Gormless

Thoughts on John Cage

“The most elementary form of the transmutation of chance would lie in the adoption of a philosophy tinged with Orientalism that masks a basic weakness in compositional technique; it would be a protection against the asphyxia of invention, the resort to a more subtle poison that destroys every last embryo of craftsmanship; I would willingly call this experiment – if experiment it be, since the individual does not feel responsible for his work, but merely throws himself by unadmitted weakness, by confusion, and for temporary assuagement into puerile magic – I would call this experiment chance through inadvertance. In other words, the result comes about any which way, uncontrolled (an absence that is voluntary though not praiseworthy, through impotence), but within a certain network of probably results, for chance must have at its disposal some kind of eventuality. Therefore, why not leave this network itself up to inadvertance? That is something I have never been able to clear up. The game is played only partly aboveboard, but at least no one pretends otherwise, which is creditable. It is a nicely laid out artificial paradise where, I think, dreams are never very miraculous; this kind of narcotic indeed constitutes protection against the goad inflicted upon you by all inventiveness; it is to be observed that its action is exaggeratedly soothing, sometimes mirth-provoking, like what hashish fanciers describe. Peace to these angelic creatures; we can be sure they run absolutely no risk of stealing any thunder, since they wouldn’t know what to do with it. Inadvertance is amusing at the beginning, but one gets tired of it very quickly – all the more quickly because it is condemned to never renew itself.”

Boulez, “Alea,” in Perspectives of New Music, iii/I (1964), p. 42.

When I recently read this quote I thought it might resonate with you and your feelings about John Cage.

I, however, disagree with some of your pronouncements about the man and his work. As I recall, in your assessment of John Cage you stated that his lack of technical skill precluded him being taken seriously. You also suggested that if you ask individuals on the street if they recognize him they would not be able to do so and that he is known only to academics and elitists. You related the story of Schoenberg humming a tune to his wife (one that he had composed just for her) and of her being incapable of recognizing it, and with this story seemed to insinuate that music not subject to the hierarchical standards of Western melodic forms, harmony, and counterpoint, is somehow not valid in the musical canon. And finally you referenced Cage’s work, 4’33’’with disdain.

In reading about John Cage, it became clear that he was, in fact, highly trained in music and composition. He studied piano for many years and often performed his own works. It is true that when he studied with Schoenberg that the latter declared him to have “no feeling for harmony.” It was with this in mind, perhaps, that his early works were percussive in nature, and why, years later when he began to focus on pitch, he used a chance means to free pitch from the bounds of harmonic structure. Is this pleasing to the ear? Well, it depends on the ear, of course. In my opinion, pieces such as “Cheap Imitation” and “The Perilous Night” are sonorous and melodic even if they aren’t subject to a traditional form of intervallic relationships.

While John Cage, was, in fact, highly trained, and skilled in his art (and indeed most modern artists often are, though it is common for them to be misconstrued otherwise) it is disingenuous, one might even say, elitist, to suggest that only highly trained artists are capable of producing “good” art.

As to whether or not John Cage is recognizable outside of the academic community, I think this is a moot point. Many people in this country wouldn’t recognize Beethoven, Stravinsky, or John Coltrane either, but I don’t believe that being aware of such musicians is solely a privilege of the elite academic. And while they might be able to hum Beethoven’s 5^th because of it’s presence in popular media, this isn’t a litmus test for whether or not a composer’s work is “valid.” Name one lay person who could hum even a few bars of a Bach invention. And here I would like to suggest that the “hum-ability” of a composition does not determine its legitimacy. To believe that it does is a very rigid and limited perspective that is based on the hierarchical structure of a traditional Western music that relies on harmony and counterpoint. If we were to remain bound to this imposed organization no development would ensue. Nothing new would be discovered. John Cage brought the Eastern philosophy of Zen to bear on composition. He tried to free his work of personal expression, to let nature be his inspiration and his model for creativity. Ironically, his personality was inevitably expressed in his use of chance operations in his work. Perhaps it isn’t possible for the artist to free himself of the self in the act of creation, but you cannot fault someone for trying, for experimenting with the limitlessness of the unknown.

And finally, 4’33’’, the infamous four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence. I often wonder what my life would be like if I had never encountered Kasimir Malevich’s “Black Square” ten years ago as an undergraduate.  The “Black Square,” Rauschenberg’s “White on White” and “Black on Black,” and Cage’s 4’33’: all work to challenge our sensibilities, to beg us to consider what makes art, art. There is a long list of reasons why these pieces are art, but I like to answer simply that they are art because the creator has intended them to be so. If my three year old son painted me a black square and told me it was house, I would hang it on my wall and tell everyone who chanced upon it that it was the house that my son painted. I could gesture quotation marks as I said this, but it would not invalidate the image for my son. Art is art because we’re asked to view it as such. If a shoe is removed from our foot and placed in a gallery we have removed it from its function and instead are moved to visually experience its form, aesthetically and intellectually. It is perhaps not common knowledge that 4’33’’ was derived from the possibility that in 64 chance operations of the I Ching, 32 numbers would produce silence. It was always possible for an entire composition created by chance to result in absolute silence. Musician’s play rests just as they play pitches. When David Tudor first sat down at the piano with his stop watch and the score for this piece, he was reading it and counting it and “playing” it. This is a piece that teaches us about ambient sound and about the limits of imposed structure. Cage imposed the structure of the I Ching on his work, just as centuries of composers before him had imposed Western musical tradition on theirs.

I have blacked out the screen leaving only green text.

A noisy music that sits at the base of my skull is moving my fingers.

Last night I felt some things shift and lock into place.

Watching my fingers type.

Imagining the next photo shoot, you said you will wear a red poppy, that I should have a blank stare.

Vapid blue piercing gaze.

I’m on the verge of getting my hair cut again. Snip. Snip. Snip. And to change, change anytime my face gets too familiar.

“What does it mean to dream what you dream?”

My world has opened up, like a dream.

There are things that are happening that I don’t pretend to understand.

There were things that I pretended happened and then they happened happened.

Amidst the fractured remains of that other relationship, he crouched down and admitted defeat.

He was huddled into himself, but not in overt denial mode anymore.

He contemplated the possibility of parting ways. I wasn’t alone in my imaginings any longer.

Time stopped for a moment, while I really processed that.

Relief swept through me, a wind blown from the tower of your longing for the indefinite, indefatigable, unknown.

I fell deeply asleep, finally assured that things weren’t set in stone, but could be molded and shifted: malleable putty castles in place of the paper cities that had once burned in the smoldering of my blue unwavering flame of depression.

I close my eyes now and type with fingers that know the pattern of the keys. I open them for a moment to see how many typos there are.

There are none.

Sound goes in deeper and with more force this way. And I wonder if I could compose  an entire novel blind.

I have told stories that have bound me for ten years.

When I open  my eyes I make more mistakes.

I am only now beginning to understand what it means to surrender myself to the flow.

There it is.

And every time I come here there is déjà vu. Boo. There you are. Each word, each note of this song is “trying again” to remind me of what it was like to be here before and now and after and simultaneously interpolated for all time.

He always waits for me at the end of my sentences. He tacks himself onto the tail end of all my experiences. He punctuates my daily life. He walks with me until I get tired and then waits for the cab with his hand held out. He holds the door for me as I crawl in and shuts it behind us as the car lurches away from the curb. He leans in and breathes the address into my ear. He pats his pockets for the tip. He cusses as we pull up next to the puddle. He hangs onto my hand and helps me across. And at night, right before sleep comes, he leans over and pushes my hair back from my forehead and kisses my third eye. He is the flow and connects me to all things and he always, always has.