The project Shostakovich 50, recorded by Fly on the Wall at the Royal Academy of Music and sponsored by the City Music Foundation, celebrates one of the greatest masterpieces of all time on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the composer’s death in 1975.
Composed in 1950–51 during Stalin’s regime, Preludes and Fugues, Op. 87, stands as a testament to Shostakovich’s genius and resilience at a time of immense pressure. It is likely its variety, depth, and historical weight that make it one of the most remarkable works of the last century—and one of the most complex and exciting challenges for a pianist.
It’s hard to describe why Preludes and Fugues is such a special work to me. Once I started learning them, there was no way back. They have accompanied me for the past ten years and will probably stay with me for many more. The idea of video recording the entire cycle has been lingering in my mind for a long time, but would have never become possible without the support of City Music Foundation. Once the plan was in place, the biggest challenge was to memorise 150 minutes of not exactly the easiest music. I feel a piece doesn’t really become second nature until you learn it by heart, or at least for me.
A video recording captures not just the sound but the full experience—the visual expression, the performer’s presence, and the natural flow of the music. This makes it feel more immediate and alive than a polished studio audio, allowing the listener to connect more deeply with the emotion and energy of the performance. The choice to work with Fly on the Wall was the most natural: the sense of someone quietly peeking into the practice room, experiencing the music without disturbing it felt the best fit for this work. One single camera, a live continuous performance, manually filmed.
Each Prelude and Fugue is a world of its own, with a distinct character, idea, and emotional core that needs to be captured. Polyphonic writing is extremely exciting to me: its architecture unfolds in layers—both vertical and horizontal—and the challenge lies in giving each line clarity without letting any dominate. With Shostakovich, the challenge is even
greater. Unlike Bach, he seems to enjoy extremely long melodic lines, unfolding without ever truly resolving, indulging in intriguing harmonies while remaining somewhat indifferent to resolution. His fugues are expansive, and their climaxes often arrive only four or five pages in. The task is to remain fully present—diving into the music’s vertical depth while tracing the fragile thread of its evolving line.
Even though each piece has a well-defined character and reveals a different side of Shostakovich’s personality, I believe they belong together and make the most sense when played in order. When learning the full cycle, it becomes clear there’s a sense of development across the set—both in colour and, more importantly, in emotional depth. Unlike The Well-Tempered Clavier, which is divided into two books, this cycle feels unified. The tonal structure itself suggests the idea of a complete arc, with Shostakovich choosing a progression of ascending fifths that eventually returns to its starting point—making the work feel whole. The first half of the cycle is bright and clear, with concise themes and well-defined structures that carry a carefree spirit. As it progresses, becomes more introspective and searching, the lines between major and minor blur gaining a more fragile and honest quality and it feels as if we are finally being granted access to his innermost self. The two halves merge in the final moments, with its powerful and definitive conclusion to this extraordinary journey—one that is at once monumental and deeply human.
