








































© Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009, Unit 6, The Village, 101 Amies Street, London SW11 2JW

[Expo. 3.1 (2009) 57–71] Expositions (print) ISSN 1747-5368  
doi:10.1558/expo.v3i1.57 Expositions (online) ISSN 1747-5376 

What Has Mozart to Do with Coltrane?: The Dynamism 
and Built-in Flexibility of Music

CYNTHIA R. NIELSEN

University of Dallas 
cynthia.nielsen@gmail.com

Abstract

Although contemporary Western culture and criticism has usually valued 
composition over improvisation and placed the authority of a musical work 
with the written text rather than the performer, this essay posits these di-
visions as too facile to articulate the complex dynamics of making music 
in any genre or form. Rather it insists that music should be understood 
as pieces that are created with specific intentions by composers but which 
possess possibilities of interpretation that can only be brought out through 
performance.

Keywords: Improvisation, Hermeneutics, Music

As Bruce Ellis Benson explains in chapter two of his book, The Improv-
isation of Musical Dialogue, we tend to think that a musical composi-
tion is finished once it is written down in its “final” version. However, 
there are a number of assumptions that we should question in connec-
tion with such a conclusion. First, why assume that a process of revi-
sion always leads to a better version, much less to the perfect version? 
Beethoven, for example, was known for ceaselessly revising and offering 
a number of variants for musical passages and even entire sections of 
his symphonies. Even if we grant that his revisions generally improved 
his work, why should we necessarily conclude that they always did? 
Second, is it not the case that pressing deadlines, familial responsibili-
ties, and creative inertia likewise co-determine when a work is, so to 
speak, “completed”? That is, the artist may not in fact be satisfied with 
his or her final version, and yet the work must be brought to a close. If 
this is the case, then we might say that in some instances the composer 

mailto:cynthia.nielsen@gmail.com


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is aware of the incomplete aspects in his or her work—the places that 
at some later time, he or she, if given the time, would want to change 
or develop. Third, is there a sense in which a composition becomes 
“fixed” and rigidly definite when written down, or is it the case that 
a certain “indefiniteness” and indeterminacy remains even after the 
composition is “finished”? Arguing for the latter, Benson states that 
although composers have “reasonably” definite intentions, “it would 
be impossible for their intentions to encompass all of the details of any 
given piece” (2003, 69). In other words, often or perhaps even most of 
the time, the composer is unsure exactly how every aspect and detail of 
the work should sound until the piece is actually played by a specific 
group of musicians and with very particular instrumentation. In fact, 
it is not uncommon for a composer to present his or her music to a 
group of musicians, asking for critical input on various aspects of the 
piece. Having performed in several jazz orchestras and dabbled in jazz 
composition myself, I find this claim rather convincing. It was often 
the case that our director, an accomplished composer and arranger, 
presented us with his scores, only to make numerous changes during 
the rehearsal time—changes he could not foresee until the actual music 
appeared. Clearly, he had a definite intention of how he wanted the 
piece to sound, yet the specific intricacies of tempo, dynamics, and so 
forth were realized only when the music was performed. 

In this essay, I hope to make manifest a number of interconnected 
themes, all of which challenge us to rethink the nature of music and 
the roles of composers and performers. As we shall see, what Benson 
calls “musical places of indeterminacy,” and what I call, “built-in flex-
ibility,” are present not only in jazz, where one might expect it, but 
in all musical genres, including classical music. If this is the case, and 
I argue that it is, then the lines between composition and improvi-
sation are fluid rather than fixed. Recognition of this fluidity allows 
a new paradigm for understanding what music is. Instead of a static 
product completed by one composer, a musical piece is dynamic, being 
continually composed by many performers. Consequently, the sharp 
boundaries between composer and performer likewise collapse, and we 
come to acknowledge that music possesses a pre-, present-, and future-
history. Music is communal; it emerges from and continues an ever-



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developing tradition; it is energeia rather than ergon; yet, its dynamism 
does not destroy its identity. 

One may ask, and legitimately so, when a composer finally works out 
the particular instrumentation, dynamic markings, tempo variations, 
and submits the final score, can we then say that work finished? In 
contrast to a culture or tradition of music in which a musical work is both 
perceived and passed on via aural memory, our modern understanding 
of music, particularly classical music, emphasizes the written musical 
score as authoritative.1 The contemporary music theorist Edward Cone, 
however, raises a number of interesting questions about the degree and 
range of this supposedly all-encompassing authority of the written 
score. According to Cone, it is not the case that the composition is 
identical with the score (2005, 244). In other words, Cone suggests 
that it is impossible for the written score to capture everything that the 
composition is.

Although Cone is quick to acknowledge the importance of the written 
score in classical music for the purposes of the musical performance, 
as well as the obligation that the performer has to the score, he is also 
cognizant of 1) the difficulties of establishing an accurate score, and 2) 
the fact that performance always involves interpretation. Commenting 
on the difficulties of establishing a “canonic text” of the music of 
Chopin, Cone writes, 

The performer’s first obligation, then, is to the score—but to what 
score? The autograph or the first printed edition? The composer’s hasty 
manuscript or the presumably more careful copy by a trusted amanu-
ensis? The composer’s initial version or his later emendation? The first 
German edition or the first French edition? An original edition or one 
supposedly incorporating the composer’s instructions to his pupils? 
Those involved in the attempt to establish a canonic text of Chopin’s 
works face all those decisions. (Cone 2005, 244) 

Even after these sorts of interpretive decisions have been made, we still 
have to deal with the issue of the conductor’s, as well as the performer’s, 
interpretation of the score. Here we see that accurate and excessive nota-
tion does not in itself remove the difficulties in view. The written notation 
is only an approximation of what actually occurs in a musical perform-
ance. “In fact, it is exactly the space cleared by that approximation, an area 



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of indeterminacy, that is the locus of the performer’s prime interpretative 
activity.… The realization of any score thus requires decisions at every 
point” (Cone 2005, 245). Cone’s observations press us to grapple with the 
various roles manuscript editors, conductors, and performers play in the 
actualization of the music as it appears to us. Stated slightly differently, 
if it is the case that performers, conductors and arrangers in some genu-
ine sense continue to compose a work through their various additions, 
deletions, and interpretations, then can we really say that a work is ever 
“finished”?2 As stated earlier, the “original” composers certainly have some 
definite intentions with regard to their compositions, but how extensive 
those intentions are is another issue. Also, though some composers may 
be cognizant of places of indeterminacy in their works, others become 
aware of these indeterminacies only after the music is actually performed. 
Furthermore, in light of the co-creating involved in every performance, 
there are future possibilities that will forever remain unknown to the orig-
inal composer. All of this suggests that a determinate intention, though 
having some definiteness to it, also exhibits what we might call built-in 
flexibility that allows for different manifestations and fresh articulations 
of a piece, while nonetheless preserving its identity. 

Having at least touched upon some of the ways in which this flex-
ibility or indeterminacy surfaces in classical music, I now turn to an 
example in the genre of jazz in order to further explore this built-in 
flexibility that maintains identity. Large jazz ensembles and orchestras 
perform scores that are very similar to those found in classical music 
in which all the parts are extensively notated: bass line, the chords or 
harmonic structure, and more or less every note is written in full musi-
cal notation. In contrast, jazz small groups (trios and quartets) typically 
base their performances on what is called, in jazz parlance, a “lead 
sheet” where only the melody line is written out in standard musical 
notation, allowing for significantly more flexibility. Above the melody 
line, one finds chord symbols. So while a fully notated orchestral score 
instructs a musician exactly with specific chordal voicings, a lead sheet 
simply tells the musician what chord to play, leaving the voicings open 
for interpretation. For example, on a jazz lead sheet, one might find the 
label “C major 7” written above the melody line, instead of the actual 
musical notation for a C major seventh chord (the notes C, E, G, B) or 



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the various specific voicings in which these harmonic structures may 
be expressed (for example, E, G, C, B or C, G, B, E, and other possible 
variations for a C major seventh chord). Writing the chord symbols in 
this manner affords the pianist or guitarist, as well as the bassist, a sig-
nificant amount of creative freedom in performing the piece. However, 
this freedom does not destroy the identity of the piece, since a musi-
cian must choose harmonies and bass lines that fall within a certain 
range of the specified chord symbol, and these harmonic arrangements 
and variations must support the melody and make manifest the larger 
harmonic structure of the piece. Thus, with a jazz lead sheet, players 
are in a genuine sense “tied to” the “score”—that is, they must agree to 
submit to the “givens” of the piece and respond accordingly. Here the 
communal aspect of jazz performance must be considered. For exam-
ple, if the pianist simply decides to play chords that have no relation 
whatsoever to the prescribed chord symbols, the rest of the group or 
ensemble will be affected (not to mention thoroughly frustrated), as 
their parts will not correspond to the pianist’s random harmonic super-
impositions. In such a situation, the identity of the piece is destroyed 
because it is no longer recognizable by either the musicians themselves 
or the audience listening. 

Although a certain fixity exists (a given melody, harmonic frame-
work, and a mutual submission to these givens by the community 
of musicians), nonetheless, the personalities, skill levels, and creative 
sensibilities of each individual performer also come through, making 
each performance something unique. One might even say that the flex-
ibility that lead sheets afford, coupled with the harmonic and melodic 
interpretations of these givens, brings about new intelligibilities of the 
piece that up to this point had not existed. This built-in-flexibility, 
when held in check by submission to the aforementioned givens, actu-
ally helps rather than hinders the preservation of the piece through the 
passage of time because it not only allows but expects various re-artic-
ulations and new insights to be brought forth by new generations. In 
contrast to a rigid, staticized view of a finished work, in which proper 
preservation is equated with an attempt to reproduce that work in all 
of its historical, cultural, and individual particularities, understand-
ing musical pieces (and texts) as possessing a built-in flexibility that is 



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not destructive of identity allows for expansions that inevitably come 
with temporal progression and the development of tradition, musical 
or otherwise. Thus, this dynamic conception of works is able to over-
come a potentially devastating feature of the staticized view, namely, 
the possibility of the work becoming completely closed off to future 
generations who cannot find a way to bring a past ossification to bear 
on their present cultural and historical situation. 

Here I imagine a possible objection: Am I not overstating my case? 
After all, isn’t improvisation an essential feature of jazz; and if so, even 
if there are inescapable places of indeterminacy connected with clas-
sical compositions and performances, isn’t the flexibility described in 
my lead sheet example so significantly different that the comparison 
becomes overly strained? Before attempting to address this objection, 
perhaps we should take a closer look at some of the assumptions upon 
which such an objection is based. First, there is the idea that jazz is akin 
to a free-for-all in which musicians play random melodic lines, where-
as classical music, in contrast, eliminates all improvisatory elements.  
Second, we have the notion that a strict division exists between the 
work, conceived as a suprahistorical, untouchable essence, and its his-
torical, in-time performance, which allows for variations and supple-
mentations. I turn first to address the issues and questions surrounding 
a proper understanding of improvisation. 

Regarding the history of the term “improvisation” and the negative 
attachments that have come to be associated with it, Jeremy Begbie 
writes:

At first it [improvisation] carried the relatively neutral sense of extem-
porization.… By the 1850s it appears to have acquired pejorative con-
notations – off-hand, lacking sufficient preparation (as in “improvised 
shelter,” “improvised solution”). Many musicians and musicologists 
continue to view it with considerable suspicion, if not disdain. For 
some it is synonymous with the absence of intellectual rigour. There 
are educationalists who see it as a distraction from authentic music-
making. (2005, 180)

Contra this pessimistic construal, jazz improvisation requires just 
as much skill, creativity, and rigor as the art of composing a classi-
cal symphony. Moreover, strictly speaking, composing is not with-



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out improvisatory elements; and depending upon one’s definition of  
improvisation, one could reasonably argue that improvisation pervades 
music in general. However, before going further, I should pause to  
acknowledge the well-known difficulty among music specialists in  
arriving at a satisfactory definition of improvisation. Given this diffi-
culty, we shall move through a number of possibilities, noting various 
aspects of improvisation broadly construed with the hope of finally 
obtaining a working definition of the term as related to our present 
purposes. If improvisation is understood as a simultaneous occurrence 
of composing and performance, then improvisation cannot be limited 
to jazz. In fact, what we find is that improvisation characterized in 
this manner has been prevalent in a wide variety of cultures and musi-
cal genres—from Gregorian chant to Baroque music, as well as most 
non-Western expressions of music which are by and large not notated.  
However, even subsequent to the development of music notation, we 
find composers such as J.S. Bach, Handel, and Mozart highly skilled in 
the art of improvisation and who also expected those performing their 
pieces to possess this skill (Begbie 2005, 180–181). Nonetheless, as 
concerts in the 18th and 19th centuries gained in popularity, the grow-
ing sophistication of musical notation did play a role in contributing 
to a more diminished view of improvisation (Begbie 2005, 181–182). 
Although the increase in notation severely limited opportunities for 
improvising in classical music, the improvisatory elements even in  
meticulously notated music cannot be totally removed so long as human 
beings are the performers. Avid music listeners can attest that whether 
speaking of an individual soloist or an orchestral unit, the personali-
ties, stylistic particularities, and interpretative nuances manifested in 
the actual performance of a musical work all contribute a degree of 
creative liberty that falls within the sphere of improvisation broadly 
construed. For example, how do we explain why we prefer one well-
known cellist playing Bach’s solo concertos over another renowned and 
equally proficient cellist? The notes on the page are exactly the same, 
yet we are aware of differences in the ways in which one performer 
interprets the piece or articulates a musical passage. In addition, it is 
common for a soloist to engage in what is called “ornamentation.” 
That is, rather than simply play the melodic line as written, the per-



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former adds neighboring tones and trills3 that dress up or “ornament” 
the melody line. (These ornamental notes of course are not written on 
the page, and no two musicians ornament in exactly the same way).  
A second consideration contributing to a negative view of improvisa-
tion as somehow intellectually substandard is perhaps due to an overly 
rigid distinction that we in the Western musical tradition tend to make 
between improvisation and composition. As I have indicated, improvi-
sation is often understood as non-calculated, free-flowing, and lacking 
in intellectual and musical rigor. Composition, by contrast, is thought 
to be more or less inflexible, rule-governed, and—given its high  
degree of musical notation—by nature purposely without spontaneity. 
However, as we shall see, both views are misleading and set up sharp 
distinctions that do not correspond to what takes place in actual music 
making and performance. 

Contrary to the negative characterization thus far discussed, improvi-
sation as expressed in jazz involves a high degree of prepared and cal-
culated musical ideas. All too frequently we hear the rather pejorative 
comment that in jazz it matters not what note one plays given the dis-
sonance prevalent in jazz and its penchant for non-resolution. Though 
perhaps in some expressions of jazz such a remark might ring true, on 
the whole it tends to paint a rather misleading picture. A more accurate 
account is that professional jazz improvisers are intensely aware of what 
notes they play, when to play them, and for what reason this note or 
that scale should be played as opposed to others. For example, consider 
the common harmonic structures in which one finds purposely altered 
harmonies—that is, dissonances that are deliberately applied to certain 
chord structures. One of the first skills that a beginning improviser learns 
is that most traditional jazz pieces consist of what is called the ii-V-I 
harmonic progression. For example, in the key of C major, the ii-V-I pro-
gression is: D minor 7 – G7 – C major 7. The V 7 or dominant 7th chord 
has multiple functions. For example, it is the chord that typically leads 
us directly to a resolution back to the tonic key, or it acts as a transition 
chord to take us to a new key which will then serve as a temporary resolu-
tion of sorts. In light of these functions, as opposed to being a “place of 
rest” (such as the tonic chord) or even a “temporary rest stop,” altering 
or extending its choral components heightens the tension by adding new 



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tonal colors into the mix. Jazz musicians are deeply aware of these pos-
sibilities, and maximize the tension-release motif in their solos. In fact, 
it is a common practice among jazz musicians to have numerous altered 
patterns prepared in advance—patterns which they have practiced for 
hours upon end in all twelve keys so that when performance time comes, 
the music has become such a part of them that it flows effortlessly from 
them. Thus, it is in no way the case that jazz musicians simply fumble 
around, pulling notes out of thin air, rebelliously disregarding the har-
monic structure of the piece because they have some kind of perverse  
attraction to dissonance for its own sake. While this might de-mystify 
jazz improvisation to a certain extent, it does not eradicate that side of 
jazz that involves a strong degree of spontaneity and communal interplay. 
In other words, an aspect of mystery is still alive and well in the art of jazz 
improvisation because no matter how many patterns one has prepared 
in advance, the dynamism and community of jazz makes it such that, 
in Heraclitean fashion, no pattern is ever played exactly same way twice; 
nonetheless, the patterns are quite identifiable, as is the piece itself. 

If, in fact, jazz is not a free-for-all and involves a number of previously 
prepared musical ideas, one might be led to believe that notation is the 
crucial difference between composition and improvisation. However, 
as Begbie astutely observes, “it seems odd to claim that composition 
only happens when musicians write music down” (2005, 183). If this 
were the case, the act of transcribing an improvised solo would be what 
makes the solo a composition, which seems intuitively wrong. In light 
of this apparent impasse, Begbie offers the following as a possible way 
to differentiate composition and improvisation: 

A more promising way forward is to take composition to refer to all 
the activity which precedes the sounding of the entire piece of music, 
everything which is involved in conceiving and organising the parts or 
elements which make up the pattern or design or the musical whole; 
and improvisation to mean the concurrent conception and perform-
ance of a piece of music, which is complete when the sound finishes.

(2005, 183)
According to the above conception, composition entails all the musi-
cal activity that takes places prior to the performance of the piece as a 
whole, whereas improvisation consists in a musical idea conceived and 



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performed simultaneously. In other words, the act of improvisation 
emphasizes the present activity of music making; that is, rather than 
highlighting product or result, the accent is on process and perform-
ance, as “conception and performance are interwoven to a very high 
degree” (Begbie 2005, 184). Although Begbie’s stress on dynamism 
and present activity is no doubt on the mark, his view still presupposes 
an overly rigid separation between composition and improvisation.  
With what Begbie has just said in mind, perhaps we could say the type 
of improvisation that emerges in the musical genre of jazz is present, 
semi-spontaneous, music-making activity that purposely and re-crea-
tively utilizes prepared and hence thoroughly familiar musical ideas. 
However, if we accept my working definition and Begbie’s description, 
we have problem. According to Begbie’s definition of composition, the 
prepared patterns employed in jazz improvisation become mini-com-
positions. If we opt for a more fluid relationship between composition 
and improvisation (as Benson suggests below), our problem takes care 
of itself. After all, the prepared jazz patterns consist largely of musi-
cal ideas taken from actual live, improvised performances. So if they 
count as compositions, then they are also improvised compositions 
based past improvisations.  Here we should turn to Benson, whose 
account highlights the improvisational activity of classical composers. 
Despite the fact that a kind of mythology, which portrays composi-
tion as principally a flash of instantaneous inspiration, coupled with 
the Kantian idea of a creative genius tends to dominate our concep-
tion of the way in which a musical composition comes into existence, 
Benson contends that composers across the musical spectrum actually 
engage in a great deal of improvisation. “Composers are more accu-
rately described as improvisers, for composition essentially involves a 
kind of improvisation on the already existing rules and limits in such 
a way that what emerges is the result of both respecting those rules 
and altering them” (Benson 2003, 133). In the end, given the mutual 
interplay between composition and improvisation, perhaps it is better 
to think of both as manifesting themselves in all music to greater or 
lesser degrees along a continuum, wherein the degree of manifesta-
tion depends a host of contingencies (for example, the expertise level 
of the musicians present, the performance setting, the purpose of the 



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particular performance, whether or not the conductor has an aversion 
to improvisation etc.).

Having examined the calculated aspects of jazz improvisation, as well 
as highlighting some of the ways in which improvisation and places 
of indeterminacy emerge and exist in classical music, I now turn to 
discuss the idea that a sharp dichotomy exists between the work and its 
performance. In chapter four of his book, The Improvisation of Musical 
Dialogue, Benson discusses the ways in which a musical ergon or prod-
uct emerges from musical energeia or activity, and yet this ergon “still 
remains within the play of musical energeia” and cannot be separated 
from it (2003, 125). In other words, if it is the case that the boundaries 
between composition and improvisation are fluid, then every perform-
ance is an interpretation, and musical traditions themselves adapt and 
evolve over time. From this perspective, musical works are more prop-
erly understood as dynamic rather than static, finished products. Ben-
son, stressing the interdependence between musical works and musical 
energeia, outlines three implications of such a view. 

First, the telos of music making cannot be defined simply in terms of 
the creation of musical works, or even primarily so. Instead the work 
becomes a means to the end of making music, not an end in itself. Sec-
ond, if the work exists within the play of musical energeia, then it cannot 
be seen as autonomous or detached. Like a living organism, it is ever in  
motion and constantly in need of care and infusions of new life to 
keep it alive. Third, if performers are essentially improvisers, then au-
thorship becomes more complex. (Benson 2003, 126)

Here we have an inversion of the common view of a musical work as 
the goal or telos of music- making. Rather, musical activity itself is the 
telos, and a musical work functions as a vehicle to that end. Thus, the  
telos in view is not static and even requires on-going, creative “infu-
sions” of musical life “to keep it alive.” Such a view is exceedingly tradi-
tion-friendly, as it recognizes not only a post-history, but a pre-history 
embedded in every musical work. Beethoven, for example, did not exist 
in a historical vacuum but drew upon the musical ideas of Haydn and 
Mozart, who in turn were themselves influenced by Bach and other 
earlier composers. To use Hans-Georg Gadamer’s term, what we have is 
a multi-level, continual “fusion of horizons” (2004, 306). Beethoven’s 



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piano sonatas are in part the result of his engagement with earlier 
composers and traditions; hence, we have, so to speak, a past fusion of  
horizons with respect to the composition itself. To speak of a past  
fusion, however, detracts from the dynamic nature of musical activ-
ity. Here we should emphasize that an ongoing, polyphonic fusion of 
horizons occurs with every musical performance. For example, when a 
twenty-first century Russian pianist performs Beethoven’s Piano Sonata 
No. 14 in C-sharp Minor, she enters into the ever-unfolding lifeworld of 
the piece—a lifeworld that both precedes and goes beyond Beethoven. 
A different but related re-shaping takes place with respect to the per-
former, who, like the musical piece, also belongs to a tradition. Perhaps 
our Russian pianist has been influenced by French impressionism and 
other twentieth century compositional styles. If so, these components 
are part of her musical lifeworld and at some level influence her in-
terpretation of Beethoven’s sonata. Even so, her performance of this 
particular piece must be recognizable as Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 
14 in C-sharp Minor. In addition to a past fusion, we have a present fus-
ing of horizons which affects not only the composition but again the 
performer as well. So long as the alterity of the composition is respected 
and its identity (notwithstanding the difficulty of stating exactly what 
that identity is) is made manifest rather than marred or destroyed, the 
performer herself is changed by allowing the piece to become, as it were, 
a part of who she is. Authorship indeed “becomes more complex” since 
the performer not only participates as co-author of the piece, but the 
piece itself and the traditions from which it came re-author and hence 
change the performer.4 Here, it is not difficult to see parallels between 
musical pieces and written texts and musical performers and textual 
interpreters. The intelligibility and coherence of this aforementioned 
identity, which somehow allows for change and yet remains intact, is 
a legitimate concern that has provoked a great deal of discussion. In 
order to secure the identity of a musical work, some musicologists and 
philosophers of music have posited an essential division between the 
suprahistorical work itself and its written and aural historical embodi-
ments. Benson identifies Roman Ingarden as one who holds such a 
position.5 Regardless of whether Ingarden’s position might be parsed 
differently, the view presented articulates a plausible alternative and 



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is helpful for our present discussion; thus, I shall refer to this view as 
“the essential division position.” With this strict separation between 
the work itself and its material expressions, we are brought back to the 
question of the relation between the work and the score. The essential 
division position claims that the score preserves the work and helps to 
maintain its identity. Yet, as Cone’s insights suggest, the score cannot 
exhaust the work and instead merely relates aspects of the work. There-
fore, the score functions as a kind of “schema.” If we acknowledge both 
that the score in some sense maintains the identity of the work without 
circumscribing the work, then we are pressed to ask: what then is the 
“something more” that the score fails to capture? To this question, Ben-
son adds, “Is there something that guarantees the identity of this sur-
plus that goes beyond the score? Moreover, what connection is there—
if any—between this more and musical energeia?” (2003, 127). 

A person holding the essential division position might suggest that 
rather than creating new additions, performers over time are simply 
realizing the inherent potentialities possessed by the work from the 
beginning. Thus, the work itself does not actually change over time 
but merely appears to change. However, as Benson observes, “the prob-
lem with this view is that—practically—these possibilities seem not 
to come merely from within but also from without: for they arise—at 
least partly—by way of performance traditions, which are themselves 
developing” (2003, 128). To claim that all the future potentialities of a 
musical piece come only from within reduces the performer to a purely 
passive re-producer. Here the other-ness of the work is retained but at 
the expense of the performer’s alterity. In place of this dichotomous 
conception wherein the relation between the work itself and its em-
bodiments are forever estranged, Benson argues for a mediating way 
which, on the one hand acknowledges that a work possesses latent po-
tentialities yet, on the other hand, stresses that those potentialities are 
supplemented by additional possibilities that come into being over the 
course of time via the performances themselves and as a result of evolv-
ing musical traditions. Elaborating his view, Benson explains: 

a composer may indeed have a complex conception of the work (and 
so potentially a relatively complex set of “intentions”), but those  
intentions are supplemented by actual performances and the develop-



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ment of performance traditions. Thus, we could say that Bach had 
intentions for the St. Matthew Passion that were complex and specific. 
But the [later] performance by Mendelssohn did not merely bring out 
those possibilities (even though it did that too). Rather, it also created 
certain possibilities—possibilities that truly did not exist before (Ben-
son 2003, 129). Though Benson’s via media may still leave us with 
important questions as to the nature and maintenance of the identity 
of a piece over time, it does justice to the phenomena by affirming 
the alterity (and humanity) of the performer and refusing to consign  
developments in tradition and the creative contributions of performer 
to mere appearances. With these things in mind, Benson’s suggestion 
to replace the denomination “work,” which connotes a finished prod-
uct, with the designation “piece” is compelling. “Piece” implies both 
that which is “connected to a contextual whole” from which it cannot 
be completely severed, as well as the sense of a more fragmentary and 
on-going character—something “inherently incomplete, for the musi-
cal context in which it exists is in flux.” (Benson 2003, 132–133)

In conclusion, although my essay likely raises more questions than 
it answers, hopefully some of the topics we have considered—identity 
and difference, musical places of indeterminacy, and the various ways 
that music presents itself to us—have provoked us to broaden our 
thinking, not only about music but also about textual interpretation 
and authorship. It is also perhaps worth considering that my approach 
to the subject matter of this essay itself exhibits many of the themes  
I have attempted to bring to light here. For example, following Benson, 
Cone, Begbie, and others—all recognized “players” within a certain 
tradition who submit to various givens of that tradition—I have not 
only identified and re-articulated their insights but also improvised on 
and expanded their themes. The result is both a realization of places of 
indeterminacy consistent with their original intentions and a bringing 
forth of new possibilities which, up to this point, did not exist within 
the original set of intentions.  

Notes

1. I use the word “classical” in this essay in the colloquial, generic sense. I am not 
referring to the specific style of music that falls historically between the Baroque 



Cynthia R. Nielsen 71

© Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009

and Romantic periods.

2. This idea of on-going composition exhibits striking similarities with Gadamer’s 
hermeneutical insight that texts always exhibit an “excess of meaning” upon 
which tradition builds. See, for example, Gadamer 2004, 296. 

3. A trill consists typically in the rapid alteration between two musical notes adja-
cent on the musical scale; however, there is no fixed or single way of executing a 
trill. Whether or not one has “correctly” executed a trill is largely dependent upon 
the context in which it is found and the musical genre in which one is perform-
ing.

4. See, for example, Wright 2004, 237.

5. See the discussion of Ingarden in Benson 2003, 126–133.

References

Begbie, Jeremy

2005 Theology, Music and Time. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Benson, Bruce Ellis

2003 The Improvisation of Musical Dialogue: A Phenomenology of Music. Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press. 

Cone, Edward T.

2005 The Pianist as Critic. In The Practice of Performance: Studies in Musical 
Interpretation, edited by John Rink, 241–254. Cambridge: Cambridge 
University Press. 

Gadamer, Hans-Georg

2004 Truth and Method, 2nd ed. Translated and revised by Joel Weinsheimer and 
Donald G. Marshall. New York: Continuum.  

Wright, Kathleen

2004 On What We Have in Common: The Universality of Philosophical Herme-
neutics. Renascence: Essays on Values in Literature 56(4): 234–255.  




