“It’s like drawing a painting, or writing Chinese calligraphy. I’ll first give the colour, give the shape of what scenes I want to portray. And then, I’ll give some details inside, and then give little stories within that.”
Minzuo Lu
Minzuo Lú is a composer, pianist, and artist in Chinese calligraphy and painting. Minzuo’s recent work has sought to merge the romance of classical music with the techniques of contemporary music; she uses her contemporary musical language to express emotions, tell stories, or sound like poetry. Originally from Shanghai, China, she is currently based in Karlsruhe, Germany; she completed her composition studies with Wolfgang Rihm and Markus Hechtle at the Karlsruhe University of Music, having previously studied in Shanghai and Hamburg. Minzuo was selected as part of the 2022 Lucerne Festival Composer Seminar, as well as ilsuono Contemporary Music Week, Sävellyspaja Composition Masterclass, and Royaumont Voix Nouvelles; she has received support through scholarships from the Baden-Württemberg Arts Foundation, the Wolfgang Rihm Scholarship of the Hoepfner Foundation, and the Herrenhaus Edenkoben Scholarship Archive.
Minzuo Lú was recently selected for the Ernst von Siemens Young Composer’s Forum 2024 by the Bavarian Academy of Fine Arts, and commissioned by the Badische Staatstheater Karlsruhe, who premiered her piece ‘LÁNLÁN’ earlier this year. Following the premiere of ‘LÁNLÁN’, we caught up with Minzuo over Zoom, discussing beauty, calligraphy, fleeting moments, Wolfgang Rihm, and more…
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Zyggy/PRXLUDES: Hi Minzuo! Thanks so much for chatting with me today. You’ve recently premiered your piece ‘LÁNLÁN’ (Die Ewigkeit des Blau), commissioned by the Badisches Staatstheater Karlsruhe — tell me a bit about how you approached the piece and its themes of water?
Minzuo Lu: I have a strong idea that I need to write a series of works — a collection — my inspiration [for] the names is Chinese words. We use double words: like stars, xīngxīng [星星]. Or nicknames; if our parents call us, our nickname is the last word of our name, and then we double it — so my name in Chinese is Lú Minzuo, we double the ‘zuo’, so everyone calls me ‘zuozuo’… -laughs- So I planned a lot of those double-named pieces — ‘XĪNGXĪNG’, ‘LÁNLÁN’ — they have Chinese meanings.
Tell me more about this series of works — besides the Chinese meanings, what else connected these pieces? I understand that ‘LÁNLÁN’ is inspired in part by Debussy’s ‘La Mer’…
I actually wanted to compose ‘LÁNLÁN’ after ‘XĪNGXĪNG’, but I didn’t have the right project. There are some relations between the two, but it’s bigger, longer — it’s updated. For example, the pieces with several movements… I would not say in the “same” way, but the logic is the same. For ‘XĪNGXĪNG’ and ‘LÁNLÁN’, they are both landscapes — they are landscapes we can understand, like a painting, or a film, and some story happening inside. I would say my logic is always with story, with atmosphere.
I really studied Debussy’s piece — at least, how I understand Debussy combines the title and the music. I’m not sure that music is very connected with Debussy, but I learned a lot from [him]. For example, with Debussy’s ‘La Mer’… The title of the first movement is ‘From Dawn to Noon on the Sea’. So actually, while he wants to write something about the ocean, it’s from the perspective of the environment — he builds an atmosphere before anything. He draws a picture. So I also give a picture: where does the blue flow from?
Is this kind of environment-painting important to your compositional process?
Yes. For example, my piece ‘XĪNGXĪNG’: The first movement is called ‘Colourful Dark’. If you draw the painting, [on the] the first layer, you should paint everything black or dark blue. And then you paint the “shining points” — so the second movement is ‘Shining Points’. And then the third movement is ‘Meteor Showers’, and then ‘Till Dawn’. You give a lot of feeling to this painting — when you draw, it’s like everything disappeared; it’s not a painting for you anymore, it’s actually your imagination. When I was young, my parents sent me to art school; I learned Chinese calligraphy, I learned drawing. I gained a lot of connection with those things. So what you say is right.
It’s interesting you bring up your experience learning drawing and Chinese calligraphy. Tell me a bit more about your compositional journey — what inspired you about wanting to become a composer?
Actually, at the beginning, I just wanted to write some popular songs — some love songs. -laughs- When I was young, when I heard popular songs, I could really easily play it with harmony, melody — I could easily follow. If someone wanted to sing, I could accompany [it]. Not everybody can do that; it’s already composition, right? [A] teacher didn’t teach me that. Every week, I’d go to a teacher’s place and play Beethoven, Chopin, all those pieces — but popular songs? I’d do those things by myself. I started to learn composition through that.
I told my mum, I wanted to go to music school — not just some songs, I wanted the system to learn it serious[ly]. My piano teacher introduced me to a composition teacher — and everything changed. The composition teacher didn’t allow me to hear popular songs anymore. I [was] forced to learn Debussy, Rachmaninoff, Scriabin… More of those post-Romantic composers [of] that time. So I was not happy. -laughs- The teacher pushed me in[to] this position — all-classical. And then I passed exams, but everything is very tailored for the exam. In the three hours [of the exam], we had to write a piece — they give you four measures at the beginning, and you have to develop those elements to complete the piece.
Wow, that sounds very intense.
I know the rules, how to deal [with] them, so I passed. -laughs- But at that time, I didn’t know composition — what composition is. In my Bachelor’s in Shanghai, my teacher suddenly changed the direction: “Forget about Debussy, Rachmaninoff, they are always melodic and harmonic — no! They are all bullshit, you have to learn noisy music, contemporary music!” If you hear melody, you should think it’s boring, it’s disgusting… -laughs- So they suddenly changed their face, you know? And I said, okay, I want to be a good student; so I followed my teachers. I read a lot of contemporary art books, contemporary music books, theory books; Stockhausen, Schönberg. It was like, step by step — you need[ed] to know everything about the history of Western music development. For Chinese music, it’s another story… -laughs-
I thought I needed to go to Europe to study further — so I came to Germany. I was first [at] school in Hamburg; my experience, which I feel very special [about], was that the students were very chill. They didn’t think a lot about specific melody, harmony, contemporary — they just think of something and write down something. The teachers were also very chill; they don’t give students “right” or “wrong”. So I wrote something with melody — but not a lot, because I still need[ed] to pass exams in the future.
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I can understand how you’d feel conflicted by all of these different musical approaches and environments. You’ve mentioned that something changed for you when you started studying with Wolfgang Rihm — can you tell me a bit about what that was like?
When I came to Karlsruhe to study with Wolfgang Rihm, I passed the exam — I thought “okay, it’s done — I can really do something I want”. -laughs- During the entrance exam, you do need to show off how “contemporary” you are, I’m very sure. But in the school, if you passed, you’re free. Every time, it’s like this.
I didn’t really think about composition as my career at the time. I just finished studying, and was going everywhere; I was kind of in a “give up” way. I [was] trying a lot. I combined contemporary sound-things — because for me, so much contemporary music is focused on sound, and sound combinations — but I also put in really strong classical influences. And every time I gave those dramatic things in my pieces, Professor Rihm really liked it; he really gave me a lot of support.
He really gave me a lot of chances to compose — a lot of projects, a lot of stipendium, scholarships, to write big pieces. It’s not like a competition — if you attend a competition, you need to follow the aesthetic of the jury — but Professor Rihm gave me a lot of chances for concerts. He didn’t teach something like “oh, you should change your form, your sound effect”, no — it’s like when I prepared everything and I showed him, I wanted him to enjoy it. And he did enjoy it. -laughs- Sometimes, he would give me very philosophical ideas — more about musical character, the deep-thinking of the music — more about philosophy than about the notes.
Sometimes, he would ask you: are you satisfied with your music? This is the question he would ask us the most — “are you satisfied?” At the beginning, I didn’t get the point — I didn’t understand — but with the time passing, I realised actually, it’s my work. I write the piece, I work with the musicians, I should be independent — I’m satisfied with it. Maybe next time I could take this point further, or something — [but] I should think of it. So that first question, “are you satisfied”… It’s important for me to want to write more and more, because maybe you are not satisfied every time. -laughs- So he push[es] you to compose more and more.
I don’t know if you’ll agree with this — but when you’re studying, it can often feel like you’re only allowed to compose within these certain rules. But with Wolfgang Rihm, you had more of a freedom to explore your own artistry?
Yes! He is very strong, you know. I have had a lot of masterclasses with other composers — they are great, but they are not [like] Professor Rihm… Some of them want to give me direction, they want to teach me what is “right”, what is more popular now. But Rihm, maybe he experienced a lot; he’s very chill. He want[ed] you to feel happy with composition — if you don’t feel happy with it, you will give up. So he never gave me pressure with it. It’s like, why [am I] still here if I don’t enjoy this?
It’s so special, having that kind of teacher. I think about how many more composers would be making work if they had supportive teachers, rather than just saying “write like this, write like that”…
You will see some kinds of art he’s maybe not into — like, composers performing [their work] on the stage. He would ask the question: “as a composer, why do you want to perform on the stage in this way?” — he would say [that] some composers would stand behind the score.
I think about it [as], I write a piece, and I will leave it in this world. I will die, right? This piece will continue to exist in this world; the music should be very independent — without me — it can still be alive. I think about those things sometimes. A lot of contemporary music, now, is about the composer… [but] I will die, and I really hope someone can pick up my score — and she or he can understand [it], and can express the music, can perform it, without me. With her feeling, his feeling.
For you — how do you see your relationship to your own music? Are they extensions of yourself, or are they separate?
I think they should be like my children. They will leave me… It’s like [when] I play Chopin or Debussy; when I play Debussy, I feel like I’m Debussy as well. -laughs- Do you imagine that Debussy sits beside you? If I play it, I’m very into it. So I imagine in this way, I hope my music is also giving other musicians this feeling. Musicians, first of all, should enjoy it, if they want to pick up my score.
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You were recently featured as part of the Ernst von Siemens Young Composers Forum, presenting your piece ‘Ihr, Monolog’ (Her, Monologue); when discussing the piece before, you’ve talked about exploring different ideas and definitions of “beauty”…
Yesterday, I thought of it again: what is beauty? If you just give me one sentence, I will say: every time, in the present, 60% which I know very well, and 40% I feel is fresh, and mysterious — it could be dangerous, it could be exciting… -laughs- So this, for me, is how I define it. For this piece — ‘Ihr, Monolog’ — I want to talk about beauty. One time, with Stefano Gervasoni in Italy, we talked about this topic in all the seminars — all the composers were tired by the end… -laughs- It was a very interesting topic. The teacher, actually he was very schlau — “you said you want to write a beautiful piece, what do you want to say” — how do you define beauty? It happened every seminar.
How did these discussions about beauty with Stefano Gervasoni influence the composition of ‘Ihr, Monolog’?
I found that actually, there is no answer. Everybody has their own standard. With this piece — first of all, I explored how these words describe women more than men. I’m a woman, so I think it’s important to talk about this topic. The first movement is [called] ‘The Goddess of Love and Beauty’ — it’s very direct, to show you the idea of “perfect” beauty. The second movement is about the painting, ‘Mona Lisa’… You can always find something in it. There are some very mysterious things behind her smile — and every time you appreciate it, you can find little bit more. In that way, it’s very beautiful I think.
The third movement is about a Chinese poet. She builds a very good environment; I think [her] words are also very beautiful. It’s not about a woman, or something very specific — it’s just words that give you imagination. It’s another beautiful thing, for me. Then, the fourth movement is called ‘She falls into the Abyss of Beauty’; that is about how there is no end of your explorations in this “beauty” area. Why are people chasing those things? Why are people chasing beautiful things in their lives? I think sometimes, I should control myself. So to me, it’s [a] monologue: okay, stop. -laughs-
The fifth movement is ‘and then there was Silence’. I should follow my heart, and think of some things very close to me — some beautiful moments [in] my lifetime. Some leaves from trees… -laughs- I think if I can breathe, that’s beautiful. It’s like my monologue: from very magificent things, to very small things. I can define it, if I want to.
So would you say your approach to exploring beauty is about the subjectivity of such things — how we individually experience them?
It’s more about the beauty that’s more closer to me. We’re always chasing something, we can’t catch it. That’s what I think. For me, the beginning of ‘Ihr, Monolog’ is beautiful because I cannot catch it — but if I catch it, maybe it’s not beautiful anymore. So I stay here and go more deeper, inner — just go in deep to my own feelings.
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You have a series of pieces called Despair Hexalogy — I remember one piece from this series, ‘Jealousy’, was performed by il Suono Giallo in Italy. Can you tell me about what you were exploring with the Despair Hexalogy?
It happened a lot of times in my life: some moments [feel] very “common”, but the “common” moments build, build — and [then] one moment is very touching. I don’t know why, it’s one moment, I feel “oh, I feel touched”. This, for me, is very amazing; to feel so touched — and suddenly it’s gone. I cannot build it very easily. I think music also has those things. It has a lot of “useless” moments — but with time going throughout the piece, it builds and suddenly one moment — “oh!”. So I’m chasing these moments.
The past few years, I feel very unhappy. -laughs- And I’m thinking about why I feel unhappy. When I grew up, I’m in a very happy family; and [now] I feel unhappy. So I analyse myself: I have five things — [for example] jealousy — because of all those things I feel unhappy. So I write down those emotional things in my heart; chasing the emotional moments.
At the beginning, when I studied composition techniques, we need[ed] to learn the sound and build the sound effects — so I used the dynamics, harmonics, to give you the sense of everything you hear. “Okay, it’s shocking, the sound is very amazing.” But if I use an emotional way to think of this — combine the music and sound with the emotion — it gives you another shock, for me at least. I use this way to think of my composition; emotion is another thing.
So you used your emotions as the crux, as the starting-off point, in these compositions — how does your compositional process tend to develop, particularly in terms of structure and form?
About harmonic structures… those things are already there [for me]. So I’ve already written down the musical character of what I want to write — I’ve planned it. For ‘LÁNLÁN’, it’s like I planned [it] for several years. -laughs- When I start to write, I use the Finale playback to hear the music — if I write a little, I’ll hear it hundreds, thousands of times, and check it. But the musical form is already settled; I will not change it.
I think writing music is like speaking a language. My English is very bad… -laughs- So I will think about words, and grammar, right? But in your mother language, when you think about grammar, structure, or words, you will not think about it — you’ll just think about what’s in your mind. So if I know about the musical composition techniques very well, I will not think a lot about it during the process — because it’s already there, it’s like your mother language. All your focus is on other things. That’s what I want to explain.
In what ways did incorporating elements of storytelling and painting manifest from here? Was this with Wolfgang Rihm, or afterwards in your compositional journey?
It’s like drawing a painting, or writing Chinese calligraphy. I’ll first give the colour, give the shape of what scenes I want to portray. And then, I’ll give some details inside, and then give little stories within that. One of the important things during the composition process is, I have a lot of things — and then I [have to] organise them! “Okay, this is too much, this is chaotisch, and I will put them very clearly here” — not everything inside.
I will usually write down the title first. But Professor Rihm critiqued me one time on this: “Minzuo Lu, you write too much title! Why? I don’t need titles…” — so my understanding is maybe, he wants [me] to think about what happens through the music. Rather than me tell him what happens. But I do not always take his advice. -laughs- You know, you write the piece not just for the master — you write a piece for everyone. So I give the title, the story, to help them into the music. This is why I write the title first, and try my best to write music to match the title.
My music is not really from me. My music is from a lot of music which I heard. I will not say “oh, I create music, it’s all from me” — maybe it’s 60% music I know very much, and 40% “okay, I try my best at fresh things”… -laughs-
Do you ever tend to have anyone in mind that you’re writing music for? Do you write with an audience in mind — or that people will discover your work in the future?
Maybe the problem is that artists should not think too much about others. But I don’t think about that. Maybe, through the years, I will go somewhere… If you work a lot, someday it will change. I really need time. If I want people to know more about my music, I need to have a lot of pieces. You don’t understand [a] composer through just one piece of music. It’s through a lot of aspects; not just on the surface, it’s very 3D. So I need a lot of time for people to hear my pieces, to understand what I mean through my music.
I haven’t got a lot of projects at the moment — it’s very hard. But I’m writing a piano solo piece. I actually have six preludes already; it’s really imitieren — imitative — from Debussy’s 24 Préludes. You know, Debussy wrote a lot of piano pieces with those titles. In my mind, these pieces are like writing down a diary. I want to write the first book, and the second, like Debussy. It’s already planned; the first book is all about warm tones, about summer — and the second book is about winter, about cold tones.
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How would you say your attitude towards composition has developed? From the works you’ve shown and the way you’ve talked about it, it feels like you employ a really intuitive, emotionally-drawn approach…
I know that sometimes, if I’m in a speech or lecture, and the composer says “music is about the colour, the emotions”, it’s very annoying… -laughs- I want to know the actual musical techniques! But now, I understand a little bit [more] — they write a lot of pieces, [and] they don’t think very much of those things in that age. They’re thinking about other things. Of course, technique should always be developed during my career; I like to analyse sound combinations. For example, with ‘LÁNLÁN’, I used a massage machine on the drum, [and] I used a Schaller bell to build the sound. So those things I developed, I wrote down. But I think composers should think more — not just with sound. -laughs- If I just play the sound, it’s boring for me.
I resonate with this! In my opinion, it’s great to explore all of these fascinating sound combinations, but I do feel like there’s a lot of new music out there that I’m not entirely sure how to feel about…
Yes. For me, when I attend some contemporary music concerts, I cannot remember anything. That’s my experience. Sometimes, I feel happier after the concert… -laughs- I’m sorry! I’m a contemporary music composer, if I say that, it’s very bad… -we both break down laughing- Sometimes, there are too many theory-pieces — like, pieces that sound like an encyclopedia, you can bring the score in and find ten thousand sound effects in there. They put everything inside. It’s really like a dictionary, a sound dictionary. For me, I want more story — not a dictionary [with] a lot of words, a lot of explanations, no — I want to read a story. So I try my best to write a story. I use sounds from that “dictionary” — they explored it, thank you very much… -laughs- But I learned, I really learned, and I used those words [for] my story.
It’s what I’m thinking of what I want, nowadays. I can say I really enjoy my music. Sometimes, when I hear my music, I realise: I will be the first listener of my piece. I should like it, I should love it, and then I should share it with others.
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Learn more about Minzuo and her practice at:
References/Links:
- Debussy – La Mer (1905)
- Debussy – Preludes, Books I and II (1909-1913)
