2018: Spain Study Tour

Janet Yieh, M.M.A. ‘18

Spain: a vibrant kaleidoscope of colors, tastes and sounds. For a year before we landed on the tarmac in Madrid, we heard about Spanish history in ISM Colloquium—its kings and queens, its mosaic of cultures and the arts. But nothing prepared us for the first sight of Toledo as we rounded the corner on a winding green mountain road: a stone-colored, Roman, UNESCO-protected skyline sitting high on a mountaintop, with a river twisting far below the walls of the city. 

After ascending seven stories of escalators, we discovered we had arrived in Toledo just in time for the feast of Corpus Christi, the largest festival of the year, which included a covered procession through the narrow medieval streets. We were introduced early to the concept of tapas, small plates of local foods that Spaniards eat around the clock. In Spain, you might have an espresso for breakfast, some patata (potato) and olive tapas at 11:00 a.m., a serious lunch at 2:00 p.m., more jamón tapas (Iberian ham) and coffee (or a deep red glass of Rioja) through the afternoon, and finally dinner at 9:00 or 10:00 p.m. It really only took a few days to adjust to this lifestyle, and ordering tapas turns out to be an excellent way to practice Spanish!

As an organist, I was thrilled to dive into the musical and liturgical elements of the trip. Each destination was packed with living history. After a guided tour of Toledo Cathedral, which contains ten different organs and incredible architecture from its founding in 1227, we were able to visit the Chapter of Toledo’s extensive archives, full of documents from as early as the year 1085. Local scholar David Catalunya and ISM fellow Barbara Haggh-Huglo guided us through the collection, which included huge 2x4 foot decorated part-books of liturgical mass settings sung in the cathedral for hundreds of years, incredibly detailed miniature chant collections, and historical ecclesiastical records. I was particularly struck by an intricate hand-drawn design of a processional organ, which could be folded together into a 3D model. This was a bid from an organ builder to build a small but powerful instrument to be carried and played through the streets for magnificent feast days like Corpus Christi in the fifteenth century!

On the road from Toledo to Burgos, we spent a day visiting the small towns of Lerma and Silos. In the Ducal Palace of Lerma, the organists were over the moon to learn that we would get to play our first Spanish organs of the trip. 

As in most major cathedrals, the sanctuary was constructed with a horseshoe shaped choir in the center of the building, which featured two gilded organs facing each other in the balconies above, one from 1616 and the other from 1617. These instruments were designed to accompany the liturgy and play distinctly Spanish repertoire.They featured hallmarks of Spanish design, such as horizontal trumpets and a keyboard split at middle C, allowing one to play a melody in the right hand and accompany oneself on a completely different set of sounds in the left hand. We quickly established a routine as we traveled: we heard each of the five, ten, or fifty stops on each organ individually first, from sweet flutes to spicy mixtures and brassy trumpets, before trying out different registration combinations. In many ways, playing the organ is like cooking a dish: you have an array of different ingredients that are full of flavor on their own, and the art is in mixing them together to produce a blended chorus – every time you get something slightly different. (It is also worth mentioning that there is a Spanish organ stop called a tapadillo, which may have inspired this particular gastronomic analogy.)

In Silos, we met the Benedictine brothers of Santo Domingo de Silos Abbey and joined them for Vespers. Their dedicated chanting of the Psalms and evening service in Latin filled the cavernous gray chapel. What really struck me was their final procession back to the cloister. I realized as they walked by that all but a few of the brothers, who ranged in age from early 30s to late 70s and 80s, sang entirely from memory. The music and text were impressed in their souls and hearts.

Arriving in Madrid for our second week of the study trip was like time-traveling forward centuries. The cosmopolitan city was filled with wide eighteenth-century boulevards and triumphal arches, fast fashion chains next to royal palaces, and the classic Prado and modern Museo Reina Sofia. We were excited to hear that we would see the Madrid’s cathedral organ. Located across a plaza from the Palacio Real, Almudena Cathedral was completed and consecrated in 1993 by Pope John Paul II. The neo-Gothic stone architecture reflects the design of a traditional cathedral, but the dazzling blue, paprika red, turmeric orange, lime green, and mustard yellow stained glass and modern artistic designs were a brilliant surprise. 

The grand 71-rank organ crowning the back gallery is also modern, built in 1999 by Gerhard Grenzing’s Spanish firm. That evening, we were treated to two hours of uninterrupted open console time after the cathedral closed to visitors for the day. This instrument’s versatility astounded us; its smooth touch enabled us to play everything from classic Spanish music to Bach, from lush French Romantic repertoire to intense twentieth-century improvisation.

Our final days of the full ISM trip included visits to El Escorial, Valle de los Caídos, and a mesmerizing flamenco performance. El Escorial—a granite fortress, historical royal residence, monastery, basilica, choir school and funerary monument for monarchs and emperors—gave us a glimpse of the rich past lives of Spanish kings and queens from the sixteenth century at the height of the Spanish empire. The Valle de los Caídos confronted us with the realities of twentieth-century Spanish history. And the expert precision and passion of the flamenco dancing, improvised singing, and multitude of polyrhythms inspired and captivated us.

Our time in Spain was a whirlwind of tradition and modernity, color and flavor, sound and spectacle, good friends and new surprises—all in all, an incredibly fulfilling experience we won’t soon forget.

Twenty-one days to wander the unknown streets, enjoy long evenings over tapas, and gaze upon ruminative masterpieces: the 2018 ISM tour to España was a moment for beloved interests and people. Too often sidelined in the flurry of New Haven life, art and friends were paramount on this study trip. For me, it was a time to look and listen actively. We experienced outstanding art, observed stunning objects, and marveled at breathtaking architecture—the memories of which will travel with me back to the States to inspire my research, studio practice, and spirit. Here are just a few vignettes from the trip.

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After shaking off our jet lag, we were teased by short-lived Spanish sunshine. Crimson poppies and migrating swallows welcomed us into the European spring. Then, the rain in Spain began to fall. On a wet Toledo morning early in the trip, we took shelter in the Church of Santo Tome before El Greco’s The Burial of the Count of Orgaz.

This work is monumental. El Greco divides the earthy and heavenly realms with variations of his signature brush stokes, recognizable throughout the artist’s oeuvre. Professor Vasileios Marinis guided our eyes through the emotive composition and up towards the crowd of saints and angels among the clouds. “What is this work saying?” he asked us. This question evoked various responses from the student artists, musicians, theologians, and historians. We each responded with a perspective on the painting’s significance from our discipline and physical point of view. The opportunity to sit before this tour de force with these generative thinkers and makers was incredible.

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Over a week into our journey, we made our way to Madrid. A free day allowed some to rest, while others were irresistibly drawn into the Prado for a second visit. When we reunited once again, the group considered the travesty of Spanish history under Franco. In the country’s capital, we discovered the Museo de América. This less-traversed tourist destination holds a collection of objects seized from the Americas, including pre-conquest material culture from civilizations in North, Central, and South America, in addition to later items produced under Iberian colonization. Initially a personal royal collection, the museum was envisioned under the Republican government, but realized under the Franco regime.

Inside the museum, an amalgamation of objects from disparate lands and times are displayed together in an attempt to link the cultures of the Spanish empire thematically. Emily Floyd (M.A.R. ’12) highlighted the Codex Tudela of the Mexica people (also known as the Aztecs) and a series of Casta paintings, which explain combinations of racial mixture and status in colonial Mexico. Within a cohort of North Americans, I was reminded how rarely these objects from the Americas are shown in Europe (or anywhere), and I left considering the ethics of cultural heritage. Simultaneously, I contemplated how the fascist government hoped to position the story of the conquest, and what political and educational goals were at stake. How do we decolonize the self, the narrative, or the museum? Needless to say, these questions extend far beyond the coasts of contemporary Spain.

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When the ISM disbanded into smaller study trips, the arts and architecture students visited Andalucía. We spilled into warm and hilly olive orchards, took picturesque drives, and sampled perfect dishes. The beauty of this place is also coupled with violence. Like the Museo de América, Sevilla is a lasting testament to colonial conquest, with its riverfront ports that witnessed the transfer of an agglomeration of bodies, texts, canvases, and foods. The south was also home to the Muslim population until 1492, the fateful year of expulsion and forced conversions (these Muslims living under Christian rule were known as moriscos). The soil of this region retells a tale of overpowering “others” through the arts. In Andalucía, some Islamic architecture was demolished, while other edifices were adapted or interpolated under Christian rule. Esteemed structures were maintained or emulated (often by morisco artisans) for centuries.

Throughout the trip, Professor Luly Feliciano and her circle of expert colleagues led us through this challenging history. This was especially true on our journey through the Alhambra of Granada with Professor José Miguel Puerta Vilchez. He aided our meditation as he translated the Arabic poetry, which quite literally brought the building to life. An external entryway proclaimed, “I am the crown on the forehead of the door.… Once victory appears, I will open.” This speech enlivened the already mesmerizing façade, which bore remnants of polychrome on the detailed stucco cutouts. I was taken by the glistering lusterware tiles, the balmy and buttery florals, and the trickling conduits from the Sierra Nevadas. Enchanted by this intimate architecture, we skipped our coffee break and even requested to push back our lunch so that we could remain in the captivating Alhambra, following its circuitous garden paths.

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Of course, the study trip was so much more than these inspiring buildings, materials, and works of art. In a group of eighty very different people, I am thankful for the friends who wandered with me and made Spain so memorable. I am grateful for the hotel breakfasts, bus rides, shopping sprees, vegan churros, darts, hikes, and chats with so many members of the ISM. And I am eager to recreate Spanish dishes and relive these memories with my fellow wanderers back in New Haven.

The ISM explores the intersection of sacred music with sacred art, architecture, liturgy, literature, and theology. On the 2018 Study Trip to Spain, we dove into all this and more. The interdisciplinary approach that the ISM cultivates in its students was the heartbeat of the study tour. Throughout the trip, we were encouraged to view each of these elements—art, architecture, liturgy, literature, and theology—in light of the others. This year’s study trip included several liturgies of note, and we were able to experience these liturgies with careful attention to the architectural space in which the liturgies were being conducted, the arts present in these spaces, and the music sung in these liturgies. What is more, we learned to see the sacred architecture, arts, and music as inherent parts of the liturgy. Indeed, the ISM’s focus on sacred art, music, and architecture helps us to see liturgy as fundamentally constituted by much more than written texts. Two of these liturgies stuck me

The first of these notable liturgies was a Thursday morning Mass using the Mozarabic Rite at the Cathedral of Toledo. Experiencing this liturgy was truly extraordinary, because the Mozarabic Rite is in use today almost exclusively in the city of Toledo—mainly at the Cathedral (every day, or almost every day), and at perhaps two other parishes in the city of Toledo. Although the Mozarabic Rite (also known as the Visigothic Rite) was the localized rite of the Iberian Peninsula as far back as the seventh century, it was gradually quashed throughout the Middle Ages in favor of the Roman Rite. The sixteenth-century Council of Trent, which essentially standardized the Roman Rite throughout the worldwide Catholic Church, allowed the Mozarabic Rite to remain in use (the Council allowed all rites over 200 years old to remain).

The Mozarabic liturgy that we experienced was almost entirely sung in a body of chant not dissimilar to Gregorian chant, but more syllabic and perhaps more monotonal than the Gregorian repertory. We (at least fifty ISM students and several ISM faculty) were about three minutes late to the Mass, because we were searching for the proper side chapel within the large cathedral! When we entered the side chapel, I was overwhelmed by the antiphonal psalmody that the choir sang behind us as part of the introductory rite. While the liturgy looked in some ways like a pre-Vatican II Roman Rite Mass (for example, in its preface and Sanctus), the collects were spoken in rather (for us) strange places—a chanted amen occurred after every line of the Lord’s Prayer (a particularly wonderful feature), and utterances of Alleluia peppered the chants. While it was a bit confusing to experience an essentially medieval liturgy in a fantastically baroque chapel with painted walls and a priest vested in a Vatican II-style chasuble, we were very aware of our extreme privilege to be able to experience this rare rite.

The second liturgy of particular note was a Saturday evening Vespers service at the Monasterio de Santo Domingo in the tiny, gorgeous village of Silos. In the liturgical calendar, this particular service was First Vespers for the Feast of the Most Holy Trinity. The church was absolutely packed—mostly with tourists! The service was almost entirely in Latin, and it was sung almost entirely in medieval Gregorian chant. The organ accompanied virtually the entire liturgy, providing us with a wonderful harmonic soundscape with which to center the entire rite. The music rang out wonderfully in the Romanesque church, which did not contain a single carpet or rug to soak up the sound. I loved watching the monks formally process into the church from the back to begin the service, and then recess down the aisle after the conclusion of the service. The service was solemn, reverent, and absolutely beautiful.

For those of us who enjoy studying liturgical rubrics and texts and who believe in an experiential, observational approach to learning liturgy, the opportunity to feel the rhythms of the Vespers service and the Mozarabic Rite Mass was extremely valuable and helpful from an academic, pedagogical perspective. Exposure to these liturgies helped me to internalize much of what I have learned in my classes. Because of these experiences in Spain, I will continue to seek out experiencing the liturgies that I study, so that I may understand more deeply these ancient liturgies and their effects on the worshiper.

The Valle de los Caídos (The Valley of the Fallen) in the Cuelgamuros Valley in Spain constitutes perhaps the most controversial stop on the 2018 ISM trip. In 1940, Francisco Franco chose the valley as the spot to build a large memorial to soldiers killed during the Spanish Civil War. Originally only soldiers who supported the conservative government were buried at the site. The Valley is situated about 50 kilometers northwest of Madrid and most likely appealed to Franco’s vision because of its proximity to the Escorial—the chosen final resting place of many Spanish royals.

However, the Valle de los Caídos is not only a memorial. It is also an active basilica—one of the largest in Europe. Atop this church, a statue of Mary holding a limp and battered Jesus can be seen for miles around. Above the figures towers a large concrete crucifix. The Valley is also home to a Benedictine monastic community that runs a choir school for boys. Parents from across Spain bring their children to audition. If chosen to attend the school, the choir boys sing in the basilica at the foot of Franco’s grave almost every day.

On a very sunny afternoon, students and faculty of the ISM visited the Valle de los Caídos. For almost two weeks, we had been visiting cathedrals, thinking deeply about how art impacts the spiritual and physical resonance of a particular place, and meeting with nuns and monks who kindly shared their stories with us. But for me, the visit to the Valley marked a shift—it was a moment of shared distress. Furthermore, it was a moment of questions because it was also a moment of song. This aspect in itself was interesting because the ISM group had been singing throughout the tour.

Before our trip to the Valley, we sang as a way to explore the sound and acoustic possibilities of a space. In Madrid we sang to express our gratitude for musicians who prepared a concert for us. In Toledo we sang for cloistered nuns who served delicious marzipan with warm smiles. In Silos we sang for monks who shared their art and their stories with us. We sang and we sang. Until we didn’t—at the Valle de los Caídos. In the Valley, several ISM students and faculty expressed an active desire NOT to sing.  

When we arrived, though, we were not only greeted only by a member of the monastic community, but also by the choir boys and their director. We asked the choir boys questions and then they sang for us. They sang the traditional South African folk song “Siyahamba.” They sang and looked into our faces, seeming to ask us what we thought of them. I looked into their eyes and wondered what they thought of us—of us and also of their lives in general. I wondered what it was like to sing at the foot of Franco’s grave every day. I wondered what the Mass meant to them.

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That evening after returning to our hotel in Madrid, I felt distressed. I sat on the floor and attempted to hold the memories of the day tenderly and gingerly in my mind. I thought of the moments following the singing. I thought about how we did not sing. What did that mean? That we did not support Franco? That we felt too many mixed emotions to sing? That we were too hurt or surprised or overwhelmed to sing? My ability to form words seemed to have left me, so I opened the window, taking comfort in the sounds of busyness of the city around me.

A few days later in the Museo de Arte Reina Sofia in Madrid, I would again feel the moment of collective silence as together we experienced Guernica, Picasso’s famous discourse with the horrors of war displayed expertly, yet also vulnerably and truthfully, on a canvas.

***

I often think about the role of music in healing as well as in hurting. I want to say that all music is good and is used for positive ends; however, this is objectively false. Music can and has been used for negative and harmful ends. However, there are more ambiguous instances in which music serves as a mediation point, where it holds memories and ideas too complex or too ambiguous for words.

In light of these observations, I want to suggest that our purpose at the ISM is not only to make and study art that uplifts, although this is certainly an important part of our mission, but also to make and study art that serves as a mediation point. Art is power, in a sense, and is thus enlivened and given purpose by the agency of those who use it. That is why we must think critically about art and about the many roles it now serves in the world. Art both holds meaning and contains meaning within itself – and through the further creativity it awakens.

I am certainly grateful for the opportunities to sing for the monks and nuns and in the beautiful spaces. Furthermore, I have been overwhelmed by the talents of my colleagues who produce gorgeous and deeply meaningful music, words, material arts, and ideas. But what I perhaps most value from the entire trip was the moment in which we walked as one group—in a kind of unified, self-supporting silence—towards a place where we were all scared to go. It was hard for us to be at the Valle de Los Caídos. It was hard to listen to the choir boys sing “Siyahamba.” It was hard to walk into the church, to see the cross, and below to see Franco‘s grave strewn with flowers. In new ways, we questioned songs, the cross, and the church.

It was hard to know whether to sing or not to sing—perhaps we shall continue to ask what we should have done.

It gives me hope, though, that we indeed did this together. That we asked the questions, and that we are still asking the questions. It gives me hope that we sang later. Our song is forever different—it must be. We know more now; we’ve seen a new kind of hurt. Perhaps a new kind of peace will follow. Of course, Spain was beautiful. We shared so much goodness. But there is something singularly powerful about sharing the challenges too.

And so I ask you now, reader, to think critically. I pose this question to you: Is this part of what it means to love? To go not only into the good places singing, but to share the heart-wrenching silences? To go to the place of hurt? To listen to those who have hurt us, or who represent or endorse those who have hurt us?

Is this what it means to love? To get up the next morning and have breakfast together once again. Forever changed, but choosing to move forward.

The hurt, the song, the silence, the moving forward of breakfast, the singing again—I contend that this is love. I contend that this is life, and that it is a large part of the reason that art exists. And I contend that this is the reason for the deep hope I felt throughout the trip. A hope driven by the notion that, by its nature, no song can stay silent forever.

I’ll begin this reflection penitently, with two confessions. First, I confess my utter lack of knowledge about Spain’s organs, repertoire, organ builders, and rich musical history prior to the study trip, preparatory master classes, and colloquia. I also confess that when Professor Jean asked people to close their eyes and raise their hands if they had never traveled outside the United States, I peeped and kept my eyes open. As further confirmation of our immense privilege, I noted that almost everybody at the ISM had previously travelled outside the U.S., and a majority had traveled to Europe.

Given our massive privilege and seeming worldliness, how is it possible that my fellow organists and I knew next to nothing about Iberian organ music and history?

When selecting repertoire for church or concert, organists tend to pigeonhole themselves into selecting German, French, or English repertoire—perhaps a local brew is thrown in occasionally. The organ world is not the only musical sphere guilty of promoting a dominant musical aesthetic to the detriment of other musics: think of the German domination of orchestral repertoire, for instance. Within organ repertoire, Iberian music is very rarely performed, and it certainly is not studied extensively in North America. While one could argue that Iberian organ music is tailored for organs with specific characteristics—non-equal temperaments, split keyboards, and, later, chamade trumpets—the lack of representation in recital programs is telling, given the historical stretches organists readily make for other repertoire.

After the ISM study trip, the eight organists embarked on a weeklong organ tour, and we were lucky to have Natalie Grenzing, business manager for Grenzing Organ Builders, as our tour guide. Under the stellar direction of her father, Gerhardt Grenzing, her company had completed restorations of historical organs throughout Spain and constructed new organs in the cathedrals of Madrid (and Brussels), in addition to other projects around the world. Armed with a folder of organ stoplists and pictures, she explained each organ’s history before each of us got a chance to play. We played repertoire from Iberian composers such as Cabezón, Correa, and Cabanilles on these historical instruments. There was also a healthy amount of improvisation, as would have been expected of liturgical organists, especially in large cathedrals.  

Through master classes with Spanish professors and the opportunity to play historical instruments, we scratched the surface of Iberian organ music interpretation and gained an appreciation for its history and repertoire, which I hope will translate into its inclusion on more recital programs; unfortunately, though, there are very few organs in North America capable of presenting this music authentically.

As a group, we couldn’t resist trying the organs of famed French organ builder Aristide Cavaillé-Coll in San Sebastián near the French border. Organists trotted out warhorses of the canon: Dupré’s Prelude and Fugue in B Major, Widor’s Sixth Symphony, and Duruflé’s Variations on Veni Creator. Natalie Grenzing pointed out Cavaillé-Coll’s Catalán ancestry through his grandmother, Maria Francisca Coll, and connected his Iberian ancestry to his penchant for Trompettes en Chamade. Gerhardt Grenzing told us that the Trompette Harmonique, generally thought of as a Cavaillé-Coll invention, had in fact been invented sixty years earlier by the Spanish organ builder Jordi Bosch, and was used in the organs of the Royal Palace in Madrid and the Cathedral of Sevilla. The Spanish backbone of some of our profession’s most prized instruments and repertoire was eye-opening.

The organ tour was truly revelatory; not only because of our exposure to specific historical and modern instruments, but also because it called into question the established canon that musicians perpetuate through exclusive programming. I am grateful that many of us approached the tour with a humble inquisitiveness and appreciation, willing to dive into repertoire that we didn’t know well. I’ll try to retain as many of the kernels of wisdom as possible, but I realize that we have only begun to explore some of the profound riches of the Spanish organ tradition.

As I write this reflection 33,000 feet in the air, I recall how lucky we are to have experienced the study trip and organ tour. May we always appreciate what we are given and how much we have yet to learn, especially from traditions and peoples that we often overlook. As we go into another summer, or out into the real world after graduation, I hope this passage, written by Robert Dickinson in Joby Talbot’s Path of Miracles summarizes both the study trip and the humility and thirst for knowledge that the ISM strives to instill:  

“Here is a miracle. That we are here is a miracle.”

I honestly didn’t quite know what I was getting into when I applied for the arts and architecture trip to southern Spain. In high school Spanish class I was captivated by a presentation about the beauty of the Alhambra, and it was this vague wonder that initially spurred me to apply for the trip, hoping that such a trip might include a visit to that palatial complex. Thanks to the ISM and our fearless leader Luly Feliciano, not only was this dream of visiting the Alhambra realized, but the tour also deepened my interest in Spanish history and developed my knowledge of religious art and architecture.

The arts and architecture extension of the ISM’s 2018 Study Tour included visits to sites in Sevilla, Córdoba, Jaén, and Granada. In each of these locations, with the guidance of local guides and our own professors, we had the opportunity to delve into the specific history and current use of many sacred spaces. Through an examination of the complicated histories and current controversies of these diverse locations, a more nuanced picture of Spanish history emerged. As we learned that many of the churches and cathedrals were built on the sites of demolished mosques, and that often mosques and synagogues were simply repurposed as Christian churches, we began to understand that the story of religion in Spain is far more complicated than we had imagined.

One of the most interesting sites we visited was the Real Alcázar in Sevilla, a fourteenth-century palace built for the Christian king Pedro I of Castilla on the site of a demolished Muslim fortress. It is a large complex decorated with vivid tile designs and complex plaster elements. The palace contains many courtyards, pools of waters, and a lush garden. Though much of the architecture and landscaping emulated prominent Islamic styles, it is in fact a Christian site. It was fascinating to wander around and consider the ways in which motifs and architectural features were incorporated in such a context. Many elements were simply part of the visual language of the court and indicated high status, yet through such appropriation, the narrative of conquest and dominance was impossible to avoid.

In contrast, the Great Mosque of Córdoba was originally built as a place of Islamic worship, yet when King Ferdinand III captured Córdoba in 1236, the mosque was turned into a cathedral. It is a striking building filled with over 800 columns, many of which are spolia, architectural elements taken from an earlier Roman temple. Walking into the building, I was struck by how little it looked like a cathedral. At first glance, the layout suggested its identity as a large mosque; however, as I began to walk around, I quickly noticed the many chapels that had been built along the perimeter, and I marveled at the presence of both Qur’anic inscriptions and crucifixes. At times the juxtapositions were bewildering, so I greatly appreciated our professors’ nuanced commentary as we explored the unique space.

While we toured many popular locations, some of our excursions were a bit off the beaten path, as in the case of the city of Jaén. Even our bus driver tried to convince our trip leader to take us elsewhere, kindly offering the names of many cities that we might find more interesting than the small, industrial town. Nevertheless, we pressed on to Jaén, and not only did we have the opportunity to learn about a stunning cathedral, we also were able to visit some incredibly well preserved Arab baths. The group enjoyed learning about the bathing practices that would have occurred there, and this particular location helped us to widen our understanding of sacred spaces.

The final portion of our trip was spent in the beautiful city of Granada. After a steep hike up to the compound, we finally got our first glimpses of the magnificent Alhambra. Our tour guide expertly unpacked the layers of history embedded in the palace, taking us into incredible spaces normally off-limits for tourists. After having seen a Christian site built in an Islamic style and a mosque repurposed as a Cathedral, it was interesting to consider both the way the palace originally functioned and the how it changed after the Christian invasion in 1492. For example, hidden amid the geometric patterns and poetic calligraphy typical of Islamic architecture, small symbols, such as a yoke and arrows, reminded us that Ferdinand and Isabella also used the space.

The Alhambra was one of the highlights of the tour for our group. We were enchanted by the star-filled ceiling of the throne room and we all delighted to gaze into the many long reflecting pools and fountains that decorated the various courtyards. The Generalife Gardens were by far the most beautiful gardens I have ever seen, and I enjoyed wandering around them for a considerable amount of time as I reflected upon the ways that gardens had been represented throughout the inside architecture, and how those same motifs could be found alive and in color in the outdoor space.

In addition to the rich experiences provided by our official itinerary, we also enjoyed many spontaneous adventures. We loved exploring the city’s many unique shops, partaking of the region’s cuisine, meeting locals, and visiting additional historic sites. Overall, the chance to spend time together in a smaller group and share so many cultural experiences was an incredible gift. Not only did we share a transformative educational tour, but we also deepened our relationships with one another through the abundant quality time.

The Art and Architecture extension of the ISM Study Tour impacted our whole group academically, personally, and often spiritually as well. I am grateful for such a beautiful experience, and I am eager to continue to learn with this fabulous community throughout my next two years here at Yale. I have no doubt that memories of this trip will continue to echo on both in my life and in my creative work.

It was a brisk 5:15 a.m. when the cozy crew of seventeen students and faculty assembled in the lobby of our Madrid hotel, gathering our wits about us in the chilly darkness in preparation for the trip “down south.” After ten action-packed (and undeniably chilly) days with the full group in the central and northern cities of Toledo, Lerma, Burgos, and Madrid, the southern regions of Spain had acquired an almost mythic quality. The land of Mediterranean sunshine, the Córdoban corbled arch, and (rumor had it) unrivalled sangría beckoned. As the week progressed, we made our way through Sevilla, Córdoba, and Granada—and as the mythos of each place unfolded before us, the art and architecture tour brought Spain’s scrambled story into the palpable present.

As we made our way through southern Spain with the guidance of faculty and local experts, each city told its own unique story. At the same time, as each monument, church, palace, or convent spoke to us, I gradually learned how to listen—how to read the different surfaces or cityscapes—all the while assembling the intellectual and spiritual tools needed to comprehend the multi-sensual importance of each place. We were surrounded by stories built and inscribed by queens and monks, sultans and tradespeople, architects, bishops, and military captains, unclaimed children and forced converts from untold centuries.  

The pinnacle of the tour and perhaps the guiding metaphor of the trip for me was our visit to the Alhambra, the palace of the Nasrid golden age in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Our guide, José Miguel Puerta Vilchez, opened the place to us like the intricate poem that it is: every wall adorned with the lace-like tracery of geometrical patterns, the elegant elaborations of Arabic script, the speaking walls that sequestered murmuring fountains and a profusion of roses. An expert in the inscriptions that deck nearly every portal and room rim, Dr. Puerta Vilchez translated the Alhambra’s multi-layered messages to us. Declarations of the Nasrid motto, “God alone is victor,” visually mingled with glorifications of the sultan’s power and magnanimity toward his subjects. Meanwhile, in verbal rivulets surrounding courtyards and throne rooms, the Alhambra spoke of “herself” as the dazzling bride of the sultan, first person inscriptions commanding her inhabitants to contemplate her beauty. We willingly obliged, ogling our way through corridors and courtyards, the sun catching on dappled muqarnas domes and archways.

While the inscriptions wove an architectural love story between palace and rulers, between queen and sultan, between humans and God, the structural layout of each room performed its own cosmological narrative. Each room surrounding the famous “Court of the Lions” included small fountains at the center, the soft bubbling mimicking the bride’s stone-worked whisper, the subtle flow of water drawing us from room to room. At eye level, the walls blossomed with script and tracery resembling the gardens of paradise. Finally, as we craned our necks upward, the cosmos itself erupted above our heads in geometric representations of the seven heavens, astral radiance captured in a mystical mathematic.

Our visit culminated with a stroll through the gardens. After the elaborate stonework, the rows of roses, sweet peas, cypresses, and fountains felt like a rest to the eyes, and most of us followed our noses (the yellow roses were voted the winners). At the same time, the wealth of human talent and labor that had birthed the palace so many centuries before changed the way I received and read the gardens. The green leaves claimed their own lace-worked radiance, the pillars of cypress imposed their vertical authority, the starry blues and lush reds patterned in the beds declared the ingenuity of their cosmic creator. The Alhambra taught me how to read not only its walls, but also their inspiration—the works of an almighty Architect.

Looking back over the art and architecture tour, I’ll remember the sunny streets of Sevilla with their tea stalls and flamenco shops, and I’ll recall the introverted and glimmering courtyards of Córdoba. I’ll remember the communities of monks and nuns that welcomed us into their cloisters, the museums of Iberian history, the ancient Roman remains that litter the countryside with the remnants of dining rooms. I’ll remember divisions of cityscapes into Jewish, Muslim, and Christian quarters, the countless battle murals, the relentless remnants of royal insignia, and the propaganda that legitimated the expulsion and erasure of religious and ethnic communities. I’ll definitely remember what a Baroque façade looks like. Our guides, teachers, and the spaces themselves have given me tools to read the past and to sense its presence.

Perhaps even more importantly, I’ll carry with me dear conversations with fellow students, now friends, on subjects ranging from medieval Catholic devotional practice to the innumerable merits of falafel. These friends have taught me new languages for our shared experiences, and, I feel sure, will continue to shape my story.  

Commissioned in 2005, Joby Talbot’s Path of Miracles is a mostly a cappella choral work inspired by the Camino de Santiago. Today, pilgrims of all creeds trek the nearly 500 miles on foot for a wide variety of reasons. But for medieval pilgrims, this journey was largely devotional, culminating in the arrival at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, where legend has it that the remains of the martyr St. James are interred. As an American singer who primarily studies European music of centuries past, the opportunity to perform Path of Miracles in the cities that inspired this piece and for audiences connected to the Camino was unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced.

Roncesvalles

Each movement of Path of Miracles is named for one of the cities along the Camino. Roncesvalles, a town near the border between Spain and France, is where many pilgrims begin their journey. After driving through narrow, winding roads that climbed high into the Pyrenees, we arrived at quaint Roncesvalles. It seems like the only permanent residents of this tiny village are a few clergymen. Nonetheless, Roncesvalles was bustling with the energy of pilgrims who piled into the small stone church for Mass, followed by our performance of Path of Miracles. At the end of the Mass, the priest called all pilgrims to the altar for a special blessing. What struck me most was the pilgrims’ international diversity—some traveled to tiny Roncesvalles from countries as far away as South Korea and South Africa. The priest repeated his blessing in nearly a dozen different languages. This immediately reminded me of Path of Miracles, a textual conglomeration of modern and ancient languages that are often sung simultaneously. This milieu of languages was perfectly reflected in our international audience that night, a group of individuals who had taken so many different paths to start down the path at Roncesvalles.

The audience in Roncesvalles was our only audience consisting almost entirely of Camino pilgrims, which made this performance special. This was a very different audience than the usual New Haven or New York audience. People chattered (some loudly), fidgeted on creaky wooden pews, coughed and sneezed with abandon, as children hopped around, and programs rustled. Personally, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. This performance was for the pilgrims, and it was so incredible to share this music about pilgrimage within the context and culture of pilgrimage, rather than trying to adapt the audience’s personal experience to the culture of the modern concert hall. The audience was so appreciative, and it was rewarding to know that our music was a component of someone’s Camino experience.

Singing for this audience of pilgrims made many musical moments in this movement come alive for me in a new way. The opening of “Roncesvalles” captures the essence of beginning and initiation. The slow, amorphous vocal ascent of the tenors and basses feels like a mini-journey in and of itself; it conveys a sense of mysticism that sets the tone for the miracle of St. James referenced throughout the piece. There are also many moments in this movement that seem to look back in time, evoking a sense of the ancient with chant-like simplicity, all within the context of contemporary compositional idioms. Such moments reminded me of the Camino’s long history and its many traditions that carry into the present.

Burgos and León

If I had to sum up “Burgos,” the second movement in Path of Miracles, in one word, I’d choose “struggle.” By the time pilgrims arrive in Burgos, they have been walking for over a week. This movement focuses on the hardships of pilgrimage, both practical and spiritual. In contrast, if I had to choose one word to describe the third movement, “León,” I’d choose “light.” “León” focuses on beauty in a meditative mode. Our audiences in both of these cities contained only a few pilgrims. However, it was apparent that many people were well acquainted with the Camino—living beside it, or perhaps having once walked it. I sensed an immense pride for the Camino as a site of national patrimony among the audience members who greeted us after the concerts. Two particular audience members in León were excited to learn that two Schola singers planned to walk the Camino after the tour. “Eutrea esusea!” they exclaimed, invoking a travelers’ blessing that we sing in Path of Miracles. The text came to life in Burgos and León, and I loved hearing everyone’s observations as we experienced moments from the narrative. It was amazing to see the “carved apostles in the Puerta Alta” at the Burgos Cathedral, to drive along the Camino past “sheep track” and “hermits’ cave.” I loved talking to one singer who visited the cathedral in León. As she looked at the famous stained glass window, she understood the final words of “León” in a new way: “We pause as at the heart of a sun that dazzles and does not burn.”

Santiago

Santiago de Compostela stole my heart. The old white and stone city is so charming, and the air bursts with the celebratory spirit of pilgrims who have just completed their journey, a spirit that Talbot captures so well in this movement. My favorite moment of the entire piece is in Santiago: “The road climbs before the longed-for final descent to Santiago.” Talbot makes this manages to capture the magic of the moment of arrival after a long journey. While we may not have walked the Camino, performing in Santiago was certainly a moment of arrival for Schola. This was our last concert as the 2017-2018 Yale Schola Cantorum, and for many, it was also their last concert as Yale students. It was immensely meaningful to grow as an ensemble with each performance, and while I’ll certainly miss Santiago, I’ll miss the graduating singers most.

In my 27 years of life, never has a piece of music so viscerally captured my imagination as Joby Talbot’s Path of Miracles. Its epic scope, intense challenge, and profound connection to place and journey immediately captivated the entire ensemble back in October when we first began the rehearsal process. Its four movements describe four major landmarks on the ancient pilgrimage of the Camino Francés, the main northern branch of the Camino de Santiago. The text and music of each movement reflect the composer’s experience of walking the Camino himself; they speak of geography, history, architecture, physical hardship, reflection, and, of course, miracles. Although the subject is historically sacred, the work is secular, speaking to the deep religiosity of medieval pilgrims while remaining open to the spiritual diversity of the modern era.

Madrid

Our journey began with a sung Mass followed by the first performance of Path of Miracles at the Convento de las Mercedarias de la Purísima Concepción (Convento de “las Góngoras”), a beautiful convent in the heart of Madrid. The church was absolutely packed—some Schola family members included—as we sang a beautiful plainsong service, Tomás Luis de Victoria’s “Dum complerentur” motets, the hauntingly beautiful “O vos omnes” by Pablo Casals, and Palestrina’s energetic setting of “Jubilate Deo.” The convent is home to an order of cloistered nuns, who attended Mass and our concert obscured from the view of the congregation by large, ornate screens. I figured they were present, but didn’t know for sure until after our concert, when ISM director Martin Jean told us that he was able to catch a glimpse of them as Schola processed out at the end of Path of Miracles, many of them with tears flowing down their faces. I hadn’t even thought about the impact our singing might have on these women who have devoted their whole lives to same the pursuit of holiness that Path of Miracles depicts. Of course, we couldn’t speak to them afterwards—but hopefully, the music was able to communicate something profound that in some way gave voice to their experience and faith. What a gift to be able to share this piece with them!

Roncesvalles

After a long day of travel (including a beautiful but rather harrowing bus ride through the mountains), we arrived in the tiny, rainy, storied town of Roncesvalles—a traditional starting point for many pilgrims undertaking the Camino. People from all over the world ambled around the small, Gothic church (the Real Colegiata de Santa María de Roncesvalles), decked out in brightly colored waterproof clothes, lightweight backpacks, and hiking poles. The chapel was dimly lit and smelled of must and age; as I walked in, I felt energy, austerity, excitement, and mystery. Here, too, we sang a Mass, at the conclusion of which pilgrims assembled at the front as we sang the Salve Regina in darkness. 

The priest spoke a blessing in at least five languages, perhaps more, to the pilgrims departing on their journey. This charged darkness was palpably electric, and I strongly felt Talbot’s connection to the drama of the place as he depicted it in Path of Miracles. The libretto for the town’s movement uses seven languages, each with its own rhythm and time signature—and I could feel that purposed chaos as people walked in and out of the building, speaking excitedly as they began their journeys. I don’t know how many of the concert attendees knew what they were getting themselves into by staying for our performance, but what a way for those pilgrims to begin the Camino!

Burgos

The bustling town of Burgos is home to an incredibly ornate, beautiful Gothic cathedral consecrated in 1260 that serves as the focal point for the second movement of Path of Miracles. In typical Gothic style, the massive, ornamented columns, and the pointed arches draw the eye heavenward to the massive octagonal tower located at the crossing; light pours in through high windows, and incredible medieval stonework depicts biblical stories and lives of important saints. Our performance took place in a large chapel at the west end of the building featuring a massive Spanish baroque altarpiece and ornately painted ceilings. The chapel was completely full, and many people pressed their faces to the glass that separated the chapel from the main nave to see what was happening. In the audience were pilgrims from all over the world, including some music students from the United States who had planned their Burgos visit to coincide with our performance!For me, singing in this cathedral was a dream. The acoustics were glorious—always friendly to sopranos—yet the space resonated with more than just our songs. I sensed the stories of so many people who had passed through those doors seeking something transformative and miraculous. I felt history, hardship, doubt, and faith, all embedded in those silent stone walls, and they gave a whole new dimension to the performance.

León

The first thing I have to mention about León is also the first thing that Talbot depicts in the eponymous movement of Path of Miracles: light. The windows stop you in your tracks when you walk in, effectively bathing the ancient stone in a panorama of colored light. Talbot captures this magic in music with a profundity that I can’t explain in words. In a place like this, you get a sense of the miraculous—not only the miracles associated with religious experience but also the more practical, but still beautiful, miracles of human existence. You look around and marvel that people designed the structure itself with simple arithmetic, sculpted and arranged the stones with hand tools, and created a masterpiece that still stands despite age and circumstances. Although we didn’t perform in the cathedral itself, the sense of magic, light, and wonder stayed with us as we performed in another beautiful church nearby. For my part, it was my favorite performance of the trip—perhaps because the León movement is the beating heart of the piece for me. 

Santiago

When a choir performs together for the last time, it is an occasion for reflection, for celebration, for sadness, for gratitude—and I cannot think of a more profound place or piece to commemorate music and friendship shared. We arrived at the Monte de Gozo, a peak about five kilometers from the cathedral where pilgrims begin the “longed-for final descent” into the town of Santiago. Many of us walked this final path into town, which felt to me oddly mundane, as Santiago now is a bustling urban center. However, the shared experience of walking in the rain down slippery cobblestones marked with scallop shells was the perfect prelude to our final performance together.

In our free time before the concert, we explored the cathedral—a very dark, pre-Gothic building, complete with massive swinging thurible, relics, and a statue of St. James you can embrace—and the town, where we indulged in local Galician seafood delights and experienced some of the town’s many museums and parks. Our final performance was at the local university church, another gorgeous space that boasted a stunning balcony and altarpiece. Many singers had friends and family in the audience, and we had that one last chance to make the piece our own. I will always remember putting our folders down and processing out together one last time, about to head our separate ways, embracing friends that have become family.

“We have walked out of the lives we had
And will return to nothing, if we live,
Changed by the journey, face and soul alike.”
—Path of Miracles