THE DEVIL AND THE DETAILS: NEGOTIATING VIRTUOSITY, AGENCY,

AND AUTHENTICITY IN KARLHEINZ STOCKHAUSEN’S KATHINKAS

GESANG ALS LUZIFERS REQUIEM FOR SOLO FLUTE

Wayla Joy Ewart Chambo, B.M., M.F.A.

Dissertation Prepared for the Degree of

DOCTOR OF MUSICAL ARTS

UNIVERSITY OF NORTH TEXAS

May 2015

APPROVED:

Terri Sundberg, Major Professor Elizabeth McNutt, Committee Member David Bard-Schwarz, Committee Member John Holt, Chair of the Department of Instrumental Studies Benjamin Brand, Director of Graduate Studies of the College of Music James Scott, Dean of the College of Music Costas Tsatsoulis,Interim Dean of Toulouse Graduate School Chambo, Wayla Joy Ewart. The Devil and the Details: Negotiating Virtuosity,

Agency, and Authenticity in Karlheinz Stockhausen’s Kathinkas Gesang als Luzifers

Requiem for Solo Flute. Doctor of Musical Arts (Performance), May 2015, 210 pp., 2 figures, 13 musical examples, bibliography, 95 titles.

Karlheinz Stockhausen’s Kathinkas Gesang als Luzifers Requiem presents mental, physical, and musical challenges that go beyond the usual expectations of an instrumentalist, extending and redefining the traditional idea of virtuosity. Using firsthand performance experience, score and recording study, and flutist interviews, this document explores the effects of some of these heightened demands and argues that the particular performance situation presented by Kathinkas Gesang brings up critical questions about the performer’s role, the nature of performance and of the musical work, and the existence of an authoritatively “authentic” interpretation.

Employing an expanded definition of virtuosity that includes interpretation and encompasses both choices and actions, the document discusses the extensions of virtuosity into two main areas: first, memory; and second, staging and movement, covering both practical suggestions and larger implications. Finally, it examines how the performer’s negotiation of these challenges relates to questions about authenticity and agency. Performance is defined here as a creative and collaborative act, not attempting to duplicate previous performances or recordings, but rather to give the best realization of the piece possible in the given circumstances, according to the individual’s interpretation of the score’s directions. There is no single “authentic” interpretation, but rather a rich multiplicity of possibilities, and the performer’s creative agency and personal authenticity are necessary for the full realization of the work. Copyright 2015

by

Wayla Joy Ewart Chambo

ii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Grateful appreciation is extended to the Stockhausen Foundation for Music,

Kürten, Germany (www.karlheinzstockhausen.org). All examples in this dissertation are

excerpts from the score of Kathinkas Gesang als Luzifers Requiem by Karlheinz

Stockhausen, and are used with their permission.

I would like to thank my teachers and committee members, Prof. Terri Sundberg,

Dr. Elizabeth McNutt, and Dr. David Bard-Schwarz, for their help and encouragement

throughout my doctoral studies. Due to our close work together and her area of

expertise in contemporary music, Dr. McNutt has made especially significant

contributions to the development of many of the ideas expressed in this document.

I am grateful to Kathinka Pasveer for graciously answering questions and

supplying research materials, and to all of the flutists interviewed: Lise Daoust, Patricia

Spencer, Mary Stolper, Claire Genewein, Karin de Fleyt, Ellen Waterman, Carlton

Vickers, and Zara Lawler. Thank you to all who assisted with my production of

Kathinkas Gesang: Dr. Andrew May, Ben Johansen, Patrick Peringer, L. Scott Price,

and Mark Oliveiro (director and staff of UNT’s Center for Experimental Music and

Intermedia); Lily Sloan (choreography and makeup assistance); Heidi Klein (vocal

coaching); and Laurie Chambo (costume).

Grateful acknowledgement is also made to Leslie Ewart for generous assistance

with French translations, and to Catherine Maguire and Penny Chang for encouraging

my work with flute and dance. Finally, thank you to the friends and family who have

supported me throughout this project, especially James and Laurie Chambo, Ariel

Vanderpool, Lisa Bost-Sandberg, and David Stephenson.

iii TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ...... iii

LIST OF FIGURES ...... vii

LIST OF MUSICAL EXAMPLES ...... viii

CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION ...... 1

Significance and State of Research ...... 2

Method ...... 10

What is Virtuosity? : Towards a Working (Re)definition ...... 12

Virtuosity, Perfection, and Effort(lessness) ...... 18

Contextual and Dramatic Background ...... 24

Structure of Kathinkas Gesang ...... 28

“Extensions of Instrumental Practice” ...... 34

Goals and Scope of Study ...... 37

CHAPTER 2 MEMORY ...... 41

Memory and Virtuosity ...... 43

The Experience of Memory ...... 47

Initial Strategies for Memorization...... 50

Recommended Resources for Memorization Strategies ...... 53

Special Considerations in Kathinkas Gesang ...... 56

Sections that Challenge Memory ...... 58

iv Additional Memorization Strategies for Kathinkas Gesang ...... 71

Memory in Performance ...... 75

CHAPTER 3 STAGING, DRAMA, AND MOVEMENT ...... 81

Interpretation of Staging Instructions ...... 84

Composer’s Intentions ...... 86

Interpretive Decisions ...... 92

Stockhausen’s Staging Instructions ...... 93

Dramatic Context ...... 97

Elements of Staging: Character and Costume ...... 100

Character and Individuality ...... 102

Elements of Staging: Set ...... 107

Elements of Staging: Movement ...... 113

Moving While Playing the Flute: How to Begin? ...... 114

Movement Exercises ...... 117

Movement Directions in “Kathinkas Gesang” ...... 119

Movement Characteristics ...... 124

Movement Notation ...... 125

Comparison of Movement Choices/Realizations ...... 127

Why Movement? Reasons, Influences, and Effects ...... 134

Risks and Sacrifices ...... 137

v Effects of Movement in Performance ...... 139

Benefits of Interdisciplinary Practice ...... 140

Chapter Conclusion ...... 140

CHAPTER 4 CONCLUSION: AGENCY AND AUTHENTICITY ...... 143

What is Performance? ...... 144

Control of the Musical Work ...... 153

Authenticity ...... 161

Performer’s Role, Agency, and Interpretation ...... 170

Collaboration ...... 184

Study with Original Performers ...... 188

“Elle Les Créera Toutes” (She Created All of Them) ...... 190

Particular Relevance to Kathinkas Gesang ...... 195

Conclusion ...... 199

BIBLIOGRAPHY ...... 204

vi LIST OF FIGURES

All figures are © Stockhausen Foundation for Music, Kürten, Germany

(www.karlheinzstockhausen.org) and are reproduced with permission.

Page

1. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvi: Mandala 1 ...... 94

2. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvii: Mandala 2 ...... 95

vii LIST OF MUSICAL EXAMPLES

All examples are © Stockhausen Foundation for Music, Kürten, Germany

(www.karlheinzstockhausen.org) and are reproduced with permission.

Page

1. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 12 ...... 4

2. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 10 ...... 4

3. Stockhausen, “Lucifer Formula,” introduction Kathinkas Gesang, xi ...... 29

4. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 1 (Section 1) ...... 31

5. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 8 (Section 23) ...... 59

6. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 9 (beginning of Section 24) ...... 63

7. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 10 (end of Section 24 and

beginning of “Release of the Senses”) ...... 64

8. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 1 (“Salute”) ...... 64

9. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 12 (end of “Release” into

beginning of “Exit”) ...... 67

10. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 12 (end of “Exit”) ...... 68

11. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 1 (“Salute”) ...... 120

12. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 1 (“Salute”) ...... 130

13. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 10 (beginning of “Release of the

Senses”) ...... 132

viii CHAPTER 1

INTRODUCTION

In a performance of Karlheinz Stockhausen’s Kathinkas Gesang als Luzifers

Requiem (Kathinka’s Chant as Lucifer’s Requiem) the flutist must play a long and complex score from memory while simultaneously moving around the stage and embodying the theatrical character of a strange, supernatural black cat. The piece is approximately thirty-three minutes long and employs a variety of extended flute techniques. The composer specifies that it must always be played from memory, and gives instructions for the set, lighting, movements, and costume.

Kathinkas Gesang (1983) is the second scene of Stockhausen’s opera Samstag aus Licht (Saturday from Light), and can also be performed as an independent concert piece in several versions: flute with six percussionists, flute and electronic music, flute and piano, or solo flute. As Richard Toop notes, “the flute part is virtually the same in all versions, though the version with percussion has some theatrical dimensions missing in the others, and since there are moments in the non-solo versions where the flute is silent, obviously these are elided in the solo version.”1 This document focuses primarily

on the version for solo flute, though many of the topics discussed are also relevant to

other versions.

The piece is inspired in part by Stockhausen’s study of The Tibetan Book of the

Dead, a collection of rituals, prayers and instructions designed to help the dead on their

journey to liberation or rebirth.2 In addition to fulfilling the requirements described above,

1 . Richard Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang als Luzifers Requiem,” in Six Lectures from the Stockhausen Courses Kürten 2002 (Kürten, Germany: Stockhausen-Verlag, 2005), 107n7. 2. Patricia Spencer, “How Kathinka’s Chant as Lucifer’s Requiem by Karlheinz Stockhausen Redefines the Nature of Performance,” The Flutist Quarterly 17, no. 2 (Spring 1992): 9, 15n1. To what

1 the performer must find a way to engage with this esoteric context and communicate it

to the audience in a compelling fashion.

These mental, physical, and musical challenges go beyond the usual expectations of an instrumentalist, extending and redefining the traditional idea of

virtuosity. This document explores the effects of some of these heightened demands, in

both practice and performance, and argues that this particular performance situation

brings up critical questions about the performer’s role, the nature and control of the

musical work, and the definition (or even the possibility) of an authoritatively “authentic”

interpretation. Given the strong and specific connection of this piece to its original

performer, later performers must also consider the role of their own creative agency and

individual contributions to the interpretation of the work.

Significance and State of Research

Though much has been written about Stockhausen’s music, little of it deals

directly with performance practice, and there has been no extensive writing on his flute

works. Kathinkas Gesang is the most substantial of these works, and was the first of

many pieces that Stockhausen composed for the Dutch flutist Kathinka Pasveer, who

became one of his close collaborators. They worked together during the composition

process, and she performed the premieres of the concert version in 1983, the staged

version of the full opera in 1984, and the version with flute and electronics in 1985.3

Although it entered the repertoire nearly thirty years ago, Kathinkas Gesang has

degree this influenced the music is a matter of some question. According to Spencer’s footnote, Stockhausen told her that the music was written first, and the symbolic and dramatic context followed from that. 3. Kathinka Pasveer, email message to author, April 9, 2011.

2 been performed by only a handful of flutists. Nine professional flutists who have

performed Kathinkas Gesang, besides myself, could be identified and located; four of

these were European, three Canadian, and two American. While the actual total is

probably somewhat higher, the piece is clearly underperformed, especially when

compared with other important twentieth-century flute works such as Luciano Berio’s

Sequenza I (1958), or even Brian Ferneyhough’s extremely difficult Cassandra’s Dream

Song (1970). This seems surprising for a significant work by a major twentieth-century

composer. Likely contributing factors include the extraordinary demands the piece

makes on the performer (including extended techniques, length, memory, staging,

theatrics, and movement), the commitment of time and energy necessary to realize it,

and a lack of experience among flutists with confronting the types of performance

practice issues that it presents. The learning process takes several months, and

requires the flutist to deal with challenges outside the normal expectations of an

instrumentalist. In addition to negotiating a long and very complex musical score, the

flutist must also memorize the music, practice moving around the stage while playing

the flute, and make production decisions about the set, costume, lighting, etc.

The primary sources available include the score, the Deutsche Grammophon recording of Samstag aus Licht supervised by Stockhausen, and the composer’s published interviews, lectures, and writings. The score is a rich resource that includes twenty pages of performance instructions and notes (in German and English), as well as photographs of the premiere and of rehearsals. The musical score itself is dense and highly detailed, and contains a significant amount of text as well as various notational symbols for the extended techniques. See Examples 1 and 2.

3 Example 1: Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 12:

Example 2: Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 10:

As these examples show, the performer is confronted not with a lack of detail but with a superabundance of it: the problem is not too little information, but almost too

4 much. How does one absorb and present all of the surface details, while also

communicating the large structure and theatrical impact of the work? Other complex

scores (such as those by Boulez, Xenakis, or Ferneyhough) present some similar

dilemmas, although they do not necessarily require the additional factors of memory

and staging. Pianist Peter Hill has argued that the combination of emphasis on detail,

score complexity, and pressure to be “accurate” has contributed to a “vacuum” in which

“the former unequivocal role of performances—the vigorous presentation of ideas and

perceptions—has tended to give way to a secondary ideal, that of flawless surface

detail.”4 In Kathinkas Gesang, these issues are further complicated by the challenge of

interpreting and realizing the staging directions, which add another layer of details and

priorities to negotiate.

The recording, made by the original performer and with the composer’s participation, could also be regarded as a kind of urtext, supplementary to the main text

of the score.5 However, this use of the recording might be employed with some caution,

lest it serve to fix the music too firmly into one interpretation, encouraging imitation

rather than thoughtful study. According to Hill, the prevalence of recorded music is a

factor in the pressure towards “accuracy as an end in itself;”6 Stockhausen also

emphasized the importance of live performances, likening recordings to “small

acoustical postcards with two-dimensional images of three-dimensional musical

structures.”7

4 . Peter Hill, “‘Authenticity’ in Contemporary Music,” Tempo, no. 159 (December 1986): 3. 5. Thanks to Dr. Elizabeth McNutt for suggesting this idea. 6. Hill, 3. 7. Karlheinz Stockhausen and Anders Beyer, “Every Day Brings New Discoveries,” in The Voice of Music: Conversations with Composers of Our Time, ed. and trans. Jean Christensen and Anders Beyer (Aldershot, England: Ashgate, 2000), 187.

5 The recording of Kathinkas Gesang is a studio rather than a live concert

recording, and the flute part was recorded first, followed by the percussion parts. “I had to record the flute first as the percussionists had to start practicing with the tape for the first performance. I already knew the work by heart at that time and I recorded the entire work in perhaps 3 or 4 takes.”8 Although Pasveer indicates that she did record from

memory, she did not move around the stage during the recording as one would in a live

performance.9

Another resource that includes primary source material is a German television

documentary, Das Welttheater des Karlheinz Stockhausen.10 This hour-long video

contains interviews with Stockhausen as well as selected footage from the 1984

premiere of Samstag aus Licht in Milan, which is helpful when considering questions

about the original staging.

Although Stockhausen’s writings and interviews contain relatively little that

relates directly to the performance of Kathinkas Gesang, they do provide the performer

with insight into the composer’s musical philosophy and cosmology. As with the careful

use of recordings, scholars and performers need to evaluate composers’ writings on

their own works thoughtfully, rather than accepting them uncritically. Nevertheless, this

kind of context can help the performer enter into the conceptual landscape of the work.

Several sources for Stockhausen’s interviews and writings are listed in the

bibliography. Perhaps the most directly applicable is an interview published in The

8. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 9. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 10. Das Welttheater des Karlheinz Stockhausen (Samstag aus Licht), DVD, (WDR, 1984; Kürten, Germany: Stockhausen-Verlag, 2008). Thanks to the Stockhausen Foundation for Music for supplying me with a study copy of this video.

6 Clarinet in which Stockhausen discusses his writing for wind instruments, including

Kathinkas Gesang and other works for flute in the Licht operas. The composer talks

about challenges involved in the performance practice and dissemination of his works,

and emphasizes the connections between memory, movement, and character.11

The most relevant secondary sources are several articles about Kathinkas

Gesang written by flutists. Patricia Spencer discusses the idea of “meditative attention,”

gives examples of specific musical and technical “problems and solutions,” touches on

the challenges of communicating the drama and structure, and explores the processes

of learning and memory.12 Spencer emphasizes the insights she gained through her

work on Kathinkas Gesang, concluding that “this piece leads one to re-define the very

nature of performance.”13 This is an excellent introductory article, and includes valuable

advice, especially about helpful attitudes toward the learning process in a work of this

length and complexity. Spencer points toward other interesting issues, such as

questions about the nature of performance, but does not explore them in depth;

however, that may be due to the limited scope of such an introduction.

Flutist Lise Daoust’s writing about Kathinkas Gesang forms a central part of an

issue of the French flute magazine, Traversières, dedicated to Stockhausen’s flute

works.14 Similar to Spencer’s article, Daoust’s is a basic introduction to the piece and the main issues that it presents. Daoust also stresses the importance of Kathinkas

11. Karlheinz Stockhausen and Kathinka Pasveer, “Exemplary Winds for the Next Millennium,” trans. Jeremy Kohl, The Clarinet 26, no. 1 (December 1998): 64-68. 12. Spencer, “Nature of Performance,” 9-10. 13. Spencer, “Nature of Performance,” 9. 14. Lise Daoust, “Stockhausen et la flûte: une association éblouissante,” “Kathinkas Gesang als Luzifers Requiem (1983),” and “La musique de Stockhausen dans ma vie,” Traversières 95 (September 2009): 5-8, 14-15, 23. The issue contains articles by different flutists on four Stockhausen works—Freia (1991), Der Kinderfänger (1986/2001), Kathinkas Gesang (1983/1985), and Ave (1985)—as well as the introduction and conclusion by Daoust.

7 Gesang in the flute repertoire, and the unique nature of Stockhausen’s flute writing,

arguing that “the density and power of Stockhausen’s writing have radically transformed

the identity of the instrument and its vocabulary.”15 Daoust, who has studied many of

Stockhausen’s flute works, claims that Kathinkas Gesang is one of the most

demanding.16

Canadian flutist Marie-Hélène Breault has also published articles on Kathinkas

Gesang. The one most relevant to this document discusses the character of the cat in

relationship to the timbre of the flute, and includes valuable observations about the

nature of and possible approaches to the cat/flutist character, as well as about the

piece’s close connections with Kathinka Pasveer.17 Another of Breault’s articles is primarily concerned with the relationship between the flutist and the electronics part in the version for flute and electronics, which is not the focus of this document, but

contains some insights that are applicable to other versions.18

Together, these articles make a compelling case that Kathinkas Gesang is a

significant work in the twentieth-century flute repertoire that presents unusual

challenges for the performer.

More general scholarly works on Stockhausen and his music, such as Robin

Maconie’s Other Planets: The Music of Karlheinz Stockhausen19 and Michael Kurtz’s

15. Daoust, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 14. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) 16. Daoust, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 15. 17. Marie-Hélène Breault, “Le timbre de la flûte et la figure du chat dans Samedi de Lumière de Karlheinz Stockhausen,” Les cahiers de la société Québécoise de recherché en musique 9, no. 1-2 (October 2007): 141-150. 18. Marie-Hélène Breault, “Kathinkas Gesang als Luzifers Requiem — réflexions d’une interprète,” Circuit: musique contemporaines 19, no. 2 (2009): 87-98. 19. Robin Maconie, Other Planets: The Music of Karlheinz Stockhausen (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2005).

8 Stockhausen: A Biography,20 also contain references to Kathinkas Gesang. In these

comprehensive surveys, Kathinkas Gesang is usually mentioned in discussions of

Samstag aus Licht and the Licht opera cycle. These sources provide the performer with

contextual information about the operas, and may influence decisions about staging and

dramatic priorities. However, the sections on Kathinkas Gesang are usually quite brief,

and are focused on general analysis or description of the music and drama, rather than

on performance practice questions. Toop’s more extensive analysis of Kathinkas

Gesang in his Six Lectures From the Stockhausen Courses Kürten 2002 is an example

that may be useful to performers.21

A final area of relevant research concerns broader issues in contemporary

performance practice, including: theatricality, memory, and movement; extensions and

redefinitions of virtuosity; questions about “authenticity” in performance; performer

agency and composer control; and the problem of what constitutes a musical work. This

study draws from a variety of resources on these topics, including Christopher Small’s

concept of “musicking,”22 percussionist Steven Schick’s writing on memory,23 work on concepts of “authenticity” by Peter Kivy24 and pianist Peter Hill,25 writing on virtuosity by

critic Alex Ross,26 pianist Marc Couroux,27 flutist Elizabeth McNutt and theorist Daphne

20. Michael Kurtz, Stockhausen: A Biography, trans. Richard Toop (London: Faber and Faber, 1992). 21. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 101-128. 22. Christopher Small, Musicking: The Meanings of Performance and Listening (Hanover: University Press of New England, 1998). 23. Steven Schick, The Percussionist’s Art: Same Bed, Different Dreams (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2006). 24. Peter Kivy, Authenticities: Philosophical Reflections on Musical Performance (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995); Kivy, Sounding Off: Eleven Essays in the Philosophy of Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). 25. Hill, 2-8. 26. Alex Ross, “Infernal Machines: How Recordings Changed Music,” in Listen to This (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2010), 55-68. 27. Marc Couroux, “Evryali and the Exploding of Interface: From Virtuosity to Anti-Virtuosity and

9 Leong,28 Jane O’Dea’s work on performance, ethics, and virtuosity,29 composer Linda

Dusman’s ideas on the nature of performance,30 and other selected literature from the

fields of musicology, philosophy, aesthetics, and performance studies. These concepts

inform my approach to the problems of authentic interpretation and performer agency

raised by Kathinkas Gesang.

It is hoped that this document will be useful not only to flutists, but also to

performers and scholars interested in the performance practice of Stockhausen’s music

and in the wider topic areas of interdisciplinary performance and contemporary

performance practices.

Method

This study is informed by my experience of learning and performing Kathinkas

Gesang, along with extensive background research. The methods used include score

and recording study, integration of the relevant literature as described above, and flutist

interviews.

This document makes use of personal interviews with seven professional flutists

who have performed Kathinkas Gesang (Kathinka Pasveer, Lise Daoust, Patricia

Spencer, Mary Stolper, Claire Genewein, Karin de Fleyt, and Ellen Waterman).31 These

Beyond,” Contemporary Music Review 21, no. 2 (2002): 53-67. 28. Daphne Leong and Elizabeth McNutt, “Virtuosity in Babbitt’s Lonely Flute,” Music Theory Online 11, no. 1 (March 2005), http://www.mtosmt.org/issues/mto.05.11.1/mto.05.11.1.leong_mcnutt.html (accessed February 3, 2015). 29. Jane O’Dea, Virtue or Virtuosity? Explorations in the Ethics of Musical Performance (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2000). 30. Linda Dusman, “Unheard-of: Music as Performance and the Reception of the New,” Perspectives of New Music 32, no. 2 (Summer 1994): 130-146. 31. Many thanks to all of these musicians for sharing their thoughts and experiences. I also interviewed flutist Carlton Vickers, who has studied although not performed Kathinkas Gesang.

10 interviews were conducted in the spring of 2011, via email and telephone, with an

additional follow-up interview with Kathinka Pasveer in November 2013.

Sample interview questions included:

• What do you think are the greatest challenges in learning Kathinkas Gesang? • What are the most essential elements in the piece? • What did you choose to prioritize, in practice and/or performance? • Please describe your experience of memorizing Kathinkas Gesang. How does it compare to other memory work you have done? • Please describe the staging, sets, costume and movements that you used. • Besides learning the piece itself, what did you gain from the process of working on it? Did it change you as a flutist/performer?

The responses to these questions and others formed an important part of my

research, as I compared different flutists’ approaches to the extensions of virtuosity in

Kathinkas Gesang. An additional interview with flutist and interdisciplinary performer

Zara Lawler (conducted via Skype, in September 2013) provided insight into her views

on interpretation and the benefits of interdisciplinary work in practice and

performance.32

During my preparation and performance of Kathinkas Gesang, and throughout

the subsequent process of research and writing, I worked closely with contemporary

music specialist Dr. Elizabeth McNutt at the University of North Texas. Dr. McNutt, a renowned contemporary music flutist, has studied Stockhausen’s work and has seen

multiple live performances of Kathinkas Gesang. Her input and guidance in our

discussions throughout the course of my doctoral studies have made a significant

contribution to the development of many of the ideas expressed in this document.

32. Many thanks to Zara Lawler for sharing her thoughts and experiences.

11 The remainder of this introductory chapter introduces the concepts of virtuosity

that are employed in the following discussion, provides some additional background

information about the dramatic context of the Licht cycle and the structural

characteristics of Kathinkas Gesang, and specifies the goals and limitations of the

current study.

What is Virtuosity? : Towards a Working (Re)definition

The virtuoso musician has historically been admired and revered on the one

hand, and scathingly criticized on the other. These criticisms often involve the

accusation that the virtuoso makes the music serve himself or herself rather than the

other way around, drawing attention to the musician’s skill rather than to the qualities of

the music itself.

A common understanding of “virtuosity” (still heavily influenced by the nineteenth

century) is one of extreme skill or mastery, especially technical ability on an instrument.

It may also have a connotation of flash, showmanship, and shallowness. The Oxford

Complete Wordfinder thesaurus gives these synonyms for virtuosity: “(technical) skill,

technique, ability, expertise, mastery, virtu, excellence, brilliance, craftsmanship, craft,

flair, dash, élan, éclat, panache, pyrotechnics, showmanship, show, staginess, sl.

razzle-dazzle.”33

Though our modern concept of the virtuoso is largely a heritage from the nineteenth century, the term has deeper historical roots. Virtuoso (Italian) is derived

from the Latin virtus, meaning “excellence” or “worth.” The New Grove Dictionary of

33. The Reader’s Digest Oxford Complete Wordfinder, s.v. “virtuosity,” (Pleasantville, NY: Reader’s Digest Association, 1996), 1719.

12 Music and Musicians defines “virtuoso” as “a person of notable accomplishment; a

musician of extraordinary technical skill.”34 However, the article continues to note that

in its original Italian usage (particularly in the 16th and 17th centuries) “virtuoso” was a term of honour reserved for a person distinguished in any intellectual or artistic field: a poet, architect, scholar etc. A virtuoso in music might be a skillful performer, but more importantly he was a composer, a theorist or at least a famous maestro di cappella. . . . With the flourishing of opera and the instrumental concerto in the late 18th century, the term “virtuoso” (or “virtuosa”) came to refer to the violinist, pianist, castrato, soprano etc. who pursued a career as a soloist. At the same time it acquired new shades of meaning as attitudes towards the often exhibitionist talents of the performer changed. In the 19th century these attitudes hardened even more. . . . But though there has been a tendency to regard dazzling feats of technical skill with suspicion (and even, in such cases as Tartini and Paganini, to ascribe them to some supernatural power), the true virtuoso has always been prized not only for his rarity but also for his ability to widen the technical and expressive boundaries of his art.35

The shorter definition in the Oxford Dictionary of Music makes a similar

distinction between a “true virtuoso” and the stereotype of a performer who prioritizes

technique over expressiveness:

(1) As noun: a performer of exceptional skill with particular reference to technical ability. (2) As adjective: a performance of exceptional technical accomplishment. There is sometimes an implication that a virtuoso performance excludes emotional and expressive artistry, or subdues it to technical display, but a true virtuoso is both technician and artist.36

Jane O’Dea also points out that virtuosity may involve not only technical skill but

also emotional expressiveness, with the connotation of a risk of excess and showiness

in that area as well.37 O’Dea gives a fairly negative first view of virtuosity:

The temptation is . . . to exploit and hype to the hilt any commercially attractive assets we may possess – our technical abilities, our capacity to move listeners emotionally, our performance gestures, appearance and so forth. We are

34. Owen Jander, Grove Music Online, Oxford Music Online, s.v. “Virtuoso,” http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/29502 (accessed January 19, 2013). 35. Jander, “Virtuoso.” 36. Oxford Dictionary of Music, 2nd ed. rev., Oxford Music Online, s.v. “Virtuoso,” http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/opr/t237/e10752 (accessed January 19, 2013). 37. O’Dea, 52.

13 tempted, in short, to exchange our honorable role of interpreter for that of performing virtuoso [emphasis added] and to embrace a concept of performance many would deplore as narcissistic, banal and utterly detrimental to the art of musical interpretation.38

This concept of virtuosity is not purely about technique, but more about showmanship and the performer’s motivations. O’Dea goes on to ask, “But does virtuosity deserve to be vilified thus? Is there not an appropriate place for it in performance art?”39 After much further examination of these concepts and questions, she concludes that

the dichotomy between “virtue” and “virtuosity,” so often invoked in musical performance circles, is neither real nor irreparable. Quite the contrary, as the genesis of the term implies, virtuosity celebrates and endorses the virtues of performance competence; it names the technical excellences performers must develop in order to sound musical works in ways that do them justice. Like any other virtue, however, virtuosity taken to excess can subvert and vitiate the very excellence it was meant to serve. Hence the ambiguity of its role in performance interpretation and the ethical challenge it presents to performers.40

This “ethical challenge” is added to a wealth of performance challenges already present in a work such as Kathinkas Gesang. In addition to mastery, virtuosity can also include the concept of pushing against limits, “widen[ing] the technical and expressive boundaries of . . . art,”41 as Jander’s definition concludes above. The virtuoso often does something that was previously considered impossible, and the limits that are confronted need not be only physical or external: they might also be cognitive, emotional, or expressive, requiring both physical and mental skills.

Applying this definition, it becomes clear that Kathinkas Gesang expands instrumental virtuosity by bringing the performer up against new limits. As described above, these limits or demands include length, complexity, extended techniques,

38. O’Dea, 35. 39. O’Dea, 35. 40. O’Dea,111. 41. Jander, “Virtuoso.”

14 memory, movement, staging and character. More specifically, Kathinkas Gesang requires the following of the performer: to play difficult, complex music with many extended techniques; to play for a long time, alone (in the solo version) or as a featured soloist (in the version with percussion), which requires physical and mental endurance, sustained focus, and strong stage presence; to perform the piece from memory, which involves both mental and physical aspects of virtuosity; and to play while moving around the stage, in costume, with a set (that must be planned or at least procured), portraying a character. Any one of these tasks is a challenge, but putting them all together compounds the difficulty, and stretches the limits of the typical flutist.

Challenges are also presented by the questions of interpretation that arise when performing a piece so closely associated with its original performer. In order to embody the character and give a fully realized performance, the flutist must internalize and take ownership of the piece, which involves creativity and agency. This is not to be interpreted as license to take gross liberties. On the contrary, it is an extremely active and committed involvement with all of the demands of the piece, similar to what O’Dea describes as “passionate engagement” (when discussing the issue of emotional expression):

Instead of allowing the object (the musical work) to fall out of focus and wallowing in the cathartic throes of personal sentiment, your intellectual, emotional and physical capacities are focused squarely onto the artifact itself. You bring your entire mental, physical and emotional being to bear on the work [emphasis added]. . . . Rather than thwarting the central purposes of interpretation, passionate engagement of this type serves to accomplish it more meaningfully.42

While all musical performances benefit from such commitment, I argue that in a piece such as Kathinkas Gesang this type of total engagement—bringing one’s “entire mental,

42. O’Dea, 58.

15 physical, and emotional being to bear on the work”43—is essential to its full realization

and interpretation.

O’Dea argues that virtuosity is not necessarily detrimental to musical interpretation, but is a tool that must be skillfully and carefully used as a means, and not

as its own end:44

Although virtuosity frequently serves to deflect attention away from musical works in and of itself, it is not detrimental to the art of musical interpretation. Quite the contrary. It is like a discriminating, finely wrought tool that can be used for good or ill. Used as a means to the end of polished, sensitive articulation, it is beyond reproach. Employed solely as an end in itself, as a means of showcasing and drawing attention to the superlative skills of the performer, it is rightly decried as distracting, banal and narcissistic.45

This suggests that virtuosity is one aspect of interpretation, which might be

employed or not depending on the situation. I propose an alternate idea: rather than

virtuosity being an aspect of interpretation, interpretation is a part of virtuosity. The skills,

judgment, and creativity involved in musical interpretation are actually essential parts of

the deeper virtuosity that Kathinkas Gesang demands and develops in the performer. In

turn, these skills will be applicable to and enhance the performance of many different

kinds of repertoire.

Leong and McNutt write about a similar concept of deeper virtuosity in their

article on Milton Babbitt’s None But the Lonely Flute:

The performer of Lonely Flute faces virtuosic demands in many arenas. . . . In addition to these more obvious manifestations of virtuosity, Lonely Flute demands a deeper level of understanding. . . . This deeper virtuosity develops through a learning process that moves from the basic terms of the work to a reinvention and communication of it.46

43. O’Dea, 58. 44. O’Dea, 60. 45. O’Dea, 60. 46. Leong and McNutt, “Virtuosity,” paragraphs 6-8.

16 This redefinition frames virtuosity as a larger concept that includes artistic integrity and musical understanding, echoing the earlier definitions cited above. Rather than emphasizing knowledge of music theory, this definition of virtuosity is still performance-based, but it expands the tasks and skills of the virtuoso performer to include choices as well as actions, and intellectual as well as physical dexterity. As flutist and composer Harvey Sollberger writes,

The traditional virtuoso display piece very often employs ideas of slight musical substance as a pretext for its true raison d’être, virtuoso display; the modern virtuoso more often asserts his skill indirectly in the course of making himself and his instrument the active mediums through which a work’s ideas are projected. His is a virtuosity of many dimensions, mental and conceptual as well as physical. Ultimately his virtuosity lies in understanding and communicating the substance of the music he plays as well as (if at all) in performing acrobatics.47

Thus, the definition of virtuosity in Kathinkas Gesang may be considered expanded in two main senses. First, it is expanded to include additional performance/technical skills such as movement, acting, memory, etc., as well as playing the instrument (including the use of extended flute techniques). Second, it is also expanded to include interpretation, judgment, and decision-making; it encompasses both the mental acts of making informed interpretive choices, and the physical/mental/emotional actions of carrying out those decisions in practice and performance.

This model of virtuosic interpretation attempts to find a ground beyond the polarized paradigms of, on the one hand, the self-effacing performer who strives to become a conduit or vessel through which the music flows, and, on the other, the self- indulgent, self-aggrandizing virtuoso who bends the music to suit his or her own desires

47. Harvey Sollberger, “The Instrument in Your Mind,” in liner notes to New Music for Virtuosos, CD (New World Records 80541, 1998), 7.

17 and vagaries.48

Virtuosity, Perfection, and Effort(lessness)

While the critiques of nineteenth-century virtuosity focused on showiness and excess, some in the twentieth century have accused virtuosity of becoming too focused on accuracy and the ideal of perfection, often mentioning the new pervasiveness of recordings as an influence on this development. Pianist Hill, as referenced above, cites

“the merciless clarity of recording technology and the prevalence of pre-recorded music in our audience’s musical diet” as a factor in the increased pressure on performers to be accurate, sometimes even at the cost of other musical elements.49 Hill suggests that another problematic effect of recordings is to encourage the “illusion” that music is fixed:

Our difficulties arise partly from the fact that we are accustomed to think of music not in terms of transitory sounds and experiences but as printed scores which are inevitably fixed in appearance. (The problem is compounded by the permanence of modern recording.) This is an illusion. For one thing, in the most interesting music—that with the richest possibilities—there can be no one “perfect” way of playing the piece.50

Critic Alex Ross also comments on the tendency of recordings to encourage an emphasis on surface “perfection” (often by way of imitation). “Most modern playing tends to erase all evidence of the work that has gone on behind the scenes: virtuosity is defined as effortlessness [emphasis added]. One often-quoted ideal is to ‘disappear behind the music.’ But when precision is divorced from emotion it can become anti- musical, inhuman, repulsive.”51

48. On the concept of performers as vessels, see Marilyn Nonken, “Introduction: Vessels,” Contemporary Music Review 21, no. 1 (2002): 1-4. 49. Hill, 3. 50. Hill, 6. 51. Ross, 64.

18 Something of a paradox exists in our ideas about ease, difficulty, and virtuosity.

The virtuoso does something difficult and makes it look easy, yet the audience must

recognize the difficulty of the task, in order for the feat to be properly impressive.

Thomas Carson Mark writes about the perceptions of ease and difficulty in Horowitz’s

performances:

The difficulty of the Rachmaninoff sonata is not an irrelevant or extrinsic fact about it; it is not easy, nor is it intended to sound easy, nor does Horowitz make it sound easy. He does make it sound as if he had no trouble playing it; that is, he shows that he can do something which is extremely hard to do and which is, at the same time, evidently hard to do. This is not manifest effort, it is a manifestation of extraordinary skill.52

Mark goes on to argue that “appreciation of works of virtuosity, in which display of skill is

central, presupposes some knowledge. A person must have some notion of the

technical demands imposed in a work if he is even to notice the skill required to meet

them.”53 Does the act of performance need to be—or at least appear—effortless, in

order to qualify as virtuosity? Can the audience see some of the sweat behind the

scenes, or even in the moment of performance? Or is it possible, as Mark suggests, to

distinguish between manifest effort and manifest skill? Can the virtuoso fail, or be at risk

of failing, and still be virtuosic?

In his critique of “inhuman” precision, Ross is writing in this case about modern

performances of older music, yet the questions raised can also be applied to

contemporary music, or (as in the case of Kathinkas Gesang) to music from the relatively recent past. Ross goes on to say that early music performance has become

52. Thomas Carson Mark, “On Works of Virtuosity,” The Journal of Philosophy 77, no. 1 (January 1980): 32. 53. Mark, “Works of Virtuosity,” 42.

19 more dynamic and less “pedantically ‘correct’” in recent years,54 including more

“freedoms” in performance, execution, ornamentation, and improvisation.55 “As a result, the music feels liberated, and audiences respond in kind, with yelps of joy. . . . If, in coming years, the freewheeling spirit of the early-music scene enters into performances of the nineteenth-century repertory, classical music may finally kick away its cold marble façade.”56

In the case of twentieth and twenty-first century music, performers often have more information about the performance practice and more specific instructions from the composer, though perhaps less tradition and precedent with which to wrestle.

With Kathinkas Gesang, performers have both a large amount of information from the composer and a recent, well-documented precedent (namely, the first performance, and subsequent performances that have largely followed its example). This makes the performer’s task easier in some senses, and more difficult in others.

The category of “contemporary music” encompasses a wide variety of styles, some of which may need a “freewheeling spirit,” and others of which require great precision. In the work of a composer such as Milton Babbitt, for example, exactitude and clarity are very important elements. Likewise, in Stockhausen’s music, careful attention to detail and precision are crucial. Yet this attention to detail should not be seen as divorced from or opposed to expressiveness and emotion; as McNutt writes, “emotion is inextricably linked to the details.”57 Leong and McNutt challenge the idea that “the rigor

54. Ross, 64. 55. Ross, 65. 56. Ross, 65. 57. McNutt, email message to author, February 2, 2015.

20 of Babbitt's music precludes expressivity and freedom of interpretation,”58 arguing

instead “that Babbitt's music finds an astonishing richness of expression within and

because of its constraints, and that performers can similarly find interpretive freedom

within the confines of the notated score.”59

Similarly, an argument against an excessive focus on technical perfection does

not imply a lack of concern for accuracy. As Hill puts it: “I am not for a moment

suggesting that accuracy doesn’t matter, or that it isn’t important to get things right; only

that correctness should be a means to an end, not a tyrannical end in itself. . . . the text

should be a source of stimulus, not of inhibition [emphasis added].”60

Ross and Hill are both criticizing the ideal of technical perfection as its own end,

rather than as a means to a greater musical or expressive end. O’Dea argues that

virtuosity should not be used as its own end. If technical perfection equals virtuosity,

then likewise it should not be its own end. However, the (re)definition of virtuosity for

which I am arguing is both broader and deeper than that.

Technical perfection as the highest goal leads to a concept of virtuosity as both

effortlessness and flawlessness. Although there is much to be admired in those qualities, such an emphasis can also have a high cost: when a performer is more

concerned about perfection, she tends to take fewer risks. What is lost, according to

Ross, in this more “perfect” kind of performance, is the performer’s individuality,

humanity, and fallibility. “The tics and traits of old-school performance . . . are alike in

bringing out the distinct voices of the performers, not to mention the mere fact that they

58. Leong and McNutt, “Virtuosity,” paragraph 1. 59. Leong and McNutt, “Virtuosity,” paragraph 2. 60. Hill, 7.

21 are fallible humans.”61 Hill also cites a “deep-seated loss of confidence”62 in contemporary performance, compared to that from previous times:

We rely increasingly on “rules” and “evidence” as a means of evading personal responsibility for artistic judgments. It is this quality of confidence which is so striking to modern ears in “pre-authentic” playing, as in the Bach performances of Casals or Hamilton Harty, for example: a bedrock of conviction on which their particular “authenticity” resides.63

These aspects of “old-school performance” could be useful to revive in current performances of music of all periods, including the contemporary.

This discussion leads to another aspect of the definition: virtuosity is not equal to perfection, flawlessness, or machine-like precision. It includes a human element that brings a rawness and vitality to the performance, that encompasses conviction and also vulnerability: there is the possibility of struggle, risk, and fallibility.

Pianist Marc Couroux brings another perspective to his critique of contemporary virtuosity; rather than trying to bring back elements from older styles of performance, he urges a movement forward that would question and eventually break out of the paradigms inherited from the nineteenth century. He critiques the “performer-as-hero” model, which seems like a version of the self-aggrandizing virtuoso archetype. “Much of what the performance of classical music has meant for the past 150 years or so has been inextricably fueled by the Olympian ego present in every performer, a ritual based in outward ‘demonstrations,’ a self-definition always attained by an external affirmation of ability: the performer-as-hero.”64 Couroux is critical of the model of interaction between performer and instrument, and performer and audience, especially “the

61. Ross, 64. 62. Hill, 7. 63. Hill, 7. 64. Couroux, 53.

22 nineteenth-century-based attitude of presenting the ‘perfect performer’ as a

transcendental demi-god.”65 In addition to his critique of this heritage from the past,

Couroux also find problems in contemporary musical culture: “nowadays, in the serious-

music world, there is an exaggerated emphasis on the flash of virtuosity.”66 Some of

Couroux’s own compositions “use the idea of anti-virtuosity as their initial premise and

central argument—failure, a cul-de-sac from which it is indeed possible to ‘go on’ and

build a whole new set of instrument-performer relations.”67

Couroux also questions the notion that a performance must always appear

polished, confident, and in control, adding another dimension to the arguments about

perfection and flawlessness discussed above. He writes that

the one central issue preventing a more widespread communication between performer and listener (the key crisis of contemporary music this past century), has been the refusal on the performer’s part to let the performative persona disintegrate on stage, fall away. Why couldn’t the performer’s entire nervous system be put on the line [emphasis in original] in front of everyone?68

It may be argued that the performer’s nervous system is on the line, in any kind

of fully committed performance. However, there is a tendency to hide the cracks and

vulnerabilities that may emerge, to “give a performance,” to project confidence on stage at all costs. This is part of musicians’ professional training, and has a long-standing history in performance. However, confidence and vulnerability do not have to be exclusionary opposites. If a performance does not have to be “perfect” in order to be good and worthwhile, then perhaps the performer can still be confident without requiring

65. Couroux, 53. 66. Couroux, 54. 67. Couroux, 55. 68. Couroux, 55.

23 a shiny, hard shell or “performative persona” that has to hide all of the cracks.69

This question of fallibility connects to the requirements for memory, movement,

and character in Kathinkas Gesang, which make the performer paradoxically more and

less human at the same time: less human, because she becomes the character; but

more human, because the risks involved with the performance mean that her fallibility is

exposed and on the line.

A demanding but rewarding experience to learn and perform, Kathinkas Gesang is a masterful work for flute that brings the instrumentalist into a broader role as a

creative performer, leading her into a deeper type of virtuosity that encompasses not

only a variety of technical skills but also a sense of interpretation as a creative and

collaborative process. The performer must claim agency and question the definitions of

“authentic” or approved interpretation in order to find her way into this piece and truly

realize all of the fruits that it provides. The definition of virtuosity proposed in this

document includes both mastery and pushing against limits. It suggests that

interpretation is a part of this expanded virtuosity, and that virtuosity encompasses both

physical and mental elements, both decision-making and the actions taken to carry out

those choices. Furthermore, this definition of virtuosity is not primarily concerned with

surface level accuracy or “perfection,” or with reproduction, but rather with live, human

performance and creative agency.

Contextual and Dramatic Background

As mentioned above, Kathinkas Gesang is the second scene of the opera

69. Thanks to Dr. Elizabeth McNutt and Dr. David Bard-Schwarz for discussions that contributed to the development of these ideas.

24 Samstag aus Licht (Saturday from Light). Though the Licht operas correspond to the

days of the week, they were not written in chronological order, and Samstag was the

second to be composed and premiered (1983/84), after Donnerstag (1981).70 As Toop

writes,

Stockhausen's composition projects had never lacked ambition. But in 1977, he embarked on a project compared to which even works like Hymnen seemed modest: he announced a cycle of seven “operas,” lasting a total of twenty-four hours, each named after a day of the week, and jointly entitled LICHT (Light). The musical basis of the cycle is a triple “superformula” that combines the formula for the three main characters: Eve, Michael, and Lucifer; its principal subject, much influenced by the Urantia Book (a book of “revelations” from other parts of the galaxy) is the search for a “higher consciousness.” One striking feature of the cycle is that the main characters are often represented by instrumentalists and dancers/mimes, as well as singers. Sometimes, they have virtually replaced the singers; Samstag (Saturday) and Dienstag (Tuesday) are largely instrumental works, and after Samstag the orchestra is largely replaced by synthesizers and electronic music.71

The three main characters—Michael, Eve, and Lucifer—are represented in various different forms, each having an associated singer, dancer, and instrumentalist.

Eve, in fact, has more than one instrument: she is usually represented by the basset- horn, but in Kathinkas Gesang the cat-flutist is also an avatar or aspect of the Eve character, as noted in the video documentary about the premiere of Samstag. “The second main character: EVA (EVE), the spirit who always cares for the improvement of the physical conditions of the living beings on the inhabited planets. She is sung, danced or played (usually on the basset-horn, or as here—in a transformation—on the flute).”72

The video narrator goes on to describe the Kathinkas Gesang scene as

70. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 107. 71. Richard Toop, “Karlheinz Stockhausen,” in Music of the Twentieth-Century Avant-Garde: A Biocritical Sourcebook, ed. Larry Sitsky (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2002), 496-497. 72. Das Welttheater des Karlheinz Stockhausen (Samstag aus Licht), DVD, (WDR, 1984; Kürten, Germany: Stockhausen-Verlag, 2008), transcription and English translation by Jayne Obst, 5.

25

a requiem . . . chanted for Lucifer by Eva, who has slipped into the figure of a flute-playing cat, played by the Dutch virtuoso Kathinka Pasveer, after whom this scene was also named, KATHINKAs GESANG (KATHINKA’S CHANT). With her chant, Kathinka protects the souls of the dead from temptations and leads them to clear consciousness. She is accompanied by six percussionists, the mortal senses, who react to KATHINKAs GESANG with their self-made magic instruments. This chant has 24 stages. The elements are indicated on a mandala disc like the numbers on a clock. When Kathinka has fulfilled her task, she must, like Majella, return to the depths. She disappears down into a dark grave in the shape of a grand piano. But is she even able to chant a requiem for Lucifer? Can she lead his soul to an even clearer consciousness? In the depth of the grave, the answer is waiting for Kathinka, and it is shocking. Lucifer is alive, rises up out of the grave, amused and ridiculing. Was he not really dead? Has he risen from the dead? Reborn?73

Breault suggests that the flutist’s character is even more complex, containing aspects not only of Eve but also of Lucifer: “It [Kathinkas Gesang] is a musicalized ritual that is performed on Luzifer’s grave by a black cat flutist, an animal incarnation revealing at the same time, at the archetypal level, Eva [Eve] and Luzifer [Lucifer].”74

Another description of the Licht cycle comes from Stockhausen biographer Kurtz:

In many languages and cultures light is an expression or image of the Divinity; Licht is Stockhausen's attempt to create a cosmic world theatre that summarizes and intensifies his lifelong concern: the unity of music and religion, allied to a vision of an essentially musical mankind. Stockhausen's world theatre is enacted not only on earth, for the plot also unfolds in the world beyond. It considers the destiny of mankind, the earth and the cosmos, in conjunction and confrontation with the spiritual essences Michael, Lucifer and Eve. . . . Stockhausen has organized everything into a huge seven-part cycle: Monday is Eve's day, Tuesday is the day of confrontation between Michael and Lucifer, Wednesday is the day of collaboration between all three, Thursday is Michael's day, Friday is the day of Eve's temptation by Lucifer, Saturday is Lucifer's day and Sunday is the day of the mystical union of Michael and Eve. The plot and the ideas for staging are essentially Stockhausen's own. . . . Licht is Stockhausen's Gesamtkunstwerk; singing, instrumental music, tape sounds, movement, costumes and lighting—everything that happens musically or theatrically—is conceived as one unity. The compositional germ cell for the whole thing is a “super-formula,” conceived in terms of rhythms, dynamics and timbre, in which

73. Das Welttheater des Karlheinz Stockhausen, DVD, trans. Obst, 7. 74. Breault, “Réflexions d’une interprète,” 87. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.)

26 three individual formulas are combined (a thirteen-note Michael formula, a twelve-note Eve formula and an eleven-note Lucifer formula). The entire cycle is developed from this triple-formula polyphony, from the single note, via the musical and scenic details to the broader musico-dramatic context. Although the various sections of the operas are mainly fully composed, some give the interpreter greater freedom.75

The comparison with Wagner is perhaps inevitable, though not the focus of this study. However, important distinctions can also be made, particularly in the use of instrumentalists. In Wagner’s operas the characters are still portrayed by singers, and the instrumentalists remain in their conventional place, the orchestra pit. One of the major innovative aspects of Stockhausen’s “operas” is the use of instrumentalists as theatrical characters, moving and performing on the stage, along with (or instead of) the singers. Toop recalls Stockhausen telling him

that he was not interested in a naturalistic or psychological conception of theatre, and that for him, the music of the principal instrumentalists was at least as important in establishing character and essence as what the singers sang. That explains, in part, why I’m talking here about a piece that constitutes a whole act of an opera, but has no singers in it (except to the extent that the flutist often sings into her instrument).76

Toop also points out another important difference between Wagner and

Stockhausen, in the relationship between the libretto and the music:

By the time Wagner starts work on Das Rheingold, he has already written the libretto for the entire cycle; and these words define not only the entire dramatic content, but also, implicitly, the broad proportions of each of the four music dramas. But for the most part, the music has yet to be found. With Stockhausen, the situation is almost the reverse. When the composition of LICHT begins, there are virtually no words—or not for anything beyond DONNERSTAG. (In DONNERSTAG there are actually lots of words, but in SAMSTAG, apart from the final scene, there are hardly any.)77

Hardly any words in some sections, instrumentalists instead of/along with singers

75. Kurtz, 210-211. 76. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 106. 77. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 101.

27 playing characters on stage: can these works really be deemed “operas” in the conventional sense? Or have they changed that definition? According to the Samstag documentary, Stockhausen did not start out with that genre in mind. He ended up calling these works operas out of a more pragmatic spirit, because an opera company seemed most likely to have the resources available to produce such large-scale works:

Narrator: However, we may and must sceptically ask: is it sufficient to drape musically self-sufficient sections with a scenic concept, in order to make a unit of plot, a real organism, music theatre out of them? Is LICHT truly an opera? Stockhausen: As soon as I made contact with reality, I discovered that

actually only opera houses can perform it, and all the professionals told me:

“Why don’t you just call it an opera, then one knows that it traditionally belongs in

the opera, in the opera house, and then you will receive all the necessary

technical and musical help.” I am now even satisfied that this term receives a

totally new meaning as the continuation of a tradition of music theatre in Europe.

. . . Thus, later it will become evident that opera in Europe took a different turn

because of LICHT.78

Structure of Kathinkas Gesang

Given the length and complexity of the piece, a systematic approach to the learning process is particularly important. The compositional structure is helpful in devising this approach, since the work is divided into numbered sections, most of which focus on a particular type of sound or musical idea. Example 3 shows the “Lucifer

Formula” on which the composition is based. For more on Stockhausen’s use of formula composition in Kathinkas Gesang, and analysis of the relationship between the various

78. Das Welttheater des Karlheinz Stockhausen, DVD, trans. Obst, 16.

28 levels of the formula and the score, Toop’s essay on Kathinkas Gesang provides a valuable starting point.79

Example 3: Stockhausen, “Lucifer Formula,” introduction Kathinkas Gesang, xi:

Stockhausen’s Introduction to Kathinkas Gesang describes the piece thus:

SATURDAY from LIGHT (SATURNDAY) is the LUCIFERDAY: day of death, night of transition to the LIGHT. Like LUCIFER, every human being dies an apparent death—enchanted by the sensual nature of the music of life. Thus, LUCIFER'S REQUIEM is a requiem for every human being who seeks the eternal LIGHT. KATHINKA’S CHANT protects the soul of the deceased from temptations, through musical exercises to which it regularly listens for 49 days after physical death and by which it is guided to clear consciousness. To prepare for death, one can learn during one's lifetime to listen to these exercises in the right way. . . . KATHINKA’S CHANT begins with a SALUTE. Then, it teaches the soul through 2 X 11 EXERCISES and 2 PAUSES in 24 STAGES, which form a homogenous process and are clearly announced by signals of the high F. These EXERCISES are followed by: THE RELEASE OF THE SENSES

79. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 101-128. For more analysis of formula composition throughout Licht, see Jerome Kohl, “Into the Middleground: Formula Syntax in Stockhausen's Licht,” Perspectives of New Music 28, no. 2 (Summer 1990): 262-291.

29 EXIT THE 11 TROMBONE TONES THE SCREAM80

“KATHINKA’S CHANT as LUCIFER'S REQUIEM leads the souls of the dead, through listening, to clear consciousness.”81

Following the brief introductory “Salute,” the bulk of the piece consists of the “2 X

11 EXERCISES and 2 PAUSES in 24 STAGES.” This is basically a series of 24

numbered sections. Each section or stage is based on a fragment of the formula; these

musical fragments are shown on the large “mandalas” that make up the stage set, in a

format resembling a clock face. As Stockhausen describes it, “next to these numbers,

[are] the music fragments which correspond to the sections 1-12 and 13-24 of the

composition [emphasis in original].”82 However, as Toop points out, these fragments are

neither literally taken from the formula, nor exact excerpts from the flute part of the

score:

The solo flute player performs in front of two circular, mandala-like discs, on which are inscribed the fundamental materials of each section of the piece. . . . So at a live performance, the listener can also see the musical essentials. Yet what is on these discs is neither the Super Formula itself (or more precisely, the Lucifer level of the Super Formula, SAMSTAG being “Lucifer’s Day”), nor the score. It’s a sort of mediation between the two of them: an initial refinement of the formula, by way of preparation for the score, or at least the flutist’s part of it.83

Toop compares the parts of the Lucifer formula with the mandala board fragments,84

noting, “as you would expect, they are essentially the same, but not entirely so; one good reason for this is that the Lucifer formula is not innately conceived in terms of the

80. Karlheinz Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang als Luzifers Requiem, trans. Suzee Stephens and James Ingram (Kürten, Germany: Stockhausen-Verlag, 1984), xi. 81. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xiv. 82. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvi. 83. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 106. 84. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 109. Toop’s Example 4 shows the Lucifer formula with the mandala figures below it.

30 flute!”85 Toop also points out that “the Lucifer formula is always very tangibly and audibly present” in Kathinkas Gesang, more so than in some of Stockhausen’s other works,86 and suggests that

in a way, the flute part is a novel kind of “variation form”. Whereas traditional (i.e. 18th/19th century) variation form normally took a whole melody and/or harmonic progression as the basis for each variation [emphasis in original], in this piece, each section is a “variation” on a tiny fragment of the basic formula, which here is divided into 24 parts (or rather, 22 parts, plus two rests).87

Partly because of the relationship to the formula, each section tends to focus on a certain kind of musical idea or technique. For example, Section 1 is nearly a whole page of low E4,88 with gradations of change in dynamics, accent and articulation patterns, and microtonal fingerings. See Example 4 for the beginning of this section.

85. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 108. 86. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 108. 87. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 108. 88. This document uses the Acoustical Society of America recommendations for octave designations, in which middle C is designated as C4.

31 Example 4: Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 1 (Section 1):

This is unusual writing for solo flute, to say the least. Flutist Spencer describes some of her reactions when first encountering this opening page of the score:

How could a piece begin with one-and-a-half minutes of low E’s? Even with the constantly interchanging articulations, dynamics, added grace notes, and five different fingerings intermixed, surely the audience would lose interest. On the other hand, what if a ritualistic intensity were built up, with a mesmerizing, ever- changing E, pulling the listener into different planes of awareness?89

Spencer goes on to describe the various transformations that the material undergoes on that first page (Section 1). She concludes that “every extended technique—such as the four alternate, each slightly lower, pitches for the low E, described above—is embedded

89. Spencer, “Nature of Performance,” 9.

32 in a strong musical gesture, in this case a ritualistic intoning,”90 and also suggests that

the material serves both to require and to cultivate in the performer a state that she calls

“meditative attention.”91

Toop describes this first section from another perspective, analyzing its

relationship to the formula fragment.92 This analysis could help the flutist understand the

rhythms of the first section (and the unusual metronome markings throughout the piece), as well as the relationships between the different varying parameters. Toop also

comments on the importance of the ritual nature of the work, and its possible effect on

the musical materials used: “the ritual character of this piece naturally suggests a music

which will be static in many respects, however sophisticated the bar-to-bar processes may be.”93

At the end of Section 1 there is suddenly “a flourish that ascends from A to E to

the F that was the highest note of the prefatory ‘Salute’.”94 In addition to being “an

evocation” of “the 32nd-note ‘upbeat’ in the formula” this high F6 also “functions as a

signal that this first ‘stage’ has ended. And most of the stages will end with such a

signal—mainly through the high F, but some (including the 2nd Stage) by referring back

directly to the ‘Salute’.”95 Stockhausen wrote that all of the stages or sections “are

clearly announced by signals of the high F.”96

Though the relationships between the score and the formula in this first section

90. Spencer, “Nature of Performance,” 11. 91. Spencer, “Nature of Performance,” 11. 92. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 110-113. Note that there is one error in Toop’s description here: he writes that some of the repeated low E’s are “flutter-tongued” (p. 111); according to Stockhausen’s notation, these notes are double and triple-tongued, not flutter-tongued. 93. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 107. 94. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 113. 95. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 113. 96. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xi.

33 are fairly clear, that is not always the case. Toop writes, “for me, one fascinating aspect

of the way KATHINKAs GESANG is composed is the often unpredictable way it

alternates between expansions that clearly build on the character of the original

formula-figure, and others that seem to play it down, or even ignore it.”97 Toop also

emphasizes the role of Stockhausen’s creative choice, perhaps in a defense against the

compositional methods seeming overly formulaic or predictable. “Clearly, most of the

decisions I have described, and will go on to describe, were made in response to

particular properties of the ‘formula’, but in no case did the formula prescribe the

solution. The latter had to be found, as a test of the composer’s creative imagination.”98

Finally, the last of these “exercises” is followed by a coda that begins with Die

Entlassung der Sinne (“The Release of the Senses”), which Toop describes as “a

condensed reprise of all of the 24 stages. . . . it’s not a matter of summarizing the

complete pitch structure of the work, but rather of evoking the initial pitches and also the

articulation and character of each stage. In fact, what one has here is a sequence of 24

‘quotations’, or flashbacks.”99 After that comes the Ausweg (“Exit”), in which the music

(already mostly air sounds) is further and further fragmented by manic laughter, and finally Die 11 Posaunetöne (“The 11 Trombone Tones”), which are “the kernel notes of the Lucifer formula,”100 and Der Schrei (“The Scream”).

“Extensions of Instrumental Practice”

Stockhausen worked on the Licht cycle from 1977 through 2003, and it

97. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 118. 98. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 113. See also 106. 99. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 122. 100. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 122.

34 encompasses developments in his work on many levels. These include the use of staging and movement, electronic music, and the interaction of live instruments and electronics, as well as the writing for acoustic instruments, as Toop points out:

And in fact, the LICHT cycle is equally notable for its extensions of instrumental practice [as well as electronic music]. During the 1950s and even the 1960s, Stockhausen’s approach to instrumental writing had been the most conservative aspect of his work. He had shown no interest in the explosion of “extended techniques” that followed on from Cage, preferring to use electronics to modify conventional instrumental timbres. His process- and text-compositions of the late 1960s give performers plenty of scope to introduce new techniques, but never specifically demand them. However, in the 1980s, constant collaboration with clarinetist Suzanne Stephens and flautist Kathinka Pasveer, and also with his sons Markus (trumpet) and Simon (synthesizer), led to a complete reappraisal of his approach to instrumental writing [emphasis added]. Yet, his typically meticulous and exhaustive explorations of such things as microtones and multiphonics have nothing to do with the search for “novel effects.” The aim is to create new, exactly controlled scales of pitches and timbres; to that extent, it could be seen as return to the preoccupations of Gesang der Jünglinge in terms of instruments rather than electronic music.101

Though this document does not focus specifically on Stockhausen’s use of extended flute techniques, this quote highlights a couple of points worth noticing: namely, the changes in Stockhausen’s manner of writing for instruments (and the degree of specificity used in the notation), and the connection between that change and his work with specific musicians, which suggests that collaboration with these instrumentalists played a large role in the development of his compositional style in

Licht.

An early sketch of Kathinkas Gesang from 1981 shows an idea for a piece for percussionists and electronic sounds, with no flute part, called simply (Luzifers)

Requiem.102 Toop speculates that “presumably the idea of a flute part doesn’t come until

101. Toop, “Karlheinz Stockhausen,” 497. 102. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 107-108.

35 Stockhausen meets Kathinka Pasveer at the Stockhausen Festival in Den Haag in

1982.”103 This very close connection between the piece and its original performer/interpreter presents both benefits and challenges for subsequent interpreters.

Maconie describes Kathinkas Gesang as follows:

In Noh drama, and perhaps everywhere else, the flute signifies breath and continuity, the wind of change, the breath of life, and therefore life itself. The scene is effectively a vigil performed for the soul of the dead at a lying in state, so despite the apparent humor attached to cat suits, and the tradition of witches’ cats (which the composer takes very seriously, of course), this scene needs to be enacted in the manner of a ritual, and under lighting and staging conditions appropriate to a religious setting. As a solo recorded performance the piece comes across as a further extended virtuosic exercise in the genre of Harlekin and In Freundschaft for clarinet. Certainly a piece of this kind seems to be Stockhausen's way of extending a welcome to those for whom he feels a special affection.104

Although the specifics of Stockhausen’s flute writing and use of extended

techniques are certainly “of potential interest to flutists”105 (and to composers and

scholars as well), this document argues that the significant “extensions of instrumental

practice”106 in Kathinkas Gesang go beyond the use of extended techniques, to include

the aspects of memory, staging, and movement. The following chapters examine in

depth the “extensions of instrumental practice,” and of virtuosity, into these areas. The

document concludes by relating the challenges of Kathinkas Gesang to larger questions

in contemporary performance practice, including issues of interpretation, ownership,

agency, and authenticity.

103. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 108n9. 104. Maconie, Other Planets, 447. 105. Maconie, Other Planets, 449. 106. Toop, “Karlheinz Stockhausen,” 497.

36 Goals and Scope of Study

This document discusses the extensions of virtuosity and instrumental practice

into two main areas: first, memory; and second, staging and movement. Although the

use of extended techniques is noteworthy in its thoroughness and diversity, practical,

technical instruction on how to learn and execute these techniques is not the focus of

this document. Extended techniques are often the first aspect raised in discussion about

twentieth and twenty-first-century extensions or redefinitions of virtuosity, and writings

by and for flutists about contemporary repertoire tend to focus on the use and execution

of such techniques.107

As Sollberger writes, “the skillful employment and execution of many of these

new resources are often perceived as a stunning display of virtuosity.”108 McNutt also

comments on the prevalence of this focus in the existing literature:

It may be a side effect of the ghettoization of contemporary music within the culture of concert music that any work including so-called extended techniques tends to be identified with those techniques, rather than being recognized as a work of music with substantial interpretive issues and opportunities. Even well- intentioned performance guides and performers who are well versed in extended techniques on the flute can sometimes miss the forest for the trees in this respect. My ideal would be to treat all technical challenges in a work (traditional or otherwise) as problems to be worked out in service of a musical vision. Writing about a multiphonic is no more interesting than writing about a trill fingering or the basics of tone production, yet this sort of question seems to occupy the great majority of texts written for flutists about modern repertoire.109

107. For some recent examples, see Katayoon Hodjati, “A Performer's Guide to the Solo Flute Works of Kaija Saariaho: Laconisme De l'Aile and NoaNoa” (DMA diss., Arizona State University, 2013); Seon Hee Jang, “Interpretation of Extended Techniques in Unaccompanied Flute Works by East-Asian Composers: Isang Yun, Toru Takemitsu, and Kazuo Fukushima” (DMA diss., University of Cincinnati, 2010); and Shelley L. Monier, “Three Works for Flute by Ian Clarke: An Analysis and Performance Guide” (DMA diss., The University of Nebraska-Lincoln, 2010). See also Marilyn Bliss, “Index to The Flutist Quarterly, Vols. XVI-XXXVIII,” s.v. “extended techniques,” The National Flute Association Online, http://www.nfaonline.org/PDFS/Publications/The-Flutist-Quarterly/fqindex.pdf (accessed February 12, 2015). 108. Sollberger, 7. 109. McNutt, email message to author, February 11, 2015.

37 In addition to techniques for practicing and executing extended techniques, such

texts often deal with issues of notation. However, the techniques in Stockhausen’s flute

works are exceptionally clearly notated and explained, due in large part to his close

work with Pasveer. As contemporary music flutist Helen Bledsoe points out, many

contemporary works lack this care and clarity of notation:

The family members and close friends with whom he worked saw to it that his music could be executed on their instruments, and did not make compositional or aesthetic decisions. They have done their jobs well; everything in a work by Stockhausen is playable and clearly notated [emphasis added]. In contrast, how many of us contemporary flutists have scratched our heads nearly bald trying to work out a piece written for a famous flutist of our day who didn’t sweat the details of clarity of notation?110

The detailed musical notation and written explanatory notes, while requiring time, effort

and attention to digest, do generally give clear indications of what is expected. Other

available resources discuss flute extended techniques in detail, and give instructions for

learning and executing them.111

While mastery of extended techniques (and technique in a general sense) is

certainly an important aspect of virtuosity, many other skills are also needed to be an

effective contemporary musician. Nonken writes about a “type of player who is drawn to

the contemporary repertoire, who embraces without hesitation the new and unproven

110. Helen Bledsoe, “Stockhausen in Adorjan’s Lexicon,” Flutin’ High Blog, entry posted December 28, 2010, http://helenbledsoe.com/?p=23 (accessed February 3, 2015). 111. See Pierre-Yves Artaud, Flûtes au présent: traité des techniques contemporaines sur les flûtes traversières à l’usage des compositeurs et des flûtistes (Paris: Gérard Billaudot, 1995); Robert Dick, The Other Flute: A Performance Manual of Contemporary Techniques, 2nd ed. (New York: Multiple Breath Music Company, 1989); Dick, Tone Development Through Extended Techniques, rev. ed. (New York: Multiple Breath Music Company, 1986); Thomas Howell, The Avant-Garde Flute: A Handbook for Composers and Flutists (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974); Hiroshi Koizumi, Technique for Contemporary Flute Music: For Players and Composers (Schott Japan, 1996); and Carin Levine and Christina Mitropoulos-Bott, The Techniques of Flute Playing (New York: Bärenreiter, 2002). Internet resources are also numerous. Suggested starting places are: Robin Mason Horne, “Extended Techniques Resource Page,” Larry Krantz Flute Pages, http://www.larrykrantz.com/et/et.htm (accessed February 11, 2015); and Helen Bledsoe, “Some Basics of Extended Techniques,” http://www.helenbledsoe.com/ETWorkshop.pdf (accessed February 11, 2015).

38 piece. Players of this sort return repeatedly to untested waters, braving the critical eye

of the composer, the skeptical audience, and the politics and hazards of the

contemporary music scene.”112 While the skill of these players “has a strong physical

component”113 and they “maintain an extraordinarily high degree of technical proficiency

on their instruments,”114 Nonken also emphasizes some of the cognitive abilities

required: “They develop finely tuned learning strategies that enable them to assimilate

new material with unusual efficiency and come to terms, both aesthetically and

intellectually, with novel musical ideas.”115

For these reasons (the clarity and detail of Stockhausen’s notation, the currently

available resources, and the common focus on extended techniques in discussions of

contemporary virtuosity), as well as the limitations necessitated by the project

undertaken, this document focuses instead on two aspects of contemporary virtuosity

that are less frequently required of performers, and also less commonly analyzed and

discussed: performing by memory, and with involved staging.

The document includes in-depth discussion of the ways that these demands

stretch the abilities of the performer, covering both practical suggestions and larger

implications of these extensions of virtuosity in Kathinkas Gesang. In addition, it

examines how the performer’s negotiation of these challenges relates to questions about authenticity and agency.

Chapter 2 (Memory) covers the practical challenges of memorizing a piece of this

length and complexity, with suggestions for practice strategies, and also explores the

112. Nonken, 2. 113. Nonken, 2. 114. Nonken, 2. 115. Nonken, 2.

39 effects of memory on the performance experience (internalization, vulnerability, etc.).

Chapter 3 (Staging, Drama, and Movement) discusses the complexities of realizing Stockhausen’s staging directions (including character, set, lighting, costume, and movement/dance), presents possible approaches to the interpretation of extra- musical instructions, and compares the production decisions made by different flutists. It analyzes the effects and implications of various stagings, and highlights the importance of the ritual and dramatic elements of the piece. The section on Movement includes suggestions for practicing dancing while playing the flute, and for interpreting the movement directions in the score. It also explores the choices and possible sacrifices involved, and the ways that deliberate movement highlights the corporeality of the performer.

Chapter 4 (Conclusion: Agency and Authenticity) connects the challenges faced in Kathinkas Gesang with larger issues in performance practice, such as: What is the musical work, and who controls it? Is there such a thing as an “authentic” interpretation, and if so, what defines it as such? What is the role of performer agency in realizing the work, and how does this relate to ownership? It argues that, while these questions are present in all music, the particular demands of Kathinkas Gesang bring them into sharp relief; and that while the answers may be far from absolute, the critical examination of the questions is crucial for developing a thoughtful performance.

40 CHAPTER 2

MEMORY

The flute part must always be performed from memory. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang

This instruction, inscribed on the opening page of the score of Kathinkas

Gesang, might be enough to intimidate many flutists all by itself. Stockhausen does not specify a reason for this requirement here, and it could appear controlling and off- putting. However, part of the performer’s responsibility is to look more deeply into these directions and try to determine their purpose. The performer needs to ask: Why must this be played from memory? What are the effects of this requirement, both on the performance experience and on the learning process?

The answers to these questions deal with two broad areas. On a logistical level, it would be impossible for the flutist to move about the stage as Stockhausen directs while tied to a music stand. The use of multiple stands at different places on the stage might mitigate this problem, but would not completely solve it. (The issues of movement and staging are discussed in Chapter 3.) On a more profound level, memorizing allows

(and requires) the performer to absorb the music more deeply. In Kathinkas Gesang, memory is not a gimmick, but a way into the character; memory is not its own end, but a tool toward fully realizing the drama of the work as a whole.

Performing from memory is an essential part of the performance practice for many of Stockhausen’s solo and chamber works, especially those which are part of the

Licht opera cycle; even when these are performed as stand-alone pieces, there is still a sense of character, ritual, and theater that requires memory in order to be fully embodied.

41 In a note written in 1987 and published in the score of Ave (for basset-horn and alto flute), Stockhausen summarizes his developments in woodwind performance practice:

Even while composing for these traditional instruments, I constantly feel that I am a student on the threshold of a new development in instrumental performance. In my works since 1970, a new performance practice has been continuously developing: playing from memory; singing and playing without a conductor, and knowing the parts of the other musicians from memory; stylization of all movements, often according to detailed notation; a “concert” is either a single work without interruption, or a composition of “pieces” which are connected to each other by way of a spatial or temporal process; designing special costumes for each composition, if possible; arranging characteristic lighting for each work; avoiding all inartistic actions. . . . Creativity itself has become content and form for each work [emphasis in original].1

Stockhausen places “playing from memory” first on this list, indicating that it is a

central element of his “new performance practice.” Memorization is also a prerequisite

for some of the other elements, especially “stylization of all movements.” Memorizing a

piece of this length and complexity is no simple task. However, the topic of memory has

been neglected in previous studies of Stockhausen’s saxophone and percussion works,

with only brief mentions in two recent dissertations.2

Playing from memory has profound effects on both the learning process and the

act of performance. In addition to suggesting strategies for memorization, this chapter

explores these effects, with their attendant benefits and risks, and examines the

relationships between memory, body, and performance.

1. Stockhausen, introduction to Ave, (Kürten, Germany: Stockhausen-Verlag, 2000), vi. 2. Elizabeth Bunt, “The Saxophone Works of Karlheinz Stockhausen” (DMA diss., The University of Arizona, 2010), 31, 39n33; Stuart W. Gerber, “Stockhausen’s Solo Percussion Music: A Comprehensive Study” (DMA diss., University of Cincinnati, 2003), 105-106.

42 Memory and Virtuosity

The requirement to memorize a long and complex piece is one of the factors that

can be intimidating for a flutist approaching this work, partly because it is an extension

of virtuosity into a realm not traditionally expected. While performing from memory is

common practice among concert pianists, and even string players to some degree, it is

less emphasized for woodwind players in general. Stockhausen acknowledged that this

was a new expectation in his works, and also stressed the connections between

memory and movement on stage:

Wind (and especially woodwind) players are called upon in many works to play from memory—something which was not done traditionally in European music, not even in chamber music for small ensembles. . . . Breaking away from the written score presupposes that musicians have an excellent memory and that they do not play while seated, but rather can also move in space according to the score; that music is bound up with action.3

A typical advanced or even professional flutist will probably have played several

concerti from memory, and perhaps a few other pieces as required by a teacher or a

competition, but it is rare for flutists to perform entire concerts from memory on a regular

basis.4 Flutist Rie Schmidt points out this issue in a discussion of her experience

performing Leonard Bernstein’s Mass (a large theater piece that involves onstage

musicians):

The memorization part was really hard for me because I hadn’t done that much playing from memory at that point, and as a flutist you don’t learn to memorize music (depending upon who teaches you). Generally speaking, you don’t memorize as part of your lesson. Now that I’m doing Suzuki flute teaching, I’m much more comfortable with playing from memory and I do it all the time. At that point, I had only memorized stuff for competitions. . . . I was comfortable dancing because I took ballet as a kid. Flute playing is fine, and dancing is fine, but

3. Stockhausen and Pasveer, “Exemplary Winds,” 64. 4. I am grateful to my teachers, especially Terry Patrickis (my first flute teacher, trained in the Suzuki method) and Wissam Boustany, for encouraging me to perform from memory more than is typical of most flute students. Boustany makes a practice of performing all of his concerts from memory.

43 combining them is really hard, and then also playing from memory adds another layer of difficulty.5

In contrast, Pasveer already had experience playing both traditional and

contemporary repertoire from memory before she began working with Stockhausen.

Pasveer recalls, “I had already played lots of pieces by heart, such as the Bach Partita

and the Berio Sequenza, because I love it when you practise a piece so much that it becomes part of you, that you get the feeling of ‘becoming the music’.”6

In general, performances of contemporary music from memory are also relatively

rare. There are some exceptions, such as the contemporary chamber ensemble eighth

blackbird; the group frequently performs from memory, and some of their pieces also

include staging elements. Percussionists often need to memorize at least some of their

music because of the necessity of moving between different instruments in large set-

ups, as Julie Strom points out,7 and renowned percussionist Steven Schick learns and

performs solo repertoire from memory, including many extremely difficult contemporary

works.8 Zara Lawler and Hilary Abigana are examples of flutists doing interdisciplinary work with music, dance, and theater, performed from memory, which sometimes, though not exclusively, involves new music.9

However, these exceptions are few in number, and the more usual practice for

5. Rie Schmidt, interview by Winston Stone, May 8, 2008, quoted in Stone, “The Onstage Instrumental Musician as Theater Performer” (PhD diss., University of Texas at Dallas, 2008), 268-269. 6. Helen Bledsoe and Kathinka Pasveer, “In Media Res (Into the Middle of Things): Kathinka Pasveer, Stockhausen’s Muse,” Flute: The Journal of the British Flute Society 30, no. 1 (March 2011): 23. 7. Julie J. Strom, “Theater Percussion: Developing a Twenty-First-Century Genre through the Connection of Visual, Dramatic, and Percussive Arts” (DA diss., University of Northern Colorado, 2012), 50. 8. Schick, 121. 9. See Zara Lawler: The Flute On Its Feet, http://zaralawler.com/ (accessed February 13, 2015); and The Fourth Wall: Hybrid Arts Ensemble, http://www.thefourthwallensemble.com/ (accessed February 13, 2015).

44 both flutists and contemporary music specialists is to perform with the score. Performing from memory may be considered too time-consuming, and the effort and risk not worth the potential rewards. McNutt suggests that one reason for the rarity of memorization in contemporary music may be the emphasis on “new-ness,” with premiering many new pieces often valued over repeat performances. This volume allows for less investment in each individual work, and memorization requires such investment. A group such as eighth blackbird, which does frequently perform from memory, also performs relatively little repertoire each season, compared with other contemporary chamber groups.10

Another factor in this practice may be the tendency toward complexity in contemporary music, which could arguably make it more difficult to memorize. However, this is not necessarily the case. Critic Anthony Tommasini notes that contemporary works are often exempted from the memory requirement in solo piano competitions, but suggests that the reasons may have more to do with tradition than with actual difficulty of memorization: “It has always amused me that contemporary music is exempted from the memorization requirement. I think some pianists might find the Ligeti études, which are so technically challenging that by the time you learn them you usually know them cold, a lot easier to play from memory than Bach’s ‘Goldberg’ Variations.”11

Schick offers an alternative perspective on this issue, drawing a link between performing from memory and our modern concept of the nineteenth-century virtuoso as self-indulgent and self-aggrandizing at the expense of the music’s integrity:

Performers of the twentieth century dealt in their own way with memory. To them memory meant memorizing—standard practice for the nineteenth-century

10. McNutt, email message to author, February 22, 2014. 11. Anthony Tommasini, “Playing by Heart, With or Without a Score,” Critic’s Notebook, New York Times, December 31, 2012, http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/01/arts/music/memorizations-loosening- hold-on-concert-tradition.html?ref=anthonytommasini&_r=0 (accessed February 3, 2015).

45 virtuoso. To memorize is to internalize; the goal is to own the music [emphasis in original]. However, with ownership comes privilege. Romantic performance ideals . . . granted license not simply to transmit, but also to embody and ultimately warp the music. . . . Performers of contemporary music reacted by imposing purified and exacting standards of accuracy.12

He goes on to suggest that most performers of contemporary music who play

from the score do so as

a philosophical and not a practical decision. They do not avoid memorizing to save time or out of a fear of forgetting. . . . theirs is a decision to store musical information on the stable medium of paper rather than in the human body with its notorious propensity to mold and warp.13

In Stockhausen’s work, this decision is taken out of the performer’s hands, though its complex implications remain. Memorization is part of the piece, built into its fabric. Memory is an essential part of the performance practice, and that fact makes it a virtuosic element—a task that is required of the performer, a pushing against (pre- conceived) boundaries. In a sense, Stockhausen himself is requiring that the music be

moved off of “the stable medium of paper”14 and into the performer’s human body and

mind. Is it possible to “embody” the music, but not “ultimately warp” it?15 The performer

must attempt to reconcile the twentieth-century commitment to detailed accuracy with

the requirement to play from memory and the risks of imperfection that entails.

Although the memory requirement is unusual for instrumental music, it is common performance practice for opera, and the instrumentalists in Stockhausen’s music function as opera characters. This is especially true in the pieces from the Licht cycle (including Kathinkas Gesang), but also overlaps into other works. As Bledsoe

12. Schick, 120-121. 13. Schick, 121. 14. Schick, 121. 15. See Schick, 121.

46 notes, “the concept of all music [emphasis in original] as ‘opera’ (having an inescapable

visual aspect)” was an important part of Stockhausen’s aesthetics.16

Bledsoe also writes about the factors that might discourage more widespread

performance of Stockhausen’s works, emphasizing the investment involved:

The most obvious elements are the requirement of memorization and the theatrical elements that some works require. Amour, In Freundschaft, and Zungenspitzentanz are probably the least effort in this respect. Kathinka’s Gesang on the other hand requires a huge commitment of time and energy.17

The Experience of Memory

Since memorizing generally means that the learning process takes more time,

the memorization requirement is a major reason that learning Kathinkas Gesang

necessitates the kind of commitment Bledsoe notes above. Most of the flutists

interviewed worked on Kathinkas Gesang for six months to a year before performing it.

(My own time frame was about seven months.) Spending this much time with the music intensifies the experience of learning. No shortcuts are possible: the player must internalize everything. Schick writes that he memorizes in order to have this focus on process, this “intense and meaningful contact with music.”18 Perhaps that type of

engagement is part of what Stockhausen wanted to create.

When I memorize music, it feels as if I am turning a switch in my brain,

conceptualizing and internalizing the music in a different, more active way. It changes

the shape of the music in my mind, making it less like a line on a page and more like a

three-dimensional shape. I have a deeper understanding of the piece as a whole, which

16. Bledsoe, “Adorjan’s Lexicon.” 17. Bledsoe, “Adorjan’s Lexicon.” 18. Schick, 139.

47 gives a new sense of direction and connection throughout. As Schick writes, “the piece

is not on the page anymore; it is in my body.”19

Memory (and of the body) are often viewed as unreliable—“the human body with

its notorious propensity to mold and warp”20—but in fact, any musical performance relies heavily on physical memory. In the moment of performance, there is no time to think about every tiny motion; the physical habits must be built slowly, over weeks and months of practice. When playing from memory this physicality is thrown into sharp relief, emphasized in a more pressing way. Although it can be dangerous to rely solely on physical memory, Schick reminds us that “it is good to learn to trust the body.”21

The experience of playing from memory is more cohesive and organic, as

several flutists mentioned. Spencer said that “getting off the page frees the performer to

be totally involved in the sound,”22 and Pasveer wrote of becoming “one with the music

so that one does not have to think anymore.”23 Memory can also contribute to a sense

of ownership, as Claire Genewein described: “when you learn pieces from

Stockhausen, by heart, all movements, etc., they become ‘yours.’”24

However, there is a shadow side to this freedom: it is also more vulnerable and

risky. As some flutists pointed out, the piece is difficult enough that practicing it

sufficiently to master the technique starts building the memory, and the linear structure

(described in Chapter 1) helps to provide a framework.25 However, the experience of

19. Schick, 134. 20. Schick, 121. 21. Schick, 122. 22. Patricia Spencer, telephone conversation with author, April 22, 2011. 23. Pasveer, email message to author, April 9, 2011. 24. Claire Genewein, email message to author, April 25, 2011. 25. Pasveer, email message to author, April 9, 2011; Lise Daoust, email message to author, April 9, 2011.

48 memorizing and performing from memory is not necessarily so straightforward: certain parts may come smoothly, while others can be persistently slippery. There is a mysterious element to the process, no matter how much we analyze it, and the unexpected is always a possibility. As Schick writes,

we memorize without quite knowing how, and when we perform, we recall or fail to recall in equally mysterious ways. . . . In one moment we can summon complex musical material with precision and accuracy, and in the very next instant we can be stunned by our inability simply to play the next note.26

Performers do not often discuss this element of risk: “surrounding the greatest danger of performing music from memory—forgetting in public—there is a veritable taboo.”27 Yet failure, at least momentary failure, is a very real possibility. In a piece of this length and complexity, with the added challenges of staying in character and moving while playing, it is not unlikely that a performer will forget something at some point, miss or confuse at least a small detail, if not a larger one. If or when that happens, what does it mean? Was the performance then a failure?

Most musicians and listeners would say that this is not the case: a performance can be effective in spite of mistakes. However, this increased intensity, this possibility of forgetting, emphasizes human vulnerability in a dramatic way. In Kathinkas Gesang, the details are extremely important, yet so are the overall shape, gesture, and expressive sweep of the piece. The performer must negotiate these paradoxical demands, doing her best to meet all of them, while at the same time realizing that perfection may be impossible, or at least never guaranteed.28 By emphasizing the large over the small scale, we risk becoming lax and sloppy; by focusing on the opposite extreme, we have

26. Schick,118. 27. Schick,118. 28. Thanks to Dr. Elizabeth McNutt for influential discussion of these ideas.

49 the threat of what Hill calls “accuracy as an end in itself.”29 As McNutt and Leong write about Babbitt’s None But the Lonely Flute, “one can neither skip over the precision demanded by the score, nor stop with an accurate rendition. . . . In short, performative virtuosity in this work includes but necessarily goes beyond its technical and reading demands, to interpretation, internalization, and identification.”30

Initial Strategies for Memorization

With all of this in mind, what are some strategies and approaches that a performer can use to aid in learning and memorizing this work? One important guideline is to integrate memory into the learning process as much as possible, from the very beginning. The piece is too big to learn the whole score and then go back and memorize it. Pasveer writes, “one has to practice each bar many times in order to be able to play it, so after a while it is already in the system and memory. Memorizing has not been a special effort after learning the work. Slowly one becomes one with the music so that one does not have to think anymore.”31

Similarly, percussionist Schick includes memory as an integral part of his standard learning process:

My process involves memorizing as the very first step in the learning process. I never play a piece from the score and then gradually convert it to memory. . . . I memorize the first bar, then the second and third and so on until I have memorized the entire piece. I do not work backwards and rarely work out of order.32

Pasveer also mentions working on the piece in order: “I started with the first note and

29. Hill, 3. 30. Leong and McNutt, “Virtuosity,” paragraphs 8, 10. 31. Pasveer, email message to author, April 9, 2011. 32. Schick, 121.

50 ended with the last note.”33

Kathinkas Gesang is difficult enough that if one practices it sufficiently to reach

performance level, memory will often develop automatically to some degree. Daoust

points this out, and also mentions that the structure of the piece can aid in

memorization.34

While the linear structure of the piece makes it logical to approach it in order, it

might be useful for some flutists to work on sections out of order as well, depending on

the degree of difficulty, both for technique and for memory, and the particular flutist’s

learning style. Some sections are more difficult to memorize than others, as Daoust

mentions: “Of course, it is a long piece to memorize. But, except for no. 23, I would say

that the memorizing is not a real difficulty.”35 In my experience, Sections 23, 24, and the

“Exit” were the most challenging; the reasons for this include irregular variation and

fragmentation of musical materials, as explored more fully below. Initial work on the

piece should include looking over the whole score to assess which sections might be

most difficult to memorize, and starting work on those early, even though they may be

near the end of the piece. Spencer also suggests starting memory work on Sections 23-

24 early in the learning process, as they took the longest to memorize.36

Though it may be useful to practice some sections out of order to focus on

particularly difficult passages for memorization or extended techniques, it is also

important to start familiarizing oneself with the overall progression of the work, listening

33. Pasveer, email message to author, April 9, 2011. 34. Daoust, email message to author, April 9, 2011. 35. Daoust, email message to author, April 9, 2011. 36. Spencer, telephone conversation with author, April 22, 2011; see also Spencer, “Nature of Performance,” 13: “Central to the structural communication issue are sections 23 and 24, the longest exercises, and the most difficult to memorize.”

51 and “thinking through” the piece in order. (Mental practice is discussed more thoroughly below.) This process begins to build a structural awareness of the large scale of the piece, the scaffolding that will support the accumulation of more detailed memory.

Bledsoe used a similar strategy in her work on Stockhausen’s Paradies (although this work includes a different element, since the player must decide on dynamics, speed, and articulation for the ritornelli):

There was no way for me to memorize the piece from the outset, since the ritornelli needed to be worked out and played for Kathinka. I didn’t want to write anything onto hard disk only to have to erase it later. What I did memorize from the beginning was the structure of the piece [emphasis in original]. That in retrospect was a good idea.37

Standard approaches to memorizing music usually include a combination of

strategies to include visual, aural, kinesthetic, and analytical memory, the idea being

that a layered approach including different kinds of memory is less likely to fail in a

pinch than one relying primarily on one kind. Bledsoe describes her own approach as

approximately: “Visual = 10%, Analytical = 10%, Kinesthetic (muscle memory)= 80%.”38

Both Schick and Bledsoe acknowledge that their memory strategies are personal

and idiosyncratic, and may not work for everyone. Both also emphasize the physical

aspect of memory, while not relying on it completely. Learning styles, and especially

memorization, can be highly individualized, and each performer must experiment with

the techniques suggested to find the ones that work best for him or her. Some typical

strategies for memorization include: breaking music into small segments (this is aided

by the structure of Kathinkas Gesang, but many sections will need to be broken down

37 . Bledsoe, “Paradies Remembered,” Flutin’ High Blog, entry posted June 15, 2010, http://helenbledsoe.com/?p=28 (accessed February 3, 2015). 38. Bledsoe, “Paradies Remembered.”

52 even further); analysis of structure and patterns; repetition; listening; and mental

practice.

Recommended Resources for Memorization Strategies

Numerous resources exist for musicians interested in studying various memorization strategies, with suggestions based on both personal experience and scientific research. This section, while not claiming to be a comprehensive summary of available research, points the reader in the direction of several recommended resources.39

Aaron Williamon’s essay on memorizing music provides a useful overview of recent studies on the relative effectiveness of memorized versus non-memorized performances, and of musicians’ uses of different strategies for memorization. He summarizes the work of Edwin Hughes and Tobias Matthay, early writers on music memorization who identified three main areas: visual memory, aural memory, and kinesthetic memory. Later researchers have also identified a fourth area, to do with analysis and understanding of the score, sometimes referred to as conceptual memory.40 Williamon also emphasizes that the combination and proportion of these different types of memory used will depend on the particular performer, and that “no prevailing evidence exists to suggest whether aural, visual or kinaesthetic memory or a combination of these is the most efficient or produces the most secure memorized

39. For a more comprehensive listing of memorization resources, see Silvia A. Atmadja, “A Guide to Selected Resources on Memorization Techniques for Pianists: An Annotated Bibliography” (DMA diss., West Virginia University, 2012). Though directed towards pianists, many of the resources reviewed are useful for other instrumentalists as well. 40. Aaron Williamon, “Memorising Music,” in Musical Performance: A Guide to Understanding, ed. John Rink, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 118-119.

53 performances.”41 After examining further studies on expert memory, however, he does

conclude that the use of some type of analytical strategy is likely to yield the strongest

result: “One of the most effective methods for organizing memorized music . . . is to

incorporate analytical strategies into practice. By doing so, performers can indeed

establish a solid foundation upon which compositions are aurally, visually and

kinaesthetically learned.”42

Jane Ginsborg relates recent research on how memory works to memory

strategies that musicians may employ, also covering the four basic categories of

kinesthetic or rote learning, aural memory, visual memory, and conceptual or analytical

strategies.43 Both the Ginsborg and Williamon articles include fairly extensive

bibliographies that would be an excellent starting point for musicians interested in

further research in this area.

Stewart Gordon also provides a good overview of memorization techniques,

identifying four elements of memorization for performance that do not usually appear in

the types of memory used in everyday life: “Complexity of material, Anticipated level of

precision, Time issues, Anxiety.”44 Gordon then proceeds to suggest strategies for

addressing each of these four issues.

In addition to these kinds of academic summaries, resources are also available in which performers suggest methods based on their own experience. As cited above,

Bledsoe’s blog contains notes on her memorization process, in addition to many other

41. Williamon, “Memorising Music,” 121. 42. Williamon, “Memorising Music,” 123. 43. Jane Ginsborg, “Strategies for Memorizing Music,” in Musical Excellence: Strategies and Techniques to Enhance Performance, ed. Aaron Williamon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004): 123- 141. 44. Stewart Gordon, Mastering the Art of Performance: A Primer for Musicians, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 81.

54 insights about practice methods and issues in contemporary performance practice.

Another helpful resource is Lawler’s blog, “The Practice Notebook,” which offers

practical suggestions and encouraging advice on memorization, along with other

aspects of learning music. Her memorization technique breaks the process into two

stages—learning the passage mentally, and learning it physically—and she gives a

detailed set of steps to follow, specifying the number of repetitions to be played with and

without the music. Lawler includes the use of mental practice, with the instruction to

“think only” for some of the repetitions.45

Percussionist Schick’s chapter on memory, “The Affliction of Memory” (also cited above), combines his own insights, experiences, and working methods with available research into the science of memory, his goal being “to cross-reference my experiences, along with those I have had with my students, with evidence and terminology borrowed from more formal studies of memory.”46

Flutist Melissa Abeln and pianist Rebecca Shockley offer another approach to

memorization with their “Memory Map” strategy, in which the musician creates a visual

representation of the music. Their website describes the approach thus:

A memory map (or “mapping music”) is an approach to practice in which the performer writes down details in short-hand graphics, chord symbols, rhythmic stems, descriptive words or pictures—any type of notation—to trigger mental recall of a passage. Like to a road map, the memory map becomes a condensed, graphic representation of the music [emphasis in original]. This method requires critical thinking, providing a good remedy for mindless practice! Mapping from the outset is recommended but can begin at any point in learning a piece of music. A one-page map eventually replaces the music on the stand as more details of the work become mentally embedded, until the map itself is no longer needed and piece can be performed confidently from memory. Over

45. Zara Lawler, “How I Memorize Music,” The Practice Notebook Blog, entry posted April 6, 2009, http://thepracticenotebook.com/?p=342 (accessed February 3, 2015). Other related posts about memorization and practice techniques can also be found on Lawler’s blog. 46. Schick, 122.

55 months of practice, the musician pulls together the elements of a piece that make it interesting and, hopefully, more expressively performed.47

The Memory Map technique could be very helpful for creating mental landmarks within a long piece such as Kathinkas Gesang. Many of the other strategies outlined in the resources above, commonly employed in memorizing traditional repertoire, will likewise be useful in Kathinkas Gesang. However, the piece also presents some more unusual challenges that might help or hinder memory, and that should be considered in the approach to memory work.

Special Considerations in Kathinkas Gesang

These exceptional factors in Kathinkas Gesang include its length, complexity, extended techniques, and structure, as well as the staging instructions and the physical movements of the performer.

The length, detail and complexity make the piece generally more challenging to memorize; though a concerto may be of a similar length, it would have more recognizably familiar patterns. As Spencer writes, “even a player thoroughly proficient in bizarre techniques could experience a soul-shaking terror in the face of the demands of this work.”48 The fact that there is more to remember might seem to make memorizing more difficult. On the other hand, sometimes these other factors can serve to distinguish between sections and actually improve the structure of the memory. Paradoxically, the extended techniques and detailed instructions give the performer more to remember, more factors to navigate and distinguish between, but at the same time, also more for

47 . Melissa Colgin Abeln and Rebecca Payne Shockley, “Introduction,” The Memory Map for Music, http://www.memorymapformusic.org/ (accessed February 3, 2015). 48. Spencer, “Nature of Performance,” 13.

56 the memory to rely upon.

The structure of the piece has already been cited as an aid to memory. One strategy for memorizing is to divide a work up into sections, and designate certain points as “restart stations” in case of memory slips, even practicing starting from these different points.49 In the case of Kathinkas Gesang, this framework has already been provided by the composer (although it may be necessary to break some sections up into even smaller parts in practice). In general, each section has a different quality, and emphasizes different sounds or techniques, though a few echo earlier sections with the repetition of techniques such as singing and playing or air sounds.

In addition, the more complicated sections need to be practiced so much that they will probably end up being memorized almost automatically, as mentioned above.

This is especially true for sections with altered fingerings: one must practice these extensively in order to incorporate them fluently into muscle memory,50 even if playing with the score. In fact, the more straightforward sections may present a greater risk of memory slips; an analogy can be drawn between the work on fast, technical passages and slow, lyrical sections in traditional repertoire.

One final important factor is the staging, and especially the physical movements required of the performer. (This topic is explored more fully in the Chapter 3.) Although the staging elements might seem to be a distraction, in fact they are often helpful for memorization. Bunt notes that “for the performer, wearing a particular costume may also be a memory aid. Kathinka Pasveer, in discussing her gowns, mentioned that when she puts on the costume for a particular piece, it focuses her mind for performing that

49. Gordon, 88-89. 50. Thanks to Dr. Elizabeth McNutt for bringing up this point.

57 particular piece.”51 Similarly, having the physical movements to connect with the notes gives the memory something additional to build upon. Spencer notes that movement makes the memory and the progression of the piece more coherent, part of a larger whole.52

While the connection between movement and memory can be helpful in

Kathinkas Gesang, the work is of such length and complexity that even with all the aids described above, and with extensive practice, some of the sections may still be difficult to memorize reliably.

Sections that Challenge Memory

As noted above, the sections generally characterized as the most difficult to memorize are Sections 23 and 24. In my experience, memory was also challenging in the “Exit,” and to a lesser degree in the “Release of the Senses” and in Section 17. The following discussion examines the factors that make these sections more difficult to memorize, and suggests some ways in which the flutist might work to overcome these challenges.

Section 23 is one of the longest in the piece. It consists of a page and a half of sixteenth-note triplets (or sextuplets) interspersed with sung and played chords. See

Example 5 for the beginning of Section 23.

51.Bunt, 31. 52. Spencer, telephone conversation with author, April 22, 2011.

58 Example 5: Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 8 (Section 23):

Toop describes this section as follows: “the basic structure of the 23rd stage is a sequence of 11 bars increasing in length from 1 quarter to 11 quarters, then 11 more bars that go back from 11 quarters to 1 quarter. Each of these bars consists of a held note, then a sequence of sextuplets.”53 The sextuplet figures increase in length and the held notes or chords increase in duration with each iteration until the midpoint of the section; after that point, both sextuplets and chords follow the same pattern in reverse

53. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 119.

59 (becoming shorter), now interrupted by long tremoli, and with grace notes added after the sung chords.

In addition, there is a pitch-class pattern that is followed by the flute notes in the sung chords (the voice consistently sings a low A3), and also by the upper notes of the two-note pairs in the sextuplets: G, A, C, Db, F, Gb, Bb, Ab, D, Eb, E. Toop points out that these pitches “come basically from a reversed form of the Lucifer formula starting on G,” and that the low A sung against the sustained pitches is from the Super

Formula.54 In the second half, after the a tempo, this pattern is also repeated in the reverse order, with the sustained pitches starting from E and progressing back to G.

(The grace notes after the sung chords also follow the reversed pattern.)

An awareness of this underlying pitch-class pattern is helpful for creating mental markers or signposts. Extracting the flute/voice chords and practicing them in sequence helps to memorize the pattern and to fine-tune accuracy of the intervals between the flute and voice pitches. This may be practiced while holding the low A3 with the voice as a drone note, while changing the flute pitches above it. This type of practice also builds consistency in singing the low A, which might be difficult for some voice ranges.

This kind of mental scaffolding and large-scale structural analysis will help ensure that the section does not fall apart—even if a mistake is made, the player can still keep track of where she is in the pattern and go on, even jumping ahead to the next marker if necessary. However, even with this scaffolding, the numerous and sometimes changing details, the repetition-with-variation, and the length can make the precision of memory slippery. The articulations and the placement of mordents, flutter tonguing (and, in the

54. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 119.

60 second half, tremoli) varies each time. As Spencer writes, “the irregular recurrences,

combined with a molto rubato indication, give an ever-changing, fantasia-like character to the expressive shapes.”55 This irregular variation of different elements is one of the

factors that challenge memory. In addition, while the sustained chords reverse their

pitch-class pattern at the midpoint, the pattern in the sextuplets is more complicated, as

Toop points out: “In the last 11 bars, one can easily see that the melodic arch shape has

been inverted, but the actual pitches remain essentially the same. This is done, in effect,

by cutting the previous, rising arches at the centre point, or peak, and reversing the two

halves.”56 This pattern, even if intellectually understood, may still prove difficult to

translate into memorization of the music. Spencer suggests starting to work on this

section early in the process, as it requires a long time to memorize.57

This section also presents some other playing challenges, which will benefit from

early and frequent practice, and might compound the difficulties of the memory. The

dynamics are counter to the flute’s tendencies: it is difficult to make the low notes louder

than the higher ones, especially when the higher (and softer) notes are part of the

chords with the voice. Singing the low A3 consistently against the upper notes can also be challenging; one practice method is to hold a drone A3 with the voice while playing a slow chromatic scale, ascending and descending, with the flute. This A3 is at the low end of a typical soprano range, contrasted with the high C6 and D6 the flutist is asked to sing in the “Exit” section (discussed below). Pasveer suggests that “if one has a weak voice at this pitch, the sound projectionist can boost this specific pitch with a filter (220

55. Spencer “Nature of Performance,” 13. 56. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 119. 57. Spencer, telephone conversation with author, April 22, 2011; Spencer, “Nature of Performance,” 13.

61 Hz) so that it can be clearly heard. There will be a problem if one does not have this

pitch at all, there is no ossia for this spot.”58 In that case, she advises singing lessons to

expand the vocal range.59

Section 24 is like a ghostly echo of 23. It follows the same patterns, but the sung

chords are replaced with harmonics, and the sextuplets are played with air sound

instead of regular tone. As Toop puts it, “the pitches and rhythms are largely the same,

but the whole sound world has been pushed towards the ‘noise’ domain. The ritardandi

are now to be exaggerated, to a point where sometimes the music almost comes to a

halt.”60 The pattern described above is condensed at the end of Section 23 to transition

into the “Release of the Senses.” (See Example 7, below.) Memorizing this section

presents challenges similar to those in Section 23, though having already learned

section 23 makes memorizing 24 slightly easier. Switching back and forth from air

sounds to harmonics, which have very different lip placements, is another technical

challenge, and so are the dynamics, which indicate that the harmonics should be pp

and the air sound sextuplets f, expanding the dynamic range of section 23 (p–mf) in both directions. See Example 6 for the beginning of Section 24.

58. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 59. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. Many thanks to Heidi Klein, whose vocal coaching helped me significantly with the singing portions of Kathinkas Gesang. 60. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 119.

62 Example 6: Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 9 (beginning of Section 24):

The following section, the “Release of the Senses,” also presents memory challenges, though to a lesser degree than Sections 23 and 24. This section is a kind of

recapitulation of the piece, with condensed, miniature versions of the earlier material—

“flashbacks,” as Toop puts it61—flowing rapidly into one another. (See Chapter 1,

Structure of Kathinkas Gesang.) It is more active than the previous sections, many of

which had a static, ritual-like quality with much repetition. In the “Release,” these

materials are compressed, and the evolution of the piece occurs again, but much more

rapidly. The playing itself is not so difficult in this section, since most of the material is

already familiar. Memory is a little trickier, though, because some passages are

transposed down a half-step from where they originally appeared. This is not, however,

entirely consistent: for example, the opening phrase of the “Release” transposes the

opening of the “Salute” down a half-step for all of the sixteenth notes, but then arrives

on the high F6, which is the same note as in the “Salute” (and a significant pitch

61. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 122.

63 throughout the piece). Compare Example 7, the beginning of the “Release,” and

Example 8, the “Salute.”

Example 7: Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 10 (end of Section 24 and beginning of “Release of the Senses”):

Example 8: Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 1 (“Salute”):

64 Passages that are similar but not quite the same are often among the most

difficult to distinguish reliably in memory. A helpful strategy in this case is to practice the

“Release” in sequence regularly, tying its parts together with each other rather than

trying to relate them mentally to their predecessors earlier in the piece. Lawler also

recommends practicing similar passages separately, and even in different practice

sessions.62

This is also the section of the piece in which the performer is given the most

latitude with regard to movement choices. The instruction given is to “dance in a spiral

until arriving behind the piano grave [emphasis in original], freezing from time to time in

rigid poses.”63 Regardless of the specific movement choices made (these decisions are discussed in the Chapter 3), it will certainly be distinct from the first time that the material was performed in the previous sections. This is an excellent example of the way that the movement and dramatic structure can serve as an aid to memory, rather than as a distraction from it.

Following the “Release of the Senses” comes the “Exit” section. As it happens,

the most difficult sections to memorize appear towards the end of the piece, when

mental and physical fatigue may also be complicating factors. As challenging as

Sections 23 and 24 were, the “Exit” may in fact be the most difficult in terms of both

technique and memory. Like the rest of the score, this section is notated very precisely,

although the musical effect here is one of chaos and disintegration. The passage is a

combination of air sounds, with and without flutter tongue, and “laughter” on specified

62. Lawler, “Separate Like from Like,” The Practice Notebook Blog, entry posted July 8, 2009, http://thepracticenotebook.com/?p=492 (accessed February 3, 2015). 63 . Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang als Luzifers Requiem, trans. Suzee Stephens (Kürten, Germany: Stockhausen-Verlag, 1984), flute part, 10.

65 pitches and syllables. The highest pitch is D6, which is above the standard range for a

professional soprano (C4-C6), and may be extremely difficult to reach for a flutist who is

not a trained singer.64 In his introductory comments on “Notation,” Stockhausen writes,

“although at the beginning of EXIT it is indicated that the pitches of the laughing are

ʻapproximateʼ, they were realized exactly at the premiere. If a flutist cannot laugh as high as notated, the uppermost minor second intervals must be compressed.”65 This

creates a conundrum for the performer: the pitches are designated as “approximate,”

yet the composer specifically mentions that they were “realized exactly” at the premiere,

which implies a standard one should strive to reach. Compressing the uppermost

interval (between C#6 and D6) does little to alleviate this difficulty, and the pronunciation

of the phonetic syllables adds another layer of density. This section approaches the

aesthetic of New Complexity in its intensity and near-impossible demands. Is

Stockhausen trying to create a heightened, crazed state in the performer, as the piece

approaches its climax? Or should it still be perfect in every detail,66 which seems to

require calm remove, or some kind of transcendence, on the part of the performer?

Perhaps these two poles are not as mutually exclusive as they appear: in this case,

“perfection” might mean the deep embodiment of the crazed state of the character.

In addition to the playing challenges of the “Exit”, a few other factors make this

section difficult to memorize. Like in Sections 23 and 24, some details are altered

according to complex patterns that are difficult to identify. The material of the “Exit” is

64. Male performers are instructed to sing an octave lower, but the same issue presents itself in the male range. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xx. 65. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xx. 66. “One has the practice each exercise until all details are perfect and until the meaning of each exercise is understood.” Pasveer, email message to author, April 9, 2011.

66 built off of the passage that occurs at the end of the “Release of the Senses,” which is also the material from Section 23 and 24 transposed down a half-step. See Example 9 for the transition from the end of the “Release” into the beginning of the “Exit.”

Example 9: Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 12 (end of “Release” into beginning of “Exit”):

Certain elements of this passage are preserved: the order of pitches, and the location of the flutter-tongue and of the mordents. The entirety of this passage, both at the end of the “Release” and in the “Exit,” is played with air sounds. The factors that vary are the placement of the laughing syllables (produced along with air sound from the flute), the specific vowel sounds of the syllables used for laughing, and the fragmentation of the phrase. The phrase becomes progressively more fragmented as the “Exit” continues,

67 and this is accomplished in two ways: by adding rests, and by elongating certain notes

and skipping others. According to Toop, “the basic material of this section is an

interlocking of versions of the Lucifer formula (plus some Super Formula notes),

amounting to 26 notes in all. Yet one never hears them all; there’s a sort of ‘filtering

system’. In the first bar there are 24 notes, then 23, then 22, and so on.”67 Again, an

intellectual understanding of this pattern is helpful, yet only goes so far. The

fragmentation pattern is complex enough that it is usually not significantly helpful as a memory aid. Example 10 shows a section near the end of the “Exit.”

Example 10: Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 12 (fragmentation at end

of “Exit”):

Towards the end, when there is more space between notes, and some more distinct

67. Toop, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 122.

68 elements (such as the voice glissandi at the top of p. 13), the music becomes somewhat

easier to remember again, with more landmarks. However, the degree of complexity

and subtle variation make the middle part of this section very challenging to memorize,

especially since it moves quite quickly.

The “Exit” is an example of a place in the score where it might have been

possible to achieve a very similar effect by giving the performer guidelines with which to

improvise the repetition and fragmentation of the given passage.68 Stockhausen’s

notation is usually very precise, but there are a few instances in Kathinkas Gesang where he gives the flutist a bit of improvisatory leeway. In Sections 23 and 24, the

player is instructed to play “con molto rubato” and with “passionate ritardando and

accelerando.”69 The passage directly preceding the “Exit” (and on which the “Exit”

material is built) is repeated ad libitum, with the following instructions: “breathe ad lib,

but continue to play mentally and come in again where one would have been if a breath

had not been taken. Vary the position (in the melody) and duration of breath-taking! [Do]

Not always decrescendo before taking a breath!”70 (See Example 9 above.)

This ad libitum, varied repetition foreshadows the fragmentation that follows in

the “Exit.” However, here it is semi-improvisatory, whereas in the “Exit,” all of the details

are specifically written out. The player must do her best to realize all the details as

exactly as possible, while at the same time paying attention to the drama and overall

shape. When asked about the rather extreme voice range in this section, and

Stockhausen’s designation of the laughing pitches as “approximate,”71 Pasveer replied:

68. Thanks to Dr. Elizabeth McNutt for suggesting and discussing this idea. 69. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 8. 70. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 12. 71. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 12. Stockhausen also writes that these pitches

69 As I have a large range of my voice, Stockhausen used this in many of his works (not only flute works but my voice can also be heard in many of his electronic pieces). Stockhausen knew that perhaps not all flutists have a high D so that is why he allows [the flutist] to laugh as high as possible. As we always hear a little bit of sound from the flute at the same time and as the notes are so short, it is not disturbing if the right pitch is not always reached. Also as laughing has a glissando going to the note or after a note, these pitches do not have to be stable. A different moment can be found in FLAUTINA, where a precise pitch (long held g”) has to be sung with different vowels; there we have to be precise.72

Since Pasveer is so attentive and committed to detail, this is a significant comment: she seems to be indicating that in this section, there is room to be a little bit

less precise. Of course, one still must make the effort towards precision, but, as she

writes, there is so much going on that it is less “disturbing” if there are a few

imprecisions. This should not be taken as license to be careless, but it might be read to

indicate that if this section comes out less than perfectly precise, it can still be a

successful performance. Such a reading reinforces the idea proposed above: perhaps

perfection need not always be equated with smooth flawlessness. The performer must

negotiate the sometimes paradoxical demands of detail and dramatic arc, attempting to

execute the notation as exactly as possible, and at the same time accepting the cracks

or imperfections that will likely emerge in the moment of performance, especially with

the added factors of adrenaline, fatigue, and memory. The effort to laugh as high as

possible (or beyond) on a variety of syllables generates an instability that contributes to

the manic, possessed energy of the “Exit” section.73

Other sections may also be challenging to memorize, though likely not as difficult

as those described above. Section 17 is similar to but not quite the same as Section 15,

“were realized exactly at the premiere.” Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xx. 72. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 73. Thanks to Dr. Elizabeth McNutt for discussion of this idea.

70 and Section 2 consists of repeated figures with small changes, and uses several altered fingerings. As mentioned above, altered fingerings in general take a lot of practice time, though since they almost necessarily have to be memorized in order to be played at tempo, the flutist will probably find that once those sections are learned they are effectively memorized as well.

Each flutist is likely to discover that the memorization of some sections comes fairly easily, while others are more challenging and take longer to solidify. Some amount of variation in this is liable to occur, due to the individual’s learning style and tendencies.

As with learning the piece as a whole, the memory work needs to be a balance between close attention to detail and learning the larger shape, sequence, and structure.

Additional Memorization Strategies for Kathinkas Gesang

In addition to the general memory strategies discussed above, there are some that may be particularly helpful in learning and memorizing a piece of this nature. Mental practice is a very important tool. This can be useful for the small scale, on a phrase level, but is also especially helpful in cementing the larger structure and sequence of the piece. Following the advice of my teacher, Dr. Elizabeth McNutt, I did a great deal of mental practice as I was learning the piece. I would sit or lie down, close my eyes, and try to mentally “hear” through the piece from beginning to end, imagining in as much detail as possible what my fingers, lips, voice, etc., would be doing, and also how it would sound. If I was not sure of some detail, I would mentally note where the gap was, and give it some additional attention in later practice; but I would also keep going, jumping if necessary to the next landmark I could recall, in order to work on the

71 structural memory and flow of the entire piece.

Several other flutists have also mentioned the efficacy of mental practice in

learning this piece or other Stockhausen works. When Pasveer was first learning

Kathinkas Gesang, she was still a conservatory student and also played in an orchestra,

so “I could only work on KATHINKAs GESANG for a few hours each day. Mental

studying was very important (when travelling by train).”74 Spencer’s memorization

techniques included mental or thought practicing, in which the flutist studies a phrase, sings it mentally, and imagines what the lips and fingers would be doing without actually moving them.75 Spencer also suggests using singing to help internalize and mentally

clarify the material, even if it has to be done very slowly at first; and trying to avoid

looking back and forth from the page, instead trying to sing the next note when stuck.

She advises working on breaking the fingers-to-page connection, and trying to create an

aural connection instead. In addition, Spencer suggests sometimes working from the

end of a section and adding on backwards, while also emphasizing that the sequence of

the whole is important.76

Bledsoe also stresses the importance of mental practice for memorization in her

work on Stockhausen’s Paradies. Bledsoe writes:

Some of my tricks included 1) Setting a time schedule by working backwards from the date of the performance. Divide and conquer. Don’t try to memorize all at once but set a certain amount for a certain time period. 2) Going through the piece without the flute in hand or the music in front of me. This I often did in the dark before going to sleep. 3) Procrastinating as much as legally possible in order to have the peace of

74. Pasveer, email message to author, April 9, 2011. 75. Spencer, telephone conversation with author, April 22, 2011. See also Spencer, “Nature of Performance,” 13-14, for discussion of “thought-practicing.” 76. Spencer, telephone conversation with author, April 22, 2011.

72 mind required for clear intellectual work.77

This kind of mental practice, especially detailed visualization, has been shown to

be an effective complement to physical practice for learning and refining skills. Applying

methods derived from sports psychology to musical training, Christopher Connolly and

Aaron Williamon offer additional guidelines and exercises for “mental rehearsal” in their

article “Mental Skills Training.”78

As mentioned above, the intertwined nature of the different elements in the piece

may sometimes be helpful for memory. Changing physical position for each section

especially can be an aid to the memory, giving it a larger framework with more layers to

build upon. It can also be an additional element to remember, but if the notes and the

movements are strongly associated in the memory it will most likely prove helpful rather

than detrimental. While I was working on Kathinkas Gesang, I used an accumulation

exercise from structured dance improvisation to help strengthen memory and movement

connections.79 In the basic form of this exercise, as I learned it from Catherine Maguire,

the dancer makes one movement, and then returns to the neutral starting position. She

makes the same movement again, and adds another one, then returns to the starting

position. She repeats the sequence of two movements and adds on a third, and so on,

77. Bledsoe, “Paradies Remembered.” 78. Christopher Connolly and Aaron Williamon, “Mental Skills Training,” in Musical Excellence: Strategies and Techniques to Enhance Performance, ed. Aaron Williamon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004): 221-245. The article’s bibliography offers suggestions for further reading in this area of research. 79. My dance teacher, Catherine Maguire, learned this exercise from Richard Bull and Susan Leigh Foster, and developed the material in her own improvisational work and teaching, adding further complexity. (Catherine Maguire, email message to author, January 30, 2015.) For information on Richard Bull’s life and work, see Susan Leigh Foster, Dances That Describe Themselves: The Improvised Choreography of Richard Bull (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2002). I am also grateful to dancer Penny Chang, with whom I practiced this exercise extensively as part of our dance improvisation work together.

73 for as long as it is possible to remember the sequence. A goal, such as six or eight movements to accumulate, may be set; then, when this is reached, the dancer repeats the entire sequence a final time. This exercise strengthens both improvisation and memory skills. I adapted it as a musical improvisation exercise, replacing the dance movement with a musical phrase, fragment, or gesture; then I combined the two, accumulating a sequence of associated musical fragments and physical movements.

This exercise is useful both for becoming accustomed to moving with the flute, and for solidifying memorization and the connection between notes and bodily movements. This kind of memory work requires both physical and intellectual aspects of virtuosity, and strengthens the links between the two.

While I hope that these suggestions will prove helpful to other flutists approaching the piece, ultimately there is no shortcut to memorization, and no magic formula. Pacing is very important: it is necessary to take plenty of time and measure out the work. Practice in both small chunks and larger sections, practice the transitions frequently to clarify them as much as possible, and study the sequence to know what section comes next. Throughout this working process, patience and trust are essential.

What Spencer writes about the learning process in general is also applicable to memory. “Even though section X is impossible, and no one could ever learn it, and it only progressed one inch yesterday and there is still a mile to go [emphasis in original]

—try to reach a deeper, calmer level (take some big relaxed breaths), and cover the next inch. Maybe one day it will jump ahead.”80 Spencer also offers a humorous take on the possible benefits of distractions: “Knowing something really well (especially when

80. Spencer, “Nature of Performance,” 13.

74 playing from memory) means knowing it in many different contexts—different acoustics,

temperatures, background noises. Lawn-mowers, sirens, demolition squads, and

nearby tenors can all play a valuable role in solidifying memory.”81 With this in mind, it is

helpful (once memory has been established to some degree) to practice playing the

piece from memory in different spaces and contexts, as well as starting at different

points, as mentioned above.

Finally, Spencer advises the player to focus upon making the memorization as

secure as possible, paying attention to near-misses as well as actual failures in practice:

“A fuzzy spot, even if it came out correctly, is a near miss, and should be firmly shored

up if the memory is to be secure. The feeling is like spinning a fine thread of

consciousness, making sure it is strong and has no gaps.”82

Memory in Performance

The preceding discussion has been mostly concerned with the process of memorizing. This chapter closes by returning to the question about the effects of playing from memory on the performance experience, for both the performer and the audience.

Performers who are committed to playing from memory cite advantages including greater freedom of expression, increased internalization and sense of ownership of the music, and more direct communication with the audience. They feel that the increased practice time, and the risk associated with performing from memory, is worthwhile to achieve these benefits. Others question whether the expectation to perform from memory might, in some cases, be harmful to the overall musical effect of the

81. Spencer, “Nature of Performance,” 14. 82. Spencer, “Nature of Performance,” 14.

75 performance.

In this vein, music critic Tommasini has challenged the “mystique” of

memorization, especially for solo pianists, arguing that memorized performances are

not necessarily superior and that “what matters, or should matter, is the quality of the

music making, not the means by which an artist renders a fine performance.”83

Tommasini does not argue that pianists should never perform from memory, but rather that the expectation (and in some cases, the requirement) that they do so should be loosened. In the case of Kathinkas Gesang, the requirement to play from memory is a specific instruction given by the composer, rather than a general culture of performance practice or the stipulation of a competition. However, Tommasini’s argument leads to valuable questions about the effects of memory on performance: Is it possible to give a performance that is just as good, or possibly better, while using the score? How is this to be measured and evaluated?

Williamon describes a recent study that attempts to begin answering these questions in a more quantitative way, in which audience members were asked to rate different performances of excerpts from the Bach cello Suites, played with and without a

score by the same cellist. Williamon notes some limitations of the study, including the

fact that the differences between performances were noticed more by audience

members who were also musicians; this could indicate that training and/or bias might

play a part. However, the memorized performance was generally perceived by the

audience to be more freely expressive and more directly communicative, which would

seem to confirm some of the reasons often given for playing from memory. 84

83. Tommasini, “Playing by Heart.” 84. Williamon, “Memorising Music,” 113-118.

76 In Kathinkas Gesang, Spencer encourages performers to make sure that the

thread of consciousness, the memory structure, has no gaps. This is a noble goal, but in

reality, there is always the possibility of a gap appearing, even if the line seems

completely secure. Strange and unexpected things can happen in performance, as any

performer knows. Obviously, extensive and thoughtful preparation will minimize the risk

of a memory slip. Yet the possibility still exists, and as mentioned above, it is not

frequently discussed.

Playing from memory emphasizes the corporeality of the performance. Along with

the movement and theatrics, it has the paradoxical effect of making the performer

simultaneously more and less human: less, because she is freed to more fully embody

and enact the character being portrayed; and more, because her human fallibility is on

the line. Even if the audience is not consciously aware of this distinction, playing from

memory adds an element of risk that makes the performance more electrifying. The

audience responds to this energy, the same way they might react to a high-wire act. A

difficult thing is being done in front of them, and done well—this is part of the excitement

of virtuosity.

An element of Tommasini’s critique of the memorization standard is its

association with the “showmanship” of performers such as Liszt.85 In Kathinkas Gesang,

however, it is important to remember that this high-wire act is not performed for its own

sake, or with the goal of impressing an audience. According to Pasveer, when

performing Stockhausen’s works “we never play for the public. Every work is a ritual in

itself . . . which an audience may experience. But we never play looking to the public or

85. Tommasini, “Playing by Heart.” (See also Schick, 120-121, on the association of memory with Romantic performance practice and undue liberties.)

77 making movements in order to impress people.”86 This does not mean that the performance has no effect on the audience; Pasveer has spoken elsewhere about sharing oneself and the music with an audience, and the way that “this beauty not only transforms the player but also transforms the people who listen to it.”87 Pasveer’s comments relate to the importance of transcending the shallow type of virtuosity that is primarily concerned with showing off the player’s skills.

In this case, the memory is a means to a larger end, a part of a greater whole, and the deep knowing and internalization that it requires will have an effect on the way the performer plays the piece. In addition to the sense of fallibility, risk, excitement, and energy that memory adds to the performance, it also encourages a deeper connection between mind and body, a more fully integrated knowledge of the work. Schick writes about memorizing “to bring the music as close to my body as possible,”88 and Breault points out that, according to Stockhausen and Pasveer, the tempi for the various sections in Kathinkas Gesang must be learned in bodily memory.89

Memory does involve the risk of forgetting. However, it is unlikely that a well- prepared player will have a disastrous memory slip. The experienced performer is well practiced at the art of recovery. In addition, it is valuable to think about what constitutes a failure, and what constitutes a mistake.

The most common understanding is the quantitative kind of mistake – forgetting a note or a step, playing/doing the wrong one, or doing it incorrectly. However, there could also be a qualitative kind of mistake – failing to be expressive, to convey the piece

86. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 87. Bledsoe and Pasveer, “Stockhausen’s Muse,” 24. 88. Schick, 139. 89. Breault, “Réflexions d’une interprète,” 92-93. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.)

78 effectively. In the second sense, a mistake could be much broader than playing a wrong

note or having a memory slip. It could mean not fully embodying the piece or the

character. This type of “mistake” is more difficult to measure, but its consequences are

often more dire: a few missed notes can be more easily forgiven by an audience than a

flawless but uninteresting performance. However, there is also a threshold at which

quantitative mistakes add up to a lack of qualitative impact and the performance begins

to seem sloppy and unprepared, the mistakes a distraction from the music. The

performer must negotiate a balance between these priorities, an especially tricky

proposition in a piece like Kathinkas Gesang, which contains an abundance of both

dramatic weight and nuanced detail.

Along similar lines, it is possible to make a distinction between failing and faking:

failing is trying to do what is asked, and not quite making it, while faking is consciously

deciding to make a passage easier in order to be able to perform it (in the altered

version) flawlessly and reliably.90 Faking is a deliberate decision (which, depending on

the priorities of the piece, may at times be an appropriate and responsible choice); failing is a genuine effort that may have unpredictable results.

In the case of memory and Kathinkas Gesang, faking would entail either not

playing the piece from memory (perhaps having music stands at different places on the

stage), playing portions of it from memory but not all, or using some kind of technology

as a memory aid. In this work, however, not playing the piece from memory, for

whatever reasons, is clearly in opposition to the composer’s instruction. This is one of

the essential conditions to which the performer must submit in order to play this piece,

90. Thanks to Dr. Elizabeth McNutt for this concept and distinction.

79 and the risk of failure is a part of the experience. Choosing to perform with the score seems like a more serious departure from the composer’s stated instructions than does adapting some of the staging, costume, set, etc.; it might be more analogous to playing the piece with no staging at all. Questions about the staging are addressed more fully in

Chapter 3. However, the requirement to play from memory, with its deep effects on both the learning process and the energy of the performance, is a fundamentally important aspect of the piece. Stockhausen is asking much of the performer, but working in this way provides a rich and illuminating experience in return.

80 CHAPTER 3

STAGING, DRAMA, AND MOVEMENT

In Licht, instrumentalists now appear ever more frequently as musico-scenic protagonists, as in earlier operas the singers did. These instrumentalists move about artfully on the stage even more sophisticatedly than the singers, as far as virtuosity of movement and independence of playing is concerned. Stockhausen, “Exemplary Winds”

The visual element is extremely important in Stockhausen’s music. As discussed in the previous chapter, performing from memory is an essential part of the performance practice, enabling the musicians to be “moving characters, for whom music and bodily movements are structurally united and meaningful.”1 As Stockhausen said, “Breaking

away from written music presupposes that musicians have an excellent memory and

that they do not play while seated, but rather can also move in space according to the

score; that music is bound up with action [emphasis added].” 2 In many of his

compositions, “the player has to move about in space with very precisely notated forms of movement, even the bodily gestures are notated. The musician therefore becomes a character, he becomes a protagonist.”3

Memory, movement, character, drama, and stage setting are closely intertwined.

Harlekin (1975) was one of the first pieces Stockhausen wrote that gives detailed

movement and staging directions for the performer, but he had been interested in the

visual aspect of performance for some time. According to Pasveer,

as Stockhausen often said, once we look at a performer, then the way he/she moves should also be as artful as the work itself. . . . Stockhausen always rehearsed with all interpreters the way they came on stage, the way they took a bow, so that they never became all of a sudden “normal, or unartful people”. That

1 . Stockhausen and Pasveer, “Exemplary Winds,” 68. 2. Stockhausen and Pasveer, “Exemplary Winds,” 64. 3. Stockhausen and Pasveer, “Exemplary Winds,” 64.

81 is why Stockhausen already started making very precise stage settings for early ensemble works like KREUZSPIEL, but then more in detail when he started to work personally with interpreters like Suzanne Stephens since 1974 with HARLEKIN. Stockhausen liked to expand all talents of the performer. As of that time also suggestions for costumes and colours were made in the score.4

In other works since then, especially the Licht opera cycle, he continued to develop these ideas, working closely with Suzanne Stephens, Kathinka Pasveer, and other instrumentalists. As Bunt notes, “from 1974 onwards, one sees more visual elements, such as costumes, props, performer motion, and staging in Stockhausen's concerts.5 . .

. The visual component of composition became a feature of his writing and performer movement became an integral part of wind instrument performance practice of his music.”6 As Daoust writes, the roles of the instrumentalists in the Licht operas involve

a totally unusual approach for the musicians, for which they have not been trained: they are new musicians. . . . They wear specific costumes and play in characteristic lighting. With their instruments, they can make the noises of the wind, shouting, singing, talking, sighing, laughing . . . they often play very fast passages, with obviously very difficult microtones, they move effortlessly often with virtuoso dance steps, with humor, and a great deal of charm. . . . This also means that they must play a very difficult text from memory, without a conductor, knowing each other’s parts by memory, and must execute all movements very naturally, often written with extreme precision. In the music of LICHT there is as much to be heard as seen and both parameters are brought to the same artistic level.”7

Stockhausen is not the only composer to use extra-musical or theatrical components in his works; other examples certainly exist, both of composers who have made such work a central part of their output (such as Vinko Globokar), and those who have written particular pieces with theatrical elements (examples for flute include

Salvatore Sciarrino’s Il Cerchio Tagliato Dei Suoni for 4 flute soloists and 100 migrating

4. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 5.Bunt, 39. 6. Bunt, 45. 7. Daoust, “Stockhausen et la flûte,” 7. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.)

82 flutists, and Oliver Knussen’s Masks for solo flute). In Stockhausen’s work, however, the visual and dramatic elements are uniquely integrated into the music and central to its meaning and interpretation; the sense of drama and the ritual context are arguably as important as the music itself. What might be called the “extra-musical elements” are in fact essential to the piece, and realizing Stockhausen’s staging instructions presents the performer with a number of interpretive questions.

The extensions of virtuosity examined in this chapter are both physical and mental, encompassing both actions and choices. They include the development of new skills (such as moving while playing the flute), and also the ability to make interpretive decisions dealing with parameters not usually under consideration in traditional flute music. These decisions about staging, and the actions of carrying them out, are part of the interpretation of the piece.

Stockhausen gives detailed instructions for many extra-musical elements, including set, costume, movement, lighting, and amplification. Bunt argues that

this careful attention to detail stems from a pragmatic spirit (rather than a micromanaging one). When one thinks about the level of thoughtfulness and care for detail that go into a performance, one realizes that performers must make countless decisions. Thus Stockhausen’s attention to detail is a sensitivity to a performer’s undertaking in presenting a piece to an audience. He understands that even a performer’s costume, worn for a particular piece, should be carefully planned in advance and be suitable for the music to be performed. Stockhausen’s forethought to note in his scores his choices on the aspects of production, frees performers to put their energy into interpreting the music.8

Bunt contends that interpretation of the music is the only kind of interpretation involved in the piece, and that the performer has no decisions to make about the staging, since

Stockhausen has already determined everything. In contrast, I argue that making

8 .Bunt, 40.

83 staging decisions as well as musical decisions is a part of the performer’s interpretation and, as discussed in Chapter 1, interpretation is a part of the extended/deeper virtuosity that this work requires.

Bunt allows that the performer has a role in “interpreting the music,” and yet

Stockhausen’s scores for Licht are also highly detailed and specifically notated, in some cases more specifically than the staging and production instructions. The existence of a specific musical score does not mean that the performer will have no interpretive decisions to make about playing the music and realizing the score. Likewise, the specificity of Stockhausen’s performance directions does not eliminate the staging as an area for the choice-making and interpretative aspects of virtuosity. Rather than giving the performer less to think about, the detailed staging instructions in fact introduce another area in which the performer is called upon to make conscious and well- considered decisions.

Interpretation of Staging Instructions

If staging and production decisions are part of the interpretation of Kathinkas

Gesang, as of other Stockhausen works, then the question arises: should these parameters be treated in the same way as musical instructions (notation), or are there differences in the ways these two kinds of instructions from the composer are or ought to be approached?

Pasveer is quite clear on this account, saying that the staging directions should be realized with the same care and accuracy as the musical notation: “these belong to the vision Stockhausen has had for this particular work. So the ‘props’ and stage

84 directions given in the score have to be taken as seriously as pitches and dynamics,

etc.”9

However, does taking them seriously mean that there is no room for the

performer’s interpretation? Flutist and interdisciplinary performer Lawler, who has

performed many original interdisciplinary works, and also organized and staged the

2012 United States premiere of Sciarrino’s Il Cerchio Tagliato Dei Suoni, takes basically

the same approach to the interpretation of musical and extra-musical elements, but in

her view both offer the opportunity—in fact, the necessity—for the performer to make

decisions.10

Lawler gives the example of the dynamic indication of piano: while fairly specific, it is not an absolute. The flutist must still decide: how soft is piano in this particular moment of the phrase? What tone color goes along with the dynamic here? And so forth. If the composer gives the instruction to “walk slowly” (as in Sciarrino’s Il Cerchio

Tagliato Dei Suoni), the performer must decide: How slowly, and with what kind of motion? There are limits to the amount of specificity that a score can provide, even a highly detailed score. These openings provide a place for performer creativity to enter into the work.

Lawler describes a simple (though subjective) litmus test for interpretation: Does it work, or not? Does it sound good, look good, make sense? She contrasts two philosophies of interpretation: the first is the idea of realizing the composer’s intentions,

and taking the performer’s self out of the picture, while the second (to which Lawler

9 . Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 10. Lawler, Skype conversation with author, September 19, 2013.

85 subscribes) is a model of collaborating with the composer.11

Composer’s Intentions

Two related but distinct questions are raised here: First, is the goal of a performance to duplicate the premiere as closely as possible? Second, how does a performer interpret extra-musical instructions from the composer? The introduction of elements from other art forms (theater and dance), which generally rely less on strict and specific notation than does music, adds complication to these questions. (The notation and interpretation of the movement instructions specifically are discussed in more detail later in this chapter.)

The latter question, about the attempt to duplicate the original performance conditions as closely as possible, based on the idea that these come closest to the composer’s intentions, obviously has close connections with questions raised in historical performance practice. The parallels are informative, though of course the analogy is not perfect. One argument sometimes employed in critiques of historical performance practice is that modern performers cannot fulfill the composer’s intentions because we cannot know exactly what they were (from lack of evidence, not having recordings of performances, etc.). In the case of Stockhausen, the lack of information is not a problem. Still, the question remains: to what degree does the performer have a responsibility to follow those intentions to the letter, insofar as they are known and understood?

Several scholars have questioned the concept that the goal of performance is to

11. Lawler, Skype conversation with author, September 19, 2013.

86 realize the composer’s intentions, and have drawn attention to the various ways in

which the determination and realization of such “intentions” can be problematic.12

Musicologist and philosopher Peter Kivy has argued that the suspicion of “the

flamboyant ‘performer-artist’ of the past”13 has its roots in

the mistaken notion that the musical work is the bearer of a “message” from the composer that the performer is duty-bound [emphasis in original] to deliver intact or be guilty, essentially, of lying. . . . But, as I have argued before, this is a false model of the composer-performer relationship. The music is not a message, at least where absolute music is concerned; and the performer is not the composer’s messenger, thus not to be judged by the peculiar ethics of that profession.14

Kivy’s caveat, “at least where absolute music is concerned,” raises yet another

question: might this assessment be different in the case of opera, and therefore also

with Kathinkas Gesang? How does the inclusion of extra-musical parameters (including

character and dramatic context, if not actual spoken or sung text) affect the roles,

responsibilities, and relationship of performer and composer? Kivy has confined this

particular argument to absolute music (“music without text, title, or program”), but does

state that much of what he says is also applicable to music with program and/or text.15

Lawler takes the view that literal realization of the composer’s exact instructions

(especially in terms of staging directions) is less important than the overall effectiveness

of the performance as a whole.

If there is a “danger” in not following the composer’s instructions to a T, it is that you would end up with an effective performance not as he/she intended. If there is a danger in completely subjugating yourself to your perception of the composer’s wishes, then it is that you will have an ineffective performance

12 . For two examples, see Randall R. Dipert, “The Composer’s Intentions: an Examination of Their Relevance for Performance,” The Musical Quarterly 66, no. 2 (April 1980): 205-218; and Bengt Edlund, “‘Sonate, que te fais-je’? Toward a Theory of Interpretation,” Journal of Aesthetic Education 31, no. 1 (Spring 1997): 23-40. 13. Kivy, Authenticities, 282. 14.Kivy, Authenticities, 282-283. 15.Kivy, Authenticities, 155.

87 [emphasis in original].16

Another possibility, of course, is ending up with an ineffective performance that is also not as the composer intended, the worst of both worlds. The performer must try to mitigate this risk by using all the skill and judgment at her disposal, making carefully considered choices, and only departing from the instructions with the strong belief that the departure will improve the performance as a whole.

Kivy examines “the notion that realizing the composer’s intentions (in the broad sense of the term) produces the optimal performance” and sees that it is “predicated on two axioms . . . the composer knows best (CKB), and the related axiom of the delicate balance (DB) [emphasis in original].”17 After a lengthy philosophical analysis, Kivy concludes that “the performing intentions of the composer, like any other set of proposals for performing a musical work, might turn out to be a good way of doing the business, or might not; and if not, should, like any other plan that doesn’t work out, be discarded in favor of one that does.”18 However, that said, he also acknowledges that

“the composer’s performing intentions do hold some special, prima facie authority over all others. That is to say, they are not necessarily where we stop; but they are perhaps necessarily where we must begin.”19

If the composer’s intentions and instructions are taken as a place to begin, that might offer the performer some room to make decisions that she believes will increase the effectiveness of the particular performance, based on the circumstances and resources at hand. Of course, such decisions, especially if they are departures from the

16. Lawler, email message to author, October 16, 2013. 17.Kivy, Authenticities, 162. 18.Kivy, Authenticities, 185. 19.Kivy, Authenticities, 185-186.

88 instructions, must be made with great care.

In the case of Kathinkas Gesang, we must also consider the fact that detailed stage directions are not typically the realm of composers. Opera and theater productions typically involve a director and possibly a choreographer, as well as lighting, set, and costume designers, etc. When Kivy asks, “But why [emphasis in original] should we want total control of sound production to be in the composer’s hands?”20 we must also add: why should we want total control of all the performance parameters to be in the composer’s hands?

Kivy notes that the use of “historically authentic performance criteria” is much more prevalent in the world of music than in other genres, such as theater.21 In asking the reasons for this, he discusses the differences between the musical score and the play script, and how much is specifically determined by each. The increasing specificity of the musical score through music history does not seem to have a parallel in the way that scripts are typically written:

As the score becomes more and more explicit in its performance instructions, the performer becomes more and more subservient to the composer (of which the cause and effect I will not attempt to determine) to the extent that a writer in recent memory (I cannot remember who) referred to the performer as “the composer’s machine”. There seems to be no such drastic evolution of the play script in the direction of determining all the performance parameters of a drama—costumes, motions, gestures, inflections, stage-sets, lighting, and so on. Again: why this is so is not clear. But a conjecture is perhaps in order.22

Kivy goes on to suggest that the reason may have to do with the differences between the aural and visual imagination, and the way it is possible to hear a whole symphony

20 . Kivy, Authenticities, 281. 21 .Kivy, Sounding Off, 34. 22.Kivy, Sounding Off, 35.

89 “in the head,” but less so to visualize a whole play.23

Stockhausen was a musical composer who began expanding his works into the arena of opera/theater. He had a unified vision of the performance works he wanted to create and built a company of performers dedicated to doing so. He took the highly

determined specificity of the mid-twentieth-century modernist musical score and applied that same kind of method to determining all of the production details, exactly as Kivy says above that play scripts tend not to do. With the possible exception of “inflections”

(which could be considered included in the musical score itself), Stockhausen gives

instructions for all of the items in Kivy’s list: “costumes, motions, gestures, inflections,

stage-sets, lighting.”24

However, it is also reasonable to ask how much control really was in the

composer’s hands, even in the premiere performance. Jerome Kohl, writing about the

Samstag premiere at La Scala, notes that in a work such as this, “the whole effect becomes vulnerable to small miscalculations. Perhaps it is for this reason that

Stockhausen is so incredibly fussy about the smallest details. The effect of the La Scala production was not entirely satisfactory due to an accumulation of such problems, only a few of which . . . I am willing to charge to the composer.”25 However, as Kohl notes,

“other critics have not been so generous,” with the press at the time tending to

characterize Stockhausen’s music as “difficult” and the composer himself as “abrasive”

and possibly “authoritarian.”26 There was a popular idea in the Milan press that “the

23 .Kivy, Sounding Off, 35. 24.Kivy, Sounding Off, 35. 25. Jerome Kohl, “Stockhausen at La Scala: Semper idem sed non eodem modo,” Perspectives of New Music 22, no. 1-2 (Autumn 1983-Summer 1984): 499. 26. Kohl, “La Scala,” 499.

90 directors (Luca Ronconi and Ugo Tessitore) and designer (Gae Aulenti) really could not

be held responsible for any theatrical shortcomings, since they were left nothing to do

except follow the ‘authoritarian’ dictates of the composer.”27

However, according to Kohl, this was not an accurate representation of the

situation:

Both directors and designer made significant additions to what the score specifies, usually to very good effect. But I also count at least sixteen major stage directions which were changed or ignored. Some were not very significant, and others were clearly impractical because of the open space of the Palasport. . . . Still other omissions . . . obscured the humor and, more importantly, the dramatic action—if not in its broadest outline, then in important details. . . . The composer bore all this in a practical spirit of compromise, though he clearly was disappointed.28

According to Kohl, then, although Stockhausen wrote specific performance directions, he also worked with directors and a designer for the Samstag premiere, and

they did have an influence on the production decisions, possibly to both positive and

negative effect in different cases. How does this realization affect the later performer’s

approach to the staging instructions in Kathinkas Gesang? If written like a score, should

they be treated like a score, as Pasveer emphasizes? (Though the degree of specificity

varies somewhat across different parameters, and, in general, they are still less specific

than the score.) Or should they be treated like stage directions for theater and opera

often are: changed or adapted if the director/stage designer believes it will enhance the

experience of the performance?

27. Kohl, “La Scala,” 500. 28. Kohl, 500.

91 Interpretive Decisions

As discussed below, different flutists have taken widely varied approaches to this question, ranging from a strictly canonical interpretation to a radical restaging, with several in between. However, none of them proposed changing the written notes, dynamics, etc., in the score. This suggests that, at least among some performers, there is a tendency to perceive the staging directions as different in kind than the musical score, and subject to a somewhat different process of interpretation.

This process might be compared to Peter Sellars’ contemporary re-stagings of

Mozart operas: the music remains the same, but the settings and characters have been re-interpreted. In the opera world, though some critics have disagreed with Sellars’ decisions,29 this kind of re-staging is generally accepted as a legitimate performance option, and often viewed as innovative and exciting.

A New York Times article published in 2013 discusses the growing popularity of performances of Stockhausen’s major works since his death, and also the staging decisions that some companies and producers have made. The German new music group Ensemble musikFabrik recently performed Stockhausen’s Samstag aus Licht

(including Kathinkas Gesang, with Pasveer as the flute soloist), and has also presented several other Stockhausen works. Thomas Oesterdiekhoff, musicFabrik’s chief executive director, told the Times that

the composer’s death emboldened some institutions previously reluctant to take on his works. “When he was alive, to be honest, he was quite demanding,” he said. “There were a lot of presenters who were really afraid of Stockhausen, because, they said, when we want to do something by Stockhausen, it will cost a fortune, and that will be our ruin.” Ensembles and institutions are willing to offer interpretations that might deviate from the composer’s explicit intentions, Mr.

29 . David Littlejohn, “What Peter Sellars Did to Mozart,” in The Ultimate Art: Essays Around and About Opera (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992),155.

92 Oesterdiekhoff said, adding, “Now, people are more free to do it in the way they think it should be done.” . . . He added that while the two musicians who manage Stockhausen’s legacy, Kathinka Pasveer and Suzanne Stephens, don’t agree with every interpretive departure, they have eagerly cooperated in the promulgation of his works and even performed with musikFabrik in some instances.30

A comparison of different flutists’ production decisions follows, after a closer examination of the staging instructions in Kathinkas Gesang.

Stockhausen’s Staging Instructions

As described in Chapter 1, Kathinkas Gesang exists in several different versions, though the flute part is essentially the same in all of them. It may be performed as part of the opera Samstag; as a fully staged opera scene on its own; or in what Stockhausen calls a “quasi-concert performance.” This term is defined as follows in the liner notes for the Samstag recording:

By “quasi-concert performance” is meant a performance in a concert hall or auditorium without scenery, but including all the prescribed movements and gestures. The soloists must therefore perform from memory. A small amount of lighting and sound equipment is also required, together with a few props. Simple, stylized costumes can be worn for such semi-staged performances.31

Stockhausen’s instructions contain some differences based on whether the piece is performed in scenic or concert version, and with percussionists or as a solo flute work. The instructions for the percussionists, when used, are outside the scope of this document and are therefore omitted. This analysis focuses on the staging instructions for the quasi-concert version for solo flute, and the flutists interviewed have mostly

30. Steve Smith, “Hanging In With a Demanding Composer: Stockhausen’s Work Flourishes Five Years After His Death,” New York Times, July 13, 2013, http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/14/arts/music/stockhausens-work-flourishes-five-years-after-his- death.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0 (accessed February 5, 2015). 31. Stockhausen, liner notes to Samstag aus Licht, Deutsche Grammophon 423 596-2, CD (Hamburg, Germany: Deutsche Grammophon, 1988), 92.

93 performed either the version for flute and electronics or the solo version, though

Pasveer has performed all versions.

The instructions for the concert version of Kathinkas Gesang are as follows: for the stage set-up, there should be a black curtain with a slit in it (from which the flutist emerges to begin the piece), and two large round “mandalas” with the 24 sections of the piece and the corresponding fragments of the musical formula inscribed on them. See

Figures 1 and 2 for Stockhausen’s drawings of the mandalas.

Figure 1: Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvi: Mandala 1:

94 Figure 2: Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvii: Mandala 2:

There should also be stairs behind the mandalas so that the flutist can move around them during the performance, and another black curtain with a “brilliant red- violet hexagon.”32 This hexagon curtain replaces the piano grave that is used in the fully staged scene. The mandalas and stairs are similar to the opera set, but smaller in scale.

According to Pasveer, this difference in scale is the primary change between the opera and concert versions:

In KATHINKAs GESANG, in a staging for a quasi concert performance or in a staged performance produced by an opera company, the movements and “choreography” are exactly the same, only the dimensions will differ. So the stairs and mandalas for the world première were huge and at some point I was

32. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvii.

95 standing 8 meters above floor level. I had to make slight changes in my positions towards the Exercises on the mandalas because of the dimensions, but otherwise everything should be exactly the same.33

In addition, the flutist is to be dressed as a black cat, the flute is amplified, and

there are directions for three spotlights: left, middle and right. The flutist is instructed to move around the mandalas, indicating with flute and body the section currently being played, and moving from one to the other at the midway point, between Sections 12 and

13. After finishing the last exercise on the mandalas, 24, the flutist is told to “dance in a

spiral until arriving behind the piano grave [emphasis in original; piano grave

represented by the hexagon curtain in the concert version], freezing from time to time in

rigid poses,”34 all while playing the section called “The Release of the Senses,” a

recapitulation and summary of the previous materials.

Pasveer performed the premiere of both the opera and concert versions, and has

performed the piece numerous times since then. Resources available for studying her

interpretation include the video documentary about the world premiere of Samstag, Das

Welttheater des Karlheinz Stockhausen (The World Theater of Karlheinz Stockhausen), which includes video of excerpts from the premiere performance in Milan, 1984.35 Other

resources include the numerous photographs of the rehearsals, opera premiere, and

concert version premiere included in the score of Kathinkas Gesang, and interviews

with Pasveer.

Among the flutists interviewed, approaches to the staging varied significantly.

Several of them worked with Pasveer and followed the original staging very closely

33. Kathinka Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 34. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 10. 35. Das Welttheater des Karlheinz Stockhausen, DVD.

96 (Lise Daoust, Claire Genewein, and Karin de Fleyt).36 Patricia Spencer took something

of a hybrid approach: Spencer performed the American premiere of the version for flute

and electronics, and she studied the piece with Stockhausen and Pasveer. Ellen

Waterman refers to Spencer’s interpretation as “canonical,”37 yet Spencer did make

some adaptations to the set and movements, and worked with a director to design her

production.38 Waterman created a deliberately non-canonical re-staging grounded in

feminist theory, arguing that the Kathinka/cat character is more of a shaman than a

vessel.39 In my own production, I attempted to be faithful to the aims of the original while

updating it with contemporary technology.40

The remainder of this chapter discusses the approaches that different flutists

have taken to specific aspects of the staging (character/costume, stage set, and

movement), along with the ways in which these demands extend the concept of

virtuosity.

Dramatic Context

As discussed in Chapter 1, Kathinkas Gesang is inspired in part by The Tibetan

Book of the Dead. Stockhausen’s introduction in the published score makes no mention

of Tibetan Buddhism, yet echoes very closely ideas found in the Book of the Dead, such

36. Daoust, email message to author, April 9, 2011; Genewein, email message to author, April 25, 2011; Karin de Fleyt, email message to author, April 27, 2011. 37. Ellen Waterman, email message to author, January 26, 2011. 38. Spencer, telephone conversation with author, April 22, 2011. 39. Waterman, email message to author, January 26, 2011. Carlton Vickers made the surprising proposal that the piece might be effective as a solo flute work, without any of the staging. (Carlton Vickers, email messages to author, April 14-18, 2011.) 40. I am extremely grateful to the director and staff of the Center for Experimental Music and Intermedia at the University of North Texas (Dr. Andrew May, Ben Johansen, Patrick Peringer, L. Scott Price, and Mark Oliveiro), for their expertise and very kind assistance, and to Dr. Elizabeth McNutt, who helped me with many production decisions in addition to coaching me in the musical aspects of the piece.

97 as the repetition for 49 days, the goal of clear consciousness, and the importance of

preparation before death.41 Stockhausen writes,

SATURDAY from LIGHT (SATURNDAY) is the LUCIFERDAY: day of death, night of transition to the LIGHT. Like LUCIFER, every human being dies an apparent death—enchanted by the sensual nature of the music of life. Thus, LUCIFER’S REQUIEM is a requiem for every human being who seeks the eternal LIGHT. KATHINKA’S CHANT protects the soul of the deceased from temptation, through musical exercises to which it regularly listens for 49 days after physical death and by which it is guided to clear consciousness. To prepare for death, one can learn during one’s lifetime to listen to these exercises in the right way.42

This concept of death, and a profound sense of ritual, are part of the musical and

conceptual world of the work, combined with Stockhausen’s versions of figures from

Christian mythology, in this case Lucifer and Eve.

In order to connect with this dramatic context and communicate it to the

audience, the flutist must take on some of the skills of the dancer or actor: far from

merely playing a piece of music, the instrumentalist is, as Stockhausen has said, “a

unique theatrical personality, a ritual character.”43 According to Pasveer, “the performer is no longer himself but has to present a theatrical figure, a cosmic spirit on stage.”44

This engagement with a character and a dramatic context is an example of one of the

cognitive aspects of extended virtuosity. The performer must consider the available

information, make decisions about how to interpret the character and drama and how to

convey that interpretation to the audience, and then carry out those decisions through

actions in preparation and performance.

Even for a very accomplished flutist, this kind of a theatrical role presents

41. Robert A. F. Thurman, trans., The Tibetan Book of the Dead: The Great Book of Natural Liberation through Understanding in the Between (New York: Bantam, 1994), 43-51. 42. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xi. 43. Stockhausen and Pasveer, “Exemplary Winds,” 65. 44. Pasveer, email message to author, April 9, 2011.

98 challenges beyond those typically experienced by a classical orchestral or chamber

musician, extending and transforming the usual concept of musical virtuosity. Jean

Larson Garver (at the time principal flute of the Dallas Symphony Orchestra), described

her experience playing a staged instrumentalist role in a Baroque opera (Vivaldi’s

Orlando Furioso) in an interview with Winston Stone:

I was royalty. I was in one of these Baroque dresses that were stiff in the front, and they were cut kind of low, stitched-up, and it was uncomfortable. It was a satin burgundy dress, very formal. I had a wig and my face was painted all white. The make-up was what bothered me the most. . . . I had to make sure they got it on early enough in order for me to play my flute and . . . work it off a little bit around the mouth area so that I could get a tone . . . so that was tricky. The stage was angled [raked], the dress was long, and you felt as if you could hardly play. . . . The most difficult thing was feeling like you could hardly move to just bring your flute up, . . . and then you had to play this quite technically difficult solo from memory . . . and walk down, and then not move . . . having to be so still, it was just so un-natural. They said, “You can’t sit there and get your flute ready. When it’s time to play you’ve got to be very slow.” It was kind of like acting and I felt very uncomfortable with that. . . . You had to be like singers are—you had to be an actress.45

As Stone observes,

accomplished classical musicians are almost never asked to do something that would compromise performance conditions. There is no room for anything but total commitment to the best musical sound possible. It is clear from this initial description that a capable classical musician is aware of unfamiliar territory of the theater and, indeed, makes an aesthetic compromise when performing.46

This concept of a possible aesthetic compromise returns several times

throughout this discussion: in some instances, a musical concern outweighs a theatrical

concern, but in some cases it may be the opposite. The “whole” of this work is more

than the music alone. On the other hand, Stockhausen and Pasveer give little indication

that any kind of compromise in the quality of the musical performance is acceptable.

45. Jean Larson Garver, interview by Winston Stone, January 27, 2008, quoted in Stone, 145- 146. 46. Stone, 145.

99 The flutist must learn to work through the challenges imposed by elements such as

makeup and costume, stage lighting, and movement, while still playing a complex score

(from memory) with precision and commitment.

Elements of Staging: Character and Costume

The interpretation of the character is closely linked to the dramatic setting, and requires knowledge of the larger context of the Licht operas and Samstag in particular.

(See Chapter 1.) The choice of costume is also closely related to the sense of character. Stockhausen’s instructions for character and costume in the score of

Kathinkas Gesang are fairly minimal, but do include a reference to the connection between the character and title of the piece and the name of Kathinka Pasveer, the original interpreter.

He indicates that “Kathinka” combines these three elements:

KAT (Cat – the animal figure of SATURDAY) THINK A (Alif – Alpha, the Beginning, Origin).47

He also writes in this introduction, “KATHINKA sings [emphasis in original] with flute and voice.”48 Later, under the heading “PERFORMERS – INSTRUMENTS” he writes,

“KATHINKA is a flutist dressed as a black cat.”49 The parameters for the costume are not further specified, though photographs of both the concert premiere and the staged opera premiere are included with the score, suggesting perhaps that the flutist might imitate Pasveer’s costume. For the concert performance, she wore a black bodysuit with

47. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xi. 48. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xi. 49. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xiv.

100 long sleeves and a high neck, and a little bit of eye makeup. From the photographs in

the score, the costume does not appear to have a tail, though Pasveer’s long hair is in a

ponytail that could suggest a tail-like impression. Without knowledge of the instructions,

it would be difficult to know that this costume was intended to indicate a cat. For the

opera performance, Pasveer’s costume was more catlike (still a bodysuit, but more

furry), though it was actually grey and striped rather than black. There is a marked

contrast between these two costumes, although Stockhausen’s notes give no indication

that the costume should be different for the concert than for the opera performance.

My own choice of costume was influenced by my interpretation of the character.

The black cat seems to me like a shape-shifter, at times suggesting a witch’s (or

Lucifer’s) familiar, at others a priestess, a shaman, or a deranged, wandering ghost.

While there is an aspect of humor in the piece,50 I felt that donning whiskers, ears and a

tail might unduly accentuate the comic element and chose to aim for a more spooky, indistinct appearance, emphasizing the otherworldly nature of the character while also suggesting the feline. I wore a tunic-like dress of sheer, slightly sparkly black fabric over a black bodysuit with long legs and sleeves. My makeup was decidedly cat-like, and my hair was in twisted knots that might suggest ears, horns, or a Medusa-type monster.

There was some variation in the costume choices made by the performers interviewed, but most were fairly similar, in the range of a black bodysuit, black dress, or some combination thereof.51 De Fleyt chose to emphasize the feline qualities: “I focused

on the cat element of Kathinkas Gesang, wearing a black catsuit and having strong eye

50 . Karlheinz Stockhausen and Jerome Kohl, “Stockhausen on Opera,” Perspectives of New Music 23, no. 2 (Spring - Summer 1985): 26. 51. Email messages to author.

101 makeup on.”52 Stolper also wore a “cat suit,” and Genewein wrote that “the costume is quite easy to find in a ballet shop, just a black dress,” and that it “should look like a cat, a bastet figure” from Egyptian mythology.53

Some flutists chose not to use the type of bodysuit that Pasveer wore, but a dress instead. Daoust wrote: “I had a special dress made on me . . . with a place for the transmitter.”54 Waterman’s costume “hinted at the ‘cat’ character (black top and leggings, face makeup and styled hair),” but she “felt no obligation to wear a bodysuit.”55

Spencer’s costume was more like a “priestess,” to use her term; she described it as a long black lace dress with “a little bit of a furry touch” and cat-like makeup done by a dance makeup artist.56

Though musicians generally do have to decide what to wear for a performance, that decision is usually based primarily on considerations of concert conventions, personal style preferences, and comfort. Making costume and character design decisions for a specific character is a mental aspect of virtuosity; learning to move and play within the costume may be a physical one.

Character and Individuality

In order to portray a dramatic character, the musician’s virtuosity must extend into the territory more typical of the actor, dancer, or opera singer. Again, this type of virtuosity involves both decisions (about how to interpret and portray the character), and

52. De Fleyt, email message to author, April 27, 2011. 53. Stolper, email message to author, April 21, 2011; Genewein, email message to author, April 25, 2011. 54. Daoust, email message to author, April 9, 2011. 55. Waterman, email message to author, January 26, 2011. 56. Spencer, telephone conversation with author, April 22, 2011.

102 actions that carry out those decisions.

Character is also an area in which the performer’s individuality may have more

room to shine forth. Pasveer describes the role of the interpreter in Kathinkas Gesang

as follows:

KATHINKAs GESANG is a very ritualistic work. The role of the Cat KATHINKA is more like a priest(ess) in the opera, guiding souls by concentration to a new awareness, or “white light.” As interpreter one has to study the preface of the score very well; then, by learning the score by heart and spending so much time with the work, one will be changed by the music itself. Many students with whom I worked on this work became interested by themselves in other cultures and rites for the dead (like the Tibetan or Egyptian Book of the Dead, etc.). I myself connect the Cat figure of SAMSTAG aus LICHT very strongly with the Egyptian goddess Bastet (who has a cat face and a female body). But every interpreter will “fill in” this role so that he/she can also give meaning to the message of the work.57

Pasveer indicates that “filling in” the character, and connecting it to mythological concepts about death and rebirth, may be done somewhat differently by each interpreter. This is a space in which imitation or duplication is not expected, perhaps because the instructions are not as precise as they are for some other elements of the staging, and certainly not as precise as for the music. Still, the “character” is also expressed through some of these other elements, such as the movement choices, in which (as discussed below) Pasveer allows for less latitude.

Paradoxically, though the character is an area into which the performer may bring more of her own individuality, it is also very closely identified with Pasveer, as is the piece as a whole. Breault discusses various aspects of the cat character (including identification with Egyptian mythology), and also the connection between Pasveer and the work:

As a performer [interprète], I am actively interested in the recent phenomenon of

57. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013.

103 the dramatization/theatricalisation of instrumental music. This has led me to work on several works for flute by Karlheinz Stockhausen and to “incarnate” various instrumental characters from his cycle of Light operas . . . notably the shamanic cat-flutist from Saturday from Light, the second opera of the cycle.58

It is interesting that Breault uses the word “incarnate” (incarner), suggesting that the character is manifested in the performer’s body. This emphasis on the corporeality of performance is touched on in the chapter on memory, and revisited in the upcoming section on movement. The main focus of Breault’s article is on the symbolic relationships between the tone and timbre of the flute and the character of the cat, which is not the emphasis here. However, some points are relevant to this discussion about character and interpretation.

According to Breault, the instruments emphasized in Licht were selected by

Stockhausen primarily because of the skills of the musicians and the relationships he had with them, rather than because of the particular instrumental timbres and characteristics.59

Breault adds that the musicians featured in Licht (flutist Kathinka Pasveer,

clarinetist Suzanne Stephens, and trumpeter Marcus Stockhausen) contributed to the

creative process of the work:

Thanks to their special relationship with Stockhausen, their availability, their strong commitment, and especially their active collaboration in the creative process supported by sustained experimental work with the composer, [they] have uplifted the cycle with the essence of their personalities. . . . Moreover, Stockhausen composed for his performers [emphasis in original] and was willingly inspired by them, sometimes to the point of changing some of his initial plans in order to crystallize the beauty of a relationship in a musical dedication.60

As mentioned above, the title of Kathinkas Gesang is an example of one such

58. Breault, “Le timbre de la flûte,” 141. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) 59. Breault, “Le timbre de la flûte,” 143. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) 60. Breault, “Le timbre de la flûte,” 144. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.)

104 musical dedication, in which the name of the performer may have influenced the decision to make the character a cat. As Breault observes,

the association of the tone of the flute with the symbolism of this animal figure is in large part tied to the sound of the name of the flutist to whom the works are dedicated, Kathinka Pasveer. . . . This dedication implies that the association of the tone of the flute with the figure of the cat in Saturday is based first on the notion of tone-individuality. Indeed, even though Stockhausen encourages the performance of Lucifer’s Requiem by other flutists (select, high level instrumentalists), he composed the work by keeping in mind the particular tone of Kathinka’s flute.61

Breault defines “tone-individuality” as “limited to a particular source or the association of a particular source with a particular musician.”62 Given these close connections, how does a later performer find ways to approach the work on her own terms and enter into this dramatic character?

Echoing Pasveer, Breault suggests taking inspiration from the Bastet figure in

Egyptian mythology. Citing various references in the literature and “especially the practical advice of the flutist Kathinka Pasveer on the make-up to use to play Kathinka’s

Chant—to be inspired by Egyptian cats and the statues representing them,”63 Breault argues that

a parallel is made naturally with the protector role of Bastet, the peaceful cat- goddess of ancient Egypt who watches over homes and (re)births. The versatility of the character of the feline figure in Saturday also finds an equivalent in the dual nature of the Egyptian goddess, Bastet representing the positive pole of a feline entity whose fearsome aspect is the lion (female) Sekhmet. . . . I do not claim that the cat-flutist of the opera is the representation of a Bastet-musician (female), but it seems plausible to me that the knowledge of this ancient goddess can be a source of inspiration for other flutists wishing to attempt the works issued from Saturday.64

61 . Breault, “Le timbre de la flûte,” 145. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) 62. Breault, “Le timbre de la flûte,” 141. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) 63. Breault, “Le timbre de la flûte,” 147. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) 64. Breault, “Le timbre de la flûte,” 147. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.)

105 The flutists interviewed found various means of forming personal connections

with the work and character. Genewein valued the ritual and funeral aspects, and

mentions that the piece was especially meaningful for her following a personal loss.65

Waterman refers to “the onerous instruction that the piece might be performed as a

musical version of the Tibetan Book of the Dead to aid in the passage of the dead to the next life,”66 and ended up connecting to the piece through the idea that it is “meant to be

‘magical’ in some sense,” and through questioning whether the Kathinka character is a

medium or a shaman.67

In developing my own interpretation of the character, I found inspiration in

reading the Tibetan Book of the Dead. The descriptions of states of consciousness,

stages of dissolution, and mild and fierce deities, as well as the repetitive, insistent,

ritual character of the prayers, with their striking sense of urgency, were useful to me

both musically and dramatically.68

As I interpret the character, the cat is a demon, a shadow, a shape-shifter, a

shaman. She is an avatar of Eve. She mediates between the human and the spiritual,

between Lucifer and Michael, between the imperfect and the ultimate perfection. She

occupies a between, a shadowy place, and guides the soul through there on its journey

after dying. She works in the shadows, in the silences, and her voice is part breath and

part scream. She has a sense of humor, too, and flirts a little now and then, advancing

and retreating.

The human musician must find a way into this character, using all the resources

65. Genewein, email message to author, April 25, 2011. 66. Waterman, email message to author, January 26, 2011. 67. Waterman, email message to author, January 26, 2011. 68. Thurman, 41-45, 131-66.

106 at her disposal: the text of the score and instructions, the examples of the past, her own

judgment, creativity, knowledge and skills, her personality and mind and body, her

sensibilities, her imagination, her desire to connect with the audience, her commitment

to the work, her thirst for a challenge, her daring and audacity. All of these efforts and

attributes combine into the deeper virtuosity this work requires.

Elements of Staging: Set

The physical stage set is another concrete example of the varying approaches

that different performers have taken to realizing Stockhausen’s staging instructions, and

another area that demonstrates the choice-making aspect of interpretive virtuosity in an

area not usually the purview of a performing flutist. Several flutists interviewed

reproduced the original set as directly as possible.69 As mentioned above, Spencer worked with Pasveer and Stockhausen on the musical details, but did her own version

of the set and staging, using pillars of different heights rather than flat mandalas,70 and

Waterman’s re-staging used a set featuring projections on the floor and wall, rather than

Stockhausen’s mandalas.71 For my production, an artist created video projections of the mandalas that rolled across two large screens.72 Instead of moving around and behind

the mandalas on stairs, the flutist followed their paths along the screens, preserving the

spatial relationship that illustrates the structure of the piece.

Stockhausen’s staging instructions are described above, including the set, which

69 . Daoust, email message to author, April 9, 2011; Genewein, email message to author, April 25, 2011; De Fleyt, email message to author, April 27, 2011. De Fleyt used Pasveer’s mandalas and stairs. 70. Spencer, telephone conversation with author, April 22, 2011. 71. Waterman, email message to author, January 26, 2011. 72. Ben Johansen created the video, based on the drawings of the mandalas in Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvi-xvii.

107 consists of a black curtain, the two mandalas, and the piano grave. However, some

modifications are made for the concert version: “For a concert performance with or

without percussionists it is possible to omit the piano grave [emphasis in original]. In that case, a floor-length black shiny cloth, onto which a brilliant red-violet hexagon has been sewn, stands in the front centre of the stage. It is supported by a frame of thin metal rods adjustable in height.”73

Stockhausen gives different dimensions for the mandalas for concert versus

staged performances, and also says that the dimensions should be adjusted relative to

the size of the performance hall. “The dimensions given for mandalas and podia are

valid for a small hall having a distance of 12 m between the last row and the mandalas.

For larger halls the dimensions should be correspondingly larger.”74

Pasveer emphasizes that the differences between the staged and concert

versions are a matter of scale, and that other elements of the set should not be

changed. “The requisites are described in detail in the score. One needs (always!!!) 2

round mandalas on which the 24 exercises are drawn, staircases behind the mandala,

and one small curtain with a violet hexagon for the end when the flutist has to

disappear.”75

There are no changes, only what concerns the dimensions of the work. It would be wrong to exchange the mandalas for other “objects” (as unfortunately has been done once in the past by someone) as these belong to the vision Stockhausen has had for this particular work. So the “props” and stage directions given in the score have to be taken as seriously as pitches and dynamics, etc.”76

Pasveer maintains that the only difference in the set between the fully staged and

73. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvii. 74. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvii. 75. Pasveer, email message to author, April 9, 2011. 76. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013.

108 quasi concert versions is a question of scale. However, there is also the substitution of

the hexagon curtain for the piano grave, and the costume she used (according to the

photos in the score) was quite different for the concert version than for the opera.

Stockhausen did make some concessions to practicality, allowing the piece to be

performed without the complete opera staging; still, it remains a complicated project to

realize.

The flutists interviewed who reproduced the original set were Daoust, Genewein,

and De Fleyt. Daoust wrote, “everything needed is precisely described in the score. I asked a company that makes theatrical elements to build this.”77 Also, when asked

about priorities and the most essential elements of the piece, she replied: “All the levels

are equally strong and important: technique, rhythmic rigor, different sounds, always

beautiful, movement, stage set up. (Stockhausen told me one day: you can play the

piece without the tape, but never without the stage set up (mandalas, lighting).”78 This

would indicate that Stockhausen considered the staging to be more essential to the

piece than the electronic music (which is also shown by the fact that he provided a solo flute version).

Genewein had a friend build the stairs and another paint the mandalas, according to Stockhausen’s directions, so that she could “practice in my living room with stairs and mandalas.”79 De Fleyt was able to borrow the set from Pasveer, and made

her own hexagon curtain. “The mandalas and staircases are essential to have. I don't

have them myself but could use the ones Kathinka has. I made a hexagram (where you

77. Daoust, email message to author, April 9, 2011. 78. Daoust, email message to author, April 9, 2011. 79. Genewein, email message to author, April 25, 2011.

109 hide behind in the end) myself and had a week practising with the complete staging set.”80

Stolper, who performed the version with percussionists, wrote, “I worked hard to make it a theater piece, and I moved around a lot in the hall. So I had stations of music from one ear to one nose, etc.”81 For her second performance, Stolper “sewed a huge black blanket, and we [Stolper and the percussionists] all disappeared under it in the end . . . and when we were under, we all screamed.”82 This shows several departures from the original staging, in which only the flutist disappears behind a black curtain (or into the piano grave) and screams at the end.

Spencer worked with a theatre director who found the mandalas very “flat,” and they decided to replace the mandalas with cardboard pillars of different heights with the musical fragments from the formula on them. Spencer could then move around the pillars and interact with them in different ways, climbing steps and kneeling down to relate to the various heights.83

Spencer performed the American premiere of the version for flute and electronics, and she worked with Pasveer and Stockhausen on the piece. When asked about their reaction to the staging changes, Spencer said that while she did tell them about her staging, she did not feel the need to ask permission for the changes. Her work with Pasveer was mostly concerned with the musical aspects of the piece, and

Spencer did not know what her staging would be at that point. Spencer said that

Stockhausen himself talked mostly about the placement of the speakers, though later

80 . De Fleyt, email message to author, April 27, 2011. 81. Stolper, email message to author, April 21, 2011. 82. Stolper, email message to author, April 21, 2011. 83. Spencer, telephone conversation with author, April 22, 2011.

110 he did tell her, through Pasveer, that the most important thing about the set was that the

musical notation on the mandalas be clear to the audience.84

Waterman took a more explicitly theorized approach to her reinterpretation, inspired by ideas about performer agency and magical practices. Waterman’s description of her approach is worth quoting here in its entirety:

In brief, here’s the approach I took to the work: I argued that Licht is an essentially autobiographical cycle both in a narrative/psychological/symbolic sense (the archetypal characters and some plot lines) and in a material sense (Stockhausen’s use of his own tight circle of family and associates as players for whom he wrote parts of the opera). Two things especially interested me: 1) that S had worked very closely with Pasveer in creating the work; 2) that the piece is meant to be “magical” in some sense. The former point suggested that the performer’s input was an essential part of the creative process, which I took as an invitation to take my own creative agency as a performer quite seriously. I was meticulous in following the musical aspects of the score, but I decided to reinterpret the theatrical aspects quite dramatically. After reading a fair bit of what Stockhausen had to say over the years about performers and interpretations of his work, I decided to take an explicitly feminist point of view in theorizing the work and also to assert the director/performer’s prerogative of interpretation (very often practiced in theatre/opera as you know). The latter point refers to the onerous instruction that the piece might be performed as a musical version of the Tibetan Book of the Dead to aid in the passage of the dead to the next life. The question this raised for me was whether we might consider Kathinka to be a medium (a more or less passive vehicle through which the music moves) or a shaman (an active agent in making magic happen). I read Gilbert Rouget’s comprehensive work on Ritual and Trance in preparation. I performed the piece in its form for solo flute. My set made use of a “rose window” style mandala projected onto the floor and I worked with a choreographer to design movements to match each of the sections of the piece, working my way around the mandala during the performance. I commissioned a photographer, Becky Cohen, to make images for each section that were projected onto the wall behind us. She built tiny paper 3-dimensional, abstract sculptures, lit them with different coloured lights and photographed them. The projections, like the different sections of the mandala provided a map of the piece and alluded to the textual descriptions Stockhausen provided for each section in the score. My performance was hardly canonic (unlike Patricia Spenser’s). I learned a tremendous amount by developing my own interpretation (based on research

84. Spencer, telephone conversation with author, April 22, 2011.

111 and analysis).”85

Waterman’s work is an example of a thoughtfully conceived interpretation that deliberately departs from some of Stockhausen’s instructions, demonstrating the kind of creative and rigorous decision-making that is a part of the interpretative virtuosity of this piece. It is also the most radical restaging found in my research.

My own production of Kathinkas Gesang attempted to be faithful to the purposes

of the original staging while updating it to take advantage of contemporary technological

resources. I was fortunate to have access to a state-of-the-art intermedia theater, and to

collaborate with an excellent technical and artistic team.86 Rather than building physical

sets, I worked with a video artist who made projections of the mandalas that were able

to roll across two large screens.87 The rotation of the mandalas allowed us to keep the

original idea that the spatial relationship of the flutist to the mandala shows the current

section of the piece. In this case, instead of the flutist moving around and behind the

mandalas, they rotated over me and I followed their paths along the screens, switching

from the first to the second mandala/screen in the middle as per Stockhausen’s

instructions.88 We also decided to add some colors to the mandalas in different

sections. These were based off of Stockhausen's instructions, in which he gives

possible colors for different parts of the mandalas associated with certain sounds and

qualities.89 In my production, the entire mandala actually changed color for these

85. Waterman, email message to author, January 26, 2011. 86. Thank you to the director and staff of the Center for Experimental Music and Intermedia at the University of North Texas. 87. Thanks to Ben Johansen for creating the video, based on the drawings of the mandalas in Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvi-xvii. 88. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvi. 89. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvi.

112 sections.90

I entered from behind a black curtain, and exited through another curtain opening between the screens. The hexagon was also a video projection, split between the two screens so that I could disappear “into” it. Stockhausen’s instructions say that the flutist

should kneel down behind the hexagon curtain while playing the last section, ending up

with only eyes, forehead, and the end of the flute visible.91 I chose to go completely

through the curtain and play the last section while invisible (as would be the case in the

opera version, in which the flutist climbs into the piano grave).

The lighting echoed Stockhausen’s instructions, using spotlights that followed my

(and the mandalas’) path through the space. The lights changed to magenta at the end

to emphasize the hexagon.

The physical set used is closely tied to the performer’s movements, which are

discussed further in the following section.

Elements of Staging: Movement

I think gesture and dance are at the origin of music, and I certainly want to bring music back to that condition of ritual where everything you see is as important as what you hear. —Stockhausen, Stockhausen on Music

Movement is a more obviously virtuosic element of staging than those discussed

previously in this chapter. The virtuosity of a dancer is clearly on physical display, while

the virtuosity of an actor or a musician may be less easily visible. Stockhausen uses the

term himself, as quoted above: “these instrumentalists move about artfully on the

90. This idea was suggested by and developed in collaboration with Dr. Elizabeth McNutt. 91. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvii.

113 stage—even more sophisticatedly than the singers, as far as virtuosity of movement

and independence of playing is concerned.”92 If one definition of virtuosity is “doing a

difficult task well,” then the addition of deliberate, choreographed movements to the

considerable physical challenges already present in playing a musical instrument is a

clear example of such virtuosity. Adding movement may also create or enhance the

dazzling impression sometimes associated with “superficial” virtuosity. However, like the

other staging elements discussed above, realizing the movement instructions also

involves elements of both choice and action, and both are equally important. The added

movement also brings up questions about the relationship between the mental and the

physical, and about the corporeality and vulnerability of performance, which connect

back to the previous chapter on memory.

Moving While Playing the Flute: How to Begin?

The idea of moving deliberately while playing one’s instrument is likely to be foreign to many flutists. (Flutists with marching band experience will have some familiarity with the concept; however, the type of movement required in performing a

Stockhausen piece is quite different from typical marching band movements.) Deliberate

movement requires, first of all, an increased awareness of the movements that

musicians often make unconsciously while playing, followed by the development of the

ability to control those unintentional movements and to make intentional ones.

According to Pasveer, Stockhausen did not like seeing such unconscious

movements, which demonstrates his concern with the visual element of performing

92 . Stockhausen and Pasveer, “Exemplary Winds,” 65.

114 music, and may have been part of what led him to begin giving staging directions for his works. “Stockhausen was always very disturbed to see the private, habitual moving of interpreters, no matter what music they play (the more famous an interpreter, the more they move and bend their knees).”93

Beginning to move more deliberately cultivates an increasing awareness that everything a performer does on stage is seen by the audience and may have an impact on their perception of the performance. As Zara Lawler and Neil Parsons write in their

“Basic Principles of Interdisciplinary Performance Practice:” “Know that everything can appear meaningful to an audience.”94

This concept—that the audience can see you, the performer, the whole time you are on stage, and that what they see matters—is more commonly emphasized in dance and theater training than in musical training. Many classically trained musicians may be lacking in stage presence, and this increased awareness is an important side benefit of doing interdisciplinary work that can have a positive effect on performances of traditional repertoire.

These benefits are one of the end results, but the question of where and how to begin can be an intimidating one. When asked how she suggests that flutists work on dancing while playing, Pasveer replied,

the movements come very naturally through the music. . . . First one has to learn to play perfectly by heart, and then one adds the movements as prescribed, and all players will feel that these movements come then very naturally, as the music suggests them already. So there are NEVER movements just for the sake of moving, but ALWAYS only movements which clarify the music or clarify the structure and content of the work.95

93. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 94. Zara Lawler and Neil Parsons, “Some Basic Principles of Interdisciplinary Performance Practice” (unpublished document, used courtesy of Zara Lawler). 95. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013.

115 Though Pasveer did have some dance experience, she does not believe that is necessary to perform Stockhausen’s works. “As a child from 4 to about 12 I had ballet training; this perhaps has helped me to find good body postures in all situations. But it is not necessary. A helpful eye and critique from a friend will also do!”96

Whether a flutist has previous dance education or not, seeking out help from

someone with movement experience who is able to help with movement choices or at

least give feedback on rehearsals is very beneficial. Just as we cannot hear our own

performance with complete accuracy, we are even less able to see ourselves

completely, even with the aid of a mirror. Lawler and Parsons also emphasize this: “Get

an outside eye before your first performance.”97

However, before progressing to this stage, some preliminary exercises will

probably be necessary. It is important to start small, and to exercise care in following

what Lawler calls “The Robert Dick Rule: Don’t do anything that hurts you or the

instrument.”98 Another of the Lawler/Parsons principles is also very useful in this early stage, as well as at later ones: “When in doubt, practice with a stick.”99 A flutist may be understandably concerned about injuring either herself or a valuable instrument.

Practicing movements with a stick held in “flute-playing position” will help the flutist get used to the adjustments required to hold the flute while moving, without the risk of damaging the instrument, and with the ability to drop it quickly and without a care if necessary. From there, one might progress to practicing with a backup or student instrument, moving on to the professional or primary instrument when more

96. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 97. Lawler and Parsons, “Basic Principles.” 98. Lawler and Parsons, “Basic Principles.” 99. Lawler and Parsons, “Basic Principles.”

116 comfortable.

Movement Exercises

If one has never worked with moving while playing before, it is advisable to begin by practicing simple exercises away from the actual piece to be performed. Starting with the stick, as described above, one might simply begin by walking while in playing position, varying the speed, length of steps, direction and path through the space, etc.

One might then try holding different poses with the stick in flute-playing position:

bending the knees, leaning the head or torso to one side, lifting one leg, and kneeling

on the ground, to give a few examples. The flutist should feel free to experiment with

other poses as well.

Once these movements start to feel comfortable, progress to simple movements

(beginning with walking, as above) while holding the actual flute, and then while playing

(starting with a long tone, scale, or simple and familiar tune). Changes in breath control

and support will be noticed once you begin to actually play and move at the same time.

The embouchure may have to be strengthened, as you will have to develop slightly

different ways to stabilize the sound and air flow while in different physical positions. Try

to maintain the pitch and sound quality throughout, as much as possible. It may take

some time to learn to compensate and adjust for the differences in physical position.

Even for a flutist who is comfortable with dance/movement, combining it with playing

presents a new set of challenges, and one must be patient with the development of this

new skill set. The virtuosity needed for this kind of interdisciplinary performance involves

movement, flute-playing, and then the really difficult combination of the two. Another

117 area, discussed below, is the decision-making about how to realize the movement

instructions.

As flutist Rie Schmidt says about her performance in Leonard Bernstein’s Mass:

I was comfortable dancing because I took ballet as a kid. Flute playing is fine, and dancing is fine, but combining them is really hard, and then also playing from memory adds another layer of difficulty [emphasis added]. If I could have stood in one place on the stage and just played, even in a costume, it wouldn’t have been so bad. If I just had to dance . . . then it wouldn’t have been so bad, but to combine them was a new thing.100

Once some competence is achieved with this basic level of moving while playing,

practicing the accumulation exercise described in Chapter 2 will be very helpful to

increase the connection between movements and sounds, and to practice a wider range

of possible movements. As Pasveer suggests above, let the movement grow out of the

music and serve to complement and enhance it.

If a flutist desires further guidance in working with movement while playing,

attending one of Lawler’s “The Flute on its Feet” workshops is highly recommended.

These workshops provide a beginner-friendly, participatory introduction to including

interdisciplinary elements in musical work.101

Flutist and composer Wil Offermans also offers some resources for learning movement: Etude 11 in his book For the Contemporary Flutist is entitled “Flute and

Movement,” and Offermans’ website also includes remarks on the value of learning to

move deliberately while playing, and suggests a few introductory exercises (bending

and straightening the knees; lifting alternating legs).102 According to Offermans, “Etude

100. Schmidt, interview, quoted in Stone, 267-269. 101. Lawler’s workshop at the 2009 National Flute Association Convention inspired me to begin my own work with combining flute and dance. For more information on her work, see Zara Lawler: The Flute On Its Feet, http://zaralawler.com/2011/education (accessed February 13, 2015). 102. Wil Offermans, “Etude 11: Flute and Movement,” For the Contemporary Flutist Online, http://www.forthecontemporaryflutist.com/etude/etude-11.html (accessed February 6, 2015).

118 11 . . . focuses on playing and moving simultaneously without any vertical relation, e.g.

both in its own tempo.”103 This concept of separating the flute-playing and movement

into distinct layers is different from Stockhausen/Pasveer’s idea that the movement emerges naturally from the music; however, working in this way can be a valuable exercise in developing competency with movement while playing.

Once the player has achieved relative fluency with these kinds of exercises, it is time to start looking at the specific movement directions Stockhausen gives in the score and instructions for Kathinkas Gesang.

Movement Directions in “Kathinkas Gesang”

Movement adds an emphasis on physicality and relationship to space, along with

a level of risk and difficulty, and presents another area in which the performer is called

upon to make decisions. In some ways, the movement instructions in Kathinkas Gesang

are less specific than in certain of Stockhausen’s other works. Pasveer writes, “In other

works for flute, like e.g. in AVE, very detailed instructions are given for all the

movements (even when to move the right or left foot, etc.). So it depends on the work

which is studied and played.”104 This is also true of other works such as Harlekin (1975)

and In Freundschaft (1977). In Harlekin, Stockhausen gives very detailed directions

such as “draw left foot up onto heel (the ankle is bent so that the foot is at a sharp angle

straight up from the floor); upper torso rather straight, back side pushed far out, right leg

bent.”105 Spencer also mentions that Stockhausen's Bijou (1978-79), for alto flute and

103. Offermans, “Etude 11.” Offermans also has two flute ensemble pieces that involve moving while playing, OntheMove and Dance with Me, both available on his website. 104. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 105. Karlheinz Stockhausen, Harlekin, trans. Suzee Stephens (Kürten, Germany: Stockhausen-

119 bass clarinet, has more specific movement directions than Kathinkas Gesang.106 Bijou

includes instructions such as “jump up, legs spread wide and knees bent, bottom stuck out, upper body straight,”107 and “jerkily reel from the right to the half-right, unsteady, steps synchronous with the music.”108

In contrast, the directions in Kathinkas Gesang mostly prescribe the flutist's

position in relationship to the mandalas, and her general path through the space. At the

beginning of the piece, “A black curtain [emphasis in original] with a central slit hangs

in the middle of the stage background. KATHINKA, the cat, enters through this curtain

playing the flute, over a podium which is higher than the rear edge of the piano [in the

fully staged version]. She must be visible for everyone from head to toe.”109 In the score,

the flutist is instructed to “come out through the curtain slit” while playing the second

note (a low E4 whole note with a fermata).110 See Example 11 for the “Salute” that

opens the piece.

Verlag, 1978), 9. (Translation of the instructions from the score, xvii.) 106. Spencer, telephone conversation with author, April 22, 2011. 107. Karlheinz Stockhausen, Bijou, trans. Suzanne Stephens (Kürten, Germany: Stockhausen- Verlag, 1997), 7. 108. Stockhausen, Bijou, 9. (Translation of the performance instructions, XX). 109. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvi. 110. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 1.

120 Example 11: Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 1 (“Salute”):

For the bulk of the piece, the instructions concern the flutist’s relationship to the

musical fragments inscribed in the different sections of the mandalas:

KATHINKA plays each of the 24 sections while standing sideways and slightly behind the disc, pointing the flute at the respective music fragment. For this purpose, podia with steps at both sides should stand behind each disc, so that for 1-3, 9-12, 14-15, and 21-24, she can stand high enough behind the disc. She kneels at numbers 5-6 and 17-19; at 7 she changes sides while playing; at 13 she changes from the first to the second disc; in section 18 she stands up during the crescendo, changes sides and kneels down next to 19 during the decrescendo, stands up at 20, climbs onto the podium at 21 and at 24 stands so high behind the disc that she can play to number 24 bowed forward.111

The manner of movement to be used when changing from the first to the second

disc is not specified. Another section with a fairly open movement indication occurs

towards the end of the piece, in the “Release of the Senses.” The flutist is instructed in

the score to “jump down from the podium” at the end of the first phrase of the “Release”

section.112 After that, she is to “dance in a spiral until arriving behind the piano grave

[emphasis in original], freezing from time to time in rigid poses.”113 Stockhausen

111. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvi. 112. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 10. 113. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 10.

121 modifies this instruction for the concert version:

For a concert performance with or without percussionists it is possible to omit the piano grave [emphasis in original]. In that case, a floor-length black shiny cloth, onto which a brilliant violet-red hexagon has been sewn, stands in the front center of the stage. . . . During THE RELEASE OF THE SENSES, KATHINKA dances towards the cloth while playing and arrives behind it, facing the public. . . . During EXIT, KATHINKA kneels down behind the cloth, gradually sits on her heels and very slowly bows forward so that at the beginning of the 11 TROMBONE TONES, only eyes and forehead are visible, i.e. neither mouth nor hands are visible and only the end of the flute can be seen.114

Though these instructions are quite detailed, they are not as precise as those quoted above from Harlekin and Bijou, in which small movements of certain body parts are spelled out. The spiral dance in particular affords the performer a fair amount of latitude; therefore, choreographic decisions must be made, which are a part of the interpretive aspect of virtuosity here.

According to Pasveer,

the performance instructions already decide the movements in KATHINKAs GESANG as in every exercise, one has to direct the flute and total focus to the exercise printed on the mandala. That makes the work very ritualistic as for each exercise one remains in one pose (like a photograph), and omits all “normal” playing movements, so that NOTHING distracts the listener from concentrating on the music. Only the way one moves between exercise 12 and 13 (when one has to exchange the sound plates for the percussionists in the hall or go from mandala to mandala in a solo version) and after exercise 24, when one has to go in spirals to the middle of the stage is a little bit more free, but always functional and artful.115

Pasveer emphasizes that the movement “should always be artful, organic and natural. That is why I never suggest that a performer start working with a choreographer as then the movements usually become unrhythmic and ‘over the top.’”116

It is notable that Pasveer’s writing above is actually more specific in one regard

114. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvii. 115. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 116. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013.

122 than the instructions in the score: “for each exercise one remains in one pose (like a photograph), and omits all ‘normal’ playing movements, so that NOTHING distracts the listener from concentrating on the music.”117 The score instructions direct the flutist to the poses for each exercise (as quoted above), but do not contain the specific instruction to stay frozen like a photograph.

Bunt notes that there are some pieces in which movement is wholly un-notated, but, according to Pasveer, is still expected.118 Bunt suggests that working on pieces such as In Freundschaft, in which “instructions for the motions of the performer are included in the score, providing a scaffold for learning the movements idiosyncratic to

Stockhausen’s music,”119 can help prepare the performer for works such as Edentia, in which “performance practice dictates that the performer should show the audience what she is playing,”120 although the movement is not indicated in the score.

Performer movement is an important part of the performance practice of

Stockhausen’s wind music, as Bunt points out:

The performance practice is a part of the visual component of his pieces and involves idiosyncratic movements of the performer on stage. The movements are to illustrate what is heard in the music. Often these motions are chosen by the performer, while keeping in mind the distinctive manner of the stylized motions associated with the performance practice of Stockhausen's music. 121

In terms of the specificity of the movement instructions, Kathinkas Gesang falls in between pieces such as In Freundschaft, Ave, Harlekin, and Bijou, which have very detailed instructions, and a work such as Edentia, in which movement chosen by the

117. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 118. Bunt, 38. 119. Bunt, 57. 120. Bunt, 57. 121. Bunt, 138-139.

123 performer is an unwritten part of the performance practice. In Kathinkas Gesang, the

performer has some specific instructions, and some more general indications of spatial

movement in the room, etc. In making decisions about the movements to be used, it

may be helpful to keep in mind some of the principles emphasized above: the

movement should illustrate and complement the music, rather than distracting from it,

and should have a natural rather than a stilted or artificial feeling. It would be possible to

perform a type of movement that is either disconnected from the music being played, or

even deliberately in contrast to it, but that is not what the Stockhausen performance

practice dictates. In this case, the music is primary, and the movement is drawn from

and serving the music; the goal is a seamless union of music, movement, and

performer, and each flutist can work to find ways to illustrate the music through her own

body motions. As Stockhausen said about In Freundschaft, “movements of the

performer that are usually ‘free’ are here associated with musical functions – they should serve to elucidate the composition and thereby to deepen the art, to listen

[emphasis in original].”122

Movement Characteristics

In addition to the general principles above, the movement in Kathinkas Gesang also needs to reflect the ritual aspect of the piece, and to interact with the elements of stage set. As Breault writes, “on stage, the cat-flutist is required to use virtually all of the space and to ‘interact’ with the decorative elements as well as with the technical

122. Karlheinz Stockhausen, The Art, to Listen: A Musical Analysis of the Composition “In Friendship”, trans. John McGuire (Kürten, Germany: Stockhausen-Verlag, 2002), 18.

124 equipment. Her movements resemble ritual prayer.”123 Breault also suggests that the

circle and spiral derived movement patterns in Kathinkas Gesang (and also in another

scene from Samstag aus Licht that features the cat-flutist, the Zungenspitzentanz or

“Tip of the Tongue Dance”) have a symbolic relationship to both the feline and the

feminine:

With regard to gestures, Kathinka’s Chant and “The dance of the tip of the tongue” are characterized by the importance of movements derived from the idea of the circle and the curve, or the rotation of the hands of a clock and the spiral. . . . These movements evoke the behavior of the cat both on the physical level (the sense of the curve contained in her movements, the rounded back, the sinuousness of her gestures) and the psychological level (the curve as an element of femininity and the so-called feminine nature of the cat). With regard to the spiral, it acts as a symbol of evolution and it can be found at many levels throughout the Stockhausen production, notably in the conception of scene movements. In the flute works in Saturday, the principle of the spiral acquires an added symbolic dimension by the association with the feline figure.124

This spiral/circular shape is present in the mandalas (which do resemble clock faces), as well as in the flutist’s movement patterns, both around the mandalas and then in the “spiral dance” in the “Release of the Senses.” This suggests that, in addition to

having a ritual quality, and arising out of the music, the movements chosen might make

use of circular gestures and shapes, and also reference feline movements and

characteristics.

Movement Notation

Dance movement is notoriously difficult to notate or to describe in words. Even

though Stockhausen writes that his performance practice includes “stylization of all

123. Breault, “Réflexions d’une interprète,” 90. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) 124. Breault, “Le timbre de la flûte,” 148. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.)

125 movements [emphasis in original], often according to detailed notation,”125 that notation

is in fact less detailed than the musical notation used, consisting primarily of written

(text) instructions. Though detailed systems for notating dance movements do exist

(such as Labanotation) and have gained some greater prevalence in recent years, they

are still not very widely read or used even in the professional dance community;

learning, preservation, and transmission of material has relied much more heavily on

personal instruction, demonstration, and, more recently, video.126 In contrast, in the

Western classical music tradition, there is a very strong reliance on notation for

transmission of musical materials, and all performing musicians are expected to be able

to read notation, even at intermediate levels of ability.

Also fairly common in the dance world is the creation of a work for a specific

dancer. For example, George Balanchine choreographed many of his works for certain

dancers, utilizing their particular skills, personalities, and even body type characteristics.

Some critics believe that these works became less effective later on, with different

dancers in the roles.127

As discussed above, it is a challenge for subsequent interpreters to take on a

role that was written for a specific performer. The use of movement (probably drawn, as

Bunt suggests, from the original performers’ movement styles)128 further complicates

this challenge. There can be difficulties with transferring a work that is very specifically

125. Stockhausen, introduction to Ave, vi. 126. Judy van Zile, “What is the Dance? Implications for Dance Notation,” Dance Research Journal 17, no. 2 - 18, no. 1 (Autumn 1985 - Spring 1986): 41; Natalie Lehoux, “Dance Literacy and Digital Media: Negotiating Past, Present and Future Representations of Movement,” International Journal of Performance Arts & Digital Media 9, vol. 1 (May 2013): 155; Ann Hutchinson, Encyclopedia Britannica Online, s.v. "Dance Notation," http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/150794/dance-notation (accessed September 4, 2014). 127. Nancy Goldner, Balanchine Variations (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2008), 91. 128. Bunt, 38.

126 written for one performer—using her strengths, skills, and even physical characteristics—to other, later performers. Logically, some aspects may have to be adapted to suit the new performer’s strengths, as in fact is sometimes done when dance works are re-staged. Waterman has pointed out this issue of bodily specificity when she

“challenged Karlheinz Stockhausen for being so specific in his performance directions

(in particular reference to the flute piece Kathinka’s Gesang als Luzifer’s Requiem) so as to exclude those musicians not conforming to the specific features—even anatomy!—of the players with whom he lives and works.”129

Comparison of Movement Choices/Realizations

The issues of notation and specificity are relevant both to how individual performers realize the movement instructions, and to how they describe what they have done. A few of the approaches taken have already been touched on above, in the descriptions of set and general staging. Both Spencer and Waterman did choose to work with a choreographer or stage director, as did I.130 Stolper did not perform the piece from memory, so her staging was somewhat altered, but she wrote that she

“worked hard to make it a theater piece” and “moved around a lot in the hall.”131 The other flutists interviewed did not describe their movements in detail, but since they closely followed the original staging in other regards, it is likely that they did so here as well. Genewein said that practicing or even thinking through the movements helped with learning the piece, and also commented on the sense of ownership that the combination

129. Ellen Waterman and James Harley, review of Open Ears Festival of Music and Sound (Kitchener, Ontario, Canada, May 13-18, 1999), Computer Music Journal 23, no. 1 (Spring 1999): 81. 130. Thanks to dancer and choreographer Lily Sloan for her assistance and collaboration. 131. Stolper, email message to author, April 21, 2011.

127 of memory and movement helps to give the performer.132

Genewein also mentioned that when she first learned the piece, she found it very physically difficult and exhausting, but that with continued practice and lessons from an

Alexander Technique teacher she was eventually able to play it with more ease and endurance. “In the beginning I could only play it through once, then I was physically ‘out of order’—but later on it got easier and easier.”133

Discussing practice strategies, de Fleyt also remarked on the relationship between movement and character, touched on by Breault above. “Once the movements are included it makes sense to give each part another character.”134

As quoted above, Pasveer does not advise working with a choreographer, out of concern that the movements will become too “over the top”135 and not seem to flow naturally out of the music. However, it is still possible to focus on drawing the movements out of the music, if the flutist makes sure that the choreographer understands the role of movement in the work. It does make sense to have an outside eye, as discussed above, and it would be logical to have that person be someone who is accustomed to designing movements and would be able to help the performer decide on effective ones. This might be especially helpful if the flutist does not have dance experience, but I found it to be very useful even though I have an extensive dance background and have created my own choreography in the past.

Waterman reported that she “spent several weeks developing choreography and

132. Genewein, email message to author, April 25, 2011. 133. Genewein, email message to author, April 25, 2011. 134. De Fleyt, email message to the author, April 2011. 135. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013.

128 sets (with appropriate people).”136 As discussed above, Spencer worked with a stage director, and they used pillars of different heights in place of the flat mandalas. The movements Spencer used were drawn out of the music: the director asked her what movements suggested themselves for each section, based on her own reactions and feelings in response to the music, and then they worked to develop and refine them.

These included various kinds of interactions with the pillars, such as climbing steps, different ways of kneeling, and “swirling around.” Spencer also commented that adding the movements helps to solidify the memory and make the progression of the piece more coherent, with each section being more clearly part of a larger whole.137

Stockhausen was very interested in integrating music and movement,138 and he included even more adventurous dance-like motions in other pieces. For example, in his

Orchestra Finalists (1996),

each instrumentalist has to perform specific movements during his solo. To some extent these movements are daring, not just standing or walking movements with the instrument, but rather—for example the parts for tuba and trombone— complicated bodily movements are to be performed. The trombonist sometimes plays while lying on his back, or he kneels, plays to the side, then spins rapidly in a different direction at a certain angle. The musicians of the ASKO Ensemble carried out all these tasks well and very willingly. I know in the meantime that such a thing is possible, because of course I have already realized many similar compositions over the past 25 years or so. And so I will go on in this direction, composing instrumentalists and singers as moving characters, for whom music and bodily movements are structurally united and meaningful [emphasis added].139

This knowledge influenced my realization of the movement aspects in Kathinkas

Gesang. In a process similar to what Spencer describes above, I started with my

136. Waterman, email message to author, January 26, 2011. 137. Spencer, telephone conversation with author, April 22, 2011. 138. Stockhausen and Pasveer, “Exemplary Winds,” 64, 67-68. 139. Stockhausen and Pasveer, “Exemplary Winds,” 67-68.

129 instinctive movements, as inspired by the musical and dramatic character for each

section, and then developed and adapted them with the collaboration of a

choreographer.140 I created the most specific, fixed choreography for the beginning of

the piece (the entrance and “Salute”), the middle (the transition to the second mandala

between Sections 12 and 13), and the end (the spiral dance in the “Release of the

Senses,” and the “Exit”). In between, I used a choreographic “score” for each section,

performing movements that were semi-improvised but followed certain guidelines, corresponding with the musical character. This sense of the term “score” is generally less specific than a traditionally notated musical score, and it is often used as a basis for dance improvisations.141 For each section, my score or mental map included both the

type of physical movement(s) and the movement quality (related to the expressive

quality of that section’s music).

In general, I also worked to infuse my motions with a feline quality, and paid

special attention to eye movements and facial expressions. Other factors that I

considered included using circle and spiral patterns, as discussed above, both with my

body and in my path through the space; marking important moments in the piece with

similar movements, such as the high F6’s that signal the beginning of each new section;

changing between inner and outer focus, and establishing visual focal points

(sometimes inward-looking, sometimes beyond the audience, and sometimes looking

directly at them). My goal was to be true to the function and purpose of all the staging

140. I am grateful to dancer and choreographer Lily Sloan for her collaboration and generous assistance. 141. For more on the concept of a score as a basis for dance improvisation, see Ann Cooper Albright and David Gere, eds., Taken By Surprise: A Dance Improvisation Reader (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2003).

130 and movement elements, even if some of the details were different than in the original performance.142

To illustrate these choices more specifically, I discuss the movement aspects of two sections in more detail: the “Salute” that begins Kathinkas Gesang, and the

“Release of the Senses” near the end of the piece. See Example 12 for the “Salute.”

Example 12: Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 1 (“Salute”):

The opening line of Kathinkas Gesang, as shown in Example 12, contains written instructions for general musical effects, extended techniques, and staging. This discussion focuses on the movement and staging instructions in this brief section. The first and second notes are a repeated low E4 with a long fermata, both marked forte.

During the second E4, the performer is told to “durch Vorhangschlitz hervor-kommen

(come out through the curtain slit).”143 This instruction is clearly linked to the second note by an arrow (see Example 12), indicating that the first note is played behind the curtain, invisible to the audience. The flutist is heard before she is seen; yet the fact of

142. Thanks to Dr. Elizabeth McNutt for this idea. 143. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 1.

131 not being seen also has a visual impact. From the very beginning of the piece, the

performer must create an atmosphere of what Stockhausen has called “that condition of

ritual where everything you see is as important as what you hear.”144

In my performance, I played the first note behind the curtain, with the room in

darkness. As the instructions indicate, I emerged while playing the second note.

Decisions about the stage set-up affect the movements from the beginning, yet even

with the traditional arrangement of the physical mandalas, the performer has to decide

how to “come out through the curtain slit”—how quickly, with what specific movements,

etc. During the pause at the end of the first line, there is the instruction to “walk to the

first disc and point flute at 1.”145 Again, the performer must decide: Walk in what manner, and how quickly? What to do with the rest of the body, and the face, etc., while walking, and while pointing? How long is this pause? All of these are interpretive decisions, and are part of the choice-making aspect of virtuosity, which is then followed by the actions of realizing these choices in practice and ultimately performance.

As mentioned above, the “Release of the Senses” is the section that contains the most open-ended movement instructions. See Example 13 for the beginning of this section.

144. Stockhausen, Stockhausen on Music, 145. 145. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 1.

132 Example 13: Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, solo flute part, 10 (beginning of “Release of the Senses”):

The instructions in the score are to “jump down from the podium” and then “dance in a spiral until arriving behind the piano grave [emphasis in original], freezing from time to time in rigid poses.”146 This is evocative, but not very specific, so the performer has some room to make decisions about her movements. Though I was not on a podium, I performed a cat-like jump at the point when the jump is indicated in the score. Like the first instruction to come out from the curtain, the timing of this jump is indicated specifically with an arrow that points at the pause (see Example 13 above: “vom Podium herunter-springen”). The following dance, in a circular/spiral path around and through the audience, used movements that echoed those in previous sections, corresponding

146. Stockhausen, Kathinkas Gesang, flute part, 10.

133 with the way the music encapsulates a miniature version of all the previous stages.

Stockhausen’s instructions for the concert version say that during the “Exit,” the flutist should kneel down behind the hexagon curtain, and play the “11 Trombone Tones” with only the eyes, forehead, and very end of the flute visible to the audience. In the fully staged opera, the flutist climbs into the piano grave while playing the “Exit,” and

“plays the 11 TROMBONE TONES when she is no longer visible.”147 My stage setup allowed me to more closely emulate this aspect of the opera staging, as I disappeared through a slit in the curtain (with the red-violet hexagon projected onto it) while playing the end of the “Exit,” and played the “Trombone Tones” and the “Scream” while invisible to the audience.

Why Movement? Reasons, Influences, and Effects

Movement by instrumentalists became a central part of Stockhausen’s aesthetic and of the performance practice of his works. As mentioned above, other composers and performers have also worked in this interdisciplinary vein, but Stockhausen’s use of this kind of movement in instrumental performance so extensively, in many pieces written over a period of decades, has created a unique body of work. Stockhausen repeatedly emphasized in interviews the close connection he saw between movement/gesture and character.148 He also expressed a strong interest in the ritual roots of the relationship between dance and music. In a 1981 interview with Robin

Maconie, Stockhausen commented on this relationship:

RM: . . . it is evident that the visual choreography plays an increasingly important role in your music. How important is correct gesture and movement to the

147. Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, xvii. 148. Stockhausen and Pasveer, “Exemplary Winds,” 65, 67-68.

134 players’ and listener’s understanding of your recent works? KS: Correct gesture is absolutely vital in INORI because in this work the gestures correspond exactly to the intervals and proportions of the music. There is even a counterpoint between gesture and music. But I think gesture and dance are at the origin of music, and I certainly want to bring music back to that condition of ritual where everything you see is as important as what you hear, and not only the actions of producing the sound, but also those of creating the music-theatre [emphasis added].149

Stockhausen also believed that dance should be a central part of every musician’s

training:

I would recommend that every student of music go dancing at least once a week. And dance [emphasis in original]. Please, really dance: three or four hours a week. . . . There should be a good dancing teacher on the staff, that would be perfect: not for ballet, but for social dancing, real social dancing, once a week, as part of the music course, for the whole duration of study.150

Though the type of dancing that he is advocating here may seem to have little in common with the movement asked for in Stockhausen’s works, it is deeply related in terms of developing physical awareness, skill and control, and a deeper sense of rhythm and the momentum and movement of music. Stockhausen held that music and

dance are profoundly interconnected:

Every gesture of the body must be made consciously, since it connects with a musical layer, articulated rhythmically, which the instruments represent. Nothing to do with a choreography created on the spot; the movements connect directly with the musical adventure. Music and dance are interdependent, and one notices the presence of the latter within the overall perception: while I hear the music, there’s a part that dances continually within me. And I don’t need any visual counterpart for this; in fact, it’s also like this when I compose or conduct an orchestra. The body of the gifted person, besides having all the technique necessary for dancing, is able to “musicalize” the gesture in a visual form that is truly valid. And this is dance. What I mean is that dance expresses musical structure in a fundamental way. It expresses it for the joy of the eyes.151

149. Stockhausen, Stockhausen on Music, 145. 150. Stockhausen, Stockhausen on Music, 170. 151. Karlheinz Stockhausen and Mya Tannenbaum, Conversations with Stockhausen, trans. David Butchart (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987), 59.

135 While this challenging mode of performance may not be for everyone, those who are attracted to it often describe experiencing a deep sense of freedom, joy, and recognition upon discovering that they can do more than stand or sit behind a music stand. Pasveer reports having such an experience the first time she saw Stockhausen’s music performed, and also observes it in the students she teaches:

I will never forget the first concert I saw, these people moving on stage without notes, playing everything by heart, wearing beautiful costumes. I was moved to tears at that moment, and thought: “That’s what I want!” I had always dreamed of moving, but my teacher always said: “Stand still!” When I saw this group of musicians, I thought: “Yes of course, we have our legs free to move, so to just stand behind this stupid music stand doesn’t make sense.” It’s always a barrier between you and the audience. . . . For me it was a kind of freedom to move. I notice when people come to the annual Stockhausen Concerts and Courses Kürten to learn to perform these works, they feel so relieved to move and become totally one with the music.152

Cultivating the ability to perform deliberate bodily movements also makes the performer more aware of and more able to control unconscious movements that may often occur while playing an instrument. Stockhausen was concerned about this also.

According to Pasveer,

Stockhausen always said: “When I see something, it should be artfully formed.” He performed many of his electronic works in the dark, but whenever he worked with live performers, then the movements would either clarify the music or at least not distract from the music. Often very famous interpreters make stereotypical movements, which are distracting from the music. They don’t make sense and then it’s better to close your eyes and just listen. But if you have your eyes open, then it’s nice to have beautiful movements, which clarify the structure of the piece, or are at least pleasing to look at.153

Deliberate movement emphasizes the bodily experience, and makes both the performer and the audience more aware of the impact of all visual elements of a performance, whether deliberate or not. Along with the requirement to play from

152. Bledsoe and Pasveer, “Stockhausen’s Muse,” 23-24. 153. Bledsoe and Pasveer, “Stockhausen’s Muse,” 24.

136 memory, as discussed in Chapter 2, the necessity of moving while playing emphasizes

the corporeality of the performance and points out the performer’s body in a way

distinctly different than in traditional musical performances. The body of the performer is

always involved when playing music, but it is made visible, noticeable, on display in a

different way in dance. The body is part of the performance in a more specific, directed, and deliberate way, instructed by the composer, and taking on the role of a character.

This performing body becomes more like an actor’s or a dancer’s body than like a typical musician’s.

The performer is simultaneously made less human (becoming more of the character that she embodies and performs), and more human, as the element of risk and fallibility is more clearly pointed out by the difficulty of these requirements. Virtuosity

here pushes the performer into possibly risky territory, where complete mastery and

flawless perfection may not be possible.

Risks and Sacrifices

The addition of movement to playing an already difficult flute piece does present

questions about risks, possible sacrifices or compromises, and priorities. When asked

about the most essential elements of the piece, and what should be prioritized, Pasveer

emphasized that “one has to practice each exercise until all details are perfect and until

the meaning of each exercise is understood,”154 and Daoust replied that “all the levels

are equally strong and important.”155

Certainly, none of these details ought to be neglected; nevertheless, there will be

154. Pasveer, email message to author, April 9, 2011. 155. Daoust, email message to author, April 9, 2011.

137 moments in performance when one aspect or another has to temporarily take priority.

This is often the case even in purely musical performance, as Couroux points out,156 and the addition of interdisciplinary elements adds multiple layers to this negotiation of priorities.

Through experimentation with moving while playing, I developed certain strategies to mitigate the possible risks of disturbing the flute sound: a flutter-tongued note is a good place for a turn, since the sound is already “disturbed” and a slight bobble will not be as noticeable. Movements of the head needed to play glissandi can be exaggerated and extended through the body. I knew I had to be still in order to play some passages successfully, and in others I chose stillness as a deliberate contrast. Of course, I did my best not to let the movements interfere with my flute technique, but it is certainly more difficult to play while attempting to bend, turn, kneel down and rise, etc., than while standing still. Is something lost with the addition of movement to the performance, and if so, is it a worthwhile price for what is gained?

In Littlejohn's article, “What Peter Sellars Did to Mozart,” he praises some of the choreographed movements that Sellars has his singers perform, which he says actually

“make the music visible.”157 This is similar to Stockhausen’s ideas about the relationship between dance and music, as quoted above. At the same time, Littlejohn is critical of other postures and motions, arguing that they detracted from the musical effect:

In all three operas, magnificent arias are sung by people facing away from us, pressing their heads against a wall, lying on their stomachs or their backs, falling repeatedly to the floor, writhing on their spines, fighting, making love, crawling, or rolling over and over. The stage pictures that result may be powerful, handsome, and apt. But there goes the music. For the singer, accuracy and purity of tone are bound to be lost. For the listener, whole notes are muffled, or disappear

156. Couroux, 61-62. 157. Littlejohn, 152.

138 completely.158

While this is a more extreme example, it relates to the same question that the performer of Kathinkas Gesang must confront. How to balance the visual with the aural, and the physical movements and positions with the requirements of instrumental technique? The performer must attempt to use movements in a way that will enhance the music, not detract from it, at the same time accepting certain increased risk, vulnerability, and difficulty.

Effects of Movement in Performance

The inclusion of movement in the performance of Kathinkas Gesang contributes to providing a richer and more immersive experience for the audience, in conjunction with the other visual elements (costume, set, lighting, etc.). The movement can also be

“impressive” to the audience, and virtuosic in that somewhat narrow sense. However, that is not its primary function in this work. As Pasveer emphasizes, the goal of this performance is not to impress the audience, but to share a meaningful experience with them.159 Rather than superseding or distracting from the music, the movements in

Stockhausen’s work should grow out of the music and enhance the experience of listening. Ideally, the audience sees an integrated figure moving and playing on the stage, and thinks not about the technique required to do so but, as with the actor or dancer, about the character and dramatic situation being portrayed.

As discussed above, the addition of movement also introduces additional risk and vulnerability, and stretches the body further. Together with the requirement to play

158. Littlejohn, 151. 159. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013.

139 from memory, the movement also makes the performer both more human (vulnerable,

fallible, imperfect), and less human (more fully the magical cat character) at the same

time. The stylized, deliberate movements and gestures could also have the effect of

making the audience less conscious of the physical efforts required to play the

instrument, since attention is drawn by these other, more clearly visible movements.

Benefits of Interdisciplinary Practice

In addition to enhancing the performance of Kathinkas Gesang and other works

by Stockhausen, the benefits of practicing moving while playing the flute extend well

beyond these particular pieces, and even into performance of traditional repertoire

without any staging or movement. An increased awareness of stage presence and visual impact is one of the great fruits of practicing interdisciplinary work. Many of the others have also been mentioned above. To sum up, they include: greater awareness of and control over unconscious or automatic bodily movements while playing; integration of musical intention and body use; increased expressive connections and capacity; awareness of the visual impact of all movements and actions while on stage; and increased ability to memorize music. The process of including interdisciplinary elements in practice yields benefits beyond the performance of a particular piece and will enhance the flutist’s overall performance abilities.

Chapter Conclusion

The visual elements of Stockhausen’s works are deeply integrated with the musical aspects, and are an essential part of the experience for both performer and

140 audience. As Daoust writes, “in the music of LICHT there is as much to be heard as

seen and both parameters are brought to the same artistic level.”160 The addition of the visual provides a rich, challenging, and immersive experience, and the interpretation and realization of the staging instructions are both elements of the extended, deeper virtuosity that Kathinkas Gesang requires of and develops in the performer.

Acording to Daoust, Kathinkas Gesang is

a masterful work, a continually significant musical exploration of exceptional inventitivity, revealing a highly “educational” vision, deeply esthetic and universal, soliciting every skill of the musician. At last! The musician is considered: he contributes with his entire personality to the existence of the music. A highly demanding contract, undeniably, but one that brings one into an amazing world, not only for the person who honors it, but equally for the listener who witnesses it. The public that “lives” this repertory, every time that I have heard, played or taught it, was strongly impressed, moved and transported. For the public, as for the musician, it is a total experience, as rich in intellectual as sensory content.161

Daoust’s point about the musician contributing with his or her “entire personality to the existence of the music” supports the argument that the agency and individuality of the performer is important for the full realization of the work, and that each musician does bring something unique and valuable to the role. This idea is further explored in

Chapter 4, which discusses questions about agency and authenticity of interpretation.

This “total experience” for both audience and performer includes the highly specified staging, a unique aspect of Stockhausen’s music. Dealing with these extra- musical parameters forces the performer to think deeply about the visual aspects of performance; to envision the piece as a whole that includes both visual and aural elements; to read and consider Stockhausen’s instructions, and the examples of

160. Daoust, “Stockhausen et la flûte,” 7. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) 161. Daoust, “La musique de Stockhausen,” 23. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.)

141 previous performances, in detail; and to engage in creative decision-making about how

to realize these instructions.

These decisions are an element of the interpretive aspect of virtuosity. If interpretation is a part of virtuosity, then virtuosity involves choices as well as actions.

Virtuosity is mental as well as physical: it encompasses not only performing difficult

tasks, but also making informed, nuanced, and well-considered interpretive decisions.

The mental or cognitive aspects of virtuosity are demonstrated in various facets

of Kathinkas Gesang, including memorization, learning strategies, and making

interpretive and technical decisions about the musical aspects of the piece. However,

the type of complex and deliberate decision-making required is displayed particularly

clearly in the discussion above about how to realize the staging instructions. Negotiating

these additional parameters will challenge the performer, who may be unaccustomed to

making such decisions. The results of these choices will be plainly visible to the

audience, and they are a crucial part of the complete experience of the work.

142 CHAPTER 4

CONCLUSION: AGENCY AND AUTHENTICITY

The Introduction to this document proposes a definition of a deepened and expanded type of virtuosity, which encompasses mental and physical skills, choices and actions, and includes both mastery and pushing against previously conceived limits. In this definition, interpretation is a part of virtuosity, and it requires “passionate engagement”1 on the part of the performer. This idea of engagement and commitment is

explored more fully in this chapter, using Kivy’s concept of “personal authenticity,”2

among others.

In this understanding, virtuosity is not equivalent to technical, surface perfection,

flawlessness, or accuracy as its own end; rather, it encompasses the human qualities of

struggle and vulnerability, and focuses on creation rather than reproduction. It requires a

thinking performer who is capable not only of playing a musical instrument (and, in this

case, moving on stage) but also of undertaking critical reflection and making informed

interpretive judgments.

The previous two chapters illustrate how the aspects of memory and staging in

Kathinkas Gesang demonstrate and demand this deeper virtuosity, discussing the ways

that these elements stretch the performer mentally, expressively, and physically, as well

as some of the broader benefits the performer gains by working through these

challenges.

The other two qualities in the title of this document—agency and authenticity—

are touched on in the previous chapters, but are explored in more depth here. This

1 .O’Dea, 58. 2.Kivy, Authenticities, 108-43, 260-61, 275-77, 280-82, 284-86.

143 concluding chapter deals with questions of: the nature and goals of performance;

control of the musical “work”; the possibility of authenticity in interpretation; the role of

the performer, including performer agency and interpretation; collaboration between

composers and performers; and the ways these questions are brought into focus by

Kathinkas Gesang in particular.

What is Performance?

In a piece so closely associated with its dedicatee and original performer, it can be a challenge for subsequent performers to take ownership of the interpretation. How much they attempt to do so will be partially determined by what they believe to be the purpose and the nature of performance.

As in the previous chapter, a parallel may once again be drawn to questions raised by historical performance practice, in this case about the purpose of performance. Is the goal to recreate the original performance conditions as closely as possible, to realize the composer’s intentions, to express the performer’s emotions or ideas, to communicate something (if so, what?) to an audience, or to give the audience an experience? Is performance a presentation, an interpretation, a translation, an arrangement, a duplication, an imitation, a new creation, or something else?

Musical scholarship, at least until recent times, has tended to focus more on works than on performances. As Christopher Small writes, “there is virtually unanimous agreement . . . that the essence of music and of whatever meanings it contains is to be found in those things called musical works.”3 As Carl Dalhaus puts it, “the concept of

3 . Small, 4.

144 ‘work’ and not ‘event’ is the cornerstone of music history.”4 The score/text as “the work” is (or at least seems, in many cases) more fixed, easier to analyze, while writing about performance is more elusive and slippery. Even writing about “performance practice,” or how one ought to go about performing, is not exactly the same as trying to define what a performance is, and what a performer does.

Thus, in the Western art music tradition, discussions of musical artworks generally privilege the composition above the performance. Mark, however, puts forth an argument that a performance is an artwork in its own right, related to but distinguishable from the score:

The performance is not simply an interpretation (though it requires or involves one) or a presentation (though it requires that too since it includes producing an instance of the work): it is another work of art [emphasis in original]. When Horowitz plays a Chopin etude, we are in the presence of two works of art, one by Chopin and one by Horowitz.5

Mark makes this argument through a series of analogies comparing performance to the speech acts of both quoting and asserting, concluding that “performance of a work of music is the simultaneous quotation and assertion of that work.”6

Notably, Mark also focuses on performances as “actions; things people do.”7 This concept of performance/music as action is returned to shortly.

Kivy agrees that performers are artists and performances are artworks.8

However, he rejects Mark’s approach (using the supporting claims about quotation and assertion) on the grounds that this analogy is part of the tradition of using a literary

4 . Carl Dalhaus, Foundations of Music History, trans. J. B. Robinson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), quoted in Small, 4. 5. Thomas Carson Mark, “Philosophy of Piano Playing: Reflections on the Concept of Performance,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 41, no. 3 (March 1981): 320. 6. Mark, “Philosophy of Piano Playing,” 313. 7. Mark, “Philosophy of Piano Playing,” 301. 8.Kivy, Authenticities, 109 (and passim, Ch. 5 and Ch. 9).

145 discourse model for discussing music, which Kivy has “come to believe . . . is a profoundly misguided tradition. In plain words, the literary model is the wrong model for music, and words like ‘discourse’ are quite inappropriate. Music is another kind of thing.”9 As discussed above (see Chapter 3), Kivy also critiques the idea of performer as messenger, which is based on the literary model.10 In exploring what kind of artwork a performance might be, he argues instead that performances are like arrangements or versions of musical works—not new works, but artworks nevertheless.11

In sum, then, Western performance practice tout court is the exercise of a peripheral skill of the composer’s art, and its result is therefore the work of art that we call a “musical composition.” . . . Performances are “versions” of works, and performers practice, in making them, the compositional skill of “arranging,” when, that is to say, the performers are such as achieve personal authenticity in performance.12

Both of these definitions of performance (Mark’s as quotation and assertion, and

Kivy’s as arranging) make the important point that performance is an artwork and the performer is an artist, yet they still seem to fall short of a full explanation of what performance is. As Mark recognizes, performance is more than simply “producing an instantiating sequence of sounds.”13 It may indeed include skills that could be considered analogous to aspects of composition or arranging. Kivy’s argument for performance as a type of composition (arranging), and therefore an artwork, makes sense so far as it goes. Yet why is it necessary to compare performance to composition in order to value and evaluate it as an artwork? Might it not be possible to consider performance as artwork on its own merits, and on its own terms?

9 .Kivy, Authenticities, 121. 10.Kivy, Authenticities, 283. 11. Kivy, Authenticities, 133-134. 12.Kivy, Authenticities, 133-134. 13. Mark, “Philosophy of Piano Playing,” 301.

146 In addition to making interpretive decisions, the performer must also carry out those plans, realizing the music in the physical world. Both intention and action are required, and although many of the interpretive decisions may be made ahead of time, the actions must be carried out (and decisions sometimes made as well) in real time, in front of an audience, live. This element of liveness is missing from the definitions so far.

O’Dea also addresses questions of musical performance and interpretation, in addition to discussing virtuosity. She agrees with Kivy that performances may be considered versions of the musical work, but hesitates to call them “arrangements,” preferring “to maintain a subtle but important distinction between arrangements and interpretations, the former permitting substantial, explicit changes to be made to the composition, the latter working within stricter confines and endorsing thus subtler, much less substantial compositional alterations.”14 Referencing Jerrold Levinson, she describes performance as “a sensuous realization of the composition, a particular way of sounding it,”15 but goes on to say that “there is more to musical interpretation than the mere sounding aloud of tones.”16 Both choices and actions are integral parts of musical performance. The realization of the physical sounds is essential, and so is the thoughtful process that leads up to it. Is there another way of thinking about that process, in addition to the analogies to arranging and quotation/assertion?

O’Dea agrees with Levinson “that the performer functions something like a language interpreter,” yet maintains that the performer is not just a “transmitter” but also

“an explicator, albeit of a very subtle kind.”17 O’Dea argues that in music there are “two

14. O’Dea, 36n9. 15.O’Dea, 1, 20n1. 16. O’Dea, 2. 17. O’Dea, 3.

147 kinds of interpretation, two kinds of interpreter”: the “critic theorists” who are “concerned

primarily with promoting explicit musical understanding”; and the “performer

interpreters” who “seek to portray non-propositionally in sound sensation the expressive

structure of musical composition.”18 This implies that the performer has an

understanding of the music and intends to share that understanding with others.19

Writing about the process of analysis versus that of performance, McNutt also describes differences in the ways that the analytical and the performative understandings are presented to the public:

The performer has a different burden [from that of the analyst]: she cannot omit, repeat, or recontextualize anything. Performance is intrinsically holistic: the entire work must be performed from start to finish. In this real-time experience, connections and generalities are infolded as relationships of timbre, articulation, phrasing, pacing, and so on. The flutist conveys her conception of the work through calibrated nuances instead of reasoned explanations. No detail can be ignored or glossed over in this process; every part of the score must be dealt with at the same level of intensity. Where the theorist has the luxury of focusing her interpretation on pitch sets, rhythmic structuring, references to Tchaikovsky, and other particular dimensions of the music, the flutist cannot do this (imagine how dull a performance would be in which the flutist focused only on rhythm).20

This point is similar to O’Dea’s distinction between “critic theorists” and “performer interpreters” and their different types of understanding, but is more concrete, and also emphasizes the live, temporal aspect of performance.

O’Dea goes on to emphasize the necessary multiplicity of interpretations, since musical scores “do not fix with rigid and inflexible precision exactly what the performer’s interpretation of the score is to be,”21 and the importance of the performer’s “imagination

18.O’Dea, 12. 19.O’Dea, 13. 20. Elizabeth McNutt, “A Postscript on Process,” Music Theory Online 11, no. 1 (March 2005), http://www.mtosmt.org/issues/mto.05.11.1/mto.05.11.1.mcnutt.html (accessed February 7, 2015), paragraph 7. 21.O’Dea, 13.

148 and judgment” in resolving questions of how both scores and performance traditions

“are to be carried out in actual performance.”22 She concludes that “more than mere transmitters, more even than explicators, performers may fittingly be described as advocates for musical compositions. Their task is to commend such works to listeners.”23 O’Dea emphasizes the specific nature of the performer’s work, and adds the concept of “advocacy” to the definitions of performance. These ideas about the multiplicity of interpretations, the gap between score and performance, and the tasks of interpretation are explored further in the section below on interpretation and the performer’s role.

John Rink writes in his preface to Musical Performance: A Guide to

Understanding, discussing common threads throughout the volume:

First and foremost is an emphasis on the experience of music through performance [emphasis in original], which transforms the score (if there is a score) into a unique musical event, all the while recognizing that the score is not “the music” and that one could never achieve total fidelity to it even if one wished to [emphasis added]. (The book also stresses that recordings are not “how the work goes,” [emphasis added] despite their potential to reveal a great deal about historical performance practices and of course individual readings.)24

This emphasis on the experience of music, the act of performing, and the uniqueness of the musical event brings out important factors in the study of performance. Small takes this idea to a more radical degree with his claim that “there is no such thing as music. Music is not a thing at all but an activity, something that people do. The apparent thing ‘music’ is a figment, an abstraction of the action, whose reality vanishes as soon as we examine it at all closely.”25 As mentioned above, he argues that

22.O’Dea, 15. 23.O’Dea, 19. 24. John Rink, preface to Musical Performance, xii. 25.Small, 2.

149 both historians and musicologists “assume the primacy of musical works,”26 and that

when performance is discussed at all, it is spoken of as if it were nothing more than a presentation, and generally an approximate and imperfect presentation at that, of the work that is being performed. It is rare indeed to find the act of musical performance thought of as possessing, much less creating, meanings in its own right.27

Small does not set out to deny the existence of the “work,” and acknowledges

that works play a part in the nature of the performance (when it is a performance of a

specific work).28 However, he suggests that “the exclusive concentration on musical

works and the relegation of the act of performance to subordinate status has resulted in

a severe misunderstanding of what actually takes place during a performance,”29 and

that this misunderstanding has had an impoverishing effect on the experience of both

performers and listeners: “For performance does not exist in order to present musical

works, but rather, musical works exist in order to give performers something to perform

[emphasis in original].”30

Small believes that “the fundamental nature and meaning of music lie not in

objects, not in musical works at all, but in action, in what people do.”31 Given this

emphasis on action, he proposes the use of the word musicking (gerund of the verb to music) rather than music as a noun, defining it thus: “To music is to take part, in any capacity, in a musical performance, whether by performing, by listening, by rehearsing or practicing, by providing material for performance (what is called composing), or by dancing [emphasis in original].”32 This definition of musicking includes not only the

26.Small, 4. 27.Small, 4. 28. Small, 10-11. 29.Small, 8. 30.Small, 8. 31.Small, 8. 32.Small, 9.

150 performance but also the preparation for it:

That means that composing, practicing and rehearsing, performing, and listening are not separate processes but are all aspects of the one great human activity that is called musicking. And if the meaning of the work is part of the meaning of the event, then the opposition between “work” and “event” expressed by Carl Dalhaus does not exist.33

Small’s larger concern is with analyzing the meanings of the set of relationships that musicking establishes, a different focus than the present one. However, several of

his ideas are relevant here. If performance can be seen as creating musical meaning,

then performance must be a creative act; and while some less skilled performers may

be content to imitate what they have heard on recordings, excellence in performance

requires creativity. In addition, if the act of musicking includes not only composition and

performance but also practice, rehearsal, listening, dancing, and even perhaps “what

the person is doing who takes the tickets at the door or the hefty men who shift the

piano and the drums,”34 then perhaps performance can be valued on its own terms, as

an artwork in its own right, without having to be compared to a type of composition. In

other words, work and event (or composition and performance) can be viewed as equal

parts of the same musical activity, and it is not necessary to privilege one over the other.

Elements of these different concepts about the nature of performance are

combined in the understanding of performance used here. I argue that the act of

performance is essential to the full realization of the musical work in general, and of

Kathinkas Gesang in particular, and that a successful performance requires the

performer’s agency and creativity. Performance is defined here as an act of creation (or

co-creation) rather than of duplication or reproduction, and is distinguished both from

33.Small, 11. 34. Small, 9.

151 studio recording and also from the record made of a performance. It is the living

moment when the piece is created onstage, the continuation of the creative work of

composition. It is considered an artwork in its own right, and also a collaboration with

the composer.

In addition to the sources referenced above, this definition is also strongly

informed by composer Linda Dusman’s argument for performance as an act of creation

rather than of duplication.35 She proposes that “music does not exist until it is heard in

performance”36—and I would add, in the case of Kathinkas Gesang, seen in performance. The liveness of performance is also an essential element, touched on by

Small’s “musicking” and O’Dea’s emphasis on specific sounds. Dusman distinguishes between the experiences of hearing a live performance and a recording, a distinction not always recognized in music scholarship, in her pursuit of the question of “what exactly identifies the performative moment in music.”37 As Dusman observes, “There is very little discussion of this in scholarly music discourse, in which the experience of music is addressed outside of the performance context, as if listening to music on CD and in performance are identical activities.”38

Dusman suggests that with the emergence of “performance art,” “in this new form

performance has been theorized in a way that has been missing in music criticism.”39

She cites Peggy Phelan’s work as one example of this, emphasizing the importance of

the present moment: “Performance’s only life is in the present. Performance cannot be

35. Dusman,131. 36. Dusman, 131. 37. Dusman, 138. 38. Dusman, 139. See also Kivy, Authenticities, 94-101, 234, 238, 241-59, on the “sonic museum” and visual aspects of performance practice. 39. Dusman, 139.

152 saved, recorded, documented . . . : once it does so, it becomes something other than

performance.”40 The record of the performance is an artifact distinct from the

performance itself, more analogous to a slide showing a work of visual art than to the

painting or sculpture itself.41 However, a performance is also different from a visual

artwork because it vanishes. “As Phelan states, performance lives only in the present

and the experience of the present cannot be reproduced.”42 Dusman believes that

“creation requires performance,”43 and that performance is essentially “generative and

nonreproductive” as well as impermanent: “a basic conceptual component of its

existence is its disappearance.”44

The idea of performance as creative and non-imitative is used throughout the rest of this chapter, and is a central feature of the type of virtuosic interpretation for which this document advocates.

Control of the Musical Work

Chapter 3 includes discussion about the idea that a performance should be a

realization of the composer’s intentions, and touches on some of the problems with and

critiques of that concept. I return to those ideas here, and explore how they relate to the

performer’s role, and to control of the musical work.

Dipert distinguishes three levels of composer’s intentions, and demonstrates that

they may sometimes be incompatible; that is, it may be impossible to realize all of them

40 . Peggy Phelan, Unmarked: The Politics of Performance (London: Routledge, 1993), 146. 41.Thanks to visual artist Lauren Rosenthal McManus for suggesting this analogy. 42. Dusman, 140. 43. Dusman, 140. 44. Dusman, 140.

153 at once.45 He goes on to question whether performers ought to try to realize a piece according to the composer’s intentions, and finds that “the moral and historical reasons to perform a piece the way a composer intended were either invalid or very sharply restricted. A third reason, the aesthetic argument, was found to be attractive but heavily qualified.”46

Notably, Dipert makes a distinction in his discussion of the moral responsibility reason for following the composer’s intentions between music of the past and music of the current time. His discussion is focused largely on “difficulties surrounding the performance of music composed before the twentieth century,”47 and he believes that

“the problems connected with music of the past differ from the problems connected with music by living composers.”48 In fact, there are both similarities and differences in the issues presented. However, the only specific such difference that Dipert points out is concerned with the argument that “we have a moral obligation to the composer to play his music according to his intentions.”49 In general, Dipert concludes, “the moral- obligation theory appears to be untenable.”50 However, he writes, “the situation is quite different with regard to living, or recently deceased, composers. For . . . failing to perform a piece the way a composer intended can well detract from his reputation and even adversely affect his income and happiness (or those of his heirs).”51

Certainly the etiquette involved in the situation might be different if the composer is living, but are the ethics really different? If we accept Kivy’s argument that the

45.Dipert, 206-210. 46.Dipert, 218. 47.Dipert, 206. 48. Dipert, 206n2. 49.Dipert, 212. 50.Dipert, 213. 51. Dipert, 213n9.

154 composer does not always necessarily know best, and that the performer should not be

judged by the ethics of the messenger, with an obligation to tell the “truth,”52 then why

should those same arguments not be applicable to music by living or more recently

deceased composers? In fact, when working with a living composer, there is often a

more direct opportunity for negotiation and collaboration. In addition, some composers are very open to hearing new interpretations of their works, and “find performers’

differing interpretations to be highly beneficial, and enjoyable.”53

In contrast to Dipert, Hill also says that “the experience of modern music suggests a much more fundamental challenge to the purist position adopted by some proponents of the authenticity aesthetic. In particular it calls into question a central tenet, namely the rigid master-servant hierarchy of composer and performer.”54 He

discusses his experiences working with many composers, and their “bewildering range

of attitudes to the score which they have supplied to the performer.”55 Clearly, some of

this will depend on the particular composer (and performer) and their attitudes toward

the work, yet Hill still draws the general conclusion from these experiences that “even in

the composer’s mind a work is rarely, if ever, fixed. They suggest that the score itself is

provisional, a staging post on a creative journey, not the species of holy writ which it has

come to be regarded.”56

Kivy asks, “why must [emphasis in original] a twentieth-century, or even an

eighteenth-century performance of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony sound exactly like the

52 . Kivy, Authenticites, 162-71, 173, 281-283. Also see this document’s Ch. 3. 53. McNutt, email message to author, July 17, 2014. 54. Hill, 5-6. 55.Hill, 6. 56.Hill, 6.

155 one or ones Mozart envisioned?”57 He goes on to suggest the possibility, even the

probability, of a composer being pleasantly surprised by a performance that is not

precisely as he imagined it. The assumption that a composer can envision the only

good interpretation of the piece, and that this interpretation is immutable, seems

suspect when we acknowledge that the composer is also a fallible human being.

Paraphrasing Kivy, we might also ask: why must a twenty-first-century, or even a twentieth-century performance of a work by Stockhausen sound (and look) exactly like the one or ones Stockhausen envisioned?

One potential answer might be: it is his piece, and the performer is choosing to play it. Bledsoe also addresses questions about the composer’s intentions and the performer’s responsibilities, and recalls a youthful experience with Stockhausen:

I’ll confine myself to 20th century and later composers—earlier music is another whole can of worms. I’ll be honest. There are a few composers whom I dread to play. I see them coming up on a program and think: “well, I’ll just go get my strait- jacket.” These are the ones that require slavish following of their notation, no deviations allowed. . . . Here’s an example, though, of where this somewhat adolescent attitude of mine proved to be misplaced. I used to consider Karlheinz Stockhausen one of these dreaded composers. Working with him closely on the premiere of his Rotary Quintet gave me another perspective. For the premiere of this work he wanted to underscore the difference between male and female. (This quintet is part of his Licht cycle). So he asked us to reflect this gender difference in our concert-wear. With some trepidation, and gentle respect, I objected on the grounds that as a musician, I don’t consider my gender, and my native English also reflects no differences of gender. To my utter astonishment, he readily conceded, in a very gentlemanly fashion. Now I am starting preparations for the flute solo Paradies from Klang, which we plan to premiere in its (all 21 hours) entirety. This has me looking back on those days 12 years ago. Stockhausen is no longer around to gently concede to my cultural baggage, so I will not have the chance to thwart his intentions in person, but would I want to? It would just seem disrespectful at this point. Besides, I look back on my objections of 12 years ago and find them a bit silly. . . My point is: I’d think twice now before trying to turn a composer’s intention around. My objections may be parochial and egocentric, and have nothing to do

57 .Kivy, Sounding Off, 37.

156 with the real quality of the music. The composer’s intentions might also be parochial and egocentric, but, well, it’s their piece.”58

Bledsoe’s story demonstrates that the common image of Stockhausen as rigid and uncompromising may not be really accurate. It also points out the importance of a performer carefully considering any objections to the composer’s intentions that do arise, and examining the motivations for them. Bledsoe does not say that she would never try “to turn a composer’s intention around,” but that she would “think twice” now before doing so. If the performer’s objections are “parochial and egocentric, and have nothing to do with the real quality of the music,” then they should not be followed.

However, if “the composer’s intentions might also be parochial and egocentric,” do they still necessarily win out by virtue of being the composer’s? What other considerations might be competing factors? This is discussed further below, under Authenticity.

Another argument for following a contemporary composer’s intentions/instructions more closely is that we may (depending on the composer) have more detailed information about what those are. In Stockhausen’s case, we know a great deal, and he specifies the visual elements more closely than is typical for most composers. (See Chapter 3, Staging.) However, the amount of information available does not necessarily refute the argument that some of those intentions may be contradictory, or that it might be possible to find other good interpretations as well.

In commenting on questions of historical authenticity, O’Dea writes:

even if scholarly evidence did incontrovertibly convey information of the composer’s ideal conception of the piece, or the manner in which it was originally performed, notions of performance extracted thereof would still not be sacrosanct because good musical interpretation need not cleave to either of the above. . . . while there is an excellent case to be made for original creators offering “an”

58 . Bledsoe, “Bottom of the Food Chain,” Flutin’ High Blog, entry posted February 28, 2009, http://helenbledsoe.com/?p=74 (accessed February 7, 2015).

157 excellent and perceptive sounding of their work, it is another matter entirely to claim inherent superiority for this interpretation. This is a stance that I think cannot be justified for a variety of reasons.59

She goes on to make the point that performers “typically change or revise their

realizations over the course of their performing careers,” and that it’s possible to have

different, good interpretations “because artworks—especially eminent exemplifications

of the latter—typically admit of a range of excellent musical qualities not all of which

may be exhibited in a single interpretation.”60

This is similar to what Kivy writes, quoted earlier in Chapter 3: “the performing

intentions of the composer, like any other set of proposals for performing a musical

work, might turn out to be a good way of doing the business, or might not; and if not,

should, like any other plan that doesn’t work out, be discarded in favor of one that

does.”61 The composer’s performing intentions should not be discarded whimsically or

lightly, but only if there is a really valid reason for believing that another way might be

more effective under the current performance circumstances.

Hill echoes Dusman, cited above, in expressing the idea that a work is not really

finished until it is performed, and also proposes that performers may have

understandings to add: “In the performing arts, the completion of the score (or script) is

only a stage in the development of the work; it must now take its chance, acquiring

insights and additional meanings through the work of others. . . . Performers of talent— either contemporary or later—may see further into a work than its creator.”62

Of course, a composer has significant insight into his or her own work, and also

59.O’Dea, 82-83. 60.O’Dea, 83. 61.Kivy, Authenticities, 185. 62.Hill, 6.

158 an understandably vested interest in communicating as much of that insight and

intention to performers as possible. Correspondingly, performers have a responsibility to

respect that insight, to look deeply into what the composer says about the work, and to

carefully consider their interpretive choices. Stockhausen was a composer with a long- term vision, as the large scale of his projects demonstrates, and had also witnessed the growth of historical performance practice debates during his lifetime; it can be argued that perhaps he gave as much information as possible in order to help future performers understand his work, rather than leaving them guessing.

Yet even if the composer does have strong and specific ideas about how the piece should be performed, might there not be a little bit of room, somewhere within that structure, for other imaginations, for a contribution or an interpretation that might not be exactly what the composer expected? Might there not be some value in the unexpected, in the unpredictable?

Of course, there is also a point at which the number of changes or departures is so great that it can be argued it is no longer a performance of that work. When does it become a different work?63 In Kathinkas Gesang, I would argue that to play the piece

without any staging whatsoever would no longer be a performance of that work. Nor

would deliberately leaving out a section, altering the order of musical materials, or

changing a technique. However, the presence of some mistakes does not necessarily

mean it isn’t a performance of that work: as Mark puts it, “My performance does not . . .

63. As McNutt points out, the question of the performer’s gender also raises the issue of the limits of a literal interpretation of the staging and character. What would the implications be if a male flutist performed Kathinkas Gesang? (McNutt, email message to author, February 2, 2015.) The instructions for Kathinkas Gesang, in the original German, do indicate that the character of Kathinka may be played by either a male or a female, a distinction that the English word “flutist” does not make: “KATHINKA ist eine Flötistin oder ein Flötist als schwarze Katze köstumiert. (KATHINKA is a flutist dressed as a black cat.)” Stockhausen, introduction to Kathinkas Gesang, iv, xiv.

159 cease to be a performance of the [Chopin] nocturne on account of a few inconsequential wrong notes.”64

In Kathinkas Gesang, the musical score and the theatrical elements are at least equally important in the identity of the work. With that in mind, we should also take into account the fact that the staging was modified (by the composer) for the “quasi-concert” version of Kathinkas Gesang, as for many of the other sections from Licht that may be performed as independent concert works. In this way, we can see Stockhausen making concessions to practicality and flexibility, thus making multiple performances in different venues possible. He does not require the piano grave and massive set of steps and platforms every time; the staging is scaled down significantly from the opera version.

However, it is impossible to know whether the replacements he calls for (the hexagon curtain instead of the piano grave, the curtain hanging on a screen, the wooden mandalas and stairs) are really exactly what he wanted, or a compromise with what would have been available. Especially considering the rapid developments of current (and future) technology, is it not reasonable to suggest that the staging, at least for the concert version, could possibly be improved upon? Perhaps we could look at

Stockhausen’s instructions as the minimum that must be done, rather than as an absolute that could never be adapted. This would be congruent with Kivy’s suggestion that the composer’s performing intentions are “not necessarily where we stop; but they are perhaps necessarily where we must begin.”65

64. Mark, “Philosophy of Piano Playing,” 306n10. 65. Kivy, Authenticities, 185-86.

160 Authenticity

As mentioned above, there are many parallels between the performance

concerns in historical performance practice and in the performance of more recent

music, such as Kathinkas Gesang. One particularly relevant parallel is the question of

“authenticity” in musical performance.

It may appear somewhat surprising to discuss questions usually associated with

historical performance practice, such as authenticity, in the context of contemporary

music. However, especially in an era when musical trends and ideas are as multifarious

and quickly changing as the twentieth/twenty-first century, works rapidly become part of

the past, even if it is the relatively recent past, and these questions must be confronted.

As Bledsoe writes, “you wouldn’t think a contemporary music person like me would be faced with issues of historical performance practice, but it happens all the time. Styles change, techniques change, instruments are built differently, all with the rapidity of less than one generation. And I’m not even thinking about the electronic components!”66

A distinction can also be made between very new music, composed within the

past few years or months, and music that has become part of the contemporary

music/twentieth-century canon. Questions about authenticity apply in both cases, but their implications and challenges are somewhat different, with music that is part of that

“canon” and further in the past more closely paralleling the concerns of historical performance practice. In the performance of Kathinkas Gesang at the time of this

writing, more than 30 years after its premiere, the issues raised may be more similar to

those involved with playing older music than to playing a newly composed piece and

66. Bledsoe, “Nono: a Bass Flutist Prepares,” Flutin’ High Blog, entry posted Dec. 6, 2009, http://helenbledsoe.com/?cat=39 (accessed January 22, 2015).

161 working with a living composer.

Hill was inspired to write about authenticity in contemporary music partly in response to a series of articles in Early Music questioning “authentic” performance:

In general terms three questions emerged: is authenticity attainable? is it desirable? and (most fundamentally) does authenticity exist? The only disappointment was that the essays made only passing reference to the performance of modern music. For not only are there close parallels between the work of performers in contemporary and (in the widest sense) early music. More importantly, if authenticity has any meaning [emphasis in original], modern music is the one area in which this can convincingly be demonstrated. Perhaps it is normally taken for granted that, with the living composer on hand to clarify intentions, authenticity as an issue simply does not apply; yet the more one works with composers, listening to their advice (and changes of mind!), the more elusive a satisfactory definition becomes—causing one, in the end, to doubt whether authenticity as a goal has any useful validity.67

Hill also writes that “nowadays, the art of the past is not merely to be used (on our terms); it must be conserved [emphasis in original].”68 This urge toward conservation

(or, as Kivy puts it, “archeological reconstruction” 69) can already be seen in the prevailing attitudes toward some of the twentieth-century canon, including Kathinkas

Gesang.

Additionally, Hill points out some ways that “historical and contemporary performance intertwine,” such as “scrupulous regard for detail.”70 He uses an example from Messiaen to show that even in “the intensely detailed scores of the 1950s in which the quantity and precision of detail would seem to rule out interpretation,” the performer still has to make interpretive decisions “involving musical taste, judgment of what can be communicated . . . and—most imponderable of all—what I think the composer meant.

67. Hill, 2. 68. Hill, 2. 69. Kivy, Authenticities, 139. 70. Hill, 3.

162 Mere blind unthinking obedience to the text is simply not enough.”71 The capacity to make decisions is one of the elements of agency, as discussed further below. “The example from La Chouette Hulotte [by Messiaen] is particularly impressive because it shows that even in the most detailed type of modern score the intelligence and initiative of the player are called for.”72 This statement could be applied equally well to

Stockhausen’s scores.

Kivy’s writings on authenticity are concerned primarily with the historically authentic performance movement, yet many of his ideas are also applicable to a work such as Kathinkas Gesang. His primary thesis is that there is not one, single

“authenticity,” but multiple types of authenticities in the plural, and that often one cannot fulfill all of them at the same time. Kivy writes in his preface: “We shall see that being authentic is not being one thing: it is being four things (at least); and, further, we shall learn that one cannot be all of them at once.”73

Similarly, Hill writes that his experiences working with composers “have convinced me that the notion of a single ‘authenticity’ or truth towards which one should strive is a chimera.”74 This suggests that in contemporary music, as in older music, there may be multiple “authenticities,” as Kivy writes, rather than a single “authenticity;” and that therefore multiple valid and even “authentic” interpretations are perfectly feasible.

The “(at least) four notions of authenticity meaningfully applicable to musical performance practice,” according to Kivy, are as follows:

71. Hill, 4. 72. Hill, 5. 73. Kivy, Authenticities, xiii. 74. Hill, 6.

163 (1) faithfulness to the composer’s performance intentions; (2) faithfulness to the performance practice of the composer’s lifetime; (3) faithfulness to the sound of a performance during the composer’s lifetime; and (4) faithfulness to the performer’s own self, original, not derivative or aping someone else’s way of playing.75

The first three are most clearly examples of “historical authenticity”; the fourth notion,

which seems rather different, is what Kivy calls “personal authenticity.”76

Kivy’s entire, detailed examination of these concepts is beyond the scope of this

document to summarize.77 The main point I wish to take away from it is that these are

distinct notions of authenticity, and that they often come into conflict with each other. As

Kivy puts it, “these notions do not—cannot—converge, either in practice or in

principle.”78 Thus, an insistence upon a single type of interpretation as “the” authentic

one is logically indefensible.

I am most interested here in Kivy’s idea of “personal authenticity,” and in how that

might interact (or not) with some of the other types. This is authenticity in “the sense of

authentically one’s own, emanating from one’s own person—authentic, in other words,

as opposed to derivative or imitative.”79 This sense of the authentic as non-imitative

connects with Dusman’s definition of performance as non-duplicative, referenced above. Since he disagrees with the use of a literary model for music, Kivy concludes that personal authenticity in music is not equal to “sincerity.”80 He suggests instead that

personal authenticity in musical performance refers to having “the qualities of personal

style and originality.”81

75. Kivy, Authenticities, 6-7. 76. Kivy, Authenticities, 108. 77. See Kivy, Authenticities, passim. 78. Kivy, Authenticities, 7. 79. Kivy, Authenticities, 108. 80. Kivy, Authenticities, 122. 81. Kivy, Authenticities, 123.

164 O’Dea also discusses a concept of personal authenticity, as distinguished from historical authenticity, which “entails the more general notion of authenticity developed in the thought of Nietzsche, Heidegger and Sartre.”82 Unlike Kivy, she does not reject the idea of sincerity being a part of this definition. “In brief: personal authenticity in musical performance signifies a sincere and genuine commitment on the part of a performer to the ideals of meaningful interpretation—the goals, values, attitudes and actions the latter entails.”83 (O’Dea’s definition of personal authenticity is part of a larger discussion about her concept of “integrity” in musical performance, explored further below.) She also argues that “authenticity implies a sincere and honest readiness to confront realistically difficulties entailed. In this regard, the phenomenon of historical performance offers a provocative challenge to present-day musical performers.”84

In a similar vein, Kivy explores “whether the presence of personal authenticity in a performance is compatible with the presence of historical authenticity in any (or all) of its forms.”85 Beginning with “authenticity of sound,” he claims that the answer

is unequivocally no [emphasis in original]; for perfect sound-authenticity consists in the reduplication, the exact imitation of someone else’s past performance, whether it is some specific person’s performance or the “kind” of performance some contemporary or other would give; whereas our characterization of the personally authentic performance is one that emanates from the performer herself and is not derivative from or imitative of anyone else’s (although here as elsewhere artistic “influence” is necessarily present). . . . Indeed, looked at from the performer’s point of view, the quest for the sound-authentic performance is completely at cross-purposes with the quest for a personally authentic one. For the former is a project in archeological reconstruction in which the personality of the agent must be submerged so as not to leave a mark of its own on the reconstructed object, because that would amount to an adulteration of the reconstruction; whereas the point of the personally authentic performance precisely is to leave the indelible mark of personal style and (one hopes)

82. O’Dea, 93. 83. O’Dea, 97. 84. O’Dea, 97. 85. Kivy, Authenticities, 138.

165 personal originality on the “object,” that is, performance.86

The same argument about originality versus imitation applies to historically

authentic performance practice, in which the goal is likewise “archeological restoration

of a previously existing performance.”87 However, “compatibility between personal

authenticity and the authenticity of composers’ intentions and wishes” is a different

question.88 Kivy suggests that the pursuit of personal authenticity might be not only

compatible with a composer’s intentions, but actually a part of fulfilling them. This is

based on “overwhelming evidence that, at least until the advent of certain musical

movements of the twentieth century, composers not only did not wish or intend to

control completely the parameters of musical performance but actually had a positive

attitude toward personal authenticity in performance.”89 If this is one of the composer’s

wishes, then in the achievement of personal authenticity “the performer has, in that

particular regard, realized authorial intention.”90

A potential problem for the application of this discussion to Stockhausen’s work is

raised by Kivy’s passing mention of “certain musical movements of the twentieth

century,” in which composers presumably did seek to exercise more control over the

details of performance. The trend towards greater specificity in musical scores is also mentioned in Chapter 3. Kivy does not specify to which movements he refers here

(though Stravinsky is a famous example of such an attitude),91 but it is a reasonable

guess that this category includes the mid-twentieth-century modernism that was

86. Kivy, Authenticities, 138-39. 87. Kivy, Authenticities, 140-41. 88. Kivy, Authenticities, 141. 89. Kivy, Authenticities, 141. 90. Kivy, Authenticities, 141. 91. See Kivy, Authenticites, 266-267, 282; and O’Dea, 100.

166 dominant at the time when Stockhausen began establishing his reputation as a

composer.

Thus, there may be a potential conflict between the composer’s wishes and the

idea of personal authenticity:

If it were always the composer’s strong intention that all parameters of performance be totally controlled by him or her, then any performer who single- mindedly sought intentional authenticity would, ipso facto, be engaged in the archeological restoration of someone else’s performance, namely, the composer’s [emphasis in original]. . . . And this therefore would make intentional authenticity . . . completely incompatible with personal authenticity.92

What is a performer to do if the pursuit of personal authenticity seems to be in conflict with some (or all) of the composer’s wishes?

Kivy points out that even if personal authenticity is one of the composer’s wishes or intentions, it is still possible for that to be incompatible with other, more specific

intentions or indications, and that “achieving ‘authenticity’ is always a trade-off: you get

one, you lose one.”93 However, he does not believe that

a specific wish or intention of the composer [emphasis in original] . . . always overrides the general wish or intent for personal authenticity in performance. . . . For what gives the concept its life, what bestows upon the performer the status of artist and on the performance the status of art, is the real, full-blooded possibility of the performer finding a better or at least different way [emphasis in original] of performing the music from the way the composer has specifically envisioned and explicitly instructed.94

Does this possibility exist in Kathinkas Gesang? Was Stockhausen a composer

such as Kivy describes above, who sought to control every parameter of performance?

The amount of detailed instruction in many of his scores might suggest so, as well as

the common perception of his visionary and demanding personality; the New York

92. Kivy, Authenticities, 141. 93.Kivy, Authenticities, 142. 94.Kivy, Authenticities, 142.

167 Times describes him as “a mystic and a narcissist.”95 However, the very act of publishing the work involves a certain relinquishment of control;96 once it is out in the world, it has to take its chances with different interpreters. Perhaps Stockhausen provided as much information as he did in an attempt to help the scores be able to stand on their own, after his death. Stockhausen was concerned about the legacy that he would leave, and wished for the continuation of his works, both through the existence of scores, and through performances:

Everything I do is tied up with the thought that I am making myself superfluous. It’s the way it is with an architect who builds a cathedral: the cathedral stands there, that's what one sees. The work is there! . . . That is the deeper sense, the real foundation of my work, that I am building something, that I compose a work physically, too. There are the scores, and—God knows how many—other musicians can perform them.97

There are also indications that Stockhausen was interested in performer input, at least from his own circle of contemporary performers/collaborators, and valued the influence of their individual personalities on the musical performance, as discussed more fully below.

How can we know if Stockhausen included “personal authenticity” for the performance, or some such concept, among his intentions and wishes? At first glance it might seem as if he did not, but further examination of his lectures and writings does provide some possible indications otherwise. For example, Stockhausen has said,

We know that during the Baroque period, a composer like Bach worked very closely with musicians, and could immediately try out with them what he was working on, and then correct his scores. He could even leave quite a lot to the musicians, give only basic indications, and they would know what he intended and fill out the part accordingly. This close working relationship with musicians is

95. Smith, “Demanding Composer.” 96. McNutt, email message to author, February 2, 2015. 97. Karlheinz Stockhausen, Hermann Conen, and Jochen Hennlich, “Before and After Samstag aus Licht,” trans. Karin von Abrams, Contemporary Music Review 5, no. 1 (1989): 276.

168 even more necessary nowadays, now that timbre is involved, and movement of sound in the auditorium space has become very important. Such things can only be achieved by experiment and afterwards written down in more or less definite form for use in subsequent performances. It leads to a situation where you can no longer treat the materials of music as separate from the process of composition. The material and the forming of material become united. I think that’s a very positive development. It means, first of all, that the work of art is no longer a dead object, as it has increasingly become in our culture, something to be traded from place to place, a musical score to be executed, the highest interpretation of which is taken to be when a performer exactly follows the instructions on the printed page. In fact, that is only one aspect of creativity [emphasis added].98

Here, Stockhausen is saying that it is important to work with performers during the composition process, that some aspects of musical composition may only be

“written down in more or less definite form,” and that interpretation involves more than

“exactly follow[ing] the instructions on the printed page.”99 This does not sound like a

composer who always wants to control every aspect of performance. He goes on to

discuss his works that involve both “openness of the musical process” and “openness of

material,”100 and comments further on interpretation:

Everything that is determined once and for ever is like an order: you either submit to it or go against it, in which case you make a mistake. The alternative is a multi- meaningful order, with which you might feel free to use your imagination, in order really to interpret the instructions that are given. . . . The more that is determined in a musical work, the more transformations intervene in the process of interpretation.101

A caveat: these quotes are from an interview in 1971, well before Stockhausen

began work on Licht, and are probably largely referring to his “intuitive music,” the

indeterminate compositions of this time period. His music later became much more

determinate and specifically notated. It could be argued that it is a misapplication of

98. Stockhausen, Stockhausen on Music, 27-28. 99. Stockhausen, Stockhausen on Music, 27-28. 100 . Stockhausen, Stockhausen on Music, 28-29. 101. Stockhausen, Stockhausen on Music, 29.

169 these ideas to apply them to Stockhausen’s later and more highly determined works.

However, I think it is still valid to look for a type of “multi-meaningful order, with which you might feel free to use your imagination, in order really to interpret the instructions that are given,”102 even in these later works that include more specific instructions.

Bledsoe’s story about performing Stockhausen’s Rotary Quintet, quoted above,

also suggests that he may have been less fixed in some of his intentions than is often

believed, as he courteously acquiesced to her objection to the use of gendered clothing

in the performance. Does this indicate a wish on the composer’s part for performers to

have personal authenticity, or was it a matter of being polite about a point that was not

essential to the work? Either way, it does indicate some amount of flexibility.

The answer to the question of whether Stockhausen wished for performances of

his works to include performer authenticity may not be definitively answered, but based

on these examples, it seems possible. However, a more central question follows: is

inclusion (or not) of personal authenticity among the composer’s intentions what

determines whether or not the performer should pursue personal authenticity in

performing his/her works? The answer to the latter question will depend on how one

defines the purpose of performance, as discussed above, and on what relative values

are placed on these different types of authenticity. It is also closely connected with an

understanding of the performer’s role.

Performer’s Role, Agency, and Interpretation

Obviously, this topic relates closely to those above, especially the question of the

102. Stockhausen, Stockhausen on Music, 29.

170 purpose and nature of performance. This section examines more closely what the

performer actually does, what interpretation might be, how the score and the

performance are related, and what the performer’s roles and responsibilities entail.

As laid out in Chapter 1 (Introduction), interpretation is included as part of the

expanded and deeper virtuosity that this document explores. Interpretation is seen here

as a creative and collaborative process, requiring judgment and agency, decisions and

actions, on the part of the interpreter. As seen above, Kivy likens performance to the

skill of arranging, Mark to quoting and asserting, and O’Dea to explicating and

advocating for the musical work. Kivy claims that his model can contain the ideas of

performance as both a type of compositional skill/arranging and as interpretation: “In

seeing performers as akin to arrangers, then, we can accommodate both the notion that

performers are ‘creative,’ their productions, at their best, originally and uniquely styled,

and the equally ubiquitous notion that they are interpreters, and their performances

interpretations.”103

Kivy seems to present this as a resolution of the conflict between “interpretation”

and “creation.” However, why need there be a conflict in the first place between viewing

performers as “creative artists” and as “interpreters”? In my view, interpretation is necessarily creative. That does not mean that it should respect no limits or boundaries.

Often, creativity may be increased by the requirement to operate within certain bounds—in this case, those imposed by the score and by the performance traditions that the performer chooses to follow with respect to it. As violinist and improviser

Stephen Nachmanovitch writes,

the artist has his training, his style, habits, personality, which might be very

103. Kivy, Authenticities, 138.

171 graceful and interesting but are nevertheless somewhat set and predictable. When, however, he has to match the patterning outside him with the patterning he brings within his own organism, the crossing or marriage of the two patterns results in something never before seen, which is nevertheless a natural outgrowth of the artist’s original nature.104

Nachmanovitch is writing primarily about improvisation, and the ways that placing

limits can increase creativity in that context, but the interpretation of written music is

also an example of this “crossing of patterns.” The two main views of interpretation

referenced by Lawler (see Chapter 3, Interpretation of Staging Instructions) may be

basically (though perhaps overly simplistically) described as a distinction between active

and passive, between subject/agent and object. “Agent” is defined by The Oxford

Dictionary of Philosophy as “one who acts. The central problem of agency is to

understand the difference between events happening in me or to me, and my taking

control of events, or doing things,”105 and by The Oxford Companion to Philosophy as “a

person (or other being) who is the subject when there is action. A long history attaches

to thinking of the property of being an agent as (i) possessing a capacity to choose

between options and (ii) being able to do what one chooses.”106

According to these definitions, the agent is active, not passive; doing, not just

experiencing what happens in or to herself. In general, I believe that interpretation is an

active process, whereas the idea of being a vessel through which the music flows

seems like a passive concept. However, the two aspects are not entirely exclusionary.

104. Stephen Nachmanovitch, Free Play: Improvisation in Life and Art (New York: Jeremy P. Tarcher/Putnam, 1990), 79. 105. Simon Blackburn, Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy, 2nd rev. ed., ed Simon Blackburn, s.v. “Agent,” http://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/acref/9780199541430.001.0001/acref- 9780199541430-e-85 (accessed December 27, 2014). 106. Jennifer Hornsby, Oxford Companion to Philosophy, 2nd ed., ed. Ted Honderich, s.v “Agent,” http://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/acref/9780199264797.001.0001/acref-9780199264797-e- 46 (accessed December 27, 2014).

172 As McNutt writes,

the “hidden virtuosity” of performance requires a similar freedom from clutter: in this case, the clutter of the performer's conscious consideration of pitches, rhythms, patterns, fingering, breathing, pacing, articulation—in short, the thousands of details that form the mechanics of playing the piece. Over the course of several performances, this mental chatter is gradually silenced. At last the act of performing becomes a natural flow of music, an unconscious celebration of the piece. . . . The virtuosity of analysis tends toward conscious elucidation, while the highest level of performative virtuosity moves toward an unconscious flow of experience; the meeting of the two is exciting, but necessarily fragile.107

In an excellent performance there may certainly be a sense, experienced by both performer and audience, of a flow state, of something special and powerful coming through the performer—an excitement, an aliveness, a kind of electric energy. However, this is not the state in which one begins; nor, in spite of the aspect of surrender involved, is it one that is achieved through passivity. In order to reach this state of flow, thinking and action are required, especially in the preparation for a performance. As McNutt points out, reaching this ultimate state in performance requires much thought and work on the performer’s part. “With intensive score study and hours of practice, connections between patterns and passages emerge and evolve. Rather than mechanically rendering Babbitt's notated instructions, the flutist traverses an increasingly complex mental map of the work and its significant relationships.”108

The second definition of “agent” above includes both the capacity for choice and the capacity for action carrying out that choice—once again, the two elements that are emphasized throughout this document as the main features of virtuosic interpretation.

Thus, the performer’s agency is exercised, and necessary, in the realms of both choice

107. McNutt, “Postscript,” paragraphs 10-11. 108. McNutt, “Postscript,” paragraph 4.

173 and action. The capacity to choose, however, does not mean that one is always in

control. If we accept that the unexpected may have value, we should acknowledge that

it may arise for the performer as well as for the composer, during the course of a

performance. Plans are necessary, but a performance does not always go as planned,

and that fact can be viewed as an opportunity rather than an error. As Stockhausen

writes,

The most profound moments in musical interpretation and composition are those which are not the result of mental processes, are not derived from what we already know, nor are they simply deducible from what has happened in the past. Musicians must learn to become the opposite of egocentric; otherwise you only play yourself, and the self is nothing but a big bag full of stored information. . . . But when you become like what I call a radio receiver, you are no longer satisfied with expressing yourself, you are not interested in yourself at all. There is nothing really to express. Then you will be amazed at what happens to you, when this state is achieved; when you become aware of what happens through you, even for short moments, you will be quite astonished. You become a medium.109

This sounds as if Stockhausen is interested in something beyond the idea of personal

authenticity: getting the self out of the way, so that something larger can flow through.

However, the choice to take oneself out of the picture, if possible, is also a choice,110

and could be considered an action, as well. This is a kind of deliberate surrender,

moving beyond the realm of ego and of the self-aggrandizing, shallow type of virtuosity.

The concept of a “medium” sounds passive, but Sollberger challenges that duality, writing that the virtuoso makes “himself and his instrument the active mediums

[emphasis added] through which a work’s ideas are projected.”111 Nachmanovitch offers

another way of describing this distinction: “Virtually every spiritual tradition distinguishes

109. Stockhausen, Stockhausen on Music,125. 110. Lawler, Skype conversation with author, September 19, 2013. 111. Sollberger, 7.

174 the self-clinging ego from the deeper, creative Self; little self as opposed to big Self.”112

Not wanting to unnecessarily impose the “little self” on the music does not require giving

up agency. Rather, it requires care and deliberation in the exercise of agency. Personal

authenticity does not require that the stamp of the self be imposed at every opportunity.

It implies that the performer’s choices are authentically her own, and that the

interpretation is executed in the way she believes it to be most effective.

On the most basic level, the performer creates sound. She makes the actual,

physical vibrations in the air, the specific sounds that we call a performance of a musical

work. She does not create this out of nothing—it is based on the roadmap, the text, of

the score. The score, no matter how specific, is an abstraction, and the performer

translates or mediates between the abstract and the concrete. As O’Dea puts it,

no matter how detailed and specific a score, music notation, of its very nature, can specify only a part of what is actually sounded in performance. There is a significant difference and crucial distinction to be made between that which is indicated on the score—conceptualized, imagined sound—and that with which the performer works—actual physical sound sensation [emphasis added].113

McNutt also emphasizes the transformation of the abstract score into the physical reality of performance:

From the flutist's perspective . . . the abstract notations of the score must be manifested as physical gestures. This process of mastery gradually gives way to the detective work of relating local patterns to a larger framework, explicating the composer's notational strategies, and in general moving from scattered individual clues to a coherent interpretation.114

Again, O’Dea points out that multiple interpretations are viable:

While music scores fix and determine in a general schematic sort of way the broad form and shape of musical works, within the limitations set by those schematic outlines, a variety of interpretive soundings is both possible and

112. Nachmanovitch, 29. 113. O’Dea, 13. 114. McNutt, “Postscript,” paragraph 3.

175 permissible. It is the performer’s task to go beyond what is only schematically presented in the score. And taking into account what scores of their very nature cannot accommodate—the singular and unique properties of sound sensation—it is her task to particularize what is only generally indicated there.115

In other words, the performer’s role is to transform the abstract, general instructions of the score into particular, concrete sonic (and visual) sensations in the physical world.

The relationship between the score and the performance can be analogized in various ways, more or less successfully. It might be likened to the correlation between an architect’s blueprint and a builder’s physical creation. One is an abstract, although detailed, plan; the other is a physical manifestation of it. The builder may encounter difficulties in the physical realm that have to be solved. Variable factors, including location and specific materials, may affect the final product; the same blueprint could be used to create multiple buildings that are not exactly the same. (However, a performance is more ephemeral than a building; the analogy is not perfect.) The score is a guide. The score is a map. The score is a text, which can be read in different ways.

The score is a singular object, out of which can grow a multiplicity of interpretations.

These are performances: they are manifestations of the score’s potential.

Performance traditions or practices may, of course, also have an influence on

interpretation. The performer and the score do not exist in a vacuum, and it is important

to be aware of the historical and stylistic contexts within which the work exists. However,

as O’Dea points out, there are limitations to what performance traditions can specify, as

well:

like music scores, performance traditions cannot stipulate exactly how they are to be carried out in actual performance. Once again this has to be resolved by the

115. O’Dea, 14.

176 performer, employing imagination and judgment, and taking into account what neither music notation nor the practical principles generated by performance traditions can possibly accommodate, the singular and unique properties of sound sensation. . . . Musicians do not work with sound sensation as a kind of generalized brute phenomenon. Rather they work with a highly refined and discriminating version of the latter.116

Writing a piece, or writing about how to perform a piece, is always abstract to a

degree, whereas performing it is concrete. There is a space between the written

notation and the physical realization of the sound.117

Kivy refers to this space as “the gap between ‘text’ and performance.”118 He

points out that the existence of this gap may be viewed in either a positive or a negative

light, and argues that “the quest for historically authentic performance is a quest for

closure—for absolute control of sound production, whether or not that can, in practice, ever be achieved.” In this view, that gap is “to be closed, not to be cherished; it is a

‘defect’ in the sound-production ‘machinery.’”119 According to Kivy, the ultimate

conclusion of this kind of ideology is to “collapse performance into text,”120 thereby

making it no longer performance but a duplicate, like a print made of a photograph or painting.121

Alternatively, the gap may be viewed as both necessary and desirable:

The “logic” of music as a performing art, if I may so call it, is a logic in which the gap between “text” and performance is not merely a necessary evil but at the same time a desired, intended and logically required ontological fact [emphasis in original]. It is in that gap that the work of art is produced that we call “performance” . . . It is in that gap that personal authenticity can either be or not be.122

116. O’Dea, 15. 117. Thanks to Dr. David Bard-Schwarz and Dr. Elizabeth McNutt for discussions that influenced the development of my ideas in this area. 118. Kivy, Authenticities, 271. 119. Kivy, Authenticities, 272. 120. Kivy, Authenticities, 277. 121. Kivy, Authenticities, 271. 122. Kivy, Authenticities, 272.

177

In Chapter 1, virtuosity is defined in a way that is not primarily concerned with

surface level perfection—in other words, this virtuosity is human and fallible, pushing to

the limits and occasionally falling over them. (The intervening chapters also contain

reflections on risk and human fallibility.) Like the gap between the score/text and the

performance, the gap between an ideal, imagined, perfect performance and an actual,

human, imperfect performance might also be viewed as both necessary and desirable.

As Roland Barthes suggests with his concept of the “grain of the voice,”123 we might find

something to value in the very imperfections, the cracks, the gaps, the messiness that

human, bodily reality entails. Perhaps this is the space in which the unexpected, and the

magical, might arise.

Could it be argued that performance is not creative since it is based on a

previous artwork, rather than created out of nothing? In fact, very little that we call

creative work is actually made out of thin air, containing neither reference to nor

influence from any other previously created work or natural phenomena, using

absolutely no borrowed or repurposed material. Generally, artists are not really making

something out of nothing, but making something out of something else, combining

elements in a new way, with a new twist or perspective, or adding something old to

something new. An artist takes in all the different influences around her, and then

assimilates them and gives out something new, that bears the stamp of the influences

but is uniquely and originally the individual’s work at the same time. “Original” does not

have to mean wholly unlike anything ever seen or heard before—it can mean “from the

123. Roland Barthes, “The Grain of the Voice,” in Image-Music-Text, trans. Stephen Heath (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977),188.

178 origin,” from the direct source, authentic in the philosophical sense discussed above. As

Nachmanovitch writes, “young artists easily fall into the trap of confusing originality with newness. Originality does not mean being unlike the past or unlike the present; it means being the origin, acting out of your own center.”124

What, then, is the performer’s role? To be a creative partner, interpreting, advocating, translating, bringing to life. To be active rather than passive, exercising agency, making considered choices and carrying them out as well as possible. How does one take ownership of an interpretation? Carefully—that is, with care, and attention, and hard work, though not necessarily cautiously; with passion and conviction, also. A good performance is accurate, but not overly constrained by the compulsion toward accuracy. It goes beyond technique and into communication, draws the audience into the world of the piece, and offers them a transformative experience.

A criticism might be leveled at this argument to the effect that, in attempting to value the performer’s creative role, it is discounting or disrespecting the composer’s. I want to make it clear that I am not encouraging an “anything goes” approach to interpretation that disregards the score and/or the composer’s known wishes. Rather, I am advocating for the importance of the performer’s creative contribution also, which has often been downplayed due to the prominent ideology of “composer worship;”125 as

Kivy puts it, “we seem to have lost faith in the performer, become suspicious of him or her.”126 He attributes this suspicion, with its ethical overtones, to the mistaken idea of

124. Nachmanovitch, 179. 125. Kivy, Authenticities, 278. Kivy points out that this ideology “has its roots . . . in the nineteenth-century cult of genius.” 126. Kivy, Authenticities, 282.

179 music as a message and musician as messenger, as discussed above.127 Kivy also

points out that it is not only “a composers’ cabal” putting forth this notion, but historical

musicologists and also audiences.128 Again, Stockhausen’s work is a part of much more recent music history, which would usually be considered under the umbrella of contemporary rather than historical performance practices. However, the resonances between the arguments Kivy discusses and the common ideas put forth about interpreting Stockhausen’s music (such as the emphasis on studying with the original performers, discussed below) are striking.

It is my hope, however, that composers and performers need not be considered as rival political groups, as Kivy also implies.129 Contemporary composers and

performers have a mutual interest in supporting and encouraging each other’s work.

Ideally, we can approach each other as comrades and collaborators, with all of our

contributions and areas of expertise worthy of respect. I am not suggesting that the

performer’s creative contribution should be considered more important than the

composer’s; I am, however, suggesting that it should be considered equally important, if

not the same in kind.

Performers certainly have responsibilities with regard to the score and the

composer, and those are not to be taken lightly. Interpretive decisions should not be

made casually, or for the wrong reasons, either because of a lack of sufficient skill or

because the musician has objections that are “parochial and egocentric, and have

nothing to do with the real quality of the music,”130 as Bledsoe writes.

127. Kivy, Authenticities, 282. 128. Kivy, Authenticities, 282. 129. Kivy, Authenticities, 282. 130. Bledsoe, “Food Chain.”

180 O’Dea emphasizes the virtues necessary for good musical performance,

suggesting that performers need to cultivate qualities such as courage, patience and

tenacity, humility and self-respect;131 and also “dispositions pertaining to the ethical

responsibilities of an interpreter,” including “generosity of spirit,” diligence and

concentration, deliberation, consistency, judgment, and truthfulness or self-honesty.132

This kind of self-honesty will allow a performer to discern whether her reasons for making interpretive decisions are valid or self-indulgent, and to evaluate whether the resulting interpretation is really effective.

O’Dea also mentions the distrust of performers expressed by “composers of

Stravinsky’s cast,”133 and acknowledges that sometimes performers behave in such a

way as to merit this distrust. She claims that musicians may “compromise their

interpretive principles by exploiting the open-ended, creative dimension of

interpretation;” however, “their integrity as performers can also be endangered by

forswearing it.”134 In her view, it would also be a betrayal of integrity “to abdicate our

artistic responsibilities as interpreter and to promote unquestioningly a single, definitive

mode of interpretation—one authorized and legitimated by historical scholarship.”135

I think we must ultimately call on the ideal of balance, of training musicians to be

able to make these distinctions and decisions, and then trusting them to do so. Agency

involves not only freedom but also responsibility. O’Dea’s “Aristotelian approach to

musical performance ethics . . . gives central place to the judgment of the individual

131. O’Dea, 28-29. 132. O’Dea, 29-30. 133. O’Dea, 100. 134. O’Dea, 101. 135. O’Dea, 101.

181 moral agent (the performer) and the virtuous character traits sagacious judgment entails.”136 She does not suggest that such virtues are easy to cultivate, but they are certainly possible and, in her view, not incompatible with virtuosity.137

Lawler suggests that performers think about “serving the whole,” meaning the whole of the performance, which, in a piece like Kathinkas Gesang, with its theatrical elements, is actually a larger concept than “serving the music.”138 The idea that the performer is “serving” something does not necessarily mean she is subservient, but it does go some way towards counteracting the stereotype of the self-aggrandizing virtuoso. Lawler believes in an active interpretation, in conscious choice-making as part of the performer’s role. Rather than trying to efface or erase the self, the performer uses it, not to show off, but in the service of creating a rich and “hopefully meaningful” experience.139 As flutist Daoust states, in Stockhausen’s works “the musician . . . contributes with his entire personality to the existence of the music.”140

O’Dea writes that

interpretation presupposes a certain generosity of spirit [emphasis in original]. It entails a willingness on the part of performers to explore and present the creative work of others. And it implies an eagerness to present the latter fairly—to perform in such a way that does their work justice, and does not misrepresent it to the public. Interpretation assumes, in effect, a readiness to “share the stage,” a preparedness to see and to acknowledge the formative role of the original creator (the composer).141

A similar type of generosity of spirit might be brought to bear in seeing and acknowledging the creative contributions of the performer. O’Dea also characterizes

136. O’Dea, 111. 137. O’Dea, 111. 138. Lawler, Skype conversation with author, September 19, 2013. 139. Lawler, Skype conversation with author, September 19, 2013. 140. Daoust, “La musique de Stockhausen,” 23. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) 141. O’Dea, 29-30.

182 performers as “advocates” for the works they perform,142 and this is especially important in new, experimental, and/or highly complex music: this music needs its dedicated performer-advocates even more than older, more familiar music does. As the piece becomes more virtuosic, the performer becomes less easily replaceable.

Kivy cites R. G. Collingwood’s view that the performer and composer are collaborators and the musical work is not finished until performed,143 similar to

Dusman’s and Hill’s claims cited above:144

Authors and performers have found themselves driven into a state of mutual suspicion and hostility. Performers have been told that they must not claim the status of collaborators, and must accept the sacred text just as they find it; authors have tried to guard against any danger of collaboration from performers by making their book or their text fool-proof. The result has been not to stop performers from collaborating (that is impossible), but to breed up a generation of performers who are not qualified to collaborate boldly and competently.145

Kivy disagrees with Collingwood’s view of the composer and performer as collaborating on a single artwork, instead seeing the performance as a separate artwork. However, they both agree that performances are artworks and performers artists.146 In my view, these ideas are not necessarily incompatible: the performer and composer are collaborators, yet we might still consider the performance as another artwork. The same score is capable of leading to multiple performances/interpretations, so score added to performance does not have to equal one singular work. There is still a sense that the score is “finished” by the performance, but it can be so finished not once but many times, and not in one way but in many ways.

142. O’Dea, 19. 143. R. G. Collingwood, The Principles of Art, (Oxford: Clarendon, 1938), 320-321. 144. See Dusman, 131; and Hill, 6. 145. Collingwood, 321. 146. Kivy, Authenticities, 265.

183 While there may be some trends in that direction, the situation is not quite so bleak as Collingwood makes out (writing in the 1930s). The model of

performer/composer collaboration is alive and well in certain circles of contemporary

music, and it is of mutual benefit to composers and performers to nurture and continue

to develop it. Of course, the details of this process will vary according to the particulars

of work, style, and persons involved; however, the principle of interpretation as

collaboration still stands.

Collaboration

There is a fairly common understanding that there may be some type of

collaborative relationship between a composer and the commissioner or original

performer of a work. Stockhausen worked closely with several musicians, including

Pasveer, for many years, and consulted them as he composed Licht and other works.

This is not to say that the performers made compositional decisions, but they certainly

contributed to making the music playable on their instruments, and in many cases seem

to have also played an inspirational/muse role.147

When asked about the extent and nature of her collaboration with Stockhausen

during the composition of Kathinkas Gesang, Pasveer replied,

I lived with Stockhausen for 3 weeks in Kenya when he composed KATHINKAs GESANG. Every day I got a few lines, and started practicing. Stockhausen was in the room next door composing but also listening. He would often come into my room and make suggestions for changes, asking me for solutions that were possible with the flute. We experimented a lot (not only for KATHINKAs GESANG but later for all works for flute which he wrote for me until 2007) and always found solutions, notations, fingerings which were good for the flute and for the

147. Performers working in close collaboration with composers may, in fact, contribute to compositional decisions, but these contributions are “rarely documented or formally acknowledged.” (McNutt, email message to author, February 2, 2015.)

184 interpreter (so never against the player). Sometimes I would ask him to give me more time to practice before I would ask for a change. But when I had the feeling that I could practice for months without getting a good result, I would tell him this and he would change accordingly.148

Trombonist Barrie Webb writes about the importance of such partnerships

between composers and performers in the creation of new music:

Observers might be forgiven for thinking that the performer is a kind of second- class musician, simply reproducing the wishes of the composer-creator. But in composing for soloist, there often exists a very special relationship between composer and performer. Often, a work comes into existence because of the presence of a particular performer, who may not only inspire the composer, but may also give a lot of practical advice. It is from such partnership that real creative energy arises. The perceived importance of particular partnerships diminishes with the passage of time; music which “lives” on into the future frequently loses its association with the original performer-collaborator, whilst the original circumstances of composition become part of history.149

Pasveer and Stockhausen’s creative relationship seems close to what Webb describes

in the first part of this quote. However, Webb’s last sentence is, in this particular case,

not accurate; “the association with the original performer-collaborator” lives on very

strongly in Kathinkas Gesang, offering both opportunities and challenges to later

performers of the work.

Along with elements of the piece itself and the circumstances of its composition,

this strong association is also due to the fact that Pasveer continues to perform and

promote Stockhausen’s music. Webb writes,

the performer today also has greater potential than in previous periods to establish and document contemporary performance practice. Far from seeing the job done once a first performance has been given, the performer can help give works greater permanence by producing recordings or assisting in the preparation of definitive scores.150

148. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 149. Barrie Webb, “Partners in Creation,” Contemporary Music Review 26, no. 2 (April 2007): 255. 150. Webb, 255.

185 Pasveer has done that, and more, with regard to Stockhausen’s work, in the process

assuring that these pieces have not lost their “association with the original performer-

collaborator.”151

The close connections between Stockhausen and Pasveer, and the way these are manifested in the piece, are discussed in Chapter 3. To review: Kathinkas Gesang was written for Kathinka Pasveer, her name is included in the title (as is also the case with other works Stockhausen wrote for her, such as THINKI and SUKAT) 152 and

probably influenced the concept and character, and she worked with Stockhausen

during the composition process. The piece would likely have been written for her even if

she played a different instrument, but since she is a flutist, it was composed with the

particular tone of her flute and her flute-playing in mind: “even though Stockhausen

encourages the performance of Lucifer’s Requiem by other flutists (select, high level

instrumentalists), he composed the work by keeping in mind the particular tone of

Kathinka’s flute.”153

Stockhausen also said that he was particularly moved when hearing her play the

work:

Now I must distinguish between instrumental or vocal music and electronic music. For in the case of instrumental music the performer plays a substantial role [emphasis added]. When Kathinka Pasveer plays Kathinkas Gesang als Luzifers Requiem (Kathinka’s Chant as Lucifer’s Requiem), the second scene of Samstag aus Licht, there are certain moments when I have, every time, quite special profound emotions. They have nothing to do with my music, but rather with specific intervals, with a specific volume and a specific tempo, with the sound of the flute and this person, her timbre.154

151. Webb, 255. 152. Daoust, “Stockhausen et la flûte,” 6. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) 153. Breault, “Le timbre de la flûte,” 145. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) 154. Stockhausen, Conen, and Hennlich, “Before and After,” 268.

186 This kind of close relationship between composer and performer is immensely valuable and can be very fruitful, as indeed it was in this case. However, such a close association with an individual does complicate the role of later performers. In the quote above, Stockhausen acknowledges the impact that the performer’s personality and individuality can have on the listener’s experience—without a doubt, Pasveer brings something special and unique to the work. If Stockhausen did “encourage” other flutists to perform it, was he interested in the possibility of differing interpretations, of the unique

“timbre” of each of those people as well?

Webb describes his own musical journey, and the process of “becoming more directly involved with composers, and a partner in their creative work.”155 Most of

Webb’s article is concerned with works that he premiered, and the consultation with the composer during the composition and sometimes also the later recording process. He deals only briefly with the performance of works that other performers first premiered, in discussing a CD recording covering 50 years of trombone music: “Some of these are works which I had helped to create, and others, which I have performed many times, had already involved consultation with the performer or composer half of the original creative partnership. But in other cases I needed to carry out further research.”156 This research consisted of working with the composers, where possible, and/or with the original performers to clarify questions about the scores as well as discussing “some questions of interpretation.”157

What Webb touches on slightly here, but does not emphasize, is the question of

155. Webb, 260. 156. Webb, 276. 157. Webb, 276.

187 whether this idea of a “creative partnership” between composer and performer might extend beyond the original performer to include other, later interpreters as well; might extend, even, beyond the composer’s death.

Study with Original Performers

It is a commonly accepted notion that it is necessary, or at least strongly recommended, to study the performance of Stockhausen’s music with one of the musicians with whom he worked closely. Two previous dissertations, on Stockhausen’s saxophone and percussion music, reiterate this point:

Stockhausen preferred that musicians wishing to perform or record his music study directly with him. Those wishing to learn his music now study with Ms. Stephens or Ms. Pasveer, or one of the interpreters (instrumentalists and vocalists) who studied with Stockhausen. His distinctive musical language and performance practice is thus passed on by those who learned it directly from its source.158

Despite all that is in print about Stockhausen and his music, he still recommends that interested performers study with him directly, or with sanctioned interpreters who have dedicated much of their professional life to playing his music.159

Pasveer also encourages flutists who want to learn Kathinkas Gesang to study the piece with her.160 Both Pasveer and clarinetist Suzanne Stephens have done valuable work preserving and promoting Stockhausen’s work, and they of course have a unique perspective on the compositions that were written for them over the course of many years. Part of their contribution was to make sure that all of the music was playable on the instruments; they also assisted with notation and writing performance

158. Bunt,12. 159. Gerber, 2. 160. “Please add that I suggest that all flutists who want to work on KATHINKAs GESANG should visit the annual Stockhausen Courses Kürten where I teach every year for 9 days, or contact me during the year.” (Pasveer, email message to author, April 9, 2011.)

188 notes. The value of this contribution is difficult to overemphasize; as Bledsoe points out

(see Chapter 1), many contemporary works lack this care and clarity of notation.161

While appreciating the importance of the work that Pasveer, Stephens, and the

other musicians in Stockhausen’s circle have done and continue to do, and the valuable

insights that they have to offer into the pieces, one might still call into question the idea

that studying within this direct lineage is necessarily required in order to achieve a

legitimate or “authentic” interpretation. The fact that the scores do contain so much

information and detail would seem to suggest that they can stand on their own. A

performer who wishes to approach the work on her own terms might reasonably do so,

given the amount of information available, both in the score and in Stockhausen’s

writings.

If the performer’s goal is to emulate as closely as possible the production and

interpretation of Pasveer’s original performance of the work, then studying with her

would of course be a crucial part of the process. If, however, we adopt an approach that

can allow for a multiplicity of interpretations, for multiple “authenticities,”162 as Kivy puts

it, then it is perfectly feasible for an advanced flutist, especially a contemporary music

specialist, to learn and perform Kathinkas Gesang independently.

On the other hand, studying with performers who are experienced with the unfamiliar demands of this work may be helpful in mastering the necessary skills, and might be part of ultimately developing one’s own interpretation. As flutist Daoust observes,

the score . . . is very precise, but there are so many new elements to integrate in the interpretation of this work that it is highly recommended to work with a person

161. Bledsoe, “Adorjan’s Lexicon.” 162. Kivy, Authenticities, 285 (and passim).

189 who has already played it or to attend classes in Kürten, which are still given every summer.163

Pasveer offers her assistance in a spirit of great generosity, writing: “As long as I

live I love to work with different flutists on all different works to be able to help them as

much as I can, in the same way that Stockhausen helped me during hundreds of hours

of rehearsals!”164 This kindness and expertise is undoubtedly a valuable resource for

learning Kathinkas Gesang and other works by Stockhausen, and flutists who have the

necessary means and interest should be encouraged to take advantage of the

opportunity. What is problematic is not the availability of this opportunity, but rather the

tendency to view such study as a necessary prerequisite to the performance of the

work.

“Elle Les Créera Toutes” (She Created All of Them)

Daoust repeatedly uses the French verb “créer,” usually translated as “to create,”

to describe Pasveer’s role in Stockhausen’s works for flute. For example, Daoust writes,

“elle les créera toutes et elle en aura souvent aussi réalisé l’écriture, la configuration

des doigtés, la partition et l’enregistrement sur CD.”165 (She created all of them [the

pieces Stockhausen wrote for her] and also often did the writing, the fingerings, the

score, and recording the CD.)

In this context, the use of the verb “créer” most likely indicates that Kathinka

Pasveer was the original performer of the pieces, and that she therefore “created” the

163. Daoust, “Kathinkas Gesang,” 15. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) 164. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 165. Daoust, “Stockhausen et la flûte,” 6. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) Many thanks to translator Leslie Ewart for bringing my attention to the issues raised by the use of the verb “créer” in this context.

190 roles, in the same way that one might say an actor “creates” a role when he/she performs it in the premiere. This terminology brings up questions about ownership of the work, the nature of the creative collaboration between composer and performer, and the performer’s role.

Leslie Ewart (translator), comments on the use of “créer” and also of the term

“interpréteur” in Daoust’s writing on Stockhausen:

In French, an “interprète” can be a singer, actor, musician, dancer, because they all interpret a role. In the broadest sense we would say “performer” in English. “Interpreter” in French also means “to perform.” Créer has the sense of appearing in a role for the first time, so I guess that it could be “premiere” in English. In French, the sense of créer used in this context gives the performer ownership of the role. I can't think of an English equivalent that has the same connotation. That said, I think the first actor in a role on Broadway may be said “to create the role,” because many will follow in the same role. I have the feeling that the use of “interpréteur” in these texts relates to the nature of performing Stockhausen and is used intentionally. She [Daoust] rarely calls the performers musicians, preferring to call them “interpréteurs.” This is probably due to the fact that the performance involves so much more than “playing music” in the classical sense.166

Flutist Breault also uses the term “interprète,” referring to herself, as referenced in Chapter 3.167 If both the first performer and also later performers are “interpréteurs,” what does that mean in terms of ownership, agency, and creativity? Is there a special creative position reserved for the original performer, or might that quality extend into other performances as well? Flutist Waterman took the view that this kind of creative agency, based on Pasveer’s example, does extend to later performers: the fact that

Stockhausen “had worked very closely with Pasveer in creating the work . . . suggested that the performer’s input was an essential part of the creative process, which I took as

166. Leslie Ewart, email message to author, October 14, 2013. 167. Breault, “Le timbre de la flûte,” 141. See also Breault, “Réflexions d’une interprète.”

191 an invitation to take my own creative agency as a performer quite seriously.”168

Obviously, Pasveer occupies a unique position with respect to these works. It is likely that neither Kathinkas Gesang nor many of Stockhausen’s other flute works would exist in our repertoire at all, were it not for Pasveer’s great artistry and skill, the inspiration she gave to Stockhausen, the creative relationship between them, and her dedication to performing and promoting these challenging works. As mentioned above, the fact that she happened to play the flute means that they came to be part of our repertoire, rather than that of another instrument. According to Stockhausen,

indeed, if Marcus [Marcus Stockhausen, trumpeter] had been a violinist, then it is obvious that the literature for violin would have been enriched. We both worked together so much, both tested so many techniques. . . . It’s the same thing with regard to Suzanne [Stephens] and Kathinka [Pasveer]. It is obvious that, had they played the tuba or something else, I would have written extensively for their instrument.169

A performer in this position would understandably have a certain sense of ownership of the work, and would also feel a responsibility to make sure that it is performed well, that other performers understand what is important about the piece and have the skills necessary to do it justice, especially when it contains such unusual elements. If performers are advocates for the works that they perform, as O’Dea suggests,170 then the original performer is a special kind of advocate.

The first performer, the one who “creates” the role, faces a number of challenges and has a unique opportunity to set a precedent for performance practice and interpretation. Those who come later and “re-create” it face another set of challenges, in

168. Waterman, email message to author, January 26, 2011. 169. Paul Anthony Dirmeikis, Le souffle du temps: Quodlibet pour Karlheinz Stockhausen (Toulon: Éditions Telo Martius,1999), 81-82, quoted in Breault, “Le timbre de la flûte,” 144. (Translated by Leslie Ewart.) 170. O’Dea, 19.

192 some ways perhaps more difficult than the first. As McNutt points out, in the new music

world, the quality of “new-ness” itself is often considered paramount, and is sometimes

valued to the detriment of other qualities. Presenters are often more interested in the

premiere of a new work than in the reinterpretation of an existing piece.171

This preoccupation with the brand-new is found not only among presenters, but

among performers as well. As clarinetist Rachel Yoder writes, “the culture of ‘premiere- hunting’ among performers leads us down a road that, paradoxically, can be stifling for new music and composers themselves.”172 While the cultivation of new works is a

valuable part of what contemporary performers do, this kind of “premiere-hunting” does

a disservice both to composers (whose works deserve to be played many times) and to

performers (who deserve recognition and creative credit for doing their own

interpretations of works that have already been premiered). Yoder argues that being the

“second performer” of a work is both a necessary and a valuable job:

Are you recycling someone else’s leftovers by being the “second performer”? Far from it. You are taking a leadership role in the formation of a canon. Not a singular canon, necessarily, but a collection of new works that could be considered representative, groundbreaking, or musically superlative in a certain style or genre. . . . If performers fall into the trap of constant premiere-hunting, we decline a role in helping to shape a body of work that may continue to be performed generations from now. . . . Premiering new works is a noble endeavor, but it is only one piece of the puzzle. Finding a programming balance between composer collaborations and second (or third, or fourth…) performances of recently-written pieces can do much to encourage vitality and cohesion in the new music community.173

Though Stockhausen is already part of the acknowledged canon of twentieth-

171. McNutt, email message to author, February 22, 2014. 172. Rachel Yoder, “The Problem with Premiere-Hunting,” Rachel Yoder Clarinet Blog, entry posted August 31, 2012, http://www.rachelyoderclarinet.com/2012/08/the-problem-with-premiere-hunting/ (accessed February 7, 2015). 173. Yoder, “The Problem with Premiere-Hunting.”

193 and twenty-first-century music, his works, especially those on the scale of Kathinkas

Gesang, are infrequently performed. Encouraging more performances will help to make more flutists and audiences aware of his work. The interpretive virtuosity required of subsequent performers is different in some ways than that required of the first performer, but no less challenging and important.

With this in mind, it is possible to honor Pasveer’s unique position and great contribution to the work not by imitating her results (the performance as product), but rather by emulating her engagement and her creative agency, as Waterman suggests above; by undertaking a process of learning and interpretation that is thoughtful, deeply committed, and collaborative—in this case, perhaps, with the legacies of both the composer and the original performer. This approach to performance also exercises

Kivy’s “personal authenticity,” resulting in an interpretation that demonstrates originality and style.174 We might consider the original performance in the same way that Hill suggests looking at the score: as “a source of stimulus, not of inhibition.”175

Allowing for a multiplicity of interpretations leads to greater richness in the performances of the work. It need not be disrespectful of the composer or the original performer to suggest that later performers might also have something to contribute to the understanding and the presentation of the piece.

The performance is not about the performer, and neither is it about the composer.

The performance is about the performance, about the work, about the music. And where does that work lie? One such as Kathinkas Gesang exists more fully in the ephemeral form of performance than it does in the marks on the page. Yet of course, without those

174. See Kivy, Authenticities, 123. 175. Hill, 7.

194 pages we could not create that same performance. Small writes that the work contributes to the meaning of the performance event,176 and that “musical works exist in order to give performers something to perform [emphasis in original].”177 If interpretation is viewed as an act of collaborative creativity, both composer’s and performer’s contributions should be recognized; both are part of creating the performance, the whole, the living experience.

Particular Relevance to Kathinkas Gesang

The concept of performance developed in this chapter requires as performer an active agent, a complete person who must be deliberately and creatively engaged for the success of the piece. While these ideas might be fruitfully applied to many types of music, this document proposes that they are especially relevant to negotiating the performance practice challenges presented by Kathinkas Gesang. To review: the particular demands of the piece include its length, scope and complexity, the requirement to play from memory, the physical movements while playing, and the staging and dramatic instructions.

Kathinkas Gesang is a work of contemporary music in the broader sense, but one that is old enough to have an established historical precedent. Anyone performing the piece has to consider the performance practice precedents that have been established for Stockhausen’s works in general, and for this work in particular.

Unlike some older music, in Kathinkas Gesang the performer has to negotiate a relationship not only to the composer (and/or to the text of the score), but also to the

176. Small, 11. 177. Small, 8.

195 original performance and performer. As discussed above, the close connections with the original performer and the clearly documented performance precedent make it necessary for later performers to consider questions of imitation versus re-interpretation in their productions of the piece. The possibility of studying with the original interpreter must also be evaluated.

In addition, Kathinkas Gesang is a work by a composer known to be meticulous and exacting, and the score and performance instructions are written in great detail. The question stated above, about whether the composer’s intentions should be what determines the pursuit of personal authenticity, becomes sharply relevant here; if we cannot know for certain what Stockhausen’s intentions were in that regard, is it defensible to pursue personal authenticity in the performance anyway? I argue that it is not only defensible, but necessary for the full expression of the work in performance.

As discussed in the previous chapters, Kathinkas Gesang stretches the flutist/interpreter in a multitude of ways, amounting to an extension or re-definition of the idea of virtuosity. In order to learn and perform this piece, the flutist must make a deep commitment to it, and this requires engaging on a personally meaningful level with the work. It is to be expected that through this sustained and intense engagement the player would develop a personal investment in the interpretation.

In addition, as Chapter 3 explains, the staging instructions demand a different kind of interpretive decision-making than is usually expected of instrumentalists, and the results of those decisions are clearly visible to the audience. Playing a theatrical character also requires a personal engagement and the influence of the performer’s individuality.

196 Like the Messiaen piece discussed by Hill, the score of Kathinkas Gesang contains a large amount of precise detail; the staging instructions are also quite detailed

(although, as seen in Chapter 3, not quite as detailed as the musical notation in many cases). This forces the performer to deal with the negotiation of priorities that Couroux discusses, the “central question inevitably encountered in any performance situation: what are its priorities? That is, what must be saved at all costs, and which details are expendable?”178 Which is more important, the precise details or the bigger picture? Hill argues that “the zeal for authenticity is part of a specifically contemporary malaise which values detail above essence.”179 Is it possible to realize both equally, or do negotiations or compromises sometimes have to be made? (See Chapter 2 for an example of a place in which this question comes up prominently, in the “Exit” section.)

When I asked Pasveer about the idea of virtuosity in Kathinkas Gesang, she replied,

To be able to play Stockhausen’s works well, one needs a perfect technique, a beautiful sound . . . a solid “classical training” and the willingness and excitement to learn something new. I never think of virtuosity when playing Stockhausen’s works as one connects the word normally with superficial music and fast movements of only fingers.180

Rather than virtuosity, Pasveer suggests thinking of “perfection and beauty in all details [emphasis in original] (sound, dynamics, pitches, timbres, tempi, movements, etc.).”181 However, the deeper sense of virtuosity that this document explores is about much more than fast finger movements, though that is certainly a common association with the term, especially with regard to woodwind instrument players.

178. Couroux, 61-62. 179. Hill, 7-8. 180. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013. 181. Pasveer, email message to author, November 28, 2013.

197 Pasveer also writes that

each detail is important but also the meanings of the works are important: the performer is no longer himself but has to present a theatrical figure, a cosmic spirit on stage. That means that one has to work not only on the music but also on oneself: to be able to give something special to the public, one has to become the perfect instrument for the music.182

Perhaps “perfect” in this case has a deeper meaning than being flawless or

accurate, a meaning that could be equated with a deep and personally authentic

engagement with the piece, and that could even encompass human imperfections.

Maconie describes Stockhausen as “composing against the canon of perfection” (by

rebelling “against the pointillist ideals he initially set up for himself”), resulting in “a

statement of the human condition as necessarily imperfect, existing in an environment

of constant change, unstable by nature and requiring expression for its very survival,

hence incapable of attaining the stillness and tranquility of an ideal perfection.”183

According to Spencer, Kathinkas Gesang

serves to re-define, or intensely clarify, the role of the performer—namely to enrich, uplift, transcend, strengthen, and energize, through sound. The piece, by calling on so many areas and levels of involvement on the part of the performer, strengthens the performer, who is then responsible and better able to reach out to the audience with transcending energy.184

This suggests, again, a process and a type of engagement that might be emulated,

rather than a result to be imitated. As Schick writes about Ferneyhough’s Bone

Alphabet, Kathinkas Gesang also “poses an equation that forces the integration of the intellect with the senses. . . . A persuasive performance . . . demands more than technical facility and intelligence; it requires a complete human being, one for whom

182. Pasveer, email message to author, April 9, 2011. 183. Maconie, Other Planets, 441-442. 184 Spencer, “Nature of Performance,” 14-15.

198 thinking and doing [emphasis in original] are indistinguishable and interdependent.”185

Working on Kathinkas Gesang aids in the development of the performer as a creative agent, as this “complete human being.”186 As part of her own interpretive process, Waterman questioned, “whether we might consider Kathinka to be a medium

(a more or less passive vehicle through which the music moves) or a shaman (an active agent in making magic happen).”187 Extending this idea from the character to the performer, I propose that a shaman—an active agent, or an “active medium”188—is needed for the performance of this piece.

In this kind of performance, the performer does not disappear: rather, she transforms, willingly and actively. The performer’s body is made visible, recognized and seen, at the same time that she becomes an otherworldly creature, hissing, spitting, yowling, and whirling. The performer must be fully present, committed and engaged, actively participating in creation, in order to achieve the act of performance as defined here: not a duplication, but a unique and living entity. The elements of risk, transformation, physicality, and immediacy are integral parts of the experience of the piece, for both performer and audience.

Conclusion

Performance is a creative act, and each performance is a newly created, living, vanishing thing. Its aim should not be to duplicate previous performances, or recordings, but to give the best realization of the piece possible in the given circumstances,

185. Schick, 114. 186. Schick, 114. 187. Waterman, email message to author, January 26, 2011. 188. Sollberger, 7.

199 according to the individual’s interpretation of the score’s directions. As Kivy writes,

“when the performer departs from the historically authentic, she is analogous not to a

messenger altering the message but, rather, to one who displays a decorative object to

the best possible advantage, as she sees it, in the circumstances in which she finds

herself.”189

This position is supported by an approach that acknowledges the validity of a

variety of possible interpretations. Allowing for a rich multiplicity of interpretation adds

layers of depth and possibility to the work. Kivy encourages us to maintain a “pluralistic

musical society” in which elements of historical authenticity and personal authenticity in

performance might co-exist.190 “I am an enemy, to be sure, of ‘authenticity’ in the

singular. There is no such thing. I am a friend, however, of ‘authenticities’ in the plural

[emphasis in original]. Or, rather, I am a friend of any authenticity, or any mix of

authenticities, that withstands the only relevant test there is: the test of listening.”191 In

other words, every interpretation, every “plan of execution,”192 must stand or fall in

performance itself.

Though this document emphasizes the importance of performer agency and personal authenticity, it also takes into account the need for close attention to the details

of the score and the known performance practice traditions. It argues that there is a way

to function beyond the polarities of self-effacement and self-aggrandizement, a way to be an interpreter—and a virtuoso—with, as O’Dea puts it, virtue and integrity.193

189. Kivy, Authenticities, 286. 190. Kivy, Authenticities, 285. 191. Kivy, Authenticities, 285. 192. Kivy, Authenticities, 285. 193. See O’Dea, 111-112.

200 Nor is the emphasis on the performer’s creative contribution intended to downplay that of the composer. The composer’s work is obviously creative and significant—and so is the performer’s work, though perhaps less obviously at times.194 It may seem that such a concept should not require this much of a defense, but the idea that performance is “not creative,” or somehow lesser than composition, is all too prevalent, even among performers themselves.

Kivy writes,

the very fact that a defense of personal authenticity and the existence of performance as an artwork was felt to be needed is itself strange. . . . What I think must have seemed obvious to people in our musical tradition other than ourselves—that musical performance is an activity in which originality and personal authenticity are to be exercised with enthusiasm, even abandon—has ceased to be obvious to us. . . . We seem to have lost faith in the performer, become suspicious of him or her.”195

My hope is that musicians, audiences and scholars can regain this faith, and along with it the recognition of the creative contribution of performers who do choose, with

“generosity of spirit,”196 to dedicate themselves to performing works written by others as well as they possibly can.

Performance is a creative act, and a collaborative one: with the composer, with the score, with other performers and/or technical experts, with the audience, with the hall, with history and the present. As Small writes, music is an activity rather than a thing,197 and there are various activities involved in a performance of Kathinkas

Gesang, various kinds of musicking: composition, interpretation, re-interpretation,

194. Or, as McNutt suggests, it may not be less obvious, but simply less frequently recognized. (McNutt, email message to author, February 12, 2015.) 195. Kivy Authenticities, 282. 196. O’Dea, 29. 197. Small, 2.

201 practice, performance, watching/listening. The flutist must become a new kind of

interprète, and develop new skills, in order to perform this role successfully.

Learning and performing Kathinkas Gesang is a rich, rewarding, and, at times,

confounding project to undertake. It provides a model for integrated, inter-media performance, and forces the performer to be aware of the visual element, and of the dramatic element, in an unusual way. It causes us to re-examine our notions about virtuosity, and leads toward a redefinition that is expanded in both depth and breadth.

Kathinkas Gesang also provokes examination of the role of the interpreter, the relationship between composer and performer, and what constitutes “the work,” and raises questions about authenticity that are related to issues faced in early music.

Creative agency and active interpretation are part of the deeper virtuosity that is necessary for the full realization of Kathinkas Gesang. Agency—the capacity both to make decisions and to act on them—and “passionate engagement”198 with all of its

many demands are required.

Whether or not the composer specifically asks for “personal authenticity” in

performances of his/her works, it is a vital quality for performers to cultivate, and to

combine with other types of historical authenticity as they choose. If performance is not

to be collapsed completely into text, as Kivy writes, then the ideal of personal

authenticity needs to be nurtured, not to the exclusion of but along with the sometimes

conflicting notions of historical authenticity.199

The original performance (considered to be either the composer’s ideal

performance, or that realized by the first performer) does not necessarily have a

198. O’Dea, 58. 199. See Kivy, Authenticities, 285.

202 privileged position as “the” interpretation. Therefore, the performer does not necessarily have a responsibility to imitate that first performance. Rather, she has a responsibility to give the best performance she can under the present circumstances, using all of the skills, information (including that gleaned from the example of the first performance), and educated judgment at her disposal. The original performance should be neither ignored nor imitated, but used to inform interpretive decisions; ideally, taken as an inspiration to creativity. As argued above, later performers can work to emulate

Pasveer’s creative process and her deep commitment to and engagement with the piece, including both close attention to detail and awareness of the larger picture, while developing their own interpretations. Such involvement and engagement, and consideration of the many challenging questions that arise, are essential for the realization of this piece, and the development of these skills also brings a depth and richness to the performance of many other types of music.

The performer translates between the abstract and the concrete, bridges with her body (and her mind) that gap between the page and the physical sound, creating the live sensory experience. She is an agent, more than a vessel or a messenger; she interprets, the way one might interpret a foreign language, and the interpreter always has decisions to make. The performer must bring the whole self to that task. Authenticity is not one thing, but many, and ultimately performance is a threshold to a place beyond or between the composer, the performer, and the audience: transient and ineffable, defined by its disappearance, a liminal space that is owned by no one. The piece begins on the page, but it lives on the stage, in the breathless, timeless now, the moment that is fleeting, powerful, and overcoming.

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Discography

Das Welttheater des Karlheinz Stockhausen (Samstag aus Licht). DVD. WDR, 1984; Kürten, Germany: Stockhausen-Verlag, 2008. Transcription and English translation by Jayne Obst.

Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus. Così Fan Tutte. Directed by Peter Sellars. DVD. New York: Decca Music Group, 1991.

Stockhausen, Karlheinz. Samstag aus Licht. Deutsche Grammophon 423 596-2. CD. Hamburg, Germany: Deutsche Grammophon, 1988.

210