4/7/20

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Alexander Scriabin (1872-1915)

Alexander Scriabin was a Russian composer and pianist of the Late Romantic Era who is noted for his synesthesia, experimental uses of harmony in his last decade of composing, as well as his descent into insanity. Some of his most famous works include his piano etudes, and those that were written early in his life resemble closely the works of Frédéric Chopin or Franz Liszt. Incidentally, he joins the list with Sergei Bortkiewicz of composers who I was first introduced to from my brother, who was a big fan of his Etudes, Op. 8, and even learned the final and most well-known of the etudes in that collection (No. XII). That set of etudes includes some of his most romantic-sounding works, while also demonstrating his abilities as a pianist himself with some of the pieces demanding huge reaches and broad leaps in left hand chords, 5 over 3 and 5 over 4 polyrhythms, and fast and technical passages for the right hand.

The piece of Scriabin’s which I selected today is Prométhée, Le Poème du Feu, which is often referred to as “Prometheus,” “The Poem of Fire,” “Symphony No. 5,” “Op. 60,” or any patching together of those fragments. Written for full orchestra, piano, optional choir, and light organ (which I’ll be discussing later), this piece was completed in 1910 (5 years before Scriabin died in 1915) and serves as his last and most experimental large scale work which was completed. The piece is about 20-25 minutes in length, and seems loosely structured around several swells, reaching its highest points in the penultimate swell and the final climax. There is something to be said about the grand ending to the piece, which is sometimes referenced by musicians in the discussion of just how extreme the tradition of romanticism (and German romanticism in particular, even though Scriabin was Russian) became. Scriabin very much falls in the same category of composers with Ludwig van Beethoven, Richard Wagner, and Gustav Mahler who in their own time all pushed the limit for how big an orchestra and how long a piece could be in the name of passion- and drama-induced romanticism. In some recordings of Scriabin’s late orchestral works, the final chords are held for almost half a minute, making the listener feel as if the piece has amounted to one final moment of staring directly into the sun.

It is impossible to talk about Prometheus without addressing the instrument which at the top of the score is labeled “Luce” - the light organ. Alexander Scriabin had a rare condition called synesthesia, which links senses in the brain in unexpected ways. While in some cases these may mean that someone may associate tastes with colors or smells with numbers, a more common variant (and the type that Scriabin had) links colors with musical pitches. A few other composers have had this condition, including (but not limited to) Olivier Messiaen, György Ligeti, and Franz Liszt. It is important to note, however, that the same pitches do not always map to the same colors between people with this type of synesthesia, and in Scriabin’s case pitches which were related by key center (and not by proximity on the piano) had similar colors - C was red, G was orange, D was yellow, A was green, etc. This brings us to the light organ, which was an instrument (in the loosest terms) designed by Preston Millar that connected a keyboard to a large light fixture above the orchestra that faced the audience. In the performance of Prometheus, Scriabin intended that a musician would be able to play the chords in the light organ part and while no notes would be audible, the corresponding color which Scriabin associated would be projected by the fixture or flooded into the concert hall. To Scriabin, this must have united the experience which he had with music in how the aural experience was inseparable from the paintings of colors he saw. While most people who do not have synesthesia will never be able to truly understand this connection, Scriabin’s light organ may be the closest realization of it that a lot of people will experience. Unfortunately, the only recording I could find which includes a light organ (and not some approximation with stage lighting) is one which to me seems less precise in its musical execution - if you’re interested in seeing that, it can be found here.

There is one final element of Prometheus which has to be discussed - the harmonic makeup of the piece. At this point in his life, Alexander Scriabin had abandoned much of romantic harmony and had moved to constructing chords in a way that would later in history be analyzed as set theory. To briefly explain this, consider how common practice period and romantic harmony relied almost completely on triadic harmony with extensions and cromaticism to obscure and create tension. Major and minor chords reside in only a small group of how the 12 notes can be related to each other - meaning that music based on other sets of the 12 notes will sound like a different language from music like Mozart’s and Beethoven’s. Enter: Scriabin’s mystic chord. The mystic chord is a set of pitches (which can be heard as the chord at the very beginning of Prometheus) which fascinated Scriabin with its “otherworldly sound.” I heard an anecdote once that Alexander Scriabin loved the sound of the mystic chord so much that upon hearing it once in concert, he fell out of his chair and started convulsing on the ground in sheer amazement of the sound. Regardless of whether or not it makes you do the same, it is important to consider how that harmonic material (which is the foundation for almost all of the piece) makes the piece sound strange - in fact, I would argue that this piece lives halfway down the road to Messiaen and his Turangalîla-Symphonie. Both of these pieces are not abandoning romantic ideas even though they have moved away from the romantic conception of harmony. To me, my favorite, and perhaps most emotionally fueled moment of the piece comes at 20:50 in the recording linked below (performed by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra as well as the Chicago Symphony Chorus) when the principal trumpet, soaring above the entire orchestra and chorus, crests on a note at the top of its range before diving down a minor 9th. Though it may take more than one listening to appreciate Scriabin’s odd and sometimes crazy romanticism, I urge you (much like how I urged you in the post about Messiaen) to live in the dissonant and foreign soundscape of this piece for the time it takes to appreciate its strange colors.