This event is available to watch online.
Free or pay what you can
Free or pay what you can
Join us for an evening of original music featuring guest composer Carolina Heredia, Ivalas Quartet and more.
Pendulum New Music presents some of CU Boulder’s best performers from all departments as they premiere original music of student composers. A faculty or guest performance is also featured at every monthly concert.
Even though we are not gathering in person, you can still enjoy this performance from the comfort of your home. Stream this performance Friday, May 7, 7:30 p.m. MDT right here at cupresents.org.
Having trouble? Watch at YouTube.com
This is a pay-what-you-can performance
On average people pay $25, but whether it's $5 or $100, your support will help the work of the College of Music continue to inspire artistry and discovery, together. Please pay what you can before or after enjoying this special presentation.
Carolina Heredia, composer-performer and Ivalas Quartet
McClung: Coherent Connectivity (2020); Monk arr. Gunther: Pannonica (1963); Wolpert: Four Murder Ballads After Caitlín R. Kiernan (2020); Heredia: Déjate Caer (2012); Heredia: Vanishing (2018); Holloway: Cadenza for Solo Cello, Op. 18 (2019); Gunia: Three Movements for Clarinet (2019); Walker: This Compost (2020/21)Read more
The title Déjate Caer can be translated from Spanish as “let yourself fall”, and is taken from the poem Arbol de Diana by Alejandra Pizarnik:
“Vida, mi vida, déjate caer, déjate doler,
mi vida, déjate enlazar de fuego,
de silencio ingenuo,
de piedras verdes en la casa de la noche,
déjate caer y doler, mi vida.”
Life, my life, let yourself fall, let yourself hurt,
my life, let yourself be engulfed by fire,
of ingenuous silence,
of green stones in the house of the night,
let yourself fall and hurt, my life.
The vanishing of memories, as we move in space/time. Beginning with the random lines read from Argentinian writer Julio Cortazar’s 1963 book Rayuela (Hopscotch), a stream-of-consciousness monologue. The excerpts belong to the chapter titled Letter from La Maga to Baby Rocamadeaur. In it, a mother (La Maga) explains her baby (who, obviously cannot read or understand the letter yet) the reasons why she neglects him. As she continues to carve down her emotions the work transitions into pure music towards fainted melodies and fragmented images.
Vanishing was commissioned by Wesley Warnhoff to be premiered at the Mizzou International Composers Festival in 2018.
Text by Walt Whitman (1819–1892)
Something startles me where I thought I was safest,
I withdraw from the still woods I loved,
I will not go now on the pastures to walk,
I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea,
I will not touch my flesh to the earth as to other flesh to renew me.
O how can it be that the ground itself does not sicken?
How can you be alive you growths of spring?
How can you furnish health you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain?
Are they not continually putting distemper’d corpses within you?
Is not every continent work’d over and over with sour dead?
Where have you disposed of their carcasses?
Those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations?
Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat?
I do not see any of it upon you to-day, or perhaps I am deceiv’d,
I will run a furrow with my plough, I will press my spade through the sod and turn it up underneath,
I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat.
Behold this compost! behold it well!
Perhaps every mite has once form’d part of a sick person—yet behold!
The grass of spring covers the prairies,
The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden,
The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward,
The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches,
The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves,
The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree,
The he-birds carol mornings and evenings while the she-birds sit on their nests,
The young of poultry break through the hatch’d eggs,
The new-born of animals appear, the calf is dropt from the cow, the colt from the mare,
Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato’s dark green leaves,
Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk, the lilacs bloom in the dooryards,
The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead.
That the winds are really not infectious,
That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea which is so amorous after me,
That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its tongues,
That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited themselves in it,
That all is clean forever and forever,
That the cool drink from the well tastes so good,
That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy,
That the fruits of the apple-orchard and the orange-orchard, that melons, grapes, peaches, plums, will
none of them poison me,
That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease,
Though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once a catching disease.
Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient,
It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions,
It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless successions of diseas’d corpses,
It distills such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor,
It renews with such unwitting looks its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops,
It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them at last.