Category: Fine Arts

Renoir and the Jews.

As a member of the Institute of Jewish Studies (IJS) at the University of Antwerp, I was recently invited to a lecture by Richard Yerachmiel Cohen, Emeritus Professor of Jewish History and Contemporary Jewry at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, who specializes in the history of French Jewry, the Holocaust, and art history. The subject he chose to tackle was Jewish pre- and post war patronage of visual art and its impact on the international art market. Being both art loving and fascinated with the Jewish identity, I decided to attend.

Wandering the labyrinth of academic halls, I recognized some classrooms where I had been breaking my head over exam questions, my ears stuffed with plugs to block out any white noise – I couldn’t and still can’t bear any sound when I need to concentrate. Memories of blackouts, eurekas, adrenaline rushes, disappointments, exhilaration, and relief flooded my mind. The storm of emotions I felt in this building was more overwhelming than the finale of a Rachmaninov concerto.

The room I was searching couldn’t be missed – its front door was guarded by two armed policemen and security personnel who kindly but firmly asked I hand over my coat and handbag. Bearing in mind the Islamist terror attack that killed two Israeli tourists visiting the Jewish Museum in Brussels in 2014, no risk could be taken in the presence of a predominantly Jewish audience, among which the Israeli ambassador.

Anti-Semitism, or anti-Zionism, as it is today labelled by anti-Semites who want to cover up their true conviction, is still a harsh reality in this post-Holocaust era. In the past decades, the hatred of Jews and their homeland has increased significantly in Europe and beyond – a regrettable but unsurprising trend that once again triggers Jewish exodi to other continents.

Before the professor started the lecture, he was introduced with many (well-deserved) superlatives by Vivian Liska, director of the IJS. Sitting hunched over on his chair, he reminded me of Noam Chomsky – you know, this Jewish-American, anti-Zionist, Pol Pot-apologist, self-described anarcho-syndicalist professor who believes Marx is God and America is the devil – frail, vulnerable, and on the verge of collapsing faster than Joe Biden on the stairs of Air Force One.

Great was my surprise when Cohen stood up with a straight back and addressed the attendees with the imposing, captivating voice of a Roman orator, filling no less than two hours with his speech without instigating a single moment of boredom in me, nor the rest of the attendees. Everyone hung on his eloquent lips.

It was a brilliant exposé of how Jewish intelligentsia worldwide influenced the international art market by sponsoring artists, organising exhibitions, and founding numerous art galleries and museums. It is remarkable that no other minority in the world is at the source of that many museums.

At the end of the 19th century, many wealthy Jewish families in France acquired and sold paintings of great masters. One of those families was the Parisian Cahen d’Anvers family, who commissioned portraits of their daughters from Auguste Renoir, an Impressionist who struggled to make a living as a painter. This must have been a great source of frustration for him, as it was to other underappreciated geniuses like Paul Gauguin, Henry de Toulouse-Lautrec, and Claude Monet, the man considered the founder of Impressionism.

Renoir’s talent and avant-gardist artistry were admirable. What was less so, was his anti-Semitism, a sentiment shared by many of his compatriots, that amplified when Napoleon III lost the war against the Prussians in 1870. The French, humiliated by their defeat, looked for a culprit. For those who know history and how easily it repeats itself, it comes as no surprise that the Jews – rich, untrustworthy, unpatriotic, and traitorous as people have always believed them to be – were once again blamed for a collective misfortune.

This time, the blame fell on Captain Alfred Dreyfus, an artillery officer of Jewish ancestry accused of espionage for the Germans, in what might have been the most shameful judicial affair in the history of France (which was magnificently filmed by Roman Polanski). Dreyfus was publicly degraded before a crowd screaming:

“Death to the Judas! Death to the Jew!”

After having his insignia torn from his uniform and his sword seized and broken, he was deported to solitary confinement on Devil’s Island, a penal colony off the coast of French Guiana in South America.

The Dreyfus affair divided France like the Trump presidency divided America. Everyone was either for or against Dreyfus, and the expression of antagonist opinions drove spouses, families, neighbours, and friends apart. A cartoon image made by the anti-Dreyfusard caricaturist Caran d’Ache, entitled ‘Un diner en famille’, published one month after Emile Zola’s galvanizing letter ‘J’accuse’, shows how a family dinner party turned into a massacre while discussing the Dreyfus affair.

Even though Renoir, along with millions of other Frenchmen, was a staunch defender of the French court that falsely convicted Dreyfus, the veracity of his anti-Semitism is sometimes disputed. A friend of mine argued that, would Renoir have been a true anti-Semite, his brush would have depicted Jewish people in a stereotypical way, with a long, crooked nose, or other stereotypical Jewish features. This seems like a weak argument – if Renoir would’ve done so, he would’ve quickly gained the reputation of being anti-Semitic and stop receiving the commissions he so desperately needed to survive.

Other arguments that could plea in his favour are that he often exhibited with the Bernheims, who were the foremost Jewish dealers. He was also in good terms with his Jewish sister-in-law, Blanche Renoir, and he attended the funeral of the Jewish painter Camille Pissarro, something Degas refused to do. The anti-Semitism of the latter is undeniable: when a model in his atelier dared suggesting Dreyfus might be innocent, he furiously screamed:

“You are Jewish! You are Jewish!”

and told her to leave immediately. Until the Dreyfus affair, Degas had been a great ami de la maison of the Halévy family, attending their shabbat dinners and painting their portraits.

Renoir wasn’t a ‘ferocious anti-Semite’, as Pissarro described Degas. However, when I read certain statements in the letters he wrote to friends, I’m inclined to believe he wasn’t exactly a Judeophile either. His fellow Impressionists Pissarro, Monet, and Signac, who were all pro-Dreyfus certainly did not appreciate his views, that were hard to reconcile with (but maybe easily explained by) his dependency on the financial support of Jewish art collectors.

Renoir had been introduced to those collectors by a certain Charles Ephrussi, a respected art historian, main contributor to the Gazette des Beaux Arts, an important socialite with many useful connections in Jewish and noble Parisian salons, and … a Jew. In one of his columns entitled ‘Jews in Paris’, a British columnist wrote the following about him:

“Through the loophole of art, one of these energetic Israelites penetrated the salon of an ex-imperial highness. He made room for his uncles and aunts and cousins, who gradually introduced their friends and their friends’ friends, until at last the Wednesday receptions of the amiable hostess… have come to be in large degree receptions of the descendants of the tribes.”

Thanks to Ephrussi, Renoir gained popularity as a portraitist and became able to afford painting non-commissioned works. In what can perhaps be perceived as a token of gratitude for his connections, Renoir depicted Ephrussi in one of his most ambitious works, ‘Luncheon of the Boating Party’.

Ephrussi never got married in his lifetime, but he did have an affair with Louise, the wife of Louis Cahen d’Anvers. He convinced to commission portraits of her eldest daughter Irène from Renoir.

When art critic Joris-Karl Huysmans saw this painting at the Salon, he was very enthusiastic:

“The portraits that [Renoir] exhibits in the present Salon are charming, particularly one of a little girl in profile, which is painted with a flourish of color that has only ever been approached by the old masters of the English school. Curiously passionate about the reflection of the sun on the velvety skin, the play of the rays over the hair and the fabric, M. Renoir bathed his figure in true light and one sees the adorable nuances, the iridescence that blooms on the canvas! These works figure, absolutely, among the most sumptuous at the Salon.”

Louise, however, wasn’t very pleased with the portrait, nor with the other double portrait of her other daughters Renoir made and banished them all to a servant’s room. Little did she know that it would today be considered one one of Renoir’s greatest masterpieces and be of unfathomable value. Above that, she delayed Renoir’s remuneration for over a year. The latter was furious:

“As for the 1500 francs from the Cahens, I must tell you that I find it hard to swallow. The family is so stingy; I am washing my hands of the Jews.”

Renoir also wrote in an anti-Semitic manner about Ephrussi, which obviously cooled their friendship. Maybe his ambivalent attitude towards the Jews was rooted in the fact he was sometimes underpaid, or not paid at all, by Jewish commissioners who disliked the final result of his work, like the Cahen d’Anvers family. Maybe his status anxiety translated itself into a latent jealousy for the wealth of the Jews, and the Dreyfus affair allowed it to come to the surface.

The journey of Irène’s portrait is, by the way, remarkable. In 1883, it appeared in the first impressionist exhibition in 1883. In 1891, Irene married Count Moïse de Camondo, who purchased to portrait as an addition to his vast collection. The entire collection can be admired today at the Musée Nissim de Camondo in Paris -.

More than half a century later, the Nazis gained power and stole thousands of paintings owned by Jews. The portrait was hidden with thousands of other art works in the Chateau de Chambord. The painting was now in possession of the creator of the Gestapo: Herman Göring!

After the war, the painting resurfaced in a Parisian exhibition of paintings stolen by Nazis. It was then obtained by Emil Georg Bührle, a Swiss industrialist, art collector of German origin and CEO of the armaments company Oerlikon, supplier of the German military. If you want to see the portrait today, you should visit the Bührle Collection in Zürich.

Irene had two children: Nissim and Béatrice. Nissim died as a fighter pilot during World War I, and Beatrice and her children were murdered in Auschwitz. Irene however, survived the Holocaust and lived until the age of 91.

A sad story behind a magnificent painting, made by a man who perhaps harbored the same hateful feelings that catalyzed one of the greatest genocides in history. My research left me full of doubts: Did Renoir make overtly anti-Semitic remarks? Certainly. Can he be labelled an anti-Semite for making these remarks because he wasn’t treated fairly by his Jewish patrons? Perhaps not. However, he was definitely on the wrong side of the Dreyfus affair.

Fine Arts Religion

Spirituele Kunst.

Tijdens de lessen kunstgeschiedenis waarvoor ik me in 2022 inschreef, wierp ik voor de eerste maal een blik op wat voor mij tot dan toe onontgonnen terrein was: de in India ontstane hindoeïstische kunst, dewelke zich over heel Azië heeft verspreid.

Deze kunsttraditie, die zich voornamelijk manifesteert in dans, architectuur en beeldhouwkunst, is altijd religieus geïnspireerd. Zelfs onderwerpen die voor de westerling profaan lijken, hebben een sacrale ondertoon. Een voortdurende interpenetratie van het immanente en het transcendente, van de micro- en de macrokosmos, is het voornaamste kenmerk van deze kunst.

In Hindoeïstische sculpturen ontwaart men vaak vrijende koppels in kamasutraanse posities. De westerling ziet hierin een erotisch beeld van lust en verlangen. De Hindoe daarentegen, ziet de sacrale unie tussen de lingam en de yoni, tussen de mannelijke, gevende en de vrouwelijke, ontvangende energie. Dit samensmeltende contrast komt ook tot uiting in abstracte beeldhouwwerkjes zoals de shiva lingam, waarbij het verticale deel de lingam symboliseert, en de het horizontale platform de yoni.

Het doel van de Indische kunstenaar is niet het afbeelden van de empirische, zintuiglijk observeerbare realiteit, zoals de westerse naturalist of impressionist. Het is ook geen l’art pour l’art, geen kunstvorm die een puur esthetisch doel beoogt, zoals in de moderne westerse kunsttraditie.

Wat de Indische kunst beoogt, is het reflecteren van de glorie van de goden. Vooraleer de Indische artiest een godheid afbeeldt, mediteert hij over de essentie van die godheid. Het mentale beeld of rupa dat zich dan geleidelijk vormt in zijn brein, het beeld dat hij niet ziet met zijn twee fysieke ogen, maar met zijn derde oog, concretiseert hij in een kunstwerk.

(Over de manier waarop de kunstenaar de goden dient af te beelden, en het mentaal bewustzijn dat hij daarbij dient te handhaven, bestaan eeuwenoude regeltractaten die chastra’s, Sanskriet voor handleiding, worden genoemd. Hindoeïstische kunst is zeer hiëratisch – van deze regels mag niet worden afgeweken. Een criterium van een geslaagd kunstwerk is de getrouwheid van de kunstenaar aan de iconografische wet.)

Wanneer men kijkt naar gopurams, de felgekleurde pyramidale torens rond tempels die de Meruberg, het centrum van het universum, symboliseren, kan men door de versatiliteit aan goddelijke figuren vermoeden dat het Hindoeïsme een ongebreideld polytheïstische godsdienst is. Deze visie vraagt om nuance – het is eerder een mystiek pantheïsme waarbij alle goden eigenlijk emanaties zijn van de belangrijkste god, Brahma.

Net als het Christelijk mysticisme kent het Hindoeïsme het concept van een Heilige Drievuldigheid. Deze bestaat uit de drie belangrijkste goden: Brahma, Vishnu en Shiva. Deze laatste is de patroonheilige van de kunsten en yoga. Het is een ambivalente god, die op paradoxale wijzen wordt afgebeeld – soms als barmhartige god die goede daden stelt, en soms als vernietiger van demonen.

Wanneer hij wordt voorgesteld als Nataraja, heer van de dans, creëert én vernietigt hij de kosmos, zodat deze opnieuw kan herboren worden in een eindeloze, repetitieve cyclus. Met zijn voeten stampt hij de chaos kapot, en tegelijkertijd gooit hij zijn talrijke armen in de lucht, als symbool van vernieuwing. Een vurige halo omringt hem.

Men kan stellen dat Indische kunst het resultaat is van een spiritueel bewustzijn. Het is een utilitaire kunst, die steeds in dienst staat van de goden – een creatieve inspanning als offer aan het goddelijke, ter bewerkstelling van de harmonie van de kosmos.

Ethics Fine Arts Philosophy

The Truth about Beauty.

Being surrounded by beauty in my habitat is indispensable to me. The sunlit room I wake up in, the antique art books that fill my shelves, the pearly white amaryllis that blooms near the window, the view of the neo-Roman church I see when sipping my morning macchiato, the wing piano on which I practice arpeggios and the arpeggios I practice on my wing piano, up until the golden pen I sign letters with – all these expressions of beauty contribute to my happiness. Beauty is important to me, and therefore abundant in my world. Even the sleek design of my toilet brush receives compliments from visitors. Life is just too short for unappealing toilet brushes, and if you must engage in activities as primitive as discharging your excrements, you might as well have an aesthetical experience.

My love for beautiful things stems not from materialism, but rather from a profound appreciation of the aesthetical. I do not buy beautiful things for the sake of possessing them but for contemplating and appreciating them, which gives me serenity and joy. The opposite is true, as well: spending time in an environment that lacks beauty makes me feel miserable. And as befits an aesthete worthy of her name, I detest ugliness, in all its forms.

And so does Immanuel Kant, the first philosopher to have written a systematic work about aesthetics, the philosophy of beauty and art, man’s ultimate expression of beauty. He and other great thinkers like Baumgarten, Locke, and the contemporary Sir Roger Scruton, have reflected upon what beauty means, why we are the only creatures on the planet consciously craving and creating it, and how it can be meaningful in the human existence. They all seemed to agree on the fact that the perception of beauty triggers emotions that are a prerequisite to our mental wellbeing.

So, in trying to define beauty, one could say it is something we perceive to be harmonious and well juxtaposed, whether it is colours and lines in photography, shapes in abstract paintings, notes in music, phrases in poems, or bricks in architecture. But most of all, beauty is something we feel – the Greek word αἰσθητικός (aesthetikos) means sentient, feeling. Try listening to Mendelssohn’s Spring Song played by Daniel Barenboim and not feel overwhelmingly joyous. Or listening to David Fray play Franz Schubert’s third moment musicale for piano, which triggers a variety of emotions in me: careful joy impregnated with a sense of patience and a slight melancholy. It is so beautiful that I hold my breath not to miss one single note, composed by the man who called himself the saddest man on earth. Schubert is proof that not only joy, but also sadness can be the creator of a beauty so great, words become insufficient to describe it. Nothing concrete happens to make us feel that joy or sadness, and yet those abstract, ephemerous notes make us feel real emotions in all their intensity. The beauty of art lies in its capacity to frame human emotions, and in identifying with them, we get a deep insight in the human condition and recognise ourselves.

Beauty is indeed a metaphysical trait of a physical object, a feeling. But not everyone feels the same when looking at or listening to the same thing. Our eyes and ears indeed all judge differently – I might think Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia is a horrendous building, while others perceive it as the epitome of architectural beauty. We westerners tend to find slender people attractive, while inhabitants of other continents admire curvier figures. And quite incomprehensibly, not everyone appreciates the genius of Mozart, some find more excitement in jumping up and down to the frightening screeches of heavy metal singers. Beauty is clearly a relative concept, dependent on the preferences of the individual who is molded by his époque, environment, and culture. Beauty, we have been taught, is to be found in the eye of the beholder.

Cultural relativists go even further in this line of thinking, and say that everything humans create is equally beautiful, that the naïve, chaotic scribbles of a child are as beautiful as the masterpieces of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, or that Ludwig van Beethoven’s sublime oeuvre is on the same level as the tastelessness and vulgarity of twerking strippers on MTV, rapping with two-syllable words about sex and money, blasphemously identifying as artists. In as much as this modernist definition of beauty might be popular and politically correct, it certainly is not satisfactory. If anything can be judged beautiful by anyone, nothing is ugly, and the word beauty becomes void and meaningless.

The vision that all beauty is taste-dependent, is also disputed by the observation that some features are judged as beautiful by everyone, regardless of their surroundings. Several academic studies indicate that all the infants involved in the research had a strong visual attraction to certain facial characteristics, like big eyes, a small nose, full female cheeks, a square male jawline, and facial symmetry. Infants have not yet been programmed by societal influence, suggesting that the role biology plays in our response to beauty might be bigger than we think. If certain facial features are universally appraised as attractive, perhaps there is a beauty that transcends subjective perception, and that is undeniably, intuitively beautiful to everyone it confronts. Like a symmetrical face, but also a peach golden afternoon sky, a majestic waterfall, or a tree, this wonderfully complex, fruit-bearing, oxygen-producing structure with an abundance of leaves in a billion shades of green, growing from earth to heaven in Fibonacci sequences. This is the Absolute Beauty discussed by the aesthetes: the beauty that contains absolute, mathematical truth.

We did not invent mathematical laws, but discovered them in nature, the cradle of beauty and truth, and therefore our greatest source of inspiration, creatively and scientifically. The fairness and wisdom are there, waiting to be unraveled by humanity. Ugliness and ignorance, on the other hand, are an anomaly, a deviation from the natural standard, a work in progress. In distinguishing the beauty from the ugliness, we recognise the truths among the falsehoods, and in understanding that the truth is superior to the falsehoods, we can extend our judgments of the rational to the moral sphere, and determine what is right and what is wrong. To be good, we must first know what is good. This, then, must be the most complete definition of beauty:

Beauty contains Truth that leads to Goodness.

Aristotle understood this link and underlined the importance of teaching children to play an instrument, as that would also educate them ethically, and virtuosity would lead to greater virtue.The interconnection of those three elements makes me believe that Earth and humans are supposed to be beautiful, wise, and good, and that they are the ultimate ideals man should strive to attain in his eternal, bittersweet pursuit of happiness.

Fine Arts

Tears in a Paint Brush.

Unlike music, an ephemerous, fleeting art form that can only be appreciated at the moment the composition is interpreted by the artist, a painting is a static representation of reality – a snapshot that remains unaltered no matter how long you look at it. The inner experience of the spectator, however, brings dynamism into the static. His perception brings movement into the unmoving. His imagination makes the painting alive.

True art offers an aesthetic experience, but most importantly, it creates a response in the mind or heart of the perceiver. When I listen to impromptus Schubert, I feel a mixture of deep melancholy with a touch of hope, like a tiny growing plant struggling through thick layers of snow, conquering the harsh winter, bringing along its promise of new life. I feel the souffrance humaine, but also the meaning of it. Schubert shows that life will bring tears, but also smiles that make it worth living. Listening to his music is not entertainment – it is a highly spiritual experience. It is the contemplation of utter inner beauty. It makes me stop breathing, so I won’t miss a note.

Although I don’t feel the same ecstasy when looking at paintings, they do trigger a whole array of emotions. ‘The Scream’ of Münch, for example, brings about a malaise. The wide-open mouth of the protagonist betrays his horror. The spectator is left guessing who is pursuing him, and why. Maybe Münch depicted the anxiety of his mentally ill sister. But a survivor of the Shoah might see something very different.

The Death of Marat’ depicts a murdered revolutionary in a bathtub, but David’s masterpiece doesn’t make me ill at ease. The soft colour palette and harmonious composition turn the lugubrious subject into an almost peaceful scene. Only the bloody water gives away something horrendous has taken place.

The expressionist artist aims to highlight, literally and figuratively, the inner world of his subject, the public, and himself. The goal is not a truthful representation of objective reality, like it was for the naturalist painter Caravaggio. He was brought to trial at least eleven times for his in-your-face realism. Instead, the expressionist wants to convey a specific sentiment, sometimes through exaggeration of facial traits, like Münch’s screaming fugitive. Other expressionist tools are the non-naturalistic use of colours, free brushwork, and a highly textured application of paint.

In his unique book The Story of Art, art historian Gombrich illustrates these differing goals with a fitting comparison between the realistic mother hen with her chicks, painted by the early Picasso, and the hot-temperedness of the rooster he sketched when he adopted the expressionist style.

While expressionist painters mainly want to provoke a response within the spectator, Baroque and Rococo painters try to depict reality more beautifully than it is with their lavish, frivolous decorations. This can be endearing, like Fragonard’s pastel-coloured damsel on a swing. However, the story behind this painting is naughtier than the tenderness it evokes: the girl on the swing is the mistress of the married courtier, lying on the ground beneath her and peeking into her skirts. The hand gesture of the chubby putto on the left indicates the secrecy of their affair. The swing is pushed by a man who, according to the client’s wishes, should have represented a bishop – but the irony of that request was a bridge too far for the artist, so he painted a layman.

Paintings I can stare at for a long time are the mysterious jungles of the post-impressionist Rousseau. Between the blades of grass and exotic leaves that, one by one, flowed out of his brush with great meticulousness, I keep discovering details of preying predator’s eyes, fruits, and flowers. The artist’s amazement at nature amazes me.

Coloured brush strokes on canvasses make you travel. To the past or the unknown, through memory or fantasy. Which paintings have touched you, and which emotions did they evoke?

Fine Arts

The Piano and the Now.

All instruments sound beautiful. But the most beautiful sound emerges from the instrument of the instruments: the grand piano. With its pitch-black lacquered soundboard, snow white keys and the longest strings, she is majestic, imposing, breathtaking. The ultimate pleasure for the eye and the ear.

This heavenly instrument was invented by the Italian harpsichord maker Bartolomeo Francesco di Cristofori around 1700, the year Johan Sebastian Bach turned 15. Unsatisfied by the lack of touch sensitivity of the harpsichord, he replaced the plucking mechanism by little hammers. This wasn’t just an invention – it was a revolution of sound! He called the instrument ‘gravicembalo col piano e forte’, a harpsichord that can play softly and loudly.

To me, the piano is the most exciting instrument of all. It is a percussion and string instrument at the same time. When the pianist’s finger hits the key, three strings are eventually struck by a hammer. While other instruments require multiple fingers (and sometimes lungs or feet) to produce only one sound, the pianist’s ten fingers can produce 10 tones simultaneously. Or 20 tones, when two pianists play a duet on one piano. Just listen to Kahtia Buniatishvili and Yuya Wang, two contemporary piano icons who play Hungarian Dance No. 5 by Brahms on a Steinway & Sons grand piano together. You will be amazed at the tonal richness.

With her wide tonal and dynamic range and her multiple voices, the piano can replace an entire orchestra. Her tremendous touch sensitivity allows to reproduce the whole gamut of human emotion like no other instrument.

Playing the piano brings me into the present moment. Practicing pianistic technique, learning how to play a composition, improvising a melody and giving a recital to an audience are all moments in which I focus on the present. It is now that my eyes read read the score, that my brain deciphers the notation, that my finger hits a key. I feel emotions triggered by a musical story that resounds now, the only moment that really exists.

The past is gone and the future did not yet occur. Both are abstractions in which we human beings dwell often – but true awareness, and consequently happiness, are hidden in the now. The piano is thus not only an object that produces beautiful sounds, but a channel to transcend my perception of the artist into the only moment one should be.

When I watch a painting, I enjoy its beauty, but when I play the piano, I recreate the composer’s creation. By mixing my emotion with the emotion of the initial creator, I give the piece a new, unheard dimension, which I will never be able to replicate in exactly the same way again.

When I play the piano, she and I become one. Her keys become the extensions of my fingers. She becomes the mediator between me and eternity.

Fine Arts

Wolfgang and I.

Wunderkind Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was my first musical obsession. Ever since I watched Milos Forman’s cinematographic masterpiece Amadeus as a little girl, I have listened to his music… his frivolous, ever-optimistic, genious music that filled the room with the innocent joy one can only feel as a child. I fell in love with it, and with the long-dead persona of this composer, whose music is more alive than ever.

I read several of his biographies and couldn’t help but notice the things we have in common. A high-pitched laugh, for example, and a dextrogyrous, ornamental handwriting. When I visited the Viennan house he and his wife Constanza lived in, I noticed a drawing of his pet attached to the wall. To my bewilderment, the white terrier with brown spots looked exactly like mine. Later, I discovered Mozart had an attention deficit disorder and exhibited motoric tics, just like me. We both looked for the etymological origin of words, and both had our fair share of nocturnal festivities. And just like me, Mozart believed in a divine Creator, as reflected in his name Theophilus, which he latinised into Amadeus, or He Who Loves God.

And then of course, we both adore the instrument of instruments, the piano, although our ways of canalising that love through the keyboard is obviously beyond comparison. I struggle playing the pieces he composed when he was eight. But my infatuation with music, the art of arts, is great nonetheless.

Wolfgang’s Chinese astrology sign was a rat, and so is mine. And because rats, and rat people, love being around each other, I like to believe we were friends in a previous incarnation on Earth, sharing the occasional bottle of fermented grape juice while he was showing off his latest sonata for me, in some nocturnal, candle-lit venue.

Wolfgang had a fragile health and easily fell prey to illness, like me. He had a problematic relationship with his emotionally absent father who he nonetheless loved, and at times, was guilty of a little excessiveness – things that sound very familiar. He despised rules, and quickly verbalised his thoughts in a politically incorrect way, lacking diplomacy and unafraid to offend. Like me.

So Maestro, if we ever meet again in the Hereafter, could I please request one brief moment of your tutorship? Even a selfie will do – you are most probably too busy composing heavenly concertos up there, for a public more appreciative than the current earthlings.
Your genious brought so much happiness into my life. Thank you.

I end this reflection with a phrase the Polish-French romantic mastodon Fryderyk Franciszek Chopin uttered on bis death bed to his friend Franchomme: “Vous jouerez du Mozart en mémoire de moi”.