I love Sibelius. I find his themes, motifs, melodies absolutely immersing. He was touted once as the heir to Beethoven and while I think Dvorak rightly deserves that title, in the 20th Century it’s hard to beat Sibelius.
I’m reading Alex Ross’s history of music in the 20th Century, The Rest Is Noise. It’s a fine book. Ross has a gift. Every once in a while I run across a piece of writing that is just begging to be shared. Today I read this, about the place where Sibelius lived.
Ainola stands much as Sibelius left it. The atmosphere of the house is heavy and musty, as if the composer’s spirit were still pent up inside. But you get a different feeling when you walk into the forest that stretches out on one side of the house. The treetops meet in an endless curving canopy, tendrils of sunlight dangling down. The ground is uncluttered: many paths fork among the trunks. Venturing a little farther into the wood, you lose sight of all human habitation. A profound stillness descends. The light begins to fail, the mists roll in. After a while, you may begin to wonder if you will ever find your way back. Many times in Sibelius’s music the exaltation of natural sublimity gives way to inchoate fear, which has less to do with the outer landscape than with the inner one, the forest of the mind.
Mm!
And yes, you can certainly get that from the music. Especially the later symphonies. But I can talk about that another time. For now, I just wanted to share this piece of exceptional writing.
