The dynamic, inventive Aurora Orchestra hit Bristol this Halloween weekend. Their evening of what might be best described as 'concert theatre', called Thriller: Automatic Writing, was a great idea – intersperse music for varying numbers of chamber musicians with excerpts by a top horror writer to create an evening of spooky unease. I'm not sure it quite hung together – more of which later – but one of the musical gems included was Luciano Berio's 'Aldo' from Duets for Two Violins. Its hushed whisperings speak with a poignant simplicity. This is one of the only videos of it I could dig out from YouTube - the Aurora's players conjured a bit more magic - but it gives you a sense of it:
Monday 31 October 2011
Tuesday 11 October 2011
Voici que la saison décline
Voici que la saison décline,
L'ombre grandit, l'azur décroît,
Le vent fraîchit sur la colline,
L'oiseau frissonne, l'herbe a froid.
Août contre septembre lutte ;
L'océan n'a plus d'alcyon ;
Chaque jour perd une minute,
Chaque aurore pleure un rayon.
La mouche, comme prise au piège,
Est immobile à mon plafond ;
Et comme un blanc flocon de neige,
Petit à petit, l'été fond.
Victor Hugo
Last night in my French class, we read a beautiful poem by Victor Hugo. I can't find a translation online but, even if you don't speak French, just read it out loud. Each word has a wonderful sound, each line a telling rhythm, which come across irrespective of meaning. It's a three-verse gem full of evocative images: the shadows (l'ombre) are getting longer, the grass (l'herbe) feels the cold. A particularly well-crafted line, as another in my lesson pointed out, opens the second stanza: 'Août contre septembre lutte'. The lutte – struggle – is encapsulated by a line that's tricky to say, that rushes towards the word 'septembre', itself full of sonorous stiles to climb over.
L'ombre grandit, l'azur décroît,
Le vent fraîchit sur la colline,
L'oiseau frissonne, l'herbe a froid.
Août contre septembre lutte ;
L'océan n'a plus d'alcyon ;
Chaque jour perd une minute,
Chaque aurore pleure un rayon.
La mouche, comme prise au piège,
Est immobile à mon plafond ;
Et comme un blanc flocon de neige,
Petit à petit, l'été fond.
Victor Hugo
Last night in my French class, we read a beautiful poem by Victor Hugo. I can't find a translation online but, even if you don't speak French, just read it out loud. Each word has a wonderful sound, each line a telling rhythm, which come across irrespective of meaning. It's a three-verse gem full of evocative images: the shadows (l'ombre) are getting longer, the grass (l'herbe) feels the cold. A particularly well-crafted line, as another in my lesson pointed out, opens the second stanza: 'Août contre septembre lutte'. The lutte – struggle – is encapsulated by a line that's tricky to say, that rushes towards the word 'septembre', itself full of sonorous stiles to climb over.
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