Qilin Sun in Review
“The East and the West”
Qilin Sun, piano
Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie Hall, New York, NY
January 20, 2023
Well, it has happened again. For only the third time in my nearly ten years of writing for this publication, a pianist has taken the stage, and by her very demeanor, and the way she played the very first note of her recital, I burst into tears (good ones!) and I knew that we would be in “good hands” for the rest of the program.
Qilin Sun, a Chinese-born prodigy, has had the best training imaginable (BMus, MMus, and now DMA at Juilliard with the superb Yoheved Kaplinsky), and she already has concerto touring experience.
Ms. Sun took the stage for the contemporary Chinese music half of the recital with her hair in a severe central braid and an aura of intense concentration. She waited at the keyboard until the hall had completely quieted down and she was ready. That was when that magical first note happened, the beginning of Pictures from Bashu (1958) by Huang Hu-Wei (1932-2019), six brief impressions of life in the pianist’s hometown, as she explained in her charming (but very soft) verbal program notes.
About those program notes, first of all, I thought we weren’t supposed to say “East” and “West” anymore, because: east or west of where? It implies centuries of colonial attitudes toward Asian countries. But lo and behold, during her small speech from the stage, Ms. Sun even said “Oriental” music, an even more pejorative term according to the late Edward Said.
Perhaps a more fruitful way to look at Ms. Sun’s program would be to focus on the dilemmas and compromises Chinese classical composers have had to confront. After all, any time someone is sitting down at a Steinway concert grand, and its twelve chromatic tones per octave, some degree of compromise is inevitable. In the best sense, all of her Chinese piano works are a “fusion,” a term we use in restaurants for example.
Ms. Sun’s pianism featured all my favorite things: liquid beautiful tone, fine rhythmic spine, and many many layers of sound (what the French call the plans sonores) in her voicing. Only when the dynamic rose above forte did her Hamburg Steinway not co-operate, instead producing its characteristic glassy upper register, I did not regard that as her fault. She also possesses that mysterious ingredient that can’t be taught: charisma. At all times, you could see, and hear (!), her strong sense of mission regarding Chinese music.
After showing us Bashu, the next work was Three Stanzas on Plum Blossoms (1973) by Wang Jian-Zhong (1933-2016), a work based on a piece from the Tang dynasty (618 – 907 A.D.) originally composed for the Guqin, a seven-stringed instrument of the zither family. Ms. Sun explained the importance of plum blossoms, which bloom first, even while winter’s cold is still present; that they symbolize vitality and vigor of nature, and courage and strength of the people. In this work, the musical compromise was most severe, as all the sliding and microtonal nature of the work that one hears on the Guqin was not revealed in the piano solo version, despite Ms. Sun’s continued gorgeous playing.
She then turned to Chen Qi-Gang’s Instants d’un Opéra de Pékin (2000). Qi-Gang (b. 1951), a naturalized French citizen and Messiaen’s last student, wrote a rhapsodic translation of (I imagine) his experience attending Chinese opera. If I didn’t know any better, I would imagine that this was a hitherto undiscovered work by Messiaen himself, and it refers at times to Debussy’s La Cathédrale engloutie.
Numa Ame (2017) by Zhang Zhao (b. 1964) followed. Numa Ame means Origin of the Sun or “most beautiful home,” a place where the Hani people put their good wishes. It represents the composer’s deep thoughts and good wishes for his hometown. I kept hearing numerous references to Zoltán Kodály’s folk rhapsodies, despite the 6800 km distance.
For me, the only unsuccessful work on the first half was Yin Qing’s Ode to Land, written last year by a twenty-four year old composer specifically for Ms. Sun. It was quite blustery, reminiscent of Liszt, but without that composer’s genius and experience. Here, the strident, bright piano was pushed beyond its limits.
After intermission, Ms. Sun took the stage with a change of gown, and her hair loosened, flowing free. She favored the audience with one work that had to convey the entire “western” portion of her chosen dichotomy, Prokofiev’s Piano Sonata No. 8 in B-flat major, Op. 84. This sonata, the last of the three so-called “war” sonatas, contains all the lyrical longing tinged with the undercurrents of fear and panic of the Russian people during WWII. Fragments of works originally conceived for homages to Pushkin (Eugene Onegin and Queen of Spades) waft in and out of the first two movements, and the work is cyclic as well.
In a similarity to the Chinese composers, Prokofiev himself was viewed as something of a compromiser for returning to his native Russia after a very successful cosmopolitan sojourn in Paris. All of Ms. Sun’s piano virtues were on vivid display. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the work played live with such exquisitely clear voicing, no matter how turgid the texture. She truly captured the sognando (dreaming) quality of the second movement. This sonata was premiered by the great Emil Gilels, and Ms. Sun may rightly take her place in the league of mastery.
After accepting a tumultuous, well-deserved ovation, and many bouquets of flowers, Ms. Sun ended with only one encore: Tchaikovsky’s poignant June-Barkarole from The Seasons, Op. 37bis, No. 6. Perfectly delineated, it scattered a balm over the hall if anyone was rattled by the violence of Prokofiev.
I would go out on a limb and predict great things for Ms. Sun, if she wants them and if she pursues them. I would love to hear her do a complete Ravel cycle. Thank you, Ms. Sun, for restoring me musically.
