Alexandre Tharaud: "When I play Ravel, I feel his hands, his touch, his body, his posture. I am in his body."

Throughout your career, you seem to have constantly sought experiences beyond music, including theater, dance, and film. How would you describe your relationship with the stage?

I was born on stage. As a child, I didn’t want to be a pianist, I primarily wanted to be on stage, regardless of my profession. I would even have been happy to mop the floor on stage! I want to live in a theater, and that excites me far more than music.
I enjoy the backstage, the dressing rooms of theaters, especially those of Italian theaters, with their curtains, boxes, and dust… If there’s one place where I feel the happiest in the world, it’s amidst the dust of the backstage… Even if it does cause my allergies! (laughs)

If the stage attracts you so much, why have you recorded so much?

For the first ten years of my professional life, I had almost no concerts… Yet I was only drawn to the stage! I played for ten people, and that was enough for me. I accompanied silent films, played in restaurants… However, I was fortunate enough early on to make recordings, often for very small record labels. Not the slightest review took interest. I eagerly awaited reviews, wanting to be furious about negative comments, shouting, "The critic missed an absolutely brilliant moment!" Although, in fact, I was making albums that were not at all extraordinary. It’s always like that when you start, and I was learning a new craft, parallel to the stage: speaking into a microphone.
 

I immediately loved recording. Unlike a concert hall where you need to project the sound to the last balcony, in a recording studio, you speak to just one person, it’s a tête-à-tête. But it’s also isolating, we stay there for 3 to 7 days, locked away, away from the world. We can take fifty takes of the same passage, but the more takes we do, the worse it gets… Until we decide to take a five-minute break, and something happens. A force springs from within us, stopping everything. The magical take comes from someone we don’t know, buried deep inside. That’s what I find amusing about recording! The person who lives inside me emerges, shows its face for a fraction of a second, and then disappears. It’s like when we’ve lost someone dear and they appear in a dream: we know the person has sent us a sign. I find that extraordinary.

Your repertoire spans over more than three centuries, and yet there seems to be a particular fondness for early 20th-century music. Is this music that particularly appeals to you?

Yes, the world of the first half of the 20th century in France fascinates me, especially the 1920s, when all the arts merged. I have dedicated numerous albums to this period. When I was a child, my best friend was Madeleine Milhaud, the widow of Darius Milhaud. We had about 65 years of age difference, I adored her, and we saw each other all the time. She was my direct link to many composers. She saw Satie weekly — he used to come to the Milhaud’s for dinner every Wednesday —, she saw Debussy play, she knew Colette well, and she was very close to Ravel.
Ravel has fascinated me since childhood. I’ve approached him in various ways. I’ve recorded his complete works for solo piano, as well as his works for piano and orchestra. I was the voice of Ravel for a series, and I preface the reissue of Jankélévitch’s essay on Ravel. I was Ravel’s hands for the film Boléro (2024) by Anne Fontaine. I’ve also played the music from that film, trying to play as though I were him, shrinking my hands. He always composed for the piano; so when we play Ravel, we feel his hands, his touch, his body, his posture. We are in his body.

You’ll soon be performing Ravel’s two piano concertos in a single evening. Is this something that happens often?

Not often, but the result is remarkable. For audiences unfamiliar with them, there is initially a sense of surprise because these concertos are so different, despite being written around the same period. One is classical, sparkling, intensely French, and Mozartian (the Concerto in G); the other is entirely novel, visionary, deeply dark, dealing with death, jazz, war, and disability (the Concerto "for the Left Hand"). The latter starts with a long orchestral introduction, which emerges from the depths of the earth, followed by a challenging piano cadenza, highly demanding, especially since we are alone without the orchestra. Then comes the nightmare, where all elements of Ravel’s life — like in L’enfant et les sortilèges — clash. You do not emerge unscathed from listening to the Concerto "for the Left Hand".

And do you emerge unscathed from performing the Concerto "for the Left Hand"?

I’ve noticed that some pianists have attempted to add it to their repertoire, only to abandon it after a single performance. It’s a difficult concerto, partly because we feel handicapped — we’re missing a limb. As pianists, we’re accustomed to having a much more agile right hand than the left. Being forced to rely solely on the left hand feels unsettling, it creates discomfort. This constraint is precisely what intrigues me on stage. Ravel has a constrained nature in almost all his works. The Boléro has a repetitive theme that doesn’t move, the Valse has a repetitive rhythm that doesn’t stop but builds, builds, and builds. These constraints are constant challenges that he masterfully overcomes. Playing the Concerto "for the Left Hand" is a challenge for me too, even after playing it a hundred times? (laughs) If I play it so often, it’s because others are unwilling to play it, while the Concerto in G is performed by everyone.

How do these concertos illuminate one another?

The Concerto "for the Left Hand" reveals that Ravel is multifaceted, that he conceals himself. Thanks to this concerto, we understand in the Concerto in G that he is a secretive man. The second movement is profoundly intimate. This long melody – another challenge, creating a single line that spans 9 minutes – is incredible! It doesn’t stop, we’re constantly drawn in until the final note.

Another of those constraints you appreciate so much in Ravel?

Exactly! And he transcends them in a deep intimacy, where he reveals so much of himself, especially his relationship with his mother. There’s always a moment when his mother speaks in his works, like a lullaby, saying: "Don’t worry, I know you’re struggling, but I’m here to protect you." When the flute enters the slow section of the Concerto in G, it is always moving. I’ve often had tears streaming down my face while playing, because it’s his mother speaking. The Concerto "for the Left Hand", on the other hand, conveys something entirely different, it speaks of his dark side, his closed side, his frustrations. This concerto is almost sadomasochistic, it builds and builds until it hurts, it crashes into the wall of life’s experiences, drawing pleasure from that pain. It’s something painful, and it’s moving that he shares it with us. With such tenderness and humility, Ravel elevates himself above all others.