I am a composer. That is someone who imagines sounds, creating music from the inner world of the imagination. The ability to experience and communicate this inner world is a gift. Throughout history, society has recognized that certain men possess this gift and has accorded them a special place. But if such men - poets if you like - are honoured, are the products of their imagination of any real value to the society which honours them? Or are we, particularly at this present point in history, deluding ourselves that this may be so?
Like every creative artist, my days are spent pondering, considering, wrestling in my mind with an infinite permutation of possibilities. i must create order out of chaos. the act of imagination is sometimes of great intensity, sometimes more wayward and always, for a big piece of music, prolonged. I am as it were, possessed, taken over by the creative drive from within, and even when I put away the manuscript paper I find it almost impossible to switch off the inner activity.
I have lived in the country since my student days. This is practical and personal. I need to shut myself away from the noise and activity of the town in order to find some kind of inner silence. The outside world with all its troubles goes on around my personal sanctuary, and I an fully aware of its harsh realities. And since I face continually a question within this paradox: has the reality of my imagination and lasting relation to the reality of those events which immediately affect the lives of men? This is a question that has been asked by artists throughout history.
Michael Tippett
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