fredag 5. februar 2016

Knoxville, summer of 1915

Kilden konserthus i februar. På programmet står musikk frå tida under første verdskrig, Ravels "Le tombeau de Couperin", Vaughan Williams tredje symfoni og Samuel Barbers "Knoxville, summer of 1915", Stemningsfull musikk  av den store amerikanske komponisten basert på forfattaren James Agees tekst der  skildrar den sorglause barndomen med familien ein sommardag i 1915. Men er det samstundes ein eksistensiell tekst med eit  djupt  melankolsk preg, "who shall ever tell the sorrow of being on this earth" , " but will not ever tell me who I am". Kanskje kan ein forstå det i ettertid, det var den siste sommaren forfattaren opplevde saman med faren som omkom i ei bilulukke året etter. Barbers musikk og Agees tekst i vakker framføring med sopranen Eir Indrehaug og Kristiansand symfoniorkester dirigert av Rumon Gamba. Men det var eit drag av sorg, av tristhet i alt det vakre. den tapte tida, den tapte barndomen, alle spørsmåla ein aldri får svar på! Heldigvis har vi poesien, musikken og kunsten som set ord på all vår lengting, alle våre spørsmål!

Knoxville: Summer of 1915 It has become that time of evening when people sit on their porches, rocking gently and talking gently and watching the street and the standing up into their sphere of possession of the tress, of birds’ hung havens, hangars. People go by; things go by. A horse, drawing a buggy, breaking his hollow iron music on the asphalt: a loud auto: a quiet auto: people in pairs, not in a hurry, scuffling, switching their weight of aestival body, talking casually, the taste hovering over them of vanilla, strawberry, pasteboard, and starched milk, the image upon them of lovers and horsement, squared with clowns in hueless amber. A streetcar raising into iron moan; stopping; belling and starting, stertorous; rousing and raising again its iron increasing moan and swimming its gold windows and straw seats on past and past and past, the bleak spark crackling and cursing above it like a small malignant spirit set to dog its tracks; the iron whine rises on rising speed; still risen, faints; halts; the faint stinging bell; rises again, still fainter; fainting, lifting lifts, faints foregone; forgotten. Now is the night one blue dew; my father has drained, he has coiled the hose. Low on the length of lawns, a frailing of fire who breathes. Parents on porches: rock and rock. From damp strings morning glories hang their ancient faces. The dry and exalted noise of the locusts from all the air at once enchants my eardrums. On the rough wet grass of the backyard my father and mother have spread quilts We all lie there, my mother, my father, my uncle, my aunt, and I too am lying there. They are not talking much, and the talk is quiet, of nothing in particular, of nothing at all. The stars are wide and alive, they all seem like a smile of great sweetness, and they seem very near. All my people are larger bodies than mine, with voices gentle and meaningless like the voices of sleeping birds. One is an artist, he is living at home. One is a musician, she is living at home. One is my mother who is good to me. One is my father who is good to me. By some chance, here they are, all on this earth; and who shall ever tell the sorrow of being on this earth, lying, on quilts, on the grass, in a summer evening, among the sounds of the night. May God bless my people, my uncle, my aunt, my mother, my good father, oh, remember them kindly in their time of trouble; and in the hour of their taking away. After a little I am taken in and put to bed. Sleep, soft smiling, draws me unto her; and those receive me, who quietly treat me, as one familiar and well-beloved in that home: but will not, oh, will not, not now, not ever; but will not ever tell me who I am. ---James Agee 

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