Every music has its revolution: in conversation with Vadym Kholodenko

di Filippo Simonelli - 30 Settembre 2025

Vadym Kholodenko has been the 2025 Festival Cristofori Resident Pianist. Spending almost three weeks in Padova, home of the Festival, the Ukrainian virtuoso has performed music that ranges from Beethoven to Byrd and Rzewski, all rotating around the theme of revolution in music and in the society that saw the birth of each of those masterpieces.

The variety in his repertoire, along with the ease with which he switches seamlessly between solo, chamber and orchestral commitments make him a quintessential virtuoso. And this is something that every interview or review emphasizes – and rightfully so. But what else is at stake, what distinguishes M° Kholodenko from the rest of the elites of piano performances? He is well known to be a shy and discreet person, with a passion for mathematics that filters through his approach to certain repertoires that align better with a certain kind of logics that we generally link more to numbers than to sheer emotions – though the distinction in itself is highly questionable; we keep it here for the sake of simplicity, so to speak.

But other than that, during his stay in Padova, where he has switched from genres and repertoires, added teaching experiences and performed to a diverse set of audiences offers the opportunity to dive a bit deeper into his persona. Starting of course from the revolutions that him, along the other musicians involved in the festival, have encountered during the days of the festival in the birthplace of the father of Piano Bartolomeo Cristofori.

Your experience in Padova has started with a concert with the orchestra, then went on with two solo recitals: how do you keep those two repertoires and approaches together in such a short time frame?

For me, the transition between orchestral playing and solo recital work is more a question of perspective than of repertoire. With an orchestra, one must breathe with a larger body, listen to the collective energy, and almost dissolve into the sound world of many. In a recital, I am the sole architect, shaping the narrative on my own. The challenge is not so much in keeping the repertoires “together,” but in keeping myself flexible enough to serve both roles—collaborator and storyteller—sometimes within just a few days. In fact, I find that one nourishes the other: orchestral collaboration sharpens my sense of timing and dialogue, while recital work refines intimacy and detail.

The main theme of this year’s Cristofori is revolution, and you will focus on Beethoven’s revolution on the first of the three concerts. What is, in your experience, the biggest revolution that Beethoven brought to the piano repertoire of his age?

Beethoven’s revolution was not only technical or structural—it was existential. He transformed the piano from a refined salon instrument into a medium of human destiny. Before him, the piano spoke elegantly; with him, it began to wrestle with fate, to cry, to celebrate. The expansion of form and sound—the very weight of expression—was something unprecedented. His piano writing gave the impression that the instrument was no longer bound by wood and strings, but by the full force of human imagination.

And then, moving seamlessly from a technical to a “social revolution,” face the monumental “El pueblo unido” variations by Rzewski, paired with another Beethoven piece (6 piano variations, op. 34). What does it feel to pair the two, both technically and symbolically?

It is fascinating to put these two together. Beethoven’s Op. 34 is one of his most inventive sets of variations, full of wit and elegance, but also with a sense of pushing beyond convention. Rzewski, on the other hand, takes a popular protest song and magnifies it into a colossal monument of resilience and solidarity. Placing them side by side is like holding a mirror between centuries: both composers understood the variation form not only as a technical playground, but as a way to test the endurance of an idea. Symbolically, there is nothing. 

Your presence at the Festival is also be focused on teaching, as you are going to perform a masterclass with the support of the Rovigo Conservatory. What is the most valuable teaching that you feel you could provide right now to students?

At this point in my journey, I would say the most valuable lesson is learning how to listen deeply — not only to the piano, but to oneself. Too often, students focus on speed, brilliance, or technical perfection. But music begins in silence, in the ability to hear and imagine before touching the keys. My teachers insisted on this, and I now understand why: technique can be built, but artistry comes only from a kind of inner discipline of listening and questioning.

Let’s dive a bit deeper into your piano journey, then. You have approached the instrument early in your childhood and have been shaped by the teachings of your teachers, particularly of Ms. Vera Gornostaeva. She is well known as the teacher of “the rigors of pianists’ life”: what have her teachings left to you in particular?

Ms. Gornostaeva taught me that being a pianist is not a career—it is a calling. She demanded absolute honesty: in sound, in phrasing, in one’s relationship with the score. Her lessons were as much about life as they were about the keyboard, and I still carry her voice with me when I practice.

Pianists do learn from teachers as well as from their repertoire. In past interviews you have declared your love for Rachmaninov, both as a composer and a pianist himself: do you think that the ability to hear his own recordings helps you shape your approach to his repertoire?

Yes, absolutely. Listening to Rachmaninov’s recordings is like receiving a letter directly from him—incredibly alive. His sound is so personal, and yet his choices often surprise us compared to what we expect from the score. For me, it’s not about imitating, but about understanding his voice: how he breathed with the phrasing, how he balanced structure with spontaneity. It deepens one’s respect for him not just as a composer, but as one of the greatest pianists in history.

You once described the process of forging concert programs as “trail posts”: where are the trails of those concerts leading you and the listeners?

A trail post is a marker on a journey—it doesn’t dictate the whole path, but it gives direction. In programming, I see each concert as part of a larger arc: exploring revolutions, variations, or transformations across centuries. For me, the trails in Padova point toward the resilience of the human spirit expressed through music—from Beethoven’s defiance to Rzewski’s collective struggle, to the intimate yet timeless worlds of Byrd and Mozart. I hope listeners leave with a sense of having walked not just through music history, but through human history as well.

In your last concert you are going to play a selection of Byrd keyboard pieces along with the Mozart Requiem’s transcription. Both pieces are originally designed for a different set of instrument(s). How do the two pair together? What are the main technical and repertoire challenges posed by the two?

Byrd and Mozart might seem worlds apart, but they share a certain spiritual intensity. Byrd’s keyboard works carry an introspective, almost secretive character, written in a time when music itself could be an act of faith and defiance. Mozart’s Requiem, even in transcription, is music of communal mourning and transcendence. The challenge is to respect their different idioms: with Byrd, one must find clarity and precision, almost like etching; with Mozart, one must create orchestral breadth and vocal flow on the piano. Together, they form a dialogue between the private and the universal, between the solitary voice and the chorus of humanity