropological reflection, James Clifford wrote: This
century has seen a drastic expansion of mobility, includ
ing tourism, migrant labour, immigration, urban sprawl.
More and more people “dwell” with the help of mass tran
sit, automobiles, airplanes. (...) An older topography and
experience of travel is exploded. One no longer leaves home
confident of finding something radically new, another time
or space. Difference is encountered in the adjoining neigh
bourhood, the familiar turns up at the ends of the earth.24
This text comes from 1988. In an article written a
few years later - Travelling Cultures (referring to certain
motifs in the book) - Clifford returned to a changed
comprehension of residing and travelling in the con
temporary world. The text contains several fragments
taken from literature. Symptomatically, their prime
object is the hotel conceived as space-time reflect
ing the spirit of modernity. There appears a fragment
from Conrad’s Victory, known from The Predicament of
Culture (the age in which we are camped like bewildered
travellers in a garish, unrestful hotel), but also a phrase
from Tristes Tropiques, in which the anthropologist de
scribed a dive in the Brazilian small town of Goiania,
which he saw as a symbol of civilizational barbarity
(a place of transit, not of residence).25 Hotels are places
through which we only pass and in which all meet
ings are fleeting and accidental. They are legible signs
of the contemporary lack of enrootment, mobility and
superficial contacts...
It would be a good thing to place Monsaingeon’s
film and in particular the figure of the constantly
travelling protagonist against the backdrop of those
declarations. The opening statement, deprived of an
Above all estates there is the estate of estates,
A tower above flat houses
Piercing the clouds ...
You think that I am not the Lord
Because my moveable home
Is of camel hide ...
But I abide in the bosom of the sky,
While it seizes my soul
Like a pyramid!
But I too have as much of the earth
As is covered by my foot.
74
D ariusz C zaja • MY MOBILE HOME. THE TRAVELLING ARTIST
■ sr
■-
m
.
Piotr Anderszewski
75
D ariusz C zaja • MY MOBILE HOME. THE TRAVELLING ARTIST
As long as I walk! ...28
The suggested musician-pilgrim parallel requires
appropriate comprehension. Naturally, this attempt
at placing the artist in a quasi-religious context does
not have in mind the common understanding of re
ligiosity. It is rather concerned with stressing the im
portance of the task undertaken by the artist and the
significance of the work he performs. In a roundabout
way this leads to a more profound grasp of the formula
openly mentioned by Anderszewski in the film: being
a musician is not a profession, it is a calling. In other
words - what is it? The elementary meaning of this
slightly forgotten connotation - especially in reference
to creativity - is excellently recalled by Wiesław Juszc
zak:
It is not I who decides about calling, its type and direc
tion, but vocation itself: a force that sometimes appears to
be internal but whose actual source is outside, and which
delineates my path. This force is the reason why I am
compelled to pursue a given path, to follow it regardless
of obstacles and to always wish to walk down it. The des
tination of such a striving can be, therefore, conceived as
a centre from which this force emanates and which is the
source of the voice calling me. The fact that I am supposed
to, and want to go towards that voice means that the road
is endless. It also signifies that the goal of my striving is "for
all practical purposes” unattainable. The limitlessness of
roaming in a state of calling, wandering towards the target
of that calling and, simultaneously, the source is decisive
for the freedom of each such path. In other words: the level
of the objective determines the measure of freedom. This
measure constantly grows and the potential of vastness is
just as continuously revealed to us.29
These words cast a light on the feeling, stressed
upon several occasions by Anderszewski, of being
compelled to be a pianist, some sort of a force, an
inner imperative that “urged” him to devote himself
to playing. Within this context words about an over
whelming and incessant wish to strive towards a per
formance absolute gain greater importance. Without
that commentary they could appear to be pretentious
and empty. In both cases - the pilgrim and the artist
- it is precisely the path that appears to be the true
objective and particularly a renewed but never totally
satisfactory effort to attain the selected goal. Another
characteristic feature is the reversal of customary signs:
settling down is not a value in itself and homelessness
does not have a negative qualification. This state of
weightlessness, typical for both, and of perennial being
on the road are probably the price paid for attempting
to attain the objective, which - once again in both in
stances - possesses the nature of a vanishing horizon.
i.e. meanings that without doubt exist although it is
difficult to describe and verbalise them precisely. If a
musician does not have a home, if his home is mobile
(although today it assumes another form: a comforta
ble train carriage rather than camel hide sandals), if he
is sometimes tormented by a feeling of being rootless
and homeless then where is his true home? After all, it
has to exist somewhere. It appears that resolving this
question is neither difficult nor particularly sophisti
cated. This home is - must be! - art. In the case of A n
derszewski: it is music. Such a solution, however, lures
with its obviousness and is not at all that simple as it
could appear at first glance. We arrive here at a suc
cessive curious paradox connected with the two basic
parameters amidst which we exist: time and space.
There is no doubt that the home - regardless of the
architectural forms it assumes - both in its common
place semantics and in more sophisticated languages
is predominantly a cryptonym of that, which is per
manent, immobile, steadfast, and lastingly enrooted in
topographic reality but also in a wider, symbolic and
spiritual reality. Meanwhile, how does music exist? Re
gardless of refined responses to this difficult question
one thing appears to be certain: music exists in time.
To put in stronger terms, it exists in disappearance
and reduction, i.e. it is and, at the same time, it seems
not to be, it exists in motion and gradual vanishing.
(Tout note doit finir en mourant, Marin Marais says in
the film: Tous le matins du monde by Alain Corneau).
It exists, but temporarily, in passing time. Its ontology
is curiously fragile and its existence - almost phantom.
But despite its nature variable in time it remains - and
this is probably the greatest paradox of the musical el
ement - just as real. For many of those who live for
the sake of music this is the only reality! Nonetheless,
taking the common sense approach, so-called musical
space - to cite this routine expression, paradoxical in
the context of the earlier comments - is a conspicuous
antithesis of the idea of the home, i.e. something tan
gible, concrete, and mundane. In exact terms, music
does not exist. Nor can it be identified with any sort
of “space”, unless within the limits of linguistic meta
phor. It is the outcome of sounds temporarily enroot
ed in time, in ever-changing rhythmic, melodic and
harmonious configurations. It is thus a phenomenon
designating pure change, while the idea of the home
contains the essence of durability. Music thus under
stood as a variable, disappearing, unreal phenomenon
composed of time would be an antithesis of the home,
conceived as a firm and truly existing reality.
Is it possible, therefore, to reside within music?
And what would this mean? Can music - however un
derstood - be a home? Is it possible to build on sand?
And does music really have to be/is an antithesis of
the home?
7.
Remarks about the pilgrim’s condition of the art
ist-musician lead us to the last stratum of reflections,
76
D ariusz C zaja • MY MOBILE HOME. THE TRAVELLING ARTIST
Let us for a moment listen carefully to a intriguing
fragment of The Sonnets to Orpheus by Rilke, an author
who was probably the closest to describing the enig
matic reality of music, a sphere that radically exceeds
and resists the word:
objections formulated by common sense there exists
something not unlike “musical space” and that this
possibly imperfect metaphor becomes concrete before
our eyes (and ears). In other words: that it really be
comes a space to inhabit and can become a real home
despite the fact that - let us repeat - the phenomenon
of music as if radically negates the essence of a domes
tic continuum.
Listening to Anderszewski performing Chopin or,
in particular, Mozart, especially when in the course of
playing he comments aloud the essence of the music,
one has the irresistible impression that we are watch
ing and hearing someone who has found himself in do
mesticated, native space. Who, as the ambiguous Eng
lish expression has it, is at home and thus is an expert
on what he does but also, quite ordinarily, is home.
But for us, existence is still enchanted;
in any number of places, it is still the origin. A playing
of pure forces untouched except by one who kneels in
wonder.
Words still serenely approach the unsayable. . .
And music, ever new, out of the most trembling
stones, builds her home in those regions least usable. 30
Anderszewski’s personal story about music appears
to follow this line of thinking. Although it is pure dis
appearance, music in its most perfect symptoms builds
permanent, albeit airborne constructions. Created out
of unsteady elements it arranges itself into spaces that
resemble a home in which one wants to reside. More:
those musical “stones”, albeit in constant motion, are
arranged into a special home recalling holy space. This
is the particularly striking feature of the cited frag
ment: a solid and permanent structure is built out of
“trembling stones”. Such a home, ostensibly fleeting,
strongly opposes the reality (‘’barren emptiness”) of
the world, in which we lead our daily lives and which
we perceive routinely as the only existing one. Appar
ently, musical constructions, albeit fluid, merging and
disintegrating in time, are stronger and more complete
than quite a few real homes.
Anderszewski holds several works of the assorted
composers he performs in particular esteem. Four
names reappear in the film: naturally, Chopin (whom
he knows best of all and plays in small doses because
they are too delicate), Mozart (whose works are the
most poignant and probably the most extreme in their
ambiguity), Brahms (whose will to attain perfection is
an obstacle in which the pianist sees himself) and, ob
viously, the towering pater familias, Jan Sebastian Bach
(working on Das Wohltemperierte Klavier Anderszewski
was under the impression that he was facing an opened
book of eternity). These are, at the same time, musi
cal homes to live in: Home-Chopin (associated closely
with the motherland), Home-Brahms (linked first and
foremost with the masculine element), Home-Mozart
(basically infantile but also the most ambiguous: lightdark, sad-joyous, divine-impertinent) and the perhaps
most capacious Home-Bach (with the beautiful meta
phor of a book) opening up onto eternity.
Anderszewski proves above all doubt that it is pos
sible to reside within music, although this is a special
home devoid of foundations, underpinning, walls and
roof. A mobile home made of time and ethereal sound.
Nonetheless, it is just as real. Anderszewski’s confes
sions produce the endless feeling that despite all the
Endnotes
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
77
All statements by the pianist are based on the film
soundtrack.
B. Monsaingeon, Piotr Anderszewski. Voyageur intranquil
le, Medici Arts International 2008.
L. van Beethoven - Diabelli variations, 2001, W A. Mozart
- The Piano Concerto No. 21 in C major, K. 467, The Piano
Concerto No. 24 in C minor, K. 491, 2002, J. S. Bach - I,
III and VI Partita, 2002, F. Chopin - Ballades, Mazurkas,
Polonaises 2003, K. Szymanowski - Piano Sonata No. 3,
Métopes, Masks, 2005, W A. Mozart - The Piano Concerto
No. 17 in G major, KY 453 and The Piano Concerto No. 20
in D minor, K. 466, 2006, L. van Beethoven - Bagatelle, op.
126 and Piano Concerto No. 1 in C major Op. 15, 2008,
Piotr Anderszewski at Carnegie Hall - Bach, Schumann,
Janâcek, Beethoven, Bartók, 2009.
B. Monsaingeon, Piotr Anderszewski - Unquiet Traveller,
booklet added to a DVD, pp. 6-7.
The film received the Gold Medal in the music and
performing arts category at the French Festival
International des Programmes Audiovisuels in Biarritz
(2009). It was also awarded in the best artist's portrait
category at Festival International du Film sur l'Art
(FIFA) in Montreal (2009).
Cf. M. Heidegger, Poetically Dwells Man..., in: idem,
Odczyty i rozprawy, transl. J. Mizera, Kraków 2002.
J. Gondowicz, Romans z fortepianem, ”Kino” no. 4:1994,
p. 29.
Ibid.
E. Cioran, Aforyzmy, selected, transl. and prep. J.
Ugniewska, Warszawa 1993, p. 33.
Puccini buried himself - or was buried - in (or near) an
object that commemorates him and symbolizes his oeu
vre - a piano; M. Leiris, Operratics, transl. G. Bennett,
K0benhavn-Los Angeles 2001. Puccini died in 1924, but
his mentality belonged to the nineteenth century.
A. Rimbaud, Wiersze. Sezon w piekle. Iluminacje. Listy,
selected and prep. A. Międzyrzecki, various translators,
p. 201.
Biedny Chopin. Rozmowa z pianistą PiotremAnderszewskim,
"Gazeta Wyborcza”, 22 December 2003.
Y. Tsivyan, O symbolice pociągu w początkowym okresie
kina, in: Sztuka w świecie znaków, selected, trans., introd.
and bibliography B. Żyłko, Gdańsk 2002, p. 198.
I have seen Monsaingeon's film several times and am
D ariusz C zaja • MY MOBILE HOME. THE TRAVELLING ARTIST
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
certain that the most unbearable in Anderszewski's sta
tements is not the content but the way in which he
speaks. The emphatic mannerism with which he says
the earlier written sentences is the reason why his voice
becomes slightly artificial, a contrast with his natural
and unaffected behaviour.
This one-sidedness and stereotype nature of declara
tions comes even more as a surprise considering that in
his other statements Anderszewski's attitude to Polish
issues is highly ambiguous, at least in his declarations: “I
left Poland already after secondary school and alltold
spent less time here than anywhere else. There are dif
ferent types of enrootment, however, and this is why I
feel closely liked with this country, especially due to my
upbringing by my father and paternal grandmother,
which had an enormous impact on my sister and me. I
am extremely attached to Poland and, at the same time,
pathologically anti-Polish. Gombrowicz represented a
similar attitude, right? At least in this particular case I
can identify with him”, Porządek i ogień. Z Piotrem
Anderszewskim rozmawia Patrycja Kujawska, "Tygodnik
Powszechny” no. 43:2009, p. 34. It is worth recalling
that Monsaingeon's film was addressed predominantly
to the Western audience, hence Anderszewski's narra
tion is inscribed so strongly, almost ostentatiously into
routine anticipations.
A convincing analysis of the origin of such images (and
their obstinate presence in French contemporary tho
ught) was conducted by Ludwik Stomma in one of the
chapters of his book: Wzloty i upadki królów Francji spo
sobem antropologicznym wyłożone, Łódź 1991, pp.155
161. Quotation from Desportes after: Stomma, p. 158.
Recall those two images: the artist together with his
sister-violinist, wearing stylish sheepskin coats and
dashing in a sleigh across snow-smothered Zakopane or
the solitary pianist traversing a winter landscape.
It is precisely this feature of Lisbon (marginality, provin
ciality) that, next to its poignant beauty, was accentu
ated by Mircea Eliade, yet another resident of the city,
who spent the war in the Portuguese capital and who
mentioned the magnificent and unforgettable square at
the mouth of the Tag as well as the omnipresent white
and blue colours. In the evenings the streets resounded
with music and singing. The overall impression was that
of a town outside the range of history, in particular cur
rent history - beyond the reach of the hell of war. M.
Eliade, Próba labiryntu. Rozmowy z Claude-Henri
Rocquetem, transl. K. Środa, Warszawa 1992, p. 85.
F. Pessoa, Księga niepokoju Bernardo Soaresa pomocnika
księgowego w Lizbonie, transl. M. Lipszyc, Izabelin 2007,
p. 73.
Suffice to delve into the detailed and multi-sided analy
sis of the text written by Władysław Stróżewski; cf. W
Stróżewski, Doskonałe - wypełnienie. O „Fortepianie
Szopena”, in: idem, Istnienie i wartość, Kraków 1981, pp.
181-214.
C. K. Norwid, Fortepian Szopena, in: Norwid, Dzieła
wybrane. Wiersze, Warszawa 1980, vol. 1, p. 498.
This is an appropriate moment to stress the quasi-cine
matic approach used by Norwid, to which attention has
been drawn by Stróżewski in a brilliant exegesis of the
poem: Everything appears in a distinctly marked perspective,
in close-ups or long shots, as if as a result of working with a
camera, which brings the depicted objects closer or relegates
them to the background, Stróżewski, op. cit., pp. 211-212.
23 W. Szpilman, Pianista. Warszawskie wspomnienia 1939
1945, introd. and prep. A. Szpilman, afterword W
Bierman, Kraków 2000, p. 168 (the book is supplemen
ted by an appendix: W Hosenfeld, Fragmenty pamiętni
ka).
24 J. Clifford, Kłopoty z kulturą. Dwudziestowieczna etnogra
fia, literatura i sztuką, various translators, Warszawa
2000, p. 21.
25 J. Clifford, Traveling Cultures, in: Cultural Studies, ed. and
introd. L. Grossberg, C. Nelson, P. A. Treichler, New
York-London 1992, p. 96.
26 This travelling feature of the condition of the contem
porary musician appears in numerous statements made
by artists. The great pianist Sviatoslav Richter respon
ded outright to the remark that he gives concerts not
only in great metropolises but also small localities: I am
a voyager. I find every locality on a map interesting, be it
large or small, E. Kofin, Ich słowa, Wrocław 2009, p. 16.
27 Ibid., p. 110.
28 C. K. Norwid, Pielgrzym, in: Norwid, op. cit., p. 376.
29 W. Juszczak, Słowo o powołaniu, in: idem, Fragmenty,
Warszawa 1995, p. 82.
30 R. M. Rilke, Sonety do Orfeusza, part II, Sonet X, in : R.
M. Rilke, Wybór poezji, transl. M. Jastrun, Kraków 1987,
p. 281.
. Püfüki SütAfl faftbutä
K onteksty
ANTROPOLOOIA KULTURY * ETNOGRAFIA ■ SZTUKA
bUt
ip|
AN
TRO
PO
LO i
C IA
M IA
STA
AS
ArrasrJi Hurop*
78
