On intention, listening, and musical language

At a certain point in a composer’s life, a question begins to return again and again. Not loudly. Not aggressively. But persistently.

What kind of music do you write?

It is a legitimate question. And yet, it is one I have never been fully comfortable answering. Not because I lack influences, references, or a musical history. But because the question itself carries an assumption: that music must first be defined by a style, a genre, a category — and only then listened to.

My experience has taught me the opposite. I do not compose styles. I compose intentions.

Genre as a shortcut

Genres are useful. They help listeners orient themselves. They help platforms classify, markets function, expectations form. There is nothing inherently wrong with them.

But genres are shortcuts. They allow us to approach music without fully listening to it. They replace presence with recognition. We hear something and immediately think: this sounds cinematic, this is contemporary classical, this feels experimental.

The label arrives before the sound has finished speaking.

When genre becomes the starting point, listening becomes shallow. We hear what we expect to hear. We stop encountering the music as it is, and instead compare it to what we already know. This is not listening. This is categorization.

For me, composition begins long before any stylistic decision. It begins with an intention. An inner question. A tension. A need for clarity, or for suspension, or for depth.

Only later does this intention find a language. Sometimes that language is close to piano writing. Sometimes it opens into orchestral space, or hybrid textures, or minimal structures. Sometimes it uses technology extensively; sometimes it remains bare. The language changes. The intention does not.

To define music by genre is to focus on the surface. To define it by intention is to focus on its origin.

When music is treated primarily as a product, genre becomes essential. Products must be identifiable, comparable, repeatable. They must fit into shelves — physical or digital. But music, at its core, is a language.

A language is not defined by its accent alone. It is defined by what it tries to say, and by how attentively it listens in return.

In language, meaning is shaped not only by vocabulary, but by rhythm, silence, emphasis, timing. Music works the same way. Harmony and timbre are only part of the picture. Intention, duration, and relational space are just as important.

When music is approached as language, genre loses its central role. It becomes secondary, sometimes irrelevant.

One of the most radical gestures in music today is to listen before naming. To stay with the sound long enough for it to reveal its own logic. To resist the urge to classify. To allow ambiguity.

This kind of listening is demanding. It requires patience. It asks for presence. It does not reward speed. But it is also the only form of listening that allows genuine encounter.

I am interested in music that asks something of the listener — not in terms of difficulty, but in terms of attention. Music that does not explain itself immediately. Music that unfolds rather than announces.

Style as consequence, not goal

When intention is clear, style emerges naturally. It is a consequence, not a goal.

Trying to compose “in a style” often leads to imitation. Trying to compose with intention leads to coherence. The difference is subtle but profound. One reproduces forms. The other generates necessity.

A piece should sound the way it does because it cannot sound otherwise. And when this happens, style becomes irrelevant. What remains is identity.

Identity in music is often confused with branding. With recognizability at all costs. With repeating the same gestures until they become a signature. But true identity is not constructed. It is revealed. It is the result of repeated acts of honest listening. Of making choices that align with inner necessity rather than external expectation. Of accepting evolution instead of consistency.

A composer who listens deeply will not sound the same forever. And that is not a weakness. It is a sign of life.

To go beyond genre does not mean to reject it aggressively. It means not to be governed by it.

Genres can be references, not prisons. They can inform, not dictate. They can coexist without defining. What matters is that the music remains free to become what it needs to become.

In the end, the question is not what style is this? The question is: what does this music ask of me?

Does it invite me to slow down? Does it ask me to listen differently? Does it open a space I didn’t know was there?

When music is reduced to genre, it becomes familiar too quickly. When it is approached as language, it remains alive. This is why I don’t compose styles. I compose relationships — between sound and time, between intention and form, between the work and the listener.

Genres may describe the surface. Listening reveals the depth. And depth has no category.