Musings on the Wisdom of Charles Ives

Originally published in December of 2008. Click here for a printer-friendly version of this blog post.

Charles Edward Ives (1874-1954) 

Musings on the Wisdom of Charles Ives

For those of you who do not know, my pre-Judaism life was centered around classical music. The composer who exerted the most influence over my musical development was a man by the name of Charles Ives (1874-1954). Ives - the man and his music - will always have a special place in my life.

Ives was not a philosopher by trade, but possessed a philosopher's insight, a poet's perceptiveness, and the gift of wit - much like Mark Twain. I was recently reading some of Ives's writings and came across several ideas I'd like to share with you. 

Before I do that, I highly encourage you to listen to these quick samples of Ives's music, since his music is the context for the ideas that I'm going to focus on in this post:

• Piano Study No.20: I chose this piece because it features a variety of Ives's musical hallmarks: dissonance, syncopation, complex counterpoint, quotations from American folk songs, ragtime, and more. It's not necessary to listen to the whole thing. In fact, if you can't tolerate the beginning, skip to 3:00.
• Holidays Symphony: Movement III - The Fourth of July: This clip is the last 100 seconds (4:08 - 5:48) of one of his early symphonies, written in 1912. In this movement he attempted "to exemplify the excitement a boy feels during the Fourth of July celebrations and the freedom felt on that special day."
• Concord Sonata: Movement III - The Alcotts: In my opinion, this piece is the exemplar of Ivesian beauty. The theme is a variant on the famous "fate knocking" theme of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. This is the only Ives piece I ever learned how to play on piano. [1]

Ives was unique in many ways. Unlike most other famous composers, Ives did not make his living with his music. Once he came to terms with the fact that his music was decades ahead of its time, Ives ceased holding public performances and decided to go into the life insurance business, keeping his music entirely to himself and his family. He wasn't really "discovered" by the Classical Music World until he was already an old man.

Unlike other artists, Ives did not view his art to be the purpose of life, or larger than life. Rather, as he proclaimed in a letter to his wife, "Music is life," by which he meant, "It comes directly out of the heart of experience of life and thinking about life and living life" [2]. It is this view which makes it possible to view Ives's music as a sort of commentary on life, and his attitude towards music as his philosophy of living.

Here are three ideas from Ives's music/life that I came across and would like to share:

Ives on Musical Appreciation

Ives was always critical of people who have a narrow taste in music. Take, for instance, this excerpt from his memos:

I'd played over the Second Violin Sonata for him - that harmless piece. "After stuff like the that," he said, "if you consider that music, and like it, how can you like Brahms or any good music?" That is a very common attitude among almost all the well-known lilies. They take it for granted - a kind of self-evident axiom, a settled-for-life matter, ipso facto, admitting no argument. The classical is good for all time, the modern is bad for all time - so if you like one, you can't like the other. They don't always limit it to "good and bad." They, in a general way, throw (in their nice little minds) all that fits into their accustomed habits of sound, technique, etc., all together into a classical idiom, good or bad. [3]

What Ives says about music is also true of philosophy. Many people (myself included) have a tendency to accept or reject ideas, not based on their merit or veracity, but on whether they conform to accustomed or "accepted" lines of thought. 

This "evaluation" is made with little analysis or reflection, and is driven by the need to place the idea into a "classical idiom, good or bad." All people care about is, "Is this idea in line with my hashkafah (worldview) or not?" They ask themselves "Is this a good idea or a bad idea?" rather than "Is this a true idea or a false idea?" 

This approach is not the approach of chachamim (the wise), but of "philosophical lilies," as Ives would say - people whose "taste" in philosophy is so narrow and close-minded that they miss out on philosophical truth altogether.

Ives on Musical Beauty

People have a hard time seeing the beauty in Ives's music. According to Ives, this is due to an incorrect notion of beauty:

Beauty in music is too often confused with something that lets the ears lie back in an easy chair. Many sounds that we are used to do not bother us, and for that reason we are inclined to call them beautiful. Frequently, when a new or unfamiliar work is accepted as beautiful on its first hearing, its fundamental quality is one that tends to put the mind to sleep. [4] 

Likewise, I would say: "Truth in ideas is too often confused with something that lets the mind lie back in an easy chair. Many ideas that we are used to do not bother us, and for that reason we are inclined to call them true. Frequently, when a new or unfamiliar idea is accepted as true on its first hearing, its fundamental quality is one that tends to put the mind to sleep."

I also didn't see Ives's music as beautiful at first. But after a lot of hard work and "stretching my ears," as Ives would say, I was finally able to appreciate its beauty, which was unlike anything else I had ever heard. 

This metaphor, I believe, can be extended to the pleasure of learning. Some people are naturally drawn to truth and thinking. They find learning inherently pleasurable from the get-go. I did not. I didn't experience the so-called "joy of learning" until, after years of frustration in yeshiva, I was finally able to begin to experience the beauty of ideas on my own.

Ives on Musical Independence

Ives recognized that his conception of beauty differed greatly from that of his contemporaries. Nevertheless, Ives believed, a man should not be deterred from sticking to his own conception of beauty just because it is not widely held:

A man's life should be a stately march to a sweet but unheard music, and when to his fellows it shall seem irregular and inharmonious, he will only be stepping to a livelier measure, or his nicer ear hurry him into a thousand symphonies and concordant variations. There will be no halt ever, but at most a marching on his post, on such a pause as is richer than any sound, when the melody runs into such depth and wildness as to be no longer heard, but implicitly consented to with the whole life and being. [5] 

This brings to mind the parting words of Socrates to Crito:

But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion of the many? ... We must not regard what the many say of us: but what he, the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will say. And therefore you begin in error when you advise that we should regard the opinion of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and dishonorable. [6]

What makes Ives's artistic independence unique is that he didn't flaunt it, like so many musical pioneers before him. He knew that the public of the late 19th century was not ready for music this radical, and that he would only cause himself frustration by forcing his music upon them. This is reminiscent of the Rambam's [7] description of those who have grasped certain fundamental truths:

It is right that a man should belong to that class of men who have a conception of truth and understand it, though they do not speak of it. Thus the pious are advised and addressed, "Commune with your own mind upon your bed and be still, Selah!" (Tehilim 4:5).

And when people finally did recognize his music by rewarding him the Pulitzer Prize in 1946 - when he was already 72 years old - Ives didn't haughtily pat himself on the back and indulge in egotistical pleasure. Instead, he gave away half of the prize money and said:

"Prizes are for boys, and I'm all grown up!" [7]

Often when I "succeed" in convincing a person of a certain idea, I often feel a certain illicit sense of pride and achievement. Whenever this happens, I must remember to take a lesson from Ives. Instead of patting myself on the back, I should just be happy that another mind can share in the truth.

In conclusion, I am not trying to elevate Charles Ives to the status of a true philosopher. However, my approach in life is to try to recognize true ideas wherever I see them. If I can associate good music with good ideas, all the better.

[1] At around the same time that this blog post was originally published, I wrote the following comment about my relationship to this piece in an online Charles Ives fan group:

When I was in 11th grade, my family and I moved to a new city and started a new life. That was probably the loneliest, most difficult year of my young life. 

During that time, I learned to play "The Alcotts." I channeled all of my turmoil, loneliness, and longing into that piece. It became my emotional anchor. Whenever I felt myself on the verge of being pulled into the undercurrent of despair, that piece refocused me and helped me to retain a sense of identity. The pain and passion of that piece, climaxing in its glorious conclusion, never fails to give me goosebumps. "The Alcotts" will always hold a special place in my life.

[2] quoted in Charles Ives: A Man and His Music (1968), by Henry and Sidney Cowell

[3] Charles Ives, Memos 121-122

[4] Charles Ives, Essays Before a Sonata

[5] Charles Ives, Thoreau Journal, vol.1, 156

[6] Plato, Crito 47c-d

[7] Rabbeinu Moshe ben Maimon (Rambam / Maimonides), Moreh ha'Nevuchim 1:50

[8] This anecdote is widely quoted, but I don't know the original source.