Composers Must Eat

by HUNTINGTON CAIRNS

1

OUR respect for science and art is proverbial. Nevertheless, the majority of men in those fields who devote themselves exclusively to creative work are unable to earn a living. In order to support themselves scientists and artists in general turn to teaching; composers may perform, but the only other occupation which appears open to painters and sculptors in their fields is the production of the “society portrait.” For composers the vocation of teaching or performing seems to have no ill effect upon creative work. But the case of the painter and sculptor may be different. If they deflect their energy to the production of “society portraits,” they may find in the end that their ability to do conscientious work has been deflected at the same time. When Sargent announced that he would accept no more commissions for portraits, Monet remarked, “It is too late, isn’t it?”

It is true that the composer can also turn to potboiling. In fact, it has been argued that the composer should consider, in addition to the usual vocations of teaching, conducting, and the writing of musical criticism, the possibility that the production of potboilers might be a lucrative form of employment. It is thought that since composers such as Wagner may engage in practices of commercial dishonesty without detriment to their work, they may also indulge without harm in artistic dishonesty. This view would have more plausibility if it were not for the unhappy rule that the artist in any field who deliberately resorts to shoddy work to earn a livelihood soon loses an indispensable ingredient of creative activity — the faculty of self-criticism. The result is that his creative and commercial productions gradually approach each other in quality and finally merge at a level nearer the commercial than the creative.

With the rise of industrialism the composer has been confronted with problems which are novel in the history of music. Industrialism means, among other things, mechanical production. For the first time in the history of the world, music has become a commodity which is available to everyone at little or no cost. It is manufactured and distributed by the same mass-production methods that have been applied to more tangible commodities. Through the gramophone, radio, and moving picture it is brought to every person. Industrialism appears able to do everything with music except to create it; and since the machines which produce it never tire, the composer is faced not only with an insatiable demand but with the most numerous audience he has ever encountered.

Yet the composer, in the nature of things, cannot take full advantage of the industrial process. He belongs to an earlier form of economy from which there is no possibility of escape. He is in the stage of handicraft production, and there he must remain. He is the weaver at the hand loom, and his production obeys the law of “constant cost” although his product, once it has been created, is reproduced and distributed with all the resources of industrialism.

In the United States we are confronted with the apparent fact that not a single composer is able to subsist by his serious work. From the smaller orchestral and choral societies, recitalists, and chamber-music organizations he receives nothing. An orchestra with a budget of about $600,000 will assign approximately one half of one per cent for royalties. Thus a composer whose work is played by a major symphony orchestra will receive between $20 and $50, provided the composition has not been previously published. If the composition has been published, the fee must be divided with the publisher. If the performance is at a major opera house the composer receives $100 or less.

A symphony which took three years to prepare was played by the New York Philharmonic and the performance was broadcast at the same time nationally by the Columbia Broadcasting System. The composer received a fee of $75. But as he had spent $250 to have the orchestral parts copied, and for other expenses, he thus suffered a net loss of $175. At a peak period the Philharmonic spent a little more than $900,000 a season. Of this amount $3500, or less than two fifths of one per cent, was allotted for all the music supplied by composers.

A chief problem of industrialism has always been that of the unremunerative price. But the present scale of compensation for composers is not chargeable to industrialism. At no time in any society has the serious composer by his own unaided effort been able to count upon a livelihood from his compositions. That is the iron law of music. The composer who pursues a solitary course has always been forced to supplement the income derived from his compositions by the adoption of a subsidiary occupation or the acceptance of patronage. In the language of economics, there has never been an “effective demand” for the serious musical composition. That is to say, it has never been valued in terms that would make its creation an economically justifiable undertaking.

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THE system of royal and private patronage of eminent musicians, even at the time of Palestrina, was far from satisfactory. It was often meagerly remunerative, and was too dependent upon the whim of the patron. Palestrina’s career was not a happy one until he solved his problem by marrying a rich widow. At its best the system of private patronage, which was to persist until the latter part of the eighteenth century, is exhibited in the person of Prince Nicholas Esterházy, a fair performer himself and the patron of Haydn. Altogether Haydn was with the Esterhazy family thirty years. From the Prince he received every encouragement, and in return he gave a loyalty which forbade him to accept attractive offers of employment elsewhere.

What the patronage of the Prince meant to Haydn he has expressed in words which show an acute realization of the advantages which can flow from the patronage system if intelligently administered: “As a conductor of an orchestra I could make experiments, observe what produced an effect and what weakened it, and was thus in a position to improve, alter, make additions or omissions, and be as bold as I pleased; I was cut off from the world, there was no one to confuse or torment me, and I was forced to become original.” But with Mozart the system became intolerable.

Patronage in the long run inevitably associates with itself a social distinction between the patron and the person who is the object of the bounty. It was upon this rock that the patronage system which had flourished from the sixteenth century foundered in the latter part of the eighteenth. As the Concertmeister at Salzburg of the Archbishop Hieronymus, Mozart was permitted to live in the palace, a distinction not allowed singers and performers. His status, however, was actually that of a personal servant; and since the seating at meals, in accordance with eighteenth-century custom, was formally correct, his place was between the personal valets and the cooks. Inasmuch as Mozart’s name for his patron was the Erzlümmel (Archbooby) it appeared unlikely that his prospects would be advanced. Seizing upon an incident of no significance in itself, Mozart departed from the household of the Archbishop Hieronymus to earn his way as a free-lance artist.

The road which Mozart opened proved a hard one. He himself was always in want. Beethoven, while of the opinion that there were many Princes but only one Beethoven, continued to accept their patronage and even the benefits of a private subscription; Schubert was always poor; only the intervention of the mad Ludwig II of Bavaria made it possible for Wagner to have his Festspielhaus at Bayreuth. From the Memoirs of Berlioz we learn something of the daily hardships of the composer: “Not one among the many millionaires of Paris would ever entertain the idea of doing anything for good music. We do not possess a single good public concert-room, and it would never enter into the head of one of our Croesuses to build one. . . . To be a composer in Paris one must rely on oneself, and produce works of a serious character having no connection with the theatre. One must be content with mutilated, incomplete, uncertain, and consequently more or less imperfect performances, for want of rehearsals for which one cannot pay.” But the final result of Mozart’s revolt, if it did not secure a livelihood for the composer, at least gave him a free hand. The patron might continue to commission works, but he no longer dictated their contents.

How, then, is the composer to live? The acceptance of any form of patronage involves difficulties, not the least of which is that he who pays the piper calls the tune. If the composer can find the means to support himself he has reached the ideal solution. He is then a free agent to follow as he wishes the prompting of his own genius. But he can support himself only by adopting a subsidiary occupation. If that occupation is a congenial one which makes no excessive demands upon his energy, there would seem no harm in following that course. It is precisely the one adopted by scientists, writers, and the bulk of musicians today.

In a recent symposium of British writers on the livelihood to be derived from the trade of letters, Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s argument that a secondary occupation produced no ill effects was substantiated. There was general agreement that the creative writer should at all costs avoid state patronage. To this solution the general objection has been raised that our artistic productions would then be created by amateurs. That is to say, our paintings would be made by “Sunday painters,”and our musical compositions created by composers who wrote more as an avocation than as a profession. But Coleridge speaking for literature, Roger Fry for painting, and Ernest Newman for music, none of whom can be charged with indifference to the accomplishments in his field, are unanimous in believing that it would not be a loss, but a distinct gain. The amateur, free from the compulsion which a life devoted wholly to artistic creation inevitably generates, is not tempted to overproduce or to present the public with second-rate work merely in order to keep his name before it.

As a means to self-help, composers can organize themselves into corporate bodies which would enforce the system of licensing compositions for reproduction on a royalty basis. We have had in the United States several abortive attempts at such organizations, and at present the idea is again being prosecuted. However helpful such organizations may be in securing some measure of just financial reward to the composer, it is unlikely that in themselves the organizations represent the complete answer to the problem. They never succeeded in securing a sufficient livelihood for the musicians of the Hellenistic period, and in modern times in Europe, where they have been firmly entrenched for several generations, they have been likewise unsuccessful. No musical composition of any sort can be publicly presented in most of the countries of Europe unless part of the box-office receipts are impounded as royalties. This system has served to increase the income of composers, but until the individual composer has accumulated a backlog of many compositions which are constantly being played, his royalty receipts will not be substantial.

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IN MODERN society there remain two probable sources of patronage for the composer — the commercial world and the state. The individual patron will no doubt continue to exercise his beneficent influence as long as he possesses the means to do so; but since economists assure us that interest rates will approach zero and will remain there, and since the tax structure is designed to prevent the further accumulation of large fortunes, it is plain that the role of the individual patron belongs to the past.

Commerce and industry are already patronizing the arts and they will probably continue the practice as long as the tax system favors it. If such patronage ever becomes a direct charge on profits, it is unlikely that stockholders will permit it to continue. But commercial patronage raises a special problem. Will business firms demand that the art which is patronized assist in some way in the advertisement of the commodity which the firm markets? For a commercial firm to patronize

artists as artists, and not as advertisers of their products, would show a degree of aesthetic enlightenment which is rare in the history of patronage. Even the great Florentine patrons could not refrain from directing the nature of the compositions which they commissioned.

It so happens, however, that we have witnessed precisely this form of illuminated patronage. Commercial firms have acquired collections of works of art and have commissioned musical compositions solely from the point of view of their artistic merit. The benefit to the firm comes from the advertisement which the firm receives as a patron of the arts when the pictures are publicly displayed and the music is publicly performed. If the firm employs the composer from the point of view of direct advertising, there is little or no hope for the composer of serious music. It will be the “singing commercial” that the firm quite properly will want. During World War II, for example, the first composer engaged by the United States Treasury to compose a song designed to assist the sale of bonds was a popular song writer.

Both commercial and state patronage, however, are defeated in the end by the same obstacle; the artist must establish his ability to the satisfaction of some authoritative jury. Neither business nor the state can afford to endow all who wish to follow an artistic career. There must be a selection of some kind. Inevitably the selection will be made by those regarded as most competent to judge — that is, by those who have already established their reputations in the field. But as a general rule it is the young and unestablished who support the innovations which appear in the life of art and without which it becomes stereotyped and sterile. What we may expect from official boards is typified by the French Academy — which, as has been remarked, is always half a generation behind the current practices. Molière, La Fontaine, Zola, Hugo, all were frowned upon by the Academy.

At the same time organizations of that type foster standards which ought to be maintained. But since official boards will be composed of elderly specialists, it cannot be expected that the encouragement they will give to art will be of the kind that will foster that anarchic element without which art ceases to grow. If there is any doubt upon that score, we need only look at the forms of art encouraged by governments in the production of their coins, currency, and postage stamps. Even worse is the fact that government boards soon pass beyond a mere conservative attitude to the discouragement of types of art which are in conflict with government policy. In the end, as a glance at recent events abroad will show us, the artist, if he is to expect any help at all from the state, must become a political propagandist. At that point we pass from art to advertising.

An eminent philosopher once remarked that all problems are divided into two classes: soluble questions, which are trivial, and important questions, which are insoluble. Unfortunately it appears that the problem of the livelihood of the composer falls in the latter category. It is possible, even likely, that we may expect some form of enlightened patronage from both business and the state in the future. An example of the latter is the Arts Council of Great Britain, which assists through government subsidy musical, dramatic, and other organizations promoting the arts. But the Arts Council, as its late chairman Lord Keynes observed, is ultimately responsible to Parliament, which must be satisfied with what the Council is doing when it votes it money. “If we behave foolishly,” Lord Keynes said, “any member of Parliament will be able to question the Chancellor of the Exchequer and ask why.”

Are we to expect that present and future parliaments will so grow in wisdom that they will vote money to finance the productions of a new Ibsen or a new Wagner? Only someone endowed with even more than the customary share of optimism would venture an affirmative reply to that question. Meanwhile we can expect from the state a helpful indirect patronage. Through its free educational system it can assure possible compos the necessary equipment for the practice of their profession; and through an enlargement of the system of free concerts, or concerts at which only a modest admission fee is charged, it can help to secure the audience which a composer needs.

Today, without the patronage of wealth and taste, we are driven back to Coleridge’s words, which — modified for the present special case — should be engraved on the first blank sheets of music paper handed the young composer: —

Never pursue composition as a trade.