Sonata: une vererrie éphémère

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The title of this piece is taken from one of the late sonnets by Mallarmé, Surgi de la croupe et du bond. I loved the idea of a rose which cannot be contained by its vase (or a word that cannot be contained by its poem), and I fealt that there were many interesting ways in which this very dramatic idea could be explored through an intersection of this ensemble - flute, viola and harp - and the notion of a "conatainer" - late 19th century sonata form. This sonata is a single movement piece which outlines (partially and superficially, at least) the form of a post-classical sonata, although its shape could also be likened to some romntic ternary character pieces as well. Throughout the piece, there is a continual tension between that which is expected and that which is interuptive.

The main challenge that I set for myself when composing this piece was not only to avoid Debussy-isms wherever possible, but, more importantly, to achieve an agressive, propulsive, and visceral quality with the ensemble - an instrumentation which is traditionally associated with diametrically opposed traits. I also tried very hard to omit obvious harp cliches while keeping the harp part idiomatic and playable. Additionally, it was an interesting challenge to find ways of working in a highly chromatic language without sacrificing the equality of the harp's role in the counterpoint. All this resulted in a quite virtuosic harp part, and I am forever grateful to harpist Bridget Kibbey for all of her hard work and incredibly helpful advice.

Surgi de la croupe et du bond
D'une verrerie éphémère
Sans fleurir la veillée amère
Le col ignoré s'interrompt.

Je crois bien que deux bouches n'ont
Bu, ni son amant ni ma mère,
Jamais à la même Chimère,
Moi, sylphe de ce froid plafond !

Le pur vase d'aucun breuvage
Que l'inexhaustible veuvage
Agonise mais ne consent,

Naïf baiser des plus funèbres !
A rien expirer annonçant
Une rose dans les ténèbres.

Sprung from the croup and the flight
Of an ephemeral vase,
Without flowering the long, bitter night,
The neck, stopped short and forgotten, must pause.

I well believe that two mouths never,
Neither my mother nor her lover,
Drank the same phantasy,
I, sylph of this cold ceiling!

The pure vase of any potion
Save the widowhood unspent
Dies but does not consent,

Naive kiss of the most funereal!
To breathe an annunciation
of a rose in the darkness.

[translation adapted by Ryan Streber from editions by C.F. MacIntyre and Henry Weinfield]