In some cases, life is mysterious. As I discovered that Lotte Lenya grew up in the same environment as I did, I wondered if my research had been coincidence or destiny (see my first post on Lenya: Back to the Golden Twenties).
Continue readingIf I had the opportunity to travel back in time, I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment: I would choose the age of the Roaring Twenties. This time is marked by a rapid technological process, socioeconomic upheavals, feminist movements, and much artistic experimentation and innovation. However, what fascinates me the most are the artists who lived and were involved in cultural changes during this era.
Continue readingAt first glance, pianist Paul Wittgenstein and clarinetist Benny Goodman don’t have much in common. The one came from one of the wealthiest families in Austria and pursued a career as a classical pianist, although his family initially did not approve. The other grew up in poor circumstances as the son of Jewish immigrants in Chicago and achieved enormous success as a swing musician in the U.S. and around the world. And yet, in my research, I foreground their commonalities: both commissioned famous composers of their time to write new concertos for them, in one case even the same person: Paul Hindemith (1895-1963).
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Again on the train, and again heading west. This time it’s Paul Wittgenstein (1887-1961) I follow. As briefly described earlier, Wittgenstein was a Vienna-born pianist. He was the offspring of one of the richest Austrian families and among his siblings were, for instance, Margarethe Stonborough-Wittgenstein, known for her commitment to promoting the arts, and philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein. The habitus of patronizing the arts, especially music, was certainly a trait Paul inherited from this background. But he also wanted to be on stage himself. Although his father originally intended otherwise, Paul followed his ambition to become a professional pianist and began giving successful concerts shortly before the outbreak of World War I.
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The bells of the Basel Minster greeted me each morning when I arrived at the doors of the Paul Sacher Foundation. A short ringing inside the building signaled the lunch break for everyone. The Minster’s bell at 1 p.m. told me to come back. Eventually, the little chime at 4:45 p.m. would mark the end of the day in the archive. And from time to time, through the open window in the reading room, I would hear another bell ringing down at the river, meaning that someone was just calling the ferry. This is how my days were structured as I followed the traces of Antoinette Vischer (1909-1973), harpsichordist and patron of music at the crossroads of old and new.
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