Symphony No 12, Plato's mask op. 45

1Picc. 2Fl., 2Ob., 2Cl. in B♭, 1 B.Cl. in B♭, 2Bsn., 1 Cbsn., 4Hns., 3Tpts. in C, 3Trbs., 1Tu., Timp, Perc. (4 players), Hp., Cel., Hpsd. (electronic), Stgs.

Portrait of Plato. Rome, Musei Capitolini, Centrale Montemartini

What is, or was, Plato's mask? Was there ever such a thing? If so, what might it have been? And, perhaps more importantly, what, if anything, might it have meant? Was it simply the mask donned later by Descartes as he marked his entrance into philosophy with the words "larvatus prodeo - I go forth masked" and by extension the "persona" adopted by philosophers as they transition from private to public person, their utterances amplified and perhaps deformed by the mask? Or was it a metaphor for something else? Some great truth, perhaps, that Plato had discovered, but didn't feel that he could reveal?

These are some of the questions that I have made no attempt to answer in this Twelfth Symphony, mainly because the very notion of answering a question by means of musical discourse is a preposterous one, and also because there may very well be no answers.

This one-movement symphony is in six parts, following each other without a break, thereby denying the audience the opportunity to break the spell by applauding between the parts. Each corresponds to a "mask" (though not so named in the score, because what if it turns out there is no such thing?) that is torn off after five minutes or so ... to reveal another mask underneath. A bell signals the removal of one mask and the revealing of another.

The opening bars outline the notes G, C#, D#, E and F, and these recur at various points in the symphony, most notably at the climax, when they grind into the score with an almost Brucknerian stark grandeur.

After the fifth mask is removed, the music of the first mask is revisited, eventually returning to the symphony's starting point, suggesting the possibility of the whole futile exercise beginning all over again, the listener no wiser than on the first hearing. The bleak brass chords stare back blankly, a mask revealing nothing.

Today it has become practically meaningless to "wonder" about anything. There is no need to wonder, say, how long it would take to walk from Paris to Madrid, because you can obtain the answer in less than a minute by searching on line. Some people are still content to wonder, nevertheless, and would not thank you for whipping out your mobile phone and providing them with the answer. They don't really want to know. They prefer the wonderment. This symphony is for them.

© Copyright Steve Elcock 2026