The Invention of “Art”

Jonathan L. Friedmann, Ph.D.

Marxist philosopher Paul Mattick, Jr. once remarked that “art” has only been around since the eighteenth century. On the surface, this audacious claim seems to dismiss the creative impulse evident in hominids since the cave-painting days and probably before. But, really, the idea of art as something abstract or “for itself” is a Western construct with roots in the Enlightenment. That era gave rise to the notion of “the aesthetic” as a stand-alone experience, as well as individuals and institutions that actively removed artistic creation from organic contexts: critics, art dealers, academics, galleries, museums, journals, etc. Terms previously used in other areas, like “creativity,” “self-expression,” “genius” and “imagination,” were re-designated almost exclusively as “art words.”

Prior to this period (and still today in most non-European cultures) art was not a thing apart, but an integral and integrated aspect of human life. Sculpture, painting, ceramics, woodwork, weaving, poetry, music, dance, and other expressive mediums were more than mere aesthetic excursions. They beautified utensils, adorned abodes, demarcated rituals, told stories, and generally made things special. Skill and ornamentation were not valued for their own sake, but for their ability to draw attention to and enhance extra-artistic objects and activities.

Eighteenth-century Europe witnessed the extraction of art from its functionalistic origins. It was segregated from everyday life and displayed as something of intrinsic worth. With this program came the panoply of now-familiar buzzwords: commodity, ownership, property, specialization, high culture, popular culture, entertainment, etc.

In the world of music, the contrivance of “absolute art” is even more recent. As New Yorker music critic Alex Ross explains, the “atmosphere of high seriousness” that characterizes classical concerts—with the expectation of attentive listening and quiet between movements—did not take hold until the early twentieth century. When public concerts first became widespread, sometime after 1800, they were eclectic events featuring a sloppy mix of excerpts from larger works and a miscellany of styles. Attendees chatted, shouted, scuffled, moseyed about, clanked dishes, and yes, even applauded (or booed) between (or during) movements. The performance was less a centerpiece than an excuse for a social happening.

As concert going morphed into a refined, bourgeoisie affair, the rigid format we are now acquainted with became the norm. Hushed and immobilized audiences sat in specially designed symphony halls and opera houses, which allowed composers to explore dynamic extremes hitherto impossible. “When Beethoven began his Ninth Symphony [1824] with ten bars of otherworldly pianissimo,” writes Ross, “he was defying the norms of his time, essentially imagining a new world in which the audience would await the music in an expectant hush. Soon enough, that world came into being.”

The impact of this development was wide-ranging. In no small way, it signaled the birth of music as an attraction in and of itself—a brand-new conception in the history of human culture. Like other artistic tendencies filtered through the Western consciousness, music was artificially detached from activities with which it had always co-existed. The radical break paved the way for the more general phenomenon of “music as entertainment” (highbrow, lowbrow and in between), and the commercialization and professionalization that came with it.

Visit Jonathan’s website to keep up on his latest endeavors, browse his book and article archives, and listen to sample compositions.

Sound Stories

Jonathan L. Friedmann, Ph.D.

Scottish historian and essayist Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881) observed, “History is the essence of innumerable biographies.” The biographies he had in mind were not those of famous men and women, but the lives of anonymous individuals who constitute the real spirit of a nation. The notion of regular folk as history makers was almost unheard of in Carlyle’s day. And although some modern historians focus on ordinary people and groups long neglected—like women and indigenous populations—our awareness of history is overwhelmingly shaped by profiles of the “greats.”

Understandably, writers of history are drawn to high profile players, dramatic episodes and popular places. In order to map out and find patterns in the sweep of time, dots are connected between a handful of carefully selected people and events. What the writer chooses to include or exclude is shaped by biases and pet interests. The story presented invariably favors certain views, parties and locations. However, while this process is faulty and subject to revision, it is essential for reducing the immensity of human experience into a comprehensible snapshot.

Music history is similarly conceived of as a linear path punctuated by luminaries. The annals of historical musicology—the study of musical composition, performance and reception over time—are filled with anecdotes and analyses of the lives and works of big-name composers. In the West, the periodization of music is centered on famous figures, both representative and transitional. Mozart, for instance, is seen as a quintessential Classical composer, while Beethoven is considered a bridge between the Classical and Romantic periods.

That the musical timeline is organized around emblematic personalities is perfectly logical. Music is a human invention and those who make it determine its course. Yet, while we can trace stylistic developments by linking one famous composer to the next, this neat (and in some ways necessary) construction not only obscures less prominent musicians, but also ignores multifarious influences that inform each piece along the way.

It is no secret that major composers inspire other major composers, either through friendship, study, admiration or a master-disciple relationship. The inspiration is sometimes acknowledged by the composers, and other times gleaned from their compositions. But musical information does not pass on exclusively through masters and masterworks.

The ear of the composer is alert and sensitive to all sorts of sounds, some of which are consciously or unconsciously recalled during the act of composition. The sources of these sounds may be famous, folk or forgotten, but their imprint is indelible. No piece of music is an island. Whether conventional, groundbreaking or somewhere in between, music involves the absorption and manipulation of existing sonic material. Even the most innovative composition is built upon previous efforts. And the more musical access a composer has, the more eclectic and plentiful the influences.

The potential complexity of this musical picture is captured in a reminiscence from trumpeter Frank London: “We studied [at the New England Conservatory] a mixture of classical and jazz, as well as lots of other stuff—pop, folk, and ethnic musics—while developing a particular philosophy that still guides my own musical life and that of many of my peers. The idea is that one can study and assimilate the elements of any musical style, form, or tradition by ear. You listen over and over to a Charlie Parker solo or a Peruvian flute player and learn to replicate what you hear. . . . We became cultural consumers. No music was off limits.”

The history of a single piece contains the histories of many other pieces, which are themselves built on the histories of other pieces, and on and on. Thus, as Carlyle might conclude, music is the “essence of innumerable biographies.”

Visit Jonathan’s website to keep up on his latest endeavors, browse his book and article archives, and listen to sample compositions.