Benjamin Muir

My first violin sonata I imagine as a major piece in my output, a classic multi- movement work and a real attempt to contribute something lasting to the violin repertoire. Grace Hofer, the recipient and first performer of the sonata, has called it monstrous—and with that assessment I can’t disagree. The music covers an extremely wide range of emotions, often changing directions on a dime, while demanding constant and intense coordination from its performers.

The Sonata’s volatility is perhaps a product of the time of its composition, the summer and fall of 2023. Grace and I had known each other for years and had talked about collaborating on the composition and performance of a new violin piece. On a whim, we had planned to work together at a summer music camp for 14 to 20- year-olds, like ones we had both attended in high school. This seemingly simple job proved an intense commitment: we were far from home, isolated amid only a small circle of coworkers, and responsible for many confused and hormonal teenagers.

Often, we were called on to drive injured students to the hospital and stay at their bedside through the night. I couldn’t help drawing comparisons to a family emergency I was absent for, as if the strange, transient bonds I made with students were forms of atonement. Regardless, the shared vitality and trauma of the summer proved the spark for our long-planned collaboration.

The Muir Sonata, as it has been affectionally dubbed, begins with a lopsided rhythm in the violin—a heartbeat, maybe, or the beeping of a monitor—while the piano presents a repeated motive reminiscent of the dies irae. Explosive, passionate outbursts share the spotlight with cold and distant responses. The second movement transplants the lopsided rhythm into a classic scherzo with virtuosic violin passagework—but despite the high energy, an undercurrent of darkness remains. Finally, the slow and sparse third movement ends the piece in an unexpectedly remote area.