#elgar

[masonyin]

50 composers

[secretwhumplair]

Lessons

1,252 words | The black prince [WT] (sequel to Good morning)

Content | Exhaustion, power imbalance, feelings of inferiority/internalised classism I guess?, implied past noncon, mention of slavery

Notes | Elgar does not know how to stand up for himself :( But it's going to be okay, right?

Taglist | @echo-goes-aaa @whump-blog @scoundrelwithboba @whumpcreations @neverthelass

@whumplr-reader @vampiresprite @pleasestaywithmedarling

It was a long journey, just like Elgar had feared. What he hadn’t predicted was how much he swung back and forth from feeling almost comfortable around the prince, to perfect uncertainty once more. The stops along the road, where they would inevitably be put up somewhere far more fancy than he deserved, didn’t help. Nor did the new clothes he was given as they climbed into higher and colder terrain, soft furs that even he could tell were of great quality, and thick wool dyed many colours expertly woven into patterns too elaborate for someone like him.

It was disconcerting, and it was exhausting to be so worried all the time.

To make matters worse, it had been decided he should take lessons in the precious resting time. Not just what little help the royals could give him with the language—he would have a proper tutor for that, the princess reassured him, and that too was a scary thought—but etiquette lessons too. It was important he would know how to act by the time they reached the capital, the prince had explained, looking at him earnestly while his sister read off what he had written for Elgar, because Elgar still couldn’t read. It was important.

And worst of all, he was getting riding lessons.

The princess had asked him if he was ready to start within the week of them setting out from Akreh; clearly, she was the impatient type, and Elgar, of course, didn’t want to displease her, so there was only really one answer he could give.

And so, while the prince was sitting comfortably by, or even resting indoors, he was learning to ride.

It was a small comfort that the horse—Sparrow, he still hadn’t gotten used to thinking of her as his own—was so easygoing; she barely ever seemed willing to move if she could help it, so there was not much worry she would run away from under him.

But still, it hurt.

He was healing so slowly, what with the daily travelling, and now he had to ride more. In the evenings, he wanted nothing but fall into bed and maybe cry to himself a little, but he knew the prince would worry, and somehow, explaining himself to him seemed worse.

He was no longer worried the prince would be upset with him for daring to voice a wish, at least not all the time; some evenings, they huddled together in a hug before going to sleep hand in hand. And yet, he simply couldn’t bring himself to ask for this specific favour, for this specific reason. Maybe he worried that the prince would tell the princess about the hows and whys of it. Yes, that must be it. That, too, was silly, of course—what dignity did someone like him have to lose in the eyes of a royal?—but it made some sort of sense.

And then, the prince was exhausted too, Elgar could tell. After his first crying session, he was certain that all the smiles and happiness he was putting on all day, whenever anyone might see, was just show, and it must be draining, especially while he, too, was still recovering from what their master had put him through—far worse than Elgar, even if he now had been stitched back together better.

»You’re making great progress! Maybe tomorrow, we can try cantering.«

The princess’ cheerful voice called his attention away from his misery. She was smiling brightly, as if that was good news.

It was true he had been getting better at keeping his balance on the horse, and at giving her the correct signals on his own—it did start to feel like he was actually riding.

It helped that however slow it went, the pain was fading, with every night he remained untouched. Still, he did not look forward to riding harder tomorrow, but he nodded. »Thank you, your Highness.«

He no longer needed her help to get off the horse and lead her away from the field they had been practicing in to be untacked. That was something he wasn’t expected to do himself, anymore than the royals were, and it made him feel uneasy. He was being served. Two of the slaves travelling with them were looking after the horses, and one of them took her out of his hands with a smile.

He managed a mumbled »thank you,« or so he thought.

He no longer needed the princess’ help with this, but she had followed him anyway, and now her grin had returned. »And you’re making great progress with that as well. Bet once you can get under our tutor, you’ll learn the language in no time.«

»Thank you, your Highness.« He opted for the more comfortable Teeradian this time, knowing she would understand it. Then something about the phrasing caught in his brain. Their tutor? Surely not their, the royals’, tutor, why would they need an Ochurian tutor?

But then, who here could teach Ochurian to a Teeradian—but perhaps someone who could have taught Teeradian to an Ochurian, too?

What would a royal tutor expect from him? How could he possibly hold up?

It was the end of the day—they had squeezed the lesson in after dinner—and Elgar was glad to be able to withdraw, sore and exhausted and now freshly worried.

Well, withdraw from most. The prince was waiting for him in their bedroom, but that was alright. Sometimes, he almost felt a kind of companionship with him. Almost like a resurrection of the bond tied between them during their captivity.

The prince was sitting up by the window and reading inbetween the fading light of dusk, and a candle. He closed the book when he heard Elgar enter, and gave him a smile, and a questioning thumbs-up.

Elgar nodded hesitantly. »It’s getting better.«

He went to sit with the prince. The bedroom was cool, of course, but he was dressed for the temperatures, like he very much hadn’t been under their old master.

For a moment, they sat in silence. Elgar looked out the window, into the stripe of orange drawn across the western sky, trying to calm his mind, but then he blurted out, »Do you think your tutor… is going to be satisfied with me?«

The prince looked at him quizzically, and Elgar explained, »Your sister, her Highness, she mentioned—I’d be taught the language by your tutor?« It sounded silly as he said it. He must have misunderstood something. But then—he had been afforded every luxury, far more than he knew how to handle.

And the prince nodded earnestly, reaching out to hold his hand.

»I just, I—I don’t know if I’ll be as good at it as… they’d expect.« He felt a hotness creep into his cheeks, and he was glad for the low light.

The prince shook his head, smiling, pointed at his chest then made a cutting motion. Elgar couldn’t read his lips too well as he mouthed words, but between it all, he figured it out. I was not good at it.

He couldn’t help a chuckle, but the prince’s smile faded as he thought about his words, and he gave a small shrug, flicking his free hand, then pointing between the two of them.

They were in the same boat. The prince would have to learn a new language, as well, with his hands.

He nodded, squeezing the prince’s hand. »We’ll—we’ll do it.«

[gasparodasalo]

Edward Elgar (1857-1934) - Serenade for Strings in e-minor, Op. 20, I. Allegro piacevole. Performed by Kenneth Slowik/The Smithsonian Chamber Players on period instruments.

[matt0044]

My IDW Sonic Fancast Part 3:

I've had some rethinking about Surge and Jewel since I began rewatching Sailor Moon. But there are plenty of others I didn't cover before.

So... here we go:

"D.C. Douglas as Clutch The Opossum” - As a shady business man with a mug that just screams, "I'm bad news," a smooth and calm voice like that of Yoshikage Kira would be perfect. A cadence that would get people to let down their guard with him since he seems mean but sounds so refined. But like Yoshikage Kira, his dapper facade belies a heart of depravity.

Example:

“Michael Sorich as Nite The Owl” - While a live action role inspired me, Sorich’s performance as Woody in VR Troopers made me think of Nite. He’d be able to capture his jovial demeanor and would work brilliantly with the mounting horror of the Metal Virus in terms of mood shifts in the story.

Example:

“Amanda Celine Miller/Bennet Abara as Surge The Tenrec” - In Sailor Moon, Makoto Kino was kicked out of her school for defending others against bullies and is seen as a sukeban (delinquent girl) only for Usagi to find she’s good hearted. Amanda Celine Miller was a fan of the character and it shows in her performance as Sailor Jupiter’s new voice actress.

How would this shake out for Surge? Well, for me, I think Amanda’s smooth yet tough tone as Mako would lend itself well for the Tenrec when she’s unapologetically villainous. As if Mako really was the bad girl she was seen as.

However, in the event of Surge turning herself around, Amanda’s performance would be able to mellow out into something still Surge-y but also able to come off more heroic. A real punk if you will.

Examples:

“Derek Stephan Prince as Rough and Tumble” - Two for the price of one. Derek's voice for Impmon would fit Rough with his fast talking New Yorker voice. Given it's a Joe Pesci impression, it'd be a good callback to the wet bandits. Badabing-badaboom.

Meanwhile, the voice of Elgar from Power Rangers Turbo would be a perfect fit for the more slow-witted Tumble.

"Stephanie Sheh as Jewel The Beetle" - I feel like Sheh's performance as the ditzy Usagi Tsukino would transfer well into Jewel's neurotic sense of order as well as how she can get anxious pretty quick. Give it a bit of a nasally quality and it'd fit perfectly.

And that's that. Feel free to voice your agreements or disagreements.

[secretsmutcorner]

Commiseration

401 words | The black prince [WT]

Content | NSFWhump, explicit noncon, slavery, begging, degradation, crying, multiple whumpees, mention of: punishment

Notes | Orafin and Elgar (... mostly Elgar) are having a bad night during their captivity.

Taglist | @scoundrelwithboba

Orafin’s back was bleeding after another punishment. Everything hurt.

But that wasn’t why he was quietly weeping in his spot on the naked floor under his master’s bed. At least not the half of it.

Above him, the bed creaked with the force of Elgar being railed into it, easily for the dozenth time this night. Their master had invited some of his friends to come play with his pretty toy, and they had been at it for hours. At first, Elgar had pretended to enjoy it in a futile attempt to appease them, but he had long since given up, his moans and little whimpers giving way to sobs and cries of pain; at least when his voice wasn’t wholly smothered by—as Orafin could imagine only too vividly—another cock rammed down his throat.

It didn’t stop his tormentors from adding insult to injury. »You’re enjoying this, little whore, aren’t you?«

And Elgar, robbed of all strength to resist, could only sob out the answer that would spare him later punishment. »Yes, sir.«

Orafin had to stifle his own sobs. It certainly wasn’t his place to cry over this, even if there wasn’t the looming punishment for making himself known. He wasn’t who was suffering.

»Please-«

No. There was nothing Orafin could do, but he had so hoped that Elgar would be able to resist the urge to beg. He had been getting better at it, Orafin felt, but he couldn’t blame him for his willpower failing him.

»Please what, pretty thing?«

There was only one answer their master would accept to this question, too. Elgar had been trained too well, had suffered too much for refusing it to fight back now, and Orafin knew it.

Elgar let out a desperate wail. »Please, Master-«

»Please what?«

For a moment, there was nothing but shuddering breath. »Please f-fuck me harder.«

The jeers and laughter nearly drowned out the scream that followed.

And Orafin could do nothing but weep for the only soul that had shown him any kindness in this unending nightmare.

He reached up and pressed a hand against between the slats, where he felt Elgar’s weight against the mattress. He didn’t know whether Elgar could even feel him, nor whether the reminder of another witness to his degradation wouldn’t make him feel worse.

But he hoped he would find the tiniest shred of comfort in not being alone.

[senfonikankara]

Edward Elgar | Sonata for Violin and Piano

Erkin Onay & Gülsin Onay

[hanselw]

Grieg&Elgar's Musiks. They're a teenage idol group managed by Handel (who is said to be Bach's old friend), competitors of ClaKla but they are privately friends.

The cane of Elgar releases Musiks by touching the ground with. The number of touches, frequency, and amount of force applied (tapping or hitting) determines the Musik that is going to be released.

[sloshed-cinema]

Tár (2022)

If Mahler stated that a symphony should be the world, then Lydia Tár’s professional symphony is crumbling around her.  This is a story of grooming and professional corruption, about using power to take advantage of others and exploit them for what you desire.  Yet Todd Field resisted the urge to make a simple Harvey Weinstein type story, opting instead to use the incredibly specific and incredibly dense palette of classical music and the orchestral industry as his palette.  The movie doesn’t hold the viewer’s hand in the least; from moment one, references and nods are flying fast and loose, calling out everyone from Furtwängler and Karajan to Marin Alsop and Michael Tilson Thomas.  Hildur Guðnadóttir plays a clever double-role, mentioned by name alongside peers such as Jennifer Higdon but also furnishing elements of the diegetic and non-diegetic soundscape.  Extended rehearsal sequences in Tár’s pidgin German play out free of subtitles.  The minutiae of orchestral union proceedings are debated time and again.  All of these references, all of this time, all of this vocabulary is necessary to establish the zealous obsession that surrounds the craft for Tár.  She has crafted her whole identity around being the next soothsayer of the Western canon, the protégée of Bernstein himself.  More importantly, it’s a veneer of legitimacy.  It’s clear from the start that the maestro is less than “politically correct”: a dressing-down of a Juilliard student regarding his opinions on contemporary art music and views on Bach steps beyond the pale of a misguided tough love approach and more into the territory of personal attack.  But this is a pattern.  Fields approaches the everyday administrative details of Tár’s life with the same meticulousness.  Insidious little instances begin to float to the surface, indicating a predatory tendency that others notice and become increasingly intolerant toward.  The camera lingers on Lydia’s assistant Francesca as she lip-syncs her boss’s plaudits during a public interview, casts furtive glances or begins to wonder why she’s being asked certain things.  Even the matter of handing over a laptop becomes a dangerous prospect.  And the conductor’s wife and colleague, concertmaster Sharon Goodnow, becomes increasingly disillusioned with Tár’s actions as a new affair begins to become apparent in newcomer cellist Olga.  In this sense, the deliberate and clinical handling of camera in many scenes begins to build a case against the maestro, feeling in beats almost akin to The Assistant.  A specific event involving a fellow for a program Tár started for women conductors lingers in the shadows, eluded to but never fully elucidated.  Krista Taylor had no prospects in the field after Tár torpedoed her career.  The maestro insists this was due to Taylor’s mental instability, but other evidence suggests that there was a revenge aspect to this.  The fantasy life of private jets and book talks can be ripped away so quickly.

And yet the fantasy of it all does have its place in the tapestry of this narrative.  As with music, there is room for ambiguity here, space to interpret.  Especially in the back half of the film, Field calls into question Tár’s state of mind through her troubled dreams and strange nocturnal discoveries.  Distorted images of the women in her life haunt her, intertwined with moments in the Amazon recalling her past ethnomusicological work.  Yet as things begin to unravel and Tár loses the thread, the nature of objective reality becomes more tenuous.  As with the scandal reveal, it’s subtle at first.  In her rehearsal home, the maestro is haunted by a persistent doorbell sound, which heartbreakingly later turns out to be the elderly woman next door in distress.  The legacy of Krista Taylor’s fallout and eventual suicide comes in the form of labyrinthine drawings which appear in gift book inscriptions, metronome faces, or formed in clay in her adoptive daughter’s room.  Just where these come from or who makes them is never made explicit, but that doesn’t make them any less haunting for Tár.  As she courts Olga, or seduces her, the cellist becomes ever more disillusioned with Tár just as she becomes more elusive.  At one point, Tár chases Olga into the seemingly abandoned building where she perhaps resides, only to find the cellist vanished, seemingly a figment of her imagination.  Descending into the basement, she instead finds a fox or a wolf, her predatory nature turning back on her.  Ghosts haunt the periphery. By the time it has all fallen away, she rushes onto the stage mid-performance, attacking her impostor, claiming the score for herself.  It’s her work, she alone can interpret it.  Utterly fallen from grace, the final sequences play out like a sort of bizarro-world fantasy.  New York is no longer a place of glamour, but an ugly outer borough rail station, everything drab and grey and muddy.  Her final gig is the coup de grace.  She is engaged to perform a Japanese work for a Southeast Asian concert hall.  The final shot is a bitterly funny punch in the gut: she’s at the bottom of the barrel, performing video game music for a rapt audience of cosplayers.  Goodbye haughty, lofty concert halls.  

Noémie Merlant, Nina Hoss, and Sophie Kauer all turn in strong, nuanced performances.  But Cate Blanchett is the obvious powerhouse here.  She’s fun as the haughty, dismissive maestro who knows just how it’s all done.  This makes her fall all the more pathetic, not even able to see her daughter.  It’s a late scene which cements just how hard this has all hit her, and a brilliant piece of acting from Blanchett.  Sitting alone at her old family home in New York with a childhood field hockey medal around her neck, Tár watches a recording of one of Leonard Bernstein’s Young People’s Concerts where he describes how music can be used to communicate ideas words cannot.  Her face says it all: this is her whole world still, but now she no longer can access it, by her own hand.  She controlled time with her baton, but she cannot control others in the same fashion.

THE RULES

PICK ONE

Select either MAHLER FIVE or the ELGAR CELLO CONCERTO and sip whenever that work is mentioned.

SIP

Someone name-drops a composer or conductor.

The narrative transitions to a new city.

Lydia calls someone a robot.

A scene contains a language other than English spoken in dialogue.

BIG DRINK

A labyrinth is drawn on something.

Tár cuts off the orchestra during rehearsal.

[falseandrealultravival]

Salut d'amour（Greetings of Love ）：Elgar　 Classic

A woman sighed, "Why do men like the song 'Pomp and circumstance'?" I feel like I understand. It's often used in boxing title fights to honor the winner. It's probably a song that men like. On the other hand, in the case of “Salut d'amour ”, she will accept the orthodox love song. Episodes of two of Elgar's masterpieces. But as a man, I prefer Pomp and circumstance.

愛の挨拶（エルガー）　クラシック

「なんで男のひとは、”威風堂堂”なんて曲が好きなの？」と嘆息した女性がいた。わからんでもない。ボクシングのタイトルマッチで、勝者を称えるときによく使われるし。男性好みの曲ではあろう。いっぽう”愛の挨拶”の場合、正統的なラブソング、その彼女も受け入れるだろう。エルガーの代表作2曲のエピソード。でも、男の私は、「威風堂堂」のほうをより好む。

[opera-ghosts]

OTD in Music History: Composer and conductor Edward Elgar (1857 - 1934) is born in England. Although Elgar is often regarded as a prototypically “English” composer, most of his musical influences were not from England, but rather from continental Europe -- i.e., Johannes Brahms (1833 - 1897), Antonin Dvorak (1841 - 1904), and Richard Strauss (1864 - 1949). Furthermore, in many ways, Elgar actually felt himself to be an outsider in British society. In musical circles dominated by academics, he was a self-taught composer; in Protestant Britain, his Roman Catholicism was regarded with suspicion in some quarters; and in the highly class-conscious society of the Victorian and Edwardian Eras, he always remained acutely aware of his own humble origins (even after he achieved an international artistic reputation and secured financial independence). Among Elgar's best-known compositions are the "Enigma Variations", the "Pomp and Circumstance" marches, concertos for violin and cello, and two symphonies. He also composed a number of large-scale choral works (most famously the "The Dream of Gerontius"), as well as a wide array of chamber music and songs. He was appointed to the prestigious position of "Master of the King's Musick" in 1924. Views of Elgar's proper stature in the world of "classical" music have varied widely in the decades since he first rose to prominence at the beginning of the 20th Century. Famed conductors like Hans Richter (1843 - 1916) and Arthur Nikisch (1855 - 1922) both rated him very highly; by contrast, however, Herbert von Karajan (1908 - 1989) summarily dismissed his "Enigma Variations" as "second-hand Brahms"... PICTURED: A c. 1910s real photo postcard showing the middle-aged Elgar seated in a formal pose.

[secretwhumplair]

It's night and they escape and head for the border idk

1,144 words | The black prince (might come up with a better title yet.)

Content | Multiple whumpees, broken bones, fear, crying, starvation, mute whumpee, implied/mentioned: punishment, non-con, war themes, mouth whump

Notes | Elgar stages a daring escape for his companion in suffering! Surely he cannot be saved and also they'll be fine without him.

Elgar stared at the dark ceiling, the blanket Master had granted him barely separating his bones from the cold, hard floorboards.

He had to be grateful, he knew. Like every night they thought they could get away with it, the poor wretch Master kept alongside him was holding his hand while lying unprotected on the floor under the bed. Master had made Elgar his favourite from the day he got him, and Elgar hated it and hated the gratefulness bubbling up at the stupid little privileges his body earned him more. He had done everything he could get away with to make it clear he wanted nothing less than kick down at the other, and thankfully, the wretch had been open to it.

He didn’t know what their name was; their tongue had been cut out, so they couldn’t tell even if it were safe for them to talk. He hated referring to them by the term their master used so derogatorily, but he had no other.

Tonight, their cold fingers were trembling in his hand. They must be cold, and in horrific pain.

Master’s travels had led them close to the borders of the wretch’s home country, and Master had seen fit to break their legs to prevent any attempt at escape. He had not relieved them of their cleaning duties. Elgar knew they had been trying their best, despite the agony every move must cause them, but it was never enough to avoid further punishment.

Elgar, staring at the ceiling, had already made up his mind. The difficult part was working up the courage to actually act on it.

Master’s breaths were slow and steady. Every moment more he hesitated was a moment wasted.

He squeezed the wretch’s hand. »Hey.« He hoped they could hear him, not daring to raise his voice any further over his breath.

They squeezed back.

»If,« if Master hears any of this, you’ll both be sorry, »if I get you to the stables… on a horse, do you think you can make it home?« Right here was the closest Master’s travelling route would get them. It was now or never.

Elgar didn’t want to think about what Master would do when he woke up and found the wretch gone, with only one possible assisstant to his escape. But they needed to be free of this. They would die.

The wretch didn’t respond for a long moment. Their breathing was laboured, holding in, he knew, cries of pain they would be punished for, even as they just lay there.

Then they squeezed his hand, with all the strength, he thought, they still had. It wasn’t a lot. They were starved even worse than he was, having to live off his leftovers. He had started leaving them as much as he could once he realized, but it was never enough.

»Okay,« he breathed. »Can… can you come out? I can carry you from here.«

He sat up to watch Master’s sleeping form on the bed, cosily wrapped in as many blankets as it took to keep him warm; he had started to snore softly.

When the wretch appeared in the strip of pale moonlight falling through the window, their lips were pressed into a tight line, tears rolling down their face. Their legs, dragging behind them, looked wrong. Elgar hoped they could find a medic soon when they were free, or they would never heal right.

As quietly as he could, he stood up and opened the door, then came back to pick them up.

They pressed their face against his arm, straining not to make a noise as he inevitably jostled them. They were feather-light, even though the hunger and abuse had also sucked his strength. It was nothing to what they had been through, he reminded himself.

He successfully maneuvered them out the door and tiptoed down towards the stables. The stronghold wasn’t heavily guarded on the inside, not when attacks from the outside were such a concern, so close to the border, and that felt like a blessing.

The stables smelled of hay and horses, soft shuffling and breathing revealing more of them than the little shards of moonlight filtering in. After setting the wretch down in the saddling area, Elgar had to feel around for tack and could only hope it wasn’t too ill-matched to whatever horse he could find in the dark.

He managed to lead a friendly horse, a barely-there silhouette, out of its stall and up to the wretch. There was no time for a proper brushing-down, so he just quickly ran his hands over its back before saddling it, and lifting the wretch up. A little whimper escaped them as their legs shifted onto either side of the horse.

They would make it, somehow. They had to. He handed them the reins and swallowed. »Good luck.«

He was about to step away when they caught him, grabbing on to the arm of his threadbare tunic.

They were gesturing for him to join him. His heart sank like lead. »It’s too dangerous,« he whispered. »We’re… our countries are at war. You people would not welcome me.«

The wretch tugged at him, their gestures more urgent, then cupped their hands together as if cradling a small animal. I’ll protect you.

Elgar silently shook his head. They wouldn’t be able to, and he knew it. Even if, by some strike of luck, they could convinced whoever they found first that this Teeradian had saved them and deserved no hostility… others would disagree, sooner rather than later.

They tugged at his arm again. Their eyes were shimmering in the low light.

They could hardly even ride in the state they were in. And truly, how much worse could things get?

You might die, a voice screamed in the back of his head as he clambered on behind them, the horse already walking off when he was still trying to find his seat.

He wrapped an arm around them to give them both a little more stability where they were perched uncomfortably in a saddle made for one. They were holding on to the reins with what appeared like surprising competence as the horse wandered along, across the courtyard.

The gates were closed, of course.

Calling out to the guards seemed wrong when they had been trying to make as little noise as possible, but there was no way around it. »We are to run an errand for our Master.«

The guards didn’t bother asking any questions.

The wretch, breathing through soft sobs, tapped his leg with one hand as they rode through the gates, and he gave the horse a tentative squeeze. He never had known the luxury of a horse, but he had ridden a donkey once or twice, long ago.

The horse eventually started walking faster, heading towards the mountains marking the border.

[the-perilous-chapel]

Without a doubt, my favourite film. Haunting, haunted, resonant. The music of Elgar echoes through the Malvern landscape, awakening a boy’s consciousness and sexuality - and manifests the ghost of Penda, the last Pagan King in England. 

“Be secret. Child, be Strange. Dark, True, Impure, and Dissonant.”

Penda’s Fen (1974) | dir. Alan Clarke

[mozart2006]

Festspielhaus Baden-Baden - Sol Gabetta e Mikko Franck

Foto ©Andrea Kremper L’ Orchestre Philharmonique de Radio France sta effettuando in questi giorni una tournée europea sotto la guida di Mikko Franck, Continue reading Festspielhaus Baden-Baden – Sol Gabetta e Mikko Franck

[senfonikankara]

Gülsin Onay & Erkin Onay 

Bilkent Konser Salonu  23 Mayıs 2024 Perşembe, 20:00

Elgar | Sonat op.82

Elgar | İzmir'de

Bartók | 7 Eskiz

Saygun | Aksak Tartılar Üzerine

Saygun | Demet