Tzam

Her water washes air,
her breathing—wakes the sun.
She has a name that can be found in every tongue
But the earth is not her name.
The earth refuses to be tamed

—Benjamín Saenz

Due to circumstances that are entirely personal, heartfelt emotivity is conveyed in TZAM through a musical discourse
that is, in turn, deeply rooted in the experiences life has to offer. Over the past two years, I have lost my father and two dear friends who were fundamental not only to me, but to musical development in Latin America: Carmen Helena Téllez,
an orchestra conductor and tireless promoter of contemporary Latin American music, and Mario Lavista, my mentor and
professor of musical composition. Somehow, as I began to compose TZAM, I found it impossible to defer what I felt was
a pressing need to express my gratitude toward all of them through music.

Dedicated to the memory of Mario Lavista, TZAM means “dialogue” in Ayapaneco, one of more than 60 indigenous
languages found in Mexico today although, with fewer than ten speakers, it is lamentably on the verge of extinction. I
chose TZAM as a title not only for its attractive sound, but also because implicit in its meaning is our ability to converse and dialogue, not only with all that surrounds us and nourishes us as human beings within this secret, timeless space, but also and above all with what it means to be a human being on this Earth.

Parting from the action of dialogue as a primal concept, I decided to position the brass section differently, dividing it into two instrumental groups situated across from one another in a circular fashion, so that a stereophonic exchange of ideas could arise among them. Parting from this unusual instrumental placement of the brass, I thought it would be congruent to start out with a fanfare. This material acts as a leitmotiv or recurring idée fixe . Immediately afterwards, I carefully chose the main axes of harmony and textured timbre for each of the sections. I then tried to emulate the idea of representing an ocean of sounds —its rising and ebbing tides, acting time and again as a colorful harmonic and instrumental surprise. The central portion of TZAM includes the introduction of new musical material as a personal tribute to remind us of the intimate, delicate realm of Lavista’s music. Its development features a surprising and contrasting adagio for strings that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, originated in a genuine attempt to dialogue with Carmen, with Mario and with my father,perhaps for the last time. Finally, a brief epilogue appears in which I revisit the beginning of the work, thus reviving the primal concept that sparked its development.

—Gabriela Ortiz