by Evan Hause

           Once when I was in graduate school, I was walking down the street with a friend and I said, "I just had a mental flash of what my music will sound like in ten years." I went on to say that I was hearing a particular orchestral piece and that it made me very happy because it sounded very cool. That was about all I could say about it. Although I knew a few of the specifics about why the piece, in that 5-second flash, was exciting to me, I couldn't describe it then, nor now, in words. The friend replied, "Well, why don't you go write it right now."

            This was an interesting, valid, and provocative response that I had not expected. Now that it is ten years later, and I know that I am not in any position either professionally (I have no impending orchestral opportunity to perform such a work) or creatively (my style would have to take an immediate left turn to accommodate the style of the piece I heard that day) to write that piece. That fittingly naïve response, made by a non-musician, non-artist, imparts some simple and effective philosophizing. It clearly says, "Why put off till tomorrow what you can do today." Or, more probingly, "If you hear this music now, then what has it got to do with ten years hence? If this is your current inspiration, won't a future inspiration be already progressed from it--if you do your job and go write!?" And to this I could give one of several excuses: "I'm too busy being a grad student." "I am already hard at work on a piece that will take me two years to complete." "I only heard the outline of it and I need ten years for it to come clear." Or, more truthfully, "I was just sort of kidding and was referring more to the excitement I feel about composing, and maturing as an artist, and have great hope for what I may accomplish in the future if I continue to be disciplined. I might write some really cool music!!"

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            I was recently rolling around in bed, on vacation, in a fit of insidious insomnia. My mind was racing about all the music I was NOT at work on. I was chastising myself for imagining music and not writing it down--or for waiting grumpily for a commission to write a piece instead of just writing one on speculation. Then my chastisement became a different sort of frustration: writing on spec OR commission is not the answer, for I often hear pieces I want to write even as I am happily in the middle of an unrelated project, and am perfectly unable to devote any work time to the new idea. In fact, sometimes 2 or 3 or 4 ideas for pieces hit me at once, and sketches, I have found, are not completely relevant. I HAVE TO let them go and work on the thing on my plate. (This is the realization that lets me off the hook ANY time I have an idea, and must let it go.) In my insomnia moment (one of many!), I went through an imaginary orchestral work--multi-movement, actually--and one or two rock albums I wanted to make, a short story, and, lo and behold, this essay. It dawned on me that I already have an unfinished symphony (my 2nd ), and was thinking through my third. That would mean that the orchestral movement I wanted to write in that moment was actually one that appeared chronologically after three as-yet-unwritten symphonic movements (all of which I have already quite clearly imagined and, to a degree, have sketched and written parts of). My thinking extended through an entire oeuvre of composition, one that could fill a lifetime. In essence, I imagined 250 or so opus numbers, all following on from one to another: the compositional problem in my imagined fourth string quartet flowed naturally into my imagined second piano concerto, the next opus number in my imagined oeuvre. An imaginary song cycle dealt in miniature with the grand theme of one of my imaginary operas. An imaginary electronic composition carried an imaginary rock album in its pouch in marsupial fashion. I lived a composer's life, wrote a lifetime of music, and enjoyed it all in my head in about two insomnia-ridden hours!

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            Once I wrote a table of contents for a long, multi-sectioned poem. I knew very clearly what the long poem was about and the style it would be written in. I proceeded to write the first three of a dozen sections. I put it aside and, to this day, continue to add to it. I have five sections written. I turn to it whenever my mind tells me to. Granted this is not often, but I let it remain a contender for my creative attention. Selections from this incomplete poem have inspired musical pieces from me, sometimes only a title, other times an entire concept. Sometimes, when looking for inspiration for a new piece, I will cycle through this poem in my mind, both the written and the unwritten sections, and find a moment that I wish to develop in a musical piece and off I go. Other times, I write a piece of music and find later that it fits into the concept of a section of the poem and I "place" it there, either by borrowing the words for a title from it or by designating it a companion musical piece to the text. [See In the Village of the Glass Dwellers]

            From this experience of the long poem I have learned that the chronology of creative thought is unimportant. Just as real life proceeds with unexpected opportunities and setbacks, so creative work does not necessarily evolve in strict piece-to-piece fashion. How many times have you heard about a book that is relevant to your current interests, but not actually read it until 5-10 years later? (I still continue to seek out "new" books that were recommended to me many years ago.) Sometimes the opportunity to realize a particular idea comes at a time before or after the optimal time to work on that idea, and one must be ready. Put another way, an opportunity sometimes presents itself in the form of an "open ticket" and one must seize the moment to pursue a burning idea from the past or the future, for the present may happen to be barren of "burning ideas."

            The next orchestral commission I receive, I just might write the third movement of my Fifth Symphony (in my imagined oeuvre), though I have no 2nd, 3rd, or 4th symphonies, or 1st and 2nd movements of said Fifth. When I set out to write a piece, I can either try to be completely original in that moment, or I can index a future work from my imagined oeuvre. After all, this has been successful in the creation of my long, unfinished poem. To believe that I CAN be completely original in a given moment is probably a fallacious notion, anyway. No other person really knows how my "development" as an artist is progressing anyway. No one will be able to tell that I have skipped several stages in my development. Likewise, no one could know if I chose to fill in an earlier gap in my maturity. Historians be damned! Yeah, right.

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            The concept of the imagined oeuvre becomes ever complicated. On another day, I imagine my future life as a composer, and there are only 90-something opus numbers! And there is no opera! Only one symphony! And an inordinate number of solo violin pieces. Whither this new shuffling of the deck? I decided that my first imaginary oeuvre was too informed by tradition. The numbers of string quartets, symphonies, concerti, and so on were deduced while under the singular influence of my education: I had credited myself with the average quantities of the same oeuvre by historical composers. While I had previously considered myself erudite enough not to buy into the perpetuation of the Grand Tradition, I was unwittingly suckered into behaving like the "Composer" as labeled by radio stations, record stores, liner notes and, by extension, audiences. I've now given myself a slightly slyer gloss. My new imagined oeuvre is a notch more sublime than Stravinsky's--for a post-Stravinskyian age. (Oh, and I have further acknowledged the importance of electronic and world music, in politically correct fashion.)

            Yet, how does this impact that 3rd movement of my Fifth Symphony? It is already underway, having received that sought-after orchestral commission and set to work. Yes, this orchestral movement has something to do with the botanical construction of a tree. It was to have been a scherzo, but is now a "concert-opener" (one of the conditions of the commission). And it promises to be the last orchestral work I will ever write. I have decided as much on this day in my updated imaginary oeuvre.

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            Perhaps I have been too hard on the historical canon. After all, I do not have to accept it, yet I don't have to disparage it. I was just a little peeved to find that the intensive, insomniatic work on my first imaginary oeuvre was weighted down by that ball and chain of the old wigs. Yet, I am glad that there is SOME structure upon which to ply my trade. The canon is nothing more than a labyrinth of form, a cast. There will always be a population of composers who work within the basic shapes of this über-cast, filling out their lives in harmony or dissonance with canonical labyrinth (traditionalists). There will also be a population that summarily rejects it (modernists or experimentalists). I wanted to be the latter. But one cannot be totally either. One can only strive in one or the other direction. Really, the notion of filling out a predetermined repertoire can itself be seen as a experimental notion. Likewise, the folly of placing oneself in the "avant garde" is a traditional notion--the canon consists of names of people who themselves WERE the "avant garde." One envelopes the other, in the end.

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            I have noticed something about myself. I love free improvisation. I don't even know if I'm any "good" at it, but, unlike other music I make, I don't really care. I also don't know what to make of the audience member or fellow musician who tells me that they ALSO like MY free improvisation. What is good and bad? There are no rules.

            I listen to recordings of my improvisations. I kick back and listen to them some more. I like them even better. The next day I turn my digital sound editing program loose on the recordings. I add some effects, I make some loops, I have one improvisation accompany another one, I improvise fresh music to the mish-mash I have created. This is music that follows no rules of harmony or form. Yet there is counterpoint of a sort. There are moments of immense beauty followed by moments of immense cacophony.

            I lie awake at night. I think through a new imagined oeuvre. Where does this new manipulated recording of mine lie? Is it an electronic piece? Does it qualify as "composition" or does it reside outside of my opus index? Is it a single opus number with numerous subsections: Opus 37, Free Improvisations, 37a, 37b, 37c, etc.? Suddenly, the historical canon seems distant. Am I on the cutting edge at last?! Am I living and creating in the moment?!

            I wake up. I work all day using my new editing technique. I go out and buy a recording from an incredibly long list of CD's on a label that specializes in Free Improvisation. I listen to it. It has much of the same gestural content as mine. It is recorded better. But I don't like it. I kick back to it. I still don't like it. Why don't I like it? Because it's not me! It represents someone else's avant garde-ism, not mine. Am I being selfish and egotistical? Perhaps. But I just don't like the disc.

            But what of this Free Improv thing? One thing is certain, I cannot make a freely improvised composition-recording using the same method by which I wrote the orchestral "scherzo-opener-tree" piece. I cannot say, "this improvisation is intended to follow four other improvisations that I have not yet made." No, one cannot improvise out of order. I cannot index an improvisation in the future or in the past. It is immediate and I can't even lie about it. Interesting. A new reality that lies outside of my imagined oeuvre. This must be healthy.

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            This imagined oeuvre is a bit of a weight. It makes me frustrated. I wish that when I imagined a piece of music it could be written. I wish I could will six CD's of my music into the bin at the record store, so that another person could instantly survey this music that I hear in my head. What does it mean to have this CD collection in my brain, full of righteous music and wicked riffs, that no one else can hear? Is it really my duty to write all this music out, secure (i.e. pay) the musicians to learn it, perform it, record it and distribute it? I thought that my life-job title was "composer." OK, so perhaps the least I can do is write it down. I have the chops for that. This is the calling I have -- the pursuit that I signed up for. If I write it, will they come?

            What of the music that I DO write? Yes, I actually DO spend many hours a week writing music! Curiously, it is often different from that music I hear in my head as I walk down the street, or ride on the train, or roll around in bed. Of course, sometimes it IS inspired by those moments, and the music I write out on the page begins exactly as I heard it the night before, but it is not long before it takes an entirely new direction. It's as if seeing it there on the page inspires me differently.

            And guess what else? Sometimes I sit down to write with absolutely no inspiration. I can't even recall any of the hundreds of ideas that have kept me awake or put me in harm's way of a speeding bus. Doesn't that seem a waste? It would, except that in a matter of minutes I can find an idea to start with, something completely new, something that did not come looking for me, but rather that I searched for, or dug and clawed for, in my most aware waking moments. I will not go so far as to judge which one is better, for that might denigrate either myself or my Muse. But it makes me happy that something is always there, and, like a spigot, I can (knock on wood) turn it on or off at will. Indeed, the worst problem is not being able to turn it off.

            This is tantamount to saying that my corporeal reality makes it impossible to capture all of the ideas on paper (or recording) that are available to me. The imagined oeuvre is apparently a part of this vast reservoir. It presents itself to me and, presumably, to many others. It is an entertaining soundtrack in my head, and is meant almost completely for me. I am challenged to capture as much of it as possible for presentation to others, but it taunts me and insists that I will always tap into only a portion of it.

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            When, as a youth, I first heard an orchestra play Ravel's Daphnis and Chloe I was forever changed. I had heard an orchestra many times, but had never heard it transport me with such a compelling image of Nature -- a sunrise. The next Spring, I remember walking along on a beautiful day, not humid, not hot, the kind of cloudless Spring day on which the breeze shoots right through your frame, echoing in your rib cage and soul. I began to imagine just the right music to depict it. I went to the piano and began playing Ravel-like waves. Until that moment, I would have tried to describe the sensation otherwise -- in words or MAYBE in some sort of music; just not that type of music. In other words, a source of expression had been demonstrated to me, and I could think of none other. The model was there, and was now known to me. A mode of expression uncovered.

            On my night of insomnia, I heard music that uses orchestral instruments. I used forms and techniques of the old masters. The vast sound world of untapped musical composition exists in all of our imaginations with or without orchestral instruments and Classical forms, or pop song forms or electric guitars, or bagpipes or balalaikas, or choirs or organs, or marimbas or gamelans. Without these instruments, we would end up inventing them anew. Perhaps we would refer to the ocean of imaginary music as something else: a spirit......a Muse. So, I suppose, "new" is that which dips into this ocean by clever means. Clever, or unencumbered, un- baggaged means. The destination of this logic says that the only road to being hailed as the avant garde is a road of non-study and non-participation in past forms. In lieu of this very difficult potentiality, recombination will suffice. Therefore, avant garde-ism is most often recycling or fusion.

            My imagined oeuvre is that on a grand scale. The repertoire and lives of past composers becomes a blueprint for future musical composition. Is this a good thing? Is this a bad thing? Whatever the viewpoint, one has to remind oneself that it is a reality for most audiences. Only artists and academics (and a few critical audience members) end up challenging and pondering the notion. Everyone else is generally occupied with their own, unrelated thoughts.