Thursday, December 1, 2016

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Julia - Das Urteil II




It was a climax and a clatter; an anointing of despair; If the first act was of despair, quiet despair amidst the ruins of life, combining gently into a fugue in the second few measures, and becoming a cacophonous malaise in seeking a predilection of dénouement, before falling to a quiet close, the beating angry tale as it collapses and dies; the second part is rises up again with a client clasp of anguished despair, but trying to figure out who may be it's next morsel.

This tale wonders through the mist, without knowing exactly who to combat, without knowing what to do with this predilection for death. It almost is willing to kill itself, just give meaning to its mournful longing for Tristan and Isolde coprolite excrement after Wagner.

Because it was Richard on the brain to its very core, which would not do, because Schoenberg should always be the first name in the pantheon. So the back of his head played games, games that would reach a climax, with a misdirection, thinking that he was worshiping Schoenberg worshiping Wagner, when their was no reason to involve Schoenberg at all.

There was also the matter of defining numbers over and over again with reverence and celerity. He could not help it, it was just what he did. He could not help any one of these games, all played in harmony together, even though that harmony was, at times, slightly out of tune. But it was Berg's out of tune, which was one of the few consistently out of tune pieces in all of Europe. You might find Noh, in Japan, or Shanghai Opera settings which would have the same consistently broken in their wares. That rhythmic sense that is Chinese or Japanese, not really European, but European style faking Chinese instruments.

So the first movement is enraged horror, and the second movement a kind of despair. But how did it reach this and golden creation that it did?
It begin first by scribbling in this cottage room.
  • I must make it perfect, even though several times I wanted to destroy the efforts.
This was of course Berg, talking to no one in particular, since his wife was still; or perhaps again, he did not know the difference. There was no spitting, or genuflecting to the creator, which he did not believe in; only something more vague, and yet more powerful.

It was Christopher S. Wood who would write about the Vienna School Reader, about a group of, not painters, but readers writing on reading, it was called the new Vienna school, because Vienna was the place where East meets West. Little farther down the Danube, the world had tilted to the east, though still making use of the West. That was in Budapest, where everything Western was stylized and not baroque in that way. In Budapest, everything happened to be already Baroque by not being Baroque at all. As I said, they had gotten their first.

“... it is precisely his avowed desire to give the special 'understanding' of art he exactly of the natural sciences distinguishes him from the ordinary experience of the 'sciences of the spirit.'” this was Meyer Schapiro being quoted in Woods text on Cézanne, which happened to be exhibited for a very brief time. It was a secondary reference, because mountain is “Berg” in German. Everything relates to everything else if one tries hard enough to nuance enough.

- I wonder if I could convince my significant other to move out of Trauttmansdorffgasse, even though it was tree-lined and romantic in nature, there were lines which reminded him of what Theodor W. Adorno would later note were Cézanne-esque shapes of tiny rectangles, which Berg silently detested. There was no composition in the space in town, only at the Villa, which he retreated to win he wanted to compose his real work: first Lulu, and now in a fit of orgiastic despair, is violin Concerto, which he privately thought would be his last work.

- I must get perfect, not in years, but in a few short months, because I am rotting from the inside.

Indeed, by the winter, crawling, clasping, characteristically he felt he would be colder than, did Dickens say – then a dead doornail. And he felt this inside, so he composed with fury and abandonment, and with everything in between, starting each row on a specific note. Because that was the theme, start each row on a specific note, then define each set of rows by going through the notes, but off by one, and end going out from there. So diverse was the schema, but orderly in its execution, having exactly 12 notes in order, but off by one.

He invented whole new ways of introducing the first note: because each note was different in execution of the small detail, but in order in its larger conception. Thus each 12 note would be extraordinarily unique, and also with precision, the same as the note before, only very by each step. Then it would begin again, with entirely different notes, and theme.
- I must produce my best, because that is what Schoenberg once from me.

And in his mind eye, ever present, their was deeply hidden, but plain for Berg to see, a small marionette of Schoenberg, even though he was the only person to see it.

- I promise I will do better, I promise I will refine each note, each 12 note, each phrase, each compartmentalized conception, until it is all perfection.

Again it was to himself that Berg talk to, because only he could understand the Viennese German which he spoke in under his breath. It was a singsong pattern which only he had mastered, he had to modulate this for anyone else, though Mahler, Schoenburg, and Weber understood the overall grasp of the sentence, because they spoke the same clockomagnetic rhyme and reason. It was, it was as if, it was as if there was a code between the co-fraternity of the second Vienna school and their God the father.

But Mahler said his ear was not sensitive enough to really grasps what he was hearing, even in strictly tonal pieces.

This all within the cottage which had many rooms in it. But Berg never got the second Symphony of Mahler out of his head, though with time, he made notations so it was out of his pen.
Mahler was dead these 25 years, and he thought little of Schoenberg, he being a obsessed with his wife, who was already sleeping with the next man she would be marrying, and with the only composer of his day who would be heir to the Wagnerian throne: Richard Strauss.
-

“In those cases when such a different approach to the problem of description is adopted, out of quite different intentions, the linguistic image, the strongly, sensuously, flawed expression is always preferred.” Otto Pacht

even in the exact time, even in the exact place, there is a resonance to people talking after the same things. Thus it is in harmonious resonance that Otto Pacht is speaking of the same attachment to the object, that Berg is wrestling with in the same way. Both of them love the romantic, but have adopted the same expressionist demeanor, out of which comes there fluidity. Though Pacht write reams, while there only rights a few pieces, each one of them writes in the cold mileuax that looms above Vienna in the first half of the 20th century. It is one half 19th century, as if, as many commentators noticed, this was planted very firmly next to heart – it was Leonard Bernstein who used almost this phrasing and pace of rhythm – while the second half is breaching for the 20 century but does not know how to reach, or what foot to planned where. But it is in the which reaches a climax of both romantic feeling, in that way that romantic music does, because words had long ago ceased to mean the same thing. Romantic words were over in 1850 or so, but romantic music lived on until it was both a parody and an lielired of something long forgotten in words.

And, at this very moment, Berg's wife was the embodiment of this tremor of imagination. She was standing on this night of June, sitting and looking out over the great plains, wondering what she would do about the mess that there life was in. she knew that her husband had affairs, she was not as dumb as to think that he was spotlessly pure, even though Schoenberg and Webern both assured him she was. But yet she found endless notes, and letters, from which ever girlfriend he want or had wanted or wanted again. And once more, there were subtly defined hints that Schoenberg knew, and Webern guest. She was not the nonentity which would be ascribed to her in the textbook of the Second Vienna School.

It was a male only establishment, just as the Vienna institutions were male only. But then almost all of the worlds orchestras were. But Vienna would hold on to the last days of the century before admitting players – other than harps – to take a seat with the man. It was both endlessly progressive by being totally reactionary. Remember, Hitler was from this place. And he like most Austrians, reviled Schoenberg as well as any Jewish composers, however tonal they were, but Schoenberg he despised.

Actually Bartok – who was Christian – wrote a letter complaining that the Nazi party would not condone his writing on to the absolute ban that Schoenberg, Berg, and Webern were placed. Though Webern tried hard to get off the list, because he wanted to be both a member of the second Vienna school, and a good member of the Reich.

But as I said, it was Berg's wife who at this moment, was deep in the machinations of the power politics. The wind was blowing out of the South, As was the programming of the Salzburg Opera Festival. Josef Krips would be making his festival debut with Der Rosenkavalier, And almost all of the programming reminded one of the lateness that was the twilight of the era of Wagner. But underneath the old trappings their was a new sound, entirely tenor in its nature, which would be the ringing in the ears for a generation to come. This, it could be said, was what annoyed his wife. Why was there no mention of the second Vienna school. Mind you, that wasn't the real reason, but it was the thing she harped upon, to her husband, and anyone else that she could scrap in to a discussion.
Right now, however, she was lighting in to her husband, with details which were not really the concern on her mind, but shrieked like noise as she moved back and forth on veranda. It was not even pretty, it began from a high-pitched scream, and descended in to a low guttural growl. Berg was trying to calm it down, as the violin tried to smooth over the lumps and pickups. But the noise from the orchestra would not die down. Every day it was like this, and every night Berg noted this in his score, or notes that he took down.

Later, Berg described this part in a letter to Schoenberg, telling him only the most dry of details. But in between the details was a hammer blow of a cacophonous pounding that begins the third movement, which was divided into to parts, the first part was a prelude, labeled Andante, and a scherzo, labeled Allegretto. But then came the second act, and with it the allegro, labeled cadenza. And what a cadenza it was. Thus in two movements, there were four sections, each one of which had four blandishments, and each one of them Mrs. Berg had an opinion on, not the least of which was her complete absence from the musical substructure. Instead there were parts for other people, which enraged her, though she did not speak its name. She was worried, of course, that her husband slept with Manon, a sin that was made double because of her rivals young age. But instead she harped on Louis Krasner young age and uncertain virtuosity, because he was not the first person that either of them would have selected.

And so it went on night after night, the pitching and screaming, combined with late night tapings of the pen as he feverishly worked on a force of God cadenza.Meanwhile Berg's wife was doing her Shiva retain to Berg's Vishnu – she was hiding most of the second act of Lulu. Both destroying it from performance, but lovingly preserving to be found far and away, to reach a performance in the distant future. You see, Mdm. Berg fought the opera beyond the grave, and it was 1979 when it got its first performance, because the third movement was only in short score, and she wanted it that way. But she also knew that Lulu was glorious and the final masterpiece, from a composer which had only a few.

So from beyond the grave she thought, and had lawyers snip and lear.
-


But there was one problem that vexed Berg: having begun and sustained, how would he and this problem which had now enough space to become almost a concerto. Because almost is not the same thing as quite being a concerto. He was in the cottage on the second floor, talking with Willi about all the options, and reminding him to find a copy of the book on Bach, which he bought would show that the end of the most complex cantata was he seen series of notes as the last four of his tone row.


He wished it would be so, the complexities of it made orgasmic pleasure in nearly thinking about it. The ecstasies of it made him giddy and effervescent just thinking about the sublime difference between animal and plant myxomycete. He wanted, desperately, to feck them over and over until he had webs of endless gew on is luxurious velvet sleeves.


Then one day Willi returned with a book entitled 60 great canata themes, and their settled on the page was what he had hoped for: the most complex theme noted down in all of its glorious detail. He spent hours that night talking to, a rather talking at, Willi about the various exercises which he was thinking of doing, combining tonal with atonal, in a grand mass which would be a prayer for all of the dead, with Manon being tasked with leading the fallen into their grave.
-
The violin Concerto was finished, but had no performances yet, when Mme. came to the door of Berg.


- Are you all right, I heard some gasping when you were outside for a moment. Are you well?


She knew of course he was not well. But she didn't know what was wrong.


- Yes yes yes, I'm fine. I just turned around and a bee stung me, it was only once. Could you help me? I need only some iodine, and it will be settled.


Then he turned, and presented his buttocks, in any display that held enormous understanding, if not enormous love. Because there was little of that between them. She looked down, and for a moment stared. It was enormous and blackened, she had never seen anything like it, and touched him on his back.


- It is enormous and swollen, shouldn't we take you to a hospital?


Berg made a motion that said no, but spoke no word. Of course it was painful, more than painful, it felt like it was a gash that tour him in to. It was at this point that he thought of the violin Concerto, and its remorseless way of telling the tale. Howard struggled, and fought, as if life itself were being torn out of it. It was like a clatter, a clamor, and yet sublime release.


- it seems like I need iodine and perhaps some stitching, really that is all I need.


This was obviously a lie, told the way and told the way endless lies had come streaming out of his lips. And she knew it, but she got out a needle and thread, and set to work darning and fixing. She was fastidious, but she was postulant and new that this needle would not hold.


So she made a mess of it, knowing that Berg could not see what a messy job it was, though he could feel it.


- Are you sure that the needle has gone all the way in? And all of the morass has been cleaned out?


Even when lying dead inside his grave, Berg cast a force that towered over the various participants.


-


it had been assumed that Webern would conduct the first performance of the Concerto. But try as he might, he wanted it to be so quiet that no one could hear it. Then at the last minute, perhaps under pressure from the other members of the group, he resigned, and thus a much lesser member was picked out to conduct the first concerto. There was tension, inside the brain of Webern, because he was still hoping to get a position in the Reich, though it all ready was being made clear that this would not happen. He tried to get the musical members of the regime to see that the work was pure, and Germanic. But in a closed room, they would have nothing to do with such cacophonous and dissonant music.


Knowing full well that it had not been cleaned out, nor was all of it sanctimoniously cleaned out. If God's work is cleanliness in action, then this was the Devils own work itself. The ends were ghastly, and the sutures made round and round a veritable stitching fever. And what's more, there new that he was dying on table, in the blue colored room. If we were looking at the ironic juxtaposition, as an audience member, you would see a long low table cluttered with glasses, each having more or less of a drink, from small ones with aperitif, to enormous ones which contained beer. These – as I said – cluttered the table in a richness and were clearly of a different taste for the many people who had stopped by. Though they would not have said it, is a were paying respects to a dying composer. Also on the table were small bunches of flowers, though of course at this point they were dried. The table was covered with a lightly flowered coverlet which had been in the family since at least the grandfathers generation. All of it pointed to one thing: Alban Berg was entertaining, that is to say dying.

In this light Berg has created a network of emotions that anybody is major works, because each nonet is related to a given emotion which for just a moment brings true. One could capture a moment from The Lyric Suite, with its perturbations of chrysanthemum flowers drooping as they suffused fire. One could go on and on with this exercise, picking out moments from Lulu, or the thundering Piano Sonata.


Everything was symbolizing something, but it had no relationship to what it was next to. It was a jumble of ideas which Berg would put in order, but he was dying. And his eyes searched to his wife, knowing that she was killing him, by ideas. There was not any trace of murder in her frame, but her shadow was choking him, as if the bodies were lovingly embraced, and the shadows were cacophonousness engaged in and to hand combat. The loving face of Mlle. Berg, was mimicked by a shadow which choked the life.


This pretext, that they were partners, was really sotto voce, that they were partners in crime. Than Berg stiffened, and in so doing, gradually expired. The word of his death was small, and unimportant, except for those who felt lessed by his grief. These were not only of the Schoenburg school mind you, but composers as far afield as Britain and Shostakovich.


It was of course the English composer Writing to the Soviet composer; he spoke in melodic sentences that were clearly marked off, yet rounded in their presence. Words as used in conversation, where short clip staccato replies that had none of the expansiveness which filled the room with a resonance, when talking not to anybody in particular, but to everybody in a group. There was something underneath the tone which said that all are welcome to listen, but no one was allowed to speak
-


Klagegesang II/158 and II/177 Would seem to be a suggestion that the reading, indeed of the entire force, should be unified in a way that here's difficult to accomplish. This was sent Schenker approach. It Represents the adherence of program music and defendants of new classes and new matter-of-factness”. We find ourselves in a snowy plain in bags and tatters, a monk in disguise. “ I am the absolute, be there in fact. The fundamental abstract I eight all sensuous.” this was laid by the that was Berg.


He then wrote about his chamber Concerto: “ as an author it much easier to speak about such external matters then about internal process...” he was trying to explain why the road about the violin Concerto in abstract Doppelgaengner reaction. He was conflicting about the dual sides of one person, about how God and the devil by for inner workings which define Goethe's Faust. It was almost a personal bottle to set Strindberg Road to Damascus the father and the son battling for control of text. But as usual, the father one day. And Berg withdrew to other fields. Though he wrote in his copy of the play: “ annihilation of the God in you.” Perhaps he meant Schoenberg though he would deny.
-

“Berg seems to me to have committed a serious error...” Pierre Boulez, though Haruki Murakami would disagree from his The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle on Kafka on the shore.

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