One night I was driving through the country with the elderly master Olivier Messiaen. We passed the time with small talk and conversation about music, as well as about his many journeys, from Japan to the national parks in Utah in the United States. I asked him why he spent his precious time on these numerous travels, which were often not intended for notating the singing of unknown birds or to gain inspiration for new compositions, but purely and simply to be present at concerts of his music. These were rarely even premieres, which would have justified such journeys, however far. He would travel all this distance for yet another performance of the Turangalîla Symfonie or the Quatuor pour la fin du temps. In my eyes, this was lost time and energy for someone who already composed painfully slowly, and from whom we would have much appreciated some new works.

In all its clarity and honesty, Messiaen's answer was also cheerfully childlike:

But what is to be done with criticism; with unfulfilled wishes? Messiaen was convinced that you should treat musicians with a soft hand and with much respect. They are of no value to you if they no longer want to be committed to your music, just because you are grumpy and cross. Indeed, you need them.

Perhaps this is the most important difference between a painter or sculptor and a composer, between a poet or playwright and a composer, or even between a jeweller or cabinetmaker and a composer. The composer, just like the choreographer, needs someone who translates the work of art into real sounds or movements in order to make it understood.