Long ago, I heard a lovely definition of creativity: “Finding what has been lost and making it new.” I’ve never been able to track down the source of that definition, but it’s stuck with me. We’ve all heard there is nothing new under the sun — and we can certainly extend that axiom to the knowable universe – but the number of things that have been lost perpetually increases. Maybe newness is a matter of perspective, of encountering and arranging the things we have lost into formations that engage us in new ways.
I’ve just completed a new brass quintet that takes this proposal literally. Called Lost and Found, it arranges rediscovered objects (toy, frog, bicycle) along with concepts (love, fear, memory) into a design of aphoristic compositions, linked by brief passages of rummaging. The objects and concepts themselves are nothing new, but their juxtapositions put them in an unfamiliar – and therefore revealing – light.
Lost and Found is in fourteen attacca movements, ranging from 6 seconds to two-and-a-half minutes in length:
- Rummaging
- Toy
- Rummaging
- Melody
- Love
- Rummaging
- Frog
- Fear
- Ligaments
- Rummaging
- Death
- Memory
- Lunch
- Bicycle
I mentioned the brevity of these movements in my last post. The effort to say a lot with a little, to find the infinite in the infinitesimal, to speak with restraint rather than bombast – this is where I feel I need to be right now.
Michael Robinson says
Relating to lost notions of beauty from antiquity, the very stuff music is made of, known in India as swaras (tones or “that which shines”), forming the saptaka (octave or “cluster of seven”), are believed to have originated from the cries of animals and birds. Here they are listed:
Shadja (tonic) cry of the peacock
Rishaba (second) cry of the bull
Gandhara (third) cry of the goat
Madhyama (fourth) cry of the heron
Panchama (fifth) cry of the cuckoo
Dhaivata (sixth) cry of the horse
Nishada (seventh) cry of the elephant
Komal (flat) and Tivra (sharp) alter tones by a half-step.