http://musicresearchgroup.anarchyblogs.com/category/uncategorized/page/2/

“Critical Mass: Sound, story and music in David Croneberg’s film Crash” by Cat Hope

http://musicresearchgroup.anarchyblogs.com/category/uncategorized/page/3/

“Hearing the Story: Sound Design in the Films of Rolf de Heer” by Cat Hope

http://musicresearchgroup.anarchyblogs.com/category/uncategorized/page/4/

“Mobile Art_Sound Art” by Cat Hope

http://musicresearchgroup.anarchyblogs.com/category/uncategorized/page/5/

http://musicresearchgroup.anarchyblogs.com/category/research-papers-by-jonathan-marshall/page/2/

Dynamic Collages: A curatorial essay for the Perth 2006 Reel Dance screening, ‘Body Cuts,’ 5 Nov 2006, by Jonathan Marshall

http://musicresearchgroup.anarchyblogs.com/category/research-papers-by-jonathan-marshall/page/3/

MASTER CRAFTSMAN: An interview with Paco Peña, by Jonathan Marshall

http://musicresearchgroup.anarchyblogs.com/category/research-papers-by-jonathan-marshall/page/4/

“A New Historicism? Sound, music and ruined pianos,” by Cat Hope and Jonathan Marshall

http://musicresearchgroup.anarchyblogs.com/category/research-papers-by-jonathan-marshall/page/5/

“Classical Sampling? An interview with Elena Kats-Chernin (1999),” by Jonathan Marshall

http://musicresearchgroup.anarchyblogs.com/category/research-papers-by-jonathan-marshall/page/6/

“Territories of Sound: Travel, place and sound,” by Jonathan Marshall

http://musicresearchgroup.anarchyblogs.com/category/research-papers-by-jonathan-marshall/page/7/

CAT HOPE’S VOYEURAGES 

 In the late 18th century, cosmopolitan Europeans devised “the grand tour” as a way to finish the education of a young gentleman or lady. Upon coming of age, the scions of Europe’s upper classes would partake of a journey stretching from the Acropolis of Athens, to the Vatican in Rome, from the cathedrals of France, to the craggy, Romantic mountains of Germany and Switzerland. The aim was, in the spirit of Rousseau or Locke, to come to know oneself by gazing at the landscapes, customs and peoples of foreign shores—generally from a position of knowing authority or distance. Goethe may well have traveled to Italy, but he did not ‘go native.’ His infinitely refined sensibility enabled him to marvel at the passions of the Mediterranean, while retaining his own sense of contemplative superiority over the object of his gaze, the sounds of the Roman markets, and the scents emitted by the inhabitants of the Eternal City.  From these origins comes the contemporary phenomenon of tourism. Although now far more inflected with the spirit of capitalism and consumption—with a model of the world as some kind of grand buffet from which bourgeois tourists can sup—the basic philosophy of travel remains, by and large, the same. Here in Australia, the trip around the world has come to be seen as a highly desirable if not essential part of the acquisition of self-knowledge and maturity. But if we travel only to know about ourselves, do we ever really travel in any meaningful sense at all? Does travel for purely self-reflective purposes turn the world into a kind of mirror into which the Western tourist Narcissistically gazes, without really ever seeing the places she or he visits. Instead, many tourists see nothing but themselves. It is this sense of dissonance, of abstraction, of travel as a kind of willful, self-devised fiction which we play over our bodies and our senses, which Cat Hope puts into play with her installation Voyeurages. A series of figures, naked from the waist up, stand in a space while images taken from the window of a train or a boat are played on their backs, while in the mouth of each of these living statues is held a small microphone giving out the garbled sounds, snarls and crackles of some distant, populous locale. The body becomes a kind of recording place—a site of sensorial memory—where image and sound is first taken in by the traveling body and then given out to the audience to the exhibition, a conflation of fleshy sensation and pre-recorded audio-visual data. This act or relocation, of re-reading, of the body is further emphasized by the placement of these ‘memories.’ The scapulas become a kind of retina as the images play across them, while the mouth is sewn up or blocked by the microphone—and yet still this figure speaks, in a fashion. The bodies in Hope’s installation are like those other living statues found in Alain Resnais’ film Last Year At Marienbad (1961), in which barely moving figures debate and muse over the question of whether they met here, last year, at the holiday spa and casino of Marienbad—or perhaps somewhere else. Like the protagonists of Alain Robbe-Grillet’s film-script, Hope’s characters seem to be forging an entirely new space through a collective act of mute will, imagination, dreaming and technology, a kind of mnemonic fiction which may or may not have ever really existed in three dimensional space and actual, lived time. 

A WORD FROM THE CURATOR

The following is the catalogue entry composed to accompany a screening of dance film organised by Edith Cowan University in association with Artrage Perth, entitled “Body Cuts”, Cinema Paradiso, 5 Nov 2006. See www.artrage.com.au for details (under Reel Dance).

In 1910, a coalition of painters from the Italian Futurist movement declared that the new art forms of cinema and stop-motion photography were those most in keeping with the modern world. Surrounded by cars, trains and later airplanes and telephones, the Futurists saw their world as one dominated by speed, by movement, and by the endless replacement of one image by another in a chaotic procession which Filippo Marinetti labelled “body madness.” Treating machines and humans alike as subjects for their representations, they proclaimed:

Indeed, all things move, all things run, all things are rapidly changing. A profile is never motionless before our eyes, but it constantly appears and disappears … moving objects constantly multiply themselves; their form changes like rapid vibrations, in their mad career. Thus a running horse has not four legs, but twenty, and their movements are triangular.

The Futurists themselves had little direct influence upon film or dance until the 1950s, when their work was rediscovered by the artists in the Fluxus movement and by key figures in postmodern dance and music such as choreographers Merce Cunningham and Trisha Brown, composer John Cage, and video artist Nam Jun Paik. Nevertheless, the Futurists’ championing of film for the creation of a kind of emotive “dynamism” in which both bodies and objects danced upon the screen as equals, accompanied by crashing, metallic noises and fervid symphonic explosions, was prescient. From the music videos of Chris Cunningham (Aphex Twin’s Come To Daddy) through to Japanese anime (Akira, Ghost in the Shell), the films of David Cronenberg (Crash) or Matthew Barney (Cremaster), such modes of presenting bodies and objects have become commonplace in contemporary cinema and the visual arts.

As a performing art, however, dance is often strongly invested in notions of live “presence”—in the idea that one must be in close, sympathetic proximity to the embodied dancer to fully appreciate the work. When translated to film, this dancerly model may nevertheless create a visceral sense of physicality akin to that of Futurism or Fluxus. As in the work of Brown, DV8, or in Claudia Alessi’s films in this program, such an approach tends to emphasise the weight, texture, malleability and sensation of flesh. The body is examined in close-up, with pans and cuts across fragments of skin making up much of the montage. The body comes to feel highly “material” in these films, like the thickly painted surface of Jackson Pollock’s Blue Poles, or the tough, glossy skeins of industrial sculpture. Such dance films also recall horror and action cinema in their attention to a body which endures being beaten, flattened, thumped, stretched and thwacked. When watching such films, one feels one could touch the body, leaving an imprint like the boot-tread on Alessi’s shoulder in Wandering.

Indeed, throughout its history, dance has been likened to sculpture. In 1921, a reviewer described one of Loïe Fuller’s films as an exemplar of “the art of moving plastique”—that is to say a performance which revealed the almost clay-like malleability of the body as it moved through space. Fuller was famous for her technique of manipulating long, serpentine extensions of her dress such that they were caught by her intricately designed light-shows and cinematic projections, transforming her dance into a display of dynamic forms and colors which whirled about the ever moving central point of her otherwise concealed body. Although a pioneer of modern dance, Fuller’s performances were as much about the creation of a vocabulary of shape and color akin to a moving, abstract painting, as they were specifically “dance” performances per se. As the critic observed, Fuller had:

constructed a film with almost no literary compromises, one in which the rhythmic movement of the characters and the skilful play of light and shadow suffices to create the expression and impart the emotion.

This short history of dance’s relation to the other arts reminds one that dance has never operated in the absence of influences from the other arts, including those from film, photography and projection. From the time of its invention as a technique to analyse movement in the 1890s, film has always been concerned with the body and its rhythms. Nor can the description and representation of the body on film be separated from principles of montage, image or sculpture. If dance represents a kind of dynamic living sculpture which pulsates and surges with different tempos and rhythms, then it is hard to see why the movement of a human body across the screen is any more a kind of “dance” than is a similar on-screen animation of the color or form of an otherwise inanimate object, such as the ice-cream we see in James Teackle’s film within this program.

With the rise in cinematic dance as a recognised art form supported by international film festivals like Reel Dance, it is perhaps time to reassess the history of both dance and film, and to see to what extent, and in what ways, the category “dance film” is really a useful one. This is especially pressing given that all forms of cinema—by definition—involve the editing of image and sound so as to create a kind of choreography via a dynamic display of forms and noise.

The program you see this afternoon is designed to recast the dance/film dichotomy, to suggest that all film is a form of “dance,” and that perhaps the best dance films are not those made to recast a live choreographic form as cinema, but rather simply good films. Such an approach to dance film would have as its canon not only great pieces of filmed choreography such as those from Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly and Robert Helpmann, but also the work of Buster Keaton, Charlie Chaplin, Jackie Chan, Hype Williams (the music videos of Busta Rhymes, Missy Elliot and others), Dziga Vertov (Man With a Movie Camera), Jean Cocteau (Blood of a Poet), Luis Buñuel (Un Chien Andalou), Jacques Tati (Playtime), Martin Scorsese (Raging Bull), the Wachowski brothers (Matrix), Sergei Eisenstein (Battleship Potemkin), and others.

—Dr Jonathan Marshall,WA Academy of Performing Arts / “RealTime Australia”

Introduction: 

Paco Peña at first seems an unlikely figure to be an international star. But it is this slight, softly spoken man who has wowed audiences all across the world with his masterful interpretation of flamenco guitar. In 1981 Peña established the Centro Flamenco Paco Peña in Cordoba, now the world’s leading flamenco school and he has taken the art form into new environments with a touring show which incorporates passionate, frenetic dancing, haunting vocals and virtuosic guitar.

Even though Peña is the artistic director and lead guitarist of the company, he often remains almost invisible on stage. I remember that it was not until half-way through his last Melbourne show that I realised that the demure man in black was the maestro himself. He allows considerable space within the show for the other members of the company to strut their stuff, supporting their solos and smiling to himself at the effects produced.

Peña’s mastery lies not only in how he orders the components of the production, but also in his selection of personnel. Most of the company members are drawn from the Centro Flamenco and have been performing with Peña for several years, including the awesomely focused dancer Charo Espino and the fabulous gypsy guitarists, the Losada brothers.

In remodelling flamenco from its origins in Southern Spanish festivals, gypsy celebrations and the cafes of Andalusia, Peña has proven himself to be keen further the tradition into new areas. Nevertheless, he does not wish to lose the “depth” of flamenco with trendy experimentation. He certainly has no trouble convincing others of the quality of his work, having admirers in John Williams, Paco de Lucia, Mario Maya and B.B. King, amongst others.

After talking to Peña and watching his shows one comes away feeling that he sees himself more as a craftsman than as an artist as such. Peña is keen to assert that flamenco is part of his life, a vital part which he wants to share with the world. He does not seem to think that his skills are in themselves anything special, they are merely things that he does extremely well. Like the work of a goldsmith, the writing, composition, direction and performance of flamenco is Peña’s task in life. Although this approach is disconcerting for those accustomed to swaggering, arrogant musicians, for me it is perhaps the most appealing aspect of flamenco. Listening to Peña is like having a discussion with a polite dinner guest and when watching his shows, one can fly across the footlights and be carried away by the aesthetic and emotional display on offer. As Peña says, feelings that flamenco engenders “belong to the world.”

Interview: 

So how do you find living in Cordoba, right in the heart of flamenco?

Oh, well it’s nice. You know if there is a culture from here, music from here, then even if you don’t hear the music, just living here you sense it and it’s nice to be here—it’s inspiring. Anyway, it’s beautiful, so I like it.

You divide your time between Cordoba and London, don’t you?

Yes, I have a place in London. Mostly I’m travelling but when I return from travelling London is the centre that I go to rather than Cordoba. It’s more convenient to be connected with everything from London. But when I’m not travelling then I’m here [in Cordoba].

Do you think of flamenco as more of a Spanish form, centred in Cordoba, or as an Andalucian form, in your mind?

Well it is a historical fact that flamenco comes from a pocket of the world that is in Andalucia, in a small part of Andalucia. So you can’t argue with that; it is a fact. Many elements have made that possible, many different ingredients [over] a long time in history have coincided here and for that reason this music has happened in Andalucia. However your question is interesting because it has become more and more widespread in other parts of Spain. It is from here, but it is also certainly accepted and even more than that, a lot of people are engaging in it in other parts of Spain: Madrid, Barcelona, other parts of central Spain, or Estremadora, which is close to Portugal, so there are pockets of flamenco everywhere. But that has happened later—it comes from Andalucia.

I suppose what I’m alluding to is based on a comment a Melbourne-based flamenco choreographer [Charito Saldaña] made recently when she argued that Lorca’s idea of what it is to be Spanish—in particular his concept of duende [described by Saldaña as a dark passion like the taste of blood at the back of the throat]—is essential for flamenco.[2] Would you agree with that conclusion?

There is something very true in that statement… I think it’s not only that, but the fact is that it is a music that, for good or bad, it has happened amongst a society in southern Spain that has been extreme in many ways, it has suffered a lot of discrimination, a lot of turmoil, it has also been a very creative society.[3] There’s been a great deal going on here in this pocket near the Mediterranean and the people here have always been passionate and expressive … cutting in their sincerity, in the way they do things, and so perhaps flamenco is an inevitable result of people being that way. It is [therefore] fair to conclude that the music requires those qualities. However, I think having said that, I would also add that duende or whatever it is that is the peak of achievement and communication doesn’t happen only in flamenco, it happens with other artistic manifestations, which can be Bach, or can be in other societies. Music is too big a subject and emotion is too big a subject to monopolise it in one area like flamenco. It would be pretentious for me to say that. I think duende belongs to you as much as it belongs to me and when it appears, you possess that quality of enjoyment equally as I possess it when I enjoy it and produce it. It’s a big subject and it belongs to the world.

Do you think that the ability of flamenco to express those kind of emotions with a certain clarity is part of what gives flamenco its appeal to the rest of the world?

I think so; you are absolutely right. This music has retained this clarity and sincerity in a way that perhaps many other things in Western civilisation have forgotten. It still has that and people respond to it very strongly.

Your performances take flamenco to new audiences and new locations. Do you find however that in putting flamenco in a theatre you can lose some of the aspects of flamenco we have just been talking about?

I accept the compromise. I don’t knock the fact that you have to be on a stage. I think that in many ways all kinds of music and all kinds of presentations on a stage are a compromise. Simply to raise a spot-light and to have other people just sitting and watching and not participating in some way is a compromise continuously. I accept it though in flamenco and I have grown up with that. I think there is so much you can do [on stage] nevertheless. I mean what I do on the stage fundamentally is to please myself—and I hope I don’t give you the wrong impression—I mean I have to convince myself of being good. I have to be honest to myself on the stage and convince myself on the stage with whatever I am doing and then I’m sure that that will project to the audience and convince them.

Your shows generally involve singers and dancers as well as yourself and other guitarists. Do you direct all of these elements or do you allow your fellow performers to mostly control these other elements, or does it involve more to-ing and fro-ing between you and the other performers?

I think it is all of those things. Certainly I direct it because it is my show and my ideas are the ones that I want to project. But again it would be pretentious to imagine that it is just me. I have a bunch of very talented people with me and I tap their ideas as much as mine, so we collaborate altogether to create—if you like—the animal. Of course initially I have the ideas but they can change as we go along. I’m not a dancer, but I know what I want from the dancers—but they are the dancers, so they can contribute something more perhaps than I have. I accept those things. We all make it.

I understand you have an Australian dancer in the company?

Oh yes, a long time ago there was a girl who had been in Madrid for many years and she originally came from Australia. She was very good and pretty so I included her in the group… That’s a long time ago though.

So the cast is all Spanish-based this time?

Oh yes, all Spanish and it’s not a big lot of people: we’re only seven. It’s just two dancers, both from Andalucia: Charo is from Seville and Angel is from Cordoba and the guitarists are the same guitarists that were with me last time. They are three brothers from Madrid—three gypsy brothers, the Losadas—and myself. There’s one singer, who has also been with me to Australia: Angel Gabarre.[4]

Can you tell me a bit about the design and the staging for “Flamenco Passion”? In your last show here, “Flamenco Fiesta”, the second act was performed as though it was in a town square.

Yeah, like a home in a sense—very similar to my home where I am standing now. It was an idea of bringing flamenco from it’s true environment—obviously artificially on a stage—but giving an idea of how it happens here. But this show now is almost like a musical show with dance; even the dance fits the music in a way that is very compact and very intimate with the music … it’s not showing off the dance. The other show was more allowing the virtuosic qualities and the choreographic ideas to project because it was a dance company. In this case it’s more the music that speaks, and the dance element fits very much with the music to give you a kind of concert, a very compact musical impression, but illustrated with the dance as well.

This is not the same piece as “Arte y Passion” though, is it?

No, that’s something else. I had a long season in the West-End in London with that show Arte y Passion.[5] The two main dancers in that show are the ones I am bringing to Australia now.

One of the striking things about the descriptions that I have read of “Arte y Passion” is the small narratives that the songs contained: talking about the foundry, various snippets of other stories. Do you find that a feature of flamenco itself or was that something you brought out in that show specifically?

The way flamenco poetry and songs appear actually is like that. The singer a lot of the time is improvising¾not actually making it up as he goes along, but improvising what to sing at what time, and each song, even if there are three different parts of one specific song, they can be completely unrelated. They’re all different ideas as you point out: one idea, then another, then another, all within the same song. So what I did for that show was because I was covering different areas of flamenco, specific ideas in flamenco, I wrote just a little bit of each of those worlds that I was presenting. I wrote a little bit of the poetry that goes with it so that people have an impression of what is happening emotionally, what the singer is trying to articulate¾in a general sense¾with each particular piece. You can’t give a complete idea of what the singer is singing but you can tantalise them, you can give a little impression of it and that’s what I tried to do with that show. I don’t think it’s so much the case with this show now. This is more of a musical thing that projects composition, illustrated by a bit of singing and dancing, but it doesn’t require a story as much.

You’ve said many times that you don’t want to present flamenco as a museum piece, that you want it to continue to evolve. How do you feel therefore about some of the other artists involved in flamenco and related forms? The Gypsy Kings for example captured public attention by bringing drumming and samba forms into flamenco while others such as Pepe Habicichlela have put touch-bass and sound-effects on-top of flamenco compositions. How do you feel about those kind of activities?

In a general sense I would put a green light wherever people want to experiment and to do things. I accept innovation like that—if people have something to say that’s good. In the case of the Gypsy Kings, obviously they are people who are out there trying to do the same thing that I do in their own way, so I’m not going to knock somebody who genuinely tries to put a show on. But I would say that they dwell in very superficial aspects of flamenco—and they do it very well, they do a nice production of those light-hearted aspects of flamenco. Good luck to them. But it doesn’t affect flamenco at all, that’s nothing to do with what I do, and what many, many other people do. Flamenco is much deeper than that, and so what they do I respect and it’s an excellent sound that they produce, but it’s inconsequential in terms of the development of flamenco itself. There are other people, like Pepe Habicichlela, who put extra things on-top of the flamenco world of music. I would have to listen to it and see whether I am impressed or not. I think what has happened in the last few decades is that the lid has been taken off the creative craving and ambition of young people in a way that hadn’t happened before. They have discovered many other types of music and they have been fascinated by other things and in a kind of naïve way they’ve gone and they have superimposed musical ideas from other places, other cultures, onto their flamenco. Sometimes—a lot of the time—that is not successful and sometimes it is a good contribution that the tradition accepts. So in order to answer that correctly I would have to listen to what it is and say whether it is worthwhile or not. As a general rule though, I think people should be free to do what they want.

How would you describe your approach then? You are certainly not a strict traditionalist, yet you have chosen not to venture into those sort of areas either.

I’m not good enough to go into other areas! I respond to my training if you like and my training has been my tradition.[6] I have been very close to my tradition and that’s where my ambition lies. If I was more clever perhaps I would have gone into other things … but I don’t want to appear silly when I answer that, I’m serious really. I think people have different abilities and I love tradition and I think it has a lot to offer. I think if you add new elements—which indeed I do as well and I love as well—I think I have to be very convinced that they are a positive contribution rather than just putting things there without much thought. I don’t have that vision. The vision that I have is my work and it is for people to judge. I hope that I’m learning, I hope that my life is creative in that sense—I want to learn more all the time so perhaps the future has some other ideas that I can put together.

As a final question, or comment perhaps, you have often been described as a very non-demonstrative performer when you’re on stage, sitting concentrating on your guitar and looking to other musicians, but basically keeping to yourself. Given your reputation people find this very surprising¾they expect you to bask in the limelight a bit more. Is there any particular reason for this or is it just how you prefer to perform your music?

Not at all; that’s the way I am. I’m simply not boisterous. I’m a bit shy, just in normal everyday life. I’m not showy, and I’m not showy on the stage either, but I am very committed to doing music well, to doing what I do well. So I feel an authority in what I do … it’s not that I am over modest or something like that, but on the stage I feel very strongly that I must convince… I don’t know if I’ve explained myself very well… I don’t show off on the stage but I have a conviction in what I do—I don’t use gimmicks or anything—I try to convince with the music, with the true result of what I do… I can’t change that I suppose: I’m that way in normal life and I’m that way on the stage as well.

Well, it looks impressive. It shows how focussed you are. I certainly appreciate it… Well, thank you for your time, it’s been a pleasure talking to you.

Thank you very much.

[1] See Jonathan Marshall, “Master Craftsman,” IN Press, 526, 23/9/1998, p. 52.

[2] See especially Federico Garcia Lorca’s “Theory and Function of the Duende,” reproduced in the program notes for Charito Saldaña’s flamenco staging of Lorca’s The House of Bernarda Alba at the Merlyn Theatre in the Malthouse complex, Melbourne, 24/2-1/3/1998, pp. 10-11.

[3]  The most obvious cultural/historical differences between Andalucia and the rest of Spain is that Andalucia was heavily influenced by the comparatively enlightened, multicultural occupation of southern Spain by the Moors, until they were driven out in the 15th century. This was followed by the Christian revival enforced through the Spanish Inquisition, which lead to the expulsion of the large Jewish population of Andalucia as well. Andalucia has also traditionally had a higher concentration of gypsies than the rest of the country. Andalucia was traditionally dependent upon a meagre peasant economy like the rest of Spain but the land is particularly uneven and poor. Andalucia suffered badly in all of Spain’s major conflicts: the Napoleonic invasion, the Spanish Civil War of the 1930s, etc. For the relation of these influences to flamenco, see the program notes for the 1997 Australian tour of Flamenco Fiesta: [no author reference] “Andalucia: Origins of flamenco” and “Flamenco: Notes by Paco Peña,” pp. 2-4.

[4] Peña performed Flamenco Fiesta at the Comedy Theatre in Melbourne, 1/10/1997. The cast included Tito, Diego and Vaky Losada, Charo Espino, Angel Munoz, Angel Gabarre and others. Espino did not eventually perform in the 1998 Australian tour of Flamenco Passion¾her role was filled by Belen Fernandez. See Jonathan Marshall, review, IN Press, 527, 30/9/1998.

[5] Arte y Passion was performed at the Peacock Theatre, London, 2-3/1997. See: Jenny Gilbert, “Paco Peña, the saviour of flamenco,” Independent on Sunday, 9/2/1998; Nicholas Dromgoole, “After this I won’t be so sniffy,” Sunday Telegraph, 9/2/1997; Louise Levene, review, The Independent Tabloid, 7/2/1997; Neil Dowden, review, What’s On, 12/2/1997; Ismene Brown, “Flamenco with thunder,” Daily Telegraph, 7/2/1997; Anne Sacks, “He’s too sexy for his shirt, so get it off!” Evening Standard, 10/2/1997.

[6] Peña was raised in a communal farmhouse of ten families who played guitar and danced for most of the feast days, weddings and general celebrations. In a separate interview Peña said: “it wasn’t a musical family in any accomplished way but there were always people around who enjoyed making music.” See: Stephanie Brumby, “All hands clapping,” Age Saturday Extra, 12/9/1998, p. 3.