Annelies Van Parys: "I see music as an orchestral color"

Both your and Luc Brewaeys' work are often linked to spectralism, a musical movement that emerged in France in the 1970s that focuses on timbre. How do you relate to it?

As a child, I was enormously fascinated by the sound of church bells. On Sunday mornings I would lie in my bed singing along with the chimes and construct melodies that fit into that sound bath. Actually, that was already spectralism. Later I discovered that there was such a thing as analyzing a sound. You always have the fundamental, but the color of the sound is determined by overtones - other frequencies that vibrate with it. If you start analyzing the sound of a bell, you come across a bizarre composition. Somewhere there is a minor third where acoustically it shouldn't be. In my first spectral compositions I tried to reconstruct that bell sound, that spectrum, with other instruments. That utopian composition of a sound, from which something entirely new is born, is called instrumental synthesis. I continued on that compositionally. With each new composition, I tell myself I'm going to do something different, but in the end, I always return to this work on bell sounds. What's important to me is that my music isn't just "cerebral": the harmonic language I'm trying to develop must also be felt in a human way.

Spectralism focuses primarily on timbre. How do you deal with the time dimension?

I will convert certain intervals or frequencies into rhythmic patterns or into certain shapes. In my work, all parameters are always connected. My ear decides whether a certain rhythm or form that I have obtained through transposition is interesting enough to use. But you are right, the time dimension is not easy in spectral compositions: because a spectrum needs time to develop, spectralism often results in very slow music. I consciously try to get more momentum into the music by various means: shifts, faster modulation ...

When Luc Brewaeys died in 2015 after a year-long battle with cancer, he was working on a commission for the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Some time later, they asked you, his best-known student, to integrate the bars he had already finished into a new work. Was that a welcome starting point?

It wasn't really an obligation to get started on that, rather a friendly request. And when I agreed, I also didn't know how much material Luc had left behind. In the end it turned out to be about 40 bars, about a minute and a half. For the rest there was almost nothing, because Luc did not leave any sketches, he entered everything directly into the computer. Fortunately Birgit, his wife, did find the spectrum that was the starting point of his composition. I have been calculating myself to death to find out exactly how this spectrum came about, but I have not been able to figure it out. Although I did see some patterns (were they bell sounds?). Fairly early in the process, I decided not to place Luc's bars at the beginning of the composition, or at the end. Instead, I gave them the place of honor, around two-thirds, right on the golden ratio!

Season '24-'25 Once upon a time ... is structured around stories that tell compositions. With Eco ... del vuoto, is there also an underlying narrative? And how exactly did the title originate?

The section before Luc's bars is one big movement toward Luc's material. They symbolize an elongated farewell. Then you hear the 40-measure quote. Then there is a statement of the void Luc left behind. In that void there are echoes: his spectrum gradually "morphs" into my bell sounds. This is also what the title says. Luc originally had in mind a verse by Dante: ".... sciolto nel foro universale del vuoto ..." (... melted into the universal pit of emptiness...). So now you get the echo of that, an echo of Luc's unfinished work, an echo of the void, Eco ... del vuoto.

What does your composition process look like? Do you write at the piano or ...

Oh no, that wouldn't make much sense. Half the notes I use are not on there. I see music as an orchestral color. I try to write those out. Always by hand, because sitting behind a screen doesn't work for me. The architecture of a composition is also always very important. From where do you start? Where are you going? Is the discourse correct? Is the arc right? I often compare composing to building a bridge: you like to get to the other side without getting your feet wet. Most of the work goes into the preparation. You have to find the right material, and that material has to be able to carry the piece. Once I have the material, the structure is clear and the goal is set, I can effectively start writing. And that usually goes very quickly.

Is composing primarily a matter of having inspiration or rather a craft?

In the initial phase, when you are looking for your material and structure, it is mainly a matter of inspiration. The actual writing has a lot to do with craftsmanship. And, of course, there are always moments when the music itself dictates the direction it takes. Sometimes that produces very unexpected results.

This is not the first time the Belgian National Orchestra has performed music of yours. In 2013, at our request, you composed the 10-minute composition Konzertstück, and in 2018 there was the premiere of A War Requiem.

Right! A few years ago I heard Konzertstück again on the radio ... it was only performed once at the time during a Fête de la Musique concert, and it was very far down in my memory, so I didn't realize I was listening to my own composition. "Hey, nice writing," I thought. Very embarrassing! (laughs) And yes, A War Requiem, in collaboration with Collegium Vocale Gent, Sophie Karthäuser and Thomas Bauer, that was a fantastic project. I remember that Hugh Wolff, the conductor, wanted to see my score as soon as possible. Once he saw it, he was reassured. It was a very nice collaboration with him!

You yourself once wrote two symphonies and Luc Brewaeys was also a renowned symphonist. How do you look at that genre today? Could you imagine one day writing a third symphony?

I wrote my first and second symphonies from the feeling that I wanted to connect to a certain tradition. As a composer, I feel part of a greater whole. I don't believe in 'take everything away, and build something new from scratch'. No, we are all part of a certain history and I want to continue that history. What meaning did a certain form have in the past? What can I do with it now? Can I embed a personal story in that form? Twice I've already done that with the symphonic form, and I don't rule out a third time. But right now I don't feel that I can or should explore anything more within the symphonic form. I did recently do a similar investigation with a piano concerto. Anyway, I always like to start from classical forms and then see how I can 'corrupt' them.