I visited Sombor last week and walked into St. George’s Church on main street. Some of my family history is recorded in church documents here.
During the era of Tito’s communism in 1960s and 1970s in Yugoslavia any religious expression was at best seen as provocative, and at times it was sanctioned by the party (The Communist Party).
My maternal grandmother Stojanka, my great aunt Vida and my maternal great grandparents were the four people present and instrumental in organizing the baptism for me in 1971. My dad recalls that the ritual was not performed in the church but more discretely in my grandparents’ house, and that he and mom knew about it but weren’t involved as their participation would be considered reactionary.
My father is a WWII orphan. His parents, Bosko and Vera Vrebalov, communist revolutionaries, were killed by their countrymen, Serbian nationalists. There are streets and schools named after Bosko and Vera, and two of my siblings have their names. My younger sister and I (Marija and Aleksandra), fancied as little girls that we were named after the royal couple of prewar Yugoslavia. Our assumption was repeatedly shushed by our grandmother Stojanka, with no explanation. We knew that royals were expelled by communists so the silencing by our grandmother for the two of us meant that what we suspected was for sure correct.
Well, we were wrong. I was named after one of the communist party leaders, Aleksandar Rankovic, who was a prewar comrade of my paternal grandparents and took upon himself to look after their orphan – my dad. Rankovic was ousted before I was born and persona non grata in Tito’s regime. He never made public appearances and even though we would visit him in isolation in his home, the origin of my name was not discussed in my presence while he and Tito were alive.
Lots of us born during the existence of Yugoslavia were born into families with similar ideological polarities often resulting in painful divisions, blame, and loss. Those historic divisions carry into the current political reality, and not only in Serbia. Through reconciling and integrating them into a balanced, complex identity we have a chance to better understand and serve our environment and, on a larger scale, the polarized world. The service might show as kindness to a political opponent at a family dining table or as bridging cultures and connecting with the other from a radically different religious, political, or social background.
My personal interest has been to integrate polarities within my own identity so that I can contribute with work that’s relevant and unifying, which then, I believe, is beautiful as well.
Within a year, by coincidence, i made music with teenagers at the Royal College of Music in London, in the Middle East at the Flying Carpet Festival, and in San Francisco, where a girls’ choir carried a main role in my opera Abraham in Flames. These teenagers come from three continents and very different life situations spanning from exile, war, and refugee camps, to growing up in liberal western metropoles. They are beautiful and inspiring and have in common an undiluted urge to belong, love, and give their best. If anywhere I have felt a sense of purpose, it was in their laser-like presence, soaking in information. They are our ticket to survive, globally! Encourage them, the kids around you, to love the planet, to make friends, and to strive for excellence in whatever way available.
Here’s a video recording of the show we did with young Londoners for the English National Ballet, performed at Sadler’s Wells Theater in London on April 7, 2019. Enjoy the show, choreography by Malgorzata (Gosia) Dzierzon, Renaud Wiser, Aaron Vickers, Katie Cambridge, and Hubert Essakow.
On Chairs Alive! an installation by Alice Wingwall at Gualala Arts Center, May 2019
Alice’s chairs are of course – chairs alive. Everything about and by Alice is filled with life – her laughter, colors of her wardrobe, her inquisitive ways, and her art.
Stepping into the lobby of Gualala Arts on Sunday felt like walking into a strange, eccentric world of seemingly disparate objects combined together. It was a funny, mysterious, adventurous, busy, metaphysical, sturdy world – all at once. If you know Alice, you know that chairs, gloves, cameras, shoes, clamps, guide dogs are all defining nouns. Add architecture —especially images of iconic buildings carrying histories of humans creating beauty like museums and cathedrals, add reflective surfaces and crystals, add sky – you’re in Alice’s world. It’s an abstract universe created by concrete elements of everyday life objects and imagery, and put together with precision and discipline. Its multitudes of narratives are hard to define, yet they are obviously there and feel strangely familiar.
There’s a stack of plastic chairs with clamps and yarn on them; there’s a series of photos of a floating chair in a pool, there are wooden hands resting on a chair, on one hand another tiny chair attached as a ring, there’s a chair with black large wings on it (Wingwal of course), chairs with shoes attached to them, or chairs resting on shoes, like they’re ready to take a walk, or take you for a walk.
In the lobby of Gualala Arts Center all of them face in different directions, non-conforming to a point of view defined by the main entrance. They ask a viewer to move in space, see them from multiple angles, come closer or bend over to not miss a detail. More time one spends with them more there is to see. The consistent use of elements (objects) throughout the exhibit establishes the vocabulary and depending on the context, a chair becomes a frame, a container, a vehicle, a throne, an invitation, or a portal to some other place.
As I walked among them and read the descriptions that always involve snippets of memories of places and people surrounding the creation, Alice was guiding Donlyn in how to reposition one of the objects. He would move it, describe the result, Alice would edit further, Donlyn would move it again, describe the new result, and that went on for a while.
The exchange I observed brought a realization profound in its simplicity – Beethoven didn’t need to hear sounds of the physical world around him to write the most iconic pieces of his last opus. He heard them IN himself before making them available to others’ ears. In a work of art what we see as spectators is created by inner vision of the artist, and in Alice’s art that vision is entirely independent from the external, physical aspect of seeing. The translation from inner vision to what we (get to) see is what excites me about her chairs. These alive chairs have existed in a world encumbered by physical reality of gravity (that’s why they sometimes float in the air too), size, weight, purpose; seeing how they translate to the physical world is as beautiful as it is striking, especially considering the consistency of the language within which the translation happens.
I was asked by Peter Askim, the music director of Raleigh Civic Symphony Orchestra, to write a piece for his group. He said that the 25 minute work would have a virtual reality component built by graduate students of North Carolina College of Design, led by Derek Ham, on a theme of suffragettes.
In 2017 Peter gave the world premiere of my Echolocations in New York’s Le Poisson Rouge; we had divided a string orchestra into three groups to play an identical material, at different times, from three different locations in the hall.
The experience was magical, as if the sound were coming from all around the audience, echoing across space. Textures and volume mixed and merged right next to one’s ear as well as in the distance. There was a sense of oneness between the musicians/sound and the audience since the stage as a divide did not exist.
Peter asked me to do something similar with the new work – to spatialize the orchestra. It is a dream situation to get permission from a conductor (Peter is also a composer and a bass player) to break the standard layout of this gigantic body of sound and explore it. There were several things to solve: how to make musicians comfortable while away from their usual places on stage; how would they follow the conductor and be able to hear others if they are dispersed throughout the auditorium; would they like the idea of being challenged that way, since their experience is to belong to a group and play as a group; where would they stand in the specific hall that I never visited? I got photos of the hall – there was room to have musicians in different spots, so I decided to divide them into Surround and Stationary groups. Instruments that can’t move would stay on stage and be the Stationary orchestra, while the Surround orchestra with all portable instruments (high strings, woodwinds and high brass) would be positioned around the audience.
The piece needed to be lean in terms of notation, as the lighting, stands, and all elements of the orchestral setup would not apply to this performance. (Also, Surround orchestra members would be standing for the duration of the entire piece.)
I divided the piece into six sections framed by Intro and Epilogue. In both Intro and Epilogue, musicians are asked to use their voices. In Intro, everyone gradually joins in a hum on A a cappella, while in the Epilogue the Surround orchestra members walk through the auditorium calling the names of women in their lives who inspired them: their grandmothers, mothers, sisters, wives, teachers…it’s a personal choice.
Parts 1-6 are all organized around pitch centers (B, C, D, E, F, and G) so all musicians can come in and out of playing, knowing how to fit in harmonically. The score is open, no meter, mostly aleatoric, with options offered, but choices entirely upon the 80 people playing the piece. The role of the conductor is to keep time and organize transitions, while his gestures do not mark sharp beginnings or endings of gestures and sound. Transitions between the sections are fluid and overlapping.
There were many interesting insights during our rehearsal in Raleigh, NC this week: most of musicians in the orchestra would start and stop immediately following conductor’s gesture although the instruction states – the conductor’s gesture means you can start from this point on at your own time; or with the ending – wrap up your material at your own pace and move onto the next thing.
The atmosphere during the one rehearsal I attended was inspiring – we were searching for new ways of individual expression, trying out new techniques not so common in the standard orchestra repertoire, understanding the concept of musical time in which there is no counting, but listening and responding instead, discovering ways to feel safe without the structure of barlines and meter.
In terms of rehearsal methodology, Peter had me talk to the orchestra about each section, then we played it through, worked on timing and explored sound, and played it through again. After going through the entire piece we were ready to try spatialization. The Surround orchestra members placed themselves around the rehearsal space, all of them behind the conductor – and we had the first run-through. The sound was traveling in all directions creating most beautiful, unexpected sonorities.
My favorite part was when the orchestra for a brief moment accompanied the recording of Billie Holiday singing Strange Fruit. Again, there was no meter, barlines – just Billie’s voice with her beautiful, free, out-of-time phrasing.
Peter and I had several conversations on how to make that segment with Billie Holiday doable for the orchestra. I didn’t want to transcribe the song with any specific metric or tonal changes. My idea was to have the orchestra follow her voice, rather than following the conductor. The very topic of the piece – the struggle for equality, somehow symbolically came up in the treatment of that sample from Strange Fruit: in an ideal world of citizens with high consciousness we would not need to be told what to do and whether and when to support the voice of another. By listening and doing our best to understand and support the other we would create a different humanity.
Peter’s concern for precision and clarity was a great reminder that I am creating a work for eighty people whose comfort and success in delivering that music also depend on how aligned they feel with one another and the recording of Billie’s voice. We were deliberating whether I should rewrite the score and instead of just saying ‘follow Billie, c-minor” write out orchestral parts transcribing the metric freedoms that she takes while singing. I decided against it. In this specific case I wanted each individual to take charge, be responsible for their choices, listen, try to provide support, swim in uncertainty if so happens, rather than follow the conductor. The invitation to the orchestra to join in freely around Billie Holiday’s voice in Our Voices calls for a personal, unique contribution of everyone involved in the piece, rather than an orchestrated, controlled response. The thinking through of those two options (lock it in a standard notation or keep it as open as possible) inspired me to write a poem about how I made musical choices in this piece. The poem also reflects on a larger context of what it means to belong to and to create our humanity. I dedicated the poem to Peter, who invited me and trusted me throughout this creative adventure.
Accompanying Billie Holiday in Strange Fruit
Do Not Be *** At Me I am like you And you are like me Doing my best Often fast Sometimes slow Wanting all And then some more Creating order Bliss or mess Still true and real Despite distress Those Billie-lines More than once Made me cry As I fit them In odd times Whole notes Half notes Aren’t wrong They are Dark and lost To song Of pain and Crisscrossed time No chance to Truly align Unless We all agree That What is yours Is also mine What was theirs Was hers at times Wanting best Yet often failing Feeling rough Still trust prevailing Contrasts of Wants and coulds Of possibles and shoulds No wiser thing No greater power Than seeing With one’s heart Into the dark hour Of those Billie-lines They might also Make you cry As you play them In odd times
London, January 29, 2019, for my friend, collaborator, and a fellow composer Peter Askim.
Our voices was commissioned by NC State University and NC State Sustainability Fund. Our Voices has been featured on NCSU Website:
After months of traveling, I returned to New York on Thursday and started rehearsing with Dusan Tynek Dance Theatre on Friday for our new show, The Laughing Garden. This is my seventh collaboration with Dusan over 15 years. Our long creative relationship enabled us to expand and grow together trying out different ways to create a dance – from sound coming before choreography, to building music and choreography simultaneously, to choreography coming first, to the current approach of establishing the vocabulary and freely creating music and choreography together in real time, before your eyes.
The Laughing Garden is inspired by Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights and is filled with moments of primal energy, joy, some darkness, a lot of playfulness.
I am thrilled that my friend and a fantastic composer Luciano Chessa will join me in creating a live score for performances. We will be on stage with six dancers and make sounds on prepared piano and other objects, including a water fountain.
The creative process has been fun, an exercise in a discipline of relating. It’s beautiful to experience the piece being re-created with every performance, based on choices and responses of each moment by every individual engaged in the process.
Taking a closer look into the fantastical painting by Bosch I found out about the music inscribed on a sinner’s bottom on the right panel of the tryptic, the Hell. The sound Luciano and I decided to create for the dance is abstract and without any linear musical narrative. At the same time we wanted to have a focal point where musically all kinds of disparate elements come together into a little tune, a phrase, a place of intimacy. And there it was, the little chant, inscribed by Bosch himself waiting to be brought to life; this time in the context of joy and beauty, rather than sin and punishment.
I see this newest work with Dusan as a curious look into the profusion of life and nature – which is creativity itself. It is funny, fun, unstoppable, rich, fragrant, colorful, and free.
Update, March 11 – We had a blast. Every evening was different, as sound was improvised/live. It was thrilling to have the full house every night; more than 600 people saw the show. Here are a few pictures from the Garden with all its protagonists: the fountain, composer Luciano Chessa and myself, and superhuman dancers Elizabeth Hepp, Tim Ward, Ned Sturgis, Alexandra Berger, Nicole Restani, and Gary Champi.
If you are fortunate in life there will be love where you expect it, and if you are really fortunate, there will be love where you don’t expect it. This was my theme for 2018 and I was really fortunate. This year I made music with hundreds of young people in unrelated projects on three continents. Among them there were the Nusaybin Choir in Turkey with a dozen children, mostly girls displaced by war, two hundred girls of the SF Girls Chorus, young musicians of Mikka Quartet in NYC who I had met before they were teenagers, and students from the music high school I attended 30+ years ago in my hometown Novi Sad.
Rehearsals: Nusaybin Youth Choir in Mardin, Turkey, and SF Girls Chorus with Kronos Quartet in San Francisco
All brilliant, eager to
participate and engage, these young people come from the widest possible range
of backgrounds and life experiences: from the Middle East and not knowing where
their family members are, to Manhattan and San Francisco, living
the liberal values of the Western world. Traveling as much as I have
this year, I often have the urge to connect those experiences, to integrate the
worlds and knowledge, not only for myself but for others too, in hope of better
understanding the complexities of our time. So in one of my such
fantasies, I imagined that ten years from now somewhere in the peaceful world
some of those kids’ paths cross. They have a conversation and of course
they immediately feel close. They realize what they have in common: the
love of music and the experience of making NEW music. As they relay their
specific memories of performances they gave a girl says – once we shouted our
names and words like love and freedom and peace in an outdoor concert; it was
in 2018, in a war zone, a town where I was a refugee, where concerts would get
interrupted because of Azaan and women covered their heads.
Well, says the other, we
have lived in peace all along, but it’s funny, it was also 2018 and two hundred
of us shouted Holy All for about three minutes in a concert in my hometown, San
As I contemplate that
fantasy I am profoundly grateful for every moment of connection with those
young musicians. I asked girls from Nusaybin to shout their names into the open
sky above Mesopotamia. In rehearsal they
giggled and spoke them shyly, and with every repetition there was more exuberance
and power in their voices. We also
called for what we desired most – peace, love, and freedom, in Kurdish, Arabic,
Turkish, English, and it was profound and urgent. Similarly
felt crucial to proclaim us all holy in Allen Ginsberg’s San Francisco
while in the US and across the world we get divided, excluded and
because of gender, race, or religion. These kids, with their passion
beauty weren’t performers, they were the life and the essence of the
made together. They have given me so much hope for our world and made
unforgettable for me.
Mardin, Turkey, music lesson and lunch with children at the Flying Carpet Festival directed by Sahba Aminikia
I am also grateful to all of
you who in many different ways made these experiences possible. 23 ensembles played
17 pieces of mine in 13 different countries in 70 performances registered this
year. From those of you who I have worked with for many years to those
who I never met in person – THANK YOU.
Here’s a video from one of the performances with the Nusaybin Choir and the Kurdish bard Abdurrahman Ciziri at the Flying Carpet Festival in Mardin last September.
I wish you a healthy, happy, and filled with love 2019!!
Landed into my hometown, walking the long forgotten but familiar streets. I know I belong, but the feeling of not being steeped into the fabric of that very reality is tangible. Everyone’s busy, people passing by me with some destination in mind. My attachments are few. I walk slowly and aimlessly in my new old life and for a moment pick a thing to do – I give blessings to everyone who passes by me.