It is strange that we accept a vast plethora of sound effects in our movie soundtracks, but that the idea of attending a concert simply for an opportunity to bask in sounds seems repellant to many people. Morton Feldman’s goal of presenting sonorities as significant, free-standing entities can seem radical since he did not trouble himself with sending his audience a musical message. Music is broadly applied as a communication tool; yet, it can also serve as an entry point into a realm where interpreting transitions to meditation, meaning toward being, and transmitting into absorbing.
If we were to enter a concert hall with the intention of placating the mind and spirit, we might experience Feldman’s music in the way that the earth accepts the drops of rain. In this joyful passivity, questions of origin and meaning are irrelevant as the cool moisture slowly seeps in through the crusty, cracked surface and slowly permeates to deep, dank roots. If we could learn to “smell” this music, we could progress. Who questions the message behind the scent of a fragrant flower, dirty diaper, or inviting kitchen as it enters the nostrils? The sense of smell relates entirely to the way in which we experience the scent. Isn’t it strange how a certain smell can trigger an instantaneous burst of nostalgia? Our brains are so well-connected and adept at this type of neurological absorption, I believe that this same possibility of opportunity lies within the way we listen.
In his 1964 interview with Robert Ashley, Feldman speaks freely about the doctrinaire approach that many young composers acquire as they approach great aesthetic works and seek to adapt them for their own use. Feldman argues that “the intention, the aesthetic of the work may be a complete mystery to this young composer. But in the form of politics it is not a mystery. It is very concrete.” For this reason, Feldman describes a process in which the original spirituality and conception of a work gets traded for a humanized (tangible?) rationale that allows it to enter a sphere of broader circulation and recognition. He compares this to the proselytizing role of religion, in which the “divine being” is slowly traded for a stringent, canonized doctrine. As support for this analogy, Feldman offers the example of the revisionist composer who gains power by surrounding himself or herself with eager young adherents. This, he argues, is how “schools of thought” are born.
Feldman writes that these revisionists are often perceived by the public as fanatics. However, he objects strongly to this, saying instead that “what they are fanatic about is amazing to me, because they have created nothing new.” He cites moments in history when artists have produced original works through the “complete inner security to work with that which was unknown to them,” using John Cage and 1950's painters as examples. His tone is honest, frank as he states that he never composed his music based on ideas; rather, he writes “unfortunately for most people who pursue art, ideas become their opium.”
I am struck by a common thread running through this course: those who embark on an experimental path invariably pursue an inner impulse that propels them forward to unknown territories for the sheer purpose of pursuing something that brings sheer delight and inner fulfillment. This self-assuredness is so remarkable that it is perhaps the most salient characteristic of the avant-garde in its purist form.
In his 1964 interview with Robert Ashley, Feldman speaks freely about the doctrinaire approach that many young composers acquire as they approach great aesthetic works and seek to adapt them for their own use. Feldman argues that “the intention, the aesthetic of the work may be a complete mystery to this young composer. But in the form of politics it is not a mystery. It is very concrete.” For this reason, Feldman describes a process in which the original spirituality and conception of a work gets traded for a humanized (tangible?) rationale that allows it to enter a sphere of broader circulation and recognition. He compares this to the proselytizing role of religion, in which the “divine being” is slowly traded for a stringent, canonized doctrine. As support for this analogy, Feldman offers the example of the revisionist composer who gains power by surrounding himself or herself with eager young adherents. This, he argues, is how “schools of thought” are born.
Feldman writes that these revisionists are often perceived by the public as fanatics. However, he objects strongly to this, saying instead that “what they are fanatic about is amazing to me, because they have created nothing new.” He cites moments in history when artists have produced original works through the “complete inner security to work with that which was unknown to them,” using John Cage and 1950's painters as examples. His tone is honest, frank as he states that he never composed his music based on ideas; rather, he writes “unfortunately for most people who pursue art, ideas become their opium.”
I am struck by a common thread running through this course: those who embark on an experimental path invariably pursue an inner impulse that propels them forward to unknown territories for the sheer purpose of pursuing something that brings sheer delight and inner fulfillment. This self-assuredness is so remarkable that it is perhaps the most salient characteristic of the avant-garde in its purist form.
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