Tag: creativity

Invention and Deception

Posted on March 29, 2012 by DanVisconti - Columns

With the return of the critically acclaimed television drama Mad Men upon us, it might be timely to explore one of the ideas that the show has grappled with since its very first episode: the link between creativity and dishonesty, or (put another way) the thin line between the gifted storyteller and manipulative liar.

As Mad Men follows the exploits of sixties ad man Don Draper, creative director at one of Madison Avenue’s most recognized advertising firms and the kind of person who’s both a gifted storyteller and gifted philanderer. Draper’s creativity makes for some eloquent and even persuasive moments throughout the series, although his abilities to think outside the box, construct a convincing narrative, and connect with someone’s emotional core are exactly the same qualities that give the man such a capacity for manipulating the truth.

The link between invention and deception has been pointed out by many throughout history, and one particular interpretation of the phenomenon—that creativity, being the source of deception, is to blame—has had many supporters. Yet it might be more accurate to venture that it’s actually the more pedestrian drive to manipulate the world for food and survival advantages that eventually gave rise to higher-end creative problem solving—whether that problem is how to compose an effective piece of music, think up a catchy jingle, or convince one’s spouse that one is not committing adultery.

There’s a great scene in the first season of Mad Men, where a Korean War-era Don Draper looks out at a military casket and is told to “leave that boy behind” by his superior. Viewers of the series who know exactly who that casket contains will understand why it’s such a poignant moment. In so many words, Draper takes the chance to reinvent himself in a way to which most of us can relate: by turning our backs on our embarrassing, painful, and largely uncontrollable childhoods and adolescence, and then consciously fabricating a new version of ourselves that is (at least superficially) suave, cosmopolitan, and in control.

I’ve found that in music, there’s a similar sense in which we must pretend to be something which we are not, in order to become something different than we are now; that is, the initial creation is (at least in part) a fabrication, something to be aspired to and grown into. A few years ago I was writing a lot of instrumental music for some very fine groups, but nothing for the voice—something that is difficult to remedy once a little bit of initial success starts to carve out a pigeonhole. In retrospect, after doing everything I could to help foster a shift in my composing gigs, I found that it was only through sheer, unfounded belief—pretending to some degree that I already possessed the qualities I sought to acquire—that I was able to make the change happen. After which point the lie became true and the pretense became the new premise.

Sound Ideas: Prompt #2

Posted on March 26, 2012 by Ken Ueno - Listen, Sound Ideas

Composing is an identity forming ritual. It also teaches us to identify sounds we love and to commit to them in a form. I like to think that each of us has a melody that can stand for us long after we are gone.

Compose that melody by singing it. And when you have it, write it down. And share it.

Now it’s your turn: write, record, or otherwise draft your response using any method that suits your style and skills, then share it in comments. You can embed a SoundCloud player, a YouTube video, a link to a score file—whatever works. Here at NewMusicBox, we talk about music a lot. This project is our way of shifting focus and actually making some music, too. We can’t wait to hear what everyone creates.—MS

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Ken Ueno – Photo by Rob McIver

A Rome Prize and Berlin Prize winner, Ken Ueno, is a composer/vocalist who is currently an Associate Professor at the University of California, Berkeley. As a vocalist, he specializes in extended techniques, such as multiphonics, circular breathing, and throat singing. Musicians who have played Ken’s music include Kim Kashkashian, Robyn Schulkowsky, eighth blackbird, Alarm Will Sound, BMOP, SFCMP, and Frances-Marie Uitti. The Hilliard Ensemble has featured Ken’s Shiroi Ishi in their repertoire for over a decade. A former ski patrol and West Point cadet, Ken holds a Ph.D. from Harvard University.

Extraordinary, But So Wrong

Posted on March 19, 2012 by Frank J. Oteri - Columns

Last night our dinner guest was Paul Attinello, an extremely entertaining and brilliant American-born musicologist based at Newcastle University in the U.K. (who previously taught at Hong Kong University, hence the connection to my wife Trudy Chan) who has written in-depth musical analyses of Sylvano Bussotti and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It turns out, unbeknownst to Trudy until last night, that before Paul embarked on his academic musicological career, he was a composer. He decided to give up writing music about 25 years ago, however, because he believed he did not have the requisite discipline to pursue it. A composition professor he was studying with in the 1980s challenged him to compose a piece a day for a week. He actually did, creating a cycle of seven songs which he still believes is the strongest music he had ever composed, but as a result it also turned out that he never composed again after that. The whole matter came up because after all these years the work was finally performed for the very first time. Of course I’m extremely eager to hear it and also hope that it will ultimately get him to compose more music. After all, a compositional aesthetic that is open to both Bussotti and Buffy has got to yield some truly one-of-a-kind music.

However, in addition to piquing my curiosity to hear his music, Paul’s words hit a personal nerve. I too spend way more time writing about music than anything else and I also often worry that I lack the requisite discipline to compose music—I much prefer hanging out with people to spending time alone, I’m too easily distracted, and I’ve become less trusting of evaluative decisions as the years go by. Of course, the former makes collaboration ideal and the latter just belies my indebtedness to John Cage, although I have rarely considered composing indeterminate music. As for the middle problem, distraction—that’s a little bit more difficult to work around. I always seem to have tons of ideas for pieces, many of which never actually get composed. One of the greatest distractions I have when working on something is having ideas for other compositions vying for my attention and my extremely narrow window of actual composing time. There is definitely room for improvement in my composing process between the moment of inspiration and the long road to actual execution. Unless of course Paul’s judgment about himself proves to be equally true for myself as well. But since I’m ever an optimist and I refuse to believe that Paul should not still compose, I will plow on as well in my own way.

Imagine the music that could emanate from these telephones from three generations…

My own way (great for inspiration but often bad for execution) is constantly being stimulated by hearing other pieces of music, traveling, having conversations (not necessarily ones about music), and reading (again, not always about music). In fact, few things have inspired me as much compositionally this year as Looking Backward, Edward Bellamy’s extraordinary 1888 utopian novel about life in Boston in the year 2000. (This book had been sitting on my shelves for over a decade, but I finally decided to read it after seeing it referenced in David Cavicchi’s Listening and Longing, a book that has inspired my prose for weeks now.) To a contemporary reader, this strange account of our own times written by someone in the 19th century can no longer be perceived as futuristic but rather as an alternate reality. He was spot on about a few things—such as the use of credit cards and people listening to music on their telephones. But boy was he wrong about the mechanics of it all…

“There are a number of music rooms in the city, perfectly adapted acoustically to the different sorts of music. These halls are connected by telephone with all the houses of the city whose people care to pay the small fee, and there are none, you may be sure, who do not. The corps of musicians attached to each hall is so large that, although no individual performer, or group of performers, has more than a brief part, each day’s programme lasts through the twenty-four hours. There are on that card for to-day, as you will see if you observe closely, distinct programmes of four of these concerts, each of a different order of music from the others, being now simultaneously performed, and any one of the four pieces now going on that you prefer, you can hear by merely pressing the button which will connect your house-wire with the hall where it is being rendered. The programmes are so coordinated that the pieces at any one time simultaneously proceeding in the different halls usually offer a choice, not only between instrumental and vocal, and between different sorts of instruments; but also between different motives from grave to gay, so that all tastes and moods can be suited.”

It might seem totally insane for people to listen to music at home through their telephone lines as it is being performed in real time, although in 1966 John Cage actually presented a performance called Variations VII which involves sound input from ten amplified phone lines. It’s also a pleasant change of pace to read that in Bellamy’s version of the 21st century everyone is willing to remunerate musicians for the music they hear (though he sadly gives no details on how to effectively implement such a system). It all certainly seems like amazing fodder for musical ideas—what would such music be? Imagine the sound of an alternative present that was conceived of in the past but which is as different from that past as it is from the actual present, if not more so. Now to have the discipline to actually mold a piece of music out of such a concept!

Sound Ideas: Prompt #1

Posted on March 19, 2012 by John Luther Adams - Listen, Sound Ideas

Variations on A Theme by La Monte Young

In 1960 La Monte Young prompted us:

“Draw a straight line and follow it.”

The reverberations of this radically simple directive have been vast and profound.

But aside from those that we humans create, there are few if any straight lines in nature. So, fifty-two years later, I’d like to propose Variations on A Theme by La Monte Young:

“Find a crooked line and follow it.”

You may choose to realize this in purely visual terms. Or you may want to follow your crooked line and sound it.

You might walk along a shoreline, singing or playing as you go. You might trace a fixed elevation line as it meanders along a hillside, perhaps translating the contour from a map into musical notation. You might follow the course of a stream and record its changing voices.

Maybe you trace in sound the forms of clouds in the sky. Maybe you choose to travel from Point A to Point B as directly as you can, but the crooked line you follow is the rise and fall of the earth beneath your feet.

Step off the rectilinear grid that we impose on the world and wander wherever the infinitely intricate curves of nature may lead you. Alternatively, you might remain in one place and let the lines come to you.

There should be as many possible variations on this theme as there are crooked lines in the world.

And then there’s the possibility of a polyphony of such lines…

Now it’s your turn: write, record, or otherwise draft your response using any method that suits your style and skills, then share it in comments. You can embed a SoundCloud player, a YouTube video, a link to a score file—whatever works. Here at NewMusicBox, we talk about music a lot. This project is our way of shifting focus and actually making some music, too. We can’t wait to hear what everyone creates.—MS

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John Luther Adams, whom critic Alex Ross has called “one of the most original musical thinkers of the new century,” has created a unique musical world rooted in wilderness landscapes and natural phenomena. His music, which includes works for orchestra, chamber ensembles, soloists, and electronic media, is recorded on the Cold Blue, New World, Cantaloupe, Mode, and New Albion labels. Adams’s books Winter Music and, most recently, The Place Where You Go to Listen: In Search of an Ecology of Music are published by Wesleyan University Press, and his writings about music and nature have appeared in numerous periodicals and anthologies.

Sing, Sing Your Song

Posted on March 15, 2012 by Molly Sheridan - Listen, Sound Ideas

Next week we’re starting an experiment here at NewMusicBox we’re calling “Sound Ideas.” The concept is this: We’re going to ask you—yes you, sitting there, reading this post—to create music and share it. And the “we” isn’t just anyone, either. It’s John Luther Adams, Sarah Kirkland Snider, Sxip Shirey, and Ken Ueno.

Once a week we’ll post a prompt from each of these four composers which they’ve crafted to inspire sonic creation. If the idea resonates with you, write, record, invent or otherwise draft something new using any method that suits your style and skills, then share it in comments. You can embed a SoundCloud player, a YouTube video, a link to a score file—whatever works.

Here at NewMusicBox, we talk about music a lot. This project is our way of shifting focus and actually making some music, too. We can’t wait to hear what everyone creates.

If you hate to wait, you can get a jump start using Sweat Lodge’s “New Music Composition Tool,” the ultimate “get unstuck” emergency response kit featuring one six-sided die and two lists of options. Fair warning, however: you could find yourself writing a “Super Long Opera” about a “Dead Person That Everyone Can Agree On.” Hope you didn’t have plans this weekend.

See you next week!

What Is Real?

Posted on March 9, 2012 by Rob Deemer - Columns

Some might think we’re crazy…

We hear things. We hear things no one else can hear, and sometimes we’re not sure whether or not we can hear them either, but we think we can hear them so intensely that we end up hearing… something, and that will do. As long as there’s something to hear, everybody’s happy.

We hope and swear and pray that we can dictate or translate or remember what we heard or what we wanted to hear or at least realize that we forgot what we had heard and make something else up that probably will sound something like what we heard or thought we heard or wanted so much to hear–just so that those who couldn’t possibly have heard what we heard (or didn’t hear or wanted to hear) might be able to hear… something.

We curse the fact that in order for us to hear what we have already heard or thought we heard or wanted to hear with our ears, we have to be able to see it with our eyes, which (besides being a supreme pain in the ass) is damn near impossible to do, as what we see is (of course) not what we hear…see, not only do we ourselves not hear exactly and precisely what we see but our friends (who, through the use of wind or hair or hammer, want to help us hear what we hear or want to hear or thought we heard) see it ever-so-slightly different than we see it, and therefore may hear something else entirely.

We hope and swear and pray that our friends, through the use of wind or hair or hammer, can, in fact, help us to hear what we can already hear (or what we would like to hear), and once we hear it we will know what it sounds like (even though we have never heard it before) because, in fact, we have heard it, or we think we have heard it, or we wanted to hear it so hard that we actually heard… something, and that will do. As long as there’s something to hear, everybody’s happy.

We curse the fact that once our friends, through the use of wind or hair or hammer, analyze and interpret and perform this “noh-tey-shuhn” which we have allowed them to see, others will hear… something… which may or may not resemble that which we heard or thought we heard or wanted to hear so very, very much, and once this “aw-dee-uhns” hears that… something… everything changes. It does not matter what we originally heard or thought we heard or wanted to hear way back when–it only matters what everyone else can hear. And they will see us differently, since (of course) they know (or think they know) us now because of what they have heard, which may or may not have resembled that which we originally heard or thought we heard or wanted to hear so very, very, very much way back when.

We hear things. We hear things and through years of trial and error we allow others to hear… something… that makes them smile or wince or think or dance. That is why we are here. That is why we do what we do. Others allow us to do what we do through their many forms of support and generosity because they want to know us (or think they know us) by hearing what we say we heard–“I am someone who has heard something truly interesting,” we say, “ and by listening and hearing to what I have heard, you might get to know me a little better.”

It is this intimacy that makes what we do–composing–special and important. It matters to our audiences to know with whom they are becoming intimate, whose mind they are getting to know. It matters to our performers who, through their wind or hair or hammers, come even closer to knowing who we are and, in some ways, re-inventing us altogether.

It does not matter who created a work, but it matters that everyone know who created a work. It matters because it is why we do what we do.

Some might think I’m crazy…

Creative Juice

Posted on March 1, 2012 by Alexandra Gardner - Columns

Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.
—Pablo Picasso

That is hands down one of my all-time favorite quotes. If I were a tattoo-oriented kind of girl, I would probably have it inked onto my hand. Preferably in the original Spanish.

It seems like there has been a recent upsurge in books, articles, blog posts, and assorted media content geared towards jump-starting personal creativity. Although this perception could very well be related to the websites I tend to visit and/or the mailing lists I subscribe to, I still feel like the quantity of this content has increased dramatically.

As someone who is extremely interested in the nature of creativity, I very much enjoy reading this stuff. I think it serves as a window into our cultural values as they relate to creativity. This was probably the first book I read devoted exclusively to the topic (honestly I found it a bit froo-froo for my taste, but many people swear by the exercises, so whatever works!), and although I have not tackled anywhere near the many that are currently available, this one caught my visual learning eye. I like it because whether or not you physically write down answers to the questions, the questions—with big blank thought bubbles around them—do make you think.

I wonder what is causing this new self-help flood. Is it due to the economic downturn of recent years, during which time people have lost jobs and income, and perhaps feel there is nothing to lose when it comes to trying something risky and “outside the box?” Or is the U.S. in a creativity crisis? Considering the radical cuts to arts education and funding, this would not be surprising. These books and ideas can be truly helpful for a lot of people. Sometimes a shot of inspiration delivered by another artist, or even just approaching an everyday action from a different angle is exactly what’s needed to light the creative fire. However, I wonder about the implied messages they send. For instance, that creativity is special, and you probably don’t have it. That’s why you need this book. Even the books assuring us that creativity is not magic and that anyone can unlock it are wielding all kinds of assumptions. When did it get locked up, anyway?

Personally, I blame a mixture of the pressures of adulthood and the 19th century. Somewhere in there, for a ton of people, creativity became compartmentalized; separated from daily life and as such, an unapproachable luxury for many.

To add to the confusion, abundant creative thinking is expected at every turn in many workplaces. Job descriptions want “innovative thinkers” at many different levels. So if these self-help manuals are to be believed, innate creativity is something we don’t normally have, and yet we are supposed to be cornucopias of new ideas on the job. What?

No wonder all these books are selling like hotcakes! As interesting and inspiring as they may be, they can become diversions from the task at hand—making something. I think Picasso had it right in his belief that ultimately, creative acts come from, well, action.

Composing As Self-Discovery

Posted on February 16, 2012 by DanVisconti - Columns

This past week, I’ve been listening to some old favorites by Mozart and Beethoven and also looking at the composers’ own sketches whenever possible. Sketches in a composer’s hand are always revealing, and it’s difficult to give either composer’s sketches a cursory glance without being struck by how deeply each composer’s sketching habits express their own musical personalities. Beethoven’s sketches are full of inserts, cross-outs, and rewrites, and usually scribed with a thick, almost gouging pen stroke that reeks of creative effort; Mozart’s manuscripts (which are so complete they can rarely be called “sketches”) were penned quickly, almost breezily, with comparatively few changes other than filling in more supporting voices.

When I compare these two approaches, it’s difficult not to arrive at the impression that Mozart was recording something already (or mostly) formed in his inner ear, while for Beethoven composing was an often laborious process of figuring something out.

The Mozartean process of recording or transmitting idea (and of being open to the dictates of the subconscious) certainly has its advantages—especially if the composer is working within a received stylistic tradition (as Mozart, for all his wonderful wit and inventiveness, largely was). For those who seek to express themselves by pushing the boundaries of tradition, or who aim to discover uncharted territory far removed from tradition, it is often necessary to sketch and rework, as a more vigorously active participant. Most composers, I suspect, combine these different attitudes in all kinds of t ways, although just as Mozart and Beethoven we all have our predilections.

In today’s composing world, I hear an echo of the Mozartean attitude– though often without Mozart’s characteristic humor and child-like naturalness—in the ways that we tend to teach music composition. Despite the healthy stylistic openness that I’ve been happy to discover in today’s institutions of higher learning, the way that one is “supposed to” compose usually revolves around some variation of: “Figure out what you want to do first, then do it”, which indicates a profound separation between the conception of a work and its realization—composing as recording the results of already-worked-out parameters. This way of composing is often explicitly extolled (along the lines of “you have to know what you’re doing first before you can do it!”), and implicitly privileged in countless preconcert talks, college symposia, and lessons, in which the composer of the moment explains his or her intentions, following which the composition in question is judged on how well it “succeeded” at realizing these intentions.

This can be a useful approach, and I have no problem with it per se. But by over-emphasizing a way of composing that privileges faithful representation of mental constructs, I wonder if we’re failing to point out that composing can also be a process of discovery, experimentation, and play unrelated to prior planning (and resistant to critiques that rely on intention). While composing can be a way to transmit something that we already hold as essential, it can also be a process by which we come to understand our own thoughts and feelings.

Composer Biographies (Famous Author Edition)

Posted on February 16, 2012 by Alexandra Gardner - Columns

Let’s face it, writing a composer biography is hard. It’s really super hard to write one’s own biography, and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever met a composer who is totally content with his or her own bio. I consider updating my own bio to be pure and unadulterated torture. Much of the time these bios all sound the same—a drone of awards, commissions, and famous, impressive teachers. Boring! It would be great to see some more creative approaches to the composer bio, as other artists seem to be able to do on occasion; to read a biography that really provides a sense of the composer as a person.

Last week we here in Baltimore had a bit of fun on Twitter, when Oscar Bettison began tweeting about “problem phrases” in composer biographies. For example:

Several folks joined in the discussion, and there was some effort to come up with:

Several attempts were made, and while #composerbiononos seemed like the best option, Oscar made a good point:

Anyway, Molly had a good idea for how to approach writing a composer bio:

It would be brilliant to see some bios like that! Long story short, we started getting completely goofy about this topic—I believe there were also cold meds involved—and started imagining biographies written in the style of various famous authors:

This sparked a bit of creativity (including in the spelling of author names, ahem), which, although not so much effective in the traditional sense of the hashtag, was awfully entertaining nonetheless. Behold a few examples:

My very favorite one of all arrived later that evening:

I don’t know about you, but if more bios started like these tweets, I would definitely keep reading!

Additional examples are welcome in the comment section, and/or on Twitter. Have fun!

Pushing and Pulling the Envelope

Posted on February 10, 2012 by Rob Deemer - Columns

I mentioned last week that we were preparing to have a couple of special guests visit campus—composer Paola Prestini and violinist/composer Cornelius Dufallo. Besides having a successful concert and residency, one idea that percolated up during our many conversations had to do with the creative process. Neil and I spoke about our own composing after hearing Paola describe the process behind her imaginative, expansive works, and we realized that the underlying concepts upon which she created her compositions were coming from a relatively different direction than ours. After some back and forth, we came up with the idea that the difference was on which side of the creative “envelope” each of us tended to start when we made our art.

What fascinated me about Paola’s musical ideas was their scope—she admitted that she rarely dealt in smaller chamber genres—and how she seemed to be very successful incorporating her love of collaboration into these larger-than-life musical creations. A stalwart proponent of the use of multimedia, she seems to thrive by dreaming up elaborate constructions, which she can see in her mind’s eye, but that neither she nor any of her collaborators may understand how to achieve at the outset. Over time, however, they figure out ways to advance the technology, build the physical environment within which the musicians will perform, and allow the performers to take part in the creative process. As far as the creative envelope is concerned, I think of Paola as coming at her work from the “outside” and working in—“pulling” the envelope, so to speak, so that it conforms to her dream.

Compare that to the more traditional concept of “pushing the envelope” from the “inside” where both Neil and I agreed that our methodology seemed to reside. What I mean by this is to look at the limitations inherent to whatever situation a composer happens to have in front of them (professional string quartet, high school band, solo violin with electronics, etc.) and then imagine how far one can “push” these limitations in order to create their work. By starting at the point of “what’s possible” and then imagining where to go from there, the risk of creating a work that is unplayable or overtaxing is greatly reduced. However, and Paola’s works made me realize this, by starting from “inside” the possible, it’s much harder for a creative artist to invent something truly new and groundbreaking—by starting from the dream and making it happen through sheer force of will (which of course can be very risky), the composer can make something that no one has ever seen or heard before.

The beauty of this is that neither one is less valuable than the other. There are many creative artists who begin their journeys on either side of that “envelope,” and the successful ones figure out how to make it work no matter from what direction they are pushing or pulling. But by understanding whether or not one habitually works from the “outside” or the “inside,” a composer could expand their own horizons by endeavoring to work from both sides at once.

Rob Deemer

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