Beethoven's Sixth, final movement
In eleventh grade, I wrote a bucket list to try to oust me from my depression. I think of it from time to time and make a similar effort still, pulling out a pen and paper to note certain things that bring me joy--anything to take my mind off my dark moods. Back then, I had six things:
1. Learn the flute
2. See Beethoven's 5th Live
3. See Beethoven's 6th Live
4. See Beethoven's 9th Live
5. Fall in love
6. See Chopin's grave
Since then, I've done all these things. It was a short, simple list. Nothing impossible or vague. Each is a story in itself. Tonight, for some reason, I've gravitated toward his Sixth Symphony, reminded of my list.
Beethoven's Sixth is a story in itself. The first piece of programatic music, written at the same time as the Fifth--and therefore the time of his suicide note--it contains a delicate, vernal joy absent in other work. In the Fifth, drama shines, but in the Sixth, poetry charms the audience. It describes Beethoven's love affair with the country, beginning with a sunrise, then laying us down by a quiet brook, taking us through a storm, and refreshing us with the sun's return as the clouds clear. It is his most melodic symphony and one of the most beautiful classical pieces ever written.
Something about it's playful, pastoral grace keeps it popular. Especially in an age increasingly isolated from nature and simplicity, it reminds us that nature's beauty never fades. I've seen it live three times, and even wrote a review of it for the school paper. Each time, I heard something new.
I first saw it with my neighbor and my parents in tenth grade. My neighbor's wife had died a few months before. He loved Beethoven's Sixth--it was one of his favorite pieces. Sitting next to him, I sensed his joy--a rich mingling of memory and sadness--as he watched the conductor's baton slice and seesaw through the air. It remains a fond memory. Not worth a story, but a subtle shade of sound and heartbeat that still lingers, thick and meaningful, in odd corners of the night or on bus rides draped in silence.
Second, I saw it with a violinist friend in twelfth grade. During one of the darkest months of my depression, it reminded me of Beethoven's battle with deafness. I reread his suicide note before the performance. Its searing pain and outright despair melted with the the opening notes of the piece, when I saw the golden fields of the country glitter across the stage, trees swaying with the wind. Here, at last, the tortured genius found joy and solace, something to keep him going for another three symphonies until his poor health killed him.
Like a voice stretched across time, Beethoven spoke to me, giving me a reason to live, rubbing the pain away. The rest of the audience faded, the orchestra drifted into haze. Only the music remained. And the peace it conjured.
I saw it last spring, the last concert of the Syracuse Symphony Orchestra, their season cut short with bankruptcy. I had my friends to my left, a notebook and pen on my lap, and my girlfriend then of two weeks to my right, locking her hand in mine. Especially when I hear the final movement, that golden French horn cresting over the storm--a revolutionary orchestration--I'm hit with that moment again, living somewhere in my memory, all the joy present in a single salvo.
I once thought all of life could be rendered into beauty. A mastered perspective can swim in the beauty of the world all the time. I've changed my mind, but for some brief flickers, beauty and joy can be overwhelming. We can easily cling to such moments. They're easy to miss, and we can die fighting to resurrect the past. Learning to say goodbye despite our human longing for constancy and comfort may be the hardest thing we must do.
To me, classical masterpieces, devoid of words, speak with eloquence and variety. Each experience shapes the story we draw from it. When the music fades from the last sound wave falling away in the concert hall, that living moment dies. Sometimes I wish no one would clap, letting the silence settle to remind us how sacred such moments are. We begin in a womb of heartbeats and muffled voices from beyond the wall. We die encased in silence. The sounds of life bridge the gap. Life and music remain entwined for me, each moment a single strain, my whole existence a single note along the endless measures of time. Each passes to the next, a natural succession of some ceaseless symphony.
The tempo always calls us forward, no matter how much we long to go back. The tempo forces us to say goodbye, no matter how beautiful and joyful certain moments are. But the music continues if we choose to listen. New beauty, new joy, will always come. This is why Beethoven always ends on a note of hope.
1. Learn the flute
2. See Beethoven's 5th Live
3. See Beethoven's 6th Live
4. See Beethoven's 9th Live
5. Fall in love
6. See Chopin's grave
Since then, I've done all these things. It was a short, simple list. Nothing impossible or vague. Each is a story in itself. Tonight, for some reason, I've gravitated toward his Sixth Symphony, reminded of my list.
Beethoven's Sixth is a story in itself. The first piece of programatic music, written at the same time as the Fifth--and therefore the time of his suicide note--it contains a delicate, vernal joy absent in other work. In the Fifth, drama shines, but in the Sixth, poetry charms the audience. It describes Beethoven's love affair with the country, beginning with a sunrise, then laying us down by a quiet brook, taking us through a storm, and refreshing us with the sun's return as the clouds clear. It is his most melodic symphony and one of the most beautiful classical pieces ever written.
Something about it's playful, pastoral grace keeps it popular. Especially in an age increasingly isolated from nature and simplicity, it reminds us that nature's beauty never fades. I've seen it live three times, and even wrote a review of it for the school paper. Each time, I heard something new.
I first saw it with my neighbor and my parents in tenth grade. My neighbor's wife had died a few months before. He loved Beethoven's Sixth--it was one of his favorite pieces. Sitting next to him, I sensed his joy--a rich mingling of memory and sadness--as he watched the conductor's baton slice and seesaw through the air. It remains a fond memory. Not worth a story, but a subtle shade of sound and heartbeat that still lingers, thick and meaningful, in odd corners of the night or on bus rides draped in silence.
Second, I saw it with a violinist friend in twelfth grade. During one of the darkest months of my depression, it reminded me of Beethoven's battle with deafness. I reread his suicide note before the performance. Its searing pain and outright despair melted with the the opening notes of the piece, when I saw the golden fields of the country glitter across the stage, trees swaying with the wind. Here, at last, the tortured genius found joy and solace, something to keep him going for another three symphonies until his poor health killed him.
Like a voice stretched across time, Beethoven spoke to me, giving me a reason to live, rubbing the pain away. The rest of the audience faded, the orchestra drifted into haze. Only the music remained. And the peace it conjured.
I saw it last spring, the last concert of the Syracuse Symphony Orchestra, their season cut short with bankruptcy. I had my friends to my left, a notebook and pen on my lap, and my girlfriend then of two weeks to my right, locking her hand in mine. Especially when I hear the final movement, that golden French horn cresting over the storm--a revolutionary orchestration--I'm hit with that moment again, living somewhere in my memory, all the joy present in a single salvo.
I once thought all of life could be rendered into beauty. A mastered perspective can swim in the beauty of the world all the time. I've changed my mind, but for some brief flickers, beauty and joy can be overwhelming. We can easily cling to such moments. They're easy to miss, and we can die fighting to resurrect the past. Learning to say goodbye despite our human longing for constancy and comfort may be the hardest thing we must do.
To me, classical masterpieces, devoid of words, speak with eloquence and variety. Each experience shapes the story we draw from it. When the music fades from the last sound wave falling away in the concert hall, that living moment dies. Sometimes I wish no one would clap, letting the silence settle to remind us how sacred such moments are. We begin in a womb of heartbeats and muffled voices from beyond the wall. We die encased in silence. The sounds of life bridge the gap. Life and music remain entwined for me, each moment a single strain, my whole existence a single note along the endless measures of time. Each passes to the next, a natural succession of some ceaseless symphony.
The tempo always calls us forward, no matter how much we long to go back. The tempo forces us to say goodbye, no matter how beautiful and joyful certain moments are. But the music continues if we choose to listen. New beauty, new joy, will always come. This is why Beethoven always ends on a note of hope.