Ambient noise

What would a sketch of the personality of the 12-day-old Cleo look like? Well, for the most part, much like an impression of pretty much any infant: likes milk; has a boorish disregard for social niceties (poops in public, in fact); acts with an inflatedly dramatic sense of self-importance. But even the littlest tyke does have certain proclivities that are not totally universal, and in Cleo's case one of these seems to be an interest in the outdoors.

It's quite noticeable: when she's carried outside, she tends to calm down quite quickly. Or, if she's already calm, she tends to peer about, and, eventually, to relax and sometimes even to doze off. Today, in fact, she slept for nearly an hour in a net-protected crib in the side yard, as bugs hummed overhead, birds chirped, and the cat stood silent sentry on the stoop.

Perhaps, say the contrarian readers of this blog, perhaps that's because outside she's finally given a respite from all of the classical music that she's forced to swallow while inside! Not so fast, though. She fell asleep to a broadcast symphony today, in the car, and for the most part music seems to interest her neither more nor less than, say, her blanket, or the sun. And, to be honest, she hears less than an hour of music in any given day. So it's not simply that.

So let's think about it differently. In the world of formal classical music, noise is traditionally viewed as a distraction: coughs are a nuisance, and anything louder is openly detrimental to one's enjoyment of the piece. (As an example, check out this peeved review by an Australian critic in 1958, whose enjoyment of a piano recital was marred by environmental noise). Or, at least, that was the common view before the arrival of John Cage, and his infamous embrace of ambient noise. Since Cage, environmental sounds are no longer necessarily viewed as simply contaminating; they're merely an inevitable part of any performance. Music isn't sterile; it's a part of the living world.

With that in mind, we're delighted to carry Cleo out through the back door, onto the porch, and under the trees. Last night, in the dark, I couldn't see my feet as we walked through the balmy late evening air. But I could feel Cleo's little body relax, beneath her receiving blanket: a placid listener at an early summer symphony.