Why is the make of the piano comparatively so neglected by reviewers?
Selling a 300-Year-Old Cello
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/15/magazine/bernard-greenhouse-cello.html
By DANIEL J. WAKIN
On a cold day last winter, an ailing Bernard Greenhouse, wearing an
elegant bathrobe and attached to oxygen, was wheeled into the living
room of his Cape Cod home, which was festooned with paper cutouts of
musical notes. Relatives and students, locals and caregivers had
gathered to celebrate the 95th birthday of one of classical music's
most respected cellists, a founding member of the famed Beaux Arts
Trio and a beloved teacher. Young cellists performed for him, and
then Greenhouse indulged in a martini and a plate of oysters. Thus
fortified, he decided he wanted to play for the company. He picked
up his cello and, though a bit wobbly, soulfully rendered "Song of
the Birds," a Catalan folk melody transcribed by Pablo Casals, with
whom he studied many years ago.
"And then he laid down the bow and praised the cello for its
beauty," Nicholas Delbanco, Greenhouse's son-in-law, recounted. "He
said it had been his lifelong companion and the darling of his
heart." Indeed, the instrument, known as the Countess of Stainlein,
ex-Paganini of 1707--perhaps the greatest surviving Stradivarius
cello--had been with Greenhouse for 54 years. It was his voice on
numerous recordings and a presence at up to 200 concerts a year.
Toward the end of his life, Greenhouse asked his nurses to lay the
instrument next to him in bed.
But in a twist of exquisite poignancy, Greenhouse was not actually
playing his precious cello that day on Cape Cod. It was an exact
replica that was made especially for him, a beautiful instrument but
not the Strad. As they listened to him talk of his love for the
cello, his daughter Elena Delbanco and her husband grieved that he
could not tell he was playing the substitute. "We knew that this was
the beginning of the end," Nicholas Delbanco said. Five months
later, Greenhouse died.
Despite saying that he wanted to sell his cello while he was still
alive so that a worthy young musician might benefit from it,
Greenhouse was unable to part with it. Now his family has entrusted
the sale of the Countess of Stainlein to the Boston violin dealer
Christopher Reuning, who this week will open sealed bids starting in
the millions of dollars.
Much attention in the music world is given to the sale of Strads and
other rare string instruments. The numbers are tallied up like
baseball records: $15.9 million for the 1721 Lady Blunt Stradivarius
violin this year; more than $10 million for the Kochanski Guarneri
del Gesu in 2009. Reuning expects that the Greenhouse cello will
match or exceed the previous record of $6 million for a cello.
Behind the dollar figures, though, is a story of possession and
loss, of performers giving up the instruments that have defined
their artistic and emotional selves.
"It was the pride of his life," Elena Delbanco, a lecturer at the
Gerald R. Ford School of Public Policy at the University of
Michigan, said of her father's Strad. "It was his soul mate. Until
the day he died he could not bear to part with it.
"I would like him, were he around, to think that we did the right
thing and be happy where the cello went," she continued. "I would
like it to be loved as much by its next owner as it was by my
father."
The master makers of bowed instruments flourished in northern Italy
from about 1550 to 1750, when supreme craftsmanship, superior woods
and varnish, enduring models and a highly developed apprentice
system centered on a few families. The best-known were located in
Cremona and included Amati, Guarneri and Bergonzi. But the greatest
acclaim has belonged to Antonio Stradivari, or Stradivarius, as he
was also known. Only about 600 instruments attributed to him are
still in existence, including 20 of his prime cellos--made after
1707 in a slightly smaller size, called Forma B, and more adapted to
solo playing. The Countess of Stainlein is the earliest known Forma
B.
While researchers have suggested that it can be difficult to tell
the difference in sound between old and new instruments, dealers
certainly benefit from the mystique that keeps prices high. And
musicians themselves talk of the old violins and cellos as
repositories of secrets to be slowly discovered, sources of
limitless color and nuance. Here is Greenhouse describing his
instrument's sound, as recounted in "The Countess of Stanlein
Restored: A History of the Countess of Stanlein ex-Paganini
Stradivarius Cello of 1707," a book by Nicholas Delbanco that uses
an alternate spelling of the cello's name: "The quality of sound is
something that one wears, that adorns an individual as though it
were a beautiful piece of apparel. The ear can be deceiving
sometimes; sometimes I'll pick up one of the lovely modern celli in
the morning and be very happy with it, but in the afternoon I'll ask
what could possibly have pleased me." Sound is not fixed, Greenhouse
said, "but with my Strad there was never a time when I've been
disappointed." Greenhouse was a player of refinement and
introspection. In a Beaux Arts recording of Schubert's Trio in E
flat, the elegiac opening measures of the Andante con Moto movement
convey everything beautiful about his playing. The vibrato is light
and warm; the notes taper elegantly. The drop in the 15th measure to
a low G sounds like a cat jumping onto a carpet.
Beyond their sound, though, the old instruments encapsulate history,
passing through the hands of the world's great performers. The
history of the Greenhouse cello has been traced to 1816 and Vincenzo
Merighi, the son of a violin maker who played in La Scala's
orchestra, becoming its principal cellist in 1823. Merighi later
played quartets with Paganini, who bought the cello for his
collection. The collection was consigned by his son, Achille
Paganini, to a Paris luthier named Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume in 1846.
Count Louis Charles Georges Corneille de Stainlein-Saalenstein, an
amateur musician and a host of musicales, appears to have acquired
the cello in 1854, and it then passed to the Countess of Stainlein.
After her death in 1908, Paul Grummer, a future cellist in the famed
Busch Quartet, took possession. A collector in Aachen, Dr. George
Talbot, bought the violin from Grummer in 1938. Nineteen years
later, Greenhouse heard about the instrument and tracked it down. "I
opened the cello case and fell immediately in love," he says in
Delbanco's book. "The color of the varnish, the shape of the
instrument, it was so beautiful, so very beautiful, and it seemed to
me a great jewel." He paid what his daughter Elena described as a
fortune for the time, although a tiny fraction of what it's worth
today.
Through the optic of history, those in possession of these
instruments are caretakers, not owners. For their players, the
transfer to the next caretaker symbolizes the end of performing, the
termination of an artistic prime, the memories of which reside in
long-used instruments. "The violin is not only a friend," said Aaron
Rosand, 84, once a prominent soloist in the tradition of the great
Romantics like Oistrakh, Milstein and Heifetz. "It's something that
you live with. Every day it becomes more dear to you. It's almost
like a living thing. You treat it carefully; you treat it gently. It
talks to you," he said. "You're caressing your instrument all the
time. Parting with an instrument that has become such a wonderful
friend is just like losing a member of your family."
In 2007, Rosand announced that he planned to sell his Guarneri del
Gesu, the Kochanski, and donate $1.5 million of the proceeds to the
Curtis Institute of Music, where he studied and continues to teach.
He recently had back surgery and could no longer stand long enough
to perform. "It didn't make any sense to tie it up," he said. Over
the next couple of years, Rosand received offers, including some
from noted players who came to try it out. "I could hardly bear to
hear it played by someone else," he said. But their offers were not
large enough. "I wasn't going to part with it just for admiration
for someone's fiddle playing. Once I decided to sell it, I wanted to
get the price for it."
Then he received a visit from a man he described as a Russian
oligarch. Working through the dealer Peter Biddulph, Rosand flew to
London with the Kochanski and checked into a suite at the Langham
Hotel one day in October 2009. He resisted any urge to play it one
last time. "I didn't have the heart to," he said. The next day,
Biddulph and the Russian arrived at the suite. The mood was somber
as the dealer examined the violin. They spent three or four hours in
the suite, waiting for e-mail confirmation from Rosand's bank that
the money had gone through. They ordered tea and filled the time
with small talk about the violin's travels and Rosand's concert tour
in the old Soviet Union. When the e-mail arrived, the Russians left,
and Biddulph took the instrument to his vault. The price, according
to Rosand, was $10.1 million.
"It's hard to completely express what it meant to me," Rosand told
me last month when I spoke with him about letting his instrument go.
"The agony, the tears I shed on just thinking about the parting." He
made good on his pledge to Curtis, paid $2 million in taxes and is
using some of the rest to help with his grandchildren's educations
and to give to charity. He said he talked to the buyer about having
other violinists use the instrument, but he received no assurances
and does not know if it remains in a vault or under a violinist's
chin.
Some musicians have taken other routes. Several years before his
death, Isaac Stern sold his famed Ysäye Guarneri del Gesu to the
Nippon Music Foundation, which allowed him to use it until the end
of his life. The foundation buys valuable instruments and lends them
out to top players. "It gave him some security at the end of his
life, and it got him to continue to play on the violin," said his
son, the conductor Michael Stern.
The conductor Lorin Maazel, who was also a violin virtuoso in his
younger days, auctioned off his 1783 Guadagnini to an anonymous
bidder for $1.08 million and poured the money into his Castleton
Festival for young musicians. "It made my life complete as a
musician," he said of his fiddle. "But a magnificent violin needs to
be played and kept alive. I always knew I would have to part from
it." The family of Gregor Piatigorsky lent his 1714 Strad cello, the
Batta-Piatigorsky, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where it is on
display in the musical-instruments collection. The loan agreement
allows for it to be played on approval by the family. Museum
officials said there had been only one request, and it was turned
down.
Raphael Hillyer, the founding violist of the Juilliard String
Quartet, was in his 90s and repeatedly spoke of his plans to sell
his viola, a late-16th-century Gasparo da Salò. Twice, Hillyer
summoned Christopher Reuning to his home in order to hand over the
instrument. The last time was in November 2010. Reuning went to
Hillyer's apartment in downtown Boston. The violist was seated at
the dining-room table. He held his instrument up and offered it to
the dealer to hold. Documents were spread out on the dining table.
Hillyer asked Reuning a series of questions: What would it sell for?
What is the commission? How long would it take? They talked for more
than an hour, with Hillyer returning again and again to the same
questions.
"He sat there clutching it in his hands," Reuning recalled. "I
realized he was not ready to give it up. I told him, Why don't you
keep your viola and we'll talk again sometime?" They made another
appointment for just after Christmas, but Hillyer died on Dec. 27,
at age 96.
"It's inconceivable that my father ever would have let it go,"
Jonathan Hillyer told me. "I think his life would have ended
immediately if he did such a thing. It's part of what kept him
alive. He played it every day, even when it got to be so painful to
pick it up. It was his life force. If he had sold it, it would have
been like he was giving up."
One day last month I met with the cellist Laurence Lesser in a
barren practice room at the offices of the Lincoln Center Chamber
Music Society. Lesser, 73, is a prominent teacher, performer and
former president of the New England Conservatory of Music, and owns
a 1622 Amati cello.
We talked at length about Greenhouse, whom Lesser described as a
friend, and about the nature of musician-instrument relationships. I
asked him to describe the sound of his Amati, and Lesser looked at
me and said, correctly, "You want to hear it, right?"
He carefully removed the 400-year-old instrument from its case and
pulled off a burgundy silk bag. Then he began to play, producing the
extraordinarily mellow sound, singing but complicated, that
musicians say is typical of the great instruments.
"I don't know how long I'm going to be playing," he said after he
was done. "I may have huge medical expenses, I may need the money it
will bring. How can I predict that? I don't know how I'm going to
die or when, or what's going to happen in the family."
He had no intention of selling, he said, but if he did, it would be
like selling his old house. Once out, you move on. "I'm not
sentimental about these things," he said. "It's almost a person, but
I still value people more than things." But as Lesser talked more
about his Amati, the complicated nature of his attachment to it
became more apparent.
"We respond to these old instruments because they feed us, they
inspire us," he said. "Life has so many possibilities and such
endless richness that unless you just shut down, you're always going
to learn from the environment. For us string players, our
instruments are our environment. It keeps stretching us, it keeps
demanding of us, it keeps us aspiring to grow. And it's the same old
wooden box. I know I love playing on this cello, and I love it now
more than I ever did."
In early December, I visited Reuning's shop on the fourth floor of a
generic office building in Boston's Back Bay. Inside, though, is the
re-creation of an Old World luthier's shop. Violins and violas hang
like bats in a glass-and-dark-wood cabinet. Stringed instruments in
various stages of undress lie on work tables in the restoration
room. The Paganini, Countess of Stainlein cello didn't fit in the
shop's safe, so it sat in a corner in its scuffed black case.
Reuning took it out of its case and brushed his fingers over its
glowing, almost iridescent back. "This varnish is absolutely
glorious," he said. He pointed out the Forma B's extra-high ribs,
which make the cello thicker and create greater volume and
resonance. The back is made of an expanse of maple, with its
"flames," or rows of tiger stripes, so beautiful that other violin
makers would recreate them with varnish on cheaper models made with
poplar or willow.
Heirs entrusted with the sale of such instruments stand to make a
significant amount of money, but they're also left with an enormous
responsibility. "I began to worry about what was going to happen to
it," Elena Delbanco told me. "Really worry, that somehow it would
come to harm or I would make bad decisions about how to sell it, or
it would end up somewhere where it wouldn't be played again."
So Reuning--who will receive a commission--devised an unusual
sale in which the Delbancos would have an opportunity to review the
sealed bids, giving them a chance to accept a lower offer if they
felt it better honored the cello. That is, if they believed a lower
bidder, like an investing consortium that lends out instruments,
might mean it was more likely to be played.
"What we're hoping for is a bid that also makes emotional sense,"
Elena Delbanco said, "so that we feel really happy that some
wonderful young talent is going to play it."
I asked her what she would do if confronted with a $7 million bid
that meant the Strad would stay in the case and a $5 million bid
that ensured it would be played. The extra money, she acknowledged,
could be put to philanthropic uses--buying instruments for needy
children, for example. "It would be amazing to do good," she said.
"But you can't do good at the expense of the cello's future." At the
same time, they don't want the Strad buried in a museum or in an
oligarch's vault. "That would make us sad," she said, "but we
understand we may not have control over that." Ultimately, she
acknowledged, they would have to accept that the cello now had a
caretaker other than her father or his family. "Once it's out of our
hands," she said, "what can we do?"
Daniel J. Wakin writes about classical music and dance for The
Times.
Correction: January 13, 2012
An earlier version of the headline with this article misstated the
age of the cello. It is 300 years old, not 400.