A few moments with Chaya Czernowin

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away (actually only this year, but it seems like much longer ago than that), Riot commissioned a new work from one of our favourite composers, Chaya Czernowin. Chaya’s piece Ayre: Towed through plumes, thicket, asphalt, sawdust and hazardous air I shall not forget the sound of has become a regular part of our repertoire – appearing on our Speak, Be Silent CD in 2019 – and we just had to have her write a new piece for us. That piece will be Fast Darkness I: I can see your turned eyes from inside your body, for the wonderfully sonorous line-up of solo bass/contrabass clarinet plus bass clarinet, baritone sax, trombone, tuba, guitar, keyboard, percussion and strings. We dearly hope to be able to give the first performance at Wien Modern in November.

Chaya has been working hard on her piece through lockdown. In this first of three interviews, she told Tim Rutherford-Johnson how it has gone so far.

Tim Rutherford-Johnson: You’ve recently posted some pictures of your studio online, with the trees just outside your window casting shadows around the room. How are you finding composing during lockdown?

Chaya Czernowin: The lockdown hasn’t been easy at all, but in terms of composition it has been a blessing – having time with no borders is a real gift. Not travelling and having almost no teaching means that I can stay in my composer’s space without being forced out. It made me live in my work even more intensely than usual.

TR-J: Could you tell us a little bit about that composing space – what do you mean by that, and what does it signify for you?

CC: A piece is a small universe. It has a feeling about it, an atmosphere, it might even have a smell or a concrete feeling of time and speed. You might be always breathless when you think of it or you might be able to finally breathe deeply when you are in it. So the piece has a certain kind of physicality which unfolds and transforms as you witness it through opening the possibility of its existence. 

I love living in that space. It enables a real broadening of the self towards a more liberated form of existence. You can forget about yourself and simply meet something else inside you. When you have met that something else your only concern is to become very aware of what it is, to reveal and build it in the best way you can. It is at the same time an oasis away from ‘normal’ existence and a magnification of something of it.

TR-J: Do you work on one piece at a time, or several at once?

CC: I work on one piece at a time but I know the next pieces I have to write and they are growing more slowly in the shadows as underground processes.

TR-J: Do they influence each other?

CC: They all come from the same area of concerns in every period but I can’t say that they influence each other – each would like to be autonomous. In that sense each piece would like to feel that it is the be all and end all.

If I write a series of pieces then they are like siblings, and if there are concrete relationships between pieces, like in Anea Crystal (2 pieces which can be played simultaneously) then clearly the relationship has to do with the basic premise.

TR-J: Like Ayre … the piece you are writing for Riot has another extraordinary title: where did this one come from?

CC: I needed to invent a title that would give me the feeling of speed and disorientation. So this is what came to mind. It is as disorienting and speedy as this next sliver of a second. To give another metaphor: mouse A trying to catch what it thought was its own tail, but found it to be mouse B’s tail. But then mouse B is found to be mouse A, which was simply confused … Of course the speed of all these proceedings is extremely fast. No reflection here.

TR-J: Images of time, spaces, and of light and dark run throughout your work, particularly in your recent music. I can detect all three in this title. How do you see them coming together in this piece?

CC: The images are like symptoms of something deeper. They emanate from the universe I spoke of, and that universe, while hard to describe verbally, has a very strong and deep vitality of which these characteristics and images are a reflection. But I would not normally know the key and the real full spine of that universe until I had finished my piece, and in some good cases until had I heard it.

In this piece all these images come together to create a swish of something of which we can see only a part, and that part appears and disappears fast.

The darkness is what seems to be hiding the object but we might understand later that it is a part of the object itself. It’s all about how what is presented constantly renders the secret (of what is the piece) bigger and more confusing  rather than divulging and clarifying it.

Crossroads Festival

Date: Thu 5th November, 2020
Venue: Universität Mozarteum, Salzburg, Austria

The Riot Ensemble journey out to Austria to open the Crossroads New Music Festival.

International contemporary music festival Crossroads aims to promote the collaboration between composition students and young contemporary music performers from different countries. The festival gives an opportunity to the young artists to collaborate together by sharing their cultural and personal experiences. This annual event is organised by Lithuanian student Silvija Čiuladytė and the Institute for New Music, Mozarteum University Salzburg.

Find out more here

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Music in hospitals: ULCH 2

Date: Mon 10th Feb, 2020
Venue: University College Hospital, London NW1 2BU

As part of our continuing commitment to exploring the health benefits of live music and performance within hospital spaces, members of Riot have recently began giving lunchtime recitals at University College Hospital, London. In October we played music for voice, saxophone, viola, and cello in the Macmillan Cancer Centre while people waited for their appointments and prescriptions, or just ate their lunch, and on 10 February we will be performing again, playing music by Bach, Telemann, Holst alongside more contemporary repertoire. Concerts start at 1pm, last about an hour and you are free to come and go as you wish.

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The songs of extinction: Aaron Holloway-Nahum, Liza Lim and Laurence Osborn

We are really proud to be launching our ReNew concert series at Kings Place on 14th February with the UK premiere of Liza Lim’s Extinction Events and Dawn Chorus. The following text is a short programme essay by Tim Rutherford-Johnson on some of the themes of that piece, and the two others in the same concert: A memory of birds (ii) by our director Aaron Holloway-Nahum, and Ctrl by Laurence Osborn, a work that we commissioned and premiered at the Huddersfield Contemporary Music Festival in 2017.

Tickets for the concert may be purchased here.

It is a wonder and a horror of our age that the songs of extinction will be preserved. Go online and we can find – in digital form and always, forever – the sounds of species that no longer exist. Songs heard and conserved in alien landscapes, looped and replayed until … when? Google the Hawai’ian Kaua‘i ‘ō‘ō bird and you can hear its curving, circling song. But this bird was the last of its species: it died three decades ago.

The song in Aaron Holloway-Nahum’s Like a memory of birds (ii) is stylized and does not imitate any particular species (the piece is a sequel to a 2017 work for marimba and cor anglais). But its setting recalls the Kaua‘i ‘ō‘ō’s online avatar. The song takes the form of a duo between clarinet and bass clarinet. It is shared between them, but dips in and out of alignment, like echoes in a forest. Its surroundings are malleable and uncertain: soft string harmonics and the eerie whistle of corrugated plastic pipes increasingly give way to the hard-edged timbres of piano and drums. As background becomes foreground the clarinets’ song is overwhelmed and almost entirely forgotten, until a habitat becomes no more than a space.

In Laurence Osborn’s Ctrl, the song is a football chant (one familiar to Arsenal fans in particular). Soprano Sarah Dacey appears, amplified, autotuned and in male character, to sing a threnody to failed masculinity. ‘Body is amazing’, she sings, ‘Body is equipped for work and sex and sport. Me and my body, we do what we want.’ The music cycles and swells: the sweat and surety of Beethoven and the moshpit. But the chant is a lament, the bravado a lie, the story toxic. The third movement is a dark lullaby in which strength dies in a Beckettian repetition of hangovers and despair: ‘Saturday morning … Black blinds … At the bottom of everything.’ Hopeless? No: the work ends with a plea, with tenderness, and a last-ditch desire to reach out.

Late in the day, humanity is realising the harm its relentless drive to acquire, occupy and consume is doing to a habitable planet. In its first movement, ‘Anthropogenic debris’, Liza Lim’s Extinction Events and Dawn Chorus sets the tone of ecological crisis. (The recording below is of the West German Radio broadcast of the premiere, performed by Klangforum Wien. The music starts at around 5’45”.) The debris in question is the vast collections of plastic that have ended up in the world’s oceans and have been gathered by circulatory currents (known as gyres) into giant, swirling patches of rubbish and pollutants. As they turn, plastic is drawn into them and then ground into smaller and more dangerous particles – which themselves pose an existential threat to life on Earth. As well as a large sheet of cellophane that is absorbed into its percussion section, Lim’s piece is full of representations of looping and turning, as well as degradation and loss: she transcribes the song of the Kaua‘i ‘ō‘ō; recycles a violin solo of her own, based on tracings of a ninth-century Chinese star map; and inserts allusions to historical music, in the form of bars from Leoš Janáček’s late-Romantic piano piece On an Overgrown Path. All of them represent forms of extinction. The star map predates Western astronomy by five hundred years, but its achievement has been erased by history. The Kaua‘i ‘ō‘ō’s mating call will never be answered. The Janáček, warped almost beyond recognition in Lim’s piece, was described by its composer as comprising reminiscences ‘so dear to me that I do not think they will ever vanish’.

Circulation also entails slippage: as debris loops back, it recalls both the past and its present. Slippages occur on every level, whether the timbres of brass instruments playing unstable half-valve sounds (as in the opening duo between horn and trumpet), or the larger-scale slippage of identity in the fourth movement, in which a solo violin attempts to ‘teach’ or transmit her music to a percussionist playing a rudimentary string drum. The last movement is based on another real – and extraordinary – singing phenomenon: the ‘dawn chorus’ of coral reef fish that takes place in the changing light of morning. Lim recreates this mass of clicking, rasping percussive sounds through the sound of Waldteufels (small string drums) and windwands being swirled in the air – an effect that is as visual and tactile as it is sonic. Plastic returns, in the form of a one-metre tube that extends the range of a contrabassoon theoretically below the edge of human hearing. And so the final song is one that we can no longer know nor understand, pointing to a future perhaps no longer meant for us.

Fish choruses, recorded by Robert McCauley and colleagues at Curtin University in Perth, Australia
Photograph by Chris Jordan: http://chrisjordan.com/gallery/midway/

A few moments with Igor Santos

Riot’s 2020 starts with a rush with two concerts featuring world premieres from last year’s Call for Scores commissionees. Come and hear them, and us, at the CLF Art Cafe in Peckham on 31 January and 1 February. Alongside scenes from GOLD, the new opera by the amazing Laura Bowler, we will be playing brand new pieces by the Brazilian-American composer Igor Santos and the Australian Peggy Polias. Details of both concerts can be found here and here.

Peggy and Igor were kind enough to share some thoughts with us about their music. Peggy’s interview can be found here. Here is what Igor had to say.

Tim Rutherford-Johnson: Igor, we’re really excited at Riot to be playing your music for the first time. Let’s start with your background as a composer. How did you start, who have been your teachers, and who are your inspirations?

Igor Santos: I started music as a self-taught classical guitarist, in my native town of Curitiba in Brazil, and was composing almost from the outset. I couldn’t read music in the first few years, so I wrote and played my own guitar pieces, and also composed a large amount of orchestral music on the computer (all in MIDI – either through digital piano rolls or guitar tablature notation). I recall heavily imitating video-game music (mainly the Japanese orchestral stuff), and a lot of Tchaikovsky.

For a few years I was also quite serious about becoming a guitar virtuoso (furiously practising Villa-Lobos and Tárrega), but completely gave up on the idea after seeing Yamandu Costa perform a solo concert. His musicianship, groove, and energy in performance (which overcame his incredibly fast but – at the time – very messy shredding) were all too overwhelming. I knew I didn’t have it in me: neither the training nor the temperament to become that kind of performer. It was a transformative moment, and from then on I started practising piano (as a clean slate!), and mainly thought about composition.

During my undergraduate studies I learnt tremendously from Paul Reller, a generally funny personality who was tyrannical about discipline in composition – discipline in one’s personal work schedule and discipline in thinking lucidly about the compositional process. Paul was zealous about the act of composition – in an almost spiritual way – which was always inspiring. At the Eastman School I had a lot of emotional and artistic encouragement from my teachers (Carlos Sánchez-Gutiérrez and Ricardo Zohn-Muldoon), and at the University of Chicago it was all about solidifying different skills: a focus on craft with Augusta Read Thomas, gaining a practical, up-to-date, and lively approach to electronic music from Sam Pluta, and learning to think carefully about a composer’s influences and musico-historical context, with Anthony Cheung.

As far as inspirations are concerned, there are probably too many artists to list, but in contemporary music I admire the music of Salvatore Sciarrino, Simon Steen-Andersen, Hildegard Westerkamp, and Enno Poppe. Sciarrino for the sensuality, imaginative instrumental writing, pacing, and use of variegated repetitions (which had a great effect on me early on); Steen-Andersen for the conceptual rigour, humour, and his use of ‘real-world’ sounds and images, and Poppe for his approach to microtonal keyboards, and for his combination of sharp musicality with wild abandon. Westerkamp’s music is inspiring to me for its meta-awareness, sensuousness, and general non-elitist approach to sound – works like Kits Beach Soundwalk,the Breathing Room series,and Für Dich are quite remarkable (and refreshing).

TR-J: I really enjoyed discovering your piece suggested affinities through our Call for Scores this year. One of the things that struck me from that piece is your use of little loops and repetitions. What is the role of repetition in your music? You’re obviously not starting from a minimalist standpoint; I’m reminded more of the repetitions Lachenmann writes in towards the end of Kontrakadenz, for example. Would that be right?

IS: Repetition has played key role in my music for the last four years, expressed through loops, loops within loops (asymmetrical superpositions), and different kinds of refrains.

I think it started as a need to create more dynamic forms. My music is generally concerned with transformations and arrival points, and inserting loops is one way in which I interrupt constant linear motion (which can get exhausting), and become more playful when creating and breaking expectations.

Kontrakadenz is one of my favorite orchestral works of the 70s, and definitely a huge influence on me, although I wasn’t actively thinking about it while writing suggested affinities. The main similarity, perhaps, is that my piece uses loops cumulatively (building and reaching the longest loop before the pianist’s solo cadenza), and Kontrakadenz (no pun intended) also builds its climax in a similar way. The main lesson I always took from that piece, and from all my favourite Lachenmann works, has to do with creating different points of accessibility. Repetition in Lachenmann provides a kind of anchor to the music’s hyper-refined and sometimes elusive timbres – it allows you to listen to the sounds closely and differently each time. The ‘real-world’ sounds in Kontrakadenz (e.g. the radios and meta-commentary) serve a similar function in that they give a different angle to the music, making everything less abstract and creating a complex and rich listening environment.

Those are two initial ways in which I think about repetition – to make linear forms multi-faceted and to reify the identity of particular timbres and structures. There are multiple answers to this, to be honest, and the more I work with repetition the more possibilities and complexities it presents.

TR-J: The piece you have written for Riot is called clonewheel(s). I presume the title comes from the clonewheel organ? Could you say a little about how that type of instrument has inspired this piece, and how it has shaped the music you have written?

IS: Clonewheel is a term for any digital organ that emulates the tonewheel sound mechanism of antique Hammond organs. I’ve always loved the tone and quality of this instrument, and was inspired to work with it this time after falling into a YouTube wormhole of Cory Henry solo performances.

The keyboard in my piece is a weirded-out digital Hammond organ (i.e. a clonewheel), whose timbral qualities, gestures, and registration changes are reflected (or ‘cloned’)  by other instruments in the ensemble.

TR-J: Quite a lot of your pieces seem to start from the mechanical or physical properties of instruments, and to play with this in some way. What is the source of this approach for you? And how have you explored this idea?

IS: I am interested in defamiliarization – of finding new meanings in things taken for granted – and as a result I have to start pieces from specific and recognizable (i.e. familiar) objects. When choosing the initial source, I aim at sounds, gestures, transcription, or concepts that are concrete, such as the physical property of an instrument, as you mentioned. This is also a personal preference – I like direct and tangible ideas, and do my best to avoid vagueness and mystification.

Instrumental sound is not always the starting or focal point for my pieces, however. In speak through speaking (2017) for example, I open the music with a speech transcription (played by a solo double-bass), which is deconstructed throughout the piece via repetition and re-orchestration. Another example is anima (2019), where the focus is on non-linguistic utterances – vocalized by the performers and constantly imitated and transformed by their instruments (harp and a variety of percussion).

TR-J: And what role do electronics play in your work – in this respect and in others? I am thinking of suggested affinities, as an example, but maybe this is also relevant to the synthesizer part in clonewheel(s)?

Electronics in my music are a tool for estranging acoustic instruments. The electronic sounds are constantly doubling or playing in proximity to the acoustic instruments, and the goal is to slow down the perception of who is sounding, and to become something new in the process (and to hopefully sound like a ‘realistic’ new instrument).

That was the approach for the soloist (a kind of meta-piano) and obbligato parts (meta-harp and meta-vibraphone) in suggested affinities – the electronic sounds are both digital versions of these instruments, and vocal articulations that they constantly imitate.

Lately, I am much less concerned with ‘realistic’ sounding meta-instruments, and embrace the oddities of digital reproductions. In clonewheel(s), for example, there is less of an obsession on doubling instruments with electronics, and more in emphasizing actions that a real Hammond organ cannot perform, such as exaggerated pitch bending or unusually fast drawbar (timbre) changes.

TR-J: Finally, you are a parent as well as a composer, and until recently you were also completing a  PhD. How do you manage your time?! Do you have a special time of day or place for composing?

IS: Managing time is always a challenge, and there were a few moments during my PhD where parenting, composing, teaching, and trying to graduate all felt impossible. In the end it’s just a matter of prioritizing as needed, and getting help when/where possible. I wish I had helpful tips and good pop-psychology notes, but every situation/deadline is different. Being a parent is pretty demanding, but it taught me to be more efficient with time and to brood less – likely a byproduct of necessity and decreased solipsism.

As far as time and place are concerned, I have no sacred rituals. The only consistent habit is that I work mostly at night and reserve a few early mornings for when I get stuck on something (intuition seems less judgmental when half-awake). My instruments and desk are nicely setup in my apartment but it’s not a priority to stay there; for different reasons I always end up split between home and libraries (for composition), and coffee shops (for other work that needs attention).

Open Circuit

Date: Sat 14th Mar, 2020
Venue: Leggate Theatre, University of Liverpool L69 3DR

Centered around Brian Ferneyhough’s feverishly virtuosic sextet Liber Scintillarum (Book of Sparks) and Grisey’s spectral masterpiece Talea, this programme explores the extremes of contemporary ensemble writing.

Siemens Prize winning composer Clara Iannotta’s mesmerising string duo in which, “like skaters in a concrete bowl, the bows of violin and viola glide across their strings, creating hushed, airy harmonics”, sits alongside a new work by Israeli composer Hadas Pe’ery and Ben Hackbarth’s thrilling Lockstep Variations which features two speakers placed inside the percussionists snare drums creating “a pair of phantom musicians, two disembodied drummers who are spatially and gesturally enmeshed with the acoustic ensemble.”

Get your free tickets here

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A few moments with Peggy Polias

Riot’s 2020 starts with a rush with two concerts featuring world premieres from last year’s Call for Scores commissionees. Come and hear them, and us, at the CLF Art Cafe in Peckham on 31 January and 1 February. Alongside scenes from GOLD, the new opera by the amazing Laura Bowler, we will be playing brand new pieces by the Brazilian-American composer Igor Santos and the Australian Peggy Polias. Details of both concerts can be found here and here.

Peggy and Igor were kind enough to share some thoughts with us about their music. You can read our interview with Igor in another post, but here is what Peggy had to say.

Tim Rutherford-Johnson: Peggy, we’re so happy to be bringing your music to the UK. Perhaps we should begin with a little biography. Could you say a little about your background as a composer? How did you start, who have been your teachers, and what are your inspirations?

Peggy Polias: I started learning piano at the age of six, and by about ten I began improvising and sketching my own little musical ideas and pieces on manuscript. Later in high school, as a quite panicky performer, I threw myself into the creative side – visual arts as well as composing in a self-taught capacity. My first exposure to twentieth-century innovations in classical music, especially serialism, rocked my world and I became obsessed with figuring out, once a composer had a twelve-note row, what could they actually do with it? At the same time, I was listening to a lot of 1990s alternative rock – international acts like Radiohead, PJ Harvey, and The Tea Party as well as Australian bands like Regurgitator, Spiderbait, and The Fauves – but I compartmentalized this as quite a separate world; it is only recently that I have started to play with this wider spectrum of influence in my own score-based music.  

I made my way into composition studies at university, mainly under the mentorship of Professor Anne Boyd here in Sydney during Bachelors and Masters degrees in music. I’ve also learnt from Dr John Peterson, and currently am completing a Doctorate at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music, The University of Sydney under the supervision of Professor Liza Lim.

At university I first joined a student gamelan and continued with Langen Suka Sydney Gamelan for many years afterwards, learning aspects of Javanese Gamelan in the Yogyakarta style, which profoundly changed my understanding of the ways music can work. Along the way, I’ve also found inspiration for new works in themes like handicrafts, matryoshka dolls, fractals, and feminism. As a music engraver I’ve been quite engaged with a lot of brand new local, Australian score-based compositions across a variety of personal styles, and this has also been an important ‘apprenticeship’.  

TR-J: You were the inaugural winner of the Peter Sculthorpe Music Fellowship in 2015. What did Sculthorpe mean to you? And what were you able to do with this award?

PP: As a young composer who was learning from Peter Sculthorpe’s own students, Peter was quite a monolithic figure to me. He’d worked out what he wanted to say musically with great clarity and spent an entire career doing so. By 2005 I was fortunate to be offered a job as his Music Assistant, following in the footsteps of many much-respected colleagues. For the next nine years I drove to Peter’s house every Thursday to spend the day entering new music, preparing instrumental parts, maintaining the archive, or occasionally going on unexpected errands such as clothes shopping!

Peter was a dear friend, like a musical grandfather, and I miss him very much. As such, I worked lovingly and seriously on my application for the Peter Sculthorpe Music Fellowship, and it was a huge honour to be selected as the inaugural recipient of this award from Create NSW and The Sydney Conservatorium of Music.

The generous award meant I was able to undertake a program of activities throughout 2016: the composition of a new work, Hive, especially for The Nano Symphony – Catherine Thompson (clarinet), Neil Thompson (viola) and Lee Akinsanya (piano), with some voice and electronics. The Fellowship gave us the resources to workshop and collaborate extensively, and eventually record the album-suite on the Kammerklang label. The collaboration with Kammerklang also included the recording of an older work, the Picnic at Hanging Rock Suite (2009) for piano, with a number of pianists taking one or several movements each. I was also able to complete a number of professional development activities – courses in writing, podcasting, and industry – and to support the growth of a listening/composer playlist project, Making Waves New Music that I co-curate with a Melbourne-based colleague Lisa Cheney. We were able to draw on an nationwide team in the production of a 29-episode podcast, Making Conversation, in which we interviewed Australian composers about their work, life, and outlook.

TR-J: When we were listening to all our Call for Scores commissions, I really enjoyed your Hive album. That piece absorbed all sorts of ideas connected with bees, from honey to social structures to colony collapse. What was your initial inspiration for the theme, and how did the project evolve out of that?

PP: Thanks. I think it was actually the increasing media reports around that time on colony collapse disorder that was quite worrying and haunting and got me learning a bit about bees. Every little fact I started to learn about honeybees and their social interactions was quite fascinating and evocative, thematically and musically.

When I started having conversations with Catherine, Neil, and Lee in 2016 we got talking about the dark, ‘Guinness-like’ honey from the Greek island of Ikaria, which is said to be a hotspot for human longevity. Catherine happens to be my first cousin, and since we have both ended up in music I had always wanted to write something for her and Neil. This led to some reflections on family and lineage, Greek heritage and memories from childhood of our Yiayia [Grandma], who had passed away many years ago, and the lineage of the clarinet, viola, and piano trio, going back to Mozart’s Kegelstatt Trio, K498.

We were sharing links about bees and honey in a Facebook Messenger thread and also a collaborative Pinterest board. These were incredible collaborative tools that I highly recommend, as they meant we were all in the same conceptual headspace from very early on in the life of the music, which grew out of many of these acts of sharing and conversations. These very much informed the workshop sessions we had and the final composition.

Given the many bushfires currently decimating the east coast of Australia, I need to stress that despite scientists discovering the parasite that causes colony collapse disorder, the conversation around bees right now is completely, tragically different (warning: this article contains distressing accounts of animal deaths and suffering).

TR-J: The piece you have written for us is called Mati, and it also seems to draw together several thematically related ideas – this time around the idea of the ‘Evil Eye’. Could you say a little bit more about those ideas, and how you have drawn them together in your piece?

PP: In relation to the ‘Mati’ there is this unsettling feeling that I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to say . . .! I guess that secretive or taboo aspect is what has made it so compelling for me as a musical inspiration. From my Greek heritage I’m familiar with some of the customs from that part of the world (the blue decorative pendants worn or hung in cars/houses), but across many different locations and whatever the format of the amulet there are usually two aspects: the ‘insincere gaze’ that can cause great harm, and the protective element.

Actually this theme grew out of an idea from my opera Commute (2019) that I had to cut. The opera explores the theme of street harassment via some creatures and motifs from Ancient Greek myth. I had originally wanted to use a Mati as a protective amulet against a Cyclops, symbolic of the ‘Male Gaze’, but it ended up being an additional layer that complicated the narrative.

So the standalone piece Mati came to be a reflection on different types of gaze as two-way acts, not just a one-way flow of power as might have been constructed culturally. While I was composing it I was always thinking of both sides of this construct and making each section quite ambiguous in this respect. For example, when I ask the instrumentalists to speak, they only have two words to choose from: ‘I’ or ‘Eye.’ While these might be indistinguishable audibly, their meaning is polarized in the context of this piece and only the speaker knows which choice they’ve made. When I was contemplating the visual/architectural inspiration for the piece, I started musing on Venn and Euler diagrams, and stumbled upon this seven-set beauty, which proved very fruitful in the ‘colouring-in’ phase of my composing process!

I imagined it as a kind of iris/pupil eye motif, and conceived of the music in seven sections, moving inwards from the outer layers, close to the white sclera of the eye, in to a black, central, contracting and expanding pupil.

TR-J: Among your influences, you mention handicrafts. I find this really interesting. How does this feed into your music? And are there elements of this in Mati, perhaps, with its references to folk concepts? Or is this better represented in other pieces of yours?

At earlier points in my life when time itself has been a luxury, I have been known to dabble in crochet, tapestry, and sewing. Contrary to their dismissal perhaps by high-brow art as traditionally feminine, domestic, non-serious pursuits, there is a numeracy and rhythm required for the fibre arts that is inherently meditative and musical. I have explored this in works such as Stitch (2007) for piano, translating various tapestry stitches into growing minimalist piano passages, or Braids (2017) for viola, cello, and double bass, exploring the personal aspects of hairstyle and the intimacy and physicality of sitting together to ‘do’ someone’s hair.

Yes, I’d agree that there’s something similar in Mati, in sincerely approaching a superstitious, folk tradition that may have been dismissed by higher-brow artforms as non-serious. The sound world of this composition occasionally hints at something like math-rock, even approaching aspects of glam rock. Early on in the work I drew connections with textile amulets such as the dream-catcher or the God’s eye, but I haven’t explored these further in this particular work.

TR-J: Finally, you recently co-authored a ‘call to action’ – with our friend Liza Lim, as well as the director and producer Sally Blackwood, and composer and percussionist Bree van Reyk – calling for cultural leadership to combat ‘the structural nature of sexism and other exclusionary forces’ in opera. Could you say a little more about that, please? In particular, what prompted you all to act on this occasion, and what do you think needs to be done specifically in the field of new music? And in what ways are the action points you raise reflected in your own practice?

PP: This grew out of our experiences at the New Opera Workshop (NOW) held in Brisbane, April 2019. At this event many of the biases within the historic operatic artform overlapped with industry ones to create an overwhelming sense of frustration from many in attendance, especially women, that the conversation taking place was reinforcing structural barriers rather than innovating the discipline. This criticism is not directed at any one party but more broadly at the artform and industry. Personal observations by myself and other colleagues in attendance were corroborated in quiet conversations: biases based on gender/identity in how particular individuals were introduced to the wider audience, offered microphone time in open conversations, or even invited to present. There were distressing discrepancies in how the topic of rape was handled in different presentations, from providing warnings to the audience and opportunity to leave in advance of sensitive content, to a surprise showing of a scene completely lacking agency and voice on the part of a female victim.

The discussions following the conference noted that many of our criticisms were inevitably intersectional and, as such, in new music (and I would add, more broadly in any industry or social industry) artistic directors, organizations, and others in positions of influence should be asking themselves: ‘Who gets to speak and why?’ (after Chris Kraus) or ‘Who is absent, who is missing from this group or meeting?’ I would also invite people in positions of influence committed to structural change to reflect: ‘Am I doing my fair share of the labour of change?’ It has been incredibly encouraging to see this conversation taken up by organizations such as the Australia Council for the Arts, performing rights body APRA/AMCOS, and the Australian Music Centre.

In terms of how I enact the call to action in my own practice, I am continually resistant to the notion of the ‘hero’s journey’ or universal story: to narrative/operatic/filmic/musical tropes as familiar and inevitable. These unquestioned structures encompass a great majority of what the call-to-action seeks to dismantle. I try to locate my practice outside of this vocabulary and construct new pathways for protagonists (or indeed for musical motifs), and I guess I’ve hinted at some of this in answering some of the earlier questions here.

Commute (2019), which will be staged in early April 2020, reflects on personal and cultural accounts of street harassment not by re-enacting any such scenario but by using characters from Ancient Greek myth (the Hekatoncheiris/Hundred-Handed Giant; the Cyclops; a main feminine protagonist called Odyssea) to traverse an interior journey to a possible goal of the #metoo movement. For me this goal is to be able to move through public spaces in a state of relief and belonging, with the knot in the solar plexus finally untied, with protective behaviours no longer a reflex, with perpetrators of street harassment no longer ready or comfortable to risk these behaviours. The libretto is fragmentary and moves between English, Modern Greek, and Ancient Greek, and the staging is flexible and un-prescriptive, giving space to collaborative, team interpretations. When performers, especially singers, request changes, it’s important to me to hear and accommodate these as part of a respectful collaboration. Finally, the call to action is not a one-time gesture, but an ongoing set of guiding principles, a work-in-progress.