Random Notes on Johan Sebastian Bach and on Genius

I had just returned from grocery shopping when a familiar restlessness settled over me, the kind that makes you want to hear something you already know but have never fully understood. The bags were still by the door and the cold from outside still clung to my hands when I opened my laptop and let my attention drift across the screen. A playlist of Johann Sebastian Bach appeared almost by accident, as if it had been waiting for me to notice it. I clicked on it without thinking. As I listened, a question rose in my mind. I knew Bach’s music, but what did I really know about the man who wrote it. That curiosity led me to open Archive dot org and search for a biography. Within minutes I had downloaded a digital copy of Johann Sebastian Bach His Life Art and Work by Johann Nikolaus Forkel. Forkel was the first true biographer of Bach and the man who more than anyone else brought Bach back into public consciousness after decades of neglect.

Forkel’s book, published in the early nineteenth century, is a remarkable document. It is both a biography and a plea for recognition. Forkel was an organist and scholar at the University of Göttingen, and he approached Bach not simply as a subject but as a cause. His writing carries the tone of someone who believes he is rescuing a treasure from obscurity. Reading Forkel while listening to Bach created a strange doubling effect. The music filled the room while the words filled my mind, and together they began to form a portrait that was both intimate and monumental. Forkel wrote with admiration and conviction, and his biography helped shape the modern understanding of Bach as a towering figure in Western music.

What struck me almost immediately was how precarious Bach’s legacy had been. Like many great artists, he was not fully appreciated in his own lifetime. After his death in seventeen fifty, his reputation faded quickly. His music was considered old fashioned, too complex, too contrapuntal for the tastes of the emerging Classical era. Composers like Haydn and Mozart were shaping a new musical language, and Bach’s works were seen as relics of an earlier time. It took Forkel, and later the monumental scholarship of Philipp Spitta and the advocacy of Felix Mendelssohn, to revive Bach’s name and restore his works to public consciousness. Without these biographers, historians, and musicians, Bach might have remained a footnote in the history of German church music. The lesson was clear. Genius alone is not enough. Genius requires caretakers, interpreters, and champions. Bach would not have become the Bach we know today without Forkel’s biography, without Spitta’s exhaustive research, without Mendelssohn’s revival of the Saint Matthew Passion, and without the early Bach societies that formed in the nineteenth century to preserve and promote his works.

This pattern reminded me of another figure whose fame was similarly delayed. Vincent van Gogh. Like Bach, Van Gogh was not celebrated during his lifetime. His paintings were misunderstood, his style dismissed, and his life marked by poverty and obscurity. It was only after his death, through the tireless efforts of his sister in law Johanna van Gogh Bonger, that his work gained recognition. She organized exhibitions, published his letters, and shaped the narrative that would eventually elevate Van Gogh to the status of a modern icon. The parallel with Bach is striking. Both men created works of extraordinary depth and originality. Both were underappreciated while alive. Both required later advocates to secure their place in cultural memory. Genius, it seems, is not merely a matter of talent or output. It is also a matter of timing, reception, and the labor of others who believe in the work enough to fight for it.

As I read further into Forkel’s biography, another realization dawned on me. Genius is rarely an isolated phenomenon. It is often the product of passion, discipline, and a deep embeddedness in a network of people and traditions. Bach was not a solitary prodigy emerging from nowhere. He was the heir to a vast musical dynasty. For six generations, the Bach family had been involved in music. Before that, they were bakers, but the religious turmoil of the Protestant Reformation pushed them into new professions and new regions. They settled in Thuringia, in towns such as Eisenach, Erfurt, and Arnstadt, where the Lutheran church provided opportunities for musicians. What is remarkable is that the Bachs did not make a grand spectacle of their musical talents. It was simply what they did. Music was a family trade passed down from father to son, uncle to nephew, cousin to cousin. It was woven into the fabric of their daily lives.

As the family grew and scattered across various towns, they maintained a tradition that speaks volumes about their sense of identity. The annual Bach family gathering. One year it might be in Erfurt. Another year in Eisenach. Another in Arnstadt. Wherever they met, the pattern was the same. They would begin by singing hymns together, a gesture of shared faith and shared heritage, and then they would spend the rest of the time making music. These gatherings were not mere social events. They were communal affirmations of a musical lineage, opportunities for exchange, learning, and inspiration. For young Johann Sebastian, growing up in this environment meant being surrounded by music not as an abstract art form but as a living practice embedded in family, community, and faith.

Yet network alone does not produce genius and Bach himself possessed an extraordinary drive, a hunger for knowledge that manifested early in his life. One of the most famous anecdotes tells of a book of keyboard pieces owned by his older brother Johann Christoph, who became Bach’s guardian after the death of their parents. The book contained works by composers such as Buxtehude, Froberger, and Pachelbel, and young Bach was desperate to study it. But Christoph refused, perhaps fearing that the young boy was not ready for such advanced material. The book was locked away in a cupboard with a latticed door. Bach, however, was undeterred. His hands were small enough to slip through the lattice, and he managed to pull the manuscript out. Having no candles of his own, he waited for clear nights and copied the entire book by moonlight, page by painstaking page, over the course of six months. When Christoph discovered the secret, he confiscated the copy, and some versions say he even burned it. Bach did not see it again until after his brother’s death. The story, whether embellished or not, captures something essential about Bach. His determination, his discipline, and his willingness to labor in obscurity for the sake of learning.

This determination extended beyond books. Throughout his life, Bach traveled long distances to hear and meet great musicians. As a young man, he walked more than two hundred fifty miles from Arnstadt to Lübeck to hear Dieterich Buxtehude, one of the most renowned organists of the time. He stayed for months, absorbing Buxtehude’s style, studying his techniques, and immersing himself in the musical culture of northern Germany. Later, he sought out other composers, always eager to learn, to listen, and to expand his horizons. These journeys were not easy. They required time, money, and physical endurance. But for Bach, they were essential. He understood that genius is not merely innate. It is cultivated through exposure, study, and engagement with the best minds of one’s time.

Despite this hunger for learning and his willingness to travel great distances, Bach himself kept a relatively low profile throughout his life. He did not cultivate fame in the way later artists would. He did not tour across Europe to build a reputation. He did not seek out royal courts with the single minded ambition of becoming a celebrated figure. Instead, he worked steadily within the institutions that employed him. He composed for churches, for schools, for municipal councils, and for the courts of minor princes. His work was often shaped by the demands of his employers, the expectations of congregations, and the constraints of local politics. In many ways, he lived a life that resembled the lives of countless working musicians of his time. He was not a celebrity. He was a craftsman.

This modest public profile stands in contrast to the way fame is often constructed in the modern world. Today, artists become famous through visibility, through touring, through public appearances, through the cultivation of a persona. Even in earlier centuries, some artists understood the power of self promotion. The author of The Importance of Being Earnest, Oscar Wilde, became famous not only for his writing but for his wit, his flamboyance, and his ability to turn himself into a public spectacle. He famously made an extensive lecturing tour across the US and England which propelled him into fame. Many modern bands gained fame through relentless touring, through the creation of a shared cultural moment that extended beyond the music itself. Bach did none of this. His fame did not come from public performance or self promotion. It came from the work itself, and from the efforts of others long after his death.

In fact, some of Bach’s early printed works were treated with such indifference that they were later sold as scrap paper. This detail, almost unbelievable in hindsight, reveals how fragile artistic legacy can be. The works we now consider masterpieces were once valued so little that they were literally discarded. It is a reminder that the greatness we perceive in hindsight is not always visible in the moment. Historical circumstance plays a powerful role in shaping which artists are remembered and which are forgotten.

This brings me to another realization that emerged as I read Forkel’s biography. The great figures we celebrate today were not always considered great. Their reputations were shaped by the historians, critics, and institutions that came after them. Bach’s revival in the nineteenth century was tied to a broader cultural movement in Germany. As the idea of a unified German identity began to take shape, cultural figures were sought to embody the spirit of the nation. Bach, with his deep roots in Lutheran tradition and his mastery of counterpoint, became a symbol of German intellectual and artistic achievement. His music was seen as an expression of German depth, discipline, and spirituality. In this way, Bach became more than a composer. He became an idea. And that idea helped elevate his music to a status it had not enjoyed during his lifetime.

Yet while he lived, Bach was probably much like any of us. He dealt with institutional constraints, workplace politics, and the everyday challenges of making a living. He negotiated with employers, petitioned for better positions, and navigated the expectations of church councils and court officials. He was ambitious, but his ambition was expressed through his work rather than through public self promotion. He wanted better opportunities for himself and his family, and he worked tirelessly to secure them. In this sense, Bach’s life was not the life of a distant genius floating above the world. It was the life of a working professional navigating the complexities of his environment.

Despite these challenges, Bach did achieve a measure of recognition during his lifetime. He held several important appointments. He served as organist in Arnstadt and Mühlhausen. He became court organist and chamber musician in Weimar. He later served as Kapellmeister in Köthen, where he composed many of his instrumental works. Finally, he became Thomaskantor in Leipzig, a position that placed him in charge of music for the city’s principal churches and its school. These appointments were not glamorous, but they provided him with the stability and resources he needed.

His sons also achieved success. Wilhelm Friedemann Bach became a respected organist and composer. Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach became one of the most influential musicians of the eighteenth century and served in the court of Frederick the Great in Berlin. It was through this connection that one of the most famous episodes in Bach’s life occurred. Frederick the Great, known for his interest in music and his skill with the flute, invited Bach to visit his court. For a long time, Bach was unable to accept due to his commitments in Leipzig. But eventually he made the journey.

The scene at Frederick’s court has been described many times. Frederick held musical gatherings every evening, where he played the flute accompanied by his court musicians. On the night Bach arrived, Frederick was handed a list of visitors. Upon seeing Bach’s name, he is said to have exclaimed to the assembled musicians that the old Bach had arrived. He was eager to meet him and summoned him immediately. Bach had no time to change into formal court attire. He was brought directly from his son’s quarters to the presence of the king.

Frederick asked Bach to play. He showed him the various instruments in the palace, including the new fortepianos built by Silbermann. Frederick was proud of these instruments and wanted Bach’s opinion. Bach played them with ease, demonstrating his mastery. Then Frederick presented him with a musical theme and asked him to improvise a fugue on it. Bach did so effortlessly. The theme was complex and somewhat awkward, but Bach transformed it into a work of beauty. Frederick then challenged him further, asking him to improvise a fugue with three voices, and then with six. Bach accepted the challenges with grace and brilliance. The visit eventually inspired one of Bach’s most celebrated works, The Musical Offering, which he later dedicated to Frederick.

Yet even with all this brilliance, Bach was not without imperfections. Forkel himself notes that Bach was aware of the varying quality of his own works. He distinguished between pieces he considered polished and worthy of publication and those he regarded as experiments or exercises. Publishing music was expensive, and Bach was selective about what he chose to print. Many of his works remained in manuscript form, known only to his students and colleagues. Some pieces contain inconsistencies, abrupt transitions, or ideas that feel less fully developed than others. These imperfections do not diminish his genius. Instead, they reveal the human side of his creativity. They show that even the greatest artists produce work that varies in quality, that not every idea reaches its fullest potential, and that experimentation is an essential part of the creative process.

Bach’s awareness of his own imperfections also reflects a deeper truth about artistic creation. Genius is not a state of perfection. It is a process. It involves trial and error, exploration and refinement, success and failure. Bach’s willingness to experiment, to push the boundaries of musical form, and to challenge himself with complex structures is part of what makes his work so enduring. His imperfections are not flaws. They are traces of the creative journey.

Forkel’s work laid the foundation for later scholarship. In the nineteenth century, Philipp Spitta expanded on Forkel’s efforts with a monumental three volume biography that remains one of the most detailed studies of any composer. Spitta’s work helped solidify Bach’s reputation as a central figure in Western music. At the same time, Felix Mendelssohn’s revival of the Saint Matthew Passion in eighteen twenty nine introduced Bach’s music to a new generation of listeners. Mendelssohn’s performance was a turning point. It demonstrated that Bach’s works were not relics of the past but living creations capable of moving contemporary audiences. The formation of Bach societies in Germany and beyond further institutionalized his legacy. These societies collected manuscripts, published editions, organized performances, and promoted research. Through their efforts, Bach’s music became part of the cultural fabric of Europe.

This process of revival and canonization reveals something important about how artistic reputations are formed. Greatness is not simply a matter of individual talent. It is also a matter of historical circumstance. It depends on who preserves the work, who interprets it, who advocates for it, and who finds meaning in it. Bach’s music survived because people cared enough to keep it alive. They copied manuscripts, performed works, wrote about him, and built institutions dedicated to his legacy. Without these efforts, much of his music might have been lost.

As I reflected on this, I found myself thinking about the nature of genius. We often imagine genius as something innate, something that emerges fully formed from within an individual. But Bach’s life suggests a more complex picture. Genius is shaped by environment, by opportunity, by community, and by the willingness to work tirelessly. Bach grew up in a family where music was a way of life. He had access to teachers, instruments, and traditions that nurtured his talent. He had the discipline to practice, to study, to copy, and to experiment. He had the curiosity to travel, to listen, and to learn from others. And he had the resilience to navigate the challenges of his profession.

At the same time, Bach’s life reminds us that genius does not guarantee fame. He was respected by those who knew him, but he was not widely celebrated. His works were admired by musicians, but they did not reach a broad public. He lived in a world where music was often functional, created for specific occasions, institutions, or patrons. He composed because it was his job, because it was his calling, and because he believed in the power of music to express the deepest truths of faith and human experience. He did not compose for posterity. He composed for the moment, for the church service, for the court event, for the students he taught.

As I continued reading Forkel, I was struck by the way he described Bach’s approach to teaching. Bach was not only a composer and performer. He was also a dedicated teacher. He trained his students rigorously, emphasizing the importance of technique, theory, and discipline. He believed that a musician should understand the principles of composition, not merely imitate the works of others. He encouraged his students to analyze, to question, and to develop their own voices. Many of his students went on to become influential musicians in their own right. Through teaching, Bach extended his influence beyond his own compositions.

Forkel also emphasized Bach’s devotion to his family. Bach married twice and had twenty children, though many did not survive infancy. His home was filled with music, with instruments, with students, and with the daily rhythms of family life. He taught his sons, composed for them, and supported their careers. His sons admired him, but they also sought to define their own musical identities. Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, in particular, became a leading figure in the transition from the Baroque to the Classical style. His music was admired by Haydn and Mozart, and he played a significant role in shaping the musical language of the eighteenth century. Through his sons, Bach’s influence extended into the next generation.

Yet even with this influence, Bach’s own reputation faded after his death. His music was preserved, but it was not widely performed. The world moved on. New styles emerged. New composers captured the public imagination. Bach’s works were seen as complex, old fashioned, and difficult. It took the efforts of Forkel, Spitta, Mendelssohn, and others to bring his music back into the spotlight.

By the end of his life, Bach left very little financial security behind him, a fact that sharply undercuts the modern tendency to equate artistic greatness with material success or even basic stability. Despite decades of continuous employment, institutional appointments, and an output that now anchors Western music, his estate amounted to modest household goods, manuscripts, and limited cash, recorded in contemporary inventories at roughly 1,100–1,200 Saxon thalers, depending on valuation assumptions. In modern terms, this is often estimated at around 300,000 US dollars, an amount that was respectable for a senior municipal employee but far from sufficient to guarantee long-term family security once his salary stopped. There was no enduring income stream, no protection for intellectual work, and no institutional obligation to support dependents after death. One of his daughters, Regina Susanna Bach, fell into poverty and survived for years on public alms, a circumstance that only later drew attention once Bach’s reputation had begun its slow revival. It was Ludwig van Beethoven, himself chronically short of money, who contributed funds toward her support after learning of her condition, an episode that reveals how personal intervention, rather than systematic recognition, often bridged the gap between genius and survival. Bach’s elevation into lasting prominence came through a different channel altogether, shaped by state-backed cultural associations, editorial projects, and historians such as Johann Nikolaus Forkel who reframed his work as a national inheritance rather than a collection of church manuscripts. His music formed the indispensable core of that revival, yet his wellbeing during life, and his family’s security after death, depended on employers, patrons, councils, courts, and later on scholars and institutions that decided, long after the fact, that his work merited preservation and honor.