By Lee Hyo-won
Staff Reporter
Sixty years ago, a bloody conflict engulfed the Korean Peninsula, uprooting millions of lives. But one woman made sure that not only her family, but also the family piano, survived.
Maestro Chung Myun-whun was born in 1953, toward the end of the Korean War (1950-53), to a mother who would not allow showers of bullets to compromise her children's piano lessons. She therefore hijacked a truck to take the massive instrument with them as they fled to safety.
Seven years later in 1960, a young pianist debuted with the Seoul Philharmonic Orchestra.
He now stands before the ensemble as its music director. But unlike 50 years ago, when the audience laughed upon seeing such a small child tackling the keys, the conductor inspires enthusiastic ovations.
Whether he conducts the orchestra in fine-tempered direction of the Korean National Opera as he did on his birthday last week or paints bursting symphonic colors of Mahler, the maestro moves and stirs up the listener, reminding that art is, as Kafka said, "the axe for the frozen sea within us."
"Let's not talk about that," he chuckled when reminded of turning 57 during an interview with The Korea Times on Jan. 22 before rehearsing for a concert that evening. "I can't remember doing an interview on my birthday, and certainly not concerts."
Few, however, seem to embrace aging as gracefully as the maestro, for whom the inevitable passage of time has made life richer and the soul-penetrating blade called music, sharper.
"There are not many things in life that grow continuously ― that grow in a truly miraculous way," he said. " I have the greatest fortune to have two things that I love: music and my family. Only with time do you realize this."
Music, meals, the Manning brothers and most of all, miracles ― the 13th letter of the alphabet seems to mark the "glamorous" life of the maestro. The conductor breathes for the sake of beauty, but he also has his more mundane moments. He's a family man who loves to stay home, to cook for his wife, whom he affectionately calls "M" for miracle. When he opens the newspaper, he flips first and foremost to the sports pages (he cheers for football stars like the Manning brothers) before looking for the comic strips.
The deep ridges framing his eyes, however, were presumably shaped by smiles as much as they were formed by frowns ― from the anguish of fathoming the bottomless meanings which brim between musical notes and breaths.
Anything valuable requires an equivalent amount of time and effort, he said, and almost always, suffering. "But that is the only way you get to the next deeper level. There is no other way."
"My feeling is that I'm at least getting to a point where, just through my experience, I can offer something to young musicians," Chung said, though adding that he still feels uncomfortable being called "maestro."
"With enough study and some experience, most people with a minimum amount of talent could conduct," he explained matter-of-factly. Yet at the same time he feels "it is impossible to conduct."
"Musical ideals far exceed my ability so I have the pleasure of knowing it will never be exhausted. You know you will never get near the genius of the composer. You have to admire the depth because otherwise, why go through all the suffering?"
He gladly ventures into the insufferable realm of music, wherein lies "the perfect joy" of striving for an unattainable goal. Reaching into a bottomless well presents infinite challenges, but also infinite possibilities. And so, the rock keeps rolling back down the hill like in the ancient Greek myth. But for this Sisyphus, the musical challenge fails to dishearten.
Chung vividly recalled the moment this life philosophy dawned upon him, a year ago while conducting Messiaen's opera "St. Francois d'Assise" in Paris.
St. Francois, after much deliberation, defines "perfect joy" as, ironically, suffering. But more importantly, in the end, all will be forgiven if one has loved enough. "When I look at music, my family, it has been a lifetime experience of why that is true," he said.
The same can be said, moreover, of his "extended family," his country Korea, and his reasons for being here.
He is proud to see the country's vast development over the decades. But after five years of leading the Seoul Philharmonic, he sees more happy growing pains coming for the ensemble.
"The fact that we're on an ever-improving road gives me pleasure. Korea is one of the most exciting places to be in today," he smiled, with the perplexing serenity of having found calm in the eye of a storm.