Composers & Productivity: The Embodiment of Discomfort

Dennis Báthory-Kitsz as Wolfgang

Nonpop—the term I use for “contemporary classical/art music”—has become effete. Composers are writing less and less, being fussy, appearing to be artistic cowards. But are they? What are the problems? Money, visibility? Is there another field in which low productivity is the norm? And with our low productivity, haven’t we created an environment where Mozart is cheap and Birtwistle is expensive?

Addressed historically, it’s clear that fewer and fewer pieces were being composed as Western music moved away from the classical era, except for perhaps a few Milhauds and Hindemiths. I wanted to ask composers directly so I conducted a survey of them.

The survey was open, self-participating, and unscientific. It was sent to various listservs: the Kalvos & Damian composers list; Orchestralist (an international forum for conductors, composers, players, and their colleagues in the orchestra business); the Finale list; the Theremin list; the CEC Discussion list (for Canadian Electroacoustic Composers); and to about a thousand composers on several combined personal lists. About 250 composers requested the survey. Of these, a total of 85, ranging from unknown composers to well-known, provided responses; 76 were from North America and 20 were women. Ages ranged from 23 to 77, compositions from a yearly average of one to more than 100, from three minutes of music completed yearly to more than six hours.

From the results of this survey, which was completed in early June, it appears most do not—or do not care to—think about their productivity, notably when cast as a typical and arbitrary numbers game. Even so, most believe that given different circumstances (more money, more time, reduced external pressures and obligations) they could compose more.

This apparent contradiction is at the heart of the nonpop composer’s crisis of visibility in contemporary culture.

Within the survey’s ten questions were concepts that touched composers deeply, even to the point of despair and anger. The questions were indeed chosen to probe not only the easy options (“Productive, me? I’m an artist, not a machine!”), but the hard ones as well (“I guess I’m a good composer.”)

The survey brought mixed but heartfelt results.

Some composers were unwilling to engage the survey on its terms (the “wrong question” response), but most did their best to address questions that are rarely asked and not part of an artist’s day-to-day vocabulary.

In the arts, asking about productivity may be tasteless, but it reveals the difference between our times and the past. Indeed, the productivity level was even lower than anticipated, with five in eight composers completing less than an hour’s worth of music in twelve months, and half finishing fewer than three compositions in the last year. This is skimpy even in the shadow of Webern’s notoriously small output of 181 compositions (inside and outside the official 31 numbered works) and entirely dwarfed by composers in pre-modern times.

Yet the majority of composers identify themselves as dedicated—in the survey’s terms of coming “before everything else in your life (except perhaps family).” About a fifth are equivocal, and another fifth do not feel they are that dedicated, most faulting the circumstances of the composing life. Canadian composer James Grant had no patience with the question itself:

When I compose, I’m a dedicated composer. When I bake, I’m a dedicated baker. When I teach, I’m a dedicated teacher. As the husband that I am, I’m a dedicated spouse. Composition integrates, but it does not dominate. Composition is not everything. I don’t take my identity from it.

But here’s the thing. Productivity matters to most composers, who feel they could compose more, from twice to ten times or more than they currently write, under other circumstances. Some cite a need for respect or performances, many are pressured by work and insufficient time, and most agree that money would increase their compositional output. One in ten thought no change was likely or desirable, and a few thought it was a bad idea—that they and perhaps composers generally shouldn’t attempt to write more, for productivity wasn’t the goal of art.

But composers do think about productivity enough to evaluate their own output, and the changes they have observed in the results of their efforts; answers reflected a fairly diverse self-evaluation. In some cases, increasing maturity carried with it greater craft; in others, the same maturity demanded more care in their work. Age has slowed some composers, but only two—Steve Layton and Mary Elizabeth—attributed any part of increase in productivity to technology.

Reena Esmail, a composer in her twenties, claims, “I am on my way to being happy with my productivity.” Whereas, Paul Steenhuisen, a half-generation older than Esmail, admits, “I’m both slower and faster. Certain aspects of composing take longer now, others are more efficient.” Erik Mälzner is older still and says, “I become older, thus slower and more deliberated. I omit the unimportant.” Michael Byron, on the other hand, is from the quantity-rejectionist camp, and says, “If I were manufacturing a product, I probably would be decidedly unhappy and dissatisfied with both speed and quantity. But fortunately, I’m not manufacturing a product.” Brian Ferneyhough offers the insightful response of the well-experienced composer, acknowledging that “after so many years, it’s pointless, I guess, to wish myself different.”

When the topic turns to the daily schedule, though, composers feel the pressure. A fair minority do maintain composition routines, but half of those surveyed have none—and all cite pressures from family and friends, academic teaching and the music business, other day jobs, and personal health. Speaking from the pro-schedule camp, Alex Shapiro says, “I think self-discipline is a very natural trait for any artist because we presumably love what we do and are compelled to do it repeatedly.”

If the question is turned around—what would make more composition possible? —the answer is clear: money. But money appears to be the only clear answer from more than a third of the composers. Following that was a need for public demand; ideas and inspiration; time; recognition, prestige and respect; deadlines; commissions and performances; practical help (assistance, technical, legal); and personal meaningfulness, more craft, fear of failure, less distraction, and courage. Some felt they were doing what they could do, and three said the composition of more music was not needed.

Andrew Violette, vacillating between the jaded and the philosophical, writes:

I don’t depend on inspiration. When I finish a piece or a big section of a piece or whatever project I’m working on, I go to the museums and the galleries and look at art. I love the new art and get a lot of ideas from visual artists. I have no deadlines except the ones I make myself. Nobody plays my music and I get no commissions, so by all accounts I’m a failure, which is just as well, since success isn’t worth getting. Most musicians who play new music want an easy piece to premiere that’s about twenty minutes.

Michael Byron turns the question on its head, explaining, “One problem central to composition today is that composers are too prolific. Technology is a special irritant here. As with most other things, its greatest asset is also its greatest liability. Cheating ourselves of deep feeling is a terrible price to pay for abundance.”

Despite a heavy denial of the practical, composers are finely tuned professionals, and more than half actually find deadlines helpful to their work. Nearly all have written to deadlines and is able to deliver the music on time.

Composers’ self-evaluation provided expected responses. Despite being uncomfortable with the question, most composers consider their talents average to excellent (always painfully qualifying their terms). Some are unsure, but only two think they aren’t really good, and one is sure he isn’t up to par—at least by international standards. The best-known composers are the most likely to hand off the judgment of their work’s quality to circumstances—the “I’m still doing it, so I must be good enough” approach.

Naturally that question unfolds into the next—what would make a composer better? Steve Layton writes, “Lots of money, period. Not to make an artistically better composer, but to just be able to do more with what I have.” And Layton’s comment reflects a wide response to this question, but not the leading response, which is the opportunity for performance. Time and study follow closely, and interestingly, money slips to fourth place. Apparently, you can’t buy improvement easily. Composing itself is believed to be the path to improvement, followed by feedback; recognition, demand, and audiences; help and resources; support of the culture; more understanding; talent, expanding the “kill ratio” (keeping only the best work), more concentration, living life, political climate, serenity, attention to detail, and (according to Brian Ferneyhough) “a new brain.” Some don’t offer an answer or believe themselves to be already as good as they can be. Bill Thompson suggests, “More self honesty, more collaborations with others that are fearless, more exposure to artists who are undaunted by institutional, historical, social, or commercial pressures, and a less conservative environment.”

However, the survey’s greatest degree of divergence was on the question of whether a composer today could be a Mozart given the appropriate level of demand and the resultant productivity. Some agree, some agree with qualifications, some are equivocal or polite, and a good minority think it is a terrible idea, abandoning all claim to quality and risking the ultimate in mediocrity.

According to Ferneyhough, “Not everything Mozart wrote was brilliant.” Others offered similar sentiments less bluntly. “The trouble with writing many, many pieces is that it ends up that nothing is special,” explains Mary Jane Leach. “Even composers such as Mozart I have a hard time with, because there are so many pieces, all good but hard to choose favorites (except Don Giovanni), since so many are equal in quality. It’s not that I insist in hierarchies, it’s that there aren’t any that stand out for me.”

But Carson Cooman—a prolific composer with nearly 700 compositions before the age of thirty—is on the other side of the argument. “We should spend our lives trying to become better composers. I strongly believe the best way to become better at something is by doing it,” he says. “The novelist Stephen King wrote that ‘to be a good writer, one needs to read for four hours per day and write for four hours per day.’ I strongly believe that. I think many contemporary composers don’t spend nearly enough time actually listening to music—particularly of our colleagues.”

Robert Voisey, known for his “60×60” project that brings packaged electroacoustic concerts to venues worldwide, also agrees with the premise. “We are all the new Mozarts of this time,” he says, “and it is about time we drop the old clinging to dead music and embrace the new. Close the gap between audiences and new music and start blazing new trails together. My belief is that there is a hungry audience out there waiting to be inspired and touched by the music and ideas that today’s composer has to offer. We are all Mozart, we are also the motivators to make it happen and the time to do it and make this change is now.”

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Dennis Báthory-Kitsz has made work for sound sculptures, soloists, electronics, stage shows, orchestras, dancers, interactive multimedia, installations, and performance events. Dennis co-hosted Kalvos & Damian’s New Music Bazaar, co-founded the NonPop International Network, and has been project director for new music festivals since 1973.