(Why I Do It)

Barbara Thornton, from "Poetics as Technique," in A Performer's Guide to Medieval Music:

Barbara Thornton (1950-1998)

“I want to be a performer, not an authority—these are two separate identities in the medieval world. The authority (auctoritas) writes from the highest viewpoint with the aim of establishing steadfast truths and principles. Though I have mentioned often that we look to practical treatises for practical guidelines, the musical treatises of the period provide the underlying philosophical ground for everything we do, and we move entirely within that context, acknowledging it freely. This is the function of auctoritas: to remain in contact with the “higher spheres,” as exemplified by Pythagoras, Aristotle, Plato, Augustine, Boethius, Cassiodorus, etc. As a performer, I wish to embody the philosophies of the art naturally, almost unconsciously; other than that, I am a collection of techniques, observations, and experiences. In a teaching capacity I think of myself as a transmitter: I pass on the material in human, not written form. I supposedly thereby stimulate the imagination (mine included). With what?  With the poet’s images and the musician’s music; only to the extent that my imaginings help the original material are my personal images of any importance. Principally, the goal is to reach and “empower” the independent imagination of the other person. Once it is operative, the hunt for the poet’s path and the life of his images is shared equally [. . .] I cannot take away a student’s own hunt for meaning in the material, nor can I create it. Nor should I put myself in a position, by playing auctoritas, of depleting my own imaginal energies. Look to the poems themselves, and learn to feel, feel, feel through modes—you will find the elated, disappointed, consummated, frustrated traces of other people looking for “poetic truth.”  You will find the best possible company for your quest. There are the tracks and traces to follow. I try to teach how to see the tracks, how to hunt with them.”

The Sound of One Hand Plucking

Dear Captains Obvious: What? The “medieval music” that I play “isn’t actually medieval?” [Forehead slap] Are you kidding me? 

I am doing a lot of reading for this tome I’m trying to write on improvisation (and what I am calling “fluid composition”) in the performance of medieval music, and I keep running into these admonitions regarding the impossibility of doing medieval music “the way it was.” Now, I can’t speak for other performers of medieval music, but is this actually a revelation for anyone? Does anyone think for a moment that every aspect of their performances of medieval music is a picture-perfect re-enactment of “the way it was?”

In his book The Modern Invention of Medieval Music, Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, whose scholarship I very much respect, says “The modern performance of medieval music absolutely requires that one believe both incompatible things together: we try to do it the way it was, and we know we cannot, and we argue for both.” I’m not so sure that trying to do it ‘the way it was’ and ‘knowing that I cannot’ are actually incompatible. To me, those two facts taken together are more like a Zen koan, the proverbial “sound of one hand clapping.” The very fact that we medieval music nerds do spend a lot of time trying to “find out what might be recoverable” means that we acknowledge that some is not recoverable. This is not the same as “arguing for both.” We are not arguing for anything. (Well, not all of us.) We are assembling musical material from a particular time period, and where there is not enough there to make a complete performance that we as performers can do with conviction, we invent the rest (which in the end is exactly Leech-Wilkinson’s point.) Even the hard-cores of the “everything was a cappella” school have to invent the text underlay of the untexted parts of the 15th century chansons. We have to make decisions – it’s that, or leave a thousand years worth of western music history mouldering in a drawer. Would we give up having ever heard “Viderunt” because people were quibbling about who/what produced the long sustained tones in the tenor?

Some of us then take it even a step further, and ask ourselves if there is anything to be learned about the ways in which music was “invented,” learned, memorized, and transmitted from one person to the other in the medieval era, in the event that might inform our own process. This is why some of us undertake insane projects such as writing a primer intended to help modern players attempt to use improvisation and “fluid” composition in order to turn “what might be recoverable” in medieval music into that elusive thing called “a performance.”

As for “the way it was,” is there really such a thing? Why do we try to come up with these incontrovertible rules about the way in which a certain kind of music was “always” performed? What if the third singer was sick that day, but Pierre had his vielle with him? What if they did it one way in Munich and another way in Cologne? What if this town was well-known for its great singers, and this other town noted for its accomplished instrumentalists? And speaking of instruments, what were they all used for? Firewood?

Sometimes we read about Civil War re-enactors who go outside on a frigid night in their uniforms and sleep in a snowdrift to try and see what it was like, or go through the motion of a particular military maneuver. Sure, they try to get the details right—the fabric of the clothing, the ammo in the historical firearms, the beans in the pot, the whole thing.

But let’s face it--these guys know they can get up, brush themselves off, and go home if the Grim Reaper threatens to show up before 11pm. They know (usually) they’re not actually going to shoot each other. They probably know that their 45 years of 20th century nutrition and medical care has resulted in a physical body that may be radically different than the one they might have had if they had been born in 1820. Does that mean there is nothing “historical” at all in what they’re doing? Are they not collecting as much data as they can in order to try and understand something from the past that interests them, fascinates them, perhaps tells them something new about their own, present world? And in the end, are we “strange persons” who insist on trying to play “medieval” music not doing something rather similar--collecting as much data as we can in order to try and understand a music from the past that interests us, fascinates us, and perhaps has much to tell us about both the music of the past and the music that we make in this moment of our own, present world?

So people, please! Stop bickering over whether the lower two lines in a fifteenth-century chanson were sung or played. Educate yourselves, ponder the arguments for both, make a damned decision, and then get on with creating a performance that someone in 2011 might actually want to listen to.

Haiku

For two dear friends: the last haiku by the Japanese poet Seira (d.1791)




Funabata ya                       Boarding the boat
kutsu nugisuteru                 I slip off my shoes:
mizu no tsuki                       moon in the water.

Where is this?

Hey folks, notice that I've completely changed the way the blog looks. I was interested to see that this particular image is one of the options on the template I chose. It might be the Cliffs of Moher pre-Visitor's Center. Anyone want to help identify?

From "Great Eastern Sun"

Long time no blog – trying to get it going again.

Here is a (very) long passage from the book Great Eastern Sun by Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche (1939-1987), one of the major players in the wave of Tibetan and Zen teachers who brought Buddhism to the west in the latter part of the 20th century. It is an incredibly profound commentary about the basic sadness of living in a messed-up world.

Here it is. Suggestion: Read it aloud to yourself.

“ . . .because there is still so much misery, chaos, and degradedness taking place in the world, a certain sadness begins to occur to you. That sadness could be called feeling your heart, actually experiencing your heart fully and thoroughly. Sadness is accompanied by a feeling of aloneness. You wish you could rush to somebody and babble out everything, empty your heart out and share it completely, so that you don’t have to feel sad. There’s that temptation, but it is not possible. It’s like unfulfilled love. When you try to tell somebody how much you love him or her, the other person can’t understand why you’re making such a dramatic fuss. This is the same kind of thing. The feeling of aloneness is an organic development. It is a natural situation. One doesn’t actually have to develop aloneness. Rather, it is a question of actualizing and realizing aloneness. When that happens, communicating with others becomes very simple.

“Sadness is also connected with the absence of cowardice. When you feel brave, free from fear, you also feel sad. That sadness is not the sadness of feeling low and depressed, but it is tear-jerking sadness that is always with you. One you have experienced the bravery that arises from basic goodness, you will also experience sadness and aloneness. In spite of joining festivities with your relatives, in spite of celebrating the holidays, attending Christmas parties or New Year’s parties--whatever you do to try to forget that sadness—sadness will always be there. The more you try to enjoy yourself and the more you do enjoy, nonetheless, there is still the constant sadness of being alone.

“That sadness also brings tenderness toward oneself. It is quite distinct from depression or the feeling that you want to commit suicide. When people are depressed and lonely—rather than alone—they sometimes what to commit suicide to get rid of their bodies and the environment of depression. With the Shambhala type of sadness, you want to live and help others. Tremendous humor is also present. Nonetheless, there is the sadness of being oneself.

“It is as if you were taking a walk in the forest by yourself in the twilight. You hear the birds. You see a glimpse of light coming from the sky: you might see a crescent moon or clusters of stars. The freshness of the greenery with occasional wildflowers is trying to cheer you up. In the distance, dogs are barking. In the distance, a child is crying. Shepherds are calling for their sheep. More likely, in America, in the distance, you hear the roar of the highway, where trucks and cars are making their journeys. Alone in this woodland, you can still hear them and feel them.

“You feel a little bit of freshness as the wind begins to blow on your cheeks. You smell the freshness of the woods. You might be startled by an occasional rabbit jumping out of the brush or an occasional bird, startled as you walk by its nest. Pheasants cross your pathway. As twilight goes on, you feel tenderness and sadness for your husband, your wife, your children, your grandparents. You remembers the classroom where you studied, learning to spell words when you first went to school. You remember learning to spell your name, learning how to write the letters j and o, m and a.

“The sadness of being oneself is like taking a walk in the forest, the borderland where things are not completely out of the way. There’s still a feeling that this particular woodland is surrounded by other living beings, human beings as well as other beings. You listen to the sound of your own footsteps, right, left, right, left. Occasionally you step on a dry twig, which cracks. Maybe there are occasional sounds of flies buzzing. Such sadness and aloneness are painful, but at the same time, they are beautiful and real. Out of that comes longing to help others. Being willing to work with others arises spontaneously. Because you care for yourself, therefore, equally you care for others. That seems to take a certain edge off the sadness. At the same time, sadness still hovers around you.

“You being to see yourself: you realize that you are unique, and you can see how you sometimes make a caricature of yourself. The sadness goes on, constantly. Yet you begin to realize there is something good and constructive about being you as yourself. This experience brings devotion, faith in the great warriors who have made the same journey. It could be devotion toward King Arthur’s knights, or any great warriors whose legend inspires you. When caring for others takes place, it brings devotion and dedication to this world in which you grew up. At the same time, caring for others brings renunciation. You are inspired to renounce anything that is without heart: any perversion, selfishness, egotism, and arrogance.

“Then, a fundamental wholesomeness arises in oneself, which we call the Great Eastern Sun. It is Great because it is vast and inconceivable. One cannot measure how vast the universe is stitch by stitch. Because of that vastness, there is Great East: vast possibilities, vast vision, vast aloneness, vast loneliness, vast sadness. One is always in the East, the dawn of wakefulness. One never falls asleep, never gets tired of life or breathing in and out, as long as we live. One never gets tired of opening one’s eyes. One never gets tired of this aloneness, the stirring of this woodland.”


-- Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche (1939-1987), from Great Eastern Sun (Shambala, 1999), 149-151