No photos, we're told by staff. So for the unlucky that missed the show, words will have to suffice. The roof stretches high above us as we file into the large cavernous cathedral, walnut chestnut and bowed rafters crossed like the exposed ribs of an abandoned ship. It is freezing enough to see your own breath, the smell of dust and censure still clinging to the walls. Religious iconography takes centre stage as pews are filled to bursting, the crowd spilling into the aisles yet moving so quietly the sound of an errant heel on wood is loud as thunder.
Entering from the front of the hall and dressed in all black, soprano singer Allison Bell makes her way with slow-burning purpose through the aisles. She takes her place in front of a line of candles; a six-foot icon of Christ on the Cross hangs above the performers. Allison Bell and the cello move through the Akhmatova Songs with gloomy reverie, her voice shifting between a whisper and a wail.
In Sculthorpe's String Quartet No.12 the reverie knowingly lilts and bends, drawing the audience into reflection only to be pulled back with a sharp tug of the bow across strings, never delving too long. With the final refrain ebbing, a heavy tension is lifted to thunderous applause.
The emotion is palpable in Shoenberg's String Quartet No.2, thick with blood and despair. Schoenberg's work roars and soars through a hall as silent as the grave on the longest night of the year.
