jwilzewske: Opposing Throw-away Culture: Future of Program Notes

I wish program notes could be more like:

the ‘extras’ that we get on DVD videos, with panel discussions and out-takes, trailers, rehearsal miscellany, biographical and historical documentary collateral;
liner notes in CD and MP3 albums—less expository than conventional program notes and more expansive;
art exhibit catalogues—nice coffee-table books, objets d’art in their own right and iconic souvenirs that we treasure and display in our houses/apartments.

Program notes form the core of many classical music presenters’ marketing materials. But most printed literature today is disposable: today’s hot communication document is tomorrow’s landfill. Presenters and their donors and the authors of program notes devote huge amounts of time and money to make their material as informative and attractive as it can be. But many audience members treat it as though it were a cheap gew-gaw to divert them from their abject boredom while waiting for the performance to begin. They discard it after the performance, pitch it out without a second thought. This is really, really unfortunate.

The best programs should have a permanence and organic completeness that counters the ephemeral, and increasingly electronic, world of instant communications. A presenter’s program book should embody the best of contemporary printed literature or multimedia design. And I think it should drive the same kinds of revenue and cross-merchandising opportunities that, say, exhibit catalogues provide to museums and art galleries. It shouldn’t be a ‘throw-away’. It shouldn’t be so chock-full of advertising that it can’t function as a coffee-table book or iconic catalogue.

What we need are new formats, new and changing formats and new media—multi-media program note formats that offer the content that we are used to receiving but that also offer critical surveys of current work by leading practitioners from the U.S., Europe and Asia. Arranged performer-by-performer, composer-by-composer and accompanied by interviews, the kinds of new media program notes formats I wish for would offer a more complete and informative picture of the presenter’s programs, artists, and subjects—a more extensive invitation to the readers’ own further thoughts and enjoyment.

What we need, too, are new styles of writing and new, unconventional tone. The tone should be generous. The essays should not try to score ‘points’ (in the way, for example, that Richard Taruskin’s and Bernard Holland’s writing sometimes tries to do). The style should be engaged and engaging, not pedantic.

One of the champions of such writing is composer Robert Kirzinger, who is publications associate and author of program notes for the Boston Symphony Orchestra. By concentrating on the overlooked, and by transforming and manipulating his texts-as-objects into works of art in their own right, Kirzinger both subverts their nominal function and challenges existing systems of classification and modes of discourse. Playful, often fantastic, his work reveals an acute intelligence alloyed to an irreverent and mischievous sense of humor. His are not ordinary program notes or liner notes, to be read and discarded. They are painterly essays filled with exciting imagery. They are adventure stories filled with the suspense of exploration. They are letter-like program notes that have an intimacy, and are written in a conversational style as if to a friend or a family member.

Handsomely illustrated, Kirzinger’s writing is straightforward, readable, and agreeably jargon-free. He can be didactic without being pedantic. Full, traditionally-placed footnotes and URL links make it easy for the reader to pursue particular topics. His critical judgments are often less ‘ends’ in themselves than jumping off points for explorations of particularly vexing problems in composing and performance practice. And, more to the point, general readers, who have perhaps had simplistic ideas of the scope of the music or the composers or the performers, will find themselves reconsidering and re-reading Kirzinger’s program notes. These are not Alex Ross or John Rockwell journalistic essays conglomerated into a book-of-days. These are art objects that have a certain timelessness. They read like Natural History.

Listening cannot be hurried: you have to allow enough time for it. You have to ask yourself how the piece is put together, how it is like other pieces you know and how it is different, and how it fits into the traditions you are familiar with, the works that you enjoy. Kirzinger writes in such a way that readers are not rushed or coerced. Instead, readers are tantalized as well as reassured of the legitimacy of their own independent ideas.

Good program note authors remember that the music itself is more important than all the talk about it, even what is said by esteemed experts. They try not to approach a piece through the fog of what others have said about it, for much of what’s said and written about music can be misleading until you experience the music itself. Good program note authors write without displaying their egos much. Cases in point are Kirzinger’s program notes for Wes Matthews’s ‘Terraces’ (Minnesota Orchestra Composer Institute, 20-27 OCT-2007) or his liner notes [1MB pdf] for Eric Chasalow’s ‘Left to His Own Devices’ CD, an homage to composer Milton Babbitt. Plenty of ‘light’ with no gratuitous ‘heat’ or ’tude.

T aruskin’s points are eminently worth making—but they’re drowned out by the irresistible lure of the lapidary put-down.”
— Matthew Guerrieri.

S tarry-eyed critics of the 1930s and ’40s predicted that by 2007 we would be singing Schoenberg’s ‘Moses und Aron’ in the shower. Most of us still lean toward ‘Embraceable You.’ I hope it is not unreasonable to suggest that composers, not listeners, are the servants here, and that every new opera or orchestral piece they write should be brought in on a tray with hopes that it has something substantial to say that we can like. When Haydn worked for the Esterhazys, he wore a uniform. That’s not a bad idea for our premiere-givers too. They can also tend bar at intermission. How do I prepare for premieres? I read about the people and the circumstances, where the piece came from and what the composer eats for breakfast. If I have a score, I look at the orchestration. It’s nice to know how many crayons are in the composer’s coloring box. I don’t listen to anything [recordings of the composer’s or artist’s work, before attending the performance]. Surprise me.”
— Bernard Holland, New York Times, 04-NOV-2007.

A proper note should follow up on points made by the music, the performers, the composers, and their lives and times. Often, music is influenced by or connected with political events of the day, by music of other composers, or other artists (painters, poets, authors). A good note may touch on such aspects of the music. Notes or reviews may discuss your impressions of the music as you listened, but should not lapse into a running commentary on how the music made you feel as you listened or what you did as a result of your internal feelings, nor should they be a medium for public ventilation of some private beef.

J ust as some chefs excel at seafood and struggle to make a good porterhouse, musicians have strengths and weaknesses, which are often related to temperament, intellect and taste. The all-Brahms first half of pianist Markus Groh’s recital Friday had refinement and clarity of texture but was so stuffy and colorless that I went out onto 12th Street at intermission gasping for air.”
— Paul Horsley, Kansas City Star, 20-OCT-2007.

This review may be of use to arts journalism students, as an illustration to prove that images and sentences do not automatically add up to a real review or a real program note. In short, I wish more people who write classical music program notes and reviews would write in good faith and good humor, like Arthur Danto writes about art. If they did, their work would not end up thrown into a rubbish bin.

L et us consider a painting once described by that cheerful Dane, Sören Kierkegaard. It was a painting of the Israelites crossing the Red Sea. Looking at it, one sees something very different from what a painting with that subject would have led one to expect, were one to imagine, for example. what an artist like Poussin or Altdoerfer would have painted: troops of people, in various postures of panic, bearing the burdens of their dislocated lives, and in the distance the horsèd might of the Egyptian forces bearing down. Here, instead, was a square of red paint, the artist explaining that ‘The Israelites had already crossed over, and the Egyptians were drowned.’ Kierkegaard comments that the result of his life is like that painting. All the spiritual turmoil, the father cursing God on the heath, the rupture with Regina Olsen, the inner search for meaning, the sustained polemics of an agonized soul, meld in the end, as in the echoes of the Marabar Caves, into a mood, a single color. So next to Kierkegaard’s described painting let us place another, exactly like it, this one, let us suppose, by a Danish portraitist who, with immense psychological penetration, has produced a work called ‘Kierkegaard's Mood.’ And let us, in this vein, imagine a whole set of red rectangles, one next to the other. Beside these two and resembling each as much as they resemble one another (exactly), we shall place ‘Red Square,’ a clever bit of Moscow landscape. Our next work is a minimalist exemplar of geometrical art which, as it happens has the same title, ‘Red Square.’ Now comes ‘Nirvana.’ It is a metaphysical painting based on the Artist’s knowledge that the Nirvanic and Samsara orders are identical, and that the Samsara world is fondly called the Red Dust by its deprecators. Now we must have a still-life executed by an embittered disciple of Matisse, called ‘Red Table Cloth.’ We may allow the paint to be somewhat more thinly applied in this case. Our next object is not really an artwork, merely a canvas grounded in red lead, upon which, had he lived to execute it, Giorgione would have painted his unrealized masterwork, ‘Conversazione Sacra.’ It is a red surface which, though hardly an artwork, is not without art-historical interest, since Giorgione himself laid the ground on it. Finally, I shall place a surface painted, though not grounded, in red lead: a mere artifact I exhibit as something whose philosophical interest consists solely in the fact that it is not a work of art, and that its only art-historical interest is the fact that we are considering it at all: it is just a thing, with paint upon it. This completes my exhibition. The catalogue for it, which is in full color, is monotonous, since everything illustrated looks the same as everything else, even though the reproductions are of paintings that belong to such diverse genres as historical painting, psychological portraiture, landscape, geometrical abstraction, religious art, and still-life. It also contains pictures of something from the workshop of Giorgione, as well as of something that is a mere thing, with no pretense whatsoever to the exalted status of art... Meanwhile, I can only observe that, though J has produced a (pretty minimal) artwork, not to be told by naked inspection from a bare red expanse of paint, he has not yet made an artwork out of that bare red expanse. It remains what it always was, a stranger to the community of artworks, even though that community contains so many members indiscernible from it. So it was a nice but pointless gesture on J’s part: he has augmented my little collection of artworks while leaving unbreached the boundaries between them and the world of just things. This puzzles J as it puzzles me. It cannot be simply because J is an artist, for not everything touched by an artist turns into art. This leaves then only the option, now realized by J, of declaring that contested red expanse a work of art. Why not? Duchamp declared a snowshovel to be one, and it was one; a bottlerack to be one, and it was. I allow that J has much the same right, whereupon he declares the red expanse a work of art, carrying it triumphantly across the boundary as if he had rescued something rare. Now everything in my collection is a work of art, but nothing has been clarified as to what has been achieved. The nature of the boundary is philosophically dark, despite the success of J’s raid.”
— Arthur Danto, Transfiguration of the Commonplace.

jwilzewske

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Opposing Throw-away Culture: Future of Program Notes

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