Echoes of the past! Subtle sound of guqin resonates across three millennia

Editor's note:

The United Nations has officially designated 44 Chinese traditions as world cultural heritage. This series examines how each of them defines what it means to be Chinese.

When NASA launched Voyager 1 into space in 1977, it included a gold record of the Earth's greatest music. Among them was "Flowing Water," a guqin piece dating back nearly 2,000 years.

Placed between Bach and Beethoven, the Chinese melody symbolized a quiet, introspective tradition that has shaped the country's soul for more than three millennia.

Recognized by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) in 2008 as an intangible cultural heritage, guqin, the Chinese zither, is far more than a musical instrument. Its sound has long been a bridge between man and nature.

The guqin's legacy is rooted in a tale from the Spring and Autumn Period (770-476 BC). Scholar Yu Boya played guqin for a humble woodcutter Zhong Ziqi, who instantly understood the music's imagery — rushing rivers and towering mountains.

Their bond birthed the Chinese term zhiyin (知音), meaning a soulmate who truly hears you. When Zhong passed away, Yu shattered his instrument, believing no other listener could ever match that depth of connection.

Everything about the guqin speaks to ancient Chinese cosmology. Its 3 chi 6.5 cun (120-125 centimeters) long body reflects the Earth's 365-day solar cycle. The curved top represents heaven, and the flat bottom represents earth.

Made of Chinese parasol or fir wood on top and catalpa at the bottom, the instrument is coated with layers of lacquer and clay. Its body resembles a crouching phoenix, with head, neck, shoulders and tail.

Confucius practiced it daily for moral refinement, and Tang Dynasty (AD 618-907) poets like Bai Juyi wrote verses to its rhythms. For over 2,500 years, it was one of China's "four arts" scholars were expected to master, alongside calligraphy, painting and the strategy board game of Go.

Often confused with the guzheng, the guqin has seven strings and no bridges, allowing for subtle slides and whispers rather than strong, percussive sounds. Its volume rarely exceeds 15 decibels, making it best suited for small, quiet settings.

Three techniques shape its language: san (resonant open-string plucks), fan (ethereal harmonics) and an (slides mimicking human sighs).

Unlike Western concert music, guqin compositions often explore solitude, nature and the emotions of the literati.

Pieces such as "Dwelling in the Mountains," "Farewell at Yangguan" and "Autumn Thoughts at Dongting Lake" reflect philosophical or poetic themes. Others like "Wild Geese on the Sandbank" mimic natural sounds through abrupt plucks and sliding notes.

Meanwhile, the instrument's idioms permeate Chinese thought. "Playing zither to a cow" (对牛弹琴) scorns wasted artistry on the unappreciative, while "burning zither to cook crane" (焚琴煮鹤) condemns sacrificing beauty for utility.

These phrases underscore the guqin's sacred cultural status.

The guqin was originally strung with silk. In the 20th century, these were widely replaced by metal strings, which are louder and more stable.

Yet many artists continue to favor silk for its softer, warmer tone. Silk-string production nearly vanished but has been revived in recent decades by musicians. The revival is helping return the instrument to its original sound.

Crafting a guqin requires exceptional skill. Makers hollow, shape, glue, sand and lacquer each instrument by hand. Each part of the guqin has a specific name and purpose, and subtle changes in construction can affect tone and resonance.

By the late 1940s, fewer than 100 players remained. When UNESCO raised the alarm in 2003, the Chinese government and cultural institutions launched preservation campaigns.

Nanjing University in east China's Jiangsu Province digitized more than 100 ancient scores. Neighboring Zhejiang Province introduced learning systems, powered by artificial intelligence, to analyze fingering and techniques. Schools, museums and universities now teach guqin across the country.

In Hong Kong, roving exhibitions by the Leisure and Cultural Services Department allow the public to see, touch and learn about guqin construction and music through videos and hands-on displays.

French architect Thomas Arthur Giere left his Paris career behind in 2018 to study the guqin under master Li Chaochen in Jiangxi Province.

"He corrected my thumb 20 times in one lesson," Giere told Jiangxi News. "Each movement changed the qi of the sound."

Today, Giere attends monthly Yaji (雅集) gatherings in Nanchang, the Jiangxi capital, where he performs ancient pieces and encourages cross-cultural dialog through music. Yaji means "elegant gathering," a traditional meeting of scholars to share music and art.

Guqin masters such as Wang Peng continue to bring the instrument into new spaces, from Beijing Daxing International Airport to international collaborations with musicians from Australia and beyond. He will participate in a cultural event at the National Museum of Art of Romania on June 26.

Today, more than 400 guqin teachers are listed globally. Interactive museum tools and online platforms support international learners.

Young master Zhou Qian recently guided students from eight countries at Nanjing University. They learned from basic harmonics to a multilingual rendition of "Flowing Water."

In London, master Cheng Yu hosts bi-monthly Yaji events at SOAS University. It features live performances on the guqin, pipa (the Chinese lute) and bamboo flute. Attendees play classic pieces and discuss the meaning behind the music.

British accountant Charlie Thomas credits guqin with curing his insomnia: "Compared with violin, its sound reshapes silence like water smoothing stone."