innovation, choice, and the history of music
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Leonard B. Meyer's article from 1983 in Critical InquiryTRANSCRIPT
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Innovation, Choice, and the History of MusicAuthor(s): Leonard B. MeyerSource: Critical Inquiry, Vol. 9, No. 3 (Mar., 1983), pp. 517-544Published by: The University of Chicago PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/1343338.
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5/19/2018 Innovation, Choice, and the History of Music
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Innovation, Choice,
and
the
History
of Music
Leonard
B.
Meyer
The
history
of
music,
like
that
of
other
arts,
is
often
pictured
as a com-
plex
succession
of
distinctive
styles.
But
unless one
posits
some neces-
sary,
a
priori pattern
of
style change-cyclic, dialectic, evolutionary,
or
whatever-which
I
find
methodologically
suspect
and
intellectually
un-
congenial,
this view
seems too
general
and abstract a
place
to
begin.
For
the
history
of
an
art is the
result
of the succession of choices made
by
individual
men
and
women
in
specific compositional/cultural
circum-
stances.1 Since
styles change only
because
particular
compositional
choices
do,
an
understanding
both
of
how
composers
devise
or invent
novel
means
and
of
why they
choose some means rather
than
others
must be central
to
any
account
of the nature of music
history.
The
distinction between
innovating
and
choosing
is
necessary because,
as
we
shall
see,
composers usually
have
at
their
disposal
many
more
alternatives
than
can be included
in
a
particular
work. The distinction is
important
because
considerable
confusion ensues when the side
of
creativity
that
involves the
devising
of
novelty
is
emphasized
at the ex-
pense
of
the side concerned with
choosing among competing pos-
sibilities.
This
essay
has
greatly
benefited from the
thoughtful
criticism and
perceptive
com-
ments
of Alan
C.
Kors,
Janet
M.
Levy,
Peter
J. Rabinowitz,
David
Rosand,
and
Barbara
Herrnstein Smith.
I
am
very grateful
for their
help.
1.
Such
choices need not
be
deliberate
or even conscious. For
further
discussion,
see
my
"Toward
a
Theory
of
Style,"
in
The
Concept
of
Style,
ed. Berel
Lang (Philadelphia,
1979),
pp.
3-6.
Critical
Inquiry
9
(March 1983)
?
1983
by
The
University
of
Chicago.
0093-1896/83/0903-0010$01.00.
All
rights
reserved.
517
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5/19/2018 Innovation, Choice, and the History of Music
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518
Leonard
B.
Meyer
The
History
of
Music
1.
Innovation
Why a composer innovates-whether radically breaking the rules
of
an
established
style, devising
a new
strategy
within
existing
stylistic
con-
straints,
or
exploiting
a
prevalent strategy
in
a novel
way-is
an
enor-
mously
complex
and
fascinating
question.
Answering
it involves
(at
the
very
least)
accounts of the
following, including
some estimate of
their
relative
importance:
the
personality
of the
composer
(whether
adven-
turous or
conservative);
the
specific
stylistic/compositional
circumstances
surrounding
the
innovation;
and
the external
constraints,
both
specific
(patronage,
available
performers,
acoustical
environment,
and
so
forth)
and general (cultural beliefs and attitudes, theories of music, and so
forth)
that
may
have
influenced
the
composer's
behavior.
All
these
play
a
part
in
what
is
commonly
considered
the most
important
facet of
creativity, namely,
the
invention of
novelty.
Without
doubting
the interest
of
this side
of
creativity,
it seems clear
that
the
mere invention
of
novelty
is
more
important
for
an under-
standing
of the
composer's psychology
than for an account
of the
history
of music.
Composers
are
continually
devising
relationships,
many-
perhaps
most-of
which
are,
in
some
respect
and on some
hierarchic
level, novel. But of the plethora of alternatives thus invented, only a few
are
actually
chosen for use
in
compositions.
Most are
discarded,
playing
no
part
in
the
history
of
music.
Why
a
particular
innovation
is
used
by
a
composer
is also
an in-
tricate
and
intriguing
subject;
and all the
kinds of
considerations
mentioned
above
must
play
a
part
in
any
answer.
But unless
an
innova-
tion
is
subsequently
replicated
in
some
way,
whether
in
another
work
by
the same
composer
or
in
works
by
other
composers,
it is not
historically
significant.
Just
as
a
single
swallow does not
make
an
alcoholic,
so
a
single
instance of some novelty does not become part of the history of music.
Put
simply:
save
as a
curious
anomaly,
a
single, unique
innovation,
how-
ever
interesting
in
itself,
is of
little
import
for the
history
of music.
What
is
central
for the
history
of
an art
is,
I
suggest,
neither
the invention
of
novelty
nor
its
mere use-whether
in
a
single
composition
or
in
the
oeuvre
of
a
single
composer-but
its
replication,
however
varied,
within
some
compositional
community.
Leonard B. Meyer, Benjamin Franklin Professor of Music and the
Humanities at the
University
of
Pennsylvania,
is
the author of
Emotion
and
Meaning
in
Music,
The
Rhythmic
Structure
of
Music
(with
Grosvenor
W.
Cooper),
Music,
the
Arts,
and
Ideas,
and
Explaining
Music:
Essays
and Ex-
plorations.
His
previous
contributions to Critical
Inquiry
are
"Concerning
the
Sciences,
the
Arts-AND the
Humanities"
(September
1974)
and
"Grammatical
Simplicity
and Relational
Richness:
The Trio of
Mozart's
G
Minor
Symphony"
(Summer
1976).
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March
1983
519
Not all
novel
compositional
choices, then,
are the
province
of
his-
tory.
Explaining
the choices
replicated
solely
within
a
single
work
is
essentially a concern of criticism, while accounting for choices confined
to the
oeuvre
of a
single composer
is
the
business of
style-biography.
Only
choices that are
replicated by
a number of
composers, thereby
becoming part
of
a shared
dialect,
are the
proper
province
of
history.
(Needless
to
say,
this
in
no
way implies
that
criticism can
ignore
the
choices
characteristic of a
composer's
idiom
and of the
shared dialect
or
that
style-biography
can
disregard
the choices that
are
typical
of
the
compositional community.)
Before
going
further,
it
will be
helpful
to
consider
briefly
the notion
that novelty per se is a fundamental human need. Experiments with
human
beings,
as
well as with
animals,
indicate
that the
maintenance
of
normal,
successful behavior
depends upon
an
adequate
level of incom-
ing
stimulation-or,
as
some have
put
it,
of
novelty.2
But
lumping
all
novelty
together
is
misleading.
At
least three
kinds
of
novelty
need to
be
distinguished.
(1)
Some novel
patterns
arise
out
of,
or
represent,
changes
in
the fundamental
rules
governing
the
organization
of musical
processes
and
structures.
By significantly
weakening
our
comprehension
of the
musical
relationships
presented-undermining
not
only
our
understanding of what is past but our ability to envisage what is to
come-such
systemic
change
seriously
threatens our sense of
psychic
security
and
competent
control.
Far
from
being
welcome,
the
insecurity
and
uncertainty
thus
engendered
is
at least as
antipathetic,
disturbing,
and
unpleasant
as stimulus
privation.
(2)
Novel
patterns may
also
result
from
the invention of a new
strategy
that
accords
with
prevalent stylistic
rules.
Though
they may initially
seem to
threaten
existing
competencies,
the
function
and
significance
of
novel
strategies
within
the
larger
set of
stylistic
constraints can
usually
be
grasped
without too much
delay
or
difficulty. For a while the tensions
produced by
strategic
innovation
may
seem
disturbing.
But
in
the
end,
when
our
grasp
of
the
principles
or-
dering
events
is
confirmed and
our
sense of
competency
is
reestablished
and
control is
reinforced,
tension
is
resolved into
an
elation that is both
stimulating
and
enjoyable.
(3)
Most
novel
patterns-original
themes,
rhythms,
harmonic
progressions,
and so
forth-involve
the
innovative
instantiation
or
realization of
an
existing strategy
or schema
(see
examples
1-3
below).3
Novelties of
this
kind
not
only
enhance our
sense of
control-a
feeling
that we
know how
things
really
"work"-but
provide
both the
pleasure
of
recognition
and the
joy
of
skillfully
exercising
some
2.
For
further
discussion,
see
my
Music,
the
Arts,
and
Ideas
(Chicago,
1967),
p.
50.
3.
Rules
are
transpersonal
but
intracultural
constraints-for
instance,
the
pitch/time
entities
established
in
some
style,
as
well as
grammatical
and
syntactic
regularities.
Strate-
gies
are
general
means
(constraints)
for
actualizing
some of
the
possibilities
that
are
poten-
tial in
the
rules
of
the
style.
The rules
of
a
style
are
relatively
few,
while the
number
of
possible
strategies
may,
depending upon
the
nature of the
rules,
be
very large
indeed. The
ways
of
instantiating
a
particular
strategy
are,
if
not
infinite,
at
least
beyond
reckoning.
Critical
Inquiry
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520
Leonard B.
Meyer
competency.
We
enjoy novelty-the
stimulation
of
surprise,
the tension
of
uncertainty-as long
as it
can be
accommodated
within
a
known
and
understandable set of constraints. When the rules governing the game
are
abrogated
or
in
doubt-when
comprehension
and
control are
threatened-the result
is
usually anger, anguish,
and
desperation.
These
responses
to
novelty
are
consequences
of fundamental
and
poignant
verities of the human
condition:
the
centrality
of choice
in
human
behavior. Because
only
a
minute fraction of
human behavior
seems
to be
genetically specified,
choice
is
inescapable.
While
in
lower
organisms,
behavior
is
strictly
determined
by
the
genetic program,
in
complex
metazoa
the
genetic program
be-
comes
less
constraining,
more
"open"
as Ernst
Mayr
puts
it,
in
the
sense
that
it
does not
lay
down behavioral
instructions
in
great
detail
but
rather
permits
some choice
and
allows
for a certain free-
dom of
response.
Instead of
imposing rigid prescriptions,
it
pro-
vides the
organism
with
potentialities
and
capacities.
This
openness
of the
genetic program
increases
with
evolution
and
culminates
in
mankind.4
The
price
of freedom
is
the
imperative
of choice.
Human
beings
must
choose where to sow and when to reap, when to work and where to live,
when to
play
and
what to build.
Intelligent,
successful choices
are
possi-
ble
only
if
alternative
courses
of
action
can
be
imagined
and
their conse-
quences
envisaged
with
reasonable
accuracy.
Imagination
and
vision
alone
will
not, however,
suffice. To make
one's
envisagings
count-to transform
preferred
alternatives
into actual
choices-one must have
power.
Vision
and
Power.
These are the
bases
for
choice
and,
consequently,
prerequisites
for
survival. Without
them,
life
is
pervaded
by
anxiety
and
despair.
The
centrality
of choice
in
human affairs is evident in art. Thus the essence of tragedy, as I see it,
concerns
the trauma
of
failed
choice.
Such failure
may
occur
because
external circumstances
(fate
or
political
conditions)
deprive
the
pro-
tagonist
of
power
and
thereby preclude
choice,
because
an uncontrol-
lable,
almost irrational
compulsion (perhaps
what Aristotle meant
by
a
tragic
flaw)
clouds the
protagonist's
vision-the
frequent
play
on
sight-
less
vision
versus
visionless
sight
in
so
many
tragedies
is
surely
more
than
coincidental-or
because
some combination
of
power
and
vision
is
lack-
ing.
(The
broad
appeal
of
Hamlet
stems
in
part,
I
suspect,
from the
fact
that problems of both power and vision are coupled with an explicit
concern
for the
profound
tensions
of
human
choice.)5
4.
FranCois
Jacob,
The
Possibleand
the Actual
(New
York,
1982),
p.
61. See
also
Stephen
Jay
Gould,
Ever
Since
Darwin
(New
York,
1977),
p.
257.
5. It
seems
pertinent
to
emphasize
that
choice
is
the
focus of
dramatic action
in
both
comedy
and
melodrama. These
genres
are
not, however,
concerned
with
the
denial
of
choice,
as
tragedy
is,
but
with its
correction.
In
comedy,
the
ignorant,
unreasonable,
or
foolish
choices
of the
protagonist
(usually upper-class
and, hence,
powerful)
are corrected
The
History of
Music
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March 1983
521
Imagining
and
envisaging-the grounds
for
choosing-are
possible
only
if
the world
is
understood to consist of
enduring
structures
and
persisting processes. The assumption of constancy, what I will call the
"axiom of
inertia,"
profoundly
affects
both
our
conceptualization
of the
world
(specially
our
comprehension
and
explanation
of
temporal
events)
and,
correlatively,
our
behavior
in
the world. The
axiom
asserts
that,
other
things being
equal,
a
pattern-that
is,
any relatively
stable
struc-
ture or established
process-will
be understood to
persist
or
be con-
tinued unless
deflected
by
some
external
impingement.
In
the
area
of
behavior,
the
rapid
and radical
changes
that
have
been characteristic of Western
culture
during
the
past
few centuries
are,
as I have argued elsewhere, anomalous.6 Thus the almost frantic search
for
the
new,
so
typical
of the arts
in
the twentieth
century,
is
not,
as far as
I
can
see,
the
consequence
of
some innate need
for
change
and
novelty;
rather
it
results
from
our culture's
belief
in
the
productive
and
beneficent
value of
innovation. Even
the
sciences,
seeming
models of the de-
sirability
of
progressive change
(and
often
exemplars
for
artistic "ex-
periment"
and
innovation),
fundamentally
favor
stability. Paradigms
and
theories
are not
lightly
abandoned.
Significant
counterevidence
will
not
lead
to
rejection-until
a
viable alternative
theory
is at hand.
The
axiom of inertia neatly accounts for this behavior: one does not give up
the
security
of one basis for
envisaging
and
choosing-one theory
of the
world,
however
inadequate-until
another
is at hand.
More
generally,
the scientific
method
is
not
designed
to foster
change.
(After
all,
one
usually hopes
that
experiment
will confirm
theory.)
Rather
it is
the
goal
of science to
produce
the most stable world
possible,
a
world
in
which
apparent
innovation
is,
so to
speak,
neutralized because
it
is
subsumed
under some order or
principle
that is itself
unchanging,
a
world
in
which
the
possibility
of
envisaging
enhances
the
probability
of
intelligent
choice.7
through
a
salutary change
in
his or
her
understanding
of
the
consequences
of alternatives.
As
a
result,
the
credibility
of the
social order
is
preserved. (Comedy
criticizes the social
order
in
order to
improve
and
preserve
it.
Consequently,
it
tends
to
be
politically
con-
servative.
Plautus,
Moliere,
W. S.
Gilbert,
Oscar
Wilde,
and
George
Bernard Shaw
suggest
no
radical revolutions. Rather
they depict
the
foibles
of the
powerful
in
order to enable the
prevailing
social structure to
function
beneficially
and
effectively.)
In
melodrama,
con-
versely,
the
malevolent,
destructive
potential
(possible
"choices")
of the
social order
is
thwarted
and
corrected-the
intervention of some
benign,
external
agent
(deus
ex
machina)
is often needed to counteract the
power
of the established forces-and the
protagonist
is
saved.
(Melodrama,
too,
tends
to be
politically
conservative,
correcting aspects
of
the
social
order
in
order
to
preserve
it.
Seen
thus,
the
plot
of Beethoven's
Fidelio,
for
instance,
is
scarcely revolutionary-when
Pizarro's evil
plans
are
foiled,
the
virtues of
the
existing
order
[Leonora's
loyalty
and
Don Fernando's
justice]
are
evident.)
6.
See
my
Music,
the
Arts,
and
Ideas,
chaps.
7 and 8.
7.
Though
it is
the
goal
of
theories
in
all
disciplines
to
produce
a
stable
cognitive
environment,
it
by
no means
follows
that all
theories do
so with
equal
success.
And
perhaps
competing
theories are
judged
less
on
the basis
of aesthetic
appeal
(as
is
sometimes
Critical
Inquiry
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5/19/2018 Innovation, Choice, and the History of Music
7/29
522 Leonard
B.
Meyer
The
History of
Music
In
the area of
conceptualization
(scarcely
distinguishable
from be-
havior),
both the events
that
constitute
a
piece
of
music and
the events
(the succession of pieces of music) that comprise the history of
music-or,
for
that
matter,
the
history
of
anything-are interpreted
in
the
light
of
the axiom
of
inertia.
For when we think about the
history
of
the
cosmos,
the
earth,
living things,
a
human
life,
or
political
events,
attention
tends to be directed
to
the
changes
evident
in
the world. To
direct attention
in
this
way
is
tacitly
to
postulate
that
change
is
what calls
for
explanation
and,
correlatively,
to take
for
granted
that
continuity
and
constancy
are fundamental conditions of existence.
This is
not
to
say
that
discontinuities
do
not exist. There
are
patent disjunctions-as
the possibility of surprise makes evident. But this very possibility confirms
the
prevalence
of the
axiom
of inertia:
we can be
surprised only
because
we take
continuity
for
granted.
Notice
that,
generally
speaking,
the
continuities
posited
by
the
axiom
of inertia
are understood
to function
within
the realms
in
terms
of
which
we
comprehend experience.8
To
comprehend
the world
in
terms
of
distinguishable
realms
is
to
conceptualize
such
realms as
governed by
relatively
discrete and
independent
sets
of
constraints. Not
only
are
broad
realms such
as
physics
and
politics, religion
and
military
tactics,
sailing and architecture conceptualized as governed by different sets of
constraints,
but
subdivisions within such
realms are so
as well. Such sub-
divisions
may
be
based
upon
differences between
the constraints
gov-
erning
distinguishable
hierarchic levels: within the world of
physical
events,
the
constraints
governing
the behavior of
planets
and of
particles
are
different;
and in
the world
of
literature,
the constraints
governing
the structure of
sentences
are not
the
same
as
those
governing plot
structures. Or subdivisions
may
be
stylistic:
in
music,
for
instance,
con-
straint
differences
distinguish
Western
music from Indonesian
music,
Baroque from Classic music, Haydn's music from Mozart's, and Mozart's
operas
from
his
sacred
works.
In
each realm
and
subrealm of
experience,
the
need
for a
stable
world
in
which
to
envisage
and
choose leads
us
to
postulate
the
persis-
tence of constraints. But our
postulations
are
continually being
called
into
question by
the
patent
presence
of
novelty
and the
inescapable
existence
of
change.
Yet so
powerful
is
the need for
a stable world
that
we will
cling
to
concepts
and
hypotheses
that
support
our
envisaging,
even
in
the face
of
blatantly
discrepant
data. Sometimes
existing
con-
cepts and theories can readily account for novelty and change. But when
suggested)
and
more
according
to how
much
cognitive stability-how
much
inertia-they
are
able to
produce.
8.
Probably
this
really
works the other
way
around;
that
is,
the
axiom
of
inertia
leads
us
to formulate
stabilizing concepts,
and
where
such
stabilization
proves possible,
a
realm is
differentiated.
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Critical
Inquiry
March
1983
this
proves impossible, ways
will be
found for
restoring
a
reasonable
semblance
of
stability.
Within realms, concepts may be modified, theories qualified, to ac-
commodate
anomalies.
If
such
adjustment
fails,
then
novelty
and
change
may
be
subsumed
under,
and
attributed
to,
some
larger,
more encom-
passing
process
or
set
of
relationships:
in
biology,
for
instance,
the
theory
of
natural
selection;
in
economics,
Gresham's
law;
in
the
history
of
art,
a
theory
of
cyclic
recurrence.
In all such
cases,
the
significance
of
novelty
is
minimized because
the
constraints
that
persist
are those
considered most
important.
Reductionist
theories
(for
instance,
Schenker's
theory
of the
Ursatz
in
music)
make it
possible
to discount
novelty and depreciate change (the Ursatz admits no consequential
novelties
and
has no
history) by absorbing
them into a
high-level
re-
lationship
in
which the
posited
persistence
of
constraints
reassures
us
that
innovations
are
illusory
or
inconsequential
and that an
enduring
order
preserves
the
possibility
of
envisaging
and
choosing.
When
novelty
and
change
cannot
plausibly
be
accounted for
in
terms
of internal
constraints
governing
some
realm,
then
they
will tend
to
be
attributed to the
impinging presence
of
constraints
from
some other
realm.
Thus,
innovations
may,
as
mentioned
above,
be
traced to
in-
fluences external to the prevalent constraints of musical style: the per-
sonality
of
the
composer,
the
wishes
of a
patron,
available
performers,
the state of
technology,
or
the
ideology
of the
culture. Notice that
ini-
tially
such
attribution
allows us
to
acknowledge
the advent of
novelty
without
doubting
the
stability
of
the
style.
A
single novelty,
interpreted
as
anomalous,
does not
require
that
we revise our
understanding
of the
constraint set.
Only
when an
innovation
is
replicated
in
a
number
of
different
works,
so
that the
constraint set
is
modified
(however
slightly),
is
there historical
change.
While an individual novelty may be attributed to impinging external
constraints
alone,
historical
change depends upon
the interaction be-
tween internal and
external
forces.
For
in
order "to take"-the
analogy
to
a
skin
graft
is not absurd-an
innovation must be
compatible
with
prevalent
stylistic
constraints.
That
is,
compatibility
is
a
necessary
condi-
tion
for
replication-but
not a
sufficient
condition.
At
any
time there are
probably
innumerable innovations that
are
compatible
with
the
con-
straints
of the
prevalent style;
yet
they
are not
replicated.
What is re-
quired
for
replication
is the
impetus
and
energy
of
ideology.
Ideology
is
needed-rather than merely external constraints-because replication
requires continuity
that
transcends
idiosyncratic
circumstance and
par-
ticular occasion.
Specific
events-battles
and
weddings,
famines
and
fashions,
political
causes
and
social
circumstances-may generate
some
innovation and
even lead to
its
use;
but
replication
depends
upon
those
persisting
and
deeply ingrained
beliefs and
attitudes
that
constitute the
ideology
of a
culture.
523
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5/19/2018 Innovation, Choice, and the History of Music
9/29
524 Leonard
B.
Meyer
The
History
of
Music
The distinction between
novelty
and
replication
is
neither
as
clear
nor
as
simple
as
the preceding discussion might suggest.
Problems arise
because the
emergence
of
novelty
is
related to
the hierarchic
organiza-
tion of
complex
structures.
As a
result,
a
pattern
may
be
novel
on one
hierarchic level
but
not on another. To take
an
example
from
music: on
the
level
(1)
of
foreground pattern
(the
notated
succession of
pitches,
durations, mode, timbre,
tempo,
and
meter),
the melodies
given
in
example
1
are
strikingly
different.
Each is
novel.
Yet on the next hierar-
chic
level
(2),
both melodies are realizations
(instantiations)
of the same
schema-the
changing-note
pattern,
8
-
7
-
2-
1(8),
indicated on
graphs
a
and b in example 1. In short, what is novel on one level of organization
may
be
replication
on another.
Haydn,
Symphony
No.
46
in
B,
ii.
Poco
Adagio
I Ff
y
fI
.
p
8 7
2
1
(8)
{1
v
t
-
11II
Beethoven,
String
Quartet
in
F,
Op.
18 No.
1,
iv
Allegro
3
3
3
3
3
8 7
2
1
(8)
I
b
,'
Pb
rl
Example
1
Novelty
may
also arise
through
permutation
and combination on a
single
hierarchic
level.
The
patterns given
in
example
2,
for
instance,
all
replicate
an
archetypal closing
motive
(m)
whose
invention
lies buried
Haydn, "Military
Symphony,"
No.
100,
ii
m
a.
I
b.
^A
?
...f
^
A
I?
I
V7
I
Haydn, String
Quartet
in
Bb,
Op.
64 No.
3,
iii
ml
1
c
(6'r
I
I
V
Example
2
Mozart,
Symphony
No.
40
in
G Minor
(K.
550),
iii
m2
c%
=
similar
V7
I
1.
1.
2.
1
a,
-----lI
I I I) 'iIr,Lt1
I
i
i
i
II
I
I
ca
~I
V
-
1-
-
o
r -
r
11
'
i
r
J
"
1
t
I lit
f
J
j
J
J
J
J
11
.
9)i
I
Z.
Q
.. .
I
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5/19/2018 Innovation, Choice, and the History of Music
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March 1983
525
somewhere
in
the
early
history
of Western tonal
music.
As
motives,
then,
they
are
scarcely
novel.
However,
since each becomes
part
of a form and
process
that is
unique,
each is
relationally
new. The differences are
unmistakable.
Example
2a,
for
instance,
is
the
beginning
of an
ascending
melody
which
is
essentially disjunct,
as
graph
a,
example
3,
indicates.
m ?
hS^
r
'
f
r;
-
If
rriO
r
:
1
f f
2
r
I
P
m2
r
h
J
I
lC.l
b.i
r
)
__X___
Example
3
The motive of
example
2c,
on the other
hand,
comes
at
the
close of
a
descending
melody
which
is
basically conjunct
and
linear
(see
example
3,
graphs
b
and
c).
Though
the
replicated
motives
form novel
relationships
with what
precedes
and
follows them on the
foreground
level,
they may
at
the same
time
be
part
of
replication
on a
higher
level.
Thus
the motive
that
begins
the
slow
movement
of
Haydn's "Military Symphony,"
to-
gether
with what
follows
it,
forms
part
of
a familiar
triadic schema
(see
example
3,
graph
a).
Finally,
it is
relevant to observe
that
any performance
of
a
piece
of
music
that does not
slavishly
parrot
an
earlier
performance
involves
what
might
be called
"interpretive"
innovation. Within the traditions of
their musical
culture,
performers
devise novel realizations
of
a
potential
pattern
(in
our
culture,
often
a notated
score)
and
then
choose
from
those
possibilities.
Innovation
exists on the level of
performance,
and
for
this
reason
performers
are
considered
to
be creative
artists. But
on the
level of the
"work,"
there
has
obviously
been
replication.
Save
where
novelty
results from the
permutation
and
combination
of
patterns
on a
single
hierarchic
level,
the
force
and
frequency
of
in-
novation
are,
not
surprisingly,
related
to the hierarchic
structuring
of
constraints.
In
general, high-level changes
(innovations)
in
a
set of
Critical
Inquiry
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5/19/2018 Innovation, Choice, and the History of Music
11/29
526 Leonard
B.
Meyer
The
History
of
Music
constraints-for
instance,
in
the rules of a
style-occur
very
infre-
quently,
but,
when
they
do,
their effect
is
consequential
for
all musical
parameters throughout
the
hierarchy;
as
one moves toward lower levels
of
the
constraint
set,
novelty
becomes more common
but
less con-
sequential.
Put
differently,
the conservation of constraints on
higher
levels
supports
the invention and
selection
of novelties on lower ones:
unchanging,
transcultural laws allow for
alternative
rules
of
style
(Euro-
pean
tonal
music
versus
Indonesian
gamelan
music);
enduring
rules
of
style
permit
the invention of novel
strategies; replicated strategies
may
be instantiated
as
novel
compositional patterns;
and,
finally,
the "same"
compositional
pattern
may
be
newly
interpreted
in
a
particular per-
formance.
In
what
follows,
I
will be
mainly
concerned
with innovations that
arise
on
the middle levels
of this
hierarchy-that
is,
with the
devising
of
new
strategies
for
realizing existing
rules and with the invention
of
original
realizations
of
prevalent
strategies.
It is
important
to
recognize
that
there
is
a
significant
difference between
these kinds of innovation.
A
strategy
is a
general principle
which can
serve
as
the
basis for innumerable
individual and
novel realizations.
Thus
schemata
such as
those
given
in
examples
1 and 3 can
be instantiated
in
quite
diverse
compositional
dialects and, within each of these,
in
markedly different
and
original
ways9-so
can formal
principles
(such
as
variation,
rounded
binary,
or
da
capo
form)
or
genres
(such
as
opera
buffa,
oratorio,
or tone
poem).
And
the
permutation
and
combination of stock
figures
can be the
basis
for
a
general
strategy:
for
instance,
using
a
familiar
closing figure
to
begin
a
composition
(see
examples
2a
and
3a).
It
would
appear
that
particular
realizations of
such
strategies
cannot
be
generalized.
Thus,
though
the successions of actualizations
that
are
a
piece
of
music
may
be the basis for
a
myriad
of
more
or less novel
interpretations, we do not doubt that the performances are of the same
composition.
Whether
interpreted
by
Toscanini,
Leonard
Bernstein,
or
Bruno
Walter,
the
piece
being played
is still
(and
we have no
trouble
recognizing
it),
say,
Beethoven's
Fifth
Symphony.10
Yet
there
are
obvi-
9.
A
dialect arises when
a
number of
composers
employ
the same
general
set of
constraints.
See
my
"Toward
a
Theory
of
Style," p.
30.
As
these observations
indicate,
replication
need
be neither deliberate
nor conscious.
A
composer
may,
for
instance,
replicate
(instantiate)
a shared schema
without
being
aware
of
the fact.
See
my
discussion of several instantiations of
a
single
schema
in
"Exploiting
Limits:
Creation,
Archetypes,
and
Style Change,"
Daedalus
109
(Spring
1980):
177-205.
10. The situation is more problematic when there is no notation. In the case of a jazz
performance
(or
that
of
an Indian
sitar
player),
it is
often doubtful
whether one
is
attend-
ing
to
a
new
interpretation
of a
traditional work
or
to
a new work.
Interpretation
and
composition
constitute a
single,
indivisible
act.
One can
perhaps
add a
further level of
interpretation,
namely,
that created
by
the
listener.
In a
very
modest
way
the listener
may
introduce
cognitive
novelty
into the musical
experience.
Such listener
interpretation may
in
part explain why
music can
be
reheard
so
many
times.
And
the number of times one
can
rehear
a
composition
without
tedium
may
depend upon
the
interpretive opportunities provided by
the
work
and
the
performance.
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Critical
Inquiry
March 1983
ously problems.
For even on the
level
of
interpretation
we
often
gener-
alize about
styles
of
performance,
observing
that
this
interpretation
is
"romantic"
(enhances
the articulation of form
and
the
presentation
of
process
through
the use of
dynamics,
tempo,
and
the
like),
while
that
one
is
"classic"
(adheres
more
closely
to the
notation
of
the
score).
And
though
it
would seem
strange
to
suggest
that
one
interpretation
was
an
instantiation of
another,
even
on
this
level
something
must
be
capable
of
generalization;
otherwise one could not
speak
of the influence
(as
distin-
guished
from the
imitation)
of
performers-for
instance,
Toscanini.
Composers
invent
particular patterns
of
pitches,
durations,
and
the
like
(musical
relationships
on
various
hierarchic
levels)
that
are,
for the
most
part,
realizations
of
already existing stylistic
constraints.
Some of
these
patterns
may
be
so
idiosyncratic
that
they
defy
generalization-
that
is,
no classlike
relationships
can be
discerned
in
them.11 Other
pat-
terns, however,
may
be
capable
of
generalization.
It is this
second
possi-
bility
that is of
interest here:
namely,
that
patterns
invented
as,
and
initially
understood
to
be,
no
more
than the
individual
realization
of
existing
constraints
may
subsequently
be
the basis for
some
new
general
strategy-one
that
is
replicable.
Because
until
fairly
recently composers
seldom
consciously
devised
novel strategies
but rather
wrote original pieces
intended to
please,
un-
equivocally
documented instances of the
transformation of
a
particular
pattern
into
a
general, replicable
technique
are hard to
identify.
But the
sort
of
thing
that
I
have
in
mind
seems
quite
clearly
described
in
the
following
account
of
the
textural
changes
that took
place
in
Dufay's style:
The number
of voices
was increased
to four: the old
disjunct
con-
tratenor
was,
as
it
were,
split
into
two
separate
voices-the con-
tratenor
altus ... and
the
contratenor
bassus.
While such
a
scheme
may
also be
found
in the
fourteenth century,
Dufay's use of it was new. He took intense interest in certain succes-
sions of
sonorities,
especially
at
the
ends of
phrases.
These
were
possible only
when
the
lowest
sounding
part
had a
specific,
rather
disjunct
shape.
Since
a
preexistent
melody
...
would
be
unlikely
to
have such
a
shape,
the
placement
of the
contratenor
bassus
below
the
tenor
permitted Dufay
to
employ
both
the
cantus-firmus
prin-
ciple
and
his
preferred
succession of sonorities.12
Put
in
terms of
this
essay,
what
had been
essentially
a collection
of
indi-
vidual
realizations
of
existing
constraints
was
generalized
by
Dufay
as
a
new compositional strategy.
11.
Writing
about
Virginia
Woolf,
W. H.
Auden
observed:
"I
do not
know
if
she
is
going
to exert an
influence on
the
future
development
of
the novel-I rather
suspect
that
her
style
and
her
vision
were
so
unique
that
influence would
only
result
in
tame
imitation"
(Forewards
and
Afterwards
[New
York,
1974],
p.
417).
It
is
also well to
remember that time
has a
way
of
filtering general
procedures
out of
relationships
that
once seemed
intractably
idiosyncratic.
12. David G.
Hughes,
A
History
of
European
Music
(New
York,
1974),
p.
113;
my
italics.
527
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528
Leonard
B.
Meyer
2.
Choice
There is little need to recount further the difficulties involved in
explaining precisely
why,
and from what
source,
specific
innovations
arise.
Scholarly
literature
is
littered
with studies
suggesting
reasons
for
innovation and
searching
for
sources,
first
instances,
and the
like. Nor
usually-and
this is a
central
point
here-is
identifying
the
first
instance
or
source of some
strategy
or
compositional
procedure
historically very
important.
(Indeed,
were
it
so,
music
history
would be
an
impossible,
rather
than an
impoverished, discipline,
for we seldom
know the
origins
of an
innovation.
Generally
we are content
to cite
an
exemplary
or
an
early instance, such as Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier or Ferdinand
Fischer's
Ariadne
musica
[1702].)
Let
me
explain.
In
any reasonably
rich
culture,
novelty
abounds.
Indeed,
it is
om-
nipresent
because
every
act and
every
artifact
that
is
not
an
exact
replica
of an
existing
one
is
in
some
way
different
and,
in
that
respect,
novel.13
Put
another
way:
all
composers-even
those who
write the
most routine
and
pedestrian
works-are
continually devising
new
relationships.
Most
of
these
are
historically
inconsequential
realizations
of
existing
con-
straints,
though
some
may,
of
course,
be
of
high
aesthetic
value.
But
one
can never be sure that some seemingly peculiar realization will not sub-
sequently
become
the
basis for a
generalized
constraint:
a
new
strategy
or
even
a
novel
rule.
Because
culture
is
always replete
with
possibilities,
it
is,
as
I
have
said,
not
primarily
the
advent
of
novelty
that needs to
be
explained
but
its
use
and
replication.
Why,
out of all
the
possible
alternatives
that
he
might
have
imagined
or considered
for
use at this
point
in
his
piece,
did the
composer
choose
this
one rather
than
some
other?
And
why
did
par-
ticular kinds of
patterns,
forms,
or
genres
(rather
than others
equally
available) appeal to some specific compositional/cultural community so
that
they
were
replicated by repeated performances
of
a work
(or
group
of
works)
or
as a
consequence
of current
compositional
consensus?
Why,
in
short,
do some
innovations
survive while
others,
however
aestheti-
cally satisfying they may
have
been,
disappear,
apparently
without
his-
torical
consequences?14
Such
questions
about the
"why"s
of
change
remind
us that
the
problems
of
music
history
are themselves
the result of
history.
In-
fluenced both
by
the scientific
model
which,
rightly
or
wrongly,
empha-
sized the importance of the discovery of new data and the devising of
new
theory,
and
by
nineteenth-century
notions
that stressed
the
value
of
13.
The
question
of what constitutes
an exact
replica
is
more
complicated
than it
might
at first
appear.
See
my
discussion of
miming
below,
pp.
536-38.
14.
"Apparently,"
because
it
is
possible
that such
"rejected"
novelties
may
be con-
sequential
at
some future time.
The
History
of
Music
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March
1983
529
innovation
(as
progress),
our
age
has
conceived of
creativity
almost en-
tirely
in
terms of the need
for,
and
devising
of,
novel
relationships.
Investigators
have
continually
asked little children, as well as famous
artists and
scientists:
How does
one
get
new ideas? Where do
they
come
from?
Though
doubtless
of
great
psychological
interest,
this
concern
with
the
causes and sources of innovation
has had
unfortunate conse-
quences
for
our
understanding
of
history.
Unwarranted
emphasis
on
the
generation
of
novelty
has
led
to
an
almost total
neglect
of the
other
side of
creativity-namely,
that
of
choosing.
Of course
choosing
is
always
done
by
some
individual. But
the constraints
that
seem
most
to influence
the
compositional
choices
that
shape
the course
of music
history
are
not
those
peculiar
to the individual
composer's
psyche
but those of the
prev-
alent
musical
style
and
of the cultural
community.
This
last
observation
has
significant
implications
for our under-
standing
of influence
and,
ultimately,
for our accounts of
change
in
the
arts.
First,
it
indicates
that,
although
the
term "influence"
is
generally
used to refer
to
relationships
within a
particular
art,
whatever affects
the
choices made
by
an artist is an
influence.15 Cultural
beliefs and
attitudes,
the
predilections
of
patrons,
or
acoustical conditions
may,
for
instance,
be
every
bit
as
influential
as
prior
musical
compositions.16
Indeed,
some
compositions
(such
as Carl Maria von Weber's Der
Freischiitz)
may
have
become
"exemplary,"
and
hence
influential,
precisely
because
they
were
favored
and
chosen
for
cultural,
rather
than
purely
musical,
reasons.17
Second,
this
viewpoint
makes it
evident
that
just
as
novelty
is
om-
nipresent,
so
possible
sources of influence abound-in
prior composi-
tions,
in
the
other
arts,
in
cultural
ideology,
in
political
and
social
circum-
15. For
a
careful discussion of
this
aspect
of
influence,
see
Goran
Hermeren,
Influence
in
Art
and
Literature
(Princeton,
N.J.,
1975).
16. What is
usually
meant
by
influence within an art is
simply
a
special
kind of
replication-one
in
which
a
particular
patterning
can be
traced to
specific
features of some
earlier work or to characteristic
traits
of some
composer's
idiom.
This view accounts
for an
observation made
in
my
Explaining
Music:
Essays
and
Explorations
(Berkeley,
1973),
pp.
73-75:
namely,
that there is no
in
principle
difference
between similarities
(replications)
explicitly
devised
by
the
composer
and
those that occur because
the constraints of the
style
make
them
probable.
What
is
involved
is a
continuum of
replications
from those that occur
only
within a
single
movement
to
those
that transcend
all cultural historical
boundaries-as,
for
instance,
with
the
ubiquity
of
the octave
and the fifth as
stable
entities.
17.
What
I
mean
by
an
exemplary
work
is
one
whose
commanding
presence
is
such
that
its
specific
means
(whether
innovative or
not),
as
well
as its
more
general character,
have
a
compositional/cultural impact
and
resonance
that
are
inescapable.
One
thinks
per-
haps
of such
works
as
Josquin's
Missa
Pange
lingua,
Monteverdi's
Fifth Book of
Madrigals,
Handel's
Messiah,
Beethoven's
Ninth
Symphony,
and so
on.
Works
not
at first considered
exemplary-for
instance,
Bach's
St.
Matthew
Passion-subsequently
may
become
so.
The notion of
an
exemplary
work
is
similar to
George
Kubler's
concept
of a
"prime"
work.
But
because
an
influential realization
may
not
be
the first instance
but
only
an
effective
proclaimer
of novel
means,
I
prefer
the term
"exemplary."
See
Kubler,
The
Shape
of
Time
(New
Haven,
Conn.,
1962).
Critical
Inquiry
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530
Leonard
B.
Meyer
stances,
and
so on. Since
any
specific
source
of influence
is
only
one
among
a
large
number of
possibilities
available to a
composer,
a
particu-
lar work of art or a cultural belief is never more than apotential influence.
To
be an
actual
influence,
it
must
be chosen
by
the
composer.
And,
as
with
innovation,
the central
and
consequential
problem
for
history
is
not
showing
that influence
occurred-or even
tracing genetic
connections-
but
understanding
and
explaining
why
it
took
place: Why,
that
is,
out
of
the
multitude
of
possibilities
was this
one
influential?
Third,
the
concept
of
influence,
like that
of
creativity,
has
been
confused because
emphasis
on the
source
of influence has been so
strong
that the act
of
compositional
choice
has
been
virtually
ignored.
And
when the importance of the prior source is thus stressed, there is a
powerful
tendency
to transform
it
surreptitiously
into a
cause-as
though
the
composer's
choice were
somehow
an
"effect,"
a
necessary
conse-
quence
of
the
mere
existence
of
the
prior
source.
This
concept
of how
influence works
is
at
once confirmed
and
reinforced
by
our
ordinary
way
of
speaking
about such
matters:
for
example,
"Gluck's
operas
influenced
Mozart's"
=
Gluck's
operas
are
the
active
agents,
Mozart's are the
passive
receivers.
Not
only
our
concept
of how influence works
and our
attitudes
toward
creativity
but our whole
way
of
thinking
about the histories of the
arts
has
been biased
and
ultimately
crippled
by
what
might
be called
"covert
causalism."
In
this
model of
temporal change-and
it is
virtually
the
only
one
available
in
our
culture-prior patterns
or
conditions
are
routinely
regarded
as active
causal
agents,
while later events
are
reg-
ularly relegated
to
the
position
of
being passive, necessary
results
or
effects.
All
is
post
hoc,
propter
hoc.18
The
inclination to
conceptualize
the
world
in
terms of causal con-
nections
is
so
powerfully
ingrained
in
our culture's
way
of
thinking
that
our
language
subtly
tends to
suggest,
through
the use of that
ubiquitous
conjunction
"because,"
that all
explanations
are causal.19
Thus,
asked
why
the earth
moves around the
sun,
someone
might
reply,
"because of
the law
of
gravity."
However,
though
it is
common to refer
to
gravity
as a
"force"
(suggesting
notions of
causation),
properly speaking,
it
is not a
cause.
As
Henry
Margenau
writes,
"Newton's law of
gravitation
.
.
.
sets
18. The
prevalence
of causalism
may
in
part
be
responsible
or our culture'salmost
pathological
oncern with
innovation
(originality).
For when works of
art
are
regarded
as
necessary
effects of
prior
causes
(whether
compositional
r
cultural),
creativeartistsare in
effect
denied freedom
to choose. Instead of
reveling
in
their
power
to
exploit-to
select
from-the
past,
artists
become anxious lest
they
be victimized
by
the
past.
No
wonder
they
have
sought
to
escape
from
such
imposed
indebtedness-either
by denying
the relevance
of
history
or
by
explicitlyrejecting
causal
explanation.
19. The
ubiquity
of
"because"
s
clearly
related
to
the
centrality
of choice
in human
life. For
by apparently
warranting
that a
relationship
s
causal,
use
of the
conjunction
seems to assure us of
the
possibility
of
envisaging
and, hence,
of
choosing.
The
History
of
Music
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March 1983
531
up
a
relation between an
observation
on
the rate
of
change
of the
radial
velocity
between
two masses
on
the
one
hand,
and the
distance between
them on the other. But it contains no criterion to determine the causal
status
of these observations."20
There
are other noncausal
kinds of
explanation.21
But
most im-
portant
for
our
purposes-and
for
the
history
of art-is that
influence
is
not a kind
of
causation.
Causal
relationships
are
necessary;
influence
relationships
are not.
Again,
choice is central to
the discussion.
Influence
allows
for
choice,
causation
does not.
If
something
actually
caused
me to
act
in
a
particular
way
(for
instance,
a
compulsion),
then
I
had no
choice
in
the matter. As
J.
M.
Burgers
observes,
"A
choice
cannot be
directed
by
a cause, for then it would not be a choice."22
Consider the almost sacrosanct
litany
that "art reflects
the
culture
out of
which
it
arises."
This
commonplace
is a
clear
instance
of
covert
causalism.
Mirrors mirror
mechanically; they
cannot choose
to reflect or
not
to reflect.
Only
individual
men and
women
can do
so.
In
this
version
of
the causal
model the artist is
little more
than
an
automaton for the
transcription
of
culture
into art.
What
is
at
once
paradoxical
and
ruefully
ironic
is
that this
thesis,
which
was
supposed
to
form
a basis
for
cultural
history,
has
been
partly responsible
for
discrediting
that
discipline.
For
culture is not a
compelling
force that determines what artists must
create. Rather it
is a
richly
variegated presence
providing possibilities
from which artists
choose. And it is
precisely
when
the artist's
choices
are
made
the focus
of
historical
inquiry
that
culture becomes
indispensable
for
the
explanation
of
style change.
Because
they
are
generally
understood
as
involving
linear
succes-
sion,
natural
phenomena
have
been
particularly susceptible
to causal
20.
Henry
Margenau,
"Meaning
and
Scientific Status of
Causality,"
in
Philosophy
of
Sci-
ence,
ed. Arthur Danto and
Sidney Morgenbesser
(New
York,
1964),
p.
437. In a footnote
on
page
462 of
the
same book
is
the
following quotation
from the conclusion
of Newton's
Principia:
"I
have
not been able to
discover the cause of
those
properties
of
gravity....
It is
enough
that
gravity
does
really
exist,
and
act
according
to
the
laws
we have
explained."
21. One
of
these
explanations specially
common
in
the
temporal
arts is
the kind
in
which earlier events or
patternings
are understood to
imply
later
ones.
But
the
under-
standing
of
such
"if
...
then"
relationships
is
probabilistic,
not causal. For
instance,
it
seems
entirely proper
to
assert that
in
Western
tonal
music
a
progression
from subdominant to
dominant
harmony
implies
the
imminence of tonic
harmony.
But
it would
seem
strange
indeed to
suggest
that the
earlier
harmonies
"caused" the later one.
Another
kind
of
noncausal
explanation
is
found
in
synchronic
histories such
as
Jacob
Burckhardt's
The
Civilization
of
the Renaissance n
Italy
and
Johan
Huizinga's
The
Waning
of
the
Middle
Ages,
or
in
synchronic analyses
of music
such
as
those
presented
in
Rudolph
Reti's
The Thematic
Process
in
Music. These accounts
explain
some
phenomenon-e.g.,
the
Renaissance
or
a
Beethoven sonata
movement-by showing
that
seemingly disparate
elements
(philosoph-
ical
ideas,
works
of
art,
institutions,
or
contrasting
musical
motives)
can
be
related to one
another
through
some common
higher-level principle.
Since
the
relationships
discovered
are not
essentially temporal,
they
cannot
be
causal.
22.
J.
M.
Burgers,
"Causality
and
Anticipation,"
Science
18
(July
1975):
195.
Critical
Inquiry
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532
Leonard
B.
Meyer
interpretation.
And
the
currency
and
prestige
of
biological
models
(spe-
cially
since the
eighteenth
century)
fostered
the
spread
of causalism
in
history.23 One consequence in histories of the arts was that beginnings
tended
unwittingly
to be
transformed into
quasi-causal agents:
that
is,
the
origin
of a
composition,
a
technique,
a
form,
or
a
genre
came to
be
understood as
shaping
its
end. Notions
such
as
the
"germination"
or
"birth,"
the
"rise" or
"development,"
and
(ultimately)
the
"decline" or
"death"
of
x
(the
ars
nova,
opera
seria,
tonal
harmony,
and so
on)
not
only
are
evidence of the
power
of
the
organic
model
but
imply
that
later
stages
of
the historical
process
were
already present
in
presumed begin-
nings.
Like
most
deeply
held cultural
hypotheses,
this
metaphor
has
affected behavior as well as belief. For instance, the assumption that the
seed contains
the future of
the
plant
has,
I
suspect,
been
partly
re-
sponsible
for
the
obsession with
sources
("seeds")
in
the academic
study
of
the
history
of
music
and
the other
arts.24
Seeds do
not,
however,
explain
the
particular growth
and
flowering
of
plants.
And,
though
still current
in
popular
culture and
the back-
waters
of
musicology, biological metaphors
have come to seem
somewhat
simpleminded.
The causal
paradigm
is,
nevertheless,
so
powerful
in
our
culture that
most of
the new
metaphors
devised
to account for historical
change have been characterized by a linear succession that allows for
genetic
interpretation.25
For
instance,
the
science-derived
metaphor
of
"art
as
problem
solving"
is
not
untainted
by
covert causalism.26
The
antecedent
problem
tends
(perhaps unconsciously)
to be
conceptualized
as a
generating
"cause,"
while
the
consequent
solution
is
(willy-nilly)
understood to
be
a
resulting
"effect."
Though initially
attractive,
the
problem-solving
model
is
itself,
I
think,
problematic.
In
its
"strong"
form,
as it occurs
in
the
hard
sciences
and in
formalized
games
and
puzzles
(for
example, bridge
or chess
problems or crossword puzzles), the very notion of a problem implies
23. See
Ruth A.
Solie,
"The
Living
Work:
Organicism
and Musical
Analysis,"
Nineteenth-Century
Music
4
(Fall 1980):
147-56.
24. Observe that
psychoanalytic
accounts of
creativity usually
combine the covert
causalismof
the
organic
model
with
the mirror
metaphor:
he
experiences
of
infancy
and
early
childhood,
passing through
certain
preordained
phases
of
development
(like
an
organism),
are the
seeds
(causes)
that
shape
the
psyche
of the artist
(effect);
the
psyche,
thus
formed,
is
reflected
in
(causes)
the work of art
created
(effect).
25.
It
should
be
emphasized
that
those who
posit
that historical
explanation
requires
the use of general principles(for instance,Carl G. Hempel and his followers)are not
necessarily
arguing
for causal
accounts.
For there
are
general
principles
hat
are not causal
(see
above,
pp.
530-31).
As
far as
I
can
see,
the
explanation
of
particular
historical
vents
always
nvolves he use of both
general
principles
of
some sort
(hypotheses
or
theories
con-
necting
events)
and what
I
have called ad
hoc
reasons
(see
my
"Concerning
he
Sciences,
the
Arts-AND
the
Humanities,"
Critical
Inquiry
[Sept.
1974]:
197-202).
26. For an
important
presentation
of this
model,
see Kubler's
Shape
of
Time.
The
History
of
Music
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