(Original posted on April 4, 2002)
The author, Sadao Bekku, has a very clear way of writing, and I often find myself thinking, “Now that you mention it, that’s quite true.” This book, “The Wonders of Music” (Ongaku no Fushigi), gives the same impression. Above all, the author himself is a composer, and his words carry a confidence backed by experience.
In Part 2, titled “Seeking Music,” there is a chapter called “Imitation and Creation in Art.” This is undoubtedly one of those topics that inevitably lingers in the back of one’s mind, not just in composition but in any creative activity.
While one is engrossed in composing, such concerns are likely pushed aside as results take shape. However, the moment one pauses to reflect, these thoughts immediately surface: “Is what I’m doing merely imitation?”
How does the author reconcile this “imitation and creation”? After citing timeless adages like “The first step in art begins with imitation” and agreeing with them, he states:
If one were to pursue with utmost sincerity the idea that artistic value can be achieved through imitation, I believe it would actually lead to the statistical study of art using computers and the creation of an application based on it. (omitted) However, it is not possible to create superior art through such methods. In other words, artistic value is not something that exists objectively and universally, nor is art established by embodying it, as if it were incarnated. Therefore, one cannot approach value itself through imitation. (p432)
To put it simply, it suggests that investigating “this kind of music has this kind of 素晴らしさ (subarashisa – wonder/beauty)” and then trying to “create that kind of music to express that 素晴らしさ (subarashisa)” is likely futile.
This would imply that an approach of thoroughly examining masterpieces to get to their core is meaningless in composition. But if so, what exactly does “imitation” refer to when one says “it begins with imitation”?
In ancient Japanese traditional arts (geidō), such as Kyogen and Bunraku, there is great respect for “kata” (forms or established patterns). In these disciplines, adherence to the kata is paramount, yet reaching the esoteric essence requires freedom from it. This is the presence or absence of what is called “kihaku” (spirit or vital force).
Kata can literally be imitated, but kihaku cannot. Often, in sports practice, a coach might shout, “You lack kihaku!” At that moment, the athlete wouldn’t think of imitating someone else’s kihaku; indeed, the very act of trying to imitate it would itself be “lacking in kihaku.”
Applying this to composition, couldn’t we say that content is born from kihaku, while form is polished through imitation? In pop music, forms like “Intro – Verse (A-melo) – Bridge – Chorus (Sabi),” or classical forms like “sonata form” or “rondo form,” as well as tendencies in instrumentation and timbre, are things whose understanding can be deepened through imitation.
However, I believe the content of a song that makes you feel “This is great music!” is precisely what cannot be imitated. An encounter with a song imbued with kihaku always transcends understanding. Nevertheless, exploring the form of that song is crucial for understanding what kind of form is appropriate for its content. The act known as analyzing masterpieces should be understood in this way.
Through “kata” and “kihaku,” “form” and “content,” the author states:
What is kata? It is an order. What is kihaku? It is the life force that seeks to break fixed order. It is the will to destroy. The yearning for order and the joy of destruction – the truth of this contradictory human nature, and a place where two things that can only be contradictory in the real world are miraculously sublimated – isn’t that what art is? (p436)
He continues to explain that if one loses sight of the limits to which imitation is effective and tries to imitate artistic value itself (in this case, the “miraculous balance of the struggle between kihaku and kata“), one ends up stifling one’s own life force, leading to self-destruction. Generally, when one tries to “imitate that masterpiece,” doesn’t the focus of that imitation tend to be “its value”? And what results is something where the author’s life force has been stifled – what is commonly called a “song lacking originality.”
In this way, the author clearly discusses the purpose of imitation, what cannot be imitated, and by extension, the value of music. The crude question “Is imitation good or bad?” can be refined by considering its effective range. And as a result, one might naturally come to realize what “creativity” truly is.
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