Form in Post-Tonal Music (Questionnaire answers: #4, 5, & 6)

Question 4 from my "Form in Post-Tonal Music (1)" post is this:

4.  On a scale of 1 (low) to 10 (high), how important is form in your compositional process? (Be clear on what you mean by "form.")

This is pretty similar to question 1, the main difference being that this question allows for a more subjective answer than the first question. Because of this, I'll keep my answer short, starting with what I mean by "form:"

Form: Structure. The way in which a composition is organized, from a large-scale, bird's eye view (e.g., sonata form, or ABA, or rondo) to every subdivision beneath that, all the way down to motivic relationships, thematic structures, sections within a transition or development section, texture… anything at all in a musical composition that is organized, which is to say, everything.

So, no surprise here, but, taking this holistic, organic meaning of form, then on a scale of 1 to 10, I'd rank it about a 20 in my compositional process. Or, if that number is unavailable, then perhaps a 10…

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That was so short that I'll try answering questions 5 and 6 from my "Form in Post-Tonal Music (1)" post, which are:

5.  Is it better to work out a form before composing a work, or do you prefer to create the form as you go? 

6.  Are you actively engaged in thinking about the form of your music as you write it?

Let me draw an analogy to something about which I know nothing (!), which is the way that a building gets constructed. I understand (from reading about this in Wikipedia) that it goes something like this:

1.    It starts with a a design team, which includes surveyors, civil engineers, cost engineers (or quantity surveyors), mechanical engineers, electrical engineers, structural engineers, fire protection engineers, planning consultants, architectural consultants, and archaeological consultants;


2.    They make drawings and set specifications for the building's design. They probably make lots of changes to these along the way, because so many people are involved;


3.    I would guess that the plans need to encompass every aspect of the building, from the overall design, to floor plans, plumbing, electrical, heating, cooling, elevators, stairs, etc.;


4.    Probably some excavation takes place;


5.    Probably they lay a foundation;


6.    Probably they construct a frame using steel girders (or whatever one uses these days);


7.    And so on, and so on, until all of the other things necessary to make a finished building are added, including exterior, interior, plumbing, electrical, windows, doors, inner walls, carpeting, and probably a whole bunch of stuff I know nothing about, but it's all part of making the building safe, functional, comfortable, and nice-looking, inside and out.

The compositional equivalent to this would perhaps be:

1.    Create a plan, live with it and tweak it for a long time until (a) it contains as much information about the composition as is possible in a plan, and (b) you are happy with it.  The plan can include any aspect of your composition, such as large-scale and smaller-scale form, harmonic language, rhythmic aspects, dramatic aspects (sections can be characterized by their mood (i.e., the mood you hope to elicit in listeners), such as lyrical, aggressive, chaotic, sad, exuberant, confusing, etc.);


2.    If you were an architect, you would probably run your plan by a whole bunch of engineers and other people, as described above. Since you are a composer, there is no need for this — the consequences of a bad plan in composition are considerably less dire than the consequences of a bad plan in the construction of a building (!) — but it wouldn't necessarily be a bad idea to ask a few people you trust for feedback, especially if you are fairly new at this.


3.    Following your plan, start by composing smaller sections, combining and expanding them until they become larger sections. Tweak as necessary. Remove sections that no amount of tweaking can help; they may come in handy later, but if not, have them take a time-out by concealing them in your piano bench, or, if you lack a piano bench with a handy lid, garden shed. If you don't have a garden shed or a piano bench with a handy lid, then place these sections neatly in bottom of your cat carrier, and pray that your cat doesn't mind;


4.    Add any bits necessary to connect the sections, and then tweak some more;


5.    Put the finishing touches on the work, making sure all dynamics, articulations, bowings, wind instrument slurs, pedal markings, etc., make musical sense.  [You should have been putting these in as you composed each section, by the way!]


6.    Write programme notes using the most enigmatic language possible (if struggling with this, consider using computer-generated programme notes from this handy site: CCCBSG);


7.    Design a cover page using a cool font — If you haven't thought of a title yet, now would be an excellent time to do so;


8.    Write a three-volume edition of performer instructions in single-digit font sizes;


9.    Print and bind multiple copies of the score;


10.    Prepare parts, make sure page turns are in good places, proofread them, print them, and tape them together;


11.    Get people to workshop it, if possible, and then make any changes necessitated by this, and then reprint score and parts, and try to get people to play it again;


12.   Think of something profound to say about your composition at the première. If this is impossible, as is always the case with me, say something witty instead. Try to avoid saying, "… and I hope you like it!" at the end of your speech; this will be seen as a sign of weakness on your part by some.  Instead, say, "and I hope the experience of hearing this magnificent work does not render you senseless, doomed to spend the rest of your days unable to function on any level but the most basic. I really do, because, and I mean this with all of the sincerity of a washed-up Las Vegas entertainer, I ABSOLUTELY ADORE ALL OF THE FINE PEOPLE IN… [insert name of town or village you believe yourself to be in here, taking care to pronounce it correctly]!!!" This is how you make a name for yourself.

[Possibly I got carried away there; I will attempt to rein myself in now.]

Starting with a well-formed plan is a fine way to go about composing. Of the composers I have talked to or heard from on this topic, the great majority have indicated to me that they approach their craft in this way. I highly recommend it!

I do not start with a plan, however, so you may wish to take this advice with a grain of salt. ;)  I start with a general idea of how long I want the piece to be (but this can change radically once I get further into the composing process), the instrumentation, the type of piece I want to write (atonal and pointillistic, expressive and moving, light-hearted, virtuosic, accessible to young performers, etc.). I also keep the deadline for that composition in my thoughts; basically, I need to know whether I can compose at a leisurely pace, or if I need to become manic about it and write as quickly as possible.  I virtually never have any idea about the overall form of a piece before I start writing it, so my answer to question 5 is that I like to make it up as I go.

[My "make it up as I go" method, explained:  I start with a small idea, and work at expanding it. I try to figure out where it "wants" to go. If it seems like it wants to go in a direction I don't like, then an argument ensues. When the dust has settled, I continue expanding it, but at various points I begin to wonder where the heck this particular composition is going, and so I analyze, in every sense of the word that I know, what I have composed thus far.  In the course of doing this, I usually get ideas of possible large-scale structures that might be feasible for that composition. As I move forward, I revisit large-scale structure possibilities frequently, essentially asking, "is this working?" frequently. If the answer is no, I attempt to fix things before moving on.]

This works for me, but many (probably most) successful composers prefer to start by drawing up a fairly-detailed plan, and, frankly, their approach makes more sense to me, at least intellectually. I guess I like relying on intuition, while visiting the rational part of my brain periodically (which is where analysis and planning come in), but basically, all composers need to figure out an approach that works best for them.

My answer to question 6, then, is yes, I am very much engaged in thinking about form during the composition process (that's part of "making it up as you go"), albeit at some points more than others.

Form in Post-Tonal Music (Questionnaire answers: #3)

Question 3 from my "Form in Post-Tonal Music (1)" post is this:

3.  Should post-tonal music avoid forms associated with tonal music? Do you feel obligated to use "new" forms, as opposed to old forms such as sonata and rondo?

Ah! Now we finally get to a discussion of form specific to post-tonal music!

The background for this question is that Pierre Boulez, in his infamous "Schoenberg is Dead" polemic, criticized Schoenberg for, amongst other things, using old forms with new musical language.  This is sometimes expressed as the "foolishness" of pouring new wine into old wineskins.

In a remarkably thoughtful comment on the questions asked in my "Form in Post-Tonal Music (1)" post, Warren, a composition student at U. Wisconsin-Milwaukee, writes:

Contemporary composers may do whatever they like in regards to prefered forms, though I have to reference Boulez (it feels terrible to reference a terribly mean, spiteful person) when he talks about using forms that aren't tied up with the common practice period. Boulez has a very good point in that the drive of a Sonata or a Rondo is very key-centric, and once you're operating outside of the world of keys, the connection becomes a bit tenuous. Sure, you can compose a sonata or a rondo that utilizes differing sets or theories for each distant key you would encounter, but what made the common practice period forms work was the socialization of functional harmony. We can use old forms for new harmonic structures, but they become much harder to hear outside of a long context like the common practice.

These are all excellent points, and here is an edited version of my reply:

With regards to Boulez and his views on the use of old forms in new music, here are some of my thoughts:

1. I understand the perception of intellectual inconsistency in using new organizing principals for pitch, rhythm, articulations, and dynamics, but then not using new organizational principals for form. Basically, if you're going to use a radical new approach to the choice of pitch, rhythm, dynamics, and articulations, why not go all the way and use a radical new approach to texture, phrases (if indeed you have any), and form?


2. And yet, Boulez has written three piano sonatas, a Sonatine for flute/piano, and a sonata for two pianos. Admittedly, these mostly were written before he turned 30 (although he continued tinkering with his third piano sonata until he was 38, and it is still "unfinished"), but at the very least this suggests that, early on, he was interested in playing with (or reacting to) old forms with new-ish, serialist language. Paul Griffiths writes that the second sonata has "strong intimations of sonata form in the first movement, and of fugue in the finale." Boulez, on the other hand, has said he was trying to "destroy" sonata form in this piece. If so, calling it a sonata and structuring the first movement in a way that is related to sonata form seems a curious way to do this.


3. Can older forms can work with newer musical language? Schoenberg, Bartok, Ligeti, and many other post-tonal composers seem to have thought so, and I see no reason to deny this possibility. The counter-argument to point 1 above is that a composition is not a purely-intellectual exercise; you can argue that it is inconsistent to adopt older forms for compositions employing newer techniques of pitch organization, and that argument can seem reasonable from a purely logical perspective, but if some composers produce powerful and successful compositions while using older forms, then this "logical" inconsistency is moot.


4. Sonata form expositions feature a contrast between the "home" key and a (usually) "closely-related" key, followed by the instability resulting from touching on more distantly related keys in the development. Obviously, if writing post-tonal music with no sense of pitch centre, adopting this aspect of the sonata principle is not feasible. This principle can be applied to post-tonal music that is in any sense pitch-centric, however; instead of home and contrasting keys, one can create home and contrasting pitch centres.


5. In addition to a contrast in key, there is often a contrast in character (i.e., mood) between the first and second theme groups in sonata form as well; the opening theme is often attention-grabbing and dramatic, while the second theme group often begins in a more lyrical character. If looking for ways to make sonata form work in post-tonal music, this contrast in mood is an aspect that could be adopted.


6. Sonata form also employs thematic fragmentation and other aspects of development, as well as sections of greater and lesser harmonic and affective tension; all of these aspects can be at play in non-tonal music as well.

Bringing the discussion back to my own answer to this question, it is probably clear by now that I don't believe post-tonal music "should" avoid older forms, and even if I did hold this belief for my own music, I don't believe in being prescriptive about matters like these. Just because I believe something, doesn't mean others "should" believe it as well.

Do I use old forms? Not exactly… I am not sure I have ever composed something that I knew to be in classical sonata form, for instance.¹ I have, however, used principles from this form frequently in writing music. These include presentation of themes with differing characters, moving the pitch centre around, exploring the continuum between stability and instability, using fragmentation and other forms of development, false recapitulations, playing with codas, and, in the largest sense, using A-B-A forms. An example of a piece of mine that does all these things, and is kind of like sonata form is Dream Dance; click the link to check it out if you wish!

It seems likely that Boulez — or at least the young, militant Boulez that wrote his controversial article referenced above — would consider any hint of an older form in modern music to be embracing the false trappings of the past, but I think that most artists are, willingly or unwillingly, part of various artistic traditions which we can choose to embrace or reject, and not narcissistic iconoclasts, rejecting everything that came before us. Even Boulez, in purportedly rejecting Schoenberg's aesthetic, was embracing Webern's.

So, basically, I don't believe in "should" statements when it comes to aesthetics. If you believe it makes sense to reject the use of older forms in your music, then do this! If you believe otherwise, then go ahead and use older forms in your compositions! Either way, what really matters is your degree of satisfaction with the finished product, not what others think you should or should not do.

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¹ One possible exception would be the two pieces I wrote for Kristina Szutor's "Après Scarlatti" CD, Domenico 1° and Domenico 2°. In these I deliberately based the structures on Scarlatti's keyboard sonatas, which are related in structure to later sonata form (the kind used by Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven), but with many differences.

Form in Post-Tonal Music (Questionnaire answers: #2)

Question 2 from my "Form in Post-Tonal Music (1)" post is this:

2.  Most compositions from the 18th- and 19th-centuries use a small number of existing forms (binary, ternary, rondo, sonata, variations). Does this mean that originality, when it comes to form, is not important?

I touched on this in my answer to question 1, but briefly, the use of the same forms by both good and less-good composers might suggest that a composer's originality in the way s/he uses large-scale form is not hugely important to the overall quality of a composition.

One of the reasons theorists and composers delight in studying Beethoven's music and regard it so highly, however, is that he took existing forms and modified them in significant ways.

A specific example of this is his conversion of the coda in sonata form from a simple, short, tonality-affirming and concluding section, to a lengthy, second development section (as in Piano Sonata No. 21 ("Waldstein"), op. 53, I, Symphony No. 3 ("Eroica"), I, or Symphony No. 8, I.  In addition, he expanded the development section itself to a point where it was sometimes longer than the entire exposition (c.f., Symphony No. 3 ("Eroica"), and more generally, he wrote significantly-longer symphonies than his predecessors.

Here is a link to a graph that shows this; If accurate, it is a striking visual representation of the difference in proportions between Beethoven's sonata form in the Eroica symphony, and Mozart's in any of his three final symphonies.

Haydn's contribution to the development of sonata form was huge, to the extent that when we describe a "model" sonata form, we are describing the form he established, albeit probably influenced by C. P. E. Bach; just as Haydn is sometimes called the "father of the string quartet," and "father of the symphony," he could also be called the "father of sonata form."

The great composers were not complacent about form. Not every work they composed broke new formal ground, but, over the entirety of their careers, they often did break new ground in terms of large-scale form.

Not every work by great composers showed originality in large-scale forms, but many did, and we recognize these contributions today by performing and recording these centuries-old works, and by studying them in musical form classes.

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To summarize, here is my four-part answer to the question above:

1. For the most part, large-scale forms used by composers are not particularly original, if by original we mean “created directly and personally by a particular artist; not a copy or imitation,” or “not dependent on other people's ideas; inventive and unusual,” two dictionary definitions of the word.


2. When we speak of originality as applied to form, we usually refer to relatively minor changes within existing forms. Some changes, within this context, were startling and unprecedented, as was the case when Beethoven expanded the coda section of sonata form, but most were more subtle than this. 


3. Originality of form, in this subtle context, is definitely important; the ways in which some composers effected changes to existing forms is one of the reasons we tend to regard them so highly; Haydn and Beethoven contributed enormously to the development and evolution of sonata form. However, (a) they did not attempt to reinvent the form every time they used it, and (b) their changes to large-scale forms were gradual, occurring over the span of their careers, and were mostly "tweaks" of existing practices.   


4. Not every composition needs to be unique and unprecedented in terms of large-scale form. We wouldn't write very many compositions if it were otherwise!  Even great composers used a limited number of large-scale forms. They did not attempt to "reinvent the wheel" every time they wrote a work. Nor, I would argue, should we in our compositions. 

Before leaving this question, I will just repeat something from my previous post on this topic:

"Form" exists on multiple levels simultaneously in a composition, from the very small scale, such as the intervalic content in a motive, the way in which a theme is constructed, motivic breakdown, the functions of each phrase segment, thematic structure such as period, sentence, phrase group, "auto-generative," fortspinnung, etc., to increasingly larger scales such as the structure of sections, movements, and entire multi-movement works."

To me, a  core value in great music is the simultaneous existence of all these levels of formal organization; this is more important than the originality of the form.

Talent? Skill? What's the difference?

In my previous blog entry, I posed the question:

What about talent? Where does that fit in the makeup of a good composer?

Here is a definition for "talent," from the online Cambridge Advanced Learner's Dictionary:

A natural ability to be good at something, especially without being taught.

Other definitions often use the word "innate," meaning "something you are born with," which means the same thing in this context as "natural."  Some of the many areas in which people are sometimes said to have talent include:

• Public speaking
• Dance
• Mathematics
• Writing
• Sports
• Being funny
• Chairing meetings
• Music

But how could anyone possibly be born with a talent for chairing meetings? you might ask, possibly with some indignation After all, babies seemingly never actually chair meetings, at least when grown-ups are around (when grown-ups aren't around, who knows what they are up to?).

Since we tend not to see babies engaging in action such as chairing meetings, writing fiction or non-fiction, composing concertos, etc., how do we know if they are born with these talents?

It would seem very difficult to establish proof of talent in many of these areas in an infant; I would suggest that they generally become evident at later stages of development (c.f. Erickson's stages of psychosocial development), after an individual has had the opportunity to develop skills relating to these areas (talent in composition generally follows the development of skills as a musician, for example).

This leads me to propose the following:

Talent must be developed in order to be manifested.

However, something that has to be developed in order to be manifested sounds very much like a skill; how is talent different from skill?

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Here is a definition of Skill in The American Heritage Dictionary:

Proficiency, facility, or dexterity that is acquired or developed through training or experience.

The essential difference, it would seem, is that talent is something we are are born with, while skill may in fact be related to an innate talent, but it must be developed.

But even this does not fully clarify the difference between talent and skill, because if talent is only manifested after at least some development, then how is it any different from skill, which is also manifested after development?

Some might argue that the difference is that a person with a particular talent would require less training to develop proficiency in that area than someone without that talent.

Perhaps this is true, but the speed with which one develops proficiency in an area is also highly dependent on other factors as well, such as motivation, environment, opportunity, and instruction. Someone of average talent might develop skill more quickly than an individual with greater talent, if the first person were more motivated, and/or had better teaching.

All of this leads me to wonder if it is possible to measure innate ability, and, if it cannot be measured, is it possible to prove that it even exists?

Let's explore that.

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When we describe an individual as "talented," we often mean that they learn or develop particular skills very quickly, or do them very well, with seemingly less effort than someone else with seemingly less talent.

However, these things do not necessarily mean that an individual is talented; perhaps the so-called "talented" person learns particular things quickly or does them well because they have had more practice doing so.

Or perhaps some of the skills a person has developed in one area (e.g., bicycle racing) can be transferred to another (e.g., speed skating), and it is this that allows them to develop so quickly in the second area.

(Canadian Clara Hughes, who has won multiple medals in both the summer and winter Olympic games, is a great example of this kind of skill transference. Another example is Pierre Boulez, who quickly (while still in his twenties) established an international reputation as one of the leading composers of the Modernist era, but he has subsequently also become known as one of the leading conductors in the world.  Most of the "great" composers of classical music were also regarded as among the great performers of their time.)

As a teacher, it can be tempting to conclude that one student is more talented than another because of a difference in their rates of progress. However, because teachers have limited knowledge of their students prior to meeting them in the classroom or private studio, we do not actually know how much time students have spent developing skills in the areas in which we teach, or in cognate areas. Not only that, but we don't really know how hard students work outside of the classroom on the skills we teach, or how efficiently they are working.

While teachers often get a sense that some students seems to learn more easily or develop skills more quickly than others, the lack of information we have about their background, practice habits, and other impediments to learning (there are many circumstances in a student's personal life than can inhibit learning) gives us no basis on which to conclude that one student is any more talented than another.

A potential danger in drawing conclusions on the relative talent levels of our students when we don't really have a basis for doing so is that we might give in to the temptation of tailoring our teaching in some way to the "talented" students, perhaps because they respond better to our teaching, thereby ensuring that those who struggle continue to do so. Or, more generally, we might encourage the "talented" more than the "untalented."

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Are you suggesting that there is no such thing as talent?

I am suggesting that we need to reexamine our assumptions of what talent is, whether there is any way of measuring it, and yes, even of whether there really is such a thing as talent (as opposed to skill, which is something that very clearly exists and that can be both developed and measured).

One way to prove the existence of talent would be to establish a control group of kids who all received identical upbringing, including parenting style and values, education, and training in the arts and sports, and then measure their achievement in the various areas in which they had been trained at regular intervals to see if some were to demonstrate a significant and lasting superiority to their peers in particular areas.

I'm not actually sure this would prove anything (other than being an impossible study to conduct from a practical standpoint, not to mention the ethical/legal impediments to establishing such a control group!), because you would have to factor motivation in there as well; people learn more easily when they are motivated to do so, and there it would seem unlikely that everyone from this hypothetical control group would have a similar level of motivation in all areas.

Another way — and this has the advantages of being both feasible and legal(!) — would be to study identical twins adopted into different families to see if one twin's significant strength in a particular area is matched by the other twin. I would guess studies like this have been done, and if I find any, I will report back on a later blog.

But what about Mozart? He must have been HUGELY talented to compose symphonies when he was only four years old!

Indeed, he would have been, but he wrote no symphonies (or any other type of music) when he was four. After Mozart's death, his sister, Nannerl, wrote: At the age of five he was already composing little pieces, which he played to his father who wrote them down (Deutsch 1965, p. 455).

There are several points to note from this statement:

1. Nannerl was writing years after the fact, at a point when her late brother was widely acknowledged as a great composer — according to Wikipedia, Mozart's sparse funeral did not reflect his standing with the public as a composer: memorial services and concerts in Vienna and Prague were well attended. Indeed, in the period immediately after his death Mozart's reputation rose substantially: Solomon describes an "unprecedented wave of enthusiasm" (Solomon 1995, p. 499) for his work; biographies were written (first by Schlichtegroll, Niemetschek, and Nissen); and publishers vied to produce complete editions of his works.
   
   Nannerl also wrote that upon meeting her brother and becoming familiar with his music in 1781, Joseph Haydn said to Mozart's father: I tell you before God, and as an honest man, your son is the greatest composer known to me by person and repute; he has taste, and what is more, the greatest skill in composition (Deutsch 1965, pp. 461–462). It seems likely that Nannerl's goal in writing these statements was to document (and perhaps even embellish) her brother's greatness, and, as such, it is difficult to know how historically accurate they are.
   
   In any event, that Mozart became a great composer as an adult after having been a precociously-skilled child is not in question (at least by most people familiar with his music; Glenn Gould famously felt otherwise, arguing that Mozart died too late rather than too early (Ostwald 1997, p. 249)). What is less certain is the degree to which his youthful compositional efforts were aided by his father.
   
   
2. Nannerl mentions her brother composing "little pieces." Not symphonies. Now, admittedly, composing little minuets at the age of five (or six, some historians maintain) is pretty darn special, but did these little pieces contain the seeds of greatness he would later achieve as a composer? Or, put another way, there have been (and continue to be) many highly-precocious young kids in the world whose impressive early achievements might have been comparable in some way to Mozart's, but very few of them have come anywhere close to achieving what Mozart did as an adult. Mozart's place in music history was achieved on the basis of his compositional work as an adult, not as a child.
   
   
3. "... which he played to his father, who wrote them down." His father, Leopold (1719–1787), was a highly-accomplished musician himself — he was deputy Kapellmeister to the court orchestra of the Archbishop of Salzburg, as well as a composer and an experienced teacher. If young Wolfgang played mistakes (parallel fifths, doubled leading tones, etc.) in his childhood compositions, might Leopold have corrected them in the process of transcribing them to music manuscript? Given that he was an experienced teacher (and his son's greatest advocate, AKA a "stage parent"), it seems likely that Leopold would have pointed out mistakes and ways of improving these little pieces.
   
   It is presumably for these reasons that the symphonies listed as #2 and #3 by Mozart are now listed as "spurious," with #2 thought to have been composed by Leopold.
   
   In any event, the point here is that it is hard to know the degree to which Mozart's early compositional efforts were aided by his father, and it is therefore at least possible that some of what we attribute to "pure genius" or "natural talent" on the part of Mozart can be attributed to the help received from his father.
   
   
4. And finally, although you and I were probably not composing little pieces for the piano at the age of five, we also did not have Leopold Mozart as our dad. Leopold published a treatise on violin playing the year that Wolfgang was born, and taught both of his children how to play violin and piano at remarkably early ages. He also assembled books of compositions from which to learn piano (and perhaps composition as well) for both of his children (Blom, p.11). Mozart was home-schooled by his father, and this home-schooling included much musical training. Leopold's desire to show off the skills of his children (did I mention he was a stage-dad?) is obvious from the frequent tours to perform for European royalty that began when Wolfgang was six. Given his skills as both a musician and teacher of music, and his evident desire for his children to excel at music and be recognized for it, it seems at least possible that other children growing up in that environment might also have been "composing little pieces" at remarkably early ages.
   
   To what degree were Wolfgang Mozart's childhood accomplishments the result of the intensive musical training he received, and to what degree were they a product of his musical gift or innate talent?
   
   

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Postscript: After writing the above, I was reading Outliers — The Story of Success, by Malcolm Gladwell – mainly because I wanted to learn more about the so-called "10,000 hour rule" discussed in my Inspiration, Perspiration, and Perspicacity blog of about a month ago – and found this quote from Genius Explained, by the late British cognitive psychologist Michael Howe:

... by the standards of mature composers, Mozart's early works are not outstanding. The earliest pieces were all probably written down by his father, and perhaps improved in the process. Many of Wolfgang's childhood compositions, such as the first seven of his concertos piano and orchestra, are largely arrangements of works by other composers. Of those concertos that only contain music original to Mozart, the earliest that is now regarded as a masterwork (No. 9, K. 271) was not composed until he was twenty-one: by that time Mozart had already been composing concertos for ten years (Howe, p. 3).

The music critic Harold Schonberg goes even further:

It is strange to say of a composer who started writing at six, and lived only thirty-six years, that he developed late, but that is the truth. Few of Mozart's early works, elegant as they are, have the personality , concentration, and richness that entered his music after 1781" [the year he turned 25]. (Lives of the Great Composers, Part 2, p. 103)

We can become so caught up in the mystification of genius that we overlook the fact that any person of significant accomplishment, even those we call geniuses, achieved what they did through protracted hard work.

I will conclude by returning to the question posed at the outset: Where does talent fit in the makeup of a good composer?

It's hard to say. I'm not prepared to say there is no such thing as talent, but I will suggest the following:

• If there is such a thing as talent, it needs to be developed in order to be manifested;
  
  
• Skill clearly exists, and can be developed through good training;
  
  
• Skill is measurable, but if someone has come up with a way of measuring talent as an independent quality from skill, I don't know of it;
  
  
• I see no benefit in concerning yourself with the issue of how talented you are, or whether you possess enough "raw" talent to achieve greatness. If you focus on developing your skills, and, if you work both diligently and intelligently over a sufficiently long period, you will become highly skilled. 
  
  
•  If you become highly skilled, AND continue to work hard and intelligently you may distinguish yourself in your field, but achieving publicly-recognized success is dependent on factors that may have nothing to do with talent or skill!
  
  
• Perhaps the main reason everyone who sets out to become highly skilled does not succeed in doing so is that many loose their motivation somewhere along the way.
  

Thematic Growth, part 3

[This is a re-post of 2 blogs from last August, since they are relevant to the "Thematic Growth" discussion]

4. The pros and cons of development
(pro) Do not abandon your babies! •Think of your musical ideas as your children (or, if that is too mind-boggling, your pets!). It is your job to help them grow and develop; be a responsible parent/custodian/pet-owner!	(con) Don't let ideas overstay their welcome! •Not all musical ideas need to be developed to their maximum potential. There needs to be a balance between the familiar and unfamiliar. (See below for more on this:)
•Growth is of fundamental importance to the European classical music tradition. It is essential to extend, develop, or otherwise 'grow' your musical ideas during the course of a composition.	•Is growth of equal importance to other musical traditions? Could a person write a good, extended composition that totally disregards the growth principle?
•How to grow: After you have identified musical ideas you have created (label them idea 1, idea 2, (2.1, 2.2 for variants) etc.), try to extend them. There are many, many ways to do this (see next entry), but the starting point is to want your ideas to grow. Yes, just like the 'How many psychiatrists does it take to change a lightbulb?' joke…*	•(i) Composers all limit the growth of any idea, probably because to do otherwise would make compositions sound like academic exercises. (ii) Consider Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Is it a model of economy of means? If not, is it 'bad'? What about M's Pno. Cto. #21?

*Only one, but the lightbulb has to want to change.

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5. How to Extend or Develop Musical Materials; Specific Suggestions (may be used in combination with one another)
Repeat…	Vary…	Extend…
•… with different dynamic	•… selected motives (i.e., a, or b, or c, etc.)	• … a + b +b' (or a+b+a', etc.)
•… in a different register	•… truncate	• … continue with similar intervals, i.e., la-do-ti-fa, la-do-ti-fa-mi-so, la-do-ti-fa-mi-so-di-re, etc.
•… with different orchestration	•… invert, retrograde, retrograde inversion	• … reorder same pitches, i.e., la-do-ti-fa, do-ti-la-fa, la-ti-fa-do, etc.
•… with different harmony	•… insert/subtract rests	• … combine previous two, i.e., la-do-ti-fa, la-ti-fa-mi, so-fi-la-si-ti-la-fa-mi, etc.
•… in a different mode	•… reorder, interpolate (insert), substitute	• … using similar or different rhythms.
•… with different counterpoint	•… make nonretrogradable	• … make sequence
•… with different texture (i.e., pointillism, thicker, thinner, etc.)	•… rhythm	• …turn into a transition (how? Discuss…)
•… with different accompaniment figure	•… shift rhythmic emphasis, rotate	• … add dissimilar materials
•… in a different tempo	•… augmentation or diminution of all or any portion	• … gradually change character.
•… in a different meter	•… mode	• … create a dialogue
•… in a different key/transposition	•… articulation	• … reverse roles (melody/accompaniment)
•… with overlap	•… selected intervals	• … continue linear contour

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Composition Issues (4)

[From a 9-part handout for my introductory composition class.]

4. The pros and cons of development
(pro) Do not abandon your babies! • Think of your musical ideas as your children (or, if that is too mind-boggling, your pets!). It is your job to help them grow and develop; be a responsible parent/custodian/pet-owner!	(con) Don't let ideas overstay their welcome! • Not all musical ideas need to be developed to their maximum potential. In fact NO idea ever needs to be developed to its maximum potential; there's no such thing! If there were, it would bore your audience to tears! There needs to be a balance between the familiar and unfamiliar. (See below for more on this:)
• Growth is of fundamental importance to the European classical music tradition. It is essential to extend, develop, or otherwise 'grow' your musical ideas throughout the course of a composition.	• Is growth of equal importance to other musical traditions? Can a long(-ish) composition that totally disregards the growth principle be considered to be good?
• How to grow: After you have identified musical ideas you have created and labeled them (idea 1, idea 2, (2.1, 2.2 for variants) etc.), try to extend them. There are many, many ways to do this (see next entry), but the starting point is to want your ideas to grow. Yes, just like the How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb? joke… (For those unfamiliar with this joke, the answer is: Just one, but the lightbulb has to really want to change.)	• (i) Composers all limit the growth of any idea, probably because to do otherwise would make compositions sound like pointless academic exercises. (ii) Consider Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Is it a model of economy of means? If not, is it "bad?" (HINT: No. It is good.) What about Mozart's Pno. Cto. #21? What about "A Day in the Life" by Lennon McCartney? The "woke up, got out of bed…" section has nothing to do with any previous or subsequent idea… is the song therefore bad? (HINT: No. It is good.)