Since beginning my endangered languages project (remember, that’s why I’m here in Australia now), two critical questions have arisen that I think require consideration.
The first is a question that’s pervasive when dealing with native or aboriginal peoples – that of cultural respect & integrity. The second, simply put, is why art? Why music?
First a quick, elementary primer on the nature of the Earth as an environmental system (don’t worry; the point of this will be obvious enough by the end). The Earth, spinning wildly, hurtling through space, wrapped in layer upon layer of atmosphere, is a closed system. In short, this means that nothing (save what we shoot out into space in a rocket) is lost. Nothing. The Earth contains almost precisely the same set of materials now that it contained prior to the emergence of life and the evolution of man. A fair portion of these materials are constantly in motion or transition - being consumed, transformed into a different state, pulled apart or combined, dumped into the ocean and dispersed into the atmosphere. But none of it is lost. When we speak of a shortage of water, there is not necessarily significantly less water within the ecosphere than at any other time in the history of the Earth. There’s less water than what we believe we need in the places where we believe we need it. For example the human body contains a relatively fixed quantity of water at any given time. There are something like a billion more human bodies on the planet now than when I was born. Which means there’s an awful lot of water currently residing in those extra billion human bodies, that one can presume was more available to the general populace not so long ago. That water will eventually be returned to the Earth, in one form or another, sooner or later. Similarly, there are not any more or less atoms of oxygen, but a significantly larger proportion of them may be attached to carbon molecules in ways that are not beneficial to human beings. I’m sure you get the idea.
However, the ecology of human culture is not a closed system. Cultures are lost. Contrary to the whispers of our collective pride, human development is not a constant. Human history is littered with ironic examples of technologies that were "hundreds of years ahead of their time" and of social systems that remain utterly mysterious to us still today. There is no ocean or soil capable of filtering the detritus of the these societies and returning it to the system in a new or useful or enduring way. It is in no way like the evaporation and redistribution of water through cycles of rain. The things that we as humans perceive as our contribution to this Earth are made of far more fragile stuff than water and dirt, carbon and hydrogen. There are no layers of atmosphere assuring the balance and maintenance of cultural resources and no gravitational force to assure their eventual return. When cultures evaporate, their elements simply float off as though into space.
Language is the purest, most dynamic and pervasive indicator of cultural identity, especially among native and aboriginal peoples who don’t share that language with other, distinct cultures. A living language remains always in a state of change, while flawlessly embodying entire histories. New events, people and experiences engender new words and expressions and sounds. In some cases these histories span only a matter of two or three generations. In others they encompass the entire existence of the culture. Language illustrates the nature of a culture’s every value and mode of interaction. It is central to our ability to effectively engage with our environment and our society. It determines, in many cases, how we think, how we conceive of time and space, numbers and human relations.
And from a completely objective and uncomprehending perspective, spoken language is utterly beautiful.
From the point of view of the composer (in this case, me), language is the single instance of sound unified with the activity of the brain. While the average person requires years of study and practice to carefully tune the simplest cluster of notes (why don’t we call it a chord), almost all people can recognize the subtlest inflection in a question laced with sarcasm. While even the most sensitively trained ears may have difficulty picking out the timbre of a single violin among many, any mother will recognize the cry of her own child in the midst of a crowded playground. The ear is the most sensitive of our senses, capable of separating, isolating and identifying frequencies and timbres, even when presented in combination with other similar frequencies and timbres. Our eyes on the other hand, are relatively clumsy by comparison. We cannot look at a sample of paint, or anything else for that matter and determine precisely the frequencies of elements or colors that were mixed to create it, no matter how much training or practice we have.
The subtlety of language, and our ability to perceive those subtleties remains the single most impressive universal skill of the human race. I know, I know. Broad sweeping statement. And of course it’s not an entirely universal skill. [My apologies to the deaf community. Please know that I would kill to have any of the unique skills you possess!] But I defy you to come up with any other widely held human ability that comes remotely close. We practice the skill of hearing and executing language almost every waking hour from the time we are in the womb. And we do not cease that practice – ever! And by the way – the sound palettes we traditionally associate with music, the scales, melodies and rhythms are rigid and blunt by comparison, despite the spectacularly diverse, creative and beautiful ways that composers and performers have found to utilize them.
In my mind, the languages of the world are a natural resource. They are a resource which is being consumed at a greater rate than any other, whether physical or cultural. The world community will lose close to 3000 languages in our children’s lifetime. No, there's no misplaced zero at the end of that number. Nearly half of the world’s diversity of culture will, at the very least, be severely compromised. At the worst, it will disappear. And, the example of Hebrew notwithstanding, these languages will very likely not coalesce in the heavens and return to us in a nourishing summer shower.
So what of my questions?
Cultural respect and integrity? This is the hard one. There are radically differing views on the place and use of items of cultural identity even within each native/aboriginal community, let alone among academics and other outside interested parties. There are elders with a desire to save or restore both culture and language, there are others who see maintenance of “old ways” as an obstruction to future economic opportunity, there are those who seek a balance between the two, and there are limitless variations on these sentiments ranging from apathy to militancy. There are those who take a scientific view and, with care taken not to influence the future of the community, seek to develop an archaeological record of it. There are those who believe that the only means of preserving the integrity of a culture is to isolate it and allow it to follow a natural course, whether good, bad or indifferent. As far as I can tell from my limited experience and reasonably extensive reading, no individual sector has achieved a unity of purpose or practice. Perhaps that’s a good thing. One hopes that it means there continues to be lively discussion.
As an artist though, I find all of these questions to be essentially political in nature. And I am far less interested in the politics of the issue than I am in the humanity. In my view, it’s the job of artists to interpret their environment, their world, their mind, their thoughts in such a way that captures, as perfectly as their ability allows, a moment in history, a sliver of the human condition, a piece of truth, a subtle beauty that the average person has neither the time nor opportunity to otherwise witness.
The music
that I’ll write for this project, will not presume to "represent" the communities
who’s languages I record – I don’t
believe that there’s truth or integrity in that sort of arrogance. My process
is focused on the exploration of the extraordinary subtleties of human
language, on the development of musical palettes never heard before and the
introduction of uniquely intimate and personalized approaches to performance
and musical communication. In the end these pieces will aspire to be a
celebration of the frailty of the sound of a story and an acknowledgement of
the ongoing consumption of this most fragile resource.
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