I. Old Cassettes and Broken Records
III. “I’m Sorry for Your Loss”
IV. Night Ocean, with Interruptions
(Small Infinities was written to be premiered on classical period instruments; though it was originally written with gut strings in mind, instruments of any period may be used to play the work.)
duration: 24 Minutes
Small Infinities was commissioned by the Diderot String Quartet. It was premiered on the Second Movement Series, May 14th, 2016 in New Haven, followed by performances on May 19th at Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in NYC and May 24th at the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C.
I was listening to a lot of Schubert as I wrote “Small Infinities,” particularly his late quartets, including the d-minor quartet known as “Death and the Maiden.” There is an obsessiveness in these pieces that Schubert transforms into music that feels both intimate and transcendent. He wrote these pieces during a sickness that would ultimately take his life, and it is tempting to think of them arising from a deep contemplation of our place in the infinite.
Though I am in fact older than Schubert was when he wrote these pieces, I realized as I began working on this piece that I don’t feel like I have much yet to say about death or our place in the cosmos. Instead my thoughts turned to small moments of obsession and repetition in my life, however mundane–moments in which I lost a sense of time and out of which arose a fleeting sense of the infinite. The five movements of the piece each begin with a different memory: listening to music as a child (both playing tapes on repeat until they wore out and being captivated by the bumpy repetitions of a broken record); my brother practicing violin in the room next to mine, hypnotically (and frustratingly) repeating passages; the lyrical funeral parlor director at my grandmother’s funeral who kept blandly but musically intoning “I am sorry for your loss,” in a way that was both calming and totally divorced from the emotions we were all feeling; the experience of sitting next to the Pacific Ocean at night, the entrancing rhythm of the waves opening my mind to a swirling series of interrupting thoughts; and the adrenaline joy of childhood video games: playing, dying, restarting and playing again. Each movement is a sort of obsessive poem based on these initial memories, a search for meaning in a series of repetitions before the music inevitably decays and breaks apart, or perhaps just drifts away.