What motivates a creator of music to weave words about their craft? In my case, when faced with the essentially ineffable realm of music, it is precisely because I recognize its powerful, non-translatable force that I feel compelled to spin words. It is not an attempt to grasp the radiant light itself, but rather an act akin to painstakingly tracing the contours of the shadows that light casts upon the ground.
To pose the questions “What is music?” or “What is composition?” and to attempt a definition through language paradoxically forces me to stand at the point where I must acknowledge music’s inherent non-verbal nature. The essays I write exist on the precipice of this vast entity called music—they are likenesses or abstracted sketches drawn from that vantage point.
The philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein famously stated, “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.” However, as the art anthropologist Tomohisa Nakajima suggests, while we may keep silent about the unspeakable, it remains possible to verbalize the “unspeakability of the unspeakable.” To stand at the edge of silence, questioning why that boundary exists, and to speak from there—this, I believe, is a form of integrity available to those engaged in creation.
For me, the musical experience gained through composition is a unique moment where I truly feel the irresistible power of music and its “qualia”—that distinct, subjective texture or flavor that defies exhaustive explanation. The words inspired by such experiences take on the character of a “derivative work” based on the primary creation. These resulting texts are not merely subordinate to the music, nor are they simply the music converted into another form. They are independent creations, much like “satellites” that trace their own orbits while remaining within the gravitational pull of the planet Music.
Over time, this process of verbalization has integrated into my creative activities as a form of its own. Listening intently to music, observing its minute fluctuations, and assembling the words gathered there is a process very similar to “composing” an object.
“Composing music,” “writing text,” and accumulating these fragments under my own persona to build a single form—this endeavor fills me with a quiet exhilaration, much like assembling a “model castle” that symbolizes the overall picture of my creative life. I am deeply drawn to savoring, from a meta-perspective, the aesthetic sense dwelling in the details, the distortions mixed within the overall harmony, and the unique texture that emerges from the entire form.
To delve deeper, this could be described as building a system to observe my own creative process from the outside. By combining two qualitatively different expressions—music and words—the system begins to function as an “observational experimental apparatus” for updating my own creativity.
Within this apparatus, two versions of myself exist: the “Practitioner,” who faces the sound and concretely places the notes, and the “Observer,” who surveys and records the practitioner’s behavior, seeking nourishment for the next creation. When this relationship begins to function, the entire system starts to resemble a living organism. This brings to mind the biological concept of “Autopoiesis”—a mechanism where a system continuously produces the elements that constitute itself.
The practice of making music leads to the question “What is this?” and prompts verbalization. Then, the act of observation through “putting it into words” allows for objective self-reflection, supplying new perspectives and energy for the next musical work. Music calls to words, and words become the fertilizer that enriches the soil of music. It is through this autonomous cycle that the vitality of creation is maintained.
However, as a “living organism,” there are inevitably fluctuations in its “state of health.” In my case, if my linguistic activities as an observer become too dominant, I usually experience a sense of unhealthiness. This discomfort serves as an internal alert that the “practice” (music production), which should be the system’s fundamental energy source, has stagnated. It is a sign that the creative blood flow is blocked and vitality is being lost.
Above all, I wish to be one who manifests music. The feeling of emptiness when words pile up without practice stems from my desire to be a “practitioner” before being a critic. The question “Is the self who exhausts words becoming detached from the self who practices?” acts as a constant internal “other,” supporting and simultaneously cautioning me.
Of course, everyone encounters periods in their creative journey where they wander deep into the forest of words. From my own experience, I can say this is never wasted time but rather a necessary process. Nevertheless, rather than finding narrative value in being a “painter who does not paint,” I choose to remain on the side of practice, continuing to produce something, however unrefined it may be.
Verbalizing thought is both a part of the engine that drives my creative system and a “check-up” to measure its health. Even now, as I pen these words, I feel the gaze of the observer upon me. Contemplation in the sea of words is a vital preparation period for the next creation. I recognize once again that to keep the creative cycle from stagnating, it is essential to have a flexible vision that continues to stir both practice and observation together.
