‘Music is a form of communication, and I have always found it distracting as part of worship. I cannot function with music as a “background”.’ Photo: Mihaela Bodlovic courtesy of Sound Festival
Silence and creativity: Sally Beamish interviewed
‘The silent waiting experienced in Meeting is something that is necessary in creative work too.’
How did you become a Quaker? What was your first introduction to the Society? What was it that attracted you to Friends?
My grandmother, Lucia Beamish, became a Quaker in the early twentieth century, and was very active as a Friend. I was taken to Hampstead meeting as a child by my father, alternating with Anglican services with my mother every other Sunday. My aunt, Anthea Webb, was also a very active Friend (latterly Leiston Meeting), and I always felt connected to Friends, though when my children were small I took them to the local Church of Scotland. I returned to Quakers when my youngest was seven, in 2002, and became a member of Glasgow meeting. She loved it right from the start, and later was a clerk for Junior Yearly Meeting. I had a real sense of ‘coming home’.
You have achieved such incredible success as a composer and musician. Do you think that your faith has helped you on your journey?
Although I composed constantly from the age of four, I never thought it was something I could do to earn a living – possibly because of the lack of female role models. But I remember wondering if I might write hymn tunes, and did try out a few! In 1988 I was asked to write music for spoken performance of poems by Ukrainian Christian dissident Irina Ratushinskaya. This was my first substantial work, and my own faith played a part in connecting the poems with music.
What were your early beginnings in the music world? Could you tell us how your path first started?
When I was four, my mother, a professional violinist, taught me to read and write music. She didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t learn, and the kindergarten discouraged parents from teaching pre-schoolchildren to read and write words. Being a creative child, I immediately wanted to write my own music. A year or so later I started learning the piano, and then, at nine, the violin. Composition was always my first love, and when I decided to go to music college, it was to refine my skills as a string player enough to be able to earn a living with orchestral playing, so that I could compose. This turned out to be an excellent plan, as I made many friendships with first class performers, who then began to commission me as they moved forward in their own careers. After ten years freelancing in London, I moved to Scotland with my then-husband, Glaswegian cellist Robert Irvine, to raise a family and concentrate on composing. After another five years or so, I was too busy with commissions to continue playing, and for the next twenty-five years did not play at all, selling my viola to pay for a new roof!
I could not have known that the baby I was expecting when I made this decision would grow up to become an instrument maker, and would make me a beautiful viola which brought me back to playing in 2015. I feel incredibly lucky now to ‘have it all’, and the playing is reconnecting me with my former performing self. Now I’ve returned to England, I am hugely enjoying playing chamber music with the friends and colleagues I left behind thirty years ago.
I’d love to know more about the creative process involved in composing a piece of music. Could you tell us a little about how it all comes together?
A new piece of music nearly always starts with a commission, and with the commission comes a projected performance; by particular musicians, for a particular occasion. This is a starting point for me, and I listen carefully to the performers I’m writing for, as well as talking to them about what kind of music they would like to play, or what they feel is missing from their available repertoire. If the performer has commissioned the work themselves, they nearly always have an idea behind the request – for instance a cello concerto for Robert Cohen celebrating his roots in Poland and South Africa. My three piano concertos were each commissioned by a different pianist, each with a very clear idea of what the piece would be. Ronald Brautigam wanted something about the Cairgorm Mountains, and Martin Roscoe took me in a small boat to experience the Corryvreckan whirlpool. The US pianist Jonathan Biss wanted a work to partner Beethoven’s first concerto, but his subsequent anguish after the 2016 US election results led me into a bitter parody.
Sometimes there is a theme to the concert or occasion, and this is also a trigger for inspiration. Once I have somewhere to start, I begin to gather material – sometimes actual music from other sources, sometimes a painting, a place or a poem which might in some way trigger musical ideas. These days I write straight into Sibelius software, and can work anywhere – whether trains, planes or hotel rooms.
The length and scale of the work is dictated by the commission, so I know how many players I’m writing for and how many minutes I have! Far from limiting me, I find boundaries stimulating, and in fact the deadline can be the most energising factor of all – as I know I simply have to keep going, how ever many doubts and fears might beleaguer me.
What inspires you?
Most things inspire me – other musicians and composers from all genres, dance, theatre, family, landscape, sad and happy events, and longings for the future.
Does the experience of centring down and connecting with the Source or the numinous, or however you choose to term it, have parallels with the act of creating your compositions? Do the two intersect?
Very much so. When I first returned to Quakers, I found I was ‘working’ in Meeting, as I was able to free my mind from all the worries of the week and the endless busy-ness of home life. Music would drop into my head! I realised that the silent waiting experienced in meeting is something that is necessary in creative work too. You don’t always have to be actively ‘doing’ to shape a piece of music. Gestation is needed too – stepping back and allowing the music to arrive.
Do you feel that you tap into this other transcendental state when you are composing your music? Do you feel that your music is divinely guided at all?
There are times when the music seems to come easily and flows onto the page – but this is rare. However, I quite often listen to something I wrote years ago, having forgotten the process, and I wonder where it came from. I can’t remember having thought of it myself, and it does seem to have come from somewhere else.
You spent a good part of your lockdown performing and raising money for the Help Musicians UK Coronavirus Fund. How’s that going now? Could you tell us a little more about that?
At the beginning of lockdown I struggled with seeing fellow musicians performing online, and energetically finding ways of continuing to perform. I found I had no motivation to perform or write. Everything seemed pointless without a live audience. But my husband, Peter Thomson, an ex actor/singer, was keen to continue a trio we had formed for his mum’s funeral, and then our own wedding, with our friend Arthur Dick – an excellent professional guitarist, and me on viola. We began to perform songs during the NHS clapping, and once the clapping stopped happening, we continued to play on the doorstep. The songs were popular – from jazz standards to pop, rock and blues, and this was a completely new experience for me. Because I was playing without music, I was able to engage visually with our audience – local friends and neighbours – who gathered every week in the street to listen, and often dance! It reminded me of the importance of communication, and of bringing people together in a shared experience. The trio continues, with a couple of local engagements in the diary!
What particular challenges have musicians faced during this crisis? Do you see any positive signs of hope?
Musicians have usually been learning their skills since they were small children, and their entire life has been centred around the dedication that is absolutely necessary to be a professional performer. To have concerts cancelled, postponed, moved online etcetera is devastating. It brings into question one’s whole motivation – that of communicating directly with a live audience. As you can imagine the mental health implications are considerable, and it’s not helped by being made to feel that music is not an essential part of life, whereas going to the pub is!
One positive is that musicians are beginning to connect more with their own local communities, by staging small local performances in their own neighbourhoods. Perhaps in the end, the emphasis on performing internationally will change, and we will return to the days when each community had their own valued musicians, giving a special pride and identity to that community.
As a Quaker, are there any particular social justice causes that energise you? You are composing work for Quaker Concern for the Abolition of Torture for example. Could you tell us more about that? Is this a particular subject that resonates with you?
Since my first substantial work, No, I’m not Afraid, I have been motivated to express my own social views through music. In 2001 I wrote Knotgrass Elegy for the BBC proms – a large-scale choral work which expressed foreboding at the increasing use of chemicals in farming, leading to ill health and loss of species. In 2014, with poet Andrew Motion, I wrote Equal Voices, which references the lasting physical and psychological damage to survivors of war. It combines the actual words of soldiers suffering from PTSD, with the beautiful biblical love song The Song of Solomon.
How do you go about composing a piece of music on such an issue? Again, could you tell us a little more about the process?
A Knock on the Door, to a text written by my husband Peter Thomson, is one of the most challenging tasks I’ve taken on. We had many discussions with the Quaker team who initiated the commission, and talked about the aspects of the horror of torture, and the fact that it damages the perpetrators as well as the victims, by dehumanising them. I wanted this piece to be performable by non professionals, and the writing will be simple and accessible. I want it to be, rather than a catalogue of unspeakable horror, music which reflects humanity and hope.
What does music have to offer the Society of Friends that the silent tradition doesn’t? Quakers from other cultures – such as in Kenya – use the power of music to connect with each other, and to express and nourish themselves spiritually. Do you think Quakers could use the transcendent power of music more? What can music offer that silence doesn’t?
I believe that music is a form of communication, and have always found it distracting as part of worship. I cannot function with music as a ‘background’, as my response to it takes energy and engagement. Music is hugely important as a universal language that communicates directly to the soul, and is transformative. But I do not perceive it as ‘relaxing’ or ‘soothing’; though it is often inspiring.
Comments
Thank you for this article. Quaker Arts Network is hoping to be able to host some online discussions of how different art forms and practices do or don’t link up with our experience of Quaker worship and witness.
This will depend on whether Friends are interested and willing to participate.
Please contact .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address). com if you’d be interested in being involved, and telling us your particular area(s) of interest.
By Linda Murgatroyd on 22nd November 2020 - 17:13
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