14

AN ARCHITECTURAL CREATION MYTH BORROWED FROM THE PHENOMENOLOGY OF MUSIC

Stephen Parcell

Sound versus musical sound

One of the many books in the music library that illuminate architecture obliquely is Thomas Clifton, Music as Heard: A Study in Applied Phenomenology.¹ In the late 1970s Clifton and another philosopher of music, F. Joseph Smith, carried out separate phenomenological studies, methodically bracketing out peripheral circumstances to discern essential premises of music. To make a long story very short, both concluded that the human experience of sound is the starting point of music. Smith distinguishes between sound and musical sound:

Clifton adds,

We understand most of the sounds around us in a denotative way, relying on them – in conjunction with visual sights and other clues – to denote particular features in our surroundings, especially nearby things that are moving. Meanwhile, we may understand other sounds around us as musical because they are organized deliberately and are meaningful in a different way. Music is presented in the sounds (and silences). Normally we do not regard musical sounds denotatively: to denote, for example, that there is an oboe buzzing around the room. Both Clifton and Smith indicate that the basic distinction here is between sounds and musical sounds. They emphasize that sound is essential: “The sound source … must be there if we are to experience music at all.”4

Pythagorean theory

This scenario may seem self-evident, but Western music theory is based on different premises. Followers of Pythagoras in the fifth century BCE noticed that pairs of tones that sound consonant are generated by a taut string that is subdivided into different lengths with simple ratios: 2:1 produces an octave; 3:2 produces a fifth; 4:3 produces a fourth, etc. This seemed to provide a rare empirical proof that the universe is based on simple numbers. Consequently, music theory based on mathematics was regarded as a form of universal knowledge and later became instituted as one of the four liberal arts of the quadrivium. Although the experience of sound provided the initial evidence, writers on music theory, especially Boëthius in the sixth century CE, emphasized the numbers and declared that sound is only a secondary, non-essential attribute. He stated, “Pythagoras … put no credence in human ears, which are subject to change.”⁵ Discussing the cosmic music of the spheres, Boëthius also suggested that the extremely fast motions of heavenly bodies produce sounds but they are inaudible to humans.⁶

One consequence of this belief in musical mathematics is that Western music has relied primarily on pitch intervals: not absolute pitches that are high or low, but proportional relations between pitches.⁷ In theory, a C-major triad in a low register is identical to a C-major triad in a high register. This proportional relationship was the basis of harmony in Western music.8 Due to Pythagorean mathematics and the Neoplatonic and Christian connotations it had acquired, listening to medieval chants could be understood as witnessing perfect numerical proportions; the sound then would be incidental. Similarly, observing medieval religious buildings could be understood as witnessing perfect numerical proportions; the substance then would be incidental. Western architecture theory has been based primarily on form, starting from the ratio between the lengths of adjacent sides of a rectangle. This proportional relationship was the basis of harmony in Western ­architecture. In both disciplines the numerical proportions were believed to provide a glimpse of the divine order of the universe.

Meanwhile, music was understood not just as numbers. Alongside this universal music theory was a tradition of musical performances for human enjoyment; however, the two traditions were kept separate to avoid contaminating the religious concepts. Church officials warned against complex melodies and rhythms that would distract worshippers and “stir lascivious sensations in the loins.”⁹ Similarly, architecture was understood not only as numbers. Alongside this universal architecture theory was a medieval tradition of building in which materials were used skillfully to make things that compensate for intrinsic human weakness.¹⁰ This tradition also was grounded in religion but did not share the mathematical premises of church architecture.

Timbre and materiality

When analyzing even a single sound, focusing on its primary pitch implicitly downplays its other characteristics: intensity and especially timbre. As Clifton notes,

In nineteenth-century music theory, timbre was conceived as a tertiary characteristic of sound: an incidental quality that can be defined only indirectly, as the leftover attribute that differentiates two sounds with the same pitch and intensity.¹² To compose music in this way, one would start with different pitches and perhaps different intensities, then add timbre for flavor. Both pitch and intensity can be quantified and notated easily (e.g., middle A at double forte; or 440 cycles per second at 55 decibels) but timbre cannot. To analyze timbre objectively, several components would have to be considered: the attack and decay with which the sound begins and ends, the many constituent pitches within the timbre, and the different intensities of those pitches.¹³ To build up the complex properties of a particular timbre from scratch would be a difficult task.

Timbre is difficult to conceive but easy to perceive. All creatures recognize timbre intuitively from experience and memory. Sitting still with our eyes closed, we rely largely on different timbres to recognize things in our surroundings: the turning of a page, the boiling of a kettle, or a knock at the door. From a timbral standpoint, pitch is merely one simplified component of timbre, not a primary attribute in its own right. Most of the sounds around us do not have only a single primary pitch. To compose music that emphasizes timbre, one would work directly with sound and not be overly concerned with primary pitches or their graphic notation.

When analyzing even a single substance, focusing on its primary form implicitly downplays its other characteristics: size and especially materiality. Western architecture theory regards materiality as a tertiary characteristic of substance: an incidental quality that can be defined only indirectly, as the leftover attribute that differentiates two substances with the same form and size. To compose architecture in this way, one would start with different forms and perhaps different sizes, then add materiality for flavor. Both form and size can be quantified and represented easily (e.g., a cube, 2’ x 2’ x 2’) but materiality cannot. To analyze materiality objectively, several components would have to be considered: its texture and resilience, its tones and colors, and its many constituent forms at different scales.14 To build up the complex properties of a particular material from scratch would be a difficult task.

Materiality is difficult to conceive but easy to perceive. All creatures recognize materiality implicitly from experience and memory. Moving around with our eyes and ears closed, we rely largely on materiality to recognize things in our surroundings: the delicacy of paper, the steam from a kettle, or the solidity of a door. From a material standpoint, form is merely one simplified component of materiality, not a primary attribute in its own right. Most of the substances around us do not have only a single primary form. To design architecture that emphasizes materiality, one would work directly with substance and not be overly concerned with primary forms or their graphic notation.

Music versus non-music

Underlying the distinction between Pythagorean theory and everyday performance, as well as the distinction between pitch interval and timbre, is a more basic issue: the grounds on which one defines what is and what is not music. Pythagorean theory relies on numerical relations that are essentially silent and autonomous. Clifton’s phenomenological analysis points instead to actual sounds that are perceived by humans.¹⁵ He acknowledges that sounds exist objectively, like trees and mountains, but says that music requires a receptive listener to distinguish the denotative sounds of one’s surroundings from the presentative sounds of musical order. Certain sounds that one hears in the forest might be recognized as musical. The situation here includes only the sound and the human listener, not yet the intentions of a composer. To focus on this basic musical event, Clifton brackets out peripheral elements, including a composer, an act of composition, instruments, performers, and a score. He notes that one person may recognize certain sounds in the forest as musical whereas another may not; however, we tend to agree on such things. Musical sounds in the forest need not emphasize pitch intervals. We tend to focus on pitch but can recognize musical order also in rhythms and in sequences of timbres. Music we don’t like may be dismissed as “noise,” but we still recognize it as music.

In distinguishing music from non-music, Clifton points out that music is perceived not as a set of individual sounds but as a larger figure with rhythm, form, motion, direction, and degrees of stability and instability.16 The primary phenomenon is gesture.¹⁷ Musical events create their own time; they do not happen in time. Describing music as fast, smooth, high, low, ascending, descending, bright, or colorful indicates that we experience music not only temporally and aurally but also in a quasi-spatial way that recognizes forces.¹⁸ It tends to rely on tonality, which provides the narrative structure for most Western music: harmony exerts a pull on dissonant sounds to bring them back to a state of rest.¹⁹ These descriptions suggest that we rely on previous bodily experience to interpret what the music is doing.²⁰ Here, Clifton’s approach follows that of philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty, who stressed that we understand our surroundings reciprocally through the body, in a continuous intertwining that provides the essential ground for any subsequent abstractions.²¹ No one has written a phenomenological analysis of architecture that is comparable to what Clifton wrote for music, so approaching architecture circuitously via the phenomenology of music is a second option.

Architecture versus building

Like “music,” “architecture” is an abstract noun. It is inherently singular and does not designate particular things such as songs and buildings. Paul Valéry suggested that music and architecture share a special relationship because they exist in our surroundings and, unlike other arts, do not rely on representational images or words as intermediaries.²² However, recognizing architecture has become much more difficult. As Friedrich Nietzsche noted, “In general, we no longer understand architecture – at least, not nearly as well as we understand music.”²³ A recognition of music relies on an intuitive perception of order, whereas a recognition of architecture relies on attributes that are esoteric, sophisticated, and often contradictory.24 Architectural ­theorists have drawn many different lines between what is and what is not architecture. They have proposed various criteria to distinguish an architectural attribute from a non-architectural attribute: proportionate versus non-proportionate, ornate versus plain, grand versus humble, complex versus simple, unique versus typical, rich versus poor, sacred versus secular, etc. All of these criteria are illustrated by Nikolaus Pevsner’s statement, “A bicycle shed is a building; Lincoln Cathedral is a piece of architecture.”²⁵ Pevsner’s two examples sit at opposite ends of an ascending scale: Lincoln Cathedral has all seven architectural attributes, whereas the bicycle shed has all seven non-architectural attributes. By avoiding the middle zone, where a building might be ornate but simple, proportionate but secular, or sacred but plain, Pevsner avoided drawing a more decisive line between architecture and building. However, even if he had done so, the line would be arbitrary and debatable because architecture and building are situated on a continuous sliding scale. There is no categorical distinction between them – only a graduated distinction that requires a well-educated critic to employ the overlapping criteria. The graduated scale has no intrinsic division, so there is plenty of opportunity for debate over whether a given building qualifies as architecture. The ascending scale from building to architecture is unidirectional: buildings aspire to be architecture but architecture does not aspire to be building. Pevsner’s prime architectural example of Lincoln Cathedral is recognized also as a building, so the lower designation is encompassed by the upper one. Due to the many overlapping criteria it has acquired, the word “architecture” has become sufficiently ambiguous to be adopted for novel domains such as “molecular architecture” and “computer architecture” that are not associated with buildings.²⁶

Architectural education and practice have reinforced these sophisticated definitions of architecture. Since the mid-nineteenth century, the discipline of architecture has been studied increasingly at a university level.²⁷ It is now regarded as a composite subject that is defined in an indirect way, based on the multiple facets it shares with other subjects: art, engineering, sociology, psychology, history, etc. Because architecture has no presence in primary or secondary education, it is assumed to be an esoteric subject with no roots of its own in childhood experience. Aptitude for architecture often is assumed from a student’s previous abilities in cognate subjects such as drawing and mathematics, or from equal strengths in arts and sciences. Due to the many responsibilities that architectural education has acquired, design tends to emphasize productive lessons with direct applications.²⁸ As a practice, architecture is defined by government legislation and regulated by professional bodies that set the criteria and standards to determine who is and who is not an architect. By law, only registered architects can make architecture. Meanwhile, anyone can make music. This is not to suggest that everyone should be permitted to make buildings, but simply to point out that the word “architecture” is reserved for advanced professional activities and that we have no equivalent concept or word for more basic experiences and activities involving substance (and space) in our surroundings.29

Tecture versus non-tecture

In distinguishing music from non-music, Clifton elaborates on the basic human condition described by Merleau-Ponty: A human is immersed in worldly surroundings and uses bodily experience to develop a reciprocal understanding of the world and oneself. The world is recognized as a continuation of the flesh of the body. If the world has three dimensions, depth must be the first, as it presumes human involvement from the beginning.³⁰ Merleau-Ponty strongly opposes any subject–object dichotomy and he struggles to describe this continuity in words, due to the resistance in Western languages that presume discontinuity and dichotomy. Even the word “surroundings” suggests an opposition of center and circumference. Merleau-Ponty regards the human experience of worldly immersion as the precondition for developing any subsequent abstractions.

In a similar way, Clifton’s distinction between music and non-music focuses on the sounds (and silences) in our surroundings and relies on a human observer to detect the subtle presence of musical sounds amidst other, denotative sounds. This is a creation myth for music: a momentous first occasion that remains an essential benchmark for all subsequent developments and abstractions. In the creation myth this could happen out in the forest, where denotative sounds would denote the features of one’s surroundings and any presentative musical sounds would be recognized immediately as belonging to a separate epistemological category (Figure 14.1).³¹

Some of our surroundings are sounds (and silences); some of our surroundings are substances (and spaces). In a parallel creation myth, alongside the one for music, most of the substances in the forest would denote one’s surroundings, but something is recognized as a subtle but deliberate organization that cannot be attributed to nature; it presents something different. The word “architecture” cannot be used here because it carries sophisticated connotations and employs an ascending scale that uses “building” rather than “substance” as its foil, so let’s introduce an irritating placeholder word – “tecture” – that avoids those connotations.³² In this forest setting the basic distinction is between substances and tectural substances – equivalent to the denotative–presentative distinction between sounds and musical sounds. Similar to what Clifton noted for music, substance must be present if we are to experience tecture at all. “Non-tecture” denotes the ambient features of one’s surroundings, whereas tecture presents a deliberate order of some kind. A paraphrase of Adolf Loos offers an illustration: “When we come across a mound in the wood, six feet long and three feet wide, raised to a pyramidal form by means of a spade, we become serious and something in us says: somebody lies buried here. This is [tecture].”³³

Figure 14.1 Forest (photo by author)

Another illustration is offered by the Scottish sculptor Andy Goldsworthy, who works outdoors and reorganizes natural elements in a subtle way to savor what might be described as the threshold between tecture and non-tecture. Goldsworthy is following in the footsteps of earlier land-art sculptors such as Robert Smithson.³⁴ This sculptural tradition modifies existing surroundings in the world rather than fabricating new objects for a gallery setting. Their work is more like montage than drawing.

In standing out from its denotative, non-tectural surroundings, tecture would be recognized not merely as a set of individual substances but as a larger figure with implicit rhythm, form, motion, direction, and degrees of stability and instability. As in music, the primary phenomenon would be gesture. Tectural events would create their own space; they would not happen in space. They might be experienced not just spatially and visually but also in a quasi-temporal way that recognizes forces. As in musical tonality, tecture might rely on a narrative structure that exerts a pull on incompatible substances to bring them back to a state of rest. These various descriptions would suggest that we rely on previous bodily experience to recognize what the tecture is doing (Figure 14.2).

Tectural practice

This description of tecture portrays a first moment of a discipline that is more basic than architecture.³⁵ As a creation myth, it is not part of recorded history but of separate, prehistoric origin. It could be stored away in a cornerof architectural theory, filed under prehistory, phenomenology, or music–architecture parallels, alongside other architectural creation myths. Alternately, it could be germinated and cultivated to imagine the discipline into which it might grow. Initially, this would require a bracketed setting where subtleties of tecture can be distinguished from a background of non-tecture. It would also require a receptive, fictional frame of mind in which these fabricated words are less irritating. As in Clifton’s creation myth for music, such a setting would start not from a blank slate but amidst surroundings of substances (and spaces) – perhaps a forest or a generic building interior. This setting would include not only objects but also humans with senses, experiences, and memories.³⁶ It would invoke early childhood experience and perhaps even animal awareness.

Figure 14.2 Beach (photo by author)

The discipline of tecture might develop very slowly, starting with observation and recognition. To practice tecture beyond this initial stage, some parallels might be drawn from the discipline of music.³⁷ A musician proceeds gradually through a series of increasing challenges: listening, performing, improvising, and composing. A “tecturian” might proceed gradually through an equivalent series of activities, rather than leaping immediately to composing or designing. There is no rush to be productive or useful; as in music, the tectural engagement with substance (and space) starts as an enjoyable form of play that is done for its own sake, as a simple human challenge rather than as an external problem to be solved. As in musical sounds (and silences), tectural substances (and spaces) are engaged directly, not through representational notation. Paper and graphic instruments might be used for rubbings but not for drawings or writing. A tecturian might learn to play tecture on various instruments that modulate substances (and spaces). As the different timbral qualities produced by a musical instrument suggest different ways to play it, the different material qualities produced by a tectural instrument might do the same. Tectural performances might even “stir lascivious sensations in the loins.” Solo practice and performance would develop skill but collaborative improvisation might be even more enjoyable. Tectural composition, the most advanced activity, might begin with temporary bodily gestures in air or sand, rather than with permanent representational drawings that are abstracted from one’s surroundings. At this stage, every bodily gesture is full-scale. Every worldly site is half-finished. Just as Merleau-Ponty had to steer a linguistic course through existing terms and categories, the fictional discipline of tecture might have to do the same when it branches out into the larger world. Along with selected examples from Loos and Goldsworthy, it might invoke certain recognizable figures, actions, and projects in craft, sculpture, and building. To recognize allies, tecturians would rely mainly on their own bodily experience of substance (and space), rather than abstract principles obtained vicariously from others. With its roots in phenomenology, alongside Clifton’s intuitive recognition of music, tecture would be cautious and selective when adopting practices and examples from the history of architecture.³⁸ This would draw a line between tecture and architecture. In turn, this might leave architecture free to focus on larger, more complex organizational projects. The current practice of architecture – from teapots and furniture to buildings, cities, and regions – has become too vast for one discipline anyway. On the other hand, architects who believe in the tectural creation myth might formulate an alternate definition of architecture that is based on the human experience of substance (and space). Retroactively, this would enable them to have been architects since birth.

  1 Thomas Clifton, Music as Heard: A Study in Applied Phenomenology (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 232.

  2 F. Joseph Smith, The Experiencing of Musical Sound: Prelude to a Phenomenology of Music (New York: Gordon and Breach, 1979), 169.

  3 Clifton, Music as Heard, 1.

  4 Ibid., 2.

  5 [Anicius Manlius Severinus] Boëthius, De institutione musica 1.10, trans. Calvin M. Bower, in Fundamentals of Music, ed. Claude V. Palisca (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), 17.

  6 Boëthius, De institutione musica 1.2, in Fundamentals of Music, ed. Palisca, 9.

  7 The use of a vertical spatial metaphor to map pitches is common throughout history and around the world but its directionality is culturally specific. Our current Western distinction between high and low pitches may seem self-evident but the ancient Greeks reversed these directions: bass voices were “high” while soprano voices were “low.” They relied on different analogies: “high” pitches were associated with long strings, tall pipes, and dominant males. See Edward Arthur Lippman, “Music and Space: A Study in the Philosophy of Music” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 1952), 136–51.

  8 These Western premises are culturally specific. Other advanced forms of music were developed from different premises. African drumming, for example, relied on absolute pitches, not pitch intervals. See John Miller Chernoff, African Rhythm and African Sensibility: Aesthetics and Social Action in African Musical Idioms (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979), 75–9.

  9 John of Salisbury (twelth-century bishop of Chartres), quoted in Lydia Goehr, The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works: An Essay in the Philosophy of Music (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 132.

10 This was theorized in the medieval concept of architecture as a mechanical art. See Hugh of St Victor, The Didascalicon of Hugh of St Victor: A Medieval Guide to the Arts, trans. Jerome Taylor (New York: Columbia University Press, 1961), 76. See also Stephen Parcell, “Hugh of St Victor and the Mechanical Arts,” in Four Historical Definitions of Architecture (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2012), 59–104.

11 Clifton, Music as Heard, 6.

12 Hermann von Helmholtz formulated this theory in 1862 and it has remained the standard since then. He refers to the three properties as force [intensity], pitch, and quality [timbre]. See Hermann von Helmholtz, On the Sensations of Tone as a Physiological Basis for the Theory of Music, trans. Alexander J. Ellis (New York: Dover, 1954), 10, 19, 65–9. For a broader discussion of timbre, see Erik Christensen, The Musical Timespace: A Theory of Musical Listening (Aalborg, Denmark: Aalborg University Press, 1996), 12, 16–19, 68–75; and Jean-Claude Risset and David L. Wessel, “Exploration of Timbre by Analysis and Synthesis,” in The Psychology of Music, ed. Diana Deutsch (New York: Academic Press, 1982), 24–58.

13 See Gerald J. Balzano, “What are Musical Pitch and Timbre?” Music Perception 3, no. 3 (1986): 297–314.

14 The short film Powers of Ten, by Charles and Ray Eames (1977), shows that substance has recognizable forms at different scales, from macro to micro.

15 See Clifton, Music as Heard, 1–18.

16 Ibid., 11.

17 Ibid., 21.

18 Ibid., 14. See also Lippman, “Music and Space.”

19 See Susan McClary, “Music, the Pythagoreans, and the Body,” in Choreographing History, ed. Susan Leigh Foster (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995), 82–104; and Susan McClary, “What was Tonality?” in Conventional Wisdom: The Content of Musical Form (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 63–108. Christopher Small, Musicking: The Meanings of Performing and Listening (Hanover, NH: Wesleyan University Press, 1998), 187, refers to tonality as a grand, comforting metanarrative: “a bedtime story told to adults.”

20 Clifton, Music as Heard, 45.

21 Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception, trans. Colin Smith (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1962), 140; and Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Visible and the Invisible; Followed by Working Notes, trans. Alphonso Lingis (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1968), 152.

22 Paul Valéry, “Eupalinos, or The Architect,” in Dialogues, trans. William McCausland Stewart, vol. 4 of The Collected Works of Paul Valéry, ed. Jackson Mathews (New York: Pantheon Books, 1956), 93–6.

23 Friedrich Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human, trans. R. J. Hollingdale (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 101.

24 Music and architecture are not timeless disciplines with an intrinsic relationship. They are related only within certain historical limits and on limited grounds, such as Pythagorean theory, nineteenth-century synaesthesia, and the fine arts classification since the eighteenth century.

25 Nikolaus Pevsner, An Outline of European Architecture, 6th ed. (Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin, 1960), 7. Pevsner does not elaborate on this brief philosophical statement but elsewhere his description of Lincoln Cathedral (including its minor deficiencies) cites all of these architectural attributes. See Nikolaus Pevsner, John Harris, and Nicholas Antram, Lincolnshire, 2nd ed.; The Buildings of England (London: Penguin, 1989), 444–71.

26 Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd ed., s.v. “architecture.”

27 Arthur Clason Weatherhead, “The History of Collegiate Education in Architecture in the United States” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 1941), 24.

28 “When music teachers teach their students, they don’t teach them composition by having them compose. Instead, they have them listen to music. In architecture schools very few people listen to the music, as it were. They’re thrown right in and asked to design. The real problem with architecture is that students who know very little about design are asked immediately to design buildings. They form habits about what design should be without even knowing what the possibilities are.” Peter Eisenman, quoted in Kathryn Anthony, Design Juries on Trial: The Renaissance of the Design Studio (New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1991), 182.

29 The word “architecture” is only two thousand years old and has ambiguous roots. See Parcell, “Architecture as a Techne-,” in Four Historical Definitions of Architecture, 21–39.

30 Maurice Merleau-Ponty, “Eye and Mind,” trans. Carleton Dallery, in The Primacy of Perception, ed. James M. Edie (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1964), 180. The same argument is made in Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception, 254–7, 267.

31 R. Murray Schafer has composed and performed music for natural settings, described in his book Patria and the Theatre of Confluence (Indian River, Ontario: Arcana Editions, 1991).

32 “Tecture” is an obscure word for “canopy” or “roof,” from Latin tectura “a covering,” used only in the seventeenth century. Oxford English Dictionary, 2d ed., s.v. “tecture.” Of the 1.1 million hits for “tecture” on Google, most seem to be merely the last part of the hyphenated word “archi-tecture,” but others are novel hybrids such as “eco-tecture” and “nano-tecture.”

33 Adolf Loos, “Architecture,” trans. Wilfried Wang, in The Architecture of Adolf Loos, ed. Yehuda Safran and Wilfried Wang (London: Arts Council of Great Britain, 1985), 108.

34 Terry Friedman and Andy Goldsworthy, eds., Hand to Earth: Andy Goldsworthy: Sculpture 1976-1990 (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 2004), 13, 140.

35 It precedes Laugier’s account of the primitive hut. See Marc-Antoine Laugier, An Essay on Architecture, trans. Wolfgang Herrmann and Anni Herrmann (Los Angeles: Hennessey and Ingalls, 1977), 11–12.

36 This exercise is less constrained than what the sensory statue encounters in Etienne Bonnot de Condillac, A Treatise on the Sensations, trans. Franklin Philip, in Philosophical Writings of Etienne Bonnot, Abbé de Condillac (Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1982), 144–339.

37 Although the discipline of music offers certain lessons, it cannot be regarded as an ideal for the fictional discipline of tecture to emulate. Since the early nineteenth century, music has departed considerably from the direct worldly engagement that Merleau-Ponty described, due to the advent of the “work” concept that separated, redefined, and reorganized composers, notations, performers, performances, and listeners. See Goehr, Imaginary Museum of Musical Works, 176–242.

38 Attempts to translate musical form into architectural form usually trivialize both disciplines by framing the exercise in a highly reductive way and by relying on graphic representations rather than sound and substance. For examples, see Elizabeth Martin, ed., Architecture as a Translation of Music (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1994). Still, a lesson might be learned from the fact that students who land in architecture school recognize a void in the discipline and hope to fill it by invoking musical experience.