A centennial naturally invites celebration. The centennial of a string quartet, however, is an unprecedented occasion for celebration. The survival of any quartet for any length of time requires a very special chemistry that allows the fusion of four distinctly musical personalities into a transcendent, coherent entity. And it also requires the submission of individual careers to the interests of full-time ensemble playing. Finally, it requires the flexibility to assimilate new members as personnel changes take place.

Many quartets have endured for years, even decades. The replacement of any one member by a newer one inevitably requires adjustment and rededication. Some quartets have survived even recurrent turnovers in membership. But only one string quartet has managed to survive not only membership changes but also further crises, challenges, and transformations, to endure as a continuously active ensemble, under the same name, for a full century. That is the ensemble that began in Brussels, Belgium, as the Quatuor Pro Arte and continues to this day as the Pro Arte Quartet, based in its home in the School of Music of the University of Wisconsin–Madison.

Justifiably, that home institution generated a prolonged celebration of the centennial, in the years 2012–14, featuring concerts and the commissioning of new works. The crowning episode was a returnto- roots tour of the original homeland, Belgium, in the spring of 2014. This book represents a final contribution to the celebration.

My involvement in that final project was the work of Sarah Schaffer, the quartet's manager. She chaired superbly the advisory committee that planned the centennial and on which I myself served. Sarah has been a mentor, collaborator, and inspiration to me in this prolonged project, from its conception to its realization. She carefully and painstakingly read through a preliminary draft of the book, giving excellent advice; and she has given invaluable help in assembling the illustrations. Accordingly, I must give her much of the credit for what is good in the resulting volume, and absolve her from any if its faults or failings.

Like the fourteenth-century sculpture featured in the Introduction (Fig. 1, Plate I), this fifteenth-century Virgin stands with her weight shifted to the left, to where she holds the child on her hip with her hand (Fig. 26). A comparison of the two sculptures, however, points to the latter's accentuation of the twists and sways in the mother's body. Here, the draperies on Mary's lower body form thick folds that move on curves and angles over to the child, and the top of her body repeats that action as her head bends over and down towards him. These curves extend this Virgin's body out sideways, creating a breadth to her form. That breadth is further extended as she holds her right hand out and away from her body and uses it to hold her draperies likewise out and away. These draperies fall from her hand to fill the space that would otherwise be emptied by her shift to the side and form broad folds that zig-zag from side to side, further emphasizing the horizontal expanse of her form.

As discussed in the Introduction, the fourteenth-century sculpture simultaneously presses the mother and child together within its narrow vertical format, links them through the child's reach for Mary's veil, and splits them apart by contrasting her looping drapery folds to his tight vertical pleats. The fifteenth-century sculpture introduced here uses some similar drapery forms, but to different ends. Here, too, curving folds cross over the Virgin's body; however, the folds on this sculpture become lines that lead into the child's body and so work to integrate him into her ample form. One particularly prominent line runs from her extended arm in a deep fold across her body, into the scroll he holds in his hand, and then into his legs and her supporting hand. Below this major line, two additional folds cross over her body and lead into his legs, and above it, a fold crosses her chest to run into his lower arm.

Current discussions of medieval script have adopted the terms ‘graphicacy’ and ‘performativity’ in seeking to convey the empowerment of physical letters. Few theorists have acknowledged that there is a Latin term which expresses this empowerment: the word character. Character is the stamp which determined the shape of a letter and ensured that it embodied a particular sound. Ancient writers on grammar distinguished three features of a letter: its name (A, B, C), its shape or character, and its power, that is, the sound which it conveyed. ‘Character’ expresses the way in which the shape of a letter ensured that it conveyed a distinct and particular sound. But the term character had a far greater range of meanings, and denoted the symbolic worth of the letter, especially to a Christian audience. Because it was used to express an intrinsic essence, a power which could be transferred by a particular shape, and which might be the essential stamp of a personality, the term character revealed the special potency of the letter, the inherent force of its specific shape and the possibility that such a force might be transmitted by the use of that shape. The word character (with or without an ‘h’ in Latin) offers a classical parallel to the terminology of graphicacy. Herein lies its value, for a term that stands outside our categories of distinction can bridge, and consequently challenge, the imposition of those categories.

The original meaning of ‘character’ was a brand or stamp, used for marking livestock. The agricultural writer Columella, Tribune of Syria in AD 35, explains that January is the time to brand lambs. That is also how the word is used in a story told by Gregory of Tours, and in the Visigothic law code, though there it is horses rather than sheep which are branded. Brands were also used to mark wooden barrels and leather goods, and metal brands used by the Romans have survived. Isidore of Seville used ‘character’ for the marks stamped on weights and coins. In addition to horses and sheep, slaves and soldiers were also branded, as Vegetius records, so that the marking of the catechumen with a cross on his forehead at baptism may be seen as a comparable branding.

The woman stands with her head bent down and turned slightly to her right (Fig. 8). Her thick locks of hair continue this movement as they snake down and out over her chest and shoulders. One lock on her left side stands out as it extends straight down, crosses over the prominent horizontal bars of her ribs, and leads to her breast. Here the shape of the tip of that lock of hair is repeated, reversed, magnified, and multiplied as the heads of two snakes that are attached to the woman's breasts. The snakes’ bodies loop up and over her bent-up arms and then trail down around her legs. The loops in their bodies form a line with the woman's bent elbows and this line draws attention to her navel, positioned just below on the otherwise empty space of her abdomen. Its prominent mark is further emphasized as it is framed by the angled shapes of the snakes’ bodies above and by angled lines in her groin below. These lines extend the downward movement initiated by her head and hair as they lead down between her thighs to where another creature, currently little more than a blob but conventionally identified as a toad, attaches itself to her genitalia.

The line formed by the woman's elbows and the snakes’ bent bodies is extended, and their rounded forms are repeated and inflated, by the bloated belly of a demon that stands to the woman's right side. Its big belly extends towards her and the prominent mark of its navel associates its swelling body with her form. It reaches out to grasp her right wrist, and the locks of her hair extend the line of its gesture up into her face. This line also suggests her line of sight, staring down first at the demon's hand on her arm and then at its distended abdomen. Above this line, the shape of its belly is repeated by another rounded form, another toad, that extends from its face and points back to hers.

Stabilities

The relative resolution of the Pro Arte's slightly skewed status in the University of Wisconsin School of Music, the settling in of Martha Blum as Moore's eventual replacement, and the secure establishment of young Parry Karp as cellist, all prefigured in 1976, came together decisively by 1979.

Momentum was on ready display in the 1979–80 season, even with a slow start in the autumn semester. Eight reported concerts included extensive collaborations with other faculty colleagues on such works as Samuel Barber's Dover Beach (with soprano Ilona Kombrink); Britten's Fantasy Quartet (with oboist Marc Fink); and some chamber-orchestra works (Stravinsky, Varèse, Brahms) led by faculty conductor Catherine Comet. Oboist Catherine Paulu was also involved, as was her daughter, flautist Laura Paulu. Szymanowski's quartet no. 2 was the first to be adopted in the group's repertoire. In New York in November, the group also made their next recording.

The spring semester (1980) was another busy one. Another collaborative concert prefaced two more in Madison, while the group made five in-state appearances in February and March (Janesville twice, Watertown, Manitowoc, Fond du Lac). In mid-March, they spent a week in Vancouver, British Columbia, where Karp had made connections. The Pro Arte seemed to find particular favor in their latest appearances there. Writing in The Province on March 17, Ray Chatelin wrote: “The Pro Arte String Quartet is an ensemble of such directness, it is difficult to understand how it also manages to play with such careful attention to nuance.” Reviewing the same concert, Lloyd Dykk of the Vancouver Sun commented specifically on the group's handling of Bartók's Third Quartet: “Threading of thought, subtilization and clarity were what made the Pro Arte's performance so engrossing, though dynamically too, I felt everything was there. What faithful musicians the Pro Arteans are, sticking scrupulously to the score while bringing the best of themselves to it.” In April the group participated in the Boulder Bach Festival in Colorado (though playing Brahms). In May of 1980, the Pro Arte made their first recording for the Laurel label, taping the original version of Beethoven's Quartet op. 18, no. 1, in Mills Hall.

Regrouping

With the departures of both Rudolf Kolisch and Won-Mo Kim by summer 1967, only Richard Blum and Lowell Creitz were survivors of the previous quartet configuration. The obstacle of Kolisch's withdrawal since 1962 while still a faculty member was now removed. The issue of what to do when a quartet member became disaffected but remained as a faculty member was bypassed for now—though it would arise disastrously once more in years ahead. At this point, meanwhile, the temporary façade of the “UW Piano Quartet” as a device of continuity was no longer needed. The School of Music, in a new phase of expansion of its performing faculty, was ready and willing to reinstate the Pro Arte Quartet by appointing new occupants for the two violin chairs.

The new first violinist was Norman Paulu. Born in 1929, in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, he had the famous Joseph Szigeti among his teachers. Paulu had played in the 7th Army Symphony Orchestra at the same time as had Richard Blum, so there was a personal link between them. Paulu had professional experience in both orchestral and chamber playing. He had been concertmaster of the Oklahoma City Symphony; and he would repeat that role for a few years with the Madison Symphony Orchestra. He had also been first violinist of the Lyric Quartet of Oklahoma.

The new second violinist was Thomas Moore. Born in 1938 of a musical family, he received his training at the Eastman School of Music. His experience likewise included both orchestral and chamber playing. Early on, he had used a research grant to study the music of Schoenberg, Berg, and Webern in Vienna with Rudolf Kolisch, during one of the latter's teaching stints there—giving Moore at least an indirect connection to the Pro Arte traditions.

For the first time in their history, the Pro Arte Quartet now had a team of players all born in the United States, none of them in Europe. What that would mean in their evolution was not immediately clear, nor would it be for some time. Reacting to Kolisch's background exclusively in chamber music playing, Paulu wanted to use his orchestral experience to bring a fuller, more rounded sonority to the Pro Arte's playing.

Personalities and Style

Rudolf Kolisch (1896–1978) was one of the most important musicians of the twentieth century. The kind of career to which he committed himself has somewhat obscured that fact for the general consciousness. Scandalously, he has yet to be given a full-scale biography— the writing of which would be a major task. During his lifetime, he discouraged the idea, saying that he was “too busy” for such a thing.

Kolisch was born in the small Austrian town of Klamm am Semmering, son of a prominent physician (whom some claim as the modern definer of diabetes). In his sophisticated bourgeois family, his talents were recognized early. At age six he began musical studies, primarily on the violin, but also on piano, and eventually in conducting and composing. At age seven he suffered an accidental crushing by a door, which cost him the first joint of his left hand's middle finger. This damage did not deter young Kolisch, who became a “southpaw,” learning to play the violin with reversed hands—right hand fingering and left hand bowing. He had a Stradivarius violin reconditioned to serve the bowing requirements, with the order of the strings reversed, running from left to right as e“–a'–d'–g in place of the usual g–d'–a'–e”.

This practice was not totally unprecedented among professional violinists, but it would affect his own playing as well as his work as leader of a string quartet. A common seating pattern for such an ensemble would spread the players by range—first violin, second violin, viola, cello—from right to left in an arc. The Brussels group had modified this pattern so that the cello was in the rear right, and the viola front right. The practice Kolisch used, with some variants, was usually, from right to left, second violin-viola-cello-first violin. If all this looked a bit odd, it had the virtue of having every instrument facing out to the audience, instead of one on the right turned inward—thereby particularly enhancing the projection of the often understated viola.

It may be added that Kolisch also pursued piano studies, and though he did not use this instrument normally in public, there were documented instances when he did so—as we shall see below.