The true conception of the concerto, the essence of the genre consists in the struggle between the orchestra on the one hand and the solo instrument or group of instruments on the other. This struggle is interspersed with truces during which orchestra and soloist collaborate amicably, and it ends in reconciliation; it is nonetheless a real struggle. Sometimes, the weapons are common to both opponents: these are the main themes that recur in the solos and in the tuttis; sometimes, each one has his own: there are other themes reserved for the soloist, and others, finally, that belong only to the orchestra. The vicissitudes of the struggle are diverse: it can remain indecisive, and soloist and orchestra then refer the themes back to each other; the tutti can win a momentary victory and loudly trumpet his triumph; or the soloist, with chords, scales and arpeggios, can see his efforts crowned with victory, and, in a sparkling trill, taunt the defeated orchestra. But whatever the momentary outcome, we know that in the end neither will triumph, and that the final cadenza will seal peace and alliance between reconciled enemies. For this result to appear plausible, the struggle must be fought with equal forces. The orchestra uses its polyphony, its mass, its colour; the soloist, his virtuosity. The sixteenth and sixteenth notes (a triple eighth note) are the only weapon at its disposal to fight the weight and colours of the orchestra. Remove this means of defence; his instrument is only one between fifty; the orchestra crushes and absorbs it. Virtuosity is not a simple display of technical skill, it is a source of beauty and the very means of existence for the soloist. The orchestra is not forbidden to take advantage of its colour and weight; the soloist is not forbidden to be virtuosic The fact that some concertos composers have abused this weapon does not change the matter; the soloist must be a virtuoso or perish. The danger for the soloist of being absorbed by the orchestra is real and it is often to cope with it that so many mediocre concertos fall into the opposite excess and are reduced to a succession of lines preceded, interspersed and followed by a few modest interventions by the tutti. This danger threatens above all the concertos for string and wind instruments; those for the piano are much less afraid of it, because the sonority of the instrument stands out clearly against the orchestral background. For this reason, the piano concerto is perhaps the ideal of the genre; the struggle between a single violin and the whole army of strings, woodwinds and brass always seems unequal; with the piano, we are sure that the orchestra will find someone to talk to. The piano, by the complete difference of its tonal colour, as well as by the independence of its personality, is in a different position (from that of the violin) and generally takes the side of fighting the orchestra; the orchestra may be willing to admire, even adore; but the solo instrument is a thing apart, a being of a different race. The violin, on the other hand, is a national hero; the orchestra knows that it has emerged from its ranks. The violin has to fight harder to keep its personality where the two forces are in opposition; but once the solo instrument has won, it not only conquers, it convinces and inspires even those who were once in rebellion against it. Seen as a struggle between two forces, one simple, the other complex, the concerto ceases to be an inferior genre and deserves to be studied as much as the sonata, the quartet or the symphony. Of all the concertos, Mozart's form the most important group. This is one reason why they are entitled to special study. There is another reason. There is no genre in the entire work of their composer where he expressed himself so fully. His piano concertos, spread throughout his years, from his eighteenth to his thirty-sixth, present him to us at all ages; they are the most varied and extensive testimony to Mozart's artistic life. There we find his joys and sorrows, his hopes and disappointments; we enter through them into this inner sanctuary, where the weary and overworked man found the fresh and radiant life that never ceased to be reborn in the depths of his heart. Not that it is claimed that his most beautiful concertos are superior to the best of his other works; the four great symphonies, some of his quartets and quintets and many other compositions do not in any way surpass his most beautiful concertos. In almost every genre so diverse in which he has lavished his wealth, there are one or two works that count among his finest, but none of these genres offers a succession of masterpieces as abundant as that of the piano concertos. He composed some fifty symphonies, but of these, some thirty-eight were written before his trip to Paris at the age of twenty-one, and of the remaining ten, only the last four can be called great. He composed about thirty quartets, but only the last twelve date from the time of his maturity; the others are before the age of twenty-three. Neither do the eight quintets form a homogeneous group; the first is contemporary with the first quartets; the one with horn and the one for piano and wind instruments are from his twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth years; he composed the next two at thirty-one years of age, the one with clarinet at thirty-three, and the other two at the very end of his life. The same is true of the other genres, with the exception of operas, which spread out quite evenly throughout its maturity and form the only group that can compete with concertos for the privilege of reflecting in a complete way the physiognomy of their creator. Let us imagine that of all his instrumental music, only one group would have survived, and we will recognize that the one that would transmit to us the most complete image of the master, the one whose survival would, if possible, make the loss of the others less regrettable, would be the group of piano concertos. Mozart’s concertos, however, were far from concert hall staples in the early 20th century. Yet the tide began to turn. A new generation of classically oriented keyboard luminaries, whose ranks included Wanda Landowska, Walter Gieseking, Edwin Fischer and Arthur Schnabel, helped further the cause, as did Lili Kraus. Kraus likened her affinity with Mozart to a mission : ''When I began to explore Mozart, I discovered the infinite beauty of that music, and somehow it is given to me to give life to that beauty. I find it my God-given duty, privilege, and if you like, cross, to consecrate my life to this music.'' Certain pianists and composers become inextricably linked in the eyes of the public. Mention Glenn Gould, for instance, and Bach’s Goldberg Variations come to mind. Artur Schnabel and Beethoven were virtually synonymous; so were Walter Gieseking and Debussy, Arthur Rubinstein and Chopin, Alicia de Larrocha and the Spanish Impressionists. When it came to Mozart’s piano music, several generations of listeners and collector considered Lili Kraus’s interpretations to be the last word.. END
