Perhaps beginning something is a problem because we don't really understand where we began - sure we were present at our birth, but we weren't self-aware. We are conscious that humans had to have come from or developed from somewhere or something at some point; after all, if that weren't true then I wouldn't be able to type this entry.
Okay, okay, I know - really unnecessarily philosophical. Well, as I sit here eating my turkey and pickle sandwich, thinking about my projects and feeling guilty about not posting blogs, I find myself reflecting on struggles that we experience as musicians that inhibit us from developing our potential. For example, beginning something.
For composition at least, the process is unique because of the psychology that goes into writing. In order to give you a context, let me put down a basic psychological framework that composers (or myself at least) usually take into consideration when writing a piece of music:
- Must be interesting
- Must be fun to play
- Must be intelligently written for the instruments
- Must be educational for players
- Must be accessible to the audience
- Must be interesting for analysts
- Must convey an artistic statement
- Must create new and interesting sounds
- Must develop and expand the craft of the composer
- Must be unique to separate it from the vast music of history
- Must be cognizant of balancing aspects of music to reflect and express intent of composer's artistic expression
And the list goes on. Whether or not the above list is actually true remains to be seen - that is just a portrait of how I perceive the expectations of what an artistically fulfilling piece should be. If one or all of those items are not met, is a piece still worth the time of someone else? Do people respect art that nothing of yourself was put into? Do you respect a piece less if you know it was written in an hour or an afternoon instead of thinking it had taken months to complete? How does that influence or degrade the art?
I wonder what the music would sound like if it accomplished none of those things above. Right now you might have in your head:yes, but what about all the ugly music being written today? Well, even "ugly" music hits pretty much all of the points listed above, except perhaps being accessible to the audience.
If art is dependent on contrast (which arguably, I think all art is,) then perhaps the trick to understanding and appreciating art is the ability to provide a context or a framework for the contrast. Take for example monochromatic painting, though the work is in of itself providing no contrast, it greatly contrasts other works of art, which makes it art. The same thing may be applied to minimalism. Also in the blog referenced above is the discussion of the Hegelian Dialetic - a process of developing contrast into similarity. Again, why is it that the Sonata form continues to be so popular? But I digress.
Something that prevents us from appreciating the context of the art or the art itself occurs when we have contrast between the art that we are experiencing and the expectations that we have of what the art should be. This is probably why a riot broke out when Stravinsky's Le Sacre du Printemps was premiered; and yes, I used the french name for extra snoody-ness.
As a young composer with little experience I find myself reflecting on the concept of expectations. We teach music theory through the lens of history - that is why we can tell the difference between 17th, 18th, 19th, and 20th century harmony; we have expectations. I quite often wonder what sort of expectations other people will have of me and whatever it is that I come up with. As a young composer I often try to remain cognizant of how my music might be perceived. If it is too traditional people may write me off as being boring. If too non-traditional, people may write me off as being too esoteric and unappealing.
Fortunately for me, I don't yet have the luxury of having complete strangers be interested in performing my stuff - I am mostly relegated to asking my friends if they'd be willing to play something. This is something that I am very grateful for, since my friends already know how to put up with me, that increases the likelihood that they'll bother to look at something I wrote for them.
Now that I am somewhere different and far away, I find myself without friends - something, as I just pointed out, which is pivotal for the fledgling composer. Now before you get all sympathetic, things are changing. You eventually meet more people and make more connections - something I have begun to do. What it is interesting here is that if you want something played, you have to track down people yourself. If you don't know anyone, you're supposed to just go up and ask strangers if they'd be willing to play for you - hopefully making friends in the process of course, haha.
What I find humbling and gratifying is to receive so much support from my friends back home. As I have mentioned in previous posts, music has always been a very personal thing - especially writing music. I put a lot of myself into each thing that I write. I believe that to improve you need to put in your absolute best effort, and so I have. I have tried with everything I have written so far to use what I have learned to explore and celebrate this art form that we all enjoy. But it makes me feel so vulnerable when it is read through or performed for others, as I view the music as an extension of myself. To receive support from family and friends is rewarding and humbling, and I remain appreciative of that.
In thinking about the process of beginning, I wonder if the point is to do so without fear; to not be strangled by the myriad perceived expectations of others. When you're beginning something, it seems that everything must go - to dissolve those expectations, the anxiety of originality, the self-doubt, the fear, and to just enjoy something for the sake of doing it.
Every now and again I ask myself: Why do I write? To which myself responds: Why aren't you wearing pants?
Last night I asked myself that question -about writing, not about the pants. Usually this is a gateway for lots of philosophical thought and pondering and hypothetical arm-waving and generally a lot of nonsense usually at the helm of trying to come up with something that was simple and profound that made me sound ultra-smart. Last night none of that happened. The question was asked, and for the first time in a very long time I thought to myself: Because I love it. And really, that's all the reason you need.
I have realized that over time I became gently dissuaded with personal expectations, but now I am slowly learning to let them go; to let everything go and just enjoy the process - something that has definitely stayed with me since first discovering my passion in high school.
Though the subject that I happen to study may be music, I would venture that the concept of expectations bleeds into many other careers as well - certainly politicians can relate (though it may not be the best example.) How about teachers? How about soldiers? How about scientists or hard laborers? What about performers? What about audiences? How do we play into the expectations of others? Are we defined by others' expectations?
And the rhetorical-question train just keeps chuggin' along...
Do we actually begin, or do we just become more aware of something that's already going on? Certainly that is how I kind of picture the beginning of my life - like one day the lights just turned on. Scriabin described the process of composing for him to be something akin to lifting a magical curtain and seeing mysterious and wild things - though he was kind of a whack-job. For me personally, it's usually just a series of ideas that pop into my head that are very clear, but don't necessarily contain music. For example, I'll be working and I will have an idea of a texture that I want in my head, or I know that I want "high flutes" or "trombone something" in a given place and then I'll do that - very similar I guess in process to someone cooking something, tasting what's in the pot, and then throwing more junk in.
I am sure that Beethoven would agree that regardless of how we start, what truly matters is that we go somewhere.
August 30th, 2012
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