n artist’s public presence is often disappointing. To the extent that we expect him to make apparent some breadth of understanding or mastery of craft, frustration often ensues. Is he shy? Can he appreciate his own creativity? Does he lack the analytical tools to describe it in full? However we answer these questions, Phillip Glass’ January 15th appearance at the Hopkins Center was no exception to the rule and was a diminutive compliment to the minimalist composer’s formidable stature in the world of modern music.
In fewer words, Glass’ night on stage was underwhelming, an appearance perhaps anticipated by the low-key aesthetic of its subject’s work. He emerged for a Q&A following the presentation of two short films he scored, “Evidence” (1995) and “Anima Mundi” (1992), during which questions revolved mostly around his collaborations with the film’s director, Godfrey Reggio (the two have worked together for decades). Glass’ responses ranged from modest to ramblingly anecdotal.
On working together: “collaborating means trusting the person youíre working with.” On the relationship of film to its score: “Images are surprisingly neutral emotionally—the emotional inflection comes from music.” On his aural tastes: the composerís own work, recorded by various performers, and music from other parts of the world, “distant enough for me so that I don’t have to listen to what they’re doing.” On the sometimes-commercial nature of his work: “In the country we live in, how do you expect an artist to live?” On the widespread emulation of his approach to composition: a “wonderful thing.”
If minimalism is, in the words of Brian Eno (himself the father of ambient music), “a drift away from narrative and towards landscape,” then the two films shown prior to Glass’ appearance fell squarely in that category. “Evidence,” at approximately seven minutes long, offered little more than stilted, panning shots of young children’s faces—all of them vacant, if not faintly sad, who at the piece’s end are revealed to be watching television. Set against a pulsating, insistently gloomy vamp, over which a soprano saxophone lays spare lines, the piece is an elusive tone poem, an impression, rather than a story or explicit statement about our relationship with technology.
A similar feel pervaded “Anima Mundi.” The film, a twenty-some minute montage of footage from the natural world whose creation was sponsored by the World Wildlife Foundation, unfolds to music by turns hopeful and sad, and is propelled forward by the same reliance on percussive ostinato used in “Evidence.” If there is clearly defined meaning or narrative intent in either work, it is well concealed; instead, what matters far more in both films is atmosphere, and the subjective relationship of a viewer to it.
To his credit, Glass deserves no criticism for a stage persona that was, in this observer’s eyes, kind, engaging, and modest, and he did succeed in offering the audience a lively discussion of his work with scoring. The explicit purpose of Glass’ visit, after all, was to discuss his breadth of work as it pertains to film, something he touched on in describing unique relationships with the likes of Reggio and documentarist Errol Morris. But the composer’s restraint, if not an undisciplined interview, left an elusive void at the center of the evening given the dearth of questions posed not only by the films shown and their austere beauty, but also by the legacy of a man who stands alongside Steve Reich and John Adams as a generation-defining icon of American music. One of the nightís better moments came when Glass mused on the desirability of releasing oneís work anonymously; “I’d prefer that,” he said, “What an extraordinary relationship you would have with the work!” But the opportunity to prod him further was lost as the conversation bore on, and with it the chance to further get to know one of the countryís great musical minds.
