Most of you gracious readers know that I teach for a living, and some of you know that as a teacher I tend towards the hamhandedly over-organized. Detailed handouts, verbose syllabi, mental outlines: I'm what the kids call anal, and while it's clear that some of them do enjoy the sense of structure I bring to class, it's also clear to me that I need to try to remain open to the possible appeal of good old-fashioned spontaneity.Which is why I especially enjoy, as one of the great gifts of my job, the occasional tips, hints, and recommendations offered by students. A website address (as in the comment to one of my posts), an artist's name, an album worth listening to: students periodically lay their gifts on an instructor's doorstep in beautiful, unexpected ways.
This week, it was an upperclassman - one of our sharpest and more thoughtful majors - darkening the door of my office shortly before our Art Criticism class, and passing me a bowed copy of Morton Feldman's collected writings. The evening's class was dedicated to the writings of the New York School, and Feldman - not a name I knew - was a composer and music critic who was in close with O'Hara and other Cedar Tavern regulars. "I thought you might like this," said the student, and wandered off.
Oh, but I do. In a 1966 essay, Feldman wrote of "Boulez, who once said in an essay that he is not interested in how a piece sounds, only in how it is made... The preoccupation with making something, with systems and construction, seems to be a characteristic of music today. It has become, in many cases, the actual subject of musical composition." Such an assertion is not completely new to me: I know something of Cage, and Schoenberg, and a few other process-oriented composers. But the conciseness of Feldman's formulation is appealing, and I've spent odd moments over the past couple days mulling over it.
And, because I've also spent much of those two days toting an infant girl from place to place, I've wondered how it might apply to a philosophy of parenting, as well. We're so often consumed with thoughts of outcomes in raising children. Can they sit? walk? how fast is their fastball? how high their PSAT scores? But what if we shifted the subject of such conversations entirely to process? The questions would obviously shift substantially. How is Cleo learning these days (textures, tastes)? What does she seem to like (chewing on items while lying on her belly), and what does she no longer like (being held on her back, facing me)?
This week, it was an upperclassman - one of our sharpest and more thoughtful majors - darkening the door of my office shortly before our Art Criticism class, and passing me a bowed copy of Morton Feldman's collected writings. The evening's class was dedicated to the writings of the New York School, and Feldman - not a name I knew - was a composer and music critic who was in close with O'Hara and other Cedar Tavern regulars. "I thought you might like this," said the student, and wandered off.
Oh, but I do. In a 1966 essay, Feldman wrote of "Boulez, who once said in an essay that he is not interested in how a piece sounds, only in how it is made... The preoccupation with making something, with systems and construction, seems to be a characteristic of music today. It has become, in many cases, the actual subject of musical composition." Such an assertion is not completely new to me: I know something of Cage, and Schoenberg, and a few other process-oriented composers. But the conciseness of Feldman's formulation is appealing, and I've spent odd moments over the past couple days mulling over it.
And, because I've also spent much of those two days toting an infant girl from place to place, I've wondered how it might apply to a philosophy of parenting, as well. We're so often consumed with thoughts of outcomes in raising children. Can they sit? walk? how fast is their fastball? how high their PSAT scores? But what if we shifted the subject of such conversations entirely to process? The questions would obviously shift substantially. How is Cleo learning these days (textures, tastes)? What does she seem to like (chewing on items while lying on her belly), and what does she no longer like (being held on her back, facing me)?
Thus a modest thesis: I teach with ends in mind, but providence regularly offers reminders, both in and out of the classroom, of the beauty of process.
And a corresponding resolution: to apply the same attention, at least sporadically, to the raising of a baby.
And a corresponding resolution: to apply the same attention, at least sporadically, to the raising of a baby.
Posts
Two days later, I pick up the latest issue of Urbanite, and read our friend Elizabeth's "Building for the Better." And on page 46, see this quote, from Mike Weikert, a colleague of mine at MICA: "We find projects where ideas can make a positive and tangible impact. The result for students is that their definition of design becomes broader. They realize design isn't just based on a predetermined outcome. It's based on the process."
ReplyDelete