Why Do Whales and Children Sing?

This is my response after reading Why Do Whales and Children Sing? (written by David Dunn) and listening to the accompanying CD:

Wow! This was a very delightful book. I enjoyed how the recordings—contrary to what some may think of recording technology—were so “colorful” and full of life. I loved the fact that the book focuses a lot on communication. In many of the examples, we hear animals making a vast variety of noises in different ecosystems. Dunn also mentions that many animals (insects included) communicate with each other in distinct ways as he juxtaposes that with the sounds that humans make (i.e. the video arcade), showing the contrast between intelligible communication and a cacophony of noises that aren’t associated with each other at all (which is very ironic, considering that we think of ourselves as the epitome of intelligence).

I found the “zen moment” in track 8 to be awe-inspiring. I never experienced anything quite like it in real life (the only time I’ve heard something similar was in films where the sound designers create the acoustical environments from scratch; it’s a “fabricated phenomenon,” so to say). It’s amazing how the frogs are very well aware of the raven and how, in just a few seconds, the frogs became silent to avoid becoming a meal. So often we only think of animals as things that produce random noises in nature, and with that said, the absence of noise clearly shows that there’s actually a deeper understanding between animals.

I also really liked the recordings of the underwater sounds, and yes, I can totally understand the point that Dunn brought up regarding how humans aren’t able to directly experience the richness of sounds in these underwater environments: I’ve recently been trying to consistently swim at Northwestern’s SPAC (Sports Pavilion and Aquatics Center), and whenever I’m submerged in the water, I can barely hear anything (While underwater I can make out the faint sounds of water splashing and reverberating in the spacious indoor pool area, but everything is severely muffled). It’s awesome hearing real whales and walruses make noises that we would never even think of hearing on the surface! (Yes, they really do sound like alien noises!)

The idea of communication also got me thinking a lot about the works that we’ve experienced thus far (particularly Prairie and Florasonic): the sounds produced by these installations weren’t totally random like the video arcade, but instead, the way the sounds were programmed actually shows an awareness of communication. In a way, these works were successful at fabricating some sort of authenticity through that organic communication. Perhaps this element is also what makes the works more immersive and believable.

Cardiff vs. Philipsz - The Extra-Musical Layer Connected To the Site

            In class we had the chance to hear about Janet Cardiff’s The Forty Part Motet and Susan Philipsz’ Study for Strings. Both pieces are similar in the sense that they take a much larger work and break it up into smaller components that are then dispersed to multiple speakers. The Forty Part Motet uses Thomas Tallis’ Spen in alium—a motet for 8 five-part choirs—and splits each individual part into isolated speakers (that means there are forty individual speakers!). On the other hand, Study for Strings uses the viola and cello parts from a piece of Pavel Haas’ from which its name was derived from (Study for Strings) and outputs the individually articulated notes into a set of 24 speakers (i.e. the sounds seemingly “move” in the environment).

            In a piece like The Forty Part Motet, the location does not matter as much because the understanding of the piece is not contingent upon where the piece is displayed. In fact, my professor’s blog even talks about how the piece was reproduced multiple times in different locations—as a side note, my twin sister experienced the piece at the MOMA.

            However, in the case of Study for Strings, history plays a very large role in adding extra-musical content to the piece. The composer of the original Study for Strings was deported to a concentration camp during World War II; after the performance of this piece, “Haas and most of the orchestra were deported to Auschwitz where they were killed” (cited from the Documenta pamphlet). The piece was later recovered by the conductor/survivor. Philipsz’ piece is appropriately displayed at the Kassel Hauptbahnhof, one of the train stations where numerous Jews were shipped to the concentration camps. If the piece were moved to a museum, for instance, it would lose its effect and become merely a disjointedly insignificant stream of noise.

            Both of these pieces take advantage of the spatial element, which I believe adds another element of perspective, because individuals will all take in the piece differently depending on where one is situated at whatever moment of the piece. In this way, Study for Strings’s use of spatialization may help emphasize a greater sense of independence, as if these pitched articulations are voices from the past with their own unique histories and stories to tell.

            In a short documentary of Cardiff’s work, some interviewees mentioned how the spatial quality was cool because it allows the viewers to become immersed in the musical experience, as if they were part of the choir. The freedom to move around, again, gives different perspectives to the individual viewers. Of course, if the multiple tracks of both pieces were combined into a single track and played off of one speaker, they would be no different than listening to the pieces as they would normally be performed (i.e. the viola and cello parts become connected, or the chorus sings all at once in a concert setting).

            I think that the presence of extra sounds of the sites certainly adds an air of reality to the pieces, especially in Study for Strings. Since the piece focuses on conjuring up emotions and thoughts from another place and time, it would only make sense that other noises would authenticate that experience. Contrarily, if the piece was played in, say, a concert hall with 24 speakers, I would assume that it would be no different than hearing any other spatial piece in a hall—clearly, Study for Strings is a piece that demonstrates how the site could potentially add a crucial layer of meaning that cannot be separated from the piece.

Spaces speak, are you listening? (Chapter 1 + 2)

            When reading Blesser and Salter’s Spaces speak, are you listening? (2007), I came across this quote that really struck a chord with me: “The wall becomes audible, or rather, the wall has an audible manifestation even though it is not itself the original source of sound energy” (p. 2). This was mentioned after talking about how different walls—depending on the room and the materials used and other factors—will reflect back sounds in unique ways that are characteristic of that wall.

            Immediately, I thought of all the different spaces that I’ve experienced in the past (especially as a performer), and I noticed that every venue does have its own unique “feel.” Northwestern University’s Pick-Staiger concert hall is largely reverberant and “wet”-sounding, as sounds take a little longer to dissipate. Yet, at Alice Millar, because of the stone and stained glass windows, the sounds in here have a somewhat brighter quality when compared to Pick-Staiger because of the highly reflective surfaces. In contrast with these, my high school’s (Lynbrook High, San Jose, CA) concert hall has brick walls and is constructed in a way where the sound sometimes gets swallowed up. In fact, there are numerous dead spots on the stage – it’s rather strange! It’s a terrible performance space, as any sound produced here sounds rather dull.

            This quote also reminded me of Alvin Lucier’s electroacoustic/minimalist piece I Am Sitting in a Room. The song could be reproduced, as it requires the “performer” to recite the following:

            I am sitting in a room different from the one you are in now. I am recording the sound of my speaking voice and I am going to play it back into the room again and again until the resonant frequencies of the room reinforce themselves so that any semblance of my speech, with perhaps the exception of rhythm, is destroyed. What you will hear, then, are the natural resonant frequencies of the room articulated by speech. I regard this activity not so much as a demonstration of a physical fact, but more as a way to smooth out any irregularities my speech might have.

            I feel like this is a perfect example of applying the quote! The piece slowly progresses—as it does so, the words become blurred, and we actually hear certain pitches/frequencies being accentuated at certain points in his speech; we are essentially hearing the unique characteristic of the room (i.e. its ability to resonate with unique frequencies).

Bob Snyder's Orniphonia 2 (Florasonic exhibition series)

            I had a very delightful time seeing the Florasonic exhibit at the Lincoln Park Conservatory (which featured the piece titled Orniphonia 2, by Bob Snyder). The sound installation featured a four-channel surround sound system in the fern room, which played sounds that were “created through electronic means using analog synthesis” (brochure). The fluttering and beating sounds replicated the chirps of exotic birds that would at times play independently or even sometimes interact with each other. As the speakers were set in the corners of the room (above everything and pointed down and toward the center of the room), it felt as if the sounds were being directed toward the viewers, creating an environment that envelopes the viewers. This is different that Shawn Decker’s Prairie because Prairie’s delicate robotic plants could not quite completely surround the audience, and is instead experienced somewhat more like a museum exhibit, making one feel a bit more disconnected from the work (sure, as mentioned in my blog post about Decker’s work, he tried remedying that by making a pathway in the middle, but even then, I felt like Snyder’s work does a much better job of immersing the listeners).

 

            The live plants in the exhibit certainly made the experience feel more authentic, as there were dozens, if not hundreds, of different ferns, which made the room lush and teeming with life. This is different when compared to Prairie, as the mechanical plants were made to act real, yet they were explicitly revealed to be robotic (and of “one species”). The “realness” makes me feel like I 

have been transported to another place. And it wasn’t just the plants that made the experience feel real, but I thought the humidity and high temperature (despite the approximately 40-degree weather outside!), running water, and earthy smell all helped as well. In fact, there were also little hidden dinosaurs in the fern room, and even though they’re now extinct, I think the fact that they’re there goes to show that the fern room is meant to evoke “otherworldliness,” or if not that, it’s suppose to whisk one off into another time—a “land before time,” so to say (haha, I’m just kidding).

            I believe that all these elements—the visuals, sounds, smells, and feel (humidity/temperature)—were used as a setting; when coupled with the sound component (the installation), the two worked together to create another time and place, something exotic, so to say. Even though we are technically in the city, the conservatory setting helps to shut out the outside world and set a stage on the inside. However, the setting could also be used to make a statement, as seen in Prairie: the fact that it’s in the Chicago Cultural Center with the big windows opening up to the sky scrapers and city life, coupled with the grid-like structure of the installation work together to make one think about the juxtaposition between nature and industrialization.

            Despite how real the environment seems in Orniphonia 2 there are elements of the conservatory that made me realize that I was still confined in a building. For instance, there is a paved road in the middle of the room (maybe they could have covered it with dirt), and there are small metallic signs that pointed out all the different types of ferns. Though the glass ceiling is meant to keep in all the heat as well as provide the much needed sunshine for the plants, it certainly feels much more confined than an authentically open-aired jungle of sorts. There is also a hose running through the room, as well as other tools of maintenance—and sure, they’re necessary because of the nature of the plant conservatory. Also, I am not quite an expert at technology, but I was wondering if the humidity of the room would corrode or damage the delicate mechanisms inside the speakers (especially if most electronics are meant to be used in drier environments; in typical cases, moisture + electronics = bad things happen).

            Even though both works had a constant flow of people due to the functions of the buildings, both works were effective because there was no clear beginning or end; one could easily come in and feel that they have not missed anything. Moreover, the sounds produced are more of the ambient variety in the sense that they don’t attract a whole lot of attention (for instance, there aren’t any gaping holes or startling sounds that mark the beginnings or ends of larger formal structures). There may also be a culture implication that works in the fern room: when I heard the exotic bird sounds, I immediately thought of exploration and adventure in an Amazonian jungle, and so the fact that there was other life (i.e. people wandering around) didn’t seem to bother me as much.

            When thinking of the two works we can definitely see that there are various pros and cons linked with picking a space for a sound installation. First of all, one is able to use the space to one’s advantage, as it could help authenticate the viewer’s experience or help emphasize extra-musical messages to the viewers. At the same time, the fact that every venue is different also means that you, as the artist, must work within the limits of the performance spaces; if you have to create a work specifically for a space (say, if you were commissioned by the Lincoln Park Conservatory) and you have no source of inspiration, then I feel like the piece will fall into the trap of becoming ineffective.

            All in all, this was a very cool exhibit—it certainly took me to another time and place amidst the busyness of life, which I enjoyed very much!

When is an "Open" work considered "Complete?"

Wow, to be frank, The Poetics of the Open Work (Umberto Eco) was a fairly dense article, and I’m not sure I totally understood every bit of it through my first read-through. However, in an attempt to help myself understand the article, I would like to repeat a few points and lingering questions that I caught:

• An open work is one that could be interpreted in multiple ways.
• Can a work ever be considered “truly open?” Must there be some sort of core idea that’s holding everything together to make it “complete?”
• Composer may give the performer different ways to play through the piece (aleatoric elements, for instance)
• Or, there is also the idea of openness on the consumer’s side (i.e. how is the one partaking in the art taking in the experience?). This leads to many different perspectives!

As for an example of a work that addresses this issue of “openness” vs. “complete,” I believe my own piece, Chromoscope (2012), may work in this context.

The piece itself focuses on the idea of shifting perspectives and chance as it affects various parameters such as the instrumentation, player choice in performance (improvisation), player placement or audience location, and the course of the piece (form).

As long as there are eight or more people and all the instruments are capable of sustaining pitches (for instance, the melodica, Irish tin wistle, voice, violin, etc. are all valid), the possible combination of instrumentations is practically infinite. Moreover, a moderator (conductor) rolls a die to determine the “musical line” that the players perform, and even then, as the piece goes from one section to another, the sections may require the player to look ahead or look back as they apply different musical parameters to the upcoming section. The piece ends when either all the lines have been played once or when one particular line has been played three times.

On the player’s side of things, there is a lot of room for improvisation, as long as it fits the “rules” in that particular section of the piece (anything from possible pitches to dynamic style and note articulation/style). If the instrument is capable of producing different timbres (either by using mutes, or perhaps with phonating different vowels in the voice), then the performer can take the liberty to do so. The players are also arbitrarily scattered throughout the performance space to provide a 3D-acoustical-field.

As for the audience members: they are allowed to stand up, sit, or walk around throughout the duration of the piece. Depending on where one is situated during certain moments of the piece, individuals will definitely obtain different listening experiences.

With that said, even though there is so much variability in the piece, I feel like the piece still has a unique feel that is apparent when one experiences it multiple times. This is much like many of John Cage’s pieces that focus on chance; though on the surface level one can say that the pieces are simply randomized, we could say that they are “randomized in a distinct Cage-like style,” as my Analysis and History of Electroacoustic Music Professor liked to say.

Additionally, when connecting this with the musical content class that I took last year (in fact the blog for that class is included in my blogroll, for those who are interested), I feel that sometimes the core ideas are the things that make the work more tangible (complete), and perhaps the free-flowing nature (the “openness”) may actually also speak to the content/main-ideas of the piece. In my piece’s case, the title Chromoscope as well as the program notes reveals the colorful nature of the piece. The materials (varied/unique instrumentation) support the concept of colors. The context (a “concert piece” that is more like a museum exhibit) plays beautifully into the title/concept, as the varied perspectives are unique to the individual (each individual’s experience of “color” is unique—“colorful,” in a way).

In conclusion, even though there are an infinite number of possibilities that this piece can be played out, I believe that, by analyzing the content carriers, we can see how everything is interconnected and coherent, and so the work could be perceived as “complete in its identity.”

Silence - Nature: "Quiet Groves and Times"

            The brochure included at Shawn Decker’s exhibition of Prairie mentions that “Decker has been more directly influenced by the work of composer and theorist R. Murray Schafer, who introduced the notion of ‘soundscapes’ in the 1970s, in which recorded natural sounds are liberated from their original source in order to create immersive acoustic environments.” Upon further reading of Schafer’s essay titled “The Music of the Environment,” it is apparent that there are many other ideas that Decker implemented into his work.

            First off, Schafer talked about the fidelity of the environment and that it could either be classified as high- or low-fidelity. “A hi-fi system is one possessing a favourable signal to noise ratio,” whereas, “In a lo-fi soundscape individual acoustic signals are obscured in an overdense population of sounds” (32). As the Prairie requires the viewers to focus in on the intricate details of the mechanisms, it makes all the more sense that the work should be isolated from all other noises as much as possible; the work is appropriately isolated in its very own exhibition hall/room.

            This isolated room also points to the idea of the “integrity of inner space;” the room that is used specifically for this exhibit becomes a special (almost sacred, somewhat) location where one can fully be immersed in the experience. I see this more like the concert hall setting that Schafer mentioned; as music played outdoors will have to compete with extraneous noises, so will the Prairie when it is “out in the wild” (especially in an area densely inhabited by people).

            Schafer also brought up in the section of his essay titled “Music Sounds: The Industrial Revolution” that many composers of the early/mid 20^th century wrote pieces that embraced the industrialized sounds that are now commonly heard in our everyday lives. I believe that, in an attempt to address this, Decker actually used industrial means (through electronics, mechanisms, and mechanical manufacturing) to imitate a natural environment and to achieve the hi-fi sounds of the prairie. It’s as if he’s using this industrial theme to point to the “industrialized/artificial” state of the city.

            Finally, the previous points all go hand in hand with Schafer’s idea of the “quiet groves and times.” While these quiet sanctuaries are slowly being destroyed as people inhabit the world, Schaefer argues that this silence and absence of abundant noise is becoming increasingly more desirable and necessary for the betterment of humanity. Interestingly, he mentioned how, in other cultures (particularly the Japanese) people would set up wind chimes and other [simple] man-made contraptions (water fountains, perhaps?) to actually help one to be more aware of the natural (so in the case of wind chimes, one will become more aware of the wind as it passes through the garden). In a strange way, Decker’s Prairie uses the sounds (though they sound so mechanical and artificial), outputted in a logically “organic” way (i.e. not totally random), to help one to become more attuned to the silence and stillness, which certainly conveys this very special quality of a real “quiet grove.”

            I personally find this quote very intriguing: “Then man likes to surround himself with sounds in order to nourish his fantasy of perpetual life” (37). At the grand scale of the essay, Schafer suggests that there is way too much noise in the present-day life when compared to the past. This return to silence and nature not only calms the mind, but I believe it also helps one to meditate and to reflect on humanity; rather than filling oneself with what one thinks will give him life, perhaps one will then realize that the world does not just involve around the self, but that there are so many intricate things that are constantly happening around the individual. I think it would be neat if I could make an sound installation piece that somehow utilizes silence and helps people become more introspective—it would be great if it this would make people stop and listen and be whisked away from their busy lives (even if just for a minute).

(As a side note, the page numbers refer to the pages from the book titled Audio Culture: Readings in Modern Music, in which this essay was included)

Shawn Decker's "Prairie"

            Shawn Decker’s artwork—titled Prairie—is named so because the installation attempts to convey a field of grass filled with bugs, frogs, and other noisy animals. The project is constructed on two metallic grids anchored to the ground and consists of separate metal rods representing individual stalks of grass. Throughout the course of the piece, the individual stalks move and buzz according to an algorithm that is supposed to make it feel randomized and organic, much like being in a real prairie.

            Interestingly enough, the title implies a vast field in open air. However, this work of art is contained within a building (specifically the Chicago Cultural Center). Moreover, in nature we can walk through fields, but this exhibit requires the viewers to stay around the perimeter. To somewhat fix this, Decker deliberately made a “path” in between, allowing the viewers to walk between the two fields to create an illusion of being “in” the prairie. There were also seats at the side, but as there are no true restrictions, some others and I sat on the ground in the middle, which certainly yielded a unique and immersive experience.

            As much as the work tries to replicate a natural environment, nature is something that is considered organic and more randomized as everything in the world follows the “rules of nature” (or, as a Christian, I would say, the rules that God ordained so that the world could at least function, which may seem somewhat of a paradox). Yet, when we think of culture, we think of it as something that is created by humans – culture is art, so to say. These are things that are “manufactured” using human ideas and could be made out of materials found on the earth (things found in nature), and could very well be based on nature. In this case, the prairie (a natural phenomenon) is the subject of the artwork, but Decker conceived the concept of the work and constructed it using human means.

            This brings up the question: can art be natural? I think art could be seen as natural, but it depends on the context. For example, Christians believe that God created the earth and everything in it including the variety of colors (imagine flowers or birds and other animals) and sculpted landscapes (such as canyons and mountains) among other things, which all point to God’s splendor as a creator. Many may consider these natural phenomena as art, yet, from a more human/worldly standpoint, art is something created by people at a much smaller scale, and could include things such as sculptures, paintings, and music. There always seems to be some sort of deliberate organization and ordering of things as it involves human choice and decision-making.

            In regards to “decision-making,” the artist “composed” the path that the viewers can walk on and chose to place the work in the Chicago Cultural Center. Furthermore, he used all he could to try to replicate something natural by using things that are seen as unnatural/industrial (i.e. metal rods, electronics, etc.). In a strange way, the whole work seems to be some sort of fabrication of the natural, especially the randomly generated portion where, based on what’s happening to certain rods, other rods would move and make sounds in an algorithmically randomized way. The electronics still had to be programmed, and even though the randomization may make it seem more “natural,” the type and variation of “randomization” is decided on through human logic and choice. In fact, there was a natural ebb and flow in the course of the piece, and every once in a while, the piece would reset and start from a "beginning point;" if the piece was totally "random," then it would lose its effect, and it wouldn't feel like a prairie at all.

            In a way, this piece of art is like a landscape painting, which uses paints, textures, colors, and other means to convey a scene from nature. In this case Decker uses sounds, movement (through the rods and electronic motors) to replicate a prairie. It’s not the real deal, but it’s representative of the prairie (This could then be linked with McEvilley’s Content Carrier #1: Representation). Yet, because this is a more musical/acoustical work, the aspect of time allows for more real-time randomization to convey more of an organic feel.

            Overall, this was a very awesome work that certainly gets us wondering about constructed art, the natural world, the time aspect of acoustical art, and what it really means for something to be organic and natural.
          Below are some pictures of the exhibit, as I do believe a visual aid will somewhat help in conveying parts of the experience: