Innerlichkeit - This Mortal Coil

Under Dekonstruktion
siehe vorläufig Leib und Seele

2012-10-26 16:45

Innerlichkeit - This Mortal Coil

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Samstag, 11. August 2007

Daily Soap

rabe489, 01:49h

Alles sehr seicht. Dagegen würde ich einiges zündeln - natürlich verbal und bildlich. Was da so ist in B, HH, M oder N? Bin ich denn froh, hier zu sein? Nein! und ich sach ausdrücklich nich "Nee" (diese Bloggersitte). Wo also dann: einzig in mir oder... Kryptisch, kryptisch. Nee

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Charles Ives (gest.1954)

rabe489, 17:15h

Die ersten drei Symphonien gibt es preiswert bei Naxos u. a. m.

"The symphonies of Ives include music essentially American in inspiration and adventurous in structure and texture, collages of Americana, expressed in a musical idiom that makes use of complex polytonality (the use of more than one key or tonality at the same time) and rhythm. The Third Symphony, for small orchestra, reflects much of Ives's own background, carrying the explanatory title Camp Meeting and movement titles Old Folks Gatherin', Children's Day and Communion. The Fourth Symphony includes a number of hymns and Gospel songs, and his so-called First Orchestral Set, otherwise known as New England Symphony, depicts three places in New England."

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Abendlandschaft mit Föhren 1839

rabe489, 16:55h

Aquarell von Gottfried Keller

("Landschaft als Kosmos der Seele")

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Innerlichkeit

rabe489, 16:33h

Wie antwortet Innerlichkeit auf äußere Drangsal? Gibt es eine militante Innerlichkeit, die "strikes back"? Eine kämpferische Innerlichkeit? Wie war das bei den Romantikern? Wortgefechte? Vielleicht. Kreuzritter - Seelenritter? Das nicht alles hinzunehmen ist, versteht sich. Aber worin bestehen Wehr und Waffen? Worin besteht die Kraft der Innerlichkeit. Darüber nachdenken!

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Vaughan Williams: Songs Of Travel a.o. (Naxos)

rabe489, 16:22h

Although Vaughan Williams is best known as a symphonist and for large-scale choral works, the essence of his music can also be found in his songs, which demonstrate a peerless sensitivity to the beauty of the English language. Songs of Travel, composed in 1904 at a time when the composer’s personal voice was emerging, have been described as a “kind of English Winterreise”. Together with The House of Life, settings of six sonnets by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, they are the first to mark a significant advance from the Edwardian parlour song towards true English art song. Volume 3 of the Naxos English Song Series (8.557114) features Vaughan Williams’ famous Housman settings On Wenlock Edge.

Sung Text

8.557643 VAUGHAN WILLIAMS: Songs of Travel / The House of Life

Songs of Travel

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

1
The Vagabond

Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above,
And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river -
There’s the life for a man like me,
There’s the life for ever.

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around,
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above,
And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field -
Warm the fireside haven -
Not to autumn will I yield,
Not to winter even!

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around,
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I ask, the heaven above,
And the road below me.

2
Let Beauty awake

Let Beauty awake in the morn from beautiful dreams,
Beauty awake from rest!
Let Beauty awake
For Beauty’s sake
In the hour when the birds awake in the brake
And the stars are bright in the west!

Let Beauty awake in the eve from the slumber of day,
Awake in the crimson eve!
In the day’s dusk end
When the shades ascend,
Let her wake to the kiss of a tender friend,
To render again and receive.

3

The Roadside Fire

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night,
I will make a palace fit for you and me
Of green days in forests, and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom;
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you admire,
Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

4
Youth and Love

To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside.
Passing for ever, he fares; and on either hand,
Deep in the gardens golden pavilions hide,
Nestle in orchard bloom, and far on the level land
Call him with lighted lamp in the eventide.

Thick as stars at night when the moon is down,
Pleasures assail him. He to his nobler fate
Fares; and but waves a hand as he passes on,
Cries but a wayside word to her at the garden gate,
Sings but a boyish stave and his face is gone.

5
In Dreams

In dreams unhappy, I behold you stand as heretofore:
The unremember’d tokens in your hand avail no more.

No more the morning glow, no more the grace, enshrines, endears.
Cold beats the light of time upon your face and shows your tears.

He came and went. Perchance you wept awhile and then forgot.
Ah me! but he that left you with a smile forgets you not.

6
The Infinite Shining Heavens

The infinite shining heavens
Rose, and I saw in the night
Uncountable angel stars
Showering sorrow and light.

I saw them distant as heaven,
Dumb and shining and dead,
And the idle stars of the night
Were dearer to me than bread.

Night after night in my sorrow
The stars looked over the sea,
Till lo! I looked in the dusk
And a star had come down to me.

7
Whither must I wander?

Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?
Hunger my driver, I go where I must.
Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather:
Thick drives the rain and my roof is in the dust.
Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree,
The true word of welcome was spoken in the door
Dear days of old with the faces in the firelight,
Kind folks of old, you come again no more.

Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,
Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child.
Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland;
Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild.
Now when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,
Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.
Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,
The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.

Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moorfowl,
Spring shall bring the sun and the rain, bring the bees and flowers;
Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,
Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours.
Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood -
Fair shine the day on the house with open door;
Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney -
But I go for ever and come again no more.

8
Bright is the ring of words

Bright is the ring of words
When the right man rings them,
Fair the fall of songs
When the singer sings them,
Still they are carolled and said -
On wings they are carried -
After the singer is dead
And the maker buried.

Low as the singer lies
In the field of heather,
Songs of his fashion bring
The swains together.
And when the west is red
With the sunset embers,
The lover lingers and sings
And the maid remembers.

9
I have trod the upward and the downward slope

I have trod the upward and the downward slope;
I have endured and done in days before;
I have longed for all, and bid farewell to hope;
And I have lived and loved, and closed the door.

The House of Life

Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)

10
Love-sight

When do I see thee most, beloved one?
When in the light the spirits of mine eyes
Before thy face, their altar, solemnize
The worship of that Love through thee made known?

Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone)
Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies
Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies,
And my soul only sees thy soul its own?

O love - my love! if I no more should see Thyself,
nor on the earth the shadow of thee,
Nor image of thine eyes in any spring,
How then should sound upon Life’s darkening slope
The groundwhirl of the perished leaves of Hope
The wind of Death’s imperishable wing?

11
Silent Noon

Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass, -
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace.
The pasture gleams and glooms
’Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn hedge.
’Tis visible silence, still as the hour glass.

Deep in the sunsearched growths the dragon-fly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky: -
So this winged hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.

12
Love’s Minstrels

One flame-winged brought a white-winged harp-player
Even where my lady and I lay all alone;
Saying: “Behold this minstrel is unknown;
Bid him depart, for I am minstrel here:
Only my songs are to love’s dear ones dear.”
Then said I “Through thine hautboy’s rapturous tone
Unto my lady still this harp makes moan,
And still she deems the cadence deep and clear.”
Then said my lady: “Thou art passion of Love,
And this Love’s worship: both he plights to me.
Thy mastering music walks the sunlit sea:
But where wan water trembles in the grove,
And the wan moon is all the light thereof,
This harp still makes my name its voluntary.”

13
Heart’s Haven

Sometimes she is a child within mine arms,
Cow’ring beneath dark wings that love must chase,
With still tears show’ring and averted face,
Inexplicably filled with faint alarms:
And oft from mine own spirit’s hurtling harms
I crave the refuge of her deep embrace,
Against all ills the fortified strong place
And sweet reserve of sov’reign counter charms.
And Love, our light at night and shade at noon,
Lulls us to rest with songs, and turns away
All shafts of shelterless tumultuous day.
Like the moon’s growth, his face gleams through his tune;
And as soft waters warble to the moon,
Our answ’ring spirits chime one roundelay.

14
Death in Love

There came an image in Life’s retinue
That had Love’s wings and bore his gonfalon:
Fair was the web, and nobly wrought thereon,
O soul-sequestered face, thy form and hue!
Bewildering sounds, such as Spring wakens to,
Shook in its folds; and through my heart its power
Sped trackless as the memorable hour
When birth’s dark portal groaned and all was new
But a veiled woman followed, and she caught
The banner round its staff, to furl and cling,
Then plucked a feather from the bearer’s wing,
And held it to his lips that stirred it not,
And said to me, “Behold, there is no breath:
I and this Love are one, and I am Death.”

15
Love’s Last Gift

Love to his singer held a glistening leaf,
and said: “The rose-tree and the apple-tree
Have fruits to vaunt or flowers to lure the bee;
And golden shafts are in the feathered sheaf
Of the great harvest marshal, the year’s chief
Victorious summer; aye, and ‘neath warm sea
Strange secret grasses lurk inviolably
Between the filtering channels of sunk reef...

All are my blooms; and all sweet blooms of love
To thee I gave while spring and summer sang;
But autumn stops to listen, with some pang
From those worse things the wind is moaning of.
Only this laurel dreads no winter days:
Take my last gift; thy heart hath sung my praise.”

16
Linden Lea

William Barnes (1801-1886)

Within the woodlands, flow’ry gladed,
By the oak trees’ mossy moot,
The shining grass blades, timber-shaded,
Now do quiver underfoot;
And birds do whistle overhead,
And water’s bubbling in its bed;
And there, for me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

When leaves, that lately were a-springing,
Now do fade within the copse,
And painted birds do hush their singing,
Up upon the timber tops;
And brown-leaved fruits a-turning red,
In cloudless sunshine overhead,
With fruit for me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

Let other folk make money faster
In the air of dark-roomed towns;
I don’t dread a peevish master,
Though no man may heed my frowns.
I be free to go abroad,
Or take again my homeward road
To where, for me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
Four Poems by Fredegond Shove
(1889-1949)

17
Motion and Stillness

The sea-shells lie as cold as death
Under the sea;
The clouds move in a wasted wreath
Eternally;
The cows sleep on the tranquil slopes
Above the bay;
The ships like evanescent hopes
Vanish away.

18
Four Nights

O when I shut my eyes in spring
A choir of heaven’s swans I see,
They sail on lakes of blue, and sing
Or shelter in a willow tree:
They sing of peace in heart and mind
Such as on earth you may not find.

When I lie down in summer-time
I still can hear the scythes that smite
The ripened flowers in their prime,
And still can see the meadows white.
In summer-time my rest is small,
If any rest I find at all.

In autumn when my eyes I close
I see the yellow stars ablaze
Among the tangled winds that rose
At sunset in a circled maze;
Like armoured knights, they ride the skies
And prick the closed lids of my eyes.

But when in wintertime I sleep
I nothing see, nor nothing hear;
The angels in my spirit keep
A silent watch and being there,
They cause my soul to lie as dead-
A stream enchanted in her bed.

19
The New Ghost

And he, casting away his garment, rose and came to Jesus.

And he cast it down, down, on the green grass,
Over the young crocuses, where the dew was --
He cast the garment of his flesh that was full of death,
And like a sword his spirit showed out of the cold sheath.

He went a pace or two, he went to meet his Lord,
And, as I said, his spirit looked like a clean sword,
And seeing him the naked trees began shivering,
And all the birds cried out aloud as it were late spring.

And the Lord came on, He came down, and saw
That a soul was waiting there for Him, one without flaw,
And they embraced in the churchyard where the robins play,
And the daffodils hang down their heads, as they burn away.

The Lord held his head fast, and you could see
That he kissed the unsheathed ghost that was gone free --
As a hot sun, on a March day, kisses the cold ground;
And the spirit answered, for he knew well that his peace was found.

The spirit trembled, and sprang up at the Lord’s word --
As on a wild, April day, springs a small bird --
So the ghost’s feet lifting him up, he kissed the Lord’s cheek,
And for the greatness of their love neither of them could speak.

But the Lord went then, to show him the way,
Over the young crocuses, under the green may
That was not quite in flower yet -- to a far-distant land;
And the ghost followed, like a naked cloud holding the sun’s hand.

20
The Water Mill

There is a mill, an ancient one,
Brown with rain, and dry with sun,
The miller’s house is joined with it
And in July the swallows flit
To and from, in and out,
Round the windows, all about.
The mill wheel whirrs and the waters roar
Out of the dark arch by the door,
The willows toss their silver heads,
And the phloxes in the garden beds

Turn red, turn grey,
with the time of day,

And smell sweet in the rain, then die away.
The miller’s cat is a tabby, she
Is as lean as a healthy cat can be,
She plays in the loft, where the sunbeams stroke
The sacks’ fat backs, and beetles choke in the floury dust.
The wheel goes round
And the miller’s wife sleeps fast and sound.
There is a clock inside the house,
Very tall and very bright,
It strikes the hour when shadows drowse
Or showers make the windows white;
Loud and sweet, in rain and sun,
The clock strikes, and the work is done.
The miller’s wife and his eldest girl
Clean and cook while the mill wheels whirl.
The children take their meat to school,
And at dusk they play by the twilit pool;

Barefoot, barehead,
till the day is dead,

And their mother calls them in to bed.
The supper stands on the clean-scrubbed board,
And the miller drinks like a thirst lord;
The young men come for his daughter’s sake,
But she never knows which one to take:
She drives her needle and pins her stuff,
While the moon shines gold, and the lamp shines buff.

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Provinziell

rabe489, 04:06h

<quote>Wörterbuchartikel aus dem WDG Info Vollansicht

provinziẹll /Adj./ [.. winzi-ẹll] /lat./ veraltend oft abwertend vom kulturellen Geschehen, den (modischen) Neuerungen der Hauptstadt, einer Großstadt wenig berührt, kleinstädtisch beschränkt: in ihrer Kleidung wirkte sie p.; p. Meinungen, Verhaltensweise; p. Verhältnisse; Er war ... noch einer von der köstlich skurrilen, tief provinziellen idyllischen Art Spitzwegs O. M. Graf Mitmenschen 210

Synonyme für "provinziell":

* dörflich
* hinterwäldlerisch
* ländlich
* muffig
* unterentwickelt
* zurückgeblieben
* engstirnig
* hinterm Mond
* kleinkariert
* kleinstädtisch
* spießig
* von gestern
* kleinbürgerlich
* kleinlich
* pedantisch

</quote>

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Donnerstag, 9. August 2007

Christliche Suchmaschine:

rabe489, 23:18h

Lukas119.de christliche Suchmaschine

- Die christliche CSE* Suchmaschine für Kirche und Religion -

http://www.lukas119.de

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Streit mit dem Islam....?

rabe489, 22:01h

"Im Dialog mit dem Islam auch dem Streit nicht aus dem Weg gehen"
(idea.de) Der Dialog mit dem Islam darf auch einem handfesten Streit nicht aus dem Wege gehen. Streit sei immer auch ein Ausdruck von Interesse, betonte der Präses der Evangelischen Kirche im Rheinland, Nikolaus Schneider (Düsseldorf), am 8. August beim Sommergespräch mit Journalisten in der nordrhein-westfälischen Landeshauptstadt. Der Deutsche Evangelische Kirchentag Anfang Juni in Köln habe, so Schneider, die Notwendigkeit eines offenen und ehrlichen Dialogs unterstrichen. Zugleich stellte sich der leitende Geistliche der mit knapp drei Millionen Mitgliedern zweitgrößten deutschen Landeskirche hinter das von Muslimen heftig kritisierte bemängelte EKD-Papier „Klarheit und gute Nachbarschaft“. Die Muslime sagten nie, was an dieser Schrift konkret falsch sei. Der Zentralrat der Muslime in Deutschland wirft der EKD vor, den Islam unsachlich dargestellt zu haben. Laut Schneider müssen sich die islamischen Verbände in Deutschland auch fragen lassen, wie man in islamischen Ländern mit Christen und ihren Einrichtungen umgeht. Niemand bestreite in Deutschland den Muslimen das Recht auf den Bau von Moscheen. Aber beispielsweise müsse die Türkei zur Kenntnis nehmen, dass Christen auf Kirchen und anderen kirchlichen Einrichtungen dort bestehen.

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Mimikri-Modernität und Provinz-Avantgarde

rabe489, 21:35h

"ben die vielen anderen, in denen die Richtschnur der künstlerischen
Haltung sich erst herausbilden müßte. Für sie bleibt für eine wirk-
liche Auseinandersetzung mit den rasch wechselnden Vorbildern
keine Zeit. Dann kommt es zum Kurzschluß einer Mimikri-Moder-
nität. Nicht der künstlerische Weg, der zu dieser und jener Form
des Vorbilds geführt hat, ist dann maßgebend, sondern nur das
Resultat, das in äußerlicher Weise, sei es wörtlich, sei es abgewan-
delt, imitiert wird. Selbstverständlich gibt es verschiedene Grade
dieser Abhängigkeit: Mimikri ist das eine Extrem, stilistische An-
lehnung aus echten künstlerischen Gründen das andere. Stilistische
Abhängigkeit als solche, uns aus allen Epochen vertraut, ist selbst-
verständlich legitim, denn wem sich durch ein großes Vorbild und
unter seinem Einfluß Möglichkeiten der Gestaltung offenbaren, die
er zu realisieren vermag, wird, auch wenn er sich nicht weit von
der Formenwelt des Vorbilds entfernt, durchaus echte Kunst schaf-
fen. An den großen Modestilwellen, welche das Schaffen der
Provinz-Avantgarde jeweils überfluten, ist jedoch nicht nur solche
echte Abhängigkeit beteiligt, sondern auch der Wille, up to date zu
sein. Man konnte das an den Wellen verfolgen, die seit anfangs
der Fünfzigerjahre Europa überschwemmten: zuerst „Ecole de
Paris "-Abstraktion in verschiedenen Spielarten, danach „Tachis-
mus", „Lyrische Abstraktion", „Informel" und „Pop-Art", seither
neue Geometrie von „Op" zu „Minimal".

Das viele nur Epigonale dieser akzelerierten Nachfolge bedeutet
kein großes Unglück, da es ja immer rasch vergessen wird. Mehr
Gewicht hat, daß auch das Schöpferische selbst vom Aktualitäts-
kult bedroht wird. Schon die Star-Rolle, die dem begabten jungen
Künstler zugeschoben wird, wenn er mit einer erfundenen oder
eben gerade in seinen Wirkungskreis importierten Form aufzuwar-
ten hat, stellt psychologische Probleme. Daß sich der allesver-
schlingende Aktualitätshunger bei der nächsten Schraubenbewe-
gung mit einer ebenso betonten Kaltstellung an ihm rächt, stellt
wiederum andere psychologische und meist auch ökonomische Pro-
bleme, die der ruhigen künstlerischen Entwicklung nicht förderlich
sind. Es kann sich dann die künstlerische Kraft, wo ihr keine
entsprechende Gesinnung zur Seite steht, in einer verzweifelten
Anpassung an den modischen Stilwandel geradezu aufzehren. Ein
solcher Verschleiß echter schöpferischer Möglichkeiten muß unter
den negativen Aspekten der Integration der Kunst und des Kunst-
betriebes in die modische Konsumwelt aufgeführt werden."

Zitiert aus: Franz Meyer, Bildende Kunst und Aktualität, in: Rudolf W. Meyer (Hrsg): Das Problem des Fortschrittes - Heute. Darmstadt (Wiss. Buchgesell.) 1969

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Mittwoch, 8. August 2007

R. V. W.

rabe489, 23:24h

Mir schweben jetzt Zwei-Meter-Landschaften als Öle, jeweils eine für jede Symphonie vor. Hab richtig Hunger danach

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Ralph Vaughan Williams in Dorking

rabe489, 23:16h

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R. V. W.: 4. Symphonie

rabe489, 23:08h

Ralph Vaughan Williams
Symphony #4 in F minor (1934)
Introduction & Recommended Performances

One of his most dissonant symphonies, oddly enough, this is one of Vaughan Williams's most frequently-performed works. We normally think of Vaughan Williams as a "pastoral" composer--modal, melodic, meditative, folky--but in truth his range is far more wide. To those of you who know only the Tallis Fantasia, Linden Lea, the Mass in G minor, or the English Folk-Song Suite, this symphony will surprise you.

As a Vaughan Williams fan, I have to say this work isn't really typical of him, not because of its dissonance (many of his works are dissonant, written in several different simultaneous keys, etc.), but because it's probably the closest thing he wrote to a conventional symphony. Conductors who can't make structural sense of something like the meditative Symphony No. 3 (the "Pastoral"), find more helpful signposts here. As a result, more conductors not particularly associated with his work have recorded it. Of the recorded performances, I like Boult, Bernstein, and Previn--in that order. I haven't heard the newer crop of conductors: Thomson, Hickox, Handley, or Davis. However, none of the performances cited above match the composer's own. If you can stand the 1937 sound, get this recording. For a nice compromise between interpretation and sound, get the Boult.

The British composer William Walton, at that time having troubles completing his own symphony and having been to the rehearsals of Vaughan Williams's 4th, reported glumly to a friend, "You are about to hear the greatest symphony since Beethoven." As serious criticism, we can blow it off, but it does indicate the symphony's considerable impact at a first hearing. Indeed, its impact has given rise to several misunderstandings of the work--notably, that it prophesied the rise of Fascism. Something this powerful MUST mean something. But this view, of course, came later, in the 40s. At its 1935 premiere, no one connected this with Fascism, and the composer always strenuously insisted it was pure music. Vaughan Williams's friends found it to express his humor and his "poisonous temper." The composer himself deprecated the symphony in very well-known remarks. He described the opening grinding dissonances as "cribbed from the finale of Beethoven's ninth." To a musician's questioning of a certain note, he replied, "It looks wrong and it sounds wrong, but it's right." "I don't know whether I like it, but it's what I meant." Actually, the composer protested too much. I believe the symphony expresses some inner program, but it is precisely because it talks about "inner weather" (to borrow Frost's happy term about poets) that it remains hidden. People also thought that the symphony was unprecedented in Vaughan Williams's output, but in fact it culminates a phase that began in the 20s, at least with the powerful oratorio Sancta Civitas, and continued through the ballet Job and the piano concerto. Indeed, the piano concerto lies very close in spirit and method to the symphony.

I've called this work the closest Vaughan Williams ever came to a conventional, or classical, symphony. If we define classicism in music as an architectural principle based on symmetry or even as pouring new wine into the sonata-allegro form, Vaughan Williams isn't particularly classical. However, what I would call the "classical process" is there in spades. Composers like Mozart and Beethoven don't begin with elements as complete as "themes," but at the lower level of "cell" or "motive." From cells, they construct themes. By recombining cells, altering rhythms, etc., they get new themes. Mozart plays this game especially well. This method gives a work great unity. Beethoven extended the principle across movements of a piece, in works like the 5th symphony and the 4th piano concerto, thus tightening up a work even more. This is the game Vaughan Williams plays. He grows an entire symphony from a few cells.

I've mentioned before that one of problems of the Romantic symphony was that it based itself on song or theme rather than cell, especially someone like Borodin. The songs are great, but his symphonies don't cohere like Brahms's. Actually, very few composers write great songs and great symphonies. Mozart, Schubert, Brahms, Schumann, Mahler, and Vaughan Williams come to mind. But, in effect, all these guys lead two artistic lives. They work one way when they write songs and another when they write the big instrumental works. As most of you know, the English folk song strongly influenced Vaughan Williams's idiom, but by that time he had been thoroughly trained in the Brahms tradition under its leading British exemplars, Parry and Stanford (see Vaughan Williams's Toward the Unknown Region, especially, for a look at him pre-folk--and pre-Ravel). A very sturdy skeleton supports Vaughan Williams's most emotionally rhapsodic works--rhapsodic almost never degenerates to episodic.

I hope to show that this symphony is also about counterpoint. Yet, despite the formidable compositional technique, ultimately the power of this symphony lies beyond words and analysis. Vaughan Williams is so at home in the symphony, that he constructs movements without the usual signposts. You take the path "less traveled by," but you get to the end without confusion. Vaughan Williams is a poet of the form.

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Ralph Vaughan Williams 3.

rabe489, 22:59h

Habe mir sämtliche neun Symphonien von ihm (gest. 1958) für unter 20 € besorgt. Bin süchtig nach dieser Musik und höre sie mit Herzklopfen. Oft sehr leidenschaftliche Partien, aber auch meditativ und einfach unbeschreiblich. Ein neue Liebe seit vorgestern, obwohl ich zur Studienzeit schon R.V.W. gehört habe. Eine Musik, die erlöst.

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Ralph Vaughan Williams 2.

rabe489, 22:41h

10. April 1935: Uraufführung der 4. Symphonie von Vaughan Williams in London. Wer den ersten Satz - das Allegro - noch nicht gehört hat, sollte das umgehend tun. Dieser umwerfende Satz reicht ganz an Beethoven und ist wohl ein musikalischer Höhepunkt des 20. Jahrhunderts.

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Der Fall ...

rabe489, 05:44h

Der verantwortliche Redakteur für die seit Jahrzehnten stattfindende Manipulation der Gelsenkirchener Kultur - sei es willentlich (unwahrscheinlich) oder aus Dummheit - heißt .... Er ist der typische Repräsentant einer Kultur- und Kunstauffassung des Gestrigen, wo alles als machbar gilt, wo die Idee eines grenzenlosen Fortschritts den Verstand verwirrt und in der der Mensch in das Korsett der geraden Linie und des rechten Winkels zu zwingen versucht wird. Unter solchen Journalisten gelten die Phänomene der Metropolen als seliger Massstab und Vorbild - aber immer erst zwei Jahrzehnte zu spät, so dass die Provinzialität der Kunst in Gelsenkirchen ihr Gesicht bekommt. Es sind diese Leute, die das kulturelle Leben in Gelsenkirchen vergiften. Sie machen aus der Kunst in Gelsenkirchen eine zutiefst langweilige Angelegenheit, da ihre Optik immer nur die bekannten und abgelutschen Ideen zu formulieren vermag. Innovative Gedanken sind nicht ihre Sache. Sie kümmern sich nur um das alte, scheinbar Bewährte und stützen damit eine Weltsicht, die den Menschen am Ort selisch krank macht.

Es ist an der Zeit, höchste Zeit, den solcher Art ewig Gestrigen den Kampf zu erklären und die Dinge beim Namen zu nennen. Es ist die Verantwortung für die Menschen in Gelsenkirchen, die den wachen Kulturschaffenden treiben muß, die Verantwortung den jungen Menschen gegenüber; ihnen mehr zu bieten an Visionen und Perspektiven durch eine andere Kultur und Kunst am Ort, als es die katastrophale Weltsicht der Väter und Großväter je fantasieren konnten.

Es geht nicht darum, den in der Kritik stehenden Menschen - Intellektuelle und "Geistesarbeiter" - den Mund zu verbieten: es muß vielmehr ein kämpferischer Dialog entwickelt werden, der die allseitige Krise der Kultur und Kunst beim Namen nennt und an einem Bewusstsein von der Notwendigkeit arbeitet, die Welt auch mit künstlerischen Mittel menschlicher zu gestalten.

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