I was at a wedding recently. There was music at the reception and it happened to be a friend of mine who was sitting behind the piano in the corner of the room. The first song he played was Claude Debussy’s Arabesque No. 1, certainly not my idea of a warm-up song. He played it beautifully, perfectly, and it connected with me. Throughout the reception he played a variety of pieces; hymns, classical works (including Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie No. 1, a favorite of mine), and some recognizable hits—I think I heard Can’t Help Falling in Love at some point. It got me thinking about music and, subsequently, about writing something that’s been festering for a while.
I’ve been learning piano for a few years now (thanks Grandma for patiently teaching me!) and my two crowning achievements are learning to play the first movement of Moonlight Sonata (Beethoven) and Spiegel im Spiegel (Arvo Part). Neither of these are incredibly complex pieces; each has a repetitive scheme with slight variations throughout, and I recommend them to anyone learning piano. What makes them so valuable to me is the power they carry in simplicity. Both composers have been able to communicate truth and humanity without words, weaving invisible yet tangible impressions. Each piece has taken form within me and I want to share what I’ve learned and felt with you. This post is about appreciating art, and I ask that you read it when you have time to think. Art needs to be digested, it needs to be absorbed and processed; this can be time-consuming, but I want you to reap all you can from these artistic impressions.
Moonlight Sonata — A Bitter Farewell
I want you to listen to this piece before you continue reading. Close your eyes and let whatever images come to your mind play out. If you see memories, indulge them. If you see things or places or people you’ve never seen, follow them.
Many associate this piece with the onset of Beethoven’s deafness, a somber acceptance of his hearing loss. Others associate it with death or a sort of funeral march. The stories behind one of Beethoven’s most popular pieces have no factual credibility, leaving us with little more than rumors: a blind girl playing the piano in a moonlit room, a pupil he had fallen in love with, etc. I want to look inward rather than outward, where Beethoven is taking us rather than where he was when he wrote the piece.
When I play Moonlight Sonata, I envision an approaching death. In the stream of invisible soundwaves I see a person watching a loved one die. Perhaps it’s their father or mother, perhaps a grandparent, perhaps a spouse or lover; someone close. The protagonist is angry. They can’t accept the inevitable death inching forward. In the somber moments of the piece, they’re walking alone trying to reconcile what’s happening, watching their loved one sleep and wondering if they’ll wake. In the brighter moments, the piece shifts to fragile optimism; the loved one is awake, there’s a conversation being had in which the dying is imparting hope to those they’re leaving behind. They are peaceful about their death and want their family to be peaceful as well. But how? For the one watching them die, how can they let go? How will everything be alright?
The final bars of the song are quite literal death throes. The sharp rise and sporadic descent over the keyboard expresses varying emotions—hope, despair, fear, anger; everything assaults the protagonist as the heart monitor flatlines.
The piece ends with the certain death of the protagonist’s loved one. The repetition of the final chord is the last nail in the coffin, the truth that shatters hope. They’re gone, and the protagonist is left in the hospital or a dim room with the grieving family.
There is hope, however, in the second movement. It’s a major shift in tone and energy that implies respite years after the funeral. I haven’t learned to play the second or third movements, but perhaps in time I will. For now, this piece is to me a wordless story of accepting death—not one’s own, but that of another.
Spiegel im Spiegel — Unspoken Words
Again, listen to this piece before you read. This time, however, I want you to think of phrases and words. Let them develop and mature and breathe out into whatever faces are there to receive them.
Hearing Spiegel im Spiegel for the first time is hard to describe. For all its simplicity, it manages to do so many things. When I first heard it, I was sad and happy and peaceful all at once. But it wasn’t until I learned to play it that the piece took a more defined personality.
What phrases came to mind while you were listening? I’m sorry. It’s going to be alright. I forgive you. I love you. Goodbye. These are a few that repeatedly come to me. Melancholy optimism. The sound and construction of the piece is so fitting, given that Arvo Part wrote it just before leaving his home in Estonia. It’s as if he’s saying goodbye but, at the same time, looking to the future with hope. It’s powerful in a way that words can’t express, at the same time it spawns words within us as we listen to or play it.
The translation of Spiegel im Spiegel is “Mirror in the Mirror”; a profound connection to the emotions carried throughout the piece. It’s introspective, an attempt to see one’s self in a mirror but being confused by the reflection of another mirror behind; the result is an endless hall of images—varying emotions; all true, but profoundly different and difficult to take in all at once. It’s the audial story of leaving home or saying goodbye to a friend, but in a different way than Moonlight Sonata. There’s the somberness, yes; but there’s also a greater emphasis on hope. I feel encouraged by Spiegel im Spiegel, inspired to move forward, difficult though it may be.
Conclusion
Why is this important? We all know music moves the soul, we’ve all felt it. The images and phrases you thought of would come to you without me telling you to conjure them. I suppose my aim is to appreciate the artistry of these deceased masters and, if I can, impart a greater appreciation for their work to you. To achieve what both Beethoven and Arvo Part have, to be able to communicate without words, is no small feat. But I think it’s just that, the absence of words, that gives these pieces particular power. Without knowing anything about Beethoven or Arvo Part, one can connect with their work and summon emotional attachments. There’s a rule within writing literature that the most powerful tool you can employ is the reader’s imagination. The goal of the writer then is to guide but not stifle their imagination, to let the reader dream and envision and connect with the truth that you, the writer, are communicating. Beethoven, Arvo Part, and so many others do this with music. Without a word, they impart human emotions that are both universal and personal.
My concluding thoughts are a little scattered—images in double mirrors. There is so much power in music and, in a day and age when we get audial stimulation the moment we want it, classical (even instrumental) music can feel a bit outdated. I assure you that, if you give it a chance, you'll find that it has the same power it did when it was first written. If you play piano or want to learn, try classical music. Play when it’s just you, the piano, and a story someone’s written. There’s no more intimate way to connect with music than to play it.
If you want to learn these and other classical pieces, there are plenty of places to find them. Some sites I use are The Mutopia Project, Free-Scores, and Musescore. If you play, I strongly suggest you give these two a try. If you play Moonlight Sonata, give it your own emotions once you've learned to follow its rhythm and tempo. Hammer the keys where it makes you feel angry or passionate, caress them when your feelings shift. Should you play them, set aside time when there’s else going on, when it’s just you and the piano and you have time and space to feel.
Beautiful exercise. Love your passion!