Phantom Limbs: On Musical Bodies

By Peter Szendy

The prostheses Peter Szendy explores—those peculiar artifacts known as musical instruments—are not only technical devices but also bodies that live a strange phantom life, as uncanny as a sixth finger or a third lung.

The musicological impulse to inventory those bodies that produce sound is called into question here. In Szendy’s hands, its respectable corpus of scholarship is read aslant, so as to tease out what it usually prefers to hide: hybrids and grafts produced by active fictions, monsters, and chimera awaiting the opportunity to be embodied. Beyond these singular bodies that music composes and disposes there lies the figure of a collective “social” body ready to emerge amid an innervated apparatus that operates at a distance, telepathically.

Phantom Limbs touches on bodies of all shapes and sizes that haunt the edges of music’s conceptualizations. Music continually reinvents such bodies and reconvenes them in new collective formations. It is their dynamics and crystallizations that Szendy auscultates on a motley corpus that includes Bach, Diderot, Berlioz, Eisenstein, Disney, and Monk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fordham University Press
• Release date: Nov 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9780823267071

Peter Szendy

Susan Dwyer Amussen is professor of interdisciplinary studies at the Graduate College of the Union Institute and University. She is author or editor of three books, including An Ordered Society: Gender and Class in Early Modern England.

Book preview

Training

I am here in this cool room on the ground floor, in a house that exists today only in my memories (it burned down).

Its main occupant is the piano. On the piano, a plaster cast: Beethoven. It’s incredibly kitsch, especially when it’s lit up. But it is one element of the staging G. had set into place in his room, like the little sign he’d hung over the bed: Nobody’s perfect.

The white keys have yellowed and appear burnished. An innumerable number of fingers must have worn them out.

G. is teaching me to play a prelude whose name and author I don’t yet know—and won’t for quite a while. Nor will I know the notes, actually (I don’t even know that something like notes exists).

Learning means: watching where he puts his fingers, memorizing the keys he presses down as you would identify the footprints of an animal you’re tracking. With my gaze set on the keyboard at whose level I almost am (I emerge just barely above its height), I am under the impression that I will have to pour my body into the mobile, moving mold formed by the keys that G. pushes down or releases. Plastically, I will have to espouse this contour whose hollowed-out shape he has left for me. With the most intense attention, I register the deformations of the line of the keys, raised up in some places and drawn back in others. A crenulated, angled line. I will model my body on the empty envelope his body, fleetingly, leaves.

Behind the repetitive idiotism of my training (I spend days and weeks at it, and I must constantly ask him to show me once again the digital traces of his knowledge in order to fix them in my memory and reproduce them with my own fingers), there will have been this gripping experience: espousing another body. (When I recall these moments, I no longer know how many fingers, hands, and phalanges I have.)

But that’s not all. There is also the piano’s belly: its hollow, disemboweled, or eviscerated belly, its old emptied-out, upright Steinway interior, which had been equipped with a roller mechanism to allow it to play all by itself. G. had had this mechanism, which I imagine produced old, bad hits, taken out; he had had it removed, he said, to get a purer sonority. But there is still the little sliding door at eye level when I’m sitting on the stool; there is still this opening that attracts me to the secrets of its machinery. I can stick my little head into it, and in the darkness I can make out the hammers, levers, and felts. Resting in silence.

I can also play while I plunge into this vibrating piece of furniture. And it is when I do so that, with my ear up against the wires and in an acrobatic position, I absolutely forget my body, giving myself up body and soul to this improbable sound coupling or montage by which I reinvent myself even more formidably than in childhood games.

Today, this memory is indissociable from a dream that, timidly and in a low voice, accompanies it. If I had learned to play, not only by following in the tracks of his fingers but also by conforming to envelopes that were even ghostlier, by bending myself to the mechanical crenulations of the keys under the impetus of the turning roller, what bodies would I have espoused?

I now know that great musicians engraved their playing onto rolls and cylinders. This even has quite a history, much older than is often thought. Long before the recordings realized by Debussy on Welte-Mignon cylinders in 1912–13, there will have been, in 1775, a certain Father Engramelle, who, by inventing tonotechnics (that is to say, the art of noting cylinders, and everything susceptible of being noted in the instruments of mechanical concerts), was already having something like my dream: We would still today enjoy the interpretations of Lully, Machand, and of all the great men who ravished their contemporaries with admiration . . . : Their best pieces they transmitted to posterity on several inalterable cylinders would have been conserved in this style of expression that we no longer have any idea of except through history.

Would I have been all these bodies—Lully, Couperin, Bach, Debussy, and even this Beethoven who looks at me all lit up? Would I have been their cohort, their theory? Would I have had their hands, their fingers? Would I have breathed with them? Would they have possessed me?

CHAPTER 1 Interpreting Bodies

I have a body: This is a statement that—even though its use and overuse have made it banal—vacillates and trembles in me every time I experience musical body-to-body contact [corps à corps].

Each time this phrase comes back to me, in a halo still rumbling around the resonating instrument, I sit there wondering what the verb to have might mean here. What does having a body, and a body that is mine, really mean when I lift my hands from the keyboard, and, in this suspended time, little by little, the vibrations, tacts, and contacts dissipate, and the innervations slowly come undone, the ones that just a moment ago seemed to articulate some kind of immense demultiplication table to me?

It sometimes seems to me that after the incredible dilation and ramification that my body has just experienced in its contact with keys, vibrating strings that resound or zing, pieces of wood and felts that strike in a muffled way or with brilliance, it retracts or reconfigures only reluctantly [à contre-coeur]. It is thus despite my body [à contre-corps]; yes, it is in a slow contraction that an infinite number of phantom limbs that had come to dance a delicious Sabbath wither away. A transitory necrosis of an always unique form of my organism’s organization.

And I tell myself that what was invented and disposed, provisionally and as if it were pending during the time devoted to playing, is a momentary figure, a fragile and fleeting envelope for what Nietzsche, through the voice of Zarathustra, called the commander—a self from before the ego:

Always the self listens and seeks; it compares, compels, conquers, destroys. It rules and is also the ruler of the ego.

Behind your thoughts and feelings . . . stands a powerful commander, an unknown wise man—he is called self. He lives in your body, he is your body.¹

Something—something unknown, an x—thus seems to inhabit my body; it seems to inhabit my body that I inhabit as well. And thanks to the grace of musical playing, it seems to move from behind to up front. It seems to become embodied—an almost tangible though infinitely plastic body—it seems to dance its dance for a while before retreating and leaving me dumbfounded, dispossessed.

What musician has not dreamed of virtuosity as a magisterial stage where the domination, possession, or mastery of this dancing chimera, this self that has furtively emerged from its threatening reserve, could play itself out, victoriously?

Because perhaps even more than a struggle with the instrument’s inert matter, musical virtuosity might have something to do with the hand-to-hand combat [corps à corps] between an ego and a self, in a kind of conjuration: It would be a ritual celebration—a magnificent one by its very despair—of a Promethean denial opposed to the commander of the ego, in the spectacle made of the mastery of playing. Liszt has stated it better than anyone, this dream of a tamer who is dialoguing with the unknown x to domesticate it; and this is the point where the piano became for him a docile means of transport to colonize the terra incognita and its uncanniness:

My piano is to me what a ship is to the sailor, what a steed is to the Arab, and perhaps more because even now my piano is myself, my speech, and my life. It is the intimate personal depository of everything that stirred wildly in my brain during the most impassioned days of my youth. It was there that all my wishes, all my dreams, all my joys, and all my sorrows lay. Its strings quivered under all my passions, its docile keys obeyed my every whim.²

Here virtuosity is nothing other than a theater of domestication: After struggle and conquest, it installs the ego once again in its mastery. The virtuoso’s body does not emerge from this recomposed but is merely glorified. It is he (the I) that leaves a victorious seal on the matter that he informs or inspires, in order to erase all trace of a self crouching there, behind. (This is at least what Liszt says allows us to understand—which does not necessarily include the experience of hearing him play.)

Other forms of less dramatically conquering bodily struggle [corps à corps] seem to give voice to the instrument without immediately enlisting it into the project of its mastery.

In chamber music it readily presents the face of a dialogue. It’s in a tone of familiar conversation that many teaching manuals destined for the use of amateurs address the instrument in person in the figure of a convivial prosopopoeia. In the second part of his marvelous 1676 Musick’s Monument,³ Thomas Mace, hoping to give us the Lute made Easie, inserts a Dialogue between the Author and his Lute. He asks his instrument, What makes Thee sit so sad, my Noble Friend? And the instrument answers by complaining about the negligence and poor handling to which he has fallen victim from those who do not make the effort to learn to play it with respect.

But in this fiction of alterity, this domestic dialogue, the self that Zarathustra mentioned is conspicuous by its absence. The Lute presents itself as a partner, as a quiet roommate with whom one can do business and negotiate and that one will learn to play on good terms at the end of the conversation. Nothing about it suggests an unknown, worrisome x. It is, therefore, certainly not this reassuring accord concluded in the intimacy of a home that will be able to account for my strange experience (that I nonetheless know is shared and sharable): the radical reinvention or recomposition of the body, its renewed destitution and individuation, endowed with an unprecedented envelope and members.

Breaking with Lisztian metonymy (my piano is myself, it’s my part for the whole), breaking as well with the prosopopoeia of the speaking lute, there is one figure—that I do not know how to name—through which Thomas Bernhard, in his fiction inspired by the character of Glenn Gould, will have approached the fragile reality, the suspended reality of these chimeras of the body whose tangible plasticity and infinite becoming are confirmed for me every time I have an experience of the piano.

In The Loser, Gould declares:

My ideal would be, I would be the Steinway, I wouldn’t need Glenn Gould. . . . I could, by being the Steinway, make Glenn Gould totally superfluous. But not a single piano player has ever managed to make himself superfluous by being Steinway, as Glenn said. To wake up one day and be Steinway and Glenn in one, . . . Glenn Steinway, Steinway Glenn.⁴

This fantastic and fantastical reciprocal baptism inscribes Glenn Steinway at the heart of an entire onomastic lineage of composite names that cross over all the borders between different musical genres: Banjo Joe, Johnny Guitar Watson, The Man with the Horn. But the chimera named Glenn Steinway is different from the others to the precise extent that the incarnation and living incorporation of this bifid name is pushed back onto an ideal, unattainable horizon. Whereas Johnny Guitar or Banjo Joe still seem to be sustained by a possible conviviality with the instrument (which is not without recalling Mace’s dialogue),⁵ Glenn Steinway infinitely defers his becoming embodied by enduring the following paradox: There will be Glenn Steinway only once Glenn, having become superfluous, will have definitively dissolved into a Steinway playing all by itself.

This dream of an organic body deposed and transfigured by its replacement in an instrumental automatism, this ideal, as Gould says in the novel, nonetheless also seems to me to fail to grasp the singularity of the experience for which I’d like to account by showing its historical importance: that of an invention, of a manufacture of the body, which would certainly not be the work of an ego consciously or conscientiously cultivating its capacities of execution, but which would also not be included in the horizon of a sacrifice at the altar of inorganic objectivity. This is then a manufacture or a fiction (in the sense of something made, fictum-factum), in which the self would seek to open the path for unprecedented organs, making use of a musical hand-to-hand struggle that must above all not be reduced to one of its terms: neither triumphant and virtuosic Glenn nor Steinway alone, but the chance for the tension and reciprocal innervation of both, one that the chimerical figure of Glenn-Steinway seems able to name only with reluctance, despite his body [à son corps défendant].

In its relation to an ideal horizon, Gould’s dream does indeed have something sacrificial about it: The ego (Glenn) will deliver himself up body and soul to the autophonia of the instrument vibrating by itself. Yet by sacrificing himself in this way, by making himself superfluous, it is perhaps still Glenn who, in the novel, dreams of finding a way to get along just fine, that is, without owing anything else to the self.

Is what is intolerable in all this—which all the virtuosic conquests, all the reassuring dialogues, and all the sacrifices attempt to conjure up as a way of getting rid of it—not that incredibly insistent adverb in Zarathustra’s statement: "Always the self listens and seeks"?

If so, how might we understand the insistence or authority of this self that seems to find in the musical body-to-body contact [corps à corps] the occasion, the chance for which it is on the lookout? How might we describe the clearing work that the self, this path-breaker, performs in the body’s envelope?

Nietzsche played piano; we have testimony to this from several people. I do not believe, writes his friend Carl Gersdorff, Beethoven’s improvisations could have been more poignant than those of Nietzsche, especially when a storm filled the sky.⁶ And Peter Gast, who pays him a visit toward the end of his life, after his hospitalization, recounts: "Nothing but phrases of a Tristan-like inspiration, pianissimo; then fanfares of trombones and trumpets, a Beethoven-like furor, exultant songs, meditations, reveries—indescribable!"⁷

One should not rush to see Nietzsche’s musical body-to-body experiences [corps à corps] as the symptoms of an unconscious that might become manifest through the vehicle of music and even more clearly in the period said to be of his madness. The self that, through these several