Disjecta Membra: Erik Satie
Further adventures into the small, minor, whimsical, irreverent, intimate sidebands of history. This time on the dashing, disdainfully “silly” art of Erik Satie. Here's Adorno …
“If Benjamin observed that history had been hitherto written from the standpoint of the victor and needed to be written from that of the vanquished, then it should be added that while knowledge [Erkenntnis] must indeed represent the baleful linearity of the succession of victory and defeat, it must at the same time turn to whatever does not vanish in such a dynamic, and remains by the wayside — to a certain degree, the cast-off materials and blind spots, which escaped dialectics. It is the essence of what is vanquished to appear inessential, dispensable, whimsical in its powerlessness. What transcends the ruling society is not merely the potentiality developed by the latter, but equally that which does not fit into the historical laws of movement. Theory is oriented to what is askew, what is impenetrable, what is not yet encompassed, which as such admittedly already bears something anachronistic in itself, but does not exhaust itself in what is obsolete, because it contains a dash of the historical dynamic. This is most easily seen in art. Children’s books such as Alice in Wonderland or the Struwwelpeter, which rebuke any attempt to classify them as progressive or reactionary as absurd, contain incomparably more subtle ciphers, even of history, than the grand dramas of Hebbel, with their official thematics of tragic guilt, the change of the times, the course of the world and the individuated [Individuum]; and the disdainful and silly piano pieces of Satie evoke flashes of experience which the stringency of the Schönberg school, despite being backed by the entire pathos of musical development, cannot dream of. Precisely the magnificence of logical conclusions may unwittingly assume the character of what is provincial. Benjamin’s writings are the attempt, in an ever new approach, to make that which is not already determined by grandiose intentions philosophically fruitful. His legacy consists of the task of refusing to consign such an attempt to the alienated puzzle-pictures of thought, but to recuperate what is devoid of intention via the concept: the necessity, to think simultaneously dialectically and undialectically.”
Adorno (Minima Moralia 98)
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Satie’s writings are as effortless, angelic, and concise as his lucid music. Like Paris Spleen, they take the form of aphorisms, short stories, anecdotes of modern life, transposed into the eternity of Satie’s “medieval” reflections, and dotted with a musical lyricism. He developed — or maybe not completely developed — personal literary forms — analogue of his musical forms like “Gnossiennes” — for instance the “Talks,” essayistic odes to animals, critics, and children written in his intimate script reminiscent of illuminated manuscripts. “Development” as such was an aesthetic value which set humanity apart from the animals: “the nightingale’s natural talent is woefully disproportionate to its development”, he said. Satie's development into a modernist paradoxically emerged, at least in part, from turning his back on all that his era unquestionably valued (e.g., Wagnerism). That is, artistic ingenuity came from an irreverence towards trends.
Satie’s “A Eulogy of Critics” is a suitable entry into his writing… Caesura is an art criticism project, after all, and his eulogy is riddled with caesuras. In taking the character of the reviled modern critic as his muse, is Satie's eulogy to be taken sincerely — or — sarcastically? Yes! It can be read both ways, in other ways, and still not be completely understood, implying … different … standards of reading. It may be that it is due to the charged, conflicting presence of irony and sincerity (amongst other affects) that Satie is able to reveal anything at all about his object of critique — the Critic. But in so doing, he also reveals much broader phenomena, for instance the strange, perverse freedom that modern humans have achieved in creating this odd social character, unknown in the animal kingdom. (Yes, Satie, the critic today still does not know of animal critics). The eulogy comes across as frustratingly, but compellingly contradictory: his agnosticism (he was literally “A Gnostic”), or seeming indifference to his subject only leads to his most illuminated and loving portrait. Satie's intentions are amusingly baffling — and yet the writing is a rare specimen of clarity, suggesting modes of artistic intention and attention not otherwise valued in culture. Perhaps explicitly due to its whimsical lyricism, truer insights about the critic have never been written. Tone is everything — partly due to the ellipses and dashes which serve as musical caesuras in the “recitation” of this lecture — and yet the tone of the tone is inconclusive, suspended. Like Baudelaire, Satie is a tension wire of contradictions. “Personally, I am neither good nor bad. I oscillate, I could say.”(116) In acoustics, oscillators often create “critical sidebands,” unintended frequencies whose relation to the oscillating tone is still somewhat… strange. Nevertheless, readers should follow Satie's good example... inviting Caesura critics to family meals... and sharing with them your tobacco.
- Your Friendly Boundary Post
A Eulogy of Critics
Ladies,
Young Ladies,
Gentlemen
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It is not chance that made me choose this subject:
"A Eulogy of Critics" —
It is gratitude,......... for I am as grateful as I am gracious...
Last year, I gave several lectures on "Intelligence & Musicality among Animals"...
Today I shall speak about “Intelligence & Musicality among Critics"...
It is more or less the same theme, with modifications, of course.
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Friends have told me this is a thankless subject,...... Why should it be thankless?...... There is no lack of thanks involved in it; at least I cannot see that is the case: ....... I will go ahead & speak in praise of critics…
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Critics are not known as well as they should be; people do not know what they have done, what they are capable of…
In short..., they are as misunderstood as the animals, though like them, they have a certain usefulness.
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Yes... They are not only the creators of the Art of criticism, that Master of all the arts, they are the leading thinkers of the world, the free thinkers of the social scene, I venture to say ……
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In fact, it was a critic who posed for Rodin's "Thinker."...
… I learned this information from a critic, a fortnight ago, or three weeks at the most…
……… & it gave me pleasure, great pleasure……
……… Rodin had a weakness for critics, a great weakness……… Their advice was dear to him — very dear — too dear, priceless.
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Steve Hackett, Sketches of Satie (2000), album cover.
There are three sorts of critic:... … those of importance;... those with less of it;... — those with none at all…
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The latter two sorts do not exist —
— all critics… are of importance……
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Physically the critic looks grave & deep,...
they are the double-bassoon type… …
They are a centre in themselves, — a centre of gravity…
If they laugh, — they laugh only with one eye, —
— either the good one,... — or the bad one………They are always very sweet to the Ladies — but keep the Gentlemen at a distance,
— calmly
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In short, — they are rather intimidating, — though very nice to look at,………
They are serious men, … as serious as a Buddha, a boudin noir, of course.
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Mediocrity, or incompetence, are not to be found among critics……
A mediocre
— or incompetent —
Critic would be the laughing stock of his colleagues;
— it would be impossible for him to practice his profession, — or rather, his calling, — for he would have to leave his country —
— even his birthplace; — & every door would be closed to him; —
— his life would be nothing but a long torture — of terrible monotony.
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The Artist is but a dreamer, —
— when it comes down to it; —......
……… the critic, — however, — has the conscience of reality, —
— & his own, — as well. —
—An artist can be imitated, — a critic is inimitable, — & priceless…
……… How would one imitate a critic? —— I wonder —
Besides, — it would be of slender, very slender interest;
…… We have the original, ……… that is enough for us………
…… The person who said criticism was plain sailing did not say anything very remarkable.
— He should be ashamed to have said it;
— he should be prosecuted, or pursued, — at least for a mile —
— or two.
— Will the man who wrote such a thing ……
……… perhaps live to regret his remark? —
— It is possible,...... it is to be hoped,...... it is certain……
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A critic’s brain is a store, —
— a department store.
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You can find anything there: orthopaedics, — sciences, — bed linens, — arts, — travelling rugs, — a wide range of furniture, — French & foreign writing-paper, —
Smokers’ wares,
gloves, — umbrellas, —
— woolens, – hats, — sports, — walking-sticks, —optician’s, — perfumery, —
— et cetera.
The critic knows everything, —……… sees everything, — hears everything, —
touches everything,...
moves everything around……, eats anything……, confuses everything………
— & thinks nothing of it………
What a man!!………
Tell the world!!!………
All our wares are guaranteed!!!………
In hot weather, —
the merchandise is kept inside!!!
Inside the critic!!......
Look!!
…… Take note, but do not touch!!!
It is unique!!!!... Unbelievable!!!
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The critic is also a crow's nest,....... —
— a buoy, — I may add...... ...... which marks the reefs that run along the
shores of the Human Spirit......
…...— Near to these shores, —
these false-shores,
— the Critic stands guard, —
— proud in his perceptiveness...
— from afar, — he looks a little like a boundary post, —
— but a friendly post, —
— intelligent.
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How do they reach this high position, —
this position as buoy, — or boundary post?
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By merit, —
— by personal, agricultural merit...... I say "Agricultural” because
they cultivate the love of the Just & the Beautiful....
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This brings us on to a delicate point……
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Critics are recruited by choice, —
like those products referred to as "choice," —
— extra-superior,
— top quality......
……… The Editor of a newspaper, a review, — or any other periodical, — is the one who finds the critic he needs to complete his editorial team...... No recommendation can make any difference......
...... He finds him as the result of a severe examination of his conscience ...
—....…... This examination is very long and painful, — both for the critic and the Editor.
...... One asks questions; the other has doubts......
...... It is an agonising struggle full of surprises......
......... All kinds of subterfuge are used by both sides...... In the end, the
Editor is defeated......
...... This is what generally happens, if the critic is thoroughbred and carefully trained.....
The Editor is absorbed, and gradually reduced by the critic......
It is rare for the Editor to escape......
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Real critical sense does not consist of criticising oneself, but other people; —
— & the beam in one’s own eye does nothing to stop one seeing the mote in one’s neighbor’s eye; —
— in this case, the beam becomes a telescope, — a long telescope..
Which magnifies the mote out of all proportion.
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One could hardly admire too much the courage of the first critic to introduce himself to the world…
……… The rude inhabitants of the Ancient Night of Time must have greeted him with heavy kicks to the belly, not realising he was a precursor worthy of veneration…
……… In his own way, he was a hero.
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The second, third, fourth and fifth critics were certainly no better received,...
but helped to create a precedent:—
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the Art of criticism gave birth to itself. It was its first New Years day……
A long time after, these Benefactors of Humanity learned to organise
themselves better. — They formed Critics' Unions in all the major capitals,—
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Critics therefore became important personalities, —
— which goes to show that virtue is always rewarded……
Suddenly, — artists were put in harness,... …… made to submit like tabby-cats……
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Detail of Le Penseur from August Rodin, La Porte de l’Enfer, 1840-1917. Museé Rodin.
It is right that Artists should be guided by critics, —
I have never understood Artists' touchiness about critics' pronouncements……
------ I think there is an element of pride in this, —
misplaced pride, —
— which is not pleasing…
…… Artists would gain by venerating critics a little more; by listening to them with respect; by liking them even, and inviting them often to family meals, — to sit between Uncle and Grandpa…
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…… They should follow my example, —
— my good example:—
— I am dazzled by the presence of a critic, he shines so brightly that I blink for more than an hour afterwards, —
— I kiss the footprints of his slippers: —
— I drink in his words from a big stemmed glass, out of politeness ……
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… I have studied a great deal the behaviour of Animals
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— Alas! — they have no critics;...
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— This Art is foreign to them; —
— at least, I know no work of the kind in the archives of my Animals……
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— Perhaps, — my critic friends know of one, —
or several……
Would they be kind enough to tell me, — the sooner the better?......
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Yes, animals have no critics……
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… The wolf does not criticise the sheep:...
…… it eats it;—
— not that it despises the sheep's art, —
— but because it admires the flesh, and even the bones — of this woolly animal…… which is so good,...... so good in a stew…
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I notice it is getting late…
…… I shall have to end my eulogy at this point……
…… It is a subject I shall return to
— later, —
— another time —......
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…… Today, — I will close this talk by saying this:—
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We need a discipline — of iron,
— or some other metal ……
…… Only critics — can impose it, —
— can ensure it is maintained, —
— from afar……
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They ask only to inculcate in us the excellent principle of obedience………
…… He who disobeys is to be pitied;...... for not to obey is very sad…… But
one must not obey one's evil passions,...... even if they themselves tell us to…… How
can one tell whether passions are evil?...... evil as the eye?......
Yes, — how?...... By the pleasure one has in yielding to them,
…… giving oneself up to them,...... and because critics do not like them…… They have no evil passions…… How could the fine fellows have them?
They have no passions at all — none…… They are always calm, and think only of their duty:...... to correct the poor world's failings,...... and make a decent living from it,...... so they can buy themselves tobacco, — quite simply…
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…… That is their task, ………
…… the task incumbent upon these men of good counsel;......
…… for where they have one they have a thousand —
— counsels —
— municipal councils……
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…… Let us thank them for the sacrifices they make daily for our good, —
— for our sole good; —
— let us ask Providence to protect them against illnesses of all kinds; —
— to keep them from all kinds of annoyance;—
— to grant them a great number of children of every species — which might continue theirs……
…… These wishes can do them neither good —
— nor ill.
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……… ……… But at least —
— it will give them quite a pile —
— to write about.
Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, Aretino in the Studio of Tintoretto, 1848. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
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And then there’s Satie on Art History. In “Perfect Entourage,” he implies the achievements of masters are simultaneously glorious & incomplete. (Regarding Beethoven’s explanation of having 10 fingers, I cannot verify.) And here, too, he states his aesthetic theory as one who has achieved — even if he hasn't achieved — public triumphs, and is not threatened in carrying flowers. What the lay-kids today call "big dick energy." One thinks of Robert Walser's comfortability in serving, or more humorously, Andy Kaufman bussing tables at the height of his fame. (On that note, Satie has a funny anecdote about eating only white foods, something Kaufman had reportedly done at parties.) Anyway, Satie's at glorious ease in his role of the composer as flower-carrier. Satie, too, cannot be inferior to himself, but importantly, as a vanquished modern with an elevated sense of refeeling history, and not as a romantic artist monumentalizing history. From his “fragments,” Memoirs of an Amnesiac, which were not in actuality fragments from a larger whole…
Perfect Entourage
To live surrounded by glorious works of Art is one of the greatest joys that one can feel. Among the precious monuments of human thought with which the modesty of my fortune has led me to choose to share my life, I would like to mention a magnificent fake Rembrandt, generously and profoundly executed, which is so good to finger with the tips of one's eyes, like a fat fruit that is too green.
I could also show you, in my study, a canvas of unquestioned beauty, the object of universal admiration: the delightful Portrait Attributed to an Unknown Artist.
Have I told you about my copy of Teniers? It is an adorable, sweet creation, as rare as you will find.
Are these not divine gemstones, set in hardwood? Yes?
But then, what surpasses these masterly works? What crushes them with the formidable weight of inspired majesty? What makes them pale before its blinding light? A fake Beethoven manuscript, a sublime apocryphal symphony by the master — bought by me, religiously, ten years ago, I think.
This still unknown 10th symphony is one of the most sumptuous works of the grandiose composer. Its proportions are as vast as a palace; its ideas are cool and shady; its developments precise, and right.
This symphony had to exist: the number 9 is not properly Beethovian. He liked the decimal system: "I have ten fingers," he explained.
Some of those who have come humbly to imbibe this masterpiece with meditative, dedicated ears, thought without good reason that the conception was inferior for Beethoven, and said so. They even went further than that.
Beethoven cannot in any circumstances, be inferior to himself. Even in the smallest detail, his technique and form are oracular. The word rudimentary cannot be applied to him. He is not intimidated by the forgery attributed to his artistic person.
Do you think a long-famous athlete, whose strength and agility have been acknowledged in public triumphs, is demeaned if he carries with ease a simple bunch of tulips and jasmine? Or lessened, if he is also assisted by a child?
You will hardly disagree with that.
Attributed to Rembrandt, Self portrait at an early age, 1629. Alte Pinakothek. Though this painting is currently attributed to Rembrandt, it was long considered a fake.
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The myth of Apollo and Marsyas may be important for both Adorno and Satie. Adorno interpreted Plato's "jeering of the flute-playing Marsyas, flayed by the sober-sided Apollo" as evidence of the banning of music from the Republic. Or at least, a taboo on those types of lyrical music that were not "hard," warlike, and disciplining in the way much 20th music had become. The extent to which Satie's geniously simple music is still compelling is the extent to which music is generally still often an overwrought and convoluted state-sponsored product with a disciplining rather than exploratory spirit. All that is soft, hermetic, and irreverent is dissonant with social norms. I don't know what Satie thought of the Marsyas myth, but his "soft" music that even many hardened contemporary artists might like to ban is an achievement that constantly challenges art as we know it today, preserving from beyond the grave the artistic values of lyrical freedom and intimacy that effortlessly radiate chordal harmonies refracting through, over, and beyond all that is dull, unplayful, dead, and conformist. Personally, I associate Satie’s work with a feeling of the aridity that Nietzsche came to value over Wagnerism — the gentle sea-breeze in the highest mountains that wafts in from some strange land and tickles the senses with possibilities of spiritual freedom. Even ambient music falls below, or maybe even far to the side of his elevated standard, which is still elusive and which contemporary artists, chasing some wild wind, will continue to try to find, maybe the way he himself tried to find the spirit of counterpoint or plainchant — classical achievements transposed into modern brevity. Barbara Hannigan's voice in this rendition of Satie's "Symphonic Drama" is crystal-pure and radiantly oracular. Like Robert Walser, Trakl, or other “minor” artists, they're angels fallen into a hard world. And that friction is ecstatic. Vexed and teased by such openness, I often play it on repeat (not 840 times though).
Socrate (1919)
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Marc Chagall, The Dance, 1951. Centre Pompidou.
* All Satie texts are from A Mammal's Notebook, The Writings of Erik Satie Edited by Ornella Volta and translated by Antony Melville