This is a paper I have wanted to write for years, yet, because of the difficulty of its underlying premise, it is one I have hesitated to present. Those familiar with my work know of my enduring love for somatic metaphor, particularly musical metaphor. Most who have taken the time to consider my diverse articles will likely have felt some discomfort at my perplexing affinity for complex imagery and a love for the unusual in both language and subject matter. Yet despite the challenges my work poses, I have remained undaunted in my willingness to challenge, expostulate, and engage in abstract speculation simply for the aesthetic and intellectual pleasure I derive from this exercise. For practitioners more practically minded such an approach must feel uninviting. Despite that, I shall continue to ask that they join me on my journey.

What I have come to understand is that I have until recently been more interested in manipulating original ideas in an unconventional style than feeling concern for their unpredictable degree of accessibility. In all honesty, this creative game has for decades been a source of great satisfaction for me and, I suspect, it will continue to occupy much of my future leisure and professional time, for better or worse. I also confess to a certain selfishness, an element I think present in much creative work, a sort of selfishness that has often overridden attentiveness to my audience.

In the past few years, I have become increasingly interested in writing more accessible works and have deliberately undertaken a series of experiments in which I explored various “sellable” subjects while engaging in an often-frustrating war of words with myself. The results of these efforts have proven fruitful, yet I feel compulsively driven to return to more unorthodox ideas, as these are consistently more satisfying and recreationally entertaining than all but a few of my more practical essays have proven. A question my evolving literary self asks of late is whether I can really satisfy both myself and my readership. While I have reservations about this goal, I currently find exploring the reasons and nature of this literary conflict a welcome diversion to my usual mode of word play. Such are the shifting sands on which creative spirits slip and slide as they strive to refine their style and approach to those matters that intrigue and inspire them.

To test my current state of evolution I wish to approach a complex metaphor in a very different way, one that minimizes technical language not familiar to most of my readership while discussing a subtle yet germane idea. Therefore, I have consciously striven to employ a common language my gentle readers will, I hope, find less forbidding and to demonstrate more inclusiveness in my approach than has been manifest in much of my previous work. The problem I wish to explore is a musical one and the underlying point is a bit nuanced, but those used to my writing will expect no less from me and will therefore proceed with their eyes wide open.

This “contribution to thought” has to do with a matter of form in classical music and how such a technical device might relate to our work. Where I wish to begin is to point out that one of the well-known aspects of theoretical works that attempt to describe truly innovative movements is that they are usually written well after the fact. As we wade through such tomes, we observe how their authors attempt to trace order and meaning in a formal structure long after its peak. Frequently, by the time these books appear, the form has lost its originality and become a less vital mainstream device widely copied by a diverse group of contemporary artists. I think that there is no clearer case of what I describe than the efforts to codify sonata form toward the end of its “golden age.”

Of course, some artistic movements are preceded and accompanied by lengthy philosophical manifestos attacking the prevalent “decadent forms” of contemporary artists. Those manifestos typically called for a “return” to a simpler, classical form.’ A familiar example of such a movement is the classical reform in Italy (c.1600) that resulted in the composition of the first true operas. Yet, most serious students of music history will agree that the best early operas were written not by theorists but, rather, by exceptional artists at the periphery of this influential group of philosophers and composers. Few, for example, will remember the early versions of the Orfeo legend by Caccini and Peri. However, any student of opera history will know at least parts of the first truly great opera, L’Orfeo (1607) by Claudio Monteverdi, a masterpiece conceived by a mature and masterful composer of vocal music whose art developed independently of the central figures involved in this revival. If we were to seek a similar example in music history, we might cite the stage works of Gluck (c.1760-1780) as colorful and elegant applications of the theoretical arguments of a later group of “classical” reformers.

The formal problem we discuss here has its origins in early 18th century Italian opera overtures and reaches its zenith in the mature works of Beethoven. This is the widely employed and much misunderstood classical sonata form. Although I have previously explained the basics of sonata form and developed multilayered metaphors for how this structure might relate to the Rolfing basic series, my intent here is very different .2 Rather than look at the shape of sonata form and weave links between related contours in musical and structural forms, I opt to focus my attention on a local gesture, thus creating a micro-metaphor with far reaching applications.

To aid the reader in this discussion of what may at first appear somewhat difficult, I offer a familiar sonic reference point. Most of us know the opening four notes of Beethoven’s 5th symphony, three repeated eighth notes on g followed by a long held e-flat (sustained with a special sign called a “fermata” – think of it as a “hold firm” sign and you will be on the right track). This simple unit is often referred to as the “knocking of fate,” three quick raps followed by a single longer knock. We call this short series of notes, as inconsequential as they may initially seem, a motive (or motif). Despite the simplicity of this series of pitches, they contain a certain sense of drama, a portent of things to come, a tension that reveals a profound dynamism and concomitant need for balance, very much like a single Rolfing gesture properly placed and allowed to ring through a client’s system.

How this sense of drama is created, Beethoven’s masterful manipulating of this simple pattern, is really the genius of this and numerous other great examples of this form. Another crucial point– it is not merely Ludwig Van’s manner of handling the theme that makes this dramatic work successful, but more so the introduction of contrasting material, material often but not always derived from the opening gesture, new ideas that emerge organically and, to quote Leonard Bernstein, somehow end up sounding “as right as rain.”3 The sense of balance and proportion Beethoven ultimately achieves in this revolutionary work reflect what may seem like a spontaneous process of creative genius. Yet, as is “always” the case, the perfection and symmetry of the resulting oeuvre actually results from a protracted struggle of unimaginable complexity.

I offer here a connection to our work in that the principles of Structural Integration (SI) that seem so evident and simple were the result of decades of experimentation and great effort. As we know, those who have striven to master this deceptively simple form frequently misstep, go awry, and get it wrong before their understanding of balance, symmetry, and long term order slowly emerge from the routine and technical to the ever more luminous light of cohesive structural integrity.

I wish to note that just as we so frequently find ourselves challenged in complex sessions, I find myself at a critical crossroad less than half way through my discussion. At this point, I might delve deeper into the structural complexities of how a local motif serves to determine musical form, citing numerous specific examples of how exactly masters of this form have used local gesture to sustain form. Since my purpose here is actually considerably broader than exploring the marvelously complex notion of motive as formal determinant, I have decided to jump ship. Yet, before doing so, I offer a resource for those curious as to how one scholar demonstrated an astonishing variety of solutions to this complex formal problem: Charles Rosen s book The Classical Style: Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven .4I must further share that Rosen’s book completely changed my understanding of all true Classical works. This relates in my Rolfing experience to the first time I observed an in-class demo and inexplicably felt every executed gesture resonate through my system and, through this experience, a richer understanding of working with human form was spontaneously revealed. These two events proved transformative and it is precisely the new level of understanding I obtained in both realms that drives and inspires me to find better words every time I consider linking the two disciplines I so dearly love.

In addition, a more challenging point stems from the aforementioned shift in how I experienced and heard form once I grasped Rosen’s ideas. This necessitates that I elaborate a secondary argument in his innovative text, moving through it gently without overly burdening the reader with additional technical data. Rosen’s point, one that I think has marvelous resonance for the current status of our work, may be summed up by this seemingly obtuse pairing of terms: classical vs. classicizing. What Rosen means here is that at some point composers began to shift from a true application of sonata form technique (a truly classical technique) to one that was more additive and actually removed from the true classical aesthetic (the classicizing approach to form). This point is not central to Rosen’s argument since his main goal was to make real the vibrancy of classical form. Any reader of his seminal work will see that Rosen had less interest in later compositions than trying to deconstruct the living thing that sonata form was at its peak. For this reason, his interests and ours strongly diverge.

Another aspect of the dilution of form not addressed by Rosen is the previously mentioned practice of describing a form long after its zenith, a retrospective effort to codify a living organism into a set of rules and conventions. In few instances in art history is this practice as evident as the consideration of classical form at the turn of the 19th century (c.1790-1810), the approximate date of the first efforts I know to reduce the dynamic sonata form of Haydn and Mozart to a set of protocols with respect to melody (linear groupings of pitches) and harmony (vertical support for melody arranged in a logical if often surprising manner). Those not familiar with the repertoire, when they first encounter such daunting treatises, might understandably conclude that the best practitioners followed the author’s principles faithfully and that any competent music student could, by applying their rules, create a satisfactory sonata form movement with little effort. Anyone who has tried to write a “simple sonata form” will readily concede this is patent nonsense. As further confirmation of this point, we have only to look at a few of the tens of thousands of mediocre examples of this form written during the period in question (1770-1825), as well as many stunningly bad efforts of competent composers who appropriated this form less than a generation after Beethoven’s demise (Paganini quickly comes to mind). From this we can safely conclude that it is extremely difficult to create an aesthetically and musically satisfying example of this dynamic and deceptively simple form.

By now, our argument in terms of how this plays out in the SI world emerges ever clearer. What all well-trained SI practitioners employ is Dr. Rolf’s dynamic model of form. We deal with a work of seeming simplicity, like a mature Mozart symphony, an art form that reveals such layers of complexity that we find it often impossible to describe its richness and the multifarious links between what often appear as spontaneously emerging sequences of local gestures. However, since all of us must start somewhere so as not to be totally lost, we begin with what appears to some a highly structured protocol. The nuance of this protocol often eludes outsiders and even some within our community, and we sometimes find pejorative descriptions of the basic series as “Ida’s cookbook,” or words to that effect.

Just as Dr. Rolf spent decades formulating her ideas and refining her model, so those who best understood sonata form did not come to it with full mastery. Years of experimentation, many long hours studying the works of older masters as well as successful contemporaries, and rearranging their excellent compositions to understand form have clearly served even the most gifted of composers (Bach is an oft-cited example of one who used this approach to great advantage). Rolf also certainly borrowed and learned from others as she found her way to formal mastery. I therefore suggest that rather than finding fault with this acquisitiveness, it is more useful to frame her approach in a larger context of how great creative minds assimilate and then transcend their models.

One major element that separates Rolf from the classical masters is her interest in teaching and codifying rather than devoting all her energies to creating ever-more exquisite renditions of her life’s work. Rolf taught as she worked, reconfiguring the creative as she refined the theoretical. Yet, we now find ourselves in a strange time in which the form as we know it is undergoing disturbing changes and those of us who fear the loss of the “pure” work find ourselves on ever-more shaky ground, defending an idealized notion of this living structure which was originally intended to morph, an irony few of us seem able to see clearly in the midst of this inevitable transition. If we agree that Rolf changed as she worked and varied the series each time she presented it, then I think we are closer to the truth than if we somehow imagine a perfect Ten Series engraved in stone.

Our beloved perfect series no more exists than the perfect sonata form. Both are chimeras, flights of fancy, proof of our endless predilection for nostalgia. Yet, what justifiably concerns many is the current tendency to reduce the work to sequences of techniques, dull abstractions with no more soul than an hour of practicing scales at relentless tempi in the ultimate pursuit of technical proficiency. We all align ourselves to some extent with particular teachers or approaches to both the basic series, non-formulaic advanced sequences and movement work, arguing that a certain seeing or structural paradigm has more merit than another. I see no problem in this unless we fall prey to narrowing our vision in defense of any one model of seeing or processing structure. As long as we realize that we are merely indulging in our propensity for pattern preference and have the sophistication to see beyond the limits of our immediate horizon, I hold out some hope that our approach to the work will remain vital. As long as we see our pattern as one of many and can look objectively at the limits of our formal model, there remains hope for our work’s survival even if our current perceptions of form and composition fall by the wayside. We must as much as possible ride the wave of form, seek the considerable skills necessary to delve deeply into the hidden mysteries of the seemingly ordinary, and aspire to the genius of insight that distinguishes the few from the many, the artist from the technician, and the critic from the master of form. Haydn and Beethoven never fell prey to such rigid formal thinking. I suggest we use them as our model rather than relying on the growing number of technique seminars that litter our landscape.

I wish to conclude this essay with some reflections on a more personal question that underpins this and many of my earlier pieces. This has to do with why I return so often to musical metaphor despite the fact that it speaks directly to only a few in our diverse community. The most obvious reason would seem to be that since I spent nearly half of my life (my pre-teen years through late thirties) studying music, thinking about it has so shaped my thinking that it cannot help but impact how I experience and language my work with connective tissue. Yet, in the many years since I abandoned musical performance, I have discovered to my amazement that the performance of SI on and with another is even more satisfying than my happiest memories as a performer. Somehow the creative act of Rolfing® brings me closer to the ecstatic and meditative than I can ever recall feeling when performing. What complicates this is that I truly believe, along with the intimidating master of metaphor, Douglas Hofstadter, that “music seems to be a direct route to the heart or between hearts-in fact, the most direct,” although exactly why this is true has long eluded me, despite considerable reading and exploration of this complex subject.’ I shall therefore continue to wonder if Hofstadter is really right and, if so, why. Although I do not have a clear answer, something intriguing emerges from contemplating this idea. I have come to intuit that my need to find the clearest route to the heart of another has more to do with music as the vehicle to my clients and students than any fortuitous consequence of my technical training as a musicologist and music theorist.

So, perhaps this is why I find creating analogues between the world of musical form and structure so intriguing. And although I see clearly the limitations of my metaphor, the goals of SI and musical composition seem to me strikingly similar. Employing such ideas seems to help me find a direct route to my clients’ hearts and souls. Therefore, both music and SI at their best enrich and transform in ways mysterious and profound. Both have logical rules of order and a rich variation of formal potentialities that achieve both aesthetic and structural satisfaction as well as a deep emotional resonance between performer and listener.

Therefore, as I see it, to assume that there is one classical way to Rolf or write a balanced and satisfying sonata form is a silly notion that misses the “heart of the matter.” Such a supposition is analogous to assuming that the first movement of the Beethoven’s 5th is superior to say the subtle richness of the first movement of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony. It makes as much sense to say that one first-generation teacher’s approach to the basic series is any more correct and satisfying than another’s. Since there was no perfect basic series even for Rolf, each one being a client-based application of the rules to the needs of the moment, what purpose is served by arbitrarily latching onto one permutation of her work as more correct or true? At the same time, the form of our work must remain dynamic and vital despite the fact that there exist, in my opinion, a number of second-rate imitations of the form that rob it of its transformative power, reducing it to textbook formulations. If this trend continues, the form will certainly change and the work will morph into something else. At some point, therefore, it will become extremely hard to see the dynamism and richness that has been SI in some blandly epigenous rendering of this exquisite form. We must also acknowledge that the work as envisioned by Rolf, for all its genius, has been changing since her death mostly because each of her students who became a teacher sees and articulates the work differently. Such change was anticipated by Rolf, who supposedly told at least one of her gifted students to go off and make the work his own. This oft-mentioned statement certainly belies any effort on her part to hold onto some absolute model.

We face an uncertain future and we see our work moving in many directions, some interesting, and others disconcerting. The fact that we have no control over this range of approaches frustrates many and stimulates some to call for a return to “classical purity.” I believe that we are too late for this and ask myself how we can recreate a simpler approach to the work, since it is constantly subject to new layers of complexity through outside influences as well as the concomitant efforts to distill it into a formulaic sequence of technical maneuvers. Those of us who struggle with these issues may find that the same outside forces we resist will shape our thinking whether by broadening how we work or making us more intransigent and rigid in how we articulate what the work “really means.”

The most obvious challenge of working with a dynamic form means that such conflicts are inevitable. Even the best of the classical generation I consider here were not immune to contemporary influences of prevalent taste and attitude. The best work of any era is a synthesis and transcendence of the world in which it is created. While we see great art as that which excels and defies common taste, the success of such art only makes sense in the context in which it is created. Considerations of where we will find ourselves another generation or two from now are interesting fodder for speculation. Yet, we can no more see’ what our work will become than Mozart could imagine his work refracted through the Neo-classical prism of Stravinsky or Poulenc. All we can know with some degree of certainty is that if our form is to survive, it must and will change. Whether the resulting structure will be more properly called, “classical” or “classicizing,” only time will tell. Our awareness of this dilemma and the extent to which we are able to keep this challenge in the forefront of our thinking will significantly shape how we work. This conceptual framework I believe is both interesting and of great relevance.

A final personal note. If this consideration of form in some incremental way effects how even a few others conceptualize form and structure, I cannot but feel a sense of satisfaction in that my seemingly tangential idea has worked its way into the consciousness of my colleagues and affected how they work or think.

NOTES

1. Obviously, the converse also applies to more innovative movements (consider for instance Impressionism or Dadaism), but, since we are focusing our energies on classical reform movements, such schools of thought are not included in our argument.

2. The two articles in question were published in this journal several years ago: “Rolling® as Sonata Form: An Architectonic Metaphor in Three Sections,” Rolf Lines, Vol. 26, No. 2 (April 1998): 31-34; along with a later elaboration, “Rolfing and Sonata Form Reconsidered: Binary vs. Ternary I Forms,” Rolf Lines, Vol. 27, No. 3 (Summer 1999): 26-29.

3. In a famous lecture that accompanied a glorious c.1960 recording of the fifth symphony, Bernstein looks at Beethoven’s sketches for this first movement and details Beethoven’s creative process in a manner both accessible and highly entertaining. Although I first heard this lecture over forty years ago, it still rings in my ears.

4. Rosen, Charles, The Classical Style: Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven (New York: Norton, 1972). For more on this topic, see Rosen?s discussion of Schumann and Schubert in the book’s epilogue, pp. 450-460. Most relevant to our thesis is this prescient quote by Robert Schumann: “On the whole, it looks as if the Sonata (form) had run its course. This is as it should be for we cannot repeat the same forms for centuries” (p. 450). I think this remark nicely parallels my argument here and I was happy to find it.

5. Hofstadter, Douglas, I Am A Strange Loop 1 (New York: Basic Books, 2007), p. 250.