It is placed in the far corner of the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine, a room where a sound piece by Canadian artist Janet Cardiff The Forty Part Motet the show was chosen for its sound. Indeed, this deep pleasure is especially felt while sitting on one of the silver benches in the center, surrounded by speakers that are a visual representation of Cardiff’s sound work—possibly a 2001 recording of the Salisbury Cathedral choir re-singing the song. Spem with aliuma Renaissance motet composed by Thomas Tallis in the late 16th century, but so much more.
The Forty Part Motet it is on loan from MoMA, although it is also in the Glenstone collection and was on view at MoMA PS1 in 2012 and at the Met Cloisters in 2013, and it is rare to find it in a religious setting rather than a museum or gallery. The official year of Tallis’ composition is unknown; some sources say 1573, but MoMA says 1556. What is known is that the singers were originally arranged in a circle, as the forty speakers of Cardiff are arranged. When you walk around the room and take a break from each speaker, the difference between each voice becomes apparent. There are low notes and high notes, voices that sound young and those that sound old, all making up an audiological assemblage that Cardiff sees as sculptures. “Allowing the audience to move through the space allows them to connect closely with the lyrics,” the artist wrote on his website. “It also reveals the piece of music as something that changes.”
The looping piece begins formally with coughing, whispering, laughter and pre-chorus chatter, adding a layer of personality that feels important when you’re in a room full of speakers and not people. Then a voice sings, then two more and more. I closed my eyes, feeling like a choir was around me. The old stones make even the silence echo in this beautiful space. “I’m interested in how sound can create space in a recorded way,” continued Cardiff, “and how the viewer can choose a path through this virtual but tangible space.” In this case, the options open to us are between sitting, standing and attending to each speaker or doing all of the above.
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I first saw it for myself The Forty Part Motet in late September, when the trees are still summer-green, and the Hungarian Pastry shop across the street was a magnet for students with their laptops. In 2019, the church suffered a fire and renovations are underway — the Great Organ, the largest of the church’s six, was in its final stages of renovation, to be played that week for the first time in five years. I saw some of its different pipes spread across the floor in one corner of the cathedral, full of surprises throughout: Glory by Elizabeth Catlett; Keith Haring’s The life of Christ (1990), a bronze and white gold triptych altarpiece that was one of his last works; The Edwina Sandys Controversy Christa.
As I was bathed in the sound of the choir glittering in the North Transept, I began to think about the time it crumbled before me. Here I am today, listening to a piece of music recorded in 2001 by a choir that is now twenty-three years old, singing a song that was composed over 400 years ago. I couldn’t quite place the composition of the song, and maybe this is what drew Cardiff to record this particular piece. The song is difficult to identify, which makes it difficult to remember, and creates the need to listen to another. You can seem to listen on repeat, forever.
Something about Spem with alium it feels timeless—were it composed today, though it’s interesting to imagine Thomas Tallis at work and what life would have been like when he composed the piece. Towards the end of the 16th century in Europe, the Renaissance was in full swing, the witch trials had begun in England, the Mona Lisa had already been painted and Galileo was just born. In the midst of all this, Tallis was trying to entertain the British royalty with music—almost the only work a composer could have at the time.
Spem with alium it is thought to have been presented at court on the occasion of Elizabeth I’s 40th birthday (hence the forty words), but the piece inspires contemporary artists to this day. The Kronos Quartet recorded a beautiful version for the stringed instrument. Singer and songwriter Holly Herndon, whose work was in the 2024 Whitney Biennial, called the song an “experiment” in its time, citing it in a Pitchfork video as the one song she wished she had written. “I think it is important because it is attractive in the way it works,” he said. “There is this 1570 phenomenon that is really trying but within these strict frameworks. You have a queen and a church and all these pressures. I think it’s an undeniably moving piece of music. It makes the hair on your arms stand up.”
But there is something special about Cardiff’s surround sound installation that restores Tallis’s composition to its original form as a piece of surround sound intended to be spatial and makes the experience as immersive as it feels necessary. The coughs and whispers of the choir at the beginning add personality, and as I sat in the church, I began to yearn to go back to the beginning, as if I were on a sonic rollercoaster.
What does it mean to include modern art in the church? It’s no surprise that the Rothko Chapel exists—or Ellsworth Kelly’s Austin or even James Turrell The meeting—art can move us spiritually like any sermon. However, it cannot be denied that art and religion together can create tension. Kali Malone, whose work is inspired by the end of the Middle Ages and early Renaissance music, was forced to cancel a performance in 2023 in a small French town when a right-wing Catholic group protested the performance of modern music in the sanctuary. But Malone plays the organ, an instrument often found in churches, so performing it elsewhere presents challenges.
In the case of The Forty Part Motet echoing in the North Transept, there is a religious precedent for its placement: polyphonic motets are often based on Latin sacred text, and the Latin expression ‘Spem in alium’ translates as “Hope in any other.” The Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine recognizes the importance of exhibiting a piece in their environment – it serves as a bridge between the worlds of art and division. Laura Bosley, the cathedral’s executive director of programs, told the Observer that she chose the piece because “it often seems that we as a culture have lost our ability to listen to each other” and that Cardiff’s piece “shows the importance of listening carefully and with intention.”
Next I visited The Forty Part Motet it was a cold Sunday in November. I thought I had an hour, but when I walked in, I was told I only had fourteen minutes to feel it out. I reached the room comforted by the coughs and whispers of its beginning, relieved that I would be able to hear it for the very last time. In that warm and noisy sanctuary, voices drowned out the sounds of the city, inspiring holy feelings of comfort—just what one should feel in a place of worship. And when the episode ended, everyone in the room was amused by the silence that still echoed. “That’s it folks,” said the guard when no one stood up to leave. His voice brought me back to the present, but the piece felt like it shook me forever.
Janet Cardiff Forty Part Motet seen in New York City’s Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine until December 31.
