Why Make Music?

Voice lessons with Henri Duparc

I’m a writer. I work a day job and take advantage of every weekend, early morning, and metro ride to write. This year I started a master’s in creative writing to hone my craft. Nothing is more important to me than writing down what I have to say, in the way I want to say it.

Yet I still feel like I never have enough time.

Why, then, continue to make music? Why sing when it is so demanding and time consuming?

For this week’s salon, I’d like to address the concerns of practicing a primary and secondary creative medium, enlightened by Henri Duparc’s “Chanson Triste” (1868).

I’ve tried to quit music many times in my life.

Somehow it never worked.

I have come to understand that singing complements writing, or that the two are different means to the same end. Voice lessons are a kind of replica of my writing practice. When I write, I express myself to an imagined other who will hear me in the most refined detail. This is precisely what happens in a voice lesson—with the right coach.

Some say that to be an artist you have to not care what other people think. But I also believe that we make art to communicate with others. I don’t think true artistry is necessarily achieved by abandoning care; rather, it can flourish by cultivating the faith that one’s ideal audience exists.

Having a trusted voice teacher is an excellent balm for the solitary writer: your most caring reader is incarnated, listening to you.

I suspect practicing a second medium is beneficial for most artists, though it likely implies getting comfortable with a weaker mastery (which is probably good for our egos, too!). Music exists in time, teaching me to be active instead of musing over word choices. Performances happen in front of physical audiences, reminding me that my reader lives and breathes.

Let’s turn to Duparc’s mélodie. Here is the original poem by Jean Lahor (pen name of doctor Henri Cazalis) and my rough translation:

Dans ton cœur dort un clair de lune,
Un doux clair de lune d'été,
Et pour fuir la vie importune,
Je me noierai dans ta clarté.

J'oublierai les douleurs passées,
Mon amour, quand tu berceras
Mon triste cœur et mes pensées
Dans le calme aimant de tes bras.

Tu prendras ma tête malade,
Oh ! quelquefois, sur tes genoux,
Et lui diras une ballade
Qui semblera parler de nous;

Et dans tes yeux pleins de tristesse,
Dans tes yeux alors je boirai
Tant de baisers et de tendresse
Que peut-être je guérirai.

*

Moonlight sleeps in your heart,
A soft summer moonlight,
And to escape the troubles of life,
I will drown myself in your light.

I will forget past wounds,
My love, when you will cradle
My sad heart and thoughts
In the loving calm of your arms.

You will take my tormented head,
Oh! sometimes in your lap,
And will recite a ballad
That will seem to speak of us;

And in your eyes, full of sadness,
In your eyes then I will drink
So many kisses and tenderness
That maybe I will heal.

I can’t help but imagine that the speaker of this poem is an artist. So many of us write, sing, paint, or dance because of an inexplicable restlessness, a need to “escape the troubles of life,” to “forget past wounds,” or simply, to “heal.”

Outside the more obvious reading of addressing a lover, could the “you” of this poem be the artist’s ideal audience? A confidant, a listener, an other who understands? After all, this other “will recite a ballad” proving their understanding—as a voice teacher might.

Lahor’s text is laden with uncertainty: everything is written in the future tense; the addressee’s ballad only seems to speak of something; the speaker will maybe heal. Duparc’s setting brings out the glimmers of hope in the text with climactic crescendos that recede into soft, sad diminuendos. The emotional landscape here expresses the very condition of art-making: the struggle to believe that our work will find its audience and that we will heal.

Henri Duparc’s œuvre is surprisingly small: in terms of vocal music, he left us with just 17 mélodies. Rarely satisfied with his work, Duparc destroyed many of his compositions, and at the age of 36 stopped composing altogether. He did, however, continue to paint and draw.

To finish, I’d like to share something Duparc stated in 1922:

C’est pour les rares amis seuls (plusieurs même inconnus) que j’ai écrit mes mélodies, sans aucun souci d’applaudissement ou de notoriété. Bien que courtes, elles sont (et c’est leur seul mérite) le fond de moi-même, et c’est du fond du cœur que je remercie ceux qui l’ont compris. C’est à leur âme que s’adresse mon âme : tout le reste m’est indifférent.

*

I wrote my melodies for my rare friends alone (many of whom are unknown even to me), without any concern for applause or notoriety. Though short, they are (and it is their only merit) the essence of myself, and it is from the bottom of my heart that I thank those who have understood it. My soul addresses their souls: I am indifferent to everything else.

I found this to be such a beautiful artist’s statement. The intimacy and nuance of Duparc’s work, expressing the “essence of himself,” is something I aspire to in my own writing. It is my hope that in singing his music, I am incorporating these qualities into my voice, both on and off the page.

If I’m asking these questions this week, it’s because our recital is this Friday and Sunday, June 7th and 9th, at Studio l’Accord Parfait. I’ve been struggling to balance recital preparation with writing lately, but deep down I know they are somehow connected.

If you’re in Paris, please do join us! You can reserve your seat here.

Wishing you all a creative, inspiring week.

à la prochaine !
Rachel