Body and Force in Music: Metaphoric Constructions in Music Psychology 9780367520557, 9780367520601, 9781003056201

Table of contents :
Cover
Endorsements
Half Title
Title
Copyright
Contents
List of figures
Acknowledgments
Introduction
The human body and musical instruments
Conceptual dimension of metaphoric construction
Force and agency
“Body and force” and “body versus force”
The discursive space and disciplinary identity of music psychology
Metaphors as shorthand for music psychology
Roadmap
Historicizing music psychology
1 The musicking body-machine
Music, machine, and the body
The emergence of the “human motor” model
Rhythm: “an inevitable corollary from the persistence of forces”
Psychological studies in the era of rhythm
Musical rhythm and labor
Rhythm in the “body culture”
The “irrational,” continuous rhythm
Rhythm and the piano-playing body
Concluding remarks
2 “A force of nature”: tracing voice
Animal, machine, and voice
Speech theory of music
Voice, the body machine, and the issue of agency
Voice as both object and subject
Voice of the “primitive” soul
Recorded voice
“Dragging movement”
“How the voice looks”
Concluding remarks
3 Motion, force, and “rhythm form”
The “‘co-working of motion’ with one’s own will”
Piano theories
Motion in piano playing
Force and the will
The will, physiology, and piano-playing
Force and postures
Action–perception coupling at the turn of the twentieth century
“Rhythmic massing”
Concluding remarks
4 Minding gaps and musical energy
The ball analogy
The human motor capable of locomotion
Capturing the musicking body
Music as streams of energy
Gliding between tones
The agency of motion
Revisiting the ball analogy
Music as motion across disciplines and times
Concluding remarks
5 Musical force acting at a distance
Force acting at a distance
In the words of amateur pianists and psychologists
Force affecting the audience
The metaphor of vibratory waves in psychology
Force at a distance and the power of sound
“Brain waves” in communication
Inhibition and waves in music psychology
The vibratory energy of music
“Sympathetic oscillation”
Concluding remarks
Epilogue
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

“What Kim presents in her ‘meta-psychology’ of music is a story, circa 1900, in which music theorists and physiologists, economists and educators, physicists and philosophers create a whole new way of thinking about music – a musical thought that starts from the body and takes metaphors such as motion and force seriously. In this wide-ranging book, Kim shows how these discussions have not lost any of their relevance but strongly resonate with current musical concerns.” Alexander Rehding, Fanny Peabody Professor of Music, Department of Music, Harvard University “Youn Kim is one of the very few contemporary musicologists whose work is of true value to both historians of music as well as historians and philosophers of science. Her new book, Body and Force in Music: Metaphoric Constructions in Music Psychology captures the emergence of a complex new way of imagining music in the course of the rise of the new sciences of biology and human nature by psychologists and philosophers (Darwin, Spencer, William James) in the course of the late nineteenth century. Concepts such as ‘soul,’ ‘force,’ and ‘body’ become at this time simultaneously scientific ‘facts’ and powerful metaphors that shape an understanding of music as phenomenon and relocate the question of its social and cultural meanings. Youn Kim’s book offers a rethinking not only of what music means today but how it came to have such meanings. Anyone engaged with discussions about music as a ‘scientific’ or ‘social’ phenomenon, ethnomusicologists and those engaged in post-colonial studies of music; any one captured by the idea that our musical minds both predetermined by genetics and yet shaped by our environment, will benefit from reading Youn Kim’s seminal work.” Sander L. Gilman, Distinguished Professor of the Liberal Arts and Sciences and Professor of Psychiatry (Emeritus), Emory University; Author of “I Know Who Caused COVID-19”: Pandemics and Xenophobia (2021)

“What exactly is music? Scientists have long wrestled with this question, often resorting to metaphors about movement, force, and the human body. In this well researched volume Professor Kim surveys the historical landscape that eventually becomes the modern field of music psychology. Along the way we are introduced to a singing sloth, a mechanical voice, and all manner of graphical representations as writers from previous centuries wrestle with the fleeting experience of music. The author brings together a chorus of fascinating voices – performers, critics, scientists, historians, dancers, neurologists – all grappling, as we still do today, with the mysteries of music.” Robert O. Gjerdingen, Professor Emeritus of Music Theory and Cognition, Northwestern University

Body and Force in Music

Our understanding of music is inherently metaphorical, and metaphoricity pervades all sorts of musical discourses, be they theoretical, analytical, philosophical, pedagogical, or even scientific. The notions of “body” and “force” are the two most pervasive and comprehensive scientific metaphors in musical discourse. Throughout various intertwined contexts in history, the body – force pair manifests multiple layers of ideological frameworks and permits the conceptualization of music in a variety of ways. Youn Kim investigates these concepts of body and force in the emerging field of music psychology in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The field’s discursive space spans diverse contexts, including psychological theories of auditory perception and cognition, pedagogical theories on the performer’s bodily mechanism, speculative and practical theories of musical rhythm, and aesthetical discussion of the power of music. This investigation of body and force aims to illuminate not just the past scene of music psychology but also the notions of music that are being constructed at present. Youn Kim obtained her PhD in music theory from Columbia University and is currently Associate Professor of Music at The University of Hong Kong. Kim’s previous publications include a monograph History of Western Music Theory (2006) and articles in Journal of Musicology, Psychology of Music, and Journal of Musicological Research, among others. She also co-edited The Oxford Handbook of Music and the Body (2019) and co-authored several articles published in Scientific Reports and PLOS One.

Body and Force in Music Metaphoric Constructions in Music Psychology

Youn Kim

Cover image: Tranquillo Cremona, La Melodia (1874–78) First published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 Youn Kim The right of Youn Kim to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-0-367-52055-7 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-52060-1 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-05620-1 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003056201 Typeset in Times New Roman by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Contents

List of figures Acknowledgments Introduction

x xiii 1

The human body and musical instruments 1 Conceptual dimension of metaphoric construction 3 Force and agency 4 “Body and force” and “body versus force” 6 The discursive space and disciplinary identity of music psychology 6 Metaphors as shorthand for music psychology 8 Roadmap 10 Historicizing music psychology 11 1

The musicking body-machine Music, machine, and the body 13 The emergence of the “human motor” model 15 Rhythm: “an inevitable corollary from the persistence of forces” 16 Psychological studies in the era of rhythm 18 Musical rhythm and labor 20 Rhythm in the “body culture” 23 The “irrational,” continuous rhythm 24 Rhythm and the piano-playing body 25 Concluding remarks 27

13

viii Contents 2

“A force of nature”: tracing voice

32

Animal, machine, and voice 32 Speech theory of music 34 Voice, the body machine, and the issue of agency 37 Voice as both object and subject 38 Voice of the “primitive” soul 40 Recorded voice 42 “Dragging movement” 43 “How the voice looks” 46 Concluding remarks 51 3

Motion, force, and “rhythm form”

55

The “‘co-working of motion’ with one’s own will” 55 Piano theories 56 Motion in piano playing 58 Force and the will 62 The will, physiology, and piano-playing 63 Force and postures 66 Action–perception coupling at the turn of the twentieth century 69 “Rhythmic massing” 72 Concluding remarks 75 4

Minding gaps and musical energy

78

The ball analogy 78 The human motor capable of locomotion 79 Capturing the musicking body 82 Music as streams of energy 84 Gliding between tones 86 The agency of motion 91 Revisiting the ball analogy 92 Music as motion across disciplines and times 93 Concluding remarks 94 5

Musical force acting at a distance Force acting at a distance 98 In the words of amateur pianists and psychologists 100 Force affecting the audience 105

98

Contents

ix

The metaphor of vibratory waves in psychology 107 Force at a distance and the power of sound 110 “Brain waves” in communication 112 Inhibition and waves in music psychology 113 The vibratory energy of music 115 “Sympathetic oscillation” 119 Concluding remarks 119 Epilogue

124

Bibliography Index

127 152

Figures

0.1

1.1 1.2

1.3 2.1 2.2

2.3

2.4 3.1 3.2

The schema of a music box compared to the human brain in Monakow and Mourgue (1929, 21). The spring is compared to the instinct, the oil to the circulation of blood, and the trigger apparatus to the conduction pathways. One of the spinning songs cited in Bücher (1899), 92–93. “Droben auf grünen der Heid.” Comparison of the phrasing marks of the theme in Beethoven, Symphony No. 7, Allegretto, represented in Leichtentritt ([1927] 1951, 18; above) and Beethoven’s own phrasing as represented in Bode ([1930] 1942, 32; below). Bode’s graphic representation of upbeatness and the performer’s bodily movements (Bode [1930] 1942, 70–71). Kircher’s singing sloth (Kircher 1650, 27) and Kempelen’s speaking machine (Kempelen 1791, 428). Instances of portamento in “primitive music” collected in Stumpf (1911): (a) an old Appenzell yodel song (Stumpf 1911, 82); (b) a funeral chant of the Hopi Indians from the Demonstration Collection of Erich Moritz von Hornbostel, who was the first director of Berlin Phonogramm-Archiv from 1905 to 1933 (see also Stumpf 1911, 145–146). (a) Curves of musical sounds made by the gramophone tracing apparatus (1 mm = 0.0004 s): Part of curve of [o]; part of curve of “America”; Part of a Chinese vowel; Part of a trill (tremolo); Part of a chord from a piano; Laughter (Scripture 1906; Plate VII); (b) a melody in the traditional notation and the “melody plot” (1906, 60). Pattern score of “You ketch dis train” (Seashore [1919] 1967, 355). Reprinted by permission from McGraw Hill LLC. Exercise no. 15 of Ehrlich, How to Practice on the Piano (1879), 31. Gymnastics for fingers, suggested in Jackson (1865), 53, 65, and 71.

2 21

26 27 33

44

48 50 56 57

Figures 3.3 3.4

3.5 3.6 3.7

3.8

3.9 3.10 3.11

4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 4.6 4.7

The geometrical proportions of the playing mechanism in piano playing in Clark (1885), 58. (a) Muscles of the trunk, rear view; muscles of the trunk, front view (Caland 1905, 38); (b) “reduced reproductions of original radiographs of the upper body” aligned with the drawings and photographs (Caland 1905, 64). Statement by Emil Du Bois-Reymond opening up Caland’s book on piano playing; Caland (1905, 7). (a) Bird’s cochlea, “analogous to the keys of a pianoforte” represented in Müller (1842, 1235–1236); (b) Helmholtz’s representation of basilar membrane ([1863] 1877, 227). Karl Kliřc, “The Bayreuth Musical Steam Engine,” from Humoristische Blätter, August 20, 1876, reprinted in John Grand-Carteret, Richard Wagner en caricatures: 130 reproductions (1892, Paris: Larousse), 111. A caricature of Liszt that appeared in the newspaper Borsszem Jankó, 23 March, 1879. “Saint Francis Liszt on the waves. He moves his magic fingers over the keyboard and opens his generous hand to the needy. Fortissimus pianist. Claviator maximus. Glory and gratitude to you!” Translation from Ott (1992, 95). Stetson’s kymographic representation of beat-strokes in 3/4 meter (Stetson 1905, 328; Figure 8). “Rhythm-form” or “rhythmic massings” of the eight-bar period, represented as curves in Clark (1892, 619). (a) Beethoven, Op. 27, no. 2, III, mm. 65–101 “Illustration of rhythmic massings in Beethoven’s Moonlight sonata.”; (b) Beethoven, Op. 27, no. 2, III, mm. 66–72 from Lamond’s edition (1918); (c) Beethoven, Op. 27, no. 2, III, mm. 99–101 from Beethoven’s manuscript (1802). “Simple trajectory and chronophotographic trajectory of a bright ball moving in front of a dark background.” Marey (1895, 55). Eadweard Muybridge, “The Horse in Motion” (1878) and Étienne-Jules Marey, “Arab Horse at a Gallop” (1887). Transitional passage, leading to “a slackening off,” in J. S. Bach’s Fugue in F-sharp minor, The Well-tempered Clavier, 2, mm. 7–9. Cited in Kurth ([1917] 1927, 412). An example of “Portamento” by Riemann ([1882] 1900, 612); an example of “Accent” in Riemann ([1882] 1900, 7). Beethoven, Piano Sonata No. 23, Op. 57, I, m. 3. Mozart, Piano Quartet K. 478, I. Cited in Schenker ([1911] 1987, vol. 1, 351). Handel, Suite No. 5, Air, Double IV. Cited in Schenker ([1911] 1987, vol. 1, 90).

xi 59

59 61 64

68

69 71 73

74 79 81 86 88 88 88 89

xii 5.1

5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5

5.6 5.7

Figures Descartes’s illustration of a magnetic field around Earth (D) from his Principia Philosophiae ([1644] 1983), Plate XXII, Fig. i. The South and North poles of the Earth are represented as (A) and (B), respectively. In this explanation, the magnetic force is caused by the circulation of small threaded particles. The title page of Przybyszewski’s Totenmesse (1893) carrying the inscription of Chopin’s Polonaise in F-sharp minor, Op. 44, as the motto. Chopin, Scherzo No. 1 in B minor, Op. 20, “The Scream” in m. 205. Lisztian and non-Lisztian relation between instrument, performer, and listener. Cited from Ott 1987, 174. Reprinted by kind permission from The Edwin Mellen Press. The wave schema of psychophysical process represented in Fechner (1860, 529). The line “A-B” represents the threshold. The letters “a,” “b,” and “c” represent “the three organisms or rather, the psychophysical main waves of the three organisms.” Zuckerkandl’s curve represents the stability and instability of tones (Zuckerkandl [1956] 1969, 98). A “metric wave” at the beginning of Chopin’s Polonaise in A-Major, Op. 40, No. 1, represented by Zuckerkandl ([1956] 1969, 171).

99 102 102 107

114 117 118

Acknowledgments

In the process of gestating and writing about body and force in music, I owe a lot of people gratitude. I thank Heidi Bishop, Senior Editor at Routledge, for her help and advice from the beginning to the final stage of this project. My thanks also go to Kaushikee Sharma, who offered careful guidance and generous assistance in delivering the manuscript, as well as to the entire Routledge production team. I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Graham Welch, Adam Ockelford, and Ian Cross, the Series Editors of SEMPRE Studies in The Psychology of Music. Writing this book reminded me how fortunate I am to be surrounded by many wonderful colleagues, friends, and mentors. I thank my colleagues at the Music Department at the University of Hong Kong, Giorgio Biancorosso, Chan Hing-yan, Joshua Chan, José Neglia, Deborah Waugh, Yang Yuanzheng, and Rujing Stacy Huang. I am especially grateful to Daniel KL Chua for his support and many enlightening, thought-provoking, and fascinating conversations. I am indebted to many brilliant minds whose ideas have served as sources of inspiration for me. I would like to express special gratitude to Robert O. Gjerdingen, Alexader Rehding, and John Rink. Not only have their scholarship and works inspired me, but I was also fortunate to receive their insightful feedback and comments on earlier versions of this book, which led to its improvement. I am grateful to Sander L. Gilman for broadening my perspective and providing valuable advice on various aspects of the book. I am also grateful to an anonymous reader who provided me with both constructive criticism and encouragement. Teachers, as Leonard Bernstein once said, have got everything to do with music. I am blessed to have met and learned from Ian Bent and Suk Won Yi, and I thank them for their continuous encouragement, guidance, and support of my research endeavour. I am also thankful to my former and current students for sharing stimulating ideas with me in and out of the classrooms. I cannot name them all here, but I hope they know how much I value and appreciate my time with them. Daniel Tingcheung Lo provided valuable assistance in producing the examples in this book. I owe my deepest gratitude to my family in Korea. I thank my sister Jin for being my best friend. For their love and support, I thank Dongjun, Nahyeon, and Seohyeon. I am eternally grateful to my mother and father for their unconditional love, support, and faith in me. They instilled in me a love for music, the arts, and learning, and this book is dedicated to them.

Introduction

The human body and musical instruments Music and science – particularly the scientific study of human beings – are two fields that are closely intertwined with metaphors that borrow from each other. Most immediately, musical instruments have long served as powerful analogies in understanding human physiognomy. To name but a few examples in history, Renaissance physician Robert Fludd conceptualized that the microcosm of the human body, as well as the macrocosm of the universe, can be mapped onto a huge monochord, thereby reflecting the ancient Greek notion of musica humana (Fludd 1617–24; Gouk 2002). In his Traité de l’Homme (1633), René Descartes employed a church organ as a metaphor to illuminate mechanistic human neurophysiology ([1633] 1972, 71). Seventeenth-century French philosopher Denis Diderot famously asserted: We are instruments endowed with sensitivity and memory. Our senses are as many keys that are played by Nature which surrounds us and often by themselves too. . . . An animal is an instrument capable of sensitivity and perfectly similar to another, endowed with the same conformation, mounted with the same strings that can be played in the same way by joy, by sorrow, by hunger, by thirst, by illness, by admiration, by fear. (Diderot, Entretien entre d’Alembert et Diderot, [around 1770] 1965, 51 and 55; my translation)1 These are just a few examples of the long history of the intertwined conceptions of the human body and musical instruments. In the late nineteenthand early twentieth-century life sciences, which will be the focus of this book, mechanical instruments emerged as a new illustrative conceptual model of the human nervous system. Physiologist Johannes Müller (1842) wrote that “the fibres of all the motor, cerebral and spinal nerves may be imagined as spread out in the medulla oblongata and exposed to the will like the keys of the pianoforte” (934). In like manner, Hermann von Helmholtz (1863) famously compared the anatomy and function of the inner ear to the piano in a model that later became known as the “cochlear piano,” the “nervous piano,” or “Frankenstein’s piano.”2 German physician Adolf Kußmaul (1881, 126) used expressions such DOI: 10.4324/9781003056201-1

2

Introduction

Figure 0.1 The schema of a music box compared to the human brain in Monakow and Mourgue (1929, 21). The spring is compared to the instinct, the oil to the circulation of blood, and the trigger apparatus to the conduction pathways.

as “cortical sound keys” (die corticalen Lauttasten) and “the keyboard” (die Claviatur) in the brain in his book on speech pathology (quoted in Kittler 1999, 189).3 Neurologist and psychiatrist August Forel commented that neurons “play piano on each other by means of the nerve waves” (Forel 1894, 19–20).4 German surgeon and writer Carl Ludwig Schleich, who first recognized the interactive and supportive role of glial cells in the nervous system, compared aspects of the neural network with a piano’s damper pedal (1922, 233; Dierig 2001, 431). Constantin von Monakow, a pioneer in early interdisciplinary brain sciences, coauthored with Raoul Mourgue their Introduction Biologique a l’étude de la Neurologie et de la Psychopathologie (“Biological Introduction to the Study of Neurology and Psychopathology”). They compared the relationship between the mind and the brain with that between a melody and a music box. The brain is a music box – a spatial object – whereas the mind is a melody, a process that unfolds in time (Monakow and Mourgue 1929, 21; see also Harrington 1999, 81). This relationship also works conversely. For example, the nineteenth-century piano pedagogue Ludwig Deppe once said, “the pedal is the lungs of the piano” (cited in Fay 1891, 297; see also Caland 1901, 63). These examples illustrate several metaphors that relate to two different conceptual domains. Our account of music is inherently metaphorical, and this metaphoricity pervades all sorts of musical discourses, be they theoretical, analytical, philosophical, pedagogical, or even scientific (Scruton 1983; Zbikowski 1998, 2002; Watkins 2011; Spitzer 2015). The human body often provides the source of our understanding of the world, which includes all modes of thoughts from everyday perceptions to scientific knowledge (Lakoff and Johnson 1999; Danziger 1990; Leary 1994; Harrington 1995; Brown 2003). The human body and

Introduction 3 its senses are thus seen as the basis of most of our interactions with the world. The relation between musical instruments and human beings is not unilateral but mutual. Musical instruments offer powerful and effective analogies for understanding human beings through their structural and anatomical resemblances to the human body and nervous system, as well as their functional similarities to the human mind. As sociologist and anthropologist Marcel Mauss once pointed out, “the body is man’s first and most natural instrument. Or more accurately . . . man’s first and most natural technical object, and at the same time technical means, is his body” (Mauss [1935] 1979, 104). On this ground, an instrument can be reconstructed outside the body, extending the human body. As John Durham Peters points out, Alexander Graham Bell had worked on “a piano as an ear” in his attempt to construct a harmonic telephone based on Helmholtz’s model of the ear (Peters 2004, 187).

Conceptual dimension of metaphoric construction The correspondences existing between these two domains are not only constitutional; they are conceptual features common to the understanding of both musical instruments and human beings.5 Archaeologist and anthropologist Clive Gamble’s work is worth mentioning here. Arguing that metaphors can be expressed materially as well as linguistically, Gamble distinguished two basic forms of bodily actions and accordingly classified the artifacts and material proxies into instruments and containers (2007, 103). Hands, feet, and limbs are primarily instruments that inscribe and alter other objects, whereas the trunks of our body are often literal containers, encompassing bodily organs. This can also be extended to musical instruments that can be classified according to how the body is related to sound production. Objects that produce sounds by “plucking and hitting with the limbs” are instruments and those that require “blowing and breathing through the lips and nose” are containers (Gamble 2012, 92). As acknowledged in his previous work, this bipartite division is never clear-cut and the “homology of the body-whole is never forgotten” (2007, 103). Nevertheless, Gamble’s categorization presents a useful theoretical framework against which we can consider music(al) instruments, the body, and the metaphoric construction between them more closely. For example, keyboard instruments belong to both categories in Gamble’s classification. Keyboards produce sounds through the bodily action of “touching” (toccare) and are thus an instrument. A piano is nevertheless classified as a container. It is also noticeable that both stringed instruments (violins, cellos, etc.) and pianos are defined as containers. However, the metaphors of stringed instruments and pianos carry very dissimilar connotations. The metaphors belonging to the piano (and the music box), which were popular in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, carry the mechanical understanding of both the functioning of the human body and its mental procedures, which is different from the analogy of the human body to a gigantic string in the seventeenth century. These bodily metaphors disclose the epistemology of music and the human body and mind. From the metaphors of musical instruments in music-pedagogical and

4

Introduction

psychological discourses emerged new conceptualizations of both the mechanistic and the vitalistic human body.

Force and agency The metaphoric bridge between music and human beings is not only confined to instruments. Brain activity is also often compared to the activities of musicmaking. In explaining the independent working of two hands orchestrated by higher-order of movement planning, Monakow (1914) used the expression “Bewegungsmelodie” (motion melody).6 Similar analogies continue to appear even in modern neuroscience: “We must accept that in the EEG [electroencephalogram] we are dealing essentially with a symphonic orchestral composition, but one in which the performers may move about a little, and may follow the conductor or indulge in improvisation – more like a jazz combination than a solemn philharmonic assembly” (Walter 1961, 17). Such a connection between bodily/psychological and musical activities generates further questions on agency. As Gamble notes, “the focus is the human body and its capacity to perform” (2012, 85). Who or what is the agency setting the body, nerves, or mind into motion in modern scientific conceptualizations? If, as in von Monakow’s comparison, the mind is like a music box, what winds it up? In analogies to the piano, is it Müller’s “will,” or, following Forel, is the agency contained in the nerves themselves? In his Essai de psychologie (1754), Swiss natural philosopher Charles Bonnet compared the body to a harpsichord: “each fiber is a kind of a key or a hammer designed to deliver a certain tone.” His use of the analogy, however, is extended to appertain to psychology with the connotation of the agency implied in the following analogy: “The soul is the musician who performs different melodies on this machine” (Bonnet 1755, 13, 14).7 The significance of the body extends beyond the physical form. The issue here is linked intricately to the question of force. The body exerts force and force is exerted on the body. In natural philosophy before the development of modern science, various kinds of physical (e.g., light, heat, and magnetism), as well as vital principles in organisms, were referred to as “forces.” These “forces” were closely correlated to muscular sensation. For example, Scottish philosopher Alexander Bain considered the muscular sense as the prime sense and emphasized it with the sense of force or energy. He noted that “the exercise of active energy in purely internal impulses, independent of the stimulus produced by outward impressions, is a primary fact of our constitution” (Bain 1855, v–vi) and the “sensibility accompanying muscular movement coincides with the outgoing stream of nervous energy” (Bain [1855] 1894, 79).8 William James further developed the rich and intricate connection between the domains of physiology and psychology, referring to it as “the will-muscle-force-sense theory” (James 1880, 30). This point brings us from the investigation of musical metaphors in scientific literature to that of scientific metaphors in musical literature, especially those

Introduction 5 related to force. In her study on the role of metaphor in music analysis, for example, Marion Guck writes, to hear arching movement, one most likely recalls, subliminally, memories that incorporates the fine continuous adjustments in muscle tensions needed to produce the smooth gesture: the initial impetus that increasingly opposes gravity as the arm rises, stretching to the point of fullest extension, then decreasing tension as the arm yields to gravity. In the gesture, rise and fall are also converted into increase and decrease of effort and tension. In fact, the notion of increase and decrease has already been introduced through the melody arch’s swelling dynamics. The conversion superimposes a metaphorical reinterpretation on the music literal, and the resulting description is more deeply metaphoric. (Guck 1991, 6; emphasis added) The analogy described here is the image of an arch but what enables the description of deeply dynamic and embodied musical experience is the underlying notion of force. As Johnson (1990) points out, the meaning of force is developed in us as we interact with the world through the forces acted upon our bodies. We are also the sources of force on our bodies and external objects. Through these motor activities and their inherently repetitive patterns, we gradually come to formulate and intuit the meaning of force. The fact that we can also be the source of force carries special significance when it comes to the relation between music and force. Force is something that an agent may have, use, and exert. This notion, therefore, goes beyond the apparent fact that music is created by the physical movements of performers. It further argues that our perception and cognition of music are grounded in the body. When we listen to music, we mentally simulate how the sounds are produced and in doing so make sense of what we hear. Recent neuroscientific studies indicate that mirror neurons are activated by auditory stimuli, which supports the idea of “actionlistening” (Jensenius 2007, 19). The existence of so-called audiovisual mirror neurons in the brain supports this idea. It was demonstrated that non-pianists who had learned to perform a brief excerpt and then hear the same pattern without performing any physical action experienced activations in the bilateral frontoparietal motor-related networks (Lahav et al. 2007). The “mimetic hypothesis” of musical meaning can be understood in the same context: sounds are understood “in comparison to sounds we have made ourselves,” drawing upon our “prior embodied experience of sound production” (Cox 2001, 195). The problem of agency becomes important in music perception on another level because movements are noted as significant and become “gestures” when they are understood intentionally by a perceiver: music is an “intentional object” (Scruton 1999). These lines of thoughts collectively oppose the traditional view of separating mind and body. The implication of the embodied nature of cognition is already entailed in the remarks by medieval philosopher Boethius: “How does it come that when someone voluntarily listens to a song with ears and mind . . . his body responds with motions somehow similar to the song heard?” (Boethius 1989, 8).

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Introduction

In fact, force is most prominent and embraces most comprehensively the conceptual scientific images that occurred in music-theoretical discourse in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Helmholtz (1863) compared mechanical force and motion in the inorganic world to “psychological motive” and musical motion. Just as the force driving motion becomes observable and measured by motion in the inorganic world, feeling causes the motions of bodies or voices in the organic world. Psychologist Carl Stumpf (1883, 1890) explained the notion of “tonal fusion” (Tonverschmelzung) as a matter of “specific synergy” (spezifische Synergie) in nerve physiology. Music theorist Hugo Riemann (1884) famously discussed the “lifeforce” (Lebenskraft) contained within a motive, whereas Ernst Kurth (1931) spoke of “kinetic energy” and “potential energy,” denoting the linear flow of melodic motion and force contained in vertical chords, respectively. Various force-related terms were thus imported to music-theoretical discourse (for recent studies of musical force, see, for example, Saslaw 1997; Thiemel 1996; Lerdahl and Krumhansl 2007; Larson 2012; Hatten 2012; BaileyShea 2012; Yang 2015; Lockhart 2017).

“Body and force” and “body versus force” The body-force connection underlies apprehensions of music. On top of the musictheoretical and psychological writings cited above, the metaphors are common in our everyday musical experience.9 As music theorist Victor Zuckerkandl observes, “Body and force are dependent upon each other: without forces, no bodies; but equally, without bodies, no force” ([1956] 1969, 55). It is also important to note the historicity of the conceptual pair. They runs like a leitmotiv throughout various intertwined contexts in history, and this book aims to trace the dynamic pathways of these conceptual pairs in music-psychological discourse across time (see Bent 1992, 9). Both body and force enclose multiple layers of ideological frameworks, and it is precisely this trait that enables the conceptualization of music in diverse terms. Both may suggest mechanical and physical contexts combined as “Body and Force”; at other times, “Body versus Force” may indicate countering frames of reference such as physical/mechanical versus metaphysical/organic. The ideas accompanying these metaphors can illuminate fundamental assumptions of the human psyche, body, and music. In this context, it is relevant to ask: what sorts of body and force-related terms form the underlying conceptual framework of our understanding of music? How did and do these scientific metaphors shape our understanding of music? What is the relationship among these conceptualizations of music, mind, and body? This book examines the notions of music, mind, and the body represented through a selection of metaphoric lenses in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, taking the notions of body and force as guiding conceptual frameworks.

The discursive space and disciplinary identity of music psychology This book investigates the implications of body and force metaphors across various studies that can collectively be designated as music psychology. As noted in

Introduction 7 Gjerdingen (2002, 978), music “has figured prominently” both in “psychology’s long past through the disciplines of philosophy and music theory” and its “short history” since the establishment of scientific psychology in the late nineteenth century. Even during this “short period,” the discursive space of music psychology consists of a multifaceted web of neighboring disciplines. During this period, psychology itself remained a “broad and flexible field” (Taylor 2007, 18). Instead of imposing current disciplinary perspectives on early music psychology, which is much more complex, the present book takes the complicated and even problematic context of early music psychology into consideration. This book examines a field in which “disciplinary identity” was being constructed in relation to scholarly discourses in acoustics, anatomy, physiology, psychology, aesthetics, studies of the human body, music pedagogy, and music theory in speculative, practical, and analytical traditions. Figures with divergent backgrounds contributed conjointly to the shaping of music-psychological ideas during this time when the tension between disciplinary specialization and the unity of knowledge was at its peak. Many scholars struggled with the impulses to either “diversify” or “unify” (Dyson 2004). This book locates this interdisciplinary field in its nascent stage, not as a subfield of psychology or psychologism of music theory. In doing so, the present book aims to avoid emphasizing one discipline and consequently marginalizing others. A historically contingent conceptual network is presented across physiology, psychology, the growing fields of medical humanities, music aesthetics, music theory, pedagogy, and even music scores. Thus, the main goal resonates with what Sigfried Giedion writes in his book Mechanization Takes Command: A Contribution to Anonymous History: “The meaning of history arises in the uncovering of relationships. These relations will vary with the shifting point of view, for like constellations of stars, they are ceaseless in change” (Giedion 1948, 2). In addition to the interdisciplinary convergence and divergence of ideas, this book examines the intradisciplinary relations between different “kinds” of music theory (see Blasius 2002). For example, some theories belong to a more abstract/ speculative tradition and others to a practical tradition that more immediately regulates musical activities. Speculative and aesthetic writings tend to be considered of less immediate concern in performance and analysis. Nevertheless, the issues identified in analyzing psychological texts and music-theoretical treatises are not entirely abstract. These theoretical notions of the musical mind and body also regulate, consciously or not, the more practical side of music theory. They shape the musical execution of music by providing a more fundamental conceptual framework for particular interpretations. For this reason, this book also examines music-analytical writings and interpretive score editions in light of the issues identified in the analysis of psychological and music-theoretical treatises. In its inclusion of musical examples, pedagogy, and the practical dimensions of music theory, the book distinguishes itself from previous studies in the history of science. In examining the implications of metaphorical constructions in music psychological accounts, the book focuses on four divergent contexts: (i) music theories

8

Introduction

and psychological theories dealing with the procedural modeling of music perception and cognition in the listener’s mind, (ii) pedagogical theories on the mechanisms of the performer’s body, (iii) selected theories of musical rhythm, and (iv) an aesthetic discussion on the power of music. It accommodates the musical imagination and bodily activities of performers/listeners. Such a holistic approach resonates well amid growing interest in the histories of sense perception, listening, and the psychology of music in a wider sense. Despite individual and subtle differences in methodology, approach, and research backgrounds, the authors of these writings have collectively contributed to shifts in the conception of music. In contrast with the previous view of music as belonging to an abstract and metaphysical domain – frequently as a Pythagorean mathematical principle (see McClary 1995) – they regarded music as fundamentally experienced and constructed by human beings. Music came to be seen as an outcome of the psychological and bodily human activities of hearing, perceiving, cognizing, feeling, composing, and performing. It is, therefore, intrinsically intertwined with the matters of the human mind and body. With the emergence of music psychology as a mainstream topic within both musicology and science, several historical investigations have been carried out. Broad synopses have been presented in the form of both book chapters and journal articles (e.g., the chapters by Gjerdignen and Burdette and Butler in Christensen 2002; and chapters in Rötter and Motte-Haber 2004). Monographs providing indepth and thorough investigations focusing on individual minds have also been published, mostly in the context of the history of music theory (e.g., Rehding 2003; Rieger 2006; Steege 2015; Krebs 1998). More recently, science historians have begun to delve into the interface between music and science (e.g., Jackson 2008; Hui 2012). The present book attempts to extend this line of inquiry in that it approaches the historical scene of early music psychology by focusing on its constructed nature. It aims to go beyond accounting music psychology at a given time and place but to situate the history of music psychology within the history of ideas. Metaphors of body and force have come to be used more frequently than ever in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. What shaping and constructing roles did they play in music-psychological discourse?

Metaphors as shorthand for music psychology In approaching the complex network of influences across various disciplines and theories, this book uses concepts as the main interdisciplinary agent in establishing dialogical relationships, focusing on the thematic content of the history of ideas. The metaphors and concepts appearing across different disciplines illustrate the interdisciplinary and intertextual nature of music theory and related contemporaneous studies on the human mind and body. Both direct and indirect intertextual references are considered in a wider discursive space. These terms carry assumptions and notions from the original field to another, thus serving as crossroads at which various perspectives intersect. Therefore, they are not only a matter of nomenclature but “work as shorthand theories” (Bal 2002, 23). Such

Introduction 9 an approach raises questions with respect to the presumptions and conceptual (mis)understandings that can underlie interdisciplinary encounters, which may not be readily apparent to practitioners. This line of inquiry differs from a subjectoriented historical account of a field. In other words, this book is not a mere historical tracing or narration of the “origins” of the field of music theory. The overall structure follows an approximate chronological order, but this does not necessarily imply that the achievements of a later age are to be taken as a direct consequence of specific forerunners. In this book, the connections between ideas are treated neither in a straight-line causal fashion nor like “a pair of colliding billiard balls” (Robinson 2013, 820). Rather, thoughts and ideas are seen to be interconnected at various levels that form an underlying web of interlaced concepts. Or, as historian Thomas P. Hughes puts it, “Heterogeneous professionals . . . and organizations . . . become interacting entities in systems, or networks. Disciplines, persons, and organizations in systems and networks take on one another’s functions as if they are part of a seamless web” (1986, 281). In fact, a metaphor can work as a vehicle that enables interdisciplinary work. As Donna Haraway discusses, scholars can form a “paradigm group” sharing “a common metaphor across several previously separate areas of science” (1976, 5). She notes that being aware of the role of metaphor is the key characteristic of scientific research in a post-positivist age (1976, 2). Therefore, the present book emphasizes the dialogical relationships that exist among these intellectuals and the complex interplay of ideas formed in the process. In other words, the subject of this book is the complex discursive space itself rather than individual figures. A cluster of interrelated keywords is identified in relation to the umbrella notions of body and force. Many of these keywords are scientifically loaded terms. These scientific concepts recur by way of deliberate and direct citation of scientific writings that appeal to “authority.” More frequently, however, terms are used as they are embedded in contemporary lay discourse, connoting the scientific terms with or without misreading. The vocabulary ranges “from strong, difficult and pervasive words in everyday usage to words which, beginning in particular specialized contexts, have become quite common in descriptions of wider areas of thought and experience” (Williams 1985, xxvi; see also Novak and Sakakeeny 2015). Critical and historical examinations of these music-psychological languages may be considered to be the metapsychology of music. They reflect how music, the mind, and the body were conceptualized in early music psychology. Although this book focuses on the discursive space of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the metaphors of force, body, and related keywords are also prevalent as central themes in today’s music-psychological and music-theoretical discourses. Therefore, the book is not only a historical study of the past and the “origins” of music psychology but is also relevant to the present landscape of music psychology. The human mind, which is the subject matter of psychology, is not given but constructed by the practitioners in the field (Danziger 1994). The same idea may be applied to music; music is constructed by the practices of its practitioners, including composers, performers, listeners, and theorists. A study of how music has been conceptualized in past music-psychological theories and an examination

10

Introduction

of the questions emerging from this historical study of body and force metaphors illuminates the notions of music that are being constructed at present.

Roadmap The chapters of the book are organized using these fundamental ontological concepts of early music-psychological discourse. Chapter 1 begins with discussing the notion of “human motor” (Rabinbach 1990) and examines ideas on musical rhythm in the interdisciplinary milieu the human body discourse in the late nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries. Despite their diverse disciplinary backgrounds in philosophy, psychology, music theory, and performance pedagogy, they collectively formed a discourse that considers rhythm as the product of the human body, i.e., the “musicking body machine.” Chapter 2 problematizes the historical emergence of voice as the central concept in early music psychology – the field that aspired to be scientific in its nascent stage and developed in relation to the neighboring fields of evolutionary theory, comparative musicology, and acoustic technology. In examining the concerns for “how the voice looks,” it emerges that feeling, empathy, willpower, and agency featured much more strongly in early music psychology than the previous history has described. Chapter 3 investigates the writings by “piano theorists” in the early twentieth century. Unlike the practical guides and technical exercises of the previous generations, the new writings on piano playing of this time included not only physiological discussions of the holistic body but also abstract, theoretical, aesthetical, and philosophical discussions of music as a human action. They were interrelated by the metaphoric uses of the scientifically loaded keywords “motion,” “force,” and “mass(ing).” From these materials emerges the conception of musical form, which is similar to Edward Cone’s idea of the relation among musical gestures, pointing to the embodied nature of music cognition. This chapter aims to highlight the role of performativity in music theory in the past through an examination of these forgotten writings, which were previously marginalized in the gray area between music theories in practical and speculative tradition (Dahlhaus 1984; Christensen 2002). Chapter 4 investigates the concerns for the “gaps” (minding gaps) that began to appear in the studies of human bodies at the turn of the twentieth century and how they might be correlated to the conceptualization of musical energy as a continuous flow in the contemporaneous energeticist music theories, which thematized a new dynamic aural mode of perception. For their speculative and metaphysical nature, these discourses on energy may appear of less immediate value and unscientific. Nonetheless, these theorists are minding gaps in various senses of the expression through the analogy of (agential) force/energy. They regarded music, particularly rhythm, as a vital principle devoid of rationality (Stern 2010). In other words, this rhythm as force and energy is what characterizes musica humana, as opposed to musica machina. Previous chapters discussed the notions of force (and energy), focusing on the music-making body. However, their pertinence is not limited to the individual human body. Interactions among bodies are also conceivable in terms of force. Chapter 5 investigates the metaphoric use

Introduction 11 of force in explaining the intersubjective relations between different agencies in musical communication. While Chapters 2 and 3 present examples of prioritizing seeing over hearing and visualizing music and sound, this chapter investigates the other stream of thoughts that considered hearing as powerful as seeing and even more so. The invisibility of sound and the intangibleness of the sense of hearing efficiently render the conceptualization of music as force. Music is a type of field force that can cause action at a distance. In turn, such a conceptualization of music as force influenced the contemporaneous physiological and psychological understanding of the human beings.

Historicizing music psychology The present book invites serious historiographical consideration of the history of music psychology. It does not mean trying to establish the history of music psychology as a discipline, however. This book is more concerned with music psychology as a subject matter. The subject of a study in psychology (i.e., the human mind) must be constructed by psychologists themselves; likewise, the primary concern in investigating music psychology lies in understanding the musical mind and body as a concept. For this reason, this book narrates the conceptual history to raise questions relevant to the present. In this way, the history of music psychology through the metaphoric lens may serve as metapsychology of music, metapsychology, not in the Freudian psychoanalytic sense but as “a habit of standing back from the discipline to ask why psychologists themselves have done things in certain ways and then to imagine how things could be done differently” (Rutherford and Pickren 2015, 524). I hope it serves both purposes of prompting a historically sensitive epistemology and awareness among music theorists and current practitioners of music psychology and serving any inquisitive reader who is not necessarily a specialist but interested in the historical emergence of music psychological discourse.

Notes 1 “Nous sommes des instruments doués de sensibilité et de mémoire. Nos sens sont autant de touches qui sont pincées par la nature qui nous environne, et qui se pincent souvent elles-mêmes. . . . Un animal étant un instrument sensible parfaitement semblable à un autre, doué de la même conformation, monté des mêmes cordes, pincé de la même manière par la joie, par la douleur, par la faim, par la soif, par la colique, par l’admiration, par l’effroi.” 2 For the use of these expressions, see Langner (2015), Jasen (2016), and Picker (2003). Helmholtz’s model is further developed with modification in Békésy (1960). 3 Kittler (1999) cited these passages as an example of evoking the images of old typewriters. 4 “Das ganze centrale und periphere Nervensystem besteht somit aus einem Complex von vielen einzelnen Neuronensystemen, welche – man verzeihe die rohe Vergleichung, die ich früher in meinen Vorlesungen brauchte – vermittelst der Nervenwellen auf einander Klavier spielen.” 5 For a critical examination of musical instruments as conceptual tools, or “epistemic things” (Rheinberger 1997), see Rehding (2016).

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Introduction

6 See Wiesndanger et al. (1996, 284). 7 “L’Ame est le Musicien qui exécute sur cette Machine différens airs.” “Chaque fibre est une espèce de touche, ou de marteau deftiné à rendre un certain ton.” 8 The latter sentence does not appear in the first 1855 edition. 9 Schaerlaeken et al. (2019) analyzed a large pool of musicians and non-musicians and proposed a dimensional metaphor scale used in listening to Western classical music. Their proposed categories included flow, movement, force, interior, and wandering, having many overlaps with the body-force conceptual pair in this book.

1

The musicking body-machine

Music, machine, and the body Ideas relating to music, machines, and the body have appeared in close associations throughout the history of Western music. One of the most emblematic conceptualizations of this connection were the inventions of many musical automata with complex mechanisms in the eighteenth century. These include Jacques de Vaucanson’s flute player automaton (1737), Pierre Jaquet-Droz’s The Musician automata (1774), and David Roentgen and Pierre Kinzing’s The Dulcimer Player (1784), which was constructed for Marie Antoinette. These automata gained high popularity in Europe in the context of technological development and a flourishing cultural environment. The automata fascinated and inspired many writers of later generations as well. Jaquet-Droz’s piano-playing women automata particularly inspired the German author Jean Paul, who wrote a short philosophical text “Humans Are Machines of the Angels” (1785).1 In his conception, humans built machines that pass as humans, who are themselves the machines of angels. Although the machines of the angels (i.e., humans) are superior to the machines of humans (i.e., automata), we humans are nevertheless “mere machines” that serve higher beings. E. T. A. Hoffmann’s Automata (1814) contains an extended discussion of musical automata. In another of his novels, Der Sandmann (1816), the protagonist Nathanael falls in love with Olympia, a mechanical doll who sings, dances, and plays the harpsichord.2 These automata were closely related to the eighteenth-century materialist comprehension of the human body as a machine, most blatantly put forward by Julien Offray de La Mettrie in L’homme machine (1748). What characterized these automata was the extremely realistic imitation of human movements. Carolyn Abbate once distinguished two categories of automata, namely “true automata” and “false automata,” depending on whether the automaton really played the music via a complex mechanism or merely imitated the performer’s bodily movements (2014, 206).3 The automata mentioned earlier were “true automata.” The automaton would actually move its hands and press the keys with its fingers. Beyond the elaborate mechanisms, however, what fascinated people more was that, unlike music boxes, these automata took a human body form. They were “android” automata. It is helpful to be reminded how historians of science and DOI: 10.4324/9781003056201-2

14

The musicking body-machine

technology have defined android automata. Historian Adelheid Voskuhl summarizes the definitions in two terms (2007, 2013): first, the mechanism should be contained within the automaton’s body, and second the automaton should move just as humans would. They may look like they are spontaneously operating the musical instrument, but they do not have the power of self-movement and have to be wound up manually. Through bodily movements, the line between the musicking machines and human beings was blurred. Poignant questions were posed regarding these “artificial organisms” and “living machines,” thereby challenging the boundaries between organisms and machines. In such a consideration of human beings as machines, the automaton came to feature significantly, not only in the history of technology but also in the history of ideas. Ideas concerning the interconnection between bodies and machines continued to flourish in the following period from the late nineteenth to the early twentieth centuries. Often denoted as “the Machine Age,” the period was characterized by radical developments in technology and machinery. The era also witnessed a surge in interest in physiological and psychological studies. Naturally, the notion of the human body as machine surfaced as one of the subjects of vehement debate. In 1874, biologist Thomas H. Huxley delivered a famous address entitled “On the Hypothesis that Animals are Automata,” asserting: “all states of consciousness in us . . . are immediately caused by molecular changes in the brain substance.”4 To him, consciousness is simply a collateral by-product of the workings of the bodily mechanism, and it has no effect on the body, just “as the steam-whistle which accompanies the work of a locomotive engine is without influence upon its machinery”(Huxley 1874, 575). On the other hand, psychologist William James in his “Are we automata?” rebutted such a claim and contended that humans are not automata, but selective organisms with free will (James 1879). The notion of the body as machine and the relation between consciousness and the body were not merely limited to the subject of scholarly inquiry; they became deeply engraved in the cultural vocabulary. During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the attempts to comprehend humans as machines were neither a crude and straightforward reduction of everything to matter nor a demonstration of highly developed mechanical technologies. The mechanisms that underlie complex human movements were investigated and reconstructed based on a systematic understanding. Not only the external kinesiology but also the internal mechanisms of thinking came to be understood through a similar process. Nineteenth-century pioneers of the then-new discipline of psychology continued to debate the issue.5 In sum, these endeavors worked as a way to deepen our understanding of what constitutes a human being. Interestingly, music (specifically musicking bodies) played a significant role in these attempts to construe and understand the relationship between humans and machines. This chapter examines the interrelationship between music, bodies, and machines as represented in psychological studies and the pedagogical theories of musical rhythm in the interdisciplinary milieu of human-body discourse.

The musicking body-machine 15

The emergence of the “human motor” model The model of the human body as a complex machine was inherited from the previous era, but it underwent a subtle yet significant change in the late nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries. Human beings came to be conceptualized as a kind of motor. Historian Anson Rabinbach (1990) used the phrase “human motor” to describe the concept that pervaded from the mid-nineteenth century to the mid-twentieth century. The notion foregrounds the relationship between bodily discourses and music as activity. The human motor model was largely an attempt to understand human activities in terms of mechanics. It is not merely limited to physical activities, however. For example, a mechanism in the psychological sense refers to “an unconscious, structured set of mental processes underlying a person’s behaviour or responses” (OED). However, the human motor model extends itself beyond this implication of what is implied by the term “mechanism”: a motor, by definition, pertains to the notion of force. After all, “motor” refers to a person or thing that imparts motion and is frequently used in the sense of a source of power or energy. By the 1850s, with the development of thermodynamics, this older notion of force was transformed into energy in the modern sense. The concept of energy completely transformed all branches of sciences in the nineteenth century. Physicist James Clerk Maxwell noted the significance of the principle of the conservation of energy, not merely as “a statement of fact” but as “a scheme by which we may arrange the facts of any physical science as instances of the transformation of energy from one form to another” (Maxwell 1877, 390; cited in Smith 1999, 126), thereby marking the beginning of the new “epoch of energy.” All physical forces were thus conceptualized as forms of energy and they could be applied to all sorts of human activities. The old notion of the life-force (Lebenskraft) was “an erroneous conception of force,” asserted Emil du BoisReymond. Force is a purely mathematical notion “invoked to explain observed changes in matter. . . . When associated with living matter it becomes a conceptually empty notion that serves no function in the life sciences.”6 Such anti-vitalist scientists include Karl Ludwig, Ernst Brücke, and Hermann von Helmholtz. Together, they agreed to the famous 1842 “Reymond-Brücke oath”: “[We pledge] to put in power this truth: no other forces than the common physicalchemical ones are active within the organism” (cited in Bernfeld 1944, 348). It was not some mysterious, spirit-like vital force but rather the physiological conversions of different types of energy that animated human beings. Such a motor model was starkly different from the previous machine model. Related to the industrialization in modern society, the motor model was “productivist”: the human body as a motor was conceived as a “converter of energy identical to the action performed by technology or nature” (Rabinbach 2018, vii). Such a notion led to the rise of research on labor from around 1890 to 1930. Often designated as Arbeitswissenschaft (the science of labor/work), this research included a broad spectrum of studies from the efficiency and fatigue of workers to the biomechanics of movement.7

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The musicking body-machine

Conceptualized as a kind of “motor” rather than merely a machine, the human body in the early twentieth century was more intrinsically tied to rhythm in a broader sense. The following section will examine how ideas about rhythm and musical rhythm were developed alongside the emergence of a new conception of the human body as a motor.

Rhythm: “an inevitable corollary from the persistence of forces” Compared to the discussion of pitch-related topics, especially theories of harmony, the discourse on rhythm at the turn of the twentieth century did not seem to receive the same amount of scholarly attention.8 However, the era under discussion witnessed an explosion of scholarly and systematic works on rhythm, and such a blast of interest in rhythm was not limited to theories of composition or phrasing as in the previous centuries but appeared across various fields of philosophy, physiology, kinesiology, music, and pedagogy, which can be described as a “paradigm shift” in the theories of rhythm (Doğantan-Dack 2006; Kuhn 1962). Along with the industrialization process and the proliferation of new media technologies of speed and mediation, rhythm was treated as a principle characterizing modernity. Noting its significance, Cowan (2011) observes that rhythm was “one of European modernism’s most fetishized keywords” (19). The aphorism attributed to the nineteenth-century conductor/pianist Hans von Bülow, “In the beginning was rhythm,” was cited by many contemporaneous scholars in other fields.9 One of the works that initiated such an interest in rhythm across various fields was the work of English philosopher Herbert Spencer. His First Principles: New System of Philosophy (1862) includes a chapter on “The Rhythm of Motion.”10 The book, seemingly a treatise on speculative physics, is, in fact, an introductory volume to his massive “synthetic philosophy,” encompassing all sciences including biology, psychology, and sociology. In this chapter, rhythm is conceptualized in terms of force. According to Spencer, rhythm occurs when there are various forces at work – such as action and reaction – that cause undulations (Spencer 1865, 314, 316). Rhythm “results wherever there is a conflict of forces not in equilibrium. If the antagonist forces at any point are balance, there is rest; and in the absence of motion there can of course be no rhythm” (Spencer 1865, 317). As the result of such a general conception, various phenomena ranging from the plants’ periodic movements, meteorological rhythms, the origination and extinction of a species, and biological rhythms were all considered to be forms of rhythm. He also speaks of the “rhythm in consciousness”: “the mental state existing at any moment is not uniform, but is decomposable into rapid oscillations” (Spencer 1865, 327). Musical rhythm, along with the rhythm of dancing and poetry, were discussed along the same line: they are not artificial but only much more conspicuous. Spencer’s discussion on rhythm is pertinent to ours on body and force in music. To begin with, the entire volume of First Principles can be seen as an attempt to apply the scientific metaphors of force and motion to the discussion on human

The musicking body-machine 17 lives.11 On this very basis, some contemporaneous writers sharply criticized Spencer’s discussion. One commentator notes that: The outcome of Mr. Spencer’s way of thinking is a system of philosophy which has the appearance of being carefully construct upon a solid scientific foundation, but which is in reality full of superficial reasoning. This superficiality consists largely in the uncritical use of scientific metaphor. I say “scientific” metaphor because Mr. Spencer, instead of taking his figures from common life, took them from physical science. He then proceeded to apply them by analogy to a wide range of phenomena without taking into account the difference between the phenomena thus defined and the original figure. (Fite 1904, 291) In this criticism, Spencer’s discussion on rhythm was dismissed as a blatant example of a loosely defined term. One of the three principles regulating the universe posited by Spencer was the “persistence of forces.” Although he uses the term “force” here, his notion conforms to what scientists would call energy conservation. Force cannot be produced nor eradicated: it persists while undergoing changes in form. He noted that rhythm is “an inevitable corollary from the persistence of forces” (Spencer 1865, 334). In music, rhythm is thus manifested in terms of the play of forces, that is, as “the alternate increase and decrease of muscular strain, implied by the ascent and descents to the higher and lower notes – ascents and descents composed of smaller waves, breaking into the rises and falls of the larger ones, in a mode peculiar to each melody. And then we have, further, the alternation of piano and forte passages.” It is notable that “muscular strain” (i.e., bodily forces producing musical rhythm) features prominently in this discussion. To Spencer, these manifestations of musical rhythm are more intense forms of “an undulatory movement habitually generated by feeling in its bodily discharge” (Spencer 1865, 328). Despite some criticism, Spencer’s discussion seemed to have inspired others to discuss the universality of rhythm. Not only was rhythm “carried over into many fields” (Ruckmich 1913b, 305), but it also acted as “an ideological incubator” that informed diverse areas of discourse (Golston 1996). The universality of rhythm thus characterized the discourses on rhythm at the turn of the twentieth century, and experimental psychologists actively investigated it. One such pioneering study was Thaddeus L. Bolton’s substantial article “Rhythm” (1894) in The American Journal of Psychology, which later developed into his doctoral dissertation. Thirty participants’ reactions to various sound sequences produced by a chronograph were investigated in this behavioral study. Before reporting the result of the study on the subjective rhythmic grouping of monotonous sequences, Bolton discussed various manifestations of rhythm in nature, physiological rhythms, and rhythm in speech, dance, music, and poetry and credited Spencer in these discussions.

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The musicking body-machine

Psychological studies in the era of rhythm Many young psychologists investigated rhythm and published their studies at the turn of the twentieth century. To list but a few: German psychologist Ernst Meumann published Habilitationsschrift in the same year of 1894, with the title of Untersuchungen zur Psychologie und Aesthetik des Rhythmus (“An Investigation of the Psychology and Aesthetic of Rhythm”); Robert MacDougall’s investigations on the auditory perception of simple rhythmic sequences appeared in the then-newly founded Psychological Review (1902, 1903); Charles H. Sears’s journal article and monograph Studies in Rhythm (1902) also contained reports on experimental investigations; Herbert Woodrow’s A Quantitative Study of Rhythm (1909), part of his PhD work at Columbia University, investigated the effect of changes in intensity and duration on rhythm perception; Christian Ruckmich compiled a bibliography of rhythm that appeared in The American Journal of Psychology in 1913, with 344 titles.12 The list was supplemented and underwent several later updates in 1915, 1918, and 1924. The list is the “most nearly complete in the psychological field” (Ruckmich 1918, 215): rhythm is related to many other subjects within the field such as “attention, work, fatigue, temporal estimation, affection, and melody” (Ruckmich 1913b, 305). The list also touches upon studies on rhythm in other fields encompassing music, visual arts, prosody, pedagogy, dancing, physiology, biology, geology, physics, and even chemistry, thus pointing to the universality of rhythm as a general principle. Among these scholars, Meumann, who studied with Wilhelm Wundt at the Leipzig institute, considered rhythm primarily as a product of mental activity. He noted that, even in monotonous sequences, the human mind creates differences in intensity and duration, thereby causing the experience of rhythm. Such a “subjective rhythmization (Rhythmisirung) supports the idea that rhythm is the product of intellectual and psychological processes” (Meumann 1894, 26). This idea is in line with most nineteenth-century psychologists’ conceptualization of rhythm in Germany, especially Wundt. Meumann’s discussion is of particular interest because his study includes reviews of music-theoretical studies on rhythm by Moritz Hauptmann, Rudolf Georg Hermann Westphal, Johann Christian Lobe, and Hugo Riemann, as well as a discussion of psychological works by Wundt, Ernst Mach, and Hermann Lotze. Although he found Riemann’s use of the term “Rhythmus” too narrow, Meumann considered Riemann’s conceptualization as the best fulfillment of the requirements of a psychological understanding of rhythm (Meumann 1894, 48, 49). He argued that the higher intellectual processes are always involved in the formation of rhythm (Meumann 1894, 26). Such a conception of rhythm features in many contemporaneous experimental studies investigating temporal consciousness and rhythm perception. Nevertheless, these early psychological studies also investigated another aspect, namely the motor aspect of musical rhythm, to which this chapter would like to draw attention. Wrapping up his report of the experimental results on rhythm perception, for instance, Bolton discusses the “subject of muscular movements and their relation to rhythm”: “Most subjects felt themselves impelled by an irresistible

The musicking body-machine 19 force to make muscular movements of some sort accompanying the rhythms” (Bolton 1894, 234; emphasis added). These physical activities were considered not as a subsidiary accompaniment but as an integral part of rhythm perception. He also notes that the participants not only felt the urge to move their bodies but also visualized various objects in listening to the rhythmic sequences, such as pendulums, clocks, and revolving wheels. These muscular movements and object associations were considered to be the conditions of rhythmic grouping. Sears’s study (1902) further emphasized the motor aspect of musical rhythm by focusing on the production rather than the perception of rhythm. He investigated children’s rhythm production (such as tapping behaviors) through questionnaires, observations, and experimental methods. In another study, he collected data directly from professional pianists’ performances. Using a small reed organ with a recording apparatus attached, he traced the timing records upon the smoked surface of a kymograph drum and measured the duration of the notes played. With four pianists participating in the study, Sears found a wide range of interpersonal differences regarding timing perception. The study is significant not merely as “a contribution of facts gathered directly from the records” but also as a study dealing with the motor aspect of musical rhythm from a performer’s perspective. Rhythm was thus mainly discussed in the context of production involving the performer’s body. Scholarly attention on rhythm as a bodily activity appears in many psychologists’ works of the time. As Ruckmich notes, “by far the greater number of investigators and systematic writers on the subject of rhythm emphasise the primary importance of kinaesthesis and of motor response in rhythmical perceptions” (Ruckmich 1913b, 308–309). Many of these scholars harkened back to and cited a passage from Théodule Ribot’s Psychologie de l’attention (1889): “Every intellectual state is accompanied by physical manifestations. Thought is not, – as many from tradition still admit, – an event taking place in a purely super-sensual, ethereal, inaccessible world.”13 This notion of rhythm resonates with the notion of the human motor discussed earlier. At this juncture, it is worth citing a few excerpts from Sears’s study of timing variations between expert pianists. Starting with a comparison of the mechanical performances of music boxes and human pianists, his study explicitly reflects how rhythm as an activity is related to body and force: Thus rhythm is still a principle underlying and unifying all forms of human activity. Not only does it appear in the arts of movement – music, poetry, dance – but in the various labor activities, and in the arts of rest – sculpture and painting – which are the embodiments of the results of labor. It governs all-natural activity of the animal body as a regulating economical element for the expenditure of vital force. Rhythmic activity permits of the rhythmic automatic formation of movements from which springs satisfaction, freedom of mind, and opportunity for the imagination to act. Irregular forming of activity or unrhythmical movements are in a much greater sense consumers of energy in that every new operation demands a new action of the intellect. In a word,

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The musicking body-machine rhythm lightens and facilitates labor, it is a prominent source of aesthetic pleasure, and it is an element of art for which everyone has in some measure a perception. (Sears 1902, 22; emphasis added)

Here, rhythm is presented in productive terms. It results from the activities of the human body, which converts vital force or energy via labor. Such a description of rhythm in terms of force, energy, and labor reveals a significant shift in the conceptualization of musical time. It came to be understood not as a purely mental experience of successive minima sensibilia but as dynamic experiences that consist of actual movements.

Musical rhythm and labor Such an emphasis on the motor aspect of rhythm in these experimental studies parallels the emergence of rhythm as a critical component of human beings in the age of industrialization and technology at the end of the nineteenth century. A more substantial discussion of rhythm in the context of work and economics appears in the works of German scholar Karl Bücher. An economist and sociologist, he discussed the inherent connection between working bodies of human beings and rhythm in his Arbeit und Rhythmus (“Labor and Rhythm,” 1896). First published in 1896 and expanded in 1899, the book had a significant impact and was extremely popular: it underwent six editions until 1924 and was translated into Russian and Spanish but not in English.14 Bücher’s book was cited as an authority on the theories of rhythm and efficiency in many later writings across the various disciplines of economics, psychology, anthropology, and musicology. According to Bücher, rhythm is “derived from the organic essence of human beings.” It is a natural means of regulating all the activities of the animal body according to the law of the most economical use of forces (Bücher 1899, 358).15 Rhythm is bodily grounded, and it thus affects bodily work. Rhythm renders our movements automatic, thereby decreasing the amount of energy needed for each task. In a nutshell, Bücher account of rhythm is closely related to the production of labor and is based on the notion of the human body as a motor: “A workman’s physical contribution can always be reduced to the simple movements of his muscles. Every continuous using of a muscle produces fatigue” (Bücher 1899, 24).16 This fatigue is caused physically (e.g., the conscious use of the same muscle) and psychologically (e.g., sustained mental alertness). If we make the physical movement mechanical, then the fatigue can be relieved. This automatization process is related to psychology, for, with purely mechanical, automatic movement, we do not need the guidance of the will (Bücher 1899, 25). The rhythm of the work determines the rhythm of music: Not only does the maintaining of a regular rhythm support the workmen’s movement; it also has an encouraging effect, due to its essential musical

The musicking body-machine 21 character, and gives all those who can hear it an idea of how the work is progressing. It may thus be said that rhythm of music both facilitates and promotes work. (Bücher 1899, 28–29)17 Bücher considered music, as well as dance and poetry, as arising from the bodily movements of working people. His study included an analysis of a vast number of work songs in America, Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. The rhythm of these songs is related to the rhythm of the work performed, such as milling, spinning, and grinding. For instance, “joyous, carefree, occasional” work songs for spinning contrast with the more serious and heavy songs for grinding (see Blacking 1987, 57). The most important aspect of these work songs is the rhythm of physical movement; the lyrics of the songs are in many cases meaningless. They merely function as the carriers of the rhythm. Bücher’s discussion of rhythm and labor can also be understood as a response to the industrialization of modern society at the time. He contrasted the mechanical rhythm of factory labor with the rhythm of the “Naturvölker.” With the latter, Bücher notes the pleasure and efficiency of labor, which is affected by the rhythm of the work songs.18 Like many other thinkers among his contemporaries, for Bücher, these primitive cultures show us an early phase of civilization during which “there was no closer distinction between art and play” (cited in Bujić 1988, 330). Bücher considered rhythm as “a principle of economic development.”19 The use of rhythm increased productivity. He saw

Figure 1.1 One of the spinning songs cited in Bücher (1899), 92–93. “Droben auf grünen der Heid.”

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his own time as the “Machine Age”: “the great technological advances of the last century and today’s ‘Machine Age’ would not have been possible without the long preliminary evolution of the division of labor and the collecting together of similar occupations” (Bücher 1899, 379).20 At the same time, he deplored the discrepancy between the rhythms of humans and machines. With the advent of mechanized labor, “the working person is no longer the master of his movements . . . but the tool has become master over him,” dictating his movement (Bücher 1899, 381).21 In order to restore the pleasure of the work, the two rhythms need to be synchronized as in the primitive, original state of natural peoples. Bücher noted that the conceptualization of rhythm as a principle permeating the universe might be foreign to contemporary people. Deploring the fact that rhythm was hardly noticed in bodily movements and even in music, he noted that rhythm “stepped back so much behind melody and harmony that even music scholars recognize only a secondary role in rhythm.”22 Although a criticism and deprecation of modernization and the alienation of rhythm permeate the book, it nevertheless ends on a hopeful note to reconstruct the utopian rhythm. He writes that we should not give up the hope to combine technology and art into “a higher rhythmic unity, which might restore the serene contentment of mind and the harmonious physical development characteristic of the best natural people” (Bücher 1899, 383).23 One may note that Bücher’s discussion of rhythm and labor centralizes work songs, particularly those pertaining to collective rhythmical work. Some scholars, such as psychologist James Burt Miner, who worked on motor and visual rhythm, inherited this idea: “The most pleasurable rhythm is that in which the kinaesthetic sensations are reinforced by sensations accompanying the regular bodily rhythms, i.e., when the two coincide. Genetically rhythm arose with the coordination of regular movement sensations and more rapid serial sensations. Biologically it was fostered because serving the purpose of economy” (Miner 1903, 20). This phenomenon corresponds to what historian William Hardy McNeil calls “muscular bonding,” that is, how “moving big muscles together and chanting, singing, or shouting rhythmically” can induce emotion that constitutes “an indefinitely expansible basis for social cohesion” (1995, 2). In today’s music scholarship, the concept of “entrainment” can explain the synchronization between music and the musculature of the body as well as the interactions between entrained bodies.24 The growing emphasis on the collective dimension of rhythm and labor in the early twentieth century may be seen as a response to “the growing sense of isolation and anonymity accompanying life in the city” (Cowan 2007, 231). Hence, Bücher’s legacy extends beyond the realm of ethnology and folksong studies to a broader discourse on the body. The notion of rhythm as primarily an auditory phenomenon was thus challenged. Rhythm was grounded in bodily activities and considered as something much more fundamental.

The musicking body-machine 23

Rhythm in the “body culture” The connection between the human body and rhythm continued to be explored by several thinkers. In the specific context of early twentieth-century Germany, the meaning of rhythm was foregrounded in “body culture” (Körperkultur); here, the reciprocity between rhythm and body developed and underwent some key modifications. The topic of rhythm and body in body culture has mostly been discussed in the context of dance and gymnastics,25 but we will selectively discuss two figures whose ideas were significantly related to music. Rhythm was the central subject in various kinds of writings of the German psychologist, thinker, graphologist, and notoriously outspoken anti-Semite Ludwig Klages, whose ideas have been rarely studied on his own terms but have been found scattered in many footnotes.26 Klages’ ideas are most frequently brought up concerning his influence on other writers such as Walter Benjamin.27 Among his prolific output, his essay Vom Wesen des Rhythmus (“The Nature of Rhythm,” [1923] 1933) is most immediately related to the discussion of musical rhythm. Like Bücher, Klages exalted the primitive state prior to modern mechanization and adhered to a faith in the “noble savage” (Baer 1941, 105; see Fairchild 1928).28 However, Klages’s ideas depart significantly from Bücher and others: he did not see the body as a human motor and did not consider it as governed by the principle of efficiency. To him, rhythm is not something that resides in the mechanical succession of identical things. This mere succession of individual elements was termed “Takt.”29 Takt has to do with the regular division of a temporal phenomenon and is associated with the percussive movements of machinery. This “movement mechanism” is “the purest appearance of the rule” (Klages 1934a, 224).30 In contrast to Takt that is derived from a touch, thrust, or strike – characterizing mass production – rhythm comes from a sense of flow and its continuity can be best thought of as a waveform.31 His conception of musical rhythm is closely related to his philosophy of life (Lebensphilosophie) that instituted modern vitalism. In discussing the rhythm of primitive peoples’ dances, for example, Klages spoke of the liberation from inhibitions. Rhythm in these forms of music allows people to be seized by the pulsation of life and be temporarily liberated from the chains and barriers posed by the regulating mind (Klages 1934, x). Rhythm is here imbued with a Dionysian sense and is related to a state of intoxication or trance.32 Such a view is in stark contrast to that of many other contemporaneous psychologists, who mainly understood rhythm as the organizing process of perception. Klages noted that the experience of rhythm is associated with the irrational and its essence is continuum. It is notable here that, through the discussion of Takt and rhythm, Klages identified various psychological agencies. His most well-known book is Der Geist als Widersacher der Seele (“The Mind as Antagonist of the Soul,” 1929–32). In music-theoretical terms, Klages’s Takt corresponds to meter or normative period structure. Takt arises from the psychological necessity to grasp the temporal phenomenon and is, therefore, closely associated with the rational Geist (mind).

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Mind, as the agency of Takt, delineates boundaries and segments the flow of time (Klages 1934). The true nature of rhythm, on the other hand, lies in continuity wherein the boundaries are not clearly marked. Such a boundless rhythm cannot be comprehended by the mind: “The upward movement glides over into the downward movement and vice versa so that no edge appears either at the upper or lower turning points. A curve appears instead, and here, the undivided continuity of a movement with a structure becomes vividly evident to us” (Klages [1923] 1934, 17).33 Rhythm belongs to the vital phenomenon; living things never repeat themselves in like ways. Takt and rhythm can, therefore, be compared to factory and manual work.

The “irrational,” continuous rhythm Klages’s works were frequently cited by later scholars. Rudolf Bode, who later became the proponent of the Nazi body culture, was one of them. Having once worked with music pedagogue Emile-Jaques Dalcroze (the expounder of Eurhythmics) who took human bodily movement as the basis for all musical ideas, Bode himself devised a specific gymnastic pedagogy, opened his own school of rhythmic gymnastics (die Bode-Schule für rhythmische Gymnastik), and promoted the significance of rhythm in physical education (Bode 1920, 1925, 1931, 1933, 2013, 2014).34 While Bode’s achievement as a dance reformer in physical education has occasionally been discussed, his relationship to music has received scant attention.35 Here, we focus on Bode’s discussion of music on two accounts: first, his theory of musical rhythm and, second, the relationship between these discussions and piano playing. Bode continued the discussion on the connection between modernization and rhythm that Bücher had begun in the previous century. Modernization was seen as a process of “de-rhythmification” (Entrhythmisierungsprozeß), the gradual repression of a primal rhythm. True continuous rhythm, it was argued, is grounded in the human body. The body’s rhythm has to be liberated from the repression of the mechanical and technological order (Bode 1925, 33). Challenging the atomistic approach of early psychology, Bode found the essence of rhythm to be in “interconnectedness – the totality of existence” (Bode 2014, 54). His emphasis on totality, not on individual parts, recalls the influence of Gestalt psychology. However, Bode’s totality concerns itself with the irrational, not cognitive processes. Evoking Klages’s notion of rhythm discussed earlier, Bode asserted that “true rhythm is a continuum” (Bode 2014, 54), unlike the technological Takt, order, and rule: “a continuum is not rationally graspable at all; it can only be looked at and experienced: therefore, rhythm has to be part of the irrational. Rhythm is irrational” (Bode 2014, 55). In music-theoretical terms more specifically, rhythm should not be confused with “meter . . . as shown in the notation” (Bode 2014, 68). Bode argued that we

The musicking body-machine 25 have to restore the human body’s organic rhythm, which distinguishes itself from the mechanical machine-like Takt: “Rhythm is a vital principle, whereas Takt is intellectual. The rhythmic object is linked to the continuum of life, whereas Takt has an isolated existence” (Bode 2014, 58). In explaining the undulating motion of musical rhythm, both Klages and Bode frequently referred to the analogy of a wave, which is one of the most significant conceptual metaphors of theories of musical rhythm. Both Klages and Bode noted the Greek etymology of the word ρ‛έω (rhéō, “flow”; Klages [1923] 1934, 16; Bode [1930] 1942, 25). The analogy of wave trains highlighted the irresolvable continuity of rhythm (Bode [1930] 1942, 30). Like Klages, Bode also argued that “the rhythmic process must be a fluid, constant process” (Bode 1932, 641).36 Rhythm concerns not the subdivision (Gliederung) but the lived experience (Erleben) of a structured process (Bode 1932, 642). It is rhythm, “the renewal of the similar,” that is distinct from Takt, “the repeat of the same” (Bode [1930] 1942, 38).37

Rhythm and the piano-playing body This metaphoric conceptualization of rhythm as wave may appear abstract. Nonetheless, their discussions are closely related to music theory and pedagogy, which influenced later music theorists.38 While remaining even more obscure than Klages in terms of modern scholarship, Bode’s idea of rhythm deserves closer consideration given that it is more intimately related to the performing body. Being a pianist and musician himself, Bode wrote explicitly on the subject of music. His book Musik und Bewegung (“Music and Movement,” [1930] 1942) starts with an epigraph from conductor Wilhelm Furtwängler and is dedicated to him: “The ability to experience and form music as a natural organic process characterizes the composer; it also marks the true performer.”39 Bode emphasized the interconnectedness of body and soul and argued for the synthesis of the two in the context of music education (i.e., not only in general living and in dance). Criticizing the view of music as “something purely spiritual and detached from the body” (Bode [1930] 1942, 7), he contended for the interdependence of body and soul: “The origin of every bodily movement is, in fact, psychic in nature” (Bode [1930] 1942, 15).40 The source of rhythmic feeling is “not the body, not the soul, but the ensouled body” (Bode [1930] 1942, 24).41 In many places, Bode emphasized the importance of sound-producing actions and their significance for perception: “Tones are created by tone-generating movement, and this connection cannot be eliminated by any abstraction or isolation of the sounding event . . . because the essence of the individuality of tone is determined by the character of the generating movement”42 (Bode 1933, 25). This view carries similarities to the concepts of “embodied cognition” and common coding theory in recent cognitive sciences.43 Bode once cited an excerpt from Goethe’s letter to the German composer Carl Friedrich Zelter, wherein it was written “you only understand what you can do yourself, and you only grasp what you

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can produce yourself ” (Bode 1931, 720–721).44 Therefore, a pause, for instance, is perceived differently by a dilettante and an artist. To a dilettante, it is an “empty stretch without content”; to an artist, however, it is “completely filled with the stream of the energetic events of the internal dynamics,” “embedded in the flow of movement” (Bode 1931, 722).45 This conception of musical elements as bodily gestures is also related to Bode’s constant reference to the significance of upbeatness (Auftaktigkeit). In his treatise on piano playing,46 Bode noted that the bodily movements involved in piano playing should form the shape of waves just like other fundamental motions in nature. Unfortunately, according to him, the contemporaneous piano playing methods were uneconomic and unrhythmic. They placed too much emphasis on the falling rather than the swinging motions of the arms (Bode 1933, 20–21). However, upbeatness is the precondition of an artistic performance, and this principle is not only of a psychological nature but is also present in the process of bodily movements (Bode 1933, 20).47 Upbeatness is fundamental, but it is “stupid” to only ground it on the notated scores without reference to the true movement process (Bode [1930] 1942, 32).48 From the perspective of the tone-generating process, every single note comprises a wave on the fluctuating arc of the dynamics. There is a “sounding and non-sounding (but still strongly experienced) upbeat” (Bode [1930] 1942, 60).49 He wrote, “The non-sounding upbeatness is like the preparatory movement for the tone. And this movement process is fundamental to the experience of music” (Bode [1930] 1942, 62).50 On this ground, Bode criticized many phrasing editions trying to “improve” Beethoven’s original phrasing. Once the sounding and non-sounding upbeats are acknowledged, there is no need to modify a single arc with Beethoven’s phrasing marks. For instance, Bode compared the phrasing marks of the theme in Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7, Allegretto, by theorist Hugo Leichtentritt (1927) and those by the composer himself (Figure 1.2). These distortions occurred because, for Leichtentritt, phrasing simply concerned the chains of tones. The production process (Erzeugungsvorgang) was not considered, and this was the significant error on the part of Hugo Riemann and his disciples, argued Bode. Once the movement, the crucial element of phrasing, is considered, it becomes evident that “Every single note is a single, sometimes

Figure 1.2 Comparison of the phrasing marks of the theme in Beethoven, Symphony No. 7, Allegretto, represented in Leichtentritt ([1927] 1951, 18; above) and Beethoven’s own phrasing as represented in Bode ([1930] 1942, 32; below).

The musicking body-machine 27

(a)

(b) Figure 1.3 Bode’s graphic representation of upbeatness and the performer’s bodily movements (Bode [1930] 1942, 70–71). Reprinted by permission from Springer Nature.

larger, sometimes smaller, wave, and they are constantly connected on the vibrational arc of the dynamics.” Furthermore, “there is not a single tone that would not be dynamically upbeat, whether that upbeat sounds or is mute” (Bode [1930] 1942, 33–34). Bode even attempted to depict the relationship between upbeatness and the performer’s bodily movement. The movement process can be represented temporally as in the waveform in Figure 1.3. Between two attacks to produce sounds, a rapid decrease in tension is observed, which refers to a genuine upbeat that prepares the listener for the next attack (Bode [1930] 1942, 70). This upbeat movement is “derived by the listener directly from the sounds and forms the basis for the connection of the musical experience.”51 If the tempo gets faster, the time for relaxation approaches zero, and the motion curve becomes progressively simplified, as in the waveforms in Figure 1.3(b) (Bode [1930] 1942, 70–71).52

Concluding remarks This chapter identified and discussed the ramifications of understanding the human body as machine across the fields of philosophy, psychology, music theory, and pedagogy in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Despite various disciplinary origins, these discussions can be combined to form a discourse that considers rhythm to be the product of the human body, the “musicking body machine.” The machine model of the body was inherited from the eighteenth century but developed with several modifications in the late nineteenth century. The motor model of the body, which arose from the scientific formulation of energy in contemporaneous physics and physiology, further influenced the conceptualization of music and musical rhythm. The efficiency of work, the principle of “the least expenditure of energy,” was applied to explain musicmaking, especially in Bücher’s pioneering work. Experimental psychologists considered rhythm as behavior and began to imply the tight junction between perceived and produced musical time via the human body. In the course of various

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conceptual applications, further and more significant alterations occurred. With Klages and Bodes, for example, the individuality of the moving body was emphasized: “Human movement has individual character. In walking, handwriting and other bodily movements, and also in the quality of the voice there is an outstanding characteristic which remains constant throughout life” (Bode 1931, 10). More importantly, Bode noted that individualistic, continuous movement characterizes the vital, living organisms, as opposed to machines. The living body is thus no longer modeled after the machine. Instead, it is characterized by rhythm: “rhythm is an essential element of everything living” (Bode 1931, 13). These shifts in lines of inquiry occurred in the context of the Machine Age as a response to the development of technology. The issue of the body was intrinsically tied to temporality, hence modernity’s preoccupation with rhythm. Rhythm was conceptualized as bodily grounded. The emerging presupposition of the body as a motor presented a paradox to musical time. This notion can entail the connotations of repeating, automating, measuring, and machining movements or, on the contrary, the primal, organic rhythm of the human body as forms of vitality. Ultimately, how we conceptualize the human body impacts the notion of musical rhythm and, conversely, the ideas of musical rhythm play a key role in conceptualizing the human body.

Notes 1 The original title reads: “Menschen sind Maschinen der Engel” (Jean Paul, Werke, pt. 2, 1: 1028–30). For the contextual analysis of Jaquet-Droz’s piano-playing automaton, see Voskuhl (2007). 2 For further discussion of musical automata in these two of Hoffmann’s works, see Engberg-Pedersen (2018). 3 For historical studies of automata, see Kang (2011), which also points out the change in meaning of the word “automaton”: “the ancient Greek word automaton had a very general meaning of self-mover, denoting an object or being that possessed an innate capacity to be mobile without the manipulation by an outside force. . . . In the latter part of the eighteenth century, a narrower definition emerged: the automaton as a self-moving machine built for the specific purpose of mimicking a living creature, as opposed to solely serving a utilitarian function” (7). For a discussion of musical automata, see Hirt (2010) and Voskuhl (2013). 4 Huxley’s address was presented at the meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science in 1874. On the same occasion, one of the most prominent physicists of the time, John Tyndall, delivered his presidential address (known as the Belfast Address) that is often described as “the chief pronouncement of the materialism of the nineteenth century” (Sir Oliver Lodge, Advancing Science, being Personal Reminiscences of the British Association in the Nineteenth Century, London: Ernest Benn, 1931, 35; cited in Barton (1987), 111). 5 The idea of a “living machine” manifests itself differently in different contexts and periods. See, for example, Kang (2011) for a historical overview of automata in European culture up to the mid-twentieth century and Prescott et al. (2018) for recent research in biomimetic and biosynthetic systems. 6 Emil Du Bois-Reymond, “Festrede zur Feier des Leibnizschen Jahrestages,” Sitzungsberichte der königlichen Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin, 1894, 628–629; quoted in Hiebert (2014), 17. For a discussion of the eighteenth-century lifeforce and musical rhythm as a physiological principle, see Wellman (2017).

The musicking body-machine 29 7 See Rabinbach (1990). Here, the term “labor” is used in the broader sense of physical work by humans, including the connotation of effort and exertion. 8 For a detailed study of the ideas about time and meter studies from the sixteenth to the early nineteenth centuries, see Grant (2014). 9 See Walker (2009), 340. 10 The present book uses the “American edition” in 1865. The first edition was published in 1863 in London. Spencer’s “On the Origin and Function of Music” (1857), which is more widely discussed in musicology, will be considered in Chapter 2. 11 Spencer also often used the expression “social force.” See House (1925). 12 Christian Ruckmich later changed his name to Ruckmick. For the discussion of his contribution to the psychology of feeling and emotion and motion picture studies, see Malin (2014). 13 Translation from The Psychology of Attention, 1890, 12. 14 Martin Cooper partially translates the second edition of the book in Bujić (1988, 327–333). For the discussion of Bücher in the context of modernism, see Cowan (2011) and Golston (2007). 15 “Der Rhythmus entspringt dem organischen Wesen des Menschen. Alle natürliche Bethätigung des thierischen Körpers scheint er als das regulierende Element sparsamsten Kräfteverbrauchs zu beherrschen.” 16 “Die körperliche Aufgabe des Arbeiters lässt sich überall auf die Hervorbringung einfacher Muskelbewegungen zurückführen. Jede fortgesetzte Inanspruchnahme des gleichen Muskels bringt Ermüdung hervor” (Bujić 1988, 328). 17 “Nicht nur dass er das Festhalten eines gleichen Zeitmasses der Bewegung unterstützt; er übt auch zugleich durch das ihm innewohnende musikalischen Element eine incitative Wirkung aus und unterstellt die Arbeit selbst der Kontrole aller derjenigen, die ihren Schall vernehmen können. Man wird also sagen können, dass der Ton-Rhythmus die Arbeit erleichtert und fördert.” Translation modified from Martin Cooper in Bujić (1988, 329). 18 Nevertheless, the basic assumption of Bücher’s theory that natural rhythm is to be found in the work songs of primitive cultures is often criticized by contemporaneous ethnomusicologists as unsubstantiated. For example, Nettl points out that many traditional cultures lack work songs: “Indeed, it is only in quite sophisticated culture that the advantages of rhythmic work, and specifically singing to accompany, work have been discovered. On examination, Bücher’s theory appears unsubstantiated; apparently its opposite is closer to the truth” (Nettl 1956; cited in Gioia 2006, 111). 19 The title of Chapter IX reads: “Der Rhythmus als ökonomisches Entwicklungsprincip.” 20 “die grossen technologischen Fortschritte des letzten Jahrhunderts und heutiges ‘Maschinenzeitalter’ nichts möglich gewesen wären ohne den langen ihnen vorausgegangenen Entwicklungsprozess der Arbeitszerlegung und der Sammlung gleichartiger, der Rhythmisierung zugänglicher Arbeit an bestimmten Concentrationspunkten, wie sie Wertstätten der Berufsarbeiter boten.” Bücher (1899), 379; Translation cited from Golston (2007, 22). 21 “Der arbeitende Mensch ist nicht mehr Herr seiner Bewegungen, das Werkzeug sein Diener, sein verstärktes Körperglied, sondern das Werkzeug ist Herr über ihn geworden; es diktiert ihm das Mass seiner Bewegungen.” 22 “bei den Körperbewegungen wird er kaum beachtet, und selbst in der Tonkunst ist er so sehr hinter Melodie und Harmonie zurückgetreten, dass sogar Musikgelehrte Miene machen, ihm nur eine Nebenrolle zuzuerkennen.” Here he added a footnote, citing Hanslick’s Vom Musikalische-Schönen (7th edition), 161 ff. 23 “es darf die Hoffnung nicht aufgegeben werden, dass es gelingen wird, Technik und Kunst dereinst in einer höheren rhythmischen Einheit zusammenzufassen, die dem Geiste die glückliche Heiterkeit und dem Körper die harmonische Ausbildung wiedergiebt, durch welche sich die besten unter den Naturvölkern auszeichnen.” Translation modified and adopted from Bujić (1988, 333).

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24 See Montague (2019) for an elucidation of the notion of entrainment in music. 25 See, for example, Toepfer (1997) and Krüger (1996). 26 Klages’s works are not well known in the English-speaking world. The only work fully translated into English is Die Grundlagen der Charakterkunde as The Science of Character (1929). Partial translations are found in Lebovic (2006, 2013), Klages (2013, 2015), and more recently, Bishop (2018). None of these works deal with Klages’s writings on music. 27 See, for example, Charles (2018). 28 Klages was aware of the contemporary comparative musicologists’ work on phonograms. For example, Carl Stumpf’s Die Anfänge der Musik (“The Beginnings of Music,” 1911) and the transcriptions of the primitive songs are mentioned in Klages [1923] 1934. 29 This dichotomic conception of meter and rhythm has persisted long in Western musictheoretical tradition in the twentieth century. Hasty (1997) presents a dissolution of the division by conceptualizing meter as rhythm. 30 “die reinste Erscheinung der Regel ist der Bewegungsmechanismus.” 31 Although he did not attempt any methodical take on rhythm as a wave, his approach subscribes to the graphical viewpoint. Klages is known for his pioneering work on graphology and the psychology of handwriting. He claims that the overall quality of the “form level” (formniveau) of the writing reveals one’s character. In other words, the vital rhythms of the body can be approached through the trace of one’s handwriting, and such a view is consolidated in Klages’s The Science of Character. The main idea can be summarized in the following: “The conflict between rhythm (soul) and measure/ Takt (mind) is manifested in the handwriting” (Stein-Lewinson 1938, 172). The influence of Gestalt psychology is evident here. More important, his graphic approach and the idea of the wave-form significantly influenced later music-theoretical conceptualization of rhythm and meter. 32 In this regard, it is noteworthy that Klages was a member of the mystical and antimodernistic “George Circle” (George-Kries) led by the expressionist poet Stefan George. 33 “gleitet die Aufbewegung in die Abbewegung hinüber und umgekehrt, derart daß weder am oberen noch am unteren Wendepunkt eine Kante entspringt. Im stattdessen erscheinenden Bogen wird uns anschaulich offenbar die unzergrenzte Stetigkeit einer Bewegung von nicht zu verkennender Gliederung.” 34 For the discussion of the “nationalization of rhythm,” see Toepfer (1997, 127–29) and Golston (2007). 35 See the special issue of Body & Society on “Rhythm, Movement Embodiment” (Vol. 20 (3&4), 2014. A partial English translation of Bode’s Der Rhythmus und seine Bedeutung für die Erziehung (Jena: Verlag Eugen Diederichs, 1920) by Paola Crespi is available in that issue. 36 His article “Rhythmik und Mechanik” was published in one of the two special issues of the German music magazine Die Musik on “music and movement” in 1932. Other contributors to these issues include Émile Jaques-Dalcroze, Carl Orff, and Igor Stravinsky. 37 “der Takt die Wiederkehr des Gleichen, der Rhythmus aber die Erneuerung des Ähnlichen bedeutet.” 38 A rare summary and discussion of Klages appeared in one of the writings by the Viennaborn musicologist Victor Zuckerkandl ([1956] 1969), who, as Suppan (2001) notes, remained an obscure scholar, partly due to the curious combination of disciplines such as Schenker’s music theory, phenomenology, and folk music studies. The imprint of Klage’s notion is evident in Zuckerkandl’s discussion of music. Zuckerkandl’s conception of music and the role of the force metaphor are discussed in Chapter 5. 39 “Die Fähigkeit, Musik als naturgebundenen organischen Prozeß zu erleben und zu bilden, kennzeichnet den Schöpfer; sie kennzeichnet auch den wahren Darstellenden.”

The musicking body-machine 31 40 “Der Ursprung auch jeder körperlichen Bewegung ist in der Tat psychischer Natur.” Emphasis in the original. 41 “das Rhythmusgefühl endgültig, dessen Quelle nicht der Körper, nicht die Seele, sondern der beseelte Körper ist.” Emphasis in the original. 42 “Töne entstehen durch tonerzeugende Bewegung und dieser Zusammenhang ist durch keine Abstraktion und keine noch so weit gehende Isolierung des Tongeschehens zu beseitigen, denn das Wesen der Individualität des Tones ist ja gerade bedingt durch den Charakter der erzeugenden Bewegung.” 43 For discussions on embodied music cognition and common coding theory in music, see Haueisen and Knösche (2001), Drost et al. (2005), Lahav et al. (2007), Maes et al. (2014), MacRitchie et al. (2013), and Ammirante and Thompson (2012), among others. 44 “Man begreift nur, was man selbst machen kann, und man faßt nur, was man selbst hervorbringen kann.” Letter to Zelter (March 28, 1804). The exchanges between Goethe and Zelter have been translated into English in Bodley (2009). The concerned sentence is not included in this translation. 45 “beim Künstler ist die Pause völlig angefüllt mit dem Strom des energetischen Geschehens der Innendynamik, beim Dilettanten ist sie eine leere Strecke ohne Inhalt . . . völlig eingebettet in den Bewegungsstrom.” 46 In this treatise, scales are notated with an anacrusis beginning. See Kim (2021). 47 “die Verbindung ist also nicht nur geistiger Art, sondern gleichzeitig im körperlichen Bewegungsvorgang vorhanden.” See also Bode (1933, 35), for his emphasis on upbeat movement (Auftaktbewegung). 48 “Dabei hat dieser mit der höchsten Meisterschaft und größten Gewissenhaftigkeit seine Phrasierungsbögen gesetzt, freilich nicht aus einer stupiden Auftakttheorie heraus, die, weil nur am Notenbild abgelesen, den wahren Bewegungsvorgang völlig mißachtet. . . . So gewiß die Lehre vom Auftakt grundlegend ist, so sinnlos ist ihre Anwendung ohne Zugrundelegung des dynamischen Geschehens.” 49 “daß es klingende und nicht klingende (aber trotzdem stark erlebte) Auftakte gibt.” 50 “Die nicht klingende Auftaktigkeit ist gleich der vorbereitenden Bewegung für die Tongebung. Und dieser Bewegungsvorgang hat fundamentale Bedeutung für das Erleben der Musik.” 51 “Diese Auftaktbewegung wird vom Hörer unmittelbar aus dem Klanggeschehen erschlossen und ist die Grundlage für den Zusammenhang des musikalischen Erlebens.” 52 “Wird das Tempo schneller, so nähert sich die für die Entspannung verbleibende Zeit der Null und die Bewegungskurve erhält eine fortschreitend vereinfachte Form.”

2

“A force of nature” Tracing voice

Animal, machine, and voice Often described as “the last man who knew everything,” German scholar and polymath Athanasius Kircher wrote Musurgia Universalis (1650), the most comprehensive treatise on the music of the seventeenth century. This all-embracing tome approaches topics in acoustics, music theory, history, composition, instrumentation, and the philosophy and aesthetics of music (Findlen 2004).1 The first section of the treatise concerns the nature of sound and the voice of nature. After discussing the production and transmission of sound, as well as the anatomy and function of the ear and vocal organ, Kircher wrote of a curious creature. A threetoed sloth, indigenous to South America, allegedly sang up and down a hexachord (1650, 26–27). This “singing sloth” was a fantastic and eerie animal not only in the local folklore but also to many contemporary readers of the treatise.2 Kircher even attributed the origin of music to the sounds produced by the sloth: “If music was first invented in America, I would say that it must have begun with the amazing voice of this animal” (cited in Crane 1956, xxvi). Another mysterious singing voice appeared in the eighteenth century, this time coming from a machine called Die Sprech-Maschine, which was constructed by inventor Wolfgang von Kempelen.3 Mostly known for The Turk, a chess-playing “automaton” (that later turned out to be a hoax), Kempelen devoted almost twenty years of his life to this “speaking machine.”4 He also published a detailed study on the representational model of the human vocal tract (Kempelen 1791). The invention of the machine was sensational. One contemporary comment testifies as follows: You cannot believe, my dear friend, how we were all seized by a magic feeling when we first heard the human voice and human speech which apparently didn’t come from a human mouth. We looked at each other in silence and consternation and we all had goose-flesh produced by horror in the first moments. (quoted by Felderer 2002, 269; cited in Dolar 2006, 6) The speaking machine evoked a mystical and even spiritual ambiance, suggesting a sort of “ghost in the machine.”5 A human voice, which is supposedly unique, DOI: 10.4324/9781003056201-3

“A force of nature” 33 had emerged out of a mechanical machine.6 This sort of singing machine continued to enchant listeners. Nineteenth-century psychiatrist Ernst Jentsch referred to the mechanical singing doll “Olympia” in The Tales of Hoffman as “uncanny (unheimlich)” (Jentsch 1906). Kircher’s singing sloth and Kempelen’s speaking machine were two strange cases of voicing creatures (see Figure 2.1). It begs the question: why do these two (a)

(b)

Figure 2.1 Kircher’s singing sloth (Kircher 1650, 27) and Kempelen’s speaking machine (Kempelen 1791, 428).

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examples sound eerie and uncanny to us? I begin with these two bizarre instances of voicing creatures because they point to the questions related to the emergence of voice as a popular subject of study in early music psychology. Let us first consider why these voicing creatures sound eerie and uncanny to us. Both make sounds similar to the human voice; however, they are not produced by human beings but by an animal and a machine, respectively. They cast doubt on the human voice as a notion, the sounds generated by the human vocal tracts and thus inextricably tied to their source. They also complicate the relationships among music, nature, and voice. Historically, music has been identified as a force of nature or, as expressed in Henry Purcell’s Hail! Bright Cecilia, “’Tis Nature’s Voice.” However, the notion of “nature” is not constant and has undergone much fluctuation.7 Before the emergence of modern science, music was considered a manifestation of nature itself, and music theory was considered under the field of natural philosophy. Reflecting the order of the natural universe, music was regarded as “a physical force of nature with evident influence on visible and invisible bodies” (Austern 2001, 30). During the Enlightenment, composer and music theorist Jean-Philip Rameau famously grounded music on the natural phenomenon of the corps sonore, the “sounding body.” The natural resonance of the overtone series became the principle of harmony (Christensen 2004; Begbie 2013). The concept of “nature” that legitimized music was an object or a physical body that could be analyzed and “an instrument of cognitive intelligibility” (Riley 2002, 109).8 When psychology began to establish itself as an independent scientific discipline in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, many scholars – whose studies collectively form the early literature on music psychology – frequently invoked the sound of nature. Conspicuous in these discourses, nature tended to be identified with the human voice. Unlike Hugo Riemann, who referred to “the howling of the storm, the roaring of the sea, the rolling of the thunder” (1895, 25) or Heinrich Schenker, who invoked the “chord of nature” (Naturklang) comprising the first five of the overtone series (1980, 42–43), early music psychologists equated the human voice with the sound of nature. Nature as the principle of legitimizing music was located not in the external world but within human beings. Human beings became the source producing voice, a force of nature in the organic world. The shift in the foundation of music from external nature to an internal voice coincided with and marked a psychological turn in theorizing music. However, this notion of voice presented conceptual problems to the emerging field of music psychology. This chapter examines the historical emergence of voice as the central concept in early music psychology and problematizes it in relation to the neighboring fields of evolutionary theory, comparative musicology, and acoustic technology.

Speech theory of music The music–voice–nature nexus is most conspicuous in the origins of music and speech. Both music and speech use the same material, namely sound. Both are generated as sequences unfolding in time and perceived aurally. Music and speech

“A force of nature” 35 naturally invite speculation as to their intertwined origins. Can we speak of “music instinct,” a hard-wired human nature, similar to “language instinct”? Since Steven Pinker’s provocative characterization of music as “auditory cheesecake” in 1997, the origins of music, its meaning in the human evolution, have been extensively discussed, argued, and disputed (see, for example, Cross 1999, 2021; Wallin et al. 2000; Tomlinson 2015). Various models have been proposed regarding the evolutionary relationship between music and voice (or speech). Authors have argued that language is the precursor of music (Pinker 1997) or vice versa (Vaneechoutte and Skoyles 1998). Violinist and conductor Yehudi Menuhin asserted the latter, saying that “Music is our oldest form of communication, older than language or art” and “it begins with the voice” (in Menuhin and Davis 1979). Many others have suggested a common origin for music and language. Referring to phrases with “melodorhythmic structures” as a common source, Steve Brown coined the term “musilanguage” (Brown 2000, 273). The Neanderthal’s hyoid bone was discovered in 1989, suggesting the possibility of complex vocal communication. However, overwhelming evidence for the existence of language among Neanderthals is lacking. Steven Mithen thus hypothesized “Hmmmm” as a proto-music/ language, a “holistic, manipulative, multimodal, musical, and mimetic” mode of communication (2007; see also Livingstone and Thompson 2009; Morley 2013; Tomlinson 2015). Recent neuroscientific studies provided evidence for shared neural resources of processing both music and language (e.g., Jungers et al. 2016). Many debates concern whether music is – similar to language – an evolutionary adaptation, non-adaptation, or exaptation. The more important issue at the heart of these controversies is the relationship between music and language, which ultimately questions and enlightens what the nature of music is (see Bannan 2012). The origin of music has recently been discussed from cognitive, archeological, and linguistic perspectives, but the relationship between music and speech was constantly contemplated in previous historical eras. During the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, many scholars speculated on the origin of music (Rehding 2000). Peter Kivy points out that this speculative nature had diminished the importance of the origin of music in scholarly discussion until recently (2007, 29). However, the aforementioned period also witnessed many disciplines, including musicology and psychology, grappling with materialistic evidence and positivistic sides. Our discussion starts with the theory put forward by English philosopher and biologist Herbert Spencer, whose ideas concerning rhythm were discussed in Chapter 1 of this book. Spencer argued for the close connection between music and speech in his 1857 essay and later revisions. His writings provoked many writers, including Charles Darwin and Richard Wallaschek, to consider the origin of music as a subject of inquiry.9 Spencer’s theory can be summarized as “In the beginning was the word (Im Anfang war das Wort),” paraphrasing the first line of the Gospel of Saint John (Stumpf 1911, 14). Viewing music as analogous to verbal expression, Spencer postulated that music evolved out of speech inflection. People accentuated normal speech and exaggerated intonations to express feelings and emotions. The genesis of music was thus closely connected with emotion,

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and, due to music playing a critical role in promoting emotional communication, it contributed to the social progress of humankind. Music developed from emotional speech, thereby providing a language of emotions.10 To Spencer, music is a tonal phenomenon in its essence rather than a rhythmic/temporal phenomenon as proposed by nineteenth-century scholars such as Wallaschek and Karl Bücher: “In the absence of combinations of tones there is no music” (Spencer 1857, 535). This rationale led Spencer to the conclusion that “all music is originally vocal.” Many later writers took a similar position. Ethnomusicologist Bruno Nettl stated, “All cultures have singing and some (if sometimes extremely rudimentary) instrumental music” (2015, 34). Philosopher of science Don Ihde speculated that the simplest origin of music must include singing (2007, 253). Music is seen as an evolutionary outcome of modifying voice in speech.11 Many contemporary scholars disputed Spencer’s speech theory of music. Darwin (1871, 1872), for example, argued for the exact opposite regarding the order of emergence. Language originated from music, not the other way around. Others argued that language and music are separate phylogenetic faculties that are unrelated to each other. In doing so, musicologist Ernest Newman resorted to the “modern physio-psychological research” of the time (1905). Pioneering experimental pathologist Salomon Stricker further contended that speech and songs are controlled by different cerebral spheres (1885, 359).12 Associating the genesis of music with vocal utterance nevertheless remained prevalent. Later scholars noted that this notion may account for the long history and universality of music. Fossil evidence shows that hominids from 1.5 million years ago were equipped with anatomical systems used for vocal communication (Frayer and Nicolay 2002; Potter and Sorrell 2014, 21). Nettl (2000) pointed out that “all societies have vocal music,” but such universality does not go with instrumental music to the same extent (468). What is noteworthy in the nineteenth-century attribution of the origin of music to voice was the shifting notion of nature, which is related to the emergence of music-psychological thinking. Music does not originate from the imitation of natural sounds but rather arises from the urge to express emotion and interact socially. The force of nature does thus not come from outside but inside. The focus is on the human body as the subject – with passions and a will to express – and not in the “sounding body” (i.e., the object). In Spencer’s theory, the body as the source of natural sound (i.e., the human voice) is emphasized in terms of the agency of voice: All vocal sounds are produced by the agency of certain muscles. These muscles, in common with those of the body at large, are excited to contraction by pleasurable and painful feelings. And therefore it is that feelings demonstrate themselves in sounds as well as in movements. (Spencer [1857] 1988, 310; emphasis added) Music results from the vocal variation of emotional speech, and the physical body is the agency of music production. The human body’s muscular contractions,

“A force of nature” 37 which occur at the “chest, larynx, and vocal chords,” bring about “all vocal music, and by consequence those of music in general” (Ibid). Spencer further asserted that the founding principle of music lies in the close relationship between the human mind and body because “all feelings . . . have this common characteristic, that they are muscular stimuli” (Spencer 1857; cited in Newman 1905, 191). Voice is characterized by its agency embedded in the relationship between “mental and muscular excitements” (1988, 310). The body as the source of voice thus provided a significant conceptual framework for the theoretical grounding of music in nature.

Voice, the body machine, and the issue of agency The concept of attributing the origin of music to speech intonation was met with resistance. Numerous strong critics of speech theory resorted to the authority of Hermann von Helmholtz, one of the most important pioneers in early music psychology. Helmholtz was also seriously engaged in the study of the human voice and other related subtopics, such as vocal physiology, vowel quality, timbre, the synthesis of vocal effects, and different voice intonations (see Steege 2015). In this chapter, his notion of vocality warrants additional consideration in the context of the musicking body machine. As indicated by the notion of the ear as a resonator, the human body was conceptualized as an assemblage of sound-producing and receiving instruments (Rabinovitz 2004, 187). Voice was also deemed as emerging from a musical instrument (the human body). The tradition of Kempelen’s speaking machine introduced at the beginning of this chapter continued until the late nineteenth century. Physiologist Johannes Müller constructed “the artificial larynx” out of rubber and various materials, and he concluded that “the human organ of voice is a reed instrument with a double membranous tongue” ([1837–1840] 1842, 2:1023). Helmholtz also constructed a mechanical model to investigate human physiology. These attempts to duplicate vocal organs and construct structural and functional models are naturally grounded in human anatomy. Müller, for instance, was known for dissecting human larynges from cadavers for experimental purposes (Müller [1837–1840] 1842; Stark 2003, 46). Nineteenth-century singer-pedagogue Manuel García experimented with animals, invented the laryngoscope and the laryngeal mirror, and established the field of vocal pedagogy on a physiological basis (García [1856] 1980). Singer Emma Seiler worked with Helmholtz and collaborated with other laryngologists; her book The Voice in Singing (1900) includes prefaces by Helmholtz and Emil Du-Bois Reymond on her contribution in Helmholtz’s physiological acoustics on voice.13 On cursory reflection, it can be assumed that there exists a close tie between the mechanical models of the voice organ and the human body. A deeper examination, however, reveals that these constructions and attempts are more complicated than mere replications of the human organ for speech production. Helmholtz’s notion of voice is a good example of this conceptual intricacy. He theorized that the particular timbre of a sound results from a series of upper partials. All sounds, including the human voice, are reproducible and synthesizable

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by mechanical means. The body – the source or origin of the sound – does not matter. What matters is the sound, the wave form. Voice is externalized, mechanized, and disembodied. Other models or “machines” like the larynx could also produce voice, even in the absence of a similar structure. Leonhard Euler, whose theory of consonance was developed further by Helmholtz, mentioned the possibility of constructing such a voice machine in his “Letter XXII, The Wonders of the Human Voice.” The construction of a machine capable of expressing sounds, with all the articulations, would no doubt be a very important discovery. Were it possible to execute such a piece of mechanism, and bring it to such perfection that it could pronounce all words, by means of certain stops, like those of an organ or harpsichord, everyone would be surprised, and justly, to hear a machine pronounce whole discourses or sermons together, with the most graceful accompaniments. . . . The thing does not seem to me impossible (16th June 1761). (Euler and Griscom 1833, 2:79) The “body” of this speech machine does not have to resemble the human voice organ. Human speech (even the vowels), can be generated and mimicked by machines composed of electrified tuning forks as long as they produce the correct series of sound waves (Helmholtz [1863] 1954, 123). Helmholtz combined certain partials using tuning forks and resonators to replicate vowel sounds, such as U, O, Ö, and A. This substantial advancement in speech synthesis signifies the detachment of voice from the human body. The close tie between voice and human anatomy is thus dissociated. As literary scholar Judith Pascoe neatly expressed, Helmholtz “untethered the voice from the body to which it had always been bound” (2011, 17). Voice, and by extension, all musical sounds, can be produced via spectral synthesis. Referring to the cause or force behind vocal production is unnecessary.

Voice as both object and subject In this manner, Helmholtz seemingly succeeded in completely objectifying and materializing voice. However, contradictory significations of voice can be observed in his other writings. Particularly pertinent is his observation of the relationships among speech, music, and emotion in an evolutionary context. Speculating on the possible nature of the earlier origin of music, Helmholtz noted the musical intonation found in speech. Speaking voice is modulated on the basis of emphases and it naturally rises or falls, particularly at the end of sentences (1954, 238). These “singing tones” are closely associated with various emotions: “Indeed, attentive observation on ordinary conversation shews us that regular musical intervals involuntarily recur, although the singing tone of the voice is concealed under the noises which characterise the individual letters, and the pitch is not held firmly, but is frequently allowed to glide up and down” (1954, 238).

“A force of nature” 39 In line with this observation, Helmholtz did not seem to oppose the prevalent view on the similarity between music and speech and the ascription of the origin of music to speech: “It is not my intention to deny that music in its initial state and simplest forms may have been originally an artistic imitation of the instinctive modulations of the voice that correspond to various conditions of the feelings” (1954, 370–371).14 The first and “natural expression of voice” may have originated from “psychical motives” as well as “mechanical and involuntary muscular contractions” (Ibid). Vocal modification, therefore, emerges as the genesis of music: “Hence all music began with singing and singing will always remain the true and natural school of all music” (1954, 325).15 However, such an endorsement of the commonly accepted view of associating music and speech through voice comes with several qualifications. For Helmholtz, music developed well beyond its possible early origins: Every completely developed melody goes far beyond an imitation of nature, even if we include the cases of the most varied alteration of voice under the influence of passion. Nay, the very fact that music introduces progression by fixed degrees both in rhythm and in the scale, renders even an approximatively correct representation of nature simply impossible, for most of the passionate affections of the voice are characterised by a gliding transition in pitch. (Helmholtz [1863] 1954, 371; emphasis added) Claiming “that mankind first learned the means of musical expression from the human voice” may be correct, but Helmholtz noted that “artistically developed music . . . departed still further from nature” (Helmholtz [1863] 1954, 371). Music developed well beyond the simple imitative role of mimicking the external world. Emotive speech exhibits a continuous “gliding” character, whereas music is characterized by a structure of fixed degrees of pitch and rhythm. As such, an important conceptual shift is observed in the relationship between music and nature. Emphasizing the contrast between continuous voice and scalar music, Helmholtz explicated a notion of music that deviates from nature. At the beginning of his treatise, Helmholtz defined the binary conception of nature and music. In the inorganic world the kind of motion we see, reveals the kind of moving force in action, and in the last resort the only method of recognising and measuring the elementary powers of nature consists in determining the motions they generate, and this is also the case for the motions of bodies or of voices which take place under the influence of human feelings. Hence the properties of musical movements which possess a graceful, dallying, or a heavy, forced, a dull, or a powerful, a quiet, or excited character, and so on, evidently chiefly depend on psychological action. (Helmholtz [1863] 1954, 2) Helmholtz posited the existence of two distinct worlds in this passage. In the outer, inorganic world, force works on the body and enables it to generate

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movement. Similarly, human feelings or psychological motives set musical instruments or the human body in motion to produce melody. Melody is thus comparable to motion in physical space, that is, we can metaphorically speak of the ascending or descending motion of melody (Helmholtz [1863] 1954, 370). Nonetheless, motion in physical space and melody are different in that the latter has a structure of fixed degrees. Helmholtz conceptualized the body mechanically. The mechanism of the ears was compared to that of a piano and extended by that of a resonator (Helmholtz 1863). The perceptual and cognitive mind is also conceptualized in line with “mental mechanics.” Apart from the receptive organ, sound-producing organs such as vocal cords are conceptualized as a kind of mechanism. The special quality of voice, however, presents difficulties for the simple mechanization of music and the body. Above all, the human voice has unique energy peaks that cannot be heard “from any other musical instruments so clearly,” and it is “so rich in those upper partials for which the human ear is so sensitive” ([1863] 1954, 116). In addition, the human voice is superior to the piano or organs because it does not have fixed intervals or notes. Its continuous nature enables easy adaptation of just intonation, which is “really natural for uncorrupted ears” (1954, 428). On the one hand, Helmholtz considered voice an object that can be analyzed and studied experimentally, that is, a “technically reproducible assemblage or laboratory object,” as Benjamin Steege claimed (2015, 179). On the other hand, Helmholtz acknowledged that voice is the common medium of emotive speech and musical expression. Music has its origin in the voice, which resides within the human body and is controlled by passions and feelings. Therefore, voice occupies an ambiguous position in Helmholtz’s theoretical framework. Voice is simultaneously an object and a subject. In his discussion on the speaking machine, philosopher Mladen Dolar expressed the bizarreness in terms of cause and effect: “It is as if the effect could emancipate itself from its mechanical origin, and start functioning as a surplus – indeed, as the ghost in the machine; as if there were an effect without a proper cause, an effect surpassing its explicable cause – and this is one of the strange properties of the voice” (2006, 7). Voice thus presents an important question with regard to music-making machines: how can a mere machine produce such a uniquely human sound, which is often identified with the soul, that is, the cause?

Voice of the “primitive” soul Many early music psychologists equated nature with the human voice, particularly the voice of “primitive” peoples. “With an ethnographic purpose in mind,” scholars in the then-emerging discipline of comparative musicology aimed to compare, group, and order “tonal products, in particular the folksongs of various peoples, countries and territories” (Adler [1885] 1981, 13). Various musical

“A force of nature” 41 systems were common within the evolutionary framework, which suggests that human races progress “from savage and simple to civilized and complex” (Rice 2001). The early forms of music were deemed to be preserved in the contemporaneous “primitive” musics of other cultures. Wallaschek’s Primitive Music (1893) thus carries the subtitle “An inquiry into the origin and development of music, songs, instruments, dances, and pantomimes of savage races.”16 Anthropologist Siegfried Nadel considered unison songs found in “the music of primitive races and likewise on certain low levels in the evolution of our occidental music” as “the most primitive, relatively undeveloped form of music” (1930, 532). Experimental psychologist Wilhelm Wundt proposed the paradigm of “folk psychology” (Völkerpsychologie) for the study of cultural products such as languages, myths, rituals, religions, and music (1911, 1916). He also contended that Western music was universally valid because it was “the only ‘true’ music, of which all other musics represented generative, or perhaps degenerative stages” (cited in Nettl 2015, 31). Looking into “primitive” music, therefore, was considered to enable scholars to fathom the early states of music. The notion of “primitive” was more than a reference to other cultures or the primitive stage of the savage in the evolutionary history of humankind. It was also ingrained with an association to the soul. The primitive was bound to the instinctive and subconscious part of human psychology such as passions, feelings, and emotions, which constitute the source of human behaviors.17 In the eighteenth century, Jean-Jacques Rousseau deemed the origin of music in the human voice to be the expression of primitive man’s passion: “In a melody, sounds act on us not only as sounds but signs of our affections, of our sentiments; this is how they arouse in us the emotions which they express” (1986, 283). These various “vocal signs” externalize the “affections of the soul.” Jean-Philippe Rameau, who regarded acoustical overtones as the natural principle of music, also struggled with the notion of the “primitive.” A few of Rameau’s musical compositions, such as Nouvelles Suites de Pièces de Clavecin (1726) and Les Indes galantes (1735) contain “savage” topics. In addition, he considered not only the natural principle of the corps sonore but also the musical “instinct” as “gift[s] of Nature.” As David Cohen pointed out, this faculty within the human subject is “non (or sub- or pre-) rational” (2001, 89). The problem of irrationality haunted both his theory and music. Peter Hoyt (2001) compared the appeal to “primitive” culture in eighteenth-century music theory with its location in modern music theory. According to him, the source of aesthetic and analytical authority is located in the subconscious. The subconscious is – as with the primitive – characterized by physical and psychological inaccessibility: “The functions provided by [the] primitive Other now seem to have been internalized” (Hoyt 2001, 210). This sense of the subconscious was sustained in subsequent eras. The primitive art of the Naturvölker (“peoples of nature”), distinguished from that of the Kulturvölker (“civilized peoples”), was described and advocated for as “before cognition” (Worringer [1908] 1997). Likewise, the origin of music was associated with the same stage. Music was seen to originate from the vocal actions caused by

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the primitive urge to express feelings. The notion of voice in comparative musicology, therefore, comes closer to the Aristotelian conception: the sound of “what has soul in it; nothing without soul utters voice” (Aristotle, De anima, 420b, 6; see Polansky 2007). Sound without meaning, intention, or the will of the utterer is not voice even if it comes from human vocal organs. Voice is “the agent that produces the impact,” “the soul resident in these parts of the body” (Aristotle 420b, 29–30; emphasis added). In addition, vocal action revives emotional agitation, and “such re-awakened feelings are projected in fancy behind the musical tones, so that these seem to be the utterances of another soul stirred to emotional movement” (Sully 1874, 579). The purposive soul is the agency of voice. Precisely because of this purposive soul, vocal action can revive emotional agitation in listeners, thereby inducing empathy. Several psychologists have also attempted to bring soul to the scene in the early twentieth century. Hugo Münsterberg argued that “all which we perform and experience consciously is only the product, not to say the by-product, of the deeper soul in us” and called for the need to consider the “purposive” soul detached from any possible cause in psychological studies (1915, 65). This soul is never an object that can be analyzed but is “always a subject, always a self, always an action” (71). The soul has returned. If atomistic, analytical, and causal psychology does not admit the soul, then it will be soon “dead as a door-nail.” Voice as the natural principle thus leads to the soul, which resides within human beings.

Recorded voice The association between voice and the purposeful soul seems rather abstract and metaphysical. How could this metaphysical sense of voice influence the psychology of music in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, which aspired to be scientific? Many early music psychologists were either practitioners of comparative musicology or were at least familiar with the study of other musical cultures. Their main concern – the voice of the “primitive” soul – was not unreal and hypothetical but concrete sonic material. Carl Stumpf, the pioneer of both comparative musicology and scientific tone psychology, conducted a considerable amount of ethnomusicological research (Hornbostel and Stumpf 1975; see Christensen 1991), and his study of Bella Coola Indians’ songs marked the birth of ethnomusicology in Germany (1886). Stumpf is also known for his contribution to early music psychology, especially through his works on tone psychology (Tonpsychologie) (1883, 1890). His psychological studies and discussion of the origin of music are closely tied to his works on comparative musicology. Stumpf discussed indigenous songs “not in their cultural context, but rather as evidence of musical circumstances that he regarded as fundamental,” approximating the position of the current social psychology of music (Motte-Haber 2012, 9). One of his later publications is dedicated to a discussion of the origin of music, and its examination shows how he struggled with ascribing the origin to voice while simultaneously deeming music as a cognitive phenomenon (Stumpf [1911] 2012). The first part of his

“A force of nature” 43 book, Die anfänge der music (1911; “The Beginnings of Music”), presents a succinct survey of the previous theories regarding the origins of music in the form of a dictum, paraphrasing the first sentence of the Gospel of John (Stumpf [1911] 2012, 34–43). For example, some argued that “in the beginning was the word” (e.g., Spencer’s speech theory), whereas others claimed, “in the beginning was love” (e.g., Darwin’s biological theory) or “in the beginning was rhythm” (e.g., Bücher’s sociological theory of rhythmic labor). Stumpf’s own theory can be characterized as “in the beginning was the deed” (Im Anfang war die Tat), following the translation of the Bible in Goethe’s Faust. According to this theory, early humans began to use vocal sounds containing sustained pitches to call others over long distances. Music may have arisen from these sustained pitches, which are among the “major characteristics of practically all known as musics” (Nettl 2015, 39). Such long-held pitches could be carried farther than the ordinary speaking voice and may have brought about performances in unison (Stumpf [1911] 2012, 46–47; see also Nadel 1930, 537).18 In proposing that music results from the use of voice in calling others over long distances, Stumpf also introduced the concept of the human voice as a sound of nature. This voice was not an abstract, imaginary voice but was available as the concrete voice of the “primitive peoples” (Naturvölker) ([1911] 2012, 86, note xii) in phonographic recordings. He recorded songs from other musical cultures using Edison cylinders. This collection laid the foundation of the Berlin Phonogramm-Archiv in 1900, which contains more than 1000 phonographic recordings of non-Western music in 1908 (Stumpf 1908; Ziegler and Russel 1994; Kursell 2012).

“Dragging movement” Drawing from his own and other ethnomusicologists’ research on New Zealand and Indian folk songs, Stumpf noted one common characteristic: “a dragging movement – especially during downward motion – in the voice, particularly at the beginning and end of songs” ([1911] 2012, 86, endnote xii) (see Figure 2.2). The continuity of voice was absent in traditional staff notation but it was captured by the newly developed recording technologies. Ethnomusicologist Erich Moritz von Hornbostel’s recordings made the portamento in the downward descending intervals clearly audible.19 This prevalence of the dragging motion in other musics presented a dilemma regarding the origin of music, the relationship between music and speech, and eventually the definition of music itself – the dilemma that was latent in Helmholtz’s paradoxical discussion of voice mentioned earlier. Stumpf and many of his contemporaries believed that creating tonal steps and hearing in terms of intervals comprise the first evolutionary step of listening to music, essentially a matter of “the thought process of relating” (beziehende Denken). Pioneering psychologists Wilhelm Wundt and Stumpf disagreed on many aspects but not on the gravity of tonal steps in defining music. Wundt’s Völkerpsychologie discusses the use of intervals in “primitive songs” (1911, 4:464–66;

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(a)

(b)

Figure 2.2 Instances of portamento in “primitive music” collected in Stumpf (1911): (a) an old Appenzell yodel song (Stumpf 1911, 82); (b) a funeral chant of the Hopi Indians from the Demonstration Collection of Erich Moritz von Hornbostel, who was the first director of Berlin Phonogramm-Archiv from 1905 to 1933 (see also Stumpf 1911, 145–146).

cited in Nettl 2015, 31). Music psychologist Géza Révész also argued that “every form of music, primitive as it may be, must manifest” the characteristics of “fixed intervals” (1953, 219). This distinction between speech and singing voice can be traced back to Aristoxenus, whose ideas on empirical propensity received renewed interest in the late nineteenth century. Now the continuous movement is . . . the movement of conversational speech . . . the voice moves through a space in such a manner as to seem to rest nowhere. In the other movement, which we call intervallar . . . in singing . . . we avoid the continuous and strive to make the voice rest as much as

“A force of nature” 45 possible. For the more we make each of the sounds one and stationary and the same, so much more accurate does the singing seem to the senses. (Aristoxenus, Harmonica I. § 28, 8 M; cited in Johnson 1899, 47) These psychologists considered music as a distinctively human cognitive achievement, which resulted from the human ability to conceptualize and relate (Levman 2000). Therefore, music and speech were found to differ from each other. In a melody, an interval is sung in distinctly separated notes, whereas in speech, a gliding portamento connects two pitches so that the voice goes through all the intervening pitches (Wilson 1927, 325). Stumpf used this point to refute the contemporaneous view of attributing the origin of music to language. In many cases, speech “occurs in the form of continually gliding pitch movement,” whereas music is essentially differentiated “from the song speech (singende Sprechen) by its need of fixed steps” (Stumpf [1911] 2012, 38). The specificity of music began with the question of how humankind came to structure the continuous line of pitches into definite intervals. Taking a cognitive approach to the evolution of music, Stumpf argued that this essential trait of music cannot be extracted from speech. Hence, Stumpf believed that Spencer’s argument (“in the beginning was the word”) cannot be true: “Whether or not speech helped in some way at the birth of music or during its nurturing, it certainly was not the mother of music” (41). In emphasizing the significance of a categorical perception in music, Stumpf cited Helmholtz’s statement: “one will not cut firewood with a razor” (Stumpf 1892, 127).20 That is, “to cognize is to categorize” (Harnad 2005). In this view, song and speech cannot be related in evolutionary terms because they are too distinct from each other. The difference lies in the quality of voice. The voice of emotional speech has a gliding character, whereas music exhibits a fixed scalar structure: “there is no doubt,” asserted Stumpf, “the rules and the spirit of music demand fixed pitches and intervals in principle” (Stumpf [1911] 2012, 41). Such a view continued to appear in later music psychological writings: Considering “purely emotional sounds” in discussing the origin of music is “erroneous” (see Révész [1946] 1953, 221). The “dragging movement” contributed to the characterizing of certain musics as “primitive.” In addition, its presence in primitive songs “has something strangely threatening to our conception” (Stumpf [1911] 2012, 86).21 Stumpf disapproved of the frequent use of portamento in the contemporary performance practice of Western art songs: “This practice is not considered to be in good taste within our art music, so this way of performing is only permitted exceptionally and in very narrow ranges (thus occasionally from the leading note to the tonic)” (Stumpf [1911] 2012, 87).22 According to him, portamento “blurs the boundary with speech, though also with elementary howling and other artless emotional settings” (Ibid).23 Hence, Stumpf’s distinction between the speaking and singing voice plays a prominent role in his conceptualization of music. Musicologist-anthropologist Siegfried Frederick Nadel was also explicit on the difference between speech and

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music. Music is a uniquely human “non-natural, out-of-the-ordinary sound language” (1930, 541). Songs use fixed intervals with the voice, and thus are “by no means a ‘natural’ gift materializing without effort” (532); “with the natural voice . . . everyone speaks; that is not art” (544). These music psychologists regarded music as a uniquely human cognitive achievement, the result of the human ability to conceptualize and relate. In doing so, they seemed to have successfully ruled out the unscientific aspect of the soul from the realm of music psychology. However, did they actually succeed? Stumpf attributed the origin of music to voice and the sounds produced by the human voice for long-distance communication, which, according to him, is not similar to speech. Music thus remained evolutionarily grounded in the human voice intrinsically bound with the notion of the soul.

“How the voice looks” The continuity of the speaking voice was also brought to light by the advances in contemporaneous acoustics, especially in the “acoustics for eyes” or “optical acoustics,” (Pantalony 2009, 58) as represented by the works of Jules Antoine Lissajous and especially of Rudolph Koenig.24 Koenig is known for making precise tuning forks, but it was the equipment he presented at the 1862 International Exhibition in London that first catapulted him to popularity (Shankland 1970). The so-called manometric flame apparatus visualized soundwaves. Using a flow of gas, Koenig transcribed the pressure fluctuations almost instantly into flickering flame across the surface of a mirror. The novelty of the ability “to see one’s own voice in a mirror” (Stevens 1890, 547) appealed to a wide audience (Stevens 1901). With this device, voices were transcribed directly and materialized as flames, capturing their true essence of continuity (Koenig 1872, 1873a, 1873b). The tradition of visualizing voices was inherited by the work of speech scientist Edward Wheeler Scripture. He proposed using recording technologies (“the gramophone tracing apparatus”) to study voice and used several apparatuses to visually “trace” sounds. The machine created a horizontal graph of a record’s vibrations, thereby offering a visual representation of its tones, pauses, and other auditory data (Malin 2014, 116). Visualizing sound was relevant to the study of voice. Scripture, like many of his contemporaries, considered seeing to override hearing. Important details in sound may not be captured by the ear but could be caught by visualizing its traces. Scripture made various technological developments to record sound vibrations (Beyer 1999, 213; Malin 2014). A careful study of the sound by the ear reveals some of the grosser characters of the sound, but cannot indicate any of the finer details that lie before the eye in the complexities of the curve. The meaning of these details – the very essentials of the speech sounds – is not apparent at first observation; only by patient and persistent unraveling of the tangled curve is an inkling of it obtained. (Scripture 1902, 62)

“A force of nature” 47 Stumpf was well aware of Scripture’s study but disagreed with him on many aspects. According to Stumpf, Scripture’s observation that pitch fluctuation occurs even within a single syllable “would be a flagrant mistake . . . musically speaking” (Stumpf [1911] 2012, 39).25 Scripture’s main concern was, of course, melody within speech: “The term ‘melody’ is used here to indicate the rise and fall in pitch of the tone from the vocal cords during spoken words, just as during singing” (Scripture 1902, 599). However, he also explored melody in music. His discussion of musical sounds elucidates an important aspect in the conceptualization of music. The investigation of “How the Voice Looks” could be extended from the speaking voice to embrace all musical sounds. Scripture’s illustrations of “voice” in Figure 2.3 (a) include the curves of spoken vowels, a trill, a chord from a piano and laughter. The “looks” of these sounds in Figure 2.3 (a) are radically different from what is represented in Figure 2.3 (b). The latter shows a segment of melody written in the traditional Western notation and its “melody plot.” Both the notation and melody plot do not represent the nature of the “melody of actual song” (1906, 60). The vocal melody takes the “circumflex” form of “waves.” These “speech curves” were supposed to register not only the “vibration of the particles of air . . . caused by the mouth and the nose” (1902, 148) but also the “entire intellectual and emotional impression conveyed . . . from the speaker to the hearer” (1906, 39). The curves represent thoughts and emotions such as “sorrow, anger, fear, fatigue, etc. An understanding of the modifications of the speech curves must reveal the effects due to the emotions” (Scripture 1902, 152). Therefore, these tracing curves require careful analysis and interpretation at multiple levels, namely a physical description of the acoustic properties, a physiological examination of the action of the vocal organs and, most of all, an analysis of the psychological data. An element of speech may be “physically” defined by the properties of the vibrations transmitted through the air. It may be “physiologically” defined by a description of the action of the vocal organs producing it, or of the ear in receiving it. Or, finally, it may be “psychologically” defined by a description of the hearer’s or speaker’s perception of the sound as heard or spoken. (Scripture 1906, 107) The graphic figures do not merely illustrate the acoustic properties of sounds but also point to two of the most critical traits of music that are important in aesthetic considerations: first, the raw sonic material of music, as in speech, takes a continuous form. Second, this continuity is not lost in the phase of human cognition – as Stumpf and other cognitive psychologists would consider – but constitutes the very source of human feelings. This emphasis on feeling, empathy, and soul through the voice continued to appear in the later psychology of music in the mid-twentieth century. Carl Seashore, who is often criticized for his sensory and atomistic framework, devoted an entire chapter of his Psychology of Music (1919) to the discussion of voice – in

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Figure 2.3 (a) Curves of musical sounds made by the gramophone tracing apparatus (1 mm = 0.0004 s): Part of curve of [o]; part of curve of “America”; Part of a Chinese vowel; Part of a trill (tremolo); Part of a chord from a piano; Laughter (Scripture 1906; Plate VII); (b) a melody in the traditional notation and the “melody plot” (1906, 60).

“A force of nature” 49

(b)

550 500 450 400 350 300 250

Figure 2.3 (Continued)

particular, that of “primitive” voices.26 Figure 2.4. is a graphic representation of “You ketch dis train,” a labor song sung by African Americans.27 Continuous pitch movements are indicated with curvy lines, and notes from conventional staff notation are inserted. The voice of the “primitive” song is visually rendered to take continuous forms. Almost no sustained pitch is observed, and the song is mostly characterized by many instances of portamento. This kind of representation or transcription of a recording primarily enables, among many other things, the objective measurement of musical artistry. It is a descriptive performance score, recording how the performer actually performed and how they constantly and significantly deviated from the original musical score. Seashore’s performance score (or “pattern score”) can catch the details missed by the unaided ear. This score represents “everything that happened in the song, involving a multitude of details that the musician never hears” (Seashore [1919] 1967, 254). The beauty, or the essence, of the tones resides in the details that cannot be captured by the natural ear. The emphasis is shifted toward the performer’s voice. This shift represents not only the mere physical sonic properties but also the physiological and psychological act of musical production that subsequently affects the listener. They can be viewed as attempts to capture Roland Barthes’ notion of the “grain of voice,” representing the “materiality of the body,” which is “directly brought to your ears, in one and the same movement, from deep down in the cavities, the muscles, the membranes, the cartilages” (Barthes 1977, 179; Leeuwen 2014, 425). These attempts to trace voices (and by extension, all musical sounds) highlighted the gliding continuity – the source of human feelings – that was previously lost in the phase of human cognition. A “new technological aesthetics of the voice” was thus introduced to the psychology of music (Malin 2014, 115). With the development of technology, voice evolved from an abstract force of nature to the concrete bodily voice of performers that affects listeners’ feelings.

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Figure 2.4 Pattern score of “You ketch dis train” (Seashore [1919] 1967, 355). Reprinted by permission from McGraw Hill LLC.

“A force of nature” 51

Concluding remarks Boethius’s threefold classification of music is well known, but the later reinterpretation of these concepts has received less acknowledgment. Thirteenth-century philosopher Roger Bacon, one of the earliest advocates of the modern empirical and scientific method, rejected musica mundana (music of the spheres) for its absurdity. Bacon redefined musica instrumentalis as resulting “from the collision of two hard objects” (Mews 2011, 111). More importantly, musica humana, which originally referred to the harmony of the human body, was redefined. It came to be interpreted as “the movement of breaths in the vocal artery” (Mews 2011, 112). In Boethius’s scheme, the human voice was one of the “instruments,” and vocal music was a kind of musica instrumentalis, the lowest category. In Bacon’s frame, however, voice is elevated to the status of musica humana, a matter of the human body and soul. It is interesting to note that recent studies in psychology have begun to deal with the resemblance of the sound of certain musical instruments to the singing human voice, variously termed as “voiceness” or the “voicelikeness” (see, for example, Fales 2019; Schubert and Wolfe 2016). What is more, such a quality is generally considered to be a positive attribute that enables the efficient communication of emotion. This chapter examined how the special prominence of voice regained its focal point in early music psychology, which aspired to be scientific, via comparative musicology and acoustic technology. The significance of these discussions goes well beyond the ethnomusicological findings of other musical cultures or the fascinating development of relevant cutting-edge technology. Voice was thus not completely reduced to a mere laboratory object. Ethnomusicological research on “primitive” songs and the visualization of such voices pointed to the necessity of bringing the soul (back) to music psychology. The purposive soul was found to not be an object that can be analyzed but “always a subject, always a self, always an action” (Münsterberg 1915, 71). In considering the human voice and not any other sounds occurring in nature as the source of continuity, music psychology came to highlight the subjective, dynamic aspects of the musical experience, such as willpower, empathy, and agency. Before being defined as “the scientific study of the nature, functioning and development of the human mind” (OED, s. v. “psychology”), psychology used to be the “study or consideration of the soul or the spirit” in the sense of pneumatology, which is etymologically related to breath and voice (πνευ̃ μα: breath). Many words in other languages, such as atman (आनमा, आनमन,् Sanskrit), anima, and spiritus (Latin) also “conjoin a sense of spirit and breath” (Potter and Sorrell 2014, 16). In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the disciplinary identity of music psychology was being formed and shaped in relation to other scholarly discourses that highlighted voice as subject matter. Through the interdisciplinary exchanges among these discourses, voice reendowed the sense of soul to music psychology. Voice cannot be reduced to “bare sounds” or “mere acoustic tokens of an abstract listening,” as Don Ihde argued (2007, 154). Rather, the voice of each thing bespeaks of its “per-sona” (literally “by sound”). “[Retaining] vestigially

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some sense of the materiality we are” (Ihde 2007, 195), voice became the central subject matter and presented problems for music psychology and psychology.28 This chapter began with the sounds of an animal and a machine, examples taken from history, and their relationship with voice. The singing sloth and the speaking machine sounded uncanny perhaps because they lacked the purposive soul inherent in the human voice. The communication of non-human species had long constituted the central subject in the discussion of the origin of music. Darwin spoke of the gibbon’s songs several times (1871, 590, 633, 639). Current zoomusicology embraces “animal music,” produced by animals both genetically close to and distant from humans (see Burnett 2012; Gadagkar et al. 2016, for example). The human voice and its signification in the current psychology of music may need further investigation, perhaps even more so in this era of machine music. In a recent account of the history of singing, psychologists Potter and Sorrell noted, “the primacy of singing in music making could be moved a step closer to its necessity to human existence” (2014, 16). Instead of Jean Paul’s machines– humans–angels chain, we are now looking at the animals–humans–machines nexus. Is there any continuity among them as in the traditional great chain of being (Lovejoy 1936)? In the anatomical, physiological, and structural contexts as well as in the framework of the theory of mind, can the notion of music shed light on this issue of human ontology in this post-human era?29

Notes 1 See Findlen (2004). John Hawkins’s A General History of the Science and Practice of Music ([1853] 1875, 635–641) contains a summary of Kircher’s Musurgia Universalis, demonstrating its nineteenth-century reception. 2 What inspired the singing animal was probably not a sloth but a bird. The common potoo is known to sing in a descending diatonic scale. See Fauvel et al. (2006, 39). 3 For the working of a modern replica of Kempelen’s speaking machine, see: https://www. deutsches-museum.de/en/museumsinsel/ausstellung/musical-instruments#c7486. 4 This apparatus can produce sounds in only one pitch. Apparently, Kempelen did not intend for a singing machine (see Kursell 2012, 183). Joseph Faber’s mid-nineteenthcentury invention Euphonia also simulated human speech through the recreation of the vocal tract. This machine was even more eerie as it had an artificial face attached to it. 5 The expression “ghost in the machine” was first employed by the British philosopher Gilbert Ryle (1950), but it became widely known through Arthur Koestler’s book with the same title (Koestler 1967). 6 Freud (2003) disagreed with Jentsch: he did not consider Olympia to be the central uncanny element. 7 For the discussion of music and nature, see Clark and Rehding (2001) and Motte-Haber (2000). Chua (2001) showed the process of music’s “naturalization” during the process of “disenchantment” in modernity and examined how music came to be aligned with the materiality of sounding bodies. 8 For a close analysis of music and the animal world in the ancient Chinese texts, see Sterckx (2000). In these texts, the origin of music was considered rooted in the natural world too, but the emphasis was on the transformative power of music and music as a means to influence human governance over the natural realm.

“A force of nature” 53 9 Darwin examined music in light of the evolutionary theory that music originates from humans’ vocal capacity, which is developed for sexual selection(1871, 1872). Spencer later responded to this (see Kivy 1959, 2007; Kleinman 2015). Austrian psychologist and musicologist Richard Wallaschek criticized Spencer and contended that music arose from rhythm and time sense (Wallaschek 1893; Wallaschek and Cattell 1891): “Men do not come to music by way of tones, but they come to tones and tunes by way of the rhythmical impulse” (Wallaschek 1893, 234; cited in Bujić 1988, 322). The polemics between Wallaschek and Spencer were carried out in issues of Mind in the early 1890s. For a discussion of Wallaschek’s scientific approach to music, see Graziano and Johnson (2006a). 10 The relation between music and speech through intonation was noted in the eighteenth century. Spencer’s theory evokes Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s contention that “accent produced melody . . . to speak and to sing were once the same things” in Essay on the Origin of Languages, which was written in 1761, posthumously published in 1781 (cited in Kivy 2007, 15). He maintained that “verses, songs, and speech have a common origin” and “the melodious inflections of accents caused poetry and music to be born, along with language” (Rousseau 1998, 318). This proto-music/proto-language is derived from the human urge to express passion: “Needs dictated the first gestures and . . . the passions wrested the first voices” (Rousseau 1998, 293). As John T. Scott explicated in the translator’s editorial note, the voice here refers to not only any uttered sound but “the spontaneous accented and melodic utterance of the passions” (Rousseau 1998, 568; for the Rameau–Rousseau debate, see Verba (1993), Begbie (2013). Unlike Spencer, Rousseau argued for music first and speech thereafter (“primitive languages were sung, not spoken”). Like Spencer, however, Rousseau regarded vocal utterances as constituting the beginnings of music and language, the communicative functions of which constitute the first significant step toward the formation of society. Rousseau’s theory is a projection of his penchant for Italian opera; it is not scientifically grounded on anthropological and historical bases (see Christensen 2004, 179). 11 Current psychological and ethnomusicological studies on tone languages also provide support for the close relationship between speech and music. In these languages, tone determines the semantic meanings of syllables. Interestingly, the studies reveal that musical contour is not always strictly subordinate to that of linguistic tones. Nonetheless, musical contour is rarely completely in contradiction to that of speech melody (Wong and Diehl 2002; Patel 2008). 12 For a discussion of language–music relations in current brain science, see Patel (2011). 13 For a historical survey of vocal pedagogy, see Coffin (1989) and Schutte (2019). 14 “Ich möchte hierbei nicht ausschließen, dass die Musik in ihren Anfängen und in ihren einfachsten Formen nicht zuerst künstlerische Nachahmung der instinktiven Modulationen der Stimme, welche den verschiedenen Gemüthszuständen entsprechen, gewesen sei” (1863, 597–598). 15 “Deshalb ist auch alle Musik vom Gesänge ausgegangen, und der Gesang wird wohl immer die wahre und natürliche Schule aller Musik bleiben müssen” (Helmholtz 2000, 526). 16 A handful of later scholars considered Wallaschek’s approach to “primitive” music to lack proper contextualization and thus criticized it as “queer and often foolish” (see Sachs 1965, 2). 17 For a discussion of the myth of the “noble savage,” see White (1976). 18 Despite his discussion of various kinds of “primitive” musics, Stumpf did not find concrete evidence for his long-distance theory and his reference to primitive musics. Later scholars criticized Stumpf’s theory of the origin of music on the ground that this view is not supported in primitive music. Nadel (1930) dismissed the theory, claiming that “We have no knowledge of any such vocal sign-language” (537). Nettl (1983) likewise commented on the lack of supporting evidence.

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19 For the use and meaning of portamento in the twentieth-century vocal and string practices, see Leech-Wilkinson (2006) and Katz (2006), respectively. 20 “Man wird, wie Helmholtz einmal bei andere Gelegenheit sagt, Brennholz nicht einem Rasirmesser mit einem schneiden wollen.” Helmholtz’s original is from Helmholtz ([1868] 1995, 147). 21 “Sie hat für unsere Auffassung etwas unheimlich Drohendes” (Stumpf 1911, 82). 22 “In unserer Kunstmusik ist diese Vortragsweise für den guten Geschmack nur in sehr geringem Umfange und ausnahmsweise gestattet (so gelegentlich vom Leitton zur Tonika)” (Stumpf 1911, 83). 23 “sie den Unterschied gegenüber der Sprache, aber auch gegenüber dem elementaren Heulen und anderen kunstlosen Affektvertonungen verwischt” (Stumpf [1911] 2012, 83). 24 Koenig produced many special acoustical apparatuses and conducted fundamental research, particularly on tone quality. He studied with Hermann von Helmholtz (although Koenig was not interested in acoustics at that time) and then apprenticed with the famous violin maker Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume (1798–1875). For an in-depth discussion of Koenig’s contribution and the significance of instrument making in nineteenthcentury scientific culture, see Pantalony (2009). Étienne-Jules Marey, who will be discussed in Chapter 4 of this book, also referred to Koenig’s work (Marey 1868, 120–121; cited in Dagognet 1992, 42). 25 Stumpf did not completely agree with Scripture’s belief in the complete superiority of seeing over hearing. The details and essences of sounds represented in visual renditions are “something not inaccessible to a fine ear, incidentally” (Stumpf [1911] 2012, 39). See also Stumpf ([1911] 2012, 85), footnote vii. 26 Some early-twentieth-century musicologists studying other musical cultures proposed the graph as a method of music writing in place of the Western conventional notation: For example, Russian scholar Eugenia Eduardovna Lineva’s 1912 “Hand Graph” is cited in Seeger (1958). 27 He attributed the invention of the graphic method “musical pattern/performance score” to the research of his nephew Harold (Seashore 1935). 28 For a critical examination of the way listeners listen to the subjectivities in vocal timbre, see Eidsheim (2019). 29 See the recent study by Loughridge (2021) for the discussion of the technology, music, and (post)human across the humanities and the sciences.

3

Motion, force, and “rhythm form”

The “‘co-working of motion’ with one’s own will” Among the most frequently discussed music theorists in relation to the emergence and development of music psychology at the turn of the twentieth century is Hugo Riemann, with particular reference to his later works (see, for example, Marvin 1987; Mooney 1996; Caplin 2002). His theories of “tone-images” (Tonvorstellungen), “Table of Relations,” and phrase structure pertain to musical comprehension as the product of a cognitive and representing mind (Geist). On the other hand, the notion of different levels of musical consciousness appears in his writings on musical aesthetics. On this subject, he often speaks of the notion of “continuous change of pitches” (Riemann 1888, 1895, 1900). Pitch continuously changes as a result of our “imagination” (Phantasie and Vorstellen; Riemann 1888, 9, 1895, 6, 1900, 40). What converts the discrete into a continuum is the “‘co-working of motion’ with one’s own will” (Riemann 1900, 40).1 This rather abstract phrase invites further inquiry. Motion may refer to the metaphorical melodic motion between two successive tones of different heights. It can also imply a performative bodily motion, which can either be carried out or envisaged. The notion here may transcend a performer’s actual physical movements to produce sound. In listening to music, one mentally simulates how the sounds are produced and, in doing so, makes sense of what is heard. Thus, this notion may point to the embodied nature of musical experience, which foreshadows more recent ideas of perception and action coupling, “action–listening,” the common coding theory, and the memetic hypothesis (Lahav et al. 2007; Jensenius 2007; Lu and Thompson 2019; Cox 2001). This contextual analysis is not completely baseless. Many music psychologists of the early twentieth century discussed auditory perception, especially musical rhythm, in relation to kinesthesis. According to one psychologist, “muscular movements and associations” are not the results but “the conditions of the rhythmical grouping” (Bolton 1894, 235; emphasis added). Riemann himself wrote substantially on musical practice, thereby consolidating the subjects of perception and action. In his writings on piano playing, for example, Riemann argued for the “moving hand (bewegliche Hand),” rather than the “still hand (ruhige DOI: 10.4324/9781003056201-4

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Hand),” which corresponds to the formation of motives, serving “an essential means of clear phrasing” (1887, 69, 1890). Rhythmic movement is produced not only during the performance but also in the perception. The present chapter examines such an assimilation of perception and action in a discursive space centring on the piano at the turn of the twentieth century. Piano discourse is chosen as a case in point here because the piano and piano playing feature frequently in contemporary physiology and psychology. Also, as will be shown later, they underwent conceptual shifts throughout this time, evolving from an instrument with a mechanical/industrial character to a part of a holistic body producing the flowing organic envelopment of motion. The concepts of motion and force demonstrate different relations between the performing body and music in this context.

Piano theories The classic example of a blind man’s stick is an ideal start to this discussion. In his Steps to an Ecology of Mind, anthropologist Gregory Bateson posed the following dilemma: “Consider a blind man with a stick. Where does the blind man’s self begin? At the tip of the stick? At the handle of the stick? Or at some point halfway up the stick?” (1972, 324). Such a question regarding the boundaries of the moving agent can also be applied to piano playing, which is one of the most complex motor activities a human being can embark upon. What is the playing apparatus in piano playing? It is necessary to include, of course, not only the piano but also the performer’s body. But where does the performing apparatus begin? In fact, how this question is answered marks an important shift in the history of piano pedagogy.2 Inheriting the principles of older keyboard instruments, early piano pedagogy from the eighteenth to the mid-nineteenth centuries focused primarily on the fingers. The then-new pianoforte required harder actions than the shallow key descents in harpsichord playing. Despite this, most piano pedagogical approaches of the time did not take the difference in mechanism into serious consideration and instead advocated for making finger actions stronger, emphasizing the independent workings of isolated fingers and prohibiting the use of other parts of the upper body (Kochevitsky 1967, 3). Carl Czerny, for example, stated that “the chief aim of this School is: To ensure to every Pupil . . . in the shortest possible

Figure 3.1 Exercise no. 15 of Ehrlich, How to Practice on the Piano (1879), 31.

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(b)

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(c)

(a) Figure 3.2 Gymnastics for fingers, suggested in Jackson (1865), 53, 65, and 71.

time, great and well regulated volubility of fingers” (1839, vol. 3, 129; emphasis in the original). This line of thinking continued well into the nineteenth century. Piano pedagogue Heinrich Ehrlich wrote: “Each finger should raise as high as possible, and then fall on the key with full force, and with the flesh tip. The wrist must be held motionless, almost rigid, [and the] upper arm and elbow close to the body” (1879, 29). Therefore, the exercise in Figure 3.1 “is to be played fast, yet with the greatest distinctness on the part of the 4th and 5th fingers” (Ibid, 30). Some scholars even developed a so-called “gymnastics for fingers” (Jackson 1865) regimen that could be exercised without the presence of a piano.3 Figure 3.2 shows illustrations for such gymnastics. At the turn of the twentieth century, an interesting shift occurred in piano playing. A group of writings that opposed the finger exercises began to appear. They considered the wrist, the upper body, and the body as a whole as an extension of the boundaries of the playing apparatus, which had previously been limited to the fingers. This extension also engendered significant changes to the scope and topics of these pedagogical writings. The practical guides of “finger schools,” such as C. P. E. Bach’s Essay on the True Art of Playing Keyboard Instruments (1753) and Muzio Clementi’s The Art of Playing on the Piano Forte (1801), were mostly concerned with “the art of playing” pianos and a few preliminary music theories, such as notation, intervals, keys, and scales. In opposition, the new writings on piano playing in the early twentieth century included not only physiological discussions of the human body but also abstract, theoretical, aesthetic, and philosophical discussions of music as a human action. This chapter classifies these writings that extend the boundaries of the playing apparatus to the body as a whole as “piano theories” and considers them as music theories in a broader sense. These writings went beyond simple teaching methods of playing the piano and its technical aspects; in addressing how performing actions should be taught, they delved into how motions came to be integrated into perception/cognition, conceptualized musical rhythm in bodily terms, and highlighted the embodied nature of music cognition, which was ultimately extended to the philosophical problem of mind and body. Early twentieth-century psychologist Christian A. Ruckmich, whose studies on rhythm were examined in Chapter 1, argued that the piano “methods” can be a proper subject of psychology and examined these

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pedagogical texts with the relevant topics in psychology, including kinaesthesis, audition, vision, memory, learning, attention, and habit (Ruckmich 1914). Therefore, it is not the purpose of the present chapter to discuss the pedagogical strength of the proposed piano techniques. Through an examination of these forgotten writings, which were previously marginalized in the gray area between music theories in the practical and speculative traditions (Dahlhaus 1984; Christensen 2002), the current work hopes to highlight the role of performativity in music theory in the past. The following discussion on piano theories revolves around three keywords: motion, force, and mass(ing). This cluster of interrelated keywords is conspicuous in that they are scientifically loaded terms. Reading these scientific terms in piano pedagogy may be surprising but ultimately sensible. After all, these terms are related to the physical, material, and bodily aspects of objects, and music instrumental pedagogy is at least primarily concerned with using one’s instrument as a technical means in music performance. Nevertheless, the meanings of these keywords are not only ambiguous and dubious – even as scientific terms – but are also transformed in their application to music. To illuminate how the musical experience was conceptualized, the following discussion will attempt to investigate the contextual and relational meanings of these keywords.

Motion in piano playing The first keyword in these new piano theories is motion or movement. As piano theories came to treat the entire body as the playing apparatus (the force of the fingers alone was not sufficient), the movement of the human body came to be featured significantly. The pianist’s body as the playing apparatus was thus understood and explained in physical terms. What may be referred to as the “geometrics of physiological movement” began to feature in these piano theories (Ortmann 1929). In the image shown in Figure 3.3, the line E–K corresponds to the spine of the pianist and point D to the shoulder. The motion of the entire body and the geometrical relations between the body and the keyboard were discussed. Further, anatomical images resembling those in Gray’s Anatomy (1858) are frequently found in books that teach one how to play the piano (see Figure 3.4 (a)). Some even included X-ray images that illustrate the coordinating skeletal and muscular movements of the shoulders, arms, hands, and fingers (see Figure 3.4 (b)). These mechanical explanations and anatomical observations of muscles and bones were advanced to provide a practical guide to piano playing. For example, it was noted that the arm can be lifted while the shoulder blade is lowered, and this lowering of the shoulder opens the back muscles. Therefore, piano theorists in this tradition emphasized the coordination of the wrist, arm, shoulder, and entire body, rather than isolated finger movements. The coordination of the entire body in this way is referred to as “muscle synergy” (Synergie der Muskeln) (Caland 1901, 24; Roth 2013, 45), and it constitutes a central concept in the motion studies of the early twentieth century. Russian

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E

C D

F

B N

L

O

G K

M A

H

Figure 3.3 The geometrical proportions of the playing mechanism in piano playing in Clark (1885), 58.

(a)

Figure 3.4 (a) Muscles of the trunk, rear view; muscles of the trunk, front view (Caland 1905, 38); (b) “reduced reproductions of original radiographs of the upper body” aligned with the drawings and photographs (Caland 1905, 64).

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Figure 3.4 (Continued)

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physiologist Nikolai Bernstein, whose work pioneered the field of movement science, explains synergy using the metaphor of music-making: “Locomotions required organized, cooperative work of the muscles of the whole body, in other words, synergies. Such work was an orchestra searching for a conductor, the brain. Each musician of this large orchestra, each striated muscle, was a much less compliant and obedient instrument than the ancient smooth-muscle cells” (Bernstein 1996, 74).4 The idea of the human motor examined in Chapter 1 worked not only as a general ideological backdrop but also as an immediate reference in piano theories. Elizabeth Caland, who studied with piano pedagogue Ludwig Deppe and

Figure 3.5 Statement by Emil Du Bois-Reymond opening up Caland’s book on piano playing; Caland (1905, 7).

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used the previous X-ray images, began her book with a statement from the contemporary eminent physiologist Emil Du Bois-Reymond (see Figure 3.5). The Du Bois-Reymond’s statement confirming the X-ray scan results acknowledges and validates the significance of her discovery. She had found that the scapula is pulled down while the arm is being raised, thereby endowing scientific legitimacy and authority to her theory of piano playing. However, the connection between science and music pedagogy was much more significant than this. The field of physiology and piano theories were united through the idea of the human motor, particularly the music-making body as a metaphor for work, labor, and productive power. Du Bois-Reymond was one of the most important proponents of “mechanical neuroscience” (Finkelstein 2015). His influential speech on “exercises” (Über Übung, 1881) expounded on the mechanics of the human body in dynamic terms and notably used the musician’s body as an example. He wrote, “One cannot imagine a Liszt or a Rubinstein without muscles of iron” and that “the bow of Joachim’s violin travels several furlongs during the performance of a symphony” (1881, 24; translation adapted from Caland 1901, 23). Because an enormous amount of energy is consumed by a performer while playing, the muscular force of the fingers or hand alone can never meet such a demand. The entire body should thus work together during a musical performance. This understanding of the human body in physiology intertwined with contemporary piano theories. The notions of the human motor and the energy conservation principle continued to influence many of the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century piano playing methods. Commenting on the pianist Vladimir de Pachmann’s pianism, Jacob Eisenberg used the expression “economy of motion” (Eisenberg 1922) and explained the method of octave playing according to the principle of the conservation of energy: “The less energy expended in playing, the greater will be the surety and effectiveness. In other words, make no unnecessary motions in playing octaves” (1922, 110).

Force and the will In these writings by music practitioners, the idea of force came to be featured as the most crucial premise underlying piano theorists’ notions of physio-aesthetics. The notion of force itself is derived from our bodily experience, as argued in the Introduction. If piano playing is considered a procedure in which the force of the human body is transmitted to the instrument, then the prominence of force in piano pedagogy is not extraordinary at all. Piano pedagogue Frederic Horace Clark thus contended that “[if anyone] desires to understand the art of the piano playing, he needs only to observe the force and the applications of motion” (1885, 45).5 The more well-known English pianist Tobias Matthay’s conception of “key-bedding” exemplifies a similar idea. Referring to “the application of force to the pads under the keys – the application of force too late in key-descent, too late to produce key-movement and tone” (1908, 33), the notion illustrates the understanding of piano playing as an application of muscular force upon the instrument.

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Such a notion of force was understood in the physical and mechanical sense in that it generates and controls the pianist’s bodily movements. However, force remained a dubious notion, even in physics (Jammer 1957). Its vagueness itself has played a critical role in these piano theories, being extended to the conceptualization of music itself beyond a specific didactic tradition or practical guide. Above all, central to these theorists’ physio-aesthetic accounts of piano playing was the notion of force, in particular “the source of force” (Kraftquelle). The title of Caland’s book, “The utilization of the sources of force in piano playing,” exemplifies this concern. The opening of the performer’s back, not the separate fingers, is the most immediate source of power; however, the ultimate source goes far beyond this. The hands or arms do not make pianists great, but they are rather the mechanisms that control complicated movements in the central nervous system. A pianist should seek to “consciously” understand these physical movements. The implication of “source” has been inherent to the conceptualization of force, even as a scientific notion. This connotation also appeared in Johannes Müller’s magnum opus treatise on physiology. One of the most intriguing passages in the treatise reads: “It may be imagined that the fibers of all motor nerve and spinal nerves are explicated in this part of the brain. The will sets these fibers in motion, like the keys in the piano” (Müller 1840, 2:934; emphasis added).6 This rather archaic and puzzling statement evokes a strong imaginative picture: the resemblance between the array of nerve fibers and the keys of a piano. Müller was not particularly thinking of auditory nerve fibers, but one of his students, Hermann von Helmholtz, was inspired by this sentence and proposed his notion of “the cochlear piano,” which was previously mentioned in the Introduction (see Langner and Benson 2015, 30 ff.). Figure 3.6 (a) and (b) show illustrations of the bird's cochlea and human basilar membrane by Müller and Helmholtz, respectively. At first, this image reveals an anatomical and instrumental understanding of the human body’s neurological workings. On a closer look, however, Müller’s statement reveals much more than this static image. It induces not only the vision of a piano (the instrument) but also that of a pianist in action. In fact, Müller mentioned playing the piano several times in his treatise on physiology while discussing the vocal organ and considers musical performance as an example of “voluntary actions.” In other words, he emphasized the agency of the sensation through the very discussion of musical activities.

The will, physiology, and piano-playing The dynamic image portrayed in Müller’s physiological discussion deserves further discussion, as it implies two different notions of force. First, there is “the demand for a source of energy in life” – the notion of force as a cause, as an agency. The perceiving action is described as a voluntary action initiated by the “will.” Second, it also implies a mechanical understanding of the body, force, and motion: once the will sets forth the motion in a top-down manner, “all the rest is nothing but mechanism” (1840, 2:934; see also Driesch 1914, 117).7 These two understandings may contradict each other, but this is hardly surprising given Müller’s unique position in the history of conceptualizing force. On the

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(a)

(b)

Figure 3.6 (a) Bird’s cochlea, “analogous to the keys of a pianoforte” represented in Müller (1842, 1235–1236); (b) Helmholtz’s representation of basilar membrane ([1863] 1877, 227).

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one hand, Müller still seemed to believe in the old notion of force as “the unitary cause of all living phenomena” (Hiebert 2014, 12). He argued that each sensory organ contains a unique energy that causes unique sensations, independent of the stimulant. According to his theory of “specific energy” (die Lehre von den spezifischen Sinnesenergien), humans “are directly aware, not of objects, but of our nerves themselves.” The nerves are “intermediaries between perceived objects and the mind and thus impose their own characteristics on the mind” (Boring 1957, 34). For example, when you are hit on the head, you can “see stars” if your visual nerves are stimulated, or you can “hear chimes” if your auditory nerves are affected. In any case, no actual stimulus of stars or chimes exists: it all depends on the specific nervous energy, not the stimulant. In other words, force is located in the sensory organ within us, rather than in the external world (Müller 1840, 261; see Piccolino 2003). Further, the stimulation could come from within; the activity of the imagination can stimulate the organs (Burke 1996, 194). As Rachlin (2005) rightly points out, “Müller was a vitalist”: the “energy” specific to the nerves has a “not-purely physical quality which enables it to travel infinitely fast from the sense organs to the mind” (44). On the other hand, once the nerves are excited, the influence is communicated throughout the rest of the body. In this sense, force is conceptualized mechanically without needing to refer to it as the mysterious origin of a stimulus. A group of later-generation scientists after Müller advanced German science by focusing on this mechanical treatment of force, thereby denying the old Müllerian idea of the “life-force” (Lebenskraft), a force that solely exists in living things. In the realm of modern science, there was no place for such a “mysterious” force associated with “cause,” “soul,” and “will.” Only a purely mathematical force that measured the effect was acknowledged. The aforementioned Du Bois-Reymond was one of these young pioneering scientists who refuted the life force most critically. Music, particularly piano playing, was mentioned in several places in Müller’s monumental treatise on physiology. The primitive fibers of all the voluntary nerves were hypothesized to spread out in the brain to receive “the influence of the will,” similar to “the keys of a clavier, which the thought (der Gedanke) plays or strikes by inducing the flow or vibration of the nerve principle in a certain number of primitive fibers, and thereby causes movement” (Müller 1837, 695).8 Piano playing served as an excellent example to explicate Müller’s theory on the relationship between exercising and motor movements: The more frequently a certain number of nervous fibres are exposed to the intention of the will, the more prone do they become to obey it independently of other surrounding fibres; or, in other words, certain paths for the more ready transmission of the cerebral influence are gradually developed. This faculty of insulation is seen to reach the highest degree of perfection in certain arts, for example, in the performance of musical instruments, particularly in the case of piano playing. (translation adapted from Müller 1842, 686; see also Young 1990, 117)9

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The agency of the sensation was explained through a discussion on musical activities: “The action of the brain, in the excitation of a certain part of the infinitely many primitive fibers, resembles the play of a multistringed instrument whose strings sound as the keys are touched. The mind (Der Geist) is the player or excitator” (Müller 1837, 816).10 Müller’s repeated allusion to music in his physiology treatise is more than a mere matter of rhetoric. As a scientist who occupied a transitional position in the history of force and theory of mind, he often referred to music, more specifically, piano playing. Müller was a pioneer in the discussion of motion and voluntary actions in psychology, evoking the image of a pianist in action, whose will is coursed through the nerve fibers to the moving fingers. Music was understood as a kind of voluntary action and gestural activity. Piano playing, accordingly, was seen as the physical exercise not only of the bones and muscles but, more importantly, of the nervous system and, eventually, of the mind. The piano theorists of the time thus worked within this conceptual framework. Caland, therefore, emphasized a “conscious” understanding of the physical movement of the pianist (Caland 1905; see also, Roth 2013). One writer summarized this form of modern piano pedagogy as follows: “The power that operates the bone-levers is the energy within the muscles. This energy is under control of the nervous system, and can be directed by will-power. The intimate sensations of muscular control are of the utmost importance to the player and while the motor nerves command the movement, it is through the sensory nerves that he becomes conscious of his sensations” (Potamkin 1936, 95; emphasis added). Bodily movement is only the externalization of the source of force. Many piano theories of the early twentieth century went beyond the mere physical understanding of the structure and function of performers’ body parts as apparatuses. They were concerned with the nervous system, which constitutes the mind–body connection. In doing so, the ultimate source of force was sought for internally, gearing toward the brain and the mind (see also Kochevitsky 1967). The physiological theories of the time provide, in a remarkable way, an insightful framework for understanding the twentieth-century’s predominant piano and rhythm theories and accounts of the action-perception nexus.

Force and postures The practical pedagogies of piano techniques and postures of the time were also based on this understanding of force.11 Given that piano playing was now understood within the conceptual framework of force and its source, the “mechanical” approach to piano playing, namely lifting the fingers high with the intention “to strike, to fall, or to throw” (Clark 1907, 61), was deemed not only harmful but also wrong. These techniques incorrectly emphasized isolated and independent finger actions (see also Andres 1990, 66). It was rather advised that the “fingers [be] kept on the keys or as close to them as possible. There is no [wasted] motion of any kind, and therefore [enabling] the greatest possible conservation of

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energy” (Potamkin 1936, 89; emphasis added). In other words, the new concept of force as it related to “source” shifted the technical trend in piano playing and pedagogy. Franz Liszt’s piano playing offers a great example in this regard.12 According to the accounts of his disciples, Liszt was against the finger techniques and instead suggested that the fingers should “always stick to the keys” (Clark 1907, 226; Ott 1987, 51), thereby emphasizing the continuous formation between the pianist’s body and the piano. In this sense, the well-known caricature of Liszt shown in Figure 3.7 may be misleading. Here, Liszt appears as the coordinator of the “musical steam engine” (Tonkunst-Dampfmaschine); however, describing him as playing with fingers like “steel hammers,” as some reviewers did, seems unfair (see Ketabgian 2011, 148–49; Leppert 1999, 272–273, 275). Rather, Liszt’s signature technique and postures should be understood in the context of how the human body was conceptualized at the time. Liszt “absolutely demands that the body be straight and the head back rather than lowered” (Ott 1992, 26; Boissier 1976, 16). As known (and evident in the caricature in Figure 3.8), he played “from the wrist.” The muscles of the entire body are linked together and are in continuous movement. Therefore, Liszt’s fingers were not supposed to work as “steel hammers” but as “vital touches” – an expression coined by Clark, who revered Liszt as the ideal pianist (Andres 1990, 66). Vitalistic force operated as the major premise of Frédéric Chopin’s pianism as well. Chopin described the wrist as comparable to “respiration in the voice” (cited in Eigeldinger 1986, 45) and so it was seen that “The action of the wrist is analogous to taking breath in singing” (Kleczyński 1896, 15; cited in Eigeldinger, 113). The emphasis was on the force that animates living things. What is at issue, however, is more than a matter of mere posture and technique. When asked about the technique of playing close to the keys, Liszt reportedly answered, “the whole inner world of the source of centrifugal force (or momentum) is hidden in this contact with the keys” (Clark 1907, 226).13 Clark noted that “Pure pianism . . . is an organism of free motions sustained among all of the parts of the pianist’s mind, emotion and body, created by his will and imparted to the pianoforte as combinate forms of dynamic”(Clark 1892, 613). Therefore, highly lifted, isolated finger works were thus not a good practice because they “cause[d] a separation of the will, the body, and the mind” (Clark 1907, 227; cited in Ott 1992, 51). A pianist’s movement, which is “distinctly a product of the will” (Caland 1901, 69), becomes unconscious through repeated practice until it “cannot be distinguished from an involuntary and natural reflex movement” (Du Bois-Reymond 1881; translation cited in Caland 1901, 57). In explaining the source of force in pianism, these piano theorists such as Caland and Clark referred to various interpretations ranging from Erasmus Darwin’s will in Zoonomia (1794) to Schopenhauer’s consciousness in DieWelt als Wille und Vorstellung. It is in these references to philosophical causality wherein lies the reason that some of these writings (especially those by Clark) have been “forgotten” (see

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Figure 3.7 Karl Kliřc, “The Bayreuth Musical Steam Engine,” from Humoristische Blätter, August 20, 1876, reprinted in John Grand-Carteret, Richard Wagner en caricatures: 130 reproductions (1892, Paris: Larousse), 111.

Andres 1990). The implication of force as a cause – similar to the Aristotelian notion of entelechy or life-force – is evident here. However, this speculative explanation of the source was criticized by some later pianists and musicologists for being “tiring” and “discouraging” (see, for example, Ott 1992, 44).

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Figure 3.8 A caricature of Liszt that appeared in the newspaper Borsszem Jankó, 23 March, 1879. “Saint Francis Liszt on the waves. He moves his magic fingers over the keyboard and opens his generous hand to the needy. Fortissimus pianist. Claviator maximus. Glory and gratitude to you!” Translation from Ott (1992, 95).

Nevertheless, this sense of agential force in piano playing is of crucial importance to understanding Lisztian pianism as well as any dynamic and embodied conceptualization of music. The expression “keyboard energy” is apt as the title of the book on Liszt’s piano pedagogy (Ott 1992). The meaning of force as the power of the performer to bring inert notes to life is reflected in the word “energy” (Doğantan-Dack 2012).

Action–perception coupling at the turn of the twentieth century The emphasis on the coordination of the entire body and force as the framework for understanding piano playing points to the importance of musical rhythm and its embodied nature. The early twentieth-century pioneer of motion studies Paul Souriau stated that “to make different muscular actions co-operate and

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not work against each other, it is indispensable that they function in a common rhythm . . . each muscle enters into the co-operation in the nick of time, so as to be truly complementary” (1889, 1983, 9). The contemporary conceptualization of musical rhythm also intimately blended perception and action. Charles Darwin noted that “the effect is thus seen to depend not merely on the actual sounds, but also in part on the nature of the action which produces the sounds . . . whenever we feel the ‘expression’ of a song . . . we are, in fact, interpreting the muscular actions which produce sound, in the same way in which we interpret muscular action generally” (Darwin 1872, 54). Action and music were thus inseparable. Early twentieth-century psychologists also defined rhythm as neither purely affective nor mental – as the traditional Wundtian structural psychologists argued – but rather as a dynamic experience (see Chapter 1 of this book). American music psychologist James Mursell, in his earlier writings, remarked: Many very good music teachers suppose that music depends wholly upon auditory experience, and that the musical mind is based solely on the ability to hear music properly. This is a mistake from the standpoint of a correct psychological analysis of music, and it leads to serious errors in teaching. For it means that we tend to ignore, or at least that we fail to understand and correctly train, the all-important sense of rhythm. Rhythm as such is not an auditory experience at all and our experience of rhythm depends, not on what we hear, but on the feel of muscular play and activity in response to what we hear. (Mursell 1927, 39; emphasis added) Music psychologists in the early twentieth century are often characterized as having been primarily concerned with music sensation and cognition; however, they also discussed something rather close to the modern concept of embodied cognition and thus blurred the boundary between mind and body. Similar to Roland Barthes’s much later comments on Kreisleriana (Barthes 1986),14 Mursell wrote on listening to Robert Schumann as follows: We feel the beat of a slow and ponderous rhythm in the large muscle sets that are attached to the long and slow-moving body pendulums. We feel the beat of rapid and hurrying rhythms in the small muscle sets that are attached to the short and quickly moving body pendulums. To give a concrete instance, the writer regularly feels the ponderous rhythm of the opening measures of the second movement of Schumann’s “C-Major Fantasy” in terms of a swing of the whole body, while he feels the beat of the “Minute Waltz” as a sort of rapid chattering of the teeth. (Mursell 1927, 43) Psychologist and music educator James Mainwaring (1933) also emphasized the kinesthetic factor in the context of recalling musical experiences. The motor association is the basis of thinking in music.

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These psychologists were not only discussing muscle memory and the motor learning of bodily movements employed in piano playing but also the bodily foundation of rhythm perception. This sort of bodily experience came to be seen as the foundation of the musical experience. Most notably, psychologist and speech scientist R. H. Stetson, who studied with William James, proposed the motor theory of musical rhythm. He conceptualized rhythm to consist of “actual movements. . . . Changes in muscular conditions which stand in consciousness as movement are essential to any rhythm, whether ‘perceived’ or ‘produced’” (1905, 257). This dynamic form of phrase is not indicated in ordinary notation (Stetson 1905, 314). A musical phrase is considered “simply the form of a single act, a movement composed of several subordinate movements. The tensions of the muscle-sets do not cease until the end of the phrase” (1905, 315). Dynamic variations caused by this movement may be apparent on kymographic records: Figure 3.9 shows Stetson’s representation of bodily movements of beat-strokes in 3/4 meter. Stetson added lines to the figure to connect the curves (highlighted in Figure 3.9), “to show the general form of the movement.” Such a continuous and dynamic “rhythm-movement” was not confined to the production of rhythm but “induced in the act of perceiving rhythms” (307). Of course, the kymograph was a rudimentary

Figure 3.9 Stetson’s kymographic representation of beat-strokes in 3/4 meter (Stetson 1905, 328; Figure 8).

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device compared to today’s technology, but its use enabled the representation of music as a continuous trace of gestural units instead of a sequence of discrete ones. To paraphrase Stetson’s definition of speech, music is “a set of movements made audible rather than a set of sounds produced by movements” (Stetson 1928, 194; emphasis added).

“Rhythmic massing” The notion of musical rhythm, not only as a sonic entity but as a kind of “gesturalsonorous object” in modern terms (Godøy 2006), is clearly discernible in the piano theories under discussion in this chapter. When force is applied economically and unnecessary movements are removed through repetitive practice, the pianist’s movements result in graceful motion in curved lines. Ludwig Deppe famously remarked, “When it looks pretty, then it is right” (cited in Caland 1901, 19). Many other thinkers such as Souriau (1889), Spencer (1891), and Caland (1901), compared pianists’ movements to those of ice skaters in terms of the economic application of force: in both, “the way that costs least effort” results in graceful motion and “motion in curved lines” (Spencer 1891, 384). It is interesting to note that in emphasizing continuous motion, many of these piano pedagogues advised performers to play the piano like the violin. Deppe, for example, was known to be inspired by the “free and graceful arm movements of violin players” (Boardman 1954, 97). Further, as Knapik’s recent study illuminates, the early twentieth-century violin pedagogical texts were infused with a sense of vitalism. It is worth recalling that Heinrich Heine once characterized the violin as “an instrument that has almost human moods (ein Instrument, welches fast menschliche Launen hat).” It is “pressed so close our breast, [and] so hears our heartbeat (so ganz nahe an unsre Brust gedrückt, auch unser Herzklopfen vernimmt)” (Heine 1843). In contrast to the human nature of the violin, the piano was deemed to represent a mechanical and industrial character: “The way this piano-playing has got out of hand and particularly the triumphal processions of the piano virtuosos are characteristic of our time and bear most authentic witness to the victory of the realm of machinery over the mind [Geist]” (B 5, 435; cited from Phelan 2007, 202). If a performer were to keep this image of “invisible curves” vividly in their mind, it would be imparted to the tone vibrations and the resultant sound would also acquire the perfect quality of legato (Caland 1901, 53). The piano theorists described musical rhythm in terms of an undulating mass. Clark, who was heavily influenced by Lisztian pianism, wrote that music is “an organism of relations among many-folded envelopments” that becomes a “one compound undulation . . . when sensed by the ear” (Clark 1892, 617). Clark termed this notion of compound envelopment a “rhythm-form” or “rhythmic massings” (Clark 1892), produced by a moving mass system (bewegenden Massensystem; Clark 1885). It is noteworthy that the keyword “mass” is used as a gerund “mass-ing” from the verb “to mass” (meaning the action of massing, formation into a mass; OED). This demonstrates that rhythm was conceptualized

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Figure 3.10 “Rhythm-form” or “rhythmic massings” of the eight-bar period, represented as curves in Clark (1892, 619).

not only as an abstract idea but as something that is closely connected to the performing body. The normative eight-measure period, the “ordinary or smallest unit of form,” is conceptualized as being composed of different dynamic values of stresses and lulls, which may be represented graphically as in Figure 3.10. The execution of the pianist’s body is subordinated to this flowing “envelopment of motions.” The moving arms and body, according to Clark, must make “the larger rhythms and the massings of rhythms, the phrase rhythm and the sentence or line or verserhythm of the music as we flowingly work on the pianoforte. By envelopment! [By the] envelopment of motions!” (Clark 1896, 226). Maintaining that a pianist’s bodily movement should be executed in subordination to this flowing “envelopment of motions,” Clark prepared score editions, which he called “artist’s unified editions” or poetic editions.15 Figure 3.11 shows a part of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata, “Moonlight,” Op. 27, no. 2, the third movement. Clark’s performance edition, shown in Figure 3.11 (a), aligns the staffs and musical phrases together. Instead of accent and dynamic marks, it indicates “rhythmic massing” curves that condition the performer’s movements, indicate rhythmic tension, and describe the in-time musical experience drawn from the performance experience. Note that these curves do not represent the melodic pitch contours, as in Hornbostel (1904)’s indication of “melodic dance” in Chopin’s waltz. Nor do they correspond to the actual acoustic dynamics. For example, mm. 100–101 are clearly indicated as “p” and “pp” in Beethoven’s manuscript in Figure 3.11 (c), whereas they are marked as low and high curves in Clark’s edition in the penultimate two measures in Figure 3.11 (a), indicating the position within the two-measure unit. This curve edition can be compared with other nineteenthcentury performance editions, such as Lamond (1918) in Figure 3.11 (b): the continuity of the curves in (a) is contrasted to the demarcated phrase marks in (b). These curves do not correlate to the real bodily actions of the performers either. Rather, they seem to indicate the movements perceptually suggested by the music. When listening to music, people mentally simulate how the sounds are produced and, in doing so, make sense of what is heard. These curves point to the integration of human perception/listening with the body. As Cumming (2000) put it, “bodily motion – a non-formal element – may account for the felt significance of sound. Music bears significance . . . if and only if its capacity to convey somatic experience is understood” (134).

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(a)

(b)

(c)

Figure 3.11 (a) Beethoven, Op. 27, no. 2, III, mm. 65–101 “Illustration of rhythmic massings in Beethoven’s Moonlight sonata.” Reproduced in Andres (2001, 82). Reprinted by permission from Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.; (b) Beethoven, Op. 27, no. 2, III, mm. 66–72 from Lamond’s edition (1918); (c) Beethoven, Op. 27, no. 2, III, mm. 99–101 from Beethoven’s manuscript (1802).

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Currently, piano pedagogy is deemed as a multidisciplinary field involving cognitive science, psychology, neuroscience, education, and health sciences, as well as engineering and technology (see Comeau 2013). The piano theories of the early twentieth century were even more comprehensive as they immediately pertained to the music-theoretical conceptualizations of rhythm. To these piano theorists, action and music were inseparable. As Anthony Gritten summarized the writings of Edward Cone, their notion of rhythm evokes form as the “expressive relation between musical gestures” (Gritten 2000).

Concluding remarks This chapter discussed selected writings on piano playing published around the turn of the twentieth century. In piano pedagogy’s history, these theoretical writings are less known. This is in comparison to not only the previous finger school’s treatises such as Czerny and Clementi but also the later works by prominent pianists and pedagogues. For example, Russian pianist Josef Lhevinne’s Basic Principles in Pianoforte Playing ([1924] 1972) is considered a classic that is wellknown among piano pedagogues. German pianist Walter Gieseking, known for his interpretation of Debussy and recordings of Mozart’s works, wrote two books with his teacher, Karl Leimer, in 1931 and 1938 (Gieseking and Leimer 1972).16 The method of Heinrich Neuhaus, who taught many leading pianists such as Emil Gilels and Sviatoslav Richter, was compiled and presented in his widely known The Art of Piano Playing ([1958] 1993). These pianists’ writings carry some common threads from the theoretical writings discussed in this chapter (e.g., the emphasis on the natural manner of playing the piano, the least possible strain, and the psychological dimension). However, they are much more practical. For instance, the writings of Gieseking and Leimer (1972) discuss how to play an etude from Sigmund Lebert’s instruction book. They take up examples of J. S. Bach’s inventions and the first movement of Beethoven’s piano sonata, Op. 2, No. 1. Similarly, Neuhaus ([1958] 1993) often refers to the rhythm, tone, and techniques of playing specific passages in the works by J. S. Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, and Liszt. Some leading pianists’ piano techniques were passed down through their students’ writings. Theodor Leschetizky’s method came to be known by Brée (1902) – which contains 47 photographic images of Leschetizky’s hands – and others such as Hullah (1906) and Newcomb (1921). The most read-around instance of this kind of writings would be Reginald R. Gerig’s widely used Famous Pianists and Their Technique (1974). It presents a short history of piano masters’ techniques.17 On the other hand, the piano theories selected for the discussion in this chapter may be less specific and practical. However, when situated in the context of interdisciplinary confluence, they serve to provide a clear insight into the conceptual framework, which is tremendously relevant to the present. Let us be reminded Clive Gamble’s classification of metaphors and objects into either instruments or containers, as discussed in the Introduction (Gamble 2007). Musical instruments can also be categorized according to how the body relates to sound production. This bipartite division of instruments and containers is never clear cut, of course,

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but it offers a useful theoretical framework for the discussion of piano theories. The piano can be considered as both. The early twentieth century showed a conceptual change from the piano as an instrument (in Gamble’s sense) to a container. The piano theorists discussed in this chapter asserted that the piano is “not a percussion instrument”; rather, the piano-playing mechanism is an extension of one’s hands “outwards in gestures from the human centre which is, from the organic and corporeal point of view, the heart” (Clark 1907, 48; cited in Ott 1992, 52). To borrow Lydia Goehr’s expression, performers “make the instruments act as if they are ‘indwelling’ within their bodies” (Goehr 2002, 121). The meanings of the keywords “motion,” “force,” and “mass” became significant not only as technical terms that showed advanced scientific knowledge inherent in the physiology and anatomy of piano playing but also, more importantly, as metaphors. They carry the shifting notions of bodily action involved in musical performance. Instead of a force acting upon or onto the instrument, the dynamics between the pianist and the piano become unified. The actions of the playing agent conform to the continuous undulations of rhythm massings. The musical rhythm is subsequently heard and understood in terms of the way it was produced. Therefore, these keywords are, to use cultural theorist Mieke Bal’s expression, “concepts travelling across” the various disciplines of the early twentieth century when the disciplinary identity of music theory was much more flexible than it is now. They functioned as “shorthand theories” that pointed to the integration of perception and action in the experience of music.

Notes 1 “Das ‘Mitmachen der Bewegung’ mit dem eigenen Willen.”3 2 I discussed such a shifting conceptualization of piano-playing hands in historical piano pedagogy in Kim (2021). 3 See Trippett (2015) for the relationship between the idea of machine and music pedagogy in the early nineteenth century. 4 For the discussion of the definition and mechanism of synergies, see Latash (2008). 5 “Würde stets nur ein normaler, wohlgebauter Mensch die Kunst des Clavierspiels beginnen, so hätte er nichts weiter zu thun, als die Kraft und Bewegungsanwendungen zu beachten, besonders das Kunstmittel, die Formen der Bewegungen zu studieren” (translation modified from Ott 1992, 45). Clark was an American pianist and pedagogue but was mostly active in Germany. He also used the pen name of Frederic ClarkSteiniger after the prominent pianist Anna Steiniger (1848–91), whom he married. He is also known as the eccentric inventor of the two-keyboard piano. Cobb’s biography of Anna Steiniger (1886) contains a discussion of their piano teaching (the “ClarkSteiniger system”). 6 “Man kann sich vorstellen, dass in diesem Hirntheile die Fasern aller motorischen Hirnnerven und Rückenmarksnerven explicirt werden. Der Wille setzt diese Faserursprünge, wie die Tasten eines Clavier, in Thätigkeit.” 7 “Alles Übrige ist blosser Mechanismus.” 8 “Da die Primitivfasern aller willkührlichen Nerven im Gehirn zuletzt sammt und sonders explicirt werden, um dem Einfluss des Willens unterworfen zu werden, so kann man sich die neben einander im Gehirn zum Vorschein kommenden Anfänge aller Nervenfasern willkührlicher Nerven gleichsam wie die Tasten eines Claviers vorstellen, welche der Gedanke spielt oder anschlägt, indem er die Strömung oder

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9

10

11

12

13 14 15

16 17

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Schwingung des Nervenprincips in einer gewissen Anzahl Primitivfasern, und dadurch Bewegung veranlasst.” “je öfter eine gewisse Zahl Primitivfasern der Intention des Willens ausgesetzt wird, um so mehr erhalten sie die Neigung, der Intention allein, ohne die nebenliegenden Primitivfasern, zu gehorchen, um so mehr bilden sich gewisse Wege der leichtern Leitung aus. Wir sehen in gewissen Künsten diese Fähigkeit der Isolation auf den höchsten Grad der Ausbildung gebracht, wie beim Spielen musikalischer Instrumente, besonders beim Clavierspielen” (Müller 1842, 695). “so gleicht doch die Action des Gehirns bei der Erregung eines gewissen Theils unter den unendlich vielen Primitivfasern dem Spiel eines vielbesaiteten Instrumentes, dessen Saiten erklingen, so wie die Tasten berührt sind. Der Geist ist der Spieler oder Excitator.” Substantial parts of the piano playing discourse concern how we carry our bodies in piano playing, hence constituting one of the “postural disciplines.” For a discussion of the history of posture in various disciplines and its biological, economical, and cultural meanings, see Gilman (2018). See Walker (2005) and Gibbs and Gooley (2010) for biographical studies on Liszt. See Hamilton (2007) for a detailed discussion of the performance style in Romantic pianism, including Liszt’s. Davies (2014) discusses Liszt’s transcendental pianism in the context of the cultural history of the hand. See pp. 152–178, in particular. “Ja, sagte Liszt, in diesem äußeren Zeichen, dem Haften an den Tasten liegt die ganze innere Welt der Schwungkraftquellen verborgen.” “What I hear are blows: I hear what beats in the body, what beats the body, or better: I hear this body that beats.” The original title reads: The Artists Unified, or Poetic Edition of Classical Works of Modern Instrumental Music, by Frederic Horace Clark; Being a Symbolization of the Small and Large Rhythms or Parts of the Music and Their Envelopment in Verses, and Stanzas, and Groups of Stanzas; The Symphonies and Sonatas of Mozart, Schubert, and Beethoven; the Prelude and Fugues of Chopin. Another subtitle, appearing above the introductory page of the series, reads: A Harmonic Analysis of the Prime Features of the Musical Art-Organism. Only a few pages are available in Andres (2001). The work of Gieseking and Leimer (1972) contains the translation of both Modernes Klavierspiel nach Leimer-Gieseking (1931) and Rhythmik, Dynamik und andere Probleme des Klavierspiels nach Leimer-Gieseking (1938). Regarding the connection between piano pedagogy and physiology in the late nineteenth century, an important figure to be mentioned but omitted here is Marie Jaëll, who, according to Liszt, had “an artist’s fingers and a philosopher’s brain” (Guichard 2004, 23). She worked with the French physician Charles Féré, who worked with the neurologist Jean-Martin Charcot, known for his work on hypnosis and hysteria and his influence on Freud. Jaëll emphasized the sense of touch in piano playing and attempted to investigate it by a scientific approach. She used fingerprints as the images to embody the tactile and sonic qualities of piano playing movements (1897, 1899). Recently, her works have been receiving scholarly attention in and outside France (see, for example, Hurpeau 2004; Kursell 2011; Davies 2014). A recent study by Weinstein-Reiman (2020) critically analyzes Jaëll’s work in the context of contemporary experimental psychology and examines it as a “nascent theory of embodied cognition.” Caland also studied with Jaëll before studying with Deppe.

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Minding gaps and musical energy

The ball analogy Explaining the nature of a musical phrase, Edward T. Cone famously called on the analogy of a ball game: If I throw a ball and you catch it, the completed action must consist of three parts: the throw, the transit, and the catch. There are, so to speak, two fixed points: the initiation of the energy and the goal toward which it is directed; the time and distance between them are spanned by the moving ball. In the same way, the typical musical phrase consists of an initial downbeat (/), a period of motion (˘), and a point of arrival marked by a cadential downbeat (\). (Cone 1968, 26–27) Cone likened the actions of throwing and catching a ball to the archetypal shape of a musical phrase. However, the analogy went beyond the mere theorization of a phrase and a downbeat. The metaphor had many implications, some of which are related to the recent advancement of lines of inquiries in both music theory and music psychology. The analogy involves the physical movements of throwing and catching, thus promoting an understanding of music from a performer’s perspective. It also emphasizes the concept of musical shaping. Above all, Cone’s analogy invites us to conceive of music as a kind of motion, which encompasses the sense of direction. In this metaphorical conceptualization of motion, music becomes dynamic. In a similar line of thought, music theorist Wallace Berry characterized music as “the punctuated shaping of time and space into lines of growth, decline, and stasis hierarchically ordered” (Berry [1976] 1987, 4–5). Cone found this metaphor to illustrate the “highly abstract concept of musical energy,” the idea that “a completely unified composition could then constitute a single huge rhythmic impulse, completed at the final cadence” (Cone 1968, 25–26). Nevertheless, the implications of the analogy, combined with the performer’s technical, executive, and expressive gestures and their relation to musical shaping, are currently being investigated from various viewpoints. These implications are in many cases backed up by computer modeling, neurophysiological studies, neuroimaging, and other methodologies in the empirical sciences. DOI: 10.4324/9781003056201-5

Minding gaps and musical energy 79 These notions concerning musical energy – that is, the conceptualization of music as assuming a continuous shape and being intrinsically gestural and dynamic – have a long history. However, they were particularly significant in musicological discourse at the turn of the twentieth century, when many disciplines struggled with the notion of scientificity (Wissenschaftlichkeit). During this time, studies concerned with the actions of moving bodies and equipped with technological and instrumental devices in photography made significant process. These studies of moving and musicking bodies constituted the conceptual background for the emerging emphasis placed on the continuous and dynamic mind and the “energeticist” understanding of music itself. This chapter examines how the metaphors of motion and energy came to feature prominently in early music psychological discourse against the background of the broader cultural narratives of photography and physiology, which featured bodies in action.

The human motor capable of locomotion The photograph shown in Figure 4.1 illustrates the moving ball of Cone’s analogy. A brightly illuminated ball is thrown across a dark background. With its lens uncovered, the camera captures the path taken by the ball: the continuous upper curve exhibits the “simple trajectory,” whereas the lower curve illustrates the “successive positions assumed by the moving object at each moment” when light is intermittently admitted. This image in Figure 4.1 was the work of late-nineteenth-century French photographer Étienne-Jules Marey, a pioneer who made a significant contribution to the development of cinematography. However, he was primarily a physiologist and thinker who contributed to the development of the twentieth-century conceptual image of the human body.1 Marey did not leave behind any works immediately related to music, although he was conceptually interested in it. Whereas his contribution to the development of cinematography has been well noted and frequently discussed, his ideas have rarely been discussed apropos music. However,

Figure 4.1 “Simple trajectory and chronophotographic trajectory of a bright ball moving in front of a dark background.” Marey (1895, 55).

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Marey’s notion of moving bodies is directly and indirectly illustrative as the conceptual background of the contemporaneous musical understanding. Marey also subscribed to the notion of the human motor discussed in Chapter 1. With the discovery of the law of energy conservation in physics, human beings came to be understood as a kind of “motor,” animated not by some mysterious, spirit-like vital force but by the physiological conversions of different types of energy. Marey went a step further: his notion of the human body emphasizes a motor capable of locomotion: His central concern was the animal machine, “endowed with direction” (Rabinbach 1990, 90; emphasis added). The central theme of Marey’s research was not simply a body machine but rather the movement of such a body. Marey wanted to capture the trajectory of moving bodies and record their continuous paths of locomotion through the craft of photography. His studies of animal locomotion included the flight of birds and insects, the galloping of horses, and various actions of the moving human body, including walking, running, sitting down, descending and ascending stairs, and fencing (Marey 1868, [1873] 1874, 1894).2 Marey is generally considered a forerunner of cinematography: He supported the work of Eadweard Muybridge, which consisted of a series of snapshots, and coined the term “Chronophotographie” to refer to the photographic technique of capturing instants of movement. This portrayal of Marey emphasizes him as a believer in the analysis of the bodily movement across discrete units or even a classic figure in the development of digital thinking.3 Nevertheless, as Dagognet rightly points out, he wanted to capture “movements,” not “moments” (1992, 86). If one compares his photograph, “Arab Horse at a Gallop” (1887), to Muybridge’s more famous photograph of the same object, “The Horse in Motion” (1878), the contrast is stark. Figure 4.2 presents these two images. Muybridge placed cameras at evenly spaced points on a horseracing track so as to capture the individual stages of a horse’s gallop across a track. In this manner, the cameras could capture what the natural eye had never seen before. Upon seeing this photo sequence in Figure 4.2 (a), viewers were invited to envision a running horse in motion. What is interesting is the mode of presentation of these photos: they were collectively presented in rows and columns in a rectangle. These measured, structured, and demarcated images were set upon a lattice background representing what Dixon and Jones (1998) called the “grid epistemology.” This grid, according to Cresswell (2006), “symbolized rationality and modernity – the ability to quantify and know” (62). Alternatively, as Rebecca Solnit more explicitly put it, it “gives the work the aesthetic of science – dispassionate, orderly, coherent” (2003, 195). On the other hand, Marey’s photograph in Figure 4.2 (b), presents phases of motion in a single plate by superimposing images on top of each other and, in so doing, emphasized his concern for a continuous trajectory. With the invention of various technologies including that of the railroad, this emphasis on the “world as a continuous blur” became possible in the late nineteenth century (Cresswell 2006, 5).4 Via this method of direct inscription and tracing, Marey constantly sought to transcribe phenomena beyond the thresholds of perception (Dagognet 1992, 39). Marey repeatedly stressed that the true form of a movement “escapes the eye”

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(a)

(b)

Figure 4.2 Eadweard Muybridge, “The Horse in Motion” (1878) and Étienne-Jules Marey, “Arab Horse at a Gallop” (1887). Marey’s image appeared in his treatise Le Mouvement (1894, 58).

(see Cowan 2008, 111–136). This stance resonates with what Walter Benjamin wrote in his Little History of Photography: For it is another nature which speaks to the camera rather than to the eye: “other” above all in the sense that a space informed by human consciousness gives way to a space informed by the unconscious. Whereas it is a common place that, for example, we have some idea that what is involved in the act of walking (if only in general terms), we have no idea at all what happens during the fraction of a second when a person actually takes a step. Photography, with its devices of slow motion and enlargement, reveals the

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This increasing interest in “transitive” moments was also found in discourses on the mind. Leading figures in the new anti-analytic movement in psychology such as Henri Bergson and William James frequently adopted biological locomotion analogies to explain the duration and stream of consciousness, thereby recalling Marey’s study. As Lisa Cartwright pointed out, the new technologies in photography made it possible to go beyond what Foucault described as the “technique of the corpse,” the “medical gaze into the interior of the body in the practice of pathological anatomy” (1995, xiii). The new technologies “vivify physiological gazes” into the moving bodies of living organisms (Ibid). Physiologists could have no interest in the “dead instant” (Doane 2002, 46).

Capturing the musicking body Concerns for music (or more precisely, concerns for the musicking body) are at the center of the newfound interest in the continuously moving body. A less known fact about Marey is that he was an earnest advocate of Hermann von Helmholtz and was keenly interested in the study of sound. He was aware of Müller and Helmholtz’s use of the artificial larynx discussed in Chapter 2 and was interested in constructing a mechanical model thereof to further investigate human physiology (Dagognet 1992, 39). One could even argue that his entire set of works in physiology and photography began with his interest in sound (Dagognet 1992, 76). For instance, his investigation into insect and bird flight is associated with sound: their wings produce sound as they beat the air. Marey discussed the relation between the frequency of the movements of insect wings and the frequency of the sound they make (Marey 1874, 181 ff.). In addition, the different modes of animal and human progression were conceived of as rhythm (le rhythme): “The strokes of the feet upon the ground give rise to sounds, the order of whose succession is sufficient for a person with an ear accustomed to them to recognize the kind of pace which originates them. We will, therefore, endeavor to establish the classification of the various paces by attending to this order of succession”6 Marey emphasized the ear as a perceptual organ of rhythm that is more competent than the eyes. He was interested in where the two organs meet, namely, in musical notation. Marey demonstrated substantial knowledge of the history of notation (Marey 1868, 93 ff.). He noted that there exist many modes of representation of phenomena. The most useful one is graphic because it is a “universal language” based on analytic geometry: Language is as slow and obscure a method of expressing the duration and sequence of events as the graphic method is lucid and easy to understand. As a matter of fact, it is the only natural mode of expressing such events;

Minding gaps and musical energy 83 and, further, the information which this kind of record conveys is that which appeals to the eyes, usually the most reliable form in which it can be expressed. (Marey 1895, 2) In order to indicate the “rhythms” of human progression, therefore, Marey employed a form of “modified musical notation” (à la notation musicale, mais en la modifiant). In a later publication, he mentioned applying the graphic record of time to be a similar method to the “recording of the fingering of a pianist” (notation du doigté d’un pianiste) using a special harmonium with tracing needles attached to its keyboards.7 Through its serious consideration of continuity, Mareyan notation set itself apart from traditional staff notation, which, to use the expression discussed above, represents a “grid epistemology.” In a sense, Marey was a transitional figure between digital and analogue.8 The gaps (i.e., the silences between sounding events) were not “blank” anymore. Consider the motion of a person in the act of walking: the moment of silence that exists between the two instances of their feet striking the floor is filled with a suspended bodily motion. In a similar way, music is also considered to be a continuous movement; there may exist a moment of silence, a gap, between the two preceding and proceeding notes. However this moment is filled with suspended motion just like the continuous act of walking. Emphasizing this notion of continuity, Mareyian notation is closer to the contemporaneous “acoustics for eyes” as represented in the works of Jules Antoine Lissajous and Rudolph Koenig, who were discussed in Chapter 2 (Marey 1868, 123). Koenig’s manometric flame apparatus visualized sound waves using the flow of gas. The novelty of being able “to see one’s own voice in a mirror” appealed to broad audience (Stevens 1890, 547; Stevens 1901). Nonetheless, the reason why Marey referred to the manometric flame was not merely because of the attraction of “optical acoustics” (Pantalony 2009, 58) nor a fascination with cutting-edge acoustical technology. Indeed, it was more than merely the attempt to visualize a sonic event. It was attractive to him because it visualized sound in its true nature: its motion was represented as continuous and gradual. Marey’s method underscores the “trace,” which François Dagognet refers to as the “direct inscription,” “without screen, echo or interference” (1992, 63). With this device, voices and music could be transcribed directly, and they materialized as flames, capturing their true essence of continuity. Continuity in musical motion is directly related to Marey’s “natural mode of expression” or “language of nature” (Dagognet 1992, 43). He noted that our sense organs have limited capacities; often, the senses of sight, hearing, and touch do not present us with what are the most noteworthy features of a phenomenon. The apparent “discontinuity of sounds” is one such example.9 It was important for Marey to record musical motion without any mediation, screening, or distortion in “nature’s own expression.” In Dagognet’s words, “Nature had to testify to itself, to translate itself through the inflection of curves and subtle trajectories that were truly representative. Hidden, minute and fleeting, life’s movement had to be captured (life is movement and nothing else)” (1992, 30).10

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In this way, Marey’s attention to the moving body – the human motor capable of locomotion – supports the notion of music as a continuous motion. Even though the most obviously conceivable way to extend the physiology of human locomotion and photographic technique to the study of music would have been to investigate performers’ bodies and gestures, Marey himself did not go into that direction; however, his research was later adopted in performance technique studies.11 Nevertheless, Mareyan motion is notable in the discussion of musical motion for several important reasons. Above all, it puts forward perhaps “the most obvious source of musical movement” (Shove and Repp 1995, 58), the human’s – the performers’ – bodily movement. However, in the production of music, it is not only the performer’s body that is moving. The implication, therefore, goes far beyond the literal bodily movements of a performer. Instead, the mobile nature of thoughts and cognition are also highlighted. In fact, musical thoughts are intrinsically grounded in the body. A new understanding of the human body was thus intertwined with a new notion of music. Bringing our attention to the transitory movements between musical events brings forth a kind of paradigm shift to the conceptualization of music; music itself came to be conceived as a kind of continuous motion.

Music as streams of energy The idea of music as motion has a long history. Lee Rothfarb (2002) traces this conceptual history back to the musical thought of ancient Greece. Aesthetics historian Rudolf Schäfke ([1934] 1982) also cited various thinkers and music theorists ranging from Pythagoras to Johann Mattheson, Wilhelm Heinrich Wackenroder, Arthur Schopenhauer, and Helmholtz. Nonetheless, the group of music theorists he explicitly referred to as the “energeticists” were those who thematized a new dynamic aural mode of perception in the early twentieth century. This included August Halm, Heinrich Schenker, Hans Mersmann, and Ernst Kurth. These theorists discussed motion in music on various levels, which include – following Shove and Repp (1995) – rhythmic and tonal motions, the second of which can be subdivided again into melodic and harmonic motions.12 Among the energeticist music theorists, Kurth’s notion of musical force and energy is worthy of discussion. From his early publications on Bach, Wagner, and Bruckner in the 1910s to his Musikpsychologie in 1931, Kurth expounded a unique program of “music psychology” that was fundamentally different from the “tone psychology” proposed by his predecessors.13 In addition, he was keenly aware of the significance of metaphors such as force, matter, and space that were borrowed from the field of physics. Kurth’s dynamic conceptualization of melody and the influence of contemporaneous psychology and philosophy (including Gestalt psychologists, Bergson, and Schopenhauer) have been discussed in previous studies. Despite the absence of an explicit contact point, his account of melody strongly resembles Marey’s reflections on trajectory. Comparing these two thinkers would be sensible in that both tackled the representation of a temporal course of action dynamically unfolding in

Minding gaps and musical energy 85 static space. The gist of Kurth’s theory relates to a force flowing “over the empty spaces between the notes and over the notes themselves” (Kurth 1920, 7). “The essential element of all melodies” is to be sought in “that part of a line which lies not in the tones but rather between them, in their connection (Verbindung); thus, plainly put, [that part] which in the notation is represented as the empty space between the tones” (1917, 83–84).14 Given Kurth’s attention to linearity and the continuum, it is no wonder that melody became the focus point of his theory. In his characteristic rhetorical manner, Kurth renders his dictum: “melody is motion” (Melodie ist Bewegung).15 He writes, “The fundamental content of melody is the element of transition (Übergang) from tone to tone and running through the tones: transition is motion. . . . It starts out not from the stationary simultaneous image of notation, as the eye looks at it, but from the stream of force (Kraftströmung), which, as its definite psychic striving, courses throughout the overall progression of the line” (Kurth [1917] 1927, 2).16 Such a conceptualization of music as motion is not limited to melody. The discussions concerning connecting passages in fugues can be a case in point. Prior to Kurth, music theorists had discussed the functions of these transitional passages but mostly limited their focus to either their motivic contents (derived from the subject) or the modulatory functions of the episodes (that prepared the key of the following thematic statement). Composers began to be interested in the use of episodes in the early eighteenth century when the fugue was reconceptualized as a tonality-driven form. These sections had thus been designated as “Zwischenspiel” (literally, “interlude”) among German music theorists since Mathesson’s time.17 In contrast to such a traditional account, Kurth focused on their “dynamic” function: “Their significance . . . lies in the linking of motions and intensifications” (Kurth [1917] 1927, 410).18 The sections are not “transitional” but rather “developmental” because they manifest the “force of various unfolding intensifications and de-intensifications” ([1917] 1927, 436).19 Here, Kurth was referring to “the dynamic gestures” ([1917] 1927, 421),20 which are not demarcatable: Defining the transitional passage as an “episode” seeing in it only the idea of something “subsidiary” because it does not belong to the section of thematic presentation, was possible only from a view which, by clinging to the external view, created the prevalent theory of musical form, without having any further notion about the spirit of form. ([1917] 1927, 411)21 Figure 4.3 shows a passage from Bach’s Fugue in F-sharp minor, The Welltempered Clavier, 2, mm. 7–9. Kurth cited it as an example of leading “to a slackening off ” (Entspannung), which was deemed to be a less common type of transition than the usual “intensification” ([1917] 1927, 413).22 The energetist proposition of a dynamic model and “dynamic gestures” may sound rather abstract and speculative; Kurth’s Musikpsychologie (1931) also shies away from citing any specific musical examples. However, there are occasional

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Figure 4.3 Transitional passage, leading to “a slackening off,” in J. S. Bach’s Fugue in F-sharp minor, The Well-tempered Clavier, 2, mm. 7–9. Cited in Kurth ([1917] 1927, 412).

passages in which he refers to performance in his account of musical energy. The discussion of transitional passages includes such a passage: The performance should be an active recreation [Mitgestalten] of the linear progressions . . . according to their formal energy (Formenergie) with the intent of bringing out the varying ascending, oscillating, or descending dynamic forces, the purest shaping, almost emancipated from the notes . . . the best performance is the one that ignores the [individual] tones and actively shapes the linear motions. ([1917] 1927, 429; emphasis in the original)23 In her study of nineteenth-century performance theory, Mine Doğantan-Dack discusses the growing awareness of the incongruity between the dynamic nature of music and conventional static notation (2012, 12). She points out that as a result, late nineteenth-century performance discourses began to resort to other means besides notation, including “imagery, metaphors, and even graphic illustrations – to explain to the aspiring performer how to conceive of the dynamics of the musical phrase” (2012, 27).

Gliding between tones Motion, continuity, the transition between tones, and the stream of force are rather abstract notions. Portamento – or in the case of instrumental music, glissando – is the most easily conceivable realization of continuity in sound. In Chapter 2, it was noted that music psychologists such as Stumpf resorted to portamento to ground the origin of music in nature and to make a clear distinction between music and speech. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a number of music theorists and pedagogues, including Schenker and Deppe, expounded voice (or, by extension, violin playing) as a model that ought to be followed in piano playing. However, these scholars’ attitudes toward adopting the technique of gliding between tones in performance were intricate. This issue of gliding can illuminate the convergence between aesthetics and practical performance skills.

Minding gaps and musical energy 87 Portamento is today primarily defined as “the connection of two notes by passing audibly through the intervening pitches,” thereby focusing on its meaning as a technique and the audible effect thus produced (“Portamento” s. v. New Grove Dictionary 2003). However, the origin of the term can be traced back to the end of the eighteenth century; in the previous centuries, the term had been used in a much broader sense than it is today (Crutchfield 1991a). Music historian Charles Burney, for example, in The Present State of Music in France and Italy, defined portamento as “conduct of the voice: the portamento is said to be good, when the voice is neither nasal or guttural” (glossary, vii). He also wrote, “The French voice never comes further than from the throat; there is no voce di petto [chest voice], no true portamento or direction of the voice, on any of the stages” (1773, 19). The earlier editions of the Grove Dictionary carry similar definitions. The 1883 edition defines it as “a gradual ‘carrying of the sound or voice with extreme smoothness from one note to another.’” We can thus identify multiple layers of meaning in this older definition. Today, meaning that is predominantly attributed to portamento is a kind of gliding technique that can only really be executed in singing or by a bowed instrument and (less perfectly) by a keyboard instrument in the form of glissando. However, an emphasis on the etymological origins of the word leads to a more comprehensive understanding of what it signifies. “Portar la voce” and “port de voix” literally mean “carrying the voice,” and what we now call portamento was merely part of such a general signification. The vocal technique of “a slight anticipation of the following note” (cercar la nota in Italian, “look for the note”), for example, is often designated as the portamento technique.24 It is “a way of connecting two notes that involves passing through the pitches in between and audibly arriving at the second note just before the beat or syllable on which it is written” (Crutchfield 1991a). It was particularly cultivated in Italian singing in the eighteenth century and many authors described the technique and its notation. This meaning continued to be effective in the late nineteenth century and even in the early twentieth century. Riemann’s Musiklexikon, for instance, includes examples of portamento used to induce a sense of anticipation. He also noted that “the term accent, Chute [i.e., the term used in French Baroque music for anticipation], Porte de voix, are used synonymously” (Riemann [1882] 1900, 6). See Figure 4.4 for his examples of “portamento” and “accent.” It was in this sense that Schenker discussed the use of portamento in piano playing. Speaking of the first movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 23, Op. 57, “Appassionata,” m. 3 shown in Figure 4.5, he writes: The pianist must continue holding the first note even after the d2 has been played – best if articulated as [as if c2 were notated as a dotted hafl note]. Keeping one finger down while another key has already been struck assures the effect of a slide most readily. . . . The pianist thus has a device, heretofore unrecognized, for giving the piano similarity to the orchestra. (Schenker 2002, 22)

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Figure 4.4 An example of “Portamento” by Riemann ([1882] 1900, 612); an example of “Accent” in Riemann ([1882] 1900, 7).

Figure 4.5 Beethoven, Piano Sonata No. 23, Op. 57, I, m. 3.

Figure 4.6 Mozart, Piano Quartet K. 478, I. Cited in Schenker ([1911] 1987, vol. 1, 351).

Precisely the same example is featured in Schenker’s Counterpoint ([1911] 1987).25 Among these examples of portamento, a passage shown in Figure 4.6 from Mozart’s Piano Quartet K. 478 is of particular interest. In this case, an “even more overwhelming longing toward the note of anticipation” is found “across separating rests.”26 The portamento effect can be achieved on the piano in yet another way. In the passage from Handel’s Air in Figure 4.7, for instance, the effect is achieved via ligature. The initial tone of a leap continues to sound together with the goal of the leap, and “this notation reflects exactly the principal effect of a real

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Figure 4.7 Handel, Suite No. 5, Air, Double IV. Cited in Schenker ([1911] 1987, vol. 1, 90).

portamento, that is the gliding of pitches through the space” (Schenker [1911] 1987, 89 and 90). These instances of portamento testify to the definition of the term in the earlier rendition of Grove Dictionary; that is, the term is first defined as a concept, “a gradual ‘carrying of the voice’” and only second as a gliding technique. The entry emphasizes the verb “to carry” to highlight the literal sense of portamento. This suggests that the meaning of the term was not merely confined to a kind of musical technique but was a part of a more comprehensive set of musical values. The current meaning of “the audible slide” was just one part of such a general interpretation. In this regard, we may consider both portamento (and glissando more generally) as having “something to do with continuity of physical and emotional commitment to a line” (Crutchfield 1991b, 54). Connecting pitches by gliding through in-between tones was commonly used as an expressive device. As indicated by Robert Philip (2004) in his studies on early recordings, the frequent and liberal use of portamento was a norm in the early nineteenth century not only in singing but also for string instruments and flutes. The practice was so prevalent that there was no need to notate it.27 This prevalence continued well into the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries before it declined in use as warnings against the manneristic use of gliding techniques began to appear. The reasons for the rise and decline in the use of such gliding techniques tend to be explained by factors such as performance techniques, mechanisms of musical instruments, and the development of recording technologies. For example, the well-known and controversial passage in the third movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata, Op. 53, “Waldstein,” was indicated as octave playing in the composer’s manuscript by indicating fingering 1–5 (R. H.) and 5–1 (L. H.). However, most nineteenth-century performing editions, including Bülow (1875) and Henselt (1885) and even some twentieth-century editions such as Schenker ([1921–1923] 1975) suggest a simplified version wherein one plays the descending scales

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separately across two hands. This suggestion for modified fingering is grounded in piano technology: the gliding octaves in pianissimo “cannot be played on our modern pianos. The editor alters the passage and finds that the effect does not violate the intention of the composer” (Bülow 1875, 36). Even A. B. Marx recommends an alteration of the original fingering: “The octave progressions are to be executed ‘Prestissimo’ as well as pianissimo. Beethoven has written for the right hand, the fingering 1–5, 1–5 . . ., for the left 5–1, 5–1 . . ., and by means of slurs has determined the legato. This can only be accomplished with a gliding, glissando movement, and is not so difficult on the old instruments, while with ours it seems nearly impossible” ([1863] 1895, 30). In order to achieve the three conditions of prestissimo, pianissimo, and legato, said Marx, the passage would have to be performed in two lines of scalar motion even though it sacrifices some notes. The entry of “glissando” in the second edition of the Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (1904–10) cited this passage as an example and commented that it was “formerly practicable as glissando passages on pianos with a light touch.”28 However, on later pianos with heavier actions, the passage can be played either as staccato octaves or by distributing it between two hands, thereby reducing the bass octaves in their lower part and imitating glissando. Still, some twentiethcentury performance editions, such as that by Alfredo Casella from Ricordi (1920), contain fingering marks for octave playing and glissando markings on the score. The reason for these marks, which demand an extremely difficult (if not impossible) performance, can be derived from additional perspectives beyond the technological developments of the instrument. German piano pedagogue Johann Peter Milchmeyer (1797, 29) considered a double-note glissando “as part of showmanship in the playing of the pianoforte”: “If one wants to participate in this foolishness, which however, some might consider an admirable skill, then one must turn the right hand quite far outwards in going up, so that the fingers that slide over . . . octaves come virtually to lie on the keys; at the same time, the thumb must be kept stiff and straight.”29 It is thus related to the issue of virtuosity. Although it comes from a much later time, Moriz Rosenthal’s performance of Chopin’s Étude Op. 10, No. 5 (1928) can serve as an example. It contains a surprising and delightful moment near the end: the descending octave playing in the pentatonic scale is transformed into a glissando.30 However, given the original performing context of the genre, the octave glissando passage in Beethoven’s Waldstein is more complicated. Unlike today, in Beethoven’s period, his piano sonatas were not performed in public concerts but rather understood as domestic music: The main context for performances of the sonatas, however, was the numerous semi-primate matinees and soirees run by the nobility. . . . Private domestic performances for individuals or by individuals . . . must also have happened. Public piano recitals were unknown at the time; even public concerts were quite rare in Vienna (where Beethoven settled in 1792) and did not normally include a piano sonata. (Cooper 2017, 9–10)

Minding gaps and musical energy 91 Such a performance context at home for amateur pianists engenders a special relationship; pianist Jonathan Biss describes it as “a kind of a private experimentation between Beethoven and the player”: “When [the work is] a solo sonata, there is an almost religious sense of communing privately with music. And this sense was even stronger then than now, because again, it wasn’t all being aimed toward public performance” (from his online lecture Exploring Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas). The indication of the octave playing in a fast tempo can be a kind of invitation to this private, intimate experimentation between composer and performer.

The agency of motion We may also speculate on how portamento may have been related to the growing interest in continuity and trajectory. As Leech-Wilkinson (2006) contends, the rise and decline in the popularity of portamento can be linked with the emergence of new semantics of music, which should be considered in view of the contemporaneous intellectual background. Whereas many music theorists in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries advocated the melodic principle of continuity, most of them disapproved of the actual acoustical realization of continuity in performance. For instance, Riemann comprehensively discussed the nature of continuous pitch-change in his writings on aesthetics (e.g., Riemann 1895). This body of work has not received much attention compared with his music-theoretical writings. He contended, “I go as far as to claim that the principle of melody is not graduated, but rather a continuous change of pitch” (Riemann 1900, 40).31 According to him, portamento and (to a lesser degree) glissando are the imitation of nature in its raw form and are “the most concrete embodiment of the melodic principle,” but at the same time, they constitute a “crude (plumpe) revelation of nature” that is “all too drastic . . . and thus offends the cultured ear.” The markers for pitch gliding may not necessarily be intended for realization within the actual performance. They may be metaphors or imagery – what Doğantan-Dack cited as one of the other means – “to explain to the aspiring performer how to conceive of the dynamics of the musical phrase” (2012, 27). Kurth made his critical stance against the sonic realization of continuity. According to Kurth, Riemann’s supposition of “the continuum between the tones” was still concerned with their sounding – and thus not energetic – nature (Kurth 1931, 103). It is not the sonic but the energetic continuum that constitutes the fundamental content of melody, Kurth argued. This continuum should be understood in a psychological sense as the stream of force (Kraftströmung). Continuous transition is something to be realized in our minds rather than through any acoustical sounding. Further, in Kurth’s discussions, the musical mind that constructs the continuum is not limited to just cognition but also embraces the soul and the unconscious. Unlike the spatial continuum of a line connecting two points, which is passively experienced, a continuum between two tones is artificial and is constructed by an active imagination. It

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is thus not sounded in physical space. Conceptualized in this way, continuous pitch-change becomes ubiquitous and is not limited to only portamento passages. This discussion of portamento and glissando reveals that they are not only performance techniques but also (and primarily) a kind of commitment to the aesthetic principle of continuous motion. Moreover, these intricate interrelationships between performance discourse and aesthetics call attention to the agency of motion. It is the “I” that hears musical motion. Gaps are filled not through acoustic sounding but via the act of hearing. Whereas the continuity discussed in Chapter 2 is grounded in nature, the musical energy here concerns the agency shared by performers, composers, and audiences and the music, something that Edward Cone implies in his ball analogy. Ultimately, it is worth noting that portamento is a verb denoting a bodily action.

Revisiting the ball analogy As Lochhead (1989) notes, these views highlighting music as continuous motion seemed to have become “something of an orthodoxy,” “partly in reaction to the preponderance, in certain earlier analytical writings, of a rather static perspective of musical form” (298). Here, we call attention to how the motion agency plays a vital role in the dynamic conceptualization of musical motion, which is beyond a unidirectional passage. Marey’s photo, shown in Figure 4.1, is reminiscent of the Phi phenomenon in Gestalt psychology, the experience of an apparent motion observed when stationary objects are shown in rapid alternation (see Gjerdingen 1994). Hearing melody is often compared to this visual illusion – the analogy often used by early Gestalt psychologists themselves (see Koffka 1922, Wertheimer [1925] 1938). Nonetheless, Marey’s conceptualization and many of the contemporaneous views of music as motion further provide what is lacking in this commonly used analogy with the sense of agency. In addition to the quality of the ongoing path, motor imagination is involved in musical experience, which embraces the weight, tension, and effort, the metaphoric dimensions later emphasized by music theorists Guck (1991) and Adlington (2003). Sound is, according to this view, “a translation of our own bodily efforts,” and rhythm is understood “in terms of the effort it took to make it” (Mead 1999, 11). Psychologists’ distinction between visual imagery and kinesthetic imagery becomes useful here. Whereas the former consists of the visualization of action, the latter concerns the feeling of muscle movement elicited by action. Therefore, the former does not necessarily require special training, whereas the latter is usually attained by the skilled. In the views explored in Chapters 3 and 4 – that is, the piano theories, early music psychology, Marey’s physiology, the musictheoretical discussions around gliding between tones, and Cone’s ball throwing analogy – the performer’s body and the exertion of force are highlighted in the dynamic conceptualization of music.

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Music as motion across disciplines and times There are a host of works that have addressed music and motion in the early twentieth century (see Schneider 2010 for the historical and conceptual overview of earlier research).32 Discussing each in detail would be beyond the scope of this chapter; nevertheless, some of these pioneering works must be considered, as they played pivotal roles in letting conceptual strands pervade across different disciplines and times, together with the piano theories, physiological works, and music theories discussed in previous chapters. Gustav Becking, known for the essential pattern of movement induced by a musical piece (Becking [1928] 2011), studied with and was heavily influenced by music theorist Hugo Riemann, whose ideas initiated the whole discussion of motion, force, and rhythm massing of Chapter 3.33 Becking begins his book on musical rhythm with an epigraph taken from Goethe’s Faust, pointing to the significance of life-force in living things: “Anyone who wants to understand and describe a living thing/Will first rid it of its life-force./Then he has all its parts in his hand, But alas! It is just the life-giving bonding of the parts that is missing” (Becking [1928] 2011). Riemannian force is more explicitly materialized in Becking’s theory as conducting gestures unique for each composer. The true musical rhythm is not the durational pattern but the underlying forces of musical motion, and it can be visually represented as diagrams, which linguist Eduard Sievers named “Becking curves” (Beckingcurven; Sievers 1924, 9). He also introduced the notion of “sympathetic movements” (Mitbewegungen) induced by music. While these ideas concern the composer’s body, Alexander Truslit’s attempt to visualize musical motion in corporeal movements related to the performer’s body (Truslit 1938). “To experience music fully,” argues Truslit, “both the listener and the composer or performer must understand its most essential characteristic . . . the expression of inner motion” (cited and translated in Repp 1993, 49). It can be manifested as corporeal articulations and the listeners “carry out this shaping process internally” (inneres Mitgestalten; Repp 1993, 49). Citing novelist Jean Paul’s famous quote, “music is invisible dance, just as dance is inaudible music,” he considered that the inner motion can be manifested as corporeal articulations (Repp 1993, 51). Directly or less immediately, Becking’s and Truslit’s works were influenced by the previous ideas, as discussed earlier. Becking was aware of the piano theories examined in Chapter 3, that is, Clark’s teaching through Caland, with whom he studied piano.34 In discussing the motion graph, Truslit made references to Klages, whose ideas were discussed in Chapter 1. The ideas of Rudolf Laban are also worth mentioning. Laban is more prominent in the dance history as the founding figure of modern dance. However, his influence is beyond the realm of dance choreography; he contributed to analyzing human movements in general (see Hodgson and Preston-Dunlop 1990) and promoted a new aesthetic of the strong-willed body (see Cowan 2008, 111–136). These late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century ideas can be encountered in presentday research. Laban’s ideas have been widely applied in dance, anthropological

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research, clinical applications, and computational modeling of robotic motions (Bartenieff 1980; Jablonko and Kagan 1988; Foroud and Whishaw 2006; LaViers et al. 2018). His system of notating dance (Schrifttanz and later known as Kinetography or Labanotation) and the Laban Movement Analysis (LMA) presuppose the idea of the kinesthetic experience: observers can internally co-experience dancer’s movements. Recently, music scholars further developed Laban’s connection to music that was not previously prominent in various contexts of music learning theory, conducting, and performance research (Jordan 1989; Billingham 2009; Broughton and Stevens 2012; for an overview, see also Wöllner & Hohagen 2017). It is interesting to note that Laban himself explained the notion of Gliedersatz (proper use of limb-sequencing) in dancing to Fingersatz, fingering in music (Laban 1926, 89).35 Becking’s and Truslit’s insights into the dynamic conception of music have also been revived and pursued by later scholars in the twentieth century. Manfred Clynes proposed a theory of motor pulse form distinct to individual composers (1977, 1983). Since Repp’s presentation of a synopsis of Truslit’s monograph (1993), several attempts were made to implement his speculative and intuitive ideas (see Shove and Repp 1995; Brandner 2012; Haverkamp 2012). Neil Todd (1999) acknowledges Truslit’s contribution in pursuing his neurobiological investigation of musical motion. Langner and Goebl (2003) developed a model visualizing performance by tempo and dynamic shaping, known as performance worms, which is often compared with Truslit’s movement graphs; the former only displays the measured data empirically obtained from performance, whereas the latter concerns the expression and sensation of inner motion by either the performer or the listener. More recently, Hohagen and Wöllner (2016) tested Truslit’s speculation on the listener’s perception of the motion inherent in the music. This line of inquiry resonates with the recently increasing discussion of the significance of performing and shaping (Cook 2001; Swinkin 2016; Leech-Wilkinson and Prior 2017; Rink 2018).

Concluding remarks Considering the relation between the hearing and the performing subject, it is clear that the notion of musical motion is entangled with that of gesture (see Godøy and Leman 2010). One cannot overlook the plausible connection between the seemingly abstract and theoretical energeticist conception of music as motion and the contemporaneous discussion on the tangible and concrete kinds of bodily movement. In the 1980s when the psychology of music began to grow in prominence, ethnomusicologist John Bailey was one of the scholars who argued for the necessity to recognize music not just as a sonic event but as a “motion event.” Disagreeing with the preeminence of sonic representations over spatiomotor ones, Baily suggested treating the two modes “as of potentially equal importance” (1985, 257). However, the relationship between sonic and kinetic musical representations may be more intricate than that: the two are so intertwined that they are intrinsically embedded. In other words, these studies of the music-making

Minding gaps and musical energy 95 activities of human bodies inevitably influence the sonic representation of music as continuous motion. This chapter postulates a link between the studies of bodily activities and the dynamic energeticist conception of music. Contemporaneous studies of material bodies comprise both those that examine the moving body in general and those more specifically concerned with the technical aspects and performing gestures made in relation to the surface of a musical instrument. In theorizing music in a dynamic model, energeticist music theorists may have consciously or unconsciously considered music as the “sonic product of action” (Baily 1985, 237; emphasis added). As King and Gritten put it in their introduction to the collection of studies on musical gestures, the notion of musical energy is “channelled, focused, articulated by and through musical gesture” (2011, 7). We have examined various theories that sought to address different kinds of “gaps.” Among their various interests, these fin-de-siècle discourses had a common concern for the experiential continuum, thereby filling the disciplinary lacunae among physiology, psychology, and music theory.

Notes 1 For a discussion of Marey, see Rabinbach (1990, 84–119), Dagognet (1992), and Giedion (1948, 21–24). 2 The relation between human gait and music has long been assumed. Recently, empirical and objective approaches to this relationship are being made: see Friberg et al. (2000), for example, which explores whether the motion qualities of different human gaits can be manifested in musical sounds and perceived by listeners. 3 See, for example, Mamber (2004) and Tufte (1990, 34–36). 4 For a discussion of the effect of the coming of railroads in Victorian modernity and music, see Solie (2008). 5 See also Krauss (1993). 6 “Les battues sur le sol font entendre des bruits dont l’ordre de succession suffit à une oreille exercée pour reconnaître l’allure qui leur donne naissance. Aussi essaieronsnous d’établir, d’après cet ordre de succession, la classification des diverses allures.” La Machine animale (1873, 138). Translation from Marey (1874, 132). 7 I elsewhere briefly discussed Marey’s notation of the rhythm of walking and his musical notation of recordings in Kim (2019). 8 Although he never mentioned Marey by name, Henri Bergson did not seem to acknowledge the distinction Marey himself made between Marey’s own work and Muybridgean cinematography. To him, both were based on dividing time into a succession of static images. See Bergson (1911, 306, 332). 9 Marey, La méthode graphique dans les sciences expérimentales: et principalement en physiologie et en médecine (Paris: Masson, 1878, 11), quoted in Dagognet (1992, 17). 10 We can also note that, although he was not aiming at artistic innovation, Marey’s ideas served as inspiration for many later movements in the arts, the most famous example of which includes Marcel Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase No. 1 (1911). Interestingly, and relevant to our concern here, some of these paintings and photographs portray musicians’ bodily movements, e.g., Giacomo Balla’s The Hand of the Violinist (1912), and the Italian Futurist Anton Guilio Bragaglia’s The Cellist (1913), who formulated a theory of what he called “photodynamicism” (fotodinamismo).

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11 For example, American pianist and pedagogue Otto Ortmann (1929), in his discussion of how the coordinated body parts of the performer produce and articulate musical motion, included photographs of piano-playing hands, taken in guises similar to Marey’s. The inclusion of such many photographs made the book expensive when it was first published in 1929, the year when the Great Depression started (Arnold Schultz, Introduction to Ortmann’s book in 1962, xxiii). He also referred to Marey’s work as studies in physiology. Ortmann’s extensive bibliography included Marey’s writings on movement and animal mechanisms under the category of “General Principles of Physiological Movement.” For the discussion of the relationship between Marey and Ortmann, see Kim (2019). The parallel between Marey and Ortmann is beyond the kinematic technique of piano playing. Ortmann’s writings on psychology (1922) discuss the attributes of musical notes associated with spatial facets such as high/low and near/far, which are also ingrained in the body. 12 In many cases, however, the distinction is not decisive. The source of Victor Zuckerkandl’s musical motion, for instance, is considered to be melody but it can be equally be said to rhythmic motion or deemed as the “broader” motion more or less in line with Berry’s theorization of musical motion. For more on this discussion, see Chapter 5. 13 For a more detailed discussion of Kurth’s Musikpsychologie, see Kim (2003) and Tan (2017). When I was in the final stage of proofreading this work, the English translation of Kurth’s Musikpsychologie was released, much to the delight of many music psychologists and theorists. See Kurth (2022). 14 “ein wesentliches Moment aller Melodik in demjenigen Teil einer Linie . . . der nicht in den Tönen, sondern zwischen ihnen, in ihrer Verbindung liegt, also äußerlich gesprochen, in demjenigen Teil, der sich in der Niederschrift als der leere Zwischenraum zwischen den Tönen darstellt.” 15 Another example of this characteristic style of writing is found in his Romantische Harmonik, which begins with the assertion that “harmonies are reflexes from the unconscious” (Harmonien sind Reflexe aus dem Unbewußten), 1. 16 “Der Grundinhalt des Melodischen ist im psychologischen Sinne nicht eine Folge von Tönen (ob nun in primitivem oder in tonalem, d.h. im Sinne der harmonischen Logik bereits organisiertem Zusammenhang), sondern das Moment des Übergangs zwischen den Tönen und über die Töne hinweg; Übergang ist Bewegung . . . Statt von dem ruhenden Simultan-Bild der Niederschrift, wie es das Auge überblickt, ist von der Kraftströmung auszugehen, welche als eine bestimmte psychische Regung den Gesamtzug der Linie durchwirkt.” 17 New Grove Dictionary, s.v. “Episode” by Paul Walker. 18 Translation by Lee Allen Rothfarb in Kurth (1991, 60). 19 Translation by Rothfarb in Kurth (1991, 73). 20 Translation by Rothfarb in Kurth (1991, 67). 21 Translation by Rothfarb in Kurth (1991, 61). 22 Translation by Rothfarb in Kurth (1991, 63). 23 Translation by Rothfarb in Kurth (1991, 70). 24 Crutchfield (1991a, 66). For the critical and in-depth examination of portamento, see Kauffman (1992) and Brown (1988). 25 For Schenker’s discussion of portamento, see Schenker ([1911] 1987, vol. 1, 88–92, 350–351). 26 For a discussion of a similar example (Mozart, Piano Trio, K. 564, III, mm. 1–4); in the context of “piano singing,” see Kim (2019). 27 For example, listen to Emma Earnes’s 1908 performance of Schubert, An Sylvia (available at https://charm.rhul.ac.uk/sound/sound_search.html) or Joseph Joachim’s 1903 recording of Brahms, Hungarian Dance No. 1 (www.youtube.com/watch?v= f-p8YeIQkxs). 28 Interestingly, there is no entry for glissando in the first edition of A Dictionary of Music and Musicians, edited by George Grove (London: Macmillan and Co., 1879).

Minding gaps and musical energy 97 29 Translation from Rosenblum (1988, 202). 30 Rosenthal’s performance can be heard at: www.youtube.com/watch?v=At9x74UGwtI. 31 “Ich gehe soweit, zu behaupten, dass das Prinzip der Melodik nicht die abgestufte, sondern die stetige Tonhohenveranderung ist.” Emphasis in the original. 32 In examining the early twentieth-century Austro-German debate on musical interpretation, Pritchard (2013) probes into the music-theoretical uses of the metaphor of force and motion in the contemporary cultural context. See pages 145–152 and 152–158 for the discussion of Kurth’s notions of force. 33 For the discussion of Riemann’s notion of life-force, see Saslaw (1997) and Kim (2014). 34 Truslit published works on Caland’s piano playing (Caland-Lehre) and served as the director of the Elisabeth-Caland-School. See Brandner (2012). 35 See Jeffrey Scott Longstaff’s 2011 English translation at http://www.laban-analyses. org/jeffrey/2011-Rudolf-Laban-1926-Choreographie/index.htm.

5

Musical force acting at a distance

Force acting at a distance Even as a scientific concept, force is difficult to pin down. As noted in previous chapters, its definition has undergone several transformations throughout history. These changes were not just a matter of factual knowledge but rather fluctuating conceptual frameworks. For instance, Chapter 1 discussed how the conversion of force to energy affected a new conceptualization of the human body and musical rhythm in the late nineteenth century. One of the traits that presented a significant challenge to the scientific notion of force was “action at a distance,” that is, the question of whether objects that are separated in space can affect each other without contact. During the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, action at a distance was regarded as a rather dubious notion.1 In the Cartesian framework, all natural phenomena could be explained in terms of matter and motion. The cosmos was seen to have formed from small corpuscles of various shapes and sizes that interacted mechanically with one another, moving in various (approximately circular) orbits or “vortices” (tourbillons). In this mechanical view, the only possible form of force was that produced by physical contact. Any force that acted at a distance was regarded as an occult matter. Hence, the attraction and repulsion of magnetic force, perhaps the most obvious example of a seemingly mysterious force, was explained in mechanistic terms. Figure 5.1 shows Descartes’s illustration of magnetic force. He conceived of a continually circulating stream of small, invisible screw-shaped particles emitted by the magnet and explained that the attraction and repulsion by the mechanical actions of these particles “twisted like the thread of a screw; some in one direction and the others in the opposite direction” (Descartes [1644] 1983, 243). This kind of mechanistic explanation will not be satisfactory to modern-day minds, but to many seventeenth-century natural philosophers, it provided an easily conceivable explanation of complex natural phenomena without recourse to the occult. In their worldview, action at a distance was not permitted. It was Isaac Newton who brought about a reorientation from a mechanistic to a dynamic interpretation of the universe: the ultimate agent of nature would be a force acting between particles, rather than particles moving in their own right. DOI: 10.4324/9781003056201-6

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Figure 5.1 Descartes’s illustration of a magnetic field around Earth (D) from his Principia Philosophiae ([1644] 1983), Plate XXII, Fig. i. The South and North poles of the Earth are represented as (A) and (B), respectively. In this explanation, the magnetic force is caused by the circulation of small threaded particles.

In his Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica (Mathematical principles of natural philosophy, 1687), Newton offered an alternative theory involving attractive and repulsive forces between particles. Most of all, his most important discovery – the principle of universal gravity – demanded the prominence of force, and his theory of gravitation was thus fundamentally a “prototype of action at a distance theories” (Hesse 1955, 340). Nevertheless, Newton’s position toward the concept of a force acting at a distance was rather ambiguous. In several passages in the Principia, Newton made it clear that his concept of force is mathematically grounded. For instance, in defining “centripetal force,” Newton notes, “This concept is purely mathematical, for I am not now considering the physical causes and sites of forces” (Newton [1687] 1999, 407).2 For Newton, it was sufficient that the inverse square law of gravitation could explain the planetary motions without having to address its cause. However, this must not be taken to mean that Newton had no concern for causes. Instead, it should

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be read as revealing Newton’s judicious rhetorical style in seeking to avoid the criticism of those contemporary scientists who disapproved of force as an occult concept. By indicating that he was only interested in seeking the mathematical calculation, he was able to develop the laws of the action of gravity without actually having to address its cause. During the course of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the concept of force came to only be defined operationally as a mathematical function in the field of physics proper. Historian and philosopher of science Max Jammer once described the conceptual history of force as a process of “stripping off all the artificial trappings and embroideries from the concept; it was a gradual process of purification, of methodological clarification” that was completed at the end of the nineteenth century (Jammer 1957, 7). However, even then, this process of “purification” was far from completely done. The vestiges of the early definitions of force, especially those of force acting at a distance, lingered on in science and broader cultural discourses as well. This “spiritual” trait of force that presented challenges to modern science seemed to efficiently explain the psychological effect of music on listeners and the relationship between performers and audiences. It also contributed to a reconceptualization of music from a multidimensional perspective. Whereas Chapter 3 focused on the individualistic relationship between a performing body and an instrument, the present chapter further expands the relevance of force. In the late nineteenth century, when science and aesthetics intermingled with each other, force emerged as a significant analogy in explaining the broader context of musical communication and music itself in various kinds of music discourse, including music aesthetics, psychology, criticism, and theory.

In the words of amateur pianists and psychologists We can begin by noting the close relationship that exists between scientists and musicians in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in social circles. Music was not only a serious research interest for contemporaneous physicists and physiologists but also a central means of entertainment for many of the scientists discussed here. For instance, Helmholtz himself played the piano. To quote a passage from a letter to his parents written when he was a young student, “in order to listen more deeply I must play myself. Besides, for me the expression and the performance of music by others seldom is sufficient; I always have more enjoyment with music when I realize it myself.”3 Carl Stumpf played the violin, which he began to learn at seven and even played in public on several occasions.4 As we have observed in previous chapters, musical instruments were used as scientific instruments as well. This interplay between music and science occurred not only in laboratory settings but also in the context of informal gatherings. A circle of scientists and artists in Berlin in the 1890s provides a window to the following discussion of force in musical discourses in the late nineteenth and

Musical force acting at a distance 101 early twentieth centuries. The group includes artists such as writer Johan August Strindberg, poet Richard Dehmel (whose Verklärte Nacht inspired Schoenberg), Otto Erich Hartleben (the translator of Albert Giraud’s Pierrot Lunaire), poet Ola Hansson, painter Edvard Munch, the Polish writer Stanislaw Przybyszewski, as well as surgeon Carl Ludwig Schleich. The latter was known for his contribution to the development of local anesthesia. He was also a musical man and often hosted musical evenings at his home. Modern physiology, particularly Schleich’s explanation of the neural system, was closely related to and inspired by the exchanges during these musical evenings, which Sven Dierig (2001) aptly dubbed as a practice of “bohemian science.” Among the frequent members, Przybyszewski often gave piano recitals at Schleich’s home. Przybyszewski is chiefly known as a writer associated with decadent modernism but was also an amateur pianist; at times, he considered his pianism more important than writing: “don’t laugh – I did influence them with my piano-playing.”5 Coming from Poland, Przybyszewski was particularly fascinated by Chopin’s music and wrote on him and his national identity.6 Chopin’s music was considered as the “incarnation of the Polish soul” (Pekacz 2006, 52).7 The work of Chopin was significant to Przybyszewski, not only because of its expression of Polishness. More relevant to our discussion is the psychological quality of the aesthetic emotion that Przybyszewski believed to be aroused by Chopin’s music. He compared Chopin and Nietzsche, referring to them as “the two most conspicuous individuals of our time” and as “artists of ecstasy” (Rauschkünstler) (Przybyszewski 1892, 13, 46). Chopin’s music had a profound effect on Przybyszewski’s work. The title page of his prose poem Totenmesse (“Requiem Mass,” 1893) bears Chopin’s Polonaise in F-sharp minor, Op. 44, as the “motto” (Figure 5.2). Chopin was regarded as one of the “most important psychologists of the hysterical soul, the spasms of sick nerves, the irritating torment, phantom pains, and trembling restlessness”8 (Przybyszewski 1892, 22). As the best illustration of this quotation, Przybyszewski referred to a passage in Chopin’s Scherzo No. 1 in B minor, Op. 20 (Figure 5.3): “In the brooding, so endlessly painful monotony, suddenly a shrill chord of grandiose effect . . . this physically brutal scream in the agony of pain . . . gives us better information about the night side of the human emotional life than all psychological sophistry”9 (Przybyszewski 1906, 22). These quotations describe the intense and unconscious psychological experiences evoked by listening to the passage. They are reminiscent of the iconic painting Der Schrei (The Scream) by Przybyszewski’s friend Edvard Munch. Such an intense and unconscious psychological experience seemed to occur not only in listening to but also in playing Chopin’s music. Some of the musical evenings’ attendees alongside Przybyszewski left testimonials of the intense impressions they received from his performances. According to these remarks scattered across various sources, Przybyszewski’s performing style was profoundly passionate and feverish. Sometimes, he “played in a state of drunkenness,

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Figure 5.2 The title page of Przybyszewski’s Totenmesse (1893) carrying the inscription of Chopin’s Polonaise in F-sharp minor, Op. 44, as the motto.

Figure 5.3 Chopin, Scherzo No. 1 in B minor, Op. 20, “The Scream” in m. 205.

Musical force acting at a distance 103 interpreting in his own way” (Henderson 1960, 42). In writer August Strindberg’s words, he “played Chopin, the great pieces, by heart like a gypsy. No beat, no tempo, and when he was drunk he would insert an explanatory passage here and there. He had arms like a gorilla and hands two feet long. In the end we discovered he had just cobbled bits of Chopin together, but how!”10 Apparently, Przybyszewski’s performing style was far from technically precise. Music critic Eduard Hanslick, in his letter exchange with Heinrich Heine, once referred to the late nineteenth-century culture of piano playing as a “piano epidemic” (Clavierseuche) and deplored the level of piano playing in both amateurs and professionals.11 However, the technical deficiencies of his performance did not seem to disturb Przybyszewski’s audience because all these “unexpected wrong notes, the brutality, the sudden fortissimos and the eccentric changes of rhythm, all had their basis in a song so tragic that it tore the soul.”12 Psychological effect of piano playing, the nerve system, and force The pianist’s charisma during the performances seemed to contribute to a profound influence upon his audience. According to Munch’s testimony in 1928, Przybyszewski could suddenly leap up in ecstasy and rush to the piano in such haste as if following inner voices which called him. And during the deathly silence which followed, the immortal music of Chopin resounded through the narrow room and transformed it suddenly into a radiant festival hall, a shrine of art. And he was so completely carried away, and he interpreted the wonderful paintings of his great compatriot with such mastery that he made us listen, breathless, fascinated, oblivious of time and space, until the last chord died away.13 In his autobiography, Przybyszewski described his own experience of “falling into a kind of eerie trance during the performance and infected the others”: “If I had been a virtuoso, I would certainly have impressed them with my technique, and they would not have been able to pay attention to anything else, but in this way – in the performance of an inspired amateur who has fallen into fervent rapture – only the “spirit” of the music was at work. Such playing exhausted me unspeakably” (Przybyszewski 1985, 114).14 What interests us here is the way in which these effects were conceptualized. Many members of the circle with scientific backgrounds took a severe interest in the psychological effects evoked by music and contemplated them. The physiologists who listened to Przybyszewski’s music were also deeply involved in psychological discussions. Many were well-versed in contemporaneous psychology – well enough to be “amateur psychologists who drew on neurologists’ theories concerning cerebral instability” (Lathe 1983, 198). In

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other words, both the performer and his audience were amateur musicians and psychologists. Schleich, the host scientist, was a pupil of the prominent cellular pathologist Rudolf Virchow and is mainly known for his achievements in neurology, such as the invention of an effective procedure of local anesthesia and finding the function of neuroglia. What is most pertinent to the current discussion is that he also wrote influential treatises on the subject of the soul and hysteria (1910, 1920). Significantly, his Von der Seele (1910) contains a substantial discussion of music (“Rhythmus” and “Die Musik als Erzieherin”). He deplored that too much focus had been placed on technology and technique in contemporaneous art and music (Schleich 1910, 282). According to him, modern music “appeals too much to the mind, too little to the simple heart” (1910, 286).15 He was also against the trend of thought that had dominated the previous generation of scientists: “What I most passionately desire is to turn men away from the barren desert of materialism” (Schleich 1936, 232), so much so that some considered his writings to be mystical and pseudoscientific. Schleich himself wrote, “A critic once called me an enemy of science” (Schleich 1936, 232; see Windholz 1996). It is within this framework that Schleich’s account of the nervous system is to be situated. Przybyszewski, who had originally come to Berlin to study neurology, had notebooks full of drawings of the nerve systems and he once showed them to Schleich. Schleich’s realization of the function of neuroglia came as a moment of revelation upon seeing these drawings: I was to all appearances completely absorbed in these notebooks, when I suddenly sprang to my feet. “Stanislaus” I cried: “Man! The neuroglia is like the dampers of a piano! An electrical mute, a cut-out, an inhibitory regulator!” – “Good Heavens! Millions of f-sharp minors! Say it again!” exclaimed Stanislaus. “The man is crazy! Or is it a flash of intuition?” I quickly explained to him the possibility that the nerves could be dampened by the injection of fluids; that thinking might be phasic with the pulse, and that, if that is correct, one only needs to inject deoxygenated blood between the tactile corpuscles of the skin in order to artificially produce a dampening of sensation or hypersensitivity at will.16 (Schleich 1922, 233–234; Translation adopted from Bernard Miall in Schleich 1935, 192) By comparing aspects of the neural network with a piano’s damper pedal, he first recognized the interactive and supportive role of glia cells in the nervous system. Just like damper pedals, neuroglia (literally “nerve glue”) cells allow the nerve strings to be excited when removed. Conversely, they may also inhibit the oscillations when lowered onto the strings (Stahnisch 2010, 94). The neuroglia supplied a controller – a switching mechanism that organizes and regulates the ebb and flow of nervous excitations.17 Przybyszewski’s account of his own piano playing and Schleich’s description of the nerve system illuminate two different aspects of metaphors of force

Musical force acting at a distance 105 in the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century discourse on music. First, it illustrates the application of force in explicating the relational sphere between performer and audience. Second, such an application of force concerns the noncognitive aspects of the human mind. These two aspects will be expounded in the following.

Force affecting the audience In these late nineteenth-century accounts of listening to enthralling piano performances, forces acting at a distance were to feature significantly in explanations of the relationship that exists between performer and audience. Since the eighteenth century, the idea of force has been used as a means to describe the effect of music on a listener. As Mathew Riley (2002) examines, the influential eighteenth-century philosopher Johann Georg Sulzer considered the arts as not merely something to contemplate but rather as something with an “active effect.” He referred to it through the notion of “aesthetic force” (ästhetische Kraft ). Such a metaphoric use of force in explicating the effect on listeners continued to be used in the nineteenth century, often in close association with other notions such as waves and vibrations. Let us recall the caricatures of Liszt presented in Chapter 3. As suggested in the caption, “Saint Francis Liszt on the waves,” Figure 3.8 is a parody of Liszt’s St. François de Paule marchant sur les flots, S.175/2. This solo piano piece is based on the story of St. Francis of Paola, who, according to legend, crossed the ocean using his cloak as a sail. The music was reportedly inspired by Eduard von Steinle’s painting of St. Francis (see Kregor 2015, 124). Another contemporary artist, Gustav Doré, also made a painting depicting the same story and dedicated it to Liszt (Pizà 1989, 8). However, the image of waves frequently appeared in other caricatures of Liszt, thereby illustrating a core tenet of his pianism. An unsigned caricature (not included here) from ca. 1845 is one such example: it primarily illustrates his flying fingers’ almost acrobatic motor ability, performing in a furiously fast tempo and leaping across the keys. More importantly, however, the music is depicted as flowing from his fingertips like cascading water. These organic icons of flowing water and waves contrast with the machinelike image presented in Figure 3.7. They refer to not just his virtuosic motor skills and not just the inspiration Liszt supposedly received from the painting or story. They point to the “‘reverse’ effect of music towards the audience” (Pizà 1989, 8). Such a description of the impact of music on listeners is reminiscent of Heinrich Heine’s description of one of Liszt’s performance with respect to nerve waves: Now they are acclaiming our Franz Liszt. And what an acclaim it was! A veritable insanity, one unheard of in the annals of furore! What is the reason of this phenomenon? The solution of this question belongs to the domain of pathology rather than to that of aesthetics. The electrical action of a demoniac nature on a closely crowded multitude, the infectious power

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Musical force acting at a distance of the ecstasy, and perhaps the magnetism in music itself, this spiritual illness, which vibrates in nearly all of us – these phenomena never yet presented themselves to me in so clear and intimidating a manner as in Liszt’s concert.18 (Heine 1844; emphasis added)

The audience’s response to the music is here described in terms of a pathological nervous sympathy, a malady infected by electrical vibrations or magnetism, some mysterious force.19 Heine was not alone in employing the metaphor of force associated with vibrations and nerve waves to describe music’s power over an audience. In his essay on Hector Berlioz’s symphony Harold in Italy, Op. 16, Liszt wrote that the supremacy of music “lies in the pure flames of emotion that beat one against another from heart to heart without the aid of reflection, without having to wait on accident for the opportunity of self-assertion; it is breath from mouth to mouth, blood flowing in the arteries of life” (Liszt [1881] 1950, 849). American pianist Amy Fay once described hearing Liszt’s performance of Chopin’s Piano Sonata No. 3 in B minor, Op. 58: “There is such a vividness about everything he plays that it does not seem as if it were mere music you were listening to, but it is as if he had called up a real, living form, and you saw it breathing before your face and eyes. It gives me almost a ghostly feeling to hear him, and it seems as if the air were peopled with spirits. Oh, he is a perfect wizard!” (Fay 1891, 214; emphasis original). Nineteenth-century music critic James Huneker (1911) similarly described Liszt’s performance: “ It did not seem to be the strings of a piano that were sounding. No, every tone was like an echoing drop of water. . . . People often use the expression ‘a sea of sound’ without being conscious of its significance, and such it is that streams from the piano at which Liszt sits” (232). According to these descriptions, the vibration of an invisible fluid between individuals causes the arousal of sympathy and the infection of emotions. The power of music is seen as a kind of force field that can inspire action at a distance. Force in action without direct contact, a concept with which many scientists have struggled, emerged as a functional means of describing the relationship between a performer and their audience as well as between audience members. Lisztian scholars have described the close relationships between performing and listening bodies in similar terms. According to Bertrand Ott, the “triple relation” between the instrument, interpreter, and listener is unique in Lisztian pianism: Lizst’s technique of pulling instead of simply pressing or pushing the keys situates the performer in a special position between the instrument and the audience (Ott 1987, 173). This “retropulsive energy” (l’énergie rétropulsive) concerns “not only the technical and organic awareness but also the psychic and artistic attitude.” If one pushes the keys, the performer is only

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Lisztian relation

non-Lisztian relation

Figure 5.4 Lisztian and non-Lisztian relation between instrument, performer, and listener. Cited from Ott 1987, 174. Reprinted by kind permission from The Edwin Mellen Press.

the sound triggering agent struggling with the material and pushing the sound of the piano towards the audience without being imbued in its musical energy (see the diagram shown on the right side of Figure 5.4). However, in the Lisztian triple relation among the piano, the performer, and the audience, the pianist pulls the sound energy from the piano and “make[s] it pass through oneself before transmitting it to those who listen” (see the diagram on the left side of Figure. 5.4).20 In such a way, the pianist becomes an “intermediary between the sound source and the listeners.” The performer does not simply press or push the keyboard and “thrust the sound of the piano toward the public” (Ott 1992, 150). The significance of this diagram is that the piano playing technique of touch is extended to aesthetics to explain the relationship between the performer and the audience. Force came to be used to blur the boundaries between the self and the other.

The metaphor of vibratory waves in psychology The concept of vibration emerged as a useful means of explaining such a relation. Already during the Enlightenment, scientists had put forward basic ideas of vibration theory and formulated an understanding of vibrations and waves in physical and mathematical terms.21 In the early nineteenth century, with Thomas Young’s famous experiment in 1801, sound vibration became the basis and model for the wave theory of light and other vibratory activities of energy in the external world (Trower 2012, 37).22 The conceptual metaphor of waves was prevalent in the realm of acoustics, optics, and thermodynamics as an

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invisible force and energy that emphasized permeation and transmission (Beer 1996a, 86).23 The effect of music on the listening body has been discussed widely since the eighteenth century. In physiology and neurology, vibration came to serve as the foundation by which to explain nerve impulses within the body.24 The statement by neurologist and psychiatrist August Forel, cited in the Introduction, on the neuron system “playing piano on each other by means of the nerve waves” illustrates such an explication. However, what is of interest here is the use of the vibration metaphor beyond the mere explication of how external stimuli are processed by and within bodies. Acoustical vibration was frequently adopted as a metaphor to explain how individual bodies are connected and communicate feelings such as sympathy, which was widely discussed in various discourses in the eighteenth century (see Csengei 2011). For instance, the concept of sympathy was used in medical literature to refer not only to intrasubjective agreement and harmony between bodily organs and parts but also intersubjective confluence. Eighteenth-century vitalist Georg Ernst Stahl explained that humans could sympathetically understand the operations of the soul in other bodies through a process that he referred to as “synergy” (Reill 2005, 126). In a similar vein, Robert Whytt spoke of nervous sympathy: “and now it appears that there is still a more wonderful sympathy between the nervous systems of different persons, whence various motions and morbid symptoms are often transferred, from one to another, without any corporeal contact of infection” (Whytt 1765, 219; cited in Csengei 2011, 43). It was contended that sympathetic reactions in the mind could be caused without direct contact, thereby challenging the mechanist view, which only acknowledges contact forces. Seventeenth-century scholar Athanasius Kircher, whom we briefly mentioned in Chapter 2, discussed non-contact forces, especially magnetic power, in the context of communication (Findlen 2004, 265).25 He noted that the healing power of tarantella music could be explained through such magnetic power that attracts and repels – the play of non-contact forces working at a distance.26 In his Treatise of Human Nature (1739), philosopher David Hume explicated the mechanism of sympathy using the analogy of vibrating strings: “As in strings equally wound up, the motion of one communicates itself to the rest; so all the affections readily pass from one person to another, and beget correspondent movements in every human creature” ([1739] 1888, 576). Here, the scientific notion of vibration served as an analogy for the communication of affections. Sympathetic vibration in musical communication The impact of the vibration metaphor to explain musical communication came to be more influential in the late nineteenth century along with the developments in acoustics and physiology and the advancement of technologies such as telegraphy

Musical force acting at a distance 109 and radio. The most emblematic example is the notion of sympathetic vibration proposed by Hermann von Helmholtz. The idea was first known as a physical explanation of acoustical phenomenon and subsequently became a physiological explication of the ear as it appeared in his 1857 lecture “On the Physiological Causes of Harmony in Music”: The string of a pianoforte when the damper is raised begins to vibrate as soon as its proper tone is produced in its neighbourhood with sufficient force by some other means. When this foreign tone ceases the tone of the string will be heard to continue some little time longer. If we put little paper riders on the string they will be jerked off when its tone is thus produced in the neighbourhood. This sympathetic action of the string depends on the impact of the vibrating particles of air against the string and its sounding-board. (Helmholtz [1857] 1995, 58–59) A similar explanation of the phenomenon is found in his magnum opus On the Sensation of Tones: “Gently touch one of the keys of a pianoforte without striking the string, so as to raise the damper only, and then sing a note of the corresponding pitch forcibly directing the voice against the strings of the instrument. On ceasing to sing, the note will be echoed back from the piano” (Helmholtz [1863] 1954, 38). Sympathetic vibration does not only occur in musical instruments. The human ear behaves just like a resonant instrument that is equipped with a sympathetic reaction to external sound: “later microscopic discoveries respecting the internal construction of the ear, lead to the hypothesis, that arrangements exist in the ear similar to those which we have imagined. The end of every fibre of the auditory nerve is connected with small elastic parts, which we cannot but assume to be set in sympathetic by the waves of sound” (Helmholtz [1863] 1954, 129). Here, Helmholtz’s discussion was purely physiological and focused more on the analytical capacity of the ear to discern pitches and harmonic partials. However, his explanation of the same phenomenon appeared in a lecture in 1871 that dealt with the much more comprehensive subject of “The Origins of the Planetary System”: As yet we know of no fact, which can be established by scientific observation, which would show that the finer and complex forms of vital motion could exist otherwise than in the dense material of organic life; that it can propagate itself as the sound-movement of a string can leave its originally narrow and fixed home and diffuse itself in the air, keeping all the time its pitch, and the most delicate shade of its colour-tint; and that, when it meets another string attuned to it, starts this again or excites a flame ready to sing

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Musical force acting at a distance to the same tone. . . . That which continues to exist as a particular individual is like the flame and the wave – only the form of motion which continually attracts fresh matter into its vortex and expels the old. The observer with a deaf ear only recognises the vibrations of sound as long as they are visible and can be felt, bound up with heavy matter. Are our sense[s], in reference to life, like the deaf ear in this respect? (Helmholtz [1871] 1995, 276–277).

Such an account leaves room to extend the idea of sympathetic vibration to dimensions other than acoustics. This includes dimensions between individuals, thereby promoting an understanding of “the body as borderless” (Enns and Trower 2013, 5). Combined with the metaphoric image of waves, Helmholtz’s theory of vibration was extended to the effect of music on listeners, affection, and sympathetic communion.27 Victorian novelist George Eliot’s study of and inspiration from Helmholtz’s conceptualization of acoustics has been the subject of much discussion: she frequently resorted to sonic vibrations to describe sympathy between characters and silent communication.28 In her The Lifted Veil (1859), she wrote about a “preternaturally heightened sense of hearing, making audible one a roar of sound where others find perfect stillness.” The idea of vibration of inaudible frequencies further inspired her Middlemarch (1871), which mentioned “hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heartbeat,” in explaining why most people do not feel sympathy for common ordinary kind of suffering. Using the analogy of mind and musical instrument, scientist John Tyndall also puts a similar idea rather poetically in his lecture on matter and force: “The mind of man may be compared to a musical instrument, with a certain range of notes, beyond which in both directions we have an infinitude of silence” (1871, 93).

Force at a distance and the power of sound These metaphors of vibration also played an essential role in the psychological discourses surrounding music at the time. Edmund Gurney was an early music psychologist who discussed the connections between individuals via the medium of acoustic vibratory waves and forces. In today’s musicological discourse, his writings tend to be discussed in connection with topics such as the autonomy of music, music and emotion, evolutionary musicology, and in relation to philosopher Jerrold Levinson’s concatenationism.29 His contribution to music psychology, however, is seldom discussed.30 This underestimation of his contributions is probably due to the approaches he took. His major work includes The Power of Sound (1880), but he did not employ any empirical experimental methods and later even turned to spiritualism.31 His music-psychological work was thus deemed not “scientific.” Nevertheless, there is an interesting contact point between science and spiritualism in Gurney’s musical thinking, and that converging point occurs in the metaphor of sympathetic vibration. For our discussion of sympathy and musical communication, it is worth noting that Gurney had a complicated relationship with Helmholtz’s works. In the preface

Musical force acting at a distance 111 to The Power of Sound, Gurney dissociated himself from the contemporaneous German aesthetics altogether and expressed his disagreement with Helmholtz: “I have not read any of the German systems of aesthetics, general or musical. . . . It is the more unfortunate that I find myself distinctly at variance with the greater part of these previous attempts, as well as with Helmholtz himself in respect of several questions lying on the borderland of the physical and the aesthetic enquiry” (1880, note 1; vi). On the other hand, a closer examination of Gurney’s writings in psychic research reveals a strong influence from Helmholtz’s notion of sympathetic vibration. For instance, Gurney worked closely with Frederic W. H. Myers, Frank Podmore, and William F. Barrett and published on the subjects of hallucination, spiritualism, and “thought-reading.”32 The term “telepathy” was coined in their studies to refer to the transmission of thoughts: “When a person is thrown into a hypnotic or passive condition, the nervous action associated with thought can be excited by a corresponding action in an adjoining individual, and this across space without the intervention of recognized organs of sensation.”33 The notion of action at a distance, which was still a mysterious concept in physics, was at work in these writings. Gurney’s relationship with Helmholtz was further complicated in that his colleague Barrett worked as an assistant for John Tyndall, the leading physicist of the time, who, as a close friend of Helmholtz, contributed significantly to popularizing Helmholtz’s work in Britain. The connection was beyond a personal one; a conceptual connection existed between the research done in physical acoustics and the “pseudo-scientific” psychical research of the late nineteenth century.34 Helmholtz’s analogy of the piano to describe the ear was later adopted and extended to other sensations such as vision (e.g., Barrett 1870) and even to sensation in general (Tyndall 1865). As Trower (2012) rightly points out, what is central in this analogy between sense mechanisms and musical instruments is the energy of vibration (47). In Gurney’s explication of vision and hearing, vibration and force acting at a distance feature prominently. Speaking of “aether” and “air” as the media through which light and sound travel, respectively, Gurney writes, “The existence of these media is of course connected with the power of the eye and the ear to act at a distance from the exciting cause, which affects them by vibrations set up in the medium, not by direct contact” (Gurney [1880] 1966, 25).35 This explication of the mechanisms of vision and hearing was concerned with the intent to connect the individual with the external world. A similar line of thought was employed to connect individuals through telepathic “thought-transference”: The familiar phenomena of the transmission and reception of vibratory energy are ready to hand as analogies – the effect, for instance . . . of one tuning-fork or string on another of the same pitch. . . . So it is possible to conceive that vibration-waves, or nervous induction, are a means whereby activity in one brain may evoke a kindred activity in another – with, of course, a similar correspondence of psychical impressions. (Gurney et al., 1886, 111–112)

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In other words, “we may conceive, if we please, that the vibration of molecules of brain-stuff may be communicated from one brain to another, with a corresponding simultaneity of impressions” (Barrett et al., 1882, 899–900). Many late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century scientists conceptualized thoughts as vibrations emanating from the brain into the aether. The term “brainwaves” was coined in 1869; James Thomas Knowles, architect and founder of the journal Nineteenth Century, described his “crude hypothesis of a Brain-Wave” as follows: “Let it be granted that whensoever any action takes places in the brain . . . an atomic movement occurs . . . [Also], there is . . . [a] universal, impalpable, elastic ‘Ether’ . . . Each acting, thinking brain then would become a centre of undulations transmitted from it in all directions through space” (Knowles 1869, 136). Evidently, what underlies such an account are acoustical vibrations: “The sound-wave passes on through myriads of bodies, and among a million makes but one thing shake, or sound to it, a sympathy of structure makes it sensitive, and it alone. A voice or tone may pass unnoticed by ten thousand ears, but strike and vibrate one into a madness of recollection” (Knowles 1869, 136). According to this explanation, feelings cause vibrations in the ether, which in turn cause particular feelings in distant brains.

“Brain waves” in communication The metaphors of musical instrument and acoustic vibrations seemed to play an essential role in shaping the notion of brain waves: psychophysicist Gustav Fechner, for instance, compared the relationship between our thoughts and the brain to that between music and a musical instrument: “A lyre cannot keep its music for itself; as little can our brain; the music of sounds or of thoughts originates in the lyre or in the brain, but does not stay there – it spreads beyond them”36 (Fechner 1882, 53). To Fechner, psychophysical energy does “not only travel along the nerves but radiates outwards” (Trower 2012, 86). Since the invention of electroencephalography (commonly known as EEG) by Hans Berger in 1924, brain waves in today’s field of neuroscience refer to the electrical activity in the brain described in the form of waves.37 Later in the twentieth century, composers such as Alvin Lucier and David Rosenboom came to be interested in making music with brain waves. These experimentations concerned the interface between the performer’s brain and the machine (brain-computer interface, BCI, or more precisely, the brain-computer music interface, BCMI, in this case). On the other hand, the term “brain waves” in late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century music psychology has different connotations. Frequently, it appertains to a “psychic force” in spiritualism, which flourished during the time and affected several scientific scholars. The boundary between science and spiritualism was blurred in their common concern for the notion of brain waves. A growing interest in vibration as a mediating force is one of the features that characterized science, “pseudo-science” (or occultism), and modernist arts in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In conjunction with music, the notion of brain waves was used to explicate the impact experienced within a body and,

Musical force acting at a distance 113 beyond that, as a metaphor in social cognition as a means of connecting individual brains.38 In his historical study of the concept of telepathy, Roger Luckhurst (2002) points out that this notion emerged along with the paradigm shift in science from questions of matter to those of force (84). It is also noteworthy that the relationship between performer and audience began to receive scholarly attention in the discourses on performing arts in modernism. As Ridout (2013) notes, audience-performer reciprocity is real, not imaginary, and it is often explicated as an exchange of energy (216). This growing interest in the interactive dimension of the performing arts and the field of communication between performer and audience was also contingent on the development of technology and media. With new technologies such as telegraphy and radio, the associative connections between vibration and wave to communication were further strengthened. The technology of transmitting sound over long distances was developed in the late nineteenth century, and radio broadcasting became popularized in the 1920s. In their pioneering work, The Psychology of Radio (1935), Cantril and Allport noted the psychological novelty of the listening experience that radio engendered and the subsequent absence of the “circular” relationship that had hitherto existed between performer and audience (1935, 11). The absence of reciprocity was not limited to performer and audience, however. There is “little stimulation from one another” among the members of a radio audience. This characterization of radio performances in turn directs our attention to the psychology of live performances where the audience as a “coacting group” experience “‘social facilitation,’ an augmenting or altering of the natural (solitary) responses of each individual member” (Cantril and Allport 1935, 13). The concept of force or energy acting at a distance was employed to illuminate the reciprocal, social sphere of human communication, including musical communication.

Inhibition and waves in music psychology Neuroaesthetics, defined as “the investigation of brain mechanisms that support aesthetic experiences,” is a relatively new field.39 However, already in the late nineteenth century, musical aesthetics developed in close conjunction with the rise of related fields such as experimental physiology, neurology, psychology, and psychophysics.40 Helmholtz’s monumental work in 1863, On the Sensations of Tone, is the best-known epitome to ground musical aesthetics in the fields of physiology and psychoacoustics. In Physiological Aesthetics (1877), Glenn Allen wrote, “[T]he subject of aesthetics has long been given over to transcendental rhetoric and vague poetical declamation” (1877, viii) and noted the purpose of the study was “to exhibit the purely physical origin of the sense of beauty, and its relativity to our nervous organisation” (1877, 2).41 In his study on the convergence between physiology and the arts in fin de siècle modernism, historian Robert Michael Brain cites a review of Allen’s book: “the region of aesthetics [began to be invaded] by natural science.”42 Such an appeal to natural science was generally considered to represent a materialistic approach.

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However, there is another dimension to this discussion that the late nineteenthand early twentieth-century scientists brought to light. It concerned the psychological – not physiological – aspect of the experience of music. Gustav Theodor Fechner, the pioneer of psychophysics, was deeply interested in the empirical aesthetics of music.43 Although psychophysics is currently understood as the systematic study of the quantitative relationship between stimulus and sensation, this field constitutes the “outer psychophysics,” only a part of the psychophysics originally proposed by Fechner. Fechner’s discussion includes “inner psychophysics,” a study of the relations between brain processes and corresponding mental processes with a significant consideration of the unconscious.44 His work contains experimental, scientific, and spiritualistic ideas. An important concept central to Fechner’s psychophysics is the notion of threshold (“Schwelle”).45 His notion of absolute threshold refers to “the lowest intensity at which a stimulus can be noticed.” This means that Fechner acknowledged a form of unconscious cognition of stimulus below the threshold (i.e., negative sensation). Further, it accentuates the existence of stimuli beyond our conscious awareness, such as inaudible frequencies.46 The awareness of vibrations beyond our senses has fascinated and inspired many artists and writers in modernism. The power of sound is easily rendered comparable to the power of the mind. As illustrated in Anthony Enns and Shelley Trower’s anthology Vibratory Modernism (2013), the idea of vibrations was foundational for the scientific developments of the time and for bridging the realms of science and the arts. The invention of X-rays and radio waves, for instance, led to a “new understanding of the universe as a vast network of continuous vibrations” (Enns and Trower 2013, 1). What served as the model for Fechner’s conceptualization of conscious and unconscious sensations was the wave theory of sound in acoustics. In part 2 of his Elemente der Psychophysik (1860), dealing with inner psychophysics, Fechner presented the wave schema in explaining the psychophysical process (see Figure 5.5). Let us imagine that all of the psychophysical processes of a human being are like a wave, and that the quantity of these processes is described by the

a A

b

c B

Figure 5.5 The wave schema of psychophysical process represented in Fechner (1860, 529). The line “A-B” represents the threshold. The letters “a,” “b,” and “c” represent “the three organisms or rather, the psychophysical main waves of the three organisms.”

Musical force acting at a distance 115 height of the wave above a horizontal baseline or plane surface to which each psychophysically active point contributes an ordinate. . . . [T]he entire structure and the entire operation of the conscious processes depend on the present and subsequent developing form, the rising and falling, of this wave, whereas the intensity of consciousness at each moment depends on its respective height. The height of this wave somewhere and somehow must exceed a certain limit, which we call the threshold, before consciousness or waking can occur.47 Fechner’s schema consisted of waves; the horizontal line that runs through the waves is reminiscent of the analogy discussed at the beginning of this chapter. Schleich’s analogy between the pedal of a piano and the human nervous system seems to suggest that the human body is a kind of electric machine that primarily serves a physiological function. However, it also concerns the field of psychology and, more pertinent to our discussion here, the unconscious. The analogy of the damper embodies the concept of “inhibition” (Hemmung), which was introduced in the early nineteenth century but only came to be used commonly in the late nineteenth century through physiology and psychology (Macmillan 1996).48 Whereas the earlier, Herbartian conceptualization of inhibition was completely abstract and psychological, later conceptions of inhibition tended to be attributed to the brain and concerned with the nervous system. A classic definition of the term was offered by Scottish physician Thomas Lauder Brunton in the late nineteenth century: “the arrest of the functions of a structure or organ, by the action upon it of another, while its power to execute those functions is still retained, and can be manifested as soon as the restraining power is removed” (1883, 419). It should be noted that even this definition of inhibition and its antonym, namely, excitation (in the context of neurology), carried rich psychological connotations. As Roger Smith points out in his study of the conceptual history of inhibition, neurophysiological theories in the nineteenth century were much more than “neutral empirical developments in scientific knowledge,” carrying philosophical significance related to the enduring question of the relation of mind and body (1992, 16). In this context, the word “inhibition” both evoked psychological explanations and promoted the search for an underlying physiological mechanism (Smith 1992, 17). The notion is immediately related to forces; more precisely, it indicates a relationship between two forces, one regulating another, as in the relationship between the will and instinct (Smith 1992, 8). From this perspective, psychological activities were dynamically conceptualized.

The vibratory energy of music Throughout the nineteenth to the early twentieth century, the scholarly interest in vibration increased. This tendency was in tandem with a growing focus on the nervous system (Trower 2012, 5). The vibratory waves discussed here are neither only to be heard nor only to be seen. Rather than restrained to a specific modality, vibration is felt throughout the whole body. Famous anecdotes of Ludwig van

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Beethoven hearing music using a stick between his teeth or Thomas Edison hearing through his teeth and jaws best illustrate the point (see Connor 2004). Senses are thus deemed as forces. Musicologists and music theorists discussed this multisensorial aspect of “hearing” music beyond the ear. Music phenomenologists also noted the experience of immersion in sound and music that penetrate listeners’ bodies. Sound and music have the quality of surroundability as well as directionality: Don Ihde refers to this notion as the “auditory field” (2007). The metaphor of vibrations used in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries is closer to what philosopher Casey O’Callaghan proposed as the “Event View” rather than “Wave View,” despite its use of the wave image. Sounds – and by extension music – are not seen “as pressure waves that travel through a medium, nor as physical properties of the objects ordinarily thought to be the sources of sounds, but rather as events of a certain kind. Sounds are particular events in which a surrounding medium is disturbed or set into wavelike motion by the activities of a body or interacting bodies” (2009, 26). Through “the emotional contagion” or “infection,” Stephen Davies discusses the emotional communication between music and the listener (Davies 2011, 2013). This form of communication is different from that between humans (for example, between performer and listener and between audience members). True, “we tend to resonate with the emotional tenor of the music, much as we catch the emotional ambience emanating from other people” (Davies 2011, 134), but it is not because of the “subtle facial mimicry” or “the detection of emitted pheromones” (Davies 2011, 146). Between the music and the listener, emotional transmission involves a mimicry of “the ebb and flow of tensing and relaxation apparent in the music’s progress” (Davies 2011). Victor Zuckerkandl’s writings on music and force illuminate this dynamic perspective of music as a play of forces and its effect on listeners. Zuckerkandl is mostly known as Schenker’s student who “disseminated his teacher’s ideas” in the United States in the 1940s (Berry 2003, 105). His ideas, however, go beyond being merely Schenker-based music theory. As Suppan (2001) points out, his work comprises a “curious combination of disciplines,” ranging from phenomenology, Gestalt psychology, and comparative musicology, as well as the ideas derived from Schenker. Zuckerkandl placed a strong emphasis on the relations of dynamic qualities of tones, which he considered not just as a metaphor but as a real entity. We actually hear the force of a tone “that has become active” (Zuckerkandl [1956] 1969, 19). Moreover, this force is not a physical force that sets the vibrating bodies into motion; the tone as an acoustical phenomenon can be represented graphically on an oscilloscope. Waves and lines can indicate the pitch, loudness, and timbre of a tone. It may represent the rise and fall of tones in the tonal space but not the genuine, actual rise and fall of tones in the dynamic tonal field (Zuckerkandl [1956] 1969, 100). The “dynamic state of the tone” cannot be deduced from the oscilloscope images (Zuckerkandl [1956] 1969, 22). Motion in the dynamic field of tones is essentially motion in terms of a curve

Musical force acting at a distance 117

1ˆ

2ˆ

3ˆ

4ˆ

5ˆ

6ˆ

7ˆ

8ˆ

Figure 5.6 Zuckerkandl’s curve represents the stability and instability of tones (Zuckerkandl [1956] 1969, 98). Reproduced by permission from Princeton University Press.

form. Figure 5.6 represents the various degrees of stability and instability of individual tones “in relation to a given audible center of force” (Zuckerkandl [1956] 1969, 100). Zuckerkandl posited that tonal motion “essentially” follows this curve but is not bound to it: tones can “simply move back and forth along this curve but they are not obliged to do so. Melody motion is free motion” (Zuckerkandl [1956] 1969, 99). The basis of musical experience is a dynamic process (119). He asserted that “the tonal movement is psychic, not bodily motion, a motion without a material substratum, nonspatial motion, spontaneous or self motion. . . . The movement so heard is ‘emotion,’ not motion of bodies” (Zuckerkandl 1976, 142). This does not mean, however, that Zuckerkandl completely disregarded the physical world. He posited, for example, the idea of the musician’s “thinking hand” (Zuckerkandl 1976, 274–285), an idea borrowed from Heidegger (1976): There is something quite special about the hand. . . . Handwork is richer than is usually believed. Every motion of the hand in every one of its words is carried out in the medium of thought; every one of its gestures presupposes thought. All handwork is grounded in thought. For this reason thinking is the simplest and hence the most difficult handwork. (Zuckerkandl 1976, 275) The concept can be applicable to both the painter’s and the musician’s hand: “A Chopin melody seems to be traced by the playing hand, as a visible line is traced by the painting hand. A composer must not sit at the keyboard to do this; he always has the keyboard in the spirit of his hands” (Ibid, 280). From this embodied perspective, it is natural that Zuckerkandl did not fully agree with the binary conception of rhythm and Takt. In Chapter 1, we witnessed how an emphasis was placed on continuous, organic rhythm rather than the mechanical machine-like Takt. While inheriting some of the ideas of these bodyculture-oriented scholars such as Klages, Zuckerkandl went further. While there is something convincing about the dualistic characterization of meter and rhythm, “music shows us that meter and rhythm can meet on other terms than those of

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Figure 5.7 A “metric wave” at the beginning of Chopin’s Polonaise in A-Major, Op. 40, No. 1, represented by Zuckerkandl ([1956] 1969, 171). Reprinted by permission from Princeton University Press.

enmity and opposition” (Zuckerkandl [1956] 1969, 170). What serves as the vanishing point between rhythm and meter in Zuckerkandl’s theory are the notions of wave and force. Rhythm is not the mere succession of durations as such. Meter is not generated by a pattern of strong and weak accents or something that “draws boundary lines, interrupts and separates” ([1956] 1969, 169): “The wave is the meter; rhythm arises from the different arrangements of the tones on the wave” (Zuckerkandl [1956] 1969, 172). Forces are at work within this dynamic field of meter and, according to whether the tones fall within this field, rhythm arises. Zuckerkand’s “metric wave” at the beginning of Chopin’s Polonaise in A-Major, Op. 40, No. 1, is shown in Figure 5.7. The four sixteenth notes at the end of the first measure are not simply “filling up” the last third of the measure. Instead, what we feel is “four tones of equal length in rapid succession, carried along by the ascending phase of the wave to a goal, the wave crest” (Ibid, 171–72). We hear the dynamic qualities of these tones. Zuckerkandl writes, “Listening to music, then, we are not first in one tone, then in the next, and so forth. We are, rather, always between the tones, on the way from tone to tone; our hearing does not remain with the tone, it reaches through it and beyond it” (Zuckerkandl [1956] 1969, 136–137). Zuckerkandl’s musical force reveals a biological influence and, as previously noted, Gestalt psychology and philosophy. A particularly interesting parallel is found in the writings by Jakob Johann Freiherr von Uexküll, a German biologist known for his contribution to biosemiotics.49 The correlation between the two thinkers may be indirect, despite Zuckerkandl making a passing reference to Uexküll’s biology ([1956] 1969, 317).50 However, the vitalistic approach to music is evident in the writings of both thinkers. Uexküll was deeply committed to modeling the biological organism on music: “Originally, all the seeds of living things composed themselves out of free protoplasm cells, which obey only the melodic induction of their self-tones” (Uexküll [1934] 2010, 148–149). According to him,

Musical force acting at a distance 119 materialism “knows nothing of music”; it sees “nothing but ink-blots” (Uexküll 1926, 204–205); “Everything physical can be cut with a knife – but not a melody” (194). Conversely, Zuckerkandl understood music as a biological organism, and his vitalist principle is explicitly stated at the beginning of the first volume of Sound and Symbol: among the various experiences of our sense, tone is the only one that belongs exclusively to life. Light and color, sound, odor, and taste, solidity, fluidity, and gaseousness, rough and smooth, hot and cold – all these are also to be found in nonliving nature. Only life can produce tones. Living beings, out of themselves, add tone to the physical world that confronts them; it is the gift of life to nonliving nature. ([1956] 1969, 1)

“Sympathetic oscillation” Moreover, Zuckerkandl considered that these dynamic qualities of music are directly perceptible. We feel these waves through the “sympathetic oscillation” set up in the listener’s mind ([1956] 1969, 167).51 Zuckerkandl compared audition to tactile perception: “[T]he ear has much more in common with the skin than with the eye. This is why, in deaf persons, the ear’s function as organ of ‘musical’ sensation is taken over by the skin, not by the eye” (Zuckerkandl 1976, 159). This argument is supported by recent neuroscientific findings on the cross-modal plasticity of the brain: deaf individuals tend to have enhanced tactile sensitivity (Levänen and Hamdorf 2001). This is why Zuckerkandl supposed the “third stage,” which is “neither the world of the psyche nor the world of bodies” ([1956] 1969, 145). Zuckerkandl’s view of music, therefore, concerns much more than temporal unfolding: it invites a multidimensional perspective of musical energy. A description of an auditory experience should go beyond purely temporal terms. The space of hearing music is neither visual nor physical. It is a “placeless flowing space” (Zuckerkandl 336). This space “permits encounter to be experienced as communication, not as distance” (339). Distinguishing it from the normal space as place, Zuckerkandl refers to this space of hearing as a “space as force” (343).52

Concluding remarks This chapter investigated the metaphoric use of force in such a sense to explain the power of music in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. Several thinkers across various disciplines considered hearing as powerful as seeing and even more so. The invisibility of sound efficiently render the conceptualization of music as force. Music is a type of field force that can cause action at a distance. The growing interest in the interactive dimension of the performing arts and the field of communication between performer and audience was also contingent on the development of technology and media. It also contributed to

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a reconceptualization of music from a multidimensional perspective. The metaphor of vibratory waves promoted the multisensorial aspect of “hearing” music beyond the ear. Rather than being restrained to a specific modality, vibration is felt throughout the whole body. Our journey that began in Chapter 1 with the notion of the human body as a motor emerged in the background of scientific materialism wraps up with a return to the notion of the vitalistic force of music in Chapter 5, which is more closely grounded in the organic human body.

Notes 1 For a historical summary of action at a distance in classical physics from the seventeenth to the nineteenth century, see Hesse (1955). 2 His unpublished preface to the Principia (written mid- and late 1710s) also reveals the same spirit: “In all philosophy we must begin from phenomena and admit no principles of things, no causes, no explanations, except those which are established through phenomena” (Principia, 54). 3 David Cahan, ed., Letters of Hermann von Helmholtz to His Parents (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1993), Letter 6, 5 Nov. 1838, Translation from Hiebert (2014, 29). 4 See his autobiography, Stumpf (1930). 5 Przybyszewski, Moi współcześni (My contemporaries), Chapter 10, cited in Kuncewicz (1969), 13. For the discussion of Przybyszewski in the context of literary decadence, see Kuncewicz (1969) and Schoolfield (2003). Stephen Downes (2010) is one of the few studies dealing with Przybyszewski’s ideas and influence in the context of music. 6 “Chopin und Nietzsche” in Zur Psychlogie des Individuums (Berlin: Fontane & co., 1892) and Szopen a Naród (Chopin and Nation) (Kraków: Drukarnia Ludowa, 1910). For the discussion of these writings, see Henderson (1960) and Trochimczyk (2004), especially 291–293. 7 This line of nationalistic appropriation was initiated by Polish count and historian Stanislaw Tarnowski in 1871. 8 “zum bedeutendsten Psychologen der hysterischen Seele, der Spasmen kranker Nerven, der irritierenden Qualen, der unlokalisierbaren Schmerzen, der zitternden Unruhe gemacht.” 9 “In der brütenden, so endlos schmerzlichen Monotonie plötzlich ein schriller Akkord von grandioser Wirkung” . . . “dieser physisch-brutale Aufschrei in der Agonie des Schmerzes . . . gibt uns bessere Auskunft über die Nachtseiten des menschlichen Empfindungslebens, als alle psychologischen Klügeleien insgesamt.” 10 Strindberg, Brev, I-Xv, ed. Torsten Eklund (Stockholm: Albert Bonniers Förlag, 1948– 76), vol. 10, 215; Translation from Prideaux (2005, 142). 11 Eduard Hanslick, “Ein Brief über die ‘Clavierseuche,’” in Suite: Aufsätze über Musik und Musiker (Vienna, 1884), 164ff. Cited in Hiebert (2013, 23). 12 Words by Polish writer/pediatrician Tadeusz Boy-Żeleński cited in Maxime Herman, “Un sataniste polonaise: Stanislas Przybyszewski (de 1868 à 1900)” (Paris: Institut français de Varsovie, 1939). Translation from Henderson (1960, 42). 13 Edvard Munch, “Mein Freund Przybyszewski.” Translation from Lathe (1979, 21). 14 “Und das alles gespielt von einem Menschen, der während des Spiels selber in eine Art unheimlicher Trance verfiel und die anderen damit ansteckte! Wäre ich ein Virtuose gewesen, hätte ich sie gewiß durch meine Technik geblendet, und sie hätten auf etwas anderes nicht achten können, aber so – bei dem Spiel eines ‘Inspirierten,’ eines in inbrünstige Verzückung geratenen Dilettanten, wirkte allein der ‘Geist’ der Musik.” 15 “Dazu appelliert sie zu sehr an den Verstand, zu wenig an das schlichte Herz.”

Musical force acting at a distance 121 16 “Plötzlich sprang ich hoch. ‘Stanislaus!’ rief ich. ‘Mensch! “die” Neuroglia ist ein Klaviersaitendämpfer! Ein elektrisches Sordino, ein Registerschaltapparat, ein Hemmungsregulator!’ ‘Blitz! Himmel! Kreuzmillionen fis-Moll noch einmal Bruder, sag’ es noch einmal. Er ist verrückt geworden. Oder es ist eine Erleuchtung!’ Schnell setzte ich ihm die Möglichkeit auseinander, daß Nerven durch Einschaltung feuchter Ströme abgedämpft werden könnten, daß das Denken phasisch sei mit dem Blutpulse und daß, wenn das richtig sei, man ja nur verändertes Blut zwischen die Hauttasterglocken zu spritzen brauche, um Gefühlsdämpfung oder Ueberempfindlichkeit beliebig künstlich zu erzeugen.” 17 Given Przybyszewski’s predilection for Chopin’s music and Schleich’s use of the pedal analogy in explicating neuroglia, it is noteworthy that Chopin was one of the pianists who initiated the development of sophisticated pedal techniques in the second half of the nineteenth century, along with Liszt and piano pedagogues Sigismund Thalberg and Ludwig Deppe. Before then, pedal use was far from systematic in both amateur piano playing and virtuoso concerts. For a historical discussion of piano pedaling, see Rowland (1993). For the relationship between acoustics and pedaling technique in the late nineteenth century, see Hiebert (2013). 18 “Sonderbar! dachte ich, diese Pariser, die den Napoleon gesehen, der eine Schlacht nach der andern liefern mußte, um ihre Aufmerksamkeit zu fesseln, diese jubeln jetzt unserm Franz Liszt! Und welcher Jubel! Eine wahre Verrücktheit, wie sie unerhört in den Annalen der Furore! Was ist aber der Grund dieser Erscheinung? Die Lösung der Frage gehört vielleicht eher in die Pathologie als in die Ästhetik. Die elektrische Wirkung einer dämonischen Natur auf eine zusammengespreßte Menge, die ansteckende Gewalt der Ekstase, und vielleicht der Magnetismus der Musik selbst, dieser spiritualistischen Zeitkrankheit, welche fast in uns allen vibriert – diese Phänomene sind mir noch nie so deutlich und beängstigend entgegengetreten wie in dem Concert von Liszt.” Heinrich Heine, “Musical Season of 1844” Ausburger allgemeine Zeitung (8 May 1844), from Oscar Sonneck, “Heinrich Heine’s Musical Feuilletons,” Musical Quarterly 8 (1922), trans. Frederic. H. Martens. Reprinted in Haskell (1996, 118). Emphasis added. 19 According to Walker (1987), Heine showed Liszt his article before its publication, apparently threatening to receive “appreciate money.” Liszt did not respond, and Heine published his review, attributing the musician’s success to the “hysterical” behaviors of his lady fans. Liszt subsequently ended his relationship with Heine (164). Regarding the idea of “electrical communication” in music, see Brittan’s study of Berlioz’s account of conducting in light of the contemporaneous ideas of electricity (2020). 20 For a recent discussion of the dynamic role of the musical instruments influencing the musicians’ conceptions of music, see De Souza (2017). 21 For a historical overview of the vibration theory of sound in the seventeenth century, see Dostrovsky (1975). 22 For a detailed discussion of how Young’s interest in music and sound guided his optical work, see Pesic (2013). 23 For the role of wave theory in late nineteenth-century scientific writings in the emergence of literary modernism, see Beer 1993. 24 For a discussion of the important but less studied topic of the negative effect of music, see Kennaway (2012). 25 John Hawkins’s A General History of the Science and Practice of Music (London, Novello, Ewer & Co.; New York, J.L. Peters, 1776/1875) includes a summary of Kircher’s discussion of the effect of music (639 ff.). 26 Kircher’s Magnes (“Magnets,” 1641) included a chapter on “the magnetism of music,” the invisible attractive forces of music. 27 For the discussion of Helmholtz’s prevailing influence in the Victorian intellectual life, see Beer (1996b).

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28 For the influence of Helmholtzian physiological acoustics on the modernist literature, especially George Eliot’s novels, see Picker (2003) and Da Sousa Correa (2003, 2013). Eliot’s musical background is documented in Young (1943). 29 For discussions on Gurney’s music aesthetics, see Spitzer (2020), and Levinson (1993, 1997). For a holistic contextualization of Gurney’s musical thinking in the background of liberal individualism, see Collins (2019). 30 However, Gurney’s contemporaneous music psychologists discussed his work in this context. English psychologist James Sully wrote a review of The Power of Sound in the journal Mind (1881), and Carl Stumpf mentioned Gurney’s work in his article “Musikpsychologie in England” (1885). Gurney’s response to Sully carries the title of “The Psychology of Music” (1882). 31 To borrow Cone’s expressions (1966): “It will probably come as a disappointment to many that Gurney after promising a scientific treatment of musical phenomena, should, at a crucial point in his argument, take refuge in intuition, in ‘the musical faculty,’ and in a unique emotion. The frustrated reader may even unkindly suggest that the investigation of psychic phenomena is indeed the proper field for one who finds such phantasm inhabiting in the musical world” (xv–xvi). Yet, Cone finds the commonalities between Gurney’s study in music and in the supernatural and characterizes it in terms of skeptical empiricism. Gurney’s skepticism “distrust abstractions and insists on the limitations of scientific knowledge even while relying on scientific method: his empiricism accepts the concrete facts of human experience as fundamental” (xvi). 32 Barrett et al. (1882); Edmund Gurney, Frederic W. H. Myers, and Frank Podmore, Phantasm of the Living (London: Trübner and Co., 1886). 33 William F. Barrett cited in Luckhurst (2002, 61; emphasis added). 34 As Noakes (2004) points out, the connection between Barrett and Tyndall highlights the possible connection between acoustical research in physics and “pseudo-scientific” psychical research. 35 See Raz (2014) for the history of the harmonium in the context of the eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century discourse of ethereal mediums. 36 “So wenig die Laute ihr Spiel für sich behalten kann, es wird über sie hinausgetragen, so wenig unser Haupt; nur das Nächste davon gehört der Laute und dem Haupte” (Fechner [1836] 1906, 44). 37 For the cultural history of the electroencephalogram, the EEG curve, see Borck (2018). 38 Brennan (2004) examines the mechanism by which affect is transmitted and challenges the notion of self-contained individuals. 39 For a discussion of aesthetics and neuroscience, see Conway and Rehding (2013). For a review of the neuroaesthetics of music, see Brattico and Pearce (2013) and Hodges (2016). The definition of neuroaesthetics of music cited is from Hodges (2016, 247). 40 For a discussion of music and the nervous system in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, see Kennaway (2014). 41 Neurologist Oliver Sacks (2007) mentions Grant Allen’s study on “Note-Deafness” (1878) in the journal Mind as the first extended description of amusia in the context of experimental neurology and psychology. 42 London Examiner, quoted in Anonymous, review of Physiological Aesthetics, by Grant Allen, Popular Science Monthly 11, no. 41 (October 1877): 760. Cited in Brain (2015, xiii). 43 Only volume 1 of Fechner’s Elemente der Psychophysik (1860), dealing with the outer psychophysics, has been translated into English (Fechner 1966). Fechner’s Vorschule der Aesthetik (1876) is a seminal work, proposing the approach of the “aesthetics from below.” Recently, Fechner’s 1866 article on aesthetics was translated into English (“Das Associationsprincip in der Aesthetik,” Zeitschrift für bildende Kunst, 1(1), 1866: 179–191; see Ortlieb et al. 2020). 44 For a discussion of these less-known aspects of Fechner, see Arnheim (1985), Robinson (2010), and Romand (2012).

Musical force acting at a distance 123 45 Similarly, William James used the image of a horizontal line for the notion of the threshold of consciousness ([1890] 1893, 154, 156). 46 The discussion of different pitch sensibility can be traced back to English scientist William Hyde Wollaston’s 1820 report, “On Sounds Inaudible by Certain Ears.” Helmholtz more specifically discussed the existence of inaudible vibrations: “vibrations lying beyond these limits occur in sound, as in light, and can be demonstrated physically” (Helmholtz, “The Facts in Perception (1878),” translation by David Cahan from Helmholtz ([1868] 1995, 346). 47 “Denken wir uns die gesamte psychophysische Thätigkeit des Menschen wie eine Welle, und die Größe dieser Thätigkeit durch die Höhe dieser Welle über einer horizontalen Grundlinie oder Fläche dargestellt, wozu jeder psychophysische Punct eine Ordinate beiträgt. [. . .] So wird die ganze Gestaltung und der ganze Gang der Bewusstseinsthätigkeit von der gegenwärtigen und folgends sich entwickelnden Form, dem Steigen und Fallen, dieser Welle, die Intensität des Bewusstseins zu jeder Zeit von der jeweiligen Höhe derselben abhängen, und die Höhe dieser Welle irgendwo und irgendwie eine gewisse Gränze, die wir die Schwelle nennen, übersteigen müssen, damit überhaupt Bewusstsein, Wachen stattfinde.” Fechner, Elemente, vol. 2 (1860, vol. 2), 454–456. Translation modified from Robinson (2010, 429). 48 Inhibition (Hemmung) featured significantly in Johann Friedrich Herbart’s discussion of apperception and how Vorstellungen became connected. 49 For a rich discussion of biotic aesthetics of music in the nineteenth century, see Watkins (2018). 50 In a recent study on Uexküll, Merleau-Ponty, Zuckerkandl, and Deleuze as Goethean Ecologists, Frederick Amrine (2015) notes that Zuckerkandl shows no evidence of having read Uexküll or Merleau-Ponty. 51 In his recent book, Arnie Cox identified that his mimetic hypothesis is consistent with Zuckerkandl’s discussion of sympathetic oscillation (Cox 2016, 247, note 1). 52 This is a paraphrase of Bergson’s expression, “l’étendue précède l’espace” (extent precedes space) in Matière et Mémoire (Matter and Memory) (1896).

Epilogue

This book presented a historical landscape of the emerging field of music psychology in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries with a particular focus on thematic content. Linguistic formulations of selected writings were emphasized and each chapter approached the complex scene of music psychology from different thematic angles. Chapter 1 began with the emergence of a new concept of energy in the sciences, examining the notion of musicking “body machines.” Chapter 2 problematized the notion of voice as “a force of nature” and its implications in early music psychological discourses. Chapter 3 probed the keywords “motion,” “force,” and “mass,” focusing on performers’ bodily movements and piano theories. Chapter 4 examined the rise of the energeticist music theory contemporaneous to human movement science. Chapter 5 discussed both intrasubjective and intersubjective relations in music and the metaphoric potential of force. In this process, various concepts of body and force came into view. The analogy of body and force, in many cases, initiated from the “transferred use of [terms] that properly belongs to” the field of science.1 These metaphors are, at times, drawn to impose a “scientific” image onto musical discourses; at other times, they are used to highlight various frameworks for the conceptualization of music. For instance, force can be approached both as a measurable effect (as in some late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century mechanistic piano playing pedagogies) and as cause (as in contemporaneous discussions about the origins of music). The notion of force is itself derived from our bodily experiences and is thus intimately grounded in the body; it is, therefore, not surprising to find force as the central concept in the discourse on performing music in psychology, aesthetics, music pedagogy, and theory. Musical performance is, just like the work of a smith, a carpenter, and other types of workmen, composed of “lifting and lowering, pushing and pulling, stretching and pulling together, and so on” (Meyer-Kalkys 2007, 170). However, this comparison does not simply equalize music performance and sports activities, for example, and it does not promote resistance to music analysis altogether.2 The implication is extended to the conceptualization of music itself; instead of foregrounding the mind over the body, it points to an embodied notion of music. In his essay, “Bodily Hearing” (1999), Andrew Mead writes, Music, in large part, is indeed something we do. It is a way we speak to each other, and often how we speak to ourselves. That the mind can be ravished by DOI: 10.4324/9781003056201-7

Epilogue 125 the patterns we perceive in sounds I would never deny. But how we perceive those sounds, and how we make those sounds, cannot help but carry part of the message. To ignore this is to ignore what, for many of us, brought us here in the first place. The study of music has its own rewards, but it is good to remind oneself occasionally that music’s path to the mind is inevitably through the body. (Mead 1999, 15) The discussion of early music psychology is significant because it illuminates parallels between the themes in historical discourse and current research. However, the primary goal of the present book is not to identify similarities between the past and the present but to highlight the transformations and (dis)continuities of the concepts it brings forward. Therefore, it underscores the historicity of conceptual metaphors. To paraphrase what Richard Leppert stated about the significance of the body, to both body and force: “The body [and force are] real, but [their] reality [are] produced, by cognition, as a representation. [They are] a product of multiple discourse constructed. . . . We ‘know’ [body and force] through the ‘language’ about and of them” (1993, xx). This viewpoint led to the examination of different writings across various disciplines that can be placed under the comprehensive umbrella of music psychology. In 1979, musicologist Alan Walker wrote: “A true psychology of music will advance beyond such primitive ‘lab work’ and take us into the very centre of the musician’s workshop. It will address itself to the musical unconscious, as well as to the psychopathology of music – to musical errors and their meaning. The topic is vast. Its further exploration, however, is a challenge which must be taken up” (1643). Such a comprehensive picture of music psychology was witnessed in the past explored in this book. What Roland Barthes wrote in his essay about listening can be parodied and applied to music psychology. Music psychology – not the field but the subject matter, as addressed in the Introduction of this book – “does not figure in the encyclopedias of the past, it belongs to no acknowledged discipline” (1985, 260). The conceptual presumptions behind how people perceived, wrote about, and performed music are revealed in these interdisciplinary encounters. The analogies of body and force constitute these conceptual junctures in which the issues of musical minds, listening and performing bodies, the music itself, performativity, and musical agencies were highlighted. Many scholars have emphasized the necessity of integrating music as a part of intellectual history (see, for example, Bujić 1984; Toews 2008); the book also attempted to situate music within broader cultural contexts. The discourse of music psychology was interlinked with other modes of discourse so closely that the disciplinary boundaries were challenged and blurred. These interlinks and relations will, as discussed in the Introduction citing Giedion (1948), “vary with the shifting point of view, for like constellations of stars, they are ceaseless in change” (2). Wrapping up with an invitation to the readers, I continue to cite Giedion’s words: in this book, a certain “searchlight has fallen on scattered facts and facets, leaving vast stretches of darkness between. The complexes of meaning

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thus arising have not been explicitly linked. In the mind of the active reader new interrelations and new complexes of meaning will be found” (1948, 714).

Notes 1 Aristotle, Poetics. Cited from Russell and Winterbottom (1972, 119). 2 See the discussion of the analogy between musical and athletic performance and music theorists’ concern for it in Cumming (2000, 20 ff.).

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Index

Note: Page numbers in italics indicate a figure on the corresponding page. Page numbers followed by “n” indicate a note. absolute threshold 114 action 10, 15, 56, 57, 78–80; bodily 3, 8, 19, 22, 73, 76, 92, 95; sonic product of 95; sound-producing 25; visualization of 92; vocal 41–42, 47; voluntary 63, 66 action at a distance 11, 98–99, 106, 111, 119, 120n1 action-listening 5 action–perception coupling 69–72, 76 aesthetic force 105 agency 68–69; body machine and 37–38; force and 4–6; of motion 91–92; of sensation 66 Allen, Glenn 113 Allen, Grant 122n41 American Journal of Psychology, The 17, 18 android automata 13–14 Anfänge der musik, Die (“The Beginnings of Music”; Stumpf) 43 animal, machine, and voice 32–34 animal music 52 Arbeitswissenschaft (the science of labor/ work) 15 Arbeit und Rhythmus (“Labor and Rhythm”; Bücher) 20 “Are we automata?” (James) 14 Aristoxenus 44–45 Art of Piano Playing, The (Neuhaus) 75 Art of Playing on the Piano Forte, The (Clementi) 57 audience-performer reciprocity 113 audition and tactile perception 119 auditory field 116 Automata (Hoffmann) 13 automata, musical 13, 28nn2–3

Bach, C. P. E. 57 Bach, J. S. 75 Bacon, Roger 51 Bain, Alexander 4 Balla, Guilio 95n10 ball analogy 78–79, 92 Barrett, William F. 111 Barthes, Roland 49, 70, 125 Basic Principles in Pianoforte Playing (Lhevinne) 75 Becking, Gustav 93; Becking curves 93 Beethoven, Ludwig van 75, 88, 90, 115–116 Bell, Alexander Graham 3 Benjamin, Walter 23, 81, 82 Bergson, Henri 82, 95n8 Berlioz, Hector 106 Bernstein, Nicolai 58, 61 Bode, Rudolf 24–28 bodily movement and upbeatness, relationship between 27 body: and force, relationship between 6; as motor, notion of 20–21; and soul, interconnectedness of 25; as source of natural sound 36–37; see also human motor body culture 23–24, 117 body machine: and agency, and voice 37–38; musicking 13–27, 124 Boethius, Anicius Manlius Severinus 5, 51 Bolton, Thaddeus L. 17, 18 Bonnet, Charles 4 Borck, Cornelius 122n37 Bragaglia, Anton Guilio 95n10 Brée, Malwine 75 Brücke, Ernst 15

Index Brunton, Thomas Lauder 115 Bücher, Karl 20–22, 29nn14, 18 Bülow, Hans von 16 Burney, Charles 87 Caland, Elizabeth 61–62, 63, 72, 77n17 Casella, Alfredo 90 Charcot, Jean-Martin 77n17 Chopin, Frédéric 67, 75, 101, 121n17 Chronophotographie 80 Clark, Frederic Horace 62, 72–73, 76n5 Clementi, Muzio 57 Clynes, Manfred 94 common coding theory 31n43 communication 11, 35, 46, 51, 65, 119; brain waves in 112–113; electrical 121n19; emotional 36, 116; musical 100, 108, 110, 113; of non-human species 52; silent 110; vibration and 108, 112; vocal 36 Cone, Edward T. 78, 92, 122n31 continuity, notion of 83–84 Cooper, Barry 91 corps sonore 34 Counterpoint (Schenker) 88 curves, of musical sounds 47, 48–49 Czerny, Carl 56 Dalcroze, Émile-Jaques 24 Darwin, Charles 36, 53n9, 70 Darwin, Erasmus 67 Dehmel, Richard 100 Deppe, Ludwig 2, 61, 72, 77n17, 86, 121n17 Descartes, René 1, 98 Diderot, Denis 1 disciplinary identity 6–8, 51, 76 discursive space and disciplinary identity, of music psychology 6–8 Doré, Gustav 105 dragging movement and voice 43–46 Du Bois-Reymond, Emil 15, 61, 62, 65 Duchamp, Marcel 95n10 Dulcimer Player, The (Roentgen and Kinzing) 13 Edison, Thomas 116 Ehrlich, Heinrich 56–57 Eisenberg, Jacob 62 Elemente der Psychophysik (Fechner) 114 Eliot, George 110 embodied cognition 31n43, 70

153

emotional communication, between music and listener 116 emotion and music 35–36 empirical propensity 44 energeticist 10, 79, 84, 94, 95, 124 energy 10, 63, 66; active 4; concept of 15; conservation of 15, 17, 62, 67, 80; consumers of 19–20, 62; keyboard 69; least expenditure of 27; music as streams of 84–86; psychophysical 112; retropulsive 107; specific 65; vibratory 115–119; voice and 40; see also force; minding gaps and musical energy entrainment 22 Essai de psychologie (Bonnet) 4 Essay on the True Art of Playing Keyboard Instruments (C. P. E. Bach) 57 ethnomusicology 42, 51 Euler, Leonhard 38 Euphonia 52n4 “Event View” 116 exercising and motor movements 65 Faber, Joseph 52n4 false automata 13 Famous Pianists and Their Technique (Gerig) 75 Faust (Goethe) 93 Fay, Amy 106 Fechner, Gustav Theodor 114–115, 122n43 Féré, Charles 77n17 finger actions, isolated 66–67 fingering, modified 90 First Principles (Spencer) 16 Fludd, Robert 1 force: aesthetic 105; agency and 4–6; body and 6; life 65, 93, 97n33; postures and 66–69; rhythm and 16–17; space as 119; will and 62–63; see also musical force Forel, August 2, 108 Foucault, Michel 82 Freud, Sigmund 52n6 fugues, connecting passages in 85 Gamble, Clive 3, 4, 75 García, Manuel 37 Geist als Widersacher der Seele, Der (“The Mind as Antagonist of the Soul”; Klages) 23 geometrics, of physiological movement 58, 59 Gerig, Reginald R. 75 Gestalt psychology 92

154

Index

Giedion, Sigfried 7, 125–126 Gieseking, Walter 75 Gilels, Emil 75 glissando 86, 87, 89–92 Goethe 25 grain of voice 49 grid epistemology 80, 83 Gurney, Edmund 110–111, 122nn29–31 gymnastics, for fingers 57 Hail! Bright Cecilia (Purcell) 34 Halm, August 84 Handel, George Frideric 89 Hanslick, Eduard 103 Hansson, Ola 100–101 Harold in Italy (Berlioz) 106 harpsichord, body as 4 Hartleben, Otto Erich 100 Hauptmann, Moritz 18 Heidegger, Martin 117 Heine, Heinrich 72, 103, 105–106, 121n19 Helmholtz, Hermann von 1, 6, 15, 37–40, 54n24, 63, 82, 84, 100, 108–111, 113, 121n27, 123n46 Hoffmann, E. T. A. 13 homme machine, L’ (Offray de La Mettrie) 13 Hornbostel, Erich Moritz von 43, 73 “Horse in Motion” (Muybridge) 80, 81 human body and musical instruments 1–3; Gamble’s categorization of 3; Monakow and Mourgue on 2 human motor: locomotion and 79–82, 84; model of 15–16; piano theories and 61–62 “Humans Are Machines of the Angels” (Paul) 13 Hume, David 108 Huxley, Thomas H. 14, 28n4 Indes galantes, Les (Rameau) 41 inhibition, notion of 115 inner motion 93 inner psychophysics 114 instruments and containers: human body as 3; piano studies and 75–76 intonation 35, 37, 38, 40, 53n10 Introduction Biologique (“Biological Introduction”; Monakow and Mourgue) 2 Jaëll, Marie 77n17 James, William 4, 14, 82, 122n45 Jammer, Max 100

Jaquet-Droz, Pierre 13 Jentsch, Ernst 33 Kempelen, Wolfgang von 32, 37, 52n4 key-bedding 62 Kinzing, Pierre 13 Kircher, Athanasius 32, 108 Klages, Ludwig 23, 25, 28, 30nn26, 28, 31–32, 38 Koenig, Rudolph 46, 54n24, 83 Kulturvölker (“civilized peoples”) 41 Kurth, Ernst 6, 84–86, 91 Kußmaul, Adolf 1 Laban, Rudolf 93–94; Laban Movement Analysis (LMA) 94; Labanotation 94 labor 15, 19, 29n7; mechanized 22; rhythm and 20–22, 43 Lebert, Sigmund 75 Leech-Wilkinson, Daniel 91 Leichtentritt, Hugo 26 Leimer, Karl 75 Leschetizky, Theodor 75 “Letter XXII, The Wonders of the Human Voice” (Euler) 38 Levinson, Jerrold 110–111, 122n29 Lhevinne, Josef 75 life force 65, 93, 97n33 Lifted Veil, The (Eliot) 110 Lineva, Eugenia Eduardovna 54n26 Lissajous, Jules Antoine 46, 83 Liszt, Franz 67, 69, 75, 77nn12, 17, 105–106, 121nn17, 19 Lisztian pianism 69, 72, 106–107 Little History of Photography (Benjamin) 81 living machine 28n5 LMA see Laban Movement Analysis (LMA) Lobe, Johann Christian 18 Lotze, Hermann 18 Ludwig, Karl 15 MacDougall, Robert 18 Mach, Ernst 18 machines 76n3, 115; animal 32–34, 80; body 13–27, 37–38, 124; living 28n5; speaking 32–33, 33, 52n4 Mainwaring, James 71 manometric flame apparatus 46, 83 Marey, Étienne-Jules 79–80, 82–84, 92, 95nn7–10, 96n11 Marx, A. B. 90 Matthay, Tobias 62 Mattheson, Johann 84

Index Maxwell, James Clerk 15 Mechanization Takes Command (Giedion) 7 melody 40, 45, 47; accent and 53n10; energetic continuum and 91; Kurth and 84–85 Menuhin, Yehudi 35 Mersmann, Hans 84 metaphors 2–8, 25, 75–76, 116; construction, conceptual dimension of 3; musical energy and 78–79, 84, 97n32; of music-making 61, 62; scientific 16–17; as shorthand for music psychology 8–10; vibratory waves, in psychology 107–110, 120; see also specific aspects/ types meter 23, 25, 71; rhythm and 30nn29, 31, 118; time and 29n7 Meumann, Ernst 18 Middlemarch (Eliot) 110 Milchmeyer, Johann Peter 90 mimetic hypothesis 5 minding gaps and musical energy 78; agency of motion and 91–92; ball analogy and 78–79, 92; human motor and locomotion and 79–82; music as motion across disciplines and times and 93–94; music as streams of energy and 84–86; musicking body capture and 82–84; tones and 86–91 Miner, James Burt 22 Monakow, Constantin von 2, 4 motion 55–56; action–perception coupling in twentieth century and 69–72; agency of 91–92; force and postures and 66–69; force and will and 62–63; inner 93; music as 93–94; in piano playing 58–62; piano theories and 56–58; rhythmic massing and 72–75; will, physiology, and piano-playing and 63–66 motor theory, of musical rhythm 71–72 Mourgue, Raoul 2 movement graphs 94 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 88 Müller, Johannes 1, 37, 63, 65, 66, 82 Munch, Edvard 101 Münsterberg, Hugo 42 Mursell, James 70 muscle synergy 58, 60 muscular bonding 22 muscular movements and rhythm 18–19 musical elements, as bodily gestures 25–26 musical force: acting at a distance 98–100; affecting audience 105–107; amateur pianists and psychologists and

155

100–105; at distance and sound power 110–113; inhibition and waves in music psychology and 113–115; sympathetic oscillation and 119; vibratory energy of music and 115–119; vibratory waves metaphor in psychology and 107–110 musical rhythm, and labor 20–22 music box schema and human brain, comparison of 2 Musician, The (Jaquet-Droz) 13 musicking body, capture of 82–84 musicking body-machine 13–14; human motor model and 15–16; rhythm and 16–27 Musiklexikon (Riemann) 87 Musikpsychologie (Kurth) 84, 85 Musik und Bewegung (“Music and Movement”; Bode) 25 Musurgia Universalis (Kircher) 32 Muybridge, Eadweard 80, 81 Myers, Frederic W. H. 111 Nadel, Siegfried 41, 45–46, 53n18 nature and music 34; Helmholtz on 39; voice and 43 “Naturvölker” (“peoples of nature”) 21, 41 Neuhaus, Heinrich 75 neuroaesthetics 113, 122n39 Newcomb, Ethel 75 Newman, Ernest 36 Newton, Isaac 98 Nouvelles Suites de Pièces de Clavecin (Rameau) 41 octave playing 62, 90, 91 Offray de La Mettrie, Julien 13 “On the Hypothesis that Animals are Automata” (Huxley) 14 “On the Physiological Causes of Harmony in Music” (Helmholtz) 109 On the Sensation of Tones (Helmholtz) 109, 113 origin of music 32, 35–39, 41–43, 45, 46, 52n8, 53n18, 86 “Origins of the Planetary System, The” (Helmholtz) 109 Ortmann, Otto 96n11 Ott, Bertrand 106 outer psychophysics 114 Pachmann, Vladimir de 62 Pantalony, David 54n24 Paul, Jean 13

156

Index

pedagogy 7, 10, 14, 25, 27; piano 56–58, 62, 66–67, 69, 72, 75, 76n2, 77n17, 90, 96n11; vocal 53n13 performance worms 94 Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica (Mathematical principles of natural philosophy; Newton) 98–99 phrasing editions 26 Physiological Aesthetics (Allen) 113 piano pedaling 121n17 piano-playing 10, 13, 24, 28n1, 86; body, and rhythm 25–27; motion in 58–62, 67–69, 71, 77n11; musical force and 103, 104, 107; pedagogy 56–58, 62, 66–67, 69, 72, 75, 76n2, 77n17, 90, 96n11; portamento use in 87–89; will and physiology and 63–66 piano studies see motion Podmore, Frank 111 portamento 43, 44, 45, 49, 54n19, 86, 91–92; definition and significance of 87, 89; examples of 88; use, in piano playing 87–89 posthuman 54n29 Potamkin, Frank J. 66 Present State of Music in France and Italy, The (Burney) 87 Primitive Music (Wallaschek) 41 primitive soul, voice of 40–42, 53n18 Przybyszewski, Stanislaw 101–104, 120n5, 121n17 Psychological Review 18 psychological studies and rhythm 18–20 Psychologie de l’attention (Ribot) 19 psychology of music 8, 42, 47, 49, 52, 94, 125 Psychology of Music (Seashore) 47 psychophysics 114–115 Purcell, Henry 34 Quantitative Study of Rhythm, A (Woodrow) 18 Rameau, Jean-Philippe 34, 41 recorded voice 42–43 Repp, Bruno 84, 94 Révész, Géza 44 “Reymond-Brücke oath” 15 rhythm 70; animal and human progression modes as 82–83; in body culture 23–24; as inevitable corollary for forces 16–17; irrational and continuous 24–25; meter and 30nn29, 31, 118; motor theory of

musical 71–72; musical 20–22, 72–75; nationalization of 30n34; piano-playing body and 25–27; psychological studies in era of 18–20 “Rhythm” (Bolton) 17 rhythmic massing 72–75 Ribot, Théodule 19 Richter, Sviatoslav 75 Ridout, Nicholas 113 Riemann, Hugo 6, 18, 26, 34, 55, 87, 91, 93 Roentgen, David 13 Rosenthal, Moriz 90, 97n30 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 41, 53n10 Ruckmich, Christian 18, 19, 29n12, 57–58 Sandmann, Der (Hoffmann) 13 Schäfke, Rudolf 84 Schenker, Heinrich 34, 84, 86–89 Schleich, Carl Ludwig 2, 101, 115 Schopenhauer, Arthur 84 Schumann, Robert 70 Schrei, Der (The Scream; Munch) 101 Scripture, Edward Wheeler 46–47, 54n25 Sears, Charles H. 18, 19–20 Seashore, Carl 47, 49 Seiler, Emma 37 sensation, agency of 66 Sievers, Eduard 93 singing sloth 32, 33 Sound and Symbol (Zuckerkandl) 119 Souriau, Paul 69, 72 space as force 119 speaking machine 32–33, 33, 52n4 specific energy 65 speech and singing voice, distinction between 44 speech curves 47 speech theory of music 34–37 Spencer, Herbert 16, 35–37, 53nn9–10, 72 Sprech-Maschine, Die 32 Stahl, Georg Ernst 108 Steiniger, Anna 76n5 Steinle, Eduard von 105 Sterckx, Roel 52n8 Stetson, R. H. 71–72 Stricker, Salomon 36 Strindberg, Johan August 100, 103 Studies in Rhythm (Sears) 18 Stumpf, Carl 6, 30n28, 53n18, 86, 100; on Scripture 47, 54n25; on speech and singing voice 42–43, 45 Sully, James 122n30 Sulzer, Johann Georg 105

Index sympathetic oscillation 119, 123n51 sympathetic vibration 108–111 sympathy 108 tactile perception and audition 119 Takt, notion of 23–24 telepathy 111–112 Thalberg, Sigismund 121n17 thinking hand 117 threshold 114 tone languages 53n10 tones: dynamic qualities of 116–117; gliding between 86–91 Totenmesse (“Requiem Mass”; Przybyszewski) 101, 102 Traite ́del’Homme (Descartes) 1 Treatise of Human Nature (Hume) 108 true automata 13 Truslit, Alexander 93, 94 Turk, The 32 Tyndall, John 28n4, 110, 111 Uexküll, Jakob Johann Freiherr von 118, 123n50 upbeatness 26–27, 27 Vaucanson, Jacques de 13 vibration 27, 46, 47, 65, 72, 105, 106; acoustical 108, 110, 112; inaudible 123n46; scientific notion of 108, 114; sympathetic 108–111; thoughts as 112 vibratory energy of music 115–119 vibratory waves metaphor, in psychology 107–110 Virchow, Rudolf 104 visual imagery and kinesthetic imagery, distinction between 92 vitalism 3, 65, 108, 118–119; force and 67; modern 23; violin pedagogy and 72 voice: animal and machine and 32–34; body machine and agency and 37–38;

157

dragging movement and 43–46; as object and subject 38–40; of primitive soul 40–42; recorded 42–43; speech theory of music and 34–37; visualization of 46–50 Voice in Singing, The (Seiler) 37 voiceness/voicelikeness 51 Völker-psychologie 43 Vom Wesen des Rhythmus (“The Nature of Rhythm”; Klages) 23 Von der Seele (Schleich) 104 Voskuhl, Adelheid 14 Wackenroder, Wilhelm Heinrich 84 Wallaschek, Richard 41, 53nn9, 16 Walter, W. Grey 4 Watkins, Holly 123n49 waves 17, 69, 105, 116, 121n23; analogy of 25; brain, in communication 112–113; form 30n31, 38; and inhibition, in music psychology 113–115; metric 118; motion curve and 27; nerve 2, 105–106, 108; piano playing and 26; rhythm and 23, 25, 30n31; schema 114–115; sound 38, 46, 83; vibratory 107–110, 115, 120; vocal melody and 47 Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, Die (Schopenhauer) 67 Westphal, Rudolf Georg Hermann 18 Whytt, Robert 108 Wissenschaftlichkeit (scientificity) 79 Wollaston, William Hyde 123n46 Woodrow, Herbert 18 work songs and rhythm 22, 29n18 Wundt, Wilhelm 18, 41, 43 Young, Thomas 107, 121nn22, 28 Zelter, Carl Friedrich 25 Zoonomia (Darwin) 67 Zuckerkandl, Victor 6, 30n38, 96n12, 116–119, 123n50