J.S. Bach: The Art of Fugue

Colm Carey

The organ of the Dutch Church, Austin Friars, London

Programme Notes

Much has been written about Bach’s Die Kunst der Fuge over the past eighty years or so, exploring the many controversial issues which began to surround the work from the moment of Bach’s death. The trials and tribulations of scholars and performers in the quest to produce an accurate study and performing edition, and to dispel the numerous myths that have festered around Die Kunst der Fuge, have been well documented. The purpose of this note is therefore not to provide the listener with a potted history of the work (which reads something like a detective novel) but rather to confront and examine the nature of the music—the construction, emotional impact and relevance—in the context of the early 21st century.

On first encounter, Die Kunst der Fuge is unusual, if not extraordinary, in that each movement of the work is in the same key. This is interesting on a number of levels. First, one of the basic precepts of composition since the Baroque has been for the composer to use a range of connected keys to underpin the overall structure of a large-scale work. Second, the idea of tonal monothematicism on such a vast scale is still, two hundred and fifty years later, quite startling. And third, the listener is arguably more adequately equipped today, having experienced the experimentation and development of musical ideas in the 20th century, to appreciate the overwhelming musical intensity of Die Kunst der Fuge’s gloriously relentless manifestations of D minor. 

However, it is not only the constancy of tonality that strikes one on that first encounter, but also the remarkable cohesion of material and style. Bach, at the end of his life, seems to be in pursuit of a pure and abstract contrapuntal beauty, which encouraged a retrospective foray into the works of past masters such as Palestrina and Frescobaldi, works which Bach had cherished since his childhood. This aspect of Die Kunst der Fuge is in stark contrast to the character of some of his other large collections, most notably the third part of the Clavierübung, which is a model of variety and stylistic ingenuity. That said, Bach does not leave his international colours entirely in the closet: contrapunctus vi is headed ‘in stile francese’ and contrapunctus viii is very much a salute to the Italian trio sonata, lovingly employed by Bach throughout his oeuvre.

In Bach’s search for the contrapuntal ideal, he visits a bygone era not just for the stylistic direction of Die Kunst der Fuge, but also for the elemental bedrock of the work—fugue, or contrapunctus as he heads the movements in Die Kunst der Fuge, and canon (the absence of the canons and two of the fugues is dealt with later). In his almost obsessive hunt for a simplicity of musical expression, distinct from the overt rhetoric and grand gesture characteristic of so many earlier works (organ fantasias, orchestral suites, harpsichord toccatas), it seems a little paradoxical on the face of it that Bach should have chosen such a constricting and complex form to facilitate his ambition of pure contrapuntal writing! Nevertheless its derivation from the Italian canzona—another glance backwards by Johann Sebastian—and the fact that it was such an aesthetically pleasing musical form would have had great allure for Bach’s deftly creative persona. 

In fact, one of the most important issues concerning Die Kunst der Fuge that has given a great deal of discursive fodder to performers and scholars is whether the work is simply a pleasurable intellectual exercise intended for the recreation of the mind rather than the soul! Again, this chapter in the story of Die Kunst der Fuge does not need reiteration here; it does however lead on to an obvious point which may vex the veteran Die Kunst der Fuge fan. Where are the canons and mirror fugues? For anyone not familiar with the work, it should be explained that the collection as a whole contains four canons (contrapuntal compositions where the theme in one voice is repeated in another voice before the original melody concludes) and two mirror fugues (fugues in which the music appears simultaneously the right way up and upside-down, as if a mirror has been placed between the two versions) in addition to what is heard on this disc. 

It should perhaps be borne in mind that the concept of hearing works in their totality is a relatively recent one—it was not uncommon in the 18th and 19th centuries, for instance, to hear selected or single movements of symphonies or sonatas at a concert. So the performer’s first difficulty in approaching a performance of Die Kunst der Fuge is to determine whether a performance of the work in its entirety is what best serves the music. Whilst a complete performance can be very successful, it is my opinion that the work as presented on this CD is strengthened by omitting the mirror fugues and canons, with the twelve consecutive contrapuncti giving a real sense of the narrative developing compositionally as well as emotionally. It may be blasphemy to say it, but is it possible that the canons and mirror fugues are not on the same musical plane as the rest of the work? This is a characteristic which may be inherent in their didactic function, and so a performance including these movements weakens the overall thrust of the drama. Equally, as this performance is not intended simply to be a recorded account of Bach’s notes, I feel no compulsion to add the remaining movements as an appendage.

One of the greatest mysteries engulfing Die Kunst der Fuge has been the supposed uncertainty of the instrumentation for the work. While it has now been firmly established by Gustav Leonhardt that Bach envisaged Die Kunst der Fuge to be for harpsichord, there are grounds for suggesting that he would not have been entirely unhappy with a performance of his final contrapuntal testament on the organ—the organ had been, after all, Bach’s first love and he was acknowledged as one of the greatest organists of the age by his contemporaries. 

In tandem with this there is, interestingly, nothing in the keyboard figuration of Die Kunst der Fuge that renders it unplayable, or even especially unidiomatic, on the organ. This really is very unusual: most of Bach’s works are conceived for specific instruments, with Bach obviously writing for the timbre and technical limitations of a particular instrument. The keyboard works are very obviously either for the organ or the harpsichord, not simply because of the compass and use of pedals, but more importantly because Bach understood the properties of both instruments so well that he developed a distinct vernacular for them. Yet this case is not so clear cut—the writing contains few of the hallmarks one might immediately expect. The sustaining ability of the organ offers, arguably, a prime advantage over the harpsichord in as far as the beauty of contrapuntal line is far more cogent on the organ—the organ would facilitate the individual lines to sing in a way that is simply not possible on the harpsichord through the very nature of its construction. 

If the harpsichord has a slight edge in the claim for Die Kunst der Fuge, it might well be that it can bring a certain intimacy to the work, an indigenous factor of an instrument that lived in the home and was used chiefly for chamber music. On the other hand, the organ can actually achieve this as well in spite of the fact that it promptly summons up notions of vast sounds filling large spaces! Indeed, a small organ in a modestly sized church fulfils this role remarkably well. The work can be performed on single stops, but the organist has the ability to open the throttle at the appropriate moment, thus giving a greater capacity for colour and drama. However, the most compelling argument for an organ performance is the fact that one can achieve the same subtlety of touch and articulation as on the harpsichord and, in addition, bring another dimension to the work through a spectrum of sound colours and dynamic variation. One final comment in relation to an organ performance is that Bach’s trusted son, Carl Philipp Emmanuel, placed a prelude for organ, Wenn wir in höchsten Nöthen sein (BWV 668a), in the first printed edition where the final contrapunctus comes to an unexpected halt, presumably so that prospective buyers would not feel deprived at the lack of a completion. But why an organ chorale at the end of what is intended to be an epic work for harpsichord? Did the younger Bach feel that Die Kunst der Fuge had some special affinity with the organ, and if this is the case, was it a fair judgment?

Much has been written about the ‘genetic makeup’, the historical background, and the fantastical legends concerning Die Kunst der Fuge, and yet remarkably little has been expressed in print about the substance of the work as a piece of music. Die Kunst der Fuge is undoubtedly one of the greatest keyboard pieces ever composed. It is an extraordinary fusion of complicated musical structure and undiluted emotion. For the performer it is interpretatively a conundrum. There are few signposts which give an indication of pulse or character. There is no text, relatively little affiliation to discernible musical styles that might offer some clear direction and, most importantly, the influence of dance, an integral part of Bach’s music at large, is in scant evidence here. This makes life problematic for the performer, but also uniquely exciting and stimulating. A keyboard performance of Die Kunst der Fuge is limited only by the speed at which the fingers can move (the organ pedals are used very sparingly in this performance) and this engenders and encourages a very personal response to the music. 

The historically-informed performance movement spends much time and energy in trying to unmask what the composer really intended in his music, and how this translates into the music’s performance. This is perhaps an awkward starting point for Die Kunst der Fuge as we can never unequivocally discover what Bach was really contemplating. Instead, the performer must tread his own path with a rare sense of cloudless blue skies.

This unequalled sense of autonomous latitude enables the performer to exhibit vividly an old and pain-ridden Bach at his most intense. What is so extraordinary about Die Kunst der Fuge is how Bach manipulates taut contrapuntal technique to his expressive advantage, providing a real rhetorical identity beyond historicity and compositional virtuosity. The listener can bask in this ‘pure’ music, safe in the knowledge that he does not need any fugal ‘know-how’ to become involved in the dramatic unfolding of this towering achievement. Curiously, the development of the work proves to be almost autobiographical—the world-weary Bach is represented very clearly in the obsessive chromaticism of Contrapunctus xi. The final, unfinished fugue, by contrast, presents a man who returns to his maker at peace with himself—his career as a composer has been consummated.

Colm Carey, 2000