Then, as if breathing, the sea swelled beneath us. (2023)
commissioned by the Illinois Philharmonic Orchestra as the Winner of the 2022 IPO Classical Evolve Composer Competition
string orchestra (6.5.4.3.1 minimum)
Duration: c. 11-12 minutes
Movements:
I. Uống nước nhớ nguồn
II. But birds, as you say, fly forward
III. I will learn to love a monster
Performances:
Premiere by the Illinois Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Stilian Kirov on November 18, 2023, at Trinity Christian College, Palos Heights, IL
North Carolina Symphony, conducted by Stephanie Childress, Meymandi Concert Hall, Raleigh, NC, November 1 and 2, 2024 (2 performances)
Reviews:
“The first movement … opens with a daring feature for solo cello... Huỳnh’s gift for crafting compelling melodies and conjuring timbral atmosphere is evident in Then, as if breathing...”
— Chicago Classical Review
Program Note:
Titled after the opening line from Ocean Vuong’s poem “Immigrant Haibun,” Then, as if breathing, the sea swelled beneath us. is a contemplation of family traditions, dynamics of intergenerational relationships, and the barriers of communication between eras—both spoken and unspoken. Each movement is titled after text that considers these themes of translation, history, and cultural divides.
The first movement “Uống nước nhớ nguồn,” is a Vietnamese proverb meaning “when drinking water, remember its source.” This movement considers filial piety and the responsibilities that are expected of each new generation. A theme introduced by a solo cello starts the piece, which is then morphed and passed down into each movement.
The second movement “But birds, as you say, fly forward”—a line from Li-Young Lee’s “For a New Citizen of These United States” —examines family history and exile, and transforms the first theme into a duet between two violins. The past is what informs our present, but how much should we fixate on this history? In Lee’s poem, the speaker becomes so absorbed with their past that they begin to alienate themselves from their community. Even those who had similar experiences of immigration as the speaker have chosen to move, like the birds, forward with their lives.
Titled after another line from Vuong’s “Immigrant Haibun,” the final movement “I will learn to love a monster” uses a fragment from a popular Vietnamese song, “Tiếng Hát Chim Đa Đa” by Võ Đông Điền, as a melodic ostinato, and the cello theme from the first movement is now integrated into the texture rather than being center stage. In Vuong’s poem, a man names his son after the tumultuous ocean and in many ways himself, as though passing on his own self-destruction to his child. The quoted Vietnamese song speaks of an unrequited love and the process of letting go. To learn is to repeat, and by incessantly repeating this melody, I question these forms of love and how love can better be expressed between generations.