Well, It's a Vertebrate …”: Performer Choice in Cardew's Treatise

“WELL, IT’S A VERTEBRATE…”: PERFORMER CHOICE IN CARDEW’S TREATISE Virginia Anderson 1 Experimental Music Catalogue [Published in the Journal of Musicological Research, 25/3-4 (2006), 291–317. This is a final draft, lacking score examples, and with one correction made since publication.] Treatise (1963–67), by Cornelius Cardew (1936–81), is perhaps the largest-scale piece of graphic notation ever written. Cardew created Treatise, influenced by Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, as a combination of graphic elements that could be read symbolically—as language, a code, or notation. However, Cardew published Treatise with no performance instructions, thereby allowing it to be read as graphic art as well. Treatise has inspired questions on the philosophy and aesthetics of notation, and even to the nature of composition and of performance itself. Solutions for the performance of Treatise have been suggested both before its publication—through excerpts from Cardew’s diaries—and after, through post-publication performance accounts. Cornelius Cardew’s 193-page graphic score Treatise (1963-67) can rightly be considered a landmark work. No one else has attempted to write such a monumental score in a notation other than that of common-practice music. For a score of its size, Treatise is also consistent in its execution, neatly drafted (reflecting Cardew’s day-job as a graphic designer and, perhaps, his heritage as the son of potter Michael and artist Mariel Cardew); and most commentators consider it beautiful. Treatise, as a graphic work, is indeterminate as to performance and marks a turning point for Cardew, who originally designed it as a consistent system of symbolic elements that could be used to inform a performance of agreed-upon meanings for each symbol. This design emphasizes Some of the material here appeared in my thesis, British Experimental Music as a Separate Art-Music Culture (Ph.D. thesis, Royal Holloway, University of London, 2004). My gratitude goes to my supervisor, Katharine Ellis, for her advice on this earlier work. Thanks also to the composers, performers, and students who answered my questions as to their Treatise performances, to Marc Dooley of Edition Peters, London, for permission to use the examples from Treatise; also to Colin Green at MDS, London, for permission to use Universal Edition materials; and finally to Deborah Kauffman, editor of this Journal, for her sage guidance. 1 1 structural positioning and meaning, using a group of symbols that could be used in a meaningful, linguistic way—like an alphabet or music notation. Cardew composed Treatise with reference to Ludwig Wittgenstein's Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus,2 which essentially examines the limits of the structure and meaning of language. Like Wittgenstein’s search for the limits of language, Cardew was looking for a limit to the meaning of notation by using an arbitrary notation of symbols to which an eventual meaning would be assigned in performance. This structure remains the basis of the construction of Treatise and lends its consistency to the beauty and perceived coherence of the score. Had Cardew published instructions which asked performers to search out the graphic elements that form this structure, Treatise could have been read as an alternative symbolic notation, much like Earle Brown’s Four Systems (1954), in which graphic elements mimic the placement, functions and meaning of traditional notation. Instead, by providing no instructions at all, Cardew released Treatise from a specific symbolic interpretation, from notation as printed instruction, even from fixed musical or pictorial meaning. Cardew published his notes on the composition and performance history of Treatise in the Treatise Handbook (a response to a plea from his publishers),3 which show his growing opinion that the work did not need performance instructions. He found that without a written guide from him (instructions, for instance), performers made their own rules and found their own ways through performance. More importantly, those ways often had nothing to do with a reading of the symbols as symbols for an instructional language, but as maps for physical placement or as visual art composition. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, trans. David Pears and Brian McGuinness (London: Routledge, 1974). 2 3 Cornelius Cardew, Treatise Handbook (London: Hinrichsen, 1971). Since Cardew’s completion of Treatise, performers have responded to this work with a startling variety of solutions, many of which have nothing to do with a symbolic or even a structural understanding of the music. Structure is only one of a number of possible elements for the interpretation of Treatise. In the music of Schoenberg and the composers who followed him, structure and complexity inform analysis—and thus often interpretation and performance. The role of the performer of music of the international avant garde is in the development of instrumental technique in association with the composer, and of examining the score in order to try to intuit the intention of the composer. As such, an understanding of the work—if not actually note-by-note analysis—is important to performance, and the composer’s control of the work is never quite released even after the work is published. Analysis in experimental music reflects an “experimental” emphasis on “thought” before “fact”, as Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote: “No facts are to me sacred; none are profane; I simply experiment, an endless seeker with no Past at my back.”4 Far less emphasis is placed on the structural complexity of many experimental works than in those of the avant garde, and far more on the philosophical implications of performance; often greater delight is experienced at a performance solution the composer never intended than an accurate divination of the composer’s wishes. In this case, the composer has no claim on the work once the notation has limited the performer. Thus, Treatise and its performance is very interesting because of the fact that the structure is not the main element to understand in order to perform it, but just one of many such elements. Analysis of this work, particularly in terms of interpretation and performance, comes from Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Circles”, in Selected Essays, ed. Larzer Ziff (New York: Penguin Books, 1982), 2; quoted in Christopher Shultis, Silencing the Sounded Self: John Cage and the American Experimental Tradition (Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1988), 10. 4 viewing the solutions to the notation, not in the structure of the notation itself, as many performers have quite legitimately ignored the structure. So far, most articles on Treatise have dealt with its structure; none deals with its interpretation and performance beyond its original symbology, even though Cardew no longer cared whether those symbols were used in interpretation. Nevertheless, many anecdotal observations have been made about its performance over the past forty years, including Cardew’s own pre-publication accounts in Treatise Handbook. Anecdotes and writings also show Cardew’s waning enthusiasm for symbolic interpretation after his experiences as an assistant to Karlheinz Stockhausen and a performer of Stockhausen’s works; Cardew’s growing enthusiasm for the independence of the score once completed; the influence of improvising musicians on his conception of the score as independent of rules; and the myriad ways in which performers have approached the performance of Treatise, whether symbolically, visually, or physically. In fact, at one time Cardew playfully suggested that Treatise might not even constitute a notation at all, so far did he move from a symbolic notation: “Treatise: What is it? Well, it’s a vertebrate.”5 TRACTATUS AND SYMBOLIC INTERPRETATION IN TREATISE Perhaps the most surprising thing about Cardew’s lack of instructions for Treatise, resulting in a notation only optionally symbolic, is that its genesis came from a work entirely concerned with the philosophy of language and meaning: Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, by Ludwig Wittgenstein. Cardew wrote of Tractatus in his diary in the later stages of his construction of Treatise: I was 23 when I first came across Wittgenstein’s Tractatus: right from the first sentence, handwritten by Slad [David Sladen, an old school-friend] as a foretaste before he gave me the book. “The world is everything that is the case.” It made a 5 Emerson, 2. deep impression on me. The name Treatise (from Tractatus): a thorough investigation. Of what? Of everything, of nothing. Like the whole world of philosophy.6 Tractatus (1921) is the first of Wittgenstein’s two major works (the second is Philosophical Investigations (1953). He follows Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, but where Kant was trying to determine the limits of thought, Wittgenstein tried to determine the limits of language. David Pears, in Wittgenstein, wrote: Like Kant, he believed that philosophers often unwittingly stray beyond the limits [of language] into the kind of specious nonsense that seems to express genuine thoughts but in fact does not do so. He wanted to discover the exact location of the line dividing sense from nonsense, so that people might realize when they had reached it and stop. This is the negative side of his philosophy and it makes the first, and usually the deepest impression on his readers. But it also has another, more positive side. His purpose was not merely to formulate instructions which would save people from trying to say what cannot be said in language, but also to succeed in understanding the structure of what can be said. He believed that the only way to achieve this understanding is to plot the limits, because the limits and the structure have a common origin. The nature of language dictates both what you can and what you cannot do with it.7 Tractatus consists of seven propositions that contain nested sub-propositions and mathematical formulae elaborating upon them. The main propositions are: 1 2 3 4 4.001 5 6 7 The world is all that is the case. What is the case—a fact—is the existence of states of affairs. A logical picture of facts is a thought. A thought is a proposition with a sense. The totality of propositions is language. A proposition is a truth-function of elementary propositions. (An elementary proposition is a truth-function of itself.) . The general form of a truth-function is This is the general form of a proposition. What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence.8 Cardew, diary entry headed “November 18 66 Buffalo”; in John Tilbury, “Cornelius Cardew,” Contact 26 (1983), 6. Bracketed explanation is Tilbury’s. 6 7 David Pears, Wittgenstein (London: Fontana Press, 1971), 12. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus. Cardew’s version of the first proposition: “The world is everything that is the case” may have come from the first English translation of 1922, or he simply may have remembered it that way. 8 The subpropositions (such as 4.001, above) comment upon the main propositions in a hierarchy determined by the decimal position of the sub-proposition. Cardew chose varying shapes that may stand as general propositions in Treatise in the same way that the whole-numbered propositions are important in Tractatus: his pianist and biographer John Tilbury lists them as categories of “triangles, circles, circle derivation, squares, square derivations, irregular shapes, etc.”9 Such geometric shapes have little or no immediate reference as they stand, and many of these shapes and their derivations occur in variation: circles can occur as open circles, closed (or black) circles, partial circles (half circles), or as circle derivatives, such as ellipses. Example 1 shows one of the “black pages” (so-called by Cardew to indicate a preponderance of black circles that occur in pages 128–144).10 In the first performance of these pages, at the American Artists’ Centre in Paris, Cardew, John Tilbury, and the composer David Bedford played the piece according to a time-space reading,11 using the black areas to indicate melody.12 [insert file Anderson.Ex1.pdf] Example 1. Cardew, Treatise, p. 135. © Peters Edition, edition no. EP7560. Reproduced by kind permission. Other shapes that occur under such a main proposition will have a musical or pictorial reference, however. A circle may be combined with a line to make a note-head which, especially aligned with further lines that can be referenced as a staff, will not only give a reference to music in general (a musical note) but often, in combination with other elements, a specific musical 9 Tilbury, “Cardew,” 6. 10 Cardew, Handbook, xi. “Time-space” refers to a situation in which the relative length of an event as pictured in the notation is proportionate to the time in which it is to be played. 11 This was also the first public performance in which a player got lost, when “John Tilbury was two pages behind most of the time” (Treatise Handbook, xi). 12 reference, such as a bass clef. In the excerpt of the central figures from page 183 (see Example 2), the two large black circles are above a central horizontal “lifeline” that runs throughout most of the piece.13 [insert file Anderson.Ex2.pdf] Example 2. Cardew, Treatise, excerpt from p. 183. © Peters Edition, edition no. EP7560. Reproduced by kind permission. These circles are beamed together, giving a musical reference to the black dots. Their near-perfect roundness (as opposed to the elliptical shape of noteheads) could also refer to the black circles of the “black pages.” The first large black circle appears on the bottom of four lines that resemble a staff, but with no clef. However, the flat to its left reinforces the sense that the lines are part of a staff and the large black circle is a note. The second round black circle to which the first is beamed is easier to see as a note, even though it has no accidental, because it lies—albeit out of proportion in size—just under a well-proportioned, well-drawn staff that has a bass clef in the proper F clef position and a number of easily-read notes around it. This black circle, having such a clear suggestion of pitch (F), helps to give a sense of specific pitch reference to the first stemmed black circle to which it is beamed. This “note” sits in its partial staff in a “bowl” of curved lines, which is reflected in curved half-circles around the second note and, to a certain extent, to the circles around the third black circle below the line. The first note does, however, lie below the clear bass-clef line on which sits the black-circle F. Does it then indicate that the note is on a fictional staff below the bass clef? With only four clear staff lines, is the first note B♭ or G♭ in bass clef, or perhaps E♭ or G♭ in the treble (to mention only two possible clefs)? There is no correct answer here; all solutions are equally valid. Such are the Michael Nyman, Experimental Music: Cage and Beyond (New York: Schirmer Books, 1974), 100. Nyman first called this central line “(a life line?).” 13 ambiguities that lie in the symbolic interpretations of Treatise, but the ambiguities are linguistic (between the signifier and sign, in the terminology of semiotics), fixed between symbol and sound once decided, and works, as far as Treatise allows, to a linear temporality similar to common-practice music. Cardew published written realizations of sections of Treatise as separate compositions using this kind of interpretation: Bun No. 2 (1964) for orchestra and Volo Solo (1965), for “virtuoso” (perhaps in answer to Stockhausen’s “for composers” in Plus-Minus, more about which below). THE BREAK WITH STOCKHAUSEN Roger Smalley, in an early review of the piece, noted that: From the visual point of view this is by far the most beautiful score I have ever seen. The draughtsmanship is impeccable and the score attains the status of a work of art in its own right. Furthermore the score, as well as being looked at can also be read like a book—like a treatise on the objects it contains, in fact. 14 Smalley wrote that Cardew had designed the piece according to “a master plan” of sixty-seven elements,15 in a manner Smalley found similar to that used by Karlheinz Stockhausen in Zyklus and Plus-Minus. Smalley’s only criticism was that Treatise was published without instructions. In spite of Cardew’s distrust of rules (“in my piece there is no intention separate from the notation; the intention is that the player should respond to the notation. He should not interpret in a particular way [e.g. how he imagines the composer intended] but should be engaged in the act of interpretation”) I somehow wish that he had given a few general directives (which are inherent in the notation—but can you expect everyone to realise them?), such as: any number of pages may be performed, but they must be in sequence; any number of performers; any instruments (or words or actions); and, most important of all, consistency of interpretation—the event which you choose for a circle on page one must be such that it is capable of following the morphology of the drawn circle, which in turn will determine what event one chooses to represent it by. To me the most compelling feature of this score is the fact that every event is (or is capable of being made) functional in a context of pure musical discourse. 16 14 Roger Smalley, “A Beautiful Score,” The Musical Times 109, no. 1503 (1968), 462. Cardew, New Musical Supplement of the International Times, no. 25, quoted in Smalley, 462; Cardew, Treatise Handbook (London: Hinrichsen, 1971), i. 15 16 Smalley, “A Beautiful Score,” 462. The note in brackets is Smalley’s. If Cardew had provided a legend of rules such as the ones Smalley had suggested, then Treatise would have been just another piece using interpretative graphic notation like PlusMinus, albeit a stunningly beautiful one. However, Cardew concentrated on the independence of the interpreter from the moment he became dissatisfied with Stockhausen’s control when he had to realize Carré for four orchestras.17 As Stockhausen’s assistant (1959-61), Cardew was given “101 snappy items”18 of indications for Carré’s pitch, timbre, duration and so on. After Cardew realized these events, Stockhausen took charge of Carré, changing the realization to his satisfaction. Cardew and David Tudor thought instead that the items constituted a “Basic Score,” which could be realized by a performer. Cardew used the “Basic Score” concept in Autumn 60 and Octet ’61 for Jasper Johns: each performer makes his or her own part, limited only by a notation which indicates pitch, timbre, dynamics, duration, or special effects (such as harmonics or pizzicato) to varying degrees. The year before Smalley wrote about Treatise, Cardew wrote sarcastically about his experiences of playing Plus-Minus,19 which was Stockhausen’s approach to the “Basic Score” principle. Cardew particularly noted Stockhausen’s indication “for composers” which stood in place of ordinary instrumental indications. I have now been involved in 5 “compositions” (performances) of the piece, so I am in a position to give a “survivor’s account” of what actually is implied by the enigmatic superscription: “for composers.”20 17 Cornelius Cardew, “Report on Stockhausen's Carré,” The Musical Times 102, no. 1424 (1961): 620. 18 Ibid., 619. 19 Cornelius Cardew, “Stockhausen’s Plus-Minus,” London Magazine, April 1967, 86–8. 20 Cardew, “Plus-Minus,” 86. Robin Maconie does not mention this indication in his four-page explanation of Plus-Minus in The Works of Stockhausen.21 Either Cardew satirically chose to misread a dedication—the work was written for Stockhausen’s composition class at the Cologne New Music Course in 1963—or was seriously stressing the responsibility of the composers for realization of the score. Plus-Minus consists of seven pages of “form-schemes” of fixed stages of development and seven pages of musical material, detailing a complex series of instructions for “composition” or realization of seven basic combinations of durational symbols, called “Akzidentien,” around central sounds (“Zentralklang”). The title Plus-Minus illustrates the expansions and contractions of these combinations, forming both positive and negative variations of the same characteristics. 22 In 1964, Cardew and Frederic Rzewski premiered Plus-Minus in Rome on pianos; Rzewski played electric organ as well, 23 and Cardew played three transistor radios. Both composers tried to manipulate Stockhausen’s instructions to their own ends while “playing the game” by observing the rules, as they resented Stockhausen’s control. Rzewski, feeling the healthy composer’s antagonism to pitch material provided by another composer (in this case Stockhausen), decided to use adding opportunities for the accumulation of “Akzidentien” or noises, and subtracting opportunities for the elimination of the given pitch material …. I, on the other hand, feeling the healthy composer’s reluctance to compose another man’s music, decided to bring all elements as quickly as possible into the negative sphere (transistor radios), and even in the positive sphere to strive for maximum simplicity by using every subtracting opportunity to eliminate “Akzidentien.”24 21 Robin Maconie, The Works of Stockhausen (London: Marion Boyars, Ltd., 1976), 177–81. 22 Maconie, 177–9. 23 Maconie says harmonium; Maconie, 181. Cardew “Plus-Minus,” 87. Cardew satirized Plus-Minus in Solo with Accompaniment (1964), in which the soloist plays simple long tones while the accompanist has to build a part using a complicated Stockhausenesque score. 24 Rzewski further obscured Stockhausen’s compositional voice “by inserting preparations in the piano (screws, pieces of cork, bolts, coins, etc.), hence completely distorting—and liberating himself from—the original equal-tempered pitch manipulation assumed by Stockhausen.”25 Cardew seems to have resented the time it took to make a realization of Plus-Minus, even though Autumn 60 and Octet ’61 require similar work. Their attempts to subvert the “Stockhausen” in Plus-Minus seem to have worked: After four or five minutes’ flight over something that was quite recognizably Stockhausen country we found ourselves emerging into vast spaces of uncharted virgin steppe, a landscape of almost Wagnerian grandeur, and we experienced a feeling of elation (it must be remembered that this grew up only gradually through a number of very sticky rehearsals) and an invigorating sense of unlimited freedom. 26 Stockhausen seems to have liked this performance, despite the fact that he “had not been consulted in advance.”27 I was, in a truly unselfish sense, fascinated by it …. Sounds and sound combinations that, while recognizing their use by other composers, I had personally avoided …. I now find myself listening more adventurously, discovering a music summoned forth from me: feeling myself an instrument in the service of a profound and intangible power, experiencable [sic] only in music, in the poetry of sounds.28 Rzewski put it rather differently: “It’s incredible how such tripe can be so beautiful.”29 This seems to be the verdict of other experimentalists who have used the indeterminacies of the notation either to improve or subvert Plus-Minus to their satisfaction: Gavin Bryars said that 25 Cardew, “Plus-Minus,” 87. 26 Cardew, “Plus-Minus,” 87. Maconie, 181. It is interesting that Stockhausen felt the need to stress the lack of consultation, and that Maconie felt the need to note this. 27 Stockhausen, Texte Band III: zur Musik 1963-70 (Köln: DuMont Schauberg, 1971); quoted in Maconie, 181. 28 29 Cardew, “Plus-Minus,” 88. “John [Tilbury] used a tape from London Zoo of an elephant pissing” to interpret the negative bands in a concert in 1968.30 I have taken so much space to detail the different impressions of this work to show exactly how Cardew differed from Stockhausen (and the mainstream European avant garde) regarding the ownership of the score and its performance. For Stockhausen, the performance is made in his service; the piece remains his and the performers should divine his intention even when it is not written down. For Cardew, the score is the responsibility of the performers once it is composed. What emerges from all this is that in the work of many composers (including Feldman, Wolff, Cage, myself, Rzewski, LaMonte Young [sic] 31 and even Stockhausen if he himself happens to be absent) the interpretation of the instructions for a piece has a decisive influence on the performance.32 Cardew would have hoped that performers would take as much care in observing the implications of what was in the score through minute study—as he did by stressing the requirement in the Stockhausen score that it was “for composers”—but that whatever they did in performance was their responsibility. In Treatise, Cardew said: I hesitated at the beginning to talk of the sounding music as my music. What I hope is that in playing this piece each musician will give of his own music—he will give it as his response to my music, which is the score itself. 33 Gavin Bryars, email message to author, May 15, 2003. Tilbury does not remember using this source. Bryars used a combination of Schubert and the pop song “Eloise” in this concert, which subverted Stockhausen’s hoped-for modernist sound. Tilbury was Cardew’s collaborator and pianist, and worked with Cardew in the same way as David Tudor did with John Cage. 30 Cardew and other British experimentalists (including Nyman) almost consistently use no space (“LaMonte”), whereas Americans, including Young himself, use the space (“La Monte”). I shall keep the British spelling where it occurs in quotations. 31 Cardew, “On the Role of the Instruction in the Interpretation of Indeterminate Music,” in Treatise Handbook (London: Hinrichsen, 1971), xv. 32 33 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, x. THE COMMON SYMBOLIC UNDERSTANDING OF TREATISE Some of this study can be made of the structural features and notational symbols, and many academic realizations follow Cardew’s original intent. Treatise: An Animated Analysis, 34 a web page in “Pictures of Music” (an exhibit from the Block Museum of Northwestern University), attempts to provide guidance in interpreting Treatise in this manner. The author limits the analysis to the second half of page 182, an indication of the complexity of this piece (see Example 3). The writer examines the constituent visual features of the example, suggests Gestalt psychology as a means of organization, displays its musical components, and then suggests a “freeform” interpretation. [insert file Anderson.Ex3.pdf] Example 3. Cardew, Treatise, last 1/3 of page 182. © Peters Edition, edition no. EP7560. Reproduced by kind permission. The author’s freeform interpretation comes mostly from a deep consideration of the musical features of the excerpt, so he or she has taken an example that consists of elements that can be interpreted almost entirely as musical symbols. The most active visual units here center on or around two clear staves—one above and one just below the lifeline—and one group of four asymmetric parallel lines immediately below both staves, suggesting another staff. The elements associated with these staves and quasi-staff resemble musical symbols: numbers that resemble bars of rest; dots recalling the dots of a bass clef, repeat symbols, or note heads; lines recalling pitch slides or decrescendos, stems or beams, and bar lines; real notation such as a bass clef, a 34 Treatise: An Animated Analysis, http://www.blockmuseum.northwestern.edu/picturesofmusic/pages/ anim.html; accessed November 3, 2002. The author’s name is not given, although several writers are responsible for the content of the entire site. Much of the analysis on this site quotes extensively from Brian Dennis, “Cardew’s Treatise (Mainly the Visual Aspects),” Tempo 177 (1991), 10-16, who shows a clear division of elements to be used in symbolic interpretation. It is also associated with the first recorded performance of Treatise in its entirety by a group conducted by Art Lange in Chicago in 1998 (recorded on HatHutRecords [hat(now)ART 2-122, 1999)]. Lange is interviewed in another part of the site. sharp and a flat; squiggles suggesting a treble clef (on the left of the top staff) and a mordent (under the note on the lower staff, connected to a beam). Once these musical references are noticed, other, less specific graphic elements can imply musical references, in almost a reflection of the nested proposition of Tractatus. For instance, the curved lines between the top staff and the lifeline suggest slurs. The long “slur” that is attached to the lifeline also may suggest a timespan for most of the performance, with the numbers 1 and 2 on each side suggesting periods at the beginning and end either of total silence or of whatever activity the lifeline indicates. Only after this strictly musical “freeform” interpretation does the writer suggest another way of interpreting Treatise. He or she analyses the example visually, highlighting the resemblance of the extract to a human figure (the head is the top staff, the chin the linked curved lines underneath, the shoulders the long arc that ties into the lifeline). The animators have chosen to move the right hand side of the arc to resemble a waving arm. This is one of several anthropomorphic and pictorial images that Cardew has built into Treatise using component elements, and shows how he explored the aesthetic principle of humor as it transcends language. He wrote in his diary: “Treatise. Watch for the laughs! (in re being with 7 Hungarians telling funny stories and finding that I knew where to laugh).”35 However, as freeform as this analysis purports to be, it is only one of possibly an infinite number of ways of understanding this short extract and of understanding Treatise as a whole, as Cardew decided not to provide rules for performing Treatise at a late stage in its composition. Treatise changed from a piece with elements that had to be interpreted into a work in which, as 35 Cardew, diary entry, 5 February 1965; in Cardew, Handbook, vii. Cardew wrote, “[a] square musician (like myself) might use…as a path to the ocean of spontaneity.”36 PRE-PUBLICATION PERFORMANCES AND INSTRUCTIONS Although throughout its pre-publication history, Cardew seems to have preferred a symbolic reading of Treatise to visual or other readings, dissenting interpretations occurred from the first concert Cardew listed in Treatise Handbook. In June 1964, on the terrace of the Forte Belvedere, Florence, pages 57–60 and 75–79 were played as two separate sections (lasting only one-and-ahalf and four minutes, respectively). Frederic Rzewski—on piano and other sound sources —“played” the central lifeline “as continuous sound. At each break in the line he would start a new sound.”37 There is a very short break in the horizontal line on page 59 and a longer one on page 60, so in the first, short section Rzewski would have played three sounds. Page 75 begins without this line and include one more break on the same page. There is one short break in each of the other pages. Such a simple binary sound choice —Rzewski was either droning or silent— was a good cue to orientate the others (Cardew on whistles, the graphic composer Sylvano Bussotti on percussion, and Italo Gomes on cello), who chose other elements of the score to interpret and who played the score as time-space notation, keeping together as much as they could. Only Mauricio Kagel, who was reading aloud, “insisted on his ‘freedom’”38 and refused to limit himself to one aspect of the score. On first consideration, one might consider Kagel’s act of rebellion a true act of indeterminate performance. Such musical anarchy was common in the Scratch Orchestra, which 36 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, i. 37 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, ix. 38 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, ix. Cardew co-founded in 1969. At the time of this performance in June, 1964, Cardew had not written rules for Treatise (he never did), but his diary entries at this time indicated that he would eventually implement written rules in the final score. Certainly this was one of the surprising interpretations that Cardew encountered in pre-publication performances. However, it is possible that Kagel decided not to follow the rules more to make fun of Cardew’s indeterminacy than to explore its implications. Such satires perpetrated by avantgardists on what they perceive to be the weakness of experimental music—that it is a mere freefor-all—are not unknown: for instance, György Ligeti’s Poème Symphonique (1962), for 100 metronomes, was a satire on Cage and Bussotti’s indeterminacy and theater.39 Kagel’s works around the time of this performance (for instance, his Musik für Renaissance-Instrumente [1965]) exhibit many of the strictures of his previous work; his freer theater works were yet to come. At the very least, Kagel misunderstood the reason for this unwritten discipline in what he might have felt to be a “free” piece. Cardew may have expected to act as performance leader or director for this concert. It may have been that the group decided democratically to choose their elements. Both scenarios are not unlike the two methods of practice in more traditional chamber Paul Griffiths, Modern Music: The Avant Garde since 1945 (London: J.M. Dent & Sons, 1981), 140. Experimentalists are also often prone to satirize the avant garde, as in Cardew and Rzewski’s, or Bryars and Tilbury’s versions of Plus-Minus. Both experimental duos were able to do this by following instructions, while ignoring avant-garde performance practice that demands that the performer intuit the composer’s intentions. Kagel, on the other hand, ignored the more general imperative that performers work for a good, as well as an accurate interpretation of the score. 8 July 2013: Griffiths is wrong about Ligeti, and so was I. As Eric Drott clearly demonstrates in ‘Ligeti in Fluxus’, The Journal of Musicology. 21/2 (2004), 201–240, Ligeti spent a short time exploring avenues in indeterminate music offered by the Fluxus movement, resulting in Poème Symphonique, a serious contribution to music in text notation, and two other ‘Fluxus’ pieces. According to Drott, ‘Most commentators on Ligeti’s music tend to view his Fluxus works as frivolities, in line with Ligeti’s later assessment of the pieces’ (Drott, p. 202, n. 2). However, Griffiths, for reasons of his own, is the only writer to claim that this piece was created to satirize indeterminacy. 39 music rehearsal, say a string quartet or wind quintet, in that dynamics, tempi, and so on may either be determined by a leading member or agreed by the group as a whole. Such coordination is not mandatory in a work without rules (in common-practice notation, the grid-like structure of the full score demands coordination, even if unwritten performance practice did not enforce it), but neither is it banned. Christopher Hobbs has speculated that if Cardew had written rules for the interpretation of Treatise, given the prepublication performances under his direction, they would have been much like those of his piece for the improvisation group AMM, The Tiger’s Mind (1967), in which the players assume roles in an allegory, “playing” them musically. Each player would choose a role (or, in the case of Treatise, a shape or other aspect) democratically; if the group were large enough, then a director would apportion the roles evenly among the members.40 By the second pre-publication performance mentioned in the Treatise Handbook, at Walthamstow Forest Technical College in May 1965, Cardew wrote that “each [musician] is free to interpret [Treatise] in his own way.”41 It is highly likely, though, that this performance of pages 89–106, which lasted about a half an hour, was organized in a similar manner to the Italian performance. Here Cardew listed himself as “guitar and conductor,” thus indicating some need for coordination. Other performers—David Bedford (accordion), Roger Smalley (piano), John Tilbury (piano), Clem Adelman (saxophone)—may therefore have agreed on some kind of division of elements. Smalley may have felt comfortable with Cardew’s control at this concert and this may have led to his plea for rules in the published version. The only rebellion came from Hobbs, in conversation with the author, May 17, 2003. Hobbs was Cardew’s first student at the Royal Academy of Music. 40 41 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, ix. John White on tuba, but unlike Kagel, he chose to play with indeterminacies in the agreed reading rather than to ignore the agreement altogether. Cardew wrote that White “set the precedent for ‘perverse’ interpretation by reading ascending lines as descending intervals.”42 This may indicate that the players were choosing separate elements, and White had chosen to interpret lines. It equally might be that all performers were interpreting all the elements on the score, as pages 89–106 are very thin-textured and mostly cluster around the lifeline. Most musicians interpret the many numbers just above the lifeline on these pages as seconds (or nominal beats or other units) of rest (see Example 4). Cardew certainly had thought of them as such; referring to the next performance at the Theatre Royal in Stratford, London, in September 1965 (in which pages 89–127 were played as the last of three sections), Cardew wrote: “This was the first performance in which the pauses (numbers) were read as repeated chords.”43 As in the anthropomorphism in Treatise: An Animated Analysis, there is what might be interpreted as a stylized face on the right of page 95 (see Example 5). Christopher Hobbs has suggested that these pictorial elements (another face is found on page 150, a building resembling a factory or power station on page 66 (see Example 6), a Citroën Deux-Chevaux car on page 46, among others) may be, like Satie’s instructions on much of his piano music, a private entertainment for the performers.44 Some of these figures are distinct; others are vague suggestions, like the interpretation of figures in clouds. [insert file Anderson.Ex4.pdf] Example 4. Cardew, Treatise, p. 92. © Peters Edition, edition no. EP7560. Reproduced by kind permission. 42 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, ix. 43 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, x. 44 Hobbs, in conversation with author, April 2003. [insert file Anderson.Ex5.pdf] Example 5. Cardew, Treatise, end of p. 95. © Peters Edition, edition no. EP7560. Reproduced by kind permission. [insert file Anderson.Ex6.pdf] Example 6. Cardew, Treatise, p. 66. © Peters Edition, edition no. EP7560. Reproduced by kind permission. Clusters of clefs and other music symbols occur on page 99 and 101, but in the main, pages 89–106 form a rather blank section. A player choosing, say, to play only circular elements would rest for most of the performance. If all players kept together and most played all available elements at this concert—at least where possible—then White’s constant contrary motion would have been striking, particularly since Cardew himself said that Treatise “is written from left to right and ‘treats’ of its graphic subject matter in exhaustive ‘arguments’,” showing a link to Tractatus and language.45 However, by reversing the link between pitch and height on the page, White distanced Treatise from a deeply-held assumption in reading symbolic notation.46 READING TREATISE AS VISUAL ART AND AMM The Stratford performance in September 1965 was notable for the participation of Keith Rowe, a guitarist with a background in jazz and the visual arts. Another jazz player, the saxophonist John Surman, played this time, but Cardew makes no mention of any effect this may have had upon the performance. Possibly the effect was minimal because this was a conducted performance (the conductor was Peter Greenham); possibly both players did not assert any ostensible jazz-based improvisation elements. It was not until 15 January 1966, in a recording broadcast by the BBC in 45 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, x. This arrangement is as deeply held as the impression from maps that there is an “up” north and “down” south. 46 the series “Composer’s Portrait,” that Rowe had a profound effect upon Treatise and upon Cardew’s concerns with experimental music. John White (trombone), John Tilbury (piano), David Bedford (accordion), Keith Rowe (electric guitar), Peter Greenham (this time on Hammond organ), and Cardew (piano, gong and radios) played on the BBC recording. Cardew’s personal choice of instruments was influenced by the first solo performance of Treatise, which he had given at the Watford Institute of Technology in London in October 1965. At Watford, Cardew had paired his performance of pages 107–126 with a solo performance of Plus-Minus, in which he again used transistor radios to mask the negative elements, as he had done in concert with Frederic Rzewski. He used the same “instrumentarium”47 for Treatise, in which he interpreted squares as sounds for the gong, circles as radio sounds, the five-line staves as chords and any marks within it as piano preparations. The BBC recording in 1966 used the same pages as the Watford performance and, presumably, some of the same suggestions. Cardew reproduced his pre-performance talk in Treatise Handbook, in which he outlined the work’s origin and use as a visual stimulus for the first time. The idea of writing Treatise came to me at a time when I was working as a graphic designer in a publisher’s office. While there I came to be occupied more and more with designing diagrams and charts and in the course of this work I became aware of the potential eloquence of simple black lines in a diagram. Thin, thick, curving, broken, and then the varying tones of grey made up of equally spaced parallel lines, and then the type—numbers, words, short sentences like ornate, literary, artnouveauish visual interlopers in the purely graphic context of the diagram. Recently, working on the performance we are going to do now, it has struck me that the use of a wireless set as a musical instrument is analogous to the appearance of type on a diagram. It is a pre-processed, fully-fashioned element in amongst a whole lot of raw material.48 47 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, x. 48 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, x. Cardew’s collaboration with Keith Rowe would prove to be profound. Rowe and AMM saxophonist Lou Gare had met as members of the Mike Westbrook Band, a modern jazz ensemble that kept the organization and chart system of earlier jazz. Rowe said it “was a very emulative style of American jazz, probably based around late Ellington and Mingus.”49 They met Eddie Prévost, who was a drummer in another band, and began playing together. Rowe and Gare were art-school veterans. Rowe “ceased to tune his guitar in 1961,”50 and used his art-school background to compensate for his lack of music-reading skills: I’d get the part from Mike Westbrook, get some idea of what the music was like, find a picture that I thought was appropriate and glue that on to the opposite page of the chart. I would play the picture and they would play from the dots.51 Unless the picture is used symbolically (as in a road sign), visual “composition” usually consists of cues for eye movements, building an interpretation of the entire page in the order of the cues, rather than as a linguistic sign/symbol relationship in linear time. Rowe and Gare related their performance to their visual art background, as Rowe explained: [I]n painting you can paint something any colour, as long as you get the tone right, then overall the landscape will work …. Then we took those sorts of ideas, and said, Let’s forget the pitch, but get the timing of the note right. So it didn’t matter what note you played, so long as you got the timing right. Of course this was chaotic in the context of jazz music! And of course, then dropping the bar-lengths too just created havoc. Well, in the end we had to leave.52 Rowe, Gare, and Prévost, along with Laurence Sheaff, formed the group AMM in 1965, a free-improvisation ensemble based on experimental, rather than free-jazz, principles and adopted 49 Christopher Hobbs, “AMM: Eddie Prévost, Keith Rowe,” Perspectives of New Music 21/1 (1982), 34. Zoe Sosinka, AMM—a History and Aesthetic (undergraduate dissertation, De Montfort University [UK], 1994), 3. 50 51 Kenneth Ansell, “AMM: The Sound as Music,” The Wire 11 (January 1985); as quoted in Sosinka, 3. 52 Hobbs, “AMM,” 35. an experimental sound world that favored layered, or “laminal”53 long tones and long silences to the busy angularity of typical British free jazz. Cardew found Rowe to be the facilitator who made Treatise the “transition between my early preoccupation with problems of music notation and my present concerns—improvisation and a musical life.”54 Cardew thought that Rowe “bore more or less the same relation to the electric guitar as David Tudor did to the piano (I put that in the past tense because by no stretch of the imagination could you now call them guitarist or pianist respectively).”55 Cardew soon joined AMM—he participated in a concert at the Conway Hall in May 196656—and found this collaboration profound: Joining AMM was the turning point, both in the composition of Treatise and in everything I have thought about music up to now. Before that, Treatise had been an elaborate attempt at graphic notation of music; after that time it became simply graphic music…, a network of nameless lines and spaces pursuing their own geometry untethered to themes and modulations, 12-note series and their transformations, the rules or laws of musical composition and all the other figments of the musicological imagination.57 Even so, Cardew announced in the re-broadcast of the 1966 BBC concert in 1970: Well, scrutinise any point closely enough and you are liable to see it as a turning point, in relation to which everything else is either before or after,—and this tells us something about the activity of scrutinising, but very little about music. Which is my devious way of saying that what you are going to hear is music, not a turning point ….58 Eddie Prévost, liner notes to AMM, Laminal (Matchless Recordings, MRCD31, 1996). The term “laminal” comes from Evan Parker’s description of AMM sound as “laminar” (Evan Parker, talk at the Actual Music Festival, ICA, August 1980. Quoted in Clive Bell, ‘History of the LMC’, Variant, issue 8 <http://www.variant.ndtilda.co.uk/8texts/Clive_Bell.html>, accessed 25 May 2003). 53 54 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, x. 55 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, x-xi. 56 Hobbs, “AMM,” 35. 57 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, xi. 58 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, xi. IF IT DOES NOT HAVE RULES, IS TREATISE A COMPOSITION? In February, Cardew wrote in his diary that if “asked what all those squiggles in Treatise mean, I might reasonably answer: a) that it is very complicated to explain, and explanations are of dubious value, and b) that in any case it is secret.”59 By March he joked that Treatise was a vertebrate, as noted in the introduction to this article.60 More formally, in May, Cardew wrote in an Arts Council grant application, “Treatise is a graphic score, composed without reference to any system of rules governing the interpretation.”61 Once Cardew removed the rules for Treatise, he called into question its definition as a score, even as music. Experimental music has been fascinated by the boundaries of what can and cannot be called music. Cage’s 4'33" called into question whether music required intentional sound to be music; La Monte Young’s Poem for chairs, tables, benches, etc. (1960) also explored whether accidental sound could be considered music. Here the score consists of instructions that ask the performer to push the objects in the title around the performance space; the “Poem” of the title explores the possibility that this piece may fall between two or even more arts, given its reliance on sight and movement as well as sound. Such semantic and philosophical play is foreign to the structures and assumptions of traditional musicology. If one accepts Carl Dahlhaus’ definition, even with rules Treatise was already on the border of what could be called a composition. George Lewis summarized this definition. Cardew, Treatise Handbook, vii. This seems to be an allusion to AMM, as the letters “AMM” are an acronym, the meaning of which is secret. 59 60 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, vii. 61 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, vii. According to Dahlhaus, a composition is, first, an individually complete structure in itself (“ein in sich geschlossenes, individuelles Gebilde”). Second, this structure must be fully worked out (“ausgearbeitet”). Third and fourth, it is fixed in written form (“schriftlich fixiert”) in order to be performed (“um aufgeführt zu werden”). Finally, what is worked out and notated must constitute the essential part of the aesthetic object that is constituted in the consciousness of the listener. 62 Treatise is an individually complete structure that is fully worked out as an arrangement of graphic elements. Depending upon what exactly Dahlhaus meant by “ausgearbeitet” (“worked out”), many experimental pieces are in danger of falling at this second hurdle. Treatise is fixed in written form and is written out with the express intention of performance, but Cardew broke the cognitive agreement Dahlhaus assumed that there should be between the fixed score and performance. With few exceptions, once Cardew scrapped the rules for Treatise, most of the later text pieces written by Cardew and the Scratch Orchestra comply with this criterion better than Treatise does. It is obvious that Dahlhaus did not anticipate the implications of his definition if it were applied to experimental notation, as Treatise fails the last test—that the structure of the piece is essential to perception by the listener—even in most performances in which the performer attempts to follow a perceived consistent symbology. In fact, La Monte Young’s Piano Piece for David Tudor #1 (1960)63 passes all Dahlhaus’ criteria easily, and is, according to his conditions, more of a composition than Treatise. Such is the hazard of attempting to make rules for all music at all times.64 Christopher Ballantine articulated the difference between experimental music and Western art music as Dahlhaus understood it: Lewis, “Improvised Music after 1950,” 96. Quotations from Carl Dahlhaus, “Was Heisst Improvisation?” in Improvisation und neue Musik: Acht Kongreßrefeate, ed. Reinhold Brinkmann (Mainz: Scott, 1979), 9–10. 62 “Bring a bale of hay and a bucket of water onto the stage for the piano to eat and drink. The performer may then feed the piano or leave it to eat by itself. If the former, the piece is over after the piano has been fed. If the latter, it is over after the piano eats or decides not to.” 63 Lewis notes that Dahlhaus exempts non-Western music, but he finds other major problems when this definition is applied to Afro-American and Euro-American experimental music. 64 [I]n traditional music, the musical language is predetermined to a very great extent; it is a donnée and to that extent a kind of “fate.” In experimental music, on the other hand, the notion of this pregiven “fate” is radically overthrown; the horizons of the musical language are established anew with each piece, or at any rate each performance. 65 The jazz critic and experimental music promoter Victor Schonfield also emphasized the role of the listener in the assessment of the “aesthetic object” but without Dahlhaus’ fixed perception of structure: The assumption that certain relationships between realisations indicate “successful” indeterminacy in performance is absurd, since the closeness of the relationship depends on the degree of indeterminacy the composer has built into the score: many good scores (such as Cornelius Cardew’s Treatise) permit numerous faithful and interesting realizations with no similarities whatsoever, and many others (such as those of Morton Feldman) permit hardly any noticeable differences at all. The successful indeterminate score is simply one which can give rise to what the listener considers good music, and good music of a kind which could not be created by the traditional methods of composition or improvisation.66 Cardew continued to provide suggestions for interpretations in the rest of his prepublication performances of Treatise, but he did so with the knowledge that these “suggestions” were no longer essential to the piece. After Wittgenstein rejected the positivism of Tractatus, he wrote, in Philosophical Investigations: “[A]ny interpretation still hangs in the air along with what it interprets, and cannot give it any support. Interpetations by themselves do not determine meaning.67 In another February diary entry, Cardew quoted Wittgenstein: “‘And if e.g. you play a game you hold by its rules. And it is an interesting fact that people set up rules for pleasure, and then hold by them’.”68 Christopher Ballantine, “Towards an Aesthetic of Experimental Music,” The Musical Quarterly 63/2 (1977), 235 65 66 Victor Schonfield, “Indeterminate Scores [Letter],” The Musical Times 110/1514 (1969), 375. 67 “Jede Deutung hängt, mitsamt dem Gedeuteten, in der Luft; sie kann ihm nicht als Stütze dienen. Die Deutungen allein bestimmen die Bedeutung nicht.” Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, tr. G. E. M. Anscombe (Oxford: Blackwell, 1967), 80-80e. 68 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, vii. LATER PERFORMANCE HISTORY AND PERFORMANCE STRATEGIES After joining AMM, Cardew began to stress the continuous nature of Treatise, obscuring its musical construction and emphasizing the visual ones. In the program for a concert in Buffalo, New York, on December 17, 1966, Cardew noted the variety of valid interpretations: Treatise is a long continuous drawing—in form rather similar to a novel. But it is composed according to musical principles and is intended to serve as a score for musicians to play from. However, indications of sounds, noises and musical relationships do not figure in the score, which is purely graphic (rare exceptions occur when the signs used are reminiscent of musical notations—to the professional musician, these appear as lights in the fog, but for the fully indoctrinated reader, they pose knotty problems in musicology). 69 The continuous nature of Treatise is a feature that attracts many people. Bob Clarida, a fellow student of mine in graduate school, photocopied the entirety of Treatise and pinned it around his sitting room above the picture rail. In the 1980s, Dave Smith found a use for a continuous version of Treatise beyond that of wallpaper. He had a continuous transparency made of successive pages that could be rolled across an overhead projector, thus allowing some measure of time-space coordination as well as a visual display for the audience. This visual cue for the audience seems to have been considered by several other performers to be important beyond a simple aesthetic pleasure in viewing the score. The American composer Elliott Schwartz directed student performances, one in the early 1980s, the other in the mid-1990s: In both situations, I used a small number of pages—around 8, 9 or 10 pages (always consecutive)—and allowed one minute of performance time per page. In both, I created a “slide show” of the pages being used & had the audience following the symbolic graphics. Beyond that, though, the two performances were quite different. 70 Kevin Holm-Hudson performed a spontaneous solo version in 1984, in which he asked the audience to choose which pages he would play. Holm-Hudson does not remember any 69 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, xii. 70 Elliott Schwartz, personal correspondence to author, May 8, 2003. problems arising from such an unprepared reading—which may have followed Cardew’s 1970 assessment that “[a] square musician (like myself) might use Treatise as a path to the ocean of spontaneity”—,71 but he did feel that the audience missed out: One problem I realized as I embarked on the project was that it would have been much more meaningful for the audience if they could see the score as I played, but without 193 transparencies (awkward and prohibitively expensive!) that would not have been possible.72 In order to make Treatise continuous in execution as well as in concept, one must remove the right and left margins of each page. Cardew’s clearer emphasis on the continuous nature of the score makes it possible to accept that such margins exist only because of printing necessity; but Cardew himself was willing to change notation indications. In both the December 17, 1966, concert in Buffalo and one in the Carnegie Recital Hall in New York City on the 20th, the group of New York professionals who played pages 1-20 agreed to reduce the first indication, the number 34, to play seventeen pianissimo chords. This agreement was made as a performance decision in a concert that was carefully determined beforehand (Cardew wrote a series of fivenote chords to interpret the five-line staff elements and he acted as conductor, cueing the rest by coordinating page turns). Such strictures seem to have been demanded by the players, as Cardew wrote in the program notes: The score does not specify the number or kind of instruments to be used, nor does it provide rules for the interpretation of the graphic material. Each player interprets the score according to his own acumen and sensibility. He may be guided by many things—by the internal structure of the score itself, by his personal experience of music-making, by reference to the various traditions growing up around this and other indeterminate works, by the action of the other musicians working on the piece, and—failing these—by conversation with the composer during rehearsal. 73 71 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, i. 72 Kevin Holm-Hudson, personal correspondence to author, April 28, 2003. 73 Cardew, Treatise Handbook, i. Instrumentation often seems to have been determined by what was available on the day, either in situ at the performance venue (Peter Greenham on Hammond organ at the January 1966 BBC recording, for instance) or which would be needed in other pieces on the program (as in Cardew’s October 1965 solo concert of Treatise with Plus-Minus). Other performances were more serendipitous—for instance, the Arts Council Drawing Room concert on January 16, 1967, in which John Tilbury played piano, while David Bedford, who usually played accordion, joined Francine Elliott in playing balloons. Since there are no rules for Treatise, instrumentation can be varied by the performers at will. At a concert by the members of COMA (Contemporary Music-Making for Amateurs) at Leeds Holy Trinity Church, June 26, 1999, the players (flute/bass clarinet, clarinet, tenor sax, viola/percussion, cello/percussion, guitar, organ, piano) were directed by John Tilbury, who asked that certain instrumental combinations play certain pages.74 Restrictions are severe or loose according to the preference of the directors. John Tilbury suggested that the COMA ensemble interpret pages 84–5, which contain numerous small open circles spread in an almost stellar manner around the central life-line, as “quite sparse and Webernesque.”75 Elliot Schwartz favored a classic interpretation: [T]he horizontal line was taken to be “normative” in terms of stability-traditionensemble agreement-etc. (but not middle register); we worked out a group interpretation (written on the blank staves), rehearsed it & performed it a la regularly notated chamber music.76 According to COMA member Stephen Chase, the division was as follows: “pp.1–14 (ensemble), p190 (flute and cello), p16–19 (ensemble), p89 (clarinet and bass clarinet), p168 (guitar), pp42–44 (ensemble) p91 (viola, cello, guitar, piano), pp63–64 (sax), pp84-85 (ensemble), p64 (organ), p150 (ensemble), p183 (piano), pp187–193 (ensemble)” [S. T. Chase, personal correspondence to author, May 1, 2003]. 74 75 Chase, personal correspondence. 76 Elliot Schwartz, personal correspondence to author, May 4, 2003. Schwartz refers to one of Treatise’s most prominent features—a pair of blank staves. Originally, Cardew placed these staves at the bottom of each page in the score as a practical feature on which the interpreter could write his or her realisation. There is a similar staff beneath the symbolic elements in his earlier work Autumn ’60,77 which lies below each line of the score itself, but which is not to be played as the score. Since Cardew abandoned the instructions, however, a musically literate interpretation was only one option from an infinite number of possible interpretations. As such, the staves presumably could be a further graphic to some interpreters. In this sense the person using the staves in the manner intended, by writing upon them, could be writing on the score itself, while Schwartz’s equally-valid conventional approach would treat these realizations as performance notes, much as articulation or bowing indications can be found on every orchestral part. Graphic realizations (as opposed to symbolic ones) can take many forms. In February 1966, art students in Leeds who performed pages 89–129 with Cardew and Robin Page enlarged the score and painted it in colors. Cardew had envisaged a colored version in his diary entries in December 1963, but he never made such a version. In the mid-1990s, Christopher Hobbs realized a page as a map rather than a painting or a score. He and a group of improvising students at De Montfort University placed a copy of one page on the floor. This page was then used to indicate areas in the performance space in which musical events would happen. As a map, the symbols stood for movement and location, and may not have had anything to do with the resulting sound. Since the performance degree at De Montfort was changed in the late 1990s to a music technology program, Hobbs has used Treatise for electronic realization by students, 77 Published in Four Works (London: Universal Edition, 1967). many who have little or no skill in traditional notation reading. One student, Edward West, chose to interpret page 149—a series of staff-based elements combined with partial and whole ellipses —as cartoon music, as he thought that the ellipses looked like the ears of cartoon mice. Performing Treatise calls for great discipline by its performers. It expands rather than limits performance choice, even as in free improvisation, but in doing so it increases the responsibility of the performer for its success. John Tilbury called it “sensational, beautiful as to be inhibiting for all but the boldest spirits, its visual impact disconcertingly putting most performances of it in the shade.”78 Barney Childs wrote, “Treatise includes the entire world of performable sound as potential; the performer serves as screenout, as filter, through his particular responses.”79 Cardew found this to be a drawback: The danger in this kind of work is that many readers of the score will simply relate the musical memories they have already acquired to the notation in front of them, and the result will be merely a gulash made up of the various musical backgrounds of the people involved. For such players there will be no intelligible incentive to invent music or extend themselves beyond the limitations of their education and experience. 80 Cardew sought to prevent such complacency in his next large work, The Great Learning (1968– 71). Written for players of any ability, The Great Learning combines text scores and graphic notation with instructions designed to guide the performers away from those limitations. However, the implications for composition and performance shown by Treatise were both profound and far-reaching. John White, who loosened the expected rules in his “perverse” interpretation of Treatise, became the first British minimalist when he invented systems (also John Tilbury, “The Music,” Program notes, Cardew Memorial Concert, Queen Elizabeth Hall, May 16, 1982, p. 7. 78 Barney Childs, “Some Notes toward a Philosophy of Notation,” ASUC Proceedings 1972-73 (1974). 70. 79 80 Cardew, “Towards an Ethic of Improvisation,” Treatise Handbook, xix. known as systemic music) in his Machine series in the late 1960s and early 1970s. In the “Machine Letters” that accompanied the May 17, 197,1 performance of White’s Machine for Tuba and Cello (1968), White wrote: Your letters…remind me of early rehearsals and performances of your Treatise, where I reckon my musical education actually began. When people talk about the impossibility of playing Treatise I find it hard to think in general terms. All that comes to mind is a feeling of awe at having been in on the early days when the great impossibilities hadn’t yet occurred to anyone. All of my Machines are the wayward and prodigal sons of Treatise. (I wonder how many other wild oats get sown by Treatise when you weren’t looking!). 81 Cardew, who adopted Maoism in the early 1970s, denounced Treatise with his other experimental music and began writing political music in a tonal idiom. However, he showed indications of returning to some forms of experimental composition in the years between Mao’s death in 1977 and his own death by a hit-and-run driver in 1982, including a stated intention to rehearse with AMM. Because his life was cut short, Cardew was unable to see that Treatise continued to sow “wild oats” in the form of performances even more than in similar compositions. Many of these performances might have surprised and delighted its composer, who could not have foreseen the variety and ingenuity of solutions to the problem of its performance. John White, Letter to Cornelius Cardew, April 23, 1971, published in John White, Machine Letters, accompaniment to the program for a concert of White’s Machine for Tuba and Cello, May 17, 1971 at Queen Elizabeth Hall, London. 81