cf. Samuel Worcester Rowse, Portrait of a Young Woman (animated)
“Camerado, this is no book,
Who touches this touches a man…”
–Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
Person to person and man to man,
I’m back in touch with my long lost friend…
cf. Charles West Cope, Home Dreams (1869) and Milky Way Set and Rise from Cerro Pachon – YouTube
Eadweard Muybridge, The zoopraxiscope – a couple waltzing (ca. 1893)
She said, “I love the night
The day is okay and the sun can be fun
But I live to see those rays slip away…”
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
cf. John Everett Millais, “Speak! Speak!” (1895)
cf. Vilhelm Hammershøi: “Dust Motes Dancing In Sunbeams” (1900); “Interior With Young Man Reading” (1898)
Maybe you will see my face
reflected there on the pane…
Summer Interlude (1951)
As imperceptibly as grief
The summer lapsed away…
Dean and I are embarked on a tremendous season together. We’re trying to communicate with absolute honesty and absolute completeness everything on our minds. We’ve had to take benzedrine. We sit on the bed, crosslegged, facing each other. I have finally taught Dean that he can do anything he wants, become mayor of Denver, marry a millionairess, or become the greatest poet since Rimbaud. But he keeps rushing out to see the midget auto races. I go with him. He jumps and yells, excited.
One of the biggest reasons I left Elkton Hills was because I was surrounded by phonies. That’s all. They were coming in the goddam window. For instance, they had this headmaster, Mr. Haas, that was the phoniest bastard I ever met in my life. Ten times worse than old Thurmer. On Sundays, for instance, old Haas went around shaking hands with everybody’s parents when they drove up to school. He’d be charming as hell and all. Except if some boy had little old funny-looking parents. You should’ve seen the way he did with my roommate’s parents. I mean if a boy’s mother was sort of fat or corny-looking or something, and if somebody’s father was one of those guys that wear those suits with very big shoulders and corny black-and-white shoes, then old Hans would just shake hands with them and give them a phony smile and then he’d go talk, for maybe a half an hour, with somebody else’s parents. I can’t stand that stuff. It drives me crazy. It makes me so depressed I go crazy. I hated that goddam Elkton Hills.
It was a wonderful night. Central City is two miles high; at first you get drunk on the altitude, then you get tired, and there’s a fever in your soul. We approached the lights around the opera house down the narrow dark street; then we took a sharp right and hit some old saloons with swinging doors. Most of the tourists were in the opera. We started off with a few extra-size beers. There was a player piano. Beyond the back door was a view of mountainsides in the moonlight. I let out a yahoo. The night was on. The night was getting more and more frantic…the sordid hipsters of America, a new beat generation that I was slowly joining.
Anyway, I kept walking and walking up Fifth Avenue, without any tie on or anything. Then all of a sudden, something very spooky started happening. Every time I came to the end of a block and stepped off the goddam curb, I had this feeling that I’d never get to the other side of the street. I thought I’d just go down, down, down, and nobody’d ever see me again. Boy, did it scare me. You can’t imagine. I started sweating like a bastard–my whole shirt and underwear and everything. Then I started doing something else. Every time I’d get to the end of a block I’d make believe I was talking to my brother Allie. I’d say to him, “Allie, don’t let me disappear. Allie, don’t let me disappear. Allie, don’t let me disappear. Please, Allie.” And then when I’d reach the other side of the street without disappearing, I’d thank him. Then it would start all over again as soon as I got to the next corner. But I kept going and all. I was sort of afraid to stop, I think–I don’t remember, to tell you the truth. I know I didn’t stop till I was way up in the Sixties, past the zoo and all. Then I sat down on this bench. I could hardly get my breath, and I was still sweating like a bastard. I sat there, I guess, for about an hour. Finally, what I decided I’d do, I decided I’d go away. I decided I’d never go home again and I’d never go away to another school again.
With the flashlight to illuminate my way, I climbed the steep walls of the south canyon, got up on the highway streaming with cars Frisco-bound in the night, scrambled down the other side, almost falling, and came to the bottom of a ravine where a little farmhouse stood near a creek and where every blessed night the same dog barked at me. Then it was a fast walk along a silvery, dusty road beneath inky trees of California – a road like in The Mark of Zorro and a road like all the roads you see in Western B movies. I used to take out my gun and play cowboys in the dark.
Scott, your last fragments I arrange tonight,
Assigning commas, setting accents right,
As once I punctuated, spelled and trimmed
When, passing in a Princeton spring—how dimmed
By this damned quarter-century and more!—
You left your Shadow Laurels at my door.
That was a drama webbed of dreams: the scene
A shimmering beglamored bluish-green
Soiled Paris wineshop; the sad hero one
Who loved applause but had his life alone;
Who fed on drink for weeks; forgot to eat,
“Worked feverishly, ” nourished on defeat
A lyric pride, and lent a lyric voice
To all the tongueless knavish tavern boys,
The liquor-ridden, the illiterate;
Got stabbed one midnight by a tavern-mate—
Betrayed, but self-betrayed by stealthy sins—
And faded to the sound of violins…
—Edmund Wilson, Excerpt from the Dedication to The Crack-Up by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Aaron Copland invented the sound of pop music.
In two works from the early 1940s – the Violin Sonata and “Appalachian Spring” – he introduced a specific, independent harmonic entity which has defined pop music since 1970.
This harmonic entity consists of a chord built a fifth above the root.
Below I have highlighted the scores and given audio examples of both Copland works.
Copland, Aaron: Sonata for Violin and Piano (1943) for violin and piano
Copland, Aaron: Appalachian Spring – Ballet in one act for full orchestra (1944)
Here are just a few of the many famous pop songs that have used this chord…
“So Far Away” (Carole King)
“If You Leave Me Now” (Chicago)
“Josie” (Steely Dan)
“Sailing” (Christopher Cross)
“Love’s Theme” (Barry White)
“One On One” (Hall & Oates)