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Ideas counted for Tureck, who, as Sabine Feisst’s “Schoenberg’s New World: The American Years” notes, paid for lessons in California with the exiled German Jewish composer Arnold Schoenberg in August and September of 1949, offering the then-high price of “between 100 and 200 dollars,” or several times the price Schoenberg charged other students. Feisst concluded that Tureck “may have been among Schoenberg’s most affluent later students,” or perhaps she was simply among the most generous. She certainly admired Schoenberg, writing in 1949 that she planned to record his Piano Pieces, op. 11 and 19, although this plan was unfortunately never realized. Tureck did avidly play other new music by such composers as William Schuman, Aaron Copland, and David Diamond, as surviving live recordings prove.
Throughout, Tureck kept in mind the structural essence of music, telling Ampolsk: “I start by working on form. When you’re thinking about form, I feel you’re at the core of the matter, whatever your discipline may be. That’s where the center of my being always is. It is at the center of my playing. I’ve always been expressing conceptions all my life, but of course audiences haven’t the slightest clue about that approach because nobody goes to a concert to learn about concepts.”
The abstract, essentially lofty quality of Bach’s music, not bound to a single instrument, suited Tureck’s own individual penchant for translating theory into manual expression, and her eventual near-exclusive focus on Bach was a natural development for her, in no way limiting. Just as she eliminated composers from her recitals when they proved less fascinating than Bach, Tureck could also be highly discriminating with friends, warming to even such a difficult personality as the American poet Elizabeth Bishop; Tureck charmingly recounts their friendship in “Remembering Elizabeth Bishop” (University of Massachusetts Press, 1996). Tureck was less drawn to the conductor Raymond Leppard, who in his “Raymond Leppard on Music” (1993) complains that Tureck was “not terribly agreeable” and “rather…full of herself.”
About other musicians, her opposition could be even more vehement. The Canadian pianist Glenn Gould praised Tureck for “playing of such uprightness, to put it in the moral sphere. There was such a sense of repose that had nothing to do with languor, but rather with moral rectitude in the liturgical sense.” Yet in 1999, Tureck told the music critic Michael Church that Gould was “talented and clever, but his idiosyncrasies were the result of a desperate desire to be noticed. I can’t approve… Idiosyncratic playing has nothing to do with art.” Tureck was even more outspoken with her friend Jenna Orkin, who recalled in “Music and Vision”: “Everything about [Tureck] was grand, even her pettiness. She didn’t bother to be bitchy about ordinary people. She saved her bitchiness for Glenn Gould and then she let it rip. When he died at fifty of a cerebral hemorrhage she said, ‘Not surprising considering how tightly he played.’ Guiltily I thought she had a point although I also thought she might have exercised some hypocrisy and let his dust settle before saying so.”
The dust had not settled in 2003, right after Tureck’s demise, when an internet music list caught fire with furious rejoinders after a commenter joked that after Tureck’s death, “the average worldwide tempo of Bach keyboard performances just increased by at least 10%.” Ten years on, as if following the poet Philip Larkin’s line, “What will survive of us is love,” tributes rather than brickbats are directed at Tureck in time for her centenary, from devotees at the Tureck Bach Research Institute and entrants to the triennial Tureck International Bach Competition for Young Pianists.