On Saturday, February 14, Dmytro Choni presented a recital at Flagey that drew its strength not from contrast or chronology, but from attention. Each musical universe retained its own centre of gravity – Debussy's fleeting sense of time, Brahms' introspective concentration, Mendelssohn's form-bound clarity and Lysenko's reflective depth – and yet a whole emerged that was subtle, thoughtful and remarkably fluid. The programme could be heard as four chapters of one story, and in the atmospheric Studio 1, an almost intimate chamber music atmosphere was created, which intensified the sense of closeness and involvement with every detail.
That a young pianist is able to carry such a dramaturgy says much – not only about technical mastery, but especially about musical thinking. Choni did not play from the need to profile himself, but from a pronounced confidence in the inherent logic of each work. His interpretations sounded clear, consistent and stylistically sharp, yet remained open. They left room: for the sound that was allowed to be itself, for the listener, and for meaning that never quite settles.
Chapter 1: Where time takes breath
The chosen Préludes by Claude Debussy (1862-1918) formed the supporting foundation of the evening. Not as an evocation of atmosphere, but as a refined exercise in time: music that does not want to move forward, but allows itself to be inhabited.
Des pas sur la neige opened with a slowed movement that suggested nothing but duration. Steps without direction, repetition without purpose, yet with a remarkable inner tension. Choni did not approach the piece as a melancholic metaphor, but as a pure listening experience: sound that persists as long as one is willing to be present. Only then followed Les collines d'Anacapri, light and mobile, carefully stripped of any anecdotic quality. Rhythm became not an engine here, but a form of clear thinking in motion.
In Ondine, Choni deliberately kept the water opaque; virtuosity was not deployed to seduce, but to create distance. Feux d'artifice flashed with precision, without the need for a triumphal release: energy that controls itself. La fille aux cheveux de lin sounded sober and pure, almost objective, as if every inclination towards sentiment were first tested. And Ce qu'a vu le vent d'Ouest became not a storm image, but a controlled derangement: strength without heroics, movement without pathos, clear in its restlessness.
Debussy was read here not as an impressionist, but as a composer who orders and opens time. Music not as anecdotal depiction, but as an occurrence.
Chapter 2: Clarity without closure
After Debussy's subtle exercise in time, Choni entered the realm of late Johannes Brahms (1833-1897), where concentration and introspection set the tone. With the Four Piano Pieces op. 119, he played music that wants to add nothing more, but carefully weighs each detail, an inner conversation in sound and time. Choni approached the pieces not as expressive miniatures, but as reflections on themselves, deeply lived and controlled.
The first Intermezzo sounded earnest, subdued, without heaviness – as if speaking itself had become a cautious act. In the second Intermezzo, inner agitation was continually checked; tension found rest in restraint, movement in stillness. The third Intermezzo smiled subtly, without frivolity: a moment of calm that knew its own value and did not need to display itself.
The closing Rhapsody was not an outburst, but a decision that sounded clear and assured, without triumph or rhetoric. Here Choni made clear what makes late Brahms work so special: not to conclude, but to keep open. Here sounded music that offers breathing space, gives insight and clarity, and at the same time bears witness to Choni's remarkable maturity, refinement and deep understanding of the late repertoire.
Chapter 3: The value of the small
From Brahms' introspective reflection, Choni led the listener to Felix Mendelssohn (1809-1847), where precision and elegance were felt in every small gesture. In the selection from the Lieder ohne Worte, Mendelssohn received his full weight. Each piece radiated concentrated musicality, carefully constructed and thoughtful, like finished thoughts unfolding their own beauty.
The Andante espressivo spoke softly and deliberately, the Frühlingslied awakened with fresh elegance. Presto agitato held tension with cheerful intensity, the Allegro leggiero remained light-footed, yet pointed. In the Venetianisches Gondellied, the movement swayed smoothly and charmingly, and the closing Allegro vivace sounded clear and sparkling, full of precision and liveliness.
Here Choni let Mendelssohn shine as a composer of form, balance and inner energy. His playing gave the music breath and space, and at the same time showed the concentration and refinement that make these small masterpieces so compelling.
Chapter 4: Music as memory
In Lysenko, Choni found music that unites remembrance and movement. For this writer, the rhapsody by Mykola Lysenko (1842-1912) was a revelation: a gripping music that invites one to hear more of this composer. Dumka and Shumka appeared not as contrasts, but as two states within one memory: stillness and movement, breathing and deeply felt.
Choni played this music from his Ukrainian Heimat with palpable commitment, but without pathos. No folklore, no explanation, no outspoken statement. The melancholy remained restrained, the dance controlled, and yet there was a subtle energy. What remained was a delicate tension: between holding on and letting go, between repetition and moving forward – a music that speaks of memory, not of identity, and which at the same time makes life and time present.
Epilogue: Music as space
This recital was excellent because it wanted to prove nothing. It was clear in its conception, rich in implications and consistent in attitude. Dmytro Choni showed that maturity does not lie in age or bravura, but in choice: what one plays, how one places it, and especially what one omits.
Here music was not an object of admiration, but a space of concentrated attention and active presence. It posed no questions loudly and gave no answers obtrusively, but created an intimate atmosphere in which sound could breathe, ideas could ripen and music could be itself.
In a concert culture that often aims for effect and confirmation, Choni chose restraint, subtlety and precision. That was no easy path, but a necessary one. For here music became again what it could be: not a possession, not a conclusion, but an open space in which sound could breathe, ideas could resonate and the listener could be completely absorbed in the moment.