The Cuban maestro Aurelio de la Vega, his life experiences at 95 years old

November 30, 2020

Aurelio de la Vega in conversation with Diario de Cuba recalls: I was interested in the world of Schönberg and Berg, which in Cuba had neither roots nor echoes. Kramer introduces me to Mahler, to Bruckner, to Hindemith, to Max Ragger, to Pfitzner. When he has me hear for the first time parts of Pfitzner's opera Palestrina, which he played on the piano, I confront for the first time some extraordinary harmonies.

Kramer is the first to tell me about dodecaphonism, about Schönberg, about Alban Berg, and about Webern, composers who at that time were almost unknown even in the United States itself. Imagine then how total ignorance must have been in Cuba!

[…] Kramer, the musician who opened so many doors for me, finally gets a visa to come to the US in 1945. I stopped seeing him for many years, until I reunited with him again in New York and later at my house in Northridge. I, meanwhile, stayed in Cuba one more year, alone, conducting my research, marrying Sara Lequerica, my first wife. At that time, Kleiber was already in Cuba. They had hired him as director of the Philharmonic Orchestra of Havana.

I approach Kleiber because I have an enormous desire to leave Cuba, because I don't feel well there. Remember that at that time I'm already in parentheses because people say I'm a stateless person, an anti-Cuban…

I got myself a miserable little position at the Cuban consulate, with a mediocre but tolerable salary, because I didn't want to depend on my family's money. I arrived in Los Angeles full of illusions and brimming with expectations. I was 21 years old, had just married Sarita Lequerica, daughter of a prestigious doctor, my third cousin, beautiful, full of life, very in tune with my creative musical world, and a pianist who enjoyed making chamber music. […]

Sarita and I arrived in Los Angeles and I immediately called Schönberg, my musical idol from my young years, for whom I carried Kleiber's letter of introduction. My enormous desire to study with Schönberg had difficult beginnings. Schönberg got it into his head that I was a rich kid, and eager for money he asked an exorbitant sum for classes. I had two interviews at his house to see if we could reach an agreement, and he demanded that I pay him for each visit of about 20 or 25 minutes the amount of 50 dollars, which in 1947 was already quite substantial.

Finally a class was formed with two other young composers, José Malsio, from Peru, and Melvin Cummings, from Canada, who, like me, aspired to be disciples of the great master. But the few sessions in which I participated were very tumultuous and negative.

Schönberg showed tyrannical traits, you couldn't contradict him in anything, no matter how respectful our questions were, he would interrupt classes to talk about Plato, about Hegel or about sociopolitical issues. If one didn't totally agree with what he explained to us, and I emphasize totally, he would fly into a rage, suspend instruction and send us home.

Finally I had an unpleasant encounter with him regarding an interpretation of expressionism, a dispute from which I came out badly. Schönberg led me to the door of his house at 116 North Rockingham Avenue, Brentwood, and closed it behind me.

I never saw him again. I went to my car and cried for a long time. Gertrude Schönberg, the wife of the great monument, later spoke to me so that I would return, but I explained to her that I couldn't bear the humiliations anymore.

A few months later I made contact with Ernst Toch, who personally was the opposite side of the coin from Schönberg. Toch was also, like Schönberg, a renowned composer, a gentle soul who welcomed me warmly and with interest, and with whom I worked as an attentive disciple for two years. I learned much from him, especially regarding concepts of form and orchestral color, and we remained friends until his death.

In making a retrospective of his work, Aurelio has confessed: Look, I can tell you that I am satisfied. I am a very self-critical man. I always was and always am. First, I am satisfied in the sense that it is a fulfilled path. My work is like an arc that has enough logs, roots and leaves for it to be lush. And I believe it can have life in the future, when one disappears. The great proof is that when one is no longer here, the thing will still be here.

Now, in the sense of self-criticism, I feel very pleased. Since I have always been very insistent about these things, I can tell you that if I didn't believe my work is good, I would tell you it isn't good.

I believe in the critical assessment of things. One—if one is logical, and not alienated, or a sick egomaniac, or a cocaine addict—knows more or less the value of what one has done. On a scale of 100, one understands, more or less, where one is situated. I believe we can be wrong in the scale of valuation by about 5%, perhaps even 10%, let's say. And if I don't believe I'm at number 87, it could be that I'm at 89 or 91, or it could be that I'm at 80. But I believe one realizes approximately where one stands.

I know that I am not Brahms, nor Beethoven, nor Bach, nor Mahler. Perhaps I never will be because I don't have time left. But I also know that I'm not Juanito Pituso... You understand? I know there is value in my work, and that within the historical context of Cuba it is very important.

In that sense, then yes, I have great, very pleasant satisfaction when I contemplate a whole series of works that have their own life, and I believe that some of them will have a future career. So, in that sense, I will leave existence with tranquility.