Over the course of decades, composer Arvo Pärt has sent his friends, colleagues, and collaborators distinctive greeting cards to mark special occasions. Each card is built around a sheet of manuscript paper, where the “title of the work” is the name of the person being congratulated.

From this idea emerges a kind of musical code or formula: the greeting itself consists largely of written-out music and text. Pärt often quotes the well-known “Happy Birthday to You” and other characterful musical pieces. And indeed, character is the keyword here. As a young man, while helping his mother in a kindergarten, Pärt would play children's music of varying character on the piano and compose playful children’s songs.

Between 1962 and 1979, Pärt collaborated extensively with filmmakers, composing original music for more than thirty films. Among them are energetic animated works such as “Väike motoroller” (“Little Scooter”), “Aatomik”, “Pallid” (“Balls”), “Värvipliiatsid” (“Colored Pencils”), and “Hiirejaht” (“Mouse Hunt”). Synchronizing music with image was, at the time, a technically complex process. All the more admiration is due for the way Pärt stretched his imaginative wings and created such vivid, illustrative music. In a radio program from that era, he noted that the essence of each film’s music is also connected to the director’s inner world and character. This reveals the level of empathy in Pärt’s collaborations, and it is no surprise that so many film professionals wanted to work with his music. Humor, playfulness, and vivid imagery are therefore also strongly present in this book.

At the same time, these musical fragments also contain qualities so characteristic of the later Pärt: seriousness, reflection, longing, sorrow, and consolation. Reading these greetings and congratulations, one feels almost slightly guilty, as if secretly leafing through someone’s diary. These are intimate gestures of celebration. Gratitude and humility are so clearly present that they can make the reader slightly self-conscious.

The code or formula described here is a good example of how a composer defines his own boundaries. Strict structural thinking, a mathematical framework, a degree of serialism, and early forms of graphic notation could serve as excellent study material for an aspiring composer. From the recipient’s name, those letters are selected that correspond to musical note names. The remaining letters become rests or are simply ignored. In this way, the composer already has material with which to “play,” even if it consists of only a single pitch. Traditional compositional techniques such as inversion and retrograde are employed to create a unique musical “signature” for a name. These greetings can also be seen as sketches for larger works. Every person is, in a sense, a great work of nature.

As mentioned, the book has a cinematic logic: contrasting materials, collage-like structures, abrupt mood shifts, and moments of surprise. The legendary music educator Helju Tauk has noted that she was particularly fascinated by Pärt’s early works because each piece, despite differing compositional techniques, had a clear dramaturgical logic.

Does a musical work exist if it exists only on paper? That is the central question. Fortunately, most of these greetings are also available as audio files on the APK website. One example is greeting no. 24, the “Estonian Wedding Dance” written for the wedding of David and Mirjam James, which could be seen as a new piece for weddings alongside “Ukuaru Waltz”. Here, an Estonian folk *labajalg* waltz meets Mendelssohn’s wedding march in a witty fusion.

It is also worth noting the range of recipients of these greetings over the years. The composer’s cards have been sent to presidents, notaries, major benefactors, lawyers, entrepreneurs, music and art scholars, church figures, musicians, composers, publishers, conductors, photographers, artistic directors, producers, ministers, sound engineers, bankers, archivists, and many more. An impressively diverse company indeed.

Finally, it should be mentioned that the book itself is beautifully designed. Its open binding is covered in fabric, giving it a distinctive and aesthetic presence. It was selected among the “25 Most Beautiful Estonian Books of 2025.” The designer behind this craftsmanship is Angelika Schneider.

In closing, a small appeal to all readers: let us send more greeting cards. They matter.

https://kultuur.postimees.ee/8466476/arvo-pardi-muusikalistest-viguritest-sai-intiimne-raamat

During the Klassikaraadio talk show “Pähklipureja,” the question was raised about whether using artificial intelligence to create theater music is a problem or an innovation. According to composer and field expert Ardo Ran Varres, AI applications call into question the very concept of a composer in the creation of original music. He added that it may no longer make sense to award a prize for original music at all.

Varres sent a letter of concern to Estonian theater leaders and the Eesti Autorite Ühing (EAÜ), prompted by the jury’s work on this year’s theater awards in the original music category. The jury was impressed by the music of a production that, as later emerged, had been created using the AI application Suno. This raises the question: who is the composer, and what is authorship, at a time when anyone can create sound works using AI tools?

Varres has worked in musical design for stage productions for nearly 30 years and serves as chairman of the original music jury. “When I meet a director who gives me a brief, I need to understand it - what is expected of me and what I can do to support the dramaturgy and the production. That requires extensive preparation, continuous learning, and knowledge of instruments and music history,” he explained.

“In principle, I might compose a simple piano piece. If it fits the production, I am the composer - the author of the original music. The moment I complete the work, copyright law automatically applies. I don’t need to register or prove it anywhere. If I were to pass away, my heirs would still have the right to collect royalties from that work for 70 years after my death.”

The composer delivers the finished work to the production and enters into a contractual relationship with the theater to receive fair compensation. “The work is not performed for free. When the audience buys tickets, the composer is entitled to royalties from that revenue. These amounts are negotiated—there are no fixed tariffs. It can be a one-time fee or a percentage of ticket sales,” Varres said, adding that EAÜ can also act as a representative, collecting and distributing royalties.

In traditional registration without AI, rights are typically split 50/50 between the lyricist and the composer. On the EAÜ website, it is now possible to list AI as an arranger, but its share is set to zero percent.

“In some countries, that percentage may be above zero, with royalties shared among contributors, because tools like Suno have been trained—often illegally—on other people’s work accumulated over centuries. If you use that work for your own benefit, it may be reasonable to share royalties,” Varres noted. “My experimental piece is a small example, but the same issue could arise with a viral hit generating millions.”

Last year, the music of a major state theater production astonished the jury with its powerful, cinematic orchestral sound. “It seemed worthy of the top prize—until one jury member checked the composer’s background. There was no evidence of formal training in composition or orchestration. That raised doubts: where was it recorded, and how was the orchestra funded? In Estonia, perhaps only a few people could achieve that level professionally—and even they lack such financial resources,” Varres said.

“Eventually, the director confirmed that the music had been arranged with Suno AI. The original input may have been significant, but the final sound is essentially a shortcut to a grand cinematic style. This raises the question: if we have an original music award, should it be given in such cases—or discontinued altogether? Where does the composer’s craft end?” he asked, emphasizing that craftsmanship remains central, even if it sounds “old-fashioned.”

“Now we have a machine that has effectively absorbed all the world’s music—not just harmonies and melodies, but also timbres, instrument sounds, recording techniques, and amplifier characteristics. The know-how of sound itself has been appropriated. The concept of the composer is clearly being challenged in theater and film music,” Varres concluded.

According to Mati Kaalep, head of the Eesti Autorite Ühing, this is a pivotal moment: machines are no longer merely competing with humans but may appear to surpass them.

“The jury seriously considered awarding the top prize to that piece but ultimately refrained because of the question: are they recognizing a person—or something else? From a copyright perspective, the boundary of protection is unclear. We assume that human-created works meet the creativity requirement,” Kaalep explained.

“When a work is created by or with a machine, defining the creative boundary becomes much more difficult. We rely heavily on authors’ honesty and their assessment of how much effort they contributed. This is crucial because without creative choices, a work cannot be protected by copyright. Works created by machines are not protected.”

Entering just a few keywords into Suno does not constitute a creative act. “There must be clear evidence of human decision-making. It cannot be a purely mechanical command. The boundary is neither legally defined nor socially agreed upon. I cannot say today whether writing ten iterative prompts constitutes creative choices,” Kaalep said.

“But it is fairly certain that entering just a few keywords or a single prompt does not result in a copyright-protected work,” he added.

Editor: Neit-Eerik Nestor
Source: “Pähklipureja”, interviews by Miina Pärn and Aurora Ruus

https://kultuur.err.ee/1610007712/ardo-ran-varres-ai-seab-teatri-ja-filmimuusikas-kahtluse-alla-helilooja-moiste 

Rein Raud: “They always thought that robots would come, start washing the floors, and people would be free to devote themselves to art, poetry, and composing music. On the contrary, it is people who will be cleaning and maintaining things so that the robot can engage in ‘creative work.’”

https://www.sirp.ee/kultuuriline-sulgumine-malu-koloniseerimine-ja-tehisaru-rahvalaulikud-2-0/

Mati Kaalep: “By around 2030–2032, we will likely be looking at the music industry in a fundamentally different way — at how royalties flow, but also at how composers create music.”

https://www.sirp.ee/kas-tehisaru-viib-muusikatoostuse-kollapsini/

https://www.temuki.ee/2025/11/sona-saab-heliks-loitsuks-palveks-muusikaks-armastuseks/

The article reflects on the life and legacy of Helju Tauk through a review of the documentary “Life as a Teacher” and a memorial event held in her honor, portraying her as an extraordinary and multifaceted figure — a pianist, influential teacher, intellectual, and courageous anti-Soviet dissident who inspired generations with her charisma, moral conviction, and deep love for music and culture; at the same time, the author offers a personal perspective as her former student and critiques the film for lacking sufficient historical context about the Soviet era, emphasizing that while the documentary warmly captures her personality and impact, it does not fully convey the depth of the oppressive environment in which she lived and acted.

 

English translation:

On the evening of March 29, many of Helju Tauk’s contemporaries, as well as younger colleagues, friends, and students, gathered at the EMTA concert hall to commemorate her. Following the reminiscences shared on stage, the documentary *“Life as a Teacher”* (Kopli Kinokompanii, 2025, 56 min; screenwriter and director Annika Koppel) premiered. The film offers an insight into the life of Helju Tauk (1930–2005) — a pianist, music pedagogue, educator, musicologist, spiritual caregiver, radio voice, music writer (sic!), and active anti-Soviet dissident.

The film features reflections by Tunne Kelam, Lagle Parek, Tõnis Arro, Jüri Reinvere, Madis Kolk, Rein Rannap, Tiiu Peäske, Ivari Ilja, Raili Sule, Tiina Mattisen, Arne Mikk, and Mihkel Poll, all of whom speak of Helju with visible warmth. She is remembered above all as a Teacher with a capital T — an opener of eyes, a promoter of beauty and goodness, and a person deeply inspired by music. She could simultaneously play, sing, and speak about a piece in such a captivating way that she would instantly ignite her listeners. In addition, she was a good listener, genuinely interested in people and their boundless psychological diversity. She knew how to keep secrets and how to inspire, often using sharp humor that could remain memorable for decades. She attracted people, was the center of gatherings, yet remained discreet and modest.

Her strength lay in ensemble playing, something she also instilled in young musicians. She was religious — initially Lutheran, later Catholic after her mother’s passing. During the dark years of occupation, she dared to celebrate Christmas with her students and recommended literature that undermined the totalitarian regime. This came at a high cost: she was suddenly no longer allowed to teach or perform publicly. In 1975, at the demand of the KGB, she was dismissed from her teaching position at the Tallinn State Conservatory. From 1975 to 1982, she worked as a répétiteur at the Estonia Theatre.

Despite betrayal by a colleague, she continued to act according to her convictions, guided by a strong sense of truth. She was interrogated in KGB cells but managed to endure through a kind of “spiel” — a role-playing strategy. After Estonia regained independence, the person who had betrayed her asked for forgiveness — and received it, wholeheartedly. Courage, erudition, eloquence, musicality, and a warm heart — such a combination is unfortunately rare.

In the film, she is at times compared to Lydia Koidula. Having recently read Madli Puhvel’s excellent monograph on Koidula, I was struck by contemporaries’ observations of Koidula’s eloquence and enthusiasm, which were both persuasive and inspiring. Incidentally, Koidula also played the piano and accompanied her plays with music. Helju Tauk likewise worked as a pianist in various theatres, starting at the Säde Theatre in Valga in 1947–1948. Like Lydia, Helju had a wide range of interests — literature, poetry, art, theatre, psychology, politics — all of which fascinated her alongside music. The parallels deepen when considering Koidula’s work as a newspaper editor alongside her father, dealing with diverse topics while also translating fiction, travel writing, and plays. Not to mention their shared sense of national identity and longing for freedom.

After writing this, I discovered in the Estonian Encyclopedia that Helju Tauk’s given name was actually Helju–Liidia. *Nomen est omen.*

The film begins in Valga, where her family had relocated from Tartu during the war and where she lived from 1944 to 1951. We briefly learn that she studied and worked in Tartu, though there is a noticeable gap here. The narrative then moves to Tallinn, where she began working as a class teacher at the newly established Tallinn Music High School. Prior to the screening, TMKK’s legendary director Jüri Plink offered some insight into her Tartu years, recalling her vividly from that period. He mentions Aleksandra Semm-Sarv (1908–1975), a bright and searching music pedagogue who significantly shaped Tartu’s music education in the mid-20th century.

We also learn that Tauk studied Estonian philology at the University of Tartu for three years — another aspect one wishes had been explored further. Similarly, the film omits details about her parents and her husband, the folklorist Udo Kolk.

These gaps remain as the film jumps to 1960s Tallinn, where Helju worked as a teacher, performer, and writer — and later as an active dissident. She quietly distributed banned literature to young people and hosted informal gatherings at her home resembling a “night university.” Future politicians, such as Tunne Kelam, were among those who attended. She was directly involved in the Estonian National Independence Party (ERSP). The film shows her interviewing presidential candidate and friend Lagle Parek on television and delivering speeches. Parek describes her as a formulator of ideas and a spiritual guide.

References to events like the Hirvepark meeting of August 23, 1987 — the first public political demonstration in occupied Estonia calling for the disclosure of the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact — may not be fully understood by younger viewers. Similarly, references to the “Letter of Forty” or phrases like “taken to Pagari Street” may lack context for today’s audience. The film could have benefited from more framing of the historical context to illuminate the significance of Helju Tauk’s actions. Without this, the oppressive background of injustice, humiliation, and psychological violence remains somewhat muted.

I had the good fortune to study music history under Helju and to perform in a chamber ensemble with her during the pivotal years 1990–1992. Several memories stand out. She taught us to read diagonally, demonstrating it in class. When I confided that I wanted to attend drama school instead, she was supportive and mentioned that actor Andres Raag had done the same. She noted something important: both musicians and actors express themselves through their bodies — there is not much difference. This was encouraging.

One particularly life-changing moment occurred when she played Schoenberg’s *Pierrot lunaire* in class. I experienced a powerful déjà vu — as if rediscovering something I had forgotten existed. At the time, music history education had largely stopped at late Romanticism, and modernist music was rarely heard. Hearing this expressive fusion of theatre and music triggered a profound recognition.

There are other aspects only briefly touched upon in the film. Tauk studied alongside Arvo and Nora Pärt and followed Arvo Pärt’s creative development closely. It was clarified before the screening that she — not Alfred Schnittke — played the piano part at the legendary premiere of Pärt’s *Tabula rasa* in 1977.

Her religious life, which was central to her identity, is also only lightly addressed. In a 1992 interview, she said: “Music is an intermediate stage between a person and something — or someone — unseen, incomprehensible, yet close.”

During the glasnost period, discussions emerged about the darker sides of the postwar era. In a 1988 speech, Tauk reflected: “None of us can say we are pure. We must share this guilt to some extent. Those who acted badly… may be difficult to judge, as they too were victims of fear and terror.”

And finally, another quote from her on the essence of music: “When repetition, variation, contrast, and surprise are in wise balance, it brings joy — both in life and in music.”

https://www.temuki.ee/2025/08/hea-heljuke-dissident-liidia/

The article is an interview with Ardo Ran Varres about his new choral work “Allikas,” written for the Estonian Song Festival. He discusses the creative process behind the piece, highlighting the challenge of finding the right text and shaping a composition that does not reveal itself easily but instead requires deeper engagement from performers. The interview also touches on his collaboration with Hasso Krull and how the work stands out from typical Song Festival repertoire in both structure and atmosphere.

https://kultuur.err.ee/1609724127/ardo-ran-varres-laulupeo-kavasse-kuuluvast-uudisteosest-see-laul-ei-anna-ennast-kohe-kergelt-katte

The article provides an overview of how music functions within film and video game industries, emphasizing its role in shaping emotions, supporting storytelling, and creating atmosphere. It highlights that music is not merely background sound but a key dramaturgical element that can deepen or reinterpret what is seen on screen. The piece also explores differences between media—especially film and video games—where music must respond not only to narrative but also to interactivity, making the creative process more complex and multidimensional.

https://www.ajakirimuusika.ee/muusika-filmi-ja-videomangu-maailmas/

Blake Neely: “I have adult children, and years ago I started asking them what I should be listening to. I try to keep my mind fresh.”

https://www.sirp.ee/filmiheliloojaks-loodud/

The article is a conversational overview of Kasemaa’s deep knowledge of wind music traditions, especially brass bands and amateur orchestras in Estonia. In the interview, he reflects on the historical development of wind instruments and ensembles, the role of community-based music-making (like pasunakoorid), and how cultural and social movements—such as religious communities and local initiatives—helped shape Estonia’s musical life. He also shares personal insights from his long career as a musician and educator, emphasizing the importance of grassroots music culture and continuity between past traditions and present-day practice. 

https://www.temuki.ee/2025/05/vastab-olavi-kasemaa/

https://sirp.ee/s1-artiklid/arvamus/masu-ajal-toetatakse-nuudisooperite-sundi/

https://www.temuki.ee/archives/10351

https://kultuur.postimees.ee/8068940/vanamuusika-festival-hingerahu-oaas-ardo-ran-varres-kais-haapsalus-ajarannul

https://kultuur.postimees.ee/8015187/arvustus-vana-hea-uus-toores-vaib-eesti-muusika-paevadel