Last week I mentioned that Andrew Dubber’s e-book 20 Things You Must Know About Music Online is available as a free printed booklet and pop-up desk thingamy. Mine arrived this week and very nice they are too. The kind people at Digital Central also included another booklet, Making Money Out of Music.

Both booklets are excellent, full of practical advice for musicians seeking fame and fortune in the new musical landscape. They’re also free, so if you’re in a band and wondering how to make some money from your music, you’d be mad not to send an e-mail to Digital Central and ask them to send you a copy. More details here.

Giving feedback on creative work is a tricky challenge, for two main reasons:

1. Artists and creatives identify very closely with their work
   When a creative worker puts a piece of work in front of you, it is as though they were putting a piece of themselves there to be judged – because of this, it is almost inevitable that they take criticism personally.
2. The value of creative work is largely subjective
   We all know this from arguments with friends about music and films – one person’s masterpiece is utter rubbish to someone else. Shakespeare, Welles and Picasso are only ‘great’ because there is a current consensus of opinion that makes them so, and fashions can change. So it’s very difficult to make a final judgement with absolute certainty, no matter how strongly you feel about it.

But feedback is vital to producing outstanding work. Without some sense of how one’s work appears to others, it’s very hard to decide how to develop it. For Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, feedback is an essential ingredient in the experience of creative flow – when we sense that we are creating something valuable, it increases our pleasure and absorption in the work.

So feedback is essential, but how should we approach it? Specifically:

• How can we give genuinely constructive feedback on a piece of creative work, even if we aren’t experts in the medium?
• When we’re on the receiving end, how can we make the most of the feedback we receive from others – or at least develop a thicker skin?

‘Too many notes’ – the Emperor from ‘Amadeus’ shows us how not to do it

My favourite example of how not to give feedback on creative work is the Emperor Josef II of Austria, as he appears in Amadeus – a film I’ve previously written about as a parable of creativity.

The Emperor is not stupid, nor is he a philistine. He comes across as an intelligent and honest man trying to do his best for his subjects. And he aspires to culture, as an amateur musician and a lover and patron of music. The ‘musical King’ surrounds himself with composers and music scholars, patronises the opera, concert halls and music schools, and commissions exciting new works from established composers and rising stars.

And yet, as Salieri points out, “actually the man had no ear at all”. This is partly a deficiency of talent – regardless of the approach he took to musical studies, the Emperor would never be in danger of rivaling Mozart or Salieri. But it is also a deficiency of circumstance. Because of his position, the assembled musical experts around him are afraid to tell him where he’s going wrong, or even how bad his playing is.

For example, in the scene where Salieri has written a welcome march for Mozart on his first visit to the Imperial court, to Salieri’s dismay, the Emperor volunteers to play it to welcome the guest. Salieri groans inwardly, knowing his tune will be mangled, but in deference to the Emperor’s position he can only murmur “You do me too much honour, Sire”. His worst fears are confirmed when the Emperor gives a hilariously hamfisted performance – while Salieri can only tiptoe around him, desperate to correct the royal ear and hands, but not daring to venture beyond “Very good Majesty”.

And that, in miniature, is the Emperor’s life. He is surrounded by people who could help him if only they dared – or he dared – to sidestep protocol in favour of an honest assessment of his failings and suggestions for improvement.

In short, he is The Man With No Feedback.

You can see the result on his face, in the permanently wooden expression of Jeffrey Jones, who gives a brilliantly stilted performance. You can hear it in his awful playing. And it is glaringly obvious in his lack of refined judgment. He prefers Salieri to Mozart. He yawns at the Marriage of Figaro. And he provokes a truly toe-curling scene after the premiere of Mozart’s first opera in Vienna. The Emperor takes the stage in front of the admiring audience and proceeds to dole out praise to the young composer. At first he is effusive, telling Mozart it is “An excellent effort”. Mozart is pleased, hanging on his every word, looking for more.

Then the Emperor drops his clanger.

Mozart So then you liked it? You really liked it, Sire?

Emperor Well of course I did, it’s very good! Of course now and then – just now and then – it seemed a touch, er -
Mozart What do you mean, Sire?

Emperor Well, I mean occasionally it seems to have – oh how shall one say? (turning to Orsini-Rosenberg) How shall one say, Director?

Orsini-Rosenberg Too many notes, Your Majesty?

Emperor Exactly, very well put. Too many notes.

In his eagerness to present himself as an authoritative critic, the Emperor has made himself a hostage to Orsini-Rosenberg’s spite. Recognising he’s in trouble, he looks to Salieri for reassurance:

Mozart I don’t understand. There are just as many notes, Majesty, as are required, neither more nor less.

Emperor My dear fellow, there are in fact only so many notes the ear can hear in the course of an evening. I think I’m right in saying that, aren’t I, Court Composer?

Salieri Yes. Yes, on the whole, yes, Majesty.

Poor Salieri is in agony, aware that he has forsaken his musical conscience by toadying to his paymaster, but he doesn’t see what else he can do. It is the Emperor’s New Clothes all over again. Except that Mozart, like the little boy in the fairy tale, refuses to play the game:

Emperor My dear, young man, don’t take it too hard. Your work is ingenious. It’s quality work. And there are simply too many notes, that’s all. Cut a few and it will be perfect.

Mozart Which few did you have in mind, Majesty?

As so often in this film, Mozart remains true to music above all other masters (or mistresses). He challenges the Emperor to back up his judgment by distinguishing between the quantity of the notes (‘too many’) and their quality (‘which few…?’). And His Majesty cannot do it. And everyone squirms with embarrassment – before Peter Schaffer lets us off the hook with the comic entrance of Mozart’s landlady and future mother-in-law.

How the Emperor gets it so wrong

1. He offers a second-hand opinion
It’s hard to defend someone else’s opinion. Because he has merely borrowed Orsini-Rosenberg’s judgment, as if it were a walking stick, he doesn’t know what it is based on or how to present it convincingly.

2. He pretends to expertise he doesn’t have
The Emperor pretends to be an expert when he is nothing of the kind. He is not a musician, nor even a qualified critic, but an amateur music lover. And there’s nothing wrong with that, as long as you are honest about who you are and your qualifications to pass judgment.

For example, I’m not a graphic designer, so would never presume to give a professional designer advice on where s/he’s going wrong and how to fix it. But if I’m asked, I’m perfectly happy to give a layman’s view of how it looks to me, the kind of impression it makes and how it makes me feel. The Emperor could probably have done the same for Mozart – if he’d allowed himself to give an honest response about the feelings the music had stirred in him.

3. He fails to provide any criteria for judgment
Because he is merely regurgitating the Count’s words, he has no idea of the criteria on which the judgment is based. And unfortunately for him, the Count’s criteria are malicious rather than musical. So the Emperor is reduced to offering an ex cathedra judgment which is of no use at all to the artist. This is the kind of stance that infuriates designers when they ask for a brief and are told “I’ll know it when I see it”.

4. He is tactless
Because he has no experience of receiving genuine feedback himself, the Emperor has little awareness of how it affects Mozart – he doesn’t realise he’s touched a raw nerve and so is surprised by Mozart’s hostile response. With even a rudimentary sense of tact, the Emperor would have realised that all the occasion (and composer) called for were a few laudatory platitudes – there was no need to antagonise Mozart and put his own critical reputation on the line in public.

5. He is patronising
The one aspect of the Emperor’s approach that is slightly commendable is his evident eagerness not to discourage Mozart. There is no malice in his criticism, merely ignorance. But because his judgment on the work is flawed, he comes across as patronising and insincere when he tells him “don’t take it too hard”.

Back in the real world…

Back in the ‘real world’ of agencies and studios, variations on this scene are played out every day, as clients, account handlers, managers and assorted others deliver their verdict on the work placed before them by creatives. Paul Kitcatt, Creative Partner at Kittcatt Nohr Alexander Shaw, describes a particularly memorable encounter:

Old-fashioned ad agencies keep their Creatives away from clients. With good reason. I know one who, having presented his work and had it rejected, got up on the table and mooned the startled client. They’re animals, you see, and keeping them hidden adds to the mystique.

If things rarely get this bad, there is clearly plenty of scope for professional relationships to be soured by poorly-delivered or poorly-received feedback. The Emperor embodies both aspects of the problem: on the one hand he is like the artist or creative who is too important or sensitive to receive feedback and make good use of it; on the other, he is the manager or client who delivers bad news in such a clumsy fashion that he risks destroying the relationship.

I’ll address this double problem in two follow-up posts on giving and receiving feedback. For now, I’ll leave you with another classic line from the Emperor, the master of summing-up without coming to a conclusion:

Well. There it is.

When I first saw the film Amadeus as an impressionable teenager, I had a lot of sympathy for Salieri. Not for what he did to Mozart of course, but for the frustration and disappointment that drove him to it. Listening to his account of his early life and motivations, they sounded perfectly noble:

While my father prayed earnestly to God to protect commerce, I would offer up secretly the proudest prayer a boy could think of. Lord, make me a great composer! Let me celebrate your glory through music – and be celebrated myself! Make me famous through the world, dear God! Make me immortal! After I die let people speak my name forever with love for what I wrote! In return I will give you my chastity, my industry, my deepest humility, every hour of my life, amen!

After this pious prelude it was hard not to share Salieri’s astonishment and disgust at the childish, lecherous, drunken Mozart, and to question God’s purpose in bestowing the gift of divine music on a “giggling, dirty-minded creature”:

But why? Why would God choose an obscene child to be His instrument? It was not to be believed!

It just didn’t seem fair.

Yet every time I’ve watched the film since, my sympathy for Salieri has waned a little more. And not just because I’ve seen the ending, or the Director’s Cut which makes his crimes against Mozart and his family more explicit. The seeds of Salieri’s downfall – and the justice of it – are plainly there to see in that speech about his ambition:

While my father prayed earnestly to God to protect commerce, I would offer up secretly the proudest prayer a boy could think of. Lord, make me a great composer! Let me celebrate your glory through music – and be celebrated myself! Make me famous through the world, dear God! Make me immortal! After I die let people speak my name forever with love for what I wrote! In return I will give you my chastity, my industry, my deepest humility, every hour of my life, amen!

Setting aside the theological implications, let’s consider the effect of all that “me… me… me…” and “I… I… I…” on Salieri’s creativity. For all his professed love of music, Salieri has made the fatal mistake of trying to use it as a means to an end. He is obsessed with his own fame and immortality, not the music itself. It becomes a counter in his imaginary bargain with God (“in return I will give you…”). Every time he sits down to compose, he has one eye on the manuscript and one on the critics and audience. And the music suffers – as well as the composer.

Let’s have another look at Mozart, at least as he appears in the film. For all his apparent flaws, he is redeemed by one thing – his love of music and total devotion to it. Yes, he enjoys the trappings of fame, the praise that is showered on him, and the temptations it brings. But when starts composing, all of that fades into the background and he becomes intoxicated with the melodies, the tones and the rhythms of the music. It courses through his veins and fires him up, strutting and waving his arms, beaming with delight. Mozart is no longer composing music, the music is playing him.

Making allowances for cinematic hyperbole, I think we can identify two different approaches to creativity in Salieri and Mozart. We live in a world where artistic ability is admired, even revered, so that any aspiring artist has to confront the temptations of fame, money and other rewards for creative work. For Salieri, these temptations intrude on the creative process, distracting him from his real work so that he deteriorates into obsession and mediocrity. For Mozart, they are kept at bay – at least during ‘work time’ – by a kind of magic circle, within which the artist is entranced by the art itself, immersed in creative flow.

Amadeus is a parable that famously takes liberties with historical truth, but there are intriguing parallels with some of the academic research on creativity. Harvard Business School Professor Theresa Amabile has conducted numerous experiments on the effects of two different types of motivation on creativity:

Intrinsic motivation refers to the pleasure of creative work pursued for its own sake, the joy of absorption in the act of painting, writing, dancing, composing or otherwise creating.

Extrinsic motivation refers to all the rewards that can result from a successful piece of creative work – such as money, fame and critical acclaim.

Amabile’s experiments showed that high levels of intrinsic motivation are conducive to creative performance, but the introduction of extrinsic motivators can have a negative effect on creativity. For example, in one experiment, one group of children were given the opportunity to draw some pictures for fun, while a second group of children were told they could have some sweets if they drew a nice picture. When the drawings were compared, those from the first group were consistently judged to be more creative than those in the second group. The introduction of an extrinsic motivation (the sweets) distracted the children from the pleasure of drawing and the results suffered – ironically, because the artist were too concerned about results. Amabile illustrated the dilemma by quoting the poet Anne Sexton:

Sexton told her agent that, although she would love to make a great deal of money from her books, she knew that she had to forget all about that while actually writing her poems.

I think this goes some way to explaining the familiar ‘difficult second album syndrome’. When a band records their first album, they are fuelled by enthusiasm for their music. Of course they are ambitious, but ambition hasn’t materialised in too many tangible distractions yet. But when it comes to creating the follow-up to a successful first album, the weight of expectation can be overwhelming. Similarly, I remember hearing an interview with Seamus Heaney where he described how hard it was to write his next poetry collection after being awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. He said it was impossible to live up to an award like that, and he had to somehow escape it in order to write freely again.

To a greater or lesser extent, this is a challenge we all face every time we begin a piece of creative work. I once went to a writing workshop with the poet Mark Doty, when he said “We’re usually too eager to get out of the poem” – meaning that we’re impatient to get our hands on a finished, perfect piece of work, so that we can relax and feel we’ve achieved something. When more often than not, we could do with immersing ourselves in the work a little more – listening too it, looking at it, getting a feel for its essence and where we are closest (and furthest) from bringing that to full expression.

Amadeus dramatises the challenge by showing us the two extremes – one man consumed by ambition, the other by music. But it’s rarely so black-and-white. We all have our inner Salieri and inner Mozart – every time we sit down to work it’s an open question who will gain the upper hand.

A few months ago I saw an amazing art installation in the basement of Selfridges (I have such postmodern Saturday afternoons) – Brian Eno’s 77 Million Paintings. Like you, my first thought was “Brian Eno may be a genius but even he can’t do 77 Million Paintings… or can he?”. Well, he has – sort of. He actually painted about 300, then used software to merge and blend them at random, to create a shifting kaleidoscope, inevitably accompanied by his signature ambient music.

OK that description doesn’t sound too mind-blowing and even this YouTube video doesn’t do it justice – but when you see the paintings blown up on massive screens in a cathedral-dark space and you feel the deep notes vibrating through your body, it’s a genuinely mesmerising experience. As if stained glass windows had come to life.

[youtube]VRkNrWp6tLg[/youtube]

One of the most impressive things about it was the slowness with which the images changed, so that the transformation was barely discernible. I would stare at an image, waiting for it to change, convinced that nothing was happening, then suddenly realise I was looking at a different picture. I had the feeling that at last I was looking at what computer-generated imagery should be capable of – not in terms of dazzling fireworks, but subtlety and suggestion.

So it was great to come across this post on the Bad Banana Blog, informing me that 77 Million Paintings is available as a DVD and software CD – so I can (ahem) install the installation in my living room and experience something of the (ahem) ambience of the original. And so can you – Amazon links on the 77 Million Paintings site.

Thanks to Roger for introducing me to the Bad Banana Blog which looks terrific – written by Tim Siedel, Creative Director of Fusebox, who have won so many awards they’ve given up entering them. A man who obviously knows his creative onions, well worth reading.

(Photos courtesy Mrs WT.)

Technorati Tags: 77 million paintings, Eno

I discovered the Reactable, a new music-making interface, via City of Sound and Peter Marsh.

Why do I find this so fascinating? I think it’s the way it opens up new creative possiblities via artificial synaesthesia.

According to the scientists, ‘true’ synaesthesia is a neurological condition in which one sense is involuntarily translated into another – e.g. colours are experienced as sounds or vice versa. It is popularly associated with psychedelic drugs, but can also result from a stroke, blindness or deafness. I encountered synaesthesia in my work as a hypnotherapist, as it’s a fairly common occurrence in trance subjects.

Synaesthesia and Creativity

Less extreme versions of synaesthesia, sometimes called ‘pseudo-synaesthesia’, are reported by many people as part of their normal thinking processes. This kind of everyday synaesthesia seems to be particularly common among artists and other creative types. Like a lot of poets, I experience a kind of grapheme-colour synaesthesia, whereby words (and numbers) are associated with particular colours. Louis MacNeice describes the phenomenon in his poem ‘When we were children’:

When we were children words were coloured
(Harlot and murder were dark purple)
And language was a prism, the light
A coloured inlay on the grass,

Another of my favourite examples of synaesthesia is the artist and writer Mervyn Peake. A brilliant draughtsman and illustrator, while writing his novel Titus Groan Peake made sketches of characters in the margin:

As I went along I made drawings from time to time which helped me to visualise the characters and to imagine what sort of things they would say. The drawings were never exactly as I imagined the people, but were near enough for me to know when their voices lost touch with their heads.
(Mervyn Peake, ‘How a Romantic Novel was Evolved’)

Here the sketches are not merely decorative, but are integral to the process of generating dialogue – synaesthetic ‘talking heads’. For more good examples of synaesthetic creativity have a look at Wikipedia’s list of famous synaesthetes.

Back to the video – personally, I’m a musical imbecile but even I could probably make music out of this contraption, since I’m a lot more confident at arranging images than sounds. The interface would create an artificial synaesthesia, allowing me to translate visual arrangements into auditory soundscapes. It helps that I know that this is what a lot of musicians do naturally. My brother Paul is such a skilled musician that last weekend he very nearly got away with playing The Beatles’ ‘Something’ on a ukelele. Ages ago, I remember asking him about the stories of Mozart claiming he could hear an entire piece of music ‘all at once’ – Paul said “Of course he could, you just have to visualise it”. I’ve heard the same thing from several musicians I’ve coached.

Composer Michael Colgrass on Creative Synesthesia

Here’s US composer Michael Colgrass being interviewed by NLP teacher Robert Dilts, about musical composition:

Colgrass: Now you start constructing… to a certain extent and building. You can actually sit back and start to see blocks coming together. Sometimes people say “How do you write pieces?” And I’ll say… “You build them.” You do write with a pencil… that’s the mark you make. But you do build, you construct…
And a certain detachment begins to take place too… Because as you detach yourself, you are getting a Gestalt view of what’s going on here, see. Because this piece is going to last twenty minutes but you’ve got to be able to see it… ‘Swooch,’ as finished. You’ve got to be able to see from here to here… You can’t sing through twenty minutes every time you want to check through something here at the seventeenth minute…

Dilts: You store the piece visually so you can see it all at once. If you stored it kinesthetically or auditorily you’d have to go through it sequentially. But if it’s processed visual to kinesthetic you can rapidly go through the whole complex of feelings. Do you automatically see the notes for each sound?

Colgrass: Well, actually these are amorphous images that I am speaking of now, not the eighth notes or sixteenth notes or b-flats… It’s kind of like a painting, but not exactly. It’s an abstract image.
(From Tools for Dreamers, by Dilts, Epstein and Dilts)

Colgrass goes on to describe how he uses this kind of synaesthesia to teach children the basics of musical composition. It’s interesting to see that he begins, not from sound or images, but with kinaesthetics – movement and sensation:

Colgrass: I may start warming them up by telling them to move around, change their posture and position and start making any old sounds. (I myself will often stand on my head when I’m preparing to compose.) And the room becomes cacophonous with noise from people howling and screeching and grunting, and clicking their mouths. And I ask them to think of a mark they could put on the blackboard that would represent that sound.

From the initial kinaesthetics (“move around, change their posture and position”) Colgrass elicits “any old sounds” which he then asks the children to translate into a visual image (a mark on the blackboard). He is very clear about the importance of these synaesthetic connections in the composition process:

Colgrass: By now they are seeing too. I think this is important because people often have a lot of trouble hearing. As you have pointed out, we’re more visual than auditory in North America. So, when they can see the sound, as it were, then they can hear the sound better. That’s why I go to the blackboard with it.

The Reactable and Synaesthetic Feedback

Looking at the video again, we can see that it facilitates a synaesthetic feedback loop similar to the one described by Colgrass:

1. When using the interface, you start with kinaesthetics, manipulating the blocks that seem to float/slide on top of the screen
2. The movement of the blocks is simultaneously translated into pulsing sound and images, a great way of associating them in your mind/body
3. As with all music, as soon as you hear it, you get a feel (kinaesthetic) for whether you like it or not. If you like it, you’re likely to experience some head-nodding and foot-tapping (more kinaesthetics).
4. Which leads you to adjust the blocks
5. Which changes the sound/images
6. Which in turn leads you back round to feelings, head-noddings and foot-tappings.

Here’s a diagram to help you (ahem) see what I mean:

5 ways to cultivate creative synaesthesia:

1. Are you doing it already?
Notice whether synaesthesia is already part of your creative process:

• For instance, if you are drawing, notice how your body feels, whether your feet start tapping to an imaginary rhythm or tune.
• If you are writing, do you experience the words as if ‘listening in’ to an inner voice, or do they form images in your mind – or both?
• If you are singing, dancing or otherwise engaged in physical performance – do images or colours go through your awareness as you perform?

Often, just noticing these elements of your creative process can make them more pronounced and effective. You might even want to consciously use them as ‘cues’ to access or intensify a creative state of mind.

2. Album covers
Think of your favourite album – what comes to mind first? Chances are the album cover pops into your head as a visual ‘icon’ or shorthand for the whole album. I find it hard to think of Primal Scream’s Screamadelica without picturing that manic little multicoloured spider-sun jigging about, or Ziggy Stardust without seeing Bowie loitering around that phone box.

• Think of a current creative project, in any medium – music, writing, a piece of design, film, whatever. If you had to design an album cover for the project, what would it look like? What kind of images spring to mind? What kind of feeling do you get from them?

3. Ask yourself ‘What if?’

• Look at an image and ask yourself – “If this were a sound, what would it sound like?” or “If it were a feeling, what would it feel like?”.
• Listen to a piece of music and ask “If this were a picture, what would it look like?” or “If it were a person, how would s/he talk? What would s/he say?”
• Notice a feeling or sensation in your body – if you had to paint it, what colour/shape/size would it be? If you had to play it on an instrument, how would it sound?

Don’t strain or try to think of something clever – just notice what images, sounds or feelings naturally come to mind when you ask yourself the questions.

4. Use Mervyn Peake’s strategy (for writers)

• If you are writing a story, stop and sketch pictures of your characters – don’t worry if the drawings aren’t perfect, you don’t need to show them to anyone else. Look at the drawings, notice how you feel as you look at each face, and ask yourself “What kind of voice does that face have? What would that head say?”

5. Use Michael Colgrass’ strategy

• Start ‘warming up’ by moving around, limbering up, noticing feelings and sensations in your body, maybe noticing whether it wants to walk, dance, sway etc.
• What sounds or words come to mind as your body moves?
• How would those sounds look if you drew them? Draw them on a piece of paper, no matter how crudely.

If you start to feel silly or self-conscious doing this, remember Michael Colgrass’ words:

“Now, what you have done here is exactly what a composer does, no different. Except, you have not specified exactly how high or how low the sounds are. How long, how sharp, how thin, how loud, how soft. A composer has notations for those”

Over to you…

Do you have any experiences of creative synaesthesia you’d like to share? Or tips for using synaesthesia in creative work?