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 

Software can open the door to creativity for more people, but there is a dangerous self-deception hidden here. The formula “no tedious learning, no effort, just click and done” does not amplify creativity; it removes the singular process in which the author steps outside mapped territory, learns and experiences something new, and returns with something unexpected. In the latest installment of Ardo Ran Varres’s interview series, artist Peeter Laurits analyzes the problems emerging from artificial intelligence.

The digital age has profoundly shaken art and photography: technological development suddenly makes it possible to work on entirely new foundations. Is the arrival of AI in the field a natural technical development, or do you see it rather as a fundamental rupture?

There is both chance and inevitability in the development of technologies. Every new invention creates the conditions for a whole series of other inventions and directions of development. The digitization of images and generative software are a natural continuation of the current technological trajectory, but culturally this is a very radical break.

What did the digital turn do?

It changed the form and workflow of visual media. But artificial intelligence is already changing the very logic of creation itself. Generative creation is not simply better paint, a more perfect camera, or the replacement of the darkroom with Photoshop, but a system capable of synthesizing images, imitating styles, and proposing compositions through statistical algorithms. In this process, the artist becomes more of a guide, curator, and editor. The rupture is especially sharp in photography, because photography’s value has so far been connected to some trace of reality. Although images have always been manipulated and staged, there was still something in front of the lens. Now that is no longer the case. An artificial intelligence that has never been outdoors and has never seen anything with its own eyes can generate virtually anything convincingly based on existing images … This raises an entire series of questions about the boundaries of truth and trust. Already now, the line between an artwork and a deepfake is very blurred.

Peeter Laurits: “Legally, the question is whether using someone’s works as training data constitutes fair use or unauthorized exploitation.”

Could you have imagined even ten years ago that the intersection of AI and the creative fields would reach where it is today? Machines were supposed to help people create more easily, not start creating on their own…

All these questions had been in the air for a long time. Technocrats have always believed that art can be automated, that clever machines could produce art themselves. Produce, precisely because of marketing fundamentalism, it seems self-evident that art is a product and entertainment.

I am reminded of Anders Härm’s reaction to the marketing clips for the European Capital of Culture program Tartu 2024, about which he once wrote on Facebook: “Culture is radical, heterogeneous, nihilistic, destructive, ambivalent, intellectual and witty, poetic and political, dark and affective, conceptual and precise, sharp and profound … But not some laundry detergent commercial that can be churned out somewhere in Poland and then shown all over Eastern Europe.”

Art may sometimes have the characteristics of a product, but in essence it is something much more: a question, a proposal, a counterargument, a vision, social glue, an explosion, and a vector toward new developmental paths. The art field is like a conference of new beliefs and visions of development. Artificial intelligences, however, do not create art but produce imitations of its external form. If an image generator were suddenly to awaken from standby mode because of an unexpected idea, begin experimenting with a motif, abandon emotionally failed drafts, seek striking clarity, and strive toward illumination, then I would be willing to discuss whether it creates art. Current generative software merely recombines what already exists and produces statistical transformations of it.

Let us hope AI does not reach awakening and enlightenment. Perhaps arranging zeros and ones into new sequences is actually the universe’s cunning plan to awaken us? For many people, combinatorics itself is already nirvana.

What is deeply unpleasant is that such practices reproduce the notion of art as an entertainment product and pour water onto the mill of project culture. In project culture, the creative process is turned upside down: to receive funding, one must formulate the outcome in an application before the creative work even begins, eliminate risks, and provide answers before the questions. This suffocates revelation, hinders innovation, and traps us in a dead circle of recombining what already exists.

Exactly. It would be rather absurd to imagine, for example, that Konrad Mägi or Eduard Wiiralt would have had to write “creative industry projects.” In music and literature, experts consider it important to distinguish between generative AI and human-made work. Machines have been fed enormous quantities of human-created material without permission or royalties. How are these issues viewed in the visual arts?

It is the same in visual art. AI systems have been given access to the entirety of digitized human experience to date: everything available on the internet. The claim that this is the inevitable development of technology is false, because the way these systems were built was a choice. Different models could have been built instead: licensed datasets, collective compensation systems, opt-in registries, clear provenance tracking … Speed and scale were chosen instead of fairness. The current choice creates legal, economic, and moral problems. Legally, the question is whether using someone’s works as training data is fair use or unauthorized exploitation. Economically, the system extracts value from creators’ work, but the value does not flow back to creators. Morally, the issue is even sharper: what is taken from the author is not merely a single image or text, but their signature style, years of work, and sometimes the market position of an entire profession.

Indeed. Software that can create a “new” musical work from scratch in seconds is described by its developers as giving creative opportunity to everyone, not just the talented or chosen few. Their goal is to expand the music industry to the scale of the video game industry, which is currently at least ten times larger. Passive consumption is supposed to become active “creative” activity so consumers can have “pleasurable musical experiences.” A quick and cheap shortcut to the final result: no tedious music education, no inventing melodies, harmonies, and lyrics, no complicated recording process. Click and done. Do you hear similar technocapitalist arguments in the art world?

Of course. This DIY aesthetic has flourished for a long time. Superficiality, predictability, incompetence, and standardization are inevitable outputs of project culture, and naturally, there are advocates for such aesthetics. It is true that software can open the door to creativity for more people, but there is a dangerous self-deception hidden here. The formula “no tedious learning, no effort, click and done” does not amplify creativity but removes the unique process in which the author leaves mapped territory, learns and experiences something new, and returns with something unexpected. Launching a generator is not creativity but frictionless production, the end result without the journey. It does not transform passive consumption into active creativity but merely creates a new form of consumption. The dream of platform capitalists, expanding the music industry to the dimensions of the gaming industry, says quite a lot. It does not sound like a cultural vision but like a program for market expansion. Music and art become infinitely producible and customizable mood services. From a business perspective, this may sound brilliant, but culturally it is miserable, beggarly.

I understand that at the Estonian Academy of Arts, drawing skills and other classical techniques are no longer essential for admission, unlike in the 1950s when my mother studied graphics there. Does AI “democratize” even the last remnants of craftsmanship?

That is true, and not only at the Estonian Academy of Arts but at many educational institutions around the world — and it is absurd. The manual and bodily ability to reproduce something creates psychological feedback loops, broadens thinking, and fosters creativity more than almost anything else. Drawing is not simply “copying something beautifully”; it trains attention and the ability to see. Proportion, rhythm, light, the body, space, tension, silence, emptiness, fullness — all are part of the perceptual discipline. The more innovative our ideas and visions become, the greater virtuosity is needed to shape them into form.

The question now is what is taught instead of drawing skills. If strong courses in visual thinking, semiotics, compositional perception, art history, media criticism, and ethical and aesthetic understanding replaced them, that could be a positive substantive change. In reality, however, art schools were squeezed into the Procrustean bed of the Bologna Convention’s 3+2 academic model. The volume of the study simply shrank, without anything important being added. In this way, replacing manual skills with rapid generation is not democratization but impoverishment.

What new forms and aesthetics has AI brought — or will it bring — into art?

There are many new forms. First of all, prompt art is work created not manually but through verbal instruction, selection, and iteration. The artist does not make the image but summons, directs, nudges, and filters it like a curator. Another phenomenon is synthetic photography: the result looks like a photograph but is not connected to any real event or object. Here, a new aesthetic tension emerges, in which the image hijacks the authority of photography and pretends to be a trace of truth, without any guarantee of reality. Thirdly, latent collage aesthetics have emerged. Generated images arise from compressing an enormous amount of visual memory, resulting in an overabundant image space that mixes styles and motifs. Not classical collage where the seams are visible, but smooth collage where the seams are hidden. Glitch aesthetics are also popular, emphasizing the oddities of digital imagery: oversized pixels, extra fingers, melting surfaces, dreamlike spaces. This turns digital malfunction into a visual language of its own. But these are mostly external features — explorations of new possibilities.

How do you think the cultural sphere will change in the near future?

I believe that the fundamental ruptures and new qualities are not emerging inside digital art itself, but around it, in other forms of expression and throughout the cultural sphere as a whole. After the invention of photography in 1840, relatively little remarkable happened within photography itself for a long time. The revolutionary change was that, contrary to what technocrats of the time believed — namely, that painting would become unnecessary — painting was liberated from its mimetic function and gave rise to numerous paradigm shifts. Few people at the time could probably have foreseen the coming of Impressionism, Expressionism, Surrealism, or Constructivism. Likewise, I cannot predict exactly how the cultural sphere will change over the next decade.

One tendency already visible in video and sound art is the emergence of processual works: they are not clearly bounded objects but rather flows, systems, or environments — meaningful membranes that change in real time. Here, art resembles a living organism more than a finished artifact. Hybrid forms are emerging in which human-made and generated imagery intertwine so that what matters is how the different layers comment on one another. In this new dialogicality, the artwork is not merely the final result but also the field of tension between human intention and the system's unpredictability.

How are these developments affecting illustrators, designers, photographers, and similar professions today?

As I said earlier, the arrival of artificial intelligence threatens the market position of many professions and radically transforms entire cultural fields. Artists now have to fundamentally rethink their role. That is not necessarily a bad thing. Since the 1980s and 1990s, project culture and mass culture have increasingly produced standardization and self-plagiarism — a depressingly uniform visual field that resembled generative slop long before the first prompt was formulated. The AI enthusiasm that will continue for some time now floods the entire visual space with such a thick layer of statistical paste that it starts triggering a gag reflex. This gives artists an excellent opportunity to foreground what is specifically human and cannot be generated.

So AI helps us bring out our unique and inimitable qualities. But questions surrounding copyright, training data, and authorship remain unresolved?

Our entire framework of copyright and authors’ rights still remains unmapped. This should have been addressed already at the beginning of the last century. Current copyright laws date back to the eras of the French Revolution and the American Civil War. Compared to that time, the entire cultural field has changed beyond recognition, and hopefully the arrival of artificial intelligence will provide a shock strong enough to thoroughly refurnish this outdated legal space.

Recently, courts in the United States have ruled that AI-generated artworks are not eligible for copyright protection.

That is not even a partial solution, because many generated works also contain human contributions. For example, the subject may have been photographed by a human while the background was generated. Moreover, every recent-generation Photoshop file already contains generated elements. On top of that, the rights of authors whose works were used to train AI systems remain unresolved. But this becomes truly complicated. When I think about the data arrays used to “train” me as an author, I realize that my consciousness has absorbed countless images, books, and musical works. Likewise, the authors of all those works relied on countless earlier works, and so on. We all train our consciousness and creativity on the basis of previous cultural achievements. Culture itself is citational and dialogical, and plagiarism is not clearly definable. The idea of the author as the owner of their creation is highly simplified.

I am reminded of an anecdote in which an accomplished cellist draws a low open C note on an expensive instrument, and it sounds magnificent. The room fills with overtones and vibrations. A young composer in the same room, who has managed to write the corresponding note onto sheet music, asks in amazement: “Did I really create that?”

When I ask myself whether I own my consciousness and creativity, my train of thought becomes tangled. It seems the question itself is wrongly formulated. Can I own something that is vastly more complex than I am, that exceeds my dimensions enormously in both space and time, and that obeys my will only indirectly? The same question arises with the concept of land ownership. How can a human own a living environment? Is a dog’s flea the owner of the dog? Does a landowner also own earthquakes? It seems to me that in rethinking the issues of copyright and authorship, we first need to detach authorship from categories of property ownership.

We also cannot avoid the environmental aspect. Every prompt harms nature. What is the current state of affairs in this field, and how dark a future do you think awaits us?

In the article “The Information Catastrophe,” Melvin M. Vopson treats information not merely as an abstract description but as having physical status, allowing very large extrapolations among mass, energy, and bits. The central claim of the work is that humanity currently produces on the order of 10²¹ bits per year, and if digital content continued growing at 20% annually, then in about 350 years the number of bits would exceed the estimated number of atoms on Earth. Vopson argues that in about 250 years, the power required to sustain digital production would exceed the current scale of total energy consumption, and that in about 500 years, digital content would, according to his model, make up more than half of Earth’s mass.

Finally, let us take a practical example. An 11-year-old girl has discovered a great passion and talent for expressing herself as an artist: she sketches, paints, crafts, crochets imaginative toys, designs clothes, and draws distinctive portraits at school fairs. What kind of world awaits her when she becomes an adult and wants to devote her life to this field?

Many people already have a strong gag reflex toward deep-fried statistical sludge. If that 11-year-old girl has managed to escape the addictive disorder of the smart mirror, and she sketches, designs, and crafts, then a bright future awaits her. Conscious resistance to machine-like smoothness and fast art is becoming an increasingly valuable skill. The more flawless, slick, instantly readable images are produced, the more valuable friction, materiality, interruption, and slowness become. Not because of nostalgia, but because of distinction. An aesthetics of origin is emerging, in which part of the work's meaning lies in how it came into being. The process itself increasingly becomes a visible aesthetic and ethical layer. It seems to me that alongside slop and quick solutions, artificial intelligence will also bring protest, fresh winds, and new ontologies into art.

In the first interview of the series, Mati Kaalep answered Ardo Ran Varres’s questions (Sirp, January 9, 2026), and in the second, Rein Raud did so (Sirp, February 27, 2026).

* The Information Catastrophe – published in AIP Advances, August 11, 2020. DOI: 10.1063/5.0019941. At the time of the work, Vopson was affiliated with the School of Mathematics and Physics at the University of Portsmouth.

 

Original article: https://www.sirp.ee/kunsti-regressioon-tehisarupohises-kultuuritoostuses/

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/

“Sooner or later, most musicians develop a serious need for music notation software — especially composers, of course. We spoke with composer Tõnis Kaumann and musician and music engraver Jaan Kiiv about the notation programs Finale and Dorico.”

https://www.ajakirimuusika.ee/muusika-ja-tehnoloogia/

https://www.ajakirimuusika.ee/eesti-helikunsti-lugu/

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