Sound Before Consensus: Lessons from Cecil Taylor

The same principles that revealed themselves to me through Rockwell’s Concrete & Abstraction were already at work in my life long before they reached the canvas—through sound.

When I began working with Cecil Taylor, I encountered a parallel situation to the one that would later shape my thinking about abstraction. Cecil followed his own sound with uncompromising conviction. He did not adjust his language to be understood quickly, nor did he soften it to fit existing categories. The controversy surrounding his music was not incidental—it was the result of an audience trained to expect familiarity rather than inquiry.

As a drummer within that world, I faced the same pressures. The expectations placed on rhythm—timekeeping, support, predictability—were deeply ingrained. But Cecil’s music demanded something else entirely. It required listening at a structural level, responding to energy rather than formula, and understanding rhythm as a living architecture rather than a grid. Freedom in that context was not expressive excess; it was responsibility. Every sound mattered.

Much like abstraction, Cecil’s music was often dismissed as chaotic by those unwilling to engage it closely. Yet beneath the surface was extraordinary rigor—density, counterpoint, variation, and long-form development that only revealed itself over time. You could not arrive at understanding through speed. You had to stay.

I stayed for over a decade.

That commitment led to a sustained exploration of sound—through performances, recordings, and concerts that were not merely endured but ultimately recognized. What began as controversy matured into critical acclaim. The work did not change to meet consensus; consensus shifted through exposure, persistence, and depth. The music proved itself not through explanation, but through time.

This experience shaped my understanding of abstraction more profoundly than any theoretical text. It taught me that innovation does not require permission, that clarity does not always arrive immediately, and that endurance is inseparable from seriousness. It also taught me that the most honest work often appears threatening—not because it lacks structure, but because its structure is unfamiliar.

When I paint, I carry this knowledge with me. Gesture must earn its place, as sound did. Rhythm must function, not posture. Complexity must be lived into, not declared. Just as Cecil’s music demanded a new way of listening, abstraction demands a new way of seeing—one that resists shortcuts and refuses premature judgment.

The decade I spent inside that music reaffirmed what Rockwell’s painting first suggested: that real inquiry exists outside consensus, that controversy is often a sign of integrity, and that the deepest work reveals itself only through sustained engagement.

What I learned as a drummer—about time, restraint, density, and form—now governs my approach to painting. The canvas, like the bandstand, is not a place for demonstration. It is a place for listening.