website

I finally created a website:  http://web.mac.com/florestan/iWeb/Site/Welcome.html

I still plan on posting future blog posts here, but my website contains some of my other work (academic papers, compositions, etc.) So check it out!

A Sense of Purpose

Over the last few months I have given a great deal of thought to the question of whether my work is important, and what sort of questions about music and art seem worth asking.  I’ve consulted the usual and expected sources (many philosophers and critics of art), but it is, in the end, an ultimately personal question…THE question.  Unless I can justify to myself why it is criticism is important, my choice is immoral.  Not enough students of the humanities ask this question, which often leads them to take for granted the freedom they have to study what they study.  If they did, a great deal of pointless criticism would not come to be (I will refrain from naming names here). 

Naturally, this is something that every human being should ask himself, though the burden of answering has fallen heavily upon the arts; just ask Stanley Fish.  Why is it that humanist-theorists continually have to defend themselves?  Why us and not, say, theoretical physicists or mathematicians who do equally abstract work for the sake of understanding?  The answer to this seems readily obvious when using a computer or riding in a car—the achievements of the sciences are physically tangible, whereas the achievement of the arts are only tangible to those who are moved by artistic creations, which seem to grow fewer in number in a fast-paced world driven by technology and a need for instant gratification. 

 

The arts have a different function, and this is where arguments of equivalence seem misguided:  is it even meaningful to ask whether art is useful?  Art is our way of thinking about, perhaps even brooding over, our existence, and whereas science helps us to recognize our place in the universe and make it an easier place to inhabit, I doubt that the universally human problems presented and addressed by art will be vanishing anytime soon:  in particular, love and death.  Plato said, and I agree, that there is a consoling nature to art, and it is this consolation that has saved, invigorated, or enriched countless lives in ways that science is incapable. 

 

The poetry critic Helen Vendler divides creative people into two categories:

           

Many people, writers and nonwriters alike, see the world imaginatively: to accompany such people to a party or an exhibition or a play is to see the event more keenly and more vividly than one might have done alone.  The world takes on more color things are seen from a new slant; events are freshly interpreted and highlighted a vivacity of response is summoned up.  With one sort of imaginative person, everything is seen more darkly: the guests at the party seem trivial, grotesque; the exhibition is tragic; the play is an emblem of despair. 

 

Such a divide might be seen to parallel that between the sciences and the arts, insofar as science and technology can be perceived as optimistic; constantly striving for positive change for the common good.  The arts, on the other hand, allow us to reflect upon the darker periods of our lives, often for consolation.  And in the case of both science and art, one can easily make the argument that they strive to make better both our physical and emotional lives.  Take, for instance, the idea of love.  Assuming we had a scientific understanding of how it works, how far would that get us?  Even if we can comprehend its neurological basis, and even to control it, would science be capable of explaining to us how we experience love in the same way that art can?

 

A perfect example of this is presented by musicologist Eric Chafe in his study of Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde, which grandly represents some late nineteenth century philosophical views of love.  Schopenhauer’s essential point is that love is inherently physical–that we have no way of separating our emotional love from our physical love, and that it is innately animal. He wasn’t meaning to denigrate it, but rather to explain it. In fact, it plays a very important role in characterizing 19th century aesthetics of love, some of which influenced art of the day. Tristan und Isolde exemplifies Schopenhauer’s idea that life is a bad dream from which death (or death in love, ‘liebestod’) provides redemption. In the opera, the love between Tristan and Isolde is sublime, and elevates them to a level of consciousness that they had not experienced before. On the one hand, their love gives their lives meaning, but on the other it creates an overwhelming burden, and contrasts sharply with the darkness of their lives outside of their love.

 

This explanation resonates very strongly with me: here is an example of an artwork eloquently expressing a universal aspect of the human condition, and a critic who illuminates this work by familiarizing us with both its content and context. And this, of course, should be the purpose of art criticism:  to understand the work of art and how it functions, but also to understand what makes a particular artwork unique given its context, since every artwork is completely different from every other artwork (if Beethoven had not lived, the Waldstein Sonata would never have existed).  The purpose of this, in turn, is to perhaps better understand ourselves, but at the very least to experience the expression of a fellow human being’s experience or emotional state.  In this sense art is perhaps universal—am I reading about J. Alfred Prufrock’s hesitation to eat a peach, or my own?  Or someone else’s?

 

There will always be aspects of the human condition that require art for consolation and understanding, and more importantly, art is our way of coming to terms with those inevitabilities of existence:

 

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

 

In an earlier post, I wrote about the importance of art as being, in some sense, the human legacy—art works are “vessels of infinity” No, I’m no Immanuel Kant, nor was meant to be.  Although science is a technological way of making our lives physically easier, art is still all that we have that makes the emotional in life easier.  Life is long, and life is lonely, and life ends ultimately and absolutely, but art is our way of coming to terms with this and raging against it. 

 What we have to start with as critics is this realization of just how important art is—both as a healer in the Platonic sense, and as something uplifting in the Schopenhauerian sense.  If any question we ask does not help us illuminate, characterize, or explain why it is each artwork is unique and effective, then we become nothing more than vivisectionists, rather than humanists.  What we have to start with is “an erotics of art.”

Some Thoughts on Taruskin’s “Text and Act”

In “Text and Act”, Richard Taruskin clearly wants for performers to be granted more freedom, and his denouncement of the performance practice movement is motivated by his observations that modern performers are not, as they claim, being precisely authentic. Without perhaps acknowledging it, they begin with a romantic or modernist view of the piece of music as being a manifestation of the sublime–our personal associations with it are not as important as curating its timelessness. However, in any time period, the taste of the performer (and, by extension, the audience) as well as the oral tradition in which he is trained have taken part in the aural presentation of pieces of music. In fact, a great deal of music of the so-called Common Practice Period was written with the expectation of elaboration and embellishment by the performer. Although it is important, perhaps imperative, that performers preserve the style from which the piece comes (as much as they are able to), there are certain characteristics of modern performances that must reflect our own taste and perceptions of the pieces. Otherwise, this music will cease to truly move us–above all else, the art work is a human product.

One can be uncertain about Bach’s or Mozart’s intentions about their own works, but certainly not that these composers would rather their music become irrelevant than adapted to suit their audience’s taste. This music was not composed in a vacuum–it was written to provide an uplifting experience to its listeners. Such adaptation should not fall victim to the “slippery slope” and therefore lead to performances that are too free in their interpretations (as in, altering the fundamental nature of the score by ignoring what IS written). As Taruskin, points out, even many self-proclaimed authenticists see fit to ignore explicitly-defined dynamic and tempo markings at will. Such arbitrary ignorance of certain aspects of a musical composition is certainly not authentic. It is, however, the result of very talented, knowledgeable musicians realizing the piece in a way that they deem most appropriate and most effective (and affective).

Malcolm Bilson and Jon Eliot Gardiner, commenting on their performances of the Mozart piano concertos, make the point that they are not claiming to present historically accurate performances, but rather to approach the scores empirically while being informed by history. This sounds very much like the manifesto of any caring performer, rather than being that of someone attempting to reconstruct the first performances of these pieces. Despite Taruskin’s inclusion of Bilson in his argument, I do not necessarily see a divergence between their points of view. Many proponents of performance practice are doing and claiming nothing more than presenting historically-informed, engaging performances of these works. I do, however, certainly agree with Taruskin when he says that those who do purport to be authentic are being disingenuous about it, but performers such as Bilson and Robert Levin are more concerned with how one reads the score than with how close they are approaching some musical Olympus.

This naturally leads to the question of what the term ‘authentic’ really means, and whether variations on the original product (i.e. performances of the time period) betray what it fundamentally is. After all, as I said before elaboration and embellishment were trademarks of performance practice through the 18th century–from figured bass patterns in Baroque music to passages in Mozart scores left intentionally blank, there does not seem to be a written rule that everything, as in the entire musical experience, exists in the score alone. Oral tradition, it would seem, has great weight during certain times in history.

As Taruskin insightfully observes, modern performers seem fixated on the philosophical notion (whether consciously or not) that the musical score itself objectifies the piece–everything a performer needs is contained within the score. This is, of course, not the case. The score is the starting point for any performance, and contains most of the essence of a piece of music. Reading it properly (to which the performance practice school has dedicated an enormous and unprecedented amount) is the next step, but the creation of a truly moving performance is one that engages both the piece and the performer. This is certainly not to say that a performer should bend a piece to his will, but the score itself tells us only a certain amount. After all, not every articulation, dynamic, and phrase marking is readily obvious, nor can one definitively say for how long they operate without some musical and artistic intuition. This is why Debussy often reveled at contrasting performance of his pieces, and why Beethoven’s metronome markings only applied strictly to the first few measures. The idea of a work of art representing the sublime is a nineteenth-century notion, and one that carried through the modernist movement. Stravinsky, as well as many other twentieth-century composers, made clear their subversive thoughts about performers, but this has to be considered in context (I have lately begun to doubt how sure I am of how Schoenberg fits into that argument, since many of his pieces, most notably those that feature sprechtstimme, immediately present a large variety of different interpretations). He reacts very strongly to romanticism (although it is interesting to note that his ideas of the artist as God is inherently romantic), and we should consider whether we agree with this statement. I, for one, think it foolish to subjugate the performer so willingly, as they are a necessary to the very existence of music. It also must be conceded that truly extraordinary performers will often discover a new aspect of the music that had not been exploited by the composer (hence why some conductors, even those in the performance practice movement, will change tempos at will). What a composer truly conceived (if that is what we are looking for) is not written down, or is at least partially dependent on oral performance tradition, that we cannot definitively say for certain that what it is a composer intended. In fact, we cannot even definitively say that we would like what a composer intended (though that is a different discussion altogether).

Is Taruskin saying that we should devalue the contributions to performance practice and history that the study of performance practice has shown us? Absolutely not. Performance practice proponents have taught us a great deal about how we should approach a score; doing so in a historically-informed, meticulous, and sensitive way. However, there is more to music than meets the eye, and centuries of undulating performance taste, along with should show us that ours is just another ripple in the tide.

Concerning Music Theory – Part Two

Today I read Susan Sontag’s “Against Interpretation”, which resonates remarkably well with my own thoughts towards the interpretation of music through music theory.  In particular, she asserts that interpreters should avoid analysis of content, and focus instead on showing “how it is what it is, even that it is what it is, rather than to show what it means.”  

Music is abstract enough to avoid content-based analysis in modern music scholarship.  It does, however, feature prominently in discussions of musical performance.  To no end do I attempt to dismantle discussions of music (often by performers) that rely on metaphorical descriptions of its content, but I sometimes feel that my arguments become academic and stifled by esoteric language. Sometimes.

Much like a foreign text, the basic problem is that music always requires translation from what is written down to what is projected to the listener (notated music itself only represents part of what one hears).  Like language, music is rhetorical and has diction, both of which rely upon interpretation of musical notation (slurs, etc.).  Gesture in music, as with language, can completely change its character.  Personal expression of the performer is a key element of musical performance, and yet it seems contradictory to what a listener would want.  After all, who really cares what Horowitz has to say: Beethoven is far more interesting.  The paradox here is that it is only through someone like Horowitz that we can even begin to hear Beethoven. C.P.E. Bach once wrote that “if one understands the true nature of the composition, then one can truly move the listener.”

Nonetheless, there may be some value to analyses that address surface-level concerns assuming that they either elucidate the inner structure of a piece or its compositional basis.  It is a simple fact that a great deal of very effective music shows an unreconcilable divergence between foreground and background (such as that of Wagner).  To use terms being employed by music theorists, this is making the claim that it is okay to analyze both the surface of its composition and its deeper structure, thereby rejecting the Schenkerian claim that there should exist hermeneutical hierarchies in music analysis.

One might begin with the slightly tautological observation that by calling the surface the surface, we have already crystallized an anxiety.  For by naming surface, we conjure up a depth which is, at least at first, hardly more than a lack—an absence.  Why is it that we write down, what we play, what we hear, is somehow both too much and not enough? 

-Robert Fink (“Going Flat: Post-Hierarchical Music Theory and the

    Musical Surface”, in Nicholas Cook and Mark Everist, Rethinking Music

    (Oxford, 2001),

As Fink and others observe, the fundamental tenet of Schenkerian analysis is that the foreground emerges from the background—events on the surface level are merely shadows of the true backbone of a composition.  This dogma gives birth to the idea of a hierarchy within a composition that defines the urlinie as the fundamental building block from which the other aspects of the composition fall into place (such as harmonic progression). As Richard Cohn and Douglas Dempster further this idea:

Schenkerian motives are frequently identified merely as strings of pitch-classes or intervals, or as spans to be filled by stepwise motion, without regard to relative stability and dependency relations among the constituents of those strings.

Furthermore, music is at least in part about what we hear as listeners, and sometimes the surface of a composition contains noticeable aural events that do not speak to an idiomatic underlying structure, but to one that is idiosyncratic to the piece.  For example, one might hear a striking similarity of texture between two thematic elements that do not share a likeness of motivic connection in the Schenkerian sense. This is not to invalidate Schenkerian analysis—on the contrary, it is more often than not one of our most powerful tools as analysts in discovering the fundamental structure of a piece.  However, in disregarding events on the surface level of a composition, one may be neglecting those extra-musical or aesthetic properties that make the piece unique. 

It all depends on the music one is looking at. 

To repeat, or not to repeat…

A point of contention between performers concerning the first movement of Schubert’s last piano sonata (D.960, in Bb major) is whether one should feel obligated to repeat the exposition in performance.  After a conversation with a professional pianist about this, and after reading the opinions of performers (such as Alfred Brendel) and analysts alike (such as Nicholas Cook), I thought that I would chime in.  Generally speaking, there are two important questions that arise from this controversy.  The first is broader–why is there an exposition repeat, and what importance does it have to the structure of the piece and to the listening experience.  The second applies specifically to D.960–what does the material in the first ending contribute to the movement?  Is it necessary?  

To address the answer to the first question, I defer to Rosen and Cook (primarily the latter), who makes the point that the exposition repeat is there in order to make it known that it is indeed a sonata that is being played.  Another reason, and this is a very important one, is that sonata themes differ greatly from ‘tunes’ present in other forms (such as the art song).  Themes within a sonata exposition tend to fulfill two roles:  to introduce the motivic content which will later be fragmented or sequenced in the development section, and to establish a conflict between two contrasting harmonies between the first and second groups, respectively.  That being said, in general the use of a first ending in a sonata-allegro movement exposition only serves to prepare the harmonic return back to that of the first group.  However, I stress the phrase “in general”, since it stands to reason that there are some first endings that we want to hear, and that contain music worth studying and listening to (Cook makes the point that an analyst would never overlook a first ending…so why should a performer?).  I personally can’t see how the exposition repeat is structurally necessary all of the time, but the exposition tends to be the section of most interest when looking at sonata forms.  In some cases, which are elaborated upon in more detail Cook’s “A Guide to Musical Analysis”, there are some pieces in the later Classical Period, by Beethoven in particular, which have highly inventive expositions worth of repetition.  Therefore, I tend to prefer performances that include the repeat of the exposition.  

 

The exposition of D.960 presents an interesting issue–proponents of leaving out the repeat claim either that it’s too long (a whopping 24 minutes, but this is a rare complaint), or that the music in the first ending is too forceful.  To remind you what happens in the first ending, it is essentially a jaunty two-note motive followed by a fortissimo (ff) reprise of the bass trill on scale degree bV (Gb).   Its purpose in the exposition (where it first appears in the first group, though softly) is rather clear–the opening harmony of the movement is Bb, while the second group is in F# minor.  This trill on Gb can also be heard as a trill on F#, and is likely meant to foreshadow the harmony of the second group.  Furthermore, the harmony of the development is primarily C# minor (which is very closely related to F# minor).   I can see two sides of the argument when I consider it in terms of the harmonic basis of sonata form.  The drama of a sonata movement lies in the tension between the two contrasting harmonies in the exposition, and the strength of the trill in asserting the harmony of the second group destabilizes this tension in favor of the secondary harmony of the piece (F# minor/C# minor).   I personally think that this is effective, since it adds weight to the piece as a whole, and does so much before the climax in the development.  However, other would argue saying that it is precisely this unbalance that is so unappealing.  

I suppose, then, that it is simply a matter of taste. 

Concerning Music Theory (Revised)

There is still significant disagreement among music theorists as to whether or not Schenkerian analysis (analysis of the movements of individual voices) or traditional harmonic analysis (often referred to as Roman numeral analysis) is more powerful in describing music of the so-called Common Practice Period. Philosophically, I disagree with the idea that there is a definite answer to this question, since theories of music are descriptive by nature and there is not necessarily an analytical skeleton key that can describe insightfully both the large scale (horizontal) and small scale (vertical) nature of a piece. This is not to mention the fact that idiosyncracies between composers will always throw a wrench in the works. A more pragmatic approach might actually take into consideration what we know historically about the styles of these composers, and how they wrote, instead of relying 100% on arbitrarily systems of inductive analysis. Perhaps even combining these two theories might provide a reasonable framework for analysis.

My fundamental issue with purely Schenkerian arguments (as with any dogmatic system of analysis) is that they seem to miss the point. They also hardly agree on one correct analysis anyway. Composers were not aloof to the fact that they were using, say, diminished seventh chords as they were also not aloof to the rules of counterpoint, and they clearly thought about the so-called “functionality” of their progressions and their voice-leading. I do agree that modern music pedagogy is too stuffy to admit that there is, perhaps, not one simple solution to looking at music. In fact, there are many pieces which defy description under any current analytical system.

I read somewhere that music theory is occasionally considered to be ‘psychological’, and I think that this is too facile a definition. [EDIT: I did not intend for the word 'psychological' to reflect the mind of the composer, but rather how human biology reacts to music. This seems frightfully subjective (and culturally-influenced) to be valid analysis, and seems more of a neuropsychological or musicological problem to me]. After all, music theory is an attempt to establish an analytical framework to describe how composers write music. Although it may be true that psychology plays a role in how we perceive music, I am not convinced that this is, or should be, its ultimate purpose. This is not to say that the topic is not relevant or should not be addressed, but I think that its place lies elsewhere (brain and cognitive science?). Naturally, this is because the creation of music is an organic process and not a purely mathematical one, and hence why many theoretical frameworks fail to determine the inner workings of many of the masterworks. I strongly disagree that this would be considered ‘history’. It’s art, and art is a product of human being. Therefore, employing Heidegger, one cannot separate the art from the artist, and it is therefore important to consider each art work in the context of other art works. This is also why musicology and music theory are so close and often conflatable.

Ideally, music theory should accomplish just this – its goal should be to fully explain the inner workings of these pieces in terms that we (and the composers) understand: harmony, rhythm, melody, et cetera. From this information, we should learn something about each composer’s technique, performance practice/interpretation, and the development of music through history. Essentially, using history and stylistic analysis to direct us in determining what we should be looking for in music, and what makes a musical analysis useful. I am always disappointed to see the same Chopin prelude (op.28 no.4) used as a scapegoat for an attack on music theory. Don’t get me wrong: I strongly dislike how music theory is taught, but I think that this example is an exception and shows the limitations of pure harmonic or Schenkerian analysis without necessarily discrediting them. Generally speaking, it has become a la mode to look for one analytical framework that can describe and characterize EVERY piece of music ever written. I am personally skeptical of this possibility since the creation of music is a highly arbitrary process.In the end, our analyses as music theorists should not be inductive – e.g. we should always be aware of the limits to our analytical tools.

What I am proposing is the idea that our systems of analysis are inherently arbitrary and that to say that one or the other works all of the time is incorrect. It is, in fact, quite limiting. Schenkerians often dismiss the implications of harmonic analyses and vice versa, steadfastly denying the other tool’s insights into a piece. Perhaps at a later date I’ll post my analysis of the second movement of Beethoven’s ‘Waldstein’ Sonata (op.53), which discusses the relative strengths and weaknesses of both Schenkerian analysis and harmonic analysis. Considering that many composers of the “Common Practice Period” were likely considering both the vertical and horizontal structure of their pieces, maybe it’s time that we allowed for the possibility that their pieces can be described in both of these frameworks. Although the modern objective eye is a very powerful way of looking at music–we have to start agreeing on what it is we are looking for.

Ludicrous.

 I have no words for such idiocy, other than: thinking needs to come back in style.

http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/07/24/tsa.incidents/index.html

The Count of Carnegie Hall

About halfway through reading the disingenuous garbage reported in this article, I became sick to my stomach: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/15/business/15gilded.html

Most of my days are spent at this desk – typing away at meaningless text annotations for hours at a time, stopping only momentarily to scratch at eczema sores made worse by my persistent basking under an unrelenting fluorescent light. As my day progresses, I think about all of the things that I could be doing at the moment: writing, composing, studying, finishing graduate school applications. These are all things I must do, but I can not do because of a paralyzing numbness brought upon by an unsatisfying psychology exacerbated by meaningless busywork and insufficient social interaction.

After an unproductive eight hours, I saunter to the bus stop waiting for my airless bus. Usually, I try to do some reading on the bus, but I’m often too tired to do so and instead I lean my head against the rickety bus and stare at the clock: “another 35 minutes, then a train ride, then a 15 minute walk home.”

Once I get home, I usually try to impel myself to practice piano or do some composing, though I usually never get to the latter. After all, composing is incredibly difficult and time-consuming (and energy-consuming), and for me it must be an activity I do outside of the confines of work. A given work day for me requires roughly 12 hours (including commute), and any substantial work on a composition requires at least a few hours of constant work. This means that if I decide to do some composing I can not get anything done without losing sleep. In the end, the string quartet I’m working on, the last bits of an art song, the few piano pieces seem so distant to me now.

“People can look at the last 25 years and say this is an incredibly unique period of time,” Mr. Weill said. “We didn’t rely on somebody else to build what we built, and we shouldn’t rely on somebody else to provide all the services our society needs.”

Unlike Mr. Weill, but like most unfulfilled, hardworking Americans, I can not just walk out of my house and step into my personal ride to work. Whether it’s raining, snowing, or hotter than Armageddon, I still have to commute twice per day. I have to cook for myself, clean my house by myself, do my laundry, sit down and figure out my bills and taxes, all things that I doubt he has to worry about on a daily basis. When I return home at the end of the day, I return home to debt, chores, and anything but time to give to the world what I am capable of. Sometimes after getting home, I wonder why I am alive at all. After all, even if I had time to write music, I would not be paid enough for it to live.

“I am proud to be an American. But if the tax became too high, as a matter of principle I would not be working this hard.”

Enraging. Here is someone for whom even if taxes were astronomical, he would still be a multi-millionaire. Knowing this, he claims that he would not work as hard as he would if he were earning yet more millions….as a matter of principle. This statement is revolting to me. I work because I have to, and I am not yet accomplishing what I hope to and not yet fulfilling my potential.  I exist but do not live. Then I imagine those like my mother, who works to support her family. She does not get paid enough for what she does, and yet she is one of the countless minions whose toiling has helped those like Mr. Weill gather his money and power. How dare someone with EXCESS feel entitled to it while there are those who work just as hard, who are often far more intelligent (or talented), who can not make ends meet.

In my short life, I have met some incredibly brilliant people who should, for all intents and purposes, be remarkably wealthy, but are not. This set does not include Mr. Weill, for whom “business savvy” is somehow a skill of genius. In some cases it is because of choice of field, though in most it is because of the American system. Americans like to think that everyone starts out on equal footing, that inequity develops as a result of one’s ambition and work ethic. This could not be farther from the truth. Inequity begins at birth, sending rich children to privileged schools and poorer children to underprivileged schools. This continues until college, where some poor are just talented enough to push through the mediocrity of their school districts to take root in very prestigious institutions. Sometimes, however (as in the case of a friend of mine), ambition and hard work is not enough, and one’s dream of going to Harvard is quashed when reviewing the proposed financial aid letter accompanying acceptance.

It does not end there. Friends of mine travel, pursue incredible internships, develop their abilities, or even (God forbid) take vacations or breaks over the summer. I have never done this, because I have had to work, often borrowing money to make ends meet. While my rich friends expand their minds and their talents, I have to work that much harder to do so without much reward and without any acknowledgment. I complain only when my hard work is questioned, unlike Mr. Weill who would complain if one of his hedge funds did not perform that well.

Ironically, Mr. Weill is chairman of Carnegie Hall, a veritable cathedral of music, where the works of Beethoven, Schubert, Mozart, along with countless others grace the fine ears of New York’s finest wealthy clientele (or the desperate student who wishes to spend his weeks’ food budget on a concert). All of the above-mentioned names were quite poor, the latter two most of all. In fact, Schubert was a Bohemian and lived day by day. Often, he and his friends would dine together and the one who was not completely broke would pay for it. How would talents such as these survive in modern day America? Somehow, I doubt they could. All of them served as hired musicians at churches or the houses of patrons, writing and playing music (even if it was not the music they would want to write). In today’s world, Beethoven might end up at Starbuck’s, staring at his watch and waiting to go home and furiously write the ending notes of his new piano sonata, kept barely awake by the stale remnants of the free pound of coffee he receives as an employee. Exhausted and jaded after eight hours of pointless busywork, I doubt he would get much done. Then again, if he had better fortune in this life, he could be born into a rich family and not have to work. He could spend his days at home, working on his music, producing grace and pathos to his heart’s desire.

For artists and scholars, things have gotten worse in this country, and I have seen far more of them come from wealthier families than from poorer families. Why? Art has become a privilege and not a necessity. If one cannot afford an arts education, then one should become a businessman, engineer, or lab technician. For those of us who have artistic aptitude but little money, we feel trapped. I do music because it is all that I can take seriously, and it is what I want to do, and this is the sort of ambition and desire to succeed against the odds that defines Americanism, if it is definable at all.

Americans can, essentially, be broken down into two groups, those like Mr. Weill and those who can mutter to themselves: “If I fail, I starve.” In which group do you fit?

Glass, Mozart, and Performance Practice

Today marks the beginning of my third week of my summer internship with BAE Systems.  Am I selling out my principles for short term gain?  Maybe.  At the very least, will my resulting impact on the world be indirect and minimal during my time here?  Hopefully.   I can’t really get into the details of what I’m doing, which likely speaks more than I ever could about what my job entails.

That being said, my time otherwise has been spent on a variety of things.  I wish writing was one of them (there will be a more substantial post later), but over the past few weeks I have spent a significant amount of time at the piano, or in books.  Earlier today, I finished reading Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar”, on which my next post will likely comment, along with the film, “The Hours”. 

Philip Glass’s music has always struck me, as it is incredibly effective (and affective) but also simple.  “The Orphee Suite” and the metamorphoses are stylistically very similar:  both are suites, and each piece in each suite derives all of its material from a simple harmonic progression (usually of no more than four chords), and melodic content is almost always scalar.  From such simple invention, and clever use of tight voice-leading (like jazz musicians, Glass often uses chord inversions for their coloristic properties), each piece evokes its own meditative, musical vista. 

Of course, not everyone agrees.  To many, minimalism is kitschy and derivative, simplistic for the sake of it, and lacking any substance whatsoever.  My challenge would be that simplicity does not in itself indicate inferiority; be it intellectual or emotional (Mozart??).   The question then arises as to what it means to call a piece minimalist, and whether or not it is wise to do so, lest someone develop a bias against the work before experiencing it.  Maybe it is unwise to use the term at all?  After all, Terry Riley’s “in C” is minimalist, and it is much different from all of Philip Glass’s works, save his early pieces.  Such a designation can also trivialize a serious piece of music that just happens to be bare in its construction, and also instills in the mind a bias toward thinking that a lack of intricate texture implies a lack of substance.  Therefore, for me at least, I often try to avoid using the term “minimalist” to characterize a composer’s style as opposed to a stylistic period, and although I might call Philip Glass “minimalist”, I would be hesitant to label all of his pieces as such without thoroughly explaining why.

To continue this tangent, I think I will discuss the term “Baroque” in reference to music of the 17^th century since its application to music has always bothered me for the same reason the term “minimalist” bothers me.  For starters, one should look at two things, the definition of the term and its etymology:

Definition
Baroque is a period as well as the style that used exaggerated motion and clear, easily interpreted detail to produce drama, tension, exuberance, and grandeur. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baroque)

Etymology
The word baroque derives probably from the ancient Portuguese noun “barroco” which is a pearl that is not round but of unpredictable and elaborate shape. Hence, in informal usage, the word baroque can simply mean that something is “elaborate”. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baroque)

It is with the phrase “that is not round but of unpredictable and elaborate shape” that leads some music historians to avoid the use of the term Baroque to characterize music of the 17^th century.  Why?  As everyone ceaselessly points out, music is a rather mathematical art and form/structure (along with harmony) are absolutely critical when differentiating music from one period to another.  Phrase structures of music from the period are very strictly defined and formal procedures are adhered to just as strictly.  Furthermore, when looking back on music of the past, the term “exaggerated” seems inappropriate of most music of the 17^th century.  Granted, it has more motion than the music of the Classical Period (another title that is troublesome to me), but to say it is “exaggerated” seems far-fetched.  In fact, some define the word as meaning “disfigured”, which could not possibly characterize so-called “Baroque music”.  

Perhaps there is a better term?  One can take the easy route and continue calling music from the period baroque, even though the term was developed for painting more than for music, or is there an alternative?  In his Kinkeldey award-winning text, The Oxford History of Western Music (2005), musicologist Richard Taruskin (UC Berkeley) chooses to refer to the 17^th century as the Continuo Period, which makes sense since there is no argument that the most unique compositional/performance practice of the time was the use of continuo instruments.  Not only does this seem more fitting, it really does elucidate one of the major differences between music of the 17^th-century relative to the music that precedes and succeeds it. 

In the end, although it seems appealing to think that all art from a certain time period can fit under the same umbrella term, it just might not be the case.  Whether it is “Baroque”, “Classical”, or “Minimalist” this might not be true.  Furthermore, doing so ignores the implications that such a term might have to audience reception, performance practice, and historical judgment.  There is no doubt in my mind that one of the reasons Haydn is rarely performed (other than his string quartets) and that Mozart is always performed so poorly is because of the term “Classical”, which conjures up stoic images rather than youthful ones.  The primary reason for this is that, although it is encouraged to learn and uses these terms, one is not encouraged to study performance practice as rigorously as music history (unless one chooses to learn a period instrument).  Nowadays, even the most prestigious conservatories are teaching their students that a quarter note is a quarter note, regardless of whether or not the piece is by Bach, Mozart, or John Cage.  This is, however, completely incorrect (I will have a longer post about performance practice in the near future). Pianist Malcolm Bilson, a pioneer of the performance practices of the 18^th and 19^th centuries, makes the strong statement that conservatories are not teaching their students how to perform correctly (based upon writings by Leopold Mozart and C.P.E. Bach on performance practice), hence boring performances. 

Indeed, performers seem to be more than willing to subjugate their own musicianship as long as their crotchety, almost-made-it conservatory teacher approves of their technically-perfect, but emotionally-deficient performance.  It seems natural to only play music that is technically-challenging if one is learning that a quarter note is always a quarter note – this eliminates any possibility of a different interpretation of the piece (which it might call for).  Legendary pianist Arthur Schnabel once wrote that: “Mozart is too easy for children, and too difficult for adults”, a statement which summarizes the problem currently facing music performance scholarship.    It’s time that musicians saw a piece of music for what it is and approach it on their own terms, instead of falling back to their conservatory-learned style of playing Mozart the “right way”, and avoiding Glass because it is “minimalist” and therefore not difficult enough to be worthy of performance. Therefore, until we elevate the term “minimalist” from the repertory of name-calling, I will hesitate to use it.  At least one person in the world will not criticize Philip Glass for being too difficult for children and too easy for adults.    

What is Art?

Nearly everyone has his or her own opinion on the answer to this question, but I am often not convinced that many have thought deeply about the question. Being in the arts community, I have many artist friends, and after speaking with many I feel invariably that many choose to follow liberal definitions of what art is, likely to justify what they themselves create instead of an objective definition that seeks to qualify art at a philosophical level. In some cases, composers go as far as to call their pieces “cool” or “rockin’”. It is unimaginable to me to ever call a work of art either of these two terms, but this is because I view art at a higher level than such vernacular designations. To me, art is an expression of human spirit, be it a jaunty little dance or a morbid psychological drama, and it is this word ‘human’ that is important here. The discourse surrounding the art question seems to have lost quality in the last century, giving way to an “anything goes” mentality as long as that anything has a good description or a good beat. In some sense, it attaches meaning to a collection of sound that might not seem so meaningful.

In order to understand my perspective, it may be useful to establish my opinion on what makes something a work of art (music, in particular), and it is one defined by pianist Alfred Brendel. He believes that art music should be a balance between intellect and expression, or to use Nietszchian terms, a balance between its Apollonian elements and its Dionysian elements. These are summarized reasonably below (from wikipedia):

Apollo (Apollinian or Apollonian): the dream state, principium individuationis (principle of individuation), plastic (visual) arts, beauty, clarity, stint to formed boundaries, individuality, critical reason, celebration of appearance/illusion, human beings as artists (or media of art’s manifestation), self-control, perfection, exhaustion of possibilities, creation.

Dionysus (Dionysian): intoxication, celebration of nature, instinctual, intuitive, pain, individuality dissolved and hence destroyed, wholeness of existence, orgiastic passion, dissolution of all boundaries, excess, human being(s) as the work and glorification of art, destruction.

For now, I will refrain from categorizing specific pieces. However, a reasonable basis for comparison lies in the differences between Classicism and Romanticism in music, where the former leans more toward intellect and the latter more toward expression as the primary effect created by the music.

Composers have always written pieces that explore either sound or being human (which run the gamut from Apollonian to Dionysian), while masterpieces tend to combine the two. However, discussion by composers today is vastly different from what was happening in Mozart’s time, or in Schumann’s time, or even in Schoenberg’s time: in the twenty-first century composers actually talk about their music. Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert hardly ever discussed their music, and it is likely that if you asked them why they would respond by saying: “Why would I write about my own music?”

Shouldn’t music speak for itself? Nowadays, one cannot enter a concert hall without knowing what the piece means, or one will leave without having had any reaction whatsoever, even from other composers or musicians. This preconception of what a piece should sound like is a relatively new idea, which a friend of mine recently wrote a very fine paper about. Even Debussy, who is often used as an example of ‘program music’ wrote the titles of his piano preludes above the last measure of the piece. This implies that most of the greatest artists want us to appreciate the music for what it is and to approach it as we see fit. In the twenty-first century, most members of audiences, even the educated ones, do not seem to judge new music based on how they feel, but rather on whether or not they like the idea, and as soon as the performance is over the iPods come out. Why? It is now an uncommon phenomenon for the average person, or even the average educated person, to be truly moved by an artwork. Art is now considered by many to be anything that is created, without any discussion of how it reflects or comments on the human condition. A former professor of mine, Ellen Harris, once said that “there are two kinds of music, the kind that makes you want to move your body and the kind that lifts you out of your body”, and unfortunately it seems that audiences tend to conflate the two. The reasons are so many that discussing them here would be virtually impossible, but they range from a lack of interest generated from an intellectual inability to understand artistic mediums to the fast pace of society that does not provide the average person with the time to be a human being and soak in it.

It is the latter that is of most concern to me, since it is not discussed that often. It is true that education is absolutely vital in expanding the mind and spawning intellectual curiosity. However, I think that what makes art unattractive to many is that it is so serious. It makes one think, and this inevitably leads to an understanding of reality. I have heard people say to me: “Why is this piece [that you wrote] so depressing? Why don’t you write happy music?” To which I reply: “Because there is more to life than happiness”. Art is about being human, and it is difficult to be human, and I refuse to believe that anyone has not at some point recognized the enormous burden of existence, even if it were for only a moment. In the end, as human beings we are given two choices on how to approach life: one can either face existence as it is, or continually avoid it. The former is more difficult, since it implies solitude, but the reward is a more personal, solemn, realistic approach to life that is genuine. The latter might make one happier day to day, but it trivializes the big questions of existence and makes concepts such as Death impossible to imagine, let alone confront. But this is why art is so important; one is not alone in thinking about existential questions, as they permeate artistic output. Artists create because they feel the urge to, and their creations become alive on their own – moments of humanity captured in little vessels of infinity. I hope that as my body melts into dust, there will be artifacts of me still alive somewhere, undying manifestations of my finite and humble existence raging against the dying of the light.