in person

Oliver Schnyder gilt als ausgesprochen ausgeglichener und gewissenhafter Pianist, einer auch, der keine technischen Schwierigkeiten kennt und Mozart und Chopin mit selbstverständlicher Leichtigkeit spielt. Erstaunlich also, wenn Schnyder die tägliche Auseinandersetzung am Instrument als schmerzhaften Prozess beschreibt und als durchaus höllische Seite seines Lebens begreift."

Link zum vollständigen Interview.

INTERVIEW 2009

Magazine, 10-Sept-09, Interview: Christian Berzins

The pianist Oliver Schnyder has long been one of the insider tips on the Swiss classical scene. Now he is recording CDs and playing in the concert series Migros Culture Percentage Classics with the WDR Symphony Orchestra Cologne under the direction of Semyon Bychkov in Bern, Geneva, Lugano, Lucerne, and Zurich.

Mr. Schnyder, we have heard about you constantly over the last year, in 2010 you will even tour the largest Swiss concert halls. What has happened?

Well, I have been playing in these halls regularly for many years. But you are correct: the media interest has increased recently. I believe that I have been a kind of "insider tip" for a long time. I did not mind this label. Nevertheless, I am not opposed to the larger public notice (laughs).

When you returned from the USA in 2001, your musical future was nevertheless uncertain.

The future is always uncertain. At that time, however, I really was in a vacuum, even if I was one of the few in the class of my teacher, Leon Fleisher, who regularly, if only selectively, gave concerts in Europe and the USA. But I was a long way from being able to live off giving concerts. My worries were thus great. What does a young Swiss musician need in such a situation?

Instrumental craft and artistic maturity are presumed: own initiative, curiosity, discipline, courage, the will to persevere, and luck. Besides that, of course people who believe in you, who for example finance a professional debut CD. You need institutions such as the Orpheum foundation in Zurich that throw a young soloist into the cold water, so to speak, and let him or her perform with a first-class orchestra under a famous conductor. A young musician must get the chance to prove that he or she can swim. That is not a matter of course in Switzerland. As always, organizers and media place too little trust in local artists or give them too little credit. I don't really know why that is.

But do you have an idea?

You could assume that it is due to the small size of the country and the feelings of inferiority connected with it. But Norway, for example, has half as many inhabitants as we do, nevertheless the best graduates from the conservatories receive a performance with the Oslo Philharmonic Orchestra!

How did you manage to still keep your head above water?

I always knew what I am capable of and never had fundamental doubts. The path has always been the goal. My parents gave me a lot of what you call basic trust. But as I said: it was an economic dry spell that had to be bridged, and I had to rely on the support of my wife, my parents, and my sponsors until the debut at Orpheum. After that it went steadily uphill. There was never a big bang, though.

«OUVERTURE», the newly created platform for Swiss talents by Migros Culture Percentage now gives you the chance to tour Switzerland with the WDR Symphony Orchestra under Semyon Bychkov. Not a big bang?

Certainly. I am also looking forward to this tour very much because I so love the 2nd concert by Beethoven. Maestro Bychkov, whom I appreciate greatly, calls it his favorite concert and has selected it because it will be his final tour as principal conductor of the WDR Symphony Orchestra. This is a special honor for me. But at 35, you no longer wait for «the big bang» that catapults you into a new sphere like you do at a very young age. At my age, you have learned that everything takes its time and is a logical consequence of what you have developed or done.

How important is it for you that these performances in Switzerland are possible?

Very important. It is satisfying for every artist to find esteem in their own country. The newly created platform «OUVERTURE» is in this regard a departure to new horizons. It is wonderful that Migros Culture Percentage is so committed to local musical work.

A lot is happening in 2009 / 2010, but you recorded two Mozart CDs at the same time with the classics giant Sony already in 2008. There are not many Swiss musicians who do that.

That was an important step. Added to this was that nobody demands east Mongolian virginal music from the late romantic period from me, but rather they let me do a standard repertoire. I am grateful for this confidence, and I believe the large response justified it, too. There are further CDs planned with Sony: for example with the music of Robert Schumann on the occasion of the anniversary in 2010.

Prior to the Mozart CDs, you recorded a Chopin CD and explained in the booklet why you did that. Did you feel bad for recording piano chart hits?

No, rather I felt bad about their absence! The selection of pieces does demand a justification. My text asks the listeners to perceive the recording as something very personal, as the result of an often painful grappling with the pieces. Chopin's music has never been easy for me. I struggled with it for a long time before it really opened itself up to me and I was able to draw on unlimited resources. The CD is the musical memory of that and holds a special place in my musical family album. Basically, I made the recording for myself.

You seem to be doing a lot according to the pleasure principle, nevertheless, you are a very conscientious musician. To what extent is conscientiousness allowed in your line of work?

It is a necessity for reproducing interpreters. Without conscientious treatment, the composition becomes a victim of arbitrariness. Conscientiousness has to do with humility.

Doesn't conscientiousness restrict an artist?

Possibly (considers). No, I stand by what I said: conscientiousness is inevitable for us. However, on the stage, it should be joined by - paradoxically - generosity. If that doesn't happen, your question is justified.

Isn't there a risk that with you conscientious turns into brooding?

I am actually a brooder and a skeptic. After searching for a long time, however, I always return to my basic ideas. I am not someone who wants to mercilessly lay bare the architecture of a composition, more or less break the work down to the raw structure or the foundation. In my opinion, this happens at the expense of beauty and transcendence. The intellectual substructure of an interpretation must not become an end in itself. Because most of the time, that sounds banal. «Go for beauty!», Fleisher told us if we students had started brooding.

And that helped?

You bet! But «Go for beauty» requires brooding, investigation, doubting, despairing, discovering, trying something out, and in the end rejecting; the whole roller coaster. «Go for beauty» meant throwing off ballast, it invited to play naturally and relaxed, it said: "Look, here is the forest!"

Can anybody keep you from despairing?

No, the valleys have to be walked through, and the blisters on the feet have to hurt and heal. But thank God I'm a masochist (laughs).

Then you don't ask yourself anymore how you could change the piece one more time?

Of course I ask myself that question again and again. Otherwise, I would not make progress.

Even if there is no correct interpretation, is there your correct one?

Yes. But that doesn't mean that I always manage its realization. Sometimes the search for the correct instrumental realization lasts for years. I experience this with works that I played five or ten years ago. I still pursue the ideas from that time. Of course, my demands on the instrumental realization have risen over the years. But that doesn't mean that I won't find an entirely new solution in ten years.

Do you sometimes think about how you will play in ten years?

The analytical work, the penetration of the work takes a lot of time, time that I can book on the credit side in ten years. I would like to know which energies will be free due to that. With the recordings, however, I already today no longer experience surprises. This means that the music in my internal ear matches what I actually play. In my opinion, that is my greatest achievement, and I am very grateful that I have managed it. Many musicians are often confronted with a different reality when listening to their recordings...

That must be terrible.

That must be terrible.

More noticeable than yours are the careers of pianists that rise like shooting stars: e.g. Lang Lang or Nikolai Tokarew. Tokarew has been praised to the skies for his CDs, but has already fallen from there a couple of times. His life as an artist seems to be heaven and hell. The pure opposite to you. Do you deliberately fight against these extremes?

No, they probably don't fit my personality. I am more of an introvert. I also don't know how much of Nikolai's image has to do with his self-perception. We have unfortunately or fortunately little influence on how we appear to others. Grappling with the music, on the instrument, but also the at times enormously frequent concerts and works to be practiced, the traveling, rehearsing, the logistics of this life in general often mean heaven and hell. But it is true: the development of my career is everything but a roller coaster, on which the poor young artist no longer knows what is happening to him. This cup has passed me by. But I am not worried about the colleagues you named.

But every young artist wants to become famous quickly!

I also wanted that ten years ago. But I knew that I was not yet ready for what I can do today.

You write on your websites that you are not a «fashion freak». Tokarew or Lang Lang come on stage in leather pants or colorful tails...

... in which they look good. The only thing is that many of these young stars have the problem that they are overrun by a PR machinery and then don't have any other choice but to match the allotted image. The artistic categorization which can massively interfere with a healthy development is even worse. I have not and do not fit any image that has not resulted from my work. I would probably be the nightmare of every image consultant. Thank God!

These young musicians are very present in the media. How do you handle the age question?

Being young has never been important to me. My appreciation as a musician has never been defined through my age. Should I now worry about being old? Seriously: I can say today that I am happy to have not had a comet-like career at a very young age. This way I had time to acquire a large repertoire and to grow as a person, more or less organically with the expectations of the audience.

You were fortunate not to have been a young star?

Yes. I grew up normally, had many interests, lived the life of a normal teenager. Many musician colleagues are missing balance because they had to condition themselves early and sacrificed everything to their art. I often would like to say to them: «Go to the movies once in a while, to a soccer game, a rock concert!» I gladly join the concert circus, but not at a rate such as for example my dear friend and chamber music partner Julia Fischer, the great violinist. I would not want that, nor could I do it. I need more time for regeneration and inspiration.

Is your young family the basis for this firm grounding in life?

Absolutely. I have always been a family type.

How strongly do the tours disturb this life?

Not at all. When I am at home, I am really home and have a lot of quality time with the family. My studio with the grand pianos is only one floor down. So I probably see my two-year-old son much more often and more intensively than fathers with office jobs away from home , and I get to be a proud witness of him growing up. My wife is also very dedicated as a professional violinist. Parents and in-laws support us wherever and whenever possible, so we manage to balance it all very well. I was really worried before the little one was born. Now I consider his presence pure good luck. I have a little less time at the instrument, but in exchange I work more efficiently.

What do you mean with efficiently?

My son determines how the day is structured. That means, I have to practice according to an exact plan and have to more and more defined learning objectives in order to accomplish anything. This forces me to work with more concentration than before, when for a change I used to regularly watch court shows on German private stations or read three different daily newspapers. Unfortunately, I no longer have time for that. In 2008/2009 alone, I played or newly learned no less than eight different piano concerts - among them David Noon's second one, written for me and diabolically difficult, and Rachmaninoff's third. This in addition to innumerable solo and chamber music works that I played during half a dozen different festivals - three times as an artist-in-residence - and on tours to Russia, Germany, Italy, France, Austria, Israel, Serbia, the USA, and Great Britain. Sometime I am really amazed at what all can be reconciled with good organization and positive thinking.

(http://www.oliverschnyder.com http://www.migros-kulturprozent-classics.ch http://www.kulturprozent.ch/studienpreise http://www.kulturprozent.ch/konzertvermittlung)

INTERVIEW 2002

Oliver Schnyder: Sure, I hardly correspond to the clichéd pianist madly tearing away at the keyboard. No chaos, please, never! The reason is that as a performing artist, I have to stand behind the work of another. I filter it, transport it, realize it. My own person is of secondary importance, so I don't have to fit the image of the quick-tempered genius. Sure, I can play the piano well, I do have Beethoven's barely manageable tousled head of hair, I'm sometimes moody, left-handed, never good in the mornings - but I'm still a normal guy. All the same, I possess certain sensibilities - ones I've also cultivated - that don't just allow me to venture forth through the medium of music. They allow me quite generally to perceive certain vibrations around me, to empathize with certain atmospheres. And I do have a well-developed aesthetic sense - a sense for what is beautiful, I suppose.

So not quite a normal guy after all. But what is 'beautiful'?

In general, the beautiful is something perfect in form. Content, form and effect all grow out of one another. All the proportions balance each other. The fact that we feel how these proportions are in balance is perhaps the only common denominator of everything beautiful, in a Platonic sense. In music - such as in Mozart, Schubert, Beethoven or Brahms - there indeed exists this absolute beauty. On paper at least, in the score. The translating of this score into sound, its interpretation, will however remain imperfect, since it can only approach it, not reach it..

That sounds to me as though beauty is for you something absolute, as if it were not just explicable, but also measurable.

No, of course not. In contrast to what I've just said, there is Kant's idea of beauty, which is defined through the subjectivity of the observer or listener. You don't just happen upon beauty - you have to seek it out. In this sense, I realize that I become ever more vulnerable to beauty. Yes, beauty can hurt! But beauty also purifies. 'Go for beauty' was what Leon Fleisher often exhorted us students to do, if we got too bogged down in a problem of musical interpretation. Not that he wanted to reduce our playing to mere beauty of tone. No, when he said that, he wanted to free us from the pressure of having to prove how detailed was our knowledge of the score. 'Go for beauty!' - and we didn't have to show any more how intensely the music moved us - which is in fact a terrible distraction from the music - but we had to 'go' where beauty begins to purify, where the 'I' of the performer dissolves itself and melts into the universal. But beauty sometimes does signify something absolute to me. Ella Fitzgerald's voice, for example, the violin of Fritz Kreisler or Dinu Lipatti's piano - for me, gravity no longer seems to hold them down . . .

How do you find your way to your own interpretation?

Besides the daily upkeep of my technique, my practising, the most important part of my work lies in finding and taking the path that leads from the first reading of a text all the way to the interpretation that is right for me. This exciting, sometimes painful search is carried out using the means that I have gathered in the course of time:

• my theoretical-musical knowledge
• my historical knowledge of the musical styles of different epochs
• statements made by the composers themselves, plus the study of their other works
• knowledge of the technical possibilities of the period in question
• knowledge of the cultural and social background
• reviews from the period in question
• of course, my sensibility for, and confidence in, different styles - what one would call 'taste'
• my common sense, which allows me to read between the lines. And then, of course, listening to the 'aura' of what I play!

This listening to the music's 'aura' is really the crux of the matter when working on an interpretation. It is the only thing I have left when my knowledge, sense of style and understanding are no longer a help when I approach the composer's work. Then I attune my inner ear to the echoes of what my fingers haven't even played yet. That sounds a paradox, but it works. The musical impulse is formed in my inner ear and jumps over to my body, in other words to my arms, hands and fingers, compelling them to reproduce for others the sounds that I have already 'heard'. Practising at the piano is nothing more than training this connection between inner hearing and its realization in the physical. In other words, finding the right means to realize on the instrument what was heard in advance.

So is your technique good enough to reproduce what you hear inwardly?

Yes. However, I do sometimes carry individual passages from a work within my mind for a long time, until I realize how I can reproduce on the piano the precise sound that I have in my ears.

The task of the performer is to support the composer, you say. What do you mean by that?

'Support the composer' is a phrase of Fleisher's, and encapsulates a lot. It means: 'Play it late, but in time; long note long, short note short.' In this one short sentence, Fleisher describes a natural, musical phenomenon. If, after an often painful process of working at a piece, you then really understand what it means, then it provides the basis for a gripping interpretation, for a music that makes rhythmic and declamatory sense. 'Support the composer' compels one's ear to hear every note precisely in advance, in order to place it properly. If it's placed properly, the battle is already half won! If I play a long note, then I listen to it consciously for as long as it has to reverberate, and that is usually longer than the notation states. I win this time back by playing the shorter note even shorter. Here, music begins to be formed - it becomes flexible, alive, it begins to 'groove'. But if I reach a rest, then I have to 'listen' to it. Then it has to be 'late, but in time'. With this precise, inner hearing in advance of what is in the notation, I am supporting the composer who, because of the constraints of notational possibilities, is unable to record such minute modifications in his score. In this way, as a performer, I can and must help the composer.

In order to help the composer, you have to know what he wanted - quite precisely, in fact. How do you gain this knowledge?

Of course I can never know precisely what he wanted - not every detail - for he is no longer with us. And for this reason, every interpretation remains an approximation to the composer's ideal. And yet when I'm working on a piece, I start by believing that I can recognize the composer's every intention. You can't do it any other way, for you can only convince others when you're convinced yourself. When you're on the podium, this certainty is intensified. There is nothing more beautiful for me than to sit up there at the piano and to experience 'it' playing, as if in a moment of inspiration. Then, in the moment of performing the work that I have studied, there is only one true interpretation: this one, the one that has already sounded in my head, in my soul, and which my body has to draw out. Unfortunately, we musicians can't compel these great moments to happen. But you can entice them to come, by preparing carefully in advance.

That work 'in advance' - people say of you that you play in a very natural manner, with a lightness of touch and technical dexterity. Do you practise often? And how much? How do you warm up for a concert? Tell us about your technique.

When it comes to practising, I'm disciplined. I practise every day, though rarely more than four hours at the piano itself. Learning new repertoire is done mostly in my head. It doesn't matter what I do or don't do - music accompanies me all the time. Whether I play football, do the cleaning, draw my cartoons or read the newspaper. When I'm preparing for a concert, autogenics training is helpful; in some cases, it can even serve instead of warming up. If everything is right in my mind, then my fingers run by themselves!

In order to train what you normally understand by 'a good technique' - dexterity of the fingers, great octaves, virtuosic runs in thirds and sixths - you have to study. For me, on top of everything, technique means producing a quite specific sound, achieving a kind of subtle shading that I have already recognized inside myself. The prerequisite for a good technique is thus in my head and in my heart. Without an artistic imagination, you lack the essential drive to win the battle to acquire the basics you need at the piano. So I improve my technique with every new piece, since every type of music requires a tailor-made technique. This search for the right 'touch' does not let go of me until I've solved it. Sometimes, it's even come to me while asleep.

So let's assume that you've found the solution and on top of everything you've just enjoyed one of those 'great moments' in a concert. Can the joy that it brings outlive a bad review?

A bad review of a 'great moment'? I can't imagine that happening. And, on the whole, the happiness after a successful concert usually lasts only a short time. It's dissolved by the next morning. We musicians are often masochistic.

How do you cope with the critics?

I've promised myself to be happy when they're good, and not to get worked up if they're bad. That doesn't mean I always succeed.

Apart from the reviews in the papers, which purely for reasons of space have to remain superficial, do you need criticism?

Yes, of course. Criticism can't deflect me from my path as an artist, but it can certainly help me along it. I was lucky in always having the right teacher at the right time when I was studying. They supported me in becoming who I am today. And because I believe in myself, I can be open to criticism. I take every criticism seriously that is discerning, not just when it's positive, and not just from so-called experts!

If I don't reach you as my listener, then I need to know that. It's as it is with every form of dialogue. Whether I speak to you or play to you, I have to be exciting, demanding enough for you to hear me at all, and I have to express myself in such a manner that you can't misunderstand me. Misunderstandings are never just the fault of the listener. But if someone simply doesn't like my musical understanding of a piece, then we've simply been unlucky. Both of us.

Do you think that someone who has a fundamentally opposing understanding of the music is in the wrong?

In concrete terms, probably. Because in the moment that I'm performing, I'm convinced that I'm doing the only thing that's right.

As I said already, when I'm working on my interpretation of a work, I try to understand the composer so precisely that I can support him in every detail. But even when my feelings tell me that something is meant 'just so', I still know that, when it comes down to it, my understanding of the composer can only be approximate. Every interpretation, however convincing it may be, remains approximate. But in the same way, the critics cannot fully appreciate what they call my understanding of the work, just as they cannot fully know what the composer intended - and this is regardless of whether they are newspaper critics or critical colleagues in the music world, friends or teachers. And every one of them sometimes feels that his or her understanding is the only correct one..

You also play chamber music. Do you seek out musical partners that think and feel things in a manner similar to you, or can you play with everyone?

I only play with good musicians, for what is the point of playing with someone without subtlety in how they play? Or hasn't got the necessary technical skill? In those cases, the prerequisites for everything I want to do are simply not there. However, in chamber music, if not everyone right from the start has the precise same goals, then it can be extraordinarily exciting. To be different and remain so as musicians, to want different things at first and yet still to find each other in the music - that takes away all glibness from the interpretation. It makes it exciting, alive.

Some people think that a soloist can't play chamber music and a chamber musician can't play solo.

If anything, the second half of that statement is more probably true. A chamber musician, even the leader of a string quartet, is never as exposed to the audience as a soloist is. If he's become a chamber musician because he can't transform the fear of being alone into musical energy, then your statement is correct. But if a soloist can't play chamber music, then that simply means that he can't listen (to himself) while playing, that he can't take a step back where the music requires it. I hope very much that I'm not like that!

What do you prefer playing?

I don't know. I prefer whatever I'm doing at the moment. For example, I would love to play the cello sonatas by Beethoven or the piano trios of Haydn. But concert organizers maintain that duos and trios sell badly. I don't understand that. There is such a wonderful repertoire for these ensembles!

What does chamber music bring you?

I can learn things from my partners in chamber music. I learn, especially from string players, to sing even better on the piano. Let me explain that in technical terms:

A melody is in principle a horizontal movement. The string player bows horizontally, and a wind player blows horizontally, while I as a pianist press down the keys, again and again, note after note. I first have to find the horizontal line between notes that have been created vertically, so that my melody too can sing. What Karajan said of interpretation in general is especially true for the pianist: music is formed between the notes, it is formed when no time is lost between them.

When I pay particular attention to what happens between the notes I play, I attempt to turn my 'percussive' instrument into a melodious one. When I play on my own, I often think of a female voice, such as that of Ella Fitzgerald. When playing chamber music, it's the string players in particular that inspire me to 'annul gravity' on my instrument.

I would like to return to the method you adopted from Leon Fleisher of 'supporting' the composer: 'Play it late, but in time; long note long, short note short.' Are you talking here of the difference between the lifelessness of metre and the breath of rhythm?

Precisely that. Metre is a constant in the chronological flow of music, and can be produced by a machine. Music only becomes artistic expression when rhythm plays with this constant, such that tension is created, and the whole begins to pulsate. Through lengthening the long notes and shortening the short ones - or sometimes the other way round in the Romantic repertoire - I achieve the desired result.

My activity is ordered by metre, but a feeling for the temporal proportions of the smallest detail is to my mind extremely important for the quality of an interpretation. Without this rhythmic sensibility, music never begins to 'groove', and even the finest sense for tone colour is to no avail any more. I furthermore believe that we are talking here of a gift, a talent that one can cultivate, but in essence cannot learn. We say, after all, that someone has 'rhythm in his blood'. Rhythm is the oldest musical parameter, and I think it assumes precedence above melody and harmony. Every exciting interpretation is defined first and foremost by rhythm.

Do you vary the rhythm when the composer demands a repeat, so that the listener does not have to hear the exact same thing twice?

Well, I naturally consider and practise several possibilities and decide on the one that's right for me. I don't always feel a need to vary something, just because it occurs twice. If a composer repeats something, such as the exposition of a classical sonata, then he wishes to clarify for the listener the material that he has used. If I were to play this exposition differently the second time, I wouldn't be taking the composer's intentions seriously. That doesn't fit with my artistic credo. But what I do attempt is to play it more beautifully, better, more trenchantly and with better articulation the second time. Just not differently!

I assume that you wish to awaken emotions on the part of your public. How do you do that? Do you transpose your feelings onto the individual listener, or do you invoke their emotions directly?

I would like to awaken in the listener the feelings, the sensory impressions that also guide me while learning a piece. I translate them into music such that they resonate with the listener. That is a high-flown goal, I know. But I also think I know what I can achieve with what musical means. When, in a concert, a 'spark' really does jump from me and 'my' music to the audience, it's not just thanks to my careful preparation, but also something else, something irrational, the magical chemistry of the moment. I certainly don't celebrate my own emotions on the concert platform! No posturing, no grimacing, no public rapture or exaltation, even though not a few people want to recognize musicality in all of that. On the contrary: I have learnt the piece like an actor learns his role, and while playing on the podium I can call up what I have acquired in the way of emotional and pianistic choreography. I know the spectrum of my musically expressive possibilities, and I play the piece as I have prepared it. In this manner, I also give a structure to my own emotions when I play. If I didn't do that, they would run off with me, and I would be the only one enthusiastic about what I'm playing.

So you're talking of yourself and your emotions as an actor would?

Not of what I feel on the podium, but the emotions that I have experienced while getting to know a work and learning to play it. I slip into the work, as it were, and transport it. And if I have a good day on the podium, this essentially sober manner of performing (which is planned and structured down to the smallest detail) is married to the magical chemistry of the moment. I can't express it any other way. And then the sparks fly! And a wonderful intensity is created, in the audience and in me.

What moves you in life? Are there things that move you to tears?

Yes, and always when the 'I' is transfigured - in childlike, trusting innocence. Or a childlike enthusiasm for something. Or if an old person discovers his former powers for a few moments. And especially when someone rises up out of great suffering and moves on, fortified.

Now we're talking about Oliver Schnyder the man. You come across as warm-hearted, you interract with your fellow beings in a sympathetic, charming way and at the same time you draw cartoons of the most evil monsters (see the Bodo slideshow under Extras)! But little ones, all the same. So who is he, this Oliver Schnyder? Is he a charmer or a nasty cartoon figure?

Both, probably. But I have to say that the cartoons, the 'Bodo's, aren't just bad. At times, they're really also very nice. I think that in a human being, positive and negative energies balance each other and that both types, even the negative, can be utilized for something positive. That's what I try to do in my work. But I don't want to lose a sense of what is really important, for that which seems essential to me..

Why don't you tell us more about your 'Bodo's, which you know I like so much? Have you perhaps already noticed that many of your monstrous little men and women express the serious intention of doing bad, but then - luckily for us - either can't move, or can barely do so? They are all blocked, they haven't got a functioning way of moving, they appear as if they've been planted down with no one to fetch them. Where is the link to you?

Yes, that's true. With the Bodos, I make fun of the dark side of myself. They are a kind of ironic self-portrait. I admit that they're nasty, aggressive, and often vulgar too. But as you have rightly observed, I don't let them act, but place them on the spot in their anger, powerless, letting them hang out their tongues. I like their coarseness. Probably they're a safety valve, a waste product of my striving for artistic nobility. But there are also nice Bodos, Bodos in love, sentimental, sad, intelligent, cheeky, industrious ones, aren't there?

Yes, I know them too. They're really very human, but all outsiders. All of them live somehow in another world, or they live in our world, but act outside its rules. They're alone. Are you alone?

We're all alone.

Back to your negative energies: You wanted to use them to positive effect in your music. How does that work?

Composers, too, use their negative energy in their work. Just think of the abysses in Schubert's soul that open up behind the cheerful, beautiful, sometimes almost sweet exterior. Or of Beethoven and his often devilish energy that he lets come to the surface in an earthy, grumpy way, while he at the same time laughs at both himself, in his rage, and at us, who are taken aback. In this sense I'm even happy that I have such real aggression in me, that I know what spiritual pain is. Because of this, in such passages I can try to understand the composer from the inside out, and I have a better chance to create musical truth.

Oliver: why are you a pianist?

Why do wild pigs like apricots?

Oliver Schnyder plays Joseph Haydn sonata XVI/50; allegro