Friday, May 15, 2026

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice Friedrich Gulda and Martha Argerich

  

a6c1fcdad71990aabdfd835c73be09caAround Martha Argerich’s 5th birthday, her mother placed her under the pianistic tutelage of Vicente Scaramuzza. Even though Mr. Scaramuzza was considered a sadistic fanatic, he gave her a superb technical grounding and laid the foundations for her unique cantabile style.

When Martha was asked at age 12 about her biggest dream, she unabashedly told President Peron that she wanted to study with Friedrich Gulda in Vienna. And Peron made it happen! Gulda had won the International Geneva Competition at age 16, and his lifelong passion would be to break down the barriers between the classical music and jazz idioms and successfully combine the two genres.

Gulda, like Martha, was a free and eccentric spirit! Both were fiercely independent, allergic to the rules imposed by career, fame, agents and concert halls. Martha admired Gulda for “his spontaneity, curiosity, and a love for music—for all music, not only for classical. He was such an open-minded person, so vital in this sense. He told me once ‘you have to learn everything before turning sixteen because later on gets a little stupid!’

She was fascinated by his sound and by the paradox of his controlled expressiveness. Argerich acknowledges Gulda as her biggest pianist influence. He recorded their lessons, and made her critique her own performances. He also told her to learn Ravel’s Gaspard and Schumann’s Abegg Variations in five days. “I did not find it difficult at all,” she said, “because I did not know it was supposed to be.” Argerich was Gulda’s only student, and she studied with him for only 18 months. Unimpressed by her subsequent fame and the personal chaos that surrounded her, he cried upon meeting her later, “What have you done with your life?” Essentially, we are talking about 2 extroverted recluses producing chaotic brilliance at the piano! A great number of pianists play difficult pieces and many photograph well. However, it is “her naturalness of phrasing that allows her to embody the music rather than interpret it.” Her native language is music, and she warmly credits Gulda with “having taught me how to listen.”

7 of the Largest Pianos Ever Built

  

While most concert halls are designed for instruments around nine feet long, a handful of piano makers have pushed far beyond those limits.

These largest and longest pianos in history were built for many reasons: to expand tonal range, replicate the power of an organ, commemorate royal jubilees, or simply to push boundaries.

Today, we’re counting down seven of the biggest pianos ever built, from extended concert grands to colossal one-of-a-kind instruments that border on architectural installations.

#7: Bösendorfer Imperial Concert Grand

Bösendorfer Imperial Concert Grand

Bösendorfer Imperial Concert Grand       

In the late nineteenth century, composer and pianist Ferruccio Busoni transcribed Bach‘s organ works for piano. He dreamed about having a piano with an increased range that would better replicate the range of an organ.

To realise those dreams, the Bösendorfer piano building company came up with the Imperial Concert Grand piano design. This model consists of eight octaves over 97 keys, and it is 9 feet, 6 inches long (2.9 meters).

As the official Bösendorfer website points out, there are works by Bartók, Debussy, and Ravel that can employ these newly available pitches.

It’s unclear whether those composers expected – or even wanted – those notes to be physically played, but it’s interesting trivia to know that this instrument can handle them.

#6: Fazioli F-308

Fazioli F-308

Fazioli F-308   

Fazioli is a high-end Italian piano company founded in 1981 and based in Sacile, Italy. They are well known for building only 140 pianos a year.

Their F-308 model is 10 feet, 2 inches (3.1 meters) long and weighs a whopping 1550 pounds (or 703 kilograms).

Interestingly, it also has a fourth pedal in addition to the traditional three. That pedal is used to create a pianissimo effect.

Fazioli claims that the F-308 is the largest piano in production. Over the years, only twenty have been made.

#5 and #4: Charles H. Challen Grand Pianos

Charles H. Challen Grand Piano

Charles H. Challen Grand Piano

Charles H. Challen and Sons was an English piano manufacturing firm founded in 1804.

In 1935, they constructed the world’s largest grand piano to honour the Silver Jubilee of King George V and Queen Mary (Queen Elizabeth II’s grandparents).

The company built two big instruments for the big event. Each one measured 11 feet, 8 inches (3.6 meters) long.

The first one made its debut at the British Industries Fair, the most visited attraction in England at the time, where it made a big splash.

For a while after the Fair ended, it kept popping up in various exhibitions, as well as posh department stores like Selfridges and Harrods.

Sadly, this giant appears to have met its demise in 1959, when it was purportedly brought to a garden party, left outdoors, and left to sink into the dirt. However, that story has never been officially confirmed, and apparently, nobody knows for sure where this landmark instrument ended up.

Its twin was far luckier. “Piano-2” also popped up at a variety of venues, including the British Industries Fair.

It found a permanent home in 1969, when it was bought by the owners of Gwrych Castle in Wales. It was later sold again and ended up in France.

In 2020, piano restorer Andrew Giller brought it back to the United Kingdom, and he and his team spent two years restoring it.

#3: Rubenstein R-371

Rubenstein R-371

Rubenstein R-371   This piano was built by American David Rubenstein, owner of Rubenstein Pianos in El Segundo, California. He had never built a piano before attempting to build this one.

As he said in a 2009 interview, “I built it ‘just because.’ It was a highly organised, well-thought-out whim.”

Rubenstein said of the process of building the piano: “Sometimes I was happy and sometimes I was miserable. When you’re making something this big, you forget its final use – the fact that you can play this – and only think about the thing in front of you right now. At the end, it dawns on you that you’ve done something.”

One pianist who played it reported, “You would think a bigger piano would sound louder, but that is not the case. This piano has been built with such refinement that it is very responsive to touch and allows hundreds of gradations of loud and soft.”

This model is 12 feet, 2 inches (3.7 meters) long. Like the Bösendorfer Imperial, it has 97 keys.

#2: Alexander Piano

The Alexander Piano

The Alexander Piano

In 2004, Adrian Alexander Mann was a fourteen-year-old piano student in New Zealand.

He learned from his teacher about how copper wires are wrapped around modern pianos’ lower strings, giving them a deeper tone without necessitating excessive length.

Mann asked his teacher how long a theoretical piano would have to be to not need the copper wire. His teacher wasn’t sure, so Mann ran some experiments and started building his own in a neighbour’s empty garage.

Five years later, at the age of twenty, he emerged with the Alexander Piano. The end product was a staggering 18 feet, 9 inches (5.7 meters) long.

Mann dubbed his creation the “Alexander Piano” in honour of his grandfather. The Alexander Piano has become a destination for curious pianists traveling through New Zealand, and Mann is always at hand to document his visitors’ music-making.

Not surprisingly, Mann grew up to become a piano technician. After sending his jaw-dropping invention to various showcases around the world, he brought it home.

In 2017, he told Atlas Obscura that he wants to build another one.

#1 Stolëmowi Klawér (“Giant Piano”)

Stolëmowi Klawér ("Giant Piano")

Stolëmowi Klawér (“Giant Piano”)   The Stolëmowi Klawér (“Giant Piano” in Polish) pushes the concept of a piano to its absolute extreme. It was built by Daniel Czapiewski in Poland in honour of the bicentenary of Chopin‘s birth in 2010.

Huge doesn’t begin to describe this instrument:

  • It is nineteen feet, eleven inches (6.1 meters) long.
  • It is six feet (1.8 meters) tall and requires a special raised area for the pianist to place their bench on.
  • It has 156 keys – and two keyboards.

Czapiewski died in 2013, but he certainly left a massive legacy in the piano building world.

Conclusion

Many of these giants are impractical for everyday performance, and some were never meant to be widely replicated. All have quirky origin stories. Yet they’ve left a lasting imprint on music history.

Even if they’re rarely played, their sheer existence has reshaped how we think about resonance, scale, and the piano’s potential. All seven of these largest pianos ever built stand as inspiring monuments to pianistic creativity and craftsmanship.

Salvador Dalí (Born on May 11, 1904): The Excesses of Life

  

Carl van Vechten: Salvador Dalí, 1939 (Library of Congress: cph.3c16608)

Carl van Vechten: Salvador Dalí, 1939 (Library of Congress: cph.3c16608)

His art may have been surreal, but it was backed by technical skill and precise craftsmanship. Although he started his work in the late 1920s, it wasn’t until 1940, when he moved to the US, that he started to achieve commercial success. It wasn’t until 1948, after the war, that he returned to Spain.

Name any field in the arts, and Dalí was there: painting, sculpture, film, graphic arts, animation, fashion, and photography saw his efforts. He also wrote fiction, poetry, essays, and criticism. In both art and writing, he saw himself as a subject, through self-portraits (the first in 1919) and autobiographies. Often, his ostentatious public behaviour was more famous than his artwork, such as when he took his anteater for a walk in Paris.

Dalí walks his anteater in Paris, 1969

Dalí walks his anteater in Paris, 1969

He made his first trip to Paris in 1925, when he met one of his artistic heroes, Pablo Picasso. The Catalan painter Joan Miró had mentioned Picasso to him and introduced him to the idea of Surrealism. Even as Dalí developed his own style, he made visual reference to both Picasso and Miró in his work.

He grew his first moustache in the mid-1920s (as seen above), but later, his moustache grew to magnificent proportions, almost becoming an icon of the icon. Dalí referred to this version as his ‘very aggressive’ moustache.

Roger Higgins: Salvador Dalí and his ocelot Babou, 1965 (Library of Congress: cph.3c14985)

Roger Higgins: Salvador Dalí and his ocelot Babou, 1965 (Library of Congress: cph.3c14985)

His most famous work, The Persistence of Memory, was completed in 1931 but seems new for each generation. The melting watches get us to think about the rigidity of time and whether it’s real. Behind the focus on the watches, the landscape expands out to sea.

The image reverses reality: hard objects lie limply curved, ants are attracted to a metal watch case, and yet in the background are the very realistic cliffs from Dalí’s native Catalonia coast. The figure draped along the ground isn’t a horse but rather Dalí’s own face in profile, with his long eyelashes carefully presented.

Dalí: The Persistence of Memory, 1931 (New York: Museum of Modern Art)

Dalí: The Persistence of Memory, 1931 (New York: Museum of Modern Art)

This painting, in turn, has inspired many different composers. Spanish composer Javi Lobe has woven a melancholic story in his piano piece.  

English composer Richard Causton, on the other hand, uses the imagery of Dalí in combination with a memory of a strange sound phenomenon he encountered in India. Ill and confined to bed, he heard the sounds of the world around him but in a strange and altered timescape. Workers on the rooftops of factories around his room would strike the hours by banging on slats and pieces of metal. As the composer drifted in and out of wakefulness, time expanded and contracted – did 4 am really come before 2 am, or was that the fever bending time? 

Composer and pianist Jeffrey Jacob focuses on musical memory in his work, noting that it explores the impact of the past upon the present through the juxtaposition and combination of older and contemporary musical styles. Set in a haunted landscape that seems quite close to Dalí’s imagined setting, he alternated between the past and the present. Each movement starts us in a different world.  

The second movement takes us through three different periods of musical time. We start with the percussive drive of Bartok, before wandering back in time to Schubert. The composer has taken an accompaniment pattern from a Schubert song and created a ‘misterioso’ piano sonority around it. Finally, we’re in the late 19th century, experimenting with Impressionism with a soaring melody. In each section, melody is the driving element.  

That’s only one of the many paintings and works that Dalí created that were an inspiration for the composer. The database of Music based on Pictures (Musik nach Bildern) lists dozens of works based on Dalí’s images. Not many have been recorded, but it gives a view of how popular and inspirational his surrealism has been in the imagination of composers everywhere.

The Finnish composer Uljas Pulkkis (b.1975) put together three Dalí works in his 2002 work, Symphonic Dalí: Three paintings for orchestra. Dali’s 1954 painting The Colossus of Rhodes was behind the first movement. The Colossus of Rhodes was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. The tallest statue of the ancient world was a statue 33 m (108 feet) high of the sun god Helios that stood in the city of Rhodes. Built in 280 BC, it collapsed in the earthquake of 226 BC; after the collapse, although parts of the statue were preserved, it was never rebuilt, and the final remains were destroyed in AD 653.

Dalí: The Colossus of Rhodes, 1954 (Bern: Kunstmuseum)

Dalí: The Colossus of Rhodes, 1954 (Bern: Kunstmuseum)

The second movement was inspired by Shades of Night Descending, from 1931. It seems to be set in the same landscape as The Persistence of Memory.

Dalí: Shades of Night Descending, 1931(St. Petersburg, FL Salvador Dali Museum)

Dalí: Shades of Night Descending, 1931(St. Petersburg, FL Salvador Dali Museum)

The third movement, Dawn, is an explosion of colour, literally, because Dalí loaded a gun with snail shells filled with ink and fired them at his lithography stone.

Dalí: Dawn from Pages Choisies de Don Quichotte de la Mancha, 1957

Dalí: Dawn from Pages Choisies de Don Quichotte de la Mancha, 1957


The Polish composer Joanna Bruzdowicz (b. 1943) made her own pictures at an exhibition, but based them on an exhibition of the works of Dalí. Her selection included many different styles of Dalí’s works, ranging from his early works of 1927 to 1970. She, of course, did a movement on The Persistence of Memory, but let’s look instead at his 1929 painting Portrait de Paul Élouard

Portrait de Paul Élouard, 1929 (Figueres, Spain: Dalí Theatre and Museum)

Portrait de Paul Élouard, 1929 (Figueres, Spain: Dalí Theatre and Museum)

This surrealist portrait of French surrealist poet Paul Éluard, who was married to Helena Diakonova, aka Gala, who left him in 1929 for Salvador Dali, marrying him in 1934. In the portrait, the poet is ‘dissected’ by the painter – the Zeppelin may indicate modernism as does the fact that everything in the painting is in the same plane. It’s a dreamscape with many different elements juxtaposed.

In her piano work, Bruzdowicz opens with a busy world, always in motion. A point of reflection quickly spins back everything into the movement of the opening section.

Spanish composer Cristóbal Halffter (b. 1930) created his work for chamber orchestra, Daliniana, on three Dalí paintings: Relojes blandos (Soft watches), El sueño (The Dream), and El nacimiento de las angustias líquidas (The birth of liquid anguish). Relojes blandos refers to the melting watches of The Persistence of Memory, while El sueño is another of the dreamscapes.

Dalí: El sueño

Dalí: El sueño

A pseudo-self-portrait set on fragile supports exists in a sleeping world (note the shadowy sky and the moon hanging on the left side). These are the kinds of poles used to support fruit trees when they’re heavily laden, and are a strong reference to the countryside. The massive head rests uneasily in space.

Halffter’s world seems equally fragile and disjointed.

The final work in the set is based on El nacimiento de las angustias líquidas, an image of instability and anxiety – a solid is converted to liquid, a common Dalí theme.

Dalí: El nacimiento de las angustias líquidas, 1932 (Figueres Fundació Gala-Salvador Dalí)

Dalí: El nacimiento de las angustias líquidas, 1932 (Figueres Fundació Gala-Salvador Dalí)

Dalí’s complex image Plaisirs illuminés (Illumined Pleasures) from 1929 is the basis for a double concerto for violin, cello, and chamber orchestra by Francesco Coll.

Created to illustrate the shooting script for Un chien andalou when it was published in the journal La Révolution surréaliste, the painting is filled with a number of shadow boxes representing the disjunctions between reality and illusion as experienced in a movie theatre. Note the two heads in the sky that also appeared in similar form in the Portrait de Paul Éluard. This collage of dreams and anxieties, both personal and universal, includes Dalí’s disembodied head in the middle box. Some very surrealist images are in each box: rows of bicyclists with lights on their heads, a hand with a bloodied knife, and an egg-like object in front of a church wall. And, at the back right, what might be another of those watches.

Dalí: <em>Plaisirs illuminés</em> (Illumined Pleasures), 1929 (New York: Museum of Modern Art)

Dalí: Plaisirs illuminés (Illumined Pleasures), 1929 (New York: Museum of Modern Art)

Francesco Coll (b. 1985) studied trombone at the Joaquín Rodrigo Conservatoire of Music in Valencia and the Madrid Royal Conservatory, graduating with honours. He then went to the Guildhall School for a degree in composition, also achieving honours. His reputation is for pushing music to its extremes, and it is known for its surrealistic juxtapositions. It was as composer-in-residence with the Camerata Bern that he wrote Les Plaisirs Illuminés, a double concerto for violin, cello and chamber orchestra, for Patricia Kopatchinskaja and Sol Gabetta as soloists.

Avant-garde French composer Igor Wakhévitch (b. 1948) worked with Dalí in 1974 on an ‘opera-poem’ entitled Être Dieu (To Be God), with a libretto by Spanish writer Manuel Vázquez Montalbán.

The music is a surrealistic mix of speaking voice, choral singing, and a little bit of everything in the world. The work, in 6 parts, ‘Dalí as God, Brigitte Bardot as an artichoke and Catherine the Great and Marilyn Monroe do a striptease’.

Dalí: Self-portrait, 1972

Dalí: Self-portrait, 1972

Dalí created a self-portrait, which was combined with ‘the famous “Mao-Marilyn” that Philippe Halsman created at Dalí’s wish’. Note Dalí’s signature in the bottom left, crowned, with an orb and cross, as if royalty…or God. In his self-portrait, his signature moustache is prominent.  

Dalí, of course, has the last word on his work in the world. Often viewed as a madman for his images, he calmly noted that ‘The difference between a madman and me is that I am not mad’.

Allan Warren: Salvador Dalí, 1972

Allan Warren: Salvador Dalí, 1972

The excesses in his images, be it of liquid watches or giant figures from the past or even of himself, can only drive our own imaginations forward.

10 Women Composers Who Published Under Male Pseudonyms – and Why

  

Across the 18th, 19th, and early 20th centuries, dozens of women composers adopted masculine or gender-neutral identities so their work would be reviewed seriously or even allowed to be printed at all.

Some used their husbands’ names; others crafted entirely new male personas; many relied on initials to hide their gender.

From Maddalena Laura Lombardini Sirmen‘s quartets being published under the name of her husband, to Rebecca Clarke‘s Morpheus being attributed to “Anthony Trent”, these pseudonyms profoundly shaped the reception and legacy of their music.

This article explores ten women composers who used male pseudonyms: why they resorted to secrecy, how it influenced their careers, and when they finally reclaimed their own names.

Maddalena Laura Lombardini Sirmen (1745–1818)

Pseudonym: Ludovico Sirmen   

Maddalena Lombardini Sirmen was an Italian violinist, composer, and one of the most remarkable women musicians of the eighteenth century.

As a child, she trained at the renowned Ospedale della Pietà in Venice and became a star pupil of violin master Giuseppe Tartini.

In 1767, she married fellow violinist Ludovico Sirmen, and together they performed as a duo in various European capitals.

Maddalena Laura Sirmen

Maddalena Laura Sirmen © Wikipedia

She was among the first composers – male or female – to write string quartets, a then-emerging genre. But when her first set of six quartets appeared in 1769, they were published under Ludovico Sirmen’s name.

Historians aren’t certain why, but it’s possible it was because Ludovico was better known, or because a male name was considered more marketable.

Her case underscores how women’s most innovative works could sometimes only reach the public if masked by a male name.

Louise Farrenc (1804–1875)

Pseudonym: L. Farrenc   

Jeanne-Louise Dumont Farrenc (1804–1875), known as Louise Farrenc, was a French composer, virtuoso pianist, and pedagogue of the Romantic era.

In 1842, she achieved a rare distinction for a woman of her time: she was appointed professor of piano at the Paris Conservatory. She was the only woman to secure a permanent professorship there in the 19th century.

Farrenc was highly respected as a performer and teacher, and she produced a substantial body of compositions, including piano music, chamber works, and three symphonies.

Louise Farrenc

Louise Farrenc

She published under the name L. Farrenc. Throughout the late 1800s, piano students across Europe practised the 30 Études by this “L. Farrenc,” meaning that countless students studied the work of a woman composer without ever knowing it.

Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel (1805–1847)

Pseudonym: Felix Mendelssohn   

Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel was a German composer and pianist, as well as the elder sister of the famed composer Felix Mendelssohn.

Like her brother, she was a prodigious musician from a young age. At 13, she could play all 24 Preludes from Bach‘s Well-Tempered Clavier from memory, and she composed over 400 pieces over the course of her short lifetime.

However, Fanny’s creative ambitions clashed with the limitations presented by her social position. The Mendelssohn family was wealthy and respectable, and at that time, it was considered improper for a woman of her status to seek a public career in composition.

Fanny Mendelssohn-Hensel

Fanny Mendelssohn-Hensel

Fanny married artist Wilhelm Hensel and remained an active musician in the private sphere, organising a renowned salon in Berlin where many of her works were performed.

Only late in her life, shortly before her untimely death in 1847, did she start publishing under her own name.

Because she faced so many headwinds in publishing, several of Fanny’s songs were initially published under Felix Mendelssohn’s name, albeit secretly. Both Felix’s opus 8 and opus 9 song collections (published in the 1820s) included a handful of songs composed by Fanny.

Laura Netzel (1839–1927)

Pseudonym: N. Lago   

Laura Netzel was a Finnish-born Swedish composer, pianist, conductor, and prominent musical philanthropist.

She grew up in a culturally rich environment in Stockholm and studied music (piano, voice, and composition) both privately and in Paris.

Laura Netzel began her composing career in the 1870s at a time when publishing music was considered an unusual – even unseemly – profession for a woman of her high social standing.

Laura Netzel

Laura Netzel

Presumably to navigate these social constraints, she adopted the gender-neutral pseudonym “N. Lago.” Netzel’s works were first performed and published under the N. Lago moniker in the 1870s.

Interestingly, one Swedish newspaper of the time noted that compositions by “N. Lago” displayed “masculine power in dedication and elaboration.”

Ten years later, around 1884, her fame and reputation had grown enough that she began publishing music under her own name.

Marie Damaschino (1844–1921)

Pseudonym: Mario Foscarino   

We know relatively little about Marie Foscarina Damaschino (1844–1921). Her near-total invisibility in the historical record reflects how easily women’s musical voices were erased, especially when they felt compelled to write under alternate names.

Among the few things we know is that she was a Romantic-era composer of French and Greek heritage and the sister of a prominent doctor named François Damaschino.

While historians have yet to uncover statements from her explaining why she chose this name, her adoption of this pseudonym does fit the patterns of the era.

It is possible that she believed that adopting a male persona was the only way to have her work published by major houses and accepted by the musical public.

By taking an Italian-sounding name, she may also have been capitalising on the cachet that Italian music held in Romantic-era Europe.

Augusta Holmès (1847–1903)

Pseudonym: Hermann Zenta   

Augusta Holmès (1847–1903) was a French composer of Irish descent who rose to prominence in the late 19th century.

She began her career in the 1860s, writing songs, which she published under the masculine, Wagnerian name Hermann Zenta.

She matured into a boldly ambitious musician known for composing on a grand scale, writing massive orchestral works, choral pieces, and operas.

Augusta Holmès

Augusta Holmès

This was an unusual path for a woman composer to take, given the lack of education, access, and institutional backing available to them at the time.

She was able to continue pursuing music seriously because the death of her father left her enough money to live on.

After she secured financial independence, she gave up the Hermann Zenta persona.


Emma Louise Ashford (1850–1930)

Pseudonym: E. L. Ashford   

Emma Louise Ashford (1850–1930) was an American organist, music editor, and an extraordinarily prolific composer of sacred and secular music.

Born Emma Hindle in Delaware, she married John Ashford and settled in Nashville, Tennessee. There she served as an organist and choir director for several churches and a Jewish temple.

Ashford composed over 600 pieces of music, including anthems, hymns, cantatas, organ voluntaries, piano pieces, and art songs.

Emma Louise Ashford

Emma Louise Ashford

For decades, she was an editor for the Lorenz Publishing Company’s music periodicals, which meant she shaped church music repertory across the United States.

Throughout her long career, Emma Louise Ashford almost never published under the name “Emma.” Instead, she chose to present herself as “E. L. Ashford.” This was not exactly a fictitious name – those are obviously her real initials – but it functioned as a gender-neutral byline.

One of her own music publishers, corresponding by mail, assumed that “E. L. Ashford” was a man and addressed letters to her as “My Dear Sir” for months – until eventually discovering that the prolific composer was in fact (in the words of one Ashford biographer) “a frail little woman of the most distinctly feminine type.”

Mélanie Bonis (1858–1937)

Pseudonym: Mel Bonis   

Mélanie Hélène Bonis (1858–1937) – known professionally as Mel Bonis – was a French composer whose music bridges the late Romantic and early Impressionist styles.

Bonis composed more than 300 works, including piano pieces, chamber music, organ music, songs, and choral motets.

Her music was published and received some acclaim in the early 1900s. When her Piano Quartet premiered in 1901, Camille Saint-Saëns reportedly exclaimed, “I never imagined a woman could write such music!”

Mélanie Bonis, 1907

Mélanie Bonis, 1907

Despite periods of personal difficulty (an unhappy marriage forced her to take a hiatus from composing in the 1890s), Bonis returned to active composition in the 1900s and was an officer of the Société des Compositeurs.

Early in her career, Mélanie Bonis realised that in order to be taken seriously in the French music world, she needed to present herself on paper in a less conspicuously feminine way.

She therefore dropped the “-nie” from her first name and published as “Mel Bonis.”

In French, Mel is an uncommon name that does not immediately signal a gender. It can even be short for a masculine name (like a nickname for “Melchior” or “Melville”).

By shortening her name, Bonis crafted a professional identity that allowed critics to judge her music without dismissing her gender.

Rebecca Clarke (1886–1979)

Pseudonym: Anthony Trent   

Rebecca Clarke (1886–1979) was a British violist and composer, regarded as one of the most important English female composers of the early 20th century.

Clarke was one of the first women to play in professional orchestras; she was hired by Sir Henry Wood in 1912 as one of the first female players in the Queen’s Hall Orchestra.

Rebecca Clarke

Rebecca Clarke

As a composer, she is best known for her chamber music, especially the 1919 Viola Sonata, which tied for first place in an international composition competition sponsored by arts patron Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge.

Rebecca Clarke used a male pseudonym only briefly and experimentally – and with a darkly funny result.

In 1918, Clarke gave a recital in New York in which she featured several of her own viola pieces. She felt self-conscious about appearing as the composer of too many works on the program. Her solution? For the piece Morpheus, she listed the composer as “Anthony Trent” in the program.

Although other works appeared on the program under the name Rebecca Clarke, considerable attention was paid to the mysterious newcomer Mr. Trent. Some expressed interest in this new composer, while largely overlooking Clarke’s contributions.

Realising that her ploy had perhaps worked a little too well, she decided to abandon it, and Anthony Trent was killed off for good.

Louise Marie Simon (1903–1990)

Pseudonym: Claude Arrieu   

Louise Marie Simon (1903–1990) was a French composer who spent her career using the professional name Claude Arrieu.

While attending the Paris Conservatory in the 1920s, she studied composition with notable teachers like Paul Dukas, winning a Premier Prix there in 1932.

She became a prolific composer, especially celebrated for her chamber music and film scores.

In addition to her composing work, she also worked as a producer for French radio, at one point working as an assistant head of sound effects at Radio France.

Louise Marie Simon

Louise Marie Simon

Louise Marie Simon assumed her gender-neutral pseudonym “Claude Arrieu” around 1927, when she was still in her mid-20s, and used it for the rest of her life.

As far as historians know, she never stated her exact reasoning for the name change, but evidence points to a desire to avoid the biases faced by female composers. It’s also possible that she was trying to distance herself from her family.

The name Claude can be a gender-neutral one in France. Of course, it also has a loaded connotation in the French classical music world, given the existence of Claude Debussy, whose legacy loomed especially large as Arrieu’s career was starting.

Conclusion

The practice of women adopting male pseudonyms in classical music arose from necessity and faded as opportunities opened up.

In earlier eras, most women with musical talent either remained in the private sphere or, if they ever ventured into print, did so anonymously or under a false name.

Fortunately, by the mid-20th century, changing attitudes and advocacy began to erode the stigma. Women gradually gained admission to conservatories; their names started appearing in publishers’ catalogues; and the artistic world slowly – albeit too slowly – grew more inclusive.

Women composers became more visible and normalised; the need for secrecy eventually diminished; and the era of women composers using male pseudonyms largely came to an end.

Modern musicologists continue to rediscover women’s work once attributed to men, ensuring that this music is finally heard under the names its composers should have been free to use all along.

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