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Dear visitor,
Thank you for visiting these pages and taking the time to dive into our world. Here you will find background information about the expo section of 'Weg van Bach', designed by Emilie Lauwers in 2023 for Klarafestival in BOZAR Brussels and since then on display in Ronse (2025, De Ververij) and Concertgebouw Brugge (2025). Together with the accompanying text, these pages offer insight into Emilie's working method and inspiration, and we make the connection between the exhibition, Sebastian's music and Benjamin's walk from Arnstadt to Lübeck, in the footsteps of Bach.
Like the walking trip, the expo is made up of six parts. Just as there was one walking day per Suite, there is one pavilion per Suite. Each of the pavilions has six sides, just as each Suite has six movements. Each Suite has its own colour, its own key, its own character and its own logic within the whole. Therefore, each pavilion also has a specific material to match the character of the particular Suite.
PAVILION 1 - SUITE 1
The first Suite is a very open and honest one. Playing it on cello, it begins as simply as possible, with open strings, then one finger, then two and so on. It's the start of the journey, which Emilie has visualised this by shaping the walking route from Arnstadt to Lübeck with needle and fabric in the midst of a transparent pavilion, executed in wood. From here the path starts, connecting all the Suites. The tonality of G major is supposed to be used for music that is 'doucement joyeux', according to Charpentier (1690).
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The first walking day from the heart of Thuringia was also a very light-hearted, almost cheerful one.
The night before I had been watching the news about the roundups against the Reichsbürger movement, a far-right group of rebels who wanted to overthrow the governement. It made me think about 'Der abentheuerliche Simplicissimus Teutsch' byGrimmelshausen, the book from 1668 that I had read before embarking on this trip in order to imagine somewhat the landscape and atmosphere of German states at that time. Even if I saw similarities in aggression between the Reichesbürgers and the 30 Years War, which had devestated the European countries and ended only in 1648 - my Bach was born in 1675 -, I had marvelled at how far I dipped into the past. It felt like I was about to go on a time travel trip. It made me feel relieved and recharged, and the realisation of finally being able to begin this adventure filled the air with my monty stride. For the most part, this first day was on tarmac anyway, and by evening and after 30 kilometres or so it felt like an ideal way to get into my adventure. I had been able to check the weight of the cello and backpack, had heard and spoken the first German, had been able to call Olav Grondelaers live on Klara and take plenty of breaks to enjoy the scenery.
As I left Hotelpark Stadtbrauerei in Arnstadt, I passed by the church where in 1703 Bach held the post of the organist at the church - his first official position as an organist. That's when he decided to undertake the trip to Lübeck. The church, just on the opposite of the town hall, was called the Neue Kirche then and is called the Johann-Sebastian-Bach-Kirche now. It struck me that from the church square, between some houses, I could spot the distant hills. It made me dream of the trip I was about to undertake. Perhaps the same sight might have made young Sebastian dream too? A statue of a defiant, playful Sebastian as a young man graces the square, but I did not stay long. I took a small piece of the typical red-brown stone from the church, which in the end I couldn't visit because it was still closed at this early hour.
Later that day, as I first entered the forest in picturesque Bischleben, I realised that my gaze often sought signs from the past, and preferably the past from Bach's time. That's how I found a crookedly sunken milepost, carved in stone with the year 1720 on it. For the first time, I spotted tree trunks gnawed off by beavers and plaques applied by human hands, on old forest giants: 'Naturdenkmal'.
Trees as monuments from nature, I loved that. Without trees, no Suites for cello.
PAVILION 2 - SUITE 2
On the morning of day 2 I woke up with muscle aches like I had never felt before. My whole body felt sore. As the sun rose in the distance and a streak of orange-pink coloured the horizon, snow fell very gently.
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This pavilion is in rusted steel and open like the first one but without its softness. The pictures attached to it, and which rotate playfully, show 'the way'. The landscape as a meandering path, the line to follow. It can flip to any side: up or down. Easy or hard. Positive or negative, depending on your reaction to what happens, on your mood. Those pictures also show the absurd thought that popped up here for the first time, with the monotony of walking: I only move forward as fast as I put my one foot after the other. Just as the music only ripples on as fast as the speed at which my bow plays one note after another.
When walking, there is no point in trying to go faster or slower, because the road is the boss. Just like now: the grey sky that slowly darkened and never brightened throughout the day perfectly depicted the minor key of the second Suite, d minor. It was also the day of my first real snowstorm which fortunately lasted only briefly. But when the sun had already set, I was forced to plough another six kilometres or so through the fields because of missing footpath. The rain, cold and snow had turned the earth into a hellish mud puddle into which I sank with every step, and when I finally approached Pension Ratsgasse, every step seemed like torture. My right shin hurt, and the last 600 metres took me ridiculously long.
I recognised the arduousness of this day in the arduousness of the second Suite, just like waking up from the cloudless dream of the first Suite. Yesterday's cheerful stride had given way to the stiff will to get through this day. Everything felt heavy and grey, as did the colours around me in their mist of wet vapour that hung over the fields. Once I had left the centre behind me there was often not a house in sight for miles, and and I was the only human being on countless farmer's fields.
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Even from the first 3 notes of the Prélude, one senses that this is going to be a completely different story from the slightly naive first Suite. How could it be otherwise? Music lives by the grace of contrasts. Every time I play this second Suite I feel that it is not just a cycle, that Bach meant to write works that would challenge everyone, player and listener alike. Within the rigid form of Suites, within the framework of each typical dance he imposes his typical flourishing richness. As a cellist - and as a walker - there is always that moment when you realise: this is real.
It was lonely, and beautiful. At one point, about ten kilometres before Ringleben, a footpath and street followed the local river that had straightened out like a canal. A stork kept flying up, taking a wide turn and planting itself within my field of vision, again and again. It was like a game between him and me, this strange figure. From that footpath, which ran on top of a rise, I realised that these must have been the 3 roads Bach knew. The river - as far as it was still navigable in December -, the path, and the street for carts. I liked this thought because I was increasingly convinced that Sebastian too had not travelled all the way to Lübeck on foot, but had jumped on a cart or in a boat from time to time.
That evening, in my pension in Weissensee, I was exhausted.
PAVILION 3 - SUITE 3
10th of December, and snowing again. Because the Prélude of the third Suite, in C major, is in the italian style with fast runs and virtuoso barriolages, I decided that I could best translate this speed into speeding up myself. So I called a taxi to bring me to the edge of the forest. What's more, my leg hurt, and I was happy to use the extra time to wander around the local cemetery for a while. When I stumbled past it the night before I had noticed the ancient graves and statues. Now that they were almost completely snow-covered, the place had something magical, with silence so typical of a snow carpet and so befitting the eternal silence of those who lay resting there. During my preparations I had underestimated that the places I passed would often invite me to stand still longer, which I usually could not because I was bound by the restricted number of hours of sunlight in these winter months.
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This pavilion is closed. The wooden frame carries a metal wall fitted with two peepholes. One of them shows as if in stillness my Suite 2 hotel room, emblematic of my dreamy imagination versus the harsh reality of the trip. But it is only thanks to the hard awakening that the third Suite, the third day of walking, succeeded: I had no choice and needed to continue! Take care of your body, breathe, play some cello and set off! The other peephole shows a hut in the forest, where later on the third Suite day I found shelter before entering Sondershausen. The metal symbolizes my self-imposed perseverance, and it also fits the virtuoso and dancing third Suite. Dancing gets you get further, note by note, step by step!
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The forest I enter a moment later, with large concrete slabs as a road through it - once constructed for military purposes - is silent and vast. The snow has again enchanted the landscape and I realize once more what a beautiful journey I'm making. Wild geese fly high above me while sitting on a snowy entrance staircase of a windmill, I play a little Bach with numb fingers. Who am I playing for? For the endless white plain at the edge of the forest? For the wolves, which the taxi driver warned me about? For myself? For Bach?
That evening as I lie eyes wide open exhausted in my hotel bed -I can't possibly sleep and get up again to take shower after shower to massage my body's muscles - I am lured to the window by the cheerful voices coming from a huge skating rink near the hotel. The joyful skating children make me smile because they fit the cheerful key of the third Suite, and because I had forgotten this feeling of joy since the first Suite. It's grown stronger even, almost fierce and military. What does Charpentier say? C major: gay et guerier!
Almost halfway through.
PAVILION 4 - SUITE 4
"Wer Heute nichts tut, lebt Morgen wie Gestern!" says a shop window that morning.
From my balcony at Thüringer Hof I can see the surrounding, snow-covered hill forests. On my way there I pass the only Roman Catholic church in this Lutheran country, at Elisabethplatz. The young priest invites me inside, lets me play the organ and tells me about the still prevailing rift between his religion and that of Luther. The 30 Years War is part of this country's history, clearly. He seeks rapprochement with the Lutheran religious community but they keep him at bay and do not want any contact.
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This fourth pavilion carries many words, and the words carry opinions, thoughts, reflections on music, on walking, on being alone, the diary of this journey, conversations between Emilie Lauwers and myself, ...
In terms of structure, this pavilion refers to the first because it has the same open wooden structure, but the sewn map has been replaced by sentences. For me, the Prélude of this Suite with its large leaps between the different notes, refers to the instrument on which Bach performed his paid jobs and which he knew through and through as an improviser. The organ. This fourth Suite also contains the golden section of the cycle, in its fourth part, called Sarabande. At the beginning of this Suite we are halfway on our journey, and the serious work begins. Purely technically speaking, there is no way back and there is only room for ever more complexity. Even the tonality of E flat major is hard on a cello. No more excuses!
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To give my still sore leg some more rest I take a short train ride and a bus, and arrive at Pension Lavendel in Harztor at 3 p.m. That's early. What to do? I venture outside again in the biting cold, without cello and backpack this time, and walk around at random. My steps lead me around a gigantic hill until I see a plaque, in the setting sun: KZ-Gedenkstätte Mittelbau-Dora. Slowly, and as it quickly gets dark, I realize that this camp was populated by prisoners of war who were forced to build weapons for Germany. The workshops were tucked away inside the hill, their barracks on the plain next to it. At the former entrance my breath catches when I read in Flemish: 'For the victims of the V-weapons attacks on Antwerp. From October 1944 to March 1945, more than 3,500 people in Antwerp were killed by the weapons that the prisoners had to manufacture in the tunnels here.'
It's dark and freezing as I get back to my pension. Seeing this haunting place connected to so much suffering while searching for inspiration for something as beautiful as cello music, makes me silent. This visit, which happened by accident at the very end of this fourth day of walking, serves as a prelude to the fifth Suite in C minor, the saddest key of all. I fall into a dreamless sleep.
PAVILION 5 - SUITE 5
The pavilion for Suite 5 shows a spruce amidst burned wood. This snow covered spruce was standing at the entrance of the concentration camp I bumped into at the end of day 4. It symbolized for me the mellow sound of my cello amidst this horror because it's from these trees that we collect the rosin to make the strings sound. The resin is tapped like maple syrup and is mixed with other ingredients before being cooked and poured into a mould. Without the rosin from spruce, no Suites for cello by Bach.
The story of the KZ Mittelbau-Dora kind of rang through the whole 5th Suite-day. Suite 5 is also the most 'French' of all 6. It has a French Ouverture, which is a slow entry followed by a fugue. For Bach and most of his contemporaries, French culture was the doorway to success, and that's why he often used this form of Suites à la Française for his music. From Versailles, French dancing masters and musicians were sent around Europe to promote this 'higher culture', but at the same time this haute culture was part of an extremely autocratic and harsh regime, dominated by ongoing wars.
From the 5th Suite, or the 5th walking day onwards, I gradually left society behind and got deep into the woods of the Harz mountains. It was as if seeing the KZ Mittelbau-Dora was the last straw, and I needed to find refuge in the forests and steep hills. As the day progressed, I slowly could let go of this angry feeling inside myself and enjoy the surrounding forests like a balm for my soul, but one story I wrote down in my diary remained in my head. I want to share it here:
One afternoon at the Brussels Midi train station, and just after one of the meetings I had with the Klarafestival-team to prepare this trip, I met an elderly lady. She came towards me as she saw my cello case, which I happened to have taken with me and started talking about how her mother, who was a singer, had taught her the love for classical music. She told me that she was about to leave for India again, where she was responsible for digging wells for drinking water, in poor areas. Helping people in need, even at her age, was a normal thing to do for her, she said, since she had survived the second World War.
She grew up in a small village near Antwerp, and one day, almost at the end of the war, her mother sent her to her aunt's house in the city centre. As a small kid she loved the city, and didn't think of the war. That evening turned out to be one of the nights Antwerp was bombed by German troops with V1 and V2 rockets. On that 16th of December 1944, many people were killed as one of the rockets hit Cinema Rex. Her aunt's house was also hit, but she survived because her little bed was attached to the roof. She remembered smells, noises, and a fireman who came to rescue her from her nest high up, on three ladders knotted to one another with ropes. She also remembered being tremendously cold because of the water and icy temperatures of December and that a man gave her his jacket, adding "Tomorrow you'll give it back to me, because that's the only jacket I have!".
One evening during my trip, to avoid sitting in my dull hotel room, I decided to go for a walk as the sun was already setting. I walked aimlessly until I saw the sign of a WW2 labor camp, called Mittelbau-Dora. It appeared to be the exact camp where war prisoners from Belgium and other countries, forced to live and work inside the cold and wet mountain, made those V1 and V2 bombs which destructed so much of Antwerp and other cities, and on the date mentioned by the elderly lady at the Brussels train station. A commemorative plate just outside the grim entry of the ridge explained the whole story in my mother tongue. Standing there in the December frost, I remembered the warmhearted lady.
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At about 1h25 pm that day, I could clearly see the top of the Brocken mountain, at 1200 meters. Trees, rocks, snow and a clear blue sky with a brilliant sun. I think I've never seen such a baffling snowy landscape in my life. The walk is though because for kilometers I literally sink up to my knees into the snow and I get lost a few times following lynx tracks. But the pure beauty of the surroundings is a bliss.
PAVILION 6 - SUITE 6
Today I'm at the highest point of my trip, and at the highest point of the Suites. The 6th Suite is to be played on a 5-string cello, with an extra high e-string which makes the cello almost sound like a violin. This 6th is also the coronation of the trip of Suites, which why our pavilion bursts from all sides. Objects, pictures, music, maquettes, ideas, videos, ... This pavilion is exuberant, just like the 6th Suite.
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The weather is still as magical as can be, and the hike through the woods is a pure joy. I forget the heavy backpack and cello. At a certain point I sit down again on a tree stump and play some Sarabande for the pine trees. The silence between the notes is astounding. An hour or so later I encounter a lady on Langlauf sticks. She stops me, in total astonishment. She is the first person who is genuinely interested in my story, probably partly because her daughter is a cellist. She encourages me and we talk for a long time, despite the December cold, about music. When I ask her name, it turns out that it's Dorothea. Bach's first child was also called that, Catharina Dorothea, and was born in Weimar in December 1708. That's exactly 314 years ago! 3 is Bach's number because of the Holy Trinity and 14 is his number too because it's the sum of the first letters of his name! Thi is why a photo of Dorothea on Langlauf sticks has a place in this pavilion. As if Bach gives his blessing over the centuries.
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At his time composers believed that certain tonalities were linked to deities or planets. The tonality of G major for example, which is the tonality of the first Suite, was believed to be of Mercurius. That's why this pavilion has a video of Mercurius and the other video is simply me walking the different paths. In this way we make the link back to Suite 1, of which the Prélude is hanging here in the manuscript version written by Bach's second wife, Anna Magdalena. In our imagination, we start the whole cycle again as in a never ending circle.
The maquettes are Emilie Lauwers' first ideas, there are sketches and drawings, folders of the Lutherkirche in Bad Harzburg and empty vitamine bottles. There's Rilke, the score of the Prélude to the first Suite and pebbles right from Versailles. As I visited the chateau built by Louis XIV a few months after this hike I realised how much his ideas and politics meant for cultural life at that time, even today. So I honored him with some pebbles, because without Louis XIV, no Suites for cello! Hanging under Dorothea's photo is a large print on flag fabric that closed off the original exhibition space in BOZAR Brussels (Klarafestival 2023) from the rest of the hall. It did not fit in this room due to its gigantic dimensions, but we did not want to leave it out.
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I was enjoying the snowy Nationalpark Harz so much that I lost track of time, and suddenly I was alone in the dark woods. Some 4 kilometers more through the forest and then 5 more from the edge of town to the centre Bad Harzburg. This was hard. I was happy and my heart was filled with the emotions of the last days, but this last bit was really though. At some point, a bridge was broken and the river below flowed fast. It was dark, wit only the moon and my phone to give some light. After going back and forth for about 20 minutes to find another bridge, I decided to cross the river by stepping on rocks. Rocks or ice? Impossible to say. It seems like no big deal, but it was a big deal. All alone, really dark, this river with loud and icy water, a huge forest, no one around, no network on my phone... Just go! And I went, and it went well but the slope on the other side was slippery and ... I fell backwards into the water.
As fast as a cat I sprinted to dry land but of course I was soaked. My cello, as it turned out later in the hotel, had stayed dry. Now it was a matter of persevering and not catching a cold. Above in the sky, a thousand stars behind the sharp tops of the spruces. Suddenly some car lights appeared very far away, which later turned out to be from Michael's car. Originally from Denmark, he had just bought this customs house on the edge of the forest to convert it into a B&B, 'Der Däne im Harz'. He asked me if everything was okay, and I said it was, so he left. But a little while later he drove back: "Benjamin, I don't have time but I'll make time. You remind me of my father who was such an adventurer. Come, let me take you to your hotel." Michael, my saving angel, was also the name of Bach's first father-in-law. Dietrich Buxtehude, the man without whom Bach would never have started his adventure, and I would never have started mine, came from Denmark too.
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I continued my trip by train to Lüneburg, where Bach went to knight school as a young boy. From there I walked again, into Lübeck. This last part with extra walking days has not been included in this exhibition because we concentrated on the 6 Suite walking days. Walking into Lübeck happened during a gigantic snowstorm which paralyzed public life partly. Through the snow flurries I could already see the 2 pointed towers of the Marienkirche from afar. The original one, with the organ that Buxtehude played on and for which Bach had undertaken the journey, is gone since the end of the Second World War. That's why it made no sense for me to pay more attention to it. As you might remember, also the first church I saw, in Arnstadt, was closed. I didn't mind. It wasn't that sort of trip, it wasn't touristic. And besides, I had enough of destruction and war stories and wanted to tell my own story. So in Lübeck I admired the display windows with gigantic marzipan pastries instead, while I mused about everything that was gone in those 300 years, and about the power of music and beauty to prevent destruction, and to transcend time by occasionally making it stand still.