reading response

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HANNA JÄRVINEN

A Short History of the Score in 5091 words

Introduction Writing about scores is, for a dance historian and performance studies scholar

like myself, an exercise in futility. Scores are, in short, too many things at once—

notations, instructions, performances, art works—and they appear in many art

forms that have their own histories and interests, theories and canons. Perhaps

the only way to write about the history of scores is, therefore, to score them?

Not Happening In performance studies, the history of score-based work is usually traced back to

Fluxus, the loose community of artists in the 1960s and 1970s that was inspired

by Dadaism, notions of anti-art, conceptualism, and compositional indeterminacy.

Coined by George Maciunas in 1962, Fluxus (to flow) came to be associated with

artists as varied as Joseph Beuys, Nam June Paik, and John Cage. Fluxus’s event

scores were instructions for performances that often had a playful or absurd

tone, seeking to draw attention to the mundane and the banal, the momentary

and the performative, in an effort to oppose the market-driven concert and art

gallery/museum system.

Quite possibly the earliest event score to achieve notoriety was Philip Corner’s

Piano Activities, originally performed in the Wiesbaden Fluxfests of 1962 and

filmed for German television. It was a series of instructions for manipulating

a grand piano, and in the 1962 performance, Maciunas, Dick Higgins, Alison

Knowles, Ben Patterson, Wolf Vostell, and Emmett Williams chose to interpret

the score so as to dismantle a grand piano they had bought for the event. The

artists involved in the Fluxfests later exaggerated the scandal Piano Activities

caused—a report in the Allgemeine Zeitung even called the event a “lighthearted

success” (according to Schmidt quoted in Piano Activities 2 February 2017)—

earning it a place in the canons of experimental music and performance art.

50 PILVI PORKOLA (ED.)

Performance scores emerge from the same historical roots and around the

same time as happenings, performative events that sought to involve the audi-

ence as participants in an ephemeral artwork that also questioned the capitalist

economy of art and what could be understood as an art object. Allan Kaprow

coined the term ‘happening’ in 1958 to describe temporal, staged environments

combining visual and performance arts—unlike an event score, a happening could

have a script it followed but it left no script or object behind, emphasising the

qualities of art that could not be placed in a museum or sold in the market place.

In principle, a happening left nothing behind, although some photographs and

short films by participants do exist. In contrast, Fluxus artists sought to devalue

the art objects they created by mass-producing them and thus contesting their

uniqueness and value. In some cases, as with Ben Vautier’s Total Art Matchbox

(1966), they included in the score instructions for destroying the object and the

score.

Scores therefore invite reiteration and repetition-with-difference; happen-

ings tend to uniqueness and ephemerality. In music and dance, the word ‘score’

refers to any composition or copy of a written notation of a composition—a set

of instructions by which a work of art can be reproduced. This broader sense of

the term creates a degree of confusion especially in dance, where notation is a

specialist practice very few dance professionals care to learn: dances are gen-

erally transmitted through instruction in the studio either by the choreographic

author or a stand-in for whom the author has bestowed authority, not via scores.1

The slippage between the understanding of score as notation (as in music) and

score as a set of instructions (as in event scores) creates another kind of fruitful

uncertainty:2 what qualifies as score-based work in dance or performance art?

Is any notation, drawing, or set of instructions a score? What of tasks and task-

based work? Is a task simply a very simple score for the performer to follow?

A Score or a Score? In general, a score can encompass everything from the notation of the soundtrack

of a Hollywood film to an artist’s sketches for a future installation, from a collec-

tive production onstage to a set of instructions for anyone to try out alone—as

long as the purported end result is durational and deemed ‘art’ in some sense.

Even many flash mobs can be thought of as score-based, following a set of instruc-

tions. In all these cases, the scores are always-already entangled with the notion

of an author figure, an artist whose name is associated through a particular score

to any performance of that score (Foucault 2001). In performing art, where the

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work exists only at the moment of performance, the score thus acts similar to

notation and can even come to signify the work in absentia, such as when past

performances are exhibited in museums (e.g. Van Assche & Wallis 2016, 17-19,

40-41) or artists’ sites (Untitled (Locus), 1975 2017) or as books (as with Hay 2010;

Junttila & Kela 2012). Scores are compositions that extend temporally to before

(plans for performance) and after (the possibility of re-performance).

In the more narrow sense of event scores in the Fluxus tradition, a score

would be specifically a set of instructions meant to be creatively reinterpreted,

a loose structure of composition for a time-based piece, or, as Pablo Helguera

(2016) puts it, “a conceptual scaffolding that provides focus and direction to a

given performative work.” The keyword here is ‘loose’: what distinguishes such

score-based work from notation is the degree of interpretation by the perform-

er. Although a score rests on the idea that a work of (performance) art can be

repeatable (although never in exactly the same way), what distinguishes a score

in the performance art sense from a musical or dance notation is that a score

describes indeterminate actions. Whereas a notation in music or dance aims at

ensuring a composition is performed alike to previous performances, a score

encourages interpretation and improvisation by the performer. In comparison

to Piano Activities, for example, a musical score like Cage’s 4’33” (1952) is a very

precise notation of an exact duration of orchestral silence, four minutes and 33

seconds of it, which, in performance, means that “The conductor directs the

performers to refrain from playing their instruments” (Basualdo 2016).

In dance, score-based work also traces itself to Fluxus through key American

figures in the group. John Cage’s long-time partner, Merce Cunningham, explored

indeterminacy in choreographic composition already in the 1950s, using dice, the

I Ching, or flipping coins to determine the sequence of choreographed phrases

or movements for the dancers. His first choreography using the chance method,

as he called it, was performed in the 1952 Festival of Creative Arts at Brandeis

University, and 1953 saw the performances of Suite By Chance.3 For Cunningham,

the chance method allowed movements to exist by themselves, separating danc-

ers’ movements from their traditional reliance on music and beat as well as the

direction in which the audience sits. Cunningham’s chance method built on danc-

ers’ improvisation and felicitous coincidence at the moment of performance, and

Cunningham was very interested in different kinds of scores.4 However, his scores

come closer to notation and in practice, he choreographed phrases requiring

expert training (virtuosity) in the dance technique of the Cunningham company.

52 PILVI PORKOLA (ED.)

However, Cunningham was also important to the group developing score-

based works in dance in the 1960s, the so-called Judson Dance Theater, a group

of artists working at the Judson Memorial Church in New York, 1962-1964, a

movement that Sally Banes (1987) later called ‘postmodern dance’. ‘Postmodern’

alludes not to postmodernism but rather a break with the tradition of American

modern dance. From a European perspective, ‘postmodern dance’ is thus mis-

leading as a concept (see e.g. Burt 2006, 5-13; Pouillaude 2009, esp. 367-368) and

for the purposes of this essay, it rests on formalist ideology that obscures the

important connections between the emerging performance art, experimental

music, installations, happenings, dance, and choreography.

Formalist Bodies? As with Cage’s musical compositions, Merce Cunningham’s attention to move-

ment as ‘just’ movement separate from signification or context has been seen as

subscribing to the formalist ideal that any art form should strive towards onto-

logical purity, so that music would be only sound, dance would be only movement,

and painting only paint on canvas. Although the foremost theorist of formalism,

Clement Greenberg, promoted Abstract Expressionism in particular, his ideas

had long roots in painting, from advocates of the aesthetic or art for art’s sake

movement of the turn of the twentieth century (Maurice Denis) to early propo-

nents of abstraction (Roger Fry and Clive Bell). In painting, the focus on form

thus sought to displace the representational and the contextual, so that any

information extraneous to the work of art could be ignored in favour of direct

experience of the physical properties of the artwork. In music, too, the separation

of the art from the person producing it allowed for the composer’s ideal in the

form of a musical score to become the formal abstraction in a manner that also

made any performance of a score secondary to the score itself.

However, in a physical art form like dance—or, indeed, performance art—the

emphasis on formal abstraction has deliberately ignored how bodies always-al-

ready represent in a manner paint or sound does not: the corporeality of bodies,

their existence as recognisable bodies, makes it impossible for a body or its

movements to ever be abstract in the sense of lacking the contexts of ethnicity,

gender, height, weight, musculature, ability, and so on. As Jill Johnston (1998, 39)

noted in reviewing one Judson dance concert in 1962, “Movement is the person.

The material and the person are one.” This is equally true of performance art: to

think that bodies could be devoid of any such contextual markers—that a body is

‘just a body’—is a prime example of white, abled, and heteronormative privilege;

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and to think composition or forms of training are not culturally specific is to be

ignorant of one’s own cultural specificity.

An interesting case here are works that stage ‘ordinary’ untrained bodies

as dance, as Steve Paxton did in Satisfying Lover (1967) and The State (1968), in

which, following carefully choreographed instructions, thirty or more members of

the local community perform very simple actions of walking, sitting, or standing

on stage, each in their own way. In the 1960s, such works contested the prevailing

assumption that art dance could only be created by trained bodies, virtuosic in

their physical expression, or that the movements used in art dance compositions

should be distinct from movements in everyday life, or that movement should

express something (narrative, affect, etc.). As such, the staged bodies in these

works bear a certain resemblance to Duchampian ready-mades in the fine arts—

ordinary objects that contest that art objects are distinct from consumer goods

and an artist’s expression of something—and reveal how art is an institution with

subjects called artists who produce what are called art works.

Yet, even the pedestrian actions required of the performers (sitting, walking,

etc.) assume these actions are possible for the performer. Hence, any difficulty

in executing the choreography draws attention to the hegemony of the youthful

and able in dance, just as the inclusion of local people draws attention to the

difference between the bodies now on stage and the bodies in the audience—or, I

would add, the canon of dance as an art form. These assumptions themselves rest

on a cultural preference of youth—something that distinguishes Euro-American

practices from those in Japan, for example (see Watanabe 2017)—and ability

(see Albright 2017, esp. 68-69; Foellmer 2017). It is only in the context of dance,

where youth and ability are taken for granted, that this kind of action would call

into question what qualifies as dance; in performance art, the bodies of artists

are generally not evaluated in this manner, which can serve also to hide the spe-

cificities of bodies doing the performing, the different cultures within the field

we call ‘performance art’.

In choreographing the ordinary, untrained body, the understanding of what

this body was shows the limitations of formalist attention to movement as some-

how separate from the body dancing and distinct from how that body connotes:

as Ramsay Burt (2006, esp. 116-137) has noted, the Judson group and their au-

diences comprised predominantly white, middle-class, able bodies, for whom

Asian or African practices were simply an inspiration, which makes any claims

as to their ‘democracy’ (as in the title of Banes 1995 or claimed by Foster 2002,

esp. 60–64) somewhat problematic. At the same time, the attention given to the

54 PILVI PORKOLA (ED.)

mundane and to simple movements in postmodern dance has allowed for a shift

in what can be considered dance. Thus, postmodern movement practices have

allowed some dancers to continue their careers into advanced age (Burt 2017),

even if there is still a lot to be done in overcoming ableist prejudices in dance

(e.g. Foellmer 2017).

Something similar has happened in performance art, although performance

art has never had the kind of virtuosic bodily ideal to contend with, and the per-

formance artist has been taken as the performer’s ‘self ’ instead of a role taken on

for the duration of the performance, as in theatre. As the canonised performers

of the 1960s and 1970s advance in age, this raises questions of re-performance

and museums of performance art, which are fundamentally also questions about

the canon of performance art as well ontological qualities of performance (e.g.

Borggren & Gade 2013). Too often, these questions are also questions of whose

bodies are staged, how, and for whom. Our relationship to Fluxus scores is not

as playful or irreverent as when these scores were composed, but tangled with

questions of copyright and intellectual property. Fluxus scores in particular

are often assumed as kind of ‘public property’, as part of the intertextuality

of art practice, and thus free for anyone to re-perform even without specific

accreditation. But scores are not automatically anti-establishment or copyleft

method, either, as the numerous museum collections including Fluxus scores and

documentation of famous score-based performances and official re-performance

projects show (e.g. Cesare & Joy 2006; Bishop 2013). In fact, scores have become

documentation that stands in for the ‘real’ art object of the performed score even

if they hopefully never become the art itself in the manner musical scores have

a tendency to be ‘the music’ in musicological research.

By cutting her postmodern heroes off from their collaborators—Philip Corner,

Carolee Schneeman, Mark Morris, and others—Banes followed her formalist

mentor, Clement Greenberg, in defining dance as a separate art form through

insistence on ‘purity’ of form and purpose and in seeking to ascertain each artist

a signature style. As she notes in the introduction to the second edition of her

influential book, Terpsichore in Sneakers, these are specifically modernist concerns,

but ones that she feels were not addressed in American modern dance (Banes

1987, esp. 5-7, 15-17). But postmodern dance specifically participated in a much

larger change in the arts that also included happenings, Fluxus, the Situationists,

and other similar movements, and relied on interdisciplinary contacts between

artists from various fields and artists working in multiple fields of art, in direct

defiance of the formalist credo (see e.g. Foster 2002, esp. 19-68; Burt 2006). The

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co-existence and intermingling of different kinds of interests—minimalism and

excess, abstraction and contextualisation, structured and improvised, solipsist

and collective—is what was and is so fruitful and interesting in the art of the

1960s.

Also, not all artists performing at the Judson Church were interested in

formalist art or abstraction, although some Abstract Expressionists, notably

Robert Rauschenberg, even performed in some of the works (e.g. Jag Vill Gärna

Telefonera by Paxton 1964 at the Moderna Museet, Stockholm). However, many

of them were interested in doing away with the kind of virtuosic requirements

still typical to choreographers like Cunningham in favour of exploring everyday

‘pedestrian’ movements like walking, lifting, sitting, and so on. Their works often

eschewed traditional phrasing of movement as well, and did away with narrative

and expressions of ‘inner’ motivation or feeling as justification for dancing (Foster

2000, 47, 184–185). Whereas with Fluxus, this kind of staging of apparently ran-

dom, quotidian occurrences, often deliberately inane or silly, has been connected

with the traditions of Dada and Surrealism, in dance, the Judson artists tend to

be represented as independent from earlier artists or art movements, as the first

dancers who turned the body into ‘just’ an instrument, exploring movement as

“autonomous action” (op. cit. 47)—movement for the sake of movement.

What makes formalist abstraction relevant to score-based work is that this

separation of action from signification, and body from context, easily leads to

two interests common to score-based work: attention to the mundane detached

from how the mundane normally signifies, and attention to art detached from a

need to communicate affect, sense, or narrative. Both qualities can be seen in the

dance context as well as in performance art. Although they eschewed traditional

ideas of what danced virtuosity should look like, many of the dance makers asso-

ciated with Judson honed their ‘pedestrian’ movements into elaborate, virtuosic

performances. As Trisha Brown explained in Accumulation (1971) with Talking

(1973) Plus Watermotor (1977), the final version of this work resulted from her

need to challenge herself by adding tasks to a choreography that had become too

easy for her to perform. The two different types of movement in Accumulation

and Watermotor contrast the two narratives (A and B) mixed in Talking (Brown

in Great Performances 1980: c. 10:00-11:30). The virtuosity of the performance no

longer resided in physical virtuosity but in virtuosic execution of a set of tasks

in a particular order—a score.

56 PILVI PORKOLA (ED.)

Authors and Bodies Formalism’s focus on compositional elements rather than representation or con-

text might seem incongruous to the idea of a score, where actions tend to rely

on contextual signification and the form the action takes is secondary to what

the action seeks to convey or express. Yet, even taken in the narrow sense, a

score is essentially a composition preceding any performance, and this temporal

relationship creates in the score an idea that the realised action—the execution

of the score—mimics. The name of a work becomes shorthand for all iterations

of the work, the score a stand-in for its actualisation. Score-based work tends

to collapse simple idealism by focusing on how even reading the score (a pro-

cess of thinking) can enact the score, perform it—something that is particularly

apparent with scores that are ‘impossible’ in some way, such as Yoko Ono’s Fly

Piece (1963), which is simply the word “Fly.” (Friedman & Smith & Sawchyn

2002, 86). There is also no singular ‘correct’ way to interpret an event score,

nor requirements for who can perform it—there is, in effect, no requirement

for ability inherent to the idea of an event score. Fluxus artists made much

of resisting qualities of art upon which the market-driven art world depends

such as objecthood, professionalism, and virtuosic execution; and as such, event

scores have been associated with copyleft rather than copyright art, with the

democratisation of art making. In reality, scores have themselves become objects

venerated in art museums under the name of the artist (the author of the score),

who gets the credit for the work of art and each reiteration (performance) of it.

In other words, although formalism’s emphasis on the score as an ideal of the

‘work’ actualised in performance may no longer seem like a relevant way for

discussing performances, it occurs every time the name of the work is uttered as

a stand-in for numerous actual actions—as when Ono’s Fly Piece was performed

in Cardiff and the specifics of what actually happened in that particular iteration

are displaced in favour of more central locations and more famous performances

of this score (Roms 2016).

One artist whose work with scores has explicitly served to emphasise this dis-

tinction between different iterations is Deborah Hay, who, like Steve Paxton, had

danced with the Cunningham company prior to her work at Judson. In the works

that she creates, the performer is usually a co-author, given a set of conditions

that allow them to imagine and express their understanding of what the work is

or might be. In performance, the choreography is what the dancer dances into

existence out of the choreographer’s instructions, the score that connects the

very different kinds of dances under the same title. Hay has also published some

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of her dance scores, such as No Time to Fly, 2010, which include both apparently

specific and seemingly impossible instructions: “And I rebuild, using the sound of

my tapping feet to symbolise a hammer. I travel in fading light” (Hay 2010, 12). In

2016, she reworked this particular score into a duet As Holy Sites Go and a group

work Figure A Sea. Reading the score, watching the performance on the stage

of the National Theatre of Finland in Helsinki (14 January 2017), and re-reading

the score revealed for me something of the complexities of interpretation and

choreographic instruction: whereas versions by individual dancers may be quite

distinct, in the group version of the same score moments of dancers dancing

in unison reveal that dancers do not simply create their interpretation of the

score but that choreographic choices have been made for such synchrony to

appear. Similarly, in Hay’s solo projects with dancers, she directs the dancer’s

interpretation of the score to some degree, even as the dancer gets credited for

their work in programme notes.

In lieu of a conclusion Scores are a method of working, a type of composition, and a specific relationship

to work and authorship that are nowadays common to most time-based art forms.

It is only by looking at the shared history of score-based work across disciplines

that we see just how important interaction and collaboration between artists from

various backgrounds and practices can be. Score-based work, especially when

created by collectives, comes close to such cultural practices as improvisation

and role-playing, where the audience of a work can just be the participants, a

‘first-person audience’ (e.g. Stenros 2010). The impact of the idea that a work of

art can be ‘just’ a score has traversed disciplines, questioning the givens specific

to each. Because of score-based work, a dance composition is now generally

considered something changing from one iteration to the next, whereas in fine

art, a work can be just a concept, something imagined. In music, where ‘score’ is

still usually understood as referring to notation, some experimental musicians

have used score-based work and event scores to criticise the musicological focus

on notation over and above performance. Different art forms have thus taken

the same method of working (score) and taken it to different directions, the

relevance of which depends on the characteristic interests of that art form. In a

form like performance art, working with different media and hybrid histories, the

richness from which new performances draw can sometimes serve to obliterate

what the new work builds upon, especially when artists remake works known in

one context in another.5 The remaking or re-performance also raises questions

58 PILVI PORKOLA (ED.)

of access: fundamentally, performance is about the privilege of being able to be

present in the moment of that canonical performance.

So, to recap: Philip Corner’s Piano Activities (first performed 1962); Ben

Vautier’s Total Art Matchbox (1966); John Cage’s 4’33” (1952); Merce Cunningham’s

Suite By Chance (1953) and BIPED (1999); Steve Paxton’s Jag Vill Gärna Telefonera

(1964), Satisfying Lover (1967) and The State (1968); Trisha Brown’s Accumulation

(1971) with Talking (1973) Plus Watermotor (1977); Yoko Ono’s Fly Piece (1963);

Deborah Hay’s No Time to Fly (2010), As Holy Sites Go and Figure A Sea (2016);

Anne Juren’s and Annie Dorsen’s Magical (2010); Carolee Schneemann’s Interior

Scroll (1975); and Martha Rosler’s Semiotics of the Kitchen (1975). These are not

the canon of score-based performance art, but they may serve as the score of

this particular history, which follows a different score:

1. Agree to write something

2. Write

3. Read more

4. Rewrite

5. Doubt

6. Edit

7. Repeat 2 to 6 ad nauseam

8. Ask for comments

9. Struggle with comments

10. Repeat 2 to 6 ad nauseam

11. If necessary, repeat 8 to 10 a few times

12. Face the deadline

You may end up with something nothing at all like this.

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