Marcel Pérès and Ensemble Organum: Reinventing Cultural Initiatives (2/2)

Since settling at the former abbey of Moissac in 2000, Marcel Pérès has been pursuing an artistic and intellectual journey with the Organum ensemble that goes beyond conventional boundaries. Open workshops, musical vigils, oral transmission, the recreation of Old Roman chant: far removed from institutional models, the French musicologist, singer, and conductor advocates a living practice of early music, founded on experience, sharing, and the presence of performers. In this second instalment, he reflects on the role of Moissac, forgotten repertoires, and the dialogue between spiritual traditions, while also sharing his concerns about artificial intelligence, the decline of attentive listening, and the transformation of culture into a consumer product. Through his words emerges a deeply held conviction: music is not a relic of the past, but a force that arises, connects, and transforms.

In recent years, at Moissac, you have been overtaken by the spirit of the times and the budget cuts affecting the cultural sector. “Even without subsidies, it’s viable,” you say. How do you manage?

Marcel Pérès: Well, fortunately, there is the Holy Spirit! As I like to say to religious people: “They always say that poverty is the greatest wealth. Now is the time to believe it!” When I arrived in Moissac in 2000—the activities began in July 2001, so it has now been a quarter of a century—I decided to rethink all the parameters of cultural action. First, by creating a flexible structure with only a single administrator. We received grants from the DRAC [the regional authority responsible for implementing the policies of the French Ministry of Culture], which ended three or four years ago. We have a board made up of friends. This allows for great flexibility: I can schedule things when they need to happen, change a program a week beforehand if something comes up or if people arrive. Next, workshops open to everyone, with no admission requirements. At Royaumont, it was very selective, and, thanks to scholarships, people didn’t have to pay, but that limited the number of students to ten or twelve. Here, it’s open to everyone. Accommodation ranges from camping to three-star hotels, and there is a former Carmelite convent with inexpensive rooms. When it comes to meals, we often eat together, with everyone bringing something. We completely outside any administrative framework. And I accept everyone—from beginners who’ve never sung before to seasoned professionals.

Over the course of a week, these people of very different levels sing together and blend their voices. Some have been coming almost every year for twenty years. It is a place of human encounter. This year, for example, I am leading a workshop on fifteenth-century Arabic chant. In the afternoon, we will sing a Mass that I have not yet composed. I get started after the summer solstice—for me, there’s a particularly favourable period leading up to July 16—and sometimes I keep composing through the night. Then we sing it in the morning. We are living a genuine artistic experience; it is not reheated material! For seven years, I composed a Mass every year for Saint James, adding a new section each time. The idea is that even with only three or four notes, anyone can have a profound musical experience. The repertoires of Late Antiquity are based on tetrachords—four notes. I sing a short formula, we repeat it until it is perfect, then we move on to another. Everyone learns at the same time. It is an oral transmission, and every year it is a major moment for Saint James.

Musical Vigils, Old Roman Chant, and the Magic of Emergence

You mentioned musical vigils. Could you elaborate?

M. P.: We organize musical vigils in which everyone does what they know how to do, offering short interventions of five or six minutes. One fellow comes along and performs his signature piece, then someone else does something different, and sometimes it moves from one style to another. It is spontaneous. In the morning, I ask for the list of pieces, and just before the concert I decide: you begin, you continue, and so on. Sometimes, in the middle of the concert, I change the order depending on the atmosphere. In this way, we recreate the art of emergence, that primary quality of music which recording and notation have caused us to lose. Music is something that emerges from the moment, a conjunction of circumstances. And it requires the presence of the musician—we forget that in the past, if you wanted music, you needed a musician! We try to relive these fundamental things that have been pushed aside by the way music is transmitted and disseminated today.