Op. 19 - Symphony No. 2 in F♯ Minor "The Futile Pursuit of Love"

Camilo Aybar

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Orchestra

2024

Alto

Bass

Bass Clarinet

Bass Drum

Bass Trombone

Bassoon

Celesta

Cello

Clarinet

Contrabassoon

Crotales

Cymbals

Double Bass

English Horn

Flute

Glockenspiel

Horn

Mezzo-soprano

Objects

Oboe

Organ

Piano

Piccolo

Pitched Percussion

Snare Drum

Soprano

Tam-Tam

Tenor

Timpani

Trombone

Trumpet

Tuba

Tubular Bells

Unpitched Percussion

Viola

Violin

Program Notes: “One of my main goals with this symphony was to make the musicians who may have the misfortune of playing it one day hate me as much as I hate myself. Only then will they understand the self-inflicted suffering laden in every note, straining the highs and lows of their instrument’s register in the most frightening of keys, which itself is a helpless passenger in this doomed voyage. There is no escape. It will consume you.” Camilo Aybar Camilo Aybar’s Symphony No. 2 in F♯ Minor “The Futile Pursuit of Love” is not merely a symphony—it is a raw, unflinching autopsy of a young and shy composer’s heart, dissecting the paradox of Romantic idealism in a world governed by societal expectations and self-sabotage. Written between December 2021 and November 2024, the work emerged from Aybar’s third romantic rejection, a catalytic “third time's the charm” revelation when he realized that “no matter how much he could accomplish as a clarinetist and composer, his diminutive stature, physical appearance, social awkwardness and self-sabotaging plights… rendered it null in the eyes of seemingly all of his love interests.” Framed as a “doomed voyage” into the elusive nature of love, the work channels the emotional extremes of Romanticism—obsession, despair, fleeting hope—while interrogating modern insecurities around height, age, appearance and race. Structured in two parts across five movements, the symphony maps Aybar’s descent from naïve hope to nihilistic resignation, channeling Mahlerian grandeur and harmonic unease to mirror his torment. Its F♯ minor tonality, juxtaposed with its agonizing proximity to unattainable A major, embodies love’s cruel duality: a promise forever deferred, a key “so close yet so far.” As a nod to the deceptive resolutions of Mahler’s Sixth Symphony, Aybar deploys the mighty Hammerschlag to mark every indifferent rejection and the collapse of new hopes—hopes which Aybar would come to detest himself for having. A self-described “lone wolf,” Aybar attempts to draw parallels to Romantic icons like Tchaikovsky, Brahms, Rachmaninoff and Mahler, whose tragic lives birthed art which universalizes suffering—all while wryly acknowledging his own youth: “I know I’m only 19… I still have a lifetime of heartbreak ahead.” PART I: ILLUSION I. Vivace con immenso dolore “The Cellist” (F♯ Minor) Aybar’s infatuation with a cellist—her seeming enthusiasm and interest in Aybar's life, “rich tone” and “striking blue eyes”—collapses after a misguided romantic gesture (an arm-link inspired by WikiHow) leads to her withdrawal from their chamber program and his disciplinary hearing. The “hopelessness motif,” five notes which sink into a shockingly distant key, F major, underscores his realization that societal norms (male height, age gap) are insurmountable. Orchestral chaos erupts: brass blare a descending C♯ minor “dejection” theme, strings writhe in the “love theme” with intimate-turned-agonizing appogiaturas, and a stratospheric violin glissando to A8 mirrors Aybar’s desperate reach for connection. The movement’s cyclical structure—returning to F♯ minor after an ill-fated preparation for A major—confirms Fate: “This is not a symphony of heroism.” II. Andante cantabile “The Violinist” (B major) Initially masqueraded as redemption, a solo violin serenades Aybar’s longing for a violinist in his quintet, her warm smiles, lunch invites and mastery of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto kindling fragile hope. B major’s warmth, as Aybar experiences euphoria from a mere embrace after a rehearsal, curdles into B♭ minor as societal judgment and drama within the quintet intervene: a tall fellow who attempted advances on the violinist would be scolded by the violinist's teacher—the very director who held Aybar's disciplinary hearing. Disheartened but intrigued by the fact that height did not give the fellow an advantage, Aybar persevered and made efforts for self-improvement via counselling and lifestyle changes, represented by the march's persistence through many difficult keys. Three declined invitations culminate in a ferry ride snub (“I would rather not [sit with you on the ferry]”), confirming her “rainchecks” were as false as Aybar's hopes of being loved, while piccolos shriek nihilistically as he witnesses her affection for a “tall, blond gallant gentleman” from the second violin section of his youth orchestra. The movement’s collapse into a destructive last chord echoes his epiphany: talent, dedication and perseverance cannot eclipse physical “shortcomings” in love’s brutal marketplace. III. Allegro furioso “The Pianist” (F♯ Minor) A mindless infatuation with a tall and mediocre high school pianist—a “compromise of musical ideals”—fuels a brutal march in F♯ minor. Here, Aybar weaponizes jazz and R&B idioms to mock his own desperation, transforming syncopated rhythms and bluesy harmonies into a grotesque march of self-sabotage. These syncopations slam Aybar into a consuming void of resignation, thus lowering his social standing and further worsening his self-esteem in an inescapable death spiral, while bombastic allusions to Aybar’s Goodnight Desdemona Suite (Op. 15)—a failed production where the pianist was the technician—mock his artistic concessions. A humiliatingly crass confession (“I really like you”) ends in her disappearance and a brutal fugue that drives Aybar into his own grave. The result is a movement that is equal parts tragic and absurd, a musical mea culpa that leaves no doubt: Aybar is his own worst enemy. PART II: DEATH SPIRAL IV. Intermezzo “Aria del destino” (B♭ Major) In the eye of the storm, a heavenly mezzo-soprano voice emerges—a fleeting Urlicht borrowed from Mahler’s Resurrection, its golden B♭ major warmth promising just as much. Yet this light is masked by cruel foreshadowing. The aria was originally conceived as a mirror to Aybar’s inner voice, a nostalgic reflection on his first year of chamber music: innocent memories of childhood entwined with regret for overlooking a Japanese-Quebécoise violist’s genuine interest in favour of the ensemble’s aloof pianist. Years later, as university auditions loom, the music shifts to a steady F♯ minor march—a theme co-composed with the violist—as Aybar debates rekindling their connection. Trembling G♭ major hope implodes into E♭ minor dissonance, sharpening into a “death chord” Aybar describes as “every note of the insen scale colliding.” This Japanese pentatonic scale's traditional serenity becomes perverted into a scream of unresolved minor seconds—a warning of the cruel Fate to come. This aria morphs into a broader indictment of Aybar’s paralyzing inaction, as history was doomed to repeat itself. Originally a nod to the violist’s heritage, the insen scale twists like a knife and becomes an inadvertent allusion to Madama Butterfly—an opera Aybar hoped to use as the romantic backdrop for a date with a mezzo-soprano in his university years. Yet, in his months-long hesitation, he discovered her heart had already become a stage occupied by another, and a trio—composed hastily yet too late—joins this aria in taunting Aybar’s own Puccinian tragedy. By the symphony’s publication, Aybar finds himself rejected by half of his school’s mezzo-sopranos—a statistical absurdity that amplifies the aria’s cruel twist. The mezzo-soprano, once a mirror to his inner voice grieving regret, now disunites to mock him herself. Her voice warps from solace to sneer, a haunting reminder that love, like music, demands timing. A missed cue, a rest too long, a fermata held past its breath—and the moment is gone. Forever. V. Finale. Tema con variazioni “The Violist” (F♯ Minor) In the cyclical form of theme and variations, Aybar spirals into existential futility. A backstage clarinet’s fragile theme, answered by a distant viola, becomes a 50-minute odyssey of hope and despair. Variations destined for nowhere trundle through old themes shared by the violist, Duolingo chimes (for McGill-motivated French lessons), ciphered phone numbers, and a timpani heartbeat marking each day of ghosting and missed connection. After an explosion of delusional euphoria, the Mahler Hammer finally strikes us into a cataclysmic F# minor chord—as Aybar’s university audition successes heavily contrast from his humiliating confession and rejection the day before—a testament to the cruel arithmetic of existence. Genius may conquer art, but it cannot outcalculate the heart’s frail algebra. In this spirit, the choir's nihilistic entrance, echoing Shakespeare's yearnings for his “dark lady” and Verlaine's own societal angst, succumbs to love’s futility in a final appearance of the “death chord,” where the symphony’s uneasy coda mirrors Aybar’s poignant conclusion: “Had I channeled my romantic efforts into music, I might have written 60 symphonies by now,” in a final resignation to embracing music as his only true love. The five-movement structure of Aybar's Second Symphony culminates in his experience of five simultaneous and paradoxically inescapable facets of self-loathing: regret festering in the paralysis of inaction (the violist’s unanswered emails), yet disbelief for having faith in hope's cruel mirages when action is taken (being shoved overboard by the violinist into the proverbial sea of hopelessness), disgust for obsessiveness and its collateral damage (the cellist’s shattered career), condemnation for the immorality of persistent longing (dreams of the taken mezzo-soprano), and overarching guilt for indulging personal anguish while Gaza burns and homeless voices cry outside Aybar's very conservatory—true human suffering. This is not a symphony of catharsis, but a grotesque mirror. In the end, the music screams what Aybar cannot: love’s pursuit is not just futile, but fraudulent, a bourgeois distraction from a world aflame. The true tragedy? Even as Aybar sets off to explore every facet of the human condition, in his obsessiveness he fails to be human himself. He howls his doomed lineage alongside Tchaikovsky's and Mahler's ghosts—a “lone wolf” Romantic in a digital age, stuck in a generation that is force-fed algorithmic romance yet still gnawing at the same primal trap: society’s narcissistic “scroll” of height charts, beauty standards, misogynistic norms, racial bias and transactional motivations. The symphony's grandeur—stratospheric glissandi, brutalist brass, uselessly difficult flourishes and runs—is a modern parody of Romantic triumph, while its cyclical structure admits defeat. By weaponizing music with extreme dynamics, punishing registers and inordinately awkward keys, Aybar's Second Symphony mocks its own grandiosity in a monument to failure—his defiant ode to the human condition.