Interview by David Gregor

A few moments ago, while walking to your house, I heard some notes which were unknown to me. What were you playing?
It was music by Arthur Lourié. I’ll be playing his chamber concert on a couple of occasions coming up soon. It’s a curious kind of music, isn’t it? The piece was composed in the 40s, but it seems to prefigure some of the actual New Age tendencies. But I’m not interested in this aspect. What I’m really interested in is how the piece is structured, in its fragmentary character and in the perpetual dialogue between the soloist and the other instruments. Only at the end do other instruments join the soloist, in what becomes a dialogue for five voices.

You recently gained great success in Paris, playing a violin concert of a forgotten author. You often propose unknown or hardly known composers. Is this a choice of yours?
Yes and no. Of course, I’m interested in amplifying the repertory and in proposing novelties, but in the case of the concert at the Salle Gaveau the choise of the pieces was linked with the intention of commemorating the 200th anniversary of the death of the Chevalier de Saint-George, Joseph Boulogne, a mythical character who lived in Paris in the second half of the 18th century and who has been rediscovered only recently, although during his lifetime he was a celebrity. He was mulatto (his mother was a slave from Guadeloupe) and the first black classical composer. His teacher was Jean-Marie Leclair and he was very much acclaimed, as befits a true star. He also was one of Europe’s best swordsmen. His compositions were to be heard all over Europe: in London, in Rome, in Vienna and in Prague. In Paris he founded and directed several orchestras with great success. We are indebted to him for the commission of Haydn’s six Symphonies in 1787, the so-called “Parigine”, and their first execution, which he personally directed in the presence of queen Marie-Antoinette.
He then took part in the revolution, at the head of a regiment exclusively composed of black men, the “Légion de Saint-George”. An entirely novel character by all means. He died at the end of the century and three years later, in 1802, when Napoleon introduced slavery again, he died for a second time and was irrevocably cancelled from history.
His Concerto opus 4, which I proposed in Paris (and also recorded for FORLANE) was the first modern execution. My personal success in that occasion is perhaps due to the fact that I was able to capture the essence of the music.

Let’s talk about you: when did you decide to become a violinist?
I was lucky enough to be born and to grow up in a musical family. When I was a little girl, I used to play with my dolls sitting amongst music-stands, while my father was playing in a quartet with his friends. It didn’t take long until I got my first instrument. I chose the violin because it was my father’s instrument and because I started playing it with him. I was less than five years old. But at that time I didn’t imagine I would become a violinist. What I really wanted to do was to play with my brother, who played the cymbalum, and to perform popular dances and songs with my family’s group, led by my father, which played on a wide range of occasions. This was actually a tradition for my family which for many generations had been dedicated to keeping the Moravian folk repertory of our ancestral country alive. There are even some documents which testify to my family’s relationship with Leos Janacek (who was a great scholar of that tradition). Janacek was born in Hukvaldy, a village only about 10 km distant from Frydlant, my family’s town. Even nowadays, whenever I have time, I put my traditional costume on and join my parents, my uncles, aunts and cousins, playing and dancing with them. But my father, who is a violin teacher and who was a subsitute master at the Opava Theatre for many years, wanted me to have a serious formation, so after having studied with him, I signed up at the music school in my town.

But the theatre was also important for your formation.
Yes, although only indirectly. Since my father worked at the Opava Theatre, I was able to follow the rehearsals freely, and I did this as often as I could. For me as a child this was a magical world. That’s where I learned to love Janacek, following my father’s veneration for this unique Moravian composer, who surely was one of the greatest of the 19th and early 20th century, and who innovated the lyrical theatre radically. Unfortunately, he left only one Sonata for the violin, which is nevertheless a masterpiece.

But when did you discover that you would dedicate your life to music?
It is hard to say exactly when. But I think it was inevitable, right from the beginning. Anything I did was in that direction. Even most of my friends were musicians. To study music seriously was thus something natural. In Opava I studied with Marcela Kuviková, who gave me an optimal basis. Then I signed up at the Ostrava Conservatory, in the class of an excellent teacher, Vitezslav Kuznik. I owe him a lot: also on a human level. He formed me professionally, shaping my violinist capacity. He also provided me with the Russian approach (he studied in St. Petersburg). After having received my diploma I was admitted to the Art Academy in Prague, and there I had the great fortune of getting to know an extraordinary person and marvellous musician: Josef Vlach. Unfortunately I was able to study with him for only a year. I still feel the loss and pain that I felt on the day of his sudden death.
After that, I studied with other violinists: Jiri Novak, the first violinist of the famous Smetana Quartet and Ivan Straus who, like Kuznik studied in Russia. In my playing you can thus detect the influence of two schools: the Russian, which I assimilated through Kuznik and Straus, and the Czech, intrinsic to the teaching of Vlach and Novak. Further on I was able to assimilate other experiences, beginning with that of Alberto Lysy. I actually won a grant for the Yehudi Menuhin Academy in Gstaad, where I was able to perfect myself with Lysy. There I also had the possibility of working with other violinists, beginning with Yehudi Menuhin in person.
I also attended some master classes with Gingold, with Amoyal, but the ones which most enriched me were those with Wolfgang Marschner in Weimar. Our work was intense and profound. This really was important phase for me.

And what about the numerous competitions? I know you’re not really too keen on them, but they’re important for your career, aren’t they?
Yes, I really have a certain aversion to competitions. I don’t have a competitive character and I can’t stand the stress of such situations. One is not there to play music, but to show that one is better than the other competitors, and if it’s not the right day, or if something goes wrong, then elimination follows immediately. I think that although they’re difficult to avoid, competitions are a distortion of musical life. The participation in an international competition can perhaps pave the way for a career, but there are some great interpreters who managed without. But I nevertheless had to take part in some competitions, although I didn’t really want to. And they were a success, so I really shouldn’t be complaining.

Don’t you think that a contest can enable a young musician to measure his capacities with that of others to see at what point of preparation he is?
Effectively this could be a positive point, but only theoretically. Practically one is not in the appropriate condition to be calmly listening to the others contestants. In general one doesn’t ever have the time, and exclusion from or a certain position in the classification is what really dominates the throughts. In general one knows what went well and what didn’t. I have never really been satisfied, even when I was awarded prizes. But this happens at all concerts, and I think it’s the same for everybody, regardless of whatever success could have been achieved. But when you’re very young, things are a bit different. I like to think about the Kocian contest, because I faced it like a game. The first time I took part, I was only ten years old, and I wasn’t really aware of what I was doing. This is why my success in it was so special. I’m also quite proud of my first prize at the Beethoven Competition in Hradec, because I saw my name written up on the plaque of honour, next to that of my idol, namely the pianist Krystian Zimerman, who had won some years before. Then, I was only eighteen years old. Following that was the occasion of the Tchaikovsky competition in Moscow, where I reached the semi-final. On that occasion I realised that I wasn’t a “competition-person”. I was much too influenced by the environment; I was tense and didn’t play as I should have. I said “enough”: but a few years later I surrendered and took part in the Prague Spring Competition. This time I adopted a different strategy: I completely isolated myself from the atmosphere of the competition, and I faced each single phase as if it were a normal concert. There were no other colleagues or competitors; there was no jury; I stayed away from comments and from predictions. I would go there, play, and then I would go straight back home. Somebody would then have the task of telling me where I was to play on the next day for the following turn. Till, after having got to the final, a jury presided by Josef Suk, proclaimed me as the winner, with the second prize (the first not having been awarded). And this was correct, because in the second turn I didn’t really play perfectly.

This important success at the Prague Spring goes back to 1997. At that stage you already used to play in an orchestra. How did you manage to reconcile your work with the competition?
Actually it wasn’t really easy. Normally to take part in a competition one must invest several months of preparation, assisted by one’s teacher, who follows, advises, and tries to prepare one in the best way possible. The most important thing is that he also gives assurance. I prepared myself alone, in my free time, having to give precedence to my duties with the orchestra. Before the competition I obtained a two-week leave, which I used to ultimate the program and to find the best form. In the foregoing months I gave some concerts and I managed to introduce some pieces which I then played at the competition. It was surely a hard experience, but having seen how things went, I’m now particularly proud of the outcome.

Despite your talent and the brilliant results that you have achieved since a young age, you chose to play in an orchestra. How come?
Because at a certain moment, one has to start earning money on which to live. One cannot be an eternal student, and the concerts that I was giving at that time were hardly enough for me to live on. Besides, after my studies in Gstaad, I told myself it was the moment to think about buying a good violin, which at that stage I couldn’t afford. So I decided to play in an orchestra for some time, in order to invest part of my income on the purchase of an instrument. In a music review I read about two interesting positions as a Konzertmeister.
One was for the Orchestre de Paris, and the ither for the Orchestra della Svizzera italiana. I quickly got ready for the audition in Paris, and I reached the final with another competitor. Unfortunately this was my first stay in Paris, and I was so fascinated by the city, that instead of studying and preparing the requested orchestra solos well enough, I would spend all day wandering around. The result was that they didn’t engage anyone, even though Semyon Bychkov, the Orchestre de Paris conductor, insisted that I apply again for the same place at the following competition, which was to be held a few months later. But that wasn’t the case, since at the same time I had won the competition in Lugano, and I thus became a member of the Orchestra della Svizzera italiana. It’s a great orchestra, at the moment probably one of the best in Switzerland. It is now conducted by Alain Lombard and by Serge Baudo, as a first guest conductor. This undoubtedly is an experience which has enriched me.

Quite an uncommon choice for someone intending on starting a career as a soloist.
In fact many people were surprised by my choice. They thought I would directly embark on a soloist route. The thruth is that, apart from the financial reasons, I feared that a too early career start would lead me to a neurotic life. If one is lucky and finds a person to launch one right from the beginning, one risks being burnt out prematurely. And if it is hard for one to take off, then insecurity and frustration can follow. The most important thing for me is to be able to lead a peaceful life. Even in my family, nothing was ever imposed on me.
A dear friend of mine, Alexis Weissenberg, told me that whenever his mother was asked how a family should behave with a talented child, she would answer: “you should kill the mother”.
Well, I never had to kill either my mother or my father. My talent never made my parents ambitious, and I was able to grow up in serene surroundings. In latter years for young musicians the way to concertism has become still harder, with more harsh consequences.
Numerous are lost on the way. “If their first record isn’t successful, they immediately change horse”. This is the answer of a recording producer to a television journalist. He was talking about a violinist who was only 16 years old. This is a very hard and cynical kind of philosophy.
Perhaps I’m wrong, but I think that in olden times, careers were built up more slowly but also more solidly. Generally agents, discographers and those linked to the musical world, were more serious and competent. Let’s be clear: even today there are lots of well prepared, competent and enthusiastic people, but in this unclear and confused world, it’s always harder to detect them.
Now I’ve left the orchestra because there comes a moment when you have to step forwards. And two years ago, my little daughter Dagmar arrived, and I want to be able to dedicate to her all the time I find. At that point it was impossible for me to reconcile study, concerts and work in the orchestra.

This thus means you have to reconcile your concert-activity with a nonetheless important one: that of motherhood.
Yes, but this is a beautiful task, which I really wanted. In 1997 I set myself two goals: to participate in the Prague competition, win it, and to have a child. I managed to do both.

Wasn’t it a bit too soon to have a child right after the competition, especially if you think of all the appointments for the following season, which were due to the contest’s result?
This is exactly the kind of calculation that I do not make. My life and my serenity have precedence. In any case, I only had to renounce giving the second Prokofiev Concerto with the Prague Chamber Philharmonic Orchestra, since the date was too close with that of the provised term for Dasa’s birth. But three weeks after I left hospital I played live for Czech television and I went on a short tour with the Ostrava Janacek Philarmonic, plyaing Tchaikovsky’s concert three times, and feeding the baby between one rehearsal and the other.

Back to your instrument, did you actually find the instrument you were looking for?
Yes, and it has been a great “conquest”. Actually it didn’t really take much time. After having searched for a year, and after having tried different instruments, I took possession of an instrument of Ferdinando Gagliano, dated back to 1775. It was love at first sight. It is a wall built instrument, original in all its parts, and perfectly preserved. Even its lacquer is original. But what really fascinated me from the beginning was its solar and brilliant sound. Really marvellous. I really had the feeling that we were made for each other. In the meantime, I had also asked Jan Spidlen, the youngest of the celebrated family of the Czech violin makers of Prague, to construct a violin for me. It is his opus 25, dated 1996. A really nice instrument, with a powerful sound, well balanced, a bit darker in sound than the Gagliano. Spidlen’s violin is the proof that even nowadays it still is possible to build some great instruments. So now I own two violins with different characteristics but both of great quality.

Let's talk about your repertory. You have been accused of presenting programs which are too original, or at least “unusual”.
I don't think that my programs are particularly original. It is true that I enjoy proposing programs with pieces which are linked by affinities. Or with pieces in contrast, that illuminate each other simultaneously. My strategy derives from the goal of conquering the audience. But funambulism isn't what I'm interested in. A critic wrote that my program seemed elaborated in order to keep audiences away. The program he was referring to, was the one I proposed at the Rudolfinum in Prague and it included (in the right order) Martinu's Czech Rhapsody, Enescu's third Sonata, Bartok's Sonata for solo violin and Ravel's Tzigane. What links all these compositions is their common inspiration by an imaginary folklore. In my country Martinu's piece isn't executed at all rarely and the Tzigane is almost a best-seller (in fact, it was collocated at the end, as a treat for the audience). But it is true that nowadays Enescu's Sonata is executed more and more rarely (which is a shame since it's one of the nicest violin works composed during the first half of the 20th century) and a certain percentage of the audience remains estranged to Bartok's Sonata, although it's a real work of art. But apart from all the affinities within the compositions, I must underline that concert was to commemorate Yehudi Menuhin's 80th birthday and we all know that Enescu was his teacher (and how often did he play that Sonata!) and that Bartok's Sonata was composed for him. So that comment, even though inserted in a laudatory critic, was out of place. And on the other hand, the audience, that is too often neglected, showed that it appreciated the selection. If it hadn't been so, I wouldn't have had such a success. Having said this, I must add that I really reflect carefully when preparing the program for a récital, but at the same time I try to give it a sense, not simply to do something original, if this means to surprise the audience and to show off. My decisions are dictated by purely musical criterions.

And what are these criterions? How do you compile a program?
There are no fixed criterions. There can be a program which is dedicated to a precise period in the history of music, or a program which combines classical, romantic and modern pieces. What remains important is that there is a musical and a dramaturgical sense. And it should stimulate the hearer to go further than the music’s simple hedonistic function. On the other hand, this is exactly what the real music lovers expect from us.
Now I’m talking about single concerts, but this concept is of course applicable even more so for the preparation of a concert season, or festival program. I’ve noticed that more and more often parallel to conventional programs, programs based on cultural projects are being elaborated. I think that this isn’t only simply the correct, but possibly also the only procedure, if we want a future.
Hiding behind the audience’s apparent laziness doesn’t only denote a lack of courage, but especially, it means lack of respect for this same public. There also is the problem of constantly innovating and rejuvenating the audience. We can find very encouraging examples of such innovation in the great European festivals, which used to be old fashioned and conventional.
It's enough to think about the Lucern Musical Weeks, which in recent years have been presenting very interesting programs, elaborated with great sensibility and intelligence, very innovative and open to contemporary music and to the 20th century music in general.
Lucern is thus a clear example of how even a great festival can conjugate its tradition and its history with renewal, guiding its audience along the itinerary. Others follow the example and I hope their number will increase.

So you think that above all, this is the interpreter's task.
The two aspects are bound together. The interpreter can offer some interesting programs only if the concert organisers accept them. Which doesn't mean having to leave out the whole great repertory of the past, but inserting it in a more ample context. All of our studies are based on this repertory, it is our background, and unfortunately, during our studies, we are seldom stimulated to go any further. We are the ones who should decide to take the step forward. And this is what I'm trying to do more and more often. To prepare new things, to extend the repertory, especially paying attention to the music of the 20th century, which is still largely waiting to be discovered.
In the last twenty or thirty years, there has been a boom of antique music, which has enabled us to rediscover a great amount of forgotten music. But I believe that at the present time we have arrived at a point of saturation, and that in reality, rather than extending our repertories, we're making them narrower. The offer is amplifying, but in a comfortable manner, in a sense of an already acquired taste. If the same amount of energy had been devoted to promoting the music of the last century, perhaps, our audience wouldn't feel so alienated from contemporary compositions (which in history is a unique situation, and it has been going on for decades). And I'm not necessarily referring to the more radical music, to the avantgarde and neo-avantgarde tendencies which have characterised the last century, but I'm thinking of composers who are apparently more conventional, such as Martinu, Enescu, Britten, Martin, Ginastera, ecc. who, although perhaps slightly more known in their own countries, still aren't well known enough on an international scale, and who have yet to find a right collocation in the music history of the 20th century.

And pertaining to the composer, do you have any preferences?
Of course, as does everyone, I believe. I also have preferences within the works of a single author. Let's take George Enescu for example. He composed many important works which are still little known. I decided to record his Third Sonata and his “Impressions d'enfance”. The latter is a very difficult piece, musically and technically, and it is rarely executed. I think that until now only Kremer has recorded it. The Italian producer with whom I had intended recording, instead of the “Impressions d'enfance” wanted me to play, together with the third the two preceding Sonatas of Enescu. And he wouldn't accept the idea of me combining Enescu's two pieces with a Sonata of Janacek. His reasons? Nobody knew the “Impressions” and putting only Enescu's name on the record's cover would make it easier for the shops to catalogue it in their alphabetical displays... I wasn't interested in the first two Sonatas, for they are works of youth, still immature. So I said goodbye to the Italian producer, but not to the record which I intended recording, and which is now going to be released by FORLANE.
I realise that I love the pieces that “love me”, always more. Those pieces that make me feel comfortable, which coincide with my sensibility, which allow me to express something because they really are in harmony with me, because those pieces also speak about me. Perhaps this is where the border between a simple execution and the possibility of an interpretation lies.
To understand a work means to be able to live with it. It’s a bit like a lover. One doesn’t choose a person to whom one is indifferent. However, luckily I have plenty of lovers...

Do you have any models among the violinists of the past and of the present?
I don't have any models. Each epoch has a different sensibility. Everyone must build up their own violinism, if it can be described in such a way, depending on their own characteristics and sensibility. I have had some reference points, yes. If I think of the violinists of the past, or of those who are already part of the history of violinism, there are many who I loved, perhaps even only in a determined repertory. If I have to name someone, then I'll quote David Oistrakh, Henryk Szeryng, Josef Suk (who has been my idol since I was a child).
Referring to the younger generation, it is already well known that there are many good instrumentalists, with a preparation and a technical level with a higher average than in the past. But I think that there aren’t any big personalities. Compared to the past, there is more uniformity, and increasing similarity.
We are getting to the point where someone who is gifted with a particular charisma, feels uncomfortable because of this homogenization and tends to connotate his interpretations in an excess of “originality” or extravagance in the hope of distinguishing himself, but with the risk of becoming a caricature of himself.
But there are different violinists in whom I'm interested, and to whom I enjoy listening with great pleasure. If I must name a present-day violinist then I won't hesitate in naming Frank Peter Zimmermann, who has never deluded me, neither live nor in his recordings.

To conclude, what are your future projects?
Firstly, I want to take enough time to study new pieces, enlarging my repertory in the direction which I outlined before. Then, I want to dedicate myself more to chamber music. In the last years, I have had different occasions to frequent this repertory, which I really enjoy, and I'd like to do this more. In the near future I want to create a chamber ensemble. I like the idea of creating a variable formation, an ensemble which from time to time would group together a number of different musicians for each project.
Another middle term project is the creation of a small festival or of a cycle of musical encounters, that will give space to a stimulating programming and which will allow young talented musicians to be involved and to become known. I'm also thinking of some great young musicians from my country, who are appreciated in the Czech Republic, but who have difficulties in becoming more well-known abroad. We'll see. As far as the immediate future is concerned, apart from the normal concerts, I have a particularly stimulating project for next summer, namely the recording of a video dedicated to Eugène Ysaye and to his violin sonatas, which I will play in their entirety, and which will be produced by Swiss television.

David Gregor (translated by Martina Kren)