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Joshua S. Walden - Musical Portraits - The Composition of Identity in Contemporary and Experimental Music-Oxford University Press (2018)
Joshua S. Walden - Musical Portraits - The Composition of Identity in Contemporary and Experimental Music-Oxford University Press (2018)
Joshua S. Walden - Musical Portraits - The Composition of Identity in Contemporary and Experimental Music-Oxford University Press (2018)
Musical Portraits
ii
iii
Musical Portraits
The Composition of Identity
in Contemporary
and Experimental Music
Joshua S. Walden
1
iv
1
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers
the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education
by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University
Press in the UK and certain other countries.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed by Sheridan Books, Inc., United States of America
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CO N T E N T S
List of Figures ix
List of Musical Examples xi
Acknowledgments xiii
Bibliography 161
Index 177
viii
ix
L IST O F F I G UR E S
L IST O F M U SIC A L E X A M P L E S
AC KNOWL E DG M E N T S
Introduction
Portraiture as a Musical Genre
The artist’s work is to show us ourselves as we really are. Our minds are nothing but this knowledge
of ourselves; and he who adds a jot to such knowledge creates new mind as surely as any woman
creates new men.
—George Bernard Shaw1
I n t ro d u c t i o n ( 3 )
I n t ro d u c t i o n ( 5 )
But let us love that other beauty too, which lies in no secret of proportion, but in the
secret of deep human sympathy. Paint us an angel, if you can, with a floating violet
robe, and a face paled by the celestial light . . . but do not impose on us any aesthetic
rules which shall banish from the region of Art those old women scraping carrots with
their work-worn hands, those heavy clowns taking holiday in a dingy pot-house, those
rounded backs and stupid weather-beaten faces that have bent over the spade and done
the rough work of the rough curs, and their clusters of onions. . . . It is so needful we
should remember their existence, else we may happen to leave them quite out of our
religion and philosophy, and frame lofty theories which only fit a world of extremes.
Therefore let Art always remind us of them.11
In this passage, Eliot proposes that the artist has an ethical responsibility to
represent the faces of ordinary people, and to do so in a way that favors the
truthful depiction of interior life over the idealization of external appearance.
6
Eliot makes this distinction with regard to literature and painting, but it
informs our study of portraiture in music as well, and in many of the portraits
examined in the following three chapters of this book, composers explore
ways to represent in music, without idealization, the interior lives of their
subjects.12 The fourth chapter, on the other hand, views the influence of vis-
ual idealization, as found in images of military and political leaders and in
celebrity and fashion photography, on contemporary portraiture in musical
multimedia.
Taking to its extreme this notion of portraiture as the art of depicting a
person’s internal character, a number of artists in the early twentieth cen-
tury began to experiment with the elimination of literal likeness in portrai-
ture, developing innovative methods of representing individuals without
relying on realistic visual mimesis, and thus expanding and challenging the
traditional boundaries implied by standard definitions of the genre.13 For
example, Pablo Picasso engaged the techniques of cubism to deconstruct
his sitters’ bodies, and Francis Bacon painted images of sitters with their
faces and bodies contorted, often beyond recognition. Charles Demuth’s
portrait of William Carlos Williams titled “The Figure 5 in Gold” (1928)
depicts words and images from Williams’s poetry rather than a likeness
of his face to represent his identity (Figure I.1), while Katherine Dreier’s
“Abstract Portrait of Marcel Duchamp” (1918) abandons pictorialism
altogether to offer an abstract, fragmented representation of her subject
(Figure I.2).14 In these works portraiture becomes a sort of game, in which
the viewer is invited to interpret the relationship between various sym-
bolic or abstract elements of the image and the named subject it is said to
represent.15
Such developments in portraiture in the visual arts provide a model
for describing how composers have experimented with depicting human
subjects through music. In a manner reflective of cubism and other
abstract modes of painting, composers of musical portraits have rep-
resented their sitters through musical elements such as form, rhythm,
harmony, and style. Where portrait painters rely on visual art’s stasis
to fix a moment for posterity, however, composers of musical portraits
often take advantage of the temporal aspect of their medium as well.
This allows them to create portraits that render their subjects’ character
and life experiences from various perspectives and unfolding through
time—for example by using narrative techniques to portray events in
their subjects’ biographies, or evoking a succession of affects to convey
the development of character. The musical portraits of artists known for
their work in various media that are discussed in this book also depict
the subjects identified in their titles by suggesting affinities with quali-
ties of their own works of portraiture in the visual arts, literature, and
7
I n t ro d u c t i o n ( 7 )
Figure I.1: Charles Demuth, “The Figure 5 in Gold,” 1928, oil on cardboard, 35-1/2 x 30 inches.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Alfred Stieglitz Collection, 1949 (49.59.1). Image © The
Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Figure I.2: Katherine Dreier, “Abstract Portrait of Marcel Duchamp,” 1918, oil on canvas,
18 x 32 inches. Museum of Modern Art. Digital Image © The Museum of Modern Art/Licensed by
SCALA/Art Resource, NY.
I n t ro d u c t i o n ( 9 )
I n t ro d u c t i o n ( 11 )
motions that were made by the artist during the creation of the painting,
much as we interpret the physical gestures of musicians when attending a
performance or imagine them when listening to a recording, and such per-
ception of the artist’s movements in any medium can influence the inter-
pretation of the content and subject of the work.30
The philosopher Jerrold Seigel writes that the Western conception of the
self consists of three principal components: the bodily, or physical exist-
ence; the relational, deriving from social interaction and cultural contexts;
and the reflective, the capacity to examine and question oneself.31 Of course,
conceptions of what constitutes these three aspects of human identity have
varied considerably over time, and conventions in both visual and musi-
cal portraiture have developed in parallel. According to the modern view,
whose origins are found in the Renaissance, the self entails a coherent entity
associated with notions of autonomy and free will; it is this isolated self that
characterizes people as separate individuals with unique identities.32 With
the postwar perspectives introduced by deconstructionist critique and the
new understandings of identity developed by proponents of postcolonial-
ism, gender, sexuality, ethnicity, race, and other modern schools of thought,
the self came generally to be recognized as fragmented and mutable, and as
formed discursively through social interaction, rather than unified and fixed
at a single point of emergence.33 Madan Sarup writes, “Identity in postmod-
ern thought is not a thing; the self is necessarily incomplete, unfinished—it
is ‘the subject in process.’ ”34
If the self is constructed, it is also performed and interpreted: individu-
als adopt certain actions in public that will express corresponding aspects
of character, and onlookers interpret these behaviors to combine in the
impression of an identity.35 In portraiture, the artist constructs an identity
on the canvas, generally by representing physical appearance, but the sub-
ject posing for the image may also play a role in this construction through
an act of performance that aims to depict the self. Roland Barthes describes
his behavior when he is photographed as involving a self-conscious sort of
performance:
I decide to “let drift” over my lips and in my eyes a faint smile which I mean to be “inde-
finable,” in which I might suggest, along with the qualities of my nature, my amused
consciousness of the whole photographic ritual: I lend myself to the social game, I pose,
12
I know I am posing, I want you to know that I am posing, but (to square the circle) this
additional message must in no way alter the precious essence of my individuality: what
I am, apart from my effigy. What I want, in short, is that my (mobile) image, buffeted
among a thousand shifting photographs, altering with situation and age, should always
coincide with my (profound) “self ”; but it is the contrary that must be said: “myself ”
never coincides with my image.36
There is first the obvious truth that we are dealing not with a single, unitary, sharply
defined portrait, but rather with a portrait that is itself curiously diversified. What thus
appears to be at issue is a multiplicity of profiles and perspectives through which the
13
I n t ro d u c t i o n ( 13 )
human self moves and is able to come into view. . . . There is, however, another set of
obstacles facing the projected undertaking. This has to do with the very grammar of por-
traits or profiles or perspectives. It is a grammar that invites a philosophical optics bent
upon the field of vision as somehow privileged for the disclosure of self and world. But
knowledge of self is as much the rendering of an account, the telling of a story, as it is the
discernment of perceptual profiles—and indeed it is the telling of a story in which the
self is announced as at once actor and receiver of action. . . . I thus propose a metaphor-
ical extension of the grammar of portraits, profiles, or perspectives to include the telling
and hearing of stories and the performance and reception of action.43
The contemporary understanding of identity and the self has permitted art-
ists to use more abstract means to represent individual subjects in a host
of media. It has also made a space in the field of portraiture for the repre-
sentational techniques of music, whose temporal aspect permits a narrative
quality and whose reliance on performance requires an active and discur-
sive process of creating meaning, reflecting Schrag’s call for “the telling and
hearing of stories and the performance and reception of action” in the post-
modern “grammar of portraits.”
Composers of musical portraits typically construct representations of
identities by selecting and depicting individual aspects of the sitter’s life,
such as biographical experiences, artistic style, and emotional traits, in ways
that reflect how we tell stories in the construction of our own characters. It
is common to define identity through the selection and retelling of stories,
creating what has been called a “narrative self.”44 Marya Schechtman argues,
in her theory of what she calls the “narrative self-construction view”:
At the core of this view is the assertion that individuals constitute themselves as per-
sons by coming to think of themselves as persisting subjects who have had experience
in the past and will continue to have experience in the future, taking certain experiences
as theirs. Some, but not all, individuals weave stories of their lives, and it is their doing
so which makes them persons. On this view a person’s identity . . . is constituted by the
content of her self-narrative, and the traits, actions, and experiences included in it are, by
virtue of that inclusion, hers.45
I n t ro d u c t i o n ( 15 )
I n t ro d u c t i o n ( 17 )
NOTES
1. George Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman: A Comedy and a Philosophy (Auckland: The
Floating Press, 2012), 63.
2. Music making and musical instruments are also prominent tropes in painted portrai-
ture. See Richard Leppert, Music and Image: Domesticity, Ideology and Socio-Cultural
Formation in Eighteenth-Century England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1988); Richard Leppert, The Sight of Sound: Music, Representation, and the History of
the Body (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 4–12; Michael A. Brown,
“Portraits, Music and Enlightenment in the Atlantic World,” in Patrick Coleman (ed.),
The Art of Music (San Diego: San Diego Museum of Art; New Haven, CT: Yale University
Press, 2015), 167–83.
18
3. Lorenzo Battista Alberti, On Painting, trans. John R. Spencer (New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press, 1956, rev. ed. 1966), 63. For further discussion of the extension of a sub-
ject’s “life” through portraiture, see also Richard Leppert, Art and the Committed Eye: The
Cultural Functions of Imagery (Boulder, CO: Westview, 1996), 98–9, 153.
4. Edgar Allan Poe, The Short Fiction of Edgar Allan Poe: An Annotated Edition, ed. Stuart
Levine and Susan Levine (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1976), 68.
5. Michal Peled Ginsburg, Portrait Stories (New York: Fordham University Press,
2015), 23–4.
6. See Shearer West, Portraiture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 37; Richard
Brilliant, Portraiture (London: Reaktion Books, 1991), 15; Ludmilla Jordanova, Defining
Features: Scientific and Medical Portraits 1660–2000 (London: Reaktion Books and
National Portrait Gallery, 2000), 22–5.
7. “Bodies: Real and Ideal,” www.nga.gov/content/ngaweb/features/introduction-to-greek-
bronzes/bodies-real-and-ideal.html, accessed June 21, 2016; Luke Syson and Dora Thornton,
Objects of Virtue: Art in Renaissance Italy (Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2001), 115.
8. Bernard Williams, Problems of the Self: Philosophical Papers 1956– 1972
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973), 1.
9. Paul Klee, Paul Klee (New York: Parkstone, 2012), 16.
10. George Eliot, Adam Bede, ed. Carol A. Martin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008;
orig. 1859, rev. 1861), 159.
11. Eliot, Adam Bede, 162.
12. For a description of how realism operates in music, see Joshua S. Walden, Sounding
Authentic: The Rural Miniature and Musical Modernism (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2014), 7–9.
13. West, Portraiture, 187; Andrew Graham-Dixon, foreword to Andrew Graham-Dixon, Sandy
Nairne, Sarah Howgate, and Jo Higgins (eds.), 21st-Century Portraits (London: National
Portrait Gallery, 2013), 7–9; Lee Siegel, “On the Face of It,” in Donna Gustafson and Susan
Sidlauskas (eds.), Striking Resemblance: The Changing Art of Portraiture (New Brunswick,
NJ: Zimmerli Art Museum at Rutgers University; London: Prestel, 2014), 50.
14. West, Portraiture, 194–201.
15. See Edward A. Aiken, “‘I Saw the Figure 5 in Gold’: Charles Demuth’s Emblematic Portrait
of William Carlos Williams,” Art Journal 46.3 (Autumn 1987): 179.
16. Leppert, Art and the Committed Eye, 153.
17. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, trans. G. E. M. Anscombe (Oxford: Basil
Blackwell, 1958), II: iv, 178.
18. Jennifer Montagu, The Expression of the Passions: The Origin and Influence of Charles
Le Brun’s Conférence sur l’expression générale et particulière (New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press, 1994), 1.
19. Charles le Brun, The Conference of Monsieur Le Brun, cheif [sic] painter of the French King, . . .
upon Expression, General and Particular, trans. J. Smith (London, 1701), 1–2, 39–40.
20. William Hogarth, The Analysis of Beauty. Written with a View of Fixing the Fluctuating Ideas
of Taste (London: J. Reeves, 1753), 126.
21. For detailed historical and philosophical discussion of the relationship between
expression and personality, see Sandra Kemp, Future Face: Image, Identity, Innovation
(London: Profile, 2004), 56–66.
22. Susan Sontag, “Certain Mapplethorpes,” in Susan Sontag (ed.), Where the Stress
Falls: Essays (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2001), 234.
23. Lawrence M. Zbikowski refers to this form of metaphor as “cross-domain mapping,”
in Conceptualizing Music: Cognitive Structure, Theory, and Analysis (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2002), 64. On visual metaphors in discourses around music, see also
Gurminder Kaur Bhogal, “Visual Metaphors in Music Analysis and Criticism,” in Tim
Shephard and Anne Leonard (eds.), The Routledge Companion to Music and Visual Culture
(New York: Routledge, 2014), 191–9.
24. On metaphor and the perception of music, see Steven Feld, “‘Flow Like a Waterfall’: The
Metaphors of Kaluli Musical Theory,” Yearbook for Traditional Music 13 (1981): 22–47;
19
I n t ro d u c t i o n ( 19 )
32. Paul C. Vitz, “Introduction: From the Modern and Postmodern Selves to the Transmodern
Self,” in Paul C. Vitz and Susan M. Felch (eds.), The Self: Beyond the Postmodern Crisis
(Wilmington, DE: ISI Books, 2006), xi–xii.
33. John Barresi and Raymond Martin, “History as Prologue: Western Theories of the
Self,” in Shaun Gallagher (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of the Self (New York: Oxford
University Press, 2011), 33–56; Madam Sarup, Identity, Culture and the Postmodern World
(Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1996), 14; Kenneth Allan, “The Postmodern
Self: A Theoretical Consideration,” Quarterly Journal of Ideology 20.1–2 (1997): 3–24.
On the ways social and political movements in the 1960s in North America and Western
Europe contributed to the rise of the social constructionist view of identity, see Kenneth
J. Gergen, “The Social Construction of Self,” in Gallagher, Oxford Handbook of the Self,
634. The notion of a fragmented identity is implied by some portraiture from the ear-
lier half of the twentieth century as well. For example, the surrealist artist Max Ernst, in
preparing his 1935 self-portrait, broke the glass-plate negative of a photograph taken of
his face by Man Ray, and adhered it back together, writing the details of the exhibition
onto the surface of the tape. The image of the result of this fractured, reassembled likeness
was then printed on the cover of the invitation to the exhibition of his works in Paris,
Exposition Max Ernst—dernières oeuvres. Ernst repaired the broken glass, but permitted
the cracks in his reflection to remain. See Elza Adamowicz, “The Surrealist (Self-)Portrait:
Convulsive Identities,” in Silvano Levy (ed.), Surrealism: Surrealist Visuality (Edinburgh:
Keele University Press, 1996), 32.
34. Sarup, Identity, Culture and the Postmodern World, 45.
35. An important early study of the performance of the self is found in Erving Goffman, The
Presentation of the Self in Everyday Life (Garden City, NY: Doubleday Anchor, 1959).
36. Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography (New York: Hill and Wang,
1982), 11–12.
37. Kenneth Gergen, The Saturated Self: Dilemmas of Identity in Contemporary Life
(New York: Basic Books, 1991), 170. See also Vitz, “Introduction,” xiii–xiv.
38. Vitz, “Introduction,” xiii. Helene Tallon Russell and Marjorie Hewitt Suchocki interpret
the writings on selfhood of Søren Kierkegaard and Alfred North Whitehead, in order to
argue that the self is multiple and relational, but they oppose the common understanding
that the unity of the self ultimately triumphs over its multiplicity in the way the self is
constructed and experienced. They conclude that “the self is composite, not singular; it is
constituted in and through multiple relationships. This multiplicity is essential to the self,
and is also, through dialectic, the basis for the common experience of the self as a unity.”
Helene Tallon Russell and Marjorie Hewitt Suchocki, “The Multiple Self,” in J. Wentzel
van Huyssteen and Erik P. Wiebe (eds.), In Search of Self: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on
Personhood (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 2011), 196.
39. Vitz, “Introduction,” xiii–xiv. Shari Stone-Mediatore counsels against viewing identity as
defined entirely in one of two contrasting ways, according to the modern or postmod-
ern conceptions, recommending instead a consideration of identity as merging notions
of the self as at once both true and constructed. Shari Stone-Mediatore, “Postmodernism,
Realism, and the Problem of Identity,” Diaspora 11.1 (2002): 131.
40. Gergen, “Social Construction,” 635.
41. Anthony Elliott, Concepts of the Self, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Polity, 2008), 9. For Elliott, “all
forms of identity are astonishingly imaginative fabrications of the private and public, per-
sonal and political, individual and historical” (10–11).
42. Olav Bryant Smith, Myths of the Self: Narrative Identity and Postmodern Metaphysics
(Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2004), 176.
43. Calvin O. Schrag, The Self after Postmodernity (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press,
1997), 1.
44. Valerie Gray Hardcastle, Constructing the Self (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2008), 35.
45. Marya Schechtman, The Constitution of Selves (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996),
94. See also Marya Schechtman, “The Narrative Self,” in Gallagher, Oxford Handbook of
the Self, 394–416.
21
I n t ro d u c t i o n ( 21 )
46. On the narrative element in contemporary visual portraiture, see Sarah Howgate and
Sandy Nairne, introduction to 21st-Century Portraits, 16.
47. John Berger, Portraits: John Berger on Artists, ed. Tom Overton (London: Verso, 2015), 442.
48. For example, Simon Frith writes, “Music constructs our sense of identity through the
experiences it offers of the body, time, and sociability, experiences which enable us to
place ourselves in imaginative cultural narratives.” Simon Frith, Performing Rites: On the
Value of Popular Music (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996), 275. For Tia
DeNora, music is a “building material of self-identity,” a “resource to which people turn
in order to regulate themselves as aesthetic agents, as feeling, thinking and acting beings
in their day-to-day lives.” Tia DeNora, Music in Everyday Life (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2000), 62.
49. Sarup, Identity, Culture and the Postmodern World, 47.
50. On Glass’s portrait of Close, as well as György Ligeti’s musical self-portrait explored
in chapter 3, see also Joshua S. Walden, “Representation and Musical Portraiture in
the Twentieth Century,” in Joshua S. Walden (ed.), Representation in Western Music
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 127–43.
51. Ludmilla Jordanova, “Visualizing Identity,” in Giselle Walker and Elisabeth Leedham-
Green (eds.), Identity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 132. E. H.
Gombrich writes, “Expression is hard to analyze and harder to describe unequivocally. It is
a curious fact, moreover, that our immediate reaction results in firm convictions, but con-
victions which are rarely shared by all—witness the pages of interpretation that have been
devoted to Mona Lisa’s smile.” E. H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology
of Pictorial Representation (London: Phaidon, 1969), 268.
22
CH A P T E R 1
Portrait painting is the biography of the pencil, and he who gives most of the peculiarities and
details, with most of the general character . . . is the best biographer, and the best portrait-painter.
—William Hazlitt1
T he first half of George Eliot’s 1876 novel Daniel Deronda focuses pri-
marily on the story of the beautiful, complicated young anti-heroine
Gwendolyn Harleth and her vain attempts to dig herself and her fam-
ily out of financial ruin by attracting a wealthy suitor. In her narration of
Gwendolyn’s story, Eliot describes her authorial task by analogy to portrai-
ture: “Sir Joshua would have been glad to take her portrait; and he would
have had an easier task than the historian at least in this, that he would not
have had to represent the truth of change—only to give stability to one
beautiful moment.”2 In this statement, Eliot assumes overlaps between the
goals and techniques of portraiture in painting and in literature—princi-
pally, that the genre functions in both media to represent an individual sub-
ject’s appearance and character—but, more significantly, she also points to
an underlying difference that relates to the temporal dimension of writing.
The painted portrait represents the subject in a single moment, even if that
momentary glimpse features some elements that aim to evoke everlasting
characteristics such as heroism, beauty, or social position, and if the experi-
ence of viewing the portraiture necessarily involves an element of time. The
literary portrait, by contrast, must account for how the self varies over some
chronological period. Whether it is a work of fiction or history, its author
demonstrates the effects of the passage of time on the development of char-
acter, showing how all those moments that could be captured in individual
painted portraits unite into a coherent but also changeable self.
The novelist and literary critic A. S. Byatt, elaborating on the differ-
ence between literary and visual portraits, states that the two genres “are
23
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 23 )
opposites, rather than metaphors for each other,” because the painting
depicts surface appearance outside of the progress of time, while the story
records the invisible aspects of a person.3 Literary portraiture may even rely
on this invisibility: “The description in visual language of a face or body may
depend on being unseen for its force.”4 The functions of time, the unfolding
of description, and the triggering of the spectator’s imagination are central
to this distinction between the verbal and the visual in this genre, and the
musical portrait, particularly in works that emulate or show the influence of
literary portraiture, also relies on these attributes to represent its subject’s
self. Byatt concludes, “What a novelist can do, which is difficult for a painter,
is convey what is not, and cannot, be known about a human being.”5 The
composer of a musical portrait has a power similar to that Byatt attributes to
the novelist, but in a medium that minimizes language for an entirely audi-
tory form of narrative or description, or that in some cases employs text in
combination with sound to make possible diverse, hybrid meanings.
Like the musical portrait, the literary portrait—a form whose early
roots are typically traced to the Characters of the classical philosopher
Theophrastus, Aristotle’s pupil and successor at the Lyceum—does not
conform to a single standard form, length, or approach to its subject matter.6
It can be short or long; it can stand on its own as an isolated work or appear
as a passage embedded within a larger text; and it can represent a person’s
outward appearance, inner character, or psychology, or even describe a
painted portrait.7 And though many scholars accept only representations
of living or historical individuals as portraits, others find it helpful to con-
sider descriptions of fictional subjects or even character types as forms of
literary portraiture.8 Meanwhile, portraiture is also frequently invoked as
a metaphor to characterize the more widely recognized and easily defined
genre of biography.9
Literary portraiture, in forms representing general character types as well
as living or historic individuals, offered a source inspiration for composers
of musical portraits at several points in the history of the genre. For exam-
ple, the stimulus for François Couperin’s development of the pièce de carac-
tère (character piece) was the fad in 1650s France for short literary portraits,
prose documents of around 1,000 words written by and about members
of high society.10 During this decade, Couperin’s uncle Louis composed
short keyboard works, which, in a manner prefiguring the pièces de caractère
that his nephew would eventually write, served the aristocratic audiences
for these literary portraits by incorporating playfulness and “preciosity,”
and emphasizing sophistication and delicacy.11 In the nineteenth century,
Robert Schumann’s imaginary duo Florestan and Eusebius, whom the
composer described repeatedly in his portrait essays as studies in contrast-
ing characters—depicted respectively as passionately fiery and dreamily
24
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 25 )
The second is Pierre Boulez’s set of pieces that are combined in his five-
part Pli selon pli: Portrait de Mallarmé (Fold according to Fold: Portrait of
Mallarmé), composed over more than thirty years, between 1957 and 1989.
In Pli selon pli Boulez incorporates, into a large-scale and varied musical con-
text, fragments from the poems of the French symbolist poet and author
Stéphane Mallarmé, whose “L’après-midi d’un faune” (The Afternoon of
a Faun, 1876) famously became the model for Claude Debussy’s path-
breaking orchestral work Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune (1894), about
which Boulez stated, “The flute of the faun brought new breath to the art of
music.”14 Through Boulez’s rendering, Mallarmé’s poems become the core
material of his own portrait, in which Boulez transforms Mallarmé’s com-
plex linguistic inventions into a representation of his identity and his ideas
about the relationship between music and literature.15
My hope in putting Gertrude Stein to music had been to break, crack open, and solve
for all time anything still waiting to be solved, which was almost everything, about
English musical declamation. . . . I had no sooner put to music after this recipe one short
Stein text than I knew I had opened a door. I had never had any doubts about Stein’s
poetry; from then on I had none about my ability to handle it in music.19
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 27 )
Figure 1.1: Pablo Picasso, “Gertrude Stein,” 1905–1906, oil on canvas, 39-3/8 x 32 inches.
© 2016 Estate of Pablo Picasso/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. Image copyright © The
Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image source: Art Resource, NY.
to resembling how George Eliot, in the passage from Daniel Deronda dis-
cussed earlier, describes visual, rather than literary, works in the genre.
Stein explains her rejection of narrative and emotion in her portraits in the
1935 essay “Portraits and Repetition,” saying that these are to be avoided
because of their association with memory. These forms of description, for
Stein, portray only a person’s resemblance, not who he is; they render him
into a type rather than an individual self, by inciting the reader to recall
other encounters with similar descriptions of character and thus, through
memory, to draw connections between different people.30 Instead, she
wished to use portraiture to represent what she sometimes dubbed the
subject’s “existence,” and elsewhere characterized as the person’s unique
inner “movement.”31 She aimed to create depictions of her subjects’ interior
selves as she apprehended them, using the most direct, momentary, and
unmediated literary means she could devise.32
Stein’s notion of the self was based in large part on the ideas of psychol-
ogist William James, whose theoretical writings she had read as a student
at Radcliffe College.33 According to James’s The Principles of Psychology,
there are two ways to contemplate other people: through “acquaintance,”
which constitutes a sort of immediate awareness, and through “knowl-
edge about,” which involves the ability to recognize the continuity that
links a succession of moments of awareness into a single entity. For James,
the notion of identity requires “knowledge about,” because it demands
the understanding, through processes of memory and comparison, that
one is the same person from any one moment to the next.34 Stein con-
curred with James’s position in her early essays, but as she developed her
philosophy and prose style, she grew to feel that portraiture required not
the kind of description that will contribute to knowledge about a per-
son, but instead an attempt at representing her unmediated perception
of a subject.35 This way she could approach her goal of making the read-
er’s immediate acquaintance with her subject’s existence, as though in a
moment that stands outside the forward progress of time and therefore
does not permit comparison and memory.
In some of the portraits that Stein wrote in what has been called
the second phase of her work in the genre, including “Susie Asado” and
“Preciosilla,” she felt that she accomplished an effect in language that was
akin to music, producing “an extraordinary melody of words” that was able
to represent the corresponding “internal melody of existence.”36 Though
she subsequently grew to feel that the effect of this style came too perilously
close to beauty, an effect she wished to avoid, and decided to find a more
sober approach to writing, she allowed that this accomplishment served as
an important stage in the development of her portraiture, and indeed these
were two portraits that Thomson would later set to melody.
29
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 29 )
I had to find out what it was inside any one, and by any one I mean every one I had to
find out inside every one what was in them that was intrinsically exciting and I had to
find out not by what they said not by what they did not by how much or how little they
resembled any other one but I had to find it out by the intensity of movement that there
was inside in any of them.37
Stein described both the quality of existence that she aimed to portray
in her works and the portraitist’s method of reproducing it by analogy to
the experience of simultaneously “listening and talking”:38 “by listening
and talking I conceived at every moment the existence of some one, and
I put down each moment that I had the existence of that one inside in me
until I had completely emptied myself of this that I had had as a portrait
of that one.”39 It was thus a thorough contemplation of a subject that took
place through a process akin to a deep layering of dialogue within oneself
that brought Stein in touch with the individual, interior existence of her
acquaintances that she wished to represent in her portraits.40
A principal characteristic of many of Stein’s portraits is the restatement
of words and phrases through a technique that she called “insistence,” and
was careful to distinguish from repetition.41 Through insistence, locutions
can take on different emphases each time they recur, despite their simi-
larity, and in this way come to resemble a person’s life, throughout which
attributes of experience frequently reappear but their meanings shift.42
Explaining the process, she writes: “Each sentence is just the difference in
emphasis that inevitably exists in the successive moment of my containing
within me the existence of that other one achieved by talking and listen-
ing inside in me and inside in that one.”43 She likened this technique to the
content of a reel of film, in which the sequence of multiple frames, each of
which is much like the one that preceded it but has its own unique differ-
ences in form and emphasis, merge together when projected, to create a sin-
gle image that contains an overarching sense of movement, or existence.44
During Thomson’s early efforts at writing musical portraits, he devel-
oped a method of composition that was inspired by Stein’s process of creat-
ing her literary portraits, as well as by the tradition in visual portraiture of
creating representations in their sitters’ presence: he sat before his subjects
and composed spontaneously, writing notes on the page as he felt inspired
to by their proximity.45 Thomson explained, “It was in search of . . . immedi-
acy that I began making musical portraits as a painter works, in the model’s
30
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 31 )
like me too. Yes very serious and with a quite gratuitous beauty.”54 In their
respective media these two portraits resemble one another in the way they
exhibit the technique of insistence, the restatement of musical or linguistic
motifs with gradual and unpredictable variations that result in a shifting of
emphasis and therefore of meaning.
In Thomson’s portrait of Stein, titled “Miss Gertrude Stein as a Young
Girl” and later published in the collection Eight Portraits for Violin Alone
(1981), the composer restates and varies motivic fragments in a manner
that resembles Stein’s linguistic insistence. Thomson explores several meth-
ods of slightly altering brief musical materials in just the first ten measures
of the portrait (Example 1.1). He begins with the technique of sequencing,
restating the opening two-measure phrase in measures three and four, but
at a whole step below. He then introduces a new five-note motif in meas-
ure 5, which is in 5$time. This recurs three additional times in succession,
always with a different set of emphases produced by changes in bowing,
note length, or meter. In the first version of this motif, the notes are slurred
in two groupings, the first comprised of three notes and the second of two.
In the following measure, Thomson restates the motif with a different slur-
ring, in groups of two and then three, altering the emphasis produced by
the violinist’s bow changes from notes 1 and 4 to notes 1 and 3. In the sec-
ond restatement of the motif, notes 1 and 4 are expanded in length to half
notes, so the emphasis is now on these two pitches, both of which fall on
downbeats. And in the final restatement, which begins on the third beat of
the measure, the emphasis is on notes 2 and 5, which fall on downbeats in
the new meter of 3$time.
Something analogous to Thomson’s motivic restatements with altered
emphases can be found in the insistence of individual words and phrases in
the first portion of Stein’s portrait “Virgil Thomson,” which begins:
Yes ally. As ally. Yes ally yes as ally. A very easy failure takes place. Yes ally. As ally. As ally
yes a very easy failure takes place. Very good. Very easy failure takes place. Yes very easy
failure takes place.55
Example 1.1: Virgil Thomson, “Miss Gertrude Stein as a Young Girl,” 1928, mm. 1–11.
32
In this passage Stein constructs several fragmented motifs and then restates
them, each time modifying, conjoining, and reshuffling them. The text
has no clear meaning, and the dizzying recurrence of several one-syllable
words—“yes,” “as,” and “ally”—has the result of separating these words
from their usual signification and turning them into abstract sounds, whose
shared letters (the y’s that open “yes” and close “ally” but produce different
phonemes in these words) and assonance on the short “a” contribute to
a rhythmic staccato that is broken up with the occasional insertion of the
rarer multiple-syllable words. Additionally, the division of word groupings
with the punctuating period imposes emphases on the words that fall at
the start and end of each individual “sentence,” in the manner of the bar-
lines within the shifting time signatures of Thomson’s portrait. In the end,
the danger of a “very easy failure” may loom ominously, but the affirma-
tive repetition of “yes” (an echo of an ecstatic Molly Bloom at the close of
Joyce’s Ulysses?) and the implication of collaboration in the word “ally” hint
at a “very easy” friendship between these two portraitists, as do the lilting
rhythmic variations of Thomson’s whimsical portrait of Stein.
Musical restatement is also an important feature of one of Thomson’s
much later portraits, “Buffie Johnson: Drawing Virgil Thomson in
Charcoal,” where it is manifested in the simple, antiquated technique of
imitation between the two musical voices, played by the left and right hand
of the piano. This portrait was published in his collection Nineteen Portraits
for Piano (1981), which included musical portraits of three artists of his
acquaintance—Buffie Johnson, Franco Assetto, and John Wright—that he
created in their presence while they simultaneously sketched portraits of
him. In the introduction to the score of this collection, Thomson identifies
his sitters, describing Johnson as an artist “celebrated for her giant flowers
and for her portraits.” Johnson’s artistic mode was generally realist: though
her portraits could be stylized in ways that gestured toward early twentieth-
century expressionism, they did not engage with abstraction. In an earlier
portrait of Thomson from 1963, for example, Thomson’s face, a recogniz-
able likeness shown in three-quarter view, emerges from—and merges
with—a sketchy, shadowy background (Figure 1.2). His downturned lips
convey an austere, taciturn character, and his heavy eyelids and distant gaze
out of the right side of the canvas appear to indicate that he has become lost
in thought.
While both Morton Feldman and Philip Glass depict the subjects
of their musical portraits of the painters Willem de Kooning and Chuck
Close in part through the evocation of their characteristic artistic styles and
techniques, as chapter 2 will demonstrate, Thomson once stated that his
musical portraits of artists do not mimic the subjects’ own works of art.56
It might be the case that Thomson does not imitate the style or appearance
3
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 33 )
Figure 1.2: Buffie Johnson, “Portrait of Virgil Thomson,” 1963, oil on Masonite, 23-3/4 x 19-1/2
inches. Used by permission of the University of Missouri-Kansas City Libraries, Dr. Kenneth
J. LaBudde Department of Special Collections. Additional permission granted by Jenny J. Sykes.
Example 1.2: Virgil Thomson, “Buffie Johnson: Drawing Virgil Thomson in Charcoal,” 1981,
mm. 1–6.
Example 1.3: Virgil Thomson, “Buffie Johnson: Drawing Virgil Thomson in Charcoal,” 1981,
mm. 20–4.
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 35 )
Where Thomson took both the literary portraits of Stein and her philo-
sophical and critical essays on the subjects of identity and linguistic rep-
resentation as sources of influence for the creation of his own musical
portraits, Pierre Boulez found inspiration in Stéphane Mallarmé’s poetry
and essays on aesthetics in devising his portrait of the French poet. In the
36
Musical considerations have counted less than the literary contacts I have happened to
have. Finally, my current form of thought arose more from reflections about literature
than about music. . . . It seems to me . . . that certain writers have gone, as of now, much
further than musicians in the realm of organization, of the mental structure of a work.63
37
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 37 )
Pli selon pli was thus, for Boulez, the product of a process resembling col-
laboration with the deceased poet, a portrait in which Mallarmé spoke back
through him as though the two were producing portraits of one another
within the same work of art, in a manner that reflects, on a grander scale,
Virgil Thomson’s portrait of Buffie Johnson drawing a portrait of him.72
In this way Pli selon pli comes across as a hybrid work, an instance of
both musical and literary portraiture that depicts its subject through a rich
intertextual interpretation of the relationship between the two artistic
media. Boulez wrote of the interaction between these forms: “I have a pro-
found belief in reciprocal influences between literature and music, not only
through direct and effective collaboration, but at least as much through
the transmutation of modes of thought which hitherto seemed confined
to one or other of these two means of expression.”73 The basis of Boulez’s
portrait is the selected works by Mallarmé that he incorporates, in some
cases in their entirety and in others in fragments. In using Mallarmé’s texts
to evoke the poet’s identity, Boulez engages in a representational mode that
resembles a device that formed one of the oldest roots of literary portrai-
ture, the classical rhetorical technique of prosopopeia. An orator engages
this device when representing an individual by speaking as though in the
person’s words and voice. Quintilian writes that in prosopopeia, “we dis-
play the thoughts of our opponents, as they themselves would do in a solil-
oquy. . . . In this kind of figure, it is allowable even to bring down the gods
from heaven, evoke the dead, and give voices to cities and states.”74 Through
prosopopeia, in other words, the living channel the dead within a single
speech act, in a manner that resembles Boulez’s claim that by sufficiently
questioning Mallarmé’s works he is able to make the poet “speak of . . . and
through” him in Pli selon pli.
The term prosopopeia derives from the phrase “to make a face,” and it is
through the metaphoric conjuring of an individual’s likeness that the rhe-
torical device becomes an early root of portraiture. Paul de Man writes that
in prosopopeia, “Voice assumes mouth, eye and finally face. . . . Prosopopeia
is the trope of autobiography, by which one’s name . . . is made as intelligible
and memorable as a face.”75 And so, through a triple layering of metaphors
that reach across artistic media, Boulez retools Mallarmé’s language in Pli
selon pli through an act of prosopopeia as a means of summoning his voice,
transmuting it into music to conjure the impression of his face. This makes
of Pli selon pli a portrait that shares aspects of the genre as it is manifested in
the literary, musical, and visual arts.
Nevertheless, Boulez’s conclusion in “Sonate, Que me Veux- tu?”
might seem to preclude the use of prosopopeia to conjure the presence
of the author. He suggests that in their writings, figures such as Mallarmé
and Joyce have succeeded in effacing themselves and creating a kind of
39
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 39 )
should go beyond the [artist’s] personality. . . . That is when I use the term “anonym-
ity”: When the writer or the composer is no longer necessary as a presence; when the
work goes beyond the person and is much stronger than the person himself. . . . With
“anonymous” I mean beyond the author. A work that remains in itself—and this is very
important.78
Boulez’s theory of anonymity and the loss of the author’s voice in sym-
bolist and modernist literature resonates strongly with the argument of
the influential essay “The Death of the Author” by the French structuralist
critic Roland Barthes, written in 1968, only a few years after “Sonate, Que
me Veux-tu?” In this essay Barthes proposes that in the novel, “As soon as a
fact is narrated . . . the voice loses its origin, the author enters into his own
death, writing begins.”79 Barthes writes this thesis in part to oppose the per-
sistence of critical approaches to literature in which “The author still reigns”
and “the explanation of a work is always sought in the man or woman who
produced it, as if it were always in the end . . . the voice of a single person,
the author ‘confiding in us.’ ”80 But in spite of Boulez’s claims about the abso-
lutism of the poetry of the author whose works form the textual basis of
Pli selon pli, this composition in fact accomplishes the opposite of the kind
of anonymity that Boulez describes. Instead of marking the death of this
author, divorcing his voice from its origin, or reaching beyond his person-
ality, the composition uses Mallarmé’s words to summon his presence, or
“make his face,” through the process of prosopopeia in which the author’s
words gesture directly toward his identity.
Pli selon pli conjures Mallarmé in two principal respects, one essentially
narrative and the other more conceptual, but each produced by way of
Boulez’s experiments with sound and with musical form, from movement
to movement and across the work as a whole. And through these represen-
tational modes, the composition, as innovative as it is both structurally and
as a work of musical representation, evokes the likeness of the deceased
author rather than announcing his death. In this manner, Pli selon pli comes
in some respects to resemble the rather traditional critical form that Barthes
sought to move beyond, the “His Life and Works” genre of biography or lit-
erary portrait.
40
In the narrative sense, the five movements of Pli selon pli form an arc
that begins with a birth and ends with a death and crosses through a life
in between. The first movement, “Don,” is based on a poem Mallarmé
published early in his career, in 1865, at the early age of twenty-three. The
theme of this text is the creation of a poem (Boulez suggests that in his
musical arrangement, Mallarmé’s “don du poëme” is transformed into a
“don de l’oeuvre,” a “gift of the [musical] work”),81 described according to
the metaphor of a new mother’s harrowing labor and birth. Boulez uses
only the first line, “Je t’apporte l’enfant d’une nuit d’Idumée!” (I bring you
the child of an Idumaean night!); Mallarmé’s original continues, “O la ber-
ceuse, avec ta fille et l’innocence /De vos pieds froids, acceuille une horri-
ble naissance” (O nursing mother, with your child and the innocence /Of
your cold feet, receive this horrible birth).82 As Boulez put it, “if you read
the entire poem, that is a kind of excruciating experience of giving birth
to the poem.”83 Boulez’s first movement follows the poem’s opening line
with individual words and phrases borrowed from the three sonnets that
are adapted in the ensuing “Improvisations.” “Don” introduces these frag-
ments in a perfunctory manner as though giving the gift of life to the work’s
subsequent poems and their musical settings, which will fully take form and
find their legs in the movements to follow.84
The sonnets that form the basis of the three “Improvisations” that come
next were published in 1885, 1887, and 1895, respectively, when Mallarmé
was in his forties and fifties. The final movement, whose title is abstracted
from Mallarmé’s “Tombeau de Verlaine” to the shorter and less specific
“Tombeau,” dates to 1897, and though it was written to commemorate
Verlaine shortly after his passing, it becomes, in Boulez’s hands, a reminder
of the death of Mallarmé the year after he wrote the poem. In this move-
ment, Boulez incorporates only the final line of the sonnet, “Un peu pro-
fond ruisseau calomnié la mort” (A shallow stream calumniated death).85
In this musical setting the text enters late in the movement, arranged in a
highly melismatic fashion that renders it essentially unintelligible, until the
final two syllables, “la mort,” meaning “death.” These words can be heard
more clearly, at the very conclusion, embedded within an extended elegiac
drone in the orchestra and “Parlé sans timbre, uniquement sur le souffle”
(Spoken without timbre, only breathed), as the score instructs. By com-
bining these five poems in this manner, Pli selon pli: Portrait de Mallarmé
offers something analogous in form to a chronological literary portrait or
biographical study of Mallarmé, the type of text that might bear the subti-
tle “His Life and Works,” in which key poems spanning the middle and late
periods of the poet’s career are framed by musical settings of the first line of
an early poem that implies the subject of his birth and the closing words of
a late sonnet that commemorates his death.86
41
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 41 )
The voice of this mother of poetry resembles the muted timbres of Baroque
instruments when their strings are bowed, plucked, or struck. And in “Le
vierge, le vivace et le bel aujourd’hui,” Mallarmé evokes (absent) music in
the recollection of the silent singing voice of the swan trapped on an icy lake:
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 43 )
In the following sonnet in Pli selon pli, “A la nue accablante tu,” the hint of a
gust of air producing musical sounds from an instrument is compounded by
a reference to the trumpet, which in this instance is heard as a muffled, dis-
tant sound rather than as music emerging directly from the original source:
A la nue accablante tu
Basse de basalte et de laves
A même les échos esclaves
Par une trompe sans vertu
(Stilled by the crushing cloud /low of basalt and lava /by even the
enslaved /echoes of a trumpet not loud [without quality].)100
It seems implicit in this highly abstract poem that the trumpet is sounding the
distress signal of a capsized ship; beneath the sea foam, the trumpet’s timbre is
stifled and indistinct, rendered ineffective in its task. This notion is mirrored
at the conclusion of the poem by an alternative interpretation of the foam as
the white hair of a sunken siren. From underwater, the voice of this mythi-
cal creature, whose seductive song tempted Odysseus on his voyage home in
Homer’s tale, is silenced, only a whispered or remembered echo of a sound.
In the final poem of the set, “Tombeau de Verlaine,” Mallarmé returns to the
theme of birdsong first taken up with reference to the swan trapped in the ice:
The sonic ambiguity of the previous poems, with their unsinging voices,
instruments at rest, and sounds carried by echoes or muffled by water, is here
augmented by the use of the conditional tense; we are told that something usu-
ally happens if the ringdove coos, but do not know whether, in fact, it does coo.
The sounds conjured in Mallarmé’s works seem finally to resonate in the
real world through Boulez’s music, whose timbral variety and innovation
evokes the silent birdsong, echoes, wind-strummed strings, and glittering
44
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 45 )
experimenting with how they can be made to fold in on, in the manner of,
and as determined by one another.107
Though Boulez does not adopt any additional text from “Remémoration
d’amis belges” in Pli selon pli, the poem is essential to the development of
the five-movement portrait. This sonnet describes in abstract terms the ris-
ing of the mist in the Belgian city of Bruges to reveal the old stones that
construct its buildings. Boulez describes the poem as follows: “Under
something absolutely vague, which you cannot grasp, suddenly the reality
is there, in front of you. . . . For me . . . you have to wait patiently before
the real face of the world is revealed to you.”108 In the liner notes to the
first recording of Pli selon pli, Boulez explains that much as the mist lifts
to uncover the architecture of Bruges, “In a similar manner the develop-
ment of the five pieces reveals, ‘fold upon fold,’ a portrait of Mallarmé him-
self.”109 At first blush, the series of increasingly complex musical treatments
from one “Improvisation” to the next in Pli selon pli arguably appears to do
the opposite, to enshroud further and further, with every musical fold, the
already abstract poetic symbolism. Mallarmé’s language, with an abstrac-
tion that famously often borders on the unintelligible for even the most
diligent reader, becomes progressively more difficult to make out in each
successive vocal setting, the last of which uses only three lines of the poem,
and the labyrinthine musical forms simultaneously grow less obvious in
their connection to the French sonnet forms Mallarmé uses. But on closer
examination, it becomes clear that Boulez is performing, through music,
an archaeological analysis of Mallarmé’s writings—both the poems Boulez
selects and the essays in which Mallarmé describes his ideas about music
and poetry—that gradually aims to lift the fog that blankets Mallarmé’s
abstract use of language by setting the poems to musical interpretations
that delve ever more deeply into the sonnets’ formal structures.110
In a published interview, Boulez explains of the middle movements of
Pli selon pli:
These Improvisations become an analysis of the sonnet structure, in a more and more
detailed and more and more profound way. The first takes a sonnet and uncovers only its
strophic character, which is not very intense work; the second is elaborated at the level of
the line and verse itself—in other words, it is already an analysis of the stanza; the third
proceeds in the sense that the line itself has a particular structure in terms of its position
within the sonnet.111
form: each is constructed of fourteen lines, split between an octet and ses-
tet, which are further divided into pairs of quatrains and tercets. They also
follow the same rhyme scheme, ABBA CCD EDE. “Le vierge, le vivace et
le bel aujourd’hui” is built of alexandrines, the traditional twelve-syllable
line found in French poetry going back at least to the twelfth century; “Une
dentelle s’abolit” and “A la nue accablante tu” consist of octosyllabic lines.
James McCalla has shown through an analysis of Pli selon pli how the
musical treatment of the sonnet form, at first closely aligned in an obvious
manner, becomes progressively more complex in each “Improvisation.”113
“Improvisation I” is divided into two major sections, separating the two
quatrains from the tercets that follow.114 Between these sections, a brief tran-
sition (measures 32–45), itself split into two parts, sits awkwardly as a sort of
interpolated miniature improvisation, in which, writes McCalla, Boulez “ini-
tiates his progressive disintegration of Mallarmé’s forms.”115 “Improvisation
II” is also written in a binary division that maps onto the two-part struc-
ture of the Petrarchan sonnet, but the separation between these sections is
considerably more vague, and melismatic text-setting and formal variabil-
ity in the work (certain decisions are left to the discretion of the conductor
and performers) replace the clear articulation and punctuation of the poem
and relatively straightforward musical structure of “Improvisation I.”116
“Improvisation III,” which is based on what is arguably the most challeng-
ing of the Mallarmé poems assembled in Pli selon pli, finally brings the grad-
ual breakdown of the musical transmutation of sonnet form to its furthest
extreme. As noted earlier, only the first three lines of the poem are incorpo-
rated into the movement, and they are set to music in such a way that they
become incomprehensible, converted into long, heavily ornamented melis-
mas that transform the poem’s vowel sounds into meaningless vocables and
all but bury the consonants and any sense of punctuation. By contrast with
“Improvisation I,” in which the musical structures are dictated by the lan-
guage, here the poetry is fully absorbed into the surrounding orchestration,
which has also dispensed with the binary form, replacing it with something
fractured and more opaque.117 Mallarmé’s poem disintegrates fully late in the
movement when the vocal line is no longer set to words, and the singer is
instead instructed to utter sounds sometimes with the mouth closed and at
other times with it open (the third line of the poem returns at the conclu-
sion of the movement). Across the three “Improvisations,” Boulez’s musical
setting has progressively plumbed the depths of Mallarmé’s poetic forms and
syntactical innovations, in a way that mirrors how Mallarmé’s texts reached
perpetually away from clarity of meaning and syntax, and toward a state of
“Musique, par excellence.”118
Boulez wrote Pli selon pli principally as a portrait of Mallarmé, but he
also viewed it as a form of self-portrait. The work is a double portrait in
47
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 47 )
which Boulez worked out a method of “transmuting” poetry into music that
would bring together Mallarmé’s theory of an ideal poetry as “Musique, par
excellence” with his own notion of a literary music inspired by the symbol-
ist and modernist syntax of Mallarmé and Joyce. Additionally, while the
portrait follows a narrative structure to depict Mallarmé across his life, from
his birth, through a chronological tour of his mature poetic writings, and to
his death, it accounts for a considerable portion of Boulez’s career as well,
as about thirty-two years span the period from his first work on the move-
ments that would make up Pli selon pli to the completion of his final revi-
sions. And the piece also incorporates and adapts fragments of other works
by Boulez: the vocal line in “Improvisation I,” for example, is based on the
pitch sequence in the unpublished “Strophes” for solo flute (1957),119 and
this movement also reuses and orchestrates material from the solo piano
Notations, numbers 5 and 9 (1945).120
But Boulez saw the work not only as a portrait of the author and, perhaps
more abstractly, a portrait of the composer, but also as the material from
which a listener can fashion a self-portrait. Though the notion that a work
of art permits spectators to explore their own identities is far from novel,
Boulez offers a unique metaphor to link the experience of contemplating a
portrait with the mirror’s reflection and with the layering of representations
and art forms that inspired the title of this work:
The listener can make his own portrait after that. He can look at himself in the work.
Sometimes in museums some paintings are protected by glass. Francis Bacon likes his
paintings to be presented like that, so that people are confusing the painting and their
own face reflected in this glass panel. That is exactly the comparison I would like to make
for the person listening to this piece of mine.121
Pli selon pli presents a complex sonic adaptation of some of the most
abstract poetry of Mallarmé, but on close listening, it might offer to lift the
fog that veils our own sense of who we are, what constitutes our selves at
a given moment, and where we stand in relation to the art we contemplate
and interpret. As listeners, we are invited to seek out our faint reflections in
the music, as they are superimposed, fold according to transparent fold over
the likenesses of Mallarmé and Boulez.
CONCLUSION
In “Buffie Johnson” and Pli selon pli, Thomson and Boulez, like most paint-
ers and authors of portraits in the visual arts and literature, aim to represent
something of their subjects’ unique identities or selves. Thomson created
48
his portrait in front of his sitter, in order to depict what he called “pres-
ence,” a kind of energy or attitude that he felt people naturally and spon-
taneously reveal during a personal encounter. Boulez engaged in a creative
process that recalls the oratorical device of prosopopeia, recycling and
transmuting Mallarmé’s language in order to conjure the impression of his
presence. And in their very different portraits, both Thomson and Boulez
portray their subjects’ artistic processes: Thomson composes a depiction
of Johnson’s act of sketching in charcoal, while Boulez delves deeply into
the experimental literary techniques that Mallarmé developed within the
framework of centuries-old poetic forms.
In an essay about painted portraiture, the French philosopher Jean-Luc
Nancy writes that the portrait does not merely depict a subject’s identity,
but in fact contains it: “The person ‘in itself ’ is ‘in’ the painting. Devoid
of any inside, the painting is the inside or the intimacy of the person. It
is, in short, the subject of its subject.”122 The portrait, for Nancy, is not
so much a representation as a presentation; it does not portray the self,
but rather originates it. According to this notion, we can understand the
portrait as revealing the self to us directly and without mediation, rather
than as a form of secondary source material that might help us in coming
to understand a person’s identity, or as a translucent layer, like the surface
of Mallarmé’s icy lake or his lace curtain waving in the window, that ren-
ders the subject at once visible but also separate from us.123 To the extent
that we can consider Thomson’s and Boulez’s portraits as also being self-
portraits—something that both authors suggested, Thomson in his title
and Boulez in his later statements—this directness arises out of the sense
that Johnson and Mallarmé are simultaneously represented by their por-
traits and engaged in creating portraits of their composers, from within the
music. Nancy writes, “The portrait is less the recollection of a (memora-
ble) identity than it is the recollection of an (immemorial) intimacy.”124 It
is ultimately the intimacy of relationships—between Thomson and Stein,
Thomson and Johnson, Boulez and the writings of Mallarmé, and the lis-
tener and the sounds of these compositions—that is most compellingly
depicted in the overlapping folds of music, language, and visual art in these
musical portraits.
NOTES
1. William Hazlitt, “On the Imitation of Nature (1814),” in A. R. Waller and Arnold Glover
(eds.), The Collected Works of William Hazlitt, 12 vols. (London: J. M. Dent, 1904), xi: 221.
2. George Eliot, Daniel Deronda, 2 vols. (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1876), i: 119.
3. A. S. Byatt, Portraits in Fiction (London: Chatto and Windus, 2001), 1.
4. Byatt, Portraits in Fiction, 1.
49
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 49 )
16. Virgil Thomson, Virgil Thomson (New York: Knopf, 1966), 97. On the relationship
between Thomson and Stein, see Thomas Dilworth and Susan Holbrook (eds.), The
Letters of Gertrude Stein and Virgil Thomson: Composition as Conversation (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2010), 3–22. A collection of several of Thomson’s writings on Stein
can be found in Richard Kostelanetz (ed.), Virgil Thomson: A Reader: Selected Writings
1924–1984 (New York: Routledge, 2002), 201–13.
17. Linda Simon (ed.), Gertrude Stein: A Composite Portrait (New York: Discus Books,
1974), 121.
18. Kostelanetz, Virgil Thomson: A Reader, 212.
19. Thomson, Virgil Thomson, 90.
20. Anthony Carl Tommasini, “The Musical Portraits by Virgil Thomson,” Musical Quarterly
70.2 (Spring 1984): 239; Thomson, Virgil Thomson, 123.
21. Thomson, Virgil Thomson, 124.
22. Vincent Giroud, Picasso and Gertrude Stein (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art;
New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2006), 20.
23. Giroud, Picasso and Gertrude Stein, 16–17. For more on the close relationship between
Stein and Picasso, see Lucy Daniel, Gertrude Stein (London: Reaktion, 2009), 57–9.
24. Giroud, Picasso and Gertrude Stein, 26–7.
25. Giroud, Picasso and Gertrude Stein, 29.
26. Daniel, Gertrude Stein, 64.
27. Giroud, Picasso and Gertrude Stein, 30.
28. Giroud, Picasso and Gertrude Stein, 34.
29. Stein’s literary portraits in turn influenced other modernist visual artists in their work in
the genre. For example, Charles Demuth found inspiration in her works for his “poster
portraits,” a series that included his image of William Carlos Williams addressed in the
introduction of this book, as well as his portrait of Stein, titled “Love Love Love.” See
Daniel, Gertrude Stein, 91. On her influence on visual portraiture, see also Wendy Steiner,
“Postmodern Portraits,” Art Journal 46.3 (Autumn 1987): 173–7.
30. Gertrude Stein, “Portraits and Repetition,” in Lectures in America (London: Virago, 1985,
orig. 1935), 178. For some years in the early stage of her career, Stein attempted to develop
a theory of human typology. She worked out her ideas in a number of texts, including
The Making of Americans, written over seven years between 1905 and 1912, in the middle
of which period she produced her first portraits. On Stein’s categorizations of character
types, see Steiner, Exact Resemblance, 32–41.
31. Stein, “Portraits and Repetition,” 181, 171; Steiner, “Postmodern Portraits,” 173.
32. Steiner, “Postmodern Portraits,” 174.
33. Steiner, Exact Resemblance, 29. On the influence of James’s psychology on Stein’s
thought, see also Allison Blizzard, Portraits of the 20th Century Self: An Interartistic
Study of Gertrude Stein’s Literary Portraits and Early Modernist Portraits by Paul
Cézanne, Henri Matisse and Pablo Picasso (Frankfurt am Main and Berlin: Peter Lang,
2004), 36–40.
34. Steiner, Exact Resemblance, 30.
35. Steiner, Exact Resemblance, 31.
36. Stein, “Portraits and Repetition,” 197–8. Steiner divides Stein’s portrait-writing into three
periods, the first from 1908 to 1913, the second from 1913 to 1925, and the third lasting
from 1926 until her death twenty years later. Steiner, Exact Resemblance, 65.
37. Stein, “Portraits and Repetition,” 183.
38. Steiner, Exact Resemblance, 44.
39. Stein, “Portraits and Repetition,” 198. See also her description of this process on 178.
40. As Stein writes in “Portraits and Repetition,” 188–92, around 1912 she expanded her
process of listening and talking to include looking as well.
41. On Stein’s writings about insistence as a technique she developed throughout her literary
oeuvre, see Steiner, Exact Resemblance, 49–50.
42. Stein, “Portraits and Repetition,” 167–8.
43. Stein, “Portraits and Repetition,” 198.
44. Stein, “Portraits and Repetition,” 198.
51
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 51 )
45. Virgil Thomson, “Of Portraits and Operas,” Antaeus 21/22 (Spring/Summer
1976): 208–10.
46. Virgil Thomson, Preface to Anthony Tommasini, Virgil Thomson’s Musical Portraits
(Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press, 1986), ix–x (x).
47. Tommasini, “Musical Portraits by Virgil Thomson,” 243.
48. Thomson, Virgil Thomson, 124.
49. Thomson, Preface, x.
50. Thomson, Preface, ix.
51. The directness with which these representations aim to recreate the effect of the unmedi-
ated impression one has in a fleeting encounter with another person reflects what philos-
opher and literary critic Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht has called the “production of presence.”
Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht, Production of Presence: What Meaning Cannot Convey (Redwood
City, CA: Stanford University Press, 2004). A similar effect of an unmediated, momentary
impression is produced by this book’s cover, which depicts a close-up black-and-white
photograph of Gumbrecht staring out at the viewer, unsmiling and with tired eyes and
unkempt hair, as though in a spontaneous and unprepared encounter with the reader.
52. Gumbrecht outlines his conception of epiphany as a mode of experiencing presence
through art in Production of Presence, 94–5, 111–14. Carolyn Abbate distinguishes the
“drastic” experience of music in performance from the “gnostic” act of interpreting a
musical work, in terms that overlap with Gumbrecht’s theories of the production of pres-
ence and the interpretation of meaning. Carolyn Abbate, “Music—Drastic or Gnostic?,”
Critical Inquiry 30.3 (Spring 2004): 505–36 (536).
53. Dilworth and Holbrook, Letters of Gertrude Stein and Virgil Thomson, 91–2.
54. Dilworth and Holbrook, Letters of Gertrude Stein and Virgil Thomson, 102–3. In a subse-
quent letter he mentions the portrait again to reiterate and elaborate on his praise (105).
55. Reprinted in Dilworth and Holbrook, Letters of Gertrude Stein and Virgil Thomson, 307.
56. Tommasini, Virgil Thomson’s Musical Portraits, 17.
57. Gertrude Stein, “If I Told Him: A Completed Portrait of Picasso,” in Joan Retallack (ed.),
Gertrude Stein (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), 190.
58. Stein, “If I Told Him,” 191.
59. On Boulez’s revisions, see Philippe Albèra, “Entretien avec Pierre Boulez,” in Philippe
Albèra (ed.), Pli selon pli de Pierre Boulez: Entretien et études (Geneva: Éditions
Contrechamps, 2003), 16.
60. The Mallarmé poems assembled in Pli selon pli are translated in William Matheson, “Fold
Upon Fold: Stéphane Mallarmé and Pierre Boulez,” Yearbook of Comparative and General
Literature 36 (1987): 75–9 (77–9).
61. Susan Bradshaw, “The Instrumental and Vocal Music,” in William Glock (ed.), Pierre
Boulez: A Symposium (London: Eulenberg, 1986), 180–1.
62. These are included in Pierre Boulez, Notes of an Apprenticeship, trans. Herbert Weinstock
(New York: Knopf, 1968), 305–91; and Pierre Boulez, Orientations: Collected Writings,
ed. Jean-Jacques Nattiez, trans. Martin Cooper (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1985). Jonathan Goldman argues that, taken together, these miniature literary por-
traits merge into a larger literary self-portrait of Boulez. Jonathan Goldman, The Musical
Language of Pierre Boulez: Writings and Compositions (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2011), 41.
63. Pierre Boulez, “Sonate, Que me Veux- tu?,” trans. David Noakes and Paul Jacobs,
Perspectives of New Music 1.2 (Spring 1963): 32. Boulez writes in particular about the
unique typographical structure of Mallarmé’s Coup de Dés and the formal considerations
he learned from Le Livre.
64. Boulez, “Sonate, Que me Veux-tu?,” 32–3.
65. Goldman, Musical Language of Pierre Boulez, 14. For an analysis of openness in artworks,
see Umberto Eco, The Open Work, trans. Anna Cancogni (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 1989).
66. Alex Ross, “Encrypted,” New Yorker, April 11, 2016.
67. Charles Rosen, Freedom and the Arts: Essays on Music and Literature (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 2012), 354.
52
68. “Peindre, non la chose, mais l’effet qu’elle produit.” Stéphane Mallarmé, Correspondance,
ed. Lloyd James Austin and Henri Mondor, 11 vols. (Paris: Gallimard, 1959), i: 137. The
literary scholar Malcolm Bowie writes that for readers of Mallarmé’s deliberately difficult
poetry, “our most important collaboration with the poet begins when we ourselves agree
to be uncertain.” Malcolm Bowie, Mallarmé and the Art of Being Difficult (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1978), x.
69. On Le Livre as an open work of art, see Eco, Open Work, 12–13. On Boulez’s early encoun-
ters with Mallarmé and Le Livre, see Albèra, “Entretien avec Pierre Boulez,” 7.
70. Pierre Boulez, Boulez on Music Today, trans. Susan Bradshaw and Richard Rodney Bennett
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1971), 19.
71. Erling E. Guldbrandsen, “Pierre Boulez in Interview, 1996 (IV) Some Broader Topics,”
Tempo 65.258 (October 2011): 37.
72. Several years before Boulez made this statement in the interview cited in the previous
note, James McCalla argued similarly in an analysis of Pli selon pli that the work is a por-
trait of Boulez that reflects the composer’s own “mindset and mental processes.” James
McCalla, “Sea-Changes: Boulez’s Improvisations sur Mallarmé,” Journal of Musicology 6.1
(Winter 1988): 83–106 (83).
73. Translated in Mary M. Breatnach, “Pli selon pli. A Conflation of Theoretical Stances,”
in Walter Bernhart, Steven Paul Scher, and Werner Wolf (eds.), Word and Music
Studies: Defining the Field: Proceedings of the First International Conference on Word and
Music Studies at Graz, 1997 (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1999), 273.
74. Quintilian, Institutes of Oratory, Book 9, Chapter 2, http://rhetoric.eserver.org/quin-
tilian/9/chapter2.html, accessed June 21, 2016. On the relationship of modern literary
portraiture to prosopopeia, see Wallen, “Between Text and Image,” 55; Steiner, Exact
Resemblance, 12.
75. Paul de Man, “Autobiography as De-facement,” MLN 94.5 (Dec. 1979): 919–30 (926).
76. Boulez, “Sonate, Que me Veux-tu?,” 44.
77. Erling E. Guldbrandsen, “Pierre Boulez in Interview, 1996 (III) Mallarmé, Musical Form
and Articulation,” Tempo 65.257 ( July 2011): 11.
78. Guldbrandsen, “Pierre Boulez in Interview, 1996 (III),” 11.
79. Roland Barthes, “The Death of the Author,” in Image—Music—Text, trans. Stephen Heath
(New York: Hill and Wang, 1977), 142. Boulez was acquainted with Barthes; he once
stated, “I met DeLeuze [sic], Foucault, Roland Barthes, Derrida. I met and read all those
people.” Rocco Di Pietro, Dialogues with Boulez (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2001), 56.
80. Barthes, “Death of the Author,” 143.
81. Boulez, Orientations, 174. Originally published in the liner note to the recording Pierre
Boulez, BBC Symphony Orchestra, Boulez Conducts Boulez—Pli Selon Pli, Columbia
Masterworks, CBS 75.770, 1970.
82. Matheson, “Fold Upon Fold,” 77.
83. Guldbrandsen, “Pierre Boulez in Interview, 1996 (III),” 13.
84. See William Matheson, “Pli selon pli: Mallarmé (and Boulez),” Yearbook of Comparative
and General Literature, 36 (1987): 84–7 (85).
85. Matheson, “Fold Upon Fold,” 79.
86. Mary Breatnach shows that in Mallarmé’s reference to death in this final poem of the set,
there lies the implication of a kind of permanence to life as well. Mary Breatnach, Boulez
and Mallarmé: A Study in Poetic Influence (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 1996), 108–9.
87. Célestin Deliège, Pierre Boulez: Conversations with Célestin Deliège (London: Eulenberg,
1976), 94.
88. Guldbrandsen, “Pierre Boulez in Interview, 1996 (III),” 11.
89. Deliège, Pierre Boulez, 93.
90. Guldbrandsen, “Pierre Boulez in Interview, 1996 (III),” 12. Webern used imitation
in compositions such as the third movement of Five Pieces for String Quartet (1909),
which features imitative gestures between voices in which instruments follow so closely
upon one another that they can be found in an analysis but are essentially inaudible to
the listener. On Boulez’s interest in Webern’s experimentation with canons, see Goldman,
Musical Language of Pierre Boulez, 51–2.
53
M u s i c a l a n d L i t e r a ry P o rt r a i t u r e ( 53 )
artist’s creation; the artwork becomes both portrait and self-portrait of each individual
spectator. Andrew Graham-Dixon, Sandy Nairne, Sarah Howgate, and Jo Higgins, 21st-
Century Portraits (London: National Portrait Gallery, 2013), 52.
122. Jean-Luc Nancy, “The Look of the Portrait,” in Simon Sparks (ed.), Multiple Arts: The
Muses II (Redwood City, CA: Stanford University Press, 2006), 225.
123. Nancy, “Look of the Portrait,” 226.
124. Nancy, “Look of the Portrait,” 239.
5
CH A P T E R 2
pairings of sonic and visual effects: “Eye and ear supplement each other in
orthogonal function. The eye seizes the exterior, surface, form, and color.
The ear seizes through sound, which is particular to each body, the internal
structure which the eye spies outwardly.”3 As identity is believed to reside
beyond physical likeness, music adopts an important role in creating an
impression of the hidden reaches of the self.
In further exploring the relationship between music and the visual in
the realm of portraiture, this chapter considers musical portraits whose
composers, in seeking new ways to depict the personal identities of their
acquaintances, reflect the influence of contemporary trends in the graphic
arts. The chapter focuses in particular on twentieth-and twenty-first-cen-
tury musical portraits of contemporary artists, Morton Feldman’s “de
Kooning” (1963) and Philip Glass’s “A Musical Portrait of Chuck Close”
(2005). By considering these musical portraits in relation to works by the
artists they represent, the chapter reveals how Feldman and Glass develop
musical structures that operate as metaphors for visual strategies of repre-
sentation. Through novel experiments with the device of musical ekphrasis,
involving the use of music to depict a visual representation, or in these cases
to describe styles of painting, these composers aim to portray not only the
personalities of their subjects, but also their distinctive artistic techniques.4
For example, in Feldman’s portrait of Willem de Kooning and Glass’s por-
trait of Chuck Close, the metaphorically “colorful” use of legato lines and
vivid timbral effects or the “angular” qualities of sudden juxtapositions
between notes of different durations, pitch range, and volume operate as
sonic analogues to the varied colors or sharply intersecting lines on these
painters’ canvases. In such instances, the aesthetic character of the artist’s
works is understood to be an important aspect of his identity. Although
ekphrasis often involves the musical portrayal of an existing work of art, in
the case of these compositions the subject of the ekphrasis is not any partic-
ular paintings by de Kooning or Close; rather, the musical portraits conjure
for the imagination, more generally, the technical and stylistic attributes
associated with these artists’ oeuvres.
As the subject of each of these musical portraits is the identity of the art-
ist named in the title, the paintings they evoke for the mind’s eye may be
imaginary self-portraits by these artists. Importantly, Feldman and Glass
have chosen to depict artists whose characteristic styles seem especially well
suited to their own musical techniques. Feldman’s works generally explore
aspects of musical movement and stasis and expansion of the sense of time,
in ways that overlap with de Kooning’s intricately planned but apparently
violent and impromptu canvases. Similarly, Glass’s distinctive use of musi-
cal patterns that slowly transform through incremental variation resembles
the repeated lozenges of layered colors that appear from a distance to merge
57
M u s i c a l P o rt r a i t s o f V i s ua l A rt i s t s ( 57 )
M u s i c a l P o rt r a i t s o f V i s ua l A rt i s t s ( 59 )
thanking him late in life “for teaching me the plastic possibilities of musical
shape.”24
For Feldman, notation was a crucial aspect of the composer’s art, and
he developed novel notational practices multiple times during his career.
These included his grid-like graphic scores for Projections, constructed
of squares and rectangles indicating tessitura and duration and contain-
ing numbers designating the quantity of pitches to be played; his free-
duration scores, in works such as “Two Pianos” (1957), featuring staves
without bar lines and note heads without stems; and the solid and dotted
lines linking stemless note heads in different staves to signify simulta-
neity and sequence in “de Kooning” and other compositions from the
early 1960s.25 Feldman approached the creation of the score as though
he were painting. He frequently invoked metaphors that likened notat-
ing the score to daubing colors or hues (sounds) on a surface (time, con-
ceived of as a static “aural plane”). He elaborated, “My obsession with
surface is the subject of my music. In that sense, my compositions are
really not ‘compositions’ at all. One might call them time canvases in
which I more or less prime the canvas with an overall hue of the music.”26
This rather obscure description of his method appears to indicate a dis-
tinction between foreground and background in his music, the notion
that principal musical figures are heard before a background “colored”
by musical atmosphere, like the backdrop a portraitist chooses to depict
behind his subject.
Feldman’s music was thus caught, in his view, “Between Time and Space.
Between painting and music. Between the music’s construction, and its sur-
face,” a liminal position described by the title of the 1969 essay in which he
wrote these words, and of a corresponding composition from the same year,
“Between Categories.”27 This phrase can best be understood as reflecting
Feldman’s desire for a vertical music from which time would be eliminated
as a dimension of experience, but also as recognizing that pure “verticality”
could not be achieved: music, which cannot be completely static, can nev-
ertheless represent, through its notation, a desire to be static like painting.
Of course painting does not permit complete stasis either: there is an ines-
capable temporal dimension to the contemplation of a painting as well as to
its creation. Indeed, the time involved in making a painting was frequently
acknowledged and celebrated among the abstract expressionists, particu-
larly in the case of Jackson Pollock, whose unique process became the sub-
ject of an important part of the discourse around his works. De Kooning’s
paintings, too, in their seemingly energetic and spontaneous brushstrokes,
drew attention to the temporal dimension of their creation.
In developing his ideas of notation for compositions that would occupy a
space between painting and music, Feldman was inspired by the techniques
61
M u s i c a l P o rt r a i t s o f V i s ua l A rt i s t s ( 61 )
He means an identity that is a sort of grown-up surrealist “I”—one that extends experi-
ence, balancing inside and outside, subject and object, discipline and freedom in a way
that makes his music a sort of living sound object, a motif in time, the silence of the
white canvas painted with sound. Like the action painters, he makes one aware of his
medium as if it were a substance. . . . Attention switches from silence to sound and back
again in a way reminiscent of figure-ground relationships in the painting he admires.35
M u s i c a l P o rt r a i t s o f V i s ua l A rt i s t s ( 63 )
Example 2.1: Morton Feldman, “de Kooning,” first page. Copyright © 1963 by C. F. Peters
Corporation. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
M u s i c a l P o rt r a i t s o f V i s ua l A rt i s t s ( 65 )
a descriptive visual impression of the musical sound, the score, with its long,
straight lines joining voices between staves and the sharp angles at which
these splayed vertical and diagonal lines meet, implies harsh sound patterns
that diverge in the viewer’s imagination from the atmospheric music the
ensemble produces when reading the score prescriptively as a set of perfor-
mance instructions. This conflict between the visual aspect of the score and
the sound of its performance recalls contrasts and surprises inherent in de
Kooning’s artworks. For Feldman, as for de Kooning, these conflicts arise
from the disruption of the audience’s expectations regarding the connec-
tion between artworks and the objects they represent. The irresolvable chal-
lenges Feldman poses to the standard metaphoric links between the senses
of sight and hearing serve in the depiction of what he understood to be the
essentially tragic quality of de Kooning’s art, especially in conjunction with
the more traditional association of the music’s ponderously slow tempo and
desultory indeterminacy with the sense of a melancholy sensibility.
The principal perceptual conflict between corresponding visual and aural
components of the work’s notation and performance arises in listening to
the piece while viewing the contours created by the lines joining simultane-
ous and sequential pitches, which, if the score is considered as a descriptive
representation of the sound, appears to indicate that the music could be
characterized as dynamic, energetic, angular, sharp, and fragmented. In fact
these markings in the score instruct the musicians in the performance of a
work that is leisurely and hushed, more rounded than pointed, and smooth
rather than jagged, focusing not on articulation and sustained sounds but
on decay and silence.
This contrast between the appearance of speed and harshness in the
notation and the almost static slowness and muffled timbres of the perfor-
mance in Feldman’s work resembles the gap between the appearance of de
Kooning’s canvases and the method by which he created them. Watching
de Kooning paint, Feldman was surprised to find that the artist produced
his seemingly spontaneous and hastily applied strokes of paint, for exam-
ple in his “Woman, I” (1950–1952, Figure 2.1), in an unexpectedly slow,
methodical, and extended process. Feldman recounted:
What was fascinating about watching de Kooning paint was that when you look at his
pictures they look very, very fast but if you see him paint, he paints very slowly. Because
of the way he would use a big brush, he would go like this and you would see that some-
thing is thinning out here, it seems gestural—but it’s not. It’s in slow motion. It’s fascinat-
ing. . . . I just didn’t believe it. Very slow and everything looked like speed.43
M u s i c a l P o rt r a i t s o f V i s ua l A rt i s t s ( 67 )
Figure 2.1: Willem de Kooning, “Woman, I,” 1950–1952, oil on canvas, 6 feet 3-7/8 x 58 inches.
© 2016 The Willem de Kooning Foundation/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. Digital Image
© The Museum of Modern Art/Licensed by SCALA/Art Resource, NY.
M u s i c a l P o rt r a i t s o f V i s ua l A rt i s t s ( 69 )
Philip Glass’s 2005 musical portrait of Chuck Close, for solo piano, is
another work that, like Feldman’s “de Kooning,” was created as a represen-
tation of an artist who was a close friend of the composer and who influ-
enced his stylistic development. The portrait was commissioned by pianist
Bruce Levingston, who was inspired to suggest the idea for the piece when
he viewed Close’s large-scale portrait of Glass hanging outside Caspary
Hall at Rockefeller University. Glass’s work is constructed of two move-
ments, though Glass originally conceived of it in another form, and its gen-
esis is the result of serendipity.50 Glass had prepared two alternate works
before choosing one that he favored as the final portrait, but his assistant
mistakenly delivered Levingston the abandoned version. Later, when the
error was discovered and Levingston received the composition Glass had
intended to fulfill the commission, the pianist was enamored of both, and
convinced Glass to combine them into a two-movement work, also per-
suading him of the order in which they should be played.
After hearing Levingston’s performance, Glass approved of the final
two-movement form of the musical portrait, stating, “I now think the cur-
rent order is the right order. This is the fortunes of happenstance and syn-
ergy.”51 The formal and harmonic attributes of Glass’s composition in its
final form allude to a narrative that depicts the trajectory of Close’s artistic
career from his days as a young artist to the present as well as the chronol-
ogy of major periods of emotional change during his life associated with
periods of fluctuating health. At the same time, the short modular rhyth-
mic and melodic gestures in “A Musical Portrait of Chuck Close” operate
through ekphrasis to evoke the small repeating and gradually changing
cells of overlapping colors typical of the technical construction of Close’s
works of portraiture. In this way the work’s title provokes the listener to
apprehend correspondences between Glass’s and Close’s signature artistic
techniques.52
Glass and Close met in Paris in 1964 through mutual friends, the art-
ists Richard Serra and Nancy Graves. They soon reunited in Manhattan,
where they became integrated into the art world, forming relationships
with prominent painters and sculptors, and occasionally collaborating;
for example, Graves and Sol LeWitt both created posters to advertise
Glass’s concerts.53 For a time Glass and Close worked as assistants in
Serra’s studio, and Glass, who raised money during periods of his early
career working as a plumber, laid the pipes in Close’s loft.54 Glass was
the subject of the 1969 painting “Phil,” one of Close’s first series of por-
traits, his oversized, highly realistic black-and-white Big Heads begun that
70
Figure 2.2: Chuck Close, “Phil,” 1969, acrylic on canvas, 108 x 84 inches. © Chuck Close, courtesy
Pace Gallery.
71
M u s i c a l P o rt r a i t s o f V i s ua l A rt i s t s ( 71 )
and art.58 Glass relied on process for much of his oeuvre prior to Einstein
on the Beach (1976), allowing formal principles such as additive rhythms
and cyclical structures to govern his work on compositions including “Two
Pages” (1969), “Music in Similar Motion” (1969), and “Music in Twelve
Parts” (1968–1974).59 Like Glass in this process-oriented period, Close has
worked within strict, self-imposed creative limitations to produce the final
image. In an early series of large painted portraits, for example, he created
images in the full spectrum of colors by building layers of diluted primary
colors—magenta, cyan, and yellow—directly on the canvas rather than
mixing colors on a palette.60 Though his paintings rely on representation
and likeness, Close has professed affinity for the creations of minimalist art-
ists including Donald Judd and LeWitt, figures who were also supportive of
and influential to Glass.61
Throughout his career, Close has worked almost exclusively in the genre
of portraiture, but his focus has been primarily on the development of the
complex processes through which he creates his works. He has only rarely
accepted commissions, and has argued that his aim is not to portray the
sitter’s character, but to find new methods of depicting facial structures
in an objective manner. He explains, “I just want to present [faces] very
neutrally and very thoughtfully. I don’t try to orchestrate a particular expe-
rience or crank it up for high-impact emotional effect.”62 His processes typ-
ically involve the division of the artistic surface into a grid that corresponds
to his maquette, an expanded version of the original photograph overlaid
with a grid.63 Though early on the grid was typically a tool to help him cre-
ate oversized photorealist representations of his photographic originals, it
began increasingly to remain visible in his finished artworks, as a repeating
set of borders within which he painted contrasting colors or marked dots or
thumbprints of varying hues.
Because of his goal of depicting a generalized image, an aesthetic charac-
ter at odds with the specificity typical of the genre of portraiture throughout
much of its history, Close tended early in his career to call his works “heads,”
rather than “portraits,” in order to avoid the expectations of the depiction of
identity associated with the genre. In a 1970 interview, he explained, “I tried
to purge my work of as much of the baggage of traditional portrait painting
as I could.”64 In spite of his protestations of aesthetic neutrality, however,
Close’s portraits of family and friends lend themselves to interpretations of
his sitters’ characters and emotional states. In this way, they reveal that even
when an artist focuses only on the structures of the face and makes a con-
certed effort to avoid manufacturing affect, viewers will be prone to “read” a
portrait for signs of what a person’s exterior appearance can reveal about his
or her interior self and identity, as they do when regarding portraits from
other periods of the genre’s history as well as when meeting people face
72
M u s i c a l P o rt r a i t s o f V i s ua l A rt i s t s ( 73 )
Figure 2.3: Chuck Close, “Phil,” 2011–2012, oil on canvas, 108-5/8 x 84 inches. © Chuck Close,
courtesy Pace Gallery.
M u s i c a l P o rt r a i t s o f V i s ua l A rt i s t s ( 75 )
Levingston has said, “Every time I play the piece, I think about that phrase
Chuck used about regaining his ability to paint: ‘loss and celebration.’ ”72
If Glass’s composition constructs a narrative identity for Close in its
overarching harmonic and formal characteristics, it mimics his art in its
structural detail. As a work of ekphrasis, this musical portrait creates a
quasi-visual representation by calling to mind the metaphors that are often
used to describe music by analogy to visual media—metaphors of shape,
color, space, and line—in creating a “surface” texture that evokes Close’s
process-oriented techniques of creating visual portraits. In an analogous
manner to Close’s portraits built of dots, thumbprints, grids, and other
small units that repeat across his gridded maquette, Glass’s musical por-
trait is constructed of brief modular “bricks” including scales, arpeggios,
and rhythmic gestures that recur and gradually change in structure, pitch
content, and other traits. As they appear in the score, these compositional
units reflect the look of Close’s patterns (or the “insistence” of Gertrude
Stein’s reiterated linguistic motifs) in the way they repeat with slight vari-
ation; as they reach the ear in performance, they work as sonic metaphors
of the shapes and colors Close uses as the building blocks for his late grid-
based portraits.73 Perhaps the pianist’s hand, too, as it plays the undulat-
ing recurring patterns in Glass’s work, mimics Close’s hand as he makes
thumbprints across the page or holds the paintbrush against the canvas
and paints circle after circle.
Close has interpreted Glass’s portrait of him as representing the techni-
cal qualities of his works and the ways his artistic methods have developed
across his career: “The first movement is more like my earliest work, much
more minimal and reductive, almost black and white. And the second is the
musical equivalent of a riot of color. It’s celebratory in much the same way
I try to build these big color images out of lots of little pieces.”74 Glass has
indicated that he also views a correlation between the brief gestures out of
which his piece and Close’s portraits are created:
To me the second piece has an expansiveness to it, it just seems to keep going on and on.
And it’s like trying to find the edge of the canvas in one of Chuck’s paintings. There’s an
edge there because there has to be an edge somewhere. But in another way you could say,
well, why doesn’t it keep going forever?75
Glass hints that the double bar at the close of the movement stands as an
arbitrary ending, that the work provides an unfinished, fragmented rep-
resentation of his friend. This resembles, through ekphrasis, the grid-like
patterns in Close’s own works that could continue beyond the edge of the
canvas, and it also indicates that Close’s identity, as well, is not a fixed entity,
but will continue to develop and change beyond the completion of Glass’s
76
portrait. The end of the piece does not represent the end of a life or the
boundary of an identity; the work concludes, rather, simply because it must
stop at some point, but in ending abruptly, it acknowledges that it could
continue indefinitely.
CONCLUSION
M u s i c a l P o rt r a i t s o f V i s ua l A rt i s t s ( 77 )
NOTES
1. Henri Fantin-Latour, quoted in Therese Dolan, Manet, Wagner, and the Musical Culture of
Their Time (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2013), 161.
2. Johann Georg Sulzer, “General Theory of the Fine Arts,” in Nancy Kovaleff Baker and
Thomas Christensen (eds.), Aesthetics and the Art of Musical Composition in the German
Enlightenment: Selected Writings of Johann Georg Sulzer and Heinrich Christoph Koch, trans.
Nancy Kovaleff Baker (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 89–90.
3. Oskar Fischinger, “‘Der absolut Tonfilm’ von Ingenieur Oskar Fischinger,” Dortmunder
Zeitung, January 1, 1933, reprinted in translation as “The Composer of the Future and the
Absolute Sound Film,” trans. James Tobias, in Cindy Keefer and Jaap Guldemond (eds.),
Oskar Fischinger 1900–1967: Experiments in Cinematic Abstraction (Amsterdam: EYE
Filmmuseum; Los Angeles: Center for Visual Music, 2012), 96.
4. On ekphrasis and music, see, for example, Siglind Bruhn (ed.), Sonic Transformations of Literary
Texts: From Program Music to Musical Ekphrasis (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press, 2008),
7–10; Siglind Bruhn, “A Concert of Paintings: ‘Musical Ekphrasis’ in the Twentieth Century,”
Poetics Today 22.3 (Fall 2001): 551–605; Siglind Bruhn, Musical Ekphrasis: Composers
Responding to Poetry and Painting (Hillsdale, NY: Pendragon Press, 2000).
5. Morton Feldman, “Vertical Thoughts,” Kulchur 3.9 (Spring 1963): 88–9, reprinted in
Seán Kissane (ed.), Vertical Thoughts: Morton Feldman and the Visual Arts (Dublin: Irish
Museum of Modern Art, 2010), 3.
6. Feldman, “Vertical Thoughts,” 3.
7. Feldman, “Vertical Thoughts,” 3.
8. This phrase dates at least to a lecture Feldman gave in February 1951, and first appears in
print in his essay “Between Categories,” The Composer 1.2 (Sept. 1969): 73–7, reprinted
in B. H. Friedman (ed.), Give My Regards to Eighth Street: Collected Writings of Morton
Feldman (Cambridge, MA: Exact Change, 2000), 84. On the content of the 1951 lecture,
see Brett Boutwell, “Morton Feldman’s Graphic Notation: Projections and Trajectories,”
Journal of the Society for American Music 6.4 (November 2012): 475.
9. Amy C. Beal, “‘Time Canvasses’: Morton Feldman and the Painters of the New York
School,” in James Leggio (ed.), Music and Modern Art (New York: Routledge,
2002), 229.
10. R. Wood Massi, “Captain Cook’s First Voyage: An Interview with Morton Feldman (on 3.3.
1987),” Cum Notis Variorum 131 (April 1989): 7–12, reprinted in Chris Villars (ed.), Morton
Feldman Says: Selected Interviews and Lectures 1964–1987 (London: Hyphen, 2006), 218.
11. Brian O’Doherty, “Feldman Throws a Switch Between Sight and Sound,” New York Times,
February 2, 1964.
12. Morton Feldman, “Give My Regards to Eighth Street,” Art in America 59.2 (March/April
1971): 96–9, reprinted in Friedman, Give My Regards, 98.
13. De Kooning offered these interpretations in 1967 and 1975. Quoted in Richard Schiff,
Between Sense and de Kooning (London: Reaktion Books, 2011), 57. Harold Rosenberg
similarly interpreted de Kooning’s Woman paintings from 1950–1952 as depicting the art-
ist’s own individuality. See Debra Bricker Balken, Abstract Expressionism, Movements in
Modern Art Series (London: Tate, 2005), 43.
14. Morton Feldman, “Morton Feldman: Interview by Fred Orton and Gavin Bryars,” Studio
International 192.984 (November–December 1976): 244.
78
15. On parallels between Feldman’s music and Rothko’s paintings, and the ways both art-
ists discussed their work, see Steven Johnson, “Rothko Chapel and Rothko’s Chapel,”
Perspectives of New Music 32.2 (Summer 1994): 6–53; Brett Boutwell, “‘The Breathing
of Sound Itself ’: Notation and Temporality in Feldman’s Music to 1970,” Contemporary
Music Review 32.6 (2013): 539; Morton Feldman, “Rothko Chapel,” liner notes to Morton
Feldman: Rothko Chapel/For Frank O’Hara, Columbia Records/Odyssey Y34138, 1976,
LP, reprinted in Friedman, Give My Regards, 125–6. Feldman also acknowledged that he
adopted a partially autobiographical approach to the form of Rothko Chapel ( Johnson,
“Rothko Chapel,” 16).
16. Feldman, “Morton Feldman: Interview,” 244.
17. The title “Rabbi Akiba” refers to the influential first-to second-century Jewish religious
leader Akiba ben Joseph, a chief contributor to the Mishnah, the codification of Jewish law.
“The King of Denmark” refers to the Danish King Christian X who, according to legend,
wore a yellow Star of David during World War II as a sign of solidarity with his Jewish
subjects. Brian O’Doherty, “Morton Feldman: The Burgacue Years,” in Kissane, Vertical
Thoughts, 71.
18. The term “abstract expressionism” originated in a review by the New Yorker art critic
Robert Coates. Motherwell coined the moniker “New York School” in 1949. Balken,
Abstract Expressionism, 7, 26.
19. Juan Manuel Bonet, “I Learned More from Painters than I Learned from Composers,”
trans. Jonathan Brennan, in Kissane, Vertical Thoughts, 8. On Feldman’s relationship with
the abstract expressionists, see Jonathan W. Bernard, “Feldman’s Painters,” in Steven
Johnson (ed.), The New York Schools of Music and Visual Arts (New York: Routledge,
2002), 173–215.
20. Quoted in Bonet, “I Learned More from Painters,” 7.
21. Feldman discusses Piero della Francesca and Cézanne in “Between Categories,” 83–6, and
elsewhere.
22. Feldman describes this influence in Morton Feldman, “Crippled Symmetry,”
RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics 2 (Autumn 1981): 91–103, reprinted in Friedman, Give
My Regards, 134–49. See also Boutwell, “ ‘Breathing of Sound Itself,’ ” 540.
23. Morton Feldman, “Liner Notes,” Kulchur 2.6 (Summer 1962): 57–60, reprinted in
Friedman, Give My Regards, 7.
24. Bonet, “I Learned More from Painters,” 9.
25. On Feldman’s innovative scores of the early 1950s, see Boutwell, “Morton Feldman’s
Graphic Notation.” For a study of his graph scores, see David Cline, The Graph Music of
Morton Feldman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016).
26. Feldman, “Between Categories,” 88.
27. Feldman, “Between Categories,” 88.
28. O’Doherty, “Feldman Throws a Switch.”
29. Feldman, “Crippled Symmetry,” 147.
30. Feldman, “Crippled Symmetry,” 144.
31. Feldman, “Crippled Symmetry,” 145.
32. Tracy Caras and Cole Gagne, “Morton Feldman,” Soundpieces: Interviews with American
Composers (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 1982), 163–77, reprinted in Villars, Morton
Feldman Says, 90–1.
33. Feldman, “Crippled Symmetry,” 143.
34. O’Doherty, “Feldman Throws a Switch.”
35. O’Doherty, “Feldman Throws a Switch.”
36. Balken, Abstract Expressionism, 21.
37. Balken, Abstract Expressionism, 26.
38. On abstraction, meaning, and metaphor in abstract expressionist art, see Ann Gibson, “The
Rhetoric of Abstract Expressionism,” in Michael Auping (ed.), Abstract Expressionism: The
Critical Developments (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1987), 72.
39. Meyer Schapiro, Modern Art: 19th and 20th Centuries (New York: George Braziller, 1979),
218, 222.
40. Frank O’Hara, “New Directions in Music,” in Kissane, Vertical Thoughts, 89.
79
M u s i c a l P o rt r a i t s o f V i s ua l A rt i s t s ( 79 )
41. On “notational ekphrasis,” see Lydia Goehr, “How to Do More with Words: Two Views of
(Musical) Ekphrasis,” British Journal of Aesthetics 50.4 (October 2010): 408.
42. Morton Feldman, “A Life without Bach and Beethoven,” Listen 1 (May/June 1964): 14,
reprinted in Friedman, Give My Regards, 16.
43. Raoul Mörchen (ed.), Morton Feldman in Middelburg: Words on Music: Lectures and
Conversations, 2 vols. (Cologne: Edition MusikTexte, 2008), ii: 618.
44. Bernard, “Feldman’s Painters,” 199.
45. Boutwell, “ ‘Breathing of Sound Itself,’ ” 549.
46. Brian O’Doherty, American Masters: The Voice and the Myth (London: Thames and
Hudson, 1988), 122.
47. O’Doherty, Voice and the Myth, 120.
48. Friedman, Give My Regards, 6.
49. See, for instance, the perspective diagram of Leonardo da Vinci’s “Last Supper,”
c. 1495–1498, in Ross King, Leonardo and the Last Supper (London: Bloomsbury,
2012), 143.
50. Charles McGrath, “A Portraitist Whose Canvas is a Piano,” New York Times, April 22,
2005, www.nytimes.com/2005/04/22/arts/music/22glas.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1,
accessed June 21, 2016.
51. McGrath, “A Portraitist.”
52. For a similar observation, see also Tristian Evans, Shared Meanings in the Film Music of
Philip Glass: Music, Multimedia and Postminimalism (New York: Routledge, 2016), 27.
53. Keith Potter, Four Musical Minimalists: La Monte Young, Terry Riley, Steve Reich, Philip
Glass (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 266. For an autobiographical
account of Glass’s collaborations with other artists and his musical influences during the
1960s and 1970s in the Soho area of New York, see Philip Glass, Music by Philip Glass, ed.
Robert T. Jones (New York: Da Capo, 1987), 11–24. Published in England as Philip Glass,
Opera on the Beach, ed. Robert T. Jones (London: Faber and Faber, 1988).
54. Christopher Finch, Chuck Close: Life (London: Prestel, 2010), 9, 117–19.
55. Martin Friedman, Close Reading: Chuck Close and the Art of the Self- Portrait
(New York: Harry N. Abrams, 2005), 182.
56. Dodie Kazanjian, “Metropolitan Opera: Close Encounter,” Playbill Arts, March 14, 2008,
www.playbillarts.com/features/article/7587.html, accessed June 21, 2016.
57. Christopher Finch, Chuck Close: Work (London: Prestel, 2007), 103.
58. Finch, Chuck Close: Life, 157.
59. See Potter, Four Musical Minimalists, ch. 4. On the role of process in the composition of
“Two Pages,” see Wes York, “Form and Process (1981),” in Richard Kostelanetz (ed.),
Writings on Glass: Essays, Interviews, Criticism (New York: Schirmer, 1997), 60–79. On the
construction and premiere of “Music in Twelve Parts,” see Tim Page, “Music in 12 Parts
(1993),” in Kostelanetz, Writings on Glass, 98–101.
60. Finch, Chuck Close: Work, 76.
61. Friedman, Close Reading, 39; Potter, Four Musical Minimalists, 266.
62. Friedman, Close Reading, 54.
63. Finch, Chuck Close: Work, 44.
64. Quoted in Robert Storr, “Chuck Close: Angles of Refraction,” in Robert Storr (ed.), Chuck
Close (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1998), 44.
65. Friedman, Close Reading, 178.
66. Friedman, Close Reading, 13.
67. Wil S. Hylton, “The Mysterious Metamorphosis of Chuck Close,” New York Times
Magazine, July 13, 2016.
68. Hylton, “Mysterious Metamorphosis of Chuck Close.”
69. Hylton, “Mysterious Metamorphosis of Chuck Close.”
70. Scott Hicks (dir.), Glass: A Portrait of Philip in Twelve Parts (Port Washington, NY: Koch
Lorber Films, 2009, orig. 2007), DVD; Philip Glass, “It’s a State of Attention,” in Margery
Arent Safir (ed.), Robert Wilson from Within (Paris: Arts Arena, 2011), 99.
71. Glass’s composition is not publicly available in published form, but can be heard on Bruce
Levingston, Portraits, Orange Mountain Music 0025, 2006, compact disc.
80
CH A P T E R 3
Listening in on Composers’
Self-Portraits
Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is
merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter
who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am
afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul.
—Basil Hallward, in The Picture of Dorian Gray1
A t the turn of the thirteenth century, the artist known as Brother Rufillus
of Weissenau illuminated a Passionale (Lives of the Saints), in which
he offered attentive readers a self-conscious view of his creative process
in the form of a miniature self-image. Under an initial letter R, the artist
depicted himself holding a mahl stick and brush, using red paint (in refer-
ence to his name; rufus is Latin for red) to put the finishing touches on this
calligraphic representation of the first letter of both the word that continues
in the adjacent text and also his name (Figure 3.1). To the left of the artist
stands a table holding cups of paint, and he sits on a bench among other
tools of his trade: he occupies his artist’s studio, housed within the bottom
of the capital letter. In this playful image, the artist shows himself at work
creating the illumination the reader holds in his hands. The initial R serves
a dual purpose, as part of the book’s linguistic content and as a gesture
outside of the text, toward the creator of the very letters that combine to
produce the document’s meanings, and of the illustrations that depict and
ornament them. In this way the artist embeds himself within his creation.2
The self-reflexive effect of the subtle image in Brother Rufillus’s illu-
minated R can be found in large-scale painting as well, for example in Jan
van Eyck’s Ghent Altarpiece (1432), in which the artist is thought to have
depicted his own likeness as one of the judges on horseback on the left of
82
Figure 3.1: Brother Rufillus, Initial R, from a Passionale from Weissenau Abbey, c. 1170–1200,
Cod. Bodmer 127, f. 244r. Fondation Martin Bodmer, Cologny (Geneva).
the massive work, and in Raphael’s Vatican fresco “The School of Athens”
(1509–1511), in which the painter peeks out from behind a group of figures
to the far right, making eye contact with the viewer.3 The miniature embed-
ded self-image functions in part as a signature, attributing the painting to its
83
L i s t e n i n g i n o n Co mp o s e r s ’ S e lf - P o rt r a i t s ( 83 )
Figure 3.2: Eugène Atget, “Coiffeur, Palais Royal,” 1927, albumen silver print (gold-toned),
7 x 9-1/2 inches. Museum of Modern Art. Digital Image © The Museum of Modern Art/Licensed
by SCALA/Art Resource, NY.
creator. But beyond a simple attribution, it suggests that the larger work of
which it is a part does not only show the artist’s handiwork, but also reveals,
more profoundly, a view into the artist’s thoughts, access to the creative
inspiration that provides the underlying source of the painting’s substance.4
Centuries later a similar effect was created in the medium of photography,
in particular in the subtle reflections of the artist and his camera that can be
found in mirrors and windows in images by Eugène Atget such as “Coiffure,
Palais Royale” (1927) (Figure 3.2). This photograph is primarily a depic-
tion of a ubiquitous aspect of modern life rather than a self-portrait, but the
subtle reflection of Atget and his camera in the glass reminds the viewer of
the photographer’s method, and of the careful artifice involved in the crea-
tion of the image of a banal aspect of the everyday.
Despite music’s inability to convey detailed physical likeness, an anal-
ogous playful form of self-reference is found in a number of works dating
from the Baroque era to the present day, by composers who have used
monograms formed of their initials or letters from their names to deter-
mine patterns of pitches that conjure the impression of their presence in
the music. An early and well-known example is J. S. Bach’s incorporation of
his name, spelled with the pitches B-A-C-H (with B in German meaning
B♭ and H referring to B♮), in The Art of Fugue (early 1740s). Monograms
84
L i s t e n i n g i n o n Co mp o s e r s ’ S e lf - P o rt r a i t s ( 85 )
portraits that turn their focus back onto their creators. These autonomous
musical self-portraits invite the listener, usually by way of a title, to interpret
the piece as a representation of the composer’s impression of his own char-
acter and artistic process.6 This chapter explores musical self-portraiture,
considering how the genre relates to self-portraiture in the visual arts,
before turning to two works whose composers depict themselves princi-
pally by exploring the sense of hearing. The first of these pieces is György
Ligeti’s duet for two pianos “Selbstportrait mit Reich und Riley (und
Chopin ist auch dabei)” (Self-Portrait with Reich and Riley (with Chopin
in the Background), 1976), in which Ligeti represents himself in the com-
pany of the composers Steve Reich and Terry Riley, and in the ghostly
presence of their predecessor Frédéric Chopin. The chapter then turns to
Peter Ablinger’s “Quadraturen IV: ‘Selbstportrait mit Berlin’ ” (Self-Portrait
with Berlin, 1998), a piece that depicts its composer by representing and
analyzing his experience of the everyday urban thrum that surrounds him.
In Ablinger’s work, a compact disc of ambient sounds recorded by the
composer in Germany’s capital city is played back and accompanied by
an instrumental ensemble that mimics the noises captured on the disc by
performing a score produced using a computer analysis of this recording.
In their self-portraits, Ligeti and Ablinger reflect on their professional and
artistic identities as they listen to the sounds around them. In Ligeti’s case
this aural material constitutes his own music and that of his colleagues, and
in Ablinger’s it comprises the noises of the city in which he lives. In this way
these works reveal how their composers view the roles of their art, their
experiences of sound, and the sense of hearing more generally in the con-
struction of their own identities.
Since at least the nineteenth century there has been a recurrent critical
approach in writings on music that holds a composer’s works to be auto-
biographical and to offer insights into his character, calling to mind the
Renaissance dictum “Every painter paints himself.”7 One classic example
of this way of understanding composers’ relationships with their works
can be found in the multiple published nineteenth-century interpretations
of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 (1824) that held the work to be autobi-
ographical, in criticism by Friedrich Kanne, Franz Joseph Fröhlich, and
Richard Wagner, among others.8 In different ways, these authors consid-
ered the emotional progression implied in the symphony—its assemblage
of musical gestures indicating yearning, sadness, heroism, and, finally,
happiness—to mirror the mixture of affects that occupied Beethoven’s
86
troubled soul, and heard the move from darkness to exultation between the
work’s first and last movements as a narrative construction of Beethoven’s
identity, depicting his search for joy during his tumultuous struggle with
deafness.
Although this sort of approach to understanding composition as a
form of self-portraiture has persevered to the present day in the interpre-
tations of some listeners, musical works explicitly identified as conscious
representations of their composers in the form of self-portraiture occupy
a relatively rare but compelling and persistent genre. Among the earliest
examples of self-portraiture in music are François Couperin’s staid and
somber “La Couperin” (1730) and Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach’s lively, play-
ful, and ironic “L’Aly Rupalich” (first titled “La Bach” and thought to be a
self-portrait, 1755), both for solo keyboard.9 By using titles to indicate that
these compositions are representations of their creators, these and other
composers of such works invite their performers and audiences to interpret
the music in a manner that corresponds with how they would contemplate
a painted self-portrait.
Self-portraiture in the visual arts is typically understood to have emerged
as a coherent genre in the late fifteenth century, as a result of the confluence
of both the developing notion of the painter’s intellectual and social role as
a creator rather than simply an artisan, and the growing availability of the
recent Venetian invention of the flat mirror, which allowed people to con-
template their own appearance in an unprecedented way.10 Self-portraiture
served in this period as an opportunity for artists to affirm their rising sta-
tus in society, while at the same time reflecting upon and depicting their
society through the way they portrayed themselves.11 In the early twentieth
century, self-portraiture flourished as a genre in which artists challenged
the longstanding association between outward appearance and inner self,
exploring ways of depicting identity in images that distorted physical like-
ness or even avoided it altogether. Art historian James Hall describes this
development in painting by analogy to the way affect is depicted in com-
position: he calls the end of the first decade of the twentieth century the
“high-water mark of the self-portrait as pure soul music.”12
Artists have often sought in their self-portraits to foreground their craft
and creativity as essential elements of their identities, interwoven with
signs of character and social position.13 One principal way they have done
this is through the depiction of the tools they use in the creation of art. In
classic and modern works of self-portraiture including Diego Velázquez’s
“Las Meninas” (1656), Rembrandt’s “Portrait of the Artist at His Easel”
(1660), Jacques-Louis David’s “Self-Portrait” (1794), Pablo Picasso’s “Self-
Portrait with a Palette” (1906), Norman Rockwell’s “Triple Self-Portrait”
(1960), Richard Avedon’s “Self-Portrait” (c. 1963), and Lucian Freud’s
87
L i s t e n i n g i n o n Co mp o s e r s ’ S e lf - P o rt r a i t s ( 87 )
L i s t e n i n g i n o n Co mp o s e r s ’ S e lf - P o rt r a i t s ( 89 )
Figure 3.3: Richard Hamilton, “A Portrait of the Artist by Francis Bacon,” 1970–1971, collotype
and screenprint, 32-3/8 x 27-3/8 inches. © R. Hamilton. All Rights Reserved, DACS and ARS 2016.
Image copyright © The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image source: Art Resource, NY.
within a larger work whose structure is distinctly Ivesian and whose title is a
personal homage to both Adams’s father and his artistic father figure.
Self-portraiture is a particularly intimate genre, one in which artists
explore their own subjectivities in order to construct the image of their
sense of self, typically through the representation of its visual manifestation
in their physical appearance. T. J. Clark explains that self-portraiture depicts
not only the artist’s own likeness, but “the activity of self-scrutiny[,]. . . the
physical ‘look’ of looking at one’s face.”19 In the self-portrait, he writes, “the
self to be is shown representing itself.”20 And in this way, in self-portraiture,
the image works as “a metaphor of representing.”21 This genre of painting,
then, involves the representation of the sense of sight, the process of visual
contemplation. The intense intimacy of the self-portrait, which requires of
the artist an act of sustained personal reflection on himself and his craft,
can give the genre an air of inaccessibility, as though the viewer is spying on
a particularly private and penetrating gaze into a looking glass. Thus John
Berger describes viewing self-portraits as “watching the drama of a double-
bind which excludes us.”22 Indeed, the onlooker’s position in relation to the
90
artist and his painting may feel ambiguous and even awkward: if the canvas
conveys the artist’s identity in the manner of the mirror into which he peers
to study his likeness, where can we stand so as to avoid obstructing this pri-
vate moment of self-reflection?23
The musical self-portrait shares a similar sense of intimacy, offering
the audience a chance to listen in on a private act of aural contemplation.
Ligeti’s self-portrait, for example, depicts the fruits of sonic self-scrutiny,
portraying what the composer hears when he meditates on the sounds of
his own music. Ablinger’s work in the genre may give access to an aspect of
hearing even more introspective and personal, as it offers an external real-
ization of his cognitive experience of his urban soundscape, and thereby
appears to depict not only how he understands his own music as he listens
to it, but most fundamentally how he interacts, through the sense of hear-
ing, with the world around him.
L i s t e n i n g i n o n Co mp o s e r s ’ S e lf - P o rt r a i t s ( 91 )
Figure 3.4: Kazimir Malevich, “Suprematism: Self-Portrait in Two Dimensions,” 1915, oil on
canvas, 31-1/2 x 24-3/8 inches. Stedelijk Museum. Art Resource, NY.
across from one another at a table, each depicted using a different method of
printmaking, Hockney in hard-ground etching and Picasso in a technique
using a brush.30 Hockney represents himself naked; he is the artist’s model,
and the artist his role model. The image refers in its detail and positioning
of the two figures to both Robert Doisneau’s iconic 1952 photograph “Les
Pains de Picasso” and Picasso’s depictions of artists and their models in his
Vollard Suite (1930–1937), a series of etchings partly inspired by Honoré
de Balzac’s story Le Chef-d’oeuvre inconnu (The Unknown Masterpiece,
1831), about an old master obsessed by the task of capturing life on canvas
in a portrait of a beautiful young woman.31 Like Ligeti, Hockney portrays
artistic influence as deriving from a complex relationship between himself
and his predecessor, as they face one another, mutually playing the roles of
both artist and model.
In his program notes for “Selbstportrait,” Ligeti describes the work as a
playful, ironic image of the four composers that represents them through
the use of compositional techniques associated with their music. He writes
that he created supersaturated canons and superimposed grids as tropes
to depict himself; phase shifting to evoke the music of Reich; pattern
93
L i s t e n i n g i n o n Co mp o s e r s ’ S e lf - P o rt r a i t s ( 93 )
transformation to stand for Riley; and, toward the end of the movement, a
parody of the melodic and rhythmic patterns of the Presto from Chopin’s B♭
minor Sonata, Op. 35 (1839).32 His notes explain that while the final move-
ment of the Drei Stücke für zwei Klaviere includes allusions to the roman-
ticism of Brahms and Schumann, the piece as a whole related to older
musical traditions by paying tribute to the idiomatic piano writing of com-
posers Scarlatti, Schumann, and Chopin.33 “Selbstportrait” is constructed
of a perpetual motion of arpeggiated patterns, following the precedent set
by Chopin for continuously moving, fast-paced virtuosic finger work on
the piano. The analysis of the piece reveals how Ligeti’s composition oper-
ates as a group portrait by combining references to all four composers in a
complex musical texture.
In section one, Ligeti employs a number of techniques that he had devel-
oped since the 1960s, while he also experiments with new compositional
methods. Many visual artists have viewed self-portraiture as offering a rich
opportunity for technical experimentation, and in his foray in the genre
Ligeti likewise initiates a new compositional procedure, the blocked-key
technique, whereby the left hand in each piano part silently depresses a
set of keys while the right hand plays constant patterns of eighth notes
in descending scalar units and rising and falling groupings in the contour
of a sine wave.34 Because some of the same keys are blocked by the left
hand, only a few of the notes make a sound. In the score, audible pitches
are depicted with larger note heads and silent pitches with smaller ones;
Ligeti asks the pianists to play continuously and evenly, allowing the place-
ment of the left hand to determine the melodic and rhythmic content of
each piano part, producing a sonic illusion that the pianists are playing
complex arpeggiated rhythmic figurations, rather than constantly fluctu-
ating upward and downward runs. Ligeti attributes the concept behind
this technique to the music theorist Henning Siedentopf and the organ-
ist Karl-Erik Welin, with whom he worked on the organ solo “Volumina”
(1961–1962).35
The continuous undulating cells in the right-hand parts in both pianos
are composed in what Jane Piper Clendinning has called Ligeti’s “pattern-
meccanico” style.36 Ligeti builds melodic lines of perpetually repeating
fragments that change minimally and gradually as the piece progresses, in
a manner evocative of broken machinery. He first experimented with the
ideas behind his pattern-meccanico music in the “Poème symphonique” for
one hundred metronomes (1962), but developed the technique in earnest
in “Continuum,” the String Quartet No. 2, and elsewhere. He associated his
pattern-meccanico writing with a childhood memory of reading a story by
Hungarian author Gyula Krúdy about a widow who lives alone in a house
full of ticking clocks. This haunting image, and a later experience of watch-
ing Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times, in which Chaplin’s character works in
94
a factory and is at one point swallowed into the gears of a machine, inspired
a lifelong fixation on the noises of functioning and broken machinery.37 In
light of its deeply personal resonances, the pattern-meccanico technique
serves as a potent signifier of Ligeti’s artistic identity in his self-portrait.
In the first section, Ligeti layers two lines of pattern-meccanico writing
into a texture that he has referred to as micropolyphony in discussions of
other similarly constructed works.38 In such compositions the structural
techniques guiding the polyphony are inaudible, as unexpected rhythmic
groupings, pulsations, and harmonic structures emerge as though through
lattice-works in performance.39 In a manner he had developed since the
late 1960s, Ligeti delineates the thick washes of sound with moments of
greater stability and clarity in which the texture reduces to narrow intervals
that he called “signals.”40 He compared this juxtaposition of clear and dense
textures with the traditional evocations of tension and resolution in har-
monic and melodic structures of earlier Western music.41 “Selbstportrait”
opens with the repetition of a narrow signal, a half step between E𝄫 (ini-
tially spelled as D♮) and D♭ in the first piano, with the unison E𝄫 in second
piano. The texture gradually fills out into a dense mist by way of accretion, a
process that Ligeti commonly employs for broadening his texture between
signals, involving the addition of new pitches outside of the space of the
initial boundary interval.42 First, Ligeti adds a C to the second piano part
(measure N), producing the interval of a whole step with the E𝄫, and a lay-
ered pair of half steps across both voices. Next, B♮ enters in the same voice
(measure Q), followed by A♯ in the first piano (measure R), and so on, until
four discrete pitches are sounding in each voice.43 The texture subsequently
thins again (from measure “b”) with the removal of pitches in each voice,
until both pianos are playing only a major second of E and D, an interval
Ligeti has called a “typical Ligeti signal.”44 The section closes with a sus-
tained trill on these pitches in both pianos (at “m”).
Ligeti had been unaware that Reich and Riley also employed continu-
ously repeated patterns that incorporate gradual changes during the same
period, and was surprised to learn of such shared compositional tech-
niques between his works and those of his contemporaries when he first
heard their music. In addition to using this shared technical innovation in
“Selbstportrait,” Ligeti also experiments with new compositional principals
that he learned from Reich and Riley, phase shifting and the relinquishing
of authorial control by offering the performer an element of choice. Reich
developed phase shifting in “It’s Gonna Rain,” “Violin Phase,” and “Piano
Phase” (1967), in which multiple musicians or prerecorded tracks play the
same melodic material in unison and one gradually accelerates or deceler-
ates while the other remains at tempo. Riley incorporated performer choice
into compositions including “In C,” constructed of fifty-three brief modules
95
L i s t e n i n g i n o n Co mp o s e r s ’ S e lf - P o rt r a i t s ( 95 )
that the musicians are permitted play any number of times before moving
on to the next.
In “Selbstportrait” a form of phase shifting occurs not because the pia-
nists play at gradually different tempos, as in Reich’s works, but because
they perform continuous groupings of different quantities of eighth notes,
returning at the start of each set to E𝄫 (until “X,” at which point the group-
ings begin on F♭ or E, first in piano two, followed by piano one at “Z”). As
a result they oscillate between playing unison pitches together and apart.
After each new pattern of pitches, Ligeti writes a repeat symbol and indi-
cates the number of times the pianist is to reiterate the same grouping. In
the instructions at the start of the score, he explains that when the num-
ber of repetitions exceeds eight the pianist need not be entirely precise in
counting; when it is between twelve and eighteen, “a deviation of 1–2 in
either direction is tolerated”; and when it is above eighteen the quantity is
only approximate. Ligeti’s leniency offers the pianists considerable choice,
and their communication in the performance is therefore critical: they each
have to estimate the number of repetitions played by the other and signal to
one another before continuing on to subsequent pattern groupings. In this
way, Ligeti creates his group self-portrait by combining his own pattern-
meccanico and latticework processes with Reich’s phase shifting, while fol-
lowing Riley in relinquishing some control over the work’s structure to the
performer, merging their stylistic developments in a piece whose idiomatic
pianism he has attributed to the influence of Chopin.
Ligeti frequently stated that he conceived of strong correlations between
musical and visual forms of representation. Since childhood, he had expe-
rienced synaesthetic associations between sound and color.45 His composi-
tions were influenced by the works of painters he admired, including Pieter
Bruegel the Elder, Hieronymous Bosch, and René Magritte, and he viewed
similarities between his pattern-meccanico processes and the gradually
transforming tessellations of M. C. Escher.46 Furthermore, Ligeti described
his own works by analogy to visual techniques: he characterized the “acous-
tical illusions” in “Continuum” as resembling optical illusions, and con-
sidered some of his works to collapse the perception of time, unfolding
as though over an area of space in a frozen instant, positing a notion of a
temporal plane that resembles Morton Feldman’s similar concept of “time
canvases,” described in c hapter 2.47 Given this deep-seated correspond-
ence between the aural and the visual in Ligeti’s perception, it is perhaps
unsurprising that he would make a foray into portraiture, an artistic genre
typically associated with visual media, as a mode in which to merge his
compositional innovations with those of his American contemporaries.
A typical self-portrait represents not merely the artist’s likeness, but
also what he comes to understand about himself when he considers his
96
Figure 3.5: John Baldessari, “Beethoven’s Trumpet (With Ear) Opus # 133,” 2007, foam, resin,
aluminum, cold bronze, and electronics, 84 x 120 x 84 inches. Courtesy of the artist and Marian
Goodman Gallery.
97
L i s t e n i n g i n o n Co mp o s e r s ’ S e lf - P o rt r a i t s ( 97 )
L i s t e n i n g i n o n Co mp o s e r s ’ S e lf - P o rt r a i t s ( 99 )
portrait of each person whose voice he has used to create this set of compo-
sitions.67 More frequently, however, Ablinger has said that rather than func-
tioning as individual portraits, the works in his Voices series come together
to form a single large-scale self-portrait. Adopting a contemporary concep-
tion of the self as polyvocal, mutable, and perpetually under construction,
he explains that the works together represent “a large encounter of voices
‘in me.’ ”68 If the individual’s identity is always created discursively through
interactions with the voices of others, the series Voices and Piano will con-
tinually expand and change as Ablinger encounters new voices that help
him to reconceive his identity and incorporates these one by one into new
arrangements that join the others in a growing self-portrait.
The genre and aims of self-portraiture have influenced Ablinger’s creative
method more generally as he has attempted to develop compositional tech-
niques that reflect his understanding of the self as the product of perception,
and particularly of the sense of hearing. Expressing the common view that
audiences have the opportunity to learn about and develop their own iden-
tities in contemplating a work of music, Ablinger has written that, in taking
in a piece of music, the listener encounters his self-image through the act of
perceiving the sounds, which serve as a kind of mirror. Ablinger describes
this process in idiosyncratic terms, adapting the language of Renaissance
theories of perspective, as Willem de Kooning and Morton Feldman do in
their discussions of art spectatorship described in chapter 2. He writes that
this process requires “inverse perspective,” in which, rather than the spec-
tator occupying the vantage point and looking toward the vanishing point
represented in the work of art, the listener instead becomes both vantage
and vanishing point as he looks back at himself as he is reflected in the artis-
tic representation he contemplates.69 Like the viewer of Atget’s “Coiffeur,
Palais Royale,” who might see his own portrait in the glossy surface of the
photograph that features its own reflected image, or the listener Boulez
describes in his discussion of Pli selon pli who perceives himself reflected
in the music (see c hapter 2), the audience member, according to Ablinger,
will notice his own faint likeness peering—or listening—back in a reflec-
tion on the surface of the art object he contemplates. Ablinger invokes por-
traiture as a metaphor for all art, characterizing it as a genre that reverses the
direction spectatorship: “Sound, music, becomes a portrait of its individual
perceivers. . . . Sound is what hears us, what scrutinizes us. Then and only
then when sound itself is still and absolutely ‘attentive’ can it seize us,
we the inattentive, we in motion, only then can it ‘portray’ us.”70 Though
Ablinger’s explanations of what happens when we perceive a work of art
can seem rather speculative and even eccentric at their most abstract,
his basic point is that through active listening we are able to learn more
about ourselves, and in this way music and sound act as a looking glass in
10
L i s t e n i n g i n o n Co mp o s e r s ’ S e lf - P o rt r a i t s ( 101 )
on the identity of the audience. He writes that in this work, “it’s not how
people see me, but what I see (and hear) that forms the subject of the piece.
In other words the portrait reveals the view of the observer rather than the
observer himself.”74 He creates this effect in the pairing of “real” sounds,
which consist of recordings of ambient noises captured on six microphones
set up in Berlin and played through loudspeakers onstage, with a musical
composition devised on the basis of the computer analysis of these record-
ings created using Ablinger’s temporal and spectral scanning software.
The ensemble arrangement of the white noise of Berlin’s city streets,
composed for flute, two clarinets, two violins, viola, two cellos, and three
keyboards (pianos or a combination of pianos and electronic keyboards),
suggests a representation of how Ablinger, with his particular aesthetic sub-
jectivity, perceives the sounds recorded objectively by the microphones. As
Ablinger puts it, “the music becomes an observer of reality”; the composi-
tion, with its inversion of perspective, doubles for Ablinger himself as the
subject hearing the world around him.75 In other words, “if I bring together
street noises and classical instruments, the first one functions as the uncom-
prehensive, surrounding everything, and the second as our given cultural
reaction to it.”76 This cultural reaction is the perceptual process through
which identity is constructed.
“Selbstportrait mit Berlin” consists of six brief movements of nearly
equal length, between two and three minutes. The first movement opens
with the ensemble playing together, and the recording follows soon after.
The ensemble plays staccato block chords at a regular pulse; the music
leaves little room for expression, though slides in the clarinet add a touch
of whimsical coloration. In the score, timings are marked to the fraction of
a second to keep the performers on cue with the recording, and the meter
changes regularly. This sense of repetition and the regularity of the chordal
ostinato pattern suggest the effects of the grid-like representation of the
ambient sound recordings that Ablinger creates using the computer’s spec-
tral analytical software. The CD recording, which enters soon after the play-
ers begin to perform, contributes a constant drone of white noise within
which it is generally impossible to differentiate one sound or source from
the other, though the attentive listener can make out the occasional noise,
such as the fragment of a voice or of a squeak from the wheels of a vehicle.
As the movement progresses, the ensemble’s part changes gradually: the
tempo slows and the musical texture thins as several instruments drop out,
only expanding in forces again in a crescendo in the last moments of the
section.
The remaining movements of the work are constituted similarly of the
ensemble playing regular pulsing chords alongside recordings of the city
noises that merge into a sound resembling radio static. Occasional changes
103
L i s t e n i n g i n o n Co mp o s e r s ’ S e lf - P o rt r a i t s ( 103 )
in texture and structure stand out in the work; for example, the end of the
fourth movement involves greater rhythmic variation, with the instruments
playing together in a sequence of irregular durations. And at times the
sounds in the recordings change and become easier to identify. In move-
ments 5 and 6 the CD seems to capture the din of an interior space, per-
haps a restaurant or cafeteria, in which the white noise involves numerous
human voices and the sporadic clinking of glasses or dinnerware. In these
movements the rhythmic language also becomes increasingly rapid and
complicated; toward the end of the final movement, the music has grown
more and more chaotic, far from the homophony that characterized it at
the start.
In “Selbstportrait mit Berlin,” by playing back the “phonographic” sounds
of the city and writing music for ensemble that represents a musical transla-
tion of these sounds, Ablinger posits a conception of identity as constantly
in flux and based on the experience of the surrounding world, a view that
accords with the social constructionist approach to the self that considers
human identity to be changeable, fragmented, and polyvocal. But because
the principal subject of his work is the process of perception, implying that
how we hear (as evoked by the ensemble) supersedes in importance what
we hear (as captured on the CD in the drone of white noise), he appears at
the same time to suggest an understanding of identity as encapsulated in
the inborn, elemental ability to take in, discern, and make sense of sound
through hearing. This is a view that seems to accord with a more traditional
notion of identity as embedded within us rather than constructed in an
external social and discursive space, as embodied in and tied up with our
inborn physiologies. In this self-portrait, in other words, Ablinger refuses
to cast his lot entirely with either the postmodern social constructionist or
the more traditional essentialist view of the self; rather, he finds a way to
bring these theories together, using perception and the physical senses as
the bond between our surroundings and our bodies that helps us determine
who we are.
But Ablinger’s self-portrait, constructed using microphones and ana-
lytic computer software and performed by a combination of live musi-
cians and a stereo system, also leaves the listener with the potentially
unsettling question of the extent to which identities are formed by con-
temporary technologies. The work is ostensibly about Ablinger’s simplest
and most natural interaction with his surroundings through hearing—a
sense that cannot be avoided or shut off as easily as can sight, touch, taste,
and smell, and that offers a source of constant input throughout the day—
and through his personal and individual aesthetic sensibility, depicted
in his hermeneutic transformation of unedited recordings of ambient
sounds into musical notes. But as this depiction of human perception is
104
CONCLUSION
In Philip Roth’s 1974 novel My Life as a Man, the narrator, a novelist named
Peter Tarnopol, pictures a conversation with a psychologist who has seen
him in therapy and then written an article called “Creativity: The Narcissism
of the Artist,” in which he disguises Tarnopol’s identity to describe their
sessions. Among his imagined retorts to the therapist’s characterization of
him, the chagrined Tarnopol exclaims:
And if I may, sir—his self is to many a novelist what his own physiognomy is to a painter of
portraits: the closest subject at hand demanding scrutiny, a problem for his art to solve—
given the enormous obstacles to truthfulness, the artistic problem. He is not simply look-
ing into the mirror because he is transfixed by what he sees. Rather, the artist’s success
depends as much as anything on his powers of detachment, on denarcissizing himself.
That’s where the excitement comes in. That hard conscious work that makes it art!77
Like the novelist as Tarnopol describes him, Ligeti and Ablinger take the
opportunity in their self-portraits to propose answers to the questions of
what constitutes the self, and of what role the composer’s creative tech-
niques and his means of perceiving and contemplating his surroundings
play in the development of his identity. These composers offer their audi-
ences an opportunity to learn what they hear when they listen to their
own music, and, moreover, when they consider how the sense of hear-
ing constructs their personal identities. In “Selbstportrait mit Reich und
Riley (und Chopin ist auch dabei)” and “Quadraturen IV: ‘Selbstportrait
mit Berlin,’ ” these composers listen deeply, with the focus of an artist or
author looking closely in the mirror to prepare to paint a self-portrait or to
write an autobiographical novel, and then they treat what they hear with
sufficient detachment to analyze it thoroughly. It is these analyses—of the
technical characteristics of and influences on Ligeti’s music, of the sounds
of Ablinger’s environment and the way he perceives them—that ultimately
form the material for the composers’ representations of their individual
selves.
105
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NOTES
1. Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (Leipzig: Bernhard Tauchnitz, 1908), 12.
2. See James Hall, The Self-Portrait: A Cultural History (London: Thames and Hudson, 2014), 25.
3. For a history of this technique in the Italian Renaissance, see Joanna Woods-Marsden,
Renaissance Self-Portraiture: The Visual Construction of Identity and the Social Status of the
Artist (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998), 43–62.
4. Omar Calabrese, Artists’ Self-Portraits, trans. Marguerite Shore (London: Abbeville Press
Publishers, 2006), 33.
5. See Christopher Segall, “Klingende Buchstaben: Principles of Alfred Schnittke’s Monogram
Technique,” Journal of Musicology 30.2 (Spring 2013): 252–86.
6. Some compositions may also be interpreted as self-portraits though they lack titles that
explicitly identify them as such. For example, Michael J. Puri sees Maurice Ravel’s ballet
“Daphnis et Chloé” as involving an element of self-portraiture. See Michael J. Puri, “Dandy,
Interrupted: Sublimation, Repression, and Self-Portraiture in Maurice Ravel’s Daphnis et
Chloé (1909–1912),” Journal of the American Musicological Society 60.2 (Summer 2007):
317–72.
7. On this concept in art history, see Joanna Woodall, “‘Every Painter Paints Himself ’: Self-
Portraiture and Creativity,” in Anthony Bond and Joanna Woodall (eds.), Self-
Portrait: Renaissance to Contemporary (London: National Portrait Gallery, 2005), 17.
8. Nicholas Cook, Beethoven: Symphony No. 9 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1993), 27, 70–3.
9. On self-portraiture in Bach’s “L’Aly Rupalich,” see Joshua S. Walden, “Composing Character
in Musical Portraits: Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and L’Aly Rupalich,” Musical Quarterly
91.2 (Fall-Winter 2008): 379–411; Joshua S. Walden, “What’s in a Name?: C. P. E. Bach
and the Genres of the Character Piece and Musical Portrait,” in Anthony DelDonna (ed.),
Genre in Eighteenth-Century Music (Ann Arbor, MI: Steglein, 2008), 111–38; Annette
Richards, “Picturing the Moment in Sound: C. P. E. Bach and the Musical Portrait,” in
Thomas Donahue (ed.), Essays in Honor of Christopher Hogwood: The Maestro’s Direction
(Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2011), 57–89.
10. Anthony Bond, “Performing the Self?” in Bond and Woodall, Self-Portrait, 31. On the genre’s
origins, see also James Hall’s suggestion that the roots of the genre can be found in the middle
ages, earlier than the typical attribution of the late fifteenth century. See Hall, Self-Portrait, 8–9.
11. Hall, Self-Portrait, 49–51.
12. Hall, Self-Portrait, 234. See also Wendy Wick Reaves, “Reflections/Refractions: Self-
Portraiture in the Twentieth Century,” in Wendy Wick Reaves (ed.), Reflections/
Refractions: Self-Portraiture in the Twentieth Century (Washington, DC: Smithsonian
Institution Scholarly Press; Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2009), 4.
13. Calabrese, Artists’ Self-Portraits, 161, 183.
14. John Adams, Hallelujah Junction: Composing an American Life (New York: Farrar, Straus
and Giroux, 2008), 229.
15. John Adams, liner notes to The Dharma at Big Sur; My Father Knew Charles Ives, BBC
Symphony Orchestra, Nonesuch 79857-2, 2006, compact disc.
16. Adams, liner notes to The Dharma at Big Sur; My Father Knew Charles Ives.
17. Hal Foster, “The Hamilton Test,” in Mark Godfrey, Paul Schimmel, and Vicente Todolí
(eds.), Richard Hamilton (London: Tate, 2014), 178, fn. 33.
18. Richard Hamilton, “Talk at the Palais des Beaux-Arts, Brussels, 1971,” in Godfrey,
Schimmel, and Todolí, Richard Hamilton, 201–7 (204).
19. T. J. Clark, “Gross David with the Swoln Cheek: An Essay on Self-Portraiture,” in Michael
S. Roth (ed.), Rediscovering History: Culture, Politics, and the Psyche (Redwood City,
CA: Stanford University Press, 1994), 280.
20. Clark, “Gross David,” 296.
21. Clark, “Gross David,” 297.
22. John Berger, Portraits: John Berger on Artists, ed. Tom Overton (London: Verso, 2015),
151. See also Richard Leppert, Art and the Committed Eye: The Cultural Functions of Imagery
(Boulder, CO: Westview, 1996), 163. Leppert writes that in the case of self-portraiture,
106
the viewer is made “almost, but never quite, irrelevant,” as the genre involves primarily a
gaze between the painter and his self-image.
23. Reaves, “Reflections/Refractions,” 3.
24. Richard Steinitz, György Ligeti: Music of the Imagination (London: Faber and Faber,
2003), 207–8.
25. Steinitz, György Ligeti, 206.
26. Constantin Floros interprets the work as a series of four consecutive musical portraits,
representing Ligeti, Reich, Riley, and Chopin, respectively. This description is insight-
ful and supported by a rich analysis, but it overlooks the complex ways Ligeti merges
the techniques of all four composers throughout the piece. Constantin Floros, György
Ligeti: Jenseits von Avantgarde und Postmoderne (Vienna: Lafite, 1996), 131.
27. Joseph Leo Koerner, “Self-Portraiture Direct and Oblique,” in Bond and Woodall,
Self-Portrait, 68.
28. Calabrese, Artists’ Self-Portraits, 358, 370.
29. Kay Heymer, “Mirror Images,” in Marco Livingstone and Kay Heymer (eds.), Hockney’s
Portraits and People (London: Thames and Hudson, 2003), 28; Barbara Stern Shapiro,
“Hockney Works on Paper,” in Sarah Howgate and Barbara Stern Shapiro (eds.), David
Hockney Portraits (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press; London: National Portrait
Gallery, 2006), 65.
30. Marco Livingstone, David Hockney (London: Thames and Hudson, 1981), 166.
31. Reaves, Reflections/Refractions, 125. The depiction in self-portraiture of the younger artist in
the presence of a teacher or role model can be found in early works in the genre as well. In one
compelling example, Sofonisba Anguissola’s “Self-Portrait with Bernardino Campi” (1550),
Anguissola depicts herself as the creation of her painting master Campi: her likeness appears
as an image on a canvas resting on a easel, before which Campi stands with paintbrush and
mahl stick, as though in the act of creating her portrait. Bond, “Performing the Self?” 36.
32. The program notes are reproduced in Stephen Ferguson, György Ligetis Drei Stücke für
zwei Klaviere: Eine Gesamtanalyse (Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1994), 265–6.
33. Ferguson, György Ligetis Drei Stücke, 265–6. See Ligeti’s discussion of his predeces-
sors’ idiomatic writing for piano as a model for his work, in György Ligeti, Péter Várnai,
Josef Häusler, and Claude Samuel, György Ligeti in Conversation (London: Eulenberg,
1983), 23.
34. Ligeti returned to the blocked-key technique in the third piece of his Études, Book 1
(1985). Jeffrey Perry proposes that Ligeti might have derived the idea for this procedure
from Cage’s works for prepared piano. See Jeffrey Perry, “Cage’s Sonatas and Interludes for
Prepared Piano: Performance, Hearing and Analysis,” Music Theory Spectrum 27.1 (Spring
2005): 55, fn. 19.
35. György Ligeti, “Performance Instructions,” in Monument-Selbstportrait-Bewegung
(Mainz: B. Schott’s Söhne, 1976).
36. Jane Piper Clendinning, “The Pattern- Meccanico Compositions of György Ligeti,”
Perspectives of New Music 31.1 (Winter 1993): 192–243.
37. Ligeti, Várnai, Häusler, and Samuel, György Ligeti in Conversation, 17.
38. Ligeti, Várnai, Häusler, and Samuel, György Ligeti in Conversation, 14–15. For a discussion
of Ligeti’s micropolyphony, see Jonathan W. Bernard, “Voice Leading as a Spatial Function
in the Music of Ligeti,” Music Analysis 13.2/3 ( July–October 1994): 227–53.
39. Bernard, “Voice Leading as a Spatial Function,” 15.
40. Bernard, “Voice Leading as a Spatial Function,” 28–9, 31. See also Jonathan W. Bernard,
“Ligeti’s Restoration of Interval and Its Significance for His Later Works,” Music Theory
Spectrum 21.1 (Spring 1999): 2.
41. Ligeti, Várnai, Häusler, and Samuel, György Ligeti in Conversation, 60.
42. Michael Hicks, “Interval and Form in Ligeti’s Continuum and Coulée,” Perspectives of New
Music 31.1 (Winter 1993): 174.
43. For a discussion of this technique, see Michael Hicks, “Interval and Form,” 174.
44. Ligeti, György Ligeti in Conversation, 29.
45. Ligeti, György Ligeti in Conversation, 58.
46. Steinitz, György Ligeti, 206.
107
L i s t e n i n g i n o n Co mp o s e r s ’ S e lf - P o rt r a i t s ( 107 )
CH A P T E R 4
A s the prior chapters of this book have explored, composers and artists
often turn to the genre of portraiture to reveal the invisible attributes
of identity that they perceive in the individuals they choose to represent,
and in some cases also to portray their understandings of themselves.
A portrait is accordingly considered successful when it conveys some-
thing truthful about its subject’s identity beyond simply mirroring physi-
cal appearance. But in the epigraph to this chapter the British supermodel
Kate Moss, the subject of thousands of portraits since she began her career
in the late 1980s, describes her ubiquitous likeness as inadequate to the
depiction of her true self. Moss suggests that the images of her that have
appeared in news, magazines, and tabloids, on billboards, and in adver-
tising media accomplish the opposite of the goal that commentators have
associated with portraiture for many centuries: in idealizing her likeness
and employing it toward commercial ends, they hide her personal identity.
Contemporary celebrity portraiture generally involves the idealization of
physical appearance, often, arguably, at the expense of conveying true char-
acter, and Moss’s statement offers a reminder that the portrait always con-
structs a circumscribed interpretation or impression of its subject’s identity,
one carefully devised by the artist. This remark might provoke us to reflect
on how we can account for the aspects of a person’s character that may be
omitted from a portrait, as well as how we should determine whether we
110
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 111 )
than it reveals, constructing a highly limited sense of his identity and hid-
ing complexities of character behind the idealized likeness. On the other
hand, as the sympathetic musical portrait of Mao in this scene sheds no
light on the aspects of his character that contributed to the hardships of his
governing policies, the cruelties of the Cultural Revolution, and the death
and suffering of so many of his subjects, it could be said that Adams’s por-
trait of Mao, too, is far more opaque than it is revelatory.
As an artistic construction of identity—in painting, literature, music, or
any other medium or combination of media—portraiture can be as illu-
sory as it is revelatory.5 But as Adams’s animation of the painting of Mao
may be understood to indicate, the portrait’s deceptions are not necessarily
entirely persuasive to the viewer who exercises the hermeneutic capacity
to look beyond the image, constructing a more complex conception of its
subject’s identity than the image seems to convey on its own. The American
stage director and visual artist Robert Wilson’s extensive and varied body
of work in the genre offers an especially compelling opportunity to explore
this conflict of representation between the ways the portrait can heighten
certain aspects of identity, obscure others, or even entirely mislead view-
ers with fabrications of character, and the expansive possibility it can still
provide for rich interpretation. Wilson’s portraits highlight this aspect of
the genre in large part because they tend to focus on the representation of
widely recognized contemporary celebrities, including actors, singers, and
political icons, figures who have already been the subjects of numerous por-
traits in genres such as fashion photography and magazine profiles that tend
to idealize identity and appearance—or, at times, to aim for the opposite
effect. In addition to depicting such sitters, Wilson’s portraits often recy-
cle, reframe, or distort the very representational techniques characteristic
of such forms of popular portraiture.
In an interview Wilson conducted for Greek television, broadcast to
advertise an Athens exhibition of his set of multimedia portraits of the
pop singer Lady Gaga created in 2013, he offers a bodily metaphor to con-
vey the relationship between outer appearance and inner character: “You
have the skin of the material and you have the meat of the material and
you have the bone. The skin is what is attractive, but it’s what’s beneath
the skin that makes the surface interesting.”6 Elsewhere Wilson has used
an overlapping metaphor to express his ideal style of theater as combin-
ing aesthetic features that are easily accessible with others that are more
dense and profound: “The surface remains simple but beneath that it can
be very complex. The surface must be about one thing, but underneath it
can be about many things.”7 Following this guiding concept, Wilson’s set
of twenty-two high-definition video portraits of Lady Gaga that combine
music, text, and image in stylized multimedia creations may offer little in
112
the way of a definitive revelation of her identity, but they entice viewers
to appreciate the “surface,” and then invite them to interpret on their own
“what’s beneath the skin,” the complex dimensions of the singer’s interior
self, an entity she too explored, in preparation for posing for these portraits,
by peering at her reflection in a mirror.8
This chapter turns to the portrait in multimedia and operatic forms,
with focus on the works in the genre that Wilson has created in collabo-
ration with composers, choreographers, actors, and other well-known cul-
tural figures, to examine the ways that portraiture can obscure, rather than
clarify, its sitters’ interior identities. Through an exploration of Wilson’s
portraits, this discussion suggests that, perhaps unintuitively, such render-
ing invisible permits the viewer to engage in an especially active mode of
interpretation that can ultimately offer the potential for the development
of a uniquely multidimensional and intimate conception of the subject’s
identity. Wilson’s portraits operate in a manner that accords with Umberto
Eco’s notion of the “open work”: they are pieces of art whose apparent gaps
and discontinuities require a particularly creative form of contemplation
on the part of the spectator, who performs the role of cocreator by assign-
ing new personal meanings to the artist’s finished work.9 In an interview he
conducted of Wilson, Eco observed that in the portrait opera Einstein on the
Beach and other works by the director, “It seems that you foresee an audi-
ence able to complete your work. I have written a book, The Open Work,
in which the same ideas were used for literature.”10 Indeed, Wilson himself
has averred, “The fact is, I don’t really understand my own stuff,” and it is
likely in part his works’ openness to the interpretation of the spectator, who
collaborates by determining potential meanings, that provoked the surreal-
ist artist Louis Aragon to describe Wilson’s early theatrical work Deafman
Glance in 1971 as “an extraordinary freedom machine.”11
For Wilson, “My responsibility as an artist is to create, not to inter-
pret. . . . I think interpretation is for the public, not for the performer or
the director or the author. We create a work for the public and we must
allow them the freedom to make their own interpretations and draw their
own conclusions.”12 In highlighting the limits of portraiture, its capacity for
deception, and the creative, participatory role a portrait’s spectator must
play in interpreting works in the genre, Wilson posits a notion of iden-
tity as socially derived, according to which the portrait is incomplete as a
form of representation in and of itself, but its vast potential lies in the way
it makes possible any number of individual constructions of the subject’s
self. Wilson’s depictions of individuals, in his portraits of the pop singer
Lady Gaga, his Voom Portraits series, and his cocreation with Philip Glass
Einstein on the Beach, therefore reveal both the ways postmodern imagery
of celebrities often eschews a deep engagement with personal identity, and
13
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 113 )
how the emphasis on surface detail can in fact open up the potential for the
spectator to develop a particularly personal but no less rich understanding
of the contemporary self.
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 115 )
The Screen Tests and the Voom Portraits demonstrate that while celebrity
photography has vastly expanded the scope of and audience for portraiture,
so that the genre has become a feature of everyday life, it has also empha-
sized interpretive challenges in the contested relationship between the
representation of a person’s visible façade and his identity or self.26 To the
extent that the modern media likeness can be said to betray the self beyond
the surface, this requires a particularly creative interpretive act on the part
of the viewer, who must construct an impression of the private self that is
concealed in the celebrity portrait.27 And indeed Factory regulars viewed
these Screen Tests, which Ronald Tavel called “breathing, living portraits,”
as offering an opportunity to construct an understanding of the visitors’
true selves.28 For example, Warhol collaborator Mary Woronov explained,
“Like medieval inquisitors, we proclaimed them tests of the soul and we
rated everybody. . . . What appealed most of all to us, the Factory devotees
. . . was the game, the cruelty of trapping the ego in a little fifteen minute
cage for scrutiny.”29
The critic Lee Siegel uses a macabre metaphor to describe the way
Warhol’s Screen Tests challenge contemporary modes of portraiture in pop-
ular media: he writes that Warhol “took the close-up off the screen and put
it on the dissecting table. It was like going into the kitchen of a fancy restau-
rant and seeing the bloody mess out of which an exquisite meal is made.”30
This notion of a bloody deconstruction of celebrity photography is made
visible in Wilson’s Voom Portrait of the actor Robert Downey Jr., who is
shown lying on his back, nude and partly covered by a sheet, on a dissecting
table, the skin of his forearm sliced open to reveal the musculature under-
neath, which is being prodded by a scientist in black whose head cannot be
seen above the upper edge of the image (Figure 4.1).31 Green lighting cre-
ates an antiseptic but sickly atmosphere, and the disembodied hand holds
tweezers and wears an antiquated ruffled sleeve that confirms the basis of
the image on Rembrandt’s group portrait “The Anatomy Lesson of Dr.
Nicolaes Tulp” (1632), in which a crowd of men surround a scientist as
he performs a pedagogical dissection of the arm and hand of a cadaver. In
this visual reference, Wilson draws an analogy between the surgical the-
aters of the seventeenth century in which bodies—often those of notorious
criminals following execution—were cut open before crowds of studious
pupils and gawking visitors, and the public arena in which the contem-
porary media scrutinizes and dissects the lives of its celebrities.32 Where
Rembrandt’s specimen is a pale corpse, however, Downey is revealed over
the course of the video portrait to be alive: he repeatedly and almost imper-
ceptibly turns his head from diagonally upward with eyes closed to look-
ing toward the camera with eyes open and locked in an exchange with the
viewer’s gaze.
17
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 117 )
Figure 4.1: Robert Wilson and Tom Waits, “Robert Downey Jr.,” 2004, video. Courtesy RW
Work Ltd.
in which the fickle audience turns its attention away promises unsatisfy-
ing safety, and the opportunity to plunge back into fame brings a danger of
drowning again.
The lyrics’ musical setting creates a sonic representation of the murky
expanses of the ocean. There is no sense of progression in the music, no
harmonic direction, build-up of the ensemble, or consistent metric pulse.
Waits recites the text in heightened speech rather than singing, and his
voice is processed to sound muffled, as though it is heard through water.
The words are accompanied by percussion instruments and the quiet, inter-
mittent droning of sustained tones from an electronic synthesizer, indis-
tinct sounds that float through the musical arrangement like flotsam in
the ocean. The lack of teleology in the music provides a sense of perpetual
sameness, as though to convey either the slow, interminable descent into
the oblivion of the ocean’s depths described in the text, or, in the context
of celebrity portraiture, the tedium of constant surveillance and represen-
tation. This depiction of Downey brings musical, verbal, and visual media
together with a reference to an iconic group portrait from the past to depict
the way the camera’s clinical gaze dissects the modern celebrity, whose par-
ticipation brings a vulnerability to drowning in the public scrutiny but fails
ever to reveal the depths of the self.
A similar focus on the austerity of representation in celebrity likenesses
is found in Wilson’s 2004 portrait of the actress Winona Ryder, with music
by Michael Galasso (Figure 4.2).34 In this video Ryder is visible only from
the neck up, the rest of her body submerged in a grassy mound. She wears
a colorful crown of flowers on her head, and looks outward, her eyes
Figure 4.2: Robert Wilson and Michael Galasso, “Winona Ryder,” 2004, video. Courtesy RW
Work Ltd.
19
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 119 )
seemingly locked with the viewer’s, and her face still, betraying no partic-
ular emotion.35 At first the sky behind Ryder is dark blue, the color of early
dawn, and the hill is in silhouette, with spotlights showing three objects
that surround her on the hillside, a revolver, a toothbrush, and a handbag.
Over the course of the video, which is about ten minutes long, the light
gradually changes to create the effect of the rising and setting of the sun;
at the conclusion, Ryder turns her head to the right and closes her eyes, as
though for sleep.
Wilson’s image of Ryder is modeled after the central character of Samuel
Beckett’s play Happy Days (1961), a woman named Winnie (the fact that
this could be a nickname for Winona can be no accident on Wilson’s part)
who is buried up to her waist, in Act I, and then her neck, in Act II, in a hill
exposed to the hot sunlight.36 Winnie’s day is marked by a bell that awak-
ens her in the morning and restrains her from nodding off until night. She
keeps herself active throughout the repetitive cycle of her days (“Never any
change,” she says)37 by talking to herself and her husband Willie, who basks
in the sun behind her and only occasionally barks replies to her questions,
and by inspecting the objects in her handbag, especially her toothbrush,
revolver, and parasol. Rather than allow herself to whither under the pene-
trating light, Winnie makes herself presentable each morning through a ser-
ies of rituals including brushing her teeth, applying makeup, and protecting
herself from the sun with her parasol. In Wilson’s portrait, Winnie’s story
becomes an allegory of Ryder’s experience of celebrity. An actress since her
teenage years, Ryder’s image became known not only through film stills and
magazine shots, but also in the much-publicized surveillance pictures that
showed her arrest for shoplifting in the Beverly Hills Saks Fifth Avenue in
2001, followed by courtroom photographs taken as she received her verdict
of guilt. Like Winnie, Winona was unable to escape the “blazing light” (in
the words of Beckett’s stage direction) that fixed her image in place.38
In Happy Days Winnie expresses herself frequently through half-remem-
bered quotes from classical theater and poetry by Shakespeare, Dante,
Milton, Keats, Yeats, and others.39 In this way she is an apt model for a
portrait of a popular actress who is known largely through her recitation
of the words of film and television screenwriters and her impersonation of
fictional characters. Through this pairing of Winona and Winnie, Wilson’s
portrait highlights the conception of identity as a polyvocal construc-
tion of texts, descriptions, and images. The multiple voices of Winnie and
Ryder represent the self as perpetually constructed of texts that overlap
and interrupt one another, a notion conveyed in Beckett’s description of
Winnie to the actress Billie Whitelaw, who played the character in 1979:
“She’s constantly being interrupted or interrupting herself. She’s an inter-
rupted being.”40 The association with Winnie represents Ryder (who,
120
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 121 )
attention, she also describes the pain of being looked at. She recalls a cou-
ple that once encountered her on a stroll and embarrassed her with their
conversation:
Can’t have been a bad bosom, he says, in its day. (Pause.) Seen worse shoulders, he says,
in my time. (Pause.) Does she feel her legs? he says. (Pause.) Is there any life in her legs?
he says. (Pause.) Has she anything on underneath? he says. (Pause.) Ask her, he says, I’m
shy. (Pause.) Ask her what? she says. (Pause.) Is there any life in her legs. (Pause.) Has
she anything on underneath. (Pause.) Ask her yourself, she says. (Pause. With sudden
violence.) Let go of me for Christ sake and drop! (Pause. Do.) Drop dead! (Smile.) But
no. (Smile broader.) No no. (Smile off.) I watch them recede.46
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 123 )
character, he conveys in these works the belief that it is not in the capacity
of the artist to construct identity. He can only design a work of portraiture
and then leave it to spectators to establish their own personal interpreta-
tions of the sitter’s character.54
When Winnie recollects the cruel words of the passing couple, she attri-
butes a particularly wounding question to the man, who wonders why she
is buried in the ground: “What does it mean? he says—W hat’s it meant to
mean?”55 This question, considered in relation to Wilson’s portrait, aptly
expresses a critical view of celebrity portraits as superficial and lacking
in deeper meaning, focusing as so many do on likeness and beauty over
the revelation of the interior self. In order to take something away from
Wilson’s portraits, the viewer cannot simply respond like the man who
asked “What’s it meant to mean?” because Wilson did not intend them to
mean anything in particular. In his portraits, in all their austerity, the private
selves of his subjects become available to the imagination and interpreta-
tion of the viewer who is willing to engage actively with these open works.
And this will prove a particularly important principle in relation to Wilson
and Glass’s depiction of Albert Einstein in their opera Einstein on the Beach.
Einstein on the Beach was the first of Glass’s trilogy of what he has called por-
trait operas, joined in the following decade by Satyagraha (about Gandhi,
1980) and Akhnaten (1983).56 Glass has written that he conceived this set
of operas as a study of “the transformation of society through the power of
ideas and not through the force of arms.”57 He persisted in working in the
genre after completing these three operas, later producing Galileo Galilei
(2002) and Kepler (2009). Wilson had also experimented with theatrical
portraiture prior to Einstein on the Beach, in works including The King of
Spain (1969), The Life and Times of Sigmund Freud (1969), The Life and
Times of Joseph Stalin (1973), and A Letter for Queen Victoria (1974). Later,
he would continue to work in this form, creating Edison (1979) and The Life
and Death of Marina Abramović (2011).
The portrait opera typically represents its sitter by weaving a narrative
about a period in the life of the central character, but in devising Einstein
on the Beach, Wilson, Glass, and their collaborators were not interested
in recreating a biographical narrative about Einstein, because, as Wilson
explained, “We know stories about him and we come to the theater sharing
something together. And in a sense there was no need to tell a story because
we already had a story: How this man who was a pacifist also contributed to
124
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 125 )
relate to one another and construct their own and each other’s identities,
and how individual selves seem continually to collide with and split from
one another.66 As in Boulez’s portrait of Mallarmé in Pli selon pli, in this
work multiple expressive media merge, fold according to fold, to offer a pro-
found study of contemporary identity. Spectators of the opera, in coming to
understand what Einstein means to them, can also take the opportunity to
explore how the portrait might reflect their own identities as well, by inter-
preting what it reveals of the relationships and interactions among people
and artistic forms.
Wilson and Glass practiced their art within the same artistic commun-
ity of downtown New York in the early 1970s, and it was in 1973 that
they would meet for the first time, after the final performance of Wilson’s
twelve-hour work The Life and Times of Josef Stalin at the Brooklyn
Academy of Music. Glass admired the production, and recognized that he
and Wilson shared an interest in experimenting with time in theater and
music by extending form and development; Glass was working at the time
on his six-hour Music in Twelve Parts (completed in 1974).67 At the cast
party at Wilson’s Spring Street loft, Wilson and Glass agreed to discuss a
possible collaboration, and they met regularly over the course of the next
year, slowly developing the structure, content, and thematic material that
would eventually form Einstein on the Beach.68 The pair knew they wanted
to create a portrait of a famous figure, discussing Charlie Chaplin, Hitler,
and Gandhi before settling on Einstein.69 The premiere of Einstein on
the Beach, which they created together with the choreographer Lucinda
Childs, took place at the Avignon Festival in 1976. Performances con-
tinued that year across Europe and finally over two consecutive Sundays
to full houses at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. The opera was
revived in 1984 at the Brooklyn Academy of Music; in a 1992 touring
production; and again on an international tour that ran between 2012
and 2014.70
In recalling the choice to create an opera about Albert Einstein, Glass
later wrote of the scientist:
[When I was] a child, Einstein had been one of my heroes. Growing up just after World
War II, as I had, it was impossible not to know who he was. The emphatic, if catastrophic,
beginning of the nuclear age had made atomic energy the most widely discussed issue
of the day, and the gentle, almost saintlike originator of the theory of relativity had
126
achieved the 1940s version of superstar status. . . . For a time I, like many others of my
generation, had been swept up in the Einstein craze. Perhaps Bob, growing up in Waco,
Texas, had been too.71
What Einstein on the Beach might mean to people is very much connected to the associa-
tions they bring to it. . . . I am sure that the absence of direct connotative “meaning” made
it all the easier for the spectator to personalize the experience by supplying his own special
“meaning” out of his own experience, while the work itself remained resolutely abstract.76
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 127 )
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 129 )
fanciful. And the bed in these sequences is not more than tangentially con-
nected with Einstein’s biography: Wilson has called Einstein a “dreamer,”
but it seems to serve equally as a pun on the French term for courtroom,
“lit-de-justice” (literally, bed of justice).89 Also unrelated is the Witness’s
rapid costume changes that dramatize the story of the kidnapped heiress
Patty Hearst, a series of events that, rather than overlapping with Einstein’s
life, was in the news during the time Wilson and Glass were constructing
the opera.90
During rehearsals, Glass had his sixteen-member chorus practice using
a text comprised only of numbers—counting out rhythmic measure-
ments—and the solfège syllables associated with the pitches they sang,
to help them learn the challenging patterns he had composed for them.
This was meant to be temporary, but when Wilson heard a rehearsal, he
decided to retain this simple “libretto,” and nothing more was written for
the vocal ensemble.91 The other texts in the opera, which are spoken, rather
than sung, by members of the cast, came about through collaboration as
well. Several were written by Christopher Knowles, a disabled young man
Wilson befriended and with whom he had worked on several previous pro-
ductions. One of the most prominent of Knowles’s texts in Einstein on the
Beach offers a stream-of-consciousness litany of potential answers to the
question Wilson posed to Knowles in asking him to write the monologue,
“Who is Einstein?”:92 “It could be Franky it could be Franky it could be very
fresh and clean. /It could be a balloon. /Oh these are the days my friends
and these are the days my friends. /It could get some wind for the sailboat.
/And it could get for it is. /It could get the railroad for these workers.”93
The actor Samuel M. Johnson, who played the role of the judge in the trial
scenes, wrote a pair of humorous texts for his character in the original and
1984 productions in which he starred, the first about the city of Paris and
the second about the women’s liberation movement.94 And Childs wrote a
speech to recite in her role as the Witness in the trial, a short text that she
repeats multiple times about a visit to the swimming accessories aisle of
a super market: “There were all these bathing caps that you could buy /
which had these kind of Fourth of July plumes on them /they were red
and yellow and blue /I wasn’t tempted to buy one /but I was reminded of
the fact that I had been avoiding the beach.”95 This reference to avoiding—
not visiting—the beach is the opera’s only allusion to the beach outside of
its title, and serves to emphasize the obscurity and abstraction the opera
aims at as a work of portraiture.
To the extent that these texts offer insight into Einstein, it is only indi-
rectly. Indeed, the associations between Einstein’s identity and the individual
textual, visual, musical, and choreographic elements of the work are either
extremely obvious (for example in the modeling of the costumes after his
130
typical dress) or highly attenuated. But despite the disparate nature of the
opera’s constituent parts, it is always also stylistically coherent. This charac-
ter, marked by a sort of unity in variety, permits the work to coalesce into
an open representation of an individual self, albeit in postmodern terms.
Knowles’s monologue suggests a spontaneous poetic rumination on
Einstein’s identity in the manner of Gertrude Stein’s abstract literary por-
traits. Johnson’s and Childs’s may trigger the listener’s imagination in the
manner that juxtaposed images in a visual collage inspire the viewer to
draw connections between disparate people, places, and things. Robert
Rauschenberg’s oil and silkscreen portrait of John F. Kennedy Retroactive
II (1964), for example, represents its subject by grouping disparate pho-
tographs of Kennedy, an astronaut, a depiction of a woman peering in a
mirror taken from an Old Master painting, and the wheels of a truck. Most
of the texts in Einstein on the Beach also share a structure that involves
gradually changing, repeated phrases, resembling Glass’s use of additive
processes and incrementally modified rhythmic and harmonic patterns.
Together the texts and score recall Stein’s technique of poetic “insistence,”
the altered repetition that she argued help to represent a subject’s essence
in poetry. The libretto of the opera, brought together by Glass’s stylistically
consistent musical score and the formalist choral text of rhythmic counting
and solfège pitch names, merge to present a view of the self as cohesive but
polyvocal and open to infinitely varied interpretations and constructions,
a multiplicity further depicted onstage by the principal actors and choir
members all dressed as Einstein.96
In writing a portrait opera in so obscure and abstract a style, the cre-
ators of Einstein on the Beach developed a work that explores how identity
emerges out of the mixture of engaged social discourse and inward self-
examination. Wilson has stated, “The reason we make theatre is to ask ‘What
is it?’ That’s why we invite an audience. To have a forum. We want to leave
it open-ended. As soon as you say what it is, it’s closed, it’s finished.”97 The
opera’s performers, too, have described Wilson’s staging and Glass’s music
as providing a time and space onstage for exploring the self. Characterizing
her experience of working with Wilson, Sutton explained, “We felt we were
working as much on the self as on the work. . . . We started with movement
to learn to listen with the body. . . . We were doing research on perception
and communication.”98 The actress Isabelle Huppert, who has performed
in Wilson’s theatrical works in addition to posing for a Voom Portrait, has
written, similarly: “With him, the theater becomes an exploration of one’s
self, a gamble of one’s entire being, an affirmation of one’s joys, pains, fears,
dreams, unattainable and yet so close.”99
Wilson once described Einstein on the Beach by drawing an analogy
between his staging and human anatomy. According to his metaphor, the
13
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 131 )
scenes that take place primarily at the back of the stage evoke a person’s
bones, those at mid-stage are the flesh, and the action in the foreground
is the skin.100 Considered in this way, Einstein on the Beach, taken as a
whole, offers a portrait of Einstein in three-dimensions, in the manner of
a Renaissance book of anatomical engravings such as Johann Remmelin’s
1619 Catoptrum microcosmicum, with flaps that can be opened to show
the layered parts of the body, or the twentieth-century anatomical model
Visible Man, first produced by Renwal Products in 1958, with a clear plas-
tic casing that forms a skin that can be opened to provide access to the
flesh, organs, and bones underneath. Like both Remmelin’s book and the
Visible Man, Einstein on the Beach requires audience participation to reveal
the full scope of its representation, to disassemble and reassemble its rich
portrayal of Einstein. Wilson, Glass, and their collaborators explore the
contemporary notion of the self in Einstein on the Beach, and by working
in a style that presents no easily discernible meanings, they provoke audi-
ences to enter into this open work, to join in the process of interpreting the
nature of identity.
Figure 4.3: Robert Wilson and Philip Glass, “Knee Play 1” from Einstein on the Beach, 2012–2014
revival production. Courtesy of BAM Hamm Archives and the Robert Wilson Archives and the Byrd
Hoffman Water Mill Foundation. © Lucie Jansch.
Example 4.1: Philip Glass, “Knee Play 1,” from Einstein on the Beach, premiered 1976, organ 1 part,
first measure.
Example 4.2: Philip Glass, “Knee Play 2,” from Einstein on the Beach, premiered 1976, solo violin
part, rehearsal 3.
The first Knee Play begins before the audience is permitted into the thea-
ter, to produce the impression that the portrait, like the identity it represents,
is already in progress. At first no one is onstage; the square space is lit to show
a pair of desks, another light shines on a chair elsewhere at the front of the
stage that will be the seat for the violinist dressed as Einstein, and the organ
can be heard playing the cadential chaconne line. Several minutes later the
two principals enter and sit at the desks; they gradually begin to raise their
arms, moving their hands as though operating machinery, and they recite
13
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 133 )
numbers and fragments of the texts by Knowles that will later be heard in full.
One by one the chorus members also enter, filling the pit in front of the smaller
stage, and when they are all assembled, they begin to sing rhythmic numbers
and then solfège pitch names above the three-note organ bass pattern.
The following three Knee Plays are similar to the first, with slight varia-
tion. In the second, for example, the violinist plays a solo part in the chair
off to the left, and at the conclusion, a projection appears on the backdrop
showing a photograph of Einstein and the words “Bern. 1905,” a reference
to the place and year in which the scientist, at the age of twenty-six, pro-
duced a series of path-breaking articles introducing the theory of special
relativity and his famous equation E = mc2.104 In the third Knee Play, in
which the violinist performs again, the principal actors stand with their
backs to the audience and gesture as though making calculations on a
chalkboard. And in the fourth, they lie on plexiglass tables and move as
though floating, an obscure visual reference to an early scientific experi-
ment measuring the speed of light using liquid mercury.105
The fifth Knee Play of Einstein on the Beach, the final section of the
opera, occupies the entire stage, linking foreground, middleground, and
background as though to conclude the work with a single image that puts
a portrait of Einstein in a larger context of still life and landscape, or to
produce a final three-dimensional sculpture of Einstein depicting skin,
flesh, and bones (Figure 4.4). The two principal actors sit on a park bench,
the lighting indicating nighttime, repeating numbers and lines from the
Figure 4.4: Robert Wilson and Philip Glass, “Knee Play 5” from Einstein on the Beach, 2012–2014
revival production. Courtesy of BAM Hamm Archives and the Robert Wilson Archives and the Byrd
Hoffman Water Mill Foundation. © Lucie Jansch.
134
texts by Knowles recited earlier in the opera. The audience hears excerpts
including “Oh these are the days my friend” and “Do you remember Hans
the bus driver?” as a stage flat in the form of a bus slowly enters from
the right. The music in this scene looks back to the earlier Knee Plays,
incorporating the cadential bass line and choral singing from Knee Play
1 and a violin theme from Knee Play 4. The bus driver (is it Hans?), also
played by Samuel M. Johnson in the premiere and first revival, recites a
text Johnson wrote for the opera; it is “the old, old story of love,” and
recounts an evening conversation between a man and a woman.106 This
final Knee Play, which relates to what came before while also featuring
a new text and a rare emphasis on coherent narrative, offers concluding
thoughts on Einstein, identity, and the relativity that binds art forms and
individuals together.107
The bus driver begins his story by setting the scene: “Two lovers sat on
a park bench, with their bodies touching each other, holding hands in the
moonlight.”108 The woman asks her beau how much he loves her, and he
responds with a series of metaphors: “Count the stars in the sky. Measure
the waters of the oceans with a teaspoon.”109 Toward the conclusion of this
conversation, in which the woman’s anxieties and the man’s profession of
unbounded love recall the emotional extremes of a couple’s relationship in
“Transfigured Night” (Verklärte Nacht), the 1896 poem by Richard Dehmel
that inspired Arnold Schoenberg’s expressionist string sextet of 1899, the
man tells his beloved, “Everything must have an ending except my love for
you.”110 This suggestion of eternity and cyclicality finds its match in the
opera’s form, the repetitive physical movements of its choreography, the
recurrence of its principal imagery, and the reiterated musical themes. It also
echoes the sentiment of Knowles’s line “Oh these are the days my friends
and these are the days my friends,” with its duplicative wording and refer-
ence to the refrain of the Mary Hopkin song “Those Were the Days” (1969),
“Those were the days my friend /We thought they’d never end /We’d sing
and dance forever and a day.” But the reference to eternity also implies the
apparently arbitrary quality of the end of this portrait of Einstein; in a man-
ner that resembles the abrupt endings of Glass’s later portrait of Chuck Close
and Thomson’s of Buffie Johnson and recalls the decision to start the opera
before the audience has assembled in the theater, this line might imply that
as long as people persist in thinking and talking about Einstein, his identity
will remain in construction and continue to develop.
The bus driver concludes his story with the words, “Once more her voice
was heard. ‘Kiss me, John,’ she implored. And leaning over, he pressed his
lips warmly to hers in fervent osculation.”111 In the most immediate sense,
the word “osculation” here denotes the act of kissing, the display of the
affection that relates these two lovers. But osculation also has a meaning in
135
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 135 )
the field of geometry, in which it describes the contact between two curved
lines or surfaces at a shared tangent. Taken this way, “osculation” might
imply the point of intersection of two sets of train tracks or the orbits of two
spaceships like those represented in the opera’s earlier scenes. It might also
connote the bending of rays of light in a gravitational field and the curve of
spacetime in Einstein’s theory of relativity. The final word of this portrait
opera could furthermore be taken to indicate, more abstractly, an aesthetic
and social theory of relativity, a meeting at a shared tangent point between
both the multiple art forms that combine in this opera, and the identities
of the audience members with those of the people with whom they have
spent the foregoing four or five hours, Einstein, Wilson, Glass, and Childs.
This view of relativity as the intersecting of the orbits of individuals’ lives
permits the two women onstage, one white and one black, to represent
at the same time Einstein himself, the pair of young lovers the bus driver
describes, and the Everyman figure Wilson mentioned in characterizing his
costume design.
The director and playwright Richard Foreman has described Wilson’s
theater as offering its audiences the opportunity to contemplate their own
reflections:
Wilson is one of a small number of artists who seem to have applied a very different
aesthetic to theatre—one current among advanced painters, musicians, dancers, and
filmmakers—a non-manipulative aesthetic which would see art create a “field” situation
within which the spectator can examine himself (as perceptor) in relation to the “discov-
eries” the artist has made within his medium.112
In similar but vaguer terms, the literary and cultural critic Julia Kristeva
has also described how Wilson’s art allows the spectator to explore his
own sense of self and how it relates to the content of the work and to
Wilson’s identity, particularly in the way Wilson borrows from and
merges multiple media in his creations. As a member of the commit-
tee that awarded him a prize for sculpture at 1993 Venice Biennale,
Kristeva wrote:
NOTES
1. Quoted in Sandra Kemp, Future Face: Image, Identity, Innovation (London: Profile,
2004), 124.
2. Stephen K. Scher, in a deft layering of puns, calls Renaissance portrait medals “the cur-
rency of fame” in the title of his book on the subject, and argues that for those who coveted
fame during the era, the portrait medal seemed an ideal form of representation, as it was
thought to portray “a wealth of information” about its subject in a reproducible and dura-
ble form that rendered lasting fame and recognition. Stephen K. Scher (ed.), The Currency
of Fame: Portrait Medals of the Renaissance (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1994), 13.
3. Aristotle, The Poetics of Aristotle, trans. Preston H. Epps (Chapel Hill, NC: University of
North Carolina Press, 1970), Book XV, 30–1.
4. Up to this point, the character Mao Tse-tung has come across as physically and mentally
hobbled by age, requiring the assistance of a trio of aides to help him move in and out of
rooms and to clarify his abstruse statements. Meanwhile Mao’s wife Jiang Qing, known as
Madame Mao, has assumed her husband’s mantle in his frailty: “I am the wife of Mao Tse-
Tung. . . . When I appear the people hang upon my words.”
5. The conflicting capacities of portraiture to both reveal and obscure character is the central
subject of Oscar Wilde’s novel The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890). In Wilde’s narrative, the
painted likeness of the attractive young Gray appears to age—and, more significantly, to
take on the signs of his poverty of character—while he himself remains fresh-faced as the
years pass, as though the portrait contains the real life while the man has become nothing
more than his own idealized representation, a likeness that depicts no sign of the cruelty,
137
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 137 )
selfishness, and evil that develop within his soul. At one stage Gray looks at his face in a
hand-mirror and, distraught at the torment he has brought to his acquaintances, reacts
with violence against the looking glass that shows only his physical perfection and
obscures his cruel character: “Then he loathed his own beauty, and flinging the mirror
on the floor crushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel” Oscar Wilde, The Picture
of Dorian Gray [(Leipzig: Bernhard Tauchnitz)], 282. Gray’s act of cracking the mirror
offered the only way to make its representation of his unchanging appearance reveal the
fractures within his soul. At the end of the novel, however, Gray takes a reverse tack, and
attempts to stab the painting and destroy what it reveals about his interior self; but he is
subsequently found deceased, his body old and decrepit, beside his portrait, which now
depicts him in his dashing youth, putting right the inversion of the subject and its repre-
sentation but also unveiling an idealized depiction that shows only its subject’s exagger-
ated beauty and betrays nothing of his immorality. See the discussion of the function of
portraiture in this novel in Michal Peled Ginsburg, Portrait Stories (New York: Fordham
University Press, 2015), 97–108; A. S. Byatt, Portraits in Fiction (London: Chatto and
Windus, 2001), 56–64.
6. Robert Wilson, “Interview about Lady Gaga and Her Portraits,” YouTube, April 4, 2015,
video, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=an3OAM_fAHA.
7. Robert Wilson and Umberto Eco, “Robert Wilson and Umberto Eco: A Conversation,”
Performing Arts Journal, 15.1 ( January 1993): 91. Wilson has also described the distinc-
tion between appearance and identity as relating to a person’s “exterior screen,” the aspect
of a person that one sees, and “interior screen,” the realm in which an individual pro-
cesses external reality through perception, dreams, and intuition. Arthur Holmberg, The
Theatre of Robert Wilson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 156; Laurence
Shyer, Robert Wilson and His Collaborators (New York: Theatre Communications Group,
1989), 76.
8. Wilson, “Interview about Lady Gaga.” Most of the multimedia portraits in this set are
based on iconic painted portraits, Andrea Solari’s “The Head of St. John Baptist” (1507),
Jacques-Louis David’s “The Death of Marat” (1793), and Jean-Auguste-Dominique
Ingres’s “Mademoiselle Caroline Rivière” (1870). An additional portrait, not based on an
earlier model, depicts Lady Gaga naked, bound, and hanging upside down. Peter Weibel
relates Wilson’s video portraits based on famous paintings to the tradition of tableaux
vivants, the eighteenth-century traditional of creating “living images” in which people
reenacted the poses of paintings and sculptures. Peter Weibel, “Robert Wilson’s Video
Portraits,” in Peter Weibel, Harald Falckenberg, and Matthew Shattuck (eds.), Robert
Wilson: Video Portraits (Cologne: Walther König, 2011), 118–23.
9. Umberto Eco, The Open Work, trans. Anna Cancogni (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 1989), 4, 21.
10. Wilson and Eco, “Robert Wilson and Umberto Eco,” 87.
11. Shyer, Robert Wilson and His Collaborators, xix, xviii.
12. Wilson and Eco, “Robert Wilson and Umberto Eco,” 89–90.
13. Jonathan Kalb, “Robert Wilson, Beckett and a Celebrity from the Neck Up,” New York
Times, January 30, 2007. Wilson created a number of his portraits of celebrities accord-
ing to the arrangement that he would provide one copy to the subject in exchange
for permission to sell another two. He has made others on commission, for a fee of
$150,000. Bob Colacello, “The Subject as Star,” Vanity Fair, November 6, 2006. For dis-
cussion of Wilson’s collaboration with Voom HD Networks, see Ali Hossaini, “New-
Definition Television: Robert Wilson’s Video Portraits,” in Weibel, Falckenberg, and
Shattuck, Robert Wilson: Video Portraits, 174–85; Matthew Shattuck, “Interview with
Noah Khoshbin,” in Weibel, Falckenberg, and Shattuck, Robert Wilson: Video Portraits,
188–93.
14. Tom Chen and Kyle Chayka, “Robert Wilson on Bringing Robert Downey Jr. and Boris
the Porcupine to Times Square’s Jumbotrons,” Blouin ARTINFO, May 21, 2012, video,
www.blouinartinfo.com/news/story/805671/v ideo-robert-w ilson-on-bringing-robert-
downey-jr-and-boris-the-porcupine-to-times-squares-jumbotrons.
138
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 139 )
kind of Christ figure, sacrificed for the sins of the participants in modern-day celebrity cul-
ture. Nicola Suthor, “Role Models,” in Weibel, Falckenberg, and Shattuck, Robert Wilson:
Video Portraits, 164–5.
33. Jay S. Jacobs, Wild Years: The Music and Myth of Tom Waits (Toronto: ECW Press,
2000), 198–9.
34. Robert Wilson and Michael Galasso, “Winona Ryder,” Dissident Industries Inc., 2004,
video, www.dissidentusa.com/robert-wilson/subjects/winona-r yder/. When exhibited
at the Paul Cooper Gallery in New York, the portrait of Winona Ryder was displayed in
monumental form, at fifteen by twenty-seven feet. Kalb, “Robert Wilson.”
35. Weibel interprets the inexpressive stares of Wilson’s subjects in the context of Denis
Diderot’s 1773 treatise The Paradox of the Actor, in Weibel, “Robert Wilson’s Video Portraits,”
128–31.
36. Wilson has always admired Beckett’s theater, and at an early stage in his career seriously con-
sidered putting on a production of Happy Days, though he did not follow through at the time.
Holmberg, Theatre of Robert Wilson, 68. He did later stage the play—his first time directing
Beckett—in 2008, in a French-language production at the Grand Théâtre de Luxembourg
starring Adriana Asti. He also directed Beckett’s one-man play Krapp’s Last Tape in 2009.
37. Samuel Beckett, Happy Days: A Play in Two Acts (New York: Grove Press, 1961), 45.
38. Beckett, Happy Days, 7.
39. On Winnie’s literary references, see S. E. Gontarski, Beckett’s Happy Days: A Manuscript
Study (Columbus, OH: Ohio State University Libraries, 1977), 62–73.
40. Katharine Worth, Waiting for Godot and Happy Days: Text and Performance (Houndmills,
UK, and London: Macmillan, 1990), 44.
41. Beckett, Happy Days, 60.
42. For a discussion of Beckett’s notion of eternal recurrence as it influenced Happy Days, see
Worth, Waiting for Godot and Happy Days, 50–1.
43. Beckett, Happy Days, 40.
44. Beckett, Happy Days, 8, 15.
45. See, for example, Stephen M. Silverman, “Winona Ryder Finally Speaks Out About Her
Arrest,” People, July 17, 2007; Chelsea White, “Why My Shoplifting Arrest Was the Best
Thing that Could Have Happened to Me,” Daily Mail, May 17, 2013.
46. Beckett, Happy Days, 58.
47. Beckett, Happy Days, 18, 10; Gontarski, Beckett’s Happy Days, 63.
48. Beckett, Happy Days, 21.
49. Beckett, Happy Days, 40.
50. Beckett, Happy Days, 62.
51. Beckett, Happy Days, 64. In light of the connection between Winnie and Ryder and more
broadly between Happy Days and the contemporary condition of celebrity, these lyrics
bring to mind actress Sally Field’s elation as she collected the Academy Award in 1984,
declaring, “You like me! You really like me!”
52. For a discussion of authenticity of expression and the use of lip-sync to familiar voices in
film and television, see Joshua S. Walden, “Lip-Sync in Lipstick: 1950s Popular Songs in
a Television Series by Dennis Potter,” Journal of Musicological Research 27.2 (April 2008):
169–95.
53. Samuel Beckett, Proust and Three Dialogues, ed. Georges Duthuit (London: John Calder,
1965), 103. Originally published as Samuel Beckett and Georges Duthuit, “Three
Dialogues: Tal Coat—Masson—Van Velde,” Transition 49.5 (December 1949): 97–103.
54. Wilson has stated, “For me, interpretation is not the responsibility of the author or the
director: it is the public’s responsibility.” Katharina Otto-Bernstein, Absolute Wilson: The
Biography (London: Prestel, 2006), 159.
55. Beckett, Happy Days, 43.
56. Other twentieth-and twenty-first-century works in the genre of the portrait opera include Hans
Pfitzner’s Palestrina (premiered 1917), Paul Hindemith’s Mathis der Mahler (1933–1934),
Peter Maxwell Davies’s Taverner (1962–1968, rev. 1970), Olivier Messiaen’s Saint François
d’Assise (1975–1983), Kaija Saariaho’s Émilie (about Émilie du Châtelet, 2008), and Osvaldo
Golijov’s Ainadamar (about the Spanish poet and playwright Federico García Lorca, 2003).
140
57. Philip Glass, Words without Music (London: Liveright, 2015), 372.
58. Katharina Otto- Bernstein (dir.), Absolute Wilson, HBO Documentary Films
(New York: New Yorker Video, 2007), DVD.
59. Otto-Bernstein (dir.), Absolute Wilson. On the notion of Einstein as a “mythic god who is
known generally by the man on the street,” see also Mark Obenhaus (dir.), Einstein on the
Beach: The Changing Image of Opera, Brooklyn Academy of Music (Los Angeles: Direct
Cinema, 1987), video.
60. Philip Glass, Music by Philip Glass, ed. Robert T. Jones (New York: Da Capo, 1987), 32.
61. Obenhaus (dir.), Einstein on the Beach.
62. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 35. Glass’s interest in creating open works of theater was
inspired by his experience with the texts of Samuel Beckett, which he encountered when
he was invited to write music for a production of Beckett’s Play by the Mabou Mines the-
ater in Paris. See Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 35–7.
63. Wim Mertens, American Minimal Music: La Monte Young, Terry Riley, Steve Reich, Philip
Glass, trans. J. Hautekiet (London: Kahn and Averill; White Plains, NY: Pro/Am Music
Resources, 1983), 81.
64. Robert Stearns, “Robert Wilson: From a Theater of Images,” in Contemporary Arts Center
(Cincinnati, Ohio) and Byrd Hoffman Foundation, Robert Wilson: The Theater of Images
(New York: Harper, 1984), 43.
65. Roland Barthes, “The Brain of Einstein,” in Mythologies, 69.
66. Arthur Holmberg also associates Einstein on the Beach with a metaphorical conception of
Einstein’s theory of relativity, in Holmberg, Theatre of Robert Wilson, 11. Katharina Otto-
Bernstein relates the new ways of understanding time provoked by Einstein’s theory of
relativity to Wilson’s innovative manipulation of the experience of time in his stage shows.
Otto-Bernstein, Absolute Wilson, 146.
67. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 27–8. On the creation of the work, see also Shyer, Robert
Wilson and His Collaborators, 213–27; Glass, Words without Music, 283–8.
68. Glass, Music By Philip Glass, 28–9.
69. Glass, Music By Philip Glass, 29.
70. For a detailed discussion of this performance history, see Maria Shevtsova, Robert Wilson
(New York: Routledge, 2007), 83–8; Glass, Words without Music, 292–301; Glass, Music
by Philip Glass, 40–56.
71. Glass, Music By Philip Glass, 29.
72. Shyer, Robert Wilson and His Collaborators, 215.
73. Shyer, Robert Wilson and His Collaborators, 215. Glass has described his portrait operas as
based in part on his undergraduate studies in the Great Books curriculum at the University
of Chicago. See Glass, Words without Music, 33–4.
74. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 29. On Wilson’s visual books, see Shevtsova, Robert Wilson, 42.
75. The title is likely a reference to the futuristic 1957 novel On the Beach, by Nevil Shute, set
in Australia following a nuclear apocalypse caused by World War III. Glass, Words without
Music, 286.
76. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 30, 33.
77. Shyer, Robert Wilson and His Collaborators, 219.
78. Otto-Bernstein, Absolute Wilson, 146.
79. Shyer, Robert Wilson and His Collaborators, 220.
80. Shyer, Robert Wilson and His Collaborators, 222.
81. Shyer, Robert Wilson and His Collaborators, 220.
82. On the music for the opera, see Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 57–62; Keith Potter, Four
Musical Minimalists: La Monte Young, Terry Riley, Steve Reich, Philip Glass (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2000), 326–38. For a detailed discussion of the electronic
organs used in the premiere of Einstein on the Beach and its recordings and revivals, see
Rob Haskins, “Philip Glass and Michael Riesman: Two Interviews,” Musical Quarterly
86.3 (Autumn 2002): 520–4.
83. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 28; Potter, Four Musical Minimalists, 258–60. On Glass’s stud-
ies with Shankar and Rakha, see William Duckworth, Talking Music: Conversations with
14
C e l e b r i t y, M u s i c , a n d t h e M u lt im e d i a P o rt r a i t ( 141 )
John Cage, Philip Glass, Laurie Anderson, and Five Generations of American Experimental
Composers (New York: Schirmer, 1995), 330–1.
84. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 38.
85. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 58–9. For further discussion by Glass, see Glass, Words with-
out Music, 288–9.
86. Stefan Brecht, The Theatre of Visions: Robert Wilson (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1978),
370–1. Wilson also modeled the position of the fingers of many of his actors after the way
Einstein holds his hands in this photograph. The image is reproduced, with a descriptive
blurb by Wilson, in Robert Wilson, “From Within,” in Safir, Robert Wilson from Within, 313.
87. Holmberg, Theatre of Robert Wilson, 11.
88. David Cunningham, “Einstein on the Beach (1977),” in Richard Kostelanetz (ed.),
Writings on Glass: Essays, Interviews, Criticism (New York: Schirmer, 1997), 152–3, 158.
Cunningham interprets the Field as a reference not to a field of grass or grains but to the
metaphorical use of the word field to describe an area of science.
89. Cunningham, “Einstein on the Beach (1977),” 163.
90. Shyer, Robert Wilson and His Collaborators, 227. Other elements of the drama appear to
refer to aspects of Wilson’s own life. His sister Suzanne Wilson suggests that the judge’s
glance at his watch is a memory of their father, a lawyer who was always punctual, and that
the multiple scenes in which women sit in chairs recall their mother, who frequently sat in
silence in their home. She also interprets the shaking head of one of the actors as a refer-
ence to their mother’s palsy. Otto-Bernstein, Absolute Wilson, 146.
91. Wilson and Glass associated this formalist use of numbers and pitch names as choral text
with the work of contemporary artists like Jasper Johns, for whom, in Glass’s words, “the
painting is not the depiction of the thing, the painting is the thing.” Shyer, Robert Wilson
and His Collaborators, 227.
92. Wilson recalls this interaction in Obenhaus (dir.), Einstein on the Beach.
93. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 64.
94. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 68–70.
95. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 74–5.
96. Frederik J. Ruf writes that the overlapping abstract texts that make up the opera’s libretto
“present a consistent model for the self.” Frederik J. Ruf, Entangled Voices: Genre and the
Religious Construction of the Self (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 67.
97. Ruf, Entangled Voices, 72–3. For a similar statement, see Wilson, “From Within,” 317.
98. Holmberg, Theatre of Robert Wilson, 4.
99. Huppert, “Time between Fixity and Motion,” 75.
100. Cunningham, “Einstein on the Beach (1977),” 153.
101. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 33; Cunningham, “Einstein on the Beach (1977),” 153.
102. The term mise en abyme refers to the technique by which works of art turn their focus
back on themselves, reproducing within their structures a miniature version of their sub-
ject matter or form. Examples include the convex mirror in Jan van Eyck’s “The Arnolfini
Portrait” (1434) that offers a different perspective on the room depicted in the painting;
the tragic drama “The Murder of Gonzago” performed by the players in Shakespeare’s
Hamlet, Act 3, scene 2 (c. 1599–1601) that reflects elements of Hamlet’s plot; and the
operatic scenes staged in the revised version of Paul Hindemith’s opera Cardillac (1952,
orig. 1926). Meaning “placed into abyss,” the French phrase originates in heraldry, in
which context it referred to the duplication within a shield of a small representation of a
second shield with the same image. André Gide introduced the concept into art criticism
in 1893. On mise en abyme, see Lucien Dällenbach, The Mirror in the Text, trans. Jeremy
Whiteley and Emma Hughes (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 7–19. On the
use of the technique in Cardillac, see Hermann Danuser, “Self-Representation in Music:
The Case of Hindemith’s Meta-Opera Cardillac,” trans. J. Bradford Robinson, in Joshua S.
Walden (ed.), Representation in Western Music (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2013), 224–46. In the case of Einstein on the Beach, the use of the term in this context
refers to the Knee Plays as a series of miniature portraits of Einstein within the larger por-
trait of Einstein produced by the opera as a whole.
142
103. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 60–1. Glass published a more detailed analysis in the Winter
1978 issue of Performing Arts Journal. This is reprinted in part in Brecht, Theatre of Visions,
317–18.
104. In the revivals, the projection read, “Bern, Switzerland. 1905.” The image of Einstein play-
ing violin alongside references to the scientific calculations that would contribute to the
splitting of the atom also recalls Bob Dylan’s lyrics about Einstein: “Now you would not
think to look at him/But he was famous long ago/For playing the electric violin/On
Desolation Row.” To take the analogy a step further, the score of simple counting and
solfège syllables sung by a chorus dressed as Einstein resonates with Dylan’s image of an
“immaculately frightful” Einstein “reciting the alphabet.” Bob Dylan, “Desolation Row,” in
Highway 61 Revisited, Warner Bros. Inc., 1965; renewed Special Rider Music, 1993.
105. Brecht, Theatre of Visions, 353. Wilson’s description of this experiment in an interview
about Einstein on the Beach is vague; he might be referring to the work in the late nine-
teenth century of Edward Morley and Albert Michelson, whose findings, some have
argued, were influential to Einstein in developing his theory of special relativity.
106. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 78.
107. For the full text of Knee Play 5, see Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 78–9.
108. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 78.
109. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 78.
110. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 79.
111. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 79.
112. Shyer, Robert Wilson and His Collaborators, xviii.
113. Shevtsova, Robert Wilson, 3.
114. Shyer, Robert Wilson and His Collaborators, 218.
143
Epilogue
Musical Portraiture, the Posthumous,
and the Posthuman
I wonder whether one oftener learns to love real objects through their representations, or the rep-
resentations through the real objects.
—George Eliot, Daniel Deronda1
Epilo g u e ( 145 )
Figure E.1: Kim Novak in Vertigo, directed by Alfred Hitchcock, Paramount Pictures, 1958.
146
Example E.1: Bernard Herrmann, Carlotta’s leitmotif, from Vertigo, 1958, dir. Alfred Hitchcock.
David Cooper, Bernard Herrmann’s Vertigo: A Film Score Handbook (Westport, CT: Greenwood
Press, 2001), 20.
Epilo g u e ( 147 )
Epilo g u e ( 149 )
Figure E.2: Robert Wilson and Bernard Herrmann, “Princess Caroline,” 2006, video. Courtesy RW
Work Ltd.
Wilson has captured Princess Caroline’s image in black and white, and
the only aspect that changes over the course of the seven and a half minutes
of the portrait’s duration is the lighting, which gradually brightens, moves,
and dims, so that the subject, at the start and end seen entirely in a black sil-
houette, is at times lit from certain angles that brighten the space between
her shoulder blades, her hands—held behind her back in a reference to a
scene from Rear Window15—and the edge of her face, which appears like
the sliver of sunlight on a crescent moon. In this portrait, Princess Caroline,
half-invisible in the shadows, is a spectral apparition, and the musical
soundtrack associates her with posthumous and nonhuman presences: the
persistent spirit of the dead Carlotta and the obscure identity of Madeleine,
a woman who first appeared to be possessed by a ghost, and was eventually
150
revealed never to have existed at all. With this portrait, Wilson effectively
answers Judy’s question at the climactic moment in Vertigo, “Can’t you see?”
We expect portraiture to make a subject’s appearance and identity available
to the visual sense, but in its combination of the Carlotta motif and the
darkness that enshrouds Princess Caroline, the portrait suggests that what
we hear might in fact reveal just how little about a person we are able to see.
The sound artist Neil Harbisson might also have to answer Judy’s question
“Can’t you see?” in the negative. He is entirely colorblind, suffering from
a condition called achromatopsia, a visual impairment that prevents him
from registering the appearance of the people he encounters in as full and
rich a way as he would like through sight alone.16 He has sought to remedy
this effect of his condition by experimenting with the ways sound can be
used to supplement or stand in for visual representation, and hearing can
take the place of sight, to construct likenesses of the individuals he meets.
Harbisson has turned to the genre of musical portraiture, creating a ser-
ies of extremely brief works that depict his subjects in tones and harmo-
nies that derive from the colors of the light that reflects from their faces.
For Harbisson, music brings clarity in portraiture, because it can fill in the
gaps with sound where vision fails. The resulting balance between sight
and sound recalls the moment in Vertigo in which it is the musical portrait
embedded in Herrmann’s leitmotif that finally clarifies the single identity
behind the confusing handful of visual likenesses Scottie has encountered
and fallen in love with.
Harbisson has had a device created that converts the colors of the
objects in front of him into corresponding sounds; this machine, which
Harbisson calls an “eyeborg,” has been implanted in the back of his skull
and curves over and above his cranium like a metal antenna that operates
for Harbisson as a third eye and ear.17 This dual organ produces a new sen-
sory connection to the world around him. It detects visible colors, as well
as infrared and ultraviolet light waves, and transmits these from the cam-
era at the tip of the antenna to a chip at the back of Harbisson’s skull. This
chip translates the hues that are detected into associated pitch frequencies
that Harbisson experiences through bone conduction. Donna Haraway’s
“Cyborg Manifesto” argues that contemporary technologies “have made
thoroughly ambiguous the difference between natural and artificial . . . and
many other distinctions that used to apply to organisms and machines,”18
and indeed Harbisson explains that this machine is more than a prosthesis,
it is a part of his body: “I don’t feel like I’m using technology, or wearing
15
Epilo g u e ( 151 )
on an interactive website like YouTube.24 This means that they will always
sound more or less the same, and they leave no room for a performer’s inter-
pretation or for the sort of meanings produced for an audience member by
watching a human performer. Instead, they reach the listener directly and
with minimal mediation, much as the sounds of Harbisson’s implanted
chip transmits tones straight into his head without human interpretive
intervention.
The posthuman artist arguably requires new modes of representation to
interpret and portray the posthuman self. According to theories of cyborg
subjectivity, this new form of representation could also demand an altered
conception of the relationship between the artist and the tools he employs
in the creation of a portrait. Andy Clark and David Chalmers write that
the “coupled process” of cognition, in which “the human organism is
linked with an external entity in a two-way interaction . . . counts equally
well as a cognitive process, whether or not it is wholly in the head.”25 In
this analysis, the painter’s paintbrush and the composer’s pen or notation
software, no less than the implanted eyeborg, can be considered integral
parts of the artist’s cognitive process, despite their existence beyond the
physical boundaries of the body. And Clark and Chalmers conclude on the
basis of this argument that the notion of extension also applies to person-
hood: “The extended mind impl[ies] an extended self.”26 Clark later devel-
ops this reasoning about extended cognition and the self, in Natural-Born
Cyborgs, to argue that we are all cyborgs, in the sense that we are “human-
technology symbionts: thinking and reasoning systems whose minds and
selves are spread across biological brain and nonbiological circuitry,” a
notion with “roots in some of the most basic and characteristic facts about
human nature.”27 In Harbisson’s portraits, both artist and sitter are cyborgs.
Harbisson is a cyborg because he observes and represents others’ selves
through a process of extended cognition using his technological implant.
His subjects are cyborgs, too, because they are portrayed as automated
sonic translations of visible and invisible colors of light, that sound dis-
tinctly electronic and must be listened to and contemplated through the
use of new media devices, cybernetic cognitive extensions in the form of
Internet-enabled computers.28
Hayles argues that with the contemporary technologies that turn our
attention away from print and toward “the flickering signifiers of digital
media, visual forms, like the body, seem to lose their weighty materiality.”29
Elsewhere she writes that in cybernetic constructions of the posthuman
subject, “embodiment is not essential to human being.”30 For Harbisson,
whose own body has been technologically enhanced to transform him into
a cyborg assemblage of flesh and metal who interacts with the world by way
of organic and computerized senses, the bodies of those he encounters do
153
Epilo g u e ( 153 )
indeed seem to have lost some of their physical presence and individuality
when perceived—that is, scanned—as intersecting, weightless flickers of
light. The representations in his Sound Portraits are built of digital sound
vibrations, as immaterial and intangible as the avatars that populate online
virtual worlds such as Pokémon Go or Second Life, and that interact with
other avatars as extensions of the invisible bodies and minds of the people
who construct them as alternate self-portraits.31 For this reason, this set of
musical representations brings to mind the famous line in Bernard Wolfe’s
science fiction novel Limbo, “The human skin is an artificial boundary: the
world wanders into it and the self wanders out of it, traffic is two-way and
constant.”32
Epilo g u e ( 155 )
Epilo g u e ( 157 )
NOTES
1. George Eliot, Daniel Deronda, 2 vols. (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1876), ii: 27.
2. Lorenzo Battista Alberti, On Painting, trans. John R. Spencer (New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press, 1956, rev. ed. 1966), 63.
3. N. Katherine Hayles, How We Became Posthuman: Virtual Bodies in Cybernetics, Literature,
and Informatics (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), 3.
4. Andy Clark, Natural-Born Cyborgs: Minds, Technologies, and the Future of Human Intelligence
(New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 138.
5. Jennifer Thweatt-Bates, “Posthuman Selves: Bodies, Cognitive Processes, and Technologies,”
in J. Wentzel van Huyssteen and Erik P. Wiebe (eds.), In Search of Self: Interdisciplinary
Perspectives on Personhood (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 2011), 247.
158
6. On music and the relationship between the living and dead, particularly in the
context of popular music production, see Jason Stanyek and Benjamin Piekut,
“Deadness: Technologies of the Intermundane,” TDR/The Drama Review 54.1 (Spring
2010): 14–38.
7. For definitions of multiple strands of posthumanism, see David Roden, Posthuman
Life: Philosophy at the Edge of the Human (New York: Routledge, 2015), 20–32. On the
“posthuman” merging of human and technology in music production and consumption,
see Joseph Auner, “‘Sing It for Me’: Posthuman Ventriloquism in Recent Popular Music,”
Journal of the Royal Musical Association 128.1 (2003): 98–122. On the cyborg and its his-
torical link to the fields of cybernetics and artificial intelligence, see Stefano Franchi and
Güven Güzeldere, “Machinations of the Mind: Cybernetics and Artificial Intelligence
from Automata to Cyborgs,” in Stefano Franchi and Güven Güzeldere (eds.), Mechanical
Bodies, Computational Minds: Artificial Intelligence from Automata to Cyborgs (Cambridge,
MA: The MIT Press, 2005), 114–23.
8. See Jack Sullivan, Hitchcock’s Music (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008), 229.
9. David Cooper, Bernard Herrmann’s Vertigo: A Film Score Handbook (Westport,
CT: Greenwood Press, 2001), 20, 98–100.
10. As the band Harvey Danger puts it in their 1997 song about the mysterious woman in the
painting, “Carlotta Valdes: I will make you her.”
11. Hitchcock had dealt with similar themes previously, in Rebecca (1940), a film based on
a novel by Daphne du Maurier in which a young newlywed ( Joan Fontaine) is taken to
reside in the mansion where her husband (Laurence Olivier) had lived previously with his
now-deceased first wife Rebecca. This young woman feels haunted by Rebecca’s presence,
and at one point the housekeeper Mrs. Danvers ( Judith Anderson), still loyal to Rebecca’s
memory, misleads her into wearing a dress for a costume party based on a portrait that
hangs in the hall. This turns out to be a depiction of Rebecca from the year before, and the
emulation and reanimation of the portrait provokes a confrontation in which Olivier’s char-
acter is enraged and Fontaine’s is humiliated. In his soundtrack, Franz Waxman created a
leitmotif to depict “the overshadowing spirit of the dead Rebecca” that features heavy chro-
maticism like Herrmann’s later Carlotta leitmotif. This was performed by what Waxman
dubbed a “ghost orchestra” of electric organ and a pair of novachords, a new innovation of
the era that created an eerie timbre using radio tubes and that he said “has a peculiar sound
of unreality—of something that you cannot define.” David Neumeyer and Nathan Platte,
Franz Waxman’s Rebecca: A Film Score Guide (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow, 2012), 115–16.
12. On the uses of portraiture in Vertigo, see Nickolas Pappas, “Magic and Art in Vertigo,” in
Katalin Makkai (ed.), Vertigo (New York: Routledge, 2013), 18–44.
13. Robert Wilson and Bernard Herrmann, “Princess Caroline,” Dissident Industries Inc., 2006,
video, www.dissidentusa.com/robert-wilson/subjects/princess-caroline/.
14. Bob Colacello, “The Subject as Star,” Vanity Fair, November 6, 2006. The reference to Rear
Window also suggests a pun on the traditional notion of the work of art as a window onto
an alternate reality (see Rudolf Arnheim, Art and Visual Perception: A Psychology of the
Creative Eye (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974), 239). Further along these
lines, Wilson has said that when his Voom Portraits are hung in people’s homes, “they can
be like a window—a window that shows us another world.” “Voom Portraits by Robert
Wilson Opens Next Week in Valladolid,” http://artdaily.com/news/29769/Voom-
Portraits-by-Robert-Wilson-Opens-Next-Week-in-Valladolid#.VzTuUWNWLiM, March
29, 2009.
15. Noah Khoshbin and Matthew Shattuck, “Overview,” Dissident Industries Inc., accessed
June 21, 2016, www.dissidentusa.com/robert-wilson/overview/.
16. Stuart Jeffries, “Neil Harbisson: The World’s First Cyborg Artist,” The Guardian,
May 6, 2014, www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2014/may/06/neil-harbisson-worlds-
first-cyborg-artist.
17. See a detailed description of this machine at Harbisson’s professional website. Neil
Harbisson, accessed June 21, 2016, www.harbisson.com.
18. Donna J. Haraway, “A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism
in the Late Twentieth Century,” in Donna J. Haraway, Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The
159
Epilo g u e ( 159 )
Reinvention of Nature (New York: Routledge, 1991), 152. On the posthuman merging of
human bodies and technology, see also Hayles, How We Became Posthuman, 3.
19. Jeffries, “Neil Harbisson: The World’s First Cyborg Artist.”
20. Jeffries, “Neil Harbisson: The World’s First Cyborg Artist.”
21. Paul Ivan Harris, “Neil Harbisson: The Man Who Hears Colour,” BBC News, November
11, 2014, video, www.bbc.com/news/technology-29992577.
22. Neil Harbisson, “What’s It Like to Hear Color?” TED Radio Hour, March 7, 2014, video,
www.npr.org/2014/03/07/283441986/what-s-it-like-to-hear-color.
23. Harris, “Neil Harbisson: The Man Who Hears Colour.”
24. Neil Harbisson, “Sound Portraits,” YouTube, May 7, 2010, video, https://www.youtube.
com/watch?v=JDqL-PUZ148.
25. Andy Clark and David Chalmers, “The Extended Mind,” Analysis 58.1 ( January
1998): 8–9.
26. Clark and Chalmers, “Extended Mind,” 18.
27. Clark, Natural-Born Cyborgs, 3.
28. A discussion of the impact of new digital technologies on visual portraiture and the ways
this has influenced the conception of the individual during the contemporary era appears
in Michael Desmond, Present Tense: An Imagined Grammar of Portraiture in the Digital Age
(Canberra: National Portrait Gallery, 2010), 2–11.
29. N. Katherine Hayles, “Visualizing the Posthuman,” Art Journal 59.3 (Fall 2000): 51.
Hayles remains supportive, nevertheless, of an embodied view of subjectivity, and opposes
approaches to the posthuman subject that seek to separate the self from the physical body.
30. Hayles, How We Became Posthuman, 4.
31. See Lee Siegel, “On the Face of It,” in Donna Gustafson and Susan Sidlauskas (eds.),
Striking Resemblance: The Changing Art of Portraiture (New Brunswick, NJ: Zimmerli
Art Museum at Rutgers University; London: Prestel, 2014), 78; Sandra Kemp, Future
Face: Image, Identity, Innovation (London: Profile, 2004), 135–6.
32. Bernard Wolfe, Limbo (London: Gollancz, 2016, orig. 1952), 131. Quoted as an epigraph
in Clark, Natural-Born Cyborgs. Kim Toffoletti shows that depictions of posthuman bod-
ies in popular visual culture, especially those created with the aid of new technologies
of representation, often indicate ambivalence about the individuality of identity, about
the boundaries that separate self from other and reality from virtuality, and in this way
they offer the potential to alter our understanding of the nature of the self. Kim Toffoletti,
Cyborgs and Barbie Dolls: Feminism, Popular Culture and the Posthuman Body (London: I.
B. Tauris, 2007), 5–6.
33. Rosi Braidotti, The Posthuman (Cambridge: Polity, 2013), 12.
34. Hayles, How We Became Posthuman, 4.
35. Hayles, “Visualizing the Posthuman,” 54.
36. Harris, “Neil Harbisson: The Man Who Hears Colour.”
37. Morton Feldman, “Between Categories,” The Composer 1.2 (Sept 1969): 73–7, reprinted
in B. H. Friedman (ed.), Give My Regards to Eighth Street: Collected Writings of Morton
Feldman (Cambridge, MA: Exact Change, 2000), 84.
38. Juan Manuel Bonet, “I Learned More from Painters than I Learned from Composers,”
trans. Jonathan Brennan, in Seán Kissane (ed.), Vertical Thoughts: Morton Feldman and the
Visual Arts (Dublin: Irish Museum of Modern Art, 2010), 9.
39. Carlos Bermejo, “Seven Projections in the Music of Peter Ablinger,” accessed June 21,
2016, http://ablinger.mur.at/docs/CarlosBermejo_7Projections.pdf.
40. Harbisson, accessed June 21, 2016, www.harbisson.com.
160
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17
I N DE X
Ablinger, Peter, 16, 85, 87, 90, 96–104, 156 Atget, Eugène, 83–4, 100
“Grisailles,” 98 “Coiffure, Palais Royale,” 83, 100
Hören hören, 98 Augenmusik, 65–6
IEAOV, 98 autobiography, 25–6, 30, 38, 87
“Metaphern,” 98 Avedon, Richard, 86
Quadraturen, 101 “Self-Portrait,” 86
“Quadraturen IV: ‘Selbstportrait mit
Berlin,’ ” 16, 85, 87, 96–104, 156 Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, 3, 24, 55,
Seeing and Hearing, 98 86, 153
“Selbstportrait mit Mittersill,” 107n50 “L’Aly Rupalich” (“La Bach”), 86
“Stadtportrait Graz,” 101 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 83, 114
Voices and Piano, 99, 100 The Art of Fugue, 83
Weiss/Weisslich, 98 Bacon, Francis, 6, 47, 88
abstract expressionism, 59–60, 62, 68, 78n18 “Self-Portrait,” 88
abstraction, 6–9, 13–17, 24, 27, 29–30, 32, Baker, Josephine, 49n15
43, 45, 47, 58–60, 62–3, 68, 72, 76, Baldessari, John, 96–7
78n38, 91, 100, 124, 126, 128–30, “Beethoven’s Trumpet (With Ear)
135–6, 138n22, 141n96, 153, 155, 157 Opus # 133,” 96–7
Adams, John, 24, 87–9, 110–11 Balzac, Honoré de, 92
My Father Knew Charles Ives, 24, 87–9 Le Chef-d’oeuvre inconnu, 92
Nixon in China, 110–11 Barthes, Roland, 11–12, 39, 113–14, 124
“Short Ride in a Fast Machine,” 88 “The Death of the Author,” 39
additive process, 128, 130 “The Face of Garbo,” 113–14
Aeolian harp, 42 Bartók, Béla, 36
Akiba ben Joseph, 78n17 Bechtle, Robert, 101
Alberti bass, 74 Beckett, Samuel, 58, 119–23, 127, 139n36,
Alberti, Leon Battista, 4, 144, 147 139n51, 140n62
On Painting, 4 Happy Days, 119–23, 139n36, 139n51
Alexander the Great, 4 Play, 127, 140n62
Allen, Woody, 151 Three Dialogues, 122
Anderson, Judith, 158n11 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 74, 84–6, 97
Anguissola, Sofonisba, 106 deafness, 96–7
“Self-Portrait with Bernardino “Moonlight” Sonata, 74
Campi,” 106 String Quartet Op. 133, 96–7
Aragon, Louis, 112 Symphony No. 9, 85–6
architecture, 45, 55 Beetlejuice, 122
Aristotle, 23, 110 Belafonte, Harry, 122
Assetto, Franco, 32 “Jump in the Line,” 122
178
Index ( 179 )
Index ( 181 )
literary portraiture, 15, 22–48, 49n7, 49n8, Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 1–2
49n10, 49n12, 49n29, 51n62, 124, Così fan tutte, 1–2
130, 138n22, 153 mugshots, 115, 117
literature, 2–3, 6–7, 14, 16–17, 22–48, multimedia, 3, 6, 14, 16, 49n15, 97–8,
53n121, 111–12, 143, 153, 155 107n50, 109, 111–15, 122, 124,
Lysippos, 4 137n8, 143, 145, 148, 154
photography, 6, 83, 88, 98–100, 111, Rembrandt van Rijn, 86, 116, 136
115–16 “The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes
photorealism, 71, 101 Tulp,” 116
Picasso, Pablo, 6, 26–7, 35, 59, 91 “Portrait of the Artist at His Easel,” 86
“Gertrude Stein,” 26–7 Remmelin, Johann, 131
“Les demoiselles d’Avignon,” 26 Reynolds, Joshua, 22
“Self-Portrait,” 91 Richter, Gerhard, 98
Vollard Suite, 92 Riley, Terry, 15, 85, 90–1, 93–6
pièces de caractère. See character pieces “In C,” 90, 94–5
Plutarch, 4 Rockwell, Norman, 86
Poe, Edgar Allen, 4 “Triple Self-Portrait,” 86
“The Oval Portrait,” 4 Rota, Nino, 114
poetry, 2, 6, 24–48, 110, 134, 138n22 Roth, Philip, 104
Pokémon Go, 153 My Life as a Man, 104
Pollock, Jackson, 60–1 Rothko, Mark, 58–9, 151
Popol Vuh, 114 Ryder, Winona, 117–23, 157
portrait medals, 136n2
portrait miniatures, 1–2 Saariaho, Kaija, 139n56
portrait opera, 3, 14–16, 112, 123–36, Émilie, 139n56
139n56, 140n73 Sargent, John Singer, 148
posthumanism, 16–17, 143–4, 150–7 “Madame X (Madame Pierre
posthumous representation, 16, 143–50 Gautreau),” 148
postmodernism, 11–13, 20n39, 103, Sarup, Madan, 11
112, 130 Scarlatti, Domenico, 93
presence, 19n28, 30, 32, 34, 48, 155 Schapiro, Meyer, 62
process, 70–1, 75, 128, 130 Schechtman, Marya, 13
program, 14, 74 Schérer, Jacques, 37
prosopopeia, 38–9, 48 Schnittke, Alfred, 84
Proust, Marcel, 37, 87 Concerto Grosso No. 3, 84
String Quartet No. 3, 84
Quintilian, 38 Violin Concerto No. 4, 84
Schoenberg, Arnold, 36, 134
Radcliffe, Daniel, 151 “Verklärte Nacht,” 134
Rakha, Alla, 127 Schrag, Calvin O., 12–13
Rankine, Claudia, 49n15 Schumann, Robert, 23–4, 93
Raphael, 82 Carnaval, 24
“The School of Athens,” 82 sculpture, 3, 4, 8, 26, 57–8, 63, 96–7, 133,
Rauschenberg, Robert, 130 135, 137n8
“Retroactive II,” 130 Second Life, 153
Ravel, Maurice, 105n6 Seigel, Jerrold, 11
“Daphnis et Chloé,” 105n6 self, 1, 3–4, 7, 9, 11–14, 17, 20n38, 20n39,
Ray, Man, 20n33 22, 28, 35, 48, 56, 61–2, 68, 84, 89,
realism, 5 97–101, 103–4, 113–14, 116, 118–19,
Rear Window, 148–9 124, 129–31, 135, 144, 152–4, 156–7,
Rebecca, 158n11 159n29, 159n32
Reich, Steve, 15, 85, 90–2, 94–6 self-portraiture, 3, 14–16, 20n33, 24, 34,
“It’s Gonna Rain,” 90, 94 37, 46–8, 51n62, 54n121, 56, 58, 63,
“Piano Phase,” 94 76, 81–104, 105n6, 105n22, 106n31,
“Violin Phase,” 90, 94 107n50, 143, 148, 153, 156
Reinhardt, Ad, 98 Sellars, Peter, 110
relativity, 123–5, 128, 133, 135–6 Serra, Richard, 69
183
Index ( 183 )
Shakespeare, William, 12, 76, 119, 141n102 “Buffie Johnson: Drawing Virgil
Hamlet, 76, 121, 141n102 Thomson in Charcoal,” 15, 24, 32–5,
Shankar, Ravi, 127 47–8, 134
Shostakovich, Dmitri, 84 “Capital Capitals”, 25
String Quartet No. 8, 84 Eight Portraits for Violin Alone, 31
Siedentopf, Henning, 93 essays, 25
Siegel, Lee, 116 Four Saints in Three Acts, 25
Smith, Olav Bryant, 12 “Miss Gertrude Stein as a Young Girl,” 30–1
Socrates, 8 The Mother of Us All, 25
Solari, Andrea, 137n8 Nineteen Portraits for Piano, 32
“The Head of St. John the “Preciocilla,” 25, 28
Baptist,” 137n8 “Susie Asado,” 25, 28
sonnet, 36, 40–1, 43, 45–6, 155 titles, 3, 7, 14, 24–5, 30–1, 35–6, 40, 44, 48,
Sontag, Susan, 9, 138n22 56–60, 62–3, 69, 73, 78n17, 85–7,
Sorey, Tyshawn, 49n15 89–91, 98, 105n6, 126, 129, 140n75,
soul, 7–9, 55, 81, 86, 116, 137n5 143, 154–5
Steichen, Edward, 113 Toklas, Alice B., 25
Stein, Gertrude, 15, 24–35, 50n29, 50n30, transcendentalist philosophers, 87
50n40, 75, 99, 124, 130, 155 tropes, 1–2, 9, 33–4, 92
Capital Capitals, 25 Turk, Gavin, 53n121
Four Saints in Three Acts, 25
“If I Told Him,” 35 Ulambayar, Byambajav, 113
The Making of Americans, 50n30
Valéry, Paul, 41
The Mother of Us All, 25
van Eyck, Jan, 81–2, 141n102
“Portraits and Repetition,” 28–9
“The Arnolfini Portrait,” 141n102
“Preciocilla,” 25, 28
Ghent Altarpiece, 81–2
“Susie Asado,” 25, 28
Velázquez, Diego, 86, 151
“Virgil Thomson,” 30–2
“Las Meninas,” 86
Stein, Leo, 26
Venice Biennale, 135
Stewart, James, 145, 148
Verlaine, Paul, 39
still life, 90, 114, 131, 133 Vertigo, 16, 144–50, 154
Stoller, Mike, 114 Visible Man, 131
Strachey, Lytton, 49n7 visual art, 2–4, 6–7, 10, 15, 17, 19n24,
Sturm und Drang, 1 19n25, 19n30, 22–4, 26–8, 30, 32–3,
subjectivity, 5, 12, 55, 57–8, 61–2, 67–8, 102, 37–8, 47–8, 50n29, 55–77, 85–7, 93,
152–3, 159n29 95, 97–8, 153–5
Sulzer, Johann Georg, 55 visual portraiture, 3–7, 9, 13, 22–4, 28,
Suprematism, 91 32–3, 55–77, 86, 104, 109–36, 145,
surgical theaters, 116 147–51, 154
Sutton, Sheryl, 128, 130 Voom HD Networks, 113
tapestry, 70 Wagner, Richard, 85, 114
Tavel, Ronald, 116 Waits, Tom, 16, 117, 121
theater, 16, 111–12, 114, 116, 119, 123–36, Bone Machine, 117
139n36, 140n62 “The Ocean Doesn’t Want Me,”
Theophrastus, 23, 49n6 117–18, 121
Characters, 23 Warhol, Andy, 98, 110, 115–16, 138n22, 151
theory of relativity. See relativity Screen Tests, 115–16, 138n22
Thomson, Virgil, 15, 24–35, 38, 47–8, 124, Waxman, Franz, 158n11
134, 155 wax sculpture, 57–8, 63
184
Webern, Anton, 36, 41, 52n90, 64–5 The Life and Times of Sigmund
“Five Pieces for String Quartet,” 52n90 Freud, 123
Welin, Karl-Erik, 93 “Princess Caroline,” 148–50
Whitehead, Alfred North, 20n38 “Robert Downey Jr.,” 116–18,
Whitelaw, Billie, 119 121–2, 138n32
Wilde, Oscar, 81, 136n5 Video 50, 115
The Picture of Dorian Gray, 81, 136n5 Voom Portraits, 16, 112–24, 130, 137n13,
Williams, Bernard, 5 148, 157, 158n11
Williams, William Carlos, 6, 50n29 “Winona Ryder,” 117–23
Wilson, Robert, 16, 111–36, 138n32, Wolfe, Bernard, 153
139n36, 148, 157, 158n11 Limbo, 153
Deafman Glance, 112 Wolpe, Stefan, 59–60
Edison, 123 Woolf, Virginia, 49n7
Einstein on the Beach (see Glass, Philip) Woronov, Mary, 116
“Isabelle Huppert,” 113, 130 Wright, John, 32
The King of Spain, 123
Lady Gaga portraits, 111, 137n8 Xenophon, 8
A Letter for Queen Victoria, 123 The Memorabilia, 8
The Life and Death of Marina
Abramović, 123 Yeats, William Butler, 119
The Life and Times of Joseph Stalin, 123, 125 YouTube, 152
185
186