Violinist and Сomposer Katarina Gryvul About Her Path to Sound Art Translated by Lesya Lantsuta Brannman

Katarina Gryvul is a Ukrainian composer, violinist and a sound producer. Her music can be described as deep and immersive soundscapes with live electronics, modular synthesizers, and synthesized vocals. In addition to her compositions, the artist founded Gryvul School, a space for training and inspiration for musicians from all over the world. 

We spoke with Katarina Gryvul about her path and her artistic and civic principles.

How do you combine your academic background with electronics and computer music and define the boundaries of your work? What was your path to both areas?

I believe that master classes are the fastest way for a composer to develop. The first COURSE master classes at the Lviv Philharmonic taught me a lot. I participated in them three times (2017-2019). These are some of the best composing master classes in Ukraine that I can recommend. Also, in 2017 I participated in a residency in electronic and, subsequently, acoustic music at Kyiv Contemporary Music Days. There were very good mentors and an incredible atmosphere. Electroacoustic and acoustic music workshops followed, in Vienna in 2019, where I became acquainted with acousmonium. In 2019 I was selected for workshops at the Krakow Film Music Festival, where the focus was more on film music. 

In 2018, I entered the Gaude Polonia program in Poland and worked in an electroacoustic studio under the direction of Marcin Strzelecki. There I communicated with Marek Choloniewski, a student of Bogusław Schaeffer. In Krakow, I gained a basic knowledge of writing multichannel music and generally became more familiar with electroacoustics.

In 2019, I returned to Krakow, this time as part of the Erasmus+ program. During that period, the Nawia Records label in Krakow commissioned a 20-minute electronic piece from me for release on cassette. I had a few months to do it, and it was probably my real start in electronics. There was a clear deadline, and I had to take it as seriously as possible. 

I then started to fully integrate taped and live electronics into my academic works. I nearly stopped writing purely acoustic music. I no longer accept exclusively acoustic commissions. 

What was your experience in contemporary music after you left Lviv? Was there anything significant for you that drew your attention in this direction?

In my 5th year at the Lviv Music Academy, while studying violin, I met Ostap Manulyak. He taught the history of computer music at the time. I decided to enroll in his composition program and began to learn more about electroacoustic music with him.

As a violinist, I was very fond of contemporary music. For example, I wanted to play Ligeti’s Violin Concerto at my final exam. Earlier, during my studies, I played Berg’s Violin Concerto and a lot of Bartók. However, the string instruments department didn’t support this and playing Stockhausen or similar composers was out of the question. They said at the academy: “It doesn’t sound good.”

Even though my graduation repertoire included contemporary music – for example, I played a Reger’s Sonata instead of traditional Bach – it was still not “truly contemporary.” That was what I was missing. I have always been better at interpreting intellectual works than melodic romanticism. I had a natural attraction to it. 

I took composition classes with Myroslav Volynskyi, starting in the second grade, when Iwas studying at the Lviv Krushelnytska Music School. Even then, I wanted to study composition with Yevhen Stankovych and was preparing for it. However, I was accepted to Heorhii Pavlii’s violin class at the Lviv Academy. He was an extremely good teacher, influencing my choice of violin as a major.

I realized that I wouldn’t be able to return to violin studies if I chose music composition. I wanted to bring my violin playing to a certain level and not give up the instrument after so many years of studying. So, I chose the violin. As a result, I had a break in music composition, didn’t study and didn’t write anything at all. 

The last pieces I wrote before entering the Lviv academy were a violin concerto, sonatas, and a work for harp and flute. All of it was in the style of late romanticism, perhaps a little more extravagant, but nothing special in terms of timbre. Of course, I worked out all the classical forms, instrumental ensembles, harmony, counterpoint and so on. I had complete freedom with Volynskyi; we often listened to and analyzed Wagner and Mahler, and I am very grateful to him for the knowledge I’ve gained and his faith in me. 

Do you play the violin for yourself now? 

Yes, but I don’t write for the violin. If necessary, I include violin in an ensemble, but in general I don’t like high-frequency instruments. When you play an instrument for so many years, you lose interest in writing for it, at least for me. I’m much more interested in exploring woodwinds or brass, because they have a completely different specificity of sound production and playing technique. 

Is it correct that Ostap Manulyak gave you an impetus in terms of the paths that were available for a young composer? 

The conservatory did not prepare me for life outside of it. Everything happened spontaneously. I was just looking for my own way. I learned about the Gaude Polonia program in school and many of my friends participated in it. In general, there was support – moral support in the form of advice – but not in the sense of a systematic preparation for professional life. 

This became especially noticeable after I finished my violin studies and had a harsh confrontation with reality.

For a solo career, you need to have high-performance skills,management knowledge, and an ability to promote yourself.

To simply survive, I needed to work in several orchestras at the same time and teach violin. 

I began asking myself, why practice and polish the most complex performance programs if you end up sitting in an orchestra and playing much easier stuff? I had an internal breakthrough and realized that I didn’t want to do that. I then decided that I needed to change my trajectory.

The artistic path you imagined during your studies and the path after your graduation were very different, weren’t they?

I was not the only one. Many people who graduated with me left to work in different Asian countries because they didn’t see any prospects here. We weren’t prepared for real life, how to work, look for opportunities, and shape ourselves as artists. It was especially difficult since the system was closed: all leading positions in orchestras at the time were occupied by senior concertmasters, auditions were rarely held, and job vacancies were mostly filled through acquaintances.

You mentioned the difficulty in promoting yourself as a performer in this world, where you needed musicians and management. Promoting a composer or a sound artist is probably even more difficult. What was your experience?

I think I got lucky. I began consciously promoting myself only recently, I would start thinking about concerts and promotions as soon as my new album came out. In general, everything seemed to come together for me in music composition by itself. I remember being invited to Poznan Music Spring festival after winning COURSE. It was my first official commission. Then came the pandemic of 2020 and everything stopped.

I was commissioned a piece for Ensemble S c o p e in 2021. It was a big project, with the possibility of multichannel sound, live electronics, light, and dance. The dance was based on an improvisation on the theme of butoh dance, a dance that originated in Japan as a reaction to the horrors of war and cultural change, expressing the inner state of a person through slow, grotesque, and often shocking movements. Its philosophy is to dive deeply into the darkness of human nature, bodily memory, and the transformation of suffering into art.

Also, at that time, I received an email from Jerzy Kornowicz, director of Warsaw Autumn. He had commissioned a piece for Kwartludium Enselmble. I remember how difficult it was for me to share this with anyone and how nervous I was at the premiere.

Since then, new commissions come in from time to time, somehow on their own. Perhaps everything might stop, but for now I’m trying to balance it. 

My network of contacts has been gradually forming and that’s probably why these commissions come to me. However, it’s interesting that a lot of it started thanks to my more popular song project. People began recognizing me through it and discovered that I was also a composer.

For example, my first album came out on January 1. I later found out that January 1 is the worst day for a release. I wanted a symbolic new beginning. Fortunately, despite the date, the album was noticed by Polish radio (through the contacts of Nawia Records), Polish magazines, and Ukrainian media. Neformat Media supported my album immediately, even though they didn’t know me previously. Tight Magazine asked me to do a live set, which helped to attract Ukrainian audiences.

Then came concerts, an invitation to Sound Drive Festival since I was in Poland, and a commission from the Ukrainian label Standard Deviation (without even knowing what I would create). This practice is a huge rarity. The last release came out recently on the British label Subtext Recordings, which I’ve followed since my teenage years.

If we go back to commissions for ensembles, you essentially write acoustic music with electronics or tape only for specific requests. How do you work with these ensembles? How different would it be if you were composing on your own, without focusing on specific performers? 

I don’t write music without a reason. It’s very difficult for me psychologically and it demotivates me if I know that a piece of music may never be performed. In such cases, I’d rather create something electronic, with a guarantee that I can release it myself. 

Simply writing and putting works in a drawer is not my way, especially because I have an alternative and can record instruments myself, edit, arrange, and create a finished product. This is not a live performance, but it satisfies my need for creativity. Of course, performers are more important, and the moment of “birth” of a piece of music through a joint interaction is especially valuable.

When I write for ensembles, it all depends on the type of ensemble. I worked with younger open-minded ensembles and could experiment with atypical instruments. However, with older musician ensembles, I had to search for compromises. For example, there was a case when it was difficult for a trombonist to perform advanced techniques. There were also cases when preparation with water (copper brass, bass clarinet) or other materials was not easily understood.

We usually have an introductory Zoom-call before we start. Very rarely do we have try-outs. I write a piece and, if possible, choose the instruments for the ensemble. Sometimes I may not like certain instruments (I’m still trying to like an accordion) but try to squeeze my ideas out of them. Then, when scores are completed, a click track is set up, and live electronics are added.

I try to think of everything in advance and don’t have much interaction with performers during the creation process. At rehearsals, I explain how the timbre should sound and the color I have in mind. We don’t search for it together since I usually already have a very clear idea of the result. My decisions come fast, because I immediately imagine the overall sound of the piece for which the electronics are being created. The color of the sound is of primary importance for me and everything in my compositions is built around it. Also, I very often add audio examples of many sounds, and sometimes video examples of specific performing techniques to the score. It’s then much easier to explain what I want to the performers. 

In general, how does your creative process proceed? Where do your ideas come from? What is more important to you, a rational construction or intuition and emotion? 

I use different concepts that, for the most part,are united by common themes, often related to psychological topics, diseases, conditions, and altered perceptions. My creative process starts with an idea, without which I can’t choose a timbre palette. Even before I start composing, I often already have a title for a piece, which usually has a meaning. My titles are not random.

Later I start working with timbres. For me, the quality of the timbre is extremely important. Even things such as the color of the noise matter. Not all musicians are able to reach the right level of sound accuracy. Some have a keen sense of it, while for others it’s more difficult. Some performers don’t distinguish between nuances and think that everything sounds the same.

My ideas are usually intuitive. I look for an idea and get a feeling. Structures of my worksare not rational. Yes, there is a form, a development, and a culmination, but it happens intuitively. I don’t calculate anything but simply try to combine sounds the way I hear them. 

Sometimes I work with sound spectra and combine pitch structures, but this is never an end per se. Timbre is the center. It is my main idea. Musical materials are my favorite timbres that transform over time. That’s why I don’t want my old works to be performed again. They are no longer relevant to me. It’s better to let something new be played.

I am fond of the idea that a piece of music at a given performance is a single and unique act.

Usually, my pieces are played by the ensembles for whom they are written. I see a certain symbolism in this. A work is like a single organism, inextricably linked to the ensemble. It’s hard for me to accept other musicians performing my works without my participation. Although this is a common practice, I don’t want to work this way.

I have a lot of instruments at home, like synthesizers and various acoustic instruments (string, wind, and many instruments made from clay). I often synthesize sounds myself or record them acoustically and then work with them. I work a lot with voice, sometimes to the point where it is no longer recognizable. The source can be anything, a recording, a field sound, even a whistling kettle. I have my own library of sounds and always take a recorder with me when I travel.

I work like a painter who chooses his colors. I choose the timbres for each piece intuitively, based on my experience. I have played and listened to a lot of things and maybe that’s why I can now let go of the structure. This wasn’t the case when I played the violin and had to follow rules. It was a cage: perfect sound, precise intonation, and clear articulation. In my own works, I like the opposite – squeaks, wheezes, and imperfections. It’s a kind of protest, maybe even subconscious, as a response to years of study. 

Is technology just a tool or a co-creator for you? 

It’s a tool, because I always have an idea. I often already know what sound I want to hear. I just don’t always know how to create it right away. However, it becomes easier with experience. It’s also more interesting to create more complicated sounds. 

I always chase something that sounds in my head and try to bring it to life. I often hear music in my dreams or when I walk around and something is played in the background. The main thing is to write it down quickly so that I don’t lose it.

You mentioned searching as a constant striving for a new sense and a new quality. What does experimentation mean to you? 

From time to time, I play with sounds at home. I do something completely random. It’s my kind of sound design. I work with a timbre without any purpose or thought that it might be used in a piece. I experiment, listen to what happens, and how the timbre changes. 

It’s an experiment without expectations and results, like practicing an instrument, only in a different format. It’s a process for pleasure. As soon as you set a framework, pressure appearsimmediately, and a stupor can occur. 

I often find interesting timbres in this relaxed state. Sometimes I save them and come back to them when I write pieces, but not always. Some pieces require new sounds, created from scratch. 

I try not to repeat timbres, especially in electronics. If I write a new song, I don’t use anything from the previous one. Everything starts from scratch and even the effects on the voice are new. The palette must be consistent within the album, but different every time.

Is it possible to find something completely new in contemporary music, especially electronic music, through experimentation? 

I really want to find a new timbre. I’m fascinated by the time when synthesizers first appeared and new sounds were found. It was like: “this is new, and you’ve never heard this before”. I’d like to experience that. However, this would be almost impossible without the help of artificial intelligence. 

New types of synthesis and new timbres will most likely appear because of AI. I don’t use AI yet but am researching it and am interested in how it works. I see AI as a tool that opens new opportunities. It allows you to create more complex things. 

When it comes to music, I like to make my own decisions. When AI interferes too much, I lose interest. The main thing is the process of choice. If I can’t control the process of choice, I’m not interested. 

How exactly do you work with technology?

I really like working with computers. I can sit for 14-16 hours in a row and feel good. It seems that I have worked so much physically with a musical instrument that I no longer need to have it in front of me. Many of my colleagues or students have a problemworking on a computer for a long time, having already sat in a front of a monitor all day at work. It’s an overload for them. They need something physical like turning knobs or touching tools, not looking at the screen all the time. It’s the opposite for me and I like to work this way. I don’t even use mapping. Others often use controllers to speed up the process. I do everything manually, using the mouse. 

Creating computer music involves a completely different way of thinking. You can’t rely on intuition alone. Of course, intuition is present, but it rarely works in creating computer music. You need to have a large amount of knowledge about the physics of sound, acoustics, and types of synthesis. If you want to create something in, say, SuperCollider, Max MSP, or a similar environment, you must know what a generator is, the type of sound source you’re using (like a sound wave), what its properties are, and what type of synthesis you’re using. You can’t move forward without this knowledge.

It’s different with a synthesizer. You turn it onand something sounds. You press a key and get a result. There you go from hearing to logic. In computer music, it’s the other way around, first logic and then sound.

Let’s move to questions about a composer’s role in modern times. I read your interview in Seismograf and Glissando. Do you think that the role of a Ukrainian composer has changed, especially since the outbreak of the full-scale war?

The changes were very noticeable, not in compositions but in concerts. When the full-scale war began, I was invited to various performances in different countries. These were often events with almost no Ukrainian involvement. My new album came out at that time, and everything started spinning very quickly. 

My performances at the time were kinds of protests and reminders. I often performed with the Ukrainian flag.

The role of an artist has changed dramatically since then. You start realizing that you have a voice, that you are responsible, and that you represent Ukrainian culture.

I have Ukrainian citizenship and consciously position myself as a Ukrainian composer even though I don’t live in Ukraine. Not Ukrainian Polish, not Ukrainian Austrian, but just Ukrainian. This is my choice on the international stage. 

In addition, there were many music projects involving Russians and I couldn’t make myself participate in them. It was my responsibility to refuse. This is also part of the role of a Ukrainian artist today. 

The main thing nowadays is to represent Ukraine. I must show who I am and Ukrainian culture if I’m invited to a major international festival and am one of the few from Ukraine.It’s not always possible to say something on stage, but you can give a title to a piece andchoose a theme. I try to speak through music, even if a music festival doesn’t provide a conceptual framework. 

Have you ever composed any works directly related to the theme of war?

All my works at present are, in principle, related to the war. My music has become much more aggressive. An example is the piece Zemlya, commissioned by ORF musikprotokoll for voice and ambisonics. It was based on recordings of my breathing that I made during panic attacks. At first it was just for self-soothing, (for some reason this method worked best for me), and I later decided to use it as the main part of the piece. Only the first part is recorded. 

Now I see that my emotions have changed, a little bit of a step back. At first, there was only aggression. It’s an emotional consequence. You don’t want it to be reflected in your music, but it’s still in the music. Emotions are strong and they are in everything you encounter in life.

How have perceptions of a Ukrainian artist changed over these three years? Do you feel any transformation?

At first, there was a lot of support and solidarity. Now it’s a little different. People are often afraid to ask something personal. They are uncomfortable with the topic of war and avoid it. 

However, it depends on the person, the country, and the environment. There were cases when people read Russian propaganda and tried to explain something to me. I responded but then realized that you can’t go any further, that it’s easier not to get into arguments. If a person is “programmed,” it is very difficult to convince them, almost impossible.

Given this context, if you could give listeners a certain key to your music, how would you advise them to listen to Katarina Gryvul’s works?

I don’t want to give instructions. It’s better when a person doesn’t know about the concept, what the piece is about, and can hear something that resonates with them. 

I love music in its purest form, when you don’t know who the composer is, whether a man or a woman, their age, or country of their origin. You simply listen to music as information, energy, and emotion. I’d like my music to be listened to the same way, without any context. However, of course, there is a context. If alistener is close to emotions embodied in music and the ways those emotions are expressed, he or she will feel them. If not, they won’t. This is normal and I wouldn’t want to explain my music. However, my titles often say a lot.

Your titles are often in Latin but with Ukrainian words. 

It is important for me to keep Ukrainian words in the title, even in a Latin transcription. This is a part of Ukrainian identity. I would use the Cyrillic alphabet but not many people use it. I advise my students to avoid Cyrillic because their songs won’t be found in a search.

I remember when the Proton Bern Ensemble played your piece vnutrishnʼo, it immediately caught my interest when I saw it for the first time. I think it works for all listeners, not only for those who understand Cyrillic. 

Sometimes the names are short, in Ukrainian, and memorable. Maybe such titles could help someone to start learning Ukrainian words that way. 

Several times in The Claquers, I have asked composers to name a few pieces that best represent their work in recent years. What pieces would you like to mention?

I recently performed a piece called Alienated. There was a funny incident with it. In 2022, I received a letter from Strasbourg, with an invitation to a concert by the HANATSUmiroir ensemble. This ensemble organizes contemporary music concerts. After the concert, without my knowledge, the HANATSUmiroir ensemble applied for a grant to create a music piece for French radio but told me about the grant only after they had won it. This piece was written for an orguanous, an ensemble and multi-channel electronics. Orguanous was a prototype of a new kind of organ created by Leo Morel, a multi-block organ that works with MIDI. The timbres are not like a classical organ but instead produce wooden, toy type sounds.

This instrument is very sensitive. For example, it sounds differently after a rainy day. 

On November 1 of last year, I finished a score with bass flute, double bass clarinet, percussion, cello, and double bass for the HANATSUmiroir ensemble. I prepared various wooden instruments that sound like bird voices. In addition, I used a compact travel didgeridoo. I also added different techniques on timpani – the HANATSUmiroir has a lot of objects. I knew I could go as far as I wanted because the ensemble would play everything. We worked in a Strasbourg studio for a week and then rehearsed in Paris. Prior to that, I had a residency at GRM (Music Research Group), where I made a mix of the score, since my piece was complex: orguanous, instruments, live electronics, tape, automation of movement in the space of everything.

When you sit in the audience, you don’t know what’s playing where. You are completely disoriented. This is very much in line with the theme of the piece – alienation and loss of orientation. The timbres imitate the human voice. It’s hard to tell whether it’s an organ, an instrument, or electronics. Alienated is one of my recent pieces that I really love. 

Alienated explores the intersection of alexithymia (a psychological condition characterized by difficulties in identifying, understanding, and expressing emotions) and auditory agnosia (a neurological disorder causing an inability to recognize and interpret sounds despite having normal hearing). Itexamines how emotional detachment and sensory disconnection create a multilayered experience of psychological and auditory ambiguity through sound. French radio made a recording in Dolby Atmos and binaural, with microphones recording in 360 degrees. 

In Solastalgia for electronics and ensemble, I hear electronics in the foreground, and acoustic instruments that seem to complement the soundscape. Is that so?

Solastalgia, written for Spółdzielnia Muzyczna, reflects the emotional states of longing, anxiety, and sadness that occur when a person loses contact with his or her native environment due to its change or destruction. I remember being struck by changes in the soundscape in my native Lviv, where even birds began to mimic the sounds of sirens. This inspired me to write Solastalgia, in which electronics “absorb” the instruments.

Can this piece be included in a selection of three that represent your work?

It could, but it’s old. I wrote it back in 2022. It doesn’t sound like mine anymore. I have another piece, Skvyrk, for ensemble, electronics and Buchla Easel (a 60s analog synthesizer). created with the Ensemble Modern. This time I was also a member of the ensemble, playing with it.

The word “skvyrk” is rarely used in Ukrainian, but I love it. It means “sob” or “whimper,” denoting a gentle, pitiful sound or cry, often associated with pain or suffering. This composition explores the different stages of “skvyrk”, revealing complex relationshipsto the expression of emotional vulnerability. Through a subtle and multi-layered sonic experience, it captures the essence of “skvyrk”, inviting the listener to reflect on the profound human capacity for suffering and the subtle beauty that lies in moments of fragility.

Finally, let’s talk about the Gryvul School. What does it mean to you and how do you work with it now? Does the school fulfill your need to talk about music and make it popular?

I have long had a need to create a school. Ihave often felt that teachers were far away, at the top, and I was just a student. It was a little different in Graz but, in general, I never met a teacher I wanted. In terms of teaching style and energy, my teachers were always opposite to my wishes. Since childhood I wanted to have my own school. I wrote stories for children and thought: “Why do adults write miniature pieces for children if children can do it themselves?”

At the age of 12-13, I was already teaching music. I decided, in 2020 during the COVID epidemic, if not now, then when? I worked in the gaming industry at the time, but projects were closing, and I wasn’t doing anything else. I decided to start a school. Although I had always dreamed of teaching in person, an online school gave me the opportunity to work with people from all over the world.

Who is your school aimed at?

Mostly non-professionals, but nowadays a lot of foreign composers come with commissions and deadlines, and they are uncomfortable asking someone about advanced techniques or aspects of electronics. It’s easier with me, since there are no such barriers, and everything is often anonymous. Instrumentalists come to my school who want to learn how to arrange music, record themselves, or add something to their instrument. It’s very important for me to develop a student’s individual style, to open their timbre and broaden their views. We also devote a lot of time to ways of self-realization, developing strategies and different methods, which is exactly what I missed so much when I was studying at the music academy.

Hence, it’s also about self-organizing?

Yes. It’s also important that we talk about current trends in the industry, like today’s trends in different genres and music in general (very often intertwined with contemporary art) and how the sound has changed from, say, 2015 to today. My students and I also practice mixing, and stereo sound. A lot of things are changing in academic music as well, and we need to understand what is important and what is not important, because you can create music of any style, but it must be authentic and relevant.

The main point is to find your own style, and to explore yourself. There’s a lot of stuff out there now and, if you look like someone else, your style will just get lost. But the real thing is created when you hold on to your intuition, even if everyone says it’s “wrong”. The key is not to break your inner voice. Only then can you be truly brave. And the brave always finds happiness.

 

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