A recent afternoon, spent listening to a variety of traditional and contemporary classical music, triggered in me a powerful longing for the impossible: a deep emotional and intellectual understanding of the core of the music, the kind of understanding that, I suspect, takes the better part of a lifetime to achieve. Most of the music was not new to me, nor was my appreciation for it. For some reason, though, listening to it when I did sparked a wistful yearning to know it far better than I do; and to have spent my life learning what might have been in the composers’ minds when they wrote the music. Mind you, I was not—and am not—thinking about suddenly “knowing” about these matters. I regretted I had not invested the time and dedication during my lifetime to interpret the music and the way it affects me. I wanted to have devoted time to learning about the composers’ lives and what influenced the direction their compositions took. Among the pieces I found so compelling: Gymnopédies, by Erik Satie; Piano Concerto No. 2, by Sergei Rachmaninoff; Canon in D and parts of Hexachordum Apollinis, by Johann Pachelbel; among others. Some of the music is incredibly complex, so much so that I doubt I could fully appreciate its complexity without extensive musical training and exposure to music theory over a period of many years. Other pieces are breathtakingly simple, yet as powerful as any music I have ever heard. My knowledge of music is essentially nil; “I know what I like” is about as far as my knowledge goes. My tastes, though, are wide-ranging and eclectic; I am partial to the music of John Prine and the Decemberists and Enya and Pink Martini and the Rolling Stones and Willie Nelson, too. Music and emotions are synonymous, I think, and music captures and preserves how we experience Time. That may be the most fascinating aspect of some music; it permits listeners to be transported to a time when the music was composed and to feel the emotions that prompted its composition—even when we do not know just what those emotions are.
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When art is treated as a feast for the senses, it can serve to create commonality among disparate groups of people. Art can bring people together in ways that override potentially troublesome differences. But when art is viewed merely as the subject of a transaction—when it is crudely acquisitional—it can emphasize differences, especially economic differences. There are plenty of people, though, who collect art only to ensure ongoing supplies of sensual pleasure or to support and express appreciation for artists. And, then, there are those of us who long to be talented artists but do not have the requisite abilities to create art that illustrates what we see in our mind’s eye.
