Catch My Breath and Hold It

The Setting:

This piece for solo accordion was written for Arcangelo Pignatelli as part of the Royal Danish Academy of Music’s "The New World" Accordion Festival, with contemporary works from American composers in collaboration with RDAM accordion students, organized by Katie Balch, Hanzhi Wang, and Geir Draugsvoll.

the story:

Our breaths are what keep us alive. They take from the air around us and give back. Usually the phrase “catch my breath” refers to our own selves taking a pause, defined as “to wait and rest for a moment when you have been very active, so that you can begin to breathe more slowly” (Cambridge Dictionary). The saying “hold my breath” literally means stop breathing briefly, and figuratively means waiting on the edge of one’s seat for something, as in “I won’t hold my breath.” But imagine if a breath could be caught and held in your hands…if it was something material, instead of being one with the air. Saying it to someone as opposed to applying it to yourself. Who would you say this to? What would this sensation feel like? How is it let go?

I connect breathing with time; both invisible, intangible yet inescapable, coming and going every moment. This piece is as an expression of breathing patterns, thinking about certain memories based on a graphic provided for the performer involving at times blurry dualities between still vs. moving, spoken vs. wordless, broken vs. healing, forgotten vs. relived, wrong vs. right, deafening vs. nothing, distant vs. suffocating, absent vs. present. The performer inhales and exhales the sound into the audience, with them, as if pushing them away and pulling them back in. But there is also another "audience": people in the performer's memories (especially if playing alone), and the sound qualities that memory would have...the nature of the breath in that memory. Connecting the physical and psychological, the accordion is the brain constantly sponging and absorbing life, with all the ever-oscillating neurological activity molding the mind ranging from emotions to logic. It’s about both the physicality of the body and accordion as well as the mentality fueling it.

Physical breakage and repair are a definitive present moment that turns to past, dictated by real time. Mental breakage and repair, however, are ethereally connected between past and present, cycling back and forth more ambiguously in slow or fast motion, governed by our singular minds’ idiosyncratic perceptions; the eyes and ears through which we see, hear and process the world.

In this piece, there is always a common note bridging the left and right hands, either vertically or horizontally, in harmony or melody, representing this thread between two energies, passing breaths between each other. Often, the chord clusters grow bigger and add to what’s already there, carrying the past to the present to the future, constantly re-contextualizing the accumulation of emotional energy and memories, and playing with all the possible frameworks that could color a chord or note. In theory, to catch one’s breath, one has to meet halfway and pass it. The left and right hands become more than just functional components of the body; they are two living breathing bodies trying to connect with each other. They actively maintain their joint balance amidst sonic fragility that creates a kind of illusion of physical fragility, as if there is a possibility of suddenly falling through a floor, or beneath a high-wire, at any moment.

Cover art: Annie Nikunen