Author: Patrick Shaw

Nam June Paik and the Fluxus collective – 26/10/23

Korean artist Nam June Paik’s intersecting practice of experimental tape recorder composition, performance and post-modern philosophy was directly informed by ‘his friendships with composer John Cage, Fluxus founder George Maciunas, and Joseph Beuys’ (Hanhardt, pp. 21)[1] As part of the Fluxus collective, Paik helped usher in their radically alternative, entirely new approach to art making and practices.

Paik and Sylvano Bussotti pictured behind a prepared piano during a performance of Hommage à John Cage, Köln, 1959[5]

His 1960 piece, Etude for Piano is a tape collage that was staged in Gallerie 22, Düsseldorf, in combination with live performance art. Assertive, contortionist interpolations or samples of western classical standards like Beethoven’s ‘5th Symphony in C Minor’ burst in and out of view, intercut with wailing and cries, both those of the artist’s and ‘twenty distressed virgins'[2], power tools and in the ultimate finale, Paik destroying the piano itself. It’s a jagged, abrasive composition, and entirely post-modern in its construction and audience interaction.

As John G. Hanhardt states, ‘Paik’s interest in performance… reflected his desire to emancipate the viewer from the tyranny of one-way communication. He sought to create a community of shared expression that could alter the way art is consumed’ (Hanhardt, pp. 21)[1]

Like the name Fluxus suggests, the collective shared a fundamentally fluid and indeterminate artistic process. Despite Maciunas’ manifestos, not adhering to a form, style, or even a group, was an intrinsic aspect of the Fluxus collective, and by extension, Paik’s work in this era. Paik’s collage-like approach to the piece demonstrates how the post-modern ‘impossibility of control… became the ultimate incentive for Paik’s art and the foundation for… electronic music. In his view, electronic music exhibited a “fixed, determined tendency both in its serial compositional method and in its ontological form (that of tape recordings destined for repetition).”‘ (Ammer, pp. 70)[3]

Highly collaborative and porous in sharing influence, ‘the most important artists to Paik were Joseph Beuys in Germany, whom he met early on and who took an axe to the “prepared pianos” in Paik’s seminal 1963 exhibition, and John Cage, whom he also met in Germany, in the late 1950s.’ (Hanhardt, pp.43)[1]. Etude for Piano itself was dedicated to John Cage, “Hommage à John Cage, Music for Tapes and Piano“.

A key tenet of postmodernist theory is the intentional destabilisation of epistemic meaning and certainty, a disharmonic acknowledgement of the fragmentary nature of life in the modern (or now postmodern) world. The fragmentary, wildly composed work of Nam June Paik closely aligns with the ethos of postmodernist thought.

Learning about Paik’s, and Fluxus’, work during this era was both interesting and challenging. The core philosophy of postmodern thought is a deliberately upending of the perceived forward progression of society; a challenge to the assumption that ‘we’ll all be ok and we’ll never stop improving’. The uncertain worlds of the late 1950s and early 1960s and today have a lot in common. We could either turn one way, into abject nightmarish chaos, or course correct and create a new way to live, marginally freer of generational debts and violence. To me, Fluxus is a deliberately ill-defined acceptance, and response to, this possibility of change. This ill-definition makes it difficult for me to draw connection between the raw melting pot of a performance with any deliberate thematic elements, unless, of course, the chaos itself acts as the postmodern response. Fluxus as a self-referential framework to support Paik’s work feels like a very cross-pollinated group; Etude for Piano being informed almost more by Paik’s own experience within that collective, than a direct impetus. It’s hard to say, it’s an elusive work. I’m torn by Fluxus and this work, it’s evasion of direct meaning, but I admire the brazen insanity of the performance. It’s a dynamic combination of multiple rounds of diverse movements. Its innervated unpredictability, the surprising, confrontational audience participation is what excites me.

As Paik himself stated, ‘the beauty of moving theatre lies in this “surprise a priori,” because almost all the audience in uninvited, not knowing what it is, why it is, who is the composer, the player, organizer – or better speaking – organizer, composer, player.’ (Paik, unpaginated)[4] The chaos theatre of Etude for Piano, and its revolving number of collaborators, contributors and iterations in the early 1960s, brings Paik and the Fluxus movement into idealogical alignment with postmodern theory’s fragmentary worldview.

Finding documentation of these elusive performances was not easy. The report of one piece containing ‘the cries of twenty distressed virgins’ disturbed me. When the piece is abject chaos, I find myself doubting if Paik had any sensitive reasoning behind this inclusion, and was just appropriating pain; shearing off its weight and meaning to exist as just another shocking noise among many in his destructive, masculine performance. This aspect of noise and sound art troubles me: The potential for, predominantly male, artists to exploit real-world horrors, stripping them of context and using them as cheapened Halloween sonic props in their egoist stage work. Of course, I could be wrong. The documentation is limited. Artists have always explored subjects of death, murder and sexual violence. But in the midst of his unfocused-on-purpose creation, insane volleys of poetry, tape collage, Fluxus peer worship, breaking things, the cries of distressed virgins, Paik places himself as the centre. It raises questions about how he sourced those sounds. Are they real? Did he survey people, elicit these sounds from them? Or, most likely, did he create them himself, as creepy roleplay? Every possibility is disturbing. If they’re real, he’s silenced the victims by turning their pain into noise for his art project. If they’re performed, he’s worn their skin, stolen their experiences. All for a minor cameo in an avant-garde variety act, untethered to any other point. The omnipotence of the artist is as much a responsibility as it is a freedom.

  1. Hanhardt, J. G. (2015) Nam June Paik: The Late Style. Hong Kong: Gagosian Hong Kong, pp. 21
  2. http://www.medienkunstnetz.de/works/etude-for-piano/
  3. Ammer, M. (2009)’In engineering there is always the other – The Other’, Nam June Paik: Exposition of Music Electronic Television (Revisited). Vienna: Museum Moderner Kunst Stiftung Ludwig Wien, pp. 70
  4. Paik, N. J. (1974) ‘Afterlude to the Exposition of Experimental Television’ Nam June Paik: Global Groove 2004, ed. John G. Hanhardt and Caitlin Jones New York: Guggenheim Museum Publications, 2004, unpaginated. Originally published in Nam June Paik Videa ‘n’ Videology 1959-1973, ed. Judson Rosebush, exh. cat. Syracuse: Everson Museum of Art, 1974
  5. Photo by Manfred Leve, sourced from https://ggc.ggcf.kr/en/p/5ada1be96275b54b4591e0d8

A Week on Tent Hill – 22/10/23

Each day for a week, I made recordings from Tent Hill in Ashburnham, East Sussex. It’s a place with a lot of emotional significance for me; many memories, shared and alone, have been made watching the sunset or moonrise there. It’s a place I often find myself at, whether I mean to or not.

The first day, I noticed the presence of jets going over. Most flights to Gatwick and Heathrow circle and make their turns above the hill. Recorded at 9pm, this sound is inescapable and almost constant. In terms of making a recording of the natural environment, this sound is hard to avoid. It informs the dialogue between the ancient, feuding history of the hill’s past, and the smallness of its place in the interconnected modern world.

The second day, I captured the sounds of rushes blowing in the wind. Placing the recorder on a stile against a wire fence created some heightened and textured wind effects. The exposed nature of the hill means that, even with a wind shield, sometimes the high wind occasionally distorts the recording, leading to that unmistakable baffled effect. For many foley artists or documentarians working to capture natural sound, that kind of distortion is undesirable; it almost betrays a cheapness. I actually feel that I appreciate the rawness of its texture, in principle. Our ears and hair create much the same effect if you were to face the wind. There is a through-line between wind and distortion that I feel deserves exploring more. The recording ends with the distant, oncoming drone of a jet, almost unrecognisable. It’s interesting to me how subtle differences totally transform the imagined perception of the space recorded: The early approach of a jet sounds alien and mysterious, then when directly overhead, banal and ruinous to the wild, dewy and comfortingly solitary atmosphere the hill creates.

The third day there were prominent owl calls in the treeline, which on the recording are on the left of the stereo field. Besides that, purely wind, some distortion and white noise. White noise is a space I love to exist within.

On the fourth day, loud and clear Canada geese cries reflect and echo from the trees to the lakes below. Their calls have a romantic, lyrical quality, it’s a melancholy sound, the reverberation serving as a reflection of the human emptiness of the environment. A space for the listener to enter wholly. In flight, Canada geese represent ideas of migration, journey, leaving and returning home. Perhaps with manipulation of the stereo field, I can further experiment with spacial movement in this way.

The fifth day was comparatively quiet. Less wind and distortion than the days before, but more animal activity. An owl, dog, distant waterfowl and Canada geese are heard throughout. Largely across the left of the stereo field, and far away. To me, it is less interesting when one sound isn’t foregrounded or spot lit in an ocean of largely white noise. Perhaps if purposeful or constructed, there’s an application for deep listening in this way, but for me this recording is rendered a little flatter by the subjects being entirely distant. Despite that, it’s a peaceful soundscape.

The act of ritual in field recording the same place repeatedly, especially in the evening or night, opens you to a hyper-sensitive awareness of not only the raw sound in that space, but their frequencies, routines and localisation. Every time I walked there I felt intentionality slipping away a little, finding myself engaged more with the temporality of sound. I came to learn what sounds to expect; how to plot them and situate myself as the artist within them, along with surprising myself with each new or rarer sound I recorded. One place can hold multitudes, especially one so rich with animal life.

Intonarumori and Post-Modernism – 19/10/23

Luigi Russolo’s variety of acoustic noise-generating instruments called Intonarumori performed entirely unique compositions, specially written by Russolo between 1910 and 1930. They were so unique that, after the originals were destroyed or lost, highly studious reconstructions were created, painstakingly. What I find interesting about Russolo’s work, and the intricate philosophy that permeated it, is how it acts almost as a bridge between Romantic occultist theory and Italian Futurist modernity of the era. François Escal, as paraphrased by Luciano Chessa posited that ,’in the development of the art of noises Russolo’s aural frame of reference first shifted from the Nature to the Real… the meeting place of noises from nature and those produced, directly or indirectly as a result of human industry, by machines’ (Chessa, 2012, p.137). This intersection of a contemporary understanding of what constituted the ‘natural world’ and the oncoming, ever-increasingly relevant study and application of noise in art is extremely prescient, and places Russolo as a man ahead of his time. It’s very exciting to read, as this perspective really informs my own practices and experiments, as not ‘imitative of life, but rather through a fantastic combination of these varied tones”: in between the noises and the art of noises there is the mediation of the artist as full, inspired subject’ (Escal, 1975, p.92f). Russolo believed the interaction of raw noise generated by the mechanisms inside the Intonarumori was sculpted and shaped by the artist in an act of near-alchemy; the fusion of natural energy and mechanics to create sound art.

Luciano Chessa performing Music for 16 Noise Intoners, 2009
Luigi Russolo with his assistant Ugo Piatti and the Intonarumori, 1913

In Russolo’s Futurist manifesto The Art of Noise (1913), he preempts electronics as an emergent technology that would require the human ear, and the way we hear sound, to evolve. I am inspired by his blurring of the definition of ‘man-made’ as a concept; how many layers of chaos and unobstructed interference can render the designation of man-made sound obsolete, or at the very least obscured? In my own work, I am deeply interested in embracing the unpredictable chaos magick in the interaction between so-called nature and technology. They ways they relationally interplay with each other. Informed by Russolo’s philosophies, this is a vein I want to mine more.

Chessa. L. (2012) Luigi Russolo, Futurist: Noise, Visual Arts and the Occult, Berkeley: University of California Press, pp.137

Escal, F. (1975) ‘Le futurisme et la musique’, Europe 53, pp.92f

Keywords – 14/10/23

I chose four very inter-related keywords that resonate with my practice as an artist:

Sense of Place: I find it grounding to root my own works in an earthen sense of place, when so much art culture seems to be terminally pivoting toward online spaces and solely conceptual beginnings. A real-world context to an artwork can provide a bedrock to build referential and connective meaning upon.

Atmosphere: Relationally connected to a sense of place; using less-than-predictable technology and real elements drawn from the landscape to inform and summon atmospheric reflections of external and internal environments.

Abstract Narrative: Providing room for the listener’s own breath in my work, while balancing a narrative with forward progression is important to me. Moving through phases with intentionality and abstracted purpose allow the lister to engage and follow along. I don’t seek to push people away.

Elemental: My work is reflective of the environment in which it was made for. If I could compose everything out on a bald mountain peak, then I would. I intend for my art to appear raw, elemental and weather-beaten. I find the integrative, cross-pollinating of music combined with natural sound elements to contextualise the piece.

Voice as Instrument – 12/10/23

In class we encountered and investigated lingual music, verbivocovisual expression or extended technique.  Though it carries many definitions and a wide range of stylistic applications and compositional techniques, the common focus is on the human voice. Very experimental, often meticulously structured vocal exercises; examining and breaking down the core of language.  Vocalising in this way is something I feel very conflicted about.  Taste is often, maybe necessarily, separated from learning when a new art practice is introduced.  While I am undeniably interested in the concept of voice-as-instrument, (especially the extremity and range of vocals across various metal and experimental music sub-genres and how they came to be) instinctually I cringe at the execution of many lingual music or verbivocovisually expressed sound artworks.  Taken superficially, the trilling, childlike, sound effect-adjacent performances of Lily Greenham or Maggie Nichols struck me as indulgent and mildly embarrassing.  Perhaps its freeform alienness is so radical and confrontational and often delivered with such fervour, that it badly shocks my base, monkey-brained perceptions of quote-unquote ‘acceptable’ social behaviour.  I’m partly ashamed of my reaction, but it’s important that both intellectual and emotional responses hold equal and honest status.  These are challenging works, and they really test me.

Of all the artists I encountered, I find Meredith Monk to be the most interesting; her angular interplays with other singers and minimalist instrumentation are always engaging, evolving through shape and structures, playful with phasing.  I was almost worried that my view of her was spoiled by a certain Red Letter Media skit dunking on the deeply weird ‘Turtle Dreams’ from 1983 I saw years ago, but upon further study I find her admirable and ambitious, almost maximalist among her peers.

I was raised a somewhat alienated Christian, and have unfortunately borne witness to the incontrovertible power many creepy pastors have when they speak.  I’ve been stranded in crowds moved to speaking in tongues.  So while my very initial reaction is to laugh when I was confronted by lingual music, I flashed back to the scary conviction with which suspect faith leaders bark and babble and flail as they talk.  I shocked myself a little making this connection as we walked around in class, slowly repeating our mantras until they sounded like zombified glossolalia.  I had been there before, and I met the same uneasy meld of amusement and fear in lingual music.

Interior to Exterior Recording – 5/10/23

As an exercise, I recorded moving from inside my house to the outside. Using the Zoom h1’s condensers I was able to hear the movement in stereo, creating an immersive, surrounding feeling. The kitchen clock fading as the heavy iron latch opens the back door gestures towards the age of my house, suggesting a homely environment. My home is in a quiet, rural area, and the recording reflects this; little is heard outside except some wind, birds and faint chainsaw noise. Above, an airplane passes lazily. Apart from the transition of sound as I open the door, the sound is almost directionless because of the distance of their sources. It is almost ambient noise once I am outdoors. Maybe I can create a recording with more granular detail?

Soundwalk – 4/10/23

We took part in a blindfolded Soundwalk in Dulwich, led by Jose Macabre. It was a novel exercise for me, attempting to reach a meditative, focused listening state. The quietest sounds were distant, indiscernible voices, the soft wind in the trees. In the busier park I could hear children, curious about our weird procession. Twice I heard chimes to my right and left. Booming thunder on the periphery, followed by a shimmering downpour. Particularly harsh, high-pitched birdsong and alarm calls. I could hear the regularly scheduled air traffic roaring low overhead, passing from right to left, drowning out everything else. Our footsteps a constant reminder of the communion of the activity; hard to stay mindful without solitude or stillness. Hearing other students’ feedback made me think how rare it is for many to hear birdsong with clarity, which made me a little sad. Where I live, the wind in the trees, falling rain in the woods, and birdsong are all not just common, but expected sounds. Experientially, deeply listening to these familiar sounds being interrupted or drowned out by the voices of strangers, traffic and low-flying jets was a little uncanny and disquieting. I felt each unexpected urban sound to be almost intrusive, violent. I have always had difficulty embracing discomfort and seeing it objectively. The causes, urban noise, my brain being distracted by walking unsteadily linked to someone I didn’t know, made me feel some aural disconnect from my surroundings. Perhaps out in the world, seeing is believing? I connected the softest sound; the immediate, frontal rustling of clothes and shoes, to the loudest; thunderous rain and planes above, in an immersive, spatial experience.

Sound Arts: What it means to me – 3/10/23

I am a multi-disciplinary artist making story across a variety of practices, where the texture and details invoke narratives and worlds. In the relentlessly online, rapidly evolving world that we’ve somehow found ourselves on, I find a reality in grounding my art in an earthen sense of geographic place. Glimpsing the ephemeral through the literal. Charcoal on the dreamed cave wall. Bringing them together and making patient, textural and wuthering pieces that nebulously interweave field recording and music. Through processes of earthy tape recording, minimalist digital tracking and real-world field recording, I see the romance in choice of technology and environment I shape my art with. Equally informed by David Lynch soundscapes and traditional Korean Gugak, as I am by black metal and Enya, I am interested in manipulating sound to shepherd an audience into an immersive, hazily-curated world, where the chaos of subjective response is embraced. In the past, I have often used sound art as a compliment to other media; filling the gallery space with a collage, effectively soundtracking painted works, or pairing atmospheric video with personal, intimate music. That foggy place where traditional formatting and packaging of art forms start to blur is exciting to me. What separates audio drama from opera, or music video from installation? Alongside visual elements I can’t help but feel that sound takes on an unavoidable, detectable, intentionality. That’s desirable in many ways, but I’m curious to see what quiet ambiguities sound art holds when we let it do the talking, instead of playing wingman or usher to media perceived to carry more ordained ‘importance’.