»You look like 50% of the world's population, but are professionalised as a minority«

There are plenty of numbers today that show that composers, musicians and sound artists who identify as women are in the minority when it comes to representation on stages, festivals, museums, in academic research and music education as composer Juliana Hodkinson's so adequately condense in the quote above, which is an excerpt from her essay to the Seismograf Focus titled Sounding Women’s Work that was published in March 2022.

Gender biases and unequal representations affecting professionals identifying as women in a Danish context have for the past decade been well documented in several surveys initiated by Danish music institutions and trade associations (e.g. Koda 2020; Dansk Live 2018; DMF et al. 2017; DMF et al. 2012), something that recently has been underpinned by more qualitative studies (KVINFO 2022; DR and Bandcamp 2022). Additionally within the past few years various Danish composers and musicians identifying as women have publicly told of an industry that is characterized by experiences of sexism, ageism and lack of diversity. But even though there is an increased focus on gender and representation in the sound art and music industry, the experience of gendered expectations, and how these permeate everything from work practices to infrastructures in the sound art and music life, is still an under-illuminated research field.

The audio paper Intervals invites listeners to dwell into the story of women working and weaving hemp burial garment sambe in South Korea. The myth in sambe that is orally conveyed until now-time – like the author’s grandmother believed – is regarded that if you have the burial garment sambe when you are alive, you have a long life and die in peace. 

The author asked Sunhee, one of the women producing sambe, what it means to have and wear sambe and why it is important for them. Sunhee said: 

»We come to the earth, we are born into this world. 

We will, one day, go back to where we come from which we call it death. 

When we die, we should not leave anything behind, 

our body has to completely decompose. 

Abstract

How come women composers are still so inadequately represented in historical canons and museum exhibitions? With a focus on historical Danish women composers and from the perspective of the Danish Music Museum, I argue that this is largely due to memory culture, an incredibly powerful frame within the realms of classical music and curatorial practices. This is illustrated, first, by discussing an exhibition at The Musikhistorisk Museum & The Carl Claudius Collection, Kvinder komponerer [Women Compose] from 1980 and its (limited but notable) legacy 40 years later. Second, I triangulate between memory studies, gender studies, and historical musicology in order to discuss memory culture as an overlooked but all-important obstacle in the rediscovery of women composers. 

This article gives anthropological insight into how gender/ing practices mattered in P3´s organization of music production in the mid 2010s. Through field reports and interviews with actors in the field the article reports from a P3 production environment where gender/ing stereotypical cultural (music) models and everyday enacted sexism weaved in and out of unfortunate gendered alliances between the listeners, the hosts and a ‘blind’ management, and could be seen, at its best, to be sustaining status-quo when it came to gender representation in music (and inequality), and, at its worst, to be strengthening gendered un-equality. While trying to pin out some attention points to be aware of in everyday sexism in environments of music production, the article explores the potentials of combining an Anthropology of Learning with an Ethnomusicology of Affect in order to investigate processes of what anthropologist Cathrine Hasse calls for the ‘centrifugal and centripetal forces’ of ‘cultural models’ in work environments, which means, in this particular case, the inclusion and exclusion of gendered artefacts, bodies and things in the spaces of P3´s music production.

Der er noget befriende ved catalanskfødte Xavier Bonfill, som bor ude på Refshaleøen med dens skiftevis dystopiske og utopiske sammenfiltring af fortidig industri og menneskeskabt natur. Hele sin karriere har han arbejdet med elektronisk musik, men konstant forsøgt at holde fast i en menneskelig forbindelse til maskinen. Det har været hans projekt, mens han har læst komposition på Det Kongelige Danske Musikkonservatorium, men det har også været et identitetsmæssigt spørgsmål, fornemmer man. På en forsigtig måde har han lagt hele sin sjæl ind i udforskningen af natur og elektronik som en hybrid.

I begyndelsen af maj debuterede han så som komponist fra konservatoriet. Hvad viste debutkoncerten?

Lidt over halvvejs i koncerten med footwork-produceren RP Boo, skete dét jeg så inderligt havde håbet på. Den pult, som indtil videre havde befæstet Chicago-Dj’en, fik lov at passe sig selv, idet han trådte frem på scenen i Valby Kulturhus. Automatisk bevægede min ivrige krop sig nærmere scenekanten: Mon han viser nogle trin? 

Åh ja. I et spontant udbrud kastede RP Boo sine fuldbefarne 50-årige fødder rundt i luften. Det emmede af livsbekræftende eufori i de grundtrin, han selv har været med til at opdrage siden 90’erne. Både gennem dans og beats – de siamesiske tvillinger, der udgør footwork.

»I’m from Chicago«, overhørte jeg én fortælle RP Boo efter koncerten, »and this felt like home«. 

My pregnant body changed things. The nausea that was best alleviated by the fact that I ate all the time, and the abdominal muscles that moved on, and being short of breath. I was in the process of recording my debut album for my alto saxophone and preparing for my graduation concert at the Conservatory of Music, and I was busy rehearsing and playing concerts with various bands. 

At first, only my boyfriend knew I was pregnant. A little later, my loved ones heard about it. But I would not tell it to my surroundings until I was well into my pregnancy. When my mother gave birth to my little brother, it was after her fifth pregnancy, two of whom had not succeeded. Four days later it was May 1st and we were having breakfast at. 6 in the voters' association’ s premises with my little brother in  a pram. I was a 6 year old girl and learned that working class women did not let themselves be defined and hindered by pregnancy and childbirth. 

Min gravide krop ændrede ved tingene. Kvalmen, som bedst lod sig dæmpe ved, at jeg spiste hele tiden, og mavemusklerne, der flyttede på sig, og det at være stakåndet. Jeg var i gang med at indspille mit debutalbum for min altsaxofon og forberede min afgangskoncert på musikkonservatoriet, og jeg havde travlt med at øve og spille koncerter med forskellige bands. 

Først var det kun min allerkæreste, der vidste, at jeg var gravid. Lidt senere fik mine nærmeste det at høre. Men jeg ville ikke fortælle det til min omverden, før jeg var et godt stykke henne i graviditeten. Da min mor fødte min lillebror, var det efter hendes femte graviditet, hvoraf to ikke var lykkedes. Fire dage senere var det 1. maj, og vi var til morgenmad kl. 6 i vælgerforeningen med lillebror i barnevogn. Jeg var en pige på 6 år og erfarede, at arbejderkvinder ikke lod sig mærke af graviditet og fødsel. 

Da forskrækkelsen efter braget fra højttalerne havde lagt sig, begyndte det for alvor at dæmre for mig, hvad inklusion kan betyde på en lydkunstfestival. Den første aften på Spor i Aarhus blev én af de gange på årets festival (29. april-1. maj), hvor jeg mærkede kunsten skabe plads til noget af det, der normalt ikke får plads. Og pladsen var åben for mig – jeg blev trygt taget i hånden.

Det var ellers ikke givet, at jeg ville få en tryg oplevelse, da Kim Mejdahls album Liljegrotten skulle afspilles på Turkis (selv om spillestedet, som tidligere hed Atlas, er blev opgraderet og nu ligner en hyggelig tyrkisk dagligstue). Det var nemlig et af de værker i år, der rakte ud i den dystert dybe alvor i forholdet mellem os og klimaet. Et forhold, der mildest talt føles umuligt at overskue og forholde sig til. Liljegrottens svar lå i det monstrøse, så det stod med andre ord til at blive en udfordrende kunstoplevelse, hvilket det blev. Braget fra højttalerne startede en sonisk syndflod, der fossede direkte ind i kroppen. Med ét var rummet fyldt med lyd – dyb rungen og højfrekvent klingren i et velproduceret virvar. En barnestemme? Bolde på strenge og forvrænget latter i turbulent foranderlighed, undervejs med bastunge holdepunkter, der rystede gulvet under mig som rytmiske jordskælv.