OCS Sound Library: Musical Notes - The Art of the Weaving Spider

 

 

The Art of the Weaving Spider

by A.A.Schaller

Notes on the Composition

History:

Tone Poem for Three Harps, Voice Choir and String Orchestra, transcribed and orchestrated in MIDI format in Spring of 2000, based on themes originally composed as a short piano piece (circa 1968-1970), and for rock combo with solo guitar (circa 1971-1974).

Running Time for featured MIDI version: 7 min, 50 sec.

File Size: ~ 46kb

Copyright 2000 by Adolf Schaller/OmniCosm Studios, All Rights Reserved.

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Like "Gliding the Glade", which is dedicated to the Monarch Butterfly, this tone poem was inspired by a biological subject. Schaller reports on the circumstances which led to the composition:

Early one morning late in the Spring of 2000, just before the sky brightened into dusk, I stepped outside to view the sunrise, as I habitually do following my nightly session of work. On this occasion I decided to climb the hill in my backyard to obtain another view and to look and listen for birds and animals as they greeted the dawn, a time of day which I have always considered to hold a special magic.

This particular morning was especially wet with dew, since the valley was filled with a thick bank of fog, but the growing season was not yet far enough along to have caused the path up the hill to be overgrown with vegetation, which allowed me to keep reasonably dry. Climbing by the light of the waning gibbous Moon, I located my favorite perch on a large rock some 50 meters up, near the margin of the forest which covers the crown of the hill. With eager anticipation I sat down just as the sky was beginning to brighten noticeably, watching and listening intently as the drama of dawn unfolded.

Suddenly I noticed I was surrounded by countless spider webs draped over the prairie vegetation, all heavily laden with dew. Their great variety in shape and size showed that they represented the efforts of a number of species, but I had never seen such a congregation of webs in any one time or place. Their design ranged from small funnel-shaped hovels to giant nets, from the haphazard to the geometrically sophisticated.

As the light gradually improved, I saw that many of them were occupied by their builders - the 8-legged arachnid architects of these marvelous food-catching nets of silk. Most striking among them were the giant so-called "Garden" or "Banana" spiders, who presided over webs of great size and diversity of parts, including a curious "zig-zag" pattern of thick silk knitted into the center of their otherwise simple concentric design. One hypothesis for this adornment is that it is readily noticeable by large creatures like birds or deer that might otherwise blunder into the web: as a kind of warning, advertising the presence of a spider web which might otherwise not be seen by birds and mammals which could easily damage or destroy it, the "insignia" is potentially quite effective. It is certainly most often the first thing I notice that instructs me to the presence of a garden spider web on the trail.

How the insignia evolved invites contemplation: perhaps those spiders that possessed some 'nervous' tendency to incorporate random patterns which were significantly visible to large creatures would be more likely to preserve their webs and increase the likelihood that their 'nervous genes' would survive. Eventually such patterns might become systematically stylized by selection pressures that place a premium on efficiency - the patterns evolve toward maximum effectiveness in warning large animals in combination with a minimum of silk and weaving time. (Even spiders are constrained by a "budget" on their construction projects and materials - not consciously, of course, but by the necessities of a finite world of resources and time which circumstance and Nature imposes; economic thrift certainly isn't an invention by human beings, who are more apt to regard themselves as "inventors" rather than "discoverers"). The zig-zag pattern may be a design which specifically enhances the chance of detection by large animals and birds while consisting of a minimal amount of silk. Moreover, it may be considerably simpler and quicker, in terms of energy expenditure, to weave the zig-zag pattern as part of a relatively easily programmed set of repetitive motions. However the final design that we see was finally arrived at, random experiments in pattern-making would inevitably produce a range of efficiencies that are tested by the environment. The best designs would be those which required a minimal amount of silk and effort to weave in order to capture the eye of a bird or mammal, and those would be the designs which would most likely be selected.

Thus this talisman of ordered pattern may have been selected out of a field of randomicity, out of the virtual chaos, which contained many more disordered designs than ordered ones. The big animals with pattern-recognition capabilities in their brains did the selecting - the spiders themselves are blissfully indifferent to it on any basis other than the instinctual. The execution of the pattern is ordered by their genes which were selected.

So much of this scenario coheres consistently with the circumstances that it would be a real disappointment to learn that it wasn't true. Accounting for order and pattern in Nature via the mechanism of cumulative natural selection can be a tricky and challenging thing, but finding a more agreeable alternative to this hypothesis of selection, on the idea of visual avoidance cues processed by the brains of animals that might otherwise devastate a web, is hard to imagine. Of course, multiple factors might well be involved in the selection of any trait: sexual selection, for example, never seems very far away in the fashioning of many extrinisic traits. It may well be that such orderly patterns on webs also preferentially draw prospective mates...

Another smaller and more slender species I spotted (unidentified to me) possessed peculiar thorn-like protuberances on its abdomen arrayed against the world in a diabolical-looking symmetry; it gave it a rather fearsome aspect, although it was a very handsome creature. I could see no purpose in that devilish countenance other than one which soon comes to mind upon encountering it: it looks like something which would be very painful to eat. It appeared to be an armor admirably designed to irritate the throat or gullet of a larger predator, such as a bird - a miniature mace that would surely be effective on soft tissue. (Not that such armament would assist the individual who was unlucky enough to have been swallowed, but it would certainly be an effective deterrent to any predator who possessed a memory of an unpleasant gustatory experience involving this species of spider). I couldn't see that this thorny adornment was any good against potential predators the size of, say, ants. Nor did it seem likely as a defence against other spiders.

Many other species were present, but the striking thing was the sheer profusion of spiders in terms of population density. For some reason this location was apparently very much to their liking. I noted that the convexly-curved hillside faced generally south and slightly west - it still caught the earliest rays of the rising Sun in the east at that time of year (and would continue to receive abundant sunshine almost to sunset), but the more important factor perhaps was that it was a natural flying insect trap. Prevailing winds out of the west channeled up through the east-west-trending valley would blow the insects into the slope where the spiders lay in wait. They were hopeful trappers.

All were marvelous in their exquisite biological intricacy and were forceful reminders of the endless range of design evolution can explore via natural selection anywhere in the universe: I was looking at "aliens" - creatures as far removed from ordinary human experience as any other might be. But these aliens were not extraterrestrial. They were in fact more intimately related to me than any ET elsewhere in the Cosmos is ever likely to be. If such incredible diversity was to be found in a small local district of a single hillside, there is no imagining the scope of what Nature could do with a range of planetary environments...

As dawn broke and the brilliant sunlight began to filter through the tree-lined horizon and penetrate the fog, countless droplets of dew displayed prismatic colors, as if the entire hillside were adorned with tiny jewels of every hue. To the west, opposite the rising Sun, I spied a saturated "rainbow" - complete with secondary and supernumerary bows - superimposed against sky and vegetation alike: I was sitting amidst a spectral spider wonderland of vitality and color, an experience I shall never forget.

Then, as the warmth of the Sun encouraged flying insects to take to the air, I watched fascinated as first one, then another, hapless midge or fly became hopelessly ensnared in a web. The drama which played out before my eyes was captivating. In their struggling, vibrations on the webs communicated to their owners of the arrival of a meal. Sensitively alert to the slightest tremor, these disturbances would provoke a spider to rush onto the insect, usually after what seemed to be a cautious pause. In a frenzy of terrific dexterity and almost frightening urgency, the spider would wrap the victim in a shroud of silk. One would get the impression that it was done in haste, not just to secure the meal before it could get away, but also to render it safely immobile so as to keep damage to the spider's precious web to a minimum. The operation was often done with such rapidity that it was almost impossible to spot the "coup de grace" bite which either paralyzed or killed the prey - it was hard to tell which. Several spiders actually neatly dismantled and reorganized portions of the web in the immediate vicinity of the victim, it seemed, so as to better secure it as a stable food cache. On one web a spider had stored a dozen meals clustered in a section of her web.

In an exposed gap in a hollow in the vegetation that surrounded me, I spied a spider busily engaged at weaving her new web. No one who has witnessed this elegantly choreographed spectacle can refrain from appreciating that we are not the only creatures in the world who are adept at engineering prowess, fine architecture and elegant design.

On another web I saw maturity flourish in the form of a multitude of spiderlets crawling about on and next to their mother on their web, in the vicinity of several captured insects wrapped tidily in their shrouds. The sight of those baby spiders reminded me of another special encounter I had with spiders one sunny afternoon decades ago when, as a boy, I witnessed a series of what were initially mysterious, shimmering "filmy" apparitions floating high above in an otherwise clear blue sky. Dozens of these irregular masses wafted along on the wind hundreds or perhaps thousands of feet up, like so many delicate silken veils. Engrossed by their ghostly motion, I had watched them drift by for hours, completely baffled as to their nature. Then it hit me like a bolt: fine strands of spider silk had been descending on me all day that day, along with their miniature passengers. They were everywhere - it seemed I was brushing them off of my hair and arms constantly. But it was not until that electric moment that I had made the connection. The "ufo's" turned out to be legions of baby spiders riding the high winds, their silk strands acting as collective sails or parachutes shining brightly in the strong sunlight.

The vividness of that recollection from childhood spurred another, like some remberances resurrect a long-forgotten scent, and at that moment I suddenly recalled a tune I had composed back at that time, in the late 60's. (the original composition was meant as an instrumental number for a rock combo, with a guitar solo for the melody in the main refrain, heard in the last half of the composition). Upon hearing a rendition of the theme as I happened to play it on the piano on another occasion just several years earlier, a young friend of mine, Shawn Kylo, had suggested the song evoked spiders in his mind, not altogether pleasantly. He has referred to it ever since as "the spider song", and still thinks its "kinda scary".

Up on the hill that morning, I now saw that Shawn's impression was quite insightful: the possibilities rapidly coagulated as I realized that the tune indeed seemed to capture the essence of the spider way of life. I immediately saw an analogical correlation between spider silk strands and vibration and stringed instruments - especially when plucked pizzacato-fashion like the strands of a spider's web. I saw the orchestration in a flash - two or more harps accompanied by a string section, along with a voice choir to lend it an aire of "alien" octopodal pulchridtude. The composition played itself out fully formed in my mind as I watched the spiders surrounding me, and I knew I had a tone poem that needed urgent transcription.

I reluctantly bid farewell to my arachnid hosts and rushed down the hill to transcribe it into midi on my computer. By noon I was finished, and this tone poem is the result of that experience. (While working on the composition, I discovered another variety of arachnid passenger that had hitched a ride on my person - one of the more nasty members of the class, the vile and thoroughly unpleasant parasitical tick... Fortunately it never got the opportunity to sample my blood).

Thus came about this composition: it tells the story of the life-cycle of the spider, evoking the wonders of spider silk and the myriad ways it is employed in the construction of spider webs (including even the means to fly!) - all in the service of reproduction. I called it "The Art of the Weaving Spider", in honor of one of the master weavers of the animal kingdom.

 

A. A. Schaller

May-June 2000

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More writings and essays on science, nature and the environment, along with many other subjects, will be posted soon in the OmniCosm Studios Word Library.

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