There are artists whose names fill a room. Then there is Grigory Sokolov, whose presence empties it of everything but music.
On a restless June evening at Amare in The Hague — a breeze shifting into light rain, the weather echoing a quiet unpredictability — I had the chance to witness something rare: a recital that felt less like an event and more like a shared act of devotion. From the start, the hall was wrapped in diffuse lighting, casting a soft glow over the audience and focusing gently on the piano. The concert began five minutes late. A small delay, but one that seemed to deepen the breathless anticipation. The room was almost full, and the atmosphere already felt suspended — as if something was about to unfold, slowly and without spectacle.
And then Sokolov appeared.
Dressed in a classic black tuxedo, he stepped into the soft light without ceremony, yet with a quiet command that filled the hall. There were no announcements, no words. From the moment he entered, it was clear that the stage belonged to him — not through force or ego, but through presence alone. He bowed once, sat at the piano, and began to play. And with that, the world outside seemed to vanish.
The first part of the recital was devoted to the music of William Byrd — a name rarely heard in major concert programs today. Under Sokolov’s hands, Byrd’s Renaissance pieces came alive with quiet force. They shimmered with dignity and restraint, revealing emotional layers few would expect from such early music. He did not approach the works as museum pieces, nor did he modernize them. He simply revealed them — and in doing so, allowed us to listen with new ears.
What makes him extraordinary is not only how he plays, but how he listens — to the piano, to silence, to something beyond the notes. Nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels calculated. And yet, the intensity is total.
Sokolov performs entirely from memory — not just the Byrd selections, but the second half of the program as well, which featured Brahms. There is no sheet music. No page turns. Just him, the piano, and the full force of decades spent living inside the repertoire. Watching him, I had the sense that even when he is not on stage, he is playing — if not physically, then inwardly, continuously.
During the break, the foyer came alive with voices — not rushed or loud, but light, almost glowing. People smiled, exchanged thoughts, shared impressions. It was as if Sokolov had stirred something deeper than admiration: a quiet joy, a renewed sense of wonder. For a moment, strangers seemed connected by beauty alone.
The Brahms that followed was both majestic and intimate. Sokolov’s phrasing had weight, but never heaviness. Each line breathed. His playing did not overwhelm the listener, but opened a space for personal discovery. From my seat in the balcony, I could see the audience’s faces. Some sat perfectly still. Others closed their eyes. Everyone was under the same spell — yet each person seemed to be taking a different inner journey. That is the paradox of his art: profoundly individual, yet deeply communal.
And then came the encores — one after another, as if the evening could not bear to end. Sokolov kept returning to the stage, not with flourish, but with the same quiet grace that had defined the entire recital. Each time, the applause swelled again, long and heartfelt. It felt less like a routine gesture, and more like a dialogue between artist and audience — a shared desire to hold on, just a little longer.
There is something deeply Russian in his presence — not in any superficial way, but in the atmosphere he conjures: the introspection, the quiet nobility, the melancholy that does not ask for pity. As someone who grew up reading Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, I felt echoes of those characters — full of inner storms held behind a still gaze. Sokolov belongs to that tradition. He does not explain. He does not advertise. He just plays.
His story only adds to this sense of mystery. Born in Leningrad in 1950, he was conducting imaginary orchestras with a toy baton by age three. But once his parents brought a piano into the home, that became his world. He began formal lessons at five, entered the Central Music School of the Leningrad Conservatory at seven, and by sixteen was granted special permission to compete in the Tchaikovsky Competition — which he won. The decision shocked many. Critics and the public had favored American pianist Misha Dichter, and the jury, led by Emil Gilels, reportedly faced public outrage. Gilels himself, it is said, was attacked with tomatoes and umbrellas after the result.
Despite the victory, the Iron Curtain delayed Sokolov’s rise in the West. He remained in the Soviet Union, studying and teaching. Only in the 1980s did European audiences begin to discover him. But even then, he never pursued global fame. He avoided interviews. He rejected studio recordings. He declined anything that, in his words, “disturbs the music.”
For years, his artistry circulated primarily through bootlegs — shaky audio capturing breathtaking moments. In 2014, he finally signed with Deutsche Grammophon, releasing a series of acclaimed live albums. Even then, he insisted that concert recordings — not studio perfection — were the only true form.
I have rarely seen a performer so fully inhabit the stage without claiming it. He does not project charisma. He does not charm. He simply becomes the music. And we follow.
Grigory Sokolov is not an artist one understands through reviews or recordings. One has to be there. One has to feel the stillness, the gravity, the sound that seems to rise not just from the piano, but from something deeper than sound.
I left the hall with one clear thought: Sokolov does not play the piano. He is the piano. And for one unforgettable night at Amare, so were we. Carmen Bulz 4th June 2025
Photo by Carmen Bulz
