No matter how often we hear the cliché, it somehow still rings true. The physical presence of the Sun – its light, warmth, and reliable consistency – acts as a powerful salve on our minds and bodies. When literal darkness falls, we take comfort knowing that the light will return. Figuratively, when our society foregrounds deception and destruction, when our “better angels” seem buried under chthonic layers of partisan history and cultural patterns, the promise made by the Sun buoys our spirits to push onward still. Most residents of Western society have lost direct touch with the Sun and its rhythms, though our ancestors embraced its transformative power. Many cultures in the world today seriously guard these ancient connections, though we tend to only experience them through a kind of museum glass. We are on the outside looking in. If we want to recapture a sense of peace in nature, perhaps a first step is simply to “Let the Sun Be Our Guide.”

A decade before the end of his long and incredibly prolific career, Franz Joseph Haydn (1732-1809) was still employed by the Esterházy family. He was now an elder statesman of music, affectionately known as “Papa” Haydn and soon celebrating his 65th birthday. He had already bequeathed an incredible legacy of works, many of which remain staples of the classical repertoire today. Indeed, by 1795 he had finished composing in most of the genres that made his reputation: piano sonatas and trios, divertimenti, and symphonies. His late efforts, not surprisingly, turned to several masses and two monumental oratorios, The Creation and The Seasons. But what about string quartets, a genre Haydn almost single-handedly invented? Even if Haydn did not actually invent the form, his 81 examples certainly did more than anyone else to elevate the form to the realm of high art (and high comedy). The fact that we gather this morning to hear a performance of a robust, four-movement string quartet in public – rather than just being read through by friends or amateurs in a private salon – is due to Haydn’s effort.

With only a few exceptions, Haydn produced string quartets for publication in sets of six. The Opus 76 quartets arguably contain his most mature essays in the genre. It is a fact that they remain his final completed collection of quartets, composed in 1797 and published two years later. Listeners may know that many of Haydn’s symphonies carry descriptive or cryptic epithets. The same applies to the string quartets. Our work this morning offers a case in point.

Haydn’s String Quartet in B-flat major, Op. 76 No. 4, opens with a signature sound that – to some well-meaning critic or publisher – evoked the radiance of a morning “sunrise.” Despite the Allegro con spirito tempo marking, the music unfolds at first without the slightest urgency. The lower strings lay out a static harmonic foundation above which the first violin gradually rises. Once the basic rhythmic action moves to the level of sixteenth notes, Haydn’s Allegro finally takes off. Curiously, the first theme is less melodic than atmospheric. More interesting still, Haydn provides all indications that a conventional second theme will soon appear – but the new theme is none other than the “sunrise” motif played in the cello and inverted to descend rather than rise. Are we, therefore, to interpret this as “sunset”? When the same motif recurs twice at the start of the development, each time projecting greater anxiety, perhaps it is time to leave the simplistic “sunrise” association behind for something more nuanced. This melodic figure offers Haydn a rich source of tonal and motivic implications that he can call upon to build the movement from the opening phrase to the last.

The ensuing Adagio is a harmonic marvel, tautly designed and one of Haydn’s finest slow movements. One can discern aspects of rondo form in the periodic returns of the main theme, each time in a new key. Haydn seemingly dispenses with his usual tricks, opting instead for slight touches of canonic imitation and careful control of chromatic disruptions to the prevailing key. From a distance, the Adagio carries a hymn-like gravity. Heard in all its fine detail, it shows a composer deeply in love with sound and the implications inherent in every chord progression. After such a meditation, levity seems all the more needed. Haydn obliges with a rollicking Menuetto built almost exclusively on two-note slurs. The oscillating sound mimics a slightly inebriated country yokel, perhaps. The central Trio reinforces this suggestion with the pastoral musette style, complete with drone strings and abundant stasis. Still, it retains the slurring melodic articulation, allowing us to make a smooth return to the Menuet.

Haydn’s childlike humor is never far below the surface. And when he seems at his most “classically” conventional, that is precisely a good time to be on our guards! The Rondo finale unfolds at first with predictable, square phrase rhythm and entirely harmless thematic material. A short contrasting B section dissolves over that same recurring two-note slur gesture, and in moments we are happily moving through the main theme again. The first wrinkle comes with a shift to B-flat minor for a new episode. Unfortunately the music stalls on a diminished 7th chord; the first violin sounds stuck on repeat for several measures before Haydn releases us to a reprise of the opening theme once again. Rondos, of course, get their expressive potential from this play between expectations built up and then either granted, delayed, or thwarted. As this Rondo moves toward its gratifying end, Haydn leads us off on a merry dance. The home dominant launches forth a series of pseudo-fugal snippets from each player, gradually becoming faster and faster until a raucous final glimpse of our main theme (marked Più presto).

The life experiences of Nicole Mitchell span the length and breadth of the United States, and her pioneering voice has taken her message to the entire world. Born in New York City and raised in greater Los Angeles, Mitchell also studied and worked extensively in Chicago. The flute has been her musical companion since elementary school, and she appears today as both composer and performer. In the late 1990s Mitchell formed Black Earth Ensemble. Her discography is massive, and she is regularly cited as the leading jazz flautist by DownBeat Magazine. After teaching at both University of California-Irvine and the University of Pittsburgh, Mitchell arrived in Charlottesville in 2022 for her current position as Professor of Composition at the University of Virginia. Her Decolonizing Beauty was commissioned for Jazztopad Festival 2019 in Wrocław, Poland. About the work, Mitchell contributes the following reflections:

When I composed Decolonizing Beauty for String Orchestra, Percussion, and Artifacts Trio, I was thinking a lot about community convergence, cultural convergence, and musical convergence.  I was in Northern California writing this work in October 2019 when 75,000 acres were burning down, 180,000 people were evacuated, and 2.3 million people were without power.  We are seeing that resources are running out, the earth is angry, and political systems are unraveling.  Our resilience and our ability to help and support each other is key to us entering a new chapter for humanity, so I tried, perhaps more than usual, to pour my love and joy into this music, because that’s what we seem to be lacking these days.

Some of the most inspiring voices that give me hope in this time period are Ingrid Lafleur and Adrienne Maree Brown, African-American women who have found ways to use Afro-futurism as a vehicle to reshape our future in real-time.  Both of them talk about how important it is for each of us to stop all the small ways we perpetuate hierarchy and negativity in the daily choices we make in our lives.  In order for us to create a new paradigm, Brown and Lafleur both speak of the need for us to decolonize our minds.  There is hardly anyone who is not mentally (if not physically) colonized at this moment: we contribute to a system of hierarchical values that rewards some over others in unfair ways.  The movement titles reflect my imaginings of what we might have without the presence of colonization/hierarchy.

Symbolically and ironically, the sound of the Western string orchestra music represents the period of colonization’s beginnings, while it is also something beautiful from human culture that I would like to see survive into the new chapter.  I’ve always loved orchestral music, having been exposed to it from early childhood by my father, who played it constantly on the radio.  Decolonizing Beauty merges the Western classical idiom with creative music improvisations, as a way of reaching for what I call the “edge of beauty” – a beauty that goes beyond the Western to be more inclusive.

Nicole Mitchell and Jason Stell, © 2025