Scriabin and Synthesis: How a Chance Hearing Changed My Conception of the Modern History of Classical Music

Howard Gardner © 2024

Alexander Scriabin

As a lifelong (though clearly amateur) pianist, I have long known of the name—if not the works—of Alexander Scriabin (1872-1915). I thought of him as a significant Russian composer from an earlier era. But for various reasons—which perhaps merit the descriptor “prejudices”—I have never bothered to immerse myself in his life and his works. 

But all that has recently changed! 

First, the prejudices:

Prejudice #1: When I heard Scriabin’s name, it was almost always linked with synesthesia—the connection of sounds to colors—and, in the case of a musician, the connection of chords and passages to various visual images, both stable and moving. On any criterion I am not a visual person: I am near- sighted, color blind, lack depth perception, and—as a bonus—am prosopagnosic (unable to recognize faces). I cherish the visual arts but have no facility in drawing. Accordingly, Scriabin’s reputation as a “visual composer” constituted one—or perhaps even two—strikes against him.

Prejudice #2: Unless one is an expert in area, one relies—indeed one depends—on the one or two immersions that one has had. My knowledge of the history of Western music is based largely on the excellent survey course, given by Professor G. Wallace Woodworth, that I took during my freshman year in college (in 1961-1962).

In “Music 1”, we learned that the trajectory of Western music changed forever in 1913. That’s when composer Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971) completed his ballet, “The Rite of Spring.” Before that work debuted in Paris, the arc of history of Western classic music consisted of the Three Bs (Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms), with perhaps Mozart, Chopin, Liszt, and Wagner as additional signposts.

When first performed, Stravinsky’s “Rite” drew shouts of disapproval—and reportedly fruit furled onto the stage of Théâtre des Champs-Elysées. But by that time, classical music had already begun to move steadily away from standard keys, chords and rhythms (and perhaps even themes) of the preceding centuries toward a quite different complex.

Théâtre des Champs-Elysées

As we learned in Music 1 henceforth, the major tension in the 20th century obtained between Stravinsky’s neo-classicism on the one hand, and Arnold Schoenberg’s twelve-tone music on the other. Schoenberg’s twelve-tone music never really caught on with audiences, though it became and remained a favorite of many musicologists, and some artists (see Pierre Boulez below).

Now to the mind-changing surprise:

Every summer, thanks to the courtesy of my sister Marion (a longtime senior administrator at the Boston Symphony Orchestra) and her husband Len, my wife Ellen and I make a pilgrimage to Tanglewood—an estate in Western Massachusetts universally dubbed “the summer home of the BSO.” Chiefly for scheduling convenience, this year Ellen and I chose the last weekend in July. The theme for the Friday-Sunday concerts in “The Shed” was the 150th anniversary of the birth of Serge Koussevitzky. A much-admired conductor of the BSO (1924-1949) Koussevitzky was also the genius behind the creation of the Tanglewood estate, now considered one of the major performing venues in the world. 

Serge Koussevitzky

Koussevitzky himself was not of much interest to most in the audience (the weekend had all too many vacant seats), though as an amateur historian of music, I appreciated the opportunity to learn about his life and work. I had not known that he was a composer as well—one program included his concerto for double bass, the instrument that he had mastered; nor had I known that he had been a champion of many Russian composers and performers of the time, including Rachmaninoff, Stravinsky, Prokofiev, and Scriabin.

On the program for Friday evening was one of Scriabin’s few orchestral pieces—he had written three symphonies—a tone poem called “Prometheus: The Poem of Fire.” This 23-minute orchestral piece featured a set of colored lights that were flashed on a screen intermittently during the performance. Because I am color blind, because (as noted above) I don’t much like visual effects, and because, as a result of my seating, I could not see the screen that well, these factors initially diminished my interest in the piece.

But not for long!

The score mesmerized me. Not only was it of interest—if not riveting—in its own right. But it seemed completely anachronistic—in this case, meaning “ahead of its time.” Composed and first performed around 1908 (both in Europe and in the United States at that time), “Prometheus” seemed like it could only have been composed after Stravinsky’s historically disruptive work had been performed in 1913. And yet, in its aversion of tonality, its shifting of mode and mood, and its overall dramatic contours, I could not fully believe that it had been composed and performed even before Stravinsky’s “Firebird Suite”—a crowd-pleaser first performed in 1910—or “Petrushka”, a charming and spirited, yet conventional ballet first performed in 1912.

What does a historically and biographically oriented amateur do in a situation like this?

In the intervening months, I’ve sought to learn about Scriabin’s life and times. (There is a three-volume biography in English, the only major work that I could locate—and of course there is a huge secondary scholarly literature, but it’s a bit too late for me to begin doctoral studies anew.)

And I learned: Scriabin was precocious; a gifted student at the conservatory; a difficult personality, confronting significant mental and physical challenges (described in the argot of a century ago); an ardent reader (if not a complete understander) of major Russian and Western European philosophy, poetry, and literature. In other words: an artist and intellectual of note.

So far that descriptor could apply to many musicians, not excluding Stravinsky or Schoenberg.

Also: Scriabin knew the major musicians of his time, including Rachmaninoff (who adored him and continued to play his music); Koussevitzky (who brought initial fame to him); and Stravinsky—they had only fleeting acquaintance; at first respectful, if distant. But over time, Stravinsky, who lived almost 70 years beyond Scriabin’s death, was often overtly hostile to Scriabin, dismissing him as a “man without a passport.”

Perhaps—just perhaps—this hostility occurred because Scriabin’s achievements threatened the “standard story” of the history of 20th century classical music that I had learned over 60 years ago.

An analogy: While I did not take Fine Arts 1, I am also an amateur student of Western art history. I know that the story of Pablo Picasso closely resembles that of Igor Stravinsky. (Their dates were almost identical, they knew each other, and they actually collaborated on some projects.) According to the potted history of Western European art, Cubism was launched by Picasso around 1907 and was energized over the next several years because of his friendly competition with Georges Braque.

Pablo Picasso, "Three Musicians", 1921

Let’s suppose, however, that there had been another painter living in France at the time—we’ll call him “Alexandre Scriabe.” Strongly influenced by the later paintings of Paul Cézanne, Scriabe began to break up familiar subjects of paintings—faces, foods, machines, journals—into geometric shapes, including cubes. Alas, Scriabe did not live in Paris; was anti-social (perhaps a bit mentally unstable); and died of a hemorrhage in 1914. It’s entirely possible that the potted history of modern Western art would be different—were the works and career of Alexandre Scriabe to be discovered, studied, and valued.

Historians like to play the game of “could history have been different?” Clearly, I would say: If Stravinsky had not composed after 1912, and if Scriabin had lived, composed and remained sane after 1915, 20th century and 21st century musical history might have been decidedly different.

Lessons for Synthesizers

In any sphere, many of us look for a conventional story, which we can commit to memory and on which we can “hang” new information—familiar and not so familiar. Indeed, in my book Creating Minds, I depended on a potted history of modern music (with Stravinsky as the key figure) and a potted history of modern visual art (with Picasso as the key figure).

Andris Nelsons

But syntheses are never complete, never final, never definitive. I sought to make this point in “Africa and Byzantium”, in my blogs about history, and in several other essays in this series. Herein, I have proposed the need for a fresh synthesis of 20th century classical music—one that appreciates the role that Scriabin did play and the role that he might have played.

And perhaps, just perhaps, now that BSO conductor Andris Nelsons has given fresh attention to the works of Scriabin, his name and place in the history of music will be increasingly appreciated and perhaps exalted.

Note: For those interested in hearing—and seeing—“Prometheus”, I recommend this performance by Chicago Symphony Orchestra from 1999, conducted by Pierre Boulez.

For their comments on earlier drafts of this blog, I thank Shinri Furuzawa, Annie Stachura, and Ellen Winner.

References

Bowers, F. (1969). Scriabin: a biography. Dover Publications, Inc.

Gardner, H. (1993). Creating minds. Basic Books.