The Legend of the Taming of the Harp
“Once upon a time, in the Lung-men Gorge, there stood a kiri (paulownia) tree, the very king of the forest. It raised its summit to speak to the stars; its roots had sunk so deeply into the soil that their bronze coils intertwined with those of the silver dragon that slept in the bowels of the earth. Then a powerful magician carved from the tree a prodigious harp, whose stubborn spirit only the greatest of musicians could tame. For a long time, the instrument was guarded as a treasure by the emperor of China, but the attempts of those who sought to draw melodies from its strings were in vain. In response to their strenuous efforts, the harp emitted only shrill notes of contempt, out of tune with the songs they sought to sing. The harp refused to acknowledge a master.
Finally, Po Ya, the king of harpists, appeared. He stroked the harp gently, as if taming a recalcitrant horse, and delicately touched its strings. He sang of nature and the seasons, of high peaks and flowing waters, and all the memories of the tree reawakened! The gentle spring breeze played once more among its branches. The waterfalls, dancing in the gorges, rejoiced at the sight of the blossoming flowers. The dreamy voices of summer resounded again, with the myriad insects, the soft drumming of the rain, the cuckoo's call. Hear! A tiger roars—the valley responds. It is autumn; in the deserted night the moon shines, sharp as a sword, above the frozen grass. Now winter reigns; in the snow-laden air there is a whirlwind of flocks of swans, and the hailstones strike the branches with wild joy.
Po Ya then changed the chord and began to sing about love.
The forest swayed like an ardent lover lost in thought. Above, like a proud virgin, a clear, shining cloud advanced, but its passage cast long shadows on the earth, black as despair. The tone changed again: Po Ya sang of war, the clash of swords and the clatter of horses. And in the harp, the storm of Lun-men broke out, the dragon rode the lightning, the avalanche crashed down on the mountains. Enraptured, the celestial monarch asked Po Ya the secret of his victory. “Sire,” he replied, “the others failed because they sang only of themselves. I let the harp choose the theme, and I truly did not know whether the harp was Po Ya or Po Ya the harp.”
Through this allegory, Okakura illustrates the true meaning of artistic appreciation : the listener (or viewer of a work of art) must approach art without selfishness or intellectual pretensions, allowing the work itself to reveal its essence. Unlike other musicians who attempted to play the harp, Peiwoh's approach was different. He allowed the harp to choose its own theme. He gave it the ability to hear not only the invisible, but also the unspoken. Others failed to do so, because they played to speak for themselves, performing solely to demonstrate their musical proficiency without connecting with their instrument. The harp, too, has a story to tell, and it is precisely this that others failed to recognize.
The maestro evokes notes unfamiliar to us as listeners. Long-forgotten memories return to us with new meaning. Hopes stifled by fear, desires we dare not acknowledge, rise in new glory. Our minds are the canvas on which artists spread their colors; their pigments are our emotions; their chiaroscuro is the light of joy, the shadow of sadness. We ourselves are the masterpiece, just as we are the masterpiece's. The intellectual harmony necessary to appreciate art must be based on mutual understanding. The viewer must cultivate the right attitude to receive the message, just as the artist must know how to convey it. For those who are sensitive, a masterpiece becomes a living reality to which we feel drawn by bonds of brotherhood. Masters are immortal, because their loves and fears live on in us, again and again. It is the soul rather than the hand, the man rather than the technique, that attracts us: the more human the call, the deeper our response.
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