Benjamin Muir

At the midpoint of Sylvia Plath’s novel, The Bell Jar, protagonist Esther Greenwood stands on the roof of a hotel in her bathrobe and throws her clothing into the night air. It’s profoundly dark, beautiful, and unexpected—a subterranean, semiconscious urge to let go of oneself inexplicably made physical.

In the early stages of this piece’s composition, the U.S. Supreme Court struck down the constitutional right to an abortion established in Roe v. Wade. It seemed fitting that I was reading a novel considered to be a feminist classic and a woman’s rite of passage. To me, living in America now feels like that scene in The Bell Jar. Like a chasm is growing under us, opening into somber depths, while things anxiously creep toward a resolution that is always just out of view.

In this country, in this time, writing and playing music can feel almost meaningless. Why even try and make sense of anything, when everything makes no sense? I know those thoughts are counterproductive, that creativity is more important now than ever. But it still feels like the classical world is becoming increasingly irrelevant and obsolete as time ticks forward.

Piece by Piece, then, draws a connection between this social and musical anxiety. The phrases dissolve into whizzing particles, reform into a familiar melody, and dissolve again. Rhythms and harmonies are unsteady and lopsided until they suddenly become regular. The piece ends suddenly, implying a continuation or resolution “out of frame.” But it’s not without sympathy—in fact, the most essential aspects of the music remain its beauty, expression, and lyricism.