On Composing (cont’d)…
A couple weeks ago, I shared a snippet of a piece of original music I’ve been working on. It’s not my first, but it is a first in that, rather than letting it languish in a drawer or in a corner of my drafty mind palace, I’m committing myself to putting this one out into the world. If that sounds more like bluster than bravado that’s because it is—it would be a lie to say I don’t care what people think of it. However, I’m going to try to not let that lead me off course. It’s a deeply personal piece and I hope it brings people some quiet joy, some serenity.
Morioka, Iwate-ken
For me, composing has always been a private affair; an exercise for myself, not something for public consumption. My process has always been the same: essentially I noodle—or “improvise,” as it’s sometimes called—until I come up with a fragment that I can build from.
Mito, Ibaraki-ken
This time, though that method definitely played into it, I leaned into something more personal. However, as listeners, we often project our own experiences, thoughts, and feelings on a given piece of music, so I’m reluctant to share my inspiration in hopes that you might imprint your own imagery or narrative on what you hear.
Biwako, Shiga-ken (photo by Jun Mizuno)
Obviously, my dad is one of, if not the primary influences on me, but I also found I drew from some of the works of my grandfather and great-great-grandfather as well, aesthetically. My father’s composition Dōkyō (“Copper Mirror”) was originally called Hankyō (“Reverberation”); with the precedent of changing the names of pieces in place, I am tentatively calling this 漣々 or Renren—one definition being “ripples [on the water’s surface]” which is a visual that often occurs to me with shakuhachi music. I have fragments of two other pieces which I hope will make a kind of suite: 黄暮 (Ōbo, or Twilight) which comes from a haiku written by my dad, and 雨上がり (Ame Agari, “after the rainfall”), from the same poem. These titles, as I said, are ad interim.
Philosopher’s Path, Kyoto (photo by Robert Yellin)
I can’t help but be reminded of my great-great-grandfather and his outline for three pieces: Tsuki no Kyoku, Yuki no Kyoku, and Hana no Kyoku*. Sadly, he died before he was able to complete Yuki or Hana, and I have yet to discover a surviving copy of his drafts.
My great-grandfather, Kodō III did not compose any music that we’re aware of, which is by no means a shortcoming. His passion was arranging and performing Edo-period ensemble chamber music (sankyoku). He perfected the shakuhachi sankyoku notation and published a vast catalogue of these works.
His passing at such a young age (56) make it somewhat unsurprising that he didn’t compose. Had he lived to a ripe old age, it’s feasible he would have written something of his own.
Still, I always thought what he accomplished in his life was enough. I’d like to think he was content to play the music that was all around him, and to continue to perfect his interpretations of it. While we can lament at what could have been, he is no lesser for his lack of compositions, and his contribution to the preservation of traditional music can not be overstated.
Speaking for myself, I never liked the idea of writing music just for the sake of doing it. I always said that if the inspiration hit me, I’d listen; but otherwise, there’s more than enough challenging, complex, and beautiful music out there to occupy my attention—enough for my lifetime, anyway.
However, the inspiration did find me, and I am listening.
More anon,
Hanz
*Song of the Moon, Song of Snow, Song of Flowers