In his presentation of Volumina (1961-62), György Ligeti confides: “In composing Volumina, I based myself exclusively on the possibilities of the organ, and asked myself the following questions: what sound qualities can be derived from the instrument, and what music can be developed from them? I tried to ignore the immense weight of tradition that weighs more heavily on the organ than on other instruments.”
The organ is the bearer of a considerable tradition: a liturgical instrument par excellence, intrinsically linked to the expression of the Christian faith, its characteristic timbres define the sound landscape of Christian places of worship and are embodied in a specific repertoire, conducive to spirituality. This sacred function is coupled with a strong historical and cultural dimension, represented in particular by the monumental work of Johann Sebastian Bach, who enjoys such authority and prestige that his shadow looms over most of the repertoire, religious or otherwise. Ligeti thus states that he sought to “free himself from this burdensome tradition”. His experimental research, already put to use in orchestral pieces such as Atmosphères, is transposed to the organ. Here, he resorts to clusters (aggregations of complex chords) in order to create textures and sound masses that evolve very gradually through changes of timbre, dynamics or register, and stand out by contrasting stasis and internal movement. Employing a subtly elaborate graphic notation to communicate his ideas to the performer, Ligeti generates a radically new expressiveness in this masterly piece. This language contrasts strikingly with the first work in the recital – the last of Bach’s Great Eighteen Chorale Preludes: “Vor deinen Thron tret’ ich hiermit” (Before your throne, I will appear) – in which the intensity of Bach’s contrapuntal art is paired with almost austere spareness, perfectly attuned to the gravity of the subject.
Before the proposals of Ligeti and his contemporaries Mauricio Kagel, Bengt Hambraeus and Hans Otte, Olivier Messiaen, titular of the great organ at the Eglise de la Trinité in Paris, stood out as an exceptional innovator. A fervent Catholic, most of whose work celebrates the religious mysteries, he brought to the church his research into rhythm, harmony and timbre, transforming his tribune into an experimental laboratory in the service of faith. From his earliest theorisations, Messiaen called for “true music, that is, spiritual music, music that is an act of faith; music that touches on all subjects without ceasing to touch on God”.
Messiaen’s first major cycle for this instrument, L’Ascension (1933) is an early work whose subtitle, “four symphonic meditations”, recalls its origin: movements I, II and IV are a transcription of the original version for orchestra (orchestrated in Monaco between May and July 1933), while the third – playing on the contrast between rapid, dynamic chords, majestic pedal themes and velocity – was composed specifically for the instrument. Each of these meditations bears the composer’s title, taken from a biblical quote placed at the beginning of the score. Messiaen creates climates conducive to religious speculation, while at the same time conceiving works that, in themselves, are a form of exegesis, as would later be Nativité du Seigneur (1935) and Méditations sur le mystère de la Sainte Trinité (1972).
Catholicism is consubstantial with Franz Liszt’s relationship to the world and to art, as evidenced by the devotional, prayerful atmosphere of Les Consolations, based on a collection of poems by Sainte-Beuve, or the variations on Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen (1862-63), for which the opening chorus of Bach’s cantata BWV 12 serves as compositional and programmatic material. The descending chromatic bass lamento, which Bach also uses in the heart-rending “Crucifixus” from the Mass in B minor, symbolizes, as in many Baroque pieces, lament and pain. Weighed down by the loss of his two children, Liszt devoted this work to a reflection on human suffering and the quest for spiritual comfort. In the variations, Liszt creates a directional form: from lament and despair come redemption and light. The use of chromaticism, with the rich harmony and modulations it allows, together with the contrast between Liszt ‘s unbridled virtuosity as a performer and recitatives of great intimacy, create an exalted climate. The dramatic tension, emotional instability and dark, powerfully romantic colors reflect the pessimism of existence (“Weeping and lamentations, Torments and despondency, Anguish and distress are the black bread of Christians”), right up to the intense final light: Liszt closes his work by borrowing Bach’s chorale “Was Gott tut, das ist wohlgetan” (“What God does is well done”), expressing resignation and acceptance of divine will.
Yves Balmer
