Please reference as: Tamboukou, Maria. 2025. "Kassi", https://sites.google.com/view/soundscapesandechoes/home/kassia/music
Please reference as: Tamboukou, Maria. 2025. "Kassi", https://sites.google.com/view/soundscapesandechoes/home/kassia/music
Kassia’s surviving hymns occupy an unusual position in Byzantine musical history: they are not only compositions by a named woman, but works that circulated with her name intact—sung, copied, and preserved as hers. That preservation alone marks a shift in the gendered distribution of musical and liturgical authority. Without importing modern labels she would not have recognized, one can still say that her music enacts a kind of structural insistence: an audible claim that a woman’s voice can bear liturgical weight, doctrinal nuance, and affective force.
Understanding how that insistence works demands attention not just to her texts, but to the notation in which they survive. Byzantine chant is not a neutral record of pitch. Its round notation, its network of martyriae (modal signposts), and its vocabulary of hypostaseis (execution and ornament signs) together form a semiotic system that instructs the singer how meaning should be realized in performance. As Henry Tillyard’s (1911) early transcriptions already make clear, this notation is a toolkit for interpretation rather than mere reproduction; it encodes phrasing, emphasis, and hierarchy. Kassia writes directly into this system. In her hands, signs that elsewhere function as technical markers become devices of attention: they structure breath, cadence, and temporal expansion so that certain words arrive with greater rhetorical pressure than others.
Hymn 1. Cod. Athen. 883, f. 169, in Tillyard (1911, 442)
Tillyard’s analysis shows how her compositional decisions exploit these possibilities. Kassia’s idiom is marked by distinctive melodic turns—unexpected leaps, lingering intervals, or small dissonant pivots—that coincide with moments of theological significance, especially where the text invokes divine encounter or moral agency. These are not ornamental flourishes for their own sake but techniques of emphasis; the contour of the melody interprets the phrase. One has the sense that the notation refuses to pass quietly through expected pathways.
Her handling of modality is equally telling. Kassia often begins within conventional formulas, only to destabilize predictable cadences by introducing martyriae that suspend closure or redirect tonal expectation. Tillyard describes these passages as zones of tension, where the modal frame does not collapse but stretches. The gesture is subtle, but culturally legible: the tradition remains intact, yet its center of gravity shifts. It becomes possible for a woman to inhabit liturgical space without being acoustically absorbed by it.
Even ornamentation takes on interpretive weight. Melismatic writing, often signaled by dense clusters of hypostaseis, tends to appear on lexically and theologically charged terms rather than neutral vocabulary. The result is not display but redistribution. The music slows down where Kassia wants it to think; sonic elaboration pulls the congregation’s attention to words the tradition does not always foreground. In that sense, her music does not reject the structures she inherits so much as rearticulate them from within.
None of this requires naming Kassia with a modern category. It is enough to observe that her compositional practice is a site where gender, authorship, and spiritual authority converge, and where notation becomes an instrument for negotiating that convergence. Her hymns remind us that the history of Byzantine chant is not only a history of modes and manuscripts, but a history of audibility: a record of who was permitted to sound, and under what conditions they could be heard.