I'm listening to a CD of Dinu Lipatti playing Bach, Mozart, Scarlatti and Schubert. It is a total pleasure. He has a rare lightness and delicacy of touch; he charms without sentimentality and his selflessly superb technique lets you absorb every note of the music, which is played with great feeling but without an intrusion of himself. So many musicians let you know that it is them who matters most, not the piece being played.
Until recently, he was only a name to me. I knew that he was a pianist who died young and that was all. Until I was given a Mountain Goats CD for Christmas, on which Dinu Lipatti's Bones is one of the tracks, so I looked him up and ordered a disc, which includes some Schubert from his last recital. He was dying and knew it, and the piece is played as if he's without a care in the world.
I took a few photos yesterday of early spring flowers in the garden. I'd say winter flowers, but the birds think it is spring and it does feel like it. Anyway, I'll post them later.