The 3rd of June, 2005 and the world premiere of My Sister's Tears.
It had been a little over a year since the confirmation process and the work had not been touched or presented publicly, other than to play through for the confirmation itself. My colleague Peter Luff prepared the ensemble. My dear friend Matthew George came from the USA to premiere the new work and to conduct the whole concert.
To reflect on such matters, an 'experiment' was devised; a concert featuring my music and other 'classic' works of the 20th century to 'measure' mine against. That was the concept to begin, at the time when my approach was somewhat more empiricist. What transpired was that the concert was about music and the wonder of locating this new work, and two of my older ones, amidst works I hold in high regard. It did give me some excellent data by way of responses to the works presented, especially mine. It also gave the piece its world premiere under the baton of my trusted colleague, Matthew George.
I collected data, via survey and solicited responses, from the ensemble, members of the audience and from colleagues. I had to do this in an appropriate and considered manner so that all the information would help tell the story of the story. The ensemble, and some colleagues, were given a series of questions that related to the music and their responses to it as a work and, for the ensemble, the performing of it. The responses from the ensemble members at the confirmation also helped me in understanding and in mourning. Such gentle hearts; their words are innocent and thoughtful and trusting too. Their comments can be found here and littered throughout this site along with the reflections of family and friends.
Matt frustrated me. He wouldn't let me come into the space to watch him rehearse. "If this is like a new work I had commissioned from you then the equivalent time your arrival would be 6.30 pm on this coming Thursday" (personal communication, June 2, 2005). As a result, I became an aural voyeur, loitering outside the theatre hoping to get a "glimpse" of my music.
BUT - I also sat with him and chatted over a glass of wine. We talked through the week of rehearsal and his responses to both the piece and the ensembles intersection with it. We talked each night after rehearsal and some of that discussion has been saved too.
Audience members at the premiere were asked to respond and they were also asked a series of questions which reflected more fully on their emotional and intellectual responses to My Sister's Tears as well as other works on the program. The group invited to respond from the audience included those close to me and those whose relationship with me was less intimate.
Both groups were given the option to be involved, no compulsion was placed on anyone, especially students and family. They were also allowed to respond anonymously, or to note their details if they would be pleased to be involved if further discussion about points they raised.
The collection of this data has become quite important to me. Responses to an evocative work and specific occasion can be less structured and sanitised. The music, the recordings, the video, the responses from listeners; they are illuminating Heather's story and enriching mine.
Of the friends and family came to hear the "new" Hultgren piece, most had no idea what it was about. The written responses from some of them are quite confronting for me. They tell of their anguish in being let into my life - in fact, into Heather's life. They are sad and quizzical and sometimes concerned for the ethical dilemma that this process is, as an academic investigation.
I believe they are honest - my family, friends and colleagues. They are open and candid and they help me understand what I do in my work and in my grief.
The concert came and my story of Heather was told. It was a moment of...
Satisfaction, no...
Joy, no...
Achievement, no...
It was a moment of finalisation and committal...almost.
Maybe it was the service, or the musical tribute at the service, that might have taken place had we known she would die, after an illness for example.
Look and listen and share that moment, that story worth telling.
After the concert and the wonderful comments and the tears from so many, came the time to be with family, those who are mine by blood and mine by choice. I invited my beautiful babies, all five of them (though Luke was experiencing some difficulties again and could not attend) and their mothers and friends from church and my dear mate, Matt. We sat and talked and drank wine. Heather would have loved the wine and the company but most of all the chat. She loved to talk.
I wish Ross had come.
Rick and I talked for quite a while. He is Meagan's partner. He lost his brother to suicide when he was young. He ached for me and we stood there, like men do, sucking in the tears and pretending we were able to deal with it.
Erica and Lyndal, two friends from church, told me that the music was beautiful but not in a beautiful sense. They smiled at me as I asked them to explain. "You know, what it's about." In their written responses they told me how words cannot express the full meaning of all things. When I read them my eyes filled up again – it's become quite a habit – their thoughts open us to understand that meaning is not supplanted by facts.
Erica told me that, "Some of us must make do with words only, and perhaps not use them well. We are indebted to those who help us understand through the gift of music" (personal communication, June 3, 2005). And Lyndal added that she thought that, "Sometimes words don't go far enough, or we are not skilful enough with words to say exactly what we want to say. The richness and subtlety of music is excellent for expressing complex and conflicting thoughts and feelings" (personal communication, June 3, 2005)
I remember the feeling of safety as they held me in their arms that night.
I remember the feeling of wanting to protect my babies again, as I did the night I told them of their aunt's death.
I remember the tears too; gentle and slow, dribbling down my cheeks.
I remember my darling Julie, stoic like James, wanting to save me from 'that ache' that is constantly just below the surface of every moment, that ache that returns right now.