Post by Richard on Oct 1, 2007 13:02:19 GMT
Hello everybody! 
Somebody left a copy of yesterday's Sunday Times Magazine on the train, and there was an interesting interview with Nicola Benedetti and her father. I've found it online:-
women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/families/article2538106.ece
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Richard
Somebody left a copy of yesterday's Sunday Times Magazine on the train, and there was an interesting interview with Nicola Benedetti and her father. I've found it online:-
women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/families/article2538106.ece
From The Sunday Times
September 30, 2007
Nicola Benedetti and her father, Gio
The violinist Nicola Benedetti, 20, won the BBC Young Musician of the Year in 2004 at 16, the next year signed a £1m recording contract, and has just released her third album, featuring music by Vaughan Williams and John Tavener. She lives in Chiswick, west London, near her sister, Stephanie, 24, who is also a violinist. Their father, the entrepreneur Gio Benedetti, 64, is the chairman of several multi-million-pound businesses in the UK. He lives with his wife, Francesca, in West Kilbride, Scotland
Gio: I came from a small village outside Lucca in Italy. We were poor but happy. We had no money for me to go further in school, so my uncle suggested I go live with him in Scotland to finish my schooling. I left on my own. I was 10, and I was 17 when I next saw my parents. It was tough. I’d do my school work, then help in my uncle’s cafe. I had no choice, but I don’t regret it. It was a good training.
When I left Italy, I was going off into the great unknown. It was like Nicola, when she decided at 10 she wanted to go to the Yehudi Menuhin school. We knew she was talented: at eight she was the youngest person in Scotland to lead an orchestra. She was so independent. Every Friday she would get a plane from the school in Surrey, fly home to Scotland, and go back on Sunday, all on her own.
I think 99% of people in the Menuhin school had a parent or a relative who played an instrument, who drove them. I never played a thing, but we had a passion for music, for country and western, and for the twist. And we never drove Nicola. But that’s what I admire in the girl. It’s like me: what did I know about business?
When I was 16, the E-type Jag came out and I wanted one. I thought: “Earning £2 a week, it will take me 20 years.” So I left the cafe and bought a wee dry-cleaning shop for £200. I grew that business from one shop to 15. And at 19 I got my E-type — brand new, white.
Nicola was the same: she left home, she cried. She knew what it took to survive, the self-discipline. People think: “Oh, she’s had it easy — her dad’s a millionaire.” But even at five she would do an hour’s practice before bed.
When Nicola was young, my wife was her main support. I was there at the weekend, but I had businesses all over Britain. I had the dry-cleaning shops, then we moved into industrial dry-cleaning. I invented a way to clean the leather gloves used in car plants, and I was cleaning 1m pairs a week. In 1989 I sold that business for £15m. Nicola also had this passion to succeed and be the best, and she will be. So she gets on with playing the violin and I try to look after her. Money is not an issue until you haven’t got any, right? I do bring a business appreciation of the contract, and we had five record labels trying to sign her, but in the end, she had the final say. She has her own mind.
She took a huge gamble at 15, in deciding to leave the Menuhin school. She felt she was being held back.
She had a piano teacher she went to live with. She was there alone all day, practising for hours on her own.
She was a happy teenager, out disco-dancing, had a wee glass of wine, everything other kids do. Today I worry about her, and I don’t worry. She carries her Strad around, and it’s worth about £2m, but she has a lot of common sense. She called me one day and said: “I’m in San Francisco. I had the weekend off and I flew here because I wanted to see Alcatraz.” I said: “Oh my God! Who are you with?” And she went: “Oh, don’t worry, Dad, I’ve got the New York baseball team looking after me.”
Her looks and the “classical babe” label go against her sometimes, but I say to her: “You are what you are. If you like wearing dresses, so what?” I am choking with pride when I see Nicola standing there. I never get nervous for her: I know she is prepared. She’ll say: “I’m okay, but I’ve got more to go.” She’ll spend half an hour going, “Zig zig, zig zig, zig zig,” and then say: “I’ve got it now — listen.” She’ll play, and I don’t hear any different. But Nicola is a passionate person. That is the Italian in her and it comes out in her playing. I’ve cried many times when she’s played — not just me, many others too.
My idea is to try to change the world, and she’s trying to change classical music. It’s like my clingfilm dispenser: we had 40 years of a poxy box that never worked, so I spent three years and £2m fixing it. Now people say they will never buy the old box again. Same with my first-aid packaging, which is unique and different for 30 countries. I say Nicola’s a great package. She’ll say: “Don’t say that, Dad.” But I’m only telling the truth. She’s a package. Nothing she can do about it. She has to go with it.
People think it’s all happened for her recently. But even at six she was playing wee concerts. I’ll never forget the day she won Young Musician of the Year. She played for the Queen three times, and for Pavarotti last year, and there’s a photo of him with his arms around her. I think Scotland is so proud of her; there’s nobody here who doesn’t know Nicola now.
Nicola: We listened to very little music in our house, and until I first picked up the violin when I was four, I had heard no classical music at all. My sister, Stephanie, had wanted to play for ages, and I was copying her. So we started studying together. I had Mum’s constant support, but that was only fed by how eager I was. By eight it was normal for me to do three hours of practice a day.
When we were very young, things were really moving forward for Dad in his businesses. He had made a lot of himself from nothing, so we were well off, but we were never, ever spoilt. My sister and I were brought up to believe if you want anything, you have to create it yourself. I’m sure when Dad saw I was so single-minded it reminded him of himself. And I’ve taken my belief in what I’m doing from him. There’s also the feeling that we can make something that’s unlikely very possible. In creating his businesses Dad did something his family would never have imagined. And so did I, in becoming a classical musician. It might seem we were different in that I was financially supported and he wasn’t. But in choosing to be a classical musician, it would have been better to have less wealth and two musical parents. In comparison to many other soloists, I was given less help, and I had a lot of catching up to do. So, despite the obstacles, we both chose our paths and went for it. We are both self-made.
But in classical music, the patience you must have, and the intricacies and subtlety of the music are the opposite of the business world. As an entrepreneur, Dad has to be brash sometimes. What makes him happy is different from what makes me happy. To me, success is not equated with earning lots of money — to him, that is all it is equated with. But we learn from each other. I’d be in a far worse position, as far as control over contracts goes, if not for him. I was 16 when I got my record deal. Dad looked at it and asked questions I would never have asked.
Dad likes things I play, but he isn’t a lover of classical music. I don’t think he would listen to Beethoven on his own in the car. He likes music that is easy-listening and tuneful. He takes my playing seriously now, but he takes it more seriously if I sell out a concert hall. I’m not going to do music I’m not fond of, though — even if I was paid a lot of money. I’ve been offered that many times and Dad thought I should do it. But if I say no firmly, he stands back.
On the surface, being young and female and, you could say, attractive, can make you sellable, but I am not going to be playing my best until I’m 35, or 50 or 60. It’s to do with knowing yourself, having lived life. For a musician it’s a lifetime’s devotion, love and commitment. In Dad’s work, you aim to make enough to be able to stop working. That’s something I don’t expect either of us to truly understand about each other.
I’ve never needed lots of people around to make me happy, whereas Dad is more gregarious. If I’m spending time with somebody, they’re somebody I love and need to catch up with. Otherwise, I am working, practising — sometimes six hours a day. Music is my life: I don’t have time for indulgences. Thousands of musicians would love to be where I am, and not to be taking it seriously is unacceptable. When I’m older I might have a family, or enjoy the cultural highlights of Europe — whereas when my dad has free time he wants to escape to the sun and sea. He has an unbelievable amount of energy and positiveness. He’s a go-get-it person. And that determination to make a situation work for you is something I definitely get from him. If there’s a challenge I want to take, I know I’ll rise to it.
Interviews: Beverley D’Silva.
September 30, 2007
Nicola Benedetti and her father, Gio
The violinist Nicola Benedetti, 20, won the BBC Young Musician of the Year in 2004 at 16, the next year signed a £1m recording contract, and has just released her third album, featuring music by Vaughan Williams and John Tavener. She lives in Chiswick, west London, near her sister, Stephanie, 24, who is also a violinist. Their father, the entrepreneur Gio Benedetti, 64, is the chairman of several multi-million-pound businesses in the UK. He lives with his wife, Francesca, in West Kilbride, Scotland
Gio: I came from a small village outside Lucca in Italy. We were poor but happy. We had no money for me to go further in school, so my uncle suggested I go live with him in Scotland to finish my schooling. I left on my own. I was 10, and I was 17 when I next saw my parents. It was tough. I’d do my school work, then help in my uncle’s cafe. I had no choice, but I don’t regret it. It was a good training.
When I left Italy, I was going off into the great unknown. It was like Nicola, when she decided at 10 she wanted to go to the Yehudi Menuhin school. We knew she was talented: at eight she was the youngest person in Scotland to lead an orchestra. She was so independent. Every Friday she would get a plane from the school in Surrey, fly home to Scotland, and go back on Sunday, all on her own.
I think 99% of people in the Menuhin school had a parent or a relative who played an instrument, who drove them. I never played a thing, but we had a passion for music, for country and western, and for the twist. And we never drove Nicola. But that’s what I admire in the girl. It’s like me: what did I know about business?
When I was 16, the E-type Jag came out and I wanted one. I thought: “Earning £2 a week, it will take me 20 years.” So I left the cafe and bought a wee dry-cleaning shop for £200. I grew that business from one shop to 15. And at 19 I got my E-type — brand new, white.
Nicola was the same: she left home, she cried. She knew what it took to survive, the self-discipline. People think: “Oh, she’s had it easy — her dad’s a millionaire.” But even at five she would do an hour’s practice before bed.
When Nicola was young, my wife was her main support. I was there at the weekend, but I had businesses all over Britain. I had the dry-cleaning shops, then we moved into industrial dry-cleaning. I invented a way to clean the leather gloves used in car plants, and I was cleaning 1m pairs a week. In 1989 I sold that business for £15m. Nicola also had this passion to succeed and be the best, and she will be. So she gets on with playing the violin and I try to look after her. Money is not an issue until you haven’t got any, right? I do bring a business appreciation of the contract, and we had five record labels trying to sign her, but in the end, she had the final say. She has her own mind.
She took a huge gamble at 15, in deciding to leave the Menuhin school. She felt she was being held back.
She had a piano teacher she went to live with. She was there alone all day, practising for hours on her own.
She was a happy teenager, out disco-dancing, had a wee glass of wine, everything other kids do. Today I worry about her, and I don’t worry. She carries her Strad around, and it’s worth about £2m, but she has a lot of common sense. She called me one day and said: “I’m in San Francisco. I had the weekend off and I flew here because I wanted to see Alcatraz.” I said: “Oh my God! Who are you with?” And she went: “Oh, don’t worry, Dad, I’ve got the New York baseball team looking after me.”
Her looks and the “classical babe” label go against her sometimes, but I say to her: “You are what you are. If you like wearing dresses, so what?” I am choking with pride when I see Nicola standing there. I never get nervous for her: I know she is prepared. She’ll say: “I’m okay, but I’ve got more to go.” She’ll spend half an hour going, “Zig zig, zig zig, zig zig,” and then say: “I’ve got it now — listen.” She’ll play, and I don’t hear any different. But Nicola is a passionate person. That is the Italian in her and it comes out in her playing. I’ve cried many times when she’s played — not just me, many others too.
My idea is to try to change the world, and she’s trying to change classical music. It’s like my clingfilm dispenser: we had 40 years of a poxy box that never worked, so I spent three years and £2m fixing it. Now people say they will never buy the old box again. Same with my first-aid packaging, which is unique and different for 30 countries. I say Nicola’s a great package. She’ll say: “Don’t say that, Dad.” But I’m only telling the truth. She’s a package. Nothing she can do about it. She has to go with it.
People think it’s all happened for her recently. But even at six she was playing wee concerts. I’ll never forget the day she won Young Musician of the Year. She played for the Queen three times, and for Pavarotti last year, and there’s a photo of him with his arms around her. I think Scotland is so proud of her; there’s nobody here who doesn’t know Nicola now.
Nicola: We listened to very little music in our house, and until I first picked up the violin when I was four, I had heard no classical music at all. My sister, Stephanie, had wanted to play for ages, and I was copying her. So we started studying together. I had Mum’s constant support, but that was only fed by how eager I was. By eight it was normal for me to do three hours of practice a day.
When we were very young, things were really moving forward for Dad in his businesses. He had made a lot of himself from nothing, so we were well off, but we were never, ever spoilt. My sister and I were brought up to believe if you want anything, you have to create it yourself. I’m sure when Dad saw I was so single-minded it reminded him of himself. And I’ve taken my belief in what I’m doing from him. There’s also the feeling that we can make something that’s unlikely very possible. In creating his businesses Dad did something his family would never have imagined. And so did I, in becoming a classical musician. It might seem we were different in that I was financially supported and he wasn’t. But in choosing to be a classical musician, it would have been better to have less wealth and two musical parents. In comparison to many other soloists, I was given less help, and I had a lot of catching up to do. So, despite the obstacles, we both chose our paths and went for it. We are both self-made.
But in classical music, the patience you must have, and the intricacies and subtlety of the music are the opposite of the business world. As an entrepreneur, Dad has to be brash sometimes. What makes him happy is different from what makes me happy. To me, success is not equated with earning lots of money — to him, that is all it is equated with. But we learn from each other. I’d be in a far worse position, as far as control over contracts goes, if not for him. I was 16 when I got my record deal. Dad looked at it and asked questions I would never have asked.
Dad likes things I play, but he isn’t a lover of classical music. I don’t think he would listen to Beethoven on his own in the car. He likes music that is easy-listening and tuneful. He takes my playing seriously now, but he takes it more seriously if I sell out a concert hall. I’m not going to do music I’m not fond of, though — even if I was paid a lot of money. I’ve been offered that many times and Dad thought I should do it. But if I say no firmly, he stands back.
On the surface, being young and female and, you could say, attractive, can make you sellable, but I am not going to be playing my best until I’m 35, or 50 or 60. It’s to do with knowing yourself, having lived life. For a musician it’s a lifetime’s devotion, love and commitment. In Dad’s work, you aim to make enough to be able to stop working. That’s something I don’t expect either of us to truly understand about each other.
I’ve never needed lots of people around to make me happy, whereas Dad is more gregarious. If I’m spending time with somebody, they’re somebody I love and need to catch up with. Otherwise, I am working, practising — sometimes six hours a day. Music is my life: I don’t have time for indulgences. Thousands of musicians would love to be where I am, and not to be taking it seriously is unacceptable. When I’m older I might have a family, or enjoy the cultural highlights of Europe — whereas when my dad has free time he wants to escape to the sun and sea. He has an unbelievable amount of energy and positiveness. He’s a go-get-it person. And that determination to make a situation work for you is something I definitely get from him. If there’s a challenge I want to take, I know I’ll rise to it.
Interviews: Beverley D’Silva.
Richard
