Archivi categoria: Strumentale

Musica strumentale accademica

The Carrillo 1/16 Tone Piano

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piano 1/16 di tonopiano 1/16 di tonoQuesto, che a prima vista sembra un pianoforte normale (cliccare l’immagine per ingrandire), è in realtà accordato a 16mi di tono.

Sì. Al posto dei normali 2 semitoni, ci sono 16 suddivisioni. Di conseguenza, fra un Do e un Do#, che di solito sono contigui, qui troviamo ben 7 tasti.

La cosa è evidente ingrandendo (click) l’immagine a destra, in cui si vede chiaramente l’intervallo fra un fa (f) e un fa# (fis).

Questo strumento microtonale è costruito dalla Sauter rifacendosi alle teorie del messicano Julian Carrillo (1875 – 1965) che, nel 1895, iniziò a occuparsi di accordature microtonali. Nel 1925 ideò un sistema di notazione e fondò un ensemble che eseguiva brani microtonali insieme a Stokowski, con il quale andò in tour negli anni ’30.

Nel 1940, dopo aver depositato i brevetti di almeno 15 pianoforti microtonali, contattò la Sauter che gli costruì alcuni prototipi presentati, nel 1958, all’Expo di Bruxelles. Oggi due suoi pianoforti, accordati risp. a 1/3 e 1/16 di tono, si trovano al Conservatorio di Parigi. Altri sono a Nizza e a Mexico City.

Il piano a 1/16 di tono è accordato in modo che l’intervallo di quinta corrisponda a un semitono. Di conseguenza, l’intera tastiera copre circa una ottava, il che è sicuramente un limite. Sarebbe interessante pensare a un gruppo di 6/8 strumenti di questo tipo accordati su ottave diverse (ma mi viene un brivido immaginando la fattura dell’accordatore).

Il suono si può ascoltare in un disco da cui vi presento due estratti. Nel primo è subito evidente la peculiarità dello strumento. Val la pena di raccontare che, quando l’ho ascoltato senza sapere niente, ho subito pensato a un pianoforte elaborato digitalmente e mi sembrava interessante dal punto di vista sonoro. Solo quando ho avuto il disco mi sono reso conto che in realtà era uno strumento naturale. Il secondo, invece, non punta immediatamente sull’effetto sonoro. Alla prima nota, sembra un pianoforte normale, ma, dopo pochi accordi, chi ha un orecchio musicale si chiede cosa diavolo stia accadendo (è un po’ spiazzante, in effetti).

Il disco si intitola The Carrillo 1/16 Tone Piano (edition zeitklang, si trova per es. alla Naxos Music Library o a ClassicsOnline)

Fürst Igor, Strawinsky

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Mauricio Kagel – Fürst Igor, Strawinsky (1982)
for bass voice, English horn, French horn, tuba, viola and two percussionists

“Fürst Igor, Strawinsky” was commissioned for the Biennale in Venice on the occasion of the centenary of Stravinsky’s birth. It received its premiere performance in the church on the cemetery-island San Michele, where Stravinsky is buried. As hinted in Kagel’s note for the Biennale programme, the sacred, theatrical ambience of this location was a lasting source of inspiration to the composer, who is especially susceptible to spectular sites. However, it proved impossible to carry out Kagel’s original vision of a funeral procession of gondolas transporting the audience to the performance: a thunderstorm erupted at precisely the wrong moment, bringing this cortege to nought. All that remained was the concert in the cemetery chapel.

The piece is scored for a chamber ensemble of bass voice, English horn, French horn, tuba, viola and two percussionists. The instruments lie in the middle and low registers, creating a plush, darkening sound. Besides the conventional percussion instruments, there is also a series of unusual sound-producing devices of indefinite pitch such as iron chains, cocoanut shells, the roaring of lions, wooden planks, an anvil, ratchets and metal tubs. These too have largely a muffled timbre. Kagel – who once referred to timbre as the “paramount material” of a work – here proceeds from a precisely conceived sound-image with associations related to the meaning of the composition. This sound-image is expressed not only in the choice of instruments, but also in the numerous performance instructions included in the score with the aim of making the composer’s intentions as unambiguous as possible.

The text derives from Borodin’s opera “Prince Igor”. Apart from a few repetitions to heighten the expression and a cut required for the sake of compression, the composer retains the whole of the text to Igor’s aria in Act 2, in which the captive Prince sings of his despair at his own fate and that of prostrate Russia. A comparison of Kagel’s setting and Borodin’s original, however revealing of Kagel’s methods, cannot be undertaken here. However, we can at least give a rough sketch of the way in which the picture of Igor changes in this re-composition. In Borodin’s work the Prince, though imprisoned, is still in possession of his traits as a ruler, while Kagel’s work reduces him to a complainer who has sacrificed, if not his dignity, at least any sense of his station. He gives free rein to his feelings in a Lamento with pronounced elements of self-castigation; ultimately, his deep despair borders on insanity. This is apparent, for example, in a key passage beginning with the words “geschändet ist mein Ruhm” (my fame has been desecrated), to which Kagel devotes three times as much time as Borodin, and also in the dynamic and expressive climax of the work, just after the half-way point, where the soloist, at the words “und dafür gibt man mir die Schuld” (and I am held guilty of this), is told to break out into “desperate, distorted laughter”. In the long crescendo which precedes this climax the voice part, which had previously been notated precisely, is rendered only in approximate pitch-curves – the inner turmoil bursts the form.

Although this piece is unusually expressive by Kagel’s standards, it cannot simply be pigeon-holed as an “expressive composition”. Kagel’s espressivo capsizes into the grotesque. One sign of this is the nagging, crazed, laughing sounds required of the instruments; another is the direction to the soloist during the preceding crescendo to be “excessively dramatic”, and Kagel’s helpful suggestion that he try to caricature classical Japanese theatre. Seriousness and irony, tragedy and ridiculousness merge in this paradoxical piece, and Kagel makes use of the shifting expression like a mask behind which lie his feelings, now hidden, now exposed. It is not only in the pun of the title, in the neo-classical figures such as scalar passages and parallel 7th chords, but also in this masquerade that Kagel reveals his spiritual affinity with the secretive dedicatee of his piece.

Max Nyffeler (Translation: J. Bradford Robinson)

Mauricio Kagel: Speech delivered on 5 October 1982 in the Chiesa di San Michele in Isola, located in San Michele Cemetery, Venice, on the occasion of the world premiere of “Fürst Igor, Strawinsky”.

Dear Friends and Strangers,

The news of Stravinsky’s burial in Venice gave me pause at the time to consider whether a touch of the master’s irony might also be buried in this wish of his. He was so fond of the damp – especially of that kind which is surrounded by glass – that it must have given him untold pleasure to have found his final resting place in this unique city where dampness is ever-present. We, too, who honour his memory today in our jovial manner, should take satisfaction in his decision: Stravinsky is ideally preserved in Venice, and forever within easy reach of one of the most crucial necessities of his former daily existence.

And yet – what ambiguity!

For it was precisely in the dryness, the objectivity of his music that Stravinsky – that grandseigneur of the mind and body, never content unless food and service were of the highest calibre – discovered that dimension which enabled him to turn his eye inward with such infinite profundity. His works are living documents of an apparent dichotomy. Passion and computation, unfettered inspiration and rational ingenuity, the sacred and the heathen – all mutually fertilize each other to produce an oeuvre which is well described by several expressions from the musicians’ lingua franca :sempre con passione ma senza rubato; con molta tenerezza ma non piangendo; con piacere, mai a piacere; musica pratica ma non tanto, musica poetica al piu possibile, musica viva da capo al fine.

For me, it is of course a great distinction to honour Stravinsky on this occasion and in this public forum. I belong to a generation of composers who were left with the unpleasant legacy of a family feud to which, pro or contra, we had in fact nothing new to contribute. The choice posited in Schoenberg’s canon “Tonal oder Atonal” has long, indeed has always been a question of sensibility and intelligent application rather than a hard and fast principle. Today, we no longer bother our heads by confusing a method of composition with the aesthetic of craftsmanship. I hope this will remain so in music history for a long time to come.

Stravinsky had much to offer all of us who practice music as a mental discipline. For this reason, we composers – who view the possibility of musical expression as a confirmation for many things that make our lives worth living – are very much in his debt. The very existence of a classical composer – particularly (sarcasm notwithstanding) a “classical modern” composer – is a clear challenge to anyone dedicated to the discovery of new, present worlds of music. It is my firm hope that my “Fürst Igor, Strawinsky” will prove to our honoured forebear that a goodly portion of his ‘attitude and doctrine consisted nor merely of contradictions and opposites, but also of a high-minded twinkling of the eye. In this sense my work is intended as an homage, without ambiguity: senza doppio (colpo) di lingua.

[text from ANABlog]

Threnody

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Questo brano è ben noto ai cultori di musica contemporanea, ma lo proponiamo per la sua importanza storica. Il testo è tratto da wikipedia inglese (nella vers. italiana non c’è).

Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima (Tren ofiarom Hiroszimy in Polish) is a musical composition for 52 string instruments, composed in 1960 by Krzysztof Penderecki (b. 1933), which took third prize at the Grzegorz Fitelberg Composers’ Competition in Katowice in 1960. The piece swiftly attracted interest around the world and made its young composer famous.

The piece-originally called 8’37” (at times also 8’26”)-applies the sonoristic technique and rigors of specific counterpoint to an ensemble of strings treated unconventionally in terms of tone production. Penderecki later said “It existed only in my imagination, in a somewhat abstract way.” When he heard an actual performance, “I was struck by the emotional charge of the work…I searched for associations and, in the end, I decided to dedicate it to the Hiroshima victims”. Tadeusz Zielinski made a similar point, writing in 1961, “While reading the score, one may admire Penderecki’s inventiveness and coloristic ingeniousness. Yet one cannot rightly evaluate the Threnody until it has been listened to, for only then does one face the amazing fact: all these effects have turned out to serve as a pretext to conceive a profound and dramatic work of art!” The piece tends to leave an impression both solemn and catastrophic, earning its classification as a threnody. On October 12, 1964, Penderecki wrote, “Let the Threnody express my firm belief that the sacrifice of Hiroshima will never be forgotten and lost.”

The piece’s unorthodox, largely symbol-based score directs the musicians to play at various vague points in their range or to concentrate on certain textural effects, and they are directed to play on the wrong side of the bridge, or to slap the body of the instrument. Penderecki sought to heighten the effects of traditional chromaticism by using “hypertonality”-composing in quarter tones-to make dissonance more prominent than it would be in traditional tonality. Another unusual aspect of Threnody is Penderecki’s expressive use of total serialism. The piece includes an “invisible canon,” in 36 voices, an overall musical texture that is more important than the individual notes, making it a leading example of sound mass composition. As a whole, Threnody constitutes one of the most extensive elaborations on the tone cluster.

I 4 princìpi d’Irlanda

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cardewNegli anni ’70, Cornelius Cardew, fino ad allora uno dei più importanti compositori inglesi, pioniere dell’utilizzo di partiture grafiche e dell’improvvisazione, assistente di Stockhausen dal 1958 al 1960, ebbe una improvvisa conversione politica al Comunismo (per la precisione aderì al Communist Party of England (Marxist-Leninist)) che lo portò a condannare lo sperimentalismo come elitista (att.ne: non etilista), a scrivere il suo famoso libello “Stockhausen Serves Imperialism” e a scrivere musica per le masse, ideologicamente orientata, come questa:

Four Principles on Ireland – C. Cardew, pianoforte

Potete trovare vari brani del Cardew post conversione in questa pagina di UbuWeb.

Cantéodjayâ

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Cantéodjayâ was written in 1948. Messiaen had long been interested in Hindu rhythms, relying on the listing of 120 such rhythms in the thirteenth-century Sangitaratnākara of Sarngadeva.

The score includes names drawn from this work and from Karnatic musical theory, the latter including the title of the work, indicating the element with which the piece opens, interspersed with intervening material.

The sixth appearance of this characteristic rhythm and figuration is followed by three brief refrains, a first couplet, a return of the first refrain and a second couplet. There follows the second refrain and third couplet, including a six voice canon. The first and third refrains are heard before the final return of the original cantéyndjayâ.

The work contains elements further explored in the Mode de valeurs et d’intensités. At a first hearing a listener unfamiliar with the style of writing might do worse than keep in mind the opening phrases, although the general form is one rather of superimposition than extensive repetition and development.
[Keith Anderson]

Roger Muraro, piano.

Neumi Ritmici

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Neumes rythmiques (Neumi Ritmici) è il terzo dei Quattro Studi sul Ritmo di Olivier Messiaen, che comprendono anche il famoso Modi di Valori e di Intensità, ma è stato il primo ad essere terminato (1949).

In realtà il termine Neuma Ritmico è paradossale, perché i neumi sono una notazione melodica, ritmicamente indefinita, o, almeno, non definita con precisione. Qui, però, Messiaen opera una trasposizione e descrive così il brano:

Osservando le differenti figurazioni dei neumi nel canto piano, ho avuto l’idea di cercare delle corrispondenze ritmiche. La sinuosità melodica indicata dai neumi si muta in gruppi di durate. Ogni neuma ritmico è provvisto di una intensità fissata e di risonanze cangianti, più o meno chiare o scure, sempre contrastanti.

Traduzione mia:

come sentirete chiaramente, questo brano è formato da vari elementi melodico/armonici ben distinti. Ogni elemento è caratterizzato da un certo colore armonico fisso, una certa durata, che in partenza è fissa, e una data intensità, anch’essa fissa.

Così ogni elemento è, per Messiaen, un neuma. In tal modo, la successione dei neumi si tramuta in una successione di elementi, ciascuno con caratteri ben precisi e soprattutto, con una durata fissata. Di conseguenza, una serie di neumi determina una serie di eventi di colore armonico e intensità diverse, ognuno dei quali ha una precisa durata, caratteristica, quest’ultima, importante per il Messiaen dei Quattro Studi sul Ritmo, come il titolo suggerisce.

A complicare le cose, le durate subiscono delle mutazioni nel corso del brano. In una serie di neumi si espandono di un piccolo valore fisso, in un’altra cambiano seguendo una serie di numeri primi, mentre in una terza restano fisse.

Al di là della curiosità, questo studio è molto importante perché deriva dalla Cantéodjayâ, un lavoro basato sui talas (ritmi) indù che vi presenterò più avanti e anticipa l’inserimento dei canti degli uccelli, ognuno dei quali è assimilabile a un “neuma ornitologico”, nel senso che è un oggetto in sé dotato di caratteristiche ben precise.

The Turfan Fragments

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Morton Feldman – The Turfan Fragments (1980), for chamber orchestra

The Turfan Fragments is pitched for a reduced chamber orchestra and marks the beginning of a pause in Feldman’s writing for orchestra that lasted a half decade (until he resumed it with Coptic Light).

The title refers to a significant trove of manuscripts in various languages discovered by German researchers in the early 20th century along the ancient Silk Road and which had been hidden away during the war. Feldman likely saw some of the collection when parts of it were again made available in Berlin, where he lived in the early 1970s. Feldman’s delicate stitching together of fragmentary but elusively repetitive particles hints at the enigmatic character of their namesake.

Feldman’s score repeatedly asks for an intensely subdued dynamic field (ppppp) which belies the tension of its chromatic blurs of dissonance and shifting pulsations. There are no violins to sweeten the palette, giving Feldman’s pointillist chords a tangier sound. Like Rothko’s lozenges of color, the musical fabric slowly draws out slight variations in perspective as fragments intersect and become absorbed into the whole, leaving us to savor their resonance.

A series of archaeological expeditions to East Turkestan, conducted by Sir Aurel Stein in the early part of this century, unearthed several fragments of knotted carpets dating from the third and sixth centuries. Though these fragments were too small to indicate either its design or provenance, they did convey a long tradition of carpet weaving. This is to a large degree the extended metaphor of my composition: not the suggestion of an actual completed work of “art”, but the history in Western music of putting sounds and instruments together.

Morton Feldman

A Carlo Scarpa architetto…

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Luigi Nono
A Carlo Scarpa architetto, ai suoi infiniti possibili (1984)
per orchestra a microintervalli.
Sinfonieorchester des Südwestfunks, Michael Gielen, direction.

A Carlo Scarpa architetto, ai suoi infiniti possibili è opera dell’ultima vertiginosa stagione creativa del compositore veneziano, segnata dall’assoluta libertà formale, da un tessuto musicale fatto di lancinanti frammenti e importantissimi silenzi divarie sfumature, di anticipi e tensioni a quello che ancora mancao a quello che a fatica si ode. Dopo i trent’anni di una splendida stagione creativa, dai contenuti umanissimi e politici, Nono approda all’Unklangbar di Wittgenstein, alla violenza espressiva dell’irresonabile (come può tradursi il neologismo wittgensteiniano). Il compositore, anima autenticamente rivoluzionaria, intesse le sue partiture di pianissimo (sino a sette p!) contro la violenza non solo acustica del quotidiano contemporaneo ma anche contro la violenza di un passato musicale spesso subìto, cerca un “mondo lontanissimo e misterioso […] per sognare vari possibili futuri”. Il lavoro compositivo è sempre più fatto con altri, che sia l’Iperuranio di menti elevate che abitano gli studi, le letture e il lavorìo intellettuale del compositore, che sia fisicamente il lavoro sperimentale fatto con i musicisti interpreti, ormai consustanziale all’idea creativa: “ascoltare nel silenzio gli altri l’altro”. Il suono si carica del senso dell’essere e la sua naturale evidenza, non piegata da ragioni formali, crea una condizione di tensione permanente sentita come l’unica autenticamente umana. Evidentemente non c’è nulla di superfluo in questi luoghi sonori di arrischiata immaginazione. Se già del Canto sospeso erano stati rilevati la concentrazione eloquente e il riserbo, le isole di suono dell’ultima produzione, “infiniti colori-suoni-echi-spazi”, sono le illuminazioni di un mistico. E Nono trova il motto del suo ultimo ciclo di lavori, “caminantes, no hay camino, hay que caminar” a Toledo nel chiostro di un convento francescano del XVIII secolo.
In A Carlo Scarpa risuona l’utopia degli infiniti possibili, in perfetta consonanza col lavoro creativo dell’architetto amico, che parimenti usava dello spazio come elemento compositivo. Una natura aristocraticamente artigianale, il genio per i dettagli tecnologici, la raffinata sensibilità materica e la tensione creativa verso spazi possibili (e impossibili) avvicinano Scarpa a Nono, che nell’opera in memoria dell’amico realizza i suoi frammenti su due sole note mosse da microintervalli di 1/4, 1/8 e 1/16 di tono, sugli aloni e gli “infiniti colori-suoni-echi-spazi” derivati  da una impressionante gamma di dinamiche: “Microintervalli di altezza e di dinamica sono tecnicamente possibili evitando banali approssimazioni ed effetti inquinanti di ottave, articolando tecnica e qualità del suono, vari gradi di sua presenza-pensiero, varie gradualità possibili tante, tutte da poter ascoltare”.
L’orchestra è attentamente pensata: mancano gli oboi e la tuba e sono rafforzati i flauti e i tromboni, il gruppo ascetico delle percussioni (campane, timpani e 7 triangoli di diversa altezza) è come un’orchestra Zhou (Cina 1075-221 a.C.) e gli archi senza secondi violini sono otto per sezione. Ne nasce un’opera ieratica, di spazi cupi e sacri che potrebbero essere occupati da silenziosi e misteriosi rituali.
Non si può tacere il nome di Scelsi parlando di un lavoro sulle variazioni microtonali di due unici suoni, e tutto sommato il nome di Scelsi getta luce sul percorso estremo di Nono legato a tante fascinazioni alchemiche, al confine del non poter dire – un processo che Cacciari, che così spesso ha trovato all’ultimo Nono le
parole per dire, definisce kenotico, di svuotamento. Dunque anche Nono verso una riduzione che apre l’ascolto di tempi e spazi inauditi; il ricercare luoghi sonori abitati da una tensione verso l’infinito avvicina Nono a Scelsi, e a Scarpa, come Scelsi più consapevole dell’Oriente presente in tale percorso. Eppure per Nono, diversamente che per Scelsi, non si tratta di una liberazione dal mondo ma di una liberazione del mondo, dall’imposizione che lo condanna al male dell’insignificanza o alla meccanicità dell’accadere, sognando un futuro concretamente possibile, come gli infiniti di Carlo Scarpa, per “non dire addio alla speranza”.
[Luciana Galliano]

Dox Orkh

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La visione di Xenakis di un concerto per violino: Dox Orkh per violino e 89 strumenti.

Il titolo accosta le parole Orkh (in greco Orchestra) e Dox, che significa strumento ad arco.

L’analisi che segue è tratta da All Music Guide:

The music does proceed in traditional ritornello fashion, with statements by the violin being followed by answers from the orchestra, and so on. Rarely does the soloist play with the full orchestra. Xenakis had by this point written a number of pieces for the violin, both as a solo instrument (Mikka, Mikka “S”) and in a chamber context (Dikhthas, Ikhoor, Tetras, etc.). The solo part, then, is extraordinarily virtuosic, as any good concerto should be, but many of the technical difficulties are peculiar to this composer’s style. After a lengthy hiatus from using his characteristic sliding string glissandi (the solo violin piece, Mikka (1971), is nothing but glissandi!), Xenakis reintroduced the glissando in this piece. Indeed, this style of playing is one of the main features of the solo part in Dox-Orkh. The music proceeds episodically, the sinewy, at times frenetic, lines of the violin trading off with dense orchestral sonorities. Xenakis uses clusters widely, playing off the bright colors of high woodwinds with massive string blocks and aggressive brass sounds. There is what might be thought of as a typical “slow” movement in the middle of this continuous piece. The texture thins, leaving the violin and the horns to unfold a rather plaintive, modal-sounding melody. The melody is also the harmony, a tricky feat achieved by overlapping the instruments and having each sustain its melodic note past the next one. The violin, too, is asked to sustain a note on one string while playing the next note on an adjacent string, holding the first one until the note following. No doubt it is difficult for the violinist to keep fingers from getting tied in knots! The strings fill out a background pad at different points in this section, gradually increasing the activity until the texture changes definitively. As the music builds momentum and density, Xenakis inserts a funny little dance break, with cluster chords being bounced around the orchestra in rhythmic fashion. Not regular rhythms, but it certainly seems so at first hearing. The music winds up, building to a powerful orchestral passage, then dissipates, finishing with grating double-stops in the violin, and soft, slow-moving clusters in the orchestral strings.

The newly obtained freedom of the spirit

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Gubaidulina’s entire piano output belongs to her earlier compositional period and consists of the following works: Chaconne (1962), Piano Sonata (1965), Musical Toys (1968), Toccata-Troncata (1971), Invention (1974) and Piano Concerto “Introitus” (1978). Some of the titles reveal her interest in baroque genres and the influence of J.S. Bach.

The Piano Sonata is dedicated to Henrietta Mirvis, a pianist greatly admired by the composer. The work follows the classical formal structure in 3 movements: Allegro (Sonata form), Adagio, and Allegretto. Four motives (pitch sets) are utilized throughout the entire sonata, which also constitute the cyclical elements upon which the rhetoric of the piece is constructed. Each motive is given a particular name: “spring”, “struggle”, “consolation,” and “faith.”

There are two elements in the primary thematic complex of the first movement: (1) a “swing” theme, characterized by syncopation and dotted rhythms and (2) a chord progression, juxtaposing minor and major seconds over an ostinato pattern in the left hand. The slower secondary theme introduces a melodic element associated with the ostinato element of the previous theme. In the development section, these sets are explored melodically, while the dotted rhythm figure gains even more importance. In the recapitulation, the chord progression of the first thematic complex is brought to the higher registers, preparing the coda based on secondary theme cantabile element, which gradually broadens. The second movement shifts to a different expressive world. A simple ternary form with a cadenza-AB (cadenza) A, the B section represents an acoustic departure as the chromatic figurations in the left hand, originating in section A, are muted. In the cadenza the performer improvises within a framework given by the composer, inviting a deeper exploration of the secrets of sound. It consists of two alternating elements- open-sounding strings, stroke by fingers, with no pitch determination, and muted articulation of the strings in the bass register-separated by rests marked with fermatas. The third movement is constructed of 7 episodes, in which there is a continuous liberation of energy accumulated during the previous movement.

Musical expression in this work is achieved through a variety of means. Rhythm is a very important element in the construction of the work, articulating a distinct rhetoric, as well as in the development of the musical material. Exploration of a wide range of sounds, within the possibilities of the instrument, involving both traditional and nontraditional methods of sound productions are another important mean.

Some examples of the nontraditional sounds produced are a glissando performed with a bamboo stick on the piano pegs against a cluster performed on the keyboard, placing the bamboo stick on vibrating strings, plucking the strings, glissando along the strings using fingernail, touching the strings creating a muted effect.

Two distinct aspects of the sonata-the driving force and the meditative state-can be seen through the architecture of the work as portraying the image of the cross. The first movement is related to the “horizontal” line, which symbolizes human experience while the second movement reflects the “vertical” line, which represents man’s striving for full realization in the Divine. The meeting point of these two lines in music happens at the end of second movement, and that reflects transformation of the human being at crossing this two dimensions. The third movement “celebrates the newly obtained freedom of the spirit”.

[from wikipedia]