Update Title: 7ACB5294-307D-4571-96FD-4149EBD1BF69

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The Prelude, traditionally a short piece which preceded a larger work, took on a life of its own in the latter half of the 19th century and became the vehicle for some of the most refined and brilliant works of composers such as Chopin, Debussy, and Rachmaninoff.

In 1990 when asked to compose a work based on the poetry of Baudelaire, I decided to write a set of piano preludes (Six preludes pour piano, d'apres poemes de Baudelaire). I was so intrigued by this form, which requires the rigorous development of a few concise ideas, that I decided to write another set of preludes - this time for orchestra.

The first prelude, Dawn, was inspired by the dawn light of Cassis, France, a small Mediterranean fishing village about 20 miles east of Marseilles. I had the privilege of spending four months there while I was composer-in-residence at the Camargo Foundation in the early 90's. In Cassis, the sun rises behind the magnificent cliffs of Cape Canaille making dawn a still, gradual, almost imperceptible process that climaxes as the sun bursts over the cliffs. The opening melody in the violins, inspired by the image of light creeping across the sky, is coupled with a rising chordal motive in the muted brass and woodwinds. Various forms of the violin music occur throughout the entire prelude, while the chordal motive expands gradually, disappears, is reintroduced again, and expands to even greater heights.

The second prelude, Wind Over Water, was inspired by the Mistral, a powerful and dry wind which blows across the coast in Southern France. Its low whooshing melodies are infinitely varied, rising and falling, sometimes quietly lulling, sometimes ferocious. This suggested to me an idea in the contrabasses, the contrabassoon, and tuba to which other instruments are gradually added. Sometimes the Mistral violently stirs the sea, sending giant waves crashing against the rocks - which I heard as frantically rushing winds and strings climaxed by the crash cymbals; at other times the Mistral gently churns the sea, causing buoys to clang rhythmically - bell-like attacks over murmuring strings. This prelude is "wind" music, mixed with the evocation of "water" - hence its title.

I was raised in the Pacific Northwest, and for anyone who has lived there "The Mountain" can only mean one thing: Mt. Rainier. Solid, awe-inspiring, mysterious and elusive - only occasionally showing its snowcapped peak - the mountain is also joyful and triumphant. The festive opening theme in the percussion and brass is echoed through other groups of instruments and eventually evolves into rising arpeggios. An idea in the timpani introduced in the middle of the prelude and dominating more and more as the prelude progresses, expressers the awesome side of the mountain.

While the source of inspiration for each of these preludes served as my starting point, once the musical ideas took hold I allowed them - rather than the original image - to shape the course of the piece. The above description is offered here as an afterthought.

I composed these pieces in celebration of nature and hence in celebration of the possibility of man. They are dedicated to the memory of my father, Robert Silver.

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