17th of October, 2026
Dear Mr. Glass,
The wave of sudden emotions is overtaking me. I am in a little town of Christiania, in the middle of the city of Copenhagen, feeling a bit confused and bruised. I thought I’d be writing you this letter in different inner circumstances – I guess I am still somehow caught by surprise when something stirs within me and I am not at all the happy and jolly person I ought to be. Well, I might just be leaving a relationship which showed me tenderness, care and love fully present in its life movement. Either way, my intention is not to rummage in the current state of my heart, though its fickleness can perhaps be the opening bridge of this letter and the reason for it.
I wanted to write to you because – well – the music you compose touches me deeply. (My toes are gripping the invisible air in my Japanese slip-on leather shoes, squirming and blushing inwardly about writing this fan letter since adoration/admiration seems awkward to me even though I am on the other side of the river.)
Like a tree growing, its branches grasping, I grasp for your music, almost always. You have accompanied me dearly along my steps, be it in New York, London, Kyoto, Prague or Copenhagen, wherever the water flows. Perhaps that is why my music streaming service assigns me an age nearly 50 years older than my driving licence says.
The latest occasion when I was submerged in your sonic universe was in an astonishingly reverent functionalist building called Radiohuset, sitting on the second floor of the fan-like auditorium surrounded by the warmth of the mahogany, the organs enshrined in blue light front and centre. That’s when the first notes of Glassworks Opening reach our ears, delving deeper. I might have been transported to a vast Antarctic glacial cave (I recently watched Werner Herzog’s Encounters at the End of the World), where the turquoise is crystal clear, and the intensity of the blue burns your eyes, making them water. We have all now embarked on this journey of yours; the journey continues. It’s thrilling, mesmerising at times, sometimes quite piercing, earth-shaking.
And then suddenly, I am transported to the great Town Hall, New York, where two years ago, alone amongst strangers, I experienced four hours of total rupture, Music in Twelve Parts marking me with tears streaming down my face, a total exhilarating catharsis of my soul.
I am currently reading AH!MERICA, an edited compilation of Allen Ginsberg’s Naropa lectures. If I recall correctly, he once said, “You don’t have to be right. All you have to do is be candid.” So here I am, trying to keep a double vision, even with my eyes full of tears. Trying to be honest with myself, facing the world and the reality of it.
Grasping for some courage, the courage being found in vulnerability. Perhaps that is why I grasp for your music, the courage and the vulnerability, the solace I find within its realms. It helps to have something to look forward to in the journey – the next destination, next year at the Southbank Centre. I am looking forward to crossing paths with you again, Mr. Glass, this time to celebrate you.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for accompanying me all these years.
With warmth and gratitude,
BMT
“On ferme les yeux des morts avec douceur; c’est aussi avec douceur qu’il faut ouvrir les yeux des vivants.” — Cocteau
P.S.: A heartfelt thank you to the team at ALICE for making this evening possible and creating the space for such a moving encounter with the music of Philip Glass.
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Text: Binh Mai Tan
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