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A crystalline logic underlies all of Bach's work—which is one reason why he is so often the favorite composer of mathematicians and scientists. But his music also throbs with a living pulse; his rhythms and harmonic modulations, however controlled, evolve with a seeming spontaneity. His endlessly inventive melodies, however neatly they fit into a scheme, rise and fall and intertwine with a lyrical life of their own. The most solid of his constructions are nevertheless charged with energy and intensity. And as Robert Shaw points out, his lines serve not only to fill in the structure but also to define thoughts or emotions: "Counterpoint in a choral work is not counterpoint of line but of the human spirit."
Feeling of Transcendence
The spiritual side of Bach has probably prompted as much exaggeration as the notion that he is a dry, abstract musician's musician. Because so much of his work was intended for use in worship, he has traditionally been known as "the fifth evangelist," pealing out a musical gospel from some celestial organ loft. "For me," wrote French organist Charles Marie Widor in 1907, "Bach is the greatest of preachers." Two years ago, three Venetian music lovers wrote to the Vatican weekly Osservatore della Domenica, suggesting that Bach, even though he was a Lutheran, ought to be canonized as a saint.
It is true that Bach's chorales are still widely used at Protestant services—and in the ecumenical climate of modern Roman Catholicism, no organist would hesitate to use his setting of Luther's A Mighty Fortress as a prelude to Sunday Mass. Still, the mode of Christian worship is not that of Bach's time, and the impact of his compositions, whether secular or sacred, stems largely from a general feeling of transcendence in the music. "He will give Christianity to Christians, Judaism to Jews, even Communism to Communists," says Karl Richter, conductor of the Munich Bach Choir and Orchestra. Ultimately, says Helmut Walcha, "Bach opens a vista to the universe. After experiencing him, people feel there is meaning to life after all."
Yet Bach's spiritual depth alone clearly does not account for his force, any more than his forbidding technique does. What generates his awesome power is the dynamic equilibrium between both sides of his creative faculty. He gives a full measure of both head and heart, and stands as an exemplar not only of fullness but, above all, of balance. Existentialist Jean-Paul Sartre, of all people, once wrote of Bach: "He taught how to find originality within an established discipline; actually—how to live."
Artisan with Tools
Bach himself never dreamed of such a thing. Rarely has an artist ever worked with less thought of teaching posterity. He considered himself not an artist, but an artisan, no more elevated in stature than a cabinetmaker with his tools and wood. This was before the Romantic era introduced a more heroic, self-indulgent conception of the artist; still, even some of Bach's contemporaries were afflicted with careerism and flashes of temperament. Bach, throughout his life, merely tried to do an honest job. "I was obliged to be industrious," he said. "Whoever is equally industrious will succeed just equally well."