What should music do? The easy way out is to say that there is not just one thing that music should (or can) do. Let's try and make a list of some of these: music should please the ear, tell a story, play tricks on our memory, spur the senses with abstract movements, move our souls and so give meaning to our lives - et cetera. Some of these actually overlap. I think such a list could be infinite, or at least very long. The question rests, now in a different form: is it possible to totalize these purported functions of music and come up with a defining formula?
A premature answer would be, simply: no. Music, like any other percept, has myriad functions, effects and uses, attractions and advantages. But the correct answer is much simpler: music can, by the workings of all faculties mentioned above, resonate with human beings. Music resonates in our hearing and leaves intellectually detectable imprints. The first and in fact foremost of these is the mood. All other peculariaties and points of interest come afterwards and are secondary - often auxiliary.
Is the function of music then to generate moods? Not in the least. But the result of a good piece of music will be a resonating mood - the placement of a person in a world. This is the existential duty of music. This is what I aspire to, when I compose.
Music, the Question of the Audience, and Two Lazy Answers
Yes, music - but for whom? One cowardly answer could be: for human beings. Another one: for no-one. My attitude toward the issue can be summed up as a combination of both answers. A combination that should turn out - if only a bit - less cowardly. A combination that in fact serves to render the distance between the two answers arbitrary and artificial.
I make music in a situation without any particular recipient - we have left the age of beneficiaries behind us, we work in absence of king and cleric. Now - this is where the trouble begins - I refuse, or fail, to recognize what may be called 'humanity', the sole and genuine addressee of the contemporary arts, as a consistent concept. It is certainly true that my compositions comprise sounds with frequencies within the limits of human auditory perception. But this is about as far as it goes. Sure, I want my music to resonate with the listener, but how can I possibly lay claim to any knowledge of beauty? One can only hope, because I do not believe that experience is in any way communicable - and if there be similarities between my personal experience and that of another listener, these should certainly not be the subject of my music. I must always take a cautionary step away from any prior knowledge about what comprises 'the musical'. I don't view this as a 'rupture from tradition', and I am not disavowing tradition - I would even venture to say that this socratic attitude, if you will, makes me something of a traditionalist. I don't see much use for abstractions here, not for the abstraction towards a notion of what makes up humanity, but certainly also not the violent abstraction of disregarding the emotional underpinnings of human experience. In the end, I try to wed this socratic attitude with avoiding the error of failing to appreciate that we are not timeless, coldblooded beings. Try again, fail again, fail better.
When I'm at work, I feel an urge to steer free of any preconceived ideas of 'what works' because the resulting piece of music should not 'work' - it should simply be. It should be a quiet place. A place which is accessible to anyone and contains no promises, only some possibilities.
Honestly, I couldn't say whom the work is for. For me - on an immediate level - it is simply a task, something to do. And when the task is completed, I consider the result not a message with a specific address, but rather the possibility of an occurrence that will always be embedded in a certain situation. The meaning of this occurrence can only come about within an essentially social situation. And, as Christian Wolff has it: one person making music and one person listening already makes for a social situation.
At the heart of the matter, I compose for a scene of two.
Amsterdam, xii '09
I make music in a situation without any particular recipient - we have left the age of beneficiaries behind us, we work in absence of king and cleric. Now - this is where the trouble begins - I refuse, or fail, to recognize what may be called 'humanity', the sole and genuine addressee of the contemporary arts, as a consistent concept. It is certainly true that my compositions comprise sounds with frequencies within the limits of human auditory perception. But this is about as far as it goes. Sure, I want my music to resonate with the listener, but how can I possibly lay claim to any knowledge of beauty? One can only hope, because I do not believe that experience is in any way communicable - and if there be similarities between my personal experience and that of another listener, these should certainly not be the subject of my music. I must always take a cautionary step away from any prior knowledge about what comprises 'the musical'. I don't view this as a 'rupture from tradition', and I am not disavowing tradition - I would even venture to say that this socratic attitude, if you will, makes me something of a traditionalist. I don't see much use for abstractions here, not for the abstraction towards a notion of what makes up humanity, but certainly also not the violent abstraction of disregarding the emotional underpinnings of human experience. In the end, I try to wed this socratic attitude with avoiding the error of failing to appreciate that we are not timeless, coldblooded beings. Try again, fail again, fail better.
When I'm at work, I feel an urge to steer free of any preconceived ideas of 'what works' because the resulting piece of music should not 'work' - it should simply be. It should be a quiet place. A place which is accessible to anyone and contains no promises, only some possibilities.
Honestly, I couldn't say whom the work is for. For me - on an immediate level - it is simply a task, something to do. And when the task is completed, I consider the result not a message with a specific address, but rather the possibility of an occurrence that will always be embedded in a certain situation. The meaning of this occurrence can only come about within an essentially social situation. And, as Christian Wolff has it: one person making music and one person listening already makes for a social situation.
At the heart of the matter, I compose for a scene of two.
Amsterdam, xii '09
Music as architecture
There are several muses and I think that, while their general methods are similar, each of them has a seperate might, or power. I want to discuss architecture and music. Architecture in music.
Architecture is art, can move us, can change the situation, by the grace of the hospitability of objects. What I think seperates an architectural experience from a sculptural one is this sensation of hospitability. This, for me, is the power of architecture.
In music, a similar mood can emerge — that we subsequently must dub architectural. The mood of 'being well in a place'. That the place is at once established, rooted and alive, moving. I think that these are the prerequisites for an indistinguishable, inextinguishable experience.
Since music is always situated in a space, it needs the muse of architecture to open up this space for the power of music.
Music is the articulation of events in time, and the power of music is firstly the emergence of a place to which these single events belong. I never entertained the idea that one event can lead to another. Everything simply occurs, and every moment can be touching. Every moment is potentially musical. The power of music is secondly the promise of the place that comes into existence. The possibility for a moment of truth, or clarity, through occurrences in time.
Amsterdam, xii '09
Architecture is art, can move us, can change the situation, by the grace of the hospitability of objects. What I think seperates an architectural experience from a sculptural one is this sensation of hospitability. This, for me, is the power of architecture.
In music, a similar mood can emerge — that we subsequently must dub architectural. The mood of 'being well in a place'. That the place is at once established, rooted and alive, moving. I think that these are the prerequisites for an indistinguishable, inextinguishable experience.
Since music is always situated in a space, it needs the muse of architecture to open up this space for the power of music.
Music is the articulation of events in time, and the power of music is firstly the emergence of a place to which these single events belong. I never entertained the idea that one event can lead to another. Everything simply occurs, and every moment can be touching. Every moment is potentially musical. The power of music is secondly the promise of the place that comes into existence. The possibility for a moment of truth, or clarity, through occurrences in time.
Amsterdam, xii '09
What is performance?
Introducing one of his songs, the comedian Steven Wright once said: "This song doesn't go something like this; it goes exactly like this."
That joke more or less sums up my attitude toward performance.
Considering the performance of a piece of music the image of a more ideal reality seems to me both erroneous and redundant. The meaning of music arises from a distant source, which is by definition unknown and can only be named with that ancient divine title: Muse. The only transcendental of music is the Muse – or in other words, there is no Composition.
A composition is nothing more than a configuration in which sounds are assigned to points in time. This is the act of composing. There is no such thing as a real idea underlying a composition. The idea, if ever present, arises only after the practice.
A performance takes place in time and articulates single points in time. The other art form concerned with articulating points in time is quite adequately called 'performance art'.
If there be such a thing as the Muse of performance art, it must be the muse of the single gesture. If music is the creation of a place through the sounding articulation of points in time, I would conjecture that the Muse of music, bears – or has borne – the Muse of performance art. To avoid confusion, let’s say that theirs is a common muse.
Performance art operates by the subtraction of the sounding aspect of music, and the absolute reduction to the singular. Music, on the other hand, operates by the grace of the single gesture. The meaning of this gesture as gesture is revealed in performance art. In music, gesture constantly becomes sounding.
Every single moment in a performance, be it musical or in performance art, is shaped by the fulfillment of a technical, practical demand, or task. Performers (those who perform these tasks) reside in the experiential logic, or meaning, that is revealed by playing the music; a musical score, which is like a letter from composer to performer. Writing such a letter is composition. What results is a place – in the case of music sounding (and listening), in the case of ‘performance’, demonstrating (and puzzling). And only in this place, there is the possibility or promise of an idea to emerge (or, perhaps, descend).
With every performance, we must say: this song goes exactly like this and reject any ideal goal or object – affirm the actuality of art and leave place for something to happen.
Amsterdam, i '10
That joke more or less sums up my attitude toward performance.
Considering the performance of a piece of music the image of a more ideal reality seems to me both erroneous and redundant. The meaning of music arises from a distant source, which is by definition unknown and can only be named with that ancient divine title: Muse. The only transcendental of music is the Muse – or in other words, there is no Composition.
A composition is nothing more than a configuration in which sounds are assigned to points in time. This is the act of composing. There is no such thing as a real idea underlying a composition. The idea, if ever present, arises only after the practice.
A performance takes place in time and articulates single points in time. The other art form concerned with articulating points in time is quite adequately called 'performance art'.
If there be such a thing as the Muse of performance art, it must be the muse of the single gesture. If music is the creation of a place through the sounding articulation of points in time, I would conjecture that the Muse of music, bears – or has borne – the Muse of performance art. To avoid confusion, let’s say that theirs is a common muse.
Performance art operates by the subtraction of the sounding aspect of music, and the absolute reduction to the singular. Music, on the other hand, operates by the grace of the single gesture. The meaning of this gesture as gesture is revealed in performance art. In music, gesture constantly becomes sounding.
Every single moment in a performance, be it musical or in performance art, is shaped by the fulfillment of a technical, practical demand, or task. Performers (those who perform these tasks) reside in the experiential logic, or meaning, that is revealed by playing the music; a musical score, which is like a letter from composer to performer. Writing such a letter is composition. What results is a place – in the case of music sounding (and listening), in the case of ‘performance’, demonstrating (and puzzling). And only in this place, there is the possibility or promise of an idea to emerge (or, perhaps, descend).
With every performance, we must say: this song goes exactly like this and reject any ideal goal or object – affirm the actuality of art and leave place for something to happen.
Amsterdam, i '10
The title
Music that is based on text, accompanied by spoken word, has the power to reveal something about the text. This revelation is always a revelation of the musical promise of the text. As Samuel Vriezen's Motet reveals something about the musical - in this case contrapuntal - qualities of bits of random prose. As Dante Boon's Uitdrijving reveals something about the melodic tension in the phrase lengths in Hans Faverey's poem of the same title.
For such a revelation to occur, the cards must be on the table: the preparation takes place in the title of the piece, which should open up the mind to the textual reference of what is about to sound. In this scenario, it is quite understandable and defendable to name a piece of music. But what of all that music that is not based on text? My guess is that, similarly, even in those abundant cases, music reveals something about a concept - and as is the case with any other revelation, it need not be brought to terms but is rather experienced. My hope is that my piece 'nocturnes' will be a place for an unforeseeable experience - or somehow being touched - and my guess is that this being touched will be related to the atmosphere of the 'nocturnal' - that which, with all its dim contours, makes up the nocturne.
This, however, cannot be the function of titles. For, what to say about a marvellous title like Christian Wolff's I Am A Dangerous Woman?
In my music, titles function either along the lines of the above, or are dedications. In fact, 'nocturnes', is my only title so far that is not a dedication. In my text about the audience I distance myself from the idea of a consistent 'humanity' as addressee of my pieces. In that light, it is easy to understand that my pieces bear titles such as for joseph kudirka or for blinky palermo. I wrote those pieces for a person - when that's established, who cares about the title, about the name?
The piece for joseph kudirka is dedicated to him because I like the person and I believe some of the techniques I used were derived from his music.
The piece for blinky palermo is dedicated to him because I like his work and I think the piece has something to do with it. I believe that connecting two works that deal with similar things can make those things more meaningful.
The piece for louis couperin was titled that way because it was an attempt to revive a tradition of keyboard notation that way invented by him. At the same time it was an affirmation of our shared outlooks.
The piece for antoine beuger is dedicated to him for many reasons, including the above, but mostly because I wrote it for us to play together.
To bear a title. The sounding mass of the piece bears the weight of text, which leaves an imprint. The art is to have an imprint, a trough, through which the music may flow more gracefully.
Amsterdam, xii '09
For such a revelation to occur, the cards must be on the table: the preparation takes place in the title of the piece, which should open up the mind to the textual reference of what is about to sound. In this scenario, it is quite understandable and defendable to name a piece of music. But what of all that music that is not based on text? My guess is that, similarly, even in those abundant cases, music reveals something about a concept - and as is the case with any other revelation, it need not be brought to terms but is rather experienced. My hope is that my piece 'nocturnes' will be a place for an unforeseeable experience - or somehow being touched - and my guess is that this being touched will be related to the atmosphere of the 'nocturnal' - that which, with all its dim contours, makes up the nocturne.
This, however, cannot be the function of titles. For, what to say about a marvellous title like Christian Wolff's I Am A Dangerous Woman?
In my music, titles function either along the lines of the above, or are dedications. In fact, 'nocturnes', is my only title so far that is not a dedication. In my text about the audience I distance myself from the idea of a consistent 'humanity' as addressee of my pieces. In that light, it is easy to understand that my pieces bear titles such as for joseph kudirka or for blinky palermo. I wrote those pieces for a person - when that's established, who cares about the title, about the name?
The piece for joseph kudirka is dedicated to him because I like the person and I believe some of the techniques I used were derived from his music.
The piece for blinky palermo is dedicated to him because I like his work and I think the piece has something to do with it. I believe that connecting two works that deal with similar things can make those things more meaningful.
The piece for louis couperin was titled that way because it was an attempt to revive a tradition of keyboard notation that way invented by him. At the same time it was an affirmation of our shared outlooks.
The piece for antoine beuger is dedicated to him for many reasons, including the above, but mostly because I wrote it for us to play together.
To bear a title. The sounding mass of the piece bears the weight of text, which leaves an imprint. The art is to have an imprint, a trough, through which the music may flow more gracefully.
Amsterdam, xii '09
Music and Politics
Mao Tse-tung once said that there is no such thing as art for art's sake, art that stands above classes, art that is detached from or independent of politics. So, what politics is my music attached to, or dependent on?
This is hard to answer.
My music is most at home in personal initiatives with little financial involvement and little audience. This sheltered, though open environment is for me the most important political dimension of my music.
But the political in art works on two levels: the politics in which it is embedded, and the politics internal to it. I try to be sensitive to the political constituents of what I do, but this reflects only implicitly on the music itself. That is to say, as an element of the situation, not as a driving force, theme or topic.
The way my music is structured and notated may reflect a preference for horizontal political organization. I use the word 'political' here simply in the sense of 'concerning people'.
As there are always three parties involved in making (my) music, it only seems fair that each would allow the others an equal share in the process.
"Composing's one thing, performing's another, listening's a third. What can they have to do with each other?" - John Cage
"What writing music comes down to, in the end, is care. We create situations. We care about them and take care of them. And we care for the people involved." - Michael Pisaro
"What is the material of a composition? It's not just notes and rests, and it's not just a beautiful idea that originates in the unique mind of a genius. It's ideas derived from experience, from social relations." - Cornelius Cardew
Amsterdam, xii '09
This is hard to answer.
My music is most at home in personal initiatives with little financial involvement and little audience. This sheltered, though open environment is for me the most important political dimension of my music.
But the political in art works on two levels: the politics in which it is embedded, and the politics internal to it. I try to be sensitive to the political constituents of what I do, but this reflects only implicitly on the music itself. That is to say, as an element of the situation, not as a driving force, theme or topic.
The way my music is structured and notated may reflect a preference for horizontal political organization. I use the word 'political' here simply in the sense of 'concerning people'.
As there are always three parties involved in making (my) music, it only seems fair that each would allow the others an equal share in the process.
"Composing's one thing, performing's another, listening's a third. What can they have to do with each other?" - John Cage
"What writing music comes down to, in the end, is care. We create situations. We care about them and take care of them. And we care for the people involved." - Michael Pisaro
"What is the material of a composition? It's not just notes and rests, and it's not just a beautiful idea that originates in the unique mind of a genius. It's ideas derived from experience, from social relations." - Cornelius Cardew
Amsterdam, xii '09
What is a nocturne?
What has become of the nocturne, and by extension of the nocturnal, since (or: with) its vague conception?
The nocturne mimes the nocturnal. Nocturnal sounds perhaps – but most of all, that veiled, cloudy mood, in which it is always undecided whether something is happening or not. I think the question of the nocturne is the question of this mood. This question has entered music with John Field, who named it, and the recurrence of the title has fostered a more or less defined area for the music to take place in, to be night music.
If Field discovered and named these grounds, it was Chopin who cultivated them. Since his work, the area of the nocturne is defined – however vaguely – by certain technical aspects that I understand to be part of the nocturnal question in music and have tried to retain in my own nocturnes: Preference of the horizontal over the vertical – melodies, threads of small sounds make up the sound of the nocturne. Generous use of the sustain pedal, to ease the knitting together of these sounds into a nightly quilt. Free, floating time – as there is no light to guide us.
I would venture to say that the nocturne is not a genre, and it is certainly not a form. I think it is one of a few ground moods of music, the others being perhaps the light, elegant and the grand, religious, encompassing. Perhaps these correspond to night, afternoon and daybreak. These moods place the listener in a specific position in the world, in a specific relation to the world. They reveal a ground condition of life – of how we relate to the Absolute. For example, of how our souls are affected by our faint and doubtful perception of the world. This experience, as revealed in music, is the subject and matter of the nocturne.
The nocturnes which lie ahead of us will be the figures of a cut, yet another division of what it is and will be to be a nocturne: this inanité sonore, soft, hesitant, embracing, at times disturbing. This uncharted space: no light, no substance, every movement renaming the situation, commonly fed by – as Mallarmé has it – "doubt, night's ancient hoard".
The nocturne mimes the nocturnal. Nocturnal sounds perhaps – but most of all, that veiled, cloudy mood, in which it is always undecided whether something is happening or not. I think the question of the nocturne is the question of this mood. This question has entered music with John Field, who named it, and the recurrence of the title has fostered a more or less defined area for the music to take place in, to be night music.
If Field discovered and named these grounds, it was Chopin who cultivated them. Since his work, the area of the nocturne is defined – however vaguely – by certain technical aspects that I understand to be part of the nocturnal question in music and have tried to retain in my own nocturnes: Preference of the horizontal over the vertical – melodies, threads of small sounds make up the sound of the nocturne. Generous use of the sustain pedal, to ease the knitting together of these sounds into a nightly quilt. Free, floating time – as there is no light to guide us.
I would venture to say that the nocturne is not a genre, and it is certainly not a form. I think it is one of a few ground moods of music, the others being perhaps the light, elegant and the grand, religious, encompassing. Perhaps these correspond to night, afternoon and daybreak. These moods place the listener in a specific position in the world, in a specific relation to the world. They reveal a ground condition of life – of how we relate to the Absolute. For example, of how our souls are affected by our faint and doubtful perception of the world. This experience, as revealed in music, is the subject and matter of the nocturne.
The nocturnes which lie ahead of us will be the figures of a cut, yet another division of what it is and will be to be a nocturne: this inanité sonore, soft, hesitant, embracing, at times disturbing. This uncharted space: no light, no substance, every movement renaming the situation, commonly fed by – as Mallarmé has it – "doubt, night's ancient hoard".
Nothing but a place
Post-cagean musical thought proposes a fundamental and normative radicalization of the difference between the two forms of mimesis, that have — at least since Plato — been assigned to music. These 'modes' of mimesis share a common pythagorean ground, according to which the movements of the tones are mathematically analogous to the movements of the soul and of the kosmos alike. These two analogies are the seeds of our two mimetic registers. Without completely ignoring the common ground, I would like to draw a sharper distinction between the two positions, to investigate whether it would be meaningful to formulate some sort of prohibition of idolatry (Bilderverbot) with respect to music. Furthermore, to examine to which of the two mimetic registers this prohibition would be directed.
The monotheistic prohibition of idolatry dictates that man distance himself from the pretence of having the ability to create a reliable or adequate representation of something — no, as the word already indicates, it prohibits such practice. To understand the meaning of the prohibition, it helps to apprehend it as a warning. According to the Dutch writer Frans Kellendonk, the old-testamentic second commandment presents us with the question 'How do we deal with the unknown?' For my present goals, I will subscribe to a definition of the Bilderverbot as a safeguard for the human awareness of our limited understanding en the necessity to respect — and thus keeping at a polite distance — some kind of mystery, some enigma. In the domain of the arts, this comes down to a rejection of any form of imitation that takes the notion of the communicability of this mystery (let's call it 'Truth') as a starting point.
In my opinion, the supposition — expressed by many contemporary musicologists — that the numerical relation between music and the cosmos is mimetic by nature, is plainly false. Music is more of a parallel manifestation of the harmony that also governs the kosmos. The numerical relations are to music what the projector light is to the cinema.
At this point, our initiatory distinction proves to be meaningful and correct: The singular imitation that the prohibition of idolatry must be applied to is to be found in the 'imitation of the soul'. This second form, which depends on the association of the movements of music with the movements of the soul, is to be called 'demagogic'.
In the last few centuries, composers have perfected the art of affects — 'what works' and 'what is touching' in momentary experience. It is exactly this manipulative, saturating audience satisfaction that the philosopher Plato — and the prohibition of idolatry, which is highly present in his thought — warns us against in his dialogues Republic and Laws. In an often misunderstood passage, dedicated to the classification of musical scales, in Republic, the philosopher rejects a musicianship that is aimed at directly evoking certain emotions. Music should rather be like a man who will acquiesce in the reaction of the person he is trying to tell something.
Making music conform to (and thus confirm) the taste of any particular audience, chains it to coordinates that exist within the situation. Plato calls this situation 'theatrocracy'. My hypothesis is that in such a situation, it is impossible to be truly touched, this cannot be the place of a revelation. Against the disguishably voiced character of the affective tone-declaration, I posit an indistinguishable act in time, that is as of yet unvoiced. The act of declaration will then become an act of sharing. The logic of this unvoiced act is explained by Plato in his short dialogue Io. Socrates explains how the inspiration that moves from the composer to the musicians and from the musician unto the listener, is fed by a common, uniforming source — a magnet of sorts — that is constructed under the word 'Muse'.
What is shared, is an intimate enigma in which the listener knows it is meant — Antoine Beuger reminds us of the etymologic relation between 'meinen' [to mean] and minnen [to love]. This is that precarious mystery, that we must approach as heedfully but filled with expectation as we approach our lovers. It is a delicate possibility, that exists as long as the composer does not annex the listener, or the tones and acquiesces to simply build 'a house'. At this house, as long as one is faithful to the mystery, a touching may occur — unnamably, indistinguishably.
The piece of music as a place of preparation. Nothing but a place.
The German composer Karlheinz Stockhausen once asked his American colleague Morton Feldman about his secrets. The master responded with: "I don't push the sounds around."
That is a very fine slogan for what I just tried to say.
Amsterdam, viii '09
Translated from the Dutch
The monotheistic prohibition of idolatry dictates that man distance himself from the pretence of having the ability to create a reliable or adequate representation of something — no, as the word already indicates, it prohibits such practice. To understand the meaning of the prohibition, it helps to apprehend it as a warning. According to the Dutch writer Frans Kellendonk, the old-testamentic second commandment presents us with the question 'How do we deal with the unknown?' For my present goals, I will subscribe to a definition of the Bilderverbot as a safeguard for the human awareness of our limited understanding en the necessity to respect — and thus keeping at a polite distance — some kind of mystery, some enigma. In the domain of the arts, this comes down to a rejection of any form of imitation that takes the notion of the communicability of this mystery (let's call it 'Truth') as a starting point.
In my opinion, the supposition — expressed by many contemporary musicologists — that the numerical relation between music and the cosmos is mimetic by nature, is plainly false. Music is more of a parallel manifestation of the harmony that also governs the kosmos. The numerical relations are to music what the projector light is to the cinema.
At this point, our initiatory distinction proves to be meaningful and correct: The singular imitation that the prohibition of idolatry must be applied to is to be found in the 'imitation of the soul'. This second form, which depends on the association of the movements of music with the movements of the soul, is to be called 'demagogic'.
In the last few centuries, composers have perfected the art of affects — 'what works' and 'what is touching' in momentary experience. It is exactly this manipulative, saturating audience satisfaction that the philosopher Plato — and the prohibition of idolatry, which is highly present in his thought — warns us against in his dialogues Republic and Laws. In an often misunderstood passage, dedicated to the classification of musical scales, in Republic, the philosopher rejects a musicianship that is aimed at directly evoking certain emotions. Music should rather be like a man who will acquiesce in the reaction of the person he is trying to tell something.
Making music conform to (and thus confirm) the taste of any particular audience, chains it to coordinates that exist within the situation. Plato calls this situation 'theatrocracy'. My hypothesis is that in such a situation, it is impossible to be truly touched, this cannot be the place of a revelation. Against the disguishably voiced character of the affective tone-declaration, I posit an indistinguishable act in time, that is as of yet unvoiced. The act of declaration will then become an act of sharing. The logic of this unvoiced act is explained by Plato in his short dialogue Io. Socrates explains how the inspiration that moves from the composer to the musicians and from the musician unto the listener, is fed by a common, uniforming source — a magnet of sorts — that is constructed under the word 'Muse'.
What is shared, is an intimate enigma in which the listener knows it is meant — Antoine Beuger reminds us of the etymologic relation between 'meinen' [to mean] and minnen [to love]. This is that precarious mystery, that we must approach as heedfully but filled with expectation as we approach our lovers. It is a delicate possibility, that exists as long as the composer does not annex the listener, or the tones and acquiesces to simply build 'a house'. At this house, as long as one is faithful to the mystery, a touching may occur — unnamably, indistinguishably.
The piece of music as a place of preparation. Nothing but a place.
The German composer Karlheinz Stockhausen once asked his American colleague Morton Feldman about his secrets. The master responded with: "I don't push the sounds around."
That is a very fine slogan for what I just tried to say.
Amsterdam, viii '09
Translated from the Dutch
Niets dan een plaats
Het onderscheid tussen de twee vormen van mimesis die – ten minste sinds Plato – aan muziek worden toegeschreven, ondergaat in het postcageaanse muziekdenken een funderende en normatieve radicalisering. Deze 'modi' van mimesis delen een pythagoreïsche grondslag volgens welke de bewegingen der tonen op getalkundig niveau gelijksoortig zijn aan zowel de bewegingen van de ziel, als die van de kosmos. Deze twee analogieen zijn meteen de kiemen van onze twee mimetische registers. Zonder de gemeenschappelijke grondslag geheel uit het oog te verliezen, wil ik de twee posities iets scherper uittekenen, om vervolgens te onderzoeken of het zinvol is een soort beeldverbod ten aanzien van muziek te formuleren, en op welke vorm van nabootsing, van overdracht dit van toepassing zou kunnen zijn.
Het monotheistisch beeldverbod schrijft voor dat men de pretentie laat varen, ergens een betrouwbare of adequate vertegenwoordiging van te kunnen maken – sterker nog, zoals het woord al aangeeft verbiedt dit tweede bijbelse gebod dergelijke praktijken. Om de achterliggende gedachte te leren kennen, helpt het om dit verbod als waarschuwing op te vatten. Volgens Kellendonk roert het oudtestamentische tweede gebod de vraag aan hoe we om dienen te gaan met het onbekende. Voor mijn doeleinden volsta ik ermee het beeldverbod hier te definieren als waarborg voor het besef van ons beperkte begrip en de noodzaak van het respecteren – en zo op beleefde afstand kunnen houden – van een of ander mysterie, een of ander raadsel. In het domein van de kunsten komt dit kort door de bocht neer op een afwijzing van elke vorm van imitatie, die veronderstelt dat men dit raadsel (laat ik het 'Waarheid' noemen) in pacht heeft en deze soepel kan overdragen op de toeschouwer.
De veronderstelling – in menig (modern) muziekfilosofisch geschrift doorklinkend – dat de aard van de getalkundige verhouding die men veronderstelde tussen muziek en de kosmos een mimetisch karakter zou hebben, berust mijns inziens op een denkfout. De muziek is in deze veeleer een parallelle manifestatie van de harmonie die ook de kosmos prijs zou geven. De getalsverhoudingen zijn voor de muziek als het projectielicht voor de cinema.
Hiermee is de urgentie van onze scheiding bevestigd: de singuliere imitatie, die wij aan een beeldverbod zullen moeten onderwerpen, is te zoeken in de 'zielsnabootsing'. Deze tweede vorm, die berust op de koppeling tussen de bewegingen van muziek aan de bewegingen van de ziel, noem ik de demagogische.
Componisten zijn er in de loop van de eeuwen – met de barokke 'affectenleer' als hoogtepunt – meesterlijk in geslaagd de vinger te krijgen achter 'wat werkt' en 'wat raakt' in de ogenblikkelijke momentane ervaring. Het is precies deze manipulatieve, verzadigende publieksbevrediging waar Plato – en ook het beeldverbod, voor zover we dat als zijn stiefvader en/of -kind mogen beschouwen – voor waarschuwt in zijn dialogen De Staat en De Wetten. In een vaak verkeerd begrepen, aan het zoeken van de 'juiste' toonaarden gewijde passage van De Staat verwerpt de filosoof een musiceren dat gericht is op het direct, instrumenteel verwekken van bepaalde emoties; de 'ideale muziek' vergelijkt hij liever met een man die kan berusten in het oordeel van degene die hij ergens van probeert te overtuigen, iets probeert te vertellen.
Wie muziek laat conformeren [confirmeren] aan de smaak van het publiek (Plato noemt dit ongeregelde 'theatrocratie') ketent haar aan in de onderhavige situatie bestaande, zo u wilt 'ondermaanse' coordinaten. Mijn stelling is dat op deze wijze geen aanraking kan plaatsvinden, wat men ook verstaat onder die mysterieuze term. De aanraking buigt niet voor regie. Tegenover het bestemde karakter van de geaffecteerde toonmededelingen wil ik een onbestemde, dat zijn stem nog krijgen moet. Het 'mede-delen' wordt dan eerder een 'delen', misschien een 'delen met'.
De logica van dit onbestemde schetst Plato in zijn korte dialoog Io. Hierin legt Socrates uit hoe de inspiratie die van componist op musicus en van musicus op luisteraar overgaat, wordt gevoed door een vage, samenhangverlenende bron – een magneet – die we kunnen construeren onder de naam 'Muze'.
Wat er gedeeld wordt is een intiem raadsel waarin de luisteraar zich alleen gemeend weet – Antoine Beuger herinnert ons aan de etymologische verwantschap tussen meinen en minnen. Dit is dat precaire raadsel, waar we even voorzichtig maar ook vol verwachting mee om moeten gaan als we met een geliefde doen. Het is een delicate mogelijkheid, die bestaat zolang de toonschepper geen beslag legt op de luisteraar, of op de tonen – en erin berust, slechts 'een huis' te maken. Ter plaatse van dit huis kan, zolang men trouw blijft aan het raadsel, een onbenoembare, onbestemde aanraking plaatsvinden.
Het muziekstuk als plaats van voorbereiding voor een aanraking. Niets dan een plaats.
Eens vroeg de Duitse componist Karlheinz Stockhausen zijn Amerikaanse collega Morton Feldman naar zijn geheim. De meester antwoordde: "I don't push the sounds around."
Dat is een aardige slagzin voor wat ik hier wilde zeggen.
Amsterdam, viii '09
Verscheen in HTV De IJsberg nr. 80 "Toonbeeld".
Het monotheistisch beeldverbod schrijft voor dat men de pretentie laat varen, ergens een betrouwbare of adequate vertegenwoordiging van te kunnen maken – sterker nog, zoals het woord al aangeeft verbiedt dit tweede bijbelse gebod dergelijke praktijken. Om de achterliggende gedachte te leren kennen, helpt het om dit verbod als waarschuwing op te vatten. Volgens Kellendonk roert het oudtestamentische tweede gebod de vraag aan hoe we om dienen te gaan met het onbekende. Voor mijn doeleinden volsta ik ermee het beeldverbod hier te definieren als waarborg voor het besef van ons beperkte begrip en de noodzaak van het respecteren – en zo op beleefde afstand kunnen houden – van een of ander mysterie, een of ander raadsel. In het domein van de kunsten komt dit kort door de bocht neer op een afwijzing van elke vorm van imitatie, die veronderstelt dat men dit raadsel (laat ik het 'Waarheid' noemen) in pacht heeft en deze soepel kan overdragen op de toeschouwer.
De veronderstelling – in menig (modern) muziekfilosofisch geschrift doorklinkend – dat de aard van de getalkundige verhouding die men veronderstelde tussen muziek en de kosmos een mimetisch karakter zou hebben, berust mijns inziens op een denkfout. De muziek is in deze veeleer een parallelle manifestatie van de harmonie die ook de kosmos prijs zou geven. De getalsverhoudingen zijn voor de muziek als het projectielicht voor de cinema.
Hiermee is de urgentie van onze scheiding bevestigd: de singuliere imitatie, die wij aan een beeldverbod zullen moeten onderwerpen, is te zoeken in de 'zielsnabootsing'. Deze tweede vorm, die berust op de koppeling tussen de bewegingen van muziek aan de bewegingen van de ziel, noem ik de demagogische.
Componisten zijn er in de loop van de eeuwen – met de barokke 'affectenleer' als hoogtepunt – meesterlijk in geslaagd de vinger te krijgen achter 'wat werkt' en 'wat raakt' in de ogenblikkelijke momentane ervaring. Het is precies deze manipulatieve, verzadigende publieksbevrediging waar Plato – en ook het beeldverbod, voor zover we dat als zijn stiefvader en/of -kind mogen beschouwen – voor waarschuwt in zijn dialogen De Staat en De Wetten. In een vaak verkeerd begrepen, aan het zoeken van de 'juiste' toonaarden gewijde passage van De Staat verwerpt de filosoof een musiceren dat gericht is op het direct, instrumenteel verwekken van bepaalde emoties; de 'ideale muziek' vergelijkt hij liever met een man die kan berusten in het oordeel van degene die hij ergens van probeert te overtuigen, iets probeert te vertellen.
Wie muziek laat conformeren [confirmeren] aan de smaak van het publiek (Plato noemt dit ongeregelde 'theatrocratie') ketent haar aan in de onderhavige situatie bestaande, zo u wilt 'ondermaanse' coordinaten. Mijn stelling is dat op deze wijze geen aanraking kan plaatsvinden, wat men ook verstaat onder die mysterieuze term. De aanraking buigt niet voor regie. Tegenover het bestemde karakter van de geaffecteerde toonmededelingen wil ik een onbestemde, dat zijn stem nog krijgen moet. Het 'mede-delen' wordt dan eerder een 'delen', misschien een 'delen met'.
De logica van dit onbestemde schetst Plato in zijn korte dialoog Io. Hierin legt Socrates uit hoe de inspiratie die van componist op musicus en van musicus op luisteraar overgaat, wordt gevoed door een vage, samenhangverlenende bron – een magneet – die we kunnen construeren onder de naam 'Muze'.
Wat er gedeeld wordt is een intiem raadsel waarin de luisteraar zich alleen gemeend weet – Antoine Beuger herinnert ons aan de etymologische verwantschap tussen meinen en minnen. Dit is dat precaire raadsel, waar we even voorzichtig maar ook vol verwachting mee om moeten gaan als we met een geliefde doen. Het is een delicate mogelijkheid, die bestaat zolang de toonschepper geen beslag legt op de luisteraar, of op de tonen – en erin berust, slechts 'een huis' te maken. Ter plaatse van dit huis kan, zolang men trouw blijft aan het raadsel, een onbenoembare, onbestemde aanraking plaatsvinden.
Het muziekstuk als plaats van voorbereiding voor een aanraking. Niets dan een plaats.
Eens vroeg de Duitse componist Karlheinz Stockhausen zijn Amerikaanse collega Morton Feldman naar zijn geheim. De meester antwoordde: "I don't push the sounds around."
Dat is een aardige slagzin voor wat ik hier wilde zeggen.
Amsterdam, viii '09
Verscheen in HTV De IJsberg nr. 80 "Toonbeeld".
Abonneren op:
Berichten (Atom)