Compositional Methodologies (1)
Approaching a commission: exploration, inspiration and learning how to begin
This is the first in a short series of articles focusing on sharing a range of my compositional methodologies and approaches, seen through the lens of a recent commission for the University of Leeds. Next weeks’ second article focuses on the actual music and composition in more details, whilst the third week shares the piece itself.
Context
In the latter quarter of 2024, I was approached by a contact from the School of Music at the University of Leeds, asking if I might be interested in hearing details about a potential commission for musical responses to an ongoing art exhibition in one of the Leeds University Library Galleries, centred around the piano.
You won’t be surprised to know, my email response was on the rapid side, with a wholehearted reply in the affirmative. This was/is right up my street.
The exhibition is titled Everything And All Of Us - a first major institutional exhibition of artworks and drawings by Manchester-based artist Mary Griffiths.
As described on the Gallery’s website:
‘Griffiths’ geometric abstract works distil sophisticated ideas in a poetic way. Her practice seamlessly bridges the macroscopic and the microscopic and moves from the cosmological to the atomic. Often, her artworks also explore individual and collective memories and histories, as well as Northern, working-class and feminist identities. Her distinctive drawing process involves applying layer upon layer of graphite to a surface and polishing it to a mirror sheen before cutting linear forms into it.’
I’d also highly recommend reading and looking through the exhibition catalogue, featuring fascinating essays by two of her collaborators, plus pictorial examples of the exhibited works.
Those of you who have been following me for a while will understand why the above appealed immediately to me. Not just this, though - it was the following sentence which most pivotally caught my attention: ‘Immersive, subtle and profound, Griffiths' slowly wrought art demands, and repays, slow looking.’
Any art which has been brought into being with determination, hard work and, crucially, a sense of slowness, which then demands and benefits from the viewer taking their time to appreciate it, is my kind of art.
Something to get slightly lost and immersed in, whilst simultaneously being highly real and authentic in its embracement of tactility and the artist’s involvement in its generation process; all the while placing a high value on subtlety, despite its stark, boldness; the removal of extraneousness; and creating a sense of profundity through figurativeness giving way to abstraction.
At this point, I was very much in. Yes, please.
Preparations
Of course, before the fun stuff can begin, most of the arrangements for What Are We Going To Do needed to be agreed on - venue (in the gallery, surrounded by the artworks), date and time, format, participants, and fiddly bits (e.g. who’s bringing the piano…etc).
We agreed on an early-evening event featuring two long-form commissions (of up to 20 minutes) which responded to the either the artworks themselves and/or Mary’s distinctive, generous and collaborative practice; to be centred around the piano (as requested by Mary) followed by a Q&A.
We invited fellow Leeds-based pianist & composer Laura Cole to come on board as the other pianist and commissionee. She is a brilliantly creative and imaginative musician and artist, highly skilled and experienced in improvisation, often weaving poetry and spoken word into her work.
With prior knowledge of Mary’s keen interest in and experience of collaborative working across multiple disciplines from linguistics to cosmology, music to science, I was sincerely hoping Laura might involve some spoken word in her commission (which indeed she did, notably quoting from the late poet Rebecca Elson’s work, itself a source of inspiration to Mary), and our different approaches served to be really quite complimentary.
Exploration, inspiration and learning how to begin
Probably my favourite question I get asked above all others when talking to people about working on something quite substantial like this usually goes something along the lines of: ‘but how do you know where to start’?
Of course, I know what they are referring to; but the ever-so slightly facetious part of my brain often wants to respond with variations of: ‘well, I guess it just happens’…but, I also hate it when people do that. More realistically, and perhaps the more brutally honest response would be: ‘I don’t know!’
Every commission is different, and not all of them have such direct source material to respond to, which can be a challenge to ensure it retains a sense of purpose, authenticity and integrity. In this case, however, the commission was to create a musical response to the artworks in the exhibition, and/or to reflect on and make reference to the creative practice, approaches and methodologies of the artist herself.
In this situation and at this crucial moment of beginning, it is extremely tempting to immediately sit down at the piano and just start playing.
I have done this before with other projects and commissions - occasionally with a burning idea which I absolutely MUST play and record there and then before it goes away as quickly as it arrived, or maybe simply in hope that the compositional gods decide to drop something in my lap (such a kernel has graciously arrived on but a few occasions).
But just so you know: you have to have been really good for that to happen!
Perhaps we first need to bust a myth, for which our good old friend Archimedes has plenty to answer for:
Eureka! is not the one.
I just don’t buy it. Maybe it’s a thing for others (good for you if so), but I cannot think of a single idea or meaningful piece of work I have ever created which has been practically fully-formed in a single, almost-instantaneous burst of creative ingenuity. I think I would be suspicious of it, even if it happened.
Similarly, you also hear (endlessly) the oft-quoted - and perhaps wrongly-attributed and likely wrongly-numbered - statement comparing the levels of inspiration and perspiration required to bring something into being.
I admit, I am suspicious of this, too.
And yes, I know - I’m just a big, old, grumpy sceptic.
I’m sorry to say, despite some benefits, the Creativity Self-Help industry also has plenty to answer for. Anything which might be titled along the lines of 57 Ways To Become A More Successfully Creative Version Of Yourself or How To Unlock Your Own Eureka! Moment is unlikely to find a warm welcome on my bookshelf.
Grumbles and gripes aside, I think a vitally important thing to do and one which I am trying/learning to do more (and which hearteningly relates back to the description quoted earlier about Mary Griffiths’ practice and work), is to just simply stop for a moment, and take a breath.
It is so easy to get very excited very quickly (perfectly understandably), and in our haste to get moving with a project, we can forget how important the refinement process is for our creativity.
Slowly. Wrought. Art.
I love this phrase so much (from the earlier exhibition description) and just these three words have had so much resonance for me whilst working on this commission. I have really tried to pace myself and to take things steady, and I have learnt a lot from doing so.
- - -
Before approaching anything remotely musical, I knew I needed to spend a good amount of time familiarising myself with Mary’s work and her approach. In the same way in which her artworks are so immersive and all-encompassing - especially a huge wall drawing more than double my height titled Prophet, which I would go on to base my whole piece around - I knew I needed to spend time becoming particularly au fait with the work, so as to give myself the best possible chance of representing it faithfully and respectfully in my musical response.
This included a good number of visits to the exhibition - spending time with the works, appreciating them for what and where they were, and also being in the actual space where we would be performing our pieces.
I spent quite a bit of time reading and re-reading the exhibition catalogue - examining and engaging with the geometric abstraction of the artworks and the way the architectural nature of the etched lines create shapes, spaces, patterns, rhythms and confluences, drawing you in to notice new things with each glance. There are also many helpful further details in the introduction by Exhibitions Curator Laura Claveria, and fascinating essays by Stella Halkyard and Griffiths’ collaborator for Prophet, Tony Crowley.
Laura and I were thrilled to have the opportunity to spend some time with Mary in the gallery, during which I think I asked every conceivable question I could think ok. As somebody who is visually stimulated and very appreciative of art and artistry, yet deeply artistically challenged when it comes to actually making/painting/drawing something, I find it so incredible and astounding that somebody could conceive of the ideas and processes Mary does, let alone actually then actually do it.
I was also able to attend a very helpful and informative In Conversation event with Mary, Tony and another collaborator working with DNA at University of Sheffield, which I found to be extremely useful in understanding more about Mary’s enjoyment of and commitment to working collaboratively across numerous disciplines.
The majority of this activity, alongside a healthy dose of website-reading, internet-researching and Instagram-scrolling, took place before I had played a note.
This was quite a departure from how I have approached similar things in the past, but it was an approach which I knew I needed to employ. These captivating, beautiful artworks and exhibition as a whole were and remain of huge importance to Mary; drawing on childhood memories in Liverpool, her Irish-Catholic family heritage and referencing a number of key themes, not least Northern, working-class and feminist identities.
The process by which the artworks are created is time-consuming, physical work, applying layer upon layer of graphite to a surface, which is then burnished to create a distinctively reflective sheen, before geometric linear forms are applied on top via a meticulous etching process.
Simply put, it required me to try to understand as best I could both the meaning and the process, before attempting to respond to it musically.
It was in this extensive exploration that I was able to find and take the required inspiration from Mary and her work, and at that point, whilst I perhaps didn’t know where exactly to begin, I knew I now felt able to.
Postlude
I am very wary of anything or anyone who says they have found the right or best or most effective way of doing something.
Important Disclaimer: I am not a shaman!
Do not read this and assume this way is best. But I do hope whether you are somebody working in music creation or any another creative discipline, or in any other field for that matter, this proves to be helpful stimuli for both you (your brain) and your process/practice (your work).
And if you really must put percentages on it á la Thomas Edison et al then that’s cool, too.
I'll first talk about the points I admire in more detail before moving on to part 2.
For starters, it's refreshing to hear a composer discuss their craft in such depth. It reminds me of behind-the-scenes footage or liner notes—things you rarely see anymore.
I think young college students should read this series because it lays out principles essential for success in any creative endeavor. It’s the kind of advice I wish I had when I was in college. If I were ever in a teaching position, I’d encourage my students to check it out.
Right from the first few lines, it’s clear that you were eager to take on the opportunity without hesitation. That kind of immediate willingness resonates with me.
When I was in college, trying to break into the music industry, I made a name for myself by being a "yes-man"—taking on any opportunity I could. If the audio teacher needed a pianist for a recording demo, I was there. If someone needed help carrying drums upstairs, I showed up. No job was too small (folding chairs for the local orchestra? No problem). While “yes-man” can have a negative connotation, I mean it here in the sense of becoming a dependable professional, regardless of the task.
I also really liked how you stated outright that creativity is a work-in-progress. Despite being a professional, you reject the romanticized notion of sudden Eureka! moments where ideas arrive fully formed:
"I just don’t buy it. Maybe it’s a thing for others (good for you if so), but I cannot think of a single idea or meaningful piece of work I have ever created which has been practically fully-formed in a single, almost-instantaneous burst of creative ingenuity. I think I would be suspicious of it, even if it happened."
That reminds me of something Roger Eno once posted on Instagram (paraphrasing): “Sometimes composing is like fishing. You go out prepared to catch something, hoping to fill your buckets, but some days, nothing bites. That shouldn’t stop you from going back out again—it’s just part of the process.”
If every time I sat at the piano, I completed a piece from start to finish, there would be no chase, no discovery. Some days, I play and everything clicks; other days, not so much. That’s just the nature of being a musician.
Expanding on your critique of the self-help industry:
“I’m sorry to say, despite some benefits, the Creativity Self-Help industry also has plenty to answer for. Anything which might be titled along the lines of 57 Ways To Become A More Successfully Creative Version Of Yourself or How To Unlock Your Own Eureka! Moment is unlikely to find a warm welcome on my bookshelf.”
It reminds me of something podcaster Chris Williamson once said (again, paraphrasing): "You keep reading self-help books to improve at something, but instead of actually doing the thing, you just keep reading more books about how to do the thing—until you’re avoiding the thing itself." (I re-read that and it sounds totally different from how he phrased it, but you get the idea.)
This hits home for me. I have a friend who constantly takes golf lessons, hires coaches, rents out simulators, and analyzes every aspect of his swing. Yet in the past few years, I’ve only actually played a round of golf with him maybe five times. It’s easy to fall into this trap—I’ve done it with piano. At some point, you have to stop over-analyzing and just do the thing.
That’s something I’m pushing myself to do more this year. (In fact, I reached out to Garreth, and he suggested I take a Royal Conservatory piano exam. I’m signed up for May—no idea where to begin, but at least I have a deadline now.) If someone had told me in college to stop fixating on theories and just make music, it would’ve saved me a lot of time.
Lastly, here are a few quotes that stood out:
“Before approaching anything remotely musical, I knew I needed to spend a good amount of time familiarising myself with Mary’s work and her approach. In the same way in which her artworks are so immersive and all-encompassing—especially a huge wall drawing more than double my height titled Prophet, which I would go on to base my whole piece around—I knew I needed to spend time becoming particularly au fait with the work, so as to give myself the best possible chance of representing it faithfully and respectfully in my musical response.”
“The majority of this activity, alongside a healthy dose of website-reading, internet-researching and Instagram-scrolling, took place before I had played a note.”
“Simply put, it required me to try to understand as best I could both the meaning and the process, before attempting to respond to it musically.”
“It was in this extensive exploration that I was able to find and take the required inspiration from Mary and her work, and at that point, whilst I perhaps didn’t know where exactly to begin, I knew I now felt able to.”
In my own efforts to re-establish myself as a "yes-man" in the music industry—not just in piano, but across the board—my dad recently asked me to start running live sound for his band and his friends' bands. It’s been years since I’ve touched a mixing board, let alone run live sound or worked with a DAW. With my dad aging and his band picking up more gigs, he asked if I’d be interested in covering some of his shifts. Without hesitation, I accepted.
That meant weeks of research—studying setlists, relearning mixing boards (main mix, monitor mixes, pre/post-fader settings, even little things like proper XLR cable wrapping), and getting familiar with QSC on my iPad. I had no idea if I’d sink or swim, but I committed anyway. I just ran my first solo live sound gig, and despite a few technical hiccups, we pulled it off. The sound was great, and the only feedback we got was positive (We got actual audio feedback too, that was one of the technical hiccups we solved).
Sometimes, taking on something you're unsure of is the push you need to break barriers. Accepting a challenge—even when you don’t know the outcome—forces you to be brave. What amazes me is that all this insight comes before you've even played a note—proof that success in music, or any creative field, begins long before the first sound is made.
"Anything which might be titled along the lines of 57 Ways To Become A More Successfully Creative Version Of Yourself or How To Unlock Your Own Eureka! Moment is unlikely to find a warm welcome on my bookshelf." I always think of a quote I heard along the lines of "No millionaire ever read a book titled 'How to Become a Millionaire.'" Granted, these books may serve as some starting point for understanding a certain subject, but I always learned the most when I would simply just do the thing. Go about something, make a mess of mistakes, and work to clean them up. I hope to get more of "Doing the thing" done this year when it comes to piano instead of trying to figure out the most-effective science-based approach to practice.