In this article, which is a brief compilation of excerpts of letters written by Tchaikovsky, he describes the creative process as being "lyrical," meaning that the music has a sort of flow. In comparing the process to a seed that grows into a plant, he asserts that no idea is ever fully realized at the initial point of inspiration. I thought it was interesting that he emphasized the importance of being critical of your own work along every step of the way: "Sometimes one must do oneself violence, must sternly and pitilessly take part against oneself, before one can mercilessly erase things thought out with love and enthusiasm." Ugh. Is there anyone who can't relate to that beautifully worded statement? As I read it, my thoughts were transported to numerous times when I have tried to compose pieces of music for solo piano. I mean, I'm no Tchaikovsky, but I've sat down at a piano with a feverish desire to create something beautiful, starting with an idea that had popped into my head, and I've scribbled away on notation paper in an attempt to bring my thoughts to life, and my original idea has led to new ideas, and those new ideas have invaded the original "seed" to the point where the work becomes a whole new plant, and I've had to give way to the creative flow and follow its lead, even when it had led me far away from the plan in my head. There is a horrifying sense of powerlessness in this. I have found that it is extremely difficult for me to engage in the act of crumpling up the paper and going back to the drawing board. I'm ashamed to say that I have had moments of selfish cowardice in which I have doubted my creative instincts and have refused to discard an idea that, deep down, I knew wasn't working. During the process, this feels like home. This is known as "the comfort zone." But in the end, the product is quite the opposite: it's unnatural, it's uncomfortable...there's something about it that goes against every fiber of your being, and you feel guilty for not trusting yourself. You may ask, if I am the creator, why should I have to scrap something that I deemed beautiful at one point in the process? Isn't that a disturbance of the flow? Isn't starting over the same as giving up? It certainly feels that way sometimes! But I think that Tchaikovsky was right in saying that creative work involves "critical examination, leading to correction, occasional additions and frequent curtailments." Of course every artist is different, but I think all artists can learn something from the notion that a creative thinker must strive to maintain a balance between free, uninhibited thinking and acute self-awareness to ensure that he remains true to himself. A paradox? Yes. No surprise there.
The second letter in the article begins with a brilliant imperative statement: "Do not believe those who try to persuade you that composition is only a cold exercise of the intellect." Because great music evokes such glorious sensations from its audiences, it seems obvious that the composer's process should be an emotional one, but there is a far more technical, scientific aspect of music that some composers choose to focus on exclusively, and their work is subpar. In the words of Tchaikovsky, "The only music capable of moving and touching us is that which flows from the depths of the composer's soul when he is stirred by inspiration." Instrumental music tells a story. I did not fully understand this concept until I attended the pre-concert chat with maestro Lanfranco Marcelletti (pictured above) before the Cayuga Chamber Orchestra concert last night. He likened a symphony to an opera in an awesome way, and I'll not soon forget what he said: "In the first movement of a symphony, the two main themes are introduced. These are like the main characters in an opera. In the second movement of a symphony, the main themes realize that they have feelings for one another and they fall in love. In the third movement, when the minuet is introduced, everyone is dancing and there's lots of excitement to build up to the fourth and final movement, during which the two main themes either get married and live happily ever after, or everyone dies, and either way it is beautiful. Just like an opera." This certainly goes along with Tchaikovsky's idea that great music comes from the soul; both statements assert that there is meaning and intent behind every single element of a musical composition. And what a treat it was to hear Beethoven's 8th Symphony with Marcelletti's "opera" concept in mind! I had an incredible listening experience, and the main themes lived happily ever after.
Later in the concert, the orchestra performed Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Minor with cello soloist Steven Doane, and I was forever changed. Goodness, I'm shaking just thinking about this performance. I had been sitting in on rehearsals for this piece throughout the week, and every little excerpt I had heard had brought tears to my eyes, so I couldn't wait to finally hear the whole concerto from start to finish. Upon reading the program, I learned that the composer, Edward Elgar, had written the piece in the aftermath of World War I, in which many of his friends had perished, and suddenly I understood why this piece had made me cry: it was, in fact, laden with sorrow. Maestro Marcelletti reentered and the concerto began. You typically expect a symphony to begin with an attention-grabbing tutti section, but this piece began with a lonely, dramatic cello solo, which was gripping in a different way (and actually the full orchestra didn't come together until the very last passage!). Soloist Steven Doane played from memory with such passion and grace, and the entire orchestra assumed his level of energy. Right from the start, I was transported. With the composer and the conductor and the notes and the sounds, I went on a journey through all of the stages of grief...there was denial in the rushed confusion as the melody darted around between the strings and the wind section, like a dog chasing its tail. There was anger in the pizzicato. Depressed sobs could be heard in the droning of the cellos. In my favorite section, the cello soloist played a motif that could only be described as melodic weeping, and the full orchestra echoed this musical idea in one collective emotional release...it was as if the music had been holding back its tears and finally decided to let go. The sound of the full orchestra felt as if it were being squeezed out of the cello solo, like the tightness of the face of a person who is trying not to sob out loud.
(Here is a link to a recording of the piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HpKab6GRBIg The aforementioned section begins about 25 minutes in).
How can I describe what this moment was like for me sitting in the audience? As the music rose in intensity, a lump rose in my throat and I too released my emotions, in the form of tears. This type of reaction in me is ordinarily reserved for choral music; I had never responded to instrumental music this way before, and it was profound. As this section faded out, a bold restatement of the opening cello solo emerged, but unlike before, it was not lonely and forlorn; this time it was defiant, strong, wise...it had overcome loss. The piece ended with harsh, powerful chords, both a reminder of the pain of grief and a symbol of courage and acceptance.
In "Composing a Symphony," Tchaikovsky describes music as "a subtle medium in which to translate the thousand shifting moments in the mood of a soul." Since I had had such a remarkable musical experience mere hours before reading this statement, Tchaikovsky's words resonated with me deeply. Listening to the Elgar Cello Concerto enabled me to feel what the composer must have felt as he was writing, and that is a sign of true artistry. The power of a symphony to move its audience comes from the real human emotions that the composer pours into his work, and the vulnerability that comes with this kind of self-expression is an essential part of the creative process.
No comments:
Post a Comment