Recently I came across a statement that seemed to me most precise: "While other arts try to influence us through persuasion, music seeks ro astonish us." The phenomenon of music certainly has this rare quality although it is usually the mysterious silence that precedes the emergence of a tone which fascinates me the most. For silence may also be regarded as music followed by a world of sound.

I have tried, to the best of my modest abilities, to relate to this delicate realm in Abii ne viderem. It is difficult for me to say anything else about the composition since all of us have very personal emotions and we try to express them in our own way.

Out of music comes silence, and sometimes silence itself turns into music. It is my dream to achieve silence of this kind.

Filling spaces that have been deserted
The music of Giya Kancheli

From the countries of the disbanded Soviet Union, the word "God" has been sounding for sonic time now with indisputable clarity. (It would be wrong to speak of the "voice of God" although this interpretation often follows hard on disappointment, despair and longing.) The second advent of religion, reflected of course in ecclesiastical restitution, is not only a footnote to the dialectics of enlightenment but quite simply the late though logical fruits of terror. Over a period of more than seventy years of prescribed atheism, religion was for many a forbidden, underground spring of opposition, but the end of Soviet Socialism has demonstrated how quickly official oppression will fade and make way for the revival of cherished beliefs.

     The work of many renowned composers from the former Soviet Union has indeed been motivated by religious sentiment: Arvo Part, Alfred Schnittke, Sofia Gubaidulina, Edison Denisov, Valentij Silvestrov - and, in a particular sense, Giya Kancheli. Is this renascent devotion (which is, incidentally, not only a post-Soviet Empire phenomenon) a typical consequence of existential destitution and spiritual underdevelopment in the East? And what does it have to do with people in the rich, enlightened West? We might magnanimously overlook the seemingly old-fashioned attitude of the East as we do the pitiful chic of the current garment industry in Russia. But we cannot feel at ease simply shrugging off the fact that Russia is behind the times. For all is not well in the stare of modern Westernism either. The metaphor"God" rings distant bells: a loss of humanity,a lack of emotional warmth, atrophied appreciation of minor details or modest and unspectacular achievements. Ironically, man in the age of science faces a paucity of genuinely "cybernertic", comprehensivc knowledge that would permanently guarantee the survival of the species. The invocation of God (declared an illusion by Sigmund Freud not entirely without justification) is the"shortcut" that many people evidently need, not only because our life span is much too short for circumspect "long paths" but also because consolation is a precious commodity in a desolate age. Confrontation with extremes (war, illness, death) tends to arouse religious feelings. The realization that the planet Earth and the life it has spawned are virtually nothing by cosmic standards is apparently difficult to accept without recourse to "another" reality such as the promise of religion.

     The death of God, proclaimed by Friedrich Nietzsche more than a hundred years ago (though not necessarily with greater credibility), has not occured in the West either. Words like"God", "fate", "chance", describe hidden forces that elude men's grasp, as echoed in the ancient theological designation deus absconditus - which also hints at the problem ofdirect contact with this authority, i.e., the problem that goes by the name of communication. The final word on God will probably have to wait until the last person has disappeared from the face of the earth. Thus, no one need turn a blushing or offended deaf ear to artists of the East when they speak of God. They are speaking of something that concerns us as well - although we may not entirely understand their language or unconditionally share all of their feelings.

     Giya Kancheli was born in the capital of Georgia, Tbilisi (Tiflis) in 1935. His early work was influenced above all by Bartók and the extraordinarily varied and lively (Trans)caucasian folklore. He worked with modern theater artists in his country, acquired experience writing film scores, and heard steadily more of the latest music from the West and the United States. Given their situation, it was only natural that Soviet artists attached immense value to all information from the West. The western avant-garde and its output were an extremely remote but not utterly unattainable world. In recent compositions, as in the last of his seven symphonies, Kancheli has found a highly individual compositional style that has gradually departed from traditionalist elements and is characterized by a modern yet unorthodox approach. Since 1992 Kancheli has spent most of his time in Berlin. In the wake of an even more intense encounter with the West, he has pared down his musical idiom, the religious connotations of his compositions becoming more apparent in the process. One cannot help but think of his peer from Estonia, Arvo Pärt. Kancheli's quest for elementary, understated, clarified expression is, however, slightly refracted. Pärt's radical nonsubjectivity and asceticism border on the virtues of medieval monasticism, which can, of course, also be read as a modern act of profound refusal and stylization. By contrast, Kancheli's simplicity shows powerful expressive gestures, explosive eruptions of subjectivity. The serenely contemplative mood conveyed by his music does not preclude an undercurrent of potential catastrophe.

     An important key to Kancheli's music is found in wonderful words, in which the composer seems to have distilled his entire aesthetic: "I feel more as if I were filling a space that has been deserted." It is a poetics of tragedy, abandonment, memory, of loneliness at graves and in rubble, of an uninhabited, tranquil landscape of the soul revitalized by "nature", where the eternal voices of night (and of a dead god) are heard. One is also reminded of the deadened, contaminated sphere in Tarkovsky's film Stalker. There is an undeniable affinity between Kancheli's and religious existentialist Tarkovsky's measured gravity. The "space that has been deserted" also symbolizes the loss of a native land. In the West, Kancheli thinks of himself as a Georgian; in Georgia, the country he grew up in, a country ravaged by poverty and ethnic war, he must feel like a "Westerner".

     Igor Stravinsky, Russian emigrant and devout orthodox Christian, chose to use Latin for the religious works he composed in the West, as in his Symphony of Psalms, not only to underscore the universality of this musical credo but also perhaps as an indication of rootlessness: Latin combined with a conspicuously Russian musical idiom produces a sense of alienation. The same might be said to apply to Kancheli's "prayers". They too incorporate parts of the Latin liturgy. But his compositions are a far cry from the liturgical musical fare of Roman Catholic provenance. While Rachmaninoff, for example, wrote strictly Mass-oriented (Russian) ritual music in his extensive a cappella sacred compositions, Kancheli wrote religiously inspired music for the concert hall. He also avoided any direct reference to Georgian-Orthodox tradition. In a sense, this homo religiosus speaks to us as a man without a country, a stranger caught between the Christian cultures of East and West.

     Morning Prayers and Evening Prayers belong to a four-part cycle with the enigmatically associative title "Life without Christmas" (possibly influenced by the title of Mussorgsl<y's song cycle, Without Sun). The choice of instruments is variable; voices are included but do not dominate the score. In Morning Prayers, the boy alto's part and the extremely discreet organ part are taped. This technical device allows a spatial distance that lends them an emblematic, symbolic function in contrast to the live sound of the instrumental ensemble (alto flute, piano, violins, violas, cellos, contrabass, bass guitar). The dramaturgy, the poetics, the aura of this vocal effect recall the immaterialized materiality of angel voices evoked by the old organ stop vox coelestis. At the same time, the boy's part transfigures and transcends the imploring voice of supplication ("Domine, exaudi vocem meam"). The piece fittingly draws to a close in pure E-major, paraphrased by a delicate piano motif that distantly echoes the classical and romantic poetry of the piano. Prior to this, the violins had infinitely slowly climbed up to the octave above the d'''', while the bass gradually settled into the key of E-major. The solemn, measured tranquillity of the music is twice interrupted by vivace sections ("Con tutta forza e barbaro") that are reminiscent of the wildly imploring underworld spirits in Gluck's Orfeo ed Euridice. The effect of these extremely fortissimo passages is all the more startling against the background of a dynamic that is barely on the verge of audibility. Clusters of piano or string sounds also remain subdued, as if plucked so that the piano often acquires a harp-like or bell-like quality. In the course of the composition, there are repeated "tonal" formations but not in the sense of traditionally functional harmonics. At times several tonalities are carried along in a hovering balance, occasionally broken by abrupt interweaving.

    Although not explicitly part of the "Life without Christmas" compositions, the piece Abii ne viderem certainly shares their spiritual, religious context. The title (I turned away so as not to see) exposes a raw existentialism. In a narrower sense it circumscribes Kancheli's biographical background, for he left his native country at a time when atrocities were on the rise. No committed artist can find comfort in the thought of having escaped personal danger - there is no consolation for the pain and shame caused by the fate of relatives, friends, compatriots. In a broader sense, the message conveyed by this title must affect all those who are acutely aware of their impotence in a world threatened by war and violence. Abii ne viderem is a vehement musical lament whose gesture of refusal does not signify aversion to suffering but rather containment of the self in the face of unwavering, keenly remembered pain. The piece, scored for strings, bass guitar, piano (the latter played more in the strings than on the keyboard) and solo viola, consists of several, strikingly simple elements. The beginning is characterized by two contrasting moods: one single, softly repeated note on the viola and an impetuous unison motif with small intervals for the strings, whose ambit increases each time it appears. This figure is soon transformed into brusque, unison jumps of large intervals. Restrained lines make only brief showings amongst these basic elements repeatedly, even in tutti sections, the music falters, as if to hold its breath, only to break into furioso attacks. At the end calm is restored to the first motif introduced by the strings and now played by the solo viola, interrupted (prestissimo furioso) one final time by the unison jumps. The composition, now in the key of C, draws to a close with the delicate, ethereal flageolet tones of the viola and aspiring chord figures on the piano that gently and imperceptibly jar this tonality. Kancheli's treatment of tonality is as unconventional in this piece as it is in "Life without Christmas". The splintered insertion of "Baroque" or "early Classical" configurations recalls Alfred Schnittke's polystylistic approach.

     Kancheli undoubtedly feels an affinity with Schnittke, to whom he has dedicated Evening Prayers from the "Life without Christmas" Cycle. Like the other two pieces, Evening Prayers also consists of one movement and is similar in character and length. The relatively large ensemble, however, signals rhetorical intensification, with its imposing combination of alto flute (alternating with the piccolo), oboe, horn, two trumpets, two trombones, a tuba, a variety of percussion instruments, piano, the usual strings and the bass guitar. Nonetheless, the piece shows the lightness of chamber music throughout, only rarely exploiting the impact of the tutti ensemble. Once again, the music is extremely calm almost to the point of immobility (as in some of Tarkovsky's film sequences). The metronome marking is at 48 to 50 for the eighth note but the melodic line often consists of quarter and half notes so that even familiar harmonic sequences seem stretched, estranged, almost frozen. Towards the end, the metric rhythm is abandoned; it is broken up or severed by explosive eruptions, convulsive outbursts gestures of rebellion or onslaughts of uncontrollable violence. The music then returns to its questioning, attentive delicacy. Tonality is another of those things abandoned by many composers, but still of concern to Giya Kancheli. Inconsolably consoled, he gazes into the graves of Rachmaninoff and Shostakovich.

     Voices play a larger role in Evening Prayers than in Morning Prayers. Eight, mostly unison alto voices produce an independent, relatively continuous layer of sound. (The use of male alto or countertenor voice in this performance by the Hilliard Ensemble brings the sublimely estranging impact of the music into sharp focus). Here the symbolic character of the human voice, recalling Mahler's evocation of cowbells, is particularly notable. For Kancheli, it is a sign of something "entirely other" - not in the setting of a natural sound treated as an objet trouvé (as in Mahler's music) but rather as a transfigured, utopian expression of humanity.

     Little, perhaps too little, has been said here of Georgia, that ancient civilization between Europe and Asia, barely known in the West, in which Giya Kanchcli's art is undeniably rooted. For music lovers in the West, it would be certainly fascinating to study Kancheli's ties with Georgia, thereby making the close acquaintance of an original, self-assured musical culture that has successfully distinguished itself from its big Russian brother since the mid 19th century. (Important Georgian composers like Zakhar Petrovich Paliashvily looked less to national Russian composers than to Tchaikovsky). The understated Georgian aspect of Kancheli's oeuvre finds justification in a motive that was spelled out by Milan Kundera in honoring his compatriot Leos Janácek. In the "minor context" of Czech music, Janácek ranks third in this small country after the national heroes, Smetana and Dvorák.

     According to (not only) Kundera, he is one of the greats of this century, if not of all time. It is necessary to appreciate him in terms of the European context as a whole, to measure him against international standards. Giya Kancheli is no different. He is not (only) a composer from a small, almost forgotten country on the outskirts of Europe and modern civilization; he is undoubtedly part of the "larger context" of the major music of our time and - as far as we can gauge from our humble perspective - of all time.