The arc in the sky
@ Tinworks art

The Crossing
Aoide Chamber Singers

in partnership with Big Sky’s
Warren Miller Performing Arts Center

Crossing@Christmas2016 (1 of 1).jpg

a note from the conductor...
Though Kile Smith has written several uniquely idiomatic works for us, we have long awaited this concert-length unaccompanied evening of music, setting journal entries and poems of the enigmatic Robert Lax.  Lax presents a fascinating aggregate of paradoxes: friend to Thomas Merton and the Beat poets; urbane yet reclusive; at times whimsical, at others blissful. He ultimately explored a kind of literary minimalism, playing with form as if reinventing it – surely a seductive invitation to any composer.  Yet again an opportunity for us to consider words – ours, and those of others.



The Arc in the Sky (2018)                                                                                                                                        Kile Smith

I. Jazz
         1. why did they all shout
         2. there are not many songs
         3. Cherubim & Palm-Trees

II. Praise
         4. I want to write a book of praise
         5. The light of the afternoon is on the houses
         6. Psalm

III. Arc
         7. Jerusalem
         8. I would stand and watch them
         9. The Arc

Commissioned by The Crossing and Donald Nally

The Arc in the Sky is available on Spotify, Apple Music, and Navona Records.


The arc in the sky

music by Kile Smith (b. 1956)

a note from the composer...
The Arc in the Sky
, on texts of Robert Lax (1915–2000), is a 65-minute pilgrimage for unaccompanied choir. Some know of Lax only through Thomas Merton’s autobiography The Seven Storey Mountain, so to discuss The Arc in the Sky, I should say something about him for those who have not yet been acquainted with his work.

Lax and Merton were close friends from their meeting at Columbia University, writing for the student-run Jester. Lax made an immediate and life-changing impression on Merton, playing a decisive role in Merton’s turnaround from debauchee to monk. In his book he describes Lax as “a potential prophet," an Elijah, a Hamlet, a Moses to whom words came with difficulty:

                A mind full of tremendous and subtle intuitions, and every day he found less and less to say about them, and resigned himself to being inarticulate.                  In his hesitations, though without embarrassment or nervousness at all, he would often curl his long legs all around a chair, in seven different                          ways, while he was trying to find a word with which to begin. He talked best sitting on the floor.

Lax had a “natural, instinctive spirituality, a kind of inborn direction to the living God," and an “affinity for Job and St. John of the Cross," Merton wrote. (The spirit of The Arc in the Sky, if not its music, is similar to Canticle, my 2016 setting of The Spiritual Canticle by St. John of the Cross.) Merton and Lax hung out at jazz clubs together. They wrestled with philosophy and religion and writing, in New York City and at Lax’s family’s cottage in Olean in western New York. The two pacifists tried to work through their place on a planet hurtling, in the late 1930s, toward another world war. They had in common “the abyss that walked around in front of our feet everywhere we went." Then, walking to Greenwich Village on Sixth Avenue one spring night,

                 Lax suddenly turned around and asked me the question:
                 “What do you want to be anyway?"...
                 “I don’t know; I guess what I want is to be a good Catholic."
                 “What do you mean, you want to be a good Catholic?"
                 The explanation I gave was lame enough...and betrayed how little I had really thought about it at all.
                 Lax did not accept it.
                 “What you should say"—he told me—“what you should say is that you want to be a saint."
                 A saint!... “How do you expect me to become a saint?"
                 “By wanting to,” said Lax, simply.… “All that is necessary to be a saint is to want to be one.… All you have to do is desire it."

Merton’s journey led him from that conversation to his Catholic baptism and eventually to a Trappist monastery. Lax himself converted from Judaism to Catholicism in 1943. He wrote for the The New Yorker and Time magazine, moved to Hollywood for a brief go at scriptwriting, wrote poetry, and produced The Circus of the Sun, a bright gem of a book about the Cristiani family of acrobats. He traveled with the circus for months, learning to juggle and to clown. He would move from New York City to Olean and back, to Marseilles, to the Greek island of Kalymnos and, finally, to sacred Patmos, the island to where the apostle John had been exiled, where he had written The Revelation.

Lax experimented with line in his writings, but mostly, with how to speak. Michael N. McGregor, author of Pure Act: The Uncommon Life of Robert Lax, quotes Lax: “All of this was to please myself. I certainly wasn’t trying to invent a new form and startle anyone with it. I don’t like startling people."

He wrote some of the first minimalist poetry: one word, one syllable, or even one letter to a line. Friends saw to it that some of it was published. He corresponded with readers and with friends such as Merton and Jack Kerouac, who called him “one of the great original voices of our times ... a Pilgrim in search of beautiful innocence." Richard Kostelanetz wrote that Lax is “among America’s greatest experimental poets, a true minimalist who can weave awesome poems from remarkably few words."

He was called a hermit but was not. The many poetry and spiritual devotees who looked for him on Kalymnos or Patmos only had to ask the first resident they met for “the poet," and his house would be pointed out. They sought him for his wisdom, quietude, and advice, and received those with a humor that was always bubbling to the surface. He observed fishermen, sponge divers, the sea, and the sky, and wrote poems about them, poems of stunning simplicity. James Uebbing, in an alumni appreciation for Columbia, wrote, “Lax is essentially simple and devoid of secrets."

This is what struck me. As soon as I read Lax, I knew I wanted to set his words to music. The nine texts I chose worked themselves into three sections: Jazz, Praise, and Arc.

Almost from the first I knew I would open the work with why did they all shout. Jazz played a big part in Lax’s early life, and in his poetry. It was a metaphor of life, an intentional, communal improvisation with others and with God. The ecstasy of being carried along is what I wanted to capture, the feeling not so much of a performance, or of listening to a performance, but of performers and listeners together being caught up in something bigger than them all. The first movement doesn’t sound like jazz, not really, but a few features echo it: close and parallel harmonies, a kind of syncopation through changing meters and twos-against-threes, and, from time to time, a walking bass.

Jazz harmonies—augmented triads, 13th chords, and flat 9ths abounding—come to the fore in there are not many songs. There’s an abandonment to the idiom (or one corner of it that’s dear to me), reflecting a giving of oneself over to the “one song.” If I was to use jazz, I decided, I would go all the way in and see what happened.

Cherubim & Palm Trees is by far the longest of the texts. I set the declamatory words conversationally, as I felt this was the voice of Lax, intimate and humorous, speaking to his good friend Jack Kerouac (I was encouraged to this view by delightful talks with Lax’s niece Marcia Kelly, by the author of Pure Act, Michael McGregor, and by Paul Spaeth, director of the library and the Robert Lax archives at St. Bonaventure University in Olean). I lightened the approach with straightforward syncopation and with music that returns as a chorus. A solo quartet separates itself from the choir; the movement and first section crescendo to “the courts of the house of God."

I want to write a book of praise serves as a tonic at the beginning of the second section, while summing up Lax’s work wonderfully. It recalibrates attention from the panoramic temple to the little and common things. I use a recognizably “religious" syntax for the men to sing in, a chant.

Women then sing The light of the afternoon is on the houses, a collection of common images that prompt illumination. I am always text-painting, on a small or large scale, in my attempt to elicit emotions through music. What colors the movement, even the opening images filled with heat, is “the laughing speech.” In this swaying waltz, parallel harmonies are again voiced closely.

Ending this section, Psalm confesses love and thankfulness while facing the coexisting states of remembrance and non-remembrance, a fuzziness echoed in the tonality. Alternating between G-sharp minor and B-flat mixolydian (five sharps and three flats), the music is further muddied by see-sawing pitches, such as Ds and D-flats, As and A-flats, Es and E-sharps. These play the role of the blues third—heard in blues, jazz, and folk music, it’s a note slid or bent between the minor and major third. In classical music (or on any keyboard instrument) this in-the-cracks note has been approximated by Bartók and others by playing both notes at the same time: a “crushed" third. In Psalm they’re alternated or overlapped. “Cross relations" such as these are avoided in traditional counterpoint but here they mirror the text’s simultaneous proclaiming and questioning.

From Jerusalem, “for none would hear her" was an early possible title for The Arc in the Sky. This almost unbearably moving poem was one of the first I chose to set. Lax returns to his theme of searching, and with it, to dichotomies held comfortably at the same time. Descending and ascending, ruin and beauty, and solitude in the midst of the city are all here. The nonchalance of the first line is darkened as more and more flats are introduced into E-flat major. Presented, removed, and presented again, they presage the triumphant yet lamenting chorus in G-flat major: “for lovely, ruined Jerusalem / lovely sad Jerusalem / lies furled / under cities of light."

Two texts showing the heart of Robert Lax become the destination for this pilgrimage. I would stand and watch them is all observation, innocence, and wisdom. The idea of using canons seemed appropriate for the unstudied sound I wanted. Each phrase is a new canon, always at the unison but for two exceptions near the end. I alter voice entrances and the number of repetitions, depending, as always, on the sense of the text. This brings up the issue of the last two words, “we mend."

Composers know that repeating text alters its meaning. The driving force for me is always the emotional impact of the music, but the risk is in changing the meaning to something beyond what the author intended. Usually I avoid that, but not always. For instance, I repeat “there" at the start of there are not many songs, once or twice eliciting a “there, there," as a mother might say to soothe her child. That was not Lax’s intention. Similarly, at the end of I would stand and watch them the words “we mend” mean we mend the nets. But in repeating “we mend" over and over I change the meaning from a transitive to an intransitive verb: it is not only the nets, but we ourselves who are mended. Lax may have intended that—I don’t know—but I hope he won’t mind.

Without an inkling of how I would (or could) set it, I knew I wanted The Arc to end the work. I did know that I wanted to capture the feeling of awe in the simplest things, and return to some form of the ecstasy with which The Arc in the Sky opened. The result turned out to be broad brush-strokes of simple chords, as if this one defining moment of clarity—this vision—was a painting. Not only do we view it whole, but we are creating it as the succession of details are slowly laid on the canvas, as our eyes take in the images of arc, sky, and sea, separately and together.

The chorus forms into two choirs. They alternate blocks of chords, complementing and striking sparks off each other. The use of two choirs give the singers places to breathe within these long corridors lined with pillars of sounds. Dynamics and ranges adjust during the procession to the end, creating an emotional commentary, a drama. The pilgrimage closes near where it began, in awe, in ecstasy, seeing in an instant yet slowly pondering the immensity of the vision, there, right in front of us.

My thanks to Marcia Kelly and Paul Spaeth for their time, their openness to this project, and for permitting the use of these texts, and to Michael McGregor for his invaluable insights by correspondence and in one long, generous, conversation. I highly recommend his Pure Act to anyone wanting to know more about Robert Lax. I am indebted to The Crossing and to Donald Nally. As always, their faith in me by asking for another work opens my heart in gratitude. I am humbled by their trust, and astonished by the magnitude of their talent and artistry. I thank my wife Jackie for her patience through my long hours, weeks, and months of composing in a little room away from everyone, but then again, it was she who introduced me to the works of Robert Lax, so without her there would not be The Arc in the Sky.

— Kile Smith
19 May 2018

I. Jazz

1. why did they all shout

why did they
all shout:
is de

there was something
about his trumpeting:

to be that right

is to be at one
with the source
of all good

hit it!
and higher
and higher:

to be that high
is to be at one

with the source
of all true

that is why they shouted
when louis hit the
high notes:
they though
the roof
would open
and the angels
would burst in

2. there are not many songs

there are not many songs
there is only one song

the animals lope to it
the fish swim to it
the sun circles to it
the stars rise
the snow falls
the grass grows

there is no end to the song and no beginning
the singer may die
but the song is forever

truth is the name of the song
and the song is truth.

3. Cherubim & Palm-Trees

            for Jean-Louis Kerouac

what I want to say
to (jean-louis) is:
if yr really
a jazz writer,
then stop
thinking about
and think
about music.

music can speak,
and words played
like music can speak;
but words played like
music are not the same
as words just played
like words.

words played
like music
have meaning
as words,
like words
and music,
but not the same
and not
the same value
as words
just used
like words.

words played like
are poetic words;
words played like
are themselves
a kind of

they are fetched
fetched from deep
like rocks
and fish,

not hunted down
like quarry.

they are words
to cry,
are lyric words,
words which
hold a feeling.

any word
any word at all
can sing,
but some are strange,
as dinosaurs
are funny
when they

what we are talking
about is the kingdom
of heaven:
a jam-session
a civilization
of jazz.

a culture
of new
and spontaneous
order of

a civilization
in which each man’s
and each man’s
are new
his own
(not to be
yet filled

with grace
and decorum.

a jam-session
of the

where each
is filled
with wonder
for the

where all
in the all
and the
of all.

how will this begin,
it will begin
by prayerfully
and by a prayerful
it is even now

the instruments
are tuned,
the first notes
even now
the music
has begun,

how many players
does it take for a
one, two or ten
as many as can play;
one, two or ten
and all will have
their licks.

the tune,
the tune
is always
the same;
the music
is always
and new.

doesn’t do
any work
at all,
no work
at all,
just sing.

doesn’t hoe
any fields
or plant
any crop.

jazz lies back
to sing its song;
jazz leans forward
to hear the tune;
jazz doesn’t walk
it dances.

jazz is made
of sound and flame;
jazz is made of vision
and song.

jazz rejoices
in the judgments
of the Lord
and waits for His

jazz is for
the outer temple,
for the courts
of the house
of God.

II. Praise

4. I want to write a book of praise

        I want to write a book of praise, but not use the religious words. That is because they should not be used lightly, and all the words I will be using for a while must be used lightly, set down tentatively.
        The holy words hold terror for some, are not respected by others. I will try to talk in little words that people respect and do not fear. They respect them like hammers, they fear them no more than they fear doors or windows.

5. The light of the afternoon is on the houses

The light of the afternoon is on the houses
        the white houses
                         wedged in the hill
                                          set in the hillside like slabs of stone
                                                                             like flats of canvas
                                                                             like stiff paper.

Only the palm leaves toss and rattle.
Only the palm leaves nod & whisper
       in the cool breeze of the afternoon,
And the movement of the palms is like a dance
                                                                  is like nothing but a
                                                                          & the laughing speech
                                                                          of high born ladies.

The palms are feminine.
They are as beautiful as ancient dancers caught upon a vase.
And they sing the song of the afternoon
of the beauty of the sunlight and the wind.

6. Psalm

It is you yourself
who urges me
to find you.

I believed you
when you spoke.
I believed myself
when I answered.

I can’t remember
exactly what you
I can’t remember
what I said either

But I remember
that there was a moment of trust—a long,
full moment of trust that passed, that existed
between us.

If that is true, I have found you:
you are within me,
urging me to look.

I have long desired to find some one to love.
One who would have certain qualities & not
But who could have
that dream in me
if not you?

III. Arc

7. Jerusalem

reading of lovely Jerusalem,
lovely, ruined Jerusalem.

we are brought to the port
where the boats in line are
and the high tower on the hill
and the prows starting again
into the mist.

for we must seek
by going down,
down into the city
for our song.
deep into the city
for our peace.
for it is there
that peace lies
like a pool.

there we shall seek:
it is from there
she’ll flower.
for lovely, ruined Jerusalem
lovely sad Jerusalem
lies furled
under cities of light.

for we are only
going down,
only descending
by this song
to where the cities
gleam in the darkness,
or curled like roots
sit waiting
at the undiscovered

what pressure
thrusts us up
as we descend?

of the city’s singing

pressure of
the song
she hath withheld.

hath long withheld.

for none
would hear

8. I would stand and watch them

I would stand and watch them
as they sat at their work.

<<what are you doing?>> i’d say.

<<we’re mending our nets,>> they’d say.


<<yes. mending our nets.>>

<<why must you mend them?>>

<<they’re torn. they’ve been broken into.
the night-fish have leapt through them
in the sea. every night they break them;
and every day, we mend.>>

9. The Arc















- Robert Lax (1915-2000)

All text used with the permission of the Robert Lax Literary Trust and the Robert Lax Archives at St. Bonaventure University.

The Crossing

Katy Avery
Jessica Beebe
Steven Bradshaw
Colin Dill
Micah Dingler
Robert Eisentrout
Allie Faulkner
Joanna Gates
Dimitri German
Steven Hyder
Michael Jones
Lauren Kelly
Anika Kildegaard
Maren Montalbano
Daniel O'Dea
Becky Oehlers
James Reese
Daniel Schwartz
Rebecca Siler
Julie Snyder
Daniel Spratlan
Elisa Sutherland
Daniel Taylor
Shari Wilson

Donald Nally, conductor
Kevin Vondrak, assistant conductor
John Grecia, keyboards
Jonathan Bradley, executive director

Aoide Chamber Singers

Hannah Anderson
Isobel Anthony
Hannah Bares
Kayla Bojkovsky
Derek Conder
Emily Copeland
Adam Copeland
Patrick Fischer
Erin Henke
Logan Henke
Michael Juel
Rachel Juel
Andrew Major
Annie Marshall
Alan Newbold
Cara Robertus
Madison Stone
John Zirkle

Andrew Major, conductor
Logan Henke, assistant conductor