Programme Note by Ole Jørgen Hammeken and Galya Morrell
At the very top of the red volcanic cliff, facing giant, colorful icebergs floating in the open waters of Disco Bay, there was Angakkussarfik, the legendary Shaman’s training ground of Greenland. Here, the young Angakkut, the future Arctic shamans, spent years in silence and solitude, learning to see things far away, things invisible or hidden behind the horizon.
Purified by hunger and cold, they stood balancing on the edge of the cliff, rubbing rocks for hours, days, weeks, months, and years until the moment came. They were patient and knew great vision could only be attained through great suffering and deprivation.
Once ready to leave their human skin, they could transform into an eagle or a whale and travel far, fly under the sea ice and to the stars. The transcendental light could now fill the emptiness of their bodies and enable them to see through the mountains and in the dark. Now they could speak like a bear or like a walrus and even become a bear or a walrus and maybe never be a human again.
Thousands of years ago, descendants of Central Asians, the forefathers of the modern Inuit, abandoned their blossoming valleys and started their journey up North, searching for their “promised land.” They crossed the Bering Strait and continued further North, accomplishing one of the most fascinating migrations in the history of the Earth. How did they know where to go without compasses or maps? How could they find their way on the ever-shifting treacherous sea ice, in total darkness, which lasts in these latitudes for three and a half months, carrying babies in the hoods of their anoraks and helping their elderly? The only answer that can be is that they had their Angakoks.
These ancient Arctic migrants had no money, no bullets, no clocks or calendars, no ownership of anything, no passports, and no state behind them, yet they were entirely independent. They did not rely on supplies of wood or other combustibles; they could spend seasons at sea ice and just keep moving. They did not have books they could learn from, but they knew the art of balance taught by the light of the seal-lamp. Even today, the very first lesson instilled in Arctic children is the mastership of balance long before they take their first steps or utter their first words.
The boreal people believe that balance is essential in the Universe. Rocks and humans, animals, and spirits used to live in balance and, therefore, were interchangeable. Humans could understand bears and could also talk to the rocks. There were no foreign languages, and there were no misunderstandings. A man could turn into an iceberg, marry a fox, and have an offspring – a baby whale. There were no borders between human and animal kingdoms, and there were no borders to protect. Therefore, there was no death.
Today, the boreal people still live by the dogsled and a kayak, but the Angakkut are gone. Perhaps this is the reason why people do not hear each other any longer. Perhaps that’s why the sea ice is melting. Songs and tales are being lost, and society and families get broken.
With the arrival of the “civilized world” into the Arctic, the old values were pronounced diabolic. The extended families were forbidden to live together, the kids were sent to boarding schools to be reeducated, drum-dancers were outcasted, and shamans were outlawed. The red volcanic rock is abandoned today; no one climbs it, and no one goes to the immense extremes to see what’s behind the horizon.
It is because of people like Knud Rasmussen, a Greenlandic-Danish explorer who recorded many of the shamanic rituals, songs, drawings, and tales from all across the Arctic, that we know today about how people lived there centuries of years ago. It is because of people like Lera Auerbach, a composer and a modern explorer, that we can ascend the abandoned red cliff and try to balance on its edge to become in unison with Nature.
The libretto unfolds as a stream of consciousness, blending a range of Arctic languages and transcending traditional dialogues and narratives. Rooted in Arctic shamanic traditions, it draws from the practices of Irinaliurutiit—magical songs and magic formulas used by Angakkuit (shamans) to summon Tuurngait (helping spirits) for their journeys through time and space. Irinaliurutiit often consist of song fragments and nearly incomprehensible sentences, echoing a time when humans understood the language of animals.
The narrative follows the Angakok’s metaphysical journey through five states of consciousness and nine time periods, traveling from the present day to the age preceding human existence. On this quest, the Angakok encounters various spirits, such as the Moon Spirit, Sun Spirit, Wind Spirit, Light Spirit, Spirit of Boredom, ancient Giants, and spirits of animals. The Angakok’s ultimate aim is to reach the Mother of the Sea—the Spirit of the Ocean—and sing a plea for the renewal of life in a hymn to the mysterious and magical place known as Issittormiut nunaat—Arctica.
In the Arctic, things are often lost in translation. Arctic words can be longer than some freight trains, with all the add-ons following each other; very few from the outside world can make sense of their complexity. At the same time, the equivalents of many Western notions, like one of an impersonal war, are missing at all. Lera Auerbach is trying to interpret the invisible meanings, hidden close or far, to fill the void. She has patience, brewed on deprivation and sufferings of her own life.
Music is universal. But, the word “music” does not have an exact equivalent in many Arctic languages. “Music” is a word of an affluent world. In the boreal societies, the word “sound” is often used instead. The sounds of the Arctic are the essence of Lera Auerbach’s new work, The Flights of the Angakok.