Labyrinths

1. Physics.

In A Brief History of Time, Stephen Hawking muses on the apparent logic of the universe. Science is full of fundamental numbers, like the size of the electric charge of the electron, numbers we have observed and recorded--and it seems that even a very small variation in any of these settings would have precluded the development of intelligent life. This seems, for many, good evidence of a creator with logic that includes us: these careful calibrations that just happen to allow for our existence indicate that the universe was, on some level, intended for our occupancy.

2. Goblin Valley State Park, Utah.

The first time I went to Goblin Valley, I was convinced it was a naturally occurring playground. The intention seemed so clear. This isolated field full of eminently climbable structures of various sizes and levels, with such whimsical shapes, the magnitude of it so perfect for lighthearted exploration... this place could not have been meant for any other end than human play. I, as a visitor there, was the recipient of a divine gift, and I accepted it without hesitation.

Then I returned last week, and realized the truth to be more complex. Goblin Valley is not a perfect playground. It has dead ends and loose ground and difficult climbs, and if you're not careful you can get yourself hurt or stuck in a tough spot. Roaming around on the goblins, I noticed, creates a huge amount of destructive erosion, and the highest plateau was covered in cryptobiotic soil, some of which I'd surely unknowingly stomped during my previous visit. I still had a great time, but I was forced to admit that Goblin Valley was not made for my use, nor anyone else's. It is the same lesson the environmental movement has gradually managed to teach us with regard to the world at large.

So the beautiful places of the earth are not truly playgrounds for our enjoyment, at least not solely or primarily. They are not labyrinths designed for us. Last week I passed through a narrow canyon in Goblin Valley, thinking it had to be a sort of back entrance to the valley; ultimately, it led nowhere, and I was forced to backtrack. A labyrinth at least has an unequivocal center, and one or more definitive paths to reach it.

3. Art.

The labyrinths we create for ourselves, the ones we are meant to walk through and gain something from. Even in the most elusive works of modernism and the most insouciant of postmodernism, there is a center. All dead ends are intentional. I suspect, in opposition to John Cage, that the center and the creator are closely linked, but this is a multivalent question. 

The "imperfect" labyrinths of nature, with their glimmers of insight, their suggestions of divine logic, inspire us to create our own, embedded with meanings that we have drawn from the messy and sometimes ostensibly indifferent universe around us.

Modern walking labyrinths take one on a circuitous path, giving first a close glimpse of the center before branching off in every possible direction and traveling far before finally reaching it. Similarly, art cannot make its point too plainly or unambiguously. A certain air of mystery is required, a certain projection of what is there onto another, invisible plane. This is why I like the work of Rene Magritte, James Joyce, John Fahey, Charles Ives, and David Lynch, to name a few.

A teacher of mine once bought an abstract painting; he said he knew for sure that it was good art when two of his friends got into an argument about whether the painting conveyed exuberance or anger. A unanimous conclusion is not necessary, only the forceful impression that a conclusion is possible.

4. Another scientist.

"The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious." -- Albert Einstein

The Importance of Being Sesquipedalian

We're all aware by now that there is a ludicrous number of composers out there; this has not phased Richard Zarou, who in his ongoing podcast No Extra Notes provides a great snapshot of one composer each week, with brief interviews and musical samples. A composer a week seems daunting, but when they come in the digestible form of a twenty-minute podcast, it seems so reasonable. This week he features Milica Paranosic, who delightfully made the rest of us look a bit foolish by sounding, in her interview, like an actual artist. Her response, for example, to a question regarding her music's influences: "people, stories, events, children, games, languages, and my brother." What sort of music does she listen to? "I like fun music, I like music that makes me want to scream and run." I'm sure not all would agree, but to me these responses suggest artistic self-confidence. The rest of us, by contrast, hewed close to the general academic tendency of justifying our work by trying to analyze it. It's not that we weren't being honest--we just dressed it up with our best witty, erudite musings, and as a result it doesn't end up sounding as honest.

But then, I wonder, if we were all as terse as possible in describing our love of music and the reasons we do it, would all of our answers to Richard's questions be the same? 

Something, perhaps, along the lines of George Mallory's explanation of why he wanted to climb Mt. Everest: "Because it's there."

capital C, capital P

I closed out my MM years the last two nights with the Ears, Eyes, and Feet concert at UT, on which I played Ian Dicke's new piece Get Rich Quick for piano and prerecorded accompaniment, with six dancers onstage throwing shoes at each other. It was a blast, and I got to wear a top hat and spats--the latter being a wonderful old-school wardrobe item the existence of which I hadn't previously been aware. The greatest lessons are always unexpected, eh?

This semester culminated a general tendency during my UT years toward performance, specifically of new music and jazz, over what I've been calling "capital-C Composing." When I pulled into Austin in August '07 I was in the thrall of my most compositionally productive year--I pumped out pieces in '07 and the first half of '08 with no regard whatsoever for quality or editing. I had so many piece ideas that it was all I could do to tear through a first draft, throw it into Finale, and then move right on. I've slowed down since, probably healthily, partially because my time here has called my attention to a lot of questions that I hadn't previously considered. In some ways I consider the second year of my Master's--during which I only finished three new pieces--a running start into the leap I hope to now take.

Regardless of psychological issues, the central practical reason for my slower compositional pace was an increased devotion to playing. I have a hard time thinking I'll regret this choice; I had the opportunity to play a lot of new music with a lot of awesome performers this year, and that's not a chance I'll have as readily when I'm out of school. Composing, by contrast, I can do by myself in a shed somewhere (and plan to). But playing Eight Songs for a Mad King with the UT NME and John Duykers? Giving the second performance of Gabriela Frank's New Andean Songs? Rocking out Louis Andriessen's M is for Man, Music, Mozart with a crew of badass horn players? Spending a month combing over the details of Sebastian Currier's Vocalissimus? Not to mention doing Music for a Summer Evening with a group of dancers and a three-story set of scaffolding, and playing music by my composer friends, which is always particularly rewarding. These are experiences I was only able to have because of UT, specifically I suppose because of Dan Welcher and the New Music Ensemble, and I'm grateful for them.

One of my personal mantras has been, leaving school, that I want to regroup and develop a new approach to composing that grows organically from the playing of music. Living in Austin, where every party seems to include a jam session, has confirmed the necessity of this. For the moment it may involve moving away from scores, and toward putting together music for live performances or recordings. But largely I really don't know what the stylistic results of this new approach will be. I proceed not out of dedication to an abstract, unrealized ideal, but in pursuit of a particular energy whose ends I can't entirely envision. This is exciting.

It's also always hard to say what will happen when I get back to Colorado again. I have a history of writing big pieces in Grand Lake; my two orchestra pieces were drafted during my two summers in the mountains. Maybe I'll catch that bug again. For now, I have three pieces in the works for friends, about which more details soon. So for at least the next couple months I'll still have a foot in "capital-C composing." I think it'll feel a lot different outside the confines of school. One older composer describing my generation used the metaphor of a drunk falling asleep on a pool table, then rolling off in the middle of the night; when he eventually woke up, the room still dark, he thought he was still on the table, and so began to crawl about tentatively, feeling for its edges. It's a bizarre analogy, but for some reason I really like it.

Also, the Austin Chronicle recently did an interesting piece on our local composers, academic and non-. There has been a good amount of press recently examining our growing new-music scene, and the energy seems to be positive and productive.

I leave Austin in a few days, at least for the summer; my schedule after that is a bit uncertain. I do plan to be back here, but nonetheless things are shifting, and it is time to say thank you to everyone who has been a part of these two confusing, enriching years. I think I spent most of my time here just getting my bearings, but that's been a pattern in life, really--each phase seems to end around the time I get comfortable with it. At least this keeps me on my toes. And the seeds planted in each phase can still come to blossom in the next. Cheers to that.

Disconnect

Great musical weekend in Austin. My teacher Dan Welcher's Fifth Symphony received a very successful and well-received premiere by the Austin Symphony: you can read a review by local critic Jeanne Claire van Ryzin here. She has some insightful and complimentary things to say about the piece, and also makes a crucial comment about the concert program, which also featured Sarah Chang playing Bruch's Violin Concerto no. 1, followed by Tchaikovsky's Capriccio Italien:

"If anything, this weekend’s program, while noteworthy, revealed ASO’s greater disconnect from the very musical culture of its place and time. Little if anything was done by the ASO management to specifically market Welcher’s piece to Austin audiences. It shouldn’t have had to share the limelight with a celebrated soloist. And that strategy is curious, because a premiere by an Austin composer would have been an obvious means for ASO to connect with potential new and younger Austin audiences who wouldn’t normally connect with most of the symphonic repertoire ASO typically offers."

Exactly. EXACTLY. Illustration: this was the only ASO concert that my fellow composition students and I have attended en masse, and get this--almost all of us left at intermission, after Welcher's piece. If you're not even connecting to the younger generation of composition students, forget about connecting to the younger generation of general listeners.

On an unrelated note, the following day I had a curious one-two of musical inspiration. A cellist friend introduced me to Schnittke's Piano Quintet and we listened to it and discussed it, and then immediately after, I went to hear Sonny Rollins play at the UT PAC. Man, that guy is a walking advertisement for yoga, still playing like that at age 78. The whole evening prompted some thoughts about notated music versus improvised. The advantages of one occasionally charm me into thinking that it's the ideal approach. I realized this weekend that it's much like going between the city and the wilderness--each one makes you appreciate the other. Perhaps it's not a matter of choosing one exclusively, but simply finding a balance.