The Shari Bierman Singer
Fellowship Recitals
BENJAMIN LOW, tenor
AVA PAUL, soprano
ETHAN YODER, tenor​
Daniel Overly, piano
​​
​
Wednesday, April 9 | 7:30 PM
Severance Music Center - Reinberger Chamber Hall
Program
From 2 Songs, Op. 1
I. Le papillon et la fleur
​
"Le rossignol et la rose"
from Parysatis
​​
​
Fleur des blés
​​
​Ava Paul, soprano
​
Élégie
​​
​
Sweet Chance, that led my steps abroad​​​
​
Benjamin Low, tenor
​
​
Nacht und Träume​​​​
Ganymed
​
Ethan Yoder, tenor
Gabriel Fauré​
(1845 - 1924)
​
Camille Saint-Saëns
(1835 - 1921)
​​
​
Claude Debussy
(1862 - 1918)
​
​
Henri Duparc
(1848 - 1933)
​
Michael Head
(1900 - 1976)
​
​
​​​
Franz Schubert
(1797 - 1828)
​
Valsa da dor​​​​​​​
Benjamin Low, piano
​​​​
​​
From Lucy
I. ​Strange fits of passion
IV. Three years she grew
V. A slumber did my spirit seal
​​​
Ethan Yoder, tenor
​
​
Mädchenblumen​​​​
Kornblumen
Mohnblumen
Epheu
Wasserrose
​Ava Paul, soprano
Heitor Villa-Lobos
(1887 - 1959)
​​
​​
​​
Eric William Barnum
(b. 1979)
​
​
​
​
Richard Strauss
(1864 - 1949)
​
​
​
​
From Winter Words​
V. The Choirmaster's Burial (or The Tenor man's story)
​​
Ethan Yoder, tenor
​​​​
​​​​
Beau Soir​​
​
L'Ultimo Bacio
​​​
Benjamin Low, tenor
​
​​
From Douze Mélodies sur des Poésies Russes
I. Fleur desséchée
​​
From Airs chantés
II. Air champêtre
​Ava Paul, soprano
​
​
Benjamin Britten
(1913 - 1976)
​​
​​
​
Claude Debussy​
​
Paolo Tosti​
(1846 - 1916)
​
​
Pauline Viardot
(1821 - 1910)
​​​
Francis Poulenc
(1899 - 1963)
​
We thank the Shari Bierman Singer Family and Robert Jenkins for their
generous and continued support of The Cleveland Orchestra Chorus.
Texts & translations
"Le papillon et la fleur" from 2 Songs, Op. 1
Gabriel Fauré​
La pauvre fleur disait au papillon céleste:
Ne fuis pas!
Vois comme nos destins sont différents. Je reste,
Tu t’en vas!
Pourtant nous nous aimons, nous vivons sans les hommes
Et loin d’eux,
Et nous nous ressemblons, et l’on dit que nous sommes
Fleurs tous deux!
Mais, hélas! l’air t’emporte et la terre m’enchaîne.
Sort cruel!
Je voudrais embaumer ton vol de mon haleine
Dans le ciel!
Mais non, tu vas trop loin! – Parmi des fleurs sans nombre
Vous fuyez,
Et moi je reste seule à voir tourner mon ombre
À mes pieds.
Tu fuis, puis tu reviens; puis tu t’en vas encore
Luire ailleurs.
Aussi me trouves-tu toujours à chaque aurore
Toute en pleurs!
Oh! pour que notre amour coule des jours fidèles,
Ô mon roi,
Prends comme moi racine, ou donne-moi des ailes
Comme à toi!
​​​​
— Victor Hugo
The humble flower said to the heavenly butterfly:
Do not flee!
See how our destinies differ. Fixed to earth am I,
You fly away!
​
Yet we love each other, we live without men
And far from them,
And we are so alike, it is said that both of us
Are flowers!
​
But alas! The breeze bears you away, the earth holds me fast.
Cruel fate!
I would perfume your flight with my fragrant breath
In the sky!
​
But no, you flit too far! Among countless flowers
You fly away,
While I remain alone, and watch my shadow circle
Round my feet.
​
You fly away, then return; then take flight again
To shimmer elsewhere.
And so you always find me at each dawn
Bathed in tears!
​
Ah, that our love might flow through faithful days,
O my king,
Take root like me, or give me wings
Like yours!​​​
​
Translation copyright © 2000 by Richard Stokes
from A French Song Companion (Oxford)
Fleur des blés
Claude Debussy
Le long des blés que la brise
Fait onduler puis défrise
En un désordre coquet,
J’ai trouvé de bonne prise
De t’y cueillir un bouquet.
Mets-le vite à ton corsage, –
Il est fait à ton image
En même temps que pour toi …
Ton petit doigt, je le gage,
T’a déjà soufflé pourquoi:
Ces épis dorés, c’est l’onde
De ta chevelure blonde
Toute d’or et de soleil;
Ce coquelicot qui fronde,
C’est ta bouche au sang vermeil.
Et ces bluets, beau mystère!
Points d’azur que rien n’altère,
Ces bluets ce sont tes yeux,
Si bleus qu’on dirait, sur terre,
Deux éclats tombés des cieux.
​
— André Girod
From the tall corn that ripples
And undulates under the breeze
In coquettish disarray
I have found the good idea
To gather a nosegay for you.
​
Place it on your bosom, quickly;
It was not only gathered for you,
But also created in your image,
And I’ll warrant your little finger
Has already told you why.
​
These golden ears of corn are like the waves
Of your own fair tresses,
Spun from gold and sunlight;
This insolent poppy
Is the red blood of your lips.
​
And these cornflowers (you’ll never guess!),
These azure dots that nothing can change,
These cornflowers are your eyes,
So blue that they look like two pieces of heaven
Fallen down upon this earth.
​
Translation copyright © 2000 by Richard Stokes
from A French Song Companion (Oxford)
Élégie
Henri Duparc
Oh! ne murmurez pas son nom! Qu'il dorme dans l'ombre,
Où froide et sans honneur repose sa dépouille.
Muettes, tristes, glacées, tombent nos larmes,
Comme la rosée de la nuit, qui sur sa tête humecte la gazon;
Mais la rosée de la nuit, bien qu'elle pleure en silence,
Fera briller la verdure sur sa couche
Et nos larmes, en secret répandues,
Conserveront sa mémoire fraîche et verte dans nos cœurs.
​
— Thomas Moore (1779 - 1852)
Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid:
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his
head.
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
​
Translation by Ellie Max Swiney
Sweet Chance, that led my steps abroad
Michael Head
Sweet Chance, that led my steps abroad,
Beyond the town, where wild flow'rs grow --
A rainbow and a cuckoo, Lord,
How rich and great the times are now!
Know all ye sheep
And cows, that keep
On staring that I stand so long
In grass that's wet from heavy rain --
A rainbow, and a cuckoo's song
May never come together again,
May never [come]
This side the tomb.
A rainbow, and a cuckoo's song
May never come together again...
​
— W.H. Davies (1871 - 1940)​
Nacht und Träume
Franz Schubert
Heil’ge Nacht, du sinkest nieder;
Nieder wallen auch die Träume,
Wie dein Mondlicht durch die Räume,
Durch der Menschen stille Brust.
Die belauschen sie mit Lust;
Rufen, wenn der Tag erwacht:
Kehre wieder, heil’ge Nacht!
Holde Träume, kehret wieder!
​
— Matthäus Casimir von Collin
Holy night, you sink down;
dreams, too, float down,
like your moonlight through space,
through the silent hearts of men.
They listen with delight,
crying out when day awakes:
come back, holy night!
Fair dreams, return!
Ganymed
Franz Schubert
Wie im Morgenglanze
Du rings mich anglühst,
Frühling, Geliebter!
Mit tausendfacher Liebeswonne
Sich an mein Herze drängt
Deiner ewigen Wärme
Heilig Gefühl,
Unendliche Schöne!
Daß ich dich fassen möcht'
In diesen Arm!
Ach an deinem Busen
Lieg' ich und schmachte,
Und deine Blumen, dein Gras
Drängen sich an mein Herz.
​
​Du kühlst den brennenden
Durst meines Busens,
Lieblicher Morgenwind!
Ruft drein die Nachtigall
Liebend nach mir aus dem Nebelthal.
Ich komm', ich komme!
Ach wohin, wohin?
Hinauf strebt's, hinauf!
Es schweben die Wolken
Abwärts, die Wolken
Neigen sich der sehnenden Liebe.
Mir! Mir!
In eurem Schoße
Aufwärts!
Umfangend umfangen!
Aufwärts an deinen Busen,
Alliebender Vater!
​
— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
How in the morning light
you glow around me,
beloved Spring!
With love's thousand-fold bliss,
to my heart presses
the eternal warmth
of sacred feelings
and endless beauty!
Would that I could clasp
you in these arms!
Ah, at your breast
I lie and languish,
and your flowers and your grass
press themselves to my heart.
​
You cool the burning
thirst of my breast,
lovely morning wind!
The nightingale calls
lovingly to me from the misty vale.
I am coming, I am coming!
but whither? To where?
Upwards I strive, upwards!
The clouds float
downwards, the clouds
bow down to yearning love.
To me! To me!
In your lap
upwards!
Embracing, embraced!
Upwards to your bosom,
All-loving Father!
Valsa da dor
Heitor Villa-Lobos
Heitor Villa-Lobos (1887–1959) was a pioneering Brazilian composer who blended classical traditions with Brazilian folk music. Largely self-taught, he traveled extensively, absorbing indigenous, African, and Portuguese influences. His vast output includes symphonies, chamber music, choral works, and solo guitar pieces, merging European forms with Brazilian rhythms. Beyond composition, he reformed Brazil’s public music education and gained international recognition as a composer and conductor, shaping 20th-century Latin American music.
The structure of Valsa da Dor is a straightforward yet highly effective rondo. A gorgeous, flowing melodic line appears three times: initially at an allegro tempo, then at a more measured moderato, and finally at a lento pace. These tempo shifts transform the melody’s character, evolving from proud to lyrical to deeply melancholic. The two differing sections heavily contrast: one is a raging stampede, and the other is a spiky march. Combined, a story of joy tested by struggle is told.
— Ben Low
Selections from Lucy
Eric William Barnum
I. Strange fits of passion
Strange fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.
When she I loved look'd every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening moon.
Upon the moon I fix'd my eye,
All over the wide lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.
​
​And now we reach'd the orchard-plot;
And, as we climb'd the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
Came near and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopp'd:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropp'd.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a lover's head!
'O mercy!' to myself I cried,
'If Lucy should be dead!'
IV. Three years she grew
​
Three years she grew in sun and shower;
Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.
'Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse; and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
'She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.
'The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
By silent sympathy.
'The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
'And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.'
Thus Nature spake -- The work was done --
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.
V. A slumber did my spirit seal
​
A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seem'd a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
​
— William Wadsworth
Mädchenblumen
Richard Strauss
Kornblumen
​
Kornblumen nenn ich die Gestalten,
die milden mit den blauen Augen,
die, anspruchslos in stillem Walten,
den Tau des Friedens, den sie saugen
aus ihren eigenen klaren Seelen,
mitteilen allem, dem sie nahen,
bewußtlos der Gefühlsjuwelen,
die sie von Himmelshand empfahn.
Dir wird so wohl in ihrer Nähe,
als gingst du durch ein Saatgefilde,
durch das der Hauch des Abends wehe,
voll frommen Friedens und voll Milde.​
​
Cornflowers are what I call those girls,
Those gentle girls with blue eyes,
Who simply and serenely impart
The dew of peace, which they draw
From their own pure souls,
To all those they approach,
Unaware of the jewels of feeling
They receive from the hand of Heaven:
You feel so at ease in their company,
As though you were walking through a cornfield,
Rippled by the breath of evening,
Full of devout peace and gentleness.​
Mohnblumen
​
Mohnblumen sind die runden,
rotblutigen gesunden,
die sommersproßgebraunten,
die immer froh gelaunten,
kreuzbraven, kreuzfidelen,
tanznimmermüden Seelen;
die unter'm Lachen weinen
und nur geboren scheinen,
die Kornblumen zu necken,
und dennoch oft verstecken
die weichsten, besten Herzen,
im Schlinggewächs von Scherzen;
die man, weiß Gott, mit Küssen
ersticken würde müssen,
wär' man nicht immer bange,
umarmest du die Range,
sie springt ein voller Brander
aufflammend auseinander.​
Poppies are the round,
Red-blooded, healthy girls,
The brown and freckled ones,
The always good-humoured ones,
Honest and merry as the day is long,
Who never tire of dancing,
Who laugh and cry simultaneously
And only seem to be born
To tease the cornflowers,
And yet often conceal
The gentlest and kindest hearts
As they entwine and play their pranks,
Those whom, God knows,
You would have to stifle with kisses,
Were you not so timid,
For if you embrace the minx,
She will burst, like smouldering timber,
Into flames!​
Epheu
​
Aber Epheu nenn' ich jene Mädchen
mit den sanften Worten,
mit dem Haar, dem schlichten, hellen
um den leis' gewölbten Brau'n,
mit den braunen seelenvollen Rehenaugen,
die in Tränen steh'n so oft,
in ihren Tränen gerade sind unwiderstehlich;
ohne Kraft und Selbstgefühl,
schmucklos mit verborg'ner Blüte,
doch mit unerschöpflich tiefer
treuer inniger Empfindung
können sie mit eigner Triebkraft
nie sich heben aus den Wurzeln,
sind geboren, sich zu ranken
liebend um ein ander Leben:
an der ersten Lieb'umrankung
hängt ihr ganzes Lebensschicksal,
denn sie zählen zu den seltnen Blumen,
die nur einmal blühen.​
But ivy is my name for those
Girls with gentle words,
With sleek fair hair
And slightly arched brows,
With brown soulful
Fawn-like eyes that well up
So often with tears—which are
Simply irresistible;
Without strength and self-confidence,
Unadorned with hidden flowers,
But with inexhaustibly deep,
True and ardent feeling,
They cannot, through their own strength,
Rise from their roots,
But are born to twine themselves
Lovingly round another’s life:—
Their whole life’s destiny
Depends on their first love-entwining,
For they belong to that rare breed of flower
That blossoms only once.​
Wasserrose
​​
Kennst du die Blume, die märchenhafte,
sagengefeierte Wasserrose?
Sie wiegt auf ätherischem, schlankem Schafte
das durchsicht'ge Haupt, das farbenlose,
sie blüht auf schilfigem Teich im Haine,
gehütet vom Schwan, der umkreiset sie einsam,
sie erschließt sich nur dem Mondenscheine,
mit dem ihr der silberne Schimmer gemeinsam:
so blüht sie, die zaub'rische Schwester der Sterne,
umschwärmt von der träumerisch dunklen Phaläne,
die am Rande des Teichs sich sehnet von ferne,
und sie nimmer erreicht, wie sehr sie sich sehne.
Wasserrose, so nenn' ich die schlanke,
nachtlock'ge Maid, alabastern von Wangen,
in dem Auge der ahnende tiefe Gedanke,
als sei sie ein Geist und auf Erden gefangen.
Wenn sie spricht, ist's wie silbernes Wogenrauschen,
wenn sie schweigt, ist's die ahnende Stille der Mondnacht;
sie scheint mit den Sternen Blicke zu tauschen,
deren Sprache die gleiche Natur sie gewohnt macht;
du kannst nie ermüden, in's Aug' ihr zu schau'n,
das die seidne, lange Wimper umsäumt hat,
und du glaubst, wie bezaubernd von seligem Grau'n,
was je die Romantik von Elfen geträumt hat
​​
— Felix Dahn
Do you know this flower, the fairy-like
Water-lily, celebrated in legend?
On her ethereal, slender stem
She sways her colourless transparent head;
It blossoms on a reedy and sylvan pond,
Protected by the solitary swan that swims round it,
Opening only to the moonlight,
Whose silver gleam it shares.
Thus it blossoms, the magical sister of the stars,
As the dreamy dark moth, fluttering round it,
Yearns for it from afar at the edge of the pond,
And never reaches it for all its yearning.—
Water-lily is my name for the slender
Maiden with night-black locks and alabaster cheeks
With deep foreboding thoughts in her eyes,
As though she were a spirit imprisoned on earth.
Her speech resembles the silver rippling of waves,
Her silence the foreboding stillness of a moonlit night,
She seems to exchange glances with the stars,
Whose language—their natures being the same—she shares.
You can never tire of gazing into her eyes,
Framed by her silken long lashes,
And you believe, bewitched by their blissful grey,
All that Romantics have ever dreamt about elves.​
​
Translation copyright © Richard Stokes
"The Choirmaster's Burial
(or The Tenor man's story)"
from Winter Words
Benjamin Britten
He often would ask us
That, when he died,
After playing so many
To their last rest, If out of us any
Should here abide,
And it would not task us,
We would with our lutes
Play over him
By his grave-brim
The psalm he liked best—
The one whose sense suits
“Mount Ephraim”—
And perhaps we should seem
To him, in Death’s dream,
Like the seraphim.
As soon as I knew
That his spirit was gone
I thought this his due,
And spoke thereupon.
“I think”, said the vicar,
“A read service quicker
Than viols out-of-doors
In these frosts and hoars.
That old-fashioned way
Requires a fine day,
And it seems to me
It had better not be.”
Hence, that afternoon,
Though never knew he
That his wish could not be,
To get through it faster
They buried the master
Without any tune.
​
But ’twas said that, when
At the dead of next night
The vicar looked out,
There struck on his ken
Thronged roundabout,
Where the frost was graying
he headstoned grass,
A band all in white
Like the saints in church-glass,
Singing and playing
The ancient stave
By the choirmaster’s grave.
Such the tenor man told
When he had grown old.
​
​
​
— Thomas Hardy
Beau Soir
Claude Debussy
Lorsque au soleil couchant les rivières sont roses,
Et qu'un tiède frisson court sur les champs de blé,
Un conseil d'être heureux semble sortir des choses
Et monter vers le cœur troublé;
Un conseil de goûter le charme d'être au monde,
Cependant qu'on est jeune et que le soir est beau,
Car nous nous en allons comme s'en va cette onde:
Elle à la mer, – nous au tombeau!
​
— Paul Borget (1852 - 1935)​
When at sunset the rivers are pink
And a warm breeze ripples the fields of wheat,
All things seem to advise content -
And rise toward the troubled heart;
Advise us to savour the gift of life,
While we are young and the evening fair,
For our life slips by, as that river does:
It to the sea - we to the tomb.
​
Translation © Richard Stokes
from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000)
L'Ultimo Bacio
Paolo Tosti
Se tu lo vedi gli dirai che l'amo,
che l'amo ancora come ai primi dì,
che nei languidi sogni ancor lo chiamo,
lo chiamo ancor come se fosse qui.
E gli dirai che colla fé tradita
Tutto il gaudio d'allor non mi rapì;
E gli dirai che basta alla mia vita
l'ultimo bacio che l'addio finì!
Nessun lo toglie dalla bocca mia
l'ultimo bacio che l'addio finì.
Ma se vuoi dargli un altro in compagnia
Digli che l'amo, e che l'aspetto qui.
​
— Paul Borget (1852 - 1935)​
If you see him, tell him I love him,
Just as I did in the early days.
In languid dreams, I still call out his name,
I call as if he were still here.
And tell him that, even with betrayed faith,
The joy of that time is not taken from me;
And tell him that it is enough for my life,
That last kiss that ended in farewell!
No one takes it from my lips,
That last kiss that ended in farewell.
But if you wish to give him another in company,
Tell him that I love him and I wait here for him.
​
Trans. Betsy Schwarm
"The last kiss", copyright © 2023
"Fleur desséchée"
from Douze Mélodies sur des Poésies Russes
Pauline Viardot
Dans ce vieux livre l'on t'oublie,
Fleur sans parfum et sans couleur,
Mais une étrange rêverie,
Quand je te vois, emplit mon coeur.
Quel jour, quel lieu te virent naître?
Quel fut ton sort? qui t'arracha?
Qui sait? Je les connus peut-être,
Ceux dont l'amour te conserva!
Rappelais-tu, rose flétrie,
La première heure ou les adieux?
Les entretiens dans la prairie
Ou dans le boix silencieux?
Vit-il encor? existe-t-elle?
À quels rameaux flottent leurs nids!
Ou comme toi, qui fus si belle,
Leurs fronts charmants sont-ils flétris?
​
— Louis Pomey​
In this old book, you are forgotten,
A flower without fragrance or color,
But a strange daydream,
When I see you, fills my heart.
What day, what place did you come into being?
What was your fate? Who tore you away?
Who knows? Perhaps I met them,
The ones whose love kept you safe.
Did you remember, withered rose,
The first hour or the farewells?
The conversations in the meadow
Or in the silent woods?
Does he still live? Does she still exist?
On which branches do their nests rest?
Or like you, once so beautiful,
Are their charming faces now withered?
​
Translation by Ava Paul, 2025
"Air champêtre"
from Airs chantés
Francis Poulenc
Belle source, je veux me rappeler sans cesse,
Qu’un jour guidé par l’amitié Ravi,
j’ai contemplé ton visage, ô déesse,
Perdu sous la mousse à moitié.
Que n’est-il demeuré, cet ami que je pleure,
O nymphe, à ton culte attaché,
Pour se mêler encore au souffle qui t’effleure
Et répondre à ton flot caché.
​
— Jean Moréas
Lovely spring, I shall never cease to remember
That on a day, guided by entranced friendship,
I gazed on your face, O goddess,
Half hidden beneath the moss.
​
Had he but remained, this friend whom I mourn,
O nymph, a devotee of your cult,
To mingle once more with the breeze that caresses you,
And to respond to your hidden waters!
​
Translation copyright © 2000 by Richard Stokes
from A French Song Companion (Oxford)
bios
Benjamin Low (b. 2003) is a pianist and tenor from Yorktown Heights, NY. He is an active student at the College of Wooster, where he is pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in Music Education. Low is a member of several ensembles including the Wooster Chorus, Wooster Singers, Scot Symphonic Band and Wooster Concert Band, and is a Shari Bierman Singer Fellow with the Cleveland Orchestra Chorus. He works on-campus as the Recording Crew Leader, Office Assistant, and Student Accompanist for the Music Department, is an intern with Religious and Spiritual Life, and serves as the President of the College’s chapter of the Ohio Collegiate Music Education Association (OCMEA). Low is also the President of the OCMEA State Board, where he works closely with the Ohio Music Education Association to connect and support collegiate music education majors across the state. At the beginning of March, he performed a junior recital comprised of solo and collaborative piano works by Florence Price, Amy Beach, and more. Currently studying piano with Peter Mowrey, Low has previously worked with Simona Frenkel, Kessa Mefford, and Yuka Nakayama-Lewicki. Low studies voice with Adam Ewing.
Outside of school, he works as the choral accompanist for Northwestern Local Schools (West Salem, OH), Green Local Schools (Smithville, OH), and Southeast Local Schools (Apple Creek, OH), and regularly accompanies worship services at Westminster Presbyterian Church (Wooster, OH). In 2024, Low was an invitee to the GIA Publications/Walton Music Composer Academy, where he studied hymnwriting and choral composing with Adam Tice, Susan LaBarr, Kate Williams, and Alan Hommerding. In his free time, Ben loves to write poetry, hike, kayak, and spend time with friends.
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Ava Paul is a fourth-year undergraduate soprano at Oberlin College and Conservatory in the 5-year double degree program pursuing degrees in Vocal Performance and Political Science with a minor in Law and Society. Her 2024-25 season includes Serpetta in Mozart’s La Finta Giardiniera, La Fée in Massenet’s Cendrillon and several Monteverdi operas, including L’Orfeo (Messaggiera, Speranza) and L’Incoronazione Di Poppea (Drusilla). This summer, Paul is excited to appear as Amina in Bellini’s La sonnambula with the Mediterranean Opera Studio. Paul has also performed as a soloist in Craig Hella Johnson's Considering Matthew Shepard with the Cleveland Chamber Choir.
Paul is an alumna of the Denyce Graves Foundation's Shared Voices Program. She has been published in Classical Singer Magazine and has spoken at Howard University, Peabody Conservatory, and the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture about her passion for diversity, equity and inclusion in the arts.
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Ethan Yoder (b. 2002) is a composer, tenor and conductor from Granger, Indiana. An active musician, Yoder has performed with a number of ensembles, including the Wooster Chorus, the Wooster Concert Band, the Wooster Contemporary Chamber Ensemble, and the Cleveland Orchestra Chorus, with whom he is a Shari Bierman Singer Fellow. He is also the founder and director of the Wooster Contemporary Orchestra. He travelled to New York with the College of Wooster Scot Symphonic Band as a featured vocalist during their 2025 tour.
As a composer, Yoder's work often combines themes of nature and/or humanity, and explores interactions between the two. His undergraduate thesis, Terra Prisma, is a six-movement orchestral work that seeks to provide a soundscape for the myriad of human associations with color. He was named the winner of the Scot Symphonic Band Composition Competition for his work Is Anyone Out There?, a work inspired by Alan Bean's painting of the same name, both of which contemplate the vastness of the universe and attempt to reconcile the fact that we may be alone in it.
Ethan will earn his Bachelor of Music degree from the College of Wooster in 2025, studying composition with Dylan Findley and Daniel Knaggs, voice with Edward Vogel, and conducting with Lisa Wong and Jeff Gershman. When he's not making music, Ethan enjoys cooking, biking, playing table-top games, and spending time with family and friends.