Sometimes I'm Lyrical

I have a confession to make: sometimes I like lyricism.

In my college music composition study, I worked on a violin unaccompanied sonata for an upcoming master class. For the first movement, I took a five-note motif and stretched it, condensed it, turned it upside-down and inside-out. I layered it in fugue and counterpoint. I syncopated its rhythm with hemiola.

In other words, I made that sucker work.

For the second movement, from the same five-note motif, I created an idyllic, fairy-inspired melody.
Proud of my gut-wrenching, music-changing first movement, I showed the work to my professor.

“Nice ideas in the first movement, but the second movement is where you really shine.” He pointed his long, bony finger at me. (Okay, so it wasn’t really bony, although it was long, but bony fingers make better stories.) “In this lyricism, I begin to see you.”

Harsh words to take as a young composer. It got worse.

“You need to indulge yourself and allow this second movement to expand.”

Horror of horrors. But, oh no, this man wasn’t finished.

“I’d like you to use the second movement for the master class.”

This, I could not take. Real music was supposed to be dark, edgy, and strident. It should be misunderstood by the masses. It should be brooding. I would be mocked by my fellow composers, most of whom wore black clothes and darkened brow. (I like bright colors and fun scarves, especially the scarves.)

Don’t get me wrong. I can brood with the best of them. But apparently, I am also lyrical.

I slunk into the class, second movement in hand, and prayed the visiting composer would dally over the students ahead of me. To be honest, I don’t remember much of the masterclass. I remember more the dread upon entering. Needless to say, the visiting composer did not discover me that day.

We live in a post-fill-in-the-blank (try modern, scientific, 9/11, Audrey Hepburn) society. It has been globalized, Hollywoodized, and traumatized. If the artist records her relationship to the world and to other humans, the despair of earthquake attacks, war, broken relationships, among other things, make their way onto canvas. Or page, as the case may be. No wonder art is (and perhaps should be) dark, edgy, strident, and brooding. We’re sick of bows that tie things together neatly when our wrapping paper’s burnt and ripped.

We forget in this fallen state that God created the world good, that he marked humans with the Imago Dei, and that he is in process of re-creating, restoring, and resurrecting the earth and everything in it.

Thy kingdom come,

Thy will be done,

On earth as it is in heaven.

In this re-creation, we find lyricism—not a sentimentalism that forgets the work and scars of Christ, nor a sentimentalism that indulges in pain without hope, or at least the offering of hope (sentimentalism, meaning then as indulging in emotion for the sake of the emotion). This doesn’t negate the need for the dark, edgy, strident, and brooding works. They remind us of the fallen condition between Genesis 3 and Revelation 21.

But sometimes the Holy Spirit sneaks in riffs and lyrical phrases from Revelation 21 and 22.

Heather A. Goodman is finding the lyricism of the Caribbean this week. Don't be jealous. It doesn't become you. When not on an actual beach (with actual, gritty sand between her toes), she's usually conjuring her own waves at http://heatheragoodman.com.

Comments

[Nicole]

That timely vibrant lyricism breaks and sometimes even crushes the monotony of brooding hopelessness.

Enjoy the blue water and the mirror sun, H.

[Jeanne Damoff]

Darkness may brood, but as long as there are fireflies, lyricism lives on.

Lovely post, Heather. And welcome to The Master's Artist!

[Tracey Michae'l Lewis-Giggetts]

Yes, yes, yes! That's all I really have. :) Great post!

[Madison Richards]

Welcome welcome Heather! So glad to have you on board!

Wonderfully melodic prose...