While writing this short paper, I found myself reflecting on what this work truly means to me—and, more importantly, how I might approach the monumental output of a genius like Igor Stravinsky. Throughout the process of analysis, I often felt somewhat unfulfilled, as though something essential was missing, and that what I was receiving in return fell short of what I had initially hoped for. This prompted deeper questions: what does it mean, for me, to analyze music? What am I truly searching for? What values underpin this practice, and how might I approach it more creatively and positively?

Until now, I had always operated under two assumptions about analysis: that it should aim at a total understanding of every detail within a piece, and that it should yield results that I could immediately apply to my own compositional work. But through this process, I have come to realize that analysis does not mean dismantling and rationalizing every decision behind every passage. Rather, it means selecting something from the vast sea of possibilities that the composer offers.

In approaching this work on Stravinsky, I came to understand that it is neither possible—nor perhaps even desirable—to fully grasp every single passage and reduce it to something merely understandable. Sometimes, it is enough to listen carefully to a moment with imagination and sensitivity for it to become completely clear—clear to me, that is. Because Stravinsky’s magic is not mine to possess.

This line of thought brought to mind a well-known passage by John Cage:

"The function of music is not to communicate, but to present sound. Analysis often looks for meaning, when sound simply is."
(Cage, Silence, 1961, p. 13)

Indeed, in Stravinsky’s music, meaning can often be elusive. Why did he choose that voicing instead of another? Why that note, that form, that connection? As György Ligeti once wrote:

"Analysis cannot explain the magic, but it can show us where to look."
(Ligeti, as cited in Toop, 1999, p. 145)

I believe that the magic of composing works like L’Histoire du soldat, the Symphony of Psalms, and others, belongs to Stravinsky alone—and is sealed within his techniques, his craft, and his working methods. Those, at least, are accessible and observable. Through the process of analyzing these works, I now know where to look, even if I will never fully know what I am looking at. The what remains his personal mystery.

Spending a great deal of time analyzing, I often asked myself whether I was engaging in something that felt “musically active”—whether this mental effort, along with playing certain passages, might somehow become part of my lived musical experience. I frequently wondered whether the act of analysis could be comparable to that of performance: whether what I was doing held lasting value, or was simply a brief joy akin to solving a complex puzzle.

In reading various interviews with Luciano Berio, I encountered a vision of analysis as a performative act in itself. When I analyze a passage, I play it, reflect on what to focus on, imagine its potential futures—I am performing. It is no different from practicing a musical exercise on my instrument. This understanding gave new energy and direction to what has been a long and demanding process of research and writing.

As Berio states:

"Every analytical act is also a compositional act."
(Berio, Un ricordo al futuro, 2006, p. 89)

And elsewhere:

"One never analyzes only the text; one is also analyzing oneself while doing so."
(Berio, as cited in Dalmonte, 1990)

 

On several occasions during this project, I felt that certain passages I had written resonated with ways of thinking and hearing that I sensed in Stravinsky’s music. I recognized how he had arrived at elegant, ingenious solutions to problems I too have encountered. This realization brought me closer to him—not as an untouchable figure of musical history, but as a fellow human being. Even Igor had to confront the same problems we all face. Nothing more, nothing less.

In that sense, through this process, I have analyzed and understood myself more deeply than I ever have through hours of solitary composing.

From now on, analysis, for me, will mean choosing moments that speak to me—moments that show me where to look, where to imagine my own music, where to discover technical solutions with craft and sensitivity, where to listen with depth. Even a single measure is enough. With one bar of Stravinsky, one could study for a hundred years.