fuckyeahclassical:

musichistory:

“Concerto in G Minor for 2 Cellos, RV 531 - 3. Allegro” by Antonio Vivaldi [ca. 1727?] performed by Yo-Yo Ma and Jonathon Mason with Ton Koopman and the Amsterdam Baroque Orchestra [2003]

When Vivaldi came up as today’s song, I was reminded of a back-and-forth discussion about sexism and Charles Ives which came across by dashboard a couple weeks ago. Is some music naturally more effeminate? Can women reach the same artistic level as male musicians? I think the following will show that one of those questions has been settled for centuries. At the same time the answer might irritate the modern feminist (male or female) for its quaintness.

Already a skilled violinist, at age 24 Antonio Vivaldi took a job as master of violin at an convent/orphanage in his hometown of Venice, Italy, where he began working with a seemingly unlikely group of musicians. The Pio Ospedale della Pietà took in orphans of both genders, but often struggled to find traditional futures for many unwanted young girls. Many of the girls were trained in music and over the centuries the orphanage’s choir and orchestra slowly gained a reputation. Thirteen years after taking his first job there, Vivaldi became music director and arguably led the women’s orchestra to its artistic peak. Among the many pieces he wrote for the orchestra was this unique double cello concerto (the date is completely unknown). The segment posted above is the energetic third (final) movement.

Philosopher, writer, composer Jean-Jacques Rousseau visited Ospedale della Pietà within a few years of Vivaldi’s death and had this to say about his experiences there:

“I have not an idea of anything so voluptuous and affecting as this music; the richness of the art, the exquisite taste of the vocal part, the excellence of the voices, the justness of the execution, everything in these delightful concerts concurs to produce an impression which certainly is not the mode, but from which I am of opinion no heart is secure. Carrio and I never failed being present at these vespers of the ‘Mendicanti’, and we were not alone. The church was always full of the lovers of the art, and even the actors of the opera came there to form their tastes after these excellent models.

What vexed me was the iron grate, which suffered nothing to escape but sounds, and concealed from me the angels of which they were worthy. I talked of nothing else. One day I spoke of it at Le Blond’s; “If you are so desirous,” said he, “to see those little girls, it will be an easy matter to satisfy your wishes. I am one of the administrators of the house, I will give you a collation [light meal] with them.” I did not let him rest until he had fulfilled his promise.

In entering the saloon, which contained these beauties I so much sighed to see, I felt a trembling of love which I had never before experienced. M. le Blond presented to me one after the other, these celebrated female singers, of whom the names and voices were all with which I was acquainted. Come, Sophia, — she was horrid. Come, Cattina, — she had but one eye. Come, Bettina, — the small-pox had entirely disfigured her. Scarcely one of them was without some striking defect.

Le Blond laughed at my surprise; however, two or three of them appeared tolerable; these never sung but in the choruses; I was almost in despair. During the collation we endeavored to excite them, and they soon became enlivened; ugliness does not exclude the graces, and I found they possessed them. I said to myself, they cannot sing in this manner without intelligence and sensibility, they must have both; in fine, my manner of seeing them changed to such a degree that I left the house almost in love with each of these ugly faces. I had scarcely courage enough to return to vespers. But after having seen the girls, the danger was lessened. I still found their singing delightful; and their voices so much embellished their persons that, in spite of my eyes, I obstinately continued to think them beautiful.

~ From Book VII of The Confessions of Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1770, pub. 1782) (via)