Sointi Jazz Orchestra: Poems and Letters
pe 10.10.2025 @ Sibelius-museo, Turku

OHJELMA

Kaikki sävellykset: Oskari Siirtola.

Poems and Letters
I - An Artist's Life
II - Das Porträt des stillbleichen Mädchens
III - An Artist's Life: Paris
IV - Jag arbetar som en gud 
V - Roulin
VI - Afternoon in February
Coda

solistit:
I: Petteri Hietamäki (alto sax), Frans Thomsson (tenor sax), Joona Kilponen (trumpet)
II: Pekka Seppänen (bass clarinet), Ville-Veikko Airaniemi (guitar), Panu Luukkonen (trombone)
III: Sami Leponiemi (alto sax)
IV: Vid Sketa (trumpet), Ville-Veikko Airaniemi (guitar)
V: Petteri Hietamäki (soprano sax)
VI: Janne Saarinen (English horn), Sami Leponiemi (tenor sax), Arttu Huopainen (drums)

I: An Artist’s Life
The good old City of Chester rolled across the Atlantic and, as my cabin was, it seemed to me, immediately over the propeller, the first day out laid me up. lndeed it seemed that those demons of the air and water of these vast watery plains only waited for us to get out of sight of land before they pounced upon us. They were not huge, antediluvian monsters, but little midgets - innumerable millions of them, who whirled themselves in glee across our bow, who danced upon every inch of rigging, who enlarged every vent, tearing every rope-end into shreds, whistling through every pulley, shrieking Below! Below! in the ears of any who were bold enough to venture on deck, shouting and gesticulating to one another, as fiercer grew the gale and paler the faces of our little company.
       But, at last, after fourteen long days, we arrived at Liverpool and by night were quickly whirled to London. Next morning found me in a little hotel under the very dome of St. Paul's. Later, arriving in Paris – more even than in London – I felt what it was to be a stranger in a strange land.

       My early years, as I recollect, ran the usual course of childish vicissitudes; but, when I had become a lad of twelve or thirteen, there occurred a trivial event which was to me of the utmost importance. I was walking out with my father one fine afternoon in Fairmount Park, Philadelphia, where we then resided, when I saw for the first time a real, live artist – and at work.
       The subject the artist had chosen was a middle distance hillside with a magnificent elm in bold relief. Showing my lack of comprehension of what the artist was trying to do, I asked my father: “Why does he not have a spy-glass so that he can see that big tree more distinctly? Why does he get so far away?” It was this simple event that, as it were, set me on fire. Like many children, I had drawn upon my slate to the loss of my lessons, or all over the fences to the detriment of the landscape, but never had it crossed my mind that I should be an artist, nor had I ever wished to be. But, after seeing this artist at work for an hour, it was decided on the spot, by me at least, that I would become one. I was all aglow with enthusiasm, working spare times between school hours, and it soon became the talk of the school – naturally helped on by my boasting – that I was going to be an artist. The taunt of some– “An artist! he is always poor and dies in a garret!” – had no depressing effect upon me. I was not going to be that kind of an artist – not one of your “every day kind”.

Henry Ossawa Tanner, katkelmia omaelämäkerrallisesta artikkelista “Story of An Artist’s Life”, julkaistu lehdessä World’s Work kesä- ja heinäkuussa 1909

-

II: Das Portrat des stillbleichen Mädchens
Eine polution meiner liebe, – ja.
Alles liebte ich. Das Mädchen kam, –
Ich fand ihr Gesicht,
       ihr Unbewusstes
       ihre Arbeiterhande,
Alles liebte ich an
       ihr.

Ich musste Sie darstellen,
weil Sie so Schaut und mir
       so nahe war. –
Jetzt ist Sie fort,
jetzt begegne ich ihren Körper.

Käännös:
Kalpean tytön muotokuva
Rakkauteni vuodatus, – kyllä.
Rakastin kaikkea. Tyttö tuli, –
löysin hänen kasvonsa,
       hänen tiedostamattomuutensa,
       hänen työläisen kätensä,
rakastin kaikkea
       hänessä.

Minun piti kuvata hänet,
sillä hän oli niin kaunis ja
       niin lähellä minua. –

Nyt hän on poissa,
nyt kohtaan hänen kehonsa.

Egon Schiele, 1910

-

III: An Artist’s Life: Paris
How strange the city or Paris was, how different the sounds that came to my eyrie from those in any other city I had ever been in! The clatter of the wooden shoes on the stone pavement, the cries the whistles, the horns blown, the songs sung, each with its particular meaning, but to me an incomprehensible din.
       Strange that, after having been in Paris a week, I should find conditions so to my liking that I completely forgot that when I left New York I had made my plans to study in Rome and was really on my way there when I arrived in Paris. Then this little room of mine with its Empire bed and its heavy hangings, its little wash-basin, with pitcher holding scarcely more than a quart, its waxed floors, the linen sheets, so cold to one already half-frozen, and that little fireplace holding a few small sticks and twigs, fed with regrets, because so unproductive of heat – how I wished I could get some of that escaping heat – it seemed to me I should have been willing to go upon the roof and sit upon the chimney top. It might be smoky, but it must have been warmer, and for warmth, to be thoroughly warm, I should be willing to do almost anything.

The Académie Julian! Never had I seen or heard such a bedlam – or men waste so much time. Of course, I had come to study at such a cost that every minute seemed precious and not to be frittered away. I had often seen rooms full of tobacco smoke, but not as here in a room never ventilated – and when I say never, I mean not rarely but never, during the five or six months of cold weather. Never were windows opened. They were nailed fast at the beginning of the cold season. Fifty or sixty men smoking in such a room for two or three hours would make it so that those on the back rows could hardly see the model.

As I now look back, it seems curious to me that I should have been able to arrive at thirty years of age and never to have heard of the Salon or, having heard of it, not to have at all realized its importance in the Art world. I had been to church, and was on my way home when, near the Palais d’Industrie, I saw great crowds making their way into this building, which has now disappeared – such crowds as you might see going into Madison Square Garden to some great sporting event. To my question, it was Le Salon and, to see for myself, I joined that good-natured throng.
       What a surprise awaited me in the court of that old palais! Hundreds of statues that appeared to me nearly all of them fairer than the “Venus de Milo” and upstairs the paintings – thousands of them – and nearly all of them much more to my taste than were the old masters of the Louvre – not that they were really as fine, but they were more within my range.
       Here was something to work for, to get a picture here. This now furnished a definite impetus to my work in Paris – to be able to make a picture that should be admitted here – could I do it?

Henry Ossawa Tanner, katkelmia omaelämäkerrallisesta artikkelista “Story of An Artist’s Life”, julkaistu lehdessä World’s Work kesä- ja heinäkuussa 1909

-

IV: Jag arbetar som en gud
Har ni nattvioler - här vimlar - alla blommor äro underbara i år – och de ljusa nätterna och det där spegellugnet alla nätter och alla dagar det är ju underbart alt samman. Och det underbaraste af alt är att jag arbetar som en gud – jag lämnar duk på duk med samma entousiasm som jag börjat på dem.
       Men där blir också något kvar – o dio – jag har förstått att en målare först är färgkonstnär sen lyriker och att varje solständ på dagen bör få sin egen teknik - nu bör du förstått att jag förstått hvad ingen före mig …
       Tog i går ner en Michelangelo från min vägg - jag tyckte den var dålig -
ecco.
fatto.

Käännös:
Onko teillä lehdokkeja – täällä niitä riittää – kaikki kukat ovat upeita tänä vuonna – ja valoisat yöt ja se peilityyneys joka yö ja joka päivä, se on kaikki upeaa. Ja kaikkein upeinta on, että työskentelen kuin jumala – jätän kankaan toisensa jälkeen samalla innolla kuin aloitin ne.
       Mutta jotakin myös jää – o dio – olen ymmärtänyt, että maalari on ensin väritaiteilija ja sitten runoilija ja että päivän jokaisen hetken valolla on oltava oma tekniikkansa – nyt sinun pitäisi ymmärtää, että olen ymmärtänyt sen mitä kukaan ennen minua ei ole ymmärtänyt…
       Otin eilen Michelangelon seinältäni – mielestäni se oli huono –
ecco.
fatto.

Ellen Thesleff, katkelma kirjeestä 4.7.1912

-

V: Roulin
Roulin tout en n’étant pas tout à fait assez agé pour etre pour moi comme un père, toutefois il a pour moi des gravités silencieuses et des tendresses comme serait d’un vieux soldat pour un jeune. Toujours – mais sans une parole – un je ne sais quoi qui parait vouloir dire: nous ne savons pas ce qui nous arrivera demain mais quoi qu’il en soit, songe à moi. Et cela fait du bien quand cela vient d’un homme qui n’est ni aigri, ni triste, ni parfait, ni heureux, ni toujours irréprochablement juste, mais si bon enfant et si sage et si ému et si croyant. Ecoute – je n’ai pas le droit de me plaindre de quoi que ce soit d’Arles lorsque je songe à de certains que j’y ai vu et que jamais je ne pourrai oublier.

Käännös:
Vaikka Roulin ei ole vielä tarpeeksi vanha ollakseen minulle kuin isä, on hänessä sama hiljainen vakavuus ja hellyys kuin vanhalla sotilaalla nuorta kohtaan. Aina – mutta ilman sanoja – jotain, joka tuntuu tarkoittavan: emme tiedä, mitä huomenna tapahtuu, mutta mitä tahansa tapahtuukin, ajattele minua. Ja se tuntuu hyvältä, kun se tulee mieheltä, joka ei ole katkera, surullinen, täydellinen, onnellinen tai aina moitteettoman oikeudenmukainen, mutta niin hyväntuulinen, viisas, liikuttunut ja täynnä uskoa. Kuule – minulla ei ole oikeutta valittaa mistään Arlesissa, kun ajattelen tiettyjä ihmisiä, joita olen siellä nähnyt ja keitä en voi koskaan unohtaa.

Vincent van Gogh, katkelma kirjeestä 4.4.1889

-

VI: Afternoon in February
The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.

The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o'er the plain;

While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.

The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell;

Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Vincent van Gogh luki Longfellown runoja ja viittasi niihin kirjeissään.


Sointi Jazz Orchestra

Rasmus Soini - conductor
Selma Savolainen - vocal

Woodwinds / Puupuhaltimet
Petteri Hietamäki
Sami Leponiemi
Frans Thomsson
Janne Saarinen
Pekka Seppänen

Trumpets / Trumpetit
Joona Kilponen
Oiva Haapamäki
Vid Sketa
Jasmin Afaneh

Horn / Käyrätorvi
Tuomo Eerikäinen

Trombones / Pasuunat
Oleksandr Charkin
Jay Kortehisto
Panu Luukkonen

Tuba / Tuuba
Kenneth Ojutkangas

Rhythm Section / Komppisektio
Ville-Veikko Airaniemi
Tuomo Purhonen - basso
Arttu Huopainen - rummut, perkussiot

FOH
Pyry Räty



Tulevat konsertit:
https://www.sointijazzorchestra.com/keikat