Bernard-Minimalist_Aesthetic_Plastic_Arts_Music

The Minimalist Aesthetic in the Plastic Arts and in Music
Author(s): Jonathan W. Bernard

Source: Perspectives of New Music, Vol. 31, No. 1 (Winter, 1993), pp. 86-132
Published by: Perspectives of New Music
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/833043
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THE MINIMALIST AESTHETIC
IN THE PLASTIC ARTS
AND IN MUSIC
JONATHAN W. BERNARD
INIMALISM," AS A characterization of music composed by

La Monte Young, Steve Reich, Terry Riley, and Philip Glass, among
others, has been criticized for its inaccurate and misleading connotations.
Wim Mertens, for example, asks whether "the extreme reduction of the
musical means" implied by the term "is important enough to function as a
fundamental characteristic of this music," and concludes that "minimal
music is only partially satisfactory as a label for this tendency."l Mertens is
typical of those who have written on the subject, however, in devoting no
more than cursory attention to the meaning of minimalism in American
sculpture and painting, where the term originated.2 The circumstantial
evidence linking minimalism in music to minimalism in the plastic arts has,
of course, always been strong. Many of the earliest performances of Reich's
and Glass's music, for instance, took place in art galleries and artists' lofts,
and some of the earliest commercially available recordings of their music
The Minimalist Aesthetic 87
were sponsored by galleries. The collaborative histories of individual fig-

ures, too, are well known: Glass with Richard Serra, Young with Robert
Morris; the second performance of Reich's Pendulum Music, at the Whitney
Museum in New York in 1969, featured three minimalists from the visual
arts among its four performers.3 In retrospect, actually, it is interesting that
no one seems to have thought to apply the term minimal to this music, at
least in print, before Michael Nyman did it sometime in the early 1970s.4 It
is even more interesting that this transference does not seem to have
instilled music critics with a desire to find out what minimalism had come
to mean to the art world since it was first coined in the mid-1960s or so
(perhaps originally with derogatory intent). The label, after all, has stuck in
a way that such terms as "phase-shifting," "repetitive," "systems" or "sys-
temic," "process," or "trance" music never did. Why was this so? One
certainly won't find out from the composers, who followed the artists in
vehemently (and perhaps understandably) denying that their work deserved
to be pigeonholed in this way. And for the most part the critics have either
lavished unqualified praise upon the music simply for its newness and
"accessibility" or have derided it for its supposed shallowness.
As it becomes clearer, with the passage of time, that minimalism was no
mere flash in the pan, musicians ought to have correspondingly more stake
in establishing its aesthetic basis. The prospects for meaningful discussion
and analysis of this music are really rather dim if informed by little or no
idea of what might lie behind certain composers' attempts at such a radical
departure from the music they grew up on and the styles they were trained
to emulate. In this respect we have a lot to learn from art criticism, where
minimalism has for some time been the object of detailed and intense
scrutiny. Accordingly, this article has two closely related aims: first, to
show that the term minimal is not at all inappropriate to the music of
certain composers when construed according to its meaning in the plastic
arts; second, to show how the language developed by art critics to treat
minimalism can be adapted to furnish an essentially workable basis for
analysis and criticism of minimalism in music.
Part of what minimal music shares with minimal art is the nature of its
immediate predecessors. The reigning style of the fifties, abstract expres-
sionism, was characterized-especially in painting-by a high degree of
gestural spontaneity which vividly conveyed the presence of the artist in the
work. This quality went by various names, such as: "painterly abstraction,"
which signified the explicit record of brushwork or other means of paint
application as the vehicle of creation; "action painting," which attempted to
capture the improvisational, work-it-out-as-you-go-along nature of the
technique; and "all-over art," which called attention to the painter's use of
the entire canvas all at once (Examples 1 and 2). Both of the last two, in
particular, were epitomized in Jackson Pollock's drip technique and his
method of laying the canvas flat on the floor and walking around it,
I B~~~~~~~~
EXAMPLE 1: JACKSON POLLOCK, Number 1, 1950 (LavenderM1i~t) (1950).

OIL, ENAMEL, AND ALUMINUM PAINT ON CANVAS, 87"
Photoeraph ? 1993 Willem de Kooning/ARS, New York
EXAMPLE 2: WILLEM DE KOONING, Black and White Rme (Double-Sided Single L) (1959).
OIL ON PAPER, 28" X 40"
90 Perspectives of New Music
Photorranh by Hans Namuth. ? 1980 by Agrinde Publications. Ltd.
EXAMPLE 3: JACKSON POLLOCK PAINTING (EARLY 1950s)
working as he did so (Example 3).5 All of these descriptive labels connoted

an exaltation of the intuitive and the unpredictable as functions of the
artist's own personality.
In its focus upon the gestural and the accidental-and in its violent break
with the past-abstract expressionist art bears a good deal of resemblance
to the work of John Cage, Morton Feldman, and Earle Brown from the
early fifties onward. All three of these composers incorporated chance-
based methods into their music, either as a matter of compositional proc-
ess, or as a vehicle for performance, or both.6 In fact, there is extensive
documentation of the mutual influence that art and music exerted during
this decade. Cage is often cited as a seminal figure in writings on the visual
arts,7 while Feldman has described in some detail what he feels he learned
from painters. For instance, he has likened his "'all-over' approach to the
time-canvas" in his graph-paper scores to Pollock's similarly named
approach, and he has spoken of the control that one can exert by being in
the work of art as the only kind of control worth having.8 More extensive
and revealing is his discussion of a large black painting by Robert
Rauschenberg, in which newspapers (also painted black) are glued to the
canvas (Example 4). Feldman saw this work for the first time in the early
fifties and immediately purchased it. He comments:
After living with this painting and studying it intensely now and then,
I picked up on an attitude about making something that was absolutely
unique to me.... the Black Painting... was like Rauschenberg's dis-
covery that he wanted "neither life nor art, but something in
between." I then began to compose a music dealing precisely with "in-
betweenness": creating a confusion of material and construction, and
a fusion of method and application, by concentrating on how they
could be directed toward "that which is difficult to categorize."9
This "confusion of material and its construction," this intrusion of life into
art so that what resulted was neither wholly one nor the other is exactly
what one would expect from an aesthetic in which explicit incorporation of
the creator's personality was held to be of utmost importance.
As the fifties progressed, and increasingly as they drew to an end, some
signs of rebellion against abstract expressionism became evident. In art,
two particularly significant figures were Barnett Newman and Ad
Reinhardt. Newman, in his so-called "stripe" paintings, put forth the idea,
not only of a drastic simplification or reduction, but also of a literalism
about the artwork that would become absolutely crucial to minimalism
later on. Newman spoke of the object as object, of his works as "declaring
the space" in which they operate.10 A painting, he said, "is nothing more
than a slice of space, a 'space vehicle,' which a painter gets into, and then
has to get out of."ll This statement bespeaks clearly an intention on
EXAMPLE 4: ROBERT RAUSCHENBERG, Untitled (1952-53)

OIL AND NEWSPAPER ON CANVAS. 72" x 54"
Newman's part that nothing be left of himself in the painting once the
painting is done. Reinhardt, for his part, took a more uncompromising
tone: one of his Six Canons or "Noes" insists upon "No Expressionism or
Surrealism" and that "'the laying bare of oneself,' autobiographically or
socially, is obscene."12 Further: "No accidents or automatism" and "Every-
thing, where to begin and where to end, should be worked out in the mind
beforehand."13 Reinhardt's near-monochromatic canvases certainly do
seem to have anticipated the minimalist painters' use of solid fields of color
(Example 5).
On the musical side, the activities of the Fluxus group were probably the
most significant in the transition to minimalism. In his excellent treatment
of the subject in Experimental Music: Cage and Beyond, Michael Nyman
points out that the Fluxus composers "reviewed multiplicity, found its
deficiencies, and chose to reduce their focus of attention to singularity."'14
This was very much an issue of control: the performance pieces which
George Brecht called "events" bore only a superficial resemblance to the
mixed-media "happenings" pioneered by Cage as early as 1952. As is well
known, the happening was designed to promote spontaneity and unpre-
dictable outcomes from the random intersections and collisions of simul-
taneously, independently executed activities. The austerity of Brecht's events
stands in stark contrast to such abundance (Example 6).15
The reader will notice that these compositions do not by any means
exclude variability from their realization or remove all powers of decision-
making from their performers. However, the sheer range of possible out-
comes has been severely reduced--and it has been done without retreating
from the "wide-open" nature of aleatory, for these pieces continue to
stretch the boundaries of what can be considered music. Further, these
events have a curiously anonymous, or impersonal, aspect, as if anyone
could have planned them-something which is really not true of Cage's
pieces, despite his supposedly having removed himself from the proceed-
ings. Is there anything, really, that categorically distinguishes Brecht's
Fluxus pieces from La Monte Young's of about the same time? This
impersonal quality is noticeable even as one recognizes the vigorously,
almost aggressively distinct and original aesthetic that underlies them as
their common ground.
As the sixties began, the definitive break from abstract expressionism in
the plastic arts came at the hands of such younger artists as sculptor Donald
Judd and painter Frank Stella, who had reached a point of intense dissatis-
faction with this tendency of the personality to attract attention to itself.
Stella recalls:
I had been badly affected by what could be called the romance of

Abstract Expressionism ... the idea of the artist as a terrifically sensi-
tive, ever-changing, ever-ambitious person.... I began to feel very
Photograph by Bill Jacobson, courtesy of the Pace Gallery
EXAMPLE 5: AD REINHARDT, Abstract Painting (1956)

OIL ON CANVAS. 15" X 9"
THREE TELEPHONE EVENTS
* When the telephone rings, it is

allowed to continue ringing, until it stops.
* When the telephone rings, the receiver

is lifted, then replaced.
* When the telephone rings, it is answered.
Performance note: Each event

comprises all occurrences
Spring, 1961 within its duration.
DRIP MUSIC (DRIP EVENT)
For single or multiple performance.
A source of dripping water and an empty vessel are

arranged so that the water falls into the vessel.
Second version: Dripping.
G. Brecht
(1959-62)
EXAMPLE 6: GEORGE BRECHT, Three Telephone Events (1961),

AND Drip Music (Drip Event) (1959-62)
strongly about finding a way that wasn't so wrapped up in

hullabaloo, or a way of working that you couldn't write abo
.. . something that was stable in a sense, something that wasn't co
stantly a record of your sensitivity....r6
The search for alternatives led to the adoption of various strategies

minimization of chance or accident; (2) an emphasis upon the surfac
work, by means of the absolutely uniform application of color -
ideal were an industrial paint job-or by other techniques that produ
exceptionally smooth, "machined" finish; (3) a concentration u
whole rather than the parts -that is, upon arrangement rathe
composition - and a concomitant reduction in the number of e
resulting in a spare, stripped-down look. Each of these is worth discussing

in turn as it applies both to art and to music.
(1) Artists such as Stella and Judd understood very well that it was
impossible to do away with chance or accident entirely-and that it was, in
fact, not desirable to do so. But whereas Pollock and other abstract
expressionists used actual chance, Judd felt that it made more sense to "use
a simple form that doesn't look like either order or disorder"-like a box,
for example, which "does have an order, but it's not so ordered that [order]
becomes the dominant quality."17
Likewise, several composers whose work could be termed minimal,
either in whole or in part, show an interest only in severely restricting the
scope of chance, not in eliminating it-but because the material itself has
been drastically simplified, and because the formal constraints to which it is
subjected are considerable, the result remains channeled within a relatively
narrow range of possibilities. Three pieces will serve as apt illustrations of
this facet of minimalism. First, in Terry Riley's In C, not only the number
of players in the ensemble and its instrumentation, but also the exact timing
of each player's rendition of the fifty-three figures juxtaposed with all the
other renditions, are left unspecified. This timing is affected by the number
of repetitions of a given figure by a given player, by the durations of rests
allowed between repetitions of a figure or before proceeding to the next
figure, and so on. However, because the sequence of fifty-three figures is
absolutely fixed, and because the players are directed to remain aware of
their fellows' progress, no single part should ever get that far out of line
with the others. As Peter Gena has noted, "Riley thus implants a type of
formal control along with the completely determinate source material."l8 A
second example is La Monte Young's The Well-Tuned Piano, which has no
score (or, at least, none that is available to anyone but the composer) and
thus is performed only by Young himself. Here the desire for control over
the aural result is exhibited in extreme form, though it is obviously the same
impulse that has led Reich and Glass to found their own performing
ensembles. According to Young, a performance of the work typically lasts
between 31/2 and 41/2 hours-though even longer durations are not
impossiblel9-but this temporal "play" is only, in fact, a matter of roughly
proportional extension (or contraction) of the various sections. These
sections are based on fixed harmonies that change from performance to
performance only, apparently, in the speed with which they are unfolded
and in the extent of the variations that form what Young calls the "micro-
structure" of the work. Young has mentioned that he almost always per-
forms The Well-Tuned Piano with a clock handy to refer to, so that he won't
"spend too long in one section and then not have enough time" for the rest
of the work.20 Finally, a third useful example of "constrained chance" is
Frederic Rzewski's Les Moutons de Panurge. The performance procedure of
this piece, at least as Rzewski originally envisioned it, actually constitutes a

witty comment on control, in that the exact synchronization that obtains at
the beginning must disintegrate at some point if the sonic potential of the
work is to be fulfilled. Just where this disintegration occurs is one variable
in the total scheme; once it has occurred, however, the resultant "blurring"
is not likely to drive the various parts all that far apart, even though there
are no automatic constraints on such separation and even though the
individual performers are directed, once synchrony has broken down, to
"stay lost.'21
It must be added, however, that for the minimalist composers, especially
those whose careers effectively began in the early to mid-sixties, there was
another, much more firmly entrenched methodology than that of Cage and
his followers to oppose: serialism, which even by 1960 had itself only
recently displaced the more conservative, neoclassical style of an earlier
generation of American composers from its position of preeminence in the
academy. One reason that the histories of art and music do not more closely
parallel each other is surely because fashions change more quickly in the
former than in the latter--and this has never been more the case than in the
twentieth century. It is probably true that the minimalists, at least at the
outset, regarded Cage et al. more as kindred spirits in some sense, less as an
"establishment" to rebel against.22 Nevertheless, it can be persuasively
argued that the music of chance ultimately served the minimalists as a
negative ideal, an example of what not to do, in their efforts to create a
viable alternative to (what they came to see as) the needless and overly
intellectual complexities of serialism.23
(2) The emphasis upon surface in minimal art is aimed in part at
achieving an impersonal quality, avoiding the depiction of personality that
most minimalist artists felt had become entirely too explicit. As painter
Kenneth Noland put it, "The thing is to get that color down on the
thinnest conceivable surface, a surface sliced into the air as if by a razor. It's
all color and surface, that's all."24 It is in this light that we understand
Stella's striking remark, "I tried to keep the paint as good as it was in the
can"-that is, in that same smooth, unworked state.25
Similar, or at least analogous, effects were registered in sculpture. David
Smith's use of burnished steel, for example, served to convey the feeling that
his works articulated a volume without actually occupying it, simply
because the intense surface presence implied that the sculptures in question,
despite their considerable size, were actually hollow (Example 7).26 One
critic notes further that "The smoothness and general uninflectedness of
surface in a good many of the [new sculptural] pieces might stand as a
metaphor for the general smoothing over of details of execution-a meta-
phor that becomes richer in light of the fact that some of the new work is
produced according to specifications at a factory."27 For some sculptors, in
98 Perspectives or New Music
EXAMPLE 7: DAVID SMITHn CuEI (1963)

SIAINLESS STEEL. 1073/4" X 647/8" X 381/8t'
fact, such as Robert Morris, the impression given by art objects that they
had been manufactured-whether literally true or not-was crucial to
breaking "the tedious ring of'artiness' circumscribing each new phase of art
since the Renaissance" and helping to remove the accompanying interposi-
tion of artist's personality between artwork and viewer.28
The simplification of musical materials that accompanies the suppression
of chance procedures also results in the equivalent of a "shiny" or "nonpain-
terly" presence. This is manifest in several features. One is the limited
repertoire of sound sources, whether they be taped or live; in the latter
case, the harmonies favored are preponderantly consonances and "mild"
dissonances. (The old tonal criteria are invoked here only for the sake of
convenience; the music itself, by definition, need not have anything to do
with common-practice harmony.) Another notable feature is the extensive
use of repetition, whether or not in the service of gradually induced, barely
perceptible change over time. Recourse to such a device, especially when
combined, as is so often the case, with the projection of a constant, uniform
pulse and a busy, bustling, or "buzzing" character, seems calculated to
evoke a sense of flatness, to deny that there is anything but surface to
engage the listener's attention.29 Of course, if there really were nothing but
surface to this music, one could only conclude that it was nonhierarchically
based. Such a basis is evidently not an impossible one for visual art-to
judge from the historical evidence-so perhaps it is not for music either.
The possibility is worth pointing out, if only to suggest that it may account
for the difficulties experienced by theorists in particular in accepting this
music as worthwhile art. For now, it will suffice to keep in mind Morris's
dictum that "Simplicity of shape does not necessarily equate with simplicity
of experience."30
(3) The shift in emphasis from composition to arrangement in minimal
art, or from parts to whole, seems to have come about as an attempt to
communicate more directly and clearly. One way of doing this was to
reduce the number of parts. Among the sculptors, Judd, Morris, and Carl
Andre are particularly significant for the ways in which their work
embodies this idea. Judd has been bluntly eloquent on the subject: "When
you start relating parts, in the first place, you're assuming that you have a
vague whole-the rectangle of the canvas-and definite parts, which is all
screwed up, because you should have a definite whole and maybe no parts,
or very few."31 Andre got around the problem of relations between parts
by using bricks of a fixed size, arranged (unmortared) in various ways:
these came across as "regimented, interchangeable units" which "did not
lend themselves to relational structures" because "any part could replace
any other part" (Example 8).32 Arrangement is taken here to imply "a
preconceived notion of the whole," as opposed to composition, which "usu-
ally means the adjustment of the parts, that is, their size, shape, color, or
Photograph courtesy of Paula Cooper Gallery
EXAMPLE 8: CARL ANDRE, Lever (1966). FIREBRICK. 400"

Well (1964/70). DIMENSIONS UNKNOWN
Pyramid (1959/70). DIMENSIONS UNKNOWN
(INSIALLATION AT THE GUGGENHEIM MUSEUM, NEW YORK, 1970)
placement, to arrive at the finished work, whose exact nature is not known
beforehand."33 The work illustrated in Example 9 is one of Andre's
arrangements, a series entitled Equivalents I-VIII, in which the same
number of bricks (120) is placed to form each of eight larger blocks, all two
bricks high but varying in their other two dimensions. Still another solu-
tion was proposed by Morris:
... Certain forms do exist that, if they do not negate the numerous
relative sensations of color to texture, scale to mass, etc., do not
present clearly separated parts for these kinds of relations to be estab-
lished in terms of shapes. Such are the simpler forms that create strong
gestalt sensations. Their parts are bound together in such a way that
they offer a maximum resistance to perceptual separation.34
These "simpler forms"-the simple regular and irregular polyhedrons-

Morris also called "unitary forms" for the fact that the viewer need not
move around them to grasp the whole: "One sees and immediately
'believes' that the pattern within one's mind corresponds to the existential
fact of the object" (Examples 10 and 11).35
In their efforts to direct the listener's attention away from the creative
process expressed as something going on in the work of art and towards the
actual sound of the finished product, the minimalist composers also stress
the "wholeness" of their pieces. Cage's Indeterminacy serves as a useful foil
in this case; it is a work that is about nothing if not its own creation. The
fact that in the well-known Folkways recording it is Cage himself whose
voice we hear might at first seem crucial to our sense that the piece is being
created as we hear it; but it is not the literal presence of the composer's voice
that makes this piece what it is, as will be clear from a comparison of
Indeterminacy with Alvin Lucier's IAm Sitting in a Room. Lucier's work, for
which the recorded, re-recorded, re-re-recorded, etc. sound of his own
voice serves as the sole material, is only superficially "about" its creation;
actually, even the listener who has never seen the "score" will soon realize-
having heard the text through a few times-that the compositional deci-
sions were all made before the beginning of the work-that in fact they
preceded the moment at which the composition could be said, even concep-
tually, to have begun. In Indeterminacy, it is the individual elements that
capture our attention: Cage's anecdotes and aphorisms spoken at various
speeds and David Tudor's sporadic, improvised piano and electronic
"accompaniment."36 In I Am Sitting in a Room, by contrast, as the piece
goes on we pay less and less attention to the individual links in the chain-
the concatenated readings of the text-and more and more to the whole
progression from the voice in the room to "the room in the voice," as it
were.37
Photograph courtesy of Paula Cooper Gallery
EXAMPLE 9: CARL ANDRE, Equivalents I-VLI (1966). SAND-LIME BRI

(INSTALLATION AT THE TIBOR DE NAGY GALLERY, NEW
x
X
U~
-4
-o ri
(O
.0
0
(I
0
c
0t
EXAMPLE 11: ROBERT MOR
FOUR PIECES, EACH 28" x 28" x 28"
One other interesting illustration in music of the opposition between

arrangement and composition could be mentioned at this point. Among
the ideas about musical time that Glass, by his own account, acquired from
his study of Indian music is the assemblage of a larger whole from a string
of smaller values. Glass sees this as a basically Eastern idea, diametrically
opposed to the Western practice of dividing a given span as if one were
slicing a loaf of bread.38 Whether or not this is a valid distinction, it does
resonate interestingly with the ideas of minimalist artists in this area. In a
piece like his Music in Fifths (1969) (see Example 12),39 where for instance
from measure 13 to measure 19 there is a progressive lengthening of the
initial simple ascending-descending motion, one sees that this "gradual
accretion of musical material," as Glass puts it,40 is calculated to minimize
the possibility that the listener will recognize the added notes each time as
separate elements: as soon as they are heard, they become indivisibly
integrated with the whole unit. This happens in part because of the
unbroken stream of eighth-note pulses, in part because the added notes are
not actually "new," being simply repetitions of notes already in the unit.
13 [151
I nL- :777 ri r-r :77 ri rrrn r 7
tWi \^?^~LM' 11 J J rL ~~~^~? J 11 J J ?L ~^~L ? J
M16 17
18rdfrf^ ^
EXAMPLE 12: PHILIP GL
The simplification inherent in reducing the number of parts in a work

also seems very much related to the spiritual, meditative qualities of mini-
malism: simplification in the service of the search for truth. This less
aggressive, less public side of minimalism is revealed most clearly in the
work of painters like Jo Baer and Agnes Martin.41 Martin's orientation is
evident, too, from her own words: ". .. we all have the same experience and
the same concern, but the artist must know exactly what the experience is.
He must pursue the truth relentlessly. Once he sees this fact his feet are on
the path. If you want to know the truth you will know it. The manipulation
of materials in art work is the result of this state of mind. The artist works
by awareness of his own state of mind."42
A corresponding aesthetic is not difficult to discern in the music of
Young and Riley, at least; their common background as students of Pandit
Pran Nath is surely significant in this regard. One thinks also of certain
works by Pauline Oliveros, such as Horse Sings from Cloud (1975-77). It is
this meditative quality, perhaps, that has led some critics to characterize
minimal music as essentially static.43 More to the point, though, is H.
Wiley Hitchcock's mention of the "lack of dramatic devices" such as "con-
trast, opposition, argument, climax, patterns of tension and release, sense
of development" in minimal music, or John Rahn's observation, concern-
ing Glass's operas, of "the absolute avoidance of conventional expressivity in
the music and its reliance on very large-scale rhythmic structures of an
almost frightening asceticism."44 It is the absence of certain devices tradi-
tionally applied to the structuring of time that has the potential to disori-
ent, to lend the impression that time has stopped altogether, or that the
music exists somehow beyond or outside of time. Indeed, the minimalist
composers, with their extensive use of repetition and of vaguely "tonal-
sounding" harmonies in nontraditionally functional ways, have managed to
construct a temporal frame of reference previously unknown-to Western
music, at any rate. But "stasis" is precisely the wrong word to describe a
music that (as will be argued at length below) depends so heavily upon
time as a vehicle.
In minimal art, the idea of mystery, of depths that might be alluded to

but were in the end hidden from the viewer, is rejected. Stella has been
quite clear on this point: "My painting is based on the fact that only what
can be seen there is there. It really is an object ... What you see is what you
see."45 And: "I wanted something that was direct-right to your
eye... something you didn't have to look around-you got the whole
thing right away."46 Certain techniques came into use that promoted the
"objectness" of the painting, such as the thick stretcher, which had the
effect of making quite literal the flatness of the canvas by lifting it away
from the wall it was hung on, and the shaped canvas, in which diagonally
opposite corners were lopped off or other alterations were made to get
away from the standard rectangular format, producing a shape which
became identical in dimensions to the image (Example 13). Similarly in
sculpture, Judd's and Morris's "elementary, geometrical forms... depend
for their art quality on some sort of presence or concrete there-
ness.... There is no wish to transcend the physical for either the meta-
physical or the metaphoric. The thing, then, is presumably not sup-
posed... to be suggestive of anything other than itself."47 Judd himself
preferred to call work that exhibited such qualities "three-dimensional
art"--neither painting nor sculpture but "related, closely or distantly, to
one or the other"-or, even better, "specific objects."48
The desirability of directness of image is certainly evident in the artistic
credos of minimalist composers, notably Reich's essay, "Music as a Gradual
Process," in which the author begins by explaining his title: "I do not mean
the process of composition, but rather pieces of music that are, literally,
processes.... I am interested in perceptible processes; I want to be able to
hear the process happening throughout the sounding music." Further, says
Reich of his method, "once the process is set up and loaded it runs by
itself"--a feature which acts to remove its inventor from the scene actually
unfolded in the music.49 Reich is also careful to point out the distinction
between Cage's use of process and his own: "The processes he used were
compositional ones that could not be heard when the piece was per-
formed."50 Again with reference to Indeterminacy, it would seem that
although the experience of listening to such a piece is intended to parallel
the process of creating it-in that one follows the accumulation of the
result, moment by moment-one is provided with nothing to go on con-
cerning the basis on which the creative decisions were actually made.
Unable to determine what the larger plan might be-or even whether there
is a larger plan-listeners are far more likely to focus their attention on what
might be called the "eternal present" of the individual stories, less likely to
attempt to make sense of the whole. Thus a kind of stasis is established-
apparently much like the stasis that Feldman claims to have brought to his
own work by studying the paintings of such abstract expressionists as Mark
Rothko and Philip Guston, for he sees in his compositional aims a denial of
process-in fact, an explicit opposition to it.51
Reich's idea of process is especially interesting in light of the fact that
minimalist artists sought to introduce a kind of temporality into their
work. Morris notes: "Only one aspect of the work is immediate: the
apprehension of the gestalt. The experience of the work necessarily exists in
time."52 As Maurice Berger comments:
In [Morris's] Untitled, 1965 [see Example 10], an arrangement of four

identical cubic forms, two sides of each cube were sloped in order to
oO
00
0
rv
I
oo
r-
question the strength of the known shape-the gestalt-while at the

same time making that strength even more visible by affirming the
impulse to see the shape as a cube (despite the displacement of one of
itS sides).... The altered gestalt of Untitled prevents the spectator
from immediately apprehending ie individual shapes in the arrange-
ment; one has to move around the piece in time tO fully understand ts
nuances.53
In painting, the thick stretcher became a vehicle for this sort of temporal
quality as well-as for example in the work of Baer, whose entirely flat
banded paintings of the sixties (Example 14) evolved into C'Wraparound"
works in the seventies (Example 15). Thus the artist effectively "demands
that the viewer abandon a static position and physically move around to see
the work."54
EXAMPLE 14: JO BAER, Untitled (1962). OIL ON CANVAS, 72" x 72"
EXAMPLE 15: JO BAER, Untitled (Wraparound Triptych-Blue, Green,

Lavender) (1969-74). OIL ON CANVAS. THREE PANELS, EACH 48" x 52"
Temporality was also often expressed in a modular or serial fashion-

"one thing after another," in Judd's often quoted phrase. The "things" in
question are sometimes identical, sometimes of extremely limited range;
certain of Dan Flavin's pieces which consist entirely of fluorescent tubes in
a few standard lengths (Example 16) are a good example of the latter.55 In
either case, they are arranged to produce gradual changes (or, sometimes,
only the slightest of variation) from module to module, whether within an
exhibition space (sculpture; see Example 17) or across a grid or other field
(painting). The seemingly rigid constraints of grids can be overcome
through various strategies, such as those adopted by Martin: "She sets up a
play ofirregularizing refinements, which never become deviations from the
prescribed system.... Thus the legibility of the system is preserved, the
presence of the module never in doubt, although it supports not only a
EXAMPLE 16: DAN FLAVIN, Greens Crossing Greens (forPietMondrian Who Lacked Green)
Photograph by John D. Schiff, courtesy John Weber Gallery, New York
EXAMPLE 17: ROBERT SMITHSON (LEFT TO RIGHT):

Terminal (1966). PAINTED STEEL. 521/2" X 36" x 561/2"
Doubles (1966). PAINTED STEEL. DIMENSIONS UNAVAILABLE
Plunge (1966). PAINTED STEEL. TEN UNITS, SQUARE SURFACES
141/2" TO 19", N 1/2 -INCH INCREMENTS
(INSTALLATION, DECEMBER 1966)
proposition concerning order but unpredictable physical variation as

well"56 (Example 18). This view agrees closely with the results of the
minimalists' new, selective mode of listening as described by Nyman: "In
Webern one perceives sameness out of (apparent) variety; while in Young's,
Glass's, or Reich's music one perceives variety out of (apparent)
sameness ... "57
Serially conceived art often involves a methodical working out of all the
possibilities encompassed by a governing set of initial decisions. The 122
wood sculptures in Sol LeWitt'sAll Variations of ncomplete Open Cubes, for
example (Example 19), range in number of edges from three (the minimum
required to establish three dimensions) to eleven (the maximum possible
Photograph by Ellen Page Wilson, courtesy of the Pace Gallery
EXAMPLE 18: AGNES MARTIN, Untitled (c.1965)

WATERCOLOR, INK, AND GOUACHE ON PAPER, 91/4" X 91/4
o
I if X
[ x
91
1-1
-c
0
without completing the cube). A similar sort of principle operates, not only
in Reich's phase-shifting pieces, but also in works such as his Music for
Eighteen Musicians (1974-76), in which each of a series of eleven chords
given in the relatively brief opening serves in turn as the basis of a section;
this "composing out" accounts for almost the entire duration of the piece,
excepting only the opening and the conclusion which is its exact duplicate.
The wide applicability of this serial principle, in fact, suggests that it is
entirely appropriate to continue to apply the term minimal to the more
recent work of Glass, Riley, and Reich, despite attempts on the part of some
critics (and composers) to brand it "Post-Minimal."
It is for this very quality of temporality, however-instilled at least partly
for the sake of rendering the work clearer and more accessible and making
of it "something that everyone can understand," in the words of sculptor
Tony Smith58-that minimal art is perhaps most open to criticism. A
difficulty arises from the fact that the basis for the governing decisions
noted above is rarely (if ever) justified in any larger terms. In an influential
and provocative essay entitled "Art and Objecthood," Michael Fried noted
the consequences of this lack: "The actual number of modular units in a
given piece is felt to be arbitrary, and the piece itself... is seen as a
fragment of, or cut into, something infinitely larger." Curiously, this
impression lends a sense of "endless, or indefinite, duration" to the work
itself.59 Environmental artist Robert Smithson has drawn attention to
these very qualities in the works he calls "nonsites," which he developed as
a way of containing an "oceanic" site and its "disruption." In his words,
"The container is in a sense a fragment itself, something that could be
called a three-dimensional map.... It actually exists as a fragment of a
greater fragmentation. It is a three-dimensional perspective that has broken
away from the whole, while containing the lack of its own containment.
There are no mysteries in these vestiges, no traces of an end or a begin-
ning."60 As Example 20 shows, Smithson often incorporated photographs
or maps into such works, showing the place from which the material for the
nonsite was taken.
Numerous critics in the sixties quickly came to realize that this new art,
through its fixation upon literal appearance- Stella's "what you see is what
you see"-guaranteed that the work would include the beholder. Not in the
sense simply of drawing viewers in, of involving them or fascinating them,
but rather in the sense that the act of looking at the work of art would
become part of that work's meaning: "An earmark of minimalist art is the
tendency to locate content outside the art object, in its physical setting or in
viewers' responses, rather than 'inside' it, in the literary or psychological
import of an image, for example."70 This quality amounts in part to a
critique of earlier art and its implicit assumption that what is located strictly
within the work could wholly define the artistic experience--that a work of
EXAMPLE 20: RoBERT smITHsoN, A Nonsite, Frankldin, N.J (1968)
PART 1: WOOD, LIMESTONE. 16'/2" x 82" x 110"
Photograph courtesy of the John Weber Gallery, New York
EXAMPLE 20 (CONT.): ROBERT SMITHSON, A Nonsite, Franklin, N.J. (1968)

PART 2: AERIAL PHOTOGRAPH
art could in fact mean anything without someone around to look at it. But
this dependence upon the beholder turned out to be a coin with an
opposite side: being included also meant being controlled, coerced. Barbara
Rose has noted this quality in Judd's work (Example 21); what he is trying
to do, she says,
is to circumvent this process of "reading" or "ordering" required by

pictorial conventions in order to force a visual confrontation more
direct than that offered by conventional forms. Toward this end he
chooses a simple, redundant, nonhierarchical order so that the sharp-
ness and immediacy of the impact of the stamped-out single shape is
maximized. There are no choices in looking at a Judd; there is only one
way to see it, and hanging it on a wall insures that it will be seen only
one way, that is, frontally.71
The sheer, vast size of many works of minimal sculpture, besides precluding
one from taking them in all at once,72 may also serve to menace the viewer.
Richard Serra's Circuit, for example (Example 22), has been described as a
work that makes one feel unguarded at every side to stand at its center-in
the end, it is "an assault upon our vanity of feeling that we govern the
figure we cut in the eyes of the world."73 In her forceful indictment of this
and other aspects of minimal art, Anna Chave notes that the evident desire
to dominate the viewer goes hand in hand with the tendency to favor large,
even overwhelming scale (especially in sculpture) as a way of seizing
control of an area or a space. In some sculptors' work, this aim has been
carried to such extremes as to have literally endangered life and property.74
Painters as well have adopted techniques that seem, among other things,
calculated to annoy or frustrate the viewer. In particular, Kenneth Noland
has produced canvases that are extremely narrow (vertically) but so long
(horizontally) that one cannot stand far enough away from them in any
normal exhibition space to get them entirely within one's field of vision all
at once. The experience of looking at his diamond-shaped canvases has
been characterized as "basically unsatisfying and unstable," because "one's
eye, in trying to focus on the colors and gauge their relative hues, is always
slipping off the edge of the canvas, propelled there by the tilt of the
bands."75 Writing about some of Noland's work from around 1967, this
same critic found that either the viewer must give into
a precipitous and engulfing encounter with sheer, brilliant color, or

else one can, by certain eye adjustments, consciously limit the experi-
ence of these paintings, that is look at the paintings but in much the
same way as one looks at the banal textiles that they resemble. This
Photograph by Bill Jacobson, courtesy of the Pace Gallery
EXAMPLE 21: DONALD JUDD, Untitled (1992)

PURPLE PLEXIGLASS AND STAINLESS STEEL
TEN UNITS, EACH 6/8" X 27" x 24"; OVERALL, INSTALLED,
Photograph ? 1993 Richard Serra/ARS, Ne-w York
EXAMPLE 22: RICHARD sERRA, Ci-rcuit (1972). HOT ROLLED

FOUR PLATES, 8' x 24' X I'"EACH; 8' x 36' x 36' OVER
response, the sense of having to choose between accepting or rejecting

the painting, is central to the experience of these paintings; .. .76
And Stella has been quite candid about the aspect of coercion in his own
work:
One could stand in front of any abstract-expressionist work for a long

time, and walk back and forth, and inspect the depths of the pigment
and the inflection and all the painterly brushwork for hours. But I
wouldn't particularly want to do that and also I wouldn't ask anyone
to do that in front of my paintings. To go further, I would like to
prohibit them from doing that in front of my painting. That's why I
make the paintings the way they are, more or less.77
Fried, picking up on Tony Smith's statement that "Something obvious on

the face of it (like a washing machine or a pump) is of no further interest,"
observes that Smith's six-foot steel cube, Die, "is always of further interest;
one never feels that one has come to the end of it; it is inexhaustible." But
this apparent fullness really masks a deficiency of content.61 Analogous
criticisms might plausibly be directed towards minimal music as well.
Though it is clear enough where such pieces as I Am Sitting in a Room or
Reich's Come Out begin (or at least start), it is not at all clear that their
endings are controlled by anything other than having run up against the
limits of human perception. In a way, maybe they never do end. Lucier's
piece, it is worth noting, exists in two widely distributed recorded versions:
one on Source records lasting just over fifteen minutes; another on Lovely
Music lasting about three times that. Is the second version "better" than the
first, in the sense that it makes the process of transformation of the original
sound source even more gradual? Would a version lasting three days
(assuming that a room could be found which would sustain the process of
transformation for that long) be better yet? These are hardly absurd ques-
tions, because after all the piece has a point, one that as listeners we're
supposed to "get"; if we didn't get it for some reason, there would be little
if anything left for us from which to form an experience of the piece as art.
This point, however, is of finite magnitude; if the piece itself is at least
theoretically of infinite magnitude, then it would seem that its content is
being stretched dangerously thin, even to the point-if taken far enough-
of vanishing.
Not all minimal compositions work this way, of course; yet endlessness is
a potential problem even with works that do seem to have definite
boundaries-for if the governing decisions do not convince in any larger
terms, the pieces they define will seem not so much to begin and end as
simply to start and stop. Glass's Two Pages (1968) certainly gives this
impression with its sudden onset and unprepared conclusion; as Mertens

has pointed out, these features give the listener "the feeling that he or she
only hears a fragment in a permanent musical continuum"-an image
which reminds one of Carl Andre's statement that, instead of cutting into
materials, he uses his material itself as "the cut in space."62 Some minimal
music, including much of Glass's, takes the implication of endlessness in
process pieces even further, doing away with any sense of directedness
without, however, denying temporality entirely. Glass has asserted that his
music "does not deal with events in a clear directional structure," but as far
as time is concerned says only that he has dispensed with the conventional
clock variety.63 This claim should not be taken to imply that one cannot
sense the passage of time in Glass's work. And Young's Dream House
project, though it has no beginning (as far as the composer is concerned)
and goes on indefinitely, gives at least some critics a sense of time as "pure
duration."64
This lack of a sense of direction has been called "nonlinearity" and

"vertical time" by Jonathan Kramer in his analysis of Les Moutons de
Panurge.65 As he says, quite rightly, this quality "exists only in the work's
interior." He is also right to assert that "vertical time... does not destroy
the temporal continuum"66 -certainly true of this piece, which is essen-
tially a process piece set up to produce an impression of different rates of
change at different points in its course, and also, as mentioned earlier, quite
deliberately set up to "go wrong," further hampering any effort the listener
may be making to keep track of its progress.67
In truth, the relationship of music to visual art in this respect is not a
simple one; music is by definition a temporal art, so what could it possibly
mean for a work of music to be "at every moment... wholly manifest," as
Fried says modernist art is, as opposed to literalist (minimalist) art?68 Yet a
distinction between music that unfolds through time and music that is about
time is not at all implausible. Consider, for example, Gyorgy Ligeti's claim
that in his music temporal relations are converted into spatial ones, and that
"the succession of events is a mere exposition of something that in its nature
is simultaneous."69 Minimal music, by contrast, more than depends on
time as a medium of presentation; it is devoted to making the listener
keenly aware of the passage of time. Not clock time as a rule, for the rate
of passage of time certainly varies from piece to piece and even, often,
within the same piece. But there is something about this sense of the pas-
sage of time that is enforced--something not found much, if at all, in earlier
music-and it is on this level that minimal music owes a particular debt to
minimal art.
Such comments, when taken in conjunction with the artworks them-

selves, bespeak two related aims. One, despite the professed interest on the
part of the artists in direct and immediate communication, is actually to
deny the viewer access to anything beyond a single, carefully controlled and
circumscribed experience of the work. Stella, discussing in 1970 his metal-
lic pinstripe paintings of a decade earlier, recalled his interest in presenting
"a real aggressive kind of controlling surface, something that ... would also
be fairly repellent. I liked the idea, thinking about flatness and depth, that
these would be very hard paintings to penetrate."78 The second, more
general aim has to do with minimalists' sense of their own historical
importance: in dictating to viewers the terms in which their work would be
experienced, minimalists were emboldened to form "the terse, but
veracious last word in a narrowly framed argument about what modern art
is or should be."79 And their exercise of power over their viewers came to
seem, to some critics, not so much a critique as a reflection of the repressive
applications of political, social, and economic power in the "real world" of
the 1960s.
Similar issues arise on the musical side. "I am wildly interested in
repetition," Young said in 1967, "because I think it demonstrates con-
trol."80 And Mertens has (seemingly inadvertently) identified a paradox:
that on the one hand the minimal piece cannot be regarded as finished until
the listener "actively participates in its construction"; but on the other, that
this same listener "is reduced to a passive role, merely submitting to the
process."81 In their elevation to supremacy of the perception of process on
the part of the listener, composers such as Reich certainly do imply that
there is only one valid way to hear their music. One detects in some of
Reich's statements an attempt to deny the existence of this problem:
Even when all the cards are on the table and everyone hears what
is gradually happening in a musical process, there are still enough mys-
teries to satisfy all. These mysteries are the impersonal, unintend-
ed, psycho-acoustic by-products of the intended process. These might
include sub-melodies heard within repeated melodic patterns, stereo-
phonic effects due to listener location, slight irregularities in perform-
ance, harmonics, difference tones, etc.82
Such assurances, however, come across as more than slightly arrogant. "You
ought to be satisfied," Reich seems to be saying to the listener, "with the
extremely limited options I've given you, and you ought to accept them as
the new standard of sufficiently interesting complexity." Would it be more
useful to think of Reich's processes as analogous to Morris's gestalts, which
cannot account for one's complete experience of a work of art even though
they do control it? Most likely not, because there is nothing "unintended"
about the eventual divergence of perception from the immediate, initial
impression made by Morris's gestalts. The minimalist aesthetic, as noted,
really does not permit accidentally produced effects to have any substantial
bearing upon the way a work is perceived. More plausible, actually, is an

analogy to the "side effects" that Sol LeWitt identifies as resulting from the
process of carrying out "blindly" the idea of the work as established in the
artist's mind prior to execution-side effects "that the artist cannot imag-
ine" beforehand and that "may be used as ideas for new works."83 In fact,
Reich himself has acknowledged a resemblance between LeWitt's views
and his own in this respect.84 But to show that the composer or artist is not
in absolute control is not to prove that what is not strictly planned or
predictable in a work has anything more than incidental significance for the
viewer of or listener to that particular work. LeWitt, after all, also says:
"There are many elements involved in a work of art. The most important
are the most obvious."85
Glass's dependence on the presence of an audience is just as unam-
biguous as Reich's, though it is expressed differently. "Art objects," he
asserts, "don't exist or function by themselves as abstract entities." Does the
tree falling in the forest make any sound if no one is around to hear it? Of
course not!86 But juxtapose this opinion with the composer's confession
that he has never sat straight through even one performance of his Einstein
on the Beach without interruption. In his own defense--and presumably in
that of anyone else who might not have the requisite stamina-he com-
ments: "The work was never intended to be seen as a whole, narrative
piece. Its 'wholeness' comes from its consistency of subject matter and
overall structure and becomes the theatrical equivalent of an 'act of faith' for
the audience."87 Here again, the essential paradox of minimalism becomes
apparent. When Glass, in an attempt to characterize just what is new about
his music, describes it as "no longer . . referring to something outside
itself, but rather embod[ying] itself without any mediation,"88 he is not
invoking the autonomy of "modernist" works from earlier in the century.
Compare Glass's statement to one of Marc Wilkinson's about Varese's
pieces: "[They] are like large and imaginative precision instruments, made
to be admired for their inherent beauty and their complex, self-sufficient
workings."89 Wilkinson's simile, by the lights of the minimalists, belies his
claims of "self-sufficiency": such music cannot be literally and only itself
because it evokes other images, however abstractly. And the complexity and
mystery alluded to in Wilkinson's description don't help either. But in order
for a piece of music to be literally and only itself, listeners must be present
who will hear the piece in only one way. If the piece admits of multiple
interpretations, if it admits of any ambiguity, the literalism is lost.
By making "perception" the bottom line, minimal music also reduces the
demands made upon the listener. This is inevitable, since not everyone is as
good at perceiving as everyone else. No longer is the assumption made that
one will listen intently, with undivided attention, from the beginning to the
end of a work; allowance is made for minds that will wander, or even for
people who will wander right out of the hall in the middle of a perform-
ance.90 Perhaps this constitutes a liberation of sorts, but clearly not every-
one thinks so. Mertens, for example, points out that "Since each moment
may be the beginning or the end, the listener can choose how long he
wants to listen for, but he will never miss anything by not listening."91
To say that minimalism has proved to be more than a passing fad is

certainly not to say that it is necessarily destined to endure, in the long run,
as art. Undoubtedly it is far too early to answer in definitive terms the
question of whether minimal music is built to last. In part this is because
the history of minimalism is not yet complete-either in art or in music. It
is true that certain earlier works of minimal painting and sculpture have
already taken on a kind of "historical" stature--that they are now regarded
as integral to the recent history of art even by those who originally
questioned the validity of minimalism. No parallel canonization of even a
provisional sort seems to have taken place in music, for even the earliest
minimal pieces are still regarded as controversial in many quarters. Perhaps
this state of affairs is only a reflection of musicians' more conservative
reflexes, compared to their counterparts in any of the other arts; perhaps,
that is, eventual general acceptance of this music is only a matter of time.
There remains the possibility, however, that some of the problems with
minimalism in music discussed earlier will eventually prove insuperable-
that, in other words, the adoption of critical language from the plastic arts
shows, not that minimal music is "just like" minimal art, but rather that the
two media are fundamentally incompatible in certain ways and that the
deficiencies of minimal music-if deficiencies they turn out to be-have
arisen from pursuing too far the analogy between visual and aural art. Such
matters, fortunately, are beyond the scope of this article to resolve.
NOTES
A somewhat shorter version of this paper was delivered at the Thirteenth

Annual Meeting of the Society for Music Theory, Oakland, November
1990. I am grateful to Mary Henry, Patrick McCreless, and Pieter van den
Toorn for their useful comments on various earlier drafts, and to Christo-
pher Hasty for a stimulating discussion of some of the issues engaged here.
1. Wim Mertens, American Minimal Music, trans. J. Hautekiet (London:

Kahn & Averill, 1983), 11-12. Even less accommodating are the
composers themselves, who, as Jonathan Kramer reports, view the
term minimal with "apparently universal disapproval" (Jonathan D.
Kramer, The Time of Music [New York: Schirmer Books, 1988], p. 57).
2. My work on this article was nearly complete when I became aware of

an unpublished essay by H. Wiley Hitchcock, "Minimalism in Art and
Music: Origins and Aesthetics," currently awaiting publication in the
College Art Journal. Subsequently, Professor Hitchcock kindly sent me
a copy of his manuscript. It is a highly readable piece of work which,
though it is fairly brief, does deal seriously with minimalism in the
plastic arts and makes some points that are similar to those made here.
However, there are some significant, even radical differences between
Professor Hitchcock's essay and my own, both in the terms in which
these points are conveyed and in the conclusions that are drawn from
them.
3. These were sculptors Richard Serra and Bruce Nauman, and film-
maker Michael Snow; the fourth performer was composer James
Tenney.
4. See Dan Warburton, "A Working Terminology for Minimal Music,"

Intigral 2 (1988): 135-59 (esp. p. 141). I am unable myself to find
any earlier instance.
5. Photos such as the one displayed in Example 3, in their wide dis-

semination, were probably as responsible as the art itself for spreading
what might be called the abstract-expressionist mystique.
6. The ostensibly sparse "event-density" of much of this music, particu-

larly Feldman's, should not mislead one into thinking of it as
minimal--for in reality, the small number of events over time tends to
focus the listener's attention intensely on each event, in all its particu-
larity, thus resulting, from the minimalist point of view, in a music
of parts rather than a whole. (See also discussion below, p. 99, and
note 51.)
7. See, for example, I. Michael Danoff, Emergence and Progression: Six

Contemporary American Artists (Milwaukee: The New Milwaukee Art
Center, 1979), 11.
8. Morton Feldman, "Crippled Symmetry," in Moron Feldman Essays, ed.

Walter Zimmermann (Korpen, Germany: Beginner Press, 1985), 136;
Feldman, "Some Elementary Questions," in Morton Feldman Essays,
67-70.
9. Feldman, "Crippled Symmetry," 135-36.
10. Leon Shulman, The Direct Image in American Contemporary Painti

(Worcester, Mass.: Worcester Art Museum, 1969), [13]; Doroth
Seckler, "Frontiers of Space" [interview with Barnett Newman],Art in
America 50, no. 2 (1962): 87.
11. Barnett Newman quoted in Shulman, The Direct Image, [17-19].

12. Ad Reinhardt, statement, in Art since Mid-Century: The New Interna
tionalism, vol. 1 (Abstract Art), foreword by Jean Leymarie (Gree
wich, Conn.: New York Graphic Society, 1971), 292.
13. Reinhardt, "Twelve Rules for a New Academy," quoted in Lawren

Alloway, "Systemic Painting," in Systemic Painting (New York: Gu
genheim Museum, 1966); reprinted in Minimal Art: A Critic
Anthology, ed. Gregory Battcock (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1968), 4
14. Michael Nyman, Experimental Music: Cage and Beyond (New York
Schirmer Books, 1972), 119.
15. Reproduced in Nyman, Experimental Music, 67, 64.
16. Frank Stella (1966), quoted in William Rubin, "Frank Stella," in Th

Great Decade of American Abstraction: Modernist Art 1960-1970, e
E. A. Carmean, Jr. (Houston Museum of Fine Arts, 1974), 102.
17. Bruce Glaser, "Questions to Stella and Judd" [interview], Art New
September 1966; repr. in Battcock, MinimalArt, 156.
18. Peter Gena, "Freedom in Experimental Music: The New York Revol
tion," Tri-Quarterly 52 (1981): 223-43.
19. In fact, the performance of The Well-Tuned Piano recorded at 6 Har-
rison Street in New York on 25 October 1981 is just over five hours in
duration (New York: Gramavision Records 18-8701-2 [5 CDs
1987). Edward Strickland, in a personal communication, reports that a
performance of this work in May 1987 lasted six hours, twenty-four
minutes.
20. Young, "Notes on The Well-Tuned Piano," in booklet accompanying

recording of The Well-Tuned Piano (New York: Gramavision Records
18-8701-2 [5 CDs], 1987), 9.
21. The score of Les Moutons de Panurge has been reprinted in numerous
publications, among them Scores: An Anthology of New Music, selection
and commentary by Roger Johnson (New York: Schirmer Books,
1981), 177. See also note 67 below,
22. See, for example, Glass's comments on serialism in Music by Philip Glass
(New York: Harper & Row, 1987), 12-13, and the remark: "[Cage,
Feldman, and Brown] were men whose work struck me [in the
mid-1960s] as far less doctrinaire and much more adventurous than
that of their European contemporaries" (13).
23. Michael Nyman, in "Against Intellectual Complexity in Music" (Octo-

ber 13 [1980]: 81-89), makes this point from a different angle, com-
menting that "Cage's attitude towards unfixing relationships was- and
unfortunately remains--as rigorous and strict as the serialist's towards
fixing relationships" (86), leaving the implication that it was the
adherents of the "New Simplicity," as Nyman chooses to call the
minimalists in this article, who really solved the problem of composi-
tional freedom.
24. Kenneth Noland, "The Thing in Painting Is Color," New York Times,
25 August 1968; quoted in Art since Mid-Century vol. 1, 293.
25. Glaser, "Questions to Stella and Judd," 157.
26. E. A. Carmean, Jr., "Modernist Art 1960 to 1970," in The Great

Decade of American Abstraction, 31. That there was something in the
minimalist sensibility that denied the solidity of anything is plainly
evident in a remark by the environmental artist Robert Smithson:
"One might object to 'hollow' volumes in favor of 'solid materials,' but
no materials are solid, they all contain caverns and fissures. Solids are
particles built up around a flux, they are objective illusions supporting
grit, a collection of surfaces ready to be cracked" (Smithson, "A Sedi-
mentation of the Mind: Earth Projects," in Flyktpunkter/Vanishing
Points [Stockholm: Moderna Museet, 1984], 172).
27. Michael Benedikt, "Sculpture as Architecture: New York Letter,

1966-67,"Art International 10, no. 7; 10, no. 10; 11, no. 1; 11, no. 2;
11, no. 4; reprinted in Battcock, MinimalArt, 88.
28. Robert Morris, Statement, in Art since Mid-Century vol. 1, 293.
29. Hitchcock, in "Minimalism in Art and Music," discusses this parallel.

The assertion of surface, however, may have another purpose as well.
See below.
30. Robert Morris, Statement, in Art since Mid-Century vol. 1, 293.
31. Glaser, "Questions to Stella and Judd," 151, 154. The allusion to
painting in this statement not only reveals that it was abstract expres-
sionism to which Judd was primarily reacting, but also confirms that it
was a dissatisfaction with painting in general that turned Judd to
sculpture in the first place.
32. David Bourdon, "The Razed Sites of Carl Andre," Artforum, October
1966; reprinted in Battcock, MinimalArt, 104.
33. Mel Bochner, "Serial Art, Systems, Solipsism," Arts Magazine, Sum-
mer 1967; reprinted in Battcock, MinimalArt, 94.
34. Robert Morris, "Notes on Sculpture," Artforum, February and Octo-

ber 1966; reprinted in Battcock, MinimalArt, 225-26.
35. Ibid., 225-26, 228.
36. I use the word "improvised" here only to signify that, while the sounds
supplied by Tudor were not in themselves invented on the spur of the
moment (the electronic material was prerecorded, the piano material
written out in full), their occurrence in relation to Cage's spoken texts
was not planned ahead of time. In fact, this would have been imposs-
ible to do, since Cage and Tudor recorded this piece in real time while
occupying different rooms, out of earshot of each other.
37. For Lucier's score, which is simply a set of verbal directions, see Scores:
An Anthology, 199, or Alvin Lucier and Douglas Simon, Chambers
(Middletown, Conn.: Wesleyan University Press, 1980), 30-31.
38. Philip Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 17.
39. Excerpt from score supplied in Mertens, 71.
40. This phrase is actually taken from Glass's commentary on his Music in
Twelve Parts, though it could just as well apply here. (Quoted in
Mertens, 79.)
41. Dore Ashton speaks of Martin as "a meditative painter" in her essay
"Agnes Martin and..." in Agnes Martin Paintings and Drawings
1957-1975 (Arts Council of Great Britain, 1977), 7-14; Baer's work
of the sixties is termed "contemplative" by David Elliott in his "Intro-
duction" to Jo Baer: Paintings 1962-1974 (Oxford: Museum of Mod-
ern Art, 1977), 3-11.
42. Martin, "We Are in the Midst of Reality Responding to Joy" (lecture,
Yale University, 5 April 1976), in Agnes Martin, 17-39.
43. Such is evidently the view of Elaine Broad, for example, who in her
article, "A New X? An Examination of the Aesthetic Foundations of
Early Minimalism" (Music Research Forum 5 [1990]: 51-62), refers to
minimal music as "non-time-directed" (59). In this regard, she echoes
Mertens, who speaks of the "mere duration and stasis" of Young's work
(American Minimal Music, 89). Nyman, too, comes perilously close to
equating the formal stasis attributed by Cage in 1948 to new music
(including his own) with the qualities of Young's music ("Against
Intellectual Complexity in Music," 88-89).
44. Hitchcock, "Minimal Art and Music"; John Rahn, "What Is Valuable
in Art, and Can Music Still Achieve It?," Perspectives of New Music 27,
no. 2 (Summer 1989): 6-17.
46. Quoted in Rubin, "Frank Stella," 108.
47. Barbara Rose, "A B C Art,"Art in America, October-November 1965;

reprinted in Battcock, Minimal Art, 291.
48. Judd, "Specific Objects," Arts Yearbook 8 (1965); reprinted in Judd,

Complete Writings 1959-1975 (Halifax: Nova Scotia College of Art
and Design; New York: New York University Press, 1975), 181-89.
49. Steve Reich, "Music as a Gradual Process" (1968), in Writings about

Music (Halifax: Nova Scotia College of Art and Design; New York:
New York University Press, 1974), 9.
50. Ibid., 10. He refers, in all likelihood, to the methods used for Changes,
Imaginary Landscape No. 4, and Music for Piano 21-52, all documented
in John Cage, Silence (Middletown, Conn.: Wesleyan University Press,
1973), 57-61.
51. Feldman, "Crippled Symmetry," 137; "Some Elementary Questions,"
67-70. Discussing his TriadicMemories, Feldman notes that each of the
chords in slow tempo is repeated a number of times depending on
"how long I felt it should go on," and reports finding that "Quite soon
into a new chord I would forget the reiterated chord before it."
Working with this phenomenon, he aimed for a "disorientation of
memory," under which the repetition without discernible pattern
would suggest "that what we hear is functional and directional, but we
soon realize that this is an illusion" ("Crippled Symmetry," 127). The
idea of an eternal present could not be more clearly projected than it is
here.
52. Morris, "Notes on Sculpture," 234.
53. Maurice Berger, Labyrinths: Robert Morris Minimalism, and the 1960s
(New York: Harper & Row, 1989), 53.
54. Barbara Haskell, Jo Baer (New York: Whitney Museum of Modern
Art, 1975), [6]. Baer, it seems, undertook these wraparound works in
part as a response to Judd's and others' increasingly harsh criticism of
the medium of painting itself towards the end of the sixties.
55. Reported in Bochner, "Serial Art, Systems, Solipsism," 99.
56. Lawrence Alloway, "Agnes Martin," in Agnes Martin (Philadelphia:

Institute of Contemporary Art, University of Pennsylvania, 1973),
9-12.
57. Nyman, "Against Intellectual Complexity in Music," 84.
58. Tony Smith, quoted in Michael Fried, "Art and Objecthood,"

Artforum, June 1967; reprinted in Battcock, Minimal Art, 134.
59. Fried, "Art and Objecthood," 144n, 144.

60. Smithson, "A Sedimentation of the Mind," 176-77.
61. Fried, "Art and Objecthood," 143-44.
62. Mertens, 71; Andre quoted in Bourdon, "The Razed Sites of Carl
Andre," 104.
63. Glass, quoted in Mertens, 88.

64. Mertens, 91.
65. Kramer, The Time of Music, 388-94.

66. Ibid., 376.
67. Dan Warburton, however, claims that Rzewski now prefers performers
to play Les Moutons with the score completely written out, in order
to prevent the previously inevitable dissolution of the unison/octave
presentation (see "A Working Terminology for Minimal Music," 146).
This information, if true, would seem to indicate that Rzewski is now
interested in exerting greater control than formerly over the sounding
result-reflecting a tendency not at all foreign to minimalism-
although many of Kramer's observations about the piece would still
hold true under this interpretation.
68. Fried, "Art and Objecthood," 145.
69. Gyorgy Ligeti, "Metamorphoses of Musical Form," in Die Reihe 7

(Form-Space), English ed. (Bryn Mawr, Pa.: Presser, 1965), 15.
70. Kenneth Baker, Minimalism: Art of Circumstance (New York:

Abbeville Press, 1988), 21.
71. Barbara Rose, A New Aesthetic (Washington, D.C.: Washington Gal-

lery of Modern Art, 1967), 12-13.
72. Lucy R. Lippard notes this quality in many of Tony Smith's sculptures
(Tony Smith [New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1972], 19).
73. Baker, Minimalism, 121.
74. Anna C. Chave, "Minimalism and the Rhetoric of Power," The Arts
Magazine 64, no. 5 (January 1990): 44-63.
75. Jane Harrison Cone, "Kenneth Noland's New Paintings," in The Great
Decade ofAmerican Abstraction, 75.
76. Ibid., 74.
78. Stella, quoted in Chave, "Minimalism and the Rhetoric of Power," 50-
51.
79. Chave, 45.
80. Young quoted in Dave Smith, "Following a Straight Line: La Monte

Young," Contact 18 (1977-78): 4-9.
81. Mertens, 90.
82. Reich, "Music as a Gradual Process," 10-11.
83. Sol LeWitt, "Sentences on Conceptual Art," in Sol LeWitt, ed. and
introd. Alicia Legg (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1978), 168.
84. Emily Wasserman, "An Interview with Composer Steve Reich,"

Artforum 10, no. 9 (1972): 44-48.
85. LeWitt, "Sentences on Conceptual Art," 168.

86. Glass, Music by Philip Glass, 36-37.
87. Ibid., 57.
88. Glass, quoted in Mertens, 88.
89. Marc Wilkinson, "An Introduction to the Music of Edgar Varese," The
Score and I.MA. Magazine 19 (1957): 5.
90. Robert Carl, in "The Politics of Definition in New Music" (College

Music Symposium 29 [1989]: 101-14), makes this same point (111).
91. Mertens, 90.

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The Minimalist Aesthetic in the Plastic Arts and in Music

Author(s): Jonathan W. Bernard

INIMALISM," AS A characterization of music composed by

were sponsored by galleries. The collaborative histories of individual fig-

EXAMPLE 1: JACKSON POLLOCK, Number 1, 1950 (LavenderM1i~t) (1950).

Photorranh by Hans Namuth. ? 1980 by Agrinde Publications. Ltd.

EXAMPLE 3: JACKSON POLLOCK PAINTING (EARLY 1950s)

working as he did so (Example 3).5 All of these descriptive labels connoted

EXAMPLE 4: ROBERT RAUSCHENBERG, Untitled (1952-53)

I had been badly affected by what could be called the romance of

Photograph by Bill Jacobson, courtesy of the Pace Gallery

EXAMPLE 5: AD REINHARDT, Abstract Painting (1956)

THREE TELEPHONE EVENTS

* When the telephone rings, it is

* When the telephone rings, the receiver

* When the telephone rings, it is answered.

Performance note: Each event

DRIP MUSIC (DRIP EVENT)

For single or multiple performance.

A source of dripping water and an empty vessel are

Second version: Dripping.

EXAMPLE 6: GEORGE BRECHT, Three Telephone Events (1961),

strongly about finding a way that wasn't so wrapped up in

The search for alternatives led to the adoption of various strategies

resulting in a spare, stripped-down look. Each of these is worth discussing

this piece, at least as Rzewski originally envisioned it, actually constitutes a

EXAMPLE 7: DAVID SMITHn CuEI (1963)

Photograph courtesy of Paula Cooper Gallery

EXAMPLE 8: CARL ANDRE, Lever (1966). FIREBRICK. 400"

These "simpler forms"-the simple regular and irregular polyhedrons-

EXAMPLE 9: CARL ANDRE, Equivalents I-VLI (1966). SAND-LIME BRI

One other interesting illustration in music of the opposition between

tWi \^?^~LM' 11 J J rL ~~~^~? J 11 J J ?L ~^~L ? J

EXAMPLE 12: PHILIP GL

The simplification inherent in reducing the number of parts in a work

In minimal art, the idea of mystery, of depths that might be alluded to

In [Morris's] Untitled, 1965 [see Example 10], an arrangement of four

question the strength of the known shape-the gestalt-while at the

EXAMPLE 14: JO BAER, Untitled (1962). OIL ON CANVAS, 72" x 72"

EXAMPLE 15: JO BAER, Untitled (Wraparound Triptych-Blue, Green,

Temporality was also often expressed in a modular or serial fashion-

Photograph by John D. Schiff, courtesy John Weber Gallery, New York

EXAMPLE 17: ROBERT SMITHSON (LEFT TO RIGHT):

proposition concerning order but unpredictable physical variation as

Photograph by Ellen Page Wilson, courtesy of the Pace Gallery

EXAMPLE 18: AGNES MARTIN, Untitled (c.1965)

Photograph courtesy of the John Weber Gallery, New York

EXAMPLE 20 (CONT.): ROBERT SMITHSON, A Nonsite, Franklin, N.J. (1968)

is to circumvent this process of "reading" or "ordering" required by

a precipitous and engulfing encounter with sheer, brilliant color, or

Photograph by Bill Jacobson, courtesy of the Pace Gallery

EXAMPLE 21: DONALD JUDD, Untitled (1992)

TEN UNITS, EACH 6/8" X 27" x 24"; OVERALL, INSTALLED,

EXAMPLE 22: RICHARD sERRA, Ci-rcuit (1972). HOT ROLLED

response, the sense of having to choose between accepting or rejecting

One could stand in front of any abstract-expressionist work for a long

Fried, picking up on Tony Smith's statement that "Something obvious on

impression with its sudden onset and unprepared conclusion; as Mertens