One Hand
Clapping:
The Taoe of Music
WholeArts and
The Psychic Internet is proud to present the
"Preface" and "Part One" of this
remarkable book by Daniel d'Quincy. "One Hand
Clapping: The Tao of Music," originally published by
WholeArts in 1991, is a book-length essay on the
performance of music from the perspective of Eastern
philosophy and religion. Mr. d'Quincy is a noted
composer, musician, author, inventor, educator, speaker,
and photographer. Please visit his unique music sites at WholeArts: syNThony, and the WholeArts Online Music Conservatory.
Page 10
How do we get to
that point where making great music is as easy and
natural as living itself? We can only begin by picking up
an instrument and beginning. But immediately we are
confronted with a daunting array of questions of a
practical nature.
Thus, all the
world over, aspiring musicians ask always the same basic
questions of master musicians: “How do you do it?
How do you make your fingers move so fast? How do you
make the sound so soft, and so loud? What is the secret
of breathing life into lifeless wood or brass? How do you
tap into the mainsprings of the inner soul to make a song
of love and passion?”
The ancient
Chuang Tzu, a book credited to one of the early Taoist
sages of China, presents a virtuoso display of verbal
magic that elaborates on these questions. A man called
“Ch’eng of North Gate” says to the Yellow
Emperor, “When Your Majesty performed the
Hsien-ch’ih music in the wilds around Lake
Tung-t’ing, I listened, and at first I was afraid. I
listened some more and felt weary, and then I listened to
the end and felt confused. Overwhelmed, speechless, I
couldn’t get hold of myself.”
The Emperor
replies:
“It’s not
surprising you felt that way. I performed it through man,
tuned it to Heaven, went forward with ritual principle,
and established it in Great Purity. Perfect music must
first respond to the needs of man, accord with the reason
of Heaven, proceed by the Five Virtues, and blend with
spontaneity; only then can it bring order to the four
seasons and bestow a final harmony upon the ten thousand
things. Then the four seasons will rise one after the
other, the ten thousand things will take their turn at
living. Now flourishing, now decaying, the civil and
military strains will keep them in step; now with clear
notes, now with dull ones, the yin and the yang will
blend all in harmony, the sounds flowing forth like
light, like hibernating insects that start to wriggle
again, like the crash of thunder with which I awe the
world. At the end, no tail; at the beginning, no head;
now dead, now alive, now flat on the ground, now up on
its feet, its constancy is unending, yet there is nothing
that can be counted on. That’s why you felt afraid.
“Then I played it
with the harmony of yin and yang, lit it with the shining
of sun and moon; its notes I was able to make long or
short, yielding or strong, modulating about a single
unity, but bowing before no rule or constancy. In the
valley they filled the valley; in the void they filled
the void; plugging up the crevices, holding back the
spirit, accepting things on their own terms. Its notes
were clear and radiant, its fame high and bright.
Therefore the ghosts and spirits kept to their darkness
and the sun, moon, stars, and constellations marched in
their orbits. I made it stop where there is an end to
things, made it flow where there is no stopping. You try
to fathom it but can’t understand, try to gaze at it
but can’t see, try to overtake it but can’t
catch up. You stand dazed before the four-directioned
emptiness of the Way, or lean on your desk and moan. Your
eyes fail before you can see, your strength knuckles
under before you can catch up. It was nothing I could do
anything about. Your body melted into the empty void, and
this brought you to an idle freedom. It was this idle
freedom that made you feel weary.
“Then I played it
with unwearying notes and tuned it to the command of
spontaneity. Therefore there seemed to be a chaos where
things grow in thickets together, a maturity where
nothing takes form, a universal plucking where nothings
gets pulled, a clouded obscurity where there is no sound.
It moved in no direction at all, rested in mysterious
shadow. Some called it death, some called it life, some
called it fruit, some called it flower. It flowed and
scattered, and bowed before no constant tone. The world,
perplexed by it, went to the sage for instruction, for
the sage is the comprehender of true form and the
completer of fate. When the Heavenly mechanism is not put
into action and yet the five vital organs are all
complete – this may be called the music of Heaven.
Wordless, it delights the mind. Therefore the lord of Yen
sang its praises thus: ‘Listen – you do not
hear its sound; look – you do not see its form. It
fills all Heaven and earth, enwraps all the six
directions.’ You wanted to hear it but had no way to
go about it. That was why you felt confused.
Music begins with fear,
and because of this fear there is dread, as of a curse.
Then I add the weariness, and because of the weariness
there is compliance. I end it all with confusion, and
because of the confusion there is stupidity. And because
of the stupidity there is the Way, the Way that can be
lifted up and carried around wherever you go.”[1]
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