Escaping Centre is the artist name of Helsinki based composer Nick Martin. He was classically trained from the age of seven, and holds a Bachelor in composition from the Royal Academy of Music in London, and a Masters degree in composition from the Royal Danish Academy of Music in Copenhagen.

Since 2010,  Nick’s music has been introspective, being primarily about the very personal topic of family and intimacy. His primary intention has been to conjure up an atmosphere that the listener can hopefully resonate with.

Artist’s statement

Music is a form of alchemy, whereby the most painful (or joyful!) feelings can be transformed into something beautiful / Sublime; Music is, or I should say, can be, pure emotion. For as long as I can remember I have always experienced strong emotional reactions to music. Each person listens to / creates music for their own purpose, and I realised that my own need for emotional catharsis, and for a deep empathetic connection (literally vibrating in sympathy), was at least my own purpose in participating in music-making. It is the most special thing I can think of, listening to a piece of music or a musician that touches me deeply; I feel less alone.


Nick is a member of the Helsinki-based music collective Hidden Room, along with cellist / composer Aino Juutilainen and violist / composer Vuokko Lahtinen. Together they strive to ‘Play’, in the words fullest sense; to experience wonder in the mundane and often overlooked, and to express their emotions in a multitude of forms – disregarding the excepted boundaries between genres and art forms (wandering freely across the unconscious landscape, with an attitude of ‘Everyman’s right‘).


Panel 1


Sunset in the ethereal waves: I cannot tell if the day is ending, or the world, or if the secret of secrets is inside me again.
– from ‘A land not mine’ by Anna Akhmatova

In 2010, whilst living in Copenhagen,  I started a series of intimate works that focused on the close, often fragile relationship between a mother and her child, and developed this idea to encompass the nature of intimacy, fertility & barrenness.

I have strong memories of sitting in Assistens Cemetery in Copenhagen in the spring of 2010, where I started reading Virginia Woolf’s ‘The Waves’.  I read this novel immediately after a period of inactivity and depression, and somehow my unconscious drew me towards the book, which Woolf wrote in the wake of a mental breakdown (as a ‘means of renewal after stasis’). The following passage in particular deeply moved me, and inspired me to start composing again:

Sleep, sleep, I croon, whether it is summer or winter, May or November. Sleep I sing–I, who am unmelodious and hear no music save rustic music when a dog barks, a bell tinkles, or wheels crunch upon the gravel. I sing my song by the fire like an old shell murmuring on the beach. Sleep, sleep, I say, warning off with my voice all who rattle milk-cans, fire at rooks, shoot rabbits, or in any way bring the shock of destruction near this wicker cradle, laden with soft limbs, curled under a pink coverlet.

 …I have lost my indifference, my blank eyes, my pearshaped eyes that saw to the root. I am no longer January, May or any other season, but am all spun to a fine thread round the cradle, wrapping in a cocoon made of my own blood the delicate limbs of my baby. Sleep, I say, and feel within me uprush some wilder, darker violence, so that I would fell down with one blow any intruder, any snatcher, who should break into this room and wake the sleeper.

That spring I wrote a piece for violin and viola, simply titled Mother and Child. This piece was a radical departure from the music I had written previously, since it was an attempt to strip away all of the musical artifice and ‘showmanship’ that characterised my earlier music, to get to the naked, honest core of my expression.


The result is an intimate portrait, where the violin plays the role of a mother who comforts her crying baby, played by the viola, with a lullaby. It is a stark expression of the fear of abandonment, where for some time the music is so paralysed by fear, that it daren’t go anywhere.

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‘Mother and Child’

Towards the end of the piece one gets the sense that the music is slipping back into a fantasy, into the comfortable past. Perhaps to remain constantly in the state of fear would be too unbearable?

Before writing Mother and Child, I had been rewatching Michael Haneke’s early three films, the “glaciation trilogy”, and was profoundly effected by the bleakness of both subject matter and the cold and emotionless way it is dealt with (or ‘observed’), with sudden editing ‘cuts’ from scene to scene. What I subsequently realised, was that I borrowed from these films a detached approach to organising musical material; where the music itself is often sensitive and emotional, and yet the formal ‘framework’ I place this music in is pre-planned and quasi-mathematical. This creates a friction between music that ‘wants to be free’ and a structural architecture that is ‘uncaring’, that with hindsight mirrored my inner landscape. I was and still am, struggling to accept my sensuality, softness, dreaminess, romanticism – this is what Carl Jung would call ‘the gold in my Shadow’. Part of me would rather destroy this sensuality and replace it with harshness, than to accept and nurture it.

Mother and Child was followed by Mother of Sorrows for solo accordion, written for Bjarke Mogensen. For this piece the roles are transformed, so that we now hear a crying mother, lamenting the death of her dead child. It is somehow with a cruel irony that she comforts herself by singing the lullaby that she once sang to her baby. The idea for the piece was conceived whilst I was watching Bjarke play, I realised that the accordion stretched out over Bjarke’s lap closely resembled the image in Christian iconography of the ‘Pietà’, in which the Virgin Mary cradles the dead body of Jesus.

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The piece Projection (negative space), for accordion and cello quartet, explores a similar idea to Mother and Child, although in this case the accordion, which could be thought of as the child, is attempting individuation. The music the accordion plays is sensual and curious, though a little hesitant. The cello quartet’s music, the ‘Shadow’, on the other hand is cold and standoffish. There are very few instances where the accordion and quartet play simultaneously, and in fact the musicians are instructed to play every note ‘like attempts at intimacy’.

I explored similar ideas of stagnation, barrenness and infertility in my works Still Life (nature morte), mirror distort shadow and Time Passes (mise en abyme). These pieces focus exclusively on dark and painful feelings, expressed explicitly in my programme not for Time Passes :

This is dying. This is already dead. This is documentation of death; falling, crumbling, disintegrating, fading, erasing, forgetting, silencing. This is nothing.

The music in Time Passes is the shadowy remains of a piece that I didn’t dare write; It was as though I had drawn a beautiful pencil drawing and then taken an eraser and rubbed most of it out. By this point, I was frustrated by the limited amount of expression I was allowing myself; I had effectively written myself into a corner. The stagnant and infertile music, that initially seemed to generate new growth (like compost), now felt like a cul-de-sac. This was the last piece, with the exception of a failed duo for cello and accordion, that I composed before a break of a year and a half.


‘I owe to earth’s pure death the will to sprout.’
– from ‘Jardín de invierno’ by Pablo Neruda
Panel 2

Matres : Symphony in Three Sunsets

Matres : Symphony in Three Sunsets (dedicated to my mother and Bjarke Mogensen)

The title ‘Matres’ (Latin for ‘Mothers’), refers to the name given to three female deities worshipped in fifth century Northwestern Europe. At the core, this work is a reflection on my relationship with my mother, a subject I have already worked with in ‘Mother and Child’ and ‘Mother of Sorrows’. In other ways, ‘Matres’ is the culmination of ten years work; the piece explores, and tries to synthesise the ideas (both musical and extra-musical) that have been preoccupying me since my earliest compositions. In this piece I imagine I have returned to a childhood garden, after a period of ten years. Ten years ago, in 2007, I wrote a youthful piece for chamber ensemble called ‘Azalea Garden’.

This early piece was inspired by a painting by Patrick Heron, which depicts the dazzling colours of azaleas in the artist’s garden, at his house overlooking the Atlantic, ‘Eagles Nest’ in Zennor, Cornwall. I find it an interesting side note that the garden was originally planted by the previous owner, Will Arnold-Forster who was a friend of Virginia Woolf. Woolf references visiting the house in her diaries, as well as having spent summers in close by St Ives as  child, and those childhood experiences fed into her novel ‘The Waves’, which starts with six children in a garden by the sea.

On the seashore of endless worlds, children play.

– Tagore

The fact that this early formative piece of mine is inspired by a garden has an almost mythological tone, it could be read as a lost paradise; an age of innocence. In addition to Edenic allusions, the garden is also an allegory for motherhood in the form of the ‘hortus conclusus’ (walled garden), which in medieval painting and poetry represented the Virgin Mary (the walls of the garden symbolising the womb). The 2nd movement of ‘Matres’ is called ‘The Walled Garden’. There is a parallel between this movement, and Virginia Woolf’s ‘The Waves’; I silently quote sections of Susan’s lullaby from this novel, as a way of paying homage to an author who has inspired and helped me.

The first and third movements both have titles that refer to the nativity story; Movement I is titled ‘Annunciation’ and movement III ‘Mother’s Night’, which was the Anglo Saxon name for Christmas Eve (Mōdraniht). Rather than being purely programmatic music however, I understand this narrative as being allegorical. During two interludes, called ‘Black Sun I & II’, the sanctuary of the garden is invaded by darkness; for a time hopelessness and helplessness take over.


Movement III : Mother’s Night

This is how I sound – and this is how I will be once I am.

– ‘Bubbles’ by Peter Sloterdijk

I started writing ‘Matres’ during the summer of 2015, beginning with what became the third movement ‘Mother’s Night’, the working title at that early stage being ‘Heavenly Mother Death Siren Song’. That July I had begun slipping into a depression that would last over a year, and this music comes directly out of my experiences during that difficult time. This music was a spontaneous expression of my depression, an embracing of death; I imagined being comforted by a darkness that covered everything. As with all of my work, this music is an attempt at intimacy. I use the continuity of sound, like the enveloping darkness of night, to wrap the listener – I was the first listener – in a feeling of union. I feel that sound is fluid, it saturates all space, and that space and listener can become one.


‘Mother’s Night’ was composed using a sample (a very small fragment) from a recording of my piece ‘Mother and Child’ for violin and viola, a piece that was itself written as a means of my breaking out of a period of depression.

You, darkness, that I come from / I love you more than all the fires / that fence in the world, / for the fire makes a circle of light for everyone / and then no one outside learns of you.

But the darkness pulls in everything- / shapes and fires, animals and myself, / how easily it gathers them! – / powers and people-

and it is possible a great presence is moving near me. / I have faith in nights.

– Rainer Maria Rilke

The musical material in ‘Mother’s Night’, a rising and falling scale covering a minor third, distinctly resembles a part of the melody ‘Durme, durme’, which starts the second movement ‘The Walled Garden’. The tonality hovers between F sharp major and B flat major. The low E that ends the first movement, ‘Annunciation’, is finally resolved at the end of the final movement ‘Mother’s Night’, with a low D sharp (spelt enharmonically as E flat). This macrocosmic architecture, F sharp – G – F sharp – E – D sharp, is an expansion of the first ten bars of ‘Mother and Child’ which has the same design.

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Bar 10 of ‘Mother and Child’

Soon after writing ‘Mother’s Night’, I decided to add more movements to form a larger work, titled ‘Matres’, that attempts to deal with my feelings of depression, anxiety and my Will to heal.


Interludes : Black Sun I & II

In his book ‘The Black Sun’, Stanton Marlan describes what he terms the ‘benevolence of darkness’. I understand this to mean the healing power inherent in one’s unconscious (Shadow). Earlier, in my introduction to ‘Matres’, I wrote that during the interludes ‘the sanctuary of the garden is invaded by darkness; for a time hopelessness and helplessness take over’. This casts them in a purely negative, destructive light, however if we interpreted the interludes with the understanding that darkness itself has a regenerative power, then they are in fact an entirely necessary part of the garden’s rebirth. The ‘Black Sun’ interludes are violent and grotesque in the extreme, a world away from the ‘safety’ of the movements that come either side. However, in the second interlude in particular, there is a wildness – a strong force; a will to develop and breaks out of the comfortable stasis, of Self preservation.


Both interludes ironically centre around a fragment of the Billie Holiday song ‘The End of a Love Affair’, in the first of which I loop a section that sounds like the word ‘despair’, and in the second interlude ‘Black Sun II’ the phrase is lengthened to ‘Do they know despair?’.


Movement II : The Walled Garden

I interpret ‘Matres’ as being specifically about the internal mother/child relationship during time of crisis. The Psychological apocalypse is mirrored externally in this piece, with the backdrop of war & chaos. I take the biblical nativity narrative as an allegory; The child is seen as both a symbol of fragility and hope, since the mother is compelled by unconditional love to protect her infant, and so I see this as a dramatisation of my struggle with depression.

I wrote the second movement during November and December 2015, during the darkest time of the year, and in an extremely dark state of mind. In ‘The Walled Garden’ I create a haven for my vulnerable inner child, and from this safety I express my fragility and the need for a mother’s protection against a seemingly hostile world. These feelings all arose as I was closely following news of the Syrian civil war, the refugee crisis, the terrorist attacks in Paris and the rise in right wing extremism in Europe. I felt like the world around me was collapsing, I had crippling anxiety and was really not looking after myself mentally or physically. Making music felt like the only source of hope, and so I poured these feelings into my music. I remembered and was inspired by a powerful passage in Virginia Woolf’s ‘The Waves’, which I read years ago in Copenhagen, that moved me and feels connected to these feelings:

Sleep, sleep, I croon, whether it is summer or winter, May or November. Sleep I sing–I, who am unmelodious and hear no music save rustic music when a dog barks, a bell tinkles, or wheels crunch upon the gravel. I sing my song by the fire like an old shell murmuring on the beach. Sleep, sleep, I say, warning off with my voice all who rattle milk-cans, fire at rooks, shoot rabbits, or in any way bring the shock of destruction near this wicker cradle, laden with soft limbs, curled under a pink coverlet.

– from ‘The Waves’ by Virginia Woolf

The movement is written in three sections, the two outer being arrangements of lullabies; a traditional Sephardic lullaby from Spain called ‘Durme, durme’, and an originally composed lullaby written for a close friend’s first child.

Durme, durme querido hijico.
Durme, durme sin ansia ni dolor.
Cierra tus luzyos ojitos,
Durme, durme con savor.
Cierra tus luzyos ojitos,
Durme, durme con savor.
Sleep, sleep my beloved son
Sleep, sleep with no worries nor pain.
Close your beautiful eyes,
Sleep, sleep favourably.
Close your beautiful eyes,
Sleep, sleep favourably.

The middle section is a setting of the ‘Stabat Mater’, and is the same duration as the two outer lullabies combined.

Stabat mater dolorosa / Juxta crucem lacrymosa / Dum pendebat Filius. The mother stood sorrowing / by the cross, weeping / while her Son hung there.

Part of the musical material for ‘Stabat Mater’ is derived from a small fragment of the Norwegian lullaby ‘Gjendines Bådnlåt’ by Gjendine Slålien, in which the text is ‘sove nu’, meaning ‘sleep now’. In the original version, I use a sample from Trio Mediæval’s recording of this piece, and transform it into what I term a ‘decomposed lullaby’. In a subsequent arrangement, I have recomposed the ‘sample’ for girl’s choir and mezzo soprano.



Movement I : Annunciation

A solo accordion begins with a lament, ‘crying’, as occasional soft percussion rumbles ‘like distant bomb explosions’. I use the accordion as a metaphor for the Virgin Mary, a reference to an earlier piece of mine ‘Mother of Sorrows’ for solo accordion.


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sketch for the start of ‘Annunciation’

This solemn music grows in intensity, slowly rising in waves, and the explosions draw closer. At the climax, a deep F sharp glissandos to a chord of G major, a reference to the opening of ‘Mother and Child’ in which a high F sharp to G glissando is used to represent the crying child.

The overall architecture of the first movement is that of a single wave, rising and falling like an arch; From six minutes, until the end of the movement, the music is in constant decline, falling lower and lower, finally resting at a low E.

How then does light return to the world after the eclipse of the sun? Miraculously. Frailly. In thin stripes. It hangs like a glass cage. It is a hoop to be fractured by a tiny jar. There is a spark there. Next moment a flush of dun. Then a vapour as if earth were breathing in and out, once, twice, for the first time. Then under the dullness someone walks with a green light. Then off twists a white wraith. The woods throb blue and green, and gradually the fields drink in red, gold, brown. Suddenly a river snatches a blue light. The earth absorbs colour like a sponge slowly drinking water. It puts on weight; rounds itself; hangs pendent; settles and swings beneath our feet.

– from ‘The Waves’ by Virginia Woolf

Panel 3


Vanitas (for Halvcirkel)
for string quartet & electronics

When you see your matter going black, rejoice: for that is the beginning of the work.

– from ‘Rosarium philosophorum sive pretiosissimum donum Dei’

The majority of ‘Vanitas’ was composed in secret, and then offered as a gift to my friends, the Copenhagen-based string quartet Halvcirkel. The piece, which ended up being in three movements, was written during a very challenging period for me personally, and seemingly a dark time in recent human history, and naturally the piece reflects this. I realised only after finishing writing the whole piece how full it is with symbolic, archetypal imagery that mirrors my internal struggle and the external events going on simultaneously; multiple suns blazing both white and black, the moon in its various phases casting great shadows, cypress trees, a bell tower, three silhouetted figures on a hill (on the brink of oblivion), a primordial summer dance interrupted by a storm…

‘Vanitas. Paganism and Christianity’ by Akseli Gallen-Kallela (1900)

As with my two earlier works featuring string quartet, ‘Mobile’ (2006) for french horn, oboe and string quartet, and ‘Still Life (nature morte)’ (2010) for french horn and string quartet, the title for ‘Vanitas’ came from visual art. ‘Vanitas’ is the name given to Dutch symbolic paintings of the 16th & 17th century that act as a reminder of life’s impermanence, and the inevitability of death. Rather than this morbid subject being interpreted as entirely negative however, I decided with this piece to celebrate life, since I believe that the shadow of death can be an intensifier of life.

Vanitas’ – movement III : ‘Love Song’

‘Love Song’ was composed, more or less entirely in one sitting, on Saturday 14th November 2015. My girlfriend, Aino, was practicing the cello in the living room. I recorded her playing, and then used a small fragment of this recording, as a sample, for my composition. The piece that arose on that morning came naturally as a stream of consciousness. A diary entry in which my feelings are recorded.

That morning I had woken up to the horrific news of the terrorist attacks in Paris and on the front page of the Guardian was an account given by someone I knew, of the murders of 4 people that he had been witness to. I was deeply shocked and saddened by these events. Senseless, random attacks on people doing everyday things. The fear that reverberated inside of me was overwhelming. In that moment of paralysis, in the face of fear, being unable to understand such brutality (apathy, alienation, hatred? I don’t know), I desperately needed to express my feelings of being alive, of being human and my love for life and humanity. I also wanted to reach out, in the only way I knew how – through music – to my friends and colleagues ‘Halvcirkel’, to offer them a gift. It was also symbolic, for me, of a hopeful future, of my wanting to believe in one, and participate in it’s creation. A future in which humans come together, share with one another, celebrate beauty, feel compassion; sisterly & brotherly love.

Throughout the majority of ‘Love Song’, the cello plays a drone on the open A string, and as the rest of the quartet’s music moves away from this note, the cello continues undisturbed. (An early title for this piece was in fact ‘Amour’.) In contrast to the first movement, the third movement represents my sense of the ‘light in darkness’; like the sun suddenly shining through the clouds on a grey winter day, the music in this movement slowly builds to a blazing climax. I added an ending to the original piece, in which the music becomes even more expressive and lyrical and the tonality moves a little away from A. I also attempted to tie the piece together with the first two movements of the quartet that I composed subsequently. At the very end of the movement is an ‘Epilogue’ that mirrors the middle (storm) section of the first movement ‘Mix tape’. During this final epilogue I introduce a female voice, either pre-recorded or performed live, an improvised prayer sung by my friend Johanna Elina.

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‘Vanitas’ – movement II : ‘Soma’

I originally sketched out ‘Soma’ by recording and looping myself playing synths using an old mini-cassette dictaphone. Since the tape is so old and worn, and the small microphone intended for only speaking, the result is a decayed / distorted, melancholic ambient music. The title of the piece, which came immediately to my mind as I made the music, refers to a mythical concoction that grants those who drink it immortality.

I later transcribed and developed this music for string quartet and electronics, and it became the second movement of ‘Vanitas’. The music is a continuation of my exploration of musical ‘space’ – both physical (acoustic) space, and metaphorical (structural) space. Through the use of live electronics, the piece works with layering three musical materials each lasting two minutes, in a similar way to a passacaglia, a musical term, interestingly derived from the Italian words ‘to walk’ and ‘street’. As the music progresses the listener hears the same music played in different relationships to one another, similar to the ‘mobile’ sculptures of Alexander Calder, or one’s experience of moving through a building. Here I am particular interested in perception of ‘foreground’, ‘middleground’ and ‘background’ and the shifting relationship between these, and my intention with this structure is to slowly reveal a ‘whole’.

One of the three musical layers, is itself a reference to a rising, pentatonic wind melody in the final movement of ‘Das Lied von der Erde’ by Gustav Mahler, as the vocalist repeatedly sings the word ‘Ewig’ (‘eternity’). https://youtu.be/lAn8FUaOkz8?t=58m40s

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cello part from ‘Soma’

The music culminates at 4:52 with all of the material fully revealed; The addition of a low cantus firmus in the cello & viola hopefully creates the sensation a wide, open space, in contrast to the majority of the other material that is high in register.

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cantus firmus from ‘Soma’

Standing in between the two outer movements inspired by summer and winter (and the suns), in my mind ‘Soma’, which is inspired by the moon, symbolises eternity.

‘Vanitas’ – movement I : Mix Tape

The sun is evidently an instrument in the physiological and psychological drama of return to the prima materia, the death that must be undergone if man is to get back to the original condition of the simple elements and attain the incorrupt nature of the pre-worldly paradise.

– Carl Jung

The idea for the first movement ‘Mix Tape’, which was the last of the three movements that I composed, came when I read a short biographical text by my friend and violist Pauline Hogstrand:

‘Growing up in the arctic part of Sweden, I was always surrounded by nature. When the meter thick ice on the ocean breaks in spring, strong as rock, the sound is like nothing comparable, and the vibrations goes straight into your core. Or looking up at the crisp skies. It is vibrant differences between cold and warm, hard and soft, solid and transparent. It’s energy that everything contains. Night by night, i stayed up forgetting all about time in the mid summer solstice, making mix tapes of music and sounds, and I had a dream that I would be on that tape someday.’

This evocative description of an idyllic sounding childhood filled me with longing and nostalgia. There is a beauty, and at the same time a sadness. I experience this mixed feeling a lot, during a particularly beautiful moment I am also reminded that it won’t last. Summer is shortly followed by winter; Life gives way to death. However, this light sadness is itself a beautiful feeling, as it makes me value the moment even more strongly. In ‘Mix Tape’ I attempt to express these feelings.

The form of the movement is that of a slightly broken ‘Rondo’; musical ideas keep returning in a variety of guises, with hopefully a playfulness, rather than being a purely academic exercise.

The movement starts energetically and ‘with anticipation’, as the bell tower tolls, Pan the archetypal nature spirit summons us into a forested dream landscape.The atmosphere I hope to evoke here is inspired by my experiences in the subarctic during light summer nights; the sounds of the forests and mires, and the brilliant energy in the vivid colours and smells of the wild plants. This ‘nature music’ is  derived from a recording from the island of Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands. (Watch from 35:49, ‘Tribal Eye’ documentary https://youtu.be/AhexRcrx68k?t=35m31s)

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‘Nature music’

In the middle of the forest we encounter a midsummer dance, in which the music is nostalgically inspired by Swedish & Norwegian folk fiddle music.

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‘Folk music’

My source material for this folk music were several of the following recordings from Sweden and Norway:

‘Springar’ by Johannes Dale on Hardanger Fiddle, from Songs and Dances of Norway

‘Matsgards Valsen’ by Fridolf Jansson and Erling Holström from The Swedish Fiddlers: Music from the Gathering of the Fiddlers at Delsbo

‘Polska fran Hotagen’ by Jónas Jónasson and Yngve Göranssonfrom The Swedish Fiddlers: Music from the Gathering of the Fiddlers at Delsbo

This is a rite of passage, in which couples start to pair off; a rustic, picturesque scene that romanticises an older and more ‘natural’ existence.  In the midst of this exuberance, the party is suddenly interrupted by the approach of an ominous storm. We stand static in the darkness. There is no explicit violence, only fear. This storm represents my sense of the ‘darkness in light’, as I feel is expressed in the painting by Edvard Munch called ‘The Dance of Life’ which depicts two women (one in white, the other in black) standing alone as couples dance frantically around them.

‘The Dance of Life’ by Edvard Munch (1899)

The storm represented in ‘Vanitas’ is a melancholic acceptance of the futility of existence, as the music stands paralysed staring into the abyss like the two women in ‘The Dance of Life’. Here we are caught in between life and death, in an endless twilight, a liminal crisis.

For what, in the end, is this sun without a shadow? The same as a bell without a clapper.

– Michael Maier

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‘The Storm’

The music we hear immediately after the ‘storm’ is the introduction to ‘Grace’ by Jeff Buckley (a favourite album of mine as a teenager), in an arrangement inspired by ‘The Procession of the Oldest and Wisest One’ from Stravinsky’s ‘The Rite of Spring’ (https://youtu.be/FFPjFjUonX8?t=13m38s).

I also include a waltz fragment from ‘Den Evige Treer’ by Nikolaj Nørlund, which I arranged and re-composed, for the Copenhagen Phil. (at 4:12 https://norlund.bandcamp.com/track/den-evige-treer)

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We end with a re-imagined ‘nature music’, a solo cello alone with the birds, in a twilight forest. The bells are silent. The very last thing we hear is a short fragment from the Overture to ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ by Felix Mendelssohn, (a passage that is meant to represent the dancing fairies).

I dream of another soul, in quite a different garb: while shifting between dole and hope, it burns up, like alcohol, and goes away, casts no shadow and just leaves as mementoes the lilacs smelling of meadow.

– Arseny Tarkovsky, from ‘Eurydice’ (recited in Andrei Tarkovsky’s film ‘Mirror’)