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SILENCE

Lectures

and

writings

by

JOHN

CAGE

DO,

cas

WESLEYAN UNIVERSITY PRESS Middletown, Connecticut

Many of these lectures and articles have been delivered or published elsewhere in the past two decades. The headnote preceding each one makes grateful ac- knowledgment of its precise source.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 61-14238 Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition

USIC LIBRAE

To Whom It May Concern

CONTENTS

Foreword / ix

Manifesto / xii

The Future of Music: Credo I 3

Experimental Music / 7

Experimental Music: Doctrine / 13

Composition as Process / 18

I. Changes / 18

II. Indeterminacy I 35

III. Communication / 41

Composition / 57

To Describe the Process of Composition Used in Music of Changes and Imaginary Landscape No. 4/57

To Describe the Process of Composition Used in Music for Piano 21-52 / 60

Forerunners of Modern Music / 62

History of Experimental Music in the United States / 67

Erik Satie I 76

Edgard Varese / 83

Four Statements on the Dance / 86

Goal: New Music, New Dance / 87

Grace and Clarity / 89

In This Day . . . / 94

2 Pages, 122 Words on Music and Dance / 96 On Robert Rauschenberg, Artist, and His Work / 98 Lecture on Nothing / 109 Lecture on Something / 128 45' for a Speaker / 146

Where Are We Going? and What Are We Doing? / 194 Indeterminacy / 260 Music Lovers' Field Companion / 274

FOREWORD

For over twenty years I have been writing articles and giving lectures. Many of them have been unusual in form— this is especially true of the lec- tures—because I have employed in them means of composing analogous to my composing means in the field of music. My intention has been, often, to say what I had to say in a way that would exemplify it; that would, con- ceivably, permit the listener to experience what I had to say rather than just hear about it. This means that, being as I am engaged in a variety of activities, I attempt to introduce into each one of them aspects convention- ally limited to one or more of the others.

So it was that I gave about 1949 my Lecture on Nothing at the Artists' Club on Eighth Street in New York City (the artists' club started by Robert Motherwell, which predated the popular one associated with Philip Pavia, Bill de Kooning, et al. ) . This Lecture on Nothing was written in the same rhythmic structure I employed at the time in my musical compositions ( Sonatas and Interludes, Three Dances, etc. ) . One of the structural divi- sions was the repetition, some fourteen times, of a single page in which occurred the refrain, "If anyone is sleepy let him go to sleep." Jeanne Reynal, I remember, stood up part way through, screamed, and then said, while I continued speaking, "John, I dearly love you, but I can't bear another minute." She then walked out. Later, during the question period, I gave one of six previously prepared answers regardless of the question asked. This was a reflection of my engagement in Zen.

FOREWORD/ix

At Black Mountain College in 1952, 1 organized an event that involved the paintings of Bob Rauschenberg, the dancing of Merce Cunningham, films, slides, phonograph records, radios, the poetries of Charles Olson and M. C. Richards recited from the tops of ladders, and the pianism of David Tudor, together with my Juilliard lecture, which ends: "A piece of string, a sunset, each acts." The audience was seated in the center of all this activ- ity. Later that summer, vacationing in New England, I visited America's first synagogue, to discover that the congregation was there seated pre- cisely the way I had arranged the audience at Black Mountain.

As I look back, I realize that a concern with poetry was early with me. At Pomona College, in response to questions about the Lake poets, I wrote in the manner of Gertrude Stein, irrelevantly and repetitiously. I got an A. The second time I did it I was failed. Since the Lecture on Nothing there have been more than a dozen pieces that were unconventionally written, including some that were done by means of chance operations and one that was largely a series of questions left unanswered. When M. C. Richards asked me why I didn't one day give a conventional informative lecture, adding that that would be the most shocking thing I could do, I said, "I don't give these lectures to surprise people, but out of a need for poetry."

As I see it, poetry is not prose simply because poetry is in one way or another formalized. It is not poetry by reason of its content or ambiguity but by reason of its allowing musical elements (time, sound) to be intro- duced into the world of words. Thus, traditionally, information no matter how stuffy (e.g., the sutras and shastras of India) was transmitted in poetry. It was easier to grasp that way. Karl Shapiro may have been think- ing along these lines when he wrote his Essay on Rime in poetry.

Committing these formalized lectures to print has presented certain problems, and some of the solutions reached are compromises between what would have been desirable and what was practicable. The lecture Where Are We Going? and What Are We Doing? is an example. In this and other cases, a headnote explains the means to be used in the event of oral delivery.

Not all these pieces, of course, are unusual in form. Several were writ- ten to be printed— that is, to be seen rather than to be heard. Several others were composed and delivered as conventional informative lectures (with- out shocking their audiences for that reason, so far as I could determine).

x/SILENCE

This collection does not include all that I have written; it does reflect what have been, and continue to be, my major concerns.

Critics frequently cry "Dada" after attending one of my concerts or hearing one of my lectures. Others bemoan my interest in Zen. One of the liveliest lectures I ever heard was given by Nancy Wilson Ross at the Cornish School in Seattle. It was called Zen Buddhism and Dada. It is pos- sible to make a connection between the two, but neither Dada nor Zen is a fixed tangible. They change; and in quite different ways in different places and times, they invigorate action. What was Dada in the 1920's is now, with the exception of the work of Marcel Duchamp, just art. What I do, I do not wish blamed on Zen, though without my engagement with Zen ( attendance at lectures by Alan Watts and D. T. Suzuki, reading of the literature) I doubt whether I would have done what I have done. I am told that Alan Watts has questioned the relation between my work and Zen. I mention this in order to free Zen of any responsibility for my actions. I shall continue making them, however. I often point out that Dada nowa- days has in it a space, an emptiness, that it formerly lacked. What now- adays, America mid-twentieth century, is Zen?

I am grateful to Richard K. Winslow, composer, whose musical ways are different from mine, who seven years ago, as Professor of Music at Wesleyan University, engaged David Tudor and me for a concert and who, at the time as we were walking along, introduced me without warn- ing to his habit of suddenly quietly singing. Since then, he has twice invited us back to Wesleyan, even though our programs were consistently percus- sive, noisy, and silent, and the views which I expressed were consistently antischolastic and anarchic. He helped obtain for me the Fellowship at the Wesleyan Center for Advanced Studies which, in spite of the air-condition- ing, I have enjoyed during the last academic year. And he inspired the University Press to publish this book. The reader may argue the propri- ety of this support, but he must admire, as I do, Winslow's courage and unselfishness.

-J.C.

June 1961

FOREWORD/xi

The text below was written for Julian Beck and Judith Molina, directors of the Living Theatre, for use in their program booklet when they were performing at the Cherry Lane Theatre, Greenwich Village, New York.

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a manifesto on (

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nothing is accomplished by writing a piece of music J our ears are

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—John CA9E

xM/SILENCE

SILENCE

V.

The following text was delivered as a talk at a meeting of a Seattle arts society organized by Bonnie Bird in 1937. It was printed in the brochure accompanying George Avakian's recording of my twenty-five-year retrospective concert at Town Hall, New York, in 1958.

THE FUTURE OF MUSIC: CREDO

I BELIEVE THAT THE USE OF NOISE

Wherever we are, what we hear is mostly noise. When we ignore it, it disturbs us. When we listen to it, we find it fascinating. The sound of a truck at fifty miles per hour. Static between the stations. Rain. We want to capture and control these sounds, to use them not as sound effects but as musical instruments. Every film studio has a library of "sound effects" recorded on film. With a film phonograph it is now possible to control the amplitude and frequency of any one of these sounds and to give to it rhythms within or beyond the reach of the imagination. Given four film phonographs, we can compose and perform a quartet for explosive motor, wind, heartbeat, and landslide.

TO MAKE MUSIC

If this word "music" is sacred and reserved for eighteenth- and nineteenth-century instruments, we can substitute a more meaningful term: organization of sound.

WILL CONTINUE AND IN- CREASE UNTIL WE REACH A MUSIC PRODUCED THROUGH THE ADD OF ELECTRICAL INSTRUMENTS

Most inventors of electrical musical instruments have at- tempted to imitate eighteenth- and nineteenth-century instruments, just as early automobile designers copied the carriage. The Novachord and the

THE FUTURE OF MUSIC: CREDO/3

Solovox are examples of this desire to imitate the past rather than construct the future. When Theremin provided an instrument with genuinely new possibilities, Thereministes did their utmost to make the instrument sound like some old instrument, giving it a sickeningly sweet vibrato, and per- forming upon it, with difficulty, masterpieces from the past. Although the instrument is capable of a wide variety of sound qualities, obtained by the turning of a dial, Thereministes act as censors, giving the public those sounds they think the public will like. We are shielded from new sound experiences.

The special function of electrical instruments will be to pro- vide complete control of the overtone structure of tones (as opposed to noises) and to make these tones available in any frequency, amplitude, and duration.

WHICH WILL MAKE AVAILABLE FOR MUSICAL PURPOSES ANY AND ALL SOUNDS THAT CAN BE HEARD. PHOTOELECTRIC, FILM, AND MECHANICAL MEDIUMS FOR THE SYNTHETIC PRODUCTION OF MUSIC

It is now possible for composers to make music directly, without the assistance of intermediary performers. Any design repeated often enough on a sound track is audible. Two hundred and eighty circles per second on a sound track will produce one sound, whereas a portrait of Beethoven repeated fifty times per second on a sound track will have not only a different pitch but a different sound quality.

WILL BE EXPLORED. WHEREAS, IN THE PAST, THE POINT OF DISAGREEMENT HAS BEEN BETWEEN DIS- SONANCE AND CONSONANCE, IT WILL BE, IN THE IMMEDIATE FUTURE, BETWEEN NOISE AND SO-CALLED MUSICAL SOUNDS.

THE PRESENT METHODS OF WRITING MUSIC, PRINCIPALLY THOSE WHICH EMPLOY HARMONY AND ITS REFERENCE TO PARTICULAR STEPS IN THE FTELD OF SOUND, WELL BE INADEQUATE FOR THE COMPOSER, WHO WELL BE FACED WITH THE ENTTRE FEELD OF SOUND.

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The composer ( organizer of sound ) will be faced not only with the entire field of sound but also with the entire field of time. The "frame" or fraction of a second, following established film technique, will probably be the basic unit in the measurement of time. No rhythm will be beyond the composer's reach.

NEW METHODS WILL BE DISCOVERED, BEARING A DEFINITE RELATION TO SCHOEN- BERG'S TWELVE-TONE SYSTEM

Schoenberg's method assigns to each material, in a group of equal materials, its function with respect to the group. ( Har- mony assigned to each material, in a group of unequal materials, its func- tion with respect to the fundamental or most important material in the group. ) Schoenberg's method is analogous to a society in which the empha- sis is on the group and the integration of the individual in the group.

AND PRESENT METHODS OF WRITING PERCUSSION MUSIC

Percussion music is a contemporary transition from keyboard-influ- enced music to the all-sound music of the future. Any sound is acceptable to the composer of percussion music; he explores the academically forbidden "non-musical" field of sound insofar as is manually possible.

Methods of writing percussion music have as their goal the rhythmic structure of a composition. As soon as these methods are crystallized into one or several widely accepted methods, the means will exist for group im- provisations of unwritten but culturally important music. This has already taken place in Oriental cultures and in hot jazz.

AND ANY OTHER METHODS WHICH ARE FREE FROM THE CONCEPT OF A FUNDAMENTAL TONE.

THE PRINCIPLE OF FORM WILL BE OUR ONLY CONSTANT CONNECTION WITH THE PAST. ALTHOUGH THE GREAT FORM OF THE FUTURE WILL NOT BE AS IT WAS IN THE PAST, AT

THE FUTURE OF MUSIC: CREDO/5

ONE TIME THE FUGUE AND AT ANOTHER THE SONATA, IT WILL BE RELATED TO THESE AS THEY ARE TO EACH OTHER:

Before this happens, centers of experi- mental music must be established. In these centers, the new materials, oscillators, turntables, generators, means for amplifying small sounds, film phonographs, etc., available for use. Composers at work using twentieth- century means for making music. Performances of results. Organization of sound for extra-musical purposes (theatre, dance, radio, film).

THROUGH THE PRINCIPLE OF ORGANIZATION OR MAN'S COMMON ABILITY TO THINK.

It was a Wednesday. I was in the sixth grade. I overheard Dad saying to Mother, "Get ready: we're going to New Zealand Saturday." I got ready. I read everything I could find in the school library about New Zealand. Saturday came. Nothing happened. The project was not even mentioned, that day or any succeeding day.

M. C. Richards went to see the Bolshoi Ballet. She was delighted with the dancing. She said, "It's not what they do; it's the ardor with which they do it." I said, "Yes: composition, performance, and audition or observation are really different things. They have next to nothing to do with one another." Once, I told her, I was at a house on Riverside Drive where people were invited to be present at a Zen service conducted by a Japanese Roshi. He did the ritual, rose petals and all. Afterwards tea was served with rice cookies. And then the hostess and her husband, employing an out-of-tune piano and a cracked voice, gave a wretched performance of an excerpt from a third-rate Italian opera. I was embarrassed and glanced towards the Roshi to see how he was taking it. The expression on his face was absolutely beatific.

A young man in Japan arranged his circumstances so that he was able to travel to a distant island to study Zen with a certain Master for a three-year period. At the end of the three years, feeling no sense of accomplishment, he presented himself to the Master and announced his departure. The Master said, "You've been here three years. Why don't you stay three months more?" The student agreed, but at the end of the three months he still felt that he had made no advance. When he told the Master again that he was leaving, the Master said, "Look now, you've been here three years and three months. Stay three weeks longer." The student did, but with no success. When he told the Master that absolutely nothing had happened, the Master said, "You've been here three years, three months, and three weeks. Stay three more days, and if, at the end of that time, you have not attained enlightenment, commit suicide." Towards the end of the second day, the student was enlightened.

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The following statement was given as an address to the convention of the Music Teachers National Association in Chicago in the winter of 1957. It was printed in the brochure accompanying George Avakian's recording of my twenty-five-year retrospective concert at Town Hall, New York, in 1958.

EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC

Formerly, whenever anyone said the music I presented was experimental, I objected. It seemed to me that composers knew what they were doing, and that the experiments that had been made had taken place prior to the finished works, just as sketches are made before paintings and rehearsals precede performances. But, giving the matter further thought, I realized that there is ordinarily an essential difference between making a piece of music and hearing one. A composer knows his work as a woodsman knows a path he has traced and retraced, while a listener is confronted by the same work as one is in the woods by a plant he has never seen before.

Now, on the other hand, times have changed; music has changed; and I no longer object to the word "experimental." I use it in fact to describe all the music that especially interests me and to which I am devoted, whether someone else wrote it or I myself did. What has happened is that I have become a listener and the music has become something to hear. Many people, of course, have given up saying "experimental" about this new music. Instead, they either move to a halfway point and say "controversial" or depart to a greater distance and question whether this "music" is music at all.

For in this new music nothing takes place but sounds: those that are notated and those that are not. Those that are not notated appear in the

EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC/7

written music as silences, opening the doors of the music to the sounds that happen to be in the environment. This openness exists in the fields of modern sculpture and architecture. The glass houses of Mies van der Rohe reflect their environment, presenting to the eye images of clouds, trees, or grass, according to the situation. And while looking at the constructions in wire of the sculptor Richard Lippold, it is inevitable that one will see other things, and people too, if they happen to be there at the same time, through the network of wires. There is no such thing as an empty space or an empty time. There is always something to see, something to hear. In fact, try as we may to make a silence, we cannot. For certain engineering purposes, it is desirable to have as silent a situation as possible. Such a room is called an anechoic chamber, its six walls made of special material, a room without echoes. I entered one at Harvard University several years ago and heard two sounds, one high and one low. When I described them to the engineer in charge, he informed me that the high one was my nervous system in operation, the low one my blood in circulation. Until I die there will be sounds. And they will continue following my death. One need not fear about the future of music.

But this fearlessness only follows if, at the parting of the ways, where it is realized that sounds occur whether intended or not, one turns in the direction of those he does not intend. This turning is psychological and seems at first to be a giving up of everything that belongs to humanity— for a musician, the giving up of music. This psychological turning leads to the world of nature, where, gradually or suddenly, one sees that humanity and nature, not separate, are in this world together; that nothing was lost when everything was given away. In fact, everything is gained. In musical terms, any sounds may occur in any combination and in any continuity.

And it is a striking coincidence that just now the technical means to produce such a free-ranging music are available. When the Allies entered Germany towards the end of World War II, it was discovered that improve- ments had been made in recording sounds magnetically such that tape had become suitable for the high-fidelity recording of music. First in France with the work of Pierre Schaeffer, later here, in Germany, in Italy, in Japan, and perhaps, without my knowing it, in other places, magnetic tape was

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used not simply to record performances of music but to make a new music that was possible only because of it. Given a minimum of two tape recorders and a disk recorder, the following processes are possible: 1 ) a single record- ing of any sound may be made; 2) a rerecording may be made, in the course of which, by means of filters and circuits, any or all of the physical characteristics of a given recorded sound may be altered; 3) electronic mixing (combining on a third machine sounds issuing from two others) permits the presentation of any number of sounds in combination; 4 ) ordi- nary splicing permits the juxtaposition of any sounds, and when it includes unconventional cuts, it, like rerecording, brings about alterations of any or all of the original physical characteristics. The situation made available by these means is essentially a total sound-space, the limits of which are ear- determined only, the position of a particular sound in this space being the result of five determinants: frequency or pitch, amplitude or loudness, overtone structure or timbre, duration, and morphology ( how the sound begins, goes on, and dies away). By the alteration of any one of these determinants, the position of the sound in sound-space changes. Any sound at any point in this total sound-space can move to become a sound at any other point. But advantage can be taken of these possibilities only if one is willing to change one's musical habits radically. That is, one may take advantage of the appearance of images without visible transition in distant places, which is a way of saying "television," if one is willing to stay at home instead of going to a theatre. Or one may fly if one is willing to give up walking.

Musical habits include scales, modes, theories of counterpoint and har- mony, and the study of the timbres, singly and in combination of a limited number of sound-producing mechanisms. In mathematical terms these all concern discrete steps. They resemble walking— in the case of pitches, on steppingstones twelve in number. This cautious stepping is not characteristic of the possibilities of magnetic tape, which is revealing to us that musical action or existence can occur at any point or along any line or curve or what have you in total sound-space; that we are, in fact, tech- nically equipped to transform our contemporary awareness of nature's manner of operation into art.

EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC/9

Again there is a parting of the ways. One has a choice. If he does not wish to give up his attempts to control sound, he may complicate his musi- cal technique towards an approximation of the new possibilities and aware- ness. ( I use the word "approximation" because a measuring mind can never finally measure nature. ) Or, as before, one may give up the desire to control sound, clear his mind of music, and set about discovering means to let sounds be themselves rather than vehicles for man-made theories or expres- sions of human sentiments.

This project will seem fearsome to many, but on examination it gives no cause for alarm. Hearing sounds which are just sounds immediately sets the theorizing mind to theorizing, and the emotions of human beings are continually aroused by encounters with nature. Does not a mountain unin- tentionally evoke in us a sense of wonder? otters along a stream a sense of mirth? night in the woods a sense of fear? Do not rain falling and mists rising up suggest the love binding heaven and earth? Is not decaying flesh loathsome? Does not the death of someone we love bring sorrow? And is there a greater hero than the least plant that grows? What is more angry than the flash of lightning and the sound of thunder? These responses to nature are mine and will not necessarily correspond with another's. Emo- tion takes place in the person who has it. And sounds, when allowed to be themselves, do not require that those who hear them do so unfeelingly. The opposite is what is meant by response ability.

New music: new listening. Not an attempt to understand something that is being said, for, if something were being said, the sounds would be given the shapes of words. Just an attention to the activity of sounds.

Those involved with the composition of experimental music find ways and means to remove themselves from the activities of the sounds they make. Some employ chance operations, derived from sources as ancient as the Chinese Book of Changes, or as modern as the tables of random num- bers used also by physicists in research. Or, analogous to the Rorschach tests of psychology, the interpretation of imperfections in the paper upon which one is writing may provide a music free from one's memory and imagination. Geometrical means employing spatial superimpositions at

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variance with the ultimate performance in time may be used. The total field of possibilities may be roughly divided and the actual sounds within these divisions may be indicated as to number but left to the performer or to the splicer to choose. In this latter case, the composer resembles the maker of a camera who allows someone else to take the picture.

Whether one uses tape or writes for conventional instruments, the present musical situation has changed from what it was before tape came into being. This also need not arouse alarm, for the coming into being of something new does not by that fact deprive what was of its proper place. Each thing has its own place, never takes the place of something else; and - the more things there are, as is said, the merrier.

But several effects of tape on experimental music may be mentioned. Since so many inches of tape equal so many seconds of time, it has become more and more usual that notation is in space rather than in symbols of quarter, half, and sixteenth notes and so on. Thus where on a page a note appears will correspond to when in a time it is to occur. A stop watch is used to facilitate a performance; and a rhythm results which is a far cry from horse's hoofs and other regular beats.

Also it has been impossible with the playing of several separate tapes at once to achieve perfect synchronization. This fact has led some towards the manufacture of multiple-tracked tapes and machines with a corre- sponding number of heads; while others— those who have accepted the sounds they do not intend— now realize that the score, the requiring that many parts be played in a particular togetherness, is not an accurate repre- sentation of how things are. These now compose parts but not scores, and the parts may be combined in any unthought ways. This means that each performance of such a piece of music is unique, as interesting to its com- poser as to others listening. It is easy to see again the parallel with nature, for even with leaves of the same tree, no two are exactly alike. The parallel in art is the sculpture with moving parts, the mobile.

It goes without saying that dissonances and noises are welcome in this new music. But so is the dominant seventh chord if it happens to put in an appearance.

EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC/11

Rehearsals have shown that this new music, whether for tape or for in- struments, is more clearly heard when the several loud-speakers or per- formers are separated in space rather than grouped closely together. For this music is not concerned with harmoniousness as generally understood, where the quality of harmony results from a blending of several elements. Here we are concerned with the coexistence of dissimilars, and the central points where fusion occurs are many: the ears of the listeners wherever they are. This disharmony, to paraphrase Bergson's statement about dis- order, is simply a harmony to which many are unaccustomed.

Where do we go from here? Towards theatre. That art more than music resembles nature. We have eyes as well as ears, and it is our busi- ness while we are alive to use them.

And what is the purpose of writing music? One is, of course, not deal- ing with purposes but dealing with sounds. Or the answer must take the form of paradox: a purposeful purposelessness or a purposeless play. This play, however, is an affirmation of life— not an attempt to bring order out of chaos nor to suggest improvements in creation, but simply a way of waking up to the very life we're living, which is so excellent once one gets one's mind and one's desires out of its way and lets it act of its own accord.

When Xenia and I came to New York from Chicago, we arrived in the bus station with about twenty-five cents. We were expecting to stay for a while with Peggy Guggenheim and Max Ernst. Max Ernst had met us in Chicago and had said, "Whenever you come to New York, come and stay with us. We have a big house on the East River." I went to the phone booth in the bus station, put in a nickel, and dialed. Max Ernst answered. He didn't recognize my voice. Finally he said, "Are you thirsty?" I said, "Yes." He said, "Well, come over tomorrow for cocktails." I went back to Xenia and told her what had happened. She said, "Call him back. We have everything to gain and nothing to lose." I did. He said, "Oh! It's you. We've been waiting for you for weeks. Your room's ready. Come right over."

Dad is an inventor. In 1912 his submarine had the world's record for staying under water. Running as it did by means of a gasoline engine, it left bubbles on the surface, so it was not employed during World War I. Dad says he does his best work when he is sound asleep. I was explaining at the New School that the way to get ideas is to do something boring. For instance, composing in such a way that the process of composing is boring induces ideas. They fly into one's head like birds. Is that what Dad meant?

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This article, there titled Experimental Music, first appeared in The Score and I. M. A. Magazine, London, issue of June 1955. The inclusion of a dialogue between an uncompromising teacher and an unenlightened student, and the addition of the word "doctrine" to the original title, are references to the Huang-Po Doctrine of Universal Mind.

EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC: DOCTRINE

Objections are sometimes made by composers to the use of the term experimental as descriptive of their works, for it is claimed that any experiments that are made precede the steps that are finally taken with determination, and that this determination is knowing, having, in fact, a particular, if unconventional, ordering of the elements used in view. These objections are clearly justifiable, but only where, as among contemporary evidences in serial music, it remains a question of making a thing upon the boundaries, structure, and expression of which attention is focused. Where, on the other hand, attention moves towards the observation and audition of many things at once, including those that are environmental— becomes, that is, inclusive rather than exclusive— no question of making, in the sense of forming understandable structures, can arise (one is tourist), and here the word "experimental" is apt, providing it is understood not as descriptive of an act to be later judged in terms of success and failure, but simply as of an act the outcome of which is unknown. What has been determined?

For, when, after convincing oneself ignorantly that sound has, as its clearly defined opposite, silence, that since duration is the only character- istic of sound that is measurable in terms of silence, therefore any valid structure involving sounds and silences should be based, not as occidentally traditional, on frequency, but rightly on duration, one enters an anechoic chamber, as silent as technologically possible in 1951, to discover that one hears two sounds of one's own unintentional making (nerve's systematic operation, blood's circulation ) , the situation one is clearly in is not objec-

EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC: DOCTRINE/13

tive (sound-silence), but rather subjective (sounds only), those intended and those others (so-called silence) not intended. If, at this point, one says, "Yes! I do not discriminate between intention and non-intention," the splits, subject-object, art-life, etc., disappear, an identification has been made with the material, and actions are then those relevant to its nature, i.e.:

A sound does not view itself as thought, as ought, as needing another sound for its elucidation, as etc.; it has no time for any consideration— it is occupied with the performance of its characteristics: before it has died away it must have made perfectly exact its frequency, its loudness, its length, its overtone structure, the precise morphology of these and of itself.

Urgent, unique, uninformed about history and theory, beyond the imagination, central to a sphere without surface, its becoming is unim- peded, energetically broadcast. There is no escape from its action. It does not exist as one of a series of discrete steps, but as transmission in all direc- tions from the field's center. It is inextricably synchronous with all other, sounds, non-sounds, which latter, received by other sets than the ear, oper ate in the same manner.

A sound accomplishes nothing; without it life would not last out the instant.

Relevant action is theatrical (music [imaginary separation of hearing from the other senses] does not exist), inclusive and intentionally pur- poseless. Theatre is continually becoming that it is becoming; each human being is at the best point for reception. Relevant response (getting up in the morning and discovering oneself musician) (action, art) can be made with any number (including none [none and number, like silence and music, are unreal] ) of sounds. The automatic minimum (see above) is two.

Are you deaf (by nature, choice, desire) or can you hear (externals, tympani, labyrinths in whack)?

Beyond them (ears) is the power of discrimination which, among other confused actions, weakly pulls apart (abstraction), ineffectually establishes as not to suffer alteration (the "work"), and unskillfully pro- tects from interruption (museum, concert hall) what springs, elastic, spontaneous, back together again with a beyond that power which is fluent (it moves in or out), pregnant (it can appear when- where- as what-ever [rose, nail, constellation, 485.73482 cycles per second, piece of string]), related (it is you yourself in the form you have that instant

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taken), obscure (you will never be able to give a satisfactory report even to yourself of just what happened).

In view, then, of a totality of possibilities, no knowing action is com- mensurate, since the character of the knowledge acted upon prohibits all but some eventualities. From a realist position, such action, though cau- tious, hopeful, and generally entered into, is unsuitable. An experimental action, generated by a mind as empty as it was before it became one, thus in accord with the possibility of no matter what, is, on the other hand, prac- tical. It does not move in terms of approximations and errors, as "informed" action by its nature must, for no mental images of what would happen were set up beforehand; it sees things directly as they are: impermanently in- volved in an infinite play of interpenetrations. Experimental music—

Question: —in the U.S.A., if you please. Be more specific. What do you have to say about rhythm? Let us agree it is no longer a question of pattern, repetition, and variation.

Answer: There is no need for such agreement. Patterns, repetitions, and variations will arise and disappear. However, rhythm is durations of any length coexisting in any states of succession and synchronicity. The latter is liveliest, most unpredictably changing, when the parts are not fixed by a score but left independent of one another, no two performances yielding the same resultant durations. The former, succession, liveliest when (as in Morton Feldman's Intersections) it is not fixed but presented in situation-form, entrances being at any point within a given period of time. — Notation of durations is in space, read as corresponding to time, needing no reading in the case of magnetic tape.

Question: What about several players at once, an orchestra?

Answer: You insist upon their being together? Then use, as Earle Brown suggests, a moving picture of the score, visible to all, a static vertical line as coordinator, past which the notations move. If you have no particu- lar togetherness in mind, there are chronometers. Use them.

Question: I have noticed that you write durations that are beyond the possibility of performance.

Answer: Composing's one thing, performing's another, listening's a third. What can they have to do with one another?

EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC: DOCTRINE/15

Question: And about pitches?

Answer: It is true. Music is continually going up and down, but no longer only on those stepping stones, five, seven, twelve in number, or the quarter tones. Pitches are not a matter of likes and dislikes ( I have told you about the diagram Schillinger had stretched across his wall near the ceiling: all the scales, Oriental and Occidental, that had been in general use, each in its own color plotted against, no one of them identical with, a black one, the latter the scale as it would have been had it been physically based on the overtone series ) except for musicians in ruts; in the face of habits, what to do? Magnetic tape opens the door providing one doesn't immediately shut it by inventing a phonogene, or otherwise use it to recall or extend known musical possibilities. It introduces the unknown with such sharp clarity that anyone has the opportunity of having his habits blown away like dust. — For this purpose the prepared piano is also useful, espe- cially in its recent forms where, by alterations during a performance, an otherwise static gamut situation becomes changing. Stringed instruments (not string-players) are very instructive, voices too; and sitting still any- where ( the stereophonic, multiple-loud-speaker manner of operation in the everyday production of sounds and noises ) listening . . .

Question : I understand Feldman divides all pitches into high, middle, and low, and simply indicates how many in a given range are to be played, leaving the choice up to the performer.

Answer: Correct. That is to say, he used sometimes to do so; I haven't seen him lately. It is also essential to remember his notation of super- and subsonic vibrations ( Marginal Intersection No. 1 ) .

Question: That is, there are neither divisions of the "canvas" nor "frame" to be observed?

Answer: On the contrary, you must give the closest attention to everything. # ^ ^

Question: And timbre?

Answer: No wondering what's next. Going lively on "through many a perilous situation." Did you ever listen to a symphony orchestra?

* * *

Question: Dynamics?

Answer: These result from what actively happens (physically, me-

16/SILENCE

chanically, electronically) in producing a sound. You won't find it in the books. Notate that. As far as too loud goes: "follow the general outlines of the Christian life."

Question: I have asked you about the various characteristics of a sound; how, now, can you make a continuity, as I take it your intention is, without intention? Do not memory, psychology —

Answer: " — never again."

Question: How?

Answer: Christian Wolff introduced space actions in his composi- tional process at variance with the subsequently performed time actions. Earle Brown devised a composing procedure in which events, following tables of random numbers, are written out of sequence, possibly anywhere in a total time now and possibly anywhere else in the same total time next. I myself use chance operations, some derived from the I-Ching, others from the observation of imperfections in the paper upon which I happen to be writing. Your answer: by not giving it a thought.

Question: Is this athematic?

Answer: Who said anything about themes? It is not a question of having something to say.

Question: Then what is the purpose of this "experimental" music?

Answer: No purposes. Sounds.

Question: Why bother, since, as you have pointed out, sounds are continually happening whether you produce them or not?

Answer: What did you say? I'm still

Question: I mean — But is this music?

Answer: Ah! you like sounds after all when they are made up of vowels and consonants. You are slow-witted, for you have never brought your mind to the location of urgency. Do you need me or someone else to hold you up? Why don't you realize as I do that nothing is accomplished by writing, playing, or listening to music? Otherwise, deaf as a doornail, you will never be able to hear anything, even what's well within earshot.

Question: But, seriously, if this is what music is, I could write it as well as you.

Answer: Have I said anything that would lead you to think I thought you were stupid?

EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC: DOCTRINE/17

The following three lectures were given at Darmstadt (Germany) in September 1958. The third one, with certain revisions, is a lecture given earlier that year at Rutgers University in New Jersey, an excerpt from which was published in the Village Voice, New York City, in April 1958.

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS I. Changes

This is a lec- ture on changes that have taken place in my com- position means, with particu- lar reference to what, a dec- ade ago, I

termed "structure" and "method." By "struc- ture" was meant the division of a whole into parts; by "method," the note-to-note procedure. Both structure and meth- od ( and also

18/SILENCE

Having been asked by Dr. Wolfgang Steinecke, Director of the Internationale Ferienkurse fiir Neue Musik at Darmstadt, to discuss in particular my Music of Changes, I decided to make a lecture within the time length of the Music of Changes (each line of the text whether speech or silence requiring one second for its performance), so that whenever I would stop speaking, the corresponding part of the Music of Changes itself would be played. The music is not superimposed on the speech but is heard only in the interruptions of the speech— which, like the lengths of the paragraphs themselves, were the result of chance operations.

"material"— the sounds and si- lences of a composition)

were, it seemed to me then, the prop- er concern of the mind ( as op- posed to the heart) ( one's ideas of order as opposed to one's spontaneous actions ) ; whereas the two last

of these, namely method and ma- terial, to- gether with form (the morpholo- gy of a con- tinuity) were equally the proper con- cern of the heart. Composition, then, I viewed, ten years ago, as an activity integrat- ing the oppo- sites, the ration- al and the ir- rational, bring- ing about, i-

deally, a freely moving continui- ty within a strict division of parts, the sounds, their combina- tion and succes- sion being ei- ther logical- ly related or arbitrar- ily chosen. fThe strict divi- sion of parts, the structure, was a function of the duration as- pect of sound, since,

of all the as- pects of sound in- cluding frequen- cy, amplitude, and timbre, dur- ation, alone, was also a characteris- tic of silence. The structure, then, was a divi- sion of actu- al time by con- ventional met- rical means, me- ter taken as simply the meas- urement of quan- tity, fin the case of the So- natas and In- terludes (which I finished in nine- teen forty-eight ) , only structure was organized, quite roughly for the work as a whole, exactly, however, with- in each single piece. The method was that of con- sidered impro- visation (main- ly at the pi-

ano, though i- deas came to me at some mo- ments away from the instrument.

The materi- als, the pia- no prepara- tions, were chosen as one chooses shells while walking

along a beach. The form was as natural as my taste permit- ted: so that where, as in all of the Sonatas and two of the Interludes, parts were to be re- peated, the for- mal concern was to make the prog- ress from the end of a section to its begin- ning seem inev- itable. TfThe structure of one of the Sona- tas, the fourth, was one hundred meas- ures of two-two time, divided into ten u- nits of ten meas-

ures each. These u- nits were combined in the propor- tion three, three, two, two, to give the piece large parts, and they were subdi- vided in the same proportion to give small parts to each unit. In contrast to a structure based on the frequen- cy aspect of sound, tonali- ty, that is, this rhythmic structure was as hospi- table to non- musical sounds, noises, as it was to those of the convention- al scales and in- struments. For noth- ing about the structure was de- termined by the materials which were to oc- cur in it; it was conceived, in fact, so that it could be as well expressed by the

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/19

absence of these materials as by their pres- ence, flln terms of the oppo- sition of free- dom and law, a piece written ten years before the Sonatas and Interludes, Con- struction in Met- al, presents the same relation- ship, but reversed: structure, method, and materi- als were all of them subjected to organi- zation. The mor- phology of the continu- ity, form, a- lone was free. Draw- ing a straight line between this sit- uation and that presented

by the later work, the deduc- tion might be made that there is a tendency in my composi- tion means away from ideas of order towards no ideas of order. And though when exam- ined the histo- ry would probab- ly not read as a straight line, re- cent works, begin- ning with the Mu- sic of Changes, support the ac- curacy of

this deduction. flFor, in the Mu- sic of Changes, the note-to-note procedure^ the method, is the function of chance operations. And the structure, though planned precise- ly as those of the Sonatas and Interludes, and more thorough- ly since it en- compassed the whole span of the com- position, was only a se- ries of numbers, three, five, six and three quarters, six and three quarters, five, three and one eighth, which became, on the one hand, the number of units within each section, and, on the other, number of meas- ures of four-four within each u- nit. At each small structural di- vision in the

Music of Chan- ges, at the be- ginning, for ex- ample, and a-

gain at the fourth and ninth measures and so on, chance operations determined sta- bility or

change of tempo. Thus, by intro- ducing the ac- tion of method into the bod- y of the struc- ture, and these two opposed in terms of order and freedom, that struc- ture became in- determinate: it was not pos- sible to know the total time-length of the piece un- til the final chance opera- tion, the last toss of coins af- fecting the rate of tempo, had been made. Being

20/SILENCE

indetermi- nate, though still pres- ent, it became apparent that structure was not necessary, even though it had certain uses. flOne of these u- ses was the de- termination of density, the determi- nation, that is, of how many of the poten- tially present eight lines, each com- posed of sounds and silences, were actually to be present within a giv- en small structur- al part, f Anoth- er use of the structure affect- ed the charts of sounds and silen- ces, amplitudes, durations, po- tentially ac- tive in the con- tinuity.

These twenty-four charts, eight for sounds

and silences, eight for ampli- tudes, eight for du- rations, were, through- out the course of a single struc- tural unit, half of them mobile and half of them immobile. Mo- bile meant that once any of the elements in a chart was used

it disappeared to be replaced by a new one. Immobile meant that though an el- ement in a chart had been used, it remained to be used again. At each unit structural point, a chance oper- ation deter- mined which of the charts, numbers one, three, five, and sev- en or numbers

two, four, six, and eight, were mobile and which of the charts were immo- bile—not changing.

fJThe structure, there- fore, was in these respects useful. Furthermore, it determined the beginning and

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/21

ending of the composition- al process. But this process, had it in the end brought about a division of

parts the time-lengths of which were pro- portional to the origi- nal series of numbers, would have been extraordi- nary. And the presence of the mind as a rul- ing factor, e- ven by such an extraordina- ry eventu- ality, would not have been es- tablished. For what happened came a- bout only through the tossing of coins, fit be- came clear, therefore, I repeat, that structure was not necessary. And, in Music for Piano, and subsequent pieces, indeed,

22/SILENCE

structure is no longer a part of the compo- sition means. The view taken is not of an ac- tivity the purpose of which is to inte- grate the oppo- sites, but rather of an activ- ity charac- terized by process and es- sentially

purposeless. The

mind, though stripped of its right to control, is still present. What does it do, having nothing to do? And what happens to a piece of music when it is purposeless- ly made? fWhat hap- pens, for instance, to silence? That is, how does the mind's perception of it change? For- merly, silence was the time lapse between sounds, use- ful towards a va- riety of

ends, among them that of tasteful arrangement, where by separat- ing two sounds or two groups of sounds their differen- ces or rela- tionships might re- ceive emphasis; or that of ex- pressivity, where silences in a musi- cal discourse might

provide pause or punctuation; or again, that of architec- ture, where the in- troduction or interruption of silence might give defini- tion either to a predeter- mined structure or to an organ- ically de- veloping one. Where none of these or other goals is present, si- lence becomes some- thing else— not si- lence at all, but sounds, the ambi- ent sounds. The na- ture of these is unpredicta- ble and changing. These sounds ( which are

called silence on- ly because they do not form part of a musi- cal intention) may be depen- ded upon to exist. The world teems with them, and is, in fact, at no point free of them. He who has entered an an- echoic cham- ber, a room made as silent as technologi- cally possible, has heard there two sounds, one high, one low— the high the listener's ner- vous system in operation, the low his blood in circula- tion. There are, dem- onstrably, sounds to be heard and forever, giv- en ears to hear. Where these ears are in connection

with a mind that has nothing to do, that mind is free to enter into the act of listening, hearing each sound just as it is, not as a phe- nomenon more or less approx- imating a preconception.

ffWhat's the histo- ry of the chan- ges in my com- position means with particu- lar reference to sounds? I had in mind when I chose the sounds for Construction in Metal that they should be sixteen for each player. The number six- teen was also that of the num- ber of measures

of four-four in each unit of the rhythmic struc- ture. In the case of the structure this number was divided four, three, two, three, four; in the case of the materi- als the gamuts of sixteen sounds were divided into four groups of four. The plan, as preconceived, was to use four of the sounds in the first sixteen measures, intro- ducing in each succeeding struc- tural unit four more until the exposi- tion involving all sixteen and lasting through the first four units was completed. The subsequent parts, three, two, three, four, were composed

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/23

as develop- ment of this in- itial situ- ation. In ac- tuality, this simple plan

was not real- ized, although it was only re- cently that I became fully aware that it was not. I had known all along that one of the players used three Japanese tem- ple gongs rather than four, but the fact that only three of these rel- atively rare instruments were then availa- ble to me, to- gether with the attachment I felt towards their sound, had convinced me of the rightness of this change in number. More se- rious, however, it seems to me now, was the effect of beat- ers: playing cow- bells first with rub- ber and then with

metal multi- plied by two the number of sounds actually used. Sirenlike piano trills which sound as one were counted as two. Various other devi- ations from the original

plan could be dis- covered on an- alysis: for instance, the ad- dition of met- al thundersheets for background noise bringing the num- ber sixteen, for those players who enjoyed it

24/SILENCE

to seventeen. One might conclude that in compos- ing Construction in Metal the organiza- tion of sounds was imperfectly realized. Or he might conclude that the compos- er had not ac- tually lis- tened to the sounds he used, p have already com- pared the selec- tion of the sounds

for the Sona- tas and Inter- ludes to a se- lection of shells while walking a- long a beach. They are therefore a collection ex- hibiting taste. Their number was increased by use of the una corda, this ped- al bringing a- bout altera- tions of timbre and frequency for many of the prepared keys. In terms of pitch, how- ever, there is no change from the sounds of the Con- struction. In both cases a stat- ic gamut of sounds is present- ed, no two oc- taves repeating relations. How- ever, one could hear interest- ing differen- ces between cer- tain of these sounds. On depressing

a key, sometimes a single fre- quency was heard. In other cas- es depressing a key produced an interval; in still others an aggregate of pitches and timbres. Noticing the nature of this gamut led to selecting a comparable one for the Spring Quartet: the

inclusion there of rigidly

scored convention- al harmonies is a matter of taste, from which a conscious con- trol was absent. Before writing the Music of Changes, two piec-

es were written which also used gamuts of sounds: single sounds, doub- le sounds and oth- ers more numer- ous, some to be played simultan- eously, oth- ers successive- ly in time. These pieces were Six- teen Dances and Concerto for Prepared Pia- no and Chamber Orchestra. The elements of the gamuts were arranged unsys- tematically in charts and the method of composition involved moves on these charts anal- agous to those used in construct- ing a magic square. Charts were al- so used for the Music of Chang- es, but in con- trast to the meth- od which involved chance opera-

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/25

tions, these charts were subjected to a rational control: of the sixty-four el- ements in a

square chart eight times eight (made in this way in order to interpret as sounds the co- in oracle of the Chinese Book of Changes) thirty-two were sounds, thirty-two silences. The thirty-two sounds were arranged in two squares one a- bove the other, each four by four. Whether the charts were mobile or immobile, all twelve tones were pres- ent in any four elements of a given chart, whether a line of the chart was read hori- zontally or vertically. Once this dodec- aphonic re-

quirement was sat- isfied, noises and repeti- tions of tones were used with freedom.

One may conclude from this that in the Music of Changes the ef- fect of the chance operations on the structure

(making very apparent its anachronis- tic character)

was balanced by a control of the materials. Charts remain in the Imagi- nary Landscape Number TV, and in the Williams

Mix, but, due to the radios of the first piece and the librar- y of record- ed sounds of the second, and for no other rea- son, no twelve-tone control was used. The question "How do we need to cautiously pro- ceed in dual- istic terms?" was not consciously answered until the Music for Piano. In

that piece notes were determined by imperfections in the paper upon which the music was writ- ten. The number of imperfec- tions was deter- mined by chance.

26/SILENCE

The origi- nal notation is in ink, and the actual steps that were tak- en in compo- sition have been described in an article in

Die Reihe. flThough in the Music for Piano I have affirmed the absence of the mind as a ruling agent from the structure and method of the composing means, its presence with regard to material is made clear on examining

the sounds themselves: they are only single tones of the convention- al grand pia-

no, played at the keyboard, plucked or muted on the strings, together with noises in- side or outside the piano construction. The limited na- ture of this u- niverse of pos- sibilities

makes the events themselves compa- rable to the first attempts at speech of a child or the fumblings about of a

blind man. The mind reappears as the agent which established the boundaries with- in which this small play took place. Some- thing more far-reach- ing is neces- sary: a com- posing of sounds within a u- niverse predi- cated upon the sounds themselves

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/27

rather than up- on the mind which can envisage their coming in- to being, f Sounds, as we know, have frequency, am- plitude, dura- tion, timbre, and in a composi- tion, an order of succession. Five lines repre- senting these five characteris- tics may be drawn

in India ink upon trans- parent plastic squares. Upon an- other such square a point may be inscribed. Placing the square with the lines over the square with the point, a determi- nation may be made as to the physical na- ture of a sound

and its place with- in a deter- mined program sim- ply by dropping a perpendi- cular from the point to the line and measuring according to any method of measurement. Larger points will have the meaning of intervals and largest points that of aggre- gates. In order to make the sev- eral measure- ments necessar- y for inter- vals and aggre- gates, further squares having five lines are made and the meaning of an- y of the lines is left unde- termined, so that a given one refers to an- y of the five characteris- tics. These squares are square so that they may be used in

any posi- tion with respect to one anoth- er. This describes the situa- tion obtaining

in a recent composition, Variations, the composing means itself one of the eighty- four occurring in the part for piano of Concert for Pi-

ano and Or- chestra. In this situation, the universe within which the action is to take place is not preconceived. Fur- thermore, as we know, sounds are e- vents in a field of possibil- ities, not on- ly at the dis- crete points conven- tions have favored. The notation of Varia- tions departs from music and im- itates the phys- ical real- ity, pt is now my inten- tion to relate the history of the changes with regard to duration of sounds in my com- posing means. Be- yond the fact that in the Construc- tion in Metal there was a con- trol of dura-

28/SILENCE

tion patterns par- allel to that of the number of sounds chosen, nothing uncon- ventional took place. Quantities related through multiplica- tion by two or addition of one-half togeth- er with grupet- tos of three, five, seven, and nine were present. The same holds for the Sonatas and Interludes, though no rhythmic pat- terns were ration- ally controlled. In the String Quar- tet the rhythmic interest drops, movements being nearly charac- terized by the predominance of a single quantity. Not until the Mu- sic of Changes do the quantities and their no- tation change. They

are there measured in space, a quar- ter note equal- ling two and one- half centime- ters. This made pos- sible the no- tation of a fraction, for ex- ample one-third of an eighth, with- out the neces- sity of no- tating the re- mainder of the fraction, the re- maining two-thirds, following the same example. This possibil- ity is di- rectly anal- ogous to the practice of cut- ting magnetic tape. In the du- ration charts of the Music of Changes there were sixty-four el- ements, all of them durations since they were both

applicable

to sound and si- lence ( each of which had thirty-two elements ) . These were segmented ( for example one-half plus one- third of an eighth plus six-sevenths of a quarter) and were expres- sible wholly or in part. This segmentation was a practi- cal measure tak- en to avoid the writing of an impossi- ble situa- tion which might a- rise during a high density structural a- rea due to the chance oper-

ations. fThe same segmentation of durations took place in the Williams Mix, since a maximum of eight machines and loudspeakers had been pre-es- tablished. When the density rose from one to six- teen, it was of- ten necessar- y to express durations by their smallest parts, there being no room left on the tape for the larg- er segments. flEx- act measurement and notation

of durations is in real- ity mental:

rmaginar- y exacti- tude. In the case of tape, many

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/29

circumstances enter which ev- er so slightly, but nonetheless profoundly, al- ter the inten- tion ( even though it was only the carrying out of an action indicated by chance oper- ations ) . Some of these circumstan- ces are the ef- fects of weather upon the ma- terial; others follow from hu- man frailty— the inabil- ity to read a ruler and make a cut at a given point- still others are due to mechan- ical causes, eight machines not running at pre- cisely the same speed. flGiven these circumstances, one might be in- spired towards greater heights of dura-

30/SILENCE

tion control or

he might renounce the need to con- trol durations at all. In Mu- sic for Pia- no I took the latter course. Struc- ture no longer being present, that piece took place in any length of time whatso- ever, accord- ing to the ex- igencies of an occasion. The duration of single sounds was therefore al- so left inde- terminate. The notation took the form of whole notes in space, the space suggesting but not measur- ing time. Noises were crotchets with- out stems. flWhen a

performance of Music for Pi- ano involves more than one pi- anist, as it may from two to twenty, the suc- cession of sounds becomes complete- ly indeter- minate. Though each page is read from left to right con- ventionally, the combina- tion is unpre- dictable in terms of succes- sion. fThe histo- ry of changes with reference to timbre is short. In the Construc- tion in Metal four sounds had a single timbre; while the prepared pi- ano of the Sonatas and Interludes pro- vided by its nature a klang- farbenmelo- die. This inter- est in changing timbres is evi-

dent in the String Quartet. But this matter of tim- bre, which is large- ly a question of taste, was first radically

changed for me in the Imagi- nary Landscape Number IV. I had, I confess, never enjoyed the sound of ra- dios. This piece opened my ears

to them, and was essentially a giving up of personal taste about timbre. I now frequent- ly compose with the radio

turned on, and my friends are no long- er embarrassed when visiting them I inter- rupt their recep- tions. Several other kinds of sound have been dis- tasteful to me: the works of Bee-

thoven, Ital- ian bel can- to, jazz, and the vibraphone. I used Beethoven in the Williams Mix, jazz in the Imaginar- y Landscape Num- ber V, bel can- to in the re- cent part for voice in the Concert for Piano and Orchestra. It remains for me to come to terms with the vib- raphone. In oth- er words, I find my taste for timbre

lacking in ne- cessity, and I discover that in the pro- portion I give it up, I find I hear more and more accurate-

ly. Beethoven now is a sur- prise, as accept- able to the ear as a cow- bell. What are the orchestral timbres of the Concert for Piano and Orchestra? It is impos- sible to pre- dict, but this may be said: they in- vite the timbres of jazz, which more than serious music has explored the possibili- ties of instru- ments. flWith tape and music-synthe- sizers, action with the over- tone structure of sounds can be less a matter of taste and more thor- oughly an ac- tion in a field of possibil- ities. The no- tation I have described for Var- iations deals with it as such.

f[The early works have beginnings, middles, and end- ings. The later ones do not. They begin any- where, last any length of time, and involve more or fewer instru- ments and players. They are therefore not preconceived objects, and to approach them as objects is to utterly miss

occasions for experience, and this exper- ience is not only received by the ears but by the eyes too. An ear alone is not a be- ing. I have no- ticed listening to a record

that my attention moves to a moving object or a play of light, and at a rehearsal of the Williams Mix last May when all eight machines were in opera- tion the atten- tion of those pres- ent was engaged by a sixty- year-old pian- o tuner who was busy tun- ing the instru- ment for the eve- ning's concert. It becomes evi- the point. They are dent that music

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/3

itself is an ideal sit- uation, not a real one. The mind may be used either to ig- nore ambient sounds, pitches oth- er than the eight- y-eight, dura- tions which are not counted, timbres which are unmusi- cal or distaste- ful, and in gen- eral to con- trol and under- stand an avail- able exper- ience. Or the mind may give up its desire to improve on cre- ation and func- tion as a faith- ful receiver of experi- ence. P have not yet told any stories and yet when I give a talk I gener- ally do. The subject certain- ly suggests my telling something

32/SILENCE

irrelevant

but my inclin- ation is to tell something apt. That reminds me: Several years ago I was present at a lecture given by Dr. Dai- setz Teitaro Suzuki. He spoke quietly when he spoke. Some- times, as I was telling a friend yesterday eve- ning, an airplane

would pass over- head. The lecture was at Colum- bia Uni- versity and the campus is directly in line with the de- parture from La Guardia of planes bound for the west. When the wea- ther was good, the windows were o- pen: a plane passing above drowned out Dr. Dai- setz Teitaro Suzuki. Nev- ertheless, he never raised his voice, never paused, and never in- formed his listen- ers of what they missed of the lec- ture, and no one ever asked him what he had said while the airplanes passed above. Any-

way, he was explaining one day the meaning of a Chinese character— Yu, I believe it was— spending the whole time explain- ing it and yet its meaning as close as he could get to it in English was "un- explainable." Finally he

laughed and then said, "Isn't it strange that having come all the way from Japan I spend my time explain- ing to you that which is not to be explained?" f That was not the stor- y I was go- ing to tell when I first thought I would tell one, but it reminds me of another.

Years ago when I was study- ing with Arnold Schoenberg someone asked him to ex- plain his technique of twelve-tone com- position. His reply was im- mediate: "That is none of your business." f Now I remember the story I was going to tell when I first got the ide- a to tell one. I hope I can tell it well. Sev- eral men, three as a matter of fact, were out walking one day, and as they were walking along and talking one of them noticed another man standing on a hill ahead of them. He turned to his friends and said, "Why do you think that man is stand- ing up there on

that hill?" One said, "He must be up there because it's cooler there and he's enjoying the breeze." He turned to another and repeated his question, "Why do you think that man's standing up there on that hill?" The second said, "Since the hill is elevated above the rest of the land, he must be up there in order to see something in the distance." And the third said, "He must have lost his friend and that is why he is stand- ing there alone on that hill." Af- ter some time walk- ing along, the men came up the hill and the one who had been stand- ing there was still there: standing there.

They asked him to say which one was right concerning his reason for standing where he was standing. fl"What reasons do you have for my stand- ing here?" he asked. "We have three," they answered. "First, you are standing up here because it's cooler here and you are enjoy- ing the breeze. Second, since the hill is eleva- ted above the rest of the land, you are up here in order to

see something in the distance. Third, you have lost your friend and that is why you are stand- ing here alone on this hill. We have walked this way; we never meant to climb this hill; now we want an

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answer: Which one of us is right?" f The man answered, "I just stand." flWhen I was studying with Schoenberg one day as he was writing some counterpoint to show the way to do it, he used an eraser. And then while he was doing this

he said, "This end of the pencil is just as im- portant as the other end." I have several times in the course of this lecture mentioned ink. Com- posing, if it is writing notes, is then actu-

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ally writing, and the less one thinks it's tliinking the more it be- comes what it is: writing. Could mu- sic be composed ( I do not mean improvised) not writing it in pencil or ink?

The answer is no doubt Yes and the changes in writing are pro- phetic. The So- natas and In- terludes were com- posed by playing the piano, listening to differences, making a choice, roughly writing it in pencil; later this sketch

was copied, but again in pen- cil. Finally an ink manuscript was made care- fully. The Mu- sic of Changes was composed in almost the same way. With one change: the origi- nal pencil sketch was made exact- ly, an era- ser used whenev- er necessar- y, elimin- ating the need for a neat pen- cil copy. In the case of the Imaginar- y Landscape Num- ber IV, the first step of playing the instrument was elimin- ated. The oth- ers kept. Music for Piano was written di- rectly in ink.

The excessively small type in the following pages is an attempt to emphasize the intentionally pontifical character of this lecture.

II. Indeterminacy

This is a lecture on composition which is indeterminate with respect to its performance. The Klavierstiick XI by Karlheinz Stockhausen is an example. The Art of the Fugue by Johann Sebastian Bach is an example. In The Art of the Fugue, structure, which is the division of the whole into parts; method, which is the note-to-note procedure; and form, which is the expressive content, the morphology of the continuity, are all determined. Frequency and duration characteristics of the material are also determined. Timbre and amplitude characteristics of the material, by not being given, are indeterminate. This mdeterminacy brings about the possibility of a unique overtone struc- ture and decibel range for each performance of The Art of the Fugue. In the case of the Klavierstiick XI, all the characteristics of the material are determined, and so too is the note-to-note procedure, the method. The division of the whole into parts, the structure, is determinate. The sequence of these parts, however, is indeterminate, bringing about the possibility of a unique form, which is to say a unique morphology of the continuity, a unique expressive content, for each performance.

The function of the performer, in the case of The Art of the Fugue, is comparable to that of someone filling in color where outlines are given. He may do this in an organized way which may be subjected successfully to analysis. (Transcriptions by Arnold Schoenberg and Anton Webern give examples pertinent to this century.) Or he may perform his function of colorist in a way which is not consciously organized ( and therefore not subject to analysis)— either arbitrarily, feeling his way, following the dictates of his ego; or more or less unknowingly, by going inwards with reference to the structure of his mind to a point in dreams, following, as in automatic writing, the dictates of his subconscious mind; or to a point in the collective unconscious of Jungian psychoanalysis, fol- lowing the inclinations of the species and doing something of more or less universal interest to human beings; or to the "deep sleep" of Indian mental practice— the Ground of Meister Eckhart— identifying there with no matter what eventuality. Or he may perform his function of colorist arbitrarily, by going outwards with reference to the structure of his mind to the point of sense perception, following his taste; or more or less unknowingly by employ- ing some operation exterior to his mind: tables of random numbers, following the scientific interest in probability; or chance operations, identifying there with no matter what eventuality

The function of the performer in the case of the Klavierstiick XI is not that of a colorist but that of giving form, providing, that is to say, the morphology of the continuity, the expressive content. This may not be done in an organized way: for form unvitalized by spontaneity brings about the death of all the other elements of the work. Examples are provided by academic studies which copy models with respect to all their compositional elements: structure, method, material, and form. On the other hand, no matter how rigorously controlled or conventional the structure, method, and materials of a composition are, that composition will come to life if the form is not con- trolled but free and original. One may cite as examples the sonnets of Shakespeare and the haikus of Basho. How then in the case of the Klavierstiick XI may the performer fulfill his function of giving form to the music? He must perform his function of giving form to the music in a way which is not consciously organized ( and therefore not subject to analysis), either arbitrarily, feeling his way, following the dictates of his ego, or more or less unknowingly, by going inwards with reference to the structure of his mind to a point in dreams, following, as in automatic writing, the dictates of his subconscious mind; or to a point in the collective unconscious of Jungian psychoanalysis, following the inclinations of the species and doing something of more or less universal interest to human beings; or to the "deep sleep" of Indian mental practice— the Ground of Meister Eckhart— identifying there with no matter what eventuality. Or he may perform his function of giving form to the music arbitrarily, by going

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/35

outwards with reference to the structure of his mind to the point of sense perception, following his taste; or more or less unknowingly by employing some operation exterior to his mind: tables of random numbers, following the scientific interest in probability; or chance operations, identifying there with no matter what eventuality.

However, due to the presence in the Klavierstuck XI of the two most essentially conventional aspects of European music— that is to say, the twelve tones of the octave (the frequency characteristic of the material) and regularity of beat (affecting the element of method in the composing means), the performer— in those instances where his procedure follows any dictates at all (his feelings, his automatism, his sense of universality, his taste)— will be led to give the form aspects essentially conventional to European music. These instances will predominate over those which are unknowing where the performer wishes to act in a way consistent with the composition as written. The form aspects essentially conventional to European music are, for instance, the presentation of a whole as an object in time having a beginning, a middle, and an ending, progressive rather than static in character, which is to say possessed of a climax or climaxes and in contrast a point or points of rest.

The indeterminate aspects of the composition of the Klavierstuck XI do not remove the work in its per- formance from the body of European musical conventions. And yet the purpose of indeterminacy would seem to be to bring about an unforseen situation. In the case of Klavierstuck XI, the use of indeterminacy is in this sense unnecessary since it is ineffective. The work might as well have been written in all of its aspects determinately. It would lose, in this case, its single unconventional aspect: that of being printed on an unusually large sheet of paper which, together with an attachment that may be snapped on at several points enabling one to stretch it out flat and place it on the music rack of a piano, is put in a cardboard tube suitable for safekeeping or distribution through die mails.

This is a lecture on composition which is indeterminate with respect to its performance. The Intersection 3 by Morton Feldman is an example. The Music of Changes is not an example. -In the Music of Changes, structure, which is the division of the whole into parts; method, which is the note-to-note procedure; form, which is the expressive content, the morphology of the continuity; and materials, the sounds and silences of the composition, are all determined. Though no two performances of the Music of Changes will be identical ( each act is virgin, even the repeated one, to refer to Rene Char's thought), two performances will resemble one another closely. Though chance operations brought about the determinations of the composition, these operations are not available in its performance. The function of the performer in the case of the Music of Changes is that of a contractor who, fol- lowing an architect's blueprint, constructs a building. That the Music of Changes was composed by means of chance operations identifies the composer with no matter what eventuality. But that its notation is in all respects determinate does not permit the performer any such identification: his work is specifically laid out before him. He is therefore not able to perform from his own center but must identify himself insofar as possible with the center of the work as written. The Music of Changes is an object more inhuman than human, since chance operations brought it into being. The fact that these things that constitute it, though only sounds, have come together to control a human being, the performer, gives the work the alarming aspect of a Frankenstein monster. This situation is of course characteristic of Western music, the masterpieces of which are its most frightening examples, which when concerned with humane communication only move over from Frankenstein monster to Dictator.

In the case of the Intersection 3 by Morton Feldman, structure may be viewed as determinate or as indeter- minate; method is definitely indeterminate. Frequency and duration characteristics of the material are determi- nate only within broad limits ( they are with respect to narrow limits indeterminate ) ; the timbre characteristic of the material, being given by the instrument designated, the piano, is determinate; the amplitude characteristic of the material is indeterminate. Form conceived in terms of a continuity of various weights— that is, a continuity of numbers of sounds, the sounds themselves particularized only with respect to broad range limits ( high, middle, and low ) —is determinate, particularly so due to the composer's having specified boxes as time units. Though one might equally describe it as indeterminate for other reasons. The term "boxes" arises from the composer's use of graph paper for the notation of his composition. The function of the box is comparable to that of a green light in metropolitan thoroughfare control. The performer is free to play the given number of sounds in the range indicated at any time during the duration of the box, just as when driving an automobile one may cross an intersection at any time during the green light. With the exception of method, which is wholly indeterminate, the compositional means are char- acterized by being in certain respects determinate, in others indeterminate, and an interpenetration of these opposites obtains which is more characteristic than either. The situation is therefore essentially non-dualistic; a multiplicity of centers in a state of non-obstruction and interpenetration.

The function of the performer in the case of the Intersection 3 is that of a photographer who on obtaining a camera uses it to take a picture. The composition permits an infinite number of these, and, not being mechanically constructed, it will not wear out. It can only suffer disuse or loss. How is the performer to perform the Intersection 3? He may do this in an organized way which may be subjected successfully to analysis. Or he may perform his function of photographer in a way which is not consciously organized (and therefore not subject to analysis)— either arbitrarily, feeling his way, following the dictates of his ego; or more or less unknowingly, by going inwards with reference to the structure of his mind to a point in dreams, following, as in automatic writing, the dictates of his subconscious mind; or to a point in the collective unconsciousness of Jungian pyschoanalysis, following the inclinations of the species and doing something of more or less universal interest to human beings; or to the ' deep

36/SILENCE

sleep" of Indian mental practice— the Ground of Meister Eckhart— identifying there with no matter what even- tuality. Or he may perform his function of photographer arbitrarily, by going outwards with reference to the structure of his mind to the point of sense perception, following his taste; or more or less unknowingly by employ- ing some operation exterior to his mind: tables of random numbers, following the scientific interest in probability; or chance operations, identifying there with no matter what eventuality.

One evening Morton Feldman said that when he composed he was dead; this recalls to me the statement of my father, an inventor, who says he does his best work when he is sound asleep. The two suggest the "deep sleep" of Indian mental practice. The ego no longer blocks action. A fluency obtains which is characteristic of nature. The seasons make the round of spring, summer, fall, and winter, interpreted in Indian thought as creation, preser- vation, destruction, and quiescence. Deep sleep is comparable to quiescence. Each spring brings no matter what eventuality. The performer then will act in any way. Whether he does so in an organized way or in any one of the not consciously organized ways cannot be answered until his action is a reality. The nature of the composition and the knowledge of the composer's own view of his action suggest, indeed, that the performer act sometimes con- sciously, sometimes not consciously and from the Ground of Meister Eckhart, identifying there with no matter what eventuality.

This is a lecture on composition which is indeterminate with respect to its performance. Indices by Earle Brown is not an example. Where the performance involves a number of players, as it does in the case of Indices, the introduction of a score— that is, a fixed relation of the parts— removes the quality of indeterminacy from the per- formance. Though tables of random numbers (used in a way which introduces bias) brought about the determi- nations of the composition ( structure, method, materials, and form are in the case of Indices all thus determined ) , those tables are not available in its performance. The function of the conductor is that of a contractor, who, following an architect's blueprint, constructs a building. The function of the instrumentalists is that of workmen who simply do as they are bid. That the Indices by Earle Brown was composed by means of tables of random numbers ( used in a way which introduces bias ) identifies the composer with no matter what eventuality, since by the introduction of bias he has removed himself from an association with the scientific interest in probability. But that the notation of the parts is in all respects determinate, and that, moreover, a score provides a fixed relation of these parts, does not permit the conductor or the players any such identification. Their work is laid out before them. The conductor is not able to conduct from his own center but must identify himself insofar as possible with the center of the work as written. The instrumentalists are not able to perform from their several centers but are employed to identify themselves insofar as possible with the directives given by the conductor. They identify with the work itself, if at all, by one remove. From that point of view from which each thing and each being is seen as moving out from its own center, this situation of the subservience of several to the directives of one who is himself controlled, not by another but by the work of another, is intolerable.

(In this connection it may be remarked that certain Indian traditional practices prohibit ensemble, limiting performance to the solo circumstance. This solo, in traditional Indian practice, is not a performance of something written by another but an improvisation by the performer himself within certain limitations of structure, method, and material. Though he himself by the morphology of the continuity brings the form into being, the expressive content does not reside in this compositional element alone, but by the conventions of Indian tradition resides also in all the other compositional elements. )

The intolerable situation described is, of course, not a peculiarity of Indices, but a characteristic of Western music, the masterpieces of which are its most imposing examples, which, when they are concerned not with tables of random numbers ( used in a way which introduces bias ) but rather with ideas of order, personal feelings, and the integration of these, simply suggest the presence of a man rather than the presence of sounds. The sounds of Indices are just sounds. Had bias not been introduced in the use of the tables of random numbers, the sounds would have been not just sounds but elements acting according to scientific theories of probability, elements act- ing in relationship due to the equal distribution of each one of those present— elements, that is to say, under the control of man.

This is a lecture on composition which is indeterminate with respect to its performance. The 4 Systems by Earle Brown is an example. This piece may be performed by one or several players. There is no score, either for the solo circumstance or for that of ensemble. The quality of indeterminacy is for this reason not removed from the performance even where a number of players are involved, since no fixed relation of the parts exists. The original notation is a drawing of rectangles of various lengths and widths in ink on a single cardboard having four equal divisions (which are the systems). The vertical position of the rectangles refers to relative time. The width of the rectangles may be interpreted either as an interval where the drawing is read as two-dimensional, or as ampli- tude where the drawing is read as giving the illusion of a third dimension. Any of the interpretations of this material may be superimposed in any number and order and, with the addition or not of silences between them, may be used to produce a continuity of any time-length. In order to multiply the possible interpretations the composer gives a further permission— to read the cardboard in any of four positions: right side up, upside down, sideways, up and down.

This further permission alters the situation radically. Without it, the composition was highly indeterminate

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of its performance. The drawing was not consciously organized. Drawn unknowingly, from the Ground of Meister Eckhart, it identified the composer with no matter what eventuality. But with the further permission— that of reading the cardboard right side up, upside down, sideways, up and down— the drawing became that of two dif- ferent situations or groups of situations and their inversions. Inversions are a hallmark of the conscious mind. The composer's identification ( though not consciously so according to him ) is therefore no longer with no matter what eventuality but rather with those events that are related by inversion. What might have been non-dualistic becomes dualistic. From a non-dualistic point of view, each thing and each being is seen at the center, and these centers are in a state of interpenetration and non-obstruction. From a dualistic point of view, on the other hand, each thing and each being is not seen: relationships are seen and interferences are seen. To avoid undesired interfer- ences and to make one's intentions clear, a dualistic point of view requires a careful integration of the opposites.

If this careful integration is lacking in the composition, and in the case of 4 Systems it is ( due to the high degree of indeterminacy), it must be supplied in the performance. The function of the performer or of each performer in the case of 4 Systems is that of making something out of a store of raw materials. Structure, the division of the whole into parts, is indeterminate. Form, the morphology of the continuity, is also indeterminate. In given interpretations of the original drawing (such as those made by David Tudor sufficient in number to provide a performance by four pianists lasting four minutes ) method is determinate and so too are the amplitude, timbre, and frequency characteristics of the material. The duration characteristic of the material is both determi- nate and indeterminate, since fines extending from note-heads indicate exact length of time, but the total length of time of a system is indeterminate. The performer's function, in the case of 4 Systems, is dual: to give both structure and form; to provide, that is, the division of the whole into parts and the morphology of the continuity.

Conscious only of his having made a composition indeterminate of its performance, the composer does not himself acknowledge the necessity of this dual function of the performer which I am describing. He does not agree with the view here expressed that the permission given to interpret the drawing right side up, upside down, and sideways, up and down obliges the integration of the opposites: conscious organization and its absence. The struc- tural responsibility must be fulfilled in an organized way, such as might be subjected successfully to analysis. ( The performers in each performance have, as a matter of record, given to each system lengths of time which are related as modules are in architecture: fifteen seconds and multiples thereof by two or four.) The formal respon- sibility must be fulfilled in one or several of the many ways which are not consciously organized. However, due to the identification with the conscious mind indicated in 4 Systems by the presence of inversions, though not acknowledged by the composer, those ways which are not consciously organized that are adjacent to the ego are apt to be used, particularly where the performer wishes to act in a way consistent with the composition as here viewed. He will in these cases perform arbitrarily, feeling his way, following the dictates of his ego; or he will perform arbitrarily, following his taste, in terms of sense perception.

What might have given rise, by reason of the high degree of indeterminacy, to no matter what eventuality (to a process essentially purposeless) becomes productive of a time-object. This object, exceedingly complex due to the absence of a score, a fixed relation of the parts, is analagous to a futurist or cubist painting, perhaps, or to a moving picture where flicker makes seeing the object difficult.

From the account which appears to be a history of a shift from non-dualism to dualism (not by intention, since the composer does not attach to the inversions the importance here given them, but as a by-product of the action taken to multiply possibilities) the following deduction may be made: To ensure indeterminacy with respect to its performance, a composition must be determinate of itself. If this indeterminacy is to have a non-dualistic nature, each element of the notation must have a single interpretation rather than a plurality of interpretations which, coming from a single source, fall into relation. Likewise— though this is not relevant to 4 Systems— one may deduce that a single operation within the act of composition itself must not give rise to more than a single notation. Where a single operation is applied to more than one notation, for example to those of both frequency and amplitude characteristics, the frequency and amplitude characteristics are by that operation common to both brought into relationship. These relationships make an object; and this object, in contrast to a process which is purposeless, must be viewed dualistically. Indeterminacy when present in the making of an object, and when therefore viewed dualistically, is a sign not of identification with no matter what eventuality but simply of carelessness with regard to the outcome.

This is a lecture on composition which is indeterminate with respect to its performance. Duo II for Pianists by Christian Wolff is an example. In the case of Duo II for Pianists, structure, the division of the whole into parts, is indeterminate. ( No provision is given by the composer for ending the performance. ) Method, the note-to-note procedure, is also indeterminate. All the characteristics of the materials (frequency, amplitude, timbre, duration) are indeterminate within gamut limitations provided by the composer. The form, the morphology of the con- tinuity, is unpredictable. One of the pianists begins the performance: the other, noticing a particular sound or silence which is one of a gamut of cues, responds with an action of his own determination from among given possibilities within a given time bracket. Following this beginning, each panist responds to cues provided by the other, letting no silence fall between responses, though these responses themselves include silences. Certain time brackets are in zero time. There is no score, no fixed relation of the parts. Duo II for Pianists is evidently not a time-object, but rather a process the beginning and ending of which are irrelevant to its nature. The ending, and

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the beginning, will be determined in performance, not by exigencies interior to the action but by circumstances of the concert occasion. If the other pieces on the program take forty-five minutes of time and fifteen minutes more are required to bring the program to a proper length, Duo II for Pianists may be fifteen minutes long. Where only five minutes are available, it will be five minutes long.

The function of each performer in the case of Duo II for Pianists is comparable to that of a traveler who must constantly be catching trains the departures of which have not been announced but which are in the process of being announced. He must be continually ready to go, alert to the situation, and responsible. If he notices no cue, that fact itself is a cue calling for responses indeterminate within gamut limitations and time brackets. Thus he notices (or notices that he does not notice) a cue, adds time bracket to time bracket, determines his response to come (meanwhile also giving a response), and, as the second hand of a chronometer approaches the end of one bracket and the beginning of the next, he prepares himself for the action to come ( meanwhile still making an action), and, precisely as the second hand of a chronometer begins the next time bracket, he makes the suitable action (meanwhile noticing or noticing that he does not notice the next cue), and so on. How is each performer to fulfill this function of being alert in an indeterminate situation? Does he need to proceed cautiously in dualistic terms? On the contrary, he needs his mind in one piece. His mind is too busy to spend time splitting itself into conscious and not-conscious parts. These parts, however, are still present. What has happened is simply a com- plete change of direction. Rather than making the not-conscious parts face the conscious part of the mind, the conscious part, by reason of the urgency and indeterminacy of the situation, turns towards the not-conscious parts. He is therefore able, as before, to add two to two to get four, or to act in organized ways which on being subjected to analysis successfully are found to be more complex. But rather than concentrating his attention here, in the realm of relationships, variations, approximations, repetitions, logarithms, his attention is given inwardly and out- wardly with reference to the structure of his mind to no matter what eventuality. Turning away from himself and his ego-sense of separation from other beings and things, he faces the Ground of Meister Eckhart, from which all impermanencies flow and to which they return. "Thoughts arise not to be collected and cherished but to be dropped as though they were void. Thoughts arise not to be collected and cherished but to be dropped as though they were rotten wood. Thoughts arise not to be collected and cherished but to be dropped as though they were pieces of stone. Thoughts arise not to be collected and cherished but to be dropped as though they were the cold ashes of a fire long dead." Similarly, in the performance of Duo II for Pianists, each performer, when he performs in a way consistent with the composition as written, will let go of his feelings, his taste, his automatism, his sense of the universal, not attaching himself to this or to that, leaving by his performance no traces, providing by his actions no interruption to the fluency of nature. The performer therefore simply does what is to be done, not splitting his mind in two, not separating it from his body, which is kept ready for direct and instantaneous contact with his instrument.

This is a lecture on composition which is indeterminate with respect to its performance. That composition is neces- sarily experimental. An experimental action is one the outcome of which is not forseen. Being unforseen, this action is not concerned with its excuse. Like the land, like the air, it needs none. A performance of a composition which is indeterminate of its performance is necessarily unique. It cannot be repeated. When performed for a second time, the outcome is other than it was. Nothing therefore is accomplished by such a performance, since that per- formance cannot be grasped as an object in time. A recording of such a work has no more value than a postcard; it provides a knowledge of something that happened, whereas the action was a non-knowledge of something that had not yet happened.

There are certain practical matters to discuss that concern the performance of music the composition of which is indeterminate with respect to its performance. These matters concern the physical space of the per- formance. These matters also concern the physical time of the performance. In connection with the physical space of the performance, where that performance involves several players (two or more), it is advisable for several reasons to separate the performers one from the other, as much as is convenient and in accord with the action and the architectural situation. This separation allows the sounds to issue from their own centers and to interpenetrate in a way which is not obstructed by the conventions of European harmony and theory about relationships and interferences of sounds. In the case of the harmonious ensembles of European musical history, a fusion of sound was of the essence, and therefore players in an ensemble were brought as close together as possible, so that their actions, productive of an object in time, might be effective. In the case, however, of the performance of music the composition of which is indeterminate of its performance so that the action of the players is productive of a process, no harmonious fusion of sound is essential. A non-obstruction of sounds is of the essence. The separation of players in space when there is an ensemble is useful towards bringing about this non-obstruction and interpene- tration, which are of the essence. Furthermore, this separation in space will facilitate the independent action of each performer, who, not constrained by the performance of a part which has been extracted from a score, has turned his mind in the direction of no matter what eventuality. There is the possibility when people are crowded together that they will act like sheep rather than nobly. That is why separation in space is spoken of as facilitating independent action on the part of each performer. Sounds will then arise from actions, which will then arise from their own centers rather than as motor or psychological effects of other actions and sounds in the environment. The musical recognition of the necessity of space is tardy with respect to the recognition of space on the part of

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the other arts, not to mention scientific awareness. It is indeed astonishing that music as an art has kept perform- ing musicians so consistently huddled together in a group. It is high time to separate the players one from another, in order to show a musical recognition of the necessity of space, which has already been recognized on the part of the other arts, not to mention scientific awareness. What is indicated, too, is a disposition of the performers, in the case of an ensemble in space, other than the conventional one of a huddled group at one end of a recital or sym- phonic hall. Certainly the performers in the case of an ensemble in space will be disposed about the room. The conventional architecture is often not suitable. What is required perhaps is an architecture like that of Mies van der Rohe's School of Architecture at the Illinois Institute of Technology. Some such architecture will be useful for the performance of composition which is indeterminate of its performance. Nor will the performers be huddled together in a group in the center of the audience. They must at least be disposed separately around the audience, if not, by approaching their disposition in the most radically realistic sense, actually disposed within the audience itself. In this latter case, the further separation of performer and audience will facilitate the independent action of each person, which will include mobility on the part of all.

There are certain practical matters to discuss that concern the performance of music the composition of which is indeterminate with respect to its performance. These matters concern the physical space of the per- formance. These matters also concern the physical time of the performance. In connection with the physical time of the performance, where that performance involves several players (two or more), it is advisable for several reasons to give the conductor another function than that of beating time. The situation of sounds arising from actions which arise from their own centers will not be produced when a conductor beats time in order to unify the performance. Nor will the situation of sounds arising from actions which arise from their own centers be pro- duced when several conductors beat different times in order to bring about a complex unity to the performance. Beating time is not necessary. All that is necessary is a slight suggestion of time, obtained either from glancing at a watch or at a conductor who, by his actions, represents a watch. Where an actual watch is used, it becomes possible to foresee the time, by reason of the steady progress from second to second of the second hand. Where, however, a conductor is present, who by his actions represents a watch which moves not mechanically but vari- ably, it is not possible to foresee the time, by reason of the changing progress from second to second of the con- ductor's indications. Where this conductor, who by his actions represents a watch, does so in relation to a part rather than a score— to, in fact, his own part, not that of another— his actions will interpenetrate with those of the players of the ensemble in a way which will not obstruct their actions. The musical recognition of the necessity of time is tardy with respect to the recognition of time on the part of broadcast communications, radio, television, not to mention magnetic tape, not to mention travel by air, departures and arrivals from no matter what point at no matter what time, to no matter what point at no matter what time, not to mention telephony. It is indeed astonishing that music as an art has kept performing musicians so consistently beating time together like so many horseback riders huddled together on one horse. It is high time to let sounds issue in time independent of a beat in order to show a musical recognition of the necessity of time which has already been recognized on the part of broadcast communications, radio, television, not to mention magnetic tape, not to mention travel by air, departures and arrivals from no matter what point at no matter what time, to no matter what point at no matter what time, not to mention telephony.

An Indian lady invited me to dinner and said Dr. Suzuki would be there. He was. Before dinner I mentioned Gertrude Stein. Suzuki had never heard of her. I described aspects of her work, which he said sounded very interesting. Stimulated, I mentioned James Joyce, whose name was also new to him. At dinner he was unable to eat the curries that were offered, so a few uncooked vegetables and fruits were brought, which he enjoyed. After dinner the talk turned to metaphysical problems, and there were many questions, for the hostess was a follower of a certain Indian yogi and her guests were more or less equally divided between allegiance to Indian thought and to Japanese thought. About eleven o'clock we were out on the street walking along, and an American lady said, "How is it, Dr. Suzuki? We spend the evening asking you questions and nothing is decided." Dr. Suzuki smiled and said, "That's why I love philosophy: no one wins."

40/SILENCE

The following text is made up of questions and quotations. The quotations are some from the writings of others and some from my own writings. (That from Christian Wolff is from his article "New and Electronic Music," copyright 1958 by the Audience Press, and reprinted by permission from Audience, Volume V, Number 3, Summer 1958.) The order and quantity of the quotations were given by chance operations. No performance timing was composed. Nevertheless, 1 always prescribe one before delivering this lecture, sometimes adding by chance operations indications of when, in the course of the performance, I am obliged to light a cigarette.

III. Communication

NlCHI NICHI KOBE KO NICHI: EVERY DAY IS A BEAUTIFUL DAY

What if I ask thirty-two questions?

What if I stop asking now and then?

Will that make things clear?

Is communication something made clear?

What is communication?

Music, what does it communicate?

Is what's clear to me clear to you?

Is music just sounds?

Then what does it communicate?

Is a truck passing by music?

If I can see it, do I have to hear it too?

If I don't hear it, does it still communicate?

If while I see it I can't hear it, but hear something else, say an egg-beater, because I'm

inside looking out, does the truck communicate or the egg-beater, which communicates? Which is more musical, a truck passing by a factory or a truck

passing by a music school? Are the people inside the school musical and the ones outside unmusical? What if the ones inside can't hear very well, would that change my question? Do you know what I mean when I say inside the school? Are sounds just sounds or are they Beethoven? People aren't sounds, are they?

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/41

Is there such a thing as silence?

Even if I get away from people, do I still have to listen to something?

Say I'm off in the woods, do I have to listen to a stream babbling?

Is there always something to hear, never any peace and quiet?

If my head is full of harmony, melody, and rhythm, what happens to

me when the telephone rings, to my piece and quiet, I mean? And if it was European harmony, melody, and rhythm in my head, what has happened

to the history of, say, Javanese music, with respect, that is to say, to my head? Are we getting anywhere asking questions? Where are we going? Is this the twenty-eighth question? Are there any important questions?

"How do you need to cautiously proceed in dualistic terms?" Do I have two more questions? And, now, do I have none?

Now that I've asked thirty-two questions, can I ask forty-four more?

I can, but may I?

Why must I go on asking questions?

Is there any reason in asking why?

Would I ask why if questions were not words but were sounds?

If words are sounds, are they musical or are they just noises?

If sounds are noises but not words, are they meaningful?

Are they musical?

Say there are two sounds and two people and one of each is beautiful,

is there between all four any communication? And if there are rules, who made them, I ask you? Does it begin somewhere, I mean, and if so, where does it stop? What will happen to me or to you if we have to be somewhere where beauty isn't? I ask you, sometime, too, sounds happening in time, what will happen to our experience

of hearing, yours, mine, our ears, hearing, what will happen if sounds being

beautiful stop sometime and the only sounds to hear are not beautiful to hear

but are ugly, what will happen to us? Would we ever be able to get so that we thought the ugly sounds were beautiful? If we drop beauty, what have we got? Have we got truth?

42/SILENCE

Have we got religion?

Do we have a mythology?

Would we know what to do with one if we had one?

Have we got a way to make money?

And if money is made, will it be spent on music?

If Russia spends sixty million for the Brussels Fair, lots of it for music and dance, and

America spends one-tenth of that, six million about, does that mean that one out of

ten Americans is as musical and kinesthetic as all the Russians put together? If we drop money, what have we got?

Since we haven't yet dropped truth, where shall we go looking for it? Didn't we say we weren't going, or did we just ask where we were going? If we didn't say we weren't going, why didn't we? If we had any sense in our heads, wouldn't we know the truth instead

of going around looking for it? How otherwise would we, as they say, be able to drink a glass of water? We know, don't we, everybody else's religion, mythology, and philosophy

and metaphysics backwards and forwards, so what need would we have

for one of our own if we had one, but we don't, do we? But music, do we have any music? Wouldn't it be better to just drop music too? Then what would we have? Jazz?

What's left?

Do you mean to say it's a purposeless play?

Is that what it is when you get up and hear the first sound of each day? Is it possible that I could go on monotonously asking questions forever? Would I have to know how many questions I was going to ask? Would I have to know how to count in order to ask questions? Do I have to know when to stop?

Is this the one chance we have to be alive and ask a question? How long will we be able to be alive?

CONTEMPORARY MUSIC IS NOT THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE

NOR THE MUSIC OF THE PAST BUT SIMPLY

MUSIC PRESENT WITH US: THIS MOMENT, NOW,

THIS NOW MOMENT.

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/43

\S

Something remarkable has happened: I was asking questions; now I'm quoting from a lecture I gave years ago. Of course I will ask some more questions later on, but not now: I have quoting to do.

THAT MOMENT IS ALWAYS CHANGING. ( I WAS SILENT : NOW I AM

SPEAKING. ) HOW CAN WE POSSIBLY TELL WHAT CONTEMPORARY

MUSIC IS, SINCE NOW WERE NOT LISTENING TO IT, WE RE LISTENING

TO A LECTURE ABOUT IT. AND THAT ISNT IT.

THIS IS "TONGUE-WAGGING." REMOVED AS WE ARE THIS MOMENT FROM

CONTEMPORARY MUSIC ( WE ARE ONLY THINKING ABOUT IT ) EACH ONE OF US

IS THINKING HIS OWN THOUGHTS, HIS OWN EXPERIENCE, AND EACH

EXPERIENCE IS DIFFERENT AND EACH EXPERIENCE IS CHANGING AND WHILE

WE ARE THINKING I AM TALKING AND CONTEMPORARY MUSIC IS CHANGING.

LIKE LIFE IT CHANGES. IF IT WERE NOT CHANGING

IT WOULD BE DEAD, AND, OF COURSE, FOR SOME OF US, SOMETIMES

IT IS DEAD, BUT AT ANY MOMENT IT CHANGES AND IS LWING AGAIN.

TALKING FOR A MOMENT ABOUT CONTEMPORARY MILK: AT ROOM TEMPERATURE IT IS CHANGING, GOES SOUR ETC., AND THEN A NEW BOTTLE ETC., UNLESS BY SEPARATING IT FROM ITS CHANGING BY POWDERING IT OR REFRIGERATION ( WHICH IS A WAY OF SLOWING

DOWN ITS LIVELINESS ) ( THAT IS TO SAY MUSEUMS AND ACADEMIES ARE

WAYS OF PRESERVING) WE TEMPORARILY SEPARATE THINGS FROM LIFE

(FROM CHANGING) BUT AT ANY MOMENT DESTRUCTION MAY COME SUDDENLY AND THEN WHAT HAPPENS IS FRESHER

WHEN WE SEPARATE MUSIC FROM LIFE WHAT WE GET IS ART ( A COMPENDIUM

OF MASTERPIECES ) . WITH CONTEMPORARY MUSIC, WHEN IT IS ACTUALLY

CONTEMPORARY, WE HAVE NO TIME TO MAKE THAT SEPARATION ( WHICH

PROTECTS US FROM LrVING ) , AND SO CONTEMPORARY MUSIC IS

NOT SO MUCH ART AS IT IS LIFE AND ANY ONE MAKING IT NO SOONER

FINISHES ONE OF IT THAN HE BEGINS MAKING ANOTHER JUST AS PEOPLE

KEEP ON WASHING DISHES, BRUSHING THEIR TEETH, GETTING SLEEPY,

AND SO ON. VERY FREQUENTLY NO ONE KNOWS THAT

CONTEMPORARY MUSIC IS OR COULD BE ART. HE SIMPLY THINKS IT IS

IRRITATING. IRRITATING ONE WAY OR ANOTHER,

THAT IS TO SAY KEEPING US FROM OSSIFYING.

44/SILENCE

FOR ANY ONE OF US CONTEMPORARY MUSIC IS OR COULD BE A WAY OF LrVTNG.

SEVERAL STORIES OCCUR TO ME THAT I SHOULD LIKE TO INTERPOLATE . ( IN THE SAME WAY, BY THE WAY, THAT WHILE I AM WRITING THIS THAT I AM NOW TALKING, THE TELEPHONE KEEPS RINGING AND THEN CONTEMPORARY CONVERSATION TAKES PLACE INSTEAD OF THIS PARTICULAR WAY OF PREPARING A LECTURE ) . THE FIRST STORY

is from the Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna. his living and talking

had impressed a musician who began to think that he should gfve

up music and become a disciple of ramakrishna. but when he proposed

this, Ramakrishna said, by no means. remain

a musician: music is a means of raped transportation.

rapid transportation, that is, to ld7e "everlasting," that is to say, life, period. another story is that

when i was ferst aware that i was to grve this talk i consulted the Book of Changes and obtained by tossing coins the hexagram

TO INFLUENCE, TO STIMULATE. SIX AT THE TOP MEANS THE

INFLUENCE SHOWS ITSELF IN THE JAWS, CHEEKS, AND TONGUE AND THE

COMMENTARY SAYS : THE MOST SUPERFICIAL WAY OF TRYING TO INFLUENCE

OTHERS IS THROUGH TALK THAT HAS NOTHING REAL BEHIND IT. THE

INFLUENCE PRODUCED BY SUCH MERE TONGUE- WAGGING MUST NECESSARILY

REMAIN INSIGNIFICANT. HOWEVER, I FIND MYSELF IN

DISAGREEMENT WITH THE COMMENTARY. I SEE NO NECESSITY TO PUT

SOMETHING "REAL" BEHIND TONGUE- WAGGING. I DO NOT SEE THAT

TONGUE-WAGGING IS ANY MORE SIGNIFICANT OR INSIGNIFICANT THAN ANY

THING ELSE. IT SEEMS TO ME THAT IT IS SIMPLY A MATTER OF

GOING ON TALKING, WHICH IS NEITHER SIGNIFICANT NOR INSIGNIFICANT,

NOR GOOD NOR BAD, BUT SIMPLY HAPPENING TO BE THE WAY I AM RIGHT

NOW LrVTNG WHICH IS CTVING A LECTURE IN ILLINOIS WHICH BRINGS US

BACK TO CONTEMPORARY MUSIC. BUT TAKING OFF

AGAIN AND RETURNING TO THE Book of Changes: THE HEXAGRAM ON GRACE

( WHICH IS THE HEXAGRAM ON ART ) DISCUSSES THE EFFECT OF A WORK

OF ART AS THOUGH IT WERE A LIGHT SHINING ON TOP OF A

MOUNTAIN PENETRATING TO A CERTAIN EXTENT THE SURROUNDING DARKNESS.

THAT IS TO SAY, ART IS DESCRIBED AS BEING ILLUMINATING, AND THE REST OF LIFE AS BEING DARK. NATURALLY I DISAGREE.

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/45

T

IF THERE WERE A PART OF LIFE DARK ENOUGH TO KEEP OUT OF IT A LIGHT

FROM ART, I WOULD WANT TO BE EST THAT DARKNESS, FUMBLING AROUND D7

NECESSARY, BUT ALTVE AND I RATHER THINK THAT CONTEMPORARY

MUSIC WOULD BE THERE IN THE DARK TOO, BUMPING INTO THINGS, KNOCKING

OTHERS OVER AND IN GENERAL ADDING TO THE DISORDER THAT CHARACTERIZES

LIFE ( IF IT IS OPPOSED TO ART ) RATHER THAN ADDING TO THE

ORDER AND STABILIZED TRUTH BEAUTY AND POWER THAT CHARACTERIZE

A MASTERPIECE ( IF IT IS OPPOSED TO LD7E ) . AND IS IT? YES

IT IS. MASTERPDZCES AND GENIUSES GO TOGETHER AND WHEN BY

RUNNING FROM ONE TO THE OTHER WE MAKE LIFE SAFER THAN IT

ACTUALLY IS WERE APT NEVER TO KNOW THE DANGERS OF

CONTEMPORARY MUSIC OR EVEN TO BE ABLE TO DRINK

A GLASS OF WATER. TO HAVE SOMETHING BE A MASTERPD2CE YOU

HAVE TO HAVE ENOUGH TIME TO CLASSD7Y IT AND MAKE IT CLASSICAL.

BUT WITH CONTEMPORARY MUSIC THERE IS NO TIME TO DO ANYTHING LIKE CLASSIFYING. ALL YOU CAN DO IS SUDDENLY LISTEN

EST THE SAME WAY THAT WHEN YOU CATCH COLD ALL YOU CAN DO IS SUDDENLY SNEEZE. UNFORTUNATELY

EUROPEAN THINKING HAS BROUGHT IT ABOUT THAT ACTUAL THINGS THAT HAPPEN SUCH AS SUDDENLY LISTENING OR SUDDENLY SNEEZING ARE NOT

CONSroERED PROFOUND. EST THE COURSE OF A

LECTURE LAST WINTER AT COLUMBIA, SUZUKI SATO THAT THERE WAS A DD7FERENCE BETWEEN ORIENTAL THINKING AND EUROPEAN THINKING, THAT IN EUROPEAN THINKING THINGS ARE SEEN AS CAUSING ONE ANOTHER AND HAVING EFFECTS, WHEREAS IN ORIENTAL THINKING

THIS SEEING OF CAUSE AND EFFECT IS NOT EMPHASIZED BUT INSTEAD ONE MAKES AN DDENTTFICATION WITH WHAT IS HERE AND NOW. HE THEN SPOKE OF TWO QUALITIES: UNTMPEDEDNESS

AND INTERPENETRATION. NOW THIS

UNIMPEDEDNESS IS SEEING THAT IN ALL OF SPACE EACH THING AND EACH HUMAN BEING IS AT THE CENTER AND FURTHERMORE THAT EACH ONE BEING AT THE CENTER IS THE MOST HONORED

ONE OF ALL. INTERPENETRATION MEANS THAT EACH ONE OF THESE

MOST HONORED ONES OF ALL IS MOVING OUT IN ALL DIRECTIONS PENETRATING AND BEING PENETRATED BY EVERY OTHER ONE NO MATTER WHAT THE TIME OR WHAT THE SPACE. SO THAT WHEN ONE SAYS

46/SILENCE

THAT THERE IS NO CAUSE AND EFFECT, WHAT IS MEANT IS THAT THERE

ARE AN INCALCULABLE INFINITY OF CAUSES AND EFFECTS, THAT IN FACT

EACH AND EVERY THING IN ALL OF TIME AND SPACE IS RELATED TO

EACH AND EVERY OTHER THING IN ALL OF TIME AND SPACE. THIS

BEING SO THERE IS NO NEED TO CAUTIOUSLY PROCEED IN DUALISTIC

TERMS OF SUCCESS AND FAILURE OR THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE UGLY

OR GOOD AND EVIL BUT RATHER SIMPLY TO WALK ON "NOT WONDERING,"

TO QUOTE MEISTER ECKHART, "AM I RIGHT OR DOING SOMETHING WRONG."

This is the second Tuesday in Sepember of 1958 and I still have

quite a lot to say: I'm nowhere near the end. I have four questions I must ask.

If, as we have, we have dropped music, does that mean we have nothing to listen to? Don't you agree with Kafka when he wrote, "Psychology— never again?" If you had to put on ten fingers the music you would take with you

if you were going to the North Pole, what would you put? Is it true there are no questions that are really important?

Here's a little information you may find informative about the information theory:

FOURIER ANALYSIS ALLOWS A FUNCTION OF TIME (OR ANY OTHER INDEPENDENT VARIABLE) TO BE EX- PRESSED IN TERMS OF PERIODIC (FREQUENCY) COMPONENTS. THE FREQUENCY COMPONENTS ARE OVER- ALL PROPERTIES OF THE ENTIRE SIGNAL. BY MEANS OF A FOURIER ANALYSIS ONE CAN EXPRESS THE VALUE OF A SIGNAL AT ANY POINT EST TERMS OF THE OVER-ALL FREQUENCY PROPERTIES OF THE SIGNAL; OR VICE VERSA, ONE CAN OBTAIN THESE OVER-ALL PROPERTDZS FROM THE VALUES OF THE SIGNAL AT ITS VARIOUS POINTS.

What did I say?

Where is the "should" when they say you should have something to say? Three. Actually when you drop something, it's still with you, wouldn't you say? Four. Where would you drop something to get it completely away? Five. Why do you not do as I do, letting go of each thought as though it were void? Six. Why do you not do as I do, letting go of each thought as though it were rotten wood? Why do you not do as I do, letting go of each thought as though it were a piece of stone? Why do you not do as I do, letting go of each thought as though it were the cold ashes of a fire long dead, or else just making the slight response suitable to the occasion?

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/47

Nine. Do you really think that the discovery that a measurable entity exists, namely, the energy which can measure mechanical, electrical, thermal, or any other kind of physical activity, and can measure potential as well as actual activity, greatly simplifies thinking about physical phenomena?

Do you agree with Boulez when he says what he says?

Are you getting hungry?

Twelve. Why should you ( you know more or less what you're going to get ) ?

Will Boulez be there or did he go away when I wasn't looking?

Why do you suppose the number 12 was given up but the idea of the series wasn't?

Or was it?

And if not, why not?

In the meantime, would you like to hear the very first performance of Christian Wolffs For Piano with Preparations?

What in heaven's name are they going to serve us for dinner, and what

happens afterwards? More music?

Living or dead, that's the big question. When you get sleepy, do you go to sleep? Or do you He awake? Why do I have to go on asking questions? Is it the same reason I have to go on writing music? But it's clear, isn't it, I'm not writing music right now? Why do they call me a composer, then, if all I do is ask questions? If one of us says that all twelve tones should be in a row and another says they shouldn't,

which one of us is right? What if a B flat, as they say, just comes to me? How can I get it to come to me of itself, not just pop up out of my

memory, taste, and psychology? How?

Do you know how? And if I did or somebody else did find a way to let a sound be itself,

would everybody within earshot be able to listen to it? Why is it so difficult for so many people to listen? Why do they start talking when there is something to hear? Do they have their ears not on the sides of their heads but situated inside their mouths

48/SILENCE

so that when they hear something their first impulse is to start talking? The situation should be made more normal, don't you think? Why don't they keep their mouths shut and their ears open? Are they stupid?

And, if so, why don't they try to hide their stupidity? Were bad manners acquired when knowledge of music was acquired? Does being musical make one automatically stupid and unable to listen? Then don't you think one should put a stop to studying music? Where are your thinking caps?

we're passing through time and space, our ears are in excellent condition.

a sound is high or low, soft or loud, of a certain ttmhre, lasts a certain length of time, and has an envelope.

Is it high?

Is it low?

Is it in the middle?

Is it soft?

Is it loud?

Are there two?

Are there more than two?

Is it a piano?

Why isn't it?

Was it an airplane?

Is it a noise?

Is it music?

Is it softer than before?

Is it supersonic?

When will it stop?

What's coming?

Is it time?

Is it very short?

Very long?

Just medium?

If I had something to see, would it be theatre?

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/49

Is sound enough?

What more do I need?

Don't I get it whether I need it or not?

Is it a sound?

Then, again, is it music?

Is music— the word, I mean— is that a sound?

If it is, is music music?

Is the word "music" music?

Does it communicate anything?

Must it?

If it's high, does it?

If it's low, does it?

If it's in the middle, does it?

If it's soft, does it?

If it's loud, does it?

If it's an interval, does it?

What is an interval?

Is an interval a chord?

Is a chord an aggregate?

Is an aggregate a constellation?

What's a constellation?

How many sounds are there altogether?

One million?

Ten thousand?

Eighty-eight?

Do I have to ask ten more?

Do I?

Why?

Why do I?

Did I decide to ask so many?

Wasn't I taking a risk?

Was I?

Why was I?

Will it never stop?

Why won't it?

SO/SILENCE

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS SILENCE. GET THEE TO AN ANECHOIC CHAMBER AND HEAR THERE THY NERVOUS SYSTEM IN OPERATION AND HEAR THERE THY BLOOD IN CIRCULATION.

I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY AND I AM SAYING IT.

Would it be too much to ask if I asked thirty-three more?

Who's asking?

Is it I who ask?

Don't I know my own mind?

Then why do I ask if I don't know?

Then it's not too much to ask?

Right?

Then, tell me, do you prefer Bach to Beethoven?

And why?

Would you like to hear Quantitaten by Bo Nilsson whether it's

performed for the first time or not? Has any one seen Meister Eckhart lately? Do you think serious music is serious enough? Is a seventh chord inappropriate in modern music? What about fifths and octaves? What if the seventh chord was not a seventh chord? Doesn't it seem silly to go on asking questions when there's so much

to do that's really urgent? But we're halfway through, aren't we? Shall we buck up?

Are we in agreement that the field of music needs to be enlivened? Do we disagree? On what? Communication?

If I have two sounds, are they related? If someone is nearer one of them than he is to the second, is he

more related to the first one? What about sounds that are too far away for us to hear them? Sounds are just vibrations, isn't that true? Part of a vast range of vibrations including radio waves, light,

cosmic rays, isn't that true?

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/51

Why didn't I mention that before? Doesn't that stir the imagination? Shall we praise God from Whom all blessings flow? Is a sound a blessing? I repeat, is a sound a blessing?

I repeat, would you like to hear Quantitaten by Bo Nilsson whether it's performed for the first time or not?

The Belgians asked me about the avant-garde in America and this is what I told them:

in the united states there aee as many ways of writing music as there are composers. there is also no avatlarle information as to what is going on. there is no magazine concerned with modern music. purlishers are not inquisitive. the societies which actively exist ( hroadcast music inc., american society of composers, authors and publishers ) are concerned with economics, currently engaged in an important lawsuit, in new york city, the league of composers and the international society for contemporary music have fused, the new organization representing the current interest in consolidating the acquisitions of schoenberg and stravinsky. this circle has, no doubt, an avant-garde, but it is a cautious one, refusing risk. its most accomplished and adventurous representative is probably mllton babbitt, who, in certain works, has applied serial method to the several aspects of sound. the works for magnetic tape by luening and ussachevsky, louis and Bebe Barron, are not properly termed avant-garde, since they maintain conventions and accepted values. the young study with neo-classicists, so that the spirit of the avant-garde, infecting them, induces a certain dodecaphony. in this social darkness, therefore, the work of Earle Brown, Morton Feldman, and Christian Wolff continues to present a brilliant light, for the reason that at the several points of notation, performance, and audition, action is provocative. none of these uses serial method. brown's notation in space equal to time

TENDS CURRENTLY TO FINE PRECISION OF DIRECTIVE. Wolff's INTRODUCTION IN DURATIONS OF SPLIT AND PARTIAL GRUPETTOS, IN TEMPI THAT OF ZERO, TENDS OPPOSITELY. THE GRAPHS OF FELDMAN CTVE WITHIN LIMITS EXTREME FREEDOM OF ACTION TO THE PERFORMER.

52/SILENCE

They also— the Belgians, that is— asked me whether the American avant-garde follows the same direction as the European one and this is what I told them:

THE AMERICAN AVANT-GARDE, RECOGNIZING THE PROVOCATIVE CHARACTER OF CERTAIN EUROPEAN WORKS, OF PlERRE BOULEZ, KARLHEINZ StOCKHAUSEN,

Henri Pousseur, Bo Ndlsson, Bengt Hambraeus, has in its concerts presented them in performances, notably by davod tudor, pianist. that these works are serial in method diminishes somewhat the interest they enjoin. but the thoroughness of the method's application bringing a situation removed from conventional expectation frequently opens the ear. however, the european works present a harmoniousness, a drama, or a poetry which, referring more to thedr composers than to thehl hearers, moves in directions not shared by the american ones. many of the american works envisage each auditor as central, so that the physical circumstances of a concert do not oppose audd2nce to performers but dispose the latter around-among the former, bringing a unique acoustical experience to each patr of ears. admittedly, a situation of this complexity is beyond control, yet it resembles a listener's situation before and after a concert— daily experience, that is. it appears such a continuum is not part of the european

OBJECTTVE, SINCE IT DISSOLVES THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN "art" AND "LIFE." TO THE UNEXPERIENCED, THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE EUROPEANS AND THE AMERICANS LIES IN THAT THE LATTER INCLUDE MORE SDLENCE IN THEm WORKS. IN THIS VD2W THE MUSIC OF NlLSSON APPEARS AS INTERMEDIATE, THAT OF BOULEZ AND OF THE AUTHOR AS IN OPPOSITION. THIS SUPERFICIAL DIFFERENCE IS ALSO PROFOUND. WHEN SILENCE, GENERALLY SPEAKING, IS NOT IN EVIDENCE, THE WTLL OF THE COMPOSER IS. INHERENT SILENCE IS EQUIVALENT TO DENIAL OF THE WELL- "TAKING A NAP, I POUND THE RICE." NEVERTHELESS, CONSTANT ACTIVITY MAY OCCUR HAVING NO DOMINANCE OF WTLL IN IT. NEITHER AS SYNTAX NOR STRUCTURE, BUT ANALOGOUS TO THE SUM OF NATURE, IT WILL HAVE ARISEN PURPOSELESSLY.

It's getting late, isn't it?

I still have two things to do, so what I want to know is : Would you like to hear Quantitaten by Bo Nilsson whether it's performed for the first time or not?

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/53

I must read a little from an article by Christian Wolff. Here's what he says:

NOTABLE QUALITIES OF THIS MUSIC, WHETHER ELECTRONIC OR NOT, ARE MONOTONY AND THE IRRITATION THAT ACCOMPANIES IT. THE MONOTONY MAY LIE IN SIMPLICITY OR DELICACY, STRENGTH OR COMPLEXITY. COMPLEXITY TENDS TO REACH A POINT OF NEUTRALIZATION : CONTINUOUS CHANGE RESULTS IN A CERTAIN SAMENESS. THE MUSIC HAS A STATIC CHARACTER. IT GOES IN NO PARTICULAR DIRECTION. THERE IS NO NECESSARY CONCERN WITH TIME AS A MEASURE OF DISTANCE FROM A POINT IN THE PAST TO A POINT IN THE FUTURE, WITH LINEAR CONTINUITY ALONE. IT IS NOT A QUESTION OF GETTING ANYWHERE, OF MAKING PROGRESS, OR HAVING COME FROM ANYWHERE IN PARTICULAR, OF TRADITION OR FUTURISM. THERE IS NEITHER NOSTALGIA NOR ANTICIPATION. OFTEN THE STRUCTURE OF A PIECE IS CIRCULAR: THE SUCCESSION OF ITS PARTS IS

variable, as in Pousseur's Exercises de Piano and Stockhausen's Klavierstuck XL in Cage's recent work the notation itself can be circular, the succession of notes on a stave not necessarily indicating their sequence in time, that is, the order in which they are performed, one may have to read notes on a circle, in two "voices" going in opposite ddrections simultaneously. an aspect of time dissolves. and the europeans often view organization as "global," whereby beginnings and ends are not points on a line but limits of a piece's material ( for example, pitch ranges or possible combinations of timbres ) which may be touched at any time during the piece. the boundaries of the piece are expressed, not at moments of time which mark a succession, but as margins of a spatial projection of the total sound structure.

as for the quality of irritation, that is a more subjective matter, one might say that it is at least preferable to soothing, edifying, exalting, and similar qualities. its source is, of course, precisely in monotony, not in any forms of aggression or emphasis. it is the immobility of motion. and it alone, perhaps, is truly moving.

And now I have to read a story from Kwang-Tse and then I'm finished:

Yun Kiang, rambling to the East, having been borne along on a gentle breeze, suddenly encountered Hung Mung, who was rambling about, slapping his buttocks and hopping like a bird. Amazed at the sight, Yun Kiang stood reverentially and said to

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the other, "Venerable Sir, who are you? and why are you doing this?" Hung Mung went on slapping his buttocks and hopping like a bird, but replied, "I'm enjoying myself." Yun Kiang said, "I wish to ask you a question." Hung Mung lifted up his head, looked at the stranger, and said, "Pooh !" Yun Kiang, however, continued, "The breath of heaven is out of harmony ; the breath of earth is bound up ; the six elemental influences do not act in concord ; the four seasons do not observe their proper times. Now I wish to blend together the essential qualities of those six influences in order to nourish all living things. How shall I go about it?" Hung Mung slapped his buttocks, hopped about, and shook his head, saying, "I do not know ; I do not know !"

Yun Kiang could not pursue his question ; but three years afterwards, when again rambling in the East, as he was passing by the wild of Sung, he happened to meet Hung Mung. Delighted with the rencontre, he hastened to him, and said, "Have you forgotten me, O Heaven ? Have you forgotten me, O Heaven ?" At the same time, he bowed twice with his head to the ground, wishing to receive his instructions. Hung Mung said, "Wandering listlessly about, I know not what I seek ; carried on by a wild impulse, I know not where I am going. I wander about in the strange manner which you have seen, and see that nothing proceeds without method and order — what more should I know?" Yun Kiang replied, "I also seem carried on by an aimless influence, and yet people follow me wherever I go. I cannot help their doing so. But now as they thus imitate me, I wish to hear a word from you." The other said, "What disturbs the regular method of Heaven, comes into collision with the nature of things, prevents the accomplishment of the mysterious operation of Heaven, scatters the herds of animals, makes the birds sing at night, is calamitous to vegetation, and disastrous to all insects ; all this is owing, I conceive, to the error of governing men." "What then," said Yun Kiang, "shall I do ?" "Ah," said the other, "you will only injure them ! I will leave you in my dancing way, and return to my place." Yun Kiang rejoined, "It has been difficult to get this meeting with you, O Heaven ! I should like to hear from you a word more." Hung Mung said, "Ah ! your mind needs to be nourished. Do you only take the position of doing nothing, and things will of themselves become transformed. Neglect your body ; cast out from you your power of hearing and sight ; forget what you have in common with things ; cultivate a grand similarity with the chaos of the plastic ether ; unloose your mind ; set your spirit free ; be still as if you had no soul. Of all the multitude of things, every one returns to its root, and does not know that it is doing so. They all are as in the state of chaos, and during all their existence they do not leave it. If they knew that they were returning to their root, they would be consciously leaving it. They do not ask its name ; they do not seek to spy out their nature ; and thus it is that things come to life of themselves."

COMPOSITION AS PROCESS/55

Yun Kiang said, "Heaven, you have conferred on me the knowledge of your operation and revealed to me the mystery of it. All my life I have been seeking for it, and now I have obtained it." He then bowed twice with his head to the ground, arose, took his leave, and walked away.

One day when I was across the hall visiting Sonya Sekula, I noticed that she was painting left-handed. I said, "Sonya, aren't you right-handed?" She said, "Yes, but I might lose the use of my right hand, and so I'm practicing using my left." I laughed and said, "What if you lose the use of both hands?" She was busy painting and didn't bother to reply. Next day when I visited her, she was sitting on the floor, painting with difficulty, for she was holding the brush between two toes of her left foot.

Morris Graves introduced Xenia and me to a mim'ature island in Puget Sound at Deception Pass. To get there we traveled from Seattle about seventy-five miles north and west to Anacortes Island, then south to the Pass, where we parked. We walked along a rocky beach and then across a sandy stretch that was passable only at low tide to another island, continuing through some luxuriant woods up a hill where now and then we had views of the surrounding waters and distant islands, until finally we came to a small foot- bridge that led to our destination— an island no larger than, say, a modest home. This island was carpeted with flowers and was so situated that all of Deception Pass was visible from it, just as though we were in the best seats of an intimate theatre. While we were lying there on that bed of flowers, some other people came across the footbridge. One of them said to another, "You come all this way and then when you get here there's nothing to see."

A composer friend of mine who spent some time in a mental rehabilitation center was encouraged to do a good deal of bridge playing. After one game, his partner was criticizing his play of an ace on a trick which had already been won. My friend stood up and said, "If you think I came to the loony bin to learn to play bridge, you're crazy."

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The two articles which follow are technical. Information regarding other compositional means may be found in the brochure accompanying George Avakians recording of my twenty-five-year retrospective concert at Town Hall in 1958.

The first article was my part of Four Musicians at Work which was published in trans/formation, Volume 1, Number 3 (New York City, 1952).

COMPOSITION

To Describe the Process of Composition Used in Music of Changes and Imaginary Landscape No. 4

My recent work (Imaginary Landscape No. TV for twelve radios and the Music of Changes for piano) is structurally similar to my earlier work: based on a number of measures having a square root, so that the large lengths have the same relation within the whole that the small lengths have within a unit of it. Formerly, however, these lengths were time-lengths, whereas in the recent work the lengths exist only in space, the speed of travel through this space being unpredictable.

What brings about this unpredictability is the use of the method estab- lished in the I-Ching (Book of Changes) for the obtaining of oracles, that of tossing three coins six times.

Three coins tossed once yield four lines: three heads, broken with a circle; two tails and a head, straight; two heads and a tail, broken; three tails, straight with a circle. Three coins tossed thrice yield eight trigrams ( written from the base up ) : chien, three straight; chen, straight, broken, broken; kan, broken, straight, broken; ken, broken, broken, straight; kun, three broken; sun, broken, straight, straight; li, straight, broken, straight; tui, straight, straight, broken. Three coins tossed six times yield sixty-four hexagrams (two trigrams, the second written above the first) read in refer- ence to a chart of the numbers 1 to 64 in a traditional arrangement having eight divisions horizontally corresponding to the eight lower trigrams and eight divisions vertically corresponding to the eight upper trigrams. A hexagram having lines with circles is read twice, first as written, then as changed. Thus, chien-chien, straight lines with circles, is read first as 1,

COMPOSITION/57

then as kun-kun, 2; whereas chien-chien, straight lines without circles, is read only as 1.

Charts are made of an equal number of elements (sixty-four) which refer to Superpositions (one chart) (how many events are happening at once during a given structural space); Tempi (one chart); Durations (n, the number of possible superpositions, in these works, eight charts ) ; Sounds ( eight charts ) ; Dynamics ( eight charts ) .

Where there are eight charts, four at any instant are mobile and four immobile ( mobile means an element passes into history once used, giving place to a new one; immobile means an element, though used, remains to be used again). Which charts are which is determined by the first toss at a large unit structural point, an odd number bringing about a change, an even number maintaining the previous status.

The Tempi and Superpositions charts, however, remain unchanged through the entire work.

In the charts for sounds thirty-two of the elements ( the even numbers ) are silences. The sounds themselves are single, aggregates ( cf . the accord sometimes obtained on a prepared piano when only one key is depressed), or complex situations ( constellations ) in time ( cf . the Chinese characters made with several strokes ) . Sounds of indefinite pitch ( noises ) are free to be used without any restriction. Those of definite pitch are taken as being twelve in number. In any chart for sounds ( there being thirty-two sounds ) two squares (four times four) exist, one above the other. Reading horizon- tally or vertically, one reads all twelve tones. In the case of the mobility of sounds (disappearance into history) four in succession also produce the twelve tones, with or without noises and repetitions. In the case of "inter- ference" ( the appearance of a sound having characteristics in common with the characteristics of the previously sounded situation ) the characteristics that produce the interference are omitted from the newly appearing sound or cut short in the situation that has previously sounded. In the radio piece, numbers on a tuning dial are written instead of sounds, whatever happens being acceptable (station, static, silence).

In the charts for dynamics only sixteen numbers produce changes ( one, five, nine, etc. ) ; the others maintain the previous status. These are either dynamic levels or accents (in the piano piece); levels, diminuendi, and crescendi in the radio piece. In the piano piece, combinations of dynamic levels (e.g. fff >p) indicate accents; in the case of a sound complex in time

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this may become a diminuendo or (by retrograde interpretation) a cre- scendo, or derived complex.

In the charts for durations there are sixty -four elements ( since silence also has length). Through use of fractions (e.g. %; % -f- % -f- y2 ) meas- ured following a standard scale (2% cm. equals a crotchet), these durations are, for the purposes of musical composition, practically infinite in number. The note stem appears in space at a point corresponding to the appearance of the sound in time, that is if one reads at the tempo, or chang- ing tempo indicated. Given fractions of a quarter, half, dotted half and whole note up to y8, simple addition of fractions is the method employed for the generating of durations. Because addition is the generating means employed, the durations may be said to be "segmented." These segments may be permuted and/or divided by two or three ( simple nodes ) . A sound may then express the duration by beginning at any one of these several points.

A way of relating durations to sounds has been thought of in the course of this work but not in it utilized: to let four durations equal a specified length (on the chart, horizontally or vertically and in mobility four in suc- cession ) —this specified length being subject to change.

The chart for Tempi has thirty-two elements, the blanks maintaining the previous tempo.

Each one of the events one to eight is worked from the beginning to the end of the composition. For instance, the eighth one is present from beginning to end but may sound only during a structural space that has been defined by a toss ( for Superpositions ) of fifty-seven to sixty-four. It is then not only present but possibly audible. It becomes actually audible if a sound is tossed (rather than a silence) and if the duration tossed is of a length that does not carry the sound beyond the structural space open to it.

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. The sounds enter the time-space cen- tered within themselves, unimpeded by service to any abstraction, their 360 degrees of circumference free for an infinite play of interpenetration.

Value judgments 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.

COMPOSITION/59

This article, translated into German by Christian Wolff, first appeared in Die Reihe No. 3 (Vienna, 1957) . The English text was printed in the Universal Edition of Die Reihe No. 3, copyright 1959 by Theodore Presser Co., Pennsylvania, by whose permission it is reprinted here.

To Describe the Process of Composition Used in M usk for Piano 2 7 -52

1. Given ink, pen, and sheets of transparent paper of determined dimensions, a master page ( without notations ) is made, having four total systems. "Total" here means having enough space above and below each staff to permit its being either bass or treble. Thus, there being the conven- tional two staves (one for each hand), each has enough space above it to accommodate nine ledger lines (as equidistant as those of the staves) and below it to accommodate six ledger lines plus (leaving room for the extreme low piano key and string). Between the two there is a narrow space, bisected by a line, allowing for the notation of noises produced by hand or beater upon the interior (above the line) or exterior (below the line) piano construction. Measurements are such that the entire sheet ( within margins ) is potentially useful.

2. Laying the master page aside, chance operations derived from the I-Ching and channeled within certain limits ( 1-128 for 21-36; 1-32 for 37-52) (which are established in relation to relative difficulty of performance ) are employed to determine the number of sounds per page.

3. A blank sheet of transparent paper is then placed so that its pointal imperfections may readily be observed. That number of imperfections corresponding to the determined number of sounds is intensified with pencil.

4. Placing the penciled sheet in a registered way upon the master page, first the staves and interline and then the ledger lines where necessary are inscribed in ink. Secondly, conventional whole notes are written in ink wherever a penciled point falls within the area of staves or ledger lines, inked-in notes ( crotchets without stems ) being written wherever such a point falls within the space between the two staves. This operation is done roughly, since, through the use of conventional lines and spaces, points falling in the latter are in the majority. Thus it is determined that a point, though not on a line, is actually more nearly so than it is at the center of the adjacent space.

5. Eight single coin tosses are made determining the clefs, bass or treble, and inscribed in ink.

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6. The sixty-four possibilities of the I-Ching are divided by chance operations into three groups relative to three categories: normal (played on the keyboard); muted; and plucked (the two latter played on the strings ) . For example, having tossed numbers 6 and 44, a number 1 through 5 will produce a normal; 6 through 43 a muted; 44 through 64 a plucked piano tone. A certain weight of probability exists in favor of the second and third categories. Though this has not appeared to be of consequence, it indicates a possible change in "technique." The categories having been determined, notations (M and P) are conveniently placed in reference to the notes.

A similar procedure is followed to determine whether a tone is natural, sharp, or flat, the procedure being altered, of course, for the two extreme keys where only two possibilities exist.

7. The notation of the composition is thus completed. Much that occurs in performance has not been determined. Therefore, the following note is fixed at the head of the manuscript: "These pieces constitute two groups of sixteen pieces (21-36; 37-52) which may be played alone or together and with or without Music for Piano 4-19.1 Their length in time is free; there may or may not be silence between them; they may be overlapped. Given a programed time length, the pianists may make a calculation such that their concert will fill it. Duration of individual tones and dynamics are free."

COMMENTARY

A performance is characterized by the programed time length calculated beforehand and adhered to through the use of a stop watch. This is primarily of use in relation to an entire page, secondarily of use in relation, to say, a system; for it is possible that, though the space of the page is here equal to time, the performance being realized by a human being rather than a machine, such space may be interpreted as moving, not only constantly, but faster or slower. Thus, finally, nothing has been determined by the notation as far as performance time is concerned. And, as concerns timbre (the noises, the three categories ) next to nothing has been determined. This is especially the case where P is interpreted as meaning a plucked muted string or M a muted plucked string. Nor, indeed, have the points on the strings where these latter operations are to be made been indicated. And— and this may be considered a fundamental omission— nothing has been indicated regarding the architecture of the room in which the music is to be played and the placement ( customarily distant one from another) of the instruments (how many?) therein. All these elements, evidently of paramount importance, point the question: What has been composed? ^

1 The composition of these pieces followed a different procedure and, furthermore, did not include interior and exterior construction noises.

COMPOSITION/61

This article first appeared in the March 1949 issue of The Tiger's Eye, a journal edited by Ruth and John Stephan from Bleecker Street in New York. It was translated into French by Frederick Goldbeck, who changed the title to Raison d'etre de la musique moderne. This was published in Contrepoints (Paris) later in the same year.

FORERUNNERS OF MODERN MUSIC

Strategy

The purpose of music

Music is edifying, for from time to time it sets the soul in operation. The soul is the gatherer-together of the disparate elements (Meister Eckhart), and its work fills one with peace and love.

Definitions

Structure in music is its divisibility into successive parts from phrases to long sections. Form is content, the continuity. Method is the means of controlling the continuity from note to note. The material of music is sound and silence. Inte- grating these is composing.

Structure is properly mind-controlled. Both delight in precision, clarity, and the observance of rules. Whereas form wants only freedom to be. It belongs to the heart; and the law it observes, if indeed it submits to any, has never been and never will be written.1 Method may be planned or improvised (it makes no difference: in one case, the emphasis shifts towards thinking, in the other towards feeling; a piece for radios as instruments would give up the matter of method to accident). Likewise, material may be controlled or not, as one chooses. Normally the choice of sounds is determined by what is pleasing and attractive to the ear: delight in the giving or receiving of pain being an indication of sickness.

1 Any attempt to exclude the "irrational" is irrational. Any composing strategy which is wholly "rational" is irrational in the extreme.

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Refrain

Activity involving in a single process the many, turning them, even though some seem to be opposites, towards oneness, contributes to a good way of life.

The plot thickens

When asked why, God being good, there was evil in the world, Sri Ramakrishna said: To thicken the plot.

The aspect of composition that can properly be discussed with the end in view of general agreement is structure, for it is devoid of mystery. Analysis is at home here.

Schools teach the making of structures by means of classical harmony. Out- side school, however (e.g., Satie and Webern), a different and correct2 structural means reappears : one based on lengths of time.3, 4

In the Orient, harmonic structure is traditionally unknown, and unknown with us in our pre-Renaissance culture. Harmonic structure is a recent Occidental phenomenon, for the past century in a process of disintegration.5 Atonality 6 has happened

The disintegration of harmonic structure is commonly known as atonality. All that is meant is that two necessary elements in harmonic structure— the cadence, and modulating means— have lost their edge. Increasingly, they have become ambig- uous, whereas their very existence as structural elements demands clarity ( single- ness of reference) . Atonality is simply the maintenance of an ambiguous tonal state of affairs. It is the denial of harmony as a structural means. The problem of a composer in a musical world in this state is to supply another structural means,7

' Sound has four characteristics: pitch, timbre, loudness, and duration. The opposite and necessary coexistent of sound is silence. Of the four characteristics of sound, only duration involves both sound and silence. Therefore, a structure based on durations (rhythmic: phrase, time lengths) is correct (corresponds with the nature of the material ) , whereas harmonic structure is incorrect ( derived from pitch, which has no being in silence ) .

* This never disappeared from jazz and folk music. On the other hand, it never developed in them, for they are not cultivated species, growing best when left wild.

4 Tala is based on pulsation, Western rhythmic structure on phraseology. 8 For an interesting, detailed proof of this, see Casella's book on the cadence.

* The term "atonality" makes no sense. Schoenberg substitutes "pantonality," Lou Harrison ( to my mind and experience the preferable term) "proto-tonality." This last term suggests what is actually the case: present even in a random multiplicity of tones (or, better, sounds [so as to include noises]), is a gravity, original and natural, "proto," to that particular situation. Elementary composition consists in discovering the ground of the sounds em- ployed, and then letting life take place both on land and in the air.

7 Neither Schoenberg nor Stravinsky did this. The twelve-tone row does not offer a structural means; it is a method, a control, not of the parts, large and small, of a composition, but only of the minute, note-to-note pro- cedure. It usurps the place of counterpoint, which, as Carl Ruggles, Lou Harrison, and Merton Brown have shown, is perfectly capable of functioning in a chromatic situation. Neo-classicism, in reverting to the past, avoids, by refusing to recognize, the contemporary need for another structure, gives a new look to structural harmony. This automatically deprives it of the sense of adventure, essential to creative action.

FORERUNNERS OF MODERN MUSIC/63

just as in a bombed-out city the opportunity to build again exists.8 This way one finds courage and a sense of necessity.

Interlude (Meister Eckhart)

"But one must achieve this unselfconsciousness by means of transformed knowl- edge. This ignorance does not come from lack of knowledge but rather it is from knowledge that one may achieve this ignorance. Then we shall be informed by the divine unconsciousness and in that our ignorance will be ennobled and adorned with supernatural knowledge. It is by reason of this fact that we are made perfect by what happens to us rather than by what we do."

At random

Music means nothing as a thing.

A finished work is exactly that, requires resurrection.

The responsibility of the artist consists in perfecting his work so that it may become attractively disinteresting.

It is better to make a piece of music than to perform one, better to perform one than to listen to one, better to listen to one than to misuse it as a means of distraction, entertainment, or acquisition of "culture."

Use any means to keep from being a genius, all means to become one.

Is counterpoint good? "The soul itself is so simple that it cannot have more than one idea at a time of anything. . . . A person cannot be more than single in attention." (Eckhart)

Freed from structural responsibility, harmony becomes a formal element (serves expression).

Imitating either oneself or others, care should be taken to imitate structure, not form (also structural materials and structural methods, not formal materials and formal methods ) , disciplines, not dreams; thus one remains "inno- cent and free to receive anew with each Now-moment a heavenly gift." ( Eckhart )

If the mind is disciplined, the heart turns quickly from fear towards love.

Before making a structure by means of rhythm, it is necessary to decide what rhythm is.

This could be a difficult decision to make if the concern were formal (expressive) or to do with method (point to point procedure); but since the concern is struc- tural (to do with divisibility of a composition into parts large and small), the decision is easily reached: rhythm in the structural instance is relationships of lengths of time.9 Such matters, then, as accents on or off the beat, regularly re- curring or not, pulsation with or without accent, steady or unsteady, durations motivically conceived (either static or to be varied), are matters for formal

8 The twelve-tone row offers bricks but no plan. The neo-classicists advise building it the way it was before, but surfaced fashionably.

B Measure is literally measure— nothing more, for example, than the inch of a ruler— thus permitting the existence of any durations, any amplitude relations (meter, accent), any silences.

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Claim

( expressive ) use, or, if thought about, to be considered as material ( in its "textural" aspect) or as serving method. In the case of a year, rhythmic structure is a matter of seasons, months, weeks, and days. Other time lengths such as that taken by a fire or the playing of a piece of music occur accidentally or freely without explicit recog- nition of an all-embracing order, but nevertheless, necessarily within that order. Coincidences of free events with structural time points have a special luminous character, because the paradoxical nature of truth is at such moments made ap- parent. Caesurae on the other hand are expressive of the independence ( accidental or willed ) of freedom from law, law from freedom.

Any sounds of any qualities and pitches (known or unknown, definite or indefi- nite), any contexts of these, simple or multiple, are natural and conceivable within a rhythmic structure which equally embraces silence. Such a claim is remarkably like the claims to be found in patent specifications for and articles about tech- nological musical means ( see early issues of Modern Music and the Journal of the Acoustical Society of America). From differing beginning points, towards possibly different goals, technologists and artists (seemingly by accident) meet by inter- section, becoming aware of the otherwise unknowable ( conjunction of the in and the out), imagining brightly a common goal in the world and in the quietness within each human being.

Just as art as sand painting ( art for the now-moment 10 rather than for posterity's museum civilization) becomes a held point of view, adventurous workers in the field of synthetic music (e.g. Norman McLaren) find that for practical and eco- nomic reasons work with magnetic wires (any music so made can quickly and easily be erased, rubbed off) is preferable to that with film.11

The use of technological means 12 requires the close anonymous collaboration of a number of workers. We are on the point of being in a cultural situation,13

10 This is the very nature of the dance, of the performance of music, or any other art requiring performance (for this reason, the term "sand painting" is used: there is a tendency in painting (permanent pigments), as in poetry (printing, binding), to be secure in the thingness of a work, and thus to overlook, and place nearly insur- mountable obstacles in the path of, instantaneous ecstasy).

11 Twenty-four or n frames per second is the "canvas" upon which this music is written; thus, in a very obvious way, the material itself demonstrates the necessity for time (rhythmic) structure. With magnetic means, freedom from the frame of film means exists, but the principle of rhythmic structure should hold over as, in geom- etry, a more elementary theorem remains as a premise to make possible the obtaining of those more advanced.

u "I want to be as though new-born, knowing nothing, absolutely nothing about Europe." (Paul Klee) 13 Replete with new concert halls : the movie houses ( vacated by home television fans, and too numerous for a Hollywood whose only alternative is "seriousness" ) .

FORERUNNERS OF MODERN MUSIC/65

For instance:

without having made any special effort to get into one1* (if one can discount lamentation).

The in-the-heart path of music leads now to self-knowledge through self- denial, and its in-the-world path leads likewise to selflessness.15 The heights that now are reached by single individuals at special moments may soon be densely populated.

" Painting in becoming literally (actually) realistic— (this is the twentieth century) seen from above, the earth, snow-covered, a composition of order superimposed on the "spontaneous" (Cummings) or of the latter letting order be (from above, so together, the opposites, they fuse) (one has only to fly [highways and topography, Milarepa, Henry Ford] to know)— automatically will reach the same point (step by step) the soul leaped to.

" The machine fathers mothers heroes saints of the mythological order, works only when it meets with acquiescence (cf. The King and the Corpse, by Heinrich Zimmer, edited by Joseph Campbell).

Peggy Guggenheim, Santomaso, and I were in a Venetian restaurant. There were only two other people dining in the same room and they were not conversing. I got to expressing my changed views with regard to the French and the Italians. I said that I had years before preferred the French because of their intelligence and had found the Italians playful but intellectually not engaging; that recently, however, I found the French cold in spirit and lacking in freedom of the mind, whereas the Italians seemed warm and surprising. Then it occurred to me that the couple in the room were French. I called across to them and said, "Are you French?" The lady replied. "We are," she said, "but we agree with you completely."

Richard Lippold called up and said, "Would you come to dinner and bring the I-Ching?" I said I would. It turned out he'd written a letter to the Metropolitan proposing that he be commissioned for a certain figure to do The Sun. This letter withheld nothing about the excellence of his art, and so he hesitated to send it, not wishing to seem presumptuous. Using the coin oracle, we consulted the I-Ching. It mentioned a letter. Advice to send it was given. Success was promised, but the need for patience was mentioned. A few weeks later, Richard Lippold called to say that his proposal had been answered but without commitment, and that that should make clear to me as it did to him what to think of the I-Ching. A year passed. The Metropolitan Museum finally commissioned The Sun. Richard Lippold still does not see eye to eye with me on the subject of chance operations.

The question of leading tones came up in the class in experimental composition that I give at the New School. I said, "You surely aren't talking about ascending half-steps in diatonic music. Is it not true that anything leads to whatever follows?" But the situation is more complex, for things also lead back- wards in time. This also does not give a picture that corresponds with reality. For, it is said, the Buddha's enlightenment penetrated in every direction to every point in space and time.

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The following article was written at the request of Dr. Wolfgang Steinecke, Director of the Internationale Ferienkiirse fiir Neue Musik at Darmstadt. The German translation by Heinz Klaus Metzger was published in the 1959 issue of Darmstadter Beitrage. The statement by Christian Wolff quoted herein is from his article "New and Electronic Music," copyright 1958 by the Audience Press, and reprinted by permission from Audience, Volume V, Number 3, Summer 1958.

HISTORY OF EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC IN THE UNITED STATES

Once when Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki was giving a talk at Columbia Uni- versity he mentioned the name of a Chinese monk who had figured in the history of Chinese Buddhism. Suzuki said, "He lived in the ninth or the tenth century." He added, after a pause, "Or the eleventh century, or the twelfth or thirteenth century or the fourteenth."

About the same time, Willem de Kooning, the New York painter, gave a talk at the Art Alliance in Philadelphia. Afterwards there was a discus- sion: questions and answers. Someone asked De Kooning who the painters of the past were who had influenced him the most. De Kooning said, "The past does not influence me; I influence it."

A little over ten years ago I acted as music editor for a magazine called Possibilities. Only one issue of this magazine appeared. However: in it, four American composers (Virgil Thomson, Edgard Varese, Ben Weber, and Alexei Haieff ) answered questions put to them by twenty other composers. My question to Varese concerned his views of the future of music. His an- swer was that neither the past nor the future interested him; that his con- cern was with the present.

Sri Ramakrishna was once asked, "Why, if God is good, is there evil in the world?" He said, "In order to thicken the plot." Nowadays in the field of music, we often hear that everything is possible; ( for instance ) that with electronic means one may employ any sound (any frequency, any ampli- tude, any timbre, any duration) ; that there are no limits to possibility. This

HISTORY OF EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC IN THE UNITED STATES/67

is technically, nowadays, theoretically possible and in practical terms is often felt to be impossible only because of the absence of mechanical aids which, nevertheless, could be provided if the society felt the urgency of musical advance. Debussy said quite some time ago, "Any sounds in any combination and in any succession are henceforth free to be used in a musical continuity." Paraphrasing the question put to Sri Ramakrishna and the answer he gave, I would ask this: "Why, if everything is possible, do we concern ourselves with history (in other words with a sense of what is necessary to be done at a particular time?" And I would answer, "In order to thicken the plot." In this view, then, all those interpenetrations which seem at first glance to be hellish— history, for instance, if we are speaking of experimental music— are to be espoused. One does not then make just any experiment but does what must be done. By this I mean one does not seek by his actions to arrive at money but does what must be done; one does not seek by his actions to arrive at fame ( success ) but does what must be done; one does not seek by his actions to provide pleasure to the senses ( beauty ) but does what must be done; one does not seek by his actions to arrive at the establishing of a school (truth) but does what must be done. One does something else. What else?

In an article called "New and Electronic Music," Christian Wolff says: "What is, or seems to be, new in this music? . . . One finds a concern for a kind of objectivity, almost anonymity— sound come into its own. The 'music' is a resultant existing simply in the sounds we hear, given no impulse by ex- pressions of self or personality. It is indifferent in motive, originating in no psychology nor in dramatic intentions, nor in literary or pictorial purposes. For at least some of these composers, then, the final intention is to be free of artistry and taste. But this need not make their work 'abstract/ for noth- ing, in the end, is denied. It is simply that personal expression, drama, psychology, and the like are not part of the composer's initial calculation: they are at best gratuitous.

"The procedure of composing tends to be radical, going directly to the sounds and their characteristics, to the way in which they are produced and how they are notated."

"Sound come into its own." What does that mean? For one thing: it means that noises are as useful to new music as so-called musical tones, for the simple reason that they are sounds. This decision alters the view of

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history, so that one is no longer concerned with tonality or atonality, Schoenberg or Stravinsky (the twelve tones or the twelve expressed as seven plus five), nor with consonance and dissonance, but rather with Edgard Varese who fathered forth noise into twentieth-century music. But it is clear that ways must be discovered that allow noises and tones to be just noises and tones, not exponents subservient to Varese's imagination.

What else did Varese do that is relevant to present necessity? He was the first to write directly for instruments, giving up the practice of making a piano sketch and later orchestrating it. What is unnecessary in Varese ( from a present point of view of necessity ) are all his mannerisms, of which two stand out as signatures (the repeated note resembling a telegraphic transmission and the cadence of a tone held through a crescendo to maxi- mum amplitude). These mannerisms do not establish sounds in their own right. They make it quite difficult to hear the sounds just as they are, for they draw attention to Varese and his imagination.

What is the nature of an experimental action? It is simply an action the outcome of which is not foreseen. It is therefore very useful if one has decided that sounds are to come into their own, rather than being exploited to express sentiments or ideas of order. Among those actions the outcomes of which are not foreseen, actions resulting from chance operations are use- ful. However, more essential than composing by means of chance opera- tions, it seems to me now, is composing in such a way that what one does is indeterminate of its performance. In such a case one can just work directly, for nothing one does gives rise to anything that is preconceived. This necessitates, of course, a rather great change in habits of notation. I take a sheet of paper and place points on it. Next I make parallel fines on a transparency, say five parallel lines. I establish five categories of sound for the five lines, but I do not say which fine is which category. The trans- parency may be placed on the sheet with points in any position and read- ings of the points may be taken with regard to all the characteristics one wishes to distinguish. Another transparency may be used for further meas- urements, even altering the succession of sounds in time. In this situation no chance operations are necessary ( for instance, no tossing of coins ) for nothing is foreseen, though everything may be later minutely measured or simply taken as a vague suggestion.

Implicit here, it seems to me, are principles familiar from modern

HISTORY OF EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC IN THE UNITED STATES/69

painting and architecture: collage and space. What makes this action like Dada are the underlying philosophical views and the collagelike actions. But what makes this action unlike Dada is the space in it. For it is the space and emptiness that is finally urgently necessary at this point in history (not the sounds that happen in it— or their relationships) (not the stones- thinking of a Japanese stone garden— or their relationships but the empti- ness of the sand which needs the stones anywhere in the space in order to be empty). When I said recently in Darmstadt that one could write music by observing the imperfections in the paper upon which one was writing, a student who did not understand because he was full of musical ideas asked, "Would one piece of paper be better than another: one for instance that had more imperfections?" He was attached to sounds and because of his attachment could not let sounds be just sounds. He needed to attach himself to the emptiness, to the silence. Then things— sounds, that is— would come into being of themselves. Why is this so necessary that sounds should be just sounds? There are many ways of saying why. One is this: In order that each sound may become the Buddha. If that is too Oriental an expression, take the Christian Gnostic statement: "Split the stick and there is Jesus."

We know now that sounds and noises are not just frequencies ( pitches ) : that is why so much of European musical studies and even so much of modern music is no longer urgently necessary. It is pleasant if you happen to hear Beethoven or Chopin or whatever, but it isn't urgent to do so any more. Nor is harmony or counterpoint or counting in meters of two, three, or four or any other number. So that much of Ives ( Charles Ives ) is no longer experimental or necessary for us (though people are so used to knowing that he was the first to do such and such). He did do things in space and in collage, and he did say, Do this or this (whichever you choose), and so indeterminacy which is so essential now did enter into his music. But his meters and rhythms are no longer any more important for us than curiosities of the past like the patterns one finds in Stravinsky. Counting is no longer necessary for magnetic tape music ( where so many inches or centimeters equal so many seconds ) : magnetic tape music makes it clear that we are in time itself, not in measures of two, three, or four or any other number. And so instead of counting we use watches if we want to know where in time we are, or rather where in time a sound is to be. All this can be summed up by saying each aspect of sound (frequency, ampli-

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tude, timbre, duration ) is to be seen as a continuum, not as a series of dis- crete steps favored by conventions (Occidental or Oriental). (Clearly all the Americana aspects of Ives are in the way of sound coming into its own, since sounds by their nature are no more American than they are Egyptian. ) Carl Ruggles? He works and reworks a handful of compositions so that they better and better express his intentions, which perhaps ever so slightly are changing. His work is therefore not experimental at all but in a most sophisticated way attached to the past and to art.

Henry Cowell was for many years the open sesame for new music in America. Most selflessly he published the New Music Edition and encour- aged the young to discover new directions. From him, as from an efficient information booth, you could always get not only the address and telephone number of anyone working in a lively way in music, but you could also get an unbiased introduction from him as to what that anyone was doing. He was not attached (as Varese also was not attached) to what seemed to so many to be the important question: Whether to follow Schoenberg or Stravinsky. His early works for piano, long before Varese's Ionization (which, by the way, was published by Cowell), by their tone clusters and use of the piano strings, pointed towards noise and a continuum of timbre. Other works of his are indeterminate in ways analogous to those currently in use by Boulez and Stockhausen. For example: Cowell's Mosaic Quartet, where the performers, in any way they choose, produce a continuity from composed blocks provided by him. Or his Elastic Musics, the time lengths of which can be short or long through the use or omission of measures provided by him. These actions by Cowell are very close to current experi- mental compositions which have parts but no scores, and which are there- fore not objects but processes providing experience not burdened by psychological intentions on the part of the composer.

And in connection with musical continuity, Cowell remarked at the New School before a concert of works by Christian Wolff, Earle Brown, Morton Feldman, and myself, that here were four composers who were getting rid of glue. That is: Where people had felt the necessity to stick sounds together to make a continuity, we four felt the opposite necessity to get rid of the glue so that sounds would be themselves.

Christian Wolff was the first to do this. He wrote some pieces vertically on the page but recommended their being played horizontally left to right,

HISTORY OF EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC IN THE UNITED STATES/71

as is conventional. Later he discovered other geometrical means for freeing his music of intentional continuity. Morton Feldman divided pitches into three areas, high, middle, and low, and established a time unit. Writing on graph paper, he simply inscribed numbers of tones to be played at any time within specified periods of time.

There are people who say, "If music's that easy to write, I could do it." Of course they could, but they don't. I find Feldman's own statement more affirmative. We were driving back from some place in New England where a concert had been given. He is a large man and falls asleep easily. Out of a sound sleep, he awoke to say, "Now that things are so simple, there's so much to do." And then he went back to sleep.

Giving up control so that sounds can be sounds (they are not men: they are sounds) means for instance: the conductor of an orchestra is no longer a policeman. Simply an indicator of time— not in beats— like a chro- nometer. He has his own part. Actually he is not necessary if all the players have some other way of knowing what time it is and how that time is changing.

What else is there to say about the history of experimental music in America? Probably a lot. But we don't need to talk about neo-classicism (I agree with Varese when he says neo-classicism is indicative of intel- lectual poverty ), nor about the twelve-tone system. In Europe, the number twelve has already been dropped and in a recent lecture Stockhausen ques- tions the current necessity for the concept of a series. ElliottjCarter's ideas about rhythmic modulation are not experimental. They just extend sophis- tication out from tonality ideas towards ideas about modulation from one tempo to another. They put a new wing on the academy and open no doors to the world outside the school. Cowell's present interests in the various traditions, Oriental and early American, are not experimental but eclectic. Jazz per se derives from serious music. And when serious music derives from it, the situation becomes rather silly.

One must make an exception in the case of William Russell. Though still living, he no longer composes. His works, though stemming from jazz —hot jazz— New Orleans and Chicago styles— were short, epigrammatic, original, and entirely interesting. It may be suspected that he lacked the academic skills which would have enabled him to extend and develop his ideas. The fact is, his pieces were all expositions without development and

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therefore, even today, twenty years after their composition, interesting to hear. He used string drums made from kerosene cans, washboards, out-of- tune upright pianos; he cut a board such a length that it could be used to play all the eighty-eight piano keys at once.

If one uses the word "experimental" ( somewhat differently than I have been using it) to mean simply the introduction of novel elements into one's music, we find that America has a rich history: the clusters of Leo Ornstein, the resonances of Dane Rudhyar, the near-Eastern aspects of Alan Hov- haness, the tack piano of Lou Harrison, my own prepared piano, the dis- tribution in space of instrumental ensembles in works by Henry Brant, the sliding tones of Ruth Crawford and, more recently, Gunther Schuller, the microtones and novel instruments of Harry Partch, the athematic continu- ity of cliches of Virgil Thomson. These are not experimental composers in my terminology, but neither are they part of the stream of European music which though formerly divided into neo-classicism and dodecaphony has become one in America under Arthur Berger's term, consolidation: consoli- dation of the acquisitions of Schoenberg and Stravinsky.

Actually America has an intellectual climate suitable for radical ex- perimentation. We are, as Gertrude Stein said, the oldest country of the twentieth century. And I like to add: in our air way of knowing nowness. Buckminster Fuller, the dymaxion architect, in his three-hour lecture on the history of civilization, explains that men leaving Asia to go to Europe went against the wind and developed machines, ideas, and Occidental philosophies in accord with a struggle against nature; that, on the other hand, men leaving Asia to go to America went with the wind, put up a sail, and developed ideas and Oriental philosophies in accord with the acceptance of nature. These two tendencies met in America, producing a movement into the air, not bound to the past, traditions, or whatever. Once in Amsterdam, a Dutch musician said to me, "It must be very difficult for you in America to write music, for you are so far away from the centers of tradition." I had to say, "It must be very difficult for you in Europe to write music, for you are so close to the centers of tradition." Why, since the climate for experimentation in America is so good, why is American ex- perimental music so lacking in strength politically (I mean unsupported by those with money [individuals and foundations], unpublished, undis- cussed, ignored) , and why is there so little of it that is truly uncompromis-

HISTORY OF EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC IN THE UNITED STATES/73

ing? I think the answer is this: Until 1950 about all the energy for furthering music in America was concentrated either in the League of Composers or in the ISCM ( another way of saying Boulanger and Stravinsky on the one hand and Schoenberg on the other). The New Music Society of Henry Cowell was independent and therefore not politically strong. Anything that was vividly experimental was discouraged by the League and the ISCM. So that a long period of contemporary music history in America was devoid of performances of works by Ives and Varese. Now the scene changes, but the last few years have been quiet. The League and the ISCM fused and, so doing, gave no concerts at all. We may trust that new life will spring up, since society like nature abhors a vacuum.

What about music for magnetic tape in America? Otto Luening and Vladimir Ussachevsky call themselves experimental because of their use of this new medium. However, they just continue conventional musical practices, at most extending the ranges of instruments electronically and so forth. The Barrons, Louis and Bebe, are also cautious, doing nothing that does not have an immediate popular acceptance. The Canadian Norman McLaren, working with film, is more adventurous than these— also the Whitney brothers in California. Henry Jacobs and those who surround him in the San Francisco area are as conventional as Luening, Ussachevsky, and the Barrons. These do not move in directions that are as experimental as those taken by the Europeans: Pousseur, Berio, Maderna, Boulez, Stock- hausen, and so forth. For this reason one can complain that the society of musicians in America has neither recognized nor furthered its native musi- cal resource ( by "native" I mean that resource which distinguishes it from Europe and Asia— its capacity to easily break with tradition, to move easily into the air, its capacity for the unforeseen, its capacity for experimenta- tion ) . The figures in the ISCM and the League, however, were not powerful aesthetically, but powerful only politically. The names of Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Webern are more golden than any of their American deriva- tives. These latter have therefore little musical influence, and now that they are becoming quiescent politically, one may expect a change in the musical society.

The vitality that characterizes the current European musical scene follows from the activities of Boulez, Stockhausen, Nono, Maderna, Pous- seur, Berio, etc. There is in all of this activity an element of tradition, con-

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tinuity with the past, which is expressed in each work as an interest in continuity whether in terms of discourse or organization. By critics this activity is termed post-Webernian. However, this term apparently means only music written after that of Webern, not music written because of that of Webern: there is no sign of klangfarbenmelodie, no concern for discon- tinuity—rather a surprising acceptance of even the most banal of continuity devices: ascending or descending linear passages, crescendi and diminu- endi, passages from tape to orchestra that are made imperceptible. The skills that are required to bring such events about are taught in the acad- emies. However, this scene will change. The silences of American experi- mental music and even its technical involvements with chance operations are being introduced into new European music. It will not be easy, how- ever, for Europe to give up being Europe. It will, nevertheless, and must: for the world is one world now.

History is the story of original actions. Once when Virgil Thomson was giving a talk at Town Hall in New York City, he spoke of the necessity of originality. The audience immediately hissed. Why are people opposed to originality? Some fear the loss of the status quo. Others realize, I suppose, the fact that they will not make it. Make what? Make history. There are kinds of originality: several that are involved with success, beauty, and ideas (of order, of expression: i.e., Bach, Beethoven); a single that is not involved, neuter, so to say. All of the several involved kinds are generally existent and only bring one sooner or later to a disgust with art. Such orig- inal artists appear, as Antonin Artaud said, as pigs: concerned with self- advertisement. What is advertised? Finally, and at best, only something that is connected not with making history but with the past: Bach, Beetho- ven. If it's a new idea of order, it's Bach; if it's a heartfelt expression, it's Beethoven. That is not the single necessary originality that is not involved and that makes history. That one sees that the human race is one person (all of its members parts of the same body, brothers— not in competition any more than hand is in competition with eye) enables him to see that originality is necessary, for there is no need for eye to do what hand so well does. In this way, the past and the present are to be observed and each person makes what he alone must make, bringing for the whole of human society into existence a historical fact, and then, on and on, in continuum and discontinuum.

HISTORY OF EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC IN THE UNITED STATES/75

The text below first appeared in the 1958 Art News Annual. It is an imaginary conversation between Satie and myself. Because he died over thirty years before, neither of us hears what the other says. His remarks are ones he is reported to have made and excerpts from his writings.

ERIK SATIE

There'll probably be some music, but we'll manage to find a quiet corner where we can talk.

A few days ago it rained. I should be out gathering mushrooms. But here I am, having to write about Satie. In an unguarded moment I said I would. Now I am pestered with a deadline. Why, in heaven's name, don't people read the books about him that are available, play the music that's pub- lished? Then I for one could go back to the woods and spend my time profitably.

Nevertheless, we must bring about a music which is like furniture— a music, that is, which will be part of the noises of the environment, will take them into consideration. I think of it as melodious, sof- tening the noises of the knives and forks, not domi- nating them, not imposing itself. It would fill up those heavy silences that sometimes fall between friends dining together. It would spare them the trouble of paying attention to their own banal re- marks. And at the same time it would neutralize the street noises which so indiscretely enter into the play of conversation. To make such music would be to respond to a need.

Records, too, are available. But it would be an act of charity even to oneself to smash them whenever

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they are discovered. They are useless except for that and for the royalties which the composer, dead now some thirty-odd years, can no longer pick up.

We cannot doubt that animals both love and prac- tice music. That is evident. But it seems their musi- cal system differs from ours. It is another school. . . . We are not familiar with their didactic works. Perhaps they don't have any.

Who's interested in Satie nowadays anyway? Not Pierre Boulez: he has the twelve tones, governs La Domaine Musicale, whereas Satie had only the Group of Six and was called Le Maitre d'Arcueil. Nor Stockhausen: I imagine he has not yet given Satie a thought. . . . Current musical activities in- volve two problems: ( 1 ) applying the idea of the series inherent in the twelve-tone system to the organization of all the characteristics of sound, viz., frequency, duration, amplitude, timbre, pro- ducing a more controlled situation than before attempted (Stockhausen: "It makes me feel so good to know that I am on the right track.") ; and (2a) discovering and acting upon the new musi- cal resources ( all audible sounds in any combina- tion and any continuity issuing from any points in space in any transformations) handed to us upon the magnetic plate of tape, or ( 2b ) some- how arranging economical instrumental occasions (tape is expensive) so that the action which re- sults presupposes a totality of possibility. ... Is Satie relevant in mid-century?

I am bored with dying of a broken heart. Every- thing I timidly start fails with a boldness before unknown. What can I do but turn towards God

ERIK SATIE/77

and point my finger at him? I have come to the conclusion that the old man is even more stupid than he is weak.

Taking the works of Satie chronologically ( 1886- 1925), successive ones often appear as completely new departures. Two pieces will be so different as not to suggest that the same person wrote them. Now and then, on the other hand, works in suc- cession are so alike, sometimes nearly identical, as to bring to mind the annual exhibitions of painters, and to allow musicologists to discern stylistic pe- riods. Students busy themselves with generalized analyses of harmonic, melodic, and rhythmic mat- ters with the object of showing that in Socrate all these formal principles are found, defined, and re- united in a homogeneous fashion ( as befits a mas- terpiece). From this student point of view, Pierre Boulez is justified in rejecting Satie. Le bon Maitre's harmonies, melodies, and rhythms are no longer of interest. They provide pleasure for those who have no better use for their time. They've lost their power to irritate. True, one could not endure a performance of Vexations ( lasting [my estimate] twenty-four hours; 840 repetitions of a fifty-two beat piece itself involving a repetitive structure: A,Ai,A,A2, each A thirteen measures long), but why give it a thought?

How white it is! no painting ornaments it; it is all of a piece. ( Reverie on a plate )

An artist conscientiously moves in a direction which for some good reason he takes, putting one work in front of the other with the hope he'll ar- rive before death overtakes him. But Satie de- spised Art ("J'emmerde VArt"). He was going

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L.

nowhere. The artist counts: 7, 8, 9, etc. Satie ap- pears at unpredictable points springing always from zero: 112, 2, 49, no etc. The absence of transi- tion is characteristic not only between finished works, but at divisions, large and small, within a single one. It was in the same way that Satie made his living: he never took a regular (continuity- giving) job, plus raises and bonuses (climaxes). No one can say for sure anything about the String Quartet he was on the point of writing when he died.

They will tell you I am not a musician. That's right. . . . Take the Fils des Etoiles or the Morceaux en forme de poire, En habit de cheval or the Sara- bandes, it is clear no musical idea presided at the creation of these works.

Curiously enough, the twelve-tone system has no zero in it. Given a series: 3, 5, 2, 7, 10, 8, 11, 9, 1, 6, 4, 12 and the plan of obtaining its inversion by numbers which when added to the corresponding ones of the original series will give 12, one obtains 9, 7, 10, 5, 2, 4, 1, 3, 11, 6, 8 and 12. For in this sys- tem 12 plus 12 equals 12. There is not enough of nothing in it.

It's a large stairway, very large.

It has more than a thousand steps, all made of ivory.

It is very handsome.

Nobody dares use it

For fear of spoiling it.

The King himself never does.

Leaving his room

He jumps out the window.

ERIK SATIE/79

So, he often says:

I love this stairway so much

I'm going to have it stuffed.

Isn't the King right?

Is it not a question of the will, this one, I mean, of giving consideration to the sounds of the knives and forks, the street noises, letting them enter in?, (Or call it magnetic tape, musique concrete, furniture music. It's the same thing: working in terms of totality, not just the discretely chosen conventions. )

Why is it necessary to give the sounds of knives and forks consideration? Satie says so. He is right. Otherwise the music will have to have walls to defend itself, walls which will not only constantly be in need of repair, but which, even to get a drink of water, one will have to pass beyond, inviting disaster. It is evidently a question of bringing one's intended actions into relation with the am- bient unintended ones. The common denominator is zero, where the heart beats (no one means to circulate his blood ) .

Show me something new; I'll begin all over again.

Of course "it is another school"— this moving out from zero.

Flowers! But, dear lady, it is too soon!

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To repeat: a sound has four characteristics: fre- quency, amplitude, timbre and duration. Silence (ambient noise) has only duration. A zero musi- cal structure must be just an empty time. Satie made at least three kinds of empty time structures:

6

A:

(numbers are of measures). Symmetry, which itself suggests zero, is here horizontal, whereas in:

6

B:

6

it is vertical; and in:

C:

1

2

2 2 1 11 1

2

1 1

1

2 1 1

it is geometric ( the large numbers are groups of measures ) .

V

When I was young, people told me: You'll see when you're fifty. I'm fifty. I've seen nothing.

A time that's just time will let sounds be just sounds and if they are folk tunes, unresolved ninth chords, or knives and forks, just folk tunes, un- resolved ninth chords, or knives and forks.

I am in complete agreement with our enemies. It's a shame that artists advertise. However, Beethoven was not clumsy in his publicity. That's how he be- came known, I believe.

ERIK SATIE/81

I

It ( L'Esprit Nouveau) teaches us to tend towards an absence (simplicite) of emotion and an inac- tivity (fermete) in the way of prescribing sonori- ties and rhythms which lets them affirm themselves clearly, in a straight line from their plan and pitch, conceived in a spirit of humility and renunciation.

To be interested in Satie one must be disinterested* to begin with, accept that a sound is a sound and a man is a man, give up illusions about ideas of order, expressions of sentiment, and all the rest of our inherited aesthetic claptrap.

If I fail, so much the worse for me. It's because I had nothing in me to begin with.

It's not a question of Satie's relevance. He's indis- pensable.

No longer anything to be done in that direction, I must search for something else or I am lost.

This subject is entertaining ( "What's necessary is to be uncompromising to the end") but it is getting nowhere, and more than ever there are things to be done.

Listen, my friends, when I leave you like this and must go home on foot, it is towards dawn I come near Arcueil. When I pass through the woods, the birds beginning to sing, I see an old tree, its leaves rustling, I go near, I put my arms around it and think, What a good character, never to have harmed anyone.

—and, on another occasion,

Personally, I am neither good nor bad. I oscillate, if I may say so. Also I've never really done anyone any harm— nor any good, to boot.

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The Fall 1958 issue of Nutida Musik (Stockholm) was devoted to the work of Edgard Varese. I contributed the following article.

EDGARD VARESE

Changes which are characteristic of a living organism (and twentieth- century music is one) have become recently more marked and occur in more rapid succession. In the history Varese appears sometimes as a figure of the past; and, again, as one active according to present necessities.

Facts about his life and work are difficult to obtain. He considers in- terest in them to be a form of necrophilia; he prefers to leave no traces. Analytical studies of his work are somehow not relevant to one's experience of it. Though Varese has defined music as "organized sound," it is unclear how he brings about the organization of his works. He has often insisted upon imagination as a sine qua non, and the presence of his imagination is strong as handwriting in each of his works. The characteristic flourish is a tone sustained through a crescendo to the maximum amplitude.

For those who are interested in sounds just as they are, apart from psychology about them, one must look further for Varese's present rele- vance. This is not found in the character of his imagination, which has to do with him— not with sound itself. Nor is his use of tape relevant, for in Deserts he attempts to make tape sound like the orchestra and vice versa, showing again a lack of interest in the natural differences of sounds, preferring to give them all his unifying signature. In this respect his need for continuity does not correspond to the present need for discontinuity (discontinuity has the effect of divorcing sounds from the burden of psychological inten- tions ) . Though Varese was the first to write directly for instrumental en- sembles ( giving up the piano sketch and its orchestral coloration), his way

EDGARD VARESE/83

of doing this was controlled by his imagination to the point of exploiting the sounds for his own purposes.

Recently ( 1957-1958 ) he has found a notation for jazz improvisation of a form controlled by himself. Though the specific notes are not deter- mined by him, the amplitudes are; they are characteristic of his imagina- tion, and the improvisations, though somewhat indeterminate, sound like his other works.

In these respects Varese is an artist of the past. Rather than dealing with sounds as sounds, he deals with them as Varese.

However, more clearly and actively than anyone else of his generation, he established the present nature of music. This nature does not arise from pitch relations ( consonance-dissonance ) nor from twelve tones nor seven plus five (Schoenberg-Stravinsky), but arises from an acceptance of all audible phenomena as material proper to music. While others were still discriminating "musical" tones from noises, Varese moved into the field of sound itself, not splitting it in two by introducing into the perception of it a mental prejudice. That he fathered forth noise— that is to say, into twentieth- century music— makes him more relative to present musical necessity than even the Viennese masters, whose notion of the number 12 was some time ago dropped and shortly, surely, their notion of the series will be seen as no longer urgently necessary.

One summer day, Merce Cunningham and I took eight children to Bear Mountain Park. The paths through the zoo were crowded. Some of the children ran ahead, while others fell behind. Every now and then we stopped, gathered all the children together, and counted them to make sure none had been lost. Since it was very hot and the children were getting difficult, we decided to buy them ice cream cones. This was done in shifts. While I stayed with some, Merce Cunningham took others, got them cones, and brought them back. I took the ones with cones. He took those without. Eventually all the children were supplied with ice cream. However, they got it all over their faces. So we went to a water fountain where people were lined up to get a drink, put the children in line, tried to keep them there, and waited our turn. Finally, I knelt beside the fountain. Merce Cunningham turned it on. Then I proceeded one by one to wash the children's faces. While I was doing this, a man behind us in line said rather loudly, "There's a washroom over there." I looked up at him quickly and said, "Where? And how did you know I was interested in mushrooms?"

84/SILENCE

One day I asked Schoenberg what he thought about the international situation. He said, "The im- portant thing to do is to develop foreign trade."

Earle Brown and I spent several months splicing magnetic tape together. We sat on opposite sides of the same table. Each of us had a pattern of the splicing to be done, the measurements to be made, etc. Since we were working on tapes that were later to be synchronized, we checked our measurements every now and then against each other. We invariably discovered errors in each other's measurements. At first each of us thought the other was being careless. When the whole situation became somewhat exasperating, we took a single ruler and a single tape and each one marked where he thought an inch was. The two marks were at different points. It turned out that Earle Brown closed one eye when he made his measure- ments, whereas I kept both eyes open. We then tried closing one of my eyes, and later opening both of his. There still was disagreement as to the length of an inch. Finally we decided that one person should do all the final synchronizing splices. But then errors crept in due to changes in weather. In spite of these obstacles, we went on doing what we were doing for about five more months, twelve hours a day, until the work was finished.

Dorothy Norman invited me to dinner in New York. There was a lady there from Philadelphia who was an authority on Buddhist art. When she found out I was interested in mushrooms, she said, "Have you an explanation of the symbolism involved in the death of the Buddha by his eating a mushroom?" I explained that I'd never been interested in symbolism; that I preferred just taking things as themselves, not as standing for other things. But then a few days later while rambling in the woods I got to thinking. I recalled the Indian concept of the relation of life and the seasons. Spring is Creation. Summer is Preservation. Fall is Destruction. Winter is Quiescence. Mushrooms grow most vigorously in the fall, the period of destruction, and the function of many of them is to bring about the final decay of rotting material. In fact, as I read somewhere, the world would be an impassible heap of old rubbish were it not for mushrooms and their capacity to get rid of it. So I wrote to the lady in Philadelphia. I said, "The function of mushrooms is to rid the world of old rubbish. The Buddha died a natural death."

Once I was visiting my Aunt Marge. She was doing her laundry. She turned to me and said, "You know? I love this machine much more than I do your Uncle Walter."

One Sunday morning, Mother said to Dad, "Let's go to church." Dad said, "O.K." When they drove up in front, Dad showed no sign of getting out of the car. Mother said, "Aren't you coming in?" Dad said, "No, I'll wait for you here."

After a long and arduous journey a young Japanese man arrived deep in a forest where the teacher of his choice was living in a small house he had made. When the student arrived, the teacher was sweeping up fallen leaves. Greeting his master, the young man received no greeting in return. And to all his questions, there were no replies. Realizing there was nothing he could do to get the teacher's attention, the student went to another part of the same forest and built himself a house. Years later, when he was sweeping up fallen leaves, he was enlightened. He then dropped everything, ran through the forest to his teacher, and said, "Thank you."

EDGARD VARESE/85

While I was studying with Adolph Weiss in the early 1930's, I became aware of his unhappiness in face of the fact that his music was rarely performed. I too had experienced difficulty in arranging performances of my compositions, so I determined to consider a piece of music only half done when I completed a manuscript. It was my responsibility to finish it by getting it played.

It was evident that musicians interested in new music were rare. It was equally evident that modern dancers were grateful for any sounds or noises that could be produced for their recitals. My first commission was from the Physical Education Department of U.C.L.A. An accompaniment for an aquatic ballet was needed. Using drums and gongs, I found that the swimmers beneath the surface of the water, not being able to hear the sounds, lost their places. Dipping the gongs into the water while still playing them solved the problems of synchronization and brought the sliding tones of the "water gong" into the percussion orchestra.

FOUR STATEMENTS ON THE DANCE

Very soon I was earning a livelihood accompanying dance classes and occasionally writing music for performances. In 1937 I was at the Cornish School in Seattle, associated with Bonnie Bird, who had danced with Martha Graham. Merce Cunningham was a student, so remarkable that he soon left Seattle for New York, where he became a