This Sunday night on “The Lost Chord,” we ring in the 80th birthday of Arvo Pärt.
Pärt was born on September 11, 1935.
His early works were touched by neo-classicism, but by the 1960s he began to experiment with serial techniques. This put him into conflict with the Soviet authorities who were displeased with an Estonian writing in a cacophonous, cosmopolitan style. His works were banned, which had the effect of driving him into creative silence.
Finding it impossible to compose, he immersed himself in the study of early church music. He emerged from this period with a new respect for plainsong, Gregorian chant, and polyphony, eschewing complexity, and in its place embracing serenity and beauty. It was a decision that certainly resonated with listeners, and Pärt went on to become one of the most performed of contemporary composers.
According to conductor Neeme Järvi, “The music of Arvo Pärt contains a message which appeals to the deepest spiritual needs of our time.”
Järvi is the dedicatee of Pärt’s Symphony No. 3, written in 1971. Though a transitional work, it shows that the composer was already very much on his way to a new simplicity in music.
In his rejection of radical ideas, Pärt became, in a sense, more radical than the radicals. His soul-searching, study, and artistic silence led to the creation of a steady stream of works for which he is probably best known: “Fratres” in 1976; “Cantus in Memoriam Benjamin Britten,” “Tabula Rasa” and “Summa” in 1977, and “Spiegel Im Spiegel” in 1978.
What makes Pärt’s works so fascinating is the tension between that apparent simplicity, the often intricate nature of his works’ underlying organization, and rests that speak as eloquently as any of the actual notes. These have the remarkable effect of manipulating one’s perception of time and drawing the listener inward.
At the core of Pärt’s mature style is a technique he calls “tintinnabuli” (from the Latin “tintinnabulum,” meaning “bell”), where voices – instrumental or otherwise – arpeggiate the tonic triad, in a bell-like manner, while other voices weave diatonic melody through the midst of it.
Pärt described it thus: “Tintinnabulation is an area I sometimes wander into when I am searching for answers – in my life, my music, my work. In my dark hours, I have the certain feeling that everything outside this one thing has no meaning. The complex and many-faceted only confuses me, and I must search for unity. What is it, this one thing, and how do I find my way to it? Traces of this perfect thing appear in many guises – and everything that is unimportant falls away. Tintinnabulation is like this. . . . The three notes of a triad are like bells.”
The work that definitively signaled the arrival of Pärt’s mature style – the acorn from which sprang “tintinnabuli” – was a modest piano piece, titled “Für Alina,” from 1976. The piece is dedicated to the 18 year-old daughter of a friend, who had gone to study in London. A brief but introspective work, silence plays an important role, and, yes, the individual notes are reminiscent of bells.
Of course, the larger part of Pärt’s output involves actual human voices, the texts usually on sacred themes. A good example is “Litany,” from 1994. Set to prayers by St. John Chrysostom, one for each hour of the day or night, the saint’s asceticism seemingly imbues the work.
I hope you’ll join me for “Wholly Pärt” – Arvo Pärt’s tintinnabular journey – tonight at 10 ET, with a repeat Wednesday evening at 6; or that you’ll listen to it later as a webcast at wwfm.org.
