I Musici, The Four Seasons Concerto-In Memory of Antonio Anselmi

They say September marks the arrival of autumn—and what better music to welcome the shifting season than Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

I have heard it countless times, in every conceivable interpretation—live, recorded, traditional, modern. Yet my favorite remains that unforgettable evening when I Musici visited Taiwan.

It was 2012, the ensemble’s 60th anniversary world tour, and Taiwan was one of their chosen stops. Despite my recent fascination with Tchaikovsky and Brahms, my heart has always reserved a soft, unwavering place for the Baroque. Baroque music carries with it an image of pearl-studded heels gliding through palace corridors, of gentlemen in velvet coats trimmed with gold, of a time before the piano when violin and harpsichord spoke with elegance and restraint—a world of grace, of classical splendor.

From that radiant concert onward, I became a devoted admirer of I Musici. And their concertmaster that evening, Antonio Anselmi, remains in my mind the most exquisite interpreter of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

Yet in 2019, he passed away.

News of his death was sparse—no cause given, not even his age. What remains with me are fragments: his dark hair, his deep-set eyes, his brilliant technique shaped by emotion. Slender, introspective, touched with a lyrical melancholy, he sat in the first chair on the left—concertmaster and conductor. I still recall the instant I saw him at the National Concert Hall: the Italian word melanconia drifted into my mind, a beautiful word for a presence like his.

The name “I Musici” means simply “the musicians”—twelve performers, each exceptional, each an heir to a tradition centuries old, each possessing their own musical vision. And still, they would say: “When it comes to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, we follow the concertmaster.”

So within I Musici, the Four Seasons was not only Vivaldi’s—it was also Antonio Anselmi’s.

From the violin’s bright proclamation of spring—birds singing, brooks winding through emerald fields, then dark clouds gathering and rain descending, violins flashing like lightning—Anselmi led us through sunlight and storm, through the shepherd’s drowsy afternoon nap and the rustling trees. Eyes closed, body swaying with his bow, he conjured the moment a shepherd pipes a tune for a water nymph, his violin transforming into the sweetest flute on earth. All the loveliness of Vivaldi’s spring began here—with Antonio Anselmi and his I Musici.

Then came summer: under the burning sun, man and beast wilt; the air quivers. A rising tension in the music foretells a storm. The violin swept like a gale, driving away ease and comfort; shepherds fretted as thunderheads gathered. Then lightning split the sky, thunder rolled, panic surged. Anselmi’s violin unleashed a tempest—harpsichord pouring rain, cello growling thunder. This was the raging storm of a suffocating summer afternoon.

Each season follows Vivaldi’s clear design: allegro – largo/adagio – allegro. Inspired by the sonnets he wrote himself, Vivaldi turned seasonal change into sound, making the cycle of the year shimmer with life. And though composed in the 18th century, this concerto—across three centuries—remains the Red Priest’s most beloved masterpiece. Under the perfect artistry of I Musici and Anselmi, I could almost imagine Vivaldi smiling from some distant gallery.

Autumn arrived in golden splendor—fields glowing, orchards gleaming. Anselmi’s violin led peasants in their harvest celebrations. Gentle melodies lulled us into repose until dusk, when hunters marched into the woods with rifles and hounds. Rhythmic notes echoed like footsteps and distant horn calls—then the chase, the capture, and the triumphant return.

And then winter.

Anselmi’s bow summoned icy winds and blizzards, the ensemble a whirlwind of snow. He hunched his shoulders, rising and falling with the storm. The music bit with cold, yet within it a flickering fire burned. Only when his violin turned warm as a hearth did our hearts find a moment’s refuge—brief, fleeting. Soon jagged phrases drew us back into the storm: frozen rivers, desolate plains, frost-laced stillness. Over that barren ice, his violin burst into flame—a blaze of passion against the void.

Vivaldi’s winter was both the sharpest cold and the most incandescent fire—ice over frozen waters, and fire blazing atop the ice.

Such was the power of Antonio Anselmi and I Musici: they resurrected the Baroque for our time. In that concert hall, their refined sound seemed to travel across centuries—still elegant, still pure, still noble.

Antonio Anselmi has since left this world, taking that beautiful sound with him. In the photographs shared by I Musici, he remains the same artistic figure—still magnetic—though his hair had turned silver, lines marked his eyes, and his gaze—once shadowed with melancholy—had softened into gentleness, even joy. Perhaps, freed at last from earthly weight, he now plays in heaven’s Baroque halls. I can imagine him in a velvet tailcoat—modest, unadorned—violin in hand, standing in a hall gilded with gold, eyes closed, smiling as he plays Vivaldi, or Bach, or Handel, or works no living ear will ever hear. Playing for God. For kindred spirits who have already crossed the veil.

Like Baroque music itself, we sing of joy, of elegance, of eternity.

May God grant you glory, may angels surround you always.

May you be spared the sorrows of this world, and may your music never fade.

May peace be yours everlasting, and may your happiness be endless.

Seasons turn.

May we all be well.