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21 December 2020

poem for a dried up river


poem for a dried up river

Jane Sheldon's work poem for a dried up river will receive its Australian premiere at the Sydney Festival in January. She writes about the background and realisation of this fascinating work.

In January, Sydney Chamber Opera and Sydney Festival are presenting the Australian premiere of my composition poem for a dried up river, in a performance installation co-created with artist and scenographer Elizabeth Gadsby and choreographer Danielle Micich. The work takes its title - and its text - from British poet Alice Oswald's magnificent work Dunt: a poem for a dried up river. She wrote the poem after visiting a Gloucestershire museum and noticing a small carved figurine of a water nymph from Roman Britain, wrought in a time of drought as a supernatural aid to conjure water from a dry river bed.

She says of the water nymph figurine, 'I admire these extreme ways of invoking rain, just as I admire anyone who dares, by means of metaphor (and all language is rooted in metaphor), to communicate with something that isn't human. If you've paid money for seeds or animals and you want to increase their worth by growing them on, then a water nymph is not some kind of a literary personification of water, nor is it a liquefaction of women, but it's an effort, driven by absolute need, to make contact with something inscrutable.'

It is one of several poems by Oswald about water, about rivers. I came across the poem about three years ago and was immediately struck by its internal music. It is full of pauses and stuttering repetition and it comes off the page as an exquisitely sonic work. Oswald's masterful manipulation of pace seemed to force the poem into my body in a way that I had rarely experienced reading a poem. What do I mean by that? It's perhaps best elucidated with an anecdote reported in the Guardian newspaper: Oswald gives regular recitations of her work and she's quite a theatrical reader; at one event someone in the audience had an asthma attack because Oswald's recitation was such that they forgot to breathe.

Ange Mlinko recently published a survey of Oswald's work in the New York Review of Books, entitled, to my delight, Water Music. Mlinko draws our attention to just how finely tuned is Oswald's understanding of her poems as theatrical objects, citing her poem 'Dart'. Named for the river in Devon, the text includes wonderful directions for reading: 'All voices should be read as the river's mutterings.'

In 'Dunt: poem for a dried up river', Oswald takes the human effort to invoke rain and transposes it into the body of the water nymph. She tries and tries to draw water from the limestone riverbed but the dry ground will not respond; water seems to be present only in memory. She is a fertility goddess found to be infertile. In my music, I carry this transposition further, constructing the timbral language of the work out of physical labour, out of effort. Specifically, the task I set for myself was to create for the instruments a sonic palette derived from the way effort imprints itself on our breathing.

poem for a dried up river features two soprano roles (sung in this Australian premiere by myself and my dear friend, the wonderful Anna Fraser). There is a clear division of materials: Anna sings the poem's text, while my own part consists of almost entirely wordless vocalisations, many of which derive from sounds that are the natural consequences of physical effort. The piece opens with an activation of the breath, the first place that effort reveals itself in the body; these breath sounds are then mimicked in the instruments of the ensemble as the nymph's voice extends into sung pitch, her breathing becoming increasingly recognisable as a musical object.

The piece unfolds in a large-scale pump structure, with some sections very dry, and some flooded with sound. Its complete palette of timbres is intended to suggest an alternation and occasional confusion between contrasting states: dry and wet, weak and strong, barren and fecund. Throughout the piece, now and then, the veil between the work's two planes - the human and the supernatural - is penetrated with a vocal unison, whispered or sung.

In these performances at Sydney Festival, as in its US premiere, the work will be presented in an installation made of clay, designed by my collaborator and friend Elizabeth Gadsby. It was important to us to stage a physical task for me to perform as the musical work unfolds and for this task to take place in interaction with organic materials. It was also important to us that the physical performance is genuinely difficult, requiring real effort, so throughout the piece the water nymph must unfurl a mass of clay into a long, dry riverbed. We chose to work with a heavy clay path for several reasons: for one thing, it provides a task of the right magnitude (I can report that a small volume of clay is absurdly heavy) but it is also a material whose plasticity records in fine detail any application of weight or gesture to its surface.

Elizabeth's unique and brilliant mind has travelled the whole journey of the work's creation. Back in early 2018 I began discussing the dramaturgy of the musical structure with Elizabeth, and then, suddenly, it was September 2019 and she was with me in New York, wrangling clay from a ceramic studio to Roulette, where the work was premiered. Actually, the clay wrangling was undertaken primarily by my husband and my friend Steven; Elizabeth, rather pregnant at the time, had the job of charming our Uber driver, who appeared to have a particular kind of ominous tattoo on his hand and wasn't thrilled to have several hundred pounds of clay in his car.

I have tried to situate the breath as much as possible in a region between a completely organic response to effort and its treatment as a musical object. A friend dropped in on a rehearsal the other day, while Elizabeth and I were noting that we needed to add more clay to the task because it didn't feel difficult enough. Our friend, smiling, offered that I could always create the impression that it is harder than it really is, you know, pretend, like performers do. In a concert performance of the music, the laboured breathing would certainly have to be 'performed', but what the staging offers is a musical material that's completely organic, and the score has been designed to assimilate all the incidental laboured breathing resulting from a physical task that is genuinely difficult. On the one hand, there are many very precisely notated breaths in the score, but there's also the real effortful breath resulting from trying to work at a heavy object on a slippery substrate. A key challenge of the composition has been to create a musical context in which the natural breath of the working body and breath as a musical object are materials almost indistinguishable.

> Jane Sheldon's poem for a dried up river at the Carriageworks, Sydney, on 6-10 January, as part of the Sydney Festival.

> Jane Sheldon - vocal performer and composer - homepage



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