In 1977 NASA sent Voyager I into deep space to explore the great beyond. The spacecraft contained a 12-inch copper disc titled “Sounds of the Earth”, featuring “greetings from the People of Earth in 60 languages, and natural sounds such as ocean surf, thunder [and] chirping birds.”
Representing China among the 50 musical examples from around the world was a piece for the seven-stringed zither, the guqin. Called “Flowing Waters” (流水), the piece was performed by the late guqin master Guan Pinghu.
Quoted in Bell Yung’s book Celestial Airs of Antiquity, Chinese-American composer Chou Wen-Chung explained the reasons for this choice: The seven-stringed guqin “has been part of Chinese culture since the time of Confucius…[the piece] is a meditation on the human sense of affinity with the universe…all kinds of people, on every side of [the] political division, would be moved by such a choice”
The guqin has a documented history dating back to the second millennium BC, quickly becoming part of a tradition cultivated by the Chinese literati and an instrument associated with philosophers, sages, and emperors. It has no frets or bridge and can produce incredibly subtle shades of tone color.
I have long admired the performance space of the scholar-recluse and the guqin found in Chinese scroll paintings, seemingly removed from the snares of the “dusty world.” He might be in a pavilion that opens onto a lake or on a precipice facing upward toward the skies. Whether a solitary player or performing to a small group, kindred spirits have gathered to explore and affirm their place in the universe. Like the solitary herdsman described by Christopher Small, who plays his flute to guard his flock in the African night, the guqin player, is in effect, is saying to himself and to anyone who may be listening: “Here I am, and this is who I am.”
For the guqin player it’s paramount that the listener is truly mindful and present. If there is deep listening (the performer is always the principal listener), there is no need to attach a ‘sign’ or title to a piece since both performer and listener are perfectly “in tune.”
This affinity of the guqin player and listener is represented in the story of Bo Ya, a guqin player who lived sometime during the messy period of Chinese history from the Spring and Autumn to the Warring States (771 to BC 771 to 403). Bo Ya found the most ideal listener in his friend Zhong Ziqi. But when Ziqi died, Bo Ya broke the strings of his instrument and vowed never to play again.
The Chinese expression “playing a qin to an ox,” or “serenading a cow” perfectly describes someone who doesn’t listen or understand.
The scholar-officials who had no zest for a political career needed more than a little space out in nature to restore their mind and body. “Returning Home With My Zither” by the 15th-century painter and calligraphy Tang Yin is one of many landscape paintings, past and present, that features a solitary individual among the mountains and rivers with his musical companion. The consequence of being in exile for so long no doubt gnawed away a growing sense of longing, a pain for home, and a chance to reunite and commune with the cosmos. And this is what the word nostalgia means: nostos (return) and algos (pain or grief).
• A version of this piece was originally published on Danwei.org in 2007.
Also by Peter Micic about Chinese music:
On Danwei.org
Funky Chinatown and the Asian riff
China’s National Anthem
The Ringing of Sacred Chimes
Hymns of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom
The jasmine crossing
Theater, business and wading into the sea
On An Imperfect Pen
Membrane Flute Mystery
The Flute Player
A Brief History of the Music Research Institute, China Academy of Arts
Give Me Five
Matteo Ricci’s Hymns