A Journey of Spirit —— towards a performative and philosophical reading of Beethoven Op 110

Work in progress, delete this line when complete!

I occasionally write about music, though mostly in Chinese. For those who read Chinese, I invite you read the original version of this article and explore more of my writings there. In the future, I plan to write more frequently in English, so that I’m able to share my perspectives and thoughts with my friends on the other side of the world.

Writing an article on one of Beethoven’s late sonatas is no easy task. Indeed, these sonatas are towering monuments in piano literature as well as in the entirety of western music history. The daunting task of doing them justice is one that any commentator or performer should approach with utmost care and trepidation. I am reluctant to undertake such a formidable project for a couple of reasons. For instance, any attempt of interpretation of Op. 110 necessarily involves delving into the most secretive and deeply personal emotions of the interpreter, and to provide an honest reading of it is akin to exploring, dissecting, and publicizing one’s innermost thoughts. In so doing, I feel exposed, as if I am performing the slow movement of a Mozart piano sonata without sustain pedal. Should I pursue a detached and impartial analysis, or should I embrace the inescapable personal imprints that I might inadvertently project onto the music? Finally, language is yet another barrier, not simply because that English is not my native tongue, but rather the sheer profundity and ineffability of Op. 110 renders ordinary language insipid and pallid, incapable of capturing its essence. Indeed, music proves that there are certain limits to language, which fails to enter the spiritual realm where music dwells.

My interpretation will undoubtedly evolve as I grow older, and I look forward to revisiting my writing in ten, twenty, or thirty years — assuming, of course, that I will survive until then, which is again not an easy task. Many pianists return to the repertoire of their youth, often offering interpretations markedly different from their original renditions, the most famous example being Glenn Gould’s 1955 and 1981 recordings of the Goldberg Variations. Op. 110 carries the weight of my youth — my reckless passion and self-indulging sorrows, sudden epiphanies and painful disillusionment, my aspirations and fear about the unforeseeable future, and essentially everything that hitherto defines my identity as I approach twenty two. In this regard, I am really uncovering myself in interpreting Op. 110 as if gazing into a mirror, and through writing, I am capturing the reflection of myself inside the mirror.

Indeed, Op. 110 holds a personal significance for me. Although I was familiar with it long before, it was not until a few months ago that I found deep personal connection to it. At that time, I was at the lowest point of my life, drowning in emotional turmoil, feeling entirely overwhelmed. It was Ms. Hélène Grimaud’s performance of Op. 110 that infused me with hope and renewed energy.

I still remember so clearly as if it happened yesterday that I sat alone in my dark room, listening to it repeatedly and immersing myself in painful memories. Then, I gradually realize that the essence of human condition is nothing but solitude — a universal and absolute solitude. Most of our pain and suffering stems from the unfulfilled desire to escape this solitude. Tragically, this desire can never truly be fulfilled, despite our hopes that someday, someone will alleviate it for us. Beethoven certainly didn’t teach us how to reconcile with our inner solitude, as that is a journey each person must navigate individually throughout their entire lifetime. However, Beethoven did tell us, in the triumphant ending of Op. 110, that beyond the everlasting struggle lies a new world that might be deemed victory or redemption. The path to the victory is fraught with agony, and with no shortcuts available, one must endure it in its entirety. We are to tread this path ourselves, or to echo the words of Hegel:

“The True is the whole. But the whole is nothing other than the essence consummating itself through its development. Of the Absolute it must be said that it is essentially a result, that only in the end is it what it truly is; and that precisely in this consists its nature, viz. to be actual, subject, the spontaneous becoming of itself.”
—— Phenomenology of Spirit, §20, translation by A. V. Miller

The truth resides in the experience itself, and we know the answer to solitude only after enduring its various tormenting forms. It is precisely at the moment of complete disillusionment, when all hopes seems forsaken (at the end of the second fugue), that we are paradoxically reborn. This sonata is simultaneously the journey of a single soul and the biography of the collective spirit of mankind. Through its notes, it narrates the individual and universal saga of struggle, despair, and the eventual, hard-won redemption that is both deeply personal and profoundly universal.

As such, Op. 110 assumes an almost apocalyptic role. Extending Hegel’s figure of expressing, we might even align the last three piano sonatas of Beethoven with the corresponding stages in the phenomenology. Op. 109 is consciousness in sense-certainty and perception, which takes what it perceives as the immediate truth; it is not yet self-consciousness, as it hasn’t impose onto itself determinate negation. It serves as the purest and most poignant elegy of a dying individual, whom we might term the phenomenological observer — this piece reflects on the observer’s sweetest memories in their most direct and unadulterated form. Op. 111, on the other hand, represents the fruits of absolute knowing. It is the otherworldly ramble of the soul of the observer that has crossed into the afterlife, broken free from the shackles of the perceptions and apprehensions of our mortal realm. It gestures towards an ineffable truth, one that remains totally elusive before achieving absolute knowing. Op. 110, then, is self-consciousness, or spirit in its becoming, and progressing towards the self-actualization which it succeeded in achieving at the triumphant conclusion of the sonata. It stands on the boundary between life and death, manifesting the phenomenological observer’s reflections of his sufferings. Having experienced in his self-consciousness all of his life’s sufferings in the most condensed form, the observer at the deathbed finally unlocks the gateway to the netherworld. His soul is thus transfigured through struggle and revelation, as depicted in Richard Strauss’ tone poem Death and Transfiguration.

As such, Op. 110 is “human, all too human”. It is about nothing but the human condition. As a performer, one must be exquisitely sensitive and attentive to bring forth the subtle interplay between life, death, and rebirth, all of which possess a somewhat ethereal and floating quality. While I am reluctant to use the term “spiritual” — finding it too generic and applicable to many piano works — in this context, a certain spiritual depth is required in the performance. However, it should not venture into the purely mystical and celestial realms characterized by composers like Messiaen or Scriabin; rather, it must remain grounded and tangible, as it is ultimately tied to mankind, denizens of Earth. In other words, the performance must impart a certain weight and gravitas to the notes, avoiding empty glorifications that will render them completely untethered from reality. This parallels Nietzsche’s pivot from Wagner to Bizet in The Case of Wagner, in which he praises the latter’s celebration of earthly life. The challenge for the performer, then, is to achieve a delicate balance of these seemingly contradictory elements — life and death, the earthly and the ethereal.

In what follows, I will delve into a bar-by-bar analysis of Op. 110, approached from the perspective of a performer. This is not intended to be a rigorous musicological study, but rather a poetic, philosophical, and often deeply personal account. So, with a touch of levity, I half-jokingly assert: everyone is entitled to their opinion, but mine is the only one that holds true; if you find yourself disagreeing with my interpretation, then regrettably, you are mistaken.

Movement 1

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