Years ago, I went to a concert at the Newport Harbor Art Museum featuring, I think, that same Philip Glass. This had to be in the 1970s or '80s. I don't recall the year, but I remember the event all too well.
About 30 of us gathered in a beautiful gallery, with hardwood floors, tall white walls and sculpted windows and ceiling. It was evening, and we were civilized and well dressed.
Then the composer came out, and we sat in hushed anticipation. He sat down, serious and ceremonious, and played one note, and only one note, and that note went on, and on, and on, for about half an hour. I can't remember what instrument he played, but it was an instrument of torture, that's for sure.
We all sat there in absolute silence. I tried to enjoy it. I tried to figure out the aesthetic philosophy behind it. I tried to appreciate it, to get into the swing of it. If "swing" is the right word.
After all, I had taken music appreciation in college, and I consider myself an artist of sorts, as a poet and writer of fiction. I've also done some photography and been in at least one exhibition. So I am not a Philistine.
But after while I started thinking, What the hell is this endless droning? Is this music? If so, why? Music is supposed to bring joy, not boredom and despair.
One note. Suppose I type the same word over and over again: Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Maddening and stupid, stupid, stupid, isn't it? What if I went, Heeeeellllllllllllloooooooooooooooo?
Does that help? No. Of course not.
Well, that was the concert. One note. After about 30 minutes, I got up and left, quietly of course. I wanted to scream. But I didn't.
That would have broken the "spell."
Copyright 2011, Roger R. Angle
No comments:
Post a Comment