The Art of Art Criticism

The Ecology of Art was inspired by some excellent articles that I believe summarize the Art of Art Criticism.

J.P. Simmon (link lost) wrote:
“Music – is not an ethical realm, but a realm of feeling. It not about ethics (right and wrong) but about how one experiences something. Even shock rock is offensive to so many people, they are doing it for themselves. It is offensive to their tastes – though biting the heads off animals does pass it into the realm of ethics. It would be absurd to charge a person for murder when they commit suicide – it would be absurd to judge a personal experience such as music based on something that is right and wrong.”

Jordan Francke wrote:
“As a cinema major I am fortunate to have film history and terminology at my disposal to vocalize my opinions. This education helps me to explore my own preferences in cinema, but it does not give me any authority to place objective value on cinematic works. It may seem slightly disconcerting that everything is open-ended with no worldly means of determining the quality of human creation. But, if art were like a math problem with only one correct way to be expressed, life would be exceedingly dull. Everyone would hold the same ideals and see the world in an identical fashion. There would be no more intricacy and extremes in life.”

Jeff Jarvis wrote:
“Would I have critics? Yes, but their roles would change. They still should give their views and set art in context. But rather than issuing pronouncements and bon mots, unchallenged, from the screening room, I?d want them to spark the discussion about entertainment: find the good voices, pinpoint the arguments, even referee debates among artists and critics. A great critic should be a magnet for fascinating discussion. Take the debate around politics at the Guardian?s Comment is Free and imagine similar discussion over the arts, with critics acting not as pontificators but as opinionated moderators, even generous hosts.”

Jay Nordlinger gave a talk at Steinway Hall, New York, back in 2003 entitled “Who Cares What Critics Say?”. Its eloquence and power prompts its full inclusion here:

“Ladies and gentlemen, it?s a pleasure to be with you.

I thank Hilton Kramer and Roger Kimball for all they do to produce The New Criterion. I thank all who work under them, too. Hilton and his friend Samuel Lipman did a marvelous thing, 20 years ago, when they founded The New Criterion. I feel privileged to write for it. I feel privileged to read it, too! I have long considered The New Criterion part of my continuing education.

So, I thank all of you who support this journal. Your gifts are well directed. And, along with so many others, I?m especially grateful for Donald Kahn, a benefactor of The New Criterion, and of a great many institutions and individuals around the world. I?ve called him an Esterh?zy for our time. Moreover, he?s a lot of fun.

And, before I get down to business, I?d like to say that it is a particular pleasure to be with Bill Buckley, and with Pat Buckley.

It was some years ago that I was first asked to speak on ?the role of the critic.? I have to tell you, I hesitated. I didn?t want to accept the assignment. And the reason is, I have always operated largely on feel. I was loath to jeopardize my work by the awful activity of thinking. I did not want to be subject to, what we call in golf, ?paralysis by analysis.? If there?s one thing I dread, it?s being frozen at the keyboard. The truth is, much of what I have accomplished has been done by sheer bulling ahead, for better or worse. A critic has to be obstinate, cocksure?even heedless, at times. Otherwise, he can be swallowed up in a sea of hedging, and anxiety, and doubt.

Well, I did think about the role of the critic, those years ago, and I have since thought about it further. You?ll be relieved to know that I have reached certain conclusions. The first thing we must say?rush to say?is that we must not exaggerate the role of the critic. I?m sure any musicians present would agree! Of all the roles there are to play in music, that of critic must be very small indeed. Many people would put it at the bottom of the list, or quite near it. There are composers, pianists, conductors, singers, teachers, impresarios, limo drivers, hair stylists?the critics are barely an afterthought!

So, who are the most important, most famous music critics in history? They are, probably, Eduard Hanslick and Julius Korngold. Most people have never heard of them?but they have heard of the composers whom they were most closely associated with: Brahms and Mahler. That?s the point.

Hanslick was the most influential critic in Vienna, during the time of Brahms, his friend and hero. He was also an anti-Wagnerite, proving that you can?t be right about everything. His successor as the top critic in Vienna was Julius Korngold, now best known as the father of the composer Erich Wolfgang Korngold?and there?s our point again. Korngold was a great friend and booster of Mahler, who, as you know, was an intensely controversial figure. There are no anti-Mahlerites today?at least none who are too public. But in the composer?s own time, Vienna, and the rest of Europe, were swimming in them.

Did Korngold?s activities hasten the acceptance of Mahler? Maybe. But Mahler?s hour, owing to his genius, surely would have come, no matter who scribbled what.

George Bernard Shaw and Virgil Thomson were famous music critics, too, but they are famous now, obviously, for other things: Shaw for being . . . well, Shaw, and Thomson for being a composer. If anyone could cite any of their music criticism, it would be a great surprise. Thomson, if he is known for anything, critically, is known for his brutal dismissal of Tchaikovsky. Better for Thomson that he be known for his music, some of which is really quite fine, and deserves to endure.

Closer to our own day, Claudia Cassidy, the critic in Chicago, was famed, feared, and loathed. One of the reasons George Solti didn?t take the conducting job in Chicago on first being offered it was that he feared he couldn?t survive Cassidy?that she wouldn?t give him a fair shake. Can you imagine? But chances are, few people remember Cassidy?s name today, even in her hometown.

Out in Los Angeles, the critic for many years was Martin Bernheimer, another object of fear and loathing. His nickname was ?Martin Slash-and-burn-heimer.? I understand that a woman in L.A. once walked up to him and said, ?Mr. Bernheimer, I?m sorry, but I can?t stand you.? He replied, warmly, ?Oh, don?t worry, dear: No one can.?

Standing up to public opinion is one thing a critic does; shaping it is another. I feel we should probably do both. What we should never do is do it consciously; we should simply write what we think is correct, letting the chips fall where they may.

Now, a bracing question: Why have music criticism at all? I tell you that, when I was young, and a musician, I was puzzled by the very existence of music criticism. It didn?t seem very helpful. It wasn?t performance, it wasn?t composition, it wasn?t teaching, really ?it was just, mere, criticism. It seemed crabbed and pointless and vain. So a guy liked it, so what? So a guy hated it, so what?

Perhaps my question should have been more narrow: Why have concert reviews? As a kid, I could see the utility of, say, movie reviews: They could help you decide whether to see a particular flick. But a concert? That was over and done with. Who wanted to read about that? A review just gave some guy a chance to spout off, in public, and that was a waste of newspaper space.

Now that I?m the guy spouting off, my opinion has changed somewhat?but I still understand, and to an extent sympathize with, my earlier point.

A feature piece, I could always understand: Here is the story of this or that musician. He was born in this country, he attended that conservatory, he is rumored to have had amorous relations with the following colleagues: . . . I could also understand a musicological essay: something on the development of the trombone, say, or the disappearance of the contralto, or the career of the twelve-tone system. But concert reviews?

One answer, I suppose?a short one?is that certain people like to read them. And certain others like to write them. Do you know the old definition of a critic? Someone who finds it impossible to read something?or see something or hear something?without a pen in hand. Well, I confess it has been many, many years since I attended a concert or opera without a pen in hand.

Music critics sometimes complain about how hard their subject is to write about, and they are right: It can be murder. Music is an aural art, and must be understood aurally?and spiritually, in a way. If we could talk about it satisfactorily, we would talk, not compose, or play, or listen. Debussy once said, ?Music picks up where human speech leaves off; it expresses the otherwise inexpressible.? A few years ago, the critic Bernard Holland wrote, ?I am powerless to describe what music is; I can only describe the aftershocks it leaves.? I feel much the same way: A strong dose of humility, I think, is requisite in a music critic.

But hang on: I now wish to contradict myself, baldly?or to supplement my statement, or to provide a counter-rule: A strong dose of arrogance, too, is required in a critic. That is, in fact, what I think gets a lot of us through, what enables us to write the criticism we do, and copiously: the belief?the firm conviction?that we are right, and that others, if they disagree with us, are wrong. Isn?t that disgusting? But it?s most helpful, even necessary. My action as a music critic is predicated on the abhorrent notion that I know better than the next guy?or at least that I have something valuable to say. Frankly, that?s the only way I know to manage it. That?s the only way I can say what I do, in public, and thereby subject what I write to the scrutiny and criticism of millions (or of thousands, or of hundreds). (Or of dozens, as the case may be.)

I?m afraid that my view of criticism is somewhat peculiar and personal, which is why I?m obliged to use ?I? and ?me? and related words so much before you. I hope you will forgive me. It?s not so much arrogance or egocentrism as a form, believe it or not, of modesty: for I don?t wish to over-generalize or to pretend to speak for my fraternity, much less for all mankind.

What I try to do, in my criticism, is defend the musical principles I was reared on, and that I think should be upheld; I try to speak for music, as music?s advocate, against its defilers; I try to hold performers?and, to a lesser extent, composers (which is to say, present-day composers)?to account; I try to teach something along the way; I perform the simple act of reporting the event; and I try to give people something interesting?or beautiful, or stimulating, or memorable?to read.

Let?s not forget that: Music criticism, in addition to the myriad other things it is, is writing, a form of writing. I wouldn?t blame you if you expected a music critic to be a writer first, and a critic second. If V. S. Naipaul wrote music criticism, I would read it, for the excellence of the prose, no matter what I thought of his musical judgments.

I was talking about musical principles, and my defense of them: What are they? Well, one of them is fidelity to the score?serving the composer?s interests, as against those of self. You might say I am a bit of a conservative, musically?although I caution against applying political or even philosophical terms to this field. You might say?and here I?ll go against my own caution?that I?m a strict constructionist, in music as well as in law: I favor the letter?and the spirit, of course, and here is where it gets tricky?of the law, or the score. Neither a score nor a constitution is an empty vessel into which the William Brennans and Leonard Bernsteins of the world should pour all their feelings and desires and biases and tics.

But then, there are a million exceptions, and I find myself getting less strict, musically, as I go along. An overly subjective performer who is talented can be more satisfying, more defensible, than a strict constructionist who is less talented, or who clings stupidly to the letter. We don?t rule Horowitz out?although I happen to think Horowitz was best when he bothered to discipline himself. I also cherish Celibidache, for all his idiosyncrasy?even because of it. He almost always convinces me. As I say, it gets tricky, and my rules are less rigid than I sometimes state them. But then, if we don?t state things confidently and clearly, we get sucked into a world of hedges?and begin too many sentences with, ?But then . . . ?

Here is something that drives me a bit crazy: when a performer says, ?Oh, I?m doing this in order to be creative. This allows me to express myself.? We all know singers, violinists, and others who talk this way. I always want to pipe up, Oh, yeah? You want to be creative? You want to express yourself? Fine: Get yourself some manuscript paper and compose something. Then you?ll really be expressing yourself. But you aren?t the creator here, you?re the servant of the creator, the composer of the music. Mr. Handel has expressed himself already, or Mr. Schumann, or Mr. Prokofiev, or whoever. Your job is to bring it out, to be faithful to him?and you do this through . . . through what? Through study, musical sense, and a kind of communion. There is no other way. And some?in fact, most?simply don?t have it. Musicality is both the most important quality in a musician, and the one hardest to define, neatly.

I believe, by the way, that there is such a thing as performing genius, which is distinct from?and, naturally, lesser than?creative genius. Artur Rubinstein, for one, had a performing genius, and so did Leontyne Price. You could throw any score in front of them, and they got?simply got?its essence. Not only did they themselves get it, they could show it to you.

I am always calling for honesty in music-making?my best models are big on this: honesty. You can tell?or rather, to be immodest about it, some of us can tell?when a musician is being honest, and when he isn?t. A musical honesty is linked to a proper conception of the performer?s role, and the performer’s relationship to the composer.

There is a story I love about the conductor George Szell, who is an exemplar of what I sanctimoniously have called my musical principles: He was rehearsing a Mozart symphony, with his usual intensity and dedication. Afterward, someone approached him and said, ?Maestro, how can you conduct that way in an empty auditorium?? Szell answered, ?Ah, but Mozart is listening.? Szell clearly cared more about Mozart than about the applauding masses. All the best do. And they play and think as seriously and joyfully in the privacy of their own practice rooms as they do in the fullest and grandest concert halls.

A few seasons ago, I wrote very, very harshly about a popular young pianist. I intend to quote what I said, but before I do, I must tell you about a hurdle I had to get over before I could write true criticism. I had to get over an inhibition against slamming, against rebuking, against assessing a performance bluntly?even mordantly. After all, doesn?t the performer have feelings? And doesn?t he have a mother, who has even greater feelings?

I got over it this way: These people?these performers?are enormously lucky to have lives in music. They are privileged beyond belief. And if they are going to concertize, they had better do it well, and serve music. They are not only pleasing themselves, or fans; they are undertaking to present music to the broad world. And this is a grave responsibility, no matter how much fun it is. Part of my job, as I have said, is to hold musicians to account. If the critic has any role at all, it is that of defender of music?but then, the best performers are the ultimate defenders of music.

There is a phrase from the columnist William Safire that I love, and that I try to apply to my journalism across the board: ?Kick ?em when they?re up.? Well, musicians are practically always up. If only by virtue of their appearances in the toniest concert halls, they are up. If only by virtue of their fees and adulation, they are up. That?s what frees me to say that so-and-so is impossibly vulgar and absurd and anti-musical, when the musician in question is, in fact, being vulgar and absurd and anti-musical. Not only is he up?but, in all likelihood, he should know better. So I don?t mind kicking such people (though I don?t relish it, either, and never seek to do it).

Now to the popular young pianist I mentioned earlier. I won?t name him?there are many candidates?not because I wish to be coy, but because the point to be illustrated is far more important than any individual personality:

?In recital at Carnegie Hall Friday night was [so-and-so]. He began with the D-major sonata of Beethoven known as the ?Pastoral,? one of the smallish glories of the piano literature. As he played, the notes seemed familiar; they were in the right order; but it wasn?t Beethoven; it seemed to be Beethoven as re-imagined, or re-composed, by this presumptuous upstart. The pianist?s interpretation was beyond the individualistic or idiosyncratic; it was vulgar, musically impermissible. The phrasing was foreign. Wrong accents abounded. Notes were crudely clipped. There was staccato where there should have been legato?that sort of thing. Absurdly, he conducted (or did something) with his hands, fluttering about, rather like David Copperfield in a Vegas lounge. Some teacher should have slapped him long ago. Now, I (almost) never mention any physical aspect of a performance, music being a strictly aural art. But I mention the conducting bit because it is revealing of a mindset?one destructive of a score, and of a composer.”

?I left after the Beethoven. When a pianist announces himself like that, you don?t have to stay for more. A guy has a purple mohawk and a nose-ring: Do we need to check for tattoos? And here?s the real pity about [so-and-so]: He?s such a good pianist. Full of talent. If only he had his head screwed on right.?

I kicked him hard, yes: but I also flatter myself into thinking that I stuck up for music, however obliquely. Honest musicality contains no artifice or chicanery or misplaced ego. What a pianist wants to do with his own music is his own business; what he does with Beethoven?s is something else.

Here is another role of the critic: to boost, to plump, to champion?to wave the flag for a musician, or for some musical cause. There is a long tradition of this among music critics, and I regret that this tradition has faded somewhat in recent years. I think of Hanslick and his man Brahms, and of Korngold and his man Mahler. I think, too, of the grand old war between B. H. Haggin, the acid critic of The Nation magazine, and Irving Kolodin, the curmudgeonly critic of the New York Times. Haggin loved Toscanini, and Kolodin loved Furtw?ngler?and they fought bitterly. What fun!

I myself tend to plead the case of James Levine, who, many years ago, was prot?g? to George Szell in Cleveland. He has a lot in common with that old maestro, sharing, for example, the same insistent dedication to music. I often say that Levine is not only formidable in his own era, but a conductor to be assessed in historic terms. Of course, even Homer nods, and Levine did a worrying amount of nodding last season. But, many, many nights, I leave the concert hall or, more likely, the opera house truly grateful for what I have heard. A pet beef of mine is that we underappreciate the living. We are afraid to render a strong judgment. Immobilized by caution, and fear of embarrassment, we tend to wait until a performer is retired or dead?and that?s no good.

In fact, one of the things I do, as a critic?perhaps ad nauseam?is point out that, in certain respects, we are living in a golden age. We have a plethora of performers who will be judged?should be judged?as historic. When a living performer?even a quite young one?is great, we ought to say so. This might be taken as a critical duty. I happen to think that Hilary Hahn, all of 23 years old, is a great violinist: not a promising one, not a lavishly talented one, not an unusually mature one, not a phenom?but a great violinist, here and now. The last recital I heard of hers left no doubt. I believe the same can be safely said of Maxim Vengerov?although he is practically a senior citizen compared with Hahn.

And how about singers? Here, I believe we are unquestionably in the midst of a golden age, even though it won?t be recognized as such until it is good and past. There is no need to sit in our rooms with our record collections. Fans are often full of nostalgia, wishing they could go back to . . . whatever year they imagine to be optimal. But how about 2003? What George Jellinek calls “the vocal scene” offers you Deborah Voigt, and Susan Graham, and Ren?e Fleming, and Christine Schaefer, and Ren? Pape, and Thomas Quasthoff, and Matthias Goerne, and Thomas Hampson, and Dmitri Hvorostovsky, and Magdalena Ko?en?, and Susanne Mentzer, and Ewa Podles, and Natalie Dessay, and Barbara Bonney, and Olga Borodina, and many, many others who are not only worthwhile but virtually immortal (thanks to CDs). I once titled a piece on Borodina ?Greatness, Here and Now??that?s pretty straightforward. No, I don?t think I?d trade places with anyone, in an earlier era, at least as far as singers are concerned. Conductors and pianists and composers?they?re another story.

Not only critics, but editors, now and then, are wary of praise?especially of the exuberant kind. It is hard to be censured for being strongly negative?that is often taken as a sign of sophistication and guts. It is easier to be censured for being strongly positive?that is often taken as a sign of na?vet? or ignorance. What will almost never get you censured, of course, is the moderate, hedged review: a bloodless thing, saying nothing, venturing nothing, worth nothing. Then again, sometimes a performance is neither here nor there?acceptable, but nothing special. Frequently I have written that an evening ?suffered from the quality of okayness.?

As I have said, I try to make it my practice to write what I believe is true, and I?m lucky to work for publications that afford me this privilege. Furthermore, I find that if I think, while writing, ?I?m now praising,? or, ?I?m now damning,? I can?t go on: My hand is stayed. My best shot is to react candidly; how it comes out on the page is its own business.

And I try to make myself write quickly after a performance, before I get cold feet. Truth is?tough as I talk?I often temper myself when I sit down at the keyboard: I mute the positive a bit, cushion the negative a bit. I don?t say this with pride?it?s the natural human adjusting.

I might also say that we must not fear to repeat ourselves in this business. (Maybe I should say it twice!) Repetition is one of the joys of it, and necessary to unfold a worldview, or musical credo. I am always saying what I say about Levine, while further noting that I?m always saying it. And I have often wondered the following: What if I were stuck in a city doing music criticism for a daily newspaper and found the conductor of that city?s orchestra a lousy one? Would I simply say it, 30 times a year? Avoid it? Concentrate chiefly on the music performed, rather than the conducting of it?

I don?t know. I just thought I?d bring it up, for you to ponder.

So far, I have spoken almost exclusively about one kind of criticism, that of musical performance. There is a great difference between writing about performance and writing about composition. The latter is more demanding. I will confide to you that I have a hard time listening to both at the same time?to both the performance and the music. I would rather listen to the performance and judge it, or listen to the music and judge it?but not both, simultaneously.

Most nights of the year, we engage in performance criticism; but we are, naturally, called on to write about new music. This requires a whole other set of faculties. It is a delicate business, too. Composers depend, to a certain degree, on the response of critics for their advancement. And a critic can court trouble by writing negatively about new music, which many feel must be protected, and nurtured, and pampered, like a newborn babe. Some regard an attack on new music?or even skepticism about it?as all but impermissible, something on the order of infanticide. (Of course, if the music is what is labeled ?conservative? or ?traditional? or, heaven forbid, ?neo-Romantic,? all bets are off.) There is rarely a penalty to be paid for cheering new music; there are serious penalties to be paid for opposing it.

I don?t make it a habit to engage in new-music debates, but one thing I have said loudly is that I don?t believe music should be performed merely because it is new, or American, or written by a woman, or written by a member of an interesting ethnic or racial group. Music should rise or fall on its merits.

In writing for the general public, a critic is often faced with the question: How technical should I get? How general should I keep it? Through trial and error, I have concluded that I am best off relying on the intelligence of the reader, and his ability to discern things through context. I don?t go out of my way to use technical terms, but neither do I go out of my way to avoid them, as much as I used to. For example, I don?t necessarily pause to explain what ?rubato? is. Usually, I just trust: and it seems to work out. Remember that music criticism is a minority taste, anyway.

I tell you something else I have sneaked into my music criticism: those awful words ?I,? ?me,? and so on, which I have used so flagrantly today. For years, I religiously eschewed these words, thinking that they were arrogant, self-regarding, pompous?that they inserted oneself inappropriately into the piece. I found the use of such words egotistical.

In truth, it is exactly the opposite: What is egotistical?what is truly arrogant?is to shun ?I? and ?me? in favor of an objective voice that makes you look like pure, unquestionable truth?the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. These days, I will slip in the first person when I want to suggest some modesty?when I have a bit of doubt, or reluctance. It is a way of saying, Look: This doesn?t come down from Mt. Sinai; it is my opinion. (Then again, I may want my opinion to seem as though it has been chiseled on sacred tablets.) The use of personal pronouns, in music criticism and other forms of criticism, is an act of modesty. I hold to this.

Sometimes I?m asked whether I applaud. You bet I do. I know critics who don?t, as a matter of principle, and that is a principle I find difficult to comprehend. I applaud even bad performances, out of politeness. And I applaud heartily for performances that deserve it. When people think of critics, they often think of people who are extra-negative about things; people who like things less than the general public does; people who are pickier, because more knowledgeable. This may be. But it can also be that good music critics, or musicians, like things more than the general public does. The point is, they should have greater powers of appreciation, one way or the other. Audiences can roar wrongly for a performance; they can also withhold roars wrongly. A tepid response can be just as uncalled for?just as unknowing?as a wild ovation.

I could recite countless instances of my disliking a performance that others were mad for. But I have also been the only person in a very large hall on his feet for something. I stood for Han-Na Chang, a cellist then 14 or 15 years old, in Avery Fisher Hall, after she played the Saint-Sa?ns A-minor concerto. I felt I had to. There have been many times when I have not stood?for reasons of self-consciousness?and been ashamed of myself.

I mention all this, not to trumpet my powers of discernment, but to stress that one of the things a critic can usefully do is invite enthusiasm for that which has been inadequately received. This is a companion to knocking down things?performers, music, trends?that are celebrated unwisely.

Ladies and gentlemen, in thinking about this subject, and preparing this talk, I?ve had a good deal of fun?which brings me to my final point: Let?s not rule out fun as a reason for music criticism, or a justification of it. I recall a superb professor of history I had, Shaw Livermore Jr., who began one course roughly this way:

?We?re often told that we study history because it?s necessary?necessary to avoid the mistakes of the past. The past, we?re assured, can shed light on the present. Actually, it?s equally true that the present can shed light on the past?but be that as it may.

?The truth is?and we have to say this softly?we study history because it?s fun. Because we enjoy it. Because we get a kick out of it. And that?s okay.?

Yes, it is okay.

I am delighted that we have arranged this forum; I believe occasions like this have value. But it?s much better to listen to music than to talk about it, or to hear someone else talk about it. I?ve cracked that the most dread hyphenated word in the English language is ?concert-lecture.?

People sometimes ask me, ?What should I read, to learn more about music?? I usually tell them, ?Oh, if you have the time, don?t read anything: Listen to something. Words, in the end, can do so little. That?s the point of music.? Critics have a role to play?I wouldn?t suggest otherwise. They have a role to play in explicating, in promoting, in teaching, in making mischief. But the keys to the kingdom of music must be gained by joining with music, by entering that separate world of sound, of musical thought, where words have little place.

For someone who purports to disdain talk about music, I can go on, can?t I? But now you will be treated to something trulymusical: the voice, thought, and style of William F. Buckley Jr.

Thank you.

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