Episode 03: Absolute and Program
“Sometimes, music dazzles you the first time you listen. You may not even know why. It just clicks. You go to a random concert, you listen to Fantastic Symphony without necessarily knowing that’s what it’s called or who wrote it... and yet you leave stunned. Because you enjoyed it, because you felt comfortable, because the orchestra played so beautifully…”
Let's take a look, today, at the musical aesthetics of the first half of the 19th century. Or you know what, let's boil it down to a specific date - December 5, 1830. On that day, the Symphonie fantastique by Hector Berlioz premiered in the premises of Paris Conservatory. Why is that important, you wonder?
Well, because.
The aesthetic perception at that time gave rise to two musical concepts. Back then, they were standing in opposition to each other, provoking heated discussions. These concepts are called "absolute" and "program" music.
The purpose of "program" music, as the word itself suggests, is the existence of other than musical content within the composition. A program, if you will.
Such music is essentially made to tell you a story, depict phenomena or tickle your imagination. And the Fantastic Symphony by Berlioz does just that. It is a real milestone in this regard, as it is indeed the first program symphony ever. The work consists of five parts, to each of which Berlioz literally adds the storyline. He describes the environment, builds up scenes, depicts the psychological processes of the characters... he even goes as far as explaining the use of themes and symbols!
On the other side of the spectrum, you've got the "absolute" music.
The symphonies by Johannes Brahms are a perfect example of this. For Brahms, there is no need to explain his symphonies, it is alive on its own. It does not need to be interpreted, it doesn't need any other artistic expression to talk to its audience. According to him, absolute music is meant to represent the genuine art that affects man through sounds themselves – in their purity. Absolute music cannot be limited by verbal definitions, its only means of expression are bound to be melody, harmony, rhythm or form.
Honestly, I feel like I perfectly understand where they are coming from, both Berlioz and Brahms. Although it's highly probable that they would passionately disagree with me if I told them that absolute and program music didn't exclude each other. It was too sensitive a question back in the day, and I guess they felt obliged to defend their beliefs.
However, in my mind, I tend to arrive at a different perception of this dichotomy. I see it more as a battle of emotions versus ratio.
Sometimes, music dazzles you the first time you listen. You may not even know why. It just clicks. You go to a random concert, you listen to Fantastic Symphony without necessarily knowing that's what it's called or who wrote it... and yet you leave stunned. Because you enjoyed it, because you felt comfortable, because the orchestra played so beautifully…
Another time, you see a poster in the city inviting you to buy tickets for the Fantastic Symphony. So, you go to the ticket office, you even stop by at a library to borrow a book about Berlioz. As you flip through it, you realise what a complicated and unrestrained life he led. You're slowly starting to understand what it was like to live and work in the first half of the 19th century. While reading his poetic notes accompanying the Symphony itself, you get inevitably moved. And then, finally, in the concert hall, it feels as if the more you knew, the better you enjoyed the music. The music that might have had been equally breath-taking if you had approached it with a clean slate, not knowing anything beforehand.
You'll never know, though. And that's my point. Both are possible.
As an interpreter, it helps me to expand my consciousness beyond the music sheet. By that, I don't mean just the academic duty to play the compositions in the right style accounting for the authenticity of interpretation. To work on a piece of music as an artist means to think about it, to research it, to find the intersection between the composer's intention and your own, unique thumbprint.
All of this means spending time with the piece. And not just by sitting at the piano, staring at the sheet, making your neck stiff! Playing is not the mechanical processing of black dots on a white piece of paper. You can trust me on this as I went through this period myself. As a young student, overwhelmed by the joy and responsibility of being admitted to a prestigious art school, we spent months together, me and the black dots. Every minute not spent at the piano made me feel guilty for not practising enough. Over time, however, I began to realise that music worked differently. Of course, you have to practice. You must sit at the instrument and sweat it out. But prioritising the technical side of things will never push you forward on its own. You need to search for meaning, grasp the knowledge of form and content and make links within historical connotations. Simply put, one cannot work without the other - the more intimately I know the sheet music, the more space I spare for the imagination. And the more I understand the non-musical nooks, the better I conquer the technical side, the firmer I grasp the form, the more it jogs my memory.
If I set out to study Schumman's Fantasy, I start by browsing through Schumann's biography. I don't have to remember the facts, I don't need to retain the dates. What I want is to paint a picture of his time, to find out what the author was inspired by, how innovative he was, or what historical influences he drew on… You would hardly find a better inspiration. His music is still very much alive even though he created it two hundred years ago, so why not to revive “his” ghost as well? He might share his secrets with you so that you can discover a more vibrant spectrum of your interpretation and become even more confident.
Gradually, I become tied by a personal bond to every single piece I play. In some of them, I identify with the author's program, in others, I find my own stories. A few of them represent colour palettes in my eyes, a couple transforms into paintings. Some pieces effortlessly bring my inner feelings to the surface, others are just amazing as they are in their absolute musical complexity.
I decided to share with you my subjective take on this twofold substance of music. To that purpose, I chose two pieces by Sergei Rachmaninoff.
Under number 16, Rachmaninoff created an opus of 6 pieces called Moment Musicaux - Musical Moments. Together, they add up to a concert, but each of them is capable of standing on its own. For you, I chose to play number 4, a reflection of sorts on the form of the virtuoso etude. Due to its complexity, I could approach it purely from its technical side; however, my idea of interpretation goes deeper.
I perceive this composition as a large painting, seemingly static in its frame, but full of movement inside. Indulge me and imagine a big LCD. Get it? Now, let's bring a bit of style and romance to it, let's frame the display with an old carved frame in gold. Now, look inside. What do you see? I see a fire the flames of which ripple and flick to all directions. I see wild black horses as if I was galloping with them in the very core of their herd, seeing dozens of hoofs blowing up dust as we run through the open prairie. Suddenly, while the music keeps its rhythm in sixteenth notes, everything starts to soften, to calm down. I can see their manes in slow motion, their movement is so graceful and soft. I see a sunset, I see a pulsating heart, I feel the passion.
Opus 32 contains 13 preludes, all composed by Rachmaninoff in 1910. I chose the 10th one, called Prelude B minor, which was inspired... yes, you guessed it right, by a painting! It was the artwork by Arnold Böcklin called "The Homecoming" or "The Return" if you want, which made Rachmaninoff compose no 10. I only learnt about this fun fact after having studied and played the piece.
For me, even without ever seeing the painting, this piece inhabited a story of two people. A girl is in the centre of the piece, but it's only her mediated image. In actual fact, we see her through the eyes of a boy who thinks about her as he walks through an autumn evening, crushing golden leaves under his feet. He feels nostalgic, I can tell.
And here comes the part of intense gradation. The boy catches the girl in his arms, they look into each other's eyes. And even though their movements do not change or accelerate too much, their embrace becomes ever so tighter. Their gaze is interlocked with such vehemence that you can spot tears forming in the corners of their eyes. Despite this intensity... or maybe even due to it... the tears spill inside their eyes without falling on the cheeks. Their foreheads touch, he holds her arms with such strength, with such power... Then he drops the girl, looks down at his shoes, and breathes. In and out. The image of the girl in his head starts to vanish, suddenly it's just a fleeting smoke not easy to recapture. She melts away. It was all nothing but a memory.
His girl isn't there anymore, but strangely he doesn't despair. Now he knows where her soul has gone. And with that comes reconciliation. He'll never forget her, but he doesn't have to suffer anymore. He found his peace.
When I finally laid my eyes on Arnold Böcklin's painting, I was amazed.
I thought to myself - these are precisely the colours I imagined, these are the trees... my trees!... this is a faithful depiction of the atmosphere that Rachmaninoff's music painted in my head. Look it up yourself to see. A man sits on a stone reservoir of water representing the experience he had gathered throughout his life. Turned with his back to the observer looks towards the light. It may symbolically points out the peaceful settlement between man and death, which is ultimately accepted as a way home. A homecoming. A peace offering.