The Vertigo of Lists

Lists are interesting things, don't you agree? All sorts of things can be listed; it appeals to our sense of order and completeness. Anywho, I recently got another Umberto Eco book, The Infinity of Lists. (The Italian title is La Vertigine della Lista, which sounds much more like a title Eco would come up with. Why the translator changed it I do not know.) It's just the sort of book any list-lover will appreciate. Included are various and sundry lists: of rivers mentioned in Joyce, of pulp novels in Don Quijote's library, of saints, of the conquests of Don Giovanni (enumerated in Leporello's famous "catalogue aria"), of Borges' seres imaginarios, of the ancestors of Jesus, of gemstones, of things Rabelais discusses as substitutes for toilet paper. Indeed, these and many more things. The book is rather dizzying in its variety and erudition. But don't take *my* word for it!

Musical Context; Praetorius

The best moments in a student's life are those in which one becomes aware of connections, I think. We may experience months of ingesting raw information without being able to synthesize it, and then we are suddenly aware that there are links to be made — and, indeed, that these links have already been made by older and wiser minds than ours.

Musicians require a certain tunnel-vision, without which it is impossible to put so much time and effort into the methodical practicing of repertoire. But this narrow lens, this focus, also can make it more difficult to see the connections between our music and the context into which it must inevitably be placed. It is encouraging, therefore, to observe examples of men (and, why not, women) who successfully manage to be both serious musicians (who are, because of their craft, inclined towards solitary practice and its attendant antisocial behaviors) and serious theologians, or even philosophers. Such people put music in the larger context of things, giving it an order and meaning beyond the mere notes on a page.

Anyone who knows anything about Bach would surely put him among such musician-theologians; it is beyond question that many of his compositions were both intellectual exercise, theological treatise, and aesthetic masterpiece. (Consider, for example, the Clavierübung Book III.) Likewise Michael Praetorius, whose choral music I have recently become acquainted with. It's very practical stuff (some settings are for as few as two voices; many parts can be performed by either vocalists or instrumentalists) that is at the same time theologically sound and quite wonderful to listen to. Praetorius shared Luther's (correct) view of music as Gottesdienst, divine service. Those chorale tunes are more than just window-dressing, you know.

For Advent (next week!):


Michael Praetorius sheet music: Werner Icking Music Archive | Choral Public Domain Library

Organists: Consider the Seamstress

Kierkegaard, in one paragraph, makes a convincing case for the proper production and understanding of all sacred art:

When a woman makes an altar cloth, so far as she is able, she makes every flower as lovely as the graceful flowers of the field, as far as she is able, every star as sparkling as the glistening stars of the night. She withholds nothing, but uses the most precious things she possesses. She sells off every other claim upon her life that she may purchase the most uninterrupted and favorable time of the day and night for her one and only, for her beloved work. But when the cloth is finished and put to its sacred use: then she is deeply distressed if someone should make the mistake of looking at her art, instead of at the meaning of the cloth; or make the mistake of looking at a defect, instead of at the meaning of the cloth. For she could not work the sacred meaning into the cloth itself, nor could she sew it on the cloth as though it were one more ornament. This meaning really lies in the beholder and in the beholder’s understanding, if he, in the endless distance of the separation, above himself and above his own self, has completely forgotten the needlewoman and what was hers to do. It was allowable, it was proper, it was duty, it was a precious duty, it was the highest happiness of all for the needlewoman to do everything in order to accomplish what was hers to do; but it was a trespass against God, an insulting misunderstanding of the poor needle-woman, when someone looked wrongly and saw what was only there, not to attract attention to itself, but rather so that its omission would not distract by drawing attention to itself.

— Preface to Purity of Heart Is to Will One Thing, trans. Douglas V. Steere

Flurries; Pandora

It's the first snowfall today, here in South Bend. I, for one, welcome the change: there's nothing like snow to clear out the melancholia of autumn. Freezing temperatures focus the mind, giving one a sense of renewed purpose and direction. Oh, that it were Advent already! But we must wait nearly a month 'til then; November is liturgically the least satisfying month. Had I the power to unilaterally revise the calendar, I would return us to the ancient practice of beginning Advent on the Feast of St. Martin of Tours, 11 November (which, as it so happens, is also the commemoration of Søren Kierkegaard, whose writings make for good Advent reading).

I've been listening to Pandora Radio of late. It's useful for learning about artists or songs similar to those I already prefer. It is less far useful for discovering new composers, as the format is so heavily dependent on instrumentation: thus, most recommendations based on Poulenc are short piano pieces, most recommendations based on Hindemith are chamber music for winds, and most recommendations based on Pärt are choral works; you get the idea. (What of Poulenc's choral stuff, or Hindemith's organ works, or Pärt's chamber music?) The algorithms and fractals and whatnot used are not yet ideal for discerning similar tonal language. Pandora nonetheless is an interesting service; at least it's free. You may observe, if you like, my selections on my profile page there.