,4 o -- ¢" h" l . D .A' \""IO--‘- .. .. ,2 . ‘ - . . . l .5 ca . .A g ..n ‘. . ‘1. .1 ' I! | ' . - .v- - L! I y 0 I .K'. 3.1 r. r-- A?" .- s. \ §- .1 _J‘- .I .1 M ' n; A.\ . ‘ §.' . ‘x'n: $1 .3 .‘g '94 .34., k\Q-QA\ *V t 5 -. 00‘. Q ~ .~ .. 21(‘1: ‘- t'r r...‘ \o "'1 . '[u . is ‘ l . . ‘ ‘ ~n Mt. . O‘H,-Q.':-.~an.‘ .1 ' ‘1. ll” ”A”. -.A'~a‘- L fi-v‘Lf—gau '.},L‘J 59:; . ' -' ., 5 - . whi‘gifi ‘:. 350...“.5)‘. “'44.. ~5~0 'k'z' ' . . . -. ‘,. .. .. .-- , "an: . .,~ \uh‘fl.’.. “9.. .q.. .I‘., . . v.4“. "'II ” . ., " ‘ t Iur, ‘ZlCcU-flm‘ - ., -. . .u ‘ g .. ”3.” 5. ~ I l“ V ' o. ~l'l.‘ ' ., g'OI-{- O 01- . v . . z i . f 4..- .- Q i * -:- ‘W‘l . t‘ u.‘ ‘0 E” |‘~ ..' (eliminate some truth interpretations which fail to satisfy the Opera- tzixorlal.requirements of Schiller's dictum. In terms of his pragmatic test, t30th idealism and sensory realism pose prOblems which cast serious doubt <311 ‘tflmeir acceptability as adequate explanations of the distinction between ~tr'u-th and error. In this respect absolute idealism is particularly vul- heraible. Absolute idealism derives the truth claim Of beliefs from.their approach to immutable, eternal verities. It may grant the inability of -t1153 Ihuman mind to encompass these verities in their entirety, in fact it exnphasizes that the very nature of these truths transcends the possi- bility of human experience. Nevertheless, it stresses the interpretation that human contact with truth depends on the closeness with which human ~t'helléght can approximate universal comprehension. The idealistic aspects fo‘ Sloinoza's epistemology Offer an explicit illustration of this approach.1 B 111; Such an analysis exacts a. number of substantial concessions. On the 0n e hand, it means that there will remain a substantial residue of truth \ l Benedict de Spinoza, Op. cit., pp. 82-127. l9 (residue might even be too modest a term, since it is to be anticipated that what is left unknowable exceeds that which can be known by limited human minds) inaccessible to man, since he is partial and the idea is total. 0n the other hand, the postulation of an unknowable, no matter how small, raises the problem of relations between it and the knowable. In fact, the mere existence of an unknowable might vitiate all human knowledge. Either of these considerations would suffice to render idealist truth theory questionable in terms of the pragmatic test, since both dif- ficulties tend to place human truths into a category so far removed from the postulated absolute as to rob them of reliability for the purposes of man. A third consideration may make idealist truth theories even less acceptable in terms of the pragmatic test. Experience of man, as far as thie sentient individual is concerned, always deals with the particular. AS such, time and change are hallmarks of his knowledge. So that . . . if you insist on having a system of eternal and immut- able truth you can get it only by abstracting from those characteristics of Reality, which we try to express by the terms individuality, time, and change. But you.must pay the price for a formula that will enable you to make assertions that hold good far beyond the limits of your experience. And part of the price is that you will in the end be unable to give a rational explanation of those very characteristics, which had been dismissed at the outset as irrelevant to a ra- tional explanation.l Thus, in a rigorous application of idealist epistemology, man is left with no explanation regarding his knowledge of the very aspects of re- a'lity which he can and does experience. Merely to dismiss such knowledge \ 1 F. C. S. Schiller, Humanism, p. 99. 20 as being an incomplete, confused form of true ideas, as Spinoza does, still offers no explanation on how such "confusion" occurs, or what char- acterizes the “confusion." In other words, it still fails to account for the nature-of the kind of knowledge an individual human may obtain. Whatever other standards such a system may meet, it does not help man distinguish truth in his own limited experience. Examining some form of realistic truth theory, the analysis be- comes considerably more involved. For one thing, one cannot lightly dis- miss the apparent reality ofthe external world as reported by human senses. Not only would an outright dismissal apparently violate the very definition of experience (the "undergoing" part of the experiential pro- cess appears to demand a recognition of the external world), but many types of human conduct seem to yield most satisfactory consequences when the reality of objective environment is assumed. It is, therefore, not Sluprising that many pragmatists, notably James, but also Dewey, found it necessary to adopt some realistic components in the most fundamental Propositions of their truth theories. Notwithstanding the obvious merits of realistic epistemology, there seems to be some question about its 8:bility to function successfully in all settings. James' own formula- tion offers as good an illustration as can be found, since the author was anything but hostile to pragmatism, yet was so bound by realistic QC>111<2eptions in his metaphysics and epistemology as to jeopardize the con- sistency of his philosophical position as a whole. In the opening chapter of his Meaning of Truth, James delves direct- ly into the problem of cognition as it occurs in man's experience. He \ lBenedict de Spinoza, op. cit., pp. 105-110. 21 l and identifies its minimal presents cognition as an act of consciousness content as feeling.2 These two points are significant since, taken joint- ly, they firmly anchor the original, minimal aspects of cognition in the knower rather than the known. As far as these two basic considerations are concerned, there is nothing in James' theory that could not be develoPed along idealistic or even solipsistic lines. In subsequent differentiation of cognitive feelings from those that are not, James then takes an approach which rules out solipsism and, to afiL1.practical purposes, idealism as well. Starting from an illustration (tune experiencing of fragrance), then abstracting for greater detachment Sunni more convenient generalization, he introduces the concept of resem- blance as the distinctive quality which a feeling must possess in order 'tKD ‘be classed as cognitive: . . . all qualities of feeling [are cognitive] so long as there is anything outside of them.which they resemble. . . . The point of the vindication of the cognitive function of the . . . feeling lies . . . in the discovery that a q[quality] does exist elsewhere than in it. In case this discovery were not made, we could not be sure the feeling was cognitive; and in case there were nothing outside to be discovered, we should have to call the feeling a dreamt3 The criterion of cognition is explicitly placed in the resemblance battreen the quality of a feeling and the quality which exists somewhere (311138ide the consciousness of the knower. Truth, therefore, would be a Iniitrter of positive resemblance, falseness negative resemblance, and dream \ 1 William James, The Meaning of Truth, p. 1. 2Ibid., p. 2. 3Ibid., pp. 15-16. 22 (or illusion) a form of negative resemblance, resulting from an inability to find anything in external reality to which the quality of feeling Should the feeling "resemble without operating, it is 1 could be related . a dream; if it operates without resembling, it is an error." This concept of resemblance fails to stand up under close scrutiny-- and once it has been destroyed the central part of James' realistic epistemology has been brought into doubt. Let it be assumed, for the moment, that some external quality which a feeling may resemble does in- deed exist (and James himself said he must treat this as an assumption and speaks of it in terms of faith2), experientially its qualities can only be known, as James has just demonstrated, through the feelings of the knower. The implication of this is a theory wherein cognition be- comes a function of human consciousness, validated by a resemblance to some external quality, which quality, however, even if its existence is Postulated, can be verified only by further recourse to human feelig. 1Depending on the particular standpoint from which such an argument is Viewed, it must either be classed as circular, or as infinitely regres- Without 83L\re, in spite of an axiomatic acceptance of external reality. such an axiom, for which the sole warrant is faith, even the circular aargument breaks down. It seems, therefore, that a realistic epistemology a'J—Ong lines of a correspondence theory (which is the import of the con- cept of resemblance) involves, even with a gratuitous assumption, circu- laJIL‘ity of reasoning. This should certainly make it logically questionable. \ l Ibido, p. 28. 2Ibid., p. 7. 23 Is, however, the logical problem sufficient to reject this theory in its entirety, particularly in view of the fact that on many levels of application it yields desirable consequences? Does the logical problem suffice to rule it out in terms of the pragmatic maxim which has been employed as a criterion of judgment? There appears to be a way out through Schiller's formulation of the maxim. His inclusion of the phrase "so far" provides the solution. So far as a realistic approach to the knowing process yields operationally "good" consequences, 2:5, to the extent that it makes possible behavior which promotes human purposes, its findings must be classed as true. But, again in terms of the maxim, so far as the truth theory thwarts, impedes, human purposes, the consequences (by definition) are "bad," hence to that extent the theory must be judged false. There can be little argument but that realistic truth theory yields eminently workable results in certain situations: a man tries to walk straight ahead, finds his progress impeded by an obstacle which his senses report to be solid, his resultant feeling interprets the sensations as a wall, and subsequent feelings sustain this interpretation. As a result, he classes his feeling as truly cognitive (positive resemblance to a quality existing outside the consciousness), goes around or over the wall and fulfills the purposes which prompted his actions. On this level of ex- perience, a realistic epistemology, based on a theory of correspondence, yiElds desirable consequences and is, therefore, true. On a different level, however, the situation is reversed. Should onerttish to find a principle of cognition broad enough to satisfy re- quirements of a systematic nature, i.e. result in a system of thought 2h which as a whole leads to desirable consequences, the total situation is substantially changed. The circularity of reasoning involved in a corres- pondence theory introduces a condition which makes the philosophical sys- tem unreliable. This unreliability stems from.the following considera- tions: If in so fundamental a part of a philosophy as its epistemology circularity can be permited to exist, then certainly such reasoning can- not be excluded categorically from any other phase of the system. It would have to be entertained, at least as a possible mode of reasoning, in.metaphysics, ethics, and aesthetics. But once this is granted, there is literally no stopping, since with circular reasoning (as from inconsis- tent premises) any conclusion can be derived and no conclusion is logically in a preferable position. This can only lead to complete frustration of all attempts to evolve a system of ideas, constructs, or conceptions which could be used for the purpose of guiding decisions. Since, however, the evolving of such ideas, constructs, and conceptions is the basic purpose of philOSOphic inquiry, the foiling of intent, by the pragmatic maxim, nmst render the decision "bad," hence the belief leading to this decision (viz. that circularity of thought is acceptable in a systematic truth theory) must be judged false. This judgment, in turn, poses the apparent dilemma of a truth theory which itself is true in one field of human en- deavor, but false in a different field. ”Paradoxical situations of this nature have been common in situa- tions where conceptions had to meet the challenge of new conditions. Newtonian physics and Euclidian geometry involved man in the same sort 0f Paradox when their laws were extended to the macrocosmos and the microcosmos. The straight line as the shortest distance between two POintS ‘became meaningless when applied on a global scale, though it 25 worked well in the confines of a.manjs farms The distinction between matter and energy had to be maintained when calculating a family's need for winter fuel, yet that same distinction yielded unworkable results in nuclear and astronomical physics. Speaking in terms of function, what is true in one context may well be false in another. Since, fUrthermore, functioning still remains the criterion of judgment for truth (so long as the pragmatic maxim is being employed), such changes in truth and falsity must continue to be expected. In the physical sciences this difficulty was overcome when a more embracing theory, the theory of relativity, was introduced. Should it be possible to evolve an epistemology in which the truth or falseness of a belief need not remain constant but could be relative to its realm of application, then the apparent dilemma could be broken. Furthermore, should it be possible to organize this epistemological position in such a way as to guarantee not only the relativity of truth, but also show how one truth theory (sense realism, where applicable) can be subsumed under the broader approach, then the parallel to recent developments in sci- entific thought would be complete. In deriving a truth theory of the desired flexibility, certain re- quirements mmst be listed as essentials to avoid the pitfalls of the more absolute forms of idealism and sense realism. First of all, the theory :must provide allowances for the apparent success of realism on numerous levels of existence. There must be some feature within the theory per- zmrtting the use of such realism in situations to which it is apprOpriate. Secondly, the theory must furnish a workable analysis of truth problems in ccxntext of a larger philosophic system without producing either incon- SiStellcy'or circularity. Thirdly, such a theory must account for the 26 possibility Of communicating knowledge--at least to the extent that such communication can be said to exist. Fourthly, it must avoid the postula- tion Of an unknowable, hence refrain from creating an unbridgeable chasm between such an unknowable and the realm of human knowledge. Fifthly, so long as the pragmatic maxim is used to test truth theories, provision must be made in the theory for the testing Of specific truth claims in a consequential manner. Sixth and finally, Opportunity must be provided by the theory to carry the pragmatic testing Of claims through all levels Of applicability, thus avoiding a chain of infinite regression. These six requirements constitute a necessary minimum Of criteria a truth theory must fulfill if it is to avoid frustration Of human attempts at comprehension. Such frustration being the prOposed criterion Of "bad" consequences, no theory Of truth may be deemed acceptable in the present context unless it avoids this outcome. A.truth theory meeting the requirements outlined above must start from the recognition that truth is not an attribute Of "facts," but rather a characteristic Of beliefs. This much has been pointed out before. The requirement Of testing in terms Of consequences further implies that the beliefs in question must be human (not super-human) beliefs, since only in human experience is there a testing ground for man. Such beliefs are advanced first as mere claims to truth, then as claims which have received some form Of validation. The process Of validation is what changes a mere Clainlinto a clatm'whose truth has now gained acceptance. In this trans- formation a belief "becomes true ," made so by the Operation Of the process itselik This process, then, is both descriptive and causal in its rela- tion.'to true knowledge; i.e. it is this process which is meant when the 27 term true knowledge is used and it is this process which "makes true" a given belief. Schiller describes the Operation in the following words: Let us proceed . . . to consider . . . how, in short, truth is made. . . . [We] Observe, in the first place, that in every science the effective truth or falsity Of an answer depends on its relevance to the questions raised in that science. . . . We Observe, secondly, that every sci- ence has a definitely circumscribed subject-matter, a defi- nite method Of treating it, and a definitely articulated body Of interpretations.l But inasmuch as every science is concerned with some as- pect Of our total experience, and no science deals with that whole under every aspect, it is clear that sciences arise by the limitation of subjects, the selection Of standpoints, and the specialization of methods. ,All the Operations, however, are artificial, and in a sense arbitrary, and none Of them can be conceived except by the action Of a purposing intelligence. It follows that the nature Of the purpose which is pursued in a science will determine the questions we put and their bear- ing on the questions we put will determine the standing Of the answers we attain. If we can take the answers as relevant to our questions and conducive to our ends, they will yield 'truth'; if we can not, 'falsity.‘2 Truth, then, being a valuation, has reference to a purpose. What precisely that reference iS‘Will depend on the purpose, which may extend over the whole range Of human interest. . . . Society [however] exercises almost as severe a control over the intellectual as over the moral excentricities and non- conformities Of its members; indeed it Often so organizes itself as to render the recognition Of new truth nearly im- possible. Whatever, therefore, individfiEjs may recognize and value as 'true', the 'truths' which de facto prevail and are recognized as Objective will only be a selection from those we are subjectively tempted to propound. The ordinary 'truths' we predicate have but little concern ‘with ultimate [3:3, long-range and inclusive] ends and realities. They are true (at least pro tem.) if they serve their immedi- ate purpose. If any one hereafter chooses to question them he is at liberty to do so, and if he can make out his case, to 1F. C. S. Schiller, Studies in Humanism, pp. 150-151. 2Ibido’ pp. 151-152. 3Ibid., pp. 152-153. 28 reject them for their inadequacy for his ulterior purposes. But even when the venue and context of the question have thus been changed, and so its meaning, the truth of the original answer is not thereby abolished. It may have been degraded and reduced to a methodological status, but this is merely to affirm that what is true and serviceable for one purpose is not necessarily so for another.1 If therefore we realize that we are concerned with human 'truth' alone, and that truth is ambiguous, there is no paradox in affirmatively answering [the] . . . question . . . as to whether 'the truth Of a newly discovered theorem.is created . . . by the fact of its discovery.‘ . . . If . . . we grant . . . that the Pythagorean, Ptolemaic and COpernican systems represent stages in the progress of a successful cal- culation Of certain celestial motions, it is clear that each Of them was valued as 'true' while it seemed adequate, and re-valued as 'false' when it was improved on. . . . SO the whole distinction remains within the human evaluation of truth, and affords no Occasion for attributing to 'truth' any real independence Of our procedure; it is a mere error Of abstraction to think that because 'truth' may be judged 'independent' after human manipulation, it is so per se, ir- respective Of the procedure to which it owes its independent' existence. The truth theory proposed in the foregoing quotations is, as yet, :merely another hypothesis claiming acceptance. Before it can be granted any warrant beyond that Of a mere claim it will have to withstand exami- nation in terms of the six points listed as minimum requirements for an epistemological position deemed acceptable in terms of the pragmatic nmxim. The first point (allowing for the apparent success of sense realism in certain lines of endeavor) is met in the following way. By emphasizing that truth and falsity depend on the particular purposes for which a be- lief is tO be used and by emphatically declaring that these purposes must determine both the questions and the relevancy Of the answers, Schiller 1Ibid., p. 156. 21bid., p. 157. 29 stresses the need for tailoring truth expectations and truth claims to their intended sphere of action. To the extent that a given truth claim must Operate in the context Of direct sense impressions, it must afford a basis for action ig_that area Of human endeavor. By emphasizing further that the applicability of truth claims may in no way be con- sidered transcendent of their intended sphere Of Operation, he guards against the eventuality of having to reject a realistic orientation in its prOper place simply because Of the inadequacy Of such orientation in some other conceptual field. This restriction Of truth claims to their projected areas Of Opera- tion (2:33 the relativization of truth claims) also helps meet the re- quirement for the avoidance of circularity. In making this restriction, Schiller establishes the legitimacy Of the claims Of logic (including the demand for an avoidance of petitio principii) in the field Of philosophic inquiry. Since in such inquiry circularity Of reasoning frustrates the intended purposes, no further justification is needed to demand that in a philOSOphic system truth theories avoid circularity. His own theory, furthermore, meets this demand, since the introduction Of different levels Of truth functionings is not postulated axiomatically, but ad- vanced hypothetically on empirical grounds. As a working hypothesis, it is subject to the verification process and is not claimed as proven except to the extent as it is Operationally useful. By leaving this mat- ter (the relativism of his epistemology) in hypothetical form, Schiller leaves it subject to proof, hence does not treat it as an assumption. Since, finally, the point to be proven is, by definition, assumed in a circular fallacy, Schiller's relativism is free from this logical flaw. 30 An explanation Of the sharing of truth experiences (the third requirement of an epistemology) is integrated so closely in Schiller's truth theory that it easily escapes detection as a treatment of the communication prOblem. He emphasizes that Objective truth, i;g;_truth held in common by several people, is a matter Of selection from.a larger body Of truth with only individual, subjective validity. In doing so he explicitly acknowledges that not all truth is shared. Only those truths are shared which at a given time happen to satisfy the value re- quirements of more than one individual. Since general sharing has not been made a necessary criterion of truth, it becomes possible to ac- count for the existence Of purely individual truths--which are incom- municable at that moment--and also for the presence Of general truths-- communicable because they are Of use to more than one individual. C. I. Lewis elaborates this point by showing the mechanism involved in this process: My concepts [including truth concepts] are from.the out- side view which you have, revealed as modes Of behavior, including speech. . . . It is necessary that we should act alike. . . if we are to have a possible basis for under- standing one another.1 Truths are shared as, and only as, they satisfy needs, Offer values for more than one person, with the revelation of this sharing being reflected by substantially identical actions on the part Of the persons concerned. Speech, being a form Of action is, of course, a most frequent means Of revealing the achievement Of communication, but speech is not communica- tion Of truth concepts. Common value attachment constitutes actual com- nmmication. 1 Charles Irving Lewis, Op. cit., p. 102. 31 Schiller postulates no unknowable Of any kind, hence the question raised by the fourth requirement (the problem of accounting for the con- nection'between knowable and unknowable) is met by showing the inapplica- bility of the question. The fifth requirement (amenity to pragmatic testing Of truth claims advanced) is clearly Observed. Testing by the pragmatic method has been declared the basic process by which truth claims are validated in Schiller's epistemology, so that any particular formulation Of details is of necessity advanced hypothetically. Such claims are never granted any warrant beyond mere claim status until sub- jected to consequential verification. This hypothetical approach, with truth claims granted only as much recognition as results from their con- sequences, guarantees a flexibility of approach concordant with the prag- matic requirement. The final point (avoidance Of infinite regression) is met by analyzing each situation as it arises and treating it as a unique problem situation. Schiller's illustration regarding the development of astro- nomical theories is a case in point. Idealism would trace the increas- ingly refined theories to an ascent along the path of truth leading to some pre-existing, unchanging, ideational reality existing, perhaps, in a universal mind. Regress would stOp only when the human mind comprehended the entirety Of reality. The nature of such reality, however, precludes encompassing by human minds, hence both an infinitely closer approxima- tion (infinite regress and an ultimately unbridgeable chasm (unknowable) remain. Somewhat similarly, absolutistic forms Of realism involve the regress Of infinite approximations plus the eventual separation of knower and Object-swith the latter becoming unknowable to man. By relating the 32 truth claim only to the specific situation in which the inquiry arises, Schiller's theory precludes regression. Each truth claim is grounded in the specific situation and in it alone. The earlier "truth" is merely another factor in the present gestalt of the conceptual field. Thus not only is there no regression, but a specific function is assigned to superceded truth. This function, furthermore, is active, productive Of growth, by making Older truth, even if negatively, a producing agent Of the new. In this process Older truths function in two significant ‘ways. First, the very inadequacy of existing beliefs (truths) is of significance in the dynamics of the situation. Were it not that exist- ing ideas prove inadequate in COping with the present field, the indi- vidual would find himself in no need situation, hence would lack the psychological force for restructuring the field through the creation of new truths. Second, the constellation Of Old truths is of decisive importance in determining what new ideas the individual will class as true. The preference will be for those which least disturb existing be- liefs, which, therefore, require the least radical restructuring Of the field. This is essentially the same point made by James (in somewhat different language) when he stated that the individual, in developing new ideas, . . . tries to change first this Opinion, and then that. . . until at last some new idea comes up [3;33 is created] which he can graft on the ancient stock with a minimum disturbance of the latter, some idea that mediates between the stock and the new experience and runs them into one another most ,»felicitously and expediently. This new idea is then adOpted as the true one.1 J‘William James, Pragmatism, p. 60. Further clarification Of this epistemological position may be Ob- tained through an examination Of its relation to Dewey's analysis of the pattern Of inquiry. Close harmony, but different emphases, emerge from such a comparison. Dewey defines inquiry as . . . the controlled or directed transformation Of an in- determinate situation intO one that is so determinate in its constituent distinctions and relations as to convert the elements Of the original situation into a unified whole.1 In this process the movement is from an indeterminate situation preceding inquiry to a determinate one as a result of inquiry. Origin of inquiry, therefore, lies in a situation which is "uncertain, unsettled, disturbed."2 The next step is constituted by the recognition of the prOblematic nature Of the situation. "TO see that a situation requires inquiry is the initial step in inquiry."3 This, in turn, is followed by an ascertainment h Of the components of the situation by means Of "Observation." This is followed by the suggestion Of a "possible relevant solution"5 which "6 "presents itself as an idea. An idea is first Of all an anticipation Of something that may happen; it marks a possibility. . . . Because in- quiry is a progressive determination of a prOblem.and its lJohnDewey, Logic The Theory Of Inguiry (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1938), p. 105. 2LOO. cit. 3Ibid., p. 107. thid., p. 109. 5Loc. cit. 6Loc. cit. 3h possible solution, ideas differ in grade according to the stage of inquiry reached. . . . Every idea originates as a suggestion, but not every suggestion is an idea. The sug- gestion becomes an idea when it is examined with its reference to its functional fitness; itl capacity as a means Of resolving the given situation. This process, Operating with symbols (constituting prepositions) is reasoning in the sense Of ratiocination or rational discourse. Ideas are Operational in that they instigate and direct further Operations Of Observation. . . . [Facts] are selected and described . . . for a purpose, namely the statement Of the problem involved, in such a way that its material both indicates a meaning relevant to resolution Of the difficulty and serves tO test its worth and validity.3 These brief excerpts indicate that the purposive character Of know- ing and the active part Of the knower, stressed by Schiller, are central also to Dewey's description of the process of inquiry. The truth Of a proposition, furthermore, is tied in both descriptions to the idea's ac- tion in resolving a situation, i.e. meeting a human purpose. The nature Of the process involves, in both instances, a.manipulation, rather than a passive acceptance, Of the given, so that the resultant truth or falsity Of that which is known depends on the knower. The precise nature Of this "given" is not properly the subject Of an epistemological discourse, but a.matter for subsequent metaphysical and ontological discussion, but IDewey's frequent use Of such terms as "facts," "observations," and the stress he places on the environmental aspects of the situation, shows him in: be rather sympathetic to a position Of empirical realism. Though lIbid., pp. 109-110. 2Ibid., p. 111. 3Ibid. , pp. 112-113. 35 Schiller appears to lean less plainly in that direction, a distinct realistic undertone remains in his system Of thought. These considerations have been raised at this time to emphasize that the subsequent employment Of Schiller's epistemology and Dewey's theory of inquiry will occur in a context at variance with the one proposed by these authors. Specifically, it is necessary to emphasize that the connotation Of realistic metaphysics suggested by the terms "fact" and "given" is not an inescapable concomitant of this theory of knowledge. CHAPTER III REALITY AND EXISTENCE In attempting to gain an understanding of the nature Of reality, and with it Of the "given" involved in the knowing process, there is great temptation tO turn to some form of realism for an explanation. As has'been shown earlier, even such a pragmatist as James embraces realism when confronted with this issue. Dewey and Schiller, though perhaps less absolutely, show strong leanings in this direction. Yet it was Dewey who stated that nature "is an environment only as it is involved in an interaction with an organism, or self, or whatever name be used."1 .And it was Schiller who wrote: "It must be admitted that without a process Of selection by us, there are no real facts for us.”2 It is the purpose Of this chapter to carry the implications Of these two remarks to their ultimate conclusion. Such a development, however, must be treated with great caution if the relativists' Old pitfall (3:23 that the statement "all things are relative" is in itself an absolute statement) is to be avoided. Perhaps the constant caveat of this section ought to be Schil- ler's own statement from the preface of the 1910 edition Of Riddles Of the Sphinx: "As for metaphysics, I now wholly disbelieve in the possi- bility of framing a system that can . . . lay claim to absolute truth and certainty."3 Thus, the subsequent metaphysical position is most lJOhn Dewey, ngic the Theogy Of Inquiry (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1938), p. 106. 2F. C. S. Schiller, Studies in Humanism (second edition; London: Macmillan and CO. Limited, 1912), p. 188. 3F. c. s. Schiller, Riddles Of the Sphinx A Study in the Philo- sophy of Humanism (third edition; London: Swan Sonnenschein and CO. Ltd., 1910), p. vii. 36 L‘i 37 emphatically £22 presented as absolute truth, but as an hypothesis sup- ported by evidence evaluated in terms of the pragmatic test. Being hypo- thetical it is subject to revision by changed circumstances; being measured by the pragmatic maxim it appeals for verification only to Operational ef- ficacy. In conformity to the truth theory on which it relies, its claim tc>truth is maintained only so long as and to the extent that it promotes human purposes. The "given" referred to in the preceding chapter, the first, raw component in the knowing process, ought to lead an analyst to the very core Of the problem.posed by the nature Of reality. Unless an investiga- tion be conducted in terms Of some superhuman, possibly divine, being, it must be emphasized that the nature of reality under consideration is the nature Of such reality as enters man's experience. At least at.its earliest phase Of appearance, in the first moment of consciousness, prior- tO examination, comparison, evaluation, "all_immediate experience is real."1 As far as the unexamined event is concerned, the whole question Of appearance and reality is previous. Distinctions are meaningless, since the very process Of distinguishing takes the experience beyond the step here discussed. In a wider sense everything is 'fact' SEE experienced, including imaginings, illusions, errors, hallucinations. 'Fact' in this sense is anterior to the distinction Of 'appearance' and 'reality' and covers both.2 In one sense it is hard to overestimate the significance Of this initial phase Of experience. "For it is the starting-point, and final 1F. c. s. Schiller, Humanism (London: Macmillan and CO. Limited, 1903), p. 192. 2F. C. S. Schiller, Studies in Humanism, pp. 186-187. 38 touchstone, of all our theories about reality, which have for their aim 1 Being, or seeming to be, primary in the develop- its transformation." ment Of experience, it might well be considered the fertile source from ‘which human experience develops the more complex conceptions Of reality. Yet, as Dewey pointed out in the passages relating to inquiry, as Schil- ler and James demonstrated in their epistemologies, this primary fact "as immediately experienced is a meaningless chaos, merely the raw material of a cosmos, the stuff out of which real fact is made."2 The fundamental distinction between the real and the illusory, between"'appearance and reality' is 223 one which transcends our experience, but one which arises in it."3 This drawing Of the basic distinction proves itself to be a distinctly human function. Even if the "given" were entirely outside Of man, the recognition Of this "given," the clasSing of components into "given" and "made," is not. With this fact established, the development Of reality beyond its primary stage merely continues as a function Of human activity: If . . . immediate experience would suffice; it would be the sole and complete reality. Appearances would be the reality and reality would truly appear. In heaven3—ho doubt, such would be the case. But . . . our experience is woe- fully discordant and inadequate. In other words, our experi- ence is 223 that of a perfect world. we are neither disposed, therefore, nor able to accept it as it appears to be. Its surface-value will not enable us to meet our Obligations: we are compelled therefore to discount our immediate experience, to treat it as an appearance of something ulterior which will supplement its deficiency. We move on, therefore, from our 1Ibid., p. 187. 2Loc. cit. 3F. C. S. Schiller, Humanism, p. 192. 39 starting-point, taking our immediate experience as the symbol which transmits to us the glad tidings Of a higher reality, whereof it partly manifests its nature. The 'realities' Of ordinary life and science are all of this secondary order: they rest upon inferences from our immediate experience which have been found to work. And the process Of reaching them is everywhere the same: we ex- periment with notions which are suggested to our intelligence by our immediate experience, until we hit upon one which seems to be serviceable for some purpose which engrosses us. And then we declare real the conception which serves our purpose. . . .1 If Schiller's analysisof this process is accurate, then the pur- posing human is as much the cause of reality--as yet excluding primary reality-~as he was Of truth. If the conversion of primary reality is in- deed in terms of human needs and desires, then, on this level, man is not the discoverer but the maker Of reality. TO seek, therefore, this type of reality without reference to human needs becomes meaningless. The ra- tionalists' goal, a reality divorced from.human purposing, would seem an impossibility. The common notion, therefore, that 'fact' is something independent Of our recOgnition, needs radical revision in the only sense of 'fact' which is worth disputing. It must be admitted that without a process of selection by us, there are no real facts gor us, and that this selecting is im- mensely arbitrary. This, however, does not yet account for the nature Of the primary experience, the "given" from.which the selective process is to take its start. Such an interpretation, in fact, presents a seemingly insurmount- able Obstacle. If primary reality is external to man, but reality on the level just discussed is made by man, then the fundamentally different--nay, 1Ibid., p. 193. 2F. c. s. Schiller, Studies in Humanism, p. 188. #0 contradictory--nature of the two creates a schism as deep as the one between the "unknowable" and the "knowable" in certain epistemologies. The schism.is not only equally deep, it is also Of the same basic character. A stubbornly separate species Of reality, the "Objective fact," remains terra incognita to man and forms the "unknowable." It is for this reason that Schiller's theories fall short in the analysis Of reality. It would seem that his cavalier statement accepting such ex- ternal reality and his subsequent dismissal Of the problem is something less than adequate in the formulation Of a philosophic system. Referring to the "given" Schiller wrote: "It may, certainly, in a sense be called 'independent' Of us, if that comforts any one. For it is not 'made' by us, but 'found.'"1 But how it is fOund, why it is found, and, if found, how it is known, he does not explain. The reason for this dismissal is not hard to understand. Schiller devoted most of shock2 to the exposition of the difficulties encountered by philosophic analyses which separate reality into knowable and unknowable classes. In that work he carefully traced the successive steps leading from.agnosti- cism, to scepticism, to pessimism and eventually declared that one should regard "a reduction tO pessimism as a sort Of provisional reductio ad absurdum, and consider ourselves justified in rejecting any doctrine which ultimately leads to pessimism."3 Such a rejection is based on pessimismis complete negation Of human life and purpose in which "Chaos 1Ibid., p. 187. 2F. C. S. Schiller, Riddles of the Sphinx. 3Ibid., p. 130. once more swallows up the Cosmos."1 With such convictions Schiller could not very well elaborate the one aspect of his own position which 'would start the chain of reasoning toward an outcome he so earnestly sought to avoid. Using Schiller's own truth theory as a guide and applying it to the metaphysical problem.under consideration, it becomes possible to re- ject the independence of the "given." Such a rejection follows from the definition Of truth in terms Of its value to a specific endeavor. If in- deed "gOOd" means "furthering a purpose" and "bad" the frustration Of same, if, furthermore, truth is a Species Of good and falsity a species Of evil, then any particular phase of a theory which frustrates the pur- pose Of the enterprise as a whole must be classed false (23: Chapter II). In this instance the goal Of the total enterprise is the development of a theory of reality which as a whole contributes to the understanding of life and government Of conduct, hence any 2232 which frustrates that pur- pose (by Opening the way for a reduction to pessimism) must be judged false. Thus the independence of primary reality and the resultant schism between different levels of reality must be rejected. Positively, it nmst be affirmed that reality is essentially a unity which, for the sake of analytical convenience, may be divided up in the process Of verbaliza- tion and description, but which constitutes a single whole in actual ex- ;Perience--the nature Of this whole being determined by the active func- tioning Of the human organism. This concept is in itself nothing new. David Hume found it neces- 1Ibid., p. 1h. A2 sary tO come to terms with the same prOblem and arrive at similar con- clusions. It was he who said . . . our reason neither does, nor is it possible it ever should, upon any supposition, give us any assurance of the continu'd existence Of body. That Opinion must be entirely owing to the IMAGINATION. . . . In these words the first step Of an independent existence, i;§, the independent existence of man's own body, is treated as a function Of man's consciousness. It is not too much to say that this statement already con-. tains the essence Of a position which finds the source of all reality in the experiencing human. But Hume goes further in Offering support to such an interpretation. In investigating causal relations, he finds insurmountable logical difficulties when trying to connect independent Objects with man's come prehension Of them. The essential part Of his argument is contained in the following: The only conclusion we can draw from a thing to . . . another, is by means Of the relation of cause and effect, which shews, that there is a connexion betwixt them, and that the existence Of one is dependent on that Of the other. The idea Of this relation is deriv'd from past experience, by which we find, that two beings are constantly conjoined together, and are always present at once to the mind. But as no beings are ever present to the mind but perceptions; it follows that we may Observe a conjunction or a relation Of cause and effect between different perceptions, but never Observe it between perceptions and Objects. 'Tis impossible, therefore, that from the existence or any Of the qualities Of the former, we can ever form any conclu- sions concerning the existence Of the latter. . . .2 Once again, therefore, the gulf between an independent object and man's lDavid Hume, A Treatise on Human Nature (T. H. Green and T. H. Grose editors, London: Longman‘s Green and Co., 187A), p. h83. 2Ibid., pp. h99-500. h3 knowledge thereof is presented as unbridgeable. This whole prOblem disappears once the need of accounting for independent Objects is re- moved. If perceptions are the farthest point outward to which inquiry is to be pursued, no such systematic difficulties occur. For this reason it appeared necessary to reject a conception of reality in which any component remained entirely external to man. Such a rejection, however, poses difficulties to replace those it has solved. By rejecting the independence Of elementary reality, the successful functioning Of common sense realism.on many levels of experi- ence becomes as grave a prOblem in metaphysics as it had been in episte- mology. Thus, theories rejecting the independent element Of reality seem to be trading one frustration Of purpose for another. NO matter how in- tricate the analysis of the subjective element becomes E£333.the existence Of external stimulation has been granted, there remains that first com- ponent Of experience, be it called the "given," "primary reality," or "stimulus," which apparently defies any attempted explanation in terms Of subjective functioning Of the human organism. .A solution to this problem may be found in a more penetrating ex- amination Of the way in which the "given" enters into the knowing process. As mentioned before, both.Dewey and Schiller deny the possibility Of the given occurring in total isolation. It appears (to man) only as a com- ponent part of the knowing experience, hence only as a contributing part in a estalt, the other components Of which have been contributed by the knower's activity. Divorced from these components, taken out of the total field, the ”given" does not exist so far as man's experience is concerned. On this basis alone it might be possible to deny it existential status. This, however, still fails to explain why this com- ponent comes into existence as the "given" precisely at the moment when it enters into conjunction with the man-made features of reality. Such an analysis would seem to demand the granting Of another "unknowable" among the components of reality. There appears to be, however, an approach which Offers a solution to the elimination Of this persistent residue. Research in the field Of human psychology has pushed deeper and deeper the levels on which the perceiver is seen to function actively in the process Of perception. IMuch Of what had been considered purely "given" is now no longer assigned tO the external world. The concept Of the "life space," for example, (as used by Lewinl) involves more significant man-made components in human experience than did such Older theories as associationism. Simi- larly, the various psycho-analytical schools show numerous internal (£43. subjective) fOrces in Operation where hitherto external influences were postulated. Thus man appears to be more involved in the making Of his world than had been believed possible even in relatively recent psycho- logical studies. If this trend is indeed a fruitful one, it may be ques- tioned whether the "given" (as now seen) is really external and unknowable, or whether it is a further, as yet unknown, hpman_component. Should the latter be the case, the systematic difficulties would disappear. An "un- known" does not raise any of the difficulties resulting from an "unknow- able.” On the contrary, there is ample evidence in legend, myth, reli- gion, philOSOphy, and science that a customary reaction to any facet of lKurt Lewin, A.Dynamic Theory Of Personality (Donald K. Adams and Karl E. Zener, translators, New'York; McGraw-Hill Book Company Inc., 1935): Po 12- I... ‘s. s.“ - : I hS experience not yet understood is its attribution to some realm outside of human control and segregated from all that man can possibly comprehend. To the primitive, thunder and lightning were supernatural and "unknowable" in their essence; to the 19th century realist they were manifestations Of external physical reality; today there is reason to suppose that the phenomena designated by the concepts "thunder" and "lightning" are, to a large extent at least, constructed by the action Of the perceiver. What has not yet been explained is, perhaps from psychological necessity, lumped under the heading of primary reality-~in this case visual and/or aural stimuli. The exact limits of those elements which might be placed in the class Of stimuli is considerably narrower when interpreted by Lewinian theories than by directly mechanistic approaches. It is, there- fOre, questionable how adequately the term."stimulus' designates something fixed, specific, and unchanging. But if even a stimulus is something subject to change in terms Of human interpretations and the changing states of human knowledge, then where lies the fixity Of external reality? Where is there any existence SO independent Of human experience to be ac-- cepted as the "given"? These considerations strongly suggest the conclusion that the "given" is no more than a designator for that residue in experience which is not known or, at any rate, not yep known, leg: is not the description of some independent existence, permanently, unknowably, outside the ex- periencing human. As such, it is reduced to an Operational concept to which man resorts whenever a phase of his experience is, at that time and in that cultural setting, beyond his comprehensiOn. In so far as such a concept helps him achieve his goals, it is (pragmatically speaking) true. .. . n a ‘..'.. l.- I'f-C two. .1“ UN. 1.: cy- ‘Ci - n.‘ A6 Thus he can act upon it. But beyond this, there appears to be no com- pelling reason forcing the acceptance Of the "given" as being possessed of reality. This, in turn, makes it unnecessary to postulate for the "given" any Special status outside of human experience. Operationally speaking, the conception of some element of external reality serves to harmonize the interpretation of human experience when, in a particular state Of knowledge, man's insight has reached its limits. This inde- pendent element is pushed back each time the understanding of a total process progresses a step. Since in no field Of endeavor can man lay claim to complete understanding, there remains in each experience some persistent residue which he labels external, hence "given." The warranted assertion underlying this whole chain Of reasoning is simply the belief that man has analytically not yet penetrated to their fullest 55!. of his experiences. He may well have reached an intensive comprehension of some component part Of an experience, but once that ex- perience appears in context, the connections to other experiences which give it reality involve so much that even the most trivial incident in human life escapes comprehension in its totality. Until and unless such complete knowledge becomes humanly possible, some form of the "given" 'will play a tremendous and legitimate part in human consciousness amd will have reality in so far forth. The issue Of communication, as much a problem in a subjective metaphysics as it is in subjective epistemology, actually supports rather than contradicts such an interpretation Of reality. To the extent that man governs his actions in terms Of his conscious understanding Of their nature, communication is relatively reliable. Since man thinks and com- municates in terms of symbols, his symbolization is adequate to the 1+7 extent to which he has managed to bring a given process to full conscious- ness. But just as soon as he wishes to communicate with a person not possessed Of the same degree of clarity of symbols, communication becomes equivocal. To communicate to an Australian bushman Western theories of nuclear structure is impossible, so long as the bushman has not the re- quisite preliminary foundations Of abstraction and representation. In turn, these foundations can hardly be established until the person at- tempting such communication is able tO stand on the same level of con- sciousness as does the bushman. Only when such a meeting has taken place (and its genuineness remains in doubt until tested by the outcome of the attempted communication) can the bushman traverse the road which will bring him to an understanding Of the theory. Such a process, by showing the difficulty and tenuousness of communication, emphasizes the degree to which subjective factors enter the knowing process. It also shows that the reality involved in such cognition depends to a great degree on the subjective functioning Of both parties in a communicative situation. That communication exists is, therefore, hardly a disprOOf of a subjective theory Of reality. That so much Of communication is equivocal and, in certain areas apparently impossible, lends support to a subjective view of reality. Perhaps the most striking illustration Of the limited degree to which communication is possible is found in the fundamental inability Of male and female to convey to each other matters fundamentally connected with sex differences. .A specifically male experience appears to be incom- mmnicable to a female (has no reality for her) and, conversely, a specifi- cally female experience seems to be beyond the comprehension Of the male. Yet the experience is Of uncontestable reality to the one undergoing it. It would seem that these and other problems of communication actually h8 tend to prove that reality is subjective to an extent which only gradu- ally is becoming apparent. It has been emphasized that, in spite Of a subjective analysis Of reality, some Operational concept corresponding to the "given" is, as yet, Of utmost importance in the organization of human comprehension. Pessibly the most striking illustration Of its Significance comes from a writer who places himself in categorical Opposition to pragmatic truth theory,l yet Operates in a framework which can only be termed pragmatic: It is the purpose of the organic function of thought to change and elaborate the perceptual material into those ideas, associations Of ideas and conceptual constructs which, while consistent and coherent among themselves are, as the phrase goes . . . ‘clothed in objectivity.‘2 Since, however, we do not know the Objective reality . . . but only infer it . . . we must . . . say that thought has fulfilled its purpose when it has elaborated the given sensation-complexes into valid concepts . . . and has pro- duced such a world that the Objective happenings can be calculated and our behavior successfully carried out. . . .3 Though it had.been found necessary to deny the reality Of the independent "given," its usefulness, hence existence as an instrumentality Of thought, had to be granted. A.non-pragmatist like Vaihinger describes the process in the following way: . . . many thought-processes and thought-constructs ap- pear tO be consciously false assumptions, which . . . are intentionally . . . formed in order to overcome dif- ficulties Of thought by this artificial deviation and lHans Vaihinger, The PhiloSOphy of "As If" A System Of the Theoretical, Practical and Religious Fictions Of Mankind (C. K. Ogden, translator, second edition; New York: Harcourt, Brace, and Company, 1935), p. viii. 2Ihid., p. 3. 3Loc. cit. A9 reach the goal of thought by roundabout ways and bypaths.l The 'As if' world, which is formed in this manner . . . is just as important as the world Of the so-called real or actual (in the ordinary sense Of the word); indeed it is far more important for ethics and aesthetics.2 Vaihinger's position.amounts to an endorsement Of the systematic use Of concepts for which there exists need in human conduct, but which are questionable as to their theoretical acceptability. In pragmatic terms, this constitutes an endorsement Of concepts which are true in certain contexts even though their truth changes to falsity with a change in context. The "given" illustrates exactly this type of concept. This limited use Of an independent reality does not impose the restrictions Of an absolutely independent "given." Above all, it leaves Open the possibilities of experiential change to an extent which would be incompatible with the notion of a permanently fixed component Of reality. Thus the ”given" is classed with all other working concepts and denied any higher ontological status. In this way the requirements Of the prag- matic maxim.are fully satisfied and the cogency Of the Protagorean dictum is once again demonstrated. 1Ib ' id., pp. xlvi-xlvii. Ibid. , p. xlvii. CHAPTER IV VALUE AND MORALITY A value theory can show internal consistency only if it takes into account pertinent conceptions Of knowledge and reality. Analysis Of the valuation process can not be regarded as satisfactory unless it harmonizes with a philOSOphy's epistemological and metaphysical commit- ments. Unless incOnsistency be accepted as a legitimate feature Of sys- tematic thought (a procedure which has nothing to recommend it), some points have already been established which a related value theory must take into account. Experience, human comprehension and participation, rejection of absolutes have characterized the metaphysical and episte- mological views that have been develOped. These considerations are indi- cative of the direction a value theory must take if a consistent system Of thought is to be attained. From such considerations it becomes apparent that the most profit- able approach tO the develOpment Of a value theory begins with an investi- gation of those situations in which value judgments take place. Dynami- cally speaking, motivation for all action (including the valuative one) springs from.some felt need. As Dewey puts it: Moral goods and ends exist only when something has to be done. The fact that something has to be done proves that 1 there are deficiencies, evils in the existent situation. . . . Because valuations in the sense of prizing and caring for occur only when it is necessary to bring something into lJohn‘Dewey, Reconstruction in Philosophy (New York: The New American Library, 1950), p. 136. 50 51 existence which is lacking, or to conserve in existence something which is menaced by outside conditions, valua- tion involves desiring.l When we inquire into the actual emergence Of desire and its Object and the value-property ascribed to the latter . . . it is plain as anything can be that desires arise only when 'there is something the matter,’ when there is some 'trouble' in an existing situation. When analyzed, this 'something the matter' is found to spring from.the fact that there is something lacking, wanting, in the existing situation as it stands, an absence which produces conflict in the elements which dO exist.2 Obstruction of the immediate execution Of an impulse con- verts it into a desire.3 These brief quotations introduce a value theory which attributes the origin Of the valuative process to the dynamic state Of a specific human in a specific situation. Dewey goes so far as to say that "every moral situation is a unique situation having its own irreplaceable good. . . ."h Such a position is so thoroughly consistent with the meta- physics and epistemology developed in the preceding pages that a consider- able portion, though not all, Of Dewey's theory Of values has been adOpted. With the location Of the starting point, an ethical Situation is, however, far from completely defined. Funding the moral act in the desires and needs of the individual is no more than a rather vague beginning. It excludes much material, but it fails to clarify that which remains included. lJohnDewey, Theory Of Valuation (Otto Neurath, editor-in-chief, International Encyclomdia Of Unified Science, Vol. II, NO. 1. Chicago: The University Of Chicago Press, 1939), p. 15. 2 Ibid., p. 33. 3John Dewey, Experience and Education (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1938), p. 73 hJOhn Dewey, Reconstruction in PhilOSOphy, p. 132. no a 52 It is indeterminate in its bearing upon the theory of valuation until the nature Of interest and desire has been analyzed, and until a method has'been established for determining the constituents Of desires on their con- crete particular occurrence.l Desire may be considered the partially developed form Of any im- pulse (rooted most likely in some biological source) motivating an indi- vidual. It must be noted, however, that . . . impulses are doubtless sine qua non for the existence of desires and interests. But the latter include foreseen consequences along with ideas in the form Of measures . . . required to bring the ends into existence.2 ‘Desire, according to this definition, is more than mere impulse. At least certain elementary, preliminary manipulations of the impulse have already taken place. This distinction between impulse and desire furnishes the ‘basis for the eventual exclusion of purely impulsive behavior from the moral situation. Failure to do so would make every act a moral act and, in the process, destroy the distinctiveness Of the concept, thereby mak- ing it Operationally useless. The concept Of desire describes a dynamic entity in the analysis Of the moral situation. Being dynamic, it is in the nature Of a psycho- logical force and so, Of necessity, vectorial in character.3 Like all vectors, desire is characterized by intensity and direction and it is this ‘matter Of direction which has produced numerous controversies. Perhaps the most popular position, that of the hedonists, formulates the direc- 1John Dewey, Theory of Valuation, pp. 17-18. 2Ibid., p. 18. 3Kurt Lewin, The Conceptual Representation and Measurement of Pay- chological Forces (Donald K..Adams and Helge Lundholm, editors, Contri- ‘butions to Psychological Theory, Vol. I, No. h. Durban” North Carolina: Duke University Press, 1938), p. 17. 53 tional element in terms of pleasure and pain. This, however, is likely to prove a misleading indication, unless the working hypotheses Of con- temporary biological sciences are proven wrong. Because . . . instincts and appetites exist not for the sake Of furnishing p1easure,'but as activities needed to maintain life--the life Of the individual and the Species. Their adequate fulfillment is attended with pleasure.1 The Object of desire is not pleasure, but some Object is deemed pleasurable because it is the congenial terminus Of desire.2 Thus, the direction Of desire as a psychological force is seen to exist toward some spgcific act or condition, not toward some generalized state (pleasure) of which the specific situation is merely one manifestation. A.simi1ar point must be made in relation to happiness-~whether or not happiness is hedonistically equated with pleasure. TO say that the desire of man is for happiness is only to say that happiness comes in the fulfillment of desire, the desires arising on their own account as expressions of a state Of lack or incompletion in which the person finds himself.3 SO far it can only be said that the moral situation originates in some human impulse which, through frustration, becomes a desire. The direction of such desire is toward some Specific Object or condition, the attainment Of which (other factors remaining constant) gives rise to a feeling Of pleasure. In so far as the terms "good" and "bad" are con- sidered only in an isolated situation as designators of the accomplish- :ment of some end, the satisfaction Of desire is invariably and necessarily 1John Dewey and James H. Tufts, Ethics (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1908), p. 270. 2100. cit. 3John Dewey and James H. Tufts, Ethics, p. 272. 5h "good." In actuality, however, it must be realized that desires and A. . . interests occur in definite existential contexts and not at large in a void, and since these contexts are situations within the life-activity Of a person or group, interests are so linked with one another that the valuation- capacity Of any one is a function of the set to which it belongs.1 In this more complex context it becomes apparent that the problem of moral judgment arises when conflicting interests and desires are present; when a "good" (the satisfaction of one desire) becomes ques- tionable in light of a concomitant "bad" (the frustration of a different desire). Such a conflict necessitates a dynamic concept Of a higher order than desire. It involves a comparison Of the outcomes (anticipated outcomes) Of different desires, thereby entailing the formulation of ideas relative to the consequences Of potentially diverse modes Of action. As this process takes place, desire is replaced by something more developed, more complex which is designated as a purpose. A purpose is an end-view. That is, it involves the foresight Of the consequences which will result from act- ing on impulse. Foresight involves the Operation Of in- telligence.2 Operation of intelligence in the formulation Of purpose and the role Of purpose in organizing conflicting desires makes it possible to arrive at a further delimitation Of the moral situation. The moral situation must involve an . . . activity called forth and directed by ideas Of values or worth, where the values concerned are so mutu- ally incompatible as tO require consideration and lJohnDewey, Theory Of‘Valuation, p. 19. 2John Dewey, Experience and Education, p. 78. 55 selection before an overt act is entered upon.1 This selection implies an element of choice between conflicting need satisfactions. The choice, furthermore, may be either discretionary with the acting agent or forced by some Set of circumstances. In a moral situation the choice "involves a voluntary factor."2 Arman overpowered by superior force might be physically compelled'by some ingenious device to shoot a gun at another, knowing what he is doing, but his act would not be voluntary since he had no choice in the matter. . . .3 The element Of freedom, it must be noted, is in no way dependent on a voluntaristic philosophical position. Vaihinger shows rather con- clusively the logical difficulties Of genuine voluntarism, yet demonstrates the necessity of retaining the "fiction" of freedom for the regulation of human conduct.Ll As has been shOwn earlier (sf, Chapter III), Vaihinger's "fiction" and the pragmatists' "truth in so far forth" are functionally identical, so that his argument on behalf of freedom.as a necessary con- cept in a moral situation is equally cogent in a pragmatic setting. Neither the pragmatist, nor the advocate Of the "As If" school need con- cern himself with the prOblem of absolute voluntarism. For both, genuine choice, as interpreted by the individual, is a necessity in a moral situ- ation. There is general acceptance that the lJohn‘Dewey and James H. Tufts, Ethics, p. 209. 23:31., p. 202. 3Loc. cit. LLHans Vaihinger, The Philosophy of "As If" A System of the Theo- :retflcal, Practical and Religious Fictions Of’Mankind (C. K. Ogden, trafislator, second edition; New York: Harcourt, Brace, and Company, 1935), p. 3. ‘ 56 . . . agent must know what he is doing; he must not be a somnambulist or an imbecile, or insane, or an infant so immature as to have no idea of what he is doing. He must also have some wish, some desire, some preference in the matter. The voluntary nature of the moral situation raises the problem Of acts motivated by habit. Many situations are so completely routine as a result of habituation that no conscious decision seems to Occur. The is- sues involved, on the other hand, may be of such nature as to suggest strongly the presence Of a moral factor. On the basis Of habit, a person might decide matters Of conduct purely from the standpoint of their ease of execution. Regardless of consequences, the habit may be SO strong as to render conscious decisions practically non-existent. Yet similar acts, or even the selfsame situation viewed in retrospect, may arise subsequently as subjects for moral judgment. The person, in other words, may reconsider his acts in a setting where habit does not become dominant. He then considers them.morally, approving or disap- proving. . . There is then no fixed line between the morally indifferent and the morally significant. Every act is pgtential subject-matter of moral judgment, for it strengthens or weakens some habit which influences whole classes Of judgments.2 A specific act, when resulting from pure habit, must be classed as amoral at the time of its Occurrence, but its relation to the strengthening or weakening of that same habit and the nature Of the habit itself become legitimate subjects for moral judgment. In similar fashion, the purely impulsive act is also devoid Of conscious control, hence amoral, but it also may be subject to moral considerations on subsequent re-examination. lJohnDewey and James H. Tufts, Ethics, p. 202. 2Ibid., p. 211. 57 The difficulty in drawing a line between morally significant and morally neutral situations is compounded by the dual criteria of intent and consequence. Evidently the intent of an act, when consciously per- ceived, is one aspect of a moral situation--hence the amoral character of habitual and impulsive acts at the moment of their performance. Con- versely, the consequence of an act, once such consequence is apparent, determines another aspect of the moral situation--hence the moral quality of a single act in relation to the development of habit. For example, the fact that a person may consciously and reflectively select a course of ac- tion leading to his own aggrandizement at the expense of his fellow men is definitely of moral character. His intent--regardless of his success or failure in putting it into practice--makes his decision subject to moral considerations. Another person may adopt a similar point of view on the basis of early habituation; thus the intent element is absent from the situation. The second person's decision--again without regard for any actual physical acts-awill strengthen the habit of deciding issues on the basis of self-interest. In a future instance he will be that much more likely to arrive at the same decision in a similar case. Hence judgment must be rendered in terms of the consequences which his habitual act pro- duces in future settings. From a standpoint of morality, the consequences of one action appear to be instrumental in producing the intent of the next analogous case. This linking of present consequences and future intent suggests the inadvisability of rigidly separating the two and declaring one or the other as the absolute determinant of the moral act. The uni- fication within the agent of both intent and consequences, or at least his conscious anticipation of consequences, may be the only way in which a 58 full evaluation of an act becomes possible. Once again, in ethics as in epistemology and metaphysics, the nature of the individual (man as the acting agent) appears to hold the key to an explanation of his conduct. This is the import of Dewey's statement that the . . . first quality which is the object of judgment pri- marily resides . . . in intention; in the consequences which are foreseen and desired. Ultimately it resides in that disposition or characteristics of a person which are responsible for his foreseeing and desiring just such con- sequences rather than others. The limitations inherent in habit arise, therefore, from the cir- cumscribtug the hemming in, of the ability to foresee consequences. Habit functions somewhat as an unconscious form of "special pleading," as it is sometimes called, where a person appears to see only a rather small part of potential consequences. The particular part of the total consequence field which a person sees (when acting habitually) is the segment most nearly coinciding with predilections fostered by his habit. Nor is this a general condemnation of habit in the broadest sense. It is, after all, conceivable to cultivate a habit directed to a maximal viewing of conse- quences--though this appears to stretch the meaning of the term."habit" rather far. Practically speaking, acts of habit tend to reduce the Sphere of'anticipated consequences. Human knowledge being limited, "there is no act so intelligent that :rts consequences do not run beyond its foreseen ones, and thus necessitate 2 £1 subsequent revision of intention." What is more, the cumulative effect 'bjr‘whiCh actual consequences outrun anticipated ones mounts so rapidly 1 Ibid., p. 261. 2Loc. cit. 59 (due to the variety of interactions created by each new situation) that only a constant process of change and revision promises any narrowing of the gap between anticipated and actual consequences. Unless, therefore, each decision includes successively m2£e_anticipated consequences, the net result will be a reduction of the capacity of an agent for moral ac- tion. In this context, a person who remains unchanged, without growth, actually retrogresses. Hence the "great need of the moral agent is . . . a character which will make him as Open, as accessible as possible, to the recognition of the consequences of his behavior."1 To summarize the analysis up to this point: It has been shown that a moral act arises only when an inadequacy in the existing situation gives rise to a desire; furthermore, such situations become moral only if de- sires and interests conflict and the decision between different courses of action is Open to choice. The voluntary nature of the moral situation, in turn, makes it necessary to insist upon the need for maximizing the individualis insight into future outcomes of his behavior--since only an increase in the ability to anticipate prevents the decline of voluntary behavior, with a corresponding increase of habitual responses in determin- ing decisions. In line with the theory of knowledge to which this ethical view is related, maximizing of insight depends on the activities of the individual agent. These activities, in turn, result from the character of the individual involved. Thus it appears that only a develOpment of character along expanding lines promises maintenance of or increase in the proportion of moral acts. What remains to be investigated is the 1 Ibid., p. 262. 60 process by which such an increase takes place and the nature of the indivi- dual character which is to be evaluated positively from an ethical stand- point. The clarification of these prOblems requires a return to the basic dynamic factors in the moral situation. It has been shown that the satis- faction of some desire, the removal of some difficulty, is the motivating force in ethical experiences. Since the outcome of such action can be termed "happiness," there seems to be no question that happiness "is what "1 A character, therefore, must be so formed as to men 22523 to desire. keep this goal foremost. Unfortunately not "all anticipations when re- alized are what they were expected to be."2 (The problem mentioned before-- actual consequences exceeding anticipated ones--frequently results in situ- ations where the expected happiness fails to materialize. "Hence the de- mand for some standard good or happiness by which the individual may regulate the formation of his desires and purposes. . . ."3 It is true that our . . . present happiness or distaste . . . defines for us the value of future consequences. . . . This, however, applies to any end as it happens to arise, not to the end as we ought to form it: we are still without a standard. A The question remains: What kind of character will assign value to those activities which will result in happiness in retrospect (fulfillment) as well as in anticipation? 1 Ibid., p. 27%. 2Loc. cit. 3Ibid., p. 27h. thid., pp. 278-279. 61 Can there be found ends of action, desirable in them- selves, which reénforce and expand not only the motives from which they directly spring, but also other tendencies and attitudes which are the source of happiness? Can there be fOund powers whose exercise confirms ends which are stable and weakens and removes objects which occasion only restless, peevish, or transitory satisfaction, and ul- timately thwart and stunt the growth of happiness?1 In other words: Is there a way in which character can be so developed as to distinguish illusory (transitory, short-term) from true (more perma- nent, long-term) happiness? The direction of this answer is indicated by the suggestion that the more lasting forms of happiness (parallel to moral judgments) involve activities of a constantly broadening nature. It has been stated repeat- edly that, just to remain in the same relative moral position, a person's consciousness must embrace an ever-increasing field of anticipated conse- quences. This condition draws attention to the fact that, as a minimum distinction between true and illusory good, the former must show this same expansiveness. "In form, the true good is thus an inclusive or expanding "2 Whatever a morally good character might have to be, it must find end. its positive values in some process or processes that are not static but flexible. Such flexibility, furthermore, must "move outward," be increas- ingly encompassing, rather than exclusive, contracting in nature. .A man's character, therefore, must be considered "good" when increasing possibili- ties of interaction are striven for. Interaction, in this sense, involves interaction among a man's own capacities, sensations, emotions on the one hand, and interaction with his environment (including the human environment) lIbid., p. 281+. 2Ibid., p. 286. 62 on the other. Though the environment may be merely one aspect of his own functioning (££,Chapter III), as yet, man must regard it "as if" it possessed independent reality. What is more, this increased interaction may not be restricted to the unconscious, or else the lack of conscious- ness would once again render the resulting situations amoral. Thus, as a second attribute, "good" moral character involves increased sensiti- vity to possible interactions brought to a level of conscious awareness. But conscious awareness of the implications of an act demands the ability to anticipate and the ability to make comparisons between anticipations. This factor of forethought and of preference after comparison for some one of the ends considered, is the 1 factor of intelligence involved in every voluntary act. In short, a truly moral (or right) act is one which is intelligent in an emphatic and peculiar sense; it is a reasonable act. It is not merely one which is thought of, and thought of as good, at the moment of action, but one which will continue to be thought of as "good" in the most alert and persistent reflection.2 Knowledge of the good, therefore, is not a species of knowledge mystically removed to an inspirational sphere and involving some special "moral faculty," but rather a form of knowledge like any other--hence part of the cognitive process described earlier (23: Chapter II). Nevertheless, to avoid circularity, it must be emphasized that, though knowledge of the good is a form of knowledge, the "good" itself is not. On the contrary, knowledge (i;§, true knowledge) is a form of the "good," namely that which is good in the way of belief--the ethical term is the more inclusive of the two. "True" moral knowledge might be 1 Ibid., p. 306. 2Ibid., p. 307. 63 described as that which it is good to believe about the "good." This "true" knowledge about the "good" involves the use of in- telligence in its genesis and shows constant expansion as a vital at- tribute. Based on the concept of needs, such a notion of the "good" stems from and also implies the warranted assertion that maximum growth of a person is the fundamental moral criterion of all acts. It is im- perative that this statement be regarded merely as an assertion for which adequate warrant exists. Only at the cost of complete inconsis- tency can it be made absolute. Once any ethical rule becomes absolute in the present context, knowledge of it conflicts with the epistemology (and its nature with the metaphysics) on which it is based--thereby cre- ating the paradox of an absolute resulting from a system of thought which denies the existence of such absolutes. Of necessity, furthermore, there would come into being a series of fixed ethical rules which would by their very fixity set limits to the expansive attribute of moral character. Thus a second paradox would result. If nothing else, the principle of parsimony would place any such conclusion in grave doubt. It is precisely this paradox (arising from the introduction of absolutes into a system of thought hostile to them) which makes it neces- sary to emphasize the dangers inherent in assigning any mode of conduct permanent supremacy in the moral sphere. For this reason it becomes necessary to reject in form, though not in intent, Dewey's claim that . . . the true and final happiness of the individual, the happiness which is not at the mercy of circumstance and change of circumstance, lies not in the objective achievement of results, but in a supremacy within char- acter of an alert, sincere, and persistent interest in those habits and institutions which forward common ends among men.1 It must be repeated that this objection relates to form, not to intent. Had some qualifying remark been appended to the formulation, no such ob- jection would be indicated. In fact, once qualified to allow for the possibility of revision, the statement may well be considered the cul- mination of the theory which has been developed. The reasons for this position may be summarized in the following. If maximal expansion of sensitivity, response, interaction-~and maximal consciousness of these processes--appean3to be a warranted des- cription of the "good," then only such orientations as would bring about these attributes can be classed as morally satisfactory. Furthermore, maximal response, maximal interaction (and consciousness of both) depends on a maximum.of potential connections being established between the recep- tive and active functionings of the organism (2:23 on experience being maximized). This latter condition, in turn, becomes possible only when no areas of experience are restricted or excluded from deliberate ex- pansion. Present knowledge, finally, suggests that maximal development of all these factors requires a social (rather than isolated) setting, hence the emphasis on social consequences as the optimal moral criterion must be considered warranted. Nevertheless, it must be emphasized that the reason for the ac- ceptance of this conclusion lies in two premises: (a) the "good" is the greatest expansion of man's (i.e. the sentient unit's, the individual's) 1Ibid., p. 301. develOpment in terms of the characteristics described; and (b) maximal growth becomes possible only in the social interactions of man. Both of these propositions being merely warranted assertions, subject to re- vision should their context ever change, the conclusion--that social consciousness is the legitimate standard of moral judgment--is neces- sarily hypothetical. As the hypothesis with maximal warrant under present circumstances, it falls logically within the ideational frame- work of the position here presented--leaving open the possibility of testing, revision, even rejection in light of future consequences. CHAPTER V THE AESTHETIC AND ART It has been shown previously (32, Chapter IV) that all experiences valued by man spring from some situation of need. Every need, further- more . . . is.a lack that denotes at least temporary absence of adequate adjustment with surroundings. But it is also a demand, a reaching out into the environment to make good the lack and to restore adjustment by build- ing at least a temporary equilibrium.l Such equilibrium is an extremely delicate matter, differing from all earlier balances "by the state of disparity and resistance through which [the organism] has passed."2 The term equilibrium, therefore, designates diverse states of balances in which previous imbalances become constitu- ents of an integrated whole. Characteristic of such states is the inter- action and counterposition of component forces, producing a situation in which the momentary resultant of forces is zero. Mere random arrangement of forces could hardly be expected to result in such equilibrium. The successful adjustment of the organism is, therefore, a sign that form, organized structuring of the situation, has been achieved. As Dewey puts it: Form.is arrived at whenever a stable, though moving equilibrium.is reached. Changes interlock and sustain one another. Wherever there is coherence there is en- durance. Order is not imposed from without, but is made out of the relations of harmonious interactions that lJohnDewey, Art as Experience (New York: Minton, Balch and comPaDY: 193M): P- 1h. 2Loc. cit. 66 67 energies bear to one another. Because it is active . . . order itself develops. It comes to include within its balanced movement a variety of changes.1 The requirement of form.sets apart an experience from.mere ex- periencing. In much of life, things . . . happen but they are neither definitely included nor decisively excluded; we drift. . . . There are be- ginnings and cessations, but no genuine initiations and concludi s. . . . There is experience, but not §p_ex- perience. The distinction between mere experiencing and a2_experience depends on the union of components, the organization through form.which, in the lat- ter, permeates the entire process. Because of continuous merging, there are no holes, mechanical junctions, and dead centers when we have an experience. . . . An experience has a unity that gives- it its name, that meal, that storm, that rupture of friendship. The existence of this unity is constituted by a single quality that pervades the entire experience in spite of the variation of its constituent parts. This unity is neither emotional, practical, nor intellectual, for these terms name distinctions that reflection can make within it. In discourse about an experience, we must make use of these adjectives. . . . Yet the experience was not a sum.of these different characters; they were lost in it as distinctive traits.3 Dewey designates the quality which "rounds out an experience," makes of it something unified and whole, as the aesthetic quality. Hestates that an . . . object is peculiarly and dominantly esthetic, yielding the enjoyment characteristic of esthetic lLoc. cit. 2Ibid., p. 1+1. 31-bido’ Pp. 36-370 thid., p. kl. 66 perception [1;23 the aesthetic experience], when the factors that determine anything which can be called 22. experience are lifted high above the threshold of per- ception and are made manifest for their own sake. Dewey's conception of the aesthetic experience, as the foregoing quotations show, results in an extremely broad area which bears the name aesthetic. Consequently, there arises the danger of failing to dis- tinguish between experiences of rather markedly different character. The inclusiveness of the term necessarily destroys some of its ability to discriminate. Hence a somewhat narrower conception of the term "aesthetic" will be developed for subsequent use. In order to clarify this interpretation an illustration may be of some assistance. The situation to be investigated deals with the experience of a spectator at Shakespeare's Othello. Let it be postulated that the spec- tator is conversant with the language of the performance; let it also be postulated that he is reasonably sensitive to sights and sounds; that he is capable of perceiving relationships between ideas and able to gain stimulation from viewing simulated actions. These assumptions are reasonable in terms of the usual play-goer. Such a spectator would undoubtedly be experiencing. He would be doing and undergoing, would be receiving stimuli (as this process has been interpreted in Chapters II and III), and would be interacting cognitively, emotionally, and in other ways with these stimuli. In terms of Dewey's analysis, the pertinent question would now be whether or not this experiencing is organized, whether it results in states of equilibrium, whether it has certain domi- nant characteristics unifying it into §2_experience. These factors, l o Ib1d., p. 57. u- .‘v re nut ’C -\ SKH :1 ‘\ 69 potentially innumerable, would include responses to the purely sensory aSpects of the experience. The colors of the scenery, the timbre of the actors' voices, the spatial arrangements on stage, plus numerous other factors would have to be included in this category. In addition certain cognitions are likely to be included in the experience. Information about various characters and incidents, also abstract concepts like fidelity, love, rage, punishment would become elements of the total ex- perience. More remote, but equally intense components, including asso- ciations with personal marital difficulties, past misfortunes at the hands of scheming friends, memories of hastily conceived and brutally undertaken actions, may also occur. Ethical factors relating to the spectator's own life may become part of the experience through their recollection in association with incidents of the drama. Emotional re- sponses like pity, compassion, shock may also be included. All these components do not yet guarantee 22 experience, hence also leave questions about the presence of an aesthetic experience. But if all these (and other possible) components merge into a single whole then ag_experience has taken place. Furthermore, if the experience takes place not for some ulterior purpose but for its own sake, if the component factors are the ends as well as the means of the experience, then Dewey would class the experience as aesthetic. This broad interpretation of the aesthetic experience, however, leaves room for certain objections. It includes, of necessity, a great number of factors which cannot be expected to occur in cases where the stimulating object is changed. What if instead of attending a play the audience listened to a fugue by an unknown composer and performed by an 70 unknown artist? Unless the audience is presumed to include only techni- cally trained musicians, to whom chords, sequences, patterns convey specific musical concepts (tonic, seventh chord, exposition, etc.), there certainly is little cognition which can take place. Again, unless one were to assume associations through contiguity, it is questionable whether ethical considerations would enter the listeners' experience. Similarly, inter-personal emotions like pity, affection, and compassion are not likely to be aroused. By its nature, the experience is more re- stricted, though potentially no less intense or rewarding, than the one gained while viewing the play. There still exists a certain satisfac- tion and it still is achieved in an experience divorced from the desire for overt action. Thus the same distinguishing trait is shared by both illustrations. It is this shared trait-~and no more--which will be termed aesthetic. The narrower interpretation of the concept "aesthetic" includes only such characteristics as are shared by all aesthetic experiences. If some trait is to be termed aesthetic it will have to occur in every aesthetic experience regardless of medium; conversely, regardless of this stimulating abject, an experience will be termed aesthetic if it contains these traits. This interpretation of the term.means all ex: pgriences Dewey would term.aesthetic will be so considered, but that ad- ditional ones will also be included. Contrary wise, it also means that components which Dewey would include as part of the aesthetic experience, hence as potentially aesthetic qualities, will not be so classified. The term "aesthetic experience" is thereby narrowed to include, under normal circumstances, only part of an entire experience. Recognizing, however, 71 the value of a single concept designating the entirety of such experiences, the designation "total experience" will be employed. This latter may be defined as the equivalent of Dewey's "aesthetic experience"--a complete experience, including,'but not restricted to, aesthetic components. To complete the clarification of terms, explanation of the con- cepts "aesthetic object" and "art object" seems indicated. An aesthetic Object is any Object or grouping of objects, including human figures, sounds, even optical illusions, which Operates in the capacity of stimu- lating an aesthetic experience. Its distinctive quality is the actual stimulation of such an experience, not merely its potential to do so. An art Object (work of art) is an aesthetic Object created by man, pos- sibly, though not necessarily, for aesthetic purposes. The distinction between the aesthetic Object and the art object is a crucial one, with the former requiring merely a beholder, but the latter implying a be- holder and also a creator. That under certain circumstances creator and beholder may actually be a single person does not alter this distinction, since in those cases the person involved assumes at various distinct, though possibly minute, time intervals different functions vis-aavis the object in question. The distinction between art Object and aesthetic Object draws at- tention to the fact that in discussing the aesthetic experience the ex- perience in question is viewed from.the standpoing of the appreciator. \ The word 'aesthetic' refers . . . to experience as appreciative, perceiving, enjoying. It denotes the con- sumer' 3 rather than the producer's standpoint. It is Gusto, taste; and, as with cooking, . . . taste is on the side of the consumer. . . .1 1Ibid., p. 117. 72 It is, therefore, from the perceiver's, the appreciator's, functioning in the aesthetic parts of a total experience that the characteristics of the aesthetic experience must be drawn. The restricted use of the term "aesthetic experience,‘ can best be examined in a situation where fewest non-aesthetic components are joined to it; where, therefore, the total experience consists most near- ly, though probably not totally, of aesthetic components alone. Such a situation comes about most readily when the stimulating Object is ab- stract, _i_._e. when the stimuli do not function as signs and symbols, but are perceived for their own sake. Music, non-Objective paintings, poetry in a language strange to the hearer constitute Objects Of this type. Such an abstract aesthetic object is devoid of most functions commonly regarded as communicative Of concepts, except, perhaps, of con- cepts relating to the sensuous medium itself. It is, furthermore, highly queS‘tionable to what extent, if any, these technical medium-concepts con- tribute to the aesthetic experience even of those capable of recognizing them. To the non-technician--the appreciators at large--the medium alone, Without the aid of concepts, carries the entire burden of aesthetic stimu- lation. The abstract arts, therefore, show most directly that the . . . emerience of art contains . . . the sensations which are the media of expression. In painting there are colors and lines; in a musical composition, tones; in a poem word- sounds. To this material . . . there are attached vague feelings. It is characteristic of aesthetic expression . . . that their sensuous media, quite apart from anything which they may mean or represent, are expressive of moods. It may be somewhat more accurate, in the present context, to change the \ lDeWitt H. Parker, The Principles of Aesthetics (second edition; New York: F. s. Crofts and Co., 1916), p. 113. 73 inord "expressive" in the foregoing quotation. The word as it is used by Mr. Ibmker strongly suggests communication between the creator and the appreciator. But it must be emphasized again that the present analysis approaches the aesthetic experience entirely from the standpoint of the appreciator, 3:3, as a function of his interaction with the aesthetic object. The history of that object (including the intentions of its 1nnnan.creator, if any) is a matter which may be involved in the total ex- perience but in no way has been established as part of the aesthetic ex- perience. Hence, at this time, it would be more accurate to speak of the sensations as "stimulating" rather than "expressing" moods. With this reservation it becomes evident that . . . sensation is the door through which we enter aesthetic experience . . . it is the foundation on which the whole structure rests. Without feeling for possible sensation men may be sympathetic and intelligent, but they cannot be lovers of the beautiful.1 The full import of this statement is brought to light in the reac- ticu1s of men congenitally deprived of one set of functioning sense organs. Ther'totallyblind have no way of appreciating visual stimuli; the deaf are excluded from aesthetic experiences involving music. Even partial imIM11rments, such as the varying degrees of tone deafness, present handi- cgpsi'which frequently influence preferences in favor of other media. In turTl, some physiological advantages, such as exceptional color sensiti- vitfi', may well explain ready inclination and greater responsiveness to- Van: some particular medium. Sensitivity to medium and the mere sensations, however, are not 1 Ibid., p. uh. 7t sufficient to explain the aesthetic experience. Were this the case, then all sensations would have to be classed as aesthetic, since "mood and sensations are indissoluble."l Every color, every line, every sound can arouse at least limited feelings. The nature and intensity of feel- ings is, Of course, within the perceiver; it is merely a convention of speech which, through an attribution of mood to its producing stimulus, brings about the "objectification of feeling."2 Though common speech says otherwise, sensations and their stimuli do not have, but create (more precisely, become the occasion for the creation of) moOds--mood be- ing synonymous with "vague feeling."3 Even with this clarification, the equating of sensation-stimulated moods with the aesthetic experience would still leave the latter very broadly defined. The special dis- tinguishing mark of the aesthetic experience is the unity, the form, which these sensations possess. Random sensation, though arousing mood, having feeling-tones, is too diffuse to be considered aesthetic, just as mere experiencing does not constitute 2E experience. What makes aesthetic analysis so difficult is that this "unity itself is very in- tricate and depends upon many co-operating factors."h The central quality of the aesthetic Object being a special type of unity, the aesthetic experience is,a process which involves the per- ception or recognition Of organic "wholeness." The quality in the object and the nature of the process can be summarized in the following brief 1Ibid., p. 50. 2Loc. cit. 3Loc. cit. thid., p. 67. 75 sentence: Aesthetic organization takes place when component parts of an experience are grasped as cohering into a connected whole--the re- sultant gestalt clarifying both whole and constituents. The condition leading to such organization, as well as the organization itself, here- after will be referred to as the principle of perspicuity. When an or- ganization accords with this principle, the stimuli were so selected by the artist (if the aesthetic object is an art object) as to concentrate the response of the appreciator. Should the aesthetic object be natural, the same limitation (through coincidence or through the unconscious eli- mination of extraneous stimuli) takes place. "Too great a multitude of elements, elements that are not assorted into groups cannot be grasped."1 AS the composition of areas and lines does not necessarily correspond to the landscape which it resembles, so the "division of a novel into chap- ters . . . although it may answer in some measure the objective division 0f the life-story related, corresponds much more closely . . . [to] the subJECtive need for comprehension."2 Thus one aspect of the principle 0f Perspicuity is negative, exclusive; it involves a holding down of com- POnents, a temporary elimination of vast areas of stimulation by con- SCious human act, unconscious selection, or fortuitous accident. The other aspect of the principle is positive, inclusive in func- tion- The discovery that apparently unrelated components actually do relate affords the satisfaction of perceiving order where hitherto erfitted only the insecurity of disorganization. Geometric shapes, lines \ l Ibid.,.p. 68. 2Ibid., p. 69. v .4.‘ ‘5. 1 . MI 76 which at first glance appear jumbled, yield satisfaction when unexpected subtle relationships among them are discovered. In a poem or novel, a writer'nmw'show "latent emotional harmonies among the most widely sundered things." In a musical composition seemingly unrelated sounds may be brought into congruity, dissonance resolved into consonance, thereby bringing to light unsuspected relationships. With the principle of perspicuity in command, the aesthetic experience is a process of clariikication, of completion; it is a discovery of order and attendant emotional satisfaction. Since the claim of emotional satisfaction in an aesthetic experi- ence knardly needs substantiation, the question of proof must arise in Connection with the assertion that the principle of perspicuity explains theIPI'oeess through which this satisfaction comes about. Since satis- faCtiCui clearly implies a need and need involves the frustration of some tenderucy, the matter of proof resolves itself into an affirmative answer t°1flris question: Does man strive for (what he conceives to be) order? Doesjheg consequently, wish to avoid disorder? Should it be possible to demonstrate that such a preference in favor of organization actually ex- iStS: its frustration, by definition, would constitute a need. Further- more, "whenever a psychological need exists, a system.in a state Of ten- Sion exists within the individual."2 Through a series of derivations \ 1Ibid., p. 68. Kurt Lewin, The Conceptual Representation and the Measurement of PS Chological Forces (Donald K. Adams and Helge Lundholm, editors, C_cl_n- Dributions to Psychological Theory, Vol. I, NO. 1+, Durham, North Carolina: like University Press, 1938), p. 97. 77 Lewin demonstratedl that the individual may cope with these tensions by moving out of the situation (locomotion), but that he may equally seek to release them through "the structural change in the environment."2 The aesthetic experience is precisely such a structural change; hence its conscious seeking is an attempt at restructuring the environment in order to resolve a tension state produced through frustration of some desire. If, therefore, it should be possible to establish a tendency toward intelligibility and demonstrate its frequent frustration, the dy- namic fOundations for the existence of the aesthetic experience would be established. Research into the psychology of perception has, in recent decades, evolved a conception which, to the extent that it is experimentally veri- fied, constitutes a strong endorsement of the claim that intelligibility of organization is a basic tendency among humans. Known as the law of pragganz, this theory "can briefly be formulated like this: psychologi- cal organization will always be as 'good' as the prevailing conditions allow."3 In this formulation the word "good" is left undefined, but intensive experimentation has established characteristics which give it operational meaning. It does not appear desirable to detail here the experiments through which the conception of good form.has been defined; only the findings will be reported. For experimental evidence attention 1Ibid., p. 107. 2Ibid., p. 109. 3Klurt] KOffka, Principles of Gestalt Psychology_(New York: Her- court, Brace and Company, 1935), p. 110. 78 2 and Hartmann.3 is directed to works by Koffka,l Kbhler, From the standpoint of aesthetics, probably the single most imp portant characteristic of good form is the quality of closure. Closure . . . may be formulated thus: Where A, B, C, D, are present and A B / C D yield two enclosed or completed processes and A C / B D Open and unclosed ones, then A B / C D is preferred in the perceptual response. . . .h This preference for the closed figure carries over with equal force into situations where choice between two shapes is not involved, but where a single incomplete shape is completed in the act Of perception. This ten- a e o t l t t t a a B c d.c (b) Final.Analysis FIGURE 5 Simple Episodic Form 207 20; tion and variety-through-digression which have been mentioned earlier as the basic principles Of formal organization in music. It is also to be anticipated that some mention will be made Of the increased degree Of contrast found in the simple episodic design. These statements, in turn, can furnish a transition to the third phase Of analysis. The instructor, for example, can use remarks by students to show the difference in mag- nitude Of contrast between sections "A" and "B" of the minuet in compari- son tO the slighter contrasts encountered in some of the instrumental ternaries studied previously. From this, the third phase of analysis can be entered by calling attention to the internal structure of each major unit. In this minuet it is to be expected that quite a number of listenings (with ample free discussion) will be necessary to bring into consciousness the structure of the subordinate parts. Eventually the pattern should become suffi- ciently clear so that even the limited contrasts between statement and digression (in both the principal song and episode) are perceived by the group. This process may be aided in the analysis of the aurally more dif- ficult principal song by calling attention to the shift in mode which takes place at the end of the first statement. One formal device employed in this movement may be worthy of special attention. In the discussion of binary and ternary forms there prObably has been some mention made of a £292.33 a device for rounding out the design. The occurrence of a similar device at the end of the principal song suggests the introduction of the term codetta. This con- cept may well facilitate the aural analysis of the movement, since stu- dents frequently recognize the presence of extra material without being 209 able to account for it in terms of their existing knowledge. This il- lustration, by the way, demonstrates the approach suggested to musical terminology for introductory music courses in general education. Presen- tation Of technical concepts should be determined by functional con- siderations based on the experience of the listener. If introducing a new term is likely to facilitate the organization of the students‘ musi- cal experience, then the use Of the term has positive value in the pro- gram; if no such result is anticipated, then the term (no matter how common among specialists) had better be Omitted. In this case the con- cepts ggdg_and codetta are conceived as facilitating the grouping of stimuli (promoting the perception of design), hence their introduction appeared justified. Once the three phases of analysis have been completed, students may be invited to superimpose their findings on the broad pattern derived earlier. Figure 5b shows the resulting diagram. This visual aid helps to demonstrate the virtues and shortcomings Of the kind of analysis per- formed during the process. The pertinent questions may be phrased in the following way: We now have a picture of this movement before us. It shows visually some of the things we have discovered during the time we have worked with the music. Now just how much of what we have actually heard is represented by the diagram? And what, if anything, does it fail to tell us? It is hOped that the discussion of the question will eventually clarify that the pattern reflects merely the arrangement Of musical material without suggesting anything about its nature. It is in this context 210 that the term "minuet" may be introduced to describe the rhythmic and melodic content of the design. Additional illustrations (for example, third movements from Haydn symphonies and the Symphony No. VIII by Beethoven) help to show the range of mood and style possible even with- in the limits of a single dance type. The distinction between formal arrangement and total musical design can, furthermore, be sharpened by increasing the number of applications of the simple episodic pattern. Military marches, a scherzo, a true da capo aria may be used to show the varied uses of this structure. The precise choice of works will vary, depending on the integra- tive requirements of the general education program, but the method of presentation is clearly indicated. Improvement in the students' ability to retain musical material (and hence growth in the musical experience) demands that something more than the simple playing of selections be under- taken. The compositions can be assigned to listening periods--with stu- dents asked to prepare analyses similar to the ones made of the Mozart minuet--and reports on them can include discussion of melodic, harmonic, rhythmic, textural, and structural features. These reports, furthermore, can be arranged in a way which will give individual students, or small groups, a chance to conduct class meetings based on their findings. From these reports, if desired, a large selection of integrative acti- vities can be initiated. These integrative activities embrace a variety of approaches. There is, first of all, the possibility of integration along formal (aesthetic) lines-~since a structure containing an embracing tri-partite pattern, with reasonably "closed" subordinate parts, is paralleled in 211 both literature and the visual arts. On the other hand, it may be ar— gued that the exactness of repetition which characterizes the simple episodic design is rarely found in other media, thus making the connec- tion somewhat artificial. Should this objection be considered suffi- ciently strong, alternative methods of integration may be employed. Thus an aesthetic analysis, though formal, need not be in terms of pat- tern alone, since form (the aesthetic determinant) includes consider- ably more than Spatial or temporal arrangement (2:, Chapter V). Or, if the over-all prOgram.contains historical orientations, stylistic discussions may lead to historical and cultural considerations which ex- pand some of the similar activities undertaken in connection with the smaller song-forms. Specifically, should the general education prOgram deal at some length with the 17th and 18th centuries (notably the rococo) the contributions of the music unit could include simple episodic selec- tions from suites, symphonies, divertissements, and Operas. These being both numerous and artistically of great significance in the period, a rather substantial unit could be built around this design. Advancing from the simple episodic design, it is possible to turn to»other episodic patterns of homophonic music. Since, however, these forms (the rondos) involve listening activities closely similar to the ones just discussed, it may be wise to dispense with them until such time as they occur in context of a major work selected for later study. There is, however, an episodic structure demanding somewhat different listening skills which, therefore, belongs into the unit of the course dealing primarily with skill training. This structure is the fugue. It may be argued that discussion of fugues has little place in a 212 general education program, since the fugue is idiomatically far removed from most students' realm of experience and is, furthermore, technically one of the more difficult patterns to perceive. Both of these objections have some merit, but neither can be accepted in toto. As far as the first objection is concerned it must be pointed out that fugues (or at least fugal sections) occur quite frequently in the generally available repertory (particularly if phonograph records are kept in mind), that, therefore, students are likely to encounter musical experiences which would be severely impaired if the fugue were to remain totally strange to them. Similarly, it has been pointed out (Si: Chapter VIII) that subsequent expansion of students' responses demands the inclusion of ac- tivities in the music program which are not limited by considerations of the narrowest interpretation of an existing repertory. As to the second objection, it must be admitted that any treatment of fugues which would involve detailed attention to all the intricacies of contrapuntal tech- nique is not justified in this context. If, however, the instructor keeps in mind that the primary purpose of this unit demands improvement in perception and retention of musical material; if, therefore, the study of the fugue is restricted to an analysis of the design in terms of a polyphonic episodic structure (i423 without elaborate attention to the develOpmental devices); if, finally, the fugue selected is based on a readily identifiable, melodically appealing subject, there appears to be no reason to anticipate undue difficulties. In the absence of such difficulties the favorable considerations suggest the advisability of including this design in the music program. The work suggested as a suitable object of study is one of the shorter fugues by J. S. Bach. This composition, the C Minor Fugue 213 ("Little"), has been chosen for a number of reasons. It is relatively uncomplicated in structure; it contains the full four voices best il- lustrating the expositional pattern; it has a readily identifiable, easily singable subject; and, finally, it contains an episode in the exposition which occasions a valuable demonstration of the listening process. In studying this work students benefit most substantially if they thoroughly familiarize themselves with the subject. This is best accom- plished by having the entire group sing the subject as the instructor plays it on the piano. Often it may be necessary to play the subject very slowly, one figure at a time, returning to the beginning before moving on to the next figure. It is particularly important that the final figure (the ascending scale passage) be given close attention. There may be a tendency on the part of students not to associate this final passage with the subject, thereby creating difficulties in the subsequent analysis of the eXposition. Once the group has become familiar with the subject, the instruc- tor proceeds to play the entire exposition--though without, as yet, as- signing a name to this section. Having presumably already discussed the melodic and rhythmic nature of the subject, he asks about the texture of the larger unit; the group will generally identify this as being polyphonic and imitative. Some of the more observant students may even mention the fact that along with imitation there appears to be a certain amount of free polyphony involved. During this discussion it may be helpful to introduce (and illustrate) the term "counter-subject." Though it is not likely that students will learn to sing so instrumental a theme, a number 21h of conclusions can be drawn from its examination. Students can be asked what functions a counter-subject seems to perform and what considerations the composer will, therefore, have to keep in mind while composing it. Since it should be apparent that a counter-subject must offer a good continuation and also a good polyphonic "accompaniment" in relation to the subject, students can focus their listening on both melodic and har- monic features. This dual concentration (first, probably, alternatively-- later simultaneously) is, of course, the most essential feature required in listening to polyphonic compositions. Thus it may be worth some ef- fort to accomplish it in context of brief examples (such as this subject and counter-subject) where it is uncomplicated by the requirement of re- taining long passages in memory. Once the subject and counter-subject have been examined, attention may be directed to the handling of each voice after it has completed both themes. If there are students present who play the piano (even with one hand), they can be invited to the instrument and each be asked to play a single voice. Combining their efforts into the total texture, it can be heard that considerable free polyphony occurs during the course of the exposition. After such a performance the instructor can show that the composer has introduced his major thematic material (subject and counter- subject) and also established the number of voices he is to use; that he has, therefore, eXposed to View the basic resources to be employed in the composition. Such a unit can then be identified as the exposition of a fugue. The remainder of the analysis should be sufficiently simple that students are able to perform it. They are only asked to identify all sections in which the subject occurs (these may, but need not, be labelled by the term "re-entry"), and all those in which different material is heard. Since the term is already a familiar one, such new material can be designated as forming episodes, thereby establishing the fugue as an episodic design. To what extent the nature of episodic material is discussed, also the degree to which various contrapuntal techniques are explained, will depend on the interest of the group. Generally Speaking, a conservative estimate of interest is most profitable since, ter all, acquaintance with details of the design is subordinate to the improvement in hearing and retaining musical material accruing through simple aural analysis. In connection with aural experiencing this fugue can, however, illustrate quite dramatically the value of improved hearing. This has been demon- strated in at least two teaching situations:l After completing the aural analysis of the entire fugue, the instructor returns again to the exposi- tion. He then invites the class to indicate when they feel each entry of the subject should occur--regardless whether it actually appears. Since in this composition (as so often in his works) Each has introduced a short episode in the exposition, most students will call for the third appearance of the subject well in advance of its actual presentation. Their subsequent remarks usually reflect the tensions produced by the delay and the increased gratification caused by the eventual entrance of the subject. It may be expected that many students will for the first time become conscious of the change that increased perception and improved ability to retain perceptions has wrought in their listening experience. 1 University of Florida (The Humanities) and Michigan State College [now Michigan State University] (Literature and the Fine Arts). The analysis of the Fugue in G Minor will probably be facilitated if each structural discovery is pictured on the blackboard. Such a pro- cess will assist students to retain in memory the aural experience and will also expedite references during the discussion. To be sure, this means that at various stages the diagram on the board will be incorrect, since it is not to be expected that every student remark will contribute to an accurate analysis of the work. This, however, is not a disadvantage. The function of the diagram is simply one of aiding the listening process. This is best accomplished when it accurately represents what students hear--or think they hear--at a given time. Any errors will actually be helpful by indicating to the instructor where and in what way the listen- ing skills of his students are still in need of improvement, while the modifications brought about through the eventual rectification of errors help to demonstrate to students the changes taking place in their own listening experience. Not until the class has genuinely heard the com- position will this diagram coincide with one prepared on the basis of a formal analysis of the score. Thus Figure 6 represents only the final version of such a picture. Up to this time the activities dealing with formal analysis have employed compositions in essentially episodic forms. To be sure, the fugue illustrated a certain amount of thematic develOpment, but the analy- sis stressed those aspects of design which emphasized thematic digression (for variety) and thematic repetition (for unity). Yet one of the most common organizing techniques in music involves the evolutionary treatment of material--a formal principle, therefore, in which unity still is the function of thematic repetition, but variety is achieved not by new the- matic content but through changed treatment of the theme itself. Thus 217 _zmappaq=l noun: a an msmsa m.sosm m mmaoHa m .m.o .m mash .m.o .m A.nbsmv A.nssmv A.nn:mv A.nsamv A.npamv swam m .m.o .m .m .m .m .mm .m .m .m .mm .m .m .4 .mm .m .m .m .mm .m .m .N .am aoHpHmoaxm the next step in the growth process of students involves the extension of their listening ability to structures where they must aurally experience differences in spite of thematic similarities and unifying similarities in spite of changed contexts. Coupled with this improvement in hearing there exists the need to provide conceptual frameworks for musical de- signs not based on episodic patterns. Both of these requirements can be met by an examination of the variation-form design.1 This design, consisting of a single theme and its variations, can be introduced through a number of musically and pedagogically at- tractive works. Moore and McGeoch2 start their discussion with Handel's Air and Variations ("The Harmonious Blacksmith"), Bernstein3 with the second movement from Haydn's Symphony in G Major ("Surprise"), while u Newman presents various methods of variation, illustrating each with a different example. COplandS does not tie his discussion to a master- piece of musical literature, but to a set of variations he composed on 6 the opening measures of the song Ach Du Lieber Augustin. There are at least five reasons recommending Copland's procedure in a course such as is outlined in this study. There is, first, a great deal to be said in 193, Chapter VIII for an explanation of this terminology. 2Earl V. Moore and Glenn.McGeoch, Syllabus of Outlines and Nateri- als for Introduction to Musical Literature (Ann.Arbor, Michigan: Univer- sity of Michigan, 19h6), pp. 5-7. 3Martin Bernstein, Op. cit., pp. lhh-th. uWilliam S. Newman, op. cit., pp. 175-191. 5Aaron COpland, op. cit., pp. 92-9h. 6Ibid., pp. lhO-lhh. favor of tying explanations of a new formal pattern to a composition so completely removed from pretentiousness. Secondly, a considerable sav- ing in time and student energy can be realized by selecting a variation- form in which the theme is already familiar to the class. Thirdly, COp- land's variations clearly demonstrate the most common devices of varia- tion, without encumbering them with complicating (though aesthetically valuable) distractions. Fourthly, the composition in question is short, making, therefore, only modest demands on the students' gradually develOp- ing ability to retain thematic material in memory. Finally, this work constitutes a departure from the rather serious atmosphere of the works studied just previously, thereby furnishing a welcome change in the class atmosphere. Such a series of advantages makes the work an almost ideal Object of study in situations where the student pOpulation is made up largely of musical unSOphisticates. Nevertheless, it is desirable to approach this composition in a fashion which does not treat the listening process lightly. A serious preoccupation with the musical features, however, is not to be confused with an inappropriate sententiousness. It simply means that in.examin- ing the component parts of the aural experience just as much care is needed as if a less humorous selection had been selected. As a start, the customary investigation of the theme must be undertaken. This in- volves some concentration on melodic (including modal), metric, textural, and structural features. By now students should have advanced far enough in their studies to discover these qualities with a minimum of help from the instructor. It may even be suggested that the class, rather than the instructor, select the features to be examined. A statement by the in- structor may set this process in motion: 220 We have been listening to all kinds of music during our previous meetings. Sooner or later it has always been neces- sary to put into words the important characteristics of a musical selection. I am now going to play the theme of this composition. Sing along with me, then describe the music in terms you think will do most to show its important features. It is to be expected that this process will yield, along with sub- jective comments, the information that the theme is singable, of limited range, in the major mode, and concluded by an authentic cadence. It will also be described as being in triple meter, of homophonic texture, and, though not in any of the patterns studied, quite repetitive in structure. The results of this discussion can be pictured on the blackboard in some fashion similar to Figure 7a. Once the theme has been described, the instructor can play both the theme and the full set of variations on the piano. Student comments on the work are likely to identify at least scme of the salient features of the music. There will probably be quite widespread recognition of the fact that the selection is dominated by a single theme (though some stu- dents may mistake the third and fourth variations for an episode) and that the major means of producing variety is something other than the in- troduction of new material. There may be some question about the number of changes the theme has undergone, in which case the work must be re- peated until a fair degree of unanimity is achieved. Once the group recognizes the number of changes it becomes pos- sible to discuss the nature of each variation. This process can be facilitated by playing the composition one variation at a time. Generally 221 THEME Meter: Triple. Mode: Major. Range: Limited. Structure: Repetitive. Termination: Authentic cadence Character: Singable melody. FIGURE 7a Theme of Variation Form 222 speaking, little difficulty need be anticipated with the first variation. Though no change in the type of texture has taken place, students tend to hear rather readily the fuller harmonies provided. The second variation may be mistaken by some as a change to full polyphonic texture. Should this be the case, earlier studies in texture can be reinforced by il- lustrating the potentialities of enriched homOphony, where, however, the dominance of a single melodic line still prevents a shift to polyphony. The third variation, by eliminating the melodic line, concentrates atten- tion on the harmonic skeleton. Students may, as a result, deny the presence of the theme. Should this be the case, it can be made the occasion for further sharpening of musical perception. By repeating the theme and gradually (instead of abruptly, as Copland has done) abstracting the har- monic content, this variation can be used to enrich the students' insight into the melody-harmony relationship. Having once clarified the relation- ship Of melody and harmony, the fourth variation can be identified with ease as consisting of a change in harmonization. The fifth, sixth, and seventh variations, being melodic, are easy to hear. They are, respec- tively, constructed by increasing, then decreasing floridity, and finally shifting the melodic line to the bass part (positional change). The eighth variation shows the possibilities of rhythmic (including metric) change, while the ninth variation employs textural changes. This last variation can be elaborated to any degree desired to provide a suitable ending for the work. The analysis can be summarized in a diagram similar to the one shown in Figure 7b. On inspecting this representation it becomes evident that every element, with the exception of tone color, has been used Theme. Ach Du Lieber Augustin. Variation I. Continued homOphony, but changed harmonization. Variation II. Continued homOphony, but enriched by more linear accompaniment. Variation III. Elimination of melodic line, emphasis on harmonic skeleton. Variation IV. Change in the chord structure. Variation V. Changes in melody, line now more florid. Variation VI. Changes in melody, line now less florid. Variation VII. Change in melodic position, melody now in bass. Variation VIII. Changes in rhythm, meter now duple. Variation IX. Change in Texture to polyphony, including both free and imitative features. FIGURE 7b Complete Variation Form 223 22b to produce variety, while unification was provided primarily by reten- tion of the single theme. This principle, totally at variance with the methods of organization discussed previously, can next be illustrated by a series of compositions. Fishburnl suggests a number of suitable examples which may be discussed in class and assigned to individual students (or small groups) for analysis and report. From these reports integrative activities, similar to the ones suggested in connection with the episodic design, may be initiated. As there, so here, the direction and extent of integration depends on the over-all organization of the general education program. In assessing the contributions of this second unit of the sug- gested sample program, it is clear that the major effort has been directed to the achievement of growth in retaining musical stimuli. This means that the points receiving only incidental attention in the previous unit (points six and eight in Chapter VIII) determined the greater part of the activities in this section of the course. Considerable emphasis has, however, been placed on the necessity of continuing to improve students' ability to perceive stimuli presented in terms of the four musical ele- ments (point five), so that this unit may also be viewed as a further development of activities instituted previously. Similarly, attention has remained centered on the experiences of students, thereby retaining the emphasis on the learner, as distinct from a postulated abstract de- mand inherent in the subject matter (point two). The choice of selec- tions represented the dual requirement of proceeding in terms of a repertory available to students in their historical and geographical l Hummel Fishburn, op. cit., pp. lh2-lh3. setting, while also Opening the way for growth toward less commonly encountered idioms (points three and four). Point seven (requiring that stimulation be offered in terms of musical gestalt) was neces- sarily observed, since the activities could not otherwise be under- taken, while point nine (referring to integration) has been touched upon rather extensively in connection with activities arising from the study of various designs. In retrospect, therefore, it seems clear that of the nine points constituting the topic organization of a music sequence (cf, Chapter VIII) all but two (points one and nine) have received intensive attention in one or both units of the sample program. It has also been stated (Si: Chapter VIII) that of these two the first (dealing with exploratory activities) would necessarily fall outside the scope of this study, since no eXperimental projects were envisioned as part of this undertak- ing (3;. Chapter I). Similarly, it has been shown (93. Chapters VII and VIII) that no single basis for integration could be suggested in the con- fines of this study, since this would involve the outlining of the full general education program. The alternative proposal, of suggesting vari- ous possible lines of integration, has been accomplished in both of the units presented above. Thus it would seem that all points involved in a music program have been explored in the two units of the sample course to the extent compatible with the restrictions imposed previously. Nevertheless, a program containing no more than what has been outlined thus far would fail to meet the basic objectives in one serious respect. Up to this time only a limited improvement (in terms of intensification and expan- sion) of the students' listening experience has taken place. Although 226 a beginning has been made in every direction proposed, it is questionable how far this beginning could be exploited by students without further classroom assistance. In other words, the program must be regarded as incomplete so long as sufficient activities have not taken place to es- tablish more firmly the gains made in the first two units. This is par- ticularly evident when the relative paucity of designs thus far discussed is kept in mind. Possibly the most fruitful musical structure of the past two centuries (the sonata-form) has not yet received attention; vocal music, notably Opera, has appeared, if at all, only incidentally; and compositions covering a substantial time-span have generally been avoided. It is, therefore, to a remedying of these deficiencies that the third, and final, unit of the sample program must turn. CHAPTER XI A SAMPLE PROGRAM.-- EXTENDED APPLICATION OF LISTENING SKILLS After completing the two units outlined in Chapters IX and X, the course will have lasted (depending on the number of meetings per week) something between six and twelve weeks. In most situations, therefore, there remains only a limited amount of time during the semester (or quarter) in which to cement the gains made in the students' listening experience. Since this sample prOgram is presented without time being reserved for formal integration, it is to be expected that the class can continue to operate together for about twenty more meetings before the first music course will have to be terminated. The availability of this time is both an Opportunity and a handi- cap. As an Opportunity it means that at least some further reinforCement of the skills and habits acquired can still be undertaken; conversely, the brevity of the time remaining imposes limitations on the nature and amount of musical works which can be presented. It is hardly possible to include all the forms, styles, and idioms which even the generally available repertory has to offer; it is quite impossible to present a program.which transcends this repertory to any significant degree. Finally, when the general education program.is viewed as a whole, includ- ing all the contributions music can make to the understanding and ap- preciation of man's cultural and historical develOpment, it appears that the time remaining is totally inadequate to make ambitious plans for the exploitation of these possibilities. These considerations seem to indicate that the introductory music sequence must be followed by additional musical offerings. These are to 227 228 encompass activities made possible by the gains achieved in the initial music course, but which demand a period of instruction well in excess of the time remaining in a single semester or quarter. Thus the final unit of the present program may be regarded as final only in the sense that it concludes a period of instruction customarily assigned to a college course. Actually it is a phase of transition to further educational enterprises in which music has a major part to play. This, however, makes the selection of any particular group of compositions for the third unit of the sample program highly tentative. Without knowing the nature and extent of subsequent music offerings, it is hardly possible to estab- lish the direction in which this transition is to move. Furthermore, the literature of music is so rich that, even if the direction of develOpment were known, there would remain dozens, even hundreds of compositions which could function as stimuli for desired musical experiences. Thus the limited number of works which can be presented in the time remaining must always constitute a more or less arbitrary choice from the wealth of material available. The considerations which governed the process of selecting objects of study for the remainder of this sample course were the following: . . . first . . . that music, although shOpworn to the average musician [is] new to these listeners. Even the old war horses [can be] a new listening thrill. . . . Second, they must be favorites of the teacher. This may seem to be a strange requirement . . . but teacher en- thusiasm . . . [is] a great factor in class response. . . . Third, the music should be an Obvious illustration of the point under discussion. Fourth, in view of the limited capacities of some of the students too great a progress . . . [should] not be expected. . . . . Fifth, the selections used for listening must have variety. 229 Sixth, for best results they should not be arranged chronologically. Thus Wagner often rubs elbows with Prokofieff and Schubert . 1 Having once selected the compositions, there remains the problem of presenting them in a fashion conducive to maximum.student growth. This study has stressed repeatedly'(2£, Chapters VI, VII, and VIII), and demonstrated specifically (git Chapters IX and X), the need to introduce material in a way promising the most favorable valence develOpment of the student group. It appears, therefore, that this requirement can now be taken for granted. Thus, for the sake of brevity and clarity, analy- sis of these compositions will be shown largely through illustrative di- agrams, with textural comments on the conducting of classes kept to a minimum, Thereby, it is hoped, it will be possible to focus attention on the function to be served by each musical selection, without the dis- traction of having to outline the steps to be taken in accomplishing this purpose. Where some departure from procedures described earlier becomes necessary, or where some pedagogical device of particular help- fulness may be used, the suggested method of presentation will, of course, be indicated. The first composition to be included in this unit is Benjamin Britten's Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra. The choice of this work was determined by seven considerations. First, it requires students to concentrate their attention over a substantially longer time-span than any of the selections discussed thus far. Second, it facilitates this concentration by a structural pattern (variation-form) with which the 1 Marion Loveless, "The Liberal Arts College Music Appreciation Course," Education, 69:h38-khh, March, l9h9. 230 group has already become familiar. Third, it offers further assistance to concentration through the clear color differentiation of the subsidi- ary units (thereby utilizing a listening skill intensively cultivated in the first unit). Fourth, it presents additional experience in listening to the only polyphonic design hitherto discussed (the fugue). Fifth, it constitutes a musical experience in the contemporary idiom without, how- ever, involving the more difficult, less directly appealing, aspects of that idiom. Sixth, it is a composition, study of which combines familiar activities with the difficulties of an increased time-span. Seventh, it is a composition which may be regarded as sufficiently significant musi- cally to serve as stimulus for an aesthetic experience. The final point may, perhaps, demand some clarification. It would be unprofitable to engage in a critical dispute about the artistic merits of the various compositions included in the sample program. PrObably not a single illustration could be chosen which could not be attacked by some critic as either aesthetiCally worthless or of such little worth as to make other pieces of music preferable for programs Operating under severe limitations of time. No piece of music is herein advanced as being of such surpassing aesthetic-value that its place in the program can be justified on grounds of ultimate superiority over alternative choices. In fact, the philosOphic orientation of this study forbids any such claim. On the other hand, certain requirements have been stated (in Chapter V) which an experience must meet in order to be classed as aesthe- tic. At that time it was stressed that any work (natural or man-made), interaction with which resulted in an aesthetic experience, would be termed an aesthetic object. It also was emphasized that the aesthetic 231 experience is the experience of the participator, the recipient, not an experience determined by pre-existing, abstract rules of organization. Thus the requirements amounted to analyses of a living human being's processes while interacting with the object and not to prescriptions based on fixed rules determined by a group of experts. To be sure, in one respect education constitutes an attempt to change a person's ex- perience so as to make it more akin to that "of the skilled, mature person,"1 but it cannot be claimed that this gimlis also the description of a learner's statg_at a given moment in the educational process. Therefore, in appraising the aesthetic nature of a particular composi- tion, judgment must always be made in terms of the person whose experi- ence is under investigation--in this case the general education student. Since the very reason for a student's presence in this phase of the pro- gram.is his lack of musical development it must be presumed that compo- sitions which, perhaps, to the sophisticates are-~through familiarity or simplicity-~no longer preferred aesthetic objects, may for those very reasons be singularly apprOpriate stimuli for his aesthetic eXperience. All a more skilled person can do is formulate hypotheses about the pro- bability of a work producing an aesthetic experience in interaction with a particular person (or group). Thus the judgment about Britten's com- position--as about all items in this program--has to be interpreted in terms of the student population envisioned for the program and not taken as a value judgment sub specie aeternitatis. With this understanding, there appears ample reason to claim aesthetic value for the selection lJohnDewey, EXperience and Education (New‘York: The Macmillan Company, 1938), p- 87. 232 under discussion. The analysis of Britten's Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra is shown in Figure 8. In deriving this analysis it is, as before, sug- gested that students be encouraged to develop the pattern from their own aural experience. Having had considerable practice in listening to tone color and also the variation-form design, they should have a fairly easy time in perceiving the structure. There are, however, three items which may require special attention. First, some difficulty often arises in establishing a suitable conceptualization of the first section. As the diagram shows, Britten first introduces the Purcell theme in the full orchestra, then performs it (with very slight changes) in settings for each of the orchestral choirs, and finally returns it in a fully orchestrated version. It is possible to treat each of these appearances (barring the initial one) as a variation, thereby retaining the "purity" of the variation-form pat- tern. This, however, seems little justified by the musical effect achieved. Individual class members may vary in their Opinion whether the color changes (with so few other differences in treatment, except, perhaps, in the percussion version of the theme) should really be termed variations. The instructor can assist in the discussion by pointing out that the final authorities on the structural analysis of any work are the composer and the listener. The former can, and frequently does, de- part from.the textAbook pattern for reasons which seem to him musically justified. The latter, by creating his own reference points, can struc- ture his experience in an aesthetically satisfying way without conform- ing to an abstract theoretical plan. So long as the resultant structure, Theme. Full Orchestra Solemn, yet lively, melody by Purcell. Theme repeated. WOodwind choir; upper instruments have melody. Theme repeated. Brass choir; horns and trumpets have melody. Theme repeated. String choir; violins and violas, then cellos have melody. Theme repeated. Percussion choir; tympany have frag- ment of melody. Theme repeated. Full orchestra. Variation I. Flutes and piccolo; strings, triangle and harp acc. Variation II. Oboes; accompanied by strings. Plaintive dialogue. Variation III. Clarinets; accompanied by plucked strings. Playful, gay Variation IV. Bassoons; accompanied by side drums, strings. Jocular march mood. H Variation V. Violins; brass, bassoon, and drum acc. Polish dance. J Variation VI. Violas; horns, trombones, tuba acc. Dark, slow, somber. Variation VII. Cellos; violas, clarinet, harp accompaniment. Lyrical, rich quality. Variation VIII. String basses; woodwinds and tambourine acc. Gay caricature of theme. Variation IX. Harp; string brass, cymbal, gong acc. Ornate. Variation X. French horns; harp, strings, tympany acc. Chordal interlude effect. Variation XI. Trumpets; side drum and strings acc. Fast, fragmentary. Variation.XII. Trombones and tuba; woodwinds, string bass, trumpet, acc. Variation XIII. Percussion; large sample of percussion and "special effects" group. Variation XIV. Fugue for full orch.; instruments in previous order. Theme returns in brass. FIGURE 8 Benjamin Britten: Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra 231+ besides being aesthetically satisfying, is also consonant with the to- tality of his aural experience, the divergence from a traditional pat- tern is, to him, of no significance. In this instance it may be prefer- able to combine the entire first section into a single unit, treating it as the statement of the theme with repetitions, rather than breaking it down into a thematic statement with five variations. Should, however, the class experience the section otherwise, there appears no good reason to insist on this analysis. Second, there may be some confusion about the thematic material in some of the variations (Variation IV, for example), where, as a re- sult of melodic changes, students tend to lose track of the theme--there- upon classing such units as episodes. Should this be the case, it is sug- gested that the instructor play the theme on the piano and, progressing gradually, demonstrate the relationship between the theme and its modified versions. This occasion can be used to stimulate discussion about the various ways in which thematic changes (develOpment) can take place. The ensuing gains not only contribute to a clearer conception of the composi- tion at hand, but also prepare the way for the subsequent introduction of the sonata-form. Third, some groups may find it hard to account for the structure of the final variation. By now, most students should recognize the pres- ence of imitative polyphony and, similarly, should have little doubt about the fugal nature of the variation. The introduction (in the brass) of the original theme, however, can cause some comment. Here the flexibility of the fugal structure can be emphasized by calling attention to the effects attained through the introduction of a major theme different from the sub- ject. Furthermore, the reappearance of the Purcell theme makes it pos- 235 sible to speak of the unification achieved by this variation in relation to the entire composition-~the triumphant entry of the original theme functioning akin to the re-statement of a ternary (or da capo of a simple episodic) pattern. Discussion of this feature also helps to direct atten- tion to the over-all formal unity of the work and to the many ways in which composers can employ the unity-through-repetition principle. Some comments on individual variations not only promote the aural experiencing of this composition, but can also assist in the formation of some tentative hypotheses about the nature of the contemporary musical idiom (or, at any rate, one branch of it). Humor, notably in the form of caricaturing earlier styles, so typical of certain contemporary composers (such as Prokofieff), can be shown in connection with variation XIII; melodic and harmonic deviations from earlier models emerge tellingly in Variation I; while the contrast between the contemporary and the baroque idiom.becomes striking indeed when placing the final variation in juxta- position with the fugue studied previously (c_f_‘_. Chapter x). Should it be desired, integration with various other media in the arts can occur al- most spontaneously. Painting, architecture, literature all offer fruit- ful parallels for discussion. From the arts, in turn, integrative acti- vities reaching into the social sciences can be originated. The very ec- lecticism of this composition makes it easy to establish justifiable con- nections between it and human eXpressions of the most varied sort. The next Object of study, Tschaikowsky's Romeo and Juliet, was selected initially for its suitability in leading to the study of the sonata-form. In addition, this composition has a number of other fea- tures to recommend it. It is written in an idiom which, in spite of the lamentations of critics, continues to attract beginning listeners more 236 readily than some of the more subtle styles. It represents an additional step in perceiving, retaining, and organizing aural stimuli--since a time- span about equal to that of the Britten work must be traversed without the aid of the clear sectionalization found in the variation-form. Romeo and Juliet also constitutes an introduction to a field of music (program music) not previously included in the course. Finally, this work makes possible particularly fruitful integrative activities in connection with the emotional orientation of its style. At first it may seem surprising that Romeo and Juliet should be the recommended introduction to the sonata-form. The pattern is, after all, less clear in this romantic composition than in almost any classi- cal symphony. Similarly, the program content, if mentioned, may be thought to obscure structural features of the design. It also could be argued that the intense emotionality of the work militates against the kind of aural concentration needed to grasp a new musical pattern. These objections, though logical of the subject matter, are not applicable to the teaching situation as it exists in the projected gene- ral education music course. Here the governing consideration must con- tinue to be the anticipated reSponse of students. Thus, the fact that the idiom (and the work itself) leads one to anticipate strongly favor- able valences is in itself almost sufficient to select this work as the initial composition exemplifying the design. Of equal significance is the fact that the program content makes it possible to arrive at an anal- ysis without introducing new terminology. Thus it becomes possible to separate into successive phases the two new elements involved in present- ing the sonata-form (2:33 the new aural experience and the new concep- tual framework). As a result, a situation in which students are con- 237 fronted simultaneously with multiple unknowns can be avoided. Thus the logic of the learning process suggests that the sonata-form'be approached through a composition of this type. This procedure is reflected by the analysis shown in Figure 9. The pattern resembles an enlarged ternary (or simple episodic) struc- ture, in which the digressive section contains modifications of old material. It also shows two Optional sections (introduction and Boga) already familiar to students. The customary terminology of the sonata- form, therefore, has not yet been introduced, while the aural experi- encing of the design has already occurred. This will make it possible to evolve later the pattern for sonata-form from two familiar concepts-- the simple episodic form and the programatic analysis of Romeo and Juliet. It is desirable that, concurrently with the analysis of structure, intensification of perception be emphasized. The nature of thematic material (notably the features which create the contrasts between the two "Love" themes, "Romeo" and "Juliet," and the ”Feud" theme), the changes affected in themes during the course of the composition, certain modulations, tone color, harmonic effects (particularly the handling of consonance and dissonance) all can be useful "ear training" activities. At the same time, the analytical process itself demands constant sharpen- ing of the students' ability to retain a considerable variety of material. Aurally speaking, this is probably the most significant new factor in the experience, since in this composition more themes, with a greater variety of contrasts, have to be kept in mind over a more protracted period of time than in any work so far presented. The purely aural part of the experience is, therefore, challenging enough without increasing the Introduction "Friar Lawrence" theme. dominated by low instruments. Builds to climax, then subsides. .4 fl Slow, hymn-like, é. "Feud" theme stated first in woodwinds, strings and horns, then treated by various other instruments. Series of climaxes, then calm. "Romeo" and "Juliet" themes. Former in Eng. horn and viola, latter in strings. Numerous interchanges and modified repetitions. r— A. ‘ tension is felt. tn Does not contain new material, but modified treatment of “Friar Lawrence" theme and "Feud" theme, with the latter dominating. Builds to great intensity. Frequently only the rhythm of the "Feud" theme is heard, but even so great A HP "Feud" theme dominates. "Romeo" and "Juliet" themes, but in reversed order, also other elements of variety f—fi Coda Based mainly on "Romeo" and "Juliet" themes at first, then "Feud" and "Friar Lawrence" themes. End balances mood of introduction. FIGURE 9 P. I. Tschaikowsl : Romeo and Juliet 238 239 difficulty through new terminology. It is to be anticipated that, even in courses where formal inte- gration is postponed to a later date, a good deal of incidental inte- gration will occur during the discussion of this composition. Immedi- ately apparent are the comments necessitated by the program content. Some mention will have to be made of the literary source, as well as the differences in expression between the verbal and the musical art. In this connection it may be advisable to raise questions about the dif- ferences between program music and (so-called) absolute music--though not necessarily introducing these terms. Students should be encouraged to examine their listening experience to determine whether, without oral or written communication, the work would have conveyed any non-musical concepts. It may well be desirable to furnish additional illustrations to demonstrate the issues involved. Similar incidental integration is likely to arise while examining the themes in Romeo and Juliet. Con- trasting the material with that of works in the previous unit (examining, for example, the dynamic and color balances employed by Tschaikowsky in comparison with those in the Mozart minuet) will almost certainly yield stylistic conclusions which have application well beyond the field of 'music. From these beginnings more elaborate formal integration can then be undertaken. Should it be desired, stylistic, hence historical, and also aesthetic approaches appear particularly promising. The latter, furthermore, (through the implied value judgments of aesthetic orienta- tions)can be expanded into integration along broad philOSOphic lines. Should these integrative efforts not move too far afield, the course can continue with a further develOpment of student listening 240 experiences in relation to the sonata-form. The work suggested for this purpose is the first movement of Mozart's Symphony No. 39 in E Flat EEQEE: Here again a great number of alternative choices could be made; there are, however, a number of features which make this work, though not an exclusive, nevertheless a preferred choice. Probably the strongest factor favoring this selection is its thematic content. The two subjects are clearly differentiated, the transitional material, by and large, is sufficiently unlike the sub- jects to be readily distinguishable, cadential devices are emphatic (thereby facilitating the recognition of structure), and the develop- ment section is rather brief and uncomplicated. A.further advantage, after having just studied Romeo and Juliet, is the fact that this move- ment contains both an introduction and a ggda, thereby facilitating the recognition of structural similarities between the two compositions. The contrast in themes, orchestration, and emotional atmosphere between the Mozart work and Tschaikowsky's provides, furthermore, desirable variety in the course and also makes it possible to branch out (if desired) into a discussion of period styles. Should time permit, it is also possible to include the remaining movements in the program.(there- by providing the experience of listening to an entire symphony) without introducing any new designs. Finally, the composition is of a musical caliber few critics could attack, while at the same time remaining emi- nently accessible to the beginning student. It is suggested that study of this work be started with an aural analysis of its structure-4based entirely on the thematic content. It is only to be expected that several playings of the movement will be 2L1 necessary for even an approximation of the pattern to emerge, but these repetitions should eventually result in an analysis which resembles Figure 10a. This diagram, though still quite far removed from the structure of the sonata-form, identifies, in embryonic form, the tri- partite organization of the design, while also indicating that the main unit is preceded by a contrasting, slower introductory section. The next step in analysis is designed to increase the differen- tiation of the large areas. In this connection it may be wise to con- centrate first on the exposition alone. If sufficient discussion is en- couraged, students should be able to develOp the pattern of two distinct subject areas, connected by transitional material. During this activity it may not be too sanguine to hOpe that, in addition to an improvement of perceptive and retentive skills, students will begin to perceive the distinction between thematic and connective material. This process can be sharpened by emphasizing (if need be on the piano) the cadential and scale sequences associated with transitional material. This, in turn, also helps to distinguish the codetta at the end of the second subject, where the use of cadence formulae gives clear indication of the function served by the unit. Thus the next step in analysis may be pictured in a diagram similar to Figure lOb. Having once progressed this far, it becomes possible to compare the exposition with the recapitulation (which, at this stage, still in- cludes the £222). Probably the first thing mentioned by students will be the fact that the recapitulation appears to contain an extra part at the end. This part is similar in nature to the codetta, in that it also induces a feeling of completion. It would be surprising indeed if some Introduction Slow, dignified section, using full (if relatively small) orchestra. Extensive use of scale passages Anticipation built at end to lead to movement proper. ’1 A A rather substantial section containing material sufficiently differentiated to suggest the presence of several themes, or even groups of themes. #— B No new material, but definitely modified use of themes heard previously. e==r——s A. Largely repetition of the original version of this material. Appears to be somewhat extended near the end. FIGURE 10a W. A. Iozart: Symphony No. 39 in E Flat Major Preliminary Analysis of First Movement First Subject Starts in lilting waltz-like fashion. Appears to be more nearly a group or area of themes, rather than a single melody. Leads to a climax of modest prOportions. Transition Largely scale passages and similar connecting material. Near end a series of figures stress cadence. The entire section seems to stress motion towards some destination. Second Subject Another group of musical ideas con- trasting rather lyrical material with more tense, dramatic unit b ...................... Codetta Scale passages and similar material lead to sharply accented cadences. W. A. Mozart: FIGURE 10b Symphony No. 39 in E Flat Major Exposition of First Movement 2 4 3 student, after the experiences provided in the previous unit (23: Chapter X), did not suggest that the section in question provides a conclusion to the whole movement, just as the codetta concludes the eXposition and the recapitulation. Now the analysis may be refined by splitting off the Egda_into a separate part. Next it is advisable to return to an examination of the composi- tion as a whole. The aural discoveries made in connection with this move- ment facilitate a comparison with Romeo and Juliet. Both show a struc- ture similar to a large ternary (or simple episodic) organization, con- taining, however, changed forms of already presented material in place of the central episode. Both, furthermore, show "appendages" in form of an introduction and a ggdg, t may be questionable whether a breaking down of the subject areas into individual themes and the derivation of the developmental units from their thematic sources is apprOpriate in an introductory course. Yet it would not be surprising if some classes would have already accomplished much of this without special effort-- simply as an outgrowth of previous analytical activities. In these cases the students concerned may be encouraged to continue the process in listening assignments, reporting their findings in class (if enough students have participated), or in conferences or papers (if only a minority of the group is involved). Thus in most sections of the course the final diagram would resemble Figure lOc, while in more adept groups it more nearly would duplicate Figure lOd. Though this more detailed analysis may apply only to a limited number of students, there is one more aural activity which can be sug- gested for the group as a whole. Admittedly, this is likely to tax Slow, dignified. Introduction Uses scale passages and builds up anticipation near the end. 21:5 a _J f, i. Exposition First Subject Transition Second Subject Waltz-like beginning, Scale Lyrical material, then builds to modest climax passages, more dramatic effect while using new materi- cadence all on new key level. al. formulae. then: Codetta '__ : Development Utilizes modified versions of material heard in second subject, also some transition figures. Ends with section similar to end of introduction. # i Recapitulation First Subject Transition Second Subject No substantial change. Does not Same material, this modulate. time in same key as first subject. Codetta l _:r‘ if—* ‘ Coda section. Scale passages from introduction and cadence formulae from end of transition dominate this w. A. Mozart: FIGURE 10c Symphony No. 39 in E Flat Major Simplified Analysis of First Movement Introduction Same as in Figure 10c. 'f ‘: Exposition First subject Transition Second Subject Theme 1. Waltz-like Modulates, Theme I. Lyrical. lilting melody. stresses _ Theme 2. Bolder cadence Ihéflé_lln Dramatic. theme with broad , interval leaps. Codetta. Cadential. Development order named. Uses material from I, transition, codetta, II, in Comes to stop on two accented chords, then uses material from end of introduction to lead to recapitulation. A i {_I Recapitulation First Subject Transition Second subject Theme 1. No change. Theme II. Home key. Theme II. Slight change at end. Codetta. Changed to lead to coda. Coda Same as in Figure lOc. W. A. Mozart: FIGURE lOd Symphony No. 39 in E Flat Major Slightly Advanced Analysis of First Movement as 2m rather heavily the ability of some students (and if the class is made up predominantly of individuals in this category, the activity had best be omitted), but the experiencing of sonata-form design and the enrichment of the conceptual framework is so greatly enhanced by this undertaking, that it seems highly desirable in all cases where pedagogical considera- tions do not forbid it outright. The reference here is to an aural recognition of the modulatory function of the transition in the exposi- tion and the absence of such modulation in the recapitulation. More pre- cisely, the experience involves the awareness of a contrast in tonality between first and second subjects in the exposition and the unity of tonality in the recapitulation. It is suggested that, in most instances, students are not likely to be aware of this difference unless exposition and recapitulation, or even just the central section of these units (in- cluding the end of the first subject, the transition, and the beginning of the second subject) are played in close juxtaposition. On the other hand, once such reCOgnition has taken place, it should be readily dis- cernible on subsequent hearings of the movement. The reason for emphasiz- ing this single feature so strongly is two-fold. First, there is the psychological effect of the design. The exposition may be viewed as an establishment of tensions (particularly in the hand of later composers), which are subsequently exploited in the development. The recapitulation, then, represents a resolution of conflict, underscoring the diminishing of tensions by the uniformity of tonality. Newman speaks of the sonata- form as "a field of battle"1 (in at least some of its uses), in which the 1William S. Newman, Understanding Music A New Introduction to Music's Elements, Styles, and Forms--for the Layman and the Practitioner (New York: Harper & Brothers, Publishers, 1952), p. 220. 2A6 recapitulation represents the peace settlement. t may seem ludicrously ' and hyperbolic to Speak of this Mozart movement as a "field of battle,‘ certainly no such suggestion is here intended, but relaxation of tension, through the transposition into the tonic of all thematic material, is a distinct feature of the sonata-form--provided the aural experience is of sufficient intensity. How significant this unifying effect can become is illustrated by a second consideration. Frequently composers, even in the classical period, will introduce variety into the recapitulation by new coloration, elaboration, or even partial omission, of themes, re- lying on the power of tonality to provide much of the unifying effect (2:, first movement of Haydn's Symphony in D Major ["Clock"]). In fact, the psychological response to a single tonal center is considered sig- nificant enough that a majority of composers (in the sonata-form) shift all or part of the second subject from the relative to the tonic major in compositions where the "home" key is minor (23} first movement of Mozart's Symphony No. hO in G Minor). Thus it would seem that aural recognition of this feature is of sufficient significance to attempt its achievement where the course aims for an intensified musical experience. In discussing the various organizational features of designs, students are, however, in constant danger of gaining the impression that certain patterns are in some mysterious fashion compulsory, inflexible, models which composers are required to follow. This erroneous conception needs to be counteracted at every possible Opportunity. Some mention has been made earlier in this chapter (£2, the discussion of Britten's XSEEE. Person's Guide to the Orchestra) of the analytical pattern's dependence on the actual music. It has been stressed that the pattern depends on 2&9 the music and not vice versa. From a listener's point of view a the- oretical framework is merely an aid to listening, a means by which the total experience can be intensified so as to increase the aesthetic com- ponent (Si: Chapters V, VI, and VII), hence an attitude which would erect barriers to the listening process dare not be fostered. At this time, when the most complex design of the course is under discussion, the instructor must, therefore, be particularly alert to counteract any tendency which would channel energies toward verbalizations and abstrac- tions, thereby reducing the energies available in the listening experi- ence. Precautionary measures may involve the presentation of additional musical illustrations in which the basic pattern is clear enough to es- tablish them as sonata-forms in student perception, but where the de- partures from a "pure" version of the form.are sufficiently striking to destroy any notion of a dominant, pre-existing, permanently binding model. If for no other reason, though many could be cited, compositions showing this formal characteristic should be performed in class, or assigned for outside listening. Some of Beethoven's overtures (Coriolanus or Egmont, for example) would serve this purpose admirably. Expanding illustrations beyond the single work discussed can also facilitate integrative activities in connection with the sonata-form de- sign. Comparing the Mozart and Tschaikowsky compositions already studied, adding a Beethoven selection, maybe a short Brahms illustration, or, per- haps, Weber's Overture to Der Freischatz, can lead to discussions of classical and romantic characteristics which correlate readily with historical and stylistic considerations raised in the context of other media. It is even possible (though this may involve some risk) to examine 250 literary parallels to the sonata-form. The one great danger against which guard must be kept is pseudo-integration on the basis of empty verbalizations. In organizing the remaining portion of the introductory music program, the primary limitation is the shortage of time. If even a few of the suggested avenues of integration have been explored, the number of class hours in the customary three semester-credit course has already been exhausted. But even if the program has consistently postponed integrative activities to a later date, only about six to eight class meetings remain--and this figure depends heavily on reasonably rapid progress of the group involved. Thus it is clear that only a minute fraction of the many desirable activities not yet undertaken can be planned for the course. The question is one of selecting, from among the large list of possibilities, that work (or those works, if they be short) which best bring to conclusion this part of the students' educa- tional experience. One of the more plausible choices would be the examination of a single major instrumental composition utilizing all, or most, of the designs discussed. This would offer the advantage of consolidating the gains made in the students' aural experience, while at the same time ex- tending the retentive requirements over a period far in excess of any- thing hitherto attempted. If the composition chosen were also to present a style or idiom not yet treated, it would have the further advantage of providing extension, as well as intensification, of the experience. If, finally, the selection were to appeal strongly to students, the course would end with a positive valence area, promising highly favorable condi- 251 tions for further growth in subsequent courses or independent activities. Thus it might be suggested that the final work in this program be one of the more directly appealing symphonies by Beethoven (No. III, No. V, No. 1;, or No. VII), a Tschaikowsky symphony (No. IV, No. V, or No. VI)-- though here the idiom would not be new-~or, perhaps, the First Symphony by Brahms. Any one of these compositions would probably constitute a successful closing work for the introductory music course. Nevertheless, this sample program suggests a different approach. Up to this time, in spite of the precautions taken, some students may well have become excessively preoccupied with a conscious analysis of their musical experience--thereby failing to bring about the "unity of a path"1 suggested as the desired outcome of their development (2:, Chapter IX). It may actually be too soon to hOpe that intensification of the listening experience has become sufficiently great to permit the per- ception of design (hence achievement of the aesthetic experience) without preparatory conscious analysis. On the other hand, should this have been accomplished (so that subsequent music offerings could be devoted pri- marily to extension of this accomplishment plus integrative efforts) the course could hardly be concluded more satisfactorily than by offering students an Opportunity for this experience. In doing so, it would make it possible for the group to leave the course with the assurance that musical performances in the future could be meaningful experiences even without the help and guidance available in the class room. Thus it is lKurt Lewis, The Conceptual Representation and the Measurement of Psychological Forces (Donald K. Adams and Helge Lundholm, editors, Con- tributions to Psychological Theory, Vol. I, No. h., Durham, North c§?6; lina: Duke University Press, 1938), p. 30. 252 proposed that the final work studied be one which by its nature lends itself to a presentation at variance with the procedures hitherto pur- sued, while, at the same time, making a distinct contribution to the total musical growth of the group. Whether, in point Of fact, the in- clusion of this activity in the introductory program is justified, or whether it should be postponed to a subsequent music unit, can only be established through controlled eXperiments. In this study it is sug- gested as a possible way of concluding the course. With these reservations, it is suggested that the introductory program be brought to a close with a presentation of Verdi‘s Opera Rigoletto. This work, as also the same composer's La Traviata, or Puc- cini's La Boheme (which would be suitable alternates), has the great advantage Of being composed in an idiom easily accessible to and widely appreciated by audiences of limited musical background. It has been, and continues to be, one of the most pOpular repertory pieces of every Opera house in the world. Selections from.the Opera, notably La Donna I E MObile and Bella Figlia del' Amore, are known and liked even by musi- cally unSOphisticated listeners, while the setting and plot provide suf- ficient color and excitement to capture the interest of those unfamiliar with the Operatic medium. Thus it is probable that student reaction will be generally favorable. Popularity, in this case, is, furthermore, by no means antithetical to musical excellence. Grout, for example, classes "the famous quartet one of the finest ensembles in all Opera."1 And of the Opera as a whole Francis Toye has this to say: lDonald Jay Grout, A Short History Of Cpera (New York: Columbia University Press, l9h7), I, 3E6. As a work of art Rigoletto remains even today among the finest manifestations Of Verdi's genius. In unity Of dramatic conception, in delineation Of character, this music excels not only all [Verdi's] operas that preceded, but most of the Operas that succeeded it. t need not be feared, therefore, that pedagogical considerations prompted the placement Of an aesthetically inferior work in this concluding posi- tion in the course. From the point of view of this introductory pro- gram, two additional advantages accrue by discussing Rigoletto at this time. First, the gap left by the omission of major examples in a vocal idiom is filled. Second, the attempt to advance musical growth through an activity where awareness of design is not approached through conscious analysis takes place in a setting where the students' life outside the class room (2:23 the focusing Of attention thrOugh dramatic, hence verbal, devices) can be of direct assistance in accomplishing the musical experi- ence. There is, however, a major psychological obstacle to be overcome in the presentation of this work. Many students may find it difficult to view without embarrassment the intense emotionality Of the libretto. Accustomed as they are to realistic (or rather, pseudo-realistic) plot and language components from the popular screen, they may eXpress the tensions resulting from such embarrassment by sarcastic, or otherwise hostile, responses. Similarly, the lack of realism involved in the sing- ing of dramatic material may arouse antagonism in a considerable portion of the group. In order to forestall these develOpments, the instructor should Francis Toye, Giuseppe Verdi His Life and Works (New York: Alfred A. KnOpf Inc., l9ho), p. 207. 231+ stimulate discussion of the nature and value Of experiences gained through participation (as members of the audience) in a dramatic per- formance. In the course of such discussion it will soon emerge that strict realism is antithetical to all_drama, particularly when (as in the case of most students) the medium is that of the cinema. A consider- able number of conventional devices, totally at variance with "reality," are always accepted without impairment of the illusion. Most motion pic- tures, furthermore, show the same schematisation, over-simplification, of character, the same concentration on none but crucial incidents, the same heightening of emotional components which characterize Opera. The audi- ence in a movie theater, therefore, engages in a "willing suspension of disbelief" which is no different in kind from the attitude required when witnessing an Operatic performance. Fairy tales, fantasy, the currently popular science fiction, Offer illustrations of extreme departures from "reality" which mankind readily accepts for the sake of values Obtained in a literary experience. This approach also suggests a way of dealing with the problem posed by the frequent repetitions Of text (as well as the replacement of speech with singing) involved in the Operatic medium. Since the value of the tgtal experience lies not in the information, the cOgnitions, con- veyed through the medium of dramatic representation, but in the aestheti- cally satisfying, emotionally intensified participation in the experience, the contributions of music demand that its melodic, rhythmic, and repeti- tive features be accomodated. The necessity of producing aesthetic and emotional situations requires a temporal expansion of those moments in which music is to intensify the eXperience. Thus the apparent illogi- cality, the jarring, disruptive effect produced by singing and repetition, disappears as soon as the perspective is changed from preconceived no- tions of realism. It is this shift in perspective which must be accom- plished through discussion before the opera is presented. Some practical difficulties also arise from the circumstance that the customary teaching situation does not permit the presentation of opera as a visual, as well as an aural, work of art. This is fUrther complicated by the general unavailability Of good English versions of operatic recordings. Neither of these handicaps can be overcome com- pletely, but some amelioration can be achieved in a number of ways. Large reproductions of the stage settings for each scene can be placed before the class, with the instructor offering some explanation about the movement of characters on the stage. The plot of the Opera can be made familiar in advance of class meetings by asking students to read such summaries as are contained in the books of Newman,l Toye,2 or Thg International CyclOpedia of Music and Musicians.3 Finally, students can be given a complete libretto (with as idiomatic a translation as can be found) and/or the libretto can be projected on a screen during the per- formance. An added advantage of projecting the libretto rests in the instructor's ability to change slides (or pages) so that students can keep abreast of progress through the work. This avoids the danger of some students getting lost (particularly in ensemble passages) and being lErnest Newman, The Stories of Great Operas and Their Composers (Philadelphia: The Blakiston Company, 1928), pp. 609-620. 2Francis Toye, Op. cit., pp. 263-266. « 3Oscar Thompson, editor, The International CyclOpedia Of Music and Musicians (NeW'York: DOdd,Mead & Company, 1939), pp. 2195;2197. diverted from the listening process while trying to regain their place. It might be added that, for the sake of clarity, the instructor should edit those pages Of the libretto in which the text Of ensembles is given. It is frequently the case that the published version presents successive- ly material which is, actually, performed simultaneously. tudents are far more likely to follow the opera successfully, if such passages are arranged in parallel columns. Some comment may be desirable about the extent to which technical discussions should be Offered in connection with this work. It is, after all, entirely possible to perform a detailed analysis of each section (as I Finney has done with the aria La Donna E MObile),l or to expatiate on the major technical devices Of Operatic design (aria, recitative, ensemble, etc.), or to discuss vocal tone colors (as Fishburn has done),2 but it is doubtful that the special purpose which prompted the inclusion of Rigoletto in this program would be advanced by any Of these procedures. This does not mean that student questions should go unanswered. Since the work is to be presented, as nearly as possible in a class room, in a manner approximating that Of an actual performance, it is assumed that intermissions will be provided. During intermissions in the Opera house perceptive students, accompanying a person more familiar than they with the Operatic medium, would, without a doubt, ask many questions about the background of the work and about the various things they see lTheodore M. Finney, Hearing Music The Art of Active Listening (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, l9hl), pp. he-hh. 2Hummel Fishburn, Fundamentals of Musicgppreciation (New York: Longmans, Green & Co., 1955), pp. 22-30. 257 and hear in the performance. Information provided under such circump stances is apt to have a vitality unmatched by anything a formal lec- ture could provide. To the extent that a similar situation arises in the class room, the instructor can, and should, function in this capacity. With the presentation of Rigoletto, in the manner outlined above, the final unit of the sample program comes to a close. Except for this concluding activity, nothing has been suggested which is different in nature from the undertakings described in the previous two units. Thus the two points in the program outline (cf, Chapter VIII) which have not been put into direct Operation before (i;g: exploration of student abili- ties and interests and a single consistent plan of integration) have again been omitted. Reasons for this omission have already been stated (32. Chapters VII and VIII) and need not be repeated here. The primary function of this unit, the consolidation and partial extension of gains accomplished in the previous two units, has, it is hoped, been accom- plished. It is hardly likely, however, that the activities in this unit (or in the sample prOgram as a whole) have sufficiently extended and in- tensified the musical experiences Of students to permit the ignoring of music in subsequent courses in the general education program. Thus it must again be emphasized that the course outlined in Chapters IX, X, and XI is introductory in nature; that it is not, and does not pretend to be, adequate to discharge the total musical Obligations Of general education-~unless the general education sequence aims at only the most limited impetus for further growth. To be sure, no general education program can do more than cover one phase of growth; in fact, a program 256 aimed at completing, terminating, growth would be totally inconsistent with the philosophic orientation of this study. On the other hand, a program which fails to strive for growth in the total field of student experiences (whether in the context of formal courses or otherwise) exercises an arbitrariness of selection, a limitation of the life process, which can hardly be condoned. Consequently, a general education program develOped along lines of this study is a fairly elaborate and lengthy undertaking. 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