*2.3. "Behind the Mirror": Poietic and Performance Processes in Spiegel im Spiegel*

Much has been made of Pärt's explicit religious background and inspiration in relation to Orthodox Christianity, but also of his unwillingness to tie the meaning or truth of any given piece to his own understanding of it. However, the question remains: is the religious connotation given to his music due to the person of the composer, whose inspiration is common knowledge? Or is it something inherent in the music itself? The bell-like sound and repetition, for example, can evoke associations of a religious nature. In an article continuing her reflection on Pärt's tintinnabuli music, Maimets-Volt, while presenting an analysis of the effect of the sound of his music in its listeners, still explicitly suggests that there is remarkable convergence between what the composer intended and its listeners perceive or experience ([53], pp. 56–57).

In relation to the piece of music in question, I have found no specific reference by Pärt to his inspiration behind or meaning of *Spiegel im Spiegel*, apart from some rather clear instructions on its performance:

According to British violinist Daniel Hope, Pärt gave him the following instructions for performing *Spiegel im Spiegel*: "The sound should be cold, not warm, otherwise it could drift into sentimentality. Please do not use vibrato… the piece needs a different approach…it is a kind of perpetuum mobile for piano… the tempo will depend upon your bow speed. Otherwise I have very little to say" (Quoted in [8], p. 66; [54]).

It would appear that at least this invitation to restraint in regard to sentiment as transmitted by a specific way of playing (vibrato) has carried over into its reception. About the use of this piece of music in film, or indeed his film music in general, Pärt has spoken little and indeed shown little interest ([8], p. 10). Despite, or even because of the lack of commentary on its meaning, some light can and should be drawn from his approach to and understanding of the style within which it is situated: his *tintinnabuli* work. By way of background, although this is the work he is currently famous for, his early career lead him from neoclassical, through serialism and collage techniques, until in the 70's after what has been called his "silence" in musical composition (in the sense of producing new, finished pieces), he emerged with this approach to composition. Immediate influences on the tintinnabuli style are his conversion to the Russian Orthodox Church, and in particular its mystical/contemplative (hesychastic) tradition and the art of icon painting. In musical terms, the specific influence was the Russian tradition of bell ringing at Orthodox churches, (from whence the name—tintinnabuli) [55]. Other known influences are early music, including Gregorian chant, early polyphony, medieval and renaissance music.

So what does this music "mean" to Pärt? Why this time of withdrawal and new form of creative musical expression? In seeking the answers, care must be taken to separate Pärt's own words and position on the meaning of his music from the opinions of those who write about him, and albeit recognizing that much of what is written *does* reflect his own position, constraints of space lead me to limit myself here to what Pärt himself has said [56–58].

Tonal Music and Composition born from within:

The intention behind this withdrawal is described by the composer as the quest for what would be the roots of tonal music and his own integrated way of composing, *born from within* rather than in the imitation of other styles ([7], p. 91; [30]).

I build with the most primitive materials—with the triad, with one specific tonality" ([58], p. 120).

The importance of silence for Pärt is paramount:

Before one says something, perhaps it is better to say nothing. My music has emerged only after I have been silent for quite some time, literally silent. For me, "silent" means the "nothing" from which God created the world. Ideally, a silent pause is something sacred…

He relates this silence to love:

If someone approaches silence with love, then this might give birth to music. A composer must often wait a long time for his music. This kind of sublime anticipation is exactly the kind of pause that I value so greatly ([3], p. 35).

He explicitly relates the triad in his music to bells:

"The three notes of a triad are like bells. And that is why I called it tintinnabulation."

Composing is a very conscious a spiritual quest:

Tintinnabulation is an area I sometimes wander into when I am searching for answers—in my life, my music, my work. In my dark hours, I have the certain feeling that everything outside this one thing has no meaning. The complex and many-faceted only confuses me, and I must search for unity [59].

This unity or oneness as a source of comfort:

"This one note, or a silent beat, or a moment of silence, comforts me" ([7], p. 87).

This process, although "*hard work"*, does not aim at complexity, but rather *the constant effort to identify, simplify and reduce*:

It seems, however, that this unknown territory is sooner reached by way of reduction than by growing complexity. Reduction certainly doesn't mean simplification, but it is the way … to the most intense concentration on the essence of things ([60], p. 2).

"The capability to select is important, and the urge for it. The reduction to a minimum, the ability to reduce fractions—that was the strength of all great composers" ([58], p. 114).

There is discipline and craft to his composing—the aim is to work towards the nucleus of a piece, its core. This can take time, and yet, composing is a necessity to him:

For me it's like breathing in and out. It's my life… [C]an I exist without composing, my soul and my spirit? Music is already my language. My music can be my inner secret, even my confession… Most important for me: that I cannot say in a few thousand sentences what I can say in a few notes (*cf*. [58], p. 113).

He is very explicit about the religious significance of the style of music he has created:

"Religion influences everything. Not just music, but everything" ([57], p. 132).

Not only in its inspiration but also its meaning:

Pärt described to me his view that the M-voice (melodic line) always signifies the subjective world, the daily egoistic life of sin and suffering; the T-voice (triad underlying, meanwhile, is the objective realm of forgiveness. The M-voice may appear to wander, but is always held firmly by the T-voice." This can be likened to the eternal dualism of body and spirit, earth and heaven; but the two voices are in reality one voice, a twofold singly entity ([7], p. 96).

Centrality of the words and text are central to his composing:

"The words are very important to me, they define the music…the construction of the music is based on the construction of the text" ([58], p. 123).

In relation to the theological themes that inspire his thought and linked with what we have come across in our exploration: On time and eternity:

"Time and timelessness are connected. This instant and eternity are struggling within us. And this is the cause of all our contradictions, our obstinacy, our narrowmindedness, our faith and our grief" ([58], p. 112).

On space and place:

In this depth, we are all so similar that we could recognize ourselves in any other person … I am very much tempted to see this beautiful and neat Ur-substance, this precious island in the inner seclusion of our soul, as the "place" where, over 2000 years ago, we were told that the Kingdom of God would be—inside us…And so, I keep trying to stay on the path that searches for this passionately longed-for "magic island", where all people (and for me, all sounds) can live together in love" ([61], p. 49).

So if we try and read these words in the light of Nattiez's framework and ask the question: what could or should the listener hear of what the composer "meant" in its composition, in one sense, we can say: nothing; for although Pärt is very clear about his own inspiration and processes, and even about the meaning *he* gives tintinnabuli, he does not suggest that what he means is what the listener *should* hear (*cf*. [58], p. 111). However, we have much information of what he experiences and how he understands his music, and *external esthesics* invites us to ask how much of what the composer intended can be heard? Perhaps the best way to gather the disperse threads could be in visual form, simply to see the convergences that are emerging.

The convergence and interaction is significant, even accepting that culture conditions how we receive everything, music included. I will not try to tie down further how this interaction "happens; for the moment it is enough to recognise and be aware of the multitude of connections: silence—focus and experience, time and timelessness—extended in time and space, simplification—holy minimalism. For the purpose of this article, what remains is to pull the threads further on how theology could understand this whole dynamic. The table below (Table 2) tried to do just that, guided by Nattiez's methodology:


**Table 2.** *Spiegel im Spiegel*—Poietic, immanent and esthesic approaches [62].


**Table 2.** *Cont.* 

### **3. Echoes in Christian Theology: Gathering Insights**

My guiding words in this section are verbs (albeit "passive" or rather reflective ones): mirroring and echoing. *Spiegel im Spiegel* mirrors something to us, not least the very potential of music to mediate something to human life. And theology at its best echoes something of the truth of who God is and what it is to believe, not because truth is weak, but because its strength lies also in that it is ever beyond our full comprehension, and knowing that keeps things in perspective: any insight will always be subject to growth and/or correction. So what theological echoes do we hear, having come this far in our reflections? I will frame these concluding thoughts in the threefold structure we have been working with.
