(автобиография) Филип Гласс: Присутствие в "музыкальном" моменте
Одно из ярких впечатлений недавнего времени - Автобиография Филипа Гласса, выпущенная в 2015 году.
https://philipglass.com/books/words_without_music/
http://audiobookbay.nl/audio-books/words-without-music-a-memoir-philip-glass/
Слушал аудиокнигу, местами проясняя книгой.
Начитка аудиокниги хорошая, чтеца подобрали с голосом слегка напоминающим интонации Гласса. Но раздражает форсированное "подхихикивание" на иронических моментах...
Сама книга просто кладезь информации и историй.
Много подробностей про написание трилогии опер "Эйнштейн-Ганди-Эхнатон".
Поездка на Восток. Духовные поиски.
Рави Шанкар.
Жизнь и работа в арт-среде художников и скульпторов-минималистов Сохо
https://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/Сохо_(Манхэттен)
История с созданием "Музыки в 12 частях"
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Music_in_Twelve_Parts
https://philipglass.com/compositions/music_in_twelve_parts/
Суровые финансовые будни композитора опер, когда Гласс должен был из своего гонорара оплачивать услуги "копировщиков" партитур...
Работа таксистом, сантехником и сборщиком мебели в Нью-Йорке.
Обучение "контрапункту" у Нади Буланже
https://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/Буланже,_Надя
Работа с Годфри Реджио
https://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/Реджио,_Годфри
Работа над трилогией опер по фильмам Жана Кокто
https://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/Кокто,_ЖанВ конце книги Гласс размышляет об специфическом состоянии сознания "присутствия в моменте" при сочинения музыки:
"(...)“But what was it like when you wrote Satyagraha?” someone might ask.
“I don’t know.”
“But you were there, weren’t you?”
“Are you sure?”
Because I’m not sure that I am there at that moment. The ordinary witness has been lost-the artist Philip has robbed the daily Philip of his ability to see himself. That’s very clearly what happens when people say “I wrote it in a dream,” or “I don’t know where the music came from.” They’ll say all kinds of things: “It must have come from God,” or “It must have come from a past life,” or whatever. All they’re really saying is, “I don’t remember how I did it,” and they may make up an outside source. But the real source is not any of those things. It’s a process that the artist has learned. He has tricked himself into gaining that extra attention that he needed to do the work.
There was a teacher named Krishnamurti, born in India in 1895, whom I wasn’t particularly close to, but who had a number of ideas I liked. Krishnamurti, who lectured all over the world and authored many books, including The First and Last Freedom, before his death in 1986, always talked about the moment of the present being the moment of creativity. He tried to press on you that if you really understood that creativity was opening up to you at every single moment of time, the experience of that would be the real moment of awareness. I never really understood it very well, and yet I felt that it was a very powerful idea. What he was talking about, as far as I could tell, was a truly spontaneous experience of living. He wasn’t my teacher-I heard him speak once and I read some of his books-but what was interesting about what Krishnamurti said was that it was about a spontaneous unfolding of life. There was nothing routine about it, there was nothing repeated about it: it was continuously new.
When you have one foot in this world and one foot in the other world, the foot in the other world is the foot that takes you into the world of clarity and of power. The problem with recall is that when I return to the world of the witness, I’m not sure if I’m remembering correctly what I wrote, because I’m not using the same tools to remember as I used to write. The world of the witness is less powerful than the world of the writer, because the function of writing will eventually rob the witness of his energy so that the writer will be able to conceptualize the “art” work.
When I’m making a sketch, I’m hearing something, but I don’t know exactly what it is. A lot of writing is the effort made in trying to hear. The question for me always is “Is that what I’m hearing?” I’ve heard so much music in my life that it’s now easy for me to recall it. I can remember Beethoven’s Ninth, Bach’s and Vivaldi’s concertos-they’re all available to me. Outside of my memory, they’re written in books, they’re in recordings. I can hear them whenever I want to. But when composing, this new music doesn’t have the benefit of having had a prior existence of any kind at all. A particular piece has zero existence until the moment of its creation. Therefore, the question comes back to “Can I describe what I heard?”
I’ve had dreams where I dreamed music and saw it as having width, length, breadth, color: a visual object. Once I was having a dream about a piece of music, and I came to a modulation, and what I saw was a door on a hinge. It was a perfect image of modulation. You walked through a door and into another place-that’s what a modulation does. What I did in the dream was to create a shorthand to represent the modulation by seeing it visually. It offered me an alternative way of thinking of modulation-my idea of modulation was enhanced to some degree by this image of the hinge found in a dream.
As a composer, I think we develop techniques in a kind of desperation to find a way of making something new. My sense of what happens next is “Where is the paddle that’s big enough and strong enough to power me through that moment?”
Perhaps I’ve wandered into a discussion that’s too abstract, but the truth is that, though these ways of thinking about music may seem abstract as I write them, I think about such things all the time."
Еще был интересный момент в первой трети книги (но не могу найти) когда Гласс рассуждал о случившимся с ним понимании, что сочиненная "музыка" нигде не существует помимо того момента когда она звучит для слушателя. Или что-то такое. Что думать о мертво-лежащих "сокровищах" музыкальных произведений глупо, нет такого "сейфа" или "бункера" где все лежит и томится, готовое к употреблению для любого существа...