CARNEGIE HALL PRESENTS
András Schiff

Stern Auditorium / Perelman Stage
Thursday, October 30th, 2008 at 8:00 PM

András Schiff, Piano

BEETHOVEN Sonata No. 22 in F Major, Op. 54
BEETHOVEN Sonata No. 23 in F Minor "Appassionata"
BEETHOVEN Sonata No. 24 in F-sharp Major, Op. 78
BEETHOVEN Sonata No. 25 in G Major, Op. 79
BEETHOVEN Sonata No. 26 in E-flat Major, Op. 81a, "Les Adieux"

Encores:
SCHUBERT Moments musicaux, D. 780
SCHUMANN Arabeske in C Major, Op. 18

Program Notes:

Music for Connoisseurs, Music for the World at Large
Beethoven’s Sonatas Opp. 54, 57, 78, 79, and 81a
András Schiff in conversation with Martin Meyer

Martin Meyer: Anyone who studies Beethoven’s piano sonatas has to take into consideration not only the ideas and challenges presented by individual works, but at the same time must see them in the context of what comes before and after them. What can the performer learn from this?

András Schiff: On the one hand, the performer obviously has to produce as logical a rendition as possible of a specific sonata. On the other hand, it’s important for the unity of the collective 32 sonatas to “hear” the past and the future at the same time. That doesn’t mean, for instance, that you have to play the long trill in the finale of the “Waldstein” Sonata as though you were already in the world of the Arietta of Op. 111. But a good many of the new ideas Beethoven introduces during his work on the sonatas have the potential for further development—a development that stretches, incidentally, far beyond his own output and into the Romantic, even late-Romantic, period. So for the performer to be aware of, and to understand, such lines of development intensifies the intellectual and spiritual nature of his interpretation.

In many of Beethoven’s works—in contrast to Mozart, and rather more like Haydn—emphasis is placed on a kind of progressive development. Is that what makes interpretation of his works particularly challenging?

We always have to have the horizon of chronological events before our eyes and, more importantly, our ears. This applies not only to an individual work but also to a genre as a whole. For example, I play the early F-Minor Sonata, Op. 2, No. 1, of 1795, differently—that is to say, more dramatically and energetically—when I’m conscious of the fact that the “Appassionata” Sonata, composed 10 years later, begins in the same key and intensifies the passionate nature of the earlier sonata into grandiose despair. And, in its turn, the interpretation of the “Appassionata” could be helped by looking forward to the String Quartet, Op. 95, also in F minor.

After Op. 31 and Op. 53, the piano sonatas of Beethoven’s middle period encompass, five more works. The ‘Les Adieux’ Sonata Op. 81a marks the end of this phase, before we reach the last group. Once more, the variety of forms they contain is astonishing.

It provides evidence of a progressive journey that comes to a temporary halt with the completion of the “Appassionata” in 1805, before continuing again some four years later with the F-sharp-Major Sonata, Op. 78. However, Beethoven varies the design of these five sonatas in a wholly adventurous way. The “Appassionata” is preceded by the two-movement F-Major Sonata, Op. 54, the mood of which is partly song-like, and partly heavily accented. The Op. 78 Sonata takes us into a lyrical as well as a capriciously playful world, while the next sonata, Op. 79, whose first movement is headed alla tedesca, is generally incisive and extroverted. Finally, the “Les adieux” Sonata presents us with a wonderful portrayal of a spiritual state between farewell, absence, and joyful reunion.

Many pianists play the “Appassionata” as a climactic ending to their recital. However, your cyclic performance places it within the context you have just outlined, and the program begins with the fairly unknown and somewhat disconcerting work in F major, Op. 54.

That allows the tension to increase all the more and to be resolved again with the F-sharp-Major Sonata. But the advantage of a chronologically arranged cycle lies in the direct juxtaposition of contrasting characters of this kind. Also, in this way the F-Major Sonata comes into its own, because unfortunately it’s still a neglected stepchild of the piano repertoire. That’s probably because the first movement—especially in its unruly and quick-tempered episodes—has a slightly aloof, or “abstract” character. Finally, the finale gives rise to some technical difficulties: It’s not a piece you can simply take in stride.

The work is condensed into two movements, of which the first is headed In tempo d’un Menuetto. But it certainly doesn’t sound particularly ingratiating or agreeably dance-like.

No. Once more we find ourselves confronted with a sort of Janus-faced piece: On the one hand, the first theme rises up from the bass in a songlike and tender way, and is extended in more polyphonic textures; and on the other hand the forceful second theme, with its relentlessly driven octaves and sixths, shatters the calm. So you could say that the “female” and “male”—an opposition familiar from some of Beethoven’s other works—are intertwined here in a very original manner: “Beauty and the Beast” once again. And while the threefold appearances of the first theme are rather painterly, the second theme, which is heard twice, strides forth with sculptural hardness and in canonic imitation. With its many sforzatos and its staccato, this energetic second theme is unyielding, almost stubborn.

The sonority is altogether very hard to grasp: We hear something that is not unambiguously pianistic, yet also does not seem to have an aura of the string quartet about it.

The sound, as I said, is a little abstract in effect, and in that respect it already looks forward to the late works. Mind you, the main theme also carries a great deal of lyrical warmth, and when in the coda it finally achieves a hymn-like solemnity—almost like the ending of the slow movement of the Fifth Symphony—we feel that in the conflict between Beauty and The Beast, it is Beauty who has prevailed. The kinship between this gentle opening theme and the well-known Andante favori, which Beethoven had originally planned as the slow movement of the “Waldstein” Sonata, becomes very evident. And finally, the pauses play a significant role in the overall parlando effect, particularly in the transition to the first reprise of the main theme.

The second movement—the finale—is rather like a virtuosic toccata: continuous, rapid 16th-notes without a moment’s relaxation, and without any built-in “dialectical” opposition.

But it should in no way be mistaken for a study, certainly not one in the style of Czerny! The tempo is Allegretto, and the flowing, but not too quick, motion is reminiscent of the last movement from the Sonata Op. 26. Moreover, as early as the third bar, with its syncopated, descending eighth-note/dotted-eighth-note major third in the left hand, we find a multitude of “barbs,” or rhythmic contradictions that momentarily hold the motor rhythm in check. Whereas the first section is only 20 bars long, the second section broadens out into a huge development in sonata form, complete with recapitulation, coda, and a brilliant send-off in a fast tempo (più allegro). Here Beethoven once again demonstrates his art of modulation, but also throws in extremely agitated horn or trumpet calls, which amplify the musical argument in a very spacious way. In passing, I should say that a sensitive use of the pedal, particularly for the broad legato phrases, is particularly important: It helps prevent the performance from being superficially virtuosic, or sounding like an inexpressive play-through.

Beethoven’s most famous piano sonata, the so-called “Appassionata,” falls in the same period. Can it still sound new and fresh after so many layers of tradition and such a history of interpretation?

I’m inclined to quote Mahler: What’s so willingly called “tradition” is often pure sloppiness. Because what’s new and fresh, contrary to many performances of mindless “unruliness,” is always there in the musical text if we read it properly. Of course the work is unprecedentedly impassioned: in that respect the title—not Beethoven’s own—goes right to the heart. But that doesn’t mean that creative freedom should degenerate into a tempo-less interpretation, or rather one that disintegrates into numerous different tempos. Among the fundamental insights into the way the opening movement should be treated is its 12/8 meter—by which I mean that we should not hear any triplets at the beginning but, instead, a sharply dotted rhythm that allows the “inner” beat to pulsate, so to speak. For my part, I prepare myself for a performance in the concert hall beforehand in such a way that I feel the 12/8 bar within myself just before I play the piece. That way, I achieve the tension that brings large-scale coherence to the movement as a whole.

The Allegro assai opens in bare octaves. Other Beethoven sonatas begin in a similar way: the D-Major Sonata, Op. 10, No. 3, for instance; the F-Minor Sonata, Op. 2, No. 2; or the first solo entry in the Third Piano Concerto.

Only in the case of the “Appassionata,” the unison creates an atmosphere of absolute danger. The distance of two octaves between the two hands allows the bass line to sound dark, and even eerie. When the theme is repeated a semitone higher, the key of G-flat major, which should be perceived as a “Neapolitan,” exudes an aura of mystery. All of this forms the first theme, and not in any sense an introduction. The “knocking” motif that appears from bar 10 onwards is related to the one at the beginning of the Fifth Symphony, even if it’s notated in a different rhythm: Something fateful is heralded. If all this development, right up to the screaming diminished-seventh 16th-notes that come cascading down, is to be comprehensible, the tempo should not be too quick, or the contours will be blurred. But often the beginning is conceived in a way that’s focused above all on the thundering chains of syncopated chords that come immediately after the first page.

The famous second subject in A-flat major inverts the main theme, and yet, with extraordinary economy of means, the atmosphere has been completely transformed.

It introduces an intimate lyricism, as well as a sense of yearning. But it remains unfulfilled: It lasts for no more than six that climb progressively upward and allow the mood to change. Now we feel fear and trembling, as we do in the chromatically tinged transition that follows. Here, by the way, I’m reminded of Goethe’s phrase, in dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind (“the wind is murmuring in the dry leaves”) from the ballad “Erlkönig,” later set by Schubert.

For the first time in the opening movement of a piano sonata, Beethoven doesn’t indicate a repeat: The exposition flows straight into the development. Economy of means again?

Absolutely. At the same time, the exposition dies away with a sense of immense spaciousness: The A-flat in the bass is separated from the A-flat in the treble by a distance of five octaves. This point of extreme “alienation” is a key moment. After it, the development increases the tension again—first of all with contrapuntally worked-out modulations, and later with a technique of foreshortening that treats the individual motifs more as fragments or remnants. When we finally reach the huge coda at the end of the piece, it forms a second development, at the end of which the first and second themes become intertwined, though again only in dark and austere fragments.

The first movement ends with a long, heavily weighted fermata. The Andante con moto slow movement enters in the third-related key of D-flat major: quiet, very calm, and yet with the hint of a march.

In a way, that fermata provides a strong clue as to how the interpretation should proceed, because after so much agitation a sense of calm has to be established in the concert-hall. Here, at last, we can breathe a sigh of relief. Yes, it’s true that there’s something march-like about it, but it couldn’t be more different from the “march of the tin soldiers” that characterizes the middle movement of the Sonata, Op.14, No. 2. The solemn, chorale-like gestures that arise out of the chords leave much more of a mark on the piece. And while Beethoven follows the theme with no more than three variations in a very cantabile style, with the melodic line clearly discernible throughout, we can notice two tendencies: On the one hand, the music’s register moves from low to high, or from darkness into light; and on the other hand, the long note values become progressively shorter, in a sort of “spreading out” of events. The tone colors should become brighter, but at the same time the ominous events to come gradually begin to lurk in the background of the swirl of demisemiquavers. The first diminished-seventh fermata, played pianissimo, serves as an “overture” to the tragedy; but the second, in which the right hand is not arpeggiated, but played secco (“drily”) as indicated, functions as a fortissimo fanfare introducing the wild storm of the finale.

Many performers opt for a fast tempo here. I remember Sviatoslav Richter’s debut at Carnegie Hall in October 1960: utmost speed was the order of the day.

And yet the prescribed tempo is Allegro ma non troppo! Anyone who begins it too quickly will not, first of all, do justice to the many subliminal levels of this perpetuum mobile; and, secondly, will not have sufficient reserves of energy for the presto conclusion. To me it’s very important to bring out all the motivic and rhythmic elements clearly—from the contrapuntal layers of the “sighs” to the unison passages that are driven forwards so tortuously. The pianissimo in the theme that begins in 16th-notes from bar 20 onwards must already be clearly perceptible, because it immediately calls forth a rich number of metamorphoses and foreshortenings.

The exposition is not repeated, despite the fact that Beethoven marks its end with a double bar line. On the other hand, the composer specifically asks for a repeat of the development—an absolute requirement, then?

Without fail. The huge scope of the combined development and recapitulation, which is almost unique in Beethoven’s output of sonatas, must absolutely be respected. In that way, the elementary force of the relatively brief, presto coda has greater effect. Incidentally, for the lower note in each pair of “rocking” eighth-notes in the bass in bar 352, I don’t play the bottom F that appears in the first edition of the work, but the A-flat that’s confirmed in Beethoven’s autograph score, because it increases the tension of the arpeggiated F-minor chord that follows: Its bottom note is more effective if it hasn’t been heard in the previous bar. And finally, the atmosphere of the last quarter-note—which is a rest!—of the prescribed fermata must be audible: silence as composed music.

The F-sharp-Major Sonata, composed four years later, seems to have left the conflicts of its predecessor far behind. The first movement is imbued with lyrical tenderness, while the second is characterized by playfulness.

The sonata’s key is already unusual, and not only for Beethoven. And when you consider that in those days performers played from the music, the piece as it appears on the printed page seems twice as difficult. Certainly, it wasn’t written with amateurs in mind, but for real connoisseurs—among whom we should probably include the dedicatee, Therese von Brunswick. The fact that Beethoven valued this work highly, and placed it above the “Moonlight” Sonata, is documented. After the short Adagio cantabile introduction, which never returns, an intimately flowing melody unfolds, almost in the manner of a declaration of love. Schubert begins his three-movement, A-Major Sonata, D. 664—a piece that has a comparable feeling of intimacy—in a very similar way. Following the transitional swirl of 16th-notes, we arrive at the equally relaxed second subject that brings with it a slight slowing-down of the rhythmic flow. The development, which starts off in an F-sharp minor tinged with melancholy, features rapid alternations in register, as well as thematic foreshortenings, and it too should be repeated.

The concluding Allegro vivace has the character of a rondo. Its soaring rapidity seems to anticipate Weber or Mendelssohn.

It behaves in a virtuoso manner, without any empty brilliance, and is extremely hard to play. The fact that in certain thematic details it is nevertheless related to the first movement is shown for instance by its first two bars, which recall a phrase from the opening Allegro (bars 32–33). This opening idea occurs three times, in the form of a question which is answered each time by fleeting semiquaver figuration. The rapid-fire repeated pairs of notes in chromatic formation reintroduce a technique that we have already met in the first movement of the “Tempest” Sonata, Op. 31, No. 2. This is unambiguous, toccata-like keyboard music, whereas the last reprise of the main rondo theme, just before the coda, has the spaciousness of a string quartet, and its lyrical, poetic gesture makes it very different from the beginning of the piece. Just before the end, there’s an almost dream-like moment in the manner of a miniature cadenza, before an abrupt but definitive conclusion.

The G-Major Sonata, Op. 79, also composed in the year 1809, is considerably more down-to-earth. A new feature is that Beethoven specifically labels it a “Sonatina.” A work for younger people, perhaps?

Not necessarily. It’s true that to a certain extent Beethoven is intent on showing his hand, so to speak, and writing a lively, extrovert piece, as can be seen from the tempo marking of the opening movement, Presto alla tedesca. On the other hand, this quick waltz in the style of a German dance isn’t so simple. Above all, the widely modulating development section, which transforms the rising third of the opening bar into “cuckoo calls” involving the rapid crossing of one hand over the other, isn’t by any means technically undemanding. This is the virtuoso side of Beethoven, and even the mock-dramatic plunge into C minor bears witness to his enjoyment as a performer. The effect of the coda which brings the piece to a close is very beautiful, as the dance fades away with subtle wit.

The second movement, an Andante is notated in 9/8 time. Does its key of G minor suggest any sense of suffering?

That would be going too far. What we have here is a barcarolle, or gondola song, of the kind we find again in the Venetian Gondola Songs from Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words. To me, the 9/8 bar has a similar “rowing” motion, and it should also convey a hint of melancholy. It sounds altogether very Italianate, but certainly in a very different way from the middle movement of the G-Major Sonata, Op. 31, No. 1: The element of parody is altogether missing. Again, the “feminine” ending is wonderful: a quiet and tender farewell.

Whereas the rondo finale, with its Vivace tempo, returns to the liveliness of the opening movement, and its two episodes throw the spotlight on pianistic brilliance again.

Yes, but we shouldn’t forget that it begins with the marking Piano dolce. In this respect Beethoven starts by creating a sort of transition from the dream world of the Andante. On top of that, the opening theme is almost an anticipation of the beginning of the E-Major Sonata, Op. 109, which also begins in a mood of lyrical tenderness. It’s important for the listener to be aware of the many intervals of the third, though without bringing them out exaggeratedly. The first, very short, episode in E minor again displays a sort of mock agitation; the second, in C major, is more rustic and varied in its rapid upward motion. And what we were able to observe at the end of the first movement happens again in the last bar of the finale: the music fades away almost nonchalantly, with no ritardando and with a gentle crescendo followed by a last-moment piano for the final two chords.

The last of the middle-period sonatas is one of Beethoven’s most famous piano works. Beethoven himself headed it “Les Adieux,” and it’s a programmatic piece—that is to say, it refers to an actual event.

The E-flat-Major Sonata, Op.81a, whose first movement survives in Beethoven’s manuscript, arises out of its dedication to his friend Archduke Rudolph of Austria, inasmuch as it takes an episode out of his biography as its central theme—though of course very feely, and as “absolute” music throughout. At the time of Napoleon’s occupation of Vienna, Rudolph was forced to leave the city for a while. Beethoven’s title for the piece, however, was “Das Lebewohl,” and he wrote the words, “Vienna, 4th May 1809. On the departure of His Imperial Highness the esteemed Archduke Rudolph” in his own hand. “Lebewohl” is certainly more intimate and personal than “Adieu,” which was intended for the French edition. All the same, the three movements carry the titles of Das Lebewohl (“The Farewell”), Abwesenheit (“Absence”) and Das Wiedersehen (“The Reunion”), and to that degree the music relates to an actual story. But what’s much more important is for us to be aware of how the themes and leitmotifs of the three movements differ and yet, at the same time, are related to each other.

The “psychological” contribution to the musical argument is considerable, but we surely shouldn’t think of it as “program music.”

Absolutely not. The same goes for this sonata as for the “Pastoral” Symphony, which is more feeling than tone painting. All the same, over the first three chords of the introduction, which move downward from E-flat major to impart a false sense of C minor, Beethoven wrote the three syllables of the word “Le-be-wohl,” which give rise to a genuine leitmotif. And, as such, it threads its way through the entire opening movement, sometimes quite clearly, at others more veiled—as a means of setting the mood, but at the same time as material for thematic transformation. In addition, this first theme is strongly reminiscent of a horn call, which also takes into consideration the notion of time as related to leave-taking and departure. As early as the upbeat to bar 3 we find a second fragmentary motif: while the right hand ascends in a sort of “sighing” manner, the lower line of the left-hand part curves downward in chromatic steps as though pained, and in a manner that recalls the lamento basses that Bach habitually introduced at suitable moments. So we could uncover a good many references to “literary” themes in “Les Adieux,” which is a work that presents great compositional subtlety.

The 16-bar introduction is followed by an Allegro whose basic style is not calculated to convey great sadness.

On the contrary, this Allegro, in alla breve notation, at first presents an affirmation of life. It also exploits a keyboard compass of almost orchestral breadth. But in the very short development section the juices thicken, and a great deal of it sounds chilly and dissonant: The gateway to the composer’s late style is already within sight. In addition, the chromaticism of the transitional theme, which is clearly derived from the opening bars, acquires more of a sense of pain—you could transcribe its three-note motif into speech, as if to say, “Please do stay!,” for instance, or “Do not go!” There are passages that dilute or alleviate the Allegro momentum, and Wilhelm Kempff was quite right to point out to a pupil of his that she shouldn’t play the piece too fast. The coda, which is on a large scale, varies the horn call once more into something nostalgic, and the many long notes seem to have absorbed the “flowing” music, until the quavers return, as though wanting to carry the friend’s coach off and make it disappear from sight.

The second movement, L’Absence, is another interlude in the manner of the Introduzione of the “Waldstein” Sonata: a transition to the finale, even if in this case it’s done with gestures full of pathos.

Without the “Waldstein” as a model it would hardly have been imaginable. When Beethoven adds, “At walking pace, but with much expression,” the pace is certainly laden with worry. The minor-mode atmosphere, the anguished sforzato phrases, the staccato passages in the left hand, the chromatic interjections, the slow-moving harmony before we at last arrive at an unambiguous C minor—all this makes the extremely rhetorical character of this widely wandering transition clear. And if we wanted to look for a literary equivalent for the opening theme, we could formulate it as, “Where are you?” In other words, what we have here is poetic music of a particular density, and the performer has to articulate it with corresponding precision. Any generalized account fails to do justice to the immense richness of the ideas—but, of course, that goes without saying for Beethoven’s late works in general.

The finale—the “reunion,” or “return”—has a tempo marking of Vivacissimamente, and Beethoven even adds the German direction, Im lebhaftesten Zeitmasse (“In the liveliest tempo”). How does one avoid mere virtuoso brilliance?

Brilliance is important, and in many ways it’s written into this movement: from the ten-bar introduction based on the chord of the dominant seventh, through the broken-octave lines, to the seething fortissimo passages that remind us of the finale of the Fifth Piano Concerto. On the other hand, these things should be shaped not only by the fingers, but first of all by the head, which means, for instance, that the dynamic progressions must be shaded with corresponding subtlety. And just as in the first movement, the development section brings with it darker sounds and contrapuntal elaborations that open up the piano’s sonority into the realm of chamber music. And when the coda takes up the familiar post-horn theme again in a very poetical way, and the music becomes tender, before the last bars form a jubilant conclusion, the sonata has come full-circle back to its beginning, while the intervening time seems as though it belongs to the past.

Translation: Misha Donat

András Schiff, Piano
András Schiff was born in Budapest, Hungary, in 1953 and started piano lessons at the age of five with Elisabeth Vadász. Subsequently, he continued his musical studies at the Ferenc Liszt Academy with Professor Pál Kadosa, György Kurtág, and Ferenc Rados, and in London with George Malcolm. Recitals and special cycles such as the major keyboard works of J. S. Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Chopin, Schumann, and Bartók form an important part of Mr. Schiff’s activities. In 2004 he began a series of performances in Europe exploring the 32 Beethoven piano sonatas in chronological order—a project recorded live for ECM New Series, to be released in eight volumes through 2008.

The Beethoven Sonata Project in its entirety continues this season at Carnegie Hall, Los Angeles’s Disney Hall, San Francisco’s Symphony Hall, and Ann Arbor’s Hill Auditorium. Individual recitals are also slated for Chicago, North Carolina, Ottawa, Philadelphia, Princeton, and Washington, DC.

In 1999, Mr. Schiff created his own chamber orchestra, the Cappella Andrea Barca, for a seven-year series of the complete Mozart piano concertos, taking place at the Mozartwoche of the Internationale Stiftung Mozarteum in Salzburg. The group, consisting of international soloists, chamber musicians, and close friends, toured North America during the 2005–2006 and 2006–2007 seasons in a series of concerts at Carnegie Hall and Alice Tully Hall to commemorate the 250th anniversary of Mozart’s birth. The six concerts included 12 of the Mozart piano concertos, chamber music and symphonies.

Mr. Schiff has annual engagements with the Philharmonia Orchestra, London, and the Chamber Orchestra of Europe as conductor and soloist. He is a regular visitor as conductor and soloist with The Philadelphia Orchestra, Los Angeles Philharmonic, National Symphony Orchestra, Staatskapelle Dresden, Budapest Festival Orchestra, and City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra. He has conducted Bach’s B-Minor Mass and Haydn’s Creation with the London Philharmonia and was conductor and soloist with the Chamber Orchestra of Europe on a critically acclaimed tour of New York, Chicago, and San Francisco.

Since childhood he has enjoyed playing chamber music, and, from 1989 until 1998, he was artistic director of the internationally renowned Musiktage Mondsee chamber music festival near Salzburg. In 1995, together with Heinz Holliger, he founded the Ittinger Pfingstkonzerte in Kartause Ittingen, Switzerland. In 1998, Mr Schiff started a similar series, entitled Hommage to Palladio at the Teatro Olimpico in Vicenza. From 2004 to 2007 he was artist in residence of the Kunstfest Weimar. In the 2007–2008 season he was pianist in residence of the Berliner Philharmoniker.

Mr. Schiff has established a prolific discography, including recordings for Teldec (1994–1997), London/Decca (1981–1994), and, since 1997, ECM New Series. Recordings for ECM include the complete solo piano music of Beethoven and Janáček, a solo disc of Schumann piano pieces, and his second recording of Bach “Goldberg” Variations. He has received several international recording awards, including two Grammy Awards for Best Classical Instrumental Soloist (Without Orchestra) for the Bach English Suites, and Best Vocal Recording for Schubert’s Schwanengesang with tenor Peter Schreier; in addition, for the 49th annual Grammy Awards, he was nominated for Best Classical Album (Without Orchestra) for the second volume of his Complete Beethoven Sontata recordings for ECM. In 2009, Mr. Schiff will release an all-Schumann disc on the EMI label.

Among other honors, Mr. Schiff was awarded the Bartók Prize in 1991 and the Claudio Arrau Memorial medal from the Robert Schumann Society in Düsseldorf in 1994. In March 1996, Mr. Schiff received the highest Hungarian distinction, the Kossuth Prize, and in May 1997 he received the Leonie Sonnings Music Prize in Copenhagen. He was awarded the Palladio d’Oro by the city of Vicenza, and the Musikfest-Preis Bremen for “outstanding international artistic work” in 2003. Mr. Schiff has received two awards in recognition of his Beethoven Performances: In June 2006, he became an Honorary Member of the Beethoven House in Bonn, and in May 2007 he was presented with the renowned Italian Prize, the Premio della critica musicale Franco Abbiati, in recognition of his Beethoven sonata cycle. In October 2007, Mr. Schiff was honored by the Royal Academy of Music with the institution’s prestigious Bach Prize, sponsored by the Kohn foundation; the annual prize is awarded to an individual who has made an outstanding contribution to the performance and/or scholarly study of the music of Johann Sebastian Bach.

In 2006, András Schiff and the music publisher G. Henle began an important Mozart edition project. In the course of the next few years there will be a joint edition of Mozart’s piano concertos in their original version, to which Mr. Schiff is contributing to the piano parts, the fingerings, and the cadenzas where the original cadenzas are missing. In addition, in 2007 both volumes of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier were edited in the Henle original text with fingerings by Mr. Schiff.

András Schiff has been made an Honorary Professor by the Music Schools in Budapest, Detmold, and Munich. In 2001, Mr. Schiff became a British citizen; he resides in Florence and London and is married to the violinist Yuuko Shiokawa.