X.


Intro I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. next

 

In ‘Variation IV, I mention that ‘In order to develop a sense of the possibility of particular tools and techniques in these variations, I tried out as many possibilities as seemed worthwhile, becoming aware of other variables in the process.’ In fact, exploring the relationships between these variables, rather than suppressing them in favor of an ideal solution, can often constitute the most important aspect of the performance of any given variation.

 

Consider the case of the mechanical parrot, which recurs in Patterson’s handwritten comments in ‘Variations IX’, ‘X’, ‘XII’, and ‘XIII’. No particular action is assigned to the bird in the score; I can ostensibly freely improvise with it. But the bird is old — it was a gift from Patterson — and does not move reliably anymore due to mechanical dysfunction. For organisational theorist Erlend Dehlin, these conditions represent cases of ‘positive’ (proactive) and ‘negative’ (reactive) improvisation, respectively:

 

Negative improvisation is more of a reaction to upcoming events than something that is initially chosen. It depicts the kind of situations where acute complexity is thrown at you, sparking a felt and recognized desire to resolve this complexity and avoid chaos. […]

 

Whereas negative improvisation is triggered by unexpected complexity, positive improvisation implies actively making sense of and acting in your present situation out of an ambition to create knowledge. Thus, knowledge is sought voluntarily as a sovereign value, but always within context.1

 

Both positive and negative improvisation overlap as I learn the idiosyncrasies of the object and adapt to its capabilities. This negotiation can activate minor gestures that have nothing to do with the parrot itself, such as the physical position of the instrument, but that nonetheless draw attention to themselves in the process of exploration. As improvisers are wont to do, I welcome such developments and follow their trajectories in both rehearsal and performance.

 

In the videos, one may compare  the physical orientation of the bird, my instrument, and my body in relation to each other, arranged in three completely different constellations to get the object to ‘work’. In 2009, this dance came to dominate ‘Variation X’ — my first encounter with the parrot, immediately after Patterson had delivered it on the afternoon of the concert. I placed the bass on my lap and set the bird on the strings. Its torso moved front to back but did not locomote, so I attempted to help it by raising the bottom of the bass and so creating an incline. This action turned into a theatrical gesture which I had not planned, but which anyway became part of the unfolding performance.

 

In 2014, I had difficulties getting the parrot to move at all, so I resolved to move it with my hands around the bass lying on the floor. This activity became a kind of puppetry, as if the bird were investigating different parts of the instrument in order to find a place to make its nest. (Ultimately it decided on the gold paper.)

 

In 2015, I resolved to make up for the parrot’s lacklustre 2014 performance by practising with the bird intensively. I carefully experimented to discover how its legs should be placed between the strings and how I could control minuscule differences in string pressure to activate the parrot most effectively. While the bird was decidedly more active in this interpretation than in 2009 or 2014, my fixation on the ‘major gesture’ ironically prompted a rather mechanical quality of movement in my own body that detracted from the playfulness of the activity. That is to say, in this case I failed to allow the minor gesture to speak, and the performance suffered for it.

 


  1. Erlend Dehlin, ‘The Flesh and Blood of Improvisation: A Study of Everyday Organizing’, (unpublished doctoral thesis, Norwegian University of Science and Technology, Trondheim, 2008), pp. 221–223 
    http://brage.bibsys.no/xmlui/handle/11250/148918.