Embracing Our Creative Limitations

Patrick Kavanaugh

The real obstacle may be too many possibilities

Like most classical composers, I can quickly lose patience with musical limitations. Many of these are due to the immutable laws of acoustical physics or with the construction of various musical instruments: you cannot ask an oboist to play an octave below middle C; it is a pitch too low to be produced by that instrument. At other times the limitations before us may result from the attitude (or lack of talent) of a given performer: “How can you ask me to play those high notes so fast? It is completely impossible!” (Translation: “It is very hard to play, and I don’t want to play it.”)

Such limitations are not new to us. Bach would sometimes invent entirely new musical instruments when the existing ones could not play the music that was in his head. As to dealing with performers and the limitations they can offer composers, Beethoven comes to mind. Once, a violinist made the mistake of complaining to Beethoven about the difficulty of his part. The composer exploded, “Do you think that I consider your wretched instrument when the spirit moves me?”

Well, that’s one approach. Another might be to consider physical limitations—not as brick walls to bang our heads against—but as needed stimuli to the creative process. For we are generally at our creative best whenever we come to a limitation and we are forced to creatively think of a way around it. Indeed, when left without boundaries we are often paralyzed by the overwhelming vastness of the blank canvas before us. In other words, if anything is possible, where do we begin? Or even, perhaps, why bother?

Some time ago I taught music composition majors a course in electronic music. I soon found that the students were hesitant to begin writing their first piece. At first I assumed that this resulted from a lack of technical knowledge, so I spent extra time explaining how to use every electronic device in our lab. But the more they understood the astonishing capabilities now at their disposal, the more hesitant they became to actually compose for this vast musical array.

In our discussion time, the students struggled to put this new problem into words. They had discovered a new obstacle, which we nicknamed the “ASP,” for “Anything Seems Possible”—but with a fearful reference to the Egyptian snake. My students often implored, “Make us compose for a flute, or a string quartet, or even a full orchestra! We know their limitations and these motivate us to find ways around them. But don’t leave us in this lab where nothing is impossible!” (They eventually learned to compose electronic music, but they had to begin by giving themselves “artificial limitations.”)

When I look around at today’s world, in which the juggernaut of science has made such amazing progress, I have mixed feelings. Certainly I am delighted in the wonderful medical advances of recent decades. Last month my left eye developed a retina detachment. A century ago this would have meant losing sight in that eye, which would have resulted in (among other things) the end of my orchestra conducting. But in today’s world, an eye surgeon came to the rescue and everything was fixed. I am deeply grateful for such medical progress.

Yet when I read the works of futurists who insists that science will eventually “know everything” and be able to “do anything,” I wonder how it will affect our artistic creativity. As I look back at the history of music, it strikes me that nearly everything beautiful that has been created was in some way a consequence of the boundaries of our limitations.

Perhaps science will someday give us a “replicator” à la Star Trek, the Next Generation. Everyone will then have all they could ever want: money, health, and unlimited luxuries. Many times, particularly when I am trying to pay the bills, this scenario sounds rather nice. And I especially like the idea of eliminating poverty.

Nevertheless, I hope that, in this supposedly utopian future, we can still create artistic beauty. I’m not quite certain of it.

But in the meantime, I think I will compose a duet for synthesizer and cello. Perhaps I can get the best of both worlds.  

Dr. Patrick Kavanaugh is a composer and conductor and the author of several books, including The Music of Angels: A Listener's Guide to Sacred Music from Chant to Christian Rock. He is executive director of the Christian Performing Artists’ Fellowship, artistic director of The MasterWorks Festival, and dean of the School of Music of Grace College, Winona Lake, Indiana.

Features, Arts and Culture, Being Human, Fri 19 Jun 2009