TY - JOUR
AU - Buch,, Esteban
AB - Abstract This article discusses the relationship of musical climax and orgasm by considering Claude Debussy’s L’isle joyeuse, a piano piece completed in the summer of 1904, soon after he started a love affair with Emma Bardac. By exploring the genesis of the piece and discussing musicological, sexological, narratological, and historical literature, it proposes a musical analysis based on the assumption that music is more likely to represent a sexual experience when its intensity curve and pacing scenarios have an analogic relation with those of sex. Biographical issues are at stake. Debussy’s marriage to Emma Bardac in 1908 has often been seen as resulting from social ambition, rather than from love and desire. Such a negative image, born in the aftermath of the Dreyfus Affair, returned in later narratives influenced by anti-Semitic prejudice. Yet, the story of L’isle joyeuse shows the intensity of their erotic relationship. This article discusses the relationship between musical climax and orgasm by considering the case of L’isle joyeuse, a piano piece that Claude Debussy (1862–1918) began in 1903, completing it in the summer of 1904 soon after starting a love affair with Emma Bardac, née Moyse (1862–1934), his second wife and the mother of his daughter Claude-Emma, alias ‘Chouchou’ (1905–19). By exploring the genesis of the piece, I suggest that the creative process started as the pursuit of a solitary exotic male fantasy, culminating in Debussy’s sexual encounter with Emma and leading the composer to inscribe their shared experience in the final, revised form of the piece. The erotic component of the piece has been stressed by, among others, Michael Klein, who speaks of ‘undeniable sexual energy’ close to the point where, he says, ‘the music reaches orgasm’.1 This description of the final climax seems justified and indeed throws new light on the ways in which music and sexuality are intertwined in the individuals’ experience, including, potentially, the listener’s. Now, while Klein’s insights into the piece are stimulating, he does not justify his use of the word orgasm, which he takes only as a hyperbolic substitute for climax. By exploring the role of music in the actual life of the actors, this article makes a case for orgasm being more than a literary metaphor. At a theoretical level, an ecological approach to music perception suggests that music can afford sexual behaviour and representations in particular situations. I privilege here a discussion of analogies between climax and orgasm, not because I think that orgasm is the essence and purpose of sexual pleasure, as generally thought, but rather because it is well suited to a systematic analysis of the formal relationships between sex and music.2 Of course, the very nature of sexual intimacy makes it very difficult, indeed almost impossible, to reconstruct such an experience with any degree of certainty and detail. The only thing about the Debussys’ sexual life that is absolutely beyond doubt is the fact that a sexual encounter occurred in the winter of 1905, nine months before the birth of Chouchou in October. Nevertheless, such an empirical exploration is called for, despite many lacunae and conjectures. Conjectures are not methodological weaknesses or deviances, but fundamentals of any historiographical operation.3 And this is all the more so when dealing with certain kinds of human activity and a particular kind of art, namely sexuality and music, whose epistemologies are defined by secrecy and hermeneutical uncertainty. Such an interdisciplinary approach, based on musicological, sexological, narratological, and historical literature, might allow us to go beyond a number of current assumptions about the role of sex in artistic creation. The Freudian concept of sublimation, implying that the powerful excitations of sexuality are transferred to other spheres, has become a paradigm for explaining the role of the libido in artistic creation.4 Yet, commentators have often found this idea unsatisfactory. For Paul Ricoeur, it is an ‘empty concept’ that fails to make intelligible the dialectics ‘of the desire and the Other of desire’.5 For Georges Didi-Huberman, the notion that art transforms instinctual energies into beauty and culture, thus calming down unsatisfied desires, does not make it possible ‘to interpret, and even simply to describe, cultural productions, those fatally impure objects’ marked by destruction and discontent (Unbehagen).6 Especially disturbing, for our methodology, is the difficulty of relating the hypothesis of sublimation to actual biographical traces beyond the global assumption that some kind of ‘libidinal economy’ is at work.7 By renouncing general explanations in favour of a case-by-case approach, a micro-historical description of sexual experiences and their relation to the creative process might better honour Freud’s basic intuition about art, namely that sexual drives are important for artistic creativity, and that access to the artist’s intimacy is the proper way to understand how and why. This genetic approach implies from the start a parting of company with Klein, whose hermeneutics of the musical work disregards biographical materials altogether; indeed, he never mentions sketches or other traces of the creative process, and the mere biographical contextualization of his analysis to the effect that ‘Debussy composed L’isle joyeuse in the summer of 1904 while on an extramarital holiday on the island of Jersey with Emma Bardac’ is actually misleading.8 Now, the assumption that sex does matter for art has never been accepted without resistance. This often goes in the name of idealistic or moralistic conceptions of artistic creativity. François Lesure, the great biographer of the composer, thought it vain ‘to try to explain Debussy’s oeuvre by his love life (expériences amoureuses)’.9 This article will seek to demonstrate quite the opposite, and to connect these insights with broader biographical issues. Debussy’s marriage in 1908 to Emma Bardac, a 45-year-old woman he first met as the mother of a pupil, Raoul Bardac, has often been described as resulting from social ambition rather than from love and desire. Of course, social ambition can sometimes also fuel desire, but this is the opposite of discarding desire altogether. Mary Garden, a friend and a favourite performer of Debussy’s music (she was the first Mélisande), wrote laconically in her notebooks: ‘His first wife was young and poor. His second was old and rich.’10 A distorted vision of his private life, including hostile allusions to Emma’s Jewish origin, emerged in 1904 shortly after the beginning of their initially adulterous relationship at a time when Claude was married to Lilly Texier and Emma to Sigismond Bardac.11 Public opinion at the beginning of the last century was opposed to such a relationship, partly as a matter of age. In this ‘golden age of male adultery’, four out of five mistresses were younger than deceived wives, who were in turn mostly younger than their adulterous husbands; and fewer than one out of three women involved in adulterous relationships were 40 years old or more. Anne-Marie Sohn points out that ‘psychologically, though not legally, adultery stopped being a crime between 1880 and 1900’.12 From a legal point of view, even though divorce was reinstated in France in 1884, it was not until December 1904 that the law allowed adulterous lovers to remarry, something that in their case would have to wait until January 1908. Claude Debussy and Emma Bardac’s liaison was thus not only a violation of the laws of marriage, but also a transgression of the norms of adultery. The idea that a woman of his own age could not be the object of desire for the composer appeared as early as October 1904, when news of their liaison distressed Lilly to the point that she attempted suicide. The writer Pierre Louÿs, who, like other friends outraged by Claude’s abandonment of his first wife, took Lilly’s side, wrote to his brother: The husband left with a 40-something-year-old Jewish woman, Mme S. Bardac, I think you know Bardac, at least he came to your office. Very used to his wife’s escapades, he smiles at whoever seeks news about her: ‘She has just seduced the latest fashionable musician, but I’m the one who’s got the money. She will come back to me.’13 Louÿs was a well-known anti-Semite and anti-Dreyfusard and also a libertine fond of young girls, a recurrent theme of his literary work.14 His entire vision of life and society went against acknowledging the charms of a 42-year-old Jewish woman. On 4 November, news of Lilly’s tragic and spectacular suicide attempt (by shooting herself in the stomach) appeared in several newspapers. No names were given, but the characters of this fait divers were not hard to recognize. Le Figaro speaks of ‘Mme D … , a very pretty young woman, married to a very distinguished music composer’, namely ‘M. D … ’.15 In these texts, Lilly’s feminine charms are systematically underlined and Emma’s systematically ignored.16 The fact that many of Debussy’s friends, with or without ideological motivations, disapproved of his liaison with Emma Bardac to the point of total rupture, was a cause of deep distress for him. The long conflict with Lilly, eventually including a legal obligation to pay her a pension, did not help to calm things down. And not only the composer’s inner and musical circles, but also Emma’s family reacted negatively. Her uncle, the influential financier Daniel Iffla Osiris, disinherited her shortly before his death in 1907; back in 1879, when Emma was 17 years old, she had married Sigismund Bardac in a synagogue built by Osiris, and inaugurated that very day.17 Partly because of this lost inheritance, the Debussys’ financial situation was never stable; in fact, the composer’s economic problems were to become more serious than they had been during his marriage with Lilly and before, when he led a somewhat bohemian life.18 Even though his second marriage was a step up on the social ladder, the result was not a happy bourgeois life—far from it. As the affair went public, it also influenced the reception of his music. After Ricardo Viñes’s first performance of L’isle joyeuse and Masques at the Société Nationale on 18 February 1905, the critic Jean Chantavoine evoked Beethoven, distinguishing between true compositions and those ‘scribbled (barbouillées) for money’, and he readily defined Debussy’s new works as ‘barbouillages’.19 Another critic said, without further comment, that these works ‘are not worthy of his earlier productions’.20 Later, in October 1905, according to Edward Lockspeiser, the composer was ‘very much aware that the hostile reception of La Mer, especially by critics who had greeted Pelléas, resulted from personal, rather than musical, reasons’.21 This negative image, born in the aftermath of the Dreyfus Affair, re-emerged in later narratives influenced by anti-Semitic prejudice such as Léon Vallas’s biographies published in 1932 and 1944, the latter written at the time of the Vichy regime. Debussy’s liaison with Bardac, says Vallas, was a ‘serious affair (grave aventure)’ whose only motivation was his material interest to ‘be introduced into the then all-powerful Jewish society, as this society was entitled to deliver commercial benefits, official backing, and government subsidies for music’.22 Contrary to that view, the story of L’isle joyeuse, among many others, shows the intensity of their erotic and sentimental relationship and the important role music played in it. ‘ a tuesday in june 1904’ The idea that Claude Debussy composed L’isle joyeuse on the island of Jersey in the summer of 1904, during the few days he spent there in the company of Emma Bardac, is a historiographic legend that makes this piano piece a sort of snapshot of the beginnings of their relationship.23 Another tale on the origins of the work, equally persistent in the literature, sees it as a musical transposition of the mythological cult of Aphrodite, by taking at his word an allusion Debussy made in 1914 to a famous painting at the Louvre: ‘it is a little bit like L’Embarquement pour Cythère, with less melancholy than in Watteau’.24 Neither account is true. A first draft of the work existed already in June 1903, when Debussy played it for Ricardo Viñes, the Catalan pianist who first performed it in concert on 10 February 1905.25 Also, the wording of the comment on Watteau—‘a little bit like … less … than … ’—argues against viewing the painting as the main source of the music; it is likely, given the late date of the statement, that the association between them came well after the completion of the piece. According to Viñes, the composer had already evoked a pictorial inspiration for his music in 1903—not by Watteau, though, but by Turner, whose paintings he had just discovered in London at the National Gallery, and none of which represented an island.26 In 1907, the composer said that the origins of the work were ‘purely imaginary’,27 and this rings true as the most likely scenario. On the other hand, Debussy’s correspondence shows that the piece was revised in August 1904, a few days after his sojourn with Emma on the island of Jersey.28 The 1903 manuscript being lost, it is hard to determine the exact nature of the revisions made during the preparation of the final manuscript for its upcoming publication by the publisher Jacques Durand. In a letter to Durand, Debussy deemed them ‘excellentes’ without giving any detail, yet implying that they went beyond a few corrections or retouches.29 It is certain that they included at least the addition of a passage noted in one of the three remaining sketches of the work.30 In this source, held at the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Roy Howat recognized the first draft of bars 117–44 of the published score (see Pl. 1).31 The musical part of the sketch is followed by a written statement by the composer, with a date: (these bars belong to Mada[me] Bardac—p.m.—who dictated them to me on a Tuesday in June 1904. The passionate acknowledgement of Claude Debussy32 There is no reason to doubt that Debussy’s words alluded to a real encounter with Emma Bardac that took place on ‘a Tuesday in June 1904’. We do not know if the composer wrote the musical sketch on that very day in the company of Emma or later, or if he wrote it some days after that. The wording suggests that the verbal comment came later, maybe years after the episode, as a reminiscence on the origins of their encounter. But it is not impossible that it was written down on that very day in June, together with the musical part, as bearing witness to a shared awareness of the moment. In this last case, the musical fragment would be the recording in real time of the transformation of ‘Madame Bardac’ in ‘p.m.’, ‘petite mienne’ (my little own). In his letters to Emma, Debussy, for the rest of his life, was to use this expression by Jules Laforgue, which in the original 1886 poem suggests a shared and lasting regular intimacy: Ô ma petite mienne, ô ma quotidienne Dans mon petit intérieur C’est à dire plus jamais ailleurs! Ô ma petite quotidienne! … 33 Either as the result of a single instant or of two separated moments, the musical part and the verbal part of the third sketch for L’isle joyeuse form a sort of private monument to the birth of their love. It belongs to, and probably inaugurates, the series of Debussy’s ‘musical gifts’ to Emma—very short compositions with a few loving words that he would offer her in the following years as a present for her birthday (4 June) or for Christmas.34 Pl. 1 View largeDownload slide Third sketch for Debussy’s L’isle joyeuse, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS 17729, fos. 5 and 6 Pl. 1 View largeDownload slide Third sketch for Debussy’s L’isle joyeuse, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS 17729, fos. 5 and 6 I suggest that this ‘Tuesday in June 1904’ in the third sketch for L’isle joyeuse alludes—in a way that is elliptical for strangers but that was transparent for the lovers—to one of their first sexual encounters. Claude and Emma met in 1903, and ‘before the end of that year’, says Lesure, ‘a complicity developed between them, with dedications and gifts of manuscripts’.35 The erotic charge of their relationship increased in the spring of 1904. On Monday 6 June, Claude wrote to Emma to thank her for the flowers she sent him in response to his dedicating Trois Chansons de France to her. ‘Forgive me, I kissed all these flowers as if they were a living mouth; might that be mad? But you cannot hold that against me—it would be like holding against the wind that’s blowing on you.’36 Three days later, on Thursday 9 June, in a ‘lettre pneumatique’, he invited her to come to his apartment on the rue Cardinet, in the 17th district of Paris:   Thursday           [9 June 1904]    ‘It is raining hard on the city (Il pleut fortement sur la ville).’ Would you be very nice to me by granting me a few moments this afternoon?—I’d like so much to have you once ‘all alone’ without any counterpoint or development. —    If you’d like to come to my place, I’d be madly happy, but you’ll do as you like, so that it will be where you wish.    This does not come from a madman, but from a pure and a little bit anguished desire (un pur désir un peu angoissé).    All yours.         Claude Debussy37 There was in fact a downpour in Paris on Thursday 9 June 1904: at the Parc Montsouris weather station, near the southern border of the city, the register for the day was 15.7 mm.38 It was actually the rainiest day of this fateful spring, when the lives of Claude Debussy and Emma Bardac changed forever. The first words of the letter alluded both to the weather and to the verses by Paul Verlaine, ‘Il pleure dans mon cœur / comme il pleut sur la ville’, that Debussy had set to music in 1887, as a mélodie in the cycle Ariettes oubliées.39 This poem, first published in 1874, contained a secret allusion to Arthur Rimbaud and had also been set to music in 1888 by Gabriel Fauré under the title ‘Spleen’. And Verlaine’s text really is about spleen: ‘Quelle est cette langueur / Qui pénètre mon cœur?’; and also: ‘Pour un cœur qui s’ennuie, / Ô le chant de la pluie!’ By implicitly recalling the missing verse, ‘Il pleure dans mon cœur’, Debussy seems to allude to his existential suffering while evoking for her, involuntarily or not, two mélodies loaded with sensuality, for Emma Bardac had had a liaison with Fauré back in 1892. Was this a way of sharing the guilt, the desire of venturing together into uncharted territory? Indeed, it is hard to ignore the erotic implications of this letter, with the ‘pure and a little bit anguished desire’ of ‘having’ this woman ‘all alone’ in his apartment for ‘a few moments in the afternoon’ for an encounter ‘without counterpoint or development’. In Debussy’s letter these last musical terms have an equivocal, perhaps even obscene resonance, in the first meaning of the word obscene—out of the scene. Yet, they are borrowed from the public field of music aesthetics, expressed in the composer’s musical criticism. In Monsieur Croche antidilettante, both words have negative connotations: ‘Was there not an annoying disproportion between the theme and the developments it supposedly gave way to?’ asks Debussy on the handling of folk tunes by Russian composers, going on to denounce how ‘imperious counterpoints summoned them to forget their peaceful origins’. He also deplores César Franck’s ‘grey, tiresome and obstinate developments’ and praises Paul Dukas’s avoidance of ‘parasitical developments’.40 There are many other examples of how development and counterpoint were at the time two keywords against which Debussy’s style defined itself. They bring together the vertical axis of the present and the horizontal axis of duration as a metaphor associating in a single aesthetic image the temporalities of music and love. For Debussy, an encounter with no counterpoint or development ought to be brief and joyful, far away from conventions, and close to nature—an encounter very much like his own music. In Claude’s letter to Emma, the musical metaphors also aim at seducing a woman who is a performer of his music. Before the start of their relationship, Emma was fascinated by the mélodies she sang accompanied by Charles Koechlin, of whom she asked many questions about the composer, before trying to meet him in person. According to Mary Garden, both she and Lilly Texier were first attracted to Debussy by the charm of C’est l’extase langoureuse, a mélodie from Ariettes oubliées, first published in L’Illustration. Speaking of ‘the erotic in Debussy’s music’, Julie McQuinn notes that ‘women were drawn to a man whom they had never met through experiencing his music, whether performing it or watching and hearing it performed’.41 The sensual aura of Debussy’s music was acknowledged at least from the time of the first performance of L’après-midi d’un faune in 1894, well before Nijinsky’s scandalous 1912 performance, described by Lynn Garofala as the dancer’s ‘erotic autobiography’.42 Of course, the composer was very much aware that his music contributed to his personal aura. In a letter to ‘Chère petite mienne’ sent from Moscow in 1913, he writes: Back from the rehearsal I want to tell you—in great haste—that I love you! That you are my absolute little own (ma petite Mienne absolue)! and also, that I am nevertheless so unhappy … !  Do you realize what you say when you write to me ‘I don’t know how to avoid begrudging your music’ … There is some reason to be mad, isn’t there? To begin with, between you and the music, it’s the music that could be jealous! And if I still compose it, this music you so mistreat, it’s just because I owe it to having met you, loved you, and the rest! You can be sure that if I happened not to write it any more, you would be the one who would stop loving me. For neither the limited charm of my conversation, nor my physical appearance, would help me to keep you.43 Unfortunately, we don’t know Emma’s actual reasons to ‘begrudge’ the music of her husband, since her own letter has not been published. There are too many things we do not know about her, starting with her side of the correspondence. In any case, by this time their life together was far from being an island of joy. According to Robert Orledge, ‘married life with Emma was anything but idyllic. She was frequently ill, constantly possessive and extravagant, and far less easy to pacify than the naively devoted Lilly had been.’ On the other hand, he continues, ‘the fault was by no means all Emma’s. It was she, not Debussy, who wrote to her lawyer to enquire about a trial separation during a matrimonial crisis in 1910.’44 Still, the 1913 letter from Russia shows that, throughout their marriage, music remained almost anthropomorphic, as an imaginary lover, rival, or companion or some combination thereof. And this was by no means idiosyncratic. Alban Berg used similar words in 1907 to claim his love to his fiancée Helene after confessing the ‘infidelity’ of his listening with passion to Mahler’s Third Symphony.45 The eroticization of music went beyond the realm of the couple. It can also be found in the context of Debussy’s friendship with Pierre Louÿs, whose Chansons de Bilitis he set to music first in 1897 in three mélodies, and then in 1901 as incidental music for a recitation to tableaux vivants whose rehearsals Louÿs described with delight: ‘I’m spending all my afternoons this week with naked women.’46 After the show, Le Journal (a paper for which Louÿs often wrote) praised ‘a gracious, ingeniously archaic music’ and ‘the precious contribution of [the women’s] impeccable shapes’: ‘the viewers felt transported to the great age of pure nudity’.47 According to McQuinn, ‘in the case of Debussy, every possible relationship seems to have carried with it an erotic tinge, and thus a web of relationships filled with erotic possibilities, all orbiting around a music that defied convention’.48 In June 1904, the desire of a married man to invite a married woman to his apartment while his wife was out might not have been that of a madman, as in Debussy’s disclaimer in his letter to Emma, but it still rings like madness today. An encounter did take place that Thursday, though, given what Debussy wrote on a copy of Printemps, an 1882 work just published by Durand: ‘This copy belongs exclusively / to Madame Bardac: / 9 June 1904, a day when it rained so much as to make one lose faith in every kind of spring. / And yet, there it was.’49 It is difficult to know whether Claude and Emma made love that day, in the few moments they were alone during Lilly’s absence. On 19 June, from St Rémy-la-Chevreuse, 35 kilometres from Paris, Debussy sent a postcard to her with just the handwritten initial motif of Le faune, a mélodie from the second series of Fêtes galantes.50 There is no text on the card, but the music is set to verses by Verlaine: ‘ An old faun made of terra-cotta / stands laughing in the middle of the lawn / doubtless predicting an unhappy / sequel to these serene moments.51 Did Debussy compare himself to an ‘old faun’, already sensing the difficulties to come, while acknowledging recent happiness? The following day, he sent a second postcard to ‘Mme Bardac’, followed by a question mark.52 Did the formality of addressing her as Mme Bardac suggest some remaining social distance? Or rather guilt after bliss? And what about the question mark? One thing is sure: whatever happened on 9 June, its sequel was not (only) an unhappy one. Presumably in the same period, he wrote the following words on a visiting card:       Yes … ! Yes! Yes!            (the choir)       even to the bad dinner       Yours (votre)53 This might well have been Claude’s answer to an invitation to dinner, one Emma deemed ‘bad’ as a sign of conventional social modesty. The emphatic and choral ‘yes’ followed by the humorous anti-climax of the last sentence shows not only his enthusiasm, but also how their whole story was clothed in musical metaphors. And when an encounter took place, most probably in the night of the 21st or the 28th, that ‘Tuesday in June 1904’ must have truly made a difference to the ordinary pace of their lives, like an island in the ocean. A month later, an unfinished letter to Emma—actually half of a sentence in a paper found by Lilly, Debussy’s first wife—employs the tutoiement and Laforgue’s formula, proving their newly gained intimacy: ‘Je t’écris ceci, ma petite Mienne adorée, la tête … ’54 In short, I suggest that L’isle joyeuse, the piano piece about an island of joy, bears the mark of the physical love of Emma and Claude; that it is, somehow, the very place of the encounter of the lovers, the sensual island itself. Now, does the fact that the first version of L’isle joyeuse was drafted in 1903 not disprove this hypothesis? Is this not precisely the legend mentioned at the beginning of this essay? Not quite. The evidence suggests that in 1903, before his liaison with Emma Bardac, Debussy’s fantasy was focused on the ‘purely imaginary’ cliché of an exotic and joyous island, leading him to start basing a musical piece on it. This also appears in his use of the old word isle in the title, rather than the modern île. Roy Howat has noted striking similarities with Balakirev’s Islamey, an ‘oriental fantasy’ full of sensuous resonances, pre-eminent in Viñes’s repertory.55 In September 1903, Debussy wrote down in a letter an idea for the title of De l’aube à midi sur la mer, the first movement of La Mer: ‘Mer belle aux îles sanguinaires’, the name of an archipelago near Corsica, as if the very first image for his symphonic masterwork was also an island he had never seen.56 Later on, in 1904, this fantasy contributed to eroticizing his relationship with a woman he felt was capable of fulfilling it, so much so that he revised his recent piano piece to insert a trace of that desire. In other words, I argue that L’isle joyeuse inspired the trip to the Isle of Jersey, rather than the other way around. Sources suggest, then, that the revision of the 1903 manuscript started on ‘a Tuesday in June 1904’, with a sexual encounter preceded or followed by a moment musical during which Claude played a still unknown composition that expressed his exotic/erotic fantasy, to which Emma responded by ‘dictating’, i.e. by singing. This definitely sounds like the most likely scenario. It is hard to believe that Debussy would have left indications that something essential happened precisely in that month if his pur désir un peu angoissé had been physically frustrated; it is hard to believe that a moment of unfulfilled passionate love can be alluded to as an instant serein. Nevertheless, we cannot completely rule out that things went otherwise. In that other scenario, L’isle joyeuse was invested in June with the yearning for a forbidden love, and its climaxes were the dreamed-of form of delights still to come; Claude and Emma made love for the first time in July 1904 at the Grand Hotel of the Isle of Jersey, and that day, quite extraordinarily, L’isle joyeuse was their shared fantasy come true: the sonic image of their intersubjective sexual script.57 True, this windy English island close to the Normandy coast does not have the erotic charm of Gauguin’s Marquises Islands, or that of Madagascar which inspired Ravel to compose the sensual Chansons madécasses without ever going there.58 But the dream machine of the travel agencies always depends on technology, and Jersey’s Grand Hotel, with its direct access to the beach, was a fashionable resort—‘the largest, the best appointed, and the leading hotel in the Channel Islands’, according to a 1905 advertisement.59 And it does seem that these days on the island, between the end of July and the beginning of August,60 were indeed happy and joyous: ‘But this country is a delight, I’m at peace which is better still, and I’m completely free to work, which hasn’t been the case for a long time. … The sea (la Mer) has behaved beautifully towards me and shown me all her guises’, wrote Debussy, who at that time was composing La Mer, a work he had drafted without ever having much direct experience of the sea nor of the beach, a place he did not particularly like, except for that fateful Jersey sojourn.61 In the same letter to his editor, he provided the dedication for the second book of Fêtes galantes: ‘In appreciation of the month of June 1904’, followed by the letters ‘A.l.p.M.’ [à la petite Mienne]. It’s a little mysterious’, he added, ‘but one has to make some contribution to legend, doesn’t one?’62 The third sketch suggests that Emma Bardac, far from becoming just a passive character in Claude Debussy’s fantasy, played an active role in what must have been a shared scenario. And we might even speculate that her willingness to play it, and to share with him her own fantasy, contributed to their mutual seduction. ‘Debussy claimed that the passage in question had been dictated to him by Emma Bardac’, writes Roy Howat, ‘but it was maybe a poetic licence.’63 This sceptical comment brings her close to the conventional image of the muse rather than to that of an active partner of the aestheticization of life through music. But what exactly is poetic licence? And why couldn’t we take Debussy at his word here? Is it so absurd to imagine a scene of ecstatic love where a singer whispers a whole-tone scale to a composer: F, G, A, B, C♯ … D♯ … ? Yes, it is impossible to know. But Lesure observes that sending flowers, like Emma did, was at that time something ‘more masculine than feminine’,64 to which Claude replied by writing a passionate letter. And it is also an active role that the musician-lover acknowledges by saying that these bars were dictated by his performer-lover, and that therefore they belong to her. Thus, he acknowledges that his music is also partly that of this woman who, by the same token, he claims belongs to him—for as much is implied, literally, by petite mienne. It could be objected that Emma’s theme, far from representing a kind of alterity, is nothing but a whole-tone scale, one of the most typical traits of Debussy’s music. How can a specific semantics of desire be attached to it? This connects with broader issues concerning the reception of Debussy. The thematic role of the whole-tone scale in L’isle joyeuse (first performed in January 1905) corresponds to a turning point in the social perception of his style. Whole-tone scales, already a technical trait of his music, became a true aesthetic claim around the controversial first performance of Pelléas in 1902. ‘Everywhere a vague singing, a sad dawn … and the whole-tone scale. It’s musical impressionism’, wrote Raymond Bouyer in 1905 on L’isle joyeuse and other recent works by Debussy and Ravel.65 Two years later, in his article ‘Debussy et les debussystes’, Émile Vuillermoz coined the ironic expression ‘faire du Debussy’, inciting several other critics to define his much-imitated style; the whole-tone scale is prominent in what M.-D. Calvocoressi called ‘le système harmonique de M. Debussy’.66 In 1911, Arnold Schoenberg explained in his Harmonielehre that the whole-tone scale he used in 1905 in his symphonic poem Pelleas und Melisande did not owe anything to Debussy, thus showing that this novelty had become a landmark in the history of music.67 Debussy’s système harmonique, especially the whole-tone scale, was a symbol of himself, and also a crucial element for the sensual quality of his music. In L’isle joyeuse, the whole-tone scale is structurally important throughout the piece, but only with Emma’s theme does it becomes a melody that a lover of Debussy’s music like, say, Emma Bardac herself, might sing or hum while thinking of him. From that point of view, the bars ‘dictated’ by Emma to Claude ‘on a Tuesday in June 1904’ result from an injunction saying more or less: my desire is that you write down for my pleasure the musical image of your desiring self. Now, once Emma Bardac’s participation in the creative process is acknowledged, L’isle joyeuse is still, of course, a piece by Claude Debussy. This is true of his identifying the twenty-seven bars ‘dictated by Emma’ as a separate entity in the first place. Like other ‘musical gifts’ to her, the third sketch for L’isle joyeuse might be seen itself as a musical work, a 30-second piece of piano music. It’s time now to have a look at these bars ‘dictated’ by Emma, as they appear in the manuscript (see Pl. 2).68 Pl. 2 View largeDownload slide Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, autograph manuscript, bb. 117–44, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS 977, pp. 4–5 Pl. 2 View largeDownload slide Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, autograph manuscript, bb. 117–44, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS 977, pp. 4–5 At bar 117 we hear distinctly in the low register, piano but ‘expressif et en dehors’, a new theme ascending by whole tones followed by a major third (F, G, A, B, C♯, D♯, G) based on a progressively distorted ternary rhythm: let’s call it ‘Emma’s theme’, since it ‘belongs’ to her. This happens against the ongoing background of the right hand 3/8 fast descending and ascending arpeggios on G and B, with G in the bass—a dominant sonority, given the emphatic C major of the previous bars 112–14. Key to the expressive tension is the rhythmic contrast between the two-bar hypermetrical beat of the right hand and the rubato-like slowing down of the pulse of the left-hand melody, from a quaver to a dotted crotchet between bars 117 and 122. Once its highpoint G at bar 120 is reached, the ascending new theme merges with a descending three-note motif G–F–E, which is repeated in an augmented form at bars 123–6. (Significantly, since it gave a more dynamic pace to the whole passage, the adding of bars 123 and 124 was the only difference, except for notational conventions, between the sketch and the revised manuscript.69) This twice-descending suffix compensates for the previous upward momentum of Emma’s theme, while harmony fluctuates between G, G flat, and A flat with raised fifth, thus undermining the dominant sonority. At bar 129, prepared by the bass on B♭, this whole material is transposed a semitone higher, with Emma’s theme starting on G♭ and the right-hand arpeggio playing A♭ and C—like A flat major without the fifth, except that the bass wanders through B and A. Over this unstable harmony, the melody in the left hand wavers down from the new A♭ highpoint, but this time without repeating this last, thus accelerating the pace. The overall acceleration is still enhanced at bar 137 by the verticalization of the four first notes of Emma’s theme in medium-register sonorities, F–G and A–B. The hemiola of this bell-like motif, played in crotchets against the 3/8 rhythm of the upper register, builds momentum through a dramatic crescendo, where the now-confirmed dominant sonority prepares a clear resolution on a C major triad at bar 141. The tonic is twice hammered forte, with a grace note D♯, and twice prolonged in vertiginous four-octave arpeggios.70 The nearly thirty seconds ‘dictated’ by Emma, even if they flow without interruption from the preceding section, constitute a self-contained form with strong inner momentum, from low dynamics and elongated rhythm to an accelerated pace in higher register and intensity, and whose complex harmony encompasses a broad dominant–tonic cadence, G major to C major. The temporal shape of the whole passage can be visualized in a spectrogram (see Pl. 3). Pl. 3 View largeDownload slide Spectrogram of L’isle joyeuse, bb. 117–44, after the 1961 recording by Magda Tagliaferro (the arrows indicate the two C major chords at bb. 141 and 143). Courtesy of Simon Garrette Pl. 3 View largeDownload slide Spectrogram of L’isle joyeuse, bb. 117–44, after the 1961 recording by Magda Tagliaferro (the arrows indicate the two C major chords at bb. 141 and 143). Courtesy of Simon Garrette This shape, which elaborates a new theme—‘Emma’s theme’—with a steady upwards intensity curve leading to a sustained climax, is far from giving way to silence. The passage ends at bar 144, not on a closing C major triad but on an open C arpeggio with no third, and it fuses with the following C major section. Indeed, when the third sketch is over, we are still far from the section leading to the final apotheosis, which actually begins at bar 186. In short, the third sketch depicts an open-ended climax. Given the biographical context, as a climax ‘dictated’ by a woman and not followed by silence, can we say it is a feminine orgasm? on climax as (male) orgasm, and vice versa To answer that question, we need to discuss what it can possibly mean to speak of orgasms in music. Let’s start with Michael Klein’s comment: ‘the music reaches orgasm’.71 This alludes to the arrival of the A major chord in bar 252 of L’isle joyeuse, three bars before the end. For him, orgasm is synonymous with, and/or a metaphor for, climax, and specifically ‘culminating climax’. Dropped into the middle of a technical, even if idiosyncratic, description of Debussy’s score where climax has already been used, the word introduces a climactic poetic gesture in a prosaic scholarly text. And since in English orgasm is one of the meanings of climax, the poetry lies here in literality, as if taking the form at its word. But if orgasm is a kind of experience, what does it mean to say that music is its subject? Here there is no human subject at all; this orgasm exists without anyone experiencing it, and it is neither masculine nor feminine. Such an attribution of agency to the music is consistent with Klein’s interpretation of the piece as a ‘territorial assemblage’ in the sense of Deleuze and Guattari’s Thousand Plateaus, i.e. free of ‘intention and history’, free also of ‘the authorial voice’.72 This can be compared to the very human ‘musical orgasm’ Christopher Chowrimootoo hears at the end of the first act of Benjamin Britten’s Death in Venice, when the protagonist Gustav von Aschenbach sings ‘I love you’ in the presence of young Tadzio. I quote him at some length: Britten heightens the theatricality of this ending with the kind of ‘grand climax’ and ‘blatant emotion’ that the opera was said to reject. In musical terms, it is perhaps best described as a total crescendo—dynamic, rhythmic, textural and registral—followed by a sudden brass-punctuated climax accompanying Aschenbach’s apparently wordless cry. However, given opera’s long-standing generic association with jouissance, we might think of other terms here. The sense of post-coital calm is captured by the sustained bass drone, combined with the tenor’s ‘almost spoken’ descending third on the words ‘love you’, that immediately follow the climax… . Indeed, the proximity of the passage to an evocation of orgasm marks it as one of the most conspicuous examples of ‘body music’.73 The author makes of this ‘musical orgasm’ a kind of operatic ‘grand climax’, characterizing it, quite tautologically, by its likeness to ‘an evocation of orgasm’. This is based on two traits, the ‘total crescendo’ and the vocal falling third. While the analogy with the experience of a real orgasm may seem obvious, it does not have much to do with sonic expressions of climactic pleasure, like rhythmical ‘aah’s and ‘ooh’s. Rather, the capability of this musical form to ‘evoke’ an orgasm is mediated by a generic convention—opera’s alleged Lacanian jouissance—and by a dramaturgical context—the eroticized gaze of the male protagonist on the object of his desire. For this reason, it is indisputably a masculine orgasm, if any. The music expresses the character’s fantasy; it tells what the text and the bodies do not tell. But since the characters are not by any means supposed to have sex, the representation of this passage as an orgasm is the triple result of a musical form, and a context, and the willingness of the author to activate the affordance of form and context by writing ‘musical orgasm’ in the first place.74 Chowrimootoo conflates two senses of the word climax: the first, ‘grand climax’, designates the whole passage; the second makes of climax an instant or a point, indeed a high point, which gives way to the ‘post-coital’ phase. For Klein too, the culminating-climax-as-orgasm is a point in time, while resulting from a process driven by ‘sexual energy’. This mirrors an ambiguity in the musicological literature. In a 1984 article on Schumann’s Dichterliebe, Kofi Agawu noted that the word climax derives from the Greek ladder or staircase, thus denoting ‘an arrangement of figures in ascending order of intensity’, whereas nowadays it ‘refers to the highest point only of a given process’. To avoid confusion, he uses highpoint, and never uses climax at all.75 An ‘ascending order of intensity’ also characterizes climax as a figure of speech in classical rhetoric, for which the Encyclopédie gives this example from Cicero, where it happens twice in a row: ‘You do nothing, you attempt nothing, you think nothing that I don’t hear of, see, and openly perceive.’76 Such rhetorical climaxes can combine with erotic music climaxes, as in John Dowland’s madrigal Come again: ‘To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss, to die / With thee again in sweetest sympathy’, says the text; the passage is built on a rising motif that culminates in a sustained high point on the word ‘die’, before gently descending.77 Now, as the upper step of a staircase, orgasm is always part of a longer sexual act, and, far from being just a point in time, it has its own duration and rhythm.78 Both point and section are needed to describe musical phenomena that can be characterized as orgasms. Both are present in Leonard B. Meyer’s definition of a ‘statistical climax’, namely ‘a gradual increase in the intensity of the more physical attributes of sound, the arrival at a tensional “highpoint”, followed by a usually rapid decline in activity—a falling-away to quiet and closure’.79 Statistical climax is so named ‘because the intensity of the secondary parameters that shape such processes [intensity, pitch, rate of note succession, timbre, and tempo] can be measured and quantified’. When such a climax becomes a ‘powerful statement of majestic affirmation’, Meyer calls it ‘apotheosis’.80 It is opposed to ‘syntactical climax’, where parameters ‘move from a state characterized by relative mobility, ambiguity, uniformity, or irregularity, to one of relative stability, coherent process, and clear form’.81 Even if a climax can be both statistical and syntactical, as in some symphonic recapitulations, the first type is most pertinent here. The ways in which evolving parameters converge or diverge are explored in Austin T. Patty’s study of ‘pacing scenarios’, a sophisticated description of how nineteenth-century classical music arrives at climaxes and moves on from them. The analysis of such spots in the music of Dvořák or Brahms leads him to a four-case categorization: surge, struggle, tumble, and settle.82 This classification is useful for discussing potential ‘musical orgasms’ such as the ‘total crescendo’ alluded to above—a surge in his vocabulary. On the other hand, climax only designates for him high points without duration or specification. Brad Osborn makes the point in his study of ‘terminally climactic forms’ in rock music where, taking the opposite stance, climax is a section.83 In recent years, he argues, experimental rock songs often end with ‘climax sections’ characterized by new thematic material and some enhanced parameter (like a new melody sung and played at a higher pitch and louder, such as Radiohead’s ‘Faust Arp’). These rock climaxes, like the operatic ‘grand climaxes’ alluded to above, can be quite long; Osborn’s prototypical example is The Beatles’ ‘Hey Jude’, whose final section lasts about half the song. It is probably no accident that in these two studies the classical-music specialist tends to equate climax with instant gratification, whereas the rock specialist hears climaxes that go on. Typical paces for representing desire are arguably influential in the definition of many music genres. From Bach to The Beatles, statistical climaxes are a common way of ending a piece of music. And the etymology of the word apotheosis—the accession of a mortal hero to the status of a god—implies that there can be one, and only one, in any given work, namely at the end. This was Gustav Mahler’s view, when, in a letter to Richard Strauss, he spoke of how at some point in the finale of his First Symphony ‘the conclusion is merely apparent (in the full sense of a “false conclusion”)’, since, he continues, ‘my intention was to show a victory in which victory is furthest from the protagonist when he believes it is closest—this is the nature of every spiritual struggle—for there it is by no means simple to become a hero’.84 The vocabulary of hero and victory pertains to epic literature, and the notion of ‘spiritual struggle’ gives it a broader scope, as a narrative on a human subject who is normatively male, perhaps inspiring the designation of previous high points as ‘premature’ in some accounts of Mahler’s music.85 This view on the unicity of climax was also Vincent d’Indy’s, who as a pre-eminent composer and teacher and the leader of the Société Nationale de Musique and the Schola Cantorum, was Debussy’s most important rival in the French musical field. D’Indy was the theoretician of the sonate cyclique, a reinterpretation of Beethoven’s sonata form through the motivic working of César Franck, based on the return of its initial materials, up to a triumphant resolution. This model had a strong normative value: after hearing a work by his pupil Alfred Roussel, d’Indy reproached him with the lack of ‘any sense of emphatic statement in the [last] movement’.86 In this first symphony by Roussel, subtitled Le poème de la forêt, written in 1904–6 at the time of the quarrel between d’indyistes and debussystes, Brian Hart detects the influence of Debussy, whose own works seldom ended with climaxes at all, at least in the years prior to Pelléas and Mélisande’s first performance in 1902. Marianne Wheeldon claims that Debussy’s earlier incursion into the sonate cyclique, with his String Quartet in G minor (1893), was purposefully aimed at having the work performed at the Société Nationale at a time when he was still actively looking for recognition by his colleagues. The following year, once this recognition was achieved, he premiered there Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, a piece that seems to disappear in a harmonically unstable ppp.87 According to Simon Trezise, ‘climaxes that dissolve almost before they have begun and whose function does not seem designed to signpost a clear point of formal departure, such as a recapitulation, have been viewed as essential qualities of both Debussy’s style and the Impressionist movement in music’.88 At the opposite end of the scale, d’Indy’s own works, already at the time of his Symphonie cévénole (1887), and later with what Hart calls his ‘message-symphonies’, ended with monumental climaxes loaded with narrative content, as in the triumph of good over evil in his Second Symphony (1909), or with the triumph of France over Germany in the Third (1915–19), the latter represented through the massive orchestration of a Gregorian chant.89 Such statistical climaxes, Meyer observes, are easy to grasp by anyone, a trait that in his view makes them more egalitarian than syntactical ones. Through them, ‘by literally overwhelming the listener’, ‘unity is established, so to speak, by the transcendence of the sublime’.90 Alex Rehding comments that the power of such music to overwhelm ‘also harbored the seeds of certain totalitarian features: it is a climax that does not permit objections’.91 Rehding is talking here about ‘monumental music’ for public commemorations, something quite the opposite of musical representations of affects and intimacy. Yet the parallel with orgasms is useful, not least because it highlights the paradoxes of scale: in music, a love scene can be as grandiose as a political event, and even the most private feelings can be ‘monumental’. Orgasm is clearly not a totalitarian ideological device, but it definitely is an overwhelming experience, for which no education is needed, and to which it is really hard to object. To what extent, then, do all statistical climaxes and apotheoses afford descriptions as orgasms? As much is implied in Susan McClary’s claim that tonality itself channels ‘images of desire’ eventually leading to ‘metaphorical ejaculation’, as exemplified by works of Beethoven and Mahler.92 This is related to her feminist critique of gender prejudice in music theory and reception history, epitomized by the use of ‘feminine endings’ for cadences that fall on a ‘weak’ beat (i.e. a metrical upbeat). Contrary to this last case and other examples, though, her claim of apotheosis-as-ejaculation is not based on verbal reception materials, but on her interpretation of the music alone. This implies a strong conjectural dimension, and exposes it to Richard Taruskin’s objecting to ‘argument by analogy’ on the grounds that ‘it easily confuses analogy with identity, forgetting that analogies identify similarities within disparities’.93 Now, critics acknowledge that ‘there is something right about [her] descriptions of the music itself’, and urge the reader to listen ‘with McClary in hand’ to the recapitulation of the first movement of Beethoven’s Ninth, where she famously heard ‘the consequent juxtaposition of desire and unspeakable violence’.94 In Nicholas Cook’s words, her interpretation ‘builds on the objective properties of the musical trace in such a way as to construct and communicate a quite distinctive way of experiencing the passage’.95 McClary’s general argument on ‘metaphorical ejaculations’ can be illustrated by comparing a graph of the standard intensity curve for musical climaxes, defined by Austin Patty as a ‘pattern of growth and decline’,96 and the graph Wilhelm Reich included in his 1942 book The Function of Orgasm (see Pll. 4 and 5).97 Pl. 4 View largeDownload slide Intensity curve from Austin Patty, ‘Pacing Scenarios’, 328 Pl. 4 View largeDownload slide Intensity curve from Austin Patty, ‘Pacing Scenarios’, 328 Pl. 5 View largeDownload slide Graph for orgasm from Wilhelm Reich, The Function of Orgasm, 103. F = forepleasure, P = penetration, A [C?] = climax, R = relaxation. Pl. 5 View largeDownload slide Graph for orgasm from Wilhelm Reich, The Function of Orgasm, 103. F = forepleasure, P = penetration, A [C?] = climax, R = relaxation. The shapes are roughly the same, even if Patty’s graph allows for several peaks of growing intensity and a slow abatement, whereas in Reich’s there is only one peak and the tension drops much faster. Reich developed his ‘bioelectrical’ model as part of a study of ‘sex economy’, claiming that the ‘orgasm formula’—‘tension → charge → discharge → relaxation’—was the very ‘life formula’.98 However, we do not need to assume Reich’s essentialist views on orgasm and life to note the analogy between Patty’s generic intensity curve and his picture of the ‘typical phases of the sexual act’. The analogy is not only one of visual shapes but also one of temporal scale. ‘Duration from five to twenty-minutes’, writes Reich under his graph; the data could be refined, but the duration of the sexual act is clearly comparable to that of many pieces of music, including most movements of the classic repertory. A comparison could also be made, at an anthropological level, between the temporal settings of the rituals of love-making and those of concert-going, where applauding is a ‘terminally climactic form’. Even if Reich claims that his model applies to both male and female, he clearly grants a normative status to masculine experience, as shown by the abrupt descent that precedes the ‘relaxation’ phase. Robert Scholes has claimed that ‘the archetype of all fiction is the sexual act… . For what connects fiction—and music—with sex is the fundamental orgastic rhythm of tumescence and detumescence, of tension and resolution.’99 This metaphor is also based on the normative value of masculine orgasm, thus exposing it to feminist critique. ‘Those of us who know no art of delaying climax or, reading, feel no incipient tumescence, may well be barred from the pleasure of this “full fictional act”’, writes Teresa De Lauretis, in reaction to Scholes’s implicit belief in the ‘inherent maleness of all narrative movement’.100 McClary, in turn, says that Scholes is ‘guilty of both essentializing and universalizing what is in fact a particular version of “the sexual act”’; yet she does take Scholes’s point, by claiming that male ‘orgastic rhythm’ has archetypal status for narratives in patriarchal cultures.101 What, then, is a narrative climax? In his study of ‘narrative tension’, Raphaël Baroni says that ‘knot (noeud) and dénouement’ are essential to the very notion of plot (mise en intrigue) in literature, drama, and cinema’, since they ‘structure the narrative through the plotting of events, as stages of an interpretive path that corresponds to the development of a tension’.102 This view, which Baroni inherits from narratologists like Vladimir Propp and A. J. Greimas, actually goes back to Aristotle, who said in the Poetics that a plot should have ‘a beginning, a middle, and an end’, and also that its ‘denouement’ [lusis] should be ‘the result of the plot itself’, rather than of the events it represents.103 The fact that humans can take pleasure in knowing these last through mimesis is a decisive aspect of the Aristotelian ‘paradox of tragedy’, which makes of catharsis the result of stories that end with disaster and death.104 In contemporary literature, a typical dénouement is the finding of the killer in a thriller as the result of an ‘interpretive path’ followed by both the detective of the story and the reader. Other typical cases might be, in epic or dramatic narrative, knowing who the victor and the loser of a battle are, or whether the hero manages to win his ‘spiritual struggle’ at the end of the story. This narrative dénouement is always a cognitive event, in the sense that it results from new information about the plot, like discovering the killer’s identity or the hero’s fate. Many musical climaxes are undisputedly linked to cognitive events of this kind. As much is implied in Mahler’s comment on false and true conclusions, where the musical climax itself brings news of the hero’s ‘victory’, and the same is true, in a still more explicit way, of d’Indy’s final apotheosis. Most programme music and operatic scenes operate on similar premisses. Eero Tarasti’s narratological perspective, based on the theories of A. J. Greimas, also suggests narrative dénouements that do not depend on verbal elements, for instance when in Chopin’s Polonaise-Fantasie Op. 61 the struggle between the musical themes reaches a point (b. 262) where ‘the true identity’ of a theme that until then had a subordinated, negative function, is finally ‘revealed’.105 Meyer’s syntactical climaxes, like, say, the recapitulation in a sonata form, also have a crucial cognitive element, namely the recognition of the exposition’s material. In a similar vein, Baroni makes a case for instrumental music being an ‘abstract’ version of narrative, where ‘the pleasure one can take from it depends on the more or less tortuous ways that lead to the final dénouement’.106 In such approaches, narrativity as such, independently of any specific semiotic medium, appears as the key to aesthetic climax.107 At the receptor’s level, Baroni associates the noeud/dénouement pair with a succession of inner states of tension and harmony, a ‘dysphoric imbalance’ followed by a ‘euphoric rebalance’.108 And he suggests that this can have a libidinal basis, namely the ‘scopic drive’, described by Roland Barthes in Le Plaisir du texte: ‘ All the excitement lies in the hope of seeing the sex (the high-school boy’s dream) or of knowing the end of the story (the satisfaction of fiction).’109 Even if he doesn’t speak here of sublimation, Barthes is drawing from Freud and Lacan to propose his famous distinction between spoken plaisir and unspeakable jouissance. This structuralist reading of Freud was inspirational for Robert Scholes and other American narratologists like Peter Brooks, whose ideas were integrated, together with the critique of their male bias, into feminist theories. Now the reading of Freud can take one in different directions. In 1977, Brooks derived what he called ‘Freud’s masterplot’ from ‘Beyond the Pleasure Principle’ (1920), the article that introduced the notion that Eros and Thanatos (rather than libido opposed to the reality principle) are at work in every human being. ‘The aim of all life is death’, writes Freud. Brooks comments: ‘plot mediates meanings with the contradictory human world of the eternal and the mortal’.110 The view of death as the organizer of narrativity connects with Aristotle and the unhappy endings of ancient tragedy, yet does not rule out sexual pleasure. On the contrary: if ‘desire is the wish for the end’, writes Brooks, ‘the story of Scheherazade is doubtless the story of stories’.111 And since music cannot go on for a thousand nights, a musical ending should ‘represent its own finitude’, as Federico Monjeau puts it.112 The notion that orgasms have a connection with death, frequent in sixteenth-century madrigals, can be likened to Georges Bataille’s description of masculine orgasm as the petite mort.113 There is a limit, though, to narrativity as a key to both musical and sexual pleasure. In music not all climaxes are cognitive events, and what makes them climaxes is not their role in a plot but their phenomenological shape; in this, they are different from literary climaxes, whose experienced tempo and duration vary from reader to reader. Also, from a psychoanalytical perspective the actual temporality of the sexual act does not mirror that of sexual desire in general, whose phenomenology tends to merge in the opaque experience of the unconscious. Added to that, both music and sex often rely on non-conceptual representations, whose experience is not reducible to attributing to them a role in a plot. Of course, this is not to deny that sex involves a cognitive dimension, one that is intimately linked to affects and pleasure. Richard Shusterman has convincingly argued, against a dominant tradition in aesthetics, for sexual experience to be a kind of aesthetic experience, at least in some situations.114 For Jean-Marie Schaeffer, aesthetic experience definitely involves a cognitive dimension, concentrated in the notion of aesthetic attention.115 At a much simpler level, sex involves cognition because each partner perceives the bodily presence of the other whose physical attributes and behaviour are indeed a crucial source of pleasure. And even solitary sex is, more often than not, mediated by sensorial stimulation, as witnessed by the pornography industry. This does not imply that orgasm itself is a cognitive experience, though. What, after all, is an orgasm? It is not enough to think of it as an ‘explosive discharge of neuromuscular tensions’, as suggested in the famous Kinsey reports.116 The question has been raised by philosophers Ned Block and Michael Tye as a test case for their dispute around ‘representationalism’, i.e. whether the phenomenal character of conscious experience is only that of representational contents, or whether there are also ‘qualitative properties of conscious experience’, or qualia.117 According to Block, on the one hand, ‘there are features of the experience of orgasm that don’t represent anything’, since ‘orgasm is phenomenally impressive and there is nothing very impressive about the representational content that there is an orgasm’.118According to Nye, on the other hand, ‘orgasms are, at heart, bodily sensations. Like other bodily sensations, under optimal conditions (conditions of well functioning), they “track” bodily states, just as perceptual sensations “track” environmental states’.119 Consequently, an orgasm is either a non-representational impression or a non-conceptual representation of one’s own body. And this is so even if mental images, among many other things, play a key role in erotic excitement as part of ‘a piece of theatre whose story seems genuine because of the truth of the body’s sensations’, as Robert Stoller puts it.120 Having an orgasm is not being aroused, or enchanted, or touched, by a partner, even if all that can definitely trigger it. ‘I can have an experience whose representational content is that my partner is having a very pleasing experience down there that changes in intensity’, says Block; ‘and although that may be pleasurable for me, it is not pleasurable in the phenomenally impressive way that graces my own orgasms. I vastly prefer my own orgasms to those of others.’121 It follows that there is no such thing as a shared orgasm even if partners reach climax at the same time, which can of course very much contribute to the intensity of their experience. This brings to the fore an essential difference between Patty’s graph of musical intensity curve and Reich’s graph of orgasm, namely that the first depicts an object of perception, whereas the second depicts an inner experience. Musical climaxes and real orgasms are but two different examples of the many temporal shapes that can be represented through an intensity curve of tension and energy. This is why the orgasm metaphor can apply to very different things, from winning chess games to hearing washing machines,122 as long as they are sources of pleasure. And, of course, this is independent from the presence of the word orgasm itself. Annegret Fauser explains how Parisian musical critics, both excited and embarrassed by Massenet’s erotic interlude in Act II of Esclarmonde (1889), struggled to ‘control the music’s excessively direct impact by looking for verbal equivalents’.123 Only in the 1920s did the word ‘orgasm’ start to migrate from sexology and psychiatry to the current vocabulary of sexual pleasure;124 in French legal sources, it does not appear before 1940.125 Yet the plausibility of considering any phenomenon, including musical climaxes, as a representation of the sexual act strongly increases with the presence of other analogies than just similar intensity curves. Indeed, the lack of other analogical parameters might help explain why McClary’s ‘metaphorical ejaculations’ often appear as idiosyncratic interpretations, rather than being accounted for in reception materials. What other analogies, then, play a role in a musical climax that can be heard as an orgasm? One of the most basic features of the sexual act, in all historical contexts, is the strong rhythmic dimension of the interaction of the bodies. Accelerating and slowing down, introducing segmentations with or without transitions, keeping a steady pulsation while varying other intensities—all of these are facets of the complex game of pace, power, and pleasure that couples play during sexual intercourse. According to the psychologist Adam Safron, for evolutionary reasons ‘human sexual performance depends on being capable of not only switching between multiple rhythms, but of inferring the best times for these changes’.126 ‘Slowly the pelvis begins to swing, like the free swinging of a dangling leg. As the pelvic movements in both partners take on this free-swinging quality, the tempo of the movement increases’, says an Encyclopaedia of Sexual Behavior; the passage rings like a musical description of dance.127 Such rhythmical and temporal patterns have a bodily basis that can be measured through scientific means: Williams Masters and Virginia Johnson found that during orgasm the initial contractions of the penis happen at the same average interval as those of the vagina, namely 0.8 seconds.128 But they also have a strong subjective component, as when an ‘experience of inevitability’ marks for the man the instant when he ceases to control ejaculation; also, feminine orgasm reportedly begins with ‘a feeling of suspension’.129 All this is a consequence of human biology, which nevertheless does not prevent strong cultural modulations in time and space. The duration of foreplay and intercourse depends on cultural sexual scripts that orient the individual’s desires and practices, at the price of frequent misperceptions and discordances.130 Nowadays, in Western countries, the coordination of movements and gestures is often supposed to maximize the pleasure of both partners, at least as a dominant normative ideal whose ultimate expression is heterosexual simultaneous orgasm. Things were probably different in Debussy’s time, especially since women’s pleasure was generally less important for men. For sure, instructions on how to ‘build her stage-by-stage towards the best orgasm of her life’, now current in men’s magazines, were not to be found in the press he read.131 Yet the temporal coordination of bodies and affects was, and is, a necessary aspect of any consensual sexual encounter. I suggest that a piece of music is more likely to represent and/or induce a sex experience when its pacing scenarios, and not only its intensity curve, have an analogic relation with those of sex. According to Safron, ‘music and dance may be the only things that come close to sexual interaction in their power to entrain neural rhythms and produce sensory absorption and trance’.132 This might be a fundamental reason for dance’s close association with seduction and sex. It happens through what cognitivists call ‘cross-domain mapping’, i.e. the capacity to establish analogies between separated areas of experience, a mechanism that, according to Lawrence Zbikowski, is crucial for musical emotions and dance.133 Musical works that explicitly evoke sexual content, like bacchanals in Saint-Saëns’s Samson et Dalila (1877) or Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloé (1912), characteristically display strong rhythmic activity. Also, Ravel’s Boléro illustrates the idea as a metronome of desire: a musical climax is more likely to be heard as a musical orgasm when it articulates a climactic intensity curve and a rhythmic pattern that resemble the pacing scenarios of real sexual acts. The perception by a listener of such a temporal sonic shape under certain contextual conditions allows her to recognize it as an orgasm, although there is a long way to experiencing it as such. Indeed, the chances of somebody actually having an orgasm just by listening to a musical orgasm are quite low. This doesn’t mean that the listening experience never includes sexual arousal. The pleasure of perceiving a musical climax might have something in common with that of perceiving a partner’s orgasm, while differing from it at an ethical level, since the latter is part of an intersubjective encounter while the former is not. Psychologists John Sloboda and Jaak Panksepp mention sexual arousal as a quite frequent effect of music in their experimental studies of ‘chills’ and the listening experience.134 And even if no reception studies seem to exist, some level of arousal is a likely reaction to ‘aural sex’ pieces, like pop music songs that include female vocalizations such as Donna Summer’s ‘pornosonic confession’ in Love to love you baby,135 to say nothing of unedited recordings of actual orgasms. Also, in an article on music and ‘erotic agency’, Tia DeNora has reported cases of heterosexual men suggesting to their female partners to adapt the timing of the sexual act to classical music works, including Ravel’s Boléro, eliciting negative reactions in the women.136 This empirical result is similar to a fictional scene in J. M. Coetzee’s novel Summertime, depicting a woman outraged by the protagonist’s proposal to make love to the adagio of Schubert’s C Major Quintet, a thirteen-minute piece with no apparent ‘musical orgasm’.137 All this suggests a historically strong masculine bias. It also confirms the pertinence, under certain contextual conditions, of describing some music climaxes as ‘musical orgasms’, even if masculine. But what about feminine orgasms? How can they be musically represented? The most famous orgasm in music history is probably that of a woman, Isolde, at the end of Richard Wagner’s Liebestod. But this is a male composer’s representation of female jouissance, one in which the petite mort is monumentalized into a grande mort. And in that respect things are not very different in avant-garde works such as Erwin Schulhoff’s Sonata erotica (1919), even though this Dadaist piece, where a female singer performs a realistic orgasm fully written into score, actually represents a critique of Wagnerian pathos by its mere existence. In pornography and popular culture, ‘the vocal ejaculations of climaxing women are a prominent, perhaps the prominent, feature of representations of female sexual pleasure’.138 But it is harder to identify musical representations of the inner experience of women akin to the masculine intensity curve. The non-normative status of feminine orgasm precludes standardized sonic representations, other than real or faked vocalizations that are themselves often modelled on men’s desire.139 McClary makes a case for Genesis II, a piano trio by Janika Vandervelde, as containing an ‘image of female erotic pleasure’, but she does not describe the music, nor speak of orgasms for that matter.140 Hanna Bosma notes that ‘the avoidance of definitive closure’ is recurrent in works by female avant-garde composers, as well as in male-dominated avant-garde music at large;141 Danielle Sofer mentions Alice Shields' electronic opera Apocalypse (1994) as staging a woman's orgasms by leaning away from ‘binaristic notions of gender’.142 We can leave open the question, as a topic for further research, of what musical feminine orgasms sound like, be they composed by men or by women, when they are truly independent of masculine models. For sure, such an inquiry might take good notice of ‘the proposition that female orgasm is unnecessary’, as feminist literary theorist Susan Winnett wrote in still another response to Scholes’s ‘archetype’, not because she didn’t like orgasms, but because ‘women’s pleasure can take place outside, or independent of, the male sexual economy whose pulsations determine the dominant culture’.143 Nevertheless, something more substantial can be said about the visual representation of female orgasm. In 1966, Masters and Johnson proposed an alternative to Reich’s graph and its masculine-biased crescendo-and-post-coital-calm curve.144 Their graph for the female sexual response includes an enhanced plateau phase, multi-orgasmic scenarios, and different curves of decreasing intensity (see Pl. 6). Pl. 6 View largeDownload slide Graph for female orgasm from Masters and Johnson, Human Sexual Response, 5 Pl. 6 View largeDownload slide Graph for female orgasm from Masters and Johnson, Human Sexual Response, 5 Drawn at a moment when the very nature of feminine orgasm—including Freud’s famous and now-discredited distinction between vaginal and clitoral orgasms—was an object of scientific and general debate, these graphs showed striking differences between men and women. But Masters and Johnson also fired an endless controversy for contrary reasons, as witnessed by sociologist Ross Morrow’s later fierce attack on their ‘four stages model’—excitement, plateau, orgasm, and resolution—because of its ‘ideological emphasis on sexual similarity’ through an alleged essentialization of heterosexual ‘coital imperative’.145 With these debates in mind, it might be more adequate, rather than distinguishing sharply between masculine and feminine orgasms, to see orgasms as a variegated set of experiences that, within the boundaries of their biological apparatus, human beings may, or may not, have in different forms and situations. In fact, research tends to show no essential difference between women and men, except—significantly—the ability of many women to experience more and longer orgasms, and also to continue making love afterwards. A few years after the publication of Human Sexual Response, a study by Ellen Belle Vance and Nathaniel N. Wagner detected no gender difference in a set of ‘written descriptions of orgasm’, like ‘ A buildup of tension which starts to pulsate very fast, and then there is a sudden release from the tension and desire to sleep’; ‘Feels like tension building up until you think it can’t build up any more, then release’; and so on. The authors concluded that ‘the experience of orgasm for males and females is essentially the same’, something that is true in many ways, including the neurological mechanisms involved. Yet what that 1976 study actually showed, because of its biased methodology, was only that a panel of mostly male ‘experts’ (gynaecologists, obstetricians, and medical students) was unable to distinguish between male and female narratives of orgasms out of a sample from which multi-orgasmic reports had been suppressed from the start.146 Transposed to music, this suggests that a male composer was, and is, likely to conceive the intensity curve of a female orgasm as similar to that of his own orgasms. With all this in mind, we can resume our discussion of Debussy’s L’isle joyeuse at the point where we left it. emma’s desire, claude’s music Let’s start with the final climax. Composing the end of L’isle joyeuse was for Debussy a singular thing, both for musical and biographical reasons. As we have seen, climaxes were not his usual way of concluding, as they were for Mahler or d’Indy. Leaving aside his early production, where idiosyncratic aspects are less pronounced, his style is better represented by ‘dissolving endings’ like that of Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune (1894).147 Here, the most salient climax intervenes less than half the way through the piece (bb. 44–6) whereas a calmer, syntactic climax due to ‘motivic compression’ can be identified at bars 93–5, still more than a minute before the end.148 Needless to say, this does not make of Prélude an asexual piece; indeed, partly thanks to Nijinsky’s 1912 performance, it is one of the most eroticized pieces of all music history.149 The three Nocturnes (1897–9) do not end with climactic closures either. And such endings are virtually absent in emblematic piano works such as Images (1901–5), the Préludes (1909–12),150 and En blanc et noir (1915). As Marianne Wheeldon points out, in Debussy’s later works, musical ideas ‘do not aim toward a climax or resolution, but proceed with no one statement hierarchically more significant than another’.151 An earlier piece like Masques (1903–4) dissolves in a kind of transition that, according to Roy Howat, makes of it a prequel to L’isle joyeuse.152 On the other hand, Debussy’s pieces do seem to end more often with climaxes in the years following the premiere of Pelléas: witness Estampes (1903), Rapsodie pour saxophone (1903),153Deux danses (1904), Ibéria (1905–8), and La Mer (1903–5). Indeed, the final section of Dialogues du vent et de la mer, the third and last esquisse symphonique, is one of the composer’s most grandiose orchestral moments. In later years, Jeux (1912) displays an impressive climactic form, whose intensity curve was personally supervised by Diaghilev to suit Nijinsky’s eroticized choreography.154 It is perhaps fair to say that climactic closure, contrary to the default norm it was for many composers, was for Debussy but one formal strategy among others, in an astonishingly rich palette of ways to connect his music with silence. Now, according to François de Médicis, La Mer is full of traces of Debussy’s encounter with Emma, starting with a series of musical allusions to Wagner’s Tristan that he hears as cryptic love messages, and including the dedication to Emma of a reduced manuscript score, later deleted for unknown reasons. For this author, there is an ‘intrigue amoureuse’ in La Mer, and this work, L’isle joyeuse, and Fêtes galantes, are all ‘hommages amoureux’.155 Should we think that all the terminal climaxes Debussy wrote in Emma’s company were born out of the same ‘libidinal economy’ as L’isle joyeuse? In fact, De Médicis speaks of love but does not say anything about sex, leaving us free to speculate on whether the final climax of La Mer is to be heard as a musical orgasm. We have seen how deep Debussy’s joy of working on La Mer was during the blissful days spent with his lover on the isle of Jersey. Simon Trezise notes, in connection with this work, that ‘the sea has often been associated with sexuality’.156 In Ken Russell’s film, the composer’s swimming in the Channel with his own music as soundtrack is depicted as an almost erotic experience. Yet, the ending of La Mer is much less likely to be heard as an orgasm than that of L’isle joyeuse, for reasons that are not only biographical (the third sketch definitely makes a difference at that level) but musical as well. According to Brian Hart, Dialogues du vent et de la mer ‘alludes to the rhetorical features of a nineteenth-century symphonic finale: the reprise of its principal theme leads to the dynamic and textural climax of the composition, followed by a chorale peroration; and, unlike the preceding movements, it ends with a firm tonic cadence’. This puts La Mer in the surprising company of the d’indyste ‘message-symphony’, while at the same time rejecting its very ‘purpose’, namely the existence of a message.157 Whatever Debussy’s reasons for this strategic move, in the apotheosis the salience of the chorale-like melody, traditionally associated with political power and religious experience, is provided by dynamic and registral factors, like loud high brass sonorities on long-sustained pitches, and also by the slowing down, through the very salience of this melody, of the music’s rhythmic momentum. As suggested above, rhythmic patterns that cross the domains of music and sex enhance the plausibility of hearing a musical climax like an orgasm. The contrast with La Mer in that aspect contributes to L’isle joyeuse’s singular position in Debussy’s oeuvre, often acknowledged by analysts. According to Arnold Whittall, ‘first and foremost, it is a symphonic poem which subjects one of his finest melodies to the increasingly orgiastic demands of the “programme”’. Whittall does not say to what ‘programme’ he is alluding, but the connection with Emma was surely in his mind, the keyword here being ‘orgiastic’. ‘That he was capable of driving a structure forwards to end at the moment of maximum tension’, he continues, ‘is clear from, for example, Act IV of Pelléas et Mélisande, but L’isle joyeuse is a strikingly single-minded example of such a cumulative design and the musical language is powerfully consistent.’158 Roy Howat stresses the singularity of what he calls an ‘exuberant dynamic shape’: ‘beginning pianissimo on two notes a tone apart, and in an undefined rhythm and tonality, it finishes in A major splendour, triple-forte, the last two bars spanning virtually the entire keyboard and completing a coda of rhythmic vigour unsurpassed in Debussy’s output’.159 This invites one to explore the affordances of the music for sexual metaphors. But let us stress first that this is very different from claiming that any passage of Debussy’s L’isle joyeuse ‘is’ a musical orgasm, and also from saying that Debussy wanted it to be heard in that way. Rather, the articulation of biographical context and musical form makes it plausible to hear orgasms in the third sketch as well as in the final section of L’isle joyeuse—at least as plausible as other interpretations such as the Voyage to Cythera (which is far from contradicting it), a Pantheist celebration of Nature, or a Deleuzian ‘territorial assemblage’. In other words, both the C major climax and the final A major climax can be verbally represented as musical representations of orgasms on a stronger basis than an occasional poetic metaphor. Indeed, these affordances, and those of L’isle joyeuse as a whole, invite us to hear the entire piece as a sexual narrative. And even if the music does not resemble a dialogue between a feminine and a masculine ‘voice’, its most likely reference, given the dominant view of art as an expression of the artist, and provided that the biographical information is available to the listener, is no other than the relationship of Emma Bardac and Claude Debussy. Evidence of the plausibility of sexual associations is to be found in the eroticized descriptions that regularly appear in its reception history. An early one, saturated with disclaimers about ‘innocence’, is Louis Laloy’s picturing in 1906 a ‘Garden of Eden’ full of nude dancing fauns and nymphs.160 In 1914, Debussy associates it with Watteau’s L’embarquement pour Cythère (1717), and its couples paying tribute to Aphrodite on an island of pleasures.161 In 1929, the music critic Pierre Lagarde speaks of its ‘oriental langueur’.162 In 1932, the reference to Watteau appears in a book by Alfred Cortot: ‘L’isle joyeuse sets the trap of its laughter and easy pleasures to the reckless lovers, whose light boats approach its happy coasts under the approving gaze of Watteau, Verlaine, and Chabrier, all necessarily evoked by the sensuous curve of this music.’163 In 1980, Harry Halbreich explains that this piece ‘is the solar euphoria close to the shining sea, the expanding pride of virile affirmation, the joy of the lovers who at last have left aside their masks’.164 Paul Roberts says that ‘L’isle joyeuse is unique in the open-air quality of its extroversion, the sustained intensity of its final climax, and its offer of a fulfilment that is supremely achieved’, while speaking of ‘Bacchic ecstasy, or the love-rites of an intoxicated Dionysus’.165 François-René Tranchefort writes that the piece ‘joyfully mirrors the solar triumph of the love of Claude and Emma Bardac’.166 Whittall’s ‘orgy’ and Howat’s ‘vigour’ also belong to that bouquet of sexual metaphors, together with Klein’s ‘sexual energy’. Other reception materials could be added. Unfortunately, I have been unable to find a comment by a woman. How does the music afford this proliferation of sexual images? Even if analysts have tried to describe its form with classical schemes, they all point out how far the piece is from following them, so we can leave them aside altogether, and favour rather a ‘processual approach’.167 To understand L’isle joyeuse’s potential for sexual associations, Howat’s suggestion to hear a ‘sequence of dynamic waves’ that ‘lead cumulatively to the coda’ seems promising, in the light of what we have seen above of human sexual performance as ‘switching between multiple rhythms’ and ‘inferring the best times for these changes’. Throughout the piece, adds Howat, the sequence of waves, where he identifies five ‘peaks’, is achieved ‘by preventing too firm a sense of arrival at any stage before’.168 Emma’s C major cadence, a moment of twice pulsating ecstasy in a relatively distant tonality, is still, nearly halfway through the piece, the firmest moment of arrival before the final A major cadence. Thus, both climaxes are structurally related as complementary poles: one is open-ended, the other is the end itself; one evokes the intensity curve of a feminine orgasm, the other, that of a masculine orgasm; one was ‘dictated’ by Emma, the other was probably part of the first manuscript, written by Claude before encountering her. This pattern can fit several pieces of sonic theatre: one in which a woman’s orgasm is followed by a man’s orgasm, one in which a woman climaxes first and both partners climax together at the end, one in which the music reaches an orgasm that has no gender specifications, and still others perhaps. But even for listeners unaware of, or indifferent to, anthropomorphic scripts, the C major climax and the A major climax organize the temporality of L’isle joyeuse—a piece of music of circa 6 minutes’ length in performance—as a long-range quest for culminating pleasure. The global intensity curve can be visualized in a spectrogram (see Pl. 7). Pl. 7 View largeDownload slide Spectrogram of L’isle joyeuse, after the 1961 recording by Magda Tagliaferro (the arrows indicate the C major and A major climaxes). Courtesy of Simon Garrette Pl. 7 View largeDownload slide Spectrogram of L’isle joyeuse, after the 1961 recording by Magda Tagliaferro (the arrows indicate the C major and A major climaxes). Courtesy of Simon Garrette The quest starts at the beginning, with the first C♯ trill motif played without accompaniment, quasi una cadenza. It is a singular sound object, a long blurred sound in temps lisse with a fast suffix on a whole-tone collection, a pulsating explosion of frequencies, successively heard on the same notes at different octaves (see Ex. 1). At bar 1 with no beat, at bar 52 with strong ternary accents, at bar 244 as pleasure unchained, the C♯ trill motif is throughout the piece a perceptual anchor in the midst of fast-flowing events, whose rhythmical patterns and thematic elaborations frame the complex interaction of diatonic, acoustic, and whole-tone materials, well described in the literature. The thematic thread is dominated by the C♯ trill motif and by two main themes, plus several other ideas. The first main theme, theme X, is in fast binary rhythm, and associates a dotted motif and a triplet motif (see Ex. 2). Ex. 1 View largeDownload slide Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 1–2 Ex. 1 View largeDownload slide Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 1–2 Ex. 2 View largeDownload slide Theme X and habanera motif, Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 8–9 Ex. 2 View largeDownload slide Theme X and habanera motif, Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 8–9 Early in the piece, as a bridge between the C♯ trill and theme X, the bass plays five times, in guitar-like arpeggios, a habanera motif. It is as though the music were setting a social scene of desire through a dance of Hispanic resonances. In Debussy’s music, the habanera also sounds that same year in La soirée dans Grenade, a piano piece from Estampes (1903), and later in the prelude La puerta del vino (1911–12). In L’isle joyeuse, it is a sensual and tactful invitation to dance, an ephemeral dramaturgy of bodily sensations that returns with the C♯ trill at bars 64–6—almost like a tango, soon to become the new danse à la mode in Paris. The thread of desire in L’isle joyeuse includes several other dance-like motifs, some of them binary, like the habanera, some ternary, like the ghost of a waltz entering the stage, again in the left hand, at the first change to 3/8 metre at bar 28 (see Ex. 3). The dance motifs never persist more than a few bars, for L’isle joyeuse is not dance music. And yet they bring muscular memories of bodily movements that ignite social memories of seduction and desire, infusing with them the very texture of the music, even when they are not directly heard. Their desiring thread enriches the concatenation of local intensity curves in the overall temporal process. Let us move together. And that movement includes the pianist’s, the performer whose historical role has had to be left aside in this article, but whose own mind, body, and desire are definitely part of this story. Ex. 3 View largeDownload slide Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 28–31 Ex. 3 View largeDownload slide Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 28–31 Now the music refuses too simple an opposition between binary and ternary rhythms, between habanera and waltz, these fleeting shadows of desiring bodies. Rather, in Boulez’s vocabulary, the piece is an exploration of evolving temps strié, whose Other is the temps lisse of the C♯ trill. Ternary rhythm insists in the second main theme of the piece, theme Y, first heard as an ascending chord melody on the A major acoustic scale, ondoyant et expressif. But the accompaniment plays now quintuplets, as if escaping metrical constraints (see Ex. 4). Ex. 4 View largeDownload slide Theme Y, Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 67–72 Ex. 4 View largeDownload slide Theme Y, Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 67–72 Another waltz-like motif appears in the left-hand accompaniment of bars 109–14, an E major–C major sequence of fast ascending and descending arpeggios that prepares the introduction of Emma’s theme and the whole third sketch passage, already analysed as a separate entity. The dramaturgical strength of Emma’s theme, in the bass and en dehors, builds on the fact that, for all its novelty, it is actually a variant of theme Y transposed to the whole-tone scale and rhythmically transformed by its rubato-like quality. Emma’s climax is both self-contained and fully integrated into the flow of the music. Let us take its euphoric open-ended arrival in C major as a milestone for the joys still to come. The climax emerges from theme X now in C major, whose triplet suffix gains autonomy through a motoric quality, sempre crescendo in an obstinate search for a high pitch. Upward ho! In this piece, the ascending movement keeps starting over and over, and the resolution of each wave is never the same twice. We can compare the C major climax to the following peak of tension at bars 158–9: again, we have two bars of suspended melody and fast rhythmic activity; but this time it is a blurred low-pitch sonority and a collapsing motif that, by disrupting the texture, prepares an anti-climactic arrival in A major. Indeed, it is no peak at all, since the music suddenly tumbles down (see Ex. 5). Ex. 5 View largeDownload slide Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 156–9 Ex. 5 View largeDownload slide Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 156–9 Theme X resumes its motoric course, this time in its A major original tonality and register. The arrival on the tonic at bar 160 provides no release of tension; on the contrary, it triggers a speeding up of tempo, plus animé, and a reinforcement of the pulsation. By now, the original dancing flavour of the theme has mutated into a vertiginous binary rhythm: urgency is enthusiasm. Tension grows by whole-tone steps every two bars, as if following in augmentation the path of Emma’s theme, a hypermetrical beat that suddenly accelerates to reach a new peak on D♯ at bar 182 (see Ex. 6). It is, once again, different from the previous ones, for the disruption of the texture occurs through a new descending motif, repeated no fewer than twelve times in various registers: a high-pitched ultrafast quintuplet on the acoustic scale, actually less a melodic gesture than a sound object on its own rights. Down, down we go, and still this time, there is no rest. Ex. 6 View largeDownload slide Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 181–7 Ex. 6 View largeDownload slide Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 181–7 This is where the final section begins, with a sudden change of bodily position at bar 186, pianissimo subito: from nothing, as it were—a pulsating nothing, though, with its low ostinato G♯. This binary rhythm in quavers, marked by a grace note, frames the return of the dotted motif of theme X; it evolves on a steady pulse towards higher registers and louder dynamics, by steps of fourths and thirds in phrases spanning three crotchets. At bar 200, the dotted motif reaches G and becomes a fanfare in E flat major, always on the same steady, strenuous pace. Its percussive joy alternates with the triplet motif of theme X, and at bar 208 reaches A in F major. The pulse in crotchets reigns throughout the passage. It does so in spite of the ternary hemiola in the medium register at bars 212–15, turning into a trumpeting high A at bars 216–17. It does so through the triplets becoming semiquavers at bar 218. This high A announces the grandiose A major return of theme Y at bar 220, ff, très en dehors—and at the same time un peu cédé, since here deceleration, rather than acceleration, contributes to building climactic tension.169 From this point on, with the restatement of theme Y, some analysts speak of a coda, but there is no strong reason for that, since all classical schemes have been abandoned. Still, we are close to the end of a temporal process, one that started at the beginning of the piece in temps lisse with the C♯ trill, danced a dreamed habanera in A major, grew through waltzing territories of temps strié up to the return of the trill, reached Emma’s C major climax, sank with the pianissimo ostinato in G♯ at bar 186, and grew again steadily to rhythmical and melodic apotheosis in A major. The journey on the island has been joyful, and now we’re heading towards a destination. The 3/8 downbeat is the very pulsation of pleasure, still enhanced by its contradiction with the accentuated second upbeat. Pleasure of repetition, pleasure of acceleration through diminution: the wide and euphoric theme Y in A major persists twice in its eight-bars form, and then twice in its four-bars form, still building tension by reaching a high C at bar 242. The final ladder of Debussy’s ode to joy starts at bar 244, when the C♯ trill motif espouses the ternary rhythm of theme Y (see Ex. 7). Its suffix is prolonged through still-increased tempo (très animé jusqu’à la fin) and dynamics (ff, then fff). Against this ternary rhythm, enhanced by intensity, at bar 248 the polyrhythmic doubling of C♯ in medium-register hemiolas keeps the fast pace going, and still changing. The pulse holds over the boundless prolongation of the whole-tone collection, with its subversive harmony in full blossom. What a feeling of suspension, what a feeling of inevitability! And then time gets definitely out of joint. Klein was right, after all. The music can come; it does come. The threshold of orgasm unleashes a gigantic trill in triple fortissimo on the vertical traces of the acoustic scale (A/E/D♯), which resolves in a fast and high-pitched diatonic cadence on A major, then tumbles down across the keyboard to final exhaustion in the bass. In the score, the rest of the last bar is silence. Ex. 7 View largeDownload slide Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 241–55 Ex. 7 View largeDownload slide Debussy, L’isle joyeuse, bb. 241–55 It is worth noting, as a conclusion, that traces of Emma’s theme, defined as a complete ascending whole-tone scale followed by a major third (F/G/A/B/C♯/D♯/G), are present in the final sections of the piece, and not only in the ‘dictated’ part. The same notes, transposed two octaves higher, are like milestones in the broad ascending curves that lead to the final climax. This happens first at bars 176–81, when the motoric triplet ascends steadily by one whole-tone step every two bars, then accelerates before reaching the peak that launches the collapse of the descending quintuplets. It happens again from bar 198 onwards, where F is melodically salient, as a diminished fifth of B major; then we have G, at bar 200; A, at bar 208; B, at bar 220, with the return of theme Y; C♯, with the trill motif at bar 244, which brings along D♯; and finally G at bar 245, the highest pitch before the final A. Sources do not tell whether this construction of the finale was part of the revision that followed the sojourn on the isle of Jersey, or if the last sections already had this shape in the first draft. In the other two sketches, both dating from earlier stages of the creative process, most of the thematic materials of the piece are outlined with different levels of precision and development; yet, there is no trace of Emma’s theme. But from a different perspective, its pitch collection was already part of the very first idea for the piece, namely the C♯ trill, written down at the beginning of the first sketch. In bar 1 of the score, the suffix of the trill on C♯/D♯ completes the whole-tone collection by going downwards B, A, and G, with C, B♭, and A♭ as chromatic passing steps, and upwards G, F, and G again. The ‘dictation’ by Emma gave a distinctive shape to pitches that, differently ordered, were there from the very start of L’isle joyeuse. This leaves room for two possibilities: either the invention of ‘Emma’s theme’ in June 1904 led the composer to revise the whole finale in order to make of it the very driver of the last climactic sections; or, the other way around, the theme and its elaboration as a local climax in bars 117–44 is a condensation of the melodic edge of the final sections, which is in turn a reordering of the pitch collection of the initial motif of the piece. In both cases, Emma’s desire, of which the theme is a symbol, plays a key role in the structuring of L’isle joyeuse. Acknowledgement I am grateful to Robert Adlington, Simon Garrette, Denis Herlin, Gillian Opstad, Mónica Szurmuk, John Pier, and the anonymous reviewers of a previous draft of this article. Footnotes 1 Michael Klein, ‘Debussy’s L’isle joyeuse as Territorial Assemblage’, Nineteenth-Century Music, 31 (2007), 28–52 at 36. 2 For a critique of the ‘orgasm imperative’, see Hannah Frith, Orgasmic Bodies: The Orgasm in Contemporary Western Culture (London, 2015); and André Béjin and Michaël Pollak, ‘La Rationalisation de la sexualité’, Cahiers Internationaux de Sociologie, ns 62 (1977), 105–25. 3 Carlo Ginzburg, ‘Morelli, Freud and Sherlock Holmes: Clues and Scientific Method’, History Workshop Journal, 9 (1980), 5–36; Simon T. Kaye, ‘Challenging Certainty: The Utility and History of Counterfactualism’, History and Theory, 49 (2010), 38–57. 4 Sigmund Freud, Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality (New York, 1962), 106. 5 Paul Ricoeur, De l’interprétation: Essai sur Freud (Paris, 1965), 512. 6 Georges Didi-Huberman, ‘Postface: Des images et des maux’, Invention de l’hystérie (Paris, 2012), 392. 7 Jean-François Lyotard, Economie libidinale (Paris, 1974). 8 Klein, ‘Debussy’s L’isle joyeuse’, 32. 9 François Lesure, Claude Debussy: Biographie critique (Paris, 2003), 12. 10 Quoted in Gillian Opstad, Debussy’s Mélisande: The Lives of Georgette Leblanc, Mary Garden and Maggie Teyte (Woodbridge, 2011), 121. 11 See Myriam Chimènes, Mécènes et musiciens: Du salon au concert à Paris sous la IIIe République (Paris, 2004), 195. 12 Anne-Marie Sohn, ‘The Golden Age of Male Adultery: The Third Republic’, Journal of Social History, 28 (1995), 469–90 at 473 and 483. 13 Pierre Louÿs to Georges Louis, Oct. 1904, quoted in Lesure, Claude Debussy, 266: ‘Le mari est parti avec une juive de quarante et quelques années, Mme S. Bardac, je crois que tu connais Bardac ou que du moins il est venu dans ton cabinet d’affaires. Très habitué aux fugues de sa femme, il répond au souriant à ceux qui lui demandent de ses nouvelles : “Elle vient de se payer le dernier musicien à la mode, mais c’est moi qui ai l’argent. Elle me reviendra.” ’ 14 Jane Fulcher, French Cultural Politics and Music: From the Dreyfus Affair to the First World War (Oxford, 1999), 173. 15 ‘Un drame parisien’, Le Figaro, 4 Nov. 1903, p. 4. ‘Mme D … , une jeune femme, fort jolie, mariée à un compositeur de musique très distingué.’ 16 See also ‘Le Théâtre et la vie’, Le Temps, 4 Nov. 1903; Le Petit Journal, 4 Nov. 1904; ‘Un divorce à l’horizon’, Le Journal, 4 Nov. 1904. 17 Dominique Jarrassé, Osiris, mécène juif et nationaliste français (Le Kremlin-Bicêtre, 2009). 18 Denis Herlin, ‘ An Artist High and Low, or, Debussy and Money’, in Elliott Antokoletz and Marianne Wheeldon (eds.), Rethinking Debussy (Oxford, 2011), 149–202. 19 Jean Chantavoine, Revue hebdomadaire (Mar. 1905?), quoted in Léon Vallas, Claude Debussy et son temps (Paris, 1932), 242. 20 Georges Servières, ‘La saison musicale à Paris (1904–1905)’, Revue universelle (1905), 369. ‘ne valent pas ses productions antérieures’. 21 Edward Lockspeiser, Claude Debussy (Paris, 1980), 262: ‘Debussy a clairement conscience que l’accueil hostile réservé à la Mer, en particulier par des critiques qui ont vanté les mérites de Pelléas, est dû à des raisons personnelles, plutôt que musicales.’ 22 Léon Vallas, Achille-Claude Debussy (Paris, 1944), 46–7; quoted in Sara Iglesias, Musicologie et occupation: Science, musique et politique dans la France des années noires (Paris, 2015), 180: ‘grave aventure … / … entrer dans la société juive, alors toute puissante et seule dispensatrice des bénéfices commerciaux de la musique, des appuis officiels, des subventions de l’Etat … ’. 23 Klein, ‘Debussy’s L’isle joyeuse’, 32; Paul Roberts, Images: The Piano Music of Claude Debussy (Portland, Ore., 1996), 101–2. 24 Claude Debussy to Désiré Walter, 13 July 1914, in Claude Debussy, Correspondance (1872–1918), ed. Denis Herlin and François Lesure (Paris, 2005), 1835. See Denis Herlin, ‘Introduction’, in Claude Debussy: L’isle joyeuse (Munich, 2011), p. xviii. 25 Ricardo Viñes, ‘Journal inédit de Ricardo Viñes (Ravel-Debussy-Duparc)’, Revue internationale de musique française, 1 (June 1980), 226. 26 Ibid. See www.nationalgallery.org.uk/artists/joseph-mallord-william-turner for the inventory of Turner’s paintings at the National Gallery, accessed 9 Dec. 2018. 27 ‘Transcription des entretiens de Segalen avec Debussy’, in Debussy, Correspondance, 2204. 28 Claude Debussy to Jacques Durand, undated letters [between 31 July and 4 Aug. 1904], 5 Aug., 11 Aug. 1904, in Correspondance, 859–62. 29 Debussy to Durand, 11 Aug. 1904, in Debussy, Correspondance, 860. 30 Two of the three sketches, respectively held at the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin and the Bibliothèque de la Principauté de Monaco, were published in Debussy’s Œuvres complètes, whereas the third sketch is only transcribed, without the verbal mention; it is published here for the first time. See Claude Debussy, Œuvres complètes, ser. I, vol. 3, Œuvres pour piano 3, ed. Roy Howat (Paris, 1991); ‘Appendice’, 170; and ‘Fac-similés’ 2 & 3, n.p. 31 Roy Howat, Debussy in Proportion: A Musical Analysis (Cambridge, 1986), 62; Howat, ‘En route for L’isle joyeuse: The Restoration of a Triptych’, Cahiers Debussy, 18 (1995), 37–52 at 38 n. 5. 32 Claude Debussy, sketch [no. 3] for L’isle joyeuse, ‘Esquisses diverses’, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS 17729, fos. 5 and 6. ‘les mesures ci-jointes appartiennent à Mada[me] Bardac—p. m.—qui me les dicta un mardi de juin 1904. / la reconnaissance passionnée de son / Claude Debussy. 33 Jules Laforgue, ‘Ô géraniums diaphanes’, in Derniers vers, quoted in Debussy, Correspondance, 855 f2. 34 Robert Orledge, ‘Debussy’s Musical Gifts to Emma Bardac’, Musical Quarterly, 60 (1974), 544–56. 35 Lesure, Claude Debussy, 259. 36 Claude Debussy to Emma Bardac, Monday [6 June 1904], in Debussy, Correspondance, 844: ‘Pardonnez-moi si j’ai embrassé toutes ces fleurs comme une bouche vivante; c’est peut-être fou? Vous ne pouvez tout de même m’en vouloir—pas plus qu’à un frôlement du vent, du moins.’ 37 Ibid. 845. ‘jeudi / [9 juin 1904] / “Il pleut fortement sur la ville.” Voulez-vous être très gentille et m’accorder quelques instants cet après-midi ? – Je voudrais tant vous avoir une fois “toute seule” sans contrepoint ni développement – / Si cela vous plaît de venir chez moi, j’en serai follement joyeux, mais vous ferez comme il vous plaira et ça sera, alors, où vous voudrez. / Tout ceci n’est pas d’un fou mais un pur désir un peu angoissé! / Tout vôtre. / Claude Debussy.’ 38 ‘Climatologie à Paris-Montsouris (75) en juin 1904’, www.infoclimat.fr/climatologie-mensuelle/07156/juin/1904/paris-montsouris.html (accessed 3 Oct. 2017). 39 Debussy, Correspondance, 845 f. 40 Claude Debussy, Monsieur Croche antidilettante (Paris, 1921), 34, 108, 47, 42: ‘N’y avait-il pas là une gênante disproportion entre le thème et ce qu’on l’obligeait à fournir de développements? / … d’impérieux contrepoints les sommèrent d’avoir à oublier leur paisible origine / … ces développements en grisaille fatigante et obstinée … / développements parasites.’ 41 Julie McQuinn, ‘Exploring the Erotic in Debussy’s Music’, in Simon Trezise (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Debussy (Cambridge, 2003), 119. 42 Quoted in Penny Farfan, ‘Man as Beast: Nijinsky’s Faun’, South Central Review, 25 (2008), 74–92. 43 Claude to Emma, 8 Dec. 1913, in Debussy, Correspondance, 1717. ‘En revenant de la répétition je veux—en grande hâte—te dire que je t’aime! que tu es ma petite Mienne absolue! et que je suis quand même bien malheureux..! /As-tu bien remarqué que tu m’as écrit “Je ne sais pas comment je ferai pour ne pas garder rancune à ta musique” … Crois-tu qu’il n’y a pas de quoi perdre un peu la tête? D’abord, entre toi et la musique, s’il y avait quelqu’un qui pourrait être jaloux, c’est bien la musique! Et, si je continue à en faire et à l’aimer, c’est bien parce que je lui dois, à cette musique que tu traites si mal, de t’avoir connue, aimée et le reste! Sois bien sûre que s’il m’arrivait de ne plus en écrire, c’est peut-être bien toi qui cesserais de m’aimer car, ce n’est, ni le charme un peu restreint de ma conversation; ni mes avantages physiques qui pourraient m’aider à te retenir?’ 44 Robert Orledge, ‘Debussy the Man’, in Trezise (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Debussy, 21–2. 45 Alban Berg to Helene Nahowski, n.d. [1907], in Alban Berg, Briefe an seine Frau (Munich and Vienna, 1965), 21. See Esteban Buch, Histoire d’un secret: A propos de la Suite Lyrique d’Alban Berg (Arles, 1994). 46 Quoted in McQuinn, ‘Exploring the Erotic’, 128. See David Grayson, ‘Bilitis and Tanagra: Afternoons with Nude Women’, in Jane Fulcher (ed.), Debussy and his World (Princeton, 2001), 117–40. 47Le Journal, Paris, 8 Feb. 1901, quoted in McQuinn, ‘Exploring the Erotic’, 128. ‘une musique gracieuse, ingénieusement archaïque’, ‘le précieux appoint de leurs formes impeccables’, ‘les spectateurs purent se croire transportés aux grandes époques de la nudité pure’. 48 McQuinn, ‘Exploring the Erotic’, 119. 49 Debussy, Correspondance, 2219. ‘Cet exemplaire appartient uniquement / à Madame Bardac: / 9 juin 1904, jour où il pleuvait à / perdre l’espoir de tout[e] espèce de Printemps,/et pourtant … il était là. / Claude Debussy.’ 50 Denis Herlin, email to the author, 20 May 2018. The postcard is reproduced in the Correspondance, 848. 51 English trans. Peter Low, www.lieder.net/lieder/assemble_texts.html?SongCycleId=78? ‘Un vieux faune de terre cuite / Rit au centre des boulingrins, / Présageant sans doute une suite / Mauvaise à ces instants sereins.’ 52 Claude Debussy to Emma Bardac, in Debussy, Correspondance, 848. 53 Claude Debussy, visiting card, in Debussy, Correspondance, 850: ‘Oui … ! Oui! Oui! / (le choeur) / même pour le mauvais dîner. Votre … ’ 54 Claude Debussy to Emma Bardac, in Debussy, Correspondance, 855. 55 Roy Howat, ‘Russian Imprints in Debussy’s Piano Music’, in Antokoletz and Wheeldon (eds.), Rethinking Debussy, 42–7. 56 Debussy to André Messager, 12 Sept. 1903, in Correspondance, 789. 57 John Gagnon, An Interpretation of Desire: Essays in the Study of Sexuality (Chicago, 2004). 58 Federico Lazzaro, ‘Chansons madécasses, modernisme et érotisme : Pour une écoute de Ravel au-delà de l’exotisme’, Revue musicale OICRM, 3/1 (2014), http://revuemusicaleoicrm.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/RMO_vol.3.1_Lazzaro.pdf (accessed 16 Jan. 2018). 59www.theislandwiki.org/index.php/Grand_Hotel, accessed 27 Dec. 2017. See Diane Enget Moore, ‘Debussy in Jersey, Summer 1904’, www.litart.co.uk/jersey.htm (accessed 5 Oct. 2017). 60 Herlin, ‘Introduction’, p. xvii. 61 See Rémy Campos, Debussy à la plage (Paris, 2018). 62 Claude Debussy to Jacques Durand, undated [between 31 July and 4 Aug. 1904], in Debussy, Correspondance, 859. Translation in Moore, ‘Debussy in Jersey’. ‘Mais ce pays est ravissant, j’y suis tranquille ce qui est encore mieux et je travaille en toute liberté, ce qui ne m’est pas arrivé depuis longtemps. … La Mer a été très bien pour moi, elle m’a montré toutes ses robes … . pour remercier le mois de Juin 1904; suivies des lettres A. l. p. M [à la petite Mienne].’ 63 Roy Howat, ‘ Avant-propos’, in Debussy, Œuvres complètes, p. xii. 64 Lesure, Claude Debussy, 260. 65 Raymond Bouyer, ‘L’Impressionnisme en musique et le culte de Beethoven’, Revue bleue : Revue politique et littéraire (Jan.–June 1905), 606. ‘Partout un chant vague, une aube triste … et la gamme par tons. C’est l’impressionnisme musical … ’. 66 Émile Vuillermoz, ‘Debussy et les debussystes’, La Nouvelle presse, 3 Mar. 1907; M.-D. Calvocoressi, ‘Les Histoires naturelles de M. Ravel et l’imitation debussyste’, La Grande Revue, 10 May 1907, p. 514, quoted in Marianne Wheeldon, ‘Debussy, le debussysme et les Chansons de Charles d’Orléans’, in Myriam Chimènes and Alexandra Laederich (eds.), Regards sur Debussy (Paris, 2013), 211–12. 67 Arnold Schoenberg, Theory of Harmony (Berkeley, 1983), 393. 68 The autograph manuscript is available at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b52000086z. 69 Roy Howat sees this feature as a furtherance of long-range proportional symmetries. Independently of this, the modification enhances acceleration throughout the passage covered by the sketch. See Howat, Debussy in Proportion, 62. 70 Dmitri Tymoczko, ‘Scale Networks and Debussy’, Journal of Music Theory, 48 (2004), 219–94 at 254–63. 71 Klein, ‘Debussy’s L’isle joyeuse’, 36. 72 Ibid. 50. 73 Christopher Chowrimootoo, ‘Bourgeois Opera: “Death in Venice” and the Aesthetics of Sublimation’, Cambridge Opera Journal, 22 (2010), 175–216 at 204. 74 See Eric F. Clarke, Ways of Listening: An Ecological Approach to the Perception of Musical Meaning (Oxford and New York, 2005). 75 Kofi Agawu, ‘Structural “Highpoints” in Schumann’s “Dichterliebe”’, Music Analysis, 3 (1984), 159–80 at 160. 76 ‘Nihil agis, nihil moliris, nihil cogitas, quod ego non audiam, non videam, planeque sentiam.’ 77 See Clive Pageth, ‘The 10 Sexiest Moments in Classical Music’, www.limelightmagazine.com.au, 14 Feb. 2016. 78 Kenneth Mah and Yitzchak M. Binik, ‘The Nature of Human Orgasm: A Critical Review of Major Trends’, Clinical Psychology Review, 21 (2001), 823–56. 79 Leonard B. Meyer, ‘Exploiting Limits: Creation, Archetypes, and ‘Style Change’, in ‘Intellect and Imagination: The Limits and Presuppositions of Intellectual Inquiry’, Daedalus, 109 (1980), 177–205 at 189–90. 80 Leonard B. Meyer, Style and Music: Theory, History, and Ideology (Philadelphia, 1989), 204. 81 Meyer, ‘Exploiting Limits’, 190. 82 Austin T. Patty, ‘Pacing Scenarios: How Harmonic Rhythm and Melodic Pacing Influence Our Experience of Musical Climax’, Music Theory Spectrum, 31 (2009), 325–67. 83 Brad Osborn, ‘Subverting the Verse–Chorus Paradigm: Terminally Climactic Forms in Recent Rock Music’, Music Theory Spectrum, 35 (2013), 23–47 at 26 n. 20. 84 Mahler to Strauss, 19 July 1894, in Gustav Mahler, Richard Strauss, Correspondence, 1888–1911, ed. Herta Blaukopf, trans. Edward Jephcott (London, 1984), 37; quoted in Carolyn Baxendale, ‘The Finale of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony: Long-Range Musical Thought’, Journal of the Royal Musical Association, 112 (1987), 257–79 at 261. 85 Baxendale, ‘The Finale of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony’, 260; Richard A. Kaplan, ‘Temporal Fusion and Climax in the Symphonies of Mahler’, Journal of Musicology, 14 (1996), 213–32 at 226. 86 Vincent d’Indy to Albert Roussel, paraphrased in Brian Hart, ‘Vincent d’Indy and the Development of the French Symphony’, Music & Letters, 87 (2006), 256 n. 105. 87 Marianne Wheeldon, ‘Debussy and La Sonate cyclique’, Journal of Musicology, 22 (2005), 644–79. 88 Simon Trezise, Debussy: La mer (Cambridge, 1994), 51. 89 Hart, ‘Vincent d’Indy’, 248–53. See also Brian Hart, ‘The Symphony in Debussy’s World’, in Jane Fulcher (ed.), Debussy and his World (Princeton, 2001), 181–201; Esteban Buch, ‘Vincent d’Indy et la Première Guerre mondiale: Sinfonia Brevis de bello gallico’, in Manuela Schwartz (ed.), Vincent d’Indy et son temps (Sprimont, 2006), 21–35. 90 Meyer, ‘Exploiting Limits’, 190. 91 Alexander Rehding, ‘Liszt’s Musical Monuments’, 19th-Century Music, 26 (2002), 52–72 at 56. 92 Susan McClary, Feminine Endings: Music, Gender and Sexuality (Minneapolis, 1991), 125 and 127. 93 Richard Taruskin, ‘Material Gains: Assessing Susan McClary’, Music & Letters, 90 (2009), 453–67 at 464. 94 Nick Zangwill, ‘Susan McClary and Musical Formalism’, Musical Times, 155 (2014), 63–9 at 64. 95 Nicholas Cook, ‘Theorizing Musical Meaning’, Music Theory Spectrum, 23 (2001), 170–95 at 183. 96 Patty, ‘Pacing Scenarios’, 328. 97 Wilhelm Reich, The Function of Orgasm: Sex-Economic Problems of Biological Energy, trans. Vincent r. Carfagno (1942; New York, 1973), 103. 98 Ibid. 286. 99 Robert Scholes, Fabulation and Metafiction (Urbana, Ill. 1979), 26; quoted in McClary, Feminine Endings, 126. 100 Teresa de Lauretis, Alice Doesn’t: Feminism, Semiotics, Cinema (Bloomington, Ind., 1984), 108. 101 McClary, Feminine Endings, 126. 102 Raphaël Baroni, La Tension narrative: Suspense, curiosité et surprise (Paris, 2007), 40–1: ‘noeud et dénouement, qui structurent le récit à travers la mise en intrigue des événements, sont avant tout des étapes dans le cheminement interprétatif, qui se définissent en rapport avec le développement d’une tension’. 103 Artistotle, Poetics 1454a, www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.01.0056%3Asection%3D1454a (accessed 12 May 2018). See Paul Ricoeur, Temps et récit, ii: La Configuration dans le récit de fiction (Paris, 1984), 67–77. 104 Jean-Marie Schaeffer, L’Expérience esthétique (Paris, 2015), 164–76. 105 Eero Tarasti, ‘Pour une musicologie de Chopin’, International Review of the Aesthetics and Sociology of Music, 15 (1984), 53–75 at 72: ‘la véritable identité de ce thème qui a fonctionné comme négactant est révélée’. 106 Raphaël Baroni, ‘Tensions et résolutions: Musicalité de l’intrigue ou intrigue musicale?’, Cahiers de narratologie, 21 (2011), 1–16 at 5 (§15). 107 H. Porter Abbott, ‘Narrativity’, in Peter Hühn, Jan Christoph Meister, John Pier, and Wolf Schmid (eds.), Handbook of Narratology (2nd edn., Berlin and Boston, 2014), ii. 587–608. 108 Baroni, La Tension narrative, 133. ‘déséquilibrage dysphorique’ / ‘rééquilibrage euphorique’. 109 Roland Barthes, Le Plaisir du texte (Paris, 1973), 20; quoted in Baroni, La Tension narrative, 260: ‘Toute l’excitation se réfugie dans l’espoir de voir le sexe (rêve de collégien) ou de connaître la fin de l’histoire (satisfaction romanesque).’ 110 Peter Brooks, ‘Freud’s Masterplot’, in Shoshana Felman (ed.), ‘Literature and Psychoanalysis: The Question of Reading', Yale French Studies, 55/56 (1977), 280–300 at 300. 111 Ibid. 299. 112 Federico Monjeau, Un viaje en círculos: Sobre óperas, cuartetos y finales (Buenos Aires, 2018), ch. 9. 113 Georges Bataille, Les Larmes d’Eros (Paris, 2001). 114 Richard Shusterman, ‘ Aesthetic Experience: From Analysis to Eros’, Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 64 (2006), 217–29. 115 Schaeffer, L’Expérience esthétique, ch. 2. 116 Alfred C. Kinsey, Wardell B. Pomeroy, Clyde E. Martin, and Paul H. Gebhard, Sexual Behavior in the Human Female (Philadelphia, 1953), 627. 117 Ned Block, ‘Mental Paint and Mental Latex’, ‘Perception’, Philosophical Issues, 7 (1996), 19–49. 118 Ibid. 34. 119 Michael Tye, ‘Orgasms Again’, ‘Perception’, Philosophical Issues, 7 (1996), 51–4 at 54. 120 Robert Stoller, Observing the Erotic Imagination (New Haven, 1985), p. viii. See also Steven Epstein, ‘Sexuality and Identity: The Contribution of Object Relations Theory to a Constructionist Sociology’, Theory and Society, 20 (1991), 825–73. 121 Block, ‘Mental Paint and Mental Latex’, 33. 122 Bernard Suits, ‘Games and Paradox’, Philosophy of Science, 36 (1969), 316–21. 123 Annegret Fauser, ‘L’Élément érotique dans l’œuvre de Massenet’, in Massenet en son temps, Actes du colloque organisé en 1992 à l’occasion du deuxième Festival Massenet (Saint-Etienne, 1999), 156–79 at 169. 124 Anne-Claire Rebreyend, ‘Sur les traces des pratiques sexuelles des individus “ordinaires”: France 1920–1970’, Le Mouvement Social, 207/2 (2004), 57–74; Dominique Cardon, ‘Droit au plaisir et devoir d’orgasme dans l’émission de Ménie Grégoire’, Le Temps des médias, 1 (2003), 77–94. 125 Anne-Marie Sohn, Du premier baiser à l’alcôve : La sexualité des Français au quotidien (1850–1950) (Paris, 1996), ch. 1. 126 Adam Safron, ‘What is Orgasm? A Model of Sexual Trance and Climax via Rhythmic Entrainment’, Socioaffective Neuroscience & Psychology, 6 (2016), 1–17. 127 Alexander Lowen, ‘Movements and Feeling in Sex’, in Albert Ellis and Albert Abarbanel (eds.), The Encyclopedia of Sexual Behavior (New York, 1961), 740. 128 William H. Masters and Virginia E. Johnson, Human Sexual Response (Toronto and New York, 1966; repr. Boston, 1980), 128, 185. 129 Ibid. 134, 214. 130 S. Andrea Miller and E. Sandra Byers, ‘ Actual and Desired Duration of Foreplay and Intercourse: Discordance and Misperceptions within Heterosexual Couples’, Journal of Sex Research, 41 (2004), 301–9. 131Men’s Health, quoted in Frith, Orgasmic Bodies, 94. 132 Safron, ‘What is Orgasm?’, 5. 133 Lawrence Zbikowski, ‘Music, Emotion, Analysis’, Music Analysis, 29 (2011), 37–60; Zbikowski, ‘Ways of Knowing: Social Dance, Music, and Grounded Cognition’, in Patrizia Veroli and Gianfranco Vinay (eds.), Music-Dance: Sound and Motion in Contemporary Discourse (London, 2018), 57–75. 134 John Sloboda, ‘Music Structure and Emotional Response: Some Empirical Findings’, Psychology of Music, 19 (1991), 110–20 at 112; Jaak Panksepp, ‘The Emotional Sources of “Chills” Induced by Music’, Music Perception: An Interdisciplinary Journal, 13 (1995), 171–207 at 178. 135 Susana Loza, ‘Sampling (Hetero)Sexuality: Diva-Ness and Discipline in Electronic Dance Music’, Popular Music, 20 (2001), 349–57 at 351; John Corbett and Terri Kapsalis, ‘ Aural Sex: The Female Orgasm in Popular Sound’, Experimental Sound & Radio, 40 (1996), 102–11. 136 Tia DeNora, ‘Music and Erotic Agency: Sonic Resources and Socio-Sexual Action’, Music & Body, 3 (1997), 43–65 at 58. 137 J. M. Coetzee, Summertime: Scenes from Provincial Life (London, 2010), 68. 138 Corbett and Kapsalis, ‘ Aural Sex’, 103. 139 Erin B. Cooper, Allan Fenigstein, and Robert L. Fauber, ‘The Faking Orgasm Scale for Women: Psychometric Properties’, Archives of Sexual Behavior, 43 (2014), 423–35. 140 McClary, Feminine Endings, 124. 141 Hannah Bosma, ‘Musical Washing Machines, Composer-Performers, and Other Blurring Boundaries: How Women Make a Difference in Electroacoustic Music’, Intersections, Vol. 26 no 2, In and Out of the Sound Studio (2006), 100. See also Bosma, ‘The Electronic Cry: Voice and Gender in Electroacoustic Music (Ph.D. diss., ASCA-University of Amsterdam, 2013), https://dare.uva.nl/search?identifier=fa216eabl-468c-98c8-0f76eb679b8a, accessed 10 June 2018. 142 Danielle Sofer, ‘Breaking Silence, Breaching Censorship: “Ongoing Interculturality” in Alice Shields's Electronic Opera Apocalypse’, American Music, 36 (2018), 135–162 at 141; and Sofer, ‘Eroticism and Time in Computer Music: Juliana Hodkinson and Niels Rønsholdt’s Fish & Fowl’, Proceedings of the ICMC/SMC (2014), 148–53. 143 Susan Winnett, ‘Coming Unstrung: Women, Men, Narrative, and Principles of Pleasure’, PMLA, 105 (1990), 505–18 at 505. 144 Masters and Johnson, Human Sexual Response, 5. 145 Ross Morrow, Sex Research and Sex Therapy (New York, 2008), 102–8. 146 Ellen Belle Vance and Nathaniel N. Wagner, ‘Written Descriptions of Orgasm: A Study of Sex Differences’, Archives of Sexual Behavior, 5 (1976), 87–98. 147 Arnold Whittall, ‘Tonality and the Whole-tone Scale in the Music of Debussy’, Music Review, 36 (1975), 261–71 at 265. 148 Matthew Brown, ‘Tonality and Form in Debussy’s “Prélude à ‘L’Après-midi d’un faune”’, Music Theory Spectrum, 15 (1993), 127–43 at 137. 149 Farfan, ‘Man as Beast: Nijinsky’s Faun’. 150 Of the twenty-four Préludes, only Ce qu’a vu le vent d’ouest and Général Lavine: eccentric end with full climactic closure. For an analysis of the climax at two-thirds of La fille aux cheveux de lin, see Jeremy Day-O’Connell. ‘Debussy, Pentatonicism, and the Tonal Tradition’, Music Theory Spectrum, 31 (2009), 225–61. 151 Marianne Wheeldon, ‘Interpreting “Strong Moments” in Debussy’s “La terrasse des audiences du clair de lune”’, Intégral, 14/15 (2000/2001), 181–208 at 182. 152 Howat, ‘En route for L’isle joyeuse’. 153 James R. Noyes, ‘Debussy’s “Rapsodie pour orchestre et saxophone” Revisited’, Musical Quarterly, 90 (2007), 416–45. 154 Robert Orledge, ‘The Genesis of Debussy’s “Jeux”’, Musical Times, 128 (1987), 68–73. 155 François de Médicis, ‘Tristan dans La Mer: Le crépuscule wagnérien noyé dans le zénith debussyste?’, Acta Musicologica, 79 (2007), 195–251 at 224–5. 156 Trezise, Debussy: La Mer, 42. 157 Brian Hart, ‘The Symphony in Debussy’s World: A Context for his Views on the Genre and Early Interpretations of La Mer’, in Fulcher (ed.), Debussy and his World, 181–202 at 193–4. 158 Whittall, ‘Tonality and the Whole-tone Scale’, 265–6. 159 Howat, Debussy in Proportion, 46. 160 Louis Laloy, ‘Paroles sur Claude Debussy’, Le Mercure musical, 1 Jan. 1906, p. 197. 161 Klein, ‘Debussy’s L’isle Joyeuse’, 29–31. 162 Pierre Lagarde, ‘Claude Debussy par M. Pierre Lortat’, Comoedia, 10 Mar. 1929. 163 Alfred Cortot, La Musique française de piano (Paris, 1932), 26. ‘L’isle joyeuse tend le piège de ses rires et de ses plaisirs faciles à l’insouciance des amants dans les barques légères vont accoster ses rives fortunes, sous les regards bienveillants de Watteau, de Verlaine et de Chabrier auxquels force à penser la courbe sensuelle de cette musique.’ 164 Harry Halbreich, ‘ Analyse de l’œuvre’, in Lockspeiser, Claude Debussy, 568–9. ‘c’est l’euphorie solaire face à la mer resplendissante, c’est la fierté épanouie de l’affirmation virile, c’est la joie des amants enfin débarrassés de leurs masques.’ 165 Roberts, Images, 111–12. 166 François-René Tranchefort, Guide de la musique de piano et de clavecin (Paris, 1987). ‘reflète la joie du triomphe solaire de l’amour de Claude et d’Emma Bardac’. 167 Charles M. H. Keil, ‘Motion and Feeling through Music’, Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 24 (1966), 337–49. 168 Howat, Debussy in Proportion, 55 and 47–8. 169 Patty, ‘Pacing Scenarios’, 229–30. © The Author(s) (2019). Published by Oxford University Press. All rights reserved. This article is published and distributed under the terms of the Oxford University Press, Standard Journals Publication Model (https://academic.oup.com/journals/pages/open_access/funder_policies/chorus/standard_publication_model)
TI - Climax as Orgasm: On Debussy’s ‘L’isle Joyeuse’
JF - Music and Letters
DO - 10.1093/ml/gcz001
DA - 2019-02-01
UR - https://www.deepdyve.com/lp/oxford-university-press/climax-as-orgasm-on-debussy-s-l-isle-joyeuse-Ya9fD8yaSm
SP - 24
VL - 100
IS - 1
DP - DeepDyve
ER -