Messiaen - Music and Color - Conversations with Claude Samuel 0931340675

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OLIVIER MESSIAEN Music and Color Conversations with Claude Samuel

Translated by E. Thomas Glasow

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1il1ii1i~j~~~1iifi .~~ AMADEUS PRESS

Reinhard G. Pauly, General Editor Portland, Oregon ~ i ihu n ivcr, itci t k U trecht

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________ Contents ________ Frontispiece engraving of St. Francis receiving the stigmata, "Amor reciprocus Dei et D. Francisci [Mutual love of God and blessed Francis)" by J. Ch. Smiseck, Courtesy Museo Francescano, Rome.

Endpoper illustratio" by Carla Magazino Copyright e 1986 as Olivier MessiaeJ1: Musique et couleur by Editions Belfond, Paris. Translation copyright e 1994 by Amadeus Press (an imprint of Timber Press, Inc.) All rights reserved. ISBN 0-931340-67-5 Printed in Singapore AMADEUS PRESS The Haseltine Building 133 S.W. Second Ave. Suite 450 Portland, Oregon 97204-3527, U.SA. Unry fll C..- C.u'

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I m-PubMcmdoa Data

Meaiml. OUvier, 1908-199'2 (~et c:ouJear, &Jallsbl Music 1D11 co1or : comena00m wtdl Olude Slllluel I OlMer '*-'- ; ll'lmlalllld by B. 1brxa11 O'->w. p. cm.

Dbwti1Jlb7· p. ISBN ~931340-67·' 1. Meaim1. OIJvier, 1908-199'2-lallerVieWI. 2. Composen-Fmioe-lalel riews. L Sllllud, Caadc. ll. Tide. M1A10~9'A3 1994 93-28281 780'92-«20 ClP

Preface by Claude Samuel 9 _Musical Expectations 13 _Landmarks 19 _From Technique to Emotion 39 _Of Sounds and Colors 61 _In Quest of Rhythm 67 _My Birds 85 _The Orient Experience 99 _Trajectory 109 _An American Paradise 155 _Passing the Torch 175 _Contradictions of the Century 191 __ Saint Francis of Assisi 207 _Circling the Globe 251 In Memoriam: Olivier Messiaen by Claude Samuel 261 Selected List of Works 263 Discography 269 Selected Bibliography 283 Index of Names 289 Index of Works 295

Photographs follow page 160

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Scanned by CamScanner Dedicated to the memory of Olivier Messiaen 1908-1992

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Olivier Messiaen had just attended the two premieres-first private (at the Sainte-Chapelle), then official (at Chartres Cathedral, in the presence of General de Gaulle)-of Et exspecto resurrectionem mortuorum. He was immersed in the composition of the monumental La Transfiguration de Notre Seigneur Jesus-Christ, which the Gulbenkian Foundation had commissioned of him, making use of what little free time his teaching at the Paris Conservatory, rue de Madrid, left him. In Royan, he had recently chaired the jury of the first -piano competition to which he had lent his name, and whose renaissance young artists from around the world still await. It was at this time that Olivier Messiaen, at the invitation of Pierre Belfond, agreed to take part in a more abstract exercise: a game of question-and-answer before the microphone, with a view to publication. I knew Messiaen well enough to kno:w that he did nothing lightly, that his observations were always well founded, that he was more voluble about what he did know-which is to say, his creative work, the musical currents of our time, and the open-minded teaching that he still practiced-than about what he did not: namely, the superficial trends of our society. I discovered that his scrupulous professional conscience was a match for the gift of meticulous concentration he brought to the project. There was no adverb, no comma in that first book that he did not carefully weigh. Hence, its 236 pages-published in small format-were from then on accepted as gospel by those who wanted to know and repeat, write or comment upon Olivier Messiaen's truths. Eventually the book was translated into English and Japanese as well. After attending the premiere of his Transfiguration in Lisbon, Messiaen renewed his ties to the organ and piano with Meditations sur le mystere de la Sainte Trinite and Fauvette des jardins-the latter piece devoted entirely to one bird. He next orchestrated the magical colors of star-canopied Bryce Canyon and Zion Park for Des canyons aux etoiles, then plunged into the most unpredictable and demanding of

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ber 1983, the musical world discovered-not wunout astonishment in an opera house whose usual fare ranged from the trivial to th vul~ar: drama~ of murd~rs, .betray~ls, and tawdry _love affairs-tha~ divine grace might also find its way mto the repertoire. To say that th traditional opera public got the message would be going too far bu~ thousands of music lovers were initiated, which helped to assure'that the work would eventually reach dyed-in-the-wool bel canto audiences. Even in its television broadcast, Saint Fran~ois-a story that holds its tremendous appeal-triumphed, becoming a milestone in the career of a composer whom the public, naturally slower in forming an opinion than the international experts, had taken a rather long time to discover. During the eight years of its composition, Saint Fran~ois had been Olivier Messiaen's only concern, his every day's task, his every night's anguish-and the result had to be what is called a "testament"-so much so that his admirers, those who eagerly looked forward to his latest works, wondered what the post-Saint Fran~ois future might hold. They may be reassured. And all the better that Messiaen, far from hiding behind the honors heaped before him, agreed to add some chapters to this book, tracing eighteen years of nonstop work, talking about journeys and new reflections, a sign-if one be needed-of a vitality that is as private and discreet as it is unshakable. A bit of touching up allowed the composer of the Turangalflasymphonie to review his confidences, to clarify some details, and to reconsider judgments in the light of recent musical developments, inspired, after the gradual demise of the serial system in the late 1960s, by computer science. But the essence, the broad outline, is preserved almost verbatim. There are the musical resources of his ornithological quest; his mysterious resonances with the world of color-so dear to my interlocutor that he decided to incorporate it in the book's title; the implications of rediscovered rhythms (Greek, Hindu); but more important, the ultimate driving force behind his creations-his indomitable religious faith. His discourse on any and all of these topics remains a model of consistency, which (whatever may be said about the value of "revised thoughts") is the mark of a great mind. The new chapters-nearly half the book-do not contradict the major convictions and ideas embodied in other scores; his m~d~ of ex~~ession is refined without the slightest deviationartistic or spmtual-from the main path.

- M essiaen . . o 1v1er . n o ctoucn, vu• "" ...... "'"''-"" '1"'""' •a11"101e-u1 tainS the same stan d ard s, the same fervor, and occa . mam11 . . h" . s1ona y the same

reluctance m expressing is opinions of others. He mamtams . . the . d"ff 1 erence, too, toward celebrations of fam _ same m · . . e ack nowledg ments of appreciation given to those concerned with h h_· · · d · bi sue t mgswhich his att1tu e is una e .to mask. . Having proudl Y d"1v1·d ed and d and investigated time in all 1 atiently reconstructe . ·ts d.1mens1ons · d · P · Messiaen Olivier transcen s hme. He has ushered in sil t . . en revo1u-' ) tions (or revoIu t tons s11ent1y and takes them on without fear of consequence. Just as for inspiration Messiaen reaches far beyond thos _ · · d ms · t•tut. h ere musical · works and legacies are meas e sped ciabze i ions w •t · , ure by the compI exi y-or naivete-of pedantic edicts, I would like to head for ~he open sea, beyond t~e pollution of civilization, and give him the title (though he may obJect to my having borrowed it fro Schumann) of Bird Prophet. m Claude Samuel Paris

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_ _ _ _ Musical Expectations

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Claude Samuel: You frequently mention the influence of your mother

on the de~;lopment of your personality, notably, the prophetic nature of Lame en bourg~o.n [The Burgeoning Soul], the collection of poems your mother, Cecile Sauvage, wrote while she was carrying you. Olivier Messiaen: Yes, I have always believed and I believe more and

more in the determining role of that maternal collection. Salvador Dali, an eccentric by nature, often spoke of his "intrauterine memories:' Without going as far as that, I still believe a child exists from the moment of conception. That is why the Catholic Church is so violently opposed to abortion, which it considers a crime. Because from the very first moment of conception, the child is himself-the future artist or future murderer, the future factory worker or future president of the republic. C.S. Such determinism is frightening! 0.M. Consider the beehive, with some bees destined to be workers,

drones that exist to assure fertilization, and the queen, whose only activity is laying eggs. There, too, determinism is frightening! C.S. You11 permit me to give more credence to the free will of men

than to that of bees. 0.M. Granted, man has free will and is capable of modifying his per-

1 sonality. I've forgotten which saint said, ''There were two of ufft threw the other one out the window:' Nevertheless, the perso:a 1 Y of the child is formed in the womb. There is a permanent e.xc ange between mother and child and the latter can pick up exbtenohr emthoe' · 1·d e the worn w en tions. You know, some children move 1ns 13

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C.S. It's a symbolic gesture. o.M. No, it's not a question of symbolism. The child really moved. It's a unique case, but he was truly baptized in his mother's womb. That's why Christ said, "Among those born of women, none is greater than John the Baptist." In other words, an exchange occurs between mother and child during pregnancy; and the mother, in turn, is transformed. The moment of birth is tragic-tragic for the child whose first mouthful of air is brutal, painful-but also tragic for the mother, who loses a part of herself after the longest and most intimate of human relationships. All these things, so difficult to express, were communicated by my mother in the book of verse entitled L'ame en bourgeon. She said them magnificently, with well-chosen imagery, a very keen sense of natural beauty, and, above all, exquisite modesty. Certainly, many women have written poems, but none has spoken of the mystery of giving birth. However, some of them-from Sappho to Anna de Noailles, from Louise Labe to Marceline DesbordesValmore-were wonderful writers, as were the novelists Madame de La Fayette, who evokes the pleasures of love, and Emily Bronte, who describes its torments. Then there is the one I consider the greatest, Madame d'Aulnoy, author of numerous fairy tales in which love and the fantastic are combined in a fr~nzy of invention that foreshadows surrealism. Certain poems of Eluard and films of Jean Cocteau wouldn't have existed without these stories by Madame d'Aulnoy,La chatte blanche, Le Prince Mouton, and La Princesse Carpillon. Though amazing for their time, they unfortunately have been forgotten. C.S. Do they interest you specifically because they foreshadow surrealism? 0 .M. Perhaps. I'm partial to the fantastic side of surrealism to the sort of science fiction that goes beyond reality and science its~lf. I was in

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Israel recently and, at the end of a conversation with a great scientist, I timidly admitted my admiration for H. G. Wells's The Time Machine. He replied, ''Don't be afraid to say it, because that book is a masterpiece, and Wells anticipated discoveries that science is only now beginning to understand:'

c.s. But it's the poetic message of science fiction that touches you. Let's call it its poetic intuition. o.M.I like that expression: indeed, it is poetic intuition. While expecting me, my mother had poetic intuitions. That's why she said, without knowing I would become a composer, "Je souffre d'un lointain musical que (ignore [I suffer from an unknown, distant music) ." And also, "Voici tout l'Orient qui chante dans mon etre-avec ses oiseaux bleus, avec ses papillons [All the Orient is singing here within me-with its blue birds, with its butterflies]:' How could she know that I would be an ornithologist and that Japan would fascinate me? Finally, in an era when predicting a child's sex in utero was impossible, she always addressed me as a boy. This is quite an example of premonition. She died before I actually embarked on a musical career, but I'm convinced that I owe my career to that musical expectancy. It was my mother who pointed me, before I was born, toward nature and art. She did it in poetic terms; being a composer, I translated them later into music. I would like to read to you four lines by Cecile Sauvage that strikingly describe the envelopment of the child by the mother:

fe suis autour de toi comme l'amande verte Qui ferme son ecrin sur l'amandon laiteux, Comme la cosse molle aux replis cotonneux Dant la graine enfantine et sayeuse est couverte. I am around you like the green almond Which wraps its casing 'round the milky nut, Like the soft pod with cottony folds Covering the silky, infant seed. That poem, whose imagery is so appropriate, was published in 1909, one year after I was born. My mother wrote essentially two books, both published by Mercure de France. The first is entitled Tandis que la terre tourne [As the World Turns]-and L'ame en bourgeon is its last chapter. The second, Le vallon [The Valley], is more melancholy; it describes birds and flowers, but no longer the sun of Provence which my mother loved so much and never got over having left. Then a great misfortune occurred: between 1914 and 1918, my mother 15

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. ·t, s 10 music and react differently, depending on the · mot h. er I1s "n. ber ftJr example one of my wt'f e' s meces, w hose baby music. 1.rcmcm ' ' . h l' as born / kicked whenever its mot er 1stened to con.' f bcore 11 w h · · ·1 sic whereas Bach soothed 1t. A s1m1 ar p enomenon is tl'mpora ry mu ' d· f mentioned in the Bible, in fact: the extraor .1~aryE~o~enht o the Visitation. Mary, pregnant with Christ, pays a v1s1t to tza et , who is pregnant with John the Baptist. Now, at the moment. Mary ~reet~ her, Elizabeth's child shifts position and genuflect.s . 1:'fe !~ baphzed m his mother's womb. Then Elizabeth says to the V1rgm, Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb." That's the origin of one of the most well-known prayers.

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c.s. Did your mother consider herself a femme de lettres?

c.s. Did you ever think of joining an order?

O.M. No, she didn't tell anyone about what s~e w_as _writing. She was modest and carried a sort of hidden despair within h~r-pe~haps because she was to die young, perhaps because she wasn ta believer. In fact, she was unhappy.

o.M. I've thought about it, but I know I would have made a very bad

c.s. Your parents weren't believers, yet you always insist that you were born a believer. Can you remember the moment when your religious faith was consciously revealed to you? O.M. It's true that my parents were not believ~rs. T?at d?es~'t mean they weren't worried about the beyond. On this subject, Id hke to tell you about Andre Malraux, whom I knew well: >:ou know that he co~­ sidered himself an atheist or, to use the less radical term, an agnostic, but every time we met, he'd converse about death and w~t follows it, and he even commissioned a work from me on the subject of death, which became a work on the Resurrection: Et exspedo resurredionem mortuorum.

c.s. Do you mean that nonbelievers are worried? O.M. I will say that they're believers in their own way. They're "reverse believers."

c.s. But you haven't answered my question: how did you become aware of your own religious faith? O.M. I didn't have a sudden conversion, as did Blaise Pascal or Paul Claudel. You know, Claudel had a sudden flash of inspiration, one day in Paris's Notre Dame, and it was in the middle of the night that Blaise Pascal had his extraordinary revelation and wrote the word "fire" at the start of his Memorial. For me, there was nothing of the kind. I've always been a believer, pure and simple. tittle by little 1:v~ read books that have strengthened my faith, and I've stud1e theology, on my own, through my personal reading. I've read alm~st all the Summa Theologica of Saint Thomas Aquinas. I've also studied

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. t between earth and heaven, that presented charac wrote an ehp1cF, .set World War· the soldiers, but also the corpses Whil ters from t e irs · h b ' e f ddess Hemerocalle the title c aracter, o served the a :~~s ~t !~s a dr~a in verse, th~ee or four hundred pages long, but ~e ma~uscript disappeared following several moves from one house to another-

the Gospels, the Epistles of Saint Paul, the Apocalypse, and the Bible a whole. I've consulted modern theologians: the Belgian Dom ~ lumba Marmion; Romano Guardini, who, despite his name, was G~rman; Thomas Merton, an American of French origin; and the eatest contemporary theologian, who writes as well in German as French-Hans Urs von Balthasar.

monk. I wouldn't have endured the rules of monastic life-getting up in the middle of the night to pray. I would have been incapable of

interrupting my musical work when the bell rang for Offices. I think monastic life requires a special calling. Some are destined for it; others not. But one can become a saint under very different circumstances. A king or a president can be a saint. Take Saint Louis, for example!

c.s. Some who were called to religious vocations were troubled by periods of doubt. And you? o.M. No, I've never had doubts, but I recognize that Christians and even saints have known doubt.

c.s. What do you think of Pascal's "wager"? O.M. It's only a theory. The word "fire" written at the beginning of his Memorial overwhelms me much more. We're surrounded by innumerable unexplainable events that reveal an invisible power, greater than ours, to which we must bow. C.S. I suppose scientific explanations annoy you.

0 .M. Sometimes scientific explanations are magnificent, and they're always very useful, but above all they permit us to realize how ignorant we really are. The further science advances, the more it reveals the extent of what remains in darkness. Any scientist will agree with that. C.S. It was often thought, particularly in the nineteenth century, that religious faith and scientific progress were irreconcilable. 0 .M. Yes, and there is even a man who tried, unsuccessfully, to reconcile those two notions: Teilhard de Chardin. God gave us a brain so 17

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that we can use ii to increase our knowledge, to sharpen our thought but as long as we live on earth, we will never possess the tools for per~ feet knowledge.

c.s. Docs interplanetary travel interest you? o.M. Yes, It's phenomenal, but I believe 111 accomplish it naturally after my death, when distance and matter no longer hold sway over me.

Landmarks _______ c.s. Why do you compose? What does the act of creating mean to you?

o.M. I have often been asked that question, and I find it rather useless; it seems to me, really, that a composer writes music because he has to, because he has a gift for it. Certainly since childhood I've been irresistibly and powerfully drawn to a musical vocation, to which my parents were not at all opposed, being artists themselves. My father, Pierre Messiaen, was an English teacher: he left a critical translation of the complete works of Shakespeare. My mother, Cecile Sauvage, was the greatest poet of motherhood. Her book L'ame en bourgeon influenced my entire future. C.S. Was it your mother who induced you to study music? O.M. No, I taught myself to play the piano during the First World War, when I was in Grenoble; I then attempted to compose. I've preserved a piano piece from those days called La dame de Shalott, after Tennyson's poem. It's obviously a very childish piece; the undefined style and naive form make me laughC.S. Was the work published? O.M. No. It's just a little souvenirC.S. If you've been composing since then, it's obviously because an instinct drove you to do so0.M. Certainly, and that's what I cannot explain. That's why the question ''Why do you write music?" seems useless to me.

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wnte mus~c write music today?

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o You

O.M When 1 was a child, music was a distraction in the same t ys ~re for other children and, for me, an amusement like the p~ay as S~akespeare, all of which I recited before an audience of one~Sof brother-when I was between eight and ten years old. ll1y Todav I write as a professional, not only in my free time as b f J' d . . e ore I'm obliged to fiercely defe~ . my creative time, and for years l'v · devoted my summers to wntmg. e

c.s. That was true when you were wrapped up in teaching at the c on. · servatory, but not smce you have re t'ired . O.M. Still, I lose a great deal of time traveling, in order to atte d rehearsals and conc~rts of my orc~estral works in faraway place~ 1 also compose better m the mountams or the countryside because · in Paris J'm constantly distracted. C.S. Your departure from the conservatory nevertheless lightened

your schedule considerably. You must have felt somewhat liberated. O.M. No, I w~s not liberated, an~ I didn't have time to lament the loss of n:i~ class since I was preoccupied with an enormous task: the composition a~d orchestration of the opera Saint Fran~ois d'Assise, which t~ok me eight years! And I really worked on it year-round day and ~~ ' . I~ anYcase, as soon as one writes as a professional, one loses a certa~ innocence. Personally, I compose to champion express and define ' ' . some th'mg, an d each work obviously poses new problems whICh are · an age o f so many controversial . ' . all the more comp1ex m aeshthehcs. I try to be aware of them, yet remain completely outside eac and every one. CS What "ex · ,, d an·d· wh t . pres~ions 0 you want to champion by writing music, a impressions would you communicate · . to your listeners?

0 .M. The first idea I wa t d t0 existence of the t th ne express, the most important, is the be a Catholi'c I rubs of the Catholic faith. I have the good fortune to · was orna belie d h . . even as a child The . . ~er, an t e Scnptures rmpressed me Catholic faith is the fi ~llummation of the theological truths of the the most useful and rs aspect of my work, the noblest, and no doubt most valuable-perhaps the only one I won't

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p h . sit is useless if one takes it to mean "Why did you b

c.~. er ap ?"but 111 make my question more precise: Why degin to

ret at the hour of my death. But I am a human being, and like all r~~ers I'm susceptible to human love, which I wished to express in ~ree of my works that inco.rporate the greatest myth of human love, that of Tristan and Iseult. Finally, I have a profound love of nature. I think nature infinitely surpasses us, and I've always sought lessons from it. I love birds, so ny inclination has been to examine bird songs especially; I've studied ornit~ology. My music, the~, juxtaposes the Catholic faith, the myth of Tnstan and Iseult, and a highly developed use of bird songs. But it also employs Greek metrics; provincial rhythms, or "de~i-talas;' of ancient India; and several personal rhythmic techniques such as rhythmic characters, nonretrogradable rhythms, and symmetrical permutations. Finally, there is my research into sound-color-the most important characteristic of my musical language.

c.s. Let's speak first about the bonds between your creative work and your Catholic faith. Would you have been able to compose without this faith? Would your music have been vastly different?

o.M. An aesthetic language and the sentiment expressed relate to two different spheres. I see the best proof of this in the fact that some very well-known composers, Mozart for example, were able to use exactly the same musical language for works of a secular nature and for those of religious character-succeeding in both cases without altering their aesthetic canons very much. C.S. When you write a liturgical work and a secular work, do you use the same language? O.M. Nearly the same, which actually scandalized some people. To

me it seems ridiculous and detrimental to contradict one's style, to adopt different aesthetics under the pretext that the subject and the idea expressed have changed. C.S. But, it seems to me, two attitudes vis-a-vis a work of music exist for a Catholic composer: the first consists of writing pages really destined for the liturgy; the second consists of creating works of a religious character that are primarily concert works. Do these two tendencies coexist in your musical output? ~.M. A liturgical work perfectly suited to the requirements of the religious service-for example a traditional mass with Kyrie, Gloria, Sanctus, Agnus Dei-no, I've never written one! I've only composed some very long organ works, large cycles that can be performed in

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c.s. You've told me that one can play a?ything on your new organ at

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tion in Washington, O.C., I arri~ed ten days ahead of ti~e to study the organ's layout and to find my timbres an~ note them m the score. At the end of the concert, which drew an audience of several thousand to the basilica some people told me they had never heard those limb ' . . ' d res and had been surprised by the instrument s un reamt-of possibilities, but it was just the result of long work.

CS And if they had offered you Notre Dame? Th , . : ~s after all! · at s quite prestigio

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o.~. l would have refused! I'm totally devoted to the Tri . , , organ, my child, my son! I cannot leave it. mte. lt s my

s. On that organ at the Trinite, have you essentially 1 d w'ntten compositions or do you improvise? Paye your

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the Trinite. Conversely, can your music be played on any organ?

o.M. No. It requires

l~rge instruments that pos.sess varied timbres

and mixtures and, particularly, those that have sixteen-foot stops on the manuals. Today, you know, it's fashionable to rebuild organs in the baroque style. The electric combinations are taken out on the pretext of authenticity, and one is deprived of an extremely useful asset; the sixteen-foot flue stops on the manuals are removed because they didn't exist in the baroque era, and the tonal palette is completely destroyed . The number of mixtures is increased and the powerful reed stops eliminated for a romantic sound. Thus, you cannot play anything on the new instruments but Frescobaldi or Nicolas de Grigny, which is a bit restrictive after all! I love those composersbut even so, I want to be able to play other things. Obviously, my own music cannot be played on such organs, but there are still some large instruments in existence, and my organ music is often played anyway. C.S. Even in Japan, where your work is well known?

O.M. Unfortunately, there are no organs in Japan, except in the big NHK radio auditorium. In the religious field, the Japanese mainly have Shinto or Buddhist temples, where organs aren't used. Most of the Catholic churches in Japan are so small that they don't have organs either, but there is a large organ in the modern Catholic cathedral in Tokyo: Marina Church. C.S. Let's go back to the Trinite, where you've been the organist for more than half a century. Have you ever been asked to be the organist in another church? Have people refrained from asking, knowing how attached you are to the Trinite?

O.M. That's it. They knew I was so attached to the Trinite that nothing would make me leave, so I've never received any other propositions. Two posts were vacant for a long time, at Saint-Sulpice and Notre Dame-

o.M. My se~vice~ were rather se~sibly divided up, on account of the different priests m charge. Fo.r High Mass on Sundays, I played only plainchant; fo.r the eleven o clock mass on Sundays, classical and romantic music; for the no.on mass, still on Sundays, I was permitted to play m)'. own ~orks; fmally, for the five o'clock vespers, I was obliged to improvise because the verses were too short to allow for the playing of pieces between the Psalms and during the Magnificat.

c.s. What characterizes your improvised music? Is it closer to your own written music or more classical in character?

o.M. When circumstances constrained me, it was sometimes very classical. For instance, I came up with pastiche voluntaries-faux Bach, faux Mozart, faux Schumann, and faux Debussy-in order to continue in the same key and in the same style as the piece just sung. Even so, I improvised in my own style, living off my old harmonic and rhythmic "fat:' Sometimes I was lucky and had flashes of inspirationThese improvisations went on for a rather long time, until the day I realized they were tiring me out, that I was emptying all my substance into them. So I wrote my Messe de la Pentecote, which is the summation of all my previous improvisations. Messe de la Pentecote was followed by Livre d'orgue, which is a more thought-out work. After that, as it were, I ceased to improvise. C.S. Weren't the different officiating priests at the Trinite a little horrified by the introduction into their church of music as daring as that of

Livre d'orgue? O.M. They weren't horrified because the truths I express, the trut~s of the Faith, are equally daring; they are fairy tales, in turn mysten~us,

harrowing, glorious, and sometimes terrifying, alw~ys rooted m a radiant, unchanging reality. Indeed, I'm necessanly a hun~~ed thousand degrees shy of each truth. No, the priests weren't homhed,

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c.s. I won't ask you to explain the secret reasons_ for your religious faith, but isn't that faith also the echo of the attraction you feel for the marvelous, for mystery, and for poetry? O.M. Certainly, but I'm going back to the plays of Shakespeare that I recited as a child. You know, all these thin~s are contained in the plays of Shakespeare, not only the human pass10ns, but also the magic, the witches, the sprites, the sylphs, the phantoms, and apparitions of all kinds. Shakespeare is an author who powerfully develops the imagination of his reader. I was inclined toward fairy tales, and Shakespeare is sometimes a super-fairy tale; it was this aspect of Shakespeare that impressed me, much more than certain disillusioned comments on love or death, such as can be found in Hamlet comments that a child of eight obviously couldn't understand. I loved Macbeth most of all because of the witches and Banquo's ghost, also Puck and Ariel for the same reasons, and I felt very vividly the grandeur of the mad King Lear raging against the storm and lightning. As for the famous stage directions in the historical plays"alarums, skirmishes, the enemy enters the city"-for me, they have always symbolized the idea of striking out for something newIt is certain that in the truths of the Catholic faith, I found this attraction of the marvelous multiplied a hundredfold, a thousandfold, and it was no longer a matter of theatrical fiction but of something true. I chose what was true. It was the same for Saint Christopher, who, when he was still called Reprobus, served in succession the Queen of Pleasure, the King of Gold, and the Prince of Evil, and yet finally carried Christ (whence the name we know him by, Christophorus, "Christ-bearer").

ssible. ln other respects, I've always loved th inexpdre" but my first love is the spoken theater C e t~eater and still d to a;, Ig o ·1 courses on a II k'm d s of operatic genres ·andertainly a h . ave my puP1 s verdi to Pelleas and Wozzeck, by way of R est ehcs, from Monte k b t th ameau, Mozart ner, and Mussorgs y, u ose aesthetics are now be . , Wag ave rise to some total successes that cannot be hind u~. 1:ee~; to me that musical theater is always a kind ~el':t~~e:tnd it s 1would add that most of the arts are unsuited to the ex Y : · h . press1on of . ,·ous truths. On ly musIC, t e most immaterial of all corn I re11g f th . , es c ose to it. But 0 ~ the stage o a eat~r, one is plac~d so far below the chosen subJect that one runs the nsk of floundenng in the ridiculous, the improper, or the absurd.

0

c.s. May I remind ~ou that you made that declaration in 1967, at a

time when composing an .opera w~s the furthest thing from your mind? Then cam~ Y?ur Sam! Franr;o1s, ~hose premiere at the Palais Garnier was a maJor mternahonal event m the world of opera. Do you nevertheless stand by your former assertions?

o.M. Yes, I stand by everything I said, and that is the reason I chose Saint Francis as the subject of my opera. I didn't dare depict Christ on the stage but thought Saint Francis was the man who most resembled Christ, through his poverty, chastity, and humility, and because he bore the stigmata, that is to say the five wounds of Christ on the cross. He truly had the wounds of both hands, both feet, and the wound on the right side, just like Christ.

c.s. When you say that musical theater is "a kind of betrayal;' do you refer to the subjects treated in opera or to the musico-dramatic form of opera?

C.S. It's very strange to reconcile the importance of the theater in your life, particularly during your childhood, and your waiting so long to compose for the theater. On the other hand, in your works you've made extensive use of the marvels of the Catholic faith.

O.M. I mean to say that sung drama is more conventional than spoken drama. The operatic form is another problem. Personally, and I've even been much criticized for it, I haven't composed a genuine opera, any more than I have a symphony. I wrote a "musical spectacle"-and I insist on that term. I wouldn't like Saint Fran(:ois to be performed in concert version because it's really a spectacle. I don't claim to ha.ve composed a classical opera, an opera of the Mozartean type w.1th recitatives alternating with arias and ensembles, nor a Wagne~1an opera with leitmotifs. My project was different. In the course of e1~ht tableaux, I wanted to trace the progress of grace in the soul of a samt.

O.M. I wished to express the marvelous aspects of the Faith. I'm ~ot saying that I've succeeded, for in the final analysis they re

C.S. We11 return to Saint Fran~ois momentarily. Let's stay with w~at you consider the "classics," from Monteverdi to Alban Berg, which

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but the parishioners were because they don't always know the textsAt any rate, the different priests at the Trinite worked things out very wisely, asking that I adapt a style to the needs of each audienc for the public attending the noon n:'ass is not the. same as the on~ attending High Mass, and the public for vespers is not that of the eleven o'clock mass.

.

.... What is true for the image is also true for the vocab 1 o.in· . h . u ary. 1nacer. sense music possesses a power t at is superior to th .

o.M. I don't think operas like the ones I mentioned can be Writt again, operas like those of Monteverdi or Rameau, Mozart or Wagn en As for Boris Godunav, Pelleas et Melisande, and Wozzeck-these are threr. exceptional works which even their composers weren't able to dup~~ cate, so something else must be found. C.S. Prior to this digression on musical theater, you told me th t "most of the arts are unsuited to the expression of religious truths." any case, artists hardly seem concerned about that, particularly thn innumerable painters who throughout history have depicted reli~ gious truths on canvas.

t

O.M. All religious painting is based on symbolic conventions· the same goes for the stained glass of the Middle Ages. I myself h~d to conform to these symbolic conventions since I put an angel on the stage in my Saint Fra11fois d'Assise. Pure spirits, angels, are invisible b~! I adop~ed the .customary iconographic system: I imagined a mag~ mf1cent bemg, neither man nor woman, a winged being dressed in a long robe. That's a symbolic convention. C.S. Isn't this symbolic convention inevitable if one wants to convey religious truths to the greatest number of people? Isn't faith passed on through tangible communication?

O.M. Christ appeared in order to lead us from the visible to love of the invisible. Christ the man can be represented, not Christ the God. God ~snot representable. He is not even expressible. When we say, "God is eternal," do we think about the significance of these words? "God is eternal" signifies not only that he will never end, but that he never had any beginning. Here is where temporal notions of ''before" and "after" encumber us. To conceive of something without a beginning absolutely overwhelms us, we who have begun, first, in our mother's woi:nb, then in our earthly life. The same goes for other divine attributes. Perhaps the ancient Israelites were right when they forbade the name of Yahweh to be spokenC.S. Those are very theoretical considerations!

O.M. I'm not a theorist-only a believer a believer dazzled by the infinity of God! ' 28

I'll return to your initial affirmation: "The arts are

c.S. ssion of religious truths:' Our vocabulary al unsuited to the expre so' . . . t . l e image and the word because it is imma eria and appeals more to the intellect to thought than the other arts. It even verges on fa t and Id f d Wh , n asy and belongs to the wor o reams. at s more, music and color are closely linked. ta!Jl

c.s. In your opini~n, which composers wrote music most faithful to religious thought. o.M. There is probably only one truly religious music because it's detached from all external effect, and that's plainchant, also called Gregorian chant.

c.s. Do you feel Gregorian chant has managed to preserve its purity through the centuries? o.M. Alas, poor Gregorian chant! In the liturgy it has been replaced by canticles! And those who try to perpetuate the practice of Gregorian chant-they aren't all that rare-don't always sing the neumes as they should be sung. Gregorian chant is the work of very intelligent monks; it's an extremely refined art, melodically and rhythmically, an art which dates from a time when harmony didn't exist in Western music, when the notion of chords was unknown. Why must Gregorian chant today be accompanied by the organ and embellished with harmony that, even when skillfully done, totally destroys its spirit? C.S. But not at the Abbey of Solesmes!

?·M.Obviously in a place like Solesmes, Gregorian is respected. But m most churches, Gregorian is chanted with accompaniment, on the pretext of having to please the congregation. That's a big mistake. C.S. Isn't Gregorian chant the most religious music of all because it

was religious even before becoming music? 0.M. Gregorian chant was composed in an era of great fait~ by monks wh~ were so humble that they preserved their ~nony~ty. Maybe that s what gives it its purity. What's more, Gregorian was mt.ended to enhance a sacred text, a text in Latin. In the various countries of the

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constitute your personal operatic museum. In this regard you say th "those aesthetics are now behind us:' Do you feel t~at opera, in th~ traditional sense of the word, can no longer be written today?

c.s. For you, Gregorian melodies chanted to a French text would longer be Gregorian? no o.M. It robs the music of its majesty and dreamlike quality. The statue comes down from its pedestal!

c.s. Let's return to those three great lines of strength which ru through your entire output: the Catholic faith, the Tristans, an~ nature. You have described your attitude as a Catholic with regard to music; now let's talk about the Tristans. O.M. I've writte~ three T~stans, v~ry different in terms of scoring and length. The earhest one 1s Haraw1, an hour-long cycle for voice and piano; the second is the Turangalila-symphonie, for Ondes Martenot solo piano, and very large orchestra, which lasts approximately a~ hour and a half; and finally Cinq recl1ants, for a chorus of twelve voices a cappella, lasting about half an hour. C.S. The spirit of those works implies a direct reference to the Tristan legend. How do you understand this legend? O.M. One might say the legend is the symbol of all great loves and for all the great love poems in literature or in music, but to me, only the myth of Tristan seemed worthy of attention; in no way did I wish to rework Wagner's Tristan und Isolde or Debussy's Pelleas, to mention only the two greatest ''Tristans" in music. C.S. Your Tristans don't place characters on a stageO.M. No, that has nothing to do with the old Celtic legend, and even the essential idea of the love potion is set aside (except for a few allusions in Cinq rechants). I've preserved only the idea of a fatal and irresistible love, which, as a rule, leads to death and which, to some extent, invokes death, for it is a love that transcends the body, transcends even the limitations of the mind, and grows to a cosmic scale. C.S. Isn't this notion of human love in contradiction with your religious faith? O.M. Not at all, because a great love is a reflection-a pale reflection, 30

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Catholic world, ever since it became customary to chant and spe k.1 the vernacular, Latin has disappeared, and that neglect also dea 1 n very serious blow to plainchant. ata

. love. bUt nevertheless a reflection-of the only genuine love, d'ivine Do you think that in one and the same work the Tr'1sta 1.d n ea can

~~5~ssociated with the Catholic faith?

oJJ. Can one place a human symbol alongside an eternal reality' 'fhat would be scandalous arrogance! Im_mediately you have to thro~ out the ide~-your own and perhaps distorted idea-of the eternal theatrical triangle of th~ g~ntleman, t~e lady, and the lover; I never dreamt of that when thmking about Tnstan, and the idea of interdiction or punishment has no place here.

c.s. But Tristan is nevertheless precisely thato.M. Yes, because contradiction is what gives birth to great love and leads to death; but the essential idea is not the contradiction but the great love a?d ensuing death. T~erein is an initiation, through death and separation from the world, mto a greater and purer love, which perhaps the _me!'tioning of other myths wi_ll ma~e yo~ ~e~er understand: I'm thmkmg of the enchanted tower m which Vivian imprisons Merlin, of the descent of Orpheus into Hades-

c.s. So your Tristan represents the purity of love. Beyond this notion of purity, I'd like you to describe your own symbolic view of human love. O.M. For me, human love represents a kind of communication, but in

its carnal realization, this communication is transcended by that of motherhood. The union of mother and child, so discredited in our time, is doubtless the culmination of nobility and beauty on earth. That union itself, however, is transcended by the communion of the Catholic who receives the host in church. Because in that communion, just as every superior being assimilates the infer~or bein~, Christ is in us and we are in him. We are absorbed by Christ who is our superior, something which doesn't exist in human love, or even in the relationship between mother and child. C.S. In a word, you've established a hierarchy of love. O.M. Exactly. We start with the trivial love we mention~d, ?efore attaining the great human love that magnificent love which is fatal passion. Then we reach matern~l love, but divine love is at the top of the pyramid. 31

O.M. Yes, because a man and a woman can know each oth incompletely. Even if they share the same tastes, do the sam ~~?nly even if their desires correspond, there is always a bit of ;h mgs, sonality of one that escapes the other. e Per-

C.S. And from that, you ultimately imply the failure of all attem happiness. According to you, man would seem to be hindered t~~t inability to be happy. Y 1s O.M. It's not a question of the inability to be happy, but of the im sibility of total understanding. This lack of full understandint~s; only limits the power of love, it influences every element that we peoceive through our senses and to which we are enslaved. So, perso~­ a~ly, I ~ften speak of color, but color exists only through our eyes. Likewise, composers speak of sound, but sound exists only through our ears.

C.S. This limited perception, this illusory communication would therefore seem to be our weakness, prohibiting us from any sort of earthly happiness. O.M. Admittedly, disorder rules our planet. Wars, violence, even ordinary assaults are striking proof of this. Why such disorder? Because man has been wounded, wounded since the original sin, wounded in his very nature. But Christ died on the cross precisely so that we might become again what we should never have ceased to be; we were created magnificent, and through our stupidity we spoiled ourselves, but we will become magnificent again at the resurrection. C.S. It seems to me that your lofty, demanding, and harrowing conception of human love, combined with the certainty o~ your Catholic faith, echoes in another aspect of your personality, m that love of nature which itself corresponds to your many transcendent thoughts of purity. O.M. Nature is indeed marvelously beautiful and pacifying: an_d, for me ornithological work was not only an element of consolation m my pu:Suits of musical aesthetics, but also a factor of health. It's perhapJ thanks to that work that I was able to withstand the misfortunes an complications of life.

c.s. At what period were you attracted to nature? .... As with music and faith, always. But my strongest f 1. O ·"'"' e those I rememb er qut·te v1v1 · "diy, date back to myee about admgs 1

natur ' f rt fift Th o escence to the age of ~u een or een. ere were pe~haps others befor~ that; they remain blurred for they date back to a time when 1was ve ng. When I was three or four years old, I lived in Ambert wh ry ~;father had his first p~st as an English teacher. There I ob~ou:;; revelation remain· d en.enced the revelation of nature, but that exp · memories of it. So my e unconscious, and I h aven't reta'med any prec~se emories go back to the age of fourteen or fifteen, mainly to a period mhen I used to stay in the Aube region with aunts who owned a ~ther quaint farm, with sculptures by one of my uncles, a flower garden, an orchard, and cows and hens. All this was quite novel, and, to "improve" my h~alth, my good aunts sent me to tend a tiny herd of cows. It was really tmy: only three cows; even so, I tended them very badly, and one day they fo_und a way to esca_Pe and wreak terrible havoc in a field of beets, which they devoured ma few hours, earning me the scorn of all the village people. The Aube countryside is very beautiful and very simple: the plain, the big meadows surrounded by trees, magnificent sunrises and sunsets, and a great number of birds. It was there that I first began jotting down bird songs. I was obviously a beginner, and I understood nothing about these notes and was not even able to identify the bird that sang.

c.s. We11 speak later of ornithology, but I wonder if you're not, ultimately, an urbanite in spite of yourself. O.M. Completely in spite of myself. I have an absolute horror of cities, a horror of the one I live in, despite all its beauties-I'm referring to the French capital-and a horror of all the bad taste man has accumulated around him whether for his needs or for various other reasons. You11 notice, as I do, that nature never displays anything in bad taste; you11 never find a mistake in lighting or coloration or, in bird songs, an error in rhythm, melody, or counterpoint.

C.S. It seems to me that we join up here with your Catholic f~ith. Do you think that the divine mystery of the creation is responsible for perfect harmony in nature? 0.M. Absolutely. Nature has retained a purity, an exuberance, a freshness we have lost.

c.s. So the word "purity;' which we used before in discussing your 33

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C.S. Could we stop for a moment at the second stage? Wh always place great human love alongside the notion of fataf do rou passion, with death as the only outcome? Is it really inevitable?

it is unsullied by man.

O.M. It's possible. I wouldn't have thought of saying it, but

C S And during your travels have you been struck b 1 d and m .scapes co·m·pletely different from those you knew in childhooJ an your

saying it, and that limitation is there.

You are

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Catholic faith and the Tristans, reappears in your love of natu .. this quest for purity the dominant feature of your human and~~ 1~n't personality? s1ca1

youth? In the course of the journeys that were the on·g· f 0 ·M. Certainly. · my C, atalogue d'oiseaux · mo the piec~s m,, ~n~tled "Le merle bleu;' "Le

C.S. Is your love of nature closely linked to your Catholic faith?

on:

O.M. Linked, yet simultaneously independent. I love nature fo 1·t Of course, like Saint Paul, I see in nature a manifestation of fs~lf. aspects of divinity, but certainly God's creations are not God hi~ e Moreover, all God's creations are enclosed in time, and time is 0 self. 0 God's strangest creatures since it is totally in conflict with his et:e nature, he who is without beginning, without en~ withrna succession. out

!

C.S. In conflict with eternity, this finite time in which you five makes you sufferO.M. No. I aspire toward eternity, but I'm not suffering,while living in time, all th~ less so since tim~ has always been at the center of my

preoccupations. As a rhythm1st, I've endeavored to divide this time up and to understand it better by dividing it. Without musicians, time would be much less understood. Philosophers are less advanced in this fi~ld. But as composers, we have the great power to chop up and alter time. C.S. Which aspect of nature do you prefer: mountain, sea, or countryside?

traquet neur, and ~ t~aquet. stapazm, I became acquainted with the region of the ~yre~ees-Onentales, and it was love at first sight. From the very first instant, I was absolutely thrilled by that extraordinary place, which combines the blue of the sea overhanging cliffs, terraced vineyards, forests of cork oak, and even perpetual snow.

c.s. Do you regard nature as an object, a living manifestation, or as a vehicle for feelings? Do you side with the view of the romantics, who perceived a consoling force in nature? o.M. I see none of that. Nature is primarily a great force in which to

lose oneself, a sort of nirvana, but above all it's a marvelous teacher ' and this last aspect has been very useful to my work. C.S. For you, then, nature's primary contribution has to do with sounds? O.M. Absolutely.

C.S. Not limited only to birdsO.M. Not limited only to birds! I've listened passionately to the waves

O.M. I love all nature, and I love all landscapes, but I have a predilection for mountains because I spent my childhood in Grenoble and saw, from an early age, the mountains of the DauphineC.S. Like BerliozO.M. Like Berlioz-and the particularly wild places which are the most beautiful in France, like the Meije Glacier, less famous than Mont Blanc, but certainly more awesome, purer, more isolatedC.S. You love nature in its wildest manifestations0.M. In its most secret and most grandiose aspects and, let's say, when

of the sea, to mountain streams and waterfalls, and to all the sounds made by water and wind. And 111 even go so far as to say that I make no distinction between noise and sound: for me, all this always represents music. C.S. When cornposing, do you try to reproduce the sounds of nature? 0.M. I've tried, and I turned to bird songs because they, ultimately, are the most musical, the closest to us, and the easiest to reproduce. The sounds of wind and water are extraordinarily complex. Besides, t~ey were listened to at great length and captured by composers hke Berlioz, Wagner, and, above all, Debussy, who was the great lover of wind and water. But I must say that none of them completely 35

C.S. But the modem composer is perhaps better equipped for th· ~-

~

O.M. Yes, because if need be he can use a tape recorder and, With th help of electronic apparatus, dissect what he has recorded. e

C.S. Have you tried this experiment?

o.M. 111 answer you. in all honesty. I do my transcribin~ of bird songs in nature, in the spnng, the season of love, and at the right moments, which is to say at sunrise and sunset. I use music paper, a sketchboard for support, some pencils and erasers-as though I were taking musical dictation, but it's a special dictation that requires ten times the normal attention and speed. A bird sings very quickly indeed. When I take down the first strophe, it's already singing the second, and while I write the second, it's on the third. My wife accompanies me on all these ornithological journeys and, as I am a modem man, I ask her to bring along a tape recorder. So my wife records what I transcribe, and when we return home, I compare the recording with my own notation. The recorder is much less selective than my ear: it records all external noises. My ear retains only the bird song. On the other hand, the tape machine records that same song with much greater precision than my ear, so the recorder allows me to make a second notation. Those are the two sources of my material: the notation transcribed from an exact recording and the notation done directly from nature, much more artistic, with all the variants and modifications that each individual creature of each species might contribute. C.S. What do you think of Claude Debussy's phrase: "To see the sunrise is more useful than listening to Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony''?

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succeeded in penetrating the details of these complex soun complexes of sounds. And, personally, I feel totally incapable d~ a~