The good we do (2022)
First performance and commission
Amanda Russo Stante, mezzo-soprano and Kimberly Carballo, piano (October 2022)
Instrumentation
mezzo-soprano
piano
Duration
18 minutes
Perusal score
Amanda Russo Stante, mezzo-soprano and Kimberly Carballo, piano (October 2022)
Instrumentation
mezzo-soprano
piano
Duration
18 minutes
Perusal score
Program note
In July 2022, Kim and Amanda asked me for a companion piece to another work by Chirstopher Schmitz they had programmed for a concert that fall. I didn’t have any works already composed that fit their theme of how we know we are in a place, but I knew immediately that I wanted to write one. I was scrolling through Twitter the next day and saw an earnest LinkedIn-style post about how wise Benjamin Franklin’s efficient daily schedule was. I hadn’t thought about Franklin’s plan in years, and its shadows suddenly spoke to me—who was making his meals, cleaning his house, or mending his clothes? I sought out other personal texts in which each author implicitly answered Franklin’s driving questions: What good shall I do this day? What good have I done today? The questions are empowering, or mocking, or earnest, depending on the lives where they show up.
I’ve arranged the texts in this song cycle to let them echo and intertwine with each other, telling a single human story, even though they span an entire lifetime, from 1754 to 1832. Benjamin Franklin’s (1706-90) autobiography bears all the self-confidence and faith in reason that I have come to expect from the Enlightenment. In his autobiography, he describes the difficulty of doing the right thing every day, when temptations abound, and sets about a strict schedule to bring him closer to the 13 moral virtues he seeks in his life: Temperance, Silence, Order, Resolution, Frugality, Industry, Sincerity, Justice, Moderation, Cleanliness, Tranquility, Chastity, and Humility. In immediate contrast to Franklin’s schedule is an excerpt from the diary of Mary Cooper (1714-78). A farm wife on Long Island whose six children had all died, she began writing when she was in her fifties, and every entry describes the pain in her body, the exhaustion in her bones, her unending domestic labor, the (mostly) terrible weather of the winter, and her faith. Hannah Valentine, an enslaved woman in Virginia, was savvy and strong. Hannah was taught to read and write by another enslaved woman at the estate of their master, David Campbell, the governor of Virginia. Her letter to her mistress, Mary Campbell, reveals her deep knowledge of botany, farming, and capitalism. I think of Mary and Hannah as relatively powerless women doing the best they can with what means are available to them.
The Atlantic crossing journal of John Newton (1725-1807) and the diary of Louis XVI (1754-93), two men who held great and direct power over the lives of others, are dispassionate and objective. Both men display a striking lack of agency in the events they recount. Newton began sailing and working on slave ships at age 11, and his journal comes from his time as captain of a slave ship called the African, sailing from Liberia to Antigua. Franklin’s daily questions are, in Newton’s mind, neutral, but in view of the entire system he avidly upheld, there is no good he could possibly do. On the day the Bastille was stormed in Paris, Louis XVI noted in his journal that he did not go on a hunt that day (“Rien” / “Nothing”)—his schedule only slightly interrupted by the revolution.
The cycle closes with a terrible letter from an enslaved woman, Maria Perkins, whose son Albert has just been sold, writing to her husband, Richard Perkins, who is owned by another master. Her letter is breathless, full of desperation and fear. Her position, devoid of options, is her inheritance from the powerful men who preceded her. The way they answered Franklin’s “What good shall I do this day” leaves her with a debt that can never be paid.
In July 2022, Kim and Amanda asked me for a companion piece to another work by Chirstopher Schmitz they had programmed for a concert that fall. I didn’t have any works already composed that fit their theme of how we know we are in a place, but I knew immediately that I wanted to write one. I was scrolling through Twitter the next day and saw an earnest LinkedIn-style post about how wise Benjamin Franklin’s efficient daily schedule was. I hadn’t thought about Franklin’s plan in years, and its shadows suddenly spoke to me—who was making his meals, cleaning his house, or mending his clothes? I sought out other personal texts in which each author implicitly answered Franklin’s driving questions: What good shall I do this day? What good have I done today? The questions are empowering, or mocking, or earnest, depending on the lives where they show up.
I’ve arranged the texts in this song cycle to let them echo and intertwine with each other, telling a single human story, even though they span an entire lifetime, from 1754 to 1832. Benjamin Franklin’s (1706-90) autobiography bears all the self-confidence and faith in reason that I have come to expect from the Enlightenment. In his autobiography, he describes the difficulty of doing the right thing every day, when temptations abound, and sets about a strict schedule to bring him closer to the 13 moral virtues he seeks in his life: Temperance, Silence, Order, Resolution, Frugality, Industry, Sincerity, Justice, Moderation, Cleanliness, Tranquility, Chastity, and Humility. In immediate contrast to Franklin’s schedule is an excerpt from the diary of Mary Cooper (1714-78). A farm wife on Long Island whose six children had all died, she began writing when she was in her fifties, and every entry describes the pain in her body, the exhaustion in her bones, her unending domestic labor, the (mostly) terrible weather of the winter, and her faith. Hannah Valentine, an enslaved woman in Virginia, was savvy and strong. Hannah was taught to read and write by another enslaved woman at the estate of their master, David Campbell, the governor of Virginia. Her letter to her mistress, Mary Campbell, reveals her deep knowledge of botany, farming, and capitalism. I think of Mary and Hannah as relatively powerless women doing the best they can with what means are available to them.
The Atlantic crossing journal of John Newton (1725-1807) and the diary of Louis XVI (1754-93), two men who held great and direct power over the lives of others, are dispassionate and objective. Both men display a striking lack of agency in the events they recount. Newton began sailing and working on slave ships at age 11, and his journal comes from his time as captain of a slave ship called the African, sailing from Liberia to Antigua. Franklin’s daily questions are, in Newton’s mind, neutral, but in view of the entire system he avidly upheld, there is no good he could possibly do. On the day the Bastille was stormed in Paris, Louis XVI noted in his journal that he did not go on a hunt that day (“Rien” / “Nothing”)—his schedule only slightly interrupted by the revolution.
The cycle closes with a terrible letter from an enslaved woman, Maria Perkins, whose son Albert has just been sold, writing to her husband, Richard Perkins, who is owned by another master. Her letter is breathless, full of desperation and fear. Her position, devoid of options, is her inheritance from the powerful men who preceded her. The way they answered Franklin’s “What good shall I do this day” leaves her with a debt that can never be paid.
