Music is one of the most ephemeral yet enduring art forms. A sound exists only in the instant it is produced, yet a musical work can survive for centuries, rendering its creator immortal. But what does it mean to compose music in the face of the awareness of death? How much does the fear of the end influence creativity, and how much does the desire to leave an immortal legacy push composers to write until their last breath?
The Agony of Creation: Between Urgency and Fear
Many composers have experienced art as a battle against time, a duel with death that inexorably approaches. Writing a final work means facing the agonizing doubt: will it live up to my legacy? It is not only the fear of incompleteness but the even deeper fear of composing something definitive and, at the same time, unworthy of their own legend.
Beethoven faced this fear viscerally. In the Heiligenstadt Testament (1802), written when his deafness was becoming irreversible, he confessed his desire to commit suicide but declared that only music prevented him from doing so. “Only my art held me back. It seemed impossible to leave the world before I had given all that I felt was growing within me.” Here, we perceive the fundamental tension between creation and death: composing is not just an artistic act but an act of resistance against self-annihilation.
Yet, the awareness of the end is not always a driving force; sometimes, it is paralyzing. One wonders: is it better to write nothing rather than leave an unworthy testament? Some composers have profoundly experienced this fear. Brahms, for example, after composing his Fourth Symphony (1885), feared he could no longer surpass himself and declared he wanted to stop composing. Maurice Ravel, too, afflicted by a neurological disease, felt his mind was full of music he could no longer transcribe, trapped in an agonizing awareness.
The Unfinished Work: Silence That Becomes Immortal
Death can brutally interrupt the creative process, leaving behind a fragment of something that will never be completed. Some of these unfinished works have become legends, almost more powerful than a complete work: Schubert’s Ninth Symphony, Mozart’s Requiem, Mahler’s Tenth Symphony. Their fascination lies precisely in the unresolved, in the mystery of what they might have been.
Mahler, obsessed with the superstition that no composer could surpass their Ninth Symphony (since Beethoven and Bruckner had stopped there), tried to trick fate by not numbering his Das Lied von der Erde as a symphony. But when he then wrote the Ninth, he died before completing the Tenth. Perhaps fate had taken its revenge.
Writing a final work is like walking a tightrope over the abyss: there is the desire to leave something definitive, but also the terror that this something might be a failure.
Baden-Powell’s Message and the Composer’s Fate
This anxiety about the final act does not belong only to composers but to anyone who faces their mortality with clarity. A significant example comes from Robert Baden-Powell’s final message to the Scouts, in which he quotes Captain Hook from Peter Pan:
“Dear Scouts, if you have seen the play Peter Pan, you will remember that the pirate captain repeated his last speech on every occasion, fearing he would not have time to deliver it when his moment to die truly arrived.”
Hook, like the composer, fears that every endeavor might be the last and wants to ensure he leaves a mark. Every creation could be his final testament, leading to profound hesitation. If the last work must define him, it must be perfect.
Do We Write Out of Fear of Death or Hope for Immortality?
Perhaps music is the only way humanity has found to exorcise its own transience. Every composer knows that time is an invincible adversary, but their work can escape the dust, cross centuries, and become eternal memory. Bach, Mozart, Beethoven: all dead, yet so present.
Music is written out of fear of death, to avoid being forgotten. But perhaps, more than anything, it is written because, in the moment the music plays, death does not exist.
For composers who write film music, the challenge of artistic legacy takes on a different but equally crucial dimension. Unlike classical composers who create autonomous works, film composers are part of a larger production where their music serves the film rather than standing alone. This subordination to another medium makes the selection of projects fundamental to shaping their careers.
A film composer is, in many ways, an employee: the film does not belong to them, and their job is to enhance the director’s vision. However, their career is defined by the films they choose to work on. The success of a film often dictates the recognition and future opportunities for a composer, making every choice a crucial step.
Just as a classical composer may hesitate before writing their final work, knowing it might be their last, a film composer must be careful not to attach their name to a project that does not align with their artistic sensibility. No one would want their last work to be remembered as part of a bad film. In an industry where perception and reputation are paramount, every project can define the trajectory of a career.
Thus, choosing the right film is not merely about financial stability but about ensuring that one’s artistic voice is not lost in mediocrity. After all, in film music, as in life, one never knows which work might be the last.