• The physicist Michio Kaku defines beauty in terms of symmetry and the re-arrangement of components (and provides one of the most compelling explanations of compelling music). The podcast is here.
“Beauty to a physicist is symmetry. There’s a symmetry in music. For example, the simplest symmetry is a rubber ball. You rotate the ball and it remains the same. Why is a kaleidoscope beautiful? A kaleidoscope is beautiful because you rotate it and it turns into itself. Why is an ice crystal beautiful? Because you rotate an ice crystal by sixty degrees and it rotates into itself. So that’s what beauty is: If I re-arrange the components of an object, it remains the same. Now you can apply that to music, you can apply that to physics. When you apply that to physics, it means that I have an equation and I rotate its components in a certain and precise way and it rotates into itself. That’s called symmetry.”
“This is the quiet miracle of repetition: its ability to not only make actions easier over time, but also change one’s desires, bringing the cravings of the flesh in line with the aspirations of the spirit (or as [William] James puts it, making ‘our nervous system our ally instead of our enemy’).”
“Rhythmic labor is highly spiritual labor.” – Karl Bücher
• A video about AI in music production.
“A significant percentage of music listeners aren’t actively listening. They’re passively listening. When music is background music, there doesn’t need to be an artistic statement or anything especially interesting or novel happening. And Spotify themselves have taken advantage of this. They commissioned unknown artists to create music for meditation and running playlists at royalty rates much more favorable to the company. Obviously, this only worked because the music is structurally simple and easy to churn out. Sounds like something AI could do in the not too distant future.”
• My track “Unfolding” from Bowedscapes is available on Spotify’s Ambiente Playlist for “today’s cutting edge Ambient, Atmospheric and Neo Classical Music.”
In the 1920s, Nikolai Bernstein, a mostly self-taught neurophysiologist and pioneer in the field of motor control, studied the movements of blacksmiths at Moscow’s Central Institute of Labor. Bernstein used cyclographic photography techniques to track the motions used to cut metal with a chisel and hammer. (See photo above.) His research showed how repeating movements comprise a series of smaller movements. It also showed the importance of variability in blacksmiths’ arm movements. It turns out that the most accurate blacksmiths showed the most variability in their motor patterns. The best blacksmiths found many ever-changing ways to consistently arrive at the same hitting spot.
Bernstein’s research came to the attention of the wider world with the publication of his 1967 book, The co-ordination and regulation of movements (Oxford : Pergamon Press), a collection of writings on motor control. This book is the source of a now famous quote about practicing: practice is a particular type of repetition without repetition. For Bernstein, practice is a way of solving problems not by doing the same thing over and over, but by subtly varying one’s strategies from repetition to repetition—much like the accurate blacksmith whose arm/hammer movements are different each time around.
Here is the passage from The co-ordination and regulation of movements where Bernstein applies lessons from his research on motor habits to understanding what it means to practice:
“The process of practice towards the achievement of new motor habits essentially consists in the gradual success of a search for optimal motor solutions to the appropriate problems. Because of this, practice, when properly undertaken, does not consist in repeating the means of solution of a motor problem time after time, but in the process of solving this problem again and again by techniques which we changed and perfected from repetition to repetition. It is already apparent here that, in many cases, ‘practice is a particular type of repetition without repetition’ and that motor training, if this position is ignored, is merely mechanical repetition by rote, a method which has been discredited in pedagogy for some time” (p. 134).
Bernstein’s ideas on motor habits have been adopted in movement science and sports training, but they are also useful far beyond these realms. For example, I’ve been thinking about them in the context of music and how composing/producing is repeatedly solving recurring problems of form and feeling using ever-varied and evolving techniques. Building on Bernstein, we can frame composing not as a mechanical repetition of learned techniques that have worked on previous projects, but rather a fluid practice of innovating novel ways of making compelling sounds. Bernstein’s emphasis on the process of solving the same problem over and over, yet in different ways points us to a holistic view of creativity as the ability to adapt to ever-changing aesthetic situations (e.g. this sound, these chords, this tempo, my limits of patience, etc.) to reliably produce a desired, if unpredictable, outcome.
In my own practice—a practice I practiced before encountering Bernstein’s repetition without repetition concept—I constantly vary the way I work. Each piece comes together differently. I don’t re-use sounds, samples, or effects without varying them. When I encounter a familiar sound, I make a change to it and save it—ostensibly for later use, but really just to register to myself that I’ve made a change to initiate something new. Making small changes allows me to repeat without repeating.
Even as each track comes together differently, I try to use whatever I happen upon in the moment as the basis for an entire piece. This doesn’t always work, but it’s more likely to work when I commit to the idea. What I’ve happened upon can be anything. If I’ve improvised a 37-bar sequence of chords, that will do. If I’ve made a strange-sounding effect, I work with that. If I’ve tweaked a set of drum sounds, I start with those. Such creative constraints provide something analogous to the blacksmith’s hitting spot, focusing my attention on practicing novel solutions to that recurring challenge: How do I make music that sounds good?
(The artist was also a musician: he was a flute soloist with the Budapest Opera for over twenty years.)