There is a rare quality in the work of Mario Brunello: the ability to turn every project into a journey of research. Whether he is engaging with the great classics of the repertoire or with a contemporary score, what strikes one is not only the artistic outcome, but the process that precedes it — listening, studying, reflecting on the deeper meaning of making music today.

On the international scene, Brunello occupies a singular place. Soloist, chamber musician, conductor, and creator of projects that weave together repertoires, eras, and languages, he has built an exceptional career that defies labels. From his victory at the International Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow — the first Italian to achieve this recognition — to his more recent explorations of Johann Sebastian Bach, contemporary music, and artistic crossovers, his path reflects an idea of the musician as a craftsman of sound and, at the same time, an intellectual of rare insight.

For the Musicians at Work series, attending the lessons that Mario Brunello gave at the Accademia Stauffer as part of the artistic project dedicated to the four sonatas for solo cello by Mieczysław Weinberg meant asking what it truly means today to make music at the highest level: how sound is built, why one chooses to work on a particular program, how creative tension is kept alive after decades on stage. Because, in Mario Brunello’s case, the musician’s work is never routine — it is a continuous search for meaning.

In the Stradivari Hall, half a dozen students surround the Maestro’s words in reverent silence. “Weinberg was a great melodist! Even more so than Dmitri Shostakovich.” The difficulty of the musical discourse is extreme; Weinberg’s music is a labyrinth in which a single moment of distraction is enough to lose one’s way. The student gives her all in performance, yet she is still far from the true sense of the score. The master illuminates the path like Virgil in the dark forest, doing so with remarkable economy of means: rigor and hermeneutic clarity. His knowledge and understanding of Weinberg’s Sonatas are so profound that he conveys to the students exactly what is essential to perform them at their best. A different bow stroke can completely change the character of a passage, and as soon as the Maestro demonstrates it on his cello, the room fills with beauty.

Brunello radiates a natural charisma: his approach is maieutic. His silences are eloquent, and even when they seem almost to hinder understanding of what he is asking, they in fact compel one to learn what is right. Every indication — always grounded in musical analysis of the text — has precise and strikingly simple reasons behind it, and is therefore non-negotiable. Yet at the same time, Brunello questions the adequacy of certain choices and shares his doubts with the students.

It is precisely from these silences imbued with meaning, from these dialogues, from this teaching that does not impose but rather allows the right interpretation to emerge, that our questions arise: in an attempt to set down on paper what, in his mastery, happens beyond words.

If you had to describe yourself as a musician in a single word or phrase, what would it be?
Wayfarer.

What is your earliest musical memory?
The richly layered harmonies overlapping during organ concerts in churches, at the concerts my parents used to take me to.

What element of your musical identity has remained unchanged since your debut, beyond experience?
Having my own sound.

How much of your identity is the result of your teachers, and how much arose from the need to “betray” those teachings in order to find your own voice?
More than a need, it was an awareness that at a certain point I had to walk on my own legs.

What does your ideal day of practice look like?
Getting up early and practicing immediately for four or five hours, from five to ten in the morning. Then having the whole day free.

What is the first thing you do when opening a new score?
To sense the atmosphere in which the music is immersed.

Is there an exercise or habit you consider fundamental and always recommend?
Long tones.

Do you have a ritual before going on stage?
I take off my ring and put it in my pocket.

What is the most frequent mistake you notice in advanced students, technically and psychologically?
Not distributing their energy well (regarding the bow, movements, breathing...). Psychologically, students often put themselves before the music; if they were to put the music before themselves, many doors and paths would open.

Can art exist without ethics? In what way are your music and teaching tools for influencing society beyond performance?
Being decent people, and decent musicians. There is no justification otherwise.

The hardest thing to teach in words?
Form.

How can you immediately recognize a good teacher? And a good student?
A good teacher respects the student’s personality. A good student places humility first.

We often hear you play in natural settings, making the cello’s voice something that dialogues with the environment — snow-covered peaks, forests, volcanoes… Technically speaking, how does sound production change outdoors compared to a concert hall, and what strategies do you use to shape it in such different contexts?
I learned a great deal from sound without acoustics outdoors. In a natural environment we do not have what we call “acoustics,” because there is no return; therefore, the sound that comes out of your instrument is truly your own, without help or interference from what surrounds you. I deeply believe in outdoor sound. That is where you truly find your voice, your sound — you can dig into your own voice and sound.

Roberto Calasso, writer and editorial director of the publishing house Adelphi Edizioni, stated that “words written on a screen are weakened, because the word requires an opaque, resistant surface — paper, clay, or stone. And the movement of the hand writing on paper is an extreme, miniaturized variant of the movement of the hand that draws.” Could the analogy be extended to the hand holding the bow?

Yes, the hand that holds the bow draws on the strings exactly as a pencil draws on paper.

What are you still seeking as a musician, beyond your career?
I am always seeking — and finding — beautiful music.

If you could give only one piece of advice to someone who wants to pursue this profession, what would it be?
Always carry your instrument with you.

A book (not necessarily about music) that influenced you, and why?
All of Shakespeare’s comedies, first and foremost. Because music requires that imagination — characters, voices, psychological situations — and in William Shakespeare they are all represented.

The score you would save from the flood?
The String Quintet in C major, D 956, by Franz Schubert.

A musician from the past you would have liked to study with?
Johann Sebastian Bach.

Photo © Fondazione Stauffer