The students of the Koninklijk Conservatorium’s Early Music department are uniquely privileged, immersed in a tradition where the echoes of early Neapolitan practices and contrapuntal craftsmanship still resonate. Through the wisdom of the faculty—particularly those within the theory department—this knowledge is not merely studied but carefully preserved and passed on, like an unbroken thread connecting past and present.
A particularly luminous example of this tradition can be found in the teaching of the Maestro Enrico Gatti, whose artistry breathes life into historical practices. With profound sensitivity, he accompanies his students on the violin, shaping harmonies in real time as a lutenist or harpsichordist might. In this way, he awakens the latent improviser within each string player, urging them to weave their own voice into the rich harmonic fabric of the music. What might otherwise remain an intellectual pursuit transforms into a living, breathing dialogue with the past—one where intuition and craftsmanship walk hand in hand.
Observing the keyboard improvisation and continuo exams at the Conservatorium, I cannot help but wonder: why should this standard not extend to the cello? History tells us that the cello was more than a mere melodic vessel; it was a force of harmonic realization, its resonance a pillar within the musical structure. To reclaim and institutionalize chordal improvisation for historical cellists is to restore a voice that has long been quieted, a voice that once sang with agility and authority in the hands of Baroque and Classical virtuosi.
Through my exploration of these historical methods, I have discovered a more nuanced approach to the cello. The Rule of the Octave has unveiled harmonic landscapes that I had never imagined, transforming a simple scale into a canvas for rich melodic and chordal possibilities. No longer confined to rote exercises, I now seek the voices hidden within each degree of the scale, guided by the elegant logic of contrappunto. A single bass line, once merely a foundation, now speaks with harmonic intent, inviting realization upon the cello itself.
As partimento practice becomes an integral part of my musical language, it grants me not only the freedom to improvise but also a profound structural insight into every composition I encounter. With these traditions in hand, I look to the past to inspire the future—advocating for a revival of the artistry that cellists from the Baroque to the Classical era once mastered. They did not merely read and perform; they composed, they improvised, and they spoke the language of music as naturally as breathing. By embracing this tradition, I envision a new era of cello playing—one that is not only expressive but also alive creatively and intellectually, where performance, composition, and improvisation merge into a single, inseparable art.