Levente Gyöngyösi: The Image of God

To be honest, I feel a little overwhelmed, because it is always very hard to talk about a contemporary work while its author is still alive — and especially in his presence. When I spoke about János Vajda’s1 work Saint Peter and the Mercenaries, the composer was sitting here too; afterwards he came over and said, “Now I understand what I wrote.” There was, of course, a touch of mischief in that. Still, I believe the roles of creator and performer are, in some way, different. The composer’s job is to write the piece; ours, as interpreters, is to understand it and so make it comprehensible and endearing to the audience. In many respects the path that leads us to a work may differ from the composer’s own creative process.

We are certainly unaware of many of his thoughts; but just as often we recognise something he may not have been conscious of at the time — something that perhaps lived within him instinctively, or naturally, for some reason. ¹ János Vajda (1949, Miskolc): one of the celebrated composers of our time, who has made his mark across a wide variety of genres. A CD of his three oratorios was released in collaboration with the Budafok Dohnányi Orchestra. In 2003 he was awarded the Kossuth Prize. Overcoming my hesitation, I shall try to unravel the mysteries of Levente Gyöngyösi’s Istenkép (The Image of God), a piece written in response to Nostradamus’s prophecies2 and to the poems of Dante and Géza Szőcs,3 in the hope that by the end you too will feel the effort was worthwhile.

² Nostradamus (Michel de Nostredame, 1503–1566): one of history’s most enigmatic figures — physician to King Charles IX of France, astronomer-astrologer, seer and apothecary. He published his prophecies in his work The Centuries. ³ Géza Szőcs (21 August 1953, Târgu Mureș – 2020, Budapest): poet and politician. In answer to your encouragement, I must say that we all find it easier to engage with the kind of contemporary music written by Levente Gyöngyösi or János Vajda. For their works differ in one important, essential respect from those we have grown used to since the first half of the twentieth century — works that often provoke incomprehension and reserve in musicians and listeners alike. Gyöngyösi, Vajda and many composers living today believe that modern music need not adopt a language wholly cut off from its predecessors.

With incredible courage, Levente Gyöngyösi undertook to articulate in his work a historical event that has stayed very much alive in our consciousness for fifty years, yet which in many respects has not been fully worked through, either historically or humanly. Art has always been at risk when tied to current events. There are periods in which the political or historical events a work might be linked to are unrecognisable in the music. Many of Handel’s works are connected in some way to a specific moment in history. We can thoroughly enjoy the Fireworks Suite4 without thinking of the celebrations held to mark the Peace of Aachen, for which it was written. Nor, listening to the Dettingen Te Deum, does it occur to us who defeated whom at Dettingen,5 or whether this is reflected in the music.

(It is not, as it happens.) That era is marked by strong musical cohesion: on the one hand, we cannot tell whether a composer of the time wrote a particular work on a whim or in connection with a specific event; on the other, even where a work was linked to a current event, none of the devices the composer used to serve that event transgress the integral elements of the musical language. For this reason the musical process can be fully enjoyed and understood without any knowledge of the specific references. ⁴ Music for the Royal Fireworks was composed in 1748 to mark the Peace of Aachen, which brought the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–1748) to a close; the occasion was celebrated with a spectacular fireworks display in London. ⁵ The Battle of Dettingen took place on 27 June 1743 near present-day Karlstein am Main, as part of the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–1748).

It was the last battle in which an English king (George II, 1727–1760) personally took part. Handel duly wrote a celebratory oratorio to mark the victory. Later works tied to historical events increasingly present a different picture. Let me give two famous examples. The first is Beethoven’s symphonic work written to celebrate Wellington’s victory. Alongside the battle signals and cannon fire, the naïve musical clash between the characteristic national songs symbolising the French and the English goes far beyond the internal logic of musical language, moving from purely musical thinking towards the expectations of conceptual thinking. The other is Tchaikovsky’s highly effective and understandably popular 1812 Overture. There is little else in the canon to match such a din of battle.

Impressive and dramaturgically lavish though it is, it too ‘bleeds’ terribly from the constraints with which the composer depicts the battle and the victory. And none of these are typically musical devices. As for our relationship to history, the further we move from a particular era or event, the greater the chance of truly grasping its contradictions, truths and lessons. It seems that art, too, is far more likely to articulate timeless truths from the lengthening perspective of time. We can recognise the contradictions and truths of a historical situation marvellously well in Verdi’s Don Carlos, say, or Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov, or Honegger’s Jeanne d’Arc au bûcher in his oratorio.

At first glance these works focus on the stories and lessons of a historical situation, event or person; in reality they always present the contradictions of human existence, its light and dark sides, and timeless expressions of the divine and diabolical forces within us. I believe Levente Gyöngyösi’s work, too, can be placed in this category without any exaggeration. I am deeply convinced that our great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren will learn a concise, mature interpretation of the events of ’56 at school — yet they will recognise the timeless message of this composition with elemental force. For me, one of the greatest values and most profound experiences of the work is that even today we can grasp a summary that rises above the thinking of our age, burdened as it is by contradiction and conflict.

This does, of course, require a little sensitivity, a little empathy, and a certain distance from everyday life. In The Image of God, perhaps the most surprising thing at first glance is that many moments seem to convey specific ideas that come to our aid. Two movements relate quite directly to the events of ’56: one is a battle scene, the other a decidedly raw, naturalistic text bound up with the figure of János Kádár. It is worth following the work with the text in hand, for it will help you greatly. One such ‘specific’ movement is the second, entitled The Boys of Pest, in which Géza Szőcs captures a truly harrowing moment. He uses the name ‘The Paul Street Boys’ to stand for the simple children of Üllői út who get caught up in the war — not in playground scraps, as in Ferenc Molnár’s novel, but in real war, which they scarcely comprehend.

They realise with a shock that this is no game, that a bullet might even pierce them. A text of dramatic force, which, in Gyöngyösi’s setting, becomes one of the defining pillars of that summary. The other text, closely and concretely linked to the events, is the work’s fourth movement, which — if one may put it so — is even more frivolous. Géza Szőcs wrote a text of surprising, frightening rawness for János Kádár’s song, the depth of which many cannot even fathom, precisely because of its historical nearness; or perhaps it provokes argument sooner than we can truly understand it. The composer brilliantly complemented the lyrics with a political speech by Kádár, and in his setting makes it the dramaturgical counterpoint to the second movement — the ‘Boys of Pest’.

The other three movements — ‘fortunately’, or rather by Gyöngyösi’s very deliberate intention — are not tied specifically to the historical event. The first movement is an introduction based on a prophecy and a line from Dante’s Paradiso in The Divine Comedy. The third is a lament, a piece of mourning music. The fifth expresses a sense of collective belonging. Although the piece cannot really be linked to Bartók, I mention him deliberately, because if we look at the dramaturgy of his Concerto — perhaps his greatest work — we find there too an introductory movement, a scherzo, a lament, a demonic, brutal scherzo, and a fifth movement that closes with the idea of peoples becoming one in body and blood, of collectivity and the experience of belonging. In presenting this work I shall try to highlight the points that give the most guidance on a first hearing.

I must say, in all honesty, that when we began rehearsing the piece again after our performance a year and a half ago, many things only now became clear to us. We are dealing with a truly many-layered work; it takes several hearings to reach a true understanding — and so a truly fantastic experience. The first movement is an introduction, based on a prophecy — Nostradamus’s. The text is an adaptation by Géza Szőcs:

Power shifts in a murderous fratricidal struggle. The Hungarians perish; there is a toll of life and death. The law here is worse even than servitude; the capital weeps and wails, as the younger brother turns against his elder.6

⁶ Nostradamus: Centuria II, quatrain 90. Of course Nostradamus does not mention a ‘capital city’; he speaks of a great city, and uses somewhat different imagery — but in content this is an impeccable poetic translation. Perhaps it is not worth a theoretical debate about whether Nostradamus was truly a seer or merely had a genius for sensing things. With a touch of sarcasm I might say that, thirty years after the disaster at Mohács, it was no great ‘achievement’ to make this prophecy. We know well that Mohács itself was not the main calamity, but rather what we got up to for a few decades afterwards; that was certainly a true fratricidal conflict and civil war. So there was a good chance of predicting that the Hungarians would turn on one another a few more times — as we did then, and many times since.

At the same time it is obvious that this formulation fits the 1956 Revolution and War of Independence with startling accuracy. As I said, another passage in the first movement comes from Dante, from Paradise:

Oh, happy Hungary! just do not let yourself be misled any longer…7

⁷ Dante: The Divine Comedy — Paradise, Canto XIX. Literally! To understand this, one must know that by the turn of the 1290s and 1300s news of the Hungarian struggle for the throne had reached as far as Florence. Dante had a Hungarian pretender to the throne,8 so it is likely he himself understood the situation in Hungary fairly well. Although this passage predates Nostradamus’s prophecy by two hundred years — and so is of later relevance only — it nonetheless fits wonderfully as a true, universal introduction: it shows how others see us, offering a glimpse of the image that has formed of us. ⁸ In 1294, in Siena, Dante befriended Charles Martel (of Anjou) (1271–1295), Prince of Naples, grandson of King Stephen V of Hungary (1239–1272). After Charles Martel’s death his son, Charles Robert (1288–1342), took up and pressed his claim to the throne in 1308, and reigned until 1342.

Levente Gyöngyösi chose very simple, folk-song-like material to introduce the first movement. This too is on the Bartók model: it is not a folk song, yet when we hear it, it is as if we recognise one. The prophecy is introduced by an alto flute solo; this is how the piece begins, and with it our composer creates a fantastic atmosphere. We hear the same melody as in the prophecy, but with mournful ornamentation in the style of the most ancient Hungarian folk music. This is quite rare nowadays, but the tradition still lives on in Transylvania.