[Note: A version of this column first appeared at The Woodshed.] Thoughts on the relationship between conductor and orchestra By Matthew Dallman I VERY MUCH RECOMMEND that you watch this video (requires Windows Media Player), care of The New Yorker's Justin Davidson. It is an insightful exploration of the conductor/orchestra relationship through key players from the 20th and early 21st centuries. In the print edition of that magazine, Davidson goes on to quote Robert Spano, conductor of the Atlanta Symphony, who says: "I no longer feel that the test of the value of something is time. What's much more important is the power of a musical experience in a given moment. And that can happen with a Paganini violin piece that most of us agree shouldn't be called a masterpiece. I think of composers as setting up possibilities, not creating objects. There's no such thing as Beethoven's Seventh. It's only a hypothesis. . . . Pieces of music are wormholes, which we can enter to escape our normal experience of time."Obviously this quote covers a lot of very fertile ground in but few sentences. I feel obliged to point out that the first two sentences are a needless distinction that can be tied thusly: The test of the value of a musical work is the power of its experience in a given moment demonstrated over and over again through the ages. If Beethoven's Seventh only sparked soaring flights of imagination and sensuous experience once, but never again, would we think as highly of it? Of course not. That piece rises to the level of the highest art because it has demonstrably evoked rapturous depth beyond simple language time and time again, in the hands of many different people, even those from different cultures and sub-cultures. What is required for that to happen is the attitude that music is a living tradition, and that all who treasure it (from composer to conductor to musician to lover) are its gardeners. Now, I think I can understand why Spano puts this kind of emphasis where he does: there is deep-seated streak of close-mindedness in the Western Classical tradition that favors "time-tested" composers from the Bach to Brahms era first, and up until only recently, left mere scraps for other composers. Thus Spano counters that belief with an insight that, I think, most people can understand and even agree with. And he does this to expand the menu to allow for the works of other composers to be heard by audiences. (Spano himself is a champion in this regard, such as of the Argentinian composer Osvaldo Golijov.) So keeping music alive is Spano's clear admonition, and he is to be applauded for it. Regarding whether composers make objects, no one needs reminder that to appreciate a score of music without hearing it is usually quite silly (and only not when the appreciation is on technical grounds by composers intent on learning from others). In the same way, architectural blueprints have beauty only in the shop; it's what results from those blueprints that can make us gawk in awe. So it is not at all wrong to say that composers create possibilities (or, technically, Spano's term "hypothesis", though I am increasingly loathe at the intrusion of science directly upon the arts and aesthetic experience). Taken one step further, acoustical properties inherent in all sound reveal that outside of its performance, tones exists only as eternal potential; in follows that music, being the orderly play of tones, lies eternally dormant as well, until performance. This fact is not all that unique to music, though; I've already mentioned architecture, but of course live theatre uses a script that functions akin to a score or blueprint. Hell, the most obvious example is cooking (which I do hold as a form of art) — no recipe in history has given anyone gas. Thus much philosophical is already settled in the minds of regular art-going folk, and need not distract us. Yes, music largely exists in the performance, or the recording of that performance. Composers (along with architects and playwrights) create orderly directions (or "pointing-out instructions"), which taken in isolation are conceptual but in even pedestrian application carve the river bed through which artistry flows, and all effects that brings. These can puzzle certain philosophers till the cows come home, but working artists, not so much. You'd think that philosophers would do well to more regularly consult with working artists who don't put on airs, about themselves, their art, nor the place in history of the philosopher. But what catches me in all this is the mention in the video linked above about the "current" passed and exchanged between conductor and orchestra members. The clear analogy is to electrical current, and how it is a catalyst for the most profound orchestral performances, as well as the best relationships between conductor and ensemble. What I think every artist who works with others is looking for is the way to bring about this current in a palpable, dare I say consistent manner. This mini-doc doesn't allow too much by way of secrets into the "how" of such a methodology. For that, often the best source is, in this case, the words of composers and conductors themselves, and a lot of reading between the lines. But one thing is clear to me, at least in general, as revealed in Davidson's discussion of conductors Furtwangler and Tilson Thomas: much has to do with empathy that the conductor has with the musicians. Or in other words, it has to do with whatever intimacy arises when sensitive individuals are motivated enough to work very hard, and do that work together. I think the mistake is to look at the intimacy and analyze the characteristics of it. To do that is like wanting to know how to grow a flower by investigating its blooming petals. You'll look and look and look, but while likely learning much, none of it will tell you how to grow a flower. Nor will you ever learn how to make a watch by merely looking at the time. In other words, the secrets lay upstream in the creative process, previous to the flower's petals, and to leave the analogy, previous to what results in the intimacy between conductor and orchestra. When framed in this way, the important inquiry into how to bring this about leads one towards topics such as discipline, negotiating fear, trust of others, adaptability, chemistry, sexuality, and capacity to communicate. All of which are both entirely worthy to better understand as well as a longer story outside of my point here — which is this: empathy is a living dynamic, the direct comprehension of which is as difficult as with understanding the vital force of organic beings, and which from the point of view of the learning artist, ought never be construed in any specific example of it as a literal model in and of itself of "how to do it". Neither the look of the flower, the time shown on the clock, nor the particularities of a specific conductor/orchestra relationship with yield the true learning opportunity. The real lesson, as I said, is upstream (or in the case of the flower analogy, down the root and under the top soil; or with the watch, next to the watchmaker). All of which renders most commentary on particular examples of profound collective empathy in orchestral music or anywhere else as little more than passing trifle; that is, unless the commentary on empathy leads one to consider that which gave it life and animation. Yes, learners are forever relegated to reading between the lines. And yes, my implication is that this is a kind of spiritual concern. What saves the inquiry from slouching into mush is that empathy is spiritual; thus everything I suggest applies to the do's and don'ts of investigating empathy also applies to its spiritual aspect. "Spiritual" is really just a fancified term for what brings people together, and what dynamic grows in that environment of rituals and cultic fervor. The thing is to find that environment, that which works for your temperament and ambitions. Once you do, embrace it, reach out to those there with you, use whatever arises, plant seeds, allow for incubation, and then harvest those seeds at appropriate times. For the creators among us, the wise know that there is simply not a lot on the surface to get overly concerned about. What is on the surface is only the tip of the iceberg. Of couse, the flower is always to be appreciated for its unique charm and beauty (and for most people, the flower itself is plenty, and I'm usually one of those); it just ought not be confused with what the gardener irrigates, nor the importance as well as limits of the importance of the gardener, him or herself, nor their methods used in the field or shop that, from one point of view, appear fantastically electrical, but from another, seem fantastically boring. Which is why, though the semantics can be an obstacle, I've always liked the argument that all artists are in the business of making magic for others. Because I mean, really, aren't we, of an especially electrical kind? —Matthew Dallman is the composer and producer of the full-length album, I Am Sound. NOT YET A SUBSCRIBER TO POLYSEMY? Make the choice to become one today — click here for POLYSEMY Print, or here for POLYSEMY Digital. ©2006 Polysemy. All rights reserved. |
