Walking through the maze

The time, when the Soviet official establishment refused to acknowledge his achievements, is now history. Today, the composer is often labeled a “living classic,” although such a pompous definition does not very well become this communicative and sympathetic man, full of new ideas and inspiration, who keeps working steadily on. Sylvestrov hates the officialese of any sort. So let us try and take a look at him, free from any celebration pathos.

AN AVANT-GARDE LEADER

Sylvestrov was born in Kyiv in 1937. After a short time at the Construction Institute he applied for the Kyiv Conservatory in 1958, where he attended classes under Borys Liatoshynsky (composing) and Levko Revutsky (harmony and counterpoint). Upon graduation, the young composer had a number of pieces, written in modern music language and quite up-to-date esthetically. At that time, in the mid-1960s, this was a rare thing in Ukraine. Any innovations were denounced as “avant-gardism” and banned by the official establishment – or, at least, the authors were obstructed in various ways. Avant-gardists could not even dream of being carefree. In the meantime, Sylvestrov’s music language was becoming more and more radical, and his new pieces, such as Misteria (Mystery Play) for alto flute and percussions, Spektry (Spectra) and the Third Symphony Eskhatofonia (Eschatophony) for an orchestra, Monodia (Monoaction) for piano and orchestra, doubtlessly bore a sign of the author’s innovative style exploration which at that time was so characteristic of European classical music. In the Soviet music environment, Sylvestrov became one of the leading avant-garde composers.

None of this failed to escape the attention of the guardians of Soviet art’s ideological purity. The composer obviously did not fit into the official “social realism” doctrine, which by the late 1960s had fallen into decay, transforming into hackneyed conservatism and die-hardism. The hostility of the official establishment only grew as Sylvestrov’s music had been gaining increasingly more recognition abroad and in Russia. The young composer gave enough cause for personal envy and ideological suspicion in Kyiv, where he often encountered obstacles for his music to be performed. Even in 1963 the Conservatory refused to accept his graduation project, The First Symphony, and a few years later another conflict resulted in Sylvestrov’s expulsion from the Composers’ Union and eventual loss of the position of a music school teacher, which provided him with at least minimum means of livelihood. He should not even dream of getting official commissions (and back at that time there were no other commissions to rely on).

Such were the outward circumstances of Sylvestrov’s artistic career. However, the inner processes are much more important: the achievements and errors, quests and crises, which always accompany a great artist. It would be a mistake to believe that a natural talent develops easily, quickly, and freely. In fact, everything is just the contrary: both the theme and material resist, the idea flees from implementation, the artist’s mind and soul are strained. The process of creating paradoxically combines the artist’s certainty of his or her correctness with doubts, and long, hard quests with instant intuitive revelations. Discoveries and dead ends, easy play of imagination and the awareness of his own helplessness are inevitable companions of a true artist, and he is not always capable of telling one from another.

All of this can be said of Sylvestrov, and the proof can be found in his music. One only needs to listen carefully. It might seem that his avant-garde pieces of the 1960s, which laid foundation for his renown at home and abroad, could shape his future career. It would have sufficed to develop and enrich his own principles, expand contacts with other musicians sharing his views, and count on help from the West, which back then was interested in promoting Soviet avant-garde as a component of resistance to the communist regime. All this, combined with Sylvestrov’s inborn industriousness and a fine taste, would guarantee a successful career.

ON THE ESSENCE OF MUSIC

Yet Sylvestrov chose a different path, harder and riskier. At the end of the 1960s he experienced a hard creative crisis, which made him contemplate the essence of his own music. This period of reflection can be traced down in his 45-minute Drama for a Piano Trio (1970-71), a work compared by the Belgian music critic Frans Lemaire to philosophic debates.

It is not worth searching for some outward sources of Sylvestrov’s creative crises. Although both personal circumstances (the loss of job) and the surrounding life (the end to Khrushchev’s ideological “thaw”) gave no reason for optimism, this could hardly have had a major influence on Sylvestrov. His crisis had exclusively inner causes, linked to the paradoxes of his evolution as an artist. Unexpectedly for many, the composer starts revising the very foundations of his style. He refuses his own undoubted achievements and tries to start off with a clean slate. His avant-garde radicalism evaporates while his music language becomes simpler, containing both modernist and traditional components. The imagery of Sylvestrov’s early avant-garde pieces can be described in terms of a series of abstract cosmic cataclysms, moving, multi-colored sound masses constantly changing their shape and texture, elated aspirations and admiration for the pure beauty of sound, free from down-to-earth reality. Meanwhile, in his post-crisis work one can hear enlightened nostalgic lyricism, elegiac intimacy, unhurried romantic confession monologs, gentle, delicate consonances, beautiful tunes, and tender modulations. A different kind of sound, excited, dramatic, with a shade of dance or scherzo tune, provide only a short-time contrast to the dominant elated and lyrical image. His new world knows no irony, grotesque, struggle, conflict, or acute pain. This is a cherished image of Paradise and eternal bliss. Sylvestrov paints it tirelessly and passionately, not infrequently resorting to repetitions and self-quoting.

Nearly each piece now has a new indispensable attribute: episodes “in ancient style,” reminiscent of the classical romantic age. It is hard to label them “stylizations,” since they always have a low-key sound, as if out of focus, with numerous ritardandos and stops, with odd resounding of some sounds, in unusual registers with barely noticeable shifts of tonality and color, impossible in classical pieces. It is as if we heard an old, familiar tune in which our contemporary’s commentary is embedded. These permanent “footnotes,” “notes in the margins,” “italics,” “highlights,” and “hyperlinks” nearly become the chief medium of rendering the music content without ruining (or even as much as deforming) the ancient style model.

THE TEXTURE THAT IS “SUNG”

Many of Sylvestrov’s piano, vocal, and choral pieces, especially over the recent years, have been quite consistent with this unique retro style, which the leading expert in new music Levon Akopian counts among the most original contemporary art. In large-scale orchestral pieces (such as The Fifth and Sixth Symphonies, Prysviata (Dedication) for violin and orchestra, or Metamuzyka (Metamusic) for piano and orchestra) such retro components blend in the broader style system, wrapped in contemporary sound writing and a melodious, “sung” texture. These pieces always have an unconventional form and resemble a long walk through a maze. Finding Ariadne’s thread in this maze is no easy thing: one needs to immerse themselves into the process of sound creation, follow inconspicuous minor details, the gentlest nuances concealing the main expressivity. This music has no outward brightness, energy, or dynamism. It is introverted, inconspicuous in itself, as if it existed for itself only, and can easily escape a listener’s attention. Its adequate perception requires quiet and concentration. Both are hard to come by not only in our everyday life, but also in a concert hall: indifferent coughing during the performance, talking aloud in the audience (as if someone were sitting at home in front of a TV), together with impertinent intrusion of the omnipresent cells’ ringtones will smash to pieces any of Sylvestrov’s quiet meditations. This music requires a special culture of listening. Maybe, the forming of such culture makes its historic mission.

Some 10 or 15 years ago, one could still complain about our public’s ignorance about Sylvestrov’s music. But today everything is changing for the best: his pieces are performed by our leading music bands and soloists, and a few books on his work have been written. Unfortunately, it is hard to access his music, and dozens of his records, released abroad over the past 20 years, are still not sold in Ukraine. But Sylvestrov cannot be blamed for it, all foreign performers face this problem: soon after Ukraine gained independence, our lame laws blocked the way for foreign records to our market. Perhaps, people will have to use other ways to reach his music, which should not be so difficult in the modern Internet era. And it is definitely worth reaching, because today Ukrainian musicians mainly perform Sylvestrov’s recent works, while his earlier masterpieces are rather rare. We are still waiting for a large-scale festival, where the works by this Ukrainian composer would be performed for a few days or even weeks; something like Sylvestrov Festival that took place in Yekaterinburg in the middle of the 1990s. Finally, the composer has been recognized officially and received almost every imaginable Ukrainian award. Now it is the time for a meaningful comprehension of his cultural contribution, and a lot will depend on us, on our curiosity and sensitiveness.

Oleksandr Shchetynsky is a Ukrainian composer