NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA UNIVERSITY CHORALE BIENEN CONTEMPORARY/EARLY VOCAL ENSEMBLE Donald Nally, conductor Saturday, April 27, 2019 at 7:30 p.m. Northwestern University Am I Born (2011) DAVID T. LITTLE Henry and Leigh on a text of Royce Vavrek (b. 1978) Part I. Prelude: Am I Born Bienen School of Music Born By Brushstroke Part II. The Sound of Cold To Be Seen, A View A Tree Falls in Brooklyn, Part I Part III. A Tree Falls in Brooklyn, Part II A Picture Quite Curious NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA Aryssa Burrs, vocals UNIVERSITY CHORALE University Chorale BIENEN CONTEMPORARY/EARLY VOCAL ENSEMBLE 20 minute intermission Donald Nally, conductor My City (2015) JUDD GREENSTEIN on poems of Walt Whitman (b. 1979) Mannahatta Crossing Brooklyn Ferry Pick-Staiger Concert Hall Bienen Contemporary/Early Vocal Ensemble 2018–19 season Eric Southern, lighting Kevin Vondrak, supertitles Please silence all electronic devices, including pagers, cellular telephones, and wristwatch alarms. A NOTE FROM THE CONDUCTOR their skeletons hung, desperate to flake off the canvas At first glance, the works on this program may seem tied together by their roots and rest in peace. in Brooklyn: Walt Whitman’s poems set by Judd Greenstein describe the poet’s journey from his home in Brooklyn to Manhattan; David T. Little’s work gives The desire to be both seen and invisible, to be recognized as existing, to be voices to early 19th-century Brooklynites forever captured in Francis Guys’ remembered; these themes run through both works heard this evening as we painting “Winter Scene in Brooklyn” that hangs today in the Brooklyn Museum. ponder connectivity. Walt’s conclusion is that we are all one, written out in the frenzy of his final stanza in which he turns at last from the You and the I, to the For me, this is just a starting point for looking at the shared themes between We —a We that is both the (literal) group on the ferry, viewing the awaiting these two recent musical works. Their deeper connection lies in the way in crowd on the shore, as it is the writer and reader—the Us, “generations hence”— which authors and composers alike question our sense of ‘being,’ and how art in fused together into a Singular in which there is not a poet and a reader, not Your some ways preserves that ‘being,’ proving that we were here, or that we are, as soul or My soul, but “the soul,” the one. He celebrates Us—the subject of his captured in Royce Vavrek’s libretto for Am I Born: poems, then and now – caught forever in his Words like the woman in Guy’s painting. He celebrates Us in the reverent synthesis of the final, dancing meters We depend on documents of Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, heard as a kind of “giving over” to Time, as Judd’s My to suggest we ever existed City concludes, for now: The document is the painting. It is the poem. In David and Royce’s work, the We use you, and do not cast you aside–we plant you permanently figure in the painting speaks of the two-hundred years of eyes passing by and within us, what she has learned from looking into those eyes from her frozen position in We fathom you not—we love you–there is perfection in you also, the painting. This is so similar to Walt’s speaking directly to us from his writing You furnish your parts toward eternity, desk a few blocks away from that painting: Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul. I am with you, you men and women of a generation, –Donald Nally, Evanston, April 2019 or ever so many generations hence, On the eve of Walt Whitman’s 200th birthday, May 31, 2019 Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt, Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd, Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh’d, Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood yet was hurried, Just as on a train or plane, standing at the rail of a ferry has one both not moving, and yet moving quite quickly; perspective. Relativity. Walt goes on to celebrate the interconnectivity of all things – he becomes advanced physicist, evolution- ist, and friend all at once, as he embraces the eternal call of the artist: “Listen to Me.” Similarly Francis Guy’s painting, his “Look at Me” inspires his unnamed, perhaps unknowing and even reluctant, subject to exclaim, two centuries later: To be seen a view. Friendly faces: this is them, this is then. Held by nail, PROGRAM NOTES TEXTS Am I Born Little Am I Born like once-visible breath. Brooklyn, To view an old painting or to sing an old song is to commune with the past. In A moment in time. and only ghosts can our oratorio Am I Born, we sought to explore the mystical aspects of that com- PART I hear, munion. Prelude: Am I Born GHOSTS OF 1820 are its roots enough I believe in a rhythm, remembrance? Am I Born combined inspirations from two 19th century sources. The first was GHOSTS OF 1820 a meter to the lives. Francis Guy’s 1820 painting “Winter Scene In Brooklyn”—which depicts an area I believe in a rhythm, V. Parade now in the footprint of the Brooklyn Bridge. The second was Ananias Davisson’s Am I born an intersection of time 1816 hymn Idumea, which, like our work, begins by asking: “am I born to die?” to die? Like once visible breath, WINTER SCENE an intersection of time. Faces shuffle by: In our oratorio, the soprano soloist gives voice to Guy’s painting. Over decades I. Born By Brushstroke some spend minutes the painting draws consciousness from viewers visiting the museum. The con- PART II others seconds. scious painting eventually pours from its frame into the cold night of modern Framed inside III. To Be Seen, A View Some seem day Brooklyn, confused and alone as past and present collide. At this moment, a snapshot uninterested, Davisson’s question is modified to ask “am I born?” in oil. To be seen altogether, Am I Born marks the first time that our work engaged concurrently with ques- Living, breathing a view. their eyes fix, tions of mortality, the mystical, and an imagined inter-dimensional nature in art. people. Busy little village then dart away. We further explored these ideas in our 2016 opera JFK, and they continue to be Brushstroke born, to and fro preoccupations in our current work. now frozen. by sled, Eyes widen, The day-to-day saddle or eyes tired, Cast in seven connected movements, Am I Born was originally composed in of our village. saunter. eyes squinting, 2011 for the Brooklyn Youth Chorus and Brooklyn Philharmonic. The new old eyes burdened with version for adult chorus was premiered in January by the Choir of Trinity Wall WINTER SCENE To be seen cataracts, Street; the work’s Midwest premiere is given this evening. Am I born to die? a view. eyes well up, —David T. Little Small Dutch village, eyes cry, II. The Sound of Cold they come and go. mascara tumbles down My City Greenstein Snow crunches, To be seen cheeks My City is a setting of two Walt Whitman poems about New York travelling feet sing the a view. of emotional ladies City, Mannahatta and Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, with the former, simpler poem afternoon song. Friendly faces: painting abstract serving as an introduction to the epic work that follows. If you squint your eyes to Little noises, this is them, responses get past the sometimes-outdated imagery and descriptions, Whitman’s New York tiny wordless noises. this is then. to my value... is still very much our own. As well as any other artist, the great poet captures Held by nail, New York’s energy and sense of freedom, the strange interplay between individu- Music freezes, their skeletons hung, GHOSTS OF 1820 ality and collective spirit that I have never encountered anywhere else. In the mid-air; desperate to flake off Perhaps not of latter poem, he extends his gaze across time, finding evidence of our common Suspended. the canvas significant excellence humanity through the lens of a simple boat ride. Whitman’s vision of humanity Melody hanging. and rest in peace. in art... Held by briskness. ... but still of great value is not simple or clean but ambiguous and messy and decidedly of-our-time. Unable to ring out. IV. A Tree Falls in to us. —Judd Greenstein Muted. Brooklyn, Part I Snow crunches, GHOSTS OF 1820 the tune vanishes When a tree falls in WINTER SCENE PART III WINTER SCENE brown-faced sailors; Eyes eyes eyes, a parade VII. A Picture Quite I’m afraid. The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft; of eyes desperate to Curious I’m afraid to walk that The winter snows, the sligh-bells—the broken ice in the river, glean my value. road. passing along, up or down, with the flood tide or ebb-tide; VI. A Tree Falls in WINTER SCENE AND The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form’d, beautiful- Brooklyn, Part II GHOSTS I am afraid faced, looking you straight in the eyes; Altogether a picture to walk that road Trottoirs throng’d—vehicles—Broadway—the women—the shops and GHOSTS OF 1820 quite curious afraid to feel like a shows, When a tree falls in to stand on the same visitor The parades, processions, bugles playing, flags flying, drums beating; Brooklyn, spot in my own home.