About this Piece

Respire: Piano Concerto No. 2 is structured as a typical three-movement concerto, a form I can’t seem to shake; my earlier concerto A line can go anywhere follows the same trajectory. And like that piece, while certain conventional expectations are met, there are many departures from the well-known roles that define the interplay of soloist and ensemble. The piano is more often than not complementary and supportive, gathering and depositing layers of sediment in the orchestra through dynamic motion and resonance, and also eroding them away. The wave- and breath-like gestures, especially in the first two movements, extend across many limbs and networks of branches, which together form an organism with multiple simultaneous layers that ultimately breathe as one.

The piece is also a study of breath in multiple forms. In the opening “arboreal waves,” gestures and timings of breath on a human scale are conflated with the image of trees and respiration at both the cellular and macro level, from the components of an individual tree to its large-scale surroundings. Waves build up from gently lulling ripples to stormy cascades. An interlude features the solo piano in conversation with other shadow instruments, most notably a keyboard that gives the illusion of an expanded meta-instrument through special micro-tunings.

A sighing motive becomes the main point of departure in the second movement (“time-weathered”) as it drifts from resignation toward outright lament. Later, the mysterious opening strains of Chopin’s otherworldly Prelude in A Minor emerge, in Alfred Cortot’s earliest recording from exactly a century ago (1926). Ever the magician, Cortot performs several sleights of hand: Singing right-hand melodies actually sustain (he delivers on the promise of “vibrato” that his edition of the score calls for), and he creates a single, unbroken continuous thread, even with primitive recording technology. Hovering atop and between the notes of the recording are my microtonal embellishments and echoes of the opening horn call. As early as 1852, Johanna Kinkel, the politically and musically radical pianist, composer, and theorist, made calls to “emancipate the quarter tone” in Chopin’s music, hearing in its ultra-chromatic, wandering harmonies a desire to push beyond the confines of standard tuning. I take that spirit to heart.

A sudden gust blows unannounced into the finale (“third wind”), and its proverbial second wind is one of constant breathlessness. The same wavelike gestures from the opening movement, once breezy and elegant, are transformed into quick surges and bursts of energy, and phrases become irregular, choppy, and turbulent, pausing only for relief in the middle before being blown off course once again.

Respire is also a celebration of an extraordinary artist and human being who has greatly enriched the contemporary music landscape through her adventurous advocacy. Indeed, contemporary pianism in Los Angeles is synonymous with Gloria Cheng and her indefatigable spirit. I’m so grateful to her for asking me to write this work—commissioned in her honor by Eve Steele, Peter Gelles, and Bernard Friedman, and with the generosity of my friends Valerie Dillon and Daniel Lewis—and I dedicate it to her with affection and admiration.

—Anthony Cheung