Beethoven’s Metronome: Should We Always Seek to Control Our Own Creations?

Beethoven's walk in nature, by Julius Schmid

I recently watched an excellent BBC documentary series relating the life story of Ludwig van Beethoven (‘Being Beethoven’ marked the 250th anniversary of the composer’s birth).

I was particularly struck by the tale of Beethoven and the metronome.

In 1814 Dietrich Winkel, a German organ-builder based in Amsterdam, invented a mechanical chronometer. It enabled musicians to stick to a regular tempo when they practised, and promised composers the ability to set a standard tempo for their work.

Winkel’s device came to the attention of Johann Mälzel, a maker of musical automatons whose creations included a Mechanical Turk that played chess. Mälzel had also been experimenting with musical chronometers, but on learning of Winkel’s invention he recognised that he had been outdone. When he tried to buy the device, Winkel refused. So he simply made a copy, added a scale and patented it himself. In 1816 he began manufacturing the gadget as ‘Malzel's Metronome.’

Beethoven had for a while now been concerned about the tempi that his music was played at, particularly because, as his reputation grew, he often wasn’t present to conduct his own work. The first question he asked about a performance was ‘How were the tempi?’

Beethoven was familiar with Mälzel. He had bought several ear trumpets from the inventor and they had collaborated on a couple of musical projects. Indeed there had been a dispute between them over the rights to a particular composition. 

In 1817 Mälzel introduced Beethoven to his metronome, perhaps as a peace offering. The composer was delighted. 

'I have thought for a long time of giving up these nonsensical terms allegro, andante, adagio, presto. And Malzel‘s metronome gives us the best opportunity to do so.’

Beethoven was by then an elderly and eccentric curmudgeon. For some years he had suffered increasing problems with his hearing. His deafness impaired his ability to work and made him feel ever more isolated. He had been unlucky in love, having consistently fallen for women above his class. He had conducted a bitter campaign to gain custody of his deceased brother’s son. He was frustrated that his music, though widely performed, had not earned him the wealth and social status that his genius deserved. And musical tastes were evolving.

For Beethoven the metronome presented the prospect of control. In the documentary conductor and organist Martin Haselbock observes:

‘We might see this also as the attempt of an ageing composer to keep control of things. Control of his music with the device of the metronome, control of his financial situation, because Beethoven couldn’t get any fees any more as a performer, control of his personal life.’

Beethoven enthusiastically embraced the new invention and published metronomic indications for the eight symphonies he had composed to date. He demanded dutiful adherence to his instructions.

‘The metronome marks will follow soon. Do not fail to wait for them. In our century things of this kind are certainly needed… Performers must now obey the ideas of the unfettered genius.’

Early metronomes used at the time of Ludwig van Beethoven incorporate a weighted mechanical pendulum with a scale written underneath. (Courtesy: iStock/Stefan-Rotter)

In the years since Beethoven’s death his tempo markings have become the subject of controversy. They indicate much quicker speeds than those of contemporary custom and taste, and have routinely been ignored. 

Some have argued that tempo indications should guide and inspire rather than dictate; that expressive markings should be taken less seriously than the notes themselves. Some have observed that today’s larger symphony halls and louder instruments demand slower tempi for precise articulation and nuance. Some have proposed that Beethoven’s metronome was just broken.

Anyone working in a creative field will recognise Beethoven’s desire to assert ongoing control over his creative output: the need to minimise interpretation by others; the craving to bypass intermediaries and achieve a direct connection with the audience; the yearning for a voice that speaks beyond your physical presence, beyond your lifespan – a voice that articulates your thoughts and feelings with absolute truth and abiding clarity.

But most creative initiatives can only come to fruition as team endeavours. Most ideas only achieve their potential through collaboration and translation. And perhaps the best guarantee of an enduring reputation is to relinquish control of one’s output to future generations. At some point we must learn to let go.

In his final completed composition Beethoven set the following phrase to music:

‘We all make mistakes, but everyone makes them quite differently.’

At the end of 1826, Beethoven fell ill and took to his bed. As news of his terminal condition spread, friends and admirers visited to say their farewells. The composer asked for a bottle of Rhine wine from a case that had been given to him. At last it arrived. He glanced up.

‘Pity. Too late.’

These were Beethovens’s last words. Legend has it that on 26 March 1827 there was a storm raging outside and suddenly a clap of thunder. The 56-year-old composer sat bolt upright from his coma, shook his fist at the sky and fell back dead. Finally he relinquished control.

'In the spring days of my life
Happiness deserted me!
Truth I dared to utter boldly
And the chains are my reward.
Willingly I bear my tortures,
End my life in ignominy.
To my heart this is sweet solace:
I have always done my duty!’

'Florestan’s Aria', Act Two, ‘Fidelio'

No. 395

'With an Apple I Will Astonish Paris’: Cezanne, Starting Revolutions in Unexpected Places

Paul Cezanne - Still Life with Fruit Dish. Museum of Modern Art in New York

Photograph: www.scalarchives.com

I recently attended a fine exhibition of the work of Paul Cezanne. (Tate Modern, London until 12 March, 2023)

'There are two things in the painter, the eye and the mind; each of them should aid the other.’

Cezanne painted intense, almost abstract, landscapes from flat planes of bold colour. He gave us enigmatic portraits that capture the sensation of being in the room with the sitter. He created still lifes that are hypnotically vivid and spatially disorientating. He demonstrated that infinite opportunities can be offered by a narrow range of subjects. He built a bridge between Impressionism and Cubism. And he subverted the traditional hierarchy of art.

'The day is coming when a single carrot, freshly observed, will set off a revolution.’

Paul Cezanne was born in 1839 in Aix-en-Provence, the son of a milliner and later banker. At the age of 22 he set aside his law studies when his schoolmate Emile Zola encouraged him to join the creative community in Paris.

Cezanne sketched in the capital’s museums and attended classes at the Academie Suisse. The city was a hotbed of social and political unrest. Zola was a republican and Cezanne’s mentor Pissaro was an anarchist. But Cezanne was a shy, introverted fellow, less obviously opinionated.

'The world doesn't understand me and I don't understand the world. That's why I've withdrawn from it.’

Paul Cezanne self-portrait 1875 © RMN-Grand Palais

Cezanne expressed his revolutionary zeal in his art. 

In 1870, in order to avoid conscription in the Franco-Prussian War, Cezanne moved to L’Estaque, a seaside village just west of Marseille. Over a 15 year period he made 40 paintings of the hot dry landscape, endlessly curious for fresh views and perspectives. 

'Here, on the river's verge, I could be busy for months without changing my place, simply leaning a little more to right or left.’

Overlooking an azure sea, the yellow and brown block houses, with their shuttered windows and ochre gable roofs, create jagged, geometric patterns, intersecting with factory chimneys, telegraph poles and the grey viaduct. 

We are witnessing the first steps towards Cubism.

'I believe in the logical development of everything we see and feel through the study of nature.'

Mont Sainte-Victoire, near Aix, featured in over 80 of Cezanne’s works. He painted it from the valley below, from his garden at Jas de Bouffan, from the roof of his studio and from the local quarry. The limestone mountain looms in the distance, a brooding permanent companion, sometimes reduced to just a few blue and white brushstrokes. Whereas the Impressionists had been interested in light, atmosphere and the fleeting moment, Cezanne was fascinated by geology, soil and timeless presence.

'I am a consciousness. The landscape thinks itself through me.'

Paul Cezanne - The Sea at L’Estaque behind Trees

Still life was traditionally considered an unimportant genre. Great painters tended to concern themselves with historical, mythical and religious themes. But for Cezanne everyday objects represented an opportunity for subversion. Rather than precisely depicting an item itself, he would convey his consciousness of it. This was the art of perception.

'People think how a sugar basin has no physiognomy, no soul. But it changes every day.’

Here are oranges, apples and pears; ginger jar, sugar bowl and water jug - arranged against a piece of patterned fabric, l’indienne. Cezanne presents these things in blazing, iridescent colours, in endless permutations. Sometimes his vision seems warped, the bottles, dishes and fruit at risk of tumbling off the table. A plaster Cupid stumbles clumsily onto the scene. The apples shimmer. The oranges quiver. A dazzling white sheet floats across the canvas. 

'Painting from nature is not copying the object; it is realizing one's sensations.’

Scientists have since observed that Cézanne's woozy imagery corresponds with the way we actually see the world. Our eyes are not static when we look, but are making frequent tiny darting movements, ‘saccades’, between areas of visual interest. 

Cezanne’s portraits are like his still lifes. You get more of a sense of the sitters’ presence than of their personality. Here’s his wife Marie Hortense, whom he painted 29 times over 25 years. She sits in a yellow chair, her lips pursed, her hair parted, her hands clasped on her lap. Here’s his son Paul, a dreamy melancholy soul. And here’s his phlegmatic gardener Vallier, legs crossed, hat pulled over an expressionless face. 

Paul Cezanne - Madame Cézanne in a Yellow Chair (1888-90). Art Institute Chicago

'The truth is in nature, and I shall prove it.’

I was particularly struck by the thought that Cezanne’s revolution began in still life, the field of art with the lowest esteem. When I was a young ad man, everyone wanted to work on beer, cars and jeans. But it’s difficult to make an impression on a category that is already considered cool and creative; that already attracts the attentions of the great and the good. The Planners that made their name in my time did so on the roads less travelled, on difficult brands in unfashionable sectors - detergent and dog food, soup, soap and financial services. The stone that the builders rejected can indeed become the cornerstone.

Cezanne died in 1906 at the age of 67. He had always been admired by his fellow artists. Degas, Gaugin and Monet; Pissarro, Caillebotte and Renoir all kept his work. And Picasso referred to him as ‘the father of us all.’

‘Cezanne cannot put touches of two colours onto a canvas without it being an achievement.’
Pierre-Auguste Renoir

Cezanne taught us to find truth in nature; to reflect on and celebrate sensation; to look and look again - because even if we cannot fully comprehend the world around us, we can at least enjoy our perception of it.

'We live in a rainbow of chaos.’

'I pick my friends like I pick my fruit.
My Granny told me that when I was only a youth.
I don't walk around trying to be what I'm not.
I don't waste my time trying to get what you got.
I work at pleasin’ me,
'Cause I can't please you.
And that's why I do what I do
My soul flies free like a willow tree.
Doo wee, doo wee, doo wee
And if you don't want to be down with me, you don't want to pick from my
Apple tree.’

Erykah Badu, ‘Appletree' (R Bradford / E Badu)

No. 394

The Wise Physio: ‘Let’s Just Throw Everything at It’

Massage between wrestlers training 1904 . Vincent Monozlay

'Most people spend more time and energy going around problems than in trying to solve them.'
Henry Ford

In one of those senior moments that occur with increasing frequency nowadays, I’d fallen on the stairs while carrying a substantial plant pot to the roof. The incident left my right forearm in some considerable pain and it was taking many weeks to heal.

I knew I needed physiotherapy, but I was nervous about the prospect. Would it entail eccentric exercises, intimate massages and whale music?

My personal trainer pointed me in the direction of Dave, a body builder who used to run pubs in the East End. He sounded reassuringly robust.

Dave, who managed his physiotherapy practice out of a basement gym in Bethnal Green, had a muscular physique, a bald head and a firm handshake. 

‘What’s the problem, young man?’

As I explained my various aches and strains, Dave made a series of notes on his pad. He seemed to recognise my symptoms.

‘Yup. Yup. Got it,’ he said, as he fixed me with a hard analytical stare.

I was interested to hear Dave’s conclusions. Was there one particular method or manipulation that would soothe my condition? Did he have a favoured remedy to my specific injury?

At length Dave paused, put his pen to one side and announced:

‘Let’s just throw everything at it.’

And so, having positioned me face-down on a massage table, Dave proceeded to apply electrically charged acupuncture needles to my arm. These prompted my muscles to twitch in a slightly disconcerting fashion. He then vacuum-cupped the affected area to draw out the toxins. Next he scraped my sinews with a steel tool to stimulate the soft tissue. Finally he gave my right arm and shoulder a comprehensive massage.

I have to say it succeeded. There was definitely a sense of loosening and limbering. I’m not sure which of Dave’s battery of measures was most effective, but they certainly worked very well in concert. Indeed I was thoroughly impressed by his all-guns-blazing approach. 

In the world of commerce we may have a house style, a preferred method. We may like to address all problems with cool consideration and clinical precision. But occasionally – when there’s an escalation in events, when a big account is at risk  - we need to be prepared to change gear, to raise the metabolism, to set aside established techniques and best practice. Some urgent challenges demand that we explore all avenues; examine all fronts. They prompt us to restructure the team, review the process and relook at the data; to commission all manner of research and take on fresh perspectives. And more besides. As Dave would say:

‘Let’s just throw everything at it.’

'I have learned that success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has reached in life as by the obstacles which he has had to overcome while trying to succeed.'
Booker T. Washington

On a subsequent visit to Dave’s studio, he sat me down and checked if I’d been following his instructions.

‘Have you done the hot-and-cold treatment like I asked you?’

I hesitated for a moment, noting the severity of his stare.

‘I did buy the hot-and-cold pack, Dave.’

Dave said nothing. Perhaps it would be best to come clean.

‘I haven’t actually used it yet.’

Dave looked at me like a disappointed parent. I suspect he was accustomed to people falling short.

‘That’s alright, young man. All I demand from my clients is honesty.’

I breathed a sigh of relief and beat a hasty retreat. 

'And if you should miss my loving
One of these old days.
If you should ever miss the arms
That used to hold you so close, 
Or the lips that used to touch you so tenderly.
Just remember what I told you
The day I set you free.
Ain't no mountain high enough,
Ain't no valley low enough,
Ain't no river wild enough,
To keep me from you.’
Diana Ross, 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough’ (Ashford and Simpson)

No. 393

‘I Thought You Said You Could Skate’: What Funny Girl Teaches Us About Career Conviction

Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl 1968

‘I'd rather be blue over you
Than be happy with somebody else.'
'I'd Rather Be Blue Over You'  (B Rose / F Fisher)

‘Funny Girl’ is a 1968 musical rom-com loosely based on the life of comedian Fanny Brice. Directed by William Wyler, it stars a luminous Barbra Streisand in her film debut, reprising a role she performed previously on Broadway. 

We are in New York in the early years of the twentieth century. Fanny is a stage-struck young Jewish woman whose mother runs a saloon on the Lower East Side. She gets a part in the chorus line of a vaudeville dance troupe at Keeney’s Oriental Palace. But with her unconventional looks she feels she doesn’t quite fit in.

'I'm a bagel on a plate full of onion rolls.’

What’s more, Fanny can’t dance. Fired by Keeney after a disastrous audition, she is quizzed about her ambition by dance coach Eddie. 

Eddie: You’re no chorus girl. You’re a singer and a comic… So why’d you try out for the chorus?
Fanny: Cos that’s what you were looking for. If you were looking for a juggler, I’d have been a juggler. Just got to get on stage somehow. 

Fanny is bemused by the fact that Eddie gave her a chance in the first place.

Fanny: How come you hired me?
Eddie: Because you wanted it so much.

Eddie conspires with Fanny to try her luck again, this time in a roller skating act.

Eddie: Are you sure you can roller skate?
Fanny: Can I roller skate?

In purple and green velvet-striped shift dress, with matching hat, tights and skates, Fanny takes to the stage. She teeters and totters, and careers out of control - crashing into the scenery, bumping into the other skaters, almost toppling into the orchestra pit. She causes chaos everywhere she rolls. 

Eddie: I thought you said you could skate!
Fanny: I didn’t know I couldn’t.

Fanny’s performance is a disaster. But the audience finds it totally hilarious.

Her comedy act at Keeney’s gets her noticed, and six months later she is offered a role in the Ziegfeld Follies on Broadway. Despite her inexperience, she continues to display the bloody mindedness that earned her her first break. In her debut show, reluctant to perform a romantic song straight, she disobeys management and gives it a comic twist. Subsequently she insists on singing her own songs. Such grit and determination accelerate Fanny’s journey to becoming a top Broadway star.

'Who is the pip with pizzazz?
Who is all ginger and jazz?
Who is as glamorous as?
Who's an American beauty rose,
With an American beauty nose,
And ten American beauty toes?
Eyes on the target and wham
One shot, one gun shot and bam!
Hey Mister Keeney
Here I am.’
'I'm the Greatest Star’ (J Styne / B Merrill)

‘Funny Girl’ became the highest-grossing film at the US box office in 1968, and it received eight Oscar nominations. Streisand won Best Actress, tying with Katharine Hepburn. Though it was her first movie, Streisand took a hands-on interest in how it was shot. At the wrap party Wyler gave her a director's megaphone in mock recognition of her contribution. 

Maybe Streisand was channelling Fanny Brice. Indeed we can all take career lessons from the legendary Broadway star.

Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl. Photo: Columbia.

We may shy away from certain roles and challenges because we’re concerned about our inexperience. We may be constrained by our fear of failure, by our modest estimation of our own abilities. But Fanny suggests that we should overcome our doubts and dithering; that, setting our sights on our ultimate goal, we should seize every opportunity with complete conviction. 

Of course, we may find out that we can’t skate. But perhaps we’ll discover another talent in the process.

Fanny’s ascent to the top is not completely seamless. She becomes attached to a charming but hopeless gambler (played by Omar Sharif). Nonetheless she navigates her romantic dilemmas with the same resolve and tenacity with which she approaches her career.

As Barbra Streisand so compellingly puts it: ‘Don’t rain on my parade!’

'Don't tell me not to fly,
I've simply got to.
If someone takes a spill
It's me and not you.
Who told you you're allowed
To rain on my parade?’
‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ (J Styne / B Merrill)

No. 392

Winslow Homer: Telling Stories with Ambiguous Endings

Winslow Homer- The Fog Warning

'The sun will not rise or set without my notice and thanks.’
Winslow Homer

I recently attended an exhibition of the work of Winslow Homer, a great American artist rarely seen in Europe (National Gallery, London until 8 January).

Homer, who began his career as a commercial illustrator, developed a style of Realist painting that captured the drama of the Civil War and the underlying tensions of so-called Reconstruction. He depicted rural and coastal idylls, the daily struggle of fishing communities and the raw power of the sea. His pictures draw viewers into their story. And leave them asking questions.

'Look at nature, work independently and solve your own problems.'

Born into a middle-class home in Boston in 1836, Homer was taught to paint by his mother, a gifted amateur watercolourist, and at 19 he was apprenticed as a commercial lithographer. Within a few years he was working as a freelance illustrator with his own studio in Boston, producing wood engravings of local town and country life for the booming magazine market.

Winslow Homer- The Veteran in a New Field

In 1859 Homer opened a studio in New York, and soon he was commissioned by Harper's Weekly to cover the Civil War, sending back compelling illustrations of battle scenes, military hospitals and camp life. He translated some of his wartime images into paintings and began exhibiting, selling and building his reputation as an artist.

Homer’s paintings display the immediacy, clarity and narrative power of a commercial illustrator. But, unaccompanied by explanatory copy, they ask us to imagine the next event, the subsequent outcome. They leave the viewer to complete the story.

'I regret very much that I have painted a picture that requires any description.'

A sharpshooter, precariously perched on a branch, takes aim through his scope. Surely imminent death awaits his unwitting target. A Union officer encounters three Confederate prisoners from the front. The captives express a combination of stubborn pride, humiliation and fear for the future. A veteran sets to work scything a field of wheat. The image calls to mind ‘beating swords into ploughshares’. But it also suggests the legions of war dead.

Winslow Homer- A Visit from the Old Mistress

With the ensuing peace Homer turned his attention to scenes of domestic innocence: kids playing in the fields and messing about in boats; women taking carefree walks on the beach. Perhaps he was nostalgic for simpler times. Perhaps he was optimistic for his country’s prospects. 

But Homer also reflected on the enduring tension between the two communities in the South. Each of his paintings on this subject seems to ask pressing questions.

A former slaver meets four of her now freed slaves in their modest home. How do they address each other? How can they forget what has gone before? A Black family dress a man in carnival costume to celebrate Independence Day. Can they finally plan for better times? Two Black women carry harvested cotton in the morning light. Are they enjoying their new freedom, or realising that so little has changed?

Homer became something of a recluse, avoiding social engagements and refusing to meet journalists or potential clients.

'The most interesting part of my life is of no concern to the public.’

Winslow Homer- The Life Brigade

In the early 1880s the artist spent two years in the English coastal village of Cullercoats, Northumberland. Here he depicted the daily struggles of ordinary fishing folk; the constant threat posed by the cruel sea. 

A woman with her child strapped to her back, braces herself against a gale. The Life Brigade regards the bleak weather from the shelter of their station as they contemplate the task in hand. A lone fisherman in a tiny rowing boat turns to look at the approaching fog and the distant ship on the horizon. He’s a long way from safety.

Critics often asked Homer to explain what was going on in his paintings. And he always resisted.

'Anything written or printed under a print or picture takes the attention from it and, if it is very black or white in any marked degree, will utterly destroy its beauty.’

Winslow Homer- Kissing the Moon

The ocean came to dominate Homer’s later life and work. He set up home in coastal Massachussetts, lived for a brief time in a lighthouse and settled in Prouts Neck, Maine. He wintered in Florida, Cuba and the Bahamas. And all the time he painted wild seascapes, brooding clouds, perilous rocks; brave fishermen confronting nature’s fierce beauty.

Homer died in 1910 at the age of 74. He left a body of work that is bracing, dramatic, involving; that captures the spirit of a troubled age. He had an eye for the decisive moment, a gift for telling stories with ambiguous endings.

In the field of commercial communication we often employ narrative as a means of engagement; as a powerful tool for transmitting messages. But perhaps too often we join all the dots, clarify the conclusions, detail the denouement. Homer suggests that, if we sustain a certain amount of ambiguity; if we leave space for the audience or viewer to complete the story; if we pose questions and dilemmas, then we may achieve a more rewarding, more memorable effect.

Some messages are best suggested.

'Hark now, hear the sailors cry,
Smell the sea and feel the sky.
Let your soul and spirit fly
Into the mystic.
When that fog horn blows
I will be coming home.
Yeah, when that fog horn blows
I want to hear it,
I don't have to fear it.'
Van Morrison, ‘Into the Mystic’

No. 391

The Carping Coffee Man: Every Team Needs a Sceptic

'I personally believe we developed language because of our deep inner need to complain.'
Jane Wagner

Most mornings I buy a coffee from a chap with a van parked on an Islington street corner. The charming Doriano regales me with stories of Sardinian cuisine, Moto GP and his heavy metal heroes. I explain to him bread pudding, cricket and Prefab Sprout. It’s a happy exchange.

Doriano has been away on holiday recently, and I’ve had to find a new, temporary coffee vendor. I noticed that the bloke with a stall just outside the tube station wears a lot of Fred Perry and has a photo of Charlie George on his shelf. And so I decided to give him a try.

‘A large latte please.’

‘Sugar?’

‘No thanks.’

And then the trim, wiry guy behind the counter broke spontaneously into something of a rant.

‘I mean, they might as well have a Tube strike every day. The commuters are never coming back. They’re all bloody working from home. I don’t know why I bother.’

I commiserated and withdrew. He was obviously having a bad morning.

The next day, when I popped by, the coffee man was on the phone to Islington Council. He looked up at me without a smile.

‘They’re perfectly happy to suspend the parking on our estate at a moment’s notice. But will they ever give a refund? Will they even answer the bloody phone? No chance.’

On my third visit, a Saturday, the barista, without any prompting, launched into a further complaint.

‘I don’t normally work weekends. But the wife wanted me to go round and help her brother put a fence up in his back garden. He’s a banker or something, earns a packet. So I’ve got to build his bloody fence on my weekend. Not likely!’

I’ve come to appreciate the Carping Coffee Man. He isn’t afraid to hide his frustrations with life. He’s being true to himself. And I’m being invited to share his woeful worldview. 

'Blind belief in authority is the greatest enemy of truth.'
Albert Einstein

I think I’ve enjoyed our exchanges because they are so at odds with the false charm and rehearsed pleasantries that one so often encounters at conventional high street chains. The vacuous look, the hollow gesture, the painted smile.

‘Enjoy!’ 

In the advertising industry we’ve always been keen to promote eagerness and enthusiasm. We were boosterish before it was fashionable. And I would often propound the notion that ‘positive people have bigger, better ideas.’

I still subscribe to this view. 

However, at the same time I’m a firm believer in diversity of thought - that every team needs a sceptic. Because sometimes the vision needs testing, the assumptions need challenging and the corporate bubble needs bursting. Natural critics supply insurance against groupthink. They keep leaders’ feet firmly on the ground. And curiously, they often lighten the mood. 

'Neurotics complain of their illness, but they make the most of it, and when it comes to taking it away from them they will defend it like a lioness her young.’
Sigmund Freud

As I stood awaiting my large latte this morning, the Carping Coffee Man seemed to have nothing to moan about. But then an unfortunate woman came up and asked for some change. 

‘No, I have not got any change, Mrs. Try the bloody bank!’

'There's a stain on my notebook where your coffee cup was,
And there's ash in the pages, now I've got myself lost.
I was writing to tell you that my feelings tonight
Are a stain on my notebook that rings your goodbye.
Oh, now she's gone
And I'm back on the beat.
A stain on my notebook
Says nothing to me.’
Squeeze, ‘Black Coffee in Bed’ (C Difford / G Tilbrook)

No 390

Selling the Alphabet: How Sesame Street Applied Commercial Techniques to Achieve a Social Good

'Sunny Day
Sweepin' the clouds away.
On my way to where the air is sweet.
Can you tell me how to get,
How to get to Sesame Street?’
‘Sesame Street Theme’ (J Raposo / J Stone / B Hart)

I recently watched a fine documentary about the children's television series Sesame Street. (‘Street Gang: How We Got to Sesame Street’, 2021, directed by Marilyn Agrelo) 

Combining live-action, sketch comedy, animation and puppetry, Sesame Street has been both entertaining and educating kids on PBS since 1969. It was the first pre-school educational show to base its content on research and to involve collaboration between producers, writers, educators and analysts. From the outset the series sought to apply commercial techniques to achieve a social good.

1. ‘A Brilliantly Simple Notion’

‘The people who control the system read. And the people who make it in the system read.’
Joan Coonie

Sesame Street began with a problem.  In the mid ‘60s Lloyd Morrisett, a psychologist and vice president at the Carnegie Foundation, was troubled by the poor educational performance of low income, inner city children.

‘We found that those children who had entered school 3 months behind, by the end of the first grade they’d be a year behind, and get farther and farther behind. And I wondered whether there was a possibility that television could be used to help children with school. But television was not very popular with the Carnegie staff. Academics were not interested in television. They did not have it in their homes.’
Lloyd Morrisett

In 1966, at a dinner party in Gramercy Park, New York, Morrisett discussed the issue of pre-school education with his host, television producer Joan Coonie.

‘I knew the answer. I knew the answer right away. Every child in America was singing beer commercials. Now where had they learned beer commercials?...So to me it was clear. The kids just adored the medium. So why not see if it could educate them?’
Joan Coonie

Coonie and Morrisett set about assembling the team that would become the Children's Television Workshop (CTW). A critical early recruit was experienced writer and director of children’s television, Jon Stone.

‘Joan had a brilliantly simple notion. Children are watching a tremendous amount of television. If they’re going to watch that much television, why not: 1. Find out what it is they like to watch? 2 Find out what would be good for them to watch? And then put the two together and that’s the show.’
Jon Stone

The original cast of Sesame Street in set, 1969

2. Extensive R&D

The initiative secured funding from government and private foundations, and there followed two years of research and development. Coonie had to overcome initial scepticism about her leadership.

‘Someone said it won’t be taken seriously if a woman heads it. But the problem is they didn’t have a project without me. Much of it was in my head. Which I pointed out to them.’
Joan Coonie

The CTW researchers established that, in order to attract and retain young people’s attention, an educational show would need a strong visual style, repetition, fast-moving action, humour, music, animation and short films. They drew up a detailed curriculum, and in a comprehensive Writer's Notebook outlined communication goals without specifying characters or contexts. They decided that it would be easier to teach writers how to interpret the curriculum than to teach educators how to write comedy.

‘They told me that we had to incorporate all this education into this show. I was convinced that it would be impossible to do. I’d never written anything like this before. But nobody had written anything like this before.’
Jon Stone

Joan Coonie © Sesame Workshop

3. Creative Execution

Stone decided to set the show in an inner city environment, and chose the name Sesame Street to suggest the magic of ‘Open Sesame!’

‘I wanted to capture that New York energy, because to the three-year-old cooped up in the room upstairs, the action is on the street.’
Jon Stone

Stone created a group of characters to inhabit Sesame Street. There was Gordon, a high school science teacher and his wife Susan, a nurse; Mr Hooper, the proprietor of the corner store; Bob the music teacher; and Maria and Luis who ran the Fix-It Shop. The actors cast in these roles were ethnically diverse to reflect the core target audience. 

‘When you’re growing up and you don’t see yourself in the media, then you get the feeling that you don’t exist. And that’s when you start thinking that you’re not part of this society – of this culture.’ 
Sonia Manzano (Maria)

Another key component of Sesame Street was the music, much of which was composed by Joe Raposo. He contributed classic numbers like ‘I’m an Aardvark’ and ‘Over, Under, Around and Through,’ and guests included the likes of BB King, Stevie Wonder, Johnnie Cash, Paul Simon and Dizzy Gillespie.

'Now what starts with the letter C?
Cookie starts with C.
Let's think of other things
That starts with C.
Oh, who cares about the other things?
C is for cookie, that's good enough for me.
C is for cookie, that's good enough for me.
C is for cookie, that's good enough for me.
Oh, cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C.’
'’C’ Is For Cookie’ (J Raposo)

Critically Stone also signed up puppeteer Jim Henson, whose Muppets had been appearing on late night TV comedies and adverts.

‘When I first heard about it from Jon, I loved the idea of it - the whole idea of taking commercial techniques and applying them to a show for kids.’
Jim Henson

Henson populated the show with his distinctive puppets: cute and lovable Grover; Cookie Monster with his voracious appetite; Kermit, the soft spoken everyman frog and occasional news reporter; Bert and Ernie, friends with totally different perspectives.

Richard Hunt, Jim Henson, and Frank Oz on the set of Sesame Street

4. Test and Learn

At first the show’s street scenes did not contain Muppets, for fear that interaction with real actors would confuse the young audience. But researchers tested trial programmes, using a slide projector as a ‘Distractor,’ and they found that kids paid more attention during the Muppet segments. And so Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch were introduced to the live-action sequences. 

Oscar, the green grumpy character who lived in a trashcan, was crafted to represent the more challenging encounters that kids experience in daily life.

‘Oscar’s the dark side of everybody. He’s what children are constantly told they must not do. Don’t say that, it’s bad. Don’t do that. Don’t talk back.’
Jon Stone

Big Bird, bright yellow and eight feet tall, was initially conceived as just a dumb goofy guy. But he was adapted to be a peer for the audience.

‘I think I should play him as a child who’s just learning and doesn’t know a lot of things yet.’
Caroll Spinney (Puppeteer)

Experiences such as these fed into what became the CTW Model: collaborative planning; a detailed curriculum; developmental research; measurement and response.

CTW’s analysts established that children liked seeing other children on TV. And so Sesame Street featured ordinary kids, not child actors, whose unscripted interactions with the core characters became hugely popular.

The researchers also discovered that, when adults co-viewed the show with their children, learning was enhanced through the conversation that went on during and after. And so the writers deliberately scripted more sophisticated gags, cultural references and guest appearances that would appeal to an older audience.

'When I find I can't remember
What comes after
A and before C.
My mother always whispers
letter B.
Letter B, letter B, letter B, letter B
She whispers buh-buh-buh means letter B.’
‘Letter B’ (C Cerf)

Jon Stone with Ernie and Cookie Monster

5. Keep Evolving

Supported by innovative local marketing programs to win the interest of target communities, Sesame Street premiered in November 1969. It was an immediate hit.

‘When it went on-air the phone started ringing off the wall. No one had ever seen anything like it.’
Joan Coonie

Within a few series the show became something of a cultural phenomenon.

‘I think Sesame Street is the greatest thing that ever happened in television.’
Orson Welles

‘My little daughter watches it and she’s getting so smart. She knows everything about it.’
Muhammad Ali

Of course, there were challenges. At its launch the state commission in Mississippi voted not to air the show. Coonie was steadfast in its defence.

‘There’s no question that we are integrated and we reflect to some degree inner city – I would say Black inner city – life. And we’re very proud of that. I mean, if that’s our worst sin, I’m happy to be a sinner.’
Joan Coonie 

The early programs were also criticised for being over-stimulating; for their representation of women and Latinx characters. When a specifically African American Muppet was introduced, some from the community complained of stereotyping.

The show took such objections onboard, and continued with its model of test and learn. It adapted and evolved with changing times and circumstances.

In 1982 the production team had to respond to the death of Will Lee, who had played Mr Hooper since its inception. They determined that, since kids do sometimes encounter mortality, then the show too should find a way of dealing with it: confirming that Mr Hooper was not coming back; but making it alright to feel sad.

‘If we’ve been trying to be truthful, why should we short-change kids now?’
Sonia Manzano (Maria)

Sesame Street is one of the longest-running shows in the world. By its 50th anniversary in 2019, it had produced over 4,500 episodes, two feature-length movies, 35 TV specials and 180 albums. Its YouTube channel has almost five million subscribers. Some 86 million Americans have watched it as children. 

Sesame Street is also one of the most studied and monitored shows in television history. Consistent patterns of data collected over 30 years indicate that the program has had significant positive effects for its viewers across a broad range of subject areas.

The story of Sesame Street should be an inspiration to anyone working in business. It encourages us to reflect on the opportunities to employ commercial techniques to create positive social change. Yes, we can.

‘Sesame Street wanted to give kids tools to create the world they wanted to live in.’
Sonia Manzano (Maria)

'It's not that easy bein’ green.
Having to spend each day
The color of the leaves.
When I think it could be nicer
Bein' red or yellow or gold,
Or something much more colorful like that.

But green's the color of spring
And green can be cool and friendly-like.
And green can be big like an ocean
Or important like a mountain or tall like a tree.

When green is all there is to be,
It could make you wonder why.
But why wonder, why wonder?
I am green and it'll do fine.
It's beautiful and I think it's what I wanna be.'
Kermit, ‘Bein’ Green’ (J Raposo)

No. 389

The Creative Life of Milton Avery: ‘Why Talk When You Can Paint?’

Husband and Wife, 1945 by Milton Avery. © 2022 Milton Avery Trust/ Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York and DACS, London

‘I always take something out of my pictures, strip the design to essentials. The facts do not interest me so much as the essentials of nature.'
Milton Avery

I recently attended an excellent exhibition of the work of American artist Milton Avery (Royal Academy, London until 16 October).

From working class stock, Avery took factory jobs to sustain him while he studied art. Continuing to attend night classes and visiting galleries at the weekend, for the most part he laboured in obscurity, creating a painting every day in his small New York apartment. Never affiliated to any particular group, he created a bridge between American Impressionism and Abstract Expressionism and inspired younger artists to follow their own path. 

Avery teaches us a good deal about living a truly creative life.

‘I never have any rules to follow. I follow myself.’

Born in 1885 in Altmar, New York, the son of a tanner, Avery grew up in Connecticut. He left school at 16 and spent a decade working in different blue-collar jobs - as an aligner, an assembler, a latheman and a mechanic.

With a view to acquiring more lucrative skills, Avery enrolled in an evening class in ‘commercial lettering’ at the Connecticut League of Art Students. Soon after, his tutor advised him to transfer to life drawing. In 1917 he began working nights in order to paint in the daytime. 

Blue Trees, 1945 (Collection Neuberger Museum of Art)

From the Impressionists Avery adopted the practice of drawing and painting outdoors, en plein air. His early work captured the essential beauty of blossoming trees, peaceful rivers, big skies and setting suns.

In 1924 Avery met Sally Michel, a young art student, and two years later they married and moved to New York. Her income as a commercial illustrator enabled him to devote himself more fully to painting. 

The Averys spent the summer months in the country, where he made sketches and painted watercolours. Once back in New York, he translated these into oils in their modest apartment. (He didn’t have a studio.)

'Nature is my springboard. From her I get my initial impetus. I have tried to relate the visible drama of mountains, trees, and bleached fields with the fantasy of wind blowing and changing colors and forms.'

Avery’s daughter March recalls that he approached his art ‘like a factory worker.’

‘He was always painting in the living room…He would get up, have breakfast – coffee and an English muffin – and get to work. At noon, break for lunch. He would then paint in the afternoon until about 5 pm.'
March Avery Cavanaugh

March in Brown, 1954.
Oil on canvas. 111.8 x 81.3 cm. Private collection. Courtesy Victoria Miro, London

Avery was a taciturn man. Days would go by without him saying a word. 

‘Why talk when you can paint?’

The Averys spent every Saturday visiting galleries and museums, including, from 1929, the newly opened Museum of Modern Art. They regularly hosted soirees, their guests including young artists Mark Rothko, Adolph Gottlieb and Barnett Newman. Avery sat quietly sketching, while the attendees discussed art and read poetry, and black cocker spaniel Picasso demonstrated his latest tricks.

Gradually Avery’s landscapes evolved beyond naturalistic representation: views were simplified and details omitted; planes were flattened, colours and shapes distorted. His work became more abstract.

Avery also painted intimate domestic scenes, again in a colour-rich, minimalist style. March sits in quiet reflection, her chestnut hair wrapped in a neat babushka, her face delicately etched, her torso distilled into a plum-coloured flat form. A husband and wife relax at home, she in a cornflower blue dress, arms folded, he in a brown suit and cobalt bow tie, puffing on his pipe. 

'I try to construct a picture in which shapes, spaces, colors, form a set of unique relationships, independent of any subject matter. At the same time I try to capture and translate the excitement and emotion aroused in me by the impact with the original idea.’

Avery participated in a number of small group exhibitions, and a few of his paintings were purchased by major museums and collectors. But for the most part he was under the radar. It was not until 1952, when he was 67, that he received his first full-scale retrospective. 

As he grew older Avery’s art continued its journey towards abstraction. He thinned his pigments and painted blocks of colour on the canvas in closely related tones. And yet his work always retained some connection to the original inspiration.

Boathouse by the Sea, 1959
Oil on canvas. 182.9 x 152.4 cm, 72 x 60 in © [2022] The Milton Avery Trust. Courtesy Victoria Miro

Two cream-sailed yachts trace their way through a flamingo-pink sea. A view of a boathouse is reduced to horizontal planes of black, yellow, turquoise and orange. Amber and lemon beach blankets sit alone on peach sand beneath a butterscotch sky. 

Avery’s colours express an intense sense of time and place. 

‘I eliminate and simplify, leaving apparently nothing but color and pattern.'

Avery died in 1965 following a long illness, and, appropriately, he was buried in the Artists Cemetery in Woodstock, New York. The painters that had so enjoyed his hospitality were forever grateful for his encouragement.

'Avery is first a great poet. His is the poetry of sheer loveliness, of sheer beauty.’ Mark Rothko tribute to Milton Avery, 1965

Avery was driven by a love of art, of nature and of colour. He wasn’t looking for attention or recognition. He teaches us that a creative life requires total dedication, an independent spirit, a generous heart and an endlessly curious mind.

'Art is like turning corners, one never knows what is around the corner until one has made the turn.’

'The corner, where struggle and greed fight.
We write songs about wrong ‘cause it’s hard to see right.
Look to the sky, hoping it will bleed light.
Reality's a bitch, and I heard that she bites
The corner.
The corner was our Rock of Gibraltar, our Stonehenge
Our Taj Mahal, our monument.
Our testimonial to freedom, to peace, and to love.
Down on the corner.’ 
Common, ‘The Corner’ (L Lynn/ K West/ A Oyewole/ U BHassan/ L Moore)

No. 388

The Serene Stag Party: When a Leader Loses Control

'When you were made a leader you weren't given a crown, you were given the responsibility to bring out the best in others.’
Jack Welch, Former CEO of General Electric

It was a privilege to be appointed Martin’s Best Man - but also something of a challenge. How to design a stag weekend that would entertain my older brother’s friends, integrate a diverse set of personalities and still accommodate our Dad and his mate Bernie from the Drill?

This was 1993 and well before the era of exotic and expensive trips to Riga, Vilnius and Vegas. I determined that, given the sophistication and maturity of the attendees, the theme should be one of laid-back contemplation. It would be a Serene Stag Party. 

I rented a remote farmhouse near Acle Bridge on the Norfolk Broads, and as we gathered on the Friday evening, we settled into an exchange of amusing stories and telling anecdotes. I’d bought a couple of bottles of whiskey and a pack of cards to sustain the mellow mood. All seemed to be going well.

On the Saturday, equipped with an Ordnance Survey map, I led everyone on a scenic ramble around the Broads. Along winding paths and over awkward stiles; past disused windmills and romantic Saxon churches; sighting boats and barn owls; admiring voles, dykes and reed beds. It was all rather beautiful.

That night we had a relaxed dinner in a charming country pub. Again there was an air of warm-hearted bonhomie. I congratulated myself on a project well managed.

It’s true, a few of the group had in mind a more vibrant occasion. Scouse Mike in particular observed that a stag weekend should be characterised by shenanigans and tomfoolery; wild nights of mirth, music and dancing. 

I explained that that was not really the concept. This was the Serene Stag Party.

As we approached last orders in the pub, Mike pressed me about the possibility of going to a nightclub.

‘Come on, Jim. Club! Club! Club!’

‘No, that’s not part of the plan, Mike. And besides, haven’t you noticed? We’re in the middle of nowhere.’

Mike persisted. 

‘Club! Club! Club!’

At this point the Head Barman, who had overheard our conversation, made a helpful intervention in his distinct rustic burr.

‘There are nightclubs in Norwich and Yarmouth, you know. And Dave from the village can take you in his minibus.’

‘Club! Club! Club!’ cried Mike.

I tried to argue with him.

‘But I’ve got that bottle of whiskey for us to drink by the log fire when we get back.’

It was to no avail. Soon Mike was joined in his revolt by the rest of the company.

‘Club! Club! Club!’

That was it. My authority had evaporated. Mike took over the reins.

‘What do you think? Should we go to Norwich or Yarmouth?’

With a knowing smile, the Head Barman scanned the motley crew and pronounced.

‘No jeans in Norwich.’

Before long everyone was clambering into Dave’s minibus in a mood of reckless abandon, and they were on their way to Yarmouth.

I wandered disconsolately back to the farmhouse with my Dad and his mate Bernie from the Drill. We had a quiet whiskey by the fire and went to bed.

I was the Leader who Lost Control.

'Leadership is the art of getting someone else to do something you want done because he wants to do it.’
General Dwight Eisenhower

The lesson here is simple. Leadership is about more than a title, or a reporting line, an org chart or a corner office. Leaders cannot presume that a chosen plan will be adopted and executed without question. To be a leader you need to earn people’s commitment; to establish a shared vision; to take people with you. Successful leadership requires enthusiastic followership.

'I must follow the people. Am I not their leader?'
Benjamin Disraeli

In the early hours of Sunday morning, in dribs and drabs, the members of the stag party found their way back to the farmhouse. They’d had a fantastic time in the Yarmouth nightspot and all agreed it had made it a truly memorable weekend.

I reflected that perhaps the Serene Stag Party had not been such a good idea after all.

'Put yourself in my place
And you wouldn't do the things you do to me.
If you put yourself in my place
You'd know the meaning of misery.
Sleepless nights, tossing and turning,
Days and nights of worry and wondering.
Put yourself in my place
Then you will realize why there are tears
So many tears in my eyes.'
Maxine Brown, ‘Put Yourself in My Place’ (W Drain, R Obrecht)

No. 387

The Unwritten, the Unspoken and the Unspeakable: Arthur Miller’s ‘Fruitful Conflicts’

Rebecca Miller filming Arthur Miller in wood shop
Courtesy of Telluride Film Festival

‘I think it’s a process of approaching the unwritten and the unspoken and the unspeakable. And the closer you get to it, the more life there seems to be.’
Arthur Miller

I recently watched the fine 2017 documentary ‘Arthur Miller: Writer.’ It was directed by Rebecca Miller, the daughter of the great American playwright, and based on interviews she conducted with him over many years in the family home in Roxbury, Connecticut. It is therefore a more intimate and informal portrait than a conventional film biography.

We see an elderly Miller engaged in cooking and carpentry, gardening and pond management. He prepares a chicken for dinner, makes a coffee table and walks the dog. And in amongst all this domestic administration, he reflects on a life spent seeking truth.

‘What a real playwright has to do is to say to the audience, in effect: ‘This is what you think you’re seeing in life every day.’ And then to turn that around and say: ‘This is what it really is.’’

As the documentary revisits the writer’s key works, it becomes clear that, with each play or screenplay, Miller was confronting the challenging realities he observed in the world around him, in his relationships and in himself. 

1. Confronting His Father

Miller was born in 1915, to Polish-Jewish parents, in Harlem, New York. His father owned and managed a business that manufactured women's clothing and employed some 400 people. His mother was a cultured woman with a lust for life. And Miller grew up in comfort on 110th Street in Manhattan.

The family lost almost everything in the Wall Street Crash of 1929.

‘First the chauffeur was let go, and the summer bungalow was discarded, the last of her jewellery had been pawned or sold. And then another step down – the move to Brooklyn.’

Miller was obliged to deliver bread and wash dishes to pay for his college tuition. He saw his father diminished, retreating into himself. And he looked on as his parents’ relationship decayed.

‘I could not avoid awareness of my mother’s anger at this waning of his powers – a certain sneering contempt of him that filtered through her voice.’

Miller became acutely conscious of the impact that exterior events have on interior lives.

‘I contracted the idea that we are very deeply immersed in the political and economic life of the country and of the world; and that these forces end up in the bedroom, and end up in the father and son, father and daughter arrangements.’

No surprise perhaps that, when Miller wrote his first play, ‘No Villain,’ while studying at the University of Michigan, it was a portrait of a New York immigrant family endeavouring to manage a garment business through the Depression. 

‘No Villain’ won Miller a prize and set him on his way to becoming a playwright. His first major success came with 1947’s ‘All My Sons.’ Based on a true story, it related how a thriving businessman with a happy family life is discovered to have been manufacturing faulty aircraft parts during the war.

Miller saw in this theme a means to puncture post-war American euphoria; to challenge the complacent view that all was well with the world. And he also recognised an opportunity to further explore the relationship between fathers and sons.

In ‘All My Sons’ Miller played out the disputes with his father that he had never been able to have face-to-face. 

‘You know, the truth of the matter is that I never had an argument with my father. That was part of the problem. We could never come to a fruitful conflict. So it took my work to do that.’

2. Confronting the American Dream

Miller’s next and greater triumph came a few years later. It started with a couple of lines:

‘It’s all right. I came back.'

Convinced that these words could lead to something compelling, but uncertain how to proceed, Miller resolved to take his mind off things. He set about building a small studio at his home in Roxbury. 

'When I closed in the roof it was a miracle, as though I had mastered the rain and cooled the sun. And all the while afraid I would never be able to penetrate past those first two lines.' 

Then, suddenly, inspiration struck. In just one night, Miller wrote Act I of ‘Death of a Salesman.’

'When I lay down to sleep I realized I had been weeping – my eyes still burned and my throat was sore from talking it all out and shouting and laughing.'

‘Death of a Salesman’, which premiered to great acclaim on Broadway in 1949, examined the tarnished American Dream - the psychological damage done to those whose wholehearted belief in aspiration and achievement is disappointed by bitter experience. Its hero Willy Loman is haunted by lies – society’s, his employers’ and his own.

 ‘In Willy the past was as alive as what was happening at the moment- sometimes crashing in to completely overwhelm his mind.’

Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller, in Reno, Nevada, in 1960.
Photograph by Inge Morath / Magnum

 3. Confronting Power

Miller had developed a close friendship with Elia Kazan, the gifted director of ‘All My Sons’ and ‘Death of a Salesman.’

In 1952, with the United States in the grip of the ‘Red Peril’, Kazan appeared before the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) and named eight theatre colleagues who had been fellow members of the Communist Party. 

Miller was shocked and disappointed. He refused to speak to Kazan for the next ten years. 

‘You got the feeling that there was no value anywhere; that we were all the subject of Big Power.’

Miller saw parallels between HUAC’s obsessive enquiries and the witch-hunt that took place in Salem, Massachusetts back in 1692. And so he penned ‘The Crucible,’ which opened on Broadway in 1953. The play explored how quickly social order can deteriorate when intolerance, hysteria and hypocrisy take hold. 

In 1956 Miller was himself summoned to appear before the committee. He gave them a detailed account of his own political activities, but refused to volunteer the names of friends and colleagues. He was found guilty of contempt, fined and given a suspended prison sentence.

‘We are a country of entertainers. You’ve got to be entertaining. Even the fascists have to be entertaining.’

Montgomery Clift, Marilyn Monroe, Eli Wallach, Arthur Miller, John Huston, Clark Gable, The Misfits

 4. Confronting His Own Passions

Miller had married Mary Slattery in 1940. A fellow student at the University of Michigan, she encouraged him to write, and supported him before his plays became successful. Together they raised two children. 

In 1951 Miller had a brief affair with the film star Marilyn Monroe and they remained close. His passion for her became all-consuming.

‘It is as though we were born the same morning, when no other life existed on this earth.’

Miller divorced Slattery and married Monroe. And he channelled his turbulent emotions into 1956’s ‘A View from the Bridge’ - a play concerned with desire, appetite and shame; about a man struggling with a compulsion that will destroy him.

‘The best work that anybody ever writes is the work that is on the verge of embarrassing him.’

In 1960 Miller wrote the screenplay for ‘The Misfits’, which starred Monroe. It was a sad tale of lonely hearts, lost souls and the fading West. 

Miller clearly regarded Monroe herself as something of a tragic misfit. Indeed in the film he had Clark Gable address her with a line he had uttered during their courtship.

'I think you're the saddest girl I ever met.'

During the production their relationship was troubled, and shortly before the film's premiere in 1961, the couple divorced. Monroe died the next year, following a drug overdose.

Two years later Miller wrote the deeply personal ‘After the Fall.’ A man reviews the failure of his marriage to a star who suffers from addiction issues and ultimately commits suicide. 

This was all too raw for critics and audience alike, and the play was not a success.

‘I guess every artist has a tendency to throw himself into the world – to see if he floats.’

 5. Confronting Disappointment

With 1968’s ‘The Price’ Miller finally addressed his Jewish heritage. It was a play about the corrosive effect of financial strife on family relationships; about a family at war with itself. And again it drew on Miller’s own experiences of the Depression.

‘The Price’ did well critically and commercially. But Miller did not feel at ease with the mood of the times. He began to lose his faith in the capacity of theatre to act as a forum for debate, as a vehicle for change.

‘You got the feeling it didn’t matter any more. The whole game was not worth the candle. So you made people feel this or feel that, or laugh or weep. So what’s the hell the difference? What’s the point of it all?’

Miller carried on writing, but had to come to terms with the reality of his diminished popularity and relevance. 

At least he was content with his home life. In 1962 he had married photographer Inge Morath who had worked on the production of ‘The Misfits.’

‘A play always has two lives, the written one and the one lived. The latter, thankfully, is happy.’

Miller and Morath remained together until her death in 2002. Miller died in 2005 at the age of 89 at his home in Roxbury. 

‘The big job is not to make simple things complicated, but to make complicated things comprehensible. In other words, I’m the guy who goes around and says: ‘What is really going on here?’’

Miller spent a lifetime confronting difficult truths and harsh realities. He could be as tough on himself and his own relationships, as he was on the systemic injustices he saw in American society. He suggests that creative people should use their talent to examine ‘the unwritten, the unspoken and the unspeakable’ – to produce ‘fruitful conflicts.’

Perhaps we too should address: the truth of the family ties that bind us; the corrosive effects of our ambition; our attitude to power and authority; the compromises we make in the name of passion; the disappointments of age, as the world passes us by.

‘The truth, the first truth, probably, is that we are all connected, watching one another. Even the trees.’

[Arthur Miller’s ‘The Crucible’ runs at the National Theatre, London from 14 September to 5 November.]

'I'm not gonna get too sentimental
Like those other sticky valentines.
'Cause I don't know if you are loving somebody.
I only know it isn't mine.
Alison, I know this world is killing you
Oh, Alison, my aim is true.’
Elvis Costello, ‘Alison'

No. 386