The Art and the Hours by
Father Gilbert Heater, O.S.B.

Music is a profound and transcendent mystery, piercing the innermost places of our heart and moving us in ways that are simultaneously more fundamental and more exalted than words. With that in mind, I want to share a piece that is close to my soul, a heart-rending masterpiece that perfectly expresses that curious concatenation of melancholy and joy, of presence and longing in a way that only music makes possible. Robert Schumann’s Geistervariationen (Ghost Variations) was his final composition, written just before his committal to the Endenich asylum where he would spend the last two years of his life. He suffered from what was likely bipolar disorder exacerbated by mercury poisoning, an illness that slowly stripped away all he loved, leaving him unable to compose or even talk to his beloved wife Clara. 

Late one night, in a hallucinatory trance, Schumann claimed to hear angels dictating this exquisite choral theme to him. He completed these five variations over the course of the next week (interrupted by an attempt to drown himself in the icy Rhine). He seemed unaware that he had already used this beautiful melody in several of his earlier works, but in this final appearance it takes on a distinct harmonic color and an extraordinary intimacy. The variations never stray very far from the original theme and rather than dissecting and exaggerating the smallest motif as was the style au courant, Schumann teases out different aspects of the soundscape so that each variation sounds more like an echo than a new creation. Variation 1 (2:02) adds a triplet counterpoint in the middle voice and the second variation (3:34) develops the theme into a tender and touching canon. In variation 3 (5:12) the melody descends into the left hand and is overlaid with a delicate and ethereal filigree. The fourth variation (6:51) is cool, precise, and brittle giving way to an uneasy conclusion (9:00) layered with a disconcerting chromaticism which seems to give each voice its own identity, perhaps a musical expression of the dissonance and divergence of his own psyche.

It is impossible to know if Schumann intended to end the piece as he did or whether he was simply incapable of writing any more. Regardless, I think this music is the purest expression we have of who Schumann was. It allows us to see into a heart that suffered in the terrible and tragic fear of losing its connection with reality; the despair of a mind unable to trust even its own thoughts. And yet, we hear a sense of peace, a connection with a beauty that penetrates deeper than even the limitations of his mind, an expression of an immortal soul that perdures despite the failings of the flesh. We glimpse the surging of a heart transfixed by the reality of truth and goodness and beauty unconstrained by its loss of lucidity and logic. 

Robert dedicated this final work to Clara, and it was, perhaps, his last communication with the person he most loved. Clara carefully guarded this piece, and it lay unpublished for nearly a century. She never said why, but I think she kept it secret because it was written for her: it was Robert’s final dedication to her, the most vulnerable and intimate and impoverished expression of his heart, an outpouring of love that could not be expressed in any other way. It was, perhaps, a kind of relic, a sacred condensation of his love and life. And I have picked this beautiful recording by Piotr Anderszewski because he is unmatched in his ability to capture this sense of devotion and reverence.

This piece makes me aware of the ghosts in my own heart, the tenuous and tenebrous thread of my soul that builds its art upon the hours of my life, encompassing the resonating remnants of the past, the ever-fading filament of now, and the loves that linger and ripen in the depths of my heart. There is a spirit that moves in darkness and silence and solitude, a stability of peace unstrictured by the limitations of our earthly frailty. Schumann claimed to hear the song of angels and perhaps he was right. For there is indeed a Ghost in each of us who intercedes with sighs too deep for words.

(Initially published on the Institute of Ministry Formation at St. Vincent Seminary website). 

Leopold Godowsky’s Java Suite is a collection of tone poems written by the early 20^th century Lithuanian composer after visiting Indonesia. This composition pushes the piano (and pianist) to the very limit and ranges at times from thunderous onslaught to tender whispers, from nearly atonal chromaticism to diatonic minimalism, and from dense opacity to thin and threadlike melodies. Inspired by the exotic sights and the native gamelan music, he was able to create an astonishing synthesis of cultures and styles and it is no surprise that the Indonesian born, and Western trained pianist Esther Budiardjo is able to bridge both worlds and bring this music to life in such a marvellous and sensitive performance.
 
This movement, “The Bromo Volcano and the Sand Sea at Daybreak,” conveys Godowsky’s sunrise encounter with an awe-inspiring eruption of the Bromo volcano and, as he puts it, “the boiling, roaring, rumbling subterranean forces, seething and spouting up from abysmal depths, the sulphurous vapours and dense clouds, spreading steadily and menacingly over the horizon.” The terrifying hugeness is conveyed in exploding and cataclysmic chords building to a dramatic climax (19:56).
 
The music is full of extended pentatonic harmonies and is, perhaps, the most technically demanding of the suite with sweeping triplet figures divided between the two hands which are carried throughout the piece, interlaced with the core melodies and resulting in a thick and dauntingly complex texture. Unlike most of the other movements, the climax occurs in the middle, conveying (to my mind, at least), the image of the volcanic eruption diminishing and cooling down – the sea returning to its calm tranquillity. The initial apprehension is gradually dispelled by the brightening of the rising sun which we hear in the delicate melody presented as a gentle dialogue between the hands (21:23) recalling “a passionate adoration for the unknown source of all consciousness.”
 
Perhaps for Godowsky this source was indeed unknown, but I believe that in the wonderful awestruck experience of nature which his music so clearly conveys, he was entering into that desire for God which is written in every human heart. God never ceases to draw each person to himself and every encounter we have with God is an occasion for wonder. I think our feelings of wonder are simply the delight our soul takes in seeing an aspect of God’s love for us. Wonder is our response to recognizing the presence of God. The Bromo volcano moved Godowsky to an awareness of something tremendous and transcendent; it pulled him beyond himself, to something greater than himself. All wonder is a glimpse of something lovely and beautiful, of something we are unable to understand or contain. It is, in the fullest sense, the unveiling (and revelation) of a more perfect reality in which we see a darkling shadow of that pure and perfect Wonder, the beatific vision which shall not be exhausted though we spend all eternity in adoration.
 
Wonder is a foretaste of heaven. A sunset reveals the fiery flaming glory of God undimmed before the ending of the world. Man’s noblest works of architecture suggest the gilt and glittering grandeur of the new and heavenly Jerusalem. Our rituals and ceremonies (and all ceremonies are religious) are allusions to the unending liturgy of heaven. Art is the celebration of man’s participation in God’s act of creation and the more those works reflect the love of the Trinity, the more they stir our hearts to awe and admiration. And music – music is that marvellous mystery that pierces the most interior movements of our hearts, an expression of wonder that encompasses body, mind, and soul and yet is transcendent to them all.
 
God has spoken only one single Word, that one Utterance in whom he expresses himself completely. Perhaps this Word was spoken. But I like to think he was sung. Our propensity to express in song the deepest hungers of our heart is surely part of our participation in the image and likeness of God. For Christ is the Father’s love song to his children, that perfect encounter with God for whom the only proper response is love and wonder.

(Initially published on the Institute of Ministry Formation at St. Vincent Seminary website). 

Franz Schubert’s Impromptu in G flat minor was composed shortly before his death at the age of 31. He was experiencing a time of great personal sorrow resulting from the death of his hero Beethoven, deteriorating health and an onset of great melancholy and depression. It was also a period marked by an inspired outpouring of his greatest music, of which this Impromptu is an evocative example. Its simple searching melody and misty amorphous accompaniment convey a kind of elegiac solitude. And yet, in the sadness, there is still an abundance of beauty, of hope and of reminiscence.

And this piece, composed with the premonition of death, is one of the last performed by the legendary Vladimir Horowitz shortly before his own passing. After suffering from severe depression that forced him to withdraw from public performances for nearly twenty years, he returned for a final concert tour and we see a maturity that comes not merely from the passing of time, but from experiencing the darkness and poverty of his own humanity. The charismatic fire and furor of his early career has seasoned into something pensive and plaintive, something tranquil and profound.

This performance often brings tears to my eyes and in a sense, perhaps the word “performance” is not really accurate. Horowitz is not really playing Schubert’s music. He becomes Schubert’s music. This is one of those sublime and mystical moments when music transcends our universe and enters into a timeless realm where two musicians become . . . harmonized. This is not merely an artistic synthesis. I think it is no coincidence that Horowitz is, at the end of his life, playing a piece composed at the end of Schubert’s. They are both aware that their life is now far spent and that there is something in the past worth recalling, worth reliving — an anamnesis of sound and sorrow, of melody and memory.

I am moved by the depth and dignity so evident in Horowitz. He has nothing to prove but everything to give. Like a living statue he sits with elegance and noble grace; even his hands seem scarcely to stir. And yet, this physical reserve is what allows the music to flow from his fingers with an unrestrained condensation of beauty, every note effortless yet pure, precise and perfect. I think this is an offering to us, an intimate and defenseless expression of everything he is. It is exquisite, immediate and timeless. It is a distillation of eighty-four years of joy and pain, sorrow and struggle, contentment and peace. Horowitz is recollecting himself, revealing and inviting us into his heart in a way that music alone makes possible.

These seven minutes are so profound and wonderful because they are an expression of what it means to be human. It is a participation in something great and beautiful, eternal and transcendent. It is an example of the communion and vulnerability that we are all created for and called to. We may express it through music or any number of individual gifts, but we all have a heart that longs to be shared . . . to be loved and received and reciprocated. Like Schubert and Horowitz, we are all shaped by our experiences. We are tinged with the vast and vibrant spectrum of passion and encounter, and it is through this that we discover our own humanity and recognize it in those around us.
 
As you listen to Horowitz and Schubert, let it be an opportunity to listen to yourself. There is a place here for suffering and sorrow, for joy and pleasure. There is room to rest in the past, be at peace in the present and full of hope for the future. It is a reminder that in the depths of our hearts we all possess a profound and prophetic beauty. The transcendent connection we share through this music may be temporary, but it is a foretaste of that infinite expression of love that encompasses and embraces all we are, and all we wish to be.

(Initially published on the Institute of Ministry Formation at St. Vincent Seminary website). 

With its elegant touching melody and a rich resonant harmony of suspended 9ths and 11ths, it would be easy to mistake this piece for a late 19th century composition, perhaps a work by Mahler or Sibelius. It was, however, written nearly two centuries earlier by the great French Baroque composer, Jean-Philippe Rameau. Originally an orchestral interlude from his opera Les Boréades, the outstanding Icelandic pianist Víkingur Ólafsson has recorded his own transcription of it for piano. Rameau gave it the ponderous title of “The Arrival of the Muses, Zephyrs, Seasons, Hours and the Arts.” All these mythical creatures have something to do with the arts and the passing of time and Ólafsson has renamed his arrangement “The Art and the Hours,” recalling the Greek aphorism best known in its Latin version: ars longa, vita brevis. This can be loosely translated as “art takes time and life is short.” 

“Art” here is used in an older sense of skill, craft, or technique and the theme of skill and the passing of time was no doubt close to Rameau’s heart. Les Boréades was his last major composition and shortly before writing it he confided to a friend that after eighty years he felt he had run out of inspiration. “I no longer have any genius and the imagination in my old head has fled away.” Clearly, he underestimated himself because from that old head poured forth this gorgeous melody at once sweet and sorrowful, delicate and deep. The art of Rameau had not abandoned him, even in the late hours of his life. 

It is a product of its time, yet not bound to it. While working within the careful constructs of the Baroque milieu, Rameau unlocked something timeless. There is an inspiration and imagination that crosses the span of nearly three centuries and speaks to our hearts with a vital and vigorous voice. There is something alive and mysterious here, an elemental yet enigmatic intersection of sound and soul where music touches the human heart and opens it up to something great and beautiful, something uniquely human and yet a mystery beyond our comprehension.

Music is such a human thing because it reaches into every element of our being. However, for something so prevalent and primal it is also frustratingly elusive. Its rhythms are present to us in the womb and yet millennia of history’s greatest minds have failed to define or explain it. This is because music, like all great and worthy things, is at its centre a paradox. It is a physical movement of strings and pipes and air but engages our passions and imagination in a way that no science can quantify. It is a child of reason and logic yet pierces our emotions to release the tears of sweetness and sorrow. It can be passive, but also has the power to engage every fibre of our being. It is something other than us but also profoundly interior and vulnerable. It is individual and communal; it engages our human nature but calls us to something divine. It is bounded and defined by the passing of time yet slips across the chasm of the centuries with an ethereal immortality. It is spontaneous yet can absorb a lifetime of study. It is a universal bridge across time and culture which finds its meaning in intimacy and immediacy.

Like all paradoxes, music lies at a crossroad that finds no resolution in our purely human experience. It is a mystery that draws us outside ourselves – an undeniable witness that our heart is not constrained to mind or matter but yearns for something transcendent and eternal. It is, perhaps, humanity’s greatest art for it is the communication of heaven and of that love which flows from the great timeless Artificer of the Father, the single Word whose praise resounds in the mouths of all the saints. Ars longa, vita brevis. And yet, at the end of all things, there is music: the new song which the redeemed shall sing for all eternity in a timeless perfection of art before the throne and before the Lamb.

(Initially published on the Institute of Ministry Formation at St. Vincent Seminary website).