James Strecker: You are certainly a presence as a musical figure in the media. Your concerts, recitals, and recordings are frequently reviewed and you often participate in detailed and probing interviews and presentations. Does your existence as a public entity in any way intrude upon or influence your making music as you would wish?
James Ehnes: Honestly, I think that the two things are very separate. I have a business, I am a business. There are times when the public—the PR side of my life—is engaged, and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a large part of my career. I feel lucky that I like meeting people. I like talking to people, and I like interesting discussions about the career, the business or the music itself, so I don’t find it a huge burden. It’s actually a great luxury.
JS: You’ll be joining the TSO for the Elgar violin concerto on June 9 to 11 and it’s one that you’ve recorded also with Sir Andrew Davis. What pleasures and challenges does this concerto offer you as a violinist and what does it offer a listener in the audience?
JE: Elgar’s Violin Concerto is a tremendously challenging work. Elgar himself was a violinist, but somewhat of a frustrated violinist. I think he poured all his desires for the violin (and possibly for his own dreams) into this piece. Musically, it’s a really epic journey. It’s such a musically and emotionally ambitious piece. It tries to say so much, and, when it succeeds I think that it has a very profound effect on the listener. I feel it’s an honour to get to play it.
JS: Is it discernible that a composer does or doesn’t actually play an instrument for which he or she has written? For a composer, are there any advantages to not being influenced by a player’s view of an instrument?
JE: The composer’s experiences certainly shape his or her music. Elgar’s understanding of the violin does add something to the piece. The violin was his voice, in many ways. It’s interesting to me that two of the most demanding concertos in the repertoire were written by Elgar and Sibelius: both composers played the violin and had aspirations for important performing careers that never materialized. You get the sense that they wrote things thinking, “I know it’s possible. It’s too hard for me to do, but surely someone else will figure out how to do it.” If a composer doesn’t have an understanding of the instrument, he or she might be afraid to push the envelope with what is possible.
JS: Several musicians have described for me the difficulty of being restricted within a specific instrument’s limitations. Have you ever had a similar experience and, if so, what did you do about it?
JE: I will never be a good enough violinist to feel like I have reached the expressive ends of the instrument. I aspire to be able to bring out as much expressive emotion from a violin as possible. In absolute terms, the instrument will always be greater than any player that chooses to play it.
JS: You’ve made mention elsewhere of the “personality” of your Marsick Strad, so could you describe some specific aspects of this personality and also tell us, in turn, what aspects of your own personality work well with these?
JE: The instrument is very adaptable. Its most remarkable quality is that it can sound a lot of different ways, and it can go in a lot of different musical directions. The tone of the instrument is very focused (and this is typical of Stradivari’s instruments in general) and encourages the player to seek ever more focus and beauty in the sound. It’s always difficult to put these things into words, but that’s the type of tone that really appeals to me, something that has a very dense and beautiful core of sound.
JS: You connected with Bartok’s music as a ten-year-old and it seems the experience was quite a revelation to you. Now you’re involved in an ongoing project on the Chandos label of his music, so could you tell us about that first experience with Bartok and how your relationship has developed over the years? What in Bartok is meaningful to you?
JE: I was exposed to so many great composers through my parents. What reached me with Bartok’s music is a combination of factors: It is emotionally direct, while also being incredibly brilliant. It’s so well worked out, so well written. Bartok and Ravel are two composers that I greatly admire. Their music is so meticulously composed, yet maintains such a total freedom of expression; it never seems the least bit contrived. Also, the use of polytonalities in Bartok’s music fascinates me. The layering of harmonies upon harmonies is extremely colourful.
JS: In what ways do you find a composer’s biographical information useful to you when you perform his or her music? Any examples?
JE: It’s a very difficult question to answer because I’m tempted to say yes. However, I feel some people spend a lot of time and energy trying to explain genius instead of just recognizing the fact that these composers were just really great at what they did. So, as interesting as it is, there needs to be a musical reason for doing everything, not just because you read some story in a book that makes you feel justified in doing it that way.
JS: What have been three of the most challenging positive experiences you’ve faced in your musical career?
JE: With Elgar’s music on my mind these days, I’d say my first performance of the Elgar concerto. I remember the first time I performed it. It was at the Brighton Festival with the London Symphony Orchestra. As a young man, playing the Elgar concerto for the first time with the LSO was absolutely terrifying. That music is part of their cultural identity—they know it inside out. There was a huge feeling of responsibility, and, the fact that the performance went well, and the players of that orchestra were so warm and supportive, was tremendously encouraging to me. But there are no easy concerts. I would say that often the projects that have been the most rewarding in the end are the ones that were the most complex while I was going through them.
JS: Likewise, what have been your most dispiriting experiences that you’ve had to endure as a musician and how did you resolve them?
JE: There are always times that you don’t play as well as you wish you did. Of course, there are little disappointments and little frustrations. In every concert, there’s something I wish I’d played better than I did, but, deep down, even if I’m not feeling particularly confident, I trust there’s value in what I have to say as a player.
JS: I gather that your teachers, although certainly crucial to your development, were able as well to let you discover what you needed to learn for yourself. How did this approach influence you as a student and you as the musician you are today?
JE: Ultimately, a teacher’s greatest responsibility is to teach the student how to learn on their own. I’ve had great teachers, including Francis Chaplin and Sally Thomas, who knew me very well. They allowed me a great deal of freedom.
JS: What psychological smarts does a musician like you require to function, first, as the leader of a quartet and, next, as one who gives masterclasses?
JE: In our quartet, I happen to play the first violin parts, but this is very much a meeting of equals where no one is guiding anyone else. I’ve learned from my teachers that one should be flexible, and you can’t approach every student in the same way. There’s no formula for teaching music or teaching how to play the violin.
JS: Which composers and musical works don’t get programmed or recorded enough to give them the exposure they deserve? Why is this so?
JE: By and large, historically speaking, the pieces that have become famous are famous for the right reasons. There are pieces that I really love that I feel don’t get played as much as they might deserve, but what can I know? You can only really know things through your own perspective. There are no rights or wrongs in the music world: everyone’s entitled to their opinions. That’s what’s wonderful about it. There’s room for different tastes, and people that feel different ways. For example, this tour program that I’m doing has such a wide variety of music—from a towering masterpiece such as a major Beethoven sonata to new music to fun little encore pieces. It is so much fun! As a listener, I like going to concerts where I hear a variety of things.
JS: A singer who had lost his voice for a disturbing period of time once told me that he was then forced to ask himself, “Who am I if I can’t be a musician?” and thus faced some existential issues about himself. Have you ever had an experience in some way similar to this in that you questioned how your human identity was bound to your identity as a musician?
JE: For me, it’s not so much identity, it’s more outlet. We all need to find ways of expressing ourselves, to articulate our thoughts and our emotions. I imagine being without that would feel very painful, but I don’t think that I would feel like I was losing my own identity. Whether or not I could play music, music would still mean the same thing to me. I think I would retain those same feelings of who I am and how I relate to the world.
JS: I’ve just been enjoying again your CD/DVD titled Homage on which you play and explore “12 of the greatest instruments ever made.” One thing that soon becomes obvious, beyond the unforced grace of your virtuosity, is your poise and what seems an inherent sense of discretion in using your skills and your energies. So, what might a young violinist do to learn to use his or her energies effectively as you do? What does this young violinist need to learn?
JE: Physical economy is important. Playing the violin is really hard. In most activities that require skill or concentration, we tend to develop funny little physical ticks that are completely unnecessary. The act of concentration often gets wires crossed within the body, creating tension. The young violinist needs to be aware of this. Why are you spending so much energy tightening up major muscle groups that don’t even need to be engaged right now? Try to remove any extraneous issues.
JS: Finally, you get to ask three different questions, one each to three different composers, so what would these questions be?
JE: That would take an awful lot of thought, and it would be one of those things where, as soon as you asked it, you’d realize it was a stupid question. It’s funny. There are very specific questions that I find very frustrating. I would be tempted to ask really nerdy questions. I would ask Mozart what exactly he meant when he was 19, writing appoggiaturas the way he did. I would ask Shostakovich what those couple of questionable notes are in the first Violin Concerto. I would ask Bach if he really did want the harmonies that he wrote in Sheep May Safely Graze. And then I would ask those questions and they would disappear back into the genie bottle, and I would feel like a complete doofus for not asking them much more meaningful and important questions. It would be pretty hard not to ask Brahms if he hooked up with Clara, right?