TEN ETUDES FOR SOLO CELLO BY SOFIA GUBAIDULINA

by

JULIA BIBER

A dissertation submitted to the Graduate Faculty in Music in partial fulfillment of the

requirements for the degree of Doctor of Musical Arts, The City University of New York

2016

  i
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 This manuscript has been read and accepted for the
Graduate Faculty in Music to satisfy the dissertation
requirement for the degree of Doctor of Musical Arts

________________ ___________________________
Date Philip Ewell
Chair of the Examining Committee

________________ ___________________________
Date Norman Carey
Executive Officer

Philip Ewell, advisor

___________________________

Joseph Straus, first reader

___________________________

Marcy Rosen
____________________________

Suzanne Farrin
_____________________________

Supervisory Committee

THE CITY UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK

  iii
 Abstract

TEN ETUDES FOR SOLO CELLO BY SOFIA GUBAIDULINA

by

Julia Biber

Advisor: Philip Ewell

Sofia Gubaidulina is regarded as one of the most original and highly respected

voices in contemporary music today. Her use of the Fibonacci and its related series to

structure her compositions has become a defining feature of her music and, therefore,

most analysis has focused on pieces that incorporate this method, which she calls

“rhythm of form.” Consequently, works written prior to her adoption of this method have

garnered much less analytical attention. However, in her earlier works––from the late

1960s through the early 80s––Gubaidulina not only explores new sounds and colors, but

also found creative ways to structure these pieces.

This dissertation will focus on the Ten Etudes for Solo Cello (1974), a seriously

neglected piece in the solo cello repertoire. (The published name remains Ten Preludes at

the suggestion of the cellist, Vladimir Tonhka.) Each etude explores multiple or single

elements of cello technique (such as legato, staccato, ricochet or sul ponticello). I will

discuss the various ways Gubaidulina explores and juxtaposes these elements to create

structure and continuity in the work. I use a variety of analytical approaches in my

analysis and include a number of musical and technical suggestions for the performer. I

also include a discussion of the composer’s early life and education and a chapter on the

development of her compositional style.

  iv
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Firstly, I would like to thank my advisor, Prof. Philip Ewell for his guidance,

support, patience and meticulous editorial eye throughout the process of writing this

dissertation. I would also like to thank Professor Joseph N. Straus for his knowledgeable

insight, suggestions and encouragement regarding musical analysis and structure for the

project. My sincerest thanks goes to Professor Marcy Rosen for the many invaluable

things she has taught me about cello playing and musical interpretation in our lessons and

conversations over the years. I would also like to thank Dr. Suzanne Farrin for her

thoughtful editorial recommendations and for being a wonderful chair to work for in the

Hunter College music department.

I am extremely grateful to Sofia Gubaidulina for taking the time to meet with me

in Chicago and answer many of my questions about her music and her life. A special

thanks extends to Claire Chase for putting me in touch with Dr. Laurel Fay, who set up

this meeting and graciously translated for the interview. Further thanks goes to Donna

Doyle for her invaluable guidance and support along the path to this degree, and the

Sibelius and Finale whizzes Simon Prosser and Megan Lavengood for their help with

musical examples. I am deeply grateful to my incredible editor, Dr. Jennifer Griffith for

her insight, thoughtful feedback and editorial mastery.

I would like to thank my parents, Dr. Sharlene Hesse-Biber and Dr. Michael

Biber, and my sister Dr. Sarah Biber for their encouragement and patience throughout the

writing process. I am deeply grateful to my dear friends Maiya Papach, Stacy Roupas,

Holly Sheppard, Natalia Zukerman and Gigi Nicolas for their unwavering support,

  v
understanding and love. This thanks extends to the doggies Max and Zoli, who love me

almost as much as they love their tennis ball. Thanks to Gorilla Coffee in Park Slope,

Brooklyn for providing an ideal, caffeinated work environment staffed by the best

baristas around. I dedicate this dissertation to my grandmother, Helene Stockert, a

guiding force in my life and whom I dearly miss.

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 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Abstract ........................................................................................................................................ iv

Acknowledgements ..........................................................................................................................v

List of Figures, & Examples ........................................................................................................ viii

Preface..............................................................................................................................................x

Introduction ......................................................................................................................................1

Chapter 1: Compositional Style .....................................................................................................11

Chapter 2: Introduction to the Etudes ............................................................................................26

Chapter 3: Etudes 1–5: Analysis and Performance Suggestions ...................................................34

Chapter 4: Etudes 6–10: Analysis and Performance Suggestions .................................................71

Conclusion ...................................................................................................................................100

Bibliography ................................................................................................................................104

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 LIST OF EXAMPLES & FIGURES

Table 1.1: Musical Elements Associated with Each Instrument (from Restagno, 209) ................15

Table 1.2: Kholopova, characteristics ............................................................................................16

Example 3.1: M1 motive, Etude 1, mm.1–4 ..................................................................................35

Example 3.2: Chromatic Ascent, Etude 1, mm. 1–12 ....................................................................35

Example 3.3: Three Versions of C3 Cycle, Etude 1 ......................................................................36

Example 3.4: Initial Statement and Continuation of C3(1), Etude 1, mm. 10–16 .........................36

Example 3.5: Compound Cycle of M1, Etude 1 ............................................................................37

Example 3.6: Chromatic ascent, Etude 1, mm. 21–36 ...................................................................38

Example 3.7: Overlapping instances of M1, Etude 1, mm. 36–44 ................................................39

Example 3.8: Chromatic to cyclical C3(1) and C3(2), Etude 1, mm. 36–45 .................................40

Example 3.9: Intervallic symmetry between phrases, Etude 2 ......................................................45

Example 3.10: Instances of (0347), Etude 2, mm. 16–20 ..............................................................46

Example 3.11: Instances of infiltration between legato and staccato, Etude 2 ..............................47

Example 3.12: Compound cycle highlighting resonance, Etude 2, mm. 36–46 ............................48

Example 3.13: Descent and compression in Section B, Etude 2, mm. 47–58 ...............................50

Example 3.14: Changes of legato characteristics, Etude 2, mm. 52–58 ........................................51

Example 3.15: Shorter distance in staccato passages, Etude 2, mm. 59–66 ..................................52

Table 3.1: Parameter Complex, Etude 2 ........................................................................................54

Example 3.16: Etude 3 ...................................................................................................................59

Example 3.17: Variety of ricochet bow strokes, Etude 4 ..............................................................60

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Example 3.18: Expansion of intervals, Etude 4, mm. 25–35 .........................................................63

Example 3.19: Statements of the motive, Etude 5 .........................................................................65

Table 3.2: C3 interval chart, Etude 5 .............................................................................................66

Example 3.20: Descending chromatic line, Etude 5 ......................................................................66

Example 3.21: Interval expansion of the initial gesture, Etude 5 ..................................................67

Example 3.22: Inverted melodic lines, Etude 5 .............................................................................68

Example 3.23: Beginning and ending comparison, Etude 5 ..........................................................69

Example 3.24: Variety of dynamic changes under sul ponticello, Etude 5 ...................................69

Example 3.25: Quick alternation of sul ponticello and ordinario, Etude 5 ...................................70

Example 4.1: Two types of harmonics, Etude 6, mm. 3 and 19 ....................................................71

Example 4.2: Variety of false harmonics, Etude 6 ........................................................................72

Example 4.3: Quick changes of harmonic types, Etude 6 .............................................................73

Table 4.1: Parameter Complex, Etude 6 ........................................................................................75

Example 4.4: Chromatically descending lines, foreground and background, Etude 8 ..................83

Example 4.5: Ascending chromatic M1b, Etude 8 ........................................................................84

Example 4.6, Chromatic motion in both directions, Etude 8 .........................................................85

Example 4.7, Expansions of intervals, Etude 8 .............................................................................85

Figure 4.1: Twelve-tone matrix of the row P7. Etude 9 ................................................................90

Example 4.8 Twelve-count of rows as they appear in the score ....................................................91

Table 4.2: Chart of the various rows with descriptions, Etude 9 ...................................................92

Table 4.3: Parameter Complex, Etude 9 ........................................................................................94

Example 4.9: Instances of 016, Etude 10 .......................................................................................97

Example 4.10: Instances of 014, Etude 10 .....................................................................................97

  ix
 PREFACE

Despite her recognition as one of the most original and highly respected voices in

contemporary music today, analysis of Sofia Gubaidulina’s work is still in its infancy.

Her music is inextricably linked to her spirituality and mysticism. Religious symbols,

such as crucifixion and resurrection, often serve as subjects for her works, and she

illustrates these symbols through a variety of compositional strategies. Over the span of

her career Gubaidulina has written numerous works featuring the cello and with each

work, she has nurtured and expanded the cello’s unique expressive, dynamic and

symbolic capabilities.

While Canticle of the Sun (1997) and Seven Words (1982) are perhaps the most

frequently performed and analyzed works, Ten Etudes (1974) is the only piece written for

solo cello. Gubaidulina says of analysis of her early work: “It seems to me that my early

period (the 70s) is very difficult for musicologists to talk about. I was searching in areas

that are impossible to describe in words.”1 I will argue, nevertheless, that some of the

seeds for her later compositional ideas can be found in this early work.

Gubaidulina has led a fascinating and colorful life, much of it lived under the

stifling Soviet regime that caused her significant personal and professional hardship. She

has spoken frequently in interviews about the ways in which her childhood and early

musical studies have shaped her as an artist; therefore, I have included a brief biography

of her life spanning her childhood in Kazan to her eventual migration to Germany in

1991. Gubaidulina categorizes her music into three periods, and while significant

structural changes happen with each new period, she does not abandon the principles that
                                                                                                               
1
Vera Lukomsky, “‘The Eucharist in My Fantasy’: Interview with Sofia Gubaidulina,” Tempo 206

  x
came before. Even today Gubaidulina continues to push the limits of timbre and color,

and she remains drawn to unusual instrument combinations in her writing. Most

importantly, her spirituality and religious devotion continue to shape her approach to

composition.

I am honored to have had the opportunity to meet and interview Gubaidulina in

February 2015, in which—through a translator—she graciously answered many of my

questions on the Ten Etudes, as well as on music in general. I include excerpts from this

interview as they apply to the discussion of the etudes in Chapters 2–4. I will approach

Ten Etudes from a historical, analytical and performance-practice perspective using a

variety of approaches, including pitch set, gestural analysis, twelve-tone—as well as

Valentina Kholopova’s expression parameters—where applicable. In doing so, I hope to

illuminate—for the performer—the various ways in which these etudes are organized and

structured. In some cases, I will offer technical and stylistic suggestions for a deeper

understanding of the work and, consequently, a richer and more meaningful performance.

  xi
 INTRODUCTION

Sofia Gubaidulina was born on October 24, 1931, in Christopol, in the former

Tatar Autonomous republic (now the Republic of Tatarstan). The daughter of a Russian

mother and Tatar father, Gubaidulina was steeped in a rich dichotomy of cultures that

would have a profound impact on her life and work. Her mother, Fedosia Elkhova, was a

schoolteacher and her father worked as a geodetic engineer. The name Gubaidulina came

from her father’s Tatar forebears whom she describes as “industrious and religious

people, who, for generations, held the office of imam in their local mosques.”2 Because

of his religion, her father, Asgad Gubaidulin, suffered much persecution in his lifetime.

Yet, despite the family’s rich religious tradition, he was himself an anti-religious

technocrat. Gubaidulina’s family was educated, but poor; however, it was such poverty

that ignited a creative spark in the young Sofia.

It is very strange that something good can come out of poverty. But if
poverty can be overcome, in some strange way, it is transformed into
riches. I remember, for example, that in my childhood, there was nothing
to entertain a child. We were a poor family, imagine, father an engineer . .
. it was out of the question to buy toys of any kind or any books or go to
the country for a rest in the summer, which would have been a change for
the children. It was an absolutely grey, boring life. It was as if there was
no map for a child’s development. So what happened? I remember it all
quite clearly. There was the house, the yard, not a single bush, not a blade
of grass, and I had a longing for greenery, for trees—a real yearning. So
suddenly, the child’s imagination turned to the sky. I sat in that bare yard,
with a rubbish dump in the middle, nothing else for a child’s ideas. I
looked up at the sky, and I began to live up there. The ground disappeared;
you were walking into the sky. This moment is un-repeatable, you’re
walking in the sky. Of course, this all arose from poverty, but it was such
richness.3
                                                                                                               
2
Sofia Gubaidulina, interviewed by Barrie Gavin and Gerard McBurney, “The Fire and the Rose: A
Portrait of Sofia Gubaidulina,” BBC 2, June 10, 1990.
3
Gubaidulina, interview, June 1990.

  1
 The year after her birth, the family moved to the capital city of Kazan, a major

center of commerce and culture at the time. In addition to its Tatar and Russian

population, there were also a number of minority groups that lived in the area, including

Bashkirs, Chuvash, Mari, Armenians, Jews, and Kalmyks. The musical talent of the

Gubaidulins’ youngest child was soon recognized and Sofia was enrolled at the

Children’s Music School, an intensive program for gifted children. Sofia’s parents

enthusiastically supported their daughter’s musical talent, even making the huge financial

sacrifice of purchasing a baby grand piano for the apartment. The delivery of the piano

was, to Sofia, “the most powerful experience of my life”4:

When I started at music school, an instrument appeared in our flat. It

wasn’t an upright piano, but a concert grand. It played an important part—
this piano whose lid you could lift. In purely acoustic terms, it was
heavenly. You could sit underneath and hear unusual sounds. You could
play directly on the strings, or the keyboard. There were so many
possibilities. And then at music school, the teacher gave me some little
pieces to learn. They were in two octaves, very poor compared to the
possibilities of the instrument. So, once again, out of poverty, I developed
the wish to compose. If humanity was so barren, I would start composing
myself.5

Religion in Sofia’s household, and in the Soviet Union, generally, was not

tolerated at that time. Despite this, she discovered a profound connection to spirituality at

an early age. On a family trip to Nizhny Usslon, a small village in the hills of the Volga, a

young Sofia had a moment of epiphany:

                                                                                                               
4
Michael Kurtz, Sofia Gubaidulina: A Biography, trans. Christoph K. Lohmann (Bloomington, IN: Indiana
University Press, 2007), 13. This biography is one of the few that exist on the composer and the only one
translated into English, therefore, much of the general biographical information found in this chapter was
ascertained from this source. There is also a biography in Italian by Enzo Restagno, ed., Gubajdulina
(Torino: Edizioni di Torino, 1991), which consists of various interviews conducted by Restagno as well as
analyses by Valentina Kholopova of specific compositions by Gubaidulina. Some of these analyses will be
cited later in the chapter. Finally, there exists a quite good biography in Russian by Valentina Kholopova:
See Kholopova, Sofiia Gubaĭdulina: Monografiia (Sofia Gubaidulina: A Monograph), 3rd ed. (Moscow:
Kompozitor, 2011).
5
Gubaidulina, interview, June 1990.

  2
 I remember when I was 5, we were staying in a village with a religious
woman and she had an icon of Jesus Christ in the corner. And I recognized
him . . . I recognized God. I recognized Christ. I was only five,
inexperienced and I showed my feelings. My parents were frightened I
was religious. From then on, I understood it was forbidden . . . and I hid
my psychological experiences from grown-ups. But this religious
experience lived within me.6

Gubaidulina was enrolled as a piano student at the Kazan Music Gymnasium from

1946 to 1949, where her interest in composition was soon discovered and encouraged by

her teacher, Maria Pyatniskaya. Her first lesson in composing began as a teenager with

Nazib Zhiganov. She refers to Zhiganov as “my first musical love affair.”7 Zhingahov

encouraged his students to take an interest in their Tatar heritage and its folk music, and

to incorporate it into their compositions. Gubaidulina wrote a number of folk-inspired

works, yet even at that early age she regarded herself as “a universal human being.”8

Furthermore, she says, “I was not deeply introspective and thought that [Tatar]

pentatonics would constrain me.”9

In fact, Gubaidulina has said she feels rooted in a multitude of cultures, not just

the ones she was born into:

I feel I’m a mixture not just of two bloods, but of four. On my father’s
side, I am a Tartar. And on my mother’s side, I am Slavic. But a large role
was played in my life by the director of the music school. I took him as a
second father—this is my Jewish blood. My most important teachers were
Jews. And my spiritual nourishment came from German culture: Goethe,
Hegel, Novalis, Bach, Webern, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven.10

Gubaidulina continued her studies at the Kazan Conservatory, from 1949–1954,

as a piano student; she also further broadened her musicianship with the study of

                                                                                                               
6
Gubaidulina, interview, June 1990.
7
Kurtz, 18.
8
Kurtz, 19.
9
Kurtz, 19.
10
Gubaidulina, interview, June 1990.

  3
harmony and orchestration. Only in her third year there did she enroll in a composition

elective course with Albert Leman, a pianist and composer at the school. Her abundant

talent and love of performing provided a meaningful creative outlet for her, yet she was

conflicted about which of two musical paths to take; composer or pianist. Despite

teacher’s and colleague’s assurance that she could do both she insisted, “that was not

possible for me. When I concentrated on piano, it sapped the energy I needed for

composition. Also, because my training in both was not yet complete, I had to choose

between these two paths.”11

Gubaidulina was enrolled as both a piano and composition student when she

entered the Moscow Conservatory in 1954, yet by the end of her third year, she decided

to focus completely on composition. Her main teachers were Nikolai Peiko and later

Vassarion Shebalin. Gubaidulina has talked extensively about the strong influence of the

great German composers on her writing, Bach and Webern, in particular:

First I studied all the standard technical forms . . . I was especially

interested in the strict style of the 16th century and was very taken with
the composers of that time. But I actually began with the German classics
that my teacher indicated I should study: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven,
Bach. During my whole life, Bach has been central to my work. After that
I began to go through all the different styles in music, paying particular
attention to the Russian school. But when I was 19 or 20, I was completely
taken with Wagner. I was also interested in the Second Viennese School,
and then Shostakovich in the Russian school, and subsequently the
composers from my own generation. When I look back on my path in
music, the names of Bach and Webern lie at the center.12

Gubaidulina, like most young Soviet composers at the time, revered Dmitri

Shostakovich. She says, “I met Shostakovich on several occasions and hung onto his

                                                                                                               
11
Kurtz, 27.
12
Anders Beyer, “Sofia Gubaidulina: Into the Labyrinth of the Soul,” in The Voice of Music: Conversations
with Composers of our Time (Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2000), 51.

  4
every word”13 and “it was his psychological makeup that attracted me. When I now look

back to that time, it is clear to me that I could not have lived or breathed without

Shostakovich––he was that important for me.”14 Michael Kurtz describes Shostakovich

as “a revered father figure for a whole generation of composers and musicians. . . . Many

hundreds of students showed him their works and asked for his counsel and help during

the last twenty years of his life. In the West, people may be respectful and admiring of

the arts, but in Russia, especially Moscow, illustrious artists command admiration and

fervor bordering on religious devotion.”15

It was Gubaidulina’s teacher Peiko who arranged her first meeting with

Shostakovich. She went to his apartment to play one of her symphonies on the piano. She

recalls:

He listened to it and made some remarks, generally praising the music.

But what struck me most was his parting phrase: “Be yourself. Don’t be
afraid to be yourself. My wish for you is that you should continue on your
own, incorrect way.” One phrase said to a young person at the right
moment can affect the rest of his or her life. I am indefinitely grateful to
Shostakovich for those words. I needed them at that moment and felt
fortified by them to such an extent that I feared nothing, and failure or
criticism just ran off my back, and I was indeed able to pursue my own
path.16

Gubaidulina graduated from the Moscow Conservatory with the highest grade on

her final examinations and was accepted as a graduate student there under Vissarion

Shebalin. Yet this honor was not without controversy behind the scenes. Many of the

other professors on the State Examination Committee found her work unacceptable, as it

                                                                                                               
13
Kurtz, 44.
14
Kurtz, 44.
15
Kurtz, 44.
16
Kurtz, 45.

  5
strayed “too far” from the ideological parameters of social realism.17 In their discussions

of her work, it was Shostakovich who came vigorously to her defense. Her symphony,

along with the other successful diploma works by graduates, was later performed by the

Moscow Philharmonic orchestra.

In a mixed review of this concert, in the August 1959 issue of Sovietskaia muzyka,

Mikhail Chulaki described Gubaidulina’s symphony:

Obviously the young composer is now engaged in seeking for herself new
means of musical expression, and in the process betraying a certain
neglect of melodic possibilities. That is a pity, especially since the
composer shows absolutely no lack of melodic gift. In the symphony, for
example, the melodious lyricism of the principal theme, in the character of
a pastorale, is captivating. However, it soon disperses in “generalized
formulas of melodic motion” and returns again only at the very end in its
enchanting original form.18

Gubaidulina’s post-graduate years were full of experimentation and change. She

began to distance herself from the influences of her teachers in order to forge her own

unique path. She experimented with electronic instruments, twelve-tone composition, and

film scoring (which helped to pay the bills). She also began to form relationships with

performers, such as the percussionist Mark Pekarsky and the bassist, Boris Artemiev. At

the time, it was not easy to find musicians who would perform her unorthodox pieces for

little or no money. With these two dedicated players, she began to experiment with new

sounds and extended techniques. With Artemiev she explored string techniques such as

col legno (playing with the wood of the bow) and ricochet (bouncing the bow).

                                                                                                               
17
Under Stalin, the Soviet government sought to maintain bureaucratic control in all fields of art. For
music, this meant composers were required to strongly incorporate patriotic and folkloric elements into
their works that were simple and accessible to the “masses.” Any deviation from this was forbidden and
punishable under law.
18
Kurtz, 46.

  6
 Yet, finding her own voice was not without controversy. Access to any Western

influences had to be done in secret. In January of 1974, Gubaidulina was visited by the

KGB, which came to search her apartment for any sign of dissident material. Luckily, she

had prepared for such a visit and had dispersed any incriminating material. However, the

prospect of being arrested was a constant threat to Gubaidulina and her colleagues.

Another encounter with the KGB was even more disturbing. Kurtz describes this

incident:

One evening, when Sofia stepped into the elevator, she encountered a
strange man. On the seventh floor he blocked her exit, and the two rode up
and down together. “A man perhaps twenty-five years old.” She recalled
later, “with cold evil eyes. He grabbed my throat and slowly squeezed. My
thoughts were racing: it’s all over now—too bad I can’t write my bassoon
concerto anymore—I’m not afraid of death but violence. And then I told
him: ‘Why so slowly?’ That may have bothered him, but I was able to
trick him into leaving me alone.19

Gubaidulina’s work—as well as the work of many of her fellow composers

including Viacheslav Artyomov, Alfred Schnittke, and Edison Denisov—was

continuously censored and forbidden from being performed. Furthermore, in 1979, at the

meeting of the All-Union Congress of the Composers Union, Gubaidulina and six other

composers (Elena Firsova, Dmitri Smirnov, Alexander Knaifel, Victor Suslin, Viacheslav

Artyomov and Edison Denison) were blacklisted. They were disrespectfully referred to as

the “Khrennikov Seven” and excerpts of the speech by Tikhon Khrennikov at the

Congress were published in several important newspapers. The smear campaign had the

desired effect and artistic life became even more difficult for all of these composers.

Yet, the hostility of their environment also helped forge even stronger friendships

among some of the composers. In 1975, Gubaidulina, Suslin, and Artyomov formed an

                                                                                                               
19
Kurtz, 109.

  7
improvisational group called Astraea. For her part, Gubaidulina already had a great

fascination with percussion instruments. She explains:

The sound nature of percussion is very complex and irrational. For

example, the sound and reverberation of kettledrums contain so many
“inside-the-sound” events that one is amazed at their mysticism . . . or
bells, that have a non-linear spectrum: so much happens after they have
been struck! Their reverberation has an extremely complicated inner life.20

Artyomov, a drummer, had taken a number of trips to Central Asia and returned

each time with variety of new folk instruments. Over the years he had filled his studio

apartment with a large collection. While the improvisation sessions began casually, they

gradually became more deliberate and organized. Kurtz says: “They were inspired by the

natural spontaneity of folk musicians, but they wanted to go beyond mere imitation or re-

creation of musical folk traditions.”21 Together, they explored the complexity and endless

possibilities of sound. The experiences in this group had a profound impact on

Gubaidulina’s composition style and on her use of a wide variety of improvisational

elements in many works.

Eastern instruments, in general, were of great interest to Gubaidulina. She

recounts:

I discovered that playing Eastern instruments allows you to understand

more about yourself. And this is the method of using sound to concentrate
the mind, used in the East. This experience of being submerged in the
center of the sound has had great significance for me. I believe that for a
composer, the meditational attitude to sound is important. Eastern people
possess it and it is, perhaps, within the instruments.22

In 1981, with Victor Suslin’s emigration to West Germany, Astraea was

disbanded. Gubaidulina continued to support herself primarily through state-approved

                                                                                                               
20
Vera Lukomsky, “‘The Eucharist in my Fantasy’: Interview with Sofia Gubaudulina,” Tempo 206
(October 1998): 31.
21
Kurtz, 120.
22
Gubaidulina, interview, June 1990.

  8
and funded film music. Yet, despite the stifling restrictions on artistic freedoms, the

government rewarded and provided economic security to those artists and composers

whose work aligned with government rules. This support came in the form of grants,

commissions, subsidized trips abroad, and two months a year in artist colonies. However,

many artists like Gubaidulina continued to pursue their secret artistic lives. Gubaidulina

refers to this as “our real life.”23

Therefore, the onset of perestroika in the late 1980s came as a mixed blessing, as

much of the state funding disappeared. Gubaidulina recalls, “In Russia we no longer have

to endure ideological restrictions, but censorship for material reasons. That’s the sad

destiny of this country.”24

One of the major turning points in her career was her chance encounter with

Gidon Kremer in a taxicab. Gerard McBurney describes the encounter:

Probably in the winter of 1977–78 . . . Gubaidulina and Gidon Kremer

happened to share a taxi after a concert. It may have been after a
performance at Grigory Frid’s Moscow Youth Musical Club when the
violinist, just on the verge of gaining worldwide renown, said to the
composer: “Wouldn’t you like to write a violin concerto?”

While Kremer soon forgot his question to Gubaidulina, she took it very seriously,

as she was a great admirer of Kremer’s artistry. She subsequently attended as many

performances of his as she could to get a sense of his unique musical aesthetic. After

much struggle with government authorities, her concerto, Offertorium, had its premiere,

followed by multiple performances with renowned orchestras around the world

(including Berlin, Boston, Montreal and Sweden), with Kremer as the soloist. These

                                                                                                               
23
David Drew, Dmitri Smirnov, and Viktor Suslin, “Herschkowitz Encountered,” Tempo 173 (June 1990),
40.
24
Janice Ellen Hamer, “Sofia Gubaidulina’s Compositional Strategies in the String Trio (1988) and Other
Works” (PhD diss., City University of New York, 1994), 11.

  9
concerts marked the beginning of her international recognition and success abroad. In

1984 she was allowed to travel to the West for the first time to hear Offertorium played at

the Helsinki Festival. By 1986, with travel restrictions finally lifted, she embarked on a

busy schedule of traveling to various foreign countries to hear her works performed.

In the fall of 1990, the political upheaval and instability in Soviet Russia had

created an atmosphere of chaos and danger. By January, 1991, Gubaidulina had reached

her breaking point. “It really got to me,” she said, “and I was unable to write music. It

was an either-or proposition for me: either leave Moscow or death—that is, the death of

my work and with that the death of my existence.”25 With the help of friends and allies,

Sofia left Moscow with two suitcases, headed for a new start in Germany. The sale of

many of her manuscripts to the Paul Sacher Foundation allowed her to buy a house of her

own, next door to her close friend Victor Suslin in Appel, near Hamburg. She has lived

there ever since, building on her international success with many more acclaimed

compositions and traveling to hear her music all over the world.

                                                                                                               
25
Kurtz, 216.

  10
 CHAPTER 1:

COMPOSITIONAL STYLE

Gubaidulina has said that all of her mature works can be classified into one of

three style periods. Yet, while each period represents a significant shift in compositional

approach, they all share some overriding themes. The most important of these is a

prevailing sense of spirituality, religiosity, and mysticism. She is often preoccupied with

religious musical symbols, such as the cross, crucifixion, and the resurrection, which all

appear frequently in her work. She has describe her artistic connection to religion as

follows:

I understand the word “religion” in its direct meaning: as re-ligio (re-

legato), that is a restoration of legato between me (my soul) and God. By
means of my religious activity I restore this interrupted connection. Life
interrupts this connection: it leads me away, into different troubles, and
God leaves me at these times . . . . This is unbearable pain: by creating,
through our art, we strive to restore this legato.26

Gubaidulina has also clarified that the religiosity of her music is not a literal

interpretation of church doctrine. She says of her pieces, “they are neither Catholic nor

Russian Orthodox; they are outside the church liturgy. I mean they are conceptually, not

strictly, orthodox: they are my fantasy. Actually all my works are religious. As I

understand it, I’ve never written non-religious pieces.”27

Her involvement with Astraea, and her hands-on connection to a variety of folk

instruments, no doubt had an influence on Gubaidulina’s preoccupation with sound and

colors, especially in her early period. In her search for unusual timbres on traditional

instruments, she often incorporates the use of extended techniques. In Seven Words,

                                                                                                               
26
Lukomsky, 33.
27
Lukomsky, 31.

  11
dedicated to Vladimir Tonkha, the cellist is asked to play on the opposite side of the

bridge. In many of her pieces for winds, multiphonics, vocalization, and other unusual

requests are made of the performer. She has also written a number of pieces specifically

for uncommon instruments.

A friendship with the bayan player Frederic Lips led to a few works, such as De

Profundis (1978), for the instrument. Of the bayan, she has commented, “Do you know

why I love this monster so much? Because it breathes.”28 In collaboration with Lips,

Gubaidulina revealed new techniques and sounds possibilities on the instrument, such as

tonal glissando. Her curiosity about the instrument was quite notable to Lips and he later

commented:

I was astonished how pedantically she asked about all the details, how
meticulously she probed every detail which seemed of little importance to
us bayan players. She was striving, one can say, to penetrate under the
hide of this monster (as she subsequently called the bayan) and to get to
know it from the inside . . . . I was enchanted not only with the music, but
also how well she used the reeds of the bayan, which showed the acoustic
potential of the instrument in a fresh new way.29

Gubaidulina considers her first mature work to be Five Etudes (1965) for harp,

double bass, and percussion. This first period spans roughly from 1965 to the 1980s,

characterized by this search for new timbres and unusual instrument combinations. She

says:

In the 1970s, I was interested in such things as interval and timbre

concepts . . . . Also, I experimented with all kinds of non-traditional
methods of sound production with different instruments. Furthermore, it
seems to me that my early period is very difficult for musicologists to talk
about. I was searching in areas that are impossible to describe in words.30

                                                                                                               
28
Kurtz, 134.
29
Kurtz, 134.
30
Lukomsky, 34.

  12
 Gubaidulina also makes considerable use of uncommon ensemble groupings,

placing unexpected instruments in soloistic roles. Some examples include her popular

concerto for bassoon and low strings (1975), Pantomime, for double bass and piano

(1966), Rumore e silenzio, for percussion and harpsichord (1974), and Lamento, for tuba

and piano (1977). In this early period, the search for new sounds and timbre trumps the

need for a strict structure. However, some of these earlier works are loosely based on

sonata and concerto forms. Furthermore, Gubaidulina finds cohesion by assigning each

instrument a symbolic role. Each instrumental “personality” plays a unique part in the

musical drama. For instance, in the concerto for bassoon and low strings, she describes

the role of soloist versus orchestra: “The concerto for Bassoon and low strings is very

theatrical. The bassoon represents a lyric hero; the ‘low strings’ personify a ‘low’ and

aggressive crowd, which destroys the hero. Their pizzicato and col legno sound like

‘pinching’ and ‘beating.’”31

For Gubaidulina, the formal concept of concerto, in general, has dramatically

shifted and transformed in the 20th century, and rightly so. She says:

In the 20th century, as in the past, the combination of a soloist and

orchestra is attractive to composers. The concept of the concerto, however,
has changed drastically since the 19th century. In particular, the concept of
a hero (personified by the soloist) is now completely different. The soloist
is no longer a hero in the same sense as in the classical and romantic
concertos. At that time, the hero was victorious: an outstanding individual,
a winner in unequal competition. The main presumption was that the hero
knows the absolute truth, knows where to lead the crowd. Accordingly, the
typical musical concept was the opposition of the soloist and the orchestra,
which represented such dramatic oppositions as a hero and a crowd, a hero
and an army, an orator and an audience. In the 20th century these concepts
have become irrelevant and anachronistic, as has the concept of the victor.
In the 20th century the situation is quite different: the hero is disappointed
in everything, nobody knows what the truth is. And contemporary

                                                                                                               
31
Lukomsky, 30.

  13
 composers need to search for new concepts, for new interpretations of
soloist-orchestra relations. I too am searching.32

Her piano concerto Introitus (1978) is another example of an atypical concerto

format. It is based on the four changing texts of the Proper of the Catholic Mass: Introit,

Offertory, Gradual, and Communion. While the form follows some elements of a typical

concerto, Gubaidulina once again finds a completely different role for soloist and

orchestra. She describes the work as follows:

This is unlike a typical concerto. One could say it is not a concerto at all.
The piano part is purely meditative, completely deprived of virtuosity.
Everything is meant to sound pianissimo; the pianist listens to an
extremely long major tenth, trying to enter into the depth of it. I do not
want either virtuosic or assertive passages; I do not want loud chords. My
soloist penetrates into the depth of the sound; he/she listens and invites all
the others to listen, too.33

In addition to assigning general instrumental “personalities” in her works,

Gubaidulina also designates very specific symbolic meaning, not only to these individual

instruments but also to the result of their interactions. In Croce (1979), for organ and

cello, dedicated to Vladimir Tonkha, is a notable example of this. Valentina Kholopova, a

good friend and colleague of the composer, has analyzed many of Gubaidulina’s works.

Of this piece, she says:

In Croce involves, conceptually, the entrusting of specific symbolism to

certain musical elements, chief among which is the symbol of the register.
As Sofia Gubaidulina says, “the common usage of musical instruments,
according to which a high, a medium and a low register is used, comes to
be utilized in a way which forms a bridge of registral crossroads between
the two instruments (organ and cello) which one perceives inwardly as
signifying a variety of things: not only as the geometry of the cross, but
also as a symbol of the cross.34

                                                                                                               
32
Lukomsky, 29.
33
Lukomsky, 30.
34
Enzo Restagno, ed., Gubajdulina (Torino: Edizioni di Torino, 1991), 207, as translated by Fay Damaris
Neary, “Symbolic Structures in the Music of Sofia Gubaidulina” (DMA diss., Ohio State University, 1999).

  14
 Kholopova points out that each instrument “constitute[s] two dramaturgically-

opposite poles.”35 In essence, these two poles represent two distinctly different characters

that, through their interactions, work to create a sonic representation of the cross. In the

first section of the piece, each instrument maintains its own unique set of musical

elements. She identifies these as shown in Figure 1.

Table 1.1: Musical Elements Associated with Each Instrument (from Restagno,
209)

Organ: Cello:

High register Low register

Diatonic, major Microchromatic

Legato, melody Detached

Continuous Fragmented

By assigning each instrument a unique set of musical characteristics in the first

part of the piece, Gubaidulina solidifies the original role of each “character.” This has

powerfully effective consequences for the listener once these roles begin to exchange. By

measure 48, the characteristics of each instrument have almost completely transformed,

united only by a shared continuous texture.

                                                                                                               
35
Restagno, 209.

  15
 Table 1.2: Kholopova, characteristics36

Cello: Organ:

High register Low register

Diatonic, major Cluster

Smooth melody Sonority after the event

of turning off instrument
Continuity Continuity

Of this piece, Gubaidulina has said:

In [this] particular combination, I imagined the organ as a mighty spirit

that sometimes descends to earth to vent its wrath . . . . The cello on the
other hand, with its sensitively responsive strings is a completely human
spirit. The contrast between these two opposite natures is resolved
spontaneously in the symbol of the cross.37

Therefore, the instruments themselves not only represent specific characters playing

specific roles, but their individual or unique sonorities and their subsequent interactions

both create the formal structure of the piece. Furthermore, the juxtaposition of the earthly

versus the heavenly, light versus dark, and the striving for reconciliation between the two,

has been a constant theme in Gubaidulina’s music throughout her life.

Gubaidulina views performers and their unique personalities as directly connected

to the work and, in the act of performing, as not only the executers of the notes on the

page, but also directly linked to a composition’s spiritual life. She says: “The artist is like

a victim. The strength of this devotion to sound is so great . . . that it turns the sound into

                                                                                                               
36
Restagno, 210
37
Kurtz, 140.

  16
a religious act. This artistic phenomenon gives a composer the right to create something

based on this quality.”38

In addition to Frederik Lips, Gubaidulina has been fortunate to have a number of

devoted and inspired performers in her life. Pekarsky, her percussionist and close friend,

was the inspiration for a number of percussion works, including Misterioso (1977) for

seven percussionists, and Jubilato (1979), for four percussionists. She says: “I first met

Mark Pekarsky when we were both students. He asked me to write something. His way of

producing sound––touching the membrane of the instruments was the inspiration for the

shape of the composition.”

Another important relationship has been with the cellist Vladimir Tonkha.

Gubaidulina has dedicated a number of works to him, all directly inspired by the way he

produces and connects to sound. She says, “When [Tonkha] produces these scintillating

chords, he experiences them as a mystical act. He told me so himself. Something happens

which seems acoustically impossible.”39 These important relationships with performers

not only influenced the works she decided to write but, through the fruits of the

collaboration, gave her a deeper understanding of the character of each instrument.

Also significant in Gubaidulina’s music is the symbolic nature of the instrument

itself, an idea that permeates much of her work, including pieces written in this early

period. Seven Words (1982) for bayan, cello, and strings, is a notable example of this.

Instruments can, by the nature of their specific shape and character, imply a certain

symbolism. Gubaidulina talks about the cello in particular:

I like very much the idea of instrumental symbolism, when the instrument
itself, its nature and individuality, hints at or implies a certain meaning.
                                                                                                               
38
Gubaidulina, interview, June 1990.
39
Gubaidulina, interview, June 1990.

  17
 The word “symbol” means “synthesis, or fusion of meanings.” I wanted to
find the idea of the cross in the instruments themselves. The first thing that
came to mind, obviously, was the “crucifixion” of a string. This idea is
employed throughout the entire composition, from the very beginning.
The first movement is the crucifixion of the A string: it is crucified by
means of glissandos. The sound of the open A string is “cut off” by the
glissando from Bb to G#, which the cellist performs on the neighboring D
string. In other movements all the other cello strings undergo
“crucifixion.”40

Another depiction of crucifixion occurs in the final movement of the piece, where,

“the cellist ‘crucifies’ the string by means of the bow, which gradually moves closer and

closer to the bridge. The sound becomes more and more unpleasant, expressive and eerie.

And then-an eerie shout on the bridge! Then a shout as if it were jumping away. The bow

moves toward the bridge-and steps over this border! That is, the cello itself becomes the

cross, a place of crucifixion.”41

Yet the instrument alone does not make this connection to crucifixion possible;

the gesture of the performer allows this phenomenon to occur. In fact it is the synthesis of

composer, performer, instrument and gesture, collectively, that creates the musical

meaning.

Gestural analysis of 20th-century music has been explored by a number of

musicologists. Michael Berry, in “The importance of Bodily Gesture in Sofia

Gubaidulina’s Music for Low Strings,” has argued that:

Instrumental music in the 20th century has seen an increase in the

importance of the body in performance. Many works incorporate (either
directly or indirectly) an element of theatricality in additional to the purely
sonic content. Sofia Gubaidulina is one of many composers whose music
features an increased attention to the body. Some of her works require
spatial separation of performing forces; others require interaction between

                                                                                                               
40
Vera Lukomsky, “Sofia Gubaidulina: ‘My Desire Is Always to Rebel, to Swim against the Stream!’”
Perspectives of New Music 36 (1998): 20.
41
Lukomsky, “My Desire is Always to Rebel,” 20.

  18
 live music and recorded sound. Both techniques rely on the audience’s
visual inspection of the performance arena.42

Berry differentiates between two basic gestural forms: practical and expressive. A

practical gesture is one that is involved in the actual making of sound (such as natural

movement of the bow or placing the fingers of the left hand); an expressive gesture is

meant to convey something extra-musical, not necessary to basic sound production on the

instrument.

Gubaidulina was also interested in intervallic ideas in this early period, reflected

in her first two string quartets (1971, 1987) and her cello concerto Detto-2 (1972). In

these she makes use of various techniques, such as wedge expansion, in which pitches in

the piece gradually radiate outward from a single tone. She also makes extensive use of

the process of gap-and-fill, in which an interval is established and subsequently filled in

chromatically, as she does quite often in the Ten Etudes.

In the 1980s, Gubaidulina began to shift her focus from primarily elements of

timbre and instrumentation to what she calls “the rhythm of form.” She observes:

[T]he problem is that the 20th century has moved from atonality and
serialism to sonorism. As a consequence, our musical material, like our
world, became extremely rich and over-complicated. Besides traditional
musical sonorities, it includes noises, whispering, conversations, shouts,
moans, sighs, and electronic sounds. But in my opinion, art does not need
so much richness. There was a period in my life where I was actively
involved in a search for new timbres, new textures, new types of
articulation. Now I am calmer about it. My main concern is to cure the
excessiveness of musical material by the method of time structuring.43

This is not to say that Gubaidulina became disinterested in timbre and color;

rather, she was searching for a better way to organize the rich sonorous material of her

                                                                                                               
42
Michael Berry, “The Importance of Bodily Gesture in Sofia Gubaidulina’s Music for Low Strings,”
Music Theory Online 15, no. 5 (October 2009), paragraph 1.
43
Lukomsky, “The Eucharist in My Fantasy,” 28.

  19
“fantasy” on a deeper level. Inspired by the theorist Pyotr Meschaninov, Gubaidulina

became attracted to the idea of rhythm as being the fundamental element and organizing

principle in her music.44

Gubaidulina has described the development of music as being similar to a tree; its

roots, trunk, and leaves create an organic progression of transformation. And three trees

represent each era of music history: The roots represent the idea, the trunk represents the

realization of the idea, and the branches or fruit are the musical transfiguration of those

ideas. The first tree represents the mostly linear vocal music that existed before the 17th

century. The second tree represents mostly homophonic music of the classical and

romantic eras, and the third tree represents music of the 20th century. She explained these

ideas to McBurney in the 1990 documentary.

On the first tree, the roots represent a vocal line or melody, the rhythm emerges as

the trunk because, “in essence, the rhythm of the word defined the form,”45 and finally

the leaves sprouting from the trunk signify the suggestion of harmony. As in nature, those

leaves fall to the ground, laying the seeds for a new tree.

On this second tree, harmony forms the roots. Stemming from this “harmonic

essence,” the trunk then represents the melody or theme and its development. The leaves

represent rhythm. Once again, the leaves of the second tree fall to the ground to form the

roots of the third tree. Here the roots represent rhythm, the trunk represents “everything

vertical to do with pitch.” Finally, the leaves represent melody.

This revelation of the idea that the foundation of 20th-century music is rhythm led

Gubaidulina to the natural elegance of the Fibonacci series. The Fibonacci series, or the

                                                                                                               
44
Kurtz, 84–86.
45
Gubaidulina, interview, June 1990.

  20
progression of numbers (1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21. . .) in which each number after “1” is the

sum of the previous two numbers, was named after Leonardo of Pisa (also known as

Fibonacci; 1180–1228). After traveling extensively in the Middle East, Fibonacci came

into contact with many works of mathematics in the Arabic world. He first wrote about

the series and its implications in his book, Liber Abaci (1202). In it he posed a now

famous mathematical problem based on the reproduction patterns of rabbits. Eduard

Lucas, a 19th-century number theorist, was the first to use the term “Fibonacci

Sequence.” Part of Gubaidulina’s fascination with the Fibonacci Series was its intrinsic

relationship to the Golden Ratio (also known as the Golden Section). The ratio of any two

adjacent numbers in the Fibonacci Series is equivalent to the golden ratio (0.618).

Gubaidulina has commented:

The ratio of parts in the Golden section is not only a rule of great
importance in architecture (ancient Greeks proportioned their temples in
this way); it is a principle organizing all organic life . . . . The asymmetry
between any two numbers from the Fibonacci series is a perfect
asymmetry.46

Gubaidulina has said, “art has to have limits. It cannot live with total freedom.”47

In these numbers, she found a way to root the elements of her “fantasy” within a

mathematical structure that seemingly follows the rules of nature. To Gubaidulina,

numbers themselves contain an innate mysticism. Historically, certain numbers and

sequences have had great significance for artists and composers. Gubaidulina has often

expressed her deep admiration of J. S. Bach, in part because she is convinced that he too

structured some of his works on number sequences. To Gubaidulina, these numerical

                                                                                                               
46
Lukomsky, “The Eucharist in My Fantasy,” 34.
47
Ivan Moody, “‘The Space of the Soul’: An Interview with Sofia Gubaidulina,” Tempo 66 (2012): 33.

  21
relationships “reflect his deepest and most personal relation to God.”48 For instance, in

her own analysis of the last chorale written by Bach, “Vor deinen Thron tret ich hiermit”

(I step Before Thy Throne, O Lord), she discovered that:

[H]e uses “his own” numbers 41, 14, 23. Scholars of Bach’s music know
that each of these numbers represents his name, like his signature. For
example, the number 41 means “Johann Sebastian Bach”; it is the sum of
all the letters constituting his name. Bach transferred letters of the alphabet
into numbers and added them together. The number 14 means “Bach”; the
number 23 means “J. S. Bach.” As far as I remember, 37 means “Jesus
Christ”; 73 means “Death of Christ.” In his last chorale Bach used all of
these symbolic numbers. Every single counterpoint contains one of the
“Bach” numbers (41, 14, or 23). Their usage is so beautiful that one might
conclude that, addressing God in this chorale, Bach meant: “Look, God: I,
Johann Sebastian Bach, step before thy throne.”49

Gubaidulina explains that the “rhythm of form” is achieved when different

sections of a work are proportionally related to each other on both a large and small scale.

She notes that:

I like this system because it does not deprive me of my freedom, does not
limit my fantasy . . . . Freedom is the most important thing for me,
particularly the freedom to realize myself. I hear, and my spontaneous
hearing as most precious to me. But what I hear is my subconscious. There
not only good things, but evil things, too! The subconscious is a terrifying
abyss: there is both light and darkness. And when I take things out of
there—if I have reached the depths of the subconscious and heard its
pulse, its vibration, I have no right to expose them to people in their pure
form because they are fearful! I must elucidate them, elucidate by means
of structural work. And I choose rhythm in the broad sense, in order to
clarify my subconscious and not damage its essence. I like building a
ration of spontaneousness and conscious self-limitation; it attracts me
most of all in my creative work.50

For Gubaidulina, great art comes from this balance of the intellectual and the

intuitive and cannot exist without both. Furthermore:

                                                                                                               
48
Lukomsky, “My Desire is Always to Rebel,” 17.
49
Lukomsky, “My Desire is Always to Rebel,” 17–18.
50
Lukomsky, “Hearing the Subconscious,” 30.

  22
 It is impossible to touch the intuitive work, which, of course, is the most
important component in the composer’s creative work. It distinguishes the
composer from the scientist, the scholar. We possess the unique ability to
enter into the subconscious, to pull something from there, and to reveal it.
If it were only intellectual work, we would not be needed; it could be done
by scientists . . . but this intuitiveness richness must be structured, must be
illuminated by intellectual work. We have artwork only if the artist
combines these two sides of activity.51

One of her largest works of this period in which she uses the Fibonacci series is the

orchestral piece, Stimmen . . . verstummen (1986). This piece consists of twelve

movements, with all the odd-numbered movements organized using the Fibonacci series,

while all even-numbered movements are freely composed. She expresses the Fibonacci

numbers (in odd-numbered movements) by composing the exact number of quarter notes

of the number in the series. Thus, the first movement has 55 quarters, the third 34, the

fifth 21, and the seventh 13. In the ninth movement there is a “conductor’s solo,”

expressed by beating time (in silence) according to the first seven numbers in the series

(1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13.) Here also, the importance of gesture is extremely significant: The

orchestra ceases playing during this section and therefore the movement of the

conductor’s arms changes from practical to creating a dramatic visual effect for the

audience.

In the 1990s, Gubaidulina built on her work with Fibonacci series, using series

derived from it, primarily the Lucas and Evangelist series. Her piece, “Early in the

morning, right before waking,” for three 17-string kotos and four 13-string kotos (1993),

is based on the Lucas series, and the Evangelists series serves as the structure for Silenzio

for bayan, violin, and cello (1991). She also began to combine certain series within the

same work. In turn, these series represent the different “characters” she had created in

                                                                                                               
51
Lukomsky, “The Eucharist in My Fantasy,” 35.

  23
many of her works up to this point. For example, she combines these series as multiple

layers in Now Always Snow for chamber choir (1993).52

In the early 90s, Gubaidulina also began to experiment with microchromaticism.

Like many other composers, she felt that the possibilities of pitch needed to be expanded.

Therefore, she began to work with a twenty-four tone system. Yet, she thinks of these

twenty-four pitches as actually two sets of twelve pitches, with each set representing a

very different idea:

I understand it as a unification of two spaces: the first is the twelve-tone

semitonal space, and the second is another twelve-semitonal space a
quarter note higher. For me this is a metaphor of the image and its shadow,
or day and night. From my point of view, in the twelve tone compositions
of the twentieth century, everything is as in the daytime; everything is
enlightened and rationalized; there is no place for “night.” “Night” existed
as a supplement of the diatonic system: the diatonic sphere was “day,”
whereas the chromatic sphere was “night”: one could go there and return.
That blessed situation gave us classical and romantic composers. In
twelve-tone compositions we lost “night”: everything became “day.” But
within the twenty-four tone scale, we may have not only “a day,” but also
“a night.”53

In Quarternion, for four cellos (1995), Gubaidulina divides the four cellos into

two groups of two; one plays in the “tonal space,” the other in the “atonal space.” The

relationship between the two is that of an image and its shadow, or light and dark. In her

piece Music for Flute and Strings (1995), one half of the orchestra is tuned a quarter-tone

lower from the other, which is tuned normally. Between the two tunings lies the solo

flute, which explores elements of each “color” of the orchestra with its ability to play

quarter-tones and through explorations of glissando between the two worlds. By

partitioning each group of instrumental tuning on separate sides of the stage, she makes

                                                                                                               
52
Lukomsky, “Hearing the Subconscious,” 29.
53
Lukomsky, “My Desire is Always to Rebel,” 11.

  24
clear that the quarter-tones are in fact intentional, not simply an orchestra playing out of

tune.

With each new period of output, Gubaidulina maintains elements from the

previous, often building on them. She continues to write works using elements of the

Fibonacci series in her quarter-tone music and elements of religion also form a basis for

many pieces. She also continues to search for new sounds and colors as she began to do

in the 1970s, expanding her range of extended techniques and improvisational elements

even further.

  25
 CHAPTER 2:

INTRODUCTION TO TEN ETUDES FOR SOLO CELLO

Ten Etudes is an early work for Gubaidulina and therefore she makes no use of

Fibonacci or Lucas series. As mentioned in the previous chapter, her work in the 1970s

and 80s was marked by her fascination and exploration of sound and color, often

involving the use of unusual instruments and instrumental combinations. Gubaidulina

considers her early works more “intuitive” than “intellectual,” saying, ". . . it seems to me

that my early period is very difficult for musicologists to talk about. I was searching in

areas that are impossible to describe in words.”54 Consequently, these early works have

not received as much analytical attention as those that incorporate Fibonacci. However,

while the more “intellectual” Fibonacci works are perhaps more neatly analyzed, there is

much to talk about in these early pieces.

Many interesting themes and ideas emerged in my interview with Gubaidulina,

particularly in our discussion of the etudes, including the significance of this early work

and its impact on her later compositions. She emphasized: “for me, these etudes serve as

very large imprints for future works of mine.”55 Perhaps because Gubaidulina had not yet

begun to work within the mathematical limitations of the Fibonacci series, there is an

unbridled sense of freedom, curiosity and exploration in these pieces. Yet within this

aesthetic, she had found unique ways to structure and organize her ideas. I explore these

approaches later in this chapter. Depending on the etude, I will use a variety of analytical

approaches, including pitch-set analysis, gestural analysis, and the use of Kholopova’s

                                                                                                               
54
Lukomsky, “The Eucharist in My Fantasy,” 35.
55
Sofia Gubaidulina, interview by author, Chicago, IL, February 27, 2015.

  26
Parameter Complex. In all cases my analysis is geared toward the performer gaining a

deeper understanding of the work, in order to make more informed and successful

performance decisions.

The Ten Etudes were originally commissioned by Grigory Pekker, professor at

the Novosibirsk Conservatory, in Russia. He was interested in compiling a collection of

strictly pedagogical etudes, by various composers, to use with his students. Unfamiliar

with contemporary music, however, Pekker was understandably baffled by the ten

miniatures he received, and ignored them. Gubaidulina explained:

The story is that he wanted the etudes for cello to be for specifically
pedagogical purposes. But for this purpose, the etudes don’t work. They
are my fantasy rather than etudes examining a pedagogical aspect.
Imagine an artist who first draws sketches. The etudes are a sketch of an
artistic production. But apart from this, I really wanted varietal types of
articulation for cello also to fit into this idea. From one point of view it’s
an artistic sketch, but from another point of view, it’s definitely a sampling
of various types of cello sounds.56

The term “etude” has immediate implications in the mind of the performer. First,

there is the assumption that an etude is primarily for the benefit of the performer. Second,

the piece, while presumably musical and enjoyable to play, is written specifically for the

purpose of refining a particular technical skill, isolated in the context of a short

composition and explored in a variety of ways. In one sense, Ten Etudes fulfills these

traditional expectations by exploring contemporary cello techniques, such a ponticello

and flagioletti, the way a David Popper etude might explore a fingering pattern in thumb

position. Yet in another sense, the Etudes as singular pieces have broader implications.

They are not simply etudes for the performer; they are etudes for Gubaidulina, the

composer, in which to explore her “fantasy.” “I examine it this way” she said: “these

                                                                                                               
56
Gubaidulina, interview, 2015.

  27
were distinctively my etudes for future pieces.”57 Therefore, any traditional role these

etudes fulfill is simply a byproduct of their primary function as a playground for

Gubaidulina, in experimenting with larger compositional ideas. However, for the cellist

they serve as both a wonderful addition to the solo cello literature and as studies in which

to hone contemporary cello technical skills.

Three years after the Etudes were written, Gubaidulina––eager to have them

played––contacted the cellist Vladimir Tonkha to see if he was interested in performing

them. Tonkha agreed and she went on to dedicate a number cello works to him, including

Seven Last Words, In Croce, and Quarterion). After first hearing Tonkha play the Etudes,

Gubaidulina recalls:

This was for me the birth of this composition . . . . Before that I thought it
was a hopeless thing . . . Vladimir Tonkha has an unbelievable talent and
the most important thing is his depth, timbral variety, melodic expression
and technical authenticity.58

Furthermore, Gubaidulina has remained deeply drawn to the unique way Tonka produces

sounds and the raw passion and commitment he brings to a performance. She has said:

When [Tonkha] produces these scintillating chords, he experiences that as

a mystical act. He told me so himself. Something happens which seems
acoustically impossible. Suddenly there it is—he says he goes out of his
mind.59

In publication, the Ten Etudes is currently titled Ten Preludes,60 but this change

was made only at the behest of Tonkha. Gubaidulina recalls that, when Tonka eventually

got his hands on the etudes and began performing them, he mentioned to her that he

                                                                                                               
57
Gubaidulina, interview, 2015
58
Gubaidulina, interview, 2015.
59
Gubaidulina, interview, June, 1990.
60
In the Sikorski catalogue of Gubaidulina’s music, the composition is titled “Ten Preludes (Etudes).”

  28
believed they should not be called etudes. He explained, “[They] are strikingly artistic

works and that is why I suggested they be renamed ‘Preludes.’”61

In our interview, Gubaidulina explained the title change:

I really regret it because Ten Etudes is a great name and it is correct . . .

This occurred because of my lack of character and a depressed mood.
Tonkha told me that [they] didn’t work as “etudes.” Although he was
happy to play them, he said they are not “etudes.” He said it was best to
name them something else. I said, “What?” He said, “For example,
‘Preludes.’” At this moment, I really regret that I didn’t stand my ground. I
had the feeling that whatever he wants to do he should do because they
probably won’t be performed anyway.62

Despite her preferring the name Ten Etudes, it would be unnecessarily

complicated to change the title once more.63 However, because Gubaidulina prefers Ten

Etudes, I have used this original title throughout this dissertation and suggest that it

henceforth be programmed as such.

The Ten Etudes are titled after various string techniques and Gubaidulina uses the

playing techniques themselves to create unity and form:

I examined these etudes as not only a sampling of various types of sounds

[on the cello] but the idea of a two-part form fascinated me. Say, from one
type of transition to another. This really interested me. For example, at the
beginning, playing the bow at the frog and then eventually coming to the
tip of the bow; this creates a two-part form.64

Because these techniques and their interactions often dictate the formal

structure of the etudes, Gubaidulina is especially interested in pairing opposites,

thus highlighting the nature of each extreme and exploring it in detail. Eight of the

ten etudes pair two opposite techniques together, but there are two (nos. 4 and 6)

                                                                                                               
61
Email correspondence with Vladimir Tonkha.
62
Gubaidulina, interview, 2015.
63
It is complicated for GEMA, the performing rights collection agency in Germany, to change it.
64
Gubaidulina, interview, 2015.

  29
that explore different elements of just one technique, and one (no. 5) that explores

three elements.

The titles of the Ten Etudes for Solo Cello are as follows:

I. Staccato, legato
II. Legato, staccato
III. Con sordino, senza sordino
IV. Ricochet
V. Sul ponticello, ordinario, sul tasto
VI. Flagioletti
VII. Al Taco, da punta d’arco
VIII. Arco, pizzicato
IX. Pizzicato, arco
X. Senza arco, senza pizzicato

While two-part forms are common in music, their structure is less often dictated

by timbre or articulation. Such musical elements are typically considered surface material

rather than structural. Gubaidulina regards these elements as equally important to

elements of harmony, rhythm, and texture.

Valentina Kholopova has written extensively about this idea. About twenty-five

years ago, Kholopova identified a method of analyzing the music of Gubaidulina, which

she calls “expression parameters” (hereafter EP). She discovered that the composer tends

to group together five types of EPs: 1) articulation and methods of sound production, 2)

melody, 3) rhythm, 4) texture, and 5) compositional writing. Additionally, each of these

parameters function as either a consonant or dissonant EP within each piece. Kholopova

explains:

The “Expression Parameter” is so named because its elements are very

immediate in emphasis and directly convey a musical-emotional

  30
 expression. Despite its name, it belongs not to the category of musical
character but, rather, to that of musical composition, standing in an array
of such concepts as harmony, rhythm, and texture.65

Additionally, she notes:

At the basis of the EP, like those elements of music that are not yet
recognized as structural in the history of composition: the devices of
articulation and the methods of sound production, which in the past have
pertained to the performer and not the composer. Several elements of
melody, rhythm, and texture—organized in a specific fashion—are
associated with these devices of articulation. That it has a clear functional
organization, similar to how classical harmony is organized by “T, S, D”
functions, serves as an indicator and guarantee of the EP’s existence.66

The Ten Etudes exemplify this idea, perhaps in its most distilled form. While a

majority of contemporary composers are deeply interested in the intricacies of sound

production, Kholopova has found a pattern in Gubaidulina’s music where the composer

takes these elements to a core structural level. Furthermore, by identifying the function of

each element of sound production as either consonant or dissonant, a more cohesive

structural picture emerges, valuable to both theorist and performer. I have found this kind

of analysis to be especially helpful in performing the etudes, because knowing the

consonant or dissonant functions of each element of sound production inevitably raises

important questions. For example, how do elements within each category relate to each

other? How much should differences be brought out and where? Do the consonant and

dissonant elements interact and, if so, how?

In an earlier interview with Lukomsky, Gubaidulina elaborated further on her

intentions with the Ten Etudes:

                                                                                                               
65
Kholopova, “Parametr ekspressii v muzykal’nom iazyke Sofii Gubaidulinoi” (The Expression Parameter
in the Music of Sofia Gubaidulina), Moscow Forum, Moscow Conference proceedings, vol. 25 (Moscow:
Moscow Conservatory, 1999): 153–60. Cited and translated by Philip Ewell in “The Parameter Complex in
the Music of Sofia Gubaidulina,” Music Theory Online 20.3 (September 2014), paragraph 2.
66
Kholopova, 1999; Ewell, 2014, “The Parameter Complex,” paragraph 2.

  31
 These miniatures, which evoke polar opposites in the sphere of sound
production on a string instrument, are little scenes in which the heroes are:
1) certain aspects of string instrumentation, 2) methods of sound
production, and 3) various bowings . . . In almost all of the pieces the
opposites interact in pairs.67

By referring to elements of cello technique as “heroes,” Gubaidulina essentially

personifies their role within the drama of these “little scenes.” She has brought these

instrumental techniques to life, treating them more as characters in a play than simply

articulations for cellists to execute.

When I asked Gubaidulina what draws her to the idea of musical juxtaposition,

she responded:

In almost all my pieces, there is the juxtaposition of dark and light. Why
does this interest me so much? Because this is the foundation of the world.
I attribute a lot of meaning to the art of music. I think the art of music
reveals itself as a paradigm of the world. For example: pushing and
pulling away, dissonance and consonance, gravitational pull and
expansion of the universe. And this association exists in no other art form
than music. Because, precisely, the expansion of energy and gravitational
pull is vibration. And music is the only art from that contains material and
noise in which there is vibration. There exists no other art form that
contains material that has as its foundation the root of existence.68

The juxtaposition of opposites clearly has philosophical and scientific roots for

Gubaidulina. Since the art of music is essentially a “paradigm of the world,” it is not

surprising that she works with the idea of opposites so often. Yet, even beyond the

scientific and philosophical explanations, these principles are most deeply rooted in her

spirituality. I return to the earlier interview with Lukomsky, where Gubaidulina

explained:

I understand the word “religion” in its direct meaning: as re-ligio (re-

legato), that is, a restoration of legato between me (my soul) and God. By
means of my religious activity I restore this interrupted connection. Life
                                                                                                               
67
Kholopova, Sofia Gubaidulina: Monografiia 137; Ewell, “The Parameter Complex,” paragraph 13.
68
Gubaidulina, interview, 2015.

  32
 interrupts this connection: it leads me away, into different troubles and
God leaves me at these times . . . . This is unbearable pain: by creating,
through our art, we strive to restore this legato.69

For Gubaidulina, there is one major juxtaposition in life: God and the soul. The goal of

all of her music is to restore a connection between the two. Even within the word

“religion,” Gubaidulina extracts an articulation. Legato, for example, is the means of

restoring this connection. Furthermore, she says:

I am totally convinced that there is no more serious task for the artist than
to recreate this connection because our whole life is fragmented. Daily life
takes place in a kind of staccato. We have no time to create any continuity
in our lives.70

Because, for Gubaidulina, the restoration of legato between the soul and God is

the underlying intent of her work, it makes logical sense that staccato represents the

opposite of this ideal. Staccato signifies our disconnection to God and, in a sense, our

human frailty. Therefore, that she devotes both the first and second etude to this pairing

comes as no surprise. Gubaidulina understands the relationship between legato and

staccato to be the most basic and important. While the function of an EP can vary from

one work to the next, Kholopova has clarified that legato always functions as a consonant

EP and staccato always functions as a dissonant EP; essentially, all other opposite

articulation pairings are inherently rooted in one or the other. It is significant that these

ideas, which continue to shape her approach to composition today, are explored so

compellingly in this very early work.

                                                                                                               
69
Lukomsky, “The Eucharist in My Fantasy,” 33.
70
Gubaidulina, interview, 1990.

  33
 CHAPTER 3:

ETUDES 1–5: ANALYSIS AND PERFORMANCE SUGGESTIONS

Etude 1: Staccato — Legato

Etude 1 is a notable example of the ways in which Gubaidulina explores opposites

and juxtaposition in her music. Staccato and legato, both specific articulations, receive

significant individual time in this piece. Staccato predominates the first half and, at m. 35,

switches to strictly legato until the end. By simply separating each of these opposite

articulations into a different section of the piece, Gubaidulina highlights their innate

differences; however, underlying connections link the two. Most significantly, both make

use of the same basic motivic and cyclical ideas that dominate the pitch and rhythmic

space of the whole piece.

Etude 1 begins with a three-note figure made up of the ordered pitch intervals71:

+2, -1 (henceforth “M1”). M1 permeates and structures the movement in a variety of

ways. In m. 4, the motive is inverted with ordered pitch intervals -2, +1 (Ex. 3.1). This

version of M1 occurs most frequently in the movement.

                                                                                                               
71
Joseph N. Straus, Introduction to Post-Tonal Theory, 4th ed. (New York: W. W. Norton & Company,
2016), 9. A pitch interval (pi) is defined as “the distance between two pitches, measured by the number of
semitones between them.” In my dissertation, I will use ‘pi’ to refer to such pitch intervals. Integers
preceded by plus or minus signs are ordered pitch intervals, while those without plus or minus signs are
unordered pitch intervals.

  34
 Example 3.1: M1 motive, Etude 1, mm.1–4

inverted

? »
œ œ#œ œ bœnœ
+2 -1 -2 +1

Through the repetition of this figure, Gubaidulina creates a gradual upward

chromatic line. In mm. 1–12 the interval of an octave (G2–G3) is filled in.

Example 3.2: Chromatic ascent, Etude 1, mm. 1–12

1
U U U
? 58
œ Œ bœj ‰ ‰ Œ ‰ ‰ œ #œ. ‰ nœ. bœ nœ Œ Œ ™ œ. ‰ œ. bœ. ‰ Œ
œ. . #œ. . . . . J
p
7 U.
? bœ. #œ. nœ. ‰ œ. 83 bœ. nœ. ‰ 58 œ. œ. #œ. ‰ ‰ bœ . j b . nœ. U
œ
J bœ œ ‰ Œ ™ j ‰ bœ. ‰ ‰
. œ. b œ.
mp p mf

The use of C3 interval cycles is also significant in the piece.72 It is probably first

heard most clearly in mm. 10–11 (B♭-G-E-D♭); however, it is presented in more

concealed ways and over longer stretches of music throughout the etude. For instance,

immediately following the initial statement, this string of C3(1) continues, albeit more

                                                                                                               
72
Joseph N. Straus, Introduction to Post-Tonal Theory, 4th ed. (New York: W. W. Norton & Company,
2016), 163-164. There are three versions of the C3 interval cycle and the numbers that correspond to each
(0, 1 or 2), represent the lowest pitch class integer of the cycle.

  35
concealed in the texture, through m. 16, culminating with G2. Additionally, there are two

statements of M1 (A♭-G♭-G).

Example 3.3: Three versions of C3 cycle, Etude 1

C3(0) C3(1) C3(2)

0
1 11

10 2

9 3

4 8

7 5
6

Example 3.4: Initial statement and continuation of C3(1), Etude 1, mm. 10–16

10 U . 0
1
. 11
? 58 bœ . ‰ Œ ™ j ‰ j ‰bœ. nœ. ‰ Œ ™ œj ‰ œJ ‰ ‰ #œ. œ. . Œ ™ j ‰ bœ. ‰bœJ. bœ. nœ.U 10 2
bœ œ œ bœ. b œ #œ
.. b œ. . . œ. œ. . bœ nœ. J 9 3

p 4 8
p mf mf
7 5
6

There are instances of all three versions of C3 in Etude 1. Interestingly, the first

three notes of the etude (G-A-G♯) each form a member of one of the three distinct

interval cycles. They constitute a foreshadowing of the prevalence of the cycles to be

explored throughout. Because these three notes also make up the M1 motive, they

demonstrate convincingly the close relationship between these two main elements in the

piece.

  36
 Consequently, there is an innate cyclicity to this etude. Multiple statements of M1

(moving up or down chromatically) create a compound cycle of intervals made up of

twenty-four notes (Ex. 3.5). This etude uses every version of M1 possible and all three

versions of C3. Arguably, M1 and C3 are closely related due to the minor third that

connects any two stepwise statements of an M1. For example, two statements of M1

appear from mm. 4–6 (C-B♭-B and D-C-D♭). The interval that connects the two (B-D) is

a minor third.

Example 3.5: Compound cycle of M1, Etude 1

+2, -1 -2, +1

Fs G
Gs G Gs
Fs A
F
G G
Fs
Gs A
F
Bb E
Fs Ab
A F
E Bb
b
B Eb
F A
B E
Eb B
C D
E Bb
B Eb
D C
Cs B Cs
Eb Cs D
Es D C C

In m. 21, C3(1) begins an extended chromatic ascent that culminates in the B♭5 at

m. 36 (see Ex. 3.6). I would suggest that the overall motion in mm. 1–36 forms a rising

chromatic line, from the opening G to the high B♭ (found in m. 36) at the climax. The

one exception to this idea is the final A, before reaching B♭, coming immediately after

  37
the B♭, not before. However, this minor break in the chromatic motion fails to

significantly detract from the driving chromatic motion that has clearly been leading to

the high B♭ from the beginning. In fact, it adds to the excitement, as if the line were so

impatient to get to its goal that the A is briefly sounded.

Example 3.6: Chromatic ascent, Etude 1, mm. 21–36

≠
21 . bœ. nœ.
œ œ. œ. b œ. . . . . .
œ . . U
? 58 Œ ™ J ‰ ‰ ‰ J ‰ Œ Œ ™ œj ‰ bœJ ‰ B bœJ bœ nœ Œ J bœ nœ
.
mf f p f

27
j b . bœ. bœ. nœ. œ. bœ. nœ. œ. œ. #œ.
œ j b . bœ. bœnœ œ. bœ. nœ. œ œ #œ #œ.
œ
B Œ ?œ B ‰ J ‰ ‰‰ œ B
? ?.
. . œ
p f mf

≠
33 # œ. # œ. n œ. nœ bœ nœ œ œ. #œ. œ. bœ
? B 3œ ‰ & 58 bœ nœ œ bœ bœ 87 nœj
8
f

The clear climax of the movement occurs at m. 36; a number of contributing

factors support this reading. Measure 36 begins the first section that sustains a forte

dynamic for more than a measure. The articulation from here until the end of the

movement is strictly legato, unlike the primarily staccato music up to this point. Also

relevant to this reading is the chromatic motion, which begins a downward progression,

unlike the previous music with primarily ascending motion.

  38
 Additionally, there are instances where two versions of M1 overlap, as in mm.

36–37, where two M1’s A-G-A♭ and A♭-G♭-G share an A♭. An A♭ is also shared in m.

40 and an A♮ in mm. 43–44. This overlap adds a layer of restlessness to the section (Ex.

3.7).

Example 3.7: Overlapping instances of M1, Etude 1, mm. 36–44

36
5 7 j j 8
& 8 bœ œ œ bœ bœ 8 nœ ‰ bœJ nœ œ bœ ‰ bœ- nœ bœ ‰ bœ nœ ‰ bœ nœ bœ œ œ bœ bœ 8
f
40
8 5 œ bœ bœ nœ nœ #œ
& 8 bœ nœ nœ bœ bœ nœ œ œ bœ bœ nœ œ œ #œ #œ œ 8 œ bœ bœ nœ œ ? J

Gubaidulina also manipulates silence in notable ways throughout Etude 1. In the

first half she leaves generous space between instances of M1 and C3, allowing the

listener to become familiar with each idea individually. That silence gradually decreases

as the piece progresses and, by the time we get to the climax at m. 36, there are few rests

if any. This gradual receding of the silence adds significantly to the dramatic impact of

the climax.

As mentioned earlier, Gubaidulina has often emphasized the importance of the

golden ratio in her music. While she uses it very deliberately in her second and third

periods, it also occurs frequently in her earliest works; therefore, this etude forms an

example of her “intuitive” use of the golden ratio. Etude 1 includes fifty-seven measures;

the climax occurring at m. 36 places it in direct proportion to the golden ratio (0.618). So,

  39
in addition to the more surface level factors discussed above, the composer’s organic

structural foundation also shapes the piece.

B♭ saturates mm. 36–41 (see Ex. 3.8). In mm. 36–44 a downward chromatic

movement appears from B♭ to E (culminating on the second eighth note of m. 44).

Interestingly, from mm. 36–41, the downward motion is repeatedly held back by the

repetition of the B♭, delaying the sequence of -2, +1, as if this figure is temporarily

unable to gain traction. However, in mm. 44–45, the line abruptly abandons its chromatic

motion and breaks up into two separate voices made up of C3 interval cycles. The top

line is a C3(1) cycle (E-C♯-B♭-G) and the bottom line (mm. 43–46) a series of C3(2) (B-

G♯-F-D-B-Ab).

Example 3.8: Chromatic to cyclical C3(1) and C3(2), Etude 1, mm. 36–45

36
5 7 j j 8
& 8 bœ œ œ bœ bœ 8 nœ ‰ bœJ nœ œ bœ ‰ bœ- nœ bœ ‰ bœ nœ ‰ bœ nœ bœ œ œ bœ bœ 8
f
40
8 bœ nœ bœ 5 bœ ?
œ bœ bœ nœ nœ
&8 nœ bœ nœ œ œ b œ b œ nœ œ
œ œ #œ #œ 8 œ bœ nœ œ

44 œ #œ
? #œ œ œ 68 bœ nœ œ
nœ bœ
nœ
mf

  40
 Upper line Lower line
mm. 44-45 mm. 44-45
œ # œ bœ
? œ ?œ œ
_ œ bœ _

It is worth noting that B-A♭ is an augmented second and, enharmonically, also a

minor third, so the pattern is occurring on a number of levels––as if the tension that built

up from mm. 36–44, with its repetitive chromaticism, leads to the music exploding into

these two separate lines. Measures 44–47 also contain the largest intervals in the

movement so far, adding to this idea of explosion. M1 can be found within this expanded

interval range (in m. 47) with the notes Ab- G-F♯. And again, each of these pitches is a

member of a different C3 cycle.

With the diminuendo from m. 47 to the end, the musical tension gradually

decreases. The A♭ in m. 47 initiates an upward chromatic line that culminates in the final

note of the movement (F♯4). In m. 50, M1 is heard in the original order of pitch intervals,

as in the first measure (+2, -1). Other occurrences of this appear in mm. 51–52 and in

mm. 55–56. So, while most of the movement is made up of M1 (the version using -1,

+2), the M1 version using +2, -1 bookends the etude. While some elements of resolution

appear at the end of the etude––such as its return to the original M1, the return of a

consistent piano dynamic, and the upward direction of the chromatic line––there is also a

sense of things unresolved, for instance, the etude ending on an F♯.

The music comes very close to returning to the G, but never quite makes it, even

fading away with a diminuendo in the last bar. Furthermore, the timbre has changed

significantly in these final five bars. For the first time in the movement, Gubaidulina calls

  41
for an ascent to the higher register of the D string, an area of the cello with a unique,

almost “fuzzy” timbre, which speaks much differently than other parts of the instrument.

Therefore, the end does not simply resolve but almost seems to be heading off in another

direction altogether, in a sense leaving the door open for the next etudes.

As mentioned earlier, staccato and legato not only represent two opposing

articulations, but they also have a deeper spiritual meaning for Gubaidulina. It is

significant that at the end of this etude, she restores the legato. The piece takes the

listener from staccato to legato through the exploration and transformation of two basic

motives and an overall arc of rising and falling chromatic movement.

  42
Etude 2: Legato –– staccato

The second etude, like the first, is an exploration of legato and staccato. However,

rather than separating each articulation to one half of the piece, Gubaidulina’s approach

alternates between sections of legato and staccato, each articulation representing a starkly

different character. Additionally, while the first etude consisted almost solely of eighth

notes, the second has a much greater variety of rhythmic, textural, and harmonic

elements. Perhaps most notable is the textural difference between the two etudes; the

second is written completely in double stops, while the first is strictly monophonic.

Etude 2 can be divided into two main sections. Section A is contained in mm. 1–

35, and Section B in mm. 36–77. In Section A, the alternating legato and staccato ideas

are introduced and separated by rests, most often a full bar of silence. This silence helps

to enhance the differences between legato and staccato, allowing listeners to familiarize

themselves with the unique characteristics of each. Furthermore, certain note values are

limited to either sections of legato or staccato; legato sections contain no note values

shorter than a quarter note, whereas sections of staccato have no note values longer than

an eighth. Additionally, rubato is only indicated in staccato sections and trills are limited

to sections of legato. By categorizing note values and certain methods of sound

production to a particular section, Gubaidulina further distinguishes and solidifies the

unique profile of each. Because she so clearly delineates elements of legato and staccato

in the A section, I have included a Parameter Complex at the end of my analysis in order

to clarify, for the performer, the consonant or dissonant function of a various elements in

the piece.

  43
 One of the most unifying features of Etude 2 is Gubaidulina’s use of open strings

on the cello to serve as “guideposts.” Each legato section (in Section A) is structured

around an open string drone while other pitches move obliquely above or below. The

movement from away from a pitch in each of these sections always involves a wedge

expansion outward, chromatically, from the open string. For example, m. 3 begins with a

unison on G and the intervals expand chromatically downward to a pitch interval

(hereafter “pi”)73 4 on D#. This idea is developed in the second legato phrase in mm. 9–

15, where a unison on A expands outwards to a pi 3 in m. 9, then contracts to pi 1 in m.

15. Interestingly, in each section of legato, a semitone above or below (in the opposite

direction of the chromatic expansion) is always heard. By “circling” the droned open-

string pitch by at least one semitone in each direction, Gubaidulina further emphasizes its

importance.

The composer creates a sense of balance among legato sections with the

alternating direction of wedge expansion with each consecutive occurrence. For example,

the first legato section (mm. 1–6) creates a wedge around open G, travelling up to G# and

down to D#. Conversely, in the second legato phrase (mm. 9–15), the pitch goes down to

G# and up to C, circling the open A. The first section (mm. 1–6) is +1, -5 and the second

(mm. 9–15) -1, +4, creating two well-balanced, symmetrical phrases with a close

inversional relationship. Furthermore, within the third section of legato (mm. 27–29) +1,

-4 around the open string (D) creates an exact intervallic inversion with the second legato

section (Ex. 3.9).

                                                                                                               
73  I remind the reader that a “pi” is the distance between two pitches, measured by the number of semitones
between them.
 

  44
 Example 3.9: Intervallic symmetry between phrases, Etude 2

The staccato sections, instead of lingering around an open string, connect sections

of legato by chromatically filling in the pitch space between open strings. Unlike the

legato sections, with essentially one musical character, there are two distinct staccato

characters in the staccato sections. The first (hereafter “S1”)74 initially occurs in m. 7 and

sounds almost like an afterthought to the legato section preceding it. S1 never last more

than a measure and is characterized by chromatic movement in eighth-note triplets or

sixteenth notes. Each instance involves a dramatic diminuendo to piano or pianissimo

(sometimes enhanced by rubato). In Section A of Etude 2, S1 is found in mm. 7, 30, and

34.

The sections marked piu mosso make up the second staccato character (hereafter

“S2”). These sections exude a Shostakovich-like playfulness, particularly distinguishable

by the use of slides and leaps. S2 occurs only twice in the etude, but has a significantly

longer duration than every instance of S1. S2 first occurs in mm. 16–25, and again from

mm. 59–66. While the two staccato characters sound remarkably different, they share a

strong intervallic connection. Instances of (0347) saturate the pitch space of both S1 and

S2. The set is created when adjacent dyads are combined. For example, (0347) is found in

                                                                                                               
74
The “S” of S1 and S2 stands for staccato.

  45
mm. 16–17, with the pitches F#, A, D, F. Similarly, the downbeat of both mm. 18 and 19,

with the pitches D, Bb and F, Db, forms another (0347). Interestingly, mm. 18 and 19

each contain three sets of (0347), overlapping. In S1, instances of (0347) occur in two pi

4s, related by T3 and in S2, when either two pi 3’s are related by T8 or two pi 8s are

related by T3 (Ex. 3.10).

Example 3.10: Instances of (0347), Etude 2, mm. 16–20

Sections of legato and staccato are clearly defined early, but an interesting

features lies in the various ways elements of these contrasting characters infiltrate one

another over the course of the etude. This process begins subtly and becomes gradually

more apparent as the etude progresses. For example, the first legato section begins with a

pi 8 and ends with its mod-12 equivalent, pi 4. The staccato section (in m. 7) consists

exclusively of parallel pi 4’s. So, while the overall first impression of each character

(legato, staccato) starkly contrasts the other, the intervallic makeup is quite similar.

Additionally, S2 also intervallically connects to the opening legato section, with its

consistent use of parallel pi 8’s. As mentioned, legato sections are defined primarily by

the way they feature open strings; yet, in the second section of staccato, open strings

  46
infiltrate the chromatic texture. Measures 22–23 contain an open D; open D and added A

appear in both mm. 24 and 25.

Similarly, elements of staccato also influence sections of legato. For instance, the

slides first found in S2 also occur in the legato section at mm. 31–33, where the composer

connects the B♭ to the high C# interval (+15) with a slide. Over the course of Section A,

wedges around open strings have gradually expanded, reaching a +11 (D-C#), in m. 29,

and eventually the +18 (G-C#), in m. 34.

Example 3.11: Instances of infiltration between legato and staccato, Etude 2

Section A of this etude has been “goal oriented” toward the open strings of the

cello, and therefore each legato section has served as somewhat of an arrival. However,

one of the most appealing features of open strings is the purity of their resonance and, so

far, the legato sections have been stifled by dissonant chromaticism. Measure 36 marks

the beginning of the B section, where the textural landscape begins to shift significantly.

For the first time since m. 1 an open C drone and pi 8 (C-G#) signal a new beginning of

  47
sorts. While I consider this a legato section, the character of the legato has significantly

changed. Instead of hovering chromatically around an open string, the intervals are much

larger, forming more consonant, widely spaced chords. Instead of moving chromatically,

mm. 36–41 contain a sweeping compound cycle of +5, -2, beginning on G#, going up to

C# and back down to B. The low C lasts for six bars, gradually joined by more open

strings (D in m. 37 and G in m. 39); finally, all four open strings (C, G, D, A) are heard

together at m. 41, where the full resonant potential of the strings is achieved (see Ex.

3.12).

Example 3.12: Compound cycle highlighting resonance, Etude 2, mm. 36–46

Measures 36–41 contain two full cycles of +5, -2, before landing on a high Bb

(just one note short of a return to C). The goal of mm. 36–48 is the motion from a low C

to the climactic high C, in m. 48. However, the resolution to the high C is delayed by a

chromatic digression in mm. 45–46, where the ever-important pi 8 is filled in at the

arrival on the D in m. 47 (the bottom note of the dyad). Simply delaying the high C

makes the climax more exciting; however, the addition of filling in pi 8 (the very first

  48
interval of the piece) adds another layer of drama and complexity. This digression (mm.

45–46) also bears a certain resemblance to S1. The line moves chromatically and the

articulation, slightly ambiguous as to whether heard as trills or 32nd notes, is reminiscent

of both the trills in the first legato section and the movement by sixteenth notes in S1.

The diminuendo to pianissimo gesture, also present here, further recounts the character of

S1.

There are a number of factors that establish the arrival at m. 47–48 as the climax

of Etude 2. First, the C in m. 48 is the highest note of the whole piece. The fact that the

etude begins with C2 (the lowest pitch available on the cello) and ends up three octaves

higher, through a gradual expansion in pitch space, emphasizes the significance of this

arrival. Additionally, like the first etude, the overall form of this piece follows the ratio of

the golden section. The movement spans a total of seventy-seven measures and

consequently, the clear climax can be found in m. 47. Calculated mathematically: 0.618 x

77 = 47.5. Furthermore, m. 47 is the first occurrence of fortissimo in the movement.

Gubaidulina’s addition of espressivo further emphasizes the importance of this measure.

While alternating sections of legato and staccato continue after the climax, certain

elements have dramatically shifted. Before the climax, the melodic direction of staccato

sections moved upward; after m. 47 (through the end) they move downward

chromatically. The wedge expansion that occurred against open strings in sections of

staccato in Section A also changed directions, as in mm. 55 and 58, where the wedge

compresses rather than expands.

  49
 Example 3.13: Descent and compression in Section B, Etude 2, mm. 47–58

Interestingly, the rests that separated sections of legato and staccato in the A

section have shifted locations in the B section. Instead of separating legato sections from

staccato sections, the composer combines the fragments of each articulation to form one

phrase (Ex. 3.14). These hybrid phrases are now separated by rests, confirming that the

specific aspects of each articulation have been combined and transformed.

The characteristic elements of legato, such as oblique chromatic movement or

hovering around an open string, have also disappeared in Section B, replaced by short

groupings of parallel pi 8’s. Here, the first instance of a pi 8 in a legato section appears in

the piece, another significant example of staccato elements continuing to infiltrate the

  50
legato. All that remains of the etude’s original legato identity are the longer note values,

legato articulation, and ff espressivo indications. The intervallic structure of these

fragmented sections of legato are also affected by staccato (Ex. 2.14). The legato dyad, in

m. 53 (E-C) and in m. 57 (C#-A), forms an (0347), directly reminiscent of the way dyads

relate in S2.

Example 3.14: Changes of legato characteristics, Etude 2, mm. 52–58

The shortened staccato elements have also been further infiltrated by legato. For

instance, in mm. 55 and 58, the composer indicates tenuto markings on the triplet figures,

blurring their staccato function and adding an element of legato to the gesture.

Open strings no longer function as primary goals in Section B. While Gubaidulina

separates with rests the combined staccato and legato sections in the same way as Section

A, a new sense of restlessness emerges in these passages, created by the short fragmented

nature of each phrase within the rests. The music has become more dense and compact.

Furthermore, the intervals spanned in each staccato passage no longer cover the full

distance between open strings (Ex. 3.15). They are instead limited to the span of pi 4 (in

almost every instance).

  51
 Example 3.15: Shorter distance in staccato passages, Etude 2, mm. 59–66

Measures 67 to the end comprise a long series of dissonant chords over a

gradually building crescendo. These chords do not closely resemble anything in the piece

before them. While they fit most squarely in the staccato category, with their eighth-note

duration, they have no staccato markings, as do almost all other eighth notes in the piece.

Whether these eighths should take on a slightly more legato feeling is a decision left to

the performer, but based on the absence of the dots, I believe the legato should be brought

out. As if spinning out of control, the music surges through the final fff (in the last bar),

only to be abruptly cut off by silence. This last fermata is a welcome relief, as if the

tension building to the end required an allotted silence to diffuse the intensity.

Interestingly, almost every chord over these measures contains at least one open

string. They go by so quickly, however, stacked against such dissonance, that their

significance can easily be ignored. If the movement thus far has been a competition of

sorts between articulations, neither staccato nor legato has prevailed. Instead, each

  52
element has permeated the other to the point where both have become almost

indistinguishable.

Despite the level of infiltration that occurs over the course of the movement, the

performer might retain a clear sense of the original characteristics of staccato and legato,

to identify and bring out the unique differences for as long as possible. It is especially

important to highlight the contrasting characters of legato and staccato in the A section

where they have more extended individual time. This way, when they become more

fragmented and obscured in the B section, the listener will be familiar enough with each

to recognize them in the denser textures of the etude.

Kholopova’s Expression Parameters (EPs) provide a helpful way to identify these

characteristics. Based on both Gubaidulina’s own words and the principles of

Kholopova’s EPs, legato in this movement (and as a general rule in Gubaidulina’s music)

can be classified as consonant, while the staccato sections fit squarely in the dissonant

category. Therefore, I include compositional elements that occur simultaneously with

either staccato or legato in their corresponding category. My parameter complex for this

movement is shown in Figure 3.1.

  53
 Table 3.1: Parameter Complex, Etude 2

Consonant EPs Dissonant EPs

1. Articulation and Means of Sound 1. Articulation and Means of Sound

Production: Production:
Ÿ Legato Ÿ Staccato
Ÿ Trills
Ÿ Espressivo

2. Rhythm 2. Rhythm
Ÿ ♩= 76 Ÿ Piu Mosso (dotted half = 69)
Ÿ Meno Mosso (♩=100) Ÿ Eighth notes
Ÿ Dotted half notes Ÿ Eighth note rests
Ÿ Half notes Ÿ Triplets (eighth note)
Ÿ Quarter notes Ÿ Quintuplets (sixteenth note)
Ÿ Quarter note rest Ÿ Sixteenth notes
Ÿ Rubato

3. Texture 3. Texture
Ÿ Slurs Ÿ Separate notes
Ÿ Fermatas Ÿ Three note chords

A successful performance of Etude 2 will highlight the different characteristics of

legato and staccato with clarity and intention. The performer should exaggerate the

shortness of the staccato and the length and smoothness of the legato. When necessary,

the performer must shift nimbly between the two. Special attention should be paid to

making smooth bow changes in the legato sections to maintain a fluid, connected line.

When there are trills, they should remain at a consistent speed with little fluctuation.

Because there are two types of staccato in the etude, it is important to make a

slight distinction between S1 and S2. I suggest a slightly heavier staccato with a

  54
consistent vibrato in the left hand for all S2 figures in order to bring out its jovial, playful

character. For the S1 figures, a lighter and dryer staccato––played toward the middle of

the bow––helps to emphasize the “tossed-off” quality of this short idea. A clear

diminuendo on all instances of S2 also helps to give the impression of these figures

fading away into the rests that follow them. These rests are also significant and should be

held out fully as they initially help to “clear the air” between sections of legato and

staccato, further emphasizing the initial contrast.

Because the piu mosso triple-meter tempo (dotted half = 69) at m. 16 is not

indicated with quartet notes, the music should feel as if in one. Therefore, only the

downbeats should be emphasized and the second and third beats played lighter with more

release in the sound (as in a waltz). Rubato in the staccato sections can also be

exaggerated according to the performers taste in order to highlight the contrast with the

steadier meter in the legato sections. Legato and staccato sections each have their own

specific tempo indications and the performer should, at least initially, practice with a

metronome in order to internalize the rhythmic subtlety of each character.

  55
Etude 3: Con sordino — senza sordino

Like the second etude, open strings play an important structural role in Etude 3.

Gubaidulina emphasized in interview that, “in general, these four strings mean a great

deal to me . . . . I feel the personalities of four individuals.”75 Each open string occurs

under a fermata, highlighting its importance and giving the cellist time to place and

remove the mute while creating a sense of stillness. Rhythmically steady scalar material

(often within an A Phrygian tonality) connects each open string, intended to assist in a

smooth connection between them. Additionally, every open string is heard at least once

with mute on and once with it off, as if Gubaidulina repeatedly flips a switch in order to

highlight the subtle difference in sound.

Like the first two etudes, the third also fits the proportions of the golden ratio. At

twenty-eighth measures long, with the climax occurring at m. 17, calculated

mathematically the ratio is 0.614 x 28 = 17. An extended crescendo from mm. 15–16

leads to the highest and loudest note of the piece (A♭), descending immediately after to

the first occurrence of the open C string at m. 22.

Many works of Gubaidulina seem to highlight the importance of gesture.

However, when I asked her about the role of gesture in her music, she maintained she

thinks nothing about the visual when composing, emphasizing no differentiation between

sound and visual elements. She insists, “I can’t separate now one from the other . . . . I

think all of this is a combined fantasy.”76 Despite this denial, I contend that gesture

indeed plays a significant role in her music and in Etude 3 particularly, for a number of

reasons.
                                                                                                               
75
Gubaidulina, interview, 2015.
76
Gubaidulina, interview, 2015.

  56
 Berry has written compellingly on the subject of gesture as it relates to

Gubaidulina’s music. He categorizes musical gesture into two basic groups, practical and

expressive: “A musical gesture is a movement of the body that is intended to produce

sound or to convey non-musical (non-sonic) information to the audience about the

performance. The former I call practical movements; the latter, expressive.”77 According

to Berry’s theory, if a movement, such as the placement of the left hand on the

fingerboard, is made for the exclusive purpose of making a clean, clear sound, then it

would be considered a “practical” gesture. Alternately, “expressive” gestures are those

that are meant to convey something extra-musical and not necessary to basic sound

production on the instrument. Berry argues that Gubaidulina “exploits the co-expressive

potential of music and gesture—both expressive and, perhaps more importantly,

practical.”78

I agree that Gubaidulina’s music often blurs the line between expressive and

practical gestures. Gestures considered practical in the context of another composer’s

work become emotionally charged in her music. The alternating use of mute in the third

etude forms a fitting example of this idea. The marking con sordino has been used since

the seventeenth-century, and various types of mutes for string instruments create slightly

different sounds, most often characterized as somewhat nasal and slightly veiled. It has

historically been the delicate task of the performer to create as little interruption as

possible when placing or removing the mute, so as not to distract the listener from the

intended effect.

                                                                                                               
77
Berry, para 10.
78
Berry, para 16.

  57
 In Etude 3 Gubaidulina works, as usual, with two opposites; mute on and mute

off. Yet, because the subject of this etude is clearly the contrast of muted and unmuted

sound, she inherently draws attention to the gesture required of the performer in

executing the different sounds. She does this in three ways. First, the gesture is repeated

six times over the course of this short 27-bar movement. Simply requiring this repetitive

motion from the performer inevitably draws attention to the visual aspect of the

performance. Second, the gesture is always made while simultaneously playing an open

string. While the subtle change from one timbre to the other is quite immediate and

dramatic, the gesture itself draws more attention than the changes of sound from the open

string. Third, the structure of the etude is inherently based on the placement of the mute.

By highlighting a practical gesture, one could argue that Gubaidulina has

transformed it into an expressive one. However, the goal of this music is not to transform

the meaning of the gesture, but rather to heighten the audience’s awareness of a gesture

from the performer (historically taken for granted), to appreciate its simplicity. In the

same way someone might focus on the breath in meditation to achieve higher spiritual

awareness, the repeated gesture of the player in this etude produces an expressive effect.

In essence, Gubaidulina has created a profoundly meditative and arguably spiritual

atmosphere in this etude.

Gubaidulina has been deeply influenced by Eastern cultures, both personally and

in her music. She has also expressed an interest and belief in what she describes as a

“meditational attitude toward sound.”79 The concept of an etude shares certain

characteristics with meditation, often defined as continued or extended thought,

reflection, and contemplation. The purpose of an etude is to explore an idea repeatedly, in

                                                                                                               
79
Gubaidulina, interview, 1990.

  58
a number of ways, to achieve a higher level of execution. Similarly, the process of

meditating often involves the repetition of a particular mantra or idea to achieve a higher

state of being. The word “meditation” might be considered synonymous with study, and

Gubaidulina uses Etude 3 to explore this aspect of her fantasy.

Example 3.16: Etude 3

q = 54
1 senza sord. con sord.
con sord. U
? 44 ˙≤ ™ œ w œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
œ bœ œ ˙™
mp 3 3 3
5 U
? ˙ 3 Usenza sord. œ œ œ U
w
con sord.
œ œ bœ œ œ j œ œ™ œ
œ œ w œ œ bœ œ œ
3
10
? œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ 3 U senza sord.
bœ œ œ œj œ œ
j
œ œ œ œ œ w
3 3 œ
14 œ œ œ
?
3
œ œJ œ bœ œ J œ œ œ b˙™
b œ œ œ œ B
œ œ œ œ
f
18 <b> œ n œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ
B œ œ ?bœnœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œj bœ j
≤ ≥ U con sord.
œ œ œ œ œ œ
3 3 3 œ w
23
? ≤ j œj w œ œ œ œ œ œ b˙ nœ U
w
œ b œ J
w œœœœœœ J
p III

  59
Etude 4: Ricochet

Etude 4 centers on the use of ricochet bowing throughout.80 While ricochet can be

found in common practice period music, it is most often used sparingly. In this movement

Gubaidulina uses ricochet only, in a variety of bow strokes, frequently altering the

number of notes played under one thrown bow stroke and the direction of the bow in

which the stroke occurs. Therefore, the performer must possess a high level of precision

to perform this etude successfully.

Example 3.17: Variety of ricochet bow strokes, Etude 4

≥. . . . ≤. ≥
? 43 Œ nœœœ œœœ œœœ œœœ œœœ Œ ≥
œ. œ. œ. ‰ Œ bœœœœœœ‰ Œ nœœœ. œœœ. œœœ. œœœ. œœœ≤. Œ
18

Œ bœœœœœœ‰ Œ
3 3

5
. . . 3
. . . 5
f mf f mf f
≥. . . . ≤. . .
1
? 43 œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ Œ Œ
# œ # œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ≤.
Œ œœ œ œ ‰ œœ œ œ œ œ ∑
œ
7 3 5
mf

The etude requires the stroke be played at various dynamic levels and on every

string. To execute these markings, the performer must make a number of technical

adjustments. For instance, ricochet on the C string requires more arm weight and a slower

bow speed than ricochet on the A string. Because this entire etude is written in double or

triple stops, the performer must also ensure that the bow is balanced in a way that every

                                                                                                               
80
The ricochet bow stroke—also known as Jeté, meaning a “thrown” bow—is a bowing technique where
the upper half of the bow is thrown onto the string from a distance, causing it to bounce several times,
resulting in a series of quick staccato notes.

  60
note of the chord is voiced clearly. Additionally, subtle adjustments must be made when

dynamic changes are marked. However, like a traditional etude, once this short work is

mastered, the technique becomes almost second nature and easily applied to other pieces

where the technique is found more sparsely.

This is one of only two of the ten etudes titled after a string technique and

Gubaidulina conceives multiple characteristics in various ways. Silence is an especially

important consideration in this etude since over eleven full bars of rest appear in the 43-

measure piece. Furthermore, of the 129 beats of music, over ninety-one are silent. With

more than half of the etude unsounded, silence itself becomes active. Acknowledging this

silent role is vitally important for the performer; thus, it becomes imperative not to rush

through the rests. The expansive silence also helps to sharpen and highlight the sounded

ricochet stroke.

There are four varieties of ricochet in this etude: septuplet, triplet, quintuplet and

a “free” ricochet (so called because the number of articulations on these chords is not

strict and the decision of duration is partially left to the performer). Each of these strokes

has a distinct character and tendency within phrases, and must be executed with precise

accuracy to bring out the unique function of each. For example, Gubaidulina tends to use

the free ricochet to end phrases, always heard under a diminuendo, the triplets most often

come in groupings of either two or three, leading directly to a quintuplet. Septuplets

mostly appear toward the end of phrases.

Measures 1–4 form an introduction that serves to immediately familiarize the

listener with each version of ricochet in the piece. The pitches of the chord (G-D-C#)

remain unchanged in these bars, allowing focus solely on the bow stroke. Measures 5–24

  61
comprise four phrases. The first phrase (mm. 5–8) is three bars plus a 1-measure rest; the

second (mm. 9–13) is four bars and a 1-measure rest; the third (mm. 14–17) is another

three bars plus a 1-measure rest; and the fourth (mm. 18–24) is four bars plus a 1-

measure rest with an added one-bar phrase, plus one measure rest.

The first two phrases are nicely balanced in their intervallic symmetry. The top

note of the chord in mm. 5–6 travels up from C# five semitones to F# and back (-5)

semitones to C#. Conversely, in mm. 9–11, the top pitch travels from A♭ down (-5)

semitones to E♭, back up (+5) to A♭, and then -5 again to E♭. Each of these phrases

ends with a bookended open-string chord; the first (m. 7) is a quintuplet and the second

(m. 12) expands to a septuplet, reflective of how the overall phrase length expands

between the first and second phrases. The third phrase is similar in direction to the first,

but the intervals are smaller. Measure 14 moves from D♭ +2 to E♭ and -2 back to D♭.

The next move is -5, once again, down to A♭ (m. 23), signaling the end of this phrase

and correlating to the beginning of the second phrase, which also began on A♭ (m. 9),

one octave higher.

The fourth phrase in this section (mm. 18–24) sets up two alternating voices,

distinguished by both dynamics and intervallic density. It is critical for the performer to

highlight these dynamic changes, as well as the resonant versus dissonant character of

each alternating chord. The phrase alternates between a resonant D-F-A chord and a

dissonant G-A♭ dyad. The D-F-A chord, always more prominent, is marked forte

whereas the more dissonant G-A♭ dyad is marked mezzo forte. I would argue that this

  62
contrast could be further exaggerated by substituting a mp for the mf marking.

Interestingly, the last dissonant dyad (m. 23) marks the halfway point in the etude. The

piece began with a wide openly spaced chord (G-D-C#), forming an outside interval of

+18, and has gradually contracted to the smallest interval available.

In mm. 25–35, the outer intervals begin to gradually expand again, leading into

the climax at m. 35. From m. 25, pi 7 expands to pi 13 and pi 15 in m. 26. The pi 18

appears in m. 28 and m. 29 spans a pi 25, an interval so large that Gubaidulina breaks up

the chord over the septuplet (Ex. 2.18).

Example 3.18: Expansion of intervals, Etude 4, mm. 25–35

Concurrently, the highest note of each chord in these measures forms a rising chromatic

line, beginning on A and ending on a high G-flat, at m. 35. Measures 36 through the end

function as a postlude, calmly shifting back to the low register of the cello and closing on

a low F♯, a respelling of the high G♭in m. 35.

  63
Etude 5: Sul ponticello, ordinario, sul tasto

Unlike the other etudes, where Gubaidulina explores either one or two techniques,

the fifth explores three. Sul ponticello and ordinario are easily distinguishable and pair

well as opposites; however, it requires more technical subtlety to separate sul tasto from

ordinario.81 Etude 5 might be grouped into three sections: Section 1 (mm. 1–20),

characterized by only sul ponticello articulation; Section 2 (mm. 21–44), characterized by

alternating ordinario and sul ponticello; and Section 3 (mm. 45–77), played completely

sul tasto. While these sections are clearly delineated on a surface level, a number of

motivic, intervallic, and chromatic connections occur beneath the facade. Each of these

elements serves to unify sections individually and also to connect different sections with

one another. One of these unifiers is the M1 motive from Etude 1.

Measures 1–20 contain four statements of M1. With each statement, the basic

intervallic structure remains the same while certain compositional elements are varied

(Ex. 2.19). For instance, the first statement, mm. 3-5 (F♯-G♯-G), is a +2-1. The second,

mm. 7–8 (E♭-F-E♮), contains the ordered pitch intervals -10 -1. While the general

intervallic distance is different, both share the same unordered pitch-class intervals of 2

and 1. Also notable is that the first statement is separated by a bar or rest between F♯,

G♯, and G♮, while all three notes of the second statement lie directly adjacent to one

another. The third statement of M1, in mm. 10–12 (C-D-C♯), shares the same ordered

pitch intervals (+2 -1) with the first statement but, like the second, all the pitches lie

directly adjacent with no rests.

                                                                                                               
81
The marking sul ponticello means to play with the bow as close to the bridge as possible, which produces
a metallic ethereal quality of sound that emphasizes the higher harmonics of the pitch; Ordinario means to
play normally, usually written after sul ponticello; and sul tasto means to play over the fingerboard, which
produces a mellow yet rich sound.

  64
 Interestingly, the first three statements are connected by a +8 distance; the interval

between G-E♭ connects the first and second and E-C connects the second and third. This

repeated +8 ordered pitch interval (in addition to the bar of rest) helps to clearly separate

each statement in a consistent manner.

In mm. 16–20 a somewhat more obscured fourth statement of the motive appears.

While this version (C-B-B♭) shares the same interval class content as the earlier

statements, it moves downward chromatically rather than changing direction, allowing

for a smooth transition to Section 2 of the etude.

Example 3.19: Statements of the motive, Etude 5

Like Etude 1, Etude 5 is organized in part by C3 interval cycles. All three cycles

play a role throughout the piece, helping to solidify and connect the motivic material.

Each pitch in the initial gesture (mm. 3–5) is a member of one of the three C3 cycles––F♯

= C3(0), G♯= C3(2), G♮= C3(1)––and the order of notes of a particular cycle remains the

same. Essentially, Gubaidulina is taking the initial motive and transferring it down three

semitones with each statement (excluding the last, which repeats the C). This intervallic

distance between gestures––identical to the interval of C3 itself––further emphasizes the

importance of the cycle (Fig. 3.2).

  65
 Table 3.2: C3 interval chart, Etude 5

C3(0) C3(2) C3(1)

1st statement F♯ G♯ G♮
Mm. 3–5

2nd statement E♭ F E
Mm. 7–8
3rd statement C D C♯
Mm. 10–11
4th statement (C) B B♭
Mm. 16-19

In addition to their intervallic and cyclical relationships, the various statements of

M1 are also connected by two descending chromatic lines (Ex. 3.20). The first line spans

the first two statements of the gesture (mm. 1–8), beginning on G and ending on E. The

second line begins on the high E♭ in m. 7, and extends gradually downward to F, in m.

30 (Ex. 3.20).

Example 3.20: Descending chromatic line, Etude 5

  66
 The arrival notes at the end of each descent take on an important role in mm. 35–

44, where the E and F represent two different characters. Primarily defined by their

contrasting registers, the dizzying interaction over these bars serves to build dramatic

tension. Gubaidulina achieves this effect with frequent travel by slide over the large

intervallic distance, quick alternation between sul ponticello and ordinario, as well as

rapid dynamic changes.

Section 3 of Etude 5 (mm. 45–77) signals a significant change of direction, while

also maintaining a direct connection to the preceding material. This section begins, like

the first, with an initial gesture reminiscent of M1 in mm. 47–49 (F#-A♯-G♯). Both

sections start on the same pitch and move in the same direction, yet in Section 3 the

intervallic distance between notes has doubled. Instead of +2-1 (of the F♯-G♯-G♮), the

ordered pitch intervals are +4, -2 (Ex. 3.21).

Example 3.21: Interval expansion of the initial gesture, Etude 5

Even with this intervallic expansion, the gesture still shares two of three pitches,

each note of the gesture relating to a separate C3 cycle but in a different order: F♯ =

C3(0), A♯ = C3(1), G# = C3(2). The statement repeats in mm. 51–52, on A-C♯-B.

The last few lines of the etude nicely correlate with the corresponding phrases in

Section 1. Measures 58–62 form an exact intervallic inversion of mm. 21–24. The same

  67
is true of mm. 26–27 through mm. 63–65. Measures 29–33 also closely relate to mm. 67–

71.

Example 3.22: Inverted melodic lines, Etude 5

As in Section 1, Gubaidulina connects various gestures using background

chromatic motion. Whereas the line descended in Section 1, the line ascends in Section 2,

beginning on C (m. 52), to the high G (m. 64). From there, the line descends again

chromatically to the D in m. 73.

The last four bars (mm. 74–77) repeat the first three pitches of the etude, G-F♯-

G♯, but over a wider and higher register. Instead of resolving back to a repeated G♮, as

in m. 5, the pitch gradually slides up to a pianissimo harmonic A in the upper stratosphere

of the cello, as if floating away.

  68
 Example 3.23: Beginning and ending comparison, Etude 5

Sul Ponticello, a frequent color used by contemporary composers, appears

prominently in this etude as Gubaidulina explores a number of specific technical

challenges related to the articulation. Measures 1–19 require quick changes of dynamics

under a tremolo ponticello. To execute these accurately, the player must balance control

of the arm weight, and bow speed (affecting the drastic and sudden dynamic shifts), while

simultaneously maintaining a consistent ponticello sounding point near the bridge, also

alternating tremolo and non-tremolo.

Example 3.24: Variety of dynamic changes under sul ponticello, Etude 5

1 sul pont. ≥
? 43 æ˙™ ∑ #œ #æ˙ ∑ ˙™
ææ ∑
æ æ
p f p p f p f p

3 æ
14

∑ B œ œ Œ Œ ˙
& 4 b˙æ™ ææ ææ
p ff p mf p pp

  69
 In mm. 20–50 there is the added challenge of alternating between ordinario and

sul ponticello. A successful performance of this etude requires highlighting the contrast

between these two distinct colors; thus, close attention must be paid to the different

sounding point required by each articulation. This is especially important in mm. 35–42,

where these kinds of changes happen quickly.

Example 3.25: Quick alternation of sul ponticello and ordinario, Etude 5

? 43 ˙ ™
35
˙™ ˙™ œ ˙
ord. sul pont. ord. sul pont.

˙ œæ
æ æ æ
p III ff p f p

40
? œ ˙ œ
ord. sul pont. ord.

œæ œæ ˙ œæ
æ æ ææ æ æ
pp mp pp

When executed properly, this passage has the mercurial effect of emphasizing two

starkly different characters interacting in quick alternating dialogue. Essentially, the

teaching point of Etude 5 is to explore the intricacies of each articulation, both separately

and in close proximity, in order to acquire a nimbleness of bowing technique and an

ability to switch from one extreme to the other with ease and assurance. In this way, the

fifth etude fulfills the traditional role of an etude.

  70
 CHAPTER 4:

ETUDES 6–10: ANALYSIS AND PERFORMANCE SUGGESTIONS

Etude 6: Flagioletti

Artificial (or false) harmonics, an extended technique where the player holds

down a note on the fingerboard with a lower finger of the left hand, while another finger

of the same hand lightly touches a higher point on the neck. The pitch sounded, the fourth

partial of the overtone series, is typically two octaves above the lower note, although

other partials are possible. In the sixth etude, Flagioletti, Gubaidulina explores this

technique at length.82 While she uses both false and natural harmonics in this etude, the

former predominate.83

Example 4.1: Two types of harmonics, Etude 6, mm. 3 and 19

False: Natural:

o œo
œ o
? 44 Œ #Ȯ ™™ ? 68 ‰ ‰ J
3 19

‰ œ
&

A false harmonic allows the player to produce a harmonic-like sound on any note,

rather than simply on the natural harmonic overtone series of the four open strings. This

creates a wider palette of colors for a composer to work with. Flagioletti take a great deal
                                                                                                               
82
The word flagioletti comes from the French word flageolet, which was a small duct flute pitched in D,
popular in 17th-century France. The penny whistle is a modern version of the flageolet. Because harmonics
on a string instrument make a whistle-like sound, they are named after this instrument. It is unclear why
Gubaidulina uses the Italian spelling instead of the French.
83
Natural harmonics are produced when a single finger touches the open string lightly at a specific place on
the fingerboard to produce the sound.

  71
of accuracy and finesse to execute properly, especially while sliding or trilling.

Gubaidulina’s Etude 6 is saturated with this technique (straying from it for only a few

bars), making use of it on every string and in various positions on the cello. She

incorporates a variety of bowings, dynamics, articulations, as well as elements of

improvisation. Improvisatory interludes, indicated in the score as “non-metrical

passages,” always occur during a trilled false harmonic. Gubaidulina indicates the

duration in seconds, and squiggly lines loosely suggest the trill’s pitch direction and

speed. The flexibility of these indications inevitably broadens the interpretive

responsibilities of the performer and allows her a significant amount of creative freedom.

Example 4.2: Variety of false harmonics, Etude 6

Oœ Oœ Oœ ≈ ~ ™ Oœ U
, ~w bw™
11
?
mf p mf p mf

T ¥
~~ ~~ ~~≥≈10"
? Ÿ
22
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ nOœ
b Ȯ
<b><b>w~ b (IV)

o o *) tremolo
? 44 œ ˙™ œ ~w
43

b Ȯ w
ææ ææ
b ™™
~ ææ
III (II) (I)

Making a clear sounding false-harmonic pitch requires attention to a number of

specific technical details. First, the finger playing the lower note of the harmonic (usually

the thumb) must securely depress the string on the exact pitch indicated. At the same

  72
time, the whole left hand must remain supple and flexible enough to lightly touch the top

note (usually with the third finger), effortlessly making the subtle adjustments of distance

between the thumb and third finger––those necessary to maintain a fourth when sliding

and trilling up and down the fingerboard.84

The recurring giocoso character in this etude, calls for an off-the-string stroke,

perhaps played towards the upper half of the bow, to bring out the playful nature. I

suggest always starting this staccato stroke from the string to maintain a consistent and

clear sounding pitch. I also suggest experimenting with a sounding point closer to the

middle or lower half of the bow for consistent clarity of sound. There are also instances

where the player must shift quickly between the two types of harmonics, which often

involves string crossings and long shifts. Slow practice is necessary to accurately execute

such passages.

Example 4.3: Quick changes of harmonic types, Etude 6

o.
b Oœ. Oœ≥. Oœ. Oœ. . . . . o . . . .
o ? O b œ Oœ Oœ Oœ Oœ
O
? 68 ‰
27

‰ Œ™ &
œnœ
œ j ‰ œJ ‰
œ
III œ II
mf p

Like the fourth etude, Gubaidulina also titled Etude 6 after a single technique; yet

she creates juxtaposition and structure within the piece in various ways. This etude

explores two contrasting sound worlds. Each should be delineated by consistently

                                                                                                               
84
The distance of a fourth, between the thumb and third finger, is the most common indication in the piece;
however, there are instances where the distance of a fifth is required, which is the third partial of the
overtone series, as in mm. 21–22 and in m. 43.

  73
maintaining individual characteristics of articulation, meter, tempo, dynamics and

compositional writing throughout the piece. The first character introduced is the playful

giocoso (merrily), always indicated with a specific metronome marking of a dotted

quarter = 112. These sections begin and end the etude, occurring four times over the

course of the piece. Alternating with each giocoso section are contrasting passages of

primarily aleatoric music. The composer marks these sections as either doloroso

(plaintively), with a metronome marking of quarter = 84, sostenuto, meno mosso, or

simply with by an abrupt change in articulation, duration and dynamics.

A successful performance of Etude 6 requires a detailed understanding of the

elements constituting each sound world. Thus, a parameter complex can be quite helpful

for the performer in order to clarify, understand, and eventually communicate the unique

characteristics of each (Fig. 4.1). Again, legato is labeled as consonant and staccato as

dissonant; I have categorized other elements based on their simultaneous relationship to

one of these two articulations.

  74
 Table 4.1: Parameter Complex, Etude 6

Consonant EP’s Dissonant EP’s

1. Articulation and Means of Sound 1. Articulation and Means of Sound

Production: Production:
Ÿ Legato Ÿ Staccato
Ÿ Doloroso Ÿ Giocoso
Ÿ Tremolo
Ÿ Sostenuto

2. Rhythm: 2. Rhythm:
Ÿ 4/4 meter Ÿ 6/8 meter
Ÿ ♩= 84 Ÿ ♩= 112
Ÿ Meno mosso Ÿ Eighth note or smaller
Ÿ Quarter note or larger Ÿ Eighth note rests
Ÿ Quarter note rests Ÿ Dotted quarter note rests
Ÿ Fermatas
3. Dynamics: 3. Dynamics:
Ÿ piano Ÿ pianissimo
Ÿ mezzo-forte Ÿ crescendo/diminuendo

4. Compositional writing: 4. Compositional writing:

Ÿ aleatoric Ÿ precise

One of the most notable differences between consonant and dissonant elements in

this etude––besides staccato and legato––is the specific changes in meter between

giocoso and sostenuto. Therefore, it is imperative that the dance-like quality of the

dissonant giocoso sections be emphasized by feeling the music in two, with an emphasis

on the first and fourth beats, or a light release of notes occurring on the off beats. These

sections should remain rhythmically steady in order to contrast the consonant aleatoric

sections where the tempo can fluctuate significantly or disappear altogether. The

dynamics in the giocoso sections should also remain steady. These are consistently

marked piano and should remain so throughout with little fluctuation. Conversely, the

  75
frequent hairpins in the aleatoric sections should be exaggerated to emphasize the

contrast.

In general, the improvisatory nature of the aleatoric sections should be

emphasized and performers should exercise significant interpretive freedom in these

measures by varying the trill speed, sounding point, bow speed, and dynamics.

Conversely, the giocoso sections, while playful in nature, should remain steady and

consistent in both dynamics and rhythm. The specific tempo markings in the etude should

be practiced initially with a metronome in order to internalize their specific rhythmic

character as it relates to either a consonant or dissonant section.

Close attention must also be paid to the transitions from one character to the

other. In almost every case, a new section begins either on the same pitch, pitch class, or

a pitch class one half-step away in either direction from the previous. The subtle

importance of these transitions is perhaps found most clearly in the way Gubaidulina

progresses from the opening giocoso into the first doloroso. While the actual pitch stays

the same, the opening D♭ is respelled as a C♯ once the doloroso begins. This respelling

should signal a clear shift in the mind of the performer and inspire at least a slight change

of color. Similar attention should be paid to all other transitions, since this idea is what

creates a sense of connection between the two varying sound worlds.

  76
Etude 7: Al Taco, da punta d’arco

Like the third etude, a gestural perspective might also be brought to Etude 7.

Titled, “Al Taco, da punta d’arco” (From the frog to the tip of the bow), two characters in

this piece clearly derive from the frog and tip of the bow. While the placement and

removal of the mute in the earlier etude is essentially like flipping a switch on the sound,

the movement of the bow arm and the subtle adjustments required for proper sound

production, at either end of the stick, pose more technically complex challenges for the

performer. Essentially, there is a choice between a performance that highlights the visual

gesture of “jumping” from the frog to the tip, or one that is primarily focused on

producing the intended sound.

Ewell has analyzed this movement using Kholopova’s method, interpreting the up

bow as “consonant” and down bow as “dissonant.” He explains:

In deciphering the prelude’s title, “Al Taco-da punta d’arco” (From the
frog to the tip of the bow), one must determine whether the repeated down
bows right at the beginning are consonant or dissonant. I have chosen the
latter for three reasons: the piece ends on all up bows, and Gubaidulina has
a penchant for ending pieces on a consonance; the opening features
irregular five-note groups in a duple meter, which can be considered
dissonant in this context; and there are accents on the quintuplets which
also points to a possible dissonant expression.85

Additionally, Ewell places Berry’s practical gesture in the consonant category and

his expressive gesture in the dissonant category. Ewell demonstrates in an accompanying

video that, on a string instrument, the down bow is played from the frog and the up bow

is played from the tip. He also shows how it is possible to play a down bow close to the

tip, or an up bow close to the frog (the latter slightly more awkward to execute). Guided

by Kholopova’s EPs, Ewell notes that a convincing performance should involve

                                                                                                               
85
Ewell, para 17.

  77
highlighting expressive horizontal movements of the bow, from frog to the tip, to

emphasize the distance between the two parts of the bow. In order to do this, he suggests

that all up bows be played near the tip of the bow and all down bows near the frog

(excluding mm. 47–53, marked “detache”).

Ewell’s suggestions work in the context of the etudes as a whole, and the way

Gubaidulina is consistently highlighting opposites. However, performing Etude 7 thus, a

performer risks affecting the quality of the sound. For example, the piece begins with a

long series of down bows, marked “al taco” (at the frog), with a mezzo-forte dynamic.

The first up bow occurs only at the end of m. 5. Visually, it is quite dramatic to jump to

the tip of the bow for this up bow (sounding the notes open G and C), especially because

of its appearance as the first up bow of the etude. And while it is possible to play this fifth

while maintaining the mezzo-forte and producing something near an accent, it is virtually

impossible to play it as convincingly, with respect to sonority, as when playing the up

bow closer to the frog.

In live performances of Etude 7, players must make certain informed decisions.86

I think a convincing performance is certainly viable using Ewell’s jumping method,

despite some of the sound quality lost. However, when I asked Gubaidulina if she thought

exaggerating the motion from frog to tip was necessary, she responded:

Of course not . . . in general it has to be said that this idea shouldn’t be

read literally. And I didn’t want to be demanding of a strict logic. I, of
course, wanted to fantasize . . . [this method] is not needed, it is the artist’s
work.87

While Gubaidulina clearly finds it unnecessary to jump from frog to tip, I think

the idea of opposites in this etude can be brought out if the performer conceives the
                                                                                                               
86
Obviously, recorded performances limit the significance of visual execution.
87
Gubaidulina, interview, 2015.

  78
motion from frog to tip as occurring gradually over the course of the movement, rather

than between each up bow and down bow.

The marking “al taco” occurs twice in Etude 7: at the opening (m. 1) and right

after the climax (m. 54). Measure 67 is marked “poco a poco da punta d’arco” (little by

little to the tip of the bow). As this is the only place in the etude (apart from the title)

where Gubaidulina indicated “punta d’arco,” arguably it is the only place she wanted it.

After all, the up bow does not directly imply playing at the tip and down bow does not

necessarily imply playing at the frog.

In general, a gradual movement from frog to tip occurs over the course of the

etude with each new section. (Section 1, from mm. 1–29, Section 2, from mm. 29–47,

and Section 3, mm. 54–end.) In the second section, two major changes occur. First, the

general direction of the chromatic line begins to ascend, rather than the previously

descending motion, and the repeated down bows reverse to repeated up bows. This

change of bow direction should require a shift in the sounding point. While you can make

an adequate sound playing at the tip of the bow on these repeated up bows, a more

resonant and controllable sound can be achieved by playing slightly above the frog and

closer to the middle of the bow. This sounding point is especially helpful technically,

considering that travel to the frog to play intermittent down bows is required over these

measures. Quick travel between the middle and the frog is much easier to control than

travelling the distance from frog to the tip. So with the change in sounding point on these

up bows (primarily) over mm. 30–46, the overall motion to the tip, occurring over the

course of the etude, has begun.

  79
 Section 2 (mm. 47–53) marks the first time in the movement where the melodic

material moves exclusively by leap, and a consistent alternation of up bow and down bow

with no repeat of bow direction. Significantly, this section is marked detache, a bow

stroke that works best when played in the middle of the bow. Here again, the overall

motion of the bow has moved further up the stick to the middle.

Section 3 (mm. 54–66) briefly reverts again to “al taco,” but in the last five

measures of piece Gubaidulina finally fulfills the goal of the title of the etude––to get to

the tip of the bow. Marked “poco a poco da punta d’ arco,” these measures mark the only

place where Gubaidulina explicitly asks for notes to be played toward the tip. Although

the audience must wait longer to feel the sense of opposition and juxtaposition in this

piece, the delay is extremely effective. The chromatically rising melodic line over these

last five bars, into the higher register of the cello, further emphasizes a motion upward

and away from the frog, as if it continues even after the music has ended.

  80
Etude 8: Arco — pizzicato

Etude 8 pairs two of the most common cello articulations; arco (bowed) and

pizzicato (plucked). Like the first etude (Staccato — legato), each articulation in Etude 8

is separated into one part of the piece. The first section (arco), from mm. 1–46, has a

significantly longer duration than the following section of staccato, from mm. 47–63

(end). The arco section is played exclusively in sixteenth notes (with the exception of the

opening pitch, C), and the pizzicato section contains only eighth notes (except the first A

and the penultimate note, D). Therefore, unlike Etude 2, the articulations do not directly

infiltrate each other’s space; instead, Gubaidulina allots them individual time. The vivo

♩= 120 marking is the fastest tempo indication of all ten etudes and thus important that it

remains fairly consistent throughout.

The opening arco section is based on a motivic idea shared with Etude 1. The M1

motive, +2, -1, and its inversion, -2, +1, essentially structure both etudes. Because the

composer uses both versions of the motive with similar frequency, in Etude 8 I will refer

to -2, +1 as M1a and +2, -1 as M1b. The continuous repetition of the motive, with its

creeping chromaticism at different pitch levels within a swift tempo, creates an

atmosphere of anxious unpredictability, giving the impression of insects scattering.

Essentially, the whole arco section is one continuous stream of M1a and MIb,

intermittently displaced by rapid shifts at varying intervallic distances.

The primary technical challenge of the arco section is to maintain accuracy of

pitch within the brisk vivo tempo. Yet an understanding of the general structure, overall

chromatic motion, and repeated patterns occurring within the texture can help immensely,

  81
both in learning the notes and in making informed interpretive decisions. Otherwise, this

section may seem simply like a random barrage of sixteenth notes.

Because the rhythmic texture is unwavering, it is important to identify some

overall landing points. The arco section can be divided into three smaller sections:

Section 1, mm. 1–17; Section 2, mm. 18–32; and Section 3, mm. 33–46.

It is also necessary to understand the basic tonal implications inherent in the M1

motive; the last note as the goal essentially constitutes a harmonic resolution of the figure

itself. For example, in the first instance of M1a (m. 6; C-B♭-B), the role of C and the B♭

is to “circle” the final B in the same way that a leading tone resolves to a tonic from a

half-step below. To stress the importance of the third note of the motive, Gubaidulina

consistently places it on a strong beat within the measure. In order to maintain this

pattern, despite the frequent intervallic interruptions, she often adds a note a half-step

away in either direction after a leap or jump, getting the rhythmic impetus back on track.

In Section 1, mm. 6–14 are primarily made up of M1a. Over these measures, a

background chromatic motion occurs from C (m. 6) to B (m. 10) to B♭(m. 12). From

each of these pitches there is a foreground chromatic descent. In mm. 6–9, the opening C

is reiterated four times, stubbornly inhibiting the descent of the M1a cycle (Ex. 4.4).

After each restatement of the C, the cycle is able to descend a little further, creating an

expanding series of intervals. In m. 6 a pi 3 appears, in m. 7 a pi 4, and in m. 8 a pi 5. In

m. 9 the cycle finally descends for three uninterrupted beats, leading to the F♯ at m. 10.

  82
 Example 4.4: Chromatically descending lines, foreground and background,
Etude 8

In mm. 10–12, the chromatic motion from the high B descends to F♯ in m. 11

(reiterated in m. 12). The B♭ in m. 12 leads down chromatically to G, in m. 14.

Gradually, Gubaidulina has expanded the distance of the interrupting intervals to one

large enough to give the impression of the cycle occurring in two separate voices. For

example, in m. 10, the M1a cycle is interrupted by a leap down -6, where the cycle occurs

in the lower range for a few beats. Interestingly, when the pitch leaps back up to the top

voice, in m. 11, the pattern continues exactly where it left off in the cycle. In m. 14 a -7

leap to the lower voice occurs, followed by a motion back up to the corresponding pitch

of the cycle in the top voice. By maintaining continuity within the voices, despite their

interrupting each other, Gubaidulina further solidifies their independence.

While the M1a cycle naturally descends, the M1b ascends. In mm. 14–17, M1b

initiates upward chromatic motion from E (the last note of m. 14) to D♭ (downbeat of m.

18) (Ex. 4.5).

  83
 Example 4.5: Ascending chromatic M1b, Etude 8

Essentially, the D♭ in m. 18 has been the goal of the etude thus far and, despite

the laborious effort of the previous music, the pitch has only ascended one half-step from

the opening C. Therefore, m. 18 should feel like a significant arrival for both the

performer and the listener. The performer should exaggerate the crescendo in mm. 16–17,

and the resulting fortissimo at 18, to clarify this arrival.

Measure 18 emulates mm. 4–5 of the etude, but instead of vacillating between C

and B, the pitches vacillate between D♭ and C. Combining these two figures creates

another instance of M1 (C-B-D♭ or B-D♭-C). In Section 2 of the arco, the pitch travels

both up and down, unlike section A where the highest pitch remains on the opening C.

Measures 19–22 combine both M1a and M1b, allowing gradual chromatic motion

in both directions. For example, a rising chromatic line, from mm. 18–22, beginning on

the original D♭, eventually lands on the high F by skip (m. 21), and by chromatic motion

(m. 22). I would argue this line as essentially a continuation of the motion that began on

E, in m. 14. Concurrently, the line also descends in the opposite direction, forming a

wedge expanding outward from the D♭, in m. 18 (Ex. 4.6).

  84
 Example 4.6, Chromatic motion in both directions, Etude 8

After the F5 is reached (mm. 21–22), the remainder of the music leading into

Section 3 primarily comprises the M1a cycle interspersed with gradually expanding

intervallic interruptions. In mm. 21–23, the F functions similarly to the C in mm. 6–9,

delaying the descent of the cycle with the reiteration of the pitch. In m. 23, like m. 9,

three full beats of uninterrupted M1a occur after a release from the repetition of the top

pitch. Again, the music is allowed to continue its descent.

From mm. 24–32, the impression of two independent lines again emerges as the

intervallic interruptions expand (see Example 4.7).

Example 4.7, Expansions of intervals, Etude 8

In the opening of Section 3 (mm. 33–35), the pitch fluctuates between G and Ab,

another set of two half-step related pitch classes, yet the interval is a compound minor

  85
ninth (pi 13) not the simple minor second (pi 1) of the beginning of Sections 1 and 2.

This larger distance between the dyad reflects the general intervallic expansion up to this

point of the etude. The first half of Section 3 (mm. 33–41) shows a general motion

downward, into the second half of the section (mm. 42–46). Another gradual expansion

of intervals appears, starting in m. 37, with a pi 3, m. 38, a pi 4, and m. 39 a pi 6. In mm.

40–41 the expansion skips, with a pi 8 in m. 40, and a pi 10 and pi 13 in m. 41. In m. 42,

the second set of important dyads is reached, alternating between a D♭-C (pi 13), with

the same articulation as the dyads in mm. 33–34. From mm. 43–46, a series of the M1b

motive creates a chromatic ascent from C to A (m. 47), which begins the pizzicato

portion of the etude.

The pizzicato section not only signals a major shift in articulation, but also in

texture and dynamics. While the arco section was strictly melodic, the pizzicato section

remains primarily chordal. The dynamics in this section also fluctuate with more

frequency and extremes; however, the M1 motive still clearly plays a structural role. For

example, in m. 47, the notes A-B♭-B form another M1. Some other instances include C-

C♯-D (m. 51), D-E♭-E (m. 52), and C-C♯-D (m. 54). There is also a general chromatic

motion upwards, sometimes emphasized by accents on significant pitches, for example,

the accents on C-C♯-D-E♭ and E (mm. 51–53). The last four measures of the pizzicato

section form a series parallel chromatic chords, which might be heard as a musical joke,

after all the winding cyclical material of M1 throughout the piece. The final two pitches,

D-E♭ again form a dyad made up of adjacent pitch classes, but separated by a the

distance of pi 13 rather than pi 1.

  86
Etude 9: Pizzicato — arco

 
Etude 9 is especially unique in its use of serial techniques and I was surprised to

find them in this piece, since Gubaidulina rarely incorporated them into her work. In the

1950’s, she did not embrace the compositional techniques of the Second Viennese school

as immediately or as seriously as some of her Soviet colleagues, such as Denisov,

Schnittke or Pärt, who wrote twelve-tone music over longer periods of time in their

careers. She said, “I was afraid that this twelve-tone technique did not suit me and for that

reason I used it only in practice.”88 However, she did use the techniques in some early

compositions such as her Sonata for piano (1965) and in a movement from Musical Toys

(1969), a piano piece for children.89

In an interview with Enzo Restagno, Gubaidulina recalled the nature of her

involvement with serialism:

My relationship with serialism did not develop in the same way as that of
other composers, especially Schnittke and Denisov. They actively sought
out this technique and went through an important phase with it. I, on the
other hand, approached dodecaphony as a researcher, analyzing it as
eagerly and thoroughly as one would any historical period. I plunged into
this technique just as I plunged into the style of strict sixteenth-century
counterpoint or later into tonality. For me, dodecaphony was already a
fully matured and possibly even historically complete tradition, and for
this reason I set myself the task of moving beyond it. Some composers of
my generation lived in this tradition and others went beyond it; I am one
of the latter.90

Perhaps because she considers Ten Etudes as studies for the composer,

Gubaidulina found an ideal place to plunge into serial techniques as a researcher. At the

time of our interview, I had not yet analyzed this etude, but I did ask Gubaidulina her
                                                                                                               
88
Kurtz, 65.
89
For more analysis of this work, see Seong-Sil Kim, “A Pedagogical Approach and Performance Guide to
Musical Toys by Sofia Gubaidulina” (DMA diss., University of Iowa, 2015).
90
Kurtz, 65.

  87
opinion of constructed sets or rows in post-tonal music, and whether she incorporated any

such elements into Ten Etudes. She said: “In all instances, notes [were] picked by

intuition, strictly by fantasy.” Furthermore, she said:

I have to say that I don’t really like construction of sounds. For me, the
interference in the material in this kind intellectual way is the same as
making artificial flowers. The thing I hold most dear, in principle—despite
the fact that I work with various structural elements––the most important
thing for me is the reality of the soul.91

The ninth etude––clearly structured by a twelve-tone row––seems a stark

contradiction to these statements. While Ten Etudes is understandably not fresh in the

composers mind, it does seem that this overall contradiction between the intellectual and

the intuitive is an issue that Gubaidulina has been grappling with for quite some time.

While the intuition and fantasy clearly drive Gubaidulina’s approach to composition and

perhaps most fully reveal her concept of the “reality of the soul,” she also emphasizes the

importance of limitations and structure on the composer in order to balance the intuitive

elements. She explained:

With the help of a structure of some sort I want to limit the intuition
spring, otherwise it is too strong. It has to be absolutely limited…. From
my point of view, art is an area of intersection between the intuitive spring
and intellectual limitation.”92

She elaborates on this connection in an interview with Ivan Moody, where she

explained:

I see the whole 20th century as an enigma––what to do, how to reconcile a

desire to reach the subconscious and at the same time find a way of
limiting things. Personally, I found a means of limiting my fantasy, this
enormous wave from the subconscious. You may ask if this is not a
contradiction, and yes, it is a contradiction that I was searching for, and

                                                                                                               
91
Gubaidulina interview, 2015.
92
Gubaidulina interview, 2015.

  88
 found in the Fibonacci sequence. When this wave appears and is
contradicted, art appears.93

Because the “subconscious wave” of her fantasy had not yet been successfully

harnessed by Fibonacci structures in these early works, she is clearly searching in various

other ways to find balance. The ninth etude demonstrates just one of the many

approaches she explored.

While the rules are not strictly enforced in Etude 9, the piece is clearly structured

on the row P7, which begins the piece: G-F♯-E-E♭-B♭-C-B-C♯-F-D-G♯-A. Figure 4.2 is

a 12-tone matrix of the original row P7, on which all the other rows are based.

                                                                                                               
93
Ivan Moody, “‘The Space of the Soul’: An Interview with Sofia Gubaidulina,” Tempo 66, no. 259
(January 2012): 34.

  89
 Figure 4.1: Twelve-tone matrix, Etude 9

I7 I6 I4 I3 I10 I0 I11 I1 I5 I2 I8 I9

P7 G F# E D# A# C B C# F D G# A R7

P8 G# G F E B C# C D F# D# A A# R8

P10 A# A G F# C# D# D E G# F B C R10

P11 B A# G# G D E D# F A F# C C# R11

P4 E D# C# C G A G# A# D B F F# R4

P2 D C# B A# F G F# G# C A D# E R2

P3 D# D C B F# G# G A C# A# E F R3

P1 C# C A# A E F# F G B G# D D# R1

P9 A G# F# F C D C# D# G E A# B R9

P0 C B A G# D# F E F# A# G C# D R0

P6 F# F D# D A B A# C E C# G G# R6

P5 F E D C# G# A# A B D# C F# G R5

RI7 RI6 RI4 RI3 RI10 RI0 RI11 RI1 RI5 RI2 RI8 RI9

Throughout the etude, some rows are complete, such as R5 and I10, while others are not.

For instance, I4 is missing a G♯ and a C♯. In other instances, two forms of a row are

combined, such as R1and I1, and R1 and P1. Interestingly, most new rows do not begin

on the first note, but instead wrap around. For instance, row R2 begins on B rather than

E. So the notes of the row remain in the correct order, but start on a pitch other than the

first note. Example 4.8 identifies the various rows as they appear in the score and Figure

4.3 lists the rows in the order they appear, with a description of each.

  90
 Example 4.8: Annotated score with twelve count of rows, Etude 9

  91
 Table 4.2: Chart of the various rows with descriptions, Etude 9

Row Measures Description

P7 1-3 ŸComplete

RI6/I6 3-5 ŸFirst three pitches A-G-F♯ are from RI6

ŸRemaining pitches are a wrap around I6 starting on D♯
Ÿmissing A♯

R5 6-7 ŸComplete

I4 8-10 ŸWrap around starting on B

Ÿmissing G♯ and C♯

R2 11-12 ŸWrap around starting on B

Ÿ missing A♯

R1/I1 12-15 ŸFirst six notes (R1) are a wrap around starting on E
ŸSecond six notes (I1) are a wrap around starting on F

R11 16-18 ŸWrap around starting on E

ŸD♯, A, F and F♯ missing

I10 19-26 ŸComplete

ŸWrap around starting on E♭

I9 26-33 ŸWrap around starting on E♭

ŸA, C, A♭ repeated
ŸC♯, F♯ and E missing

R1/P1 33-37 ŸFirst six notes are a wrap around (R1) starting on A
ŸSecond six notes are a wrap around (P1) starting on E
ŸB is missing

Etude 9 pairs the same articulations as Etude 8, but in the opposite order:

pizzicato, then arco. Like Etude 8, the articulations are separated into sections––the first

half (mm. 1–12) all pizzicato and the second half (mm. 13–37) all arco. While the two

etudes sound entirely different, Etude 9 builds on some ideas introduced in Etude 8. For

  92
instance, Etude 8 ends with a long glissando from D up to E♭, and Etude 9 begins with a

long glissando from G down to F♯. While much of Etude 8 features tight chromatic

motion, it takes form as a gradual expansion of intervals occurring throughout the piece.

The simple half-step related dyads (pi 1) that began Sections 1 and 2 (C-B and C-D♭)

appear as compound intervals in Section 3; G-A♭ (mm. 33–35) and D♭-C (m. 43), this

time related by minor ninth’s (pi 13). Etude 9 picks up with this pi 13 intervallic idea in

the opening dyad of the row, G- F♯.

The two pitches that follow, E-E♭, in m. 2, are also adjacent pitch classes; yet

instead of pi 13, we see pi 11. Throughout Etude 9, Gubaidulina explores expanded

adjacent pitch-class dyads; therefore, an adjacent pitch class dyad (either pi 1, pi 11 or pi

13) occurs in almost every measure of the piece. Additionally, while there are thirty-four

adjacent dyads in this etude, fourteen are connected by a slide, which further emphasizes

the intervallic distance covered.

While both the pizzicato and arco sections of Etude 9 share certain features, such

as large intervals, slides, and a consistent piano dynamic, other features are unique to just

one particular section. The performer should emphasize these different characteristics.

The following Parameter Complex, shown in Figure 4.4, outlines the consonant or

dissonant function of each contrasting element. As in the previous Parameter Complexes,

legato is considered a consonant and, therefore, the whole arco section, with its legato

articulation, serves a consonant function. Conversely, pizzicato, inherently a staccato

articulation, belongs in the dissonant category.

  93
 Table 4.3: Parameter Complex, Etude 9

Consonant EP’s Dissonant EP’s

1. Articulation and Means of Sound 1. Articulation and Means of Sound

Production: Production:

Ÿ arco Ÿpizzicato
Ÿ legato
Ÿ harmonics

2. Rhythm: 2. Rhythm:

Ÿ6/4 meter Ÿ sixteenths notes

Ÿwhole notes Ÿ eighth notes
Ÿdotted half note Ÿ triplets
Ÿ quadruplets
Ÿ quintuplets
3. Compositional Writing: 3. Compositional Writing:

Ÿ Precise (steady) Ÿ Aleatoric

While Gubaidulina marks the etude largo ♩= 54 throughout, the difference in

rhythmic pacing is one of the most distinguishing features of each section. The pizzicato

portion features three instances of aleatoric writing, marked by widening and contracting

sixteenth-note beams. In a performance note, Gubaidulina indicates accelerando for the

widening beams and allargando for the contracting beams. These tempo changes, in

addition to the various unpredictable rhythmic groupings, create a feeling of drunkenness;

however, the extent to which these are brought out remains the performer’s choice. I

suggest emphasizing the improvisational character of the pizzicato section in a few ways.

For example, the various rhythmic values need clear delineation, but the performer

should also vary the speed of the slides and the degree of accelerando and allargando in

  94
the aleatoric figures. It is also important to distinguish between the slurred and un-slurred

pizzicato by avoiding rearticulating the second pitch of the slurred note.

Because the arco section has no instances of aleatoric writing or tuplet groupings,

its rhythmic effect is much steadier, and the performer should emphasize this more

simplistic approach to rhythm. The speed of the slides should remain consistent and in a

steady tempo, to contrast the drunken character of the pizzicato section. The primarily

legato nature of this section should also be exaggerated. Because there are so many shifts

and string crossings (some over two strings at once), special attention must be given to

avoiding unwanted accents. Bow changes should be carefully planned and bow speed

should remain steady. In a sense, the intervals in the pizzicato section should feel more

labored than those in the arco section.

  95
Etude 10: Senza arco, senza pizzicato

The title itself implies an ending in Etude 10, since all of the other etudes

introduce the presence of various articulations, while it announces the cessation of

articulations. The previous etudes, 8 and 9, also titled after arco and pizzicato, deepen the

feeling of absence of these sounds in Etude 10.

Compared to the other etudes of the set, the tenth stands out as not requiring even

a bow or, for a significant portion of the piece, the right hand. The juxtaposed characters

in this etude, senza arco and senza pizzicato, alternate throughout the piece, lasting

varying amounts of time. The con le dita (with the fingers) articulation is achieved by

striking the left-hand fingers on the fingerboard, creating a labored “clanking” sound on

every pitch.

The predominating motivic ideas that make up the con la dita passages center

around the pitch-class sets (014) and (016). For instance, the opening three notes, G♯-

C♯-D, form an (016) trichord, and B♭-D-C♯ form an (014) trichord in m. 4. Instances of

each set class occur in both overlapping and non-overlapping fashion. For example, in m.

11 the five notes of the measure (E-E♭-B♭-A-C♯) form three overlapping sets; there are

two instances of (016) (E-E♭-B♭) and (E♭-B♭-A), as well as an (014) (B♭-A-C♯).

While there are a significant number of (014)’s, the (016)’s dominate the texture. The

jigsaw-like effect of these motives creates a clear continuity throughout the etude.

  96
 Example 4.9: Instances of (016), Etude 10

Example 4.10: Instances of (014), Etude 10

Interspersed with the sections of con la dita sections are interludes of

improvisatory material. Because Gubaidulina appreciates the “fantasy” that each

performer brings to her music, it is not surprising that she has incorporated various

improvisational elements into her pieces. While there have been instances of aleatoric

and improvised material in the previous etudes of the set, the most extreme example

occurs in the interludes of the tenth. When I pointed to these sections of improvisation in

  97
the interview with Gubaidulina, and asked how she would like them to be played, she

replied:

It should be absolutely free. And for me it is very interesting to observe

[the performer]. Many, many cellists play this with an absolutely fantastic
result…. Some really like to improvise, others are very afraid. When
Ulyses Berger improvises, it is completely different than when Vladimir
Tonkha does. This etude was a great gift for me. Every performer brings
his own conception.94

While Gubaidulina clearly stresses that she expects each cellist to bring their

unique fantasy to the piece, she is also extremely specific in the score about exactly how

she wants the improvised sections to be played. A footnote in the music explains, “The

tremolo is played on the C string with the thumb of the right hand. At the same time the

left-hand thumbnail remains on the string. The sound thus produced is supposed to

imitate a side drum roll. During glissando notes, the string is depressed in the normal

way.”95

Yet, in videos and recordings of Vladimir Tonkha (a most trusted interpreter)

playing Etude 10, most of the detailed requests in the score go completely unheeded.

Apart from maintaining a primarily consistent tremolo throughout, he ignores completely

all other specified elements listed above. Despite this disregard, Gubaidulina seems to

savor the way each performance is completely unique. She particularly appreciates the

way Tonkha closes the work, saying, “Vladimir Tonkha ends this with a tragic exit from

life. He uses absolutely every possibility without the bow. In some places I felt he was

just praying ecstatically.”96

                                                                                                               
94
Gubaidulina, interview, 2015.
95
Sofia Gubaidulina, Ten Preludes for Violoncello Solo (Hamburg, Germany: Sikorski, 1979).
96
Gubaidulina, interview, Gavin and McBurney. 1990.

  98
 Indeed, Tonkha covers most registers of the cello in the improvised sections,

playing on all strings with a wide variety of dynamics. On all of the videos and

recordings of this etude that I have seen or heard, he ends with a dramatic decrescendo to

a pianissimo, culminating in a position where his thumb barely touches the C string,

making no sound at all. This soundless gesture is quite dramatic and although not

specified by Gubaidulina, makes for a powerful performance.

In sum, cellists playing Etude 10 should not feel overly restricted by the technical

instructions written by the composer. In particular, the improvised sections should be

played extremely free in all aspects. Gubaidulina is clearly more concerned with each

performer bringing his or her own unique voice to the piece, rather than diligently

following such specific rules. Such details act as guidelines rather than to restrict the

performer, thus serving as a springboard for the cellist to express her own “fantasy.”

  99
 CONCLUSION

The idea of opposites remains a common theme in Gubaidulina’s music, but her

eventual discovery of the Fibonacci series, to structure her works, became the ideal

means of reconciling the relationship between a major juxtaposition in her life: intellect

and intuition. Indeed, for Gubaidulina, “art is the area of intersection between the

intuitive spring and intellectual limitations.”97 This musical aesthetic is inextricably

linked to her spirituality and mysticism, which she discovered at a very early age.

Furthermore, the rich dichotomy of the cultures into which she was born––Tatar and

Russian––has profoundly impacted her life and development as an artist.

The Ten Etudes—and other works written prior to Perception98—show a

Gubaidulina not yet inhibited99 by Fibonacci numbers; therefore her approach to form is

more free, experimental and intuitive. While the various articulations help to dictate the

general structure of each etude, the variety of compositional approaches creates

continuity and cohesion in the work. For example, the M1 motive that opens Etude 1––a

seemingly simple three-note chromatic cell––serves as a structural foundation for the

                                                                                                               
97
Gubaidulina, interview, 2015.
98
Gubaidulina notes that this was the first piece where she incorporated elements of Fibonacci. Lukomsky,
“Hearing the Subconscious,” 29.
99  Gubaidulina uses the golden ratio as a structural basis for much of her music in part because she

inherently connects with the idea that the Fibonacci numbers directly reflect proportions often found in
nature (seashells, sunflowers, crystals, pinecones, for example), and therefore it provides an ideal method
of organically connecting to God through her music. Many scholars have refuted some of the apparent
occurrences of the ratio in nature. For further reading on this argument see Condat, Jean-
Bernard. Leonardo 21, no. 2 (1988): 217-18. Ernő Lendvai argues the appearance of the golden ratio in the
music of Bartók in his book, Béla Bartók: An Analysis of His Music (London: Kahn & Averill, 1971). Yet,
many theorists question the accuracy with which he draws his conclusions. For further reading on this, see
Roy Howat, “Bartók, Lendvai and the Principles of Proportional Analysis,” Music Analysis 2, no. 1 (1983):
69–95.

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piece. Gubaidulina dissects and explores this figure patiently and meticulously. Apart

from inversion and repetition at various pitch levels, she connects the different statements

of the figure with background chromatic motion and highlights its innate cyclicity using

interval cycles. Her exploration of this figure continues with the return of M1 in Etudes 5

and 8 where she expands on it even further.

In all instances of my analysis, it has been my intention to highlight elements of

structure, both small and large, that are essential in adding clarity and intention to

performance decisions. As performers, we are often creating a hierarchy in our heads of

what elements should be brought out and where. Such decisions help tremendously in

constructing a successful narrative for the listener in performance. Consequently,

unsuccessful performances are often the result of not making enough of these types of

decisions. For instance, understanding M1 as the single basic motive that structures all of

Etude 1 is inherently helpful for the performer; each time the motive is encountered in the

music, there is at least a slight acknowledgment of its importance which––however

subtle––affects the way it is played. Awareness about the ways in which the motive is

transformed requires decisions about how to bring out such changes, if at all.

Furthermore, knowing that each statement of that gesture is structurally connected by a

background chromatic line adds another important layer of information; this consequently

affects performance decisions regarding dynamic pacing, articulation, and perhaps the

hierarchy of notes within the motive itself.

While she argued in our interview that the presence of the golden ratio was not

intentional with the etudes, the proportions do exist in some of them, and they help to

organically guide the gradual culmination of technical elements into a clear overall

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structure. For instance, in Etude 2, the initial wedge expansion around open G is

progressively broadened––chromatically and intervallically––leading to a resonant

compound cycle that opens up into the climax of the piece. Perhaps the “intuitive” nature

of these examples paves the way for more deliberate use of Fibonacci elements in her

later work. She so instinctively uses them in these early pieces that it would seem a

natural progression to incorporate them deliberately and with more precision in later

compositions.

Gubaidulina consistently pays close attention to intervallic symmetry in her

music; consequently a sense of structural balance is achieved. An initial phrase that

moves by pitch in one direction is often followed by a consequent phrase in the opposite

direction. For example, in Etude 2, the second legato section travels up by four semitones

and the third legato section travels down by four semitones. In Etude 4, the first phrase

travels up five semitones, and the second, down five semitones. Gubaidulina expands on

this idea in Etude 5, by repeating a longer melodic line found at the beginning of the

etude in inversion at the end. Thus, symmetry is found on both a local and more distant

levels, adding cohesion and balance to phrases.

Gubaidulina has written extensively for the cello, yet in the Etudes, her only solo

work for the instrument, she not only worked out certain formal compositional ideas that

would serve as “imprints for future works,”100 but also became intimately acquainted

with the expressive capabilities of the cello as an instrumental personality. Thus, she

could explore the extremes of the more traditional articulations (staccato–legato) and the

more contemporary (con la dita, flaggioletti). These articulations represent characters, or

perhaps contrasting moods, of the cello’s personality, at play in various contexts. The
                                                                                                               
100
Gubaidulina, interview, 2015.

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ways these articulations interact and engage with one another in the etudes create a

structure based on natural dialogue and discourse between two individuals. For instance,

in Etude 2 the articulations, staccato and legato are initially very clearly delineated but

gradually begin to invade each other’s space. This disruption builds tension and allows

the musical drama to unfold in a natural and coherent way.

In certain cases for Gubaidulina, an articulation goes beyond character

representation and takes on a deeper spiritual meaning. Legato is not simply a method of

sound production—it becomes the means by which she restores the connection between

her soul and God. Her spiritual connection to articulation is in part why Kholopova’s

parameter complex can be quite helpful to the performer. Each piece by Gubaidulina is

shaped by consonant and dissonant elements, and in the ways they interact. Because the

most fundamental of these opposites is legato and staccato, a parameter complex of more

nuanced elements can be constructed around these basic articulations, depending on the

piece. In doing so, a performer makes crucial decisions about the origins of each

compositional element, as rooted in either consonant or dissonant, light or dark. A

performance is strengthened by taking the time to thoughtfully define and shape these

elements according to category and the composer’s intention.

This interplay of opposites, and Gubaidulina’s admitted personification of both

the cello as a whole and its specific technical elements, directly fuels the creative process

of interpretation for the performer. Exploring the spectrum of both the light and dark

elements in the work is not only helpful in understanding the piece structurally, but a

satisfying and rewarding practice for a performer, in general. Perhaps one reason so many

performers connect with Gubaidulina’s music is because the intuitive imagery that guides

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much of her music can is so directly related to the mind-set of performance. It is

important to remember that Gubaidulina was for many years focused on performance and

it is therefore no surprise that she brings this energy to composition.

The performer plays an integral role in the musical drama that unfolds in ten

etudes, and not simply by executing the notes. The attention brought to the gesture of the

cellist in placing and removing the mute in Etude 3, and the many instances of aleatoric

writing throughout the etudes (especially Etude 10), are just a few ways she highlights

the individuality and spontaneity of the performer. The intermittent “visibility” of the

cellist herself through these gestural and improvisational windows initiates yet another

pairing of opposites. Thus the cellist––as an individual––shifts from the background to

the foreground of the performance at various times over the course of the work.

Ten Etudes demonstrates the refinement, curiosity, and patience Gubaidulina

brings to her writing for strings. Her unique approach to sound is on full display in this

work and represents an early cultivation of her stylistic approach to writing for cello.

Cellists interested in performing these pieces need resources for gaining a deeper

understanding of the technical and structural intricacies of the work, but also of its

historical context and what this information reveals about Gubaidulina’s early style and

development as a composer. Without these tools, interpretation becomes significantly

more arbitrary and much less rooted in the intentions of the composer.

Future research might focus on other early solo works, such as Serenade for Solo

Guitar (1960), Toccata for Solo Guitar (1969), Chaconne for Piano (1962), Invention for

Piano (1974), Sonata for Double Bass (1975), Light and Darkness for Solo Organ

(1976), or Sonatina for Solo Flute (1978). Little has been written about these pieces, the

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ways she approaches the sound and personality of each instrument, her methods of

creating structure and any correlations to Ten Etudes. There is much to be discovered

about Gubaidulina, her music, and the ways in which her spirituality continues to fuel her

creativity.

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