aaus-list @ ukrainianstudies.org -- [aaus-list] Ukrainian folk singing workshop

[Diana Howansky <dhh2@columbia.edu>]

ONE WEEK FROM TODAY:

The Ukrainian Studies Program at Columbia is hosting a folk singing 
workshop by Ukrainian singer and composer MARIANA SADOWSKA.

WHEN: Monday, December 12, 1:00-3:00pm
WHERE: Room 620, Dodge Hall, Columbia University

Ms. Sadowska's recent performances in the United States have included at 
the San Francisco World Music Festival; with the eight-woman a cappella 
ensemble "Rusalki,"; and with the fiery roots vocal-band Moira Smiley & 
VOCO. To read more about Ms. Sadowska and her Ukrainian folk singing 
workshops, please see the review below.

THIS WORKSHOP, WHICH IS FREE, WILL BE LIMITED TO THE FIRST 20 
INDIVIDUALS WHO RESPOND, AND SPOTS ARE FILLING QUICKLY, SO TO RESERVE A 
SPOT, CONTACT DIANA HOWANSKY AT UKRAINIANSTUDIES@COLUMBIA.EDU OR 
(212)854-4697. Non-Ukrainian speakers and novice singers welcome.

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“Sometimes a musician has such an inborn desire to communicate that her 
message naturally becomes universal:  Such was the case with Ukrainian 
singer Mariana Sadovska” -The New York Times

*********************************************************************

"New York City, Meet the Ukrainian Folk Singers"
by Marusia Sonevytsky
(Review c/o the Yara Arts Group)

I wailed my heart out last weekend. In the vacant seventh-story room of 
an East Village building, I, with twenty other adventurous souls, was 
learning to sing ancient Ukrainian folk- songs.

I am a Ukrainian-American woman, and a lover of music. I believe firmly 
in the curative powers of music: in the stirring properties of sweet 
melodies, the soothing potential of rich harmonies. After last Sunday, I 
can firmly assert my confidence in the therapeutic quality of pagan 
Ukrainian song. Forget chicken soup, try Ukrainian folk-singing for the 
soul.

It was my second week in New York City, and I was still overwhelmed and 
over-stimulated by everything everywhere. Feeling adventurous, I trekked 
down to the Ukrainian folk-singing workshop that wintry Sunday afternoon 
with a friend (also Ukrainian-American). She had promised me that this 
workshop would be a nice break from adjustment to the city, and I had 
eagerly accepted her invitation.

Nevertheless, we spent the subway ride down to the East Village 
skeptically predicting that the turnout would be poor, that the few 
participants would be wrinkly Slavic babas, and that the instructor 
would croak and croon at us unintelligibly. Instead, the workshop, 
sponsored by the East Village-based Yara Arts Group, drew a diverse 
crowd: a pair of young aspiring actresses, one from Spain, one from 
Italy; a Japanese-American performance artist; a trio of unrelated older 
men who thought they might have some Ukrainian cousins somewhere; a hip, 
be-pierced East Villager; a former leader of the Socialist Workers Party 
with an interest in post-communist countries; and a core group of 
Ukrainian-Americans, young and old.

The instructor, Mariana, a young native Ukrainian woman who is the 
artist-in-residence for the Yara Arts group this season, was very 
supportive of our first hesitant sotto voce wails. She prodded us, this 
motley group of strangers, to sing "open-throated," without 
reservations, to move to the music if it moved us, and to forget about 
the words (ancient Ukrainian, easy to forget). With Mariana's 
charismatic encouragement, those first tentative whimpers soon became 
confident yelps, and the music, wild and foreign, soulful and rhythmic, 
swept us away.

This, actually, was not my first encounter with Ukrainian folk-song. It 
had been introduced to me once before, in a quirky Ukrainian village 
called Rakhiv, in the heart of the verdant Carpathian mountains.

I had come to Rakhiv on a whim, as part of an unstructured solo 
three-month trip to Ukraine. I had been invited to stay with a Peace 
Corp volunteer, Juniper, who was finishing her second year working with 
an environmental NGO in this isolated Carpathian town. I had come with 
no expectations, and with no knowledge of Rakhiv or its surprisingly 
well-preserved and vibrant cultural life.

Rakhiv is a speck on the map of Europe, and a dot on the map of Ukraine. 
Nine kilometers from the Romanian border, and hundreds of years from New 
York City, it is a tiny town with a large distinction: it is the exact, 
mathematical, geographic center of Europe. The villagers are proud of 
this distinction, and a humble stone monument marks the precise central 
point of the continent, so that the few brave tourists who journey to 
Rakhiv can throw their arms around it and tell stories of when they 
embraced the center of Europe (I certainly do). But the true spark in 
each villager's eye ignites when he speaks of the resident Orchestra, 
Rakhiv's soul and spirit.

Rakhiv is also the geographic heart of a region known as Hutsulshchynna, 
the southern mountainous part of Ukraine. The Hutsul culture is a 
vibrant one, complete with elaborate traditional costumes, exotic 
instruments, and wild, foot-stomping dances. It is rooted in the 
traditions of ancient nomadic mountain farmers, and it bears some 
similarities to the notoriously unrestrained culture of Gypsies who 
still tour Ukraine.

The Rakhiv Hutsul Orchestra held its rehearsals in an abandoned school 
on the perimeter of the village, and this is where Juniper and I 
encountered them. The presence of two Amerikanochky, as we were 
affectionately called by Rakhivites, added to the excitement of the 
orchestra's rehearsal, as they showed off their instruments, costumes, 
and voices.

The "orchestra" consisted of about two dozen musicians, and included a 
small army of sopilkas (a petite wood flute, capable of incredible 
acrobatics), a trio of chitarists (a xylophone-like stringed instrument, 
played with hammers and strapped to the player), a one-man percussion 
section, and a mysterious membranophone that was supposed to "pull 
vibrations out of the earth." Additionally, a choir of singers (who 
doubled as dancers) supplemented the instrumentalists, stomping and 
squealing about to the music.

Outside it was deep summer, and children from the village flocked to the 
abandoned school and joined in the music. Soon, dancing circles sprung 
up, villagers and musicians and singers and dancers linked arms, and, 
before I knew it, I was improvising on the tambourine.

There was a sense, when one watched the orchestra rehearse (and 
rehearsed with them), that one was witnessing a strange and beautiful 
accident: sounds, colors, and energy collided to produce a powerful 
sensual synergy. The dancing was reckless, riotous, and the music was 
remarkably seamless for its improvisatory style. But the voice was king: 
confident, emotional, and communicating nuances of raw joy and sorrow 
that are usually obfuscated by rules and convention in Western classical 
music.

Occasionally, a soloist would step out and share a song of deep meaning 
to the rather large audience that had assembled. Frequently, these 
quiet, contemplative moments would metamorphose effortlessly into 
up-tempo dance music again, and the rehearsal, more like an impromptu 
performance, pushed and pulled the audience along. The rehearsal 
continued to weave along for a while, but slowly the crowd of 
participants subsided, and the musicians began to complain of the heat.

After the rehearsal, Juniper and I approached the woman who seemed to be 
the star singer of the ensemble, and begged her to teach us to sing. She 
seemed flattered, and accepted our offer, but warned us that it is not a 
thing easily taught. I assured her that we would be understanding and 
devoted pupils, and we agreed to meet later that week.

On the day of the lesson, Juniper and I eagerly prepared ourselves for 
folksinging, but our instructor never came. I thought for sure that I 
had missed my chance to learn to sing these rare Ukrainian folksongs, 
and left Rakhiv with that one regret.

Leave it to New York City to find the one unusual art form that I had 
given up on, and to present it to me in workshop form.

Mariana, the woman who energetically led us through the afternoon of 
singing at the Yara Arts Group workshop, had personally traveled to 
these isolated regions of Ukraine, collecting and recording ancient 
pagan songs on her way. In her repertoire she had songs from Hutsul 
regions along with songs from various other regional pockets of Ukraine. 
She had transcribed the songs personally, while learning to imitate the 
effects and inflections of the singers. And now she generously shared 
her findings with our eclectic group of interested strangers.

I had suspected, from my first contact with ancient Ukrainian song, that 
it could have a potent healing, empowering, bonding effect. I still 
can't pinpoint the source of its magic, but I can attest to its 
existence now.

Our group of interested strangers was transformed that afternoon. We had 
come as curious skeptics, and we left the workshop feeling liberated, 
having made friends, wanting to celebrate. A group of us moved to a 
local Indian restaurant, where we feasted and talked for hours. I 
returned to my new, unfamiliar room that evening and felt a calm that I 
had missed since my arrival in New York City, despite the ambulances and 
trucks rumbling down Amsterdam Avenue.

That night, I thought about Rakhiv, my missed lesson, my unexpected 
afternoon, and the phenomenon of coincidence. Humming a pagan Ukrainian 
melody to myself, I prepared to wake up the next day and wail.

-- 
Diana Howansky
Staff Associate
Ukrainian Studies Program
Columbia University
Room 1209, MC3345
420 W. 118th Street
New York, NY  10027
(212) 854-4697
ukrainianstudies@columbia.edu
http://www.sipa.columbia.edu/ukrainianstudies/