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Istvan Anhalt, one of Canada's great innovative classical composers and a founding father of Canadian electroacoustic music, has passed away at the age of 92.
Born into a Jewish family in Budapest in 1919, studied with Zoltán Kodály before being conscripted into a forced labour camp during World War II. In the late 1940s he studied under Nadia Boulanger and Soulima Stravinsky before emigrating to Canada in 1949.
A prolific classical composer, he created over two dozen pieces including La Tourangelle, Millennial Mall (Lady Diotima's Walk), Fantasia and The Tents of Abraham (2005 Juno award winner). During the course of his career he received commissions from the Esprit Orchestra, the National Arts Centre Orchestra, the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, the Vancouver New Music Society and the CBC.
The following is excerpted from Istvan Anhalt's chapter, “From ‘Mirage’ to Simulacrum and ‘Afterthought,’” an essay by Anhalt where he describes his compositions' relationship to the perception of time, memory and his past.
I now hear some of you reminding me about the promise I made earlier to tell about a discovery I made a day or so ago. Yes, now is perhaps a good moment to speak about this. It takes me back once again to the title of the work, Simulacrum, which means a number of things, as we know, including the notion of “mirage”. All the remembrances that I included in this piece, all the glances to the past, as it were, can be seen as conversations, however fleeting they may be, with persons who are no longer here, with situations (can one “converse” with a past situation? It seems far-fetched … but perhaps as a figure of speech it might be allowed to stand), and so on – all these being integrally woven into the tissue of one’s present. This much we know of the work, but the new information is this: forty-five years ago, while serving in a labour battalion of the Hungarian army, a unit especially created for young Jewish men, and being stationed in a dusty little village in Transylvania, called Elöpatak, on a very hot Sunday afternoon in the month of August, I wrote a poem, my first poem ever, entitled “Mirage in Elöpatak”. That “mirage” was, actually, what I felt must be done in that distant moment – namely, to take a look into a future in which, so I wanted to convince myself, resided hope for good things to come, in contrast with the severely restricted horizon that was available to me and to my comrades at that point in time. Yes, it was a kind of wishful thinking that helped to sustain me, and it did precisely that.
Mirage in Elöpatak
Strolling happy friends with wit abounding,
Thoughtfully smiling, invite you to join:
Come along, pal, if it suits you;
Surely you know us – forever calling,
Yet also keeping you at a distance …
Familiar? Of course. You also play by the same rule.Look: the sage is resting in the shady gardens,
Streams of flushed-faced young
Press towards him – the hub –
Along the spokes of the wheel,
With thirsty lips gently curving,
Spirits alight
To await word of the coming dawn.Ideas flow following idea
Trust from the past welding onto offspring;
An unringed migrating crane – leading
At the apex of a swift winging v …
Oh, what a splendid morning!Lo: safely nesting in his roomy basket
Contentedly the just-fed infant coos,
Delighting all with the primeval song.
Soup on the stove; the bubbles are bursting,
Tiny pea-balls dance in the sweet-smelling stream
Tender shoots blending into flavour,
Surrendering self to form a whole
For the mid-day meal of a scorching day.
So the soul fuses all that is worthwhile to keep.Reflecting the pane, by the window, a brother is speaking:
Do you accept this? Something in which you could share?
A magical call: to excel by doing well
The job at hand, yearning for mastery,
As the distant spires of shape
Urge you on to find the right place.You uncatchable slippery buddy of mine
Time, all cartwheels, tumbles and twirls;
You are full of tricks.
You make me dizzy
As you turn the “now” into “past”
What will you do to the moment about to arrive?The minute-hours roll by on the wheels of substance.
The view is rewarding, never twice the same.
On and onward towards the Crystal City
Until, in a well-guarded courtyard – we hear it –
The great bell is sounding;
The word of the king, the voice of the sun.
Noon!If that’s what you need: well … then rest.
Stretch out your limbs in the hollows of hills
By the edge of the darkly-pensive woods
Where you just might catch, unexpectedly,
A few words resounding from a generous spring:“On the grassy plains you feed me, my Lord,
And even by the rim of the abyss you are my shepherd … ”
Comes from a distance.
Then … silence
The voiceless word echoes as long as you hear the thought.The heat of the hour wets palm and fingers.
For a while it is an effort to move.
But slowly the disc descends along its arc
And life returns to the squares and streets.
The multitude moves … each looking for something,
Peeking, peering as far as the eye can see.The afternoon gardens prepare for the evening,
Distilling scents for the feast ahead
To please the dearest ones:
You, darling Ágicám.In the waning warmth of the dusk
Your firm back trustingly fills the bay of my caress
And your peach-tasting lips chase
The last specks of dust from our content and joy.
Further Reading
CBC obituary: Composer Istvan Anhalt dies at 92
Istvan Anhalt: Pathways and Memory edited by Robin Elliott and Gordon E. Smith
Compositional Crossroads: Music, McGill, Montreal edited by Eleanor V. Stubley
Growing with Canada: The Émigré Tradition in Canadian Music by Paul Helmer
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