Beauty and impermanence: The Guqin…

April 3rd, 2012

As the final phase of this six-week residency unfolds, a state of half reflection and half in anticipation of events still to come is prevailing. In fact, that’s what’s been so rewarding about this experience so far; most days I have NO idea what’s going to happen, who I’m going to meet and what surprises might be around the corner. The people of this laid-back, gently-anarchic and wonderful city have been so kind – coming out of the woodwork to introduce me to people that they think may be able to help and/or provide inspiration.
A very recent example of this happened just the other week where I was approached by a student who is studying the Guqin (pronounced Ku-Chin), who invited me to meet with him and his teacher, Yong Lin at his home near Xiamen University. This meeting, a few days later, proved to be a life-changing experience. The way Yong Lin spoke about music was beautiful, inspiring and more akin to meditation technique than anything else (indeed, the history of instrument itself numbers a few thousand years and is closely related to nature and the practices of Taoism/Lao Tzu/Confucious/Buddhism): playing the Guqin is not about acquisition, ego, or even ‘technique’ as we would define it but that, if one is to master this instrument, aspects of the breath, inner stillness and calm are fundamental. This is the technique. And, after further meetings it became clear that adhering to any other method as the means by which to ‘acquire’ mastery is utterly futile!

Consisting of consisting of one bedroom, a Guqin/meditation room and a simple kitchen, Yong Lin’s home was simple, uncluttered and itself had an air of calm and, it is difficult for me to describe the impact or influence the sound of this instrument had on its immediate environment: it was as if the air in the room and around the Guqin became still, frozen – and that I was suddenly even more aware of my breath, bodily movements, sensations and thoughts. Sonically, the Guqin is very quiet, very beautiful and I felt it was impossible to turn my attention to anything else, even if I’d wanted to. Each time I have visited I have not wanted to leave!

Yesterday I was invited to try my hand (or rather, mind) at the Qin. Since visiting Yong Lin’s home it had seemed somehow inappropriate for me to ask to play this instrument – I was so in awe of its earth-shattering simplicity and yet its bottomless depth was frightening and comforting in equal measure. Once I had achieved a semblance of the basic hand position, I then (clumsily) produced my first tones from the Qin’s open strings. The following forty minutes or so was spent grappling with the very concepts we’d been discussing: sure, I could achieve the semblance of the basic hand position and, paying very close attention to the teacher attempt to ‘do as he did’ but there was still something missing; I then realised that one cannot play the Guqin by merely mimicking a teacher’s physical actions – this doesn’t work. Playing the Guqin is something that has to be felt and that stillness and awareness are key to every single action. After such a short time I do not profess to be any sort of expert on the subject but the depth of simplicity was so overwhelming that my thoughts and questions to Lin completely imploded on themselves as I tried to articulate them, as I guess do many things when one finds oneself at the center of direct, personal experiences. Dunno. I was speechless, blissful, overwhelmed.

Through our conversations we talked about the factors that are important to Guqin performance: surrendering oneself – e.g., allowing factors such as the immediate environment, temperature, situation, one’s own mood/temperament to dictate and shape the interpretation of the music, embracing impermanence rather than seeking to control or ‘perfect’ the musical outcome. These are the very tenets that I have tried to adopt in my own approach to performance and cannot describe the feeling of sharing a common border with such an ancient musical discipline, and only just six-thousand miles or so away from the brass bands, Parkin and all-day breakfasts at Dunnies cafe in sunny Otley…

In conclusion, I have fallen for this instrument, for the beauty of its music, for its simplicity and for its profundity and gradually, I hope that I might commune with it as an old friend – and that it acts as a foil to my other activities as a human being, musical or otherwise…