PAINTINGS OF THE NATIVITY THROUGH CENTURIES OF ART

Artists' renditions of the Nativity have long fascinated me, and have lead to some research. The study has taken me through virtually the history of art. Truly educational! I wish to share some of that study here, as we contemplate the Holy Birth of our Savior.

Liisa Berg

The Nativity, Guido da Siena, ca. 1270

The earliest depiction that I was able to find in my fairly cursory search comes from the 13th-century painter Guido da Siena who painted in Byzantine style. 

Little is known of Guido da Siena and his place in Sienese painting. However, because he is the only Sienese painter of the time to have surviving works on panel with a signature, he is often viewed as the most important artistic personality at the time and the first master of the great Sienese school of painting. 

This depiction was painted on a wood panel. I find it interesting how the more important the person, the larger he/she appears. Notice the size of Mary in comparison to Joseph, for example. Otherwise, the art of depicting human form was still in its infancy—naïve, one might say—yet enjoyable to view.

The Nativity, Lorenzo Veneziano, 1356

Lorenzo Veneziano (active 1356–1372) was an Italian painter. His Nativity scene is typical of the 14th-century icon-like paintings. I was not able to find any information about this artist, only that the inference from his name can be made that he was from Venice.

This painting shows the lack of perspective, typical to these early paintings, which makes them appear “flat.”

The Nativity, Lorenzo Monaco, 1405-10 

Lorenzo Monaco was an Italian painter of the late Gothic/early Renaissance age. He was born Piero di Giovanni in Siena. Little is known about his youth, apart from the fact that he apprenticed in Florence.

Monaco’s piece is still anchored in the icon-like style, but with some perspective present. Noticeable is Joseph, still strangely mutated, depicting the Medieval concept of him as a wretched old man, unimportant and, in some paintings, appearing clearly uninterested in the manger scene. Another old featur is that the Baby is on the ground—or levitating?—even when the manger is present.

The Nativity, Meister Francke,1424

Meister Francke was a North German Gothic painter and a Dominican friar, born ca. 1380 in the Lower Rhine region or possibly in the Netherlands. Francke died ca. 1440, probably in Hamburg, where he was based at the end of his known career.

Remarkably different from other painters’ style in this time pediod and “advanced,” Francke’s Nativity scene has clear, bright colors, with his hallmark starry background on red. The Baby is not in the manger, but here clearly levitating, an endowment from God who is also depicted.

The Nativity, Domenico Ghirlandaio, 1449-1494

Ghirlandaio was an Italian Renaissance painter from Florence. He was part of the so-called "third generation" of the Florentine Renaissance, along with such masters as Verrocchio and Botticelli. Ghirlandaio was the leader of a large and efficient workshop whose best-known apprentice was Michelangelo. Ghirlandaio's particular talent was his ability to depict contemporary life and portraits of contemporary people within the context of religious narratives. This brought him great popularity and many large commissions.

Curiously, Ghirlandaio’s Nativity still seems grounded in old practices, such as the Baby being on the floor and Joseph obviously unconcerned about the goings-on. However, I think this is one of the most beautifully detailed depictions of the Holy Family. (The angels are my personal favorite!)

The Adoration of the Sheperds, Hugo van der Goes, ca. 1480

Hugo van der Goes, born in Ghent ca. 1430, was a Flemish painter, one of the most important of the Early Netherlandish painters. Probably in 1478, Hugo entered Rood Klooster, a monastery near Brussels. Later on, he fell into a state of suicidal gloom, declaring himself to be damned. After returning to Rood Klooster, he recovered from his illness, and died there.

The Adoration of the Shepherds by Hugo van der Goes has been perceived by art historians as an act of artistic implosion. This is one of the first paintings where the Baby is actually in the manger and Joseph an equal partner. Perspective, motion and activitiy are present: a burst of light invades the otherwise dignified scene; a duo of musicians (upper left); a shepherd stumbles in while another has fallen to the ground; and two personages, as if serving as narrators, hold back the imaginary curtain. These two are generally considered to be Prophets Isaiah and Ezekiel, though they could be the artist and his benefactor.

The Mystic Nativity, Sandro Botticelli, 1500

Alessandro di Mariano di Vanni Filipepi, known as Sandro Botticelli, was an Italian painter of the Early Renaissance. (Best known works include “Primavera” and “The Birth of Venus.”)

This painting heralds a new century, but still espouses old concepts concerning the Nativity: the Baby is on the ground while the ox and ass are grazing at the manger, and Joseph, appearing disinterested in the event, sleeps nearby.

Botticelli's painting has long been called the 'Mystic Nativity' because of its mysterious symbolism. It combines Christ's birth as told in the New Testament with a vision of his Second Coming as promised in the Book of Revelation. The Second Coming will herald the end of the world and the reconciliation of devout Christians with God, which is celebrated by the angels in the foreground by embracing virtuous men.

'The Mystic Nativity' was probably painted as a private devotional work for a Florentine patron.

The Nativity, Lorenzo Lotto, 1523

The artist is Venetian Lorenzo Lotto, c. 1480 - 1556/1557, and the painting, oil on panel.

Here is the first painting of the Nativity that I found where the Baby is actually in the manger and Joseph seems more involved. The colors are brighter than most works with the same topic, which makes it seem more modern and pleasing. An astonishing detail is presented the dark shadow: a harbinger of Christ’s crucifixion.

The Nativity, Federico Barocci, 1597

(This is my favorite of all Nativity paintings. I was fortunate to study this piece in the Prado Museum in Madrid under the tutelage of the Museum Curator. Maybe that's why.)

Federico Barocci was a promising Italian artist in his late twenties when he was stricken with an incurable illness that brought his painting to a standstill. After a plea to Virgin Mary and a period of convalescing, although never fully cured, he recovered sufficiently to resume his painting. In gratitude, Barocci produced one religious masterpiece after another, in many of which he portrayed the Virgin as a maiden of incomparable beauty.

In 1597 Barocci completed his greatest masterpiece, “The Nativity.” This portrayal of the Nativity differs markedly from other such works, for the Madonna and Child are depicted as looking into each other’s eyes, instead of looking toward the viewer or toward those visiting the newborn. To the left is Joseph, now fully involved, opening the door to the shepherds who peer inside as he points excitedly with his right hand toward the Christ Child.

There is no apparent natural source of light in the stable nor lamps or candles. It is from the face of the Baby that all the light in the image flows forth, illuminating the face and dress of Mary, and even the faces of the ox and the ass near Him. We thus see Christ as the Light of the World.

The colors are fresh and bright, with rare combinations of pink and yellow, orange and purple, and brown and blue. Yes, this is my favorite!

The Adoration of the Shepherds, Peter Paul Rubens, 1608

Peter Paul Rubens was a Flemish-born artist (1577-1640), who was well known in the Baroque movement, which emphasized movement, bold color choices, and sensuality in the works.

Rubens was a classically educated humanist and scholar. He produced some of the most well known pieces of his time, and was a proponent of the Baroque style. He was well known as a trusted court painter, with ties to several diplomatic figures of the time. There is no artist of any era with a feel for the physicality and sensuality of paint who hasn't been affected by Rubens in one way or another.

From 1600 up to 1608, Rubens made Italy his home, where he was at the service of Duke of Mantua. While in Italy, much of his works, and many of his studies. During his career, Rubens was influenced by the great works of El Greco, Caravaggio, Titian as well as Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, and Michelangelo. He returned to Antwerp in 1608, where he became the court painter for Spanish governors of Flanders.

In this painting, four swirling angels hold up a scroll announcing Jesus's birth while Joseph is again obscurely in the background. It has recently been suggested that the voluptuous elderly female figure can be identified with the midwife.

Here again the source of light is the Baby, so much so that one of the shepherds is shading his face from the brightness.

The Adoration of the Shepherds, Jacob Jordaens,1653

Jacob Jordaens (1593 –1678) was a Flemish painter, draughtsman and tapestry designer known for his history paintings, genre scenes and portraits.

After Peter Paul Rubens and Anthony van Dyck, he was the leading Flemish Baroque painter of his day.

Unlike those contemporaries he never travelled abroad to study Italian painting, and his career is marked by an indifference to their intellectual and courtly aspirations. As well as being a successful painter, he was a prominent designer of tapestries. Like Rubens, Jordaens painted altarpieces, mythological, and allegorical scenes, and after 1640—the year Rubens died—he was the most important painter in Antwerp for large-scale commissions and the status of his patrons increased in general.

Jordaens was greatly influenced by Peter Paul Rubens who occasionally employed him to reproduce small sketches in a larger format. After the death of Rubens, Jordaens advanced to the position of one of the most admired painters in Antwerp. Like Rubens, Jordaens relied on a warm palette, naturalism, and a mastery of chiaroscuro (the use of strong contrasts between light and dark, usually bold contrasts affecting a whole composition) and tenebrism (violent contrasts of light and dark, and where darkness becomes a dominating feature of the image).

Jordaens painted at least six other renditions of the Adoration of the Shepherds. In this one, the eye is lead to the center of the image not only by the importance of the characters, but the color scheme and use of light and shadow, which in that spot are much stronger and clearer than the rest of the painting.

The Nativity, Noël Coypel, 1670

Noël Coypel (1628 – 1707) was a French painter. He was born in Paris, the son of an unsuccessful artist. He was employed to paint some of the pictures required for the Louvre, and having afterwards gained considerable fame by other pictures produced at the command of the king, he was appointed director of the French Academy at Rome. Noël died in Paris at age 78. His sons were also painters.

Here Mary is seemingly offering her baby to be viewed, perhaps remembering the angel’s words, “a sword shall pierce through thy own soul,” and realizing the Baby is not really hers.

Though Joseph is holding a candle, it is the Baby who lights up the scene.

The Nativity, Noël-Nicolas Coypel, 1728

Noël-Nicolas Coypel belonged to a dynasty of painters. But he was far from attaining the glory enjoyed by his father Noël Coypel, half-brother Antoine Coypel (twenty-nine years his elder) or his nephew Charles-Antoine Coypel, who were directors of the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture. He is famous for his mythological compositions. The Louvre houses his Venus, Bacchus, and Cupid. Coypel did not court favor, and suffered hardship, dying at the age of forty-four.

In this painting again, the source of light is the Baby, beautifully casting light on the elemental details. This painting also has wonderful motion and direction: the straw seems to move in the light that shines from the Baby; you can almost see the motion in Joseph’s adoring gesture; the cow has turned its head towards the Baby; and Mary is as if swaying as she might be singing a lullaby to her baby.

The Nativity, Carle van Loo, 1751

Carle or Charles-André van Loo (1705-1765) was a French subject painter. He was the most famous member of a successful dynasty of painters of Dutch origin, the van Loos. His output includes every category: religion, history painting, mythology, portraiture, allegory, and genre scenes.

This painting is a prime example of van Loo’s simplicity of style and correctness of design, the result of his study of the great Italian masters, which did much to purify the modern French school. The color palette is simple, with essentially one color that stands out, the turquoise is Mary’s gown and the angels’ wings and frock. Here again the Baby is symbolically the source of light.

The Nativity, John Singleton Copley, 1776 

John Singleton Copley (1738–1815) was an American painter, active in both colonial America and England. He was probably born in Boston, Massachusetts, to Richard and Mary Singleton Copley, both Anglo-Irish. He is famous for his portrait paintings of important figures in colonial New England, depicting in particular middle-class subjects. His paintings were innovative in their tendency to depict artifacts relating to these individuals' lives.

The first example of an American painter’s interpretation of the Nativity, this work brings in freshness and modernity heretofore unseen. The focal point—Mary with the baby lying on linens— is depicted in white, placed in the light streaming from the upper left-hand corner, while the accompanying details are also in clear focus. New are the dog and the hat worn by the man on the right.

All in all, Copley's work is a delightfully light and airy representation of a scene that had been previously painted with heavy, somber, dark brush strokes.

The Nativity, Arthur Hughes, 1857

Born in London in 1915, Arthur Hughes produced about 700 known paintings and drawings, along with over 750 book and numerous magazine illustrations.

Hughes’ painting of the nativity is decidedly in the illustrator’s style, which seemed to dominate the art world at this time. The picture is unusual in its depiction of Mary as a young adolescent. Here, Hughes shows her undertaking one of her first duties as a mother, wrapping her child in swaddling bands, an act which prefigures his entombment. The apparent tenderness and care with which she carries out her task further reminds us of her youth and, that as a first-time mother, she has much to learn in order to look after the infant Christ. In her bewildering predicament, she is aided by two angels and watched by three others from above. Their presence highlights the fact that she is not alone and that both mother and baby will be watched over by God.

Hughes has used a vivid palette of purple and pinks to paint the celestial figures. Their wings almost burst out of the picture frame creating a sense of dynamism within the composition, but also giving a sense of the cramped, intimate space in which the miracle of Christ's birth took place. 

Although Mary, as the central figure, dominates the painting, Hughes draws attention to the Christ child, the most important figure, by crowning him in a nimbus, a style of halo favored in Renaissance paintings. (Birmingham Museums)

The Nativity, Klavdi Vasilievich Lebedev, 1890-91

Mikhail Vasilyevich Nesterov (1862 – 1942) was a major representative of religious Symbolism in Russian art.

I was unable to find any information about the artist or this particular piece of art. Nesterov’s style is a clear stepping away from the classical genre of heavy oil-paints, and thus I suggest that this is done in water-color, due the “thinness” of the texture, even when the color palette darker.

The Nativity, Gari Melchers, circa 1891

Julius Garibaldi Melchers (1860-1932) was an American artist. He was one of the leading American proponents of naturalism.Melchers represents a significant number of early twentieth-century American artists who made a living through their craft and earned critical praise. While they produced an immense body of work, most, like Melchers, are eclipsed in popular memory by such names as John Singer Sargent and Mary Cassatt.

At seventeen, Melchers enrolled in the Royal Academy of Art in Dusseldorf, Germany, to study figure painting. The curriculum emphasized well-modeled form, hard-edged realism and the finish of the old masters. He later continued his studies in Paris.

The Nativity is the finest example of Melchers’ work in that genre. Gone are the angels and the nimbi; the exaggerated motions or the imagined illuminations from the the Baby: the light around his head is coming from the lantern on the floor by his manger/cradle. The simplicity of the surroundings is striking—almost pitiable.

The Nativity, Robert Anning Bell, 1907

Robert Anning Bell was born in London in 1863. He was known as an architect, painter of altar pieces, an art instructor, and a book designer and illustrator. He also worked on mosaics for the Palace of Westminster.

To me, Bell’s Nativity resembles a wood carving in its angularity, roughness and approximations. The colors are pleasantly muted; only the angel’s gown has a definite color, purple. Somehow the work seems unfinished, yet complete in its mood.

The Nativity, Mainie Jellett, 1940

Mary Harriet Jellett, known as Mainie Jellett (1897-1944) was an Irish painter.

Mainie Jellett studied at the Metropolitan School of Art in Dublin and in London. She showed precocious talent as an artist in the impressionist style. Later on she encountered cubism and began an exploration of non-representational art.

A deeply committed Christian, Jellett’s paintings, though strictly non-representational, often have religious titles and often resemble icons in tone and palate.

Jellett was an important figure in Irish art history, both as an early proponent of abstract art and as a champion of the modern movement. Her work was often attacked critically, but she proved eloquent in defense of her ideas.

As to the painting Nativity, this abstract seems to be built up from a central “eye” or “heart” in arcs of color, held up and together by the rhythm of line and shape, and given depth and intensity—a sense of abstract perspective—by the basic understanding of light and color.

Behold, The Lamb of God, Walter Rane, b.1949

Not much is known or written about Walter Rane. Wickipedia briefly introduces him as "an American artist who began his career as primarily a book and magazine illustrator, but now specializes in religious art. Rane was raised in Southern California. He studied at the Art Center College of Design." He lives and works in New York City with his wife Linda and family.

In my estimation and in harmony with my own perceptions of the Nativity, this piece is perhaps the closest to the reality of the scene. Personally, I also sense there is a subliminal lesson in the title of the work, "Behold, the Lamb of God," which foreshadows the humble majesty of the life of the Savior.

I must say, I think I like Rane's the best among the contemporary renditions!

I Remember Christmas

I remember those Christmases as if yesterday. They came with deep meaning, earnest preparation and overflowing anticipation.

*****

 In the cold and dreary North, Christmas comes as a festival of light with candles and sparklers, and a show of love and generosity. The embodiment of light to me, as a child, was the tall, snow-covered pine tree all lit up with electric lights in the park in the middle of town. It must have been a hundred feet tall, reaching all the way to Heaven! There was a special lighting ceremony, and most of the town gathered around. As the lights were switched on, all exclaimed in unison with approval and admiration. The winter night waxed cold and all seemed to do a strange dance, stomping to keep their feet warm. But somehow the feet didn’t really matter, because our hearts were warm.

  Part of the unexplainable magic came in store windows. Shopping in those days was simple and unassuming. Not much money exchanged hands—the stores seemed to decorate their windows for more show than enticement to buy. One certain shop was famous for mechanized displays—Santa in his workshop with his little helpers, or a beautiful winter scene on a frozen lake with ice-skaters and music. How did they do that Magic? My eyes were glued to the delicately moving figures until I was part of the scene. To own it? Never entered my heart.

A couple of the main streets in town hung decorations on the lamp-posts. Some extended across the street, swaged from building to building. Christmas music was played over loudspeakers. A week before Christmas joulupukki himself came to town in his sleigh, throwing candy to eager little spectators. Christmas had arrived!

Mother signaled the start of the festive season in our home by gathering her secret ingredients for her aromatic gingerbread cookies, tarts and special breads. There were the old familiar well-worn baking board, heaping with sacks of flour and sugar, small canisters of fragrant cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg, a ceramic bowl that donned cracks and nicks from diligent use, a bent wooden mixing spoon, a handmade, one-piece rolling pin, and three shapes of aluminum cookie cutters: a star, a crescent moon and the traditional scalloped ginger snap cutter. In a matter of minutes it seemed, Mother created the most heavenly array of Christmas goodies, and the entire house was filled with the true fragrance of Christmas.

In school, we started making our little presents for our families well in advance. As a young child, each Christmas I crocheted hot pads for Mother, a scarf for Father and mittens for my brother. Often it was hard to tell the hot pads from the mittens, but it made no difference to us—they were all made with simple love. I usually received a refurbished doll: either the doll had a new, pretty head, or her clothes were spanking new. My brother’s usual present was a new hockey stick and pucks—the icy lakes were ideal for ice-hockey for several months.

The week before Christmas was the season for many pikkujoulus, "Little Christmases," parties where the Christmas spirit—and all Christmas creatures—came out. The creatures were, of course, tontut, our special kind of joulupukki's helpers, those jolly little elves dressed in blue and red. In fact, everyone at the party often dressed as tontut, and danced special little dances, singing “Soihdut sammuu, kaikki väki nukkuu, väki nukkuu . . .” Everyone received a little present from joulupukki, who was always kind enough to take time out of his busy Christmas schedule to come and visit and join in the singing and dancing.

  But those little tontut had a much more serious role to carry out than singing and dancing at pikkujoulu. They would keep an eye on us children, sneaking around the house or peaking through the windows to see how we were behaving. What an opportune time for parents to instill nice manners in their little folk, for we sure were careful to observe all the rules and wishes presented to us. After all, we were not going to be naughty, for naughty children only got a bundle of twigs at Christmas, and no presents at all.

  The tree was not cut or bought until the morning of Christmas Eve. Father usually went to the marketplace in the middle of our town and selected the one he deemed suitable for our family and house. It was always a beautiful, straight and symmetrical blue spruce, with lots of sturdy branches for placing the real little candles.

Decorating the tree was usually my task. What an important responsibility that was! To get the candles to stand up straight, carefully placed so that the flames would not touch the branches above… To spread the garland in perfect patterns, the sparklers and the colorfully wrapped wooden candy crackers in appropriate places… But most importantly—and this was always done under Father’s supervision—to crown the tree with the Star of Bethlehem!

  The tree was dressed in the afternoon of Christmas Eve. Now it was time for Mother to put the fatty Christmas ham in the oven. She had prepared it with a pasty coating made of rye flour, salt and water—it made the shank of ham juicy and full of flavor. In our home, Mother had to heat the oven first by burning wood inside the oven, and when it was appropriately hot—I never knew exactly how she determined that—she would sweep the hot embers out of the oven and place them in the stove where they would heat some other Christmas delicacy ready for cooking.

While the ham was thus baking, we took turns going for the traditional Christmas sauna. There were fluffy towels scattered around, with a new crop of fragrant dried birch branches for our vasta. The sauna seemed unusually dimly lit for this special occasion—only a few candles burned in the small window to accentuate the festive feeling. Usually Mother and I would go first so that we could be preparing the Christmas meal details as the men folk enjoyed their sauna.

The meal was spread for the spanking clean sauna-goers: piping hot ham in its brown crust, casseroles of carrots and rutabaga, boiled potatoes and a beverage of home-brewed Christmas beer we called kalja. For dessert there were rice pudding and plum kiisseli—a sort of thickened soup that went well with the pudding. And the never-ending variety of Christmas gingerbread cookies, prune tarts and sweet breads.

The table was decorated with bowls of sweet-smelling fruit—a rare commodity for the Northerners in the dead of winter—great big oranges from Jaffa, and apples and pears. In the center of the table was a potted flower, a cluster of tulips, hyacinths, freesias or crocuses—a fragrant promise of spring yet so far away. Surely there was no better time in the entire year!

  About dessert time there usually came a knock at the door, and we all knew who it was: joulupukki, of course! This old man came dressed in a drab fur coat, with long hair and beard, carrying a tattered old bag full of wonderful surprises. We always invited Him in with certain reverence and great excitement, and He always had time to sit around, enjoy the lively flames of the candles on the tree, an occasional sparkler and many a Christmas hymn sung by children whose hearts were bursting with the glory of the moment. And for some magical reason, even though this venerable old man seemed to bring me the same doll, with obvious variations, year after year, it did not matter. This was Christmas time, a time of Love, Light, Warmth and Magic, and there was no room for questions.

Jean Sibelius' Solo Songs

by Liisa Berg













“Meeting Sibelius is like being confronted by a power of nature. He looks like an old eagle in a storm, like a towering pine or an emperor hewn from granite.” (Ture Rangström)

Few composers have been so preoccupied with one medium of expression as Sibelius. His great achievements as a symphonist tend to overshadow his output in other genres. Even a superficial look at his activity in other idioms quickly reveals that he, in deed, was a man of the orchestra. It is most interesting that a composer with such "extra-ordinary powers of compression, . . . ability to evoke a mood by the most economical gesture, as well as highly developed sense of line" would not be able to transfer these qualities to smaller forms of musical expression. This is not, of course, to dispute that there are many masterpieces among his more unexplored forms as well; the truth, however, remains, that there is no even quality or development of style in them.

By the side of his larger-scale orchestral music, Sibelius' solo songs represent a far more important side of his creative activity than is generally known. He himself believed in their future and was never inclined to consider them as mere incidental piéces d’'occasion. Santeri Levas recalls his conversation with Sibelius in which the master stated that his song literature represented his "innermost self." Levas further writes:

"One evening Sibelius mentioned quite in passing that he had composed songs only during a very brief period of his life and that afterwards he had lost interest in this activity. But very soon he repented of this remark. Early the next morning—much earlier than he normally got up—my telephone rang and Sibelius again took up our conversation of the previous day. 'During the night I was annoyed about what I said about my songs,' he said and added that he did not at all wish to describe his songs as insignificant, but that he considered both his vocal and piano pieces up to standard."

Among the nearly 150 vocal pieces that Sibelius composed, there are, indeed, certain pearls in the art of song, and they deserve closer examination and familiarization on the part of the foreign audiences. But if his songs are to be examined and judged fairly, it is most important to clear our minds of all the preconceived definitions of the art songs as exemplified in the German Lied. The latter evolved from the indigenous Volkslied, while Sibelius arrived at a declamatory, simple style akin to that of Hugo Wolf, for example, a style that the old bards might have chosen. It is therefore advisable that no comparisons be drawn between the two.

Sibelius produced his song literature in a time span of about 27 years. Among the many opuses are examples of surprisingly flexible quality. They are curiously unequal: within on opus there are truly admirable compositions side by side with some that are markedly inferior. Some are not much different from each other. Later songs are not necessarily better nor essentially different from earlier ones. With the less important songs it is easy to be struck by a feeling that Sibelius wanted to rid the momentary inspiration as quickly as possible and to advance into more serious writing.

Even though it is fairly evident that in this medium, Sibelius did not achieve the heights of Robert Schumann or Franz Schubert, a number of critics agree that "many of [his songs] have the sensitivity and beauty of construction of the best of Hugo Wolf and Grieg." Layton is of the opinion that the best of Sibelius song literature equals the "quasi-symphonic epigrams of Wolf [and] the vivid characterization and intense and often heart-rendering humanity of Mussorgsky."

The strange masterpiece, Luonnotar, half song with orchestra, half symphonic poem with vocal oglibato, is evidence of highly original approach to the voice. Yet, Sibelius's most original side rarely emerges in the songs. When it does, it is in response to a natural imagery; thus it is that most of his best songs are essentially nature pieces, with the human element, when present, in the background. It is in these nature songs that his melodic lines are dressed in most boldness and individuality. Sibelius was not a lyricist. His true nature emerges in his somber, dark-timbered song.

Sibelius is very demanding of the voice in general. There are great varieties of dynamics in short passages, and wide ranges are required in many of this songs. Skips over an octave are not unusual. An example of this appears in Luonnotar, in which there is a skip from an A'' to a D#' within one word. On the other hand, there are a good number of songs which encompass a modest vocal range. Many of these are among Joululauluja ("Christmas Carols," Opus 1), most of which have become solidly traditional in Finnish Christmas celebrations. Others have been written for a specific artist, as in the case of Opus 88. It was written for Ida Ekman, whose voice at that time (1916) was rather restricted in compass. Levas reports that Sibelius produced many of his best songs for Ida, who was always suggesting that he should do something new. For his part, he inspired Ida to her highest endeavors: she recounts that "when Sibelius was in the audience, [I] sang as if upheld by a magical influence." Incidents involving Ida Ekman reveal some of Sibelius's song-writer temperament: "Ida always received his songs at the last moment, although he had promised them . . . months beforehand. For example, the program had already been printed for a long time when she got her first sight of the first three songs of Op. 26, Svarta Rosor ("Black Roses"), Men min fågel märks dock icke ("But My Bird Is Long in Homing"), and Bollspelet vid Trianon ("Tennis at Trianon"). One of his most beautiful songs, På verandan vid havet ("On a Balcony by a Sea," Opus 38), was brought, by Sibelius himself, all out of breath, to the railway station when Ida Ekman, waiting for him with a pulsing heart as she counted the minutes, was out to start a recital tour."

Shortly before her death Ida wrote a letter to Sibelius describing her visit with a great master of that time, Johannes Brahms, in Vienna, at the house of Eduard Hanslick, a music critic. She had sung one of Sibelius's songs for him, S'en har jag ej frågat mera ("For I Have Asked No More," Op. 17, No. 1). "This pleased Brahms so much that he wanted to hear it again, and he took Hanslick’'s place at the piano." When they had finished, Brahms kissed the young singer on the forehead and said: "When we next meet you must sing more Sibelius than Brahms." Brahms was very enthusiastic about Sibelius' song and hurried to tell about it to his friends. Incidentally, Brahms did not very easily show approval of the works of his contemporaries; only when he came across true talent would he express admiration.

The Linguistic Problem

Sibelius' songs are second only in importance to his orchestral works, yet, for a reason they have been largely neglected by singers. They rarely appear in recital programs and there are no comprehensive recordings extant. Other masters encounter the same inequity: Mussorgsky, for example, is only on an occasion chosen for programs, due to the existing vast linguistic barrier. The inaccessibility of the Scandinavian languages (of which, incidentally, Finnish is completely, and very importantly, separate) to non-native singers has cut off the rest of the world from some of Sibelius’' finest works. Even when translated, audiences intuitively sense the disparity in the poor representation of the original texts. As in all translated libretti, the original inflexes and meanings are altered, often producing awkward and unnatural rises and falls, to which the original text usually attends beautifully.

Poetry
It was Sibelius' contention that if a piece of poetry was complete in itself, it had no need of musical setting. Thus he sought out texts that to his point of view would be elevated through music. The ideas within a poem appeared to Sibelius as a fairly subordinate issue. What was important was the overall atmosphere: "Music illuminates and intensifies the mood and feeling of the poetry without duplicating its verbal imagery," he believed. He further stated about his estimation of the relationship of poetry and the music he assigned to it: "My songs can also be sung without words. They are not so dependent on poetry as the songs of many other composers." In any case, his songs can only suffer when translated because of the inflections and intimations present in all languages.

Though the poetry of Sibelius' songs is mostly Swedish, the language of the vogue of his time—more than half are in Swedish—they are all inspired by his fatherland. Owing to Finland’'s former Swedish rule and culture, the native poets, such as Runeberg, Rydberg, Topelius and Tavastjerna, wrote chiefly in Swedish. Perhaps the fact that Sibelius himself spoke better Swedish than Finnish further encouraged him to choose Swedish texts for musical treatment. At the same time he was remarkably sensitive to the musical inflection of the Finnish language. He also used German, French, Italian, Latin and English texts—a fact that further illustrates his ecumenical approach to life as a whole. (He also spoke all of them fluently and studied the masterworks in their original languages, including Greek).

Above all, Sibelius was deeply inspired by the lyric nature poetry of J. L. Runeberg; some of Sibelius' finest songs are to the texts of Runeberg. In the order of frequency of usage, his poets—and other sources—rank in this manner: Runeberg (30), Tavastjerna, Rydberg, Josephson (10 each), Topelius (7), Fröding, Grippenberg (5 each) Kalevala (6) and Kanteletar (4). Others are Wechsell, Franzén, Kyösti, Cajander, Kurl, Dehmel, Shakespeare, Karlfeldt, Schybergon, Leino and Maesterlinck. As to the settings of the libretti, Sibelius is always at his best with the topic of nature. In settings of love lyrics, he is seldom completely successful, though an exception is found in Till Frigga. For the most part, in the field of the lovelorn, he lacks sensitivity, occasionally bordering "dangerously on the banal and the commonplace."

The most frequent topical use includes nature—seasons, night and day—jubilee hymns, humor, the joy of love, mourning, prayer and longing for death.

Accompaniment

One of the most limiting factors in Sibelius' song literature is his apparent uncertainty at the keyboard. Sibelius was not a pianist. "In my real work, the piano does not interest me; it cannot sing," he once explained. Fittingly, then, few of Sibelius’s piano pieces—which are many—reveal any love for the instrument. It is surprising, as Cecil Gray, a Sibelius biographer, points out, "that he should have written so much for an instrument which he does not seem to understand, and even appears positively to dislike and despise." It is not unexpected then that the piano parts in his songs appear relatively inferior. Rarely does his keyboard writing complement the vocal line with the freedom that can be found in Schumann and Wolf. In many instances, the piano merely doubles the voice, or else is somber chordal accompaniment—somewhat an orchestral approach. Naturally, there are exceptions. Opus 38 contains a specially exalting piano setting, of which Nils-Eric Ringbom writes: "A highly personal form of symbolistic composition is here combined with a strangely expressive vocal part. There is no empty decoration in the accompaniments, no external miniature painting. All is rarely powerful realism, painted in broad brushstrokes, which gives completely adequate musical expression to the poet's moods."

If man's relationship with nature is Sibelius' chief springboard for inspiration, it follows that the orchestra is the desirable and essential means of fulfillment. No wonder Sibelius's piano writing is shadowed by the orchestra. There is a clear illustration of this in the two versions of Höstkväll ("Autumn Evening"): the original for voice and piano and the later orchestral version. While the former is merely competent, the latter—half song, half operatic—is supremely successful. Rydberg’'s dealing with the solitary wanderer exulting in the power and majesty of Nature "struck a responsive chord in the composer. The atmosphere of the orchestral version . . . could hardly be more powerfully evoked."

From time to time, when someone wished to orchestrate some of his songs, Sibelius would give his consent, mostly due to his kindness. He did not want his songs to be tampered with; he regarded them as definite in form. Levas tells that Sibelius at the beginning of 1946 had forbidden the Finnish Broadcasting Company to perform his songs other then in their original form, with piano accompaniment. "I don't want them orchestrated," he said, "for they completely lose their individual character. One can't express little ideas by means of a large orchestra."

Perhaps it truly is this belief, freely applied, that was the guiding ideal for Sibelius as he worked on his fascinating solo song repertoire: a small idea needed its confined realm. Thus most of these "little ideas" stayed without the fullfilment that Sibelius generally achieved for his large-scale work. The generous gestures that identify his orchestral pieces are more modest in his solo songs, though certainly not without the Sibelian stamp that endows all his works with "rememerability" and realization of intent.

Sibelius at home: Ainola

Järvenpää

Sibelius' and his wife Aino's grave in the vicinity of their home in Järvenpää