Italian Baroque Music
Antonio Vivaldi
Antonio Vivaldi (born March 4, 1678, Venice, Republic of Venice [Italy]—died July 28, 1741, Vienna, Austria) was an Italian composer and violinist who left a decisive mark on the form of the concerto and the style of late Baroque instrumental music.
Vivaldi’s main teacher was probably his father, Giovanni Battista, who in 1685 was admitted as a violinist to the orchestra of the San Marco Basilica in Venice. Antonio, the eldest child, trained for the priesthood and was ordained in 1703. His distinctive reddish hair would later earn him the nickname Il Prete Rosso (“The Red Priest”). He made his first known public appearance playing alongside his father in the basilica as a “supernumerary” violinist in 1696. He became an excellent violinist, and in 1703 he was appointed violin master at the Ospedale della Pietà, a home for foundlings. The Pietà specialized in the musical training of its female wards, and those with musical aptitude were assigned to its excellent choir and orchestra, whose much-praised performances assisted the institution’s quest for donations and legacies. Vivaldi had dealings with the Pietà for most of his career: as violin master (1703–09; 1711–15), director of instrumental music (1716–17; 1735–38), and paid external supplier of compositions (1723–29; 1739–40).
Soon after his ordination as a priest, Vivaldi gave up celebrating mass because of a chronic ailment that is believed to have been bronchial asthma. Despite this circumstance, he took his status as a secular priest seriously.
Vivaldi’s earliest musical compositions date from his first years at the Pietà. Printed collections of his trio sonatas and violin sonatas respectively appeared in 1705 and 1709, and in 1711 his first and most influential set of concerti for violin and string orchestra (Opus 3, L’estro armonico) was published by the Amsterdam music-publishing firm of Estienne Roger. In the years up to 1719, Roger published three more collections of his concerti (opuses 4, 6, and 7) and one collection of sonatas (Opus 5).
Vivaldi made his debut as a composer of sacred vocal music in 1713, when the Pietà’s choirmaster left his post and the institution had to turn to Vivaldi and other composers for new compositions. He achieved great success with his sacred vocal music, for which he later received commissions from other institutions. Another new field of endeavour for him opened in 1713 when his first opera, Ottone in villa, was produced in Vicenza. Returning to Venice, Vivaldi immediately plunged into operatic activity in the twin roles of composer and impresario. From 1718 to 1720 he worked in Mantua as director of secular music for that city’s governor, Prince Philip of Hesse-Darmstadt. This was the only full-time post Vivaldi ever held; he seems to have preferred life as a freelance composer for the flexibility and entrepreneurial opportunities it offered. Vivaldi’s major compositions in Mantua were operas, though he also composed cantatas and instrumental works.
The 1720s were the zenith of Vivaldi’s career. Based once more in Venice, but frequently traveling elsewhere, he supplied instrumental music to patrons and customers throughout Europe. Between 1725 and 1729 he entrusted five new collections of concerti (opuses 8–12) to Roger’s publisher successor, Michel-Charles Le Cène. After 1729 Vivaldi stopped publishing his works, finding it more profitable to sell them in manuscript to individual purchasers. During this decade he also received numerous commissions for operas and resumed his activity as an impresario in Venice and other Italian cities.
In 1726 the contralto Anna Girò sang for the first time in a Vivaldi opera. Born in Mantua about 1711, she had gone to Venice to further her career as a singer. Her voice was not strong, but she was attractive and acted well. She became part of Vivaldi’s entourage and the indispensable prima donna of his subsequent operas, causing gossip to circulate that she was Vivaldi’s mistress. After Vivaldi’s death she continued to perform successfully in opera until quitting the stage in 1748 to marry a nobleman.
In the 1730s Vivaldi’s career gradually declined. The French traveler Charles de Brosses reported in 1739 with regret that his music was no longer fashionable. Vivaldi’s impresarial forays became increasingly marked by failure. In 1740 he traveled to Vienna, but he fell ill and did not live to attend the production there of his opera L’oracolo in Messenia in 1742. The simplicity of his funeral on July 28, 1741, suggests that he died in considerable poverty.
After Vivaldi’s death, his huge collection of musical manuscripts, consisting mainly of autograph scores of his own works, was bound into 27 large volumes. These were acquired first by the Venetian bibliophile Jacopo Soranzo and later by Count Giacomo Durazzo, Christoph Willibald Gluck’s patron. Rediscovered in the 1920s, these manuscripts today form part of the Foà and Giordano collections of the National Library in Turin.
Vivaldi’s Instrumental Style
Almost 500 concerti by Vivaldi survive. More than 300 are concerti for a solo instrument with string orchestra and continuo. Of these, approximately 230 are written for solo violin, 40 for bassoon, 25 for cello, 15 for oboe, and 10 for flute. There are also concerti for viola d’amore, recorder, mandolin, and other instruments. Vivaldi’s remaining concerti are either double concerti (including about 25 written for two violins), concerti grossi using three or more soloists, concerti ripieni (string concerti without a soloist), or chamber concerti for a group of instruments without orchestra.
Vivaldi perfected the form of what would become the classical three-movement concerto. Indeed, he helped establish the fast-slow-fast plan of the concerto’s three movements. Perhaps more importantly, Vivaldi was the first to employ regularly in his concerti the ritornello form, in which recurrent restatements of a refrain alternate with more episodic passages featuring a solo instrument. Vivaldi’s bold juxtapositions of the refrains (ritornelli) and the solo passages opened new possibilities for virtuosic display by solo instrumentalists. The fast movements in his concerti are notable for their rhythmic drive and the boldness of their themes, while the slow movements often present the character of arias written for the solo instrument.
The energy, passion, and lyricism of Vivaldi’s concerti and their instrumental colour and simple dramatic effects (which are obtained without recourse to contrapuntal artifice) rapidly passed into the general language of music. His concerti were taken as models of form by many late Baroque composers, including Johann Sebastian Bach, who transcribed 10 of them for keyboard instruments. The highly virtuosic style of Vivaldi’s writing for the solo violin in his concerti reflects his own renowned technical command of that instrument.
Several of Vivaldi’s concerti have picturesque or allusive titles. Four of them, the cycle of violin concerti entitled The Four Seasons (Opus 8, no. 1–4), are programmatic in a thoroughgoing fashion, with each concerto depicting a different season of the year, starting with spring. Vivaldi’s effective representation of the sounds of nature inaugurated a tradition to which works such as Ludwig van Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony belong. The Four Seasons has been rearranged for nearly every possible combination of instruments, check out a few creative adaptations below!
Vivaldi’s Vocal Music
More than 50 authentic sacred vocal compositions by Vivaldi are extant. They range from short hymns for solo voices to oratorios and elaborate psalm settings in several movements for double choir and orchestra. Many of them exhibit a spiritual depth and a command of counterpoint equal to the best of their time. The mutual independence of voices and instruments often anticipates the later symphonic masses of Joseph Haydn and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. As more of this repertory becomes available in modern editions, its reputation seems likely to rise.
The reception of Vivaldi’s secular vocal works has been more problematic. Nearly 50 operas by him have been identified, and 16 survive complete. In their time they were influential works with appealing melodies and inventive orchestral accompaniments. Nevertheless, the general unfamiliarity of 20th-century audiences with Baroque poetry and dramaturgy, which often appear stilted and artificial, has in the past inhibited their appreciation among nonspecialists. Nonetheless, Vivaldi’s Orlando furioso was successfully revived by the Dallas Civic Opera (now Dallas Opera) in 1980 and was issued in CD recording. Vivaldi’s cantatas, numbering nearly 40 works, are more suitable candidates for general revival, though their quality is variable.
The Venetian Ospidali
A Cradle of Excellence For Venice’s Superstar Orphans
(Chapter Excerpt from RANGE by David Epstein)
ANYWHERE A TRAVELER to seventeenth-century Venice turned an ear, they could hear music exploding from its traditional bounds. Even the name of the musical era, "Baroque," is taken from a jewelers' term to describe a pearl that was extravagantly large and unusually shaped. Instrumental music—music that did not depend on words—underwent a complete revolution. Some of the instruments were brand-new, like the piano; others were enhanced—violins made by Antonio Stradivari would sell centuries later for millions of dollars. The modern system of major and minor keys was created. Virtuosos, the original musical celebrities, were anointed. Composers seized on their skill and wrote elaborate solos to push the boundaries of the best players' abilities. The concerto was born—in which a virtuoso soloist plays back and forth against an orchestra—and Venetian composer Antonio Vivaldi (known as il Prete Rosso, the Red Priest, for his flame-red hair) became the form's undisputed champion. The Four Seasons is as close to a pop hit as three-hundred-year-old music gets. (A mashup with a song from Disney's Frozen has ninety million YouTube plays.)
Vivaldi's creativity was facilitated by a particular group of musicians who could learn new music quickly on a staggering array of instruments. They drew emperors, kings, princes, cardinals, and countesses from across Europe to be regaled by the most innovative music of the time. They were the all-female cast known as the Figlie del Coro, literally, "daughters of the choir." Leisure activities like horseback riding and field sports were scarce in the floating city, so music bore the full weight of entertainment for its citizens. The sounds of violins, flutes, horns, and voices spilled into the night from every bobbing barge and gondola. And in a time and place seething with music, the figlie dominated for a century. "Only in Venice," a prominent visitor wrote, "can one see these musical prodigies."
They were both ground zero of a musical revolution and an oddity. Elsewhere, their instruments were reserved for men. "They sing like angels, play the violin, the flute, the organ, the oboe, the cello, and the bassoon," an astonished French politician remarked. "In short, no instrument is large enough to frighten them." Others were less diplomatic. Aristocratic British writer Hester Thrale complained, "The sight of girls handling the double bass, and blowing into the bassoon did not much please me." After all, "suitable feminine instruments" were more along the lines of the harpsichord or musical glasses. The figlie left the king of Sweden in awe. Literary rogue Casanova marveled at the standing-room-only crowds. A dour French concert reviewer singled out a particular violinist: "She is the first of her sex to challenge the success of our great artists." Even listeners not obviously disposed to support the arts were moved. Francesco Coli described "angelic Sirens," who exceeded "even the most ethereal of birds" and "threw open for listeners the doors of Paradise." Especially surprising praise, perhaps, considering that Coli was the official book censor for the Venetian Inquisition.
The best Figlie became Europe-wide celebrities, like Anna Maria della Pietà. A German baron flatly declared her "the premier violinist in Europe." The president of the parliament of Burgundy said she was "unsurpassed" even in Paris. An expense report that Vivaldi recorded in 1712 shows that he spent twenty ducats on a violin for sixteen-year old Anna Maria, an engagement-ring-like sum for Vivaldi, who made that much in four months. Among the hundreds of concertos Vivaldi wrote for the figlie del coro are twenty-eight that survived in the "Anna Maria notebook." Bound in leather and dyed Venetian scarlet, it bears Anna Maria's name in gold leaf calligraphy. The concertos, written specifically to showcase her prowess, are filled with high-speed passages that require different notes to be played on multiple strings at the same time. In 1716, Anna Maria and the figlie were ordered by the Senate to intensify their musical work in an effort to bring God's favor to the Venetian armies as they battled the Ottoman Empire on the island of Corfu. (In that siege, the Venetian violin, and a well-timed storm, proved mightier than the Turkish cannon.) Anna Maria was middle-aged in the 1740s, when Jean-Jacques Rousseau came to visit. The rebel philosopher who would fuel the French Revolution was also a composer. "I had brought with me from Paris the national prejudice against Italian music," Rousseau wrote. And yet he declared that the music played by the figlie del coro "has not its like, either in Italy, or the rest of the world."
Rousseau had one problem, though, that "drove me to despair." He could not see the women. They performed behind a thin crepe hung in front of wrought-iron latticework grilles in elevated church balconies. They could be heard, but only their silhouettes seen, tilting and swaying with the tides of the music, like shadow pictures in a vaudeville stage set. The grilles "concealed from me the angels of beauty," Rousseau wrote. "I could talk of nothing else." He talked about it so much that he happened to talk about it with one of the figlie's important patrons. "If you are so desirous to see those little girls," the man told Rousseau, "it will be an easy matter to satisfy your wishes." Rousseau was so desirous. He pestered the man incessantly until he took him to meet the musicians. And there, Rousseau, whose fearless writing would be banned and burned before it fertilized the soil of democracy, grew anxious. "When we entered the salon which confined these longed-for beauties," he wrote, "I felt an amorous trembling, which I had never before experienced." The patron introduced the women, the siren prodigies whose fame had spread like a grassfire through Europe—and Rousseau was stunned. There was Sophia—"horrid," Rousseau wrote. Cattina—"she had but one eye." Bettina —"the smallpox had entirely disfigured her." "Scarcely one of them," according to Rousseau, "was without some striking defect." A poem had recently been written about one of the best singers: "Missing are the fingers of her left hand / Also absent is her left foot." An accomplished instrumentalist was the "poor limping lady." Other guests left even less considerate records. Like Rousseau, English visitor Lady Anna Miller was entranced by the music and pleaded to see the women perform with no barrier hiding them. "My request was granted," Miller wrote, "but when I entered I was seized with so violent a fit of laughter, that I am surprised they had not driven me out again. . . . My eyes were struck with the sight of a dozen or fourteen beldams ugly and old . . . these with several young girls." Miller changed her mind about watching them play, "so much had the sight of the performers disgusted me."
The girls and women who delighted delicate ears had not lived delicate lives. Many of their mothers worked in Venice's vibrant sex industry and contracted syphilis before they had babies and dropped them off at the Ospedale della Pietà. The name literally means "Hospital of Pity," but figuratively it was the House of Mercy, where the girls grew up and learned music. It was the largest of four ospedali, charitable institutions in Venice founded to ameliorate particular social ills. In the Pietà's case, the ill was that fatherless babies (mostly girls) frequently ended up in the canals. Most of them would never know their mothers. They were dropped off in the scaffetta, a drawer built into the outer wall of the Pietà. Like the size tester for carry-on luggage at the airport, if a baby was small enough to fit, the Pietà would raise her. The great Anna Maria was a representative example. Someone, probably her mother, who was probably a prostitute, took baby Anna Maria to the doorstep of the Pietà on the waterfront of Venice's St. Mark's Basin, along a bustling promenade. A bell attached to the scaffetta alerted staff of each new arrival. Babies were frequently delivered with a piece of fabric, a coin, ring, or some trinket left in the scaffetta as a form of identification should anyone ever return to claim them. One mother left half of a brilliantly illustrated weather chart, hoping one day to return with the other half. As with many of the objects, and many of the girls, it remained forever in the Pietà. Like Anna Maria, most of the foundlings would never know a blood relative, and so they were named for their home: Anna Maria della Pietà—Anna Maria of the Pieta. An eighteenth-century roster lists Anna Maria's de facto sisters: Adelaide della Pietà, Agata della Pietà, Ambrosina della Pietà, and on and on, all the way through Violeta, Virginia, and Vittoria della Pietà.
The ospedali were public-private partnerships, each overseen by a volunteer board of upper-class Venetians. The institutions were officially secular, but they were adjoined to churches, and life inside ran according to quasi-monastic rules. Residents were separated according to age and gender. Daily Mass was required before breakfast, and regular confession was expected. Everyone, even children, worked constantly to keep the institution running. One day a year, girls were allowed a trip to the countryside, chaperoned, of course. It was a rigid existence, but there were benefits. The children were taught to read, write, and do arithmetic, as well as vocational skills. Some became pharmacists for the residents, others laundered silk or sewed ship sails that could be sold. The ospedali were fully functioning, self-contained communities. Everyone was compensated for their work, and the Pietà had its own interest-paying bank meant to help wards learn to manage their own money. Boys learned a trade or joined the navy and left as teenagers. For girls, marriage was the primary route to emancipation. Dowries were kept ready, but many wards stayed forever. As the ospedali accrued instruments, music was added to the education of dozens of girls so that they could play during religious ceremonies in the adjacent churches.
After a plague in 1630 wiped out one-third of the population, Venetians found themselves in an especially "penitential mood," as one historian put it. The musicians suddenly became more important. The ospedali governors noticed that a lot more people were attending church, and that the institutional endowments swelled with donations proportional to the quality of the girls' music. By the eighteenth century, the governors were openly promoting the musicians for fund-raising. Each Saturday and Sunday, concerts began before sunset. The church was so packed that the Eucharist had to be moved. Visitors were still welcome for free, of course, but if a guest wanted to sit, ospedali staff were happy to rent out chairs. Once the indoor space was full, listeners crowded outside windows, or paused their gondolas in the basin outside. Foundlings became an economic engine not just sustaining the social welfare system in Venice, but drawing tourists from abroad. Entertainment and penitence mixed in amusing ways. Audience members were not allowed to applaud in church, so after the final note they coughed and hemmed and scraped their feet and blew their noses in admiration.
The ospedali commissioned composers for original works. Over one six-year period, Vivaldi wrote 140 concertos exclusively for the Pietà musicians. A teaching system evolved, where the older figlie taught the younger, and the younger the beginners. They held multiple jobs—Anna Maria was a teacher and copyist—and yet they produced star after virtuoso star. After Anna Maria, her soloist successor, Chiara della Pietà, was hailed as the greatest violinist in all of Europe. It all raises the question: Just what magical training mechanism was deployed to transform the orphan foundlings of the Venetian sex industry, who but for the grace of charity would have died in the city's canals, into the world's original international rock stars?