miércoles, 10 de agosto de 2011

auto-questionnaire ( confessions for a program note)

1 why do you compose?

I arrived to the world of composition rather accidentally as I come from a completely non-musical environment. I soon realized that it was a good platform from which I could generate responses to several inner creative questions. I think that as long as those questions exist I will continue involved with composition. I suspect that composition as such is not the ultimate goal but rather a format where I can implement or translate ideas that have been stored in my mind for a long time.

2 how do you compose?

In terms of routine I'm very Stravinskian. I usually work for a regular number of hours every day. That is a somewhat painful process since many times you just confront a blank piece of paper without many expectations of filling it up. However, that sort of daily 'horror vacui' triggers a certain response in the shape of a 'fleeing forward' process. I am a composer that usually works with daily units, that is, what has been produced during a day becomes a somewhat independent and quasi self-sufficient fragment within a larger piece. This is not a diary-like process but rather the result of a method or a habit. The ultimate result of this is the feeling of a constant beginning, the impression of being at a particular starting point every day without completely losing a sense of continuity.

3 why this piece, now, today?

I believe that it is quite difficult to thoroughly justify your aesthetic decisions in relation to the world as many of them just originate and manifest themselves in deeply subjective and subterranean ways. I think, however, that my piece was developed as a bit of a comment towards the highly performative artistic environment in which we live. In fact it is a piece that explores the negative side of a performance: the musicians and the music are placed and aimed towards the backstage, towards an intimate realm which is relatively disconnected from the audience both visually and sonically.

4 could you not do anything better in life?

It would be impossible to answer that question accurately unless we accept the fact that there are several living replicas of myself and we evaluate how successfully they deal with their respective professions. I hope they are not reading this questionnaire though.

5 how do you manage to combine everyday life eating, sleeping, relationships, family, taxes and composing? Do they influence each other? In what way?
I try to isolate as much as possible the act of composition from the rest of things, a bit like a shelter which protects oneself from the inclemencies of the exterior world. Unfortunately, since the expenses of life are usually not covered by composition itself one has to confront and explore other disciplines to stay afloat. I think that most composers end by having multiple faces from a professional point of view. However, I do not believe that those experiences necessarily manifest themselves in the music I write.

6 what attracts you in the music of whom?

There are many composers whose music I deeply admire. They belong to several periods, from Dufay till Feldman and beyond. I try not to see the history of music in a linear, dialectic way but rather as a holistic present frame in which the music of Machaut, Mozart or Grisey have the same level of immediacy. I have never been very interested in the evolution and dialectics of materials but rather in the different ways in which they are articulated. I could therefore mention many composers that have influenced me but that would greatly exceed the scope of this
questionnaire.

7 Schönberg said: The chief requirements for the creation of a comprehensible form are logic and coherence. The presentation, development and interconnexion of ideas must be based on relationship.¹ Is coherence in a work of art still a valid notion today?

I think that Schönberg's idea is rather classical and scholastic. I do not believe that elements necessarily need to be presented, interconnected and 'justified' in order to build a piece of art. Sometimes the uniqueness of an event is sufficient in itself. I believe that coherence is an 'outer' rather than an 'inner' aspect of a piece. When we listen to a piece we establish interconnections between the elements we are presented with, or we don't. We link those events to our experience of the world or not. Coherence is something that cannot be clearly determined and controlled by the composer, it is something that generally flows through the subjective channels of the listener.


8 what is essential for you in composition?

What I appreciate more in composition and art in general is a certain sense of difference. This is not necessarily related to notions such as 'professionalism' or 'quality' (which are normally used within academic environments). It is not about 'inventing the wheel' either but rather about reformulating what already exists.

9 is the concept of 'new' still relevant today? if so, what does it mean?
I like better the term 'different'. I believe this is an essential issue. As I stated in the previous answer I do not believe that we have to invent the wheel over and over again but rather to re-contextualize or reformulate what is already there. Materials, regardless of their origin, usually belong to the supermarket of possibilities, to the array of creative choices. It is just the way in which we reformulate and reuse them what makes the difference. This may be carried out by mere musical procedures or by other external means: space, gesture...


10 is there any relationship between what¹s happening in the world and your work?

I personally try to detach as much as possible what I do as a composer from the social aspects that surround me (this does not mean that I am not actively taking part in society from a personal perspective). I think, however, that even if I intend to build an artificial, creative refuge there several aspects of experience, of the time and the space in which we live that involuntarily permeate into my work. I never try, however, to evidently incorporate them in my work, to push them manifestly over the surface of the piece. They occasionally show up as a remnant of a thought, an image, a sound, a text, a perception...

lunes, 18 de julio de 2011

de 1 a 1100

Hay autores que nos insertan en un laberinto del que escapar no tiene sentido. El laberinto es la obra y los saltos y ramificaciones de la novela no encarrilan un pensamiento en una dirección concreta sino que se van multiplicando constantemente. En 'el arcoiris de gravedad', Thomas Pynchon va saltando de un tema a otro sin una lógica preestablecida. Los personajes desaparecen y reaparecen de manera impredecible, como si estuvieran acechando tras una bruma de palabras. Las situaciones se encadenan constantemente en una inacabable aventura de 1150 páginas, de las cuales es difícil extraer algo concreto. Slothrop, un sujeto víctima de experimentos pavlovianos de los nazis va viajando de escenario en escenario, de situación en situación en la que cada página podría ser la última (o la primera). La potencialidad de direcciones posibles que adquiere la novela provoca que el lector se halle siempre en una especie de punto cero, de comienzo constante. La maravillosa anarquía de la novela sitúa en un mismo plano situaciones hilarantes, pornografía, humor, muerte, canciones populares, referencias eruditas que funcionan como un comentario burlón a la literatura, la sociedad y por ende al oficio de escribir...
Pynchon, cual equilibrista de la verborrea, va saltando atléticamente de cuestión en cuestión, sin profundizar nunca en nada, quedándose en la superficie de las cosas, evitando la búsqueda de 'sentido', creando contextos y situaciones, mapas mentales...Sí, suena predecible, postmoderno, lo que uno quiera... sin embargo hay algo magnético que te atrapa hasta el final. En mi opinión, el libro funciona como un desmesurado y prolongado chiste que trata de abarcar todo lo literario, mirándolo desde una erudita carcajada que no acaba por hacerse escuchar.
'El arcoiris de gravedad' es una obra en la que el espacio está siempre definido: el territorio lleno de  cascotes, ruinas y tuberías de la Alemania derrotada tras la segunda Guerra Mundial. En ocasiones, la obra adquiere una dimensión claramente teatral, en el que  los personajes parecen irremediablemente destinados al espacio acotado del escenario .
A mí me parece que las novelas de Pynchon tienen algo profundamente musical. El uso de los personajes no es psicológico, no analiza su 'mundo interior', su pensamiento. Son utilizados como materiales que van apareciendo y desapareciendo entre el fluir constante de las ideas. Esa idea se me antoja completamente musical, los personajes 'están' pero son utilizados como objetos: se repiten, se transforman, se rozan... pero sus acciones no están justificadas, son elementos necesarios de un flujo, de una inacabable obra-laberinto que se reinventa constantemente a lo largo de la propia lectura.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZS0YjdmuHc&feature=related

viernes, 1 de julio de 2011

El pliegue de las cosas (the fold of things)


A fold is defined by a crease in a flat surface, an irregularity that changes the exterior nature of an object. My piece takes place within a metaphorical musical fold: the actual sound of the trumpet is regarded as a uniform surface which is constantly warped by the use of different objects and artificial acoustic spaces. The music develops within this twisted territory in which the real identity of the instrument is altered and multiplied.
Deleuze maintained that the world could be interpreted as a body of infinite folds and surfaces that twist and twine themselves through compressed time and space. This piece is intended as a musical representation of this idea: a journey in which the sonic nature of the trumpet is pulverized and challenged almost to an unidentifiable point. In such a way, the same materials are filtered over an over again along the timeline, so that they are perceived as ever changing folds of the same phenomenon. 'El pliegue de las cosas' works in a similar way to an origami construction, in which the same a piece of paper is transformed by an arrangement of consecutive folds without the use of any additional element: glue or new fragments of paper.


jueves, 2 de junio de 2011

tifones de escenario

Un ventilador se enciende y hace que se vibren unas campanas 20 metros más allá, un pianista toca una tecla y se enciende una luz en el extremo opuesto del escenario, una cantante canta y su voz aparece a muchos metros de distancia de su boca...
  Mi nueva obra está basada en esta serie de metáforas, juegos, imposibilidades y contradicciones en el espacio escénico. Estos procedimientos me hicieron reflexionar sobre el 'efecto mariposa', aquél basado en el esotérico (¿cuál de ellos no es esotérico?) proverbio chino:"el aleteo de las alas de una mariposa puede provocar un tifón al otro lado del mundo".
  El  efecto mariposa se basa en que la más mínima variación en un sistema caótico, la más pequeña perturbación inicial puede tener, a través de un proceso de amplificación un efecto final enormemente grande.
Creo que mi nueva obra (fuera de este paralelismo de almanaque) funciona de una manera similar. Un gesto pequeño e insignificante desencadena un efecto inesperado en un lugar alejado de la fuente que lo produce. A veces se determina la presencia de un doble (el sonido de un instrumento es reflejado en otro o en varios lugares), otras veces la fuente sonora es completamente nueva y carece de un claro punto de origen.
   La partitura de la obra detalla la lógica que subyace detrás de estos procesos. La performance, sin embargo, crea una especie de aparente desconexión y/o magnificación entre la causa y el efecto. Quiero creer que la obra deja al público en un territorio en que toda posible predicción queda en entredicho, creando un efecto similar al de soltar una pelota sobre la arista del tejado en repetidas ocasiones: no podemos vaticinar por qué lado del tejado caerá, mínimas desviaciones iniciales crearán innumerables trayectorias posibles.