Medusa (2010-2012)
Work for Medusa began in the summer of 2010 when I met with my friend, the writer Anika Torruella, in D.C. to discuss the possibility of working on a project together. I had been interested in writing a solo cantata since I first heard Benjamin Britten’s cantata, Phaedra the previous year. While poring over stories from mythology, I came across Caravaggio’s painting of Medusa from 1597. In the eyes of Medusa, the artist captured a look filled with fear and vulnerability, along with the horror of the spilling blood and the writhing snakes atop her head. Her multifaceted persona, which is so often depicted as a one-dimensional scourge, attracted me to the character, as well as her forced exile into isolation. Did she deserve the reputation given to her? Was she as malicious as she seemed?
Inspired by the painting, I began to search for texts in the public domain that could provide a libretto for the cantata. Finding only a few examples, most of which proved to be epic Victorian pieces relating the story of Jason and the Argonauts, I proposed the project to Anika, who immediately had ideas of how to present the psychological make-up of the character without explicitly referencing the story. We formulated a plan for the libretto, which emphasized the complexity and humanity of the character. The only reminder of the Medusa tale, outside of the character’s inner thoughts, lies in the last line of every stanza: “When the men with the silver swords came, I screamed.”
I composed the first stanza in the fall of 2010 and presented the piece on a composition recital at James Madison University. I intended the cantata to be the centerpiece of my Master’s degree recital in the spring of 2011. However, scheduling difficulties with the percussion studio thwarted my efforts and I left the piece unfinished while I prepared works that could be performed. Knowing that I wanted to complete the composition and have the work as a whole premiered, I kept my eye out for sopranos at Peabody with the proficiency to take on the demanding role. When I heard Lisa Perry sing in Postcards from Morocco last year, I knew she had the range and the musicality to handle this difficult work.
The cantata is separated into five stanzas that demarcate different aspects of Medusa’s psyche and the tactics she uses to forestall death. I have titled the stanzas myself in the program, revealing how I approached the arc of the drama as a composer. In some ways, I imagine the entire piece as taking place in the split second before Medusa is beheaded, time slowed down and events happening in cinematic flashbacks. The work opens with a high solo in the bass, reminiscent of an ancient instrument and representing Medusa’s sorrow, which is accompanied by the sounds of ocean waves as she stands on the shore looking out into the water. In the first stanza, Medusa tries to stave off death by conjuring up a spell of terror. In between the eruptions of her wildly leaping vocal line, evidence of both her melancholia and the oncoming army of men can be heard in the music.
In the second stanza, Medusa taunts death with a jolting and erratic dance. In between the sections of the dance, she intones an expansive melody, displaying her immortal prowess. These melodies alternate with extensive coloratura passages, in which she laughs at the threat of death. The third stanza presents a more sombre depiction of the character. Medusa tries to reason with death, pleads with him, showing her more vulnerable persona. The ensemble, particularly the string section, supports her as never before, with a much warmer tone. The winds and percussion echo Medusa’s sentiments with fragments of her melodies.
Suddenly, the mood shifts in the fourth stanza. The drums pound out the inevitability of her fate. The instrumentalists become more savage, yelling and stamping. Medusa begins to feel overwhelmed by her fate. The rhythm around her turns erratic and uncontrolled. She speaks and yells instead of singing, trying to overcome the unyielding music. The ensemble seems to surround her rather then accompany her, as if they have revealed themselves to be in collusion with her ever-approaching executioner.
Two alternating snare drums announce the beginning of the fifth stanza and the entrance of the soon-to-be assassins. Medusa tries postpone her inexorable fate using every tactic attempted in the work so far, but to no avail. The men are almost upon her. The wind instruments writhe wildly, portraying the snakes on her head, while the unrelenting march continues underneath and Medusa begins to lose her mind in the chaos. She emits a final, savage cry when, with a sudden stop to the action, the opening bass solo returns, echoed in the clarinet. Time is again suspended, awaiting impending death. Just as Medusa nears a place of tranquility, the silver sword slices across throat and her lifeless head thuds to the ground.
Work for Medusa began in the summer of 2010 when I met with my friend, the writer Anika Torruella, in D.C. to discuss the possibility of working on a project together. I had been interested in writing a solo cantata since I first heard Benjamin Britten’s cantata, Phaedra the previous year. While poring over stories from mythology, I came across Caravaggio’s painting of Medusa from 1597. In the eyes of Medusa, the artist captured a look filled with fear and vulnerability, along with the horror of the spilling blood and the writhing snakes atop her head. Her multifaceted persona, which is so often depicted as a one-dimensional scourge, attracted me to the character, as well as her forced exile into isolation. Did she deserve the reputation given to her? Was she as malicious as she seemed?
Inspired by the painting, I began to search for texts in the public domain that could provide a libretto for the cantata. Finding only a few examples, most of which proved to be epic Victorian pieces relating the story of Jason and the Argonauts, I proposed the project to Anika, who immediately had ideas of how to present the psychological make-up of the character without explicitly referencing the story. We formulated a plan for the libretto, which emphasized the complexity and humanity of the character. The only reminder of the Medusa tale, outside of the character’s inner thoughts, lies in the last line of every stanza: “When the men with the silver swords came, I screamed.”
I composed the first stanza in the fall of 2010 and presented the piece on a composition recital at James Madison University. I intended the cantata to be the centerpiece of my Master’s degree recital in the spring of 2011. However, scheduling difficulties with the percussion studio thwarted my efforts and I left the piece unfinished while I prepared works that could be performed. Knowing that I wanted to complete the composition and have the work as a whole premiered, I kept my eye out for sopranos at Peabody with the proficiency to take on the demanding role. When I heard Lisa Perry sing in Postcards from Morocco last year, I knew she had the range and the musicality to handle this difficult work.
The cantata is separated into five stanzas that demarcate different aspects of Medusa’s psyche and the tactics she uses to forestall death. I have titled the stanzas myself in the program, revealing how I approached the arc of the drama as a composer. In some ways, I imagine the entire piece as taking place in the split second before Medusa is beheaded, time slowed down and events happening in cinematic flashbacks. The work opens with a high solo in the bass, reminiscent of an ancient instrument and representing Medusa’s sorrow, which is accompanied by the sounds of ocean waves as she stands on the shore looking out into the water. In the first stanza, Medusa tries to stave off death by conjuring up a spell of terror. In between the eruptions of her wildly leaping vocal line, evidence of both her melancholia and the oncoming army of men can be heard in the music.
In the second stanza, Medusa taunts death with a jolting and erratic dance. In between the sections of the dance, she intones an expansive melody, displaying her immortal prowess. These melodies alternate with extensive coloratura passages, in which she laughs at the threat of death. The third stanza presents a more sombre depiction of the character. Medusa tries to reason with death, pleads with him, showing her more vulnerable persona. The ensemble, particularly the string section, supports her as never before, with a much warmer tone. The winds and percussion echo Medusa’s sentiments with fragments of her melodies.
Suddenly, the mood shifts in the fourth stanza. The drums pound out the inevitability of her fate. The instrumentalists become more savage, yelling and stamping. Medusa begins to feel overwhelmed by her fate. The rhythm around her turns erratic and uncontrolled. She speaks and yells instead of singing, trying to overcome the unyielding music. The ensemble seems to surround her rather then accompany her, as if they have revealed themselves to be in collusion with her ever-approaching executioner.
Two alternating snare drums announce the beginning of the fifth stanza and the entrance of the soon-to-be assassins. Medusa tries postpone her inexorable fate using every tactic attempted in the work so far, but to no avail. The men are almost upon her. The wind instruments writhe wildly, portraying the snakes on her head, while the unrelenting march continues underneath and Medusa begins to lose her mind in the chaos. She emits a final, savage cry when, with a sudden stop to the action, the opening bass solo returns, echoed in the clarinet. Time is again suspended, awaiting impending death. Just as Medusa nears a place of tranquility, the silver sword slices across throat and her lifeless head thuds to the ground.