Hearing Around the Edge of the Frame
A day after last week’s post about porn, feminism and blowjobs I got a note from a freelance writer who wanted to talk to me about porn, feminism, and blowjobs. I did my usual self-important rambly thing, which (for the unfortunate recipient) is sort of like being in my head while I’m writing a blog post, but before I’ve done any editing. I think I kept her on the phone for damn near an hour. One of the things I said was, “There’s no such thing as a feminist symphony.”
A couple days later, on a doc forum, I came across a link to the embarrassing case of Joyce Hatto, who, in the Autumn of her career, along with her husband foisted a fraud upon the classical music world by stealing recordings from talented but unknown musicians and then releasing them as her own:
“It seemed almost too good to be true, and in the end it was. A conscientious pianist who had enjoyed an active if undistinguished career in London falls ill and retreats to a small town. Here she undertakes a project to record virtually the entire standard classical repertoire. Her recordings, CDs made when she was in her late 60s and 70s, are staggering, showing a masterful technique, a preternatural ability to adapt to different styles and a depth of musical insight hardly seen elsewhere.”
Of course it was all a lie, and every word that every fawning critic wrote relating any of Ms. Hatto’s biographical particulars to what they (thought) they heard in the music was bullshit:
“The Joyce Hatto episode is a stern reminder of the importance of framing and background in criticism. Music isn’t just about sound; it is about achievement in a larger human sense. If you think an interpretation is by a 74-year-old pianist at the end of her life, it won’t sound quite the same to you as if you think it’s by a 24-year-old piano-competition winner who is just starting out. Beyond all the pretty notes, we want creative engagement and communication from music, we want music to be a bridge to another personality. Otherwise, we might as well feed Chopin scores into a computer.
“This makes instrumental criticism a tricky business. I’m personally convinced that there is an authentic, objective maturity that I can hear in the later recordings of Rubinstein. This special quality of his is actually in the music, and is not just subjectively derived from seeing the wrinkles in the old man’s face. But the Joyce Hatto episode shows that our expectations, our knowledge of a back story, can subtly, or perhaps even crudely, affect our aesthetic response.”
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Peggy and I are both big fans of the movie SUMMER OF SAM, and I’d be lying if I said that knowing it was made by a black man has no effect on how I understand the film, on my aesthetic response, on my emotional response.
We’re also big fans of the TV show THE WIRE. But I’m not so clear on how knowing the series is the brainchild of two white men effects my experience as a viewer. Maybe that’s because there’s nothing unusual about a white man at the helm of a movie or TV show.
In either case, when I watch SUMMER OF SAM or an episode of THE WIRE I am powerfully moved by my understanding of these artists’ (Spike Lee, David Simon, Ed Burns) sensitivity; by their ability to listen, by their ablity to hear, by their courage, by their compassion.
