Sikorski
I have been fascinated with labyrinths—both real and imaginary—all my life. Labyrinth for Orchestra is an exploration of Time and its different prisms, mirrors, faces, and games. The passages of the labyrinth are the passages of Time. Or, perhaps, Time takes the form of a labyrinth in which the inner and outer boundaries are the same—infinitely expanding and infinitely contracting.
The form of this work was inspired, in part, by Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. What moves me most in Mussorgsky’s approach is his ability to capture not only a collection of images but also the transformative power of art—the way it changes the observer who experiences it. Mussorgsky achieved this by creating a hidden set of variations—Promenades—portraying a person walking through the gallery.
Similarly, in my Labyrinth appeared the Traumwanderer (Dream-wanderer). I do not know where he came from. I asked, but his answers were cryptic. Perhaps the Traumwanderer is my own double or my shadow. More likely, he is a shape- shifter and becomes the double of each listener who enters the concert hall and unexpectedly finds themselves in the bestiary of this labyrinth. Together with the Traumwanderer, we discover different passages, become lost, and sometimes recognise the reflections of our memories, fears, and dreams in the strange and, at times, disturbing shapes of the imaginary beings that the Traumwanderer encounters.
The labyrinth could be seen as a human brain. The creatures may be metaphors for our fears, passions, obsessions, and hopes. But to find the way out (and not become consumed by these inner beasts), the Wanderer must recognise and accept his own reflections, even the most grotesque features.
Is the Traumwanderer inside the labyrinth, or is the labyrinth within him? Is Time standing still while we search for our way, or is the labyrinth made of the same material as Time itself? Is the Wanderer’s progress through the passages of the labyrinth illusory? What is passing—us or Time?
While this particular Labyrinth, with its Traumwanderer, is my own creation, the beings that the Wanderer encounters can also be found in The Book of Imaginary Beings, an anthology by Jorge Luis Borges, largely based on myths from different cultures.
Together with the Traumwanderer, we meet the invisible A Bao A Qu, who has lived since the beginning of Time on the spiral staircase of the Tower of Chitor. This tower is known for having the most perfect view in the world, which—as with any perfection—can never be reached.
We hear the calling of the mystical Simurgh—the immortal bird that nests in the Tree of Knowledge. After a long and arduous pilgrimage to reach him, the other birds realise that they, too, are the Simurgh, and that the Simurgh is each of them and all of them. Perhaps the calling of the Simurgh could be heard within each of us?
As we search for our way, the three ancient Norns—Past, Present, and Future—weave the thread of our lives.
We encounter the magical binding of the gigantic wolf Fenrir, who is restrained by the strongest yet lightest chain ever made—a cord woven of six imaginary things. (Of course, Fenrir eventually breaks free.)
We see the Kilkenny Cats, who, in a raging quarrel, devour each other, leaving behind nothing but their tails. The sad Squonk mourns their demise, dissolving in tears.
We experience the terror of the Traumwanderer as he becomes increasingly lost within the mirrors, dead ends, and detours of the maze.
And, of course, what labyrinth could be complete without its Minotaur? I remember myself as a child, reading Greek myths and wondering: What did the Minotaur do all day long, sitting at the centre of the labyrinth, in an unchanging room, looking at the same inescapable walls? I imagined him being terribly bored, lonely, and malnourished. After all, the poor beast had to survive on an unhealthy diet of only seven young men and seven maidens per year. Always hungry, lonely, half-mad... I imagined him occasionally dancing with himself out of boredom and loneliness, perhaps while thinking of some appetising maiden. As Ovid wrote:
The man half bull, the bull half man—
not simply a monster, but a sad, unloved,
and somewhat comical creature
at the heart of a labyrinth
he will never be able to leave.
Above, the mysterious Lunar Hare prepares a magical elixir of life, while the scholarly men attempt to create the Golem—a living being formed from different combinations of the letters of the ineffable Name of God.
And beneath everything is the immense Bahamut—a fish afloat in a fathomless sea. On top of Bahamut is a ruby mountain, and on the mountain is an angel, and over the angel, six hells, and above these hells, the earth, and above the earth, seven heavens.
The labyrinth transforms into The Library of Babel—an infinite archive containing every book that could ever be written. Within its endless corridors lies both enlightenment and despair, for while every truth is present, so is every falsehood. It reflects the boundless nature of the universe—beautiful, chaotic, and unknowable.
I built Labyrinth searching for a form in which the relationship and dynamics between the Observer and the Object of observation could be explored. Or, perhaps, I built it to create a space where the inner dialogue between the Self and the Brain (in the form of a labyrinth!) could be imagined. Sometimes, I think that I myself am an imaginary being. Perhaps it is the Traumwanderer who composed this music, and I am the one forever lost in its labyrinth, without even realising it.
This thread brings me back to the beginning, to a poem I wrote when I was 14 years old, titled “Labyrinth”. I wrote it in Russian. English translation by Ronald Meyer:
In the labyrinth of words and sounds
I search for the riddle of life.
Whether I’ll find it or not—I do not know,
But I play upon the strings of the soul,
And in sharing this music, I find happiness.
— Lera Auerbach, 2025