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-
ally writing,
and the less one
thinks it’s thinking
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 exac- tly, 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. Musicfor Piano was written di- rectly in ink.
II. Indeterminacy
The excessively small type in the following pages is an attempt to emphasize the intentionally pontifical character of this lecture.
This is a lecture on composition which is indeterminate with respect to its performance. The Klavierstück 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 indeterminacy brings about the possibility of a unique overtone structure and decibel range for each performance of The Art of the Fugue. In the case of the Klavierstück 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, 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 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 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.
The function of the performer in the case of the Klavierstück 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 controlled 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 Klavierstück 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 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 Klavierstück 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 Klavierstück XI do not remove the work in its performance 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 Klavierstück 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 the 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,