Experiences as an Adjudicator — Part 1

Today's post is about experiences I have had as a competition judge, and as a member of commissioning juries, with suggestions on how to strengthen your application. There will be no "magic bullets" in my advice; it's all stuff you likely know already. 

I will also share aspects of these adjudication experiences were shocking! 

• [This is clickbait-inspired language, intended to motivate you to continue reading… Probably a more accurate word than "shocking" would be "surprising," but that doesn't pack as much of a punch.]

1.  The best piece does not always win. Before elaborating, let me point out the obvious: Different judges routinely disagree as to what constitutes the 'best' composition in a competition; if one judge thinks a piece is the best and it does not win, while other judges feel a different piece is best and it does win, it does not mean that the best piece did not win. Different highly-trained people often disagree when it comes to evaluating art.

An experience I had as an adjudicator in which the best piece did not win took place on an occasion in which another jury member (who happens to be a very well-known composer) and I independently concluded that piece X was the strongest submission (for me, nothing else was even close), but a third jury member argued that piece X should be disqualified because it exceeded the performance difficulty level specified in the competition rules. 

I couldn't really argue with that — this was a valid point — so, sadly, piece X was removed from consideration. 

The same thing happened to the next highest-ranking piece – it was good, but did not fall within the difficulty guidelines of the competition and so it was disqualified. 

This process was repeated three more times, the upshot of which was that the best five pieces in the estimation of the two composers on the jury were all disqualified.

The piece that ultimately won the competition stayed within the stated difficulty level, but frankly, while competent, I found it boring, predictable, and uninspired. 

We wanted to offer encouragement to the composer of piece X, and so the jury requested that it be communicated to the composer that we thought very highly of that piece, but we considered it to be beyond the difficulty level specified in the regulations.

In most competitions, however, no communication is made to losing composers beyond informing them that they did not win, which leaves composers wondering about things such as:

• Did I came close to winning?
• Was there a technical or procedural reason, such as a rules violation, for why I did not win?
• Did anyone have anything good to say about my piece?
• Did I have any chance whatsoever of winning?
• If not, then can I get any suggestions as to what I need to work on in order to improve?
• Do they not like the kind of music I write (i.e., is the problem stylistic preference)?
• Am I a bad composer?

 I have always found this frustrating as a composer; how do you improve if you don't know why you didn't win?

Conclusion: Read the rules carefully and try to abide by them. If you are considering not submitting a composition because it violates a rule, or submitting it anyway and hoping for the best, I would suggest the latter. Who knows, some juries might have made piece X their consensus choice irrespective of any perceived rule violation, simply because it was so much better than the other submissions. Just don't be surprised if you don't win due to a rule violation. [This advice depends on the rule in question, however; if, for example, you exceed the age limit, or the competition is for a specific ensemble type, such as orchestra or wind band, and your piece is for a different ensemble, it is probably a waste of time to enter the competition.]

2.  Some of the compositions that moved me the most did not make it very far in the adjudication process; they were eliminated fairly quickly because other judges did not rate them sufficiently highly. Many times, the winning piece is one that looks and sounds spectacular, while compositions that move me in a more profound way get eliminated, perhaps because they lack sufficient "wow factor" for some judges. I don't really know what "wow factor" is, and it is probably different for different judges, but this is how I would describe it, as it applies to me:

"Wow factor" entails having a reaction of favourable surprise –as in, "Wow! I wasn't expecting that, and it's very cool!" Not "Wow! That was totally predictable!" – at one or more points during the composition. It can also be a reaction to the visual appearance of the score; I sometimes have this reaction the moment I open a score to the first page (I experienced this the first time I saw the score to Stravinsky's The Firebird, for example), often because the attention to detail is exceptional, and/or there are orchestrational, textural, or compositional aspects that are immediately engaging, surprising, or even puzzling.

Summary of this point: 

I Didn't Win ≠ They Don't Like My Composition 

• Here's what you should read into not winning, if you wish to explore a deeper meaning: It means you didn't win!  

It does not necessarily mean the judges thought poorly of your submission. Judges often really like many of the compositions that don't win. They sometimes engage in heated debates about the merits of specific pieces… Perhaps yours was one that judge 'A' really liked, but judge 'B,' a loutish individual with a history of getting his/her way, had a temper tantrum because he liked some other piece more than yours, and so judge 'A' went along with judge 'B' simply to avoid further drama. 

→ Do not read meaning into not winning!   

Potentially-Faulty Conclusion: You may conclude from this that in order to win a big prize, you need to write flashy, high "wow-factor," fashion-forward (whatever that means!) music, but it's really hard to predict judges' stylistic preferences — different juries have different tastes, and even the same jury's interpersonal dynamic can change from one moment to the next! — so changing your composition style in order to accommodate imagined stylistic preferences seems a strategy of dubious merit.

That said, I am always trying to get my composition students to try new things — it's like trying clothing styles you would never normally consider and being surprised to discover some that turn out to look pretty good on you — so I don't think it's necessarily a bad idea to try writing a few pieces that are flashy and yet fantastic (whatever that means!), in an attempt to grab the listener's attention and take them on a wild but satisfying ride, if you've never tried something like this before. 

3.  Play early! Play often! If you buy a lottery ticket, you know that there is very little chance you will win. But so what? You buy it anyway — it's only a few dollars — and hope for the best. If you want to double your odds of winning, you can buy two. When you lose, you probably don't mind too much; you just toss out the ticket and try again another time, presumably in part because you're pretty secure in the knowledge that you can't win unless you buy a ticket, and it doesn't really cost you all that much to do so. (Gambler's Anonymous disclaimer: If you are a compulsive gambler, do not buy even one lottery ticket! However, it's probably okay to enter composition competitions, if you wish. Especially if they are free.)

Well, the same is true of composition competitions or commissioning juries; if you submit applications on a regular basis, you will have a better chance at winning than if you submit one or two. "That's pretty obvious," you might be thinking, and you would of course be right, but the point of this advice is that you never know what a jury is looking for because every jury is different (normally, anyway), and you might just have a piece that they would have loved, had you submitted it! I can't state this strongly enough: You just don't know what different juries will like. I have been on juries where a piece I had thought would go far in the process didn't, and a piece that I thought would be eliminated early almost won.

Freaky things can happen when you put a group of human beings in a room to try to come to an agreement, I tell you! Chaos theory applies to human behaviour! Especially in juries!

Another benefit of the "enter often" advice is that sometimes, particularly in the case of competitions that are not particularly well-known, they don't get many applications and so the winning submission just happens to be the strongest in a relatively-weak pool.

The downside of this advice is the cost associated with it — it costs money to print and bind scores, burn CDs, buy padded envelopes, and pay for postage — but it's not usually prohibitive. Sometimes there is an entry fee as well, and these can be very expensive, so I don't generally recommend entering competitions with an entry fee of more than about $20. If it is much higher than that, the cynic in me wonders if it a cash-grab by the organization running the competition, particularly when they pull stunts like not awarding a first-place prize.

4. "Technical problems" significantly lower your chances of winning. These include:

• Scores that are sloppy, and difficult to read; 
• Scores that lack sufficient attention to detail (e.g., inconsistent or infrequent use of dynamics, articulations, bowings, slurs, or instructions for the performer (if any are needed));
• Scores with lots of detail, but some of the details don't make sense (e.g., staccatos over half notes, bowings or wind-instrument slurs that are impossibly long, crescendi or diminuendi that are unreasonably long (e.g., going from mf to f over four bars at a moderate tempo), or performer instructions that are not immediately comprehensible);
• Scores that are unidiomatic for performers; it is possible to write difficult/challenging music that is idiomatic, perhaps even pushing the boundaries of what performers can do (although I personally don't recommend pushing these boundaries, since they have been pushed pretty far already!), but unidiomatic writing suggests that the composer just does not understand how to write well for those performers;
• Mediocre or missing recordings. Getting good recordings of your compositions can be a challenge, but they are absolutely essential to the success of your submission. Ideally, you would submit an excellent recording of the piece played by good musicians, and not a computer-generated MIDI realization. Occasional adjudicators have a deep prejudice against computer-generated audio recordings, even though it is possible to make high-quality computer renditions of music these days. I would therefore suggest that if you MUST submit a computer-generated audio file (because you don't have a good-quality live performance recording), spend lots of time producing a high-quality product (this may necessitate buying a good-quality sound sample library).

Conclusion: A well-prepared submission has a shot at going far in the process; an average or poorly-prepared one has very little chance. This isn't exactly earth-shattering news, but not everyone seems to realize how important this is. Juries often have to sift through dozens or even hundreds of submissions, usually with time limits on the process; a natural way to make initial cuts is to remove submissions that are faulty in any way, such as a less-than-professional score, no recording, poor or mediocre recording, good recording but lousy performance, or an important rule not followed (see #1 above for more on this). 

5. Commissioning juries are a slightly different kettle of fish. All of the above applies to commissioning juries as well, but there are some differences, all of which should be made clear in the programme guidelines of the commissioning programme to which you are applying. My main advice is to read them carefully, paying particular attention to:

Eligibility;
The project description. This is supposed to be written by the performer(s), ensemble, or organization that wishes to commission you, but it is a good idea for the composer to work with the commissioner in crafting the project description; some performers ask the composer to write it, and then run it by the commissioner (i.e., performer(s)).

You may wish to get help with this from someone who has written successful commissioning applications. You can also get help from the arts council officer(s) assigned to the programme to which you are applying; providing help is part of their job description.

The Canada Council has a 750-word maximum for project descriptions, which is a lot of words. I can only assume that they are looking for a well-written document with as much detail as possible. Beyond that, I think (but don't know for sure) that projects to which greater "prestige" is attached do better than those with less, but "prestige" is, like art, in the eye of the beholder, and thus hard to define. However, I think (once again) that a commissioning project for a performer that is not well-known and never tours will probably be ranked lower than a project for a performer, ensemble, or orchestra with an international reputation (ideally a positive one😉) that plans on playing the commissioned work many times in well-respected public venues. Which brings me to…
Possibilities of repeat performances. It is very important to address this, even if not specifically requested. The percentage of new works that were only performed once is depressingly high, and many arts councils would prefer not to shell out a lot of money for such projects. Work with the performer(s) to explore opportunities for repeat performances. Consider exploring the possibility of having multiple commissioners, such as three different string quartets that can each commit to performing your work multiple times. Include details, such as dates and venues for each of the planned performances.
The Canada Council states that the committee will assess applications on the following criteria:
• the quality of the composer’s work (and the librettist’s work, where this applies)
• the quality of the project, including the merit of the proposed commissioner-composer partnership, and the proposed interpreters’ performing skills and musicianship
• the context and projected impact of the proposed performances
• the possibility of repeat performances and further dissemination of the proposed composition.
The quality of the composer's work is presumably as important as anything else on that list, and so your job as a composer is to demonstrate your compositional level by submitting strong support materials, such as the required number of scores and recordings (usually two), which must be of excellent quality (see #4, above), a strong resumé of the specified length (for the Canada Council it is 2 pages; if not specified, I would not exceed 2 pages, because the review committee doesn't have time to look through resumés that are longer than that) that highlights your compositional achievements, and a list of your compositions (ideally with performance information listed, such as dates, venues, and performers), not exceeding 4 pages for the Canada Council.
I recommend submitting scores and recordings that have a connection to the project described in the application, if possible — If you wish to be commissioned to write an orchestral piece, for example, it would be good to show you know how to write for orchestra by submitting a previously-composed composition for orchestra — unless doing so somehow reflects badly on you (e.g., a student work that wasn't very good, the recording is terrible, the score isn't in great shape, etc.).
Commissioning juries sometimes set a time limit on how much of a submitted piece they will listen to; they may have a regulation that they will listen to three minutes of one work, and up to one minute of the other submission(s). As you might imagine, the purpose of this is to allow the jury to review every application within the time they have to do so. If there is a particular section of the score/recording that you want the jury to hear first, indicate this in the clearest possible terms, e.g., "Please play recording from 4'33", which corresponds with bar 189, p. 12 of score X." Not all juries will follow your wishes, but many will.

6. The main common denominator to all of this advice is: Take the time necessary to make an excellent application. Imagine how much time you will need to do this, and then double it or triple it… It requires tremendous effort to make a strong application, from making sure your scores and recordings are as good as they can possibly be, to working with the commissioner to discuss performance dates, venues, and expectations, to the actual application itself. No matter how long I spend on these things, I always find myself wishing I had spent more time on them.

See part 2 of this entry, in response to some comments (below) on the frustrations of not getting feedback from adjudicators.

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The Value of Accolades, and a Personal Anecdote…

In my previous entry (Winning and Losing as Impostors), I wrote about the competitive aspect of composition — namely commissioning and composition competitions — and suggested that success as a composer can be measured in many meaningful ways that go far beyond the binary options of "winning" or "losing." Measuring your value as a composer by how many prizes or commissions you have won or not won seems an unproductive strategy; better to focus on making every composition as good as it can be, and getting your music performed, both of which are within your control. Think of any further accolades earned by your music as a bonus.

That said, I do not suggest that accolades are without worth for composers, however; "winning" can bring significant cachet to a composer. Like it or not, having other organizations or individuals stamp their seal of approval on your work can be very beneficial. Here are just a couple of reasons:

1. The Official Sanctioning / Emperor's New Clothes syndrome.
   
   There are no absolute measures by which to judge a composition. We like it or we don't, a lot or a little. It moves us, sometimes to tears, or it leaves us cold. It angers us, or brings us joy. It makes us think about stuff, or it lulls us into a trance… and so on. Why and how it does any of these things is a bit of a mystery; if it were simple, then any composer could move audiences like a puppet-master pulling the strings of a marionette, and the fact is that even the best composers do not always achieve success when composing a work [good topic for future blog post: Famous Composer Flops].
   
   Given this, if a prestigious organization gives its "official" sanction to a composer by awarding a prize or a commission, it can make a favourable impression on people who can facilitate composers' careers by programming, recording, or broadcasting their music, or hiring them, in the case of composers who do what I do (teach at a university). A music director (someone who programmes music for concerts) might not love a particular composer's music, but if that composer has recently won some really big prizes, that music director may be more likely to programme a new work by that composer on their concert series.
   
   It has also been my experience that awards, prizes, and commissions are factors (among many others) in ranking applicants to academic positions. Very intelligent people who probably self-identify as critical (i.e., independent) thinkers are not immune to the charms of "official sanctioning" (i.e., winning prestigious prizes and awards). Whether this is right or wrong is irrelevant; the point is that many people in positions to boost the careers of composers by performing, recording, broadcasting, commissioning, etc. their music, or hiring them, or giving them positive reviews in the paper and electronic media, are impressed by prizes, awards, and commissions. This makes them desirable and valuable to composers.

The "Emperor's New Clothes" part of this syndrome (as I am calling it) is simply this: If some "powers that be" declare something to be true (e.g., this composition is great), it doesn't necessarily make it true (e.g., the composition isn't necessarily great).  I have heard "wonderful," prize-winning works that I didn't understand, or didn't like; I have heard works that received few or no accolades that I thought were really good. But whether or not we feel a composition is worthy of the prize it received, if the "emperor" (prestigious organization that awards prizes) decrees that it is excellent, then, in the minds of many who can facilitate composers' careers, it is excellent.


2. "Winning," in any sense of the word, provides external validation for what we do as composers. It is essential that we as composers believe in ourselves — external validation ought not to be necessary — but let's face it: For most of us, there are times when we doubt ourselves, and for times like these, some external recognition of our work is great positive reinforcement.
   
   Here's a personal anecdote (for which I apologize in advance!): I was a relatively late-starter in classical music, and only began studying music composition in my mid- to late-twenties.  When I turned thirty, I had, unsurprisingly, not won anything, and I thought I would no longer have an opportunity to win anything, since any composition competitions that I knew about had an age limit of thirty. This depressed me; I felt like my ship had sailed.
   
   A few years after that, a new, much hyped competition was started by the Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra, part of their mid-winter, massive new-music festival, and the age limit for that was thirty-five. This gave me new hope, and I entered, but didn't win. The following year, I spent more time on my application (more on this soon… possibly in my next blog), and submitted one of the movements of my doctoral thesis. This was my last shot at it, since I had just turned thirty-five. As it turned out, luck was on my side, and I was picked to be one of five finalists. Being picked was a big deal; they flew finalists out to Winnipeg, put us up in a fancy hotel, gave us tickets to all music festival events, fed us (I think), involved us in interviews and numerous other activities during the week, and we were guaranteed a nice monetary prize just for being a finalist. Oh, and the Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra played your composition in an evening concert, which was broadcast nationally in Canada. It was all very exciting.
   
   At the time, I had been hired on a one-year contract by this university, and I knew there would be a tenure-track position in composition open for the following year, to which I would be applying. Knowing that I would likely be competing for this job against applicants who had won multiple prizes, and that this was my last shot at winning something, the timing of this news was amazingly fortunate.
   
   I remember getting the phone call from Winnipeg, which came late one day while I was in my university office, probably doing what I spend about 50% of my waking hours doing (slight exaggeration, but only slight!), which is correcting student work in music theory. In my usual understated way, I responded with something like, "oh, that's great news," but apparently without sufficient enthusiasm, because the guy I was talking to said at one point, "you don't sound very excited by this… you ARE excited, aren't you?"
   
   Well, gentle reader, take my word for it, I WAS excited — I was over-the-moon excited, but I just don't usually gush around strangers — so I politely assured him of my enthusiasm, and, after ironing out a few more particulars, we hung up.
   
   And then… What to do? How to express what I was feeling? After a lifetime of looking in from the outside, was I finally getting a shot at being on the inside?  I burst out of my office door, looking for anybody with whom I could share my news — didn't matter who — literally jumping for joy as I bounded down the hallway of the School of Music, noticing for the first time that I was able to jump high enough to touch the ceiling tiles with my head. I resolved to curtail my enthusiasm somewhat, lest I damage the ceiling.
   
   As it turned out, there was nobody at work. Back then, my colleagues went home in the evenings, presumably to enjoy a meal with their families, but I was without family, and most of my time was spent at work, and thus I was alone in the building. So, after completing my crazy hallway sprint, I just shuffled back to my office to return to my marking, no longer jumping like an excited puppy with spring-loaded legs, but still very, very happy.
   
   But why was I so happy? Well, that's easy; in addition to thinking that this news improved my chances of getting the tenure-track professor job that I really wanted, it was the first time I had received external validation for my music beyond an occasional comment by a teacher to the effect of, "well, I guess that's okay…," and, while I maintain that one ought not to need this sort of thing, I wasn't exactly getting it anywhere else (no parents or loved ones to say nice things about my music), so it sure felt great to get it!
   
   As a postscript to this tale, another Canadian competition began that year for composers aged thirty-five and under, run by the Hamilton Philharmonic. It was surrounded by considerably-less hoopla than Winnipeg's competition, but they offered a desirable prize nonetheless: Four composers would have their music workshopped and performed by the orchestra. Once again, luck was on my side, and a piece of mine was picked. I have no idea whether or how much these two events influenced the decision to hire me as a tenure-track professor at the end of the year, but I got the job, and I'm still here, twenty-two years later. Still marking student theory work a lot of the time…

So, don't let winning or losing define you as a composer, but be aware that accolades can be very valuable to your career, in large part because they can open doors for you. Know also that there are many successful composers who have never won anything, so fight discouragement (or, better yet, pick yourself up and dust yourself off!) if you do not win.

And finally, lest it seem that I am suggesting that winning prizes is some kind of panacea for composers, there are many prize winners who have not parlayed their winnings into long careers — it takes a lot more than prizes to become a successful composer — and there are many living composers who became successful without winning any major prizes. At best, prizes can boost careers, but more commonly, I think, they are a pat on the back, and that's something we could also use from time to time.

In my next post, I will write about some experiences I have had as an adjudicator, and offer some advice as to how to improve your odds of doing well in competitions.

Winning and Losing as Impostors

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster,
And treat those two impostors just the same…

(Rudyard Kipling, "If—" 12–13)

I have won a few prizes and awards, and it's always a good feeling.

I have also seen enough award-acceptance speeches to know how happy and validated people appear when they win something. An extreme example is American Actress Sally Field's acceptance speech for Best Actress in a Leading Role at the 1985 Oscars, in which she infamously gushed, "I can't deny the fact that you like me. Right now, you like me!"

Losing is an experience I also know very well — losing and I go back a long way! — and it can sting.  I have been close to winning a couple of competitions where I was one of five finalists and the winner's name was announced in front of a large audience, and those have been particularly (and surprisingly to me) disheartening experiences.

Surprising, because in both cases I had been smugly confident for weeks that I would not win, and then, at the last minute, as some long-winded person was about to read out the name of the winner, a little voice in my head suddenly hijacked my powers of reason and began whispering (more like shouting, actually) to me that maybe, just maybe, this would be my lucky day — the day I could finally gush in public, just like Sally Field did in 1985! And me without a speech! What should I say? Should I joke my way through it, like I do pretty much every time I speak in public? Should I shed the comedian facade and speak from the heart? How the hell does one do that??? Should I thank my dog, who is perplexedly and inordinately fond of me (and I have the pictures to prove it), for believing in me when my other pets didn't?

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"If—", a poem by Rudyard Kipling, was written as fatherly advice to his son, counseling stoicism (or its British equivalent, "stiff-upper-lip-ism") as a response to life's ups and downs, and the lines above explain how to do this: By regarding "Triumph and Disaster" as impostors. They are not real!

It is an interesting concept to react with equanimity and stoicism to life's gains and losses, but it is a difficult thing to put into practice unless you happen to be hard-wired that way. I'm not even sure that it's a desirable thing to put into practice; do we really aspire to be in a position one day to say, upon winning our Academy Award, Pulitzer Prize, or a significant accolade of somewhat-lesser magnitude, "I am unable to give thanks for this, because it means nothing to me; it's not real. Oh, and FYI, in the long run we all die."

To me, stoicism would be a useful attribute upon which to draw when faced with disappointment, because (a) disappointment can hurt like hell, and (b) it can be counterproductive to allow negative feelings to overtake you.

The good advice most of our moms probably gave us on this topic can be succinctly summed up by the lyrics to this wonderful Jerome Kern / Dorothy Fields 1936 song (Pick Yourself Up), which even quotes the last line of Kipling's poem ("You'll be a Man, my son!") at the end of the chorus:

Nothing's impossible, I have found
For when my chin is on the ground
I pick myself up, dust myself off
And start all over again.

Don't lose your confidence if you slip
Be grateful for a pleasant trip
And pick yourself up, dust yourself off
And start all over again.

Work like a soul inspired
Until the battle of the day is won
You may be sick and tired
But you'll be a man, my son.

Again, easier said (or sung) than done, but picking yourself up, dusting yourself off, and starting again seems like pretty good advice for when life knocks you down.

The reason I didn't write, "it's always bad to allow negative feelings to overtake you" above is that I wonder if there may be benefits to feeling upset about disappointing results, as long as you don't allow yourself to be down in the dumps for too long (and no, I don't know how long too long is, unfortunately).

Dissatisfaction over not winning a composition competition or not getting a commission or achieving some other desired goal can be discouraging and make you feel like quitting, which of course is not good (unless you want to quit for other reasons too, which may be fine!), or it could motivate you to improve the quality of your work when future opportunities arise. Improving the quality of your work may not be sufficient to win prizes and commissions, but it is its own reward and is an objective we should always have, no matter how old we are or how successful we become. Would we be as motivated to improve if we considered winning and losing as "impostors," to be regarded with with equanimity?

Possibly, but possibly not… only a stoic could tell us for sure, if such a creature (a stoic) really exists.

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Perhaps more to the point is this: "Winning" and "losing" are, in most cases, not very useful terms to describe outcomes that are meaningful to us as composers. It is great to win a prize or get a commission, but there are many other indicators of success for composers, such as:

• Finishing a piece (believe me, this is a big deal!);
• Feeling like the piece we finished is, at present, as good as we are capable of making it;
• Feeling like the piece we finished represents a step forward in terms of our compositional development;
• Performance(s) of our composition(s), even if part of a student recital;
• Getting positive feedback on our composition(s) from audience members, friends, or family;
• Getting useful feedback on our composition(s) from anyone;
• Getting feedback from performers that helps us to write better for their instruments, or improves the composition in some other way;
• Getting performers to play our music, and having them do a good job, in part because our score was very clear, we picked good/supportive performers, and we coached rehearsals;
• Having performers ask you to write a piece for them, irrespective of whether it is a paid commission or not;
• Submitting our music to a competition, and receiving a "runner-up" prize, or an "honourable mention," or having it selected for a reading/performance;
• Submitting our music to an organization that provides a useful critique of our composition, such as the Newfoundland and Labrador "Arts and Letters" competition (2013 deadline: Nov. 22, BTW), irrespective of whether it wins a prize or not;
• Having our music recorded; or
• Having our music broadcast.

These are all meaningful indicators of success for composers.  Reducing the outcomes of writing music to the binary options of "winning" or "losing" is an unnecessary oversimplification, and it can make us feel like we are failing when in fact we are making great progress.

Furthermore, winning and losing are dependent to some degree on factors beyond our control, such as the stylistic preferences of judges, what they had for breakfast, and even back-room shenanigans. The success indicators listed above, on the other hand, are mostly within our control.

In this sense, "winning" and "losing" are indeed impostors, and you don't have to be particularly stoic to recognize this!

In my next blogs, I will write about the value of accolades, and experiences I have had as a competition judge and commission jury member.

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"Composers Who Couldn't Finish What They Started"

Wow.  It's been a long time, but here goes:  An attempt to resume regular blogging.

I was motivated to write something after reading a blog post entitled: "Top 5 Composers Who Couldn't Finish What They Started."

Having started, but not finished, several blog entries over the past 8+ months, I thought I could certainly relate to this topic, but it turned out to be not quite as advertised.

The blog's title is probably deliberately provocative — being unable to finish what one started is usually a criticism, but the fact that this was presented as a "top 5" list suggested to me the possibility that it might be about composers who were so spectacularly bad at finishing what they started that they became famous for it, or it was possibly about some "top" composers (whatever that means) that struggled with completing works at times.

I doubted it would be the former — how could composers have achieved greatness if they were chronic procrastinators? — and hoped it would be the latter, because compositional struggles are a familiar experience to me, and I find it reassuring to read that even great composers can experience them.

But it was neither.

Instead it was one of those "top [any number] lists" that are rampant on the Internet these days, usually consisting of a numbered slideshow of pics with pithy descriptions/explanations for each. Some are clever, some are amusing, some are contentious, but this one was simply annoying.

The first thing you see in the blog entry is a graphic with these words: "UNFINISHED SYMPHONIES — Schubert, Bruckner, Mahler, Elgar"

Okay, that's four names… Four is pretty close to five, but didn't the blog title promise five?  And those guys finished LOTS of works… Why is the anonymous blogger claiming they "couldn't finish what they started?"

Moving on, here is the text accompanying the first slide:

This week on Exploring Music we've discovered quite a few famous composers who left great works incomplete. Click on to discover our top 5 composers who didn't get the chance to finish what they started.

Whoah! Didn't get the chance? What the heck does that mean? Bullies stole their pens and manuscript paper? They were abducted by composer-hating street gangs and forcibly prevented from completing compositions? The U.S. military played deafening rock music outside their compounds 24/7, thus making composition extremely difficult? Zombies ate their brains?

Sadly, the topic turned out to be considerably less dramatic, of course; it lists five "top" composers who died before completing a particular composition. For what it's worth, I doubt there was ever a composer who didn't leave behind at least some unfinished work — sometimes, in the course of composing a work, we abandon huge chunks of music, perhaps because we decide it's not good enough, or it doesn't go in the direction we (or the commissioner) wished — but, by the logic of the blog post, this would apparently make us all "composers who couldn't finish what they started."

Beethoven, incidentally, is not on the list even though he is thought to have been working on a tenth symphony when he died.  And I like to think of him as a "top" composer.  An enterprising musicologist (Barry Cooper) has even gone so far as to "complete" (i.e., compose) Beethoven's Symphony No. 10 based on Beethoven's sketches, although it cannot be proven that these various sketches were actually intended for his 10th symphony, or, if some were, that Beethoven wouldn't have rejected them, because frankly, Cooper's "completed" work sounds pretty lame (there are recorded versions of this on YouTube, if you would like to judge for yourself).  But I digress…

Did you know that about 150 of Mozart's surviving works are incomplete (roughly a quarter of his total count of surviving works)? And yet, Mozart is also not on the list, even though he was working on his Requiem Mass in D minor (K. 626) at the time of his death (some portions had been completed, but others were fragments or sketches). He too was a "top" composer, according to many (but not Glenn Gould, Maria Callas, or Frederick Delius… Read more about his detractors in this entertaining blog post, if interested!).

There were probably many composers (perhaps most?) who died while composing something, and this may or may not be interesting — in the case of Mozart it has engendered considerable mythology (aided greatly by the play and movie, Amadeus) — but it seems a pretty silly exercise to select the "top 5" composers for whom this applied.

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Okay, here we go… In case you're wondering, the blog post lists the following composers' unfinished works:

     5. Mahler / Symphony No. 10 (the accompanying text cites Schoenberg, but misspells his name);
     4. Sibelius / Symphony No. 8;
     3. Elgar / Symphony No. 3;
     2. Bruckner / Symphony No. 9; and
     1. Schubert. No specific symphony of Schubert's is cited, but here is the entire accompanying text:

Schubert composed not one, but three unfinished symphonies. Perhaps because of his battle with syphilis and his diminishing sanity, Schubert is the most famous composer of incomplete symphonies!

La!  Let's just dance merrily on Schubert's grave while dismissing him as a syphilitic crazy man!

For what it's worth, syphilis has been proposed as the most likely cause of Schubert's death, while mercury poisoning (a common treatment for syphilis at the time) has also been suggested, but, to the best of my knowledge, we do not know the actual cause of his tragic and untimely demise (age 31); his death certificate indicates typhoid fever as the cause.

The reference to Schubert's "diminishing sanity" seems a cheap shot; there are reports of the composer drifting in and out of lucidity in his final days, as illness overtook him, but it seems flippant to characterize this as "diminishing sanity." From multiple accounts, the final stages of his illness came relatively swiftly. A friend, Josef von Spaun, wrote:

"I found him ill in bed although his condition did not seem to me at all serious. He corrected my copy in bed and was glad to see me and said, 'there is really nothing the matter with me, I'm so exhausted I feel as if I were going to fall through the bed'. He was cared for most affectionately by a charming thirteen-year-old sister whom he praised very highly to me. I left him without any anxiety at all and it came as a thunderbolt when, a few days later, I heard of his death."

More to the point, Schubert wrote his 8^th symphony in B minor, the "unfinished," six years before his death and wrote many other works in the intervening years, so it seems unlikely that "diminishing sanity" or "his battles with syphilis" were the causes of there being only two completed movements to this magnificent work.

Some have suggested that his 8^th symphony is complete as is, a two-movement symphony, but this seems unlikely to me. He had composed most of a third movement (scherzo and trio) in short score, although very little had been orchestrated; since no previous symphony had ever finished with a scherzo movement, it seems likely that his original plan was to add a fourth and final movement, typical of classical symphonies. My best guess as to why it was never finished is that, after completing what are arguably the best two symphonic movements he would ever write, he realized that the scherzo paled by comparison, and so he set it aside while other compositional work overtook him. Possibly he intended to finish it one day, but we may never know this for sure.

Further muddying the waters is the fact that Schubert gave the manuscript to his friend, Anselm Hüttenbrenner, in his capacity as representative to the Graz Musical Society, for whom the work was written. "However, Hüttenbrenner did not show the score to the society at that time, nor did he reveal the existence of the manuscript after Schubert died in 1828, but kept it a secret for another 37 years. In 1865, when he [Hüttenbrenner] was 76 (three years before his death), Hüttenbrenner finally showed it to the conductor Johann von Herbeck, who conducted the extant two movements on 17 December 1865" (this quote from Wikipedia article, "Unfinished Symphony").

Some friend!

But enough ranting about someone else's blog post! I'm actually glad I read it, because it spurred me to write my first blog entry in eight and a half months, and I am hopeful that a more regular blogging habit will ensue.

I may write about procrastination one day, since I am rather good at it, but not just yet…