Hatto Chat
Initial denials among the faithful are at an end; the topic online has turned to motivation. Here's an excerpt from a poster with some knowledge of Hatto and her husband. (The husband's last name, by the way, is Barrington-Coupe. Watch for the name of the hoax to change from the Hatto Hoax to the Barrington-Coupe Hoax as its real - and probably sole - author is revealed):
'[W]hy would anyone bother to perpetuate such a hoax? Concert Artists is such a tiny label with no distributor, as I understand it, outside of the UK. So, the alleged hoax couldn't possibly be for commercial reasons, right? In fact, ordering from them is next to impossible. Never once did a shipment arrive. No loss to me, of course, since their policy is to ship first and ask for payment only upon receipt. I have ordered, in the past, over 15 CDs -- none of which have ever arrived. I have had to use other UK distributors.
I would like to offer the anecdotal evidence I have that might possibly offer information that would refute the hoax, but it's private, privileged information. And, even at that, it's not that substantial. I can only say that Hatto and Barrington-Coupe's appearance of earnestness, honesty and integrity in email communications with me and others has been so convincing that even I am shocked that it could be otherwise. Both have presented themselves as thoroughly guileless and honorable, motivated in these recordings only by a wish to document Hatto's mastery of a vast repertoire that cancer and critical disinterest ["lack of interest" is what's meant] prevented her from putting on display in public recitals.
But the evidence of a hoax is frighteningly persuasive. Even in Hatto's last days -- in email communications to people other than myself -- she offered no hint whatsoever that something sinister was brewing. In fact, I have seen transcripts of these emails in which she discusses her most recent recording projects, her deep gratitude for finally getting some recognition for her accomplishments, her stoicism in the face of cancer, and a total lack of bitterness at her fate. Of course, only now does it occur to me that she herself may never have written those emails. I find that to be horribly depressing.
And, yes, it occur[r]ed to me months ago that a woman in her seventies suffering from cancer would be hard pressed to perform such difficult works. Yet ... I don't wish to be so cynical as to rule out such an eventuality.
But why would anyone do this? An elaborate trick on the critics who dismissed her years ago? Perhaps. Worse, something pathological that even I don't want to think about.'
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