I hadn’t heard Martha Argerich play before I saw a picture of her for the first time. The picture was arresting. A friend owned the CD, a live recording of Rachmaninoff. Argerich is a mountain on the cover, deeply black, her face is cleaved into a ‘V’ and a single eye peers west skeptically, the other is shrouded. We see an eyebrow that by blending into…
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