Gould, Glenn. (1932–1982).
An exceedingly rare autograph letter signed from the legendary pianist. 4pp ALS, May 29 [1957], on letterhead of the Hotel Steinplatz, Berlin, addressed to Deborah Ishlon, his New York press agent, whom he addresses as "Shore Bird." He has signed the letter "Crow", both names having been inspired by a pair of pastels by the painter Morris Graves. The pianist also writes his last name in the text of the letter.
Writing from Berlin, Gould describes a concert conducted by George Szell as "one of the most shocking examples of pedestrian program-planning I've ever sat through - Every work with the possible exception of Barber's rather insignificant essay was chosen to show off the rapport of the various chairs. Mind you, the orchestra played magnificently as regards precision...but withal there is an icy calculation about their playing which makes me uneasy - Especially so...after the Berlin Philharmonic who play with just as much facility, but so much more sensitivity. The Beethoven (No. V) was hard as nails...so unrelenting, so noisy, so fast, so entirely without the majesty which is there. This score is the most compressed of Beethoven, what it needs in performance is a little relaxation..." In a jocular mood the pianist asks about a banquet to be given in his name: "Trust plans are going nicely for the 'Welcome Home Gould Banquet.' Suggest $50 a plate compulsory attendance of all Steinway executives..." He makes a suggestion that "for the Columbia lobby a collection of photographs of Busoni and I at comparative ages would be effective... a collection of unfavorable reviews of my Beethoven playing from the pages of the Times, Sat-Review and High Fidelity would prove an interesting conversation piece..." Torn in the corners, but overall in excellent condition. Showing his self-mocking sense of humor, as well as his extraordinary musical acumen, this is one of the finest Gould letters we have seen. 8 x 5.75 inches (21 x 15 cm).
Sold together with a copy of a 1988 typed note from the original owner, Joseph Roddy, explaining that "The noms des plume that he affixed to his press agent and himself were the titles of two pastels among the arresting aviary of feathered humanoids conceived by the painter Morris Graves and put on exhibit in the late Fifties at the Museum of Modern Art. That is where the pianist, his press agent, and this writer - each by then a close friend of the others - met in the museum's lobby to go painted bird-watching together. Most of the time I was watching the 26-year old Gould and making notes for a Profile | was writing for The New Yorker magazine. In a few days Gould was leaving New York for his first recital tour of Europe and the Soviet, and I could not arrange to make the trip with him. At my pleading he agreed to keep a journal of all that diverted him that might be rich fodder for his Profile-writer. But instead of keeping the journal, most of what he wanted me to know got scribbled into fact-packed and sometimes clownish letters he sent to me via his very caring Shore Bird. Although she reserved the right to black out any passages she regarded as self-disserving to her Moon Mad Crow, she blacked out nothing. Some whole paragraphs he wrote I fitted into the Profile I wrote of him that you can find starting on page 51 of the May 14, 1960 issue of the New Yorker."
Gould, Glenn. (1932–1982).
An exceedingly rare autograph letter signed from the legendary pianist. 4pp ALS, May 29 [1957], on letterhead of the Hotel Steinplatz, Berlin, addressed to Deborah Ishlon, his New York press agent, whom he addresses as "Shore Bird." He has signed the letter "Crow", both names having been inspired by a pair of pastels by the painter Morris Graves. The pianist also writes his last name in the text of the letter.
Writing from Berlin, Gould describes a concert conducted by George Szell as "one of the most shocking examples of pedestrian program-planning I've ever sat through - Every work with the possible exception of Barber's rather insignificant essay was chosen to show off the rapport of the various chairs. Mind you, the orchestra played magnificently as regards precision...but withal there is an icy calculation about their playing which makes me uneasy - Especially so...after the Berlin Philharmonic who play with just as much facility, but so much more sensitivity. The Beethoven (No. V) was hard as nails...so unrelenting, so noisy, so fast, so entirely without the majesty which is there. This score is the most compressed of Beethoven, what it needs in performance is a little relaxation..." In a jocular mood the pianist asks about a banquet to be given in his name: "Trust plans are going nicely for the 'Welcome Home Gould Banquet.' Suggest $50 a plate compulsory attendance of all Steinway executives..." He makes a suggestion that "for the Columbia lobby a collection of photographs of Busoni and I at comparative ages would be effective... a collection of unfavorable reviews of my Beethoven playing from the pages of the Times, Sat-Review and High Fidelity would prove an interesting conversation piece..." Torn in the corners, but overall in excellent condition. Showing his self-mocking sense of humor, as well as his extraordinary musical acumen, this is one of the finest Gould letters we have seen. 8 x 5.75 inches (21 x 15 cm).
Sold together with a copy of a 1988 typed note from the original owner, Joseph Roddy, explaining that "The noms des plume that he affixed to his press agent and himself were the titles of two pastels among the arresting aviary of feathered humanoids conceived by the painter Morris Graves and put on exhibit in the late Fifties at the Museum of Modern Art. That is where the pianist, his press agent, and this writer - each by then a close friend of the others - met in the museum's lobby to go painted bird-watching together. Most of the time I was watching the 26-year old Gould and making notes for a Profile | was writing for The New Yorker magazine. In a few days Gould was leaving New York for his first recital tour of Europe and the Soviet, and I could not arrange to make the trip with him. At my pleading he agreed to keep a journal of all that diverted him that might be rich fodder for his Profile-writer. But instead of keeping the journal, most of what he wanted me to know got scribbled into fact-packed and sometimes clownish letters he sent to me via his very caring Shore Bird. Although she reserved the right to black out any passages she regarded as self-disserving to her Moon Mad Crow, she blacked out nothing. Some whole paragraphs he wrote I fitted into the Profile I wrote of him that you can find starting on page 51 of the May 14, 1960 issue of the New Yorker."