Always check your sources and never blog at 1 a.m.

OK. The demise of guitar masses is not impending. The Daily Breakfast podcast has a great discussion of what was actually said (with reference to the Italian original). Here's another article with the raw facts. A pope, making comments after a concert, is not making an ex cathedra pronouncement.

"An authentic updating of sacred music cannot occur except in line with the great tradition of the past, of Gregorian Chant, and of sacred polyphony. This is why, in the musical field, as well as in that of other artistic forms, the ecclesial community has always promoted and supported those who investigate new expressive ways without rejecting the past, the history of the human spirit, which is also the history of its dialogue with God."

And I can agree with that. It's more or less the point I was trying to make last night.

A few disconnected thoughts, because it's late and I need to get to sleep...

At first, the composer in me thought "thank God" when I read this. I've long hated guitar music in the Mass, especially since most of the hymns played on it are really bad music. What we bring to the Mass and the liturgy should be our best, and frankly much of the music written after 1970 really sucks.

But...it makes me wonder what a modernization of the older polyphonic and chant really is. Granted, it's a crappy news article with a few choice blurbs, but when people mean "classical" music, they don't usually mean that which was written in living memory. Somehow I don't think we'll be hearing Lou Harrison's setting of the Mass anytime soon, either. Or Penderecki's.

If one looks at the early history of music in the Church and advancements in music, up until the rise of secular and instrumental music, they happened in liturgical music. Settings of the Mass, for instance, mimicked what was going on in other areas of western art music. (One can debate whether or not they were concert pieces or liturgical pieces, however.) Then in the early 20th century (around 1903), things got a bit more conservative under Pius X. I see the liturgical reforms of Vatican II as they affected music to be still under this influence. The music itself hasn't kept pace with what's been going on in the western art music scene.

When's the last time you heard of a big-name composer, who had a commission to set the Mass? How often do you hear calls for scores for music with a liturgical theme? Not half as often as for secular ensembles. That's where the money is, and I can't blame composers for wanting to eat and pay rent.

For those who might not be familiar with canon law (and Roman law), the things set down in the GIRM (the General Instruction to the Roman Missal, which provides the rubrics for liturgy), are the best-case scenario, something to aspire to. Even if guitar music was made inappropriate for liturgy tomorrow, odds are not everyone would follow it, or it would take years to phase out.

Even though I hate guitar Masses with a burning passion, if I'm not serving at that particular Mass, I can avoid it. And even when I am an altar server, odds are I'm not focusing on the music. But for the 200 people or so who go to that Mass faithfully, it's music that gives their worship meaning. Rather than ruin their fun, I can go to a different Mass, or offer my discomfort up. (In theory...the ABD doctoral student in me normally grumbles about it first.)

But I think the whole snarking at guitar music is really a symbol of a larger problem: there has been no innovation in liturgical music for the past 100 years. I think that's a more dire problem, than whether or not the current Pope prefers Mozart to Marty Haugen.

Edit: Yes, I realize there have been settings of the Mass from Faure, Stravinsky, Durufle, and others. But if you go to Mass any given Sunday, you won't hear it. That's what I'm talking about, everyday liturgical music--once riddled with good music from composers who did stuff in both sacred and secular realms--is devoid of any innovation. If you're lucky, you might get a Mozart setting on Christmas or Easter.

It's 90 out, and there are heat advisories and stagnant air warnings, so I'm holed up on the laptop in a library. Fortunately the extensive libraries on campus are air-conditioned, and empty, even though it's the start of summer quarter. Thanks to living above the 40th parallel, the hot part of the day hits around 3 p.m., so I've got a few hours until it begins to cool.

Interesting post over on Kyle Gann's blog about encounters and lessons with big-name composers. Given my weird background (I hadn't had any formal composition study until grad school, so I was self-taught and used to being on my own), and the fact that I'm really shy in real life, lessons with guest composers have been less-than-fruitful. (With the exception of Annie Gosfield. Wonderful person, and great composer.)

Most have been merely annoying. But my first such encounter was nightmarish. I wasn't used to how such things worked, and she was from a different generation (and culture), where teachers are more authoritative than they are here. Combine this with a shy Master's student in her first semester, who wasn't used to either being able to compose openly or actually show her works without reprisal, it was a recipe for disaster. Now I'm used to thanking their time, and getting on with my life. But then I took her comments way too personally, and it was at least a semester before I could try showing work to anyone not my teacher.

But the update to the post made me rethink the value of such things: that these meetings might be of more value to the guest composer, not the students. (Of course it's making the Catholic guilt kick in.) It's also the student/teacher relationship at its best--the exchange isn't always one way. The times I've looked at people's compositions, it's been a profoudly humbling moment to be able to share in their development and their music.

I wonder if some of the god-complex in one comment isn't a front for something else. It's a weirdly uncomfortable situation to be the center of attention, with all the focus on your music. Like John Rahn writes (heat-stroke, dazed paraphrase), art is a personal thing. You're already exposed, but moreso with one's music being discussed. It's akin to discussing your beliefs, while being stark naked. Maybe the god-complex is a method of protection?

Show thyself to be a mother...

I'm never sure what to make of Mary. On the one hand, there's a lot of supersition surrounding her that's used to reinforce potentially hurtful gender roles, but those are every bit the misrepresentation of her. They ignore the woman who laughed at an angel and got her son off his backside at the wedding in Cana. They also forget the woman of strength, a refugee in Egypt, and the mother who watched her son die in a way unimaginable to the modern person. But there's also Mary the contemplative, who pondered all that happened to her in her heart.

I'm also not sure what to make of her influence. I wrote her off as superstition, only to come figuratively crashing into her at New Melleray Abbey, where she (among Trappists) is revered as the ideal contemplative. And then the weird coincidences began.

Stuff for a later entry, but my discovery of my vocation as a composer wasn't an easy time. It was frought with uncertainty, doubt, and outright terror. I was alone, and there wasn't anyone to guide me, in the way that I would find in grad school. One winter--in February--my senior year, I was walking home from the music building, wondering what the future would hold, and I smelled roses. It was nothing overpowering, but on the periphery of a scent. Maybe it was someone's perfume, maybe it wasn't. But that evening was a turning point, and I knew things were going to work out. (I got my acceptance letter for my Master's at the end of that month.)

My first piece was performed on May 1, a day associated with Mary. To date, every time I have a piece performed, it's on a Marian feast or within a day or two. Maybe it's just coincidence, since they're spread throughout the calendar.

So at the end of my Master's, I'd sent off my applications to various doctorate programs. And an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe came to my parish out there. I hadn't thought about of that particular instance of Mary, so I went, for the party after, if nothing else. While there, I was confronted with the image of a person who loves unconditionally. Her face wasn't the aristocratic images I'd seen in children's prayer books, but the face of one who knew both joy and sorrow; and, more importantly, shares in our joys and sorrows. At yet another turning point in my life, she was there. (And within a month or two, I'd gotten my acceptance letter at my current school.)

I'm hardly one who takes apparitions and Virgin Marys in moldy grilled cheese sandwiches seriously. I think these say more about the people who see them, than anything else. A part of me thinks that these representations are us wanting to reach out to some tangible form of a benevolent entity, when fear and uncertanty are overwhelming. It's both a desire for comfort, and the reassurance of one who's "been there."

That having been said, it's nice to know that there's someone out there, who tends our metaphysical skinned knees.

So every morning (when I remember), the Liturgy of Hours opens with Psalm 95. Some mornings, it resonates. Others it's just words on a page. Some days, praise comes easily. Others, I have to work hard to suppress the cynicism. Although it seems "cheap" to praise when things are going well. Even though my head (and heart) isn't into it, the days praise comes hardest seem to be the most sincere.

I've been thinking about the second readings the past few days from the Office of Readings. I'm having an almost visceral disgust-reaction to them, I think I know why, but I think they deserve another look. Full text found here. St. Ignatius of Antioch was a doomed man when he wrote it, as a friend suggested. Logically, I know this letter is an insight into one destined for capital punishment, torture, and imprisonment. It didn't help that I only got the middle chunk of it, the second readings being replaced on Sunday (solemnity of the Holy Trinity) and today (feast of St. Antony of Padua). I keep coming back to the line in Romans, that it's harder to live in Christ, than it is to die in him.

The first part of it (1-3) seem normal enough, almost a goodbye letter from a bishop to his churches. I can grasp this, he's being a living example to others. Paragraph 3 I can understand: "Just pray that I may have strength of soul and body so that I may not only talk [about martyrdom], but really want it."

But then from paragraph 4 on, things get weird for me. I can understand he wishes to unite his death with Christ's, and perhaps the joyfulness in tone is he trying to steel himself for it. While I read about suicides at Guantanamo Bay, and I've seen the pictures of Abu Gharaib, I can't understand dying a gruesome, painful death, and knowing it's going to happen beforehand. Maybe this some of my discomfort with the letter. It's pushing me out of my cushy little world, and sticking me in the head of someone who isn't long for this world, people I pray for, but don't ever directly encounter.

metadiscussion

Does anyone know why the RSS bookmark for this blog doesn't always update? The atom feed does (I have a syndication for LJ set up.)

Into Great Silence. Absolutely beautiful film, but if you aren't up on forms of Benedictine monasticism, make sure you learn a thing or two about it first, otherwise you'll be completely lost, since the film assumes you know a thing or two about the rhythm of their life. It's also nearly 3 hours of complete silence, except for the sounds naturally occurring from daily life. I loved it, but other people hated it. It began with images of one monk praying. It's something so intimate, almost voyeuristic, to watch someone in prayer. But over the course of the movie, you're sucked into it. Also, the quotes interspersed over the course of the movie are the best introduction to lectio divina that I've ever seen.

Still working on the other paper. The movie made me wonder, how different my life would've been, had I not met my fiancé and not been accepted into a doctorate program. (I would've investigated a vocation with the Trappists...) Then again, my life isn't much different already.

One of the things that dawned on me earlier from my retreat last March was that I actually have more time for silence and prayer when I'm at home. Like now, I'm in my department's building, and it's the Friday before graduation, so it's empty. My typing and the laptop's hard drive are the loudest noises around. This office is like a cell, an extention of my cloister.

Thing is, people like McClary (and the indignant sighers at the SIFF last Wednesday) aren't ever going to see the craziness that makes us choose this life. It's like the anointing at Bethany--those who are obsessed to the material cost of things can't ever see beyond it.

It's not about gender, it's not about sex, it's not about power, it's not about economic relevance. It's about answering a call from within our very beings. For the monastic or for the composer, there is no other choice which will bring meaning to their lives.

Tomorrow I'm seeing Into Great Silence at the Seattle Film Festival. I'm sure I'll post something about it. I've been looking forward to seeing this since I heard about it last December.

So for Paper Number Two, which I owe my chair, I was thinking of doing something about the Rule of St. Benedict and composition. (Wow, big shocker there, eh?) I wasn't sure what my focus was, until I read an article by Susan McClary, "Terminal Prestige: The Case of Avant-Garde Music Composition."

Initially, my response to the article was, "Who the f*** died and made you queen?" Closely followed on the heels of "How the hell would you know what it's like to be a composer in the 21st century, anyway?"

So trying to educate and not berate (oh so very tempting), I'm trying to describe what led me to the vocation of a composer. I think one of the reasons why I'm attracted to so-called "difficult" music and the Rule of St. Benedict is because both expect us to move out of our comfort zone and grow. With easily-digestible things and a cushy life, there can't be progress.

But I guess I've been brainwashed by elitism and the "serious" composer.