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IANNIS

XENAKIS
1. INTRODUCCIN
2. BIOGRAFA
3. INFLUENCIAS
4. ARQUITECTURA Y MSICA
5. RAZONES ESTOCSTICAS
6. MASAS SONORAS
7. OBRAS
8. LEGADO
9. IMGENES
10. BIBLIOGRAFA

PEDRO JOS BONILLA GARCA


2HISTORIA DE LA MSICA
CSMA ALICANTE

1. INTRODUCCIN
Durante el siglo XX, la teora musical se convirti en una constante preocupacin, en la
forma, imponindose el serialismo formal ante el resto de tendencias, y preocupndose
especialmente por crear estructuras con una razn y un logos que nicamente el mundo
inteligible llegara a comprender, en algunos casos sin tener en cuenta una creacin para la
expresin de la sensibilidad y partiendo de unas formas y principios completamente
determinados.
Dicho serialismo formal, vino impulsado por una crisis en el lenguaje musical del siglo XX
que se vi en desventaja respecto al resto de las ciencias y las artes que haban evolucionado
hacia una esttica en la cual el razonamiento de todos los campos se relacionaba entre s ,
las matemticas, la fsica...as como la retrica, gramtica y poesa (esto es equivalente al
trivium y quadrivium de la antigedad clsica pues ya entonces se valoraba la educacin y el
desarrollo de todas estas ramas del conocimiento y el saber sin separar y disgregar unas de
las otras, ms bien todo lo contrario.)
La ciencia se desarrolla a ritmo vertiginoso durante el siglo XX, y la msica llevada a cabo
por compositores que buscan tambin llevar a cabo ese avance conceptual a sus obras, se
nutre y se sustenta en unas bases teorizantes complejas que la hacen casi inexplicable para
los sentidos, incapaces de poder apreciar en ella una sensibilidad y una mnima expresin
que haba sido sustituida despus del romanticismo y postromanticismo por un serialismo
excesivamente. Esto se denomin msica de las esferas o msica callada. Nace pues de
la necesidad de objetivar los parmetros del lenguaje musical para llevarlos a la mxima
elevacin lgica y racional. Es as como nacen las vanguardias en Europa durante este siglo
envuelto adems en una profunda crisis poltica y social, especialmente durante la primera
mitad de siglo que desencadenar una seria de acontecimientos que afectarn como es
lgico al desarrollo artstico y cultural de los compositores y msicos despus de los
mismos.
Pues bien, en medio de esta situacin a caballo entre la regeneracin del arte por medio de
la razn, y las guerras que sacuden Europa nace la figura de Iannis Xenakis, compositor,
arquitecto, matemtico y pensador, creador de un sonido nico y con una esttica muy
particular. A continuacin realizaremos un repaso por su vida, su estilo y sus obras con la
pretensin de comprender mejor por qu se trata de una de las figuras musicales ms
importantes del siglo y en que sustenta sus argumentos musicales.

2. BIOGRAFA
Iannis Xenakis nace en Brila, Rumana en 1922 y fallece en Pars, Francia en el ao 2001.
Vivi sus primeros aos en Rumana con su madre, sintiendo desde pequeo una
fascinacin y una predileccin por la msica extraordinarias. Segn cuenta el propio autor,
en Rumana, viva rodeado tanto de msica clsica, como popular, gitana, y al mismo
tiempo de tradicin religiosa ortodoxa y catlica.
Cuando su madre fallece ,siendo Xenakis muy joven, este se traslada al lugar de origen de
su progenitor, Grecia. All ingresar en una escuela privada. En la escuela recuerda las
grabaciones que oa por radio , con especial inters a las de Beethoven, que le sobrecogieron
y generaron en Xenakis un inters interior por la msica que ir incrementndose con el
paso de los aos, pero no ser hasta los 18 aos cuando nuestro autor decida comenzar a
componer.
Asimismo el joven Xenakis tambin estaba muy interesado por la arqueloga, la filosofa y
era un apasasionado de Homero y la literatura clsica. Y con especial inters se dedicaba al
estudio de las ciencias en el campo matemtico, y astrofsico en la Universidad Politcnica
de Atenas.

3. INFLUENCIAS
El estilo que emplea Xenakis es el resultado de una bsqueda experimentada en la creacin
de texturas , en las cuales las masas sonoras se proyectan a travs del medio musical
trazando lneas que se proyectan en el espacio y se suceden en el tiempo. Con unas
pretensiones muy ambiciosas, y con un razonamiento elaborado a travs del lenguaje que
emplea, Xenakis supone una revolucin del lenguaje musical tal y como se conoce hasta su
aparicin.
Pero todo el resultado sonoro no ha sido fruto de una casualidad. Por supuesto el estudio
exhaustivo del compositor se ve reflejado en su vena matemtica, fsica, y eso es gracias a
la influencia de importantes personajes que a lo largo de su vida, su trayectoria y su carrera,
marcarn un antes y un despus en su concepcin y sus ideas abstractas.
Por lo tanto nuestro autor se nutre de distintos creadores coetneos, as como clsicos
anterior a su tiempo. Podemos distinguir, dentro de este grupo a los clsicos consagrados
como por ejemplo Beethoven, o Berlioz; a sus profesores en Pars , entre los que se
encuentran Honegger, Messiaen, Milhaud, Nadia Boulanger o Scherchen y a sus colegas
Edgar Varse y el arquitecto Le Corbusier.

BEETHOVEN Y EL SINFONISMO EXPRESIVO


Beethoven fue el clsico por antonomasia que hizo que el joven Xenakis, a la edad de seis
aos ,escuchara por primera vez en la radio su quinta sinfona y quedara profundamente
impresionado por la misma. Relata Xenakis que es a partir de ese momento cuando la
msica aparece en su vida y Beethoven ser siempre una referencia. Ntese en que la mayor
parte de su produccin sea sinfnica, pensada en la creacin de las masas sonoras como
masas orquestales, as como compuso Beethoven sus nueve sinfonas, y Berlioz (primer
gran sinfonista romntico, al que tambin admira).
Por lo tanto retoma de alguna forma este legado orquestal que en la primera mitad del siglo
XX se haba degenerado o en cierta manera apartado por otros gneros. Recupera la
primaca orquestal de las cuerdas, que tambin se haban dado de lado en la mayor parte de
las composiciones anteriores. Vuelve por tanto la gran orquesta. Xenakis afirma que la
sptima sinfona de Beethoven trasciende la msica. Trascender , en una sublimacin para
llevar hasta regiones que en muchos casos incluso la religin pretendi poseer, pero estas
obras de arte van ms all. Trata todos estos conceptos en el inicio de su libro Musiques
formelles.
En sus composiciones Xenakis es un claro representante del llamado expresionismo, de una
forma abstracta (al igual que ocurre en la pintura) pero con pretensiones a las vigorosas
formas de lo sinfnico, o formas fauve con un carcter heroico muy similar al que
Beethoven utiliza por ejemplo en su tercera sinfona o en el ballet Las criaturas de
Prometeo (con un resultado del movimiento de las masas como eje motor de las piezas con
el fin de la expresin.)

FORMACIN EN PARIS
Al poco tiempo de dejar Grecia, comienza a escuchar msica de diferentes compositores
como Bartk, Debussy, Ravel o Stravinsky (cuya Consagracin de la primavera le genera
un impacto similar al que le gener la quinta de Beethoven). Escuchar a Debussy y Ravel
gener en el joven Xenakis el deseo de comenzar una formacin musical completa a travs
del estudio de los pilares de la armonia clsica (tal y como se conoca hasta ese momento) y
el contrapunto, as como la orquestacin.
De este modo ingresa en la clase de Honegger en el conservatorio. Honegger peda
regularmente que sus alumnos le entregaran lo que iban componiendo y cuando le lleg el
turno a Xenakis, este toc en el piano hasta que el profesor lo interrumpi bruscamente para
recriminarle que haba cometido quintas y octavas, algo que no estaba permitido. Xenakis le
respondi que quizs las haca porque le gustaban, y el maestro le dijo que no exista nada
de msica en su trabajo. No volvieron a verse. Entonces recurri a Nadia Boulanger, la cual
le dijo que tena mucho talento pero aun estaba comenzado, y as fue como ingres
definitivamente con Messiaen, quien lo instruy y le aconsej que no volviera a las clases
tradicionales, ya que no las necesitaba y siguiera su camino en la bsqueda de su sonido y
su estilo. Xenakis tom este consejo para el desarrollo de su propia concepcin musical
abstracta.
Y otra figura clave para el msico griego es Hermann Scherchen. Este compositor que haba
trabajado con Schonberg, y haba fundado la revista Mlos cuando recibi la visita de
Xenakis con Metastaseis en sus manos se interes mucho por la propuesta, ya que la
msica que se le presentaba estaba escrita por alguien que a su parecer nacia de una
percepcin distinta a la que usualmente se tena de la materia sonora. Le pidi que escribiera
artculos para su revista Gravesaner-Blatter. As naci su articulo La crisis del serialismo
musical.

ELECTROACSTICA , NMERO Y CIENCIA


Podemos sealar a Edgar Varse como uno de los ms influyentes compositores del siglo
XX para Xenakis. El autor griego experimenta en el arte de componer un fenmeno que ya
haya Varse, el de los movimientos entre los planos y las masas sonoras en la msica.
Varse sustituye el contrapunto clsico por esta sucesin y proyeccin de los sonidos, siendo
su obra Hiperprisma un claro ejemplo de la descripcin de esta nueva y revolucionaria
forma de entender el movimiento sonoro mediante este contrapuent deformado que nace
de la relacione entre las masas sonoras en el espacio. Xenakis transmite en el interior de su
pabelln Philips la msica electroacstica del llamado Pome lectronique del compositor
francs. Ambos constituyen un sntoma de la revolucin musical conceptual y un ejemplo
del cubismo sonoro que crea esta confluencia de planos en la msica.
Los principios cientficos sern los de las matemticas y la fsica que aunadas en una nueva
concepcin del arte tanto musical como arquitectnico (y aqu entra la relacin de Xenakis
con Le Corbusier, que explicaremos en el siguiente apartado) as como la necesidad del
msico griego de sustituir una msica determinada por aquella que nazca en base a leyes
estadsticas, dar como resultado creacines en base a leyes estocsticas. Estas leyes del
principio de indeterminacin fueron postuladas por Werner Heisenberg.

Le fait culturel by Grard Montassier, Editions Fayard, 1980.


I have felt a kind of fascination for music that has been with me ever since the day I turned
six, when my mother gave me a child's recorder.
We were living at the time in Romania, ... Classical music, popular or gypsy music, and
Church music Catholic and Orthodox. When my mother died, I went back to Greece with
my father, who sent me to a private school .the presence of a radio in the assembly room.
One day I heard Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, which struck me like an apocalypse. I entered
progressively into music,.....I only decided to compose much later, when I was 17 or 18.
As a youth I had decided to become an archeologist, probably because I was submerged in
classical literature and lived amid statues and temples. I had also been lucky enough to encounter a
wonderful professor, who initiated me into philosophy and recited verses from Homer that I
remember still today. At the same time, I was very interested in mathematics and the sciences,
particularly astronomy. I had prepared for the entrance exams to the Athens Polytechnic while also
studying physics, law and political science at the University. I also had infinite love for nature. I
would bicycle to Marathon. At the place where the battle was supposed to have taken place there
was a little tumulus with a bas-relief of Aristocles, and I would stay there for long periods,
absorbing the sounds of nature, the crickets and the sea.
Before reading Debussy, who speaks so beautifully of the wind, Debussy whom I heard much
later, I had already felt the same impressions as he. War came and I joined the resistance against
the Germans: nationalist organizations, and then communist ones. At the time, those were the
only groups that were well structured, and they could demonstrate a sense of total sacrifice. There
was a time when perhaps 60 or 70 % of the Greek population had joined the Communist Party, until
it committed such political errors that the Right won, and remained in power practically until the
Colonels.
During these war years I was often imprisoned. Then I fought against the English, who had
demanded that the liberation forces give up their weapons. The English bombed the city with
their fleet and aviation, and they even installed canons at the Acropolis, something the Germans had
never dared do. It was during this combat that I was wounded.
Even before the end of the war, I had decided, in my distress, to compose music. Only music
could help me regain a little calm. At the same time, I was reading Plato. I became a Marxist
from that source. I did not find Marx's books very well written, but to me they represented the only
roughly contemporary attempt to seek harmony within mankind, as well as harmony between
mankind and nature, in a single whole. In any case Marx gave me a sense of contradiction, which
is the true driver of the mind and the world to the extent that in my eyes the fatal sin of Marxism,
if I may say so, is its belief that there will one day be a society where all contradictions have
disappeared.
I managed to flee Greece. The plan was that I would settle in the United States (I had never, in
any case, thought of going to the Soviet Union), and I was still determined to study astrophysics,
mathematics, archeology and music. Since my path to the United States went through Paris, I
stopped there. True, I spoke French badly, but I did speak it: I had read a lot of classical literature
and French novelists, and I knew a number of Hugo's poems by heart, as well as the Penses of
Pascal.
Since I had obtained an engineering diploma in 1947 from the Athens Polytechnic, I looked for a
job in that field. I had been recommended to several Communist engineers, but because they
didn't give me any work I have no idea why I ended up with Le Corbusier. I began with
calculations of the resistance of various materials, in particular for Le Corbusier's Housing Unit in

Marseilles. This position enabled me to discover the disturbing domination of the technical over the
architectural, since I was constantly asked whether such and such a project would stand upright.
Occasionally, when I didn't like the project, I would reply, "No it won't hold up. It would be better
to build it this way". And people listened. Then one day I said to Le Corbusier, "I'd like to make
architecture myself". He accepted, and gave me the project of the Tourette monastery in
veux-sur l'Arbresle. I drew up all the plans for the monastery, but the final result is a mix of my
ideas and Le Corbusier's. As for the Philips Pavilion, I developed it on my own, as Le Corbusier
later wrote.
During this period, I sensed the link that is often made between music and architecture very
strongly, and their respective influences on me were fundamental. For example, musicians
learn at the Conservatory that they must begin by choosing a theme, and from it they create a
form, by juxtaposition, expansion, reduction and so on. In architecture the starting point is the
terrain, and then appears the program, and within it the necessary functions and forms; then come
the materials. So we work from the global to the detail. To me, this movement in architecture, as
with music, did not seem entirely natural. I thought it was possible to do it differently.
Le Corbusier too felt this, and said one day to me, "I've made a whole house by beginning with the
details". He had drawn a gargoyle, and from the shape of that gargoyle had derived the entire
architecture of the house. In reality the two approaches are not contradictory. On the contrary, they
demonstrate that as an architect one must deploy both synthetic and analytical thought, just as I
instinctively did in music, because of an internal necessity that is common to both arts, whatever the
type of music or architecture that one practices. In the same way, I succeeded in transposing certain
problems of musical rhythm to architecture, thanks to the undulating glass panes at Tourette, in
Chandigarh in India, or at the Brazilian Pavilion at the Cit universitaire in Paris.
Shortly before I left Greece, I had begun to listen to music again: Bartk, Debussy, Ravel, and
the Rite of Spring, which moved me almost as violently as Beethoven's Fifth Symphony had.
On the other hand, Debussy and Ravel seemed to me to correspond perfectly to the classical
world. I then returned to musical studies in Athens, deciding that I would restart them from the
beginning, studying counterpoint, harmony and orchestration. I continued in Paris, where I
registered in Honegger's class at the Conservatory. From time to time he would ask his
students to present a composition, and one day my turn arrived. I played my composition at
the piano. Suddenly he interrupted me: "But there are parallel fifths and octaves you're
not supposed to do that". When I answered, "Perhaps, but I like it", he grew angry and said,
"There's nothing musical in this. Perhaps in the first three bars, and even there..." I never
saw Honegger again. I entered Messiaen's class, after a brief sojourn with Nadia Boulanger
who said to me, "You have a lot of talent but you're too much of a beginner. I'm too old, I
can't take you on". Messiaen, meanwhile, began with a statement that annoyed me, "You have
a nave quality". He calmed me down by adding, "Don't be annoyed, I think I am nave too,
and I hope to remain so all my life". He continued, "Don't go back to traditional classes, you
don't need them, listen to music and compose". I followed this advice, which confirmed my
own inner conviction.
Alongside Messiaen, another important encounter for me was with Hermann Scherchen. Having
begun his life playing music in bars, at the age of 16 he decided suddenly to become an orchestra
conductor. He then worked with Schonberg, whose first works he presented in a number of German
cities. He subsequently devoted himself to promoting contemporary music, founding the magazine
Mlos, which still exists. He was, in particular, a supporter of Webern and the Viennese School.
When I went to see him I brought with me the sheet music for Metastaseis, which I had just
completed. It was the first piece in which I had introduced new concepts in musical
composition, with an orchestra that was completely divided into 65 parts. When he received
me Scherchen was lying on his bed, and progressively, as he read through the score, the pages

fell onto his nose. His conclusion was, "Your music interests me, because it has been written
by someone who comes from outside music. But as usual, there are too many stringed
instruments. I'll want you to cut all that. It's difficult to find so large an orchestra". Then he
asked me to write articles for his magazine Gravesaner-Blatter.
The first article I wrote was entitled "The Crisis in Serial Music." It earned me the animosity of
all the serial musicians of the time, and a solid and enduring wall in every circle that was involved
in so-called avant-garde music.
In any case, I will always be grateful to Scherchen, who gave me self-confidence and supported me
for years.
At roughly the same period, in the 1950s, I discovered music from outside Europe: from India,
Laos, Vietnam, Java, China and Japan. Suddenly I felt I was in my own world. At the same time, I
also saw Greece in a new light, as the crossroads of surviving elements from an ancient musical
past. Another fertile encounter for me was with Musique Concrte. Whereas in serial music,
everything repelled me its esthetic, which escapes me; the useless exasperation of a
romantic music that I love; its constructions, which I find very limited musique concrte, on
the contrary, I found immediately and profoundly attractive. It allowed me to perceive a new
world of musical possibilities, which I proceeded to explore without delay. Years before this
encounter, when I had bicycled through Attica and visited monasteries in Peloponnesus, I had
listened to the sounds of nature and known then, unconsciously, that these sounds had real dignity
and constituted music. Similarly, when I participated in the bloody demonstrations of Athens,
we came together soundlessly in the narrow streets to emerge as vast processions in the broad main
roads, and as we gradually approached the German command center, rose up a highly rhythmic
clamor of slogans. The entire city was filled with this cadence. When we arrived against the tanks
and machine-guns that shot at us, the slogans, the cries of the crowd punctuated by the machineguns, the pounding feet of those who fled, all this composed an extraordinary musical
phenomenon. During the cold nights of December, as we fought against the English, I heard
another music. It wasn't a pitched battle but a series of skirmishes, in which people took shots at
each other from house to house, with long intervals of silence, and each detonation reverberated on
and on through the town, accompanied by tracer bullets, which added to the echo the spectacle of
gunfire. All these memories would surge up years later in my first composition, Metastaseis,
and those that followed.
The work of composing music led me to realize that the main obstacle which a musician
encounters is the difficulty of controlling and judging his own inventions. In this sense music is
probably the art in which the dialogue with self is the most uneasy. This is why musicians always
need to rely on an instrument as a guide, generally the piano, following its invention, in order to
hear their score. But the piano didn't permit me to master the new forms that I was conceiving.
Thus I turned to modern techniques that might put an end to these never-vanquished limits.
Mathematics and computers brought me the answer I sought.
I had for many years noted, as have many others, that there is a close relationship between music
and mathematics. Musicians, for example, invented analytic geometry long before Descartes,
with the solfge system of musical notation, which is nothing more than a two-dimensional
space in which the dimensions are foreign to each other: pitch and time. In the same way,
Aristoxenus, in his Elements of Harmony, foretold what modern mathematics have demonstrated:
that music is an additive group structure, contrary to the belief of the Pythagoreans who founded
their musical theory on the multiplicative property of string lengths. For my part, thanks to
mathematics, and notably probability, I was able to go further into the internal understanding
of music and also its practice, searching for all the mathematical possibilities of the sound
combinations that I invented.
Computer science led me to construct, In the early 1970s, a new apparatus: an analog-digital

converter which could be attached to a speaker or to a cassette recorder. It was manufactured for the
first time in Europe by the Cemamu (Centre dtudes mathmatique et automatique musicales,
Center for the Study of Mathematics and Musical Automation), which I had founded with several
friends. The Upic is an even more advanced machine which means that, thanks to the
combination of an electrical drawing table and pencil with a computer and a speaker, anyone
can compose music by drawing, and can then correct the drawing after listening to the result.
The method is accessible to people who have mastered neither computers nor musical notation, and
who cannot play an instrument. So adults and even children can compose their own music without
prior apprenticeship, and are able to immediately evaluate what they have created and their taste.
The use of modern technology is not a sudden disruption in the history of music. Music has
always been, and continues to be, both sound and number, acoustics and mathematics, and this
is why it is universal. Even to express sensuality or emotion, which music suggests admirably
well, musicians all over the world proceed by grouping sounds by pitch and by intensity according
to mathematical laws that are invariable. But today musicians have at their disposal a range of
instrumentation, thanks to computers, whose possibilities are incomparably greater than the
classical music chamber, and these possibilities, together with mathematics, mean composers can
take their exploration of self to new depths, or can transform our representations of the world to
make them more true. It is now possible to deepen and to command a musical intuition in all its
density. The musical creator today is comparable to the astrophysicist who investigates of the
mystery of the galaxies. But the astrophysicist does not create the galaxies he is exploring, whereas
the musician actually produces his, by his creative act. The Diatope is the movement of the
galaxies placed within reach of mankind. Music, the daughter of number and sound, on an equal
basis with the fundamental laws of the human mind and of nature, is naturally the preferred
way to express the universe in its fundamental abstraction. Modern science brings us to a
more primeval knowledge of music, and by expanding the imagination of the musician it
moves him towards unknown horizons.
The music that I composed for years was thus a sort of dialectical movement between what I
was writing as a musician, with my instinct and my senses, and what I was diversifying by a
theory-based approach commanded by the computer. But this research, which was rather
simple in its principles, gave rise to a number of malentendidos. I remember that after a concert
at the Muse Guimet, in 1958 I believe, I was asked to give a talk. I began writing down equations,
thinking that I would demonstrate how you can make music with new rules, like counterpoint in the
past, since that is also a rule that can be framed with mathematics. But many people surmised that
since there was mathematics in my music, it must be cold. They paid no further attention to what
they were hearing. I was often devastated by this incomprehension. I handled it better once I
realized that I will never know what people understand from music. Whatever I place there,
consciously and probably also unconsciously, is perceived by the listener in a way that is perhaps
not completely different, but sufficiently different in any case that you can never immediately draw
conclusions about the meaning or value of a piece of music.
These uncertainties in the appreciation of music are not restricted to contemporary music. I
have encountered the same variations during performances of works by the classical
musicians I prefer: Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Monteverdi, Chopin. Music does not transmit a
representation in a direct and immediate way. It acts more as a catalyst. The composer chooses his
music because it creates in him, via the ear that detects repetitions and symmetries, an effect that
promotes expression of his representation. This music then sets off in the listener a psychological
effect that may be close to or far from that which the musician has felt. Moreover, music
comprises several levels of comprehension. It can be sensual and only sensual, in which case its
effect on the body can be very powerful and even hypnotic. Music can also express all the facets of
sensitivity. But it is probably alone in sometimes arousing a very specific feeling of expecting and

anticipating mystery, a feeling of astonishment, which suggests absolute creation, without


references of any kind, like a cosmic phenomenon. Some forms of music go further, drawing you
intimately and secretly towards a sort of gulf where the spirit is happily submerged.
All my experience in recent years has led me to the conviction that the future of music lies
with the progress of modern technology. This will affect both how we create and listen to music.
I observed this in the performances I created for Montreal, with electronic flashes, for Cluny with
the Polytope lasers, and for Persepolis, where the performance took place at night in the ruins and in
the mountains, with fires, projectors and children carrying torches. The music became visual, thanks
to the use of space. In terms of listening to music, the Diatope created at Beaubourg and then
presented in Bonn should constitute an important step. In addition to being an entirely automated
musical performance which attempts to further develop my previous work, the Diatope is an
attempt to resolve an architectural problem that has always haunted me. I have always been struck
by the mediocrity of concert halls, which are not conceived for contemporary music and
which are not much better adapted to older music. In Beethoven's symphonies, for example,
there is no reason to be outside the sound space. And in general I dislike seeing the orchestra in a
frontal position, which obliges the listener to remain outside the music. The concert hall of the
Berlin Philharmonic was an attempt to place the orchestra in the middle of the audience, but this
interesting idea was not completely realized because in several parts of the hall the orchestra is not
audible in its totality. We need therefore to invent the architectural form that will liberate
collective listening from all these disadvantages, and this is what I tried to do with the
Diatope. But I expect also that technical progress will have great impact on individual listening.
Thanks to computer systems that can be incorporated within the chain of sound reproduction, it
should be possible for the listener to regulate individually, at home, the quality of the sound, as well
as the volume of the sound space, benefiting from the ability to listen totally or specifically to this
or that instrument or instrumental group, simultaneously viewing the image of the interpreters.
There can be no doubt. Thanks to technology, we can be certain that the music of the past,
like the music that is yet to come, will be music that has never been heard before.

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