Category: Articles

What can make or break a residency experience? Laura Elise Schwendinger



Artist colonies are wondrous places, where creative people have a chance to work, re-energize, and interact with one another. They are safe havens from the noisy world of a city dweller. With meals cooked for you and the every day distractions of the world, like telephones removed, it is much easier to create work. I have been fortunate enough to stay at several of them, over the years, at crucial times in the process of my work. One of my favorite retreats is the Rockefeller Foundation‘s Bellagio Center in Italy. There one will find a fairy tale villa, overlooking Lake Como, with the Dolomite Mountains in one direction and the Alps in another. I found the environment perfect for work and wrote a good deal of music while I was there. In fact, it was at Bellagio where I had an important creative breakthrough, having to do with conceptual ideas I had been working with for sometime. I owe a debt of gratitude to The Rockfeller Foundation and Gianna Celli, for the piece and beauty I encountered there that made that breakthrough possible. In February of last year, I had the great pleasure of staying at the Bogliasco Foundation’s Center, which sits along a hillside above the Italian Riviera. The views of the sea are awe-inspiring. There, I was able to work well for hours at a stretch, with only the sounds of the sea serenading me, and then for a break, what better inspiration then the ancient city of Genoa, which is only 20 minutes from the Center by train.

The colony closest to my heart, though, is the MacDowell Colony in Peterborough, New Hampshire. The studios are beautiful, each one with a personality all its own. I have written many pieces in those cozy rustic cabins and have found the atmosphere remarkably stimulating and helpful in the creation of new work. The pianos are kept in fine condition and the staff and grounds are just wonderful. The live-in studios are especially helpful to me, since I like to work late into the evenings. This is the famous place where lunch baskets are discretely left on your doorstep by Blake, one the sweetest of MacDowell’s staff. MacDowell is an especially wonderful place for composers to gain inspiration and then have uninterrupted time to work through their ideas.

What can make or break a residency experience? Scott Winship



Photo by Luba Halicki

First and foremost, since we are composers after all, the best things that a residency can offer are time to write and performance opportunities. These, and working with particular teachers, are what I look for out of a residency. Simple, yet vital luxuries that are particularly elusive, especially after one has left the warm womb of the parental educational institution. I spent a few summers at a residency in North Carolina (the Brevard Music Center) and the best thing, and what brought me back (aside from the being surrounded by the gorgeous Blue Ridge Mountains), was that I was able write all day and all night. Eat, sleep, and write music, that’s what I did…well, I did go to an occasional party. This freedom allowed me to dive deeper into my music and really become transfixed by the process of writing. I got to experience the joy that comes from really letting it all come out without distraction and being able to enter a deeper state of concentration without worrying about silly little things like a job. With that being said, there are numerous types of programs that all offer different benefits, be it working with specific composers with tons of other people or being locked away in a cabin in the middle of the woods, just you and a piano.

In my opinion, residency programs can really work for anyone and should be actively pursued. They are good places to shake up or solidify compositional practices (depending on what one’s needs are, I’ve had both happen), provide opportunities to meet performers that very well could become staunch advocates for your music (it has happened), and supply an environment in which to work with new teachers and composers that one might not get a chance to work with otherwise.

One of the things I love about going to residencies (apart from meeting new people) is that they provide a new environment in which to work. I’ve had experiences where this change has either been really wonderful compositionally or not. A few years back, I attended a residency at the Atlantic Center for the Arts and I was really excited to work and study with Leslie Bassett, who was the teacher at that time. The ACA is a beautiful place and provides a great environment not only to meet other composers, but artists from all sorts of disciplines. At any given time there could be visual artists, dancers, choreographers, writers, poets, etc. all in residency at once. This creates a wonderful informal atmosphere in which to share ideas and form collaborations. Even though I was in this beautiful environment surrounded by other artists, working with a great teacher, and provided time and space, I found it extremely difficult to write. Very little was coming out. Instead, I ended up soaking in what others were working on, shared what I could, and took in the beautiful surroundings. I got a lot out of being around so many different artists, but as for putting notes down on paper, I didn’t get as far as I wanted during this particular residency. On the other hand, being in the mountains of North Carolina was really invigorating and proved very productive, in between my hikes into the mountains. Actually, I am very inspired by nature and if I’m having trouble working something out, a hike into the woods is the best thing for me. I may not have come up with the solution to my problem, but I’ve at least gotten a few more ideas along the way.

In Conversation with Francie Ostrower



Francie Ostrower
Photo courtesy the author

An interview with the author of Trustees of Culture: Power, Wealth, and Status on Elite Arts Boards

Amanda MacBlane: I wanted to start by asking you if you could give a little bit of background on the field of philanthropy research that you’ve been involved in, particularly what led to this book.

Francie Ostrower: Sure. I think one of the issues in the area of philanthropy research is that sometimes people are either painted as saints or villains and one thing that is really important for me is that in reality there are multiple motives, there are mixed motives, and I really wanted for these different things come through in this book. To go back to what led to this book, what had happened was that I had done research on philanthropy among affluent donors for a book that I wrote previously called Why the Wealthy Give and in that book I was looking at how philanthropy and giving really form a part of the culture of these affluent donors. And one of the things I found out as I was going around speaking with people is that service on boards was enormously important and intimately connected to their giving. Now, of course I had known that people who give also serve on boards, but what surprised me was just how closely they were connected and how often conversations about giving money turned into conversations about serving on boards. Also, it turned out that there was a hierarchy that people saw among boards—certain boards were seen as more prestigious than others. People would make kind of a career of it, too. They would have in mind certain boards that they wanted to serve on in the future. Some people would go to great lengths to get on the boards of particular organizations and it was something that was very important to them both because of, in many cases, their passion for the organization and what it does, but also because there was clearly a class-related prestige associated with serving on boards and some more than others. In fact, some people would speak about how for some boards you could almost rank them by the dollar amount you had to contribute to get on them and for some of these boards, far from having difficulty recruiting members (and some boards do have difficulty), the more prestigious boards have a lot of people vying to give, doing whatever they have to to get onto them. So what I found in that book was the importance of serving on boards in terms of people’s overall philanthropy and the meaning to them and how it influenced their giving. It was very clear that one—and I stress one—motive for giving was to be on the board. And one other thing that I like to add was that it also became very clear that arts organizations were among the most prestigious types of boards to serve on. So one question that that raised that I couldn’t answer in that book was, ok, serving on these boards has some kind of class-related meaning, a kind of prestige for these individuals, and I’ve seen how that affects their giving, but what does that mean in terms of what they actually do once they’re on the board? What’s the affect on the organizations? Does it influence the way they act as trustees? And that led me to go on to this book that we are talking about now, Trustees of Culture. To answer these questions, I focused on 4 boards in 2 different cities, rather than in the former book where I selected individuals who were donors and trustees of all different kinds of organizations. In this case, I selected two opera companies and two museums and went to examine—as I said, I started out with this question—whether and how these class-related meanings influenced what they do on the boards.

Amanda MacBlane: Right and I know that one of the major themes of the book is this tension that exists between the organizational needs and the more status-related benefits of serving on these boards. And while the board’s primary functions tend to be in more of a business or fundraising role and they don’t usually become involved with artistic activities, they do select the professional staff that then does make these decisions. So what exactly is their role in creating an aesthetic image of the institution?

Francie Ostrower: That’s a big question and I guess I would almost like to also preface that by saying that I could do a whole other book to answer this question.

Amanda MacBlane: I’m sure!

Francie Ostrower: Absolutely. But it’s complicated because if you speak with these trustees, they will all say that it is not appropriate for the board to become involved in artistic decision-making. They’ll all say that, but it’s also clearly the case that they hire the professionals and so obviously they are setting certain parameters within which things are going to function. In other words, there are different levels. One level might be particular decisions: what singer are you going to hire for a particular production, for instance. But there is also the issue of the overall range of things that are going to be presented and what’s seen as part of the core mission, and that clearly has artistic implications and there, of course, the board plays a major role. The other thing is that the board would say, of course, that financial matters are very much within their purview, but the boundary line between financial matters and artistic decisions is not always clear. So with respect to the budget, they may have some impact as well. I think, in the case of museums—and I think this is one of the interesting differences between museums and performing arts organizations—is the whole issue of personal collections and contributing collections as a donor. It is an important issue for boards because they are often an important source of where the museum is actually getting very valued artwork.

Amanda MacBlane: Well, we are an organization that represents composers, a smaller, more marginalized community than large art museums and operas. And you mention in the conclusion (which probably also means that it could be an area to study in another book) that this system is not necessarily successful for smaller organizations, particularly ones that are presenting more experimental artwork. Could you maybe explain where some of these discrepancies would come in?

Francie Ostrower: OK, maybe it would be helpful to talk about the question that you had asked in your e-mail to me last week: Why do these boards and organizations seem to be resistant to doing more innovative and experimental work?

Amanda MacBlane: And how does this resistance in elite organizations affect the rest of the art world?

Francie Ostrower: There are two sides to it. These boards all exist in an American system that has really put an emphasis on private support. Arts organizations, for instance, rely on private donations really to a much larger extent than a lot of other kinds of nonprofit organizations. And within all this, the elite—by which I mean affluent people, who also may be elite in terms of their occupational position or maybe they’re in a certain social status—have founded these organizations, contributed to them, and without their donations it is very clear that the organizations in this study certainly would be very different and might not even exist at all. So on the one hand, much of the status and prestige that I’ve spoken about has acted as a very powerful force for attracting donations because there’s kind of an exchange. They are expected to give money to be a part of this system. And wealthy people themselves are very straightforward about this because they themselves are fundraisers and they will use this to try to attract money from others. But, of course, the flip side of this reliance on private money is that if you’re an organization that doesn’t have a tie-in
or an attraction to people who give, you’re not going to get similar resources. Now in the case of these organizations, I think the ways in which people choose the kinds of art to present (there are many, many different reasons), but what I can speak to that came out in this book is where the board has some impact there and I think here there are multiple issues. Let’s talk about opera because that’s really more performing arts. I think the thing that has to be kept in mind is that, in general, these boards are business people, financially oriented people. The people who serve on these boards have great respect for the institution. They like art, but they are all the first to tell you that they’re not there because they are experts on art. Generally, you don’t see people who have great artistic knowledge on these boards if they don’t have wealth. This is a business-oriented board, so when they look at the organization, they’re very, very oriented toward finance, numbers. And many of them will say that they don’t like to do these innovative different kinds of operas because they don’t bring in the same amount of money at the box office. They’ll give a financial reason for it. That’s one reason that’s a barrier—that they lose money on them. The other thing is that, the truth be told, they personally don’t care for more innovative or unusual kinds of things. The third thing is that basically the way that they describe and understand their mission is a conservative one—that they’re there to keep the organization true to its mission and tradition. So all of these things taken together kind of work against bringing in new things. Now, the example that I wanted to give was that in one of the organizations, one of the opera companies, the professional staff member has brought the board around to doing somewhat more innovative things in a very interesting way and I can talk about how that happened.

Amanda MacBlane: That would be great.

Francie Ostrower: It was a very, very interesting strategy for doing it, but let me back up a little. Even in these organizations, this is a very typical kind of tension between the more aesthetically oriented priorities of the professional staff and the business-orientation of the trustees. So this is common at many different kinds of organizations in the arts. Now, what is interesting though is that even though these boards are very financially oriented, they are not interested in just the budget. They want these organizations to represent what they consider the absolute pinnacle of excellence. They want the organizations to be elite. They want them to be prestigious and recognized and that might also be yet another reason that they lean towards presenting things that have already established themselves. So this professional staff member, who very much wanted them to do more kinds of unusual, innovative things, appealed to his board not on artistic grounds that they should be doing more unusual things, but basically appealed to that sense in their minds that the organizations should be recognized by everyone as being the best. And what he did is he said, “If you want to be seen that way, you have to do these kinds of more innovative or unusual things.” So the board did not want to do more innovative operas, but he was very successful because he really understood how much the trustees desired preeminence. He wanted to do more innovative operas and they didn’t. This is a very common disagreement again. The trustees objected to the innovative operas because they didn’t sell as well and again, they didn’t personally like them. But by understanding that the board had this idea for organizational preeminence, he was able to sway some very powerful trustees. He didn’t talk about artistic merits. He said that to be a great opera company and to attract great singers, they had to do some innovative pieces, even though they are costly. And it was interesting because one of the board members was talking about that and he said that he used to oppose operas that he said “only the avant people like,” but the administrator convinced him that “we wouldn’t be a number one opera company if that’s what we did—just do the old war horses and people look at you like that. You have to do these ‘avant’ things, although they’re expensive, as a part of expanding the art and showing you can do things.” So it was very interesting, and he did bring around some of these people. Another trustee, actually on the same board—and now this is a trustee who was a little bit unusual in that he was one who was on the professional staff side and wanted to do more innovative works and was also quite knowledgeable about music—also said, “Well, you know, the trustees as they serve become more knowledgeable about the art form.” And he thought that that had made them more open, too. But I think that that’s kind of a lesser point, that the major thing is how important the role of professional staff can be and how important it is that the people who work with these boards understand the point of view of the board, which may really be a different than their own. That doesn’t necessarily mean that they agree with it, that’s not what I mean, but that they understand it so that when they try to do something or talk to the board, they can do it from that kind of framework. And in this case, the person succeeded exactly because he understood their desire for organizational preeminence and in this case, when trustees are enhancing the prestige of the organization, they’re also enhancing the board’s prestige. So there is an example of how that happens. Again, how far could that go? Would these kinds of boards, although they may do some of those kinds of things, would they go to a drastically different kind of program? No, probably not.

Amanda MacBlane: I doubt it.

Francie Ostrower: I don’t think they would. So, again, it is that kind of balance. How far would they go before they say, “No, this isn’t really for us?” So one of the issues that you get to is that at the same time they’re supporting these organizations and in some ways using all kinds of resources to help them, on the other hand, they also do come with particular understanding, definition, and boundaries considering art outside of which it’s not clear how far the organization could go before they would lose support.

Amanda MacBlane: Right.

Francie Ostrower: They certainly may say, “Well, that’s fine for another organization to do, but not us.”

Amanda MacBlane: I didn’t even realize how important it is for the professional staff to think about the organization the way that the board is thinking in order to interact and communicate with them in a way that actually allows things to get accomplished.

Francie Ostrower: Well, I think it’s critical. And I’ll give you two other kinds of examples. One’s an example of what happened when a professional got into a disagreement with the board and didn’t understand their point of view and then another when they did. One of the things that the trustees really believe is their role—as something that they can do and others can’t do—is in the fundraising area. They really think that they are best equipped to raise money from other people such as themselves. They say they know what other wealthy people want and they say that wealthy people are going to give a little more willingly or readily when they’re asked by someone who is a peer. Now, in one case, an administrator did not understand their point of view of giving and raising money as a central board role and their particular view of their own qualifications here. He wound up engendering a conflict with his board that he could not hope to win. Here’s what happened: The board had planned a fundraising gala, organized around the opening, and the
professional staff chose the opera that was going to be performed. Now the trustees objected to the chosen opera because they said the opera was too long and it would interfere with the evening’s social purpose. They complained that, “It would’ve started at one in the morning and for an opening night performance, people don’t want it to be an overnight.” Now in this case, the board prevailed and a shorter and more popular piece was selected. One trustee said that, “the professional just didn’t understand the social raising of money.” The trustees did not define the opening night as an artistic occasion; they defined it as a social and a fundraising occasion and therefore falling in their domain. Now, although they deferred to the professional’s artistic authority at other times, in this case, they challenged his decision, so not only was the administrator unsuccessful, but he also reinforced thoughts the trustees had about his financial acumen and left the board feeling more justified about intervening in financial management, which is of course something that was not something that was desired by the staff. On the other hand, at a different organization, there was a debate that came out about very frequent social events that were being held. These were social events being held within the organization and again a debate broke out. These events were exhausting the staff who said that they also felt that the events were distorting the organization’s mission. But in this case the staff prevailed and the number of events was reduced, and one of the trustees there said, “Well, social events are very important, but there has to be a balance.” So in this case, staff succeeded essentially by arguing that the elite social agenda, the trustee social agenda, did not support the organization’s interest, but was actually threatening its very character. So, I think that those just offer examples of how understanding the boards perspective is absolutely critical for any professional or for anybody who really needs to work with or through arts organizations because the board does have that ultimate authority.

Amanda MacBlane: Right. Because obviously after reading this book, you really made the point that these boards and these elites are necessary for the organization to exist and this leads me to the last little thing I wanted to talk about. These people are incredibly essential to the functioning of the organization, but the insularity of the fundraising activities of the board also seems to alienate them from the larger community. I don’t feel that these organizations, particularly these elite institutions, exist for the larger community and I’ve always found kind of a disconnect between their outreach programs and ideas about involving the community and the aura of exclusivity in which they seem to be wrapped. Do you sense this disconnect as well?

Francie Ostrower: Well, I think this is a very, very important area and is very important for them because—something that we haven’t spoken about too much but is, in a way, the book’s thesis—is that there are these kind of important but conflicting influences at work on these boards. One between these class-influences, which often do push to more insularity and traditionalism, and the other rooted in the kind of organizational influences. I think that these organizations that I’ve studied and certainly the older ones have changed. At one of them, it used to be that at the end of the year they’d tally things up and if there was a gap between what they had earned and what they had spent, the board would just give the difference. But the days are long gone when a small group of wealthy people can support these organizations and trustees know it. And in fact, in a sense, they’ve contributed to it because their own interest of having what they consider an organization of excellence—they associate excellence with size. So they have supported and even encouraged the kind of organizational growth that really has made it impossible for any small group to support them. The reason I bring that up here is that, in fact, these organizations have to have a wider range of financial support just to exist, and they don’t exist in a vacuum. The societies they’re in have changed as well and, therefore, there’s a lot of recognition that they need to do other kinds of things to bring in new audiences, to not be so insular. I think the example of supertitles is a great example because again the very point of supertitles is to make opera more accessible. And so, trustees said, we have to do it because we have to bring in more audiences and because they care about the art form and they felt that this was important to having it continue. So, what happens though, is that the boards become more open in terms of the organization and its services. There is kind of a stereotype of the elite arts boards and certainly historically, they just want to keep the arts organizations to themselves and they don’t want to let anybody else in it, but, in fact, that wasn’t really the case with these boards. They supported and were very open about having the organization be more open, but when it comes to the board, it’s very different. That stays exclusive and they kind of have their relationship to the organization separately. You know, a museum can have an exhibit, a lot of people come, but they see the exhibit when it is closed to the public. They’re on the board with others such as themselves. But when you do have a board like that, clearly, one of the roles of a board is to kind of connect an organization to important constituencies and clearly these boards connect these organizations to people with many resources. In some cases can be helpful in other arenas as well, with businesses, government. But when it comes to other parts of the community that it may be very important for the organizations to connect to, it’s obviously harder because the board doesn’t have those connections. Diversity—the whole issue about diversity is a good example. All these boards say, “we want diversity, we care about diversity,” and yet it is very, very hard for them to do this in part because of their insularity. Here, again, I would say is a place where staff can be very important. Let’s look at something like education or outreach programs. If you talk to the trustees, they all support education programs. They think they’re important but it’s not the area that most of them personally will find the most compelling or interesting to become very involved in. There are major exceptions to that but on a museum board, for example, the acquisitions committee for many trustees is going to be more appealing than the education one because it’s more distant from where they are. So I do think that this is an issue and the other issue is that the status that we’ve been talking about, which in some ways can be very powerful, used in a powerful way to the benefit of the organization can also get out of whack, out of balance. It’s one thing for status to be used as a tool or to be used as one motive, but if it becomes nothing more than kind of a vehicle for status it can really hurt the governance function. So I think that if I were to step back and to look at it, what I would say is, if you were to have a board such as this, which in one sense, to trustees, seems diverse because they have some people from this kind of business and some people from that kind of business, but certainly, from another perspective, it is very homogenous, certainly in terms of class. It also means that there’s going to be more of a priority on and there’s going to more attention given to things that are closer to their way of life and that can keep boards from identifying potential problems that come up or responding. It may be that external prompting or even a crisis has to happen before certain things get their attention or they are willing to change. Again, I think that they do give their organizations valuable elite connections, but their homogeneity
also limits their ability to connect the institution with other segments of the community.

The Trick of Retreating

“My freedom will be so much greater and more meaningful, the more narrowly I limit my field of action and the more I surround myself with obstacles. Whatever diminishes constraints, diminishes strength. The more constraints one imposes, the more one frees one’s self of the chains that shackle the spirit.”

—Igor Stravinsky

Several years ago I asked a Tibetan lama how to resolve a recurrent quandary in my life. Having divided my attention for several years between composing and serving as mayor, I asked the lama to help me choose which one I should focus on in the future, my music or my community work? His answer left me dangling in my dual life: I would do best if I do both.

Vaclav Havel, the playwright and former president of the Czech Republic, was asked by one of his friends if he wouldn’t have written more plays had he not been involved in politics. He replied that he wasn’t interested in quantity but quality. He felt that his political activity informed his art. While he may have written more plays, they wouldn’t necessarily have been any better and may not have been as good.

It is generally believed that artists, writers, and composers are more creative when we separate ourselves from the business of the world. When we get away from our day-to-day obligations and interruptions, we sometimes have great breakthroughs and paint or compose with new depth and inspiration. For many, artist colonies and retreats provide the opportunity to “unshackle our spirit.”

But for me, life’s constraints and pressures act as a dynamic stimulator of creative work. One of my most productive periods was while holding a 9 to 5 job in Chicago. I furiously wrote songs on the “el” train to and from work and continued them at home late into the night (or furtively pulled them out of my desk drawer during coffee breaks and lunch).

Now I write music in Utah, and perhaps I’m on a perpetual retreat because my Zion Canyon surroundings are energizing and timelessly patient, ideal circumstances for creating (and indeed we are currently building an artist/writers retreat at Zion called the Mesa). But for some reason I tend to disturb this idyllic environment. I fill my life with countless other occupations and projects, each one threatening to steal my energies away from music.

Sometimes I wonder, am I afraid to be isolated with my creative work? Am I fearful that if I focus on music alone it will force me to face more cruelly my own limitations? Perhaps. But I have always thrived on a kind of lateral movement from one thing I’m working on to another. Ideas have a way of popping through the dividing lines and taking me in startling new directions while I’m still right at home.

Each of us is different. What is your experience? Do you accomplish your best creative work when you can carve out a separate time and space? Have you ever stayed at an artist retreat? Or do you produce your best work while in the midst of the hubbub of life, surrounded by obstacles?

Not a Happy Camper

Frank J. Oteri, Editor
Frank J. Oteri
Photo by Molly Sheridan

I like to describe myself as an admirer of the great indoors. Whether I’m working on a music article or a piece of my own music, I am at my most inspired either at home, at my office here at the American Music Center, or in a musty used record store or bookshop. And for some reason, whenever I get down to seriously work on something, it doesn’t really start happening until I find myself surrounded by a hopeless pile of clutter. This clutter I create around me to work in, whether at my apartment or at the office, gives me a feeling of home, which is why the whole notion of going off somewhere else to work on a creative project, while for many seems ideal, seems anathema to me.

When I was an undergrad, I chose to commute from home rather than stay in a dorm room that did not have a piano and, knowing me, if I had lived in a dorm room, I probably never would have gotten any work done anyway. This being said, I have to admit that I find the whole notion of artist colonies somewhat perplexing. Yet so many important American composers have found inspiration in being in “a room not of one’s own.”

This legacy of inspiration is what has inspired NewMusicBox’s examination of the “artist colony” phenomenon. Before she left us to embark on her own personal artist residency in Nepal studying the esraj, among other things, our former associate editor Molly Sheridan spoke with Cheryl Young, executive director of the MacDowell Colony, the nation’s oldest continuously-operated artist colony, established by one of our nation’s important early composers and his wife. Daniel Felsenfeld, no stranger to NewMusicBox and also no stranger to the artist colony experience, contributes an overview of artist colonies in the United States and offers pointers on how you can get accepted to one. A group of six composers offer their own personal accounts of artist colony experiences, both positive and negative, and posit ideas about what can make or break a residency experience. Phillip Bimstein, a composer and political figure based in Utah, wonders whether composers create better in isolation or within a larger life experience. What do you think?

According to Cheryl Young, obviously a firm believer in the value of artist colonies, the experience is probably not for everybody. I do sometimes wonder what my thought process would be like if I was not constantly bombarded with a sea of information on my desk, on the phone, and on the computer screen. But, then again, I’ve been writing and composing more now that I no longer live in midtown Manhattan, where information overload was the menu 24 hours a day, 365 days a year…

 

So, when’s the next application cycle?

What can make or break a residency experience?

David ClearyDavid Cleary:
…genial shabbiness is fine, but broken pianos and pest infestation are not…
John DuffyJohn Duffy:
…Much of this, I attribute to a change in landscape from Maine and Manhattan and also to the beauty of Zion…
Jason EckardtJason Eckardt:
…My most rewarding colony experiences have included intense interaction with non-musicians, so it is essential that there be opportunities for free interdisciplinary exchange…
Keeril MakanKeeril Makan:
…If I couldn’t produce work that furthered my development in such an optimal environment, then I needed to reevaluate my commitment to composition…
Laura Elise SchwendingerLaura Elise Schwendinger:
…The studios are beautiful, each one with a personality all its own. The pianos are kept in good condition and the staff and grounds are just wonderful…
Scott WinshipScott Winship:
…They are good places to shake up or solidify compositional practices (depending on what one’s needs are, I’ve had both happen)…

What can make or break a residency experience? David Cleary



I’ve been to eight arts colonies in the U.S. and overseas and have found such experiences invaluable—a godsend to someone like me who has a full-time job and many outside commitments. They’ve allowed me to compose numerous works that otherwise wouldn’t exist.

Successful colonies offer four things: good food, a quiet, well-maintained studio space, helpful, friendly staff, and a library of books and recordings. My worst retreat experiences were at places where the facility is decrepit (genial shabbiness is fine, but broken pianos and pest infestation are not) or the staff is unhelpful or unfriendly (particularly irritating are colonies where staff routinely interrupt studio time).

Composers best suited to a retreat are ones who are comfortable being alone all day with minimal structured time and find travel stimulating. Folks who get homesick easily, treat the residency as a vacation, or are addicted to their televisions usually fare poorly at colonies.

View From the East: Oblique Writing


Greg Sandow

Take a break.

You know you’re in trouble when you sit down to write, ask for some advice, and in reply get the three words above. And it’s even worse when the subject of your piece is the source of the advice—which for me, today, is Brian Eno’s “Oblique Strategies.”

And what are “Oblique Strategies?” A deck of more than 100 cards, devised by Eno and Peter Schmidt, a painter, and sold in limited editions back in the ’70s in a handsome black box. Each card has a black back, and each offers advice on how to do art or any art-like activity. Or anyway that’s my interpretation. You’re stuck doing your work; you pick a card; you take its advice. Eno’s own notions amount more or less to what I said, but are more, well, oblique, as well as more thoughtful and detailed. You can read them on the “Introduction” page of the Oblique Strategies website. Originally the strategies were thoughts both Schmidt and Eno used to break through their normal routine, especially when they were under deadline pressure. They assembled all these thoughts, had them published in a deck of cards, and suggested that you use them either as possibilities to sort through or else as a kind of oracle, as I’ve long done. If you do that, Eno says (in an interview quoted on the website), “The card is trusted even if its appropriateness is quite unclear.”

Which is exactly the delicious dilemma I had when I drew my first card today, from a deck I’ve had since the ’70s. “Take a break.” But I have a deadline! And I’m reluctant to get to work, so the card almost seemed to taunt me.

It provided, though, a fine lesson about life and about how to use these cards.

Remove specifics and convert to ambiguities.

Oops.

I was about to tell a story, about my old friend Linda Sanders, who succeeded me as new music critic for The Village Voice then quickly quit (she didn’t care to be a critic, though she was wonderful), opening the way for Kyle Gann. She started musical life as a violist, and at one point gave a wonderful solo concert, in which she played a John Cage piece. I think the piece was Variations IV, but I’m not sure my memory is right. In any case, the score was simply a transparent plastic sheet with dots on it. You make a map of your performing space and lay the sheet on it. You see where the dots fall and perform something everywhere you find a dot.

Linda gave the concert twice. The first time, she used the Cage piece as intermission. She put toy instruments and noisemakers everywhere the dots were, and encouraged people in the audience to make noises on them. The result was chaos and not an interesting kind. So at her next performance, she started with the Cage. Everywhere she found a dot she stood and read excerpts from books on how to play string instruments. This worked wonderfully. It eased her into the performance, let her gently laugh at any stage fright she might feel, and entertained the audience.

For me it was a lesson on performing Cage. He gives you, in this and many other pieces, no direction about what, specifically, to do. Once you’ve placed the dots, you do anything you want. But that doesn’t mean that everything’s acceptable. You’re thrown back on yourself. What feels like truth to you? That’s what you should look for, and Linda’s work with this Cage piece both illustrates how you move toward it and how Cage helps you. (Because I’m happy with other thoughts I’ve had on performing Cage, I’ll link to my own Village Voice piece, “The Cage Style,” on my own website.)

Linda’s work with Cage also shows how one way to work with Oblique Strategies. My first card said, “Take a break.” I had no time for that. But there were things I have to do, to write this piece, that (mercifully) aren’t writing. I had to find out how someone now can buy the cards, for instance. So I took a break by going on the Web to look that up, using (or so I thought) the card’s suggestion in a most helpful and constructive way, since originally I’d thought I’d do this chore at the end of my work and add the information to the end of the piece.

But now I’d better give the information here. The edition I have has long been out of print, but there’s a new edition, published last year (and much more colorful), that might still be buyable. I also found computer versions of the cards, free to download, for Windows, for the Mac, and for the Palm. Or you can consult the cards right on their website, or at least they claim you can; it didn’t work for me, even after I tried it in two PC browsers, Mozilla and Internet Explorer. A Windows version worked, though you have to install a special file it comes with, VBRUN300.DLL, and it doesn’t tell you how. You put the file in your Windows/System directory (and yes, for those up on arcane computer stuff, this ancient Visual Basic program—identifiable as such by the VBRUN file—works as smooth as cream on Windows XP).

But now (especially with that last parenthesis) I might be taking too long a break. What about the cards? And what about the challenge that last card threw me? I was about to relate a long list of specifics, and I’m afraid I’ve done so. The card said not to do that. Or did it?

Would anybody want it?

That’s the latest card I’ve drawn, always from the physical deck. I’m far more attached to the tangible cards than to the computer versions, though I’ll be glad to have one on my Palm. The Windows version, though, did give me this: Assemble some of the elements in a group, and treat the group. And that’s going to work for me just fine, because I think I need to tell you, right about now, more about what the cards say. I can, or so I think right now, quote some samples of the cards and generalize—or generate some ambiguities—from there.

I’ve found these cards very useful in writing music. One that I think I remember from the ’70s said, more or less, “If you think you’ve got too much of something, do even more of it.” It’s amazing what good advice that is (unless, that is, you’re fatally addicted to moderation). Sometimes something in your work sticks out and seems to be excessive, because it hasn’t found its proper place in what you’re doing. The timid wisdom of moderation might suggest you prune it back, but maybe you’ll have more fun and be both more honest and more convincing if you let your rogue elephant run wild. Maybe then it won’t stick out. It’ll simply be the texture that once it seemed so foreign to.

At this point I could sift through the deck to find this card, which of course my memory (after all these years) could simply have concocted. Or I could read through the code of the computer version (if I still have a program that can do that), looking for the text.

But what fun would that be? Not much, especially when I’m converting those specifics to ambiguities. One ambiguity can be whether this c
ard I love in fact exists. Besides, I’d rather find examples in the spirit of the cards, by browsing the deck at random.

And the first thing I see is the last card as the deck is stacked right now, Be dirty. Which makes me sigh and also laugh. This deck survived a fire, and—amazingly—that last card alone got dirty. It’s very slightly thickened by water from the fire hoses, and from the smoke (perhaps), it’s marked with gray spots:

But now I’ve just noticed that the card above that is also just a bit discolored. That means I’d better pay attention to it.

Allow an easement (an easement is the abandonment of a stricture).

That might free me from the ban on specifics or rather the injunction to turn them into ambiguities.

But why am I hung up on bans and injunctions? These cards should free me. So here’s another meaning of that second dirty card: The cards are just suggestions, not commands. So here’s another way to turn specifics into ambiguities. These cards can’t tell me—or you, or anybody—how to compose, or make art in other ways. They only ease us away from any rule we think we should believe in—which even could include following these cards.

Would anybody want it?

That again! And what a helpful cue for a summary, and ending…

Would anybody want Oblique Strategies?

I want them. I’ve loved these cards for more than 20 years, and I was thrilled that they survived the fire. Other people seem to want them—the website talks about how rare they are and how buyers (allegedly) bid jillions of dollars to buy them on Ebay. (Reality check: Currently two people have bid around $500 for a deck signed by Brian Eno, and two normal decks have asking prices—with no bids yet—of $59.99 and $69.99). But I can well believe the cards are now collectibles, however obscure. Eno’s famous, and the deck itself had lots of cachet in the new music world back when I bought it.

Would you want these cards? Depends, maybe, on your response to (all these chosen at random):

  • What are you really thinking about just now?
  • What would your closest friend do?
  • Accretion.
  • Go outside. Shut the door.

I can only say that I love them—and that they made writing this column ridiculously easy.

It is quite possible (after all).

*

(Guarantee: I picked every card I quoted here, except the two dirty ones, completely and utterly at random.)

What can make or break a residency experience? John Duffy



Three things attracted me to The Mesa:

1. I was offered a fee to come and compose.

2. The Mesa offered a quiet house, car, and weekly stipend for groceries.

3. The Mesa arranged three lectures at local schools and opportunities to rehearse my music with local singers, all of which brought me into communities in and around Zion.

Before my residency, it had never occurred to me to go to an artist colony, as I work at home, being around people was ideal. But something about Utah touched a chord in me. Like angel dust in the air.

At Zion, I found nature of such majestic beauty, of such transforming presence, that my heart rejoiced. My soul took flight, and music and literary writing poured out of me. Much of this, I attribute to a change in landscape from Maine and Manhattan and also to the beauty of Zion, which is beyond possession.

Local people invited me into their homes, their churches, coffee shops, and community centers. I felt like Bach roaming around his hometown. The Mesa board and staff were warm, helpful, but never intrusive.

The mayor of a small evangelical Mormon community granted me a rare invitation to lunch and a Harvest Festival. The idea of a composer being around seemed exciting and an honor wherever I went, though my time and privacy were respected. I was so filled with creative energy and could have stayed up all day and night writing. Each day, I bolted out of bed.

The Mesa is gold, and I imagine countless works will be created there and like the radiant sun moving over Zion’s majestic peaks, travel around the globe. What a magnificent thing… to have a rare colony dedicated to the arts.

View From the West: Lou Harrison—Renaissance Man, a Model for the Next Generation


Dean Suzuki
Photo by Ryan Suzuki

Over these past months that I have been writing this column, I have urged composers to go beyond the assembling and ordering of pitches and consider a larger, broader musical palette and look outside of the discipline of music for inspiration and even activity. Among other things, I have suggested that composers at least consider the possibility of engaging in the arts by way of collaborations with other artists, the creation and/or use of unorthodox or even newly invented instruments, involvement in improvisation, works in intermedia genres such as sound poetry, investigating music beyond of the Western classical tradition and the now standard non-Western cultures (African, Asian, as well as indigenous cultures or vernacular styles), the writing of sacred music, and the like.

If there was ever a single individual who was captivated and motivated by such a broad vision of music and the arts, it was the recently departed Lou Harrison. Here was a composer who did it all and did it all very well. From chance operations to serial music, from non-Western exoticism (and with Harrison it was never merely exotic), including, of course, many works for gamelan, to advanced Western techniques, from equal temperament to just intonation, collaborations of all sorts, and involvement as a creative artist in many disciplines; all these and much, much more captured Harrison’s imagination.

In his Musical Primer, Harrison says, “To make an instrument is in some strong sense of summon the future.” Working with his partner Bill Colvig, Harrison built his so-called American gamelan (later known affectionately as “Old Granddad”) made of aluminum bars and resonators formed from stacked #10 tin cans, later augmented by small metallophones using conduit tubing, and larger gongs made from suspended oxygen tanks and galvanized garbage cans.

Prior to his creation of the American gamelan, Harrison, along with John Cage, Henry Cowell, William Russell, and Gerald Strang constituted the so-called West Coast School of Percussion, following the lead of Edgard Varèse in his ground-breaking work for percussion ensemble, Ionisation (1931), the first such work of any real consequence in the West. (Yes, Cuba’s Amadeo Roldán wrote Ritmicas [1930] in which two movements are for percussion, pre-dating Varèse’s masterpiece by one year.) Not only did Varèse write for percussion alone (yes, Ionisation includes a piano, certainly an instrument which is percussive at its core, even if we do not classify it as a percussion instrument Varèse’s use of the piano in Ionisation is undeniably percussive in nature), he used unorthodox instruments, including sirens and the lion’s roar or string drum. Likewise, the composers of the West Coast Percussion School wrote works for percussion ensembles of varying constitution and used all manner of unorthodox instruments, many of them virtual objets trouvés, including bull roarers, rice bowls, tin cans, oxygen tanks (cut, tuned, and struck with baseball bats), and, of course, brake drums. Brake drums, never intended as musical instruments, have become virtually ubiquitous among percussion ensembles. What college music department worth its salt does not have a brake drum or two serving double duty as percussion instrument and heavy duty door stop? Harrison took great delight in discovering new sounds that might serve his musical needs and wants.

I recall seeing David van Tieghem in a film in which he wanders down the streets of lower Manhattan with sticks and mallets, using everything in sight as a percussion instrument, from windows, walls, and sidewalks to telephone booths, garbage cans, lampposts, and newspaper kiosks. It’s difficult to imagine such a performance without Harrison and Cage as forerunners discovering new percussive timbres in junkyards, hardware and thrift stores.

Harrison’s search for unorthodox timbres did not end with percussion. He wrote works for ancient instruments, adapted and newly invented, Western and non-Western, including harpsichord, psaltery, ocarina (he maintained a small arsenal of these simple flutes for those who might choose to play his pieces that require them but do not have them at their immediate disposal), double bass laid flat and played by beating or tapping the strings with sticks, prepared piano, and tack piano, among a host of others. For those who do not know, the tack piano is a conventional piano in which flat head thumbtacks are pressed into the hammers such that the metal head strike the strings rather than the felt. Baby boomers will know the sound from “People Are Strange” by The Doors.

Harrison combined chance operations and collaboration in the series of Party Pieces, then referred to as “exquisite corpses,” in which he, along with Cage, Cowell, Virgil Thomson, and Frank Wigglesworth, would compose a measure of music plus two notes, fold the paper such that only the last two notes showed and pass it on to the next composer who would use the two notes as a point of departure for another bar plus two notes. This process was continued until a complete composition resulted. Harrison recalled: “In New York in the 1940s, when we were all enjoying one another’s bright company, we used to play musical games sometimes when we got together. We would begin simultaneously and pass the papers along in rotation in a sort of surrealistic assembly line and eagerly await the often incredible outcome.” (Lou Harrison, liner notes from The Brooklyn Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra, Gramavision, GR 7006, 1983.)

In a similar vein is Double Music for which Cage and Harrison each wrote two parts for the four performers. After agreeing upon fundamental compositional procedures and the durations of the various sections, the two composers wo
rked independently. The piece came together quite successfully as the parts were layered together, interlocking to the satisfaction of both composers.

A significant amount of Harrison’s time and creative effort was given over to collaborations with a plethora of dancers and choreographers, among them Bella Lewitzky, Merce Cunningham, Mark Morris, Carol Beals, Tina Flade, Jean Erdman, Marian Van Tuyl, Lester Horton, Bonnie Bird, Katherine Litz, Lorle Kranzler, and Eva Soltes, among others, starting in the 1930s and extending throughout his career. Indeed, Harrison did a bit of dancing himself and even contributed choreography to Changing the World: Illusions of a Better Life (1937) in collaboration with Beals and seven other choreographers. Harrison even team-taught a course in dance composition with Flade at Mills College. Ultimately, numerous scores were produced and the worlds of dance and music were well served by Harrison’s understanding, commitment, and creative efforts on behalf of both disciplines.

Harrison’s forays into improvisation were often tied to his dance collaborations. As an accompanist for routine dance exercises, he overcame boredom by improvising at the piano or on percussion instruments. He states: “Improvisation . . . is a cultivated skill which is built up of years of effort and/or trial and error. It is good practice for young composers, too, for one may learn how to sustain Form-building Musical Functions.” (Leta E. Miller and Fredric Lieberman, Lou Harrison: Composing a World (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998, 79.) The quote by Harrison found in Lou Harrison: Composing a World is found in: Lou Harrison, “Society, Musician, Dancer, Machineóa Set of Opinions Entirely Attributable to Lou Harrison, in 1966,” Impulse: Annual of Contemporary Dance (1966), 41.

If you are at all familiar with Harrison’s non-musical artistic activities, you will certainly recognize his elegant, even idiosyncratic calligraphic styles. Like Cage and Satie, Harrison’s personal touch and calligraphic style is immediately identifiable. However, unlike Cage and Satie whose penmanship was personal, Harrison actually created signature calligraphic styles. Typical of Harrison’s drive and passion, when an automobile accident kept him from extensive calligraphic work, the composer found a solution. Working with computer whiz Carter Scholz, Harrison designed calligraphic typefaces that were translated into computer fonts.

Though Harrison was not a sound poet, he was a poet. Like Cage who grappled with the horns of a dilemma, Harrison as a young man, thought he had to decide upon a career path. Whereas Cage wrestled with the decision of choosing a career as a composer or an artist, Harrison’s internal struggle was between music and poetry. Both chose music, but ultimately found numerous opportunities to engage in creative endeavors outside of music. Ultimately, Harrison has written numerous poems and many of them set using his calligraphic fonts by way of the Macintosh computer.

Harrison’s gift for the written word extended beyond poetry. Like Virgil Thomson and a number of nineteenth century composers, among them Berlioz and Schumann, Harrison was a gifted, insightful, and highly regarded music critic, as well as a music historian. In addition to critical reviews, he wrote essays about his peers and colleagues and their works, among them Varèse, Schoenberg, Ives, Ruggles, and Villa-Lobos.

Additionally, Harrison was active as a painter and even indicated late in his life that he intended to devote more time to painting at the expense of his compositional efforts. Harrison’s far-reaching and varied interests and obsessions even extended to esoteric, arcane realms including Esperanto and American Sign Language.

In addition to all of his open spirit and across-the-board musical and artistic adventure and experimentation, Harrison wrote beautiful music that is loved by many. While we will miss this dear, charming, and delightful man, I predict that Harrison’s legacy and position in the pantheon of musical greats will only grow and he will serve as a profoundly important muse and aesthetic mentor for generations of composers to come.