A few weeks ago, I went to a choir concert. This isn’t unusual; I have a chorale singer in my life, and when they sing, I am under obligation to go.
It’s not a burden because I love the singer, and the concerts are always very interesting. Not only is musical talent on display, but the group is always very thoughtful in their selections. That’s how I ended up listening to interpretations by modern composers of the words of historical women.
Saint Cecilia who is the patron saint of music and was martyred
Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz who was a prolific writer and later forced to sell off her vast library due to church censure
Enheduanna who is considered to be the earliest known named author in human history; she lived in ancient Sumeria as a priestess of the moon god
Mirabai who was a Hindu mystic devoted to Krishna and whose family persecuted her for it
Hildegard of Bingen who was a medieval nun and one of the few known composers to have written music with words.
“Alexandrina rosa, alexandrina estrella.” 🎵
The choir sang for Sor Juana.
“There is a longing.” 🎵
The choir sang for Mirabai.
This is the value of art, I thought while listening. Because of this artist in my life, I am exposed to songs, to music, to talent, to thinking, to a world I would never have encountered otherwise. Not in the digital world with all its algorithms nor my own interests which are vast and deep in and of themselves. The choir’s love and efforts ripple out. Like compound interest, the value multiplies beyond the initial investment by each creative participant into their community who then passes it on themselves.
Too often, we ask of art: Why? What’s the point? Why even bother? Too often, I think we make the illogical leap between “should I make it” and “can I make money from it”? But that’s using a capitalist scale; that’s measuring value solely by the pennies extracted from it. If that’s the only scale that matters, then I would never in 100 years sit in a church on a Sunday evening. The choir would not be filled with a multitude of voices nor would they be joined by musicians and sound engineers and volunteer ushers. There would be no space rented for a concert. There would be no artistic director thinking about themes and topics. There would be no internet searching for historical women composers.
And I would never know that 4300 years ago, a woman stood at an altar and wrote these words: “I took up my place in the sanctuary dwelling, / I was high priestess, I, Enheduanna.” And that until that time—1500 years before Homer, 1700 years before Sappho, 2000 years before Aristotle—authorship began.
Author’s Note: You can read more about Enheduanna here in The New Yorker (https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/the-struggle-to-unearth-the-worlds-first-author)