ACOF 2003 Participant - Andrian Pertout

Daniel Salecich

Daniel Salecich's Ordynov was a composition written for ACOF 2003.

 

 

...The sun makes little impact on blooms across the road, struggling to survive after a week of frost. Nevertheless striving for light, they cover their reproductive organs with what looks like bloodstained paper...

Program Notes - Ordynov

Ordynov is less about the short story from which it is extracted; moreover, a representation of the many-faceted (and rather gloomy) central character, which is disposed to experiencing all forms of emotions almost simultaneously and without warning. Representing a foretaste of Frydor Dostoyevsky’s later novels, The Landlady merges dreams and delusions into reality, and the poor student Ordynov has constant visions and attacks of delirium. His visions are unclear, maybe because of a lack of food, his disposition to wander the streets aimlessly, or perhaps his infatuation with the beautiful but fragile landlady, Katerina, who in turn is under the influence of an old man, living alongside her, with far-reaching and deadly powers.

The music represents solely the character of Ordynov, by juxtaposing musical ideas sometimes incoherently on top of each other, and sometimes as a progression of musical thought. Virtuosity is required, especially from the clarinet and the first violins, and the complexity of musical thought "represents the complexity of Ordynov’s dreams and visions," Salecich explained. "Musical motifs, both rhythmic and melodic, are repeated, transposed and inverted at will, as are the three five-note chords that begin the work. I have tried to encompass the full range and scope of Ordynov's emotional responses within its short duration." As chosen by the composer, an excerpt from Dostoyevsky's story is printed in the preface:

Ordynov was still awake enough to hear the old man, his landlord, going into the room behind the partition. Then he sensed Katerina rising to her feet, without hurry or fuss, picking up her books and making the sign of the cross over him as she left; he closed his eyes. Suddenly a long, hot kiss burned on his inflamed lips; it was as though he had been stabbed in the heart with a knife. He gave a faint cry and lost consciousness . . . After that a strange life began for him . . .With horror he tried to resist the doom-laden sense of fatalism that oppressed him; then, in a moment of the most intense and desperate struggle some unknown force struck him down once more and he felt himself clearly losing consciousness again, as again the inpenetrable, bottomless gloom opened up before him and he fell into it with a howl of anguish and despair. . . At times he experienced moments of unbearable, annihilating happiness. . .

Quotation: Dostoyevsky, Frydor. Poor Folk and other Stories. Penguin Books: London, 1988.152.

Composition Diary - April 2003

Thought-making
I look out my window. The sun makes little impact on blooms across the road, struggling to survive after a week of frost. Nevertheless striving for light, they cover their reproductive organs with what looks like bloodstained paper. Still, some cannot help masquerading their mass of yellow pollen within. Above the tulips stands an unknown tree, with wide and stunted growth-an overseer, only now in its full glory. Bony and black, like all the twisted wintry oaks only metres away were, now this tree boasts folds of delicate origami in mauve and pink. Behind and to the side, this highly organised display becomes apparent, as more sun-golds and yellows fight against the green and red foliage. An upturned urn provides a never-ending water-cascade down some narrow cobblestone stairs, feeding a small pond. But towering and silent, all white and large, the responsibility of the garden rests on a three-story gingerbread house, complete with sloping roof and long windows.

My attention wavers and inside I draw myself. I begin to write. My thoughts suddenly turn to the dimly lit room and to the reflected light now forming the shapes of unevenly plastered walls, a couple of music stands, the piano with its broken E and quartertone C , a stereo, masses of music recordings and a few hardened chairs. I scribble a couple of bars and check them on the piano, avoiding the bad notes… the couch invites me again. I ponder over the music before me, but my mind wanders. What is that old big banana-shaped cast iron piece doing here? Is there anyone that takes all this seriously? Suddenly I feel the weight of my existence. Why am I becoming angry? I want to write ugly music. At least I know where that park bench should be. Smoke fills the tall room and clouds my mind. Self-pity consumes while self-confidence assures; immediately I take back my pen. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring?

The outside invites me again. I want to be beautiful, but how? Now I have stopped writing altogether. Pain fills my consciousness, but somehow I feel better. My window howls for me as strong wind suddenly rolls back, bending trees and twisting branches. Winter after winter these trees have survived, I think, and likewise every spring flowers burst into bright hues and an over-abundance of realised potential. The will to live does not come without hardships. One must wait, for a time that is theirs. I pick up my pen again, and begin to compose…

Composition Diary - June 2003

Conversations
'Let's take motor engines for example. It has four actions that-'

'No, you mean pistons, right?'

'No, these actions. The up and down goings of the inside, and they go and make explosions and they are all going on different times.'

'Yeah, you mean pistons, or-or cylinders?'

'No, actions. Or what, you know, these four stages, these explosions making the car go… no run, run! Make the car run, oh how stupid of me!

'Ahh, ok, where internal combustion takes place! And the cylinder is-Oh, maybe you don't understand what combustion means…'

'Maybe, but these cars from the east countries, the action doesn't work very well and it's very common in cars from the east countries, and they make a lot of smokes-you don't know these cars, they came before…'

* * *

'And how long will you staying there?'

'Will I be staying there? Three months. I'll be living in a wonderful little house with spectacular views of the surrounding vineyards, where we can go swimming, walking-'

'We? So you are meeting someone here! Somewhere… no someone, you will be liking to visit?'

'I know a family who lives there. I thought I explained that already!'

'Yes, but did you, no, have you lived by them when it was another time, no, did you live with them a… vorher-oh, previous, that's the word! Were you there a previous time? Oh, I must make more study, my English is so bad!'

'No, come on, your English is getting much better! I remember a time when you only spoke _______. I think you are trying very hard, and-'

'But I want to learn. I want to be good-speaking! It is embarrassing for me, I have been learning so long in the school, but there were not native speakers there. So it is very perplexing, perplexing-do you know this word?'

'Of course, but I think difficult is the word you are searching for…'

* * *

'But don't you get bothered that you can't have a normal conversation with him?'

'No, not at all! He has the tenacity and willpower to convey his meaning to whoever may be listening. I mean, sure, people think it's funny to laugh at him, or with him, if they can, but it is quite refreshing: he has no fear about expressing himself (probably because his vocabulary is not yet developed) and, past the language barrier, he actually has something interesting to say. I mean, you write music as well as I do, and we all have our special 'language', but him, well, he also speaks his own language, but at least we can understand him when he-'

'All he knows is his own way of getting his point heard. It is not exactly beautiful.'

'But that is exactly my point! He has an acute sense of facilitating communication on a higher level, without all the luxuries or comforts with which we, as native speakers, are used to…Tell me, you are writing this new work: Did you ever consider what impact your writing could make?'

'Yes, but I'm writing in a language that is not exactly foreign.'

'Not exactly foreign? What, are you writing in an old style, are we still in a time where we have a common musical language? Surely not! Everyone in essence does their own thing, yet another offshoot (dare I say) from postmodernist thought. But you didn't answer my question regarding your composition: What impact, or rather, what fundamentally are you really trying to communicate?'

'Well, that is quite difficult to explain…'

'But you must be clear! Clarity is as much a state of mind as it is when one composes.'

'But who said it had to be clear?'

'Ha, you really are the postmodernist, aren't you! Clarity of communication is my meaning: a musical texture must not necessarily advocate lucidity, rather, the ideas, yes, the ideas! Behind what you are writing cannot just implicate, it must communicate.'

'Hmm. I know some music is written to communicate nothing, so you are wrong. Some people don't care at all. I think a lot about what ______ or ______ has written. But then again, maybe you are right. In its purpose (or non purpose) to say nothing it says everything!'

'And then there are those who want to say something…'

Composition Diary - August 2003

Pursuits
I am back in my room. Walking makes one tired. Why didn't I ride my bike? Oh, that's right. I wanted to be 'the man on the street', level with the crowd, riding the masses. Nevertheless, it was different to before-this time I had an acute awareness those around me. I collided with people; one meandered here, another there; the haphazard loiterers made the path virtually unrecognisable. It is sometimes difficult to see even with ones' eyes open. But who were they? I knew not one of them, these foreigners… Where did they come from, and what were they doing here? Pure thrill-seekers, snooping and probing, questioning one's every move and surroundings-and yet they only marvel and wonder. Those apathetic non-thinkers! Why did they persist in asking me? Why should I know the answers?

Even so, I did. And what perfect answers I gave them, what a good citizen! How quickly I forgot I am also a foreigner. At one time I was the thrill-seeker, the interrogator-but now I am a recognisable local. I recited diligently, parted, and found I was wandering, not aware of where my feet were taking me…

Still I knew the way. I had been down this path before-no question posed to me seemed difficult. These wanderings from the past, they had prepared me; I knew what intense engagement of the mind does. Colours become concentrated and stark, gestures overblown, features exaggerate beyond normality; one imagines a ludicrous non-existence all the while having little control over a permanently glazed appearance, for the thoughts are namely overbearing and hypnotising. Reading, as in a captivating novel, or thinking, as in philosophising, as can composing make one… Yes! That's exactly it! Immediately I quickened my step, and realised that I must get back. I had only a couple of bars to finish.

But how? As I now sit down at my desk, jarring motifs and noises become ubiquitous to my ears. So much for being 'the man on the street'. Of the little contact with the outside world, I became invisible; overlooked in an innumerable amount of rather unimportant stimuli. I was the outsider, the alien! Who is this person, wanting to be for the people, and yet responding to them in disgust? He knows their language, what they want to hear, but despises in them what he himself also loves. Surely 'the man on the street' acknowledges his weakness for entertainment and his unabashed feeding of syncretic pursuits!

And composing? I look back over my rough scribble-sheet, now littered with dots that resemble chords, disused motifs and general doodles. The seeking of entertainment, the want of acceptance, strange imaginings from the street… what does it all mean? As much as I want to fulfil desire, my mind vehemently rejects it. I remember my conversations with another composer about my foreign-speaking friend. Precariously I choose one idea, kneading and moulding it in my head, following it through. Eventually a solution arises, and I jot it down, hoping my original conception transfers into intelligible notation. Knowing not where it may lead, I find the path not well tread, the going unexpected, yet the challenge sufficient.

Composition Diary - January 2003

Perspectives
The week of ACOF has now come to a close. As the composers, like murderers, leave the scene of the crime, they think hard about what they have done; others recall it note for note, and some try to forget. My work Ordynov was difficult to execute. I had demanded much from the orchestra. But then, five other works became 'tortured' moments, when all details were considered, as all had written competent and well-crafted scores.

Concentration was at a high. The plans of attack were subsequently altered; changes made, notes omitted - the 'weapons' of our trade were subject to intense scrutiny from expert investigators. And as we later found out, some things worked, and others didn't.

It was nevertheless quite exciting. Composers are funny types. Most of their day is spent in a little room by themselves, and have little contact with the outside world, unless they want to. Musicians, who they sometimes need desperately for questions and comments, are often scarcely to be found. Even worse, composers are quite resilient to meeting others of their own type.

The week in Tasmania was different. The musicians were there, and they were approachable. Some orchestras are very closed, and unwilling to communicate, but that was not the case here. The other composers, like partners in crime, stuck together and supported each other. Our 'overseers' - Brenton Broadstock and Andrew Schultz - were excellent. Their experience helped us face the logistical problems that we threw in front of the players, and suggested other ways to achieve our ideals.

I think that one of the other composers, the young David Chisholm, commented: "It's like going for a job interview that you have prepared for months in advance. And I mean, really prepared. But it doesn't mean a thing. You are still terribly nervous!" Those 60 or so players, who can turn into police officers at any moment, can be difficult to get on-side. They don't just have your work to think about, also five others.

Being perfectly honest, I was not entirely happy with how my work turned out. Tempos were slower than I had envisaged, and challenges, which I had placed specifically for players to overcome and triumph, instead became laborious chores. It didn't help that I had written some of my rhythms obscurely. Some things may have worked quickly and successfully if written in other ways. Nevertheless, within the time frame, and with all other considerations, most problems were overcome and some results were positively excellent. Some of the solo playing was very commendable. I thank the players sincerely for their efforts.

But this is part of working with an orchestra. It is all these experiences plus more; the opportunity arises quite infrequently and must be seized. The ACOF program has allowed our emerging Australian composers to have such opportunities, and my thanks extends wholly to the Australian Music Centre. The experience is always invaluable, and I enjoyed this project immensely.