On the Sublime

The quality of sublimity; or, what makes the 'fine arts' fine.

“We cannot see the ‘real’ things with our eyes. Music is invisible, not seen by eyes. I think it is one of the few real things in this world, and it's the reason I will keep pursuing music for the rest of my life.”

18 year old Lim Yunchan (임윤찬), 2022 Van Cliburn International Piano Competition gold medallist.

The sublime is observable—it fills us with awe, with wonder, with an emotion that gives our hearts sacred priority over our brains. Sublimity is irrational—although something may be sublime for a reason, we do not need to know that reason to recognise that thing’s sublime quality. As he performed perhaps the greatest interpretation of Rachmaninoff’s 3rd Piano Concerto ever, were Lim Yunchan’s thoughts directed towards that sublimity we seek?

Certainly he was enthralled in an intense, fantastic concentration; for he had entered the trance-like state of the virtuoso. So what led him into that fantastic trance? Why practice all day and all night? What does he seek from music? In his own words, music is “one of the few real things in this world”, even if it is “invisible, not seen by eyes.”¹ Music enters the soul; it penetrates deeply, beyond any mere façade. Lim’s confidence in this idea underlies all his playing:

[My] purpose of playing the piano is to express the pain deep inside us and to heal people, again with music.²

Music, to Lim, exists to express feelings that already exist, that are universal, and connect each and every one of us. A striking turn of phrase from Lim expanded on this. Though nervous before his Rachmaninoff recital, what kept him motivated was his desire, as he says, to “create more universes”. Music has the power to expand the breadth of human experience and to offer new perspectives on all the subtleties of life. Is the sublime, then, something that ‘creates more universes’?

The fine arts

We easily recognise the sublimity in classical music, but in order to truly understand the sublime, we must investigate the concept of the ‘fine arts’. I shall focus on three: classical piano, chess, and, finally, literature, though this article will only cover the first (the latter two will feature in their own forthcoming articles). These three arts have lately occupied my mind, and so has another concern—why am I drawn to them? Because they are sublime in themselves? Or just because they are seen as sublime? Undoubtedly I have a genuine interest in them; they do stimulate my little grey cells. Even so, to have this concern inevitably raises questions surrounding the fine arts’ position at the highest ranks of human expression; accusations of intellectual elitism or exclusivity naturally arise. My aim is to show that these ‘fine arts’ are deservedly categorised as such, because they are sublime; however, part of what makes them sublime can make them more inaccessible than other ‘baser’ arts (this will be elaborated on in the succeeding essays).

Longinus

Before I expose my amateurish understandings of classical piano and chess theory, I thought it would be fitting to outline another’s conception of the sublime, which will act as my initial reference point in these articles. Longinus’ Περὶ Ὕψους, On the Sublime, focusses on what makes a work of literature sublime. Of undetermined authorship and dating, it has generally been placed in the 1st century AD. Classical scholars have attempted to identify its author, Longinus, but this remains controversial. For our purposes, this is irrelevant—Longinus is On the Sublime; On the Sublime is Longinus—I shall investigate the merit of his and its ideas, alone.

As many others have pointed out, what makes On the Sublime so special is that Longinus writes in a style that proves his own thesis. So argues Alexander Pope, “[he is] himself the great sublime he draws”, and the great renaissance humanist Franciscus Portus:

“non solum docet sed etiam rapit, et quodammodo vim affert lectoribus.”

Not only does he teach but he also captivates, and in a certain manner conveys his power to his readers.³

It is certainly reassuring that his beliefs about the sublime seem to have been so successfully executed.

Longinus’ primary objective in On the Sublime is to lay out what makes a work of literature sublime, that is, what ideas are expressed and the ways in which those very ideas are expressed. Other minor themes include his belief that natural genius is more conducive to originating sublimity than skill or practice, and his reasoning as to why his era had produced allegedly fewer works of sublimity or genius than those that came before it. More on these themes later.

So what causes sublimity according to Longinus?

1. “ὕψος μεγαλοφροσύνης ἀπήχημα” (sublimity is the echo of a noble mind). Brilliant ideas are in themselves sublime.

2. “τὸ σφοδρὸν καὶ ἐνθουσιαστικὸν πάθος” (the inspiration of vehement emotion).

3. “ἥ τε ποιὰ τῶν σχημάτων πλάσις … τὰ μὲν νοήσεως, θάτερα δὲ λέξεως” (the proper construction of figures… of thought and speech).

4. “ἡ γενναία φράσις” (nobility of language).

5. “ἡ ἐν ἀξιώματι καὶ διάρσει σύνθεσις” (dignified and elevated word-arrangement).⁴

Of these five precepts, Longinus stresses the importance of the first two, being “τὸ πλέον αὐθιγενεῖς” (for the most part congenital [to sublimity]). The other three are distinguished from these by being relatively more attributed to τέχνη (art/skill), introducing the famous classical philosophical dichotomy between τέχνη and φύσις (ars and ingenium in Latin, respectively). Longinus evidently favours φύσις (nature/innate genius), though he acknowledges the necessity of a high degree of τέχνη for that φύσις to flourish. Regardless, the τέχνη/φύσις distinction has been endlessly treated elsewhere, by other classical scholars and authors; for a greater appreciation of Longinus’ point of view, I would recommend reading sections 33-35, dubbed Regel und Genie by Wilamowitz, for obvious reasons.

For my purposes, I would simplify Longinus’ five arguments to three, since the final three, at least, are fairly specific to literature. I shall posit, then, that, for a work of art to be sublime, it would:

1. have brilliant ideas;

2. inspire emotion; and finally,

3. be technically masterful.

With this in mind, we continue to an analysis of classical piano.

Piano

Listen to Glenn Gould’s recordings of The Goldberg Variations. Can there be any denying its sublimity? Compare his 1955 recording with his 1981 recording—though the clarity and vigour of 1955 seems to have been lost, it is more than made up for by the tenderness and emotion of 1981. Both are sublime, but the latter recording’s expressions of emotion grant it greater power “to transport [the audience] out of themselves.”⁵ Even Gould’s trademark humming seems to echo the feeling of the performance—one that seems, in hindsight, to have been his swan song.

And yet, we find violent opposition to Gould:

As in the above tonebase video, Seymour Bernstein, classical pianist, professor at NYU and subject of a documentary by Ethan Hawke, “never heard him ever play anything that [Bernstein] thought was beautiful, even the Bach.” He criticises his divergence from the original: “when I hear his Bach, I am not aware that I am listening to Bach—I’m listening to Glenn Gould’s neurotic interpretation of it.” Bernstein’s interlocutor Ben Laude, also a classical pianist, argues instead that Gould was a provocateur, someone who was attempting to break from the canon and reinterpret the greatest works of old.

In the above video on Gould’s Brahms, this discussion continues, falling into a discussion of what the purpose of music really is. Laude argues that Gould was attempting to create something sublime in his music (and music generally), which “resonated rhythmically with the cosmos”, creating a “sense of wonder in the universe”, in which “Laude loses himself”. Bernstein rejects this: “the place of music is to move us… what music actually is, is a miraculous means of encapsulating human feeling into sound.” This is what makes music universal, the conveyance of shared human emotion. Bernstein “doesn’t want music to be in the sky. When I listen to music it has to be in my heart… I don’t want it floating above my head.”

There exists here, I think, a disconnect between these two opinions that can easily be resolved. Bernstein clearly understands the purpose of music, but his conceptual framework centres the heart above all. The sublime is greater that that; it is the heavenly, the sacred, the higher and the universal. It does not exist ‘floating above our heads’, but in a heavenly realm separate from the temporal one—Magonia, heaven, Hyperuranion. The sublime connects our hearts with that realm, whether through sublime ideas, the power of emotions, or the highest technical talent. Whatever can fulfil this entire trinity is most sublime. Anyone who fashions such a thing can, like Lim Yunchan, “create more universes”.

I link below Seymour Bernstein’s recording of Brahms’ Intermezzo, Op. 117 No.1. Surely this man understands the sublime, even if he misunderstands its concept?

Seymour Bernstein plays Brahms, Intermezzo, Op. 177, No. 1

So why are certain arts considered ‘refined’? In what ways are they more sublime? Bernstein’s pedagogy assists us here:

Watching this, I was struck by Seymour Bernstein’s comment on Laude’s replaying of Chopin’s Nocturne with changed, and improved, dynamics:

That bears no resemblance to the other that you played!

Well, of course, it bears almost complete and utter resemblance to what he played before—it is the same piece, with the same player—that is, until you realise that now it is ‘imbued with some special spirit’, as Howard Beale would say, for dynamics is the communicator of human emotion, the lightning rod to which feeling flows. Laude’s technical ability is accounted for, but is not entirely sufficient. To be raised to that sublime level, he must add the emotional element. A minor change creates a major effect. This is the quality of sublimity—what makes the ‘fine arts’ finer than the others.

This is certainly the case for classical piano, and classical music in general, since the foundation of the initial score is so solid. Any variation on, or interpretation of, that score is inevitably minor; but, again, that minor change can have major effects. Only genius can fill the space between the gaps, as small as that space is in the fine arts. A piano virtuoso such as Glenn Gould or Lim Yunchan has that potential.

We see this quality of sublimity in the very history of Rachmaninoff’s 3rd Concerto itself. First, we find it in its creation and first performances. Rachmaninoff was himself a virtuoso and among the foremost pianists of his time. The third concerto is technically extremely difficult, pulling it off being a mark of genius enough, let alone originating it. While the first ever performance was made with Walter Damrosch (curiously hated by Adorno) conducting, it is the second performance, conducted by the great Gustav Mahler, that best shows off the concerto’s sublimity. From Rachmaninoff himself:

“At that time Mahler was the only conductor whom I considered worthy to be classed with Nikisch. He devoted himself to the concerto until the accompaniment, which is rather complicated, had been practiced to perfection, although he had already gone through another long rehearsal. According to Mahler, every detail of the score was important – an attitude too rare amongst conductors. ... Though the rehearsal was scheduled to end at 12:30, we played and played, far beyond this hour, and when Mahler announced that the first movement would be rehearsed again, I expected some protest or scene from the musicians, but I did not notice a single sign of annoyance. The orchestra played the first movement with a keen or perhaps even closer appreciation than the previous time.”

To inspire such dedication, such passion in one of the great conductor-composers of all time, as well as the entire orchestra, speaks volumes. Something greater than themselves, that made them forget about time itself, and all other facets of quotidian life, motivated their continued playing. We must also not forget that the conductor is as much the craftsman of the performance as the piano soloist (and so too as well are all the other members of the orchestra). Mahler interrogated every detail of the score because he understood that all the tiniest elements of the piece were just as important in creating beauty as the grandest phrases.

The next testament of Rachmaninoff No.3’s illustrious history came in 1958 Moscow. At the height of the Cold War, the USSR hosted the first International Tchaikovsky Competition—an attempt to assert its cultural superiority over the West. What the authorities did not expect was a plucky young Texan named Van Cliburn to perform such a beautiful rendition of Rachmaninoff’s 3rd, along with Tchaikovsky’s 1st concerto, that he would win the entire competition. And his performance was beautiful; the reactions to it are evidence enough: an eight minute standing ovation, the bouquets of countless Russian women, and, most importantly, Sviatoslav Richter’s award of a perfect 25-point score, accompanied with his own tears of joy.

And so we return to Lim Yunchan, for it was at The Van Cliburn International Piano Competition in Fort Worth, Texas that he made his fantastic contribution to the history of this piece, accompanied by the tears of his own conductor, Marin Alsop.

(Author’s note: for the record, I actually prefer Rachmaninoff No.2, particularly because of that most beautiful moment near the end of the second movement, which anyone would recognise the greatness of, even on first listen. I particularly like the grandiosity and passion of Grigory Sokolov’s version as well as the emotion in Khatia Buniatishvili’s interpretation. The latter also has a cool album cover on Spotify.)

Addendum: Zadok the Priest

Perhaps only God himself could have crafted a more sublime composition than Handel’s Zadok the Priest. Performed at every coronation since George II’s in 1727, it has no comparison. The gradual build-up of the strings in the initial section, released by the catharsis of the choir’s first entrance. The Amens interspersed with Hallelujahs. The layered runs. The trumpets’ blasts that may as well have come from the heavenly host itself. Performed at the coronation for which it was composed, its beauty is only heightened, as we saw this past weekend.

At a basic, physical level, the performance of the coronation integrates perfectly with the piece. The silence of all but the choir as the King is anointed marks the sacral nature of that ritual. Any words uttered by the King, his archbishops and bishops are drowned out—the music veils the ceremony in the same secrecy that the anointing screen creates. The music destroys the ego of the audience; they are totally and utterly drawn to the ceremony, and forget themselves. There is but one focus now—the coronation—and yet, its true nature is concealed from them. But this is precisely the point; the audience is dazed, the music overcomes them. The King, however, is separate, and anointed, ordained by God. In that moment, divested of his robes, he becomes briefly but a man, alone in front of God, and makes his prayers—a brief relief from public life. When the piece ends he must take on once again the mantle of the temporal kingdom, rather than the heavenly one.

Zadok the Priest also reminds us of the eternal recurrence of kingship. While this work of art may have been performed at every coronation since 1727, it harks back to that initial, perfect moment in the Old Testament:

1 Kings 1:38 So Zadok the priest, and Nathan the prophet, and Benaiah the son of Jehoiada, and the Cherethites, and the Pelethites, went down, and caused Solomon to ride upon king David’s mule, and brought him to Gihon.

39 And Zadok the priest took an horn of oil out of the tabernacle, and anointed Solomon, and they blew the trumpet; and all the people said, God save king Solomon.

40 And all the people came up after him, and the people piped with pipes and rejoiced with great joy, so that the earth rent with the sound of them.

Every king has the potential to be that archetypal king, that Solomon who built the great Temple. Solomon’s rule represents that Saturnian age, that Golden Age, that Satya Yuga, which each king should strive towards. But there exists not only a civic, public solidarity that requests of the king his greatest efforts to enact upon this earth a heavenly kingdom. There is also a personal solidarity. His accession, his public glory, was marked by personal loss. Our King Charles’ mother, our late Sovereign Lady Elizabeth, is the price of his ascension, his new relationship with God, a constant reminder of what came before, just as David was for Solomon. Heavy is the head that wears the crown—can the King possibly live up to his late mother, to King Solomon, to any of his divinely-appointed predecessors? That is up to him. Yet, he can take comfort. His mother sat in St Edward’s chair before him, and her father before her, and his father before him, and every monarch back to Solomon sat in a chair, on a throne, at their own peril, Sword of Damocles hanging down. He is not the first; he will not be the last.

Zadok the Priest fulfils easily Longinus’ tenets of sublimity, with its sublime ideals, sublime evocations of emotion, and sublime technical magnificence. No other coronation song has eclipsed it.

1. This quotation is supposedly a translation of a Korean interview made by Lim, found in the comments section of below video. I have no way of confirming its authenticity, but, even so, the quotation itself remains true and useful to our discussion of the sublime.

2. http://www.thecounterpoints.com/interviews/2022/9/14/yun-chan-lim

3. Pope - Essay on Criticism 675-680; Franciscus Portus (1569) - my translation, see Fyfe/Russell Loeb edition of Longinus for original Latin.

4. See Fyfe/Russell Loeb edition for Greek and English translations.

5. Longinus 1.3.