Viser innlegg med etiketten Boulez. Vis alle innlegg
Viser innlegg med etiketten Boulez. Vis alle innlegg

fredag 24. september 2010

Interview with Hans Zender 31.01.10, complete transcript

This interview with Hans Zender has been published in edited form in Norwegian in the web magazine Ballade. The following is a nearly complete transcript of the interview.

ZENDER: I think that the first way to think the avant garde after Schoenberg, or with Schoenberg plus Webern, is going in a typically European way, going straight ahead: “avant garde”. And don’t look back! So it was a sort of revolution in the material and in the thinking, so we have to go… I lived in this time after the war, as a young boy, and I was together with Stockhausen and Nono and Boulez in the fifties, as a school boy I always went to Darmstadt to hear the new way of music, and at the same time I had the rest of the old big tradition of German classics, in my city of Wiesbaden there was a very strong tradition of classical music at this time. Today it is…

ENGE: You started composing really early as well?

Yes. (laughs) Yes, yes. But it was a big difference, of course. Here I had… I saw Fürtwängler as a school boy, and I had piano lessons with Walter Gieseking and Edwin Fischer, and in the same time I saw the young Boulez and Nono. It was a sort of schizophrenia, but very exciting for me. And so I learned that we are living in different times at the same time, and different languages and so on. And this is our destiny, I think we have to cultivate it, not to fight against it. Because the avant garde tried to be the only idea of music after the war. And therefore it was a big resistance of the conservatives. And now, we live in different worlds. We have a ghetto for new music, like in America too, we have a ghetto for baroque music, and a ghetto for opera music… (laughs).

No communication.

No communication, and I have tried all my life to find ways of putting together again, still, these ways of music which are going in different directions. But I am an only person. I had a speech with Boulez, and I said to him – it’s long ago – mon ami, in every concert there should be a mixture of classical and modern music, and he said: “No, no, no. No, we have to be specialized. You cannot find an audience for it all together, it has to be here so, and here so.” In a way, he is right, of course. For commercial thinking, it’s clear. But it remains the idea to have a European tradition, also, together with the avant garde, for me personally. And therefore – I’m speaking of the second step of the avant garde – with Bernd Alois Zimmermann and later musicians in the seventies, where, this looking only in the future is not the only way, but you can also look into the future and also look into the past as a musician and as a composer. So this is the first time that we can put together the future and the past. To handle with an old material must not only be a sort of a destruction of the past. It could be also a sort of new construction of the past. This I tried in Schumann-Phantasie and in Winterreise and so on. It’s not to break the classical, but to try to live in the time of production, in the old time of the production of the piece, with the different way we hear and think today. This is a strange idea… (laughs) … but I think it’s not absurd. It must be a sort of rebirth of the old things, and perhaps to show the radicalism that every music has had in the beginning. And then also radicalism playing enough, and it will be sort of a cultural standard, and then all revolutionary, all new things of the work is away. But you have to refind – for example with Schumann or with Schubert – the fascinating idea that this composer had in the beginning of writing this piece, and to show this, I have to use different materials and different ways than these composers.

So it’s an idea of reading as well, isn’t it, in the literal way…

Yes, of course.

An interpretation which is more than feeling, but rather being aware of the text, of the writing of an older composer. Do you think in those terms?

Yes. I learned a bit from Derrida, and of course, also Heidegger had this idea in his thinking about Nietzsche. Nietzsche idea of Plato was the biggest example of this problem. Nietzsche had the idea to go behind Plato, to the beginning of European thinking. And of course, he has a completely different interpretation of Plato than the medieval or Leibniz or Kant. And this is the same thing.

Yes, “making it new”, like Pound called it. It strikes me that your way of thinking about music is quite bound up with literal and philosophical influences. What do you think about the relationship between music and literature?

Yes, it is an interesting question, and I am [laughs] trying myself to find it out. It is a little bit like Anselm Kiefer, you know Anselm Kiefer, the very famous painter in Germany and also in America, where he is very popular. He has also a lot of associations with literature in his works, in his pictures, and I think, I am not sure why I do this, but… I like singing, I have to admit. My first interest in music is singing. Of course, there is in history every time connection with anything else in the literature, so since my youth it’s my instinct that every time I have an idea, I have to write for a singer. And I like literature, yes. I cannot give more reasons.

Yes, because many other composers of your generation are using more like collages of languages sound, or…

Ja, ja, ja…

… everyday language, and things like that…


Of course. Those things…

… and staying away from literature.

I know it. But for me, the connection to the great literature is the most important thing. But because, perhaps in my subconscious way, I will be a poet and a musician at the same time [laughs], like Hölderlin I like so much. You know I didn’t make melodies for Hölderlin’s texts, but it will be spoken in my string quartets. So we have a duality of the music and the sound of the text, but there are connections between them rhythmically or also gestures, gestures of language that correspond with the music gestures. So there are other possibilities to compose, not only to sing in the old way. But of course, in my operas, there is normal song, so…

Yes, and you still write a lot of pieces for sung voice. So I wonder, what is it in Hölderlin’s poetry in special that resists melody, or should be spoken instead of sung?

What fascinates me in Hölderlin’s poetry is his way to put the things one after the other. There is an expression in literature: parataxis. That is what I also like as a composer, to put one thing and another thing and a third thing after another without transitions. So I could also put some stylistic fields, one, two, three, and four after another. I am not searching for unity in the sense of a complete work, which has a beginning and an end, or stylistic unity, but for plurality as a basic idea of art. And I find this in Hölderlin’s late works, in the hymns and so on: fragmented thinking.

Yes, and it’s in line with your compositional thinking as a whole, maybe…

Yes.

…the contradictions and the tensions between different parts, as we where talking about. Is it like you discovered something in Hölderlin that you already had as a part of your way of composing?

There is a lot irrationally made, and subconsciously done. I am very conscious, I try to be a conscious man, but during composing: not at all. I have to admit it: it is absolutely irrational. I can invent some reasons for you, if you like, but really, I cannot give you the reasons for this, or for the Asiatic things you will find on the CD I gave you. I like also these small koans of Asiatic thinking, because it fascinates me in my ground, and I cannot show my intellect the reason of it. But I guess I wouldn’t compose if I knew all this! [laughs] It’s a way to solve our existence problem. And I think all the modernity, all the modern life and thinking, has to go from the idea of unity, from the idea of cultural unity, to an openness which is not systematic and unified, but it’s only a being together of different things, with a lot of trying to make connections between the different things. But not making before a sort of solution, and to say: “for me it’s all bounded in political problems”, this is one way, or religious problems, “this is because I am a catholic or Buddhist” or something. No, I will find my way as an artist, and so I have to make a sort of aventure during writing, to find a sort of unity that I didn’t know before. And perhaps not after.

Not a system.

No, not a system, that’s it. When I was a student, it was the big time of Boulez and Stockhausen, and then it was systems of systems of systems of systems. It was good, and very progressive in its thinking, but it must come to an end. And in the seventies it was the end of this sort of unity, and today, I see that it was the last idea, the last connection to the European tradition, to have systems. Yes? Because always, in old Europe, we had systems, philosophical systems, artistic systems. And now [serialism?] they have avant garde, but avant garde as system! And this is for me not convincing. Then there was Zimmermann, the first man who showed me that you can make holes in your systems, and then you have an open work. But it opened also new problems, of course, aesthetical problems, and you have to go a step further and say, we have not a closed aesthetical work today, and also perhaps, also the lonely (einsam) composer must not always, in every case, find a system for himself, he can also work with an open system. We have this idea of open systems in science also.

Do you think of open forms?


Open forms, that is the first step. A bit naïve for me, today, but Brown is nice, and a right idea. Open form, but also the open stylistic form in Zimmermann’s work.
For me, he is the most important composer after the war, I have to admit. Messiaen, too.

Do you think he has gotten the reception he should have had?

No, not at all, no. Not enough. And it was (laughs) 20 years ago or 30, I had a little bit friendship with Boulez, and I asked him to conduct the Soldatensymphonie by Zimmermann, and he did it, in Paris, and then I asked him after the performance, how did you find it? And he said: “No, it was the music of schizophrenia”. He didn’t understand it, and he didn’t like it. And at that moment I understood more of our evolution after the war. This is clear: if I think in a technological way, progressive, progressive, progressive, I should not look back to the sensitivities of the old centuries. But if I do not, if I make shocks like Zimmermann, if I put the window open to hear Debussy or Mozart or Bach, then you open new sorts of formal possibilities in music.

Yes. I am very interested in this kind of music that started after serialism. But I wonder, can you try to express what the real difference is between the old neo-classicism, the way Stravinsky or Prokofiev used the tradition, and the way Zimmermann or yourself go into tradition?

I think Stravinsky is a sort of predecessor. But he defined a new closed stylistic world. Influenced by Pulcinella by Pergolesi, or I don’t know, by Rossini or Haydn, oder was, but he created a repertoire of signs for a piece which is made like the old symmetric forms. Also Hindemith, if he’s contact with baroque music, his counterpoint is very interesting, you know Komposition 30, the concertos for viola, violin and piano, really interesting music, but it’s made like… wir sagen in deutsch, “wie ein Strichmuster”. (laughs)

A knitting pattern!

Ja, im Grunde sind das Patterns, die sehr gut gemacht, und sehr schön sind, aber in sich wieder ausgeschlossen, ohne Schizophrenia! (laughs) I think what Boulez called schizophrenic, is the point of all this. It’s not the vision of a new, defined technological world, but it is the contrast between the individualism, as the most important thing of European thinking for me, individualism in the extreme, this and to have in our world of technique, but not adapting technology, but fighting against it, to have different worlds and to show the audience that we are living in a, not in a closed world but in a very multidimensional world. So it should not be a simple new style, but a style with different colours. The going on of a piece should be like an adventure. Yesterday, at the general rehearsal… the composer I like the most is living here in Frankfurt, Rolf Riehm. He is so systematic that he avoids all systems. (laughs)

Systematically anti-systematic!


Yes, but I like him very much, and he had a wonderful new piece in Donaueschingen last year. On the contrary, my friend Lachenmann, which I like very much, and I conduct very often his music, he is absolutely in the way of the old avant garde. He is a purist. He is a development of the Boulez avant garde, with new techniques, of course.

But you yourself, I wonder, in the beginning, when you were full of tradition from your home, from your schooling, and you met the Darmstadt avant garde: is this a kind of schizophrenia that you still have, because you clearly write very different types of pieces?

For me, it’s really a sort of task, something I have to solve; I have a problem which I have to solve, not only me, of course. I’m against; I don’t like the idea of a world which is only technology and mathematic thinking, which forgets the individual dimensions of man.

So this is what went wrong with serialism for you…

Yes.

… it’s the lack of the subject, maybe?

I think so, but maybe it’s too… I mean, a figure like Lachenmann is not so simple. He has really very existentialistic attitudes, and this is absolutely true and good. But sometimes so the classicism, the French, also or in England or America, or Adams and so on, for me it’s absolutely silly, because there is no contradiction in the art. So art makes not the effort to speak against this bureaucratic and technological world, which we have more and more.

So it’s commercial music, in a way?


Yes, of course, that is the problem.

I had a question about the postmodern debate. You quite fit into some of the ideas there, but one of the ideas which is not typical for you, is to combine so-called serious and entertainment music. Why is it important for you to keep those things apart?

Because I have the idea that the sense of the music is coming from something else, from the effort to be concentrated. And to look for the – in Kant’s world you say “das Erhabene”, that is his term, the sublime. Or in the old times, it was music as sakrale Musik, and this is the most important thing for me. But we have lost a normal way to make music as a concentration or a meditation, what you call it is not important, but to go to the fundaments of human thinking. So I find it in Bruckner, of course, and in Bach, especially. But also in Schoenberg or Messiaen, of course. But not in this technological stuff, which is for me very cold, and not in the commercial thinking. So I have the idea I have to make something in this way, and this excludes to be commercial or to be a minimal musician or something, for me personally. The colleagues who like to write commercial music, it’s okay, but it’s not my point (laughs). I’m perhaps a sort of radical, a radicalist, in this way of music, to look after the fundamental ideas of man. But not as ideas, especially, but I speak very often of the Logos of the music, not the Logos only of language or of mathematics, but there is a special Logos of music. But we have to find him and conserve him in our world, where there is so much sort of distraction and entertainment and superficial things. You have the possibility to make centripetal or centrifugal, and I like music which is centripetal, not centrifugal.

Like “Centering”, the piece by Brown yesterday, it’s the same idea.

Yes, it’s absolutely the same idea.

So for you, music is quite clearly a spiritual phenomenon, something to do with being human. But one could misunderstand what you said about the Logos of music, that it was something stable, something always the same and timeless. But you think of music as something changing and flexible, I think. How would you explain that?


For Nietzsche, this Logos of the music, or this “Vernunft” of the music as he calls it, is an expression of what he called “Wille zur Macht”. And “Wille zur Macht” is the idea that life creates itself, in all stages and every time in a new way. So “Wille zur Macht” is all what we do as next, but also the sort of building chains to the past, building traditions and so on, but especially it’s also the renovation of material and of life and of all things. And this is the Logos of the music, to go on, but not to forget what the evolution of the human mind has created. I think that our modern… in the way modern music is made in Europe today, it’s not enough history of the modernism himself. We are forgetting in this moment the modernism of the fifties and the sixties, as music. And I think it’s very important to remember: what did the early Nono do, and before, of course the Vienna classic, with early Boulez, the early Messiaen, it’s very important to know exactly the connection back to Debussy, to Wagner, to Bruckner and so on. We are thinking as avantgardists only from the seventies or from the eighties (laughs). It’s so short phases, so I think it really important that the avant garde circles, the avant garde festivals also make some time for retrospectives. For me a Zimmermann retrospective would be very, very important, of course, also Brown, and some persons. Messiaen is played, so that would not be necessary to do something, also Schoenberg. Webern, not enough! No.

So it’s a kind of misunderstood avant-gardism, maybe, always trying to kill the fathers?

That is what I mean, that is what I mean. It has turned me in this sort of avant garde I had as a student sort of before my eyes. So I found Zimmermann as a contraposition. He is a wise man and a really great artist, because he is complete. And he knows, if I look in the future, at the same time, I look back. He spoke of the “Kugelgestalt” of time.

It is very interesting, because I think maybe the way that you compose, you kind of use the modernism of the fifties and sixties like just a tradition amongst the other traditions.

Yes! Yes, exactly, you did understand what I mean. It’s so difficult for most musicologists to understand this point! (laughs) They think I’m naïve or something, I don’t know…

[...] Twelve tone technique in its pure Gestalt, is of course a sort of systematic thinking, and has something to do with technological thinking, but also our normal tempered system is thought in this way, in the last century, also in Bach’s time, the eighteenth century. So it’s coming, this evolution, not only from the 20th century, but it’s coming from the history of Europe. And it had to go to this point, of course, to the technology. But I’m trying to ask what the tempered system is, so I came to my microtonal systems - you heard it yesterday, the small intervals – to fight against this orthodoxy of half tone music. Because the half tone is an artificial way to think in music. We need such systems to speak, but at the same time we have to ask, what will be destructed with this tempered system, for example the pure intervals. If I take the difference, I take also a material in my hands that is schizophrenic! Because we have in the same time the idea of pure intervals and of a tempered system which is equidistant and is systematic. We are living with this schizophrenia since three centuries! This is very important, but not all is conscious about this, only a few persons.

So this is a task you have, in a way, to find a creative solution to…

Maybe, I don’t know. But I like to work with these small differences.

Yes, the contradictions. You write a lot about this Heraclitian sentence about “gegenstrebige Fügung”. Would you say that these paradoxes are kind of a creative source for you?

Yes. That’s it, that’s it. I think that if you would like to find my heart (laughs), there it is, there.

You have also written about the need for creating ones own language. In this postmodern situation where all music is there at the same time, I feel that at the same time you are looking for a personal voice, or something that is hanging together, in a thought. Do you think that composers have to find a new, their own language in our time?

I think we have not at all the sort of possibility to make connections… no, bad said… we have no other possibility than to find our individual self in art. In old centuries, there was a sort of collective language, collective systems. Also in moral things or in religious things, and so on, but now we are condemned (laughs) to be an individual, for my personal few. I like very much this big painter, Barnett Newman, and he said once that the situation of modern artists in our time, it was in the fifties he said it, is to stay vis a vis of the chaos. That is true, I think. So I said it to all my pupils, my students, in later times: this is the first you have to learn. We have no possibility to do anything convincing, only if we give our personal idea. This doesn’t exclude to take stylistic Mittel […was heisst es… not means, material ]. You can use all materials, historical materials or progressive material or electronics or something, but this is not the point. You have to make a new collection, only following the personal, inner self.

So in a way, composing is like interpretation…

Yes!

…of the past and of the situation?

Yes, it’s the same thing. In the old times, you made it subconsciously. But we have to be conscious today, therefore, we have to make it clear. I have to go to work with all… all materials are disponible (available). I have not to invent the materials, I have to invent a way to put it together.

That’s interesting. That’s longer than Adorno came. Before I started the interview, we talked about Adorno. What is wrong with Adorno’s theory today, do you think?

He didn’t think in the tradition of … he doesn’t use the word “time”! (Laughs). If you look through his books, I didn’t find the word “time” in his work, it is very strange. And he is thinking only music bound to word. So he is moving in the atmosphere of – in the highest point of intellectuality, of course – of mastership in the tradition of the European philosophy. But I think he thinks like the late Hegel about music, and not more. And he didn’t find the point of the modern in the sense of dialectic – not dialectic, of this existential contradiction, this magic point of paradoxie – he doesn’t like paradoxes, I think, he is always dialectic in his thinking, like the late Hegel. But dialectic is not the same as this paradoxie, which you find for example in Zen. Zen is working only with paradoxes, and therefore I like Zen very much, and so I learned a lot from Cage. Generally, Cage is misunderstood in Europe, because the like to interpret him with late Hegel arguments, and you cannot reach Cage in this way. For my, so far as I…

So what does Cage mean for you personally?


For me, Cage is the training to hear the hearing. Not some pieces or styles or collections of things musically. Not forms, not ideas, no. Only to sit and to hear what is going on. So, open ears! No, that… this sort of concentrated hearing. It could be with music or without music. This is really fascinating, for this is something really new for European thinking. It’s something to do, but if you come from the Asiatic standpoints, it is quite normal, to be in the emptiness.

So, there is an interesting contradiction between the ideas of Cage and maybe, the ideas of Zimmermann, the way I see it…

Yes.

… filling the time with associations and having this reservoir of tradition, which Cage doesn’t want.

Yes, he doesn’t want it, of course, that’s a big difference. I am European too, I have to live with our tradition, in this… but Cage showed me another way to hear and to think. He’s a sort of way to live in a world of plurality. Silly thing to say, but I mean, he shows the plurality without order. We had in old Europe never thought of plurality (laughs). And we had to find it, [silly] thing to say, but of course: for every individual, another problem. Every [man?] has to solve it by himself. And perhaps art, the work of art, could show you one way – not for all the same, but one – one way of thousands of ways.

Yes, interesting. And it seems like you have always been open to this kind of contrasting influences, making your own thoughts around them.

Yes.

It’s the same with Scelsi, you knew him, I understand… (Zender smiles)… and you were one of the first to take him seriously as a composer.What did you learn from Scelsi?

I like his showing us another continent of possibilities which is not known in old Europe: the continuity of sound. This is a sort of “Super-Bruckner”! (Laughs). Very static, quite contrary to Cage! Because it’s not the pluralism, or plurality, but the absolute unity.

It’s almost monomaniac.


Monomaniac, yes. It is, in extreme. I have the feeling that we have to handle always with the same radical positions of thinking in the modern, in modernism. Maybe it’s emptiness, maybe it’s chaos, maybe it’s unity, maybe it’s pluralism. But we have to go to the extremes, and to fight, and to fight our position in between all these things. But I like Scelsi because he was so tough to do this. I did know him, he was a very fascinating gentleman, old gentleman. Very conscious, he was absolutely very clear about what he was doing.

So it was a real radical act he did…

Yes! Yes, yes.

…almost throwing away his reputation and his situation as a composer.

Not very far from Feldman in his position.

I am also interested in a couple of the figures in Darmstadt that were not following quite the same path as Boulez and Stockhausen, like Maderna, and Pousseur maybe. I have the feeling that both of them had a kind of pluralistic view of music at the time, at least Maderna, early, and maybe Pousseur later on. Where you influenced by them?

Of course, but Maderna was in the beginning time of Darmstadt a figure which was not extreme. He was in the middle of all, and therefore very important also. But generally in the fifties, was a big, and sometimes loud struggle of all positions. Not at all tolerant, it was the fighting of positions, and not at all very polite. I heard Messiaen giving his first lessons in Germany about his new system of radical serialism, and at the same time he had some concerts with his early piano music and there was laughter! It was like a cabaret for the students (laughs) and also for the musicologists, who came to these concerts of Messiaen and made a circus and a cabaret out of it, his Fantaisie burlesque or Blick aus dem Jesus Kind… oder so,also, das war schon siemlich, siemlich was los! Aber es geht da kein doch gut. Es war eine spannte Atmosphere, man hat sehr viele Anregungen bekommt.

But Maderna, was he different?

Maderna war, jajaja. Maderna war ein Synthetiseur.

But he wasn’t using his plurality as a position?

No.

He didn’t talk about it?

No. He was very spontaneous, and he wrote very fast, and I think, without too much reflection. He was an instinctive musician, absolutely. Wonderful man. He conducted the first performance of my Canto IV.

Yes?

Oh yes, I liked him very much. I conducted his music very often during my chief conductor time in Saarbrucken [1971-84].

He was writing Hölderlin music as well…


Yes, yes.

Was that an inspiration for you?

No. I saw it in quite another way with Hölderlin. But I liked his pieces, Maderna, very delicate; it’s coming from Dallapiccola, from this sort of Italianism, very… No, no. I tried to give him a contraposition to this.


[...]

In my youth time, I hated all reflections and things and speaking about music, but (laughs) I have changed a little bit!

But I read that you said that Adorno’s musical essays were important for you in your youth?

Yes, of course. I did know Adorno, and he was an impressive man, of course. A wonderful musician!

Yes?

He played very well piano, he sang.

He played and sang for you at Darmstadt?

Yes, yes! Not in Darmstadt, but privately. He could go to an open piano and sing arias of Verdi or Tales of Hoffmann. In the right way! He was a wonderful tenor! (Laughs). Like I said, he was a wonderful musician!

What do you think about his compositions?

I conducted his orchestra pieces, and I find that it’s good music.

Maybe he should be more known for his music?

No, I think I was a great man, and he had to think in his way, but it’s only the stupidity of the younger generations in musicology, which is… you can estimate a great man, but you have not to think in his way for all future, forever.

Do you think that the composers in Darmstadt were influenced by Adorno…

Oh, yes.

…in their thinking about their music?


Not his music, of course. But they are thinking in the way of dialectic history interpretation. It’s the same with Boulez: they cannot think the idea of contradiction. It has to be so, in the right way, progressive, and coming from the history, making revolution, and going the way of the revolution.

Yes. So maybe he thinks dialectically in the way that he wants a synthesis of these contradictions, while you are talking about letting the paradox be a paradox. I had a question about your operas. As a composer, how important is the aspect of the crossing and the interaction of the art forms for you? Are you interested in a synthesis of sound and literature and the visual, or should they rather be juxtaposed as antithetical, as a paradox?
How do you think when you write operas?


Especially in Don Quixote, I tried to make absolute paradoxes. The problem with Don Quixote, is that it needs very much time to be produced, because I have 33 different conceptions of theatre in this piece. And it is a lot of work to make different aspects of singing, speaking, without light, or without sound, without music, only speak, only sound, only… there is one conception where it’s only for Bühnenbild, without persons. So if you could find a balance for all this, you have to rehearse in a absolutely new way. All performances until now were not … it was not enough time to find this balance. In one performance, it was wonderful costumes and Bühnenbild and things like it, ein anderer war sehr schön musikalisch, und schlecht in Szenierung, und so weiter, und so fort. Es war immer nur ein Teil realiziert. Ja, ich weiss... (laughs) Man muss es normal ein halbes Jahr haben, you should have [laughs, of his language switching?] half a year rehearsing time when you do it, but it’s utopian. The best was some part of this piece in Berlin, it was only the half of the piece, one hour and a half, and this was very good, with young people and… they chose only some of these conceptions. I think it was, it was good. In normal time, producing time. But it’s…

…a utopian work.

Yes.

You seem to talk about balance in another way than the synthesis that one had In Romanticism, like Wagner’s Gesamtkunstwerk, where everything is there at the same time. Is that, the type of balance for you, difference, is that something you are thinking about?Your idea of balance, does it have more to do with differences than with making a unity?


I call it not unity, but contrary of unity, is for me the wholeness of a piece. Wholeness must be balanced, but not logically closed. Unity is for me, in my terms, is closed. It’s dialectic. Like the sonata, it’s a unity. But wholeness could be more.

So in a way, you could, you think, you make music that is both fragmented and whole at the same time?

Ja.

It seems like your Chinese pieces, the “Lo-Shu”-pieces, are very much in this way of thinking?

Ja. Ja.

So is that a thought you got from East Asian thinking?

Ja. Lo-shu is very important for me as a model.

So, you have written about this trip to Japan, in 1972 I think it was. What was it really that you experienced there, which made a difference for you?


It was a shock to find another cultural key than in Europe, with the old Japanese forms. Nô theatre, and also with the poetry, I learned to… my wife is making calligraphy, it’s a… I could learn a little bit of these structural ideas. And the architecture, the old architecture, for me it’s marvellous; it’s just the contrary of all our European model thinking. And so… you cannot bring together this world with this world, without sort of a paradox. But the world is open now, and I have to be… I am European, of course, but I was so impressed by this Japanese culture that I cannot forget it! It’s a part of my life. So I have to (laughs) think it together. How? I don’t know! I was a friend of the big philosopher Carl Friedrich von Weizäcker, the brother of the states president, and - he was a physician – and he said in an interview: “I am living in three worlds. The first world is the Christian, and the second world is the natural sciences, and the third world is the Indian culture.” He was very interested in Hinduism, and so… “I cannot bring it together, but all three influenced me in my heart! So I have to live in different worlds as one person”.

That’s very interesting. It’s something of the same that Zimmermann said, that we live in different worlds at the same time.

Yes. And this is against all European rationalism, of course.

Yes. But I think that there are some strands in European literature that are, maybe, on the same track.

Yes, Joyce was. Joyce is fantastic.

Yes, Joyce, and in America, Pound. Zimmermann is quoting Pound very often, and it seems to me that you must have had some fascination for Pound as well, since…

I took the tradition from Zimmerman with handling with Anglo-Saxon literature, because in Germany it is not at all very popular. Nobody knows Pound, and a few people only, Joyce. And it’s so silly… German literature after the war, it’s a mess! It’s terrible, it’s provincial, it’s… I cannot understand it, because Germans are not as stupid as their literature! (Laughs). I don’t find only one person after the war which is important for me.

You don’t find any German writers after the war at all?

No, and not before! Thomas Mann is for me not at all an artist, because… Herman Hesse is known in all the world, but I cannot find that it’s great literature!

And Günter Grass?


(Frowns).

Not for you?


No.

But at the same time, Hölderlin became a canonic figure in Germany in the 20th century.


That’s right, yes. Also with Heidegger. Heidegger wrote a lot after the war about Hölderlin. He was, I think, the first, and before him, Stefan George. Stefan George understood very well Hölderlin’s thinking, I think, because…

[...] About the open form. You said that it was naïve for you. What do you…

Not naïve in the way of silly, I don’t mean, but it was not very much reflected. And the evolution was, with the aleatoric idea, after some years of aleatoric composition, the composers detected that it is just quasi [?], quasi the same to make difficult complex structures and aleatoric structures.

So it was kind of a contradiction to the serialists, maybe, that had…

Maybe.

…been won over again.


It remains a bit different, of course, for if you look back, you have the quality of… the unique quality of Boulez and so on, and the less qualified Lutoslawski or I don’t know, Penderecki, it’s not so comparable. But the effect on the audience is, it’s not the same, but it’s quasi, it’s similar.

So the idea of the open didn’t come through, you think, it didn’t come through as open music?

In my book it’s an article about Earle Brown.

You like Earle Brown’s music?

Yes. I like also Feldman very much. He wrote a piece for me once, a flute concerto. And with Cage, I corresponded. I conducted his big orchestra piece Apartment House. (Laughs). I liked his pieces, yes. But it’s of course… Cage, you cannot take the same level… the same Masstab, wie sagt man, als andere Musik.

And there was a last question I wanted to ask you. In the last years, your theory of harmony has been a quite important thing in your work, I think, the “Gegensträbige Harmonik”…

Yes, yes.

…and in a way, it seems like a system, a kind of defined language. I wondered, don’t you think it’s kind of pluralistic approach you have used?

Yes, you are right. But it’s a partial system, only for pitches. I don’t use a system for the rhythmic or form or all the other aspects. And I try to use this harmonic system in every piece in a new way, so to work with different sections of possibility. This would be a long analytic speech if I were to explain, to show you how differently you can use the system. Because the system allows one to compose in different stylistic worlds. And if you concentrate on certain intervals, the music sounds in a complete other way. So in this “system” in quotation marks, you have not a fixed stylistic identity. It’s only a certain quality of sound, over tone sound, which comes in every case, but it allows different countries of sound to create. So far, I am not suffering from this contradiction of having a system and being anti-systematic. Sometimes I neglect it also, this system, and take free structures.

It has been a great honour to speak to you, and very interesting for my work.

I hope you figured out something... (laughs).

tirsdag 31. mars 2009

Hvilken Darmstadtskole?


Her følger et nytt utdrag fra kapitlet jeg skriver nå. Jeg kritiserer den tyske musikkviteren Dorothea Redepenning for hennes noe enkle analyse interessen for Hölderlin blant modernistisk orienterte komponister som et "Darmstadt-fenomen". Med "Darmstadt" mener vi i musikkhistorisk sammenheng de internasjonale feriekursene for ny musikk som ble arrangert i byen fra 1946, men vi mener oftest, enda mer metonymisk, en gruppe av "strengt serielle" komponister som var sentrale aktører der: bl.a. Boulez, Stockhausen, Nono, Maderna, Pousseur og Berio.


Et hovedproblem i Redepennings analyse er hennes bruk av ”Darmstadt” som en musikkhistorisk enhetlig størrelse. Det er ikke uvanlig blant musikkhistorikere å generalisere uvørent angående de musikalske ideene som utfoldet seg under feriekursene for ny musikk i den første halvdelen av 1950-tallet. Den strenge, ”integrale” serialisme blir altfor ofte betraktet som en felles overordnet ”lov” for alle komponistene som befant seg her i denne perioden, mens det ved nærmere undersøkelse viser seg at en sentral ”seriell” komponist som Maderna var kritisk til ideen om kompositorisk ”konsekvens” fra første stund, og at selv den toneangivende Boulez betraktet serialismen mer som ”et springbrett for fantasien” enn som en forpliktende metode. De estetiske ulikhetene mellom komponistene i den såkalte ”kjernen” av Darmstadt-komponister på 1950-tallet er også i høy grad underkommunisert. Begrepet ”Darmstadtskolen” er stivnet i den grad at Raymond Fearn i sin bok om Maderna ser seg nødt til å gå kraftig i rette med det allerede på første side:


[…] There never was a ’Darmstadt School’ of composers, even during the early 1950s when composers of an avant-garde inclination needed Darmstadt as a focal-point, if a temporary one, in their struggles for recognition and in their desire for the companionship of those of some common attitude to themselves. There were of course some shared beliefs, approaches and aims, but a School needs more than a couple of weeks each year for its true foundation, and in any case the diversity of the music produced by Boulez, Nono, Stockhausen, Pousseur, Berio and others of the younger generation who went to Darmstadt during the 1950s is sufficient to counter any such easy classification.


Men om forestillingen om en enhetlig ”Darmstadtskole” på 1950-tallet opptrer ukritisk hos langt flere enn Redepenning, legges det vanligvis vekt på den selvkritiske dreiningen i retning av aleatorikk og åpen form i Darmstadt mot slutten av 1950-tallet, som delvis ble stimulert av John Cages besøk i 1958. Redepenning er derimot ekstrem i sin benyttelse av ”Darmstadt” som et nærmest overhistorisk, tidløst fenomen, der årstall mellom 1946 og 1978 sjongleres med som likeverdige elementer. Det hun ganske tydelig vil oppnå med denne upresise bestemmelsen, er å benytte ”Darmstadt” som logisk bindeledd mellom Adornos og Bertaux’ omvurderinger av Hölderlin på den ene side og Hölderlinkomposisjonene til Maderna, Nono, Pousseur, Heinz Holliger, Friedhelm Döhl og Wolfgang Rihm på den annen side.


Redepenning har rett i at opprettelsen av sommerkursene i ny musikk i Darmstadt i 1946 må forstås som en reaksjon på nazistenes undertrykkelse av eksperimentering og internasjonal påvirkning i den tyske musikken, og at Adorno spilte en sentral estetisk og musikkpolitisk rolle som en hyppig foreleser i Darmstadt mellom 1950 og 1966. Men det må ikke glemmes at Darmstadtkursene i 1950-årene og begynnelsen av 1960-årene var en sentral og vidtfavnende institusjon, på grunn av sitt både allsidige kurstilbud som fordypet både tradisjonene og de nyeste trendene innenfor musikkteori, komposisjonsteknikk, estetikk, instrumentalteknikk og interpretasjon. Darmstadt var derfor et viktig samlingspunkt for aktørene i den europeiske samtidsmusikken generelt, og det er viktig å vite hvilken musikkhistorisk forenkling man gjør når man setter likhetstegn mellom ”Darmstadt” og et knippe presumptivt serielle komponister. På slutten av 1940-tallet var det ikke Webern og Schönberg, men Stravinskij og Hindemith som ble mest spilt og diskutert i Darmstadt, og som tidligere nevnt var Cages bidrag i 1958 med på å konsolidere en skepsis til de serielle tenkemåtene som allerede var økende, og som hadde vært til stede hos blant andre Maderna helt fra begynnelsen av.

mandag 30. mars 2009

Maderna om flommen av norske komponister


Den ellers så godmodige komponisten og dirigenten Bruno Maderna kom i et intervju fra 1970 med et heftig utfall mot overfloden av komponister, der han trakk frem som en absurditet at det finnes hundrevis av komponister til og med i Costa Rica, på Galapagosøyene - og i Norge!:


"In each of my concerts, I try to put at least one piece of modern music, but one must be confident that one can perform it well, otherwise the public does not understand it and immediately judges it negatively; one bad performance of contemporary music leaves behind a deeper trace than four good performances. One must also be very harsh, almost cruel: not all of those who write music - even if I know them personally - can be considered 'composers'. There are too many composers nowadays; in each country one can read lists of two or three hundred names: Costa Rican composers, Norwegians, from all parts of the world, it's impossible. If you were to tell me of a Norwegian or Patagonian composer living in Paris, I could believe you, but it is difficult to compose if one has always lived in Barbados. There can be phenomena in folk music, but that is not what we mean by contemporary music. We have known the Galapagos Islands for twenty years, so it becomes necessary to play a piece from there, even if there is nothing in it; these are the jokes of the many Societies for Contemporary Music; pieces are played which are really worth nothing, and in this way not only do we spend a lot of money for nothing, we also spend it against real culture. It may be that Earle Brown or Bruno Maderna write good pieces, but it is not the rule. I would be quite happy if an institution were to offer me money to write a piece, and then when they had seen it, were to say 'I don't like it, so I shan't get it played.' We all know that it isn't so easy to write a good piece! There are thousands of composers in America today; perhaps I am exaggerating but there are really a lot of people who write music; the same in France, but of real composers there is only Boulez and perhaps Gilbert Amy. It is the same in Germany: truly worthwhile pieces are a rarity. So we must be careful: for a good audience, an audience which is inclined positively, we must have only worthwhile music played."

torsdag 12. mars 2009

Henri Pousseur (1929-2009)




I dag leste jeg at den belgiske komponisten Henri Pousseur (f. 1929) døde 6.mars. Merkelig nok døde han akkurat idet jeg begynte å studere ham. Siden Pousseur er en komponist som iblant blir nevnt (oppramset), men egentlig er så godt som glemt, hyller jeg ham her med noen ord. Han viser seg ved nærmere betraktning å være interessant, ikke minst fordi han sammen med bl.a. Bruno Maderna (1920-73) kan gi et mer nyansert bildet av Darmstadt-modernismen på 1950-tallet enn det som dessverre er vanlig. Bildet til høyre viser Pierre Boulez (1925-), Maderna og Karlheinz Stockhausen (1928-2007) i Darmstadt i 1956.


Nå holder jeg på å skrive om den modernistiske Hölderlinmusikken på 1960-tallet, der Maderna og Pousseur er sentrale bidragsytere. Begge disse komponistene var med i den "innerste kretsen" i det serialistiske miljøet i Darmstadt på 1950-tallet, men var estetisk nokså løst knyttet til det som ettertiden (i høy grad feilaktig) har oppfattet som streng serialisme. Begge var opptatt av å blande stiler i komposisjonene sine, Maderna forvirret Darmstadtpublikummet ved å blande gamle og nye, "høye" og "lave" stilelementer allerede i 1950. Han laget imidlertid ingen teori bak det, annet enn at han stadig uttrykte sin skepsis til såkalt kompositorisk "konsistens". For dirgenten og tidligmusikkentusiasten Maderna var det rett og slett en selvfølge å benytte sitt nære forhold til en rekke stiler. Likevel var han en høyt respektert komponist og lærer i Darmstadt, og etter hans tidlige død i 1973 hyllet Boulez ham med sitt store verk "Rituel in memoriam Bruno Maderna".

Da Pousseur ble opptatt av stilblanding på 1960-tallet, var hans innstilling mer systematisk enn Madernas: han ville lage et "kontinuum" mellom de historisk tilgjengelige stilene, og organiserte dette blant annet ved hjelp av tilfeldighetsteknikker. ("Min" komponist Hans Zender (1936-) videreutviklet tanken om et stilkontinuum fra 1970-tallet av, riktignok uten å fokusere på tilfeldighet). Pousseurs store prosjekt i denne sammenheng var operaen "Votre Faust" (1961-68), skrevet sammen med forfatteren Michel Butor. Musikkhistorien lekes med og gjennomarbeides i denne seks timer lange "hendelsen", og publikum er underveis med på å velge hvilke stiler som skal benyttes til en hver tid. Dette var vel å merke lenge før "postmodernisme" ble et "coffee table"-tema. Operaen ble en fiasko og er ikke tilgjengelig i innspilling, men Pousseur betraktet den hele livet som sitt hovedverk. Lytt til dette interessante utdraget fra "Votre Faust", "Chevauchée fantastique", hvor den musikkhistoriske veien fra Mozart til Boulez tegnes opp og problematiseres, til dels i umerkelige overganger og til dels med stilbrytende "glimt":

fredag 31. oktober 2008

Publikasjon II


Min sammenfatning av hovedoppgaven i artikkelform, "Systemet og musikken" er nettopp blitt publisert i den norske musikkvitenskapens årbok, Studia Musicologica Norvegica. Ta kontakt med meg hvis dere ikke har stykket jeg skriver om, Boulez' "Structures Ia".

onsdag 23. januar 2008

Boulez og Cage anno 1951

Denne skissen skrev jeg i 1998, i begynnelsen av hovedfagsprosjektet. Oppgaven skulle egentlig dreie seg om "anonymitetsestetikk" hos Boulez, Cage, Stockhausen og Xenakis rundt 1951. Stockhausen og Xenakis forsvant fort, og til sist ofret jeg også den glade Cage. Men jeg har aldri sluttet med å være fascinert av ham og den rare, fine musikken hans.

Pierre Boulez og John Cage står i mange musikkhistorikeres øyne som de grunnleggende motpolene i etterkrigstidens eksperimentelle musikk. Og som alltid produserer polariseringen karikaturer. ”Boulez” er den personifiserte strenghet, ”Cage” er den anarkistiske frihet; ”Boulez” er skrivebordsmusikeren som med stort alvor teller til tolv, ”Cage” er den viljesløse buddhist som overlater komposisjonsarbeidet til en neve terninger, og som smiler like bredt til alle lyder som tilfeldigvis kommer forbi. De fleste etterkrigsmodernistene har plassert seg mellom disse ekstreme figurene, som har vært forbilder for noen og skrekkeksempler for mange.

Kontrasten mellom Boulez’ og Cages musikk er da også åpenbar. Boulez har i over 50 år arbeidet med sitt livsverk – ikke på Stockhausens gigantomane måte, men gjennom å finpusse detaljene i en kort rekke av verker som alle er deler av Boulez’ særpregede og enhetlige klangunivers. Boulez’ modernisme er en stil som særpreges nettopp ved sin fokusering på og raffinering av stilmidlene, en mangefasettert og tvetydig tekst som trekker veksler på sentrale skrivemåter i den modernistiske litterære tradisjonen fra og med Mallarmé.

Cage var derimot aldri opptatt av å skape noe livsverk. Det essensielle i hans tenkning og musikk etter 1950 var nettopp å oppløse begrepet ”verk”. Påvirket av Zen-buddhisme og indisk filosofi ga han slipp på stadig mer av kontrollen over musikken som ble fremført i hans navn. Cages tilfeldighetsprosedyrer og ”ubestemte” grafiske eller litterære partiturer var i hans egne øyne midler til en frigjøring av lydene selv. Overfor de ”frigjorte lydene” er komponisten Cage like uforberedt og maktesløs som den vanlige lytter. Det ligger imidlertid også en frigjøring av lytteren i Cages musikktenkning: en frigjøring fra musikalsk vane og smak, til en fordomsfri og intensjonsløs lytting med ”happy new ears”. Cages musikk danner dermed ikke noen modernistisk stil, eller noen enhetlig stil i det hele tatt. Derimot uttrykker den en enhetlig holdning, som må kunne kalles ”avant-gardistisk”.[1]

Boulez’ og Cages livsgjerninger er altså betinget av diametralt forskjellige oppfatninger av musikkens vesen og funksjon. Det er derfor et paradoks at de i en periode som var av essensiell betydning i begges utvikling, årene rundt 1950, hadde nær kontakt og påvirket hverandre gjensidig.

Boulez og Cage traff hverandre i 1949, og innledet et vennskap som skulle avføde en til tider intens brevveksling frem til 1954. I brevene utvekslet de blant annet kompositoriske erfaringer og idéer i minutiøs detalj. Samtidig arbeidet de seriøst for å spre kjennskapen til hverandres musikk på sine respektive sider av Atlanterhavet.

I løpet av treårsperioden vennskapet mellom Cage og Boulez varte, gjennomgikk begge en viktig overgangsfase i sin kompositoriske utvikling. Felles for Boulez’ og Cages eksperimenter var at de innebar en søken bort fra det personavhengige uttrykket, bort fra en komponering basert på komponistens følelser og subjektive smak, men også bort fra konvensjonene som muliggjør at musikk kan oppfattes som et kommunikativt uttrykk.

Boulez utviklet det som er blitt kjent som serialisme blant annet som et middel til å distansere komposisjonsprosessen fra den subjektive kompositoriske fantasi. I mesteparten av Boulez’ produksjon brukes seriell teknikk som et hjelpemiddel for fantasien, eller i høyden i dialog med den. I to verker fra 1951, Structure 1a og Polyphonie X, utprøver Boulez hvor langt han kan komme i retning av en ”automatisk” komposisjon, en komposisjon der forløpet er bestemt av et seriesystem. Boulez beskriver senere sin intensjon slik:

I wanted to use the potential of a given material to find out how far automatism in musical relationships would go, with individual invention appearing only in some really very simple forms of disposition […] For me it was an experiment in what one might call Cartesian doubt: to bring everything into question again, make a clean sweep of one’s heritage and start all over again from scratch, to see how it might be possible to reconstitute a way of writing that begins with something which eliminates personal invention.[2]

Disse intensjonene harmonerer dårlig med bildet av Boulez som stilfiksert perfeksjonist. Elimineringen av det individuelle peker derimot i retning av John Cage, som nettopp i 1951 arbeidet med å finne metoder til å frigjøre komposisjonsprosessen fra sin kompositoriske bevissthet. Han fant en løsning i den gamle kinesiske orakelboken I-Ching, ”forandringenes bok”, som han benyttet i komposisjonen av Music of Changes for klaver og Imaginary Landscape No.4 for 12 radioapparater, begge fra 1951. I-Ching inneholder et tabellsystem med 64 enheter, som man velger i fra ved hjelp av terninger eller merkede fyrstikker. Dette systemet ga Cage et musikalsk anvendelse, ved å knytte bestemte musikalske materialer til enhetene. Cage benyttet separate tabeller for tonemateriale, varigheter, dynamikk, tempi og tettheter (antallet av materialenheter til et hvert tidspunkt). Parallellen til Boulez’ serielle eksperiment med Structures 1a er slående på det tekniske plan, men enda viktigere er parallellene mellom komponistenes overordnede intensjoner. Cage oppsummerer beskrivelsen av sin nye komposisjonsteknikk slik i 1952: ”It is thus possible to make a musical composition the continuity of which is free of individual taste and memory (psychology) and also of the literature and “traditions” of the art.”[3]

Boulez’ ”automatiske” serialisme og Cages tabellsystem er først og fremst metoder for å skape en ekstrem distanse mellom komponisten og komposisjonen. Det er i denne omvurderingen av komponistens rolle komposisjonenes radikale nyhet ligger.

Det er ikke noe nytt i at komponistens utfoldelse begrenses av rammer; i middelalderen og delvis i renessansen skapte komponistene musikk som utspant seg innenfor rigide regelverk. Også i barokken og klassisismen la stilistiske konvensjoner tonale og formale rammer for komponeringen, mens den romantiske perioden innebar en gradvis utvidelse av rammene mot et punkt da de nesten var utslettet og komponistenes subjektive uttrykksvilje var det eneste imperativ. Musikken i første halvdel av 1900-tallet er også sterkt preget av romantikkens uttrykksestetikk, men viktigere er de mange forsøkene på å skape nye objektive rammer for komposisjonsvirksomheten. Schönbergs tolvtoneteknikk og Hindemiths overtonebaserte tonale system er typiske eksempler. Samtidig forsøkte neoklassisistiske komponister å benytte eldre tiders rammer på den nye musikken.

Ingen av stadiene i den historiske utviklingen av komponistens rolle, som er skissert overfor, innebar imidlertid noen større begrensning av komponistens subjektive utforming av musikkens konkrete forløp. Rammene befinner seg på et overordnet nivå, og de forteller mer om hva som ikke skal forekomme i musikken enn om hva som skal skje til enhver tid. I Boulez’ og Cages musikk fra 1951 får rammene en helt ny rolle. For det første er de ekstremt spesifiserte, og ikke uttrykk for noen kompositorisk tradisjon. Det er i definisjonen av rammene, eller ”oppskriften” til verket, at komponisten gjør det kreative arbeidet som tidligere ble lagt i utformingen av et verk ut i fra tradisjonelle rammer. For det andre er rammene ikke bare prohibitive, men produktive; de utformer konkret materiale som komponisten i større eller mindre grad lar komme til uttrykk direkte i det ferdige verket. Forholdet mellom komponist og kompositoriske rammer er altså snudd på hodet.

Dette innebærer et mer dramatisk brudd med musikkhistoriens rekke av mer eller mindre kanoniske verker enn selv oppgivelsen av funksjonsharmonikken. Den tidlige atonale musikken var snarere kulminasjonen av en århundrelang ekspressivitetstradisjon enn noe brudd med den. Komponistene benyttet frigjørelsen av tonematerialet til å oppnå et mer uttrykksfullt kompositorisk språk enn funksjonsharmonikken tillot. Den nye verdenen av forbausende og opprivende klanger ble brukt i musikkdramatisk øyemed, som retoriske gester med en ny intensitet (Schönbergs Erwartung og Pierrot Lunaire er typiske eksempler). Den ekspresjonistiske atonale musikken kan altså betraktes som en ”oppussing” av en tradisjonell ekspressiv uttrykksmåte, som var nødvendig fordi alle effekter slites ut med tiden og må forsterkes. Schönbergs etablering av tolvtoneteknikken på 1920-tallet innebar en konstruktivistisk musikktenkning som distanserer musikken fra det rent ekspresjonistiske, men tolvtonerekkene ble brukt på en tematisk og gestisk måte som knytter verkene til ekspressivitetstradisjonen. Den komponisten som kom nærmest å bryte med denne tradisjonen var Webern, som i sine sene verker konstruerte komplekse musikalske miniatyrer som først og fremst var utformet ut i fra ønsket om en maksimalt fortettet potensering av et minimalt motivisk materiale. Webern står i disse verkene fjernt fra en ”subjektiv”, følelsesprovoserende uttrykksestetikk, men det er på ingen måte snakk om noen ”automatisme”. Man trenger bare å lytte til et konstruktivistisk verk som Strykekvartett op.28 for å innse at Webern ikke foretar noe totalt brudd med ekspressivitetstradisjonen. (Likevel var Webern den sentrale referansen for både Boulez og Cage, og uten ham er det tvilsomt om de hadde utformet sine eksperimenter med ”automatisk” komposisjon.)

Boulez’ og Cages komposisjoner fra 1951 bryter derimot bevisst med den egentlig utematiserte forestillingen om at et musikkverk skal være resultatet av en komponists arbeid med å skape et mest mulig uttrykksfullt forløp. Derfor møtte disse verkene, og senere serialistiske og tilfeldighetsgenererte verker, en motstand i musikkmiljøet som overgår den de første atonale komponistene møtte. Leonard B. Meyer har en teori som belyser dette. Han hevder at vi for å sette pris på et kunstverk er avhengige av å tro på at det er et estetisk objekt, og av å tro på at det er meningsfullt konstruert:

Because of this tremendous importance of belief in the response to art, the most devastating criticism that can be leveled against a work is not that it is crude or displeasing but that it is not aesthetically purposeful and meaningful. Statements that compositions in the twelve-tone technique are conceived within an essentialy mathematical framework, have done more to make the music of this school unpopular and hated than all the accusations of cacaphony and ugliness put together. It seems probable that audiences object tothe dissonance in this music, not because it is unpleasant, but because they believe that it is the product of calculation rather than an aesthetic affective conception.[4]

I denne forståelsesrammen blir både Boulez’ og Cages ”automatiske” komposisjoner totalt meningsløse og langt i fra kunst. I det følgende avsnittet gir Meyer en skrekkbilde av meningsløs ”kunst” som samsvarer forbløffende godt med John Cages idéer:

Though seeming accident is a delight, we believe that real accident is foreign to art. Without this basic belief the listener would have no reason for suspending judgement, revising opinion, and searching for relationships; the divergent, the less probable, the ambigous would have no meaning. There would be no progression, only change. […] listeners would abandon their attemps to understand, to reconcile deviants to what has gone before, or to look for their raison d’etre in what is still to come.[5]

John Cage ville neppe protestere mot en slik beskrivelse av sin musikk. Han ønsker nettopp ikke at musikken skal ha noen mening; den skal ikke forstås. Lytteren skal heller ikke lete etter relasjoner mellom musikalske elementer eller forvente noe av det som skal komme. Alt Cage ønsker av lytteren er at han møter alle lyder med fordomsfri oppmerksomhet. Denne holdningen utelukker egentlig den estetiske dømmekraften, noe Cage er fullt klar over:

Value judgements are not in the nature of this work as regards either composition, performance, or listening. The idea of relation (the idea: 2) being absent, anything (the idea: 1) may happen. A ”mistake” is beside the point, for once anything happens it authentically is.[6]

De slående parallellene mellom Cages og Boulez’ verker og intensjoner i 1951 til tross: de to var aldri helt på samme sted. Allerede året etter endte vennskapet, først og fremst på grunn av Boulez’ offentlige avstandstagen fra Cages utvikling. Boulez hadde i utgangspunktet sympatisert med tilfeldighetsteknikken i Music of Changes, som ble balansert av Cages estetiske kontroll over materialet i tabellenes celler, men å gi fra seg enhver kontroll over musikken var uansvarlig i Boulez’ øyne. Boulez’ utvikling på 1950-tallet gikk i stikk motsatt retning av Cages, mot en stadig mer kresen raffinering av verkene. Men allerede i 1951, i de radikale ”automatiske” verkene, er de to komponistenes hensikter egentlig svært ulike. Når Boulez uttaler at han benyttet seriell teknikk i Structure 1a for å utslette det personlige uttrykket, er det viktig å få med seg at han ikke ønsker å opprettholde en slik utslettelse som en varig tilstand. Det ligger noe annet og mer i hans intensjon: ”[…] to see how it might be possible to reconstitute a way of writing that begins with something that eliminates personal invention.”[mine uth.][7] Det dreier seg om et forsøk på å skape en ”ny begynnelse” gjennom å la en ”automat” uten hukommelse produsere musikalsk materiale, men det er gjenerobringen av kontrollen i løpet av Structures 1b og 1c som er hovedsaken for Boulez: ”In Structures you can follow the process of re-introducing personal invention […] What interested me was to see how the ’material/myself’ relationship was gradually reversed to become ’myself/material’, so that afterwards I was completely free of complexes about the strict organization of one’s material.”[8] For Boulez var Structure 1a altså et første skritt i en ”renselsesprosess” som ikke hadde det ”upersonlige” som mål, men tvert imot en genuint personlig, original stil, fri for konvensjoner.

Cages Music of Changes innebærer derimot ikke noe utviklingsperspektiv. Det foregår ingen progresjon fra den første boken til den fjerde, og Cage ytrer ikke noe ønske om å gjenerobre den tapte kontrollen. Hans musikk etter 1951 tar tvert imot i bruk metoder som også eliminerer den kontrollen Cage utøvet over utgangsmaterialet i Music of Changes. I 1958 ser han kritisk på dette stykket: ”[…] in the Music of Changes the effect of the chance operations on the structure (making very apparent its anachronistic character) was balanced by a control of the materials.”[9] Ordet ”anakronistisk” avslører at også Cage utviklet seg videre fra sitt 1951-ståsted; ikke som Boulez tilbake til en mer tradisjonell komponistrolle, men videre i retning av en total utslettelse av denne rollen.



[1] Arnfinn Bø-Rygg vektlegger i flere tekster nødvendigheten av et begrepsskille mellom ”modernisme” og ”avant-gardisme” i alle kunstarter.
[2] Boulez: Conversations with Célestin Deliège, London 1976, s.55-56
[3] Cage: ”To describe to process of composition used in Music of Changes and Imaginary Landscape No.4”, i Silence, 1966, s.59
[4]Leonard B. Meyer: Emotion and meaning in music, Chicago 1956, s.76
[5] Op.cit. s. 75
[6] Cage: Op.cit. s.59
[7] Boulez: Op.cit. s.56
[8] Op.cit. s.56
[9] Cage: ”Composition as process”, i Silence, s.26

mandag 21. januar 2008

Sentrum og fravær - om etterkrigsmodernistenes tekstbehandling

Dette foredraget holdt jeg under Norsk Komponistforenings seminar "Musikk og Tekst" i februar 2005.
Del 1.
Del 2.
Del 3.