HANS WERNER HENZE, 1926–2012

4 8 Y H A N S W E R N E R H E N Z E , 1 9 2 6 — 2 0 1 2 G E R A R D M A L A N G A There’s only so much one can remember or forget of one’s childhood; and then you’re all grown up and bright-eyed and bright. Before you know it the subject has changed. There’s Hans staring head on in Nazi uniform. A black & white ID of sorts. So handsome. Everyone was in uniform in those days and pledging allegiance. Even the innocents. Even the proud but innocent. Even those few or those many behind clerical desks. But not Hans. Even those who made music in their heads carried to the war’s end with all the pitfalls and hunger, with all the charm, the black-tie first-nighters; that winning smile of his. Or those classic candid rehearsal shots at a distance with the likes of Luchino Visconti; with Kallman and Auden. Proben zu Elegy for Young Lovers. The quick poses with Frederick Ashton, with Benjamin Britten, with Paul Dessau. Who was Paul Dessau? The American, Peter Hartman . . . Peter. Ché. Henze with his musen, Ingaborg Bachmann playing croquet. Those sunny post-war holidays in Marino, in Ischia. The arbeitzimmer cast in an eerie glow of late afternoon light. He has fallen away in the garden. He has drifted o√ in a dream. The rippling far-away clouds sweeping closer. The welcoming songbirds. The whispers. ...