Remember

Program Note:

I have been fortunate enough to have never truly experienced loss. But, in the middle of writing this piece, my grandmother at eighty-eight years, my nana, passed away.

At first it seemed impossible; she was a constant in my life, there the day I was born, and present throughout. She was a warrior: poverty in rural Korea, an education pursued in a culture that forbade women from opening books, a crossing to America and a career in nursing, four children raised, my mother among them. Her story seemed impenetrable, one that bent to her will. She took life and made it hers. She was a great storyteller, and she told me her story. I shall never forget it.

After the grieving, the crying with loved ones, the cherishing and the celebrating, I knew what the piece needed to become: a story to remember her by. As her grandson, it is now my job to keep her flame alive. As a composer, it is my job to tell stories, just as it was hers when I was a child. I feel as though I must now tell those who listen to remember.

Though I seldom use strict programs to inform my music, this piece follows one:

I. Bedtime Story - Hong Gildong:
With her famed over-the-top dramaticism and flair, the first movement recalls a lullaby she sang to me as a child, the story of the hero Hong Gildong, who I really now just see as her. Bells open the music, signaling time for sleep, and the narration begins. At times I ask questions. At times I repeat the story as I understand it. At times I take in the optimism that carried through her every inflection. The flute and harp converse throughout, until the story tuckers out, falling asleep.

II. Remember - Meeting Family:
The second movement is an act of remembrance, an attempt to keep her alive through that same lullaby. It begins with the lullaby fading, and the harp enters alone with a simple mourning melody, searching for her voice through a slow, solemn memory, and then rising as if calling upward. At a harmonic turning point, the flute answers, and the two begin to find one another.

As the music revitalizes, flute and harp join in a cathartic moment, singing the lullaby and its reflection together before the music is once again grounded in the present. What remains is quieter and more fragile: the harp tries to hold onto the melody, and the flute guides it gently back toward recognition. By the end, the music arrives at remembrance. The two play together, rejoicing and coneding.

Bells both open and close the piece, which I like to think of as a "grandmother clock."

Thank you, Salastina, whose Family Meetings encouraged me to write about my own. Thank you, Nana, for being mine.