But that was hardly the point—the piece was billed as an “audio installation,” and it was done by the Canadian artist Janet Cardiff, who had used the motet Spem in alium by Thomas Tallis in 1570 as the basis for her piece. And it was a simple concept, really—the motet is composed for forty separate voices. Yup, forty people all singing a different part. And Cardiff had recorded each part, and played each through a separate speaker. Thus, you have forty disembodied voices—all joined together to sing one amazing work.
The idea
was that you could walk around from one speaker to another, and experience the
work as if you were both singing or—alternatively—walking around and through a
choir.
Did I do
it, the two times I heard the piece?
Nah—as an
orchestral musician, I know the feeling of being in a cello section, and
hearing the distorted sounds of various members and sections of the orchestra.
But yes, there were people moving around—attracted perhaps by this voice or
another. As well, some people were slowly circling the room; one father was
allowing a girl held in his arms to point out where she wanted to go.
But I
wanted to experience the work as Tallis had intended me to—with a choir behind
me, ahead of me, and on both sides. Actually, there are eight choirs of five
voices each; here’s a great description
via Wikipedia:
It is most
likely that Tallis intended his singers to stand in a horseshoe shape.
Beginning with a single voice from the first choir, other voices join in
imitation, each in turn falling silent as the music moves around the eight
choirs. All forty voices enter simultaneously for a few bars, and then the
pattern of the opening is reversed with the music passing from choir eight to
choir one. There is another brief full section, after which the choirs sing in antiphonal pairs, throwing the sound across the
space between them. Finally all voices join for the culmination of the work.
Though composed in imitative style and occasionally homophonic, its individual vocal lines act quite
freely within its fairly simple harmonic framework, allowing for an astonishing
number of individual musical ideas to be sung during its ten-to-twelve minute
performance time. The work is a study in contrasts: the individual voices sing
and are silent in turns, sometimes alone, sometimes in choirs, sometimes
calling and answering, sometimes all together, so that, far from being a
monotonous mess, the work is continually presenting new ideas.
The work
is not often performed, as it requires at least forty singers capable of
meeting its technical demands. The discipline that comes with performing the
masterpiece is highlighted in the importance of the conductor and the
performers alike. Whilst performers are distributed throughout a venue, the
conductor becomes truly the hub for the piece throughout, as often there is
little or no visibility between the performers, and a large venue will present
acoustical challenges, not regarded with traditional choirs co-located.
OK—so
what’s the experience like? Well, you’re awash in sound, even though the piece
starts with a single voice from the back. Part of it is the echo—and for an
echo, what better place that the Fuentidueña Chapel in The Cloisters?
12th century, almost austere, with the dominating presence of a
painted crucifix hanging from the opening of a half dome. Thus, it was a
combination of new and old—the music and architecture matching, the speakers
and technology varying.
And the
piece itself has always struck me as one of the strangest I know. It’s
surprisingly dissonant, and seems almost modern at times. It always feels as if
Tallis has slowed down time—everything is a sonic deep underwater oceanic
swell. You’re as suspended as the crucifix, though you are, in fact, experiencing
the passion.
Because it
is deeply moving music—less music than experience. And about music, words fail.
Can I tell you transcendent,
as Jim Dwyer, a writer in The New York Times called it? Of course. But it also feels as if
Tallis is working out some psychic odyssey—it has the feeling of being a
musical labyrinth. And what’s a labyrinth? Here’s what one writer had to say:
The Sacred
Labyrinth Walk, Illuminating the Inner Path, is the ancient practice of
"Circling to the Center" by walking the labyrinth. The rediscovery of
this self alignment tool to put our lives in perspective is one of the most
important spiritual movements of our day. Labyrinths have been in use for over
4000 years. Their basic design is fundamental to nature and many cultures and
religious traditions. Whatever one's religion...walking the labyrinth clears
the mind and gives insight. It calms people in the throes of life's
transitions.
For me,
Tallis had stepped through the centuries, taken me by the hand, and led me—eyes
closed, body swayed—through to the center; then he had taken me back to the
same shore. Or rather, not to the same shore, though it was and wasn’t. Why?
Because I was different.
