Experiments

This has been a very, very exciting week. I took a whirlwind trip back to Tacoma over the weekend to meet with a wonderful flute player who's performing a piece of mine next month, and now there is a flurry of exciting musical activity happening here in Victoria.

The SALT Festival is happening this weekend at the university and at Open Space, and the program is very exciting, so everyone is busy preparing. Ensemble Nikel is coming, and percussionist Olaf Tschoppe will be here soon.

But most exciting lately have been the talks and teaching of Chaya Czernowin. I was lucky enough to meet her a couple of summers ago in Boston; she is originally from Israel, but she now teaches composition at Harvard University. In my experience, she is one of the best composition teachers in the world, and one of the most exciting composers of our time. The best word I have for her is "gifted": she has an extremely unique way of thinking about music, which makes both her teaching and her music strikingly individual.

Today she gave a lecture on her recent work, and something that she said really resonated with me. She was talking about two different types of experimentation. In the first type, the artist tries to accomplish something by pushing boundaries: this is innovative experimentation. In the second type, the artist tries to discover something by listening to his or her material: this is experimentation through discovery.

In Czernowin's view, a balance of both of these types of experiments is ideal. If an artist leans too much toward innovation, she can convince herself that she is so revolutionary, that she is so important because she was first and succeeded in accomplishing whatever it was that she set out to do. On the other hand, too much emphasis on listening and "discovery" leads to artist-as-mystic, where the ego is completely removed.

In the course of this discussion, a question was asked regarding Czernowin's choice of material and how it relates to these concepts. In her typical metaphorical method of speaking, she explained that in each piece, we need to decide what belongs in our room. For her, sometimes she decides that melody and harmony need to stay outside, because otherwise they will steal the show from the less visible inquiries that are happening beneath the surface. She made a wonderful analogy to a puppy that walks on stage at a theater. We are trained to fixate on what is familiar, as we are trained to fixate on a puppy.

But what about those invisible questions--those mists? In some music, familiar melodic shapes and familiar harmonies can be alienating, in the sense that they can very easily obscure the heart of the music. This is especially true when the heart is something that is discovered, rather than "postured"...

This was the most eloquent way I've heard this described. I feel so fortunate to be living in such an exciting place, where I am encouraged to grow and to inhabit a larger space than I thought was possible.

More from/about Czernowin below. If you don't watch the whole thing, at least watch from about the 6-minute point to the 8-minute point or so. I am very much looking forward to the North American premiere of her recent work, Zohar Iver, which will happen on Friday.

Your kingdom come, your will be done

This morning I was really moved by a sequence of prayers that we said at church. Beautiful and convicting:

Let us pray for the breaking in of God's Kingdom in our world today.

Lord God: because Jesus has taught us to trust you in all things, we hold to his word and share his plea:
Your kingdom come, your will be done.

Where nations budget for war, while Christ says,
"Put up your sword:"
Your kingdom come, your will be done.

Where countries waste food and covet fashion, while Christ says,
"I was hungry. I was thirsty:"
Your kingdom come, your will be done.

Where powerful governments claim their policies are heaven blessed,
While scripture states that God helps the powerless:
Your kingdom come, your will be done.

Where Christians seek the kingdom in the shape of their own church,
As if Christ had come to build and not to break down barriers:
Your kingdom come, your will be done.

Where women who speak up for their dignity are treated with scorn or contempt:
Your kingdom come, your will be done.

Where men try hard to be tough,
Because they're afraid to be tender:
Your kingdom come, your will be done.

Where we, obsessed with being an adult,
Forget to become like a little child:
Your kingdom come, your will be done.

Where our prayers falter,
Our faith weakens,
Our light grows dim:
Your kingdom come, your will be done.

Where Christ Jesus calls us:
Your kingdom come, your will be done.

Lord God, you have declared that your kingdom is among us.
Open our ears to hear it,
Our hands to serve it,
Our hearts to hold it.

This we pray in Jesus' Name.

Amen.

This Wednesday is the beginning of Lent. I thought those prayers were a good way to prepare my heart for a season of repentance.

When we can no longer raise our voice to cry out to you;
When we can no longer raise our eyes to search for a distant dawn;

When we are too weak;
When we fall;
And when you lift us up again,
On wings like eagles:
Your kingdom come, your will be done.

Kyrie

This winter I finished composing a musical setting of the Kyrie, which is traditionally the first sung prayer in a Christian service. (In the Orthodox tradition, this prayer is probably the most repeated phrase in the church!) My setting was performed recently here in Victoria, and I've been really glad that the whole process has given me a chance to reflect on the prayer.

The Kyrie has always been an attractive prayer to me, because it's a short but powerful reminder of my place--a place of total dependence and weakness. The prayer, in Greek and English, is as follows:

Kyrie eleison

Christe eleison

Kyrie eleison.

Lord have mercy

Christ have mercy

Lord have mercy.

In traditional settings, beginning in about the 900s or even before, each line would be repeated three times, and the final eleison would be spun out into a longer, more ornate phrase that marked the end of the prayer. My setting was a bit different:

Kyrie

Christe

Kyrie

Eleison

As I thought about the prayer, I decided that I would use the words a bit differently than normal. I decided to break them. For me, the Kyrie should always come from a place of brokenness. It should come from a place in the heart that recognizes its own darkness and its own weakness. So in my prayer, I broke the words, as if one is trying to pronounce them but is too weak. There is also a hint of restraint, as though this person isn't able to fully admit the breadth of his emotion and his need. 

I think this is an honest representation of my approach to the Kyrie. The more I pray this prayer, the more I recognize my own weakness, and the more I catch myself hiding from my weakness. It's a strange paradox; the more I ask for mercy, the more I recognize the barriers that my heart has built up that guard against it.

This was my first attempt at liturgical music. It was first performed in a concert, but the real setting for this is a church--a gathering of believers, coming with weak and penitent hearts, asking for mercy. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed writing "church music," because every time I thought about it before, it felt like there were so many constraints. This time, I just ignored those.