April 14, 1958—Six months after the launching of Sputnik let loose a round of national hysteria over Soviet intentions, Texas pianist Van Cliburn produced an unexpected victory on the cultural front for his country by winning the first International Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow.
As one Cold War recedes into the past and another one threatens to appear, it's worth looking back to see the kinds of Americans who became lionized as representatives of their country during this period.
The Mercury Astronauts might be the most understandable. As military officers, they would not only be much at the frontlines of any potential conflict, but also represented a source of veneration for generations of American schoolchildren: the spirit of exploration.
Chess genius Bobby Fischer might be the most unlikely and the most tragic Cold War hero, capturing the imagination of the American public by winning a competition normally dominated by the Soviets, only to quickly descend after his triumph over Boris Spassky into paranoia, anti-Americanism, anti-Semitism and mental illness.
Cliburn represented something else entirely. Unlike Fischer, he continued to perform in the public eye for years before gradually fading away.
I like this picture of the two principals in this drama, Cliburn and Nikita Khrushchev—it emphasizes the physical and emotional differences between the two: Cliburn lanky and tousle-haired, too happy in his unexpected victory to pay any attention to its potential ramifications; Khrushchev comparatively short and bald, wrapping the youngster, like the earthy former Ukrainian peasant that he was, in a bearhug.
As this episode from Kurt Anderson’s public radio show “Studio 360” demonstrates, Cliburn’s triumph would not have been possible if Khrushchev had not personally approval the contest jury’s decision that the medal be given to the Texan.
Coming back to New York, Cliburn was greeted by more than 100,000 people who lined the streets to see him in a ticker-tape parade—a celebration given less over the years to musicians to astronauts, World Series and Super Bowl champions.
I wish the media could give more coverage to talented people in the fine arts than to the likes of Britney Spears, who, even before her public meltdown, showed precious few signs of talent. But it’s hard to do that when a newspaper or magazine is laying its cultural staffers as unnecessary appendages. One organization that has done its part to rectify this situation is the Van Cliburn Foundation and International Piano Competition, which was established in 1962 by music teachers and private citizens from Fort Worth, Cliburn’s hometown.
This New York Times article notes that, when the demands of fame became too much (and critics who often were lucky they could play “Chopsticks” began complaining about his technique), Cliburn withdrew back to Texas, where he now lives to enjoy his privacy with a longtime friend, emerging only on those occasions when he wishes. He did what I wish many other celebrities would do: withdraw so he could preserve his sanity.
As one Cold War recedes into the past and another one threatens to appear, it's worth looking back to see the kinds of Americans who became lionized as representatives of their country during this period.
The Mercury Astronauts might be the most understandable. As military officers, they would not only be much at the frontlines of any potential conflict, but also represented a source of veneration for generations of American schoolchildren: the spirit of exploration.
Chess genius Bobby Fischer might be the most unlikely and the most tragic Cold War hero, capturing the imagination of the American public by winning a competition normally dominated by the Soviets, only to quickly descend after his triumph over Boris Spassky into paranoia, anti-Americanism, anti-Semitism and mental illness.
Cliburn represented something else entirely. Unlike Fischer, he continued to perform in the public eye for years before gradually fading away.
I like this picture of the two principals in this drama, Cliburn and Nikita Khrushchev—it emphasizes the physical and emotional differences between the two: Cliburn lanky and tousle-haired, too happy in his unexpected victory to pay any attention to its potential ramifications; Khrushchev comparatively short and bald, wrapping the youngster, like the earthy former Ukrainian peasant that he was, in a bearhug.
As this episode from Kurt Anderson’s public radio show “Studio 360” demonstrates, Cliburn’s triumph would not have been possible if Khrushchev had not personally approval the contest jury’s decision that the medal be given to the Texan.
Coming back to New York, Cliburn was greeted by more than 100,000 people who lined the streets to see him in a ticker-tape parade—a celebration given less over the years to musicians to astronauts, World Series and Super Bowl champions.
I wish the media could give more coverage to talented people in the fine arts than to the likes of Britney Spears, who, even before her public meltdown, showed precious few signs of talent. But it’s hard to do that when a newspaper or magazine is laying its cultural staffers as unnecessary appendages. One organization that has done its part to rectify this situation is the Van Cliburn Foundation and International Piano Competition, which was established in 1962 by music teachers and private citizens from Fort Worth, Cliburn’s hometown.
This New York Times article notes that, when the demands of fame became too much (and critics who often were lucky they could play “Chopsticks” began complaining about his technique), Cliburn withdrew back to Texas, where he now lives to enjoy his privacy with a longtime friend, emerging only on those occasions when he wishes. He did what I wish many other celebrities would do: withdraw so he could preserve his sanity.
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