The cultural sector in Finland is, again, facing massive funding cuts. Central government finances are in the toilet, and something has to be done. Shortly before the general election in spring 2023, Riikka Purra – now the Minister of Finance – quipped that culture is a luxury service on which Finland spends too much money. Although some blame is certainly to be laid on the powers that be, what we are facing now is facilitated by a longer-term trend of decreasing appreciation for culture in society at large. The idea that art has value in and of itself is pretty much on life support by now.
Without delving too much into the underlying causes of all this, I would like to point to the steady reduction in arts teaching in the national curriculum as an undeniable contributing factor. Funding cuts have further added to the plight of the culture sector. When children, adolescents or even adults are no longer able to enjoy art and culture as much as used to be possible, the role of art and culture in their lives may diminish or even disappear. It is difficult to understand, let alone defend, something of which one has little or no personal experience. Because communities are formed of individuals, such mindsets are echoed and replicated throughout society.
Investments in culture demonstrably repay themselves many times over, yet decision-makers give the arts the cold shoulder time and time again. Ultimately, the coronavirus pandemic threw into sharp relief just how nebulous the appreciation of art and culture is in society at large. Whatever happened to art for art’s sake? Why do we need culture? Thinking along these lines led me to take a long, hard look at my own work as a composer.
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Every artist has their reason for doing what they do. Many artists over the centuries have shown a desire to address societal issues and problems. I myself as a composer have refrained from making such direct commentary – not because of not caring about the state of the world and its future, but because composing music is a very personal thing for me, and I don’t feel that social commentary is its fundamental motivation. I believe that there are more direct and more effective ways of making a political difference in the world than creating art.
This prompts the question: what is the meaning of the work of an individual composer in the face of the problems that we face in society at large? What is the meaning of culture in a world threatened on the one hand by unbridled population growth and on the other hand by the ageing of the population, not to mention all the wars, natural disasters and biodiversity loss?
At the beginning of this decade, the World Health Organization (WHO) concluded that mental health would be the world’s greatest health issue in the 2030s. In a report published in June 2022, the WHO noted that mental health had been one of the most neglected areas of public health for decades. In 2019, nearly one billion people worldwide were dealing with some kind of mental health issue. These problems are the number one cause of incapacity for work, and they also affect children, adolescents and the elderly. There are numerous underlying causes for mental health problems, but I cannot help but think that eroding the operating potential of the arts certainly cannot have helped.
Ultimately, the reasons why I write music stem from my personal history: I have been a victim of violence for much of my life. My sense of security was destroyed early in my childhood due to extreme domestic abuse. This physical violence, which at its worst posed a direct threat to my life and health, continued for more than a decade. I was constantly told that I would be better off dead and how much better things would be if I had never been born. This was in addition to a constant flood of belittling.
When, added to this, I encountered violence at school in the fifth grade, my life began to unravel. Until the end of comprehensive school, my existence was such that I could be assaulted at any time at home or at school. There was no one in my life who could provide a refuge. Putting myself out of my misery began to seem like the only possible way out, and I would most likely have taken that path had it not been for music.
My salvation was Chorus Cathedralis Iuniorum, the boys’ choir of Turku Cathedral. I sang in the choir throughout my childhood and adolescence. I am forever grateful to our conductor, Anna-Maija Sillanpää, for her uncompromising efforts and demanding attitude with us boys. I became acquainted with the wonderful history of vocal music and some of its greatest gems, and I experienced first hand the effort that music demands but also the gifts it can give. At one rehearsal, Sillanpää said to us: “Boys! Remember that music always has direction. Forwards or backwards. You cannot stay still.” That is a maxim that I cherish to this day.
I began to write music at the age of 10, and I cannot remember exactly why. My memories of my childhood and adolescence are fragmented and frightening. I learned how to be as inconspicuous and invisible as possible from a very early age, and I often wished I could just disappear. These are not desirable personality traits for a composer, especially since we are expected to create a brand out of ourselves and market it. Composing became a survival strategy and remains my greatest calling.
First movement of Göreme (2009) for guitar and electronics, performed live by Patrik Kleemola in 2010.
Because composing is such a personal and therapeutic thing for me, it inevitably influenced the topics of my compositions. One of the pieces in which I summarised my life up until then is Göreme (2009) for guitar and electronics. It is a reflection of experiences of violence, loneliness and despair. When I was studying composition at the Sibelius Academy towards the end of the first decade of this century, I realised that even then to write in a style other than academic modernism was a sure way to exclude oneself from the club. One year before my graduation, my teacher asked me to write at least a couple of pieces that are more modern, so that he would not have to be ashamed when my composition diploma was submitted for review. This was just one example of how the faculty considered my composition style ‘wrong’.
The trauma caused by my studies at the Sibelius Academy was not finally resolved until about a decade after my graduation. I can now finally dare to write music that I can wholeheartedly own. As an example, I might point to the song cycle Elegia setting poems by my wife Katja Klami, commissioned by the Tampere Biennale contemporary music festival. I am eternally grateful to Jennah Vainio, who was the artistic director of the festival at the time, for this commission. The poems are about involuntary childlessness, experiences of the informal carer of a person with a memory disorder, and the impact of humans on the environment. Since its premiere, this work has gone on to represent Finland at the 2023 ISCM World New Music Days in South Africa and at the International Rostrum of Composers in Italy in 2022.
My most personal and most significant work to date is my violin concerto Requiem (2023). It channels the emotions prompted by involuntary childlessness and the frustration of years of failed fertility treatments that my wife and I went through. My hope is that this piece, so far unperformed, can bring comfort to other people coping with such stressful circumstances.
Recording of the world premiere of Elegia at the Tampere Biennale in April 2022, held at the Tampere Old Church. Performedb y soprano Tuiki Järvensivu and the TampereRaw Ensemble. Shared with permissionfrom the Finnish Broadcasting Company and the performers.
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Despite my bleak past, I look to the future with hope and gratitude. Katja and I welcomed our beloved daughter into this world last summer. In my teaching job, I have had the opportunity over two decades to introduce a couple of thousand students to the world of music. I follow the progress of my gifted composition students with great affection. On my own desk I currently have two long-standing dream projects, a guitar concerto and a concerto for two guitars, and there are lots of other things in the pipeline.
Art fosters hope, opens up new perspectives and brings us together. Art can give us a reason to live. Culture brings us life, and culture is our life.
That sure is some luxury.
Markku Klami on SoundCloud.
Markku Klami on Spotify.
Featured photo: Laura Karlin
Translation: Jaakko Mäntyjärvi
