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. _______ 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 _______ 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. _______ |