Artistic director of Menuhin Festival Gstaad, Daniel Hope : “I would like to be even bolder”

Are you pleased that your mother chose Yehudi Menuhin, not the Archbishop of Canterbury, when she was offered a choice of her future employer?

I’m extremely happy. It was an incredible stroke of luck, pure serendipity. And, you know, there are moments in life where you have the choice to go through two doors? She went through this door.

Do you know what motivated her choice?

I do, actually. It’s very interesting. The Archbishop of Canterbury had come to South Africa. He’d come to South Africa, and my parents had gone to hear him, expecting him to distance himself from apartheid and from what was then called separate development. And in his sermon, he did not. My parents were totally shocked. From that moment on, she had a sort of allergy to him. So when the choice came up, she didn’t even think about it. On the other hand, she had seen and heard Menuhin when he had come to South Africa – she was 15 or 16 – and, of course, had been absolutely mesmerised by him and his performance. But he also had spoken at the South African Parliament and took a stand against apartheid.

Your mother was hired as Yehudi Menuhin’s personal assistant…

Yes, and she sort of thought, “How difficult can it be to run a violinist’s life?”, not knowing what that meant. So she approached the job exactly as she approaches everything: practically and logistically, and said, ‘Let’s give it a go. She then had this extraordinary job interview, which lasted 35 seconds, during which Menuhin asked her if she knew the difference between Beethoven and Bach. She said: “I think so.” And he said: “When can you start?” And that was it. There really was no time to even think about it. And the next thing he said was: “Pack your things, we’re going to Gstaad.” “What’s Gstaad?” my mother asked. And he replied: “It’s a beautiful town in the Alps, and I have a festival there, and you will come and you will work for me there for the whole summer. She said: “But I can’t, I have a family and small kids.” And he said: “No, no. I would never ever separate a family. The whole family comes, and I’ll find a place for you to live, and I’ll pay for your upkeep and everything.” And so we went.

How do you remember your childhood in Gstaad? You must have spent numerous summers here.

Every summer. My birthday is on August 17, and it always falls in the middle of the festival. I had my second birthday here, which I don’t remember, but I remember my third birthday. Every single year I had a birthday cake in Gstaad and have photographs to prove it. It started with a Batman cake, then a Tintin one, and so on. So, the idea of celebration was always linked to Gstaad as well, because it was my birthday in the summertime, when there were concerts. My first memories here date back to when I was three years old and I remember the church in Saanen. Not just the music, but also the creaking of the wooden benches, and
the rather curious collection of wonderful people that were there, who I had no idea who they were. The musical diversity of those people was so extraordinary and so characteristic to Yehudi; you could virtually jump from young students, Rostropovich, Stéphane Grappelli, and Ravi Shankar.

Rostropovich was a renowned joker. Did he ever pull a trick on you?

Actually, I tried to pull one on him. He was rehearsing the Archduke trio with Wilhelm Kempff in the chalet Chankly Bore. I was crawling around on the floor, and I tried to pull the spike from his cello. Wilhelm Kempf, who was not a man of great humour, was very upset. Yehudi was perplexed and didn’t really know what to do, and Rostropovich laughed. I took a photograph of Rostropovich in the kitchen of Menuhin’s house after a concert with my Polaroid camera. I was a small boy, and I shot the picture from below, looking up at Rostropovich drinking beer and eating a piece of bread. That says a lot about Gstaad. I grew up seeing it from a child’s perspective, and from the other side, from the backstage. I saw the world from the inside.

Who impressed you most when you were a child?

Grappelli was just incredible. He was so charming and so nice and so much fun, but I was also amazed because he drank half a bottle of whisky before going out onto the church stage. He could barely walk as he went up those stairs. And then he stood up there, and he played like a god. It was an amazing upbringing for me, full of laughter and fun, and there was also no distinction made between different kinds of music being played. I didn’t realise that there were differences until I started working with Soviet Russian teachers who would say: “You’re a serious violinist, you can’t play folk music, you can’t play jazz, you can’t improvise, you have to play Ševčík, and so on. Coming from the freedom that existed here, that was a shock.

What was your life in Gstaad from the “inside” like when you were growing up?

There were no barriers in this village: you would have the concert, then the dinner and then you would see the musicians the next day in the street. I remember going to the Café du Cerf in Rougemont with Ruggiero Ricci. It’s a traditional raclette-and-fondue place. One of the owners there, Köbi Bach, played the double bass in a traditional Swiss ensemble with accordion, but he also played the singing saw. He would put it between his knees and bend it up, and then he would get me to come and hold the double bass bow. Ruggiero Ricci, one of the greatest violinists of all time, watched this and said: “How does he do the vibrato? I want that vibrato.” Musicians are always hungry, so you had very comical moments of famous musicians saying: “I need a sandwich, where can I get a sandwich?” Then they’d go out in tails and become a different person. So you saw the seriousness of the art in the concert and the exaltation of music, and then you saw the humanity of the individuals before or after the concert, and backstage.

What do you remember of Yehudi Menuhin from your childhood days?

I remember one thing, and I tell the story often. When I was a young child, I couldn’t pronounce his name, Yehudi, so I called him Houdini. I didn’t know back then who Houdini was, but to me, Yehudi sounded like Houdini. I would say it, and everyone would laugh, and my parents would say, “It’s Yehudi”, and I would say Houdini. In the end, he said: “Leave it, I love it.” I still have letters from him where he writes: “To Danny from Houdini.” One can make all sorts of things out of it; Houdini was the ultimate escape artist who escaped from chains. Yehudi didn’t escape from chains, but he helped people to escape from everyday life, either by the way in which he played music or what he did or tried to do to help people. So in a way, he was an escape artist too.

Do you feel, looking back, that being here in Gstaad was a kind of escape for him as well?

Yes, it was. It was one of the few times in the year when he spent more than one or two nights in the same place. Besides, he had an absolute love of this region, and he was very different when he was here. He was completely and utterly relaxed. He was in nature; he would walk, he would wander, he would drink the milk straight from the cows, he would collect eggs from the farmers. He would do his yoga on the lawn of the house. You would always see him wearing shorts. When he founded the festival with Benjamin Britten, I think they both said, “Wow, what an amazing place. Let’s make a small festival here and play music with our friends.” That’s really the simplicity of what happened here.

How much of that spirit are you recreating now?

I’m trying to bring back as much as I possibly can. That’s exactly what it’s about. Many people don’t know who Menuhin was or didn’t experience him at all. I did experience that world, and I also felt its extraordinary positive energy. Concerts weren’t just wonderful musical happenings; they were uplifting events in people’s lives. My mother practically programmed the festival for Yehudi because he would say: “This is who I want, and now make it happen.” So she went out and booked his wishes, and he brought his friends. This is what he did, and that’s what I do too. I decided that in the first year, I would bring either the people I know, love, and respect, or the people they love and respect, whom I don’t yet know. For me, it was a specific decision to go down that route and to make it really personal. Perhaps that’s one reason why Family Matters was my theme, because it’s a feeling of family, but it’s much more than just blood relations. It’s the family of musicians, the community, the connection between musicians. This can be about Gustav and Alma Mahler, about a teacher and a pupil, the family of violins, but it’s also my family and its connection to this place.

Is your mother present at the festival?

She was here for the opening and stayed for four or five days. She came to the first concerts, and so did my father. It was incredibly emotional to have them both there. And then, also, Pinchas Zukerman: I met him in Gstaad on my 10th birthday, in 1983. To have him come back and open the festival 43 years later, in that same church where everything began, in the presence of my parents, was amazing. Not many people have the opportunity to relive their childhood. And that really was a chance to do so.

Have you discussed the festival program with your mother?

Yes, of course. She said: “It’s really important that you do your thing. Do your thing first. I’m always there for you, but don’t try to rely on what you think I would like.” But, of course, once we had the first draft, I sent it to her. There are artists, for example, whom I programmed and she wouldn’t have. Our tastes are different, but we’re both united by our gratitude for Menuhin, who was so much more than just a violinist and a musician. He was a great human being who helped not only my mother and me, but also my father, who wrote three books with him. My brother is a concert presenter, and he got his first chances touring with orchestras, some of which Menuhin conducted, and learning the trade. Yehudi Menuhin touched all of our lives. I would not be here if it were not for him, nor would my mother. She is, of course, thrilled about it.

You have also changed the festival’s name. How did that happen?

The festival is now in its 70th year. In the last 25 years, there has often been discussion about a possible name change. When the job of artistic director became vacant and I applied, we had a number of interviews with the committee, and one of the questions was: “What do you think about changing the name to Gstaad Festival?” I said: “It is a possibility, but in that case I would withdraw my candidacy, because I cannot do that. If I am to do this, it will be about Menuhin. And if we do it, we’ll change the name back to what it was: the Gstaad Menuhin Festival and Academy.” Now it’s just Menuhin Festival Gstaad, which is what it always was. We went back to the roots, as it were.

How did you manage the transition after 24 years of Christoph Müller’s leadership?

You can never please everyone all the time. My predecessor found a formula that he loved, and that worked. It was very successful. After 24 years, you’re inevitably going to alienate some people by your choices. There’s no real way around that other than to programme what you believe in and what you feel is right. I programme from the heart. I programme what I would like to listen to. I do that with my team, Alexander [Ponet] and Daniel [Engstfeld], too. We bounce ideas off each other all the time. We take chances and risks with people we don’t yet know because somebody recommended them. It’s a combination of an absolute love of music, ambitious programming, and respecting the fact that there are certain artists whom audiences love and who themselves love coming here., not just as a stop for a touring artist passing through Europe and Switzerland. I try to give the artists here an enjoyable experience, so that they want to be here and want to come back again.

What will be for you the measure of success?

I think the biggest measure of success is seeing people and speaking to them after the concert. I’ve been at every single concert, with two exceptions. I’ve spoken at every concert, and at the end I meet the people who leave the church. And they talk to me, and they say: “I loved it” or “I wasn’t sure about this piece” or “maybe you should do this next time” or “this was great, and this was not good”. If I’m able to touch people with the programming — if, for those two hours, they feel transported into a different world and want to come back for another concert — that’s the greatest success I could have. I also really love it when people discover new artists. It’s not that difficult to have them come and listen to Benjamin Bernheim. He is an amazing artist and people come because they love him and want to experience him here. But it’s something else for people to come and listen to Maxim Lando, a young musician in his twenties who is practically unknown in Europe, or to Marie Sophie Hauzel and her ambitious program and leave the concert saying, “wow, that was special, that was interesting.”

Or to have Martina Meola replace Daniil Trifonov…

Yes, that was of course a risk, but it’s a risk that I was willing to take because I was convinced she really had something to say. And we need artists with something to say.

Do you feel an additional responsibility as the artistic director of this festival, compared to any other?

Oh, completely. I feel very much in the spotlight as a result. I have run festivals before, some of them quite large, but this one is by far the biggest, the most important, and the most meaningful to me because it’s my whole history, it’s my whole upbringing. Plus, I have my mother in the background to remind me to polish my shoes when I go on stage, because if she sees a photograph where I’m not dressed properly, then I get in trouble.

Have you ever had any doubts about the direction you wanted to take?

No, I’ve not had doubts. Of course, once you finish that document and it goes out there to the printer and the world sees it for the first time, then you have great trepidation because you wonder: “How are they going to respond? How are they going to take to it? Will they get it? Will they like it? Will they hate it?” For me, the biggest challenge was having almost a year and a half to talk about this programme before we actually got to the first concert. You can talk and talk and talk about it, but nothing prepares you for the moment when the audience arrives, sits down and the first note of the concert sounds. I was concerned about how and if it would reach people until that first concert. But from that moment on, there has been such an outpouring of warmth, of support, of encouragement; at the concerts, but also at the supermarket, at the butcher’s place, or just walking from my apartment to the tent. People stop me five, six, seven times.

Do you have any takeaways already that might steer next year’s programming?

I think that I would like to be even bolder. But we have this juxtaposition between what we love, what we want to do, and what is institutionally and financially possible at the end of the day. It’s always a big balancing act to try and make this happen. Everyone has a different opinion, and in the end, I have to block out all the opinions, make my choice, and stand by it. I’m fortunate to have an extraordinary network of musicians around the world who would love to come here. I want to look at the long-term picture, maybe five years, six years down the line, which I hope very much I’ll be able to do.

Can you tell us something about the new concert hall project?

If everything happens according to plan, next year will be the last year in the tent here. After that, they’ll take it down and start building the new concert hall. The construction will take at least three years, and during this period – we don’t know exactly how long it will take – we’ll have to sort of put the contracts on ice, but we’ll also need to learn more about the audiences. We will have the church venues, and we are also looking for a temporary venue because it would be a shame to stop the larger-scale productions for several years. You can make a great festival using only church venues, but for more than 35 years now people have come to expect larger scale productions, operas, symphonies, etc. I would like to retain that. We have a few options, one of which I think is really good, but I can’t disclose more at the moment as the final decision has not yet been taken.

You set out a number of new programmes. Do you plan to add more over the next few years or will you develop the festival within this structure?

I can’t really answer that yet because, honestly, I don’t know. I think it’s always a toss-up between all the ideas in your head and what actually fits into a brochure that people can understand. We are not like Edinburgh, where you have five, six concerts a day and you wander from each to the next. We sometimes have three or four concerts a day, but it’s rare. I think the experience will show what works and also what is feasible for the team, because we have a very small team and a very big festival. We’re now in our sixth week of seven; in fact it is 52 days. I often come up with ideas, but my team tells me no. I have to take that into consideration, but the development will certainly be towards greater ambition, not less..

Is there a downside to leading this festival?

It’s an incredible privilege to do this, but I also have to give up things for it. For example, I would probably play most concerts in the summertime. Only getting to play maybe two or three concerts elsewhere during the entire summer is a huge sacrifice for me as an international artist because I love playing concerts. On the other hand, Gstaad is the only place in the world where I spend that much time in one place, which is wonderful for my family. We just had a third child, a little baby girl, and we were here together for two months. It’s always a question of different priorities and ideas. It’s a challenge, but also such a joy to return here, where I came from musically, and to be part of this beautiful region which still remains undiscovered for some people. Here they say: “Come up and slow down.” That’s a really great way to describe it. All our lives we’re running from A to B; the world is so fast, so loud and so divided. Then you come up here and the clocks simply tick differently. That connection between music and nature is unique. That’s why I love this place.