Soundchoices: Paul Elwood

Having Written

Writer James Wood, in an interview on the New Yorker Radio Hour (June 15, 2018), stated that he doesn’t care much for the act of writing. It's hard. I’ve heard other writers and composers mirror this by stating: “I like having written.”  

When I had an artist residency in New Mexico a number of years ago, I realized that it was far easier to climb Wheeler Peak (13,167 feet, the tallest mountain in that state) than it was to sit at my table, struggle with idea development, and to create a logical compositional sequence. On a few occasions I chose the easier activity. 

I do find that the habit of working first thing in the morning makes the task of beginning work each day easier, even if the actual writing itself is not. Habit creates a circadian rhythm that naturally leads my mind along compositional lines.  As a result ideas—good and bad—generally flow for me at the beginning of each day. 

As far as I can tell, repetition is the key for creation, enabling the growth and development of ideas.

Aeolian Dreams

But high in his stronghold Aeolus wields his scepter, soothing their passions, tempering their fury. Should he fail, surely they’d blow the world away, hurling the land and deep sky through space.   Virgil, Aeneid, translated by Fagles, 49.

These are wonderful images of the Greek mythological figure, Aeolus, keeper of the winds, who harboured them a cave.  If he chose to loose the winds, all existence could blow away. With his control of the winds he could bring fortune or disaster to ships at sea.

Once, I helped a friend move his harp from a performance space.  It was a warm spring night in Kansas with a strong south wind funneled between two buildings where we were loading. We set the harp down briefly and all the strings began to resonate in the wind, creating a lovely pan-tonal sound that oscillated with fluctuations of the wind.  Aeolian harps function in such a manner, resonating in outdoor spaces in the wind. 

When I first composed for the harp, I spent my research time reading Carlos Salzedo’s “Modern Study of the Harp.” He explains much notation specific to extended techniques for the instrument. 

There are seven tones (or “pitch classes”) possible at any time on the harp.  By manipulating a series of pedals, the player can change each pitch class from flat, to natural, to sharp (e.g., D-flat, D-natural, D-sharp).  A composer can’t write a D-sharp and a D-natural at the same time for the harp, but can compose an E-flat (which is the same sounding pitch as D-sharp) and D. Two different designations for the same sounding pitch are said to be "enharmonic" spellings.  Hence A-sharp is the same as B-flat, F-sharp the same as G-flat, etc. 

When composing for the harp, one must work within the limitations of the tuning.  Strangely I find the limitations of any instrument liberating. There are things one can and cannot do with an instrument; notes that can and cannot be realized. So choices one makes are focused from the physical possibilities of an instrument.  For some reason, these limitations suggest and enable creative directions through restriction. To paraphrase a popular aphorism: When one path is closed (in a creative endeavor), another opens up.

Drudge Work

Sometimes when I think of the grunt work involved in producing a composition (proofing, correcting, copying, proofing, correcting, creating parts, proofing parts, correcting parts, printing parts, etc.) I just want to punt and watch Monty Python reruns. But these are necessary steps in finishing. This drudge work is composition too. 

 

Elements of Style

I’m finally reading Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style. Yes, it sounds deadly, and I’ve had the book on my shelf since I was a freshman or sophomore in college, but it is oddly interesting to read the rules of language and formal structure that I try to practice when writing. 

One way of approaching any creative project is to create a structure that will be intelligible for the people perceiving the art. And it is this perception that completes the art work’s trajectory from creator to conscious appreciation. I sometimes wonder if the words and structures we use somehow mirror our perceptions of the world around us and that the (human-made) world around us must be structured on the patterns of our thought and perception.

In music, our structures mirror a desire to place order on our outside world, expressions, and sounds. As described in my entry yesterday, large forms in music may sustain smaller sections and microcosmic melodic statements. A classical sonata-form is (in basic theoretical form) in three large sections. The first being an exposition that is divided into two sections (sometimes more), each with a different tonal center, and within those sections are contrasting melodies, transitions, and rhythmic structures, among other things. This is followed by a development section that can go in a number of tonal directions, and finally the composition features a recap of material from the beginning - all in the same original key. The structure is intelligible, and, when internalized in the cognition of a listener, makes comprehensive and comprehensible listening. 

 

Formal Thoughts

Formal structure has been a longtime problem for me. My early compositions were mostly written straight through following intuition.  I’d compose one version, go back to the beginning and rewrite what I’d written, and a third time I’d go back and revise once more.  Usually the last version was the performance incarnation. This worked for a while.

Intuition began to fail me after a few years of composing in this manner. My pieces became meandering, wandering explorations of the material. In graduate school I worked with composer Charles Wuorinen on developing structure based on smaller compositional increments (like a seven-note melodic snippet) with rhythms derived from the intervallic distance between the seven (or five or twelve) tones.  These snippets could be expanded into vast (read hour-long or longer) compositions with long sections based on each of the original melodic notes acting as a tonal center. The length of the sections still depended on the intervallic relations between notes.

Now I’m writing intuitively again. I still begin with a plan which I quickly ignore in the process of composing the piece. I wrote for several months on the composition I’m in the midst of and, one day about a month ago, sat down to plot out all I’d done. I should say that the music isn’t following much of the serial plan described in the previous paragraph - it’s following song-like constructions. And so, it was only mildly surprising to find that the composition is largely divided into sections of roughly two minutes in length - like many songs on pop radio.  

More on structure and ruminations on form at a later time.  

Distractions Again

It is said that Soviet era composer Shostakovich worked in the midst of many distractions. I imagine him sitting at a table in an small Moscow apartment surrounded by family and working in spite of it all, gradually producing a lot of music.  At least that’s how I imagine it.

I had many distractions this morning and couldn’t do much about it. I wouldn’t say I’m good at working with interruptions, but I did work in between distractions, making a few compositional decisions, and ultimately getting a little bit done. 

A little done every day is better than nothing. The work gradually adds up.  And getting a little done is a much better use of time than making excuses as to why I can’t work with distractions. 

Finally

I'm putting the final touches on the chamber portion of the composition I'm composing and drew a double bar today.  There's a lot left to do: I have electronic ideas that will be inserted into the acoustic portion of the piece, and video pieces to be created and placed, but the acoustic writing is nearing completion. The details are maddening. I've been revising, revising, revising as I go, completely transforming some sections, writing and rewriting dynamics and articulation, and deleting orchestral material toward the end to thin out the texture to a final silence.  

But, as I tell my students, the devil is in the details and the details are necessary to shape a composition from a collection of notes to a completed and shaped whole. 

 

Boredom

Composing is one of those things I've never lost a passion for. I try to do it—or something related to it—every day.  The passion we have for our discipline can sustain us through the hard work of making something happen, of bringing a composition, painting, novel, etc. into being.  But there are parts I find downright boring.  That was the situation I found myself in this morning.  I'm at a point where the fundamental materials of my composition are in place, surprising structural shifts have taken place, a lot of music I've written over the past few months has been tossed or rewritten, and now I'm working toward a polished product to eventually send to the musicians.  

But I find this part tedious, sometimes curiously exciting, but often boring. Curiously exciting because transformations can take place at this stage that are unexpected. I see things that I missed and sections that still need improving or need to go. Boring because a lot of the work is proofreading and finding misspelled notes, missing slurs, and dynamics that have not been assigned. But, ultimately, even this part, I know, leads to a final product that I believe will be good and I hope will speak to others on some positive level.  

As my father once said: "If you're going to be a professional musician, you have to practice every day, even if you don't feel like it." 

 

Distractions

This morning my writing session was interrupted by several external distractions that I couldn't do much about.  I finally gave up on trying to be productive and decided to clean house - literally.  My studio is sometimes a mess, and any decent artist might tell you that you have to keep a clean space to work effectively.  Maybe.

So, I attacked the piles that somehow magnetise and grow, attracting more stuff.  And I picked up receipts that need to be scanned and catalogued for taxes; basically the space was improved somewhat.  It's true, if a work zone is straightened, then finding things is less of an issue (unless if you're like me and you can't find something once the place is in order). 

I had a teacher that said he composed by the "Hoover Method," that is, when he was stuck in his writing, he would vacuum the house to clear is mind.  A character in a book I read recently (The Little Paris Bookshop by Nina George - a nice read) called housecleaning "meditation in motion." For me this is true.  Once the distractions subsided today, I stopped cleaning and was able to return to work with (at least) the semblance of a clear mind. 

 

A chain reaction of distraction

Today I worked straight through for about 4 and a half hours and managed not to look at the clock the entire time.  I figured that if I did, that a chain reaction would begin: I’d start thinking about time, which would lead to concern about other things I might need to do, and ultimately destroy the “zone” I was in.  So, I worked until I felt hungry and tired enough to stop. 

Many distractions can be mastered, including concerns about the time of day, though I have to admit that it’s hard sometimes to continue on without stopping, worrying, and ultimately losing concentration.