I found "A Declaration of Poetic Rights and Values" a very interesting read (especially after reading Cage - words? sound? meaning? anyone?). It brings up a question I've asked myself before when confronted with poetry - especially poetry performances - in other languages, or in translation: if meanings are at all embedded in sounds, can poetry ever be translated properly from culture to culture? Of course it can be translated in the sense that we can know what the words mean, but as we all know, poetry is about so much more than words. And interesting related thought: would the logical conclusion of this be that sound poetry that uses no words at all, only sounds, should be understood universally? I want to say yes, but then again, languages have different speech sounds, inflection, intonation, etc., so even sounds might carry different associations with them. But: is that a bad thing where poetry is concerned? In fact: in a text class as subjective as poetry, is there even such a thing as a bad or wrong translation of a poem? Again, lots of questions.
"Oral traditions precede written poetry; but written traditions do not supercede the oral" - why is it that our culture always insists on viewing everything as linear, with "our" cultural practices being the (for now) final, the best? I'm glad to see the "return" of oral poetry and poetic performance, but I have no doubt that there will always be those who refuse to acknowledge this as "real" poetry.
Something about oral poetry, translation, performance: Back in Germany, I used to attend local poetry slams on a regular basis and became friends with Sadi Safavi, a Persian poet who's been living in Germany for many years. He writes and performs his poetry exclusively in his native language. Usually he attended as a guest reader, outside the actual contest. He was very popular and a very interesting performer; people would just listen to the sounds and enjoy them. For the longest time, he would have a translator read the German version of his poems after he was done performing - this translator would not "perform" the poems, but simply read them. These translations were only there to give the audience a context of what the poems "were about." after a while, though, he teamed up with a popular local slammer (Casjen Ohnesorge), and together they worked on creating a German performance of the piece. After Saadi's performance, Casjen would do his "interpretation of the piece" - this was typically slightly different in style from Saadi's, but not in a bad way. It was a great way to experience a poem in two completely different ways, while still being very aware that it was the same poem.
I'm telling this story because it is indicative of my belief that poetry can (and should) be translated; however, whenever one translates poetry (or anything, really), something new is created. The result is more like a cover or a remix, and no one should claim that it is the exact same thing - and it doesn't have to be! So, while translations will never be a copy of the original, they are still incredibly worthwhile. But: both the translator/performer and the audience must be aare of this, which is why I loved Saadi's and Casjen's combined performance. Hearing only the translation, you always run into the danger of taking for granted that that's what the poem really is; hearing the original with it, even if you don't understand it, will at least make you aware that there is more to the poem, sound-wise and possibly meaning-wise: some of it you can get to, and some you can't, but you should at least know that it's there.
PS: I tried to find youtube videos of Saadi Safavi, but there are none. There's plenty of Casjen Ohnesorge's stuff, but none of the translated poems. =(
Monday, March 9, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Most Unwanted House Show
First of all, something about Pendulum Music: I’ve recently attended a house show here in Morgantown where several bands were playing music. Early in the evening, there was a “performance” of a musician which came to mind as I read the description of Reich’s piece. This artist would, seemingly at random, but who knows, play with the equipment around him (amp, different microphones, pieces of drum kits…) to create what I can only call incredibly loud and annoying – yet somehow entertaining - noises. Now, I have to admit that much of the entertainment value of this performance lay in the artists’ incredible drunkenness. But I have to say: if someone had done the exact same things (e.g. grunting into a microphone stuck into his mouth while cranking up the amp, all the while looking it via a feedback mic) on a large stage in front of an audience that had paid to be there, all with a straight face, it would have passed as art, on the level that Reich’s piece passes as art. Where, then, do we draw the line? Like with Cage’s silent piece, I feel like much of the value actually comes from not taking the art too seriously, to accept it for what it is, even if it makes you laugh. Because, as I said, I was entertained. And having to keep a straight face wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.
The Most Unwanted Song kind of has the same effect: if you are allowed to poke fun at it, it becomes entertaining. If it didn’t announce itself as the most unwanted music, no one would ever want to listen to it. Sadly, most of the time art that is entertaining is labeled as cheap or low class. Which, I think is unfortunate. Shouldn’t all art entertain, to some extent? Isn’t it the combination of being entertaining and thought-provoking at the same time? Did we forget that along the way?
I do think that the Most Unwanted Song succeeds at what it’s trying to do, simply through its length. If it was one minute long, I could see it becoming an internet phenomenon that everyone found highly entertaining. Being as long as it is (and I sat through all of it, breaking into giggles every time the children came on), I doubt I ever want to listen to it ever again – however, I feel the intense desire to play this for everyone I know: Thankfully, we have facebook to bring music to people without having to listen to it again ourselves. Because that’s what facebook is for: spamming our friends with unwanted stuff. Thank God for online social networks.
The Most Unwanted Song kind of has the same effect: if you are allowed to poke fun at it, it becomes entertaining. If it didn’t announce itself as the most unwanted music, no one would ever want to listen to it. Sadly, most of the time art that is entertaining is labeled as cheap or low class. Which, I think is unfortunate. Shouldn’t all art entertain, to some extent? Isn’t it the combination of being entertaining and thought-provoking at the same time? Did we forget that along the way?
I do think that the Most Unwanted Song succeeds at what it’s trying to do, simply through its length. If it was one minute long, I could see it becoming an internet phenomenon that everyone found highly entertaining. Being as long as it is (and I sat through all of it, breaking into giggles every time the children came on), I doubt I ever want to listen to it ever again – however, I feel the intense desire to play this for everyone I know: Thankfully, we have facebook to bring music to people without having to listen to it again ourselves. Because that’s what facebook is for: spamming our friends with unwanted stuff. Thank God for online social networks.
Monday, February 9, 2009
2/4: Silence
4:33 was a fun piece to watch, especially as performed by the BBC Symphony Orchestra. All the same, it's hard to find the "correct" way to respond to it. On the one hand I was suprised how incredibly entertaining it was, despite it just being four and a half minutes of silence. It certainly did have a bit of a practical-joke character; in fact, I think I would have enjoyed it even more of the audience had not been in the know. The hilarity of the situation is certainly acknowledged in the forehead-wiping moment. It was impressive and at the same time pathetically comical how seriously quiet the audience was. I would have thought this kind of performance could go either way (the other way being the audience becoming increasingly giggly and mumbly). In their reverent silence, it almost seemed that the audience thought they were in on the joke, when really the joke was, in a way, on them.
The other response comes from the part of me that actually took the performance a little more seriously. In a way, it almost seemed like the periods of silence were just very long, dramatic buildups to the moments of page-turning, where the rustling of paper and the coughing of listeners seemed to make up the "actual" performance. Situating it in a concert hall, the sounds of the coughs did seem to be transformed in to a strange sort of music, reminding me of dull plopps of water or one of those simple percussive intruments that are blocks of wood that you hit with a stick (yeah, I don't know what those are called - as always, I'll blame not being a native speaker.....). Thinking about that, it is interesting that the commentator stressed that the 4:33 of performance time do not count the "pauses" to turn the pages, even though it seems that those moments are closest to resembling the actual performance. Cage obviously made his work cover more than one page... if it had been just 4:33 of complete silence, the piece would have been not nearly as effective.
Looking at the two ways to "read" the piece, it does make me wonder: is only one of them "right?" Does that mean that one of them is "wrong?" Does Cage want you to have a certain reaction? Do you "fail" if you think the piece is funny? Or if you think it's dead-serious? I doubt Cage would say that any of the possible reactions is wrong, except possibly if someone claimed to have the "ultimate" meaning behind the piece.
***
Our readings have been making me think about whether there is any sort of music or poetry which can truly be called experimental - not just in its process, but in its result. After experiencing 4:33, I suppose a work could be experimental if the author/performer presented something like 4:33 for the very first time, not knowing what the exact audience reaction would be, but certainly counting on some sort of reaction which would then become part of the performance. The coughing, if not expected, would then be part of a truly experimental piece.
The other response comes from the part of me that actually took the performance a little more seriously. In a way, it almost seemed like the periods of silence were just very long, dramatic buildups to the moments of page-turning, where the rustling of paper and the coughing of listeners seemed to make up the "actual" performance. Situating it in a concert hall, the sounds of the coughs did seem to be transformed in to a strange sort of music, reminding me of dull plopps of water or one of those simple percussive intruments that are blocks of wood that you hit with a stick (yeah, I don't know what those are called - as always, I'll blame not being a native speaker.....). Thinking about that, it is interesting that the commentator stressed that the 4:33 of performance time do not count the "pauses" to turn the pages, even though it seems that those moments are closest to resembling the actual performance. Cage obviously made his work cover more than one page... if it had been just 4:33 of complete silence, the piece would have been not nearly as effective.
Looking at the two ways to "read" the piece, it does make me wonder: is only one of them "right?" Does that mean that one of them is "wrong?" Does Cage want you to have a certain reaction? Do you "fail" if you think the piece is funny? Or if you think it's dead-serious? I doubt Cage would say that any of the possible reactions is wrong, except possibly if someone claimed to have the "ultimate" meaning behind the piece.
***
Our readings have been making me think about whether there is any sort of music or poetry which can truly be called experimental - not just in its process, but in its result. After experiencing 4:33, I suppose a work could be experimental if the author/performer presented something like 4:33 for the very first time, not knowing what the exact audience reaction would be, but certainly counting on some sort of reaction which would then become part of the performance. The coughing, if not expected, would then be part of a truly experimental piece.
2/2: Mixed Messages
As certain as Chopin sounds about what he is trying to say, his essay (manifesto?) is pretty contradictory. He is complaining about the Word, yet he is using words to do so. He is advocating a poetry free from the bounds of words (or Words?), but in those, he will not be able to convey his message the way he does in this essay. But: does he want to convey a message? "[I]t is not useful that anyone should understand me," he claims, and I'm not sure whether he is talking about poetry or life in general. At least he sees the value of the Word for lentil-buying endeavours.
Seriously, though: I somehow found myself enjoying he over-the-top, generalizing manifesto. No, I won't start making random noises instead of speaking, but I doubt that's what Chopin would want me to do after all, he is also against ordering people around, right?). I do think he makes a valid point about us living in a cult of meaning and understanding, where anything which is meaningless is automatically devalued. Meaning and understanding, in the sense of there being one one true, universal meaning to something, is certainly something worth questioning and critiquing.
I don't know if it is just me, but to me his whole essay in its form was also a critique of language. He argues that the Word gives orders, and in a way, that's what his essay sounds like. He might be demonstrating the insufficiency of the Word to truly say what he wants us to "understand" - now more in the sense of feeling, "getting it." He seems to imply that meaning can still exist, but not as a prescribed, rigid thing, but as a flowing, canging, subjective thing.
Or he could simply contradicting himself by writing the essay. But really, what other options does he (and do we all) have?
***
McCaffery's essay mentions Phonography, which he says attempts "to investigate the possibilities that there are for a relationship between sound and picture, [...] between audible and visual rhythms. This made me think of.....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h2H5w8MsPps
Can this, then, be classified as a sound poem, since it is sound transformed into a picture? And is the end result, or the video the poem? Would the video of the painting being created be a (visual) poem, even with the sound off? Would the relation of the soundless video to the piano be parallel to the relation of a the printed words of a poem to its live performance? Yes, the colors of the paint are arbitrarily chosen, but then so are written representations of sounds. So many questions....
Seriously, though: I somehow found myself enjoying he over-the-top, generalizing manifesto. No, I won't start making random noises instead of speaking, but I doubt that's what Chopin would want me to do after all, he is also against ordering people around, right?). I do think he makes a valid point about us living in a cult of meaning and understanding, where anything which is meaningless is automatically devalued. Meaning and understanding, in the sense of there being one one true, universal meaning to something, is certainly something worth questioning and critiquing.
I don't know if it is just me, but to me his whole essay in its form was also a critique of language. He argues that the Word gives orders, and in a way, that's what his essay sounds like. He might be demonstrating the insufficiency of the Word to truly say what he wants us to "understand" - now more in the sense of feeling, "getting it." He seems to imply that meaning can still exist, but not as a prescribed, rigid thing, but as a flowing, canging, subjective thing.
Or he could simply contradicting himself by writing the essay. But really, what other options does he (and do we all) have?
***
McCaffery's essay mentions Phonography, which he says attempts "to investigate the possibilities that there are for a relationship between sound and picture, [...] between audible and visual rhythms. This made me think of.....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h2H5w8MsPps
Can this, then, be classified as a sound poem, since it is sound transformed into a picture? And is the end result, or the video the poem? Would the video of the painting being created be a (visual) poem, even with the sound off? Would the relation of the soundless video to the piano be parallel to the relation of a the printed words of a poem to its live performance? Yes, the colors of the paint are arbitrarily chosen, but then so are written representations of sounds. So many questions....
Monday, January 26, 2009
Blog for 1/19
Blog response to
Maria Damon: Was That "Different," "Dissident," or "Dissonant"? Poetry (n) the Public Spear: Slams, Open Readings, and Dissident Traditions
Of the readings we've had for this week, I'd like to focus on Maria Damon's essay on Poetry slams and other forms of public poetry.
The questions I want to ask are these:
1. Many cultures have long traditions of oral poetry, and with the "invention" of poetry slams, Western countries seem to have a relatively new-found love for them, as well. Obviously, the poem read aloud and the poem printed on the page are two completely different works. There seems to be a debate how (and whether!) this kind of poetry - written to be read aloud, to be performed - should be recorded for posterity. Printing alone cannot be the answer; however, even a sound recording takes away the element of variation, of mood, and of the interpretation of the text by the individual performer. Do we just accept the fact that oral poetry (especially slam poetry, which is often only performed a few times and then replaced by newer material) might be short-lived and will disappear over time, since our culture does not seem to have a strong tradition of orally passing on poetry? Or should we attempt to preserve such poems at the risk of losing much of what constitutes their actual value (variations through spontaneity, audience response, etc).
In an attempt to answer this, I do believe that it would definitely worthwhile to preserve such poetry, both in print and in sound recordings. While this may seem to some extent to alter the poem (paradoxically by preventing it from being altered, i.e. by its being put in print), there might be a way around it if we change the way we think about potery. Recording a reading of, say, a slam poem should not be perceived as the one correct way for the reading to happen, and not even as the bast way of all possible readings. What it can give us is 1) an example of the actual author reading his/her own work, and 2) a sort of basis from which others may create their own reading of this particular work. None of them should be considered as more or less correct than what came before (or what will come after). This way, the ability of change and growth inherent in the poem would be kept intact; in fact, the act of distribution might render the poem more "alive" than it would have been otherwise. The fact that many slam artists hand out recordings of their stage performances and that is it (at least in my experience at slams in Germany) an accepted practice to perform other slam poets' work at open readings (giving them credit, of course) seems to point in this direction, as well.
2. Damon references the documentary Chicks in White Satin as containing a moment of something banal turning into something profound. While I absolutely agree that this is possible (and sometimes even desirable), I wonder if there is a line that can/should not be crossed in poetry slams/public readings. Can anything successfully be read as poetry, if the performance makes up for the content? And is so, is this equally true for intentionally and untintentionally banal poetry (i.e. someone performing a reading of the ingredients list from a box of cereal vs. someone presenting a love poem filled with clichés)?
Maria Damon: Was That "Different," "Dissident," or "Dissonant"? Poetry (n) the Public Spear: Slams, Open Readings, and Dissident Traditions
Of the readings we've had for this week, I'd like to focus on Maria Damon's essay on Poetry slams and other forms of public poetry.
The questions I want to ask are these:
1. Many cultures have long traditions of oral poetry, and with the "invention" of poetry slams, Western countries seem to have a relatively new-found love for them, as well. Obviously, the poem read aloud and the poem printed on the page are two completely different works. There seems to be a debate how (and whether!) this kind of poetry - written to be read aloud, to be performed - should be recorded for posterity. Printing alone cannot be the answer; however, even a sound recording takes away the element of variation, of mood, and of the interpretation of the text by the individual performer. Do we just accept the fact that oral poetry (especially slam poetry, which is often only performed a few times and then replaced by newer material) might be short-lived and will disappear over time, since our culture does not seem to have a strong tradition of orally passing on poetry? Or should we attempt to preserve such poems at the risk of losing much of what constitutes their actual value (variations through spontaneity, audience response, etc).
In an attempt to answer this, I do believe that it would definitely worthwhile to preserve such poetry, both in print and in sound recordings. While this may seem to some extent to alter the poem (paradoxically by preventing it from being altered, i.e. by its being put in print), there might be a way around it if we change the way we think about potery. Recording a reading of, say, a slam poem should not be perceived as the one correct way for the reading to happen, and not even as the bast way of all possible readings. What it can give us is 1) an example of the actual author reading his/her own work, and 2) a sort of basis from which others may create their own reading of this particular work. None of them should be considered as more or less correct than what came before (or what will come after). This way, the ability of change and growth inherent in the poem would be kept intact; in fact, the act of distribution might render the poem more "alive" than it would have been otherwise. The fact that many slam artists hand out recordings of their stage performances and that is it (at least in my experience at slams in Germany) an accepted practice to perform other slam poets' work at open readings (giving them credit, of course) seems to point in this direction, as well.
2. Damon references the documentary Chicks in White Satin as containing a moment of something banal turning into something profound. While I absolutely agree that this is possible (and sometimes even desirable), I wonder if there is a line that can/should not be crossed in poetry slams/public readings. Can anything successfully be read as poetry, if the performance makes up for the content? And is so, is this equally true for intentionally and untintentionally banal poetry (i.e. someone performing a reading of the ingredients list from a box of cereal vs. someone presenting a love poem filled with clichés)?
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