Something not entirely reassuring has
happened to the man. A great deal of the music that he has been
composing of late wants the bite his earlier work had. The colors are
not so piping hot. The outlines are less bold and jagged and clear-cut.
Some of the convulsive intensity, the fury, has passed out of the
rhythmic element. The melodies are less acidulous, the moods less
unbridled. No doubt, something happier has entered into his music,
something more voluptuous and smooth. The 'cello chants passionately and
dreamily in the two sonatas Ornstein has written of late for it. The
racial element is softened, become gentler and duskier and more
romantic. The Jew in it no longer wears his gaberdine. If he wears a
prayer-shawl at all, it is one made of silk. The Jeremiah of the desert
has given way to the young, amorous, dream-filled poet, a poet of the
sort that arose among the Jews in Spain during the years of the Moorish
ascendency. Yet, a certain intensity, a certain originality, a certain
vein of genius, has undergone eclipse in the change. Something a little
brilliant, a little facile, a little undistinguished, has introduced
itself, even into the best of the newest pieces. The texture is thinner,
the tension slacker. Ornstein does not seem to be putting himself into
them with the same directness and completeness with which he put
himself into his earlier work.
Pages:
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277