I am writing this first post when a third of the piece has actually been finished, so this will be a summary of the time since the start of composing. When exactly was that? It’s hard to say. I first spoke of this composition around the premiere of DRACH dramma per musica, in October 2019. Filip Berkowicz suggested that we, meaning Szczepan Twardoch and I, should immediately start planning for another project, perhaps for the next year’s (that is, this year’s) Auksodrone festival. We agreed gladly. From the very beginning it was clear that it would be something brand new, not based on an existing book. We came to the topic of the sea quite quickly; both of us had had a measure of experience with it and it had a great potential in terms of both the score and the text. And so that was settled. Then, for some time, nothing happened. Towards the end of 2019, Szczepan and I met to discuss ideas and opportunities. Then, not much more than a month ago, I received the libretto. However, I had begun to compose before that – long before, in fact, as it is a piece profoundly immersed in my aforementioned maritime experiences. Somehow flowing from them.

So, a brief note on those experiences. They are not extensive, yet at times they were intense. I think they are rather a thing of the past, but they are an important chapter. In the times of, so to speak, early adulthood, thanks to my friend’s magnanimity and tolerance for my presence on board (in the role of, essentially, live cargo), I took part in several sea voyages on sailing yachts. The first one was from Norway to Scotland in 2001; the second one, from Poland to Bornholm in 2003; the third one, from Norway to Spitsbergen in 2004; and the last one, from Poland to Iceland in 2006. For some time I could not help thinking about the sea all the time; I fancied going back and felt as if I could find there some important answers to questions of paramount importance. Meaning of the world and of life, that sort of scale. If I had to explain it in more detail, I would say that the sea and sailing seemed to me (and, in fact, seem to this day) an exceptionally full and enlightening life metaphor – in almost every respect. Destination and navigation, liberty and freedom confronted with volatility and unpredictability, human coexistence, the power of life and the fear of death; responsibility, awareness, honesty, pride, humility and so on, and so forth. Melville and Conrad have said it all; I will add nothing more worthy of attention. I can only say that for some time I had the desire and the opportunity to feel it first-hand, which has left a mark on who I am today.

It bears noting in this context that my maritime adventures roughly coincided with my first conscious adventures as a composer, and served as inspiration in this respect as well. What kind of inspiration? For instance: the sea follows a rhythm. Up close, it is chaotic, yet as the distance grows, more and more layers of pulse are visible. There is a pulse of the wrinkles on water; there is a pulse of local waves; there is a pulse of oceanic waves and a pulse of tides. Each of these is there to see with one’s eyes, feel with one’s body. Each can be surrendered to, harmonised with or (hopelessly) fought against. Connectedly, the sea is to a certain degree harmonious. Pulses make up intervals. Consonances and dissonances – rather untampered ones. I like to think of it as a natural harmony, which, in its entirety, is cacophonic, yet within particular ranges, capable of being seen as chords. These chords make up an endless background, the colour of reality. I would say that the sea has its melodies, too; however, this would be trickier to justify. Let’s say that all those pulses, intervals and chords, through their continuity and enduring presence, cause looped melodic motifs to emerge. A few times, I tried to embrace it all in the process of composing a piece. Strictly speaking, I believe it happened and keeps happening multiple times, but several times it was conscious and deliberate. With varying success. The earliest attempt was in “Wyspa wichrów i mgieł” (English: “Island of gale and mist”) – a symphonic narrative poem with choir, written at the end of my studies in Katowice. Not much later, in Fiddler’s Green and White Savannas Never More, a sort of a chamber-symphonic narrative mini-poem with a male choir, written right after my last journey to Iceland and in close relation to it. And then, in Night Transit, where there is travel by night, also on a ferry; and also in Space Opera, where I played with the analogy between sea and space voyages. However, as I said, I think the sea-related concepts are there more often; always, perhaps.

Either way, they are present now, for sure. “SYRENA melodramma aeterna”, after DRACH, will be another chamber musical drama. With no (need for) stage action or scenery, but with drama. In three parts, as Filip decided despite post-DRACH protests and criticism. I respect that stubbornness of his, as a matter of fact. The idea for a premiere in three parts, for three consecutive evenings, is not flawless but it is sensible. In fact, it follows the very contemporary formula of a series. No doubt there is a way to make it work. To a certain degree, I am the one in charge of getting it done. Getting back to “SYRENA”, the starting point was, of course, the text. I will not disclose it yet. Its final form is still up in the air but I can reveal some of it. We had some freedom deciding on the types and number of voices, which is a prerequisite for the libretto. It was only known that it could not be a huge cast. So, we considered possibilities ranging from a duo to a quartet. Finally, there is a trio of high voices: a soprano, a mezzo-soprano and a countertenor. The characters are: Woman, Man and Siren. The parts include conversations: first, between Man and Siren; then, between Woman and Siren; and at last, between Man and Woman. The key question to answer here, I think, is: who is the Siren? Well, she is the reflection in water. A blurry one. She is a real though perplexing, seemingly external “self”. Her song is the calling of the fate. A tempting yet terrifying fate.

At he beginning of the piece, the Siren’s first line is:

“There is a song I sing when people tie me,

For when I sing it, ties break.

There is a song, terrific song, useful to people,

For when I sing it, all hatred is gone.

I know a song that calms the wind when a storm comes.”

That’s it for now. In a week, probably, there will be more on the first finished part.

(transl. Zuzanna Wnuk)