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LISZT FEST MAGAZINE AU T U M N 2026

M AGA ZINE OF THE LISZ T FEST INTERNATIONAL CULTUR AL FE S TI VA L

EXPERIENCE! In every respect.

mupa.hu Photo © Tamás Réthey-Prikkel, Attila Nagy, János Posztós, Gábor Kotschy, Zsófia Pályi

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Vakhtang Kakhidze

GREETINGS It is a great pleasure and honour for me to be part of the Liszt Fest International Cultural Festival. At Müpa Budapest, I will conduct my own work, the Requiem, with the participation of the Budafok Dohnányi Orchestra, Cantemus Mixed Choir, Budapest Academic Choral Society, Levente Regő Rácz, and ten Georgian singers, who are members of the Rustavi Ensemble and the Chanters Quartet. This will be a special moment for me, as it will be the first time the Requiem has been performed by foreign ensembles. What makes this event particularly significant is that it is taking place in a country with such an exceptional musical heritage as Hungary, which preserves and carries forward the legacy of Liszt, Kodály, Bartók and many other great musicians.

This concert is also the latest stage in a shared journey, the aim of which is to build, enrich and strengthen musical relations between Hungary and Georgia. In recent years, many composers, conductors, choirs and soloists have performed for audiences in both countries, and I believe that these encounters go far beyond single concert experiences. Music can bring cultures and people closer together. I trust that our cooperation will continue to enrich the musical life of Hungary and Georgia with new encounters, and that the October concert will be one such memorable encounter for the audience at Liszt Fest. Vakhtang K akhidze

Photo: János Posztós / Müpa Budapest

06 HAIL MARY! 10 CLIMBING THE MOUNTAIN WITH LISZT TRUST IS PART OF 12 WHERE THE CURRICULUM A MEETING OF CULTURES? Reflections on Romani Music, Communities and Creative Individuals

INSTRUMENT THAT IS BOTH 20 AN A NATIONAL AND GLOBAL TREASURE I MAKE MUSIC, 22 “WHENEVER I TRY TO TELL A STORY”

– A Conversation with Alan Gilbert

24 LISZT, THE GLOBETROTTER 26 EVERYWHERE CONDUCTORS 28 HUNGARIAN IN THE UNITED STATES 32 36 THE FREEDOM OF THE BODY SADDEST OF THE SAD: 40 THE A TOP 10+1 OF FUNERAL MUSIC

IMMERSION 42 SONIC COURTESY OF AUTECHRE

44 OPENING DOORS 48 PULSATING PARTS THERE IN THE TEXT 50 –IT’StheALL Margó Literary Festival Turns Fifteen

I CAN GO WITH IT

COMPOSING MUSIC IS A WAY OF GETTING TO KNOW MYSELF

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PROGRAMMES BY GENRE EXHIBITION 9 Oct Walk This Way. The Art of Walking 21 Oct Dedicated Ones 15–18 Oct Art Market Budapest

DANCE 10–11 Oct FrenÁk Company: FrenÉsie – RoadMovi(e)ng 15–16 Oct Duna Art Ensemble: Romany Face – Romengi faca

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Snétberger Music Talent Centre 15

CLASSICAL MUSIC 12 Oct 13 Oct 17 Oct 19 Oct 21 Oct 22 Oct

OPERA 21 Oct

Secret Memories – Tihanyi 70

POPULAR MUSIC 8 Oct 15 Oct 16 Oct 17 Oct 17 Oct

Autechre MORDÁI Thaw Isolation Budapest Margó Literary Festival 15

LITERATURE 12 Oct An Evening with Marcsi Tóth 15–18 Oct Autumn Margó Literary Festival

HAIL MARY! By Ádám Bősze

Mary. For every Catholic, including Ferenc Liszt, this is a name steeped in mystery, for behind it looms the sorrowful face of the Mother of God, the Saviour’s mother. Numerous church feasts are dedicated to her; those who hold the rosary pray to her in particular, and the veneration surrounding her is so great that her name is taken not only by women but often also by men. It so happens that several Marys came to play a prominent role in the composer’s life. While the most important part, in my view, was played by the above-mentioned Virgin Mary, no small roles were also taken by Marie d’Agoult, the mother of the composer’s children, and Marie, the daughter of Princess Carolyne zu Sayn-Wittgenstein, another important companion in his life.

Henri Lehmann: Marie de Flavigny, Comtesse d’Agoult (1843) | Source: Wikipedia

Charles may well have made promises, including to stop watching football matches (obviously not), but neither the apology nor the vows convinced Marie, who was already looking for someone else. And so it was that she came across a “tall, excessively thin, pale-faced [man] with large, sea-green eyes in which a sudden light would gleam as when a wave takes fire, pained yet powerful features, an uncertain gait, seeming to glide rather than to touch the ground, with the absentminded, restless air of a ghost when the hour at which it must return to darkness is about to sound.” I suppose the very first sentence helps to identify the demonic figure who ensnared Marie as Ferenc Liszt. I do not wish to question the lady’s account, but it is worth noting that it was not the world-famous musician who seduced her, despite the assertions of so many people. While Liszt’s personality and piano playing did have a mesmerizing effect, he also strove to live an honourable life. And we should also remember that the time when the above lines were written, when the two enjoyed a relationship, was one of High Romanticism. I always smile at Marie’s story about an arduous crossing of a river, when all that really happened was that a large wave rocked the ferry on which they were travelling. Marie experienced it quite differently: “A wave even stronger than the previous ones struck our boat.

Ferenc Liszt (1861) Photo: Louis Frisch | Source: Liszt Museum

“For six years I lived amidst bleak constraints, in formless anguish; my barren and stifled life lacked light and fresh air, and so hopes I had cherished withered away, and the flame of my betrayed youth was extinguished.” This was how Mary no. 2 – the wife of Charles d’Agoult – recalled a period that looked glittering to the outside world but was grey on the inside. She enjoyed enviable financial security and had borne two charming girls for her loving husband, while servants took care of the burdens of bringing up the children and running the household. She was thus free to devote herself to organizing elegant soirées. Yet Marie was not happy and soon grew estranged from her husband, who was often away. But who was to blame? I hear your answer: the man! Indeed, this was long the prevailing view. In her memoirs, Marie blames Charles, while the literature on Liszt has also painted a rather dark picture of her husband. I didn’t live with them, thank God, so I don’t know who was right; nevertheless, an excerpt from a letter that Charles wrote after falling out with his wife testifies to precisely the opposite. I don’t know how many husbands today would be capable of reacting to a heated argument like this: “I hurt your feelings whilst you were ill, and that was not my intention at all! I was wrong to be so harsh with you; please forgive that angry outburst. As you said, which of us could not reproach ourselves? But you must know that there are times when I feel sad, because my wife and children mean everything to me, and nothing can take their place.”

I slipped and nearly fell backwards when an arm seized me and gently pulled me close, wrapping itself around my waist. ‘Marie!’ said the familiar voice. With his other hand, he held the wide lapel of his cloak, whose blood-red lining cast a crimson glow upon his pale, damp face, criss-crossed with sparse blue veins; his long, ash-blonde hair fell in soft waves upon his beautiful forehead, as if concealing the sparkle of his thoughts. He was beautiful and melancholy, like the angel of death who hovers above the bed of the righteous, and, fluttering his blue wings, gives them a breath of the eternal day that knows no night.” Liszt as the angel of death – we never saw that coming. But let us return to the love between Marie and Liszt. Their flaring emotions notwithstanding, the two did not immediately start to live together. Nor could they have done so, for Marie was an aristocrat and married with children, while Ferenc was a vagabond musician: two young people who were a poor match. So they agonized over their relationship, meeting and corresponding in secret.

Whilst Marie d’Agoult was either unwilling or unable to grasp Liszt’s artistic mission, Princess Carolyne zu Sayn-Wittgenstein observed the composer and pianist’s performances with enthusiasm, openness and sensitivity. It was partly thanks to this appreciative interest that Liszt visited her with increasing frequency, and their relationship soon deepened. It is worth noting that while Liszt rarely dedicated works to the mother of his children, the new woman in his life “received” numerous pieces. Unfortunately, her own situation was similarly complicated: she was married and the mother of a daughter (the third Mary). Once they became intimate, they endeavoured to secure an annulment of her marriage because Liszt wanted a church wedding; he wanted to settle his account before God as well. The plan was for them to exchange their vows in Rome on the musician’s fiftieth birthday, but this never came to pass. Following a series of events that was tortuous even from the perspective of canon law, they gave up the fight; their relationship changed, they went their separate ways, and both chose instead to strengthen their ties with the Catholic Church. Carolyne wrote an astonishingly large volume of texts on ecclesiastical subjects, while Liszt officially committed himself to the church, temporarily retreating to a monastery, taking the so-called minor orders and donning a cassock. “Convinced as I was,” he

wrote, “that this act would strengthen me on the right road, I accomplished it without effort, in all simplicity and uprightness of intention. Moreover, it agrees with the antecedents of my youth, as well as with the development that my work of musical composition has taken during these last four years – a work which I propose to pursue with fresh vigour, as I consider it the least defective form of my nature. To speak familiarly; if ‘the cloak does not make the monk’ it also does not prevent him from being one; and, in certain cases, when the monk is already formed within, why not appropriate the outer garment of one? But I am forgetting that I do not in the least intend to become a monk, in the severe sense of the word. For this I have no vocation, and it is enough for me to belong to the hierarchy of the Church to such a degree as the minor orders allow me to do.” Liszt then moved to the Vatican, dividing his time between Rome, Weimar and Budapest, while, in a religious sense, he returned to the Mary he considered the most important in his life.

Carolyne Sayn-Wittgenstein | Source: Klassik Stiftung Weimar

Perhaps they both had misgivings about the scandal that was to come their way, but neither of them suspected that a tragedy was brewing. Marie’s eldest daughter died from complications of an illness, causing the mother to break down: she believed that this was God’s way of punishing her for her sinful relationship with Liszt, that it was over and they would have to part ways. But there is no stopping love (especially Romantic love), so they met again, deciding to bid farewell to Paris together, come what may. “Where are we going? It doesn’t matter! Will we be happy or unhappy? How should I know! All I know is that it’s too late to want anything else. All I know is that I love you, and that I must break your shackles, and that we are one for ever, for better or for worse...,” Marie later recalled the final moments of that fateful meeting. The tragedy was duly followed by the scandal they had anticipated, which set the whole of Paris talking about them. During their years on the run, Marie bore Liszt three children (of whom the second, Cosima, would go on to uphold the family tradition of “love has to be scandalous to be good”). The relationship, however, did not last as their ill-matched temperaments proved irreconcilable. Given Marie’s erratic character and constant jealousy, set against Liszt’s wilfulness, unimaginable popularity and contrasting, sometimes fanatical religiosity, their separation was inevitable. They last saw each other in 1844; a love that lasted ten years. They lived fast.

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CLIMBING THE MOUNTAIN WITH LISZT By Anna Mona-Belinszky

Liszt in his workroom at the Hofgärtnerei in Weimar (1884) Photo: Louis Held | Source: Liszt Museum

Ferenc Liszt is wearing a cassock as he walks before the audience in the Herder Church of Weimar: he is dignified, but exudes unadulterated passion. A few moments pass, and then the vast orchestra, soloists and choir fill the space with the sounds of what the composer called his “musical will and testament,” the Christus oratorio. Liszt’s own inner world is also on display, since his personal experiences were as much a source of inspiration for the dramatic quality and emotional richness of the composition as the story of Christ. Since its 1873 world première, which Liszt himself conducted, live performances of the oratorio continue to create a musical and spiritual space where listeners can find their own place in the most varied forms. One can observe the events as they unfold, deeply experiencing the anticipation, joy, grief and hope, and, by surrendering oneself to the music, become immersed in one’s own inner world and memories. Liszt said of Christus – the idea of which had preoccupied him for decades – that composing the work “was an artistic necessity for me. Now that it is written, I am calm.” He compiled the libretto himself, drawing on passages from the Bible, the Catholic liturgy and various medieval Latin hymns. The subject matter covers the entire life of the Saviour, including his birth and death, and the work provides both guidance and consolation to the attentive listener. The music unfolds as a story set in motion across three major sections, entitled Christmas Oratorio, After Epiphany and Passion and Resurrection. The unity of this magnificent work is achieved through motivic references, recurring themes, melodies and Liszt’s ever-brilliant orchestration. Not that it is necessary to follow the movements word for word, or note for note, to experience this unity: Liszt employs a myriad of compositional techniques to ensure that, beyond something to be understood, the music is also a physical, visceral sensation.

The first part is structured around images such as the radiance of the sky over Bethlehem on the night of the Saviour’s birth, the angel speaking to the shepherds, and the Three Magi presenting their gifts. Among the most captivating moments in the second part is the tremendous orchestral storm in the movement entitled The Miracle, which is followed by some music of tranquillity as the waves subside. The third part is full of emotional climaxes, centred around the grand Stabat mater dolorosa, whose heart-rending music depicts the pain of a mother mourning her dying son. Finally, the movement entitled Resurrexit! (He has risen!) brings the work to a close with its soaring, triumphant tone and performing forces that include the entire orchestra and all the voices. If performing Liszt’s Christus is a triumph, listening to it is no small feat either – and this is just as it should be. It rises before us like a mountain range, whose peaks and ravines, vistas and silences offer the most valuable experiences and lessons for those willing to make the effort and set out boldly to explore them. And when you are back home from the mountain, having listened to Liszt’s Christus, you may find that you have been reborn in some small way.

18 October 2026 | Vienna, Musikverein 22 October 2026 | Müpa Budapest

LISZT: CHRISTUS

Featuring: Adriana Kučerová, Szilvia Vörös, Mauro Peter, Adrian Eröd, Miklós Sebestyén – voice, Hungarian National Choir (choirmaster: Csaba Somos), Pannon Philharmonic Conductor: Gergely Kesselyák

WHERE TRUST IS PART OF THE CURRICULUM

Thirty young musicians, four weeks in Felsőörs, and a teacher who doesn’t provide ready-made answers but plays alongside his pupils. A day at the Snétberger Music Talent Centre, where it soon becomes clear that the most important lesson isn’t learnt from sheet music.

By Gerda Seres 14

Snétberger Music Talent Centre | Photo: Zsolt Melczer

“The beginning was good,” says Ferenc Snétberger as he looks up with a smile at the two boys playing guitar. There’s no long-winded explanation, no hyperbolic praise. He plays a few notes, hands the melody back to them, listens, asks questions, and demonstrates it again. The two pupils give the piece another go, and he plays along with them. Throughout the lesson, teaching and playing together alternate seamlessly. I arrived in Felsőörs this morning for the summer course at the Snétberger Music Talent Centre. Thirty young musicians will spend the next four weeks together at the institution, which was established fifteen years ago. The two guitarists, Richárd Balázs and Barnabás Töttős, come from completely different backgrounds. Richárd is from the village of Tarnabod, Barnabás from Budapest. By the time we sit down to talk, these differences are no longer relevant. They are connected by the same music, driven by the same curiosity, and learn from the same master. The rapport that marked their playing continues in conversation as they finish each other’s sentences. Their musical journeys began quite differently. Richárd has always been drawn to jazz. “I tend to play by ear. Improvisation is closer to my heart, which is why I feel I should now learn the classical basics. They give you technique and a different way of thinking, which comes in handy in jazz too.” By contrast, Barnabás is a classical guitarist and a student at the Béla Bartók Conservatory. “I didn’t like to listen to jazz before I came here. I don’t think my ears were mature enough for it. Now I’ve come to love it, and interestingly, playing jazz has opened my ears to certain aspects of classical music as well.” I ask them what makes collaboration like this work so well, and the answer comes back without hesitation. “You have to feel each other,” says Richárd. “Play the music, enjoy the whole thing,” Barnabás adds. “There’s a flow that carries you along. Unless you enjoy it, the music won’t be really good.” As we wrap up our chat, they talk about why they love coming back to Felsőörs year after year. “It’s like being in a bubble where music is the only thing to surround you,” Barnabás says. In the next room, an ensemble rehearsal is about to start, and at first glance, it’s hard to tell the teachers from the pupils. Toni Snétberger, Zsolt Farkas and Géza Jónás are as much a part of the band as the young people. “Can’t you play by ear? Put that sheet music away. Just play, don’t read. It’s okay to make mistakes,” Toni tells one of the boys. The next go is a little more relaxed. A few minutes later, they stop again. “You can’t play if you’re afraid. You can’t even step out on the street.” After the rehearsal, Toni talks about how the teacher-pupil relationship at the centre is unlike that in a traditional music school. “We and these young people are walking on the same path; it’s just that we’re a bit further ahead.” He thinks a musician must never stop improving, technically as much as in character. For the same reason, he says, ensemble work is about collective thinking as much as joint music-making: you must learn to pay attention to the others, tell them if something is not working, and deliver criticism in a way that is not hurtful but helps you all move on.

Although the rehearsal comes to an end, Zsolt says that the most important moments at the Snétberger Centre often occur when the official classes are over. “Although they make huge progress during the sessions, of course, they learn just as much from each other. In the evenings, they take out their instruments, swap ideas, and listen to what others are working on. That’s why it’s great to be here. We’re surrounded by music from morning till night.” However, the Snétberger Centre is not just a four-week summer course. Pupils continue to work together in the spring and autumn at two-week sessions, so the young people stay in touch with each other and their teachers for months on end. Teenage drummer Zoltán Bogdán joined the programme last year. “For me, this camp is like a second family,” he says guilelessly. He doesn’t mean this to be high-sounding. He tells me that they keep in touch between courses, phoning each other and counting down the days until their next meeting.

Ferenc Snétberger Photo: Bálint Hirling / Müpa Budapest

The band starts the piece again. After a few bars, Zsolt raises his hand. “At times like these, you can tell who listens to jazz, because it’s in their ears.” A few minutes later, as the piano begins to solo, he interrupts again. “Beni, if you go full blast at the start, you’ll be in trouble later on. Build it up.” “I was panicking about what to play,” comes the reply. “Play less,” urges Zsolt. “Have your fill of the piano, but build it up, and you’ll be the star at tomorrow’s concert.” Meanwhile, Flóra Bakonszegi announces the title of the next song. Géza turns to the band with a smile. “Swing again? All right, I’ll respect your choice.” Flóra later tells me that swing is her favourite. “I really love ballads too, and I sing a lot of bossa nova with Uncle Feri,” says the young girl, who came to the Snétberger Centre four years ago as a classical pianist, but now envisions a career as a jazz singer. What she enjoys most, however, is making music together. “The ensemble lessons are the most exciting. That’s where I can improve the most, because I learn to work with others and adapt to them. I still get stage fright before performances, but in a completely different way to how I used to. When I play with my ensemble teachers, I know everything will be fine.” Flóra’s trust is not unfounded. The teachers who lead the band today were sitting among the students here just a few years ago. Géza clearly does not believe in rigid roles. Although he has gained recognition as a double bassist, he occasionally picks up a guitar or a bass guitar, and at today’s rehearsal, much to the surprise of his fellow musicians, he even breaks into song to demonstrate the end of a phrase. “I like to teach in a playful way. When we play, we can work together much more naturally.” Géza thinks the strength of the camp lies in making music together. “Here, we can practise playing together very intensively. The children learn at a young age what it means to take responsibility for the team. And that if I turn up to rehearsal unprepared, the other four people will also suffer as a result. That’s very important.”

Ferenc Snétberger teaching | Photo: Zsolt Melczer

Previously, students were also supported by a mentoring programme that ran throughout the year. A tighter budget now prevents the centre from carrying on with that programme, although Ferenc Snétberger himself believes it ensured continuity between the courses. Barbora Berki’s history is quite different. She came from Slovakia as a classical pianist, and continues to play primarily Chopin, Schubert or Tchaikovsky. So it is particularly interesting that she highlights the very same thing as her jazz-playing peers. “Nobody here feels left out. Everyone is friendly, open-minded and helpful. What takes me half a year to learn at home, I learn here in a month.” By the end of the day, it becomes clear that there is also a personal story behind the Snétberger Centre’s educational concept. Ferenc Snétberger says the idea dates back to his own childhood. It wasn’t easy for him to get started as a musician, which is why he wanted to create a place where talented young people would receive more support than he himself once received. This intent has not changed over the past fifteen years.

“This isn’t like a music school; we don’t teach according to a set formula. Every child is different, and we always start from what they know,” he explains. Over the years, however, the centre has become more than just a music workshop. “Along with the music, they also come to love each other,” he says. The centre boasts impressive results, with around 85 per cent of its students gaining admission to a music school in Hungary or abroad, and most performing on prestigious stages from a young age. However, what makes Snétberger the proudest is not these results, but seeing students find their way, coming into their own as musicians and humans. In Felsőörs, they do not merely train musicians. They are building a community in which music is a common language, and trust is just as much part of the curriculum as scales or improvisation. 10 October 2026 Liszt Academy

SNÉTBERGER MUSIC TALENT CENTRE 15

A MEETING OF CULTURES? REFLECTIONS ON ROMANI MUSIC, COMMUNITIES AND CREATIVE INDIVIDUALS

József Bikessy-Heinbucher: Musicians in Hungary (1820) Colour print | Source: Museum of Ethnography

By Zoltán Beck

It is never cultures that meet, but people who bring along the narratives of their own cultures and communities; their preconceptions, presumed knowledge, experiences, memories and sensibilities – or rather, a momentary combination of these that is usually reflected upon, but is intricate and unfathomable even to themselves. It would be wrong to infer from this that nothing can be said about cultures and their points of contact; what is clear is that frameworks are offered – based on our choices (our ways of reasoning, ideology, beliefs, language, etc.) – that may be valid, authentic, useful and informative, but are by no means normative or prescriptive. On the occasion of Liszt Fest, allow me to shrink the infinity of the cultural space down to the still too vast expanse of Romani music, and then to narrow it down even further for practical reasons, even at the risk of leaving out a portion disturbingly larger than what has been described. Our everyday notions of Romani music run a wide gamut and are typically shaped by our experiences, our social interaction with music, and the dominant representations of this music in the media. Even if you think of Romani music in these broad terms alone, you will recognize a wide variety of genres, styles and performance modes. The images you will have formed will be completely different depending on whether you think of Roma performers on talent shows; if your primary experience is the lunchtime radio programme Jó ebédhez szól a nóta, which serves up Gypsy music; if you’re a jazz enthusiast visiting festivals across Central and Eastern Europe; if you’re a lover of classical music who listens to Liszt, Brahms, Haydn and Bizet; if you’re hearing Goran Bregović’s Orchestra, a concert of Parno Graszt, Ferenc Snétberger’s guitar playing, flamenco or the rap of contemporary urban hip-hop culture; or if you’re simply having fun at a wedding. And if you expand the scope of Romani music both in time and space, as Tony Gatlif did in his unique road movie, Latcho Drom (1993), you will find even more diverse musical languages. So if we’re looking for a simple answer to the question of what Romani music actually is, what might come to mind is “it is unknown,” or perhaps “it is many things.” But these are not answers that should satisfy us. Scholarly experience shows that a lack of answers generally stems from the way a given question is framed. It is likely that our question is imprecise, or rather that the question itself hinges on a firm expectation that Romani music has a definable form. But if we let go of this unfounded expectation, we can make room for narratives about Romani music, such as Svanibor Pettan’s book about musicians in Kosovo. This also means that we must let go of the romanticizing and prejudiced

notion that Romani music is somehow homogeneous. “They are all sorts,” quipped Zsolt Csalog in the 1970s when asked what the Roma are like, and the same starting position could serve us well as we formulate approaches to their music. There is a significant tradition in academic circles of narratives on Romani musical culture; of these, Liszt Fest compels us to focus on a single genre. Bálint Sárosi’s work is of decisive importance, not only because of his thorough historical research and interpretative approach, but also because he established the paradigm of the “Gypsy band.” Without wishing to draw the reader into a terminological debate, I want to note that Sárosi uses the term because it allows him to sidestep the “wrong” question; after all, he is not discussing Romani music per se, but rather the development of the Gypsy band in a historical context, here in the Carpathian Basin. In this sense, a genre can be identified – Gypsy café music – along with its socio-historical context and the personal life stories of its protagonists, i.e. the musicians. From this angle – and with the evidence of other outstanding authors like Csaba Szíjártó, Ernő Kállai, Erika Nyerges, Géza Csemer, Tamás Hajnáczky and others – a musical culture emerges that keeps unfolding, enduring and influencing to this day, commonly referred to as that of the imitation folk song, or “Gypsy café music.” Not only was this music an inspiring, personal experience for Romantic composers, it is also the reason even those least familiar with the genre will recognize the names of such great band leaders and composers as Pista Dankó, János Bihari, Panna Czinka, Károly Bura, Pali Rácz and Jancsi Rigó – if only because public spaces and institutions bear their names, or they have become eponyms. Famous to this day, these band leaders enjoyed extraordinary popularity in their own time, with a veritable cult developing around Bihari and Dankó. From the early decades of the 19th century, Gypsy bands and their leaders were frequently featured in society magazines across Europe: Politisches Volkblatt, for instance, announced the death of Pali Rácz on its front page in 1885. Reviews of bands’ performances appeared regularly. Let me attempt to paint a broad picture of how this musical genre emerged and remained in the public ear, from its beginnings in the late 18th century until around the mid-20th century. Our story starts with 18th-century feudal society and the noble estates (mostly) in the countryside, where musicians were employed for cultural and social events – though they were rarely full-time players and were more likely complementing their agricultural or service-related work.

We must not forget that the ideological framework of the bourgeois transformation – which left intact the feudal social structure upon which it emerged, with consequences that are felt to this day – was nation-building. Its art-historical context, in turn, was provided by (national) Romanticism. As the 19th century was nearing its end, musicians of the most varied ethnicities were vying for popularity, which can be looked upon as a race for assimilation; in a field shared with Jewish, German and Slovak groups, military bands and choral societies, Romani ensembles unquestionably took the trophy of “Hungarian music.” This brings us to the relationship between Ferenc Liszt and Gypsy music. During his visits to Hungary, Liszt encountered Gypsy music as entertainment, a part of the hospitality service. He both recognized what he heard as Hungarian music – thus embracing the period’s narrative of national identity – and was captivated by its performance, the instrumental virtuosity, which was none other than the musical touchstone of Romanticism (we need only consider the composer-performer’s own Paganini Études). Unsurprisingly, this musical experience inspired Liszt to write a book, which he titled Des Bohémiens et de leur musique en Hongrie (On Gypsies and Their Music in Hungary), the Hungarian translation of which is still in print, thanks to the publisher Magyar Mercurius. János Róbert Orsós has analysed the ideology behind Liszt’s narrative in an excellent study; suffice it to say here that Liszt recorded a revelatory experience, while his conclusions and reflections were largely fallacious, owing

Aranka Hegyi as Panna Czinka | Photo: Lipót Strelisky | Source: National Széchényi Library, Theatre History Collection

The musical genre under discussion grew out of this milieu, typically drawing on and transforming the musical tradition of the peasantry. The genre gained momentum thanks to urbanization – a belated yet dynamic process in Hungary – and as a result, by the end of the 19th century, Gypsy bands had established themselves in the public spaces of major cities, as well as in spas and holiday resorts across most of AustriaHungary, from Vienna through Kolozsvár to Budapest, the latter of which had become one of Europe’s café capitals by the turn of the century. This change also influenced the perception of the Roma, with Gypsy musicians becoming part of the bourgeois, urbanized social landscape; forging links with the sociopolitical and cultural-artistic elite of the era; becoming figures in contemporary poetry and prose; and sometimes forming genuine friendships with members of the elite, as in the case of Pista Dankó and the poet Endre Ady, a story immortalized by Géza Csemer in his “dream novel.” The bands were helped in these ambitions by patrons such as Archduke Joseph of Austria, whose correspondence (published under the editorship of István Soós) offers remembrances of many a band, leader and venue.

to the interpretative horizon prevalent at the time. Des Bohémiens portrays the Roma in general as exotic, enigmatic and highly talented, but different from European peoples, romanticizing them as the children of nature and casting them not merely as a source of inspiration for the arts, but also as a metaphor for them, thereby depriving the performers of their autonomy and individuality. So there is such a thing as Romani music, and it owes its diversity less to musical genres, eras and geographical locations, but more to the fact that it is created by individual composers and performers, whose desire to communicate is inalienably their own, as is their musical language, whether their chosen form is pop music, jazz, folk, café or classical music. And it is through this individuality that the communal experience finds its voice and leaves its mark, as it does on every one of us, because our communal identities cannot (and must not) be cancelled by our individuality, just as our communal affiliations cannot consume the individual who belongs to them. 15 and 16 October 2026 Müpa Budapest

DUNA ART ENSEMBLE: ROMANY FACE – ROMENGI FACA

The Source of Music

AN INSTRUMENT THAT IS BOTH A NATIONAL AND GLOBAL TREASURE

Dénes Valéria: Kék vázában rózsaszínű virágok

The cimbalom belongs to an extremely diverse and distinctive musical world. Besides being able to produce rhythm, melody and harmony all at once, it can blend into almost any musical style, as its sound can range from the very soft and dramatically refined to the unrestrained and surprisingly raw. Both traditional and modern, this instrument and other members of its family are used in the traditional music of various peoples, in Gypsy music, in classical and contemporary works, in film scores, and in a multitude of jazz and world music contexts. However, contrary to its widespread presence – or because it is so bewilderingly complex – it has never become a typical “world instrument.” Here are 10 interesting facts about the cimbalom that might surprise even its fans.

Miklós Lukács | Photo: Attila Nagy / Müpa Budapest

By Veronika Varga

THE CONCERT CIMBALOM IS A HUNGARIAN INVENTION

Although the ancestors of the cimbalom had been played for millennia, from the Middle East through Asia to Europe, the concert cimbalom as we know it today was created by the Budapest-based instrument maker József Schunda, who improved on folk cimbaloms at the end of the 19th century.

IT BELONGS TO ONE OF THE OLDEST FAMILIES OF MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS

The principle of the cimbalom is extremely simple: stretched strings are struck with two beaters. Instruments operating on the same principle can still be found, for example, in Iranian classical music, folk songs of the Greek islands, Indian ragas and Chinese ensembles.

IT HAS OVER ONE HUNDRED STRINGS

A concert cimbalom typically has 120 to 130 steel strings stretched across it, with a combined tension that can reach several tons. A single broken or out-of-tune string can affect the sound of the entire instrument.

IT CAN WEIGH AS MUCH AS 100 KILOGRAMS

The concert cimbalom is both large and extremely heavy. Transporting it is a challenge in itself; one person is usually unable to lift it. This considerable mass is due in part to the sturdy wooden body, and in part to the heavy, thick strings that sustain the multi-ton tension.

IT DIDN’T ALWAYS HAVE LEGS

The folk cimbaloms of old would be placed on tables, chairs or even barrels. The legs, which are now commonplace, were among Schunda’s inventions, and can be unscrewed to make the instrument easier to transport.

THE SOUND VARIES ACCORDING TO THE TYPE OF BEATERS USED

Most cimbalom players use several types of beaters, which can produce completely different sounds. Many artists make their own beaters, which vary in hardness and thickness, and are covered with cotton, felt or leather.

FERENC LISZT SAW THE CIMBALOM AS A SYMBOL OF HUNGARIAN IDENTITY

Many people are unfamiliar with the cimbalom, but its enthusiasts regard it as a true Hungarian speciality. This is hardly by chance, because even Ferenc Liszt believed that the instrument was one of the most characteristic repre sentatives of Hungarian musical culture and identity.

IT IS USED EVERYWHERE, FROM CAFÉS TO VILLAGE BANDS

At the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries, the cimbalom became the emblematic instrument of café music, while in certain regions of Transylvania the tradition of archaic, melody-centred cimbalom playing persisted until the end of the 20th century. 9

IT ALSO HOLDS A PROMINENT PLACE IN CLASSICAL MUSIC

Many first encounter the cimbalom in Zoltán Kodály’s Háry János, in which it is featured prominently. Many composers, including Igor Stravinsky, fell in love with its sound – so much so that he bought his own concert cimbalom after hearing Aladár Rácz play it. 10

THE CIMBALOM EVEN CAUGHT THE EMPEROR’S ATTENTION

Schunda presented the first version he had developed at the 1873 Vienna World’s Fair. The instrument was such a success that it caught the attention of Emperor Franz Joseph and Hungarian political leaders. By 1906, Schunda’s workshop had reportedly produced more than 10,000 concert cimbaloms, an extraordinary number for a 19th-century instrument. 19 October 2026 BMC

BALÁZS FÜLEI | ANDRÁS SZALAI 23

“WHENEVER I MAKE MUSIC, I TRY TO TELL A STORY” – A CONVERSATION WITH ALAN GILBERT By Borbála Tuska

A Hungarian conducting legend, Sir Georg Solti, convinced Alan Gilbert that he was cut out for the profession, and he has since become one of today’s most sought-after conductors, equally at home in the symphonic and operatic repertoires. He was the first “nativeborn” New Yorker to become music director of the city’s philharmonic orchestra, and he currently leads the NDR Elbphilharmonie Orchester and the Royal Swedish Opera. We talked to the Grammy Award-winning artist about some milestones in his career.

Alan Gilbert | Photo: Marco Borggreve

What inspired you to pursue a career as a conductor, and what did you find the most fascinating about the profession? I could start with my father, who is a violinist and a conductor – just as his father was. So, in a way, my career path isn’t that surprising. Although my first instrument was the piano, I soon became drawn to the violin. My biggest choice came upon graduating from Harvard College. I had to decide whether to enter a conservatory for conducting or for the violin. Since I was already a pretty good violinist, I figured I could always keep playing without formal studies at that level. So, I chose to pursue conducting. That path turned out well, and I’ve ended up conducting much more than playing the violin ever since, but I still perform in plenty of concerts and am incredibly happy to be able to do both. In the 1990s, you won the Georg Solti Prize, thanks to which the Hungarian maestro personally mentored you. How do you look back on that experience? That was a pivotal moment in my life, being able to spend a few weeks around him. At the time, he was rehearsing La Traviata in London, so I went to observe the rehearsals and watch him work with singers in the room, accompanied only by a piano. Beyond what I learned, simply having his support and belief in me meant the world; it gave me the confidence and the sense that maybe I really could do this. There was a very funny incident in Geneva. I was rehearsing with the Orchestre de la Suisse Romande when Solti appeared unexpectedly. Since my back was to the audience, I didn’t see him enter, but the musicians did, and I noticed their attention shifting. Suddenly, without me even stopping them, the orchestra just ground to a halt – the great Sir Georg Solti had just walked in, and they were completely starstruck. We all just waited as this musical giant walked down the aisle, stepped onto the stage, and made his way right up to the podium. He looked at the orchestra and said, “That’s my boy.” You were Music Director of the New York Philharmonic between 2009 and 2017. What would you highlight from that important chapter of your career? Those eight years were a wonderful part of my life. Having grown up with the New York Philharmonic – since both of my parents were violinists in New York – it was the orchestra I knew best. To then have the opportunity to serve as its Music Director was a dream I never even dared to imagine. It felt unbelievable to be given that chance with one of the greatest orchestras of all time, and making a lasting cultural impact on New York City was a true privilege. I think we accomplished some amazing projects together. While we covered a vast range of traditional repertoire, we also created new types of events that no orchestra had ever attempted before. Touring the world with them was always thrilling, and I especially loved our

trips to Budapest. I remember being a bit nervous about performing Bartók there – specifically his Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta. It’s always a thrilling challenge to play iconic music for an audience that knows it so intimately and feels it so deeply in their own home. You’re coming to Liszt Fest with the NDR Elbphilharmonie Orchester, whose leadership you took over seven years ago. How do you find life in Hamburg and how has its milieu shaped the journey you’ve undertaken with the orchestra? Though I live in Stockholm, Hamburg truly feels like home, both as a city I know intimately and on a musical level. I’ve been conducting this orchestra since around 2001, and the fact that we still get along so well, genuinely like each other, and always give our best for one another is quite rare in the orchestral world. The orchestra plays beautifully and has developed a unique identity of its own. The musicians are incredibly generous and bring a level of dedication that you simply cannot take for granted nowadays. I feel this partnership is the centrepiece of my musical life. On top of that, we’re incredibly fortunate to perform in this spectacular new hall (i.e. the Elbphilharmonie – Ed.). Symphonic works and operas are the defining elements of your repertoire. As a conductor, do you approach these two genres differently? That’s a question we could talk about for one minute – or for five weeks! Whenever I make music, I try to tell a story, whether there are words and singers or not. People often say opera is too complicated because there are so many variables you can’t control. That’s true, but it’s just a matter of scale. Whether it’s an opera or a symphony, you start with a clear vision of how the piece should go, and then you work with the musicians in front of you – be it a violinist, a pianist, a saxophonist, or a singer. At the end of the day, it’s all music. Working with singers shouldn’t be any different from working with instrumentalists. Is there a piece you’d definitely like to conduct at some point? I’ve done a lot of music and have a wide repertoire, but having directed an opera company for a much shorter time, there are still many operas I haven't conducted. I’m especially looking forward to doing a complete Wagner Ring cycle. The Ring is a body of work I know intimately, yet I’ve never actually conducted Siegfried or Götterdämmerung in full. To conduct those pieces in their entirety, to mount the entire cycle, is the ultimate “Mount Everest” for me. 21 October 2026 Müpa Budapest

ALAN GILBERT | LEIF OVE ANDSNES | NDR ELBPHILHARMONIE ORCHESTER

LISZT, THE GLOBETROTTER By Erzsébet Juhász

Ferenc Liszt (1875) Photo: Ferenc Kozmata | Source: Liszt Museum

People may travel out of duty or consider it a necessary evil, or enjoy it as a form of recreation, but at the end of the day, all travellers want to return home. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and the experience of unfamiliarity makes the sense of being at home all the more welcome. By contrast, Ferenc Liszt was not after such harmony – or not in the classical sense: more than a mere activity, travelling was a defining element of his identity. During his early years as a virtuoso, he gave more than a thousand concerts in hundreds of towns and cities, covering hundreds of thousands of kilometres “from Glasgow to Constantinople, and from Lisbon to Moscow.” On average, he performed every three days, and was always on the move, travelling mostly by stagecoach or boat, and less often by train, with a silent practice piano as his constant travelling companion. Packing up and being jolted about on long journeys were constant parts of his daily life, so it is fair to ask: where was the home that balanced this all out for him?

The journey of the virtuoso pianist, who became a “rock star” at a young age, started in the village of Doborján, whence he set out to give his first concert in Sopron – a decisive milestone – at the age of nine. Shortly afterwards, the child prodigy was already being celebrated in Vienna, where he was mentored by Carl Czerny. Before long, he moved on and established himself in Paris. Although he wasn’t admitted to the Conservatoire, it was here that he became a fully fledged artist. His taste was refined in the salons of the French capital, in the company of the era’s most prominent musicians, writers, poets and painters, including Victor Hugo, Lamartine, Chopin and Berlioz. Liszt’s permanent residence soon changed once again, as his personality was enriched by the experiences of his travels through Switzerland and Italy with his lover, Countess Marie d’Agoult. This marked the beginning of a new chapter for Liszt, not only as a private individual but also as a composer: it shaped his aesthetic views on nature, literature and the fine arts. The

Ferenc Liszt’s travelling case | Source: Liszt Museum

title of Years of Pilgrimage (Années de pèlerinage), the piano cycle he composed at the time, alludes to the composer’s outlook: instead of touring Europe as a simple tourist, he was a pilgrim for whom travel was a form of cultural enrichment and spiritual growth. The pieces in his Swiss volume – from walks along the shores of Lake Walenstadt to the ringing of the bells in Geneva – translate the experience of nature into music, while the Italian year already reveals a different world, with the piano works informed by Raphael’s paintings, Michelangelo’s sculptures, Petrarch’s poetry and Dante’s visions.

that the composer himself always identified as Hungarian. In 1873, in a letter to his friend Antal Augusz about the establishment of the Academy of Music, he wrote: “Allow me, despite my regrettable ignorance of the Hungarian language, to remain Hungarian in my heart and in my feelings from birth to the grave, and accordingly seek to be a dedicated promoter of the cause of Hungarian musical culture.” Liszt, therefore, saw Hungarian identity not so much as a question of language or permanent place of residence, but rather of a consciously embraced cultural and moral community.

However, his “pilgrimage” with Marie did not last forever; their paths parted, and Liszt soon found himself in Weimar, exchanging the persona of the piano virtuoso for that of the conductor, composer and mentor of young talent. Here, he relied on Carolyne zu Sayn-Wittgenstein for the warmth of a home. His stable position as a conductor, alongside Carolyne’s intellectual and emotional support, provided him with a secure environment that fostered the birth of his symphonic poems and other works. However, once the couple’s marriage hopes had been definitively dashed, the composer took off to Rome, entered the priesthood and moved into a monastery, next to the House of God. He divided his final decades between Weimar, Rome and Budapest, in what he called a “three-pronged life.” He fulfilled three different roles in the three cities: that of the composer in Weimar, the abbot in Rome, and the teacher in Budapest.

It was this deep attachment that made Budapest an important setting for the final phase of Liszt’s life. He played a pivotal role in the establishment of the Royal Hungarian Academy of Music, taught students free of charge, and truly placed his knowledge, connections and international standing in the service of Hungarian music. His sense of cultural mission is evidenced by his engagement with Hungarian music, particularly the verbunkos, as well as in such works as the Hungarian Rhapsodies, the symphonic poem Hungaria and the Coronation Mass. The subject of Hungarian identity was a recurring motif throughout his life.

Liszt lived across Europe, yet he always maintained a special bond with Hungary. Debates continue to this day about the nationality of the virtuoso pianist, given that he was born in a place outside of present-day Hungary, spent most of his life elsewhere, and never learnt Hungarian, which wasn’t his mother tongue. It is then only reasonable to ask why we still consider Liszt to be Hungarian. The answer is, very simply,

Could Hungary, then, have been the home of the globetrotting Liszt? After all, every path led here. The reality, however, is more complex than that. In his heart, Hungary was his homeland and place of birth; in a physical sense, however, this was not so obvious. Always moving, whether on concert tours or moving residence, he may well have found a sense of home not so much in being able to return to the same place as in the very act of travelling; for in this way of life, constancy was embodied in constant change. For him, home was perhaps not a single place, but a spiritual space instead, in which European culture became a unified whole and on whose paths he was an eternal “pilgrim.”

EVERYWHERE By Orsolya K arafiáth

Participant in a fashion show on the beach of the Hotel Saint-Georges, Lebanon / Beirut (1967) Source: Fortepan / Lindner family © HUNGART 2026

In this memory, my mother is dancing; we’re guests in a flat on a housing estate on the outskirts of Budapest in the late 1990s. There’s a giant poster behind her, with a tropical landscape. Mum’s polyester frills clash with the Caribbean vibe; only her eyes are as blue as the waves on the wall, which have turned grey from the persistent cigarette smoke. Rod Stewart’s Sailing is blaring from the radio and Mum is wailing the chorus along with the singer, and I’m laughing because their hairstyles are similar, except Mum’s perm is currently going flat. With a hangover the next day, Mum sings Mari Nyeső: “I’d love to run away, but here I am in the world.” How small Mum’s world was! She travelled outside her homeland only once in her entire life, when KISZ took her to visit fellow young communists in Moscow. Did she long for more? Definitely. It was as if her longing to get away was where she felt at home, stretching its boundaries endlessly. In another memory, my friend, who as a radio reporter had visited all the places that could be visited, asked for one thing before her death: to be allowed to sing Teri Harangozó’s hit I’d Love to Roam the World in Hungarian Radio’s main studio, as her personal anthem to life. For although she had travelled the length and breadth of America, had worked behind a bar in Dublin for a year, and had scaled enormous peaks, she had always inhabited a state of longing, always wanting more. An old love of mine hardly ever left the flat, except in cases of absolute necessity. Whenever I proposed going out, or, God forbid, invited him on a trip, he’d send me an article from The New York Times in reply, arguing that travelling was completely pointless, indeed downright repulsive. And yet, no one I knew was as informed about the world as he was. He spoke many languages and followed the news from the Middle East crisis to the South Pole. He dragged the whole lot into his flat. Earth is small enough and we shouldn’t narrow our horizons more than that, said Péter Eötvös, and his words are my guiding principle. I should also note, of course, that it’s easier done by someone who works in music. Or in the visual arts. The language of music and images is truly universal; it is the red passport itself. Take Leonard Bernstein, who literally put music at the service of diplomacy: think of his historically significant 1959 tour of the Soviet Union, or the concerts for Holocaust survivors held shortly after the peace treaty was signed. We see that music is able not only to cross national borders, but also to bring together entirely different worlds. But the question always remains: what does “home” mean to any given person? Coming home. Those of us who were children in the nineties could not have missed the famous quote from Áron Tamási, at the end of Ábel in America, which reads: “We are in this world so as to feel at home somewhere in it.” It was an understandable mantra at the time, but even as a little girl I found it kitschy and bombastic. We don’t know why we’re in the world. (At least I don’t know.) But it’s certainly not in order to trap ourselves within the narrow confines of closed-off ideas and ideologies. Of course, an enclosed garden, however claustrophobic, is always safer than the unsettling, endless void. To be at home everywhere: that’s what music can do. From the smallest farmyard, through the streets of New York, to the rainforests. My mum raced there to the sounds of a hit song; I do it with Eötvös. Either journey can be wonderful.

HUNGARIAN CONDUCTORS IN THE UNITED STATES By Szabolcs Molnár

Many of the world-famous Hungarian conductors of the last century, such as Antal Doráti, Eugene (Jenő) Ormandy, Fritz (Frigyes) Reiner and Sir Georg (György) Solti, studied at Budapest’s Academy of Music, yet none of them held a degree in conducting. The reason was simple: for many decades, the institution founded by Ferenc Liszt did not have a conducting course. If a young musician wished to gain experience as a conductor, they either had to jump in at the deep end or enrol on the Academy’s composition course, where they could enjoy a few semesters’ worth of conducting practice. It is little surprise, then, that for most of those conductors who emigrated from Hungary and went on to enjoy illustrious careers in the United States, the decisive influence came not from some virtuoso of the baton but from teachers such as Hans Koessler, Leó Weiner, Zoltán Kodály and Béla Bartók. Georg Solti didn’t mince his words in this regard: “Whatever I have achieved as a musician, I owe more to Leo Weiner than to anyone else.”

György Széll Photo: Peter Hastings | Source: The Cleveland Orchestra

Eugene Ormandy (c. 1950) Photo: Philippe Halsman | Source: Sibelius Museum

György Széll (1897–1970), the legendary conductor of the Cleveland Orchestra, was something of an exception. He was born in Budapest, but his family moved to Vienna three years later, and the exceptionally gifted boy began his musical studies there. He earned notice as a pianist and composer, and at the age of seventeen was already conducting the Berlin Philharmonic. His early experiences as a conductor must have been very positive, for Széll decided to give up both his promising career as a pianist and his dreams of becoming a composer in favour of conducting. He was only eighteen when in 1915 Richard Strauss appointed him as assistant conductor at the Royal Opera in Berlin. Strauss influenced him not only as a composer but as a conductor as well, and what Széll achieved many years later as music director in Cleveland can be looked upon as a conscious cultivation of Strauss’s legacy. He was an extremely strict, iron-handed leader, whose consistent work transformed Cleveland’s unexceptional provincial orchestra into one of America’s top ensembles. He led the orchestra for twenty-four years, though it might be more accurate to say that he ruled over it. According to one reminiscence, forty per cent of the orchestra’s musicians had to seek psychiatric help during his tenure, which says a lot about Széll’s leadership style. One of the conductor’s most important musical allies, the violinist Josef Gingold, served as concertmaster in Cleveland from 1947. The great violinist’s gentleness was

legendary, which, among many other things, proved useful in mediating between the orchestra and the conductor. He left the orchestra in 1960, stating at the time that, “for the first time in fourteen years, I’m sleeping well at night.” Széll sought to keep everything under his control, from the musicians’ attire to ensuring they shaved regularly, from the toilet paper used on tours to the minutiae of administrative matters. “If he had the time,” quipped one of his musicians, “Széll would be selling tickets in the box office.” Széll’s older colleague, Fritz Reiner (1888–1963), also had a close relationship with Richard Strauss. In the second half of the 1910s, when Reiner was already an experienced theatre conductor, he conducted several of Strauss’s works at the Semperoper Dresden, much to the master’s satisfaction. He arrived in America much earlier than Széll and worked with such ensembles as the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra, New York Philharmonic and Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. He frequently conducted at the Metropolitan Opera, and taught at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia, where Leonard Bernstein was among his students. When he signed on with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra in 1953, he faced much the same challenges as Széll had a few years earlier in Cleveland – and probably had the ambitions to match. He was a notoriously tough leader; most biographies are quick to note that Reiner was the quintessential exemplar of the tyrannical conductor. His communication arsenal certainly included a touch of sarcastic humour, and there was something intimidating about his appearance too. His musicians often compared him to another Hungarian, the actor Bela Lugosi, who became world-famous for his unparalleled portrayal of Count Dracula. He conducted with a long baton, but with very subtle movements. When a musician sitting in the back row brought a pair of binoculars to a rehearsal for a joke, Reiner asked him why he had done so. “I just want to see the tempo,” came the reply. Reiner then wrote something on a piece of paper in tiny letters, and asked the musician: “Can you read this from there?” The musician raised the binoculars to his eyes and made out: “YOU’RE FIRED.” Eugene Ormandy (1899–1985) was admitted to the Academy of Music in Budapest as a child prodigy on violin and was mentored by Jenő Hubay. In 1921, he emigrated to the USA, where he was initially employed as a violinist. His conducting career began in the early 1930s with what proved to be a fortuitous stand-in, when he substituted for Arturo Toscanini at the helm of the Philadelphia Orchestra. From there his path led almost directly to the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra, which he conducted until 1936. He then returned to Philadelphia, where he directed the orchestra tirelessly for more than four decades (a record-breaking tenure in America). He conducted between 100 and 180 concerts a year, and retired from the orchestra in 1980. Although Ormandy too had his share of “quirks” as a leader, he was not a dictator and his colleagues remembered him as

Antal Doráti in the Hungarian Radio studio (1970) Source: Fortepan / Zoltán Szalay © HUNGART 2026

a fundamentally friendly and good-humoured conductor. During rehearsals, he communicated with off-the-cuff remarks and the creativity typical of non-native speakers of English, coming up with one-liners that the orchestra musicians dutifully recorded for posterity. Ormandy quotes abound on the internet; just run a search with the phrase “what Eugene Ormandy probably meant to say.” Opinions are divided on whether Ormandy’s remarks came across as clumsy, ambiguous and, consequently, amusing only because of his linguistic limitations, or whether they actually reveal the conductor’s sense of humour and self-deprecating nature. Some find deeper musical truths in his utterances. Sentences such as “I am thinking it right, but beating it wrong”; “I can conduct better than I count”; “I don’t mean to make you nervous, but unfortunately I have to” suggest that Ormandy considered his relationship with the orchestra a partnership. Some of the jokes were intentional, as in the case of “We can’t hear the balance yet because the soloist is still on the airplane,” which referred to the infelicitous tradition whereby orchestras were often forced to rehearse concertos without the soloists, as the stars usually only arrived on the day of the concert – at best, in the morning. The following Ormandyism also relates to this situation: “Please follow me, because I have to follow him, and he isn’t here.” Ormandy must have been aware that his instructions were not always unambiguous, or as he put it, “I never say what I mean, but I always manage to say something similar.”

Antal Doráti (1906–1988) was fourteen when he was admitted to the Academy of Music, where he studied composition with Kodály, piano with Arnold Székely and chamber music with Leó Weiner. He made his conductor’s debut in the United States in 1937, working in Washington, Dallas, Minneapolis and Detroit. After the Second World War, he took up leading positions with various European ensembles, including in London and Stockholm. Unlike Széll, he remained enamoured with composition, and completed his opera on the prophet Elijah (Der Künder – The Chosen) towards the end of his life. “I just wrote it because I had to write it,” he said in an interview before his eightieth birthday (published only after his death). This monumental work has not yet been staged, but a recording was made in 2022 and has been released as a three-CD set. In the same interview, the elderly Doráti said that he was not worried about the future of music. “I am altogether optimistic about human life, and music is a very integral part of human life as far as I am concerned, and I think, unbeknownst to them, to mankind. Therefore, I think we, as human beings, have a future, so music does, also.”

13 October 2026 Müpa Budapest

FRANZ WELSER-MÖST | THE CLEVELAND ORCHESTRA 33

I CAN GO WITH IT By Tünde Topor

Tsai Ming-liang: Sand (2018) Photo: Chang Jhong-Yuan | Source: Homegreen Films

It used to be that when someone was on their mobile phone, they would unconsciously start pacing up and down, demonstrating the ancient connection between movement and speech in the cerebral cortex. Plato and Aristotle were peripatetic philosophers of the Lyceum in Athens, where teaching took the form of collective debates while walking. These are social activities, but what pleasure is there to be had from a simple walk; from covering distances alone, in natural or urban surroundings? And whether walking alone or in a group, how does this become art, an exhibition-worthy creation? Sometimes it does not, as in the case of the sculptor Ferenc Varga, who, while studying in Kyoto in Japan in 2000, walked 960 kilometres to the north-western coast of the island, then back south-east to the Pacific Ocean, taking a pebble along for the journey, which he washed in the waters of both seas, before returning it to where he had originally found it. His hike, which can be seen as a purifying pilgrimage, left no visible trace; it lives on only as a story: currently, it features as one of the entries on the timeline of an exhibition at the Ludwig Museum, which explores the concept of walking and its various forms. But to return to the question of what pleasure is to be found in simply walking, Frédéric Gros’s A Philosophy of Walking offers countless answers from European cultural history; Gérard de Nerval, for example, thought that walking was active melancholy, while Rimbaud saw it as an escape from the vile stupidity of those who sit idly in one place. Henry David Thoreau, the American thinker (and surveyor), who lived at the time when total capitalism was emerging, was critical of profit-driven thinking from the start, and chose walking as the subject of a few essays, describing it as the most autonomous human pursuit. He argued that while profitcentred thinking casts everyone as part of the great machine and, as such, replaceable, walking is something that no one else can do for you. For it is experiencing the joy of existence, of reality itself. “The cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run,” he wrote. In other words, wealth measurable in money or the pursuit of fame is very costly if we sacrifice the greater part of our lives to it instead of simply living – that is, walking and “gathering the gifts of pure presence.” This understanding of walking – the notion that if you simply walk, the landscape around you or the view of a sunny or cloudy sky, the air and the wind, will change at your own pace, which is life without goals and obligations – was significantly bolstered by the Covid pandemic. Many people living in Budapest realized that, when everything is shut down, it is wonderful to go for a walk in the morning, to make your way into the woods and meadows on the outskirts of the city (which are not restricted to Buda; see, for example, Lake Naplás and its surroundings in Cinkota). It really was a liberating experience to go out into the woods, to get off the beaten paths and to explore Normafa, the area around Szépjuhászné or the vicinity of the Hármashatár-hegy aerodrome, and to realize how many lookouts, nature reserves and protected trees there are, such as that solitary cedar by Kondor Road.

Readers of Jane Austen, of course, had an advantage; they had long known about the many benefits of a long walk, even when a flush-faced character might be caught in a downpour. But we have strayed from our path once again; sadly, we must leave the woods and return to the museum to see how walking can be transferred to the gallery walls. Perhaps it can be as a series of photographs, as in the case of Máté Bartha, who unexpectedly lost his parents at an early age. He roved his childhood neighbourhood and every other district in Budapest along a route whose turns were determined by throws of dice, capturing the sights he chanced upon. Some of these his own parents may have seen completely by accident, and thus they may have had shared memories. In a similar manner, a journey through the city, the details observed along the way, the duration of the walk and the time that has elapsed since are all components of a work shot on 16 mm film. János Sugár’s work is also peripatetic, though instead of sages and their pupils strolling to and fro, two people walk side by side on the pavement in the 7th District near Rákóczi Road. They give the impression of being in conversation when in fact they are citing passages chosen by the director from HVG, an economic and political weekly. The camera also captures their surroundings, while two voices provide a sung commentary on whatever passes for action in this short. How have the city and the street changed? What is it we now find interesting? How have the observations made in the magazine aged? How excruciating is it to watch two people walking at a brisk pace in real time in a film? Shouldn’t we rather go outside and take a walk ourselves, instead of sitting in silence in an enclosed space watching other people walk and sing? (It’s a relevant question that cannot but cross the minds of even the most hardened members of the audience at a Wagner festival.) As a matter of fact, we can now go outside because the exhibition has outdoor side events, like Christina Kubisch’s mapping of Budapest’s electrosmog. The German artist walked around the city using microphones and headphones to make audible the noises that are imperceptible to the naked ear. You can put on headphones yourself and take the “electric walk” she designed, wandering around Budapest and engaging in interactive, analogue connections with electrical devices located throughout the city. Lean over towards one of these and create your own, personalised work of sound design, as ATMs, for instance, are revealed to be playing the new music of the spheres. And you won’t need your bank card, except when you buy your museum ticket. Incidentally, for the benefit of this new breed of walkers – not those of Thoreau’s type – the exhibition will also feature step counting. After all, museums are the most likely places these days that oblige you to walk. This is especially true of Budapest’s newest museum, the Museum of Ethnography, where you’ll be tired out by the time you cover the distance between the entrance and the exhibition space.

9 October 2026 Ludwig Museum

WALK THIS WAY. THE ART OF WALKING 36

Christina Kubisch: Il respiro del mare (The Breath of the Sea), sound installation (1981) Photo: Paul Ratzlaff | Source: Ludwig Forum Aachen

THE FREEDOM OF THE BODY By K atalin Teodóra Gáti

As technology advances, less and less is left to chance, when it is often precisely the unexpected encounters that shape our lives. What does it mean to remain human in a world where being programmed is slowly overriding instinct? This is the question the Kossuth Prize-winning choreographer Pál Frenák explores in his latest work, FrenÉsie – RoadMovi(e)ng. We talked to him about creation, identity, the relationship between body and soul, and the uncertainty of the future.

FrenÁk Company | Photo: bobal photography

FrenÉsie means madness, ecstasy or passion. What does the word signify to you? I’m always looking for titles that, instead of bringing an idea to a close, open it up. So frénésie interests me not in the everyday sense of madness, but as an inner state. As an energy that is both controlled and unstoppable. We all live in this state: everything around us has sped up and is in constant motion, while it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find ourselves. What interests me is how the body reacts to all this, because the body cannot lie. Anxiety, desire, uncertainty and hope all appear in its movements. As a consequence, the dancers are in a constant state of whirling throughout the performance. It’s as if they’re being dragged down by some invisible force, which pulls them towards a central point just as they’re trying to break away from it. It’s a highly physical, yet deeply spiritual state. For me, this is what human existence is about today. The piece is both contemporary and futuristic. Why did you choose to approach these topics from the perspective of the future? What I’m interested in is not the future but the present; it just so happens that sometimes it’s easier to look at the world we live in from a distance. At an incredible pace, technology is transforming our way of thinking, our relationships and even the way we perceive the world. More and more things can be calculated, planned and optimized, while chance seems to be on the wane. And yet it’s often the unpredictable moments that shape our lives. An unexpected encounter, a step in the wrong direction, a delay or a chance conversation can change the course of people’s lives. My fear is that if everything is programmed to perfection, these moments will be lost too. This is why, in the production, the present runs in parallel with a possible future. I didn’t want to decide where one ends and the other begins, as perhaps we’re already living in this transition. We can see humans on the stage, humanoid creatures, robotic movements. What was it about this duality that fascinated you? In my work, I’m constantly exploring boundaries. That moment when something is still human, yet no longer quite so. Or the other way round: when a fragile, very human gesture suddenly emerges from a seemingly mechanical entity. For me, this isn’t a technological issue, but a spiritual one. What makes humans human? The act of making mistakes? Of having feelings? The capacity for empathy? Having souls? Of course, I don’t have any answers, but I still like to think about these things. FrenÉsie is the second part of a trilogy about creation. The subject keeps stirring in me: it includes the mystery of divine creation, as well as the human desire to be able to create in the same manner. Nowadays, we talk about artificial intelligence and humanoid robots, but the question also arises: what are we losing? Isn’t it precisely that uniqueness, that inexplicable individuality, that makes every person special? This is one of the most serious dilemmas of our time.

Pál Frenák | Photo: bobal photography

The visuals are again very prominent. Where do the viewers find themselves? I like it when the space itself tells a story. Here we start from a rotating, circular centre that both separates and connects, like a universe that has its own rules. Because of this continuous rotation, the view of the same scene keeps changing: at one point you see it frontally, then from the side, then from the back. There’s no single correct perspective. RoadMovi(e)ng, the subtitle, also refers to this constant movement. The road is not a geographical concept here, but refers to an inner journey, which is why a large motorcycle also appears on the stage. The rotation makes it look as if it’s racing along, while, in reality, it remains part of the same circle. I find this a powerful image, an apt symbol of how we often think we're moving forward at breakneck speed, while we’re actually going round in circles over and over again. This is accompanied by a musical backdrop in which familiar melodies blend with electronic, pulsating sounds. Just as past and future cannot be separated, so these layers of music blend into one another. The relationship between body and soul runs through the play from start to finish. What would you like the audience to take away from this performance? My plays are not meant to proclaim the truth. I’m far more interested in sowing uncertainty in the audience. I want them to leave with new questions about themselves. The body is also memory. Every movement preserves something of who we were, while it also carries what we might become. It’s for the same reason that a painted figure divided into two also appears in the play, representing both birth and death, the past and the future. It’s as if all time existed in the same moment. Perhaps one of the most important questions today is how we can preserve our own identity in a world that is increasingly pushing us towards uniformity. For me, the art of movement, as a kind of spiritual fulfilment, has always been a form of resistance. The freedom of the body. It is proof that we haven’t yet become fully programmable. If, after the performance, the audience remembers more than just the visuals – if they also take these questions away with them – then an encounter has taken place, I think. This is, after all, why we make these productions. 10 and 11 October 2026 Müpa Budapest

FRENÁK COMPANY: FRENÉSIE – ROADMOVI(E)NG

Performed by: Léna Árvay-Vass, Balázs Buda, Gergely Cserháti, Kristóf Deák, Bettina Rose Jurák, Mátyás Kovács Dramaturgy: Dr Nóra Horváth Music editor: Attila Gergely Visual design: Victoria Frenak Costumes and design: Gergő Nyári Lighting design: FrenÁk Concept: FrenÁk

Walk This Way. The Art of Walking

9 October 2026 – 31 January 2027

The exhibition is presented by Müpa Budapest and Ludwig Museum Museum of Contemporary Art in the framework of the Liszt Fest.

Woman in the Lake | Photo: Vera Éder

THE SADDEST OF THE SAD: A TOP 10+1 OF FUNERAL MUSIC Selected by Dániel Mona

It’s almost embarrassing to begin with this quote from Heine, but “where words leave off, music begins,” and this is particularly true of mourning. And while it’s almost impossible to rank the works of various composers, which were often inspired by personal grief, we can sense which pieces resonate most deeply with those who have mourned since then. The following list is by no means exhaustive or even objective, but it aims to provide as broad a picture as possible of history’s most beautiful, or indeed most heart-rending pieces of mourning music, across eras, genres, performing forces and occasions.

IN THE LANGUAGE OF OPERA – VERDI: REQUIEM

Numerous beautiful examples from the operatic repertoire could be cited here, from Dido’s farewell through Siegfried’s death to Edgardo’s magnificent aria in Lucia di Lammermoor, but our list must begin with Verdi’s “funeral opera,” which makes lavish use of operatic elements, extreme emotions, dramatic contrasts and earth-shattering forces. It starts elusively, and then the Dies irae bursts in…

FROM THE DEATHBED – MOZART: REQUIEM

Is there a more mystical, more spine-chilling story than that of a composer who breathes his last while writing a requiem? It is no wonder that Mozart’s Requiem is shrouded in numerous legends for the very same reason, but even without them, this unfinished work, which has been reconstructed by various composers, remains one of the finest examples of the genre. The sighing note pairs of the Lacrimosa are mesmerizing, as is the way the complex fugue transforms into an intricate tribute.

BECAUSE IT IS BEAUTIFUL – FAURÉ: REQUIEM

Brahms, Berlioz or even Cherubini would deserve a place on this list, but let Fauré’s composition round off the trio of classical requiems. Instead of the menace of Judgement Day and the pain, it focuses on eternity throughout, singing in the voice of hope and the divine spheres. These marvellous melodies should not be overshadowed by Verdi and Mozart! 4

THE TIMELESS CLASSIC – BARBER: ADAGIO

ON INVISIBLE LOSSES – DOMINIKA ÁCS: LITTLE ONE

The most recent piece on our list is, in effect, therapeutic music, and as such, opened the door to creative art for its composer. Dominika Ács wrote her first original composition about the often invisible losses experienced by women, and it went on to become the opening track on her album B R E A T H I N G. A sigh of relief awaits at the end of grief. 9

SORROWFUL JAZZ – COLTRANE: ALABAMA

Adapted for string orchestra from a quartet movement, Adagio is perhaps the most popular piece of music for funerals and sombre film scenes. This work was played at the funerals of Roosevelt and Kennedy, and has featured in countless film scenes, from The Elephant Man through Amélie to the series How I Met Your Mother. It builds in a single stream of growing intensity, bringing resolution, calm and peace every time.

A melancholy saxophone, a tremolo-laden piano part and a tentative double bass: thus begins John Coltrane’s famous commemoration of the four victims of a bombing at a church in the state of Alabama. Taking the rhythm of Martin Luther King’s speech as its base, the piece also speaks out against racism.

KEYS ONLY – CHOPIN: FUNERAL MARCH FROM PIANO SONATA IN B-FLAT MINOR

Few could translate human emotions into piano sounds as sensitively, delicately and subtly as Chopin. Though melancholy runs through almost his entire oeuvre, the Funeral March from Sonata in B-flat minor remains one of the most beautiful expressions of the emotional whirlwind that comprises silent pain, raging fury, resignation and supernatural moments.

FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF THE DEPARTING SOUL – TALLÉR: PERT EM HERU

Zsófia Tallér dedicated her magnum opus, the grand oratorio Stepping into the Light, to the memory of her parents, and drew its libretto from the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Instead of telling of the grief or supplications of those left behind, the work depicts the journey of the soul as it leaves its earthly existence to become a divine being, using the composer’s distinctive musical language, which is both thrilling and consistently melodious.

THE SOUNDS OF HORROR – PENDERECKI: THRENODY FOR THE VICTIMS OF HIROSHIMA

The world wars left their indelible mark on art, and expressions of pain, suffering and grief took on staggering proportions in music too. With its microtonality and glissandos, Penderecki’s work renders the screams and sounds of an earthly hell with stark rawness. This music is not beautiful, but it strikes at the heart, grips the listener, and confronts us with horrors in a sincere and harrowing manner.

IN THE LANGUAGE OF POP MUSIC – ERIC CLAPTON: TEARS IN HEAVEN

Pop music need not be insubstantial. We could cite numerous examples – Kevin Kiss’s moving track, Nagyapám (Grandpa), being a recent case in point – but Eric Clapton’s classic reflects on the greatest possible tragedy, as the guitarist-songwriter pays tribute to his son, who died at the age of four. The delicate guitar accompaniment and soft vocal line are so intimate that they immediately bring tears to your eyes. +1

PLUS ONE FROM THE FESTIVAL PROGRAMME – KAKHIDZE: REQUIEM

If we want to listen to truly personal mourning music, Vakhtang Kakhidze’s Requiem is the perfect choice. Written in memory of the composer’s father, Kakhidze blends the folk music of his homeland, Georgia, with Western European traditions. The bells, which create a sacred atmosphere, and the Georgian choir that follows them, convey the elegance of classical music and the power of rural wakes, whilst the boy’s solo soars above the orchestra like an angelic voice. 17 October 2026 Müpa Budapest

VAKHTANG KAKHIDZE | BUDAFOK DOHNÁNYI ORCHESTRA

Featuring: Levente Regő Rácz – voice, Rustavi Ensemble, Chanters Quartet, Cantemus Mixed Choir (choirmaster: Soma Szabó), Budapest Academic Choral Society (choirmaster: Apor Szüts), Budafok Dohnányi Orchestra Conductor: Vakhtang Kakhidze

SONIC IMMERSION COURTESY OF AUTECHRE By Dávid Gerlei

One of the leading acts on the fringe of the electronic music scene is finally returning to Hungary after ten years, a cause for celebration not only for their dedicated local fanbase but for virtually everyone else open to unconventional musical experiences. Read on to see why the duo of Sean Booth and Rob Brown are unmissable, and why you can be sure of a unique experience at their Budapest concert.

Autechre | Photo: Bafic

When the legendary Warp Records launched its Artificial Intelligence album series in 1992, no one could have known that it would become one of the most important platforms for the revival of electronic music. The label sought to move away slightly from rave and club culture and present music intended for concentrated home listening and active engagement. The first releases included works by F.U.S.E. and Aphex Twin, and in 1993, Incunabula, the debut album by Sean Booth and Rob Brown, who were based in Manchester. From this point on, the name of Autechre would become synonymous with the masterful pushing of the boundaries of electronic music. More than three decades after their formation, the duo still stand in a class of their own without ever repeating themselves; Autechre’s body of work has become so influential not only because of the duo’s exceptionally coherent discography, but also because every single one of their releases and live performances points to the astonishing wealth of possibilities inherent in electronic music. Booth and Brown met on the Manchester graffiti scene in the late 1980s. Their shared interest soon led them towards hip-hop, electro and techno, and accordingly they produced their first tracks using a few well-tried samplers and drum machines. Their 1993 debut album and Amber, released a year later, can still be relatively easily classified as early IDM (Intelligent Dance Music, a loose umbrella term for experimental electronic dance music): although the meditative sound, verging on ambient techno, had already disengaged itself from the functions of club music, the rhythm and structure of the tracks remained fairly conventional – something that became less and less true of the albums that followed. By the second half of the 1990s, it had become clear that Autechre were not particularly interested in genre classifications or in catering to audience expectations. While many of their contemporaries were experimenting within the frameworks of techno, ambient or, later, breakcore, Booth and Brown detached themselves further and further from categories with each new album. Tri Repetae, now widely regarded as a classic, Chiastic Slide and LP5 gradually dismantled established compositional forms and moved away from the atmospheric, warmer sound; many believe that with 2001’s Confield, Autechre reached the point where there was no return to the structures of dance music. The predictable throb was replaced by rhythmic patterns that seemed irregular at first listen, while the sounds – mostly metallic or strongly digital – went beyond the familiar functions of electronic music to evoke more organic processes. This sound really came into its own on their next album, Draft 7.30 (2003), one of the darkest and most coherent works in their discography. Critics often describe the duo’s music as algorithmic or generative, but Booth and Brown consistently shy away from this generalization (and indeed, on the 2005 album Untilted, which marked something of a return to their roots, no such techniques were employed). In any case, it is a fact that, rather than writing songs in the

traditional sense, they prefer to build systems, through which composition involves the creation of a complex ecosystem where the emphasis usually shifts from melody and rhythm to the relationships between the various elements. The duo’s significance extends beyond their own discography, so much so that it is impossible to imagine the experimental electronic music of the past three decades without them: from glitch and deconstructed club music to the field of contemporary sound design, countless artists regard them as an indispensable source of inspiration. In addition to their specific sound, their influence lies in their approach: they have demonstrated to generations of listeners and artists that electronic music becomes truly forward-looking when it embraces scrutiny and experimentation, instead of a set of triedand-tested means and methods. This approach is particularly evident in Autechre’s live performances. Their concerts are never exact reproductions of the released tracks: they put together a new live set for every tour, which they spend months developing and then perform differently every night. In the process, they transform classical improvisation into real-time control of the entire soundscape. The 24 European stops on their TwentyTwentySix tour therefore offer different snapshots of the same musical system: as no two Autechre concerts are the same, the audience at the House of Music Hungary can look forward to a completely unique experience. This approach is perfectly illustrated by their 28-hour live album AE_LIVE, which comprises widely diverse recordings from the duo’s 2014–15 tour. At the Budapest event, the Hungarian experimental music scene will be represented by Alley Catss, aka Máté Előd Janky, who is one of the defining voices of the Hungarian scene. Active since 2011, he is the founder of the Daddypower label; his work blends abstract ambient, musique concrète and experimental electronica. Janky’s set will be followed by the enigmatic MDX, an artist of the Manchester-based Skam Records and a regular guest on Autechre’s European tours in recent years. Another unique feature of the event is that it will take place in complete darkness; this seemingly unusual choice is to encourage the audience to focus solely on the music, rather than on the performers on stage or the lighting effects. Nothing can divert the listeners’ attention from the constant, subtle shifts in the soundscape: the session of sonic immersion that Autechre will present in October is guaranteed to be a singular experience.

8 October 2026 House of Music Hungary

8.00 pm ALLEY CATSS 8.30 pm MDX (GESCOM / SKAM) 9.30 pm AUTECHRE 45

OPENING DOORS

I’m standing in the last room of the Victor Vasarely exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts, which closed in August, watching a short film. We’re in the Műcsarnok (Hall of Art), the year is 1969, and we see Vasarely himself carrying his canvases to and fro, setting up what was to be his legendary first exhibition in Hungary after emigration. But it is not him I wish to talk about now, but a detail: he holds a cigarette in his hand, takes a drag, looks at the walls, adjusts the pictures, takes another drag, steps back, muses. A familiar sight: a creative man in a white shirt, his gaze alert, smoking a cigarette. The fact that he does so in an enclosed space feels like time travel today. An enclosed space he shares with others who might hate the smoke – but that was probably barely a consideration at the time. That was just how it was; no one questioned the practice. Several generations had been socialized that way; it was the norm, even on aeroplanes. In an enclosed space where the same air circulated, there were smoking and nonsmoking rows: it really does sound like the Middle Ages. We spent the previous paragraph in a cloud of cigarette smoke precisely so that we’d have a perspective from which to view this: what in hindsight are completely absurd situations can seem normal for a very long time, a given of life, the natural order of things. That is until someone starts asking questions, makes observations, looks into things more closely, and launches a movement to show that things could be different. Dedicated Ones, a large-scale exhibition at the National Gallery, showcases Hungarian female artists from the first half of the 20th century. Before we step into the rich world of the paintings on the walls, let’s consider what is at stake with

Gitta Gyenes: Chicago, 1929 Museum of Fine Arts – Hungarian National Gallery

By Nóra Winkler

The exhibition now opening is more focused in terms of the period it covers, but not in its ambition: it seeks to present a number of women artists, some famous, others completely unknown, along with their common aspirations and connections, so that they can assume the position in art history they deserve. Here, too, we will see only paintings, and the choice is conscious; women artists tended to be written off as hobbyists whose talent was best suited to decorative or applied art. And although, from the 1920s, self-assured, urban, emancipated women who sought to earn their own living found success in the field of photography, the curators have chosen here to expose developments in painting, with its characteristic female gazes and subjects. It was an eventful period in the arts, marked by spectacular shifts, with the avant-garde, breaking away from academic painting with great uproar, laying the foundations of modernism. While this clash between moderns and conservatives received the most attention, another revolution was also under way, as female artists redefined their self-image and entered the scene with a firm sense of vocation. But while we may imagine this as a grand debut in the vein of The Devil Wears Prada, we must also bear in mind that women constantly faced disparagement, belittlement and outright obstruction. The story I found most illustrative of the mindset of the period was how the members of The Eight, the all-male group of artists formed in 1909, talked about the art of Anna Lesznai, whom they loved and considered a true intellectual partner in their conversations: their great many shared experiences and foundations aside, they considered her works mere charming trifles. So we have to imagine these paintings and the women at the easels within this force field, and celebrate the perseverance and confidence that allowed them to build self-assured artistic careers on a par with men. This required a great deal of fortitude; far more careers were cut short by limited opportunities than those that were allowed to succeed. The rooms at the exhibition form a chronological sequence, with the works arranged in thematic groups. Just as at any other exhibition, we get a notion of the universes, colours, moods and painting modes of the individual artists, while this grouping also conveys a sense of what differentiates women’s visions and renderings of landscapes, nudes, portraits or the intimacy between a mother and her child.

Erzsébet Lóránt: Chicken (Night Scene), c. 1930 Museum of Fine Arts – Hungarian National Gallery

a stance that focuses exclusively on women. What is the need for such a selection, and why present it now? In 1976, a few years after Vasarely was smoking in the Műcsarnok, the first exhibition to feature only women artists – exclusively painters, from the rather broad period from 1550 to 1950 – was staged in Los Angeles. It was at that time that a few significant old masterpieces were revealed to have been created by almost unknown women, rather than the men previously credited with them. Fifty years have passed since then, numerous research projects have been launched, and works created centuries ago have finally been given their rightful place in art history and museum collections. At the same time, major exhibitions and monographs are devoted to the oeuvres of contemporary women artists – many of them elderly, some in their nineties – and their works fetch record-breaking auction prices.

Some of the works will be familiar from solo or group exhibitions because Margit Anna, Valéria Dénes, Noémi Ferenczy, Margit Gráber, Erzsébet Korb, Anna Lesznai, Piroska Szántó and Júlia Vajda are well studied artists in the canon, with works in major collections that are also much sought after in the art market. However, alongside these, we can also get to know nearly fifty women who impress with the expressive power of their images, their humour and creative voices, who have so far been partially or completely eclipsed, such as the members of the “Women’s Eight.” The selection is completed with artists who found recognition in exile, where it was perhaps easier, though certainly not simply easy, to build careers; the names of Anna Beöthy-Steiner, Jolán Gross-Bettelheim, Anton Prinner and Judit Reigl will sound familiar to foreign audiences. Any selection that excludes some in order to focus on others is open to egalitarian or politically correct indignation, but that would be ludicrous in this case; we are still very much at the beginning of the journey, and distinctly female perspectives are by no means extravagant or counterproductive when it comes to studying those who make art, and to weaving the threads that have slipped out or been forcibly pulled out back into the beautiful, rich fabric. Through stories of self-discovery, this exhibition relates how professional women artists rose to carve out a space for themselves on the scene and supplant the notion of the female amateur. It explores interesting and valid forms of difference that are not inferior. I know you’re not allowed to bring drinks into exhibition spaces, but really, we ought to be touring this exhibition amidst the clinking of champagne glasses.

21 October 2026 Hungarian National Gallery

DEDICATED ONES – HUNGARIAN WOMEN ARTISTS IN THE FIRST HALF OF THE 20TH CENTURY 47

PULSATING PARTS By Marcell Németh

David Bowie, Brian Eno, Radiohead guitarist Jonny Greenwood, King Crimson, Pat Metheny and Sufjan Stevens: just a few names from the mainstream of quality popular music who feel so closely connected to the music of Steve Reich, who turns 90 this year, that they make the source of their inspiration clear through references that are sometimes subtle, sometimes direct. But how did this American avant-garde composer earn his status, given that he initially had to form his own ensemble to have anyone perform his pieces?

Steve Reich was born in New York in 1936, but after his parents’ divorce, his childhood was spent shuttling between the Big Apple and California. While for his minimalist contemporary, Philip Glass, the symbolic train journey led from Baltimore – considered the northernmost stronghold of the segregation of the Old South – to the progressive-minded University of Chicago, the memory that became etched in the mind of the young Reich may have had more to do with the vast distances he covered from coast to coast between 1939 and 1942. Some half a century later, his powerfully dramatic composition Different Trains was prompted by the realization that, at the same time in Europe, Jewish children of a similar age had been transported to extermination camps on similar trains. Reich’s musical interests took a radical turn when he was fourteen. Having grown tired of what he described as “middle-class favourites” – the symphonies of Beethoven and Schubert – he delved into Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring at the suggestion of his friends, and began listening to records by the pioneers of American jazz who were on their way to becoming icons, including Charlie Parker, Miles Davis and the drummer Kenny Clarke. “I began listening to a lot of Bach and then began exploring what we call Early Music – or music

Steve Reich | Photo: Jennifer Taylor

Steve Reich | Photo: Müpa Budapest

before 1750,” he told one interviewer, speaking of the most significant influences of his youth. Visiting the Liszt Academy in Budapest in 2013, Reich caused surprise at a discussion after a performance of his works when, referring to the eponym of the institution whose building had been newly renovated, for whom the audience expected some praise, he said “I’m not interested in him at all.” Reich has instead drawn inspiration from the music of the Baroque era and the preceding period, as well as from the composers of the 20th century, among them Béla Bartók, whom he admires. Proverb, which he wrote in 1995, should convince those who are sceptical about his oldest claimed influences since its closest musical relative is Pérotin, who lived eight centuries ago. But let’s go back to Reich’s own youth, when he considered his best friend to be a much better pianist than himself, prompting him to try his hand at drumming instead. He took lessons from Roland Kohloff, who was entertaining audiences at the local cinema with his glow-in-the-dark drumsticks before gaining fame as a member of the New York Philharmonic. Regarding his own prospects of a musical career, Reich’s view in secondary school was that “Bartók was 6, Mozart was 4, and I’m 17. I’m over the hill!” So, like John Cage, a key figure of American avant-garde music, and Terry Riley, a first-generation minimalist, he initially turned to the humanities, graduating from Cornell University in 1957 with a degree in philosophy. Music, however, continued to preoccupy Reich, and after receiving his degree, he spent a year honing his skills privately under the composer Hall Overton, before gaining admission to

the Juilliard School in 1958. There he got to know Philip Glass, who was a year his junior. “Steve, from what I knew of his recent concerts, was ‘phasing’ musical phrases against themselves and producing extraordinary and beautiful music,” wrote Glass in his memoir of the time when Reich established a genre upon the realization that no two tape recorders would play back tape at the same speed. Then, just as Bob Dylan caused a stir by plugging his guitar into an amplifier at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival, they too realized that they had to do the same with their instruments to achieve an intense sonic experience. It did not take Reich long to develop his own compositional style and to break definitively with serialism, which was then at its height in Europe and was exerting considerable influence on academies overseas. Reich sought and found new inspiration in distant cultures. In early 1970, he studied African percussion music in Ghana, and upon returning to the US, composed Drumming (1970–1971), which is based on rhythmic transformations. He went on to research Indonesian gamelan music, whose layering, pulsation and handling of time are reflected in his magnum opus, Music for 18 Musicians. Composed between 1974 and 1976, the work has gone down as an exceptionally influential composition in the history of 20th-century music. Debate continues to this day as to whether Reich will ever succeed in surpassing what is considered his finest work. Whatever the current situation may be, there was certainly no shortage of masterpieces to follow. Electric Counterpoint, for instance, which was the third in Reich’s Counterpoint series and was released in 1988 on the record that also contained Different Trains, was written for the guitarist Pat Metheny, who made extensive use of overdubbing, playing his part live over twelve other parts he had recorded (ten guitars and two bass guitars). The piece, which is based on a motif drawn from Central African wind music, has already been performed at Müpa Budapest, with Jonny Greenwood on guitar. Composed in 2007 for two ensembles, Double Sextet was not only a summary of the composer’s late period but a return to the compositional principles of Reich’s early works. Sufjan Stevens, one of the most exciting figures on the post-millennium American indie folk scene, was once asked to name the five albums he considered the most important. He mentioned only one, Music for 18 Musicians. And if it is possible to single out one piece of music from all the music in the world, then perhaps the London Sinfonietta is not attempting the impossible when it seeks to summarize Reich’s unrivalled oeuvre at a single concert.

12 October 2026 Liszt Academy

BÁLINT GYÉMÁNT | LONDON SINFONIETTA STEVE REICH 90

Exhibitions | Concerts | Music education 51

IT’S ALL THERE IN THE TEXT – THE MARGÓ LITERARY FESTIVAL TURNS FIFTEEN By Dóra Szekeres

For all practical purposes, the history of Margó and the career of Márton Simon started at the same time, and just as the festival has grown from a bold idea into one of the country’s leading literary initiatives over the course of fifteen years, so a virtually unknown, fledgling poet has become a nationally acclaimed author. We spoke to the festival’s director, László Valuska, and one of Margó’s most popular authors about the festival’s beginnings and its mission.

If he had to find a single word to describe how he felt about the first Margó fifteen years ago, László Valuska would say the first thing to come to mind is “courage” – because it really was a brave move to organize the festival without having properly thought through what they were getting themselves into. “Today, however, the prevalent sense is that of mindfulness. We recognize the difficulties and prepare for them, because courage alone is no longer enough to run Margó’s system. We started out as a small summer festival, but now we welcome visitors with three major events each year. The Spring Margó is one of the year’s key literary events; in the autumn we also host foreign authors; and in the summer we present our minifestival in Zala County, with plenty of music and literature.” Márton Simon made his debut as a slam poet at the very first Margó, so when we ask him what its memory evokes, he emphasizes the feeling of joy. “I was really happy to finally be able to perform somewhere. I was a 27-year-old poet at the start of my career, with my first collection having received positive reviews, yet I was practically unknown, with 752 forints and four cigarettes in my pocket. I’d just returned from working in the hospitality industry in England, but I hadn’t yet started the second year on my Japanese BA course; a month earlier I’d been sacked from my dreadful call-centre job, and apart from a few really ugly items of clothing, I was literally penniless. I was living on a sofa, and I could count myself lucky to

at least have that sofa. Of course, that was fifteen years ago, but where I am today and everything I’ve managed to accomplish is due in no small part to that very first Margó Festival, as well as the many that have taken place since. That’s why, whenever I go, it’s still a joy, and it always will be. And, of course, I’m so, so grateful.” The original concept of Margó has remained essentially unchanged: the organizers constantly keep track of what authors are currently working on and what issues preoccupy them, and try to reflect on these things at its events, explains Valuska. “We’re looking for connections not only in literature, but also in music, theatre and film. It’s important that we don’t just try to convey literature through traditional channels, and that we keep looking for new ways to engage the audience. The ultimate goal is not Margó itself, but Hungarian literature: how can we involve as many people as possible in our shared cause, which is reading? Hungarian literature is rich and diverse, and because of the language’s accessibility, it belongs first and foremost to us.” Fifteen years ago, one such novel approach was to give the genre of slam poetry, which was still in its infancy at the time, a prominent role at the festival. Key milestones in Simon’s career are also associated with Margó, and this spring he presented a show put together from his own slam poems. When asked to what extent this event can be seen as a turning

Photo: Gábor Valuska

point or a summary, he says he still loves slam poetry and considers it important, but also stresses that his career, interests and tastes have since moved on. “If there was a turning point, it was elsewhere; yet I’m undeniably preoccupied with how these texts age, how well they stand the test of time, how differently they sound from my mouth after all these years, and in general, what remains of them. I wrote The Traditional Poet almost fifteen years ago. Everything has changed since then. When I start reciting, it’s like speaking some stranger’s words. Lately, I’ve been writing slam poems about fatherhood, about the crisis in my own creative identity, and to mark the twentieth anniversary of slam poetry [in Hungary]; I’ve got nothing else planned at the moment. Although it’s also true that my current writings are, in many respects, close to this style of poetry, which is easy to recite, easy to read aloud, and reminiscent of texts for theatre.” I ask them why everyone – audiences and the entire profession alike – rallied behind Margó from the get-go and why even the greatest contemporary writers were happy to appear at events where they found themselves in unusual situations. ”I like to think it’s because we know their works so well. As a matter of fact, even choices that initially seem surprising are grounded in the authors’ oeuvres, and we must create a sense of security for them in new or unfamiliar situations,” says Valuska. The joint show of Péter and Marcell Esterházy at one of the first Margó festivals was a case in

point, with the writer, who had never before appeared in a public performance with his son, surprising everyone; yet it followed naturally from the works of Péter Esterházy that they should stage an evening centred on their father-son relationship. “In 2011, we invited poets and songwriters to take part in Rájátszás (Play-off), and that collaboration was to last for ten years, with countless performances, records and, most importantly, genuine creative associations,” recalls Valuska, referring to one of Margó’s most successful ventures, which went on to assume a life outside the festival, generating a creative community with numerous musicians and songwriters. Can Margó continue to be experimental and surprising? There is no other option, the festival director thinks, because from the beginning they have strived to conceive of literature as an event, with a mission to provide the audience with experiences, inspiration and information. “We’ve tried out a lot of things, and perhaps in reaction to that, we’ve recently been thinking about how to establish, in this fast-paced, overstimulated and content-saturated consumer culture, a regular series of events where the focus is on the texts themselves and where they are at the heart of the public readings.” 15–18 October 2026 Millenáris – National Dance Theatre

AUTUMN MARGÓ LITERARY FESTIVAL

COMPOSING MUSIC IS A WAY OF GETTING TO KNOW MYSELF By Ferenc L ászló

László Tihanyi | Photo: Bence Hegedűs / 4K Media Studio

Don Giovanni’s Elvira, Ferenc Móra’s The Gold Coffin, a number of granddads from musical history, and an individual mixture of atypical solutions. We talked to László Tihanyi about his journey as a composer and his upcoming première.

“Secret Memories – Tihanyi 70”: the title seems to have what it takes to draw our attention to the past, whether it’s your own career, the history of music, or indeed how your personal relationship with this past has developed. From the very beginning, I was looking for what was different, what was new. What was it that followed from the past in a way that hadn’t occurred to anyone? Which is, of course, not to say that my music neglects those whom Péter Eötvös called musical granddads. One such fundamental granddad of mine is Olivier Messiaen, though many people detect Debussy in my music, and Stravinsky has been a shaper of my thinking just as much. But for me, there’s also a legacy laden with conflict: my feeling is that, to this day, a somewhat one-sided German orientation prevails in Hungarian music. And while it’s true that it’s much easier to teach music with a German-inflected attitude, categorization becomes an obstacle at a certain point. Because the secret of the greatest masters is precisely that they’re not typical, and so cannot be pigeonholed. Do you have your own pigeonhole? What I’m interested in is an individual mixture of atypical solutions, and I may have managed to make some progress in this regard over the last couple of decades. Composing is a process of self-discovery at every moment, so you must also realize what sort of music you’re suited to writing. This has also shaped my career path, as following a meteoric, rapid and easy start, my output slowed dramatically, and it’s only in the last few decades that I’ve finally been able to feel that this had its benefits and made sense. And now I’m a little embarrassed to see the number 70, because I have at least as many plans as I did when I was 20. The programme consists of two chamber operas, which is also exciting because your relationship with musical theatre has changed considerably over the years. I’ve always admired the genre of opera, but it didn’t really speak to me as a composer for quite some time. My fundamental problem was that, whether it’s an opera or a song, it’s very difficult to find the words and phrases that are more informative when sung than when simply spoken in prose. There has to be a reason for a sung part. Mauriac’s novella Génitrix brought a change to this, as I became interested in it as an opera project at a very young age, but it wasn’t until 2007 that it became a finished work. Since then, I have written six semi-operas, music for stage or chamber operas: I feel this genre is very topical and, at the same time, really suited to me. And just as on my sixtieth birthday, two of my works in this genre will now be staged at Müpa Budapest. Of these two works, Arabesque was already performed once during the pandemic in 2021, while The Iron Box will have its world première now. Each is based on a special story, and I suppose a few words from the composer are in order for both. Arabesque explores a subject that has long fascinated me: the fate or later life of Donna Elvira from Don Giovanni. I’ve always felt that, in many respects, Elvira is ill-fitted to the

complex relationships of Mozart’s opera. Then Zoltán Peskó, who was not only a great conductor but a philologically acute connoisseur of Da Ponte’s librettos, suggested to me that Elvira is actually pregnant at the time of the opera’s action, which is why she’s so demanding of Don Giovanni. That set me thinking how her story might continue: with her retreating to a convent, and there, a baby born and then killed. (It was around that time that I read a news report about a Tuscan monastery where a mass of such skeletons had been found in a wall.) From all this, I put together a demented Elvira, whose memories are completely fragmented and who reminisces in prose, together with the young Elvira she recalls, who sings. This is how Arabesque came into being, with the collaboration of the librettist, Melinda Fellegi. And how did The Iron Box, which recounts the secret love affair of Ferenc Móra, come about? It was, in effect, a request from Müpa Budapest, because they asked me to make one of the pieces a world première. I didn’t have a subject at the time, but I knew that I was far more interested in singing about unspoken or unspeakable thoughts than in action. And then, completely unexpectedly, I came across such material in the relationship between Ferenc Móra, who was already terminally ill, and his secret love, Ilona Kalmár. I must admit that for me, up to that point, Móra had been mostly a naive memory of The Magic Jacket, and so I was quite stunned by the incredible richness of the writer’s personality. I was equally struck by the fact that the secret of this love affair was woven into his novel, The Gold Coffin, and that the relationship lived on in Ilona Kalmár’s soul even after the man’s death. I selected from the love letters, Móra's poems and The Gold Coffin, and I was able to avail myself again of the possibility of shifting time planes: Ilona appears before us fifteen years later, during the time of the Holocaust, and her greatest treasure is the memory of this love, which she keeps in the titular iron box.

You will be the conductor for this evening, and your partners will include both familiar and new names. I really love working with people who are on the same wavelength as me. Andrea Meláth is one such singer: whenever I compose for a mezzo-soprano, I intend the part for her. Pál Mácsai is another such artist, and I’ve been collaborating with him for a long time. I have similar hopes for Lilla Horti and István Kovács, who are familiarizing themselves with their parts in The Iron Box as we speak. 21 October 2026 Müpa Budapest

SECRET MEMORIES – TIHANYI 70

Featuring: Márta Egri, Pál Mácsai – prose, Lilla Horti, Andrea Meláth, István Kovács – voice, UMZE Ensemble Conductor: László Tihanyi Director: Pál Mácsai

A NEW MAP OF CONTEMPORARY ART: AFRICAN PERSPECTIVES By K atica Kovács Until the 21st century, contemporary African art was treated by the Western art world as a periphery, a curiosity to be discovered, an exotic “Other.” Today, however, it no longer occupies a marginal position: in recent years, it has become an equal and indispensable shaper of international contemporary art, an integral part of the canon, while it also continues to redefine the questions, emphases and perspectives of the global scene.

Kaloki Nyamai: Untitled I, 2025 | Photo: Marco Zorzanello | Source: La Biennale di Venezia

One of the great paradoxes of 20th-century European modernism was that, although it drew heavily on worlds outside Europe, it mostly put these influences in the service of its own artistic revolution, while the true stories behind the objects were often eclipsed by the narrative of the Western artist’s genius. (Consider only Picasso’s formal idiom, which draws on African masks and sculptural traditions, or Gauguin’s exoticized view of Tahiti.)

The Kenyan Michael Armitage paints on lubugo, a bark cloth made in Uganda, which is more fragile, fibrous and alive than canvas, and is closely linked to East African traditions. Kaloki Nyamai, also from Kenya, expands the boundaries of classical painting using textiles, rope, sisal, newspaper, photo transfers and thread. His works “weave together” personal memories, knowledge that spans generations, and the sociopolitical tensions of East Africa.

One of the ambitions of today’s contemporary African art is to return this Eurocentric gaze. Contemporary African art is not merely a set of motifs, not an “ancient” source of inspiration or exotic counterpoint, but an autonomous artistic space that is now completely part of the global canon.

The Ghanaian Amoako Boafo is a portraitist who applies paint with his fingers, leaving the mark of his touch on faces and bodies, which lends immediacy and physicality to his figures and a strong tactile quality to the faces. Many African artists, including Georgina Maxim from Zimbabwe, use old textiles and discarded garments: the works created by layering these are at once related to female experiences, work and service, memory and ritual.

At the same time, it is important to note that “contemporary African art” does not denote a single, unified style. The art of the continent will appear as a homogeneous cultural space only to the Eurocentric gaze, whereas, in reality, it is a blanket term for an extremely wide range of historical, social, linguistic, religious and political experiences. For the same reason, what makes contemporary African art exciting is not its use of recognizably “African” motifs. And therein lies its inspirational power: beyond contributing another style to global art, it expands fundamental thinking about the contemporary experience and the canon itself. Contemporary African art does not seek to conform to an established system, and when it raises different questions about the world in which we live, it elicits a reconsideration of the system itself. Nevertheless, if we still wish to pinpoint distinctive characteristics, a particular and radical relationship to the use of materials comes to mind. For many African artists, the material is not neutral, but appears as a medium steeped in stories. Often, the medium or the materials used have had a previous life: they have been worn, used, touched, handed down, transported, sold or lost. Thus, in many African works, the medium or material acts as a witness: it preserves a piece of personal and collective memory. From a distance, there is a jewel-like quality to the monumental, gleaming, radiant surfaces that the Ghanaian artist El Anatsui constructs from metal and that hang in loose folds like drapery, but on closer inspection, they turn out to be made up of small, recycled bottle caps. These works evoke the textile traditions of West Africa, but also reflect on colonialism, global consumption, urban survival and the ecological crisis. The compositions of the Zimbabwean Moffat Takadiwa, which resemble woven textiles or ritual objects, act in a similar manner, made as they are from pieces of plastic, keyboards, caps, combs, toothbrushes and other consumer waste collected in Harare.

Contemporary African art is also liberating because it is not ashamed to take the invisible seriously. The works often have a ritual character: they remind us that, beyond political and economic structures, the present also consists of inherited stories, communal beliefs, spiritual experiences and invisible bonds. This is particularly inspiring from the perspective of a Western art scene that for a long time regarded rationality, the grand narrative and the autonomous individual as imperatives. By contrast, African artists do not adopt external or elevated viewpoints for their examination of life; they speak from the thick of it. The good news is that African contemporary art is no longer waiting for the Western institutional network to notice it, as it has spawned its own institutions, fairs, biennials and professional networks. The Hungarian audience can get a glimpse of the works of contemporary African artists at the Art Market, an event of Liszt Fest. This, unfortunately, still does not mean that inequalities have disappeared. There remains a significant imbalance in terms of access to funding, infrastructure, visas, transport, institutional links and international recognition, and consequently the presence of contemporary African art is still a political issue: it is also about who is able to have their voice heard, from where and under what conditions, and whose stories will continue to shape the history of contemporary art.

15–18 October 2026 MTK Sports Park

ART MARKET BUDAPEST INTERNATIONAL CONTEMPORARY ART FAIR

SMALL BUT FULL OF GEMS ISOLATION BUDAPEST 2026 By Endre Dömötör We attach particular value to experiences where we encounter new things or unfamiliar worlds, and this is doubly true when those things have visual appeal. This is exactly what Isolation Budapest 2026 offers. Presented for the fifth time as part of Liszt Fest, this mini-festival brings you the Hungarian debuts of rising stars at several concerts on a single night in the Akvárium Klub. If the names don’t sound familiar, don’t worry; this musical smorgasbord will reward enterprising spirit by giving you the insider knowledge to be able to tell your friends about the performers they will soon come to love.

The Isolation Budapest festival was created in 2022 with the intention of giving Hungarian audiences the experience of discovering promising new talent, not just established big names, and it has delivered on this promise over the years. Isolation hosted the first Hungarian concert of Black Country, New Road in 2022, and those of Nick Hakim and Wu-Lu in 2023. The next year saw performances by industrial dance-punk band Mandy, Indiana and Black Midi front man Geordie Greep, who was cool freshness incarnate at his

Sorvina | Photo: Shannon Kone

solo gig, since when both have become much sought-after acts. In 2025, visitors had a similar experience courtesy of Hinds and Jordan Rakei. Over the years, other highlights have included Iceage front man Elias Rønnenfelt, Seun Kuti, Chubby and the Gang, Elysian Fields, Jake Bugg, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and Efterklang. The above should have convinced you that, whatever the line-up, the festival is again not to be missed in 2026. Artists, some of them little known in Hungary, will bring tidings of the latest in pop music across Europe. The styles will run the gamut from indie soul, through a continental take on British guitar music, to punk and a variety of dance music, from synth-heavy deep house to French psychedelic pop house. French duo Walter Astral represents a fairly original, colourful strain of dance music. The two members may be familiar from elsewhere: Tristan Thomas, aka Zaspéro, is one half of techno duo Ovhal44, while Tino Gelli is the vocalist of indie synth-pop trio Polycool. Walter Astral’s fascination with the absurd and dreamlike results in a mystical, trancelike soundscape. Having started out with acid techno, their sound is now at the intersection of psychedelic pop and techno. Their 2025 album already incorporated a great many traditions of French dance music (Air, Daft Punk). Staying with dance music performers, we will also have the Polish duo Jeszcze, who venture from synth-driven deep house into the many branches of electronic dance music, with songs that really get the body moving. From here, it’s a short jump to the soul performers: New York-born, Berlin-based Sorvina works within the triangle of neo-soul, jazzy hip-hop and the diversity of live music, and those who saw her on a previous appearance in Budapest are guaranteed to want to catch her again. The French-Cuban Charlotte Colace, who is also based in Berlin, is very much at the start of her career, offering a classic, retro deep soul on her excellent debut EP, which came out in May. With a voice that brings to mind the greatest soul singers, she is certainly one to watch, and her concert promises to be one of the most memorable shows of the festival. The festival will also feature an indie rock band from Berlin, Prismala, who mix laid-back, subtle sounds with soulful vocals. Nor will you need to do without British guitar music, as Scottish band Declan Welsh & The Decadent West play classic high-energy post-punk and power pop songs. And to make the international line-up truly complete, The Roving Chess Club, who in the past year have found growing popularity with their indie folk Americana, will add some Hungarian zest to the international cocktail. In light of this colourful line-up, it’s probably safe to say that, whatever your musical tastes, you’ll find a new favourite at this festival. 17 October 2026 Akvárium Klub

ISOLATION BUDAPEST 59

UNTIL THE SOUL OPENS By Tamás Jászay

On 22 October, Gergely Kesselyák conducts the Pannon Philharmonic through Ferenc Liszt’s oratorio Christus in Müpa Budapest’s concert hall. The piece lasts three hours: is that too long or just what it takes for it to have its effect? Three musicians talk about how boredom can be part of a great musical experience, when it’s permissible to break up a piece, and how Liszt's work can open up the soul.

Gergely Kesselyák believes that, in the case of music, literal length is not the decisive factor for the perceived duration of a piece. Un ballo in maschera and Don Carlo last a long time, but they are not “long”: both are eventful pieces that proceed at a traditional pace. Bruckner’s Symphony No. 9, by contrast, creates a different perception of time over its seventy minutes, as do Wagner’s music dramas and Bach’s Passions. Rather than communicating more information, they slow down the recipient. Though he wasn’t born into a family of musicians, Kesselyák was an opera-goer from an

early age and still a child when he came to the conclusion that boredom is part of a great musical experience. And this isn’t a disparagement, but an acknowledgement that it takes time for music to “wash through” the brain and the soul. As a composer, Ilona Dobszay-Meskó thinks that what matters is the “internal time” of a composition, rather than its actual duration. She wrote her twelve-movement Missa 'Da Pacem' while holding a three-year scholarship from the Hungarian Academy of Arts. When she submitted her application, neither the pandemic nor the war in Ukraine was yet on the horizon, but they would come to add unexpected personal and historical weight to a mass for peace. The playing time was determined by the text, the dramaturgy and the internal journey of the work. Her view is that a composer must not waste the time of either the audience or the performers; every minute must be necessary, and the parts must be playable and singable. A fifteen-minute piece can be unbearably long if it has nothing to say, while a ninety-minute work can whisk you along if it has real inner strength. In the case of Christus, Kesselyák sees this strength as spiritual in nature. Liszt constructed a monumental oratorio which does not merely narrate the story of Christ, but leads the listener into a different state of mind. To achieve this,

Photo: Attila Nagy / Müpa Budapest

the hustle and bustle of the physical world must be slowed down to a pace at which the soul opens up, and feelings that were previously pushed into the background can come to the fore. For this very reason, the work cannot easily be cut or abridged, since an omission would take away not just a few minutes, but an entire phase of the process. The conductor Gábor Hollerung approaches the issue from a different angle. He believes that for a young listener with little experience in classical music, Liszt’s complete oratorio may prove a considerable challenge. Performing the complete work is justified before an experienced audience at Liszt Fest, but if we wish to appeal to the next generation as well, it is worth thinking flexibly about the concert format that became established after the Romantic period. In his view, performing individual movements on their own, with accompanying explanations or introductions, is not a betrayal of the full works but an opportunity to bring them closer to audiences. For her part, Dobszay-Meskó points out that, at the time of their writing, operas lasting several hours were not listened to in rapt silence: the audience would eat, drink and chat during performances. Human attention is not a taut string that can be kept in the same state for hours on end: by its very nature, it fluctuates. Music works in the same way, with

moments of calm alternating with more intense passages; it holds our attention when it moves with us. All three musicians believe that the performers are also responsible for sustaining the audience’s attention. As a conductor, Dobszay-Meskó watches to see if the audience can breathe in sync with the music. The intensity of a performer’s presence captivates the listener and lifts them out of time. Kesselyák can also sense the moments when an audience’s attention wanes. At such times, he shortens the duration of a crescendo, calls for more extreme dynamics, or leans more on the dramatic meaning so that the orchestra and choir sound more evocative. Physiology cannot be ignored, he says, but the limits of concentration can be stretched. Hollerung pushes the boundaries more boldly. A few years ago, he created a pasticcio of Haydn’s works, constructing a new yet coherent cycle from the movements of four different symphonies; on another occasion, he composed a “symphony” from the music of various periods. He doesn’t think it is a universal rule that works should not be tampered with: in the days of Beethoven and Mozart, it was natural for individual movements to be played separately, with the audience applauding whenever they felt like it. If an old practice was more “audience-friendly,” then why not return to it? Instead of cancelling each other out, different perspectives complement one another. While Hollerung seeks ways to open up new avenues to classical music, Kesselyák argues in favour of the experience inherent in the complete form. The latter dislikes the “dessert selection” of gala concerts: Wagner might build up a single moment for as long as forty minutes to give it weight; you cannot erect a cathedral without supporting pillars. The conductor’s vocation is, therefore, to perform long, perhaps even unfamiliar works so vividly that listeners remain engaged throughout. The same differing perspectives may provide a foothold while listening to Christus. You may not need to maintain the same level of alertness throughout the three hours. The work may occasionally lose you, only to find you again; parts may not be equally eventful, yet the slow pace is not a flaw, but a method. The best approach to this performance, says Kesselyák, is to surrender yourself to Liszt’s music and let the work do with you as it pleases. Hollerung emphasizes that this surrender can be facilitated provided the concert finds a way to connect with the audience. Dobszay-Meskó represents the common denominator: composer and performers must work hard for every minute, while listeners must remain open-minded. The question, then, is not merely whether you can sit through a long concert, but whether you’re willing to relinquish control over your time for a few hours – and whether the music can offer you a different kind of time in return. 18 October 2026 | Vienna, Musikverein 22 October 2026 | Müpa Budapest

LISZT: CHRISTUS

LISZT FEST MAGAZINE Autumn 2026 A free publication of the Liszt Fest International Cultural Festival Published by Papageno Consulting Ltd. on behalf of Müpa Budapest Founded by: Müpa Budapest Nonprofit Ltd. Csaba Káel, CEO Publisher: Managing director of Papageno Consulting Ltd. E-mail: szerkesztoseg@papageno.hu Editor-in-chief: Gerda Seres Publication manager: Zsuzsanna Oszip With contributions from: Zoltán Beck, Ádám Bősze, Endre Dömötör, Katalin Teodóra Gáti, Dávid Gerlei, Tamás Jászay, Erzsébet Juhász, Orsolya Karafiáth, Katica Kocsis, Ferenc László, Anna Mona-Belinszky, Dániel Mona, Szabolcs Molnár, Marcell Németh, Gerda Seres, Dóra Szekeres, Tünde Topor, Borbála Tuska, Veronika Varga, Nóra Winkler English translation: Árpád Mihály Translation editor: Anthony Stephen Paul Submissions closed on: 1 September 2026 The organizers reserve the right to make changes. Liszt Fest International Cultural Festival 8–22 October 2026

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