...with purity and light... is a piano concerto composed in 2015. It was commissioned by the Israel Symphony Orchestra and premiered by them with Amit Dolberg on piano and Sascha Goetzel conducting.

I grew up in Jerusalem in the 1970’s and 80’s. It was a city were Jews and Muslims lived side by side and interacted on a daily basis. Hebrew was my mother tongue but Arabic was everywhere too. Not only spoken by Palestinians but also by the parents and grandparents of my closest friends who immigrated a decade or two before from Arab speaking countries such as Iraq, Kurdistan, Morocco and Syria. Arabic was everywhere.
On the other hand my grandmother, who was born in Berlin and immigrated to Israel (escaping the Nazis) when she was already a married woman in her late twenties, spoke to us children in Hebrew, often mixing in German words. She sang German lullabies to us and spoke German to her friends and to my parents when she didn’t want us to understand.
For me Hebrew, Arabic and German were the three languages that I grew up on. Even though I speak Arabic and German poorly, their sounds and the cultures they embody are embedded in my DNA.

From the liner Notes to the CD
By Prof. Ruth HaCohen
If the European affiliation of the composer is well perceived in the first work, traversing in a musical time-machine distant eras, here it is his middle-eastern roots and concerns that he connects to the Germanic background of his ancestors. Languages and voices enter the scene; the poetry of the poet Michael Roes is the vehicle: “Arabic lessons” the poet calls it, and wishes to penetrate through learning the language the agonized worlds of conflict, occupation and memory. The lessons are further “studied” by the Israeli composer through their reflections in both Hebrew and German. The trilingual text thus combined is a difficult one, politically, emotionally: Jews’ ambivalence towards German, Arabs’ and Israelis’ suspicion towards each other’s language. Yet it is a triad that harbors hope: one of reciprocal listening, of understanding through difference, of people learning grammar, vocabulary and syntax of a basically unknown world that reveals itself through its loaded, inescapable political meanings. Feminine voices --three sopranos, are ideal carrier of this burden, this challenge. Each represents a single linguistic domain, which will be mingled or superimposed on the other. The rich, mellow and vibrant instrumental ensemble of flute, trumpet, saxophone, cello, bass guitar and percussion heightens atmosphere, accentuates meaning. In its chamber-like, accompanying character and relations to voices it calls to mind the famous ensemble of a Pierrot Lunaire. The 13 poems and two instrumental sections of the entire cycle thus consist of a variety of combinations of texture and structure, which never repeat themselves. First lesson starts with voice alone, in the language of the “third party“: German. It searches its way unsupported through practicing a “there is” structure (1. Es Gibt). The melody of the clear three-strophic construction intensifies itself from strophe to strophe while “breaking down”, in the third, a cracked “inventory” of what “is there”. Four (instrumental) Loops (2.) follow. A 9-tone theme (or row) bases the variegating motion they yield through contraction, expansion and metrical playfulness; now homophonic, now fugal, or even heterophonic – in a way that bring certain Mediterranean sonic textures to mind. The “lessons” further flow. Shaped like a medieval “conductus”, the Delegation lesson (3.) focuses on WH questions fraught with political existential sense. The tri-lingual point-counter-point proceeds from one fermata to the next – further punctuated by bass and drum – holding its rhetorical questions in the air. Where to stop? What adds to what? This becomes the major concern of the following lesson (4. Composed Words) performed by the Hebrew singer. Words can be composed into horrific, un/intended meanings and the thematic material now breathes “Israeliness”– tensed, full of angst. The composer “exchanges letters” -- and notes – with his fellow composers and predecessors, accentuates desperation, the peril of gross misunderstanding . In Roots (5.) the three languages/ vocalities further exhaust the potential of three-equal and rather wide-range voices, through imitative techniques that verge again on heterophony, with the middle voice – the German, acting sometimes as mediating between the two. Indeed, root structure characterizes Semitic languages and is foreign to German. Yet all languages, we learn, partake in “ruins of yesterday” and in homilies that are “destructive”. The musical allegory leads the trio, in the final section, to a 14th century hocketus: disrupted, choked alternating utterances, supported by the mellifluous sax. Short and highly intense solo Arabic “Present” - Alhader (5.) compresses voice and ensemble in a breathless, less than a minute utterance, as if there is no future, or no time. Basic vocabulary (6.) takes us into a busy market of words and idioms. Commodities are exchanged, also motifs – nervous, serpent-like; flute interlaces its waves, now exclaiming upon a new lingual merchandise, now uttering a help cry, now negotiating: can they understand each other, these separate agencies? Lists (7.), delivered in solemn German mode and Common Expressions (8.) follow; they manifest how lists may turn eerie and alternating proverbial utterances—when frenziedly exchanged or combined by the performing protagonists – shaking. In the last lessons/songs drums and trumpet becomes more prominent, sound more connected to real life. Thus in Future (10.) trumpet renders a declarative framework to which speaking voices – on pitch (German), without pitch (Hebrew) and melodically declarative (Arabic) – perform “a time before time”, transporting us to basics – of speech, voice, rhythm. Indeed, as lessons evolve, and we become more involved, the languages, qua performative languages, become more perceptible, each with its unique intonation, pronunciation, difference. Cairo (13.) and Jerusalem (15.) are entirely of this kind; separated by a rhythmical sermon (Canon 14.), basically unpitched, evoking a wasteland that extends between the two cities. Jerusalem, Elkana’s native city, where three Abrahamic religions encounter daily, is even more cacophonous, boisterous, violent than Cairo. So are the voices; the languages unadorned, the sonorous envelope of instrumental ensemble harsh and unavoidable. Who will win. Who will get closer to God. Who is the desired sacrifice on the holy mount. In the meantime, there is a wound that does not bleed but kills, word that does not fall, but chokes, blackening street sign and a pile of soap and fish flour.

From the liner Notes to the CD
By Prof. Ruth HaCohen
“Casino Umbro" means "Umbrian Noise" or mess; the work was created during the composer’s residency at Civitella Ranieri in Umbria. Noise it is, if one considers the juxtaposition and fusion of two diametrically opposed musical style and sonic concepts – a baroque and contemporary one – a blasphemous concoction. (The work was invited by two Israeli ensembles: the contemporary music ensemble "Meitar" and the period instruments ensemble "Israeli Bach Soloists".) But the spirit of lush Umbria penetrates the texture. The work is indeed a good one to enter into Amos Elkana’s sonic world: transparent despite complications, communicative though sophisticated, soft and exuberant, emotional and thoughtful. It embarks with a French baroque gesture, embellished, warm; modal D. A perpetuum mobile jazz-like piano figuration emerges from this solemnity, gradually sweeping the other participants into its “mechanical” gesticulations, until all are dancing a “fractal” dance on a kaleidoscopally ever changing, adding and subtracting pitch and rhythm patterns. These two sections determine a structure of the kind found in Beethoven’s late works (and then in Mahler, Bartok and others): an alternating structure, in which each contrasting section affects the next, which structurally refers back to the one before (in the spirit of an ABABA… form). The dreamy like section that follows the “fractal dance”, is thus a sonic and tonal admixture of both universes: impressionistic, fraught with novel sonorities, but allowing sporadically for “conventional” chords to flicker, soft and slightly embellished melodies to emerge. Fourth section is likewise reactive, becoming a more reflective, moderate dance, divulging how modern-jazz piano can find itself dialoguing with a baroque harpsichord, without each losing its idiomatic identity, encouraging the other actors to similarly behave. One can hear in another section a Schoenbergian Klangfarben Melodie as a natural development of forgoing events, followed by a Stravinsky-like recollection. And so it goes, until all is silenced back into a baroquian gesture – a whole tone higher, a universe apart.

Eight Flowers are set of eight very short pieces for piano. Each piece was inspired by and named after a certain flower and together they form a bouquet. The order and number of times in which each of these pieces are played are left to the performer's discretion. In this way it is as if he/she is arranging the bouquet of flowers to suit his/her own taste.
Premiered by Gabor Csalog on June 11, 2006 in Neuhardenberg, Germany, in a festival honoring György Kurtág on his 80th birthday.

Version (2012): This is arranged for a symphony orchestra upon the request of the Israeli Music Festival 2012. I also added a section at the end that does not exist in the original composition.

היתה לי זכות גדולה להפגש ולשוחח מספר פעמים עם יוסף טל לאורך שנות התשעים. בפגישות המרתקות הללו שוחחנו בעיקר על סוגיות שונות במוסיקה. המוסיקה האלקטרונית והפוטנציאל הטמון בה תפסו בשיחות אלו מקום נכבד. טל היה מחלוצי המוסיקה האלקטרונית בארץ ובעולם ורעיונותיו בתחום זה היו רבים ומגוונים. הוא חקר ויצר מוסיקה אלקטרונית והשתמש לשם כך בכל הכלים שעמדו לרשותו. יחד עם זאת בשנה בה נכתב הקונצרטו השישי לפסנתר ואלקטרוניקה (1970) יצירת מוסיקה אלקטרונית באמצעות מחשב הייתה עדיין בתחילת הדרך. כדי למצות את הפוטנציאל הטמון במחשב היה צורך במחשבי על שהשימוש בהם היה יקר ונדיר. לקראת סוף המאה ועשרים נעשה השימוש במחשב הרבה יותר זמין ופשוט וטל היה סקרן מאד לדעת לאן דבר זה יוביל את המוסיקה האלקטרונית. דיברנו רבות על האפשרויות שנפתחו עקב כך. למשל, עיבוד אותות בזמן אמת ותהליכים רנדומליים.

מַ‏כְבֵּ‏ד (panicle) - אשכול מורכב, תפרחת שבה הפרחים מסתעפים מענפים צדדיים, המסתעפים בעצמם מציר התפרחת. במלים אחרות, מכבד הוא מקבץ של אשכולות המסתעפים מציר משותף.

This duo is composed for the double-reed family of instruments. It features the Oboe, the English Horn and the Contrabassoon. The piece is divided into 4 sections that correspond to the AABA form. The degree of virtuosity required from the players is very high; the pitch ranges for the instruments are extreme but playing together and in time is probably as much of a challenge as reaching the notes at the extreme range of the instrument. This work is dedicated to my grandmother Miriam Keren and was premiered on the occasion of her 99th birthday.

Premiered by B. Schmutzler and D. Karamintzas on May 11, 2005 in Jerusalem, Israel

My friend, the sculptor Alexander Polzin asked me to compose a new piece for the unveiling ceremony of his sculpture of Giordano Bruno in Berlin which took place in March 2008. In preparation for this work I read a lot about Bruno and tried to find my own connection to the subject. As it happens Bruno was an admirer of the Maharal and he always wanted to meet him. It is not written anywhere that the two actually met but it is known that Bruno was in fact in Prague in 1588 at the same time when the Maharal was there. This piece is inspired by the meeting that did (or did not) take place between the two men. In his fiction book 'Endless Things' John Crowley describes such a meeting. Oddly enough, I have found out that I am a direct descendant of the Maharal. He is right there in my family tree which dates back to 1392!

This composition was completely revised in 2015.

Premiered on Mar. 2, 2008 in Berlin by Freyja Gunnlaugsdóttir

• I used to live in a room full of mirrors
• All I could see was me
  
• Well I took my spirit
  
• And I crashed my mirrors
• Now the whole world is here for me to see

From the liner Notes to the CD
By Prof. Ruth HaCohen
String quartets have been always an arena for compositional experiments as they were a venue of intimate if not arcane discourse. String Quartet no. 2 strongly belongs to this tradition, as to its rich vocabulary of articulation, thematics, and textural modes. Elkana, searching for “rigorous predefined form that will grant him liberty of ‘pouring’ music into them”, elaborated a “method of composition with ‘fractal’ configurations”, which he intensively and extensively uses in this work. The mathematical idea of fractals is that similar patterns recur at progressively smaller (or larger) scale. Fractals are everywhere around us, we perceive them in snowflakes and leaf veins, and they make up blood vessels and coast lines, enabling us to experience the whole in the detail. Inspired by this basic idea, in some of his works Elkana embarks by shaping predetermined tone matrix, which could contain any number of tones, in any order some even repeated within the original set from which he then draw certain numerical orders that will recur in various structural levels in the work he conceives. Thus differentiating his system from the 12-tone Schoenbergain method, Elkana still adheres, in the procedure he developed, to the latter’s basic permutational modes, to which he applies rules of selection to avoid arbitrary choice. Rhythm is likewise manipulated. The cohesive effect, though not easy to detect, is intuitively experienced due to the thick recursive connections between micro- and macro-levels including that of the entire work. This, of course, does not exempt the composer from an imaginative, creative process and from giving each movement its own unique character and modes of unfolding. Thus in the first movement the highly profiled, soft and almost solemn opening theme, fugued through the four parts, will not be able to hold an immediate outburst of an abrupt homophonic gesture, and the alternation and conflation of these two basic utterances will furnish the basic dramatic infrastructure of the entire movement. Despite calculation (or maybe due to its constrains) the movement can be experienced as an essay on the rise and fall of tonal energy, in its basic, visceral undulations. The second movement is born from sustained sounds, which are ever there to collect all that transpires, into their serene duration, even the most capricious, frantic figuration which abound here as well. Tonal sustainability is embodied here in variety of being and becoming modes, and its presence is so strong throughout that even when it does not outwardly there we feel its presence. The brief scherzo-like third movement, a sort of peak in terms of the structure of the entire work, accentuates its edgy, almost ghost -like character through the sul ponticello (on the bridge) and other strings and bow effects, but no less by shaping temporal irregularities as a natural, inevitable flow. Ideas and sonorities from previous movements are recollected in the fourth, elegiac one, which searches, in different ways, for expression of unbeknownst yearn. Beethoven’s Convalescent's Holy Song of Thanksgiving to the Divinity, in the Lydian Mode” (String Quartet op. 132, 3rd movement) comes to mind. The fifth, a grand finale movement combines rondo-like construction with a playful recapitulation of moments and modes of being experienced throughout the work.

The Poem: In Auden's lengthy poem, The Age of Anxiety, he follows the actions and thoughts of four characters that happen to meet in a bar during the Second World War. Their interactions with one another lead them on an imaginary quest in their minds in which they attempt, without success, to discover themselves. The themes and ideas that The Age of Anxiety conveys reflect his belief that man's quest for self-actualization is in vain. The Age of Anxiety is, in general, a quest poem. Unlike the ideal quest, however, this quest accomplishes nothing. The characters search for the meaning of self and, in essence, the meaning of life, but because their search is triggered by intoxication, the quest is doomed from the start. Throughout the quest, the characters believe themselves to be in a kind of purgatory, gradually descending toward hell. They fail to realize this due to "the modern human condition which denies possibility but refuses to call it impossible" (Nelson 117).

The Paintings: Alexander Polzin's series of 99 paintings based on Auden's poem grew out of the artist's fascination with "...the unusual mixture of poetic quality, clear meaningful sentences and rich images." The series was made in 1999, which is one of the reasons the artist decided to paint 99 paintings. The other reason being his strong desire to accomplish the nearly impossible task of composing 99 paintings simultaneously. Polzin divided the text into 99 segments after reading the poem over and over again developing his own "melody" of the text. He also wanted to highlight some of the sentences in the poem by disconnecting them from their surroundings. The anxiety in the poem, for Polzin, is hidden under several layers of meaning and so in his paintings he decided to use a technique of layering. At the bottom layer of each painting he pasted a segment of the text and painted the number of that segment corresponding to his own subdivision of the text. He then created layers of paint and images on top of that sculpting out the parts he wanted to emphasize. Through this process most of the text and numbers became invisible.

The Music: The sound source for this installation is largely based on a recording of five actors (four characters and one narrator) reciting the poem in a bar. During this process the actors were encouraged to drink as much as they wanted so as to recreate the mood of the original poem. The bartender was generous enough to turn off the background music during the recording and so the only background sounds are bar noises made by people drinking, conversing, laughing, playing pool, etc. Different layers of sound are created by transforming the bar recording electronically. These layers become alternately 'visible' and 'invisible' by fading them in and out. One of the electronic sound layers is created by analyzing 12 peaks from the recorded voice and connecting these peaks to 12 oscillators. The result is a sort of a modified reproduction of the actual voice recording. Another layer that is present is the sound of a quartet of wind instruments - tuba, trombone, trumpet and clarinet. Each instrument corresponds to a different character in the poem. These instruments are actually very high-quality samples of real instruments. Each note was recorded several times in different dynamic levels and different modes of attack. Extended playing techniques were also recorded and used. The actual notes that these instruments play are generated by a quasi-random process that uses a phrase, instead of a single note, as it's basic point of departure. The first thing that is determined on this level is the phrase duration. Since we are dealing with wind instruments, it has been taken into consideration that in normal situations the player of a wind instrument should have time to breathe after about 20 seconds of continuous playing. For each phrase the program decides: 1) What permutation and transposition of the row to play from a twelve tone matrix. 2) The durations of the notes in the phrase. 3) The dynamic range of the notes (for example, mp is not a constant level but a range). 4) The style of playing - staccato, legato, flutter-tongue, trills, etc. 5) The instrumental register - high, medium or low. What creates a relationship between the voices of the different instruments is that the phrases they all play are derived from the same source - the 12-tone matrix. Another layer is made out of percussion sounds that are triggered by the recording of the actors. The program picks out the 'attacks' of the recorded voice and these attacks trigger the percussion samples. Other transformations of the bar recording include pitch-shifting, delaying and spatializing. All of the sounds that are used in this piece are spatialized around the room by using four speakers that are placed in the four corners of the room.

"When a man starts to learn, he is never clear about his objectives. His purpose is faulty; his intent is vague. He hopes for rewards that will never materialize, for he knows nothing of the hardships of learning.
"He slowly begins to learn - bit by bit at first, then in big chunks. And his thoughts soon clash. What he learns is never what he pictured, or imagined, and so he begins to be afraid. Learning is never what one expects. Every step of learning is a new task, and the fear the man is experiencing begins to mount mercilessly, unyieldingly. His purpose becomes a battlefield.
"And thus he has tumbled upon the first of his natural enemies: Fear! A terrible enemy - treacherous, and difficult to overcome. It remains concealed at every turn of the way, prowling, waiting. And if the man, terrified in its presence, runs away, his enemy will have put an end to his quest."
"What will happen to the man if he runs away in fear?"
"Nothing happens to him except that he will never learn. He will never become a man of knowledge. He will perhaps be a bully or a harmless, scared man; at any rate, he will be a defeated man. His first enemy will have put an end to his cravings."
"And what can he do to overcome fear?"
"The answer is very simple. He must not run away. He must defy his fear, and in spite of it he must take the next step in learning, and the next, and the next. He must be fully afraid, and yet he must not stop. That is the rule! And a moment will come when his first enemy retreats. The man begins to feel sure of himself. His intent becomes stronger. Learning is no longer a terrifying task.
"When this joyful moment comes, the man can say without hesitation that he has defeated his first natural enemy."
"Does it happen at once, don Juan, or little by little?"
"It happens little by little, and yet the fear is vanquished suddenly and fast."
"But won't the man be afraid again if something new happens to him?"
"No. Once a man has vanquished fear, he is free from it for the rest of his life because, instead of fear, he has acquired clarity - a clarity of mind which erases fear. By then a man knows his desires; he knows how to satisfy those desires. He can anticipate the new steps of learning, and a sharp clarity surrounds everything. The man feels that nothing is concealed.
"And thus he has encountered his second enemy: Clarity! That clarity of mind, which is so hard to obtain, dispels fear, but also blinds.
"It forces the man never to doubt himself. It gives him the assurance he can do anything he pleases, for he sees clearly into everything. And he is courageous because he is clear, and he stops at nothing because he is clear. But all that is a mistake; it is like something incomplete. If the man yields to this make-believe power, he has succumbed to his second enemy and will fumble with learning. He will rush when he should be patient, or he will be patient when he should rush. And he will fumble with learning until he winds up incapable of learning anything more."
"What becomes of a man who is defeated in that way, don Juan? Does he die as a result?"
"No, he doesn't die. His second enemy has just stopped him cold from trying to become a man of knowledge; instead, the man may turn into a buoyant warrior, or a clown. Yet the clarity for which he has paid so dearly will never change to darkness and fear again. He will be clear as long as he lives, but he will no longer learn, or yearn for anything."
"But what does he have to do to avoid being defeated?"
"He must do what he did with fear: he must defy his clarity and use it only to see, and wait patiently and measure carefully before taking new steps; he must think, above all, that his clarity is almost a mistake. And a moment will come when he will understand that his clarity was only a point before his eyes. And thus he will have overcome his second enemy, and will arrive at a position where nothing can harm him any more. This will not be a mistake. It will not be only a point before his eyes. It will be true power.
"He will know at this point that the power he has been pursuing for so long is finally his. He can do with it whatever he pleases. His ally is at his command. His wish is the rule. He sees all that is around him. But he has also come across his third enemy: Power!
"Power is the strongest of all enemies. And naturally the easiest thing to do is to give in; after all, the man is truly invincible. He commands; he begins by taking calculated risks, and ends in making rules, because he is a master.
"A man at this stage hardly notices his third enemy closing in on him. And suddenly, without knowing, he will certainly have lost the battle. His enemy will have turned him into a cruel, capricious man." "Will he lose his power?"
"No, he will never lose his clarity or his power."
"What then will distinguish him from a man of knowledge?"
"A man who is defeated by power dies without really knowing how to handle it. Power is only a burden upon his fate. Such a man has no command over himself, and cannot tell when or how to use his power."
"Is the defeat by any of these enemies a final defeat?"
"Of course it is final. Once one of these enemies overpowers a man there is nothing he can do."
"Is it possible, for instance, that the man who is defeated by power may see his error and mend his ways?" "No. Once a man gives in he is through."
"But what if he is temporarily blinded by power, and then refuses it?"
"That means his battle is still on. That means he is still trying to become a man of knowledge. A man is defeated only when he no longer tries, and abandons himself."
"But then, don Juan, it is possible that a man may abandon himself to fear for years, but finally conquer it."
"No, that is not true. If he gives in to fear he will never conquer it, because he will shy away from learning and never try again. But if he tries to learn for years in the midst of his fear, he will eventually conquer it because he will never have really abandoned himself to it."
"How can he defeat his third enemy, don Juan?"
"He has to defy it, deliberately. He has to come to realize the power he has seemingly conquered is in reality never his. He must keep himself in line at all times, handling carefully and faithfully all that he has learned. If he can see that clarity and power, without his control over himself, are worse than mistakes, he will reach a point where everything is held in check. He will know then when and how to use his power. And thus he will have defeated his third enemy.
"The man will be, by then, at the end of his journey of learning, and almost without warning he will come upon the last of his enemies: Old age! This enemy is the cruelest of all, the one he won't be able to defeat completely, but only fight away.
"This is the time when a man has no more fears, no more impatient clarity of mind - a time when all his power is in check, but also the time when he has an unyielding desire to rest. If he gives in totally to his desire to lie down and forget, if he soothes himself in tiredness, he will have lost his last round, and his enemy will cut him down into a feeble old creature. His desire to retreat will overrule all his clarity, his power, and his knowledge.
"But if the man sloughs off his tiredness, and lives his fate through, he can then be called a man of knowledge, if only for the brief moment when he succeeds in fighting off his last, invincible enemy. That moment of clarity, power, and knowledge is enough."

From the liner Notes to the CD
By Prof. Ruth HaCohen
Tru’a – in Hebrew both fanfare and ululation, especially when referring to the Shofar blasts in the synagogue during the Days of Awe – this highly imaginative work of the young composer wavers between the two modes, here embodied by the brilliance of a concerto style and real moments of fanfaric calls (e.g. arpeggios in 3’51’’ and in the virtuoso solo cadence) and the entreating mode of the existential calling of the shofar (as in 1’50’ and 6’03’). Even the synagogal congregation is here, through its traditional “heterophonic chant mumbling” embodied by the orchestral “virtual agents” (which, paradoxically enough, the composer achieves by using the sonic technique associated with the Polish composer W. Lutoslawsky) so typical to the (Ashkenazi) synagogue (and the reason for accusing it as “noisy”). The solo clarinetist, celebrating the abundance of gestures, expressions, implorations and explorations, redolent of so much of the literature written for and played by this instrument throughout the 20th century and before, must perform it all as a grand ex-temporation (though every note, dynamic change, trill or articulation effect is written down) as a ravishing play with temporalities, inspiring and sweeping the rich orchestral body in thousands of ways.

Poem in Hungarian (original)
Poem in English (translation)
Poem in German (translation)