daron aric hagen

'The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place.' - George Bernard Shaw

As Gardner McFall, Stephen Wadsworth and I listened to the first read-through of our opera Amelia, we carefully monitored the 'feel' of the invited audience, did our utmost to be sensitive to how the opera was or was not at any given moment 'connecting' with them. It was a thrill to hear the work on its feet, as it were; it is moving to know that so many talented people are working together to realize one's vision. Although I have been down this road before, and have necessarily grown brutal about revising my work during the workshop process over the years, I felt afresh the subdued flush of communal satisfaction that only comes with collaboration. Hearing many people moved to tears helped fortify the illusion that I hold that I had as a composer succeeded pretty well in being 'of one mind' with them as they experienced our opera.

Although lots of skills are required, and an ability to intuitively discern logical structures and arguments, composing music isn’t a science any more than performing it is, and the possession of superior musical talent and musicality are not necessarily coupled with superior intelligence or insight into the human condition any more than being a 'good' person helps to make one a 'good' artist, or vice-versa.

Writing 'for fellow composers' supposes that there exists some sort of cabal of wizardly initiates that 'get it' and that everyone else doesn’t.

Writing 'for ordinary people' supposes that there are such things.

The idea that one’s music will ever be performed exactly as one imagined it (especially by oneself) is an hubristic illusion.

The idea that anyone (including oneself) will ever 'understand' exactly what one has written is an illusion. 'Meaning, after all,' is as indefinable, as elusive as 'truth.' We create these things on the fly, just behind our eyes.

What does it mean to write music 'for oneself?' Is this stance just a way to free oneself from the hard, grown up necessity of accepting that one has no control over what one creates, but rather must fashion one’s understanding of what one has created after the fact by combining one’s own opinion of what one expressed with what others (performers, listeners) tell one was expressed?

While the idea that music 'means' anything is an illusion, music can create emotional contexts; what the specific emotional contexts conjured are, however, is elusive, subjective.

That said, why do audience members tell me they feel the broad emotions I hoped they would feel as they listened to one of my pieces? How about the ones who felt something different or nothing at all? (They are usually kind enough simply to walk away.) As a composer, I 'feel' what I want to express, think of notes that 'are' that feeling to me, write them down, and see what happens. Is my feeling that I am pretty good at this as illusory as the feeling of control people have who, when shooting craps, tend to throw the dice harder when they want high numbers, and more softly when they want low ones?

I was aware during the workshop performance that the audience had been drawn in first and foremost by the dramatic situations, as conveyed by the words, because (one hopes, so long as the composer didn’t put himself at cross-purposes with the libretto) that’s the easiest part to 'get;' next by the performers (their facial expressions, the interpretations they gave to the words and music, the conductor’s choice of tempii), who — by way of those interpretations — helped guide the audience toward the desired emotional responses; and, finally, by my music, whose job it was and is to create a coherent musical universe in which the drama can unfold.

While a real-life opera composer must be (as Oscar Levant wrote of good conductors) "irrationally convinced that he is right," and convinced that he is "in control" of that "coherent musical universe," his artistic vision must also be reconciled with his cold-blooded, professional assessment of the relative "success" of his music with the audience's needs in creating the procession of psychological and emotional states required. He them must combine these with the assessments of the rest of the creative team, all of whom are monitoring the relative "success" of their contributions.

After the workshop, the very sane, very hard process of overcoming knee-jerk self-defense mechanisms by accepting criticism from the rest of the creative team recommenced, and together we continued to hone the collective reality, labored to enhance the audience's suspension of disbelief, so that Amelia’s 'coherent musical universe' might now be dressed by the costume designer, made corporeal by the set designer, and illuminated by the lighting designer, all under the supervision of the stage director. If I did not pause — after having composed two evening-long grand operas, two one-act operas, and two chamber operas — to indulge in an uncontrolled giggle of delight at my good fortune, it was not because I was ungrateful, or unmoved by the enthralling Process in which we were and continue to be involved, it was because I've had that moment before, and the stakes are even higher now that I am older and more experienced: it was and remains crucial that I keep my head clear, objective, and in the game.

If the Titanic really did sink because of the substandard ore that was smelted for the under-trained riveters, it is an excellent cautionary metaphor for why composers of grand opera (which is in countless ways like an enormous ocean liner) must possess a comprehensive musical skill set before writing one. The workshop process and the delegation of important components of the composer's job (like orchestration) to others can set off the "for want of a nail the shoe was lost" sequence of events that has sunk so many well-intentioned (and expensive) projects, just as surely as a romantic, sentimental faith that the composer's "inspiration" alone will carry the day.