I had completely forgot about
that work until I was sorting through a box of music recently. There
it was: the somewhat faded manuscript from 1965 - hand written, as we
could only dream of computers in those days.
I
sat at my keyboard and went through it. Oh my. The counterpoint is
primitive, the modulations graceless, there is no theme to which the
piece anchors itself, "wrong-note" chords everywhere...
And then I started to giggle. My great work! Oh deary me...
Yet,
in retrospect, there were glimmers of the future evident. A future
to emerge after further study of theory, counterpoint, and the
critical listening to hundreds, maybe thousands, of works by the
great composers who have gone before.
Later,
at Westminster, I asked my dear teacher, Dr. York, about this. And
he reassured me that every composer, perhaps even Bach, did this. It
is called Juvenilia, and often goes up the chimney on a cold winter
day, at the hand of the composer.
Mine
is still extant, and the later works show a remarkable resemblence to
Herbert Howells' writing. My Artistic Executor has directions to
burn before reading...
Then
one day, something happens. You sit down and write a piece. Then
you feel compelled to edit it, once, twice, thrice, or more. You
know when it is ready.
And
then you write at the top of the manuscript, underneath your name:
"Op. 1"
