Witold Lutoslawski in Interview

7/23/2019 Witold Lutoslawski in Interview

1/8

Witold Lutoslawski in InterviewAuthor(s): Bogdan Gieraczyski and Witold LutoslawskiSource: Tempo, New Series, No. 170, 50th Anniversary 1939-1989 (Sep., 1989), pp. 4-10Published by: Cambridge University PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/945735

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2/8

Bogdan

Gieraczynski

Witold

Lutoslawski in

Interview

Witold

Lutoslawski is one of

the

foremost

creators of

contemporary

music,

and as

a Pole

he has

attained a rank

second

only

to

Chopin.

His

art is

recognized

as a

brilliant contribution

to

the

European

musical

heritage,

and

he

has

gained

the

reputation

of a

contemporary

classic

-

the reward for

many

decades of

painstaking

effort to

construct and

develop

his own

vision

of

music.

One of Lutoslawski's

characteristic

features

has

always

been his

unswerving

faith

in

the

direction of musical

development

that he took at

the

start.

This

ruthless,

radical and

uncompro-

mising

creative stance did

nothing

to draw

prompt public recognition

of

the value

of

his

work,

especially

in

his native

country. Many

years

had to

pass

before

his

unconventional

music

gained

favor

with

internationally-acclaimed

orchestras and

soloists.

The

composer,

now

76,

in

keeping

with the

measured

pace

of time

and

in

spite

of its

inexorable

passing,

continues to

produce

new

works

which

-

as the

enthusiasmof music lovers

and critics all over the world attests

-

enrich the

whole

canon of

music,

not

only

of our

era. It can

only

be due to an ironic

decree

of

Providence

that the

steady

swell of

admiration for Luto-

slawski's work has arisen

only

in the second

half-century

of his life.

Recently

I

enjoyed

the rare

privilege

of

a

private

meeting

with

the

composer

in

the latter's

Warsaw house.

I

attempted

to lead

him

to

revisit,

through

reminiscence,

the various

stages

of his musical career.

B.G.:

When did

you

discover that

music

was

your

vocation?

Lutoslawski:

In

very early

childhood.

When

I

was nine I

managed

to

properly

write out a little

piano

piece.

But even before that

-

from the

age

of six or so

-

I

was

improvising

on

the

piano.

I

very

soon realized that it was

my

fate to

compose

music.

Q:

You had an

early

start,

then

-

and

yet

a late

one,

considering

that

your

most

significant

works

-

the ones whose scores are found on the

music-stands of the world's most famous

virtuosos

-

started to

appear

30,

40, 50,

even

60

years

later. But in the

meantime

you

produced

dozens

of

piano

pieces,

carols,

music for

schools,

theatre

and so

forth,

searching

all the

while for

your

own

musical

language,

one that

would set

your

music

apart

from

the underbrush of the

world of

sound...

A:

Exactly. My

search for a

musical

language

and

my

effort to

develop

it

-

which hasn'tceased

to this

day

-

led me to

write

many

different

kinds of

pieces

over

the

years.

During

the

period

when

I

was still

working

out

the method

I

wanted to use in

my

futurework as a

composer,

my

temperament

wouldn't

let

me

suspend my

creative

efforts. When Arold

Schoenberg

was

struggling

to

crystallize

his

dodecaphonic

system,

he didn't

compose

at all for

eight

years.*

For

me,

that

kind

of

voluntary

creative void

would be

unthinkable,

and

so,

for

many years,

I

wrote what music

I

was

capable

of,

not

yet

being

able to

compose

as I

would have liked.

Q:

There was a

peculiar

interlude

in

your

musicalcareer

during

he

war,

when

you

worked

as a

pianist

n

Warsaw

cafes...

A: The Nazi

occupation

forced the whole

musical life

of

Warsaw

to hide out in

cafes.

They

were the

only refuge

for

independent

music,

andeven the

greatest

artistsmade use of

them,

regarding

them as

the

only

means to

stay

in

contact with art. On

what used to be called

Saski

Square,

where the

Victoria

Hotel is

now,

there was a

very

prosperous

cafe

called SIM

(short

for

SZTUKA

I

MODA

-

Art and

Fashion).

Andrzej

Panufnik,

the Polish

composer

who

now

lives in

Britain,

and

I

formed

a

piano

duo.

Besides

popular

music,

our

rep-

ertoire

included

highlights

from

the classics

-

Bach,

Debussy,

Mozart, Ravel,

Brahms,

Schubert. In the face of the Fascists'

contempt

for

art,

live contact

with it was like a balsam

against

all the horrors of

those

years,

not

only

for us

professionals,

but

for

the

public

as well.

Q:

The times

soon to come also

brought along

something

not

unlike

contempt

for art: n

1949,

*

Hardly

true,

for a

period

that included the

composition

of

DieJakobsleiter.

Lutoslawski

possibly

means that he

published

nothing

of

importance

from

I915

to

1923

(Ed.)


3/8

Witold

Lutoslawski

n Interview 5

your

First

Symphony

-

a

work

that culminated

all

your previous

experience,

after

which

you

embarked

upon

a

new

phase

of

creative

ex-

ploration,

a momentus work in

every way

-

was

branded a 'formalist'

piece

and banned

from

public

performance

in

Poland.

Why

was that

infelicitous term so

significant

in

relation to

such an asemantic art

as music?

A: I

never

understood what it was

supposed

to

mean.

In

my

opinion

it

was

nothing

but

typical

'artofficial'

jargon,

useful

for

persecuting

artists

who

retained some

individuality,

whose

creativity

didn't conform to the

'socialist

realism' that

was

obligatory

in

Poland at that

time.

But

in

any

case

the fact remains

that

my

Symphony

was labelled

'formalist'

and,

as

such,

was not

performed

in

my

own

country

for

ten

years.

After

the last

performance

of

the work at

the Polish

National

Philharmonic Hall in

I949,

the minister of

culture stormed

into the

conductor's room and in

front of a

dozen

people

announced that a

composer

like me

ought

to

be

thrown

under the

wheels of a

streetcar. It is

interesting

that

this

was not meant as a

joke

-

he

was

really

furious

This

story

is

quite

true,

although nowadays

it does

sound

anecdotal;

it

is also an illustration of most artists'situationin

Stalinist Poland.

Q:

A bit of

background

should be added here:

The

campaign

against

formalism

in

art

was of

Soviet

origin,

and it

dominated

all

of

Eastern

and

Central

Europe.

It was

a battle

-

to use the

official

terminology

of

the

time

-

against

'bourgeois

influences' and

'artistic

mperialism'.

Atonality,

dissonance,

serialism,

amelodic

composition

and the

like were

regarded

as

excessively

intellectual

-

that

is,

as

reactionary

andformalisttendencies.Formalism, n the view

of

the

communist

bureaucrats,

was a

synonym

for

subversion. In

those

days

it

was a

particularly

serious

and

dangerous

accusation

against

an

artist,

and

it

was not

at all difficult to

deserve it:

All

one had

to

do

was to

follow the

traditions

and

progressive

trends

in

European

music

Could

you

tell me

what the

sources of

your

aesthetic,

artistic and

compositional

inspiration

were

in

these

days,

or

even

earlier?

A:

I don't

suppose

a

composer

ever

lived

who

did not worship some great artistsin his youth.

Copying

favorite

masters

in

order to

learn

their

skill is

a

pastime

not

restricted to

painters.

In

my

musical

career the

works of

various

composers

have

served as

models for

me. The

Viennese

classics,

above

all;

Beethoven,

as an

unequalled

master of

large-scale

forms

in

general;

Haydn

and

Mozart as

well. Brahms's

symphonies

and

concertos,

on

the other

hand,

photo:

Malcolm

Crowthers

despite my

sincere love for

them,

had a

'nega-

tively

creative'

impact

on

me,

and

its

polemical

reaction is evident in

many

of

my

works,

such

as

my

Second

Symphony

or

String

Quartet,

which

oppose

Brahms's

concept

of

large-scale

forms

as a matter

of

principle.

Among

the

Romantics,

it

is

Chopin's

work

that

moves me the most

deeply,

and for

me his

music is an

inexhaustible

source of

inspiration

for

my

composing imagination.

Another

master

whose

work had a

very

constructive influence

on me is Albert Roussel. Even in

my

early

youth

I

was

unsettled at

the

thought

that the

riches of the

French

sound-palette

that

Debussy,

Ravel,

and their

successors created still

hadn't

been

fully

exploited

in

large-scale

works.

And

it

was Roussel

who,

in

his

Third

Symphony

(1930),

managed

at least

partially

to

fulfil

this ideal.

And

I

must

not

neglect

to mention Bartok

and

Stravinsky,

whose

music made an enormous

impression

on

me

and,

I am

sure,

on

every

composer

of

my generation.

All

the

various

inspirations,

cultsandeven imitationshave their

place

in

the

formation of a

composer's

creative

stance.

But the

time comes when all

the

outside

influences

undergo

a

process

of

elimination,

and there

comes a

crystallization

of

what we call

the

composer'sersonality

that

is,

of

course,

if he

has one.

Apropos

the

preceding

remarks,

I

consider

the

form

of

my

Third

Symphony

(1983)

s the

result


4/8

6

Witold

Lutoslawski

n

Interview

of

my

many years

of

experience

listening

to

music,

particularly

arge-scale

forms.

Although

Beethoven's

extraordinary trategy

in

this

realm

has

always

fascinated

me,

and

was a

supreme

lesson

in

musical

architecture,

it is

the

pre-

Beethovenian

symphony, particularly

Haydn's,

that

has

always

served as a model

for me.

I

confess that

I

always

feel exhausted after

a

performance

of

a

Brahms

symphony,

concerto

or even

a

sonata,

probably

because there

are

two

main movements

(the

first and

the

last)

in

each

of them.

These

considerations led me to search for

other

possibilities,

and

I

finally

found a

solution

in

a two-movement

large-scale

form

in

which

the first

movement

prepares

or

the main

one to

follow. The first

is meant

only

to

interest,

to

attract,

to

involve,

but

never

fully

to

satisfy

the

listener.

During

the

first movement

the

listener

is

supposed

to

expect

something

more

important

to

happen,

and

may

even

grow

impatient.

This

is

exactly

the situation

when the second

movement

appears

and

presents

the main idea

of

the

work.

This

distribution

of the musical

substance over

time seems

natural

to

me,

and

conforms

with the

psychology

of the

perception

of music.

I

have

composed

several works

in this

form,

the

most

characteristic

being my

String

Quartet

(I964)

and

Second

Symphony

(I967).

Q:

Every

musical

utterance,

even the

most

original,

is set within some tradition.

What

tradition

would

you

connect

your

music with?

A:

20th-century

music

has

split

into

two

streams.

One arose

from the

Second

Viennese

School,

that

is,

from

Schoenberg,

Weber

and

Betg,

while

the

source

of

the other is

Debussy.

There

is a

widespread

belief,

cultivated

mainly

by

the

heirs

of

the Viennese

School,

that these

two musical currents

were

amalgamated

in

the

works

of

Webern.

I

find

this

idea

far-fetched.

For

the

time

being,

the

two

main traditions

are

still

distinct,

although

this

is not

to

say

that

they

may

not,

in

the

near

future,

unite

into

one

musical

amalgam.

Needless to

say,

I feel

a

part

of

the second

tradition,

that

of

Debussy.

Q:

And

yet

the

work that marked the

begin-

ning

of the individualization

of

your

art

-

Funeral

Music,

of

1958

-

is based

on the serial

echnique.

A:

Only partially.

Every

20th-century comp-

oser

is

naturally

interested

in the

12-tone-row.

I

use

the 12-tone-row

in

my compositions

in

a

non-tonal

way,

but

it is

not

orthodoxly

dodecaphonic.

The methods

I've

been

working

on for

the

last

couple

of decades have

nothing

in

common

with

Schoenberg's

doctrine,

apart

rom

the

use of

the

flow

of all

12

tones

in

a

relatively

limited

space.

That

is all that links

me with

Schoenberg's

technique.

But

this use of

the I2

notes is

not

Schoenberg's

invention;

it

was

known

before,

and it formed the basis of the

doctrine that

he

worked

out.

I

can

go

further:The

I2-note

scale

was

used

earlier

by composers

who

employed

the tonal

system

-

but it was not used

fully.

Certain

works

by

Scriabin,

or

even Strauss

and Mahler

-

who

were

by

no

means

dodecaphonists

foreshadow

the

use

of

the row.

There's

a

fugue

in Bach's

Well-Tempered

lavier

hat

proves

that

this is a

natural

stage

in the

development

of

musical

thought.

It uses all

the

sounds

of

the chromatic

scale. But

it is

not

a

dodecaphonic

work;

it's

a

tonal one.

These

examples

indicate

a

tendency

that can

be traced as

far

back

as

the

early

i8th

century,

to

use

all I2 tones in

compositions

in

an

abbreviated

space.

So it

wasn't

Schoenberg's

invention

Josef

Matthias Hauer came

up

with

a

similar

theory,

but since

he wasn't

as

important

a

composer

as

Schoenberg,

the

significance

of

his

discovery

was

overshadowed

by

the fame

of

his

great

colleague.*

Q:

It sounds as

if

you

intend to

thoroughly

debunk

Schoenberg...

A:

Not

at all. After

all,

I

regard

him

as

the

source

of one of

the

two main

20th-century

musical

traditions,

although

I

ascribe

my

work

to the

other.

Q:

Can

we look forward

to

the

emergence

of

a new musical

convention,

a

new tradition?

A: The

20th-century

has revealedan enormous

wealth

of

possibilities

n sound and

the

patterning

of sound

-

possibilities

which still haven't been

fully

exploited.

So

it is

very probable

that

a

new

order or new convention

for

using

sound-media

will

emerge

-

something

as

sweeping

as the

tonal

system.

The

I2-tone

system

cannot

be

considered

such a

convention.

Besides,

dode-

caphonic

music

-

in

its

pure

form

-

has

already

exhausted

ts

inspirational

nd creative

potential.

We

must

keep

waiting

for some

kind

of

'classicism'

o

emerge

in the future.

Is

it

possible?

Of

course. When

we

consider

the vast wealth

of

musical

potential

that

has been discovered

in

recent

decades,

as

opposed

to the small number

of musical works characterized

by great

and

lasting

value, it's clear that my optimism is

well-founded.

Q:

During

the course

of

your

musical career

you

have

departed

rom one source

of

inspiration

*

Michael

Kennedy,

in

The

Oxford

Dictionary of

Music,

writes:

'one

of the

first,

if not the

first,

to devise such

a

system

was

J.M.

Hauer'

[...1

who 'wrote his first I2-note

piece,

Nomos

(I919)'

-

Interviewer's

note.

(See

further

Roger

Gustafson's

articles on

Hauer in

Tempo

I30

and

161i/62

-

Ed.)


5/8

WitoldLutoslawski

n

Interview

7

after

another. To

use the

metaphor

-

you

took a

seed,

as it

were,

from

20th-century

music

and

cultivated

it

in

your

own artistic

soil. Since

1961, it has been possible to speak of Witold

Lutoslawski's

musical tradition.

Your

compo-

sitionJeux

Venitiens,

using

limited

aleatoricism

(which, briefly,

consists

in

loosening

the

temporal

relations

among

the

sounds

so that

the

performers

have

a

certain freedom

as

regards

the

tempo

and

rhythm

in

some

passages),

was

the culmination

of all the

experience

that

contributed

to

the formation

of

your

style.

What

was the

origin

of aleatoricism

in

your

music?

A:

In

1960

I

happened

to

hear a radio

broad-

cast

ofJohn Cage's Concertfor

ianoandOrchestra

(I958),

and

in

a

flash I realized

what

potential

this

entirely

new

-

for

me

-

method

of

composing

had. Of

course,

Cage's

actual

music,

which

I

had heard

long

before,

didn't

have

very

much

to do with it.

Cage's

answer

to the so-called

total

serialism

of the

I950s

was to create

somethingin

absolute

opposition

to that doctrine:

he

countered

it

with

music as

a

product

of chance.

Hence the

term,

aleatoricism.

For

me,

this method

has

always

been

completely

alien.

Nevertheless,

that one

momentary

encounter

with

Cage's

music,

during

the

radio

concert

I

mentioned,

excited

my imagination.

And of course a

composer

can

listen to music

in two

ways:

he

can

passively

expose

his

receptory

faculties

to

it,

or

he

can,

almost

involuntarily,

listen in what

I

call an

'active-creative'

way,

so

that

the sounds

entering

the ear

serve as an

impulse

that

activates

the

musical imagination. The sounds,

in

a com-

poser's

imagination, generate

mages

and musical

combinations that

don't exist at all

in

the

work

he is

listening

to. That's

exactly

what

happened

when I was

listening

to

Cage's piece:

I

suddenly

realized

how

meaningful

it would

be to instil

my

music

with

an

element of chance

-

but

in

a

very

particular

way.

It was a

vision of sound

-

an idea

that

I

began

to work

on

at that

very

moment.

The outcome

was a certain

type

of

music:

I

called it controlled

leatoricism,

imitedaleatoricism

or

textural

aleatoricism,

and I

gave

the name

aleatory counterpoint

to

this

compositional

technique,

or at

least

some details

of it. These

terms delineate

a

concept

that was

previously

quite

unknown. When

I

heard

Cage's

Piano

Concert

again

a few

years

later,

I

couldn't

find a

trace

of what had so

strongly

stimulated

my

imagination.

But I have never tried to hide

my

gratitude

toward

Cage,

since his

work,

albeit

accidentally, gave

me

a

very

singular

experience.

And

when,

in

the

'6os,

Cage

asked

me

to send

him

a

rough

draft of

one

of

my pieces

for

reproduction

in

his book

Notations,

I

sent

him

the

full

score

ofjeux

Venitiens,

he

first

work

I

wrote

as a result of

listening

to his

Concert.

This

whole

story

is an

oversimplified picture

of that

crucial moment

in

my

musical

development,

photo:

MalcolmCrowthers


6/8

8 WitoldLutoslawski n Interview

but

still,

it shows

how

very

mysterious

and

astonishing

the sources of

inspiration

can be.

Jeux

Venitiens,

which

I

wrote in

1961,

was

the

first

composition

where

I

used elements of the

aleatoric

technique.

Loosening

the

temporal

relations

among

the

sounds

-

it

doesn't seem

terribly

innovative. But the

consequences

for

the

composer's range

of

activity

can

be

enormous.

I'm

thinking

about

both the

pos-

sibility

of

enriching

the

rhythmic

aspect

of

the

composition

without

increasing

the difficulties

for the

performers,

and about

allowing

free,

individualized

play

on

the instruments in the

orchestra.

These were the

elements

of

the

aleatoric

technique

that interested

me most

of

all,

because

they

permit

me a

wide

vision

of

sound that would

otherwise exist

only

in

my

imagination.

I'm

not interested

in

such

achievements of

aleatoricism as

elevating

chance to the dominant

position during

the

composition,

or

creating

an element of

surprise

for the

listener and even

the

composer

himself in

each

successive,

un-

predictable

version

-

that

is,

performance

-

of

the

composition.

In

my

composition

the

leading

factor is the

composer.

The introduction of

chance

at a

precisely

anticipated

moment is

only

a

means of

developing

the

action,

and not an

aim

in

itself.

In

my

latest

composition,

Concertofor

Piano

and

Orchestra

(1988),

the element of chance

appears

to a somewhat lesser

degree

than

in

my

other

works. It

is,

as

always, precisely

controlled

by

the

principles

of

organization

of

pitch

(harmony, melody,

etc.).

I

tried

to

explain

how

this

works in an article

published

in

1969

in

the

periodical

Melos

(No.

I

I).

I

won't

repeatmy

line

of

reasoning

here,

but one

point

is

worth

recalling:

there

is no

improvisation

in

my

work.

Everything

that

is to be

played

is

precisely

noted

and must be

precisely

carried out

by

the

performers.

There

is

only

one difference

-

but a

fundamental

one

-

between the ad libitum

sections

(which

are not

conducted)

and those

which

are written

by

traditional methods

(that

is,

divided

into

measures,

with a

given

meter):

In

the

former,

there

is no

common division

of

time for all the

performers.

In

other

words,

everyone performs

his

part

as if he were

playing

alone,

not

co-ordinating

it with the other

performers.

The result is a

special,

'frail'

exture

with rich and

whimsical

rhythms,

which

is

quite

impossible

to

achieve

in

any

other

way.

All of this is

connected

with a matter

of

secondary importance

-

namely,

the

means a

composer

uses

to

attain

his

goal.

What, then,

is

this

goal?

This is a

question

that

only

music can

answer.

Fortunately,

it

cannot

be

expressed

in

words.

If

this were

possible

-

if a

musical

composition

could be

exactly

related

n

words

-

music would

be

a

completely unnecessary

art.

Q:

The 20th

century

has

granted

the intellect

absolute

dominance

in

every

area of human

endeavor,

including

art.

So-called emotionalism'

on the

part

of

either the artistor the

audiencehas

become,

to

put

it

mildly,

unfashionable.

What

role do emotion and intuition on

the one

hand,

and rationalismand

intellectualism

on

the

other,

play

in

your

work?

A:

Anyone

who

is

well-versed

in

the

composition process

cannot fail to notice that

the rationalfactor dominates in

my

works. Mine

is a

deliberate,

organized

working

technique

-

that

is

true.

However,

I

ascribe the

most

fundamental

importance

to what used to be

called

'inspiration'.

Although

this

term

may

be

a

bit

pompous

and

imprecise,

it is an

absolutely

irreplaceable

one to refer to the

attitude,

the

spiritual

state,

that

is

essential to the act

of

creation.

Everything

that

is

authentic

in a

piece

of music

is

the result

of

inspiration.

I will

say

even more: what

is

usually

called

'compositional

technique'

-

as

opposed

to

'inspiration'

-

does

not even exist.

For

if

it

did,

what it would mean

would

be the

ability

to create a

work of art

without

any

sort of talent.

But there

is

something, something

I

have

been

employing

in

my composing

work for

decades,

that could

go

by

the

name of

'compositional

technique'.

This

technique

consists

in

the accumulation

of

specific,

individual

components

that

help

in

the overall

task

of

organizing

sounds,

their

pitch

and their

interplay.

Everything

that makes

up

'compos-

itional

technique',

understood in these

terms,

is

a

product

of

inspiration.

In other

words,

it must

arise

in the

composer's

imagination of

its

own

accord,

not

through

intellectual effort.

It must

intrigue;

it must be

original enough

to make it

worth

coming

back

to

again

and

again.

But the

only

way

to make that kind

of

discovery

is

through

years

of

systematic

work,

sometimes

drudgery. Apropos

of

this,

I

recall

an

apt

saying

of

Tchaikovsky's.

When

some

lady

asked

him,

'Do

you

work

regularly,

Maestro,

or do

you

wait for

inspiration?'

- he

replied,

'My

dear

lady,

I work

regularly,

for

inspiration

does

not

come

to idlers'.

This is

the

crux of the matter:

When

you

wait

for

inspiration,

it doesn't

come,

but

if

you

work

regularly

-

like Bach or

Mozart,

for

example

-

then

your

reward

s

that

something

arises

in

the

'mind's

ear',

something

attractive

that didn't exist a

split-second

before.

Q:

There are

no

operas

in

your

oeuvre,

and


7/8

WitoldLutoslawskin Interview 9

you

have never

permitted

the use of

your

music

in

the ballet.

As

a

composer you clearly imply

that music is the most asemantic

of

the

arts,

and

that

any attempt

to combine

it with

extra-

musical matters contradicts its fundamental

message...

A: I have

always

subscribed to an abstract

concept

of music. The

only unambiguous

message

that

music

in

itself can

convey

is a

musical

one. Music is

music Of

course,

that

is

not an

adequate

definition,

since we

know how

strongly

music affects human emotions. What

do

they

mean? What

is

their nature?Must these

emotions be

given

'extra'

meanings?

Some

people

are inclined to

interpret

music

in an extra-musical

way.

The world

of

sound

alone is not

rich

enough

for

them,

not substantial

enough;

music alone cannot

encompass

their

idea of music. Less sensitive listeners feel alien

in the

world

of

sound;

their

thoughts

escape

to a

realm

of

images

or

feelings

that do not exist

in a

given

piece

of music. This is a

subjective

reaction

to music. But there are

people

of

greater

musical

sensitivity

-

composers,

for

instance

-

who do

not

have

this

anxiety

reflex,

who

confront

the

sounds

directly.

For

them,

the sounds are

part

of

such

a rich

various

beauty

that

they

have

no

need to search for

anything

beyond

the

sounds

themselves.

Q:

One

of

your

characteristic

traits

is

your

unwillingness

to

compromise

in

your

creative

work,

your expression

of

truth

through your

music.

Perhaps

it

was even because of this

trait

that world

recognition

of

your

art came so late?

What does the

concept

'truth' mean

in

relation

to such a

non-semantic art as

music?

A:

The word 'truth' as

it

applies

to a

work

of

art must not be confused with the common

understanding

of the term. It

would

be

easier to

clarify

this

concept

in

relation to the

semantic

arts.

But

in

music? What I

understand

by

truth

in a

piece

of

music

is a

genuine,

honest

expression

of

what

you

have to

convey

to others.

Loyalty

to

yourself,

to

your

own

esthetics,

to

your

own

aims...

A

piece

of music is true

when it

reflects a

personal, original

artistic

conviction

without

regard

for the

consequences.

You

may

wonder

whether this

position

is

not

utterly egocentric,

and whether

society

needs art created on the

basic of such

principles.

It is

my

deep

conviction

that

society

needs

only

such

art.

A

work

based

on

lies,

on

the abandonment of

principles

for

the

sake of

transitory,

capricious

aims like

pleasing

the tastes of critics or

the

public, just

to

get applause

or

fame

or

money

-

those

are

the

works that

are not

only

unnecessary,

but

even

harmful.

They

are not

the

products

of

purely

artistic

motivation

Q:

When it comes to

art,

our

times,

I

think,

are no different

from

past epochs.

Then

and

now,

one

thing

never

changes:

The ethics

of

artistic

creativity.

Remaining

in

accord

with

inner truth

-

the first commandment

and

fundamental

duty

of anartist is often

rewarded

only

later. Your musical

life is a

prime example

of

that.

To

speak

of Witold Lutoslawski

as a

classic of

contemporary

music,

as a

revitalizer

of musical

language,

and as the

creator

of his

own distinctive

style

is not

merely

a

courtesy

on

the

part

of

critics

and

music

lovers ofthe

I98os...

A:

Very

highflown

words I don't

give

much

weight

to

those

opinions, although

I can't

deny

that

every

composer

dreams of

becoming

a

classic. The hardest

thing

is to see

yourself,

and

what

you

are

doing,

from the

point

of view

of

others.

So

I

can't

judge

whether,

or

how,

my

music has established a

style.

There

are

certain

indications that

this

is so. Some of

my younger

colleagues

are

quite

open

about the influence

of

my

music on

their

work,

they

'follow in

my

footsteps',

and

have even

-

in

England,

for

instance

-

formed

groups

that imitate

my

compositional

methods. But

although

this is all

very pleasant

and

gratifying

for

me,

it

may

be

misleading.

I do

not draw

any

far-reaching

conclusions

from

any

of

this,

and I do not

feel it

is

my

business to

do so.

Whether

or

not

the

endeavors

of decades of

my

life have

any degree

of

permanence

s a

question

that

only

the

future

can decide.

Q:

In

the

days

ofJohann

Sebastian

Bach,

artists

treated their work

as a skill

and did not

worry

especially

about

the

morality

or

immortality

of

what

they

created. It

was the

i9th

century

that

began

to

pose

the

question

of the future of

art,

because

by

then

art was no

longer produced

specifically

for

a

given

occasion

and

time,

but

had

become

something

great,

a

lofty,

grandiose

mission.

I

hope

you

will

forgive

my asking

whether somewhere

in

the

deepest

recesses

of

your

soul

you

believe in

the

permanent

and

lasting

value of

your

art.

A: I

neither believe nor

disbelieve.

All

I can

say

is

that

I

know from

experience

that

some

of

my

pieces,

written

decades

ago,

are still

being

played.

That

is,

performers

and audiences find

some value

in

them.

But this is not

one of

my

overwhelming

concerns.

What

I

am

interested

in

is

using

all

the

creative deas and

concepts

that

I

still have in

me,

and

producting

new works.

That is

what

I

care

about

-

not

the

question

of

the

Futureof

my

compositions.

Q:

What does music

mean to

you?

A: That's a

puzzling question...

A

simple


8/8

10 WitoldLutoslawski n Interview

question

-

so

simple

that it's difficult to answer...

For

me music

is

something

of immeasurable

importance;

it is a need as

basic as water and air.

I cannot imagine life without music or, for the

last

half-century,

without

composing...

No,

I

can't

give you

a full answer. It seems I am not

yet ready

to

have

the last

word.

(I

would ike

to

expressmy heartfeltgratitude

o Mr.

Witold

Lutoslawskiforaking

valuable

imefrom

is

busy ife

in order o conversewith me andauthorize

this nterview. wouldalso iketo thankMs. Sherill

Howard-Pociecha

or

her

help

in

preparing

the

English

version

f

the nterview.

B.G.)

I

s

te\

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Witold Lutoslawski in Interview