Essays

The Form of Inner Experience and The Art of the Fugue

Physical Modes as Media of Sensory Perception

In the following argument, my purpose is to show how the basic elements of experience determine our knowledge of ourselves and the world. In this connection, I will establish two closely related equations: that of the physical object with sensory perception, and that of physical modes with media of sensory perception. These equations imply that the incipient object – the thing that is transformed by sensory perception in the realization of phenomena – cannot be a template or a specific form for the physical object. For if sensory perception realizes the phenomenon by transforming the incipient object then by definition the latter cannot be a model for the physical object, and this is evident in the varied transformations of the same incipient object by different sentient beings. Therefore, we cannot understand physical reality without taking into account the logical interdependence of the physical object and sensory perception. At the same time, the incipient object is more than a basis for what is physical since in making life possible it must itself be inclined towards sentience, as well as being responsive to the perceptual experience and psychological inclinations of sentient beings. 

   If, in the realization of a physical object, these inclinations are interwoven with the physical then the incipient object must play a part in the realization. It is responsive in one way to my perception in seeing a cup and simultaneously responsive in another way to a lizard’s perception in seeing the same ‘object’. Thus, it is simultaneously responsive to the individuality of sensory perception in an unlimited number of sentient beings. There must be an underlying connection between how the incipient object is a physical source for the realization of an object and how it is inclined towards life and responsive to the act of perception.

   Since what I see as a vessel for drinking tea or coffee is seen as a different object by a lizard, there must be different ways in which we see such physical modes as solidity, shape, size and balance. It might be suggested that the difference is purely psychological, that my act of perception orders the object in one way and the lizard’s act of perception orders it in another. But while our psychology is the source of our contrasting realization of the incipient object, what we perceive in our different ways is physical, and this implies that the incipient object must be able to respond to many ways of being realized, and is not assumed into the psychology of sentient beings as an inner object. The incipient object must possess something that is common to all of the acts of sensory perception that transform it. If, for example, during the act of perception the cup is knocked over, the physical change in its disposition is the same for me and the lizard and is not caused by anything in our psychology. So, there is a fundamental degree of independence in the materiality of the incipient object, showing that the psychological difference in the phenomenon must have a counterpart in the plasticity of the incipient object and its physical modes. For if the incipient object is more than a neutral substance upon which the psychology of a sentient being imposes form, then the power to engage with the act of sensory perception is necessary to its function. Thus, simultaneous responsiveness to the psychology of many sentient beings must be intrinsic to the incipient object. 

   The analogy with sculpture is obvious. Just as the clay, stone or wood must respond to the sculptor’s purpose in turning it into a satisfying shape, so, in the act of sensory perception, the physical modes of space, time, movement, light, solidity, shape, size and balance and others must interact responsively. If these modes were not responsive to perception and to each other – as, for example, when solidity, shape and size coalesce in order to give the cup its balance – then they could not interact and no phenomena could take form. And because the same incipient object can be simultaneously perceived by innumerable sentient beings, all of whom realize a different physical object, the act of sensory perception is analogous with a simultaneous modelling of many different forms from the same piece of clay, stone or wood, and implies another kind of causation.

   Therefore, my seeing a sphere does not mean that there is a corresponding sphere in the incipient object. Rather, sometimes my inclination to perceive geometric forms is realized in my seeing a sphere, as, for example, when I look at the moon. In such cases, there is something in the incipient object that gives rise to the realization of a sphere. Of course, it could be that many kinds of sentient being will see the moon as a sphere, but in the perception of a cup not so many will see a vessel for drinking tea or coffee. We have seen that in this way a cup gives a particular meaning to such physical modes as solidity, shape, size and balance, and also that they interact with each other in the character of the object. Thus, the plasticity of physical modes and their subtle interactions imply that they are also media of sensory perception.

   2 + 2 = 4 is a piece of arithmetic, but the perception that 2 + 2 = 4 is not a piece of arithmetic. Similarly, a building is a physical object, but the perception of a building is not a physical object, it is of a physical object. A perception is a mental act and to think of a mental act as a physical object is a category mistake, like saying that there is aerial perspective in a glass of wine or that a scientific theory has a nut allergy. What makes matters worse in this case, the logical interdependence of perception as perception and object as object entails that neither can be understood in terms that apply to the other; therefore, they cannot preserve their logical interdependence if perception is conceived as another kind of physical object. 

   This relation is especially significant because, as we have seen, something is realized as a phenomenon in the act of perception. Sensory knowledge is not simply awareness of an external object or state of affairs, and, conversely, the existence of a world depends on the subliminal self-knowledge in sensory perception; the logical interdependence of perception and object is entailed by the possibility of there being phenomena at all. Hence the possibility of phenomena excludes the possibility of turning perception into any kind of physical object. Moreover, not only is the perception of an object the basis of most of our knowledge, to an empiricist it is the basis for any acceptable justification for knowledge of ourselves and the world. Thus, the indissoluble relation in perception of an object is at the heart of both the world and what is normally accepted as knowledge. This implies that the psychology of sensory perception is as basic to phenomena as any merely physical element or component (Nelson 2017). In order to avoid other conceptual confusions, it is necessary to work out in some detail the elements of experience and perception.

   Consider the physical mode of time. A clock does not measure time as such, it measures the time in which something elapses or could elapse. Most relevantly, what elapses is the movement of the hands of the clock in the medium of time. This, then, can be employed as a measurement of the time that elapses in other physical events, such as a game or a symphony or something remaining perfectly still, by comparing an event with the numbers produced by a mechanism that moves in a repeated pattern at a constant speed. Similarly, a ruler does not measure space but rather the length of a line, or the height, breadth and depth of a spatial object. In other words, like space, time is a medium in which something takes place or is perceived (as a physical mode or medium of sensory perception). Furthermore, the measurement of time is not the only way in which its significance can be realized, any more than measuring light or movement is the only way in which their significance can be realized.

   Therefore, experience is of an object and not itself an object, and media of sensory perception, such as time, space, movement, light, shape, size, solidity and temperature are in the object and not in experience. To suppose that experience (or consciousness as such) is either spatial or temporal is to confuse experience itself with the object of experience. When I look at a picture or listen to a piece of music space and time are measured by the object, either I see a picture of certain dimensions and aesthetic qualities which determine the spatial qualities, or I hear music which determines the span of time and its experiential duration for me. Similarly, it is the pain in my foot that is temporal and not the experience of this pain, even though I might say, ‘This experience seems to go on forever’. There is no space or time related to experience in itself. 

   In other words, we do not have two kinds of space or passages of time, only one, and it lies in the object that we experience, and this is why it is a mistake to think of consciousness itself as being spatial or temporal. All of the media of sensory perception are physical and not purely psychological modes, and what applies to space, light, movement, solidity, volume, density, size, shape, temperature and balance also applies to time. Time is psychologically influential in the determination of a physical object by past experience but this too is one physical mode among others. A physical mode is not an entity in itself but a medium for the realization of physical objects in experience and thereby an aspect of the physical object (we can only see an object through the media of size and shape if it can have a particular size and shape). Thus, in being a medium for the perception of an object a physical mode is also a medium for its organization.

   It is not difficult to see that, in our perception of a cup, certain physical modes, like space, time, light, shape, solidity, hardness, size and balance are related to each other by their being media of sensory perception. In this respect, the phenomenon can be defined as a composite of physical modes, since the existence of a cup depends on the extension of a three-dimensional object that persists in certain essential ways, such as being solid, hard and of an appropriate shape. Otherwise, it could not be a vessel for drinking tea or coffee. At the same time, we can see that such things as shape, solidity, size and balance can be more explicitly media of sensory perception. For in the act of sensory perception we can see immediately that a particular cup is well – formed, or that it is badly balanced or made of the wrong material and likely to leak or dissolve in hot water, or that it is too large or small, or too thick to fit comfortably into the mouth. Insofar as a lizard would not be interested in this way, its vision would not relate the physical modes of shape, solidity, size and balance in the same way, and therefore, even physically, it would not see the same object.

   Such a definition applied to phenomena in general makes it impossible to conceive of a world from which sentience is excluded. Phenomena do not depend wholly upon sentience for their existence, but they do depend on it for their identity or character and we have just seen that this has physical consequences. Thus, if the laws of motion say nothing about the character of a phenomenon, like a cup, and would apply indiscriminately to any other physical object, then they are not affected by the fact that a cup is a particular composite of physical modes. Therefore, they are not affected by media of sensory perception; our sensory perception does not impose the laws of nature upon phenomena. However, in order for these laws to apply to phenomena, the object must be given its character by such media, and the same must be true of laws that are connected with any of the physical modes. This means that the laws of nature that apply to phenomena can equally apply to the incipient object – the physical basis for phenomena which is also inclined toward sentience and sensory experience (such inclination must also include the generation of physical modes that are media of sensory perception).

   It is logical to see the complex interplay of perception, reflection, memory, imagination and other forms of mental action in similar terms. So, just as time is a physical mode that is simultaneously a medium of sensory perception, it (time) may be extended from sensory perception to become a medium of reflection or memory or imagination with all of the mental activities that are entailed by them, such as reasoning, calculating, communicating, devising, questioning, revising, speculating, evoking, picturing or otherwise creating imagery, and disclosing, not to mention dreaming, fantasizing and simply allowing thoughts and images to appear to oneself. If, like space, light, movement, solidity, shape and others, time is a physical mode that is also a medium of sensory perception, then it is the medium of various kinds of mental objects and not purely inner or subjective; for example, when, unprompted, a memory takes the place of reflection upon some idea, the medium of time lies in the non-mechanical alternation from one focus of attention to another and not in a change of direction in an imaginary internal process of experience in itself. Thus, we might say that time is a physical mode that is also a medium for experience of the body and the world, and, through sensory experience, a medium for reflection, memory, imagination and all of the other mental activities that make up a reflective life as it evolves through our participation in a community. The underlying integration and continuity of these various elements provides us with a conception of how time can be understood as a medium of reflective life rather than something separate that flows or envelops or contains us. Time is a medium of experience generally because thought is generated by our sense of ourselves and the world in a continuous succession of moments.

   Consider the sense of integration and continuity behind all of these moments – how, in sensory perception, reflection, memory, imagination and other kinds of perception, I know my thoughts and feelings to be mine. In an immediate, unanalysable sense, I know my present experience to be continuous with my experience in the past, and do so without any need to invoke an object or memory of any kind. Realization of the object is not itself an object, though it determines the character of the object. This is an example of non-mechanical causation that implies non-spatiality and non-temporality in experience as such (Nelson 2019). My thoughts, feelings, emotions and imaginings when I experience a piece of music are, of course, temporal, as they are what happens to me and what I initiate during the time that I am listening. But this does not make experience (or consciousness) in itself temporal. There is only one experience of time and it is to be found in the physical object, action or event. 

   Experience itself might best be seen as a psychological medium for perception; sensory perception as a psychological medium for the perception of physical objects, reflection as a medium for perception of the nature of things and relations between them, memory as a medium for the perception of past experiences and imagination as a medium for the perception of possible ideas, images and experiences. As a psychological medium for perception, experience (0r consciousness) is an inner counterpart to the physical media of sensory perception like space, time, light, shape, solidity, size, movement, balance and so on. We could not say that experience or reflection or memory in itself is temporal any more than we could say that movement is temporal or that shape is mobile or temporal or spatial (a musical shape is not spatial), though a particular object is frequently all of these things. As a medium of sensory perception, time is a medium of things that are perceived and not of sensory perception as such; time cannot be an attribute of either a physical medium or a psychological medium. Thus, to think of consciousness as temporal is another category mistake, since a psychological medium cannot possess a physical medium of sensory perception as though it were the attribute of a physical object.  

    Time and experience are media for the objects, actions and events that flow through them. The media are like a river bed and the objects, actions and events are the river. Thus, a stream of consciousness is a stream of what is in consciousness, of the realization to a sentient being of ideas, objects, actions, feelings and events, and the same distinction can be made in relation to time. In this respect, time and experience are complementary, one being a physical medium and the other psychological. Their interdependence is obvious, and it makes no sense to talk about the flow of time as such or its duration or the relations of different times, as these too refer to ideas, objects, actions and events. Similarly, experience in itself, or consciousness, is not spatial, temporal or in motion, any more than it has a shape, or is solid or cold.

    As a medium of experience, sensory perception is open to more than pieces of data or information. It can also be a medium for allusion, suggestion, ambiguity, obscurity, uncertainty, deception and insinuation, and similar things can be said of memory and imagination. Therefore, a psychological medium is responsive to a rich diversity of psychological impulses and motivations and may be seen as interactive with the diverse interplay in physical media of sensory perception. In some of the different forms of significance to which I have just referred the medium of sensory perception is clearly influenced by the media of reflection, memory and imagination; within the medium of experience there is a fluid interaction between the more specific media. For example, memory of a subliminal kind is suggested in how repeated acquaintance can change the way a person looks, while it is a familiar occurrence for imagination to alter, exaggerate, re-order and misattribute remembered objects, actions and events. 

   Think of how reflection might influence physical media of sensory perception in the realization of a physical object. Imagine having a moment of uncertainty concerning the sincerity of someone who is offering you help. On this occasion, you are face to face with the other person, and so it is likely that you will scan his face in order to read his motives. This experience is one in which you will be susceptible to the idea that insincerity is physically perceptible in his face, voice and behaviour. Hence it might lead you into seeing insincerity, or it might mislead you into seeing what is not really there. In either case, the psychological medium of reflection will have affected the sensory perception that is made via physical media.

   As we have seen, the constitution of the physical object is determined by past experience, and this is a clear example, running through our experience at all times, of sensory perception being shaped by memory. Of course, it is memory in a subliminal form (as in the example above), but we can still define it as the perception of past experience – without which there would be no perception of any kind. It is not difficult to suppose that sensory perception, reflection, memory and imagination are all active in different ways and to varying degrees in experience generally; and it can be that on a particular occasion reflection or imagination is predominant and draws the others into its orbit. In meeting someone you regard as powerful, sensory perception might be greatly heightened in certain ways by reflection and imagination, and, because of these, by ordinary memory as well.

   Psychological media of perception are significantly related to self-knowledge in the sense that the constitution of the physical object directly illuminates our personal psychology. It contains a pure manifestation of what lies within the act of perception, and thereby what gives the object its character and does so before we can censor or ‘correct’ it. This suggests a reason why time and experience are necessarily media of perception and not the agents of a flow of time or stream of consciousness. As we have seen, the latter belong to the phenomena that are experienced, and are fundamental to our understanding of the physical object. The character of the object reveals something of one’s own character – in what attracts and repels us, in what excites our interest, in what expresses our tendencies and inclinations, such as taking pleasure in complexity or in logic when it is combined with feeling and emotion. In the absence of this kind of sensory self-knowledge we cannot form any substantial understanding of ourselves. Therefore, if the medium of time or experience itself were to interpolate characteristics into the physical object this would interfere with and distort the character that is strictly derived from the act of sensory perception.  

   To take an example of self-knowledge from sensory perception: a talented dancer knows that her timing is precise and a vital part of her performance. In this, her self-knowledge can only be acquired from her perception of the relationship between the music and her movements, and in this there are only two elements – the tempo, rhythm and drama of the music and the ways in which she responds to them in her movements. These represent both time as a physical medium of sensory perception (through which we know the physical object) and experience as a psychological medium of perception. In either case, the medium is simply an idea of time or consciousness as it arises in movement and change in the physical elements that constitute the action or event. To suggest that there is a further time-in-itself in the dancer’s experience is to introduce a perception that is foreign to realization of the physical object (her perception of herself in action) and the self-knowledge it implies. In this example, time only exists in the character of the music and its relation to the physical movements of the dancer, and consciousness only exists in the dancer’s perception of the music and her movements. This preserves the integrity of an essential form of self-knowledge, and does not subject it to an unwarranted complication.  Thus, we can see that, as a medium of perception, experience itself is no more temporal than it is spatial or mobile or luminous or shapely or solid or balanced or cold. And from this example we can extend the possibility of self-knowledge to all of the objects of our sensory perception. In a primitive sense, I know myself in the character of objects that I see, hear, touch, taste and smell according to my inclinations, and reflection often turns this into part of a more deliberate and analytical knowledge of myself. 

   Physical modes that are also media of sensory perception represent an identity that is fundamental to phenomena, and this is important to the coherence of a physical object. As we have seen, in a cup space, time, size, shape, hardness, solidity and light are media of sensory perception that are interrelated in various ways that give the object its character. Thus, its identity depends on the inclinations and objectives of a sentient being which organize the media in a composite of physical modes. If we were to remove the identity of physical modes with media of sensory perception then we would remove the interrelations that give the cup its coherence as a physical object; in terms of physical modes as such, space, time, size, shape and the others possess no organizing principle that gives the cup its coherence as a physical object. When a physicist describes a cup in terms of shape, solidity, and a large number of molecules there is no consideration of the object’s identity, simply allusion to some of its physical properties. An actual phenomenon cannot be an assemblage of mere physical modes and properties because they lack an essential dimension of any physical object – the purposeful interrelation of various media of sensory perception. To put it another way: a physical object is not a composite of physical modes simply as physical modes or properties, it is a composite of physical modes insofar as they are media of sensory perception.

The Phenomenal Boundaries of Sensory Knowledge as Boundaries of Knowledge Itself

Perhaps knowledge is necessarily knowing things from a limited point of view. For example, empiricism implies that our knowledge of physics is determined by the ways in which we are capable of perception. The discovery that all things fall at the same rate of acceleration is about our empirical knowledge and also depends upon empirical knowledge – such as an empirical knowledge of friction and air pressure. Because our knowledge of physical things is always by means of the experience of a sentient being, a world that exists independently of life is an illusion. In the absence of sentient beings there is no experience and therefore no world, and in the presence of them the world and the degree to which it can be perceived and seen into is, by definition, determined by constraints that are created by a form of life. A reliable knowledge of the degree to which our interest in movement enables us to see into the true nature of movement, and how it is related to other things, is determined by the means by which we can know anything at all. The most that we can do is see into the nature of things according to the ways that are made possible by the psychology of our perception. In other words, movement is movement as it is experienced by us, and at its most inclusive this means as it is experienced by a sentient being. Such a conception conforms to the identification of physical modes with media of sensory perception, and implies that without this identification there cannot be any physical modes as we understand them. The effect of the moon on the tides when they are not observed is imagined by us as a phenomenon, as something that is observed and this makes it dependent upon our senses. What the moon and tides are beyond our senses is also beyond our imagination, even though we can know the physical interaction involved when we do not experience them. Furthermore, knowing the physical interaction strictly from experience determines the extent to which we can understand them and what we can infer about them. 

   From the nature of experience and the world we can infer some things about what is antecedent to them. One is that it must be incipient to phenomena and therefore can be called the incipient object. If this were not the case then there would not be any phenomena or sentience. So, we can also infer that the incipient object must be inclined towards both what is physical and what is sentient, and that there is, in the incipient object, a basis for the mutual involvement of materiality and self-awareness. There has to be something antecedent to sentience and, by definition, it cannot be the phenomena as they appear to a sentient being. This, as we have just seen, is because phenomena, including objects in motion and air pressure, derive their character from the act of perception by means of which they are realized. A solar system or a galaxy is not created by an act of sensory perception but is only realized as a solar system or galaxy in the perception and psychology of a sentient being. Over and above the mechanical causation that makes them physically constant, sensory perception is necessary to the character of things. For example, to a cosmologist a solar system is not just a set of physical relations; it has a history that relates it to a world in which we live, and therefore is, for example, significant in relation to whether it possesses the conditions for life. Moreover, because this defining characteristic of a solar system is initiated by sentience, a range of measurements related to this characteristic are also initiated by it. If it were not an element in his world he or she would not wish to discover its physical relations, and in this respect even the physical relations reflect the character that is given to the object by perception. Thus, it might be said that a solar system has a metaphysical interest and otherwise it would not have any interest at all. Physical relations in themselves are not enough to create the identity of a physical object, and therefore the incipient object has within it what can be realized as an object of a certain character by a sentient being of a certain kind.

   When I see a cup as a vessel for drinking tea or coffee the visual experience (including my experiential history) is a motivation for my forming this perception. Without this motivation, I would not see it so and without a motivation of some kind I would not see it as a physical object with certain attributes. Of course, to another kind of being with another motivation the cup would be seen differently and therefore have other attributes, and this implies that the cup itself does not have a character until it is given one by the motivation of a sentient being. It follows from this that I would have no interest in its physical properties and relations. What is true of a cup is true of any physical object or system, including a solar system or galaxy. Hence a solar system does not have a character when there is no motivation for it and its properties and physical relations are not fully realized. To propose the idea of an unmotivated identity for a solar system is to use the concept of identity in a completely foreign way, and, in this respect, there are no phenomena that are independent of sentience and experience. 

   However, we can infer that being inclined towards a mutual involvement of materiality and self-awareness (what is physical and what is sentient) is a defining characteristic of the incipient object, and that therefore it is partly understood by ways in which phenomena can appear to sentient beings. In this respect, the understanding that we have of objects in motion bears an essential relation to what motion is in the incipient object and how it might generate objects in motion. It should be recognized in this conception of the incipient object that it is not a real world behind the appearances of our experience. A more reasonable view is that what is fundamental is a relationship between the incipient object and experience that makes phenomena possible. If a mutual involvement of the physical and psychological defines what is fundamental, and this extends to the essential nature of what is antecedent to phenomena, we cannot expect to understand the nature of motion simply in terms of how we experience things in motion. In the example of falling objects other elements like friction and air pressure are relevant to the experience, but any particular experience does not necessarily give us a complete understanding. And if experience can only give us a partial insight into the physical modes -which are also media of sensory perception – then it can never be a sufficient basis for fully understanding them. To do this it would be necessary to perceive in action the relationship between the incipient object and experience that makes phenomena possible, and in every conceivable sentient being. Exclusion of such perception is precisely what is implied in the relationship itself.

   Because a physical mode is a medium of sensory perception our judgements about the nature of light or movement are directed by the motivation that lies within sensory perception. This, in particular, is the ultimate constraint on our understanding of physical modes, but it is a constraint that lies within the constitution of knowledge itself. Since there is no world that is completely independent of our perception we cannot find a means of knowing a world that is completely independent. The world is determined by our motivations, one of which is to understand it in order to live in it in a certain way or to change the way we live, and this implies that we are not trying to understand something that is independent, however much we might imagine things in that way. Even though light and movement can be explored and analysed on the basis of our experience of them, the grounds for their intelligibility lie in phenomena and not an imaginary world that is detached from them.

   The limitation on our knowledge is therefore intimately connected to how the physical mode as medium of sensory perception creates multiple worlds. For, if physical modes are media of sensory perception then not only is my world different from that of another person or sentient being, it is different from my world this morning; experience determined by motivation also changes motivation itself, and this is how the physical object is changed, however slightly, by repeated acts of sensory perception. Whatever the order and regularity that is discovered in light, movement and other modes – strictly as physical modes – as media of sensory perception they are subject to continuous renewal in our realization of the physical object. A man who retreats into the woods to live as a recluse changes his perception of nature, and this change of perception changes the ways in which he is inclined to behave. For example, it might lower his anxiety about exposure to the elements and remove his deference to the strictures of society. Changes in sensory experience might help to profoundly affect his world in all of its aspects. It might be said that the laws of nature are constant no matter how his world changes, but the laws of nature are no more than physical regularities and they do not take into account the equation of physical modes and media of sensory perception that is largely responsible for the true nature of the world. 

   The plasticity of physical modes when they are affected by sensory perception is not easy to demonstrate. Physical objects are largely composites of media of sensory perception and we do not experience these media individually. As they are media, we do not experience light, movement, space, time, size, volume, solidity, temperature and the others as such, rather they are characteristics, in complex interaction with each other, of physical objects which they help to constitute. So, while we can often define the ways in which experience changes the object this is virtually impossible when it comes to defining how we see light or movement as subtly transformed by our experiential history. However, insofar as the media help to organize phenomena we have empirical evidence, at least in the change in physical objects, that these modes are given a plasticity of definition by their also being media of sensory perception. The physical world is inextricably bound up with the experience of sentient beings.

Examples of plasticity of physical modes when they are affected by being media of sensory perception:

1. Reflected light and its influence upon light in paintings. The effect of light on a person’s expression, in, for example, how shadow creates an expression of menace or melancholy. How brightness in a face conveys transcendence or triumph or elation. Consider the briefly illumined face of Orson Welles as Harry Lime in The Third Man. In this moment in the film, light against darkness is a powerful element in portraying the character’s sinister provocation of morality and the law.   Thus, the physical medium of light is manipulated by being a medium of sensory perception with psychological implications. The image and its use of light convey these implications immediately, and this provides a good example of the plasticity that being media of sensory perception gives to physical modes.
2. Acoustics in a room and its enhancement of the richness and clarity of a symphony. The distortion of outdoor sounds by wind – in the absence of sound as a medium of sensory perception there is no distortion, just waves of a physical mode being blown around. Here also our interest in a physical mode is much more than interest in a mechanical and purely physical phenomenon. Sound is equally defined as a medium of sensory perception.

Apart from such examples, our experience is constantly influenced by the effect upon physical modes of being media of sensory perception, since it is in experience that physical modes are known. Thus, they are not strict and regular in the ways in which they govern our realization of physical objects, but are constantly assuming new and unexpected expression in the diversity of our sensory experience. The possibilities in how light or sound or shape or movement can appear as physical modes are inexhaustible. This means that we can talk about the physical properties of light, including the bare fact that as a physical mode it makes vision possible; however, we can also talk about its psychological properties and this will include its involvement with other physical modes that are media of sensory perception. In the Orson Welles example, light is conspicuously interactive with time, as his appearance is fleeting in order for the psychological effect to be realized. Thus, the film creates a relationship between the physical modes of light and time that highlights their significance as media of sensory perception. There is a similar plasticity in our realization of the action of tides. For example, in the breaking of waves on a beach the visual experience that gives character to the object involves interaction between light, movement, volume and fluidity, and this creates phenomena that both incorporate and surpass the gravitational effect of the earth and moon upon the ocean.

   The physical can be measured with great precision because it obeys laws that can be clearly stated. These laws are necessary to intelligibility – without regulation in such physical modes as motion, temperature, light, space, time, mass, energy, volume, shape and sound there could be no order and therefore no experience. But the laws which make life and experience possible do not in themselves define the nature of what is physical. Phenomena are realized in a synthesis of physical modes that are also media of sensory perception (including those just mentioned). The synthesis cannot be expressed in terms of the laws of physics but is created by an act of sensory perception informed by a sentient being’s inner experience and its history. As a vessel for drinking tea or coffee, the visual perception of a cup synthesizes the physical modes of light, space, time, volume, shape, size and surface, and this is apart from the aesthetic qualities of the object, as they might be experienced in the perception of a particular individual. In the latter, synthesis of the physical modes as media of sensory perception might be highlighted in the size of the cup and its shape and colour, or in its shape, colour and surface. Science tells us the laws according to which physical things are able to be realized and not the essential nature of the objects and modes that are realized.

   If this equation of physical modes with media of sensory perception were not true and all physical modes belonged simply to a universe that is independent of sentience then there would be no experience of myself or self-knowledge in my perception of the physical object. For example, if light, space, time, shape, volume and movement and other modes were not media of sensory perception there could be nothing of my motivation in the physical object, because the object is primarily composed of these media. There would be no promise of a cool, richly hop flavoured and thirst quenching experience in the sight of a glass of beer, and no psychological frisson or meaning in the brief appearance of Orson Welles’ face – they depend not only upon light and time as physical modes but upon light and time as media of perception with a specific psychological orientation. In other words, there is an intimate connection in sensory perception between the medium of sensory perception and the properties of the object; hence light is a medium for the physical source to reach a perceiver and, correspondingly, for the act of perception that gives the object its character and thereby reveals something of the perceiver to itself. The medium acts in both directions, and if this connection is broken then so is the identity of the object. 

   Therefore, if light were merely a physical mode there could be no perception of myself in my perception of another person, and no perception of his or her perception of me or of his perception of himself. In the absence of these I could not form any conception of a life that is valued or of the moral virtue upon which its coherence depends, as I would be unable to understand my own actions and behaviour or the actions and behaviour of others. There would be no reflective life, no art, music, literature, philosophy or science, and no civilization. This means that some physical modes must be, at least prospectively, media of sensory perception and this must be true of all of the modes mentioned above. Thus, the world and its phenomena cannot be equated with a reality that is independent of sentience and the experience of sentient beings. Furthermore, it would be wrong to suppose that physical modes have some kind of priority over media of sensory perception.  Space, time, light, movement, shape, size, volume, temperature and the others do not become media of sensory perception with the appearance of life and sentience; they must be media of sensory perception in the first place in order for life and sentience to appear, and for senses like sight and hearing to develop. Without such media, there could be no formation of an organism possessing vision, hearing, touch, taste and smell, or sense of balance and movement. 

     Likewise, it might be suggested that media of sensory perception follow from the interrelations of physical modes in forming the physical object, but this would be an unjustified assumption. We could just as easily suggest that the interrelation of physical modes follows from the demands of prospective sentience and sensory perception. It is only when the object is perceived and given its character by the motivations and past experience of a sentient being that the modes powerfully coalesce in a particular way. For example, it is only in its being seen as a vessel for drinking that size, shape, solidity, touch and balance complement each other in the identity of a cup. In a glass of wine, we could add taste, smell, colour, coolness, and fluidity, along with the altered sensory perception created by mild exhilaration and a liberating feeling of lightness. The transparency, shape and weight of the glass are part of the experience of drinking wine, and add further connections between the physical modes as media of sensory perception. 

   Experience of the moon and the tides typically involves something like the feeling that they belong to a world to which we ourselves belong. Hence, they are connected to us as part of our natural environment and have the significance of being closely related to our history and sense of ourselves. This means that within physical perception there are connections with our psychology that may be difficult to name, but are of considerable importance to our sense of the world. So, when we consider the gravitational effect of the moon upon the tides, this is more than simply a matter of physical modes acting in concert with each other, it is part of a wider pattern of experiential history. In this connection, the physical modes as they determine physical causation outside our experience can be no more than an armature for the powerful coalescence of the same modes as media of sensory perception. The scientist does not concern him or herself with an armature, he engages with a world of phenomena, and this is necessary to the inductive reasoning that makes it possible for him to make progress. Thus, he is concerned with the world as it is realized in experience in accordance with media of sensory perception – the mutual involvement of materiality and self-awareness is implicit in what he studies.  

   A world is made up not of aggregations of physical properties but rather of physical objects, and so all that we know of the physical world must be composed of objects that owe their coherence and identity to media of sensory perception in combination with each other – in the form of space, time, light, movement, shape, solidity, size, temperature and so on. Thus, the laws of motion are derived from and applied to coherent physical objects. When a ball rolls down an inclined plane, its size, shape, smoothness, firmness and solidity (implying persistence in time and space) are necessary as physical modes and properties. But if these modes were not also interrelated media of sensory perception, the object would not be realized as a ball and would have no identity or character, and the physical action would have no meaning. The character and identity of a ball arise out of its being an object belonging to a world that is experienced by a sentient being. Thus, for a person, a ball can be of a size, shape and solidity to throw, roll, form part of a game, as well as to experiment with in order to understand physical actions and relations. Having no character or identity means having no significant properties either, as the interrelated properties of being the right size to fit in the hand, round, smooth, solid and of a certain weight, for example, make sense only as belonging to a coherently realized physical object. Experience of physical objects is implicit in the knowledge that we have of them.

    We have no reason to doubt that unexperienced objects fall down slopes, but in the absence of any possibility of being experienced they do not acquire the significance that gives them identity and character. Therefore, it is logically inconsistent to assume the physical modes and properties to belong to a physical object with its own character, and at the same time to see the object as independent of experience (or its prospect). In this connection, ‘phenomenon’ means something that presents itself to the mind, and so does not necessarily refer to everything that is physical. As we have seen, what presents itself to the mind – the physical object as it is perceived – is determined by an act of sensory perception. This entails that a cup appears to us in immediate experience, memory or imagination as a vessel for drinking tea or coffee. It is by being media of sensory perception that physical modes are connected with the psychological inclinations that give the physical object its identity and character. In this respect, the essence of the object could not lie in something strictly physical – for example, the essence of a metal could not lie in its atomic number, since the essence of a physical object depends on a mutual involvement of materiality and the self-awareness of a sentient being. Furthermore, the laws of motion, for example, are primarily laws that apply to phenomena and not merely to a physical realm that is completely detached from life and sentience. Their relevance to the incipient object includes being relevant to life and sentience that is prospective, and those who tell us that the laws apply to a world ‘out there’, that has nothing to do with our experience and perception, are obliged to define what they mean by a world that is ‘out there’.

   Hence the character and identity of a physical object has its origins in the form of life in which the organism participates. It is hardly surprising that the perception of a cup as a vessel for drinking tea or coffee has its source in a person’s social experience, but we should bear in mind that this source is as fundamental to the character of the object as its strictly physical properties, like shape, solidity, size and balance. They are determined and given their particular qualities and interrelations by the life in which a sentient being is involved; without this there is no realization of the physical object because there is no context in which it can acquire any character. Our perception of the identity and character of an object depends upon our perception of what others see as its character and identity. However, a sense of oneself and the world depends also upon our perception of the other person’s perception of him or herself and the world. Thus, our deeper sense of the world to which the object belongs requires a deeper sense of the others and the scope of their perception.    

   Knowing oneself in the object is enormously expanded in knowing oneself in our experience of other people. There is nothing very contentious in the observation that self-knowledge is an aspect of our attraction to and engagement with others in all of its rich variety and conflict. A great deal of what we are and our character is defined in relation to such experience, and it is clear that generally my experience of myself in how I see the other person is more significant than in my perception of an object such as a cup. Moreover, interpersonal contact directly involves many more perceptual perspectives and each has a significant influence upon our understanding of ourselves. Thus, it is primarily in the understanding that we form of the other person’s knowledge of him or herself that we form an understanding of the world and of how we are and ought to be. In this connection, what we are taught to think and how we are taught to behave rest fundamentally on a sense of how the behaviour and attitudes of others reveal what they think of themselves. We might be less inclined to follow a teacher’s guidance if we did not believe in his sincerity, or if we thought that he was happy to see himself as a Pecksniff or an Iago.

   Furthermore, the part that is played in self-knowledge by our perception of how others see themselves is integral to our realization of the physical object.   For example, physical objects are intrinsically incorporated into a game, or an experiment, or an entertainment, or a music lesson, and our understanding of their significance is implicitly supported by a perception of how others see themselves in a particular arrangement of shared activity. If they did not know how to act on the objects intrinsic to this arrangement then they would be unable to participate and we would be quick to notice their inadequate perception of both the activity and themselves (as implied in the observation, ‘you don’t know what you are doing’). Thus, our perception of how others see themselves is involved in knowledge of ourselves and the world, and such perception is psychologically more specific than simply a response to social convention and prevailing attitudes.

   Extending the elements of experience in this way makes it possible to see more clearly the form that is taken by our knowledge of ourselves and the world, and thereby to explore the ways by which reflective life can be portrayed in action. This is contrary to the naïve assumption that essentially the world is quite apart from us, and that our knowledge of it is governed by the examination of its material features and laws. In what follows, the necessary structure of our cognitive experience is seen as fundamental to a life that is valued in itself and therefore fundamental to the world – in which knowledge is defined by a conception of phenomena as the physical realization of an inner life. 

Art and the Form of Human Action

A human action has two aspects: we can think of a dispute between two men in relation to the thoughts and ideas that they express and how an argument might develop and result in physical action (the logic, emotions and psychological features of the event); what might be called the content of the action. We can also think of this conflict in terms of the form of a human action. In this respect, our interest might be directed towards the general features of a certain kind of event. For example, the dispute might be characteristic of the behaviour of people from different classes, gender or other interests; or it might express the way in which we tend to react to a disregard for our dignity or ignorance of things that we hold dear. This distinction between the content of an action and its form can be seen in a vast number of different ways, and it is relevant to what is intended when we talk about the portrayal of human action in art. Therefore, the portrayal of reflective life in action can be more and less detailed and exploratory in its definition of either aspect, and so the content of a human action could be allusive and imprecise, while the form of such action might be richly suggestive (as in ‘abstract’ music and painting).

   A further development in our conception of the form of human action is one in which different aspects of reflective life are portrayed in terms of each other, For example, the dramatic portrayal of life in Hamlet is characterized by an intense interrelationship between the structures of a society and the inner experience of individuals within it. This definition of one aspect in terms of the other gives to dramatic form a uniquely subtle and penetrating means of illuminating the nature of human life and experience. For example, the psychological nature of Hamlet’s relationship with his mother is defined in terms of the structures of power in their society, and, correspondingly, filial relations in that society are exposed by the inner experience that has been engendered in Hamlet by the effect of his mother’s betrayal. The social and interpersonal structures determine the inner life of the characters while the intersubjective character of experience and perception, memory and imagination define the life of a particular society. Thus, the interrelationship is the basis for a deeply revealing portrayal of reflective life in action, and attraction to such insight is natural to a reflective being. The inclination to see into our common experience grows out of a life that is valued in itself.

   In sensory perception (and, by extension, in reflection, memory and imagination) there is a continuous and fluid interaction between perception of the other person and self-knowledge. In a subliminal way, self-awareness is continuously present in my attention to what is being said to me by another person. At the same time, socially determined attitudes provide a natural framework for my sense of myself and the world to which I belong. In a person, these are fundamental to the organization of experience as a medium of perception. Concerning the object in a conversation between two people, there are eight perspectives for perception of the object: a’s perception of b, a’s perception of himself, a’s perception of b’s perception of him, a’s perception of b’s perception of himself, and a corresponding four perspectives for b. This is perfectly natural and familiar, as we can appreciate in a common expression like, ‘You only say you would be fair to Mary because you see yourself as someone who is immune to any kind of personal discrimination’, which is a’s perception of b’s perception of himself. Movement between the different perspectives is usually unnoticed, and, in a conversation between two people, all eight are present in some degree at any given time. It is likely that most of us have all of these perspectives by the time we are four. 

   These eight perspectives could be extended indefinitely, but the more they are extended the less substantial they become. The following sentence is substantial: ‘It is wrong for you to think that I think that you consider yourself to be triumphant in this instance’, and so is ‘It is wrong for you to think that I think that you think that I consider myself to be triumphant in this instance.’ Clearly, these sentences have a different meaning from ‘It is wrong for you to think that you are triumphant’ or ‘It is wrong for you to think that I consider myself to be triumphant’ and therefore they represent further perspectives. This, of course, indicates that there can be more than eight perspectives, but it also represents something rare that is close to a limit in what can make sense.

   This gives us an idea of the complexity of experience as a medium of perception in a reflective being. It has particular relevance to the portrayal of reflective life in dramatic form, and this can be an especially sensitive means of insight into the form of human action. Furthermore, in imagination we can create a dialogue in which all eight perspectives of the object are potentially or actually present, and so, in dramatic writing the same complexity can be given to an individual reflecting upon his experience. Hamlet’s opening soliloquy is an oblique example of just such a use of dramatic form.

Hamlet

            O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,

            Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew !

            Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d

            His canon ‘gainst self-slaughter !  O God !  God !

            How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable,

            Seem to me all the uses of this world !

            Fie on’t !  Ah, fie !  ’tis an unweeded garden,

            That grows to seed;  things rank and gross in nature

            Possess it merely.  That it should come to this !

            But two months dead !  Nay, not so much, not two,

            So excellent a King that was to this

            Hyperion to a satyr;  so loving to my mother,

            That he might not beteem the winds of heaven 

            Visit her face too roughly.  Heaven and earth !

            Must I remember ?  Why, she would hang on him

            As if increase of appetite had grown

            By what it fed on;  and yet, within a month –

            Let me not think on’t.  Frailty, thy name is woman ! –

            A little month, or ere those shoes were old

            With which she followed my poor father’s body,

            Like Niobe, all tears – why she, even she –

            O God !  a beast that wants discourse of reason

            Would have mourned longer – married to my uncle,

            My father’s brother;  but no more like my father

            Than I to Hercules.  Within a month,

            Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears

            Had left the flushing of her galled eyes,

            She married.  O, most wicked speed, to post

            With such dexterity to incestuous sheets !

            It is not, nor it cannot come to good.

            But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue. 

(Lines 129 – 159)

This is true to the form of human action by being true to the structure of experience as a medium of perception, particularly so with respect to relations between different perspectives for perception of the object. We should begin the discussion of this by observing that Hamlet does not imagine an exchange between himself and his mother but that this is the idea behind his soliloquy. In the interests of dramatic presentation, the exchange is transposed into a speech that implies the imaginary presence of the other person. In this respect, the soliloquy dramatizes a private fantasy of confronting her.

   The object of this fantasy is not a physical object but a complex situation that has been presented to us earlier in the scene. Gertrude has married Claudius and thereby keeps hold of her power and influence in the administration of the state, and at Hamlet’s expense, since he is his father’s heir. Whatever Hamlet’s own feelings about personal power and influence he is deeply affected by the betrayal, and this is greatly intensified by the power already exercised by Claudius in confining him to Denmark so that he can be watched over. The impassioned nature of the soliloquy arises above all from Hamlet’s acute awareness that his mother has put her own interests before the filial feelings that he has hitherto taken for granted. And it is out of this passion that the rich intertwining of perceptual perspectives emerges, beginning from the opening lines which anticipate the subject matter of the speech.

   Seeing the whole of the soliloquy enables us to realize that Hamlet has his mother’s betrayal of him in mind before any allusion is made to her, and this implies that, in his imagination, the first eight lines are also addressed to her. In this connection, the despairing language in these lines is given much of its vehemence and extremity by something more than the mood of the speaker. In imagination, Hamlet is inflicting upon his mother his sense of what she has done to him. Thus, a child’s expression of desire for physical dissolution strikes at a mother’s heart, and via his rhetoric of disillusionment the attack is expanded in Hamlet’s image of an ‘unweeded garden’. This is an allusion to domestic life, and the phrase, ‘things rank and gross in nature / Possess it merely’ suggests that corruption is all that is left of their family, that it is wholly consumed by decay. As the impulse behind his words is to expose Gertrude to his feelings in this way, Hamlet’s perception of both her perception of him and her perception of herself are obviously dominant. It is self-evident, moreover, that these perspectives are intertwined with Hamlet’s perception of his mother and his perception of himself. Intertwined with all four is an assumption of Gertrude’s perception both of Hamlet’s perception of her and his perception of himself. Of these, the former is obvious in the primary intention of the speech, but the latter is subtly entwined with Hamlet’s own perception of himself. Though the latter assumption about Gertrude might be thought to be superfluous, it is the deepest intersubjective element in these lines (129 to 137); more than anything else, Hamlet wishes his mother to recognize his perception of himself as enduring a life that no longer has any value, and consequently has to be suffered.

   Shakespeare’s mastery of dramatic form as a means of representing the form of reflective life and human action can be seen in another way in which perceptual perspectives are intertwined in this soliloquy. Line 137 is broken, so that what is conveyed in the opening lines is abruptly replaced by the events and actions that lie behind them. Here the verse conveys a sense of moral grievance clamouring to be expressed in concrete terms. Thus, Hamlet inveighs against an imperious indifference to decency and loyalty in Gertrude’s hasty marriage to Claudius, and accentuates her offence by ascribing to his father a delicacy of feeling that elevates him above the casual exercise of worldly power. Then the moral superiority of King Hamlet to his brother is transferred to a moral superiority to his wife, as the delicacy of his feeling for her is sharply contrasted with her overtly sexual feeling for him, her interest being seen merely as appetite (‘a beast that wants discourse of reason / Would have mourned longer.’). The preliminary, ‘Must I remember?’ is pointedly addressed to an imagined Gertrude in Hamlet’s fantasy. Thus, what to the younger Hamlet was a reassuring image of harmonious union between his parents is lamented and re-interpreted in the light of her marriage to Claudius. This is given emphasis in the reflex condemnation, ‘Frailty, thy name is woman!’ 

   This perception of Gertrude as a creature of appetite is, of course, explicitly tied to her new relationship in lines 156/7 (‘O, most wicked speed, to post / With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!’) However, Hamlet’s perception of her is not confirmed anywhere in the action of the play, and it is obliquely rejected by her in the closet scene (Act 3 scene iv), in which he confronts her in reality (Nelson 2017). Rather, it shows Hamlet’s vilification of his mother running out of control, and it is psychologically significant that Hamlet himself accidently confirms this in his soliloquy. We see it in lines 151 – 3, in the phrase, ‘but no more like my father / Than I to Hercules’, which implies a base and unheroic motivation that throws his characterization of Gertrude into question. This is fleeting but significant, as it indicates a degree of self-awareness behind his perverse conception of her. 

   In the censure of his account of her actions, the perspectives of Hamlet’s perception of himself as their casualty, and of his mother as exposed to his scrutiny are quite obvious. The ways in which these are intertwined with her perception of him and her perception of herself are implied in the disregard for his interests to which he alludes in the interjections in lines 143 and 146, and the melodramatic comparisons that challenge her decency and judgement, as well as her unseemly motivation. In short, his perception of her and himself and her perception of him and herself are intertwined as the perspectives of ordinary conversation. In this section of the speech, a more interesting connection between perspectives arises when, in the momentum of exposing his mother to herself, Hamlet compares himself unfavourably with Hercules. This unexpected exposure to his own motivation dramatizes an instability in perception and self-knowledge that is directly related to the latency and fluid interplay of perceptual perspectives in our experience.

   In the closing line, Hamlet refers to the constraint upon him (‘for I must hold my tongue”) that is the stimulus for a fantasy of confrontation with his mother, and, as we have seen, this gives rise to a rich interplay of perceptual perspectives. As such it represents the psychological form of human action, and does so in terms of the social and moral elements of a particular community. This is distinctive to dramatic form and kindred art forms, and it shows how their integration of social organization and inner life can truthfully portray reflective life in action.

The Form of Human Action and The Art of the Fugue

The fluid movement between perceptual perspectives in the soliloquy is strikingly similar to the fluid movement between musical ideas in The Art of the Fugue. In this respect, Bach is like Shakespeare in portraying the form of human action and experience. A fluid and cyclical interplay in which suppressed motifs come to the surface and replace the dominant idea is much more like competing perspectives or movement between perspectives, than like simple conversation or an exchange of ideas. Form in The Art of the Fugue is not progressive like a conversation; the other perspectives are always latent in one way or another, even if they have not been heard for some time. 

   Because Hamlet turning his grievance over in his mind is itself cyclical the soliloquy provides a clear example of the interplay of perspectives in our experience generally. Thus, in Bach’s music, the theme can be seen as an inclination to see things in a certain way – as one perceptual perspective among others. The chief difference is that Hamlet’s soliloquy gives us the form of human experience in a detailed portrayal of life in a recognizable culture, whereas the absence of this in Bach’s composition enables him to create an intense experience of the form of human experience itself. The great richness of the work arises out of the wide variety of ways in which he does so just by creating a parallel to perceptual perspectives and the many relations they assume to each other. In doing this, The Art of the Fugue highlights a dimension of experience which generally escapes our attention.

   Therefore, the intense concentration of musical form in The Art of the Fugue is an intense concentration of the form of experience in reflective life. What looks superficially like an elaborate exercise in musical structure is full of feeling and expression, and allusions to liturgy or dance are cyclical elements in the elucidation of forms that are normally concealed within experience. This is possible because, in order for the experience of a sentient being to be coherent, it is necessary for patterns of perceptual perspectives to be repeated in a similar way over and over again. At the same time, significant interaction between individuals must be cohesive in order to make sense, and in music formal patterns are a means of reflecting this. Just as the dramatic tension and vitality in Shakespeare’s mastery of form is essential to his powerful portrayal of reflective life in action, so the formal patterns in Bach’s music are necessary to the portrayal of a compelling interplay of perceptual perspectives. The formal patterns are not merely mathematical but serve a taut organization of expressive internal relations, akin to what we may find in the formal relations in a sonnet by Shakespeare or a painting by Cézanne or Turner.  In The Art of the Fugue, a perspective is suggested in the hymn-like main theme, both in its gravity and in its appearing initially as a luminous fragment of melody which, in keeping with fugal form, fades and reappears and fades again. Thus, the interplay between perspectives in the piece as a whole is anchored in a theme which evokes the fundamental reality of human interdependence.

   Contrapunctus I creates a balance between order and richness that may be said to express an ideal of reflective life; in this it conveys a sense of harmonious involvement in a perfect society. As the beginning of a sequence of fugues, it asserts a possibility from which the subsequent representations deviate in various ways. The balance is suggested psychologically in the initial statement of the subject and its answer, specifically in an ascent from the alto to soprano voice, and in the movement from one key to another (D minor to A minor) with a change of the opening interval of the subject to that of the answer, from a fifth to a fourth. This enriches the feeling of past experience that is already present in the hymn-like subject. There is no doubt that a sense of time pervades Contrapunctus 1, and to a degree that we do not find, for example, in the exhilarating Contrapunctus 8. But the music does not represent a deliberation upon the past, and certainly not an expression of nostalgia; it is both immediate and steeped in time, and therefore can be understood as incorporating subliminal memory, as for an object to which our perception gives a certain character.  Thus, at the outset, we can see an example of the way in which musical form portrays the form of reflective life.

    The means by which Bach sustains a sense of the inner substance of the object or idea is tied to the means by which he develops and varies the experience suggested in the music. In this, there is interaction between the cyclical nature of the fugal form and a continuous sense of development, reflecting the form of human action and reflective life. At the same time, a change in the object of thought or perception implies a change in the subliminal memory that gives the object its character. To capture this in the music demands a subtle change in the character of the piece, as each expression of inner experience depends on a renewal in the sense of oneself and the world.    

    This fugue does not have a countersubject, counterpoint is governed by the creation of melodically sympathetic lines in which variation of both the melodic line and rhythmic contrast tend towards an enrichment of meaning and unity. The lines and overlapping rhythms do not suggest conflicting ideas but rather a support to the main idea, so that each line adds something of its own. This develops the sense of subliminal past experience within the object and helps to suffuse the piece with the psychological depth in reflective experience. The coherence of such expression is further enhanced by Bach’s use of melodic patterns in different parts of the piece and in different relations to each other and to the subject – for example, the pulsating quaver dominated patterns which are often sections of scales, the leaping intervals from short to long notes which are often syncopated or simply tied, and certain passages that appear in different phases of the piece (ascent in the first phase, in bars 17 to 20, takes the form of two quavers, crotchet and minim tied to the following quaver in the soprano with the halves of the bars reversed in the tenor. The same pattern occurs in bars 36 to 40 and again in bars 67 to 69.)

   These intentions are immediately suggested by the way in which the counterpoint in the alto identifies the individual in terms of its response to the subject (from bar 5). The alto voice is not set in opposition but evolves by weaving its own character by responding to the melodic shape that has been established for it. In subsequent bars, the main ideas are used with increasing complexity to suggest a positive development in the individual. This is how, in the piece as a whole, individuality is portrayed as growing in response to the life to which it belongs, and making something of its involvement in a community. Hence, we see an identity forming from the start in the syncopated leaping intervals in bars 6 and 7, along with the pulsating quaver passages that also define the character of the piece. Corresponding to this, the statement of the subject in all four voices gives an emphatic voice to the grounding of the music in the idea of human interdependence and its foundation for individuality.

   Turning more specifically to structure: this fugue has three phases. In each there is a constructive accumulation of feeling and purpose defined by an alternation between increasing intensity and passages in which strength is conserved as a means generating the next phase.  Thus, the latter are not moments of relaxation; there is a continuous feeling of energy and engagement, and this reflects an uninterrupted commitment that leads into surges of personal development. Most important are the ways in which the structure is an expression of cumulative strength, and this is how the piece conveys its essential meaning. The pulsating movement evokes a life that is valued in itself in the process of working constructively at something that gives it a sense of purpose and meaning. This is particularly suggested by the rhythmic and melodic contrast between energetic movement indicating the perception of oneself and the theme – which alludes to our perception of the other person’s perception of him or herself, and therefore our perception of the world. The musical integration of these elements is a portrayal of serious endeavour, and while this is not specific there are many activities to which it might refer. For example, Bach’s own development as a musician and composer, the growth of an individual into a healthy adult, the nurturing of a child by a parent, or the committed involvement in a serious activity or career. In all of these pursuits we can see how it is possible for the realization of personal ambition to be a desirable expression of sensitivity to human interdependence.

   The pulsating movement begins in bar 5 in the alto beneath the soprano answer to the subject, and this entry relates the counterpoint to the emphasis that is given to subliminal memory in this answer. Integration between these voices helps to make this quietly animated movement appear as spontaneous and unforced, as emerging almost unconsciously and without any particular effort of will. Following the ascending scale in bar 5, the leaping rhythms in bars 6 and 7 introduce, with characteristic syncopation, the structural element that will dominate the expression that defines personal action and perception of oneself. In this music, the sense of individuality as rooted in fidelity to a common life is powerfully expressed in the ways in which a feeling of integration is accompanied by self-assertion. The contrasting rhythmic patterns that dominate the piece are both deeply cohesive and allow for the voices to overlap and, along with syncopation, accentuate their independence. In this connection, there is a tendency for the inner voices to blend with each other while the soprano and bass stand out more clearly.

   The identity of this piece approaches full expression after the exposition has been completed, in bars 17 to 22, where the characteristic features are more obvious. Here we can see, in the soprano, how the dominant ideas are combined not only contrapuntally but also melodically, as the minims ascending in thirds in bars 17 to 19 are like a continuation of the subject. This is supported by the tenor, in which the position of the minims and sequential crotchets and quavers is reversed, and this sense of solidity is set against the pulsating rhythm in the bass. These three lines ascend more or less in keeping with each other while the harmony moves between tonic, dominant and subdominant, resting briefly on the last in bar 20 at the completion of the ascent. In this gentle progression, we can feel the individual acquiring independence and strength while being fundamentally attached to interdependence with other people and the world as it is implied in the subject, which returns in the alto in bar 23. This further assertion of strength is conserved in bars 26 to 28, primarily in the leaping rhythms with syncopated crotchets tied to quavers. Thus, the first phase ends with a sense of momentum constantly being renewed as the music progresses.

   This flows into the next statement of the theme at the beginning of phase two (bars 29 to 32), especially as the continuation of feeling in bars 26 to 28 helps the subject in the soprano to sound against the recent statement of it the alto (bars 23 t0 26). Also, we experience a progression from the tonic to the dominant, with, in this answer, an opening interval of a fifth. From these effects, the sense of subliminal memory in the music acquires a luminous clarity which conveys the sense of an increase of perception and self-awareness. It should be noted that to see the statement of the theme in this way depends on an appreciation of Bach’s skill as a musical dramatist, and that it is only through attention to the dramatic unfolding of the piece that these meanings can be sensed in the music. 

   Ascent in phase two is characterized by accompanying voices moving upwards in support of the soprano (bars 36 to 39). These bars have an intricate overlapping of voices, and this in combination with the shared motion creates the effect of the ascent carrying moral and psychological significance; the minims and their intervals linking the sense of achievement with the theme and therefore with a serious purpose and involvement in the life of a community. In this connection, the pattern of minim, quavers and crotchet with the minim tied over to the first quaver repeats in the alto and bass what has been the ascending pattern in the first phase (bars 17 to 20). This enhances the sense of continuity in a portrayal of personal development that is led here by the leaping rhythms in the soprano with its widening intervals between quavers and dotted crotchets. At the climax, there is a striking dissonance created by the augmented third of C sharp in an A minor chord which conveys an experience of affirmative self-awareness in the individual (bar 40). This generates an extended passage of effortless momentum that is carried in the syncopated leaping rhythms passing from the soprano to the alto. The A minor chord is also striking in being a full-bodied chord and thereby shifting our attention from counterpoint to harmony, and this shift in attention heightens the sense of change from absorption in some activity to a sense of being accomplished in it.

   The sense of accomplishment lies behind a smooth transition into the third phase of this fugue, which begins in bar 49. Here the effortless momentum is expressed as a continuity between phases of development; the ascending minims in the alto (bar 48) leading into the subject in the soprano, which stabilizes itself, in bar 51, as the opening of the third phase. With this ascent, the piece reaches its highest register, and this development characterizes the final phase as a whole. In terms of structure, this is connected with a concentration of the wave-like development that we see in the overall form of the piece. Here we see a structural rhythm created by subsiding passages that act as a preparation for peaks of intensity, the first of which, in bars 56 to 58, leads into a longer suspension in the subdominant (bars 59 to 62). From this moment of recoil the music reaches a heightened pitch of self-realization through personal accomplishment which is affirmed as being in harmony with the idealized conception of community.

    Thus, the conclusion is constructed mainly from the ways in which ambition and self-realization have been expressed throughout the piece. This is dominated by the syncopated leaping rhythms which now appear in the highest pitches in the soprano and alto voices and convey a sense of elated fulfilment in bars 63 and 64, and again, after a brief relaxation, in bars 67 to 70. A contrast is made with the parallel ascent in the second phase (bars 36 to 39) in which there is no syncopation, and this contrast is related to the structural rhythm of the fugue as a whole. For the second phase represents a steadying consolidation of personal progress, one in which a degree of control and self-awareness is achieved, as the preparation for the heightened accomplishment that is represented in the third and final phase. Such rhythm gives emphasis to the discipline that is demanded by personal development, and this is exemplified in how the phases parallel the wave-like development that I have just described. Moreover, evolution with respect to subliminal memory within experience is sustained by a consistent pattern of harmony along with variations in the basic melodic and rhythmic shapes that constitute the piece. 

   Thus, in the preliminary climax (bars 63 and 64) the music leaps from a descending C sharp by a sixth to A, and this gives the interval an unprecedented force. Meanwhile, in the alto, the pulsating quaver rhythm accompanies the soprano with a leap of a sixth, from A to F. With only a sustained A in the bass, the syncopated leaping rhythm in these bars suggests an unimpeded expression of natural inclination, as the high point of human aspiration. In the relaxation of this impulse, in bars 65 and 66, the other voices have returned, so that the full climax is significantly enriched by the counterpoint. So, in bars 67 to 69, we hear a complex integration of melodic and rhythmic shapes that have been prominent in this fugue. While the syncopated leaping rhythm is shared between the soprano and alto voices, the pattern associated with ascent in the first and second phase (bars 17 to 20 and 36 to 39) appears in inverted form in the tenor and bass. The inversion makes it possible for the top three voices to interweave closely together so that the bass in clearly heard as a rhythmic counterpoint. Altogether, the effect of these details is to give solidity and depth to the sense of aspiration and accomplishment conveyed by the music. This association of ambition with human interdependence and moral purpose is completed in the wave-like summary closing bars in which the theme returns in the tenor and the piece concludes in D major. 

    In the fugues that follow, meaning is conveyed primarily in a musical imagery that can be easily perceived when we know what we are looking for, and each piece is a response to its immediate predecessor and others. This indicates a clear compositional design insofar as the fugues explore essential relations behind our recognizable inner experience, relations with the character of our lives, their interdependence and moral significance. The relation between imagery and tone provides Bach with his means of expression, and musical form reflects the form of reflective life. Therefore, his use of figurative language in music is more than simply metaphorical; Bach employs the imagery of one kind of experience in order to represent another kind, and, as much by analogy as resemblance, achieves a true and vivid portrayal of reflective life in action.

Contrapunctus 2

In Contrapunctus 2 Bach uses dotted rhythms as a means of representing marching music, especially the military march (Still. 2018). Significantly, he is not writing a march or a parody of one, but evoking the idea of such music as an analogy for a certain kind of social experience. Thus, the use of dotted rhythms is not merely a trope, but creates the image of a military march by turning the theme into a march-like melody and thereby suggesting an imaginary spectacle and the sensation of marching. Here Bach uses one line in the counterpoint to change the character of another, and thereby create a complex effect which gives a specific meaning to the allusion. His purpose is realized, moreover, in the variety of ways in which the dotted rhythms are combined with the theme, in the moments of relaxation from such rhythms, and in a sharing of the dotted rhythm passages between different voices, sometimes with more than one at a time. 

   In tone this fugue is satirical. We can feel this in the sheer dominance of the dotted rhythms and the way in which they transform the serious hymn-like theme into a military march. However, the piece is also characterized by its being created in halves, one of which is full of light while the other is dark, and in this the second half revises our experience of the first. So, to begin with, the interweaving of the theme and dotted rhythms, together with an ascent of the theme from bass through tenor and alto to soprano, quickly establishes the buoyant and positive feeling of a military march; this mood being sustained by a fitting use of the theme and dotted rhythm figures throughout the first part. As we will see, the appropriation of a hymn-like theme by a march gives the latter a deceptive appearance of humanity and magnanimity.

   In the first half, Bach begins by establishing a close contact, both in pitch and time, between the theme and dotted rhythms, and the transformation of the theme into a march is intensified by a freedom of movement and density in the voices that generate a new impetus. Thus, from bars 8 to 20 the dotted rhythms are either constantly present in two or three voices, or alternating between voices, as in bars 8 to 11 and 15 to 17. The resulting energy helps give life to the theme, and it is further enlivened by moments of relaxation in which flights of fancy in the soprano (in bars 21/2, 30/1 and 34/5), with simple accompaniment by the other voices, give emphasis to the style and swagger of the idiom. In bar 34, there is a twist in the pattern of dotted rhythms, and, in bar 41, this is echoed in a muted way, as an intimation of the change of tone that is coming in the second half.

   Like the third part of Contrapunctus 1, the second half, beginning at bar 45, states the theme high in the soprano, with the significant difference that whereas the former is in the tonic of D minor here the theme is in the mediant of this key and therefore does not possess a strong harmonic identity. In contrast with the feeling of affirmation that is sustained to the end of the opening fugue, now we have something more like a mock-affirmation; the music reaches up towards affirmation but makes a rather weak statement of the theme. This overlaps with another harmonic change, in bar 48, where the piece modulates into G minor and stays there until bar 67, and this harmonic change transforms the tone to one of sombre unease. The untroubled alternation of the first half, largely between D minor and A minor is replaced by an alternation largely between G minor and D minor.

   Along with these developments, the most prominent change is a dissolution of the fundamental tie between the theme and accompanying dotted rhythms that creates the style of a military march. Hence the theme is suggested rather than explicit and strays around the dotted rhythms and makes their exertions sound aimless and disconnected; the one strong statement of the theme, in the bass at bars 61 to 64, has the effect of stressing the separation as the dotted rhythms are in the soprano in a way that is remote and unsupported by the other voices. While the music itself is perfectly co-ordinated in expressing this transformation, it draws attention to the loss of integration in pitch and time that characterizes the first half of this fugue. After the statement of the theme in bars 49 to 52 the expression of the music descends into a kind of disorientation in which the elements wander indecisively and lose their cohesion.

   At bar 68, the music returns to the more positive combination of D minor and A minor, but only to express a decline that intensifies the separation. Between bars 68 and 78 the tenor and bass initiate a downward spiral that drags the upper voices down with them, and in this passage the descending dotted rhythms lose all of their earlier lightness and energy in a thickly congested sense of exhaustion. The piece ends with a summary return to the theme in a lower register along with the dotted rhythms – in a manner that deprives the relation of its earlier conviction.

   It is not difficult to see how this fugue might be interpreted as a response to the opening fugue. Against the expression of a self-fulfilling personal development as it could occur in ideal circumstances, and in which aspiration is guided by moral attitude, Bach conceives a realistic portrayal of power and authority from contrasting points of view. In the first half, the enjoyment of power and authority is entered into with a considerable dose of irony; the exhilarating experience of self-affirming domination being forcefully expressed in the appropriation of the theme and in the various ways in which this appropriation is embellished or enhanced. In this respect, the music is both identified with inner experience and detached from it, giving it the character of dramatic verse. Alternatively, the second half presents the experience of being dominated, and in this the disintegration of an exhilarating march gives way to a loss of purpose and decline. This is powerfully conveyed by the ways in which the theme loses both its shape and its contact with the patterns of dotted rhythms, and thereby reflects a psychological disorientation that nullifies the human interdependence implied by the theme.   

   In Contrapunctus 2, the military march alludes to our experience of power and authority but also to the psychological and moral significance of this experience. The subtle integration of an equivalent inner experience with attitudes to the relevant human behaviour makes The Art of the Fugue a powerful portrayal of reflective life in action. This puts Bach’s music on an equal footing with the sonnets of Shakespeare, for though the musical sequence does not have the rich psychological detail of the sonnets, it creates a perception of the inner experience that is fundamental to the form of reflective life. Because music is a more sensuous medium than poetry the sensory perception of inner experience itself is stronger, as we can appreciate in the visual and visceral nature of the march and in how, in the second half, it is manipulated in order to convey a disheartening sense of privation, turning the self-affirmation of the first half into an overbearing agent of oppression.

Contrtapunctus 3

Contrapunctus 3 responds to its predecessor by expanding upon the idea that freedom of thought is bound up with the discipline and detachment that are necessary to counter power and authority effectively. The second piece does this with a satire on the mechanical efficiency of worldly domination, and in the third Bach creates a complex image that is related to the freedom of individual action. To be precise, this image is not intended to be a sustained pictorially accurate sequence like a film, but takes certain visual elements from the object (a murmuration of starlings) and organizes them in accordance with musical form. Thus, the fugue evolves by allusion to spontaneous patterns that are created by birds in flight, as an expression of invention and exploration. The imagery is a means by which the music can reflect these ideas in its own form, and exemplify the intellectual mastery that gives purpose to imagination. In this respect, it represents the essence of the sequence as a whole. Moreover, the image is not simply one of creativity in a general sense, the music also evokes the inner experience of being inventive, of ideas emerging unexpectedly from a convolution of mental activity. An intricate mental activity is suggested by the manipulation of musical form itself, and this piece is a tour de force because it gives dynamic expression to the dynamism of reflective life. 

   This fugue begins in a similar way to the beginning of the Contrapunctus 1, with the difference that the theme is now in its inversion. A promise of growing animation and vitality is similarly offered by the quaver filled lines that accompany the theme. Contrapunctus 3 is not divided into parts, but is one continuous piece that is given its form by a structural rhythm that is suggested by the form of a murmuration. Hence there are musical patterns that bring the murmuration to mind and these patterns alternate definite shapes with moments of relaxation, akin to the ‘breathing’ motion that we see in a flock of starlings. Moments of suspended animation are followed by a revival of activity that condenses the flock into an unexpected shape, which itself develops into other unexpected shapes. Bach’s use of this structural device involves three phases that are separated by two moments of suspended animation, and in the former, there is a progressive complexity between phases one and three (two being short and summary). This means that the piece grows in richness and intensity before suddenly dying away and thereby enlivening the impression of ingenuity and mastery. When it has ended, the music is suspended in the memory, like an after-image. 

   The fugue does not immediately evoke the image of birds in flight, but rather begins by measuring out a space in which there is an agitation that grows into the image. We can see this in the order for the entries of the theme; opening with the alto followed by the tenor, and then the soprano leading into the bass. In this sequence, the interval between the first two is expanded by the second, creating the feeling of a space opening up. At the same time, there is a complication of the accompanying quaver dominated voices as they increase in number. This is clear in a comparison of the simple line in the alto that accompanies the entry of the tenor with the dense interplay of the other voices when the theme is stated in the bass. In bars 13 and 14, the space separating soprano and bass is emphasized by a short ascent followed by its shadowing at a lower pitch, and this enables the composer to intensify a feeling of space within which there is a lively animation; the extremes of pitch open up the space while the other voices create the life that vibrates within it.

   Allusion to the flight of starlings in a murmuration first appears in bars 19 to 22; the soprano voice uses crotchets and a dotted rhythm and minim to suggest movement of a flock as it arcs across the sky, this movement being subtly thickened by close contact with an alto line that diverges in rhythm to enhance the feeling of many birds in motion. Meanwhile, in the bass, the energetic succession of quavers evokes a contrary movement of the flock at a lower level. From bar 23 to 29 the theme, in an unearthly A minor, returns elaborated in the soprano supported in the alto voice, and now resembles the rhythmic dip and ascent of starlings in motion. The bass line is loosened by wider intervals to underline the rhythmic relaxation. Insofar as it is not a description but employs unconnected allusive phrases, the fugue translates a natural spectacle into a musical experience. What results from this is a continuous musical structure rather than the depiction of a continuous movement of birds in the sky. Thus, in bars 30 to 33 another formation is suggested which is a coherent musical development of this phase. The structural progression created by the transition from the dotted rhythm statement to the return of the theme is now extended so that we hear a more complex movement; an overlapping of voices expresses the central image in another way. This occurs at a point at which the soprano voice is withdrawn and leaves a passage of rhythmically varied lines that are close to one another in pitch. Already, in this music of great concentration, Bach has portrayed the murmuration in three quite distinct ways, and so that one flows convincingly into the next; musically, the dotted rhythm passage leads into the elaborated theme and then this subsides in a natural movement, in bars 28 and 29, into the imagery of overlapping flight amid the flock.

   Another smooth transition occurs in bars 33 to 35, the first of these turning the expression from the overlapping to a moment of suspended animation in 34 and 35. With the same mastery, in bars 36 to 38, this moment grows into a swell that initiates the second phase. With respect to the structural rhythm of the fugue, this phase consists of an abridgement of the first in a form that is intensified by a convergence of the voices below the dotted rhythm motive and then the theme. A further moment of suspended animation (in bars 43 and 44) leads into the third phase. 

    In the fugue as a whole, the changing shapes are created by combinations of four musical ideas: the theme, the dotted rhythm motive, variants of the quaver passage for the moments of suspended animation and the ascending motive that first appears at the beginning of phase three. This phase is the strongest evocation of the experience of movement together with volume in a flock of starlings, and the ideas appear in a way that expresses a new physical shape. Here Bach produces the most sustained and fullest realization of the shifting forms and, at the same time he shows the greatest ingenuity and mastery. Therefore, the ideas of imagination and intellect are most forcefully reflected in a richly climactic conclusion.

   This phase begins with the theme in the bass, which creates a rhythmic movement from deep within the flock, while the new quaver motive, suggesting waves of activity reaching upwards, is separated in pitch – in the soprano supported by the alto voice. At bars 55 to 57 the dotted rhythm motive in the alto fills the space between them and this develops into an interweaving of transparent veils of sound (bars 55 to 60), with the dotted rhythm in the soprano and rhythmically varied quaver movement now appearing in the alto, tenor and bass. Already the allusion to a murmuration is more skilfully realized than anything we have seen in the piece. In a wave-like ascent from bars 59 to 64, in which the vitality of the image is increased by tension between a rising scale of quavers in the alto and descending similar pattern in the bass (bar 62), the climax is heightened by interpolating the dotted rhythms immediately before the highest note (bars 63 and 64). This provides a playful interruption to the pattern of quavers and ripple of energy to the soaring movement of the birds. Simultaneously, Bach introduces the theme in the tenor voice, not so that it draws attention to itself as we might expect, but in a way that disguises itself and gives volume to the activity of the flock at the moment of its fullest realization as an image. The movement connected with the climax continues in bars 65 and 66, as the beginning of an anti-climax in which the flock subsides, and comes to rest in the closing bars. A sudden dying away of the image suggests a fragility in the moment of creative activity to which it alludes, as a virtue demanding a synthesis of the many powers that are required for this kind of resistance to authority. 

Contrapunctus 4

This fugue presents us with another way in which we can resist the power of authority, one that is the opposite of individual responsibility for a life that is valued in itself. In place of the disciplined invention portrayed in 3, number 4 shows us a more overtly social form of resistance, for which the primary goal is hedonistic. Thus, the form and structure of this piece are governed by the evocation of an image of figures in repetitive motion that closely resembles a dance. This resemblance does not involve the employment of any particular kind of dance, and its structure avoids the strict repetition that is characteristic of a minuet or a waltz. As in the previous fugues, Bach constructs an image that is intended to explore the inner life, and in this case, he exploits the ideas of social relations and pleasure to highlight a particular way in which life is given its form. The variety in his combination of dance-like elements is a means of sustaining both the pleasure of listening to this music and the intense pleasure that is experienced by participants in the imaginary dance. Our being entranced by the pleasure helps to communicate the experience that is being represented; the beguiling experience flows through us as we listen. For this reason, we cannot easily assume an attitude of moral superiority and dismiss the life portrayed as frivolous and unworthy, since our acquaintance with it entails our being drawn to its attractions. A listener who took no pleasure from the sensuous nature of this music would be unable to understand what is being said.

   The dance-like character of the piece is created primarily by a domination of motives beginning on an upbeat, along with a characteristic use of syncopation, which are accompanied by or alternate with lines that begin on a downbeat. The motives are also combined in different ways and life is given to the music by an unpredictable transition between the different motives and ideas. Growing out of the fourth bar of the theme, in which the opening quaver is tied to the preceding minim, the motives and syncopated sequences are mainly sustained patterns of quavers closely related in pitch, giving an expression of continuous energetic motion to the dance. The seemingly spontaneous emergence of a dance out of the fourth bar of the theme is one way in which they are integrated. Hence the fugue is ordered by the appearances of the theme, either in all four voices or, in the closing parts, in two voices. So, notwithstanding the freedom in its movement from one moment to the next, there is an underlying structure to the fugue as a whole. and we can show how each return of the theme contributes to an unfolding dramatic purpose.

    In its inversion, the theme easily lends itself to the dance-like rhythm that is suggested by the patterns that pervade the piece, but, at the same time, it retains its significance for all of the fugues of the sequence, its allusion to the idea of human interdependence. The drama in this case lies in a conflict between the moral demands of such interdependence and the hedonistic allure of the sensual life as expressed in the image of a dance. Thus, in the opening pages of the piece, the upper hand is assumed by the qualities of the dance as they increasingly assimilate the theme to their melodic and rhythmic character. In this connection, there are four rhythmic patterns: one already mentioned that is derived from the theme and uses a minim tied across the bar to a quaver and followed by quavers, variants of which can be seen in similar ties involving minims or crotchets and crotchets (A). Another motive uses a dotted minim followed by a crotchet (B), and in a further motive a crotchet rest is followed by a crotchet and a minim (C). The last is that of a quaver rest followed by three scalar descending quavers (D). The vitality of the image is sustained by means of varied transition and counterpoint between them and related rhythmic ideas.

   The theme is introduced in an uncomplicated descending sequence from the commencement to bar 18, and different expressions of A (mainly but not exclusively) in different voices, increase the independent assertion of a dance rhythm – from the entry of the tenor voice which is opposed in bars 13 and 14, by a divergent leap of an octave in the soprano. Then, with the entry of the bass in bars 15 to 18, the A pattern is used in overlapping rhythms in all four voices (a characteristic of the piece as a whole) in order to absorb the theme into the dance-like patterns. With the completion of the introduction of the theme in all four voices, the dance-like music increases in vigour, from bar 19, with patterns A, B and D overlapping in counterpoint. At bar 27, the sequence involving the theme is repeated, as though to immediately confirm its assimilation to the dance and, in this instance, a dramatic ascent in the soprano, in counterpoint with entry in the tenor, is followed by the introduction of C as an element of variety to the dance-like rhythms. 

   Having absorbed the theme into itself, from bar 43 the music moves easily into its dance-like character in all four voices sharing the overlapping of A with other rhythms in the alto, tenor and bass, and a feeling of psychological freedom is conveyed by moving effortlessly (in bars 52 to 60) to an overlapping of C and D. This movement reaches a climax of sustained high pitch combined with descending scales in bars in 57 and 58, and 60 and 61 leading into a rhythmically forceful overlapping of A in the soprano and alto voices and (in bar 64) in alto and bass. The effect of the music in this section is to move from a sense of freedom of expression to an ecstatic affirmation in which its counterpoint vividly evokes an image of dancers moving together and making complementary movements and gestures. Simultaneously, a version of the theme reappears in the bass, in a form that is obscured by the other voices, especially the climactic soprano and alto. This is accentuated by the harmony, as the theme is now stated in the leading note and not in another key, giving it a muted quality – as though emerging from the depths of the music. 

   In this respect, the appearance of the theme denotes a change of direction, and a reversal of the order of its appearance between bars 61 and 80 is important to the meaning of the fugue as a whole. Changes of harmony in this order, from the bass to G minor in the tenor (bars 65 to 68), to the tonic in the alto (bars 72 to 76) and to A minor in the soprano (bars 76 to 80), combined with a virtual removal of overlapping rhythms in the accompanying voices, enable the theme to be sounded with increasing clarity and assertiveness. In this section, another rhythmic pattern appears (E) which is characterised by lines of quavers that have very little tying over from one to another, and, supplemented by arpeggios in the bass, this pattern is clearly intended to animate rather than interfere with the theme. Hence, at a moment of revelry in the dance, the theme returns to focus attention upon our unavoidable responsibility to the interdependence of human life.

   A returns in the bars that follow (81 to 87) but a loss of confidence in the autonomy of the dance is suggested in the further pattern (F) of a semi-breve tied over to a minim – in bars 85 and 86, and again in bars 91 and 92. Meanwhile, B and D appear in different voices, until, with the help of more energetic phrasing in bars 93 to 96, the dance regains its dominance and equilibrium with counterpoint of A in soprano and tenor along with D in the alto. This is realized in a step-by-step ascent in all four voices between bars 96 and 102 and in the floating ease with which this leads to an exchange using D in the soprano, alto and tenor. The vigour of this recovery is then asserted against the theme, which returns in bar 107 (in the tenor) beneath a forceful statement of A in the soprano.

   In this bar, there is a strong feeling that the dance might prevail over the theme. First, if the lines are synchronized and close to each other in sound, as for example between a sympathetic viola and cello, the harmonic and rhythmic intertwining of tenor and bass creates a sonority which blends the theme into the dance-like character of the music. Also, in bars 107 to 114 the theme in tenor and then alto is accompanied in the other voices by A in the overlapping rhythms that give emphasis to this dance-like character. Thus, the music creates a feeling of centrifugal force in which the dancers identify themselves with their common action and its emotional power; the theme is unprecedentedly absorbed into their sensuous experience and this has an obvious significance for the piece as a whole. In response to the assertion of responsibility to human interdependence in bars 61 to 80, the dancers assign human interdependence to the communal experience of the dance and, in doing so, obscure the world that lies beyond its pleasures. An expression of physical and emotional attachment to others and assurance of oneself in knowing their acceptance represents a powerful experience of seeing oneself in our perception of how we are seen by others.

   This experience of euphoria is sustained in the dance rhythms that ensue, but is coloured, in bars 125 to 127, by a return of F in the soprano, in which a plaintive F is echoed by an extended E. In this way, the conclusion turns adroitly against the dancers’ feeling of triumph, and as the dance reaches its conclusion and fades the theme returns, as impassive as a law, to take its position in the order of things. It is first heard in the tenor rising out of the bass, recalling its emergence in bars 61 to 80, and in G minor (bars 179 to 182), and then, more definitively, in the tonic of D minor, in the alto voice (bars 184 to 187). Thus, the completion of the piece is also the completion of a dramatic structure that gives this fugue its significance and place in the sequence of pieces that constitute the core of The Art of the Fugue.

Contrapunctus 5

The personal development in an ideal world that is presented in Contrapunctus 1 is possible in the real world only with the aid of wit and imagination in our understanding of ourselves and other people. This wit and imagination is alluded to in Contrapunctus 5, in which the constant movement of musical ideas provides a very different experience from the tipsy repetitiveness of Contrapunctus 4. The terms of this representation can be found in Bach’s play with relations between the original theme – which is the subject of the opening fugue – and its inversion, with which we are acquainted in the third and fourth fugues. Hence the exposition of Contrapunctus 5 delivers an opposition between the inversion, as the expression of an individual character in action, and the original theme as we have already experienced it, namely as an allusion to our responsibility to the interdependence of agents in a common life that is valued in itself. The development in this fugue is one of constant evolution towards an integration of the tendencies that are suggested by the two forms of the theme, and in this respect, it can be understood as a direct response to the hedonistic hamster wheel that is ridiculed in Contrapunctus 4.

   We see a dramatic realization of the central conflict in how the forms of the theme are presented in opposition to each other, but in a way that progressively minimises the conflict until, at the mid-point of the piece, an accord is reached between them. From this point, there is no longer an opposition, but each is in a stretto relation with itself in a different voice, and at the same time the voices are closer in pitch and more widely spaced and therefore clearer. Correspondingly, in the first half, elaboration and extension of the countersubject acts as a connecting link between the diminishingly conflicting entries of the theme and its inversion, but once an accord has been reached between them other patterns, led by the two canons, take precedence so that the forms of the theme are harmoniously related and absorbed into the general flow of events. The music is then experienced as an ordered process that is both balanced and filled with vitality, in which the theme and its inversion play an equally enriching part.

   This music is not mimetic, but Bach conceives an inner experience for the psychological development that is portrayed. In this respect, the transformation from the first half to the second evokes change from a fundamental tension and disorder in the responses of an individual to a sense of balance and self-possession that gives direction and significance to its inner life. In the first half, there is development between the second and third sequences in which the theme and its inversion are set in contrast with each other. In the second half, the unity of the canons can be compared with the theme in its inversion that is the initial subject. Where the latter presents the character of the individual as thrown into psychological conflict, the canons along with the theme create a psychological clarity that is also a kind of inner life – as the expression of self-possession and purpose. In this connection, Bach is able to disclose something subtler than the expression of emotion; here we can compare the prevailing sense of things before and after a person’s change of character. The initial subject expresses a fragile self-assertion, while the canons convey a clarity of mind and purpose. Consider, in the second of the canons, the way in which the sharply ascending figures and their precisely felt re-iteration evince a strong and lucid frame of mind.

    To examine the realization of these ideas in detail, Contrapunctus 5 presents the theme with dotted rhythms that give a light-hearted feeling to the inversion which appears as an opening statement in the alto voice. Thus, it has a carefree buoyancy that is immediately countered by the appearance, in bar 4, of the hymn-like original. This interruption is made all the more forceful by an opposition in tone, and as the countersubject emerges in the alto and then bass, dominance of the original theme is strengthened by its entry in the soprano. Amid further elaborations of the countersubject, the second entry of the theme in inverted form, in the tenor voice, is decidedly muted, and this completes the initial expression of the main idea behind this fugue. From its seemingly free enjoyment of will and character, the self-assertion of an individual is emphatically subdued by a flow of events that is dominated by the sense of responsibility to a common life.

   The first half of Contrapunctus 5 is concerned with the drama that is suggested by this beginning, and the countersubject provides a flow of events in relation to which a fundamental psychological development can be expressed in the assimilation of original theme and its inversion. Hence in the second phase, from bar 17, the inversion enters in A minor in the soprano voice, and this change of key together with the opening interval of a fourth replaces the bright beginning of the fugue with a more thoughtful expression of personal inclination. An immediate response is implied in the reply; in bar 20 the same change of key softens the original theme as it appears in the tenor. A repeat of this order in the bass and alto, in D minor, makes the latter voice stand out more clearly and seems to affirm its importance, while the accompanying flow of the countersubject in the other voices remains to some degree independent from the theme in both of its forms.

   In bars 30 to 32 a momentum that lies strictly in the flow of events, as it is expressed by elaborations of the countersubject, leads into a much closer integration. Separated now by just a half note, the two forms enter at bar 33, with the original theme in the bass and its inversion in the soprano. This means that the forms are almost sounded together, but the distance between them and the intervening activity means that are not heard as doing so. What we experience is a preliminary bringing together of the forms of the theme, in an intermediary key (F major). It leads to the central moment of the fugue, in which a psychological and experiential resolution includes all of the voices in a sympathetic engagement with each other. At bar 41, again with the space of a half note, the alto strongly voices the theme over a weaker tenor statement of its inversion, the former beginning with an ascending fifth and the latter with a descending fourth. The key of G minor softens the contrast between them, and merges the parts in a delicate integration of responsibility with personal inclination. Here the medium enables the experiential aspect to come to life in our feeling for Bach’s composition; as a turning point this intimate contact between the two forms is a strikingly quiet moment of insight into the unobtrusive shaping of experience by moral awareness. 

   With the psychological change that is implied in this moment of integration the basic relations in this music also change. Thus, where the first part of the fugue is governed by opposition between the theme and its inversion now, in the second part, the opposition is dissolved in favour of either form of the theme succeeded in stretto by itself in another voice. And where the conflicting forms have hitherto been widely spaced in order to establish a contrast between them, the same form in different voices appears harmoniously in close order and creates an effect of one voice affirming the statement that has been made by another. Moreover, there is a complementary development in Bach’s use of the same contrapuntal resource in the two canons, in which the immediate reiteration of a melodic fragment strengthens the impression of its an unspecified but definite psychological impulse. 

   From bar 47, a parallel elaboration of the countersubject in the soprano and alto voices accompanies the theme in its inversion in the bass, and, at the second part of the following bar, the same form of the theme enters in the tenor, obscured by its close imitation of the shape of the upper voices. Here, the effect is to identify the form while blending the voices in the flow of events, as an initial indication of the psychological order towards which the music is now inclined. This sympathetic counterpoint leads smoothly into the first of the canons, in which the motive is heard at first in the soprano, and then, after a half note, in the alto, followed at the same interval in tenor and bass. The dramatic introduction of a new melodic idea, that is given its own brief eminence in the unfolding of the music, is a further expression of self-possession and clarity in the development from inner conflict in the first part to its resolution in the second. At bar 57, in continuation of this canon, the theme returns in the soprano and is followed after a note and a half in the alto voice; the affirmation of human interdependence being both clear and a complementary enrichment in the tone of the piece. We might feel that, in this, the leading idea of the fugue is being placed where it belongs, in between the canons which give expression to an essential psychological self-realization. The point is felt in a harmonic shift, as the canons are in G minor and the D minor theme, also shadowed by imitation, seems to materialize in another sphere.

   There is a strong suggestion here that the theme conveys a subliminal impulse, and that its significance informs the transition to a more intense self-realization in the second canon. To this end the continuation of the music, in bars 62 to 64, initiates in the lower voices an upward sweep of a tenth followed by a fourth in all of the voices – while they enter in different places according to their order in the canon. This is resolved by a short wave-like movement, and intensity is also achieved by a greater clarity that is created by restricting the precise order to the soprano being imitated by the alto voice, with a sympathetic accompanying counterpoint in the tenor and bass.

   At this point expression has been given to the main ideas behind Contrapunctus 5, and resolution of the piece as a whole is characterized by further examples of the theme in both of its forms in stretto involving the close succession of one voice by another. As the second canon is completed, the theme in inversion returns (at bar 69) in the soprano and then the tenor, and, after a further elaboration of the countersubject, the original theme is heard (at bar 76) in the tenor followed by the alto. In both cases, the strong integration of voices is continued from the pattern that applies to the second half of the piece, and this is complemented by a merging in the former of the tenor with the alto above it, and a merging in the latter of the alto with the soprano above it. These lead into a conclusive integration of the main elements of the piece that is completed with a simultaneous voicing in the alto and tenor of the inversion and original theme respectively. Both are merged with the voices above them and neither can be distinctly followed. In combination with chromaticism this leaves us with a feeling that the psychological development that is at the heart of this fugue can only be regarded as a necessary aspect of what a good life might entail. A dissonant conclusion is consistent with Contrapunctus 1 and the response that follows it, in which the pursuit of a morally substantial life is portrayed as an ideal but not an assurance of order and fulfilment in the complexity of human life.

   The uncertainty of such a life is dramatized in the stretto fugues that follow; Contrpunctus 6 portrays life as a turbulent sea of conflict between antagonistic reflective beings struggling to assert the value of their own lives in opposition to each other, while Contrapunctus 7 portrays a loss of control and drifting downwards into disorientation. Of these fugues, I will limit myself to a discussion of the latter.

Contrapunctus 7

This fugue is distinctive for its use of the theme and its inversion and in augmented and diminished versions of them, all of which also appear in various combinations. They are related to the earlier fugues, and in particular to Contrapunctus 5, with its dotted rhythm. At the beginning, this appears in its inversion, in counterpoint with a diminished version of the theme, to create a clear sense of self-expression. Almost immediately, however, this clarity of self-assertion is engulfed in a complex of voices and competing impulses, developing into a conspicuous contrast with the balanced opposition of voices in number 5. Thus, the preliminary sense of affirmation quickly falls away, as the spirit is expressed in different forms of the diminished theme in a sustained descent. Taking place in several phases, each with its own kind of organization and suggestive character, this descent as a whole is divided into halves, so that the mid-point represents a critical moment of resistance (in bars 28 to 31) from which the fall is completed. Bach’s portrayal in this fugue of a loss of mastery depends in particular upon his evocation of a visual image, that of a body drifting downwards as though into the ocean depths, and the counterpoint between different forms of the theme and the countersubject delineate the falling body, the movement of currents above, around and below it, and the dissolution of an individual spirit.

   The strong feeling of a life over which the individual loses control again gives to Bach’s imagery an intimate sense of the experience; the loss of moral and psychological equilibrium is vividly conveyed in the technical resourcefulness and precision that distinguishes this fugue and The Art of the Fugue in general. Thus, the medium for action\ is indicated by the countersubject, and a characteristic rhythm is established by quaver patterns of descending or ascending parts of the scale (or one and then the other) which evoke a current in ripples of energy generated by syncopation that lies in the upbeat commencement of a scale. From bar 5 to 12 an augmented version of the theme in inversion appears in the bass, and this attracts different forms of the diminished theme. Interpolated into the medium created by the countersubject, the diminished theme is first heard (abbreviated) in the tenor (bar 6), and, in the following two bars, in the alto, both in the original form. This is a preparation for the descent of the diminished version, now in its inversion, to the tenor voice in bars 9 and 10. These developments follow the rise and fall of the augmented version in the bass, and they are significantly affected by the way in which movement is intensified in the medium in these bars. Descent of the diminished theme drawn down by the underlying force of the augmented version is accompanied by crosscurrents defined by a rich overlapping of syncopated quaver patterns in the three top voices. This creates a complete image of the spirit falling bodily, being drawn by forces in the medium.

   Something significant is added to the second section (bars 13 to 31), as the focus shifts from the body falling and the currents to the value of the spirit and a predominance of the theme in different and interrelated versions. Specifically, the falling body shines brightly as the activity of the medium is attenuated by a lighter allusion to the movement around the descending figure. Thus, between bars 13 and 21, a descent of the diminished version, that is mainly in the original form of the theme, enjoys a conspicuous domination of the music, with its movement from soprano and alto to tenor and bass being countered by a strong emphasis upon the character of the theme. This is enriched at the beginning of the movement by a modified reiteration of the theme in its original inversion in the alto voice, which takes over from the diminished version in the soprano, and echoes what we have heard in bars 2 to 5. Allusion to the expression of individual spirit as we have seen it presented in Contrapunctus 5 has the effect of giving backbone to the falling figure, and suggests an inner resistance to its confusion and loss of control. An element of stability created here is continued in the soprano in bars 19 to 21, and then, less obviously, in the augmented version that arises in the tenor (bars 23 to 30). 

   In this section, there is a continuous affirmation of the spirit of the individual, and it grows in conviction as the music evolves. We feel it especially in the surge of feeling in bars 20 to 26, in which the diminished version is integrated with the movement of the currents and is combined with a rising pitch and intensity in the voices. Hence the theme appears in the tenor and bass in bars 20 and 21, in the alto in bars 23 and 34 and in the soprano in bars 25 and 26; and it is, in all but one, in the morally positive original form of the theme and continuous with the flow of the medium as determined by the countersubject.  This development gives us a sense that the spirit is strong enough to withstand the challenge that assails it. The climax of the second section arrives in the mid-point of the fugue with an unimpeded statement of the diminished theme in its original form in bars 28 to 31. Appearing firmly in the bass and repeated in stretto in the alto, it makes a strong affirmation of the spirit, and the meaning of this affirmation can be referred to Contrapunctus 1, as being in accord with the value of a form of life.

   Consequently, Contrapunctus 7 can be considered to be tragic in tone, since the second half corresponds to the first but is uncompromisingly one of disintegration. Initially, the third section corresponds to the first, and describes a precipitate downward spiral that is highly dramatic in the light of section two and its expression of resistance. This change is evident in the turbulence created by a more complex employment of the rhythmic shapes and syncopation that are characteristic of the countersubject. Thus, in each of bars 31 to 34 there are three different places in which notes (mainly quavers) are tied over to semi-quavers so that the accent falls on an upbeat, and this represents currents of water surrounding the falling body. The action of pulling it downwards is suggested in two specific ways: one involves the use of chromatic touches to convey an impression of spiralling downwards and the other a shift from the higher to lower voices in order to evoke a sudden descent. These devices are perfectly co-ordinated with the turbulence of the countersubject in this section and with each other; the first touch of chromaticism occurs in bar 32, in which the quavers of the second half in the tenor are B flat, B natural, C and C sharp. In bar 34, a more energetic torque is given to the falling figure by a more intricate chromaticism, in which quavers of C sharp and C in the soprano are in unison with quavers of E and E flat in the tenor. With respect to the shift from higher to lower voices, in bars 34 and 35 syncopation is more prevalent in the tenor and bass, making them predominant, and movement in them carries the body down quite explicitly in the descending scale that follows immediately in bar 36.

   At bar 35, the augmented version returns in its inversion in the alto voice, and this line is key to an image of the figure drifting slowly downwards. The abrupt change is accompanied by a change in our point of view, as now the body is imagined from below, and the image is strongly influenced by a re-orientation of the current, as the descending scale in the bass is continued in a sequence of quavers without syncopation. This has the effect of accentuating the feeling of depth by removing the turbulent activity from the current –  thereby suggesting a silent world in which the powerless spirit is weakened as it sinks into an unbounded space, and while the one diminishes the other expands endlessly. In order to create this effect voicings of the original theme in tenor and soprano surround the augmented version and, by shadowy harmony and counterpoint, give resonance to its spatial significance.  

   The fourth section is a contrasting parallel to section two – whereas two portrays the individual resisting decline, four describes a dramatic loss of strength and ultimate demise.  This begins immediately in a statement of the diminished version in the home key (in the soprano and alto) and then its repetition in G minor (in the alto and tenor), so that a sense of instability coincides with a feeling that the spirit has lost its resilience. Psychologically, the latter key is less forceful, and it continues to play a part in the whole of the fourth section, as the unfocused individual is tossed around by the increasing currents. Thus, a growing disorder is conveyed in the rush of ascending and descending scales in different voices, the abrupt movement in certain wide intervals, and sudden shifts of direction in mood and phrasing. In bars 47 to 50 the movement becomes decidedly wayward, as the weakened expression of impulse in the alto and tenor statements of the theme is overlaid by a rising and falling scale (bar 47) that peters out in the following bar, and is succeeded by another impulse (bar 49) which descends into a broken sequence of short phrases in the tenor, alto and bass, before an octave in the alto lifts the will back into action. This faltering of spirit continues in the next bar with a muted extract of the theme, the fragility of which is supported by a rising scale in the tenor and then followed by an immediate loss of momentum in bar 54. The rapid changes of mood in these bars are given a psychological definition by an elegiac return of the theme in its diminished form in alto and tenor in bars 55 and 56. In the course of these developments, the augmented version of the theme has been unfolding in the soprano from bar 50, and, contrary to its role in the other three sections, its presence is fragmentary – in keeping with the character of the fourth section. Thus, it is most prominent in its closing crotchets and their dissonant collision with the other voices.

   From bar 52 patterns of semi-quavers in the lower voices create a rhythmical motion beneath the attenuated spirit, and the ascending scale in the tenor just mentioned (in bar 52) is immediately followed by a descending scale in the bass in the next bar. The counteraction is part of an unpredictable flow of energy that continues to the end of bar 55, and then violently condenses the spirit and the medium from bar 57 to the conclusion. In this, the spirit loses its character, while agitation in the bass in bars 57 and 58 is transferred to the soprano. At this point, the other voices fall away and allow an unimpeded attention to the death throes of the spirit and the displacement of the current. For now the body is on the ocean floor and in what follows the descending quaver patterns and a conclusive final bar hold it down as it dies.

    In The Art of the Fugue, Bach shows how different ways of seeing the form of reflective life in a person can be powerfully represented in terms of inner experience, and do so without engaging in a narrative and relating our thoughts and feelings to detailed characterization. For example, a sense of disorientation is often suffered by us and is sometimes an unavoidable expression of the form of human life, and it is accompanied by certain feelings and emotions, The work as a whole engages with many aspects of reflective life as it is experienced by a person; hence the pleasure that we take in the music is created by its sense of inner life in relation to the form of human experience. Even when the experience is tragic we can be deeply drawn to a representation of life that reveals the nature of things. To a reflective being this kind of knowledge is a natural concern, and the deep exploration of it can be both exhilarating and compelling. In Contrapunctus 7, the body drifts downwards in an unbounded and empty space, and in this image the listener’s experience of the music suggests the experience of the individual as he or she loses mastery of himself and a sense of the world to which he belongs; the music is more than simply a way of signifying an idea of how life can be deprived of purpose, or simply a consoling expression of feelings and emotions. The intense experience of our feelings and emotions in relation to the form of human life is a significant kind of self-knowledge.

Contrapunctus 8

A contrasting way of conceiving the form of reflective life for a person is presented in Contrapunctus 8. Whereas in the previous fugue the individual is portrayed in its isolation from others, here the emphasis is turned towards the significance of inner life in others to our own inner life. In this respect, we return to the central idea of human interdependence from another angle, and once again the piece is presented in halves; the first is in two parts which elaborate upon a playful gesture and then combine this with an expression of self-affirmation. The second half incorporates these ideas into the music associated with the third subject of the fugue, and this expresses the idea of interdependence in our shared inner experience, as fundamental to the experience of a reflective being. Hence the first half can be seen as portraying the elements of play and inner affirmation in the development of a child while the second represents the mature psychological interaction that is the goal of this nurturing play. 

   In keeping with what we have seen about the purpose of the work as a whole, this fugue is not so much a description of any particular experience as a portrayal of the vitality that comes from the intimate experience of each other. So, we can see the opening subject as a playful gesture without a particular meaning, apart from its being the kind of behaviour that awakens the psychological contact between ourselves and others and therefore stimulates inner awareness between individuals. It is an interesting example of Bach’s wit that he introduces us to this dimension of our inner life with the kind of experience by which it is typically initiated in our development.

   The lilting downward movement of the first subject and the whimsically abrupt nature of its ending express the playful gesture in the alto voice, At bar 6, the soprano takes up the subject while the alto initiates a countersubject which becomes an emotional complement to the gesture. This part of the first half of the fugue is characterized by a free interaction in which the response of other voices, and mainly in the form of the countersubject, express an encouraging confirmation of the subject, an impulse that is strongly suggested by the shape of crotchet followed by quavers in a particular orientation. In connection with the latter, the interval of a third enhances the mood of openness and warmth. Also, the whole of this section (to bar 38) is distinguished by an open texture that enables the music to breathe freely, so that expression of the subject and countersubject are clearly articulated as aspects of an effortless and spontaneous communication between parent and child. Even when the subject and countersubject are in counterpoint (for example, in bars 21 to 24) the expressive intention of both is easily heard.

   Notwithstanding this example, the feeling of encouragement in the countersubject belongs to a structure that is governed by alternation between playful action and receptiveness. This applies in particular to the inversion and its sense of withdrawal from action, as we see early in the piece (in bars 15 t0 19) before bar 20 leads into the next main entry of the subject. The alternation provides a rhythm for the fugue as a whole, and in the first half attachment of the countersubject to the subject expresses action while attachment of the inversion to intervening passages expresses receptivity. This conception of is underlined by a gently bouncing rhythm in the alto and tenor which concludes the opening section in bars 35 to 38.

   At bar 39, the first subject in the soprano is in counterpoint with the second subject in the alto, and the psychological significance of this development is conveyed in a rhythmic transformation of the music. To start with, the second subject and its descending pattern of quavers – involving triple repetitions separated by descent of a third and ascent of a tone – adds to the playful opening subject a contrasting drum beat of self-affirmation. In this respect, counterpoint between the subjects, both in this section and the remaining parts of Contrapunctus 8, is concerned with an imperative that lies behind our involvement in the inner experience of others. And because the drum beat of self-affirmation expresses a psychological necessity, the rhythmic structure of the music changes in another way. Whereas the playful indulgence of the first section is generally free and relaxed – counterpoint with the subject being largely affected by notes tied over the bar, quaver rests and syncopation – now the rhythms of the first and second subjects are strictly lined up so that the free expression of feeling is replaced by the sense of an experience without which the individual will cease to develop and flourish. However, this relation between the subjects in counterpoint remains in a dialectical contrast with greater rhythmic freedom in the moments of receptiveness, with the qualification that in the countersubject intervals of a third become seconds and thereby suggest a degree of constraint.

   These observations clearly suggest a new perspective, as the counterpoint of one subject with another diverges from the simple expression of a playful gesture. Rather than developing the description of a particular experience the music takes the original idea as a prompt for its definition of the form of inner experience itself. Hence the playful perception of another person’s inner experience represents one element of the form and the self-affirmation that accompanies it represents another. Such a transformation is confirmed by the structure of the second section. In this, we can see that its organization in four parts makes use of the soprano and alto counterpoint of subjects one and two, with some variation of pitch, harmony and completeness, in bars 39 to 43, 51 to 54 and 81 to 84. So, the alignment of these elements provides a basis for the unfolding of this section of the piece, and in the first and second parts this alignment leads into a stronger statement, in the soprano, of the second subject (bars 44 to 46 and 67 to 70). Otherwise, the intervening music is akin to the counterpoint in the first section with some prominence given to the countersubject and its inversion (especially in bars 45 to 58), and to the first and second subject, both directly and indirectly. This combination is enriched by a variety of ways in which the flow of inner experience develops in mood and feeling, and creates a kind of imagery for the definition of such life as the expression of forms that are usually subliminal. In short, a positive experience is portrayed as a means of highlighting the forms by a structure in which they emerge naturally in the course of the section. The third part, beginning from bars 81 to 84, through an ascending climax in pairs of quavers to a triumphant reiteration of the second subject (bars 88 to 90), is followed by a rhetorical flourish in the tenor and then soprano, as a bridge into the third section.

   Introduction of the third subject is accompanied not by the other subjects but by the flow of receptive experience and its characteristic use of the countersubject, in its original form and inversion (from bar 93). This creates an opening for the expression of self-awareness in relation to the inner development of the piece. In this connection, we have seen that the evocation of a particular experience in the opening section is transformed by the second subject into a portrayal of the form of inner experience, and this is extended in the third section. Hence, the new subject, which enters in the alto, in bar 94, outlines the form of the original theme of The Art of the Fugue, the significance of which is to express the idea of human interdependence. Specifically, this recollection makes the interdependence a fundamental element of inner experience, and it is reasonable to see this in our involvement in the inner experience of others. The self-awareness is ingeniously constructed by introducing the third subject covertly behind lively activity in the soprano (bars 94 to 97), and then projecting it in the tenor through spare activity in soprano and alto (bars 99 to 102). A corresponding moment of self-recognition is conveyed in bars 103 and 104, where a chromatic variant of the countersubject appears dramatically high in the soprano voice, and this reaction is confirmed in a luminous statement of the third subject, also in the soprano (bars 105 to 108).

   Having established the identity of the third subject as an element of the form of inner experience, the music then reverts to the earlier material in bars 110 to 113. This action is figured in a striking combination of overlapping rhythms, chromaticism and syncopation in bars 111 and 112, and the suspension that it creates contributes to the forceful return of the second subject in the soprano, shadowed by the first in the alto (bars 113 to 118). The re-statement of the main themes following the introduction of the third subject leads straight into the ever-changing flow of inner experience which itself moves quickly to an emotional peak in bar 124 and immediately subsides. Thus, in the following bar a fourth section begins with another emphatic statement of the second subject in the soprano which is shadowed by the first in the alto (bars 125 to 129).

   From bars 129 to 144, the main themes are adumbrated within the flow of inner experience in a way that suggests their being temporarily elusive and no longer a focus of attention. For example, some affinity to the third subject is already present in bars 129 to 131; the second subject in the alto is accompanied by the first in the tenor in bars 131 to 134, while the latter is also allusively present in the soprano in bars 139 to 140 and 143 to 145. The purpose of this somewhat indecisive interlude becomes clear when a mood of anticipation, created by a strong use of the countersubject in the alto (bars 145 to 147), is resolved by the first of three versions of all three subjects stated together. Now we can see that the structure of the fourth section is characterized by a long passage of unfolding experience in order to find a place for the culminating union of the three subjects in an essential realization of the form of inner experience.

   Therefore, in this fugue, the imagery that we have seen to define a type of experience is turned into a more precise representation of the essence of a person’s inner experience. Thus, there is a progression from a particular kind of experience (a parent’s playful engagement with a child) to its integration with self-affirmation and the sense of human interdependence, which are usually unnoticed. Expression of this development in the piece is crystallized in a multiple counterpoint of the three subjects between bars 147 and 162. The first subject ties this to experience of something specific and thereby gives it an object, while the second and third subjects define more completely the underlying form of inner experience. Rotation of the subjects, so that each is voiced in the soprano, alto and tenor, and the close relations of pitch and rhythm contribute to a delicate synthesis. Such intricate control makes it possible for Bach to create imagery for the subliminal elements in our awareness of another person’s inner experience, as piercingly sensuous and psychologically satisfying.

   This climactic phase of Contrapunctus 8 is defined by its own structure; the first of the versions, between bars 147 and 151, gives space for the voices to move, and together with the placement – subjects one and three being separated, in the soprano and tenor respectively, with two in between them – makes the voices audible and equal in importance. To this lucid statement of the elements, the second version (bars 153 to 156) offers a response, in which the third subject moves from the tenor to the soprano while the others move down a step, and this brings together, in soprano and alto, the similarly structured third and first subjects. The complication alludes to the possibility of conflict in the relations governing the form of inner experience, as in different experiences the elements can be influential in different and even hostile ways. In the third version (bars 159 to 162) this instability is accentuated in a mock resolution in which (following the pattern of moving the tenor to soprano and the others down a step) the second subject is now separate in the soprano, and the first and third subjects are tightly interwoven in alto and tenor. This implies that the responsiveness to another person’s inner experience is closer to the sense of human interdependence than to self-affirmation, which is highly susceptible to conflict. The blending of subjects one and three enables us to hear a single line which animates both a feeling of playful engagement and a sense of interdependence. 

   Bach’s subtle employment of dramatic form is continued in the closing phase of this fugue, in keeping with the meaning and significance of the music. Thus, from bar 164 to the final bar, a wave-like structure confirms the optimistic mood of the piece as a whole, making use of the overlapping tied over crotchets and quavers and resulting syncopation that is characteristic of the intervening passages during which the subjects are either muted or absent. In the first place, we see an ascent of this kind reaching a peak in bar 169 with a statement of the second subject in the soprano, followed immediately by another return of all three subjects in bars 170 to 174. Here the third and first subjects are separated again by being in the soprano and tenor respectively and also because the first is two beats ahead of the other subjects. This contributes to the forceful descent of the second subject from soprano to alto and so to the impression of self-affirmation taking the initiative away from any threat of instability. In keeping with this spirit, the second wave reaches its peak in a triumphant flourish of semi-quavers akin to those that separate the halves of this composition, only more emphatic in tone. It subsides in a conclusive and balanced return to the three subjects in their original order, with the first in the soprano, second in the alto and third in the tenor.

Conrapunctus 11

 We have seen in the earlier fugues how allusion to different kinds of experience is presented so that we see into the inner experience of reflective life in the individual. Contrapunctii 8 and 11 turn this relation inside out and inner experience is directly explored while specific kinds of experience are suggested rather than clearly presented. In The Art of the Fugue, Bach shows how musical knowledge of the form of inner experience can be a stimulus to greater self-awareness and therefore a powerful expression of insight into human life and character. A psychological analysis of musical experience strongly suggests that the three elements of the form of inner experience are constantly encountered in listening to music, though they may not be so systematically related to each other as in these later fugues. Even without our recognition of its less obvious effects, music acquaints us with the form of our inner experience, and the more deeply this form is established in our sense of ourselves the easier it is to think constructively about the individual life, both in oneself and in others.

   Furthermore, acquaintance with my own inner experience normally goes with the intuition that these three elements work in cohesion with each other. In particular, that my responses are in accord with self-affirmation and my sense of human interdependence. My response to the feelings of another person can be transparently self-affirming because it agrees with how I wish to see myself, and, at the same time, because it agrees with my moral attitudes. In this respect, there is harmony in my perception of another person’s inner experience, and this point of view is clearly implied in Contrapunctus 8. However, the same harmony does not apply to my perception of what takes place in the other person’s inner experience. In this, I cannot have a direct intuition of the relationship between the three elements, or even of precisely how they are constituted. Thus, though I may be confident of the other person’s sincerity in the interest he or she takes in my distress I cannot know the form of his inner experience in the way that I know the form of my own. 

   When, for example, somebody engages sympathetically with a project I am undertaking, I cannot distinguish between his expression of feeling and the form of his inner experience. The elements are certain to be active in his sympathetic response to me, but just how they are active is quite obscure from my point of view. Alternatively, when I feel sympathy for another person and his project, though I do not have perfect self-knowledge I certainly have a good sense of how the elements affect the form of my inner experience. I can know, therefore, if my feelings are influenced by the belief that I might have contributed in some way to the project (third subject), that they conform to a general desire to help others (first subject), or that they arise from an emotional identification with a particular person’s ambitions (second subject).  In Contrapunctus 11, Bach dramatizes the partial nature of this important aspect of our knowledge of ourselves and the world. 

   Correspondingly, our conception of human interdependence in Contrapunctus 1 can now be seen in terms of a psychological development in Contrapunctus 11. Thus, my direct intuition of the form of inner experience is interdependent with the same intuition in others. In this connection, I do not infer the form of inner experience in others, or know it by analogy, or simply by observation and reason. Rather, it is an aspect of my direct intuition of the form of my own inner experience; I know human interdependence from my desire to help others only because that desire is common to those who participate in the same reflective life. Impulses of benevolence and good will, or of moral censure or satire and ridicule rest on a sense of common perception, and in this respect knowledge of other people’s inner experience is implied in the direct intuition of one’s own inner experience. Abstracted from a sense of common perception, no shared direction can be given to the inner experience of inclinations like benevolence, moral censure and ridicule. We know, for example, that our benevolence is directed by general attitudes, as we tend to be less benevolent to those who are considered to be unworthy. Hence, without a sense of what is common to many I would have no direct intuition of the form of my own inner experience.

   We can see, therefore, that the indirect intuition that others have inner experience of a determinate form is an aspect of my direct intuition of the form in myself. And what is true of the conditions for my direct intuition must also be true for them. We have also seen that the indirect intuition into others is decidedly less secure than the direct intuition into ourselves, and this implies a realm of uncertainty and conjecture that is necessary to our knowledge of ourselves and the world. Each of us can only have the thoughts, experience and viewpoint of an individual, and this creates a distinction between direct and indirect intuition that is fundamental to reflective experience itself. It is an important emphasis in Contrapunctus 11 that the richness of our engagement with others lies to a significant degree in an instability that affects my knowledge of both them and myself.

   Following the drift of these observations, the structure of this fugue is governed not by a narrative, but by the assembling of a concrete surrogate for the form of inner experience. Thus, the four sections present the elements of this form in ever more subtle and comprehensive relations. The first section presents an inversion of the original theme, and does so in a way that intensifies the idea of human interdependence. Its use of imitation is highly regular and spare, and these features contribute to an unequivocal statement of the relation that is fundamental to the inner experience of a person. In the development of this fugue, the growth of ideas is clarified by a constant variation of mood and feeling, as the music moves from the initial statement to an increasingly rich portrayal of the scope and character of inner experience and its form.

   Given its direction by Contrapunctus 8, the first subject of 11 is buoyant in mood, with an open simplicity that is enhanced by syncopation and supporting counterpoint in the accompanying voices. There is an obvious and uncomplicated order in the entries of the subject that involves a change in the harmony from D minor to A minor; this transfer being made from the alto ascending to the soprano and then from the bass ascending to the tenor voice. In relation to the expression of inner experience, the first and third entries might refer to the perception of another person’s thoughts and sensations while the second and fourth might refer to the same perception as an expression of self-awareness in the perceiver – this being an element of his own inner experience. The first subject itself is an inversion of the outline of the main theme of the work as a whole and has a trace of its hymn-like character, and so, like Contrrpunctus 8, alludes to the idea of human interdependence. 

   Assertion of this element as fundamental is evident in the clarity and directness of this presentation of the first subject, and its freedom from entanglement with the other elements and with the lyrical flow of experience stresses its abstract nature as a basic element from which the others can be derived. In this connection, we might consider the most general features of our inner experience as reflective beings; such as the dependence of our personal development upon interaction with others, as, for example, in social relations, family life and our many kinds of attachment to other individuals. Within this kind of experience the force of human interdependence acts as a hidden influence, and is easily associated with its abstract realization. Out of it arise the other elements of inner experience such as receptiveness to the inner experience of others and self-affirmation. To illustrate, the sense of human interdependence in social relations provokes interest in the inner experience of others, which is intrinsically self-affirming in one way or another. However slightly, my sense of the inner life of another person bears with it a complementary or contrasting sense of my own, and, as we have already seen, acts as a validation of its character. These positive relations are endorsed by a rhetorical conclusion to the first section in which a heightened intensity in the lyrical flow incorporates, in the soprano voice, the subject in an affirmatory home key (bars 21 to 24). In a way that is characteristic of the fugue as a whole, the lyrical flow expresses a continuous development and fluctuation, within which the subjects and their interactions will portray inner experience according to its form.

   The smoothly climactic development of section one is immediately qualified in the opening bars of the second section (from bar 28). Whereas the first subject has been projected with unimpeded clarity, the second (also inverted) is now, in the alto, entangled with an ascending chromatic scale in the soprano, which asserts its own direction in the lyrical flow and obscures the subject. So, while it does not mark a change of mood, it introduces a distinction that will define the presentation of the theme, and this is related to our perception of the inner experience of others. Hence the second section is given its meaning by the different ways in which the second subject is disposed in order to convey the instability of our perception of the relevant object. And, apart from the chromatic scale, the lyrical flow gives support to this meaning by a syncopated motive in quavers that first appears in bar 38 in the bass and 39 in the soprano. This becomes significant insofar as it anticipates, accompanies and echoes the subject, most intensively where it emerges most obviously (bars 54 to 63). Here the subject is inverted, to recover in the soprano voice the playful gesture of Contrapunctus 8, while the syncopated motive has an affinity with the countersubject in that fugue. Both suggest a continuous underlying attraction to the inner life of others in the natural flow of reflective experience.

   The exposition of section two is concerned with a fundamental tension in reflective life: namely, our need to judge the attitudes and feelings of others (for example, the sincerity of a parent or teacher) combined with a natural instability in our perception of their inner experience. The syncopated motive surrounds the subject expressing our interest in the inner experience of others while the chromaticism interferes with its realization and blurs its outlines. Only intermittently can we have a clear perception of what the other person experiences, and such a moment is suggested in bars 56 to 59. This is presented as transient in the lyrical flow and quickly gives way to a dense and complex conclusion which has further chromaticism – reducing contour to the atmospheric impression of a closing door, which is suggested by raising the alto line by an octave in bar 68. 

   Section three assimilates the first subject into the lyrical flow in a specific way. Starting from a simple and somewhat abstract presentation of the subject, it builds into an integration with the fully expressive portrayal of experience in action. Thus, the idea of the other person’s inner experience as a compelling attraction is now applied to the idea of human interdependence and what was an abstract idea in the first section is now a vital aspect of inner experience. We can associate this sense of the idea with our active interdependence with others, as in our experience of living with others, in, say, family life or friendship, working co-operatively, sharing a common objective or belonging to a team in some activity or game. These do not in themselves imply a sense of the inner experience of others, but suggest a certain dimension of reflective life involving ways in which a sense of human interdependence might be realized and therefore experienced. So, as part of the construction of a concrete surrogate for the form of inner experience, this section makes a transition from human interdependence as an abstract idea to its being active in our experience. This is suggested, in particular, in the increasingly intense lyricism of the music in this section – reaching a climax in bars 84 to 89, with counterpoint in the alto and soprano between the subject and a combination of the syncopated motive from section two and the countersubject of Contrapunctus 8. In this connection, the third section is both its own contribution to the structural rhythm of the fugue and a transition that introduces, and is implicitly included in, the bringing together of all of the main elements of the piece in the fourth section.

    The structure of section four is designed so that perception of the other person’s inner experience is presented first as an order of increasing complexity, a growing tension that is created by the need to judge his or her inner life and the unavoidable fact of its occasional and unstable accessibility. At the turning point this order is reversed, and a sense of normality is recovered though one in which the complexity of inner experience is suggested by a full presence of the subjects and accompanying music. Thus, there is an overall symmetry in the structure: the third section asserts the first subject which alludes to human interdependence; section four opens with statements of the second subject shadowed by the third, descending into deformation of the second; this subject emerges from the descent and re-asserts its own stability; and, finally, the first subject is restored to its eminence in the closing bars. In this connection, we see a deliberate duality in the third section, as it is now an introduction to, and therefore part of, section four. This is all the more significant since the turning point of the structure occurs exactly half way through the two parts taken together – section three begins at bar 70, the piece has 184 bars and the turning point is at bar 127. It is clear that Bach wishes the second sequence of the first subject to highlight its development from abstract idea (in the opening section) to involvement in inner life (in the third section), and also to make the third section an integral part of section four.

   Revealing the details of this structure, with the relevant changes of mood and feeling, will give us a sense of the composition as a surrogate for the form of inner experience. Therefore, with what we know of the third section and its assimilation of the first subject into the lyrical flow of sensory perception, thought and imagination, it is appropriate to start with the introduction of the third subject in bar 89. In this section, the form of inner experience is represented by a delicate interplay of sound and musical relations both in counterpoint and harmony, including the extension of tonality by chromaticism. To such a purpose, the drum beat of self-affirmation is introduced in the tenor voice and then a bar later in the alto and in parallel a third apart they veil the appearance of the second subject in the bass.

   As a free inversion of the second subject of Contrapunctus 8, the third subject plays a dominant role in the fourth section, taking the part that has been played by the lyrical flow in the earlier sections. In this connection, it acquires something of the familiar syncopation and represents the drive against which the first and second subjects are delineated and re-shaped in accordance with portrayal of the form of inner experience. Thus, at bar 93 the third subject appears simply in the soprano with the second subject in the alto voice; the lighter texture combining with a higher pitch to give a momentary strength of expression to the sense of inner experience in the other person. Then, lightly accompanied by the other voices, predominantly by step-like crotchets, from bars 96 to 101 the third subject descends through the voices from soprano to bass, and this acts as a pilot for the other subjects in the music that follows. Overlapping with the third subject in the bass in bar 101, the first subject appears in the alto and is completed in bar 104. This is followed in the tenor by the second subject in bars 105 to 108, and the meaning of this progression is unmistakably conveyed by Bach’s subtle manipulation of form. The momentary feeling of strength in the second subject leading into the descent of the third subject through the voices and then that of the first to the second subject creates a powerful sense of the other person’s inner life fading under the pressure of self-affirmation.

   Attention to our own experience suggests that there are countless ways in which our perception of the other person’s inner experience is affected by the element of self-affirmation, and it is obvious that such perception is closely associated with the element of human interdependence. The continuation of Contrapunctus 11 engages with this connection, and thereby intensifies the portrayal of inner experience in relation to its form. So, the descent I have just analysed is completed in bars 110 to 113 by another movement of the third subject through the voices from soprano to bass, as a resolution of this phase of the fourth section. The next phase begins at bar 113 with a clear statement of the second subject in the soprano, and this acts as the introduction to a more dramatic conflict between the music for self-affirmation and the other subjects.

   The meaning of this phase is contained in a wave-like shape that begins in bar 117 and tails off in bar 125 and is characterized by a development in the soprano and alto together in contrast with the tenor and bass together. Hence, in bars 117 to 119 variants of the third subject in the upper voices smoothly follow the statement of the second subject while the lower voices move into a chromatic descent in bars 119 and 120. This movement is imitated by a lightening of the soprano part so that, in bars 121 and 122, the weight of the third subject is solely in the alto part, and in the latter bars we hear a freely manipulated variant of the second subject. This distortion already suggests a perception of the inner experience of another person that is altered by self-affirmation. Meanwhile, in bars 122 and 123, a variant of the first subject occurs in the bass, and with a similar purpose, as we are in the course of discovering. In bars 123 and 124 the third subject in soprano and alto are intensified by a variant in the former that changes the ascent from a third to a fifth, a reaching upward that is accompanied by harmonic changes in which, in bar 124, a G minor chord is composed of a 7^th, 13th and 11^th. This climactic dissonance reflects an aggressive expression of self-affirmation and further pulls out of shape the first and second subjects in the lower voices. The chromatic ascent that begins in the bass in bar 122 is continued until bar 127 and paralleled in the tenor in bars 123 and 124. 

   Therefore, in this phase we can see how Bach’s portrayal of inner experience touches upon the distortion of our sense of the inner life of others and of human interdependence by assertive self-affirmation. The disruptive effect of concern for ourselves is, of course, pervasive in reflective life and it represents the mid-point of the fugue – bar 127 is a turning point from which the music returns to equilibrium. But this is not simply a matter of reverting to the less complex music of the earlier sections; the structure is one in which the reversal incorporates a recognition of the complexity that has been acquired in the development of the fugue, as a way of expressing the psychological intricacy of inner experience.

   Thus, in the reversal we can see the form of inner experience as such resist the domination of life by self-affirmation. In various ways, Bach dramatizes the form in response to the inner necessity of moral virtue, and equilibrium lies in our sense of the force of all of the elements in opposition and co-ordination. So, against the full-bodied resumption of the third subject in the soprano and alto voices, in bar 132 the first subject returns in the bass and this leads into the return, in bar 136, of the second subject in the tenor. An obvious parallel to the same pattern we have already encountered in the first half of this section (bars 101 to 109) marks an ascent that responds to the earlier descent. This is felt in particular in the replacement of a downward motion between the first and second subjects in the first part (from alto to tenor) to the opposite motion (from bass to tenor) in the second part. Whereas the former generates a feeling of psychological decline the latter is lighter and suggests the recovery of a healthy sense of the other person’s inner experience. The conclusion of this phase of the fourth section (at bars 143 to 145 in the tenor), playfully exaggerates the experience in a broad echo of the final bar of the second subject, an echo which might be taken as mocking the temptation of assuming too much when it comes to knowing the inner experience of others.

   In the closing phase a rich ambiguity reflects internal conflict in the nature of relations between the elements of inner experience as they are presented in Contrapunctii 8 and 11. Contact between these elements is intensified by giving each the strongest expression that is compatible with an appropriate recognition of the strength of the others, and, at the same time, there is a flowing integration of the elements that is in keeping with a sense of equilibrium and harmonious resolution. The phase begins at bar 145 with a clear statement of the second subject in its inversion, recalling again the original evocation of response to the inner experience of another person in Contrapunctus 8. In the soprano voice, this stands out over the third subject in the alto and first subject in the bass. At bar 150, the third subject takes over in a fluent movement through the voices from soprano/alto to bass one bar at time and leads into an intense counterpoint in the soprano and alto in which this subject is heard simultaneously in its original form and inversion, while the second subject appears in a fragmented form in the bass.

   In bar 156 the intense counterpoint increases in pitch and changes shape to modulate into a feeling of suspension that gives entry to the first subject. This, too, is heard simultaneously in its original form and inversion in the soprano and alto voices, and with a strengthening effect. Here we can see a suggestion of the meaning of this phase, in that the strengthening is related to the development of ideas in the fugue as a whole. The first subject in these bars can be contrasted with the first and third sections, especially the latter, as part of the reversal in this the fourth section. A toughening of the first subject where it contends with the third implies that the sense of human interdependence acquires richness and depth from experience, by the need to resist the tyranny of self-affirmation. At the beginning of this phase, Bach gives strong expression to all of the subjects in a way that suggests that their strength depends upon their interdependence, and therefore that opposition is inseparable from the ways in which they grow through mutual contact. This is why they seem to make room for each other and why they flow easily into and out of each other.

   Assertion of the elements of inner experience and how they acquire strength from each other in this way generates effortless momentum. In bars 162 to 163   a light reference to the third subject in the soprano and tenor is accompanied by another fragmented allusion to the second subject in the bass, which is followed by an echo of the first subject with inversion in the tenor and bass (bars 164 to 167). Cohesion between the subjects is continued in a longer passage of the third subject which is also light in character and includes a chordal statement of this subject in all four voices. Like its dense statement in bars 153 to 155, this passage modulates into an engagement with a change of character in which, in this case, all three subjects enter in a new guise. Tension between the third, which appears in the soprano and tenor, and the first, clearly stated in the alto, dominates over a return of the second in the bass. Here we can see a resurgence of the second subject from its fragmented expression beneath the third subject in earlier moments of the fourth phase. This is part of a movement in which the third subject is overturned in the general re-0rdering of the subjects that concludes the fugue.

   Thus, the tension is resolved by moving the first subject into the soprano while the third is briefly indicated in the bass. The pre-eminence of the former completes the recovery in the second half of the fugue by uniting it with the third section and thereby balancing the overall structure. However, in the assimilation of the subjects the assertion of human interdependence sides with but does not ensure an unequivocal perception of the other person’s inner experience. In the final bars the second subject appears in the tenor voice but is only heard as a ground for the line directly above that transforms its significance. This is to end the fugue on a note of provocation. Perception of the other person’s inner experience is essential to our understanding of ourselves and the world and so its concealment is a challenge to us in ordinary experience. Bach conveys this with particular intensity in the chromatic wave of quarter notes in bar 181 and thereby distils the essence of the piece in its closing bars. The blending of lines so that the second subject is altered in character has already been encountered and depends upon their being synchronized in the performance. Other examples of such blending can be seen in bars 28 to 30 (soprano and alto) and 44 to 46 (tenor and bass). 

   This argument concerning The Art of the Fugue sees the individual pieces in relation to a conception of musical meaning as it may be applied, in the earlier fugues, to the exploration of experience by imagery, and, in Contrapunctii 8 and 11, to the creation of a concrete surrogate for the form of inner experience. A development of the conception of inner experience in this discussion can begin with a reference to the origins of Bach’s approach to musical meaning in the work, and specifically to his interest in Germen philosophers who were known to him.  Christoph Woolf has referred to these philosophers in linking Bach’s approach to composition to the scientific discoveries of Newton (Woolf 2001).

There is no question that Bach was influenced, notably in Leipzig (at that time home of Germany’s largest and most distinguished university), by the academic climate of intellectual inquiry and search for truth propounded by the philosophers Gottfried Leibnitz and Christian Woolf. Both defined philosophy as ‘Weltweisheit” (wisdom of the world) and – according to Bach’s student Lorenz Mizler – as ‘a science of all things that teaches us how and why they are or can be’. Bach was exposed to much abstract theoretical discourse, especially in Leipzig, but he had no interest in contributing to it himself. He focused instead on a genuinely empirical approach that made him explore ‘the most hidden secrets of harmony with the most skilled artistry’, that is, push and expand the known limits of musical composition. (page 98)

My interpretation of The Art of the Fugue suggests that though Bach was not interested in writing philosophy, philosophical thought of the kind that was practised by Leibnitz and Woolf was much more than inspiration for an interest in the science of music, and played a critical role in the meaning of this composition. Its profound development from the portrayal of experience by means of imagery to a portrayal of the form of inner experience is only possible by means of a philosophically sensitive understanding of the basis of reflective life. This psychological insight enables Bach to create music that engages us with inner life in action, and thereby generate an experience of the form of such life.

*

As we have seen from the beginning of this argument, we cannot understand physical reality without taking into account the logical interdependence of the physical object and sensory perception. Correspondingly, sensory perception is not the representation of an otherwise stable physical object but the realization of an object by the psychology and psychological history of a particular sentient being. In other words, intrinsically the act of sensory perception is not to create a resemblance or likeness, and neither is it to stand for something. The act of sensory perception itself gives the object its character which is defined by the psychological conditions for an act of sensory perception, including the form of inner experience. If self-affirmation, human interdependence and receptiveness to the inner experience of others are basic to the form then they must play an essential part in the realization of the object. How we conceive of the history of physical reality is also affected because our imagination is dependent upon sensory perception. Things that may have occurred long before the emergence of sentient beings can only be ‘seen’ in accordance with sensory perception. Otherwise, they are real and causally related to what we are and what we experience, but, by definition, beyond our imagination. 

   For example, in keeping with we have already seen, the character of a bicycle is given to it not only by its physical and mechanical attributes, but also by the responses and past experience of the individual who perceives it. Now we can see that the form of inner experience is also relevant, since we could not see a bicycle as a means of transport, leisure and sport, or any of the other ways in which it can acquire character, if our perception were not affected by human interdependence, our response to the inner experience of others and self-affirmation. To use an arbitrary object as a means of transport does not give it the character of a bicycle; this requires that we identify the object with our sense of how it is understood by others. Similarly, to watch the waves breaking on a beach enables the perception of others to influence the character that we give to the object. Thus, we might see what is before us to belong to a coastline, to emerge from intricate currents in the ocean, to include a horizon created by the earth’s curvature and tides that make the water line advance and recede. In the absence of such agreement with the inner life of others the physical object could not possess the same depth and subtlety. In this connection, the physical object is created not only by materiality interwoven with inner experience, it includes the form of inner experience and its elements. 

   Of course, we can usually revise our sensory realization by reflection and analysis, both of the object and of ourselves. For example, I might have no difficulty in reflecting that my psychology and psychological history lie behind my seeing someone in a certain way, and therefore that my sensory perception might be wide of the mark. A more detached and impartial observer might see the character of the same person more truly to that person’s behaviour and motives. On the other hand, the experience that informs our realization of character is also a source of insight; the object is not inert and stable but is generated by the inner experience of sentient beings, including when the object is oneself. For example, a rich and diverse inner experience of human interaction, both real and fictional, may lie behind the perception of a man’s struggle to understand his having been betrayed by a friend. Seeing that such a struggle might involve a conflict between solicitude for the friend and a sense of disillusionment would depend on seeing genuine feeling in the man; a subtle receptivity based on one’s own inner experience would be essential to knowledge of his inner life. 

   Much of our insight into character is directly related to the form of inner experience, and in this connection sensory perception plays a large part in how we judge ourselves and others. Thus, my being courageous or cowardly, honest or devious are not free-standing properties of my character. These qualities are given their character by common perception and so involve the form of inner experience, as well as reflection and analysis. Perception of a person, therefore, cannot be the representation of an object because character lies to a significant degree in its sensory realization by individuals in a community of sentient beings. Given also that within this community judgements of character vary from one individual to another, and do so – apart from the dictates of reason – according to differences of psychology and psychological history, in the realm of sensory perception there is often room for conflict over what is true. Generally, we can agree about objects in which a specific purpose is predominant, like a cup or a bicycle, but serious differences can arise over the character and value of a person or work of art. 

   I have argued elsewhere (Nelson 2010) that it is not by creating a resemblance that the artist illuminates our life and experience. In common observation, from which resemblances are derived, we almost never see the complexities and tensions of inner experience. For these, a kind of invention is required, and insight arises out of an enquiry into appearances – particularly in drama, in which it is possible to define the psychology of individuals in their actions and experience. In Oedipus and Hamlet, characterization is implicitly receptive to the distinction between representing a physical object in terms of its properties and the portrayal of a person in terms of his or her character. This distinction is seen in the problems that lie in ascribing moral qualities on the model of purpose or function in an object; the moral virtue of a person has its own internal structure that affects the significance of his experience and actions. 

   For example, many can appear to resemble the good person, or the unstable person who is inclined to violence, but this does not imply affinity of character. One good person might be blessed by life and spared extreme difficulty and suffering while another might have to struggle to achieve moral virtue in the face of disheartening adversity. Though both may be deemed good there is clearly a difference of character in these individuals. Similarly, given his personal history, the violence of Oedipus has a definite psychological source and could not be equated with the actions of a randomly chosen individual who happens to be unstable. Oedipus and Hamlet are far too intricately and distinctively drawn to be conclusively identified with a resemblance to the character of others; aided by thought and imagination the dramatist can convert the ordinary realization of a person in sensory perception into a subtle and convincing portrayal of reflective life in action. In this respect, the generative nature of sensory perception itself plays a vital part in the true portrayal of the individual, and this includes the true portrayal of inner experience itself. 

   Say that I spontaneously see my past behaviour on a particular occasion in a way that forces me into an unwelcome view of my own character. This moment of self-recognition is not like the representation of an object because the essential character of this introspective object only comes into being with an act of realization and would be different if I had been more lenient or more evasive. There could be a number of ways in which my actions and character might be judged, and any that might be seen as the most rational and fair-minded would still involve the inner realization of at least one individual. Rather than depending on memory, as in my own case, judgement might depend on other modes of inner experience like visualization or imagination. It should be added that a person’s character is never revealed with perfect clarity, and what appears to be a more logical judgement might not be the most valuable. In time, we may come to recognize greater value in another less secure judgement that is more suggestive because it illuminates character in a deeper way.

   This conception of sensory realization has wide implications, and they can be seen in very different aspects of our knowledge of ourselves and the world. For example, our knowledge that a lizard cannot feel humiliation does not arise out of experimental observation; we know that a lizard cannot be humiliated without making any systematic observation at all. Once again, it is the realization of an object by attention to one’s inner experience that provides us with the relevant insight (in this case the object is given its character by a sense of enquiry – outside the interest of an enquirer the nature of humiliation has no significance). Thus, our knowledge of humiliation is derived primarily from self-awareness, which enables us to see that this feeling is bound up with a sense of being evaluated as a person. In the absence of ideas about oneself that are dependent upon social life, or social life expanded by language, it is impossible for a sentient being to be humiliated. So, because it does not have either social life or language a lizard cannot have a sense of individual character and therefore cannot experience humiliation; the realization of what is meant by the concept enables us to see into the life of other sentient beings. Elements of the form of inner experience are clearly implied in this: the individual character involves self-affirmation, human interdependence and receptivity to the inner experience of others. 

   The element of plasticity in what is realized by sensory perception as a physical object implies that natural order exists only for sentient beings, and therefore that the laws of nature have meaning only in the light of sentience. In this connection, the physical object is dualistic in that its realization must conform to the logic of interaction between a material source and an act of sensory perception. Without this interaction, the former remains no more than a material source, and this applies generally to the laws of nature. How, for example, could the laws of motion have any significance if they could never be experienced? It is only in relation to sentience, or its prospect, that nature can be realized in any form at all, and plasticity of realization is necessary because the object is realized differently by different sentient beings (a cup is directly perceived as a vessel for drinking tea or coffee by a person, but not by a lizard or a grasshopper). This introduces a psychological dimension into the physical basis for the object and nature; not in the sense that inanimate things are alive or conscious, but in the sense that their material source must be responsive to the varied psychology of sentient beings.

   In support of this argument, we know that there is a response in the material source because it can be manipulated in ways that influence the perceiver’s realization of the object. This kind of manipulation pervades all aspects of our experience, and is quite obvious in how we organize the world in which we live, in what we eat, how we work and entertain ourselves, how we shelter ourselves and protect our privacy. Things are arranged so that the response in material source to our realization of phenomena is in keeping with how we wish to live, and this is a general feature of life for a reflective being. Thus, the choice of an example will inevitably seem arbitrary. However, in art we can see a very specific form of manipulation that has a definite aim. Music, painting and sculpture are spheres in which the artist creates an object that is highly responsive to the immediate sensory perception of the listener or viewer. In doing this, he or she heightens in various ways the natural responsiveness of the material source of the object, and this confutes the objection that in sensory perception we simply impose a character upon something that is otherwise neutral. 

   To offer a familiar example, in many of his paintings Monet employs techniques that project certain features and give vibrant colour and spatial depth to the image. As a material source, the painting responds to the sensory perception of the viewer because the artist knows something about the psychology of vision. Thus, in giving the object its character he intensifies the responsiveness of its underlying material source to the viewer’s realization of the object, which gives it a closely related character.  To spell out the order: when the artist manipulates a painted surface, he affects the material source for other viewers of the painting. They, in turn, realize the object in accordance with human visual perception and see it as the artist intends.  This provides us with a clearer idea of the relationship between material source and sensory realization when we see a cup – what we see as a vessel for drinking tea or coffee is responsive to our realization of this character, and also to the realization of a different character by other kinds of sentient being. By changing my expression, I can make my face responsive in a certain way to somebody’s perception of it. Similarly, it is neither by an internal representation of a stable physical object nor merely by an act of internal coercion that the material source of a landscape coalesces into a satisfying image. There must be a responsiveness in this source that is present within such physical relations as those between light, colour, aerial perspective, contour and varieties of surface and texture in order to create the circumstances in which a definite character can be realized by a specific act of sensory perception.

Related Texts and Music 

Bach, J. S. The Art of the Fugue & A Musical Offering [score]. 

New York: Dover Publications, 1992

Bach, J. S. The Art of Fugue; CD by Rachel Podger / Brecon Baroque. 

Channel Classics, 2016

Nelson, B. R. Forms of Enlightenment in Art. 

Cambridge: Open Angle Books, 2010

Nelson, B. R. Sensory Knowledge and Art. 

Cambridge: Open Angle Books, 2017

Shakespeare, William. Hamlet; edited by Peter Alexander.

In The Complete Works of Shakespeare, volume 3, Tragedies

London: Collins, 1958 (1964 printing)

Still, Jonathan. Research on Marching Music and Dotted Rhythms. 2018. [Online] available at: www.jonathanstill.com

Woolf, Christolph. Johann Sebastian Bach: The Learned Musician. Oxford: O. U. P, 2001