Obvious vs, Oblivious (cont. from last blog)

The camera tells a story of distraction and of a frenetic world that doesn’t have time for beauty. In a place of transit, like a train station, a place deemed a mere antecedent to the all-important workday, we are not as open to the flutter of wings from the confused lark flitting about the tunnel columns, nor are we inclined toward the flash of fugues flying around the newsstands, nor toward the sprite that throws off those bright ribbons out into the concrete caverns from his miraculous horsehair wand.
Hey, sorry, but we have places to go… things to do. Can’t be bothered with that right now. Straight ahead. Chop chop.
I think I’ve figured out that old conundrum about “If a tree falls in the forest, will it make a sound?” The answer is “No.” If there is no capacity to process vibration into cognition (by an ear and a brain) then the sensory effect called “sound “ simply does not occur.
Likewise, the answer to the question, “Is it art if no one even stops to acknowledge its existence.” is, again, a resounding “No.”— at least not for those millions constantly checking their watches and Blackberries (and their ears at the door) as they scramble toward their next appointment with destiny.
But the answer is also a resounding “Yes!”— yes, that is, if the artist herself is cognizant and, maybe even, transported by the act of making the art. Unlike a tree falling in the forest, a musician has ears and can be, therefore, a packed arena all unto herself. If musicians didn’t feel this way, they wouldn’t enjoy practicing as much as they do. Sometimes, even for Joshua Bell apparently, only the four-year-old boy being dragged along struggling to get a peek at the man making the magic sound seems capable of acknowledging the remotest possibility of beauty amongst the newstands. Nothing personal, Maestro, ‘twas ever thus.
The true maestro, doesn’t mind. She knows that the rose blooms not for the odd passerby that might stop to take a whiff, it blooms because the earth and the rain and the sun and the mystery of DNA compel it to bloom. Music was meant to be shared but it is the way of the cosmos that the elements of beauty, the remote field of poppies, the melancholy call of the last loon on the lake will always be present even when the eyes (and ears) meant to behold their beauty are not.
Sadly, in these addled, highly conditioned times, such faculties may not be present even among a crowd of thousands. Offering one’s art to the world is not for wimps. Still if I’m to settle for only a couple of patrons on a given day, God and myself will suffice.

Nothing is Obvious to the Oblivious

One of the better articles to come out of American journalism in recent years was Gene Weingarten’s Pulitzer Prize winning piece exploring the highly subjective nature of our appreciation of art. It was entitled “Pearls Before Breakfast” (www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/04/AR2007040401721.htm) and it was more than an article, really. It was an experiment designed to highlight the psychological elements at play that impact our capacity to be inspired by the world.

The question to be answered: could clear and present artistic brilliance be recognized by an educated populace if it were showcased outside its conventional venue of celebrated auditoriums during the distracting hustle-bustle of the usual business day?

The set up: Have an indisputably fine violinist play for tips in a D.C. subway station and video tape the response of over a thousand passersby.

Stacking the deck in favor of recognition of artistic brilliance:
1. The “busker” chosen for this experiment was world-renowned concert violinist Joshua Bell— whose playing Interview Magazine once gushed "does nothing less than tell human beings why they bother to live." When composer John Corigliano accepted the Oscar for Best Original Dramatic Score for “The Red Violin”, he credited his success to Bell, who was the soloist on the project. He said, quite simply, Joshua Bell "plays like a god."
2. The music chosen for the performance is widely recognized as some of the greatest music ever written. Example, the ditty Bell decided to start with was "Chaconne" from Johann Sebastian Bach's Partita No. 2 in D Minor. Bell calls it "not just one of the greatest pieces of music ever written, but one of the greatest achievements of any man in history. It's a spiritually powerful piece, emotionally powerful, structurally perfect.” 19th century composer Johannes Brahms, in a letter to Clara Schumann concurred "On one stave, for a small instrument, the man writes a whole world of the deepest thoughts and most powerful feelings. If I imagined that I could have created, even conceived the piece, I am quite certain that the excess of excitement and earth-shattering experience would have driven me out of my mind." If Brahms dug it, it deserves a listen Like Chaconne, all the pieces Bell chose to play (i.e. Franz Schubert's "Ave Maria") were arguably immortal. Joshua Bell would leave nothing to chance.
3. . The instrument Joshua Bell chose for his performance was his 3 1/2-million-dollar Stradivari, hand-crafted during the master violin maker’s “golden period”. In Weingarten’s view, “No violins sound as wonderful as Strads from the 1710s, still.” If the performance didn’t resonate with the audience, the artist certainly couldn’t blame his tools.

Stacking the deck in favor of non-recognition:
1. The performance was staged at the L’Enfant Plaza Station “against a wall beside a trash can” in D.C.— not in the ostentatious trappings of, say, The Kennedy Center.
2. Bell was dressed not in black tie and tails but a long sleeve tee shirt, jeans and a baseball cap.
3. The time was rush hour, 7:51 on a Friday, a time when the pressures of the work day have already lodged themselves firmly in the typical commuter’s mind— profoundly effecting his ability to perceive anything outside the chronic drama of his own little everyday story.

Still, you would think that most people couldn’t help but be struck by the electricity of genius ping ponging around the walls of that station that morning— what with Bach, Bell and Stradovari coalescing so spectacularly on those immortal Ides of January early on a frosty morn. But, alas, the camera tells a different story. (cont.)