Harmonic Color, Nature, and Breathing in Music

By Mizuho Yoshimune

In our everyday lives, colors constantly shape the world both around us and within us, as they influence our emotions, behaviors, and psychology. Visual art certainly does so (often with a particular impact in mind), but so do the more natural and subtle nuances of daily moments — the autumn leaves changing color and signaling change, the interior colors of coffee shops in New York City giving each one an unique ambience, or how the colors of hallways and classrooms in schools affect our mindset and learning. Similarly in music, certain keys and harmonies evoke particular emotions that can be felt through every fiber of one’s body (the jubilant and royal key of E-flat Major is a stark contrast to the raw despair of d minor or f# minor).

A couple weeks ago, as my teacher and I were working on the development section of the third movement of Beethoven’s “Les Adieux” Sonata, the idea of shifting harmonic colors came into conversation. With the short development section covering ground of six (!) keys, including a particular phrase that melodically stretches upwards chromatically while transporting horizontally through different colors, we agreed that many more shades and tonal colors would be needed from the color palette. Within the especially vibrant and spirited third movement, the short yet beautiful development section allows one to look at the world, momentarily, through a pair of rose-colored glasses.

While on the subway ride home, the idea of shifting harmonic colors moving seamlessly from one shade to another suddenly reminded me of the breathtakingly beautiful Autumn Landscape—The River of Life (1923-1924) stained glass by Louis Comfort Tiffany from Tiffany Studios on view at the Metropolitan Museum of Art; a work that holds an especially captivating beauty, it is a truly timeless masterpiece that I always see whenever I visit the Met. The renowned Japanese architect Tadao Ando emphasizes often, 「知識だけでなく、自ら体験することの重要性」 (to not simply rely on knowledge, but the importance of actually going to the location and experiencing it first hand), and so I headed over to the Met Museum the next day to see the Tiffany’s stained glass again.

*Autumn Landscape—The River of Life* (1923-1924) by Louis Comfort Tiffany from Tiffany Studios on view at the Metropolitan Museum of Art

The Tiffany’s Autumn Landscape stained glass was as stunningly beautiful and majestic as ever, with the kaleidoscope of colors portraying the autumn landscape gradations seamlessly yet vibrantly and naturally. Even as the colors shift from red to orange, or emerald to cobalt, or even from yellow to indigo near the center, there remains a natural and cohesive flow. After running through the development section of the third movement in my mind several times as I looked at the stained glass, I went over to see the Dutch paintings as well as the fashion exhibit from the 2021 Met Gala, before heading back down to the subway and back into the pulsing city energy once more.

The following week, my teacher told me: “Sometimes the pulse drives the music, but sometimes the sound itself shapes the music.” Letting the sound, tone, resonance, and their underlying emotional currents naturally carry forward and shape the flow of the music in certain parts is just as important as the rhythmic pulse that ties the work together (whether at the forefront or at the core). Once again on the subway ride home that day (the New York City subway commute, in all its weirdness, can ironically be the optimal place for organizing one’s thoughts and contemplating ideas and possibilities), I thought about of what contains structure at its core, yet has a sense of freedom, flexibility, and natural ease and beauty. As the A train noisily yet cheerfully continued its way downtown, the answer I came to was: nature.

On the microscopic level, nature has structure — composed of units such as cells, molecules, and crystalline structures, they uphold the form and allow for the whole to function in harmony with the larger system. Yet, when you look at the figure as a whole (e.g. trees, plants, flowers, bodies of water etc.), there is a sense of effortlessness and naturalness that allows it to breathe and let its beauty speak for itself. This outward beauty is upheld internally by a proper structure, yet it is not obstructed by it — similar to how letting the sound drive the music would allow the colors, tones, and emotions speak for themselves, without the pulse being the first thing one notices (albeit still being there internally). With the autumn foliage starting to appear, it felt like the perfect timing to go to Central Park to see it in person, and I also had an inkling that I might be able to see the real life resemblance of Autumn Landscapes here in the city. With a clearer mental image (both visual and aural), it helps a great deal in translating it more effectively at the piano when we play and perform, and with that in mind, I headed over to Central Park the next day.

With not a single cloud in the sky, it was the perfect autumn day in New York City. Across from the Bethesda Terrace and past the lake, one could see the gorgeous landscape of autumn foliage — the colors, just like in the Tiffany’s Autumn Landscapes stained glass, flowing seamlessly into one another in harmony with the stunningly clear sky above and tranquil water below. There was a sense of ease, as the foliage gently rustled naturally with the wind — their internal structure solid enough to uphold the form, but allowing room to breathe with the moment as it came, as the color gradations of the leaves themselves shaped the scenery and beautiful landscape. Letting the sound itself shape the music, I thought, would be the aural and musical version of the foliage scenery in front of me.

While looking at the geese gliding in the water (and the golden retriever that wanted to jump into the lake with them), I thought of the contrast between the images of the foliage as they were naturally, versus their blurrier reflection in the water could be another tool to add in my mental imagery — sometimes we want the changes in harmonic colors to be clearly audible, and sometimes we want them to not be so distinct, but still transforming nonetheless.

As I walked back towards the direction of Columbus Circle, the bustling city, and soaring skyscrapers, the foliage along the way took on a more golden hue and enveloped the park warmly as the golden hour began to set in from above. Perhaps this scene would help me in the heartwarmingly beautiful and expansive third movement of Chopin’s Sonata No.3 as well — a movement I always associated with the warm, gorgeous tonal colors of autumn just before the hint of winter arrives.