STRAVINSKY NOW
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silence filled with unheard, unsounding music, which determine the
measure, the relations and the proportions of the piece. Observe, too,
the well balanced lengths of his chords in a slow movement as, for
example, the epilogue of his
Symphony,
and the frequent and absq–
lutely necessary changes of time (the bane of all conductors) caused
by the reduction of the metrical tissue to the organic cell.
What is the purpose of this reduction?
It
is a prerequisite for
any investigation into rhythm, rhythmical invention, or even creative
rhythmical play. In a crude form, jazz offers the best evidence of this
same necessity, reducing itself to the repetition of a "one" beat in
order to set up a rhythm. On the basis of
this
reduction, Stravinsky
begins to construct a new rhythmical world. He shifts the rhythmical
units, lengthens phrases, cuts them again, opposes them to one another
and achieves a complex and amazingly subtle rhythmical counter–
point. He changes the place of accents and inflections and finally
brings forth a rhythmic work of
art
with astounding coherence of
parts. Yet, to make this rhythmical exploration distinctly "visible" or
"audible" he must, of necessity, base it upon melodic and harmonic
structures of a familiar, habitual order.
It
is only when operating on
familiar ground that you can judge the nature of your operation. In
short, Stravinsky uses "other people's" melodic idioms and "old
fashioned" harmonic chord structures out of a kind of rhythmical
necessity. He ha.<; no need and no time for the invention of new
melodic patterns.
As
all great masters, he has no scruples about using
the melodies preserved in our cultural treasury. This, I believe, is the
only reasonable a.nSwer one can give to those who accuse Stravinsky
of melodic sterility and dependence upon other people's melodic in–
ventions.
In closing, let me point out that one of the greatest achievements
of Stravinsky, from this viewpoint, is his new
Symphony in C.
This
work, to my mind, achieves something which has never previously
been done in such a fashion but which, nevertheless, is music's natural
aim.
What I mean is a kind of "perception of timelessness." This per–
ception comes to one most clearly in the epilogue of the symphony.
When the music begins to quiet down and the various rhythms, as
it were, return to their elements, the divisions of time become longer,
quieter and more serene; large, soft, subtly measured chords move
slowly on the horizon of vanishing musical time. These are the shad–
ows of the "present" which Stravinsky is about to cease measuring
A broad, noble melody which has been one of the main instruments
of this exquisite measurement, slowly returns to its modal center, its
