(Originally posted on October 21, 1999)
The act of composition is often perceived, both by composers themselves and by those around them, as something of a mystery—”I don’t know how they can do it.” In composition, there seems to be a greater emphasis on “inspiration” compared to other forms of expression (painting, sculpture, theater, etc.). I believe this may be a reflection of the “mystery and inscrutability of the act of composition.”
For example, the performance of an athlete can be understood to some extent as a relationship between “visible aspects” like physical strength and technique, and “intuitive aspects” that can only be described as athletic sense. However, when it comes to composition, I feel that we tend to view a significant portion of it as purely intuitive.
If I may say so, a state of “divinization of the act of composition” might exist. But just because a finished work can evoke something beyond our comprehension, does that mean we should treat the entire creative process as sacrosanct? Doing so would obscure the composer’s skill, effort, and accumulated experience, and paradoxically, it would disrespect the “truly intuitive part.”
The following column was written with the desire to gain a new perspective for deepening my understanding of composition. Needless to say, to compose, it is vital to experience and feel a wide variety of music. Music is not fundamentally an academic discipline, nor can it be entirely captured by words.
That being said, by reflecting on it while being mindful of the limits of language, might we not, as a result, notice the “wonder of music” from a different angle than before? With that, please take your time and enjoy the reading.
Chapter 1: On Inspiration
We often hear phrases like “composition is all about inspiration,” “I can’t get a good melody to strike,” or “let’s wait for inspiration to come.” There’s also the idea that “music is a gift from the heavens.” This last one likely brings to mind for many the anecdote from Mozart’s biography about music “descending from heaven in its complete form.”
Leaving aside the truth of the Mozart story, it’s true that inspiration is involved in the act of composition. The feeling of “something” descending into your mind is not entirely false. So, if a beginner composer feels, “I’m not getting any inspiration at all. Maybe I don’t have talent,” should they just give up?
No. I believe a major misunderstanding about composition, and indeed all creative work, lies here. What follows is a proposal for a model to understand the act of composition. First, could we not hypothesize the following about composition? Let’s consider composition as the *skill* of converting an amorphous, unknowable “something” that comes to us as inspiration into the concrete world of sound.
In other words, the act of “composing” is to activate the “inspiration-to-music conversion device” that you possess within you. Applying this hypothesis more broadly, painting would be the activation of an “inspiration-to-canvas conversion device,” and sculpture would be the activation of an “inspiration-to-three-dimensional-form conversion device.”
For example, what is the likelihood that a Christian hymn in Latin would suddenly strike a person living in a land far removed from European culture, speaking a different language? It seems that only someone who possesses an “inspiration-to-Latin conversion device” and an “inspiration-to-Western-music conversion device”—that is, a person with the skill to use Latin and the technical skill to compose Western music—could create a hymn.
And the quality of the resulting hymn is what matters, not what kind of inspiration the composer had. The latter usually becomes a topic of discussion only when people feel a work is a masterpiece and can’t help but think, “There must have been a wonderful inspiration.” No matter how much the composer praises their own work as a “masterpiece full of inspiration,” we cannot disregard how we feel upon listening to it.
What I want to emphasize here is that we are questioning *how* inspiration is expressed, not what “inspiration” *is* in itself. The idea is that we share the *result* that has passed through the composer’s “conversion device” (the work, the performance), not the composer’s “inspiration” itself.
At this point, I can almost hear someone saying, “But a concrete image *did* strike me in my head. Inspiration is concrete, and I am sharing the work born from it, so I am sharing the inspiration.” If you say so, that’s that. And I do feel a sense of awe for this “inspiration” that is not subject to one’s own will. Perhaps “concrete music” truly does descend upon us.
However, if one has the desire to improve through one’s own effort, one must consider in which direction to channel that effort. This hypothesis is the result of that consideration. With that in mind, please bear with me a little longer.
So, what exactly is “inspiration”? Might it not be something like “the seed of all creativity”?
Where this seed lies, whether it is abundant—no one can know. Does anyone even know what the seed itself looks like? But what’s crucial is what kind of music you create when you get hold of that seed—that is, when you “get inspired.” And as I described inspiration earlier as an “amorphous, unknowable, something,” I believe this seed does not contain anything concrete (like a melody, chords, or an image of the whole piece). The concrete something is what the composer creates from it.
Now, if we remove the element of inspiration from composition, we notice that it has many technical aspects. In other words, it is the skill of creating the elements that constitute a piece and the skill of putting them together. It has the same quality as the masterful craft of those we call master artisans. When an “amorphous something” strikes such a person with polished skills—that is, when they receive a seed of creativity—a conversion into music unique to that person occurs, and a work with individuality is completed.
It’s easy to imagine that if the same inspiration came to someone with no experience in composition, they would not be able to create the same thing as the master above. This is the same as the “hymn and the person from a different culture” example.
Considering the Mozart story, he received instruction in piano performance and composition from a young age, and his technical foundation was likely superb. He was a true precocious master craftsman. It was to him that this “something” was sparked. And it seems he used that “something” as a trigger to create concrete music. To him, it may have felt as though music was pouring down from the heavens, but that too was a gift of the experience gained from his past training and practice—in other words, it was due to the excellence of his “inspiration-to-music conversion device.”
If we knew from the start that novel, revolutionary music that no one had ever thought of would one day descend into our minds, no one would bother to explore composition. We would just have to wait patiently for inspiration. It would be like waiting at home in modern Japan for Prince Charming to come and propose (though I don’t deny the existence of miracles).
In that case, if one focuses solely on mastering the technical aspects of composition, will a wonderful piece that satisfies both the creator and others eventually be born? Is it enough to refine one’s own “inspiration-to-music conversion device” to a higher level? This is what I will discuss next.
Chapter 2: The Fluctuation of Emotion
So then, if one focuses solely on mastering the technical aspects of composition, will a wonderful piece that satisfies both the creator and others eventually be born? A crucial element is missing here. It is the fluctuation of emotion while listening to the music you have created.
What kind of value judgment do you make in response to that emotional fluctuation? “Like, dislike,” “cool, uncool,” “bright, dark,” “mysterious,” “dashing,” “heavy,” and so on. But most of the time, you will probably hold an emotion that cannot be put into words. And there is no doubt that savoring this emotion is one of the joys of making music. It’s the wonder of that “goosebumps-inducing sensation.”
In other words, in the process of continuing to compose for many years, isn’t it important to enrich the interplay between one’s technical methods and one’s emotions? It is only through a rich interplay of these two elements that the “inspiration-to-music conversion device” can become better, don’t you think?
Let’s take the technique of arranging for wind and string instruments as an example. These skills are accumulated as personal experience by memorizing ranges and actually hearing how the instruments sound in various situations. Furthermore, a body of knowledge called arranging, which has been analyzed from various perspectives, has been accumulated over many years. One assembles a piece based on such experience and knowledge, but if the “self that perceives emotional fluctuations”—the self that makes value judgments about the effectiveness and validity of the arrangement—is not solid, the arrangement will become self-indulgent and overly intellectual.
When pursuing technical exploration, it is important to cherish the “fluctuation of emotion” as your first audience.
You can compose with technique alone. A well-formed piece that follows a certain limited set of rules, and above all, a piece that does not move the composer’s own heart. It might still be able to move other people, but I feel a resistance to offering a piece that the composer is not moved by.
Regarding this, I came across the following story in a magazine, which I will quote. It comes up as an anecdote from a music school during a dialogue, and you can feel a very tense atmosphere.
Mr. Matsumura: “It was around the time I was leaving the University of the Arts, and a male student in the composition department said he just couldn’t bring himself to like contemporary music. He said this at a student forum. Then all the other students ganged up on him and tore him apart. A senior female student was admonishing him, saying, ‘You know, I force myself to write ugly sounds!’ (laughs). That was a bit scary. (…)” (From “Ongaku no Sekai” magazine, July 1999 issue)
This is a sad and thought-provoking story. I wish she had been honest with her own aesthetic values. She didn’t write ugly sounds out of expressive necessity; she forced herself to write them. What about the position of those who have to listen to those forced ugly sounds? She is studying composition professionally and should possess advanced skills, but it seems those skills are forcing her to go against her own sensibilities.
Advanced skills and theories are advanced because the concepts and knowledge required to understand them are advanced; this is not qualitatively the same as the music itself being of a high quality. I want to caution myself against letting the use of difficult techniques and theories become the purpose of composition itself.
I believe it is crucial to value one’s own consciousness that tries to make aesthetic judgments, while being wary of such a technique-heavy approach. The technical and theoretical self, and the self as an emotional being. When these two have a rich interplay, a dynamic fluctuation of emotion is born, and as a result, perhaps “inspiration” will give you a fitting gift.
The discussion has been quite abstract so far. Next, I will try to translate the content up to this point into something more concrete.
Chapter 3: Modeling the Act of Composition
First, let me summarize “the act of composition = the work of the inspiration-to-music conversion device.” The contents of this device can be thought of as consisting of musical skills (skills for manipulating sound, such as performance, arranging, and theoretical interpretation) and the “subjective working of the mind” that adds aesthetic judgment (based on experience) to the “sound” born from those skills.
Let’s say something strikes a composer. Then, slowly, they play a certain chord. What this “certain chord” is depends on the differences in the composer’s “conversion device.” One person might play an F major chord, while another might play a special hybrid chord. Someone who doesn’t know about chords might play a melody instead. In any case, something that can be expressed with that person’s skills emerges.
Listening to the chord he just played, it seems he has started to think about a melody. He is thinking this and that, using his imagination. However, just like the anecdote of the late director Kubrick, who “realized that no one can imagine what no one has ever seen or imagined,” the melody he creates is likely built upon the accumulation of past experience and memory. Even when something seemingly unexpected is created, I believe the foundation from which that melody is born lies in one’s own past.
He tried various melodies, but eventually settled on one. During this time, various emotions would have been born within him, and he would have repeated value judgments. This state is what I call the “interplay between the technical method and the emotion.” The piece has come together quite a bit, but there seems to be one spot where he is hesitating. He seems to be agonizing over whether to make that one spot a “Mi” or a “Sol.” He is thinking while listening and comparing them over and over. At this moment, a delicate fluctuation of emotion is likely occurring within him.
In this way, his composition progressed little by little. A sub-melody was added, and the number of instrumental parts increased. At one point, he first handled the voicing of the brass section technically, then listened and made adjustments to the parts that bothered him. Here too, a kind of “interplay between the technical method and the emotion” is born. I want to avoid the rigid thinking of “this is how it should be done theoretically.”
In a certain part of the piece, he is trying to implement a technique for the first time. By interpreting a certain technique broadly, he thought of creating a mysterious sound. He tried it right away, but the sound wasn’t to his liking. Even with slight changes, the result was not good. In the end, he gave up, but the experience gained from this attempt will be fed back into his skills and will become nourishment for his next new attempt.
Thus, his skills are accumulated, forged through practice, and become richer. When inspiration descends upon him as he continues to improve, what kind of “conversion into music” will take place? It’s an intriguing thought.
Incidentally, I believe the same thing happens in improvisation. However, since the music progresses in real time, one cannot ponder as deeply as in composition. The skills backed by one’s experience become an even greater factor. And the “interplay between the technical method and the emotion” also becomes dynamic and delicate, and the “work of the inspiration-to-music conversion device” intensifies.
Converting inspiration into sound through skills backed by experience, perceiving the dizzying fluctuations of emotion, feeding it back into the performance, and expressing new sounds. Perceiving new emotional fluctuations, and feeding them back again. Occasionally, inspiration flutters in, and new sounds are born. I believe this is the state within the performer’s mind.
Sometimes inspiration becomes sound, and sometimes sound is assembled with skills backed by practice. In the background of both is the person’s “sum total of musical experience.” This is the sum total of various practical experiences, such as what music they have listened to, what music they have made, what performances they have given, what they have perceived through them, and what they have tried to perceive.
If the “sum total of musical experience” becomes richer, the “inspiration-to-music conversion device” will exhibit a wider variety of functions, and the “interplay between the technical method and the emotion” will also increase in its richness.
If we were allowed to rank a composer’s musicality, I think it would be based on how rich an “inspiration-to-music conversion device with a feedback loop of technique and emotion” has been nurtured, founded on the “sum total of musical experience.” It is important to note that the “richness” of the conversion device is just that—”richness/fertility”—and not “technical complexity” or “theoretical sophistication.” Of course, it could very well include these, but it does not point only in that direction.
Finally, we must not forget that what is most important is “what kind of music was expressed” by that conversion device. The quality of the concept when trying to create a certain piece does not guarantee the quality of the work. The listener does not understand the author’s ideas or concepts first; they listen to the music itself. Afterward, a listener who becomes interested in the work and the author will want to know about them. Any creator knows the fun of daydreaming about concepts. But it can’t beat the reality of the joy and suffering of composition that breathes in the midst of the “interplay between the technical method and the emotion.”
In Conclusion
Using inspiration as a keyword, I have set forth a hypothesis of a conversion device and have attempted to present my own model of the act of composition.
A common trait among skilled composers is the very simple fact that they “listen carefully to the sounds they produce.” Also, humans have a mechanism of “thought feedback,” which, if one missteps, can become delusion, but thanks to this mechanism, we can engage in deep contemplation. I have tried to use these two points to capture the act of composition, which is both very intuitive and logical. Though this is a fragile piece of writing, I hope it can be of some help.
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