Journal
When Research Learns to Breathe
La Petite Bande, Japan, and the Return of the Violoncello da Spalla
December 2011 — Osaka-Sapporo
The First Permission
From the mountain workshops of Kabardino-Balkaria to the 2004 restoration, 2007 Galpin scholarly article to this concert tour across Japan and the definitive 2023 Da Spalla—an unbroken intelligence of sound. In pictures and sound.
There are moments when research ceases to be an argument and becomes sound.
I sensed this long before Japan. Long before La Petite Bande. Long before the violoncello da spalla was allowed back into the light. I sensed it as a child in the mountains of Kabardino-Balkaria, when fruit trees entered blossom all at once. No announcement. No need for witnesses.
The air changed. Silence grew dense with expectation—until it was released when Master Oiberman created an entire orchestra of folkloric instruments. Thirteen thousand eight hundred people filled a city stadium, the culmination of years of work in a tiny atelier. Materials were scarce. Knowledge was fragmented. He travelled on horseback to the most remote villages, searching for traces of a culture nearly erased—first in the nineteenth century, later under Stalin.
“Why not revive a voice that has been silenced for too long?” Oiberman asked. Not forgotten. Silenced. The distinction matters.
For him, it was the voice of the people among whom I grew up—a landscape where blossoming orchards rise toward glaciers, where rivers are so clear you do not see the water until you step into it. For me, it was immediately clear that this voice would not remain bound to geography. Only much later did I understand what it truly was: the voice of Silence itself. Universal. Unowned.
As a child, I absorbed this without knowing it. The power was not only in sound, but in the silence before and after.
La Petite Bande, live in Osaka, 2011. Three violoncelli da spalla — The Art of Fugue model
The First Permission
From the mountain workshops of Kabardino-Balkaria to the 2004 restoration, 2007 Galpin scholarly article to this concert tour across Japan and the definitive 2023 Da Spalla—an unbroken intelligence of sound. In pictures and sound.
There are moments when research ceases to be an argument and becomes sound.
I sensed this long before Japan. Long before La Petite Bande. Long before the violoncello da spalla was allowed back into the light. I sensed it as a child in the mountains of Kabardino-Balkaria, when fruit trees entered blossom all at once. No announcement. No need for witnesses.
The air changed. Silence grew dense with expectation—until it was released when Master Oiberman created an entire orchestra of folkloric instruments. Thirteen thousand eight hundred people filled a city stadium, the culmination of years of work in a tiny atelier. Materials were scarce. Knowledge was fragmented. He travelled on horseback to the most remote villages, searching for traces of a culture nearly erased—first in the nineteenth century, later under Stalin.
“Why not revive a voice that has been silenced for too long?” Oiberman asked. Not forgotten. Silenced. The distinction matters.
For him, it was the voice of the people among whom I grew up—a landscape where blossoming orchards rise toward glaciers, where rivers are so clear you do not see the water until you step into it. For me, it was immediately clear that this voice would not remain bound to geography. Only much later did I understand what it truly was: the voice of Silence itself. Universal. Unowned.
As a child, I absorbed this without knowing it. The power was not only in sound, but in the silence before and after.
From Research to Presence
By the time La Petite Bande toured Japan, the violoncello da spalla no longer existed only in treatises, engravings, or scholarly debate. It had been reconstructed specifically for this ensemble in 2004, following a decade of research—research that had already begun to condense into what I later called Sound Alchemy: the art of distilling physical form from pure harmony.
But scholarship alone does not create life. Life begins when an object is invited to participate—not as an exhibit, but as a body among bodies.
Sigiswald Kuijken never stood apart from the ensemble. Often, one had to search for him. There was no podium, no gesture of authority, no visible hierarchy. At times he played the violin; at times the spalla. Always, he played from within the sound.
This displacement of ego found its clearest reflection in a remarkable piece of musical journalism by Teruhiko Ikegami for the Nikkei (2014). Ikegami wrote of his own disorientation—searching for the leader, only to discover there was none. Kuijken stood indistinguishable among the players.
He recognized that this was not merely a performance, but a complete time-slip. Despite modern suits and ties, the contemporary world vanished. Authority dissolved. Silence finally had space to appear.
Sigiswald Kuijken with the violoncello da spalla, speaking with concertmaster Ann Cnop
From Research to Presence
By the time La Petite Bande toured Japan, the violoncello da spalla no longer existed only in treatises, engravings, or scholarly debate. It had been reconstructed specifically for this ensemble in 2004, following a decade of research—research that had already begun to condense into what I later called Sound Alchemy: the art of distilling physical form from pure harmony.
But scholarship alone does not create life. Life begins when an object is invited to participate—not as an exhibit, but as a body among bodies.
Sigiswald Kuijken never stood apart from the ensemble. Often, one had to search for him. There was no podium, no gesture of authority, no visible hierarchy. At times he played the violin; at times the spalla. Always, he played from within the sound.
This displacement of ego found its clearest reflection in a remarkable piece of musical journalism by Teruhiko Ikegami for the Nikkei (2014). Ikegami wrote of his own disorientation—searching for the leader, only to discover there was none. Kuijken stood indistinguishable among the players.
He recognized that this was not merely a performance, but a complete time-slip. Despite modern suits and ties, the contemporary world vanished. Authority dissolved. Silence finally had space to appear.
The Instrument Changes the Room
The violoncello da spalla alters more than timbre. It reshapes posture, balance, and responsibility. Bass lines cease to dominate vertically and begin to move horizontally. Inner voices gain autonomy.
The ensemble breathes differently when scale is reduced to its most honest form: one player per part. This was not a stylistic choice, but an ethical one. Ikegami described the ensemble’s approach as “thorough.” There was nowhere to hide. No one to dominate.
Musicians feel this immediately. Tempo is no longer imposed; it is inhabited. Phrases become spaces rather than statements. Listeners sense it too, even without language for it. They speak of riding, of travel, of motion. They do not speak of brands.
That silence was heard is the clearest confirmation. Bach, even in secular music, remains one of Silence’s most faithful servants.
Sigiswald Kuijken tuning his viol
The Instrument Changes the Room
The violoncello da spalla alters more than timbre. It reshapes posture, balance, and responsibility. Bass lines cease to dominate vertically and begin to move horizontally. Inner voices gain autonomy.
The ensemble breathes differently when scale is reduced to its most honest form: one player per part. This was not a stylistic choice, but an ethical one. Ikegami described the ensemble’s approach as “thorough.” There was nowhere to hide. No one to dominate.
Musicians feel this immediately. Tempo is no longer imposed; it is inhabited. Phrases become spaces rather than statements. Listeners sense it too, even without language for it. They speak of riding, of travel, of motion. They do not speak of brands.
That silence was heard is the clearest confirmation. Bach, even in secular music, remains one of Silence’s most faithful servants.
Sound Without Advocacy
What remained most striking was how little explanation was needed. The instrument was neither defended nor justified. It was simply used.
In the live performance filmed in Japan, the violoncello da spalla does not announce itself. It reorganizes the music quietly from within. Ikegami described its effect as a “lighter gravity”—a melodic emergence that requires no apology and no scholarly defense.
This is the most persuasive argument an instrument can offer: to become indispensable without demanding attention.
Benjamin Alard at the harpsichord with Ronan Kernoa, basse de violon
Sound Without Advocacy
What remained most striking was how little explanation was needed. The instrument was neither defended nor justified. It was simply used.
In the live performance filmed in Japan, the violoncello da spalla does not announce itself. It reorganizes the music quietly from within. Ikegami described its effect as a “lighter gravity”—a melodic emergence that requires no apology and no scholarly defense.
This is the most persuasive argument an instrument can offer: to become indispensable without demanding attention.
From One Instrument to a Choice
It would be misleading to attribute this to one individual alone. Had the violoncello da spalla remained merely Sigiswald Kuijken’s personal solution, there would have been a single instrument—and no more.
What followed was rarer. Other musicians perceived that silence, long constrained by habit, was being allowed to speak through sound and its hidden geometry. This recognition required a decision. They could remain witnesses—curious, respectful, detached.
Instead, they chose to become companions.
That collective, unspoken choice allowed Sound Alchemy to move from singularity to continuity. From one voice to many. From research to living tradition.
Makoto Akatsu with the violoncello da spalla
From One Instrument to a Choice
It would be misleading to attribute this to one individual alone. Had the violoncello da spalla remained merely Sigiswald Kuijken’s personal solution, there would have been a single instrument—and no more.
What followed was rarer. Other musicians perceived that silence, long constrained by habit, was being allowed to speak through sound and its hidden geometry. This recognition required a decision. They could remain witnesses—curious, respectful, detached.
Instead, they chose to become companions.
That collective, unspoken choice allowed Sound Alchemy to move from singularity to continuity. From one voice to many. From research to living tradition.
A Landscape That Listens
Japan did not receive this music with enthusiasm, but with attention.
On trains heading north, following the unfolding of blossom, the musicians showed no concern for performing history. The atmosphere was calm, restrained. I thought of the orchards of my childhood—heavy with bloom, indifferent to observation.
This same attention is present in the ancient Dogū figures of the Final Jomon period. Their goggle-like eyes do not look outward; they prepare. In Japan, as in Bach, the time-slip is not theatrical. It is a journey inward that continues to renew itself.
Entrance to a temple in Japan
A Landscape That Listens
Japan did not receive this music with enthusiasm, but with attention.
On trains heading north, following the unfolding of blossom, the musicians showed no concern for performing history. The atmosphere was calm, restrained. I thought of the orchards of my childhood—heavy with bloom, indifferent to observation.
This same attention is present in the ancient Dogū figures of the Final Jomon period. Their goggle-like eyes do not look outward; they prepare. In Japan, as in Bach, the time-slip is not theatrical. It is a journey inward that continues to renew itself.
Beyond the Notes
In the late 1980s, in Kabardino-Balkaria, the revival of folkloric music was not a movement but a necessity. Instruments were scarce. Knowledge was broken. What endured was the understanding that music connects to something beyond notes.
Oiberman’s silence taught me this—not emptiness, but a charged stillness. A silence that demands accountability from sound and rejects excess. That understanding resurfaced here, unexpectedly, through an instrument held against one's chest rather than placed at the feet.
Geert Robberechts reading on a train heading north
Beyond the Notes
In the late 1980s, in Kabardino-Balkaria, the revival of folkloric music was not a movement but a necessity. Instruments were scarce. Knowledge was broken. What endured was the understanding that music connects to something beyond notes.
Oiberman’s silence taught me this—not emptiness, but a charged stillness. A silence that demands accountability from sound and rejects excess. That understanding resurfaced here, unexpectedly, through an instrument held against one's chest rather than placed at the feet.
What Remains
Had Sigiswald Kuijken not asked for this instrument, the violoncello da spalla would likely have remained a correct footnote—and nothing more.
What followed was a shared responsibility: to allow the instrument to disappear into the music, and to accept what such disappearance demands.
When the sacred takes precedence, music enters. This is the highest success available to a maker—or to a musician. Not to be seen, but to be accompanied.
Rain falling on the fence of a shrine
What Remains
Had Sigiswald Kuijken not asked for this instrument, the violoncello da spalla would likely have remained a correct footnote—and nothing more.
What followed was a shared responsibility: to allow the instrument to disappear into the music, and to accept what such disappearance demands.
When the sacred takes precedence, music enters. This is the highest success available to a maker—or to a musician. Not to be seen, but to be accompanied.
Coda
Some instruments proclaim their names, and the names of those who once owned them. Others embody the culture that made them possible.
These photos were taken on 35mm film with a Leica M6 during the journey from Osaka to Sapporo. The original version appeared on this website shortly after the tour; this is a revised edition from January 2026, The Hague.
A guardian of silence emerging from mist
Coda
Some instruments proclaim their names, and the names of those who once owned them. Others embody the culture that made them possible.
These photos were taken on 35mm film with a Leica M6 during the journey from Osaka to Sapporo. The original version appeared on this website shortly after the tour; this is a revised edition from January 2026, The Hague.