Live Stream

Benjamin Manis, conductor
Jason Gluck, graduate assistant conductor
Geoffrey Schmelzer, baritone

Violin
Lisa An
Chloe Chung
Kaylin Chung
Ayana Dalley
Felix Garkisch
Maggie Jordan*
Ruth Kim
Haitian Liu
Miya Liu
Katelyn Moon**
Eliana Silverman
Keshav Srinivasan
Andre Tsou
Iris Wu
Abigail Yoon
Hananh Zhang
Hannah Zhao

Viola
Emily Feng
Austin Moy
Fatima Sullivan
Kevin Wallace
Ray Zhang*

Cello
Nicholas Chung
Tristen Johnson
William Johnson
Haddon Kay
Ethan Raviv*
Jonathan Yi

Bass
Sophie Denhard
Atulya Palacharla
Oliver Spalter*

Flute
Emily Kim ∞
Haylie Wu † φ Ω

Oboe
Jordan Boymel
Ryan Ha † ∞ Ω
Claire Shen φ

Clarinet
Henry Lazzaro † Ω
Chengze Li φ ∞

Bassoon
Jason Capozucca φ ∞ Ω
Brian Fadel †

Horn
Jonathan Mandrell † Ω
Jordan Petan φ ∞

Trumpet
Braxton Leek ∞ Ω
Jack Shimon † φ

Trombone
Adam Uliassi

Tuba
Nick Collins (guest)

Percussion
Ryan Lee*
Cameron Marquez
Elliot Shiwota

Harp
Emily Reader

Piano/Celeste
Ohad Nativ

Concertmaster **
Principal*

Principal Winds:
Stravinsky †
Ravel φ
Schoenberg ∞
Poulenc Ω

Stravinsky’s Suites No. 1 and 2 for Small Orchestra are lively musical vignettes full of satire and fun. While Stravinsky was in exile in Switzerland during the First World War, he wrote two sets of “teaching pieces” for his two older children on the piano, Three Easy Pieces (1915) and Five Easy Pieces (1917). These were structured as piano duets so the teaching pieces could include “one skilled hand,” which was presumably Stravinsky’s. As such, these vignettes were not only intended for instruction, but also as a fun, familial escape from the troubles of the world around them. Some pieces were musical caricatures of familiar names, such as Sergei Diaghilev, Erik Satie, or Alfredo Casella, while others were musical "souvenirs" of Stravinsky’s travels across Europe. 

Stravinsky orchestrated these “easy pieces” for small orchestra in 1921 and 1925, after the First World War, and after he had already achieved high acclaim for Firebird (1910), Petrushka (1911), and Rite of Spring (1913). The First Suite opens with an Andante that is characterized by an incessant, rising theme with soft harmonies haloed from the strings. The Napolitana, reminiscent of Stravinsky’s trip to Naples, encapsulates the audience in a driven, pointed flare from the clarinets and boisterous horns, while quoting “Funiculì, funiculà.” Similarly, the Espagñola transports listeners to his 1916 trip to Spain, featuring dramatic string sighs and flickers that overlay a conversation between the horns and bassoon. The First Suite ends with the Balalaïka, filled with dramatic hits from the strings, flute, and percussion that may remind the audience of the Stravinsky that composed Firebird and Rite of Spring. 

The Second Suite begins with a Marche, attributed to Alfredo Casella. The bright fanfare “announcement” from the horns, the sighing woodwinds, and the pointed plucking of strings may remind listeners of the Italian composer’s dramatic and passionate personality. In contrast the Valse, written in the style of Erik Satie, features an enchanting waltz from the woodwinds, overlayed by a sweet melody from the flutes. The Polka “is a caricature of Diaghilev, whom I had seen as a circus trainer cracking a long whip,” featuring bold strokes from the drums and horns, and soaring flares from the orchestra, giving the piece a lively, but unpredictable, explosion of energy. The final Galop features a quick and clownish exchange between the sounds of a fast racetrack from the orchestra and its abrupt cutoffs by a slow, sad, lonely bassoon. The vignettes are short and fleeting, but are filled with a humor and witty satire that have delighted a wide variety of audiences, from Stravinsky’s own family to the community found within the walls of the concert hall. 

—Chris Copley

Finding Rothko was Schoenberg’s first real professional commission, arranged by Michael Stern for the IRIS Chamber Orchestra, and was written in 2006 while the composer was just beginning doctoral studies at Juilliard.

After experiencing a “visceral reaction” to a group of paintings at MOMA by the Abstract Expressionist artist Mark Rothko, Schoenberg decided to make Rothko’s art the “muse” for this piece. Although played without a break, it is in four distinct movements, each devoted to a specific Rothko painting and named after the principal color used in the painting. (Coincidentally, the order of the four movements turned out to be exactly the same as the order in which Rothko completed the paintings.) These four movements are delineated and linked by a gentle three-chord motif the composer has labeled “Rothko’s theme.”

Finding Rothko doesn’t try to portray Rothko’s use of color and shape, or attempt to “set” the paintings to music. The artworks are simply a pretext, an inspiration. Yet the choice of paintings and the color connections between them formed a narrative in the composer’s imagination that is expressed clearly in the music. Orange opens with “Rothko’s theme” and is somewhat atmospheric—a Copland-esque dawn, perhaps. The composer describes it as “a reflective moment yet to be fully realized.” Yellow, on the other hand, “is the realization of that moment,” and is the most upbeat of the four movements, beginning with a rocking minimalist accompaniment that gradually expands into a broad, bright landscape.

The painting on which Yellow was based included a streak of red, providing an immediate narrative connection to the third movement. Red is intense, drawing on the saturated colors of the painting—the composer interprets that intensity in the movement’s jagged, irregular rhythms and mercurial personality. The final movement, Wine, is based on the last of the four paintings Schoenberg saw in person. It was the most difficult to locate and gain access to, and the journey to find it inspired the spirit of the piece and is the source of its title. Wine repeats “Rothko’s theme” and develops it gradually through slow, haunting phrases toward a shining final apotheosis.

—Luke Howard, PhD

The premiere of Ravel’s Histoires naturelles in 1907 led to the outcry of many within his audience for its musical "factitious Americanisms" and intentional abandonment of aristocratic pronunciation. This piece sets the prose poems of Jules Renard’s anthropomorphized "nature documentary," Les histoires naturelles (1896), which had already abandoned the aristocratic canon of French verse poetry. This anomaly was made more significant as Ravel abandoned the aristocratic treatment of the silent "e" at the end of a word as a separate syllable. Instead, French aristocrats were astounded to hear what appeared to them as "street language" being sung in the concert halls. However, for Ravel, the “direct, clear language and the profound, hidden poetry of Jules Renard’s works” encompassed exactly what Ravel hoped to accomplish with his playful musical settings of this prose as a song cycle. Instead of adhering to the frivolous rules of high society, Ravel sought to musically embody Renard’s anthropomorphization of common wildlife, holding a mirror up to humanity to blur the mental divides between "nature" and "civilization."

Ravel’s nature documentary was eventually adapted for voice and orchestra by his pupil, Manuel Rosenthal, resulting in the version heard tonight. The cycle opens with Le paon (The Peacock), a song that follows a strutting French overture accompaniment from the orchestra, showcasing the vain peacock as he situates himself at the front of an altar, blissfully unaware of his ridiculous look as he waits and is stood up on his wedding day. A rising, regal theme from the strings refuses to leave, as determined and vain as the silly peacock. The incessant, but soft sweeps from the percussion epitomize Le grillon (The Cricket), which follows the story of a busy cricket as they scurry throughout their house, attempting to complete all of their household chores with breakneck speed. Le cygne (The Swan) features oscillating arpeggiated figures and luscious harmonic turns to depict the melodrama of the swan as they are distracted by their own reflections in the water, continuously plunging to catch the mythical figure that disappears upon impact. Le martin-pêcheur (The Kingfisher) features a soft, static moment of reflection as a human observes a kingfisher landing on their fishing rod, reveling in the wonder and connection felt by being in proximity with a wild creature. And La pintade (The Guinea Fowl), the “bully of the aviary world,” erupts in a loud, shrill cackling from the orchestra, violently pecking and disturbing the creatures in their vicinity. Filled with the soft, dark, magical orchestration that epitomizes Ravel’s works, Histoires naturelles combines the sober, personable poetry of Renard with his oscillating moments of musical play and awe to create an enlightening experience that allows the audience to see themselves through the stories of these animals and their natural worlds.

—Chris Copley

The intentionally diminutive title of Poulenc’s Sinfonietta should not be mistaken for a lack of character within the work. Sinfonietta is Poulenc’s only symphonic work, and is born out of his anti-intellectual philosophy that developed through his unorthodox musical upbringing. Throughout his childhood, he was forced to study business to take over his father’s company, but he vowed to study music, which he considered to be his true calling, in his spare time. However, his worldview was toppled after he was put into the French army during the First World War and his parents were killed in a car accident. Through this pain and destruction, he dedicated his time to what moved him: music. He sought out a group of free-thinking composers, “Les Nouveaux Jeunes” (The New Youth), who regularly operated between the classical and pop worlds. As he gained acclaim for his 1923 ballet Les biches, he made a name for himself by ignoring strict rules of large-scale, aristocratic structure, and opted for a “charming urbanity” that could display the range of complex characters he depicted through his works. So, when the BBC commissioned a symphonic work from him in 1947, Poulenc sought to make the work witty, light, and fully expressive of his zest for life. Some critics have claimed that the work is not as formally cohesive as a symphonic work should be. Poulenc’s response is found within his humorous, diminutive title that emphasizes his avoidance of "heavy topics," but pushes the audience to revel in the charming musical characters of the work. In Poulenc’s words: “Don’t analyze my music—love it!”

—Chris Copley