Blackwing Pages

The discipline with which the Blackwing is perhaps most strongly associated is animation, about which Chuck Jones once said:

“…a flurry of drawings created by a Blackwing pencil; animation that dignifies itself as craft—a dying craft of aging men.”

Paul Carlson began his career at Disney working in the mailroom, but would eventually rise to the position of assistant director. He worked on such notable films as The Lady and the Tramp and Sleeping Beauty. He also worked on Mr. Magoo, and continues to animate today.

Hand-drawn animation, Eberhard Faber Blackwing 602 pencils, and “starting in the mailroom”— each artifacts of a bygone America.

Admittedly I know very little about the rich and storied history of animation in the United States, and in particular, the work of the artists at Disney. But as I read more and more, I am struck by the sense of brotherhood and sisterhood found among animators, both young and old. And it’s not an exclusionary, “it’s-our-treehouse” sort of thing either—it appears to be very inclusive, with even the most stalwart computer animators mantling a sense of stewardship for this “dying craft”. Of course, mine is the perception of an interloper who is likely just hoping this is the case. But, if you’re an animator and would be willing to share some of your thoughts, please leave a comment.

Photos from Bravo Stravinsky © Arnold Newman

I have mentioned to students that, as music teachers, we are sometimes guilty of using superlatives too often. I attribute this (in part) not only to simple enthusiasm but also because the time that we have with students—though it may seem interminable to them—is relatively brief. Teaching the history and context of composers and their compositions become so compacted (if not harried) that qualifying expressions such as “…one of the most influential…”, or “…without peer…”, though meant to elevate, become a kind of counterfeit; a currency of accolades that only wanes in value. Stated another way, constant and over-amplified acclaim can have the unintended effect of desensitizing a student’s imagination—lessening the very impact you’re trying to convey.

This notion especially comes to mind when discussing the music of Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971). Not because his legacy has been overestimated, but because even the most superlative language still fails to capture the impact his work has had on seemingly every aspect of music and musicians—composers, performers, conductors, theorists, historians, musicologists, etc.—and that it continues to do so today.

The infamous premiere of Le Sacre du Printemps—a piece that still sounds impossibly “modern” despite being nearly 100 years old—is the stuff of music legend. Students who have never known a world without the Internet—whose attention span has become immeasurably small—often have difficulty comprehending the impact of (and therefore, enjoying the study of) such an event, but it’s for a reason that is not necessarily their fault. Rather, it’s due in large part to an insidious consequence of the ‘data-on-demand’ culture fostered in the “Information Generation”: the seemingly unstoppable atrophying of their imagination.

Photos from Bravo Stravinsky © Arnold Newman

What was the musical world like before Le Sacre, when recordings were not immediately available; when hearing a new piece of music meant attending a performance and could only be “re-played” by the listener’s imagination; when the news of a riotous premiere travelled slowly by newspaper and by word-of-mouth; when one waited in a state of wonder and excitement for any news of it; when one waited for anything?

Here is a photograph that captures my imagination:

Stravinsky’s Piano © Arnold Newman

This isn’t a photograph of a Blackwing, another pencil, an eraser, and about 2 1/2 octaves of a piano keyboard. This is a photograph of entire universes of possibility.

Just imagine.

I wonder if he’s using a left-handed Blackwing.

Thanks to Dave Rivello for the tip.

Photograph © G. Schirmer Archives

The work of Samuel Barber (1910-1981), like that of many composers who were active during the years both before and after the Second World War, is diverse in terms of style and genre. He is perhaps best known for his Adagio for Strings as well as The School for Scandal, both of which were completed during the 1930s. After 1945, Barber’s work became increasingly varied—there were jazz-influenced works as well as those that employed serial techniques, polytonality, and atonality; a reflection of the intense musical pluralism that saturated the post-war years.

Even if Barber’s name is unfamiliar to you, it’s likely you’ve heard some of his music. Quoting Paul Wittke:

His heart was rarely on display, well concealed under his Roman patrician manner. But his heart was large, his wit hid his sensitivity, his melancholy was his response to the sadness of the world. The taste and refinement of the America that gave us a Samuel Barber is rapidly disappearing — but it is there in his music if we but listen.

Listen, it says, listen.