Notes from Requiem Composer Paula Foley Tillen
In October of 2017, a guy I knew and had worked with passed away at the age of 29, a result of an accidental overdose of fentanyl. The day after I heard of his passing, I felt moved to sit down and write a musical setting of the Mourner’s Kaddish, a traditional prayer that Jewish people recite during the bereavement period, as well as to mark the anniversary of a death of a loved one.
The Kaddish was one of the first seeds of what was eventually to become the Requiem, which you are to hear today. The spirit of the entire composition flows from a line in the last movement, which comes from the burial rite of the Book of Common Prayer:
The Kaddish was one of the first seeds of what was eventually to become the Requiem, which you are to hear today. The spirit of the entire composition flows from a line in the last movement, which comes from the burial rite of the Book of Common Prayer:
"All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song:
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia."
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia."
I heard this line some years ago while playing a funeral at my home church, and instantly knew that eventually I would set this passage to music. It is beautifully and succinctly honest about our mortal condition: resigned, but not despairing.
I have been hesitant about telling people I was writing a Requiem, as the first question would inevitably be…Oh no, are you dying?? Well, no, at least no more than anyone else is, but the sacred and secular literature of a range of traditions tell us, and I believe it’s true, that it’s irresponsible not to spend some time reflecting on and even grappling with your own mortality. Over the past several years I have encountered texts that prompted me to think that IF I were to write something like a requiem, it wouldn’t necessarily follow any liturgical orders, but would juxtapose several poems and pieces of prose that lead the listener through a meditation on death and loss, our loss of loved ones, and our own passing away.
Prior to the pandemic, (and isn’t that the way contemporary history is organized now…pre-pan and post-pan?), in 2019 (I think), I asked a wonderful soprano and dear friend to sing my Kaddish at a MOT voice lab. I indicated to Jill Anna that I was kicking around this requiem idea, and, being Jill Anna, she said, go for it. So I started to get serious about selecting and organizing texts, and actually doing some writing.
The piece is framed by words from Christian liturgies, Kyrie (Lord, have mercy), and Sanctus (Holy), and in between are writings from some wise people whose names are probably familiar, as well as a few whom you might not recognize: Thich Nhat Hanh, Vietnamese Buddhist monk, peace activist, author, poet and teacher; Ellen Kort, Wisconsin’s first poet laureate; Malcolm Guite, a contemporary English poet and teacher, whose poem “At close of day…” I encountered on his Facebook page, and who graciously gave me permission to set it to music; Rabindranath Tagore, Bengali poet, musician, playwright, essayist, educational reformer, and painter, the first non-European to win a Nobel Prize, and composer of the national anthems of India, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka. These texts all carry the spirit of hopefulness, courage, and even joy about that step into the unknown, that I wanted to convey in this requiem, while not backing away from or minimizing the reality of loss and sadness.
At the beginning of the writing process, all the thinking and ideating about mortality and death was very abstract. Then came March, 2020, and a couple of things changed. A world wide pandemic meant that mortality got a lot closer and a lot realer to everyone; and in that time of quarantining I had a lot more time to reflect and to write. This requiem hadn’t been conceived directly in response to the pandemic, but there was no way not to acknowledge it. I suspect that we all have so much grief, rage, confusion, and sadness that we just don’t know what to do with; my avid hope is that this music might help us do a tiny bit of processing, even if it just means sitting with these words and this music for 45 minutes.
I have so many thanks to give that this could end up reading like an awards ceremony speech. I have given many of them already, and will continue to do so in the days and weeks to come. One more goes to you, the members of today’s audience and those who will experience my music via streaming or recording. I am more grateful to you than I can say, for your attention, for your support of me and of other artists in the Milwaukee area, and for your willingness to go on this journey with me and with the musicians of MOT and Chant Claire. I hope you’ll find it enjoyable, meaningful, and rewarding.
I have been hesitant about telling people I was writing a Requiem, as the first question would inevitably be…Oh no, are you dying?? Well, no, at least no more than anyone else is, but the sacred and secular literature of a range of traditions tell us, and I believe it’s true, that it’s irresponsible not to spend some time reflecting on and even grappling with your own mortality. Over the past several years I have encountered texts that prompted me to think that IF I were to write something like a requiem, it wouldn’t necessarily follow any liturgical orders, but would juxtapose several poems and pieces of prose that lead the listener through a meditation on death and loss, our loss of loved ones, and our own passing away.
Prior to the pandemic, (and isn’t that the way contemporary history is organized now…pre-pan and post-pan?), in 2019 (I think), I asked a wonderful soprano and dear friend to sing my Kaddish at a MOT voice lab. I indicated to Jill Anna that I was kicking around this requiem idea, and, being Jill Anna, she said, go for it. So I started to get serious about selecting and organizing texts, and actually doing some writing.
The piece is framed by words from Christian liturgies, Kyrie (Lord, have mercy), and Sanctus (Holy), and in between are writings from some wise people whose names are probably familiar, as well as a few whom you might not recognize: Thich Nhat Hanh, Vietnamese Buddhist monk, peace activist, author, poet and teacher; Ellen Kort, Wisconsin’s first poet laureate; Malcolm Guite, a contemporary English poet and teacher, whose poem “At close of day…” I encountered on his Facebook page, and who graciously gave me permission to set it to music; Rabindranath Tagore, Bengali poet, musician, playwright, essayist, educational reformer, and painter, the first non-European to win a Nobel Prize, and composer of the national anthems of India, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka. These texts all carry the spirit of hopefulness, courage, and even joy about that step into the unknown, that I wanted to convey in this requiem, while not backing away from or minimizing the reality of loss and sadness.
At the beginning of the writing process, all the thinking and ideating about mortality and death was very abstract. Then came March, 2020, and a couple of things changed. A world wide pandemic meant that mortality got a lot closer and a lot realer to everyone; and in that time of quarantining I had a lot more time to reflect and to write. This requiem hadn’t been conceived directly in response to the pandemic, but there was no way not to acknowledge it. I suspect that we all have so much grief, rage, confusion, and sadness that we just don’t know what to do with; my avid hope is that this music might help us do a tiny bit of processing, even if it just means sitting with these words and this music for 45 minutes.
I have so many thanks to give that this could end up reading like an awards ceremony speech. I have given many of them already, and will continue to do so in the days and weeks to come. One more goes to you, the members of today’s audience and those who will experience my music via streaming or recording. I am more grateful to you than I can say, for your attention, for your support of me and of other artists in the Milwaukee area, and for your willingness to go on this journey with me and with the musicians of MOT and Chant Claire. I hope you’ll find it enjoyable, meaningful, and rewarding.
