Sunday night, I awoke several times with my fingers twitching, “playing” through parts of the piece. All day Monday, I was like a wound-up spring. It is a bringing-to-birth, an “incarnation.” I have mentioned Dorothy Sayers' book The Mind of the Maker. Her thesis is that our human creative work is one of the principal ways in which we are made in the image of God (c.f. Genesis 1:26-29). He creates, we likewise create on a limited scale, what Tolkien would call “subcreation.” Sayers does not explore this, but it occurs to me that the Satanic temptation “ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil” is perhaps in part a temptation to burst the bounds of our creative finitude, to create on god-like scale. We would make a Gesamtkunstwerk, an all-encompassing work of art, a Tower reaching to the heavens. Such enterprises do not end well (c.f. Genesis 11).
Sayers quotes from her own play, The Zeal of Thy House:
For every work [or act] of creation is threefold, an earthly trinity to match the heavenly.
First [not in time, but merely in order of enumeration] there is the Creative Idea, passionless, timeless, beholding the whole work complete at once, the end in the beginning: and this is the image of the Father.
Second, there is the Creative Energy [or Activity] begotten of that idea, working in time from the beginning to the end, with sweat and passion, being incarnate in the bonds of matter: and this is the image of the Word.
Third, there is the Creative Power, the meaning of the work and its response in the lively soul: and this is the image of the indwelling Spirit.
And these three are one, each equally in itself the whole work, whereof none can exist without other: and this is the image of the Trinity. (p. 37-38).
In the work of the performing musician, the Idea is the first conception of the program, the vision of the Music in its finished perfection. It is also the composition itself, the fruit of another's labors (or one's own; once the musician turns from composition to performance of what he has written, it is in no way different from the playing of another composer's work). The Energy is the process which I have sought to describe in these entries; the “sweat and passion, being incarnate in the bonds of matter: and this is the image of the Word.”
Sayers speaks primarily of her own craft, that of Writer, but it applies to Music and the other arts. Later she writes:
The resistance to creation which the writer encounters in his creature [in my case, the Franck] is sufficiently evident, both to himself and to others – particularly to those others who have the misfortune to live with him during the period when his Energy is engaged on a job of work. The human maker is, indeed, almost excessively vocal about the perplexities and agonies of creation and the intractability of his material. Almost equally evident, however, though perhaps less readily explained, is the creature's violent urge to be created.... [T]hat a work of creation struggles and insistently demands to be brought into being is a fact that no genuine artist would think of denying.... whenever the creature's desire for existence is dominant, everything else will have to give way to it; the writer will push all other calls aside and get down to his task in a spirit of mingled delight and exasperation. (p. 140-1)
There are always some passages that weigh on the mind. In this case, there are two: the final page of the scherzo, and an eight-measure section of the pedal line in the finale, a passage which is notorious in the organ literature. These spots receive more than their share of careful practice, for they are evidences of “the intractability of [the] material.” But if one neglects the easier parts, they can come unglued in performance, too. Every note, every phrase must have its due share of attention.
One of the goals of the slow playing with rhythmic practice that I have described is to develop in a good way what is sometimes called “ballistic motion.” When one performs a physically complex action such as a basketball jump shot – or playing the Grande Pièce Symphonique – the larger action is comprised of many small steps. At first, one must consciously think about each step, but the action must soon become automatic. Thus, I begin slowly, working in “bite-sized” chunks of four measures – an amount of material which can be grasped by the mind as one unit – and build speed at first with little two-note groupings. Ballistic motion will develop whether one does it purposefully or not, but if left to chance, it is not likely to develop in an efficient way. Extraneous motions will be part of it, and wherever they exist, mistakes are likely to follow as the piece is brought to performance tempo.
In these final stages, I am no longer working primarily in four-measure phrases. Instead, the basic units are much larger, from one point of relative repose to the next. I continue to play the section slowly, then with the rhythms long-short, and short-long. From there, it varies: more difficult passages get the full treatment, while with easier passages I can go directly to playing in one-measure groups, and then to the full passage at tempo. My goal is for this entire passage, perhaps one or two pages or even more, to be one seamless unit, a ballistic motion as smooth as a perfect jump shot. There is a part of the brain that knows exactly what to do in every detail in order to play the passage, without conscious attention.
One sometimes hears young students play their recital pieces with “finger memory.” The ballistic motion is in place – the piece is “in the hands” -- but not necessarily in the conscious mind. If the ballistic motion is de-railed, it cannot continue without assistance from the consciousness which knows in what direction the music needs to go, and can put things back on track. Thus, I build in “starting places” where a new ballistic motion may begin. The first note of every measure is the most important of these – thus, the need to always practice in one-measure groups. Ideally, every note would be a new “starting place,” learned from the hours of practice in the two-note groupings.
My work today on Franck is limited to a three-hour session at the recital instrument, just enough for one final workout, beginning to end, the sixth and last. It goes well. At last, I am ready to play, and just in time.
March 16: Wednesday
In the university town where I work, there are over a thousand recitals and concerts annually. Each of them represents an undertaking that, for a time, has been all-consuming for the musicians involved.
So does the writing of a book, the production of a play, the making of a visual work of art, or a quilt, or a violin, or a barn. The effort and commitment are the same in kind for craft, folk art, and “high” art. This last differs perhaps in the path being less clearly charted, but even here, there are traditions that provide a place to begin.
Here at the end, it is important to me, as it was initially, that this is a “Lenten Meditation,” not a “Noontime Recital.” The Grande Pièce Symphonique is music of a spirit suitable for Lent. Perhaps it may direct the hearts of some of its listeners toward thoughts of a serious nature. It is not enough to play for oneself; the music must be shared, even if only with one or two others. The musician hopes that in some way it makes a difference.
Sayers describes this aspect of the work in chapter eight of The Mind of the Maker: “Pentecost.”
... a book has no influence until somebody can read it.
Before the Energy [which is incarnate in the book, or essay, or other writing] was revealed or incarnate it was, as we have seen, already present in Power within the creator's mind, but now that Power is released for communication to other men.... It dwells in them and works upon them with creative energy, producing in them fresh manifestations of Power.
This is the Power of the Word, and it is dangerous. Every word—even every idle word—will be accounted for at the day of judgment. (p. 111)
For the writer, this aspect, the “third person” of the creative trinity, is when the writing is published, read by others, and takes its own life in the world of ideas in small or large ways. For the musician, it is the performance. Music does not exist until it is performed—and heard—and ceases its audible existence as soon as the last notes die away. But the Idea expressed in the composition may take root and bear fruit in surprising ways, perhaps generations later. When a performer takes up a piece of Old Music such as the Franck, the Idea embodied in it, now almost a century and a half old, is brought to light anew.
This raises the question of whether or not the Classics in music, literature, and art have any lasting value. It is obvious to me that they do, but many would disagree. A local choral director whom I respect, active in music education circles, takes the view that Classical Music is simply a collection of “museum pieces,” and she rarely uses any of it in her work (implying as well that “museums” are places that are irrelevant to the lives of ordinary people). It is more important, in her view, that the music sung by her choirs be fresh and immediate, enjoyable to the singers, and constructive of community in the choir. She does not think that Classical Music can do these things in the twenty-first century.
Today, I made my small contribution to this interchange of artistic Ideas, giving the Grande Pièce Symphonique a fresh opportunity to do its work in the world. At best, it is likely to be a very small bit of work: my little half-hour “Lenten Meditation,” one of thousands of concerts in this town, heard by perhaps twenty or thirty persons, is not going to change the world in any large way. But small as it is, today's music will not be entirely without consequence, for a Song is every bit as dangerous as a Word, and every Song, along with every Word, “will be accounted for at the day of judgment.” One of my teachers used to say “Never play a note unless you mean it.”
The first and overwhelming impression when one finally gets around to performing the music which has taken so many hours to prepare is always how quickly it is over. As I began the last movement I thought “Am I here already? How can this be?”
The second impression is always that one has played horribly, made wreckage of this beautiful music. This is not a small thing, for every imperfection in performance weakens the power of the Idea and reduces its potential to achieve its work.
Upon a day of reflection (I write this on Thursday, the day after the concert), there were too many mistakes, but some aspects of the playing were good. I believe that I gave shape to the music as well as I am able to do in terms of phrasing, tempos, articulation of the form, and registrations. Wrong notes can distort this, but not entirely eradicate it.
But what about the wrong notes? I have tried for years to figure out how to play more accurately, and I believe that I have made some progress, most of all in adopting the practice regime outlined in this series. Of the two passages which most concerned me, one went smoothly; the other was a bit shaky, but I do not think that I actually missed any of the notes. All of the note errors were in other places, “easy” places, including one a mere thirteen measures into the piece and another at the final cadence of the (slow) fourth movement, both of them marring especially beautiful moments.
It would have been better to have the piece ready a month ago, using the final weeks for maintenance practice. My preparations, reaching a state of readiness only on the day before the recital, were more on the order of cramming for a final exam. But I believe that I did all that I could do without neglecting my other duties. The things which kept me from working more in December and January on the Franck were primarily:
- the Christmas services
- “Some Canonic Variations on Vom Himmel hoch” played at the January evensong – and played rather well, as I recall.
- Stanford in A for the February Evensong
- the Mozart Laudate Dominum
All of this was worthy of the time committed to it. And, since the difficult parts of the Franck went well, I am not sure that additional preparation would have improved the results.
This brings me again to the Satanic temptation: I cannot make my musical work larger or better than what I can do in the time and energy allotted to me in this life. I must, instead, adjust my expectations and not try to do so much that I do it badly. At the same time, I must avoid the opposite extreme of “playing it safe,” never taking the risks that are inherent in any music worthy of the name. Our Lord warned against this in St. Matthew 25:14-30, calling the one who buried his talent a “wicked and slothful servant,” casting him into outer darkness. “[T]here shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”
I ate a leisurely lunch at an Indian restaurant, drank a cup of tea in my office, and turned my attention to the wedding music, the Messiaen for Sunday, and the evening's choir rehearsal.
Epilogue: Friday morning, March 18
This morning, my mailbox at the church contained a CD, a recording of the Franck. C.H., the organbuilder who was unable to attend the performance, arranged to have it recorded. I am glad for his sake that he did, because the Franck fits his instrument splendidly and shows its expressive possibilities in a way that may not often be heard.
Upon review, I find that I played both better and worse than I had thought. There were the four major note errors that I knew were there. With two of them, I was able to modify the voice leading so that to someone unfamiliar with the piece, they would be musically plausible (though inferior to what Franck wrote). The other two were simply wrong, both of them in a pedal statement of the theme in the latter part of the first movement. But both of these went by so quickly that they were not “train-wrecks,” the complete de-railing of the music which can all too easily happen. In short, the note errors which glared at me in my memory of the performance were not so bad as I had thought.
What was worse were some faults in interpretation. I was not smooth in my use of the Swell pedal at a couple of places; the amount of “breathing space” between several of the phrases was wrong, mostly too short; at the cadence ending the second movement, I made the rallantando too big; I rushed the tempo in part of the scherzo and had to pull it back in line; I failed to push the tempo slightly in the finale from the beginning of the fugue onwards. But there were many other interpretative outcomes through the course of the work which went very well indeed, or at least the way that I think they should.
All of the errors weakened the Idea, as I described earlier. “[N]ow we see through a glass, darkly: but then face to face ....” The Satanic temptation would say “You must be perfect.” The Gospel grace answers “You will be perfect.”
But not yet.
In retrospect, I am struck with what a vast and important Idea this piece embodies. The Cavaillé-Coll organ at St. Clothilde was hardly four years old in 1863 when Franck wrote this piece, which would have been impossible without this new type of instrument, an instrument whose potential Franck unveiled. Neither he nor anyone else in France had written anything remotely like this for the organ, and it must have been astonishing to its first hearers. We have the organ symphonies of Widor and Vierne and much other music of similar nature from the French symphonic organ tradition that began with Franck – indeed, with this piece – so it is less overwhelming to us. But the Grande Pièce Symphonique remains, I think, an Idea which continues to do its work in the world. I am honored to have helped that work along a little bit this week.
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