Kelsey A. Park, Mezzo-Soprano In collaboration with Nolan Pearson

Kelsey A. Park, Mezzo-Soprano
In collaboration with Nolan Pearson, Piano
Considered to be one of his masterpieces, Herbert Howells said, “I am prouder to have written ‘King
David’ than almost anything else of mine.” The poetry is by Walter de la Mare, and although the piece
is written in a set with twelve others, they are rarely performed together.
King David
King David was a sorrowful man:
No cause for his sorrow had he;
And he called for the music of a hundred
harps,
To ease his melancholy.
They played till they all fell silent:
Played and play sweet did they;
But the sorrow that haunted the heart of
King David
They could not charm away.
He rose; and in his garden
Walked by the moon alone,
A nightingale hidden in a cypress tree,
Jargoned on and on.
King David lifted his sad eyes
Into the dark-boughed tree:
‘Tell me, thou little bird that singest,
Who taught my grief to thee?’
But the bird in no-wise heeded;
And the king in the cool of the moon
Hearkened to the nightingale’s
sorrowfulness,
Till all his own was gone
Henri Duparc led a quiet, normal life France and died at the age of eighty-five. In writing to Jean Cras
in 1907, Duparc states, “for all music, non-performance is preferable.” His standards of composition
led to destroying works and leaving others unfinished. Only seventeen songs survive. The eternal
found in L’invitation au Voyage is fitting as he dedicated it “to Madame Henri Duparc.” It is
considered Duparc’s first masterpiece. In Le Manoir de Rosemonde, Duparc emphasizes the piano’s
central role in telling the story. The singer is a voice communicating text with the piano taking lead.
The last piece in the set, Au pays où se fait la guerre, speaks of a woman left in waiting for her
husband to return from the land of war. Originally titled, “Absence,” the piece builds in anticipation
for the return of the absent one. The final moment in the piece is of the woman realizing her love is
never to return.
L’invitation au voyage
Invitation to the Voyage
Mon enfant, ma sœur,
Songe à la douceur
D'aller là-bas vivre ensemble,
Aimer à loisir,
Aimer et mourir
Au pays qui te ressemble.
Les soleils mouillés
De ces ciels brouillés
Pour mon esprit ont les charmes
Si mystérieux
De tes traîtres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.
My child, my sister,
Think of the rapture
Of living together there!
Of loving at will,
Of loving till death,
In the land that is like you!
The misty sunlight
Of those cloudy skies
Has for my spirit the charms,
So mysterious,
Of your treacherous eyes,
Shining brightly through their tears.
There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.
Vois sur ces canaux
Dormir ces vaisseaux
Dont l'humeur est vagabonde;
C'est pour assouvir
Ton moindre désir
Qu'ils viennent du bout du monde.
Les soleils couchants
Revêtent les champs,
Les canaux, la ville entière,
D'hyacinthe et d'or;
Le monde s'endort
Dans une chaude lumière!
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.
See on the canals
Those vessels sleeping.
Their mood is adventurous;
It's to satisfy
Your slightest desire
That they come from the ends of the earth.
— The setting suns
Adorn the fields,
The canals, the whole city,
With hyacinth and gold;
The world falls asleep
In a warm glow of light.
There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.
Le manoir de Rosemonde
Rosemonde’s Manor-House
De sa dent soudaine et vorace,
Comme un chien l'amour m'a mordu...
En suivant mon sang répandu,
Va, tu pourras suivre ma trace...
Love, like a dog, has bitten me
with its sudden, voracious teeth...
Come, the trail of spilt blood
will enable you to follow my tracks.
Prends un cheval de bonne race,
Pars, et suis mon chemin ardu,
Fondrière ou sentier perdu,
Si la course ne te harasse!
Take a horse of good pedigree
and set off on the arduous route I took,
through swamps and overgrown paths,
if that's not too exhausting a ride for you!
En passant par où j'ai passé,
Tu verras que seul et blessé
J'ai parcouru ce triste monde.
As you pass where I passed,
you will see that I travelled
alone and wounded through this sad world,
Et qu'ainsi je m'en fus mourir
Bien loin, bien loin, sans découvrir
Le bleu manoir de Rosamonde.
and thus went off to my death
far, far away, without ever finding
Rosemonde's blue manor-house.
Au pays où se fait la guerre
To the country where war is waged
Au pays où se fait la guerre
Mon bel ami s'en est allé ;
Il semble à mon cœur désolé
Qu'il ne reste que moi sur terre !
En partant, au baiser d'adieu,
Il m'a pris mon âme à ma bouche.
Qui le tient si longtemps, mon Dieu ?
Voilà le soleil qui se couche,
Et moi, toute seule en ma tour,
J'attends encore son retour.
To the country where war is waged
My beautiful love departed.
It seems to my desolate heart
That I alone remain on earth.
When leaving, at our kiss goodbye,
He took my soul from my mouth...
Who is holding him back so long, O God?
There is the sun setting.
And I, all alone in my tower,
I still await his return.
Les pigeons sur le toit roucoulent,
Roucoulent amoureusement ;
Avec un son triste et charmant
Les eaux sous les grands saules coulent.
Je me sens tout près de pleurer ;
Mon cœur comme un lis plein s'épanche,
Et je n'ose plus espérer.
Voici briller la lune blanche,
Et moi, toute seule en ma tour,
J'attends encore son retour.
The pigeons on the roof are cooing,
Cooing lovingly
With a sad and charming sound;
The waters under the large willows flow...
I feel ready to cry;
My heart, like a full lily, overflows
And I no longer dare to hope.
Here gleams the white moon.
And I, all alone in my tower,
I still await his return.
Quelqu'un monte à grands pas la rampe :
Serait-ce lui, mon doux amant ?
Ce n'est pas lui, mais seulement
Mon petit page avec ma lampe.
Someone is climbing the ramp with heavy steps.
Could it be him, my sweet love?
It isn't him, but only
My little page with my lamp.
Vents du soir, volez, dites-lui
Qu'il est ma pensée et mon rêve,
Toute ma joie et mon ennui.
Voici que l'aurore se lève,
Et moi, toute seule en ma tour,
J'attends encore son retour.
Evening winds, veiled, tell him
That he is my thoughts and my dream,
All my joy and my longing.
Here is the dawn rising.
And I, all alone in my tower,
I still await his return.
Intermission
In the final act of Handel’s Hercules, Dejanira, the wife of Hercules, grieves how her husband’s death
is by her hands. She recounts how Nessus promised the gifted cloak would cause Hercules to remain
faithful to her. However, Dejanira soon finds out that Nessus’ final act is one of revenge and Hercules
died because of her jealousy.
Where Shall I Fly?
Where shall I fly, where hide this guilty head?
Oh fatal error of misguided love!
Oh, cruel Nessus, how art thou reveng’d!
Wretch that I am, by me Alcides dies!
These impious hands have sent my injur’d lord
untimely to the shades! Let me be mad!
Chain me, ye Furies, to your iron beds,
and lash my guilty ghost with whips of scorpions!
See, see, they come! Alecto with her snakes!
Megaera fell, and black Tisiphone!
See the dreadful sisters rise!
Their baneful presence taints the skies!
See the snaky whips they bear!
What yellings rend my tortur’d ear!
Hide me from their hated sight,
friendly shades of blackest night!
Alas! No rest the guilty find
from the pursuing furies of the mind!
Cinq Épitaphes, written by Pierre Vellones consists of five French epitaphs. Vellones composed the
pieces in middle voice to ensure the sentiment of the text would be understood. My good friend, Pam
Williams, gave me the suggestion to perform the pieces, of which I’m grateful.
…d’une femme par son mari
…of a woman by her husband
Objet de ma tendre pitié
Reçois de moi, chère moitié
Ce tombeau qu'aucun ne t'envie.
Object of my tender pity
Accept from me, dear half
This tomb that nobody envies you.
Je dois bien justement te rendre cet honneur
Car le dernier jour de ta vie fut le premier,
Fut le premier de mon bonheur.
I must well justly pay tribute to you
Because the last day of your life
Was the first of my happiness.
…d’une devote
…of an excessively pious woman
Ci-gît une dévote et qui fut des plus franches,
Qui sous de modestes, sous de modestes
atours
Allait à Vêpres les dimanches.
Here lies a pious woman and who was among the
most honest ones,
Who, modestly dressed,
Went to Vespers on Sundays.
Que faisait-elle, Ami, les autres jours?
Ca! ça! ça! ça!
Ca, c'est une autre paire de manches.
What did she do, Friend, on the other days?
That!
That, it is another story.
…d’un parasseux
…of a lazybones
Ci-gît Charlot le paresseux!
Lequel à son heure dernière,
S'écria: "Que je suis heureux!
Je vais n'avoir plus rien à faire!"
Here lies Charlot the lazy one!
Who on his last hour,
Exclaimed: "How happy I am!
I won't have anything more to do!"
Passant, ici Charlot repose;
Il ne fit jamais autre chose.
Passer by, here rests Charlot;
He never made anything else.
…du pauvre Scarron, par lui-même
…of poor Scarron, by himself
Celui qui ci maintenant dort
Fit plus de pitié que d'envie,
Et souffrit mille fois la mort
Avant que de perdre la vie.
The one that here now sleeps
Aroused more pity than desire,
And suffered thousand times death
Before to lose life.
Passant, ne fais ici de bruit,
Prends garde qu'aucun ne l'éveille;
Car voici la première nuit
Que le pauvre Scarron sommeille.
Passer by, do not make here any noise,
Take care no one wakens him;
Because this is the first night
That poor Scarron rests.
…d’un Grand Médecin
…of a famous Doctor
Il a rendu son âme à Dieu,
Le célèbre docteur Mathieu
He surrendered his soul to God,
Famous Doctor Mathieu
Le célèbre docteur Mathieu,
Qui rendait la ville déserte.
Famous Doctor Mathieu
Who made the town deserted.
Il a rendu son âme à Dieu,
Le célèbre docteur Mathieu,
Qui rendait la ville déserte.
He surrendered his soul to God,
Famous Doctor Mathieu
Who made the town deserted.
La mort fait une grande perte.
For the Death it is a great loss.
Another reason why I don’t keep a gun in the house is a selection of poems taken from Billy Collins’
volume, The Apple that Astonished Paris. Collins’ writing is captivating in its deeply memorable
simplicity. When Cipullo wrote to Collins, asking permission to use his text, Collins responded:
I happily agreed to allow Mr. Cipullo to set some poems of mine to music. And
as always, I added the caveat that the poems had already been set to music…by
me. In other words, I write with my ear as well as my head and heart, and I am
very devoted to making my poems sound right.
It is Collins’ writing that allows Cipullo’s composition to thrive. Desire exemplifies this pairing. In it,
the character speaks of a love that feels futile when written in words and should be experienced and
expressed. Cipullo adds rich harmonies to the character’s text. In Embrace, the character explores
how an illusory pleasure turns out to be nothing more than masked loneliness. Cancer explores the
complexity of denial in grief. Cipullo’s use of accompaniment creates a vulnerable atmosphere where
the singer is left suspended above sparse support, similar to how one feels during grief. The
juxtaposition of piano and text in Flames communicates the insanity of Smokey the Bear through the
angular vocal line. In Putting down the cat, the character is frozen, as the terror of watching the
veterinarian put down a family pet. The sterile veterinarian’s office is heard in Cipullo’s use of an
arpeggiated accompaniment. The purring of the cat and ultimate death can be heard in the final
measures. Another reason why I don’t keep a gun in the house quotes Beethoven’s Symphonies Nos.
1, 3, 5, 7, and 9.
1. Desire
It would be easier to compile an encyclopedia
for you than to write these longhand letters
whose ink blackens the night. I write
until dawn saying I think the world of you
but they are always too short
like those two-page schoolboy essays
with The History of Mankind
underlined on the front in crayon.
My encyclopedia will ignore the research
of others and rely on personal experience.
I will walk out the front door now
with my winter hat and coat,
with my spectacles and my knotty cane.
I will describe in a clear, nimble style
everything in the world beginning with A.
2. Embrace
You know the parlor trick.
wrap your arms around your own body
and from the back it looks like
someone is embracing you
her hands grasping your shirt
her fingernails teasing your neck
from the front it is another story
you never looked so alone
your crossed elbows and screwy grin
you could be waiting for a tailor
to fit you with a straight jacket
one that would hold you really tight.
4. Flames
Smokey the Bear heads
into the autumn woods
with a red can of gasoline
and a box of wooden matches.
His ranger's hat is cocked
at a disturbing angle.
His brown fur gleams
under the high sun
as his paws, the size
of catcher's mitts,
crackle into the distance.
He is sick of dispensing
warnings to the careless,
the half-wit camper,
the dumbell hiker.
He is going to show them
how a professional does it.
3. Cancer
When you need to say the word,
It cowers in back of your vocabulary
behind some outdated slang.
And if you try forcing it into the mouth
it lodges in the throat like a fishbone.
My father cannot say it yet.
The old man cannot even hear it.
He pretends I am saying "campfire."
5. Putting down the cat
The assistant holds her on the table.
the fur hanging limp from her tiny skeleton.
and the veterinarian raises the needle of fluid
which will put the line through her ninth life.
“Painless," he reassures me, "like counting
backwards from a hundred," but I want to tell him
that our poor cat cannot count at all,
much less to a hundred, much less backwards.
Poor cat, poor, poor.
6. Another reason why I don’t keep a gun in
the house
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and I put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the
music,
barking, barking, barking,
and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.
When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton
while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.
Thank you:
…to Terry, for taking me in and loving me as your own.
…to Nolan, for working with me to be a better musician this last year.
…to Laurann, for constantly encouraging me to pursue this life.
…to Alan, for exploring the journey that was these last two years.
…to my parents, inspiring me to be willing to take risks and change.
…to my in-laws, for supporting me many time zones away.
And finally, …to Daniel, my love, for loving and supporting me in ways I can only describe as
selfless. You have sacrificed much so I could take the light. You have memorized lines with me,
celebrated victories and spoke truth in defeats, and have taught me how to growl like Elvis
and bark like a dog. Thank you for constantly pointing me to the Creator over the created.
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