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Sviatoslav Richter died on August 1, 1997, at the age of eighty-two, the most mercurial and impressive of the Soviet pianists to come to prominence in the West. His playing could be by turns profound, perverse, elegant, heavy-handed, unforgettable, and unlovable. He was in various ways paradoxical. He cultivated a reputation as some-one unconcerned with worldly af-fairs, allergic to studio recordings, with their lack of spontaneity (he preferred microphones hidden in strategically placed potted plants during his concerts); he was repelled by the music industry, its publicity machinery, its managers and backers and critics, and its obligations to plan three or four years in advance. He preferred the persona of the wandering minstrel, playing on the spur of the moment wherever he happened to be for whoever happened to show up. In later years, he canceled innumerable dates and instead, when his health was good, traveled with a map and an entourage that included his own Yamaha pianos and tuners. He would stick pins in the map at places he wished to see or whose names intrigued him and then find halls in which to play there. 'I may play in a theater or chapel or in a school playground at Roanne, Montluçon, or in some remote corner of Provence,' he told the Canadian film director Bruno Monsaingeon. 'All that matters is that people come not out of snobbery but to listen to the music.'
Review, 4807 words
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