From about November 30th through December 4th, I have found this thread to be just about the most absorbing and enjoyable one I have yet encountered on this forum, and mindful of the kind invitation,
Why not? That's up to you, of course - you're as welcome to participate as is anyone else here.
I hope I will be forgiven for expanding on two or three issues that are to me -- neither an (aspiring) musician nor a psychoanalyst, but a literary historian -- of particular interest.
I begin with the allegation that
human life is more complex now than it was in the past, which in this thread has been conceded both by those who think that man's emotional response to this increased complexity is invariable, and by those who don't. Intuitively unassailable though the notion of life's increased complexity may seem -- given the sheer number and variety of stimuli with which man is nowadays confronted every minute of his waking existence -- I do not think that it can be validated in any other terms than that of
prima facie intuition. 'Complexity' is a matter, not so much of subjectivity (as in: 'if I think life [or a piece of music or literature] is complex, then it is complex [for me]'), as of relativity (as in: 'speaking of complexity is meaningful only in relation to my capacity to accommodate multiple stimuli'). A multiplicity of stimuli simply does not, by itself, make for 'complexity'.
Ergo, computing the number of stimuli confronting wakeful human beings in 2012 and comparing that number with the corresponding number in 1912 or in 1812 or even in 2012 BC cannot by itself support the allegation quoted above. Complexity, being a relational concept, is by its definition incommensurable: the statement that our lives are more complicated than those of our ancestors (no matter how remote) is, for all its intuitive unassailability, meaningless.
If we do want to compare our experience of our world's complexity with that of those who lived a hundred, or four thousand, years before us, we must not only consider the invariability (or not) of man's basic emotions and the sheer amount of (cultural) history that has intervened between them and us, but also -- and this, I feel, has not been sufficiently stressed in previous contributions to the topic -- to the human mind's plasticity. Life is 'complicated' only in relation to the mind's capacity to deal with its complications: our minds may have more, and more diverse, stimuli to deal with than the minds of those who lived before, but from that it does not follow that they had an easier job making sense of life than we. I cannot think of any kind of evidence (other than intuition) that would prove that our minds are otherwise adapted to the 'complexity' of our world than our ancestors' minds were to the complexity of theirs. Surely, life is just as difficult to grasp and deal with for us as it was for Henry James or Marcel Proust -- witness their incomparably subtle and searching accounts of that very process -- or, for that matter, for the Greek tragedians or for the poet of the Iliad?
Coming to the point: I think it is both misguided and patronising to say that
that what is expressed in the music of Beethoven, Chopin, Mahler, Schönberg et al is more heightened than in Haydn
(unless no more is implied than that Haydn had a debased response to life, which is merely judgmental);
or to say that
the increasing complexities of life have... gone hand in hand with - and perhaps also encouraged the development of - more and wider nuances to existing (emotions), rather as the continuing expansion of verbal and musical language has done.
I think the instances of Henry James and Proust given above (to say nothing of Homer: don't get me started...) disprove the notion that verbal language has 'continuously expanded' -- in any other sense, that is, than in the trivial sense that we can now choose to write of life a) as Dickens did, b) as James did, c) as Joyce did and d) as David Mitchell does; whereas for Henry James, only a) and b) were available. The point I wish to make being that, if one is David Mitchell, one has no need for a) through c), as they
have been done: (literally) beyond compare. If anything, verbal language has become the
poorer, since now, nobody can use the same words as James or Joyce without plagiarising the masters. Viewed thus, every successful work of art
subtracts from the richness of the verbal language that is available to subsequent generations of artists.
None of this exactly goes against anything that has been implied in those wonderful contributions of last week, but I do wish people would stop relaying the meaningless truism that life is more complex or complicated than it was, not just for Haydn but also for the artists who decorated the Lascaux caves. It is not; and the allegation that it is can never be a justification for writing, composing and appreciating art in any other way than those who came before us.
And surely, to do so (viz. write, compose... etc.) requires no such justification? Which brings me to a second topic that has been addressed above, which is the question in what way the artist must approach, or target his/her audience. No one in his right mind would require that an artist worthy of the name exclusively pander to what the public wishes or expect to experience. If, indeed, art must 'refresh the soul' of its consumers, then
something at least must be added (or subtracted) from the consumer's soul for art's mission to succeed. Nor, as has been observed, should it be the artist's aim
only to alienate. Yet -- here comes the crux -- what lies in between these two extremes, I think, is not a matter of the artist targeting an ideal balance or compromise between the positive and the negative capabilities of his/her actual, real-life audience. Rather -- and I
do feel uncomfortable writing about what an artist 'must' and 'mustn't' do: please note that I am merely proposing what I, as a consumer of art,
wish an artist to do, and that this wish is based on what I perceive the greatest artists of the past to have done (which, truly, is the only viable yardstick I can think of) -- rather, what lies between the extremes of 'ingratiating and alienating' is the artist individually
creating his/her audience. By going through the myriad decisions -- emotionally as well as intellectually informed decisions -- that the creation of a work of art require, the artist
projects an image of the (ideal) audience for this particular piece of work. And it is up to the
actual audience to live up to this image. Mostly, I think, audiences do -- if not always rightaway (but that is immaterial [except as concerns the 'material' aspect of creation, viz. the paychecks]). The point is that, ultimately, the artist's responsibility for the enjoyment of his/her art is strictly limited to the avoidance of 'ingratiating and alienating'. For what comes in between -- the actual enjoyment of art -- the responsibility is wholly on the part of the actual audience: viz., living up to the image of the 'audience' projected by the artist.
I don't know about music criticism and musicology or psycho-analysis, but in my field (literary studies), the scenario proposed above is pretty mainstream. It brings me in a roundabout way to the original topic of this thread, which I will address with nothing more than a profession of faith: I firmly believe that it is the given task of any one who will describe him/herself as 'teacher' to help enable those whom he/she teaches to realize their responsibility, as audience or recreators, towards any work of art -- whether it be a contemporary response to life's (
increased) complexity or an (equally demanding) historical artefact.
Many thanks for your patience!
Bluthner