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Elliott Carter.


FOR ALMOST A QUARTER OF A CENTURY, we cheered Elliott Carter on, as he approached and passed the age of eighty, then ninety, then a hundred. And he cheered us with his continuing productivity. At 103, he was still busy composing pieces for orchestra: Instances and a piano concerto titled Dialogues II. Earlier in his second century had come songs, piano pieces, and instrumental miniatures, as well as other orchestral scores, all as fresh as morning. It seemed there was no stopping him. But, of course, there was.

Just five weeks and a day shy of his 104th birthday when he died on November 5 last year, he had long outlived anyone else with experiences like his own. Debussy and Scriabin were still composing when he began at the piano. A little later, Charles Ives was taking him to concerts; they sat together in Carnegie Hall to hear The Rite of Spring played for the first time in New York, in 1924. A few years after that, when Carter was a student at Harvard, he sang in the official premiere of Stravinsky's Symphony of Psalms. While he remained with us, these things were still part of living memory.

While he remained with us, too, his longevity was the phenomenon. There are very few other cases of creativity maintained into such advanced years. Indeed, perhaps there is only one: that of the Portuguese film director Manoel de Oliveira, who happened to be born on the same day as Carter. But astonishment at the fact of Carter's continuing artistic vitality may have drawn attention away from his no less astonishing artistic achievement, which was, quite simply, to make chaotic musical unfurlings breathtakingly beautiful.

All the adventures of modernism are there in his music: Schoenberg's atonality as well as Debussy's free flow; the displaced rhythms of Stravinsky, Bartok, and jazz as well as the rampant percussion of Varese; Webern's patternmaking as well as the wild multiple strata of Carter's boyhood hero Ives. The result is often profuse, but not confused, for what Carter had also absorbed in his long-ago younger years--drilled into him by the formidable composition teacher Nadia Boulanger in Paris in the early 1930s--was a thoroughly disciplined technique.

This enabled him to handle harmony in a way that had very little to do with the old tonality but could still have audible consistency and direction. You may not know exactly where you are when you hear a Carter piece for the first time, but you will know for sure that somebody does, and that this knowledge, this expertise, is directly responsible for the beauty, clarity, elegance, and humor you find all around you. Listen again and the drive and dart of events start to make sense.

It is characteristic of Carter that he often presented his biggest, rangiest inventions in the venerable genres of the concerto and the string quartet. This was part of his inheritance from Boulanger, and from the Stravinsky-style Neoclassicism she inculcated, instilling in her students the conviction that music should be logical before all else. Abstraction may also have appealed to him as bringing his work close to that of the painters he admired--abstraction combined with strongly gestural design and largeness of scale, each piece moving in one continuous sweep. Though literature was always more important to Carter than visual art, he saw himself as working in the same spirit as de Kooning, and his wife of more than sixty years, Helen Frost-Jones, was a sculptor (and a powerful intellectual presence beside him).

The genres of quartet and concerto also suited his purpose of creating music not only constantly in flux but also constantly--the title of that late, late piano concerto is indicative--in dialogue. Like many modern artists, he recognized that we live plural lives. Layers of awareness drift and rebound; while reading a book we find ourselves noticing a dripping tap, remembering a task left undone, recalling something else sparked off by the text. In Night Fantasies (1980), Carter set out--within a half-hour solo piano piece that is mercurial but lucid, and always luminous--to evoke this swim of the conscious mind. As if remembering and imagining, perceiving and growing alarmed or amused, widening out and homing in, and all these at once, the music's melodic trails and harmonic sways lead us in several directions at the same time.

Much more often, however, Carter heard his music not as an isolated person's reverie but as the interplay of several distinct individuals, expressing themselves independently, forming alliances, confronting one another, never reaching the security of concord, but never walking off stage, either. (Of course, this may also be how we feel our internal selves to be.) These musical characters will be defined in terms of harmony and of tempo, and it is probably the simultaneity of different speeds, perhaps with one line accelerating while another maintains a steady pulse, that most people have in mind when they describe music as "Carterian."

Carter's skill in this area made possible the vigorous but benign argumentativeness of his string quartets, and it made possible, too, the impression in his concertos of soloists and diverse groupings in dynamic equilibrium, their comportment unrestrained and hazardous, and exhilarating for being so. Nor was this altogether an abstract feat. For Carter, the dialogue of musical characters was to be understood as modeling a properly democratic society, where people from different backgrounds, with different inclinations and different goals, could be held in--and could contribute to--a universal harmony.

Right through his forties, fifties, and early sixties, Carter worked at big examples of manifold impulses in balance. It had taken a decade and a half for sprightly Neoclassicism to subside in his output; now he had to teach himself, with his lengthily acquired technique, another way. That was slow. The world got used to hearing a new Carter piece only every three or four years--and it was always a big statement. There were three quartets during this period, and otherwise just four orchestral works, including the Double Concerto for Harpsichord and Piano, which Carter completed in 1961, and which Stravinsky called a masterpiece.

Justly so. A turmoil of notes, colors, speeds, and processes, the work takes from Lucretius (the literary reference typical) an image of existence as unceasing motion--an image consonant with what contemporary science was discovering about elementary particles and the history of the universe. But there is also a darkness here which belongs to that time, a threat of destruction in the swirl, for the two keyboard soloists act as rival powers, each with its allies, firing off challenges and assertions.

Then, at an age when many artists are winding down, Carter began gearing up. After a thirty-year hiatus, he returned to vocal music, initiating what became a wide round of handshakes with poets he had been silently admiring all this while: Elizabeth Bishop and John Ashbery, e. C. cummings and Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams and Louis Zukofsky. A little later, in his midseventies, Carter started producing smaller pieces for solo instruments or small groups, twirls of sound he made as homages, as gifts to musician friends, or just for the fun of it.

Perhaps this was his deepest Neoclassical affiliation, the view that came forward in his work, once precipitation into nuclear war no longer seemed imminent, of life as essentially a comedy. Conflict and turbulence, held at the point of explosion in the Double Concerto, were now cheerfully embraced, and in his Symphonia of 1993-96, he took the viewpoint of a bubble, observing human events while floating free in the air above them.

By now nearing ninety, he decided it was time he wrote his first opera (ultimately titled What Next?), which is how I found myself working with him in the early months of 1997. He was approaching completion of his Quintet for Piano and Strings. He did not want to have time on his hands; he wanted to be shaping it. So this was the threat: If I could not have the libretto ready in short order, he would write a flute concerto (as he did, ten years afterward). But what he also kept saying, when the characters on the pages of my draft were getting too dark or serious, was: "I want to have fun!" And there would come to his face the bright smile of a mischievous boy.

"People tell me I'm old," he said on an earlier occasion, "but I don't feel old." Nor does his music. It is the product, very obviously, of a long and learned culture, but it has a spring in its step. It is well set up for the journey ahead.



IN THE SUMMER OF 1961, at the Aspen Music Festival, the Juilliard String Quartet not only performed Elliott Carter's Second String Quartet but gave a lecture demonstration on it. I was an eager student making the most of that brief interlude between high school and college, and both the music itself, heard in an intuitive jumble, and also the organization of it--each instrument expressing its own personality by means of unique intervals and tempi--made an indelible impression on me. It was not until 1966 that I actually met Mr. Carter and his wife, Helen, and it was in the early 1970s that they befriended me and the other members of our new music group, Speculum Musicae. Helen taught us how to behave both as aristocrats and as true democrats. It is hard to imagine Elliott without that backdrop of ferocious idealism. And his music, for all its beauty and complexity, was (and is) a reflection of the human condition in its rich variety, of the need for change as well as for consistency, and of the individuality of all our voices. These qualities and intrinsic philosophical concerns necessarily affected our performances. For if each voice is individual, then its sound, loudness, and articulation, has to be focused and differentiated from the other parts. And of course this is true for most great music, so learning to play the music of Elliott Carter has for me been a gateway to learning to play all other musics.

Immensely well read in French and Greek as well as in English, Elliott was formidably learned (and had a magnificent memory), but he was also a bit of a tease, both in conversation and in his music. My friend the pianist Jerome Lowenthal had a three-part experience with this; I was witness to the two later encounters:

SCENE I. PARIS, 1958; OUTSIDE THE CENTRE CULTUREL AMERICAIN, RUE DU DRAGON. Jerry and Elliott are emerging from rehearsals for a program that included Carter's First String Quartet. Jerry has just introduced himself to the composer:

EC: And what solo piece are you playing?

JL: Ravel's Tombeau de Couperin.

EC: All of it?

JL (embarrassed): All except the Fugue.

EC (reproachfully): Oh? But the Fugue is the best movement!

Jerry goes home, learns the Fugue, and subsequently announces to anyone who is interested that it is his favorite movement.

SCENE 2.. NEW YORK, 1998; MY PLACE, MANHATTAN'S UPPER WEST SIDE. Jerry, reintroducing himself to Elliott, recounts their conversation from forty years earlier:

JL: ... and you said, "Oh? But the Fugue is the best movement!" EC: Really? I wonder why I said that. The Fugue is well written but the entrances are too close. I think I must have been pulling your leg.

SCENE 3. NEW YORK, 2.008; THE CARTERS' GREENWICH VILLAGE APARTMENT. Jerry, by now well used to conversations with Elliott, takes the opportunity, when Ravers name comes up, to retell the story from scene 1:

JL: ... and you said, "Oh, the Fugue's the best move-ment"--but I didn't think you really meant it.

EC: Of course not. The Fugue is the worst movement. That's why Ravel didn't orchestrate it.

And there are examples of Elliott's wit in the music itself. For instance, the first two notes of the clarinet part in his Quintet for Piano and Winds are B-flat and E-flat, well hidden in a complex chord, whereas the Beethoven Quintet for the same instruments starts with everyone playing those two notes, at the same speed, in unison. When the clarinetist Charles Neidich asked Carter about this, he replied "Oh?" in a somewhat bemused tone, as though the thought had never occurred to him before. And Interventions, the concerto for piano and orchestra that Elliott wrote for James Levine and Daniel Barenboim--and which premiered in 2008 on the composer's one hundredth birthday--starts with the full orchestra playing A (or La, in solfege), followed by the pianist (Barenboim) playing an intense B-flat tremolo (B, in German musical nomenclature, is our B-flat), thereby inscribing into the music the initials of these two great champions of his work.

This was one interpretation Elliott did admit to.

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Title Annotation:PASSAGES
Author:Griffiths, Paul
Publication:Artforum International
Geographic Code:1USA
Date:Mar 1, 2013
Previous Article:Raoul De Keyser: 1930-2012.

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