Why does Vladimir Horowitz remain a subject of fascination decades after his death? Perhaps it is because we live in an era where technical precision matters more than anything else. We have all been there: sitting at a Chopin Society, listening to a technical genius fresh from Juilliard, only to say to ourselves when the concert is done, “Thank God that’s over!”
Horowitz must have this experience himself. In a 1985 documentary, he said, “I must tell you I am not a professor. I don’t want to teach the audience... A concert is not a lecture.”
He was a pianist who seemed to belong to a different time. Known as “The Last Romantic,” he embodied 19th-century traditions, playing with a freedom and color that we will perhaps never hear again.
Origins and Education
Born in 1903 in Kyiv to a musical family, Horowitz grew up during a time of significant political change. His early education at the Kyiv Conservatory was rigorous, studying under Felix Blumenfeld, a student of the legendary Anton Rubinstein. It was here that the foundations of his unique style were laid. Blumenfeld taught him to look beyond the mechanics of the keyboard, instructing him to imagine the piano as a singing instrument, capable of the sustained breath of a vocalist or the bowed intensity of a cello.
Interestingly, the young Horowitz did not initially intend to become a concert pianist; his primary interest lay in composition. He dreamed of writing operas and symphonies, viewing the piano merely as a tool for his creative expression. However, the upheaval of the Russian Revolution shifted his path. With his family’s financial situation unstable after the nationalization of his father’s business, he set aside his composing ambitions and turned to the piano as a means to earn a living and support his parents.
The Journey from Russia
By the mid-1920s, Horowitz had established a reputation in the Soviet Union, playing endless concert tours to pay for basic necessities. Yet, he knew that for his art to flourish, he needed to experience the musical capitals of Europe. In 1925, he left his homeland, ostensibly for study purposes. The departure was fraught with tension; he famously stuffed American dollars into his shoes to smuggle out funds, reportedly feeling immense relief when border guards did not ask him to remove them. He would not return to Russia for sixty-one years.
The Rachmaninoff Connection
When Horowitz arrived in the United States in 1928, he prioritized meeting Sergei Rachmaninoff. The relationship between the young pianist and the established composer became a defining element of his life in America. Horowitz played Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3 for the composer, who was deeply impressed by the interpretation. Rachmaninoff famously noted that Horowitz “swallowed it whole,” acknowledging the younger musician’s capability.
Their bond went beyond professional respect; it became a close, father-son friendship. They would often meet at Steinway Hall or in their private homes to play two-piano arrangements of symphonic works, finding joy in the sheer camaraderie of music-making. For Horowitz, Rachmaninoff was the ultimate link to the romantic tradition he cherished, and he remained a devoted champion of the composer’s works long after Rachmaninoff’s passing.
Marriage and Family
In 1933, Horowitz married Wanda Toscanini, the daughter of the renowned conductor Arturo Toscanini. The marriage connected Horowitz to one of the most prominent families in classical music and would endure for 56 years, ending only with Horowitz’s death. Wanda was far more than a supportive spouse; she was a fierce guardian of his legacy and his harshest critic. She possessed a sharp musical ear and understood the discipline required to maintain a career at the highest level.
While their marriage faced its share of complexities and private difficulties, she remained his crucial stabilizing influence. She was often the force that pushed him back to the stage when his confidence waned. They had one daughter, Sonia, who struggled to find her own identity in the shadow of two such towering musical figures. Her life ended tragically in suicide in 1975, a sorrow that cast a long shadow over the couple’s later years and deeply affected Horowitz’s spirit.
A Personal Approach to Practice
Horowitz’s approach to the instrument was distinct and highly personal. He did not subscribe to the common practice of drilling scales for hours on end, finding mechanical repetition to be detrimental to musicality. Instead, he focused on sound quality, phrasing, and voice-leading. He would often ask himself, “How would a clarinet play this phrase?” or “Where would a singer breathe here?” treating the piano as an orchestra of timbres.
His technique was unconventional; he often played with flat fingers and hands kept low to the keys. This method allowed him to produce a clear, singing tone that projected well in large halls without sounding percussive. He viewed the piano as a vocal instrument, and his practice sessions were dedicated to achieving a specific variety of tonal colors rather than simple dexterity.
When he said, “I don’t want to have perfection, I’m not Heifetz, I’m Horowitz,” we now realize that he was a different kind of perfection, one that went far beyond just getting the notes right.
Years of Seclusion
The demands of touring weighed heavily on him. In 1953, celebrated as the greatest pianist in the world, Horowitz withdrew from public performance. For the next twelve years, he remained largely within his New York City apartment, dealing with depression and recurring colitis.
To manage his fragile health, he adhered to a notoriously restricted diet, subsisting almost entirely on sole meunière, and asparagus for years. However, this period was not merely one of stagnation. He used the time to explore the neglected corners of the piano repertoire, rediscovering the sonatas of Muzio Clementi and Domenico Scarlatti. He brought these “forgotten” works back into the light, polishing them with the same care he gave to a Liszt concerto. He continued to record in his living room, refining his musical philosophy away from the public gaze and the pressures of the concert stage.
The Return to the Stage
Horowitz ended his silence on May 9, 1965, with a recital at Carnegie Hall. The anticipation was high, with dedicated listeners waiting in line overnight for tickets. When he finally walked onto the stage, he appeared almost fragile, a man stepping tentatively back into the light. But the moment his hands touched the keys, the hesitation vanished. The performance confirmed that his abilities had not diminished during his time away; rather, his playing showed a deepened maturity and a wider palette of color. This return marked the beginning of a new chapter in his career, allowing a new generation to hear him live.
Conclusion
It is easy to view Horowitz as a relic of the past, with his colorful bowties and 19th-century mannerisms. But we must ask ourselves: what have we replaced this with? We have traded eccentricity for consistency, and taking risk for reliability.
Yet, looking at the technical perfectionists of today, one question remains: would we stand in line overnight to go hear them?
This is why Vladimir Horowitz remains fascinating, and why, when I see sole meunière on a restaurant menu, I stop reading the rest of the menu.