← New Books Network
Loading summary
Transcript9 lines
- [00:00]
A
Hello, everybody. This is Marshall Po. I'm the founder and editor of the New Books Network. And if you're listening to this, you know that the NBN is the largest academic podcast network in the world. We reach a worldwide audience of 2 million people. You may have a podcast or you may be thinking about starting a podcast. As you probably know, there are challenges basically of two kinds. One is technical. There are things you have to know in order to get your podcast produced and distributed. And the second is, and this is the biggest problem, you need to get an audience. Building an audience in podcasting is the hardest thing to do today. With this in mind, we at the NBM have started a service called NBN Productions. What we do is help you create a podcast, produce your podcast, distribute your podcast, and we host your podcast. Most importantly, what we do is we distribute your podcast to the NBN audience. We've done this many times with many academic podcasts, and we would like to help you. If you would be interested in talking to us about how we can help you with your podcast, please contact us. Just go to the front page of the New Books Network and you will see a link to NBN Productions. Click that, fill out the form, and we can talk. Welcome to the New Books Network.
- [01:09]
B
Welcome to the New York Institute for the Humanities podcast. I'm Robert Boynton. In today's episode from the Vault, we revisit the 1982 lecture by the composer Lucas Foss. Foss was a leader of the American musical avant garde in the 1960s and 1970s. He was the musical director of the Brooklyn Philharmonia, later renamed the Brooklyn Philharmonic Orchestra. In this lecture, a part of the New American Music series of Gallatin Lectures at nyu, Foss discusses the state of American contemporary music, musical minimalism, and his own approach of combining serial elements with spontaneous composition.
- [01:50]
C
Lucas Foss is not only a leading American composer, he's a pianist famed for his interpretation of Bach. And he's played a special role in in the musical life of New York City through the 10 years he served as music director for the Brooklyn Philharmonium, he studied with Fritz Reiner and Serge Koussevisky, and with Paul Hindemith. His work as a composer has transcended the formulas of any one particular school. Recent works include Quintets for Orchestra, which was premiered by the New York Philharmonic under Leonard Bernstein, Round Common center, which was premiered by Yehudi Mignewen with the Cantilina chamber players, and 13 ways of looking at a Blackbird, which was premiered by Phyllis Curtin and The Dorian Quintet. In the freedom of his idiom, he represents something quintessentially American. The uses to which he has put that freedom have substantially enriched 20th century music. It is therefore great honor to present Lucas Foss to speak this evening.
- [02:53]
D
It's nice for me to know that the next two speakers are Reich and Glass, who are sort of the fountain fathers of the minimal trend, which is probably the only trend that is right now fashionable. Lots of things are going on at the same time. And why is it that that trend is fashionable? Well, it would seem to me that there are many reasons. One reason is no doubt that the beat, the repetition, suggests meditation, hypnosis, and even a certain closeness to disco. In other words, what we have here is a kind of flirtation with popular music, which was definitely not in 15 years ago. I think it's an interesting phenomenon. Could it be that composers are getting tired of being shut up in the ivory tower? It's just conceivable that that's the reason. There could also be many other reasons. If you look at the history of contemporary music, it's true that Schoenberg said that the 12 tone system makes music very hard to write. But I'm sure to many 12 tone composers, young ones, it must have seemed at the time that it would become easier to write music, since the row would tell you the next note. And then as things went one step further and we got into total serialization of other parameters that you might even get the color, the register, the rhythm, that all this would come to you by surprise, handed to you on a silver platter, so to say, by the series. Then a little later came along John Cage and gave us again new ways out of this dilemma. Namely, you could just open a piano, you could just allow silence in. You could turn on radios again. You don't have to beat your head against the wall. You could be an artist just by saying that you are. And you could have the artist's life. Of course, I am not really poking fun at either Schoenberg nor Cage, because they're very serious and good people, and so are minimalists, such as Reich and Glass. I'm just talking about the attraction that these things have. For some people who haven't looked very deep, there is a certain attraction. And so in the minimalist way, there is a certain attraction there too. You could just repeat one thing forever, change the emphasis, change the phases and so forth. And again, it's a way out. I wonder what it is about our time that keeps looking for ways out. As I said, Maybe even finally a way out of the ivory tower. Tonality defined the field so beautifully. Everything beyond tonality wasn't art. And then came along Wagner and Tristan, shaking the foundations a little bit, and then even more the early Schoenberg. And suddenly it was decided that there was a whole no man's land beyond tonality. And now what to do? Obviously we have to limit choice in the face of overwhelming choice. And so the 12 tone system idea was basically a limitation of choice. It was also somehow the German mind is always looking for a cell, an ooh motif, something out of which then you can construct the whole universe. So I think the idea that Schoenberg had in mind was basically a kind of a super variation technique. Everything coming out of that row. Unity. Of course, unity in lesser hands might spell monotony and often does, but I would say that the unity idea did captivate lots of people at the time. And at the same time you were now populating new jungle of atonality. Now, no doubt that had something to do with it. But little did Schoenberg know that a certain aspect of the Schoenbergian idea was really going to stick. And that is the fact that you set up something before you start to work. That in itself is a very ingenious thing, something that would get you out of the routine, out of the rut. In other words, instead of having an empty page of music paper staring at you, you could surround yourself with all kinds of permutations and proceed from there. That means you can then work with whole groups of notes and work with surprises, work with entities that you would have never thought of by looking at that empty piece of music paper. So I think that already is a tremendous achievement, but I don't think that's what Schoenberg had in mind. Now, strange enough, the serialists, of course, began to do this. And on the other hand, the aleatory composers, the advocates of chance, right, alias from the Greek word dice, approached it from their point of view, but they have that in common with the cerealists. They also set us up something that yields surprises. Throwing dice or ink spots or whatever. They set up something also, and then they also work with a surprise, unless they just want to wash their hands of the result, which is a very Zen thing to do. And I don't think most Western composers don't do that. And anything goes. Most people just want to work with those surprises. So it's not surprising then that chance music and serial music actually sound very often very much alike. It's also not surprising that after Both had their day that composers began to feel, well, that's not enough. First of all, I don't want to set up everything in advance. And second, what is chance? Why should I be so interested in chance? To cage chance as nature to chance's probability theory. To me, chance is something I wanted to control when I started the first improvisation workshop and the first improvisation ensemble in 57 at UCLA. So it's really something that I want to control. In other words, just a starting point. I think all these things are beautiful ideas when they are starting points and they are not so good when the composer thinks that that's all there is to it. Like in the days of texture, of aleatoric music, when we heard piece after piece that was nothing but textures. I think that soon we understood that there was more to music than texture and that we wanted meaning. Varese at one point just wanted sound, even noise. But he too never really broke with meaning. I think that basically we still believe in meaning. Sounds per se are really not very interesting. Yes. Could you trace the development of your own music and talk about where you are now? Well, I can do that. I'm not my own connoisseur and it is difficult to talk about your music, especially when I cannot illustrate it with many examples. Let me put it this way. I had the advantage of starting terribly young. At the age of seven, with the first piano lesson, I began to compose music. That meant that when I could just about play a little tiny Mozartian piece or a two part invention, I could also compose a two part invention or a little small rococo piece a la Mozart. In other words, my ambition went hand in hand with my ability. I didn't have that phenomenon that so many of my students and other composers I know. They already knew and loved symphonies and could only write a little piece a la Mozart. By the way, again, a la Mozart. I mean, he happens to be the most complex composer all, I mean, alla Mozart, the way these little piano pieces are usually played and understood. Because Mozart is really psychologically, he's the most complex composer we've ever had. I still am not sure I completely understand him. And so full of surprises. I mean, now that was how I started. Then at the age of 15, I discovered Hindemith. And that was my Introduction to Modern Music. At the age of 17, at the Berkshire Music Center, Tanglewood, I began to study with Hindemith. But at that time I already knew his music cold. And I had just discovered Stravinsky. Now that was something of a dilemma to study with Hindemith when you've just discovered Stravinsky. So I'm afraid I was a pretty bad boy in class and he threw me out three times. Always took me back. I don't know why. Later on we became friends after we no longer worked together. Then came rather exciting years in which I ate my way through a lot of modern music. But strange enough, the entire 12 tone scene and all that remained a closed book to me. And also Charles Ives. It wasn't until I found myself in Schoenberg's boots teaching composition at ucla that I said to my students, you know, you're always tied to the printed note. This is not good. We ought to start some improvisation workshop. It was really born out of envy of jazz. So I began to set down rules for non jazz improvisation. More and more rules, I think, 26 chapters of rules. And it became very involved. And we did it and we did concerts of it and we started traveling with my improvisation improvisation chamber ensemble. But as a matter of fact, our mutual friend Piatigowski once said, it sounds like music badly remembered. And I loved that and I hated it. I mean, he was so right, he was so right. So I asked myself at that point, well, what would music sound like that is really thriving on the improvisational process? So I threw out my 26 chapters and now we did some. Something very different, which could be called instant composition. I wish we did have that phonograph. I could play you an example, a very special example of this kind of instant composition that we improvised together. I would make some kind of a blueprint and then we would start to improvise. And then we would sit and listen to the tape and sort of say, edit correct and do it again, improvise again, and try to remember what we liked and forget what we didn't like. And so the piece ultimately found its shape. And when it has found its shape, we dropped it. It was no longer interesting, we dropped it from the repertory. It was a rather idealistic enterprise and we didn't even sign it. It was like anonymous music. But I found that, I mean, it opened to me that whole no man's land, for instance, of atonality. And suddenly I understood the serialists. I understood everything. That was a closed door to me before closed book. Now it suddenly began to make sense. And then I retraced my steps, so to say, got interested in serial music and found ultimately that I could be more adventurous composing than in the loneliness of my ivory tower, than improvising. So I left improvisation to my students and to others. And suddenly it became the order of the day. Everybody was improvising, going around doing things that were a little too safe for my taste. That was my main criticism about my kind of improvisation and instant composition. Because anyone who improvises, even in jazz, will tell you that you thrive on routine. That is, you have, in jazz the rhythm section and you have the blues patterns, and you rely on your virtuosity and you literally play what you know. You don't play what you don't know. It's almost impossible to play what you don't know, right? So therefore you fall into cliche and you become a real performer. It's literally composition become performance. And as such it isn't quite adventurous enough. You will discover, for instance, in this kind of improvisation that as long as all of you stick to pianissimo, it'll be very mistaken, mysterious. As long as all of you go into sudden bursts of fortissimo, it'll be very powerful. But try mids of forte improvisation and you're in trouble. As long as everybody grumbles way down in the bass register, it seems like there's purpose. You know, everybody seems to be of one mind. As long as everybody plays way up high in the sky, same thing. But try the middle register and there's trouble. So I think that lots of this improvisation stayed too general. It made for kind of stock strangeness, a stock mysteriousness. There were the high sounds and the low sounds and the pianissimos and the sudden bursts of fortissimo. We all know that that was the music of the 1950s and 60s. That was the Darmstadt school. That plus a certain post Webernian heritage of law and order. And that was it. Now, I went through this. Although I never belonged to a school. I never wrote a single real 12 tone piece. I never wrote a single really aleatoric piece. Nothing I wrote ever fit into any school. I just never belonged. I think the reason for that is that it was too limiting. I mean, why should I suddenly consider something taboo? Why should the fact that I had entered the sphere of tonality make tonality taboo? Why should the fact that I was using series suddenly make it impossible for me to use that F sharp again at a certain place where I think it would be nice to have it? I could never see why I should let myself be dominated by any rule. So what happened, for instance, in a work of mine, it's rather well known, equi, is that it was totally serially started, like a scaffold that I then discarded as I really began to choose. I surrounded Myself with millions of notes that were all obtained serially, permutations and so forth. The whole walls were full of it. And then I began to clear the jungle for inhabitants. And that was composing to me. And now if you look at Equi, it'll be very difficult for any student with a 12 tone system to find the row intact. It is totally destroyed. But still it presented me with all those surprises that the series were able to present me with. So that was that stage of the game. And I have really made it my business to learn about everything except computers for that. Maybe I wasn't young enough to. I don't like dabbling. And I felt others knew so much more and were so much more technically inclined. So that when I wanted to work with electronics, I would call up my friend Joel Chatterby and he would say, well, let me work with you and I'll give you the sounds and so forth. I don't know if that's the way to do it again. It's a shortcut. I don't believe in shortcuts. And that may account for the fact that I've produced very little in that direction. But apart from that there is nothing that I didn't feel I owed it to myself to make my own as a professional. I just don't like the feeling that there is something that. I don't know. Even minimal music has entered a lot of my music, such as the percussion concerto. Lots of recent pieces have whole stretches. Music for six and so forth have all stretches that could be called minimal music. But suddenly such a piece will sport a tune which seems to come out of nowhere and violate maybe the meditative concept of that school. So that no school ever has accepted me and ever will accept me. And that's perfectly alright with me. I'm never really for any school as such, but there are talents who like to just make themselves at home in one small area and make the most of it. And you know, some of those people go very far. It's the idea of more with less. And if you are that kind of a talent, you're very lucky. It's a great thing to do. No, I didn't speak about it as imitative. I think it is one of the original things in the handful of original composers. It is an original thing and it's a good thing. I see limitations when you do decide that you're just going to repeat over and over again. But I'm sure the next speakers will enlighten you better than I can on that subject. I remember performing a Piece I'm very fond of of Steve's, Steve Rice, called Octet. I did the premiere at the Ojai Festival in California. And on the same program was the complete Pulcinella of Stravinsky. And when I got through doing the Octet, a half hour of beautiful changes of the same thing with a strong beat going, it made me feel good. It really made me feel good. When I got through conducting Pulcinella, it had created happiness. Now, I see a certain difference between. You see, what makes you feel good is a little bit like a drug, I would say. There's nothing wrong with a drug if it makes you feel good. But there is perhaps something wrong, namely, after it wears off, you're left exactly where you were before. That's what I don't like about feeling good. And that's what I tell the young. When you create happiness, you build something, and you are not left where you were before. And now I'm sure that if Steve were here and Philip were here, they would probably point out how they, too, built something and that it isn't just about feeling good. And I'm sure that I am right as far as the school goes and the typical sound of the thing goes. But I'm sure that there could be exceptions. And I'm also sure that if you're talented, you can make these things work and something wonderful can come out of it. After all, Gershwin came out of the musical and jazz and made much more out of it. So it really depends who does it. What I meant by happiness is that you have built something that leaves you literally more alive and more knowing you've learned something. I'm terribly afraid of any discipline that doesn't teach you a real insight. That is almost like a skill. Well, like education. I really believe in education. I think that's why we study Shakespeare, Mozart, Beethoven, all these things. It's education. It's something on which you can again, build something else. And I'm a little bit afraid of that vacuum. But maybe if you're Eastern enough, which I'm not, I'm hopelessly Western, you can look at it from a very different point of view, and it will be an educational experience. Some people are just hopelessly curious, and I'm one of those. And you pay for it. You have to digest so much more. You have to learn all music, from Gregorian chant to the latest, and you keep solving new problems with every piece. I think it's more of a musical nymphomania. I don't know. It's something different it is that kind of curiosity that led Joseph Haydn from the Baroque to the Rococo. It is what led Stravinsky from primitivism to neoclassicism to his own brand of serialism. It's the opposite of what painters do. Painters, for instance, when they give a show, you know, every painting has to be about the same thing, otherwise it doesn't belong in the show. And sometimes all their paintings are about one thing for their whole lifelong. And that seems to be the only way the gallery can sell you if you're easily recognizable in about one thing. Well, it's a little bit true also about other arts. I mean, critics get very confused about my work. It's so much better when your name is John Cage and he tells you what he's about and there is the philosophy and that's it. And then they don't get so confused. It is helpful, no doubt. It is helpful if you're really about something that can be put in a nutshell, that you can file. It's true that one shouldn't drag any morals or anything moralistic into the arts. And yet it's true that Nietzsche sets envisaged somehow a music that doesn't know of good and evil. He must have had Verez in mind. It is true that one that Baudelaire spoke of, Les Fleur du Mal, Flowers of Evil. But even that is moralizing. Even Genet is moralizing when he is trying to make something ugly beautiful. It's probably impossible in the arts to completely get away from it. I find my friend John Cage, one of the most moral people that I've ever met, and yet he certainly will not underwrite anything that's moralistic. So I guess we have to be very careful about the language which we use. There is no doubt that there is some kind of connection between what we call beautiful and what we call truth. And we can't get away from it. The most mysterious thing is the word meaning as artists use it, because we don't obviously mean programmatic meaning. Obviously the meaning of La Mer, of Debussy goes far beyond la mer. We're in the presence of a powerful kind of surging, upsurging kind of thing. You don't even have to know that it's about the sea. You realize that it's much more than that. So the program will not do. At the same time, Mahler meant probably the same thing when he said all music is program music. What did he mean by that? That it has meaning. But what that meaning is if we could put it into words, then we wouldn't have to write music. Or we could first put it into words and then translate it into music. The art of inter art translation has never been invented, so we cannot really say what is the meaning. But when we hear a great piece of music, new or old, we come out with that thing that I was speaking about before. Building happiness could also say building meaning. We suddenly understand something that we didn't understand before. In other words, it's much more than feeling good. It is that we subtly understand something. It's like a door opened. And then there's something else that is interesting. The word surprise came up in almost everything I said here. I keep talking about surprise, surprise. We work with surprise not to fall into routine. Well, it seems almost everything that artists try to do has to do with the element of surprise, the element of uniqueness which gives us that feeling of surprise. The surprise is that that door open that we suddenly understand, understood something that we haven't understood before. Therefore we try in our music to have surprises. I think almost everyone tries for that whether they realize it or not. Now in the days of modernistic modern music, surprise per se was the thing you tried to shock. You tried to just be more awful than anybody else and you're more shocking louder, whatever. Well, we've gotten away from that. First of all. We've gotten shock proof. We can't shock anybody anymore. We've been saturated with that kind of surprise. The only interesting surprise, valid surprise, is this kind of surprise, which once it has happened, you say to yourself, but of course, now how are you going to find that? That's what we usually call an inspiration. In our 19th century jargon, an inspiration is something you stumble on, which is a surprise, but in retrospect makes you say, but of course it has to be that way. Now you find that in the best old music, you find it in the best new music. It is that, I think, which makes the music of Bach, Mozart and Beethoven even superior, let's say to. I don't know, I don't want to knock any second rate composers, but let's say Dvorak, who is pretty good, but he's more predictable, he's not as firsthand. And the surprises don't seem to open up an entire world to you the way those composers do. So actually if some of these things still haven't been really understood even in the old music, some of these surprises haven't really because our analysis is so deadly, because we always analyze, we count, we count series, we count rows, we Count notes. We count major chords, minor chords. We don't ever really seem to get to the essential, which is what is a surprise. What is a musical surprise? Obviously, if you have a scale, right, you can da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da. It's perfectly inevitable. That's another catch word. Everybody speaks about Beethoven being inevitable. What's terribly easy to be inevitable? Terribly easy, right? The leading note goes to the tonic, and there you have an inevitable note. Try to depart from that and you go C sharp, right, instead of C natural. You got a surprise. But you have no longer inevitable. But is it a meaningful surprise in retrospect, when it happens? In other words, there you have really what all artistic creation is about to find a meaningful surprise. Let's not downgrade anybody, but let's upgrade. Let's upgrade those who have given us. And sometimes they're not just the classics. I mean, my God, that's what Stravinsky is about. You find these surprises in the best of new music, and you find it in the best of old music. It's the predictable that really, after a few hearings, you know, no longer seems firsthand. The amazing thing is that when something was firsthand when it was composed, it stays firsthand. You sense. You sense the element of discovery. And that's another thing that I don't understand. Why do you sense the element of discovery in certain composers and you in others who are very crafty? You sense imitation. Now, the imitative composers can go so far and no further. I would say the best imitative composer is probably Saint Sans. He is full of imagination, but he's predictable and he has beautiful craftsmanship, and it sounds well and it's cultured music and it's full of intelligence as far as you can go without that visionary something that Charles Ives had, for instance. That would be an example. I mean, there are two poles. Saint Sans, who went as far as you can go without that element, I would say, or with a minimum of it, and Ives, who was just. That's what he was about. He didn't always make a successful piece. No piece of Ives perhaps works as well as every piece of Sansals, but it is just so incredibly visionary. Naturally, every composer hopes that we're moving where his own workshop is. Moving, moving. I think it was Roger Sessions who said, if I knew the music of the future, I'd write it. Well, Ives did. But the point is that I find surprises in minimal music. I find them in the way things shift. Those subtle shifts, I find are full of surprises also in the way time Passes. It is a totally different way. Rather than to look for beautiful modulation, as you might in Schubert, for the moment of change, you notice suddenly, a half hour later that it has changed. In other words, it's like maybe looking at the sky and you see that it doesn't change, but you look up five minutes later and it has changed. So there is an element of surprise that can be found there too. The flirtation with media shows itself more, more and more in the amplification need. I mean, you want to amplify, you want to envelop people in a sound. And I'm the same way. I refuse to play my cassette on this thing because I don't think it'll envelop you correctly in the sound. And so I think there's something to be said for being. Being enveloped by sound. Interesting, though, that you can also make it so loud that it's deafening. And that again, the drug aspect of a certain type of music pushed amplification in disco places to such an extent that it really has impaired the hearing of many people, many young people. And it's interesting to note that that's a technology. Music itself cannot do harm. Technology can, and I think we ought to be very much aware of that fact. I mean, the. There's something very beautiful about the arts. They really can't do any harm. I was conducting the St. John's Passion this weekend in Milwaukee, and naturally that's much less primitive. But there's nothing wrong with. If you have a primitive talent, you should be primitive. To be a great primitive is wonderful. Mussorgski thrived on that primitive element early Stravinsky did. If you have a talent in that direction, it's nothing wrong with that. The primitives have been doing very well. Writing for instruments, when you don't write chamber music, when you write for orchestra, is something that Stravinsky brought back to us in Story of a Soldier and in subsequent works. He never orchestrated anymore. And for a while, orchestration had a bad name. Maybe it still does. We don't like to dress up things. On the other hand, we write for orchestra. But the idea of a piano score and then orchestrated the way Strauss sat down and for hours and, you know, made it richer and more lush and more beautiful. Dressing it up, that is not the current practice, nor is it the kind of sound that we usually want today. There are a few pieces that I have the records of here and that I think would have stimulated the discussion. One is that so called non improvisation, which came out of these instant composition, improvisatory, days of mine. Another piece that I could have played is an accordion piece called Curriculum Vitae, which is recent. Another piece is Round, a common center, which was an amusing task because you know how you get a commission. In this case, it was a commission to write something for the Olympic Games Games that stimulated me right away. What fun. Not since Greek times did we write anything for, like, a celebration of sports. And that's. That's really a good idea. So this was, however, a piano quartet of all things that commissioned me. So that began to. It was a little difficult, but I began to make sketches for piano quartet. Then the commissioning musician called me up and said, could you work in a voice? We would like to have her. So I worked in the mezzo soprano, but I liked it also as a piano quartet. So it became a piano quartet that could also be done with voice. Then suddenly she called him and said, yehudi Menu would like to play the first performance. Could you add another violin? So, and a little later, narration was added. So now you can do this piece as a piano quartet, as a piano quartet. You can do it with narration, without narration, you can do it with voice, without voice. And it works in all these ways. And the record that is coming out in late spring or early summer is with Orson Welles narrating and menu and playing and the Cantilena chamber players. And in other words, it's got everything in it. And the singer even plays percussion at one point. But I think it would also work just as a piano quartet. I never heard it that way. I know it would work that way. So there are a number of pieces I might have played for you this way. However, we solved more problems, which is also a good thing, maybe more useful. Are there any more questions?
- [36:53]
C
I'm curious whom you would suggest listening to.
- [36:57]
D
We don't generally listen to the Grosse Fugger of Beethoven. If I were on a desert island and I had to, you know, the proverbial question, just one piece of music, maybe I would choose that listen to. Well, how well do you know Mozart? Opera? I mean, he's our Shakespeare, right? Then I would say of Ives. Listen to OA a lot of things. Above all, don't get discouraged because some of it seems obscure. Keep listening to Ives of Stravinsky. There's so much, really, it's. It's almost silly to make a selection. And when it comes to the alive people, I refuse to say, because I'll be leaving out more than I would put into my list. So it's. It's like giving you the 10 great books. You know, I don't want to do that, but maybe I don't know how this piano works. Maybe I should leave you with a piece of music by trying to see if I remember a minuet that I sometimes play when I give a lecture about Mozart. Anybody here knows the little minuet in D. Now there is obviously, you know, a minuet is a very small little piece and it's a dance in three quarter time like the walls. And it usually goes with a very goody goody kind of elegant expression. Well, Mozart decided to put a whole novel of surprises into those two minutes. Let's see if I can play it for you. I have no idea what kind of a sound comes out of that little monster.
- [39:35]
B
Save you, appropriately enough, with a piece of Moza.
- [40:04]
D
Thank you.
- [40:10]
B
This podcast was brought to you by the New York Institute for the Humanities. You can find us at stitcher, itunes and anywhere else you get your podcasts. For more information, Visit us at nyihumanities.org. Sam.