Delyth Field creates virtual spaces and digital landscapes

“I’ve been deeply inspired by online communities — they’ve shaped how I learn and make music. There’s so much accessible knowledge out there.”
Delyth Field

Delyth Field is a Japanese-Welsh composer whose work spans concert music, film scoring, electronic music, and audiovisual media. Her practice explores the concept of authenticity, and how digital tools challenge our understanding of originality, human expression, and the boundary between organic and synthetic sound. Having recently graduated from the Royal College of Music, Delyth was selected for the London Symphony Orchestra‘s Soundhub scheme (2023/24), Ty Cerdd’s Ffidil Plws programme, the NCEM Young Composer Award (2021), and the Gabriel Prokofiev Composition Lab in Cremona. Her multimedia work has been commissioned for events including the Sounds of Blossom festival at Kew Gardens, and her arrangement of ‘Death and the Lady’ was recently premiered by the Londinium Consort at Wigmore Hall.

We recently caught up with Delyth over coffee at Battersea Power Station, London, discussing Yayoi Kusama, vocaloid, nostalgic surreality, online communities, and more…

Delyth Field, ‘Eternal Chandelier’ (2023), performed by Leah Hallinon and Delyth Field at Royal College of Music, London, UK.
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Zyggy/PRXLUDES: Hi Delyth! Thanks so much for joining me today. Much of your compositional work seems to revolve around the intersection of instrumental writing and technology — tell me how you first got interested in composition, and in electronic music?

Delyth Field: Back in 2013, I was really into EDM — listening to artists like Avicii and Martin Garrix. I’d taken piano lessons growing up and enjoyed ballet music by Tchaikovsky, but I never felt a real urge to make music — until I discovered “brostep” music. -laughs- That completely changed things for me. I remember watching an interview where Skrillex talked about using Ableton, and I thought, this looks amazing. So I downloaded the software, and my first motivation wasn’t to write a specific track—it was to understand the tool inside out. I went through all the documentation just to figure out how everything worked.

Over time, when it came to choosing A-Levels, I realised I wanted to study music seriously. By then, I’d gotten into film music — listening to the soundtracks by Sawano Hiroyuki non-stop. I also discovered the film scores of Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross and Jonny Greenwood, which ultimately drew me toward contemporary classical music.

When I got into the Royal College of Music, I was surprised by the world of contemporary classical music. No one around me was doing that kind of thing — let alone playing instruments. Honestly, I thought conservatoire training would be more focused on tonal or film music — but it turned out to be completely different from what I expected. At first, I wasn’t sure if it was for me. But gradually, I discovered composers like Takemitsu, Jonathan Harvey, George Benjamin, and started to find contemporary works I genuinely connected with.

What stood out to me about this scene was how deeply people engage with concepts and creative ideas. There’s space to explore intellectual or philosophical dimensions of music in a way you don’t often find in film or pop music, where the focus tends to be more on how “good” it sounds or how engaging it is. Contemporary music, in contrast, moves at a different pace; it allows you to slow down, to reflect, even to meditate. It gave me a new sense of artistic freedom, where expression isn’t shaped by audience expectations but by curiosity and experimentation.

Was there any particular moment for you where you felt inspired to bring your “contemporary” notated practice and electronic music together?

At first, I kept my electronic music completely separate from my contemporary classical work — I thought they just weren’t meant to go together. But that changed when I saw Ben Nobuto’s Tangram concert in 2022, where he premiered ‘i carry your heart’ for flute, yangqin, and visuals. I didn’t know who he was at the time, and I was completely blown away. It wasn’t just a mix of genres — it felt natural, like the electronics were there to serve the music, not to be flashy or forced.

That experience made me ask myself: why am I not combining the things I love musically? I don’t like it when composers combine genres for the sake of it, but in Nobuto’s work, everything felt integrated — it was all there to express something. That really shifted how I think about my own practice.

Absolutely. It’s not like combining these elements is a gimmick, it’s all serving a larger conceptual framework.

Then I started thinking more about incorporating visuals into my work. I’d always enjoyed video editing, but I hadn’t considered how much it could enrich the experience — moving beyond just sound to something more immersive and multimedia. During an exchange programme in Japan, I was exposed to performances that left a huge impression on me —like a collaboration between Hatsune Miku¹ and Kabuki theatre (traditional gagaku court music). These encounters made me realise how powerful cross-genre and cross-media work can be.

That experience also sparked my interest in creative technologies like Max/MSP and TouchDesigner — tools that let you shape interaction and visual elements through programming. I’m not drawn to computer science for its own sake, but I’m fascinated by the artistic potential of combining code with music and visual design. I’ve been experimenting with things like colour tracking via webcams, Arduino robotic sensors, and exploring machine learning tools — like Wekinator or FluCoMa — which are not used to autonomously generate music, but to create textures and materials I can shape myself. For me, AI is not the composer, but a collaborator — a tool that expands creative possibilities, much like what Zubin Kanga does with robotics and performance.

The first work of yours I discovered was your incredible piece ‘Eternal Chandelier’ — which premiered at the Royal College of Music in 2023. That piece combines flute and piano writing with augmented reality visuals, electronics, and Hatsune Miku…

I made the piece over a ten-month period. The first five months were really just about thinking and collecting ideas. A year before I started composing [it], I went to the Yayoi Kusama exhibition at Tate Modern with my flautist friend, Leah Hallinon, whom I eventually collaborated with. One of the installations — Chandelier of Grief — really stuck with me. It was this hexagonal room lined entirely with mirrors; you step inside and see endless reflections of yourself. You lose track of who’s who, even your friend’s reflection blends into yours. It made me think: which one is the “real” me? It reminded me a lot of the internet — how people can inhabit multiple identities online. Some have ten different accounts or project completely different personas, even toxic ones — like incels, for example. -laughs-

That Kusama piece really changed how I thought about space. Even though it was physically small, it felt infinite. It’s the same with the internet; it’s just a device in your hand, but it contains this vast, intangible world. I wanted to explore that paradox. I’d also been watching a lot of augmented reality videos, and I found it so fascinating how layering digital elements over real footage can completely shift perception and how you engage. It made me think of the future of AR glasses and how they might change how we see the world. Even Hatsune Miku feels like part of that conversation — she’s a virtual singer, an augmented instrument. That contrast between virtual and real was something I wanted to bring into the piece, and it helped me decide on the instrumentation.

Delyth Field and Leah Hallinon, at Yayoi Kusama’s *Chandelier of Grief* at the Tate Modern, London.

I get that — like you’re creating this augmented reality with both sound and visuals. Tell me a bit more about how you crafted the visuals; how did they fit in with the instrumentation?

I’d always wanted to make a POV-style video. In the second movement of the piece, I tried to simulate a “blink” effect, like waking up and seeing the world from bed. The visuals are all from a first-person perspective, walking around London, with digital elements layered onto the real environment. It becomes this blur between dream and reality. On the technical side, I taught myself through loads of YouTube tutorials — learning how to composite, animate, and modulate visuals to get the effect I wanted.

I really wanted to take the audience on a journey — sometimes nostalgic, sometimes surreal. I know the theme of “technology is everywhere” is a bit of a cliché now, but I wasn’t just trying to critique that. I wanted the piece to make people reflect on the spaces they inhabit; how we perceive and experience them, especially through technology. For example, I filmed parts of the video around the concert hall, starting from the entrance — the same path the audience would have taken to reach the venue. It becomes a kind of parody or self-reflection, almost as if the piece is watching them too.

Another thing that mattered to me was not taking the whole concert too seriously. I didn’t want it to be this solemn, formal moment with polite applause at the end. I wanted it to be fun — especially in the fourth movement, where I added loads of absurd or playful elements. It was a chance to step away from the seriousness I usually associate with classical concerts and just enjoy the process. -laughs-

Delyth Field, ‘Shoegaze Capsule’ (2024), performed by players of the London Symphony Orchestra as part of LSO Soundhub Showcase, London, UK.
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Another work of yours I particularly resonate with is ‘Shoegaze Capsule’, which you composed as part of the LSO Soundhub scheme…

When I was composing that piece, I was listening to a lot of shoegaze music. I was really drawn to the way it evokes nostalgia — even when you don’t have a direct connection to the sounds themselves. I started researching how that works, and I came to think [that] it’s about showing imperfection and warmth: soft vocals, hazy guitars, textures that feel slightly out of reach. There’s something powerful in that contrast — when a gentle voice tries to cut through layers of distortion. That barrier, that noise, gives the act of listening a kind of psychological tension.

I’ve been wanting to explore more deeply how noise impacts our listening experience. For instance, Alva Noto did research on which high frequencies evoke nostalgia for him — it was something really specific, like around 14,000 Hz. And Tim Hecker, who I also really admire, wrote a PhD thesis on the cultural relationship with loud sound. That’s definitely an area I want to look into further.

Going back to my own piece: I didn’t want to just slap distortion on everything. Instead, I approached the idea more conceptually, pairing flute and harp — which carry soft and “beautiful” connotations — with double bass, percussion, and harsher electronic textures. There’s a grittiness there. I kept the structure minimal too.

Pieces such as ‘Momoyama’ — which was showcased at Kew Gardens, as part of their Sounds of Blossom project — and your solo guitar piece ‘Cynefin’, are more inspired by the natural world. Compositionally, how did your approach differ with these two works?

These pieces are definitely a contrast from my electronic work. When writing them, I often find myself thinking about nature — especially my experiences growing up in rural Wales. Being half Japanese and half Welsh, my thoughts about nature naturally return to Japanese landscapes, cultural history, and my own personal connection to Japan. For example, when I was commissioned to write a piece for the Japanese garden at Kew Gardens, it felt like a special opportunity to bring those elements together.

‘Cynefin’ was premiered by guitarist Oliver Manning — I understand that’s a Welsh word…

We were both Welsh — so we thought about the Welsh landscape. We started with the theme, and we kind of composed together; figuring out the guitar voicings. It was such a nice collaborative process with Oliver. Cynefin means a place of longing, a place we call home; it’s a Welsh word that doesn’t really have a direct translation in English. Solo guitar also has such a lullaby-like effect — like with Takemitsu’s music, as well. So I thought that was a perfect instrument to express that.

Delyth Field, ‘Cynefin’ (2024), performed by Oliver Manning at Wimbledon classical Guitar Society, London, UK.
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To touch on your Kew Gardens piece, ‘Momoyama’ — whereabouts did the conceptual starting point stem from?

There’s a Japanese bamboo organ called shō; I fell in love with the sound so much, and I used that as the starting point in my Kew Gardens piece. I analysed the frequencies of it, and I wrote music for flute, guitar, and cello; but I didn’t write music in a horizontal kind of way. I divided the score into “boxes” of music. There are ten boxes each, that players can play in their own time — so it’s recorded as ten different separate files — and I got the recordings back from them, and I rearranged it like a collage. It was really nice, because I didn’t know how it would sound initially — but then I had the chance to rearrange things in my own way. It was a fun process to do.

As Kew Gardens presented the piece in a more “installation” context — how connected was the compositional process with the installation format? And how did the collage scoring correlate to capturing the frequencies of the shō?

To make it work, I began by creating a kind of harmonic “map.” I layered different shō recordings, dividing them into five distinct “blocks,” each with its own harmonic profile and pitch center. I labelled these blocks accordingly, almost like harmonic boxes. When I started arranging the actual audio, I didn’t strictly stick to the original placements — even if a recording belonged to a particular harmonic box, I’d sometimes use it elsewhere if the tone or pitch felt right. After sorting them into their general harmonic categories, I began juggling the material around. If something didn’t quite work, I’d shift it — and occasionally I’d even tweak the pitch in Melodyne. -laughs- I don’t think it’s cheating.

Because you’re already manipulating the sound digitally, right?

I think it’s only an issue if you’re selling an album, as a performer — and then you’re shifting everything. But at the end of the day, if no one can tell, it’s fine… -laughs-

I guess it’s a question of what the most authentic representation of your work is — whether it’s the performance in itself, or the score, or a manipulated recording…

I recently wrote a piece for Darragh Morgan as part of a Welsh scheme — Ffidil Plws by Tŷ Cerdd. At the end of the process, we were asked to manipulate the recordings. We had a recording of the violin part, which was performed alongside electronics, and in post-production, we were allowed to edit the electronic track however we wanted to prepare it for release. In this case, I didn’t change anything about the violin — and because I was presenting it as an electroacoustic work, I felt free to alter the electronic part however I needed. But if I were to present it as a live recorded performance it doesn’t feel right to manipulate afterwards. Still, ultimately, if the result feels right and reflects what I want to express, that’s what matters most.

Delyth Field, ‘cytoelectric_<>’ (2024), performed by Özgür Kaya at St. James Piccadilly, London, UK.
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You’ve touched before on internet culture and online communities. Can you tell me a bit about how internet culture informs your work?

I’ve been deeply inspired by online communities — they’ve shaped how I learn and make music. There’s so much accessible knowledge out there. For example, I actually taught myself A-Level Maths through YouTube before I’d even finished my GCSEs. It really showed me how powerful these platforms can be — empowering people from all backgrounds, no matter where they are. With Vocaloid, the music is the internet — it couldn’t exist without it. All the music created with Hatsune Miku comes from a collective of composers online, and anyone can be part of it. I think that’s something really special, and it feels uniquely of this century. The producers in that space uplift each other, and there’s this strong sense of subcultural identity — with roots in places like 2chan and 4chan. The way this music circulates and is consumed is also deeply embedded in internet culture. And then you see genres like hyperpop — which, even with all the chaos and irony, are often responses to digital life itself. It’s music that knows it’s being shaped by online culture and, sometimes, pokes fun at it too.

One challenge I’ve noticed, though, is how quickly everything becomes outdated. Like, I was really into blob-tracking visuals for a while, but suddenly that aesthetic already felt overdone. It’s something I have to constantly think about when I use technology as a theme: how do I stay current, or maybe even intentionally resist that pressure to be “new”? Even with my piece ‘Eternal Chandelier’, which used ideas of augmented reality — AR already feels like an old concept now. But I think that’s part of the appeal too; this constant churn of new tools, new aesthetics, new possibilities. Vocaloid itself has been around for over a decade, but it keeps evolving, with new voices and technologies like UTAU and VOICEVOX.

There’s something about making work that’s trying to keep up with the pace of technology — by the time you’ve finished a piece, it’s already outdated. -laughs-

Yeah, exactly. -laughs- Nature is something more constant — your personal connection to it doesn’t shift in the same way trends in technology do. Now I feel like I’m at a point where I want to focus more on personal experiences again, and return to nature as a theme. I still want to engage with the digital world — it’s exciting and full of possibilities — but I don’t want to be driven only by whatever’s new or flashy. It’s easy to fall into that mindset of “this is cool, I have to make something about it because it’s the next thing” — but sometimes I forget how much inspiration already exists within my own memories, feelings, and surroundings.

Is there something, in your own practice, about working with different “eras” of technology — rather than keeping up with the newest technological trends?

With ‘Eternal Chandelier’, I think part of what shaped it was this fascination I have with the early 2000s — especially the early days of the internet. I was really inspired by Serial Experiments Lain, an eerie anime where an adolescent girl develops a connection to a virtual reality network called The Wired.

I’ve also been working with early music lately, collaborating with Londinium Consort. I really love early music; there’s such a unique sound that really draws me into that era. For example, Two Shell — an electronic duo — they took a Hildegard von Bingen melody, and they brought it into an artificial voice part to make it sing with different lyrics. Like, recomposing that era to now — it’s so nice.

What projects do you have coming up at the moment? I understand you’re collaborating further with Londinium Consort…

Yes. I did an arrangement of a tune, ‘Death and the Lady’, which was premiered at Wigmore [Hall] and they performed beautifully. I’m going to compose a new piece for them for December. I’m going to make it electronic, as well. -laughs- With that kind of piece, it’s such a tricky balance with the tuning system, and how fragile it is. I think the “absolute” tuning of electronic instruments can really collide — so I need to research it.

I often collaborate with Özgür Kaya — who’s not only a member of the group, but also my partner, and an incredible cellist and electronic musician. I previously wrote a piece for him called ‘cyctoelectrik_<>’ for cello and electronics, and we’re now planning a new piece that will explore modular synths and live electronics. It’s exciting because it brings an element of spontaneity and unpredictability into performance — something I’ve been really drawn to lately.

In terms of film and media work, I have an upcoming collaboration with the Financial Times on a short film marking the ten-year anniversary of their partnership with Nikkei. It’s an exciting project — especially as I’m a half-Japanese half-British individual. I also recently completed the score for a 90-minute Japanese suspense film titled Into the Belly of the Beast, directed by Jun Yamada. I really enjoy composing for film because it’s a collaborative process — not just writing in isolation, but working closely with a director to shape the emotional arc of the story. That back-and-forth gives the music a clear purpose; you’re always aiming to enhance the film’s impact. In solo composition, you can take the music in any direction, which is liberating — but film scoring offers a kind of creative problem-solving that I find really rewarding. I’d love to do more of that.