PROGRAM
NOTES
Like starlings in Winter
2022
For PRoton Bern
I have seen vortexes of starlings sweep through the sky,
manically touching every pixel of the visible like an obsessive-compulsive
artist readying for work by plucking every dust mote in the air above the blank
page, a cleansing ritual. The complex flocking patterns, deep rivers,
themselves consisting of a thousand eddies is beautiful. The wiping of the sky
is a ritual readying it for evening and marks the transition of the sunset into
night.
Three years ago, we lost a friend – Dominique Schafer. A composition of Dominique’s is represented on this concert along with our new pieces, and he was our mutual friend (between me and the ensemble and between me and the other composers –he was more than just a friend to another also presented amongst us). His presence is a chord left resonating with a pedal on the piano. I remember being moved at Dominique’s memorial when Matthias Kuhn played Schumann’s “Abenlied.” The opening chords of that Schumann are abstracted like a resonant memory in my piece. Schumann’s Dbs and Gs and Abs also inform the harmonic footprint of my piece. And, as I thought of “Abenlied,” “evening song,” my mind returned to the memory of starlings as they grace early evening skies, of how the complex flocking patterns were relatable to a kind of heterophony, wherein a general wave of the aggregate is articulated by atomistic Brownian motions within, dithering, full of individual agency. The flocking heterophony is also a kind of metaphor for how we relate to each other, how people come in and out of our lives, how we fly together, for a moment in the same direction, and other times different. This idea informs the general flow of my piece.
Three years ago, we lost a friend – Dominique Schafer. A composition of Dominique’s is represented on this concert along with our new pieces, and he was our mutual friend (between me and the ensemble and between me and the other composers –he was more than just a friend to another also presented amongst us). His presence is a chord left resonating with a pedal on the piano. I remember being moved at Dominique’s memorial when Matthias Kuhn played Schumann’s “Abenlied.” The opening chords of that Schumann are abstracted like a resonant memory in my piece. Schumann’s Dbs and Gs and Abs also inform the harmonic footprint of my piece. And, as I thought of “Abenlied,” “evening song,” my mind returned to the memory of starlings as they grace early evening skies, of how the complex flocking patterns were relatable to a kind of heterophony, wherein a general wave of the aggregate is articulated by atomistic Brownian motions within, dithering, full of individual agency. The flocking heterophony is also a kind of metaphor for how we relate to each other, how people come in and out of our lives, how we fly together, for a moment in the same direction, and other times different. This idea informs the general flow of my piece.
Continuing within the
vortex of my thoughts, my mind then turned to Susan Stewart’s beautiful poem on
memory and loss, the memory of happiness
in a time of misery, from whence the title of my piece is borrowed from the
opening lines (the poem is presented below). Stewart talks of the beatings of
the wings of starlings as a music, an orchestration which, “for the sake of
each other even in death joined” – that can help us mourn – “clearing around the heart, so it might
breathe freely again.”
Much
of my music is person-specific and often instrument-specific. I am drawn to the
esoteric, the ruggedly individualistic, qualities from which I draw my
admiration for Proton Bern – a super group of some of the most talented
musicians I have had to the pleasure to work with. Having composed for Partch
instruments, having made a practice of hacking instruments, commissioning
carpenters and sculptors (and even a chef!) to create instruments for me, and
having spent a lifetime inventing bespoke techniques as a vocalist, when I was
presented the opportunity to compose for lupophone and contraforte (still rare
and special double reed woodwind instruments) in this piece, I felt like a
child in a toy shop!
I would like to thank all the wonderful performers in Proton Bern, who have been gracious in answering my questions and trying out ideas as I wrote for them. I would especially like to thank Martin Bliggenstorfer and Elise Jacoberger, whose kind guidance and generosity allowed me to compose for their unique instruments, the aforementioned lupophone and contraforte.
I would like to thank all the wonderful performers in Proton Bern, who have been gracious in answering my questions and trying out ideas as I wrote for them. I would especially like to thank Martin Bliggenstorfer and Elise Jacoberger, whose kind guidance and generosity allowed me to compose for their unique instruments, the aforementioned lupophone and contraforte.
the memory of happiness in a time of misery – by Susan Stewart
Like starlings in winter the wind beating against their beating wings
the air numb and mutely blank a whiteness
tumbling the dead leaves they too
whirled like dead leaves torqued
one way then another for the sake
of each other even in death joined
by their scattered dovelike gliding
two heads bowed above a page
the lamp sputtered flickered sparked
in the deafening silence
the ear is a drum a cavern
that will not close against
the eye has a door
that can bar a whirlwind
a sanctuary shut to its harm
Scirocco hot dust breaking in the mouth
dumb the tongue mute to reason cause
an eye held open to see not seeing
furled the thought dried to powdery sense
one way then another for the sake
of each other even in death joined
by mistaken heaven’s playthings
gods needless mindless of consequence
three heads bowed above a page
an olive stripped bare of its silver
and a hill stripped bare of its tree
barren random an iron lung
bellowing a dark cup thrown
into the flames
draw a clearing around the heart
so it might breathe freely again
Like starlings in winter the wind beating against their beating wings
the air numb and mutely blank a whiteness
tumbling the dead leaves they too
whirled like dead leaves torqued
one way then another for the sake
of each other even in death joined
by their scattered dovelike gliding
two heads bowed above a page
the lamp sputtered flickered sparked
in the deafening silence
the ear is a drum a cavern
that will not close against
the eye has a door
that can bar a whirlwind
a sanctuary shut to its harm
Scirocco hot dust breaking in the mouth
dumb the tongue mute to reason cause
an eye held open to see not seeing
furled the thought dried to powdery sense
one way then another for the sake
of each other even in death joined
by mistaken heaven’s playthings
gods needless mindless of consequence
three heads bowed above a page
an olive stripped bare of its silver
and a hill stripped bare of its tree
barren random an iron lung
bellowing a dark cup thrown
into the flames
draw a clearing around the heart
so it might breathe freely again