Originally entitled “Requiem for Unbelievers,” the onset of this project began some twenty years ago. The Montgomery County Masterworks Chorus, an ensemble I founded, commissioned me to write a large work for chorus and orchestra to celebrate their tenth anniversary.
Jeffrey Rink, their artistic director, contacted me and after a series of communications, we agreed to collaborate on a Requiem Mass. There was very little time to actually create the piece, so I knew I had to work efficiently, but with a deep passion for the structure and the texts I might set.
Jeffrey and I had already shared our goals and hopes about the piece. I stated then that my most fervent wish would be that this piece become a part of the choral-orchestral repertoire, and that I hoped I could write it in such a way that it would reflect modernity of thought and style with a respect for the textual and musical traditions we have inherited over the centuries.
I thought of models—my favorite composers and their Requiem Masses: Mozart's for its directness, and its drama; Verdi's for its soaring vocalism, and again, its drama; Faure's for its riveting beauty; Britten's WAR REQUIEM for its message and its contemporary structure—a modern poet's work juxtaposed over the traditional Latin Mass text.
The more I studied Britten's approach, the more I realized that would be my model for the new piece. I searched for a poet who reflected the voice of our age as Wilfred Owen had been the anti-war voice and inspiration for Benjamin Britten's magnificent piece.
I had always been fascinated with the forthright style of Anne Sexton's poetry—and had become familiar with her opera libretto for the opera “Transformations,” so her talent for writing dramatically was not lost on me. Was she the “voice” I was looking for? I began to think so. Her search for spirit in a chaotic world rang true for me, and her willingness to express both her doubt and her hope-for-faith seemed to coincide with mine.
I contacted Wesley Balk, who was then at the Minnesota Opera, and we had a long discussion about Sexton's work, as he had directed and premiered the opera based on her book of poetry. After discovering her exquisite poem “Yellow,” I decided to go ahead and use the Roman text for the Requiem Mass, combined with Anne's poetry wherever it might be structurally enhanced by the Latin text.
My research caused me to fall deeply in love with Sexton's work—her tremendous output, her fierce hold on life and its perils, her confessional approach, especially while “talking” to her priest or her therapist—and her ongoing search for a god. But finally, it was her ability to look death straight in the eye that convinced me that her poetry could define the contemporary drama of a Requiem For Our Time—a time of search, doubt, wonder, and personal and spiritual challenge.
Sexton's overt fear of death, yet her flirtation with it entranced me. This is a common fear of almost everyone I know—yet no one ever spoke of it as eloquently or powerfully as Anne's poetry did to me: that “awful rowing toward God,” along with confronting her own disbelief; the agony of wanting to believe in God yet not knowing how—this agony I thought was certainly of our time.
I originally entitled the piece REQUIEM FOR UNBELIEVERS—a liturgy that might give comfort to all those people I knew who were eagerly searching for a way to find their god, but were having trouble with faith element that this search required.
I also began to realize that if I were to parallel the Latin Mass with modern American poetry, I was going to need several poems of faith and hope to vary the poetic texture in order to provide parallel structure to other parts of the Mass. Upon contacting Renee Neblett, a poet I had met in Germany with the task at hand, she went to work to compliment Anne Sexton's darker tone with her own more optimistic and faith-filled view of man's relationship with God.
Her contributions, found in the “Voca Me” (If ever it should be known), in the “Interlude and Credo,” and in the “Sanctus,” (Smeared across, indignant), gave the piece the textual variety I needed. Ms. Neblett was also an ardent admirer of Anne Sexton and studied her style intensely so she could write to compliment that style. (Renee is the voice of the narrator in the recording we made back then.) Currently, I believe she is in Ghana, where she runs the Kokrobitey Institute in Accra, which she founded in the early 1990s.
I had found a beautiful cabin on a cliff in the Berkshire mountains in Pownal, Vermont, so I was able to go at the work with furious intent—only occasionally turning around from my piano to view the verdant meadows and cows outside my picture window. I worked 18 hours a day, researching texts, sketching, and finally orchestrating the work. It was fall—the woods and mountains were gorgeous, I had lots of wood to put in the Franklin stove—and it was a time of glorious focus. I don't recall any other time in my creative life when I've had this amount of uninterrupted time and space.
I am now aware, although I doubt I was during the writing process, that many musical flavors from my most admired composers add spice to this piece. At one time, I thought of dedicating each movement to a composer who helped light the way to my own musical pursuits, and who certainly influenced the eclectic styles inherent in this piece. I never knowingly “knew” that these composers were the lights in the room when I was dealing with the creation of this piece. But in retrospect, I can see and now certainly can analyze their influence on my writing, sometimes quite specifically.
When asked who my teachers were, I have to respond with some verbosity. Sam Barber was a dear friend and mentor, and profoundly affected my music before I ever walked into his studio to officially learn from him. Robert Washburn, at the Crane School of Music, Potsdam College, helped me believe in myself early on. Carlysle Floyd helped me polish my dramatic craft, John Kander my songwriting skills—well, I could go on.
But more important, the conductors who over the years premiered my works have provided me with learning opportunities immeasurable. Jeff Rink is one of those—because his ardent study, his prodigious talent, and his innate musicality coupled with an always evident passion for both the emotion and intellect of the music at hand amazed me way back when we started to develop this piece. Now that both he and I turn back to the piece once again, I am deeply grateful for his initial vision and his willingness to bring the project to final fruition in Boston, the home of Anne Sexton. For those of you who may want to read more of Anne's work—most of the poetry in this piece comes from her books All My Pretty Ones, The Death Notebooks, and The Awful Rowing Toward God.
—Roger Ames