In the end, we self-perceiving, self-inventing, locked-in mirages are little miracles of self-reference.–Douglas R. Hofstadter, I Am a Strange Loop
One is tempted, perhaps, to experience the fugue as a puzzle. In that
puzzle are strings of numbers unraveling from a central rope, even as
they spin into one. Yet when listening to Bach’s Art thereof,
and especially in the Keller Quartett’s sensitive hands, we find that
even our best similes are weak and arbitrary, for this music, this
expression of internal power, is alive. By no means universal, it takes a
different form every time to every listener. We in turn can take
comfort in knowing that the final triple fugue was never finished, for
into it the composer wove his signature B-A-C-H (B-flat-A-C-B) theme, as
if signing off on a lifelong document. Thus is The Art of Fugue
an “emancipatory work” in the estimation of Hans-Klaus Jungheinrich,
who in his accompanying essay goes to great lengths to demythologize the
unrealistic pedestals upon which the work has been placed. The
instrumentation was never resolutely determined, though it was likely
intended for the nascent pianoforte. The string quartet presents a
compelling solution. In this respect the Kellers push the envelope,
varying tempi considerably and in doing so point us to a humbling truth:
namely, that if this was to be Bach’s most lasting statement, it had to
be invisible.
One with a deeper background may train a musicological magnifying
glass to every weaving line, but these ears are more interested in the
effect than the cause. And of that effect, I am at pains to say anything
worthwhile. Although its movements comprise a moving target of speeds
and densities, a constant hum runs through them. It is something we feel
rather than hear. Cellist Ottó Kertész is particularly well suited,
evoking the slightly metallic continuo of yore with a tinge of
intangibility. (This, I think, explains the curious production, which
favors distance and cavernousness—it is not historically informed, but
seeks to inform history.) That being said, the music is nothing if not
expressible. It might very well be Bach’s swan song, and therefore the
culmination of his craft, but I prefer to hear it as a homecoming, a
clearing of clouds to let fall the darkness that nourishes all artists,
paling into the light that embraces them once they’re gone.
One day, we encounter this music and it sings to us. But then the
voices stop mid-phrase, as the Kellers have preserved them, and suddenly
the galaxy unravels, leaving us floating in the stagnant pool of all
silence. Listen, and you know there is truth in the number:
One. (ECM Reviews)
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