Vol. 1, Spring 2025

A contemporary composer’s take on the age-old question of what it means to exist in time.

In late February, I joined fellow students and community members in the dimly lit Luth auditorium. Immediately more interesting than our usual pre-concert rituals – perusing the program, scrolling through our phones, chatting with the people around us, watching the others file in – was the thing in the center of the stage. In place of a typical musical setup stood a piano facing away from the audience, and next to it, a set of keyboards, some tables, and a tea-colored wooden contraption covered in colorful wires and cords connected to a circuit board. 

Under pressure to evolve and produce fresh or nontraditional experiences, classical concert halls have increasingly sought to broaden their offerings beyond Beethoven and Schubert, literally making space for instrumentalists like Jeremy Flower, multi-instrumentalist and electroacoustic composer, to take the stage. Flower’s A Series of Resolutions, commissioned by Prior Composer-In-Residence Osvaldo Golijov for string quartet and electronics, ideally represents this growing symbiosis and the emergence of a more expansive inclusion of artistic works. Across his work, Flower’s music focuses on the comingling of acoustic and electronic sound, manipulating a fundamental and distinguishing facet of music performance: its reliance on and unique control over time. A Series of Resolutions is no exception. 

To be sure, the work is, in many ways, still quite traditional in style. The central melodies are manipulated and interwoven; the counterpoint is straightforward and generally tonal. However, Flower’s use of electronics elevates this piece to something far beyond the standard fare of yet another string quartet. The inclusion of this new way of producing sound is subtle – an extension of a note, a repeated figure  in the background of the strings’ melody – highlighting and building upon the existing fabric of the music, rather than adding new layers.

Flower’s premiere at The Prior is, in itself, an efficacious tie to his music and his work. Flower’s compositions, which transcend the barriers of new and old traditions, uniquely parallel the mission of The Prior to incorporate all the arts into a single shared practice. Indeed, Flower’s performance and work alongside Osvaldo Golijov, mirror this blurring of boundaries within a single medium. 

Although the incorporation of electronic elements or fully synthesized music into the concert hall has been a slow process, spanning decades, there remains a level of mysticism around its use in classical music that has yet to be fully resolved. Experienced listeners often equate electronics or synthesized media in music with composers like Steve Reich (famous for his cut-tape pieces), Karlheinz Stockhausen, or Milton Babbitt, all of which challenged the musical status quo in extreme ways. Nevertheless, electronic media has found more subtle strongholds in more traditional iterations of classical music as well. Philip Glass, best known for his minimalist piano works, also incorporated electronic elements, including electric organ, into his later operas and film scores. 

This melding of the new and the old, however exciting, does not come without its share of challenges and questions for the future. With the emergence of “tech” in the concert hall comes a necessary question: where do we go from here? Music like Flower’s is written, and often even performed, within a specific set of technical conditions and practices – venues, instruments, and softwares – that make it possible. As technology and even performance spaces themselves evolve and change, it is worth asking how music like Flower’s can stand the test of time to be performed again, ultimately finding a place within the performance canon. With the growing reliance on specific sounds, composers are faced with unique restrictions that vary by venue. And as time moves away from the inception of their works, the original technology with which it was first performed may no longer be available. Philip Glass notoriously struggled to reproduce the sounds he first created when re-performing Einstein on the Beach, since the electric organ/synthesizers he used had changed, altering the sound of the ensemble. That Flower will face a similar challenge is all but assured Certainly, every performance of even traditional works are necessarily recreations and reinterpretations. The new and important factor here, as exemplified by Glass’ struggle, is the accelerated pace at which these changes are now taking place, opening up new possibilities for modifications, collaboration, and an ever-expanding ownership of  a composer’s work.

The Luth took on a different quality for Flower’s concert than it had before when hosting orchestras, choirs, soloists, and even thespians. The back-lit stage and clear juxtaposition of the Steinway grand – a familiar prize jewel of the center – alongside Flower’s unfamiliar personal equipment gave the space a liminal, temporal feel, preparing the listeners to join the artist on a journey through time in A Series of Resolutions. For a moment, time was on the one hand suspended, where melody and rhythm alongside synthesizers and speakers created a sonic world not quite bound by the standard physical capacities of the instruments and the space. On the other hand, the performance was locked in time even more strictly than standard fare performances of Beethoven or Shubert, being restricted not only to this performance, but also to this space, these performers, and that set of technology and software. 

Flower’s work makes no claim to definitive answers, but his work certainly opens the door – both literally and figuratively – to begin exploring the complex relationship between time and music. As Golijov wrote in his program note, “We all know the feeling of hearing music that sounds like ineffable longing, or music that sounds like the ineffable joy at being alive, or prayer, or majestic sea waves, or the future. Jeremy Flower’s music deletes all the “or(s)” in the sentence above […] Because music is music: it all can happen at the same time, as in life!” Attendees of A Series of Resolutions can be assured that they experienced something quite special that night, participating in their own right in a performance both transcendent and highly imminent. Raising our eyes from a long history of strict adherence to a narrow performance canon, familiar interpretative guidelines, and a limited number of performers intended to produce “timeless” music, Flower’s reinterpretation of time, space, and sound is exactly what the modern concert hall needs on their calendar.

As I conclude my senior year at Holy Cross, I still shake my head at the crazy decision I made halfway through my college career: to become a director. The choice has always oscillated between a wacky fantasy and the best way I know to fulfill a sense of belonging. Previously, I only marveled at the emotions on an actor’s face or colorful costumes; now I see all production elements filtered through a director’s vision and heart. Reflecting on my path makes me consider all the lessons I have gained through the process and I want to thank the people I worked with along the way. 

Lesson #1: Wait
Ed Isser, my directing professor, likes to ask me why it took me so long to join his class. But the answer has always been obvious to me: at the time, I wasn’t ready. I first contemplated taking directing during my sophomore spring as Ed was recruiting students from Theatre History 1 to join the fall class. Some of my sophomore friends had gone through the last round, and the process was apparently brutal, with long hours and an amount of work I was terrified to handle. While I loved acting in one of those projects, the stress I saw my director struggle through deterred me. A fellow theatre major, Wesley Smith, said it best: “If you aren’t sure you want to do it, don’t do it.” So, as Ed encouraged me in office hours to take the class, I stalled. I knew it wasn’t the time for me.  

Fast forward a year later and I was champing at the bit to dive into all the previously mentioned challenges. Working as a stage manager for the Spring 2024 show The Heiress, acting as Richard II in the 300-level Shakespeare class, and creating the immersive Face Factory piece with the Performance Art class, including dancing and shadow puppets, were experiences I gained in junior year that I was eager to synthesize into directing. I also finally trusted Ed’s judgement that I would thrive in the class. My first lesson is this: waiting can be a vital step to get you to where you are going. All my success as a director I attribute to this extra year. So, wait! 

Lesson #2: Combine old skills and build new ones!
After joining the class, I realized that directing challenges my creative and practical sides in ways that scratch my brain just right. In our class, the student director takes on all the scenic, costume, lighting, sound, stage management, and production elements needed to create our pieces while also directing the show. My previous experiences acting, working backstage, and stage management are all drawn upon daily; currently, I am ironing out my schedule for my final piece and finding props like red cloth, a mirror, ropes, and a bag to fit my actor’s head. While I imagined directing would focus on my imagination, and it still does, my primary skill set is in the practical tasks.  

Rather than generated during rehearsal, creativity occurs during the planning stage, before any casting. The piece’s vision comes from the traditional Stanislavski image: you are locked away in an ordinary room with only your notes and the text to inspire you; everything outside of this generative time is practical work. Another form of creativity comes in the sell. When I pitch my classmates on my piece combining Hippolytus by Euripides and Phadra by Racine, I have to get specific, convincing peers exactly why my imaginative choices about staging in the Pit’s audience bank and using cloth to represent altars for the goddesses Artemis and Aphrodite are the best way to tell the story. Some pitches, like the altar cloths, are encouraged, while others, like positioning the altars far apart, are confusing and thus rejected.  As I learned, directing is the next evolutionary step of all my previous theatre experiences, fusing my practical and creative sides into something new. If any of these ideas embolden you, try a directing class! 

Lesson #3: Make some friends!
Without support, I would not be able to realize my directing talents to their fullest potential. The beauty of the course is that I have a professor who has seen all the issues I am struggling with before and fellow directing students to travel the journey with me. During every Friday class, we students have time to brainstorm common challenges like recruiting actors, scheduling around Enron and Alice by Heart rehearsals, and entertaining the audience during our pieces’ set changes. Ed also sets up workshops every Friday, accommodating the actors’ schedule, so each director can present excerpts for the entire class and receive feedback on improvements. Because of the helpfulness of the workshops, I have invited directing classmates to come in during rehearsals and provide notes afterwards. The most painful moment was after tech rehearsal for the One Act Festival when Ed encouraged me to cut half of my light cues; it was the best decision for the piece, so I did it. Without a directing class community, I would flounder and make mistakes the hard way.  

Expanding outside of the class, directing has fostered deeper relationships with other members of the Theatre Department and Prior Performing Arts Center staff. Betsy Pierce lets me stalk her prop closet whenever I want. Kurt Hultgren and Judi Olson generously helped me with costuming needs like a feather boa, and Anshu Bhatia loaned me some giant mirrors for the perfect look. Joan Townsend is always quick to assist with the programs, and my friend Sarah Park volunteers her time to scheme and operate lights. The network I have developed during my Holy Cross career has strengthened through these conversations. Also, I have had the pleasure of directing the hardest-working and most fun groups of student actors through three different projects. Encouraging actors to grow and shine has been a highlight of my experiences, and I love the energy and dedication they bring to rehearsal, even if I’m asking for something crazy like throwing a punch, scaling a pole, or banging a metal tray. A director can only be as good as the people she surrounds herself with, and I joyfully explore this lesson at every opportunity.  

All these lessons would not have been developed without outside influence, but particularly not without Ed Isser. I still remember being dazzled after the first night of rehearsal in 2022 for the Prior’s first department show, Iphigenia, when Ed implored us to trust his vision and enjoy the ride. Ed has pushed me as a director, theatre major, and student, and I know I am not the only one. Other college professors share with me plays with lots of dialogue, while I would rather focus on exciting actions and images. Similar to Ed’s Iphigenia, Good Person, and Cymbeline scripts, the scripts I share with actors rarely have stage directions, so I can teach them instead. Rather than sticking to the original dialogue, I am happy to cut up speeches to better fit the overall vision. As Ed finishes his final semester teaching, I hope my reflections can shed some light on Ed’s powerful influence. He has changed many students’ lives, and he has certainly changed mine.  

Thank you, Ed.

It had all the semblances of an ordinary concert. There were the poised musicians of the Holy Cross Wind Ensemble and Orchestra in their black formal clothes, seated in a semicircle around the conductor’s stand. There stood the conductor with his baton glinting under the soft concert lights, and there sat the audience engaged in polite chatter with programs in their hands. Indeed, it was all familiar save for the strange projection screen hanging low above the musicians’ heads and the colorful lights along the back walls of the stage that hinted the Holy Cross Wind Ensemble and Orchestra wasn’t playing a series of classical compositions that night. 

The usually static lights at the back of the stage, the lilac lights, begin shifting in sync with the music, from soft pinks to ominous reds, as Holy Cross’ Wind Ensemble then Orchestra play through a medley of dynamic songs that evoke the sounds of a world of imagination.  The music glides from the dangers to the thrill of adventure latent within the video games displayed on the projection screen. The audience sits with enraptured silence at the harmony of light and sound, greeting each ending with applause. But video game music has not always been appreciated by concert-goers. The arrangement of multimedia elements in Game On! also celebrates video game music’s rise from being dismissed to being regarded as a legitimate form of art.

When video games began to commonly incorporate music in the 1980s, there was a very obvious limitation: the sound hardware for the video games. Back then, the video games were programmed on 8-bit computer chips, allowing for only a certain number of notes to be played at once. The sound technology could only emit clear, precise notes when they came out in small blips, not unlike Morse code. Due to this limitation, at first the technology was used only for sound effects, like an alien dying under attack from a spaceship. But as competition pushed the gaming companies to explore more, the limits of the technology sparked innovation. The musicians at the time came to call the blips of notes “chips,” leading to the birth of “chiptune.” Remnants of this sound quality can still be heard in the Wind Ensemble’s arrangement of the Super Mario Bros theme song composed by Koji Kondo. Within the chorus of instruments, if one listens closely, one notices that many of the notes are in staccato form: short bursts of notes with simple chords that hold a few notes at once. Yet not only does the quality of chiptune add to the playfulness of the tune, but the Super Mario theme song remains one of the catchiest and most iconic tunes of all time. As such, it has exerted a large influence on future video game music and on Kondo’s later works, such as The Legend of Zelda series.

However, even as technology advanced, it was not obvious that video game music could hold its own. Much like music in film, video game music is complementary. The music is often composed for the visual elements, making it feel secondary. Video game music faces even more of a challenge as it has to not only reflect the themes present within the video game but also sync with the unique gameplay style of each player. In some ways, this initially made it seem implausible that any given pieces of music would gain recognition apart from the gameplay, especially when the score of a game title may shift rapidly to reflect the in-game locations from the peaceful ambiance of Hyrule Castle Town to the intimidating themes of Death Mountain. Even as technology advanced, video game critics also tended to focus more on the improving visual graphics or more tactile gameplay elements than the music, contributing to the sense that the music was more of an added feature rather than an essential part of the game.

What such critics fail to consider, however, is the player-centric reality that video game music contributes as much to the experience as the visuals do. During the Wind Ensemble’s performance of the soundtrack of The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, the music was accompanied by a video of the conductor’s recorded gameplay of the video game itself, edited to be in sync with the arrangement of the music. If one imagines watching this gameplay video without any of the music, one realizes how much would be lost in the mood and atmosphere of each location, even with the shifting theater lights in the background of the stage. Without the music, one would never realize the wry, quirky persona of the owl in the Lost Forest, or the wistful melancholy of Link as he rides through the open plain of a time he does not belong to. 

Why a concert, then, to celebrate video game music? As I experience the musicians glide from title to title, I realize I have never really thought about how much inspiration video game music draws from classical and cinematic music. Indeed, as I listen carefully to what instruments were taking a more central role in each title, I can hear the resemblances between the video game music and its influences. The Halo trilogy theme songs are filled with a combination of vocals by Rhiannon Hurst ’25 and the deep, resonant tones of bass instruments, cluing the audience into its heavy inspiration from the musical traditions of Gregorian chant and medieval music. The theme songs of World of Warcraft give me the impression of a Celtic mead hall with the prominence of trumpets and sweeping movements. Sure enough, World of Warcraft often uses live orchestras to record their music, using the resonance and cinematic complexity to express the vastness of the in-game multiplayer world. It is events like this concert, as Jason Hayes, one of the composers for World of Warcraft, pointed out in an interview with GameSpot, that provide a way for nongamers to realize the level of sophistication that is inherent within video game music and to legitimize the art of video games.  

As the credit screen of Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time rolls out, the musicians rise for their bows. Applause fills the air, both for the musicians themselves and for the art of video games. With live instruments and visuals combined, the concert celebrates the symbiotic beauty of visuals and music, tradition and innovation, that remain at the heart of video game music. It reminds us of the path video games have taken as well as the future they promise.

In February 2025, The Holy Cross Department of Theatre and Dance unveiled a most audacious artistic achievement, crafting a haunting and enthralling tale of revenge and obsession.

On the subject of obsession, I attended seven out of the eight times that Holy Cross performed Stephen Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. In other words, I spent around twenty-one hours absorbing everything I could from the college’s triumphant musical production. Director Meaghan Deiter infuses nuance, professionalism, and unique ideas that upend restrictive conventions of past iterations to produce a singular piece of art within the broader history of Holy Cross theater. 

Sweeney Todd is the story of a barber named Benjamin Barker who returns to London under the guise of Sweeney Todd, seeking revenge on the corrupt judge who sent him to prison on a trumped-up charge in order to get his hands on Barker’s wife, Lucy. Alongside the deranged Mrs. Lovett, who runs a meat pie shop, Todd embarks on a murder spree, using his razor and barber chair to kill his victims as Lovett bakes the bodies into her pies. As the show proceeds, the absurd plot resolves into satirical cogency, giving way to the prominent—and devastating—metaphor of mankind devouring itself. 

Holy Cross’ production explodes open with the entire cast of almost thirty students imploring us to “attend the tale of Sweeney Todd.” The sopranos pierce through the atmospheric, all-encompassing grasp the chorus holds over us while “The Ballad of Sweeney Todd” introduces us to the vengeful, razor-wielding demon barber. This Brechtian opening, directly addressing the audience, acknowledges that we exist in the same world as the nineteenth-century Londoners up on stage. Dieter leverages this acknowledgment to impose a contemporary twist on the story, applying casting and wardrobe unbound by gender, cultural, and historical constraints.

Kurt Hultgren’s detailed costuming, Anshuman Bhatia’s sweeping set pieces, and Sondheim’s Grand-Guignol-inspired score, tackled masterfully by Scott Koljonen, all immerse us in the grimy and oppressive London. Deiter’s utilization of these elements, combined with Corey Whittemore’s lighting, kindled one of the production’s greatest strengths: the innovative use of the Luth Concert Hall. The amber-tinted venue, situated within the grander Prior Performing Arts Center, opened in Fall 2022. Building on the increasingly immersive staging of previous musicals in the venue, from Company in 2023 to Oklahoma! in 2024, Sweeney Todd uses the hall to its fullest potential. Actors spread across the space—convulsing on the floor, singing in the balcony, and climbing through the audience; the ensemble, crawling up from beneath the stage, screaming, and smearing their makeup across their faces in thrilling moments of visceral intensity. This not only elevated the show’s horror elements but also brought a level of engagement and physicality that enhanced its overall impact. 

Traditionally, the production does not move around the stage all too much; however, Bhatia’s ingenious set design—a pie shop base with the barber shop on top of it, flanked by two three-story scaffolding appendages—allows for a variety of settings. Bombastic, choreography-heavy numbers like the opening of Act Two, “God, That’s Good,” juxtapose quaint tunes like “Not While I’m Around,” which involves Matt Hollatz’s Toby, the pseudo-adopted son of Todd and Lovett’s twisted nuclear family, and Bridget Campbell’s Mrs. Lovett sitting on a couch. One of the most effective applications of the set is during “Ladies In Their Sensitivities/Kiss Me,” led by the hilarious and menacing Nik Karvelas as Beadle Bamford, the Judge’s lawman. The quartet begins with The Beadle pointing Daniel Rentel’s ruthless Judge Turpin toward Sweeney for a proper shave before he re-attempts to marry his adopted daughter, Johanna (the actual daughter of Sweeney and Lucy), played elegantly by Zara Wilson. As Beadle shares his insight into women’s behavior on stage right, Johanna and her star-crossed lover Anthony, played by Michael Sheehan, formulate their plan to flee atop the second level of the scaffolding on stage left. As these micro scenes occur simultaneously, Beadle’s “Ladies in Their Sensitivities” is intercut with Johanna and Anthony’s love song, “Kiss Me.” Then, with all parties in harmony, the scenes move across one another as the lawmen ascend to the second floor of the scaffolding and the young couple moves down below, just as the quartet blends in tandem to finish the number—an intricately layered example of the show’s spirited blocking. 

The most visually striking sequences of the show involve the entire cast. The shaving/tooth-pulling competition between Sweeney and the laugh-out-loud-funny Victor Torres as Italian barber Adolfo Pirelli succeeds largely because of the surrounding commotion and antics of the ensemble. In another highlight, Anthony schemes to break Johanna out of the insane asylum Turpin and The Beadle put her in. This is where Dieter and the cast have the most fun: once Johanna shoots the corrupt headmaster of the asylum, Jonas Fogg, portrayed tyrannically by Mary Grace Kelly, all hell breaks loose. Every surrounding door of the concert hall bursts open with vigorous force as the asylum patients wail and screech of the “City on Fire.” Dancers contort their bodies on stage like creepy dolls, and the hairs on my neck stand straight up. Dieter’s introduction of stand-alone dance numbers into her adaptation, something largely absent from other versions, is crucial to the dynamism of this production. Audra Carabetta, alongside assistant choreographer Rachel Golden and featured dancer Sophie Rego, conceived a particular style of dance that fit the slithering, urchin-esque undertone of the show. 

As a repeat viewer, I can attest that the cast is exceedingly captivating to watch over and over again. As soon as Jimmy Duffy’s Sweeney Todd catches your eye during “Epiphany,” you feel your heart skip a beat as if he is really going to jump out at you and cut your throat. Bridget Campbell marvelously transforms into the Sweeney-obsessed lunatic Mrs. Lovett. The way she lets her body go limp as Todd waltzes her around the stage tells you all you need to know about her character. And not once did Lilly Percival let out an impassioned shrill in front of my seat that made me doubt her portrayal as an old, disturbed beggar woman. As the entire cast embodies these tortured adults, you never think for a second that any of them might be off to write lab reports or solve problem sets after the show. There is something eminently raw and beautiful about watching your peers make art in front of your eyes—a distinctive gift of being a part of the Holy Cross community, I think. 

As a classic piece of musical theater, Sweeney Todd captures themes of absolute power and obsession, driving home how these forces can shape our destinies. Yet this production’s significance extends beyond the musical itself, leaving an indelible mark on the Theatre program and The Prior Performing Arts Center. This remarkable show undoubtedly exhibits the kind of multi-faceted artistic brilliance that epitomizes this new era for the arts at the College.

Ian Bostridge, classical tenor hailing from the UK, once again visited Worcester’s Tuckerman Hall in March for a performance of Lieder spanning the centuries. Accompanied by pianist Julius Drake, a long-time collaborator, the two presented a series of classically-set Shakespearean poetry, featuring composers spanning from Haydn to Shubert to Dowland. For those not yet introduced to the art form, the plural German noun Lieder (singular Lied) means “songs,” but in particular for lovers of classical music, the term refers to songs with piano accompaniment that are explorations of written texts – poetry, certainly, but other texts as well.

As was highlighted by a sneak-peek video Exploring Shakespeare through Classical Music posted by the host of this concert, Music Worcester, the audience of this event was guaranteed to be unique, the setlist appealing to more than just fans of Bostridge’s work or classical music. Scholars and casual enjoyers of poetry and classical texts could find refuge for their afternoon, and engage with an alternative facet of their interest. With an equal emphasis being placed on the texts as an independent entity rather than a contingent property of the music, this concert expanded the listening experience from one purely aesthetic to an intellectual experience as well, allowing a diverse audience from varied backgrounds to appreciate the art in a new way, shifting the focus away from the music, a phenomenon rare for the concert hall. 

Such a unique setlist set-up – a clear departure from the typical offering, that would offer a more diverse set of styles and genres – gave the listeners that afternoon both a refreshing insight into the evolution and changes over time in the genre. Although the process sometimes works in the other direction, that is, text being shaped or even written for the music, the process followed over the composition of the music heard that afternoon, and indeed much of the time in classical music, is that already-existing texts were chosen, and the music was composed according to the ideas and mood set by the text. Thus, focusing on a single genre like this allowed for even the casual listener to notice the differences in how composers approached these classic texts and yielded a more focused, intimate approach to not only this genre of music but also the texts themselves as a co-entity of the program, rather than a secondary characteristic.

Although text-setting in music has existed for centuries, with poetry-based text setting emerging in full force during the Romantic era, there remains no standard way in which composers approach these texts, even in modern writing. While some, like Shubert, choose to preserve the original characters, moods, and meanings behind the poems, other composers explore the poems in ways that recreate them as their own new works, changing word orders and lines, repeating words, and creating new emotional shifts with the music. The real challenge of text-setting in music is the tension to find the balance between creating something new while preserving the original art – the poetry. This delicate co-mingling between artistic forms is certainly a difficult one and often requires a compromise of both sources: the music must be shaped around the framework of the text, and the text re-shaped to give way to the musical line. 

The underlying implications of this, however, complicate matters. The addition of music to a poem necessarily implies something added that the text alone does not communicate. Even in the most faithful settings, the melodic lines, dynamics, articulation, and rhythmic placement all shape the text in a way that does not merely repeat the meter of a spoken line. The more musical artistry pours from the composer, the further there is a departure from the basic words of the text, and the result is a re-interpretation of the poem, often in new and divergent ways. In fact, the musical setting of texts often stems directly from this kind of work: analysis and interpretation of the text, the choice of emotional shifts, high and low points, and the crafting of a musical picture that presents this understanding of the work to the world. The beauty of interpretation only adds to this complexity, with even the smallest details altered by the performer – a breath here, a look between the two, the slightest inflectional change – creating a subtly new and different story. 

Yet, following this line of questioning, a secondary consideration that composers and poets alike have struggled with alongside all artists and creators that put their work into the world is, to whom does their work belong? Of course, copyright laws give us one answer to that. Wait long enough; the texts and ideas can be used in any way possible. Such a simplistic answer, however, poorly captures the true stakes and discourse around the question. Ought all texts be used to create something new? The American poet Mary Oliver famously disagreed, much to the chagrin of composers and artists who admire her work, stipulating that her work was not to be set to music. Others, like Shakespeare, appear to have been more open to the idea, as evidence points to texts such as the ones heard in concert here being performed to popular songs as part of their original presentation. 

This context adds a new layer of complexity and interest to the program, not only showcasing how different composers interpreted the texts, but also demonstrating the overarching evolution of Lieder as a genre. This program not only showcased how each composer, acting as a case study for their period of work, approached a similar interpretative challenge with the tools offered by the musical era in which they were working, but also how musical trends have reinterpreted classical texts again and again. 

At the end of the day – or the concert – perhaps the ultimate beauty of Bostridge’s program was best reflected by his audience that afternoon: a crowd composed of avid musicians and classical music lovers alongside English majors and poetry fans, and of course, people new to both just along for the ride. This is the joy of the open collaboration that Lieder inspires.

Walking into rehearsal with director Scott Malia and the cast of Enron, I was not expecting to see Vincent Sekafetz, class of 2025, playing Jeff Skilling, toss imaginary pieces of meat to velociraptors. As I later learned, Enron’s chief financial officer and convicted felon Andy Fastow did call his debt holders “raptors.” Dramatizing the rise and eventual scandal surrounding the energy company Enron in the late 1990s and early 2000s, British playwright Lucy Prebble embraces the inherent theatricality of the original story through various non-historical elements like an original female character and the velociraptors. The College of the Holy Cross’s production embraces both the reality and imagination of the piece to educate a college-aged theatre audience born after the collapse of Enron and an economics audience less inclined to attend the theatre. The department’s work humanizes the characters so that college students see themselves in Skilling and Fastow on stage. 

The historical energy company began in the 1980s with ownership in natural gas pipelines. Eventually, it expanded into creating a derivatives market for energy, helping companies lock in a lower price today for the gas they may need to buy at an otherwise higher price months later. As Enron grew as a company, it began to take on more risky ventures and committed fraud to cover the fact that many of these ventures were not profitable. Enron’s bankruptcy in 2001 spurred a giant investigation with several criminal convictions but also led to more reform in economic and accounting practices. Many of the scandal’s details are very technically based; several of the investors were unaware of or confused by the hidden Enron practices. Rather than confounding the audience, however, Prebble’s play brings clarity to these events in an entertaining fashion.  

Unique staging and scenic design are the first layer that capture the Holy Cross audience. The seating is “tennis-court-ish,” as the scenic designer, Anshuman Bhatia, described it to me. This is code for typical tennis court seating, with two twists: one portion of the seats is shorter on the side than the other, and both seating banks are closer to the middle of the playing space, making the performance area narrower. This is the closest the Prior audience has ever been to the action. Along the walls are projected screens that can instantly move the audience to distinct locations like an office party or Andy’s underground lair. In the initial design, stock tickers flashed along the screens for the entirety of the show; in the final version, the tickers appear occasionally to highlight their importance in key moments. Together, the tickers and projected locations increase a sense of familiarity for audiences inherently interested in economics and add depth of storytelling for the rest. 

Using the expertise of experienced professors from the Economics and Accounting Department, Scott Malia brings clarity to the now twenty-year-old story for a modern audience. To answer his and the cast’s questions about definitions of terms or context, Malia created a shared document with these professors. One example of a requested definition is “mark-to-market accounting,” which Skilling mentions in Act 1. This accounting practice attempts to record assets and liabilities according to their current price rather than original price, and in the case of Enron, inflate profits. After receiving responses from his fellow faculty members, Malia would relay them to the actors. Through acting in, working backstage for, or watching the show, a wide range of Holy Cross students became more knowledgeable about economics in a captivating way.   

By casting this show with college students, Malia reframes the actions and consequences of fraud by forty-year-old businessmen through the lens of young people. A twenty-two-year-old Jeff seems more youthful and naïve in upholding his perfect theory, while Andy is sympathetic through his vulnerability and weakness in the face of his colleagues. By watching characters portrayed by their peers, students are allowed to reckon with their own flaws and how internal and external pressure can lead to more risk-taking. Enron began with good intentions, but those same intentions collapsed when the company cut corners to reach its goals. How often do our own intentions lead to harm? The audience will relate anew, no matter what their level of familiarity with the source material.  

My favorite way that the production draws the audience in is the aforementioned raptors. With sharp claws, glowing yellow eyes, and snapping jaws, they are hungry, they are dangerous; they give the literal meaning for the hedges they are supposed to represent. Through the heightened level of theatricality, they raise the stakes, making the debt easier to synthesize with technical jargon. During rehearsal, I noted the height difference between the actors playing the raptors and Rowan Laufik playing Andy. Through their body language, the raptors protect and care for him. Unlike the rest of the people he encounters, the raptors give him power and a sense of belonging. Ultimately, they humanize him; no one cares about him but them. Rather than being a stereotypical evil guy, Andy becomes someone just trying to fit in, with whom an audience of all ages can sympathize. And of course, it’s fun watching raptors chase other characters off-stage. 

Speaking with both Bhatia and Malia while the play was still in rehearsal, I did wonder if the heightened theatricality of the piece might turn some economics-minded people away from the show. On the one hand, the stylization is a real departure from the typical way economists construct meaning within their discipline. On the other hand, for many in the field, the Enron scandal is overly familiar; one accounting student informed me his class once was assigned the documentary of Enron, only for the students to skip it as they had all seen it before. Yet this play is not a documentary; it’s time for something new. In Prebble’s drama and Malia’s production, the style is set up from the opening, so the audience has time to adjust. The original story has already been told and retold again; this play’s theatricality keeps the content fresh and accessible rather than overused.  

At the publication of this article, Holy Cross’s production of Enron has concluded. Whether you saw the show or not, I hope these reflections invite you to consider the depth and intentions of the piece. This play critiques a common ‘90s practice of deception in a comedic way. Rather than reject the tale as dusty and irrelevant, I hope its recent and future audiences recognize the modernity of its message. Someday, you may be stuck trying to hide the raptors of your own creation.

A special thank you to Anshuman Bhatia and Scott Malia for the interviews, as well as the cast of Enron for letting me sit in on a rehearsal.

Eight. That is how many people have died from gun violence within the United States in the past week, four of whom have died in the past two days at the time of writing this article. However, the numbers lack gravitas for those who are not personally impacted. The organizations Purpose Over Pain and Everytown for Gun Safety were determined to change that through a partnership with the MASS (Model of Architects Serving Society) Design Group with the Gun Violence Memorial Project. Inspired by the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial quilt, where each section represented a deceased AIDS patient’s personality and life, the MASS Design Group and Purpose Over Pain decided to humanize gun violence victims by incorporating personal items and constructing a visual representation of the victims’ lives. Through the process, MASS Design Group started to realize the healing capacity of creating a space for the memories of the victims, not merely as victims, but as individuals. Being involved with creating the space also became a process of healing for the victims’ families as they got the chance to once again remember their loved ones. So began the Public Memory and Memorials Lab, one of six Design Labs at MASS Design Group, with Jha D. Amazi at the helm. As Holy Cross learned during a Prior Presents residency with Amazi in March, the Lab creates memorials that focus on the question: “How can spatializing memory support healing and inspire collective action for generations to come?”

But let us cycle back. MASS Design Group is a foundation focused on the effects of architecture beyond its functional use. MASS stands for Model of Architecture Serving Society, as its team believes that architecture has the power to provide ways to confront and heal from the past while also facing the future. Any project they do is related to the dialogue between the visual structure of buildings and the social message and impact they have. For the Public Memory and Memorials Lab, Jha D Amazi and her colleagues had to consider how to present and provoke change through architecture. Why memorials then? When we think about memory, we often picture it as an incorporeal concept, like a cloudy, undefined emotion. Society makes the memory of past events tangible to the general public through three main architectural forms: museums, monuments, and memorials. Though all three spatialize public memory, they each do so in a different context and for certain types of events. Museums categorize and preserve elements of the past for education. Monuments are built to honor and celebrate accomplishments, like the Washington Monument in DC for George Washington. But memorials are unique in their purpose of encouraging reflection. They present public memory in ways that provoke the public to reconsider the history we know and reflect on what voices have slipped from that narrative despite their impact. Through such reconsideration and reflection, the process of healing begins.

In each memorial, the Public Memory and Memorials Lab uses visual elements of the design to draw attention to specific elements of the memorialized events. The Gun Violence Memorial Project presented the personal items of the victims in glass-covered white shelves shaped like houses to humanize the victims as individuals with homes and complex lives. Jha D Amazi was involved in the construction of  The Embrace by the artist Hank Willis Thomas, not only as the head of the Public Memory and Memorials Lab, but as one of its principal architects. She found the project personally meaningful as it engages with the historical landscape of Boston, where she grew up. The bronze sculpture depicts the arms of Martin Luther King Jr. and his wife, Coretta Scott King, with Coretta’s arms supporting MLK as they intimately embraced each other when they heard the news that MLK Jr. had received the Nobel Peace Prize. The memorial emphasizes the importance of love and support in the fight against injustice and encourages viewers to reflect upon the civil rights movements in the context of the community, rather than as an achievement of one national hero. But the unity of artistic expression and message is the most apparent in The National Memorial for Peace and Justice. The memorial was constructed to remember and inform the public of the scale and grim history of lynchings throughout the nation, as well as spark conversations in the counties depicted about how to acknowledge the grim and dark parts of our history.  To represent the individuals who were lynched, the memorial contains jars filled with dirt from locations where lynchings took place, each jar unique in its coloration. From the ceiling hang more than eight hundred steel slabs, one for each county throughout the States where lynching happened, and each engraved with the names and dates of the victims. The memorial was sited in Montgomery, Alabama, for multiple reasons, historical and symbolic, one being that the city contains over two dozen memorials commemorating the Confederate South. By placing it on a hill overlooking the city, the National Memorial for Peace and Justice serves as a path toward peace by giving the historical pain of injustices to heal, and also as a rectification of how the racial injustices of the past are remembered. 

The need for more of such memorials remains since, as the Gun Violence Memorial Project points out, we are numb even to the events happening now to realize the wounds of the communities we live in. Amazi’s visit to the college was an opportunity for the Holy Cross community to reflect on the injustices of the past and present. Her work reflects the aim of the former College president, Rev. Philip L. Boroughs, to acknowledge the past because “only with this understanding and acknowledgement can we move toward healing.” Amazi’s work is a call to action to all of us to seek justice and to remember for the sake of healing.

In late February 2025, the Cantor Gallery presented Form, Structure, and Symmetry: Bach in the Gallery, a celebration of divergent creative mediums that unite to make magic. Here is my recount of how it unfolded.

The experience unravels like an intricate tapestry, where each thread—whether a masterful musical composition, an abstract sculpture, or the precise incorporation and integration of mathematical concepts—weaves together for a harmonious exploration of creativity. This event embodies the fundamental artistic, intellectual, and multidisciplinary values of the College, providing an insightful and evocative expression of the liberal arts. 

Bach in the Gallery revolves around the interplay between the sculptures of Michael Beatty, artist and former professor at Holy Cross for twenty-five years, and the music of legendary composer Johann Sebastian Bach. Beatty’s sculptures speak with a mathematical vocabulary, utilizing concepts like line, form, symmetry, and dimensionality. Bach’s music, revered for its genius and precision in conception, provides a brilliant companion to the artwork that saturates the gallery space: Beatty’s Fabrications. Professor Gareth Roberts, mathematics professor and Bach aficionado, serves as the bridge between the music and visual art spheres, smoothly explaining how the rules governing music and mathematics are not as different as they may seem. 

The experiential artistic nature of the event emanates from the live cello performances by Pietro Romussi and Julianna Stratton, who initially proposed the event. The cellists demonstrate examples of Bach’s complex techniques as Professor Roberts explains them. The primary work he uses to express Bach’s manifestation of geometry through music is his “Crab Canon.” As Roberts informs us, a canon is a contrapuntal (two or more separate tunes played simultaneously) musical composition that involves a melody being layered with different iterations of the same melody. Essentially, Bach uses the grammar of transposition, retrograding, and inversion to create multiple altered versions of the same melody, ultimately allowing the piece to be played backward within itself and on a continuous loop, crafting something conceptually similar to a palindrome in the English language. To showcase the feat of symmetry, the cellists perform the composition, with Julianna playing the piece from the beginning and Pietro playing it backward simultaneously, demonstrating its synchronicity and harmony. 

Professor Beatty likens the winding nature of Bach’s music to the art of M.C. Escher, whose labyrinthine, mathematically-infused designs offer visual representations of impossible spaces, loops, and continuous patterns. The parallel between artists is prevalent in this scenario because of the mutual employment of infinity as a concept and the relationship between symmetry and non-linearity. Beatty offers us one of his favorite Escher quotes, which reads, “Only those who attempt the absurd will achieve the impossible. I think… I think it’s in my basement… Let me go upstairs and check.” Blending humor and profundity, Beatty suggests that art like what is on display comes to life through creative exploration.

Beatty’s abstract and conceptual work bends boundaries and challenges us to view rigidity as sand in a sandbox, waiting to be tossed around by a child unbound by what we perceive as “normal.” As he points out, the only constrictive element of his sculpture that deviates from musical composition is time. In a stroke of curiosity and eagerness to provide us with another flourishing bridge between art forms, Beatty spontaneously challenges Pietro and Julianna to play what they feel while looking at one of his sculptures. Although put on the spot in front of an audience, the cellists could respond intuitively to the abstract sculptures, guided not by notes on a page but by an inherent feeling that transcends theory or written understanding. The connection the musicians conjure between their hearts and the art in front of them brings forth the most successful example possible of the intellectual principles being discussed: something fluid, dynamic, and only possible through emotion; something undeniably human. 

The creative collision this event generated is distinctive and confluent. Holy Cross grounds itself in the belief of educating the whole person—developing the mind in as many ways as possible and knowing as much about different things as possible. The expression of art, creativity, and the remarkable intersection of ideas presented in this event exemplify the potential that belief can produce. This event is more than an exploration of sculpture and music—it is a reaffirmation of the significance of emotional expression, a catalyst for new ideas, and a blueprint for combining disciplines to create something greater. By incorporating more foreign intellectual concepts into the art world, musicians and visual artists demonstrate that creativity is not bound to a specific medium or set of rules. It can be an instinctual, improvisational, fluid, and dynamic force that thrives when we let go and allow ourselves to form intersections between different outlets of expression.