Reflections
on the relation between interpreter, composer and
audience
Article
published in Finnish Music Quarterly
II/1999
Discovering
the music around myself
For
many years I have been described as a cellist who
specialises in contemporary music. This may be
true, but I have yet to fully understand what is
meant by "specialising" and what is meant by
"contemporary". I developed quite early an interest
in fresh music, music to which my ears were not yet
accustomed. This led to a desire to know the people
behind this music, which in turn led to many other
things. Curiosity is the key word behind this
personal journey in time. In this article I will
elaborate on some of my views about interpreting,
composing and performing. I admit that at times my
views are a touch idealistic, but that, I think, is
my real speciality.
On
the relation between composer and
performer
The
relation between composer and performer is very
complex. Although the role of the instrumentalist
may be very important, it is rarely that of an
inventor. In fact, it usually works the other way
round. If an instrumentalist writes music for his
own instrument, the result is often not interesting
in the technical sense, for he tends to write
something that is comfortable to perform or to
over-exploit certain personal facilities. On the
other hand, a non-performing composer often comes
up with ideas that will force the player to look
for new solutions on the instrument. Later, the
composer faces the question of what is possible to
perform within a certain context. There may be a
hundred books about writing for the cello, but
everything is a question of context. Nobody will
ever be able to list all the possible - or
impossible - ways of combining things. The
performer steps in to sort out the innovative from
the impossible. This is the moment when the role of
the performer is crucial, the moment of trying out
new ways of approaching an instrument.
If
the instrumentalist has no personal relation with
the composer, he will not necessarily know what the
composer is looking for. If there is a passage that
is not instantly playable, the interpreter can do a
lot of damage by declaring it impossible to play.
Many composers have suffered from not having
trusting relationships with players. The ideas of a
composer may be excellent but need some fine
tuning. However, after the flat assertion that
something cannot be done, the composer may abandon
what could have become a whole new world. He may
also feel hurt and decide to leave the work just as
it is, and this may be both musically and
technically regrettable. It will be extremely
difficult to repair the damage later. A future
performer may never have the opportunity to discuss
the matter with the composer and will lack
authorisation for his solutions.
The
solution for a seemingly impossible passage may be
extremely simple, but one has to have experience to
find it. Often changing the order of two notes in a
passage is all that is needed. There are composers
who may use completely new ways of using the
instrument, yet there is no need to ask for
changes. On the other hand there are other
composers who write more "absolute" music without
thinking of the instrument, and this may lead to
problems of execution. In this case one has to work
very hard. There are times when a composer may
trust a performer so much that he believes anything
must be possible, and that raises some surprising
problems.
This
personal relationship, such as I have been able to
develop with many composers, is very important to
me. I try to place myself in their worlds, each
completely different. They may be looking for
something through my cello that has nothing to do
with what anyone else is doing. So when I talk to
them and try out their ideas, I have a tremendous
responsibility to look behind the notes, to
understand what they are looking for, why it sounds
like that and whether it could possibly be even
more effective.
Looking
back is looking into the future
I
cannot talk to composers who have long been dead
and ask what they meant with a certain passage.
However, when I take up a score by Brahms,
Beethoven or Schumann, I can use my experience with
living composers. I try to understand their way of
using notation, how much they left out of the
score, how far what they wrote on paper is a
compromise between an idea and a transcript. Each
composer has his own way of doing this. I can,
naturally, never be sure with Schumann, for
example, but from my experience with composer
friends I do have a better chance of finding the
right answer. Composers are often very strict about
some aspect of their music but may be surprisingly
open about others: the performer has to be able to
imagine where the border lies.
The
reason for playing different music on different
instruments springs from the idea that composers
have a particular sound in mind when composing a
piece. When a composer is writing a new piece for
me, it is possible that he will hear the sound of
my cello in his mind, not some future ideal of the
instrument. This does not mean that another cellist
on another cello cannot play the piece, but it does
mean I can feel fairly secure in knowing that the
sounds I make on my cello are probably quite close
to the ones the composer had in mind.
If
I take a Bach suite and try to get close to its
composer, I might manage to get a little further in
his direction by using the kind of instrument he
would have heard himself. It does not guarantee
anything other than just a slightly better chance
of getting the right idea. Also, by knowing as much
as possible about his way of committing his ideas
to paper, I have a better chance of playing the
piece he imagined. When one knows the sound one
instrument makes, one can look for a corresponding
sound on another instrument and not be hampered by
acquired habits.
Why
am I talking about Baroque instruments in the
context of modern music? What can I contribute to
the music of today by knowing the cello of Bach's
day? A Baroque instrument has different kinds of
strings, a different kind of bow. A number of
things are different in the sound, the overtones,
in the way a tone is produced. The strings start
producing noise if you apply just a little too much
pressure. All these aspects interest composers
today. In looking for the perfect sound, I can
start with the normal cello, maybe change the
strings, use gut instead of metal. We might
suddenly find we have discovered exactly the sound
they imagined. So, looking back and looking into
the future is a constant two-way exercise that
makes life much richer.
Is
beauty only a habit?
Beauty
can be found in the most surprising places. Kaija
Saariaho, for example, is a composer who has
changed our conception of many sounds. We might
take a look at any of her string pieces in which
the tone becomes noise under extreme bow pressure.
Even though we, as instrumentalists, were taught at
the conservatory that one should never make that
kind of sound, it is beautiful here; it is not a
note that is destroyed but a beautiful sound in
itself. This very sound in a piece by another
composer might be painful, just as the same note
played by someone who does not feel its beauty
would sound painful.
Our
conception of beauty changes all the time. For
some, beauty may be in the forbidden, for others it
is in the repetition. Music that is shocking today
may sound beautiful tomorrow. Something that in one
piece sounds painful today will be transformed into
something else when I play it tomorrow. Why or when
this happens I cannot say. Impressing by shocking
is difficult in the long run, because it only works
once. The same happens in trying to make the
biggest effect; tomorrow somebody will be even
bigger and your effort will have acquired new
meaning.
As
a performer I must try to imagine how the music
sounded in the composers ears, or to the audiences
that heard it for the first time. I must then find
a way of shocking with music that may have become
acceptable. I do not do this by adding some effect
that I think should shock today; I must do it
mentally. If I can feel the pain myself, others
should feel it, too.
On
freedom and its restrictions
Being
totally free is the most difficult state for us. We
must first define what we mean by freedom. In the
history of music, it was often during the times
with most restrictions and rules that the most
interesting music was written. The fact that
composers had to write according to certain rules
did not necessarily limit them. On the contrary,
they had to find more ways of getting round the
rules. Somehow, the imagination works well in these
circumstances. It is easier to try to avoid
something, to find how to be cleverer than others
in getting round a certain restriction than it is
to have no rules and be completely free. Being a
composer today must be very demanding because you
have to define everything yourself: style, beauty,
form, notation, etc.
Each
instrumentalist is a physical being who makes music
with an object that has certain physical
limitations. If we add to this the rules set by the
composer in his work, the boundaries within which
we must make music may seem quite restricting. But
it is these limitations that give us our freedom.
When I jump to a note very far away on the
finger-board and actually have no time to get
there, I have to fool myself and forget the
physical impossibility. I also have to fool the
listener and make him/her forget that I actually
spent more time getting there than I was supposed
to. Often we have to be magicians and let the
listeners brain fill in the parts that are not
really there. We create an illusion of a work that
does not necessarily exist.
The
role of the performer
What
is the role of the performer in this triangle of
audience, performer and composer? The old question
is: who is the most important? We, the
interpreters, are at the service of the composer,
but we are also at the service of the public, and
of an abstract idea of music. We can only be at the
service of the composer if we take an active part
in this triangle. We should understand somebody
else's mind more than is really possible. First we
must enter the mind of the composer, then that of
our fellow musicians, and finally that of the
individuals that form the audience.
I
believe that in order to interpret music with the
greatest freedom, we have to be as faithful as
possible to the composer. In doing so we create for
ourselves a certain structure within which we can
operate at liberty. From this starting point our
decisions sound like free choice, like inspiration
and improvisation instead of the carrying out of
instructions.
I
disagree with musicians who say that we just need
to let our imagination flow freely and forget the
composer's instructions. They believe that by
regarding the composer's instructions too highly,
we limit our expression and hide our own
personality. It is true that there will always be
some geniuses who can perform any piece in their
own personal style and be convincing, but that does
not mean that we should all behave like that. At
the very least we should give the composer a chance
to convince us, and maybe we will then be able to
convince the listener.
My
personality will always be present in any
performance I give. I cannot separate it from
anything I do. If, for example, I play a simple
long note according to strict instructions,
pianissimo, no vibrato, it will still always be my
interpretation of that note. Within the context of
the work as a whole, the ultimate authority will
nevertheless be the composer.
Performers
often fall into the trap of trying to sound
interesting. In order to impress, they try to add
something to the music to make sure that it is
interesting. For generations, players have been
afraid of boring audiences with masterpieces,
adding little personal touches to such an extent
that after a couple of generations it is difficult
to recognise the original composition. Actually,
the piece becomes boring because it belongs to no
one any longer, and certainly not to the
composer.
Understanding
the process of interpretation is complicated and
will always remain somehow metaphysical. We are
alchemists of a kind: the clearer an idea we have
of the basic principles of musicianship, the more
we have room to operate. The more we remove the
mysteries about music, the closer we can get to
pinpointing those things that should always remain
a mystery.
The
relation with the audience
All
our senses are intensely stimulated in so many
different ways today: at home, in the car, at the
office, wherever, all the time. Paradoxically, this
creates an enormous threat of boredom. The main
concern of people in their free time is to be
entertained, to not be bored. They feel that if
they go to a concert, they must be entertained and
stimulated all the time. They compare the
stimulation they receive at a concert with other
kinds of stimulation in everyday life which have
nothing to do with music. I am playing to people
who most of the time are used to having all sorts
of mega-stimulation without even paying attention
to it. Even opera houses are installing earthquake
simulators to impress people more. Big alone seems
to be a measurable effect.
So
when I am playing a new piece for solo cello, I am
competing with Jurassic Park, with three tenors
singing to 500,000 people in a park, with the World
Cup. How do we compete with that? It should not be
a problem, but the knowledge of what goes on around
us can sometimes be difficult to ignore. For me
just as much as for the audience. It often leads us
to strive for effect even in the most intimate
piece. However, as a performer I do have the
privilege of letting the audience forget that life
exists outside this piece of music. I only have to
seize the moment.
Where
has music taken the cello?
It
is interesting to see how cello techniques have
developed this century. Many parallel paths have
been followed: Ysaye, Enescu, Ustvolskaya,
Dallapiccola, Zimmermann, Dutilleux and Saariaho
are just some of the important composers who have
contributed to the development of the cello. Yet
one cannot say that any composer takes over where
his/her predecessors left off. Just as they all had
to invent their musical idiom, they also had to
invent the instrumental idiom that goes with it. I
am sure they all carefully studied what had been
done with the cello before, but it is very
difficult to point out parallels between them. This
century has been a time of diversification and
multiplication as much in the musical as in the
technical sense.
While
the 20th century has produced more styles of
playing and composing than any previous era, there
is a tendency to give everything a label. Nothing
is more frustrating than explaining what
contemporary, avant-garde, modern, post-modern,
spectral, west-coast, up-town etc., means, and why
one cannot cohabit with another. I am convinced
that there is no such thing as modern - or even
classical - music; these terms exist only in our
prejudiced minds. For me there is only music that
already inspires me and music that maybe one day
will.
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