I am thrilled to announce that “Prometheus”, one of my compositions for winds and percussion, is being featured at “Sound in Sculpture”, an event sponsored by University of Texas Landmarks and Texas Performing Arts. Check it out here on Thursday, April 22nd, 2021 at 7:00pm CST.
The piece was originally slated to be premiered in April 2020 during my senior year at the University of Texas at Austin. But due to the COVID-19 pandemic, all concerts, performances, and rehearsals were cancelled at the beginning of March. “Prometheus” will have a special place in my memory because of the incredible odds we worked against to coordinate a virtual performance– and because of my choice to write about suffering just before one of deadliest pandemics in modern history descended on the world.
Our task for “Sound in Sculpture” was to write a piece inspired by one of the many incredible sculptures on display at Bass Concert Hall in Austin, TX. I chose to write on a sculpture called “Prometheus and Vulture” by Koren Der Harootian because I was struck by the story of Prometheus and the artist’s own life experiences as a refugee during World War II.
The full story of Prometheus is one of sacrifice and strife. Prometheus was a Titan who stole fire from the gods to give to humankind, an act which earned him an eternal punishment. In an act of vengeance, Prometheus was chained to a mountain for an eternity. Every night atop this mountain, a vulture would descend and eat his liver– something that I imagine was not a fun experience. Eventually, the Greek hero Heracles rescued Prometheus from his plight. In some traditions, Prometheus is also credited with giving humanity craftsmanship and the arts, and he is often revered as a preserver of humanity at great cost to himself. And, as an added point of interest, “Prometheus” can roughly be translated as “forethought”. If only I knew what the universe had in store for us in 2020 when I began writing this work.
When I first visited Bass Concert Hall to view “Prometheus and Vulture”, I was struck by its contorted imagery. The marble medium of the piece was also striking, as if the entire sculpture had been chiseled from the very mountain Prometheus had spent an eternity on. I spent an hour in silent contemplation, examining the detail of the marble, thinking about what might have been coursing through the sculptor’s mind as he painstakingly chiseled Prometheus in agony. I learned that the artist fled Armenia as a young boy to escape the persecution and genocide of the Turks, turning many years later to his art to make sense of the violence, war, and suffering of World War II.
To capture everything about this sculpture– the author’s own struggles, the sacrificial gift of Prometheus, the agony of his punishment– proved to be one of the most challenging musical tasks I had undertaken. While writing “Prometheus”, I learned much about the musical tradition of Armenia and about Komitas, a champion of Armenian music who was instrumental in bringing this musical tradition to the world stage. I experimented with complex chords, time signatures, tempo changes, and instrumentation like never before. The experience of writing this piece was central to my growth as a composer, and this piece gave me the opportunity to tackle complex emotions—despondency, grief, and hope—with my musical craft.
The piece begins with a loud drumbeat followed by a complex, growling chord. The drumbeat echoes in the background as the first melody is introduced, a lament from atop the mountain. The music repeats and accelerates into a fit of despondency, culminating in a held flute note that descends back into the original theme. The growling chord makes a return, and an oboe solo transitions into the next section, my attempt at describing fire, Prometheus’ sacrificial gift.
During this section, the time signature does not stay consistent for very long. A primal, 7/8 theme predominates, and then the music continues shifting ideas, interrupting itself in several places. After a short horn lick, voices (I asked the instrumentalists to sing here, probably to their dismay) come in briefly, ushering in the slow folk tune, called “Garun A” (translation: “spring is here”).
After a quick transition, the theme from the beginning, played by the low horn is juxtaposed against an oboe quoting the fast section—all against an unsteady, complex background. There is tension as the music transitions to the fire dance material once again, before bringing all the themes from work in an upbeat 7/8 section, each theme layering on top of the next before finishing with a punch.
Writing the piece was only part of the battle to bring the piece to life. As live performances became unreasonable due to COVID-19, we explored the idea of creating a virtual performance. In between studying for tests, I created a conducting video and clicktrack for the piece (channeling my former high school drum major self) and found performers from UT who were willing to put up with 8 minutes of arm-waving. We changed the instrumentation to adapt to what equipment we had access to, since campuses across the country had limited access for safety reasons. Each track was recorded individually and patched together to form a cohesive whole.
I am greatly indebted to the performers: Kate Young, Thomas Rodriguez, Shawn Karson, Austin Ali, Devin Reddy, William Wright, and Ali Pappa—thank you for dealing with COVID-19 challenges and bringing this piece to life despite never having met any of your fellow performers. To Jon Clover-Brown—thank you for your master editing and mixing and for putting up with my endless notes and suggestions. To the video editing team, thank you for your hard work in adapting to a virtual performance. To Tim Rogers and others with Texas Performing Arts—thank you for giving me an opportunity to tell a story through music. To Dr. Russell Podgorsek and the Butler School of Music composition faculty, thank you for teaching us that music has power.