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Tchaikovsky without Tears New York
David Geffen Hall, Lincoln Center
01/15/2026 - & January 16, 17, 18, 2026
Chen Yi: Landscape Impression
Robert Schumann: Piano Concerto in A Minor, Opus 54
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 2 in C Minor “Little Russian”, Opus 17
Yefim Bronfman (Pianist)
New York Philharmonic Orchestra, Xian Zhang (Conductor)
X. Zhang, C. Yi (© Benjamin Ealovega/KuandiPhotos)
“Shimmering water at its full–shiny day is best;
“Blurred mountain in a haze–marvelous even in rain.
“Compare West Lake to a lovely girl, she will look
“Just as beautiful–lightly made up or richly adorned.”
Su Shi (Circa 1070)
That 11th Century poem above is not incidental. It is one of two poems inspiring Chen Yi’s Landscape Impression, the ten‑minute opening to this week’s Philharmonic concert. Conducted by Xian Zhang, the work was all too brief.
For composer Li–a young piano and violin virtuoso, struggling through the arduous rural suffering of the Cultural Revolution, becoming conductor in China–made the long journey to America, living today in Missouri. And while she is celebrated for her Chinese-instrument works, her Landscape Impression was written with for conductor Zhang deft originality.
The program notes told of her Hangzhou poetic inspiration (and yes, the West Lake is still as beautiful as Marco Polo described it), yet one had the challenge of hearing it only as music. The result was fragile, graceful, at times with the pizzicatos of Paul Dukas’ Sorcerer, or a Debussy Prelude. Yet always augmenting those “raindrops” with slight woodblock punctuation or twirling winds.
This was one of those works about which one initially shudders (“Oh, not another lake-tree-mountain paean”). Yet within a minute one transcends these feelings to an honest involvement.
The end was not only inappropriately brassy, but too sudden, too jolting. One only wished it Landscape Impression had gone on, letting the meteorological changes take their natural course. This, though, was the composer’s dexterous choice,
Chen Li’s work had premiered under the action‑filled baton of Xian Zhang, and the conductor easily proved her visceral attainments. Known here as conductor of the New Jersey Symphony, she has guest‑led most international orchestras. Today, she is also leader of the Seattle Symphony Orchestra, and they are in for quasi‑weekly treats.
For her poetry “reading” tonight, we heard Robert Schumann’s Piano Concerto. To say that Yefim Bronfman nailed it would be an understatement. True, the initial image of the diminutive Ms. Zhang and the cosmic Mr. Bronfman together was fairly unnerving. But from the first piano chords, Yefim Bronfman offered his characteristically singular performance.
Specifically, Mr. Bronfman handles the most challenging passages not only with insouciant ease, but, in the Schumann, projected both poetry and inevitable fluctuations. He moved that opening Allegro affettuoso from the boisterous to the dream-like middle section to a final cadenza which the artist took in his–digitally wide‑ranging–span.
The Phil was a good enough accompanist, but the short middle section allowed Ms. Zhang to offer elegant tones to Mr. Bronfman’s textures.
As for the finale, we heard an artist at his finest. Here was the secret. Mr. Bronfman took all the virtuosity lines both with (what could only be called) volcanic skill. No inner meditation, no secret thoughts from the thoughtful Robert Schumann. The cadenza itself was worthy of an entire recital.
Yet simultaneously, Mr. Bronfman broadened out those melodies, made his piano sing as well as ring. It was less fiery, more fluid. His encore, of a Liszt-Paganini transcription was pure show‑off technique, yet always deliciously lyrical.
The final rarely‑played Tchaikovsky Second Symphony could dismay Tchaikovsky-lovers, since, unlike the last three, it was more “Russian” (or “Ukrainian”), less moody, less inward. This was the young Tchaikovsky without tears, less neurotically philosophical.
That was fine with me. The folk tunes, the galloping meters, the non‑stop pure loveliness was the opposite of the usually dour Tchaikovsky visage. Ms. Zhang wisely didn’t make it bumptious. Instead, like a Chekhov story, the music happily plunged ahead, a sleigh ride with the orchestra singing endless (or half‑an‑hour’s worth) songs and riddles and joy, real joy.
Harry Rolnick
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