A Composer Both Fully Modern and Sincerely Spiritual
The Russian composer Sofia Gubaidulina, who passed away on Thursday at the age of 93, was a rare figure in the world of music—an artist who was both thoroughly modern and deeply spiritual. “I am convinced that religion is the essence of all art,” she stated in a 2021 interview.
This perspective is far from common today. The time of composers like Palestrina and Bach, who sought to glorify God through their work, is long gone. In an era largely defined by secularism, music that is at once daring, spiritual, and profound is a rarity—and yet, Gubaidulina produced some of the most significant examples.
Her faith was neither gentle nor melodious. Unlike Arvo Pärt, whose minimalist spirituality has been embraced for meditation playlists, Gubaidulina’s music was more intense and unsettling.
Her compositions are not suited for a morning yoga session. Instead, they evoke struggle and chaos, a hushed anticipation of a sign from the beyond, and the arduous effort to bridge the divide between humanity and the divine. When transcendence does arrive in her music, it is hard-earned.
Inspired by Psalm 130, De Profundis (1978)—a haunting solo for the bayan, a Russian accordion she cherished—begins in deep, somber tones before ascending to piercing brilliance. The Canticle of the Sun (1997), composed for cellist Mstislav Rostropovich, a small choir, and percussion, draws from St. Francis’ hymn of praise to God, maintaining a stark and concentrated intensity. Her monumental St. John Passion (2000) carries an apocalyptic power.
Though baptized into Russian Orthodox Christianity as an adult, her beliefs also reflected influences from her Tatar father’s Muslim heritage and her Jewish music teachers. Her openness about the religious nature of her work, combined with its challenging nature, placed her at odds with the Soviet government.
Born in 1931, Gubaidulina came of age after Stalin’s death in 1953, which afforded her more artistic freedom than slightly older composers—such as Shostakovich, who had been an early mentor—had experienced. Nonetheless, she still had to navigate the constraints of an oppressive regime.
Her breakthrough came in 1980 with the violin concerto Offertorium, performed a few years later by Gidon Kremer and the New York Philharmonic. Reviewing the performance for The New York Times, John Rockwell noted that Gubaidulina “enjoys the good graces of the regime and supports herself writing film music.”
This was not entirely accurate. Shortly before composing Offertorium, she had been blacklisted by a leading figure in the Composers’ Union after her work was performed at a contemporary music festival in Germany without state approval.
Already facing travel restrictions, she saw her opportunities for publication and performance further diminished, while the KGB kept a close watch on her. She was even physically assaulted—an incident she attributed to the constraints imposed upon her.
Still, unlike in Stalin’s era, government censure no longer carried the risk of death. Reflecting on this period, she later remarked, “Being blacklisted and so unperformed gave me artistic freedom, even if I couldn’t earn much money.”
By the 1980s, state repression had turned Gubaidulina into something of a cause célèbre, granting her greater international recognition than she might have otherwise received. As her global profile expanded, her travel restrictions loosened, and after the Soviet Union collapsed, she relocated to Germany, where she remained for the rest of her life. Her premieres continued well into the 2020s.
Critics often described her compositions as overly long. Her concertos, typically structured as sprawling single movements, could feel labyrinthine, particularly given their unrelenting solemnity. Unlike many contemporary works designed to fit neatly within a standard 11- or 12-minute slot in orchestral programs, her music refused to conform. Yet, to those who truly listened, her compositions were taut, compelling, and immersive.
Part of their power lay in their structure—often shaped by the Fibonacci sequence, a mathematical principle that lent her music an intrinsic sense of order and purpose. While her pieces may have seemed endless, they carried listeners forward with a sense of unwavering direction.
Few composers wielded texture as evocatively as she did. Offertorium, a true masterpiece—especially in Kremer’s virtuosic interpretation—opens with jagged violin swoops, simultaneously recalling modernist sharpness and rustic fiddle traditions.
As the piece unfolds, eerie waves of orchestral sound surge and collapse, trumpets cry out, and quiet, intricate moments emerge: a trembling solo violin, bells casting soft halos of resonance, and a flickering violin line dissolving into an equally flickering flute.
Later, the soloist plays relentlessly—exhausted yet unable to stop—while the orchestra gathers a mellow, grounded energy, offering a subtle sense of solace. A brooding elegy in the violin’s lower register gradually ascends, transforming into a luminous aria, surrounded by the warm glow of the orchestra and a piano tracing its way up and down the scale. In 35 minutes, the piece traverses a journey from raw austerity to something approaching grace.
Gubaidulina’s music was both uncompromising and accessible. Its striking timbres, dynamic shifts, and innate dramatic tension made it undeniably compelling. Even in its most enigmatic moments, it spoke with urgency, drawing listeners in. She continued composing until just a few years ago, with her 90th birthday celebrated worldwide through performances and recordings.
Yet, her legacy was not dependent on milestone anniversaries. Just last October, the New York Philharmonic performed her Fairytale Poem (1971) a mere five months after presenting her fiery Viola Concerto—a rare frequency for a living composer’s works.
Fairytale Poem is not among her most famous pieces, yet it carries a quiet, luminous spirituality. Inspired by a Czech children’s tale about a piece of chalk yearning to draw castles and gardens but constrained by schoolwork, it eventually finds liberation in a child’s hands, dissolving joyfully into its creation.
Though not overtly religious, the piece hums with a sense of mystical wonder. Whether the chalk serves as a metaphor for the artist’s life—particularly one shaped by authoritarian rule—is left open to interpretation, lingering in the air like the last, fading vibration of sound.
Leave a Reply