Press Quotes

This made room for fascinating details such as Pahud’s haunting duet with Athelas’ own flutist, Hélène Navasse. Their lines intertwined and became the image of the poetic presence that, paradoxically, emerged in Carter’s otherwise very systematic style.

Hélène Navasse delivered an impressive artistic performance with a wide-ranging, fascinating repertoire… a concert that demonstrated a high artistic level and a luminous talent.

The fine chamber playing emerged with nerve, determination and remarkable concentration. This focus was a consistent hallmark of Navasse’s playing – a quality that irresistibly drew attention to the music.

It is rare to hear such a rich flute sonority…

Navasse was extraordinarily convincing in her playing. (The concert) demonstrated that Navasse – beyond her impressive solo capabilities and fine stylistic interpretation – understands how to engage with deep empathy and sharp concentration. From Vivaldi to the contemporary works, the concert was a compelling demonstration of her artistry.

Debussy’s Syrinx is essential in any flutist’s repertoire. Hélène Navasse brought exactly the right touch of melancholy and sorrow to her performance… her sound was strikingly clear, pure, and fragile — deeply moving.

Pierre Boulez’s flute sonatine is a monster of a piece. When Hélène Navasse plays it, it sounds effortless — but it’s insanely difficult. I can’t remember the last time it was performed in Denmark — if ever. — Erik Kaltoft

Jolivet’s Chant de Linos… truly highlighted Navasse’s virtuosity. The ornamented escapades… unfolded with perfection and intensity.

The close soloistic interplay is even more pronounced in the album’s final piece, Oriki a Shangó: Kabiosile! (2004–20). Here, Natalie Harris teams up with Hélène Navasse on flute (piccolo) in what are, for long stretches, meticulously precise mirrorings of microtonal movement between two instruments that flow in and out of silence and sound.

Something strange happens here too—it’s as if the clarinet and flute step out of their instruments and become sound without origin. At the beginning, they are either nearly inaudible or cling just barely to life at the edges of their registers, and here, Mathias Reumert contributes with very attentive percussion to camouflage them as one of his own kin.

Even when the two wind players gain more body and leap into acrobatic trills, they sound more like carnival whistles than classical music, strictly controlled by metrical shifts and Reumert’s rigid setup of timpani and cymbals. It’s a raw energy that is unleashed—almost like hearing the atomic vibrations of the world.