MAPPING MUSIC

Tag: classical-music

  • 9. Mapping

    Leelanau, 1983 —

    My last summer working at what was then called the National Music Camp in Interlochen, Michigan was 1983. We spent as much time off as possible on the nearby shore of Lake Michigan. Three spots on the western edge of the Leelanau peninsula were favorite magical places. Otter Creek played out into a sandy delta at the beach, perfect for a picnic. Good Harbor Bay was an excellent shore for finding gray Petoskey stones, revealing fascinating hexagonal-shaped fossils when wet. Farther north, the Great Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes rise majestically hundreds of feet above the water’s edge.

    Béla Viktor János Bartók’s monumental 1937 work, Music for Strings, Percussion and Celeste, begins with a mysterious, meandering line played by subdued violas. It sounds to me like walking at the water’s curving edge on a fog-shrouded beach. The line becomes the subject of a gigantic fugue, building to a powerful climax. In my imagination, we reach the sheer cliff of a massive bluff at the end of a Lake Michigan bay.

    Music for Strings, Percussion and Celeste

    I. Andante Tranquilo

    Chicago Symphony

    LISTEN > YouTube

    Shores

    Of course, Bartók never saw Lake Michigan. But shorelines are a fascinating kind of fractal patterns in nature.

    In 1980, Larry Austin received a commission from the Canadian Broadcasting System and KPFA for an experimental radiophonic work. For the premiere broadcast, the performers were in three different Canadian cities, synchronized by electronic signals! The mind-boggling result was a piece consisting of

    “a massively contrapuntal texture, with many instruments playing continuous, independent lines, all in different, independent tempos. The contours of each contrapuntal part were determined using maps of Canadian coastlines.”

    [Clark — Larry Austin: Life and Works of an Experimental composer. Borik Press, 2012, p. 40]

    Canadian Coastlines

    I.C.M.C. 1981, Denton Texas

    LISTEN › YouTube

    Glacially-etched shorelines also inspired sonic imagery for a series of my pieces culminating in PENINSULA. Mappings of the natural contours of the Leelanau Peninsula provided richly varied patterns as basic coordinate numbers for sculpting sound patterns. The piano explores some of the endless possibilities for articulating a spectrum of sonorities. A surrounding environment of synthetic sounds was made by digitally analyzing timbral qualities of acoustic instruments, mostly with percussive articulations (metaphorically the rocky shore). The timbres were modified and resynthesized into a pointillistic sound texture. The density of the sound events rises and falls in waves according to changing values derived from the basic mappings. Larger confluences of waves are located in time by map points of special significance on the graph.

    The coexistence of piano sonorities and synthetic sounds is a metaphorical meeting of seascape and landscape, both animated in time.

    PENINSULA

    Clark 1984 (TC-50) Borik Press

    Clifton Matthews, piano, Winston-Salem NC, Feb. 2007

    There were many other groundbreaking pieces by my late friend and collaborator, Larry Austin. The first, Improvisations for Orchestra and Jazz Soloists, brought him to national prominence in 1964 with highly publicized broadcast performances by Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic.

    As Austin moved into computer music, he began exploring compositional algorithms using mathematical models such as fractals.

    Some of Charles Ives’ sketches for his monumental, never completed Universe Symphony were tracings of the outlines of rock formations. Austin studied deeply this Ives work starting in 1974 and eventually completed a version of Universe Symphony for expanded orchestras in 1993. In Austin’s own work beginning in 1976, mapping contours of mountain ridges and star constellations yielded musical patterns for First Fantasy on Ives’ Universe Symphony, Maroon Bells, and *Stars.

    Constellations

    Always interested in astronomy, I tried plotting star constellations on two-dimensional matrix graphs. The coordinates of each star in a constellation could be interpreted as time-point and pitch information, resulting in a complex arpeggiated group of notes. More intriguing was the capability to rotate the map, resulting in many possible variants that stretch or compress the rhythm and chord structure.

    Cygnus
    Cygnus rotated 90º
    Orion
    Orion rotated 90º

    The first compositional product of this design work, LIGHTFORMS 1 – Constellations (TC-65), scored for piano, was published by Borik Press in 1992. Naming these patterns, pitch-time chord arpeggios, as constellations became a breakthrough concept

    In my book, Mapping the Music Universe, I cite a remarkable pioneer of cartography. “William Smith, a rural surveyor, in 1799 drew a colorful map of the subterranean rock strata of his county in English coal country, launching the modern science of geology.”  The map was extraordinary not only as a scientific breakthrough, but also visually by his hand coloring each huge copy.

    As digital synthesizers came along, sound making with computers offered more calculated control of the timbral (tone color) spectrum. My astronomical metaphor continued with a 1993 piece, using the then state-of-the-art Synclavier II digital synthesizer to “color” the constellation patterns of LIGHTFORMS 1. Reflecting the varied colors of stars, I built color families of sound, distinguishing unique frequency-modulation ratios for each group.

    LIGHTFORMS 2: StarSpectra

    Clark 1993 (TC-68)

    In 1887, French astronomer Amédée Mouchez launched an ambitious international star-mapping project (Carte du Ciel) at the Paris Observatory. It was never finished, until now the challenge has been taken up by the new Vera C. Rubin Observatory (formerly the Large Synoptic Survey Telescope) in Chile. It is conducting the Legacy Survey of Space and Time, repeated astronomical surveys of the entire southern sky.

    From wandering forest paths to trekking scenic shorelines, my life has always been full of ambient exploration. Mapping has become my grand metaphor for exploring musical territory, culminating in the book, Mapping the Music Universe. It begins:

    “The heavenly motions are nothing
    but a continuous song for several voices,
    perceived not by the ear but by the intellect,
    a figured music that sets landmarks
    in the immeasurable flow of time.”

    — Galileo Galilei

    “When we gaze at stars and planets, they appear as stationary points of light, fixed in place in what seems a random pattern across the entire night sky visible to our hemisphere. Time stands still.

    “Throughout human time, humans have imagined that stars make picture patterns we name as constellations: fish, warriors, goddesses, animals. Only the persistent observers, such as astronomers, identify their nightly march across the sky, rising in the east and disappearing below the western horizon.”

    In Mapping the Music Universe, a studied journey through musical time, pitch, and structure, many composed examples took on characters of named constellations, galaxies, and galaxy clusters. They coalesced into 12 etudes, collected here as “a continuous song.”

    Mapping the Cosmos

    Clark 2021 (TC-114)

    Listen, imagining a 24-hour 360º rotation of our earthbound telescope, viewing the entire cosmos in 24 minutes.

    _____________

  • 8. Zeitmasse

    Interlochen, 1976 —

    The German word Zeit means “time.” While masse sounds like “masses,” it actually tranlates “measures.” The two together make the musical term “tempos”. Karlheinz Stockhausen composed his “Time Measures” in 1956, N. 5 Zeitmasse for five woodwinds. Time is unmetered, rapidly and unpredictably ebbing and flowing in a dense texture of highly stretchy, elastic rhythms. Instead of predictably placed bricks, musical notes are dancing sparkles or sustained starlight.

    Nr. 5 ZEITMASSE

    London Sinfonietta

    LISTEN › YouTube

    Compare that time sense with a work of mine composed 67 years later.

    DARK MATTER

    Clark 2023 (TC-133)

    Lucas Foss was among many composing works that were all about time. The opening song of his 1960 work,Time Cycle, for soprano, piano, clarinet, cello, and percussion, sets a poem by W. H. Auden, “We’re Late.” It begins:

    “Clocks cannot tell our time of day
    For what event to pray
    Because we have no time, because
    We have no time until
    We know what time we fill,
    Why time is other than time was.”

    TIME CYCLE – “We’re Late”

    Judith Kelloch, soprano

    LISTEN › YouTube

    Refracting time

    I met Foss in 1973 or ’75 when he guest conducted at the National Music Camp in Interlochen, Michigan, where I worked as assistant to the director of the university-level program (my first adminstrative gig). Back in Ann Arbor in the fall of 1975, I began writing my doctoral dissertation, a large three-movement score for symphony orchestra. Following the direction of my previous orchestral work, Animated Landscapes: Nocturne (1971), ILLUMINATIONS built sound masses animated in widely varying tempi, meters, and even unmetered free sprays of notes.

    ILLUMINATIONS – Three Refractions of Time

    Clark 1976 (TC-33)

    1. PROJECTION (future)

    2. REFLECTION (past)

    3. EMANATION (present)

    Receiving a Bicentennial commission from the Federation of Women’s Clubs, it was premiered in 1976 by the World Youth Symphony at Interlochen.

    with conductor and World Youth Sym.
    my prof Leslie Bassett

    Chronos

    Avant garde music in the middle of the 20th century was exploring an exploding range of new tonal possibilities — from by-tonaility to all-chromatic scales, from massive unresolved dissonance to pitchless noise. At the same time, composers were intensely interested in stretching rhythmic possibilities to the extremes of aperiodic time perception.

    The term trope in medieval music was an elaboration inserted into a liturgical passage. In the 20th century, Hauer used it to name an unordered collection of six different pitches (called an unordered hexachord), half of an equal-tempered twelve-tone set. Italian Niccolo Castiglioni’s TROPI (1959) uses this pitch organizing technique, but is more about blocks of contrasting rhythmic texture separated by extended silences. Moment by moment, these blocks succeed each other, recur, combine, and dissapate — a kaleidoscope of sound in time.

    Castiglioni – TROPI

    Gruppo “Musica Insieme” di Cremona

    LISTEN › YouTube

    American George Crumb composed ground-breaking works for piano, beginning with Five Pieces for Piano in 1962. With imaginative, free-wheeling non-metric notation, he conjured a menagerie of sound sprites dancing through an ever-changing timescape.

    Crumb – Five Pieces for Piano

    Thomas Little, piano

    LISTEN › YouTube

    In 1973, he went deeper with the first of four volumes of innovative piano music, Makrokosmos I – Twelve Fantasy Pieces after the Zodiac. Here is Nr. 12:

    Makrokosmos I – Spiral Galaxy

    Scott Sherman, piano

    LISTEN › YouTube

    In 1975 at Rackham Auditorium on the University of Michigan campus, I heard a live performance of this monumental work by David Burge, for whom the piece was composed. It had a profound impact. My own dive into this sound-in-time cosmos had only four character studies:

    1. precession of the equinoxes
    2. Stonehenge at dawn
    3. Heraclitean vortex
    4. lunar litany

    Geography of the Chronosphere

    Clark 1975 (TC-32)

    Max Lifchitz, piano

    Before Time

    Stephen Hawking, the great theoretical physicist and cosmologist, is famous for solving in 1974 the mind-boggling mathematics of black holes and what became known as their Hawking Radiation. He also wrote a fascinating book, A Brief History of Time. Now, after Hawking’s death, his last collaborator, Thomas Hertog, has published On the Origins of Time explaining Hawking’s theory of how Time itself began at the Hot Big Bang birth of the universe. The idea, in grossly simplified geometry, is that Space and Time were united as one primordial sphere that dramatically split apart at the Big Bang’s initial hyperinflation into expanding Space and progressing Time. Before that moment, there was no time, no before.

    The musical challenge: how to express utter timelessness before the explosion; and how to build a sound space that sits still then explodes. You’ll hear an initial sound space of just one pitch, G, which at first quivers in color but without perceivable rhythm. While standing still, the sound space expands by octaves and eventually explodes with a fuller spectrum of chromatic pitch color.

    HAWKING’S TIME

    Clark 2023 (TC-133)

    ______________

  • A Small Sonata

    A sonata is typically a multi-movement piece for solo piano or for an instrument with piano. A shorter form with just three connected sections, the middle slower and quieter, can be called a sonatina. Here is an inside look at how one was composed, step by step. Like the MapLabs in Mapping the Music Universe, this guided tour is in the form of a recipe you can follow to write your own sonata.

    Choose a model

    I started formal composition study in 1968, first with composer Eugene Kurtz, based in Paris but filling in that semester at the University of Michigan. A proponent of modern French music, his compositional models included Debussy and Ravel. He assigned me to immerse myself in deep study of their music, in particular Ravel’s 1905 work, SONATINE.

    I met Beth, a flower lover, in Interlochen in 1975. She had been a promising flute student at Aspen, but was then embarking on a journalism career specializing in horticultural writing.

    The Ravel study came back to me later in my career, as I began to adopt its lush, bright harmonic language and a gentle French Impressionist quality. My SONATINE for Beth (2025) brings together the Ravel study, the flute sound, and (in my video version on YouTube) even the flower motif.

    Start with a generating idea

    The impelling theme can be a melody, a rhythmic pattern, a special kind of chord, or a non-musical image such as a painting or poem.

    Sonatine for Beth is spun entirely from a single harmonic progression, seven chords, each stacking one Perfect 5th interval above another.

    The Perfect 5ths in the two hands are separated by one or more octaves, highlighting this strong interval as a characteristic sound for the piece.

    Now some basic tools to develop and vary a generating theme.

    Transposition

    The whole five-chord progression can be transposed. The harmony is heard plainly in a middle section as ten block chords. The last five chords are a transposition of the first five, up three semitones, starting on the bass pitch Eb instead of C.

    Sequence is successive statements of a pattern transposed by a consistent interval.

    Here is another transposition of the whole ten-chord sequence:

    This harmonic material generates melodic lines and many arpeggio patterns, in successive variations of changing register, intensity, and rhythmic pace. Let’s go through the compositional unfolding of this thematic idea.

    Extract a melody and bass

    Since the starting idea is simply a chord progression, we can select individual tones from each chord for a melody. The most obvious selection is the highest pitch of each chord, even if it is not in a soprano singing range.

    At letter A the melody is given a slightly independent rhythm to help set it off from the chords, in addition to the different sound color of the flute. Also, the lower chord tones are articulated one at a time, making a bass line also rhythmically distinct, faster than the half-note chords. (The Bb in the bass line’s first bar is a passing tone, not a chord tone.)

    Add arpeggios

    An arpeggio is any pattern articulating chord tones one at a time. Usually in order lowest to highest or back down, the individual chord tones can be articulated in any order. At letter A shown above, we already saw the left hand articulate its chord tones one at a time. In the introduction, the right hand is partially broken up into arpeggios.

    In the next variation below, right-hand treble chord tones and still some bass chord tones are arpeggiated. Now all three lines (flute, right hand, left hand) have distinct rhythmic patterns, though congruent with each other in the established 4 4 meter.

    Next, the flute arpeggiates chord tones in eighth-notes, with the left hand simplified to quarter-notes of two pitches from each chord.

    Rhythmic variations

    Variation D simplifies the flute melody to just two half-note chord tones per bar.

    The two hands reunite rhythmically to place some chords after the downbeat and between flute notes.

    Counterpoint

    The original term, contrapunctus, translates “point against point” — two or more independent lines interacting in time.

    A more active rhythm for the flute line leaves time gaps that can be filled in by another line. The right hand selects chord tones to make a similarly playful rhythmic line that mostly alternates and sometimes lines up with the flute rhythm.

    The harmonic progression is still there but just hinted at by the chord tones selected for these interacting lines.

    Variation F continues this back-and-forth rhythmic interaction of the flute and piano right hand, now adding back in the left-hand chord-tone pairs with a simple rhythm for a supporting third contrapuntal line.

    Texture

    Having reached a complex level of three rhythmically interacting, independent contrapuntal lines, a nice contrast will be to simplify. Variation G reduces to a lower-register flute line and only a much simplified skeletal supporting line above it in the right hand.

    Then the texture begins to revert rhythmically to a simpler alignment of all chord tones.

    This paves the way back to a simple piano texture revealing the fundamental thematic chord progression.

    Shape a time form

    What is the plan for the whole? How will the various versions of the generating idea unfold in the larger time span of the whole piece?

    The quiet letter I variation is the apex of an arch form . . .

    • starting with simple
    • building up more rhythmic and textural complexity
    • reaching a stable plateau
    • subsiding back to what started it all.

    That sets up a recapitulation of the whole process, building up textural complexity again, first with the high two-part counterpoint:

    Then with three voices:

    Flute line “calming down”:

    Coda

    A good essay ends with a conclusion or a summary restatement of the thesis.

    Our musical coda summarizes with a last return to the beginning. The chords are back to their very low and very high registers. The flute makes a small melodic arch, ascending to the pitch B, then climbing down gently to its lowest possible pitch, C.

    Fine

    A final edit and audit are mandatory. In the case of our example, listening revealed that the beginning needed a piano introduction with some rhythmic vitality. Some sections were also reordered to improve the flow. Thus, the piece will not begin with a plain statement of the progression, and there will be a somewhat different order of other events.

    Now listen to the whole 6-minute parade of variations on a single chord progression.

  • 5. Dusty Dusk

    Tacoma, 1974 —

    As a teenager, I was into all kinds of art — sketching, painting, reading plays, and writing poetry. Lots of poems, my way of a kind of diary writing, expressing to myself the places, relationships, and feelings. (I won’t reveal any of this naive creative work here.)

    Later, two poems in particular were written at major turning points in my professional and personal life. That’s when I started setting poems as art song lyrics. Some of the musical material for what became Landscapes in Motion was first set in the 1970s, and some in the 1990s, now reworked with a more mature 21st-century craft, while preserving the original dark suppleness of tonality and time.

    Upon completing my master’s degree at Michigan in 1972, I taught music theory as a one-year lecturer at Indiana University in Bloomington. Another one-year fill-in position took me to Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma, Washington, where I got great experience teaching music theory, composition, new music performance ensemble, and even trombone!

    Without a doctorate, however, there was no real prospect of winning a permanent professor position anywhere. And continuing a succession of one-year gigs moving all over the country was not sustainable. What to do?

    I had taken my sailboat with me all the way out to Tacoma from Interlochen. After a beautiful sunset sail on Lake Spanaway in my little 15-foot “Butterfly” dinghy, I wrote a poem.

                            “Sailing at sunset”  (1974)

    Dusty dusk settling silk on dying silver of wave-modulated water,
    the sail still silently searching for a departing breeze,
    swinging gently its boom and softly rattling its blocks
    in confounded cross-rhythms to the lapping shore.
    Streams of crimson flowing dust streak the sky
    above looming shadowed firs.
    Deepening shadows settle dark dust on the deck
    while still the mast peak rages red and soars into a deepening sky.
    Scorched face soothed by the oncoming night breeze,
    eyes searching the sunset sky for sign of tomorrow’s wind.
    Where will we sail then? Wherever wind wills . . .
    and a new dusk consume our shadows.

    A New Dusk

    Clark 1974 (TC-28)

    Afterglow

    Turns out, I went back to Michigan for doctoral studies, and went back to working at Interlochen as assistant to the director of Michigan’s university-level program there. In that 1975 summer, I met Beth, a journalist working a temp gig on the camp’s publicity staff.

    We fell in love, and I spent many weekends of the following academic year riding the Amtrak Turboliner from Ann Arbor to Chicago to be with her. I wrote a poem on one of those train rides, again uncertain about my (our) future.

                            “Riding backwards on a train”   (1976)

    The cider mill beside the river,
    cows grazing by a dead tree,
    a red barn stuffed with hay.
    An old square house alone on a hilltop,
    a church’s silent steeple above the trees,
    a country cemetery, old stone crosses guarding against oblivion.
    Then the sun is gone,
    storm clouds ripple across meadow skies,
    the river turns away.
    Riding backwards on a train, frozen fields float by.
    Glossy sheets of white ice glow with winter sun.
    Dead brown stubble breaks the mirror, patchy footprints of autumn’s retreat.
    Pale late light of afternoon flickering
    through leafless trees that line the lifeless fields in rows,
    through fields of withered cornstalks.
    Leap into brown dry woods, plunge past barren trees,
    spray a wake of fallen leaves, lunge into holy autumn stillness,
    riding backwards on a train, headed east into a frozen future.

    Shortly before his death, Charles Ives published a collection of 114 Songs in 1922. Many have become exemplars of his iconic 20th-century American style. Here are two that fit our tender twilight theme.

    Evening

    Paul Sperry, Irma Vallecillo

    LISTEN > YouTube

    Afterglow

    Paul Sperry, Irma Vallecillo

    LISTEN > YouTube

    Before night

    So far, I haven’t mentioned an important influence on my ’60s and ’70s immersion into the mid-century Avant Garde. In the 1960s, Luciano Berio wrote an influential, frequently performed series of unaccompanied solos for varied instruments. All are tour-de-force virtuosic technical displays with a theatrical impact. I performed Sequenza V for trombone on a Contemporary Directions concert in Rackham Lecture Hall (Ann Arbor). It was commissioned by and written for virtuoso trombonist Stuart Dempster, with whom I later briefly studied.

    I said instruments, but Sequenza III (1965) is for unaccompanied voice, drastically different than a typical “song.” Berio explains:

    “In Sequenza III the emphasis is given to the sound symbolism of vocal and sometimes visual gestures, with their accompanying ‘shadows of meaning,’ and the associations and conflicts suggested by them. For this reason, Sequenza III can also be considered as a dramatic essay whose story is the relationship between the soloist and her own voice.”

    Sequenza III was written in 1965 for Cathy Berberian. The “modular” text is by Markus Kutter:

    Give me a few words for a woman
    to sing a truth allowing us
    to build a house without worrying before night comes

    SEQUENZA III

    Laura Catrani, soprano

    Ice

    In 1983, teaching grad courses and still directing the New Music Performance Lab. Musicology master’s student Robert Nasow played cello in the ensemble, but he was also an avid and talented poet.

    When his fellow grad music student David Lynn Kennedy was killed, Robert wrote a heartfelt elegy for him.

                            “Ice Floe“

    by Robert Nasow

    Yes, I am cold . . .
    my hands are cold to the touch.
    Something must fill this hollow at the center of my body.
    Untouched, no one will long remember your face . . .
    She withdraws to contemplate the child,
    her voice breaks into emerald light, effulgent pure water,
    sings unknown distances of sleep.
    Brittle, come break off my hand,
    this glazed stem of Queen Anne’s lace.
    There are ways of living we have never dreamed of.

    His poem became a lovely vehicle for a memorial song, which was premiered by UNT grad students who were also involved in new music with me.

    Ice Floe

    R. Nasow / Clark 1983 (TC-46)

    Jing Ling Tam, soprano

    Paul LeBlanc, guitar

  • 2. Musique Française

    Ann Arbor, 1968 —

    Having begun composing in 1963, I started formal composition study in 1968 at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. American composer Eugene Kurtz, based in Paris but filling in that semester at Michigan, was assigned to teach the new freshman. A proponent of modern French music, his compositional models included Debussy and Ravel.

    Sonatine

    Kurtz assigned me to immerse myself in deep study of their music, in particular Ravel’s Sonatine (1905).

    Ravel: Sonatine

    Judith Valerie Engel on YouTube

    Fifty years later in my career as a more experimental composer, my compositional style began to mellow toward a gentler Impressionistic approach and a lush, bright harmonic language reminiscent of Debussy and Ravel.

    Homage to Ravel, my new Sonatine is spun from a single harmonic progression, seven chords each stacking a Perfect Fifth interval high above another.

    This material (what Schoenberg would call a Grundgestalt) generates melodic lines and many arpeggiation patterns, in successive variations of changing register, intensity, and rhythmic pace.

    Sonatine

    Clark 2025 (TC-155)

    Nocturnes

    In 1907, French composer Claude Debussy wrote, “I am more and more convinced that music, by its very nature, is something that cannot be cast into a traditional and fixed form. It is made up of colors and rhythms”. Color, light, and texture were also the hallmarks of a new style of painting developed by French artists — Impressionism.

    At the threshold of the 20th century on 15 December 1899, Debussy completed the first of his Impressionist masterpieces for orchestra, Trois Nocturnes. He avoided labeling it “symphony” or “tone poem” by calling the movements “three symphonic sketches”. The first sketch of Nocturnes is subtitled “Nuages,” premiered on 9 December 1900 in Paris.

    Debussy’s biography describes the genesis of the piece while crossing the Pont de la Concorde in Paris in stormy weather. The composer’s notes say, “‘Nuages’ renders the immutable aspect of the sky and the slow, solemn motion of the clouds, fading away in grey tones lightly tinged with white.”

    Debussy: Trois Nocturnes

    Vienna Philharmonic on Youtube

    Adopting the French language and musical style recognizes the early French explorers of the Great Lakes region of North America. The first decades of my life began there in Michigan’s Lower Peninsula (the “mitten”). It has its own smaller Leelanau Peninsula in the northwest corner (the mitten’s “little finger”) near Interlochen’s National Music Camp, where I spent many summers. Nearby Grand Traverse Bay has its own even smaller Old Mission peninsula, where I loved to visit its lighthouse. The Leelanau has a grand lighthouse at its northern tip and a scenic drive, state highway M21, winding for 64 miles all the way around the peninsula’s shoreline, through forests and past the Great Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes.

    In 1984 my piece titled PENINSULA for piano and sound synthesis was a more experimental work that traced a map of the Leelanau and its landmarks to determine by their spatial coordinates the timing and pitches of sound constellations.

    Moving forward from that mapping phase of my compositions, my Impressionistic phase produced the sound sculpture Leelanau Sketches in 2022. Some of its musical material reappears now in five symphonic sketches, Belle Péninsule. Here is the fourth movement, which quotes Debussy’s “Nuages.”

    Belle Péninsule

    IV. “Nuages blanc“

    Clark 2024 (TC-147)

    La Mer

    Debussy’s completed his second composition of three symphonic sketches for orchestra, La Mer, in 1905. It is a monumental work of Impressionist sound-painted textures and a textbook model of lush, beautiful orchestration. The three sketches are titled:

    “De l’aube à midi sur la mer”

    “From dawn to midday on the sea”

    Jeux de vagues”

    “Play of the Waves”

    “Dialogue du vent et de la mer”

    “Dialogue of the wind and the sea”

    Debussy: La Mer

    Orchestre national de France

    My homage to La Mer, Sea Sketches, sound-paints waves, deep currents, wind, and sun-sparkling surfaces, employing swelling sound colors and post-modern cyclic techniques in a pan-diatonic tonal setting. The end briefly quotes the opening arpeggio of Debussy’s “La fille aux cheveux de lin” (“The Girl with the Flaxen Hair”) from Book I of his Préludes for piano (1909-1910).

    Sea Sketches

    Clark 2023 (TC-132)

    ________

  • 1. Forest Paths

    Howell, 1967 —

    In 1967 I was already earnestly composing for piano, trombone (my own instrument), even for orchestra. Living beside the Shiawassee River’s glacial-moraine beginnings in rural Livingston County Michigan, my best pastime was hiking along the creek’s forested banks. I was already going to Ann Arbor for trombone lessons and Youth Symphony rehearsals.

    In fall 1967, after my 18th birthday, I moved to Ann Arbor and enrolled at the University of Michigan. Though not yet a music major, I began playing bass trombone in the university orchestras. For 8 years, Ann Arbor with beautiful Huron River running through it was my forested Michigan home.

    The year before I was born, John Cage wrote a gentle, beautiful piece for piano, one simple enough that my 1967 piano skill could have handled. It also expressed my own urge to amble along freely improvised paths of musical exploration.

    John Cage – Dream (1948)– Damian Alejandro, piano

    At age 17, I never dreamed that I would meet John 24 years later (in Denton Texas of all places), a gentle soul who loved mushrooms. And I had yet to discover this piece or any John Cage music. But I was also writing simple and (I thought) beautiful piano music.

    Two pieces for piano that expressed my attitude of wonder while wandering in the woods were updated fifty years later with my 2023 editing skills. “Mystic Breeze” and “Light” were my 12th and 18th completed TC compositions. “Riverbank” is from a 1967 sketch of an “interlude” for trombone and piano.

    They make a nice set of three, revealing that before formal study my compositional explorations were already discovering more exotic harmonies and rhapsodic forms resembling Debussy’s Impressionism and even the post-tonal possibilities of 12-tone rows.

    ARBOR SKETCHES

    Clark 1967 (TC-12/18)

    • 1. Breeze
    • 2. Riverbank
    • 3. Light

    Brno

    Twenty-four years later in 1991, I was invited to perform at the 26th Brno International Music Festival. It would lead me on a path of musical and cultural exploration that has filled my life since with beauty. (I had also married a beautiful Czech-American woman in 1976.)

    Brno is the capital of the Moravian province of what was then Czechoslovakia. Brno was the home city of the great 20th-century Moravian composer, Leoš Janáček. After visiting his home and school in Brno and his summer home in Hukvaldy, I began to study his music.

    Two things captured my interest. Like Bartok, he embraced and collected the folk music of his homeland. He also exalted in nature, walking around the wooded hills of Hukvaldy’s castle ruins, and collected his own transcriptions of bird calls.

    While there on the first visit, I was commissioned to compose a ballet for the local dance theatre company. Inspired by Janáček’s birds, I began to write my own music for what would become the ballet, PTACí (“Birds”).

    Lesní cesty

    In a music store in Brno, I also discovered his marvelous 1911 set of piano pieces, the title of which translates “On the Overgrown Path.” On a return trip, I was able to visit the Moravian Music Archives in Brno to examine his original hand-written manuscript of the pieces.

    Excerpted from Series I:

    • No. 5, They Chattered Like Swallows
    • No. 6, Words Fail!
    • No. 7, Good Night!
    • No. 8, Unutterable Anguish
    • No. 9, In Tears
    • No. 10, The Barn Owl Has Not Flown Away!

    Po zarostlém chodníčku – – – Josef Páleníček, piano