Aspen Music Festival Music Director Quits. Unexpectedly?

I can certainly pin point my formative years and specific life changing moments. It's hard to forget them. Sometimes they serve as a rite of passage, others are traumatic events that can leave us forever tainted. Some remain engraved in our memories as the happiest days of our lives.

My dad always told me to enjoy my life as a student. And that I did, to a fault. 

I spent my college years obsessing over a cylindrical metal object with holes and keys: the flute. Pierre the slightly arrogant gold flute, Sparky the playful but twisted silver one and Hercules (aka Mariah) the piccolo. And five of those summers were a privilege at the Aspen Music Festival and School. I still have all the programs, an endless myriad of pictures, lifelong friendships, and exponential personal, artistic and professional growth. 

During my summers there I wore a fedora and I was nicknamed Indiana Jew. I hiked, I jumped off of a cliff (paraglide), I pseudo-climbed mountains experiencing epic views of the continental divide, I cooked to make money, ushered, had a few love affairs, drank too much, gorged in the local gourmet cuisine, house sat, became a dog walker, developed a love for 70s tunes (at the Tipler), I organized a rafting trip, I learned that I loved working with kids (thanks to a wonderful Debbie Barnekow whose dog Sadie threw up on me), lost weight, gained weight, was featured on one of those wedding shows, and developed a crush on my roommate and had my heart broken.

Oh yes, and then there was the music. 

I could name drop for days: conductors, musicians, administrators, lecturers, etc. But the first time I was introduced to David Zinman was a day I would not forget. Bonita Boyd, my teacher at Eastman where I did my undergrad had played under his baton for many years at the Rochester Philharmonic. She introduced me to him and his wife as they were walking their enormous but quirky poodle.

There were many influential musical and aesthetic moments. Whether it was playing Prokofiev's Classical Symphony at superhuman speed - I felt as smoke should come out of my keys and the woodwind section should spontaneously combust -  earning the first flute fellowship, and blasting the alto flute part on the Rite of Spring, David Zinman conducting.

David Zinman recently and abruptly quit, although it was brewing slowly like the orgasmic cadence in Tristan's Prelude. The festival was recently shortened for a week, the CEO fired and rehired, faculty cuts and disagreements as fundraising goals were missed and tensions arose out of financial concerns. This is not unique to the Aspen Music Festival (pause) and School, but rather general economic difficulties that plague almost all arts non-profits. What would Michael Kaiser say to this? How would he handle it.

I think we are all watching to see what Alan Fletcher, the president and CEO will do. Or is he perhaps the next in line to go elsewhere. Most non-profits are revolving doors, although I remember Aspen being quite stable during my time from 1997-2001. Whether it was Dean Hal's presence and his dog Copland, I am thrilled that I was given the opportunity to experience Aspen.

So, who will follow David Zinman? Any guesses? 

More info here: http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/04/09/aspen-festival-music-director-quits/

Pictures: 

1. Flute studio with Nadine Asin and Murry Sidlin after a performance of Steve Reich's Vermont Counterpoint for way too many flutes, piccolos and altos.

2. My first catered lunch at Martha Aarons masterclass. 

3. A drive to independence pass with roommates, sushi chef from Takasushi and friends. 

4. Martha Aarons and I after a ridiculous performance of Prokofiev's Classical Symphony

5. Flute section with Mark Sparks after honking the hell out of Bartok's Miraculous Mandarin. 

Making Contemporary Music Relevant

Have we lost our way? Have the arts become so esoteric in artists' efforts to find a new voice that we no longer have an access point? Has artistic and aesthetic language expanded so much that one needs a deciphering dictionary to have a chance at relating?

The answer is no. A big resounding no. But a a hint, a lending hand, and a tour guide is definitely helpful. Anthony Brandt, a composer with Musiqa, explains that art is progressing, but its direction cannot be foreshadowed. Unlike technology where there may be some directed research, in the arts, if it can be imagined now, there is nothing stopping from realizing it now. It's an interesting comparison. Perhaps in certain circumstances the expectation of new technology can open more tools of expression. But it does seem that foretelling artistic direction seems futile.

In the short time that I have been exposed to Musiqa's concerts, I have appreciated their ability to bridge a formal concert experience with an informal salon setting. With the addition of comfortable and personal introductions, contemporary music changes from the wrongfully given cold, intellectual and incomprehensible reputation to energetic, accessible, and dare I say cool and trendy? Music by dead composers is so yesterday. Add some delicacies by Monica Pope's Plum Catering and I am sold.

"Imaginary Scenes" presented a well balanced program of Music by Musiqa composers Rob Smith, Karim Al-Zand, as well as Stockhausen, Wynton Marsalis, Hamza el Din choreographed by Houston Ballet's own Stanton Welch.

Rob Smith's Hot Seat (1997) balanced a sense of danger from wild and unpredictable syncopations, sexy interrupted burlesque jazz and flowing transparent liquid imagery. Karim Al-Zand's Imaginary Scenes (2005) presented four thematically and compositionally cohesive pieces in somewhat symphonic form. Sonorities are pseudo drunk impressionist. If the love child of Debussy and Ravel married Francaix then developed a drinking problem and Freudian psychosis, it would explain the light smirky and, at times, somewhat twisted affect. 

For those that do not think musical performance is an athletic feat, Stockhausen's The Little Harlequin (1975) left me breathless. The demands placed on clarinetist Carlos Cordeiro near implausibility with the inclusion of rhythmical foot stomps, jumps, twirls, yoga tree poses and constant movement while executing virtuosic passages that reach beyond most people's concept of the clarinet's higher range.

Collaborating with Houston Ballet II, Stanton Welch choreographed the only notated movement of Hamza El Din's Fingerprints (1971). Originally for the oud (arabic lute), El Din transcribed it for the Kronos Quartet and tar,  a single-headed frame drum from North Africa and the Middle East. Satisfying my love for ethnic music and exotic sonorities, the effect was tantalizing and hypnotic. Coupled dancers appeared and disappeared seamlessly with flowing and somewhat stylized movement that echoed the music's strength. The zebra print fluid skirts magnified and intensified the physical movements, adding a natural and almost supernatural element. The costumes by London based designer Kandis Cook allowed dancers to unify creating pseudo mythological imagery.

If you missed this, it's your loss.

Picture: Stanton Welch answering a questions about the costumes (they were NOT skirts). From right to left: Karim Al-Zand, Rob Smith and Anthony Brandt.

Once Upon a time...Our Late Night

Once upon a time, it was the dawn of time, it was a dark and stormy night, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and call me Ishmael are amidst the most well known opening lines. Although most of them are tired clichés that give most middle school teachers heart burn, we can't help be drawn to them. Perhaps Our Late Night can be in a similar category as the start of a series of pseudo implausible stories that we tell in order to sensationalize our evening and elevate our social butterfly insanity status in front of friends and colleagues. Why the need to do that? I am sure that is entrenched and pre-programmed not unlike wanting to kill father and sleep with mother.

It is difficult to categorize and criticize Catastrophic Theatre's productions, but one surely can react to them. I am always up for a program that warns that it is "recommended for brave audiences with strong constitutions." Anything that keeps me thinking, laughing and saying what the fuck the next morning has certainly met the goal of challenging and expanding my aesthetic and cultural experiential vocabulary. 

Wallace Shawn, as an actor, is perhaps better known for awkward dorky roles such as love challenged Mr. Hall in Clueless. But as a playwright, his work is dark, sexually and politically charged with a dash of controversy. From Shawn's perspective, Our Late Night explores the necessity of dreams and the differences between daytime (as influenced by aesthetic objects) and nighttime slumber.

We all have had somewhat surreal evenings where perhaps due to our own idiosyncrasies sprinkled with chemicals have led to bizarre situations, or perhaps, bizarre recollection of the situations. Our Late Night hones in and out of cohesive and broken conversations between seven colorful characters. At times we connect, at times we laugh at the ridiculousness, at times we feel uncomfortable and creepy, like intruding in what should be private moments: Voyeurism. Seems like that is the theme du jour.

Are we all really that dark but afraid to blurt out our inner most fetishes and fantasies? I could almost compare Our Late Night  to the intersection of German expressionism, Magritte-esque sexual surrealism with a hint of freudian psychosis. At any rate, Catastrophic Theater lives up to their reputation, "we will destroy you."

Highly recommended. You may never think of jelly, the tropics, and feathers in the same fashion again. Playing through April 3rd at Diverseworks. 

Once upon a time...there was a flute

The flute, in any of its versions, holds a unique place in cultural, folkloric and mythological traditions and history. Yes, the flute is special. May I dare say much more so than any other instrument? Perhaps the drum comes close. The Indians have the bansuri (Krishna apparently was a virtuoso), the Chinese have the "di", Japanese have the shakuhachi, the Armenians have the sring, the Irish fife, the Incan quena, nose flutes, the ney, xiao, kaval, danso, anasazi, zampoña, ocarina, and the biggest of all, yes, the organ.

Meeting a Native American flute maker at the Bayou City Arts Festival opened up my eyes to the cool history and aesthetic associations of the instrument, both in terms of the western concert flute and others. 

I am reminded of the delicious, sensual and smokey opening of Debussy's Prélude à l'après-midi d-un faune, where the flute exposes a sense of eroticism mirroring the Stephane Mallarme poem, its main inspiration. It describes a faun's encounters with water nymphs in a pseudo-dreamlike state after waking up from his afternoon slumber (pictured left is Manet's depiction of the faune). The exotic chromaticism of Ravel's Daphnis et Chloé ravishing flute solo awakens the memory of Pan (god of shepherd, flocks, mountain wilds, hunting and rustic music) who made a flute out of reeds to commemorate his love for Syrinx (a nymph known for her chastity) who was transformed into hollow water reeds that made a haunting sound to avoid him. The name of the pan flute is derived from this story.  The tale is deliciously hot. At any rate, is it time for a cigarette?

And then there's Syrinx, the solo flute piece by Debussy, based on Pan's sadness for losing his love. Death. Tragedy. Passion. Another cigarette. Add a martini. 

Popular in the baroque period and largely ignored in romanticism other than a few Brahms solos in his first and fourth symphony and a Schubert tour the force (yes and some other horribly cheesy theme and variations), my talk with Gillermo Martinze made me think about the special attributes that would allow the flute to make a comeback and become a favorite among impressionist and post-impressionist composers. Guillermo Martinez reminded me about one more trait: spirituality and the supernatural. 

I am not referring to Mozart's Die Zauberflöte or Gluck's Orfeo ed Euridice but rather legends of its origins. Native American culture links the flute to the spirit world and has, just as many cultures have their own creation story, many legends that give its birth a supernatural element. To read a few, click here. Whether the impressionists were aware of this at a conscious or unconscious level is of no concern to me, but rather justification for using it to carry this type of symbolism.

Gillermo's flutes themselves bridge the craft of instrument making with spiritual and artful elements. Inspired by dreams and visions, Gillermo incorporates the horse in this gorgeous creation. The horse symbol is widespread through many cultures as the emblem of the life force and is assigned the attributes of the four elements: Earth, Fire, Air and Water. In Native American culture specifically, it combines the grounded power of the Earth with the whispers of wisdom found in the spirit winds. The horse is a honored helper and messenger. It harbors spirit knowledge and is considered an wild emblem of freedom. There is mutual respect, awareness, and responsibility when man enters into a silent contract with the animal.

I love when instrument making goes beyond craft. To learn more about Gillermo and his flutes, visit http://www.quetzalcoatlmusic.org/.

Thinking about Bars, in Bars, and through Bars

Whether you believe in green beer or a pint of Guinness, St. Patrick's day is celebrated by the Irish to remember their patron saint. The philosophy? Eat, drink, and be merry. It's festive, I dig it, although I am not much of a drinker these days. The only thing that could make it better, is art.

The concept of art in bars is not by any means new. Art and wine pair beautifully together, and slight inebriation eases collectors wallets to enhance their private collection. This has expanded into a trend where some progressive bars showcase art work to show collaboration with the local scene, use it as PR strategy, as well as donate a portion of their tabs towards an artist or non-profit. Think about it. It's plain brilliant. Some people do not want to go to a gallery per se, but a brew is always a welcome companion.

Let's think about our own experiences in bars. Typically, we arrive at the conclusion to visit one for a variety of reasons: we are meeting a friend for a simple chat, or a group for raucous sinful fun, we need to get drunk and forget, looking to people watch, therapy session with the bar tender, and other less honorable activities. But we never directly look for drama, although sometimes, drama finds us. Unexpectedly. Sometimes the appearance of alcohol lowers our inhibitions and inadvertently we are drama.

Horse Head Theater production of Stephen Belber's Fault Lines shows us that our perception of the strength of our relationships may be confused. What appears to be solid ground may indeed start shifting, at first unnoticeably, then forcefully until we are forced to make a choice. What begins as an innocent meeting between two friends to rekindle a friendship turns into a test of character, morality, trust, loyalty, and love. Although this are things we readily do not associate with bar scenes, digging deep into my past, I can see where all of these have been tested, at one level or another.

As you celebrate tonight, try not to be the drama. But I would encourage you to check out Horse Head Theater's Fault Lines. And get one of their cool mugs.

Animals and Things that Stick

Sometimes unexpected things haunt your memory. Perhaps an experience, a look, a traumatic or joyful event, and sometimes something banal. As I go through the weekend overwhelmed at the boundless events in such a limited amount of time, I explore what sticks and what is fleeting.

I can't help put a marketing hat on. From a for-profit basis, we are constantly researching the creation of products and marketing strategies to create a "purple cow." Seth Godin describes purple cow as a remarkable product with a remarkable marketing strategy. Something, that people want, that communicates, and sticks out. So when something sticks, I want to question: why?

Interestingly, in researching the origin, I came across "Purple Cow: Reflections on a Mythic Beast Who's Quite Remarkable, at Least", a well known poem by Gelett Burgess written in 1895. Although it is best to leave this more as a humorous little rhyme, according to the title, it is better to be anything than boring.

I never saw a purple cow;

I never hope to see one;

but I can tell you anyhow;

I'd rather see than be one!

In regards to art, I am reminded of Michael Kaiser's strategy: exception art + creative marketing strategies = successful fundraising. Quite similar in message, different in level of sophistication.

So why does my memory commits to Allison Hunter's Zoosphere on display at Diverseworks? Purple cow? Well not that literal, but certainly trumpeting elephants, birds in flight, herding zebras, barking sea lions, a giant toad, and an unidentifiable peeping tom-esque eye come to mind. A quick tour: http://www.allisonhunter.com/Art/zoosphere.html.

Hunter shifts my paradigm. In an urban environment, we often recognize animals as exhibits and forget that indeed, they have an essential place in our natural world. Threatened with extinction, awareness of these species does not infiltrate our everyday. In this engaging active space, Hunter video installation challenges us to rethink our relationship with them by transferring to an aesthetic venue. Is there meaning in their movements? Is there sublime beauty in the frogs movement? Can animals truly be part of the aesthetic experience? How would the world change without their existence?

The eye of this unidentified animal, although I speculate is a turtle or some sort of a reptile, shifts the players. Are we watching them, or are we the exhibit? More importantly, are we being judged?

All rather big questions that lead us to think about eco subjects and revaluate our responsibility to them. As a species, we have taken control over a almost all natural elements, and our human footprint in the world is rather destructive. I am forced to think about the environmental forces that are omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent at some level. At some point, are we worried that these will take over? I believe we all agree that there are many examples of that already in progress.

So that is what sticks. On display until April 17, 2010.

How much time can a single image represent?

I have always known this, but it is nice to be able to verbalize it and put it out there. Similar to the mantra that admitting something is the first step to recovery, I have been made aware that accessible art (in my own aesthetic language and experience) is just boring and I most likely will not be interested in it. Accessibility is a personal continuum. In essence, if I can figure it out quickly, it is as interesting as a shiny object: it can only hold my attention for a short period of time.

Perhaps thats one of the reasons why banal comedy holds my interest for all but two seconds. After the initial chuckle, I am done. So, what are the things that are able to hold my attention? That which allows for an experience (aesthetic), a thought (academic), and engages me in narrative.

Today was a fun day of art and aesthetic exploration. Looking at 18th Century works of Benjamin West, John Singleton Copley, and Jonathan Trumbull at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, I explored different genres from the highly regarded historical paintings, portraits, the "lower brow" landscapes, most of which explore narrative and character development. The portraits hold clues that tells a story about a person. Historical depictions capture a turning point in socio-political development, while dramatic landscapes evoke a sense of awe. The seascapes of William Turner (pictured above Sheerness as seen from the Nore, 1808), for example, explore the sublime which in "aesthetics, the sublime (from the Latin sublimis ([looking up from] under the lintel, high, lofty, elevated, exalted) is the quality of greatness or vast magnitude, whether physical, moral, intellectual, metaphysical, aesthetic, spiritual or artistic. The term especially refers to a greatness with which nothing else can be compared and which is beyond all possibility of calculation, measurement or imitation." However, I do believe this greatness is fleeting. Once we are exposed to something aesthetic, it has the power to loose its power. I call this a sublime aesthetic orgasm. We look for more.

Ever notice that the words sublime (elevated) and subliminal (unnoticed, below the surface) are related? One theory states it has to do with a threshold after which our response is unexpected and uncontrollable, whether aware or unaware. I diverge. Tangents are fun.

Most of these 18th century works employ and suggest narrative by what is included around the subject. Sometimes, they even imply different stages of the linear story line. I encountered an artist at Lawndale Art Center that attempts to do the exact opposite: juxtaposing time and narrative to create an interesting aesthetic image that attains what the artist affectionately calls gorgeousness. Chuck Ivy (pictured below Untitled Film Composite #24 from Tapeheads, 2009) questions "How much time can a single image represent?" The key to his questions lies in the semantics. He is not interested in the narrative aspect, but rather the passage of time's ability to create something sublime.

We are wired to find narrative in things. The challenge here is too look at the images without attempting to attach narrative values, but rather appreciate the abstract colors, shapes, composition, and depth.

Chuck Ivy's collection at Lawndale in partnership with Dan Havel "Dirty Secrets from the Cataract Cinema" is breathtaking, challenging, not readily accessible and holds my attention for a long time. Worth taking the time to explore.

Links:

Lawndale Art Center

Museum of Fine Arts, Houston

Chuck Ivy

Big Questions and Inner Dialogue

Yes. I talk to myself. Sometimes little harmless conversations that may have to do with strange behavioral idiosyncrasies, others with big unanswerable (and somewhat pointless) existential content. Or not.

After a company event at L'Auberge du Lac where I miserably failed at gambling, I returned rushed to Midtown to catch Mildred's Umbrella Theater's production "Flu Season." Enjoying a breakfast of champions consisting of bloody mary's and crown and coke on our way there, I sobered up in the "buffat" and took a slight nap on the way back. A day like this makes internal dialogue so much more active as you go through different stages of psychosis. Excitement. Alcohol. Munchies. Cigarettes. Junk Food. Water. Nap. Sickness. Theater. Home. Dog.

Maybe it was this heterogenous roller coaster that put me in such a contemplative state to make "Flu Season" so exceptionally effective, or perhaps it was just fucking awesome. At any rate, it dealt with a similar range of dialogues: internal, external, connected and disjunct. Yes people do experience joy in winter and some do get cancer in a bright summer day. Life is not full of pathetic fallacy where winter is always the season of death while summer is cheerfully happy. If you'd live in Houston for one season cycle, you'd know this intimately.

"Flu Season" is about a lot of things, including playwriting, interpretation of events, failing positivity, hope and the inevitability of falling into darkness. It tells a linear story of a man and a woman falling in and out of love in Crossroads, a psychiatric facility, with asides from non-participating characters. Do you remember a moment in your life that changed the course of your history? You will be challenged with rather large questions like this or rather funny ironies like questioning whether two people can be alone.

I have always enjoyed the casual nature of Mildred's ambiance and the professionalism of their productions. Grab a beer and enjoy. You'll have just a few more days to catch this. More info here:

Picture above: set of Flu Season. Although I have to admit, I spent some time figuring out how these tetris-esque graphics fit together, it also made me think as to the disjunct and seemingly complicated and unpredictable pieces and somehow fit to make us psychologically whole.

PETA Conspires with Bengal Tiger to Eliminate Complete Indian Village

Humor me. It's late and I am under the narcoleptic haze (a la Bayadere style) of french fries dipped in hummus.

I am seriously thinking that Houston Ballet's La Bayadere, aka the Temple Dancer is a huge conspiracy similar to the terrorist methods of a suicide bomber as they try to annihilate a group of people. PETA, I believe, talked a Bengal tiger, let's call him Tony, into sacrificing himself in order to create a chaotic love polygon ending in the destruction of the the main temple in mythic India, killing everyone. Somehow, the snake got jealous and had to participate in the demise of mythic Indians (which by the way were wearing delicious costumes). How original sin-esque.

PETA was counting on people's stupid naivete regarding such a ridiculous false feeling of falling in "love" like it is ever perfect. They weren't counting on the high rate of divorce, the hours of counseling needed to work out why don't you take out the garbage and you spent how much type of issues. If they knew what their therapist and botox treatments would cost (thanks to stress wrinkles), they would have happily accepted the Tony as a pet and moved on.

Somehow, ballet makes falling in love magical. Being swept off your feet takes on a more literal meaning.

I love going to the ballet. But I have to admit, last night's experience was a deliciously strange combination of fast narrative, feature numbers within the story line, and some that really added nothing to story development except artistic and aesthetic eye/soul candy. And lots of piccolo. Lots and lots of stereotypical cutely annoying piccolo playing in what should have been the afterlife or Kingdom of Shades.

Moral of the story, don't kill a Bengal tiger or all everyone will end up dead. And PETA didn't count on afterlife reunions. So at the end, the guy gets the girl, and the girl gets the guy.

Photo: Ballet La Bayadère. Dancer: Melody Herrera and Connor Walsh. Choreographer: Stanton Welch. Photo: Pam Francis.

Experimenting with Public Naughtiness

Like the force, we have a light side and a dark side. I believe even the most righteous people often have unpure thoughts and if we have learned anything from Catholicism, we are all sinners and will spend our lives routinely in confession. For jews, it is once a year. We figure, let the sins accumulate and do one massive fasting forgiveness orgy (followed by honey cake and chinese buffet) and hope for forgiveness, because if not, you die. Well, you are not written in the book of life, which by process of elimination means you are done.

So, I am confessing on my behalf and on yours. We are obsessed with other people. We can't help it as it is part of our anthropological disposition. History, in a nut shell, is about linking the past to the present through the actions of what sometimes feels like fictional characters. Our raison d'etre can be explained by looking back. However, what we are taught are the major accomplishments, the quotes, the speeches, the discoveries, the product that somehow guided history this way and that.

But behind all these seemingly great events, there are regular people that eat, sleep, and yes go to the bathroom, release gas, pick their nose, and have physical and emotional idiosyncrasies that usual escape our study, unless they happen to be interesting in their own right. For example, Beethoven loosing hearing towards his later years in life, or Napoleon having a complex, of perhaps Einstein failing mathematics. But can you imagine Marie Antoinette going number 2?

It is true that for most of our lives, we interact with a myriad of people, most of which present just a facade at some degree. There are private moments that we never get to see, learn and experience, and we are relieved that most do not get to share our private, intimate, and perhaps somewhat embarrassing moments. Did you ever loose yourself playing air guitar or conducting a rambunctious movement of a Shostakovich Symphony? Or perhaps slobber, snore, and say horribly inappropriate things in your sleep? Maybe you like you pick your ear and smell the wax?

Diverseworks presented the US premiere of Voyeur, the latest performance installation by Australian-based Company Clare Dyson that explores notions of intimacy, desire, and the act of revealing. Thought-provoking, it made me explore how many private moments exist in our lives, what it would feel to be watched, and how we respond when watching others. At times forbidden, erotic, naughty, tender, and sometimes hilarious, we walked into a world of the unknown, where we had a chance to explore this curiosity, with permission from the artists, but acknowledging our curiosity with the other 30 or so folks in the active audience.

The work presented took the following form: on stage, a closed performance spaced was created with drywall. Holes of different sizes, shapes, and heights were placed strategically around the space. You were given the option of where to watch, move around and change perspectives. There were also monoculars, as well headphones to "hear" the dancers thoughts, one for the male another female. To see a video, visit http://www.dysonindustries.com.au/performance/voyeur/film.html

Here, we truly explore the banal of the everyday, while intruding into the space and choosing our point of view, exposing the vulnerability of the artist, and exploring our own taboo for engaging in voyeurism in plain view of others doing the same thing. As much as we watch the artists, we also notice other eyes prying out of other peepholes, creating a humbling and accepting experience. We connect, we are being seen, without identifying ourselves.

I leave with many questions after exploring a taboo that I had not experienced before. I have the sense that I want to smile, and take a shower at the same time. Yes, we all have a dark side. We just have to be brave and open enough to admit it.

The 64 Million Dollar Question

It is much easier to understand the evolution (if one can call it that) of artistic movements in retrospect. Evolution is perhaps not the right noun as it implies that to evolve means to develop and to get better. To claim that one artistic movement is better than another is not only unfair, it is just plain nonsensical (although naturally, we can be drawn to one over another). I find it particularly successful to examine this as it relates to visual art. From experimentation of perspective, to the discovery of orthogonal lines, foreshortening, trompe l'oeil, realism, baroque, impressionism, cubism, fauvism, suprematism, abstraction, etc. I have left quite a few out in the interest of simplicity, but one can certainly deduce that in visual art, the general movement has been from figurative to abstract.

The definition of what is art becomes more difficult today. In an age where everything goes, how does one distinguish between art, things that have artistic merit or artifacts, or things that appeal to our aesthetic judgement? It is easier to ask this question having a little background of where we have been, where we are, and indulging in the temptation to hypothesize where we are going.

I recently read in another blog the notion that opera Da Capo arias (basically, musical form where the first part is a complete musical form, the second contrasting, followed by a repeat of the first) are somewhat not received well due to their redundant nature as they do not further the plot. They just repeat and depend on the agility and artistic ingenuity of the performer to embellish the repeated first section. Audiences would have been able to identify the improvisational quality and be satisfied with the ingenuity and novelty. Today, the style may seem antiquated, as the novelty does not have the same impact. We are exposed to more and unless performed with the highest artistic merit, it does little for us. We are desensitized.

Look at the content of popular programming. It follows the same pattern. Novelty lessens the efficacy of older programs. The amount and degree of profanity, violence, indecency increases, allowing these to become less shocking and acceptable in our modern vernacular.

In general, audiences have trouble with contemporary music questioning what makes it music, more so, what makes it art music. But I'd argue that although earlier music styles like classical, baroque, and romantic periods are easily identified as art music, most will have difficulty explaining why and appreciate and understand its context.

In a Musiqa (Houston based non-profit committed to presenting contemporary art music) performance tonight, I appreciated the composers vulnerability to explain their works and allow for a Q and A post performance. I asked what composer Anthony Brandt labelled as the 64 Million dollar question: where are we in art today and is it fair to ask to forsee the future of classical music?

I received one of the best answers. Unlike technology where progress is somewhat predictable (although the effect may not be), if one can think of it today, it can be done today. If I can predict what can be done tomorrow, there is no reason why it cannot or would not be done today. Meaning, predicting the direction of art movements is an impossibility.

Art movements have always carried some sort of tradition from the past while at the same time rejecting another. In a time of extreme artistic clutter, confusion, and overwhelming variety, would it be fair to predict a rejection to a neo-simplistic period of easily identifiable styles in easily recognizable formats? Has the pendulum swung so far one way and it is inevitable to swing back the other?