Lunch concert
Edoardo Bellotti
An Italian Journey with Music by Girolamo Frescobaldi (1583–1643) and Photography by Romina Zanon (b. 1988)
(Afterwards organ soup in the church)
Capriccio sopra Ut re mi fa sol la (Capricci, 1624)
Capriccio sopra Or ch’a noi rimena (Capricci, 1624)
Hor ch’a noi rimena l’alma Primavera
con sua bella schiera la stagion serena,
o giovinetti amanti intrecciate gli onori
e con soavi cori reiterate i canti.
Gli amoretti a gara fan volando intorno
partita e ritorno a sua luce cara,
spiran gli Zeffiretti quando vien fuor l’aurora
ed han ripiene ancora l’ali di bei fioretti.
Qual più mai gentile vide occhio mortale
giovinetto eguale al fiorito Aprile?
Al cui sereno viso fassi tranquillo il mare
e verdeggiando appare la terra un Paradiso.
Now that the godly Spring, with her fair company,
has restored to us the happy season,
O youthful lovers, come together in your praises
and continue your singing with sweet choruses.
Vying with one another, the cherubs fly around,
hither and thither in her precious light;
and when the dawn breaks, the sweet Zephyrs blow,
their wings still filled with fair flowers.
What mortal eye did ever see
a fairer youth than flowery April?
At whose serene gaze the sea becomes calm
and the earth in flower seems a paradise.
Bergamasca (Fiori Musicali, 1635)
Chi questa Bergamasca sonara
Non pocho imparera
Whoever plays this Bergamasca
will learn quite a bit
Girolamo Frescobaldi, text
Ave maris stella (Toccate, Libro II, 1627)
Ave maris stella,
Dei Mater alma,
Atque semper Virgo,
Felix cœli porta.
Hail, star of the sea,
bountiful mother of God
and ever Virgin,
happy gate of heaven.
Toccata Quarta (Toccate Libro II, 1627)
Crudel, acerba, inesorabil Morte,
cagion mi dai di mai non esser lieto,
ma di menar tutta mia vita in pianto,
e i giorni oscuri e le dogliose notti.
I mei gravi sospir non vanno in rime,
e 'l mio duro martir vince ogni stile.
Cruel, bitter, inexorable Death,
you give me reason never to be happy,
but to lead all my life in tears,
with days of darkness and sorrowful nights.
My heavy sighs cannot turn into rhymes,
and my harsh torment goes beyond all style.
Francesco Petrarca, text
Capriccio sopra La sol fa mi re ut (Capricci, 1624)