What’s in a name?

Who will ever be able to forget the small time criminal Beezow Doo-Doo Zopittybop-Bop-Bop? Or perhaps the overly-long names of composers such as César-Auguste-Jean-Guillaume-Hubert Franck or Sir Charles Hubert Hastings Parry. Clearly, Exceptional people often are given exceptional names.

Enter Joseph Balogne, Chevalier de Saint-Georges, also known as “The Black Mozart.” Born in the Antilles to a plantation owner and a slave, Bologne became and expert fencer and violinist (because of course, those two disciplines go hand in hand) among many other things. John Adams himself wrote of Saint-Georges: “He is the most accomplished Man in Europe in Riding, Running, Shooting, Fencing, Dancing, Musick. He will hit the Button, any Button on the Coat or Waistcoat of the greatest Masters. He will hit a Crown Piece in the Air with a Pistoll Ball.”

He lived a life worthy of the protagonist of a Rafael Sabatini novel – political revolutions, military service, scandals, with strings quartets and operas to accompany. There is even speculation that the German Mozart and the Black Mozart had a little tiff which ended with the German creating an evil opera character based on Saint-Georges. Whether or not that is true, it is impossible to ignore Saint-Georges was a musical force to be reckoned with. He might have been adept at “Riding, Running, Shooting, Fencing, Dancing,” but it is for his Musick that we remember him.

The news has been ablaze this week regarding the burning and collapse of the roof of the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris – but I don’t mean to make light of the situation. Terrible puns aside, many people were saddened by the damage, regardless of religious faith or nationality. Humanity has claimed Notre Dame as a universal work of art: loved, admired, maybe even “owned” by all.

What I found fascinating was the immense response on social media. I was amazed at how many of my contacts had a personal connection to Notre Dame, whether it was religious (the seat of the Catholic Church in France), musical (concern for its magnificent organ), artistic (loss of a centuries-old work of art), or just emotional (remember that romantic weekend in Paris? Ahhh…). It’s no surprise that a billion dollars were raised in two days for the restoration of this building.

And of course, since this is 2019, there was an immediate response criticizing the Notre Dame donations as unimportant compared to the ongoing needs of climate change, deep poverty, hunger, sex trafficking, and more. After all, we’re talking about a lump of stones, not human lives. And yet, while those needs are significant, very real, and desperately need to be addressed, I don’t think we should so quickly condemn the efforts to preserve this monument.

Works of art, like Notre Dame cathedral, remind us that we are an insignificant speck in a long history of humanity. The cathedral has been a symbol of France for centuries, and will (probably) remain so until the apocalypse. It might be an active church now, but who knows, one day it might be treated like an ancient Greek temple – a pilgrimage for tourists who care nothing for religion, but instead seek it for its beauty; or perhaps it makes them think about their own mortality and their place in the universe.

And still, from the perspective of the universe, the cathedral went up and burned down in the blink of an eye (not to mention, humanity itself is just a flash in the universe’s pan). Maybe we’re thinking about it all wrong. Maybe all art needs to be treated as fleeting, whether it’s a 5 minute performance that will never be repeated (a jazz improvisation), a drama that enjoys a 50-year popularity (a Rodgers & Hammerstein musical), or a 4000-year-old monument (Stonehenge or the Pyramids). Some art might last longer than others, but really, is 6,000 years of history anything more than a fart in the wind compared to the history of earth?

And so, in honor of France, and Notre Dame, here is the Patrie (Homeland) Overture by the iconic French composer George Bizet.

There’s a great hymn, O Filii et Filiae, which is sung in many churches on the Sunday after Easter, because its text mirrors the gospel lesson of the day – the story of doubting Thomas. It is one of those instances of a gripping narrative wed to a simple yet interesting melody which, being roughly 600 years old, has clearly stood the test of time.

For me, it’s a chance to pull out one of my favorite organ pieces, don my beret, and pretend to be French. French organs stand out in that they are jam packed with fiery trumpets and other noisy stops, making them exceedingly loud – necessary to fill the cavern of a massive French cathedral with sound. Before the revolution, the French organ tradition included writing (or improvising) variations on popular chants or sacred melodies. Jean-François Dandrieu did just this when we wrote his Offertoire pour la fête de Pâques – variations on O Filii et Filiae, showcasing the terrifying thunder of French organs.

When I hear that sound, it makes me imagine a peasant from a village, coming into Paris and going into a church – and being petrified and awestruck at the sound of the organ. Our human fascination with loud sound, like the appeal of this hymntune, hasn’t changed.