Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Music & Letters, Vol. 85.4. # Oxford University Press 2004; all rights reserved
603
stances regarding individual and society, form and content, appearance and substance.
In what follows I shall attempt to define an interpretative tradition that lies at
neither of these extremes, while relating to both, one that has much in common with
the ideals of Schnabel. Through this case study I seek to demonstrate some of the
ways in which not the work but the performance practice can be read as evidence of a
geographically and politically delimited set of beliefs. I understand performance
`practice' as a set of ideals and activities with a history, a system of values, and a set
of rules: it is a sort of game that does not require, although it may be supported by, an
institutional framework.9 It has products that are entirely internal to its workings, as
well as some that are partly external. For example, the internal products of learning
how to play chess (a clear example of a practice in this sense) are various analytical
and strategic skills; they are only comprehensible to those who understand chess and
can only be really valued by those taking part. The external, contingent products
might be prestige or financial gain. Similarly, performance practice has, in certain
places and at certain times, more or less identifiable internal products, valued only in
terms of the practice itself, and judged most expertly by its practitioners. Within an
institution (a `school', even), there will often be competing notions of the correct way
to performin other words there will be no agreement as to the proper internal
products of the practice of performanceand one group of performers may well
challenge the values of another.
The argument below is intended to describe the ideas of one group of musicians as
to the practice's proper internal products, and their consequent actions in preparation
for performance. To begin with, I map out a discursive setting for them, termed, for
the moment, `Central Europe'. Then I present some detailed observations of their
`game' or `practice', exploring it as a past participant and observer, while analysing its
underpinning ideals and contextualizing them in a social setting.
geography: central europe?
Inspired by an article by Milan Kundera published in 1984, a number of East
European intellectuals came to define themselves as `Central European'.10 Kundera's
aim was to clarify his own separateness from Soviet thought and from Russian
influence in general: Czechoslovakia was neither `East' nor `West' but `Central'.
The movement generated was analysed by Timothy Garton Ash in his study entitled
`Does Central Europe Exist?'.11 Exploring the essays of three writers taken as
representatives of the former Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and PolandVaclav Havel,
Adam Michnik, and Gyorgy KonradGarton Ash was able to describe a set of core
beliefs that the writers did indeed share. For example, each presupposed the
irrefutable and immutable rationalized power of an authority against which they
needed to define themselves and their art. Each denied the material domain of
existence. In its place, they offered a cultural-political anti-hypothesis of life, something Garton Ash referred to as a Kingdom of the Spirit: it was an alternative to living
the `lie' of modern society.
Underpinning these notions are at least two patterns of thought that precede the
Soviet takeover of Central Europe. The concept of Central Europe itself has a long and
9
See, again, MacIntyre's After Virtue, which proposes such `practices' as the sites of conceptions of virtue,
pp. 18791.
10
See Milan Kundera, `The Tragedy of Central Europe', New York Review of Books, 26 Apr. 1984, p. 33.
11
Timothy Garton Ash, `Does Central Europe Exist?', in The Uses of Adversity (London, 1989), 16191.
604
contested history.12 Kundera and his followers could readily be compared with the late
nineteenth- and early twentieth-century cosmopolitan, westward-looking intellectuals
of Middle Europe, a tiny minority that fought against the nationalism that fractured
the region. But Kundera's move was calculated to appeal to readers not living in
Central Europe; or at least (given that its borders are intractable in geographical
terms) to those readers not living in the communist regions of Central Europe. That is,
he appealed to a readership responsive to Orientalist ideas about the pre-Soviet `East'.
For, since the eighteenth century, Eastern Europe had been exoticized by travel
writers and novelists, who portrayed it variously as Western Europe's barbarous or
primitive other and also as the location of a culture less tarnished by Enlightenment
rationality.13 Thus Kundera's stance was not only oppositional to the communist East,
but also to the capitalist West. He managed to touch the nerves of a yet broader
prevailing ideology characteristic of modernity, in which the modernizing forces of
society were perceived to be alienating to humanity and thus as corrupting forces to be
resisted.
If this nexus of beliefs has been influential on aesthetics in general, it is probably
through the writings of Theodor W. Adorno that it has gained greatest currency in
thought about music. Adorno's aesthetics was profoundly influenced by this vision of
the world, his theory of art, in essence, a theory of art's capacity to redeem modern
society from its overpowering alienation. In Adorno and Horkheimer's Dialectic of
Enlightenment a historical theory emerges within which art is seen as developing from
magical origins to quasi-autonomous modern works.14 The creative dialectic between
instinctive mimetic impulses and rationalizing forces could be traced in art, it was
argued, in different constellations at different points in history. In its earliest forms,
mimesis dominated, as primitive man chanted invocations to ward off evil spirits and
likened himself to his perceived opponent. Yet even then, the mimetic impulse was
one striving to dominate nature, and thus had rationalizing power.15 Adorno and
Horkheimer observed that at a later historical point, the age of ancient myth, art had
increasingly rationalized strategies of keeping nature at bay. During the seventeenth
century, technological developments and the challenge that science presented to both
religion and social life stimulated a surge in ratio at the expense of mimesis in art.
Society's drive for progress led mimetic impulses to be seen as retrogressive to such an
extent that the subjective ingredient in art was all but annihilated. Distinct from longstanding aesthetic theories of mimesis, Adorno's idea was anthropological. As if
representing the humans who defended themselves against the threats of nature by
imitation, art works were supposed to demonstrate a critical process in which they
assimilated to, yet (subjectively) revealed the flaws of, rational society around them.16
Primarily focused on German music, Adorno nonetheless examined some music
12
A thumbnail sketch of these issues is provided in a new, aptly named journal. See the editorial `Preface', Central
Europe, 1/1 (May 2003), 3.
13
See Larry Wolff, Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment (Stanford, 1994).
14
Max Horkheimer and Theodor W. Adorno, Dialectic of Enlightenment, trans. John Cumming (New York, 1972).
See also Walter Benjamin, `On the Mimetic Faculty' (1930), in One-Way Street (London, 1979), 1606, in which he
argues that mimesis played a greater role at an earlier stage of human development historically.
15
This emerges equally clearly in Adorno's Aesthetic Theory: `If in fact no differentiation between magic and mimesis
had been prepared over a long period of time, the striking traces of autonomous elaboration in the cave paintings
would be inexplicable'; Aesthetic Theory, ed. Gretel Adorno and Rolf Tiedemann, trans. and intr. Robert Hullot-Kentor
(Minneapolis, 1997), 329.
16
`Art is a refuge for mimetic comportment. . . . That art, something mimetic, is possible in the midst of rationality,
and that it employs its means, is a response to the faulty irrationality of the rational world as an overadministered
world.' See Adorno, ibid. 53.
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from the `peripheral' regions, penning a number of shorter articles on Bartok and
referring also to Janacek.17 Generally Adorno was disparaging about art music in
which folk music was significantly influential: he saw it as nostalgic and unable to
engage critically and productively with modern society. Or he perceived folk music
itself to be tarnished with rationalized forces, thus no longer true to nature but of the
`secondary', dead nature created by modernity itself. Yet Janacek and Bartok were
largely spared his vitriol in this respect, and his justification is revealing. Since the folk
music they drew on was from an undeveloped region of Europe, relatively unscathed
by modernity, he argued, it contained precisely the very pure, primitive impulses that
could indeed critique modern society. His own argument thus intersected with, and
even contributed to, the discourse on which Kundera and the other self-declared
`Central Europeans' drew.
`tradition': shared interpretative practice?
This section combines anthropological observation with analysis of discourses to
demonstrate how two leading musical instructors, Gyorgy Kurtag and Ferenc
Rados, operate within the belief system discussed above.18 They are linked partly by
their national and institutional association (both were students and then professors at
the Liszt Academy of Music in Budapest for various extended periods between 1946
and 1996); but they share an antagonistic relationship to the institution, having in later
life been rejected rather than supported by it.19 They also share the attribution of
exceptional significance by a younger generation of musicians. Figure 1 demonstrates
this particular quality. For each, an older generation of musicians is referred to with
respect, gratitude, or admiration: musicians and teachers such as Sandor Vegh and
Leo Weiner are thus the figures from the past whose values they believe themselves to
be perpetuating. Analogously, a younger generation, including Zoltan Kocsis and
Andras Schiff, has `claimed' them as its models or at least the objects of its greatest
musical debts.20 Figure 1 thus maps out a sort of `tradition', a system whereby artistic
17
Adorno's writings about Bartok are in `Uber Bela Bartok', collected by Rainer Riehn in Bela Barto k (MusikKonzepte, 22), ed. Heinz-Klaus Metzger and Rainer Riehn (Munich, 1981), 11828. The belief that Bartok effected a
productive confrontation between the rational and the irrational is presented particularly clearly in Adorno's review of
his String Quartet No. 3. This is published in a translation by Susan Gillespie in `Bartok's Third String Quartet', in
Peter Laki (ed.) Barto k and his World (Princeton, 1995), 27889. Adorno's references to Janacek were always made in
the context of his category of `stabilized' music, which was generallybut not in Janacek's casereactionary.
18
My activity as ethnographer might be compared with a position theorized by Marwan M. Kraidy, who went
`home' to Lebanon to do anthropological research, having trained and lived abroad for many years. He described
himself as neither entirely out, nor entirely in the society he was observing: he was a `halfie'. See `The Global, the
Local, and the Hybrid: A Native Ethnography of Glocalization', Critical Studies in Mass Communication, 16 (1999), 456
76. My musical training took place in London, Glasgow, and Hanover, before I found what I was looking for in
Budapest. Spending three years there, I had the sense of finally laying the foundations of my musical thinking:
Budapest became a sort of musical `home', or at least a place where the ethos, or practice of performance, was what I
found most satisfactory. Ironically, I became an academic immediately thereafter and returned to my original `home'
to do research. Years later I revisited the Budapest experiences as a musicologist, applying the tools of historical and
cultural analysis to my records of training and continuing observation of musicians connected with music life there.
The first phase of work was thus weekly lessons (as a pianist) with Kurtag from Oct. 1992 to Apr. 1993 (some lessons
were conducted entirely privately but in general there were one or more auditors: all lessons were open to auditors);
then auditing rehearsals and master classes at infrequent intervals between 1995 and 2001. Likewise, my studies with
Rados from October 1992 to May 1995 were part of the first phase. The second phase comprised more analysis of
discourses, in part published material but also a correspondence (over email) with Rados between 2001 and 2003.
19
From the institutional perspective, the problems stemmed from the teachers' inability to respect timetables and
teaching space. On the other side, the inflexibility and prioritization of such practical concerns was offensive, as was the
lack of interest in the actual content and quality of the teaching (and its practical requirements). The issue is summed
up with the archetypal incapacity of institutions to accommodate exceptional qualities and circumstances.
20
Andras Schiff has reflected on the tendency in a book published since I wrote this article. While greatly admiring
his teachersespecially Kurtag and Radoshe is critical of the society in which they functioned and, in part, still
606
`Forebears'
Erno Dohnanyi (18771960)
Bela Bartok (18811945)
Leo Weiner (18851960)
Sandor Vegh (191297)
Lorant Fenyves (19182004)
"
Andras Pernye (musicologist and critic, 192887)
Gyorgy Kurtag (composer, pianist, and teacher, b. 1926)
Ferenc Rados (pianist and teacher, b. 1934)
also:
Andras Mihaly (composer, cellist, and teacher, 191793)
Albert Simon (conductor, musicologist, teacher, 19262000)
"
`Descendants'
Andras Schiff (b. 1953)
Dezso Ranki (b.1951)
Zoltan Kocsis (b.1952)
Fig. 1. The construction of a pedagogical tradition. Arrows indicate
the admiring, and yet appropriating, backwards gaze
principles are believed to be handed down from one generation to another. Yet such
traditions are constructed not only on musical bases but also on personal sympathies
and perceptions of moral values. The relations are thus as much conceptual as
`practical-musical'. The main questions posed here are whether the musical practices
of Kurtag and Rados can be found to share anything that would constitute a tradition,
and what their attitudes tell us about the social content of performance practice.
Kurtag's rehearsal practice has been described by several commentators. A
member of the Arditti Quartet provided an account in which he learns the concept
of `agogic', a speech-like conception of temporal flexibility thus far unknown to the
group;21 Katarina Weber gave an awe-inspired description of Kurtag's child-like
immersion in the musical qualities from seriousness to playfulness, emphasizing
above all the expressive engagement with music.22 Paul Griffiths invoked a process by
which the relationship of performers to music was transformed such that `By the end
of the morning, Ms Narucki looked different. She had begun with her weight on her
function. The problem he identifies is its domination by a `guru system'. If Leo Weiner was `the first guru', Albert
Simon, Kurtag, and Rados followed. The society's excessive reverence for gurus renders the `growing up' process of
breaking out of the teacherpupil relationship difficult, if not impossible. See `Schiff Andras beszel', in Schiff Andras a
zenero l, zeneszerzo kro l, onmagaro l [Andras Schiff on music, composers, and himself ] (Budapest, 2003), 897. Schiffa
leading international pianist of Hungarian birth who lives abroad but nevertheless performs regularly in the country
and has now published a book thereis probably aware of the way he himself may be regarded as a guru of a slightly
different kind.
21
David Alberman, `Beyond the Conventional (Technical Tips with Musical Examples for Playing So-called
Contemporary Classical Music)', Strad, 109 (Apr. 1998), 374.
22
Katharina Weber, `Material fur ein Lebenswerk: Zum 1. Satz des Quartetto per archi op. 1 von Gyorgy Kurtag',
dissonanz, 56 (May 1998), 1318.
607
heels, stable, in command of the music. She ended poised, ready, the music in
command of her.'23
A more detailed vision of Kurtag's practice can be found in his Op. 30 of 1991,
which bears the long title `Samuel Beckett Sends Word through Ildiko Monyok in the
Translation of Istvan Siklos (Samuel Beckett: What is the Word)'.24 Its performance reenacts a human struggle with catastrophe and asserts the recuperative power of
musical activity; its rehearsal blatantly attempts to resource a putatively `original',
essential human expression in the struggle. Setting a text by Samuel Beckett, the last
he wrote, on the most basic level it presents an extended stutter, a striving for
vocalization against physical obstacles. While this in itself makes it characteristic of
Kurtag's output as a whole, its exploration of the theme is of a peculiar nature.
Inspired by the composer's encounter with the renowned singer Ildiko Monyok, who
lost the ability to speak in a car accident but who relearnt through singing, (Samuel
Beckett: What is the Word ) dramatizes the painful process of learning to speak through
the intonation of Beckett. The singer is accompanied by a player at an upright piano,
whose role is `teacher', prompting and urging her to stutter into speech. In the later
arrangement of the work, Samuel Beckett: What is the Word, Op. 30b (1991), `teacher'
and `pupil' are surrounded by groups of instruments and singers positioned around
the concert hall; these forces amplify the notion of the outside world because their
contributions seem to scorn the stutterer's efforts. The piece is to be performed only by
Ildiko Monyok: the inspiration for the work and its realization are indivisible.
Performances thus carry a particular sort of authenticity.
Just what that might be, however, is exposed by rehearsing the work. As Kurtag
expressed it, `it is not the same thing to stutter in real life as it is in music'.25 The
preparatory route to performance, nonetheless, is a sort of exploration in memory:
having once stuttered her way back into speech, Monyok must attempt to relive that
process, on a stage, within a work of art. The rehearsal consists of assistance in this
respect; it is an encouragement to rediscover the suffering once undergone and display
it as if real. As often as not the experience produces renewed grief, and Monyok actually
weeps. In fact, this event seems to be a desirable part of the process for the composer,
not only in rehearsal but also in concert. Following a recent London performance, he
went backstage and harangued her, complaining that he hadn't sensed her pain. As she
broke down, sobbing with defeat, he said `that is it! That is what you should be', and
asked with considerable frustration where she had been before.26
The desire to create performance through returning to the work's originating
emotions recalls the thesis presented by Walter Benjamin in `The Work of Art in
the Age of Mechanical Reproduction'.27 In the modern age, wrote Benjamin, art could
be reproduced anywhere and anyhow, but wrenched from its original time, location,
and reason for being, it lost its `aura'. The only way art could recover such an aura was
through a ritualized practice, which might restore something of its mystical quality. In
fact, Samuel Beckett: What is the Word is an attempt to make an art work out of (1) a
23
Paul Griffiths, ` ``The voice that must articulate. . .'': Kurtag in Rehearsal and Performance', Hungarian Quarterly,
36, no. 140 (Winter 1995), 1414.
24
The most detailed examination of this work to date is Michael Kunkel, trans. Alan E. Williams, ` ``. . . folly for
t[w]o . . .'': Samuel Beckett's What is the Word and Gyorgy Kurtag's mi is a szo Op. 30', Perspectives on Kurtag, ed.
Rachel Beckles Willson and Alan E. Williams = Contemporary Music Review, 20/23 (Basingstoke, 2001), 10928.
25
Judit Kele, The Matchman (Gyorgy Kurtag). A film by Judit Kele (Paris: Les Filmes D'Ici, France Supervision/
ZDF/ARTE/Hungaria Film Studio, 1996). This film shows a typical Kurtag master class.
26
Royal Academy of Music, London, 10 May 2002.
27
Walter Benjamin, `The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction' (1936), repr. in Illuminations
(London, 1999), 21144. See also `On the Mimetic Faculty' (1930).
608
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intuitive, and mystical. It was an escape from the world of obligation, separate from
real life, yet in its seclusion it found a new perspective on real life: it created order. In
Rados's conception of `music' as a bodily activity it is frequently unclear whether his
suggestions regarding a shape or gesture relate to the music or to the hand.32 The
music is seen to be subsumed by the hand, but since the piece came from a hand in
the first place, playing it should amount to the music rediscovering itself in the hand.
Such bodily engagement, however, is not approached by Rados in isolation from
the poetic; the poetic is simply conceived as a movement, or a type of bodily gesture.
The conflation of body and meaning renders, of course, the whole question of
practising the instrument problematic, for mechanical difficulties are seen as essentially poetical difficulties; or, as Heinrich Schenker analogously saw them, `the
difficulties fate brings in life'.33 Furthermore, the demystifying of the piece of
musictreating it as a set of bodily gestures that are to be rediscovered and embodied
through playalso makes a mockery of the archetypal romantic, spiritual quest on the
concert platform. Indeed, while apparently involved with an individual's dialogue with
a piece of music, the approach is actually a utopian stance on society. It places music
in the real world of bodies and action, calling, implicitly, for a return to a time when
music practice was living in day-to-day existence.
In one respect this reaffirms the attitude's debt to a view of folk music. Yet it has an
extension into the field of classical music that can be traced in the writing of the
musicologist Andras Pernye.34 Pernye's numerous books and concert criticisms represent an attack on the state of modern concert practice, using the spontaneous,
improvisatory ideal of folk music as a weapon. On another level they represent a
lament on the rise of the work concept, and the assertion that the Baroque period was
the last time when classical music was a truly living part of society. The two levels are
conjoined with the help of a concept coined by the founding father of Hungarian
musicology, Bence Szabolcsi, namely the `zenei koznyelv', usually translated as
`musical vernacular'.35 As Laszlo Somfai has demonstrated, the concept was not the
theoretical tool Szabolcsi set it up to be, but rather a purely ideological construct that
fused `classicism' and folk music and championed each and both.36 As such, `musical
vernacular' is appropriate enough (retaining some of its essential opacity); but
translated more precisely it becomes the `communal musical language', which
conjures up the way in which it appeared in Pernye's concept of musical practices.
32
Typical of this problem is the concept of `homogeneity', something Rados often misses in his students' playing.
He mocks a student's hand position on the keyboard, pointing at the way fingers seem to be uncomfortable in their
relationship with one another, for instance, while simultaneously referring to the texture of the music in the score,
pointing out that it has a unified quality. Another example stems from his interest in musical iconography (see the
discussion of postcards above). One student playing a melody in her right hand had her elbow grabbed by Rados as it
rose well above the level of the keyboard when she played a melodically curving line. He mocked both its rigidity and
its positioning in relation to the pianist's body. When the student defended her elbow, arguing that it had moved in a
reflection of the expressive gesture in the score, he ironically suggested that the elbow might be a model for the future.
In fact, he said, he could imagine that in a future time, when in a post-apocalyptic world people tried to reconstruct the
life of an earlier humanity, the elbow might become a museum exhibit. Rigid, separate from its body, and remote from
its music, it would represent, and be labelled as, `legato'. The museum separation represents the artificiality, the idea of
`legato' the myth of romantic expressivity in which performing becomes a sort of visual rhetorical gloss, and the notes
in the music are forgotten about completely.
33
The Art of Performance, ed. Heribert Esser, trans. Irene Schreier Scott (Oxford, 2000), 77.
34
See e.g. Elo ado muveszet es zenei koznyelv [The art of performance and the musical vernacular] (Budapest, 1974); A
nyilvanossag: zenei rasok [Publicity: writings on music], ed. Janos Breuer (Budapest, 1981).
35
The concept shifted with the political tide, but the clearest exposition is perhaps to be found in his A muve sz e s
kozonse ge [The artist and his public] (Budapest, 1953).
36
Laszlo Somfai, `Zenei koznyelv a 18. szazadban: Kutatastorteneti visszatekintes Szabolcsi Bence gondolatanak
utoeleterol', in Zenetudomanyi dolgozatok 2000 (Budapest, 2001), 259.
610
Pernye, one of Szabolcsi's first students, used the notion to hint at how music evolved
within communities of composers, performers, and improvisers: the communal musical language was a set of gestures and shapes that were accessible to all. Behind his
own use of the term was a socialist utopia, his writing conjuring up a community in
which the language evolved in improvisatory performance as if an ever-developing,
shared discourse; he found such a community only in jazz circles.
While the question of public music-making is less foregrounded in the teaching of
Rados, both his and Kurtag's preferences for musical activities reveal a tendency to
prioritize this less public, dialogue-like art form. For rather than teaching their
instrument, each taught chamber music; in other words, rather than being drawn
into technical and methodological questions of technique and virtuosic display, they
focused on a genre in which musical communication and its attendant emphasis on
musical meaning was the most likely focus of attention. Not only did they perceive
chamber music as central to musical activities but alsocruciallyas part of their
tradition. For these musicians it is not Liszt the virtuoso who is the originator of the
tradition, but Erno Dohnanyi the chamber music pianist, and Leo Weiner as chamber
music teacher.37 Their heart lies, then, in a music that represents a community, albeit an
individualized one that is an alternative to the untruth of the grand socialist synthesis.
The notion of a society in which chamber music was a living practicerecall Haydn!
is understood here, a society pre-dating not only romantic excess but also the
solidification of the concert hall industry and the institutionalization of the professional
musician in the nineteenth century. It is, surely, the world of the eighteenth-century
Liebhaber, Mozart and Haydn's Vienna: the discourse is a rather particular type of `neoclassicism'. In terms of the practice's internal and external products introduced above,
implicit here is the idea that its internal productsnatural musical responsiveness and
sophisticated communication through musicmight actually expand beyond the
practice's boundaries: in other words, it is a utopia in which a chamber music practice
might one day, some day, re-enter society proper and transform it.
negativity: determined to fail
At this point it may seem that the two musicians discussed thus far are irreconcilably
estranged: one has what we might term a `mystical cultic' approach to music, the
other an attitude better summed up by `everyday play'. One denies the physical realm
of musical practice; the other focuses on the physical as if denying a spiritual one.
Nonetheless they are united in some respects.
As outlined earlier, they share an attitude to their past, their selection of precedents
indicating core beliefs about musical quality. They also share a rejection of `empty'
performance, whether diagnosed because of a feeling that the performer is not truly
`living the moment' or because of a sense that the performer is lying. This emptiness is
associated with showbiz and flashiness. Such purely discursive formulations are clearly
a symptom of an identity construction, self and other carved out in rhetorical stances.38
It maps neatly on to the `Central European' identity discussed above, in that the
37
Balint Vazsonyi claims Dohnanyi as `the first among world-famous pianists to play chamber music regularly' (see
New Grove II, vii. 425); he also celebrates him as a chamber musician in Dohnanyi Erno (Budapest, 1971).
38
Horowitz exoticizes Rados's self-image with entirely characteristic tropes: `Rados's droll, affectless manner; his
curious way of peering upwards while dipping his chin; the slight play of mirth on his compressed lipsall this
projects a mixture of teasing intellect and fatalistic marginality mainly to be found in Eastern Europe.' Horowitz, The
Ivory Trade, 245. A clear theoretical model for the various stages in musically imagined identity is presented in Georgina
Born and David Hesmondhalgh: `Introduction: On Difference, Representation, and Appropriation in Music', in Born
and Hesmondhalgh (eds.), Western Music and its Others (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London, 2000), 137 at 316.
611
612
peans' illustrate a process, a behavioural type of mimesis that Michael Cahn has
termed `correlating behaviour', by which the processes of modern society are
unravelled as a bitter reminder that the smooth surface of modern rationality is but
an illusion.45 It is the early Greek meaning of mimesis that is important here: rather
than a visual `imitation', mimesis is understood as an embodiment and impersonation
akin to drama.
To return to the opening two examples, while Davidson and Antal seemed different
at the outset, they nonetheless share a belief that Kurtag and Rados do not have,
namely, that performance should `succeed'. Davidson's success is that of personal
achievement and consequent admiration, these being key elements in the entertainment industry today. Antal's success would be a performance in which the artist
communicated a higher meaning to a large crowd, which was enriched and inspired
by the event. Set in opposition to these ideas is the attitude of Rados and Kurtag,
which consists of a negative utopia. `Success', after all, would risk capitulation to the
very forces that must be opposed, whether commercialized degeneration or communist lies. Kurtag and Rados insist on a negative dialectic with their surroundings. In
their envisioning of an impossible truth, they elevate the condition of failure to a
`necessary condition', a `vision' prerequisite for anyone striving to perform a piece of
music. Their stance embodies both a Central European identity construction and an
interpretative `tradition', the latter defined by local influences on musical practice.
There is, then, a social function to the glorified failure on which their interpretative
practice depends.
ABSTRACT
Responding to recent work on historical performance and to cultural anthropologies of
music, this article presents a case study in performance practice within the Western
classical tradition. It argues that the methods of performance preparation characteristic of the Hungarians Gyorgy Kurtag and Ferenc Rados share underlying beliefs
that, while by no means representative of a `school', nonetheless indicate a common
tradition of thought. Through observation and analysis, I demonstrate that this is
characterized by a shared sense of ancestry, an emphasis on `nature' and spontaneity,
and a rejection of artifice and rationality.
Typical of a strand of post-Enlightenment thought (represented most prominently
in musicology by Theodor Adorno), the belief system is yet more specifically
congruent with modern ideas of `Central Europe' as projected by Milan Kundera
and subsequent writers from the former Eastern Bloc. In that it shuns rationalized
commercialism (artifice, showbiz) it comes to celebrate imperfection. A celebrated, or
`necessary', failure emerges as a critique of modernity's reified slickness. In other
words, performance practice equals social utopia.
performance. The process of working through a piece, making a discovery of a work's stages of development in
performance, allows for reflection on the illusion of wholeness, of surface perfection, and so on.
45
`Subversive Mimesis: T. W. Adorno and the Modern Impasse of Critique', in Mimesis in Contemporary Theory, i, ed.
Mihai Spariosu (Philadelphia and Amsterdam, 1984), 35.
613