Difficult to grasp, multifaceted, the notion of writing seems to me, however, a fundamental concept that dominates absolutely all others.
The word itself has an infinite number of uses, both complementary and contradictory; it is widespread and abundantly used, far from its literal origins. This is how we speak of cinematographic writing, pictorial writing and many others, and it's no longer clear why or for what purpose such a definition is used. It's a sufficiently vague and general notion, therefore, that we feel we should apply it to means of expression that seem the furthest removed from it.
In the field of music, the concept is much more precise, although it covers very vast territories. In the Western tradition, there can be general definitions, encompassing a large number of characteristics, as well as restrictive definitions, focusing on the literal aspect of writing. Writing is, in a basic sense, the transcription itself; but, at the other end of the chain, it can be what defines a style. This implies both the isolated unit and notions of relationship between these units, of sequence, of development. However, in other traditions - popular, oral - can we still speak of writing, since this concept has presided over neither the elaboration nor the transmission of a text that is known, but has never had, literally, a transcription? And, at the opposite extreme, when music is either improvised or produced directly using appropriate technological equipment, where transcription is dispensed with in favor of direct realization, how can we speak of writing? Wouldn't such music have value because it is created without this intermediate or preliminary state? Does this mean, in the final analysis, that writing is a concept beyond writing, or that writing is not a sufficiently valid criterion to support our judgment, or, simply, to locate the work heard?
When nothing is actually written, but everything is directly realized, can we still speak of imaginary writing, or writing of the imaginary, writing that is not materially deposited ? For in its transcription of codes, we cannot forget that writing leaves out a large number of characteristics that are nonetheless essential in the perception of a musical work - and I mean spontaneous work as well as concerted work, not wishing to restrict the word work here to a voluntary, premeditated, totally individual creation. If we look at all codes, whatever they may be, and whatever civilization they may be, we can observe a number of things; we observe them negatively in relation to disappeared cultures or those we know little or little about, we observe them positively in an environment that is familiar to us. Writing codes provide us with networks of quantitative values in the field of pitch and duration, very specifically, and much more vaguely quantitative values in fields such as dynamics, relative speed, articulation, phrasing, etc. In addition, there are indications of the degree to which a given sound is to be used in a given context. In addition, there are indications of intention, which remain purely suggestive; and then there is the unspoken, purely qualitative, which largely, if not totally, escapes notation. Manipulation of this network of codes takes place according to the data provided, not against it, but the instructions for such manipulation are interpreted individually, either reflexively or spontaneously. These purely qualitative notions are transmitted directly from master to disciple, or in a more or less diffuse manner; they are either gradually transformed, or frozen in a sterile immobility: in the first case, they obey the injunction of the present, and the influence of this present on the past; in the other, they lose the necessity they had at their origin. With increasing distance, the formal meaning of codes remains rationally understood, one might say - but qualitative manipulation evaporates, while the notion of style becomes volatile. We can try our hand at stylistic reconstitution, but many of the qualitative parameters have disappeared forever, so that we can only work in the conjecture of an "authentic" restitution, or place on quantitative data a qualitative that doesn't correspond to it; something false settles in, which may satisfy our own emotional or intellectual needs, but probably has little to do with the qualitative included in the works at their origin. This is how history transmits part of the heritage to us; but how another part - perhaps the most subtle, if not the most important - escapes us irretrievably, and how we are driven, to satisfy ourselves, to constantly fabricate stylistic "fakes", however tempted we may be to believe that these "fakes" are authentic. It's been said many times before, but it's worth repeating when it comes to writing and our interpretation of it: tradition equals betrayal. There will undoubtedly always be two attitudes: on the one hand, those who consider betrayal to be a fruitful, positive action, one that allows enough essential notions to escape from the meshes of the code so that they can be manipulated according to the conception of the present time; and, on the other hand, those who claim to preserve the unspoken aspects of the code will refer to increasingly distant models and consider style to be a kind of embalming for eternity. For writing as transcription to allow for such antagonistic options, the network of data it provides must be sufficiently loose, porous and reliable up to a certain point, beyond which everything can become contradictory.
Writing, in this sense, is an incomplete instruction manual.
This brings us to a more general question. In what way does writing itself, in its transcription, hinder the idea, or, on the contrary, to what extent can the idea feel more at ease within a framework it no longer has to deal with? How many composers have not made this confession: my ideas are too complex to be really and effectively transcribed. So I have to simplify the transcription in order to be understood, and this is, of course, at the expense of my ideas. Other composers take the opposite view and act accordingly. They go right to the end of their utopia, and worry little or not at all about seeing their transcription carried out in a completely exact manner. In other words, are transcription of the idea and efficiency of realization compatible? How does transcription influence the idea? Can the idea transgress the transcription?
It's not just a question of efficiency, as I mentioned earlier. Of course, the question of efficiency is legitimate, especially if it relates to the essential function of the musical gesture, which can be carried or destroyed by an inadequate transcription. But beyond the question of the best practical solution, we must ask ourselves whether transcription influences the idea, and in what way it influences it, with the consequent need to find a different mode from the one we have inherited.
What, after all, does the composer fundamentally aspire to? To write the unheard. There are, of course, two levels at which one can envisage the activity of one's imagination. The first is to be able to project one's imagination into "ideal" sound objects, according to "ideal" sound relationships, by which I mean those that are still free of reality, but are nonetheless considered as sound entities. The second plane is, of course, this sound reality itself, with the weight of its instruments, their timbre, their possibilities, generally speaking, with, in a more recent field, the possibilities of technology. So there are two kinds of preliminary listening: an abstract guess, and a concrete prediction. Although the ultimate goal is the actual sound object, i.e. the synthesis of the two listenings, I believe that these two levels of writing, no longer as simple transcription but as invention, are most often separated because their simultaneous elaboration proves too complex, requiring a different kind of imagination. By this I mean that, even if the transcription operation appears simultaneous to us, it takes place, in our minds, on two levels that do not belong to the same type of imagination.
If I briefly summarize, the composer's approach can go either way: either start from a chosen sound datum and draw decisive consequences for writing, i.e. abstract and derealize this material so as to be able to submit it to writing; or conceive a network of relationships created by writing on derealized material, and adapt it to the real circumstance, inventing this real circumstance for the best possible enhancement. In both extreme cases, this involves deduction and adaptation; hence the importance, in transcription, of writing as an active agent.
We should also mention the transcription required for virtual writing, i.e. a type of writing that visibly establishes the data, but does not, strictly speaking, write down the results, given that these results can be different at each encounter with the organizing structures: there is no object definitively in place, but the possibility of objects forming at this or that moment, according to this or that circumstance, even though the fields have been precisely delimited. Even instrumental writing, when it wanted to capture the aleatory, when it was content to express the raw data of sound events that the instrumentalist determined, in principle, at the very moment of performance, had to resort to certain unusual forms of notation: reservoirs of pitches, durations or dynamics, from which the performer can draw at will; the typographic device of the page, which allows the performer to orientate himself differently according to whether he chooses one route or another; the absence of absolutely decisive elements such as the staff itself (notes suspended in the void) or time values (replaced by the approximation of distance on the scale of the paper) ; these and many other artifices have been employed in an attempt to escape not only the constraints and specificities of traditional notation, but also the reflexes it arouses in the performer by virtue of his or her education. In most cases, this means writing about actions rather than results. This is quite logical: if you want a result that is constantly renewed with each reading or rereading, it would be absurd or impossible to transcribe one result or all results. The only adequate resource, therefore, is to describe how to act and on the basis of which elements: hence the dichotomy, in notation, between the elements involved and the instructions for use. The same is true of certain types of non-instrumental writing, where the desired result is a constantly renewed encounter of data. On the one hand, we store the sound data we wish to use, with their various characteristics; on the other, we consign instructions for use, methods of use, with the necessary information to describe and delimit the field of action. In the same way that complex sound objects are no longer described in detail, but their mode of generation is recorded, which is easier to read, but must be controlled by listening; in the same way, with virtual textures, the results cannot be transcribed, which would go against their constantly renewed aspect, but the mode of generation is transcribed, even if it means having to control the sound reality in order to perceive its content. The use of notation thus goes in the opposite direction to that to which we are accustomed, which is preoccupied with the result and leaves underlying the instructions supposedly acquired through experience. On the contrary, in a notation of method, of action, we can only be sure of the sound reality generated if we have heard the result.
P. B.