Program assembled for the youngest children on July 9. to both of the morning's pieces are addressed to them. In Opus number zoo for wind quintet, the world of childhood is confronted by one of the most eclectic and least dogmatic composers of the post-World War II avant-garde, Luciano Berio. Who here is not afraid to bow his language to immediacy, to playful affability. After all, the four panels of this work-written in 1951, reconsidered twenty years later-are addressed precisely to children: each centered on an English-language poem by Rhoda Levine (whose Italian adaptation Vittoria Ottolenghi edited) that the five instrumentalists are supposed to read, alternating during the performance. The tales, to moralistic background, tell of a wily fox twirling a naive chick in a dance, a horse - fawn in the English version - pondering human folly while listening to a battle in the distance, a mouse pondering the fleeting of time, and a fight between two catbirds.

Instead, inside the French Baroque fairy tale (by Perrault, Madame d'Aulnoy, Madame Leprince de Beaumont) leads Maurice Ravel's suite Ma mère l'oye , composed around 1910. Recipients of the first version, for piano to four hands, were little brothers Mimi and Jean Godebski, budding musicians who were children of friends. Then the piece was rendered for orchestra and even made into a ballet; this time we hear it in a transcription by German flutist Joachim Linckelmann, born in 1964, who specializes in arrangements of great classics for wind ensembles. Ravel, a goldsmith of sound who revered the artificiality of six-eighteenth-century music, recreates it in Ma mère l'oye, sprinkling it with aurata nostalgia. For the twentieth century on the threshold of the Great War cannot but grieve for lost childhood, for a time of grace that adulthood, along with modernity, has swept away. Ravelian writing shines crisply, transparently: lulls Sleeping Beauty to sleep to rhythm of an ancient dance, the pavana; reveals to Tom Thumb (through the chirping of woodland birds) that the way home is lost; evokes the now playful now enigmatic Orient of Laideronnette, sovereign in a land of pagodas undressing for a bath; waltzes Beauty and the Beast; finally opens wide to an enchanted, lush garden.