Will and Memorials
I am a rather strong-willed individual, at times almost perversely so. In particular, I can't stand to hear someone tell me "I'm right and you're wrong," even when that is indeed the case. For example, when Zanmi and I taught THEO back in '04, we ran into some pedagogical conflicts. To me, it seemed that on these occasions she would inevitably say, (with great oversimplification on my part) "Well I'm a real teacher, so I must be right," and I, not being a "real" teacher, would be expected to go along with it. I absolutely hated that, and put up considerable resistance, chiefly outside the classroom. A year later, no longer having to hear Zanmi say, "I know what I'm talking about, and you don't," I decided that some of her teaching ideas had merit, and adopted them in my most recent THEO class. Not all of them, mind you; I still think some ideas were fully wrong-headed. But looking at them confrontationally kept me from seeing what had merit and what didn't. I should also note that it is entirely possible that her confrontational stance was partially or even completely in my head; perhaps I too readily view contrary opinions as attacks.
I run up against this issue, not only in the occasional teaching skirmish, but also in my other field, music. Lots of people have opinions on music. I tend not to listen to their opinions, though, as they mainly have opinions on types of music that I care little about. Still, there are enough denizens of the internet that a good number of them have opinions on contemporary art music. I agree with some of these opinions, and I disagree with some of them, but more often than not, I find myself disagreeing what they say. I guess a lot of essays being written about art music these days are cast in that confrontational light: the writer wishes to decry some practice they consider unworthy. And since said practice must be widespread or influential -- otherwise they would not need to decry it -- their writing takes the tone of "I'm right, and everyone else is wrong." Which of course means that I will be inclined to disagree with everything they say. Even if I agree wholeheartedly with their sentiments, I will find ways to pick at their arguments, find flaws in their rhetoric. I guess I just hate everything, right? Even when I feel I fundamentally disagree with a writer's opinion, I have to wonder if I'm not letting my desire to not be told what to think color my evaluation. And when, as is typically the case, I fall somewhere between complete agreement and complete disagreement, it becomes particularly tough to figure things out. Sometimes I wonder if I really have my own opinions, when it comes to the music I love so much.
Case in point: here is an article by composer Daniel Felsenfeld, writing against the artistic exploitation of tragedy. He argues from authority: "I was in New York on 9/11, I know what this feels like first-hand," and since the reader presumably doesn't have this first-hand experience -- at least, I certainly didn't -- it becomes "I know what this feels like and you don't." Thus, I am instictively opposed to his arguments. Now, the reason he invokes his authority as a shell-shocked New Yorker is to urge us artists not to waste our time self-indulgently creating memorials to Katrina. And, well, that's one of the things I happen to be working on right now; it is in fact my chief creative project. Is this a bad thing? I, for one, never wrote a 9/11 piece, and probably never will. But last week, hearing about all the awful events as they unfolded, I was struck by an urge I cannot ignore. And I think that is perhaps my first objection to his argument: artists do not always make a fully conscious "choice" to create a particular work. We frequently create because we cannot help ourselves. But that argument only absolves me; it does not save my work. (And heck, it's really like pleading temporary insanity. Not the sort of plea I'd rather make.) Is a piece about Katrina misguided?
I have some other objections to what Felsenfeld writes. I wonder if, by telling us artists to ignore our urges, he is being as selfish as he considers us to be when we do follow them. I wonder if he is ignoring (what I believe to be called) Sturgeon's Law: most of what he calls "Disaster Porn" comes across as such, because 90% of everything is crap. Of course, as he points out, such a piece of Disaster Porn is likely to gain performances strictly because it is about the Disaster, and not on its artistic merits, so the crap floats to the top, if you will permit me to overuse the metaphor. And audiences will be reacting not to the music, but to the events it evokes. I happen to believe that some of the music I have written for my Katrina piece is in fact quite beautiful, but would you know it amongst the stock emotions that will be called up?
Although I instinctively disagree with Felsenfeld, and have something of a conflict of interest in having already started writing the piece, I find myself worrying. I don't think I could wholly abandon a piece this far along, but part of me wonders if I should hide the fact that it is about Katrina and New Orleans. Of course, this would probably be a thin veil of deceit -- the third movement is a dirge, in the style of a New Orleans brass band. But I can always pretend it's just another bass trombone sonata. I'd just be doing the opposite of what Penderecki did, when he took an ordinary piece for string orchestra, and decided to rename it Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima.
I'm curious as to what others think about Felsenfeld's opinion. Is it exploitative for me, a privileged composer far from the effects of the storm, to turn this into music? Is it hurtful towards those who have lost so much? And what if it's merely self-indulgent? After all, can't the same be said of art in general?
-Tortoise
I run up against this issue, not only in the occasional teaching skirmish, but also in my other field, music. Lots of people have opinions on music. I tend not to listen to their opinions, though, as they mainly have opinions on types of music that I care little about. Still, there are enough denizens of the internet that a good number of them have opinions on contemporary art music. I agree with some of these opinions, and I disagree with some of them, but more often than not, I find myself disagreeing what they say. I guess a lot of essays being written about art music these days are cast in that confrontational light: the writer wishes to decry some practice they consider unworthy. And since said practice must be widespread or influential -- otherwise they would not need to decry it -- their writing takes the tone of "I'm right, and everyone else is wrong." Which of course means that I will be inclined to disagree with everything they say. Even if I agree wholeheartedly with their sentiments, I will find ways to pick at their arguments, find flaws in their rhetoric. I guess I just hate everything, right? Even when I feel I fundamentally disagree with a writer's opinion, I have to wonder if I'm not letting my desire to not be told what to think color my evaluation. And when, as is typically the case, I fall somewhere between complete agreement and complete disagreement, it becomes particularly tough to figure things out. Sometimes I wonder if I really have my own opinions, when it comes to the music I love so much.
Case in point: here is an article by composer Daniel Felsenfeld, writing against the artistic exploitation of tragedy. He argues from authority: "I was in New York on 9/11, I know what this feels like first-hand," and since the reader presumably doesn't have this first-hand experience -- at least, I certainly didn't -- it becomes "I know what this feels like and you don't." Thus, I am instictively opposed to his arguments. Now, the reason he invokes his authority as a shell-shocked New Yorker is to urge us artists not to waste our time self-indulgently creating memorials to Katrina. And, well, that's one of the things I happen to be working on right now; it is in fact my chief creative project. Is this a bad thing? I, for one, never wrote a 9/11 piece, and probably never will. But last week, hearing about all the awful events as they unfolded, I was struck by an urge I cannot ignore. And I think that is perhaps my first objection to his argument: artists do not always make a fully conscious "choice" to create a particular work. We frequently create because we cannot help ourselves. But that argument only absolves me; it does not save my work. (And heck, it's really like pleading temporary insanity. Not the sort of plea I'd rather make.) Is a piece about Katrina misguided?
I have some other objections to what Felsenfeld writes. I wonder if, by telling us artists to ignore our urges, he is being as selfish as he considers us to be when we do follow them. I wonder if he is ignoring (what I believe to be called) Sturgeon's Law: most of what he calls "Disaster Porn" comes across as such, because 90% of everything is crap. Of course, as he points out, such a piece of Disaster Porn is likely to gain performances strictly because it is about the Disaster, and not on its artistic merits, so the crap floats to the top, if you will permit me to overuse the metaphor. And audiences will be reacting not to the music, but to the events it evokes. I happen to believe that some of the music I have written for my Katrina piece is in fact quite beautiful, but would you know it amongst the stock emotions that will be called up?
Although I instinctively disagree with Felsenfeld, and have something of a conflict of interest in having already started writing the piece, I find myself worrying. I don't think I could wholly abandon a piece this far along, but part of me wonders if I should hide the fact that it is about Katrina and New Orleans. Of course, this would probably be a thin veil of deceit -- the third movement is a dirge, in the style of a New Orleans brass band. But I can always pretend it's just another bass trombone sonata. I'd just be doing the opposite of what Penderecki did, when he took an ordinary piece for string orchestra, and decided to rename it Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima.
I'm curious as to what others think about Felsenfeld's opinion. Is it exploitative for me, a privileged composer far from the effects of the storm, to turn this into music? Is it hurtful towards those who have lost so much? And what if it's merely self-indulgent? After all, can't the same be said of art in general?
-Tortoise