Reharmonizing Japan

Beethoven’s music is an integral part of the core repertories for instructors who teach in Music Humanities courses here at Columbia. When I teach the music of Beethoven written toward the end of his life, after my colleague’s recommendation, I assign a few extra readings to students. One of them is written by Theodor W. Adorno, entitled “Beethoven’s Late Style,” written in 1934. It brings readers to think more critically about Beethoven’s late works that are often characterized by the audible sense of fragmentation, dislocation, and seemingly intentional disregard of roles of convention—all of which Adorno refers to as “catastrophes.”

When I explained to the class that Adorno did not mean “catastrophes” as a pejorative term to describe Beethoven’s music but instead meant it as an intentional artistic “design” on Beethoven’s part, I had to stop for a moment. The word immediately made me think of the images of the disaster that struck the Northeast region of Japan on March 11. We have witnessed the catastrophes. We have been affected—whether directly, indirectly, or psychologically—by the monstrosity of the disaster and the imagery of what we were left with after the tsunami swept away the region.

Thus the word catastrophe takes on a new meaning, at least for me—something that is psychologically threatening, a sort of a crisis accompanied by a sense of helplessness. My spring break was spent in front of the TV, watching the NHK (Japan Broadcasting Corporation) news. Without fully recovering from the distressed state I was in during the spring break, I taught Beethoven alongside the Adorno reading today.

I held those two words, “catastrophes” and “crisis,” as key points. All of a sudden, Beethoven’s late works and the current state of Japan, seemingly completely unrelated, started to connect in my mind.

Because these two pieces are in the Adorno article, I played the fifth movement of the Beethoven’s 14th string quartet, Op. 131. It is a very peculiar movement. Musical gestures are fragmented by frequent insertions of pauses. The music keeps stopping. Then I played his Bagatelle, Op. 126-6, in which he presents a virtuosic piano flourish at the beginning. Then he ignores it for four minutes, but at the end—almost unexpectedly—the flourish returns. It is an audible representation of displacement. What’s going on here?

Beethoven embeds questions in his late works. The music asks us listeners, “What if the music is filled with so many pauses? How would that affect the way we hear the music? How are the flourishes at the beginning and at the end perceived?” In a way, the music tells us that its life goes on even after the death of its creator because these questions trigger people to think and spark dialogues. In that sense, Beethoven’s works give threads of hope—that the crisis is not the end and that the catastrophe is not the representation of the end. By way of dialectical turns, the crisis becomes the new beginning, and the catastrophes gives birth to it.

The disaster in Japan leaves us speechless. But it is an opportunity for recovery. The citizens’ diligent efforts, notably the “Fukushima 50,” are exemplary, as seen on various media. It is a new beginning, hopefully a start of something better than ever before.

In his own lifetime, Beethoven too had some major crises. We know of, for example, his deafness, some difficulties with his nephew, Karl, and the much debated and even romanticized aspect of his relationship with his “immortal beloved.” However, even during his life’s difficulties, he overcame his challenges and achieved his profound late style. Composing was his sole way to express himself outwardly. And most importantly, throughout his life, he continued to search his next step. He had to go onward. We too must go onward. This is one of the greatest lessons about a way of life that everybody can take.

The author is a teacher in the department of music and a Ph.D. candidate for a doctorate in musical arts.