The Del Sol Quartet: A Dust In Time
Bright Shiny Things

The developmental structure of A Dust In Time by Huang Ruo (b. 1976) recalls the arc Henryk Górecki gave the first movement of his Symphony No. 3, also known as the Symphony of Sorrowful Songs. In that instance, the orchestra and soprano swell to a transcendent climax and then spend the second half undertaking a descent that unfolds as methodically. While no vocalist is part of Ruo's hour-long passacaglia, his arguably does Górecki's one better in adhering to a palindromic form in the fullest sense: structured in thirteen parts and inspired by Tibetan Buddhist sand mandalas, A Dust In Time progresses through six “ascending” parts, reaches its zenith, and then reverses the trip through six “returning” sections. It's important to note, however, that the track titles appearing on the release weren't part of Ruo's original score but rather suggested by The Del Sol Quartet for this world-premiere recording. Regardless, the sense of a long journey initiated and completed is powerfully conveyed by the material, whose supplicating character makes it all the more affecting.

Such an adventurous project is business as usual for violinists Sam Weiser and Benjamin Kreith, violist Charlton Lee, and cellist Kathryn Bates, who initiated 2021 with the tenth Del Sol album, Kooch-e Khamân, which includes new works by young Iranian composers, and preceded it with others featuring material by Terry Riley and Peter Sculthorpe. Operating out of San Francisco, the group has commissioned or premiered thousands of works since its 1992 inception.

A Dust In Time is tailor-made for the pandemic in the way it invites a contemplative response and for how time inarguably advances yet also paradoxically feels frozen in place; certainly one explanation for that is a palindromic form that sees the material looping back on itself, somewhat like an ouroboros. In that sense, it's very much like a mandala in how it expands outward from a central point and then contracts, the idea being a move from emptiness to fullness and back again. And like all of us, of course, that sand design will eventually scatter into dust. Whereas Ruo regards the piece as music offering listeners a place “to reflect, to express, to mourn, to bury, to heal, to find internal peace, strength, and hope,” the quartet quite rightly describes it as a “life-embracing meditation.”

The solemnity of the opening “Chron” sets the tone, as does the unhurried pace at which its plaintive and reverential music advances. Though transitions from one part to the next occur without pause, changes in the music's character are discernible at those transition-points. While the peacefulness with which it opens remains in place as it moves into the second part, a noticeable increase in volume accompanies the change. The ascent continues thereafter, the music growing ever more lyrical and supplicating as it climbs, and with the onset of the sixth part, “Eon,” faster too. The apex is reached with ecstatic outpourings in “Supereon,” after which comes the slow, patient descent, the change not unwelcome after the intensity of the peak. As the quartet works through the tremulous closing stages, the volume lessens, the pace slows, and serenity sets in. With the music's expiration, a clear sense of peaceful acceptance forms.

December 2021