One Note Through the Silence — The Rite of Spring Begins
Notes Beyond the Stage
One Note Through the Silence —
The Rite of Spring Begins
Principal Bassoonist, Incheon Philharmonic Orchestra
On performing Stravinsky's The Rite of Spring
The Lowest Voice, Asked to Reach the Highest
The bassoon is the foundational bass voice of the woodwind family. Its deep, resonant timbre is both its identity and, for those of us who play it, the sound we have lived with our entire musical lives. And yet Stravinsky, in entrusting the bassoon with the work's opening statement, writes not in its natural low register — but at the extreme top of its range. This paradox is the very source of the passage's power.
In the high register, the bassoon's character shifts entirely. The tone becomes more exposed, more fragile. It can easily sound thin, strained, or hollow. But that is precisely why Stravinsky chose it. This piece does not open with grandeur — it opens with mystery. The sound must evoke something primal: a first shoot pushing through frozen earth. Delicate, alive, unforced — and yet it must travel to the farthest corner of the hall.
and yet it must carry. Holding both truths at once
is the essence of this solo."
Rehearsals — The Search for a Living Sound
Preparation began with the reed. For a bassoonist, the reed is never a mere accessory. Its thickness, resilience, and aperture shape determine everything — tone colour, response, projection. For this solo, I tested numerous reeds in sequence, listening carefully to how each one behaved at altitude. The vibrato, too, required its own calibration: too wide and the pitch becomes unstable; too narrow and the sound loses all life. The goal was to find the narrow band where the tone breathes naturally — neither performed nor suppressed.
The gap between solo practice and full orchestral rehearsal is substantial. A sound that works perfectly in isolation can behave entirely differently when surrounded by the breathing mass of an orchestra. Conversely, something that feels tentative alone can suddenly come alive within the ensemble. As rehearsals progressed, the orchestra and I grew into the music together. Their confidence became my confidence. That is, ultimately, what rehearsal is for — not repetition, but collective growth.
Two Halls, Two Experiences
The programme was performed at two venues: Incheon Art Center, and the Concert Hall of Seoul Arts Center — one of the most iconic stages in Korean classical music. The two spaces differ significantly in scale and acoustic character. Seoul Arts Center is considerably larger, and I had wondered whether its volume might swallow a sound as slender and delicate as a high bassoon pianissimo.
The concern proved unfounded. If anything, I played with greater ease and naturalness in the larger hall. Rather than absorbing the sound, the space embraced it — it gave the tone room to expand and carry. A great concert hall functions as an extension of the instrument. When sound and space align, a performer stops playing into a room and begins playing with it.
A Glance, and Then the First C
Time on stage compresses. A brief exchange of eye contact with the conductor — and everything begins. I entered the first note without attack, letting the sound emerge as breath itself, a quiet infiltration of air into silence. That first C. I approached it with a single conviction: everything this solo needs to say must be present in this one note. Timbre, dynamic, intonation, vibrato, direction — all of it concentrated into a single moment of sound.
The hall responded. What happened after that, I can barely recall. At the threshold of extreme focus, the performer's conscious mind steps aside — what remains is not memory but sensation. What I do know is that the music was reaching the audience. That transmission was palpable.
of playing it. Perhaps that is precisely when
music truly happens."
The Bow, and What It Means
When the final note of The Rite of Spring fell away, the conductor did something I will not forget — he called the principal bassoon to stand before the orchestra had taken its bow. The applause that filled the hall reached somewhere deeper than the ears. Among all the performances I have given, that moment carried a particular weight.
A performer pursues perfection at every turn, but perfection on stage does not exist. What exists is living music — and the rare moment when that music passes completely between performer and audience. This performance of The Rite of Spring was one of those moments. I am certain of it.
My deepest gratitude to every colleague in the Incheon Philharmonic Orchestra, and to our conductor for leading us through this extraordinary work. And to all who came to hear us at both venues — that applause is the reason I continue to play.
2026 Korea Symphony Festival · After performing Stravinsky's The Rite of Spring
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